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Disclaimers:
They aren't mine, more's the pity, nary a one of 'em -- although I'm putting
in dibs on Connor after that movie and Lady knows I give Matthew more work
(among other things!) than anyone else does. Form
and Substance
"Connor, if anybody else had gotten me into this, I'd be on a plane by now." Duncan was very nearly growling to his absent kinsman as he stalked through the auction hall. The only things keeping his voice down were the startled looks he'd already garnered from a pair of tiny, white-haired ladies, three gentlemen who'd been debating the serviceability of a nineteenth century humidor, and two teenagers who would obviously rather be off discussing the female prospects at their high school. If he hadn't promised his clansman and teacher that he'd try to acquire any suitable Revolutionary Era silver work for Nash Antiques, Duncan would have fled Savannah already. Unfortunately, the estate had quite a few pieces that Connor would be more than happy to sell at a suitable mark-up. Duncan was going to have to stay and bid, and had already resigned himself to the fact that, almost certainly, his teacher was going to claim Duncan had paid too much for something. That was minor, a normal, friendly debate with Connor that would undoubtedly lead to drinks, dinner, and an attempt to see what trouble they could start in Manhattan this time. No, the real reason Duncan wanted to leave was, as he'd started referring to it privately, 'that damned sword.' Duncan's presence at the auction was due to that piece of steel. Connor had been contacted by the auction house in charge of selling the sword on behalf of the estate of Robert Sheridan. They wanted him to appraise the sword and check its provenance prior to the auction. Since Christie's had a major auction of 18th Century furniture the same week, Connor couldn't possibly make it. Instead, he had cajoled, bribed, and finally blackmailed Duncan into taking his place. At least his plane ticket had been purchased by the auction house in charge of selling the estate. The Sheridans had
been an old Irish family, and had brought a few things to Richard's body had been unceremoniously stripped and thrown over a mule at Bosworth Field. His crown, reputedly, had been recovered from a tree. No one knew what had happened to his blade, however. Sheridan contended in his will that he was the last direct descendent of one Lord Timothy Sheridan, who had been in attendance upon Richard at Bosworth and, at his death, had taken the sword off the field and back to Ireland rather than see it defiled by the touch of Henry Tudor. All of which meant the estate house might be dealing with an item worth millions, or only a few thousand. And that meant they were being very careful indeed. Of course, Duncan remembered, the estate still didn't want to pay for a transatlantic ticket. When I get my hands on Marcus Constantine, I'm going to have a few words with him about recommending Connor for this. I wonder if he knew how much of a mess it was going to turn into? The Scot had been dreaming up a suitable revenge for that referral for hours now, because the whole problem was that the damn thing really might have been Richard's sword. Duncan couldn't prove otherwise. The hand-and-a-half hilt matched one shown in a 1478 portrait; the blade was good Italian steel such as an English noble might have had. There was no doubt in Duncan's mind that the sword was from the right time period. It might even have been on Bosworth Field. He just didn't think it had been in Richard's hands, although he had no evidence more convincing than a gut-level reaction. The entire matter was infuriating. Paradoxically, Duncan's refusal to give a definite yes or no answer had delighted the auction house. The blade was now the center of their auction, 'the mysterious, disputed sword that may have belonged to....' Duncan had seen some skilled PR in his time, but he had to give their copywriter credit for enticing without making any false claims. And word had spread. The Ricardians were there in force. The Arms and Armor Director had come from the Art Institute of Chicago, and even the Master at Arms of the Tower of London had shown up. The last two had been rather reassuring. Both of them had looked the blade over, talked to Duncan, talked to each other, made some phone calls, and privately agreed with Duncan -- it wasn't Richard's. Since Duncan had said he didn't believe it to be Richard's, and the museum officials had said nothing publicly, everyone was watching sharply to see how high the three of them bid. The Highlander was half-expecting rioting through the staid seating of the auction house at this rate. The only thing that could make this worse would be-- Right on time, the buzzing presence of another immortal hissed over his nerves. Duncan did the only thing possible under the circumstances: he laughed. Head thrown back, dark eyes bright with sudden merriment, his laughter spread among the people around him even if they weren't sure what the joke was. Good humor restored by Fate's timing and his own erratic luck, the Scot glanced around, wondering where Amanda or Cory, or any of half-a-dozen other immortal thieves might be. A particularly elegant trench-coated silhouette stood examining the sword and Duncan moved that way, wondering who it was. Not tall enough for Cory, too tall and too slim for Benny. Definitely male, which lets out Amanda, Jade, Michelle.... Grey-green eyes met his as the man turned around. Clear, piercing, familiar eyes under dark brows and in a face surprisingly clean-shaven. Duncan remembered the feel of stubble under his palm, the way the other man's beard grew in as thickly, and as fast, as his own. There was something oddly inevitable in running into this man in the South, and it was hard to get much deeper into the South than Savannah, with its moss-laden trees and cobblestone-paved town square. "Matthew McCormick," Duncan acknowledged, and his voice sounded oddly calm even to his own ears. One side of the other man's mouth quirked up in a smile that lit his entire face, and Duncan had to catch his breath against a vivid memory of those full lips on his skin. Matthew caught his reaction. Those slate green eyes filled with wicked laughter as he drawled, "Duncan MacLeod. Fancy meeting you here. I wouldn't have taken you for a Ricardian, somehow." That pulled Duncan abruptly into the present. "Don't. Just... don't. Come on." He laid his palm against the other man's shoulder almost tentatively, remembering the way touch had ignited between them the last time they'd seen each other. The fine, slightly damp cloth of the trench coat prickled against Duncan's hand as he led the other immortal toward a quieter corner near the front door. Matthew lifted one sable eyebrow inquiringly. "You know, the days are long past when that answer could get you beheaded, Duncan." Duncan had to laugh. "Have you looked at some of the people here? I wouldn't bet on that if I were you!" They stepped to one side as a party of late arrivals walked into the auction house, trailing the night's cool mist behind them like particularly airy streamers. "Granted, February in Savannah is warmer than February in D.C., but what are we doing out here? We're not that far from the drizzle," Matthew pointed out calmly, leaning against the oak wainscoting as if stepping into the foyer had been his idea in the first place. "Hiding?" Duncan suggested, a reluctant smile creeping across his face at the easy way Matthew took over any situation. "No, the Ricardians are out in force, Matthew, and I give it all of two minutes before someone comes outside to see if I'm getting you to bid on the sword for me. Tell me you don't want it." Matthew's eyes -- no, his entire attention -- narrowed, as he took in everything Duncan had said and swiftly compared it to what he'd seen. "Back inside, Duncan, now." His tone left no other options, and neither did the forceful grip on Duncan's arm. The Scot stared at him for the first two steps, then swiftly plastered an irritated expression on his face. "I don't think so," he said clearly as they walked back into the exhibition hall. "I'm not available to consult on that." Matthew glanced at
him, his face suddenly stern although that same wicked laughter danced
in his eyes for just a second as he took up the cover story Duncan was
offering and ran with it. "Mr. MacLeod, I don't remember giving
you an option. Now it can wait until this auction is over, but I
require your assistance on this case. As a Duncan made a show of 'noticing' the people around them before arguing at a lower volume. "The part where the court isn't required to reimburse me for time lost from my own business, Special Agent McCormick. You have yet to mention any kind of compensation and I've already been commissioned to bid on some pieces. You're going to have to wait, I'm afraid." Matthew glared at him, then apparently gave in. "Very well, Mr. MacLeod. As soon as you're finished, however, I'll thank you to come with me." Duncan glanced at him, startled momentarily by the faintest of purred edges in Matthew's voice. The FBI agent continued smoothly and threateningly, "Or do we need to discuss a brief, casual detention?" Duncan hastily buried a cough in his hand rather than laugh. Damn you, McCormick, don't do this again, he thought as he tried to force down a sudden surge of interest. Oh, great, I'm conditioned to respond to bad, drawled, law enforcement pick-up lines, he realized, and felt his face flush. That, at least, could be passed off as anger, and he leveled a carefully fierce look at Matthew. "We can discuss this later, Agent." Matthew raised an eyebrow, then coolly replied, "I assure you, Mr. MacLeod, we'll do just that. Shall we take our seats?" "We?" "I'd hate to have to cuff you for obstruction of justice," Matthew offered in that same bland voice. Duncan's hand tightened into a fist that the onlookers undoubtedly translated as anger; he was actually fighting down an overwhelming urge to say the hell with it and drag Matthew McCormick to whichever hotel room was closest. He managed a strangled sounding murmur instead of the growl he wanted to use. "Is that what you're calling it now?" Matthew smiled at him, a predatory expression that made the same interested patrons wonder which branch of the law he was a special agent in and just what Duncan had done to merit his personal attention. "It'll do, MacLeod. We can discuss that later, too." He prowled next to Duncan, none too subtly herding the tall Scot toward the auction seating. "Am I under arrest, Agent?" Duncan glared at him, but he was actually starting to enjoy this. He hadn't had this much fun since the last time Fitz had called him stuffy. I'd forgotten how fast I can start a bar fight; all I had to do was act like Connor. And then I told Connor that when I went through Manhattan a few years later.... He managed to compress his lips against the smile that memory called up, and heard Matthew's discreet chuckle next to him. "Don't tell me what brought that smile on just now," the FBI agent murmured. "I'll ask later; it looked promising." After they both found seats, Matthew mentioned calmly, "You're not under arrest, MacLeod. But do remember that I always get my man. Be here when I get back." Duncan had no trouble summoning a glare for him. "I don't run, McCormick, and the last I looked, you weren't with the RCMP." Matthew smiled at him, that same wolfish grin. "Good. I'll be back." Sotto voce, he added, "And we'll see who's the Mountie later." He walked off, leaving Duncan to sit there, fuming outwardly and laughing inwardly. ~0~0~0~0~ The woman in the aisle had dark hair and bright eyes, and she filled out her dress in all the right places. "Suh, by any chance is this chair taken?" Duncan seriously considered letting her have Matthew's chair; the other man was taking his own sweet time at whatever he was doing. I'd love to watch him decide whether or not to cause a scene by evicting her, the Scot admitted to himself. He smiled, taking in the brunette's well-tailored dress, the subtle floral scent of her perfume, and the attraction of her low, softly slurring voice. Before he could say anything, however, Matthew's presence slid along his nerves and the decision was taken out of his hands. "I'm afraid it is, ma'am," Matthew drawled pleasantly, and Duncan noticed absently that his cologne smelled of musk and spices. "You'll have to pardon us, I'm afraid." "He's with you?" she asked Duncan, too well-bred to wrinkle her nose in distaste but giving that impression nonetheless. "He tells me I'm leaving with him," Duncan told her regretfully, and looked down at the chair seat as if he were embarrassed by the admission. It was also a useful way of concealing his smirking amusement at putting Matthew in the position of either arresting him or claiming to be his lover. Either one held a great deal of potential for mischief. Her eyes widened, and she glanced between the two men as she straightened to a rigidly erect stance. "I beg your pardon." "Matthew McCormick," Matthew told her, flipping his badge out. "FBI. Is there some problem?" "He's under arrest?" she asked, one manicured hand lifting to her throat in confusion. "Not yet," was the grim reply; Duncan suspected the tone was in fact motivated by Matthew's future plans for him. "You weren't going to leave so soon, were you, Mr. MacLeod?" "Agent, I even saved your seat for you," Duncan told him in that same resigned tone. "I'd rather not have you on my tail." From the sudden flash of Matthew's eyes, the Scot knew he was going to pay for that one, and in fact wondered how high his bill had already gotten... but he was having too much fun to stop now. "As I told you, I'm at your service when this is over." "Yes, you are," Matthew drawled and waited until the woman had backed away to sprawl lazily into the aisle chair. He extended his legs under the seat in front of him, crossed at the ankle, and waited until she was gone to say softly, "You, sir, are dangerous. What was that all about?" "Irresistible impulse?" Duncan commented with a shrug, and followed it up with, "Not guilty by reason of insanity?" He allowed the faintest hint of a smug smile to escape, then exhaled in a startled 'whuff' when Matthew planted an elbow in his ribs while abruptly sitting up. "So sorry, my mistake," Matthew told him with patent insincerity. A slogan crossed Duncan's mind, one he'd seen on a bumper sticker. "Bad cop -- no donut." Grey-green eyes tried to glare at him. "And they say the Scots have no sense of humor," Matthew retorted, barely repressing a smile. More softly he said, "Do you know, that wasn't the hole I was interested in?" He chuckled quietly when Duncan flushed and murmured, "I suspect, sir, that we should drop this for now. Unless, of course, you want me to impugn your reputation?" "They're about to start," Duncan said hastily and sat up to pay attention to the bidding. Matthew's quiet laughter pulled an answering smile to his face, though. Well, that battle went to him. Now, if I can just pay attention long enough to stay out of trouble with Connor.... ~0~0~0~0~ Matthew watched the murmurs and whispers run through the crowd and smiled one of his better predatory smiles. About the grade he'd unleash on a mildly hostile witness, say, or on a local policeman who hadn't figured out yet that he couldn't win a pissing contest with the Feds. No, no one was going to think he was even remotely involved with this man. Good. Matthew had arranged for a proxy to bid on the sword for him and thought he had a good chance of acquiring it, but he had no wish to make Duncan's life more difficult in the process. If anything, given the way they'd been insulting each other, it would be assumed the agent had bought the sword as much to irritate Duncan as anything else. Beside him, Duncan noticed that feral smile out of the corner of his vision and simultaneously frowned and squirmed. Matthew let his eyelids droop to a hooded expression he used during interrogations and had to keep his smile from spreading to a grin when the Scot flushed and settled further into his chair. Time to start the seduction again. "Anything you aren't bidding on, Mr. MacLeod?" he inquired sardonically. "I've got the items written down, Agent McCormick," Duncan growled. "You'll just have to wait. Nash Antiques co-opted my services before you did." Nice, Duncan. Very nice. But I haven't enjoyed myself this much in months; I think we'll play this out. I am going to win. Matthew settled into his chair himself. "So they did, Mr. MacLeod," and he laid the faintest emphasis on the name to make it quite clear he knew who 'Russell Nash' really was. "But as soon as you're done, you're mine. May I see that list, sir." Despite the polite phrasing, his tone of voice made it an order, and he reached for the program. Duncan started to hand it over, then forced down a grin and held on to it. "You're welcome to look at it, Agent." He carefully held the program between them and inquired pleasantly, "I assume you can read it clearly at this distance?" "I don't need reading glasses, no," Matthew commented, trying not to show just how amused he was by the jibe. Instead, he took an insultingly long time looking over the notations instead before asking calmly, "The rest of the items are silver work. Why the humidor?" "If you'd noticed the description, it's silver-chased. But that one I'm bidding on for myself," Duncan replied coolly, his gaze too perfectly proper to be anything other than pure mischief. "It comes up before the missal set, Agent; it's not going to slow you any further." "I had noticed the number sequence, yes," Matthew mused. "All right, then. We'll wait it out." Very softly he added, "Don't think you're getting time off for good behavior, Duncan." "I wasn't aware I had to serve time," the Scot answered just as quietly. "Hard time. And we'll talk about service later, sir." Matthew gave him that same appraising look, the one that always made Duncan flush. He laughed at the reaction, a low, husky sound that darkened the Scot's eyes and clenched his hand around the program. After a long moment, Duncan grated out, "Matthew McCormick, if you use even one more line like that in the next half-hour, I will not be responsible for what happens. The antiques community won't give a flying damn if I kiss you senseless. The FBI might not see it that way." Matthew glanced away from him, checking his watch first and then studying the crowd on the other side of the aisle as disappointed buyers ebbed away. He smiled at no one in particular, pleased that Duncan had managed to keep his voice down even when frustrated. "I'll remember that." But he couldn't resist adding, "Your next item's coming up by the way, Mr. MacLeod. Do try to keep your mind on your business." The Southerner considered the rumbling growl from the seat next to him almost as good a reason to have come to the auction as a chance at the sword. ~0~0~0~0~ Duncan finished his signature with a flourish and debated how to get a higher commission out of Connor than usual. The two Highlanders normally just sent the receipt with any acquired items and trusted the other to pay cost plus percentage, but this time Duncan was sorely tempted to add on a surcharge for aggravation. Actually, I did do that to him once before, the Scot remembered, amused, that time he and the little redhead stiffed me for the drinks because they were in such a hurry to find a bed. I'll think of something. He could hear Matthew talking to the head of the auction house in a low, pleased tone, and wondered again what exactly the other immortal had purchased. It had to have been a sealed bid or a proxy's doing because Matthew hadn't bought anything while he was sitting with Duncan. However, for the moment Duncan was more interested in making sure he got Connor's items headed north and his own humidor packaged for shipment so that he and Matthew could finally get out of there and find a convenient bed of their own. Or carpet, or wall... a shower wouldn't be bad. I haven't been this impatient in... well, months, Duncan admitted to himself, trying not to grin. I'll give him credit; he did shut up for thirty minutes. Not even a few seconds more than that, but he did give me half an hour. Bastard, he thought without any real sting to the word. Matthew's hand clamped down firmly on his shoulder, and if the fingers managed to caress his collarbone as they settled, well, no one other than Duncan could tell. "Finished, Mr. MacLeod?" Matthew's tone managed to strike a fine balance between civilized, constrained patience and imminent menace. The combination shivered down Duncan's spine and left him wondering if an immortal could die of frustration. Since his paperwork had been finished for the last minute, however, he turned and gave the other man an almost mocking smile as they finished playing out this scene for the spectators. "Agent McCormick," Duncan rumbled sarcastically, "I've been awaiting your pleasure." Given the heated barbs they'd been trading back and forth all night, Duncan considered it a triumph that he could keep himself from snickering as he said that. Matthew looked him up and down, carefully maintaining a frown although Duncan suspected he was restraining laughter. "You've made your position more than clear, Mr. MacLeod. Now then, am I correct that you're finally free to assist me with this case?" Behind them, the auction director cleared his throat. "Gentlemen? Is there some problem?" "Not at all," Matthew drawled, never turning around. "Mr. MacLeod and I have been having a minor difference of opinion, but I believe it's settled now. Good night, sir." The elderly man relaxed minutely as it became clear that the young gentlemen weren't going to come to blows in his establishment. That established, he set himself to soothing them both. "We'll see that safely shipped, Mr. McCormick. Thank you very much for your business, sir. Mr. MacLeod, do feel free to call upon us again. It was a pleasure working with you, sir." He insisted on escorting them to the doors, refusing to allow the discussion to degenerate into unpleasantness again before they were safely out of his auction house and into the misty rain of the late Savannah evening. "What is it about you and ending up in the rain?" Matthew asked calmly once the mortal had re-entered the building. "And the cold," Duncan pointed out in the same careful voice, watching the damp drizzle settle into Matthew's hair. Individual droplets flashed under the parking lot lights with each slight shift of his head. "Don't forget that. Probably fate making sure we don't go up in flames." "Ah. Helpful. I never trust Fate when she's being obliging, Duncan. Now then, sir, do I need to put you under maximum security, or is this going to be a civil arrest?" Matthew leaned against the side of his car, hands in his pockets while he watched sable eyes narrow as the Scot tried to control his helpless reaction. I will have to remember that he's very susceptible to innuendo. Wonder where he picked up that trait? "I'd hate to put you to the trouble of fresh pursuit," Duncan finally told him. He added innocently, "That is the term, isn't it?" Matthew smiled at him, eyeing his throat speculatively as he did. "Mr. MacLeod. I believe we discussed reputations earlier. Yours, sir, would not be improved if I pinned you against that car for a full-body search. Now then, are you going to follow me in your car, or shall I cuff you and bring you along in mine?" Duncan laughed abruptly, the richly sensual sound sliding across the cool night. He deliberately relaxed back against his rental sedan, letting his gaze roam across Matthew. "I'm staying about twenty minutes from here. You?" The agent waited a long moment then said thoughtfully, "About thirty, I'm afraid. The sound-proofing is good, at least," he added blandly. "But yours is closer. Shall we? I believe I can manage to stay on your tail." "We'll see," Duncan smiled. "Do you always get your man?" "That's the RCMP," Matthew pointed out calmly. "No," the Scot corrected him, "their motto's actually 'Maintain the Right.' " "That would explain the way they dress." Matthew waited until Duncan could stop laughing to tell him, "I'll follow you to your place, Duncan." ~0~0~0~0~ Driving a stick shift was, thank God, distracting. Given the tightness of his pants, Duncan was grateful for that. The damp roads kept enough of his attention off Matthew McCormick to make his clothes a little more comfortable -- right until he stopped in the driveway and all his speculations flooded back across him, washing blood straight to his groin again. So he sat in the car as the drizzle slowly strengthened to rain, waiting for Matthew to find a parking spot near the brick and wood townhouse a friend had let him use. He needed the brief respite from their heat if only to try to reassemble some of his own control, however lost a cause that might be. Remembering his previous encounter with the other man, however, Duncan suspected he was wasting his time and energy. Matthew had a tendency not to allow him any control whatsoever, and that was terrifyingly... enjoyable. It was an unsettling pleasure, much like the first time Duncan had ridden a roller coaster at the Chicago World's Fair and felt his stomach drop out from under him as he wondered if the rickety wooden frame would hold up. But the loss of control was half the pleasure, he suspected. Duncan got out of the car finally and waited for his guest, his nerves jittering with anticipation and desire as the raindrops pelted his hair and coat. Matthew fell into step beside him and the heat he raised made Duncan wonder irrationally why steam wasn't rising off them both. It was an oddly silent walk to the doorway, with Duncan at least half-afraid to say anything that might spark the explosion hovering in their near future. Matthew finally asked casually, "A townhouse? Are you living here now?" "No, I'm in San Francisco. A friend of mine is in Europe for the summer and loaned it to me when he heard I'd gotten this commission." Duncan kept his tone carefully casual as he dug out his house keys. "Ah." Matthew followed him into the small foyer and stepped out of the way to let Duncan lock the door again. "Sharing it with any other displaced visitors?" He glanced around, taking in the polished stone floor and gleaming wooden stairs to the next floor. "No." A brief smile cracked Duncan's face as he mentioned, "If I were, I'd have suggested your hotel instead." Matthew's answering smile backed Duncan up a step as the barely-leashed feral intensity heated his blood -- and other things. "Smart man. Now, then, Mr. MacLeod, I believe I mentioned good behavior?" "Agent McCormick, is that a nightstick or are you that happy to see me again?" Duncan asked dryly as he took Matthew's coat and hung it next to his own. "Patrolmen carry nightsticks, MacLeod. That's a service piece, thank you, sir. Where are some towels?" At Duncan's raised eyebrow, Matthew pointed out pleasantly, "We're both damp. Or had you not noticed?" "I noticed," Duncan purred, eyes tracking down the other man's body and lingering somewhere below belt level. "The bathroom's upstairs, though. Afraid you'll have to follow me." Matthew, however, smiled a denial. "Bring the towels back down. I'll pour us some drinks." He paused, deliberately, then asked, "Unless of course you're not thirsty?" What in hell is he up to...? Arousal already burning painfully along his skin and a vivid memory of how McCormick tasted now filling his mouth, Duncan said more slowly, "All right." The words were thick in his throat, thick as Matthew had been the last time they were together. A chance to subtly adjust himself in his pants as he went upstairs seemed like a good idea to Duncan. He came back down in a dry shirt and didn't question the instinct that had prompted him to pull on silk rather than a more casual turtleneck. One hand had an oversized towel for Matthew; the other held a dry sweater. He also didn't question why he'd pulled out one of his good cashmere sweaters, or why his thumb kept running over the fabric as he walked down the stairs. The agent knelt on one knee in front of the small fireplace, coaxing the flames along the logs Duncan had left in place. A shot glass of whiskey or bourbon waited on the tiles near his hand as he deftly arranged logs with the poker, and Duncan paused, admiring the play of light across fine wool where Matthew's suit pants drew tight across his thigh and ass. The Scot casually tossed the sweater onto the leather couch and crouched behind Matthew to towel his hair dry. The noise coming from the Southerner was more a rumble than a purr, but there was no doubting the sensual appreciation in it. Duncan leaned in, his thighs wrapping around the other man's hips, forearms resting lightly on Matthew's shoulders as he continued to massage thick, damp hair through the towel. "Your shirt's wet," he mentioned at last, letting the towel fall around Matthew's neck as he breathed the words into the Southerner's ear. Matthew lifted his glass and took a sip, then set it back on the bricks. "So's my mouth," he drawled without turning around. "Any suggestions?" "A few," Duncan murmured, arms sliding down to wrap around Matthew's waist. "You'll have to turn around, though." "Ah." Matthew made one last adjustment to the logs to channel the airflow more efficiently to the fire, then put the cast iron poker back in its stand. Somehow he never moved away from the warm, masculine weight pressed along his back. "Little hard to do that with you there, I'm afraid." Duncan laughed softly. "Only a little hard? We'll have to correct that." But he stood up and asked casually, "So where's my drink?" The Southerner picked up his glass before he straightened up and turned around. "Right here." He stalked toward Duncan, effortlessly backing the taller man toward the couch. "Sit down, Duncan." The purred command settled Duncan onto the leather and Matthew straddled his lap easily. He took a sip of the drink and leaned in. Duncan's mouth opened helplessly under the pressure, tasting whiskey and Matthew as the other man slowly fed him the drink. Even after the alcohol was gone, Matthew's tongue continued to range through his mouth, seeking the last few drops and teasing across sensitive spots before finally drawing back. Duncan opened his eyes, wondering when he'd closed them, and pulled air in to compensate for the breaths he'd apparently forgotten to take. Matthew smiled at him, that same feral, overpowering amusement, before he took another sip... and began again. The worst of it was that Matthew wasn't touching him anywhere but against his lips, inside his mouth, a heated line of warmth across the top of Duncan's shoulder where one arm was braced against the couch, and the faintest hint of solidly muscled thighs against Duncan's own legs. The Scot arched his back, chest pressing forward for more contact, and heard a wicked chuckle against his mouth as Matthew shifted up and away from him just far enough to hold the distance between them. "Mm-mm." McCormick pulled back from his mouth and looked down at him. "Not yet. Weren't you going to do something about this wet shirt?" he inquired lazily. "Since you don't seem to want me to give you your drink?" Duncan growled, torn between options, then reached for Matthew's shirt. "Since you insist...." "Wouldn't want to put you out," the Southerner drawled, eyes raking down Duncan's chest to the prominent bulge in his pants. "I noticed," Duncan grated, quickly unfastening buttons and wondering where in hell the other man had tossed his tie. "Tease." "Mr. MacLeod--" Matthew hissed as the backs of Duncan's fingers ran from collarbone to sternum, spreading the fabric. Any words were momentarily forgotten as sensation washed through them both when the Scot pulled the shirt open, knuckles grazing oh so accidentally across the thin cotton t-shirt and over Matthew's nipples. He gasped, then glared when Duncan started to lean forward; the predatory growl froze Duncan in place. "Not yet," Matthew told him. "And for it to be a tease, MacLeod, either I'd have to... fail to deliver," and he smiled, grey green eyes wicked, "or fail to satisfy. Do let me know if there's a problem. Later." Duncan dragged air into his lungs, then exhaled. "You're determined to drag this out, aren't you?" "Not enjoying it?" The bland question was a challenge that Duncan couldn't make himself ignore. He knew, damn well, that he'd regret this, but he growled, "I never said that." "Then get my cuffs, why don't you?" Matthew suggested. "So I can go back to giving you your drink." Duncan's eyes widened, mind jumping to the wrong set of cuffs, and his hands froze in mid-motion. To his shock, Matthew raised one eyebrow, an intrigued, appraising smile on his face. "Well, well. Broader mind than I'd thought." Matthew laughed softly, eyes bright and wicked as he watched Duncan try not to flush even more. "We'll see, Duncan. For now, get the shirt." He lifted his arms so that Duncan could get the buttons on the shirt cuffs, still smiling that same speculative, calculating grin Cool, wet cotton slid down Matthew's arms and back to pool over Duncan's knees before sliding on down to the floor. The contrast in temperature helped distract him away from the skin in front of him that he couldn't touch yet. That same rumbled growl had stopped him when he tried to slide his hands up Matthew's arms and Duncan wasn't sure he wanted to know what the other man might do. It was more fun to wait and see, anticipation coiling in his stomach as he gave over yet another level of control. Matthew smiled at him, stripped off the damp undershirt, and pulled on the sweater Duncan had brought down for him. The feel of the smooth cashmere pulled another of those rumbling purrs from him. "Nice. Very nice. Still thirsty?" he asked almost innocently. "Same drink?" Duncan inquired, sinking back against the couch as he surrendered and let the other man set the pace for the night. Part of his mind wondered if McCormick had to report for work the next day, Saturday or no, but he decided to let Matthew worry about it. He had more than enough to concentrate on right now. "Unless you object," Matthew drawled. He chuckled when Duncan relaxed his head against the couch, coincidentally providing a better angle from which to accept the whiskey. "Thought not." He fed the alcohol to Duncan, sip by sip, kiss by kiss, and somewhere in there Duncan realized hazily that the front of his shirt was open and cashmere kept stroking against his skin every time Matthew moved forward or back. It seemed terribly unfair but also felt too good for him to raise much of a protest. And then the glass was empty and that arousing weight moved back off his lap as Matthew stood up. Duncan blinked once, twice, trying to regain control of his thoughts and not entirely sure he remembered how to think just now anyway. "What?" he asked at last. "Stand up," Matthew ordered in that same lazy voice, casually stepping out of his shoes as he stood there. The words pulled Duncan up into that easy, controlling grip that shucked his clothes off him as smoothly as husks coming off corn. Shirt, pants, briefs, all landed on the loveseat to Duncan's surprise. For some reason, he'd half-expected the other man to let them pool around his feet and leave him tangled. It was cool enough in the house that the Highlander could feel the heat of the fire on his back as Matthew asked casually, "Don't suppose you brought anything downstairs besides the towel, Duncan?" Somehow he didn't think McCormick meant the sweater, and Duncan's mind skittered from towel to bathroom to medicine chest to.... "Oh." He shook his head, startled and, if possible, harder than he'd been before. "No." Down here? Even with the fire, that floor is going to be cold-- Then warm metal wrapped around his wrist with an odd double-click, scattering his thoughts again. Matthew's arms slid around Duncan as he positioned the Scot's hands behind his back and fastened the other cuff into place. Cashmere threads tangled and slid through chest hair and fine-woven wool stroked against the hair of Duncan's thighs, pressed against his cock, before Matthew asked huskily, "Remember D.C., Duncan?" "I could forget?" Duncan forced out through a lust-tightened throat, feeling the other man's grip slowly tighten on his wrists above the cuffs. "Good." Matthew pushed down on his arms and Duncan slid to one knee, then ended up kneeling in front of him. He had a moment to study the prominent bulge under charcoal grey wool before Matthew's hands moved to loosen his belt. Duncan simply watched, oddly fascinated by the play of muscle over bone as those hands flexed and moved a few inches from his face. He licked his lips as he saw those hands shift, heard the subtle sound of wool moving over wool as the hook and catch at the waistband came free, heard a zipper slide down, and saw fabric moving apart. Then he was face to face with a hard, hot cock, nostrils full of the scent of horny male, and a strong, callused hand slid under the ends of his hair to wrap around the nape of his neck, gently urging him forward. Matthew's other hand was guiding his cock against Duncan's lips, and the Scot opened his mouth without hesitation, tongue sliding out to slick his lips before that thick weight slid over them. Salt and musk exploded across taste buds, filling his mouth with McCormick's unique taste, and Duncan closed his eyes to concentrate on other sensations. His tongue stroked along the crown, tracing as much of that ridge as he could get to, and Duncan leaned into it, head twisting for a better angle as Matthew's fingers flexed along his neck and skull. He found himself licking around the head, probing with the tip of his tongue, and all he could remember for a moment was watching Amanda eat ice cream out of a waffle cone at one of the World Fairs, smiling wickedly all the time. If she'd known then that she wasn't just teasing me, she was teaching me.... The memory slid away, banished by fire-heat playing along his back. The floorboards radiated coolness under his knees and his fingers wrapped up and tugged at the steel of the cuffs unnoticed as Duncan concentrated only on the cock he was enthusiastically devouring. Matthew's low groans and barely coherent orders urged him on -- "God ... yes, there ... that ... yes," -- even as the hand at his nape somehow grounded him, balanced Duncan on his knees and freed him to give his undivided attention to what he was doing with his mouth. Finally, Matthew pulled back, hand tight on Duncan's neck to keep him from trying to follow that tantalizing cock which had flushed even darker under the Scot's eager ministrations. Those compelling eyes were dark now, slate green and dilated with pleasure. That same pleasure had painted color across Matthew's cheeks, roughened that drawling voice to something husky and elemental as he growled, "Up," and pulled Duncan up with that same controlling grip on his neck. The Scot had only a second to register the contrast of the primal starkness of a hard cock rising out of the respectable, civilized clothes before Matthew spun him around. That callused hand laid against the small of his back, cool in comparison to the heat the fire had imparted, and guided Duncan toward the couch. "Up," Matthew repeated in that same low, rumbling purr, and Duncan settled onto his knees on the center cushion. The other man moved away for a moment, then came back and draped the mostly dry towel over the back of the couch. Strong hands gave Duncan no options as they pressed him forward until his chest rested against the back of the couch, leaving him in an oddly off-center position, balanced on knees and chest against the cushions. Callused palms trailed heat down Duncan's back as Matthew stroked down from shoulders, across shoulder blades, down ribs, just inside the curve of the pelvic bones, and along the cheeks of Duncan's ass before strong fingers wrapped along his inner thighs... and spread them, widening Duncan's stance until he wasn't sure he could hold the position. "Now," Matthew drawled into Duncan's ear, the cashmere prickling along the exposed, sensitized skin of his back, "don't move. I'll be right back." He shifted back, and Duncan could feel the cool air against his left side, the heat of the fire against his ribs and arm on the right. One fingertip trailed along Duncan' s spine to stroke between the widespread cheeks and stop just short of the opening to his body. "Don't make me put you back in place," Matthew commented mildly and Duncan's head dropped forward as he heard footsteps retreat from the room. Silence fell against Duncan's straining ears, broken only by the pop and hiss of the wood in the fire and the soft clatter of icy rain against the windows. No sounds came from the stairs or the kitchen and he had to wonder where Matthew had gone... and where along the way he'd lost his mind, to allow another immortal to put him in this position. No balance, no weapon, not even a free hand -- I'm a sitting duck, Duncan fretted. Damn it, Matthew, do you have to make it so damned hard to trust you so often? Then he snickered softly, trying to imagine what he looked like. Or is that, do you have to make me so hard, so often? As intently as he'd been listening, though, Duncan first knew Matthew had returned when he felt that same reassuring touch run along his spine, firm and comforting on the downstroke, lighter and more teasing as Matthew trailed a finger back up along his vertebrae. "Still there, Duncan?" "I wasn't likely to go anywhere," Duncan forced out, shivering from something other than the chill air. "No," Matthew whispered against his nape, "I didn't really think you were." His hand traced Duncan's shoulders, then slid back across his back. "Shoulders all right?" "So long as you don't leave me like this," Duncan said huskily, trying to squirm back against the heated presence behind him. All he succeeded in doing was making a fool of himself, he suspected; he had very little room to move, in that position, and Matthew had moved away rather than give him that contact. "Shh." Matthew's voice wrapped around him while the scent of burning pine rose through the chill air. "Trust me." He chuckled softly, "Besides, we both know it wasn't your shoulders you were wanting released." That drew a rueful chuckle. "The positions I let you get me into...." Duncan shuddered as Matthew began to rub out tense thigh muscles. From surprise, perhaps, Matthew guessed. No, Duncan MacLeod, you don't know what's going on. I plan to keep it that way, too. He moved closer, though, wrapping an arm around Duncan's waist and pulling him up, then shifting him forward as well, to end up closer to the couch and more upright than he'd been. The cushion dipped under Matthew's knees as he knelt behind Duncan, pressing up against his back while he began to nip and tease along that tantalizingly exposed nape. He laughed against hot, sensitive skin when the younger immortal finally realized just what kind of access his cuffed hands gave him. "Mr. MacLeod, are you resisting detention?" "I don't think staying after school was ever like this," Duncan told him with a chuckle of his own. His fingers teased lightly along the crease of thigh and groin, stroking soft skin and carding through the curling hair there. "Or did you want me to cease and desist?" Matthew moved back just enough to expose them both to the cool air, and heard Duncan hiss in disappointment. "Now, now, sir, you're more than old enough to know about the penalties for inciting to riot...." The broad smile Matthew couldn't see still tinged Duncan's voice as he asked innocently, "Was that confinement to tight quarters, or hard time?" "You say that as if the two were mutually exclusive...." Matthew ran his hands down Duncan's sides, stroking just firmly enough not to tickle. Hard calluses, strong hands -- not at all what the Scot was used to in his bed-partners, Matthew suspected. The resulting squirm against his touch drew a quick smile. Duncan's attempt to reach for him made Matthew shake his head even as he pressed down on the man's back. "What do you think you're doing?" "I'd hate to end up charged with loitering." A frustrated growl added emphasis to Duncan's words and he reached back again. "Duncan." Matthew leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth lightly before shifting to bite and suck just where jaw met neck, still eluding the other man's hands. "Ever heard the phrase, 'relax and enjoy?' " "And make you do all the work?" Wicked amusement laced Matthew's voice as he pointed out, "I'd hardly call this work, I assure you." It made him reconsider what he'd been planning, however. He was greatly enjoying this easy, teasing near-equality; the only question became how to keep it. The Southerner moved back easily and pulled Duncan back with him. "Work, hmm?" Balanced easily on his knees, Duncan twisted to look at Matthew. No trace of worry clouded those dark eyes as he asked, "What did you have in mind?" Matthew chuckled. "Oh, I thought I might even the balance of power, so to speak." His hands urged Duncan up. Matthew pulled the towel off the back of the couch and down onto the cushions before he sat where Duncan had been kneeling. He reached down to adjust himself on the damp towel without ever taking his eyes off Duncan; the flare of lust and interest on the other man's face was too arousing to miss. Duncan licked his lips, apparently without thinking about it, and Matthew reached a hand up. "Come here." That got a raised eyebrow as Duncan considered what he'd said, what he was suggesting, and their relative sizes. "I'm bigger than you are." Matthew chuckled, amused and unconcerned. "Did you forget, Duncan? Do everything the nice officer tells you to do." "When I see one, I'll consider it," the Scot muttered, but he moved forward to kneel on the couch, straddling Matthew. "Do I get the cuffs off?" "I don't know," Matthew murmured. "Going to give your parole? Or did you want to trust me?" "I let you put them on me," Duncan said softly. "Do you think I don't trust you?" "Brave man." He said the words sincerely, and ran gentling hands up Duncan's still bound arms. "I think you'll like this, Duncan, but I'll release you if you'd rather." Duncan shook his head immediately. "After we've gone this far?" he added with a laugh. "I'll trust you." "Good. Quit worrying about being too heavy, Duncan. That's my problem." Matthew used his hands on Duncan's hips to urge him forward and then down, until the Scot was sitting on his lap, thighs spread wide, and their cocks sliding against each other with every breath or squirming, settling motion. Duncan gasped at the sensation, then shivered as that moved them again. "Better?" Matthew asked dryly, trying to conceal his own reaction to Duncan's open pleasure. "God, yes." Duncan drew air in deeply, chest lifting just as Matthew ran one hand across his nipple and up to stroke along his throat. Both of them hissed with pleasure when Duncan bucked into it, and Matthew placed his palm against those full lips. The Southerner sounded almost breathless as he said, "You do catch on fast." Duncan licked at his palm, nipped at the thumb (which got him an affectionate swat on the ass from Matthew), and teased between fingers with his tongue. "Enough." Matthew pulled his hand back and wrapped it around the head of Duncan's cock, spreading saliva down his shaft with a firm stroke that made the younger man buck against him. The feel of his own knuckles tracing his cock made Matthew squirm, too, and wonder what it was about Duncan MacLeod that played such havoc with his restraint. Matthew let go, lifting his hand back to Duncan's mouth again. This time the Scot didn't play with him, simply moistened Matthew's palm with quick, broad laps of his tongue. Matthew clasped Duncan's waist with his free hand to balance the man, and began to stroke both of them off. He wrapped his hand around both their cocks, fingers flexing as if he were playing scales on a piano to vary the intensity of the motion as they moved up and down slick, hot skin. Duncan shuddered, then leaned in to kiss him, heedless of his bound hands. It simply felt too good, the heat off Duncan's skin, and the scent of his skin, the way his cock strained against Matthew's even as he settled more firmly onto Matthew's thighs.... The Southerner drew it out as long as he could, finally dragging Duncan against him by the nape of the neck as he cried out into the younger man's mouth. His hand tightened around them both, just enough to draw a choked noise from Duncan before he, too, came, hips bucking against Matthew, and head rocking back against Matthew's grip to shout his pleasure. Matthew continued to run his hand lazily up and down their softened cocks, slick now with come and sweat, until Duncan groaned against his shoulder. "Stop that, would you? How's a man supposed to die in peace with you doing that?" "No, no," came Matthew's slow reply. "You're not supposed to die there at all. It would be rude of me to dump your body on the floor, and I'm not staying here all night, after all." Matthew rubbed lazily along Duncan's back, dug fingers into his neck to work on a stubborn knot that has somehow survived the relaxation of orgasm, and leaned his own head onto the back of the couch. Duncan sagged against him, forehead on his shoulder. "Do I have to move yet?" "No." "Good." He sighed as the last, taut muscle gave way. "That felt wonderful. Thank you." "Most welcome," Matthew told him. The Southerner chuckled and added, "I assure you, it was my pleasure." After a moment, though, Duncan shifted uncomfortably and asked, "Do I get out of these cuffs any time soon?" "Of course," Matthew promised, opening his eyes. Somewhere he'd closed them and just not noticed it. "About a minute after you stand up, I'd say." "I have to stand up?" Duncan protested, sitting up enough to glare at Matthew. "The keys are in my pants pocket," was the calm answer. "And those are Bureau issue; they don't have a quick release." Green-grey eyes sparkled with amusement as Matthew added innocently, "What's wrong? At least you don't have one hundred and... what, eighty? Pounds on your lap." "No, but I don't know that I have bones left after that either." Despite his protests, Duncan first knelt up, then stood. "And I don't want to hear any complaints; you're the one who insisted I wouldn't be too heavy." Matthew ignored that teasing and kept a hand on Duncan's waist as he stood up. He was the one who'd cuffed Duncan; that made it his responsibility to keep him from being injured by any impairment of his balance. When the Scot was up and steady, Matthew stood up himself, unselfconsciously stretching, then walked over to his clothes to rummage for the keys. He unlocked the cuffs, rubbing lightly at Duncan's wrists as he did. The Scot let his arms swing forward, wincing as tight muscles released. "All right?" Matthew asked quietly as he stowed the cuffs and keys in his suit jacket, fingers touching lightly across keys and badge from habit to be sure both were where they should be. "Fine." Duncan abruptly laughed and offered, "Still like having your back washed?" "Of course." Matthew smiled at him, enjoying the sight of that dark, gorgeous man rotating his shoulders and stretching like some oversized cat. "I might even wash your hair for you if you like." "I'd like that," the Scot agreed cheerfully as he collected his discarded clothes off the loveseat. Matthew shook his head at the other man's energy, but followed him up the stairs, carrying his own clothes, gun, and shoulder holster. He had no idea if he was going back to his hotel or not, but regardless, the gun was his responsibility; it stayed with him. Duncan raised a curious eyebrow. "Making sure I don't resist arrest?" That drew a smile. "No. Just following the rules. Protect, serve, maintain order...." "Ensure domestic tranquility?" Duncan suggested slyly, and grinned with Matthew did. "And here I thought I was the one serving." Duncan waved at a chair for him to put the clothes on and then tugged Matthew into the bathroom. I suppose I'd better go willingly, Matthew thought to himself, smiling as he did, and refused to tell Duncan what had brought on that look. ~0~0~0~0~ He should have been asleep, he knew that. It had been a very long, very pleasant night, and the bed was quite comfortable. Not even soft sheets, a heavy comforter, and a warm body wrapped around him could slow the thoughts pouring through his head, though. So instead of sleeping, Matthew lay propped up on one elbow as he watched Duncan sleep, and frowned. His free hand toyed idly with that dark, wavy hair, and even asleep, Duncan sighed and smiled, and shifted closer. Lovely response, and Matthew had always been fond of lovers who liked to cuddle, but all in all, he'd have been happier if he'd had some idea why the man was still available. What had been a minor bout of curiosity had turned into a nagging desire to understand what had really happened between them. What in hell is going on in that head of yours, Duncan MacLeod? Four months ago, you needed warmth, company... some experience and confidence before you went looking for a lover you wanted. So what are you doing here with me? And so enthusiastic about it, at that? What kind of idiot did you fall in love with that you're here with me and he's nowhere to be seen? A sleepy murmur against his chest told Matthew that Duncan was awake, and only then did he realize that his grip had tightened in the younger man's hair. Duncan even sounded mostly coherent when he asked, "Matthew? You're awake?" Matthew stroked his hair, soothing the tugged strands while still debating whether or not to bring the subject up. In his experience, however, the dark of night was frequently the best time to hold these conversations. "Mmm-hmm. You?" Duncan chuckled and shifted up the bed to look at him in what little light came from the bathroom. He sounded curious rather than offended as he asked, "How are you still awake?" "Wondering about a few things," was the mild answer. "Occupational hazard, I'm afraid." "You know, you already got your man." Duncan sprawled onto his back and reached up, pulling Matthew in against him. He didn't seem prepared for the initial resistance to his tug, or the amused laugh that preceded one hundred seventy pounds of muscle dropping onto him. "Whoof!" Matthew laughed at him again, but shifted to take some of his own weight. "Do keep in mind, Duncan, that I'm not one of your lighter lovers." "I noticed." Duncan shrugged and squirmed under him into a slightly more comfortable position. "What are you doing awake?" "Wondering about you," Matthew said soberly. He settled his chin onto the back of his hand, sprawled across Duncan's chest to watch his face as he went on, "And about this evening. I'd thought you were looking for someone else." That sobered Duncan. He started to speak, paused to fiddle with the blankets around them, and eventually conceded, "I was. I thought." Matthew raised an eyebrow at that, but left the silence between them until Duncan filled it. "Do I owe you an apology?" Matthew smiled and shook his head. "For what? A very pleasant night? I doubt it." More slowly he asked, "Do I owe an apology to someone else?" "No." That came out firmly. Duncan smiled abruptly, a flash of pleasure that lit his face. "Granted, it's been a century or so since I've been spent much time in the South, but I thought I still resembled a gentleman." Matthew bit down on a snicker, then gave in and laughed before extending the only olive branch he had just then. "I truly doubt we'd be having this conversation otherwise. It's just my damned curiosity, Duncan." "What?" the Scot asked, amused and serious all at once. "Wanting to know what's going on? You're certainly entitled to ask." "Then I'm asking," Matthew answered immediately. "What is this? An occasional night's pleasure? A tutorial?" That drew a flinch and the Southerner frowned, mouth twisting with distaste at his own behavior. "That was uncalled for. I apologize." Duncan shook his head at that, and brought a hand up to trace Matthew's lips, smoothing the frown out. "No. You had a right to ask. I don't know what it is, Matthew." His head settled back onto the pillow as Duncan went on, "Yes, I was looking for... someone. I'm not sure now if I was looking for him, specifically, or... what I wanted. Or want." He lifted his head just enough to glance at the man lying on him and said quietly, "And thank you for not rubbing that in." "What, that you're lonely?" was the gentle reply. "Happens to all of us sooner or later, Duncan. I'm wondering what you're lonely for, mind you." That got a husky chuckle. "I thought I was lonely for Adam. Now I don' t know." "Propinquity being the bane of domesticity?" Matthew asked too mildly, then shook his head and buried his face against Duncan's collarbone. "Damn it," he muttered, still audibly. "My manners do go to blazes around you, don't they?" Duncan laid back on the pillow as he stroked his hands along Matthew's neck, down to the points of his shoulders, and back again. "Matthew. I'm starting to think I may owe you an apology after all. And I'm turning the question around," he stated with an implacable gentleness. "What is going on? From your point of view." That was what Matthew had been trying to decide. Honesty forced him to admit to himself that yes, news of who'd done the appraisal had counted for every bit as much of his interest as the possibility that it might be Richard's blade. "I'm wondering," he finally said, mildly, "if I should put in for a transfer to San Francisco and start courting you." Matthew laughed then, a startlingly wicked sound from the usually law-abiding man. "Of course, getting your kinsman's permission might be a bit difficult. He and I have had our differences, once or twice." Duncan lifted his head to stare at the Southerner. "Are you serious?" "About which?" Matthew asked him, propping his chin back on his folded hands rather than dig into Duncan's sternum. "The transfer, the courting, the permission, or the disagreements?" "Any of it." Matthew moved up his body, settling his cheek into the crook of shoulder and neck. "I'm quite serious about all of it. Unless you object." "I--" Duncan cut himself off and relaxed back to think about it. "Differences with Connor?" he finally asked mildly. He slid his hand up to rest lightly on his lover's waist. "A minor matter of some arrests at various times," Matthew answered with a shrug and a quick grin. "I arrested him for smuggling before the first revolution; he arrested me for being English during the first revolution; he threw me in a prisoner of war camp during the second revolution, then helped me break out later. I think we're even, but I'm not entirely sure he'd see it that way." Duncan had started chuckling sometime during that recitation, and he let it break loose as Matthew finished, rich, rolling laughter that made Matthew smile, too. "Oh, God," the Scot finally exclaimed, "don't tell me you were the 'Sassenach bastard'," and Matthew could clearly hear Connor's voice in the way Duncan accented the insults, "who arrested him and Kastagir for starting that bar brawl in Philadelphia?!" "That was me," Matthew agreed pleasantly. "I arrested Kastagir for starting it; I arrested your kinsman for assisting. Enthusiastically." Duncan was still laughing helplessly, both arms wrapped around Matthew as he lay there and roared. "Oh, God! The look on Connor's face if you asked him for permission to court me!" He paused then, and asked uncertainly, "You were joking, weren't you?" Matthew considered it thoughtfully, then deliberately deepened his accent as he drawled, "Well, sir, you do have relatives, and I should hate for them to think I take you lightly... perhaps I should ask his permission." That sobered Duncan and he said quietly, "You meant what you said, didn't you. Are you looking for something permanent, Matthew?" "You're not the only one who's tired of being alone," Matthew told him quietly. "And no, you're under no obligation from this evening. But... I would very much like to see if we do this well together in more than one-night encounters." "The FBI might not see it that way," Duncan murmured thoughtfully. Matthew shrugged, aware that Duncan couldn't miss the motion against his chest. "All the more reason for me to transfer out to San Francisco. The office there is very careful neither to ask nor tell. And it's time I moved out of D.C. anyway, you know. I've been there too long. I'll need to leave the Bureau soon, or start dying my hair." "What I wanted -- want," Duncan corrected himself, "is an equal. Someone I don't always have to protect. Someone who understands why there are swords all through the house--" "A running partner," Matthew agreed softly. "A lover who understands what the aftermath of a quickening is like and why the workouts do come first." "One that might not die on me," Duncan whispered, his arms tightening around Matthew's waist. "Yes." "One that you can occasionally lean on?" Matthew nodded slowly. "I know. It gets tiring being the responsible one, doesn't it?" "I have been putting it on you, haven't I?" Duncan asked him, only to huff in surprise when Matthew swatted him on the chest, not lightly. "No, Duncan MacLeod. I've been lifting it off you. And no, I don't mind," Matthew told him firmly. "I enjoyed it, or did you not notice?" "I noticed." More gently, Duncan added, "Nothing says I can't take your weight occasionally, you know." "So," Matthew asked wickedly, "shall I start courting you, sir?" "This may be interesting." Duncan laughed suddenly. "Are you going to ask Connor's permission?" "More like, notify him of my intentions," was the bland answer. "I certainly don't intend to listen to him if he tries to say no. You're a grown man." "I should hope you noticed that," Duncan growled, but he was too amused to truly sound angry. "Yes," he finally agreed. "This should be interesting," he chuckled. "Yes," Matthew said pleasantly. "That should be a nicely innocuous word for it." He settled himself more comfortably against Duncan, his head pillowed on a broad chest, arm thrown over his waist, and sighed contentment at the warmth. It wasn't all physical. "I didn't ask earlier." Duncan's words pulled him back from sleep and Matthew tilted his head to indicate he was still awake as the Scot went on, "What are you doing in Savannah?" Matthew chuckled at that. "Interpreting. And buying a sword." "What?" Duncan tried to twist under him, and Matthew tightened his grip. "Not when we're comfortable. Which 'what'?" "You bought that sword? Was it really Richard's?" "Yes and no, in that order," Matthew said mildly. "It didn't belong to Richard III, Duncan. Richard IV carried it into battle against Henry VII." Duncan started to say, "There wasn't a--" and cut off his own words. After a moment's thought he said seriously, "Perkin Warbeck. The supposed Belgian who claimed to be Edward's son, Richard's nephew." "Yes." Matthew shrugged. "Margaret of Burgundy didn't support him by accident or mistake. And Henry Tudor was a rogue and a liar." "That's what you were doing while I was waiting for you--" "--and flirting with the lovely brunette," Matthew agreed, smiling at the memory. "Yes. I arranged for a proxy to bid on it, rather than give you trouble." "Thank you," Duncan said dryly, "but everyone else would have only bid it up higher if you'd been sitting next to me and trying to get it. We both know that." "There is that. Although I think by the end of that auction they'd have been more willing to believe that I was doing it simply to aggravate you." Matthew shrugged. "Shall we get some sleep? I've spent too many years waking at dawn to give it up, I'm afraid." "One more question?" "Of course." Duncan sounded both curious and apologetic as he asked, "Translating?" Matthew sighed against his chest. "You've been here, Duncan; had you noticed the headlines about the deaths along the coast?" "They called in a profiler finally?" Duncan said in relief. "About time." "The FBI agrees with you," was the growled reply. "It took long enough, but we couldn't barge in; it was strictly local. By the time they did ask for help, the only profiler free wasn't actually assigned to BSU. The gentleman in question works for the VCU, the same way I do. Our assistant director sent him here to handle it, and sent me along to make sure the Savannah force understood what they could and couldn't expect from us. The man is a bit... blunt, sometimes. And when he's profiling, he needs a keeper, honestly." "Why?" Open curiosity filled Duncan's tone as he went on, "He solved it then?" "We nailed the bastard yesterday," Matthew purred, satisfied. "From Mulder's profile -- right down to the kind of car he drove and what kind of victim he was going for next. And you didn't hear that name, Duncan. We want Mulder to remain anonymous; it's safer for him." "Of course I didn't," Duncan agreed immediately. "I take it the bastard doesn't know how they nailed him?" "Oh, it'll come out in court that there was a profile. Savannah PD won't have to name Mulder specifically, however, and I daresay they'll try not to. They don't want to admit we helped, and we'd rather not have it noised about, either. Our AD doesn't like loaning Mulder out for this. He's almost too good; he goes too deep, damn it. You have to remind him to eat or sleep. I had to take the folders away from him once, and sit with him until he could sleep. He knows what rides on solving the cases, and he can't let go of the burden of their lives and deaths unless you pry it away from him forcibly." "This Mulder sounds like a good man." Duncan chuckled then, surprising Matthew until he continued the thought out loud. "And you finished taking care of him just in time to take care of me?" "Our AD promised me a few days off if I'd play intermediary to the SPD. Can't imagine why he thought I'd understand the locals," Matthew drawled, and smiled when Duncan laughed again. "Anything else?" "Did you come just to get the sword?" The question only laid in the air for a moment. "No, Duncan." Matthew shook his head at that, then settled in against him, sleepy and content. "I came to get you, too. Go to sleep. I have plans for you in the morning." "That's mutual, then." Duncan sighed and shifted slightly, then lifted a hand from Matthew's back to stroke his hair. "Sleep well, Matthew." "Of course," he murmured drowsily. "With a pillow this comfortable, how could I not?"
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~ "A
riot is a spontaneous outburst. A war is subject to advance planning."
Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea: 1. All information on Richard III is as accurate as possible. (Well, Lord Timothy Sheridan came out of my own mad mind.) As to Perkin Warbeck/Richard, son of Edward IV? For the purpose of this story, I'm saying that his aunt (Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy) was capable of identifying her own nephew and supporting him. Warbeck was, by his confession to Henry VII, actually a native of Tournai in Belgium. However: I wouldn't believe Henry VII if he told me the sun rose in the east. Not without checking it. The confession was made while Richard/Perkin was in the Tower, under Henry's tender care, and I thus consider it suspect. Matthew, however, fought for Richard III and had little use for Henry; he considered Henry's claim to the throne to be ridiculously inadequate. Honest thieves he can abide, as witness Cory Raines' continued survival. Henry, however, wasn't even that. 2. Yes, the official motto of the Northwest Mounted Police (eventually the RCMP) is: Maintiens le droit (Uphold the right). The unofficial, however, is 'We always get our man.' Thanks, Alyss!! 3. 'First Revolution'
-- the American War of Independence. Second Revolution -- the 4. BSU -- Behavioral Sciences Unit; VCU -- Violent Crimes Unit Go back to Reflections | Go on to Shades Highlander
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