Suiting Up

The Senior Conservatives club: the name amused Mac, but it was accurate enough. He'd been accepted in 1897 and had renewed his membership ever since, when appropriate. It was a useful venue for contacts. It was Darius, of all people, who urged him to join. The reading room was a sanctuary of silence. The restaurant was fastidious, if unimaginitive, in its grilled meats and selection of wines. The bar was comfortable for low-voiced conversations and discussions beyond boardroom doors. Tonight he'd be there for a meeting over drinks and a cigar, and after, a late supper if McManus was up to it. He dressed carefully, but not seductively. Nothing new but his shirt, and that from a classic pattern. His second-favorite suit in deep black wool, constructed by Brioni thirty years ago, looked soberly rich and fitted as well as the day it was delivered. The shoulders curved perfectly, no snugness in the upper arms -- he'd trained less this year with the katana and bo. He hesitated once, over his ties; but he'd packed four, pre-selected, and made himself pick up the most subdued and carry on. November in London was chill and damp and bleak, and he was grateful he'd taken his heaviest overcoat. He tucked his scarf snugly around his neck. His sword, well, his sword in its carrying case would be checked at the club. He was known and accomodated in this small eccentricity, as were his "father" and "great-uncle" before him.

The bar had leather club chairs and low tables grouped at discreet distances. Along one long wall stretched the mahogany counter, marble-topped, with carved columns at each end. Behind it winked ranks of bottles below mirrors set in the small squares between cabinets and shelves. Divested of his coat, his gloves, his scarf, his sword, Duncan MacLeod seated himself at the bar with a view of the entrance. He was early. He sat sipping a glass of the 18 year old Macallan, a small pleasure before smoke dulled his palate. He mused on the regeneration of Immortal tastebuds, which was, to his mind, sluggish at best. Methos would have had an opinion on that, if he were here. If he were anywhere known, this past year. Methos... Mac rolled the aromatic, amber whisky on his tongue. Bah, Methos. He hadn't thought of that unreliable, elusive pain in the balls in months.

Speak of the devil, tell a lie. In a prickle of Presence, from out of all the cold world, Methos walked into view. He stood at the checkroom counter, backlit by a golden light that glanced along his shoulder, his elegant shoulder, his shoulder in a coat Mac had never seen the likes of wrapped around the slouchy, casual frame he thought he knew. Methos unbuttoned his coat. He unwound the wide, dark scarf from his throat -- not the thin Indian patterned one he wore in Paris, not the striped nubby knit Mac had seen and deplored, but a wine-colored cashmere (he willed it to be cashmere, in amazement and indignation) sliding from his neck, revealing...Mac tipped the nearly forgotten glass to his mouth and gulped... a shirt collar, a tie, a suit front of a black and cut to rival his own. And shoes! Not hikers or sports clumpers or boots but ... he had to see those shoes, that suit, that tie up close, to touch and marvel at the miracle, to set his fingers in the wounds. He would not raise a hand; Methos saw him too, could feel him from there, surely. Relieved of his coat and scarf (his sword? Where was his sword? Where under that elegant overcoat, that jacket draping perfectly across his back, falling from shoulder to hip in such a pure line, could he have hidden that yard of steel?), Methos turned, plucking at his glove, looking over the bar. He looked at Mac, he looked past him. What sign now, what signal was this?

A man walked briskly up to Methos, a young man, blond, spectacled, tall; dark suit, striped tie, narrow, narrow in all his lines. He clapped Methos on the shoulder and Methos smiled, a social smile, a reined in greeting smile unfamiliar as the shoes and coat. They walked together, the man's hand still on Methos's arm, to the far end of the bar. And here were McManus and Charles waving at MacLeod from the doorway.

Norton was yet to come. Mac ordered another Scotch. Past his two friends, who were commiserating on the traffic, he could just see Methos's hands on the bar. He was taking off his gloves. These gloves Mac had seen before. They weren't his winter gloves. Those were heavy leather, fur lined, flat across the fingers with a tiny tear at the tip of the left thumb. These gloves, despite the weather, were thin, supple, unlined, pliant as skin. Methos peeled the right one back with a little tug. His wrist was exposed between his snowy cuff and the glove now being tugged down and off the elegant, long fingers, one by one. A watch, old but unfamiliar, a 1930s Cartier, gold with a leather band, on that right wrist. The blond man sitting by him, blocking Mac's sight, leaned back and Mac could now see Methos's profile, his mouth and jaw, his throat disappearing into what looked like a perfect four-in-hand knot between the wings of his collar. Mac was torn between watching that silhouette and the slow strip of the second glove from Methos's left hand. He'd seen those hands, the right slightly larger than the left, curved around a beer bottle. He'd seen those gloves on those hands wrapped around the hand-and-a-half hilt of his broadsword in a spar and a fight. A fight? Was there ozone in the air?

"Ah, Norton. We've been waiting." McManus moved stiffly from his stool. He gripped Charles by his elbow while he retrieved his cane, then set a course across the carpets to a stand of armchairs. Mac looked again at Methos. "Someone you know?" asked Norton. "No. No, I don't think so," said Mac. They joined the others.

It would be a long evening. Their business was important, but not urgent, and some general subjects took precedence. The weather, which had been unusually severe. The disruption of rail lines. Then, there was golf. Methos at the bar was directly in Mac's line of sight. Another man had joined them, white haired, also narrow and upright. Methos undid a button of his jacket and sat on a high, backless stool. He lifted a brandy glass. The gloves had disappeared. "I was in California last month," said Charles. "Do you know Cypress Point?" Mac had never seen Methos so completely, so overwhelmingly clothed.

Methos answering his door one morning in his trenchcoat, barefoot, bare legged, bare chested, with a sword. Mac laughing at him, pushing into the room: "Get dressed. Joe's on his way." Methos leaning on his sword: "I'm dressed." Mac picking up a sweater from the couch: "You're naked under that." Methos taking the sweater from his hand: "I'm naked under everything." Mac...Mac letting go of the sweater.

Under everything. McManus prepared and lit a cigar. Methos leaned on the bar, undid his last jacket button. Under his jacket, his tie. (A tie. Methos in a tie. Dark, he couldn't make the color or pattern out from here. He'd have to see closer, he'd have to look, when McManus stopped talking, when he had a break. When he could stand next to him, close enough.) McManus began to tell his story about the seventh hole at St. Andrews. Norton leaned politely in. It could be the first time he'd heard it, or there could be a painting he wanted. Mac lowered the level of his drink. A shirt, white, the first crisp looking shirt he'd seen on Methos. Cotton or silk? Made to order? The cuffs, the seams... His own shirt tonight was one of a new half-dozen from Turnbull & Asser, a fine white stripe on white. He'd dressed himself this evening with some ceremony, with an eye to the quietly correct. Like a warrior putting on his armor. Like a priest vesting for Mass. (Like a corpse for a wake, whispered something, something wrong.) He wanted, not for the first time, to conceal himself in his suiting. He wanted to sit in his shell, outwardly defined, wrapped in the company of dull competence. McManus and Norton and Charles were good men, solid, honest men who, in their own measured time, would guarantee the survival of Darius's Bitterwood School. He shied from thoughts of Darius. Methos's shirt. The seams on the shirt, were they single-needle? Did they lie flat over his...skin? Over his nakedness, that was under everything?

Mac swallowed. Tie. Shirt. Belt. Trousers... from the drape of them, the contour from here... Methos wore boxer shorts. Or nothing, under jeans. Boxers: hand made, white broadcloth, with a button, maybe. He swallowed again. The waistband fitting flat in the back, custom made not to move, to fit right. He had a ... he had a curve, a roundness to his ass that was unlike Mac's. He... Mac swallowed another mouthful of Scotch. Mac liked the fit of tighter trousers, underneath liked the feel of softness securing him, holding... Methos went naked under his jeans, tucked bare between denim and his thigh. Naked under everything. Socks, shoes, boxers, shirt, trousers, belt, tie, jacket, watch, gun, sword, overcoat, scarf. Gloves.

Norton began his story about playing the dogleg at Traigh in a high wind off the shore. Walking away (Mac regarded his empty glass) would be rude; Norton only had two anecdotes, and this was his good one.

Before the last ball dropped, a page appeared with a phone message. McManus read it and struggled to his feet. "I'm sorry to interrupt our business with business. My apologies, Norton; I'll try to make this brief." Mac rose with him. "I have a small matter to take up with the barman, myself," he said. "The story is worth the wait." There was an empty seat next to Methos at the bar. As Mac approached, Methos turned toward the white-haired man, giving Mac his back. Mac sat; he crowded Methos with his knee. He moved the half-full glass in front of him, slopping ice melt on Methos's hand. The white-haired man glared. Methos turned, politely, one stranger to another. He was newly shaved. He was scented with something peppery and exotic. He was... his tie. His tie was blood and black, a silk brocade in a pattern that changed with the light. Mac realized he was staring. Methos was waiting. Mac looked into eyes that were happily familiar, undisguised. Naked. "Nice suit."

"Thank you." Methos wiped his hand on a cocktail napkin.

They were pressed knee to knee. Mac couldn't see his shoes from here. The last button of Methos's jacket sleeve was undone. The display was unsettling. Methos was, this close, making Mac's stomach clench. Naked under everything. Well, so was he. "English?"

"Of course."

Methos's jacket was double breasted, hanging open and wide. Mac took its edge between his fingers and thumb. Under cover, he reached in with his other hand, feeling blindly, stretching his fingers out until he touched the front of Methos's shirt. He drew his fingertips down, over the faint graininess of the weave. Linen, so old fashioned, so fine. He stroked across a flat pearl button, just above the buckle of Methos's belt. On impulse, he pinched the button through its hole.

Methos didn't flick an eyelash. "I'll give you the name of my tailor." His eyes were laughing. Did he lick his lower lip?

"What are you doing in London?" Mac asked. He pressed a finger, two fingers into the new-made gap.

"I'm sorry, I believe you're in my seat." It was the blond, tall, narrow, and unhappy.

Methos pulled his jacket from Mac's grasp, swiveling away from his hastily withdrawn hand. "My fault, Roger. The sweet flow of reason carried us away there." He stood, close against Mac's side; under the bar's edge, he reached surely across Mac's lap, under his belt, and undid the top button of his fly. He snapped a finger against Mac's waistband. "I think I need a short walk," he said, and strolled off.

"My fault, as well," said Mac. He got up and leaned over the bar. "Another round for Mr. McManus's table, please. And whatever these gentlemen are drinking." Roger reclaimed his seat with ill grace. Mac followed the trail of his prey, beyond the end of the long bar, into the men's room.

Methos stood by the sinks. The room was empty, except for the attendant hovering by the hand towels. Mac laid a twenty on the counter. "We have a private matter to discuss." The man looked at him. Mac imagined the story he'd concoct in his mind; he didn't care. He only wanted a word, alone, a naked word or two. "Thank you, Hans," Methos said. "Five minutes."

"Excuse me," said Hans. He pocketed the bill and left. The door hushed shut.

"Well, Mac. The people you meet in bars." He was still smiling the stranger's smile, with his own familiar eyes. In this light, his tie was black. In this light, he looked... Mac came closer. To touch again, to have those strange and luring fabrics in his hands, to make sure that was his Methos...the unreliable, elusive, pain he thought he knew, underneath.

"You look different." He stopped when they were toe to toe. His Methos would have leaned against the sink. This one would hesitate to wet his jacket, to disfigure his trousers with a wrinkle...the wool was heavy enough...the shirt button was still undone. He grabbed the edge of the jacket again, under the lapel, he reached out, he brushed aside that blood black tie, he put his palm flat on the front of the white, smooth shirt. Oh, God.

"Mac?"

Oh God. He couldn't look anywhere but Methos's eyes. He slid his hand to the side, over the shirt, he slid his hand under the open jacket, fingers against ribs, thumb brushing over a nub rising on Methos's chest. The silk lining was cool, smooth against his knuckles. He kept his palm pressed against the shirt, the flat fit against Methos's side coming undone a bit, rucking up a bit, the lightly starched, ironed linen taking on the heat of the body under it. Like his own shirt. Like fresh sheets.

"Mac?" Methos's breath was shallow. He laughed, a gasp. "Oh, God." His eyes slitted. "Now? Six bloody years, MacLeod, and now? Here?"

"Now, what?"

Those eyes he knew were kind. The face he knew, the mouth, had an expression he'd never seen before, that was, he knew, expressly made for him. Methos reached out, he grabbed the edge of Mac's jacket, he dipped his fingers inside the waistband above the button he'd undone. He pulled. "Now, this." He leaned his hip on the sink, he got his jacket wet, he leaned close and kissed Mac firmly on the lips.

Mac choked.

Mac pushed him back. Mac grabbed his tie, Mac filled his hand with silk, ground his fist into the immaculate shirt front, and pushed Methos to the wall, stumbling around the sink, until his head cracked against the tiles. "Five minutes?" He snarled. "Five minutes?" Methos grabbed his shoulders and laughed. Mac released his tie, took a breath. Methos tilted his head and came at him, kissed him again, softer, wider, lips parting under pressure. Wet, now, too, Methos licking into Mac's mouth. Mac moaned.

"Five minutes," whispered Methos. Mac shifted balance, pushed his hand between them, curling his fingers, stroking haphazardly. Another kiss, long and sweet. Methos tasted of brandy, his lower lip slipping between Mac's teeth. His mouth was moving, his tongue withdrawn, he was whispering, "Mac. No. No."

"No?" He bit the mobile lower lip.

"I have to go. They're waiting for me, I have to leave."

Mac backed away, to see his face and eyes. He kept his hand braced against the wall, his other hand caressing now the soft skin through the undone shirt, now the rigid flesh lower, through the warming fine weave of the wool. "Leave?"

"We have concert tickets. I have to go." His lashes were lowered, his eyes unreadable. "Awkward timing, dear boy."

"Take me." He liked the sound of that. He kissed under Methos's jaw, set his teeth against the ridge of bone. "Take me." He pushed against Methos until the claim check in his pocket crinkled, full body pressed against body, chest, crotch, thighs, knees. He grinned like a wolf. "Take me to the theatre and I'll take you."

He could feel the flutter of Methos's pulse, the catch in his breath. He inhaled the scent of cedar and myrrh and desire. "I have to go now, Mac. You have to let me..." He let the words glide over him. He slid his hand across the shirt side again, to the back of Methos's waist, his arm under Methos's jacket to the shoulder now, as if they were dancing, as if he had the grip he'd wanted on him for years, his other hand deep in his hair, and he kissed him, kissed him over the whispers, kissed him with hunger and pleasure and hunting for more to come. He had now, he had these minutes that felt like forever.

Not forever. Not five minutes: a tap on the outer door. A shove out of Mac's arms.

Ten seconds and Hans opened the door on Mac leaning against the mirrored counter, Methos washing his hands. "The gentlemen are asking for you, Dr. Adams." And on his heels, Methos's friends. "Curtain at eight," said Roger.

Methos dried his hands, looking at the mirror. He smoothed his tie. He buttoned his jacket, checked his cuffs. His jacket folded across his open shirt, over his trousers front.

Mac didn't know where Methos lived, where he'd come from, who these men were, for whom Methos dressed and talked and smiled like that stranger. They pressed him again to go, he turned with them. He nodded at Mac, goodbye.

"We haven't been introduced," Mac said, and straightened. The older man frowned. The younger one looked at him with faint distaste. "I'm Duncan MacLeod."

"Lord Carlisle, Roger Bradford," Methos indicated his companions, and held out his freshly washed hand (and manicured nails; manicured and buffed, by Peter's rod). "Michael Adams," said Methos. "It was a pleasure talking with you."

"Duncan MacLeod," he said again. He clasped Methos's cool palm with his hand still hot from holding him, still smelling, he prayed, of his hair and skin. His jacket was not closed, his arousal was not cloaked.

"Good evening, Mr. MacLeod," Methos said, and left.

McManus asked if he were ill, when he finally rejoined them. He felt ill. He felt undone and exposed. He checked his fly, discreetly, to see if it was unfastened. His shirt, to see if it were open, his jacket, to see if a button had fallen away. His tie. His cufflinks. He was fine, he was decently clean and closed. He was perfectly packaged and dressed.

They settled the details of the bequests and the scholarship. It was agreed to be too late to dine. "Take care of yourself, Duncan," said McManus in farewell. "I'd like to play a few rounds in the spring. At Traigh." He winked at Norton. "Bring that pretty sister of yours up to the house next week. I'll show her the collection and you can lecture us on its faulty attributions."

"Oh, never," said Norton, flushed. "Oh, never faulty." He stayed on his feet until the two disappeared, then sank into his chair. He signaled the waiter. "I think I'd like another whisky, Roberts. And a sandwich from the grille, if it's possible. Something ham and cheese like. I asked after that strange fellow at the bar."

It took a few seconds before this registered. "Asked what?"

"Well, the barman didn't know him. He's not a member, he just dragged along with Carlisle and that horrible nephew of his. Nice suit, you know. Dreadful tie. Must be a gift from an aunt. You don't look well, our old friend was right. Something to eat, or..."

Mac felt unsteady and overwhelmed, waves rolling and crushing an empty shell.

"Excuse me, Mr. MacLeod." It was Hans now, Hans leaning over his chair. "You dropped these, sir." He held out a pair of gloves, black, supple leather gloves.

In his hand, then in his pocket. Hans nodded and walked off.

"Another stranger. You've drawn them today."

"He's the attendant from the Gents'."

"He's not. They don't have one in the bar."

It didn't matter. What mattered was, in his hand, then in his pocket, Mac felt through the pliant leather the outline of a square of folded paper and a key.

-End-

Duncan/Methos, adult-ish

Note: A slightly different version of this was written for the Bar Story challenge. Following this immediately is Tied. And trust me...the stories get much hotter as they go along.

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