Happy Holidays, dkwilliams!
Title: Drive the Winter Cold Away
Author: [Your Name Here]
Real Author Name: carenejeans
Written for: Diana Williams (dkwilliams)
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, Slash
Rating: R, not explicit
Author's Notes: A baker's dozen drabble string. The usual warnings for holiday sappiness. Quoted poetry (and the title of the last drabble) is by the Persian poet Hafez, who is a favorite in some circles for reading on the solstice night.
Summary: Methos celebrates the Winter Solstice and Duncan's Birthday
Ecliptic
What is a year? A bracketing of seasons, the highlights of a social calendar, the marking of births and deaths (coronations, wars, land speed records) along history's course.
And what's a year to me? Methos wondered bitterly. Seasons follow seasons. Days grow longer and shorter. The earth repeats its immemorial orbit around the sun.
Philosophers calculate -- and name -- the moment when the sun stops in its tracks and reverses its direction across the heavens.
But do the stars care when a man is born? Comforting to believe, and yet, the sun didn't stop on its ecliptic for Duncan.
Methos would.
Midwinter Sweets
"I come with pomegranates and pears, with almonds and pecans. I bring oranges and persimmons. I bring, let's see, sturdy bread, sausages, cheese, and of course, beer."
"What's this?" Duncan plucked a small red package from a gaudy silver bag.
Methos snatched it away. "Mitts off, if you please. Bonbons. For later."
"Now."
"Nope."
Duncan grinned and lunged. Methos took a step back. Duncan made a right feint for the sweets. Methos ducked to the left. Duncan hooked Methos by his belt and pulled him close.
"Stop dancing and hand over the candy!"
Methos stopped. "Oh, well, put like that..."
Pomegranates and Rubies
Methos slit the skin of a pomegranate and pulled back the halves. Seeds and juice spilled over his hands.
"If you open them under the tap, they come out neatly," Duncan offered.
"This is better."
"Messier. Here, use this -- wait -- don't," Duncan sighed as Methos planted two red hand-prints on his white shirt.
"Much more festive. God, these are good."
"Let me." Duncan fed plump red seeds between Methos's lips. "Did people first love pomegranates because they looked like rubies, or did they love rubies because they reminded them of pomegranates?"
"I don't remember."
"It was a rhetorical question."
The Wild Hunt
Methos watches the sun dip behind Seacouver's wintry skyline. Duncan's hand touches his -- and the quiet street is suddenly noisy with bicycles, flashing spokes and iridescent riders swarming in an intricate street dance. Methos blinks, and is riding, flying. Oh, he's missed this, the wild hunt, the wind in his face, screaming in berserker frenzy. Odin! Jólnir! His tires leave the pavement, he laughs with the riders racing across the sky over the kaleidoscope city -- Duncan touches him again and the bicyclists swerve, change course, and fade into the twilight.
Methos smiles and follows Duncan, his feet light on the ground.
Bonfire
Several years ago, an unlikely coalition of Seacouver's trendsetters, shopkeepers, neo-pagans, the Tourist Board and the Fire Department had started a midwinter festival, mashing together Sweden's Yule Goat and Burning Man. Volunteers labored for weeks building a massive wooden goat on a carefully fenced-off hilltop, then the whole city turned out to watch it go up in flames.
Duncan and Methos watched it burn from their window.
"Sweet," Methos said.
Duncan shivered. Ghosts of bonfires past. The Highlands, the trenches, the new world, the old west. Different times, the same midwinter yearning for warmth and light.
"Sweet. Yeah."
Io Saturnalia
"This is fruitcake," Duncan said suspiciously.
"Saturnalia cake," Methos said. "Light. Not the doorstops you're used to."
Duncan chewed. "It's okay," he allowed.
"One of my favorites. Petronius had a cook who -- don't roll your eyes."
Duncan took another bite and smiled. "Saturnalia. Definitely your kind of celebration."
"I loved it. The whole world was drunk and made me king for a day."
Duncan held up his glass. "To the King of the Saturnalia."
Methos bowed. "Luckily, by the time I served Petronius, they'd given up offing the poor sod afterwards."
"Ach. That would've been awkward."
"To say the least."
A Long Night Needs Poetry
"Do you know Hafez?" Methos brandished a small book. "He was--"
"I'm not entirely unlettered." Duncan snatched the book. Opening it at random, he read:
My heart was stolen by a lout,
A gypsy-featured lad
Who broke his promises and was
Half cut-throat and half mad.
"Droll." Methos recited softly, from memory:
And I'm so mad about him, so on fire for him,
I'm like a cooking cauldron's seething turbulence,
But I'll calm down when I can grab that cloak from him
And be the shirt that covers up his impudence.
"Impudence, right. Come here, my cooking cauldron."
A Feast Needs a Fool
"We could dance naked through the streets."
"We're not in Rome. And it's a little late in the day."
"Pity."
"Shhh. We can dance naked here."
"Mmmmhmmmmkay. Where's the wine?"
"Haven't you had enough?"
"It's worn off. Ah, that's better."
"You should eat. Have a honey bun."
"You're my -- mmmph."
"Don't say it."
"HONEY BUN."
"You're drunk."
"No, it wore off."
"I don't think so."
"Honey bun, honey bun, cha cha cha. Why did you stop?"
"You're standing on my feet."
"Sorry. I'm drunk."
"No kidding."
"People get drunk on, whatsit. Solstice."
"Some people certainly do. Eat this."
"Hunnneeeey -- mmph!"
Misrule-in-a-Box
Duncan half-drowsed in the bathtub. Methos perched on the edge and rummaged through his bag.
"More presents?" Duncan said sleepily.
Methos held up a small green ball. "Lord of Misrule Bath Bomb."
"What?"
Methos dropped it in the water. Duncan started, then relaxed to the scent of patchouli and pepper.
"Oh, mmmm, good, yes... what's that thing doing?"
The green ball frothed and spun, turning silver, then wine-red. Duncan sat up straighter as the ball exploded between his knees, sending tiny fireworks crackling and popping across the water.
"Nice, isn't it?"
"Methos..."
"Are you awake now?"
"Oh, yes."
Birthstones
Methos poured smooth and glittering stones into Duncan's hands: chrysoprase, onyx, turquoise, bloodstone, topaz. Rubies and garnets. Yellow cat's eye. Sea blue apatite.
"Knock over a gem shop?"
Methos held a ruby up to the light. "Birthstones, Duncan. Symbols of war and peace, chastity and sensuality, youth and wisdom, bravery, truth, perseverance and beauty--"
"Chastity and sensuality?"
"--Bringing you good luck and prosperity, longevity, happiness, and the passionate devotion of your friends. Oh, and sex. That would be lapis lazuli, an old Roman aphrodisiac." He paused. "That's where you say, 'good thing I've got an old Roman.'"
"Ba-da-bing."
Consider the Sunrise
Duncan pensively turned a garnet between his fingers." Have you ever watched the solstice sunrise at Stonehenge?"
"Many times. You?"
"Once or twice." Duncan was silent for a moment. "For a while... I spent every solstice at a different monument. Stonehenge, Newgrange, Borobudur, Chichén Itzá." He smiled. "Even shared a sunrise with a band of hippies on Mount Tamalpais."
"Learn anything?"
"Sometimes."
"I knew a philosopher once, who spent a year watching the sun rise. Didn't talk about it, didn't write poems, didn't paint it. Just watched."
Duncan considered a topaz. "And then?"
"They built a monument to him."
"Naturally."
What Better Night?
Drunk with love, in love with dark midnight, defying the darkness with passion, tempering passion with laughter, they embraced. Duncan's bed, spacious enough for one person, was perfect for two.
They kissed, and laughed, and made fierce and wild-hearted love. The stoked fires on the bed outshone the melting stands of bright candles, shamed a fire in the grate into embers.
They rested, to eat figs and drink dark wine, safe in each other's embrace from any inauspicious alignments of stars and planets.
What better time to lie in each other's arms than this, the longest night of the year?
As if you, I, and the Sun Were All Married / And Living in a Tiny Room
"Sunrise! Rise and sparkle, Solstice boy!"
Duncan groaned and burrowed deeper into the covers.
Ruthlessly, Methos tugged the blankets away and Duncan rolled over. Opened his eyes. And sat upright.
A beam of sunlight hit the window, was amplified by some kind of sun-catching apparatus Methos had erected, and filled the room, refracted and reflected by dozens of hanging crystals, mirrors, luminous globes and glass beads strung in garlands.
"This is -- Methos -- when did you -- ach -- scotch."
"Like it?" Methos handed him a glass.
Duncan squinted. "It's -- impressive."
Methos grinned. "Happy Birthday."
"It will be," Duncan growled. "Come here."
--The End--
Author: [Your Name Here]
Real Author Name: carenejeans
Written for: Diana Williams (dkwilliams)
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, Slash
Rating: R, not explicit
Author's Notes: A baker's dozen drabble string. The usual warnings for holiday sappiness. Quoted poetry (and the title of the last drabble) is by the Persian poet Hafez, who is a favorite in some circles for reading on the solstice night.
Summary: Methos celebrates the Winter Solstice and Duncan's Birthday
Ecliptic
What is a year? A bracketing of seasons, the highlights of a social calendar, the marking of births and deaths (coronations, wars, land speed records) along history's course.
And what's a year to me? Methos wondered bitterly. Seasons follow seasons. Days grow longer and shorter. The earth repeats its immemorial orbit around the sun.
Philosophers calculate -- and name -- the moment when the sun stops in its tracks and reverses its direction across the heavens.
But do the stars care when a man is born? Comforting to believe, and yet, the sun didn't stop on its ecliptic for Duncan.
Methos would.
Midwinter Sweets
"I come with pomegranates and pears, with almonds and pecans. I bring oranges and persimmons. I bring, let's see, sturdy bread, sausages, cheese, and of course, beer."
"What's this?" Duncan plucked a small red package from a gaudy silver bag.
Methos snatched it away. "Mitts off, if you please. Bonbons. For later."
"Now."
"Nope."
Duncan grinned and lunged. Methos took a step back. Duncan made a right feint for the sweets. Methos ducked to the left. Duncan hooked Methos by his belt and pulled him close.
"Stop dancing and hand over the candy!"
Methos stopped. "Oh, well, put like that..."
Pomegranates and Rubies
Methos slit the skin of a pomegranate and pulled back the halves. Seeds and juice spilled over his hands.
"If you open them under the tap, they come out neatly," Duncan offered.
"This is better."
"Messier. Here, use this -- wait -- don't," Duncan sighed as Methos planted two red hand-prints on his white shirt.
"Much more festive. God, these are good."
"Let me." Duncan fed plump red seeds between Methos's lips. "Did people first love pomegranates because they looked like rubies, or did they love rubies because they reminded them of pomegranates?"
"I don't remember."
"It was a rhetorical question."
The Wild Hunt
Methos watches the sun dip behind Seacouver's wintry skyline. Duncan's hand touches his -- and the quiet street is suddenly noisy with bicycles, flashing spokes and iridescent riders swarming in an intricate street dance. Methos blinks, and is riding, flying. Oh, he's missed this, the wild hunt, the wind in his face, screaming in berserker frenzy. Odin! Jólnir! His tires leave the pavement, he laughs with the riders racing across the sky over the kaleidoscope city -- Duncan touches him again and the bicyclists swerve, change course, and fade into the twilight.
Methos smiles and follows Duncan, his feet light on the ground.
Bonfire
Several years ago, an unlikely coalition of Seacouver's trendsetters, shopkeepers, neo-pagans, the Tourist Board and the Fire Department had started a midwinter festival, mashing together Sweden's Yule Goat and Burning Man. Volunteers labored for weeks building a massive wooden goat on a carefully fenced-off hilltop, then the whole city turned out to watch it go up in flames.
Duncan and Methos watched it burn from their window.
"Sweet," Methos said.
Duncan shivered. Ghosts of bonfires past. The Highlands, the trenches, the new world, the old west. Different times, the same midwinter yearning for warmth and light.
"Sweet. Yeah."
Io Saturnalia
"This is fruitcake," Duncan said suspiciously.
"Saturnalia cake," Methos said. "Light. Not the doorstops you're used to."
Duncan chewed. "It's okay," he allowed.
"One of my favorites. Petronius had a cook who -- don't roll your eyes."
Duncan took another bite and smiled. "Saturnalia. Definitely your kind of celebration."
"I loved it. The whole world was drunk and made me king for a day."
Duncan held up his glass. "To the King of the Saturnalia."
Methos bowed. "Luckily, by the time I served Petronius, they'd given up offing the poor sod afterwards."
"Ach. That would've been awkward."
"To say the least."
A Long Night Needs Poetry
"Do you know Hafez?" Methos brandished a small book. "He was--"
"I'm not entirely unlettered." Duncan snatched the book. Opening it at random, he read:
My heart was stolen by a lout,
A gypsy-featured lad
Who broke his promises and was
Half cut-throat and half mad.
"Droll." Methos recited softly, from memory:
And I'm so mad about him, so on fire for him,
I'm like a cooking cauldron's seething turbulence,
But I'll calm down when I can grab that cloak from him
And be the shirt that covers up his impudence.
"Impudence, right. Come here, my cooking cauldron."
A Feast Needs a Fool
"We could dance naked through the streets."
"We're not in Rome. And it's a little late in the day."
"Pity."
"Shhh. We can dance naked here."
"Mmmmhmmmmkay. Where's the wine?"
"Haven't you had enough?"
"It's worn off. Ah, that's better."
"You should eat. Have a honey bun."
"You're my -- mmmph."
"Don't say it."
"HONEY BUN."
"You're drunk."
"No, it wore off."
"I don't think so."
"Honey bun, honey bun, cha cha cha. Why did you stop?"
"You're standing on my feet."
"Sorry. I'm drunk."
"No kidding."
"People get drunk on, whatsit. Solstice."
"Some people certainly do. Eat this."
"Hunnneeeey -- mmph!"
Misrule-in-a-Box
Duncan half-drowsed in the bathtub. Methos perched on the edge and rummaged through his bag.
"More presents?" Duncan said sleepily.
Methos held up a small green ball. "Lord of Misrule Bath Bomb."
"What?"
Methos dropped it in the water. Duncan started, then relaxed to the scent of patchouli and pepper.
"Oh, mmmm, good, yes... what's that thing doing?"
The green ball frothed and spun, turning silver, then wine-red. Duncan sat up straighter as the ball exploded between his knees, sending tiny fireworks crackling and popping across the water.
"Nice, isn't it?"
"Methos..."
"Are you awake now?"
"Oh, yes."
Birthstones
Methos poured smooth and glittering stones into Duncan's hands: chrysoprase, onyx, turquoise, bloodstone, topaz. Rubies and garnets. Yellow cat's eye. Sea blue apatite.
"Knock over a gem shop?"
Methos held a ruby up to the light. "Birthstones, Duncan. Symbols of war and peace, chastity and sensuality, youth and wisdom, bravery, truth, perseverance and beauty--"
"Chastity and sensuality?"
"--Bringing you good luck and prosperity, longevity, happiness, and the passionate devotion of your friends. Oh, and sex. That would be lapis lazuli, an old Roman aphrodisiac." He paused. "That's where you say, 'good thing I've got an old Roman.'"
"Ba-da-bing."
Consider the Sunrise
Duncan pensively turned a garnet between his fingers." Have you ever watched the solstice sunrise at Stonehenge?"
"Many times. You?"
"Once or twice." Duncan was silent for a moment. "For a while... I spent every solstice at a different monument. Stonehenge, Newgrange, Borobudur, Chichén Itzá." He smiled. "Even shared a sunrise with a band of hippies on Mount Tamalpais."
"Learn anything?"
"Sometimes."
"I knew a philosopher once, who spent a year watching the sun rise. Didn't talk about it, didn't write poems, didn't paint it. Just watched."
Duncan considered a topaz. "And then?"
"They built a monument to him."
"Naturally."
What Better Night?
Drunk with love, in love with dark midnight, defying the darkness with passion, tempering passion with laughter, they embraced. Duncan's bed, spacious enough for one person, was perfect for two.
They kissed, and laughed, and made fierce and wild-hearted love. The stoked fires on the bed outshone the melting stands of bright candles, shamed a fire in the grate into embers.
They rested, to eat figs and drink dark wine, safe in each other's embrace from any inauspicious alignments of stars and planets.
What better time to lie in each other's arms than this, the longest night of the year?
As if you, I, and the Sun Were All Married / And Living in a Tiny Room
"Sunrise! Rise and sparkle, Solstice boy!"
Duncan groaned and burrowed deeper into the covers.
Ruthlessly, Methos tugged the blankets away and Duncan rolled over. Opened his eyes. And sat upright.
A beam of sunlight hit the window, was amplified by some kind of sun-catching apparatus Methos had erected, and filled the room, refracted and reflected by dozens of hanging crystals, mirrors, luminous globes and glass beads strung in garlands.
"This is -- Methos -- when did you -- ach -- scotch."
"Like it?" Methos handed him a glass.
Duncan squinted. "It's -- impressive."
Methos grinned. "Happy Birthday."
"It will be," Duncan growled. "Come here."
--The End--