FIC: Birthday Mischief
Title: Birthday Mischief
Author: mackiedockie
Written for: mischief5's Birthday
Characters/Pairings: Duncan, Methos, Amanda, (and Joe, pouring.)
Rating: R
Warnings (spoilers!):This fic includes intimations of slash and polyamory, reluctance, snark and seduction. No violence. D/M/A/J.
Author's Notes: After the bar closes, Joe's cantina is Their Cantina.
Acknowledgments: Thanks to adabsolutely for beta and support, and Mischief, for inspiration. Cross posted to IJ and Dreamwidth (and I have a couple of invite codes--if anyone is interested!)
"To what do I owe the honor tonight?" Joe inquired by habit as he set up the first round, a peaty Islay for MacLeod, a pert Shiraz for Amanda, and a new hoppy ale for the barley-hungry Methos. He didn't really expect an answer. It was a rare time in their lives when no one was hunting, or hunted, and that was worth an unannounced celebration right there. He had just finished locking up the front when they had tumbled in the back door, Amanda in the lead, jingling her skeleton keys.
"You really should upgrade your locks, Joe," she scolded merrily. "You never know what kind of reprobates might walk in and steal your liquor."
"I would trade all the beer in Seacouver rather than deprive myself of even one second of your company, Milady," he protested valorously.
"Heresy," Methos muttered blackly.
Joe ignored Methos' trampled feelings, and managed to nab Amanda's keys and use them to draw her close. He allowed himself to brush the back of her hand with his lips, stealing just a taste of her forbidden beauty. He heard her inhale sharply, and reluctantly pulled away, pretending to mere gentility.
"Reprobates? You resemble that remark," MacLeod virtuously announced to Methos, who brightened and preened.
"I think Joe has the fingertip flirt down better than you do, MacLeod," Methos teased.
"Must be natural talent, because I know I've had more practice," MacLeod tossed back.
"Sheep don't count." Methos, virtuous.
"You should know," MacLeod agreed amiably.
Putting that little revelation into the 'file and forget' drawer, Joe escaped behind the bar to his natural lair, and poured.
Joe had an admitted weakness for beautiful things. Still, he would never collect antiques like Duncan, or fine sparkling treasures like Amanda, or the exquisite ancient tomes that Methos stacked like dimestore paperbacks. Instead, Joe honed a finely detailed memory for forms and faces, textures and scents. He needed no hidden cameras or snapshots to remind him of the living art this trio of Immortals made, whether they danced in the New Year in full tux and gown, or haggled over a dart board in form-fitting jeans on a late spring night, trading shots and lies, cheating with lovely abandon.
They never cheated when they played Joe. Not that Joe didn't understand--there were some games one only played with lovers, and never friends. Joe was on the other side of the boundary.
He carefully hid his secret disappointment, and set out the libations, staying within his role, and when the occasional insect jealousy stung, he squashed it with fierce determination. He was honored they trusted him to the point they could let down their guard and call his place their own when rare and fragile peaceful circumstance allowed. They danced, they drank, and after a while when the touches between them lingered all the longer on perfect Immortal skin, Joe would discreetly withdraw, leaving them to enjoy the most ancient of rhythms. It was a courtesy that had become a habit, and when the tweaks in his mortal frame reminded him of his timebound limitations, he often left quietly, without excuses, happy (if not secure) in the knowledge they would treat his bar and abode as their own.
"Of course I'm right. The Druids knew these things. I know, I taught 'em," Methos declared, in response to some soft and teasing query by MacLeod. "The old calendar says today. It's most auspicious." They'd been going on about something all night, in whispers and sly glances. Giving the Immortals their space, Joe stuck to his self-quarantine behind the bar, secure (if not happy) occasionally humming randy old Bessie Smith lyrics to himself to fill in the conversation for his own entertainment.
If Methos was talking auspices, it was time for him to go. Stories of reading goat entrails to predict the Great Flood or descriptions of the lunar celebrations of the Amazons couldn't be far behind. Donning his (somewhat tattered) mental cloak of Watcher invisibility, Joe eased down the back hall toward his small apartment. He paused just once, to smile as Amanda's unfettered laughter danced through his homely bar, following him to his very door. But no farther.
Joe leaned the legs into their corner, and rolled the chair within reach where he could find it even in pitch dark, though tonight the persistent glow of the moon shone through the one high bedroom window. He slipped under the cold sheets, curling on his side to warm up faster. And as his body slipped into sleep, his restless mind dreamed of locked doors, and jingling keys, and the fleeting forbidden taste of Immortal skin. The cold retreated, and his dreams grew warm and heavy and...
"...What the hell are you doing in my bed?" Joe tried to lurch upright, but Amanda seemed to have his left side locked down in an intriguingly soft, but highly effective shoulder pin. His beard slipping across her right breast made her giggle. It made him stiffen like a teenager in the back seat at the drive-in. He inhaled sharply, nearly panicking as Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod Himself loomed out of the shadows and settled into the mattress to his right.
"We claim guestright," he said with whisky-laced gravity. "Ceremony must be observed. And the Bard must be rewarded."
"I own the place. I don't do tips," Joe made a distant, disbelieving note to himself to inventory the good scotch. In the morning.
MacLeod shook his head sadly. "Tips are the best part. Just ask Amanda."
Amanda leaned across and nipped MacLeod's nearest tip, nearly smothering Joe in the process. Not that he was complaining. He even forgot the original question. "You snuck out of the celebration. It's your birthday." Amanda declared in mock outrage, after letting him up for air. "Before you opened your presents."
"Presents?" Joe muttered, still unsure where the edge of his dream had ended, and Amanda's breast began. "What presents?"
MacLeod reached across to the long ties that barely held together Amanda's blouse. Ribbons. And bows. Just waiting to be undone. "Just pull," he instructed helpfully.
"It's not my birthday," Joe pointed out, with last ditch logic, already coming undone himself. "Who told you that?"
"Methos," Amanda and MacLeod chimed as one, sounding as innocent as virgin novices. "He claims he calculated it with the Coligny Calendar, and that you were born in the Bright Moon," Amanda clarified proudly.
"And who are we to challenge his ancient wisdom?" added MacLeod, with a slightly suspect expression of awe.
"Yeah, right, pull the other one...," Joe muttered, his voice trailing off as the foot of the bed bent under Methos' pale body, clothed only in moonbeams. "...Methos. Methos? Wait, what are you doing?"
"Dendrochronology. Counting the tree rings. Behold, a sturdy oak arises out of yon forest," Methos hissed in appreciation. "How auspicious..."
"You were the one who mentioned the 'other one', Joe," Amanda whispered into his ear, shivering his skin. "It's your fault for giving the old tree worshipper ideas," she added, smiling with wicked delight at the sight of the tented sheet.
Methos, who could be counted on to cheat unto death, and was a beautiful, beautiful liar, just smiled, and pulled the sheet lower and lower, unwrapping his own prize, measuring the rings. With the tips of his long fingers and treacherous tongue he proceeded to make Joe forget his own name, much less the date, Druid-enumerated or otherwise.
But long, long years after, Joe could still recall with vivid clarity the forms and faces, textures and scents of the night of the Bright Moon.
Author: mackiedockie
Written for: mischief5's Birthday
Characters/Pairings: Duncan, Methos, Amanda, (and Joe, pouring.)
Rating: R
Warnings (spoilers!):This fic includes intimations of slash and polyamory, reluctance, snark and seduction. No violence. D/M/A/J.
Author's Notes: After the bar closes, Joe's cantina is Their Cantina.
Acknowledgments: Thanks to adabsolutely for beta and support, and Mischief, for inspiration. Cross posted to IJ and Dreamwidth (and I have a couple of invite codes--if anyone is interested!)
"To what do I owe the honor tonight?" Joe inquired by habit as he set up the first round, a peaty Islay for MacLeod, a pert Shiraz for Amanda, and a new hoppy ale for the barley-hungry Methos. He didn't really expect an answer. It was a rare time in their lives when no one was hunting, or hunted, and that was worth an unannounced celebration right there. He had just finished locking up the front when they had tumbled in the back door, Amanda in the lead, jingling her skeleton keys.
"You really should upgrade your locks, Joe," she scolded merrily. "You never know what kind of reprobates might walk in and steal your liquor."
"I would trade all the beer in Seacouver rather than deprive myself of even one second of your company, Milady," he protested valorously.
"Heresy," Methos muttered blackly.
Joe ignored Methos' trampled feelings, and managed to nab Amanda's keys and use them to draw her close. He allowed himself to brush the back of her hand with his lips, stealing just a taste of her forbidden beauty. He heard her inhale sharply, and reluctantly pulled away, pretending to mere gentility.
"Reprobates? You resemble that remark," MacLeod virtuously announced to Methos, who brightened and preened.
"I think Joe has the fingertip flirt down better than you do, MacLeod," Methos teased.
"Must be natural talent, because I know I've had more practice," MacLeod tossed back.
"Sheep don't count." Methos, virtuous.
"You should know," MacLeod agreed amiably.
Putting that little revelation into the 'file and forget' drawer, Joe escaped behind the bar to his natural lair, and poured.
Joe had an admitted weakness for beautiful things. Still, he would never collect antiques like Duncan, or fine sparkling treasures like Amanda, or the exquisite ancient tomes that Methos stacked like dimestore paperbacks. Instead, Joe honed a finely detailed memory for forms and faces, textures and scents. He needed no hidden cameras or snapshots to remind him of the living art this trio of Immortals made, whether they danced in the New Year in full tux and gown, or haggled over a dart board in form-fitting jeans on a late spring night, trading shots and lies, cheating with lovely abandon.
They never cheated when they played Joe. Not that Joe didn't understand--there were some games one only played with lovers, and never friends. Joe was on the other side of the boundary.
He carefully hid his secret disappointment, and set out the libations, staying within his role, and when the occasional insect jealousy stung, he squashed it with fierce determination. He was honored they trusted him to the point they could let down their guard and call his place their own when rare and fragile peaceful circumstance allowed. They danced, they drank, and after a while when the touches between them lingered all the longer on perfect Immortal skin, Joe would discreetly withdraw, leaving them to enjoy the most ancient of rhythms. It was a courtesy that had become a habit, and when the tweaks in his mortal frame reminded him of his timebound limitations, he often left quietly, without excuses, happy (if not secure) in the knowledge they would treat his bar and abode as their own.
"Of course I'm right. The Druids knew these things. I know, I taught 'em," Methos declared, in response to some soft and teasing query by MacLeod. "The old calendar says today. It's most auspicious." They'd been going on about something all night, in whispers and sly glances. Giving the Immortals their space, Joe stuck to his self-quarantine behind the bar, secure (if not happy) occasionally humming randy old Bessie Smith lyrics to himself to fill in the conversation for his own entertainment.
If Methos was talking auspices, it was time for him to go. Stories of reading goat entrails to predict the Great Flood or descriptions of the lunar celebrations of the Amazons couldn't be far behind. Donning his (somewhat tattered) mental cloak of Watcher invisibility, Joe eased down the back hall toward his small apartment. He paused just once, to smile as Amanda's unfettered laughter danced through his homely bar, following him to his very door. But no farther.
Joe leaned the legs into their corner, and rolled the chair within reach where he could find it even in pitch dark, though tonight the persistent glow of the moon shone through the one high bedroom window. He slipped under the cold sheets, curling on his side to warm up faster. And as his body slipped into sleep, his restless mind dreamed of locked doors, and jingling keys, and the fleeting forbidden taste of Immortal skin. The cold retreated, and his dreams grew warm and heavy and...
"...What the hell are you doing in my bed?" Joe tried to lurch upright, but Amanda seemed to have his left side locked down in an intriguingly soft, but highly effective shoulder pin. His beard slipping across her right breast made her giggle. It made him stiffen like a teenager in the back seat at the drive-in. He inhaled sharply, nearly panicking as Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod Himself loomed out of the shadows and settled into the mattress to his right.
"We claim guestright," he said with whisky-laced gravity. "Ceremony must be observed. And the Bard must be rewarded."
"I own the place. I don't do tips," Joe made a distant, disbelieving note to himself to inventory the good scotch. In the morning.
MacLeod shook his head sadly. "Tips are the best part. Just ask Amanda."
Amanda leaned across and nipped MacLeod's nearest tip, nearly smothering Joe in the process. Not that he was complaining. He even forgot the original question. "You snuck out of the celebration. It's your birthday." Amanda declared in mock outrage, after letting him up for air. "Before you opened your presents."
"Presents?" Joe muttered, still unsure where the edge of his dream had ended, and Amanda's breast began. "What presents?"
MacLeod reached across to the long ties that barely held together Amanda's blouse. Ribbons. And bows. Just waiting to be undone. "Just pull," he instructed helpfully.
"It's not my birthday," Joe pointed out, with last ditch logic, already coming undone himself. "Who told you that?"
"Methos," Amanda and MacLeod chimed as one, sounding as innocent as virgin novices. "He claims he calculated it with the Coligny Calendar, and that you were born in the Bright Moon," Amanda clarified proudly.
"And who are we to challenge his ancient wisdom?" added MacLeod, with a slightly suspect expression of awe.
"Yeah, right, pull the other one...," Joe muttered, his voice trailing off as the foot of the bed bent under Methos' pale body, clothed only in moonbeams. "...Methos. Methos? Wait, what are you doing?"
"Dendrochronology. Counting the tree rings. Behold, a sturdy oak arises out of yon forest," Methos hissed in appreciation. "How auspicious..."
"You were the one who mentioned the 'other one', Joe," Amanda whispered into his ear, shivering his skin. "It's your fault for giving the old tree worshipper ideas," she added, smiling with wicked delight at the sight of the tented sheet.
Methos, who could be counted on to cheat unto death, and was a beautiful, beautiful liar, just smiled, and pulled the sheet lower and lower, unwrapping his own prize, measuring the rings. With the tips of his long fingers and treacherous tongue he proceeded to make Joe forget his own name, much less the date, Druid-enumerated or otherwise.
But long, long years after, Joe could still recall with vivid clarity the forms and faces, textures and scents of the night of the Bright Moon.