10
by Mickey M.
© January 2004

for flambeau

"You know, really, you would think someone as old as you would be better at this." Chris smirked. "I mean, you've had to have had a lot of practice-"

Methos scowled and shifted a little to the left. "I'm really beginning to regret having shared that part of myself with you."

"I think you're probably regretting the fifth of scotch more than that." Chris grumbled. "You know, I don't think elbows are supposed to go there."

"Hush, and let me-" Methos grunted and moved again. Chris hissed at the skin-against-skin; Methos growled at the rub and grumbled, "You didn't shave, did you?"

"Hello, beard." He gestured. "Goatee. Whatever, dude. No, I didn't. It's my vacation-ow!"

"Quit wiggling, and I'll move." Chris held his breath while Methos moved his leg, then flopped back. "And I'll have you know I could drink you under the table any day. It wasn't the scotch."

"Yeah?" He was sweaty. They were both sweaty. What a disaster this was. "That why you were under the table?"

"At least I can't claim this-" Methos pointed at their tangled limbs, "-was my idea. I couldn't ever be that drunk."

Chris pouted. "Hey, I think I'm seriously insulted here, man. This was a terrific idea! Bodies, positions-"

"Kirkpatrick." The heavy sigh was more than obvious, and Chris switched from pout to grin as Methos laid back beside him. "Even you are too old to play Twister, successfully."