MacLeod doesn't have to ask what that look on Methos's face means. It means I can't believe you talked me into this, which is an expression Methos wears a lot.
MacLeod likes the way it looks on him.
"You're better at that than I expected," Methos says. "I'd have brought matches."
"Matches get wet," MacLeod points out, adding a few more sticks to the campfire. It's going nicely already, and after a few more minutes' tending, it's a nice respectable little blaze, giving a little more light and a little more heat to the early evening.
"I don't know how likely anything is to get wet around here, but I'll take your word for it," Methos says. "Anyway, as long as I don't have to start a fire by rubbing two sticks together, I'm happy. I never was any good at that."
"You don't have to be good at everything," MacLeod says. He bites his tongue before he can say more. You can rely on your friends, he's thinking, and Methos would probably say something contradictory, and MacLeod just doesn't want to hear it right now.
Methos digs into his backpack and pulls out a small paper sack. "Well, since we're here and we've got the fire started, how about indulging me with the finest campfire invention known to man?"
Methos grins. "Well, not a harmonica..." He has a small bag full of something white, and it's not until he's gotten two of the little fluffy things onto sticks that MacLeod realizes what they are. He laughs. Marshmallows. "I've got chocolate and graham crackers, too," Methos says, grinning even more. "When was the last time you had a s'more?"
"A while ago," MacLeod admits.
Methos is methodical about it. He turns his marshmallow every so often, toasting it lightly on all sides. MacLeod gets tired of waiting after a while and just catches the damned thing on fire, blowing it out and sandwiching it between graham crackers and chocolate.
"Youth and impatience," Methos sighs. "They do go so well together."
MacLeod rolls his eyes and eats his snack, making a point of smacking his lips while he does. He's got a second marshmallow started before Methos is done with his first.
"There. Perfect." Methos adds chocolate and graham cracker and polishes off his own s'more, humming happily. "Worth the wait," he says between bites.
MacLeod's second marshmallow catches fire, and they finish their s'mores in tandem. MacLeod licks his lips when he's done; his whole mouth feels sticky.
Methos leans back on his elbows and looks up at the sky; the stars won't be out for another hour or so, but the sun's climbing down and the colors are only getting more and more beautiful. MacLeod unrolls his blanket and stretches out, and Methos glances over at him.
With nothing more than a grin as warning, he rolls over onto all fours, crawls the short distance to MacLeod and his blanket, and climbs on top of him. MacLeod slides his hands into the back pockets of Methos's jeans, and Methos bends his head down to kiss him.
Methos tastes like chocolate and marshmallow, with a little bit of cinnamon. It's a very warm, homey taste; it's much more relaxed than the usual taste of beer lingering around Methos's lips. It tastes like something MacLeod wants and has never been quite sure how to get from Methos, and he's still not sure even now, so he settles for the kiss.
"Worth the wait," Methos murmurs against MacLeod's lips before kissing him again.
MacLeod closes his eyes and kisses back. He keeps his eyes closed while Methos unbuttons his jeans and pulls them down around his thighs, even manages to keep them closed when Methos gets a hand between them and starts jerking him off, slowly, still kissing him the whole time.
It's one of those make-believe games MacLeod has never been very good at. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend this is everything he wants. He can pretend Methos isn't going to run away when things get difficult... that he won't brush all this off as friendly, commitment-free sex.
MacLeod bites down on Methos's lower lip when he comes, and Methos's hand tightens hard around him.
"Me," Methos breathes. MacLeod nods, still catching his breath, and Methos kneels up so he can get his own jeans down. Then he's back on MacLeod, kissing him even harder, using one hand to pin Mac by the wrist and the other to jerk off fast and rough.
"Wait," MacLeod murmurs out, word cut short by the demanding thrust of Methos's tongue. "I can--"
Methos swallows MacLeod's words, tightening his grip on MacLeod's wrist. MacLeod struggles, works his own free hand between them, but there's no room anyway -- Methos is determined to do all the work. MacLeod almost sighs as he brings his free hand up and above his head; Methos manages to pin that, too, and then he's nearly growling as he kisses Mac in earnest.
He doesn't bite when he comes. He moans, though, lips wrenched away from Mac's, and his come is hot against Mac's lower belly. MacLeod pants softly as Methos catches his breath, and after a while Methos collapses against him, letting his hands go.
MacLeod reaches up, arms going around Methos's waist and tightening. Methos chuckles.
"All right," he murmurs, "I get it."
"I'm not going anywhere."
There's an ache in MacLeod's chest when he hears that, because Methos means it for now and that's not what Mac's after. And they both know it.
But MacLeod closes his eyes again, and it's a little easier this time to pretend this is everything he wants. Maybe someday the pretending will be enough.