It was a different place; he'd never been here before. The sign wasn't much of a sign at all; more like a small plaque hanging over the door. The Velvet Turtle. It sounded vaguely ludicrous, and MacLeod couldn't imagine why Methos had chosen this place over the familiar, comfortable atmosphere of Joe's place.

Not that this looked...*un*comfortable. Just--different.

Different could be good. It could be bad, but it had the potential to be good. He'd seen lots of 'different' in his lifetime; surely he could handle an unfamiliar bar on a damp night, after a strange invitation from his lover.

'Nine pm, Mac. Don't be early; don't be late. Go inside, and look for me. I'll be waiting for you. I'll have a surprise for you.' His mind shivered with the memory. Different...could be good.

Right?

The Presence of another Immortal itched at his brain the minute he swung the door open, and his gaze automatically started searching around the room, taking in as much of it as he could. Sight the unseen; find the potential enemy--

No. It felt like Methos. He could tell the old man from other Immortals; a leftover gift from their double-Quickening, he supposed. That, or the by-product of several years together. There were others a few other he could tell apart, but none like he could sense his lover.

And this felt like Methos. But Methos wasn't in sight.

This place isn't bad. Definitely not Joe's atmosphere--but not a bad place to come for a drink.

It was aptly-named; there were panels of velvet--and leather, and satin--hanging about, everywhere. Satin-lined, velvet drapes were pulled back from some booths, and closed around others. The large bar that curved around part of the room in a demented "S" shape was hardwood--oak? Maple?--to a mid-point, then lined with red velvet.

There was a low murmur of voices from points around him, and over all, thrumming through the floor into his legs, filling him up, was the powerful bass line of the Moody Blues singing 'Nights in White Satin'.

The place was dim, and warm. Not uncomfortably so; rather, it was like being taken into an embrace by a lover still warm from the shower. The damp on his skin from the mist outside was warming from the heat around him. The heat of many bodies all together was clinging to him, teasing him with a hint of seduction. There was musk in the air; it was ripe with rich scents, all mingling together, combining to create a powerful aura. Someone, somewhere in here, was smoking a clove cigarette, and someone else had just burned some incense. He could smell perfume, and body sweat, and the musk of arousal--of sex.

And there was another Immortal around; one that felt like his lover, but couldn't be, because Methos would have shown himself by now.

He cast his eyes around the room, moving a few more steps inside. A shadowy movement caught his attention, and MacLeod turned his head, drawn to the tall, statuesque woman sitting half-facing him. In the dimness he couldn't see all of her--couldn't see her face--but there was seduction... hell, there was *invitation* in the slow, gliding movements she made as one leg slid up the other, then down, crossing at the knee. He shuddered, caught by surprise at the voluptousness of the movement, and glanced away, heat rising in his face. He looked back again, drawn, and floundered helplessly as another wave of...something...washed over him. He could see the black lace of garters, and the sheer nylon of stockings, peeking from beneath the edge of a black leather skirt.

It was arousal he was feeling. Hot, burning, intense arousal. The kind that Methos roused in him, before sending him screaming into ecstacy. Mac shifted uneasily, his eyes following the lines and contours of the woman's body. She was slender, and tall...as tall as him, likely. He moved a hesitant step closer, uncertain as to why she was affecting him like this--and uncomfortable with it. He was monogamous--they both were. Methos had asked him about it once, and Mac had been totally honest: if he was involved with anyone, he might look, but he didn't touch. His body's reaction to this person was unsettling in the extreme. He wasn't lacking for physical satiation, and while he and the older Immortal might not lie about in bed discussing their feelings, he loved Methos, and knew he was loved in return. He wasn't lacking *anything*, but his cock, at least, seemed to feel differently.

I wonder what she smells like. MacLeod looked around, startled, wondering where that thought had come from. What the hell was with him?

The music changed; he didn't recognize the song straight off, but the low, sultry beat captured his attention--it seemed to throb through him, winding its seductive song into his soul. ...Hot child in the city... What was this, oldies night at the Velvet Turtle?

...Come on down to my place, woman...we'll make love...

The black pump on a long, slender foot was swinging rhythmically, and Mac felt a drop of sweat slide down the back of his neck. Where the *hell* was Methos?

The toe of the shoe pointed at him, then flexed, and Mac stepped forward, helpless against the spell of the music and the atmosphere, and the unseen woman teasing him. He followed the line begun at her foot, up long, long legs. They were clad in nylon, or the sheerest of silk--black--and secured, as he already knew, with black lace garters. A leather mini-skirt, pulled up on one side to show a hint of smooth skin between lace and leather. The leather flowed into something thin and clingy, very sheer. A hint of another layer beneath it; he could see the narrow straps holding it up--a lacy camisole to compliment the garters.

It was too warm in here. He couldn't breathe. His cock ached inside his slacks, and MacLeod wished like hell he'd never set foot inside this place.

He was going to fuck Methos within an inch of his life when he finally found him and got him home.

One more step brought him within speaking distance of the woman's table, and he cleared his throat roughly, not at all sure what he was going to say, but knowing he was going to say something. The woman tilted her head, and he almost missed the slow, knowing smirk that he was all-too-familiar with, watching the way her hair curled around and brushed her jaw. A much stronger jaw than a woman might have. A very familiar jaw. He curled his fingers into fists, a slight shiver whisking through him. The dark, honey-thick baritone flowed over him, coating him, immobilizing him.

"You look...warm, Highlander. Bothered, one might even say."

Even as his jaw was dropping, MacLeod could feel the shock thrumming through him; it broadsided him like a runaway train, leaving him gaping, speechless, at the--man!--he called lover.

"Methos?" It was supposed to be a word; it came out as a thick, gritty whisper. The old man inclined his head, wisps of long hair swaying against his neck.

"None other, MacLeod."

"I-- You... uhm," Mac stumbled over his words, his eyes still flicking up and down the other man's body. Knowing who he was looking at now, he could *see* Methos in there... But he wasn't sure it was his Methos. "*Why*?"

Methos waved him into the chair beside him, then very slowly uncrossed his legs and re-crossed them, that long foot encased in high-heeled leather swinging casually toward Mac's trousered leg. "Why not?"

There didn't seem to be any reply to that which would work, so Mac didn't try. Instead he shifted, not sure if he wanted to move closer to Methos, or get as far away from him as he could. Everything inside him was screaming *GO*--except for his libido. If he was honest with himself, this was a turn-on. Knowing the person in front of him was Methos, but also seeing the *woman* presented to him--MacLeod struggled between arousal and not...disgust; he didn't think he could feel that way about the man before him. But even while it was arousing, it was...disturbing. Really disturbing, if he wanted to put a fine point on it.

His lover smirked, watching him, and the foot swung nearer, the pointed toe stroking up and down his calf, making him shudder with the sensations ricocheting through him.

Why would he want to pretend to be a woman? Isn't he--happy? He's a man, I'm a man--and that's fine... And I can handle that, no problem... thought he could, too. Why the hell couldn't he? He's older than me, seen more, done more. Are things--boring?--the way they are right now? Why the gender-bending?

Mac flagged the waiter that wandered past. "Scotch on the rocks."

The waiter nodded, glanced at Methos, then turned at the slow shake of his head.

"Going to drown your sorrows, Highlander?"

MacLeod gestured toward the other man. "Why, Methos? Are you--" He searched in his mind for a word, then shook his head and sighed. "I dunno what I wanted to ask. I came in here expecting to find you, and instead I find--"

"You found me, MacLeod. I'm still *me*, beneath the outer trappings. Clothes, hair--it's just a layer."

"Yeah, well, it's a layer I'm not used to seeing on you." He could hear the growl in his voice, and wished the words back when his lover turned a sardonic grin on him.

"Perhaps I should do it more often?"

"Can we change the subject, here? Just--talk?" Mac nodded at the waiter who set the drink in front of him, then picked it up to sip.

"Talk about what? The state of the union, today versus when Roosevelt--or Lincoln--was in office? French politics? The sad state of Soviet prisons?" Methos swung the pump a little more, stroking Duncan's leg with the toe. It was a caress that was making his stomach all fluttery, since his dismay was rapidly fading in the face of arousal.

"Stop, Methos. I can't think--"

"Maybe I don't want you to think. Maybe I just want you to act. Or react."

"In what way?" He tossed the rest of the whiskey back, clenching his teeth around the cold from the ice cubes.

Methos shrugged, making even that gesture seem elegant, seductive. More heat thrummed through MacLeod, and he wished fervently for a way to get them both out of here, *now*. "What was your first, instinctive reaction, when you saw me--not knowing who I was--staring at you, coming on to you?"

I wanted to throw you to the floor and fuck you silly, damn you. MacLeod bit his lip, trying to keep his thoughts silent; half-afraid the other man could read his mind. Another slow, gently-mocking smile was his reward, and the younger Immortal felt a rush of heat over his face that had nothing to do with sex, or arousal.