people.htmlTEXTStMltd>m People Like Us, Places Like This

I was really tempted to call this one "Bite Me" (for reasons that will soon become obvious), but chose to appear more demure. (We all know about appearances, right? ) This story is the end result of what happens when you let an occasional slash writer roam loose at a science-fiction convention. And it's all Dail's fault No lie.

Disclaimer: No, I didn't create Highlander, or the characters of MacLeod and Methos.. They're the property of Panzer/Davis, Rysher Entertainment, and anyone else I've forgotten to name. I've borrowed the boys without permission, but will return them, slightly disheveled, and likely in need of a drink, but none the worse for the experience. Micaela Riley, however, is my creation. (She first appears in the "Mortal Wounds" arc, archived at my page. I don't think you need to have read any of it to understand this, but if you want to go read it, I won't stop you.) I've looked, but I'm pretty sure there's no plot here. If there is, it's by accident. Some m/f flirting, but m/m sex.

R for sexual content, do not read if underage or you don't care for homoerotic themes. Comments, virtual Scotch and chocolates (trust me, they go great together) can be sent to: This will go up on my adult page in a few days. Permission to link to HLX archive, all others, please ask first.

(Note: this story assumes Duncan and Methos are at least casual lovers by the time this story takes place. Timeline wise, it's probably post Messenger, before CaH.)


Heart of Thorns took the stage a little after eleven, and costumed forms mobbed the dance floor The atmosphere seethed, fueled by alcohol and the inhibition-loosening effect of a masquerade party. Before the night ended, someone would get hurt. Still, Methos had no trouble working his way through the crowd. The people seemed quite inclined to fade out of his way. Must be the effects of his own costume. He found her tucked into a corner, guarding one of the few remaining tables. So far as he could tell, she hadn't moved from that spot since her arrival. Then again, her costume wasn't suited for dancing to this sort of music. Rich silk velvet gown in lush midnight blue, trimmed with silver. She wore her dark hair up in a twist, with a few tendrils escaping to curl down to her shoulders. She wore her mother's sapphire ring and a silver brooch on a wide blue ribbon around her neck. Intent on the "music", she didn't hear him coming until he got close enough to wrap one arm around her waist. "Micaela Riley in a *must* be Halloween," he purred in her ear.

Micaela let her head rest against his shoulder.

"Are you *trying* to be a jerk, Adam?"

"No, just natural talent." Methos rested his hands on the back of her chair, something no gentleman had done until the beginning of the 19th (or thereabouts, things really did blur together...) But then, he was so rarely a gentleman.

"Hmm. Let's test that." And she reached up behind his head and pulled his mouth down to hers. It was a moment's work to tease her soft lips apart and she welcomed him in, fingers kneading the back of his neck. The kiss warmed and deepened, until her tongue brushed against an unexpected sharpness. Micaela recoiled with an muffled exclamation, twisting up out of her chair.

"Something wrong?" he asked, resting his folded arms on the back of the chair, holding back a grin with difficulty. Micaela lowered her hand from her mouth.

"" She looked confused.

"Glad to hear it," he said. And bared his new fang-caps. Her response was everything he could have hoped for. The blue eyes went wide and she actually stepped back a pace. Then a slow grin curved her lips and she reached for him.

"Let me get a look at you." Her blue eyes swept over him, noting the close-cut trousers and high boots, the ivory silk shirt held closed only by an amber cabochon pin below the collar. A long black leather coat swallowed most of the pale fabric, and a silver ankh gleamed on the lapel. She reached up and brushed her fingers along his jaw, stopping to touch the studded ear cuff.

"Where," she said, twining her arms around his neck, "have you been hiding *this* outfit?"

"In the back of the closet." He smiled, curving one arm around her waist. By God...the dress had stays. Probably plastic instead of whalebone...but who had helped her dress then?

"Really?" She arched one brow. "I'll have to go through that closet and see what else you've been hiding from me."

"Please do. There are a few items I'm hoping you'll find." He grinned down at her. Before he could continue, a familiar shivery sensation swept over him. Micaela read his sudden tension and stepped aside, giving him room. Fringe benefit of dating a Watcher: some things you didn't have to explain.

"Am I interrupting?" asked a familiar voice. Methos could read her lips, though she'd pitched her voice too low to be heard over the music.

"If I say 'yes,' will he go away?"

He gave her a quelling look and turned his attention to his friend. He blinked, taking in the Highlander's costume.

"Interesting choice, Mac." From whatever boxes the Highlander kept his past lives, the Scot had assembled the regalia of a Texas Ranger: buckskin trousers, coarse white shirt and kerchief tied loosely around his neck, floppy coat and hat. Methos had no doubt every detail was authentic, down to the star on his chest and the gun at his hip. Duncan had a small but valuable gun collection, relics of various wars and rebellions.

"My, my, it's the long arm of the law," Micaela purred, resting her chin on Methos' shoulder. Duncan's expression soured. The Watcher and the Immortal had built up an enmity not usually seen outside of family feuds. Given half a chance, Micaela and Duncan would cheerfully kill each other.

Methos kept himself planted between them. Why take chances? So he was in the perfect position to see a most unexpected expression cross Duncan's face. The Highlander's gaze settled on Micaela's gown-and the trim figure it so artfully displayed-and let a faint smile of appreciation curve his lips. Said smile froze as he remembered just who he was looking at. The younger Immortal blushed like a schoolboy. Realization kicked Methos in the hind-brain. Micaela's gown....dated from the first fifty years of Mac's life, what he'd first learned to be fair and beautiful. Put an attractive woman in "proper" clothes, and he reacted like the red-blooded man he was. Even to Micaela.

*Who* had helped her select this costume? The Watcher herself was too ignorant of period fashion to have chosen it herself. Micaela had her head cocked to the side, staring at Duncan as if mushrooms had sprouted from his head. Things were growing ugly again. Before she could say anything, Duncan spoke.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were here with someone. I'll catch up with you later, then." He began to turn away. Micaela's hand shot out, grasping him by the elbow.

"Oh, you can't leave yet. You haven't danced with me."

Both men stared at her. Duncan looked from her to the gyrating figures on the dance floor.

"Dance? To *this*"?

"Oh, they've done incredible things with music in the past century, MacLeod," she said.

"And will they be playing any, soon?"

//I should probably stop this, but it's too damn entertaining.// Methos leaned back against the wall-after first checking there was nothing unpleasant on it. It had been some time since anyone had fought over him-and this little scene had "cat fight" written all over it. //And may the better bitch win.//

"You haven't danced with me, either," he said, taking care not to appear to address either one specifically. Two pairs of eyes skewered him, light and dark. Then Micaela and Duncan exchanged a rare look of agreement.

"That's right," Micaela purred. "We haven't."


"Of course, you can't dance to this stuff in a dress like that," Duncan added, effectively ending the truce. Micaela gave him a disparaging glance.

"Oh, ye of little faith." She held out a hand to each of them. "Gentlemen, the floor awaits."

They each took a hand and Micaela led them out on to the dance floor. The DJ segued into the next song, a number that Methos just barely recognized as Stone Temple Pilot's "Tumble in the Rough" through the mix-effects and the ubiquitous bass. Micaela gave a sweet smile that was nowhere *near* sufficient warning, and spun Duncan around, sandwiching him between Methos and herself. On the crowded dance floor, there was no other way for the trio to fit. Methos found himself face-to-face with his startled lover. The Scot's dark eyes went even wider as Micaela proceeded to prove you damn well *could* Dance Like That in a velvet lady gown.

Methos smiled, baring the fangs again as he draped an arm around them both, providing support as the music ground down around them. He eased a knee against the younger man's groin, moving a half-step off the beat, enough to keep Duncan off-balance. He could feel Duncan begin to tremble against him, shuddering as the music carried them all. Micaela's hands were deft and quick, sliding under loose clothing, nails making sharp, tiny bites into unprepared flesh.

~I'm looking for a new stimulation

~Quite bored of those inflatable ties

~I'm lookin' for a new rock sensation

~Dead fish don't swim around in jealous tides.

What had begun as a challenge between his feuding lovers shifted into something else. Micaela sensed it as well, and yielded the field with a farewell caress for Methos, before allowing the crowd to carry her away. Duncan's presence began demanding more and more of his attention, the strong body pressed so close against his own. The younger man's flesh was flushed from exertion, sheened with sweat, just as it so often was under Methos' teasing hands. Duncan groaned and reached for him. Now, he could feel Mac's heart beating against his. And better still, the welcome swelling that pressed against his thigh. Mac rubbed against him, as unthinking and instinctive as a cat in heat. He looked into these dark eyes.

"We're attracting attention," Mac breathed.

"So we are."

Under the sheltering folds of Mac's coat, Methos let his hands roam over his lover's back, trailing down his sides. The thin shirt had soaked through with sweat in places, and offered no barrier at all to his touch. When he reached *that* spot along the younger man's ribs, Methos slowly dug in his nails, drawing them down. Mac gasped and arched against him, head falling back. Methos couldn't resist and leaned in, nibbling along the strong curve of the Highlander's neck.

*Be careful if you start nibbling on someone,* the dealer had told him as he fitted him for the caps. * You won't be able to feel anything with them, so start soft.*

And he did, making tiny bites along the vulnerable neck, pressing the fangs lightly against the golden flesh. It must feel different from his own teeth, for Mac shuddered and clutched at him as he never had before. He pressed a little harder and the skin broke. Mac gasped and tensed against him, wavering between pulling him closer and pushing him away. Methos soothed the spot with his tongue, tasting the salt-sweetness of fresh blood as the droplets spread against his tongue. He rarely indulged this particular fetish, and then only with an Immortal lover. He could feel the first invisible tingle of Mac's Quickening, the power that sustained them both rising up to heal the damage. He kept his mouth over the wound until it had sealed, then raised his head to look up into Mac's face.

"Hedonist," the Highlander breathed roughly. His hands rested on Methos' hips, pulling the slender man towards him. "This is a public place."

If the gyrating dancers had even noticed, they'd probably thought the display tame. Methos licked his lips, tasting the blood that still clung to them.

"Hedonist, am I? Tell me, Ranger, would you care to step outside and discuss this insult?"

And he deliberately brushed against the growing bulge at Mac's groin, giving him a teasing squeeze. Why had men stopped wearing buckskins? They were so much more pleasant than jeans. Mac groaned.

"Outside," he agreed, eyes half-lidded, "is sounding like the best place for this."

The older Immortal simply smiled and led him off the dance floor. Methos automatically glanced up to the club's upper level. Micaela stood at the railing, glass in hand. She'd seen them. For a brief moment, Methos hesitated, looking up at her. Deliberately, she turned away. Micaela couldn't share her man, it went against her nature. She *especially* couldn't share him with a man she hated as much as she did Duncan MacLeod. But she also knew she couldn't demand he choose-so at times she absented herself from the field. See no evil, indeed. With a silent salute to the mortal woman, Methos towed Duncan out of the club.

The Immortals weren't the only ones with an urge to step outside. The
sidewalk in front of the club was packed with costumed people outside for a breather, a smoke, or just waiting to get in the first time.

"This won't do," Duncan murmured, surveying the crowd.

"Not here, no," Methos breathed, "but I know just the place."

He led Mac up the street, guiding him with a touch whenever the younger
man hesitated. The chill October air felt good against overheated skin,
and cleared Methos' mind. Yes, he knew just the place...and just the
plan, as well. Three blocks up, two blocks over. The edge of the
business district began here, though without the steel and smoked mirror
monsters that marked Seacouver's commercial heart. No, this particular
street had several multi-family residences re-zoned into businesses. And
behind one elaborately gabled building, sat a miniature park, During the
day, it served as an outdoor lunch and break area for the small
businesses nearby. By night, it made a perfect...retreat. Duncan hung

"Methos, this is private property."

"And this is private business." Methos arched one brow. "Or do you have
an exhibitionist streak you haven't told me about? If so, I-"

"God, no!" The Highlander hastened to squelch *that* little theory. "This
just isn't private *enough*."

Methos chuckled and stepped behind the screening foliage. Here, the
shadows were soft and deep, and the trees served as a more than adequate screen from anyone passing on the street.

"Where's your sense of adventure, MacLeod? It's Halloween. You're
*supposed* to do the unexpected tonight." Duncan scowled. He was just
old enough to remember older meanings for the thirty-first of October.
Methos knew even more. //Come on, Highlander...ring in the new year with me....//

"I suppose 'illegal' could qualify as 'unexpected', yes."

Methos grinned. "You're young, Mac, but still over the age of

"Consenting to *what*, that's the question."

Methos moved up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. "Was there any question about this?" He let one hand drift down along the line of Mac's thigh. "I don't remember hearing it."

The Highlander drew in an unsteady breath. The night air hadn't
noticeably cooled his ardor any. But then, MacLeod *liked* the cold.
Methos preferred warmer climes himself. Only the presence of this man in
his arms could draw him back again and again to this northern

Duncan sighed and tilted his head back, exposing his neck. Methos leaned in and began nibbling down. When he reached the place where the neck met the shoulder, he pressed the fangs in. Mac gasped and shuddered. The Scot's strong hands locked over his, pinning them into place. He heard the younger man's breathing go short and ragged, felt his pulse leap and race under his lips and tongue. Even though swathed in far too many layers of clothing, he could feel the younger man's heat, drawing him in.

Methos sank down to his knees, pulling Mac down with him. The Scot
twisted in his arms, and Methos yielded to the eager mouth. He tasted
like whiskey, smelled like rain and woodsmoke. He wound his fingers
through the younger man's flowing sable hair and urged that questing mouth down. His senses began to blur, perceptions hazing into a pleasurable blur.

"You do realize," Duncan murmured, the words hot against his skin, "that
there's a good chance we might be interrupted here."

"No life without risk, MacLeod."

Unsurprisingly, Mac chose action over words, sliding those clever hands
under his shirt. Overhead, the wind soughed through the trees, tossing
tree branches together and sending a delicious chill racing over exposed
skin. Methos buried his face in his lover's shoulder and breathed him in.

"Are you sure?" he murmured.

Mac gasped and leaned in, closing his eyes. "Right now, I'm not sure of

Methos chuckled and trailed his fingertips along the inside of the younger
man's thigh, swept back up. "Perhaps you need convincing, then."

"I'm open to suggestion."

"You certainly are." And Methos took the offered mouth, one hand pressed tight at the back of Duncan's neck.

His other hand went to work on the younger man's shirt, pulling the soft
cotton open. While Duncan's hands moved over him, he nipped along the
Scot's neck, scraping the fangs over his collarbone. Duncan shuddered,
rasped out something pleading in Gaelic.

The night air had chilled the Highlander's skin and Duncan pressed against his mouth as much for warmth as for the kisses. Methos slid down, coming to rest on his knees, arms loosely wrapped around the Scot's waist.

"No," Duncan gasped, and tried to haul him up.

Methos tilted his head back and studied him through half-closed eyes.
"No?" he repeated after a long moment, as if it were something in a
foreign language.

The Scot made a low growl.

"Methos, there are just some places a man doesna want to be bitten."

The brogue had returned, thick enough to touch. Methos curved his hands over the lean hips, stroking down the Scot's legs. Duncan shifted,
resting his hands on Methos' shoulders for balance. Teasing, Methos bit
into his thigh, hard enough to make him flinch, then groan. Strong
fingers kneaded at the back of his neck, drawing him forward despite his

"Oh, God," Duncan whispered.

Undoing the laces would mean taking his hands away from more interesting activities, from the fascinating way the corded muscles in his thighs tensed and quivered under his questing hands. So instead, he caught the end of one of the rawhide laces in his teeth and tugged on it. Loosening the rest of the laces proved more...challenging. By the time he had them properly loosened, Duncan was trembling, soft groans escaping him.

Methos reached up and stroked Duncan's swollen erection with slow, sure strokes. The Highlander gasped and swore at the chill in his fingers,
then groaned as Methos wrapped his fingers around him. The hardened flesh felt searing hot and pulsed under his touch. He could smell him, and the hunger it woke shook through him.

The night pressed around them, soft and heavy, quiet, except for the soft
sounds of pleasure and encouragement Duncan made. The Highlander began to thrust into the eager, willing hands, fingers biting almost painfully into his shoulders. Methos squeezed gently-and was rewarded with a strangled cry from Duncan, and a hot, sweet spill of fluid over his hands.

An answering shiver rippled out from Methos' gut, a quiet joy in his
lover's joy. Muscles tensed, then slackened. He opened his eyes in time
to see Duncan slump towards him, breathing still ragged. A few leaves
spiraled down from the trees above them. Methos used a few of the
rain-slicked leaves to scrub at his hands, silently grateful for
Seacouver's damp autumns. A little groundwater could come in useful at
times. He stood and brushed himself off.

"I didn't dress for this," he murmured.

"Oh, right," Duncan drawled. He began to re-assemble his clothing. "'Sex
on the hoof' doesn't describe *that* outfit at all."

"You're the one dressed for horses," Methos pointed out.

Duncan snorted and belted his trenchcoat closed. Ruined the Western movie image, but some things couldn't be helped. Methos stretched a hand out to draw him closer. This place was really a little too chilly and damp for further...adventures...but there happened to be a perfectly good loft nearby-

Duncan warded him off with a gentle hand and a look of regret. He looked at the Scot in confusion.

"You've a lady waiting for you, no?"

He'd almost forgotten. Methos lowered his hand to his side and stepped back.

"Mortals come first," Duncan reminded him. "That's the only way it can
even approach being fair."

Methos nodded in acceptance. No way to argue that. Not when, six blocks away, a dark-haired woman with too-old eyes was waiting for him to make up his mind. Duncan rested a hand on his shoulder, that one touch saying, promising, all that could not as yet be said.

As one, they turned and started back towards the club. The wind sprang up behind them, and gently guided them along.

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