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Friend of The Devil

by the lady of shalott

This story takes place during Deliverance and begins on the trip from Darius' church to the holy spring. Many thanks to Kim and Tanya for looking over the story!

Set out running but I take my time
A friend of the Devil is a friend of mine
If I get home before daylight,
I just might get some sleep tonight.

Robert Hunter, "Friend of the Devil"

Methos' face was cool and impenetrable, his hands ghost-pale on the steering wheel in the black of the night. Fists resting on his thighs, Duncan watched him drive. His head ached, a line of tension hot from his temple to his jaw. It was hard to remember why he was here, the dusty taste of desperation fading in and out as pain and anger warred to take its place. His hands wanted to taste the firm ivory column of Methos' throat. He could imagine it so clearly, how it would feel to have that sweet, smooth skin yielding to his fingers, to watch the hazel eyes cloud over with death. And then he could wait, and do it all again.

Duncan shivered with excitement and leaned over the gear stick, inhaling deeply, noisily, opening and closing his hands. His eyes fixed on Methos' face, thirsty for any flinch, any sign from the closed, expressionless mouth.

"Stop panting, MacLeod," Methos said. There was no scent of fear. The long, aristocratic fingers didn't even twitch.

It was infuriating. Why wasn't Methos afraid of him? Duncan sat back and drummed his fingers on the door handle, staring out of the window. His own reflection stared back at him, grimy with stubble, the full lips almost pouting. He looked pretty fucking hot, Duncan decided, grinning at himself. He reached up and ran a thumb over his mouth, licking the fleshy pad. It tasted sour and salty all at once, sweat and sea air and blood all mingled. Delicious. He did it again, watching himself in the glass, and his cock stirred.

And then he saw it--a gleam of light from hazel eyes reflecting in the window as Methos glanced over, just for a second. Concealing his satisfaction, Duncan leaned back in his seat and ran his wet thumb over his lips. Though Methos' eyes never seemed to leave the road, his nostrils flared, briefly. Duncan grinned. He was finally getting to the sneaky bastard. About time.

Deliberately slow, he reached out and put his hand on Methos' throat, cupping the adam's apple, his thumb resting on the long tendon at the side. So warm, so alive. He could feel the pulse beating against his fingers. His cock started throbbing in time with it. He stroked up and down, enjoying the satiny texture.

And then Methos leaned into the touch, tilting his chin up a little and resting the weight of his head against Duncan's palm, a lovely yielding gesture. The pressure ran straight down Duncan's body and into his cock. Suddenly there were things he wanted more than to kill him. "Pull over," he said hoarsely.

"We've got eighty miles left to go tonight."

Duncan tightened his grip. "I said, pull over."

The night kept slipping past. "Save it for the hotel," Methos said. "We'll be there in an hour."

His calm was unreal. Infectious, it touched Duncan with cool fingers, easing back the heat, the anger, dampening his headache. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the seat, keeping his hand on Methos' throat, letting the utterly steady pulse beat through him. It felt good. It felt like a promise.

His lip curled into a feral grin. He could wait.

Duncan opened his eyes as the station wagon came to a halt. Calling the place a hotel was granting it a dignity it hadn't earned. The office was a single room in the concrete block of rooms. A neon sign blinked 'Vacancy' in faded pastel blue in the window.

"I'll go see about the room," Methos said, reaching back and pulling his coat over the seat. It clanked with swords, and Duncan's jaw clenched at the reminder that Methos had his katana. Still, if Methos tried to control him, he wouldn't keep the katana long, Duncan reminded himself, smirking as he remembered dumping the oldest Immortal flat on his back.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

Methos shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Following him into the office, Duncan crowded him against the reception counter, pressing up against his back. "I plan to," he said, breathing the words out against the nape of Methos' neck. His hand slid into the pocket of Methos' trenchcoat, finding the solid thigh through the fabric, muscle and bone hard beneath his grip.

Methos only leaned forward and slapped his hand down on the bell on the counter. The door at the back of the room opened, and a sleepy-eyed young woman came out and met them at the counter. "A room?" she asked.

Methos nodded. "Just for one night," he said, sliding a credit card over the stained formica.

"Make it one with a king-size bed," Duncan said, leering at the girl when she gave him a startled look. Her eyes darted to Methos for a second, then dropped down to the receipt she was making out, a red tinge of color creeping into her cheeks.

"Sign here," she said, carefully not looking at either of them.

Methos signed and pushed the paper back towards her. She rummaged around in a desk drawer, pulling out a key, and handed it over with the credit card. "It's the last room on the east end of the building--"

"Anybody in the room next door?" Duncan interrupted.

"No," she said nervously, eyeing him.

Duncan grinned and licked his lips. "Good, then the noise won't bother anyone."

Her mouth worked for a moment while she blushed. In a stifled voice, she said, "Turn left when you walk outside the office. Good--" she swallowed, then valiantly finished, "Good night," before hurrying back out of the room, the door closing firmly behind her.

"Thanks," Methos said dryly, picking up the keys.

Duncan laughed and leaned over, latching onto the side of Methos' neck with his mouth. Salty and deliciously soft, the flesh yielded to his teeth easily, the little gasp Methos made as sweet as the hot blood on his tongue. He sucked harder, pulling Methos' coat out of the way to get at his body.

Methos shoved off the counter, sending Duncan stumbling back, then whirled and held the keys to the room between them like a talisman when Duncan would have lunged back at him. "The room's ten meters away. Do you really want to spend the night in jail for public indecency?" he asked sharply.

Duncan paused, licking his lips. The faint metallic tang of iron lingered in the corner of his mouth, absorbing, enticing. "No more delays," he said hoarsely, jerking his head towards the door. "Get moving."

The glare of the fluorescent ceiling light did nothing to hide the squalor of the room, its yellow-brown striped curtains clashing with the dull green carpet. But the bed was large enough, and there was a bottle of hand lotion in the bathroom. Duncan took it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the nightstand. His shoes off, Methos was sprawled sideways over the bed, and he followed Duncan's movements with cool, disinterested eyes.

Duncan wanted to beat that calm, that confidence, out of him. It had no business being there. "You really think you're safe, don't you?" he snarled. "You think you're in control here?"

Methos tilted his head, inquisitive. "If I'm not, who is?"

The headboard groaned as Duncan grabbed Methos by the shoulders and threw him up against the pillows. But it was too easy, the slender body offering no resistance. Infuriated, Duncan fisted his hands in the front of Methos' shirt and pulled him up until their faces were bare centimeters apart. "I'm going to fuck you," he said, spitting the words out like knives. "What does that tell you?"

Still passive in his grip, Methos smiled at him. "Duncan," he said softly, the name a caress in his mouth, "you can't do anything to me that I don't want. What does that tell you?"

The words burned his ears, the implications unacceptable. "And if I kill you?" Duncan said, moving his hands to Methos' throat.

Methos only shrugged. "I offered you my head not too long ago, if you recall. Saving your soul is at least as worthy a cause as saving your head, and if Sean Burns' Quickening brought you this far, mine should finish the job."

Duncan trembled and said nothing, pinned by the gentleness in Methos' voice and the memory of red red blood on his sword.

"Duncan," Methos said again. "Whatever you want, whatever you need, I will give you. Do you think I'd even be here if that wasn't true?"

"No," Duncan whispered in denial, his head pounding. He didn't want to be hearing this. He didn't want to listen to Methos speak love to him with every word, not when his murdering hands were so ready to kill again, not with this bloodlust singing in his veins. How could he bear it now, if he killed Methos?

Methos' hands came up and cupped his face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, soothing away the headache. So tender--Duncan closed his eyes and leaned into their touch. "Please don't let me kill you," he whispered. "Please."

"Shh." Methos kept caressing him with light, gentle fingers. "It's all right. It's all right."

Duncan slid down and buried his face in Methos' lap, thighs warm against his cheeks, the strong hands moving to card through his tangled hair. A musky scent surrounded him, tantalizing. Hungrily, he nuzzled Methos' groin, felt the outline of his cock through the soft denim. "I want you," he said as the beast stirred again, meaning it as a warning.

But Methos' hands only moved lower to stroke his neck, no longer comforting. "And I want you."

"Please," Duncan said, pressing his forehead hard against Methos' body. "Don't let me--don't let me--"

Methos pulled his head up, eased him back onto his heels and leaned close. "I won't," he whispered, and kissed him.

For a single drowning moment, Duncan clutched blindly at his arms, yielding to the heat and promise in his mouth. Then he shoved Methos off and pinned him to the mattress, his face twisting. "You think you could stop me?" he hissed, and crushed their mouths together. Methos' lip tore between his savage teeth, and Duncan laughed and licked broad swipes through the running blood, smearing carmine everywhere.

He pulled back to admire his work, sucking a few stray drops off his hand. Red streaks glowed against the pallor of Methos' skin, the only color in his face, the shadowed green of his eyes hidden away. The elegant nostrils flared as Methos drew in air, his lips pressed tight together as if fighting for control.

"Look at me," Duncan said, wanting to see those eyes bright with fear. "I said, look at me!"

Methos took in a shuddering, deep breath, his tongue slipping out to lick at the still-wet blood staining his lips, and lunged up so abruptly that Duncan jerked back reflexively, reaching back to catch himself against the bed. An elbow struck him hard in the neck, and he was suddenly choking, blood from his crushed throat bubbling on his lips as a cry of rage tried to escape. He reached out vengefully, but his arms were leaden, refusing to lift, and Methos' eyes glittered like mirrors in the center of his sight until all the world faded to black.

Sensation dragged him up from one darkness into another. For a moment, he wasn't sure that he'd really woken, nothing but impenetrable black before his eyes. But then the wet heat returned, enveloping his cock again, and everything of importance narrowed down to that one part of him. He gripped the rough leather straps around his wrists, not caring that he was bound--they were only something to hold on to while his body strained upwards. Hands rested on his hips, guiding but not restraining his thrusts, fingers stroking his flanks. Teeth scraped lightly along his shaft as he slid deeper, and he groaned in satisfaction as the flat wet strokes of a tongue soothed the abraded spots.

There was no room for anger, his whole body consumed by the slide of his cock and the yielding heat of Methos' throat, his hungers reduced to the physical and immediate. He still wore his shirt and jacket, the raw smell of leather surrounding him as he moved involuntarily against the bed, the shirt already damp with sweat. His legs were cold until he pressed them to Methos' bare sides, the heat of working muscles penetrating his skin while one of Methos' hands slid down to caress his thigh and stroke the hollow of his knee.

He thrust upwards, greedy for more, the headboard creaking as he pulled on the leather straps. Methos only drove him on, his hands urgent and encouraging, until Duncan lifted halfway off the bed, burying his cock fully in Methos' throat. A groan slid from him as he climaxed and Methos swallowed around him, muscles clenching and caressing his shaft even while he eased back down to the bed.

Semen trickled out of the corners of Methos' mouth and over Duncan's thighs and balls, wet and warm. Even through the weight of his sated drowsiness, he squirmed beneath the sensation. The movement brought him back to himself--why he was just lying here, letting Methos keep him tied down?--and he yanked on the straps, trying to free his arms. "You better get these the fuck off me," he said hoarsely, still unable to see Methos in the pitch blackness of the room but feeling the other man's chest warm and heavy against his thighs.

A single finger slid through the semen on his inner thigh, tracing a path up to the base of his cock, around his balls. "Why?" came the soft, hissed answer, and the finger pressed hard at the soft, yielding place just beneath his sac.

Fresh pleasure surged through him, carrying away any response he might have made. He shoved back hard against the probing finger, the brief flare of pain as good as the pleasure burning along his already-overheated nerves. His spent cock twitched, and he shuddered and pushed himself against Methos' finger again.

The faint scrape of stubble against his thigh warned him as Methos shifted, moist breath traveling over his groin. The wet swipe of Methos' tongue over his sac came just as the finger prodded his perineum again, and he ground his hips into both sensations, a growl building in his throat. It broke into a gasp as Methos sucked one of the balls into his mouth, rolling it gently with his tongue. His cock was so sensitive that it ached just lying against his belly, heat coiling deep in his guts.

Two fingers now, pressing against him, tracing figure-eights across the skin. He jerked against the straps when they ghosted lightly over his anus, but they didn't even pause there, just sliding up his cleft to the little hollow beneath his tailbone, then back down to his perineum. Methos turned his attention to the other testicle, his nose bumping against the base of Duncan's cock, spiking pleasure up the shaft. Duncan shuddered and nudged his hips forward, rubbing his cock against Methos' nose and forehead until Methos lifted his head away.

"Bastard," Duncan panted, "you stop and I'll fucking kill you."

"Stop? Oh no." Methos' laugh rang strangely in the muffled dark closeness of the room, and it didn't sound like him at all. "No, you needn't be afraid of that."

Duncan strained his eyes into the darkness, trying again to make out Methos' face, suddenly tense with animal wariness. There had been something dangerous in that voice. He felt Methos shift on the bed, and his cock hardened instantly with the sudden exquisite thrill of fear. A hand closed over his shaft and began squeezing tighter than he really liked, but when he jerked his hips to get loose, Methos only squeezed more, even a little painfully. Duncan moaned involuntarily, his breath coming quick and shallow, so aroused that Methos' grip was the only thing keeping him from orgasm.

Then Methos' other hand eased between his legs again and slid two fingers, slick and cold with lotion, right into him. Duncan was shocked into immobility for a moment, then exploded, thrashing against the restraints. The straps started to give--it was a toss-up whether they would come loose before the headboard broke--but Methos did nothing to stop him, just kept one hand on Duncan's cock and the fingers buried inside his ass. Every movement drove him onto their pressure, and he was flying on pleasure and rage and violence, higher than he'd ever imagined being, and he climaxed into Methos' hand as the straps finally broke.

Half-blind with ecstasy and still coming, he threw Methos flat, rubbing his pulsing cock over the flat abdomen, stroking through his own come while he bent to devour Methos' mouth, hungry and furious all at once. He was suddenly, unreasoningly certain that despite the darkness, Methos was still watching him with that cool, assured glitter in his eyes, and Duncan found himself shaking with rage and helplessness. "Damn you," he panted, kissing the smooth throat frantically, licking the sweat pooled in the hollows of Methos' collarbone. "Do it, you son of a bitch!"

And Methos flowed out from under him, slipping through his clenching, spasming arms and curling against his back, and Duncan buried his face in the pillows while Methos fucked him so he could pretend he wasn't crying.

Methos stared out the oval window, watching the clouds fall behind them as the airplane sped onward. Three more hours to Greece. Three more hours to fit himself back into Adam Pierson. Three more hours to Alexa, who would never be old.

His right hand was curled in his lap, trying to hold on to the memory of the heat of Duncan's arm, the scratchy wool beneath his fingers as they said goodbye. Better to remember that, better to remember the open, grateful shine in the dark brown eyes of the friend, and not the sweet cruelty of the lover's voluptuous mouth, not the hungry desperation of the hands that had clutched at his body like a lifeline.

Yes, much better. Because the Dark Quickening was over, and the man left behind was fiercely determined to draw a wide, unmistakeable line between his true self and the man he'd been under its influence. It wasn't even the wrong thing for Duncan to do. He needed to be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod again before he could be anything more.

And it was something to know that there was more--that MacLeod did have that passion, that rage, that darkness. To know that some part of him enjoyed the darkness in Methos. Everything was possible now. It might take a long time for Duncan to really accept Methos' dark side, but he would, eventually--once he'd accepted his own.

Methos sighed deeply and stretched out his hands, spreading the fingers wide as his emotions finally settled. He was good at forgetting. For now, he would forget this. Alexa needed Adam, and Duncan needed time. Methos had both to give.

He could wait.

~ Fin ~