Disclaimers:  Not mine, not mine, not mine.  Damn.  1013 and Rysher: Panzer/Davis own 'em.  I make no money from them.  But I hope you enjoy this story.
Rated:  NC-17 for graphic depiction of m/m interaction.  If this isn't your cup of tea, might I suggest you bail out now?  Use a back button or something.  Don't complain though; you'll only look foolish.  You were warned, after all.

"At the stillpoint of destruction, at the center of the fury,
All the angels, all the devils,
All around you, can't you See?"
- Sting, "Love Is the Seventh Wave"
 

Stillpoint

In five thousand years I've yet to find a more soothing pleasure than walking in the rain, knowing that fire, food, and beer are waiting somewhere nearby.  Having a lover waiting for me is the only thing that might make this even sweeter, but I've given up thinking the Highlander will ever come to his senses, and I'm not interested in a long-term relationship with anyone else right now.  Not after Alexa.

Six months with her, and she's more memorable than some of the wives I had for more than six years.  Joe tried to warn me she was dying; the Highlander knew what I was doing to myself, too.  Joe tried to stop me; Mac just let me know that he'd be there when everything ended.  He was, too.  Came to the funeral, kept me company when I wanted to walk.  And he reminded me of an old truth:  so long as I remember Alexa, she's not dead.  Not entirely.

What surprised me most in those grey days was Amanda.  She came to Switzerland in the last few days of Alexa's life and made sure I ate, coped with the nurses, and cut through all the red tape to take Alexa's body to Paris for burial.  Amanda even paid for a memorial mass at St. Julien's, Darius' old church.

Rain always reminds me of Alexa now, in the same way that snow reminds me of the Highlander.  I sat in the rain for half an hour waiting for her on our first date and then another five minutes keeping her from canceling it.  And I've spent days in the cold and the snow walking with Mac, talking with him, arguing about the Game, and ethics, and morality.  Long afternoons of putting wood on the fireplace in that chilly barge on the Seine while we played chess and drank beer and argued over who was cooking dinner.

But he's never shown any sign of being interested in taking the friendship that one step farther and becoming lovers.  So when I gave up on Mac, and desperately needed a break, I came to the bolt hole least likely to remind me of him:  Key West, FL.

I have to say, I'm indulging my love of rain in a rather extreme fashion:  this isn't just 'rain', it's the leading edge of an on-coming hurricane.  The island's been evacuated already, but I boarded up the house and didn't answer the door.  My cottage has ridden out a century's worth of hurricanes with only minor problems; this one won't destroy it, either.  And the peace and quiet of an uninhabited island to myself is absolutely priceless.

I'm having to lean into the wind to walk; it's probably time to go in now that I've been scoured down to essentials by elemental air.  Grief and rage over lovers or the Game can't withstand this, thank the Gods.  But it seems the island's not as deserted as I thought.  There's a man walking ahead of me.  He's not weak, that's certain, not if he can move through this maelstrom.  He's more heavily built than I am, but not by much.  In that rain-soaked coat it's easy to see his build, and he's not at all hard on the eyes.

The wind and slanting rain make it difficult to catch up; the man's heading for the pier of all the damn places.  Idiot.  Do you just want to be surrounded by treacherous water and wind?  Suicidal, perhaps?

Just as I come up behind him, he yells his defiance into the storm.  "It is my life!"  All right, so he's not suicidal, just mildly insane.  I can't help laughing, though; I like his style, spitting his mortal, finite rage into a hurricane.  It only burns more brightly against the storm-winds.

He hears me and tries to turn just as a particularly high wave sweeps the pier, only to finally lose his footing on the wave- and rain-slick boards.  I grab his coat when he starts to fall; his shoulder's at chest level when I take his full weight on that arm.  The sea actually gets his legs before I can yank him free, soaked through to the knees, and I only hear the Phoenician curse come off my lips after I've said it.  They did have some of the best insults for salt-water.

I lose my grip just as he's finally safe; he slides across the boards, coming up on one hand and both knees to start coughing.  While he can't argue, I decide to point out the obvious.  "Taunting the sea never works.  It always gets the last word."

Between coughs, he forces out an equally wry voice, not a bad sound at all.  "A lot like arguing with a woman."

I love it, someone who actually has layers and sub-meanings in his tone, his thoughts.  Then he looks up and the eyes amaze me.  Sweet Gods, what is a Seer doing on Key West in the middle of a hurricane?!  Large, haunted hazel eyes in a frozen face, drenched hair pushed back from his face and plastered to his skull, and a pouting lower lip that incites lustful thoughts immediately.  I have no idea what he's Seeing in me, and I may not like it one damn bit.  Definitely time to divert this.

"Sounds like you've tried," I say, smiling at him.  When I pull him up, he helps with the process which tells me he's not too badly hurt.  I can't seem to let go of him yet, either.  There's a warmth to him that is more than simply skin-temperature and I want it for my own comfort and his distraction.

"Yeah," he admits, abashed by some memory that chases across his eyes, quirks around that finely molded mouth, and is gone again.

"Don't," I suggest, amused that the misunderstanding/battle between women and men is one of the few constants in even my long life.  "They'll always win.  Even when they're wrong."  I can try to warn him, anyway, although no one ever listens to that one.

Another gust of wind tugs at us, threatening to move even my coat, weighted down as it is with a broadsword.  The sodden shirt wrapped around him does blow out, then tangles ruthlessly around his chest and waist.  Time to get some information out of him, and make plans.  I can't leave him out in this, that's for sure.  Seers are too rare to be lost.

In addition, now that I've seen him, my comfortable solitude is no longer comfortable.  Company would be a pleasure.  As casually as one can when projecting sound into hurricane winds, I ask, "I thought they chased all the tourists off the island yesterday?"

"They have to find you first.  I didn't feel like leaving."  He sounds like a teen-ager caught out in some defiance: he knew better, knows I'm aware he knew better, and he's determined not to apologize.  Lucky for him I love a stubborn man.  Why else would I be hoping to catch Duncan MacLeod one of these days?  But I'm grinning despite myself, enjoying the raw power of the storm and his spirit.

Just because I want to hear him say it, I ask the obvious question.  "Why?"  What I get is not what I expected.

"I grew up near the sea.  I guess I just needed to feel a storm again without a city around me to blunt its fury," he admits reluctantly.

Against my own will I'm intrigued.  Everything in his body language shouts that this man doesn't usually talk to people.  Oh, talk around them, yes.  Go off on tangents, evade issues, certainly.  But tell them what he really thinks?  I don't think so.  No great surprise.  Seers always See everything, whether it fits conveniently into the current worldview or not, and their comments reflect that.  Most centuries they were lucky to be locked into cells as Anchorites; more often they died screaming in agony, burned at the stake or stoned to death as witches.

"You're not afraid?"  I don't know if I'm asking him about the storm or his own perceptions.

"That's part of the deal," he snaps at me.  "If you're not afraid, what's the point?"  His shoulders hunch almost imperceptibly, a man too used to defending himself and his opinions against opposition.

I laugh softly to hear him answer both questions at once.  "You're smarter than you look, Yank," I tease him, hearing his origins in his accent.  Too many years of dodging weapons of all types makes me sidestep before the flying branch can hit me.  Enough.  "I think the storm is beginning to get rambunctious."

It's too obvious from his face that he's going nowhere off this island, even if I could find a way to send him.  I don't know who he works for -- and from earlier reactions to my questions, he's used to answering to someone -- but that poor supervisor is beginning to have my sympathy.  One of my favorite Goethe quotes comes to mind, in Latin as that's what I first read it in.  "It is in the half fools and the half wise that the greatest danger lies."

"Come on, then."  I give in as gracefully as I can on this.  "You can stay at my place until this blows over."  Gods know what you're going to See, but I can't leave you out in this.  "I can't just turn you over to the police.  They wouldn't be pleased to have you on their hands, and I don't think you'd like the accommodations at the local jail."

What amuses me is the wry knowledge and acknowledgment in his gaze.  I wouldn't have expected he'd be familiar with the inside of a cell, but that definitely is the light of experience.  Refusal crosses his face, then a reluctant admission of... something?

"You a local?" he asks, probing with voice and eyes to see if I'm a serial killer or other mucker, I suspect.  Not exactly.

"I come and go.  I have a cottage about a quarter of a mile down the beach.  It's stood up to a lot of hurricanes in its day.  I think it will stand up to this one."  I don't coax him, but I try to keep some camaraderie in my voice.  Ah, back to the old days of horse-taming, I think.  Feels like trying to strike up a friendship with a chance-met immortal, actually.  The man is gloriously paranoid for a mortal; I wonder how many times he's had his hands burned?

He's weakening; I know it even before the grin breaks through and transforms his face from striking to blinding.  "Fine.  I think the storm would have won, anyway."

We both turn away from the water and start the fight against the elements to my house.  Damn good thing it's not far; this is going to be nasty.  Strong, springy stride on him -- even after that fall on the pier he's matching my pace and I'm not moving slowly.  Very impressive, but I can't figure out why he's laughing.  When I look the question at him, not willing to waste breath on the still-rising wind, he just shakes his head.  Because  he doesn't want to fight the wind, or because he can't put it into words?  I have to wonder.

He swings past the storage shed and retrieves a duffel bag and I pick up the pace.  The water is still rising steadily.  Definitely time we were under cover, and I'm hungry and thirsty.

He's lost in thought, nearly missing the turn when I swing onto the path up to my house.  Recovers swiftly enough, but I wonder what's behind those hazel eyes.  I pause, waving him ahead as I re-secure the gate on the break-wall.  It won't do that much good against the storm, but every little bit and all that.  Mentally I'm inventorying supplies.  I hadn't planned on a visitor during the hurricane, but it's manageable.  I always keep extra because I'm never sure Joe Dawson won't track me down somehow and simply show up on my doorstep with his guitar and a backpack, pulling one of my tricks and asking for a beer.

I'd give it to him, too.

I'd forgotten other peoples' reactions to my house.  I unlock the door (bolted against the storm, not intruders) and the lights illuminate my home.  He reaches for something suitably blasé, and comes out with "Nice."

"Comfortable," I reply, matching bland tone for mild word as I relock the door.

He's openly staring around the room, gaze lingering on the wall tapestries and ceiling fishnets, the boarded windows and the books, tomes, and volumes scattered everywhere.  I recognize the covetous look and itchy fingertips of another bibliophile.  If he weren't drenched to the skin and shivering, he'd be knee-deep in books, bending at odd angles to read titles and damn near drooling.  I'm going to like this man.

Then he sees the sword by the door, and emotions chase across his face so swiftly all I can read is recognition, startlement, and an odd comprehension.  Of what, I'm not sure.  Dangers of Seers, I remind myself.  Time to distract him again.

"I have very high standards of comfort," I say and decide to inflict them on him.

When he shrugs and looks around, obviously chagrined by the water seeping off his clothes and hair, I can guess for what.  And if I'm wrong, I still want him to head that way.  "Through that door, to the right.  There's a fresh towel in the cabinet."  Myself, I head for the kitchen and my bedroom beyond, needing dry clothes myself.

By the time I get back to the front of the house with spare towels to sop up the mess by the door, he's vanished.  But I don't hear the water either....  Oh.  A smile pries at my lips as I consider his probable reaction to the mosaic in the shower.  Most people pass by the erotica section of a bookstore without stopping to investigate the books; I don't know what he'll think of the Roman tiles of sexual positions.  Me, I find them amusing, and a lovely inspiration for dealing with early morning hard-ons.

Time to investigate the refrigerator.   Ah.  Good.  Plenty of food.  I dish chile oil, balsalmic vinegar, black pepper, and parmesan cheese into a bowl, then tear bread and pile it on a plate.  If he's as hungry as I am, this will hold him while I get the steak and vegetables done.  Might as well grill both at once.  Besides, the grill is gas and the stove isn't.  I don't feel like using a wok over a grill.

That done, I yell to him, "Beer and steaks sound good?"

Which is, of course, about the point at which the storm finally takes the lights out.  I'd expected it earlier, actually.  I suppose I should take him a lantern, if he's not finished with his shower yet, but from the water pressure he's already through.

He yells back, "Very good," then yells again, in pain this time.  "Shit!"  Sounds like he smacked flesh into furniture.

"Watch yourself," I tell him, amused and reverting to my usual MacLeod-baiting, understated humor.  "My theory on medicine is to amputate what hurts."  Not entirely funny, some years they did that.  But I'm a little busy with dinner, and Seers usually have senses of humor as warped as my own... for much the same reason.

He appears out of the darkness, and I turn my attention from the grill for a moment.  Faded, worn jeans cling to his thighs, and his t-shirt claims 'Truth is stranger than fiction.  Fiction has to make sense.'  Isn't that the Gods' own truth.

He's staring around the kitchen, what he can see of it in the light of the torches, which is the gas grill, part of the counter and the fridge, and the hot tub in my bathroom.  I didn't see much point in separating rooms when I built the place, and I like my creature comforts accessible.  Hot tub, beer....  I think they go together, but I'm a charter member of the Sybarites, too.

His gaze focuses on the hot tub, specifically the tiles around it, and I can almost see the question cross his mind.  He wants to poke around, see if there are more murals over there, and are they Greco-Roman, or Asian, or East Indian?  "Maybe later," I tell him, and he turns and stares at me, startled.

Bread and salt.  It doesn't get much more basic, but I wonder if he knows the true significance of this?  I pass him both a beer and the plate of bread and oil, all too aware that a Seer will know exactly what I've done, if not on a conscious level.

He promptly takes a bite of the bread and sighs, a gusting exhalation and relaxation of his shoulders that tells me that yes, he knows he's safe now.  Only then do I offer a name, as he takes a swig of the beer and damn near purrs.

"Adam."

"Fox."

I control a smile, but it costs me.  Who in hell did that to a child in this era?  As well name a daughter Chastity.  They're equally inappropriate, in all-too-similar ways.  I daresay he's heard more jokes and caught more grief for that name.  It's not one he'd pick at a whim.  Interesting.

And the way he looks at me, having said it... half-wondering, half-wanting.  I wonder what the years have done to him?  The world is never kind to the different, and this one wears his scars under a very thin façade indeed.  What's worse is that I do want him, knowing full well it's for this single storm.  It can't be longer than that because whoever he is, he has a life elsewhere, and a quest of some kind.  Fox is startlingly well named -- the small, red fox, though, elusive as hell, and tricky and deceptively slight.  That fire of his is banked for the moment, but I think the earlier explosion in the tempest was over-control abandoned for a brief moment.  And I want to bury both hands in his fire, for just a while.  But a Seer?  Oh, well, it's not flame if you can't get burned.

But this has to be his choice, that's for damn sure.  I'm not going to give a Seer any extra pain; they find plenty without my help, thank you very much, o treacherous bitch goddess, Fate.  Don't think I don't know who dropped a dripping Seer on my stoop, so to speak.

So I turn back to the steak on the cutting board, pushing my sweater up my arms again (damn thing never will stay in place but I like it that way; it hides a forearm dagger at need), and let Fox decide.  If he doesn't want to act on this mutual attraction, that's fine, too.  Sitting and talking over dinner and wine with an intelligent, charmingly warped mind will be a pleasure.

I manage to cut a lemon and am reaching for the garlic salt when Fox takes the few steps across the kitchen to me.  His hand touches my arm as carefully as if I might break, which another time would make me laugh.  The warranty's still good, after all.  When I meet his eyes, I can almost see him set his shields... not down, but aside.  Unwanted and unneeded for now, ready to be pulled back up later.  Fair enough.

Gods, he's skittish.  I wonder when someone last touched him just to touch?  He almost draws back when I reach to stroke his cheek.  My other hand's nowhere near the knife, so it can't be that.  Let this wait a while, then.  Anticipation won't kill either of us, and it may give Fox leisure to unwind a bit.  If he were a bow, I'd say he needs to be unstrung.  So I shrug and tell him, "There's time.  Come on, you can help me skewer the meat and veggies."

The mundane task helps in its own way.  Of course I'm cheating.  He's deft enough with a knife, but none too skilled at cooking.  So if I have to show him how to clean the mushrooms, or how thick the zucchini should be, or in what order to thread meat and vegetables to mix the flavors properly... well, it's amazing how easy it is to let my fingers stroke the tops of his hands as I position his blade.  My hip brushes him as I turn to section the meat, and he sways almost imperceptibly into the touch.  And he knows what I'm doing, there's no doubt of that.

Does he realize just how appetizing that slight smile is?  The unfocused eyes as he pays more attention to skin than sight?  But he's too tense to properly enjoy the night and I don't want it wasted.  Stiff from that fall on the pier, tight with accumulated grief and tension from years of the slights and insults that Seers get from most of the world... he'll fall asleep over the second beer hoping that will be the rest and relaxation he needs.  Not this time, Fox.

So I drop the shish kebabs on the grill, setting the timer with the barest portion of my attention, and turn back to him.  "Come here."  I don't wait for the answer, I just take his hand and tow him to the stone ledge by the tub, the one I use to sprawl out and cool off before climbing back in.

It's an interesting expression on his face, in his body language -- a little embarrassed, a little foolish, very uncertain and wishing he could hide that.  And still that constant sensation that he's recording this somewhere to remember later.  Storing memories for the drought, Fox?  Still, I don't want him thinking too much.

"Why don't you get comfortable?  Between the grill, the torches, and the hot tub, don't you think it's getting warm in here?"  Besides, I want to see what's under those jeans.  My voice has dropped a few notes, too, and I'm more than willing to let him know where we're going to end up... eventually.

But it would be unkind to make him go somewhere alone, wouldn't it?  I'd hate to be a poor host.  So when he reaches to unbuckle his belt, I do the same, moving as closely in synch with him as I can manage.  Lovely sight, watching him swallow, seeing the tip of a pink tongue flick out to lick along his lips.  Nerves?  Heat?  Both?

I mimic that, too, before I think about it, and get a flush rising through his face for my reward.  I love positive reinforcement as a training method.  But my jeans are getting tight, now, and I'm not the only one.  Funny, Fox doesn't seem to realize I'm going to do exactly what he does for the next few minutes.  He looks... surprised when he reaches to adjust his jeans and I match him, move for move.  Ah, the joy of hearing someone breathe harder and knowing I did it.  More fun than causing it in a fight to the death, that's certain.

He presses his fingers inside the waist of the jeans, hands flat against his belly, and sucks in to pull the t-shirt out.  But he's moving as if the cloth is his hold on reality and a sudden motion might just throw him off the edge of the world.  I hate pulling my own sweater off, simply because watching him undress, the play of emotion across his face and the unexpected reactions, are one of the most fascinating sights I've seen in decades.  Not even Byron was this intense about loveplay, and Fox doesn't even have his clothes off yet....

How in Dante's nine-circled hell did he get a bullet scar like that?  Someone deliberately went just under the collarbone.  He's damned lucky not to have a chipped scapula and loss of motion.  Who did he piss off?  And worse, he doesn't know that it only emphasizes the rest of the muscle, the width and strength of his shoulders.  He's ashamed of it, and there's no need.

Something's changed, though.  He's trying to seduce me, now.  If I were a masochist, the comment might be, 'twist my arm some more', but I'd rather meet his eyes and let my hands match his.  I'm watching him in the edges of peripheral vision now, moving more from the motion of his shoulders and upper arms than from knowledge of what his fingers are doing and the slow release of the zipper is torturous.

Smooth-washed denim hits the floor, and Fox peels off the boxers as well.  (Glow in the dark reindeer pulling a UFO?  How am I supposed to keep from laughing?  He's not secure enough for that yet!)  Instead I look down long enough to push my own jeans off, then take a better look at him.  Gorgeous legs, runner's muscles and ass.  Nice wide shoulders, smoothly muscled with just enough flesh over them to make me think he probably swims.  And I'm amazed he got the boxers down over that cock.  Very, very interested and eager.

One long stride over the piled jeans presses me against him, barely touching from thigh to belly, and I can feel myself hardening against that silky, heated cock.  Gorgeous man, and far too aware of his own scars.  My hand traces the bullet mark gently, learning the complexity of scar tissue and smooth skin, mapping where he does and doesn't like being touched by the minute twitching under my fingers.

When I drop my hand to trace the scar on his thigh, careful not to brush against him in my fingers' descent, it's another bullet wound, oval-shaped and indenting the muscle.  Must have been taken the Gods' own time to heal.  Such a lovely body wounded, and the spirit with it....  I'm tracing the upper scar with my lips and mouth before I really think about it, soothing him with my touch as best Fox will allow.

But he's strung too tight; this is going to get out of hand at this rate.  And if he comes now, by himself, Fox will be humiliated and retreat back inside that shell of his for the rest of the night.  Oh, no, you don't.  So I straighten again and catch his face in both hands to see where his mind is.  I know what his body thinks, but this man isn't ruled by the purely physical.  If he were, he might be in better condition.

Hungry, and wistful, and curious, and desirous... that's where Fox is.  Oh, lovely.  A gorgeous sight, and a wonderful opportunity.  If we only have one storm, we'll have to live up to the hurricane, which means relaxing him first.  I slide my hands down from jawline to throat, grateful he's not an immortal and paranoid about that tender anatomy.  My fingertips trail lightly over the collarbone and land on the points of his shoulders, pressing down to settle him face-down on the built-in bench.

His ass flexes and releases, uncontrollable nerves, and I chuckle when I realize he has no clue what I'm doing.  His mind went to the obvious.  Surprise, Fox, I'm rarely one for the obvious.

"We're in no rush," I point out.  "Dinner first, dessert later."  Oh, yes.  But the humor's helping, he relaxes immediately.  As best he can, anyway, what in hell has he done to his back?  Strung steel cable where the muscle should be?

"You're a very wicked man," he answers me, trying to tease, but I remember some of the things MacLeod said in the last fight and some of the people I've been, from the purely evil to the sublimely indifferent.

That tinges my voice, makes me sound more serious than I wanted, when I tell him, "You have no idea."

Rather than let Fox say anything else, I go to work on his shoulders.  This man does tension like a suspension bridge.  I'm wondering if anything besides sheer nerve holds him together.  The knots in his shoulders run up the neck to the base of the skull, and every inch of the long muscles along the spine is in a separate snarl of its own somehow.  When I untangle the mess he's made of his lower back, he groans and sags into the towel, making me wonder if I should check for a pulse.  What in hell does he do for a living, anyway?  Fend off telemarketers?

I pause long enough to flip the shish kebab, then go back to work on him.  He's too limp to fight me, so I keep working my way down, soothing muscles I doubt he knew were hurting, not over the pain from the rest of that mess.  I'm relieved to be wrong about one thing:  remove the tension and he's still breathing.  He might even be awake, although I'm not betting on it.  Then the warning bell chimes on the grill timer, and it's time to wake up Sleeping Beauty.

I can't resist temptation.  If I wanted to keep this strictly professional, I'd keep the reviving swats to his back.  Mostly I do.  But the first one lands squarely on his ass, while he's too out of it to retaliate effectively, and then I start slapping him lightly up and down his back to restore circulation and wake him up completely.  When I can tell he's awake, and about to move, I deliver one final swipe across his lower back and let my hand run down his ass again.  Then I turn away and go to placate the timer on the grill, saying, "Dinner's ready."

I can hear Fox stand up and walk behind me, so I ask the obvious question.  "More beer?"  Well, I think it's obvious, anyway.

He likes real beer, obviously, because the comment of, "Yeah," sounds even happier than it did the first time I offered.  Fox stands there, beer in one hand, loaded plate full of steak, vegetables, and the last of the bread in the other, and the nudity isn't bothering him, or the full hands, but curiosity may give the man a coronary yet.

I just raise one eyebrow at him, and try to look like an English butler who's been offered a bribe to discuss his employers' personal habits:  shocked, offended, and affronted.  What can I say, I want the man to eat first.  I'm going to work all of it off him afterwards.

Out loud I tell him, "I'm old fashioned."  If you only knew.  "I like to keep dinner and sexual pleasure completely separate."  It's easier on the furniture cleaning bills.  "Eat.  I promise, you'll need your strength, Fox."  I have some interesting ideas that I learned from the Romans....

He laughs, finally, and settles onto one side of the bench, angled into the corner to give me room and tilting his head curiously to listen to the wind howling around the cottage.  I think he's wondering if the cabin will hold; instead he mentions a tearing storm while he was at college.  Turns out he read psychology at Oxford, of all the places.  Plenty of good colleges over here, particularly in the Northeast which is where his accent places him, but I get the impression Fox may have been putting serious miles between himself and someone close to him.  Family, possibly.  At that age, friends don't usually have the ammunition to disembowel your emotions like that.

Fox and I are both amused that we got degrees in the UK around the same time; I was at St. Aidan's in Wales, or so my records say.  Actually, I did do a 'last' year there, to establish credentials and some face-to-face contacts.  He's fascinated that I studied antiquities and history, can't quite understand why I put so much time into something that's gone.  I can't help laughing.

"Fox, history is just repetition and blindness.  What would you say if I told you that an empire invaded a country which was antithetical to their own climate, spent years trying to subdue its peoples and conquer its resources, and was eventually repulsed by the natives because the empire couldn't compensate for the indigenous tactics and terrain?"

He just grins at me.  "I'd say, purely hypothetically, that you're talking about the Revolutionary War as we from the 'Colonies' call it."

I smile just as wickedly.  "Actually, I was thinking of Russia invading Afghanistan -- this last time."

He shrugs grandly, having mostly forgotten his lack of clothes, I think.  The shyness vanishes once that mind engages.  I would lay good money that this man would be arguing politics with the guards on his way to his own execution.  "Hey, why be picky?  What about the US Army fighting the Seminoles?"

"Any swamp is a bad place to fight," I point out wryly.  "There's just something about having your elbow jostled by an alligator while you're trying to aim that's not conducive to winning a war."

"Do you just have a vivid imagination?  Because I'm having a very hard time picturing you up to your ears in swamp, Creoles, and alligators."

"Wrong swamp, Fox.  Creole is New Orleans."

He just shrugs and takes another swig of beer.  "You strike me as more of a New Orleans man than Jacksonville, somehow."

Seers.  Gods.  It takes real work not to choke on my own beer.  Fortunately, I have a great deal of practice since I agree with the Irish that wasting beer is sacrilege.  "Of the two, you're right, I'll take New Orleans.  Speaking of New Orleans, did you ever hear of Marie Laveau?"

"Voodoo queen of N'Awlins?  Oh, yeah," he answers enthusiastically.  "There were two of them, weren't there?  That or the Fountain of Youth is in N'Awlins, not Florida."

"So I understand," I say, concealing a grin.  If he only knew about Marie.  I wonder if she's still in the Game?  I haven't heard otherwise, but who knows?  We spend the next while discussing Marie, and then Joan of Arc.  That leads somehow into Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Henry of England, and that idiot Richard, 'Coeur de Lion', and his brother, John Lackland.  Then it gets thoroughly silly, as we start trying to name the most incompetent leaders without touching the last fifty years.  He's well enough educated that we can skim topics, dancing across the tops of them, secure in the knowledge that the other will catch the reference without sub-titles or footnotes.

It's terrifying; I'm trading stories with a Seer with enough intelligence to use his gift and possibly survive it.  But it's fun, too.  I feel like I'm watching a brilliant child pulling his favorite toys out to show off, not realizing that no one else would be able to play with them, much less consider them toys.  He is far, far too skilled at making connections... but in his subconscious where it's hard to convince someone else that the path is valid.

His psychological evaluations of some of the rulers are dead on, too.  His comments about Louis VII of France, Eleanor's first husband, might have come straight from the chronicles of that Crusade, and I should know.  Pious, pompous, idiotic....

Fox caught some of my irritation with that dead cretin, I think.  Taking another swig of beer, he mentions the overpriced, overrated alcohol available at the last concert he went to, and we end up discussing music instead of history while I drop platters in the sink.  I'll deal with them when the power's back on.  That's what the dishwasher's for.  Instead of dishes, I bring back another beer for both of us.  He's slid down to the rug, leaning against the bench with one arm on a raised knee, head resting against the wall and his eyes closed.  Gorgeous, and he doesn't know it.

Neither one of us feels a need to fill this silence, so we sit there and listen to the wind outside.  One of my hands seems to have wandered to his hair, finger-combing it into place now that it's dry.  It's a pity he's not a cat, or he'd be purring and winding around my legs.  Wonder if I can talk him into it anyway?

Pulling him down to the rug with me is ridiculously easy, no resistance at all, eyes still closed.  I wonder what it will take to get those eyes open?  So I lean in and over him, playing with his nipples until they're as hard as his cock, then teasing them with the same feather-touches I'm going to use later and lower.  When he finally looks up, I'm watching him already.

His eyes are huge, shifting color almost as I watch, interested in nothing except what we're doing.  No, he's not thinking of anyone else, anywhere else, and he'll See too much if he looks.  Much though I'd wish otherwise, best that he not.  "Close your eyes.  Let me take you where we both want to go," I whisper, willing him to let me lead this.  He doesn't need another secret to hold and hide, certainly none of mine.

Gods but the man's responsive.  Warm breath alone on his nipple has him shivering under me, and I've yet to use my mouth on him.  When I do, I wonder if he's going to levitate off the floor.   Before I can go back to serious work, though, he raises up and pulls my face to him, then runs his tongue along the edge of my ear, sending sparks straight down to my balls.  Seers.  How in hell do they figure these things out??  Thank Gods they do, though!

Then he subsides back down, a Cheshire grin on his face, eyes closed as I asked.  Have to see if I can't wipe a bit of the smirk away....

I tease and play with him, touching and licking, biting and nipping when he least expects, then soothing the marks with my tongue.  He's more easily injured than one of us, and I keep that in mind, but a few marks in the morning are well within this unspoken pact we've made.  I run nails along the inside of his thighs, up across hipbones, along the underside of ribs, and then tease the crease between thigh and torso, never quite touching his balls or his cock.  He certainly tries to get me to; he's writhing under me as I run my fingers through the hair on his belly and just around his cock, finger-combing the curls and stroking that silky skin of his belly.

When I look up to see how he's doing, I realize Fox is biting his lip rather than beg.  No, shh, don't do that.  I can't resist; I move up and lick his lip free from his teeth, then kiss him, licking at that indented lip.  That sulky mouth of his tastes too good, and there's something addictive about kissing him.  Fox stops thinking and pays attention to nothing but this, exploring my mouth in return, getting more and more aggressive as he decides I won't break, don't need gentleness.

I'm leaning over him, kissing him back until I wonder if we're going to need oxygen when we stop, because he's whimpering into my mouth, trying to work his way into my body from this one contact.  I lean in, pressing more firmly against his mouth, claiming him for the one night in return and marking my claim with teeth and tongue until I have to pull back, else he'll be bruised in the morning.  I don't want that.

He's almost ready to come apart in my arms.  Enough teasing, more than enough, but Gods, I don't want to stop kissing him either.  Decisions, decisions.  I ease off just a bit, not so much that my mouth is a tease, but enough to let him pay attention to the rest of his body, too.  I'm running my hands along the inside of his thighs, when Fox breaks the kiss to rub his cheek against me like a cat scent-marking their favorite person.   He's rising against my hands and when I slide my grip up and stroke lightly along the underside of his cock, I kiss him again, both for his taste and to save my ears in case he's prone to screaming.

Sure enough his hips come up off the floor, cock pressing silky heat into my hand where I'm using sword calluses to stimulate soft skin.  I chuckle at the inevitable reaction as his back continues to arch.  He's limber enough!  And a sense of humor, too; he's laughing, too, at himself, or at me, who knows?  Who's worried?  Nice to see him relaxing -- well, mentally.

Time to get serious about this.  I get the distinct impression that it's been entirely too long since he's had a lover, and I'm not sure how long he'll last, despite all of my tricks.  I break the kiss as reluctantly this time as last, and run a hand down his chest, his belly, rubbing idle circles to center him a little before I go down on him.

Fox presses up against the bench, half-sitting, half-slouched, legs spread to give me access.  As if the man were going to refuse me now?  You could break stone with that cock.  I think I'll save subtlety for later.

He tastes sweet, and salty, with a faint remnant of the lemon soap from the shower, as I lick up the underside of his cock, tracing the arch of hardened flesh and moving up to the crown.  I tease the head of his cock with my tongue, dipping in to taste the bitter liquid already seeping out, then tease along the ridge just under the crown.  He moans as I press against the corded ridge just under the head and wrap my mouth around him, sinking down along his shaft.  Taking a deep breath I relax the muscles of my throat and continue to move down, swallowing more and more of his length until I'm trying to breathe through curls of hair.

Fox's moans are tearing through the noise of the storm, his hips bucking up and my hands are holding him off the floor both for control and to support him because he's on his shoulders and his heels, bowing upward into my mouth.  Strangled cries for mercy or release, more, less -- who knows?  There are no words in it.  I'm still stroking at him with throat muscles and lips when I feel him start to come.  There's no time to pull back, to taste him, and some instinct tells me not to try.  Fox has been hurt too many times; he might interpret a rejection in that withdrawal where there isn't one.

When the last shuddering pulse is done, I release him slowly from my mouth and lower him back to the floor.  I keep one hand firmly against his hip as I move up and pull him to me, wrapping arms around him so that he won't come back and think he's alone.  Fox spends too much time alone, I think.  (And who does that sound like, old man?)

I stomp that little voice before it can say anything else.  Not difficult, all I have to do is think about just how badly I want this man to reciprocate something, anything....  I'm hard enough that humping his leg doesn't seem like a bad idea, but I like my partners awake and Fox isn't really there yet.  So I close my eyes and concentrate on running my hands along his arms and back where he's cradled against me, still shaking from the orgasm.

My first clue that he's back is a husky whisper.  "Hey," he murmurs, and runs his hand along my cheek, then the edge of my ear, a wanton tease that catches my breath in my lungs.  Fox pushes up onto hands and knees over me, and leans in to nuzzle at my throat.  Oh, Gods, that mouth on my neck, lapping at the juncture of collarbone and sternum and his hand cups my cock, sliding up along the shaft, pressing back down to tease the balls with just the tip of his middle finger.

My eyes close again as he nips at my throat, wraps his fingers around me, shockingly cool in comparison to my own heat.  I'm biting my lip now, trying not to come as he strokes me, unable to resist the urge to arch into his palm.  I don't know when I'll get another lover this enthusiastic; I don't want it to end yet.

"Your turn," he whispers, dropping down to rub across my body with his own before ending up on his side next to me, that sleek, firm ass pressed against my cock.  The invitation is unmistakable and I'm not about to turn it down.  I move away from him just long enough to get the vegetable oil from the kitchen counter.

Fox never moved.  There's a relaxed, purring lover waiting for me on the carpet, legs spread and head resting on his interlaced fingers.  Gods.  I start to stroke the lubricant into him, trying to be gentle (against my current inclinations!), when he growls at me and bucks back onto my hand before I can ease more than a couple fingers in.  He distracts me from my careful control, but I can't help smiling; like this, do you?  So I oblige him, finger-fucking him with three fingers now as he moves against me, still growling occasionally.

Only I can't wait any longer, and he's already had his turn.  I'll make it up to him later.  More oil on myself and I slide into him.  Slow, excruciating burn of his heat against mine, that tight passage wrapped around me, stroking my cock.  I'm not hurting him, that's for sure; he's trying not to press back against me and break my control, such as it is.  So I take it slowly, reciting grocery lists, storm flags, anything, not daring poetry because I couldn't remember anything non-sexual right now anyway!

When I finally make it all the way in, my balls pressed against the cleft of his ass and brushing the tops of his, I hesitate for a long moment, then pull partway out and stroke back in.  I remember some of the old Chinese patterns, seven shallow, five deep, or other involved counting games, but this is not the time or place, because I don't think I can count past two–in, out, is about my current limit.

I try, though.  I can feel Fox's arm moving and know he's stroking himself below me, but all I can hear is the storm winds and our breathing, and the soft little groans he doesn't even know he's making.  There's no finesse left in me, I'm pounding into him when I feel his legs clench around me.  The cry from his throat makes me explode, heat pouring out of me into his body, light expanding out and away in a reverse quickening, as I leave myself instead of taking someone in.  And then there's nothing except the darkness of my own lids, and the lassitude of my muscles, and the warmth of his body around and under me.

The last thing I manage to do is reach under and wrap an arm around his chest, then roll us onto our sides to listen to the storm fall silent around us even as we do the same.  And there's nothing but torchlight flickering against my eyelids and the sound of his breathing and mine, and the hot tub bubbling softly away.

The man is a maniac.  All teasing hands and laughing eyes and hideous, obscure puns as we shower off the sweat and other fluids.  But if he thought he was going to win a tickle fight, he had no idea who he was up against.  We splatter water everywhere, playing in the shower, and Fox plays dirty.  He tries to get me to tell him about the mosaics and ambushes me as soon as I'm distracted.  Hah!  I made sure I was covered with soap first and slipped through his grasp.  We end up laughing together on the floor of the shower, aroused but more interested in each other's company for now.

He even makes jokes about getting back through the dark living room, wanting to know if I'll kiss things to make them better if he stumbles this time.  Tells me I need to update my medical standards and my bedside manner.  If only he knew!  The storm's gathering strength around us again, too.

We cut more bread and cheese, and gather more beer as well since Fox has the good taste to appreciate it, then take the loot to the hot tub.  I hear him purr behind me as the hot water finishes what I did for his back earlier.  I'm setting the bread and cheese on the ledge of the hot tub when he move up behind me.

Fox doesn't do anything else, just stands behind me, almost close enough to touch.  He seems to know instinctively not to take me unawares.  I don't know if he's simply known other fighters or if it's Seer's instincts preserving him.  I can feel intent, desire, pouring off him in heat waves like the sun baking the beaches whiter and whiter in the summer, and that heat wraps up my body everywhere I'm not immersed in already heated water.

I feel him take that last step forward, his chest pressing against my back, his arousal against my ass, and the heat of his breath puffing across the nape of my neck with each exhalation until he rests his cheek against my nape and the distraction is directed at an over-sensitive ear.  My arms fall to my sides, giving up any pretense of dealing with the food.  For once (surprise, MacLeod!) even beer can wait.

Fox reaches around me, tracing my body with shockingly gentle hands and fingertips.  He makes no effort to see what he's doing, lending me the comfort of his support against my neck and back, as those blind hands run along ribs as if to count them, tease my nipples as if there's nothing more pressing in the world right now than my hunger.

Palms smooth the skin along my sides, run down to the hips, and his fingers repay my earlier teasing by returning it.  He combs through the coarse hair above the pubic bone, carding it out of damp curls.  Sounds are coming out of my throat that I'd forgotten I could make, because that sulky mouth is licking and sucking along my neck and ears as his fingers tease my thighs, my belly, anywhere except where I want him to touch.  When he finally wraps his fingers around me, I cry out, arching back against his shoulder and pressing my cock more firmly into his grip.

Fox is still a surprise.  He doesn't stroke me like a man who knows what he likes and wants.  Instead he uses both hands to explore me as if he's never felt a cock before, has no idea where the skin should slide or be firm, no idea where the veins should run and the nerves with them.  His face is buried against my shoulder again and his hands are driving me mad, lingering more often now, stroking where I want them most, need them most, until I can feel the orgasm welling up, ready to pour up and out in just one more....

And he stops.  I don't know why I didn't scream.  Possibly because I couldn't.  I'm shaking, held up only by his body against my back and the fact that I'm too hard to release anything, including my knees. His arms move up, wrapping around my chest, and he tugs gently backwards.  I can feel his knees bracing to lower me into the water, and for half-a-second, I think about fighting it.  Then I give in to what he wants and go with it.  Fox doesn't mean me harm, certainly not tonight.  Maybe in another world, but not the one we've made tonight.

He lowers me into the water, then arranges me to float near the edge of the tub and moves between my legs.  There's something incredibly tender in his eyes, as if he has too many things he wants to say and can't, or won't, offer.  I don't know who in hell he's waiting for, but they're an idiot to miss his loving.  Damn you, MacLeod, if you had eyes....   I shove that away, unwilling to insult Fox by thinking of someone else when he's here and so intent on pleasing me.  This might be easier if Seers didn't See so damn well.

Fox is studying me as if he's storing this away for long years to come, or to sculpt me later.  What worries me is the sudden flash of wicked amusement, a grin that lights his face.  With no real warning other than his hands holding my hips up in the water, he bends to take my cock in his mouth.  The surprise and my suddenly tensed muscles cause me to sink slightly in the water, but he holds both of us in place.

The man's merciless and at the same time my only anchor.  My eyes keep closing to pay attention to what he's doing, but in the warm water, there's nothing to feel except his mouth around me, his hands holding my hips, and that talented tongue flicking patterns along my overheated cock.  Funny how little mercy I want, either, as he uses the barest scrape of teeth to make sure I'm still here, then soothes me again with suction and teasing licks.  His eyes are closed, I saw that a few moments ago, when I could still open my eyes.  He's working by instinct and touch and the sounds torn out of me by pleasure.

After the earlier orgasm, I'd have thought I'd have a bit more control on this one, but I have none.  There is nothing to me but his designs and desires, and my own pleasure erupting up and through me as the storm batters the house around me and his will batters me.  And so I give myself over to his wish in this as I gave myself up to his balance a few minutes ago, and trust Fox to catch me when I fall into this, too.

When I'm coherent again, he's wrapped around me, holding both of us above the water and still smiling.  It's an odd night, even in my memory.  The storm is still pounding at the house around us.  I can hear the sand hissing against the shutters, almost feel the rain screaming against the concrete, but the storm in here seems to have subsided.  We talk about small things, somehow:  Oxford and Wales, favorite beers, insomnia-cure movies.  He's a connoisseur of late-late shows, I think.

Once he and I get out of the tub and sprawl on the stone bench, his head resting on my chest, until we decide the liquid heat looks too damn inviting and crawl back in.  At one point I look down from a silence in the conversation and he's asleep in my arms, looking even younger in sleep and more innocent.  Fox only dozes for a little while, though.  He wakes himself, twitching out of some dream before it can become a nightmare, and we climb back onto the bench, reluctant to leave the torchlight for the haven of my bed.  Eventually we return to the tub yet again, children returning to the womb, I suppose.

Before dawn I fall asleep myself as the storm, having done its worst, finally slips away.  When I wake he's staring out between the shutters over the stone bench, looking at the sand still caked on wood and visible in the gray light of dawn.  His face is changing as I watch, patterns of thought and responsibility settling into place as easily as I'd draw my blade.  Whatever he does, it's both a vocation and no light task.

His arms are wrapped around me, but he's thinking of someone else, looking at someone who isn't here.  I wonder who he's thinking about, that he looks so determined and relieved and pleased?  I flex my shoulders against him to let Fox know I'm awake.

"Morning," he says quietly, his voice clearly speaking both his reluctance to leave again and the necessity of it.  But there's no hesitation in meeting my eyes, no regrets for the night and no questions in the morning.  Good.  The last thing I wanted to do was add to his scars.

So I stretch, casually eeling out of his arms, and stand up to let the water run off me.  He leans against the side of the tub and wolf-whistles at me.  As if the man hasn't taken me apart and put me back together twice last night?  As if it weren't only the hot tub holding me in one piece last night, because I could have come apart and floated away when he was done?

"Smart aleck," I growl at him, knowing he's not fooled by the voice.  "Come on, I'll fix breakfast while you get dressed.  I know a man who can get you to the mainland with no questions asked," and I smile, thinking of Fox's frustration when he finally notices that he can't ask questions either -- like why Jake's willing to do this.  My parting tease, I suppose, but I have to wonder why he's laughing too.

I get breakfast ready easily enough and we sit out on the deck to eat it, plates balanced on knees.  The sea's attacking the shore in their eternal enmity, and for once the sky's in collusion, striking at the trees with misting grey attacks that never quite seem to make it to us.  Not that we'd mind, anyway.  We've only spent most of the night submerged; what's a little more water?

Fox isn't ready to talk either, which suits me.  I don't want to break this mood just yet, but we both keep glancing at the other.

I came to Key West to get away from weather like this, I think -- away from grey, misting days, and dreary weather that prompts one to wear an overcoat and look for friends to lift your spirits.   The Highlander thrives in it.  No surprise, raised in Scotland, and now spending winters in Paris (what's wrong with spring, MacLeod?) and the rest of the year in Seacouver, where rainy days outnumber sun three to one.

And yet, when I look at Fox, I wonder what will come of this?  Be serious, old man.  He's going to go back to whatever idiot left him in this state, and from the expression on his face this morning, they're in for a sizable surprise.  But it was one night, storm-bound and storm-hidden, and you won't see him again.  Which is just as well.

Time I get him to Jake -- before the local constabulary starts inspecting homes for damage, and downed wires, and all the other details of recovering from these storms.  Fox nods when I point to the walk with my chin, and stands up, swinging his duffel bag over his shoulder.

We make it halfway to the end of the porch before he reaches over and cups his palm against my cheek.  When I just stare at him, unwilling to ask, he says quietly, "I'll remember."

It's as much of a promise as he can make, and more than I'd expected.  Seers.  Gods, as if they ever really forget anything?  But the offer is more than just the words, and I give him back the same comfort.  "So will I."  If you only knew, Fox.  I'll remember you long after your neglectful lover is dust and your memory with her.

I wish you'd understand if I told you to watch your head.  I don't know what in hell you do, but Seer's eyes and bullet wounds make me think your life expectancy needs help.  But there's no way to say it, no provision in our silent bargain for such concerns.  So I turn him over to Jake, saying only that he was stranded with me and needs to get back to the mainland without ever having been here.  And I watch the plane leave before I turn back to the house, shaking my head in disbelief.

Seers.  They always turn your world upside down, leaving a previously structured picture... rearranged, or maybe just reemphasized.  Funny.  I came out here because of a lover I couldn't have, and found one I couldn't keep.  What the hell.  I made it through another hurricane.  After that, I suspect I'm ready to deal with Duncan MacLeod.
 
 

~ ~ ~ finis 1/2/99 ~ ~ ~

Please send comments, commentary, beer, and/or other assorted feedback to Rhiannon

Mulder's point of view of this can be found In the Eye of the Storm. Thanks, Alyss, for letting me play!

Lovely graphics courtesy of

  folks have braved the weather since 1/22/99