Capturing Fireflies and Memories
OOC: Happens after this post, in Cologny. http://oldguywithbeer.livejournal.com/1291.html#cutid1 Methos is oldguywithbeer.
"We look ridiculous." Augusta couldn't help twirling her skirt, a little, even though she protested. She didn't know how Methos had done it, but he bought that house, the place where he had been with Byron, Shelley and the others, all those years ago. Right now, they were dressed in the clothing of the period, running through the house...
Drunk as skunks.
Methos, always quite silly and charming when drunk, bowed to her, in a courtly manner. "I look dashing. I was always the dashing one of the group, you know."
"Really?" Augusta was drinking straight from the bottle, before handing it to her old friend. After all, they were alone, in the big mansion, quite alone, save for the ghost of the man they came to remember. "I would think that would have been Lord Byron. The poet."
"True. I was but a lowly physician." He drank, deeply, before catching the dark haired woman and spinning her about, a dance of stumbling, mad, drunken desperation. It was reminiscent of a night long before, when he watched Byron do the same.
She was breathless. It was madness, and they were all alone to indulge it. "He's not here." Her dark eyes met the ancient hazel-green ones of her friend. "You know that this is mad. He's gone. We can't pretend that he's coming back."
Methos put his finger to her lips, and whirled her around. He was dressed in the clothing of their times, too, and he could indulge the memories, one night. With her. She was the only one who would understand about catching fireflies without a jar.
"We look ridiculous." Augusta couldn't help twirling her skirt, a little, even though she protested. She didn't know how Methos had done it, but he bought that house, the place where he had been with Byron, Shelley and the others, all those years ago. Right now, they were dressed in the clothing of the period, running through the house...
Drunk as skunks.
Methos, always quite silly and charming when drunk, bowed to her, in a courtly manner. "I look dashing. I was always the dashing one of the group, you know."
"Really?" Augusta was drinking straight from the bottle, before handing it to her old friend. After all, they were alone, in the big mansion, quite alone, save for the ghost of the man they came to remember. "I would think that would have been Lord Byron. The poet."
"True. I was but a lowly physician." He drank, deeply, before catching the dark haired woman and spinning her about, a dance of stumbling, mad, drunken desperation. It was reminiscent of a night long before, when he watched Byron do the same.
She was breathless. It was madness, and they were all alone to indulge it. "He's not here." Her dark eyes met the ancient hazel-green ones of her friend. "You know that this is mad. He's gone. We can't pretend that he's coming back."
Methos put his finger to her lips, and whirled her around. He was dressed in the clothing of their times, too, and he could indulge the memories, one night. With her. She was the only one who would understand about catching fireflies without a jar.