Fanfiction Paradies: 'Out of the closet' von Britta + Birgitt

Disclaimer: Duncan MacLeod and Methos belong to the respective PTB. Nonetheless, Duncan/Methos belongs to the fans (until 'they' manifest the one and only relationship on screen) and this story belongs to the authors. There's no monetary gain in it. Yet. Girls can dream, can they? Well - boys can, too!
Archiv: Fanfiction Paradies (http://www.fanficparadies.de/) in der Highlander-Sektion.
Diese Geschichte ist eine Antwort auf den HLQueer-Pfingst-Challenge 2001.

"Methos, what are you doing in there? How am I supposed to begin my beauty sleep as long as you continue turning the loft upside down?" As he had expected there never came an answer to his question. Again, he mentally iterated the items on the 'What's so good about the old man anyway?'-list and weighed them against the plethora of nerve-wrecking habits and attitudes his lover had developed - and perfected - over millennia. What kept surprising him mostly was the fact that many of Methos' facets turned up on both sides of the medal, not making it any easier to decide whether to kiss that man senseless or kick him out of the loft. Right about now the scales tipped dangerously to the latter side...

The noises coming out of the closet built up even more and MacLeod left the bed, slipped a tee-shirt over his head, and tip-toed over to the half-closed door. Right at the moment he wanted to let loose one hell of a yell, a nose followed by a face, showing stains of dust and patches of dust and a most disarming smile, appeared from around the door: "Don't you dare, Highlander! Scaring me to death wouldn't help you in the long run, anyway." Methos grabbed MacLeod's neck with a considerably greasy hand, dexterously avoiding to get his long slender fingers entangled in the masses of MacLeods strands of hair and placed a deep kiss on the already half-opened mouth, leaving the other man breathless with surprise and exasperation.

"Care to sing a different song, Mac? You keep repeating yourself! Come on, you know I just love a variety." With that he turned his back on his lover, rummaging through the storage boxes and the shelves of the little room crammed with odds and ends collected over literally hundreds of years.

MacLeod brought his hands to his hips, knowing full well this gesture was lost since he didn't have any audience. Nevertheless, it helped feeling annoyed and enraged. He should have expected as much: Just a few days ago he'd found Methos sprawling on the couch, studying a book on Feng Shui. Why was it that his lover always went to extremes and turned that Asian tradition, the concept of bringing peace and balance to a home, into a world-championship of decorating - fighting level?

"M--" he started, breaking off as he realized how hard it was for him to address his lover other than in an annoyed tone. He decided to change the strategy and squeezed himself into the poorly lit room, determined to find out what his lover was up to.

"Oh, yes. Come on in, All Ye Gentlemen! The more the merrier," Methos confronted him, straightening himself up to his full height, his short-cropped head missing the little light bulb just by an inch. "Suffocation isn't a experience I'd like to repeat, MacLeod." He picked up one of the larger boxes, nearly the size of a small trunk and shoved it into MacLeod's hands who - a bit surprised by its weight and the pushing movement - stepped back and out of the closet, nearly stumbling.

Methos followed and before MacLeod could start another protest he snatched the box from his hands again and took it to the table in the living area. MacLeod always marveled at the ease with which his lover could handle rather heavy objects. Knowing about the strength in the lean body didn't mean he was always aware of it. As he should be considering who and what his lover was.

Said lover sat down on the couch, placed the box onto the table and lifted the lid, placing the latter beside him. "By the way, you should do something about those coats in the closet. Not much longer and those clothes will fall prey to attacks of linen and cotton predators and all that's gonna be left are rags. Better give those clothes to charity. Or buy some mothballs."

"This apartment is bug free." He glared at Methos with a vicious smile. "Well, almost. At least there are no moths."

"That could change easily. I heard of an invasion of a very nasty species heading to Seacouver once, nicknamed the Moths of Damokles. The first Moth of Damocles destroyed the string which the famous sword was attached to. It fell and killed its owner. Luckily, he was pre-Immortal. But just imagine such a First Death. He was a joke among our kind. Whatever, he was a jerk even before... Well, hence the name. So better be prepared!" And after a little pause he supplied the inevitable coup de grace. "Boy Scout!"

MacLeod just snorted and suppressed a yawn. Sleeping wasn't an option anymore. So he sat down beside his friend and waited for the inevitable.

For a second Methos looked at his stained hands before he shrugged and cleaned them on his pants. Given the poor condition of said item of clothing it didn't improve the status quo considerably. "Remember those diaries I told you about? I've done the reparations and now need something to store them away safely. This box is exactly what I need for the archiving."

"That's what this is all about. I'm going to sort out the items worth keeping; the rest is going to be filed away. L as in litter! After all, what could we be finding anyway? You sure wouldn't store important stuff in the closet, would you?"

MacLeod raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "There are times in the life of an Immortal when the creature in question just doesn't feel like storing and archiving. Too many memories, too deep an involvement to write a post-it and file it away." Another shrug and an apologetic smile. "I was about to do it any day now."

"This is a time as good as any, Mac! Since when has this been waiting to be properly assessed?"

MacLeod leaned forward and picked up a letter with a photograph attached to it. "Let me see. Ahhh, beginning of the twentieth century, on to the time of prohibition in the states."

"They made jokes about us. The Highlander and his Nessie. It was one hell of a time."

"Sure will." For a second they just looked at each other, eventually bursting into laughter. MacLeod ran a hand through his friend's hair. "It's all dusty."

"Later." Methos stole another kiss. "Let's get on with this." He looked closer at the photography. "Yuck! Who's that?"

"Aunt Groenhoff the guys called her. Compared to her Ma Baker was a Madonna. She controlled western Chicago for more than five years. Even Al bowed to her."

"When she'd made enough money she left the States. Went back to her home country, good ol' Germany. This is a letter from her daughter in law informing me that Aunt Groenhoff 'unter den Kartoffeln liegt!'"

"Whatever happened to your German? She kicked the bucket, is pushing the daisies..."

"As I said she was deep into Chicago Drinking Business and Eliot and me had a hard time getting her guys off the streets. Never could gather any evidence against her, though."

"She gave the man who caught Capone the slip?" MacLeod could see his friend loved the idea. Figured.

He nodded. "Before she left for Germany she sent us a present. Seven bottles of the finest whiskey to be purchasable on the black market. There was a little card in the package: 'Meine Hausmarke! Nur für Freunde!' That lady definitely had style!"

"You more than anyone else shouldn't judge from outer appearances." MacLeod managed to give his voice a benevolent tone.

Methos winked. "Yep. Maybe I did." A charming smile flashed over his face and then his concentration was back on the things in front of him. "Let's see what we have next." A wooden object made its appearance, looking like a boomerang with some strings attached to it. "Looks Australian to me."

"It's from Bengal. A musical instrument. And a weapon. The leader of our expedition called it a 'throwing zither'. The natives had a more poetical name for it which would translate rather imperfectly to 'Singing while killing'."

"Ahhh!" Methos made as if he wanted to try out the object and MacLeod snatched it from his hands.

Next was a whole stack of pictures and photos, of a variety of sizes and qualities. Some of them paintings, some sketches, photos... They all had only one thing in common: They all depicted burning stakes. Methos gave MacLeod a queer look.

"Well, to be honest those weren't mine, not in the first place. I just kept them not to insult its former owner. She was rather infatuated with the issue.

MacLeod shrugged. "Maybe! She met First Death at Jeanne's side during those wars. Her name back then was Marie de Broulée." Methos shook his head and MacLeod continued. "By now she has changed her expertise and writes a treatise on Chinese methods of torture involving... candles." My, wasn't it warm in here?

Methos gave a low laugh and put the items diligently aside. Before they could explore the box any further the phone rang. Automatically MacLeod checked the clock. Half past twelve. What the hell...? He walked over to the little side table and picked up the phone.

"I don't know if you remember me, Mr. MacLeod, this is Father Behan..." The voice at the other end of the line trailed off. MacLeod turned to his lover and rolled his eyes, heavenwards. 'The priest' he mouthed. Methos staged an exaggerated but silent moan. MacLeod activated the speakers.

A clearly nervous laugh filled the room. "I guess that was just another figure of speech... I was wandering how I could contact your friend, Mr. Pierson."

Methos made hectic movements but MacLeod ignored them, tuning his back on his friend, a smile spreading on his lips.

"If it's about the damage to the cross I already contacted our insurance company. They'll take care of everything, don't you worry."

"But I do worry. Not about the money, mind you, but about your friend's emotional well-being."

Silence. MacLeod gave Methos a quizzical look who reacted with a deathly glare. This challenge was too good to be ignored...

"Oh, in that case you will be happy to hear that he's with me right now. Wait a moment." He tossed the phone to his lover who snatched it with one hand. Automatism. Always work. MacLeod assumed his friend would have let the device shatter to pieces in order to escape this particular conversation if he'd had the time to think about it.

Methos continued his glaring while he raised the phone, not bothering to deactivate the speakers. "Adam Pierson," he said neutrally.

There was a small pause. "Actually, I don't." Another pause. "Oh my G--" The priest just stopped before using the name of the Lord in vain. "Now I truly apologize, sincerely. However, I had to contact you. If there is someone in need-- I just cannot rest--" Methos began tapping his fingers on the table, soundlessly, just a visible demonstration of his state of mind. "To make a long story short, I thought a lot about your voice, Mr. Pierson."

"You see, when we met two days ago, after that fatal incident, you were so upset and I was so unnerved by the events that our-- well, conversation went all wrong. Now that I had time to consider what you've said and especially the way you said it -- I am sure you are a man who cares despite what you said."

Methos sighed inaudibly and Mac had to choke back a laugh when his lover lowered his head onto the table for an instant. A moment later he said: "I am sorry that I still do not feel up to talking about all this, Father. And particularly not at this hour." His 'voice' was a mix of acid and sugar now.

"I perfectly understand and I invite you to come to the parish, regardless the hour. Just contact me, Mr. Pierson. Or may I call you Adam?"

"I'd rather prefer you wouldn't, Father. I don't want to complicate things, not at this stage of our relationship."

Now the laughter escaped MacLeod's throat and he knew he would be in trouble after the call had ended.

"Again, I perfectly understand, but allow me to confess that I felt a strong bond between us ever since we met."

"Yes, that is indeed mystical. Although I prefer regarding all this as God-sent, Mr. Pierson."

"Comes with the job, I guess. Good night, Father." The acid clearly dominated the sugar by now.

"Of course, Father." Methos killed the connection. His glare directed at his lover couldn't prevent MacLeod's fit of laughter, it only enhanced it.

"Very funny, MacLeod. This is all your fault, with your penetrating desire for righteousness and your ardor in battle."

MacLeod wiped away his tears of laughter, still shaking. "Methos," he huffed rather breathlessly, "this is priceless. I already thought the whole business settled." Two days ago MacLeod had been challenged by a rather young Immortal who threatened innocent by-standers. There had been no other way but to fight and kill him. Unluckily - in the heat of the battle - they'd come very close to the boundaries of Holy Ground in the form of St. David's. After the Quickening Methos could just in time get rid of the dead body but there was nothing he could do about the valuable ancient cross that was the pride of the premise and had been destroyed in the process. He could convince the priest that they had just been staging a fight, being part of a European film crew, using real weapons and explosions to heighten the realism of the scene. When MacLeod had recovered - after all the Immortal had been a young pup and it hadn't taken him very long to regain his strength - he promised to pay for the restoration of the cross via the crew's insurance. That had somehow pacified the agitated clergyman who before had accused Methos of being a reckless renegade who should be shut away for the rest of his life. Which had led to a rather heated argument. MacLeod had been surprised how irrational Methos' reaction had been.

He remembered that now. "You never told me why you were so infuriated. That man had every right to be angry with us."

Methos shot him a dark look. "I wasn't angry with that stupid priest, I was mad at you. But you were not available, Quickening and all. All the time you were fighting that kid I shouted at you, warned you not to come too close to the church's premises. But no, Mr. 100,000 Volt didn't even stop to think for a single second. A few steps further and you'd might blown up the whole town."

"You wouldn't have cared anyway," Methos mumbled. He ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe we should do something about your conditioning." A vicious gleam showed in his eyes.

"With electroshocks?" With an elegant movement he avoided being hit by the cushion MacLeod threw at him and the cushion instead hit the wall, bringing down a scimitar. "Nice try, Highlander. How did you learn to miss that expertly? At least we've found a place for that 'Singing Killer' of yours." With that he directed his attention back to the near empty box. "Okay, let's end this. Oh, what's this?" He held up some fluffy stuff.

"Eagle's feathers. Well, to be precise, eagle's downs. It was my first try at designing a totem."

"And you failed. Could have been worse... Just imagine you'd tried that with a sheep as your spiritual animal..."

"Okay, here it is! The final item," Methos heralded. "Ohh, what have we got here? A newspaper article!" MacLeod gasped audibly and ran over to his lover. How could he have forgotten about that one? But it was too late already.

"Ahhh, 'The Scotsman. May 26th, 1908. Glasgow: Boy Scouts on the Move - Today saw the day of victory for Sir Robert Baden-Powell who had struggled for years to found a new organization for boys and young men. Calling themselves boy scouts those dedicated young people gather to learn and re-learn forgotten skills, specializing in outdoor activities and sports. "But there is more," Sir Robert explains, "we want to convince our boys of accepting responsibility for their fellow people. Be prepared is our motto. I am certain the idea of our organization will spread throughout the nations. The torch will be carried into every corner of the world.' Well, well, here's even a picture of the man--" Methos broke off and MacLeod winced.

Methos laid the article aside and studied his friend. MacLeod cursed himself for having been so careless.