Title: Wings of the Morning--Duncan
Author: Figlia Della Musica
Series: Wings of the Morning 1/?
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Timeframe: whenever, I don't know. I might decide later.
Summary: Duncan wakes up.
Warnings: slash, mush
Rating: PG-11 they don't do anything bad, but they're nekkid in bed.
Archive: OnlyDuncanMethos, anywhere else sure but just ask me first
Author's comments: This story got started while I was waiting to get picked up from a theatre rehearsal. My ride was half an hour late, and had my notebook with me. Writer's Block has been defeated at last!
Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this. I'm just having some fun with them. If I owned them, well, the series would be a bit different….
NOTE: Keep track of the chapter title. The POV changes and it is noted in the chapter.
++++++++++
Awareness. Bright light. Morning. Lying on my side. Smooth skin under my head. I blink my eyes open, squinting into the early-morning sunlight streaming through the portholes of the barge. The pale skin my head rests upon covers a smooth, muscled chest. Attached to said chest are two arms, long and pale, which are wrapped around me. Two legs also spring from the torso I rest upon. I can feel them under the covers, wrapped around my own pedal appendages. I hesitate, though, to look at the head of the person I'm sleeping with. Not because he's ugly, understand, but because I'm afraid that if I look at him, I'll wake him up, and if I wake him up, he'll panic and leave. He has a known propensity for panicking and running—and never being found again. And I so desperately do not want to lose him.
I stare, though, at his sleeping face, finally, when I work up the courage to look at it. He's so beautiful, asleep. His youthful face gives lie to the centuries he's lived, innocent and open. He reminds me of a particularly beautiful Greek statue I saw once—smooth cheekbones, high and not quite angular, elegant. I feel temptation building in me, and I resist it, because looking at him might not wake him up, but this certainly will. I cannot, however, resist, and I run my fingers across his forehead, through his spiky, silky dark hair, down his jaw, feeling a slight rasp of stubble, over the high planes of his face, down his aquiline nose, and finally across his lips.
His eyes flutter open. Damn. I've awakened him, and those eyes looking at me draw me in, and I'm lost in changeable shifting pools of color. This morning, they're golden-brown like good whiskey, and I'm entranced and I remember how last night, his mouth and his skin tasted so intoxicating, more than the best alcohol. Now those eyes devour me and I can't read his face—it's not shuttered, he's not trying to hold back, but I'm so afraid and so hopeful and so confused that I can't read him without feeding my own feelings in and what I see changes every second with the emotion foremost in my own mind. His hand reaches out to where mine still rests against his cheek, close to his mouth, covering my hand with his and holding it softly against his face.
"MacLeod?" he asks. "I'm not dreaming?" His voice, oh God, his voice reflects my emotions, fear and hope and uncertainty and something else I can't describe, can't name. Something Alexa called forth in him, while I watched from the sidelines and tried not to show my longing and tried to quiet my seemingly impossible dreams.
"No," I reply, and my voice is almost a whisper, I'm so afraid of what he's going to say next. "You're not dreaming, Methos."
"I must be," he says, closing his eyes, and my heart sinks with his words. Then he continues. "I must be dreaming. I'm asleep, in my bed in my flat, and I'm dreaming I'm in bed with Duncan MacLeod and gods help me I don't want to wake up, just want to go on dreaming forever…" He trails off, and my heart just about bursts because he wants this!
"You're not dreaming," I say, stroking his cheek gently, "or if you are, I'm dreaming with you, and I never want to stop." My voice is an urgent whisper, and I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling the rich scent of skin, letting my hands rest on his shoulders.
"MacLeod?" His hands lift my head up, slowly, until his eyes fix once again on mine. "Did you just tell me you… you want this?" He falters and the hope and fear in his eyes had reached a fever pitch.
"Yes," I say, taking his hands in mine and bowing my head over them. "Oh God, Methos, I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
His closes his eyes, and his lips move. I think he might be praying, then his eyes open again and focus on me, and he says, "So do I, Duncan." It's the first time he's called me by my given name, and the sound of it on his lips, in his voice, makes me want to shout for joy.
I don't. I just whisper, so softly, "Stay with me, Methos. Stay with me, forever. I love you too much for you to leave again."
His eyes get very round, and I think he might almost cry, but he murmurs back, chokingly, "I love you too, Duncan. Yes, I'll stay."
It's all I need to hear, and we drift back to sleep holding each other.
Author: Figlia Della Musica
Series: Wings of the Morning 1/?
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Timeframe: whenever, I don't know. I might decide later.
Summary: Duncan wakes up.
Warnings: slash, mush
Rating: PG-11 they don't do anything bad, but they're nekkid in bed.
Archive: OnlyDuncanMethos, anywhere else sure but just ask me first
Author's comments: This story got started while I was waiting to get picked up from a theatre rehearsal. My ride was half an hour late, and had my notebook with me. Writer's Block has been defeated at last!
Disclaimer: These gentlemen do not belong to me, unfortunately, and I don't make any money off of this. I'm just having some fun with them. If I owned them, well, the series would be a bit different….
NOTE: Keep track of the chapter title. The POV changes and it is noted in the chapter.
++++++++++
Awareness. Bright light. Morning. Lying on my side. Smooth skin under my head. I blink my eyes open, squinting into the early-morning sunlight streaming through the portholes of the barge. The pale skin my head rests upon covers a smooth, muscled chest. Attached to said chest are two arms, long and pale, which are wrapped around me. Two legs also spring from the torso I rest upon. I can feel them under the covers, wrapped around my own pedal appendages. I hesitate, though, to look at the head of the person I'm sleeping with. Not because he's ugly, understand, but because I'm afraid that if I look at him, I'll wake him up, and if I wake him up, he'll panic and leave. He has a known propensity for panicking and running—and never being found again. And I so desperately do not want to lose him.
I stare, though, at his sleeping face, finally, when I work up the courage to look at it. He's so beautiful, asleep. His youthful face gives lie to the centuries he's lived, innocent and open. He reminds me of a particularly beautiful Greek statue I saw once—smooth cheekbones, high and not quite angular, elegant. I feel temptation building in me, and I resist it, because looking at him might not wake him up, but this certainly will. I cannot, however, resist, and I run my fingers across his forehead, through his spiky, silky dark hair, down his jaw, feeling a slight rasp of stubble, over the high planes of his face, down his aquiline nose, and finally across his lips.
His eyes flutter open. Damn. I've awakened him, and those eyes looking at me draw me in, and I'm lost in changeable shifting pools of color. This morning, they're golden-brown like good whiskey, and I'm entranced and I remember how last night, his mouth and his skin tasted so intoxicating, more than the best alcohol. Now those eyes devour me and I can't read his face—it's not shuttered, he's not trying to hold back, but I'm so afraid and so hopeful and so confused that I can't read him without feeding my own feelings in and what I see changes every second with the emotion foremost in my own mind. His hand reaches out to where mine still rests against his cheek, close to his mouth, covering my hand with his and holding it softly against his face.
"MacLeod?" he asks. "I'm not dreaming?" His voice, oh God, his voice reflects my emotions, fear and hope and uncertainty and something else I can't describe, can't name. Something Alexa called forth in him, while I watched from the sidelines and tried not to show my longing and tried to quiet my seemingly impossible dreams.
"No," I reply, and my voice is almost a whisper, I'm so afraid of what he's going to say next. "You're not dreaming, Methos."
"I must be," he says, closing his eyes, and my heart sinks with his words. Then he continues. "I must be dreaming. I'm asleep, in my bed in my flat, and I'm dreaming I'm in bed with Duncan MacLeod and gods help me I don't want to wake up, just want to go on dreaming forever…" He trails off, and my heart just about bursts because he wants this!
"You're not dreaming," I say, stroking his cheek gently, "or if you are, I'm dreaming with you, and I never want to stop." My voice is an urgent whisper, and I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling the rich scent of skin, letting my hands rest on his shoulders.
"MacLeod?" His hands lift my head up, slowly, until his eyes fix once again on mine. "Did you just tell me you… you want this?" He falters and the hope and fear in his eyes had reached a fever pitch.
"Yes," I say, taking his hands in mine and bowing my head over them. "Oh God, Methos, I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
His closes his eyes, and his lips move. I think he might be praying, then his eyes open again and focus on me, and he says, "So do I, Duncan." It's the first time he's called me by my given name, and the sound of it on his lips, in his voice, makes me want to shout for joy.
I don't. I just whisper, so softly, "Stay with me, Methos. Stay with me, forever. I love you too much for you to leave again."
His eyes get very round, and I think he might almost cry, but he murmurs back, chokingly, "I love you too, Duncan. Yes, I'll stay."
It's all I need to hear, and we drift back to sleep holding each other.