Death by smothering. It wasn't the worst way to go. Methos was giving it serious thought.
Not him, of course; MacLeod. A good smothering would clear up that snore in no time, not to mention all the noises. Grunting. Groaning. Mumbling. What on Earth was he dreaming of, anyway? Most of the time when Methos borrowed Mac's couch for the night, Mac slept like the dead. Then again, most of the time Mac hadn't put away half a bottle of scotch, either.
It wasn't as though there was anything in particular the matter. It was February 14th, and there were hearts all over Joe's bar, but that happened every year -- nothing to drown his sorrows over. Amanda was gone, sure, but Amanda was unpredictable like that, and Methos didn't think MacLeod was in one of those phases where he was pining over the little minx. It could be a midlife crisis, Methos supposed. MacLeod was still young enough to be doing that every hundred years or so.
A particularly loud groan made Methos sigh and untangle himself from his blankets. "Enough already," he mumbled, yawning as he padded to MacLeod's bedside. "MacLeod?"
There was a great deal more movement coming from the bed than Methos expected; not just the average tossing and turning, this was...
Most of the movement was coming from Mac's hips, which were pumping down into the bed in a fairly steady rhythm. Methos arched an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest; no harm in watching to make sure it wasn't some kind of muscle spasm. A few more groans and another thrust or two, and Methos chuckled. "Not fair, Highlander. I always dream about bus stops when I'm blitzed."
Waking sleepwalkers was never a good idea; waking up a man who was keeping him up due to amorous dreams was another story. Methos sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Mac's shoulder. "Mac..."
Mac tilted his head back and did more than just groan; he let out a full-throated sound that lasted several seconds, and Methos glanced down the bed at Mac's hips again. "Really not fair," Methos muttered, "I never come in dreams." He took his hand off Mac's shoulder and gave his backside a swat. "Wake up, you! You're keeping me up with your perverted sex dreams."
"--uh? Hrnrr?" Mac collapsed back into his sheets and tried turning his head so he could look up at Methos. It didn't work very well; his eyes never made it past a squint.
"Damn." Methos sighed. "Well, maybe you'll be quiet now."
"Methos?" Mac sounded as if his mouth were stuffed full of cotton.
"Yeah, it's me. Go back to sleep." Methos stood up.
"I'm fine. You might want to roll over, though, unless you like sleeping in the wet spot."
Mac grunted and shoved himself to the side, rolling onto his back. The sheets were so tangled it might not have done much good, but he did seem more comfortable. Lucky him, Methos thought. Yeah, it'll be easy getting back to sleep now.
Another sigh out of the older Immortal; Methos crossed his arms over his chest again and looked down. "You don't sleep off your hangovers very fast, do you? I'll keep that in mind."
"I love you."
There was no particularly good response to that; Methos blinked a bit and tried to think of one. "You're going to be so glad you don't remember this in the morning," he murmured. "Go to sleep."
Methos woke up first again, much to his surprise. He'd finally managed to get back to sleep, and he'd expected to sleep late; he picked up his watch to confirm it. Nearly eleven. He pushed himself up and looked over the back of the couch toward MacLeod's bed. No sex dreams, it looked like, but he still wasn't out of bed. Methos yawned, covering his mouth with one hand, and climbed off the couch. A shower. Food. Normal daily activities. Definitely better not to mention last night's oddities. God knows who MacLeod had been declaring his love to; he'd been asleep.
Walking across the loft to the bathroom was enough to wake MacLeod up, though; Methos heard movement as he started the water running. It always took a while for the hot water to get up this far, so he took care of the morning piss and tooth-brushing while he waited. He'd left the door open, despite being undressed apart from his boxers; if MacLeod came to, remembered his dream, and was pissed off about Methos's interruption, well, Methos wanted advance notice.
MacLeod did make an appearance at the bathroom door, but he didn't look upset. He was blinking sleep out of his eyes and had a sheet hitched around his hips (reasonable, Methos decided, he'll have to wash them anyway after last night); he yawned as he tried to wish Methos a good morning.
"Good morning to you, too," Methos said, or tried to say; much of it was garbled from his toothpaste.
That got another distinctly Scottish grunt out of MacLeod, and Methos couldn't help chuckling. He rinsed his mouth out and leaned back against the counter. "Something wrong?"
"What about it?"
That was an excellent question, apparently; MacLeod didn't have a response. "Right," Methos said. "You want to wait until after I've had my shower to pick up on this?"
MacLeod glanced from the shower to Methos and back again, and shook his head. "No, I think we'd better talk now. About last night--"
"Uh-huh." MacLeod didn't look too pissed off; that was a good sign. A lecture, then. Methos could tune that out. Blah blah blah, don't wake me up if I'm dry-humping the bed, blah blah blah...
But the lecture wasn't forthcoming, either, and Methos was starting to get edgy. "Just spit it out, MacLeod," he said. "You don't want me to--"
"I do. Want you." MacLeod's expression still held a bit of sleepiness, but that was quickly turning into determination. "There are more dignified ways to tell you than what happened last night, but--"
"Last night was nothing," Methos interrupted, trying to head off Mac's speech at the pass. "I woke you up from a particularly good dream and you fell asleep again right after. Nothing happened."
"Nothing--" MacLeod frowned. "What do you mean, nothing happened?"
"I mean nothing happened. You don't have to go to the trouble of confessing anything awkward; nothing happened."
"We didn't--" MacLeod leaned heavily against the doorframe. "Last night, you and me -- we didn't--"
"Your sheets are all your fault, if that's what you're asking," Methos said. "So there's really nothing to apologize for, or explain, or whatever it is you were planning to do. Do you want to get some coffee started?"
"Then I'll pick some up when I'm done with my shower. Now, if you'll--"
"Wait a minute." MacLeod stepped into the bathroom, reaching out to grab Methos's arm. "We need to have this out. I don't know what I said last night -- it doesn't matter. I'm awake now. And I still want you."
"I'm not blind, MacLeod," Methos said, gently pulling away from MacLeod's grip. "I do know what attraction looks like when I see it."
"So do I." MacLeod advanced another step, dropping his sheet so he could get his hands on Methos's hips. "Give me a reason not to act on it."
"I don't -- do -- attachments to other Immortals," Methos said, reaching up to get MacLeod's hands dislodged again. He couldn't quite manage it, though; his fingers slid up MacLeod's arms instead. Oh, such a bad idea. "It never works out well."
"You're thinking too many steps ahead," MacLeod said, fingers tightening, moving in closer.
"I have a very bad habit of that," Methos had to admit, his own hands curling around MacLeod's biceps. "You're not wrong about the attraction. But--"
But was cut off as MacLeod finally kissed him, and Methos stopped arguing. The voice in his head insisting this was a bad idea got drowned out by the reptile part of his brain, the part that was suddenly very interested in the fact that MacLeod was sliding his hands down the back of Methos's shorts. MacLeod was a damned good kisser, too; more willing to take the lead than Methos had ever expected. Methos groaned a little as MacLeod pulled back.
"Just once," MacLeod murmured, "don't talk yourself out of this."
"No promises, MacLeod," Methos whispered back. "But today's all yours."