That's Lay-day Snackpants to you, buster. (amand_r) wrote in hlh_shortcuts,
That's Lay-day Snackpants to you, buster.

Happy Holidays, mogwai_do!

Title: Nothing But the Truth
Author: carenejeans, aka 404 Author Not Found.
Written for: Margaret / mogwai_do
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sap!
Author's Notes: The plot, as such, is shamelessly lifted from a recent episode of Chuck. Other than that, however, it's not a crossover. Beta thanks to decarnin.
Summary: A simple case of mistaken identity.


Methos heard the footsteps behind him a second before he felt the man's hand on his neck. He spun around, reaching for his gun, and managed to kick someone in the groin before he went down under the tackle of what felt like an army. Someone yelled, "Idiots! Don't kill him!"

Cursing inwardly, he fought back as he'd learned to do in the mud, blood and alleyways of countless cities in his long life -- then someone's arm slipped, an elbow smacked him in the head, and everything went black.


Someone was slapping his face. "Wake up, you!"

"M' trying," Methos mumbled. Something was wrong with his arms. He couldn't put them down. He turned his head gingerly to the right. A big bruiser of a man had Methos's arm in a vice-lock. He turned his head gingerly to the left. A twin to the first man had a lock on his other arm. Methos felt no presence. Well, that was something. He giggled. Oh, hell, he thought.


An ugly face swam into his vision. "Where is the code?"

"Code?" He giggled again. "I hab a code." His witticism sent him into wheezing gales of laughter until the man slapped him again.

"Don't be smart." The man showed his teeth. It was not a pretty sight. His dentist must be a sadist. "You have been injected with a deadly truth serum. In one hour you will die."

"Thas' whuyoo thing, thin, think," Methos said. Something was wrong with his tongue. His mouth felt full of glue. At the same time he began to feel a strange compulsion to talk. "S' a million stories inna naked city," he said experimentally. This would be one of the more pathetic ones.

The man waved something in front of his eyes. A vial.

"Tell me where the codes are and I'll give you the antidote."

"You, Watcher?" Methos frowned. If anyone could come up with an Immortal-killing truth drug, it would be that gang. Or maybe they'd steal it from some insane Immortal. God knew there were enough madmen among his kind. Some of them were bound to become mad scientists.

"Never mind who I am. Just tell me --"

"Dunno no codes," Methos said. He knew that much.

The man slapped him. Methos made a mental note to never again use the back-alley shortcut to Duncan's place. The man leaned towards him. Methos turned his face away. "Ugly," he complained.

The man raised his hand as if to strike him again, but there was a commotion. The ugly man stood aside abruptly and a better-looking but equally muscle-faced man dressed in musical-comedy mobster garb -- black shoes, black pants, black shirt, black tie, hair dyed as black as it could get, and one jet earring -- took his place.

He grabbed Methos by the chin and hissed in his face. "Idiots! This isn't him!"

Methos recoiled from the stench of strong mints and tried to make words form in his mind. He was on his feet, just barely, hung between the two bruisers on either side of him. There must be some magic words he could say to get these people off him.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Who is he, then?" Another bruiser, hulking behind Mr. Black demanded. "And what was he doing at the checkpoint?"

"Who are you, and what were you doing at the checkpoint," Mr. Black repeated, breathing Altoids into Methos's face.

"I am Methos." This seemed inadequate, so he continued, "The world's oldest living man."

"Well, now, that's about to change," Mr. Black scowled. "What are you doing here? What?" His eyes swiveled to where the ugly man was urgently pointing. "Jesus Christ, what is that, an arsenal?"

A collection of weapons was stacked in a pile; Methos's gun, Mace, several knives, brass knuckles, a truncheon, a large fork, and his sword.

"What does he need a sword for?" Mr. Black said.

"What do you need a sword for?" the ugly man demanded.

"In case of -- Methos struggled against the compulsion to tell the truth, and lost. "A challenge," he said unwillingly, from between clenched teeth.

"A challenge? Like what, a duel?" Mr. Black seemed genuinely curious.

"Sort of."

Mr. Black shook himself. "Never mind that. What are you doing here?"

"Here?" Methos couldn't figure out the scope of the question. On earth? On this continent? In Seacouver, on this street? A million stories tumbled around in his brain.

"Here," Mr. Black said, pointing down at his feet.

"I'm… being detained by your staff?" Methos offered. He'd managed a complete sentence! Methos felt an irrational joy. He had so much to say.

"Before that!" Mr. Black roared.

"I was…." What had he been doing? It must have been something funny, because it made him giggle again. "I was going to visit a friend." As soon as he said the words, he felt a presence.

"Oh, and here he is now," Methos finished happily.

Duncan materialized out of the darkness, with a gun. A gun he placed gently against Mr. Black's head.

"Just let him go and no one gets hurt," Duncan said.

"You sound like a cop in a thirties noir film," Methos said. "Bulldog MacLeod." Duncan looked at him strangely.

"Do what he says," Mr. Black snapped the order to his goon squad, and Methos, suddenly freed from the grip of the two bruisers, stumbled forward. Duncan caught him with one strong arm, but his gun wavered on Mr. Black, and one of the bruisers took the opportunity to shoot Duncan through the heart.

Methos looked down the barrel of the other bruiser's gun. "Oh, fuck," he said. And giggled.


Methos opened his eyes and coughed. He was on his back on the pavement. He stared at the moon. It was full, and partly covered by silver clouds. "Oh, pretty."

"What -- the hell -- is pretty," Duncan was on his hands and knees beside him, breathing heavily. There was blood all over him.

"I'm drugged," Methos said. "I'm going to die in an hour." He raised his head and squinted down at chest. There was blood all over him, too.

"They drugged you? Why?"

"Case of mistaken identity."

Duncan swore. "What kind of drug is it?" He stood, stretched carefully, then bent over to help Methos up.

"It's -- ungh -- a truth serum. A deadly truth serum."

"Truth serum?" Duncan made a show of looking around. "Did we drop into a James Bond film?"

"That's what the ugly one said. He stuck something on my neck."

"Let's see."

Methos stood patiently as Duncan examined Methos's neck. "That feels good," he purred.

Duncan snorted. He pulled away a tiny white patch. "This must be it." He eyed Methos. "Truth serum."

"Don't get your hopes up," Methos said. "I've been trained to withstand deadly truth drugs."

"Have you, now?"

"No," Methos said.

Duncan grinned. "In that case—"

"Dude!" A trio of skateboarders slowed, staring at Duncan and Methos and their grisly clothes. Duncan glowered at them, and they sped away.

"You do that really well," Methos said, and Duncan turned his glower on him. "But we'd better get back to the loft. We both look like we've taken bullets to the chest without vests, and I'm going to die again. I'd much rather do it in your bed."

"Good plan. Can you walk?"

"A bit wobbly on my pins," Methos said, holding on to Duncan's arm. "You know, your hair looks better when it's all falling down in your face like that. Makes it hard to resist you."

"Thank you," Duncan said. "Gather up your arsenal."


"We're here," Duncan shrugged Methos away from where he was comfortably nestling against Duncan's shoulder. "Let's get out of these clothes and into the shower."

"Shower," Methos said, dreamily, reeling back against the wall as Duncan pulled up the gate to the lift. "You know, I've always wanted to take a shower with you. I could scrub your back. I could towel your hair."

"That would be nice," Duncan drawled. "Let's just get this blood off."

"Blood, schmud. Let's get naked. I want a good, long look at your privates. At your good, long privates," Methos babbled happily as Duncan choked. "You're very good, you know," he waggled a finger in Duncan's face, "at turning your back at just the right moment when you strip off your unmentionables. You'd be a wonderful fan dancer. I've only managed to get the merest glances at your manhood, though you're not at all shy about showing your bum. You've got a great bum."

"That deadly truth serum must be potent." Duncan pushed Methos into the bathroom ahead of him. "You can ogle my manhood all you want to in the shower. How well did you know Cleopatra?

"She was a woman. She loved. She lived. She died," Methos said.

"That isn't an answer."

"It isn't, is it?"

"Maybe you can withstand truth serum." Duncan pulled his sweater over his head.

"I've always wanted to kiss your breastbone, here." Methos touched Duncan's chest lightly. "Not with blood all over it like that, of course," he added cheerfully.

"On the other hand, maybe you can't." Duncan caught his hand and pushed it away, frowning and not quite hiding a smile. "Undress," he said. "Now."

"Your wish is my command. Except," the room seemed to tilt. "I'll need help."

Duncan looked at him suspiciously, but when Methos, overcompensating for an illusory incline, staggered against the wall, Duncan sighed and stripped Methos of his bloody clothes.

"Thank you," Methos said primly.

Duncan rolled his eyes and turned away, making Methos sigh, and peeled off his boxers. He reached into the shower and turned the hot water on high. "That story you told about crossing the Atlantic in an open boat, was it true?"

"Yes," Methos shuddered. "It's hot enough, get in. I'll follow," he added slyly, pinching Duncan's ass.

"After you, old man."

"You're very pretty when you blush," Methos said.

"Get in," Duncan smiled, "Or I'll throw you in and hold your head under water."

Methos ducked into the shower, and pulled Duncan in after him. "Ha! Good and long!" he crowed, seizing and squeezing Duncan's cock. "Hard, too. Soap?" He brandished the bar in Duncan's face.

"Give me the soap," Duncan said dryly, though he made no effort to push Methos's hand away.

Duncan vigorously soaped down himself and Methos, pretending not to notice Methos's hands squeezing, pinching, slipping over, under, in between.

"My America," Methos breathed. "My new found land!"

Duncan smiled and held him under the spray.

"You know you wanted to do this," Methos sputtered. "You don't expect me to believe you'd get into a shower naked with me and not expect me to --" He ground his hips into Duncan's, sliding their cocks together. "Do this."

"I -- yes," Duncan's breath came in gasps. His hands covered Methos's, guiding them. "Yes."

Methos leaned his forehead on Duncan's shoulder, against his skin slick from warm water and soap. It felt good. Duncan's cock felt good between his hands. Everything felt good, except he couldn't turn off the words in his head. They danced in his mind, they were on the tip of his tongue, they hammered at his senses, they tugged at him and sent his mind spinning in all directions. He wanted to shout, to sing.

"Ask me something," he begged Duncan. "Please. I'm going to burst if I can't answer a question. Any question. Isn't there anything you want to know? What I liked best about sex in ancient Greece? How I started the Watchers? The names of my 68 wives? My Social Security number? Just ask me. I'll--"

"Shut up," Duncan said against his lips.

"You kiss like a slave I used to know, but you're better. He--"

"Shut up."

"Were you trained in the Kama Sutra when you were in India? Because—"

"Shut up!"

Methos shut up. He could feel all sorts of things welling up in him that needed to be said, now. The drug was a compulsion twanging on his every last nerve ending. But Duncan was a fire in his blood, and fire won. The two of them bumped and slid and bounced around the shower, water pouring over them, soap making them as slippery as a pair of eels, but Methos zeroed in on Duncan's cock and how good it felt against his. He pushed Duncan against the tiles and pushed his cock against Duncan's cock and Duncan heaved and pressed against him and --

Words deserted him entirely for a moment.

"God, that was good," he panted against Duncan's neck. "Let's go get in your bed and fool around. I've been wanting to do that for ages."

"Really," Duncan drawled. "Since when? Don't hog the towel."

"Since…" Methos thought. "Remember when I came back from Tibet? Here, let me do that." He took the towel from Duncan and rubbed Duncan's hair vigorously. "I sneaked into your bed. I smelled your pillow," he confessed. "I almost suffocated myself inhaling the pillowcase."

Duncan grabbed the towel back, and snapped Methos with it. "That's pathetic."

"It is, isn't it? You came in and I thought you were going to jump me right then and there -- God, the look on your face! It's gotten me through many lonely nights, that look."

"Spare me," Duncan said, but he smiled. "Come on," he said, putting both his hands on Methos's shoulders and guiding him through the doorway. "Here's your chance. My bed," he said, gesturing grandly, "is your bed."

"It is now," Methos said, slipping between the sheets.

Duncan slid in beside him. "How do you feel?" His dark eyes were suddenly concerned.

"How do I feel? I feel great!" Methos flung his arms around Duncan's neck.

"Ooof," Duncan broke Methos's headlock. "I meant, the drug. The hour must be about up by now."

"Oh, that," Methos said. He touched Duncan's face lightly. "You are beautiful, you know that?"

Duncan smiled. "This is going to wear off, and you are going to be pissed."

"Pissed? I don't think so. This is the best thing that's happened to me in… weeks."

Duncan laughed. "What happened weeks ago?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe you smiled at me or something."

"I should be recording this," Duncan said.

"No, you shouldn't," Methos said, and shuddered. The funny thing was, he could hear how idiotic he sounded, but was powerless to do anything about it. "And you wouldn't, because you're a gentleman. It'd be like videotaping a drunk friend at the office party."

Duncan laughed.

"You're also a gentleman for not asking me all the questions you could -- that you want to." Methos shuddered. "God, the things you could make me say."

"If only I could make you shut up," Duncan said, then grinned. "It's just too bad the drug wears off so quickly, or I'd drag you down to Joe's. He'd love it. He'd grill you all night on every tall tale you've ever fobbed off on him."

"The first word out of his mouth would be 'vomitorium'." Methos sighed. "I'd tell him the truth. And more. You know how it is, when mortals ask about the past. They want to know what Queen Elizabeth was wearing, not what she smelled like. God," he wrinkled his nose, remembering. "They don't really want to know the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but."

"No," Duncan said.

"Well, I mean, except for the most driven archeologists. The ones who paw through the bowels of Incan ice mummies. I don't feel so good," he added suddenly.

Duncan put his hand on Methos's forehead. "You've got a fever."

"Sweats, too," Methos said. "Guess this is the end."

"For now," Duncan said. "Lie still."

Methos felt every word he'd uttered in his life pressing against the inside of his skull. "I have so much to say. So much to tell you."

Duncan took his hand in his, and kissed Methos's palm. "It'll keep."

"Is there anything you want to know, in these last few minutes? Just ask." Methos's mouth felt dry. "This might be your only chance. Act now and get The Complete Methos, in one single truthful package and delivered on a plate."

"Shush," Duncan said.

"I've wanted to tell you that I --" Methos gulped. "For so long. I wanted to kiss you under the bridge that night. Yes," Methos said, as Duncan shook his head slightly. "I wanted to drag you into the bushes after you took Kalas's head, but Amanda was waiting. I wanted you -- so bad -- after you came out of the dark quickening. But Rachel was there in your boat. Why do you keep all these damn women around?" he complained, feeling peevish. "I thought I'd never get a crack at you."

"Thank God for the Mob," Duncan said lightly.

"Was that the Mob? It's gone downhill since I -- never mind," He said hastily, at Duncan's frown. "Here's to thugs in dark alleys." Methos raised his hand in salute. Then he sighed. He felt heavy and strange, as if he were turning into lead, from the inside out.

"Duncan, I--" He stopped.

Duncan was silent. Waiting? Or was he afraid of what this strange compulsion might bring out, something that once said, could change everything?

Methos searched Duncan's face. "Is there anything, seriously, you want to ask me?"

He watched Duncan's face change, his eyes darken; saw him hesitate.

"Ask," Methos said softly.

Duncan cleared his throat. He looked away, then back. "Methos." He hesitated, then the words came out in a rush. "Methos, do you--"

But Methos didn't hear the rest of the question.


Methos opened his eyes to find Duncan looking down at him bemusedly.

"Well," Methos said carefully. "That was interesting."

"To say the least," Duncan drawled. "Feeling better?"

"I guess so," Methos raised himself up on one elbow. The compulsion to talk was gone. Methos almost wished it wasn't. For a little while, he had felt free -- free to say anything in the world, as long it was the truth. And as long as it was to Duncan. Then he remembered.

"Were you going to ask me something, there at the end?"

Duncan smiled and fell silent. "No," he said finally. "Some other time."

"Well, whatever you ask," Methos said, feeling the time was right for one last truth. "The answer is yes."

Duncan stared at him, then laughed. "I'll hold you to that," he said.


Tags: 2007 fest, duncan, methos, slash

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