In a Name

by Lanning Cook

Duncan MacLeod opened sleepy brown eyes to predawn grey, wondering groggily what could have awakened him. He became aware that the bed was without some of its accustomed warmth, and reached behind him, his hand groping among cool bed linens; no one was there.

Startled, he rolled over on his back and surveyed the loft for the missing warm body. He caught sight of it leaning on its elbows over the kitchen counter, examining something quite intently. Methos' feet and chest were bare; he was wearing the torn, excruciatingly tight jeans that he had discarded the night before. Straining upward, Mac managed to catch a glimpse of what his friend was finding so fascinating. It was a book. Duncan sighed softly and eased himself back onto the pillows. The clock read 6:03 AM.

What was the man up to now? Methos was never out of bed before him. He usually had to be dragged out snarling and snapping.

"Methos?"

"Hmm?"

"Everything all right?"

"Mm-hm."

Duncan sat up, slightly irritated by the non-responses. "Articulate, Methos."

"Mmmm."

Duncan subsided into a resigned silence, contenting himself with watching his friend in the slowly warming dawn light. His gaze swept Methos' slender figure appreciatively, then came to rest on his expressive features as he turned a page, apparently oblivious to everything around him.

Duncan snapped into full awareness, suddenly realizing that the graceful vertical sprawl, the tousled hair, and the carefully contrived air of absorption had been precisely calculated for maximum effect. Methos was never oblivious.

Duncan sighed, torn between amusement and frustration. More games. It seemed Methos was always playing some game or other, even here. What had started as friendly lust had grown into so much more, for both of them, but Methos was not a man to let his guard down easily. Duncan couldn't in justice blame him. They both had good reason to be cautious with each other. But Duncan wished, for the hundredth time in the past few months, that he could touch the inner core of the man he'd fallen in love with.

"Methos," he said softly.

"Hmm?"

"Come back to bed."

"Mmm ... not sleepy, thanks." Methos turned another page.

Smiling, Duncan climbed out of bed, drawing his robe around him. "I'm not sleepy either."

"Mm-hm." Methos bent over the book, assiduously examining the fine print.

Duncan ambled over to stand behind Methos, breathing in his scent, laying his hands lightly on his shoulders.

"Can I help you with something, MacLeod?" asked Methos in a bored tone, not changing his position.

Duncan chuckled, slid his hands down Methos' body to rest on his hips, and leaned close to nibble an ear playfully.

"If you're that hungry, get yourself some Cheerios." Another page turned.

Duncan leaned back slightly, reassessed the situation, and then slid both hands up to caress Methos' back lightly, slowly moving one hand around to trace patterns across his firm stomach. Duncan felt Methos' back straighten, his quick intake of breath, the well-muscled ripple of response to his touch. He pulled his lover firmly back against him.

"MacLeod, I am trying to read," said Methos in a passable imitation of his most acerbic tone. His color rose; his breathing seemed to quicken.

Duncan slipped one hand down just inside the waist of Methos' jeans teasingly. "You came in late last night. I missed you."

"A likely story," breathed Methos, leaning back into Duncan's embrace.

Duncan's teeth caught the older man's ear gently as his other hand glided tantalizingly over his chest. "Methos."

Methos gasped as Duncan's mouth reached his jugular, his eyes drifting closed. "Wh- what?"

Duncan worked his way up to Methos' ear again. "Your book is upside down." He unsnapped the waist of the jeans.

Methos' body vibrated delightfully against Duncan as a long-suppressed ripple of quicksilver laughter escaped him. "Is it? I hadn't noticed." Chuckling softly, Duncan slid down the zipper of Methos' jeans and slid his hand inside; Methos let out a strangled little breath and arched his back, his head falling back onto Duncan's shoulder. "Mac..."

Duncan sighed softly, his disappointment shattering the fragile eroticism of the moment. "Duncan." He froze, astonished that he'd said anything.

"What?" Methos remained pressed up against him, breathing hard, but he sounded startled.

"Duncan," repeated Duncan quietly, withdrawing his hand from Methos' jeans. Well, now was as good a time as any. He turned the man in his arms around to face him, doing his level best to ignore the bewitching effect of an obviously aroused Methos. "My name. My true name. Why don't you ever use it?"

Methos searched his face warily for a moment. "I don't?"

Duncan pulled Methos close, giving him no opportunity for evasion. "No. You don't. And you know you don't."

Methos shrugged, his expression now carefully veiled. "I didn't realize."

"Yes, you did." Duncan gave him a little shake for emphasis.

Methos scowled in obvious annoyance, but seemed unwilling to break the embrace. "What's in a name?" He started untying the sash on Duncan's robe, but Duncan grabbed his hands.

"You tell me," said Duncan determinedly. "The only time you've ever called me Duncan was when I -- wasn't."

Methos blanched visibly and pulled away. "You really know how to trash the mood, MacLeod."

Duncan watched him wander to the refrigerator and yank the door open. The man's posture had changed in a matter of seconds; his back and shoulders were stiff, his entire body seemed tensed as if poised for flight. Duncan recognized the stance instantly. "You're afraid," he said wonderingly.

Methos snorted as he pulled a beer from the refrigerator. "Terrified." His voice dripped sarcasm; he slammed the fridge door shut with unnecessary force.

"What are you afraid of?"

Methos shrugged as he flipped the bottle cap off and tossed it behind the fridge. "Your choice. I terrify easily."

Duncan considered him carefully for a moment, a tiny piece of the puzzle that was Methos slipping into place. "You know, in certain ancient cultures--"

Methos choked on his beer. "You are going to tell me about ancient cultures?"

"--names, true names, were only spoken under highly ritualized circumstances. They gave the speaker power over the named."

"This is rapidly becoming absurd." Methos slapped his beer down on the counter and bent over to snatch up his shoes from the floor. He was chalk white. "I'll see you when you've descended from your flight of fancy, MacLeod."

Duncan blocked Methos' path to the door, determined to have an answer. "That's it, isn't it?"

Methos tried to dart around him, but Duncan caught him in his arms and held him firmly. Methos met his gaze furiously. "Do you seriously imagine I would be in any way affected by some ridiculous cultural taboo?"

"We're all affected by what we learned in childhood. Why would you be different from anyone else?"

"I don't remember my childhood," snapped Methos.

"Part of you does. You're shaking, Methos."

"Let me go."

"No," returned Duncan gently, pulling him closer. "Help me understand."

Methos' fixed his gaze on his own bare feet and didn't answer.

"Please, Methos. It's important to me."

Methos flushed.

"You find something frightening about having power over me?"

"I don't want power over you, Highlander." Methos' voice was so low it was barely audible.

"Why not?" Duncan drew him closer, kissed his forehead.

Methos swallowed hard and raised his head. "Don't. Don't do this."

"Tell me."

Methos drew a shaking breath. "This won't last. 'Adam Pierson' won't last. Someone somewhere will eventually put two and two together and figure out who I am."

Duncan nodded, rubbing Methos' tight shoulders. "Probably," he said gently. "Someday."

"It's inevitable. And then they'll start coming for me."

Duncan's stomach twisted at the thought. "Then we'll--"

"No," said Methos sharply, jerking his head up to meet Duncan's anxious gaze. "Not we. You see? I've already managed it. You're already starting to think--" He cut himself off sharply.

"What?" demanded Duncan. "That we'll have to deal with this together? That you're not alone anymore?"

Methos grimaced and said nothing.

"Whatever I'm thinking, Methos," continued Duncan firmly, "I am thinking. It's not your doing."

"The hell it's not!" snapped Methos. "I survive, MacLeod. That's what I do. And if you think I'm above manipulating you into protecting me, then you do not know me yet."

"Ah," said Duncan mildly. "I see. You're manipulating me. And more power over me would ... what? Ensure that I'll nobly throw myself between you and every challenger that happens to pop out of the woodwork? Methos, for God's sake--"

"I hate to break this to you, MacLeod, but that wouldn't be a stretch for you," retorted Methos acidly. "You have a peculiarly revolting streak of nobility a mile wide."

Duncan shook Methos' shoulders hard, angry. "This isn't about nobility. This is about trust. Methos, I don't care how much power you have over me. I trust you not to abuse it."

Methos uttered a completely incomprehensible series of explosive syllables that Duncan had no doubt were ancient in origin and obscene in nature. "Simpleminded ... Scots ... boy scout," spluttered Methos finally in English, his face a study in seething frustration.

"And I'll prove it," said Duncan grimly. He started walking Methos backwards, toward the bed. "First of all, you are going to call me Duncan."

"Think again, MacLeod," returned Methos, his voice now low and dangerous. "I won't."

"Oh, yes, you will." Duncan shoved Methos down on the bed. "And you'll say it like you mean it."

Methos uttered a bark of incredulous laughter. "Don't flatter yourself." He launched himself off the bed and tried to pass Duncan, an angry gleam in his eye.

Duncan shoved him down again and went down on top of him, catching his wrists and pinioning them to the bed. "Listen to me," he said desperately. "I love you. I trust you."

"You idiot," hissed Methos, furious. "Not six months ago you told me we were through. Have you forgotten what I'm capable of?"

"Were capable of."

Methos tried to wrench his wrists free. "Am, MacLeod, am! Just because I chose not to be that man today is no guarantee that I'll be able to make the same choice tomorrow. It's inside me. Do you understand?"

"I do understand," said Duncan in soft wonder, light dawning. "You love me."

Methos' eyes widened. "You damned lunatic! I'm telling you I could endanger your life. If you have one shred of sense left--"

Duncan took Methos' mouth in his own, his tongue plunging deeply. Methos groaned and tried to pull away, but Duncan persisted, pinning Methos to the bed, wrestling Methos' tongue until it gave way before his determined assault. He lifted his head and regarded Methos carefully. "You love me. Say it."

Methos stared up at him, breathless and angry. "This is beyond stupid. It's pointless."

"Not for you. Or for me." Duncan released one wrist and slipped his hand inside Methos' jeans, taking a handful of half-hard Methos and caressing it gently.

Methos let out a strangled gasp of what seemed to be pleasure, but the anger didn't leave his face. "And ... what is ... this supposed to prove? That you can take me? I could stop you anytime I like. I could kill you anytime I like."

"I know," breathed Duncan, releasing the other wrist as Methos went hard in his hand. "I've known that for a long time."

Methos stared up at him with an aghast expression, speechless.

Duncan gave Methos' cock one loving stroke, then rose to his knees, straddling him, and pulled Methos' jeans down and off. "But you won't kill me. No matter what I do."

Duncan shrugged off his robe and lowered himself to Methos again, letting his full weight rest on the man beneath him, sliding his erection against Methos' slowly. "Will you?" It was more challenge than question.

"Not today," whispered Methos, breathing hard.

"Not ever. Because you love me."

"Mac, of all the inane--"

"Duncan," persisted Duncan, grinding his groin into Methos' mercilessly. "You love me."

Methos closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "I ... I do love you, Mac."

Duncan kissed him, dizzy with delight at the words, at the sensation of Methos kissing him back passionately. But still... "Duncan," Duncan gasped as they broke the kiss.

Methos opened his eyes to narrow, hazel slits, like a cat contemplating its prey, and pressed his lips together firmly. Everest would have appeared more tractable at that moment. Duncan growled in frustration and fumbled for the tube of lube on the nightstand. "And you call me an idiot?"

"You are an idiot!" spat Methos. "The fact that I've suffered such an appalling lapse of taste as to fall in love with a semi-moronic windmill-tilting kilt-flapper--"

"You're beautiful when you're obnoxious."

"--is in no way a guarantee that I won't cost you your head. Do you really imagine that this would stop me--"

"It has so far." Duncan methodically coated his fingers with lube, making quite sure that Methos could see what he was doing; he was pleased to see that Methos' gaze was riveted to his hands, his eyes widening. "As a matter of fact, it's nearly gotten you killed half a dozen times in the past couple years. You've put your life on the line for me when all your supposedly highly developed instincts for survival must have told you that you didn't stand a chance. So tell me." Duncan slid down Methos' sweating body to kneel on the bed, pulling Methos' legs up and apart; Methos gasped in surprise and clutched the bedclothes involuntarily. Duncan smoothed lube over his aching cock. "Where is this man you're so afraid of? Show him to me."

"Mac--"

Duncan slid a finger into Methos' tight passage firmly, and Methos arched his back, closing his eyes. Duncan could feel him forcing his muscles to relax around his finger as it pressed inside him, gently exploring, stretching. "Where is he?" he repeated unevenly.

Methos let out a small moan; Duncan couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or exasperation. "Mac ... let it go. Please."

"No. He's never where you expect him to be, is he? You've been waiting for centuries, but he's never once appeared out of nowhere to leave you standing over some innocent -- or some friend -- with bloody hands."

Methos' eyes flew open in palpable shock.

"And even when you catch a glimpse of him, even when he's close, you're still in control."

Methos drew a ragged breath. "For now."

"Forever. You won't hurt me. You won't hurt anyone you care about. It's not going to happen." Duncan pulled Methos toward him, lifting his legs, resting Methos' calves on his shoulders.

Methos settled into the familiar position with a sigh and a weary expression; he raised one shaking hand to stroke Duncan's hair from his face. "You can't know that," he whispered.

Duncan leaned over Methos, drinking in the sight of him. "I do know it," he breathed, kissing Methos lightly. "You're a good man, Methos."

Methos' face went blank. He lay staring up at Duncan wordlessly, his right hand still buried Duncan's hair, until his eyes filled with tears. Duncan slid inside him then, unable to resist him or restrain himself any longer, and started rocking himself in and out of Methos as gently as if it were their first time. Methos let out a soft, deep-throated little cry, his tears spilling over onto his face, his body arching in pleasure.

"I love you," murmured Duncan, fighting for control.

Methos pounded his left fist against the mattress once, then reached up to clutch Duncan's arm with something like a sob. "Duncan," he whispered brokenly, barely audible.

Duncan groaned softly and nearly came; whatever he had imagined he would feel paled in comparison to the sweet reality of the experience. Methos curled his body upward, angling his mouth toward Duncan's; Duncan leaned down to meet him halfway and took the offered mouth gently in his own. He curled his hand around Methos' cock and stroked it in rough counterpoint to his thrusts, which were rapidly becoming less and less gentle. Methos cried out into the kiss and fell back, his body jolting with each impact, his wide eyes fixed on Duncan's face, his lips slightly parted.

"Beautiful," choked Duncan, increasing the tempo ruthlessly, no longer able to master himself.

Methos slid one hand up Duncan's arm, his breath driven out of his body in small gasps and cries each time Duncan plunged into him, and caressed Duncan's face, his hair. "Duncan." Duncan, absorbed in hammering himself into his lover, was vaguely astonished to sense Methos' body relaxing even further around him; Methos arched his hips upward, deepening the angle of penetration. "Harder," he whispered faintly, closing his eyes. "Give me all of you."

"Harder?" gasped Duncan. "I don't want to--"

"You won't hurt me," breathed Methos tenderly. "It's not going to happen."

Duncan's last inhibition shattered at the words. Groaning, Duncan slammed home hard and fast, driving himself deep inside Methos feverishly, determined to claim the loving, generous man beneath him so completely that they would both carry the memory of the claiming for the rest of their lives. Methos sobbed Duncan's name and held on to his arms, submitting to the pounding more completely than Duncan had ever dreamed possible in a lover. Every line of Methos' body, every expression on his face, every labored breath seemed to convey joyful, triumphant surrender; the sight was too much for his shredded control. Duncan came, harder than he had in centuries, shouting wild, incoherent words about love and forever; Methos came a second later, chanting "Duncan" as tears streamed down his face, his hot seed splashing Duncan's hand and chest as Duncan leaned over him, stunned and shuddering. Duncan stared down at his gasping lover, unable to move for a few seconds.

"God Almighty," he rasped finally. "Methos." Methos lay panting beneath him, eyes shut and body bathed in sweat. He stroked Duncan's arms gently, wordless, then winced slightly and opened his eyes as Duncan eased himself carefully out of him. "Are you all right?"

"All right," murmured Methos contentedly.

Duncan lowered Methos' legs gently to the bed, then slid up to cradle him in his arms, kissing his forehead. "Thank you," he whispered in Methos' ear. "No one's ever done anything like that for me."

"My pleasure." Methos nuzzled him softly, smiling.

Duncan groped on the bed until he found his robe, then gently wiped the semen from their chests and stomachs. "Teach me how to do that for you," he murmured, kissing Methos' ear.

Methos pressed close, his smile deepening. "You already do that for me."

Duncan kissed his temple, considering that assertion for a moment, then chuckled. "You mean I have power over you, too?"

Methos tilted his head up enough to glare up at him. "You never know when to give it a rest, do you?"

Duncan traced the line of Methos' jaw with one finger, fascinated. "You think I do, don't you? Because I speak your true name." Methos huffed and tried to look away, but Duncan determinedly turned his face back again. "If you really believe that, why did let me call you Methos the day we met? You could easily have made me believe you were Adam Pierson."

Methos sighed resignedly as he met Duncan's puzzled gaze. "There would have been no point. It was too late."

"Too late?"

"You already had power over me," explained Methos quietly. "Any hope I had of resisting ended the moment I laid eyes on you. It was all over before you spoke a word."

Duncan stared down at the man, lost, for a few moments, in the maze of that confession.

Methos smiled wryly at his reaction. "By sunset I was willing to let you take my head. What difference did a name make?"

"And you still think that my trust is misplaced?" demanded Duncan shakily, overwhelmed. His fingers moved unbidden down Methos' jaw to caress his sensitive throat.

Methos closed his eyes and lifted his chin slightly, leaning almost imperceptibly into the caress. "What are you asking? Am I still willing to give you my quickening? Of course I am, it's yours for the asking. Does that preclude my using you to my advantage? Of course it does not. Why? Because I'm a five thousand year old pain in the ass, MacLeod."

Duncan started laughing, hopelessly moved. "Damn it, Methos, this is serious."

"Very serious," agreed Methos drily.

"Listen to me. You have my permission to 'use' me any way you please. All right? I hereby absolve you--"

"Oh, for crying--"

"--of any and all sins committed in the act of preserving your lovely skin." Duncan dropped a kiss on Methos' flawlessly white shoulder. "I have a vested interest in keeping it intact, after all."

Methos sighed in soft exasperation.

Duncan took his friend's face in his hands, startling Methos enough to open his eyes. "You won't betray my trust, Methos, any more than I'll betray yours. I believe that. I want you to believe it, too. Whatever happens, we'll survive it as long as we face it together."

Methos seemed to hold his breath for a few seconds, searching Duncan's face carefully, then released it slowly.

"We can do it," said Duncan evenly.

"Boy scout," whispered Methos, all tenderness and astonishment. "Tilting at windmills again. You're hopeless, MacLeod. Certifiable."

Duncan grinned down at him triumphantly, reading capitulation in his friend's eyes. "You wouldn't have me any other way, would you?"

"No," confessed Methos ruefully, settling into Duncan's arms as if he meant to stay for a long time. "Just give me fair warning before committing any untoward acts of nobility. Even a good man can only take so much."

Duncan lowered his head and rested it against Methos', chuckling. "Done, Methos."

"Duncan." Duncan lifted his head quickly at the sound of the sudden, unguarded warmth in Methos' voice to find Methos regarding him with as naked and defenseless an expression on his face as Duncan had ever seen, a glimpse of the soul. "Thank you," Methos whispered. "No one's ever done anything like this for me."

Duncan released the breath he found he'd been holding and smiled. He gathered his cherished enigma gently to him, folding his body around him to fence out every hurt or misfortune. "Methos. My pleasure."

End

home