Highlander's Guide to Hitchhiking in the Star Wars Universe: The Crossover Menace

by HiperBunny and Sleeps with Coyotes

Series: See Above

Email: hiperbunny@hotmail.com, lking@agora.rdrop.com

Fandom: SW: The Phantom Menace, Highlander, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, damn near everyone else, too.

Paring: Obi-Wan/ Qui-Gon, Methos/Duncan

Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex, language, puns, Whammies, in-jokes, and homage.

Category: Slash, First Time, AU, Comedy

Warnings: M/M sex, AU

Status: New; Complete

Date: November 5, 1999

Archive: MA Yes, all others yes by link to

http://www.slashcity.com/ciceqi/hitch.htm

Witnesslist Category: Inadmissible in Court

Summary: Duncan and Methos hitch a ride to escape the Gathering. You'll never guess who picks them up...

Disclaimer: We don't own these boys. Lucas owns Obi and Qui. R/PD owns Methos and Duncan. There are also some gratuitous Sith Academy references here, so those people own that, with their own disclaimers firmly in place. Douglas Adams owns virtually everything else. We jointly own a lot of these jokes, not that this is something we're proud of...

Bunny's Notes: Freelaaa! Well, I'd like to assure everyone that this is not Coyote's fault. The blame rests with me. All praise should be sent to her door, for it has no reason to visit le Chez. You see, this all started as a smart-assed remark on the ROG list. Those of you familiar with my work will understand that I get more people in more trouble by making remarks of the impertinent variety. Indeed, I've gotten the lot of us in trouble, for here is a story penned jointly by the Queens of Squick.

Surprisingly, there's almost nothing in here that might upset folk, though I do touch on BDSM. Consensual, of course, and all in good fun. Besides, it wouldn't be proper for us to put out a whole story without pissing off somebody.

What you do get a lot of here is references. We referenced everybody. Not just Highlander, Star Wars and Hitchhiker's Guide, but Sith Academy, Treasure Island, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, George of the Jungle, X-Files, Velvet Goldmine, Rob Roy, The Doors, Emma and probably others as well. We hope this does not offend any of the involved parties. All mentions here are out of respect and admiration.

That said, it should also be known that everyone was fair game during the writing of this, including ourselves. I wrote this, not intending to publish, but to amuse my friend. I considered making individual apologies, but when I realized I had insulted an entire subset of maritime employees, I gave up. What's more, I'm not particularly sorry. You can flame me if you so desire, but I'm sure it will only result in my attempting to vex you further.

I would like to thank certain ladies of the ROG who pestered...er... whined...no... badgered...ahh... encouraged, yes encouraged us in our efforts. Caught us rather off-guard, you did, but it kept us going just when the Boys decided they didn't want to play nice and Coyote wasn't feeling up to snuff. Thanks ever so. Thanks also to Rose, who read this thing one night and liked the bit about the moose.

Finally, I would like to thank my lovely co-writer. Though I'm pretty sure we have slightly less than a whelk's chance in a supernova of surviving this with our reputations intact.

Coyote's Notes: Well, I'd like to assure everyone that this is not Bunny's fault. The blame resets with me. For just such a reason--I can't resist a good pun, or a mindless ramble, especially of the "Well, I thought it was funny..." variety. She made a smart-assed comment, people waved their flags, and it would have died down without a whimper if I'd kept my big mouth shut. Personally, I figure my reputation was pretty much shot after I stalked, trapped, and abducted that free-ranging Caspianmuse, but it's stories just such as this that remind me you always have just a bit more dignity to loose...

Thanks to the ROG list for being such a wonderful and kaleidoscopic place to hang, to Debbie for laughing with me, and to Bunny for smacking me upside the head and saying "You will write this. It will be fun, and I have many pointy objects." She's cool like that, you know?

Highlander's Guide to Hitchhiking in

the Star Wars Universe: The Crossover Menace

A Shameful Entertainment By Predator and Prey Incorporated,

Written by Coyote and Hiperbunny Bunny

Somehow, the fact that it was Wednesday refused to leave Duncan's mind. How could the Gathering begin on a Wednesday? It should at least have been a Friday, but no, it was Wednesday, and by this time tomorrow, every Immortal in the world would be gathered for a last, long fight to the death--on a Thursday. How glorious.

But first, he had to go see Methos.

Driving carefully around to the other man's apartment, not ten minutes from the barge, Duncan tried to shake off the growing sense of urgency he felt, the buzzing in his ears ringing almost defiantly westward. Go west, young man. Westward ho. It was difficult, but he was just able to push it from his mind, so he knew he had a little time left. There were things...things he needed to do, to say, and he might never have a chance after today. And if he didn't take a chance now, he'd kick himself for the rest of his life. However short or long that might be.

//I hope it's one of us,// a tiny voice whispered in the back of his mind, one he rarely acknowledged and then only grudgingly. It was true that, despite Methos' past, despite the lazy cynicism that drove Duncan insane, he had always thought Methos would be one of the men best suited to take the Prize. Whatever else, Methos knew people, had more experience of the human mind and heart than anyone. If Duncan had to choose...

Methos wasn't in his apartment when Duncan arrived. The man was standing motionless in the courtyard out front, staring intently at the sky with a backpack at his feet. In his hand was a short black rod whose switches and dials he fiddled with absently, twisting and prodding and tapping between expectant pauses. The drone of Methos' Quickening stabbed Duncan between the eyes as he approached, making him stumble foolishly until he gritted his teeth and determined to bear it, no matter what. Methos gave no indication that he'd seen Duncan at all, his head still tipped up to the sky, exposing his long, pale throat. Just the sight of that strong column of vulnerable flesh did alarming things to Duncan's pulse. It was probably the most unfair thing Methos had ever done to him.

"Methos," he rasped through gritted teeth, forcing his feet to carry him to the other man's side and keeping his hands politely and conscientiously away from his sword. Methos didn't so much as twitch. Frowning, Duncan glanced skyward despite himself, though one paranoid corner of his mind wondered if this whole scene was just some elaborate ploy for his head, and another, entirely different corner decided that he looked utterly foolish, but at least he was in good company for once. "Um, Methos?" he tried again. "What are you looking for?"

"Flying saucers," Methos shrugged casually, his voice perfectly even and reasonable.

"Flying saucers," Duncan heard himself repeat, and the corner of his mind that was convinced he looked like a fool was now able to add that he sounded like a fool as well. So Methos was looking for flying saucers...was he to take this as yet another example of Methos' dry wit, or proof that his friend had gone completely out of his mind? "You do realize...Methos...can you feel...?" Fumbling doggedly, he searched for a polite way to phrase the question of Methos' relative sanity, but the words just wouldn't come, and he felt his face heat alarmingly.

"The Gathering?" Methos calmly came to his rescue. "Of course I can feel it. There's this little voice in the back of my head telling me: 'New York is nice this time of year,' but for once in my life, I don't believe it a bit. Why do you think I'm looking for flying saucers? I'm outta here."

"Methos?" Duncan attempted hesitantly to reason with his friend. "You're not outta here...I mean, there's no way...flying saucers?"

"Flying saucers," Methos nodded, dropping his eyes at last to meet Duncan's with a perfectly serious gravity that made Duncan's head hurt. "Preferably green. Look, I've got an extra towel..."

"Towel?" Duncan shook his head hopelessly. It had to be the Gathering. It had turned Methos' wits entirely, that much was painfully obvious. In a way, that meant Duncan had made a wasted trip, too little too late, because Methos, his Methos, wasn't here any longer to hear what Duncan needed to say. But then again, maybe this Methos wouldn't laugh, either, even if he was mad as a hatter... 'I love you,' he wanted to say, and 'Let's fuck,' and...

"Duncan," Methos began, then paused with a frown, taking a deep breath. "Duncan, would you like to have a drink with me? There's a Restaurant I think you'd enjoy, a bit out-of-the-way, but worth the trip, I promise..."

Swallowing hard, Duncan nodded without speaking. One last drink, before they risked meeting each other over crossed blades. What did he have to lose?

"Good," Methos smiled, one of those rare, genuine smiles that lit his incredible eyes with a warm glow that made Duncan's insides do embarrassing things. "But listen, maybe your eyes are better--does that thing look silver to you, or am I out of my mind?"

Following Methos eyes, Duncan felt his heart mark double-time before it stumbled up short, his gaze fixed on a sleek, graceful shape that shot down out of the clear blue sky. It wasn't a flying saucer, and it wasn't green, but Duncan found he was in no mood to quibble about such things, because it was definitely...that is...there was no way it was...

"Thank the gods for the Electronic Thumb," Methos muttered under his breath, stuffing the strange black rod he'd been playing with into his pack. "Come on, Duncan, we're outta here--but first, let me stick this fish in your ear..."

Duncan didn't even blink as Methos purposefully waved about a jar holding a small yellow fish. There was a spacecraft angling in for a landing in the middle of Paris. Because Methos had used an Electronic Thumb. To escape the Gathering.

It was probably a good thing this was a four-lane street.

Meanwhile, on the Fortnight Gannet:

"Master, I told you we took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. Now look what you've done." Obi-Wan sat (well, cowered) in the co-pilot's seat, wondering if it was too late to take up prayer.

"Nonsense, Padawan. The Force will guide us!" Qui-Gon returned cheerily.

"Yeah, but it almost guided us right into the side of the Arc de Triomphe! Holy shit! Master, it is going to be very conspicuous if you clip the top off the Eiffel Tower." Obi-Wan dove for the controls, managing to shove his Master onto the deck. "For Force's sake, there's the beacon, right below us. I don't know why you insist on picking up hitchhikers, anyway."

"You won't let me pick up any other sort of pathetic life form anymore," Qui-Gon reminded him.

"Well, this is definitely the last time. I'd rather watch you play "Catch the tongue" with Gungans than go through this again!" Obi-Wan carefully guided the Fortnight Gannet to hover above the roadway. He engaged the SEP field and lowered the ramp. On his way to the gangplank, he picked up the coil of knotted ropes. "I just hope they have enough arms and legs to climb up, is all I can say."

There were two humanoids standing in a courtyard below them. One was pale and thin, the other dark and stunned. The pale, thin one raised his hands and twisted his fingers in the Universal Symbol for "We don't want to hurt you and might be open to having casual sex with you if you'd save our asses by letting us hitch a ride on your starship."

Obi-Wan tossed them the rope. "Did you bring a towel?" he called to them.

"Yup, but he doesn't have his Babel Fish in yet," Tall and Thin replied, pointing at Dark and Gaping.

"Don't worry about it. Where we're headed, everyone speaks a little English."

Tall and Thin nodded, accepting the incongruity with the price of admission. "Great!" He grabbed the end of the rope and started climbing. Dark and Pouty followed his lead. "I'm Methos. That's Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but you can call him Mac."

"Darn. I was kinda getting attached to Dark and Pouty," Obi-Wan replied.

"Yeah, I can see how that could happen. So, who are you?"

"Oh, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Padawan. My master, Qui-Gon Jinn, is down below getting the beer out of cold storage." Obi-Wan reached down to help Mac the rest of the way onboard. "Welcome to the starship 'Fortnight Gannet.'"

"Nice transport. What's with the racing stripes?" Duncan asked.

"Well, the unrelieved silver was nice, but it looked like a giant chrome Lear Jet, so I gave it a little something extra."

"It looks good," Methos interjected before Duncan could say anything to lose them their ride. "Where are you headed?"

"There's a party out on Naboo, but we were going to stop at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe for a quick bite. Last time we ate with Senator Palpatine, he served Garlic Gungan Legs. I thought Qui-Gon was going to cry right there in front of everyone. Sheesh. He's said it himself: the ability to speak does not make them intelligent!" Obi-Wan had finished coiling the rope and put it away again. "This is a working ship, so I'm afraid the quarters are a little minimalistic. I hope you don't mind sharing a room."

"Why, no...no problem at all," Methos assured the Padawan.

"Right this way. Is that all you brought for luggage? Well, maybe we can find something for you along the way." Obi-Wan led them down the hallway and thumbed the lock to a nondescript gray door. "Sorry, it's all we've got for guest quarters."

The door slid back to reveal a sumptuous suite. The sitting room was done in tasteful mahogany and gilt, with a desk and chair, long sofa, comfy recliners, potted plants and a tea table set for two. Through archways they could see a library, two bedrooms and a palatial bath with showers, bathtub and whirlpool. A deactivated spa droid stood in one corner. In the center of the sitting room, a tall fountain burbled. Beyond that a spiral staircase led to parts unknown.

Duncan played it cool. "Yeah, we'll manage somehow."

"Well, I'll leave you to sort things out. There's some stuff in the wardrobes that might fit you. Help yourselves. You can't go to the Restaurant dressed like that!"

Obi-Wan left them and went to find his master. As usual, Qui-Gon was parked in front of the HoloVid watching game shows. In one hand was an ice cold 'Pete's Wicked Ale'. In the other, an incredibly complicated remote control. He levitated cheez doodles into his mouth between loud guffaws at whatever idiotic program he was watching.

Obi-Wan planted himself in front of the vidscreen. "Aren't you even going to go meet them?"

"Oh, I expect we'll have a lovely time at dinner," Qui-Gon opined.

"Not if you keep snacking like that! You'll ruin your appetite. And can't you watch something educational for once?" Obi-Wan snatched the cheez doodles away, liberated the remote and snagged a beer in one complicated Force manipulation. "I'm going to get the Gannet out of here before we get another parking ticket. Go get cleaned up for dinner."

"Can I finish the beer?"

"No! Take it down and give it to your new friends. They're named Methos and Mac." Obi-Wan stalked off towards the cockpit muttering something about pathetic masters and pathetic lifeforms having a party belowdeck, and not without him, if he had anything to say about it.

//Hmm,// thought Qui-Gon. //If I'm going to piss him off, I'm going to need a lot more beer.//

With that he fetched the hand trolley and went to the cold storage for the last six cases of Pete's. //We'll start on the good stuff after this,// he promised himself.

Methos started snickering as soon as the door closed behind the young man who'd led them to their 'minimalistic' quarters. "Jedis!" he chuckled, collapsing onto the nearest soft surface, throwing his head back and immediately sinking into a spine-melting sprawl. "We just got picked up by Jedis!" By now, he was holding onto his sides, sinking impossibly deeper into the cushions of an elegantly attractive divan as his laughter threatened to dissolve into breathless giggling. "Jedis!"

"Care to fill me in on the joke?" Duncan scowled down at the other man, his head absolutely ringing with the pull of the Gathering. And there was Methos, near-incapacitated with mirth, showing his delectably soft underbelly with the trust of a pampered feline...

One that wiped tears from his eyes with one hand while adjusting the sling of his sword almost absently, a wriggle of the hips and a nudge of his thigh easing the harnessed blade under his coat to a more comfortable position. A feline with claws, and no mistake.

"Jedis," Methos pronounced loftily, "have their own school for how to be a Boy Scout With a Sword. Only they use light sabers and no one particularly cares what happens to their heads, but I'm sure you'll get along famously. Jedis," he shook his head indulgently. "I think the Universe has it out for me..."

Biting his lip, Duncan refused to rise to the bait. If he did, there was liable to be an argument whether he wanted one or not, a fight which was appallingly likely to end in drawn swords, and he knew he didn't want that, no chance in hell, and if Methos would just stop looking at him with that slit-eyed smile of trust and smug satisfaction... "Methos," he heard himself say, his words floundering uncertainly to a halt as he watched Methos' head cock lazily, expectantly to the side. What to say? How to say it? What next?

"Is something wrong, Mac?" Methos' brows drew together in the mildest of frowns, but his eyes turned watchful, suddenly intent beneath the shadow of dark lashes. Not so much wary as...interested. Duncan could always tell when he had Methos' full attention, and he had it in spades right now. Part of him wanted to spill everything, the love, the years of watching, the dreams from which he'd wake confused and hungry and lonely, reaching automatically for a body that was never there...

"No," he shook his head a bit too quickly, "nothing's wrong, it's just...I..." Never there. Never, ever there. "You've been here before," he blurted, feeling foolish all over again. But surely there was no way Methos would stay with him...

Something about that made Methos crack up again, his long legs stretching out before him, sprawled unself-consciously apart. Lacing his fingers over his stomach, Methos shrugged the shoulder that wouldn't upset the comfortable spot he'd settled his sword in. "And I know which way the wind is blowing," he smiled cryptically and shook his head. "Remember when I said I hadn't taken a head in 200 years? Well, I wasn't exactly here for most of them. How did you think I got away from Kronos? The 'Known World' was quite a bit smaller then than it is now, and I've never been overly fond of unwashed barbarians at the best of times."

//More proof,// Duncan thought glumly to himself, but Methos had apparently warmed to his subject, a faint smile of nostalgia curving his lips.

"As it happened," Methos continued breezily, "I was out scouting when I met my first alien. Just a bit of skulking, but it got dark and I got hungry," he shrugged again. "I'm riding along as the sun starts to set, and I come across a net someone had set up for bird-trapping. Well, in this net is the most beautiful golden bird, a big one, too, and I immediately think 'dinner.' No sooner do I go to pull it free and lop its head off, the thing speaks to me--it says, 'Wait, don't eat me--look, if you let me go I'll give you anything you want, just make a wish and it's yours,' and I say, 'Yeah? well right now I wish I was east of the sun and west of the moon, not to mention farther away, because otherwise, I might as well start plucking,' and it says, 'Sure, I can do that,' so I told it to get in my sack, and--"

"Methos, you expect me to believe that?" Duncan demanded, scowling fiercely. "It sounds like a fairy tale!" Like a lot of fairy tales when he thought about it...

"So I talk too much when I'm drunk," Methos grumbled dismissively. "Mac, you're on a Jedi starship with racing stripes which I hitched us a ride on with an Electronic Thumb, and I still want to stick that fish in your ear--now, what part of this is stretching your imagination again?"

Methos had a point. He had a very good point. Maybe he should get Methos really drunk more often...

But there was another thing that was bothering him, and he just couldn't leave this one alone. "Methos...what about the Gathering?" he asked quietly, hands tightly clenched. "I mean, if we're trapped out there, just us, what if...how do we..."

"Keep from killing each other?" Methos asked, and Duncan nodded, his expression pleading. "Do you feel anything different, Mac? Like, when you look at me," he tilted his head to the other side, smiling invitingly, "just sitting here, unarmed--"

"Not quite," Duncan muttered, but it was hard to think, because Methos had brought one hand up to knead the back of his neck, and when it slid down over his throat, fingers tracing the vein and sweeping lightly over his clavicle--

"--nearly unarmed," Methos obliged, "and at your mercy...what does it make you feel like doing?"

//Like throwing you over my shoulder and--// Blinking, Duncan realized he was staring at the long, elegant hand wrapped almost casually around Methos' throat, watching it hungrily, but not for the taste of Methos' Quickening. Not like that... "Oh," he jumped, nervously clearing his throat, "I can't...I can't feel it anymore, the pull... What--?"

"We've probably left Earth's orbit entirely," Methos shrugged with a calm smile, dropping his hand to his thigh. Duncan really didn't want to go there after it, not this time... "The Gathering is mostly population control, as far as I can tell--when there get to be too many of us, we go a little nuts. But out here, where there's just the two of us and all of space, it eases off again. Brilliant, isn't it?"

"Sure," Duncan muttered, still flustered. "Great." How had Methos known to do that to him? Why had Methos done it, gotten to him that of all ways? Was he teasing Duncan or was he just a tease?

"Mac...what on earth is it?" Methos frowned, and Duncan swallowed hard, determined to get it all out in the open right here and now--

"Ah, our guests," an unfamiliar voice smiled behind Duncan, and he turned quickly to face the newcomer.

Qui-Gon knew he had arrived at just the wrong moment. He was, in fact, the Planetary Champion of Inopportune Entrances, so he felt no small amount of pride at having done so. Besides, the brawny guy looked like he was about to do something monumentally stupid, like offer to pick up the bar tab or proclaim his undying love for his companion. If there was one way to make a space journey long and uncomfortable, it was emotional declarations made at the outset. His years of Jedi training provided him with the proper course of action for just such a situation. "I brought some beer," he informed them, wheeling the handcart to the fountain.

"I'm Methos. This is Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. He likes to be called Mac, for some reason. Is that Pete's?"

"Yeah. I like to save the good stuff for when I'm already totally blotto. Gives me the motivation to keep drinking. I'm Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi Master. You can call me Quigs. Have a seat! Have a beer. Mi casa es su casa." Qui-Gon tossed a bottle to each man.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Methos replied.

The trio were well into their fourth round when Obi-Wan arrived. "The autopilot's going to take us the rest of the way to the Restaurant. Hey! You started without me!"

"Sorry. The guests insisted," Qui-Gon defended himself.

"Fine, whatever. I get first go at 'Mind Whammy,' then."

"Oh, talk about not fair!" Qui-Gon protested, but dragged a table and chair over anyway.

"What's 'Mind Whammy?'" Duncan whispered to Methos.

"Watch and learn, my young friend." Methos settled in to watch. In reality, he had no idea what was about to happen, but there was no need to tell Duncan that.

The Master and Padawan squared off against one another, an open bottle of beer between them. Obi-Wan fixed Qui-Gon with a casual look, raised one hand and gestured fluidly. "You will drink the beer," he informed his master.

"Oh, come on, Obi-Wan! You can't expect me to fall for something that obvious! I mean, if you just wave your hand like this and go 'You will drink the beer,' how can I not catch on? You have to be more subtle than that!" Qui-Gon complained.

Obi-Wan reached out, picked up the bottle and chugged it down. He slammed the empty down on his side of the table. Qui-Gon levitated a fresh one over.

"Amazing," Methos whispered. "Jedis playing Mind Trick drinking games."

"Jedi," the Jedi said in unison.

"What?"

"The plural of Jedi is Jedi. Like moose," Obi-Wan explained.

"Jedi like moose?" Duncan asked, confused.

"Only in the platonic sense," Qui-Gon clarified.

"I see," Duncan said, meaning he didn't.

"Hmmm," said the Jedi, again in unison.

"My turn to start," Qui-Gon announced.

"Now hold on there a second. No fair you two playing a game we can't join in on!" Duncan protested.

"He has a point," Obi-Wan allowed. "How about Quarters?"

"Right. I'm going to play Quarters with a person with heightened reflexes and some bizarre form of telekinesis? Sorry, I learned that lesson in the late 1300's. I'll go for 'paper-rock-scissors,' as long as you give your oath not to use the Force to see what I'm about to play." Methos dragged his own chair over.

"Solemn oath," the Jedi promised. They weren't quite in unison that time. Duncan made it a foursome and they whiled the hours away in drunken debauchery.

Which might explain the state of dress they were in when they finally arrived at the Restaurant.

At some point, Obi-Wan and Methos had decided to find something more appropriate to wear for dinner. Methos had been surprised and slightly impressed at the variety of clothing his new best friend offered. Especially the wide selection of black leather. It had taken just a few more beers and some sincere use of the Mind Whammy for Methos to go along with it, but when they returned to find Duncan and Qui-Gon, they were both in black leather pants and not much else. Methos had a string of beads around his neck. Obi-Wan was cunningly accessorized in full-body baby oil. "Lookit!" Obi-Wan cried, gesturing with the bottle of tequila he had acquired god alone knows where. "We're Jim Morrison and Iggy Pop!"

Qui-Gon and Duncan did simultaneous and convincing imitations of stunned fish. Their companions were leaning on each other, arms thrown comfortably about one another's bodies for support. They had reached the point of drunkenness when bones lose their tensile strength, but grace and co-ordination attributes increase a thousandfold. They didn't walk so much as undulate forward in a sort of sensual display perfect for driving the casual observer to the brink of sexual frenzy.

Qui-Gon gulped noisily.

Duncan whimpered.

"C'mon you guys! Bring the beer!" Methos ordered. "I found some fabulous kilts in there. You both need to dress as Scotsmen. I bet Quigs here has the perfect knees for it! And I know you do, Dunkie." Methos wheeled Obi-Wan around. They began undulating back towards the bedroom and its wardrobe.

"What are you guys waiting for?" Obi-Wan called.

Since there was nothing in the universe that could have kept Qui-Gon and Duncan from following the far-too-drunk imitation rock stars, it is not all that surprising to say that they covered the space in record time.

Which is how the Restaurant at the End of the Universe came to host a rather odd dinner party of Jedi and Immortals. A rather somber and stiff waiter came forward to take their names. "Good evening. May I have the name under which I might find your reservation?" he intoned.

"Rob Roy," Qui-Gon piped up, then collapsed against Obi-Wan in a fit of giggles. "No, wait. Iggy Pop."

"Ah. A-ha. I'm afraid no such reservation exists. Perhaps there is another name?"

Methos jumped in. "Jim Morrison. I'm everywhere. Lemme tell ya, it's great being dead!"

Duncan ended the waitstaff's discomfort by saying, "I believe you'll find a reservation for four under the name of Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

"Ah, yes sir. Of course, sir. That reservation has been in for some time now sir. Right this way." The waiter led them out of the lobby and into the Restaurant proper.

"Boy Scout," Methos groused. "Now we won't have any time in the bar."

"Don't worry. I'll get you anything you want, Meefy. Just tell your Dunkie what you'd like." Duncan scooped Methos up and tossed him over his shoulder. "It's what us unwashed barbarians are good at."

Qui-Gon observed this display and followed suit. "My feelings exactly."

Draped bonelessly over Duncan's shoulder, Methos complained loudly about cultureless brutes with no consideration for a man's dignity, the fact that chivalry was obviously long dead, and that everyone was staring at his ass. And then he wriggled, with just the right amount of flex to look as delectable as he did piteous. Glancing over at Obi-Wan's likewise upside-down face, he winked once with a twitch of a smile, soaking up the honest admiration in the young Jedi's expression. It had been a particularly artistic wriggle, hadn't it? Of course, centuries of practice had gone into that one...

And Methos was nowhere near as drunk as he chose to play.

He rather doubted Obi-Wan was, either.

When Duncan unslung him and deposited him in a chair with a perfect view of a curtained wall, Methos blinked up at him with a look both affronted and mournful at once. Poor, poor Methos. Manhandled by yet another barbarian. He considered a sigh, but settled for a sniff. It wouldn't do to go too far overboard... "You are going to get us drinks, aren't you?" he said to the air by Duncan's right shoulder, his chin raised haughtily. If he just reached for his water glass and--there!

"Yes, Meefy," Duncan sighed, trapping Methos' deliberately wandering hand in one of his own and wrapping Methos' long fingers around the glass he'd managed to miss three times. In rapid succession. "What would you like?"

"A jynnan tonnyx!" he smiled brightly, ignoring Obi-Wan's sudden outburst of giggling beside him, the Jedi's snickers quickly muffled when he dropped his head to the table. "No, wait, make that a jinond-o-nicks..."

"No, a tzjin-anthony-ks!" Obi-Wan waved one hand in the air, the other clapped over his mouth as he sat up, leaning precariously towards Methos and burying his face in the Immortal's shoulder.

"You want a gin and tonic?" Duncan frowned, perplexed at the pair's antics.

"No!" they shouted together. "A gee-N-N-T'N-ix!"

Nudging Duncan forcefully in the ribs, Qui-Gon gritted through a huge grin, "Just back away slowly. And smile. Don't forget to smile..."

Nodding decisively, Duncan did just what he was told.

This is what the Hitchhiker's Guide has to say about gin and tonics:

It is a curious fact that something like 85% of all known worlds in the Galaxy, be they primitive or highly advanced, have invented a drink called jynnan tonnyx, or gee-N-N-T'N-ix, or jinond-o-nicks, or any one of a thousand or more variations on the same phonetic theme. The drinks themselves are not the same, and vary between the Sivolvian "chinanto/mnigs" which is ordinary water served at slightly above room temperature, and the Gagrakackan "tzjin-anthony-ks" which kills cows at a hundred paces.

A footnote to this entry also states that walking into a bar and ordering a jynnan tonnyx (or djinn andonn'x or gen Anton/Nicks or...) can quite often get one invited to step outside by bartenders who, after the millionth customer has ordered a gen Anton/Nicks only to send it back for a Gina-n-Dawn!nix (shaken, not stirred), wish everyone would just stick to simple drinks like Ouisghian Zodahs.

"Methos," Obi-Wan snickered, tipping his head up to grin into his companion's eyes, his cheek resting comfortably against Methos' warm biceps. "Methos..."

"Hmm?" Methos grinned back, trying not to look too smug. Just in case "Dunkie" was watching.

"Methos..." Obi-Wan chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "How long have you known Dunkie is in love with you?"

"Five years?" Methos smiled hopefully, and Obi-Wan made a rude noise, butting his head into Methos' arm with a grin. "Okay, okay, five hours. And believe me, if you'd seen him six hours ago, you'd understand. The man could give parallel lines lessons in 'straight.' If there's a single female Immortal alive that he hasn't slept with, it's probably because she isn't dead yet. For the first time, I mean. That is...I don't think he'd ever...while they were, you know, dead, but..."

Obi-Wan lost it again, but that was okay: Methos almost couldn't believe he'd said that out loud as it was. Much less pictured it, in loving detail, Duncan replacing Byron in that little interlude with Mary Shelly and...heh. Well, but times were different then, after all... And maybe he was a little drunker than he thought, but what else could he expect when he was playing drinking games with a couple of Jedis--

"Jedi," Obi-Wan corrected with a slight slur.

--Jedi, and he wasn't saying this out loud, was he?

"You're asking me?" Obi-Wan frowned, incredulous.

Hmm...if this was what one too many Janx Spirits did to Jedi, this could be useful to know... Rolling his eyes, Methos leaned over to murmur in Obi-Wan's ear, "Top or bottom?"

"What?" Obi-Wan blinked.

"If they don't get back with our drinks in sixty seconds," Methos smiled with dangerous sweetness, "I say we start without them." And then he dwelled, as loudly and deliberately as he could, on just how young and innocent Obi-Wan looked, like a little lost waif in his leather and braid, how beautifully overwhelmed he'd look with his head thrown back in ecstasy, heaving chest slick with sweat as he bit his lip on a moan--

"Methos," Obi-Wan scowled, "do I look like fresh meat to you?"

"Ask your Master," Methos chuckled, glancing toward the Jedi who was a heartbeat from trampling five devotees of the Great Prophet Zarquon, three doglike Sirians and a guy with two heads to get to their table before the minute was up. "The blushing virgin act gets them every time..."

"You're bad," Obi-Wan grinned.

"And getting better all the time," Methos agreed with a smug, contented sigh, running one palm down Obi-Wan's chest, thumb stroking lightly over one already-hard nipple...

"Your drinks," Qui-Gon said with another huge grin as the pair glanced up at him, their wide, innocent eyes fooling no one. Methos' hand had...lingered where it was, the pad of his thumb still circling almost absently as Obi-Wan's breath caught in his throat, the Jedi's own hand frozen where it had managed to slide up Methos' thigh.

"Ah," Obi-Wan nodded seriously.

"Hmm," Methos added with a nod of his own, wondering why Duncan was staring at Obi-Wan's chest.

Oh. Right.

Both of them sat up quickly, offering their companions their most charming grins. "What did you get us?" they asked.

In unison.

Duncan and Qui-Gon exchanged glances, then held out a glass apiece. "Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters," they beamed together in stereo, giving new meaning to the words "high fidelity".

Obi-Wan opened his mouth right along with Methos, two bare chests rising on a breath--

--and then the crowd went wild as a tall, thin man in a suit of a million sequins bounded up to the stage, grabbing the microphone with a huge grin. "Thank you ladies and gentlemen!" he cried, raising a hand in acknowledgment. "And welcome one and all to Milliways, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe! I am your host for the night, Max Quordlepleen--"

Methos had heard it all before, so he took his drink from Duncan with a grin, careful to miss at least once. Duncan, however, wasn't paying as much attention to Methos' groping hand as he could--or, indeed, should. Frowning up at the stage, the big Scot shook his head. "That's funny...I could have sworn he said something about the end of the universe..."

"He did. This is it. You'll like the floor show, anyway. What's to eat, Quigs, baby?" Obi-Wan leaned over his Master's shoulder to get a better look at the menu. He let his fingers get tangled in Qui-Gon's hair and tugged him just a shade closer.

"You, of course, but we really should dine," Qui-Gon pulled his Padawan onto his lap and trapped his mouth in a heartstopping kiss of monumental proportions. Their hands wandered from hair to shoulders, across chest and down abdomen for parts unobservable due to the table design.

"Oh, Master," Obi-Wan sighed.

"Oh, Padawan..."

"Oh, Master!"

"Oh, Padawan!"

"Hey! You two! I'll handle the entertainment if you don't smegging mind!" snapped a rather cross Max Quordlepleen.

Obi-Wan blushed and slipped back to his own seat. He picked up his Gargle Blaster and knocked it back in one go, then did the same with Qui-Gon's. Qui-Gon leaned out into the aisle and Mind Whammied a passing waiter, saying, "We'll have a pitcher of Trimarian Swamp Fog, on the house."

About that time, Obi-Wan caught a glimpse of Duncan. "Meefy? What's wrong with kiltboy there?"

Duncan was goggling. No, Duncan's brain was in the process of becoming utterly aroused by what he had just witnessed while simultaneously denying that he found anything whatsoever attractive about any man (besides Methos, but that was love, which is a different thing entirely). His jaw rested firmly on his chest. His eyes cut back and forth between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. Then he made a mistake and cut his eyes back and forth between Obi-Wan and Methos.

Methos leaned over and sucked a pink mark on Obi-Wan's neck. "I don't think he knew."

"That's impossible! Everybody knows. Jeez, as if me calling him 'Mahstah' all the time wasn't a dead giveaway, what about that final death scene? Huh? Do you think, really, that he was worried about that little bastard slave rat? Hell no! Uh, I mean...well..." Obi-Wan looked terminally embarrassed.

"What death scene? Who died?" Duncan asked, relieved to hear something he understood for once.

This time Qui-Gon blushed. "Uh, well, I did. Sort of. But it was in a good cause!"

Methos thought this might be a good moment to try out his stealth skills and appropriated a passing jug of Coco-Blam Hernia Slurps. "You'd better explain that a little."

Obi-Wan took a gulp from the Hernia Slurp pitcher, belched impressively and said: "Well, you know, he's my Master. And we, you know...like each other. Which, I'm not sure how it goes in your culture, but in ours it is just not the best way to handle the situation. So we got this queen kinda indebted to us, and she helped us stage Quigs' death. You know, so we could get away from it all, be together, explore our feelings..."

"Have Force-driven Monkey-love every night, twice on Thursdays," Qui-Gon supplied.

"We had to say I was off training this kid who is supposed to be some kind of vergance in the Force, but to be honest, we picked him up for a fair price on this little dirtbag planet as part of a resupply."

"And where is this child now?" Duncan dutifully inquired.

"Who cares? I told him to take a long walk and try not to get hooked on anything expensive. He'll be fine."

"I see," Duncan said, meaning he didn't.

"Oooh! Look! Swamp Fog!" Obi-Wan enthused.

"Hey, they're opening the shield. Now where did we pick these two up?" Qui-Gon asked.

"Sector ZZ 9 Plural Z alpha."

"Right, right. There it is!" Qui-Gon gestured excitedly towards the appropriate section of starfield.

"You mean there it was," Methos corrected as his home planet went prettily into that great beyond.

Duncan watched, admiring the color and texture of the explosion. Then it hit him what he was seeing. "Hey! Hey! Is this literally the end???" he yelped.

"Yes," Obi-Wan confirmed.

"It's customary at this part of the show to do something you always wished you had, but never got around to," Methos explained.

This was news to the Jedi, but they were pleased nonetheless when Duncan launched himself over the table and tackled Methos to the ground. They stood on their chairs to get a better view of the writhing, tangled bodies, the flushed skin now so prettily exposed due to a miscommunication between gravity and Duncan's kilt and the effect of said skin rubbing against the black leather pants Methos stroked so artistically against it.

"Ahem."

Duncan looked up. Methos lay there, gasping happily. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon turned to find the sweets trolley had arrived. The waiter gave them an appraising glance and said: "Did y'all want some of this to go?"

"No, no! We haven't even had dinner yet!" Qui-Gon objected.

"Hey, look! Mousse!" Obi-Wan picked up the bowl of chocolate treat. "C'mon, I'll show you something neat with it."

Qui-Gon put the dessert back on the tray. "After. Dinner first."

Duncan had crawled back into his own chair and was glaring angrily at his companions. "I've been tricked. The Universe isn't ending!"

"No, no. It really is. We're just not going with it. Duncan, how can one have a tradition for an event if it's only going to happen the once?" Methos asked reasonably.

Duncan was having none of it.

Qui-Gon sighed sadly. He so hated it when his friends couldn't seem to get on. "Here, Duncan. Why don't you and Methos order for the lot of us. I'm starved."

Methos and Duncan bent over the evening's menu while Obi-Wan got up and wandered off. Qui-Gon was torn between assisting his new friends and keeping an eye on his morsel, ah, Padawan. He need not have worried. Obi-Wan soon returned with a rather large crate of disreputable bottles. "Got them for a song," he informed the group as he handed round the Ol' Janx Spirit.

"Really? Which one this time?" Qui-Gon asked, levitating the bottle a good five feet off the table before opening it from that safe distance.

" 'Lust for Life'. I really have an Iggy Pop theme going on here tonight." Obi-Wan repeated Qui-Gon's levitate-and-open trick. He gathered up the little finger-washing bowls from the four place settings and poured round. "A toast! To, uh..." Damn. Just what the hell were they around to toasting on?

Qui-Gon nudged him. "We got as far as 'Inappropriate' last time."

"Right! Uh, to 'Beige! I'll paint the ceiling Beige!'"

They drank up.

"What the hell did I just drink to? Not that I care at this point," Duncan reeled as the Ol' Janx Spirit did what it was good at.

"Typical Scottish attitude, that," Obi-Wan observed.

"Now there's an informed opinion," Duncan groused.

"You'd be surprised. Anyway, we toast to comments we've made during sex. We'd gotten up to the inappropriate ones last time we passed out," Obi-Wan explained.

"Hrm. Well, that's not exactly how I was raised to do it, but what the hell." Duncan poured round. "To 'Oops, didn't mean to kill you, there.'"

They drank up.

"You've never really said that," Methos accused, pouring round.

"Sure I did. Get Manders drunk sometime and find out for yourself. It really was an accident."

"Ha! Note to self: Get Manders drunk. Soon. Assuming she survives the Gathering!" Methos crowed.

Now, there are any number of things one may wish to avoid saying around a drunken, broody Scot. In fact, when in the presence of a drunken, broody Scot, you want to say as little as possible. There's no telling what might set them off.

For example, it is not a good idea to remind a drunken, broody Scot that everyone he knows and loves is currently making mincemeat out of one another, while everyone else he knows and loves records the event for posterity.

Duncan put his head down on the table and sobbed like a baby.

//Oh shit,// was all Methos could think of to say, and he had the vague suspicion that it wasn't quite what the situation called for. The surprised looks the Jedi were giving them didn't do much to inspire him, either. Damn... One of these days, he was going to remember that he always talked too much when he was drunk...

"Hey, Duncan, it's okay," he attempted, one hand hovering hesitantly over MacLeod's back. Shit. He really didn't have much practice at this...not the comforting and not the touching. Not with Mac. Christ, when was the last time he'd touched Duncan at all before today? The time he'd slapped the man awake after one of O'Rourke's goons shot him?

"Pssst--what d'you mean, 'survives the Gathering'?" Obi-Wan whispered to Methos, shaking his head in confusion.

"We're Immortals," Methos shrugged once. "I would've thought the swords were a dead giveaway."

"Ah," Qui-Gon nodded sagely. "Swords. That would explain why you don't act like immortals..."

As the Hitchhiker's Guide points out in its section on "The Well-Preserved and the Temporally Challenged," most immortals have an instinctive knowledge of how to deal with their longevity and mostly spend their time hanging out in picturesque settings looking serene and insufferably smug. The sword-swinging Immortals of the planet known as Earth are a notable exception, and no one knows why they seem to have the recurring urge to lop each other's heads off with sharp implements, though the marathon sessions of mind-blowing sex that follow a "Quickening" might have something to do with it.

It's also notable that nowhere else in the known Universe will two immortals meet without going through a metal detector, a psych scan, and a full-cavity search.

"They're all gonna die," Duncan sobbed into his folded arms, and Obi-Wan jerked his head meaningfully towards the Scot, giving Methos an expectant look.

Sighing, Methos reached for the other man, expecting to be shaken off at any moment. "Look, Duncan, you know Amanda--she can more than take care of herself in a fight." //If she doesn't stop to loot the bodies,// he added silently, glad that at least Mac couldn't hear him... Mac hadn't shaken him off, but his shoulders didn't relax either, and his terrible, wracking sobs continued unabated. "Listen...we can always go back for them," he offered at last, wincing at the thought of being trapped on the same starship with Amanda and Mac and...okay, maybe that wouldn't be so bad, at least theoretically, though he was much more likely to be sleeping alone. Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were shaking their heads earnestly at him, but they weren't making "cut it out" gestures at the same time, so he decided they were just being nice, trying to cheer him up. Or maybe offering to share a bed.

"It's too late," Duncan moaned, and looking down at the Scot with a sigh, Methos missed the considering glance Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon traded. "By the time we get back, the Gathering will be over..."

Methos rolled his eyes, patting the other man's back soothingly. "Duncan, we're at the end of the Universe right now. I promise you, it took a bit longer than twenty-four hours to reach this point. We traveled in time, Mac--there's no reason we can't just travel back in time while we're at it. Not that there's any rush," he added quickly when Duncan raised his head at last, tear-stained eyes huge and pleading. "I mean, they'll still be there, just where we left them..."

This time, when Duncan propelled himself across the table at Methos, the two Jedi were prepared for it. That Methos wasn't apparently made it all the more amusing as they hopped back onto their chairs and cheered the two on, the antics of the four distracting some of the more jaded Restaurant-goers from the view beyond the force screen. Outside, the skies boiled, star systems disintegrating into each other as everything collapsed in on itself in a fabulous lightshow unequaled anywhere in space or out of it.

Inside, a brawny, kilted Scot was ravishing a 5000 year-old man with every evidence of delight, their hips grinding together while Methos' wandering hands traveled up Duncan's thighs, lifting the kilt higher as they climbed towards the firm swell of his--

"You are not the floorshow!" Max Quordlepleen snapped as he stared down at the pair in affront, standing over them with a microphone clenched in a white-knuckled grip. "If you don't mind--"

Max's mouth shut suddenly with a snap as his already pale face went completely white. For a moment, his jaw worked experimentally and his eyes broadcast the idea that they would rather be anywhere than fixed on Methos' own. To the casual observer, it might have seemed like Methos had picked up a trick from his Jedi friends and was Mind Whammying the hell out of the unfortunate Quordlepleen, but this was not the case.

"Actually, glitterboy," Methos purred up at the flustered MC, "we were just leaving."

"Great!" the Jedi grinned in unison, hopping down from the table and hoisting the two Immortals off the floor, somehow managing to sandwich the pair in between them for a quick grope. It was certainly time for a fast getaway, but it was always wise to take time out for the finer things in life. "Check, please!"

"Allow me," Methos smirked when it came, causing Duncan's jaw to drop for the third time that day. Signing with a flourish, Methos patted the waiter's stunned face and breezed out, leaving the others to glance as covertly as they dared at the bold signature that had left the waiter staring after him in amazement. He hadn't signed it 'Methos,' but...

A drunken voice five tables away slurred, "Hey Zaphod--was that who I think it was?"

"Whichwhat? Where?" two drunken heads swiveled after Methos' retreating form. "That guy, Ford?"

"Yeah, with the ass. I mean the leather...um..."

"Um. Yeah. The owner. Wow. That...that could just about change your..."

"Religion?"

"Uh-huh," the two-headed guy nodded earnestly, trying to drag two pairs of eyes above waist-level as Methos sauntered away. The first man grinned brightly, the kind of grin that made most people want to back away carefully, and rose unsteadily to his feet, tossing his napkin in the general direction of the table.

"Er, excuse me for a moment--I, um..."

"Good luck, kid," Zaphod toasted him drunkenly, envy and admiration showing on different heads. "May the Force be with you!"

"I think not," Obi-Wan sniffed with an almost proprietary tilt to his chin as he studied Methos' ass, but Mac had already taken the hint, stalking after Methos with a purposeful gleam in his eyes.

"You own Milliways?" they heard the Scot demand as they headed for the parking lot. "And you still drink all my beer?!"

"I really like that guy Methos," Qui-Gon sighed admiringly, throwing his arm around his Padawan's shoulders and pulling him even closer. "He's got style, class...he's got chutzpah," he said feelingly. "In fact...

"He reminds me of me," he chuckled and steered a snickering Obi-Wan out the door.

A long line of waitstaff was trailing back and forth between the Fortnight Gannet and Milliways. They were in the process of loading up Duncan and Methos' takeaway order. Obi-Wan stopped a passing server and liberated a box of crabby puffs to nibble on as he walked. He and Qui-Gon made a game of feeding one another while they listened to the ongoing argument between their newest traveling companions.

"So," Qui-Gon began conversationally. "Do you think they'll make it all the way through dinner before they lock themselves in their suite?"

"No way," Obi-Wan declared. "Methos is way better at this than that. He'll have Duncan out of there somewhere between the sixth and eighth course."

"How do you know that?" Qui-Gon inquired.

"Methos let Duncan order everything after the fifth."

It took every droid onboard the Gannet to properly serve the meal. The four humans sat around a huge banquet table munching on the finest cuisine available in all of history, trying to build up an energy reserve for the evening activities.

Duncan was in heaven. Every wine went with every dish and every morsel was exquisite. //Ha! I told that idiot Kristen you didn't need to know all that stuff.//

Methos was making conversation with Qui-Gon as to the nature of their mission. "So, you have to go to this official dinner with the Senator of Naboo, but you're dead?"

"Yeah. I paint myself day-glo blue and pretend to be a ghost. It's sorta fun, messing with people."

"Isn't it just?" Methos smirked mysteriously, running a casual thumb down his cheek. "And blue goes so well with Death..."

"Hey, dammit! The wine's gone!" Obi-Wan cried.

Duncan turned his attention back towards the table. Indeed, every bottle of wine had suddenly popped out of existence, as had all the filled and half-filled glasses they had been drinking from.

Qui-Gon snorted in annoyance and hit the NO-Time shield for the table, to keep dinner from getting cold. Or indeed aging in any way. "I told you not to plot a course through Kayribyan space! They've got marauders all over the place, looking for ships like ours! I bet they hit my beer stash, too!" From the tone his voice took, snatching a Jedi Master's brew might be the stupidest thing a being could do and still call itself sentient.

Obi-Wan shrugged and stood to follow his master. "Methos, could you and Duncan man the weapons array? This shouldn't take too long."

"Sure thing, Padawan. I'll just need to give him a Babel fish first," Methos said.

"Get one out of the dispenser on your way down," Obi-Wan advised.

"I so don't believe I'm doing this," Duncan informed Methos.

"Which part is straining your imagination this time, Mac? The fact that the plasma array is controlled with something resembling an AR-10? The fact that it's essentially a virtual-reality game station with a reality on the other end? The fact that I just stuck a fish in your ear, or the essential and basic truth that we're going into a space battle with towels on our heads?" Methos checked the connections to the Deluxe Ship-Mounted Kill-o-Zap plasma guns and pulled his battle goggles down.

"Um, the fact that those pirates out there are talking like...pirates sorta got me this time," Duncan explained. He replaced his earpiece and picked up on the 'negotiations' Qui-Gon had entered into.

The space marauders were pretty unapologetic about taking the Jedi liquor stash. They were in the middle of an extended rant when Duncan finally picked up on the basic thread.

"Avast ye! We'll swab the deck with yer scurvy hides! We're no afeared o' no pack of worthless dirtsiders!"

"Come now, Duncan! You didn't think Long John Silver had a patent on that, did you?" Methos rolled his head back and forth, then brought the rifle stock up to his shoulder. Duncan sighed and pulled his goggles down, let himself adjust to the view of a starship in a scope-sight, then similarly prepared himself for battle. Although the idea of firing laser cannon upon a space vessel that looked just exactly like the Hispaniola was freaky, no two ways about it.

In the cockpit, things weren't going much better.

"See here, you've got my beer and I'm going to have it back. Or your heads. Or both!" Qui-Gon shouted into the microphone before shutting it off with a giggle.

"Heads? Do these space pirates even have heads?" Obi-Wan reached for the Field Guide to Silly Alien Species Plot-Devices.

"Oh, I was just trying to inspire our Immortal friends up there. You know Immies have a thing for lopping off heads, yeah?" Qui-Gon adjusted the controls minutely.

"Right, right. I forgot about that. Hey, they're coming back."

The slurred, guttural tones filled the ship once more. "Arrgh! You'll walk a plank out of the airlock afore we're done wi' ye! Yer Jedi threats put no fear in Ol' Short Jyn!"

"No, but I'm pretty sure we can intimidate you with something else," Qui-Gon cheerfully informed them.

"Portside cannon!"

"Methos, get ready up there."

"Fire!!!!"

<Booooooom>

"Fire!" Obi-Wan yelled.

Two immortals swung their plastic rifles in unison. Two fingers squeezed triggers simultaneously. Two bolts of Kill-O-Zap plasma removed the Tactical Atomic Cannon Balls from existence.

"Excellent shooting, guys," Obi-Wan chirped. "Now how about a warning shot just through their mainsail?"

"Uh, Pilot, was that a warning shot through the mainsail, or over it?" Duncan inquired.

"Oh, either one will do, but 'through' would be preferable," Obi-Wan replied.

"You're the boss," Duncan sighed, resigned. He sighted in on the sail, placed his finger on the trigger and--

"Cease! Desist! Yer filthy room-temperature beverages are nae worth it! Dinna fire upon our fine vessel! She be the pride o' me 'eart ye filthy Jedi landlubbers!"

Obi-Wan dashed down to check the dinner table. Indeed, each bottle and glass had been returned. A quick poke about in the cargo hold proved the rest of the stash had been safely returned. He ran back up to the cockpit to report their victory.

"Yay," Qui-Gon failed to enthuse. "But look what they stuck us with."

Sitting in Obi-Wan's chair was a humanoid. A tall, well-muscled humanoid in a buttflap and little else. His long brown hair, honest eyes and air of cheerful confusion gave him an almost unstoppable formula for sexual attractiveness.

"Oh fuck. We've got to hide him! If Duncan sees this, Methos will be after all our heads!" Obi-Wan held his hand out to the ape-man, who sniffed it appreciatively. "Hi there. I'm Obi-Wan. That's Qui-Gon. What's your name?"

The human stood in the chair and proclaimed. "I George of Jungle. Be your friend."

Obi-Wan had to step back to fully, ah, appreciate the fine, chiseled form of their latest pathetic lifeform. "Hmm. I think we'd better just give him some fruit and let him play in the gymnasium for a bit. That should keep him entertained just fine."

"And I bet I don't have as much trouble making you work out if he's living in there," Qui-Gon opined.

"Well, you know, Master, I never mind working out with you." Obi-Wan leaned over and kissed his master on the temple. "I'll take him down there and you can tell the Immies they can knock off for the night."

"Meet me in the bedroom, ten minutes, no more!" Qui-Gon ordered with all the sternness at his command.

"Yes, Mah-ster," Obi-Wan purred. He took George by the hand and led the doe-eyed, full-mouthed, firm-bottomed throwback to his new home. Ten minutes would be plenty of time.

"You're quite a shot," Methos congratulated Duncan as they made their way back to the dining room, ambling along at an easy pace. Duncan's smile was bemused, torn between shy pride at the compliment and amazement at what had spawned it. Duncan shrugged one shoulder, his lips quirking helplessly.

"Space pirates," he shook his head. "I can't believe we just fought a pitched battle with the Hispaniola...in outer space..."

"There seem to be a lot of things you can't believe, lately," Methos mentioned casually, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and glancing at Duncan out of the corner of his eye. "Can't you just give in and ride it out, just this once?"

"What, are you saying I don't know how to take chances?" Duncan demanded, but even his scowl was strangely mild, almost preoccupied.

"No," Methos' lips twitched. "You're very good at taking chances. But you're rather fond of being in control. When was the last time you just sat back and enjoyed the ride, let events take their course--just accepted whatever came your way?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Mac pointedly reminded, looking at Methos directly. "But Methos, we really do need to talk--"

"I thought you were here because you trusted me," Methos interrupted with a smile.

"Of course I do, but--"

"Then trust me a little while longer," Methos said quietly and pivoted, matching his stride with Duncan's in a quick half-step as he reached up to cup Duncan's nape, leaning in for a soft, almost-chaste kiss.

Duncan's steps faltered, slowing hesitantly to a halt as Methos deepened the kiss, his tongue moving sweetly against Duncan's own in a languid dance. Standing in the empty corridor, Duncan melted into the kiss, lifting his hands uncertainly to Methos' hips and sliding his palms over the warm silk of Methos' skin. It was incendiary and strangely gentle, heating his blood as it wrapped him in an almost dreamy contentment. Three times now he'd kissed Methos, but this was worlds apart from the other two: this was perfect and exquisite and real, all he could ever want offered with humbling generosity, with all the trust Methos had asked from him and more...

When Methos pulled away from him, nuzzling almost helplessly at Duncan's cheek as his hand slid down to Duncan's shoulder, Duncan found himself smiling foolishly, nothing mattering but that it was Methos, the one he loved, who had brought him this joy. And Methos was searching his face for an answer, eyes dark with passion and uncertainty.

"I trust you," Duncan murmured, raising a hand to cup Methos' cheek. "Anything you want. Lead on..."

Methos' smile was more than a reply.

It was a promise.

Obi-Wan dashed about the Fortnight Gannet gathering lube, power couplings, oyster shooters and a large quantity of chunky peanut butter. In the bedroom, everything else stood ready, including Qui-Gon. He was out of his clothes in record time, throwing robes and boots into a corner for later collection by a cleaning droid. Obi-Wan fished out a coin and Qui-Gon called heads. He won.

"Top or bottom, Master?" Obi-Wan purred, dropping to his knees for effect.

"Ooh, decisions, decisions," Qui-Gon snagged a pair of handcuffs and had Obi-Wan's hands secured behind his back in a Force-enhanced move of lightning quickness.

In four hundred years, Duncan had been undressed by many people, but never quite like this. Methos went so slowly, taking time to explore each millimeter of exposed flesh, his large, elegant hands gliding over Duncan's skin with reverent deliberation as his tongue followed the worshipful path of his fingers. It made Duncan hungry for more, but there was a dreamlike purity to the moment, blunting his urgency.

"You're so beautiful," Methos murmured with a faint smile, a simple joy in his words that made Duncan smile in return. "I've wanted this for so long...since before I even met you. I didn't think you'd ever..."

Duncan silenced Methos' wistful memories with another kiss, the taste of Methos already a fierce need behind his ribs. "No," he breathed against Methos' lips, his lashes flickering open to meet Methos' lazy regard. "I know. I couldn't let you guess, not if I lost you over it...but I'm ready now," he smiled and kissed Methos again, his murmurs lost in the other's soft moan. "I'm ready..."

Obi-Wan was going cross-eyed from staring at the coin he held against the wall. It was going to leave a mark on the tip of his nose again, he was sure. He shifted his hands, being sure the handcuffs lay at just the perfect place in the small of his back. "I'm ready, Master," he whispered.

"So you keep saying," Qui-Gon replied, sounding not a little vexed. "Tsk. Now we'll have start over again. Do not speak. Do not move. Do not drop the coin, or off to bed you go and no dessert."

Obi-Wan moaned as Qui-Gon removed the buttplug from him and waited. By natural reflex, his bottom began tightening again. "And remember, love, you brought this on yourself."

The whip cracked like a shot, laying a line of heat across Obi-Wan's left buttock. He suppressed a moan, held perfectly still as the warmth wore off and left nothing but the luxurious ache that only a single-tail whip can bring. Snap! and a matching ache bloomed on the right side. "Eight more, darling," Qui-Gon chuckled. "Then we'll see if you can keep that luscious mouth of yours closed long enough to give me what I want."

Duncan couldn't stifle the moans Methos teased from him, but Methos wasn't interested in his silence. Delighting in each cry he wrung from Duncan, Methos mapped Duncan's flesh by the sounds of his pleasure, by the man's soft murmurs and the way he writhed beneath Methos. And when Methos was done, he started all over again.

When Duncan could take no more, he rolled them both over and pinned Methos to the bed, leaning on Methos' wrists as he tried to calm himself, his hair falling in a curtain around Methos' smiling face. Methos couldn't remember ever seeing the other man look so at peace, not in all the uncertain, unsettled years he'd known the Highlander. That he was the source of Duncan's contentment was blessing enough for him.

"Methos," Duncan breathed, a hint of shy wonderment in his dark eyes.

"Duncan," Methos purred with a long, slow undulation of his body against the Scot's, his own eyes slipping closed when Duncan began to thrust gently against him. "I love you," he whispered dreamily, his lashes fluttering open when Duncan froze above him. The look on Duncan's face was full of such adoration, such perfect joy and breathless awe, Methos felt his apprehensions slipping away despite himself. Surely Duncan wouldn't leave him now, not if the man could look at Methos like that...

"And I you," Duncan murmured softly. "I always have. I always will..."

//Yes,// Methos sighed to himself, the urge to struggle, to reject such promises as optimistic lies, very far distant. With Duncan, he could almost believe in forever...

Rolling his hips against Duncan's again, he smiled silently. He wanted Duncan for his own, for all time...but for tonight, he just wanted.

And for once, what he wanted was his for the asking.

"Oh! Master! Deeper! No, wait, put more motor oil right here. No, dammit! That's the engine coolant! Ooh! Perfect! Yes! Now the pocket rocket!" Obi-Wan writhed in his chains while Qui-Gon tried to remember where he'd left the ball gag. //Oh well...// He silenced his partner by covering his mouth in demanding kisses. Obi-Wan gave a startled squawk then moaned in unexpected pleasure.

Qui-Gon slipped out of his imprisoned partner and unfastened his ankles from their shackles. He lifted the beautiful, muscular legs up over his shoulders and impaled Obi-Wan once again. The younger man ground his hips, driving himself firmly over Qui-Gon's cock with a shout. Qui-Gon gripped his hips firmly and began thrusting with purpose. Obi-Wan moaned, eyes rolling back ever so slightly. When Qui-Gon's strong hand closed over his cock, Obi-Wan began bucking savagely between the two stimulants.

Their dual orgasms drew shouts of pleasure from both Jedi, and they collapsed in exhaustion. They lay still, panting for a long moment before Obi-Wan murmured, "Well, that was one."

"Hmm?" Qui-Gon intelligently inquired.

"It's Thursday now. Twice on Thursdays, remember?"

"Yeah, right. Gimme a minute here," Qui-Gon replied.

"Not a prayer, lover." Then was heard the sound of shackles unlatching and chains falling free.

//Oh shit,// Qui-Gon correctly surmised.

"Oh gods," Methos sighed, breath catching on the end as Duncan rocked forward, his cock sliding deep into Methos. Methos' head was thrown back, his eyes shut, and his hands clenched around Duncan's on each thrust, their fingers twined tightly together. A weightless surge of heat flowed through him on every stroke, and he arched into the liquid glide of Duncan's cock, shameless with need.

It was perfect, perfect, the way Duncan fit inside him, the languorous shift and roll of their bodies, the warmth and strength and solidity of his lover. Perfect, the way Duncan claimed him, not caring in the least that he was being claimed as well. Methos wasn't going to let Duncan go, not if he had to chain the other man to him, bind the Scot with unbreakable ties of blood and sex and love.

//I was such a fool,// penetrated his haze, and he might have said it aloud, because Duncan's smile shifted tenderly, seriously.

"Hmm?" Duncan purred, and Methos writhed up into another stroke, his thoughts flying into a million pieces beneath this onslaught of sensation. He could float in this fire for eternity...but Duncan's hands wrapped more tightly around his own, a gentle squeeze before his Highlander spoke again. "Methos?"

A question. He'd been asked a question, yes...no...no, he'd spoken, and Duncan... Lashes fluttering, Methos looked up into his lover's dark eyes, wondering how to explain what he felt, what answer could possibly satisfy all that boiled up inside him when he saw that beloved face looking at him like that, after all this time...

"Mine," he growled, just to see those eyes go black with passion, not a breath of protest between them.

And tonight--tonight was only the beginning.

//And to think I ever fought this,// Qui-Gon smiled stupidly, letting his head fall back and back and back, meeting nothing but air beneath him.

"Lover?" Obi-Wan's hands caught Qui-Gon by the hair and righted him once more. "If you're too tired for this..."

"No, no. M'fine," Qui-Gon sighed. In truth, he wasn't doing his fair share at this point. Obi-Wan was cradling them both in a Force-cushion of warm air and peacefulness. He wiggled his toes, stirring the bedsheets slightly, then took control of keeping himself upright and in midair. "Carry on just as you were."

"Mmm," Obi-Wan smiled. He wrapped his legs around Qui-Gon's hips and began nibbling the elder man's collarbone. "So sweet." And he was. In all his travels, in all the many and varied cultures he had worked with and all their vast and exotic cuisine, he had never, even once, found anything that came even close to the sweet taste of Qui-Gon.

He had, however, found one flavor that complimented the enticing Jedi flavor quite compellingly. That was the reason they had been in Sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha to begin with. There was only one thing, one taste that was noble and pure enough to accompany the flesh of his Master. He wafted the goblet of Goldshlager up from the bedside table and dipped his fingers in, tracing filigree patterns of cinnamon liqueur across Qui-Gon's chest, highlighting nipples, then slowly, oh-so-slowly removed the glittering solution with his tongue.

"MMMhhhssswwaaahhhh," Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan turned Qui-Gon onto his back, adjusting his own orbit accordingly. He tipped the goblet over Qui-Gon's breastbone, watching in rapt fascination as it trickled along the most beloved flesh in the universe, pooling in navel, laying glittering trails along flank, likewise spreading out towards throat and shoulders, turning his partner into a gilded buffet of desire. Where to start, where to start?

Before he could decide, Qui-Gon interrupted him. "Padawan, what the hell is that stuff, anyway? I can feel your synapses slowing."

"Are you sure you're not the one doing that?" Obi-Wan grinned, then capitulated. "It's name is Goldshlager, but the people who first showed it to me call it 'Liquid Stupid.' Not without reason," he added, giving the remainder over to his master. A healthy double-shot remained in the goblet.

Qui-Gon tossed it back.

"Mmmhhheewwassssaaahhh!" he complemented, loosing his grip on the Force and landing on the bed with at thump.

Duncan yelped sleepily when Methos rolled them both over with a chuckle, burying his face beneath Duncan's chin to lick a playful path down the side of his neck. "I thought you were tired," Duncan complained, sounding not at all put-out by evidence to the contrary.

"Tired, not dead," Methos corrected and licked him again, tracing the hard wing of Duncan's clavicle and delving into the hollow of his throat. "You taste wonderful," he murmured dreamily aloud, nipping lightly at the tanned skin over the quickening pulse of the vein, and Duncan twitched beneath him with a hiss of need.

When Duncan pulled Methos down on top of him, Methos struggled only briefly before he gave in and let Duncan take his weight. It had been years--centuries, really--since he'd been able to trust his strength around another quite like this. Scores of lovers he'd had since then, but there was a difference in the delicacy of women, the fire-eaten tenuousness of artists, and the rough solidity of warriors. He could relax into the comfort Duncan offered without worrying about breaking him, and for that alone, Methos would have loved the man.

Adding to it the Highlander's generosity of spirit, the awkward nobility Methos found so irresistible on so many levels, his beauty and the stubbornness of his trust, and Methos couldn't have walked away from the Scot if he'd tried.

Duncan's hands stroked soothingly down his back, and Methos arched into the touch with a contented purr. He could feel Duncan hardening against him, a steely heat in the hollow of his hip, and he slid against Duncan's still-slick body with an answering surge of arousal in his own groin. Already, he was hungry for Duncan again, an unbearable ache of emptiness yawning inside him, and it would be so easy to just kneel up, straddle Duncan's hips and ride his lover until his flesh forgot its loneliness...

"Methos," Duncan breathed, breaking in on his musings, and a slow shiver of fire trembled up his spine at the look in Duncan's eyes. "I want..."

Methos held his breath as words seemed to desert the Highlander, whose eyes widened silently at the look on Methos' face. The courage of Duncan's body outstripped that of his tongue, and Methos' gut twisted with longing as Duncan shifted beneath him, spreading his legs in open invitation. His Highlander was so beautiful like this...

"Are you sure?" he asked when he could trust his voice, meeting Duncan's eyes unwaveringly. "You don't have to--"

"I know," Duncan grinned up at him. And then Duncan kissed him until he forgot all hesitation, all sense of caution, everything but the need to join with Duncan in any way he could. Even as he was preparing the Scot with all the gentleness and skill at his command, he would have been hard pressed to remember his own name--

--and as he entered his lover and made them one, all questions of identity became moot as their Quickenings throbbed once with sudden purpose and sought the other with the tenacity of iron filings aligning North, momentarily forging a closeness they had craved since the nightmare of Bordeaux. Duncan cried out, his wordless shout echoed by Methos' strangled hiss, and then they were thrusting together in perfect accord, in the rhythm of the hunt, fast and furious and unbearably sweet--

"Sweet Holy Force!" Obi-Wan shouted, tumbling upwards from the fallen Master. "You're going to break the bed again."

Qui-Gon was far beyond reply for a moment as the cinnamon liqueur burned its way through his mind. "Tickles," he mumbled.

Tickles?

"MMmmm, Padawan...you've got to try this..." Qui-Gon's left hand scrabbled about, seeking the other. After a long moment, they joined on Qui-Gon's chest and began a long, lazy exploration of his gold-flecked skin. "Really, you must," Qui-Gon insisted, writhing like a catnip-stoned lion in a really nice sunbeam.

"Master?" Obi-Wan settled onto the covers beside his lover, pulled back an eyelid and let it go. "Qui-Gon, talk to me, baby," he purred.

"Not until you do a shot of that gold stuff. I wanna show you something," Qui-Gon did his best to look Jedi Commanding.

Obi-Wan shrugged and tossed off a shot of 'Shlager.

"What," Duncan panted with a stupid grin, "what was that?"

"Us," Methos groaned into Duncan's neck, "I think. Either that, or we just made an unscheduled jump into hyperspace and crashed into a small sun. That was...intense," he finished devoutly, trying to muster the energy to find a more comfortable spot on Duncan to regain his strength. Full-length body pillows. He'd almost forgotten the joys of full-length body pillows, especially ones whose deep Scottish burr vibrated so pleasantly into his bones... Gods, he could practically feel his spine melting...

"Is that...do you think...I mean, will that happen every time?"

"After that, you want me to think?" Methos moaned piteously. "Damn...I wonder if that's what it feels like to become one with the Force..."

Something made Methos angle his head up then, and he found Duncan looking down on him with a fond grin he couldn't help matching. "Nah," they said in unison and wound up laughing in each others' arms. No way. No way could anything else feel that good. Not even if you added chocolate.

"What now?" Duncan asked when they'd caught their breath, still twined together in a slick tangle of limbs. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"I don't have a clue," Methos admitted, but for once, he couldn't bring himself to be concerned about it. "They said something about a senatorial dinner, I think...why, is there somewhere you want to go?"

"Well...if time really isn't a concern," Duncan shrugged, a trace of guilt creeping into his voice.

"Never," Methos assured him, surprising himself with a vow to indulge Duncan's heroic yearnings at the soonest reasonable opportunity. It wouldn't kill him to get their friends off the cramped battlefield Earth had become, now would it? And if he and Duncan were going to stay out here for any length of time...well, there was no reason to keep up his cover back home, was there? Once Amanda knew, every Immortal and his dog would know--so why not make sure everyone knew?

Duncan poked him when he started snickering into the Scot's shoulder, curling closer as he tried to contain his mirth. "What now?" Duncan growled mock-irritably, and Methos' shoulders hunched helplessly as his snickers turned into howls of laughter. "Methos..."

"Sorry," he hiccuped, forcing himself to breathe. "Just had a thought... Sometimes I have live bands at Milliways..."

"And?" Duncan demanded suspiciously.

"I was just trying to picture Joe's face when he hears Elvis singing 'You ain't nothing but a Sirian' right before the world comes to an end..."

"Elvis," Duncan said slowly, blinking once, and visibly thrust the thought from his mind as being just too damn weird for an already weird day. "Joe..."

"Will love hitching," Methos said firmly, basking in the delighted grin Duncan gave him. Like he'd believed for one moment that Duncan would stop at evacuating his Immortal friends...but not just right now. Not until he'd had some time alone with his Highlander, time to get used to each other's habits again--time to weld the man to his side until nothing short of death could part them. That should be soon enough to go back for the others...just as soon as he made damn sure Duncan couldn't live without him.

That would be just about perfect.

"This is just perfect," Obi-Wan grumbled. Apparently whatever had 'tickled' Qui-Gon had also sedated him. He was cuddled up quite happily around the empty goblet from which he had been decorated. The liqueur had dried into a fine, glittery sheen across him and was now sticking him to the sheets.

Obi-Wan hauled the elder man from the bed, sheets and all, then dragged him into the smaller of their bathtubs. He set the droid to cleaning his master then began filling the larger tub to clean himself. //He owes me. Big time.//

Obi-Wan observed the job E-920 was doing on his master. //There is no man more beautiful in this galaxy. Or more vexing.// Yes, nothing for it but revenge.

Vaguely, he recalled from his training that a Jedi did not seek revenge, but clearly his instructor had been mistaken. For there could be no doubt that Obi-Wan Kenobi was indeed a Jedi. There could also be no doubt that he was hatching a plot to exact vengeance upon his most cherished lover.

Upon emerging from the bath he went to the communications room to compose a polite, diplomatic letter, set to be posted some two days previously. //Ya gotta love time-post,// he grinned, considering the best way to word his missive. A chuckle escaped him as he began:

'Dear Senator Palpatine,

'I am most happy to inform you that your invitation has been
received.  I am even more overjoyed to say my Master has granted we
may accept.  I so look forward to dining with you.  There can be no
greater pleasure than partaking  of the fare in your home, for which you 
are justly renowned.  I most especially recall the Ewok souffle at our last
dinner and hope a similar dish might soon be enjoyed by myself and my 
master.  Some find it rather shocking that not all Jedi are vegetarian, but 
I'm sure you are already aware that Master Jinn is not one for observing 
convention at every pass.'

//Ha. That's better than you deserve, old man.// Obi-Wan smiled.

'Please let me extend the offer that I provide a bit of entertainment
at your gathering.  I have recently learned a new type of dance, a
native exercise from Eroticon V, which I daresay will add a bit of
spice to the evening.'

//And a fire to the shorts of someone who definitely owes me a bit of quality time,// Obi-Wan observed smugly. Still, there was a price to be paid. For one thing, they'd actually have to attend the Senator's dinner. Perhaps Methos knew some sort of mischief they could get up to. Obi-Wan sent the letter and went to make up the bed with fresh linen.

//Hell, maybe Methos knows how to dance. Hmm. Well, even if he doesn't, that nice Krycek person should be about. Such an odd being, always hiding from someone or another. But such a good dancer!// Obi-Wan fluffed the pillows and went to gather Qui-Gon up for bed. Well, for sleep anyway.

He turned off the lights with a touch of Force manipulation and settled against Qui-Gon's chest. //Yes. I'll definitely have to try and scare up Alex when we get to Naboo. He certainly puts the fear of celibacy into Qui-Gon, if nothing else.//

And so the Fortnight Gannet sped on through time and space, bearing our heroes to new adventures, new lands, and yes, God help us, new crossovers.

End? Not even if you begged...