Domaine du Meilleur Bien-Aimé, for unovis_lj
Title: Domaine du Meilleur Bien-Aimé
Author: La fée du nez
Written For: unovis_lj
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, various OCs
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Donkeys
Author's Notes: The song sung by Heloise toward the end of the story is from the French animation film Le Roi et l’oiseau, which I highly recommend. You can find it on Youtube. No vineyards were harmed in the writing of this story. All my love and gratitude to my beta.
Summary: No doubt Methos took great delight in making MacLeod tramp all over eastern France with nothing more than a rambling note and the vague directions given by a barefoot child, but there could be no question that in the end MacLeod would find him.
Domaine du Meilleur Bien-Aimé
For Unovis
~~~
“Hold still.”
“That looks very sharp.”
“It is.”
*
Sunrise spilled in shades of dew, lavender and new leaf with the scent of ripening grapes overpowering. He could not see the vineyard but he could smell it. MacLeod trudged up the incline, his bag heavy and the flat of his sword against his back. He must have walked near ten miles. Or at least five. In any case it was a long walk from Montmélian, and despite the chill of the morning it was very sweaty work. The least the bastard could have done was fetch him from the train.
However, it was certainly marvelous country, deep in the Savoy region. He didn’t come this way often, couldn’t recall the last time.
He sang a marching song from some long ago film he’d seen once to help keep the pace.
Did you call for soldiers true, for gallant fighting men of France.
We are here to answer you, so let the bugle blow advance.
Unable to remember all of the words, he mumbled through the melody, repeating the few lines he knew over and over again.
So intent was he on his march, lost in the soothing rhythmic footsteps and the rise and fall of his breathing, that he nearly missed the view from the top of the hill -- the green expanse of the vineyard glistening in its pearly dewdrop finery, snow-capped Alps standing at a distance as if on guard.
From his pocket he took out a crumpled note. It read:
If you have done with it all at last, I could use some help. That is if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. From Montmélian, follow the old Roman road till you get to the Aucoin Estate. I will be somewhere about. Ask for me and someone should be able to direct you. Don’t be late.
Now, what sort of note was that?
~~~
”Bend your head forward.”
“I can’t see”
“That’s the point.”
*
Instead of the stately chateau he was expecting, MacLeod strode up the road to discover a motley collection of buildings around a courtyard resembling a crowded village, with everyone outside enjoying the late summer sun. Flowers and pigs, chickens strutting, cows mooing while locals spoke in the rapid-fire dialect of the region. It was chaos, picturesque and noisome, the air heavy with a piquant bouquet of over-ripe fruit and donkeys.
There were an unusual number of donkeys. But not a lick of Immortal presence.
MacLeod stepped toward one of the buildings where sun-browned men, the very image of Gallic requiescence, sat on rickety chairs, talking in low, mumbling voices, kerchiefs around their necks, battered hats on their heads and worn down canes in their hands. “Excuse me,” said MacLeod. “I’m looking for someone. I believe he goes by the name of Adam. Do you know where I could find him?”
Several pairs of watery eyes blinked at him, the men pausing for a moment in their conversation, then continuing as if MacLeod hadn’t spoken. A young, dark-haired woman stepped out from within what looked like the main house, marching with alarming ferocity across the courtyard toward where a small clot of people were arguing over a fine pot-bellied pig. MacLeod tried to speak to her as she passed but she ignored him, continuing to march over to a young man in a leather jacket. She took the man by his ear, yelling in her lilting French as she dragged him back across the courtyard.
MacLeod tried again, asking a toothless grandmother who sat in the sun, smiling. He asked a troop of children kicking a ball around.
“Excuse me,” said MacLeod, this time to an older woman with purple stains on her hands and clothing that told of a long life crushing and pressing grapes. “I’m looking for Adam. You know, Adam.” He held his hand out to indicate his height. “He said you could direct me to him. Adam.” On a whim, he touched his nose.
“Ah,” said the old woman, laughing. “Vous voulez dire Le Grand Nez.” She turned to neighbor. “Il recherche Le Grand Nez.” Then she burst out laughing as if this was the funniest thing in the whole wide world.
The conversation around the courtyard shifted as “Le Grand Nez” passed from person to person like a ball tossed between waves.
They said: “What would anyone want with him, the rascal? He said he would fix my washing machine. And nothing! Bah!” “Old man, he already told you to throw that decrepit thing away. It’s older than you are. It’s been broken since I could remember.” “Never known a better winemaker, and that’s a fact. Why, it’s like his blood is wine.” “He was here last night, but damned if I know where he’s got himself today. Owes me ten euros, he does.” “I like him, I like him better than you.” “Oh, that’s a fine thing to say.” And on and on went the tales of Le Grand Nez.
MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to hide the reluctant smile that crept over his face. Big Nose, indeed. “Yes, yes, Le Grand Nez. Do you know where he is?”
But once again the old woman ignored him as she turned to chatter with her friend, laughingly retelling a joke Le Grand Nez had told her about a monkey named Inez who was overly fond of pomegranates. Exasperated, MacLeod prepared all manner of insults to flick at Le Grand Nez like projectile paper planes. Pointy ones. Of course, he had to find Le Grand Nez first.
A small hand tugged at MacLeod’s jacket. He looked down to find a child of about eight years of age, a pretty girl with thick wavy brown hair and freckles on her nose, barefoot and brown as a peanut. “He’s in the northern vineyard, tending to the young vines.” With a dirty finger, she pointed to a hint of a path that wound around the base of the hill bordering the northern edge of the village.
The child scampered away before MacLeod could thank her. Sighing, he adjusted his sword and pack, muttering about monkeys named Inez and millennia old vintners with wine for blood.
~~~
”That feels good. Do that again. Wait, that tickles.”
“What, this? Ouch.”
“We could keep this up all night.”
*
MacLeod hummed his marching song and trudged up the gentle hill for a mile or two, trusting that the road would take him to where he ought to be. No doubt Methos took great delight in making MacLeod tramp all over eastern France with nothing more than a rambling note and the vague directions given by a barefoot child, but there could be no question that in the end MacLeod would find him.
It hadn’t been too many years, if you looked at it from the perspective of an Immortal, just a handful -- less than ten, more than five, somewhere around six or eight, he wasn’t quite sure -- and if you didn’t count that one brief encounter in New York and a Connecticut graveyard. With the sun’s warm embrace bringing moisture to his brow and the ache of his feet in boots that were new and not broken in, MacLeod let the bird song and buzzing bees fill the silence he carried.
After twenty or so minutes, MacLeod passed a large cistern, hopped over a ditch that bordered a level field and what could only be the northern vineyard. The young vines stood in their neat rows, like dancers in line at a ball, leafy skirts fluffed, a courtesy here, a bow there.
To MacLeod’s not entirely inexpert eye, the vines were about two or three years old, just beginning to get some shape and size but still too young to bear fruit. He could not immediately place what type of grape they were, but in this region of Savoy, there could only be a few choices -- a Chignin, perhaps, or one of the Mondeuse.
Whistling his marching tune, he started down the rows, stopping to adjust a vine, fix a trellis, or pluck a dead leaf. A breeze cooled the sweat on the back of his neck. He stroked a leaf, could see himself losing centuries in this one vineyard, and suddenly he understood a thing about Methos that had always escaped him -- the languid stillness masking active motion, like a vine growing in the sun. The rascally devil, always feigning boredom, always busy with the complex simplicity of living. Life was in the details, in the rich dirt, in the curl of a vine.
With a discordant clash of surprise and sensation, Immortal presence leapt into his awareness -- a crescendo of insect song, a chorus of rustling leaves -- at the same time a disembodied voice sprung from between grapevines. MacLeod flinched with surprise, reaching for his sword. “Is that one vine so fascinating, Highlander, or is this a new fetish I don’t know about? Or perhaps you thought to do some pruning with your sword?”
MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to pinpoint the voice’s location. He saw nothing but green vines and sun and the dark, broken earth. “Is it time for hide and seek already?” he asked, deciding between amusement and annoyance, which was ever the question when Methos was involved. “I just got here. Show yourself, you sorry excuse for a friend.”
“Oh that’s nice.” And MacLeod detected an honest note of hurt in the voice. Something caused the back of his neck to tickle and MacLeod turned. Methos stood between rows of grapevines as if plucked from a vine like a long lost son of Dionysus. Despite his dramatic appearance, he looked wonderfully normal in the costume of a winemaker: white shirt, vest with ragged kerchief around his neck, dark trousers and muddy boots. “I’m not the one who disappeared,” and Methos’s voice lost all its otherworldliness tied to a physical body.
MacLeod studied this man who was much more than a friend and too intimate to be a lover. Like called to like, and MacLeod suppressed the ridiculous urge to swing Methos around in his arms like a long lost soul mate. Instead, he cleared his throat and took a small step forward. “Got your note, such as it was,” he said, falling back on annoyance to help navigate through this awkward first (again) meeting.
Methos smiled, slowly, that devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Is that a tone of petulance I hear? I thought you above such things.”
“Yeah, yeah. You could have at least picked me up from Montmélian.”
Methos shook his head. “No can do. Don’t have a car. Don’t even have a wagon. All I have is a donkey. And he would have gotten you lost. Likes to hare off after butterflies. Thinks he’s part dog or something.”
MacLeod smiled, a little blinded by the sun and the wind. Donkeys and butterflies. And lost demigods. Fitting company for a green and gold vineyard nestled in the mountains.
The sleeves of Methos’s shirt were rolled up and MacLeod saw the tanned skin, the roped muscles of his forearms. Methos held out a hand, palm up showing the roughened skin, the dark purple stains. “Mi casa es su casa.”
The breeze braided through the vines. MacLeod placed his hand in Methos’s and squeezed, feeling an unraveling within, a spiraling of all the days and nights of the years since he’d last held Methos’s hand. With unshed memories in his eyes, MacLeod let Methos lead the way through the maze of vines.
~~~
”Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re right in front of me.”
“Oh.”
*
Dusky shadows grew, swallowing the remnants of golden light.
Methos lived in a two-room cottage on the western edge of the vineyard. It had a yard with several chickens, a goat, and a fat gray donkey of middling height grazing on grass, tail switching back and forth. The chickens squawked in protest, displaced by Methos’s long stride.
Inside it smelled of beef stew and oranges. Methos built a small fire, profile outlined in flickering firelight. He noted how Methos’s hair curled at his neck and fell over his eyes.
“Why am I here, Methos?” It felt good to say his name aloud, to have a reason for saying it, to have the man attached to the name standing before him. Macleod passed his hand over the unvarnished table, fingers rippling over the wood-grain.
Still cast in firelight, Methos turned, his expression closed yet amused. He stood up and went to a cabinet on one side of the room, gathered two wine glasses and an already open bottle of wine, placed them on the table. Despite the rustic nature of the cottage, the kitchen was fitted with most modern conveniences. Methos poured stew into two bowls from a pot on the stove, got a loaf of bread from a basket left on a counter. Juggling all the items, he sat at the table opposite MacLeod. He broke the bread, handing one half to MacLeod. He poured the wine.
MacLeod sat at the rough-hewn table and watched Methos move through the familiar-to-him open spaces of the cottage, imagined the countless evenings Methos’s had prepare the same meal and sat at the same table, with the dying light of the day painted over the walls, the smell of grapes and mint and strawberries in the evening air.
Methos ate so MacLeod did too. The stew was rich. He soaked a piece of bread, swallowed a mouthful of wine -- Mondeuse d’Arbin. Dark as blood.
Evening bird song accompanied the sounds of spoons scraping the bottoms of the bowls. MacLeod felt Methos’s eyes on him and looked up.
“You’re here because you bring danger,” said Methos, quietly.
The wine’s taste of raspberry and licorice settled in the back of MacLeod’s throat. He shook his head.
“You bring danger and you save the day. It’s who you are.”
MacLeod fixed his gaze on the label of the wine bottle, dominated by an image of a smiling donkey. Vin de Savoie. Domaine du Meilleur Bien-Aimé. Estate of the Best Beloved.
He heard Methos push his chair back, wood scraping against wood. Two hands gripped his shoulder and turned him, warm fingers cupped his face.
Methos bent close, placed his lips in an almost kiss over MacLeod’s left eye. Then he tilted MacLeod’s face more to one side and placed his lips against MacLeod’s cheek. He did the same thing to the other side, then to MacLeod’s forehead. MacLeod took a deep, shuddering breath.
“To answer your question, you over-thinking fool, you’re here because this is where you are. Because I asked and by some miracle you still care enough to answer. Maybe because you want to be here. And because, I missed you.”
MacLeod pressed his nose against Methos’s neck.
Quietly, Methos stood and led MacLeod to the bedroom and they lay together on the bed. Kiss him, taste him, keep him, hold him.
~~~
”Let me see your hand.”
“Why?”
“And the other one.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“This.”
*
MacLeod waited until candlelight, lying in bed with Methos beside him back to front, to lean in and whisper in his ear, “I came searching for Le Grand Nez and found you.”
Laughter, slightly embarrassed. “The child Heloise called me that the first week I was here, so naturally they all call me that now. I think it was the trick that got me accepted.”
“How came you here?” MacLeod placed both of his hands against Methos’s back, like he was going to push him away, then slowly stroked downward, feeling the shoulder blades, the way Methos’s ribs expanded with each breath, the muscled lower back. He brought his hands around to circle Methos’s waist.
“Oh, it’s not a very interesting story.”
“Hm,” said MacLeod, his nose buried in Methos’s hair, breathing in the citrus, licorice smell of him. He brought his hands up from Methos’s stomach to rest against his chest, fingers undoing buttons so he could put his hand against smooth skin. For an eternity, he could stay with Methos’s in his arms forever, or at least for one entire night, simply as they lay. His one regret was that from this position he could not look into Methos’s face. To make up for this, he closed his eyes and felt with his hands to Methos’s chin, his lips, his fluttering eyes. In his arms, Methos shook with quiet laughter. “Not a very interesting story?” asked MacLeod. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Are you trying to find my nose or pick it? Ow!” MacLeod squeezed Methos’s nose and shook it. In nasally tones, Methos said, “Let me go.”
“I don’t want to.”
Methos became still. MacLeod let go of Methos’s nose, moving his hands back down to his chest, to the open shirt and smooth skin. The sounds of the cottage were limited to fire and wind and the breathing of the man in his arms. Methos turned to look at him and MacLeod wondered at the sheen of tears in his eyes. “One day,” Methos said, swallowing, “my Highlander, you will know the story.”
~~~
”It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
“Are we quoting Shakespeare to each other already?”
“I’m afraid so.”
*
With the first light of morning, they were awoken by the duet of a rooster’s call and a donkey’s bray.
Methos called the donkey Lucignolo, Lucy when he was being sweet, Candlewick when he was being naughty. Or just Wick for short. And sometimes Methos called the donkey Romeo, but only so he could play with Lucy’s ears and say “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” To which Lucy replied on cue with a deep bray, head up in the air, trotting in a circle.
After laughing hard enough that he had to sit down on the steps of the cottage, MacLeod asked, “Have a lot of time on your hands?”
“I’ll have you know Lucy is very smart, and knew his lines before I taught them to him. We’re working on the death scene next.” But Methos couldn’t really say this with a straight face. Lucy looked from one to the other, ears cocked in equine confusion at seeing both humans giggling like school children.
“Lucy,” said MacLeod, feeding Lucy a stub of carrot, scratching his withers, whispering in his long ears, “Good boy.” Lucignolo took one look at MacLeod and fell in love, announcing his love with another teeth-rattling bray.
“You treacherous creature,” said Methos to Lucy when Lucy ignored him and nosed MacLeod’s pockets for another treat, but Lucy only had ears for his new master and didn’t let Methos’s reprimand bother him in any way.
Methos frowned, but then laughed to see MacLeod attempt to go any distance without Lucy following him practically nose to ass, tripping over chickens in the little front yard of the cottage. “Serves you right,” he said, picking up his apron and tools. To Lucy, he said, “Lucignolo, it’s your job to watch over your master.”
Lucy took his job very seriously.
Throwing MacLeod an evil smirk, Methos headed off to the vineyard.
“Um, Methos,” said MacLeod, attempting to follow with an amorous donkey blocking his path. “Wait!”
~~~
”Stand right here. Close your eyes. What do you see?”
“I see a secret sky. I see the rain. I see the wind.”
*
For those first few days of blissful isolation, MacLeod worked beside Methos, tending to the vines, breathing in the mountain air, living in the sun. At night he lay with Methos in his arms. He slept, dreamless. He slept like a man in hiding.
After a week, they took Lucy down to the main house, and it was just as MacLeod had left it: a colorful melee in admirable confusion. The children flocked to Methos, demanding stories and attention. The barefoot child who had given MacLeod directions that first day took Methos’s hand and skipped beside him. Lucy brayed in recognition to the other donkeys, trotting off to socialize and gossip.
MacLeod followed Methos into the main house where he saw the modern world return in the form of various computers, fax machines, printers and telephones all needed for the business side of running a vineyard. After only a few days living at the cottage, any modern technology seemed foreign. “This’ll just take a minute,” said Methos while reading a printout, already turning all of his attention to a petite woman named Elise who kept handing him paperwork to look at.
MacLeod wandered back out to the courtyard, feeling very much the foreigner, the interloper. He held himself apart, observing the goings on of a busy estate life. He put names to faces. There was the old woman Madame Matilde, always laughing at some joke or other, still preferring to crush grapes with her hands and feet. The young lovers Josette and Gaston, who were to be married in a few weeks, fighting one moment, kissing the next. Josette worked with her mother, Elise, in the main house. Gaston handled the shipping. Everyone held a job of some sort, the collective wheel of industry. Mostly he was ignored, or he received a polite nod, a bland greeting masking a vague distrust.
An old man named Etienne sat outside one of the buildings, yelling for Adam to come fix his washing machine like he promised. Someone else yelled for him to shut up.
“I can take a look at your washing machine,” MacLeod said.
With a wary silence, Etienne nodded, leading MacLeod to one of the buildings in the left wing, to a small side room off of a kitchen. It was an old 1950s model, with the rounded edges of that decade. MacLeod got down on his knees, pulling the machine away from the wall.
With a deep, gravelly voice, Etienne asked, “So, you come to the vineyard. To help? To stay? This is a quiet place.”
MacLeod paused, looked at Etienne from behind the machine. At that moment there was a riot of noise coming from the courtyard -- donkeys braying, someone shouting, a honking truck backing up. “Adam is a friend,” he said, holding Etienne’s gaze for a moment.
Etienne nodded, peering down his nose to inspect what MacLeod was doing. “Well, Lucignolo likes you. That’s a good sign.”
MacLeod smiled at this, returning to the plumbing at hand. Part of the tubing had rotted away and the spin pulley had deteriorated along with the water assembly. He cut and replaced the tubing, rewired the cord, cleaned out some old rust. “Voilà,” he said, turning the knobs and pushing the buttons to start the machine. “Do you have anything you need to wash?”
Etienne’s eyes slowly widened. Then he did a little hop, arms raised over his head. “It works!” he said in wonderment, quickly shuffling into the courtyard. “He fixed my washing machine,” he cried joyously. “It works, it works! He fixed my washing machine.”
With a curious hopping gait, Etienne ran around and told everyone and everyone congratulated him and then told him to shut up.
More than a little bemused, MacLeod wiped his hands clean. Methos came up beside him. “Now you’ve done it,” said Methos, putting a hand against the small of MacLeod’s back. “Do you know how long that machine’s been broken? They’ll expect daily miracles from now on.”
And with that, MacLeod became much in demand, and immediately accepted into the Aucoin family.
~~~
Don’t tell anyone this, but I think I want a beer.”
*
In a sing-song voice, the child Heloise told MacLeod a story.
“The Aucoin family have owned this vineyard for centuries, for a very long time, so long the old vineyard books from those days fall apart and crumble to dust. It is passed from parent to child, or sometimes from uncle or aunt to nephew or niece, it does not matter if it is a boy or a girl, whomever it is takes the name of Aucoin and makes the vineyard their own and therefore the family lives on. It was given to Sebastian d’Aucoin, a bastard son of Edouard- Amédée, duc de Savoie by his mistress Matilde d’Aucoin, the daughter of a vintner that worked for the old duc. In the fourteen hundreds. That was a very long time ago. And when he died he gave it to his son, Henri-Sebastian, who passed it on to his daughter Catarina-Amédée Aucoin, and so on and so on. It was in Catarina’s lifetime that the first vines produced a good bottle. And all this time, the Aucoin family have made wine from the Mondeuse vine. Generations passed and then old Charles-Henri’s only son Phillipe died from a sickness of the blood, and with no family to pass the vineyard on to, he gave it to a friend of his son’s whom his son had loved like a brother -- a foreigner, a stranger. They said l’Etranger, was afflicted with a great sorrow and it made him a very angry man. Although he took care with the vineyard, he was not loved, and in those days no one thought twice of getting rid of him. They tried poison. They tried cutting his throat. Seduction. Treachery. They tried to throw him down the side of a mountain, but he would not die! The legend of l’Etranger traveled far and wide, and everyone was afraid of him. His anger still rings in the halls of the Aucoin house. But I do not hear it. Sometimes I can hear crying, though, and not a child crying, but a man crying of a broken heart. And so l’Etranger was hated all through Savoie, yet the vineyard had never been more prosperous than during the time of l’Etranger and our wine was at its most famous. It was he who named the vineyard ‘Best Beloved’ and our wine was served at the tables of the kings and queens of all Europe! Until one day a man showed up who claimed to be a long lost son of Charles-Henri, the true brother of Phillipe. He said his name was Alain Michel d’Aucoin and at first he and l’Etranger were friends, but it was a strange friendship, full of stormy arguments and long silences. One day after a particularly bitter argument, Alain Michel challenged l’Etranger to a duel. They fought in the vineyards, in and among the little vines. It was a terrible fight, long and bloody and neither man would submit. They continued to fight up to the northern field and then there was a great thunderstorm and lightning and fire. The fire blazed down through to the lower fields and the vineyard was engulfed in flames. No one ever saw Alain Michel or l’Etranger again. They died in the fire. As it turned out, there was a lost grand child to Charles-Henri, a little girl, my great-grand mere Sophie Aucoin, whom l’Etranger had placed with a family in the south. When he died, his will named her as his heir, and he promised that the vineyard would endure, no matter what. He promised it in his will, it is true. It took almost a hundred years for the vineyard to recover, but somehow the family always kept the vineyard, even when there was no money and no way to make money, during the wars and the occupation, during the depression, just when it all seemed lost, the vineyard and the family were always saved. And now the vineyard belongs to Maman and then it will go to Josette and myself.”
As she spoke, Heloise braided MacLeod’s hair into several plaits, weaving flowers into each braid so he looked like a fresh bouquet. “There,” she said. “Now you’re very pretty.” With a laugh, she planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek and ran away to stage donkey races with the other children.
~~~
”I’m fairly certain there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“Don’t move. You taste like salt-covered berries.”
*
It took only a few weeks, or maybe it was half-a-minute, for MacLeod to become a what-did-we-ever-do-without-him fixture in the daily life of the estate. He worked with the men in the fields, helped with the orders, he bottled, handled customer-service, loaded trucks. If you were looking for MacLeod you could find him in the cellar with the barrels of wine. He was handyman and friend, sometime cook and laborer. Josette wanted MacLeod to give her away, Gaston wanted him for his best man, and the two young lovers fought until Elise as matriarch insisted Adam give the bride away and all were silenced.
Hidden away in the northern field, in the privacy of their little cottage, MacLeod stood still while Methos fitted him in a suit for the wedding. The lamplight flickered. “Do you mind?” asked MacLeod.
“That they love you better?” Methos straightened the shoulders of the suit, flattened the lapels. He smiled a little. “No.” Their eyes met briefly as Methos measured the length of each sleeve.
He let Methos move his arms, up and down. Methos stooped at his feet as he fixed the hem of each trouser leg.
MacLeod didn’t believe the Aucoin family loved him better. He was just a novelty, a temporary distraction to excite the rhythm of their lives. A new spice added to the wine, a fresh new flavor. Methos might not notice, but MacLeod could see the quiet faith everyone held for their Adam. It showed in the way they listened to him, in the way the child Heloise reached for Adam’s hand, how Matilde laughed at his jokes, and how Gaston, who fought with everyone including MacLeod, never fought with Adam. All the men tipped their hats to him whenever they saw him. It was even in the way Lucignolo brayed when Adam scratched between his ears. Methos belonged to them, and they belonged to Methos.
All of this was in MacLeod’s voice, in his eyes, in the way he looked at Methos when he cleared his throat and asked, quietly, arms raised out to his side. “Will it do?”
Methos stood behind MacLeod, rested his forehead against the nape of MacLeod’s neck. “Matilde will make the alterations,” he said.
MacLeod turned so he was cheek to cheek with Methos.
~~~
”I’m not the hero. Never was.”
“Do they know that?”
*
Although the day was ending, MacLeod worked on making wine barrels while there was still some light, before the wine-dark night settled in. He wiped sweat from his brow, unused to the heat after spending most of the day underground in the cool cellar, moving barrels around, tasting and checking the progress of fermentation. The past few days had been very warm. Carefully, he encircled a barrel with a metal band, screwed it in place.
The child Heloise sat close by, in a patch of dirt with an array of gardening tools spread out in front of her. She dug a hole, planted a seed, put the dirt back, watered it. As she worked, she sang a song.
L’âne, le roi et moi, nous serons mort demain. L’âne de faim, le roi d’ennui, et moi d’amour. L’âne, le roi et moi, nous serons mort demain. L’âne de faim, le roi d’ennui, et moi d’amour. Au mois de mai, le vie est une cerise, la mort est un noyau, l’amour un cerisier.
MacLeod shivered at the touch of heartbreak in the air. He looked down the road that led back to Montmélian, expecting to see a familiar figure but the road remained vacant. When he awoke that morning Methos had already left, having an appointment early in town, but he should have been back hours ago. MacLeod wondered if he’d missed seeing him somehow and perhaps Methos was already back in their cottage, belly full, wondering what was taking MacLeod so long. But Lucy was also waiting, grazing placidly with his donkey friends in the small park attached to the house. MacLeod kept finding little jobs to occupy his attention.
Full dark brought a light fragrant breeze. In mid-song, Heloise stopped. She rose from her dirt patch, standing still, head cocked. She walked forward, pensive, almost listening, facing east in the direction of the vineyards. A nameless fear momentarily strangled MacLeod’s throat as he drew breath to speak, but Elise came from inside the house to stand in the center of the courtyard, the exact same expression on mother as on daughter. Then Matilde ambled out, a crease between her eyebrows, stopping beside Elise. Followed by Josette, Gaston, then Etienne. Then more.
MacLeod let the barrel drop from his hands. He moved from person to person. They ignored him, just as they had that first day. Panic rising, he suppressed the urge to shake them all. “Is it Adam? Answer me.”
As before, it was the child Heloise who broke away from the others to turn to MacLeod, her dark eyes wide, her mane of hair a halo of curls. “The vineyard. It’s in danger. Can’t you feel it?”
He felt something but he wasn’t sure what it was, a pulling in his center, an ache in his lower back. MacLeod crouched low, grabbing Heloise with his two hands. “Adam? Did you see him?”
She looked confused for a second, then said, “He went with that man who came. The stranger who was waiting when Le Grand Nez returned. They went together.” She pointed east.
MacLeod turned just as a flash of light crowned the sky. Lightning arced, shooting in forked tongues, jaggedly ripping apart the dark night. Wind crested, blowing, a loud clap of lightning boomed, a lick of electric fire struck down through the courtyard and MacLeod felt the quickening energy in the tightening of his skin. Without hesitation, he turned to Gaston. “The cisterns in the fields, let the water go. Now!”
Gaston and several others ran for the vineyards. MacLeod cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Lucy!”
He heard a sharp bray in return and then the clatter of Lucy’s hooves. Lucy hopped and kicked out as he came to stand next to MacLeod. He grabbed Lucy’s short mane, took the long face between his hands. “Do your job, Lucy, go find your master.” He slapped Lucy hard on the rump. Lucy squealed, then took off with a spray of dirt.
The glow of fire already brought the tinge of orange to the dark night, beautiful and deadly.
~~~
”L’âne, le roi, et moi.”
“The donkey, the king, and I. Let me guess which one you are.”
“Well, we all know which one Lucy is.”
“The king, of course.”
“Naturally.”
*
Water rushed into each ditch, creating a barrier against fire. Fire raged through the surrounding fields, only held in check by geography and by a system of cisterns and man-made water ditches. With Gaston and the others, MacLeod fought hard to protect the vineyards. Part of the eastern field was ruined, and several of the oldest vines in the home field were scorched possibly beyond help, although there was a chance the roots could be salvaged. All the rest were safe, and the fire never got close to the young vines and the cottage in the north, having started too far away to do more damage.
Danger remained, however, and there could be no lessening of effort. Firefighters from Montmélian handled the brunt of the fire that lingered in the lands beyond the vineyard. Overhead, MacLeod could hear helicopters and knew that water had been released from the air to blanket all the countryside.
While he labored, at the back of his head, in the center of his chest, was the need to find Methos. The instinct to find him dominated his thoughts, so insistent his hands shook.
Smoke, thick as London fog, rolled across the fields and woodlands, cutting visibility. MacLeod walked the edge of the eastern vineyard. In the strange quiet of the smoky-wrapped world, he felt a small vibration at the bottom of his feet. Turning, unable to see through the churning gray slush, he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Lucignolo!” he called. “Lucignolo!”
A trumpeting bray answered accompanied with the vibrating sensation of Immortal presence. Then, the folds of night revealed Lucy trotting steadily through the darkness with a dark figure on his back slumped over, two pale hands gripping the tufts of Lucy’s mane. MacLeod rushed to meet them but Lucy overstepped when he reached the ditched, and all three splashed into the water.
With a confused choking, the water revived Methos. MacLeod struggled to get Methos’s head above water so he could look at him, hold him chest to chest. Despite the muddy water and the film of smoke and grime, he placed his mouth against the warm spot at Methos’s neck and squeezed his eyes shut. Lucy grunted and scrambled out of the ditch, head low, coughing. Then he did a full body shake before getting down on his knees and then onto his back for a very satisfying roll in the dirt after a job well done.
~~~
”All stories have endings.”
“And what is ours?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Lucy knows.”
*
There were large bloody rents in Methos’s clothing that could only be partially hidden by his coat. He needed to return to the cottage before anyone saw him. “Gaston is a good man,” said MacLeod, trying to reassure Methos. “He’s in charge. The vineyard is safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
Nodding weakly, drained from his fight and from the quickening, Methos started walking slowly through the smoke with Lucy next to him, both looking very bedraggled. MacLeod watched him disappear into the murky darkness, suppressing the urge to follow.
It took all the rest of the night and most of the following day before Gaston felt they were completely out of danger. In the early evening clouds formed in the sky and a light rain began to fall. MacLeod stood in the courtyard with the other men and women of the estate in all their sooty glory, drinking coffee, sharing in the quiet feeling of relief.
No one spoke, until Etienne asked, “Et Le Grand Nez? Ce que de lui?
At first he was answered with silence. MacLeod cleared his throat, wanting to tell how Methos had saved them all, how he had saved the vineyard by leading the Immortal, whoever he had been, far enough away. He was trying to figure out a way of saying it, to ensure them that their Adam had neither abandoned them, nor perished, when Elise spoke. “I saw him this morning. He was with the burned vines, checking on which ones might be saved.”
“He was in the house only a moment ago,” said Gaston, “arguing with old Renault about more cisterns for the eastern fields.”
“I saw him a few hours ago with Lucignolo. They were clearing some of that burned bush by the home field that’s still smoking,” said someone else. “I saw Adam walking through each vineyard.” “I saw him with Heloise singing together while hosing down the outer buildings.”
Then Etienne said, “He has time for all this and yet he can’t come by to trim down that cherry tree that blocks all the morning sun from my bedroom?”
They told Etienne to shut up.
MacLeod, setting his mug down, patted Etienne on his shoulder. “I’ll see to your tree tomorrow.”
Then he quietly left, wondering why he felt like crying.
~~~
“You don’t need to do this.”
“Don’t I? Need is a relative thing. Today, I need to.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, as Little Orphan Annie always said, is a day away.”
“In other words, tomorrow will never come. There is only today.”
“Bright boy.”
*
As fast as he could, he walked through the singed vineyards, up through the now familiar road to their quiet little cottage. Methos turned when he entered, and they both stood staring silently, almost as if they hadn’t expected to see each other. MacLeod, still strangely overcome with emotion, was so happy to have Methos looking very much like himself, clean and fully rested, with the late afternoon sun drifting in through the windows. His eyes stung and he looked down at this feet.
“Well you’re certainly a sight,” said Methos with an amused tone. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?”
“What? Oh.” MacLeod caught his reflection on a mirrored surface. His face was lined with soot and dirt, hair tangled and gray with ash. The same with his hands, and his clothing would have to be thrown away.
“Come here,” said Methos, and MacLeod could only obey. He let Methos strip him of his clothing then stood patiently, naked, while Methos filled a tub full of hot water. He tried to protest, but Methos kissed him, and all he could do, standing naked, shivering a little, was kiss him back. “Get in the tub, Highlander.”
Meekly, he got in the tub, and sighed. The tightness in his throat diminished and whatever tears he might have had were camouflaged in the bath water.
“Sit up. I think you’re going to have to take two baths, you’re that filthy.”
MacLeod smiled and leaned against Methos’s hands as they scrubbed his back, his arms, his neck. Methos’s hands slid down his legs to his feet, making him squirm. Then back up to where thigh met groin. At Methos’s urging, he bent his head forward and warm water flowed over. Methos massaged shampoo into his scalp, untangling gently with his fingers. More water, rinse, then MacLeod leaned back, eyes closed, listening to Methos’s breathing. He flinched a little when he felt cold shaving cream applied to his face and neck, then held himself very still as Methos gently held his head steady with his strong fingers. The soft sting of the shaving knife, up his neck and across his cheek, felt electric -- a blade at his throat - and he bit his lip with the surge of hot desire that made him lightheaded, unconsciously thrusting upward.
Methos’s breathing had gotten louder, stronger. He opened his eyes to watch Methos through a slitted gaze, and raised a pruned finger to touch Methos’s nose until those dark green eyes met his, revealing so much. MacLeod sat up and kissed him, rising, water cascading and splashing everywhere, stepped from the tub, still kissing Methos, unable to stop. Methos protested but couldn’t pull away, somehow reaching for a towel he had set aside.
They walked blindly toward the bedroom, Methos toweling MacLeod dry, MacLeod unbuttoning Methos’s shirt, roughly stripping him until they were both naked and lying in the bed. He wanted to devour Methos, wanted to taste those places always hidden from view -- the pelvis, the inner thigh. The need was strong and he had to take a moment to breathe, panting with his cheek against Methos’s stomach. His wet hair stuck to his brow and he knew it must be chilly against Methos’s skin, but Methos didn’t seem to mind, touching MacLeod where he could reach him.
MacLeod resumed mapping Methos’s skin, inch by inch. Methos arched and MacLeod took all of him in to his mouth. This was what he needed, wanted, more and more until Methos gripped MacLeod hard enough to bruise, and came. MacLeod only let him rest a moment, coaxing Methos into hardness again. Until Methos pushed MacLeod onto his back and all he could do was hold on, look up into Methos’s beloved face, breathe until the pleasure was too much and he blindly bore down to meet each thrust. With one hand Methos turned MacLeod’s face to expose his neck, to lick it, bite it, and MacLeod came violently. And then he came again even though he had nothing left to give and felt like he would come a third time when Methos held his head between his hands and looked into his eyes, shuddering and gasping and crying out.
They lay pleasantly entangled, damp and sticky and content, breath returning to normal, heated skin cooling as the day slid into evening. MacLeod could hear the chickens squawking in the yard, the goat bleating in protest, probably at Lucy. MacLeod shifted to lie on his side, maneuvering Methos just as he wanted him, in his arms, chest to back, ass nestled against his groin. “You know,” he said, breaking the silence. “Heloise told me the story of the vineyard.”
Methos turned his head slightly. MacLeod felt the sigh Methos took -- chest expanding then contracting. Then Methos huffed a soft laugh. “I bet she filled it with all sorts of duels and fighting and assassination attempts. She can be one overdramatic, bloodthirsty little girl.”
MacLeod chuckled. “Did none of those things happen?”
“Oh, yes, some of them did.”
The growing shadows lengthened and the room grew dark. MacLeod trailed one hand down Methos’s arm to his flank, admiring the shift from tanned to pale skin. He touched Methos’s neck with his lips. “And which one were you? L’Etranger or Alain Michel?”
Methos turned around and MacLeod wanted to protest but stopped when Methos took one of his hands, then reached for the other one. “Does it matter? Neither man ended well.”
MacLeod supposed that it didn’t matter, except he did not like to think it was Methos’s heartbreak that still rang in the halls of the Aucoin house.
Kissing each of MacLeod’s palms, Methos said,“Vous êtes mon meilleur bien-aimé, mon amour.”
MacLeod took Methos into his arms and held him close.
~~~
“Look at him strutting around.”
“He is very proud of himself, isn’t he? Oh, there he goes after a butterfly.”
“Gaston should make him best man instead of you.”
“Elise would love that. How do you think he would do with MacBeth?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
*
fin
The guessing post for this fic is here.
Author: La fée du nez
Written For: unovis_lj
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, various OCs
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Donkeys
Author's Notes: The song sung by Heloise toward the end of the story is from the French animation film Le Roi et l’oiseau, which I highly recommend. You can find it on Youtube. No vineyards were harmed in the writing of this story. All my love and gratitude to my beta.
Summary: No doubt Methos took great delight in making MacLeod tramp all over eastern France with nothing more than a rambling note and the vague directions given by a barefoot child, but there could be no question that in the end MacLeod would find him.
Domaine du Meilleur Bien-Aimé
For Unovis
~~~
“Hold still.”
“That looks very sharp.”
“It is.”
*
Sunrise spilled in shades of dew, lavender and new leaf with the scent of ripening grapes overpowering. He could not see the vineyard but he could smell it. MacLeod trudged up the incline, his bag heavy and the flat of his sword against his back. He must have walked near ten miles. Or at least five. In any case it was a long walk from Montmélian, and despite the chill of the morning it was very sweaty work. The least the bastard could have done was fetch him from the train.
However, it was certainly marvelous country, deep in the Savoy region. He didn’t come this way often, couldn’t recall the last time.
He sang a marching song from some long ago film he’d seen once to help keep the pace.
Did you call for soldiers true, for gallant fighting men of France.
We are here to answer you, so let the bugle blow advance.
Unable to remember all of the words, he mumbled through the melody, repeating the few lines he knew over and over again.
So intent was he on his march, lost in the soothing rhythmic footsteps and the rise and fall of his breathing, that he nearly missed the view from the top of the hill -- the green expanse of the vineyard glistening in its pearly dewdrop finery, snow-capped Alps standing at a distance as if on guard.
From his pocket he took out a crumpled note. It read:
If you have done with it all at last, I could use some help. That is if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. From Montmélian, follow the old Roman road till you get to the Aucoin Estate. I will be somewhere about. Ask for me and someone should be able to direct you. Don’t be late.
Now, what sort of note was that?
~~~
”Bend your head forward.”
“I can’t see”
“That’s the point.”
*
Instead of the stately chateau he was expecting, MacLeod strode up the road to discover a motley collection of buildings around a courtyard resembling a crowded village, with everyone outside enjoying the late summer sun. Flowers and pigs, chickens strutting, cows mooing while locals spoke in the rapid-fire dialect of the region. It was chaos, picturesque and noisome, the air heavy with a piquant bouquet of over-ripe fruit and donkeys.
There were an unusual number of donkeys. But not a lick of Immortal presence.
MacLeod stepped toward one of the buildings where sun-browned men, the very image of Gallic requiescence, sat on rickety chairs, talking in low, mumbling voices, kerchiefs around their necks, battered hats on their heads and worn down canes in their hands. “Excuse me,” said MacLeod. “I’m looking for someone. I believe he goes by the name of Adam. Do you know where I could find him?”
Several pairs of watery eyes blinked at him, the men pausing for a moment in their conversation, then continuing as if MacLeod hadn’t spoken. A young, dark-haired woman stepped out from within what looked like the main house, marching with alarming ferocity across the courtyard toward where a small clot of people were arguing over a fine pot-bellied pig. MacLeod tried to speak to her as she passed but she ignored him, continuing to march over to a young man in a leather jacket. She took the man by his ear, yelling in her lilting French as she dragged him back across the courtyard.
MacLeod tried again, asking a toothless grandmother who sat in the sun, smiling. He asked a troop of children kicking a ball around.
“Excuse me,” said MacLeod, this time to an older woman with purple stains on her hands and clothing that told of a long life crushing and pressing grapes. “I’m looking for Adam. You know, Adam.” He held his hand out to indicate his height. “He said you could direct me to him. Adam.” On a whim, he touched his nose.
“Ah,” said the old woman, laughing. “Vous voulez dire Le Grand Nez.” She turned to neighbor. “Il recherche Le Grand Nez.” Then she burst out laughing as if this was the funniest thing in the whole wide world.
The conversation around the courtyard shifted as “Le Grand Nez” passed from person to person like a ball tossed between waves.
They said: “What would anyone want with him, the rascal? He said he would fix my washing machine. And nothing! Bah!” “Old man, he already told you to throw that decrepit thing away. It’s older than you are. It’s been broken since I could remember.” “Never known a better winemaker, and that’s a fact. Why, it’s like his blood is wine.” “He was here last night, but damned if I know where he’s got himself today. Owes me ten euros, he does.” “I like him, I like him better than you.” “Oh, that’s a fine thing to say.” And on and on went the tales of Le Grand Nez.
MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to hide the reluctant smile that crept over his face. Big Nose, indeed. “Yes, yes, Le Grand Nez. Do you know where he is?”
But once again the old woman ignored him as she turned to chatter with her friend, laughingly retelling a joke Le Grand Nez had told her about a monkey named Inez who was overly fond of pomegranates. Exasperated, MacLeod prepared all manner of insults to flick at Le Grand Nez like projectile paper planes. Pointy ones. Of course, he had to find Le Grand Nez first.
A small hand tugged at MacLeod’s jacket. He looked down to find a child of about eight years of age, a pretty girl with thick wavy brown hair and freckles on her nose, barefoot and brown as a peanut. “He’s in the northern vineyard, tending to the young vines.” With a dirty finger, she pointed to a hint of a path that wound around the base of the hill bordering the northern edge of the village.
The child scampered away before MacLeod could thank her. Sighing, he adjusted his sword and pack, muttering about monkeys named Inez and millennia old vintners with wine for blood.
~~~
”That feels good. Do that again. Wait, that tickles.”
“What, this? Ouch.”
“We could keep this up all night.”
*
MacLeod hummed his marching song and trudged up the gentle hill for a mile or two, trusting that the road would take him to where he ought to be. No doubt Methos took great delight in making MacLeod tramp all over eastern France with nothing more than a rambling note and the vague directions given by a barefoot child, but there could be no question that in the end MacLeod would find him.
It hadn’t been too many years, if you looked at it from the perspective of an Immortal, just a handful -- less than ten, more than five, somewhere around six or eight, he wasn’t quite sure -- and if you didn’t count that one brief encounter in New York and a Connecticut graveyard. With the sun’s warm embrace bringing moisture to his brow and the ache of his feet in boots that were new and not broken in, MacLeod let the bird song and buzzing bees fill the silence he carried.
After twenty or so minutes, MacLeod passed a large cistern, hopped over a ditch that bordered a level field and what could only be the northern vineyard. The young vines stood in their neat rows, like dancers in line at a ball, leafy skirts fluffed, a courtesy here, a bow there.
To MacLeod’s not entirely inexpert eye, the vines were about two or three years old, just beginning to get some shape and size but still too young to bear fruit. He could not immediately place what type of grape they were, but in this region of Savoy, there could only be a few choices -- a Chignin, perhaps, or one of the Mondeuse.
Whistling his marching tune, he started down the rows, stopping to adjust a vine, fix a trellis, or pluck a dead leaf. A breeze cooled the sweat on the back of his neck. He stroked a leaf, could see himself losing centuries in this one vineyard, and suddenly he understood a thing about Methos that had always escaped him -- the languid stillness masking active motion, like a vine growing in the sun. The rascally devil, always feigning boredom, always busy with the complex simplicity of living. Life was in the details, in the rich dirt, in the curl of a vine.
With a discordant clash of surprise and sensation, Immortal presence leapt into his awareness -- a crescendo of insect song, a chorus of rustling leaves -- at the same time a disembodied voice sprung from between grapevines. MacLeod flinched with surprise, reaching for his sword. “Is that one vine so fascinating, Highlander, or is this a new fetish I don’t know about? Or perhaps you thought to do some pruning with your sword?”
MacLeod turned in a circle, trying to pinpoint the voice’s location. He saw nothing but green vines and sun and the dark, broken earth. “Is it time for hide and seek already?” he asked, deciding between amusement and annoyance, which was ever the question when Methos was involved. “I just got here. Show yourself, you sorry excuse for a friend.”
“Oh that’s nice.” And MacLeod detected an honest note of hurt in the voice. Something caused the back of his neck to tickle and MacLeod turned. Methos stood between rows of grapevines as if plucked from a vine like a long lost son of Dionysus. Despite his dramatic appearance, he looked wonderfully normal in the costume of a winemaker: white shirt, vest with ragged kerchief around his neck, dark trousers and muddy boots. “I’m not the one who disappeared,” and Methos’s voice lost all its otherworldliness tied to a physical body.
MacLeod studied this man who was much more than a friend and too intimate to be a lover. Like called to like, and MacLeod suppressed the ridiculous urge to swing Methos around in his arms like a long lost soul mate. Instead, he cleared his throat and took a small step forward. “Got your note, such as it was,” he said, falling back on annoyance to help navigate through this awkward first (again) meeting.
Methos smiled, slowly, that devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Is that a tone of petulance I hear? I thought you above such things.”
“Yeah, yeah. You could have at least picked me up from Montmélian.”
Methos shook his head. “No can do. Don’t have a car. Don’t even have a wagon. All I have is a donkey. And he would have gotten you lost. Likes to hare off after butterflies. Thinks he’s part dog or something.”
MacLeod smiled, a little blinded by the sun and the wind. Donkeys and butterflies. And lost demigods. Fitting company for a green and gold vineyard nestled in the mountains.
The sleeves of Methos’s shirt were rolled up and MacLeod saw the tanned skin, the roped muscles of his forearms. Methos held out a hand, palm up showing the roughened skin, the dark purple stains. “Mi casa es su casa.”
The breeze braided through the vines. MacLeod placed his hand in Methos’s and squeezed, feeling an unraveling within, a spiraling of all the days and nights of the years since he’d last held Methos’s hand. With unshed memories in his eyes, MacLeod let Methos lead the way through the maze of vines.
~~~
”Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re right in front of me.”
“Oh.”
*
Dusky shadows grew, swallowing the remnants of golden light.
Methos lived in a two-room cottage on the western edge of the vineyard. It had a yard with several chickens, a goat, and a fat gray donkey of middling height grazing on grass, tail switching back and forth. The chickens squawked in protest, displaced by Methos’s long stride.
Inside it smelled of beef stew and oranges. Methos built a small fire, profile outlined in flickering firelight. He noted how Methos’s hair curled at his neck and fell over his eyes.
“Why am I here, Methos?” It felt good to say his name aloud, to have a reason for saying it, to have the man attached to the name standing before him. Macleod passed his hand over the unvarnished table, fingers rippling over the wood-grain.
Still cast in firelight, Methos turned, his expression closed yet amused. He stood up and went to a cabinet on one side of the room, gathered two wine glasses and an already open bottle of wine, placed them on the table. Despite the rustic nature of the cottage, the kitchen was fitted with most modern conveniences. Methos poured stew into two bowls from a pot on the stove, got a loaf of bread from a basket left on a counter. Juggling all the items, he sat at the table opposite MacLeod. He broke the bread, handing one half to MacLeod. He poured the wine.
MacLeod sat at the rough-hewn table and watched Methos move through the familiar-to-him open spaces of the cottage, imagined the countless evenings Methos’s had prepare the same meal and sat at the same table, with the dying light of the day painted over the walls, the smell of grapes and mint and strawberries in the evening air.
Methos ate so MacLeod did too. The stew was rich. He soaked a piece of bread, swallowed a mouthful of wine -- Mondeuse d’Arbin. Dark as blood.
Evening bird song accompanied the sounds of spoons scraping the bottoms of the bowls. MacLeod felt Methos’s eyes on him and looked up.
“You’re here because you bring danger,” said Methos, quietly.
The wine’s taste of raspberry and licorice settled in the back of MacLeod’s throat. He shook his head.
“You bring danger and you save the day. It’s who you are.”
MacLeod fixed his gaze on the label of the wine bottle, dominated by an image of a smiling donkey. Vin de Savoie. Domaine du Meilleur Bien-Aimé. Estate of the Best Beloved.
He heard Methos push his chair back, wood scraping against wood. Two hands gripped his shoulder and turned him, warm fingers cupped his face.
Methos bent close, placed his lips in an almost kiss over MacLeod’s left eye. Then he tilted MacLeod’s face more to one side and placed his lips against MacLeod’s cheek. He did the same thing to the other side, then to MacLeod’s forehead. MacLeod took a deep, shuddering breath.
“To answer your question, you over-thinking fool, you’re here because this is where you are. Because I asked and by some miracle you still care enough to answer. Maybe because you want to be here. And because, I missed you.”
MacLeod pressed his nose against Methos’s neck.
Quietly, Methos stood and led MacLeod to the bedroom and they lay together on the bed. Kiss him, taste him, keep him, hold him.
~~~
”Let me see your hand.”
“Why?”
“And the other one.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“This.”
*
MacLeod waited until candlelight, lying in bed with Methos beside him back to front, to lean in and whisper in his ear, “I came searching for Le Grand Nez and found you.”
Laughter, slightly embarrassed. “The child Heloise called me that the first week I was here, so naturally they all call me that now. I think it was the trick that got me accepted.”
“How came you here?” MacLeod placed both of his hands against Methos’s back, like he was going to push him away, then slowly stroked downward, feeling the shoulder blades, the way Methos’s ribs expanded with each breath, the muscled lower back. He brought his hands around to circle Methos’s waist.
“Oh, it’s not a very interesting story.”
“Hm,” said MacLeod, his nose buried in Methos’s hair, breathing in the citrus, licorice smell of him. He brought his hands up from Methos’s stomach to rest against his chest, fingers undoing buttons so he could put his hand against smooth skin. For an eternity, he could stay with Methos’s in his arms forever, or at least for one entire night, simply as they lay. His one regret was that from this position he could not look into Methos’s face. To make up for this, he closed his eyes and felt with his hands to Methos’s chin, his lips, his fluttering eyes. In his arms, Methos shook with quiet laughter. “Not a very interesting story?” asked MacLeod. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Are you trying to find my nose or pick it? Ow!” MacLeod squeezed Methos’s nose and shook it. In nasally tones, Methos said, “Let me go.”
“I don’t want to.”
Methos became still. MacLeod let go of Methos’s nose, moving his hands back down to his chest, to the open shirt and smooth skin. The sounds of the cottage were limited to fire and wind and the breathing of the man in his arms. Methos turned to look at him and MacLeod wondered at the sheen of tears in his eyes. “One day,” Methos said, swallowing, “my Highlander, you will know the story.”
~~~
”It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear.”
“Are we quoting Shakespeare to each other already?”
“I’m afraid so.”
*
With the first light of morning, they were awoken by the duet of a rooster’s call and a donkey’s bray.
Methos called the donkey Lucignolo, Lucy when he was being sweet, Candlewick when he was being naughty. Or just Wick for short. And sometimes Methos called the donkey Romeo, but only so he could play with Lucy’s ears and say “Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” To which Lucy replied on cue with a deep bray, head up in the air, trotting in a circle.
After laughing hard enough that he had to sit down on the steps of the cottage, MacLeod asked, “Have a lot of time on your hands?”
“I’ll have you know Lucy is very smart, and knew his lines before I taught them to him. We’re working on the death scene next.” But Methos couldn’t really say this with a straight face. Lucy looked from one to the other, ears cocked in equine confusion at seeing both humans giggling like school children.
“Lucy,” said MacLeod, feeding Lucy a stub of carrot, scratching his withers, whispering in his long ears, “Good boy.” Lucignolo took one look at MacLeod and fell in love, announcing his love with another teeth-rattling bray.
“You treacherous creature,” said Methos to Lucy when Lucy ignored him and nosed MacLeod’s pockets for another treat, but Lucy only had ears for his new master and didn’t let Methos’s reprimand bother him in any way.
Methos frowned, but then laughed to see MacLeod attempt to go any distance without Lucy following him practically nose to ass, tripping over chickens in the little front yard of the cottage. “Serves you right,” he said, picking up his apron and tools. To Lucy, he said, “Lucignolo, it’s your job to watch over your master.”
Lucy took his job very seriously.
Throwing MacLeod an evil smirk, Methos headed off to the vineyard.
“Um, Methos,” said MacLeod, attempting to follow with an amorous donkey blocking his path. “Wait!”
~~~
”Stand right here. Close your eyes. What do you see?”
“I see a secret sky. I see the rain. I see the wind.”
*
For those first few days of blissful isolation, MacLeod worked beside Methos, tending to the vines, breathing in the mountain air, living in the sun. At night he lay with Methos in his arms. He slept, dreamless. He slept like a man in hiding.
After a week, they took Lucy down to the main house, and it was just as MacLeod had left it: a colorful melee in admirable confusion. The children flocked to Methos, demanding stories and attention. The barefoot child who had given MacLeod directions that first day took Methos’s hand and skipped beside him. Lucy brayed in recognition to the other donkeys, trotting off to socialize and gossip.
MacLeod followed Methos into the main house where he saw the modern world return in the form of various computers, fax machines, printers and telephones all needed for the business side of running a vineyard. After only a few days living at the cottage, any modern technology seemed foreign. “This’ll just take a minute,” said Methos while reading a printout, already turning all of his attention to a petite woman named Elise who kept handing him paperwork to look at.
MacLeod wandered back out to the courtyard, feeling very much the foreigner, the interloper. He held himself apart, observing the goings on of a busy estate life. He put names to faces. There was the old woman Madame Matilde, always laughing at some joke or other, still preferring to crush grapes with her hands and feet. The young lovers Josette and Gaston, who were to be married in a few weeks, fighting one moment, kissing the next. Josette worked with her mother, Elise, in the main house. Gaston handled the shipping. Everyone held a job of some sort, the collective wheel of industry. Mostly he was ignored, or he received a polite nod, a bland greeting masking a vague distrust.
An old man named Etienne sat outside one of the buildings, yelling for Adam to come fix his washing machine like he promised. Someone else yelled for him to shut up.
“I can take a look at your washing machine,” MacLeod said.
With a wary silence, Etienne nodded, leading MacLeod to one of the buildings in the left wing, to a small side room off of a kitchen. It was an old 1950s model, with the rounded edges of that decade. MacLeod got down on his knees, pulling the machine away from the wall.
With a deep, gravelly voice, Etienne asked, “So, you come to the vineyard. To help? To stay? This is a quiet place.”
MacLeod paused, looked at Etienne from behind the machine. At that moment there was a riot of noise coming from the courtyard -- donkeys braying, someone shouting, a honking truck backing up. “Adam is a friend,” he said, holding Etienne’s gaze for a moment.
Etienne nodded, peering down his nose to inspect what MacLeod was doing. “Well, Lucignolo likes you. That’s a good sign.”
MacLeod smiled at this, returning to the plumbing at hand. Part of the tubing had rotted away and the spin pulley had deteriorated along with the water assembly. He cut and replaced the tubing, rewired the cord, cleaned out some old rust. “Voilà,” he said, turning the knobs and pushing the buttons to start the machine. “Do you have anything you need to wash?”
Etienne’s eyes slowly widened. Then he did a little hop, arms raised over his head. “It works!” he said in wonderment, quickly shuffling into the courtyard. “He fixed my washing machine,” he cried joyously. “It works, it works! He fixed my washing machine.”
With a curious hopping gait, Etienne ran around and told everyone and everyone congratulated him and then told him to shut up.
More than a little bemused, MacLeod wiped his hands clean. Methos came up beside him. “Now you’ve done it,” said Methos, putting a hand against the small of MacLeod’s back. “Do you know how long that machine’s been broken? They’ll expect daily miracles from now on.”
And with that, MacLeod became much in demand, and immediately accepted into the Aucoin family.
~~~
Don’t tell anyone this, but I think I want a beer.”
*
In a sing-song voice, the child Heloise told MacLeod a story.
“The Aucoin family have owned this vineyard for centuries, for a very long time, so long the old vineyard books from those days fall apart and crumble to dust. It is passed from parent to child, or sometimes from uncle or aunt to nephew or niece, it does not matter if it is a boy or a girl, whomever it is takes the name of Aucoin and makes the vineyard their own and therefore the family lives on. It was given to Sebastian d’Aucoin, a bastard son of Edouard- Amédée, duc de Savoie by his mistress Matilde d’Aucoin, the daughter of a vintner that worked for the old duc. In the fourteen hundreds. That was a very long time ago. And when he died he gave it to his son, Henri-Sebastian, who passed it on to his daughter Catarina-Amédée Aucoin, and so on and so on. It was in Catarina’s lifetime that the first vines produced a good bottle. And all this time, the Aucoin family have made wine from the Mondeuse vine. Generations passed and then old Charles-Henri’s only son Phillipe died from a sickness of the blood, and with no family to pass the vineyard on to, he gave it to a friend of his son’s whom his son had loved like a brother -- a foreigner, a stranger. They said l’Etranger, was afflicted with a great sorrow and it made him a very angry man. Although he took care with the vineyard, he was not loved, and in those days no one thought twice of getting rid of him. They tried poison. They tried cutting his throat. Seduction. Treachery. They tried to throw him down the side of a mountain, but he would not die! The legend of l’Etranger traveled far and wide, and everyone was afraid of him. His anger still rings in the halls of the Aucoin house. But I do not hear it. Sometimes I can hear crying, though, and not a child crying, but a man crying of a broken heart. And so l’Etranger was hated all through Savoie, yet the vineyard had never been more prosperous than during the time of l’Etranger and our wine was at its most famous. It was he who named the vineyard ‘Best Beloved’ and our wine was served at the tables of the kings and queens of all Europe! Until one day a man showed up who claimed to be a long lost son of Charles-Henri, the true brother of Phillipe. He said his name was Alain Michel d’Aucoin and at first he and l’Etranger were friends, but it was a strange friendship, full of stormy arguments and long silences. One day after a particularly bitter argument, Alain Michel challenged l’Etranger to a duel. They fought in the vineyards, in and among the little vines. It was a terrible fight, long and bloody and neither man would submit. They continued to fight up to the northern field and then there was a great thunderstorm and lightning and fire. The fire blazed down through to the lower fields and the vineyard was engulfed in flames. No one ever saw Alain Michel or l’Etranger again. They died in the fire. As it turned out, there was a lost grand child to Charles-Henri, a little girl, my great-grand mere Sophie Aucoin, whom l’Etranger had placed with a family in the south. When he died, his will named her as his heir, and he promised that the vineyard would endure, no matter what. He promised it in his will, it is true. It took almost a hundred years for the vineyard to recover, but somehow the family always kept the vineyard, even when there was no money and no way to make money, during the wars and the occupation, during the depression, just when it all seemed lost, the vineyard and the family were always saved. And now the vineyard belongs to Maman and then it will go to Josette and myself.”
As she spoke, Heloise braided MacLeod’s hair into several plaits, weaving flowers into each braid so he looked like a fresh bouquet. “There,” she said. “Now you’re very pretty.” With a laugh, she planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek and ran away to stage donkey races with the other children.
~~~
”I’m fairly certain there’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“Don’t move. You taste like salt-covered berries.”
*
It took only a few weeks, or maybe it was half-a-minute, for MacLeod to become a what-did-we-ever-do-without-him fixture in the daily life of the estate. He worked with the men in the fields, helped with the orders, he bottled, handled customer-service, loaded trucks. If you were looking for MacLeod you could find him in the cellar with the barrels of wine. He was handyman and friend, sometime cook and laborer. Josette wanted MacLeod to give her away, Gaston wanted him for his best man, and the two young lovers fought until Elise as matriarch insisted Adam give the bride away and all were silenced.
Hidden away in the northern field, in the privacy of their little cottage, MacLeod stood still while Methos fitted him in a suit for the wedding. The lamplight flickered. “Do you mind?” asked MacLeod.
“That they love you better?” Methos straightened the shoulders of the suit, flattened the lapels. He smiled a little. “No.” Their eyes met briefly as Methos measured the length of each sleeve.
He let Methos move his arms, up and down. Methos stooped at his feet as he fixed the hem of each trouser leg.
MacLeod didn’t believe the Aucoin family loved him better. He was just a novelty, a temporary distraction to excite the rhythm of their lives. A new spice added to the wine, a fresh new flavor. Methos might not notice, but MacLeod could see the quiet faith everyone held for their Adam. It showed in the way they listened to him, in the way the child Heloise reached for Adam’s hand, how Matilde laughed at his jokes, and how Gaston, who fought with everyone including MacLeod, never fought with Adam. All the men tipped their hats to him whenever they saw him. It was even in the way Lucignolo brayed when Adam scratched between his ears. Methos belonged to them, and they belonged to Methos.
All of this was in MacLeod’s voice, in his eyes, in the way he looked at Methos when he cleared his throat and asked, quietly, arms raised out to his side. “Will it do?”
Methos stood behind MacLeod, rested his forehead against the nape of MacLeod’s neck. “Matilde will make the alterations,” he said.
MacLeod turned so he was cheek to cheek with Methos.
~~~
”I’m not the hero. Never was.”
“Do they know that?”
*
Although the day was ending, MacLeod worked on making wine barrels while there was still some light, before the wine-dark night settled in. He wiped sweat from his brow, unused to the heat after spending most of the day underground in the cool cellar, moving barrels around, tasting and checking the progress of fermentation. The past few days had been very warm. Carefully, he encircled a barrel with a metal band, screwed it in place.
The child Heloise sat close by, in a patch of dirt with an array of gardening tools spread out in front of her. She dug a hole, planted a seed, put the dirt back, watered it. As she worked, she sang a song.
L’âne, le roi et moi, nous serons mort demain. L’âne de faim, le roi d’ennui, et moi d’amour. L’âne, le roi et moi, nous serons mort demain. L’âne de faim, le roi d’ennui, et moi d’amour. Au mois de mai, le vie est une cerise, la mort est un noyau, l’amour un cerisier.
MacLeod shivered at the touch of heartbreak in the air. He looked down the road that led back to Montmélian, expecting to see a familiar figure but the road remained vacant. When he awoke that morning Methos had already left, having an appointment early in town, but he should have been back hours ago. MacLeod wondered if he’d missed seeing him somehow and perhaps Methos was already back in their cottage, belly full, wondering what was taking MacLeod so long. But Lucy was also waiting, grazing placidly with his donkey friends in the small park attached to the house. MacLeod kept finding little jobs to occupy his attention.
Full dark brought a light fragrant breeze. In mid-song, Heloise stopped. She rose from her dirt patch, standing still, head cocked. She walked forward, pensive, almost listening, facing east in the direction of the vineyards. A nameless fear momentarily strangled MacLeod’s throat as he drew breath to speak, but Elise came from inside the house to stand in the center of the courtyard, the exact same expression on mother as on daughter. Then Matilde ambled out, a crease between her eyebrows, stopping beside Elise. Followed by Josette, Gaston, then Etienne. Then more.
MacLeod let the barrel drop from his hands. He moved from person to person. They ignored him, just as they had that first day. Panic rising, he suppressed the urge to shake them all. “Is it Adam? Answer me.”
As before, it was the child Heloise who broke away from the others to turn to MacLeod, her dark eyes wide, her mane of hair a halo of curls. “The vineyard. It’s in danger. Can’t you feel it?”
He felt something but he wasn’t sure what it was, a pulling in his center, an ache in his lower back. MacLeod crouched low, grabbing Heloise with his two hands. “Adam? Did you see him?”
She looked confused for a second, then said, “He went with that man who came. The stranger who was waiting when Le Grand Nez returned. They went together.” She pointed east.
MacLeod turned just as a flash of light crowned the sky. Lightning arced, shooting in forked tongues, jaggedly ripping apart the dark night. Wind crested, blowing, a loud clap of lightning boomed, a lick of electric fire struck down through the courtyard and MacLeod felt the quickening energy in the tightening of his skin. Without hesitation, he turned to Gaston. “The cisterns in the fields, let the water go. Now!”
Gaston and several others ran for the vineyards. MacLeod cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Lucy!”
He heard a sharp bray in return and then the clatter of Lucy’s hooves. Lucy hopped and kicked out as he came to stand next to MacLeod. He grabbed Lucy’s short mane, took the long face between his hands. “Do your job, Lucy, go find your master.” He slapped Lucy hard on the rump. Lucy squealed, then took off with a spray of dirt.
The glow of fire already brought the tinge of orange to the dark night, beautiful and deadly.
~~~
”L’âne, le roi, et moi.”
“The donkey, the king, and I. Let me guess which one you are.”
“Well, we all know which one Lucy is.”
“The king, of course.”
“Naturally.”
*
Water rushed into each ditch, creating a barrier against fire. Fire raged through the surrounding fields, only held in check by geography and by a system of cisterns and man-made water ditches. With Gaston and the others, MacLeod fought hard to protect the vineyards. Part of the eastern field was ruined, and several of the oldest vines in the home field were scorched possibly beyond help, although there was a chance the roots could be salvaged. All the rest were safe, and the fire never got close to the young vines and the cottage in the north, having started too far away to do more damage.
Danger remained, however, and there could be no lessening of effort. Firefighters from Montmélian handled the brunt of the fire that lingered in the lands beyond the vineyard. Overhead, MacLeod could hear helicopters and knew that water had been released from the air to blanket all the countryside.
While he labored, at the back of his head, in the center of his chest, was the need to find Methos. The instinct to find him dominated his thoughts, so insistent his hands shook.
Smoke, thick as London fog, rolled across the fields and woodlands, cutting visibility. MacLeod walked the edge of the eastern vineyard. In the strange quiet of the smoky-wrapped world, he felt a small vibration at the bottom of his feet. Turning, unable to see through the churning gray slush, he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Lucignolo!” he called. “Lucignolo!”
A trumpeting bray answered accompanied with the vibrating sensation of Immortal presence. Then, the folds of night revealed Lucy trotting steadily through the darkness with a dark figure on his back slumped over, two pale hands gripping the tufts of Lucy’s mane. MacLeod rushed to meet them but Lucy overstepped when he reached the ditched, and all three splashed into the water.
With a confused choking, the water revived Methos. MacLeod struggled to get Methos’s head above water so he could look at him, hold him chest to chest. Despite the muddy water and the film of smoke and grime, he placed his mouth against the warm spot at Methos’s neck and squeezed his eyes shut. Lucy grunted and scrambled out of the ditch, head low, coughing. Then he did a full body shake before getting down on his knees and then onto his back for a very satisfying roll in the dirt after a job well done.
~~~
”All stories have endings.”
“And what is ours?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe Lucy knows.”
*
There were large bloody rents in Methos’s clothing that could only be partially hidden by his coat. He needed to return to the cottage before anyone saw him. “Gaston is a good man,” said MacLeod, trying to reassure Methos. “He’s in charge. The vineyard is safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
Nodding weakly, drained from his fight and from the quickening, Methos started walking slowly through the smoke with Lucy next to him, both looking very bedraggled. MacLeod watched him disappear into the murky darkness, suppressing the urge to follow.
It took all the rest of the night and most of the following day before Gaston felt they were completely out of danger. In the early evening clouds formed in the sky and a light rain began to fall. MacLeod stood in the courtyard with the other men and women of the estate in all their sooty glory, drinking coffee, sharing in the quiet feeling of relief.
No one spoke, until Etienne asked, “Et Le Grand Nez? Ce que de lui?
At first he was answered with silence. MacLeod cleared his throat, wanting to tell how Methos had saved them all, how he had saved the vineyard by leading the Immortal, whoever he had been, far enough away. He was trying to figure out a way of saying it, to ensure them that their Adam had neither abandoned them, nor perished, when Elise spoke. “I saw him this morning. He was with the burned vines, checking on which ones might be saved.”
“He was in the house only a moment ago,” said Gaston, “arguing with old Renault about more cisterns for the eastern fields.”
“I saw him a few hours ago with Lucignolo. They were clearing some of that burned bush by the home field that’s still smoking,” said someone else. “I saw Adam walking through each vineyard.” “I saw him with Heloise singing together while hosing down the outer buildings.”
Then Etienne said, “He has time for all this and yet he can’t come by to trim down that cherry tree that blocks all the morning sun from my bedroom?”
They told Etienne to shut up.
MacLeod, setting his mug down, patted Etienne on his shoulder. “I’ll see to your tree tomorrow.”
Then he quietly left, wondering why he felt like crying.
~~~
“You don’t need to do this.”
“Don’t I? Need is a relative thing. Today, I need to.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, as Little Orphan Annie always said, is a day away.”
“In other words, tomorrow will never come. There is only today.”
“Bright boy.”
*
As fast as he could, he walked through the singed vineyards, up through the now familiar road to their quiet little cottage. Methos turned when he entered, and they both stood staring silently, almost as if they hadn’t expected to see each other. MacLeod, still strangely overcome with emotion, was so happy to have Methos looking very much like himself, clean and fully rested, with the late afternoon sun drifting in through the windows. His eyes stung and he looked down at this feet.
“Well you’re certainly a sight,” said Methos with an amused tone. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?”
“What? Oh.” MacLeod caught his reflection on a mirrored surface. His face was lined with soot and dirt, hair tangled and gray with ash. The same with his hands, and his clothing would have to be thrown away.
“Come here,” said Methos, and MacLeod could only obey. He let Methos strip him of his clothing then stood patiently, naked, while Methos filled a tub full of hot water. He tried to protest, but Methos kissed him, and all he could do, standing naked, shivering a little, was kiss him back. “Get in the tub, Highlander.”
Meekly, he got in the tub, and sighed. The tightness in his throat diminished and whatever tears he might have had were camouflaged in the bath water.
“Sit up. I think you’re going to have to take two baths, you’re that filthy.”
MacLeod smiled and leaned against Methos’s hands as they scrubbed his back, his arms, his neck. Methos’s hands slid down his legs to his feet, making him squirm. Then back up to where thigh met groin. At Methos’s urging, he bent his head forward and warm water flowed over. Methos massaged shampoo into his scalp, untangling gently with his fingers. More water, rinse, then MacLeod leaned back, eyes closed, listening to Methos’s breathing. He flinched a little when he felt cold shaving cream applied to his face and neck, then held himself very still as Methos gently held his head steady with his strong fingers. The soft sting of the shaving knife, up his neck and across his cheek, felt electric -- a blade at his throat - and he bit his lip with the surge of hot desire that made him lightheaded, unconsciously thrusting upward.
Methos’s breathing had gotten louder, stronger. He opened his eyes to watch Methos through a slitted gaze, and raised a pruned finger to touch Methos’s nose until those dark green eyes met his, revealing so much. MacLeod sat up and kissed him, rising, water cascading and splashing everywhere, stepped from the tub, still kissing Methos, unable to stop. Methos protested but couldn’t pull away, somehow reaching for a towel he had set aside.
They walked blindly toward the bedroom, Methos toweling MacLeod dry, MacLeod unbuttoning Methos’s shirt, roughly stripping him until they were both naked and lying in the bed. He wanted to devour Methos, wanted to taste those places always hidden from view -- the pelvis, the inner thigh. The need was strong and he had to take a moment to breathe, panting with his cheek against Methos’s stomach. His wet hair stuck to his brow and he knew it must be chilly against Methos’s skin, but Methos didn’t seem to mind, touching MacLeod where he could reach him.
MacLeod resumed mapping Methos’s skin, inch by inch. Methos arched and MacLeod took all of him in to his mouth. This was what he needed, wanted, more and more until Methos gripped MacLeod hard enough to bruise, and came. MacLeod only let him rest a moment, coaxing Methos into hardness again. Until Methos pushed MacLeod onto his back and all he could do was hold on, look up into Methos’s beloved face, breathe until the pleasure was too much and he blindly bore down to meet each thrust. With one hand Methos turned MacLeod’s face to expose his neck, to lick it, bite it, and MacLeod came violently. And then he came again even though he had nothing left to give and felt like he would come a third time when Methos held his head between his hands and looked into his eyes, shuddering and gasping and crying out.
They lay pleasantly entangled, damp and sticky and content, breath returning to normal, heated skin cooling as the day slid into evening. MacLeod could hear the chickens squawking in the yard, the goat bleating in protest, probably at Lucy. MacLeod shifted to lie on his side, maneuvering Methos just as he wanted him, in his arms, chest to back, ass nestled against his groin. “You know,” he said, breaking the silence. “Heloise told me the story of the vineyard.”
Methos turned his head slightly. MacLeod felt the sigh Methos took -- chest expanding then contracting. Then Methos huffed a soft laugh. “I bet she filled it with all sorts of duels and fighting and assassination attempts. She can be one overdramatic, bloodthirsty little girl.”
MacLeod chuckled. “Did none of those things happen?”
“Oh, yes, some of them did.”
The growing shadows lengthened and the room grew dark. MacLeod trailed one hand down Methos’s arm to his flank, admiring the shift from tanned to pale skin. He touched Methos’s neck with his lips. “And which one were you? L’Etranger or Alain Michel?”
Methos turned around and MacLeod wanted to protest but stopped when Methos took one of his hands, then reached for the other one. “Does it matter? Neither man ended well.”
MacLeod supposed that it didn’t matter, except he did not like to think it was Methos’s heartbreak that still rang in the halls of the Aucoin house.
Kissing each of MacLeod’s palms, Methos said,“Vous êtes mon meilleur bien-aimé, mon amour.”
MacLeod took Methos into his arms and held him close.
~~~
“Look at him strutting around.”
“He is very proud of himself, isn’t he? Oh, there he goes after a butterfly.”
“Gaston should make him best man instead of you.”
“Elise would love that. How do you think he would do with MacBeth?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
*
fin
The guessing post for this fic is here.