Stalking
Shadows
by Gyrfalcon
The Bacchus Club made no pretence of being anything more than a hole-in-the-wall jazz club off the regular tourist beat. It was a locals' hangout without the flash and neon of the clubs in the Quarter. The lights were dim to almost nonexistent, except for a few 15-watt-bulb lamps, and a single red strobe light. As he stood on the outer edge of the crowded room, Methos wondered if the prevalence of shadows was for atmosphere or to hide the sight of food inadequately prepared. No matter, he liked places with lots of shadows -- they offered so many places to fade out of sight when unwelcome visitors showed up.
Lounging against a wall, he let the music wash over him as he kept an eye on his quarry. To his surprise, the music was good, although the band really needed to get a drummer who understood rhythm. Syncopation has it's place, but not in every song and not with the same endless beat, he thought with disdain. The drummer struck him as someone who played by rote. Even in the smoky light obscuring the band, the bass player looked stoned, but whether on drugs or the music, he couldn't tell. Whatever he was high on didn't seem to interfere with his intricate chords. However, the horn player deserved a better gig in Methos' opinion. He'd have to remember to tell Joe about this place. If the kid was as good as he thought, then Joe would owe him. Never pass up an opportunity to put someone in your debt, he reminded himself cynically.
The club was just close enough to the French Quarter to claim some of its legends. Methos knew most of them. Hell, I've lived some of them. Casting his mind back, he recalled that this street used to be a gamblers' strip that catered to adventuresome young Creoles who wanted a taste of the dark side of town. In a moment, he was Dr. Benjamin Adams kneeling over a gasping young man gushing blood all over his silk shirt. The memory was gone in an instant, but when he looked around he could still see the hazy shadow of the club where Henri St. Jacques lost an argument with a quadroon gambler. As he recalled, Henri wasn't a great loss, except to his family, but now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember hearing stories that his ghost haunted the place for years afterwards. It might be true, but Methos didn't think young St. Jacques had the wits to be a ghost. If anyone deserved the right to haunt this place it was the poor gambler who got himself hung for shooting Henri in self defense.
"Ah, New Orleans -- city of ghosts, shadows, and delusions," he said in a mocking tone. Not much had changed. However, the latest delusion was his own and it had brought him here on the trail of a stranger who was slowly driving him mad.
The music ended on a soft rift by the bass player. Abandoning old, useless memories, Methos wondered if there was a place left on earth that didn't hold memories of one sort or another for him. He haven't been to the Antarctic, but he wasn't that desperate, yet. Tibet had been cold enough. At least the conversation had been stimulating. He didn't think penguins had much to say and there was such a thing as too much introspection.
Hidden by the eclectic mix of people swaying to the music, Methos watched the man he had followed here. He'd been following him for two days, ever since he had looked up from a Quickening to see a mortal staring at him. The man had the oddest expression on his face -- half exultation, half stunned awe. However, as soon as the last flicker died down, his immediate reaction had been to draw a gun and some sort of badge before he headed in Methos' direction. He had shouted something, but Methos didn't stick around to hear what it was. After a Quickening, the last thing he wanted to do was make endless explanations to the local constabulary.
His escape was nearly aborted when he got a good look at his pursuer. Despite the pressing need to be elsewhere, the first thing that popped into his mind was that he wanted to throw the man to the ground and fuck his brains out. At that most inopportune moment, he decided that he wanted this man howling his release under his touch. The timing had been wrong that night, a major understatement Methos conceded. He had left in rather a hurry, but he couldn't outrun the memory of his sudden need to know this man in every physical sense.
"If a man is considered guilty for what goes on in his mind, then give me the electric chair for the crimes I'm about to commit," Methos had joked with bitter self-reproach for his irrational obsession with a complete stranger when he'd finally made it to safety.
Since that night, he had stalked the man as he moved around the city. It would have been easy to find out his name, but Methos found the mystery of a dark, unnamed stranger to be far more intriguing. He did learn that the man was some sort of consultant brought in by the local police to help them solve the last series of killings by a madman who strangled his victims then burned exquisite tattoos on the body. From the look in his eyes, the stranger was a hunter, on intimate terms with the labyrinths of a sick mind. Methos watched him as he walked through the crime scenes, staring at brick and stone as if he could pluck the answers out of thin air. Maybe he did.
After weeks of floundering in a sea of clues, the local cops announced that they had identified the killer. Methos listened to news reports as the local cops described the man they were now certain was their killer. The assistance of the consultant was conspicuously absent from these public comments. Not surprising, Methos thought sarcastically. No one wanted to admit that they had had the answer staring them in the face all the time, or that it took a complete stranger to finger a local man with a history of bizarre behavior. Methos caught only a fleeting glimpse of his stranger in the press of cops, but the look in his eyes told him that this was a man who cared too deeply. He wouldn't walk away unscathed from this case; it would be just one more scar among dozens.
Another fool who cares too much, like Mac, he thought with a sarcastic bite directed as much towards himself as to Mac. While he mocked Mac's endless involvement with other people's problems, he admired it as well. Methos freely admitted that he took great pains to avoid trouble and involvement -- well he tried to, anyway. "The smart thing to do would be to walk away and leave him alone. You don't need the complications," Methos growled even as he continued to follow his dark stranger.
The first night he had sat in the lobby of his hotel and waited for him. He'd meant to speak then, to take a chance. At five o'clock in the morning, the man stumbled in looking like he'd been staring into hell itself. The hotel staff shied away from him. Methos was tempted to go to him, to give him a shoulder to lean on, but something about the way the man was holding himself told him that he didn't want to be touched. Methos wasn't used to feeling protective. He was much more the survival of the fittest sort of guy, he sternly reminded himself, trying to forget how many times he had abandoned that rule to protect Mac. Something about this man aroused instincts he thought were safely under control.
Cursing his foolishness, he waited for him at his hotel again last night until the hotel staff started giving him strange looks. He was tempted to go by the police station, but he tried to avoid police stations when there was a manhunt on. Tired cops were suspicious cops. This morning he woke up to find that the murderer was caught, and the police were receiving accolades for a job well done. Once again, there was no mention of the stranger and he wasn't standing with the other detectives at the press conference. On a whim, Methos swung by the hotel to check on him and found a prominent 'do not disturb' sign on his door. He hoped he was sleeping. Tonight was his last chance and it wouldn’t do to have him falling asleep in the middle of sex.
Restless, Methos walked around the city all day, arguing with himself -- a rather futile exercise since he rarely won. On the other hand, he rarely lost, either. The stranger haunted him like a perpetual hard-on that wouldn't go away and couldn't be satisfied. As he considered the matter, he tried to analyze the attraction. The stranger wasn't particularly handsome in the conventional sense, but the way he moved, that lush lower lip combined with heavy-lidded eyes (bedroom eyes they were once called) were slowly driving him past all caution. Simply put, Methos admitted, he wanted him. What was worse was that he needed the man to want him in return. He had given up rape somewhere in the First Century and he didn't intend on resurrecting the habit, although this man tempted him.
To put it bluntly, Methos conceded, Quickenings made him horny. Ever since the Quickening he took on Tuesday, all he'd been able to think about was taking the stranger off to a hotel room and fucking and being fucked until dawn. Now, he was running out of time. The booksellers convention was over and his flight was due to leave late tomorrow, then it was back to Paris and civilization. He had been considering plans to open a Shakespeare & Company here one day, and had come to the convention with the intention of scouting out locations. The challenge and now a fascination with a complete stranger had blown those plans out of the water. Methos promised himself he'd come back and scout locations some other time. It would give him an excuse to visit New Orleans again.
Bringing his mind back to the matter at hand, Methos watched his quarry squirreled away in a corner drinking his way through a bottle of tequila. At least the man had the good sense to put his back up against a wall -- interesting instincts in a mortal. He wished he could flatter himself that the memory of their brief meeting was what was driving him to drink, but he doubted if the man was even thinking about him. He had caught a look at his face when he passed through the crowd about a half hour ago. Whatever demons were haunting him, it appeared that he had put the case to rest, but his eyes had a dark, closed-in look. What had happened to cause the morose expression and give that bitter twist to his mouth? He didn't strike Methos as a man who went on drinking sprees, but something had set him off. However, he was also holding his liquor well which meant that this wasn't the first time he'd pulled a bender.
If it wasn't the memories of the case driving him to drink -- then what? "Old age is slowing your mind, old boy," he snarled at himself as the answer hit him. The man probably tried reporting a mysterious beheading accompanied by a spontaneous, localized lightning phenomena and got royally mocked by the locals. Poor sod. The Watchers might be major pains-in-the-ass at times, but they knew how to clean up a crime scene. Methos had no doubt that by the time the man got back to the dock, Jason Eberly's Watcher had filched the body and tidied things up. He had plenty of time. The bloody sod had chased him for a good three miles before giving up.
Methos studied the layout of the club before locating a table close enough to observe, yet deep enough in shadows so that his quarry couldn't recognize him. It was time he started moving in for the kill. He'd been standing in the shadows long enough. Experience will out, he congratulated himself as he settled down to comfortably watch his quarry who was sitting a mere fifteen feet away. As he sat down, the stranger's head came up and he looked around the room as if he sensed someone was watching him. Methos froze. The man sniffed the air like a wary fox for a moment, then shrugged and downed another drink. Methos began breathing again. That was too damn close; I must be slipping, he decided irritably as he turned his attention to the band, being careful to watch his quarry out of the corner of his eye until the man settled back down.
"Beer....draft....pitcher," Methos told the waiter who appeared at his table. If he was lucky, the beer would be at least passable. If not, at least he wouldn't spend a lot of money keeping a drink in front of him as an excuse to stay right where he was. His luck was holding, it seemed; the beer was good, even by his exacting standards. This club was definitely going on his list of places to revisit.
Framed by the half-light, the stranger's features stood out sharper than in full daylight. A prominent nose hovered over full, sensual lips. Methos wrenched his mind away from wondering what it would be like to nibble that jutting lower lip and back to cataloging the man's features. A heavy five-o'clock shadow blurred the outline of his cheeks and chin. Dark, unruly hair fell over his forehead whenever he leaned down, and was absently brushed back. He had a runner's body, although more heavily muscled than Methos' frame. Recalling the footrace the other night, most likely probably a swimmer as well, which would account for the shape of the upper body muscles. For just a moment, Methos flashed on an image of that body dressed only in a form-fitting pair of swim trunks that left nothing to the imagination. Easy does it, he reminded himself as he tried to lower the temperature a bit. I don't want to spook him before I have him neatly netted.
Keeping his mind, and his eyes, above the waist, he continued his observations. No longer clad in a professional suit, the stranger looked dark and dangerous in a black T-shirt, jeans, and a well-worn leather jacket. He blended in well with the shadows. Methos admired men with the talent for fading into the background. It was a hard trick to learn, but a very useful one. Whatever brought him to this place, it wasn't for the company -- he seemed determined to remain solitary despite several offers. The music was beginning to affect him; Methos could tell by his expression that he was listening with his soul and not just his ears. He was hovering on the brink of relaxing, but seemed to be afraid to let go. In short, he was primed and ready, if he was approached in the right way. Methos didn't believe in the gods anymore, but spilled a little of the beer as an offering, just in case -- it couldn't hurt.
Now it was time to chivvy him gently towards the trap. So far he hadn't given any indication whether he was gay or straight, but he had rejected the advances of several women and one man who had stopped by his table. Engrossed in his morose contemplation, he seemed to be oblivious to the lures thrown out to him. Methos grumbled about stubborn men, but gambled that he was also a man open to new experiences, if only for one night.
Even as he mentally ran through a dozen or more seduction scenarios that had proven themselves over more lifetimes than he cared to remember, a tall, stunning redhead strode up to the man's table and leaned over to talk to him; her long hair spilled over onto his hands as they clutched a shot-glass. Methos made a critical guess that if she leaned over much farther with her cleavage, she'd be in danger of over-balancing. That got the man's attention, and a good look, but she made no better headway than all the others. Disgusted, she flounced away, moving all her lush body parts in a hypnotic rhythm that had several other patrons drooling. The man's eyes followed her with a sad expression. He was in love, but not loved, in Methos opinion. That might make his task more difficult, then again it might help.
As he stared at the redhead's retreating back, he selected a plan at random. It had been years since he'd seduced anyone. He'd been tempted with Mac a few times, but MacLeod seemed oblivious to the subtle openings he offered him. Maybe it was time he brushed off his skills. If he could seduce this dark stranger, then perhaps he stood a chance with the Scot.
Signaling the bartender, Methos gestured towards the redhead and indicated that he wanted to buy her a drink. When it was delivered, she looked hopefully towards the man in the corner, then frowned when he remained oblivious to her.
"Show-time," Methos whispered as he stood up and caught her eye. He held her gaze as he walked over to her, his pace slow and deliberate. As limited as they were in so many ways, nothing matched the sexual strut of a Creole for pure sensual expression contained within a cool shell of arrogant disdain. He deliberately challenged her on a primal level. The fact that he was also challenging the stranger was totally immaterial, to her.
To Methos' relief, the redhead was a wanton at heart -- he could see it in her eyes. He resolved to make her so hot that every man in the room, but one, would be ready to fight for her. He was using her, but that's what he did best -- use people for his own, and sometimes their, advantage. She was his stalking horse. It was high time his would-be lover started feeling the heat. He could feel his eyes on them as he intended. Now that he'd drawn the man's attention, he intended to focus it entirely on himself. It was a risk, Methos acknowledged. If the man recognized him before he was drawn into the net, then there would be hell to pay, but life without any risk became a bore.
"Care to dance?" he asked with a low growl. Always aware of the stranger's eyes following him, he felt like a leopard stalking its prey.
"Why not?" she replied attempting to be casual, but her eyes were blazing. She was having trouble breathing -- it created interesting ripple effects on her ample bosom. Gods, he hadn't excited a woman this way in years. Alexa was beautiful and he loved her, and their sex was warm, caring, and passionate, but this woman was one of the primal forces of the Great Mother. He almost pitied the man who took her home tonight. If he lived through it, he'd never be satisfied with anything less and would never find her equal again.
"Wait here. I'll be right back," Methos promised with a brief caress of her face. His attention was focused on a man tonight, but he was not a rock. He needed to be careful. One wrong move and he'd end up going home with the wrong person. He took the opportunity to clamp down his control as he walked over to the band. He hoped that the band leader knew his jazz.
"You know anything hot and slow....."
The band leader looked him over, looked over at the redhead, and smiled.
"Sure thing. If you want, we'll play jazz so hot, any man without a hard-on in here must be dead and not know it," he replied with a knowing grin that turned positively wicked when Methos pressed a twenty into his hand.
I wonder what in hell I just unleashed, Methos thought as he turned away, but it was too late to turn back now.
The music was already building as he strode back to the redhead. He caught a look from her that told him she sensed that he was not playing up to her. Instead of disappointment, Methos saw interest, even amusement. She cast her eyes around the club for a moment, then nodded before turning back to face Methos.
"You have your target; I have mine. Don't worry, I'm not poaching. Kurt's always taken me for granted and I think it's past time I woke him up. You want the dark man in the corner," she said without a trace of doubt. Methos shrugged and gave her a noncommittal smile which he slowly changed to a smoldering dare. She smiled back and shimmied in close until the smell of her perfume and musk was overwhelming. Methos wasn't sure who Kurt was, but decided the man must be made of sterner stuff than he was. All he wanted to do was start a small brushfire. He had a nasty feeling he just unleashed an inferno.
As the music sizzled, the dance floor slowly emptied until Methos and the redhead were the only pair moving in and out of the red strobe light. Methos recalled dancing by torchlight centuries before on a stone patio in a country village north of Athens and let the memories flow over him. The redhead danced like a gypsy, all fire and challenge -- her womanhood thrown out to taunt every man in the room.
Methos moved in and out of the light -- a shadow to her flame. Sloughing off centuries of civilization, he let himself flow back to the days when Athens was young and men danced for each other for pleasure and seduction. His senses were centered on the man seated in the corner until he could almost feel every breath he took. He knew it when his breathing caught, then quickened. Time ceased to have any meaning. Only the music, the dance, and the feel of his lover's eyes existed. Whatever gods he and the redhead had summoned with this dance were here and watching. It was a night when rules were made to be broken -- Methos' kind of night.
In unspoken agreement, he stepped back to dance alone as the music rose to a climax. In time to the slow crescendo, he turned to face his quarry. The stranger stood braced against the wall, chest heaving, eyes burning. His eyes were fixed on Methos, not the redhead. "I think I have his undivided attention," Methos whispered under the cover of the music.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the redhead advancing on a short, stocky man with a pug face who was staring at her as if she just stepped out of legend. She stretched out her hand and he came to her with a blind look that boded well for her plans. Methos doubted if Kurt ever looked at her the same way again. Her fish well netted, the redhead looked back at him and gave him a smile that nearly melted his balls. Then she and Kurt disappeared into the crowd.
Taking a deep breath to settle himself, Methos considered his own plans. This was the critical stage of the hunt. One wrong move and his quarry would be running for the safety of his hotel. "Can't have that," he muttered as he walked cat-footed towards him until he was between the man and the door, never letting his eyes move from the other's.
This was the first time Methos had been so close to him. He smelled of leather, clean sweat, and the faint, dark musk of arousal. His face looks so good. I want to touch his mouth, Methos admitted to himself as he moved closer. His fingers itched to caress that full lower lip the man was worrying between his teeth.
Think, old boy, he admonished himself silently. He had seduced and been seduced by hundreds of women and men in his lifetime. Suddenly he felt as shaky as a boy on his first date. Gods, who is this man? At least the man looked to be in no better shape than Methos felt. He was quivering, but he was stubbornly holding his ground. Only the growing bulge in his jeans betrayed his interest. Methos realized that this interest surprised the stranger, but he wasn't automatically rejecting the idea.
The music began a long slide back to slow, sultry jazz accompanied by a low, throbbing beat that suggested that the band was more than willing to earn another twenty. Methos reminded himself to pay them for the music, as well as their perfect timing. As the music flowed over the two of them, the man licked his lips, but continued to stand there staring at Methos as he advanced. When he was within arm's reach, Methos stretched out his hand. Almost as if his hand was moving of its own accord, the man reached out to touch Methos' hand. Static electricity arced, but other than a slight shudder the man didn't pull away. With a slight tug, Methos pulled him out of his corner, never letting his eyes waver for an instant. He was tempted to lead him to the dance floor, but decided that the man wasn't ready to be that public with his dawning interest. Not everybody is a bloody exhibitionist, Methos, he reminded himself with a wry awareness that if it suited his purpose he'd dance naked on the Pont au Double at noon.
They stood there unmoving, bound by the touch of their hands. Methos felt the music rock them as their eyes locked. Slow, hot jazz sizzled around them, until nothing else mattered but the rhythm and the mournful wailing of the horn. Methos was not a fanciful man, but there was something about N'Orleans jazz that stripped away the veneer he so carefully maintained. Raw sensuality flowed out of the horn and filled the room. The horn player was playing the room like a master. Joe definitely needed to hear this boy.
Tequila combined with hot jazz and Methos' seductive talents were beginning to unravel the stranger. Smiling slightly, Methos upped the ante as his thumb began to make small circles behind the stranger's knuckles. The man quivered but he didn't pull away. His eyes bored into Methos even as his body responded to his touch.
Hoping he didn't trip and fall flat on his ass, Methos stepped back to where he remembered the table was. Luck was with him -- his foot hit a chair and he could see the table out of the corner of his eyes. Peripheral vision was good for more than just swordplay in Methos' experience. Still holding the stranger's eyes with his own, Methos sat down while guiding his quarry down to the chair next to his. With a casualness he didn't really feel, he dropped his hand to the man's knee and held his breath. The man started, then let out a long breath that ruffled Methos' hair. For one moment he closed his eyes, then opened them and stared straight into Methos' eyes with a look so piercing that Methos started wondering what sins the stranger was prying out of his soul. Then, with a curious half-smile, the man nodded and relaxed his hands on the table.
Taking this as an invitation to proceed, Methos slid his hand up the thigh just a bit. He wasn't into heavy petting in public, but he needed to make sure it was what the stranger wanted before they adjourned to a more private and comfortable locale. As his hand moved, he watched the stranger's tongue flick out to moisten lips swollen from the pressure of his teeth. He haven't met a man so responsive to light caresses in more years than he wanted to count. The man was still too tense, not quite ready to relax yet, but he was gentling nicely under the slow caresses. If he were a cat, he'd be purring by now, but Methos suspected his erstwhile lover was more stubborn than a cat. He was going to have to step up the pace, but he was sure of his quarry now. With a sigh of relief, he relaxed and allowed his own arousal to build.
Methos watched as his would-be lover's eyes started to lose their focus. The haunted look was fading as dark fires were lit deep his eyes. He was obviously a man of passion who denied himself the simple pleasure of sexual contact -- for what? Some obscure notion of duty? Why do I keep running into these men? Mac is bad enough, but at least he enjoys sex, if not with me, yet. I get the feeling that this man hasn't been laid in years by man or woman. Well, tonight I'm going to change that, Methos grumbled to himself as his slow caresses moved ever higher. He was going to start helping old ladies across the street if this trend kept up, he chided himself. MacLeod was definitely proving to be an unhealthy influence.
Pulling his attention back to matter in hand, Methos relaxed and released his quarry's eyes, although his hand still rested on his thigh. His long fingers were splayed down along the inner thigh, lightly kneading the muscle and skin just below the groin. Confident now that they shared a mutual interest in moving things along, Methos still wanted him to feel comfortable with him, to accept his touch as natural. More beer and tequila were definitely called for, he concluded. As he looked around for a waiter, Methos felt the muscles in the thigh he was caressing turn to steel cables. What in hell?
Startled, he turned around. The man's eyes were blazing cold fury as he stared across the room. When he turned back to look at Methos, his mouth was twisted into a resigned, bitter expression.
"So, when can I expect the first blackmail note?" he asked in a sharp, sarcastic tone. His arousal was still evident, but now he was fighting it. Stunned, Methos shook his head. The man laughed, a hurt, bitter sound that reminded Methos too well of his own acerbic reaction to emotional pain.
Sounds a lot like me when I'm fighting not to show how deep Mac's judgments bite, he conceded. Maybe this stranger was too like him for this plan to ever work. Better that he just walked away, but he couldn't go, not like this.
"Never. I'm not into that," Methos protested. Not in this century at least. As a gesture of good faith he lifted his hand off the man's thigh and laid it on the table close to his -- a hair's breath away, but not touching.
"That was you, two nights ago, on the dock. You've been following me, haven't you? What was I supposed to do, follow you into a dark alley and wait for you to cut my head off? I'll give you credit for a unique technique. Why now? What did I get too close to?"
Anger and betrayal haunted those words -- Methos knew the feeling well. He's got the facts right, but he's coming to conclusions I never expected. Methos floundered for a moment as he shifted mental gears to cope with this unexpected development. It could be handled, but he had to move carefully until he had more facts.
"You're no ordinary assassin. I'm an easy target. Why the seduction routine? Or do you just like a good blow-job from your victims first?" He sounded angry and hurt.
Methos did some rapid calculations. If this stranger was anything like him, then he must have slipped past well-ordered defenses and made him feel again. Now he believed everything Methos had done was an act. Shit.
"This isn't a set-up," Methos protested as he watched the man's eyes turn cold at the denial. Hastily he ran through all the people he'd ever been, trying to decide which one of them would be the most reassuring. He supposed the best course of action would be to just say 'I'm sorry,' get up and walk away, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. They were so close. He felt foolish, but he didn't want to leave the man thinking that he had been faking all this. Who's hurt him so much that he's more suspicious of anyone who approaches him than I am? He's as paranoid as an immortal without a sword.
"Unless you consider stalking with intent to get you into bed and fuck each other's brains out, a set-up," Methos admitted with his best disarming smile, the patented innocent grad student look that usually made Mac look wary. It was worth a try, he felt. When the man's expression didn't change, he pulled out his last ditch defense -- honesty.
"I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not an assassin and I don't do blackmail. You're a damn attractive man and I was seducing you, but only as far as you want it to go." Methos was glad Amanda wasn't around to hear this, she'd have heart failure. He didn't think she believed he could be this honest. Methos conceded that his fits of honesty were few and far between, but he could be honest, although he really didn't like to unless he didn't have any other options. Honesty, as he kept reminding Mac, gets complicated. Lies were much easier, and usually safer, but his instincts told him that this man had been lied to enough.
"You're not with them? I thought I saw...." Some of the fury seeped out of him, replaced by uncertainty. There was an almost child-like shyness about him as his defenses collapsed. Methos suspected that the man didn't believe him, but could also sense that he wasn't lying -- in short he was confused.
"Haven't you ever wanted to throw caution to the winds and just indulge a secret desire?" The man was listening, but he was still stiff as a board. Methos caught the faint flicker of interest creep back into his eyes. This wasn't the first time this skittish man had been with another man, but not in a long time, he guessed. Methos suspected it was one of those pleasures he had rationed, along with wine, women, and song. What fools these mortals be, along with a few immortals I could name, Methos thought sardonically.
"If you're still interested, we can walk out of here -- you pick the first hotel that suits your fancy. I've got enough cash to cover anything up to the Hilton. No names. No questions. No regrets in the morning -- just two people fucking the night away," Methos offered bluntly. He didn't want to answer questions, and he really didn't want to know more about this man -- he was in danger of caring about him as it was. Knowing more would only make it harder to walk away in the morning.
The stranger laughed then and suddenly looked ten years younger. Methos slowly released the breath he'd been holding. With a sharp sigh, the man sagged into his chair and rubbed his hands across his face. Biting his lower lip, he raised his head to look up with a half-smile and smoldering eyes that made Methos catch his breath. Methos' arousal was back in full force. He made a quick revision of his initial judgment of his man. Instead of a half-grown cat, Methos suddenly realized that he had netted a full-grown panther who was just waking up from a long nap.
"I'm clean, by the way," the man said apropos of nothing until Methos realized that he had just said yes to his impromptu plan. Methos smiled back, letting more of his control slip so his new lover could see just how much he wanted him. Under other circumstances, Methos thought that he was a man whose sense of humor would normally get a kick out of flirting, but right now his emotions were too raw -- maybe later, when they'd had a chance to get the measure of each other.
"Then why don't we go find someplace more comfortable to continue this conversation?" Methos replied, acknowledging his acquiescence. "So am I, and although I'm not a Boy Scout, I'm always prepared." That got another smile.
Methos made a mental note to remember this -- honesty worked. He wasn't sure Mac was ready for honesty from him, but it could be worth a try. Who would have thought that a booksellers' convention could be so educational?
"What the hell, I'm tired of being careful. Lead on," the man said in a dry, resigned tone belied by the smile he gave Methos. Methos smiled back before slipping over to the band leader and pressing two twenty's into his hand.
"Good luck, man," the horn player said as he grinned at the bounty. "Come on back, any time."
Methos gave him an enigmatic smile before returning to his soon-to-be lover who was standing patiently in the shadows by the door. At least by tomorrow, things will be back to normal, Methos thought as he lead the way out into the street. I really need to see someone about this developing tendency to pick up stray cats.
Abruptly the man laid a restraining hand on Methos' arm. What now? he wondered, trying to prepare for a sudden change of heart.
"I'm going to have to call you something. 'Hey you' in a moment of passion just doesn't quite seem appropriate," the man said with a smile that sent a quiver through Methos' groin. "You can call me Max."
"I'm Benjamin," Methos said grabbing the first name that came to mind. It had been nearly two hundred years since Benjamin Morgan got out to romp -- it'd do the old boy some good.
"Now, I believe you said something about a bed?" Max asked as his hand dropped in a casual swoop along Methos' ass before falling to his side. Methos began to realize that he was not going to have things all his own way and grinned.
"New Orleans -- city of shadows and dreams," he whispered softly as they walked side by side through the night to a small hotel just down the street. Tonight, they were two ordinary guys, without a past, or a future, having some great sex and simply existing in the moment.
"Reality is vastly over-rated," Max said just as softly.
The End
