Chapter Text
The next time Roger telephoned, Hans informed him that Duncan had left London; that Dr. Adams was occupied with writing, but would meet him at Clench on Tuesday, noon; and that Foots, while appreciative, seemed to find that brand of biscuit indigestible.
At fifteen to twelve on Tuesday, Methos pushed open the black steel and etched glass door of Clench. The noontime clientele perched affluent and preening on iron and leather chairs. Methos had drifted into the place on a few restless nights, when the hunt was more pressing than thirst or comfort or other creature needs. For Roger, it held an air of daring. Methos said the only decadence was in the price of domestic beer.
A winter rain was falling; Methos's hair was dark and damp. He wore an olive broadcloth shirt, open at the neck, under an Aran pullover, over brown wool trousers, overall and altogether unsuited to the ambiance. He could have had his pick of the men watching him. He looked for Roger. Early as he was, Roger was earlier. He sat, pink and gray, at a table against the wall, muddling fruit in the bottom of a narrow glass. He pursed his lips at the sweater, a birthday gift. When Methos said hello, he waited. When Methos laid his hand on the table, it wasn't stroked or pinched.
"I've been thinking," said Roger, over Methos saying, "I'm sorry."
"What?"
"I've been thinking about you. That I'm making a fool of myself, if you have no interest."
"If I had no interest. What are you drinking? No, don't tell me." A waiter had materialized. "Two of whatever these are and two of something edible from the specials." The waiter winked at Methos. "And go away."
"I'm done with you, Mickey."
"No, you're not. I'm apologizing. Want to tell me what for?"
"You're screwing half of London..."
"I'm not, you know."
"And not me."
"Why, Roger." Methos smiled lazily. "This is so sudden." The waiter was back, ears pricked. "We'll need another two after this, and then we'll call for more." He clinked his glass against Roger's. "Drink up. I thought this was about Mac giving you some backchat."
"It's about your Duncan and a dozen others."
"Name three."
"I don't know names. I hear things."
"Have I been in public with anyone but you? To the opera? The cinema? Dining out?"
"You go with me to the opera, you screw rent-boys in the loo."
"I don't, you know. This is all in your head."
"Duncan wasn't."
"MacLeod is a relict of my mis-spent youth. He popped up, he's gone." So was the drink, in a few burning, sticky gulps.
"You still screwed him, for old time's sake."
"Mostly we talked. I'm sorry you didn't get along. As I said, he's gone."
Matching Methos drink for drink, Roger choked. In this light, recovering, he glowed. "What mis-spent youth?"
"I once was a sinner, now I've been saved. I feel nothing but the pure love of a man for a mint condition Diuus Antoninus mis-strike."
Roger squirmed. "Sinner...how?"
"Ah, food. What is it, do you suppose?"
"Screw the food. Tell me about the sin." He frowned a little cross-eyed at the waiter, and held up two fingers, for two more Golden Fools.
"Roger, in my long and varied life, I've learned a thing or two. One is, Don't Look Back."
"So Duncan's really gone?"
"Another is, Don't Give It Up For Nothing."
"Pardon?"
"A little Attic wit. Drink up."
It went on: a conversation, a seduction, an apology. The whys weren't answered straight. The conversation drifted, now that Roger knew Duncan was gone. Definitely gone? Methos cracked him on the knuckle with a spoon and looked pained and Roger ordered another round. They were refused, politely, they were eased through payment, politely (Methos's hip stroked in the process), and they were settled tenderly into a cab. "To Roger's," called Methos, and someone remembered the address.
There was some stumbling inside, against each other. Roger handed Methos the promised notes he'd made. After a quick, dizzy scan of the sheets, Methos detached Roger's hands from his neck and his breast, and backed against the dresser. Roger fell onto his bed, propped up on his elbows, and watched Mickey undress. "Ackshully," he said, flushed, as Mickey removed his shirt; "ackshully, I have to tell you," as Mickey stepped out of his trousers and socks and boxers; "ackshully...I'm rather new at this."
An hour and ten minutes later, pleading an appointment, Mickey left. And Roger, pink and deeply gratified and damp, fell asleep.