Sealed by Fire

Title: Sealed by Fire
Author: silentflux
Written for: carenejeans for hlh_shortcuts
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos
Rating: FRM
Warnings: Minor mention of character death (not Duncan or Methos), angst
Wordcount: 1923
Author’s Notes: Written for the hlh_shortcuts where it is posted HERE Go check out all the awesome fics at the comm 🙂

The title comes from a poem The Dream by Pablo Neruda, as did the inspiration for this fic. Hopefully, you enjoy 🙂 Thanks to kristories, musingdarkly and csi_chic_jayme for their help and encouragement!

Summary: Methos thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Was it a memory or something more substantial?

~*~

Methos thought his mind was playing tricks on him – he truly did. The first time it happened, he shrugged it off. It wasn’t like it hadn’t been a common occurrence at one time, his eyes playing tricks on him. Shaking his head, he went back to rereading the book he always had in his pocket lately – a concession to the nostalgia at this time of year. Each word carefully read, turning it over in his mind as a treasure even though the book had long ago been committed to memory. It was always these types of things that faded from him first and he’d be damned if he allowed that particular book to be forgotten any time soon. It may be futile, but he’d try anyways.

Reaching out for the cup of coffee he’d left on the table in front of him, he froze as the presence of another immortal echoed around him, confirming his uneasiness earlier. Looking up, ignoring most of the people in the cafe, he looked through the window and across the street. MacLeod. Duncan. He was standing there, hair free in the winter wind and blowing in his eyes as their gazes met.

Standing abruptly, throwing down enough cash for his uneaten muffin and still steaming cup of coffee, he hurried outside, book clutched in his hands, chasing after a figure in a long black coat. But his call of “MacLeod!” was lost in the sea of people, rushing home from work for the holiday.

Looking around at the bright lights and colors of the season, the snow black on the street with cinders and salt, Methos’ pace slowed until he was standing still in the streams of laughing, rushing crowds of Christmas Eve afternoon. Coming out today had been a mistake.

~*~

Hands stretched against smooth, cool cotton as he broke into a sweat, body aching and straining against the weight and restraint levered against him.

~*~

The ancient Immortal shook his head and turned on his heel. It was definitely time to go back to his apartment. It wasn’t far and he definitely needed to find another cup of coffee. Maybe a beer. Yes, a beer would definitely be better.

Almost muttering to himself, he walked the twelve blocks to his apartment building, enjoying the bite of the cold wind through his jacket and gloves, the stinging sensation keeping him awake, reminding him of what was real – that he was here.

Stepping into the warmth of his building was a shock that cut into him, drawing him out of his thoughts as he headed toward the promise of a hot drink and more reading. Words to bring him home, words which always allowed him to remember.

~*~

It hadn’t woken him, not at first. By the time he was aware, he was shaking with need, fingers stroking sensitive skin while hoarse, sleepy sounds escaped his throat as something much thicker eased inside.

~*~

He was just in the middle of his second cold beer, settled at the bar stool at the end of his kitchen island while the coffee brewed, munching on fresh popcorn when he felt the familiar buzz. He didn’t turn around, didn’t go searching, didn’t do anything except finish the paragraph he was on in his book.

The air shifted around him, thickened with the annoying presence the longer it went unacknowledged. But he continued to ignore it until the words blurred in front of him, long after he’d heard his front door close.

“MacLeod.”

~*~

He hadn’t realized it could be like this again, not again. But he couldn’t choose to walk away. Not this time. This time it wasn’t going to be his choice. Because it was no longer a choice he could make, and he hated that more than anything.

~*~

“Long time.”

“Not long enough. What do you want?” The question was clipped as Methos set the book on counter, refusing to turn around and look at the other man.

“Methos…”

“Don’t. I don’t want to hear it. Just take your bullshit and get out of my house.” He knew his tone was hard, and his face struggled to reflect that hardness – he was glad the Scotsman couldn’t see him.

The swift movement behind him almost forced him to turn, the heat of the stubborn man’s body at his back. “Methos, would you look at me?”

“Why? I told you to get out, Mac.” His hand trembled on top of his book, but he ignored it. It had been years since he’d been this close to him, and he breathed in deep, knowing once he’d pushed the other Immortal out the door, he likely wouldn’t see him again.

“I want to come home.”

~*~

The sound of the door closing made him flinch and the rage at his own weakness had him grabbing the nearest object and throwing it at the brick wall. Shaking with the effort to control himself, he swore. He’d loved that Ming vase.

~*~

“Fuck you. Get out of my house,” he responded automatically, standing and trying to slide from between the counter and his – Duncan. Before he could react, already distracted by his emotions, he didn’t move swiftly enough before finding himself pinned against the island, immobilized by an expert hold, MacLeod’s body draped along his own. Methos slammed his elbows back, trying to find the room to twist away when he felt his wrists grabbed and twisted until he held still at the edge of pain.

“Duncan… Let me go.” His voice uneven and desperate.

“Not until you at least listen to me.” Hot breath against the delicate skin of his nape, and he fought the shiver, but couldn’t stop the prickling of goose bumps. “Please.”

“No. Now, let go.” He threw as much of his weight into twisting away as possible, holding back the whimper as the hands encircling his wrists held tight enough to bruise.

“I don’t think you want me to. I don’t think you want me to at all,” MacLeod’s voice mocked, dark amusement hidden there as Methos tried to cover his reactions to the other Immortal.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, Methos. I don’t think that’s the way you really want it, do you?”

~*~

The first time they’d been drunk and it really hadn’t been a surprise by then. The only discomfiting thing about the next morning was Amanda arriving with a congratulatory breakfast. And a request for video.

~*~

“Oh fuck off, you fucking asshole. You disappear for fifty years and you just think that -”

“Methos.”

” – that I would be here waiting for you?! If Joe was here, he’d kick your ass! In fact, let me call Amanda. I’m sure she’d be pleased to do so in his honor.”

~*~

It had been his first real failure in a long time to protect his friends. Richie had been the first, but Joe had been the last straw. And Methos had been helpless to stop the almost agonizingly slow withdraw. He kicked and screamed and spat horrible things, but nothing ever made it past the ever present self-flagellation. Of course, it was the self sacrifice that killed them in the end.

~*~

A forceful hand dragged his head around enough until lips found his, punishing and needy and begging forgiveness until he couldn’t think with the loss of air, couldn’t do anything but open up for breath. An embarrassing and angry noise pushed through when the other man took that as an invitation, invading and relearning his mouth as he bite and fought back through the kiss. The warmth of Duncan at his back, the familiar taste of him, almost made Methos cringe away, but couldn’t. He was trapped there.

“Duncan. Just don’t… please.” His voice was rough, lips bruised as he panted, eyes staring up into troubled brown ones. When his brain registered warm hands resting along his waist, under his shirt, he shivered, wondering when the Scotsman had let go of his wrists.

“I want to come home.”

Methos let his head fall back against one strong shoulder, letting MacLeod take all his weight. “I can’t do this again.”

~*~

Months had gone by, and he hadn’t heard a word about Duncan. The Watchers didn’t have any information on his whereabouts either. Joe’s replacement hadn’t been particularly swift on the uptake and MacLeod had ditched him somewhere in the Netherlands. It was like he’d fallen off the face of the Earth. But he was still waiting. He was still waiting for years after.

~*~

Duncan’s body shifted against his, and Methos bit his lip against a gasp. “I’m not going -”

“Don’t! You can’t promise me that.”

Large hands clutched bruising thin hips before Methos was roughly turned and divested of his bulky sweater. Dark eyes stared at his lover, the changes wrought in his eyes, if not his skin.

“I will, though. If you let me.”

“Fuck you.”

And lips met his in a clash of teeth and tongue that was anything but nice, echos of the sweetness of a time past long since squelched beneath the expectation of pain. “Why couldn’t you just leave me be?”

There was no answer except hands pulling at clothing and skin sliding against skin, the counter cool and hard against his back as he wrapped himself around Duncan. He hated the moan he heard as callused palms grasped them both, his hips arching up, cocks sliding together in their natural rhythm until nothing was left but sensation, everything washed away except the feel of Duncan’s hand stroking along the sweaty line of his spine, his broad fingers wrapped around them as they shuddered together in desperation.

“Duncan -” he gasped out as he came, too fast, too hard, shutting his eyes at the look of warmth and love in the man he was wrapped around.

As they lay sprawled across the counter, Duncan’s head resting against his breastbone, breathing panted against his slowly cooling body, he felt a slight shift and froze as he saw his lover’s eyes land on the book next to the stool.

“I wanted to come home.”

Methos’ eyes closed almost in pain before opening again and nodding in acknowledgment. The book lay open to the inscription in the front in Joe’s unruly scrawl.

“Yeah.”

~*~

Joe had handed him the book of poems, rolling his eyes at his friend’s disbelief. “They’re good work. You should check it out.” And as the Watcher had slowly walked back to the bar, Methos had opened up the hardcover jacket and read the inscription. Home is never a place – it’s the people. – Joe

The Dream

Walking on the sands
I decided to leave you.

I was treading a dark clay
that trembled
and I, sinking and coming out,
decided that you should come out
of me, that you were weighing me down
like a cutting stone,
and I worked out your loss
step by step:
to cut off your roots,
to release you alone into the wind.

Ah, in that minute,
my dear, a dream
with its terrible wings
was covering you.

You felt yourself swallowed by the clay,
and you called to me and I did not come,
you were going, motionless,
without defending yourself
until you were smothered in the quicksand.

Afterwards
my decision encountered your dream,
and from the rupture
that was breaking our hearts
we came forth clean again, naked,
loving each other
without dream, without sand,
complete and radiant,
sealed by fire.