Carson Kearns' Highlander Fanfic
Lost in the Loving: Coming Home
by Carson Kearns
He was becoming Methos.
For what else, Duncan MacLeod groggily asked himself, could explain why he, a strapping warrior who would normally bounding out of bed at the crack of dawn would instead be here in bed, luxuriating in the hot cocoon of a feathered quilt. He was determined to sleep …….to fall back into the middle of the nurturing feathered cloud……//safe………sleeping……..being lazy//………ignoring unsubtle distractions trying to pull him out of, and away from, his beautiful thick cloudy quilt….//getting soft ........definitely becoming Methos//…… someone's hand was disturbing him……..stroking and surrounding his penis. //Methos//…Unwanted and unwelcome consciousness - mmmmm...//perhaps//???.
Methos' expert ear for obscure languages quickly translated the Scot's mumbled, expletive peppered verbal jumble as something along the lines of: "Don't even think about it Methos!"
"Think about what?"
"Is it just me, Methos, or have Abbott and Costello just wandered in here?"
"It's just you……..Lou…….."
"I thought you, quote, 'Didn't do mornings!' Of all bloody mornings ….//just another hour, please//……….."Go away Methos!" …(swatting the invading hand seeking out his genitals)..…//thirty minutes…….…..ten minutes even//…...."
"I don't. But I'll gladly do you."
"I'm not on the menu."
//Damn// "Since everyone already thinks we're bloody feral rutting pigs. And since this is Mary's last morning. Move it Methos! I'm tired……!"
"Feral rutting pigs eh? Then why disappoint them?."
"Because I don't like being thought of as a rutting pig, that's why. It's embarrassing."
"Is it actually being a rutting pig or just being thought of as one that's the problem?"
|He didn't even have to look at Methos to know how large his eyes would be. All innocence. //Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.// "Don't even think about starting one of those mind games. I'm not playing. My mouth might be speaking but my brain is still sound asleep and that's the way it's staying for another thirty minutes. "|
"Your cock isn't."
"Yes it is. It's just having a nightmare. Thinks it's being strangled. If you'd remove your bloody fist it could go back to sleep - along with its owner."
"But it thinks I'm its owner and it's talking to me. It says it feels like a big morning stretch, MacLeod. It says it's happy to stay up and for you not to worry about a thing and to just go back to sleep and leave everything to it and its rightful owner - moi. It says…."
"Get fucked Methos."
"Get fucked. That's exactly what it wants. To be fucked off. See - Feel that! It's talking to you too now."
"Tell it I'm not listening. Christ. What am I saying? You've got me actually talking to my prick as if it's a person. Just shut up and go back to sleep. You're supposed to hate mornings."
"The fact that I hate mornings doesn't mean that I'm against dawn risings."
"Well raise your own prick and leave mine out of it."
"Mine's been at attention for a ridiculous amount of time. It just wants to whisper something to yours. It will only take a minute."
"It never takes a minute with you. You always say it will only take a minute and …"
"Well can I help it if they both find each other fascinating?"
"You're impossible Methos."
"I try. Come on. Just a little mutual rub to let them know they're still friends?"
The beautiful long dark hair lay across the pillow, not one strand
having moved during the entire conversation. Its owner was
determined to make Methos beg. "Methos - have you regressed to childhood or
somethin'? We've got five and a half thousand years of prick between us and you're talking about
them as if they're characters out of something Mary would watch on Play
"God - you got regaled with them as well did you? After hours with young Mary there's nothing I don't know abut Bananas in Pyjamas and associated cultural impedimenta. I think our poor horse was even ga-ga by the end of the day. Gods what an image - Banana 1 and Banana 2 in garish striped pyjamas. Not that she was talking about pricks, MacLeod. They're banana cartoon characters. Twins. At least I think they are. Of course, you never know these days. Much simpler in the old days. Now I won't be able to sing that new song she taught me without thinking about fucking you."
"What new song?"
"'Bananas in Pyjamas'. Of course, even Mary would have the sense not to encourage you to sing."
The appalling strains of a
five thousand year year old man starting to
Sensations assaulted him
from the retained memories of
every lover (including Duncan MacLeod himself) who had ever left their guttural, lusty cries
and their moans, their sense and their scents and their sweet sweet juices on
the fertile surfaces of this ancient land.
And these two lovers were so attuned to each other that there was never any doubt as to the target for the encircling energies, starting their ever diminishing twirling and swirling, miles away. Finally - finally - the energies closed in on their bodies and raced from every bodily extremity straight to their joining, where explosion after explosion after explosion of mutual orgasms left them utterly, completely, totally, and undeniably, satiated.
Sweat dripped off both their bodies, and they gazed at each other in awe as the first dusty rays of golden sun sought and suckled their juices, beginning anew the age old cycle of love and lust. Duncan threw his head back, feeling his damp hair sticking to his shoulders and neck. He felt suitably ravaged and worn, exhilarated and powerful. He'd never admit it, but Methos had been right. He did feel fresh and alert. He remembered thinking (and liking the thought) that the waste water from the coming shower and the laundry would be once again feeding the soil of his homeland with the sexual juices of Duncan MacLeod and his lover.
What, he wondered, truly constituted immortality? How could anyone ever think themselves barren when cycles of life were all about them?
Methos stretched like a great cat beneath him, playfully clawing the golden chest above, crossing his feet behind Duncan's back and imprisoning his wonderfully energetic lover. "Jesus Christ MacLeod. Remind me to wake you up more often. I've just decided that I most definitely do do mornings. That is, if my paraplegia is ever cured. I think you've bent me in two."
"You'll heal," his lover assured him, desperately trying to catch his breath. "Did we make much noise? Tell me we didn't. Lie to me," he pleaded, lustful arrogance dissipating in the golden dawn and the unwelcome memories of the tissue thin walls.
Methos laughed. "Next time I make the bookings. Why you're embarrassed to ask about the thickness of the bedroom walls is beyond me. We're the bloody customers. And yes lover-mine, we made a lot of noise. We screamed the bloody roof off. What do you bloody well think? Smoke alarms are no doubt going off for miles. There's probably a convoy of fire brigades converging on Glenfinnan as we speak." He was, he decided, definitely on a roll. "We'll be on the news, the two rutting beasts who had to be put out by the good fire wardens of Glenfinnan." Laughing, he reached up and pulled the groaning, miserable golden skinned lover into his arms, just so he could feel his powerful heart pumping and fall into its rhythm. "I thought I was going to burst into flames."
"It was good, wasn't it," Duncan agreed, licking his lips at the memory and stretching his over-stretched muscles. "But please tell me you're teasing. Maybe everyone's up already.…"
"If they weren't before, they certainly are now. It's a bit late for maidenly discretion I'm afraid. Christ - I can just hear Anne explaining to Mary about you having a nightmare! I take it that you won't want me to have a breakfast salute to dawn risings then?" He laughed aloud as he was unceremoniously pummelled. "Trust me Highlander - "
"Huh! Trust you
"Don't worry Methos, I promise I won't blush. I've got it all
under control. I'm not a teenager for heaven's sake." Rolling his eyes, Methos
bounced down the stairs, there being little in the way of sniggers that he
hadn't heard in five thousand years. And in truth, he was vastly looking forward to
hearing what particular line Dawson would (successfully) use to mortify
As they arrived at the dining room, Joe, Mary and Anne were already seated, the adults laughing about something or other. Duncan avoided looking at them and made straight for the porridge and stewed apple.
"So Mac. Mary thinks she heard hounds in your bedroom. You tell Uncle Duncan about the howling we all heard sweetheart."
Methos prepared himself to be thoroughly entertained at the Scot's expense, he himself having given up embarrassment some centuries before. Over the skim milk Duncan cringed and felt his cheeks begin to burn. H
It was a beautiful morning, the sun already up and a hint of
crispness in the air. "Is there anywhere special you'd like to go,
Mary pulled on his hand and instinctively he stopped and bent down to her height, taking delight in the effort her little face was going through, as she weighed up all her choices. What those choices could possibly be was beyond Duncan, knowing that she'd hardly seen much of Glenfinnan.
"Just wif you."
Duncan felt his throat catch at the sheer simplicity and power of her avowal to him. //Just with you.// How many people would give their souls to have another human being think that much of them, he wondered.
//Just with you.//
As he pulled the child to him he remembered Tessa making such an avowal, in that awful time after Darius' murder. He had been all set to race off to the States, without her, and she'd pulled him up short, (just as Mary had just done), with a statement of love and trust, loyalty and commitment that humbled him and reminded him that the living must take precedence over the dead.
"We're either together, or we're not," she had said. Together or not together. Dead or alive.
How ironic, he sighed, that those words should come back to him now, so close to Tessa's grave. It was almost as if he was being given permission to give precedence to the people who still lived and loved. "Oh sweetheart…" he unknowingly sighed.
Mary, of course, thought that he was talking to her. "Yes Un-cul Duncan? See - Un-cul Joe's been teaching me. Only babies say 'Unca' instead of 'Un-cul' donten they?"
He momentarily chastised himself for not simply letting her call him 'Duncan'. But 'Uncle' denoted a special relationship that gave him an enormous amount of pleasure. "Say U-n-c-l" he encouraged, placing her on his lap as they sat under a magnificent pine tree. Fifteen minutes later, she appeared to have mastered the linguistic complexities and they set off once again for no-where in particular. He castigated himself along the way for being so petty - determined that *he* would be the one to teach her how to pronounce Uncle Duncan, not Joe. He quietly laughed as he predicted Methos' weary sigh…. " "Ah well - as long as you feel *guilty* about it there's no harm done…..getting your daily quotient of brooding material I see, MacLeod….."
A further twenty minutes of chasing, hide and seek and airplanes followed with Duncan then deciding to take her to visit the lovely old church. To do so they had to pass the freshly dug graves, where he stopped, unsure of what to do. Mary broke into his reverie. There were times that he found himself wondering whether she did, in fact, sense his sadness. She seemed to have a special gift for re-focusing him. He liked to think that his mother kept a special watch over her namesake and cringed as he imagined Methos' response to that particular little morsel of flagellating material.
"That's my mother's grave, Mary."
"Was your mummy nice?"
"Yes Mary - she was wonderful." He knelt and tenderly touched the gravestone. Mary mimicked him, gently touching it as well. He looked at her and smiled, thinking how his mother would have loved to have had this child in her life. He knew that there had been daughters born to Mary. He could even remember one who was born and died when he was still very young. He remembered his Mother's tears, and the blood, and how sad his mother had been.
She never spoke of her dead babies, but he saw it in her eyes when she looked at the young girls of the village. He remembered his father becoming exasperated, at times, with how much love and affection his mother "squandered on the boy!". He hadn't really thought about it before, in terms of their being no daughters and sisters. Methos had told him, on more than one occasion, that he loved the androgynous quality in the Scot. And Duncan had, at first, been outraged and insulted. Coming on top of suddenly finding himself in a gay relationship had lead to another of their famous theatrical fights. But he'd never thought of himself as in any way feminine. Gradually he had come to acknowledge and accept what Methos was talking about. Indeed, if he was being honest, he admitted to himself, he now played on it. At first he'd seen it as a dilution and a lessening of who he was. Now he realized that it was a wonder-filled addition.
But he'd never, until now, linked it back to his upbringing.
As Mary's only beloved child he'd had been afforded very unusual and privileged insights into feminine mysteries, views and insights. Methos always commented that Duncan felt too much and didn't think things through enough. It was only now, as he looked at his mother's grave, that he remembered the many many hours spent absorbing her *feeling* and being part of those feelings. He supposed it was always there, in him, but there was also no doubt, he now realized, that Mary nurtured the feeling side of him and encouraged "her beautiful boy" to give full vent to the softer side of his nature. Had there been sisters, or even more brothers, he doubted that this would have occurred. There was no doubt in his mind that his mother had given him much more time than would otherwise have been the case, had she had daughters to share her time between.
For it was Duncan who comforted her when Iain was overdue from hunting, or from some border skirmish. It was Duncan who gently wiped away her tears or told her funny stories or made her something sweet, or secretly brought her some flowers (hidden from Robert and the other boys, who would laugh at him if they knew.). He sighed as he luxuriated in the remembered warmth of her and her strong arms and her smell and her laughter and the songs she sang him to sleep with…..the feel of her long hair as he brushed it out for her or plaited it for her. Maybe, he wondered, that's why he kept his hair long now - his mother had loved it so. And it was a tangible connection to her.
Little Mary's ceaseless chatter finally brought him back to the present.
"……..I waz talking to you Uncle Duncan but you wernten listening," she admonished.
"I'm sorry sweetheart. I was thinking about my mother. You know you're called after her. She was called Mary too. That shows you how special you are to me."
"Did you have any brovvers or sistas?"
"No. There was just me."
"Was you a good boy?"
"*Were* you a good boy," Uncle Duncan corrected.
"But I'm not a boy!" she laughed.
"No - you said "*Was* you a good boy?" You should have said "Were you a good boy?"
Mary thought about it. She didn't look convinced but appeared to decide to humor him. "Were you?
"Most of the time. My father was a very important person in our village and it would have made him sad if I was naughty. I had lots and lots of jobs to do to keep me busy."
"What? Did you have any pets? Did you get to watch much TV or videos?? Or go on bus rides? What were your favorite cartoonies?"
Not Bananas in Pyjamas he reminded himself, and smiled. "We had lots of pets - cattle, sheep. And there used to be lots of deer and other wild animals. Once there was a big white wolf attacking the sheep. My village was too small to have TV - we used to have a man tell us stories and poems and sing to us all instead. And I had my own horse to get places.
//Still so painful…so raw….still the guilt…the
loss....the missing of his youth and vibrancy and companionship…the
missing of *him*....all that he was and could have been//.......
"Did you know him? Was you in the accident too?"
He let the grammatical mistake go. "Yes, I knew him. That's why I brought his body here to my home, so he could be with my parents. And yes, I was hurt too."
"Are you all better now?"
"Most of the time, sweetheart."
//Most of the
"Do dead people live in the ground? I'm not going to live there. I'm not going to die am I?"
He swore at himself for frightening her. //Brilliant, MacLeod. Bloody brilliant//.
"No sweetheart, dead people and animals don't live in the ground. Remember how I
told you about the Sidhe and the Fairies…well, it's sort of like that. We go to
the Otherworld where there's lots of laughter and light and games." //Damn -
don't make it sound too attractive, idiot//. "But you don't have to worry
sweetheart. I've got lots of friends who live in the Otherworld now, like Tessa
- that's her grave there, and Richie of course, and they'll be waiting for us
when it's time for us to go travelling there. But it's not going to be for a
long long time sweetheart. There's lots of games to be played here
"Will you come wif me to the Ovverworld?"
He leaned down and kissed her and held her fast. "Y
//If only. If only.//
He put on his Accommodating Face. "Your secret's safe with me, Joe." He decided that a change of subject was required. He picked up the nearest crumpled newspaper sheet and proceeded to read from it. "Listen to this, Joe. 'The cellular way to lengthen a lifeline: immortal telomeres.' Now here's one for the Watchers to keep on top of."
Joe was stunned. "What in hell are telomeres? I haven't seen anything about them in the Watcher reports."
Methos yawned. "Here - read the article yourself. But basically they're being billed as the cellular fountain of youth. In short, they think they can now genetically engineer your own cells to reproduce telomerase which will render your cells immortal. The human cells' potential to divide is apparently determined by the length of telomeres. Er…you look confused, Joseph!"
"I'm still no clearer. What in hell is a telomere?"
"Hmm..here it is. '…sequences of DNA that protect the ends of its 46 chromosomes like rubber feet on chair legs…'. I
"Well, don't say you didn't hear it straight from the horse's mouth."
Joe sniggered. "And don't think that I'm picking up all those beer caps from behind the
couch before we leave."
"It's okay - mention it to MacLeod. He'll be suitably mortified and pick them all up."
"You take him too much for granted, Methos."
"Joe - I can assure you, I don't. But even you must admit that he's very predictable in some things."
"Careful Methos. In my experience with Duncan, just when you think you've got him all figured out he goes and does something that throws you for six. Be careful, my friend."
Methos paused before replying. "You're right. All jokes aside, I don't take him for granted, or what we have. Believe me Joe, I know how fragile it is."
Before Joe had a chance to question Methos further, Duncan and Mary appeared, laughing and puffing.
Duncan felt both stimulated and totally exhausted by the time they'd arrived back at the house. But he admitted, it was a wonderful way to exhaust oneself. The car was soon packed and Mary reminded them to circle it three times.."…do the train thing Uncle Duncan…".
Methos finally worked out she was talking about the deiseil that Duncan had told them all about. Mary's final words to him were to make sure that he kept practicing his dancing so he could be in the best circus in the world and get to live with "…hephelants and tigers and lions…." It took him a while to remember that that was what his centuries old katas and sword play had been reduced to in Mary's eyes….a circus act…….
He gave Anne a genuinely warm kiss and held her to him, thanking her for what she brought into, and allowed into, his life. They watched Mary's little hand waving until the first hill took them from view. He wasn't even aware that he was daydreaming until Methos physically grabbed his arm and shook him. "Don't even think about brooding or I'll personally behead you. Let's go and get some sword practice in, followed by a nice lunch and a walk to the Loch."
Duncan looked at Methos and then at Joe.
Joe just laughed and sympathised. "Yeah Mac - I'd be suspicious too. Why are you being so nice Methos?"
No-one even tried to answer that.
It was such a beautiful day that they decided to go through their forms and do the sword practice in the garden. It wasn't long before they had a spell-bound audience of the various workers from the estate. Joe never tired of watching these two. He couldn't ever envisage the day that he would become complacent, knowing what he was watching. He chuckled as he thought about what the people observing would do if they actually realized that one of the men before them had fought at Culloden and the other one had known Cleopatra…..and ridden as one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. Of course, Death on a Horse threatening to pour a bowl of porridge on your head would tarnish the terror somewhat, he admitted.
Mary hadn't been too far off the mark with her automatic linking of the katas and sword play to dancing, he decided. With the golden sun light and slight breeze, Duncan had already discarded his shirt and was clad only in a pair of beautifully tailored black pants, pleated at the waist and flaring out to fullness before tapering to the ankle... //probably had them specially made//.…. His hair was loose . Methos, of course, was in old sweat pants and a loose top. Duncan looked like a taller and darker Baryshnikov, whilst at the same time he was a warrior through and through. It was this layered complexity and ambiguity that made him so magnetically compelling. Joe had always understood men and women falling in lust and love with Duncan MacLeod. He'd just never bargained on Duncan MacLeod falling in love with one of those men.
The words of a beautiful poem that he had read the day before came to his mind. He'd memorised it and had intended turning it into a song, having read it in one of the many Scottish magazines scattered throughout the house:
|When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No, I won't be afraid
No, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
|If the sky that we look
should tumble and fall
or the mountains should crumble to the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry,
No, I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me
|So darling, darling,
stand by me,
oh, stand by me
stand by me
stand by me
Duncan closed his eyes, determined to not let the song get to him.
After all, he reasoned, he'd heard it off and on in the past couple of years.
But he'd never heard Joe sing it - except for the vivid dream he'd had when he'd
once again gone down to despair when he faced O'Rourke and been shot and hit his
head. But that Joe, the Joe of Duncan's haunted conscience, hadn't been able to
sing it. Yet the strains of it were now coming through the window loud and
strong. And what had started off as a shock gradually turned into something
positive for him. He was suddenly conscious of Methos' strong hand grasping his
"It's okay. It's nothing," he reassured his worried friend. He'd never told any of them about the vivid nightmare he'd had that night. It had seemed so real. And something inside him made him fear that if he revealed any of it, then the wonderful time he'd spent with Tessa in that dream would be lost to him - dissipated in the telling. And he'd always felt guilty about the self-centerd
|Methos pulled out a beer from his well stocked back pack and luxuriated in the sight before him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gold watch, flicked it open and stared at the picture within. Closing it he took a deep breath, laughed and called out that Duncan was turning into a right woos, complaining about a slight chill. Of course, that in no way translated itself into a compelling reason as to why Methos should join him, he replied to the questioning Scot. "You can rest assured, I'll be joining with you a little later!"|
"Promises, promises. I'll be in a coma later," came the dripping
reply as Duncan launched himself into a stunning backflip.
The late afternoon sun sent its remaining golden rays to illuminate the playground surrounding them, catching water droplets and water sprays in prisms of Expressionist color. Methos remembered later that he didn't believe it could be possible to ever surpass the sight of Duncan emerging from the Loch, laughing and shaking his hair all over Methos, while Methos pulled out of his well provisioned back pack a large thick towel and a flask of Glenmorangie. He rubbed the beautiful Scot down and re-wrapped him in the towelling, laughing at his blue lips and teeth chattering, and offered the flask like a baby's bottle. Duncan let himself be swaddled and comforted as Methos' mouth soon replaced the flask. As he fell deeper into the kiss he let his fingers play with the small intricate ear stud he had bought for Duncan on their anniversary the previous November. His finger tips traced the small golden candle, amidst the Celtic
Iona...one day - one day, he would tell him of the time on Iona in those tragic days after Richie's death, when he had stood on a cliff top, and watched this golden warrior do this very same thing - immerse himself in the cleansing waters of his homeland and take control of all that natural power. Where for weeks he had once craved only to be lost in that water, that afternoon, three years before on an island to the west of them, he had started to find himself and what he stood for. Methos had always believed that it was on that day that Duncan had truly started to heal.
Finally re-edited 20
Thank you everyone
20 May 2001