Missouri, Present Day

He knew as soon as he saw the house. Hell, he knew before that, but sometimes his instincts were kicked out of a whack a little, so he would wait for the tangible evidence; something like sight, or sound or a fact he could pin down as truth. The car slowed down a little, and Methos leaned his head out the window, letting the warm air ruffle through his hair before turning to his companion.

"Why are we here?"

"We needed to get away for a while. Change of scenery."

"We could have just as easily gone to Los Angeles. Hell, we could have gone to Seattle." //Anywhere but here would have been fine.//

An audible snort, and Methos gave a small smile at the larger one that crept over Mac's face. "You couldn't pay me to go to Los Angeles for business; why in the world would I want to vacation there?"

"This is a vacation?"

"Supposed to be, yeah." Mac shot him a puzzled look, and Methos sighed. Even though he knew for a fact that the house burned nearly to the ground, it looked--the same. Big, kind of boxy, with a dogtrot that attached the kitchen to the rest of the house. Off the kitchen was a smallish covered porch. Beyond the house was a rickety old barn, falling down into a pile of rotted wood. Eighty-odd years ago, it had been well kept, neatly painted and trimmed. Behind that, at the back of the lot were-- //Don't go there. Some things are better left as shadows in the back of your mind.// Methos shrugged.

"I could have thought of some place better than the hills of Missouri."

"Well next time I'll let you play travel agent. You didn't give me any input on anything I asked you about, Methos. You had two months to let me know--"

Methos made an irritated noise in his throat. "Mac, shut up."

That earned him a sour look as MacLeod steered the car around the last curve of the long, winding drive. "What is your problem? You acted like you were happy to get away when we climbed on the plane this morning."

"I am glad to get away. I just didn't know we'd be camping out when we did it."

"Rustic is *not* 'camping out'. And this is hardly even rustic, actually." MacLeod pointed a finger at the house. "It has all the amenities even your fickleness could want. Including air conditioning and a refrigerator full of beer."

"Thank you so very much." The words were glacial, and Methos looked down at his hands, surprised to see them balled up into fists. Tight, hard fists. Fists meant for physical punishment, for hurting someone. With an effort he made himself relax.

"What's wrong, Methos?"

"What makes you think anything's wrong?" Too quick of an answer. Mac turned those dark eyes on him, the question hanging there within their depths.

"Your charming disposition. Even for you, it's a bit extreme." Methos didn't answer; he wasn't sure what he could say that wouldn't make things worse. Mac parked the car beside the house and turned toward the other man, regarded him steadily for a moment. "We're gonna stay here for a couple of weeks, Methos. Maybe you'll tell me before we leave."

//Maybe. But don't count on it.//

With a deep breath he exited the car. His lungs filled with the damp, earth-fragrant scent he remembered, sending another strange jolt through him. Methos joined Mac on the porch, catching himself at the last minute as he raised his hand almost automatically, as if to knock.

Outside Nixa, Missouri, July, 1911

She appeared at the screened door, presumably the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. He had to look down to look at her; she couldn't have been more than an inch or two over five feet tall. Slender, with blue eyes and red-blond hair that was pulled back, braided, and secured up on her head. Her dress was faded gingham, covered with a dirty white apron. "May I help you?" In the background there was noise; at least two children, and rather young ones at that, she shhh'd them as she tilted her head toward him.

He fumbled for the paper, drew it out of his back pocket. "I'm here about the job--the handyman position."

"Oh!" It was her eyes that drew a second glance from him; at first, she wasn't pretty, not even attractive. But there was something about her, something that drew his eyes again, sweeping over each bit of her face, lingering minutely, checking for what caught his attention. Her face looked tired; tiny lines crinkled around her eyes, the sun harshly illuminating them. But her eyes... were luminous. They were bright, lively, sparkling with a vivaciousness he hadn't seen in what seemed like forever.

Something he hadn't felt in nearly as long.

Methos shook himself, realizing she'd asked him a question. "I'm sorry?"

"I asked you your name." Her eyes twinkled just a little more, and the edges of her mouth tugged upward at the corners, almost as though she couldn't help herself.

"Michael." He smiled, letting his face soften and his eyes reflect it. "Michael Pierce."

"Been in America long, Mr. Pierce?"

He blinked in surprise; she was refreshingly straightforward, after the coyness of upper class Europe. "Long enough, ma'am." At her slight frown he added, "two years; I've been wandering around, seeing the country."

"The country is in sad shape right now," she responded sharply, her face pinching. Methos wondered what memories were creating that.

"It'll get better," he said softly. "It always does."

Silence greeted that pronouncement, so Methos shifted, dropping his pack onto the floorboards of the porch. The woman watched him, her eyes following each movement. It made him nervous for reasons he couldn't define. "About the job, ma'am--"

"I'm not old enough to be 'Ma'am' to anyone. My name is Sarah. Sarah Hutchison." She opened the screen door and stepped out onto the small porch, shading her eyes against the glare of the sun. With the small bit of shadow cast by her hand, the deep, rich blue that had watched him darkened into something like the depths of the oceans he'd just crossed. "The job is open, but I wonder, do you have any experience with handyman work? Odd jobs, and the like?"

"Rather a lot," Methos said confidently. 'Odd jobs' fairly defined his life, if one considered various stints as Death, slave, priest, doctor, and anything in between. At her upraised eyebrow he hastened to add, "Da passed on when I was very young. I did a lot around the house and the farm for Mum." It wasn't gospel truth, of course, but neither was it an outright lie. And some of the shadows cleared out of Sarah Hutchison's eyes.

"I can't pay a lot. I can't pay much, in fact. But you'll be fed well and you can bed down in the barn; it's well built, keeps the weather out. You'll be comfortable there."

"That'll be fine. I have very few needs, actually."

That sharp gaze slid over him again, measuring and assessing. At last she nodded, almost to herself, and held her hand out. "Then the job is yours, Michael Pierce. Nice to meet you."

"Very nice to meet you, Sarah Hutchison." Methos reached out to grasp hers, noting with amusement that she had a firm grip. Not as firm as another man might, but the fact that she shook hands was telling. This was a woman who was used to doing as much as she could for herself, by herself.

He had the sense that it was probably galling her to have to ask for any kind of help.

"You can take your things out to the barn now, if you'd like, and settle in. I'm in the middle of fixing dinner; we eat at six o'clock sharp, Mr. Pierce. You're welcome to eat in the house with me and my children, or you may take your meals in the barn. It's your choice."

"I'd prefer to eat in the kitchen, Mrs. Hutchison, and thank you." Methos stepped away from the woman, pivoting to head for the barn. Her fingers touched his arm lightly, forestalling him.

"We'll discuss the different things that need doing over dinner, Mr. Pierce."

He nodded, watching her eyes change from aqua-blue to cobalt and back, each ripple of color seeming to expand with emotion, with feeling, before fading. When he shifted out of the sun's light, she was still watching him, the blue depths reflecting none of the emotions he'd seen a moment ago. "I'll see you in a bit," he offered quietly, reaching to pick up his bag.

His knock on the screen door at five minutes before six was met with a harried, "Come in, it's open." Methos stepped inside, blanching at the heat radiating from the room--from the oven. It was hotter inside than out; no mean feat for Missouri in the summer.

It was also incredibly...neat. It amazed him, standing there in the doorway, that a house that could sound as frantic as this one did, could look so calm. The house looked calm. The occupants did not.

Sarah was standing in front of the sink, vigorously applying a washrag to the very dirty face of a small boy. As she scrubbed, Methos could hear the boy whispering, "Owww, Mama...owww!" Another, older boy, stood beside the pair, his eyes narrowed on Methos, watching him distrustfully. The Immortal gave him a crisp nod, silently acknowledging him as unspoken head male; he wasn't here to make trouble for anyone, especially himself. If the boy wanted to be the man in charge, during his father's absence, who was Methos to argue? Rounding out the small tableau was a very small girl, standing shakily next to Sarah, holding onto the hem of her dress. The little girl had her thumb in her mouth, blue eyes the same shade as her mother's watching Methos with a disturbingly familiar look.

The kitchen itself was immaculate; for someone who'd been cooking all afternoon, Sarah's kitchen didn't show it. The counters were clean, the only food or dishes visible were the ones on the table. His belly rumbled loudly when the scent of chicken and dumplings rushed toward him, borne on the faint breeze that swept in from some unseen corner of the room. There looked to be beans and cucumbers on the table as well, and wrapped in a gingham-print dishtowel, a loaf of homemade bread, if he could judge by the shape and the aroma rising around him.

Sarah turned to greet him, at the same time plucking the small boy from the counter. "Robert," she said quietly. "He'll be five next month. William, my eldest, was seven this past April. And Maggie," she swept the little girl into her arms, blowing a raspberry into the child's belly, "Maggie will be three come September." The little girl giggled and Sarah did it again. When it produced a lilting, squealing laugh, Sarah joined in, her eyes gleaming happily. The two boys grinned, reaching to tickle their sister, to add more giggles to the ones rising into the air.

It had been a long time since Methos felt more an outsider than in that moment, and the urge to turn, to flee, to run swiftly, was strong.

After a moment Sarah swung Maggie into the highchair pushed to the side of the table, scolding the boys gently, "That's enough. Get her too excited, and she won't want to eat." Methos was still standing awkwardly by the door and she gestured him to the table. "They're a bit much, all at once like this, but they won't trouble you a bit, I promise. Children, this is Mr. Pierce. He's going to help us around the house, and the farm for a while."

"I'm very pleased to meet you all," he said quietly, trying to appear as innocuous as possible. He wasn't a threat; he didn't want to be perceived as one. A smile toward Maggie was returned; the boys nodded solemnly, but at least weren't watching him with suspicion now.

It took a few minutes for everyone to settle and to get plates filled. When all three children had plates before them and were eating steadily, Sarah turned to Methos. "You'll be wanting to know about the job."

"It's always best," he responded, stabbing at a few beans with his fork. One of the tines was bent at an odd angle, and it didn't stab as well. "You mentioned 'a while' -- the job is temporary, then?"

She watched him for a moment, something like a cross between a smile and a frown hovering over her mouth, between her eyes. "My husband passed on three years ago, Mr. Pierce. I've been doing as best I can since then, with what I have. I take in sewing, and do the wash for some of the local townfolk. Some neighbors of mine come over in the spring and help me plow up a garden plot, and in the fall Mr. Alden down the road butchers my pig for me. But there are other things around here I can't do very easily, and I dislike asking for charity. The barn needs some fixin' up, and I'm afraid to try it. If I fell from a ladder and broke something, who would care for my children?" Her gaze slid around the table, caressing each child in turn, before returning to him. "As I said earlier, I can't pay much. I haven't a lot in the way of cash. But I can feed you well, and even needing some repairs and such, the barn is sturdy. You're welcome to stay as long as you're able, and I'll appreciate anything you do around here."

Three years alone. It didn't take a genius to count and figure out she'd lost him even before birthing wee Maggie. And all that time, struggling to keep food on the table and family together. No wonder the sun lit up those lines earlier today. No wonder she looked so tired, even at rest. It'd been a long time since he'd had the urge to ride in like a white knight, to save the fair demoiselle from danger. So what was it about this woman that stirred those feelings, however briefly, before he thrust them back down? Perhaps it was in the way she looked at him. Those eyes.

If only he could define what it was about her eyes. They made him think of the crown jewels of England, or perhaps the ocean waters off the Island Skye, in Ireland. Or the blue of the skies over the Swiss Alps. "We'll just take it week by week, and see what I can get done for you around here," he said, stabbing at a dumpling. The first thing would be to fix the flatware, before he pierced his tongue.

"That'll be quite satisfactory," she replied, the unfathomable look on her face softening and turning to a smile. Methos returned the smile, then turned his focus to his plate while she began outlining the projects that required immediate attention.

The list of projects was a lot longer than his first look around the small farm had indicated, but Methos threw himself into the work enthusiastically, determined to do as much as was possible for however long he was here. If nothing else, Sarah's cooking was worth the work; it'd been some time since he'd eaten as well as his stay here was promising. It'd been a long time, too, since he'd done physical labor such as this, and he found he'd forgotten how enjoyable it was, just to give over and let his body carry him. It didn't matter if he was physically drained when he fell into his makeshift bed each night, he was enjoying the experience. After all, wasn't that what it was all about? To live and experience life to it's fullest?

He was hampered only by Sarah's lack of funds, and the longer Methos worked, the harder it was not to hike out of here, find the nearest bank, and have some of his funds wired to him, to give to her. Three weeks into his stay he decided he'd much rather have bought a new chicken coop, for instance, than to fight with the rusty pliers and wire pieces he'd found in a small shed behind the barn. He couldn't do that, however, since Sarah made it very clear what her feelings on 'charity' were.

The third piece of wire to snap was all he could handle for one morning, and he gave into the urge to throw the pliers to the ground, curses in several languages spilling from his lips as he flopped himself down beside them. He was still sitting there, staring at the rusty metal, trying to decide if a trip into town was worth it, if there was any way he could get a few things without having to explain *too* much to Sarah, when a small shadow drew across him. He looked up into William's solemn face, and sighed quietly. Of course. No morning was a perfectly horrid one without a visit from the *oldest son*, to talk about the man he saw as usurping his daddy's place. To give the boy credit, he'd given Methos a wide berth in the time he'd been here, but this wasn't unexpected. Methos tried for a smile, acknowledging to himself that it wasn't going to be a sincere one, but hoping it at least came out as polite.

"Yes?"

"Mama says a person oughtn't curse."

"There're lots of things a person oughtn't do," he responded archly. "The majority of us give in to most of them at one point or another in our lives."

"You oughtn't curse around small children."

"There weren't any around a moment ago, when I did. Or so I believed." Methos blinked, then scowled up at William. "How'd you know I was cursing, anyway?"

The boy stared at him for a minute, then grinned. "It was how you said it. No one says anything nice in that tone." A pause. "What'd you say, Mr. Pierce?"

A smile was threatening to bloom, and Methos climbed to his feet to keep it at least partially hidden. "Oh, no you don't. Your mama really wouldn't like knowing I taught you how to curse."

"How would she know? I wouldn't tell her."

"Because I'm certain, no matter your intentions, William, a word or two would slip out somewhere, at some time. And since I doubt she knows the words I said just now, she would know immediately who you learned them from."

The boy frowned at him for a moment, considering the logic, then squinted up at Methos. "I could take a...a bow," he said, eyes dark and sincere. "Please?"

It took all five thousand years of practice not to laugh at the grave image the child presented. "You mean a vow, I think?"

"Yes, Sir. A vow." A faint blush worked over fair skin, and Methos wondered what Sarah's husband had looked like. All three of the children had her fair coloring and blue eyes, though only Robert really looked like her in the face.

"And what sort of vow would you swear, then?" From where he stood Methos could see Sarah hanging wash on one of the several lines she'd strung between the house and a huge old tree that shaded it. She looked very young when her hair was down, like now, and he'd resisted the urge several times to ask her how old she was.

"Not to say any of the words where Mama might hear them."

"Think I'm going to tell you more than one?"

"Please, Mr. Pierce?"

Bonding with a seven-year old boy. Well, there were worse ways to spend his summers. "Make your vow for me." He raised one eyebrow expectantly, arms folded across his chest.

William swallowed, dark blues eyes reflecting nervousness, anticipation, glee. "I, uh, promise not to say a single word that you tell me anywhere my mama might hear."

"That'll do." Methos squatted beside the boy and said, "Besa mi culo," very solemnly, as if imparting the secrets of the universe. William stared at him, stumbled through a reasonable pronunciation, then raised his own eyebrow.

"So, what's it mean?"

"Oh, no. I told you I'd tell you the words. I never said I'd tell you what they meant." The boy's expression was priceless. It took him exactly five seconds to respond with the ages-old response.

"No FAIR!"

"Life seldom is, William. Don't you have chores, or something?"

Rosebud lips scrunched together; dark-blue eyes scowled. "I finished them."

"Don't sulk. I told you I'd tell you the words. Now, if you're interested, perhaps I'll find a book in my pack that might help you figure out what they mean."

"Oh, yes! Please!" He fairly bounced, and Methos stopped trying to hide his grin.

"I'll find it and bring it in at dinner tonight." He stood again, dusted off the knees of his denims, preparing to head back to the barn.

William beamed at him, then reached to pick up the pliers. "I can help you fix the coop," he said, slipping into step beside Methos when he would have moved on to the barn.

"I don't know--"

"Please, Mr. Pierce? Mama's busy with the wash, and I'm tired of playing with the babies." He didn't put any particular emphasis on the word, but Methos heard it anyway, and bit his lip to keep from laughing. A seven year old human child; compared to him, William was barely an embryo. He nodded, keeping his words clipped to keep the laughter in.

"Don't get in the way."

"I won't. Papa...papa always said I was a good helper." A brief stutter over his father's memory, but Methos nodded, pretending he hadn't heard anything.

"Good, then. You can help me clean the rust off the pliers. Perhaps we can get them in working order so I can finish the chicken coop, yes?"

William nodded enthusiastically, running ahead of Methos toward the barn. "I can show you where papa kept the icky stuff for that!" he shouted, dust flying under his feet. 'Icky stuff'? Methos frowned, but shrugged philosophically. Maybe the boy knew of something, tucked away somewhere he hadn't thought to check.

"I need to go into town, Mr. Pierce. Perhaps you'd like to go with us?" Sarah regarded him over her customary cup of after-dinner tea, red-blond brow arched delicately. "I need to get some staples for the pantry, and a few other things."

"Going into Nixa?" He didn't remember any stores from his passage through, though he was certain there was a dry-goods store of some sort. And a post-office. A wide spot in the road.

"No, into Springfield. There's more of a selection." She set her cup down, eyed Methos. "Is there anything you can think of that I need to purchase? I'm going to make a list."

"When were you planning on going?" He didn't have to think about the list; he'd compiled one in his head over the last month, each time he started a new project.

"Probably the day after tomorrow." Sarah turned her cup, finger tracing the fading gold rim. Well, that shot down that idea. He likely wouldn't be able to get funds wired in; that would take more time than just a day in town. He could always dip into the emergency funds he carried with him. He didn't have a lot, because he didn't want to be vulnerable to thieves while traveling, but he wasn't destitute, not by a long shot. The job here was more to have a place to stay and a chance to do something, than any real need for work.

At least, it started out as just a place to stay.

"Mr. Pierce?" He looked up, startled, realizing he'd been staring at Sarah's hands, watching her fingers trace slowly around the rim.

"I apologize, Mrs. Hutchison. Just woolgathering, I suppose. I'll make a list for you, of what I can think of."

"Would you like to accompany the children and I? You're certainly welcome."

Every instinct within him screamed *No!* He'd gotten too close already; she was a mortal woman, with mortal children, and he needed to keep his distance. But he knew he wasn't going to listen to the inner voice that counseled so well; not when it was telling him what he didn't want to hear.

"Yes, I think I'd like that." The smile that spread across Sarah's face matched the one moving over his, and Methos shivered inside, wondering what he was allowing himself to get into.

Missouri, Present Day

"You look like you've seen a ghost." Mac's voice was low, a little amused, a little concerned. Methos turned from his scrutiny of the kitchen, making certain to grab the beer he'd used as an excuse.

"We all have ghosts, MacLeod. And often they follow us, no matter where we go." He couldn't meet those dark eyes, not with the haunting fresh in his. Why, he wasn't sure. It couldn't have anything to do with not wanting Mac's pity; his lover had had mortals for lovers, many of them.

"Are the ghosts following you, or did you find them here?" When Methos didn't answer, instead turned back to look out the window, Mac took the few steps separating them, and joined him. "What's got your attention out there? The barn?"

"Just looking at it all. The world changes so much, and so little, all at the same time." The beer, at least, was cool. He swallowed gratefully, enjoying the tartness against his tongue, the way the bubbles felt as they slipped down his throat.

"It's a falling-down pile of lumber, Methos." Mac's fingers touched the back of his neck, rubbing and smoothing, and Methos felt a little of his tension ease away. "We can walk around the property, if you want. The broker told me there's a pond a little ways back. I wouldn't mind a swim."

"If it's not full of algae and other things." He let a sardonic smile cross his face at the pinch Mac gave him. "What? I swam with algae and other small creatures for millennia before anyone figured out the marvels of chlorine. Give me a break."

"No, you give *me* a break." The pressure on the back of his neck increased from a slight pinch to something just shy of a stranglehold. He squirmed uncomfortably but Mac didn't budge. "What's the matter, Methos? I don't like to pry; we all have our secrets and our pasts, but--"

But the last time I didn't pry you showed me Death on horseback. The words fell unspoken between them at the same time Mac's hand released him. Methos rolled his shoulders, working off the pressure, then glared at MacLeod. "You don't trust me? What, you think I've been here, did something like a mass murder here? The Horsemen never made it to America, MacLeod."

"No, I--"

"Forget it." He knew Mac wasn't thinking that; they'd settled a lot of the ghosts from that debacle. He was feeling...protective, though, of things he hadn't thought about in decades. It was surprising, actually, to find he didn't want to share these memories. Not right now, at any rate. He hadn't thought of Sarah and her children in a long time; had done his best to forget, in many ways. Not unlike Alexa. He would remember her, always, also, but there would also be moments when he would try to not remember her. As good as the time with her had been, there was a tinge of sadness that touched each memory associated with her. It was like that with Sarah, as well. "Let's go into Springfield, find some place to eat."

"You don't want to eat here?"

"Nah; gets hot in the kitchen."

Mac gave him a funny look and Methos realized what he'd said. Backpedaling always worked. "Well, it's Missouri, it's summer...even with air conditioning--"

"Whatever, Methos." Another funny look. "You're hungry now?"

"I'm sure we can find something to do to ensure that we're both hungry in a little while." He gave MacLeod a wink, turning purposefully away from the barn - and what lay behind it. "We haven't indulged in, oh, about ten hours, at least."

"You're a lech." That dark shadow still hung in Mac's eyes, but there was diversion there, too. Methos stepped forward into the small space between them and touched Mac's mouth.

"Guilty as charged, Highlander." One long finger stroked over full, moist lips, pausing to rub suggestively at the seam between them. "Are you complaining?"

"Not at all." His eyes still looked troubled, and Methos decided to take a more direct course to change that. He leaned in further, watching as Mac's eyes slid shut, as his mouth opened slightly, in anticipation, in welcome.

"Good." The taste of MacLeod on his tongue was enough to distract himself from old memories, and Methos dived willingly into the wet heat, determined that they should both be diverted, at least for a while.

"Maybe a shower, rather than dinner?" Mac's lips teased over the highly-sensitive skin of his neck, and behind his ear, then ghosted over his collarbone. Droplets of sweat still clung to both of them; air-conditioning or no, making love - or rutting, as in this case - was still sweaty business.

"Shower *and* dinner." Methos' belly grumbled, and he bit his lip to keep from laughing when his lover frowned at him. Mac bit him lightly, scoring his neck just beside his adam's apple, and it was all he could do to contain the shiver that needled its way down his spine. "After a little dessert." He reached between them and tweaked one of Mac's nipples, rubbing the flat nub into a hard little pebble.

"You're supposed to eat your dinner first, then have dessert." MacLeod's words were muffled, and Methos winced and jerked when teeth pulled harder on the skin stretched over his shoulder. His cock throbbed though, renewing its interest in what Mac was doing to him.

"I already had dinner. Full of protein, too." He licked his lips audibly, making a 'mmmmm' noise, and quivered when Mac laughed outright against his chest.

"Then you don't need to eat again, do you?" A long, slow lick made Methos' skin goosebump, anticipating the bite that would follow. He never would've guessed Mac for a biter, but the evidence glowed all over his body in light and dark pink marks. Out of bed, he was just Duncan MacLeod. Get him into bed, and he turned into a man-eating shark. Literally.

"Growing boys *always* need to eat, MacLeod," Methos pushed Mac backwards to sprawl on the bed, then loomed over him, rubbing his erection against the other man's belly. "And I am definitely growing, here."

"So I see." Dark eyes sparkled mischievously, and Methos groaned when strong, blunt fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking firmly. "Should we see if you can grow any more?"

"How about some planting, instead?" He leaned down and bit at Mac's mouth, tongue stroking over lush, swollen lips. Mac opened for him with a soft groan, enveloped him in heat.

More than five thousand years old, and he still got aroused just listening to the sounds of sex, of lovemaking. Kisses, especially. Something about the wet, slick sounds of lips and tongues meeting, stroking, teasing, made his body burn. Methos growled low in his throat and pushed on MacLeod until their bodies were plastered together, mouths moving, grasping at each other.

It was so easy to lose himself in this; in the slippery glide of his body against another's. That the other was MacLeod, friend, lover, personal pain-in-the-ass, made it that much greater. A gift he hadn't expected to ever get, simply because of who they both were, and the world they inhabited. He slid down the long, muscled body, licking and nipping at choice bits of Mac's torso, paying particular attention to the tiny brown points of his nipples. Judicious application of his teeth to those small nubs could make MacLeod writhe like nothing else, and Methos waited until he'd groped the small bottle of oil off the nightstand before applying himself to the task.

Strong hands gripped his head, tightened on his hair, pulling most uncomfortably, but Methos stayed his ground, licking and sucking until Mac's hands fell away, grasping at the quilt covering their bed, his body arching and wriggling beneath Methos' tongue, soft pleas and whimpers filling the air around them.

MacLeod was a work of art, stretched out for him to play with, to taste, to touch. How did this happen? He'd kept Mac at arms' length purposely, not wanting to need anyone again so soon. Part of his heart was still given over to Alexa, though he'd shut a great deal of himself off from her. Mortals died too soon, no matter how old they lived to be. But unlike probably ninety-nine percent of all his other lovers, Mac was Immortal...perhaps he'd be around. Perhaps.

"Methos...please..." The soft groan brought him back to himself, to the moment, aware now that he'd been teasing his lips all around the defined edges of Mac's ribs, tasting the bronzed skin, licking with abandon. Dark brown eyes stared at him, hot with arousal, dilated with need. "Don't tease, Methos--"

"Teasing is half the fun, MacLeod." Just to prove his point, Methos lowered his head again and blew a raspberry on Mac's belly, just below his navel. His lover squirmed, and Methos did it again. "See?" Another spot, a little further down, and this raspberry was more of a caress than a tease. Mac groaned, his breath coming in soft pants.

"Please...."

"Do you know how good you look...how debauched? Laying like this, all stretched out, hair streaming everywhere, legs splayed open..." Methos reared up on his knees, reached out one finger to trace lightly down the heaving chest. "Makes me want to eat you alive."

"Be...my...guest." Mac ground the words out, quivering when Methos trailed that solitary finger down his erection.

"Any preferences?" His stomach tightened with need when Mac spread his legs a little wider, lifting them up and holding himself open. "Wicked, wicked man..."

"Aye, and whose fault is that, hmm? I never did these things before I met you." Mac's skin was white with pressure around where his fingers pressed, and Methos could see a fine shiver working over him.

"Oh, Pinnochio. Your nose is going to grow with that one." With a chuckle that bordered on a growl, Methos settled himself, nosing gently at the dark, sweaty crevice before touching his tongue there. He gripped Mac's hips himself, holding his legs wide open for both their pleasures. This was the pure essence of the man, the scent raw and sensual, a mix of sweat and musk, the elemental parts of MacLeod.

"Not just my nose--" Mac's words ended in a hiss, and Methos laughed softly against his skin.

He teased him for a long time with mouth, tongue, lips, drawing small circles over puckered, ridged flesh, darting his tongue in and out to pleasure, to moisten, to prepare. MacLeod kept up a symphony of sounds, pants and sighs, low cries and moans, soft growls. When he was arching up off the bed, hips moving almost frantically, Methos shifted up onto his knees, opening the small bottle of sandalwood oil. The rich scent mixed delightfully with the musky scent of semen and sweat that filled the air already, and the mixture made him almost as dizzy as staring at Mac's body did. He dribbled the oil onto his aching shaft, shuddering when he smoothed it around.

"Turn over." His words came out as a soft growl, echoing his arousal. Mac nodded shortly, eyes dark and unfocused when they met his. The long, clean line of Mac's back called to him, and Methos leaned in to nip lightly where it dipped into his waist, growling again when Mac shuddered. "You're incredible, MacLeod. Fucking incredible." Methos moved back and tipped the vial, dribbling some of the oil down the shadowy cleft.

"Just do it...." Mac's voice was heavy with pants, barely more than a breathy growl. Methos shifted him around, then pressed against him, mouth moving over the other man's neck as he pushed slowly and steadily into Mac's body, groaning with pleasure as tight heat enveloped him.

It was slower, this time, maybe even gentler, though that wasn't an adjective he often associated with their lovemaking. It'd been an interesting revelation when he discovered he and Mac could do fast, frenzied sex, and have it still be *lovemaking*. In spite of the vast number of partners and combinations he'd had over the years, Methos was still surprised by many things about his relationship with Mac. Not the least of which was that they *had* one.

He pumped faster into Mac, kissing and licking at the salty skin of his neck, stomach tightening with each whimper and growl from him. When Mac started pushing back harder against him, breath coming in hoarse, harsh pants, Methos shoved himself upright, pulling Mac with him, canting his hips up to get the deepest, fullest penetration. The hoarse shout of pleasure made his hips buck forward faster, his body aching for completion. Mac's body spasming around his ensured it, the tightness increasing until Methos was nearly dizzy with the pleasure thrumming through him. He gripped Mac's hips tightly, thrusting in and holding fast while he emptied himself, soft sobs mixing with his growls. When his knees wouldn't hold him any longer, and Mac's arms couldn't support them, they collapsed forward, Mac's soft grunt the only indication of discomfort from his weight.

"I love this," he said softly, after several minutes of just lying there, the words lost in the damp whorls of hair sticking to Mac's neck. //I love you.// Always hesitant to say the words; always hesitant to need MacLeod too much. They'd hurt each other badly, over the years, and while things were patched, it'd made him wary.

"Me, too." Mac's voice was quiet, reflective. Methos pressed a kiss to the tender skin just below Mac's ear, then rolled off onto his side, and over onto his back. Beside him, Mac shifted around, pressing himself closer even as his breathing evened out into a slow, easy pattern. Sleep. A grin spread across Methos' face; he couldn't wait to tease him about it, later. //Fall asleep on me, will you? Ah, well, it won't be the last time, I'm sure.//

Sleep actually didn't sound like a bad idea, and maybe when he woke, some of the memories would be gone along with the jetlagged feeling.

Nixa, Missouri, August 1911

"Ha, mule!" Methos slapped the reins once more, remembering the grace and agility of the finely-bred Arabian stallions he'd owned, not more than a lifetime ago, and wishing for them now.

Mules and a wagon were all very well and good, unless you were accustomed to more refined means of travel. He grinned at his own thoughts; what a snob he'd become! Another dip in the packed dirt passing as a road made his jaw ache when his teeth cracked together; the one before that convinced him he'd left a kidney behind somewhere.

Sarah sat beside him on the bench seat, looking cool and composed, and so lovely in her blue gingham dress and matching bonnet. It brought out the rich, shimmering color of her eyes; made them seem depthless, almost other-worldly in their intensity. Maggie sat between them, short legs dangling, pumping haphazardly in no particular rhythm, her small head covered in a red-and-white checked bonnet styled like her mother's. Behind them, seated in the wagon bed on a couple of folded up quilts, the boys poked and prodded at each other, laughing and grunting as they played, and tugging on wisps of Maggie's hair in random moments of harassment, when they tired of each other.

Springfield was rising up before them, an impressive sight, after the tiny dot that made up Nixa, and the surrounding farmlands of the Missouri Ozarks. Not quite six weeks into his stay at the Hutchison farm, and Methos had forgotten how cities made his blood come alive with effervescence similar to champagne bubbles. So many opportunities, so many things to do and see, and explore.

So many chances to run into others of his kind.

His sword lay just beneath his feet, on the floorboards of the wagon, wrapped neatly in his long, leather duster. He hoped to stay near the wagon for the most part today, because it was simply too warm to wear a long leather coat.

"It's quite a sight, isn't it?" Sarah's voice--when had he stopped thinking of her as 'Mrs. Hutchison'?--was soft, but clear, and Methos turned his attention away from the backside of the mule, and the vista between it's ears, to look at her. Thoughts of all the cities he'd seen in his long, long lifetime, as well as the cities he'd helped destroy, wandered quickly through his mind, and he had to clear his throat before answering.

"Yes, it is." And it must be, to a girl from the country, who lived in the country, as she did. He eyed it critically; it was a pretty town, and growing, too, from the looks of things. Scaffolding dotted sidewalks, and people scurried about on foot, on horseback, and in wagons and carriages. He flicked the reins once more, guiding the mule toward the side of the road, to allow for passing traffic.

(The end, as it stands now, and probably always.)