See part 0 for disclaimer - Story By Ekat, Posted by Rach ***************** She opened the door to the apartment and was instantly assaulted by the mouth-watering aromas of dinner being prepared. Her stomach growled a reminder that she had skipped lunch and breakfast had consisted of a can of Pepsi and a chocolate chip cookie. As she closed the door behind her, Methos popped his head out of the kitchen. "You're home - good. Dinner's just about ready." "Wonderful - I'm starving. Do I have time to change?" she asked, dropping her briefcase and keys in their customary place by the door. "As long as you are just changing, yes. No bubble baths or hour long showers, OK?" he teased, smiling at her. Point to Methos. They had lived together long enough for him to know her love of long hot showers or luxuriating bubble baths. Amy stuck her tongue out at him with a grin. "OK, I'll save the bath for after dinner." She headed into the bedroom to change out of her suit. She grabbed a pair of leggings out of the dresser and was about to reach for a T-shirt when a wicked grin swept across her face. She walked over to the closet and pulled one of Methos' favourite sweaters off the shelf. She inhaled deeply as she pulled the warm wool over her head. Beneath the smell of laundry detergent she could detect the aroma that was distinctly Methos... Obsession for Men mixed with his own natural scent...exotic spice and library dust. She pulled her black hair up into a functional ponytail before heading out of the bedroom. She walked into the kitchen just as Methos finished setting the table. Amy couldn't help but smile when he looked up and saw her wearing his sweater. "That's my sweater," he protested. "I know. Your point?" she asked as she sat down at the table, grinning smugly at him. "You have your own sweaters," he pointed out. Amy rolled her eyes; he was starting to whine. "You don't need to dip into mine. How would you feel if I started wearing your clothes?' "That I was dating an incredibly handsome cross dresser," she quipped, grinning up at him. He sighed and muttered something under his breath. She couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but it didn't really matter; she had won that small volley of words. Point for her. Dinner was delicious, as it always was when he cooked. Her idea of cooking was re-heating Korean take-out. Methos actually cooked. Tonight was just another example of his culinary skills. He had created for them a wonderful meal of Scampi Provonçal. The prawns were large and tender, the tomatoes plump and juicy, the sauce had just the right amount of zest, and the rice was light and fluffy. She never could get rice to come out fluffy. Despite years of her grandmother trying to teach her how to steam rice, all she ever seemed to make was a white lumpy mush. She cleaned her plate and sat back and contentedly sighed. She looked across the table to see Methos looking at her. "What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious that she had a piece of food on her chin or something. "You do the dishes," he said grinning. "No way!" she protested. "I did them yesterday." "I cooked. Therefore you do the dishes." "You cook almost every night." "Well, I wouldn't have to if other people around here actually learned how to," he teased. "And deprive you of the opportunity of making sure that the woman you love eats a decent meal every now and then?" "It's still you're responsibility to do the dishes. Besides, I don't have time to do them. I have got to get those essays corrected and there's a special on the Discovery Channel about the history of arms and armour. I want to see how badly they get it wrong." With that he stood up, picked up his glass, and walked out of the room. Amy sighed in frustration. Point to Methos. She stood up and gathered up the dishes. She filled the sink with warm soapy water and set the pots in to soak. No harm ever came to letting dishes soak and she was intrigued by the special that he had wanted to watch. She refilled her glass and went to join Methos in the living room. He was sitting on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, lap covered with papers. He was chewing on the end of the red pen in his hand as he read the essay before him. He looked up at her as she sat down at the other end of the couch. "That was quick," he commented. "I'm letting the dishes soak," she said dryly as she settled in to watch the TV. "Uh-huh," he mumbled returning his attention to the paper in his hands. Forty minutes later, Amy was engrossed in the armour special. Every now and then she heard Methos chuckle to himself, but she wasn't sure if it was due to the television programme or the essays he was grading. When the television showed two men engaged in a live steel demonstration she sat up and leaned forward, drawn deeper into the program. "I had no idea you were interested in broadsword fighting," Methos commented. She looked over her shoulder at him. He had his arm draped over the back of the couch. How he managed to look so comfortable in that boneless position she would never understand. "It looks interesting. However, I doubt they are using real blades. There's no way you can be that graceful with a two handed sword." An evil grin swept across his face. "Want to bet?" She knew that twinkle in his golden eyes. He was up to something. "What's the prize?" He bit his lower lip as he thought about the answer. "Loser has to finish doing the dishes." Definitely an intriguing prospect. She turned her body so that she was leaned against the back of the couch but facing him. "Who judges?" "You do," he said. She raised an eyebrow. **He must be pretty confident that he can prove his point if he's letting me be the judge,** she mused, **especially if the prize means not having to do the dishes.** "You that confidant that you can win?" He nodded. "How do you know that I won't say I'm right just to get out of dish duty?" He shrugged. "I'm willing to take that risk." "All right, you're on. How do you propose to prove that the two handed broadsword is a graceful weapon?" That devilish grin appeared again. "You finish watching the show. When it's over, meet me upstairs," he said sitting up. He straightened up his paperwork and headed for the stairs. She tried to pay attention to the rest of the programme, but her curiosity got the better of her. She used the remote control to turn off the television and headed up to Methos' workroom. She had always liked the second floor of the apartment. It was a large, open space, with wood floors and warm wood paneling. There was very little in the room, save for a pile of cushions for sitting on while meditating, a pell, some free weights and a stand holding a wide variety of bladed weapons. Her heart fluttered slightly when she saw Methos standing in the centre of the room. He stood bare-chested and barefoot waiting for her, a large two-handed broadsword in his hands. They had been lovers for a quite a while now, but even after all this time, the sight of him in nothing but a pair of jeans made her knees grow weak. And it was obvious from the smirk on his face he knew that he had that reaction on her. She walked over to the pile of cushions and sat down. "Ready to be taught a lesson?" he asked her. She brought her hands up, palms together and bowed towards him. "Oh yes, old and venerable sensei. This humble student is most honoured for the lesson she is about to receive." "Old and venerable my ass," he muttered. He pointed at her with the sword. "You're not too old to take across my knee for that kind of disrespect." She looked up at him with wide eyes, "Promise?" He sighed in exasperation. She grinned up at him. Point for her. "Now, young and disrespectful-of-her-elders, you commented that there was no way for a two handed broadsword to be a graceful weapon." She nodded. "You are about to see otherwise." She settled back into the cushions to watch the show. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he began to move. Immediately she knew that she had lost the bet. There was no way to describe his movements as anything but graceful. The blade moved in his hand as if it were made of paper. His muscles ripped beneath his skin with the practiced easy and latent ferocity of a cat. He moved as if he were dancing with an invisible partner. Her heart pounded harder in her chest as she watch the sweat glisten against his skin and start running down the broad expanse of his back. She trembled as she saw him unconsciously shake his head to stop the sweat from falling into his eyes. Those eyes... the ones she had lost herself in the first time she looked into them... had become unfocused as he moved through the steps of the dance. He and the sword had become one. There was no definition separating man and blade. There was only the dancer. There was only Methos. As he moved, her attention was drawn back to the powerful muscles of his back and his finely sculpted abdomen. She had to fight the urge to rise and approach him; to run her hands along his bare skin so that she could feel those muscles move beneath her touch. She never imagined that sword work could be so erotic. Never in her life had she been so turned on by merely watching someone. She licked her lips to moisten them. She felt her cheeks flush and her breathing grow shallow, as her eyes remained transfixed on the man before her. Amy had no idea how much time had passed when he finally came to a stop. He stood before her, a living, breathing statue. He smiled at her. "So, do I win? Did I convince you that the broadsword is a truly graceful weapon?" he asked her. Unable to form a coherent sentence, all she could do was nod. "Good," he said triumphantly. He turned to walk over to the sword rack to put away his blade. "You have to do the dishes." While his back was turned, she rose to her feet and came up behind him. When he turned back towards her she took his face in her hands and brought it down to meet her lips. She nibbled and sucked on his lower lip, unable to get enough of him. "Um... honey," he said around her kisses, "the dishes are downstairs." She reached for the waistband of his jeans. "They can wait," she purred as she unbuttoned the top button. Point for Methos. End