Disclaimers:  Not mine, don't own 'em, and trust me, everything is well past statue of limitations!
Rated:  R for slash of the m/m variety.  If you don't like that, you're reading the wrong story and should back out now.
Comments:  This one is for Olympia, with many thanks for challenging me to write something 'fun', and 'at least semi-slashy' with 'Methos and MacLeod'.  Two notes, though.  This takes place in 1783.  And Oly?  You didn't specify which MacLeod, dear. . . .
(Underlined for emphasis; italics indicate thoughts.)

Challenges

Getting up had only been... interesting.  Walking, now -- that had, so far, been... fun.  A straight line, however, was plainly impossible.  So he bounced from house to house on his way down the street and if the houses weren't always on the same side of the road, or he occasionally tripped over a rut in the dirt, well, that was all right, too.  Besides, no true Highlands son ever got so drunk he couldn't make it back to the pub!

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Methos felt an immortal before he saw the man stumble back in through the door.  "MacLeod, we're closed."

"You can't be closed; the sun's up."

"And?"

"Morgan, what kind of tavern isn't open when there's daylight?"

Methos eyed him unkindly, hammer in one hand, nail in the other, and a broken bench propped over one thigh.  "MacLeod, are you sober yet?"

"What time is it?" he asked, sagging down onto a table that wasn't listing too badly and rubbing absently under his ribs where his previously punctured body insisted on claiming it was sore.

"Half an hour past sunrise."  The tavern owner placed the nail on the bench leg and hammered it in with three solid, annoyed strikes, enjoying the way the smaller man flinched at the noise.  "No, you're not sober yet.  Didn't you have a duel this morning?"

"Aye.  I apologized after the bastard blinded me.  The Commons are really very green in the morning, did you know?"

Methos glanced over at the very drunk younger immortal and gave up on his irritation... for the moment, anyway.  No sense giving him a cold reception when he wasn't sober enough to notice the deliberate, distancing use of his last name.  Besides, the Scot was at least good company when he was drunk, not morose and gloomy like some.  "The Commons are green just about any time other than midnight, Connor.  Come brace this, why don't you?"

Connor sank down beside him, absently holding his hand against his side and first stared at the broken bench, then at Robert Morgan's long, lean form folded onto the floor around it.  He was just drunk enough to have to check whether the shirt was blocking his view or if Morgan's leg had gone through the wood rather than around it.

The tavern owner growled, "All you have to do is hold it in... oh, sweet God, MacLeod."  Methos stared at the small, circular tears in the other man's ivory and green vest, each and every one decorated with some shade of blood.  One had dried nearly to brown; two more still showed a lovely deep red on the white of the linen shirt visible through the rent.  But he could see five punctures immediately, and the young inebriate was curled over himself as if they still ached, which meant he'd been run through so many times the muscles hadn't yet decided they were healed.

Another immortal's presence poured over him and Methos glanced up and saw Sunda Kastagir heading toward the tavern.  Good.  He said he was going to go along and keep an eye on the Scottish idiot.  Let's hope he did.

Methos reached over and tipped the Highlander's chin up, trying to catch his eyes and get what little attention remained through the alcohol.  "MacLeod... how many people saw this duel?"

Kastagir chuckled from the doorway.  "Not so many that we need to worry.  Bassett's reputation is in almost as many shreds as MacLeod's shirt, though."

"Really?"  He watched Kastagir stalk behind the bar and heard liquid fall into metal.  "One of these days you're going to run into someone who knows that a good Muslim shouldn't be drinking that."

"Not on this continent I won't," Kastagir replied as he walked over to them and handed the pewter mug of ale to the Scot.  "And it's not for me; I'm not the one who played pincushion this morning.  Do your ribs hurt, Connor?"

"Everything hurts, you oversized mountain of coal.  Keep your voice down, would you?"  He sipped at the beer and sighed, "Thank you."

"And a thunderstorm coming this afternoon, too," Kastagir chuckled, watching Connor cringe and grinning when the man managed not to drop his mug at least.  "Oh, your head's going to ache all right, Highlander.  Quit worrying, Robert, he hasn't exposed us all.  Instead Bassett now has a reputation for incompetence and his second is being tended by what passes for a doctor in this benighted country."

"Bassett's second?"  Methos looked up, surprised.  "What, did Connor trip over his shoes and stab the wrong man?"

"I'm not that drunk!"

"Yes, my friend, you were," Kastagir snorted.  "No, Bassett must have punctured him eight times, Robert, but since Connor kept getting back up, everyone assumed the hits weren't lethal -- if they connected with him at all, which the other witnesses doubt.  Even if the idiot did blind himself with his own wig once or twice."

"Once," Connor muttered, but they ignored him.

"No, after Connor apologized -- which may have been more insulting than the comment last night that started this farce -- the second, one Hotchkiss, pressed a pistol into Bassett's hand and insisted that he shoot Connor in the back of the head.  Instead, Bassett shot Hotchkiss."

"He didn't... he did."  Methos looked from MacLeod to Kastagir and back.  "I thought you were going to keep him out of trouble?  This is hardly what I would call inconspicuous.  However, how badly was the man hurt?"

Kastagir smiled, a pleased, lethal curve of those full lips.  "He took the ball in the ass... hardly the first time he's taken something there either, I think."  Methos snorted and Kastagir added in a tone of pious regret, "And I didn't even get to shoot the man.  A pity.  I was looking forward to starting a second fight as his second."

"Blood-thirsty barbarian," Methos chided softly, an ironic half-smile belying the words.  "Did you have to throw that party last night?"

"I hadn't seen either of you in years; it seemed like an excellent idea.  What was wrong with it?  You certainly made money off it, Robert."

Methos snorted.  "Have you looked at this room?"

Kastagir surveyed the scene of the supposed crime thoughtfully.  Granted, there were only two tables out of six that weren't listing to one side or the other.  Admittedly, most of the benches were rather the worse for wear and Allah, or Whoever, knew that Robert had never been the most deft of hands with hammer and nails.  The tall, soot-dark immortal studied the piles of empty, battered flagons spilling across counters and tables for the two serving girls to clean, the mounds of sawdust haphazardly swept here and there on the floor, and the drifts of ash and soot from the night's fire that had yet to be removed, and grinned.

"Looks like we had a party, Robert.  So.  Before you complain any further, decrepit one, why don't you use him as a brace to nail things back together and I shall sully my warrior's reputation with a broom, if -- and only if -- you swear never to tell a soul."

Methos raised an eyebrow at him and growled, "Warrior?  Reputation?  Your only reputation, Kastagir, is for getting out of work."

"And I studied that art with the master, oh my master," came the smiling reply and Sunda dropped him a flourishing bow.

"You don't have the hand gestures down yet."

"Ah, but I don't want the British to know how well I've studied them."

Methos ignored that disclaimer.  "And you never studied with me.  Get the broom."

"Confusion is good for the soul, Robert; it's also good for my sword arm."

Connor looked up and plaintively asked, "Are you going to keep talking all morning?  And could you not do it more quietly?"

"Connor.  You're drunk.  You're covered in blood and mud.  And talc, for that matter," Methos sighed, looking at the streaks of white on the man's face and the cheap, yellowing periwig that was slipping precariously to one side.  "Never mind.  Drink your ale, Connor.  We'll get you cleaned up in just a minute." So much for my bath this morning, because if I'm going to let him sleep off that hangover here, he's washing first.  He is not sleeping in my sheets covered in that muck; I'd have to burn them afterwards.

"Cleaned up?  You sound like I'm some lapdog to be scrubbed, Morgan."

Kastagir chuckled.  "A lapdog, MacLeod, would smell better than you do.  Is the cauldron over the fire, Robert?"

"Yes, damn it."  Methos set the bench upright and pulled another handful of nails from the canvas sack.  "Connor, hold that -- no, MacLeod, like this."  Impatient, he set the table leg back into position and grabbed the Scot's hand to place it where he wanted it... and cursed the sudden flash of heat that ran through his blood, across his skin, at that casual touch.

I am not falling for a mostly barbarian Celt who can't even stay out of duels!  He's old enough not to need a teacher, and I am not falling for him.  None of the thoughts stopped him from stroking his thumb across the back of Connor's hand as he let go and picked up the hammer again, or from commiserating when the younger immortal winced again at the noise.

All right.  Fine.  I'm not falling for him.  Nothing says I can't take him to bed, plow our brains out, and then send him on his way.  Right?  Right.  Good.  Now, how to get him there?

Connor shoved experimentally at the table leg; when it didn't move, he sighed in relief and put his hand back up to his aching head.  Methos concealed a smile and asked sympathetically, "Does it still hurt?"

"What do you think?" the Scot complained.  "Maybe I should try wine next."

Methos caught his mug before he could lift it and said, "No, I think you've had more than enough for a while, Connor.  Hold still, let me see what I can do."

Behind them, Kastagir evidently found something amusing; his chuckle sounded as if it were smirking.  But from the sound of it, the broom was still moving steadily across the floor and he hadn't moved to interfere, so Methos wasn't complaining yet.  Instead he reached out and plucked the god-awful wig off the Scot and brushed futilely at some of the powder it left behind.

"Well, that will help.  Damn thing's heavy enough to give you a headache by itself.  Now, hold still and let's see if I remember this or not."

"Oh, that's reassuring," Connor muttered, and tried to duck away from the hands advancing toward his throbbing skull.  "What're you doing?"

"Which word of that order to hold still did you miss?  I'm going to rub the headache out for you... unless, of course, you'd rather I went back to hammering nails?"

"Never mind.  I'll sit here," came the immediate reply.

"I thought so," Methos muttered, remembering a few mornings of his own when even he'd managed to drink too much.  That one time when he and Darius had thought the wine might have fermented a bit much but they drank the cask anyway had definitely been a mistake.  Well, the next morning, it had been a mistake; at the time, it had seemed perfectly reasonable to save the mortals from the stuff.

Connor yelped again when Methos pressed down on his cheekbones with both thumbs and tried to relocate them to his temples.  It felt like it, anyway, until he let go and all the pressure was gone, and Connor's headache, which had spiked at his own yell, faded noticeably.  He sighed and sagged against the repaired table.  "That's better, but I like my face the way it is, Morgan.  I'll thank you not to shove the bones out."

"Robert," Kastagir called, "it's almost an hour past sunrise.  If you're going to get him bathed before the serving girls get here, get moving.  If you don't mind them getting a free show, well...."

"I bloody well mind!"

"Who gave you a vote, Highlander?"  Kastagir grinned at him and added cheerfully, "What, do you think they fought a war over here to have a democracy or something, man?"

"I was in that war.  So were you, unless of course you're too old to remember?"

"Valley Forge was colder than a courtesan's heart," Kastagir agreed.  "Get in the damn scullery and get your bath, man, or you're going to have more spectators than the Continental Congress."

"All right, all right, you pushy Moor, I'll get a bath.  I don't see why; I had one just last week."  Connor spoiled the comment by confiding loudly to Methos, "Truth, I had one yesterday, too, I just like annoying him."

The 'him' in question grinned and kept sweeping.  "Robert, all the prices are on the chalkboard, yes?"

"Yes, why?"  Methos favored him with a suspicious look even as he levered the young Scot up to his feet, however unsteadily.

"Because you're going to be a while getting him cleaned up, drunk as he is.  I thought I'd run the place for you this morning.  You can pay me for it later."

"You already owe me two pounds," Methos said coolly.  One eyebrow went up, silently querying the real reason -- and real price -- for this too kind offer.

"I'll bring in more business than that," was the confident reply before Kastagir switched to Arabic.  MacLeod didn't speak it and Morgan definitely did.  "He's a friend of mine, Robert.  Take very good care of him, hmm?"  The threat hung in the air between them, clear to the older eyes at least.

Methos smiled wickedly at him.  "Certainly.  Come on, Connor, hot water to soak out some of the aches and the worst of the ale."  And I'll contemplate later what I'm going to owe Kastagir for this.  The idea of being in debt to that man....  It's enough to bring you to your knees.  Methos studied the younger man staggering uncertainly in front of him and if possible, his expression grew even more devious.  Of course, that's not the only thing that might bring me to my knees today.

Connor's pace across the floor was barely steadier than his pace down the road had been, and Methos shook his head ruefully as he propped the man against the wall before going into the kitchen.  He pulled the cauldron of hot water off the fire iron and walked back with it, muttering, "This was going to be my hot bath, damn it.  I miss Roma Mater."

"When were you in Rome?" Connor asked curiously.

Oh, ho, now this is interesting.  He's watching my legs, not my face.  Well, this has distinct possibilities.  Of course he may just be drunk.

"A few times."  He braced the heavy cauldron against the tub and tilted it to pour the hot water in, considered telling Connor to add the bucketfuls waiting nearby, and thought better of it.  "Watch for hot metal."  He took the pot back, added more water for a later bath more out of hope than faith, and returned to find that Connor had not budged an inch.  He seemed rather to be glued to the wall.

Cold water added, Methos glanced at the Scot and pointed out in a carefully neutral tone, "You have to take your clothes off, Connor."

"In public?" Connor protested immediately, trying to stand straight and almost succeeding.

"This is a public house, not public," Methos pointed out.  "When were you in Rome?" he asked, hands busy at the buttons of Connor's vest.  When the Scot tried to help, Methos swatted him away irritably.  "Quit that.  You're still drunk."

"'M not so drunk I can't undo my own clothes."

Methos muttered, "Just think me of your friendly barmaid, Connor.  Or are you going to tell me you've never had one of them help you out of your shirt?"  He tossed the bloody, holed (now) scrap fabric onto the nearest peg and began undoing shirt ties.  "I hope you weren't attached to this shirt."

Connor flinched as linen pulled free of dried blood, tugging at the fine line of hair on his belly.  "It seemed to be attached to me, damn it."

"Next time, duck."  Methos shrugged.  The other man's skin was softer against his hands than he'd expected, and he fought down a surge of lust.  Later.  I can lust later.  I refuse to seduce someone who's covered in mud and blood; I outgrew that taste about the time baths became available regularly.

Unfastening the pants would have been easier if the Highlander hadn't tried to help, he decided later.  The buttons were sticky with dried blood, a glaring rust contrast to the off-white pants, and Connor's attempt to bat his hands away from the placket instead knocked them onto a surprisingly prominent bulge for a man so drunk.

"Sorry," Connor muttered, unembarrassed.  "There's something about fights."

"Even ones where you can't lose your head?" Methos asked him, amused now.  "Hold still this time; if you're drunk enough to hit my hand the wrong way, you're drunk enough to try unfastening things that shouldn't be removed, Connor."

The Scot tried to glare at him, a surprisingly menacing expression from a man who was one, dead drunk; two, staring through scraggles of hair that had escaped the ribbon at the nape; and three, looking up from under his eyebrows where he was still bent over to try to fathom the mysteries holding his pants together.

In fact, Methos decided, both intrigued and somewhat impressed, he may just be one of the ones who makes it.  I don't know who trained him, but he's not half as frivolous as I thought.  A very deceptive opponent, to have that much strength hidden at the core.  Good.  He smiled, looking down and apparently concentrating on the buttons.  And if you're going to be a power in the Game, Connor MacLeod, I'm going to make sure you have... pleasant memories of me.

"Step out of the shoes, Connor."

"How, without falling over my pants?" he asked plaintively, mood shifting with the erratic changes of the monumentally drunk heading towards an equally major hangover at some point too soon.

Methos chuckled and got a shoulder under the other man's arm, coincidentally wrapping his arm around Connor's waist to catch the pants.  "I've got them, just do it."  The hose came off every bit as easily as the shoes, and Methos finally dropped his pants before walking him over to the wooden tub.  Somehow, he never quite let go of that solidly muscled body.  "In."

"All right, all right," Connor growled, stepping in and sitting down before he noticed, "This is hot, you madman!  Are you trying to scald me?"

"It's a bath, Connor, it's supposed to be."  Methos chuckled at him and passed him soap and a washcloth.  "Here.  You do know how to use these, right?  Or shall I get the brush we use on the horses?"

"I'm not a barbarian," he sputtered.  "I said I took a bath yesterday."

Methos studied him thoughtfully.  "And shaved?"

"Of course."

He ran a considering hand along the other man's cheek, stroking across the stubble and tracing a cheekbone with one errant finger.  "It doesn't show.  Start scrubbing, Connor, I'll go get a razor.  And a comb."  Not to mention look around for my composure.  Damn!

Methos took advantage of the time both to regain his self-control and to drop the shredded, stained, and damning clothes into the fire that Kastagir had rebuilt in the front room.  Too many holes, too much blood, for any man to have been in them and still be alive; rather than let some helpful servant take them for mending and start rumors flying, he buried them behind a log and watched the silk and linen burst into flame.

The tall, dark immortal responsible for the warmth nodded approval before he went back to checking the leg of an upended bench.  "I'll make sure they burn completely, Robert.  Did you leave the man anything to wear?"

An innocent shrug.  "His coat?"

"Sometime this afternoon one of us can retrieve his locker then," Kastagir said calmly.  "You were planning to keep him here today, weren't you?"

"It had crossed my mind.  He does need to sleep that party off."

Kastagir flashed him a wicked, merry smile.  "And a few other things?  Off with you, heathen.  Don't let me see you back down here before noon.  I might even send lunch up if the man yells loudly enough."

"Matchmaker."

One large shoulder raised and then dropped in a completely unrepentant shrug.  "Every man needs a harmless hobby, yes?"

"Harmless?!"

"Well, I'd try witchery but they hang people for such over here, apparently.  A pity.  I learned some interesting things you can do with some of the sea salts and a bonfire."

"For God's sake," Methos hissed, "don't do them in my tavern!  You'll get it burned around our heads!"

"Go away, granny, and tend your own knitting."  Kastagir pulled the bench up to prop it against a table, then said pointedly, "You're still here, Robert.  I've got this."

Dismissed and grinning over it, Methos headed up to his rooms taking the steps two at a time and ignoring the fact that he was rarely in such a good mood so early in the day after no sleep the night before.  He considered the heavy wooden comb and left it up there; they needed to get Connor out of there a little sooner than that, and besides he had plans for that comb....  He took the shaving gear and a large towel downstairs, still smiling.

Connor was just flinging his head up and back, water sailing off the wet tail of hair in a crystalline arc that cut the cool air and splattered across the wood wall.  He planed water off his face with two quick, impatient motions of his hands and saw the other man standing there with the razor and soap brush.  "Did you have to go buy those, Morgan?"

"Ever heard of gratitude?"

"You believe in it?" the Highlander asked wryly.  "Besides, now that I'm sobering up, I seem to remember it wasn't just Kastagir who kept handing me ale last night."

"I noticed," Methos told him as dryly.  "Shall I get you another tankard?"

The Scot grinned at him.  "No, thanks.  I think I want to remember this.  Besides, if I were drunk, I might try to move when you used that."

"You think I'm going to shave you?" Methos asked him, amused.

"I think you don't trust me with a blade yet," Connor chuckled  "So, are you going to stand there all day or are you going to use that thing?"

Which thing?  He's not exactly looking at the razor, Methos noticed, irritated and amused and aroused all at once.  Deliberately trying to be annoying, he purred, "I'll get around to using it, don't worry.  When you're ready."

"Whenever, then," and he leaned back against the rim of the tub, head tilted back and throat exposed.

Who's seducing who here?  Methos considered the challenging half-lidded gaze watching him and shrugged mentally.  "Now, I suppose."  He dipped the cup of soap into the bath water, brushing along Connor's chest and waist with the back of his hand as he did, and made sure that the resulting froth of soap was painted carefully across the man's face.  Some people enjoyed the feel of softened boar bristles on skin, after all; from the contented sigh that escaped, MacLeod seemed to be one of them.

"Try to hold still, hmm?" Methos reminded him as he opened the straight edge razor.  "I don't want to spray blood across the floor."

Each stroke of the razor exposed clean, smooth skin, and brought a perceptible tensing of Connor's hands on the side of the tub, although the rest of his body didn't move.  "Are you all right, Connor?"

"I'm fine," he answered carefully, gold eyes opening to look for the blade an instant before he spoke and then closing again.  "I'd hate for you to leave me half-done."

Methos deliberately studied the form in the tub and smiled to see the younger man's obvious interest standing up in the water.  "Yes, let's not do that."  The pace of the razor's strokes across the vulnerable flesh never increased, though.  With each pass, Connor's hands tightened and the rest of his body relaxed, settling against the tub and offering itself up to the blade.

Methos glared at him, aware that the younger man wasn't looking, and unreasonably annoyed by just how interested he was.  Wonderful.  I'm developing a fascination for Celts.  He smiled, buoyed up by a possible remedy.  I suppose I'll just have to gorge myself on one until I get over it....

He wiped the razor clean, used the washcloth to clean Connor's face of the last trace of soap which had, apparently, lingered just on the edge of his mouth, and finally draped the cloth over the edge of the tub.  "Done?"

"The heat even baked out the aches," the Scot said without opening his eyes yet.  "I feel like one of those Prussian sausages that's been dropped in the kettle to boil the beer out."

"I thought they usually boiled the beer in?" Methos asked him.  "Up.  The serving girls will be here any minute.  Unless you just want to give Constance and Faith a good look?"

"I don't think so," Connor chuckled.  "They wouldn't be any help to Kastagir if they fainted."

"Braggart," Methos commented, watching the other man admiringly as he stood up.

"Proud maybe, but not bragging," the Scot told him, standing unselfconsciously for the inspection.  "Were you going to gawk all day, or pass me the towel?"  He wrung the worst of the water from his hair, letting the tail drop back over his shoulder as he stepped out of the tub and reached for the fabric.  "Thanks."

"And here I'd heard that the Scots were modest," Methos muttered as he tipped the tub over to drain down the grate.

"That would be the later ones," Connor said calmly.  "My clan still fought in the war kilts and slept in them at night.  What's the matter, Morgan, never seen a naked man before?"

"I haven't seen a claymore lately," Methos teased him.  "Just making sure I remembered what they looked like."

"Really?" the Scot chuckled.  "I'd have sworn you even knew how to handle one.  Was I mistaken?"  He tossed the towel over the top of the door and wrapped the robe loosely around himself.  "Where are my clothes, anyway?"

"We'll talk about it upstairs," Methos answered.  "Bring the towel, Highlander, or they'll try to use it as a potholder."

Connor examined the tavern-keeper's rooms with a great deal of interest, distracted though he was.  The books outnumbered the clothes, the furniture, and the windowpanes combined, which was quite an accomplishment given the multitude of small, diamond-shaped pieces of glass in the window.  At that point, though, he was more interested in the coals glowing in the grate and the high bed piled with thick blankets.

Morgan set the shaving gear back on the dresser and said firmly, "In the bed, Connor."

Connor turned to look at him, grinning at the lecherous note in the other man's voice.  "Sleep or something else, Robert?"

"I was thinking about untangling your hair," came the unexpected reply.

The smile on his face made Connor consider just where the other man would have to be to work on his hair.  The idea of sitting with his back to another immortal, even one kept relatively honest by Kastagir's presence down in the common room, added a enticing tang of danger to the offer and he smiled as he peeled back blankets.  "I'm awake."

He settled down onto the bed, legs folded tailor-style or Indian-style as they'd taken to calling it, and the blankets wrapped up around his waist and over his shoulders because it was cold on a spring morning in Boston.  As he'd hoped, Morgan settled in behind him, knees spread to wrap his thighs around Connor's naked waist.  His back never had a chance to get cold, despite the morning chill, not with body-warmed linen against his back, and smooth, hard muscle flexing against and around him each time Morgan shifted.  A firm hand grasped his jaw, tilting his head just so with the same careful and strangely personal touch that Morgan had used when he'd wielded the razor.

Connor wanted to purr at the feel of those careful, dexterous fingers easing the tangles out of his hair, and stroking down his scalp.  He grinned, though, when he realized how careful Robert was being to keep his arms around and against his own shoulders.  It gave the taller man a very good way to keep control of both him and the situation.  Oh, this is rich.  The silly Sassenach thinks I'm an innocent to be ravished.  That or he thinks he's in charge here.  Now, do I disillusion him or not?

Strong fingers dug into his neck, rubbing out the tension knots that came from trying to keep the damned wig out of his eyes, and Connor relaxed against the strong body behind him.  For now, he can think he's in charge.  Especially if those hands of his are this good at other things.

So he sat there and allowed Robert to unknot every tension that had worked itself into him over a night of drinking with two older immortals and a morning duel.  When those talented hands worked from his lower back around to his stomach and chest, Connor leaned back to give him better access and ran his own hands down Robert's thighs, rubbing and stroking as he went.

"I take it you're not going to scream for your lost virtue?" came the amused inquiry from just behind his ear.   Warm breath feathered against his earlobe with each word and Connor shivered at the contrast with the cool air.

"Not exactly, no," the Scot smiled.  "Still think we should go to sleep?"

"Not exactly, no," came the gently mocking reply and he moved back from Connor, exposing his back to the cool air.  "Did you want top or bottom?"

Connor twisted around to help Robert shuck his own clothes and waited until he had a good hold on the buttons of the other immortal's pants to tell him, "I thought we could wrestle for best two out of three."

"Feeling optimistic?"

"I figured we were feeling inspired.  Not up for it?"

Morgan threw his pants across the room to land on a pile of books then yanked him under the blankets.  "Right.  We'll flip each other for it.  A whole new meaning to heads or tails, Connor."

The Scot laughed as he twisted out of one hold and, in a flurry of motion under the wool and furs, he pinned Robert.  The taller immortal ended up on his stomach, both arms twisted behind his back, and Connor straddling his thighs.  He set his teeth against the back of Robert's neck, not biting but firmly enough to be felt through the laughter of a man who'd been tickled a few times during the match.

"Right.  I win this bout?"

"I don't exactly think either of us can lose," Methos laughed, deliberately lifting his hips and wiggling.

"I love a good challenge," Connor grinned, and set about claiming the prize.

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~

Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:

This was originally written for the Millennial Lyric Wheel, but, the lyrics Carin sent me were for "Demolition Man" by Def Leppard, and I'll admit, I just grabbed a line that would fit.  This has nothing to do with the song, folks, sorry.  The line I used was "It's enough to bring you to your knees."

No, this is not part of my usual universe of stories, and none of the characters are original.  The duel described in here took place in the first Highlander movie, and yes, all the events described are from the director's cut.  I giggled myself silly rewatching that for 'research.'

And if you asked me what Methos ended up owing Kastagir, I couldn't tell  you.  If someone comes up with an answer, please let me know!  (Mind, I need another story to write like I need a hole in the head, but, hey, that didn't hurt Mulder too much....)