Happy Holidays, tazlet! (1/2)
Title: Mediterraneo
Author: Killa/killabeez aka The Crapon and Jean-Paul Sartre Team Up to Fight Nausea
Written for: Taz/tazlet (Happy belated birthday, Taz!)
Pairings/Characters: Duncan/Methos/Amanda (and various combinations)
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Thank you so very much to my two kind betas, unovis_lj and hafital, who helped make this better. It was a great kindness on both their parts, and so much appreciated. I deeply hope it pleases.
Summary: Ten years ago in Paris, Duncan walked away and didn't look back.
Mediterraneo
It was late when Duncan let himself in, the street empty save for a sleek, gray cat who crouched at the top of the steps, gave him an assessing look, then slipped through the rail and disappeared into the hedge.
A faint, musty smell greeted him as soon as he got the door open. It had faded since yesterday, he decided. After being shut up all winter, the flat needed a good airing. If he planned on being there longer, he'd give it a spring cleaning, too.
The door bumped against something; the post had come. He pushed past and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it up before bending down to scoop up the pile of envelopes and magazines. Most of it was advertisements. The upkeep and bills were handled by an agency, and he seldom used this address. He started down the hall, suppressing a yawn and longing for nothing so much as his bed. Joe could drink him under the table these days, and the jetlag didn't help.
As he put the mail down on the hall table, one handwritten envelope caught his eye. It was a different shape than the others, and when he slid it from the pile, the faint scent of a familiar perfume teased his nose. The postmark was in Greek stamped over the stylized image of a basilica, the address written in Amanda's flawless script.
Intrigued, Duncan took the envelope and headed upstairs, tearing it open as he went. He slid the letter out, a single sheet folded neatly in two, and held it up, breathing in the smell of it. He hadn't seen her in almost a decade. She'd been in Toronto for a while, then Paris, but she'd dropped off the map after that and even Joe hadn't known where she'd gone off to.
Duncan toed off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, unfolding the letter with the other. He went into the bathroom and started a bath running, then sat down on the closed lid of the commode and began to read.
The tone of the letter was breezy, familiar but not really personal. I heard you were coming to London, she said, but didn't say who'd told her. Thought maybe I'd catch you. She talked of Easter in Corfu, of the boats and the fireworks over the harbor, of the fact that she'd decided to take a vacation from everything for a while and soak up the sun. One of the perks, she said, and he could hear her voice as she said it, could imagine the flash of her dimples and the little tilt of her head. One of the perks of being Immortal, she meant. No skin cancer to worry about.
You should come, she said near the end, like an afterthought. It's been too long, and you could use a vacation yourself. The world will survive without you for a few weeks, I promise. Besides, I need someone around here who can cook, or I might starve to death, and you know how much I hate that. He chuckled, remembering the last time she'd tried to cook for him. Starvation wouldn't kill an Immortal, not permanently, but he wasn't sure the same thing could be said for Amanda's stroganoff.
Duncan folded the letter and stood up, flipping the envelope over to look again at the return address. Regret weighed heavy, and a part of him wished he could take her up on it. It really had been too long, and as little as he felt he had to offer in the way of company at the moment, Amanda had always been good for him in the ways that counted.
He set the letter aside and finished undressing, frowning a moment at the flowing London, United Kingdom on the front. How had she got this address, anyway, and who had known he'd be here? Joe would have mentioned it if he'd heard from her. His accountant in New York knew where he was, and he presumed his Watcher, but otherwise he'd told no one except Joe. There'd been no one to tell for longer than he cared to remember.
The frown faded, and a wry smile touched his lips. It had to have been Joe, worried about him, as usual. He'd probably spent no small effort tracking Amanda down so he could call her and tell her to take pity on Duncan, convince her to invite him to the islands for a few weeks in the hopes it would do him some good. It would be like Joe to play it close to the vest, play it like he'd had nothing to do with the whole scheme.
The water in the tub steamed hot, and Duncan shut off the faucet, then climbed in, sinking down with a groan of bliss. The tub was the best thing about this flat; it was deep enough that he could completely submerge, the water taking his weight. He let it close over his head, then surfaced and rested his neck against the cool porcelain. Feeling tension and residual travel fatigue ebb away, he closed his eyes.
It was a weight off his mind, knowing Amanda was all right, that she was happy. Ever since Joe had told him the story of what happened with her friend Wolfe, he'd worried. In another life, he would have sought Wolfe out himself, tried to get through to him--maybe even taken him on as a student. Things being what they were, he'd called Matthew McCormick instead, and persuaded him to see what he could do. His guess had been good, apparently; Amanda had called him near tears to thank him. It was the last time he'd talked to her. According to Joe, a year later, Amanda had sold her half of the club in Paris to her partner and made herself scarce.
Duncan stretched an arm out, snagging the letter from the edge of the sink. He read it again, this time reading between the lines. He'd known Amanda almost four hundred years. She'd been his lover, his best friend, sometimes the bane of his existence. She could put on a smile and fake it with the best of them, but he knew her; even now, it surprised him how much that was true. And this time, he read what she didn't say.
Maybe he was right about Joe's part in Amanda's invitation. But Amanda wasn't taking pity on him any more than she ever had. Even after Tessa, it hadn't been about pity.
She was right. It had been too long. And Duncan decided that once he'd spent some time with Joe, there was nothing else happening in his life that couldn't wait.
* * *
The moment he stepped out of the taxi, the sunlight and the fragrant breeze wrapped themselves around him like a blessing. They'd ridden with the windows open since Corfu Town, and already he could feel the tension that had been knotted within him start to relax. When they'd come up the hill from the main road, and he'd seen the terraces and gardens of Amanda's villa come into view, he'd felt a pang of sadness, but with it came the quiet certainty that told him he'd been right to come.
He left the cab at the bottom of the long drive and walked up, breathing in the verdant smells of the lush foliage and the smell of the sea in great lungfuls. Terns cried out over the water. Stone stairs led down to a private beach a few hundred feet below the house, wildflowers spilling out between the cracks of the steps. For a moment, when the deep, resonant vibration of Amanda's buzz washed over him, Duncan's heart lifted.
Amanda met him at the door dressed in white, a flowing tunic and pants that left her arms bare and set off her tanned shoulders, her dark hair, longer and softer than he'd seen it in a while. She gave him a once-over, her eyes alight with the old mischief. "So," she said, "you just passing through, or are you going to put that down and give me a proper hello?"
The smile that broke over him felt rusty from disuse. He set his bag down and found himself with his arms full of Amanda. She felt wonderful--she always felt wonderful--but there came a fleeting, awkward moment when he wasn't sure whether to let go, or to kiss her.
"Sorry I'm late," he said at last as he let her go.
She smiled, wide and bright. "You're forgiven."
He followed her into a large foyer with a fountain in the middle, mosaic tiles describing seashells, dolphins, and other ocean motifs at their feet. Directly in front of him, two marble steps led to a sunken living room decorated with a mix of soothing colors, beautiful antiques and ceramics, the centerpiece a stunning Bösendorfer grand piano. Off to the right was a spacious kitchen and what looked like French doors that led to a garden; to the left, wide sliding doors led to the patio and a terrace with a pool and a view of the beach below. They were open, long sheer curtains moving with the fragrant breeze.
Amanda watched his reaction, expectant. "So, what do you think?"
"The place is beautiful, Amanda. Peaceful."
"You sound surprised," she said, teasing him.
"Not surprised. Just not what I pictured."
She shrugged. "A girl needs her privacy now and then."
Duncan still wanted to kiss her, but something was stopping him. He realized they didn't quite fit together as easily as they once had. Maybe it was because Wolfe was a question he still didn't know the answer to, and he felt wary of trespassing. Or maybe it was only that he'd been alone for so long.
When the sense of another Immortal hit, it was so unexpected, he felt his heart kick.
He tensed, turning toward the door. "You expecting company?" His hand was halfway to where his sword should be before he remembered it was still in its case. Amanda stopped him with a touch on his arm.
"Relax, darling."
He turned back, and she looked over Duncan's left shoulder toward the patio, smiling.
A figure stood in the doorway, a towel slung around his neck, chest bare and long limbs as brown as Amanda's. Duncan barely had time to register all that before the newcomer grinned and said in a deep, familiar voice, "Don't look so worried, Mac. Nobody here but friends."
Abashed and caught off-guard, Duncan couldn't help staring. "Methos!"
Methos's grin widened, and he drawled, "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
Methos looked good. He looked better than good--he looked tan, relaxed, fit. The sun had bronzed his hair, and he had a pair of sunglasses perched rakishly on his head; Duncan was suddenly aware of his own appearance, pale, rumpled and grimy from the trip. In spite of that, he felt himself start to smile, the unexpected sight of that sharp-featured, familiar face like a good belt of scotch: sharp, a little bitter, but sweet and heady, too.
Before he knew he meant to do it, Duncan stepped forward, hand outstretched. Methos took it and surprised him, pulling him close for a moment before letting him go. Duncan caught a whiff of sea salt and sunscreen.
Methos seemed genuinely glad to see him, too, his eyes crinkling, the bright flash of his grin unguarded for once. He looked happier than Duncan could remember ever seeing him.
"It's good to see you," Methos said, as if in this place, none of their old battles mattered any more.
Duncan relaxed despite himself, and drew a breath that felt like it had been a long time coming. "Good to see you, too," he said, and it came out more fervent than he really meant it to. Then realization dawned. "It was you, wasn't it? You knew I was coming to London to see Joe."
Methos shrugged, unrepentant. "Guilty as charged."
"Why am I not surprised?" But he was. He felt unsettled by the idea that Methos would want him around. He'd thought those days were over.
He became aware of how close they were standing; an awkward silence fell, in which Duncan's eyes drank Methos in too deeply, strayed over his face a little too long. It lasted only a moment before Amanda asked, "Have you eaten?"
"Not since Athens," he said, relieved. He stepped back.
"Perfect. We were about to do drinks and hors d'oeuvres and watch the sun set."
"Sounds wonderful."
She put a hand on his arm, drawing him with her. "Come on, let's get you settled in."
* * *
Duncan's room was on the second floor, with doors that opened onto a terrace overlooking the pool and the sea below. "All the bedrooms face the water," Amanda told him, showing him the closet and the ensuite bathroom. The double bed, layered in white and blue cotton, looked soft and obscenely comfortable. Duncan put his bag down near the window and circled the room, trying to come to terms with the situation, which was decidedly... odd. Three hundred and seventy years, give or take, and he was pretty sure he and Amanda had never slept under the same roof and not in the same bed.
It wasn't like he'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. The last time they'd been together, the sex had been spectacular, but afterwards Amanda had been distracted, out the door before he even had a chance to say a proper hello.
He finished his circuit of the room and stopped, facing her. "Thanks. It's great," he said, watching her for a sign. You could never be sure with Amanda; she might be trying to tell him something, or she might be offering him a choice. Most of the time, she liked things up front and uncomplicated. Then there were the times like this, when he remembered that she was still a puzzle to which he might never have all the pieces.
She gave away nothing, just smiled and brushed a quick kiss against his cheek, patting him on the chest. "Make yourself comfortable, darling. We'll be downstairs when you're ready." Then she was gone, leaving Duncan alone with his thoughts.
We. Was she trying to tell him something, about her and Methos? But that made no sense. Amanda wouldn't invite him to stay if she was planning to break it to him gently--it wasn't her style. Duncan dismissed that out of hand, shaking his head. It had to be something else. Maybe she'd sensed how out of practice he was, and thought he needed to warm up to the idea. He rubbed a hand over his face, thinking that wasn't far from the truth.
He splashed water on his face and changed clothes, opting for loose, lightweight cotton and silk. Feeling better, he unpacked the rest of his things, a subtle weight lifting as he left his sword case in the closet.
The sky was turning by the time he made his way downstairs, the long red rays of the sun gilding the tile floors. He could hear Methos and Amanda out on the patio, talking together like old friends. They seemed so comfortable together, and he could barely remember the person he'd been with them, could barely remember what it was like to be connected to the world, to be easy with friends he could trust. He'd tried, in New York. He'd tried to make a new life for himself, find his step in the world again, but he seemed to have lost the knack for it.
Amanda laughed at something Methos said, the sound bright and sweet, and Duncan hesitated, unwilling to intrude. But he was here, wasn't he? Nothing for it but to put on a smile, go out there and make the best of it.
"You're not seriously still angry with me over that!" Amanda was saying as he came outside.
"Angry is too strong a word. Let's say annoyed, shall we?"
"Oh, Methos, lighten up. It's not like you were using it anyway." She looked back over her shoulder; seeing Duncan, she lowered her sunglasses and smiled up at him, flashing teeth. "There you are. Just in time--mister grumpy pants over here was about to open another bottle."
Methos shook his head, but got up and ambled toward the bar without protest, snagging a prawn on the way. "It's good to know some things don't change," he quipped, and popped the shrimp into his mouth.
"If you say so," Duncan said.
"Don't listen to him," Amanda said, pulling Duncan down to sit on the double chaise with her. "He's still got a bug up his you-know-what over some piddly little misunderstanding."
"That misunderstanding cost me fifteen thousand Euros in legal fees, I'll have you know."
"Pish tosh, like you can't afford it." She plucked a cracker spread with what looked like tapenade and peppers from a tray on the table nearby, and offered it to Duncan. "Try one of these, darling, they're delicious."
At the smell of olives and roasted garlic, Duncan's stomach rumbled. He laughed, self-conscious. "Guess I should."
"Of course you should." She laid a hand on his stomach, and he flinched a little before he could stop it. If she noticed, she didn't show it. "Look at you, you're wasting away. Do you even eat?" When he'd finished the cracker, she held out a piece of what looked like roasted fruit with honey, the juice sticky on her fingers; face warm, he let her put it into his mouth, tart juice and sweetness bursting over his tongue. She smiled impishly and licked the leftover honey off the tip of her thumb.
He chewed slowly and swallowed, squinting into the reddening sun. A moment later Methos appeared at his elbow and put a wide-bowled, cool wine glass into his hand.
Duncan held it up, impressed by the deep golden hue. "What is it?"
"Trust me, you'll like it." He gave one to Amanda and retired to his own chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. "And if you don't, blame Amanda. I find it's a good catch-all policy."
Amanda stuck out her tongue, then sat up and tucked her feet under her, raising her glass. "Let's have a toast."
Duncan and Methos followed suit. "After you," said Methos.
Amanda put her head on one side and tapped her lip, thinking, then beamed. "I know. To the late, great, Mateo de la Varga, for investing oh so wisely in real estate."
"Who was he?" Duncan asked, bemused. "Ex-husband?"
Amanda wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I never was big on marriage, I'm afraid. Unlike some people."
She looked at Methos then, expectant, and Duncan followed her gaze. Methos sketched a gallant little flourish. "Senor de la Varga at your service."
Duncan grinned. "Of course, I should have guessed. To the late, great, Mateo de la Varga, then." They raised their glasses and drank. The wine unfolded in Duncan's mouth with perfect fruit and crispness, rolling over his tongue. He raised his eyebrows, approving, and Methos's answering smile said, told you. "So this is your place, then?"
"Mine, now," Amanda said, settling back with a satisfied smirk.
"Only because you stole it from me," Methos accused.
"I won it from you, fair and square, and you know it."
Duncan laughed, unable to help himself; Methos shot him a look as if to say, et tu? "Methos, I'm sorry," Duncan said, "but please tell me you didn't."
"What? How was I supposed to know you'd steal an ancient relic from the bloody Tower of London?"
Amanda airily waved a hand. "Goes to show, Watchers don't know everything."
Methos looked so affronted, Duncan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He raised his glass in salute, or maybe sympathy. "Well, trust me," he said, "when it comes to Amanda, you're not the first."
Methos answered the salute with his own glass. "A pale comfort, to be sure."
They finished the bottle and opened a second. The sun doused itself in the deep indigo of the sea. They lounged on the patio until long after it had gone, eating stuffed baby squid and rolled grape leaves, talking of lives long past as if they were yesterday--or at least, Methos and Amanda did. Duncan mostly listened, and tried to hold up his end of the conversation.
"You all right?" Amanda asked quietly, while Methos was inside working the sound system.
"Fine," he said brightly, finding a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Good friends, good food, a view like that... you were right, this was exactly what I needed."
Her dark gaze searched his a little too perceptively, knew him a little too well. But Methos came back, then, and she let it go.
Flamenco guitar followed Methos from inside, no classical piece but messy and energetic with young energy. "I love these guys," Methos said, snagging Amanda in passing and dancing an impromptu turn with her, hips swaying. Her delighted expression and Methos's easy laugh made Duncan drain his glass and look away, afraid of embarrassing himself. It was surreal, being around them after so long. He hadn't realized until now that he'd never expected it to happen again.
He stood up, awkward, rubbing a hand over his face. "Guys, listen, this has been great, but I think I'm gonna turn in."
"What?" Amanda stopped and gave him a look, eyebrows lifting. "But it's early, darling. I thought we could walk down to the beach."
"It's been a long day for me," he said. "A long week. I think I'm still jet-lagged."
"Now, Amanda," Methos said, when Amanda opened her mouth to protest. "The man needs his beauty rest." He shot Duncan a look, eyes crinkling. "That much is obvious."
"Cute," Duncan told him, though he appreciated the out. He left them there with a smile that was half apology, and if they watched him go, he was careful not to look back.
* * *
Long shadows lay across the floor, light from the gas lamps outside pooling below the windows in the hallway. An open doorway drew him; in the room beyond, a familiar green jacket lay across the bed. Otherwise, the room was uncharacteristically neat, and Duncan guessed that Tessa must have been on Richie's case again. He wanted to go in, but something told him not to choose too hastily, and after a moment's hesitation, he moved on.
Further down the hall he came to another doorway, and in this room, sunlight slanted down, dust motes stirring among the artifacts and treasures of a dozen lifetimes. In the center of the round room was an exquisite, carved table, and atop it rested a sword case lined with blood red velvet, a dragon-headed katana resting within. Again Duncan hesitated at the threshold, but the hallway stretched away in both directions, doorways beckoning as far as the eye could see. For a long moment he stood uncertain, the desire to step inside gripping his heart, but the moment he did so, he knew, the hallway and the door itself would vanish, no going back.
He'd barely taken a step when something moved in the shadows at the end of the hall.
The hair at his nape lifted. He gripped his sword, noticing only then that it was in his hand. Wary, he prowled down the hall, passing door after door. In one room, he caught a glimpse of a chess set, the pieces poised mid-game as though waiting for their players; from another he could hear laughter. But it was the double doors at the end of the hall that drew him. A faint light glowed beyond the threshold. Blade held before him, he pushed them open.
Inside lay Tessa's workshop, the afternoon sun streaming into the shop like a Dutch painting. He could hear Tess in the next room talking to someone. She sounded relaxed, happy, and he felt so glad to hear her voice that it stopped him for moment, the relief breaking over him in a wave. She must be in the office, he thought, his heart as light as if he hadn't just seen her that morning, as if it had been years. Ridiculous, what a fool he was for her, but he couldn't bring himself to care, and he started toward the sound of her voice.
When he got there, he realized that the acoustics must have fooled him. Now it sounded like she was behind him, in the showroom maybe, or outside in the alley. He held his breath, straining to hear what they were saying, but the other voice was low and he couldn't make it out. He listened hard, following the sound of the voices back the way he'd come.
In the shop, someone had hung crepe paper decorations, long, pale festoons like shrouds, ghostly in the shadows. She wasn't there either, but she was closer now, her voice clearer. "Tessa?" he called, following the sound of her voice. He heard her laughing then, teasing whoever she was talking to.
A chill touched him. Who was she talking to?
He tightened his grip on his sword, hurrying now through shadowed rooms that seemed unending, chains of faded, tattered paper brushing against his shoulders, the smell of ozone and wet concrete bitter in his throat. "Tess?" His fingers had gone numb with cold, and something without form was following at the edges of his vision, he could sense it, the scarlet herald he should have known would come.
Knowing he'd been tricked, sick with fear, he stopped--but even knowing the name of his fear, he couldn't help calling out again. "Tessa!"
"She can't hear you."
He spun at the sound, bringing his blade up. Connor sat on the steps of the escalator as if he'd been waiting. His sword lay across his knees, gleaming in the shadows.
"Connor?" he asked, hearing the hope in his own voice though he knew better, trying to see his kinsman's eyes.
"None of them can, you know," Connor told him, so gently he barely felt the cut.
"I know," he whispered, and the heaviness felt like it would press him into the concrete. A damp, cold wind lifted his hair from the back of his neck. Gray fog pressed around him, and when he looked back the way he had come, he could see no path, no doorway he could use to return. Instinctively he drew closer to his brother, his teacher. "Connor, please," he said, though the plea shamed him, "Can I not come with you?"
"He can't hear you either," said the figure in the shadows. And sword in hand it rose, eyes brilliant and red in the darkness, not Connor at all.
* * *
Duncan forced himself awake with a determined effort and lay breathing hard, jaw clenched, staring at the white plaster ceiling and waiting for the racing of his heart to slow. The transition from dream to full wakefulness was so abrupt it left him feeling shaky and disoriented. He wasn't surprised to find his shirt was damp with sweat, the bedclothes a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. When he'd shaken off the worst of it and remembered where he was, he rose with a resigned sigh and stripped off the shirt, knowing he was done with sleep for a while.
A sea breeze stirred the long white curtains at the terrace doors. Drawn by the promise of the night air pleasantly cool on his bare skin, he went to stand in the open doorway, then parted the gauzy fabric and stepped out onto the terrace.
The moon had lain itself out in a silver skein on the surface of the sea, and the sky was brilliant with stars. Their reflections rippled in the pool and Amanda surfaced, blinking water out of her eyes.
The last of the dream's hold on Duncan eased; heart lighter by considerable measure, he was about to start down the steps when the water rippled again and Methos surfaced close to her. Amanda didn't seem startled, just grinned and said something below Duncan's range of hearing.
Then Methos's hands came up, caressing her face. Their eyes met, Amanda's flashing in a way Duncan knew well. In another moment they had closed the distance between them; their lips met, parted, and they were kissing with unmistakable familiarity.
Duncan took a step backwards, into the shadows. For a moment his mind went blank, his heart beating harder than it should have. He felt... he didn't know what he felt. From the moment he'd seen Methos in the doorway he'd known, some part of him had known this. He claimed no hold on Amanda, and never had--she was a big girl, and didn't need his permission to find happiness where she could. Whatever comfort they'd found in one another in the past, it had never come with strings attached, and that understanding had suited them both fine.
But the image of his friends kissing, Methos's elegant hands against Amanda's dark hair, would not leave him, and the rush of heat he felt at inadvertently witnessing that intimacy turned in on itself, settling like an ache against his heart.
Their bodies moved, shimmery and distorted below the surface of the water; above, Methos gently guided the strap of Amanda's bathing suit over her shoulder, following it with the reverent press of his mouth. An achingly slow progression, it made Amanda sigh and relax into the caress, her hand coming up to rest against Methos's neck. Two sleek, dark heads bent together as Methos bared the soft curve at the top of her breast and traced it with his fingertips.
Heart thudding in his chest, Duncan felt his mouth go dry. The memory rose: the singular pleasure of kissing Amanda's magnificent breasts, holding their weight in his hands and playing from one rosy nipple to the other with his mouth, the sweet sounds she made, the flush of response coloring her fair skin. Curling heat unfurled in his own body, painful and unaccustomed, a soft lick of remembered desire in places he'd forgotten. Amanda. Female beauty and sexuality embodied, she'd fit him so well for so long, made him grateful to be alive and a man and Immortal so that he could have forever to learn all her secrets.
Now she warmed to another man's hands, and Methos was patience itself, baring her skin and learning each millimeter by the touch of his mouth. Unhurried, he caressed her through the wet fabric of her bathing suit, running his thumbs across her nipples and letting his lips map the graceful curve of her throat. Amanda made lazy ripples in the water, one hand moving slowly back and forth to keep herself pressed close.
A flush of guilt and piquant stimulation spread through Duncan. The rush of blood and feeling was like coming back from a long death or waking from a drugged sleep, his senses sharpened to hyper-awareness. At last, his touch deliberate, Methos exposed the pale swell of Amanda's breast. Duncan's breath caught, sympathetic reaction tingling. Methos said something, that low, teasing rumble at the edge of hearing; whatever Amanda answered, it was plainly encouragement, for Methos bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth.
Duncan made a sound, his own nipples hard and aching, his sex pressing gently against yielding fabric, undeniably erect. Breathing had become an uncertain thing, signals misfiring between his body and his brain.
He should turn around and go back inside. For his own sanity if not for decency's sake, he should tear his gaze away from the unmistakable expression of glazed pleasure on Amanda's face. But she was so beautiful, losing herself to sensation, eyes half-lidded, lips parting in that perfect combination of shamelessness and vulnerability that he'd always loved. And to his chagrin, the thought of Methos's wicked tongue, so agile with words, aroused him painfully.
The admission made him uncomfortable and he felt his face heat, but he couldn't deny the ache of his own flesh, the tangle of feelings that rose, watching them. Something so easy about the way they fit together, their pleasure in one another's bodies bespeaking no great passion but a deep and enduring friendship, a comfortable intimacy that made him hurt with the truth of it. Only a handful of years and his own choices separated him from them, no barrier or distance that was not of his own making. If he felt himself an interloper, he could find no fault in his friends.
Nor, it seemed, could he find it in himself to do the decent thing and go back inside. Methos had one hand under the water. In another moment he would--
The sound Amanda made was barely audible, but it went through Duncan in a hot shiver. Reflections prevented him from seeing what Methos had done to evoke that faint, pleading sound, but his imagination made up for it in spades, a flash of certainty he felt in his knees, the image of long fingers slipping into wet heat. Following on its heels, a kaleidoscope of imagined sensations spun through his thoughts, unbidden, revealing more than he wanted to know about his own buried feelings, his own hidden desires where Methos was concerned.
Truth is within ourselves, he thought numbly when he could think again, drawing away at last from the threshold and turning back into the house. He found himself standing in the center of the bedroom, his body awake and hungry in a way it hadn't been in a long time. The breeze from the open doorway stirred the fine hairs at his neck, raising gooseflesh. Before he knew what he intended he was moving, rummaging silently in the closet for a shirt and pulling it on, finding his shoes.
He felt better once he was outside, the moon shining a clear path ahead, his feet carrying him across the stone driveway behind the house and up the rise beyond it. At the top, in one direction the grassy slope fell away in a long descent towards the road; in the other, a narrow footpath wound its way between the grass and the stones, beckoning. He stepped onto the path and began to run.
On to Part Two
Author: Killa/killabeez aka The Crapon and Jean-Paul Sartre Team Up to Fight Nausea
Written for: Taz/tazlet (Happy belated birthday, Taz!)
Pairings/Characters: Duncan/Methos/Amanda (and various combinations)
Rating: NC-17
Author's Notes: Thank you so very much to my two kind betas, unovis_lj and hafital, who helped make this better. It was a great kindness on both their parts, and so much appreciated. I deeply hope it pleases.
Summary: Ten years ago in Paris, Duncan walked away and didn't look back.
Mediterraneo
It was late when Duncan let himself in, the street empty save for a sleek, gray cat who crouched at the top of the steps, gave him an assessing look, then slipped through the rail and disappeared into the hedge.
A faint, musty smell greeted him as soon as he got the door open. It had faded since yesterday, he decided. After being shut up all winter, the flat needed a good airing. If he planned on being there longer, he'd give it a spring cleaning, too.
The door bumped against something; the post had come. He pushed past and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it up before bending down to scoop up the pile of envelopes and magazines. Most of it was advertisements. The upkeep and bills were handled by an agency, and he seldom used this address. He started down the hall, suppressing a yawn and longing for nothing so much as his bed. Joe could drink him under the table these days, and the jetlag didn't help.
As he put the mail down on the hall table, one handwritten envelope caught his eye. It was a different shape than the others, and when he slid it from the pile, the faint scent of a familiar perfume teased his nose. The postmark was in Greek stamped over the stylized image of a basilica, the address written in Amanda's flawless script.
Intrigued, Duncan took the envelope and headed upstairs, tearing it open as he went. He slid the letter out, a single sheet folded neatly in two, and held it up, breathing in the smell of it. He hadn't seen her in almost a decade. She'd been in Toronto for a while, then Paris, but she'd dropped off the map after that and even Joe hadn't known where she'd gone off to.
Duncan toed off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, unfolding the letter with the other. He went into the bathroom and started a bath running, then sat down on the closed lid of the commode and began to read.
The tone of the letter was breezy, familiar but not really personal. I heard you were coming to London, she said, but didn't say who'd told her. Thought maybe I'd catch you. She talked of Easter in Corfu, of the boats and the fireworks over the harbor, of the fact that she'd decided to take a vacation from everything for a while and soak up the sun. One of the perks, she said, and he could hear her voice as she said it, could imagine the flash of her dimples and the little tilt of her head. One of the perks of being Immortal, she meant. No skin cancer to worry about.
You should come, she said near the end, like an afterthought. It's been too long, and you could use a vacation yourself. The world will survive without you for a few weeks, I promise. Besides, I need someone around here who can cook, or I might starve to death, and you know how much I hate that. He chuckled, remembering the last time she'd tried to cook for him. Starvation wouldn't kill an Immortal, not permanently, but he wasn't sure the same thing could be said for Amanda's stroganoff.
Duncan folded the letter and stood up, flipping the envelope over to look again at the return address. Regret weighed heavy, and a part of him wished he could take her up on it. It really had been too long, and as little as he felt he had to offer in the way of company at the moment, Amanda had always been good for him in the ways that counted.
He set the letter aside and finished undressing, frowning a moment at the flowing London, United Kingdom on the front. How had she got this address, anyway, and who had known he'd be here? Joe would have mentioned it if he'd heard from her. His accountant in New York knew where he was, and he presumed his Watcher, but otherwise he'd told no one except Joe. There'd been no one to tell for longer than he cared to remember.
The frown faded, and a wry smile touched his lips. It had to have been Joe, worried about him, as usual. He'd probably spent no small effort tracking Amanda down so he could call her and tell her to take pity on Duncan, convince her to invite him to the islands for a few weeks in the hopes it would do him some good. It would be like Joe to play it close to the vest, play it like he'd had nothing to do with the whole scheme.
The water in the tub steamed hot, and Duncan shut off the faucet, then climbed in, sinking down with a groan of bliss. The tub was the best thing about this flat; it was deep enough that he could completely submerge, the water taking his weight. He let it close over his head, then surfaced and rested his neck against the cool porcelain. Feeling tension and residual travel fatigue ebb away, he closed his eyes.
It was a weight off his mind, knowing Amanda was all right, that she was happy. Ever since Joe had told him the story of what happened with her friend Wolfe, he'd worried. In another life, he would have sought Wolfe out himself, tried to get through to him--maybe even taken him on as a student. Things being what they were, he'd called Matthew McCormick instead, and persuaded him to see what he could do. His guess had been good, apparently; Amanda had called him near tears to thank him. It was the last time he'd talked to her. According to Joe, a year later, Amanda had sold her half of the club in Paris to her partner and made herself scarce.
Duncan stretched an arm out, snagging the letter from the edge of the sink. He read it again, this time reading between the lines. He'd known Amanda almost four hundred years. She'd been his lover, his best friend, sometimes the bane of his existence. She could put on a smile and fake it with the best of them, but he knew her; even now, it surprised him how much that was true. And this time, he read what she didn't say.
Maybe he was right about Joe's part in Amanda's invitation. But Amanda wasn't taking pity on him any more than she ever had. Even after Tessa, it hadn't been about pity.
She was right. It had been too long. And Duncan decided that once he'd spent some time with Joe, there was nothing else happening in his life that couldn't wait.
* * *
The moment he stepped out of the taxi, the sunlight and the fragrant breeze wrapped themselves around him like a blessing. They'd ridden with the windows open since Corfu Town, and already he could feel the tension that had been knotted within him start to relax. When they'd come up the hill from the main road, and he'd seen the terraces and gardens of Amanda's villa come into view, he'd felt a pang of sadness, but with it came the quiet certainty that told him he'd been right to come.
He left the cab at the bottom of the long drive and walked up, breathing in the verdant smells of the lush foliage and the smell of the sea in great lungfuls. Terns cried out over the water. Stone stairs led down to a private beach a few hundred feet below the house, wildflowers spilling out between the cracks of the steps. For a moment, when the deep, resonant vibration of Amanda's buzz washed over him, Duncan's heart lifted.
Amanda met him at the door dressed in white, a flowing tunic and pants that left her arms bare and set off her tanned shoulders, her dark hair, longer and softer than he'd seen it in a while. She gave him a once-over, her eyes alight with the old mischief. "So," she said, "you just passing through, or are you going to put that down and give me a proper hello?"
The smile that broke over him felt rusty from disuse. He set his bag down and found himself with his arms full of Amanda. She felt wonderful--she always felt wonderful--but there came a fleeting, awkward moment when he wasn't sure whether to let go, or to kiss her.
"Sorry I'm late," he said at last as he let her go.
She smiled, wide and bright. "You're forgiven."
He followed her into a large foyer with a fountain in the middle, mosaic tiles describing seashells, dolphins, and other ocean motifs at their feet. Directly in front of him, two marble steps led to a sunken living room decorated with a mix of soothing colors, beautiful antiques and ceramics, the centerpiece a stunning Bösendorfer grand piano. Off to the right was a spacious kitchen and what looked like French doors that led to a garden; to the left, wide sliding doors led to the patio and a terrace with a pool and a view of the beach below. They were open, long sheer curtains moving with the fragrant breeze.
Amanda watched his reaction, expectant. "So, what do you think?"
"The place is beautiful, Amanda. Peaceful."
"You sound surprised," she said, teasing him.
"Not surprised. Just not what I pictured."
She shrugged. "A girl needs her privacy now and then."
Duncan still wanted to kiss her, but something was stopping him. He realized they didn't quite fit together as easily as they once had. Maybe it was because Wolfe was a question he still didn't know the answer to, and he felt wary of trespassing. Or maybe it was only that he'd been alone for so long.
When the sense of another Immortal hit, it was so unexpected, he felt his heart kick.
He tensed, turning toward the door. "You expecting company?" His hand was halfway to where his sword should be before he remembered it was still in its case. Amanda stopped him with a touch on his arm.
"Relax, darling."
He turned back, and she looked over Duncan's left shoulder toward the patio, smiling.
A figure stood in the doorway, a towel slung around his neck, chest bare and long limbs as brown as Amanda's. Duncan barely had time to register all that before the newcomer grinned and said in a deep, familiar voice, "Don't look so worried, Mac. Nobody here but friends."
Abashed and caught off-guard, Duncan couldn't help staring. "Methos!"
Methos's grin widened, and he drawled, "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
Methos looked good. He looked better than good--he looked tan, relaxed, fit. The sun had bronzed his hair, and he had a pair of sunglasses perched rakishly on his head; Duncan was suddenly aware of his own appearance, pale, rumpled and grimy from the trip. In spite of that, he felt himself start to smile, the unexpected sight of that sharp-featured, familiar face like a good belt of scotch: sharp, a little bitter, but sweet and heady, too.
Before he knew he meant to do it, Duncan stepped forward, hand outstretched. Methos took it and surprised him, pulling him close for a moment before letting him go. Duncan caught a whiff of sea salt and sunscreen.
Methos seemed genuinely glad to see him, too, his eyes crinkling, the bright flash of his grin unguarded for once. He looked happier than Duncan could remember ever seeing him.
"It's good to see you," Methos said, as if in this place, none of their old battles mattered any more.
Duncan relaxed despite himself, and drew a breath that felt like it had been a long time coming. "Good to see you, too," he said, and it came out more fervent than he really meant it to. Then realization dawned. "It was you, wasn't it? You knew I was coming to London to see Joe."
Methos shrugged, unrepentant. "Guilty as charged."
"Why am I not surprised?" But he was. He felt unsettled by the idea that Methos would want him around. He'd thought those days were over.
He became aware of how close they were standing; an awkward silence fell, in which Duncan's eyes drank Methos in too deeply, strayed over his face a little too long. It lasted only a moment before Amanda asked, "Have you eaten?"
"Not since Athens," he said, relieved. He stepped back.
"Perfect. We were about to do drinks and hors d'oeuvres and watch the sun set."
"Sounds wonderful."
She put a hand on his arm, drawing him with her. "Come on, let's get you settled in."
* * *
Duncan's room was on the second floor, with doors that opened onto a terrace overlooking the pool and the sea below. "All the bedrooms face the water," Amanda told him, showing him the closet and the ensuite bathroom. The double bed, layered in white and blue cotton, looked soft and obscenely comfortable. Duncan put his bag down near the window and circled the room, trying to come to terms with the situation, which was decidedly... odd. Three hundred and seventy years, give or take, and he was pretty sure he and Amanda had never slept under the same roof and not in the same bed.
It wasn't like he'd expected... well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. The last time they'd been together, the sex had been spectacular, but afterwards Amanda had been distracted, out the door before he even had a chance to say a proper hello.
He finished his circuit of the room and stopped, facing her. "Thanks. It's great," he said, watching her for a sign. You could never be sure with Amanda; she might be trying to tell him something, or she might be offering him a choice. Most of the time, she liked things up front and uncomplicated. Then there were the times like this, when he remembered that she was still a puzzle to which he might never have all the pieces.
She gave away nothing, just smiled and brushed a quick kiss against his cheek, patting him on the chest. "Make yourself comfortable, darling. We'll be downstairs when you're ready." Then she was gone, leaving Duncan alone with his thoughts.
We. Was she trying to tell him something, about her and Methos? But that made no sense. Amanda wouldn't invite him to stay if she was planning to break it to him gently--it wasn't her style. Duncan dismissed that out of hand, shaking his head. It had to be something else. Maybe she'd sensed how out of practice he was, and thought he needed to warm up to the idea. He rubbed a hand over his face, thinking that wasn't far from the truth.
He splashed water on his face and changed clothes, opting for loose, lightweight cotton and silk. Feeling better, he unpacked the rest of his things, a subtle weight lifting as he left his sword case in the closet.
The sky was turning by the time he made his way downstairs, the long red rays of the sun gilding the tile floors. He could hear Methos and Amanda out on the patio, talking together like old friends. They seemed so comfortable together, and he could barely remember the person he'd been with them, could barely remember what it was like to be connected to the world, to be easy with friends he could trust. He'd tried, in New York. He'd tried to make a new life for himself, find his step in the world again, but he seemed to have lost the knack for it.
Amanda laughed at something Methos said, the sound bright and sweet, and Duncan hesitated, unwilling to intrude. But he was here, wasn't he? Nothing for it but to put on a smile, go out there and make the best of it.
"You're not seriously still angry with me over that!" Amanda was saying as he came outside.
"Angry is too strong a word. Let's say annoyed, shall we?"
"Oh, Methos, lighten up. It's not like you were using it anyway." She looked back over her shoulder; seeing Duncan, she lowered her sunglasses and smiled up at him, flashing teeth. "There you are. Just in time--mister grumpy pants over here was about to open another bottle."
Methos shook his head, but got up and ambled toward the bar without protest, snagging a prawn on the way. "It's good to know some things don't change," he quipped, and popped the shrimp into his mouth.
"If you say so," Duncan said.
"Don't listen to him," Amanda said, pulling Duncan down to sit on the double chaise with her. "He's still got a bug up his you-know-what over some piddly little misunderstanding."
"That misunderstanding cost me fifteen thousand Euros in legal fees, I'll have you know."
"Pish tosh, like you can't afford it." She plucked a cracker spread with what looked like tapenade and peppers from a tray on the table nearby, and offered it to Duncan. "Try one of these, darling, they're delicious."
At the smell of olives and roasted garlic, Duncan's stomach rumbled. He laughed, self-conscious. "Guess I should."
"Of course you should." She laid a hand on his stomach, and he flinched a little before he could stop it. If she noticed, she didn't show it. "Look at you, you're wasting away. Do you even eat?" When he'd finished the cracker, she held out a piece of what looked like roasted fruit with honey, the juice sticky on her fingers; face warm, he let her put it into his mouth, tart juice and sweetness bursting over his tongue. She smiled impishly and licked the leftover honey off the tip of her thumb.
He chewed slowly and swallowed, squinting into the reddening sun. A moment later Methos appeared at his elbow and put a wide-bowled, cool wine glass into his hand.
Duncan held it up, impressed by the deep golden hue. "What is it?"
"Trust me, you'll like it." He gave one to Amanda and retired to his own chair, crossing his legs at the ankles. "And if you don't, blame Amanda. I find it's a good catch-all policy."
Amanda stuck out her tongue, then sat up and tucked her feet under her, raising her glass. "Let's have a toast."
Duncan and Methos followed suit. "After you," said Methos.
Amanda put her head on one side and tapped her lip, thinking, then beamed. "I know. To the late, great, Mateo de la Varga, for investing oh so wisely in real estate."
"Who was he?" Duncan asked, bemused. "Ex-husband?"
Amanda wrinkled her nose and shook her head. "I never was big on marriage, I'm afraid. Unlike some people."
She looked at Methos then, expectant, and Duncan followed her gaze. Methos sketched a gallant little flourish. "Senor de la Varga at your service."
Duncan grinned. "Of course, I should have guessed. To the late, great, Mateo de la Varga, then." They raised their glasses and drank. The wine unfolded in Duncan's mouth with perfect fruit and crispness, rolling over his tongue. He raised his eyebrows, approving, and Methos's answering smile said, told you. "So this is your place, then?"
"Mine, now," Amanda said, settling back with a satisfied smirk.
"Only because you stole it from me," Methos accused.
"I won it from you, fair and square, and you know it."
Duncan laughed, unable to help himself; Methos shot him a look as if to say, et tu? "Methos, I'm sorry," Duncan said, "but please tell me you didn't."
"What? How was I supposed to know you'd steal an ancient relic from the bloody Tower of London?"
Amanda airily waved a hand. "Goes to show, Watchers don't know everything."
Methos looked so affronted, Duncan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He raised his glass in salute, or maybe sympathy. "Well, trust me," he said, "when it comes to Amanda, you're not the first."
Methos answered the salute with his own glass. "A pale comfort, to be sure."
They finished the bottle and opened a second. The sun doused itself in the deep indigo of the sea. They lounged on the patio until long after it had gone, eating stuffed baby squid and rolled grape leaves, talking of lives long past as if they were yesterday--or at least, Methos and Amanda did. Duncan mostly listened, and tried to hold up his end of the conversation.
"You all right?" Amanda asked quietly, while Methos was inside working the sound system.
"Fine," he said brightly, finding a smile. "Why wouldn't I be? Good friends, good food, a view like that... you were right, this was exactly what I needed."
Her dark gaze searched his a little too perceptively, knew him a little too well. But Methos came back, then, and she let it go.
Flamenco guitar followed Methos from inside, no classical piece but messy and energetic with young energy. "I love these guys," Methos said, snagging Amanda in passing and dancing an impromptu turn with her, hips swaying. Her delighted expression and Methos's easy laugh made Duncan drain his glass and look away, afraid of embarrassing himself. It was surreal, being around them after so long. He hadn't realized until now that he'd never expected it to happen again.
He stood up, awkward, rubbing a hand over his face. "Guys, listen, this has been great, but I think I'm gonna turn in."
"What?" Amanda stopped and gave him a look, eyebrows lifting. "But it's early, darling. I thought we could walk down to the beach."
"It's been a long day for me," he said. "A long week. I think I'm still jet-lagged."
"Now, Amanda," Methos said, when Amanda opened her mouth to protest. "The man needs his beauty rest." He shot Duncan a look, eyes crinkling. "That much is obvious."
"Cute," Duncan told him, though he appreciated the out. He left them there with a smile that was half apology, and if they watched him go, he was careful not to look back.
* * *
Long shadows lay across the floor, light from the gas lamps outside pooling below the windows in the hallway. An open doorway drew him; in the room beyond, a familiar green jacket lay across the bed. Otherwise, the room was uncharacteristically neat, and Duncan guessed that Tessa must have been on Richie's case again. He wanted to go in, but something told him not to choose too hastily, and after a moment's hesitation, he moved on.
Further down the hall he came to another doorway, and in this room, sunlight slanted down, dust motes stirring among the artifacts and treasures of a dozen lifetimes. In the center of the round room was an exquisite, carved table, and atop it rested a sword case lined with blood red velvet, a dragon-headed katana resting within. Again Duncan hesitated at the threshold, but the hallway stretched away in both directions, doorways beckoning as far as the eye could see. For a long moment he stood uncertain, the desire to step inside gripping his heart, but the moment he did so, he knew, the hallway and the door itself would vanish, no going back.
He'd barely taken a step when something moved in the shadows at the end of the hall.
The hair at his nape lifted. He gripped his sword, noticing only then that it was in his hand. Wary, he prowled down the hall, passing door after door. In one room, he caught a glimpse of a chess set, the pieces poised mid-game as though waiting for their players; from another he could hear laughter. But it was the double doors at the end of the hall that drew him. A faint light glowed beyond the threshold. Blade held before him, he pushed them open.
Inside lay Tessa's workshop, the afternoon sun streaming into the shop like a Dutch painting. He could hear Tess in the next room talking to someone. She sounded relaxed, happy, and he felt so glad to hear her voice that it stopped him for moment, the relief breaking over him in a wave. She must be in the office, he thought, his heart as light as if he hadn't just seen her that morning, as if it had been years. Ridiculous, what a fool he was for her, but he couldn't bring himself to care, and he started toward the sound of her voice.
When he got there, he realized that the acoustics must have fooled him. Now it sounded like she was behind him, in the showroom maybe, or outside in the alley. He held his breath, straining to hear what they were saying, but the other voice was low and he couldn't make it out. He listened hard, following the sound of the voices back the way he'd come.
In the shop, someone had hung crepe paper decorations, long, pale festoons like shrouds, ghostly in the shadows. She wasn't there either, but she was closer now, her voice clearer. "Tessa?" he called, following the sound of her voice. He heard her laughing then, teasing whoever she was talking to.
A chill touched him. Who was she talking to?
He tightened his grip on his sword, hurrying now through shadowed rooms that seemed unending, chains of faded, tattered paper brushing against his shoulders, the smell of ozone and wet concrete bitter in his throat. "Tess?" His fingers had gone numb with cold, and something without form was following at the edges of his vision, he could sense it, the scarlet herald he should have known would come.
Knowing he'd been tricked, sick with fear, he stopped--but even knowing the name of his fear, he couldn't help calling out again. "Tessa!"
"She can't hear you."
He spun at the sound, bringing his blade up. Connor sat on the steps of the escalator as if he'd been waiting. His sword lay across his knees, gleaming in the shadows.
"Connor?" he asked, hearing the hope in his own voice though he knew better, trying to see his kinsman's eyes.
"None of them can, you know," Connor told him, so gently he barely felt the cut.
"I know," he whispered, and the heaviness felt like it would press him into the concrete. A damp, cold wind lifted his hair from the back of his neck. Gray fog pressed around him, and when he looked back the way he had come, he could see no path, no doorway he could use to return. Instinctively he drew closer to his brother, his teacher. "Connor, please," he said, though the plea shamed him, "Can I not come with you?"
"He can't hear you either," said the figure in the shadows. And sword in hand it rose, eyes brilliant and red in the darkness, not Connor at all.
* * *
Duncan forced himself awake with a determined effort and lay breathing hard, jaw clenched, staring at the white plaster ceiling and waiting for the racing of his heart to slow. The transition from dream to full wakefulness was so abrupt it left him feeling shaky and disoriented. He wasn't surprised to find his shirt was damp with sweat, the bedclothes a tangled heap at the foot of the bed. When he'd shaken off the worst of it and remembered where he was, he rose with a resigned sigh and stripped off the shirt, knowing he was done with sleep for a while.
A sea breeze stirred the long white curtains at the terrace doors. Drawn by the promise of the night air pleasantly cool on his bare skin, he went to stand in the open doorway, then parted the gauzy fabric and stepped out onto the terrace.
The moon had lain itself out in a silver skein on the surface of the sea, and the sky was brilliant with stars. Their reflections rippled in the pool and Amanda surfaced, blinking water out of her eyes.
The last of the dream's hold on Duncan eased; heart lighter by considerable measure, he was about to start down the steps when the water rippled again and Methos surfaced close to her. Amanda didn't seem startled, just grinned and said something below Duncan's range of hearing.
Then Methos's hands came up, caressing her face. Their eyes met, Amanda's flashing in a way Duncan knew well. In another moment they had closed the distance between them; their lips met, parted, and they were kissing with unmistakable familiarity.
Duncan took a step backwards, into the shadows. For a moment his mind went blank, his heart beating harder than it should have. He felt... he didn't know what he felt. From the moment he'd seen Methos in the doorway he'd known, some part of him had known this. He claimed no hold on Amanda, and never had--she was a big girl, and didn't need his permission to find happiness where she could. Whatever comfort they'd found in one another in the past, it had never come with strings attached, and that understanding had suited them both fine.
But the image of his friends kissing, Methos's elegant hands against Amanda's dark hair, would not leave him, and the rush of heat he felt at inadvertently witnessing that intimacy turned in on itself, settling like an ache against his heart.
Their bodies moved, shimmery and distorted below the surface of the water; above, Methos gently guided the strap of Amanda's bathing suit over her shoulder, following it with the reverent press of his mouth. An achingly slow progression, it made Amanda sigh and relax into the caress, her hand coming up to rest against Methos's neck. Two sleek, dark heads bent together as Methos bared the soft curve at the top of her breast and traced it with his fingertips.
Heart thudding in his chest, Duncan felt his mouth go dry. The memory rose: the singular pleasure of kissing Amanda's magnificent breasts, holding their weight in his hands and playing from one rosy nipple to the other with his mouth, the sweet sounds she made, the flush of response coloring her fair skin. Curling heat unfurled in his own body, painful and unaccustomed, a soft lick of remembered desire in places he'd forgotten. Amanda. Female beauty and sexuality embodied, she'd fit him so well for so long, made him grateful to be alive and a man and Immortal so that he could have forever to learn all her secrets.
Now she warmed to another man's hands, and Methos was patience itself, baring her skin and learning each millimeter by the touch of his mouth. Unhurried, he caressed her through the wet fabric of her bathing suit, running his thumbs across her nipples and letting his lips map the graceful curve of her throat. Amanda made lazy ripples in the water, one hand moving slowly back and forth to keep herself pressed close.
A flush of guilt and piquant stimulation spread through Duncan. The rush of blood and feeling was like coming back from a long death or waking from a drugged sleep, his senses sharpened to hyper-awareness. At last, his touch deliberate, Methos exposed the pale swell of Amanda's breast. Duncan's breath caught, sympathetic reaction tingling. Methos said something, that low, teasing rumble at the edge of hearing; whatever Amanda answered, it was plainly encouragement, for Methos bent his head and took her nipple in his mouth.
Duncan made a sound, his own nipples hard and aching, his sex pressing gently against yielding fabric, undeniably erect. Breathing had become an uncertain thing, signals misfiring between his body and his brain.
He should turn around and go back inside. For his own sanity if not for decency's sake, he should tear his gaze away from the unmistakable expression of glazed pleasure on Amanda's face. But she was so beautiful, losing herself to sensation, eyes half-lidded, lips parting in that perfect combination of shamelessness and vulnerability that he'd always loved. And to his chagrin, the thought of Methos's wicked tongue, so agile with words, aroused him painfully.
The admission made him uncomfortable and he felt his face heat, but he couldn't deny the ache of his own flesh, the tangle of feelings that rose, watching them. Something so easy about the way they fit together, their pleasure in one another's bodies bespeaking no great passion but a deep and enduring friendship, a comfortable intimacy that made him hurt with the truth of it. Only a handful of years and his own choices separated him from them, no barrier or distance that was not of his own making. If he felt himself an interloper, he could find no fault in his friends.
Nor, it seemed, could he find it in himself to do the decent thing and go back inside. Methos had one hand under the water. In another moment he would--
The sound Amanda made was barely audible, but it went through Duncan in a hot shiver. Reflections prevented him from seeing what Methos had done to evoke that faint, pleading sound, but his imagination made up for it in spades, a flash of certainty he felt in his knees, the image of long fingers slipping into wet heat. Following on its heels, a kaleidoscope of imagined sensations spun through his thoughts, unbidden, revealing more than he wanted to know about his own buried feelings, his own hidden desires where Methos was concerned.
Truth is within ourselves, he thought numbly when he could think again, drawing away at last from the threshold and turning back into the house. He found himself standing in the center of the bedroom, his body awake and hungry in a way it hadn't been in a long time. The breeze from the open doorway stirred the fine hairs at his neck, raising gooseflesh. Before he knew what he intended he was moving, rummaging silently in the closet for a shirt and pulling it on, finding his shoes.
He felt better once he was outside, the moon shining a clear path ahead, his feet carrying him across the stone driveway behind the house and up the rise beyond it. At the top, in one direction the grassy slope fell away in a long descent towards the road; in the other, a narrow footpath wound its way between the grass and the stones, beckoning. He stepped onto the path and began to run.
On to Part Two