In shock, Duncan glanced in the rearview mirror, reassured himself he hadn't starting hallucinating, and pulled the Thunderbird over to the side of the road. He got out of the car and leaned against the hood, waiting.
A minute later, Methos, in sweat dampened t-shirt and running shorts, finished jogging the stretch and stood in front of him. "Hello, Mac," he said.
"Methos? What are you doing?" Duncan asked.
"Exercising. What does it look like?" Methos asked, stretching a bit. "And I'm not done. So, if you'll excuse me."
"But - but," Duncan sputtered. "You don't exercise."
"Oh?" Methos said and raised an eyebrow. "You think I look like this because I lounge around all day? Beer has calories, you know."
"Well I know that," Duncan replied. "But, I just have never seen you running before."
Methos grinned. "Mac, the only Immortal that doesn't stay in shape is a dead Immortal." He stepped closer so that he and Duncan were only a few inches apart. He added in a lower tone, "And it takes a lot of stamina to keep up with you. I've got to train."
Duncan swallowed and nodded, hands reaching out for Methos' hips, intending to pull him into an embrace or a kiss, or just about anything that would press that sweaty, sculpted body against his own. But Methos danced away just a moment too soon.
"I've got another six miles to go," Methos informed him as he started running again, backwards for the few steps it took for him to speak. "See you back at the loft. There's still the anaerobic part of my workout to finish."
Duncan got back in his vehicle. Oh, yes, anaerobic, indeed.