Fic: At the Turning of the Year [HL, Duncan/Methos,PG-13]
Title: At the Turning of the Year
Author: Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)
Other info: Duncan/Methos | PG-13 | Death warning | 1200 words
Summary: Four seasons
A/N: This summer, I took several prompts that I was going to write drabbles for. Instead, 4 of the HL ones became triple drabbles and wove themselves into a story for me, based on the seasons of the year. Prompts from dswdiane, thepouncer, anoel, and lferion are listed at the end of the story. Thank you so much to elynross and sherrold for their mad beta skills. All remaining typos are my own.
***
At the Turning of the Year
(spring)
"That's really not a good look on you." Methos heeled off his shoes before sprawling across the couch, faking a shudder as he watched Mac at the mirror. "I'd be ashamed to show up at a spring fashion show looking like that."
"Thank you, Tim Gunn." Duncan barely caught the performance out of the corner of his eye as he fussed with his collar, trying to get it to lie straight--and when had large collars come back in fashion, anyway? Hadn’t they died out a hundred years ago? He caught Methos's gaze in the mirror, and the look in his eyes said that Methos didn't find the outfit so bad, not at all. Duncan couldn't help his own soft smile as he returned the look through the mirror. "Weren't you the one who owned those horrible red pants?"
"Student budget," Methos snapped, his gaze traveling down the back of Duncan's pants. "I had an excuse. Though that cut does show off some of your better attributes."
Tired of watching Methos through the mirror, Duncan turned around to face him. "Oh?" His voice had gone gruff, his heart speeding up as he watched Methos pull off his shirt, revealing lithe muscles and a smattering of chest hair.
"Seriously, you look like a Project Runway reject." Methos threw his shirt in the corner and fumbled with his pants. "You'd better take that off."
"I'm not sure the Red Cross would approve of me showing up naked at their fundraiser..."
Methos threw his pants at Duncan, catching him full across the face. "Write them a check. Now get over here and give me a kiss."
Duncan unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, ruining his carefully arranged collar, and stalked over to grin down at Methos. "I think that can be arranged."
(summer)
"Hand me the financial section, will you?" Methos ran his hand over Duncan's shoulder, loving the feel of skin against skin. They might be stuck in a two-star motel, but it was the best one in town; room service and clean sheets ranked right up there in Methos's personal list of favorite inventions Still, the way Duncan felt under his hands beat them both out. "The paper?"
"It's USA Today," Duncan snorted, rolling his shoulder slightly to throw Methos's hand off. Apparently he was still pissed about Methos's driving last night, when he hit that boulder in the road and bent the axle. "I doubt there are any words of wisdom in it."
"True, but Adam Pierson invested his 401K in mutual funds--"
"The Watchers have a 401k?"
Methos brushed his lips across Duncan's arm as he leaned forward and snagged the section off the bed. "Well, not the French subsidiary..." He settled back against the headboard with a heavy, elaborate sigh. If he didn't make some pretext of apology, Mac might never warm up. "Anything exciting in sports?"
"Chris Hoy got his triple gold for cycling." Duncan held the paper stiffly before him.
"That is exciting..." Methos rubbed Duncan's hip.
Duncan ignored him, rattling the paper with great ferocity.
Methos snatched the paper out of Mac's hands. "It should make you happy that Scotland medaled in something other than the caber toss." Twisting and shoving Duncan over, pressing him down against the mattress, Methos grinned at him. "Thought I admit, I have always admired the way you could handle wood."
Duncan barked out a laugh, which quickly became a groan as Methos kissed him, whispering, "I'm sorry about the car" as the paper slid off the bed and onto the floor.
Methos didn't bother to pick it up.
(fall)
Indian summer in the Northwest painted the farm in saturated colors: bright golds for the corn maze, deep greens and oranges for the pumpkin patch, the rich browns of fresh baked pie and crispy fried chicken. The day was crisp, cold and bright, and Methos could see that Duncan's cheeks had reddened in the chill air. He slipped his hand into Duncan's as they headed for the dining room, and Duncan flashed him a brilliant smile. Warmth stole into his hand, and Methos pressed himself closer to Duncan, their shoulders bumping, their feet crunching though the grass as the children's screeches of delight echoed from the corn maze.
Fall was Methos's favorite season. Spring was thin and insubstantial as the new shoots breaking through the earth, while summer was sharp and demanding, all parched earth and heat, with hours spinning one into another to make sure there would be food to eat.
With fall came maturity, right before the rains, when food was ripe and plentiful, most of it already stored away. The heat was tempered by cool mornings and crisp night air, the days still bright with sun. Winter rolled in soon enough, with its barren trees and ugly, muddy earth, cold and wet days, but it wasn't written on the wind quite yet.
It was the cycle of the Dark Ages and the Renaissance, though thankfully not as long. It cycled a little too often for his taste, actually. Sometimes he felt that he had barely turned his face up toward the first warm rays of spring sun when it was leeched away by cold and damp.
Tugging Duncan toward the front door of the restaurant, Methos hoped there would be ice cream to go with the famous pumpkin pie that Duncan insisted they come here to try.
(winter)
Methos didn't believe in psychic forces, and he never had, even when he had been a superstitious peasant, or back when 'the gods favored him' when he was a slave, or when Cassandra had tried to use 'the voice' on him. He knew well the power of a forceful personality, and he'd never seen signs of any "higher power." He wasn't a complete rationalist, either, sticking only to what he could see and hear. He'd seen too many "scientific" hypotheses debunked, and just the fact that he was immortal and all the things that went with that screwed up a lot of the theory behind scientific "enlightenment." For some, science was as much a religion as any other. On bad days, he claimed to be a Scientologist, just to see the looks of horror he could get.
Tonight, though. Tonight he felt something, a tingling sensation not unlike the little thrill he got when another Immortal was around. But the lake was placid, stretching out around the dock for miles, and the only way to get here was by boat. The winter wind blew about him, cold fingers sliding past his overcoat, the crisp air making his nose run and his eyes redden.
He closed his burning eyes and took a deep breath. No, this wasn't presence, this was memory. The memory of Duncan holding him on a night like this, the sweat on his skin glimmering with moonlight. For just a moment, he was back to that Saturday in September so long ago, when they had kissed under the full moon, celebrating their future together.
A future they would now spend apart.
Methos twisted open the canister that held his lover's earthly remains and scattered them into the wind, letting the harsh wind carry them into the night-colored water.
The End
Prompts
(spring) from dswdiane Methos!snarky/Duncan!amused playful fun
(summer) from thepouncerHighlander, Methos, Olympics.
(fall) from anoel Ooh! Duncan/Methos, ice cream.
(winter) from lferion Methos, future, glimmering
Author: Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)
Other info: Duncan/Methos | PG-13 | Death warning | 1200 words
Summary: Four seasons
A/N: This summer, I took several prompts that I was going to write drabbles for. Instead, 4 of the HL ones became triple drabbles and wove themselves into a story for me, based on the seasons of the year. Prompts from dswdiane, thepouncer, anoel, and lferion are listed at the end of the story. Thank you so much to elynross and sherrold for their mad beta skills. All remaining typos are my own.
***
At the Turning of the Year
(spring)
"That's really not a good look on you." Methos heeled off his shoes before sprawling across the couch, faking a shudder as he watched Mac at the mirror. "I'd be ashamed to show up at a spring fashion show looking like that."
"Thank you, Tim Gunn." Duncan barely caught the performance out of the corner of his eye as he fussed with his collar, trying to get it to lie straight--and when had large collars come back in fashion, anyway? Hadn’t they died out a hundred years ago? He caught Methos's gaze in the mirror, and the look in his eyes said that Methos didn't find the outfit so bad, not at all. Duncan couldn't help his own soft smile as he returned the look through the mirror. "Weren't you the one who owned those horrible red pants?"
"Student budget," Methos snapped, his gaze traveling down the back of Duncan's pants. "I had an excuse. Though that cut does show off some of your better attributes."
Tired of watching Methos through the mirror, Duncan turned around to face him. "Oh?" His voice had gone gruff, his heart speeding up as he watched Methos pull off his shirt, revealing lithe muscles and a smattering of chest hair.
"Seriously, you look like a Project Runway reject." Methos threw his shirt in the corner and fumbled with his pants. "You'd better take that off."
"I'm not sure the Red Cross would approve of me showing up naked at their fundraiser..."
Methos threw his pants at Duncan, catching him full across the face. "Write them a check. Now get over here and give me a kiss."
Duncan unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, ruining his carefully arranged collar, and stalked over to grin down at Methos. "I think that can be arranged."
(summer)
"Hand me the financial section, will you?" Methos ran his hand over Duncan's shoulder, loving the feel of skin against skin. They might be stuck in a two-star motel, but it was the best one in town; room service and clean sheets ranked right up there in Methos's personal list of favorite inventions Still, the way Duncan felt under his hands beat them both out. "The paper?"
"It's USA Today," Duncan snorted, rolling his shoulder slightly to throw Methos's hand off. Apparently he was still pissed about Methos's driving last night, when he hit that boulder in the road and bent the axle. "I doubt there are any words of wisdom in it."
"True, but Adam Pierson invested his 401K in mutual funds--"
"The Watchers have a 401k?"
Methos brushed his lips across Duncan's arm as he leaned forward and snagged the section off the bed. "Well, not the French subsidiary..." He settled back against the headboard with a heavy, elaborate sigh. If he didn't make some pretext of apology, Mac might never warm up. "Anything exciting in sports?"
"Chris Hoy got his triple gold for cycling." Duncan held the paper stiffly before him.
"That is exciting..." Methos rubbed Duncan's hip.
Duncan ignored him, rattling the paper with great ferocity.
Methos snatched the paper out of Mac's hands. "It should make you happy that Scotland medaled in something other than the caber toss." Twisting and shoving Duncan over, pressing him down against the mattress, Methos grinned at him. "Thought I admit, I have always admired the way you could handle wood."
Duncan barked out a laugh, which quickly became a groan as Methos kissed him, whispering, "I'm sorry about the car" as the paper slid off the bed and onto the floor.
Methos didn't bother to pick it up.
(fall)
Indian summer in the Northwest painted the farm in saturated colors: bright golds for the corn maze, deep greens and oranges for the pumpkin patch, the rich browns of fresh baked pie and crispy fried chicken. The day was crisp, cold and bright, and Methos could see that Duncan's cheeks had reddened in the chill air. He slipped his hand into Duncan's as they headed for the dining room, and Duncan flashed him a brilliant smile. Warmth stole into his hand, and Methos pressed himself closer to Duncan, their shoulders bumping, their feet crunching though the grass as the children's screeches of delight echoed from the corn maze.
Fall was Methos's favorite season. Spring was thin and insubstantial as the new shoots breaking through the earth, while summer was sharp and demanding, all parched earth and heat, with hours spinning one into another to make sure there would be food to eat.
With fall came maturity, right before the rains, when food was ripe and plentiful, most of it already stored away. The heat was tempered by cool mornings and crisp night air, the days still bright with sun. Winter rolled in soon enough, with its barren trees and ugly, muddy earth, cold and wet days, but it wasn't written on the wind quite yet.
It was the cycle of the Dark Ages and the Renaissance, though thankfully not as long. It cycled a little too often for his taste, actually. Sometimes he felt that he had barely turned his face up toward the first warm rays of spring sun when it was leeched away by cold and damp.
Tugging Duncan toward the front door of the restaurant, Methos hoped there would be ice cream to go with the famous pumpkin pie that Duncan insisted they come here to try.
(winter)
Methos didn't believe in psychic forces, and he never had, even when he had been a superstitious peasant, or back when 'the gods favored him' when he was a slave, or when Cassandra had tried to use 'the voice' on him. He knew well the power of a forceful personality, and he'd never seen signs of any "higher power." He wasn't a complete rationalist, either, sticking only to what he could see and hear. He'd seen too many "scientific" hypotheses debunked, and just the fact that he was immortal and all the things that went with that screwed up a lot of the theory behind scientific "enlightenment." For some, science was as much a religion as any other. On bad days, he claimed to be a Scientologist, just to see the looks of horror he could get.
Tonight, though. Tonight he felt something, a tingling sensation not unlike the little thrill he got when another Immortal was around. But the lake was placid, stretching out around the dock for miles, and the only way to get here was by boat. The winter wind blew about him, cold fingers sliding past his overcoat, the crisp air making his nose run and his eyes redden.
He closed his burning eyes and took a deep breath. No, this wasn't presence, this was memory. The memory of Duncan holding him on a night like this, the sweat on his skin glimmering with moonlight. For just a moment, he was back to that Saturday in September so long ago, when they had kissed under the full moon, celebrating their future together.
A future they would now spend apart.
Methos twisted open the canister that held his lover's earthly remains and scattered them into the wind, letting the harsh wind carry them into the night-colored water.
The End
Prompts
(spring) from dswdiane Methos!snarky/Duncan!amused playful fun
(summer) from thepouncerHighlander, Methos, Olympics.
(fall) from anoel Ooh! Duncan/Methos, ice cream.
(winter) from lferion Methos, future, glimmering