Warnings, warnings, who's got the warnings? Let's count 'em up:  implied sex of the het and slash varieties -- separately and together; implied torture; implied nose-breaking; character assassination, more than implied;  bad jokes in abundance. Very little schmarm, believe it or not, just the occasional warm-fuzzy. Fandom stereotypes and clichés were wallowed in, pounded on, and blown all out of proportion. Add it all together and rate this one Farce.

"Duuuuuncaaaan." The voice was soft, the tone deep and rich with illicit promises. Duncan's ears perked up. His eyes never moved from the page he was reading, but his attention shifted focus to the long fingers slowly making their way along his bare thigh.

"Yes?"

"You know, next week is my birthday..."

"Really? Another birthday already? Imagine that." He licked his finger and turned a page.

The fingers paused in their progress up his thigh and began to tap gently -- one, two, three, four. Pause. Five, six, seven, eight. Pause. Duncan let them get to twelve before he spoke again.

"Are you still celebrating birthdays? I would have thought that..." The fingers tapped again, not gently.

"But I guess if we only used one candle per century, the cake wouldn't be too much of a fire hazard."

The fingers closed around a tuft of hair and tugged.

"Or we could have a small, private celebration and see how many fires we can start without a cake." The fingers stopped tugging and resumed their slow, careful progress up his thigh.

"Actually, Duncan, there is something special I'd like to do, if you don't mind."

Something special -- that sounded promising. He wasn't too crazy about the 'if you don't mind' part though. The fingers had moved to his inner thigh, lingering and stroking, making promises all their own.

"Well, considering it's your birthday, and since you're always so cooperative and undemanding," the fingers hesitated, as if undecided whether to tug or stroke, "I could probably be persuaded not to mind any number of interesting things." Stroke.

"It's...unusual, but it's not going to be a big problem, Duncan. You won't have to shop, and it won't cost you a dime. I'll take care of everything."

Duncan thought about the present he'd spent the last two months selecting, searching for, then carefully packing and wrapping before he'd hidden it at Joe's. The damn thing had taken him almost an hour to wrap. Perfect. Just perfect. But maybe allowing himself to be talked into whatever this 'something special' was would make his present even more of a surprise.

"No shopping? It's sounding better every minute. What is it?"

"It's not really all *that* strange, I mean considering our circumstances. And we're both old enough not to get jealous about these things, right?"

Maybe 'perfect' was stretching things a bit too far.

"And it's not like we're married, or anything..."

A lot too far. Perfection was changing into problem with every whispered word.

"Just tell me."

"I want to sleep with Methos."

She had to be kidding. Her eyes were wide, her face innocent of guile. It was one of Amanda's most practiced expressions, he'd seen it often. Not that he  believed  it. Of course she was kidding. Well, nobody ever said Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod was lacking in the sense of humor department. He looked back at his book and turned another page.

"That's going to be a real challenge to gift wrap, Amanda. I guess I could strip him and tie a big red ribbon around it, but somehow I don't see both of us coming out of that alive." He shook his head slightly and turned another page, brushing away a sudden and unwelcome image of Methos and Amanda. Together. Naked. In  his  bed. On his sheets.

She couldn't really expect him to take this seriously, could she? Even Amanda  wouldn't...would she?

She reached over, took his book, closed it and set it on the bed stand.

"I'm serious, Duncan."

Maybe she would. They were back on his sheets again. Stroking. Touching. Pale skin blending into pale skin as Methos...no. Some things were better left unpictured.

"Amanda..."

"Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like?"

Of course not. He'd never wondered what Methos looked like naked. Never, ever wondered if his skin was that pale and creamy all over.  He'd certainly never laid awake at night wondering if he tasted as good as he smelled. And he'd never in a million years jolted awake out of a sound sleep, hard as stone, wondering if Methos really could bend like that.

"Five thousand years...that's a hell of a lot of experience, Duncan."

There they were, back on his sheets again, mussing the hell out of them. His arms. Her legs. His long, slender neck. Her lips. His shoulders. Methos' shoulders really were much broader than they looked, hidden under those oversized sweaters. But when he wore one of those henleys that clung and...stop that.

"He must know things about sex that would curl your toes."

Oh, yes, she had that right. Curling was good, and toes were good, too. Methos tongue -- licking, tasting, curling around his...no, around his toes...no, no, around Amanda's  toes...shit.

"Think about what I could learn."

"I'm trying not to." Really, really trying. He wasn't going to think about Methos in his bed, with Amanda. Amanda. Funny, Amanda's hair looked awfully long and dark, and her arms seemed awfully muscular...damn.

"What do you want me to say? That you have my permission to sleep with my best friend? You're a big girl, Amanda, you don't need my permission. And you're right, we're not married. But I thought we were at least 'or anything.'"

"Of course we are, sweetie, don't take it like that. This has nothing to do with us." Those fingers were back, patting his thigh as if they were calming a dog.

"If it has nothing to do with us why did you have to tell me about it? Amanda, there are some things about your life I'd be happier not knowing. I think we can safely say this is one of the bigger ones."

"I know, sweetheart, and I wouldn't have brought it up at all, but there's a bit of a problem."

"A problem. There's 'a bit of a problem' with you wanting to sleep with Methos. I don't even want to imagine what this is going to be. Or what it's going to cost me."

"He won't do it."

"Huh?"

"Methos. He won't sleep with me."

"You've already asked him?"

"Yes."

"And he turned you down?"

"Yeah, I was shocked too. I never imagined that Methos had scruples. Well, not about sex anyway. Amazing, isn't it?"

"He wasn't interested?" Duncan could feel his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. Methos turned Amanda down. Imagine that. It probably did her ego no end of good.

"Oh, he was interested. I was wearing that little red dress you like so much, and believe me, he was definitely interested -- jeans that tight don't lie. He turned me down because of you."

Good old Methos. He'd have to take him to dinner soon and treat him to something special. What a great friend. Always looking out for Duncan's interests. What had he done to deserve a friend like that? The old man might talk tough, but deep down he was a loyal, caring...

"'The Highlander just wouldn't understand, Amanda." I think he thinks you're too provincial. He kept mumbling something about poaching, and another man's sheep, and seeing his head on a spike. 'MacLeod is permanently stalled in the chivalry zone,' that's what he said."

...conniving, treacherous, back stabbing, two-faced son of a bitch. Yes, this definitely called for something really special. Drawing and quartering was probably a bit much, but
tarring and feathering might fit the bill. Or he could...no, not even Methos deserved that. He couldn't go that far.

"'Frozen in a perpetual stage of sexual adolescence by his unsophisticated background.' Methos certainly can coin a phrase, can't he?"

OK, maybe he could go that far. So be it, the old man had practically begged for this one. Fine. He'd show him unsophisticated. He'd show him perpetual sexual adolescence. He'd give Amanda what she wanted. Cheap, easy, and it would kill two birds with one stone: Amanda would get her birthday present, and if Duncan wound her up first, Methos wouldn't be able to walk upright for days afterwards. He doubted if even five thousand years of sexual experience could prepare a man for a wired and ready Amanda.

Revenge might be sweet after all. And who'd expect it from good old chivalrous, provincial Duncan?

"Amanda, love, I wouldn't do this for just anybody, but..."

"You could at least have had a beer waiting for me, MacLeod. Imagine dragging an old  man out on a night like this and not ordering him a drink."

Duncan waved to Joe and gestured toward the other man as Methos settled himself in a chair, carefully arranging his coat so no pointy objects accidentally intersected any sensitive parts of his anatomy. Duncan swallowed an unvoiced snort. Amanda had spent
fifteen minutes rhapsodizing about 'that delicious, sexy sprawl' last night. Sexy, hell. Hadn't it ever occurred to her that the man sprawled because he carried at least half a dozen weapons and swords don't bend? And Methos' sword was big. Really big --
Amanda was right about the tight jeans. Stop that -- if he was going to pull this off he needed to stay mad, and he couldn't do that if he kept dwelling on Methos' sword. Unsheathing it, oiling it, sheathing it again...

"I need a favor, Methos."

"That much I'd figured out by myself. So, what's so important it couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Duncan waited while the waitress served Methos, and watched his face light up when he read the label on the bottle, then tasted the drink to be sure.

Yeah, nothing but the good stuff for you, buddy, friend, best pal o' mine. Always my best side, my best liquor, my best efforts. Even my best girl.

"Oh, that's good. I'm starting to get nervous, MacLeod. What do you want me to do for you that's worth this kind of treatment?"

"I want you to sleep with Amanda."

No spitting of expensive scotch, no choking cough, no raised eyebrows. No smirk -- not even a little one. Methos tipped his chair back on two legs, sipped his drink, and looked at MacLeod. He looked at his face. He looked at his torso. He looked at his legs and feet. Then he started back up, pausing for an uncomfortably long moment at MacLeod's groin before continuing over the stomach and chest to end up back at his face again.
Methos brought his chair back to the floor, leaned toward Duncan, and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

"Mac, I don't want to presume, and God knows I don't want to pry, but have you heard about Viagra? I understand it works miracles. One quick visit to a doctor and you can revitalize Mr.Happy with the wonders of modern medicine, then Presto! Our Amanda's a
satisfied girl again."

Maybe he should just hit him and get it over with. Just one quick jab. He'd dreamed more than once of breaking that nose, and there it was, a mere twelve inches from his face, and such an inviting, vulnerable target. But Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod was made of stronger stuff than that, and besides, giving in to a momentary temptation now might deprive him of the much sweeter pleasure yet to come. Methos, spread naked on his sheets like a moveable feast. Methos, hot, helpless, and at Amanda's mercy. And
Amanda wasn't exactly known for being merciful. Greedy, self-centered, vengeful, yes. Merciful, no.

Duncan looked down at the table. With an effort that cost more than even he would have expected, he made his powerful shoulders droop. After that, the sigh and the quivering lips were relatively easy. From the corner of his eye, he watched Methos move his chair closer. He sighed again when Methos' hand touched his shoulder, squeezed gently, then rested there, patting and stroking.

"It'll be OK, Duncan," he said softly. "This sort of thing can happen to the best of us. You've been working too hard and worrying too much. Relax, get some rest. You'll get over it."

He wasn't going to hit him. He wasn't. Not yet, anyway. Later. He could hit him later, when Amanda was finished with him.

"It's not that Methos. That's normal. That I could deal with. Its...it's..."

"Just tell me, Highlander. Whatever it is, we'll handle it together."

"It's you."  The hand on his shoulder froze, then disappeared. By the time Duncan felt he could look up from the table without laughing, Methos was four feet away, looking wary.

"Me? MacLeod, whatever she's told you, I swear, I never even touched  her."

"I know you haven't, Methos. That's the problem." He was actually starting to enjoy himself. Probably because Methos looked like he'd been hit by a truck. He looked confused, a bit dazed, and in a very unMethos-like manner, seemed to be unable to conjure a sensible, or even a sarcastic, response.

"She's got a bee in her bonnet about you being five thousand years old. Five thousand years of sexual experience. Five thousand years worth of satisfied women. She thinks you must know all kinds of...tricks. It's got her all worked up. She's walking around in perpetual heat. She's driving me crazy, Methos. I promised her I'd get you to sleep with her. Please, just take her to bed and let me get some rest."

"Oh. Damn." That was interesting. Methos didn't look confused anymore, he  looked... resigned. Tired, even.

"What does that mean?"

"MacLeod, I did my best to put Amanda off. You wouldn't believe the line of bullshit I came up with -- it was creative as hell, even for me. And I really thought she bought it."

"Amanda's a pretty smart woman, Methos. She doesn't buy bullshit unless it's on sale."

"I wish she had this time. I'm going to let you in on a secret, MacLeod, but you have to promise me you won't repeat it. Not to Amanda, not to Richie, and especially, not to Joe."

"You're gay." Now why did that suddenly make Duncan feel not just better, but warm, and tingly, and more than a bit hot?

"Huh? What? No, not really. I mean, of course I've had men, more than my share actually, but...that's not the point, MacLeod." Methos glared at Duncan, who was doing his best not to snicker. He didn't get to see Methos squirm like this very often, and
certainly not with this degree of intensity. Whatever this secret of Methos' was, the thought of revealing it to Duncan was making him more than a little uncomfortable. Duncan could have sworn his ears were turning red. It was distracting, but in a cute kind of way.

"Sorry, Methos, what were you going to say?"

"It's a long story, but you don't really need all the sordid details. MacLeod, I don't hide the fact that I'm Methos because I'm afraid of losing my head. I can deal with  head-hunters and over ambitious younglings with delusions of competence. I hide who
I am because of..."  Methos stopped and took a deep breath. His eyes were focused somewhere to the left of infinity, and whatever he saw there made him shudder.

"Because of what, Methos?" Duncan prompted.

"The women."

"The women." Duncan had an instant image of a horde of angry women chasing a naked Methos through the lingerie department of Neiman Marcus, waving little plastic cards and yelling 'Charge!' in half a dozen dead languages. Maybe he had been spending too
much time with Amanda.

"Yeah. Think about it, MacLeod -- Adam Pierson? He almost repels sophisticated women. He attracts the nurturing, earth mother, take-him-home-and-feed him types. I designed him that way;  God knows I could use a little nurturing. But the more sophisticated women -- they hear 'five thousand years old' and it's always the same thing -- just like Amanda, and she's older than dirt, you think she'd know better. But no -- they start to think about it, then they start to dwell on it, then they start obsessing over it, and before you know it their fevered little brains decide that just because I've lived a long time, I must be some kind of holy terror in the bedroom." Methos paused in mid-rant to draw breath, and MacLeod moved closer and patted him on the back, reassuringly. Poor old guy.

"The worst part, the killer part, is that no matter what I do, it's never enough for them. I'm never enough for them. They don't want me -- they want Caesar, or Marc Antony, or Lancelot, or Arthur, or Casanova, or all of them rolled into one impossible fantasy lover." Tears were rolling down Methos' face and his speech was punctuated by the little hiccups that had replaced his ability to breathe.

"Do you have any idea what that kind of pressure is like? Talk about your performance anxiety. My love life is a nightmare! I can't take it anymore." Methos' voice rose to a wail. "Dammit! I'm just a guy, MacLeod!" The cropped head dropped to the table and Methos' arms rose to cover it. He huddled in his chair, shaking, looking cowed and beaten, and very, very small.

This wasn't in the plan.

What had he done? He'd promised Amanda he'd get Methos to sleep with her, that's what he'd done. In anger and pride, he'd struck out, and by fate or misfortune, he'd hit on one of Methos' few real fears, that's what he'd done. He'd brought a proud man, a
friend, someone who had risked his life for him, to the point of tears, and all because a bad joke had injured his pride. And not even a joke.  A line Methos had concocted to get rid of Amanda. Shit. He was a better man than that, wasn't he? He used to think so, but now he wasn't so sure;  he'd all but sicced Amanda on Methos -- she would have backed off if he'd asked her to, but he'd encouraged her. And now she wasn't going to stop until she'd had him, one way or another. Or knowing Amanda, several.

How could he have done that to poor Methos? What was he going to do now? Well, first things first. And the immediate problem was that they were starting to attract attention. Several women at nearby tables were staring at their table, specifically, at him, and frowning. All of them, he couldn't help but notice, had the appearance of  nurturing, earth mother types.

"Methos, don't worry about Amanda. You go to the bathroom and wash your face. I'll think of something."

"You will?" Methos sounded relieved, or at least, a bit less forlorn and desperate. He looked up and Duncan could see the pure light of trust and faith shining through the tears. He swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat.

"I'll handle it, Methos. I promise."

Methos got up and Duncan watched him thread his way through the crowded tables toward the men's room in the back, until his view was blocked by a body leaning over the table.

"What did you do to him, MacLeod?"  He was no earth mother, but Joe growled at him like a mother bear whose cub had been threatened anyway.

"I promised Amanda I'd get him to sleep with her." Shit. Well, he shouldn't really be surprised. After the stress of the last twenty-four hours, anyone could be excused a mouth-in-third-brain-still-in-neutral moment.

Joe looked blank. One hand came up, fluttered ineffectually in front of his chest for a moment, then fell to his side again. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Duncan pushed a chair into place behind him and he dropped into it.

"Damn. That's...no shit?"

"No shit."

"Is it my imagination, or was his reaction a little extreme? I mean, Amanda's a hell of a woman, and sure, some men might find her a little intimidating, but -- Methos? He's got to have seen everything, MacLeod."

"Joe..."

"Damn. What does she do, Mac? Ropes? Chains? Red hot pokers and handcuffs? Naaah, it's gotta be more exotic than that to get to him that badly. I knew I never should have stopped peeking through your windows, I'm missing all the good stuff."

"Joe, I'll make you a deal. Forget about this and I'll send you front row tickets to my next three beheadings. You won't even have to work for it."

Joe was an experienced Watcher, and nobody's fool. His recovery time was almost as good as Methos'; Methos on one of his good days.

"Make it six and you've got a deal."

"Four."

"Six, or I call Amanda and describe this little scene to her. With sound effects."

"Six." Duncan could growl as well as Joe.

"Deal."

"Thank you. Now do me another favor and leave before he gets back."

"I'm outta here."

And just in time, too. Methos resumed his seat a minute later, looking considerably less moist, but still a bit green around the edges. He looked at Duncan, hope and confidence written plainly on his pale face. Confidence in Duncan, the man who'd gotten him into this mess in the first place.

What was he going to do? A simple birthday request from Amanda had turned into a plan for revenge that was going to crush Methos if he wasn't careful. How did he get into this? This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen to him; this kind of thing was
supposed to happen to Richie. But it had happened, and here he was, stuck between his pride and his over-developed sense of responsibility. Between Scylla and Charybdis. Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea. Between Methos and Amanda.

Oh. Duncan reached for the bottle and poured Methos a fresh drink, thought for a second, then added more. Some things called for a double.

"Cheer up, Methos, I've got a plan."

Duncan pulled to a stop, turned off the engine, and looked over at Methos. If he clutched the door any harder, he was going to tear right through the leather.

"Methos, relax. It's only Amanda."

"Relax. Right. Only Amanda. Right. That's like saying it's only a nuclear meltdown. I'm not so sure about this plan of yours, MacLeod."

"Do you have a better idea? One that doesn't involve airplanes and boat trips up the Amazon?"

"I still think that would work."

"Trust me, Methos, Amanda would find you. And by the time she did, she'd be pissed. Right now she's just horny. We can deal with horny."

"Tell me again, MacLeod."

"Methos..."

"I want to hear it again. Please."

"'On my word of honor, I won't leave you alone with her. I'll stick to you like glue. I know where she keeps her handcuffs, and if necessary, I'll use them.'"

"And you're absolutely sure this will work? She won't freak out?"

"You're the only one that's freaking out, Methos. Amanda's going to love this. Two for the price of one. Get out of the car."

Duncan didn't quite have to drag Methos out of the car and into the dojo, but it was awfully close. He balked again at the lift.

"She's going to be disappointed, MacLeod. They always have such unreasonable expectations. It's demoralizing. And I don't have a lot of excess morals to start with."

"She's not going to be disappointed, Methos, She's going to be thrilled. Just stand up straight and stop shaking. Remember, she can smell fear." Methos moaned and made a break for the door. Duncan grabbed him with one arm and lowered the gate with the
other.

"Just stick to the plan, Methos, that's all you have to do. If there's any improvising needed, I'll take care of it. And no matter what happens, don't panic." He was too pale, even for Methos. He looked more like he was on his way to his own execution than to a night of passionate sex with a beautiful, eager woman. This would never do. Amanda was going to smell a room sized rat. He had to get that deer caught in the headlights look off of Methos' face. That, or give Amanda a reason for it.

"One more thing..."

Methos turned to him, wide-eyed and hyper-alert. He looked like one more thing would be three things too many. Duncan hit the up button, then reached for Methos. He pushed him against the wall of the lift, and moved in. Methos had time for one startled gasp before Duncan claimed his mouth -- claimed it, tasted it, savored it.

Sometime, the lift must have stopped. It must have arrived somewhere, somewhen, but Duncan wasn't aware of it. He was consumed by the overwhelming need to get Methos naked without releasing his lips. He might have managed it, too. One more button, one more sleeve, then...

"Duncan, are you unwrapping my birthday present?"

He'd been right about one thing -- the two of them were beautiful together. Pale and lean with short dark hair, they matched like bookends. The missing piece in the picture had been Duncan. Keeping them separate, bringing them together; highlighting their
similarities and accenting their differences. And they were more different than he could have imagined.

Duncan turned his head and looked at Amanda, curled on her side with one soft white hand resting lightly on his chest. Beautiful Amanda. Her thousand years hadn't touched her as deeply as some. She was still full of life and humor and the ability to love and
be loved. She was light and laughter and mischief.

He turned the other way and looked at Methos, pressed tightly against him, his pale skin standing out clearly against Duncan's more golden tones. Who would have guessed that Methos, with his razor-edged tongue and biting wit, had a hidden need for soft words and gentle touches, and a soul-deep craving for acceptance? What in his five thousand years had convinced him he didn't deserve them?

And why in heaven hadn't he known that Amanda would see that? He hadn't needed to draw her aside and ask her to go gently -- from the first kiss, the first touch, she'd known. With Duncan she pounced and scratched, and occasionally bit. But with Methos she cuddled and gentled and tickled.  Maybe Fitz would have expected it of her -- he'd always said Amanda was a sexual communist: from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.

Soon, the sun would be rising. He had a few more minutes of peace and quiet. A little more time to lie here and contemplate his friends. To appreciate them, to idealize them. Then they'd wake up, and reality would set in.

Amanda didn't like mornings. She needed two cups of tea and an hour in front of he mirror before she would speak to anyone. Methos had spent enough nights on his couch for Duncan to know that he woke up talking, sometimes in English, and should be
greeted with a pot of coffee strong enough to peel paint.

His life was about to get really interesting. Maybe he could just sneak out now. Go for a nice long run and wander back, oh, sometime around noon --  a week from next Wednesday. He moved an arm experimentally. Just one arm, barely an inch. Amanda growled and her nails dug small, crescent shaped furrows into his chest. Methos murmured something that was mostly vowels and probably best left untranslated, threw one long leg across Duncan's, and pressed even closer.

Duncan wasn't going anywhere. He settled back between Methos and Amanda, and waited for the sun to rise.
 
 

The End