Happy Holidays, hafital!
Title: Cold Winter Night
Author: settiai, aka The First Footer
Written for: hafital
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, Joe
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: I'd like to thank my beta for looking over this on such short notice.
Summary: "It's hard to concentrate when you've got snow in places you didn't know you had."
***
"Mind some company?"
Methos glanced up at Joe, startled to find the other man standing in front of his table. Mentally berating himself for letting his mind wander as much as it had, he shrugged. "It's your bar." He grinned slightly when he noticed that Joe wasn't empty-handed. "Plus you brought more beer."
"That's not exactly the 'yes' I was looking for," Joe said lightly, pulling out a chair, "but I guess it'll do."
Methos snorted, but he couldn't help but notice that Joe flinched as he sat down. "Prosthetics bothering you again?"
"It's this damn weather," Joe grumbled, gesturing toward the door with his eyes. "The more snow we get, the harder it is to get around."
"Ah," Methos said, nodding. Then he turned his attention back to the drink Joe had given him.
After a few seconds, Joe chuckled. "What time's Mac supposed to be here?"
Methos coughed, grateful that Joe had at least waited until he'd had time to swallow. "What makes you think I'm waiting for him?" he asked.
Joe just quirked an eyebrow.
Grumbling under his breath about upstart children, Methos took another mouthful of beer. They settled into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, neither of them saying anything as they sipped their drinks.
Methos suddenly tensed, the presence of another Immortal hitting him. His hand automatically slid under his jacket, resting on the hilt of his hidden sword. Even though he knew the odds were good that it was MacLeod, millennia of past experiences kept him from relaxing until he knew for certain. Otherwise, it was a good way for someone to lose his head . . . and he liked his exactly where it was.
Across from him, Joe shook his head. He glanced down at his watch before turning his attention toward the door behind Methos as it opened. "Nothing to worry about," Joe said, and there was no hiding the amusement in his voice. "It's just MacLeod, right on sched. . ."
Joe trailed off, his eyes widening almost comically. It had been centuries since Methos had actually seen someone's jaw properly drop, but there was no denying that Joe was openly gaping at Duncan for some reason. Methos raised an eyebrow, more than a little curious as to what could possibly bring about that sort of reaction. He quickly turned around in his chair, taking another sip of beer as he did.
One that he promptly spit out as he went into a coughing fit.
Duncan glared at the two of them as he shut the door behind him with more force than was technically necessary, ignoring the amused stares he was getting from some of the bar's other patrons. He stomped over their table, grabbing one of the remaining chairs at the table and dropping heavily down into it. "Don't say a word."
He looked, for lack of a better word, like a snowman. His clothes were covered in snow, as if he'd been rolling around in it, and it was caked in his now shoulder-length hair.
"What the hell happened to you?" Joe asked, obviously struggling to keep a straight face. And failing miserably, in Methos's expert opinion.
Duncan glared at them both. "I don't want to talk about it," he grumbled.
Methos stared thoughtfully into space for a few seconds, thinking back over the past few days. Then he smirked. "Is Amanda still in town?"
The glare Duncan shot him would have felled lesser men. As it was, Methos just chuckled and took another sip of his beer.
"Lover's spat?"
Duncan snorted. "That would imply that we'd actually been lovers anytime in the past. . ." He trailed off, suddenly realizing what he'd been about to say.
Methos leaned forward, an interested look in his eyes. "Oh, do tell."
Without saying another word, Duncan darted his hand out and grabbed Methos's beer from where it was sitting on the table. He took a long swallow, ignoring the startled "hey!" from its proper owner.
Joe rolled his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. "I think I've got a change of clothes behind the bar," he said. "Go to the restroom and get changed before you make even more of a mess."
Methos raised an eyebrow as Joe hobbled toward the bar. "Why would he have some of your clothes?" he asked curiously.
Duncan shot him an equally confused look. "I don't have a clue."
They stared at each other for a second before shrugging and standing up to follow Joe. He was standing behind the bar by the time they made it over there, the promised clothes in his hands. Duncan took them from his hands, eyeing them as he did.
"These aren't mine," Duncan said slowly.
"I never said they were," Joe shot back. "Now go changed. You're already starting to drip."
All three of them glanced back at the table where they had been sitting. A trail of water droplets and small piles of snow led the way from it to the bar. Duncan flinched and nodded, heading toward the men's restroom. Methos casually followed, pointedly pretending to ignore the knowing look on Joe's face.
Duncan froze just inside the men's room, his gaze focused on his image in the mirror. "No wonder the two of you were laughing," he said, grimacing.
Methos chuckled and pushed Duncan further into the restroom so he could shut the door behind them. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "You heard your Watcher; get undressed."
Rolling his eyes, Duncan reached down and fumbled with his belt buckle. For the first time, Methos noticed that his hands were bright red from the cold.
"Oh, for the love of. . ."
Muttering under his breath in what he thought was ancient Egyptian-though it might have been Akkadian; he tended to get them mixed up nowadays-Methos reached out and quickly unbuckled Duncan's belt.
"I think that I can handle it myself," Duncan said, pushing Methos's hand away.
Methos pursed his lips together, doing a fair imitation of a pout in his opinion. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you weren't interested in me undressing you."
Duncan swatted his hand away again. "It's hard to concentrate when you've got snow in places you didn't know you had," he grumbled. "And stop that. It's . . . disturbing."
Shaking his head, Methos dropped the faked sulk and leaned back against the wall. He didn't even try to pretend he wasn't raptly watching Duncan undress. "What did you do to Amanda?" he asked, flinching as a surprising amount of snow fell out of MacLeod's pants when he shook them out.
Duncan grimaced as he noticed the same thing. "I saved her life, that's what I did," he muttered under his breath. "And look at the thanks it got me."
After a few seconds of silence, Methos cleared his throat.
"What?" Duncan asked, looking up.
Methos shot him an incredulous look. "What?" he repeated. "You've got more snow in your clothes than I had on my car this morning. Details would be nice."
Duncan shot him an unamused look. "Amanda and I ran into an old. . . acquaintance of hers."
Methos chuckled, comprehension suddenly dawning on him. "And you, being the gentlemen that you are, offered to keep him busy while Amanda caught the soonest flight to Hawaii."
"No, I agreed to keep her busy while Amanda caught the soonest flight to Hawaii," Duncan said ruefully. "Or possibly Jamaica."
Still chuckling, Methos shook his head. "And you're covered in snow because. . ."
"She had a snowplow."
Methos stopped chuckling abruptly, and he stared at him for a few seconds. Then, realizing that Duncan wasn't joking, he threw his head back and laughed.
"I don't think it's so funny," Duncan grumbled, yanking off his shirt and letting it drop to the floor. Pointedly ignoring Methos, he grabbed the clothes that Joe had given him and pulled them on.
As Duncan's new outfit came together, Methos struggled to stop laughing. Forcing himself to keep a straight face, he nodded at Duncan. "Our friend Joe has such an eye for colors. Not to mention patterns."
Duncan glanced down at his soaked clothing, the snow quickly melting. Then he looked back at his reflection, starting with his bright orange pants and moving up to focus on the red-and-purple striped shirt. "He did this on purpose."
"Probably," Methos said, eyeing Duncan as well. Despite himself, he let out another chuckle.
Duncan groaned.
Methos ignored him. "Let's go get another beer or two," he said, grinning. "That should get your mind off things."
Duncan shot another desperate look at the mirror. "Why don't I just hide in here until it's time for the bar to close and everyone's gone?"
"Because the sooner you get out there," Methos replied, blinking his eyes in feigned innocence, "the sooner we can leave. And the sooner we leave, the sooner I can get you out of those ridiculous clothes."
Duncan's frown faded. "We really don't have to leave for that to happen."
Methos snorted and turned toward the door. "Please," he called over his shoulder as he stepped through the door, "I do have some standards."
He made it halfway through the doorway before pausing. Methos stood there for a second, not moving, before spinning back around and letting the door shut behind him. Without saying another word, he walked over to where Duncan was still standing and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him into a hard kiss.
As they pulled away a few seconds later, Duncan raised an eyebrow. "What happened to your standards?" he asked.
"I lied."
Author: settiai, aka The First Footer
Written for: hafital
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, Joe
Rating: PG-13
Author's Notes: I'd like to thank my beta for looking over this on such short notice.
Summary: "It's hard to concentrate when you've got snow in places you didn't know you had."
***
"Mind some company?"
Methos glanced up at Joe, startled to find the other man standing in front of his table. Mentally berating himself for letting his mind wander as much as it had, he shrugged. "It's your bar." He grinned slightly when he noticed that Joe wasn't empty-handed. "Plus you brought more beer."
"That's not exactly the 'yes' I was looking for," Joe said lightly, pulling out a chair, "but I guess it'll do."
Methos snorted, but he couldn't help but notice that Joe flinched as he sat down. "Prosthetics bothering you again?"
"It's this damn weather," Joe grumbled, gesturing toward the door with his eyes. "The more snow we get, the harder it is to get around."
"Ah," Methos said, nodding. Then he turned his attention back to the drink Joe had given him.
After a few seconds, Joe chuckled. "What time's Mac supposed to be here?"
Methos coughed, grateful that Joe had at least waited until he'd had time to swallow. "What makes you think I'm waiting for him?" he asked.
Joe just quirked an eyebrow.
Grumbling under his breath about upstart children, Methos took another mouthful of beer. They settled into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, neither of them saying anything as they sipped their drinks.
Methos suddenly tensed, the presence of another Immortal hitting him. His hand automatically slid under his jacket, resting on the hilt of his hidden sword. Even though he knew the odds were good that it was MacLeod, millennia of past experiences kept him from relaxing until he knew for certain. Otherwise, it was a good way for someone to lose his head . . . and he liked his exactly where it was.
Across from him, Joe shook his head. He glanced down at his watch before turning his attention toward the door behind Methos as it opened. "Nothing to worry about," Joe said, and there was no hiding the amusement in his voice. "It's just MacLeod, right on sched. . ."
Joe trailed off, his eyes widening almost comically. It had been centuries since Methos had actually seen someone's jaw properly drop, but there was no denying that Joe was openly gaping at Duncan for some reason. Methos raised an eyebrow, more than a little curious as to what could possibly bring about that sort of reaction. He quickly turned around in his chair, taking another sip of beer as he did.
One that he promptly spit out as he went into a coughing fit.
Duncan glared at the two of them as he shut the door behind him with more force than was technically necessary, ignoring the amused stares he was getting from some of the bar's other patrons. He stomped over their table, grabbing one of the remaining chairs at the table and dropping heavily down into it. "Don't say a word."
He looked, for lack of a better word, like a snowman. His clothes were covered in snow, as if he'd been rolling around in it, and it was caked in his now shoulder-length hair.
"What the hell happened to you?" Joe asked, obviously struggling to keep a straight face. And failing miserably, in Methos's expert opinion.
Duncan glared at them both. "I don't want to talk about it," he grumbled.
Methos stared thoughtfully into space for a few seconds, thinking back over the past few days. Then he smirked. "Is Amanda still in town?"
The glare Duncan shot him would have felled lesser men. As it was, Methos just chuckled and took another sip of his beer.
"Lover's spat?"
Duncan snorted. "That would imply that we'd actually been lovers anytime in the past. . ." He trailed off, suddenly realizing what he'd been about to say.
Methos leaned forward, an interested look in his eyes. "Oh, do tell."
Without saying another word, Duncan darted his hand out and grabbed Methos's beer from where it was sitting on the table. He took a long swallow, ignoring the startled "hey!" from its proper owner.
Joe rolled his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. "I think I've got a change of clothes behind the bar," he said. "Go to the restroom and get changed before you make even more of a mess."
Methos raised an eyebrow as Joe hobbled toward the bar. "Why would he have some of your clothes?" he asked curiously.
Duncan shot him an equally confused look. "I don't have a clue."
They stared at each other for a second before shrugging and standing up to follow Joe. He was standing behind the bar by the time they made it over there, the promised clothes in his hands. Duncan took them from his hands, eyeing them as he did.
"These aren't mine," Duncan said slowly.
"I never said they were," Joe shot back. "Now go changed. You're already starting to drip."
All three of them glanced back at the table where they had been sitting. A trail of water droplets and small piles of snow led the way from it to the bar. Duncan flinched and nodded, heading toward the men's restroom. Methos casually followed, pointedly pretending to ignore the knowing look on Joe's face.
Duncan froze just inside the men's room, his gaze focused on his image in the mirror. "No wonder the two of you were laughing," he said, grimacing.
Methos chuckled and pushed Duncan further into the restroom so he could shut the door behind them. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "You heard your Watcher; get undressed."
Rolling his eyes, Duncan reached down and fumbled with his belt buckle. For the first time, Methos noticed that his hands were bright red from the cold.
"Oh, for the love of. . ."
Muttering under his breath in what he thought was ancient Egyptian-though it might have been Akkadian; he tended to get them mixed up nowadays-Methos reached out and quickly unbuckled Duncan's belt.
"I think that I can handle it myself," Duncan said, pushing Methos's hand away.
Methos pursed his lips together, doing a fair imitation of a pout in his opinion. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you weren't interested in me undressing you."
Duncan swatted his hand away again. "It's hard to concentrate when you've got snow in places you didn't know you had," he grumbled. "And stop that. It's . . . disturbing."
Shaking his head, Methos dropped the faked sulk and leaned back against the wall. He didn't even try to pretend he wasn't raptly watching Duncan undress. "What did you do to Amanda?" he asked, flinching as a surprising amount of snow fell out of MacLeod's pants when he shook them out.
Duncan grimaced as he noticed the same thing. "I saved her life, that's what I did," he muttered under his breath. "And look at the thanks it got me."
After a few seconds of silence, Methos cleared his throat.
"What?" Duncan asked, looking up.
Methos shot him an incredulous look. "What?" he repeated. "You've got more snow in your clothes than I had on my car this morning. Details would be nice."
Duncan shot him an unamused look. "Amanda and I ran into an old. . . acquaintance of hers."
Methos chuckled, comprehension suddenly dawning on him. "And you, being the gentlemen that you are, offered to keep him busy while Amanda caught the soonest flight to Hawaii."
"No, I agreed to keep her busy while Amanda caught the soonest flight to Hawaii," Duncan said ruefully. "Or possibly Jamaica."
Still chuckling, Methos shook his head. "And you're covered in snow because. . ."
"She had a snowplow."
Methos stopped chuckling abruptly, and he stared at him for a few seconds. Then, realizing that Duncan wasn't joking, he threw his head back and laughed.
"I don't think it's so funny," Duncan grumbled, yanking off his shirt and letting it drop to the floor. Pointedly ignoring Methos, he grabbed the clothes that Joe had given him and pulled them on.
As Duncan's new outfit came together, Methos struggled to stop laughing. Forcing himself to keep a straight face, he nodded at Duncan. "Our friend Joe has such an eye for colors. Not to mention patterns."
Duncan glanced down at his soaked clothing, the snow quickly melting. Then he looked back at his reflection, starting with his bright orange pants and moving up to focus on the red-and-purple striped shirt. "He did this on purpose."
"Probably," Methos said, eyeing Duncan as well. Despite himself, he let out another chuckle.
Duncan groaned.
Methos ignored him. "Let's go get another beer or two," he said, grinning. "That should get your mind off things."
Duncan shot another desperate look at the mirror. "Why don't I just hide in here until it's time for the bar to close and everyone's gone?"
"Because the sooner you get out there," Methos replied, blinking his eyes in feigned innocence, "the sooner we can leave. And the sooner we leave, the sooner I can get you out of those ridiculous clothes."
Duncan's frown faded. "We really don't have to leave for that to happen."
Methos snorted and turned toward the door. "Please," he called over his shoulder as he stepped through the door, "I do have some standards."
He made it halfway through the doorway before pausing. Methos stood there for a second, not moving, before spinning back around and letting the door shut behind him. Without saying another word, he walked over to where Duncan was still standing and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him into a hard kiss.
As they pulled away a few seconds later, Duncan raised an eyebrow. "What happened to your standards?" he asked.
"I lied."