Passion's Captive
Original Version Copyright 1998; Edited Version Copyright May 26, 1999 by Rory V. Pascual PROLOGUE:
The man dropped down to his hands and knees as agonizing pain ripped through his ass, filling his entire being. For awhile, he couldn't move, panting for breath, caught by the intense tightness of the hot channel between his legs. Then, as the flashing of strobe lights and the hard pounding of rock music reached his pain-filled mind, he suddenly remembered what he was supposed to be doing.
Though still in agony, he struggled to his feet, gripping the pole in the center of the stage. He swung himself around it and continued to dance. But the unexplained constriction of his ass made it extremely difficult for him to move. The mere swaying of his hips caused pain to lance through his body. Hoping to ease his discomfort, he let the crack of his shapely rump press against the pole, sliding up and down in a grotesque parody of a sexual act.
Damn! he cursed between gritted teeth, the sweat trickling from his brow. Why do I feel like I've just been fucked hard an' some fool left his cock inside me?
Wanting to keep his mind off the pain, the dancer focused instead on the men he was entertaining. All were leering up at him, howling like mad dogs. The lust in their eyes was unmistakable. One man brazenly motioned for him to approach. Grudgingly, the dancer obliged. He grimaced in disgust as the man pushed a hundred-franc bill into the waistband of his jeans, his fingers caressing the aching bulge at the dancer's crotch. The dancer hated men like him, he hated them all. Most of all, he hated what he had become.
The dancer wasn't like this before. He was a power unto himself. He was a fighter, an aggressor, a cruel lord of women, a killer. But now, he was the one oppressed, slave to another man, who knew that it was only through extreme violence and bloodshed that he could elicit pleasure from the star attraction of his club. He couldn't even fight back, knowing that to do so would lead to death. He truly despised what he was now.
As his hands went up to caress the sweating flesh beneath the loose white shirt he wore, the dancer's fingertips brushed against his hard, sensitive nipples, held taut by tiny clamps that have gold chains attached to them. The chains in turn were connected to the tight ring around his cock. His employer wanted him in this artificially aroused state, to tease the audiences who come to watch him night after night. But with the sudden, strange tightness of his ass, the dancer was aroused to a fever pitch, demanding release that he knew would not come, unless his master freed his tits and his cock from their shackles with his small key. Distracted as he was, he was also easy prey to the vultures in the audience below.
Sure enough, the man who had given him money sensed the dancer's vulnerability. Suddenly, he jumped on stage and swiftly strode towards the dancer's sinuous form. Before the dancer knew what was happening, he was held tightly in the man's embrace.
"Let gae o' me!" he hissed under his breath. God! Kinsey's goin' ta kill me for this! the dancer thought frantically. Where the hell's Jules?
As the audience cheered and clapped, the man pushed the dancer against the pole and eagerly tore the young man's shirt wide open. The dancer struggled to free himself, but his hands were pinioned behind his back.
"You've got nice tits, boy," the man muttered in his ear as he licked the taut nipples, playing with the chains.
"GET YER FUCKIN' HANDS OFF ME!" the dancer cried furiously. But the man ignored his cries and his struggles. Eagerly, he unzipped the dancer's jeans, freeing his erection. The dancer gasped as a sweaty hand fondled him.
"NO!" The dancer tried to break free as his tight jeans were lowered to his thighs. Somehow, he managed to raise his knee and bury it into the man's groin. Feeling the hold loosen, the dancer made to run away. The man, however, tripped him that he fell. Luckily, the dancer propped his arms up in time or else he would have landed on his stiff cock. Before he could get away, his rump was raised high in the air.
The dancer inhaled sharply as the man pressed a finger inside the puckered opening of his ass.
"Damn! You're so tight!" the man declared. "I could barely get my finger inside you!"
"STOP IT!" screamed the dancer. "YE'RE HURTIN' ME!"
However, the man continued to prod and push at the tiny rosebud.
As a hard rod touched his anus, the dancer mused in despair, * Is this it then? Am I ta be raped afore a bunch o' filthy sodomites? *
Then, to his relief, he felt the man pulled off him. There was a loud crack of a hard fist connecting with bone, and he saw the man fly into the audience. A strong hand gripped his arm, pulling him up, his clothing yanked into place. The dancer grinned, seeing that it was the Black bouncer of the club, Jules.
"Jules, thank God!" he exclaimed. "Ye're a sight for sore eyes! What kept ye?"
The bouncer swiftly hustled the dancer backstage. "What the hell were you doing up there? Kinsey's furious! You know how he gets when…"
"Whan another man touches me besides him?" the dancer queried. "Jules, I dinna know wha' happened. I…hurt, an' I did no' 'ave the strength ta get away from him."
"Where does it hurt?"
Though it embarrassed him to say so, he answered softly, "Ma ass."
Jules frowned. "Did Kinsey…"
The dancer shook his head. "No, except for the tit clamps an' the cock ring, he did no' put anythin' else on me."
"Before the dance," the bouncer asked, "did he…he didn't…use…you?"
"Dinna be such a gentleman, Jules," the dancer snapped at him, exasperated by all these questions. "Kinsey did no' fuck me, though I feel like I was." The dancer saw the Black man turn his gaze away. Feeling remorseful for being so abrupt, he muttered, "I'm sarry. But ye know wha' I am."
Jules grimaced. "* Oui. * It doesn't mean, however, that I approve of this. You know that I care about what happens to you."
"I understand," the dancer nodded.
Soon, the two men stopped at the Manager's Office. The bouncer hesitated at the doorway. "He's waiting for you."
"I know." Smiling at the Black man reassuringly, he said, "Thank ye, Jules."
At these words, the bouncer opened the door for him and he went inside. The dancer glanced nervously at the figure seated in the swivel chair, the back turned to him. The man was eyeing the monitors before him, showing the stage of the club.
"Kinsey," the dancer began hesitantly, "I cad explain."
"This had better be a good one," the man answered icily.
The dancer hated the way he stammered over his words, his fear of his employer obvious in his tone of voice. "I was hurtin', Kinsey. There's a sharp pain in ma ass. It still hurts up ta now. I was tae much in pain tha' I cad no' get away from him."
"Is that a fact?" Kinsey stood up from his seat. He was tall, towering above the dancer by a good one foot. Muscular, heavy of build, his hands clenched and unclenched into tight fists. His mustache twitched in displeasure as he walked around the table and went towards the dancer.
"'Tis the truth!" the dancer insisted, terrified by the sight of those huge fists. "Do ye think I wanted ta be touched by tha' son o' a bitch? Ye know I cannae bear ta be touched by any man!"
"And that includes me, doesn't it?"
Defensively, the dancer replied, "I ne'er meant ye, Kinsey. Ye know tha'."
"DON'T LIE TO ME!" There was an angry flash in Kinsey's eye. Before the dancer could get out of the way, his employer struck him hard in the face that he had to grab the desk's edge to keep from falling to the floor. Dazed, he barely felt Kinsey come up behind him and bend him over the table, hands yanking down his jeans. His wrists were gripped tightly.
Knowing what the man intended to do, the dancer begged, "Please, Kinsey. Dinna do this ta me. I'm no' lyin' ta ye. I swear I feel ill."
"Then prove it!"
A scream was wrenched from the dancer's throat as Kinsey thrust his hard cock into the opening of his aching anus. The young man breathed hard, trying to relax so the entry wouldn't be so painful. But he was so tight that Kinsey couldn't penetrate him.
"How did you get this damned tight?" he heard his cruel employer gasp. The dancer was relieved when Kinsey pulled away…until he felt blunt fingertips poking him. He broke out in a cold sweat. He knew what was coming next.
A few minutes later, Kinsey pulled his fist out of the dancer's ass. The young man couldn't move. At first, he thought he was going to die at the brutal way Kinsey pounded his fist into his tight channel. Just as suddenly as the pain appeared earlier, it suddenly vanished. But the sudden relaxation caused his employer's fist to bury deep inside him that he cried out. Then, the agony was replaced by such mind-blowing pleasure, though the cock ring prevented him from pouring out his release. Feeling the throbbing ache in his penis, the dancer wanted to weep. Why couldn't he feel pleasure without the pain tearing into him first?
The dancer winced as Kinsey slapped his bleeding rump.
Grinning at the young man before him, Kinsey said, "I guess you were right after all. Damn, I never knew you could get so tight. If that happens again, come to me at once. I'll loosen it up for you."
* Bastard! * thought the dancer in anger. He gazed up into his employer's eyes, hoping he looked cowed enough. "Kinsey, I'm really verra tired. I wad like ta gae home. Please?"
"You do look terrible. Very well, you may go," Kinsey waved his hand dismissingly, going back to his desk.
Placing a hand over his taut nipples, the dancer queried, "Cad ye take these off?"
To his dismay, Kinsey shook his head. "No. I might drop by early in the morning. I want you prepared for me."
"Kinsey, I beg ye!"
But his employer simply looked at the papers on his desk. "I'll see you later then. Don't worry! I'll bring the key."
Seeing that his employer wouldn't free him, the dancer sighed wearily and went out of the office, heading for the dressing room.
As he entered, his fellow strippers turned and looked at him. For a moment, they just stared at each other.
Unable to endure their scrutiny any longer, the dancer declared angrily, "Wha' the hell are ye lookin' at? Dinna ye 'ave anythin' better ta do?"
At these words, everyone went back to what they were doing. But there was one who couldn't hold back a retort.
"At least we dance and just take our clothes off!" he snorted in disgust. "We do not sell our souls to the devil, like one of us is doing."
Ignoring that comment, the dancer took his towel and headed straight for the bathroom. Opening the shower, he leaned into the cold stream, letting the water wash away the traces of his defilement. He didn't even notice he was weeping.
When he came out of the bath, the dressing room was empty. Quietly, he donned a pair of loose slacks and a silk shirt, stifling the gasp in his throat as the soft fabric brushed over his sensitive flesh. Putting on his jacket, he slung his bag over his shoulder. He then went out the back way and strode into the dark Paris streets.
Somehow, the dancer just found himself taking a different route. He couldn't understand why, but something inside him was urging him to go somewhere. This bothered him immensely. This was not a good place to be at night.
Soon, the dancer reached a dark alleyway. At the chain link fence at the end, he could hear soft sobbing. Cautiously, he made his way inside and paused, seeing the weeping figure slumped on the pavement.
Then, the man in the alley gazed up at him. The dancer felt his heart stop in shock, recognizing him at once. Even the man was just as stunned. The last thing they both wanted was to see each other again. Noting the sorry state of the man before him, however, it suddenly dawned on the dancer why he experienced that agonizing pain earlier at the club. He should have known they were still bound together. He thought he was free…well, free of him at least. But then, the man certainly didn't look like a threat to him now.
"Ye 'ave certainly made a mess o' things this time." He tried to sound reproachful, but he couldn't. The dancer felt a tug in his heart, a reaction that was alien to a killer like him. Or maybe he just deluded himself into thinking that he had lost his capacity to care when, in actuality, it still existed inside him. On the other hand, why shouldn't he care? He had never seen the man look so lost before.
Despite his apprehension, the dancer raised a hand to him. "Come! 'Tis no' a safe place for both o' us!"
For a moment, the man hesitated. The dancer understood why. The last time they met, they had fought fiercely. But now was not the time for fighting. The man must have seen that he had no desire for a quarrel. Hesitantly, he took the dancer's hand, and he was pulled to his feet. The dancer placed his arm around the man's waist. To his surprise, the man even laid his head on his shoulder.
"Let's gae home!" the dancer whispered gently.
The man's answer was a soft sigh.
The dancer placed his jacket around the shivering form and led him out of the alley. As they walked through the streets of the city, the dancer held on protectively to his companion, praying that he would not bump into someone who knew him. If they were seen together, it would spell disaster for both of them.
Thankfully, their trek was uneventful. Soon, they reached the dancer's modest flat that Kinsey had gotten for him. However, it was only when they were inside and he had bolted the door that he felt safe.
Carefully, the dancer removed his jacket from the trembling young man.
"Ye look awful!" he commented with a grimace. "Ye've no' been takin' care o' yourself, 'ave ye? Has the gym business gone bad? Not tae many oiled masculine flesh ta whet yer imagination?"
But the man didn't answer. He just gazed at his surroundings with fear in his eyes.
"Come wi' me," the dancer said, rather offended by the blatant distrust in his companion. "Maybe a bath wad do ye guid."
He took the man's arm. At first, there was hesitation, then his guest allowed him to be taken up to the second floor. The dancer took him to the spare room.
"Wait here," he ordered, going into the bathroom to draw a warm bath for his guest. The dancer went to his room and took out a clean shirt, slacks, a towel and a bathrobe from his dresser. Going back to the other room, he laid the shirt and slacks on the backrest of a chair. Slinging the robe and towel on his arm, he motioned to the man, who stood very still in the middle of the room.
"Ye're obviously in no condition ta care for yourself," declared the dancer. "Let me tend ta yer needs."
His guest gazed at him suspiciously. "Why would you want to do that?"
Putting his hands on his waist, the dancer pouted. "Any reason why I sud no'? I dinna know wha' happened ta ye, but I do know tha', wha'e'er it was, ye caused me a terrible night at the club. Are ye gonna let me take care o' ye or no'? Ye know damned well tha' I cannae allow anythin' ta happen ta both o' us!"
Though apprehensive, the man followed his dubious host inside the bathroom. When the dancer began unbuttoning his shirt, he quickly grabbed the wrist.
"I could do it myself." He tried to sound strong, but it came out as a whisper.
"Sure ye can!" the dancer commented mockingly. "Dinna gae shy on me. I know verra well wha' ye've got hidin' under these clothes."
Before his guest could argue, the dancer swiftly stripped the shirt off. A frown formed on the dancer's brow at the sight of the bruises and bite marks healing slowly on the other's chest. The man snatched his shirt back, pressing it over his body. He closed his eyes when the dancer yanked his jeans down. The man waited for his host to utter a retort. However, there was only silence. He waited and waited, tears of shame trickling from the corners of his eyes, knowing full well that the dancer had seen the blood on his rump and thighs.
Unable to control himself, he demanded, "Well, aren't you going to say something?"
"Get into the tub, but dinna sit down," ordered the dancer. Meekly, the man obeyed him.
While he washed the blood and semen from the buttocks and thighs, the dancer asked the inevitable question, "Wha' happened ta ye?"
"I was raped…" the man began grudgingly, feeling strong hands bid him to sit down into the warm waters of the tub.
"I cad see tha," the dancer interrupted.
"…sort of." He barely heard that soft conclusion to his guest's reply.
"Wha' do ye mean 'sort of'? Who did this ta ye? The fellow must 'ave had remarkably poor taste ta want ta fuck yer prudish backside like this."
"You know damned well who it is!" was the bitter retort.
The dancer thought for a moment. Much to the man's dismay, he burst into gales of laughter.
"Are ye talking abou' him? Are ye tryin' ta tell me ye somehow got the nerve ta get him ta bed ye? Wha' did ye do?"
"I… I've been seducing him. He said he wanted to see me as Juliet." The man lowered his eyes. "It kind of backfired on me."
"Ye can say tha' again! Sa ye dressed up like tha' bloody virgin from Verona!" Giggling, he said, "Haven't ye learned yer lesson the last time ye wore tha' dress? If I knew better, ye were askin' ta be raped. Ye liked it didn't ye?"
The man stood up angrily from the tub. "We both know who the perverted one is between the two of us. Never, ever make the insinuation that I'm like you. I could never be like you. I hate you so much!"
"Well, the feeling's mutual! Ye fuckin' hypocrite! Dinna gae aroond blamin' me for yer bloody insecurities. At least I had the courage ta act on ma passions!"
"Yes," the man hissed, "and you got me gang-raped in the process!"
The dancer grinned smugly. "I thought ye liked Merchant? How was I ta know he was goin' ta bring company? I cannae verra well let ye miss ou' on all the fun. Wha' kind o' person wad I be?"
"YOU RUINED MY LIFE!"
"AYE! THE SAME WAY YE HAD RUINED MINE, AN' NOW I'M GOIN' TA MAKE YE PAY FOR IT!"
Hearing that threat, the man jumped out of the tub and ran out of the bathroom. But the dancer caught him before he could get out of the bedroom, tackling him to the floor.
"Let go of me!" he cried as he struggled to break free.
The dancer gripped him by the hair and dragged him towards the bed. He quickly secured the man's wrists and ankles to the bedposts, gagging his mouth with a scarf.
"Haven't ye e'er wondered wha' became o' me?" the dancer asked the man he had trapped beneath him. "Let me show ye!"
Saying this, he tore off his clothes, revealing the chained nipples and cock. Somehow, it didn't surprise the dancer to find bruises on his body, remarkably similar to that of his guest. Laying his full length over his captive, the dancer muttered, "Because o' ye, I am now a whore! I dance for men who wad want ta stick their rods inside ma mouth an' ma ass. I despise ye for makin' me this way – weak, defenseless."
The dancer leaned on his haunches, straddling his prisoner's legs. With a lascivious grin on his face, he stroked the man's hips.
"Ye know?" he began. "I like ye this way. So helpless. I cad do anythin' I want wi' ye an' ye wad be powerless ta stop me."
A muffled "No!" escaped the man's lips as he struggled with his bonds.
"Maybe I sud take yer cock in ma mouth, or I cad ride ye. Or maybe I cad take ma ain rod an' stick it up yer arse. Choices! Choices!"
Unconsciously, the dancer gripped his erect penis and was stroking it furiously, the head dripping with pre-cum. There was a shocked whimper. Gazing down, he saw that his captive was staring in horror at his own cock that was rising between his legs. It seemed as if the dancer was fondling the other man's penis.
"Do ye like wha' ye see?" the dancer queried. "Nay! Do ye like wha' I'm doin' ta myself…an' ta ye?"
At these words, his hands went up to his chest. Pressing the trapped nipples between his fingers, the dancer pinched and pulled on the tips. Sure enough, he saw his captive's tits jut up into tight nubs, assuming the same rose red color as his clamped nipples. Tears began to fall from the man's eyes.
"Dinna weep!" the dancer whispered, leaning down to kiss the full lips. He licked the tears away. "I only want ye ta feel pleasure!"
The man turned away in disgust.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Slapping his prisoner's face lightly, he said, "Just relax, ma friend! I'll be back, once I've seen ta ma guest." Winking, he added, "Ye'll know whan I'm done."
The dancer laughed as he walked out of the room, ignoring the frantic cries of the man on the bed. Running down the stairs, he swiftly opened the door and leaped into the arms of Kinsey.
"Wha' teuk ye sa long?" he murmured sensuously.
But Kinsey let him down, eyeing the flat warily. "There's someone here."
"Wha'? Another Immortal? Now, why sud I be havin' an Immortal in ma flat? Come on, Kinsey! Ye an' I know verra well tha' ye get this buzzin' sensation in yer head whan ye've had tae much ta drink."
"And I have you to blame for that, you little minx!"
The dancer pouted as he peeled Kinsey's coat off his shoulders and down his arms. "Are ye still angry wi' me? Kinsey, ye know ye're the only one for me. Ye're the only mon who knows how ta give me pleasure." Removing his employer's shirt, he whispered, "Cannae ye see how much I ache for ye?" He then let the points of his taut nipples tease the Immortal's broad chest. The dancer took Kinsey's beefy hand, wrapping the callused fingers around his aching erection.
Kinsey embraced the dancer, plundering that exquisite mouth with his lips and tongue. "You just drive me crazy, you know that?"
"I know," the dancer replied. "I know."
Inside the master bedroom, the dancer writhed in the Immortal's arms. Kinsey had removed the shackles on his sensitive flesh, only to torment them with his mouth and teeth. Already, the dancer's nipples were bleeding from the bite marks and the hard suckling.
"Please, Kinsey," the dancer begged him. "'Tis no' aneuch! Ye know wha' I need! Please give it ta me!"
A gasp escaped his lips as Kinsey struck him hard in the face. Blood began to flow from the corner of his mouth. The dancer smirked.
"Is tha' the best ye can do?" the dancer taunted the Immortal
He cried out as Kinsey drove his fist into his belly. At once, the dancer instinctively began to fight back, but the Immortal pinioned his wrists above his head, spreading his thighs with his knees.
The dancer screamed in agony as Kinsey penetrated him with no gentle preparations at all. Kinsey's huge cock tore his flesh, scraping his tight channel raw.
"Harder!" he cried. "Fuck me harder! Rape me! Make it rape, Kinsey!"
And the Immortal eagerly did as he was told.
The agony of their coupling seemed to last for hours. Still, Kinsey did not relent. He was certainly up to the challenge presented by his exquisite whore. Already, Kinsey could feel the tremors in the body beneath him gradually increasing. He then quickened the pace of his hips, ramming his penis hard and deep into the younger man's body. The dancer was screaming in agony. At the last thrust, Kinsey couldn't hold back anymore and he came. As his semen spilled into his lover, the dancer cried out in ecstasy, spurting his fluids all over their bodies. When he pulled out of his lover, blood flowed freely from the battered orifice.
The dancer kissed Kinsey tenderly. "Thank ye, Kinsey!"
At dawn, the dancer suddenly woke up to the sudden, painful constriction of his ass. As he staggered up from the bed, an anguished cry pierced the red fog in his mind. Swiftly, he went to the guestroom and opened the door.
Kinsey had his guest pinned beneath him. He was pounding his fist into the tight channel. The man was screaming, shaking his head frantically, tears falling from his eyes.
Seeing him, the man cried, "Help me! If there's any compassion in you, please help me!"
Hearing that plea, the dancer picked up the heavy crystal vase on the table. Taking three long strides towards the bed, he smashed the glass over Kinsey's head. As he fell dazed, the dancer pulled the Immortal's hand out of the man's battered ass. He then removed the ties on the man's wrists and ankles and hauled him to his feet. To his horror, he saw blood begin to stream from both their bodies.
Grabbing his trenchcoat as well as the bathrobe, the dancer wrapped them around their naked bodies.
Running down the stairs, they heard Kinsey roar, "Come back here, you sons of bitches!" Though it chilled his blood to hear that shout, the dancer hustled the man out of the flat, stumbling onto the sidewalk.
Thankfully, a taxicab was passing by. Hailing it, the two men quickly got into the backseat. The dancer barked an address to the driver. As they drove off, Kinsey emerged from the flat.
"You can't hide from me!" he yelled, waving his fist furiously. "I'll find you! You hear me! I will find you!"
"What was that all about?" the cab driver queried. "I don't want to get into trouble."
"Just shut up and drive," the dancer snapped at him.
When they were a long distance away from the flat, the dancer pulled the man closer to him.
"How could you let him do this to you, to US?" the man in his arms wept bitterly.
The dancer was about to say "I want you to suffer along with me!", but he couldn't. Neither of them deserved that kind of treatment, most especially the innocent man in his embrace. He never intended to drag him back into the ugliness of his world. Now, the dancer had to be strong for both of them, though he knew, unlike his companion, his chances of survival were very slim.
Tears welled up in the dancer's eyes. "I don't know, Duncan," he answered at last. "I really don't know."
CHAPTER ONE:
"Bastard!" Methos cursed under his breath as he drove through the Paris streets. Grimacing, he rubbed his aching jaw. "Who'd ever thought that that grizzled old Watcher had a mean right hook? BASTARD!"
The ancient Immortal had gone to see Joe Dawson at the new Watchers Headquarters, hoping to catch the Watcher before he returned to Seacouver. He never expected to get into an argument with Joe.
+ + +
"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?" Joe demanded furiously.
"Just wanderin' around," Methos replied in his infuriatingly calm manner.
"It's been two months, and not even a word from you."
"Joe, the mail is rather slow in the Himalayas."
The Watcher gritted his teeth. "Do you know that Mac's missing?"
"So? Every Immortal wants to disappear now and then. You know that."
"He's been missing since that night!"
Methos fell silent at these words.
"Now do I have your attention?" Joe said smugly.
The Old Man glared at the Watcher. "Yeah, so it's my fault, is that it?"
"Why shouldn't it be? After all, you raped him!"
"That's why I left Paris, because I knew that's what you're going to say. And I certainly didn't want MacLeod running after me, wanting more of that treatment."
"Damn it, Adam!" argued Joe. "He was in love with you and, yet, you abandoned him when he needed you most."
"Don't go putting all the blame on me! He's the one who's been throwing himself at me. That act of demurity didn't fool me one bit! I'd be a fool if I didn't snap up the chance that was given me." He gave Joe a conspiratorial wink. "Besides, you and I know damned well that this is not the first time this happened."
"What do you mean?"
"Merchant's journal. It made for interesting reading at the monastery. You read it, but you didn't read between the lines. What went on between MacLeod and Merchant WAS NOT entirely friendship!" Methos pulled the journal out of his pocket and thrust it into the Watcher's hand. "Take a look! I've marked the page."
Before Joe could even begin to read it, the Old Man quoted the passage. "'Sometimes, there were moments during our conversations when Duncan would fall silent. As I talked, I would notice him peering up at me through his lovely silk lashes with a strange light in his eyes. His full lips would be parted, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. Could it be possible that MacLeod is attracted to me? There is no other explanation for it. But I couldn't risk everything on an assumption. Whether he truly wants it or not, I will take him.'" Methos crossed his arms over his chest. "So you see, Joe, I'm not entirely the one to blame for everything that has happened to MacLeod. The way I see it, it's more his fault than mine. Duncan was asking for it. Merchant and I simply gave him what he thought he wanted."
"SON OF A BITCH!" Joe shouted. Before Methos knew what was happening, the Watcher punched him hard in the jaw that he fell to the pavement.
Standing over the Immortal, Joe waved a finger menacingly at him as he muttered, "I want you to find Mac."
"I'm not his Watcher," Methos declared stubbornly. "You find him!"
"I maybe his Watcher," Joe began, "but whether you want to admit it or not, you are his lover. Stop lying to yourself. You love Mac, and you hated what you did to him. That's why you hid like a rat in Tibet. You couldn't take the guilt. Well, it's time to stop running, pal, and face the consequences of your actions. Bring him back, Methos. You're the only one who could do it."
The ancient couldn't speak at that remark, because he knew it was true. Finding MacLeod was his responsibility, and, yes, he loved the Highlander. Even after two months in Tibet, he was still haunted by the pain he had inflicted upon Duncan's heart and soul.
Joe must have seen the acknowledgement on his face. Straightening up, he said, "I'm glad we agree with each other." He then limped towards his car. Pausing at the door, the Watcher looked at the Old Man once more.
"One last thing!" Joe called out.
As Methos slowly got to his feet, he grumbled, "Yeah, what is it?"
"Don't touch him, Adam! Even if he throws himself at you, I don't want you laying a finger on him."
There was irritated smirk on Methos' face. "Don't worry, Joe. I'll be a perfect gentleman."
+ + +
Bastard! Methos thought again. Do you think, after what happened, I'd still want to fuck him?
It certainly didn't just have to do with the fact that he didn't want to hurt Duncan any more than he already had. Methos was still smarting from the way the cruelty he inflicted upon the Scot backfired on him. Up to now, his cock would ache at the sheer memory of that vise grip.
The Old Man groaned, shaking his head. "Why do these things always happen to me?"
Days turned into a week, and already Methos was getting worried. It would've been better if MacLeod had simply gone on a trip, as he originally suspected. However, a visit to the barge proved otherwise. The remains of their last dinner together still sat, stinking and unwashed, in the sink. Apparently, the Scot had hied off to Amanda after he had left him. All his clothes lay in the dresser.
Methos tried using his contacts in the city, but they were unsuccessful in finding clues as to the Highlander's whereabouts. The Old Man even contemplated going to the police. However, he knew that they would also come up with nothing. Of course, there was the strong possibility of the police asking why he only reported the Scot's disappearance now.
"That's a thought!" Methos contemplated wryly. "You see, officer, I raped the missing person, and chances are the reason why he's missing is because he doesn't want me to find him and hurt him again."
The ancient wondered if he should pull in the Watchers' resources. But suspected that Joe had already done so, with no success. Add the fact that it was a clear case of interference. No, he was totally on his own.
Leaning against his car, Methos sighed, "God, Mac! Where the hell are you?"
On the evening of the tenth day, a forlorn Methos was strolling wearily through the park. His search has been fruitless. Sitting down on a bench, he leaned forward, laying his elbows on his thighs.
Burying his face in his hands, he thought desperately, * How in the world am I going to find Duncan? *
Then, Methos heard a soft moan. Turning in the direction of the sound, he saw a man leaning against a tree, his head thrown back. He was trying to conceal another man kneeling at his feet with his trenchcoat. Methos had to admit he admired their audacity. It's not everyday you see a man enjoying a blowjob in the park. Besides, whoever was doing it must be pretty good at it. The man he was suckling was having difficulty holding back his screams. With a stifled cry, it was soon over. With gentle consideration, the kneeling figure zipped up the man's trousers. Still panting for breath, the man pressed a franc note into the other's jacket pocket.
"Magnifique!" he whispered to the man at his feet. As the prostitute stood up, the man trapped his head by entwining his fingers through the hair, loosening the tie. One hand reached down and cupped the firm buttocks, giving them a good squeeze. "Maybe I should fuck you right here, no?"
"I'm afraid it's goin' ta cost ye much mair ta do tha' ta me," came the sultry reply.
Methos frowned at the sound of that voice. It was very familiar to him, but there was something different about it that it was very hard to place the identity of the speaker.
"Merci beaucoup," the hustler said gratefully as he sauntered off, removing the hair tie that his sable mane hung freely over his shoulders.
Swiftly getting to his feet, Methos called out, "Wait! Please!"
Hearing his call, the hustler paused and, with deliberate slowness, turned to look at him, a provocative smile on his face, the kind of smile that spoke volumes.
* I know what you want. I know what you desire. I can give you your heart's desires, * the smile said. * But for a price, IF you could afford it. *
Methos never expected to see that kind of smile on the lips of the man he loved, and there was something else that troubled him.
The hustler turned pale, seeing him, the smile disappearing from his face, to be replaced by a most ferocious glare. Spinning on his heels, the man dashed off, leaping through the bushes.
"Hey! Wait!" Methos cried as he gave chase. But as he went around the bushes, he saw that his quarry had vanished.
"MacLeod!" he shouted desperately into the night. "MacLeod, come back! I swear I won't hurt you! Duncan!"
However, no one answered his cry. As he concentrated, trying to detect the distinctive aura being emitted by his lover, realizing hit him. To be certain, Methos doubled back to the park bench, staring at the tree where he saw the two men.
The ancient shook his head in dismay. It's not Duncan. It wasn't him!
The distance between the park bench and the tree was within an Immortal's sensing range. The hustler Methos thought was MacLeod did not have the buzz surrounding him. He was mortal.
CHAPTER TWO:
As the days passed, and still no sign of the Highlander, Methos found his thoughts going back to the hustler in the park. Often, he wondered if it was just the dim lamplight or his aching heart playing tricks on him. The more he thought about it, however, the more he was certain that the man, had indeed, looked like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
His curiosity piqued, Methos included the hustler in his search. But it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Having been a prostitute himself in his distant past, the ancient knew that there was an unspoken rule among streetwalkers about squealing against one of their kind. It could either get them arrested or, worse, killed.
However, there was an aura of danger surrounding this particular hustler. When asked, the prostitutes would shut up like clams. One pimp didn't give him details, but the man did say that messing around with that particular hunk of gorgeous male flesh was bad "juju". But Methos was persistent. He was determined to find the hustler, and began leaving large sums of money to the pimps and streetwalkers, hoping that they would find the hustler and inform him that his "services" were needed.
Then, one day, his search was rewarded. While Methos stood along the Arch of Triumph, a tall, burly Black man approached him.
"Monsieur," the man said politely, "if I might have a word with you."
The two men were soon seated in Maurice's modest cafe, drinking tea. The Black man introduced himself as Jules Dordet.
"It has come to my attention that you are seeking the services of one of my...employees, Monsieur." It was apparent to Methos that Dordet has not been a pimp for long, and was even uncomfortable about acting as one.
"Yes," the Old Man agreed. "Does he know that I'm looking for him?"
Jules shook his head. "He leaves it up to me to scrutinize potential clients."
"Why? Is he in trouble?"
"I'm afraid so. His former employer is searching for him and wants him back very badly. I want to be certain that he's safe enough away from him."
"He must be very special to you if you would want to protect him like this," said Methos thoughtfully.
For a moment, Jules fell silent, looking into the Immortal's hazel eyes.
Then, to Methos' surprise, rather than comment on the other, sexual, connotation of that statement, Jules replied, "He must be very special to you if you would want to find him like this."
A smile formed on the ancient's lips. "Let's just say I admire the man's brazenness for performing fellatio in a park."
Jules laughed at that remark. "'Brazen'...indeed he is that. If it were not for that particular quality in him, he would not have survived this long."
Leaning forward, Methos begged the man. "Please, Jules. I really must see him. I could only give you my word that I won't hurt him. It's important that I talk to him."
"I know you won't. But you'd be a fool if you'll just 'talk' and do not avail of his services." Jules winked at him. "Am I correct?"
"Whatever you say. Well, so his night with me wouldn't be a total loss, how much do I have to pay him?"
Jules began to enumerate a price list that was certainly very expensive.
* He must have confidence in his talents, * mused the Old Man. Wanting to gauge the hustler's talents for himself, Methos agreed to the works, which would cost him 1,000 francs.
Before Jules left, he gazed down at Methos. Conspiratorially, he bent down and whispered in his ear.
"I forgot to tell you," he said. "The full service has a 'special offer'. If you could give him pleasure, the same way he had pleased you, he will return every cent of the money you gave him."
Methos cocked an eyebrow up at him. "Is that a challenge, Jules?"
"You may call it that. You described him correctly, Monsieur Pierson. He is...special. It is very difficult for him to find pleasure in sex when he could easily drive women and men to heights of ecstasy they had never experienced before."
"Well, we shall see," the Immortal assured him. "I'm not without experience. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve as well."
"Mr. Pierson," Jules began hesitantly. "I could see that you are a decent man. Please, monsieur. Do not hurt him."
Methos looked at Jules curiously. "I don't have any intention of hurting him. Who knows? Maybe I can help him find the pleasure he seeks."
Three days following his meeting with Jules, Methos found himself in a cheap hotel. It was ten o'clock, and he was two hours late. As he went up to the 6th floor on the lift, the Immortal was afraid that the hustler had left already.
Opening the door to Room 610 with the key Jules had given him, Methos stepped inside and quietly closed it behind him.
"Duncan?" he gasped in surprise.
The hustler was seated in a small chair beside the window. Like the night he saw him in the park, he wore a black leather jacket that reached down to his thighs, dark jeans and velvet boots. He had fallen asleep, his head laid on his arm on the windowsill.
Methos was having difficulty controlling the emotions that were welling up inside him. Slowly, he approached the sleeping figure. With trembling fingers, the Immortal caressed the smooth cheek.
Feeling the fingers on his skin, the hustler woke up with a start, running to the other side of the bed. A frown creased his brow, seeing the ancient.
"You!" the hustler breathed the word.
"Hello!" greeted Methos nervously. "I'm Adam Pierson."
"I dinna make it a habit o' askin' ma clients' names I dinna want any...personal...entanglements." The young man gazed at the Immortal in displeasure. "Ye're late."
"I got caught in traffic."
The prostitute tilted his head to the side. Methos noted the sensuousness in the man at that small gesture.
"Tell me, Mr. Pierson," the hustler queried. "Do ye make it a habit ta search for whores tha' ye like?"
Methos grinned. "Only the ones that are bold enough to give their clients a blow job in the park."
"Is tha' why ye called me? I thought ye were a cop."
"No. Just looking to cop a feel."
"Well," the younger man began, running his tongue suggestively over his even, white upper teeth, "if ye've brought ma money, ye'll be doin' mair than just coppin' a feel."
Methos pulled out an envelope. He was about to hand it over but he paused, noting the distance between them. "Why don't you come over and get it? I swear I don't bite."
For awhile, the hustler hesitated. Though there was a glower in his face, fear was evident in his eyes. Breathing in deeply, he went around the bed, going towards the ancient. With great exaggeration, he snatched the envelope out of Methos' hand and began counting the money inside.
"It's all there," said Methos, a bit peeved by this blatant display of distrust.
"It pays ta be certain, doesn't it?" the hustler put in.
The Immortal took the younger man's hand and swept him into his embrace. Giving in to his heart's longing, Methos pressed his lips to the prostitute's full mouth. There was no struggle from him. He just allowed the ancient to taste his moist depths.
When Methos' hand squeezed his rump, the hustler chuckled. "I thought ye wanted the works. I dinna give if 'tis only an easy fuck ye desire."
"No," the ancient muttered. "I just wanted to touch you, to kiss you for a second. You remind me of someone who's very important to me. You look just like him."
There was a thoughtful look in the hustler's eyes. "Dinna expect me ta be like him. I dinna want ye ta be disappointed."
Methos smiled weakly. "You know, you're right. Maybe you could help me to forget, even for just a little while."
Pushing the Immortal down onto the bed, the hustler whispered, "Just lie back an' enjoy the show." Going towards the cassette recorder on the table, he turned it on, the opening strains of Queen's "Under Pressure" filling the air.
As Methos watched, the hustler began to dance, moving his body with sinuous grace to the beat of the music. Seeing the young man spin on his toe, the ancient couldn't help but be reminded of the missing Highlander. The Scot was an excellent dancer, very light on his feet despite his build.
However, when the hustler smoothly peeled his jacket off his shoulders and let it slide down his arms, Methos stopped comparing the two men altogether, because there was no way that the prudish Scot would dance like this.
Swaying his hips seductively, the hustler removed the tie from his hair, letting the waves tumble down his shoulders. Long, graceful fingers caressed his neck, descending to the firm muscles of his chest, clearly visible through the mesh-like shirt he wore. Closing his eyes, the hustler pinched the nipples to tautness before letting his open palms slide over the rippling muscles of his abdomen. Methos felt his mouth water as the dancer rubbed the prominent bulge at his crotch.
Bending down, the prostitute unzipped his boots. With excruciating slowness, he removed the buttons of his jeans, pulling his shirt free. Teasingly, the hustler turned his back to Methos, pushing his jeans down his long legs, giving the ancient an alluring view of round buttocks. Turning on his heels, he faced the Immortal and sauntered towards him. Slowly, the hustler climbed on the bed, inching upwards until he straddled Methos' crotch between his knees.
The Old Man gasped as the young man began removing his shirt. When those deft hands found the zipper of his trousers, for a moment, Methos hesitated, grabbing the hustler's wrists. But the dancer pressed the Immortal's hands to his lips, kissing them gently.
Laying those cold trembling hands over his chest, the hustler whispered, "Let me do this. Just play wi' me, touch me as much as ye like."
And Methos did as he was told. While the young man stripped him, the ancient played with the hardened nubs, straining against the fabric of his shirt.
As Freddie Mercury launched into the crescendo, so to did Methos' passions rise. Hungrily, he ripped the hustler's shirt, eliciting a surprised gasp from the younger man. Sitd the hustler's shirt, eliciting a surprised gasp from the younger man. Sitting up, Methos trapped the sable hair between his fingers, yanking the head back. Sitting up, he devoured the hustler's flesh with his lips and tongue, nibbling at the graceful neck. Going down, Methos greedily took a tiny tit inside his mouth, nipping the sensitive gem between his teeth and suckling on it fiercely. His left hand twisted and pulled on the other nipple.
Pulling away from the Immortal's grasp, the prostitute slid down to nuzzle at the nest of curls between Methos' legs. A cry escaped the Old Man's lips as the dancer took the rod of silken steel inside his mouth and let it slide down his throat, his muscles working on the shaft. Gritting his teeth, Methos tried to hold back the deluge that was building up inside him. But it was difficult. The hustler knew how to draw the passions out of the man he was fellating. It was no wonder the man in the park lost all control. Methos, however, was not about to lose himself, to surrender to that wonderful mouth. After all, he was the paying customer.
Thinking that the hustler had slickened his cock enough, Methos jerked the young man off him. He could see the query in the prostitute's eyes as well as the drops of pre-cum on his swollen lips. Gripping the hustler's hips, Methos pushed him to his knees, positioning the young man above his erection. Taking his aching cock in hand, the Immortal thrust hard into the orifice. The hustler whimpered in pain as he felt himself impaled.
Feeling the walls of the hustler's anus clamp around his cock, for awhile, Methos kept still, fearing that he might stimulate a strong spasm. But then, he recalled that it wasn't Duncan he was having sex with. To his delight, the hustler was tentatively milking his cock with his ass muscles.
At once, Methos gave in to the passions that were consuming him, driving his penis like a piston into the sweet body above him. As he held on to the prostitute, he watched as the young man bucked on his rod, sweat trickling down his oiled body that his skin glistened in the light. The hustler's head hung back, eyes closed, lips parted, his hair flying.
Reaching the peak, the Immortal couldn't hold back any longer. With a grunt, he came into the hustler's body, spurting his seed into the hot flesh. When Methos was spent, he pulled his softening member out of the younger man.
"I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did," he said, grinning, playing with a wisp of hair over the prostitute's forehead.
The hustler gave him a smug smile. "Well, I cad see ye got yer money's worth. But I'm afraid it did no' do anythin' for me."
"What..." Methos started to say. It was then that his eyes fell upon the impressive cock between the prostitute's legs, hanging limp and lifeless amidst the sable curls. Throughout their coupling, the penis just dangled unresponsive at the hustler's crotch.
Seeing the look on Methos' face, the hustler said reassuringly, "Dinna take it as an insult ta yer manliness an' prowess in bed. I'm just no' easily aroused, tha's all."
"Are you impotent?" Methos queried curiously.
"Nay," the young man replied. "Like I said, I'm just no' easily aroused. Ye can say I'm a captive o' ma passions."
"Maybe I should free you then." Before the hustler could pull away, Methos took him in his embrace. The ancient's hand groped for the limp jewel, his fingers enclosing it. He then began stroking it from the base to the tip, pulling on the shaft, his thumb playing with the rose-colored head.
The hustler sighed. "It is no' goin' ta work."
"We'll see." Methos pressed his finger at the base of the balls. However, the prostitute jerked more in surprise than in pleasure. After several minutes of trying to elicit a response, he opened his hand and stared at the flaccid penis in confusion.
"I tauld ye it will no' work," said the hustler. Standing up, he took his duffel bag hidden under the bed. He took out a dark blue pullover, putting it on. As he donned his jeans and boots, the hustler looked curiously at Methos. The ancient was staring blankly at the sheets, a forlorn expression on his face.
When he had packed all his things, the young man's eyes fell upon the envelope. He then glanced back at Methos, who still sat silent on the bed.
"I'm goin' ta regret this," he muttered under his breath. Going towards the Immortal, the hustler dropped the envelope before him. Methos snapped out of his thoughts as he gazed up at the young man.
A smile formed on the hustler's face. "Take it! This one's on me."
Methos quickly took the envelope, handing it back. "Listen, it's not what you think." But the prostitute shook his head.
"Nay," he countered. "If ye're tha' desperate ta get yer money back, I guess ye must need it mair than I do."
"It's not about the money. I just wanted you to feel pleasure."
The hustler, however, declined to take his money, pressing the envelope into Methos' hands.
"Wha' abou' the man ye're lookin' for? Cad he no' find pleasure in yer arms? Is tha' why he left ye?"
Methos turned away, shaking his head. "It's rather complicated, very difficult to explain."
The hustler shrugged. "Dinna blame yourself, Mr. Pierson. Ye're a considerate lover. Maybe...maybe...yer lover and I...we cad 'ave...similar problems."
A frown creased the Immortal's brow, hearing these words. However, he did not pry any further. He just watched as the young man went towards the door.
"Wait!" Methos called suddenly. The hustler paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "Will I see you again?"
"I dinna think sa," the young man grimaced. "I cannae afford ta give freebies. I 'ave a reputation ta maintain."
"Let me know your name, at least."
"Ma name is no' part o' the deal."
"PLEASE!"
The hustler paused for a moment, thinking. Grudgingly, he said, "Oh, verra well! My name is Dhonncaidh."
But that's the Gaelic pronunciation for... thought Methos in shock.
Dhonncaidh must have seen the startled expression on the ancient's face. Regretting that he had told Methos his true name, he hastily stammered, "I just liked the sound o' it. I figured, if I had the right name ta gae along wi' this accent, I'd get mair customers."
Methos was not convinced. "Is that your real name? It is, isn't it! So's your Scottish accent!"
"I really must be goin', Mr. Pierson."
"Is your family name 'MacLeod'?" Methos insisted. "Tell me, please!"
"Aye, 'tis MacLeoid!" Dhonncaidh exclaimed. "Why are ye askin' me these questions? Is tha' yer lover's name? If we share the same name, 'tis purely coincidence."
"It's not just the name," the Immortal argued. "You look so much alike. Hell, you could be twins!"
"Mr. Pierson, I suggest ye take a long, hard look at me once mair," said Dhonncaidh icily. "I am a whore. Wad yer lover, yer Duncan MacLeod, sell his body an' soul night after night ta a variety o' men?"
Methos opened his mouth to utter a retort, but no words would come out. Duncan had suffered a most brutal rape. If the Highlander couldn't endure a single night with him, he would practically go insane if he were made to lie with other men.
Dhonncaidh saw the ancient lower his gaze, a pout on his lips. "I'm glad ta see we're in agreement abou' this." As he opened the door, he declared, "Dinna look for me again, Mr. Pierson. I cannae be a substitute for yer lover. I'm no' worthy." Saying this, the hustler walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
For a long while, Methos just sat on the bed, staring at the envelope in his hands.
"Dinna look for me again, Mr. Pierson," Dhonncaidh had told him. "I cannae be a substitute for yer lover. I'm no' worthy."
Then, it just suddenly hit him. Running to the window, Methos gazed down into the street, seeing Dhonncaidh hurry to the other side, disappearing into the corner. The tone in the young man's voice was very apparent to him. Dhonncaidh was jealous.
"I cannae be a substitute for yer lover. I'm no' worthy," the hustler's last words to him whirled inside his mind.
How could you say you're not worthy, Dhonncaidh, mused Methos, if you do not know Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?
Dhonncaidh purchased some takeout from a Chinese restaurant before taking a circuitous route back to the apartment. Tomorrow, he would be using a different way, to frustrate any possibility of pursuit.
However, when he arrived at his new home, the hustler couldn't shake the foreboding inside his heart. Then, there was the matter of the man he had just left behind.
Why do these things always happen to me? he thought in despair as he rode up to the Fifth Floor via the lift. 'Tis sa unfair!
Going to his room, Dhonncaidh pulled out his key and unlocked the door. As he went inside, he could see a figure lying on the couch, waiting for him.
"Had a busy night, I see." It was not a question. Duncan MacLeod sat up and stared at the other man accusingly.
Dhonncaidh glared at the Scot. "Ye know the kind o' life I lead. Who asked ye ta show up an' make a mess o' things?"
"May I remind you, Dhonncaidh," the Highlander said coldly, "your life has always been a mess even before I discovered you still existed."
"Are you telling me your life isn't? Look, I ne'er asked ta be this way."
"And what do you want to be? A murderer? A rapist? Take it from me! I like you better this way. It's a big improvement."
Dhonncaidh took three steps towards the Highlander, hand raised to strike. Duncan gazed at him in defiance. Biting his lower lip, he grudgingly lowered his hand and turned his back on the Scot, tears welling up in his eyes.
Duncan felt the change in the other's man demeanor, the stripper's sorrow piercing his heart like a long, fine needle. But his deep hatred for Dhonncaidh helped him to ignore the prostitute's distress.
"Do ye hate me tha' much?" Dhonncaidh suddenly asked him.
"You do not have to ask me that," answered Duncan. "You know what's in my heart. Besides, I know you hate me too."
The hustler shook his head. "Duncan, despite wha' I tauld ye before, I dinna hate ye exactly! It's just tha'... People like ye mair than they do me. 'Tis mair o' envy. But if you dinna want ta believe it, there's nothin' I cad do."
Wanting to keep his mind off his angry guest, Dhonncaidh hastened to set the table for their meager dinner.
As he opened the food cartons, he just found himself saying, "I was wi' him today."
Duncan felt his breath catch in his throat. Gazing out the window, he commented, "So what?"
"I thought ye might want ta know."
There was pain in the Highlander's voice. "Look! It's done! Over! History!"
Dhonncaidh looked back at the Scot, a quizzical frown on his brow. "I dinna understand. I thought ye care abou' him. He's been lookin' for ye, ye know. Tha's how he foond me. He thought I was ye."
"I don't know how he could mistake you for me. What the hell were you doing when he found you?"
The hustler couldn't answer. Instead, he cast his eyes down.
Duncan crossed his arms over his chest and snorted in disgust. "I guessed as much. I believe he was the one who was fucking you earlier."
"But 'twas nothin'!"
"Of course it was nothing to you, because I was the one who felt what you two were doing!"
"Did ye like it?"
A blush went up Duncan's cheeks at that unexpected question. Sorrowfully, he said, "It doesn't matter what I feel about it. After all, he was making love to you, not to me."
"Aye," Dhonncaidh began, "but he was thinkin' o' ye whan he was havin' sex wi' me. He kept on talkin' abou' ye. Dinna ye love him?"
The Highlander laughed at that query. "Love? How could I love the man who raped me? He's all yours if you want him. You two will get along just fine. As they say, 'birds of a feather, flock together.'"
Dhonncaidh was stung by the Scot's comment. Taking his things, he muttered, "Dinner's ready. Ye may eat if ye want. I'm no' hungry." At these words, he stormed inside his room and closed the door.
Duncan didn't have to get up to know that the stripper was crying inside.
I'm sorry! he spoke the words inside his mind. I didn't mean ta be cruel.
To his surprise, there was a bitter reply. Dinna apologize if ye dinna mean it, ye hypocrite!
Duncan bit his lower lip. Dhonncaidh was right. He had meant everything he said. As he gazed out into the city, he could feel Dhonncaidh's pain resonate inside his own heart.
For several nights, Methos returned to the hotel, hoping to find Dhonncaidh. But the hustler never came back. He tried sending him messages through his previous contacts to no avail. Even Jules met with him personally, saying that Dhonncaidh didn't want to see him again.
Feeling lost and lonely, Methos found himself huddled on the park bench, knees raised, arms wrapped tightly around them. First, Duncan. Now, Dhonncaidh. For five millennia, excluding his brotherhood with the Horsemen, he had prided himself on being a loner, establishing relationships with only a select few he could trust completely. This was the first time he had hurt someone he loved so badly.
So lost was he in his misery that Methos didn't notice the tall, dark figure approaching him.
"Is this seat taken?" a soft voice asked him.
"No," the ancient answered, wiping the tears from his eyes in embarrassment. "I was just leaving."
"Oh!" came the surprised, yet disappointed, reply. "An' I thought ye wanted ta see me?"
Methos' head snapped to the side to find Dhonncaidh looking at him, a smile on his handsome face. Lost for words, the Immortal embraced the prostitute instead.
At first, Dhonncaidh hesitated. Then, his arms rose on their own accord, pulling Methos closer to him. He breathed a relieved sigh as he laid his chin on the Old Man's shoulder.
I'm sarry, Duncan! the hustler thought. Since ye do no' love him anymore, Methos is mine. I'll teach him ta love me. I swear I'll make him forget ye.
