Healing Powers
by Erika

Pairing: Methos/Wolverine
Disc: The X-men characters are property of Stan Lee, Marvel and their associated companies. Highlander and its characters belong to TPTB at Panzer/Davis and their associated companies.
Rating: Slash
Summary: Poet, aka Mama Bear, asked for it and I thought what the heck it might be fun.
Beta-reader: Mofalle who made sure I wrote a credible Logan, who has beta this with a great deal of humour, and for giving me pillows for my sore behind. Anika who made sure I did justice to the Highlander characters. Now, Anika also deserves a great deal of credit for being patient with me, when I send her things out of order, but most of all for pointing out what should have been the obvious and in turn changing the direction of the story, adding character dimensions and lastly, corrupting me into writing more. After all this was supposed to be one snippet not three, but her input gave me food for thought. Thank you both.
Okay, right now the stories for this Methos/Wolverine series are as follows:
1. Healing Powers.
2. Remembering Your Touch.
3. As the World Turns.
4. A Watcher's Journal.
website: http://www.geocities.com/carlajanep/Erika/EEpart00.html
egroup: http://www.egroup.com/EvilChild
Archiving: Sure, just tell me where so I know where to send the other parts.

He had been running for the last two hours, trying to put some distance between himself and the Hunters. The oldest escape artist stopped to rest. He needed to catch his breath and plan his next course of action. Methos leaned against the wall, and he sighed deeply, going over his options. He could continue running, but the possibility of them preparing to block his escape further ahead was out-most in his mind. He could also stop running, stand his ground and fight, but was he prepared to slaughter a group of mortals? Was he prepared for Death to reawaken within him?

Methos reached inside his coat and took out his gun. He then moved further back into the alley, allowing the shadows, the darkness to cover him fully. He watched and waited. From the distance, he could see six men approaching, and that was when he felt it, an immortal signature.

It was too late. He had miscalculated. He had thought his pursuers to be Hunters, Rogue Watchers, mortals; he hadn't considered that they'd be working with one of his kind. He would pay for his mistake with his immortal life. The oldest had lived for more than five thousand years, and he would fight for every single lifetime he had experienced. The memories of his mortal lovers quickly flashed through his mind. Through him, they had been granted immortality. If he died, there would be nobody left to remember them, grieve for them or love them.

He prepared his gun and fired, hitting his intended victim. As the remaining men sought cover, Methos moved quickly, taking out two more. He ignored the signature of the unknown immortal, the signature that screamed in his mind, demanding his attention. He couldn't let himself be distracted; he needed to level out the playing field, take out the hired goons, or his life would be forfeit.

Slowly, he moved, using the darkness of the night as a cover. He was hit on the shoulder. He dropped the gun as he fell to the ground. As he moved to the side away from the line of fire, he picked up the gun, stood up and took out two more patsies. Already the pain from the bullet wound was a distant memory. There were benefits to being the oldest man, he chuckled ruthlessly. Now, to find the last mortal.

Methos moved silently. For more than five thousand years he had learned to hunt in silence, to move without making a sound or disturb the ground beneath him. He smiled, welcoming this battle. He allowed himself the pleasure of becoming a hunter again, of becoming a god.

There. There he was. Come here, little prey. Come.

He raised his gun and fired, watching dispassionately as the man fell to the ground. "Come out, come out, wherever you are." He sang forth to the other immortal. It'd been so long since he had done this, allowed himself the opportunity to enjoy the hunt and the kill. He put aside his worries, closed his eyes and concentrated on the immortal signature, feeling its pull, feeling its sweetness.

It was a young one, he laughed bitterly, correcting himself. They were all young -- about eight hundred years give or take a few centuries. Like a hound on a hunt, he knew; oh, yes, he knew where the immortal hid. He reached inside his coat and took out a dagger, concentrating on the signature calling forth to him. He waited until the immortal moved, then Methos threw the dagger at him.

He felt as the signature died away.

The oldest immortal stepped out, leaving the darkness behind him. He moved to the body that now laid on the ground. Methos bent down and took a closer look at his immortal Hunter, now turned victim. Yes, he had been right. The immortal was about eight hundred, a Greek, a head-hunter and now a dead man. It was times like these that Methos thanked the deities for having had the foresight for creating the Watchers' CD, providing him with unlimited access to information on other immortals. Methos got up and reached for his sword.

He stopped, bent down once again and took the dagger out of the man's chest, waiting for him to revive. The Highlander would be pleased he would let the man live long enough to meet the challenge. Indeed, Duncan's boy scout tendencies had rubbed off on him; before, Methos would have gladly beheaded the unconscious immortal but now … Methos stood his ground as he felt the immortal signature getting stronger. He remained still as the other immortal opened his eyes and reached for his sword. Then the stillness disappeared as Methos went into battle.

Logan had been walking back to the small room he had rented just above the mostly deserted building, the weight of his backpack heavy on his shoulders. The only people who lived here were the drug pushers, the hookers and the forgotten ones. As he crossed the street to go into the building, he heard a gunshot go off in the distance. He stood still, waiting. Then he heard two more shots being fired. He ran toward the direction of the sound, toward danger.

When he finally reached the alley, he saw a man on the ground and another holding a sword, standing above him. Before Logan could move or make a sound, the man stepped back and swung his sword. A head rolled. Logan's scream was muffle by the sound of a growing storm that lit the night sky. Lightning coming from the headless body engulfed the other man. Then the man was struck by lightning from above. The stranger screamed, spreading his arms apart, his body lifting from the ground.

As the lightning worked around the other man, Logan could no longer watch as the man continued to struggle with the electrical storm. Logan ran and tackled the stranger to the ground. He glanced down to meet two hazel eyes absorbed in pain and a body writhing beneath him. He could smell the fear and the lust that clung to the man. Firmly, he held onto the body, watching as the lightning worked its way out of the body. Slowly, ever so gently, he loosened his grip, hearing the man's heart rate slow to a more normal rhythm.

He heard a snap and looked above him to the emergency fire escape that was just hanging, ready to fall. Before he could move away from the danger, the stranger pushed him to the side, covering his body with his own, protecting him from the staircase that soon fell on top of them both.

A few minutes later, Logan woke to find himself trapped. He tried to move but found he was unable to for fear of injuring the man laying on top of him. He heard the harsh sound as the stranger gasped, trying to breathe, and heard as the heart stopped beating. He closed his eyes, trying to block the image of the man dying on top of him. Who was this stranger? And why had he risked his life to save him?

Just as he had untangled himself from the debris and dead body, the faint scream of sirens forced him to quickly move away from the crime scene. He picked up his previously discarded backpack and headed toward the relative obscurity of the run-down apartment.

The memory of the man's hazel eyes stayed with him as he made his way back to his building. Once inside, he shut the apartment door and threw the backpack to the ground. His fist clenched, and he let out a growl. He was here in this godforsaken place, trying to run away from his memories of the X-men and the confusion that still lingered within him.

He went over to the bedroll. He grabbed the clothes that laid on top, stuffing them into his backpack. The man known to some as Wolverine then gathered the rest of his things and headed toward the door, trying to escape the image of the stranger as he had died. A part of him wondered when he would stop running and whether this latest event would force him further away from the X-men.

Four days later on the road, Logan's body protested the pounding he was inflicting upon it by lack of sleep and constant road travel. He decided to make a stop-over at Seacouver. He rented a room near a Jazz bar and soon found himself drinking, trying to forget the stranger who had died for him. He was so lost in thought that at first the familiar scent of the man whose body had been writhing above him while dying did not penetrated his thoughts.

It was only when he walked to the bar to pay his tab that he he recognized the scent. He glanced around but was unable to locate where it was coming from. All he knew was that it was very near.

"Hey. Are you all right?" The bartender asked him.

"Ya." He paid his bar tab and moved toward the door. Feeling the bartender's gaze, he left the bar and crossed the street, preparing to wait all night if needed. He gathered his coat closer to his body, trying to fight the chill that had settled.

It was two in the morning, closing time, when the stranger who he had believed had died in front of him left the safety of the bar. He judged the distance between the motel and where the stranger stood. Logan needed his questions answered. For that he needed to take the other man away from prying eyes by force if necessary.

He moved forward, quickly covering the distance between them. Just as he was about to reach the stranger, he found himself blocking a sidekick to his temple. He pushed the man against the wall, his blades unsheathing, holding the stranger in place.

"Fuck! What are you?" The man's eyes opened wide as he finally took note what was holding him against the wall.

"Sshhh ..." Logan found himself trying to calm the man in front of him. He could smell the fear quickly turn to curiosity.

"Who are you?" the man asked, awe clearly noted in his tone.

"Shouldn't I be asking ye that?" Upon hearing the question, the stranger had the grace to blush. "What's yer name?"

"Adam," he answered huskily. "Adam Pierson."

"Wrong. Try again." In his arms, Adam stiffened and tried to pull away. "Yer' lying. I can smell it ... hear it ... Now what's yer name?"

For the longest time, silence greeted his question -- ...what's yer name? Then Logan heard him whisper, "Methos."

Logan heard the truth and loosened his hold. "Methos?"

"Just -- Methos," the young man in front of Logan informed him. “Since we are exchanging secret identities, what's yours?"

"Logan. Look, we need to talk, but not here." Before Methos could protest, Logan sheathed his blades, grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his motel room located two blocks away.

"Ow. Not so hard." The whole way there, Methos had been protesting the harsh treatment. Once inside the room, Logan released him. Methos found himself rubbing at his injured wrist. Methos knew he should be running, screaming in the opposite direction, but he found himself drawn to this man.

Methos glanced about the room, taking note of its scarcity. A backpack laid on the foot of the bed, the only sign that this room had an occupant. The oldest immortal sat down on the bed, running his hand through his hair. Fuck. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Four days ago, he had avoided being killed by an immortal head-hunter and his mortal posse only to end up dying, trying to save this man who now stood in front of him, glaring at him like he was an insect that needed to be dissected. He groaned at his misfortune and fell back on the bed, sprawling and thinking, why me? Methos thought back to the events of that day, four nights ago. He had revived just in time as the police cruiser had made its way down the alley. He had gathered his sword and the sword of the fallen immortal and had hid, using the darkness and his skill to blend in with the night.

He had thought about seeking the man who had tried to save his life, who had tried to calm the quickening raging within him, but his instincts had taken over, forcing him to run back to Seacouver and the relative safety of Joe's bar. Fuck, he swore again silently, berating fate's intervention and sick sense of humour. How had the man found him? And who was he really? Methos yawned and sprawled further into the bed. He had been so busy running, allowing the quickening to settle within him, that he had hardly gotten any rest since the last time he had seen Logan. He closed his eyes, feeling sleep pull him into its abyss, and before he was aware of it, he had fallen asleep.

Logan looked at the figure spread out on his bed, at the tempting sight of the man who seemed to have fallen asleep. He moved forward and leaned down to look at the man he had kidnapped. Logan had, after all, forced the man to accompany him, ignoring his protest, only thinking about getting him inside his room. He took a deep breath and shook his head. The man's scent carried curiosity mixed with amusement and some ... he tilted his head, concentrating on the scent ... a hint of ... No. Not self-pity, more like self-awareness, contemplation. He found it hard to define as he was most used to smelling fear and anger from those around him.

They needed to talk. He shook Methos' shoulder only to find the young man turn his body toward him as though seeking, reaching for him.

"Methos. Wake up, bub." Logan called him "Um ..." Methos stretched on the bed, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "Sorry. Tired. Um ... comfy." He turned to his side, snuggling against a pillow.

"Come on," Logan found himself chuckling. "Ye at least need to get yer coat off."

"Will you respect me in the morning?" Methos asked half-jokingly, sleep making him murmur his words.

"Maybe." Logan answered, helping Methos with his coat and shoes. Who was this man who fell quickly back to sleep on his bed, showing him no fear?

Logan took off his own coat and shoes and found himself laying next to Methos. Maybe this is all a dream, he thought.

Probably he would find himself waking up, realizing this was all part of an alcohol-induced nightmare. Yeah, that had to be it. His befuddled mind had probably conjured up the image of this dead man. After all, for the past four days, he had been thinking about this man. He must have been one really sick puppy to have come up with such a name. God, who named their child Methos?

With these strange thoughts, Logan soon found himself asleep.

Methos woke up feeling warm and safe. He snuggled further into the bed only to realize there was a body beside him. God. He had fallen asleep. He moved away from Logan and berated himself. He hadn't let his guard down like this in centuries. Even with the Highlander, he had practiced extreme caution, yet here he had thrown it all away for the comfort of a warm body. No, he realized, it was more than that ... there was a connection, maybe forged during his quickening, between him and this man.

He moved away from the bed and picked up his coat that laid on the floor. Just as he was about to reach for his shoes ...

"Leavin' so soon?" Logan asked him. Methos turned around to find Logan awake and sitting on the bed. "Just getting my things."

"Ye still haven't answered my questions, bub," stated Logan as he watched Methos put on his shoes. "What are ya? And why aren't ya dead?"

"How did you find me?" Methos asked.

"I didn't. I wasn't looking fer ya ..." Logan stopped and watched as Methos's smirk turned into a chuckle and then an outright laugh. He moved toward the man when it looked like he would have difficulty breathing. "What about fate?" Logan asked Methos, hearing him murmur something about it between his laughter.

"I was just saying, Fate is a fickle lady." Methos answered, looking at him. "We both seem to be carrying secrets. I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Methos playfully informed Logan, watching as the man caught the sexual innuendo, flexed his fist and stared back at him.

"I asked first." Logan reminded him, ignoring Methos's last comment.

Methos looked at him, measuring his words and what little he knew of the man. The man standing in front of him, Logan, had thrown himself at Methos during a quickening, probably believing Methos was being struck by lightning. Even a fool would have been smart enough to know that one did not run headlong into danger. Yet this man had and had survived. But he was not an immortal, that much Methos knew. Methos had not sensed an immortal pre-signature, but he had sensed something.

In five thousand years, Methos had learned to control his quickening, the energy that honed his immortality, into a useful tool. Silently watching Logan, he let go of his quickening, Let loose his control. Like an invisible wave, his quickening reached for Logan, searching, seeking to learn everything it could about this man. It learned of broken bones that had healed, of a skeletal structure that was foreign, metal. This man was old. How old it did not know. It searched deeper, wanting to know more, until the want turned into an unspoken need.

Logan had stood, watching as Methos, the young man he had kidnapped only earlier that morning, all of a sudden stiffened, still as a statue. His heightened senses picked up a musk coming from the young man. His hearing noted a pitch that seemed to vibrate from Methos, increase in size and frequency, and then he felt it ... a movement, a breeze that passed through him and around him.

He had felt something like this before when Jean had tried to calm him down by linking with him telepathically. He wondered if Methos was also a telepath, a mutant, just like him. He allowed himself to be searched, sensing no danger, only a mild curiosity and intellectual awareness. He shivered at the invisible touch, felt it as it traced his spine and brushed his chest, teasing him, touching him as a lover would.

The caress continued. Logan just stared at Methos, taking note of his hazel eyes, the calmness he ensued. Just as the invisible wave seemed to retreat from him, Logan found himself stepping forward and reaching out.

He grabbed hold of Methos, pushed him up against the wall and kissed him ruthlessly. The tingling sensation continued around him, and it spurred him on. He felt himself being embraced and worshipped by invisible force. He released Methos's lips, kissing him on the jaw and slowly working down Methos's neck, sucking at the collarbone. He did not need to hear the other man's moan to note that his scent had changed from curiosity to lust. He stepped back and ripped Methos's sweater apart, helped him with his shirt and frantically took off his jeans. He growled in pleasure when he finally touched the man in front of him who bore neither briefs nor boxers.

"Wait. Wait." Logan stopped upon hearing Methos's call out to him. "I said wait; I didn't say stop," Methos corrected him.

"Yer wish is my command." Logan chuckled as his hand mapped the naked contours of flesh in front of him.

"Clothes. Off."

"Bub, yer naked." Logan informed him.

"But you're not. Clothes. Off. Damn it." Methos told him between groans.

Logan let him go and took off his clothes, blushing slightly at the intent scrutiny Methos sent him. Once naked, he again pushed Methos against the wall. Then unsheathing the metal that was a part of him, he used the blades to gently trace along Methos's neck. Instead of fear, what radiated from the other man was lust magnified. He arched forward, giving Logan greater access to his neck. The more Logan caressed Methos this way, the more Methos seemed to lose control, arching into him, moaning and then humping him.

"Please." Methos pleaded, his voice heavy with sex.

Logan smiled pulling Methos toward the bed only to be stopped short when the other man gasped, "No. Here." Methos leaned toward the wall, sending Logan a mischievous and naughty grin.

"This will hurt." Logan informed him, concerned.

"I'll heal." Methos said, reaching for him and kissing him. "Now," he demanded.

Logan rubbed their cocks together, using some of the precum that spilled as lubricant for his fingers. He stretched Methos by first entering him with one finger and then another. Methos moaned and thrust against the fingers. "More," Methos told Logan between groans. He reached for Logan, bringing his head down so he could kiss him until their tongues met and battled.

Logan heard a faint protest from Methos when he removed his fingers, but Logan felt his lover's heart race when he replaced it with his cock. In one move, Logan entered Methos and then held still, giving them both time to adjust.

"Sshhh..." Logan said, reassuring Methos, petting him gently and kissing him softly. When he felt Methos relax and move, he started to slowly thrust, gaining momentum.

"Lo ...gannnnnn..." Methos screamed as the thrust went deeper. He spread his legs further and hooked them around Logan.

Logan held him up. He was the only thing that prevented Methos from falling to the floor. As much as he liked this friction, Logan wanted more. He picked Methos up and carried him to the bed, their bodies still joined. Logan laid on the bed with Methos on top of him. They both groaned. Logan felt his lover shudder when he let out his blades and allowed them to softly graze along Methos's skin. He leaned forward to take Methos's nipple into his mouth just as his lover thrust down. He bit, and Methos screamed.

"Fuck. If you keep doing that I am going to cum ..." Methos warned him.

"I thought that was what ya wanted." Logan told him, reaching out for him again. Methos stopped him, glared at him and mouthed the word, 'wait.' Just as Logan was about to protest, Methos clench his inner muscle, gripping onto Logan's cock buried deep within him.

"Fuck." Logan let out. Two could play this game. He used his blades to caress Methos's sensitive skin, paying close attention to his nipples and neck area. It was during one of those touches that he accidentally pricked Methos. He watched as a blue-tinged spark burst forth, automatically closing the wound.

"Again." Demanded Methos breathlessly.

"Masochist." Logan found himself affectionately calling Methos.

"Yes." Methos enthusiastically declared.

Their thrusts got wilder. They more resembled two animals in heat than two men making love. Logan clutched Methos to him, gripped him hard, holding him by the waist, thrusting deep within him. He could not hold it any longer. He flipped Methos onto the bed, thrust two times and finally let go, cumming inside him.

Methos, feeling Logan lose control, joined him, screaming Logan's name. They laid there entwined, sticky from the cum, their breath slowly moving back to a normal pace.

Logan was the first to recover. He reached to kiss Methos lazily, softly, affectionately loving the way Methos moaned and purred like a satisfied cat. He untangled their bodies and got up to get a wet cloth. He came back to clean them up, briefly wiped them both with the cloth, then dropped the cloth on the floor. He laid beside Methos, then gathered Methos into his arms. They fell asleep spooned together.

Less than two hours later, Logan woke up to find his bed empty and his lover gone. He wrapped the blanket around him as he got off the bed. He looked down. On the floor was Methos's discarded sweater. He brought it up to his face and breathed in, smelling his lover's sweet scent. Logan sat on the floor of the motel room. His arms wrapped around the torn sweater. He could still feel Methos, still sense him.

He got up, picked up the telephone by the bed and threw it across the room. With that energy spent, he grabbed his discarded clothes and put them in his backpack. What he needed was a shower, he thought angrily, to wash the other's scent off him. With that decided, he went to the bathroom. He entered the stall and quickly turned the water to a heated temperature. Wolverine scrubbed roughly at his skin to wash away Methos's scent but knew that his mutation would never allow him to forget the way the other man tasted, how the sweat-covered body writhed beneath him or the musk the other man gave off during sex.

Once he had finished, he quickly got dressed, grabbed his backpack and jacket and made his way to the door. Just as he was about to close the door, he stopped, looked back at the room and went back to pick up the sweater. Sentimental fool, he harshly thought. Logan took the sweater and stuffed it into his backpack, closed the door and headed outside. He had paid earlier for the room, only planning to stay the night, to allow his body time to recuperate from the road trip. Now he headed toward Scott's stolen bike, got on it and headed out, destiny unknown...

The End