Title: With Love from Spain (1/?)
Author: Corbeau Noir
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: D/M
Email: noir_corbeau@hotmail.com
Website: www.geocities.com/corbeaun
Warnings: slash, m/m relationship
Summary: Post Highlander 4: Endgame. It's a game of hide-
and-seek for Methos and Duncan after the whole Kell affair.
But behind the two Immortals' attempts at a relationship
(or a lack thereof), there are the locals in the small
Andalusian village where Methos is hiding who have a few
misconceptions of their own.
Disclaimer: Rysher, Panzer/Davis, etc. etc., own Highlander.
===========================================================
With Love from Spain
By Corbeau Noir
Part 1
* * * *
The weekly open-air market opened just at the stroke
of dawn, but the locals paid no heed to the early hours,
most hoping to get their shopping done before the
blistering heat of the afternoon. When the hectic early
hours finally passed and the sun began climbing into its
zenith, all the store keepers retreated to the shade of
their booths, lolling beside their produce, moving only now
and then to swat at the cloud of buzzing insects that
constantly swarmed around them.
"Good morning, Mrs. Guerra."
The lightly accented greeting roused Mrs. Guerra, the
coffee seller, from her half-doze, and her eyes opened just
in time to see a familiar, tall, dark-haired young man
stroll toward her booth. "Buenos dias, Senor Pierson," she
smiled welcomingly, hastening to her feet. "Would you like
your regular?" Even as she spoke, her hands were already
reaching toward the bag of rich black coffee beans he
always bought.
The young man, dressed in cleanly pressed linen pants
and an overlarge tee-shirt, seemed remarkably unaffected by
the heat. He took a deep breath of the air, hazel eyes
closing briefly in pleasure at the heady aroma of brewing
coffee, and then flashed her a mischievous schoolboy grin,
"I'd never start my day without a cup of your coffee, Mrs.
Guerra."
Mrs. Guerra smiled even wider, handing her favorite
customer the bag of coffee beans. "Well, you're welcome
here anytime," she promised him. Her words were rewarded
with another bright boyish smile.
He reached into his pocket for his wallet, and
suddenly one hand clenched convulsively around the coffee
bag. Alert hazel eyes flicked to the side, scanning the
surrounding marketplace.
Mrs. Guerra followed his gaze, but didn't see
anything unusual. "Senor Pierson?" There was no response
and, concerned, she reached to touch his arm, "Senor
Pierson, is something the matter?"
His eyes snapped back to her and she froze, the hard
alien look in his gaze freezing her hand an inch from his
sleeve. Then Pierson seemed to shake himself mentally, as
if ridding himself of the remnants of some shadow, and the
strange look was gone as suddenly as it'd come. Mrs. Guerra
blinked.
"No. No, everything's fine," and he smiled at her
reassuringly, hefting the sack of coffee beans into his
arms, "Thank you, Mrs. Guerra." With a polite nod to her,
he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and strolled casually
back into the midst of the late marketplace crowd,
disappearing easily among the roiling mass of humanity.
Mrs. Guerra stared after him, feeling, for the first
time since meeting him, strangely discomforted.
"Well!" an approving voice came from the tomato
seller's booth, "He's as adorable as ever."
Mrs. Guerra started out of her daze. "Francisca!" she
exclaimed, glancing over at the tomato stall, appalled by
the speaker's frankness.
Francisca the tomato seller, turned newly nineteen
just two weeks before, refused to look repentant. "Well,
it's true," she insisted, pouting her red-stained lips.
Then she turned toward the orange seller's booth and called
out mischievously, "Don't you agree, Mrs. Cordero?"
Seated in the booth just opposite of her, old Mrs.
Cordero gave Francisca a heavy-lidded glare, slowly
flapping a paper fan over her carefully stacked pyramid of
oranges. "He's a gringo," she stated, her voice flat.
"Isabella Caso Cordero," Mrs. Guerra rebuked, and by
this time she had dismissed her previous twinges of unease;
she reached past the pile of coffee beans to poke Mrs.
Cordero in the side, "don't be an old grouch. He's young,
good-looking, and obviously well off. And just think," she
smiled, "Any of the pretty young chicas here would kill to
get a hand on him..." She winked across at the pretty young
tomato seller. "Right, Francisca?"
Francisca gave the older woman an enthusiastic grin,
before turning her full attention to the two customers
approaching her stand.
"And I just know Lucia would too," Mrs. Guerra
continued thoughtfully to herself.
At that, Mrs. Cordero slapped her fan down on the
booth hard and turned to face Mrs. Guerra. "Maria," she
said, fixing her long-time friend with a hard stare, "Tell
me you're not thinking of matchmaking that English boy with
your baby girl."
A sullen expression fell across Mrs. Guerra's face.
Her lips tugged into what looked suspiciously like a pout;
she refused to meet Mrs. Cordero's eyes. "Yes. Well," and
her hands quickly occupied themselves rearranging the folds
of her brightly printed cotton dress. "I just think he's a
nice boy and Lucia...Well, the silly girl's always away at
that magazine of hers, I don't think she's ever had the
time to meet any boy, and I wouldn't trust her to bring
back the right one anyway from that big old city." She
leaned in confidentially toward her old friend, clucking
distastefully, "Do you *know* what goes on in Madrid? What
kind of *people* are there?"
After a long silence, Mrs. Cordero finally spoke
wearily, "Maria, you don't even know Pierson that well; you
have no idea why he's here or how long he's staying." She
gave her friend a wry look. "And in all likelihood he's a
city boy himself."
Mrs. Guerra glared at her old friend reproachfully.
"You're always like this. Can't you not pick on something
for once?"
Looking slightly offended, Mrs. Cordero harrumphed
and turned her attention back to her sitting oranges.
"Whatever makes you happy, Maria," she muttered, and
began determinedly flapping away with the fan again.
About to chide her old friend for her grumpiness, a
flash of color suddenly caught the corner of Mrs. Guerra's
eye and she glanced over, and suddenly all her previous
thoughts scattered. "Oh my. Would you look at that..."
Mrs. Cordero glanced up impatiently from her oranges.
"What now --...oh."
Both women stared wordlessly at the vision before
them.
A tall, dark-haired, dusky-skinned man stood
resplendent in the middle of the marketplace. The late
midday heat had drawn a faint sheen of sweat over his skin,
and curly wisps of hair lay glistening darkly against the
nape of his exposed neck. The stranger looked around the
marketplace, seemingly oblivious to the people milling
around him, head cocked as though listening for something.
It was Mrs. Guerra who spoke first.
"Now that is an impressive figure of a man." She
nudged her friend, her eyes never leaving the stranger,
"Italian, you think?"
Attention also firmly fixed on the stranger, Mrs.
Cordero squinted. "Hard to tell." And then she shrugged,
her meaty shoulders rolling beneath her thin cotton dress,
"Could be."
Another long thoughtful pause.
Then Mrs. Cordero commented, "But you'll have to
suspect the wits of the man to wear a coat in this sort of
weather."
[end "With Love From Spain" – Part 1]
===========================================================
Author's Notes:
Ah, after a year or so of lurking in the Highlander fandom,
I'm finally writing my own story. :) If anyone is curious,
the story currently takes place in Andalusia, a part of
Spain that with its flamenco dances and always-present sun
is what the typical foreigner thinks as "traditional"
Espana.
Feedback needed, please, to keep this fanfic author sane. ;)
--------------------------
noir_corbeau@hotmail.com
www.geocities.com/corbeaun
--------------------------
===========================================================
8/30/02
Author: Corbeau Noir
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: D/M
Email: noir_corbeau@hotmail.com
Website: www.geocities.com/corbeaun
Warnings: slash, m/m relationship
Summary: Post Highlander 4: Endgame. It's a game of hide-
and-seek for Methos and Duncan after the whole Kell affair.
But behind the two Immortals' attempts at a relationship
(or a lack thereof), there are the locals in the small
Andalusian village where Methos is hiding who have a few
misconceptions of their own.
Disclaimer: Rysher, Panzer/Davis, etc. etc., own Highlander.
===========================================================
With Love from Spain
By Corbeau Noir
Part 1
* * * *
The weekly open-air market opened just at the stroke
of dawn, but the locals paid no heed to the early hours,
most hoping to get their shopping done before the
blistering heat of the afternoon. When the hectic early
hours finally passed and the sun began climbing into its
zenith, all the store keepers retreated to the shade of
their booths, lolling beside their produce, moving only now
and then to swat at the cloud of buzzing insects that
constantly swarmed around them.
"Good morning, Mrs. Guerra."
The lightly accented greeting roused Mrs. Guerra, the
coffee seller, from her half-doze, and her eyes opened just
in time to see a familiar, tall, dark-haired young man
stroll toward her booth. "Buenos dias, Senor Pierson," she
smiled welcomingly, hastening to her feet. "Would you like
your regular?" Even as she spoke, her hands were already
reaching toward the bag of rich black coffee beans he
always bought.
The young man, dressed in cleanly pressed linen pants
and an overlarge tee-shirt, seemed remarkably unaffected by
the heat. He took a deep breath of the air, hazel eyes
closing briefly in pleasure at the heady aroma of brewing
coffee, and then flashed her a mischievous schoolboy grin,
"I'd never start my day without a cup of your coffee, Mrs.
Guerra."
Mrs. Guerra smiled even wider, handing her favorite
customer the bag of coffee beans. "Well, you're welcome
here anytime," she promised him. Her words were rewarded
with another bright boyish smile.
He reached into his pocket for his wallet, and
suddenly one hand clenched convulsively around the coffee
bag. Alert hazel eyes flicked to the side, scanning the
surrounding marketplace.
Mrs. Guerra followed his gaze, but didn't see
anything unusual. "Senor Pierson?" There was no response
and, concerned, she reached to touch his arm, "Senor
Pierson, is something the matter?"
His eyes snapped back to her and she froze, the hard
alien look in his gaze freezing her hand an inch from his
sleeve. Then Pierson seemed to shake himself mentally, as
if ridding himself of the remnants of some shadow, and the
strange look was gone as suddenly as it'd come. Mrs. Guerra
blinked.
"No. No, everything's fine," and he smiled at her
reassuringly, hefting the sack of coffee beans into his
arms, "Thank you, Mrs. Guerra." With a polite nod to her,
he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and strolled casually
back into the midst of the late marketplace crowd,
disappearing easily among the roiling mass of humanity.
Mrs. Guerra stared after him, feeling, for the first
time since meeting him, strangely discomforted.
"Well!" an approving voice came from the tomato
seller's booth, "He's as adorable as ever."
Mrs. Guerra started out of her daze. "Francisca!" she
exclaimed, glancing over at the tomato stall, appalled by
the speaker's frankness.
Francisca the tomato seller, turned newly nineteen
just two weeks before, refused to look repentant. "Well,
it's true," she insisted, pouting her red-stained lips.
Then she turned toward the orange seller's booth and called
out mischievously, "Don't you agree, Mrs. Cordero?"
Seated in the booth just opposite of her, old Mrs.
Cordero gave Francisca a heavy-lidded glare, slowly
flapping a paper fan over her carefully stacked pyramid of
oranges. "He's a gringo," she stated, her voice flat.
"Isabella Caso Cordero," Mrs. Guerra rebuked, and by
this time she had dismissed her previous twinges of unease;
she reached past the pile of coffee beans to poke Mrs.
Cordero in the side, "don't be an old grouch. He's young,
good-looking, and obviously well off. And just think," she
smiled, "Any of the pretty young chicas here would kill to
get a hand on him..." She winked across at the pretty young
tomato seller. "Right, Francisca?"
Francisca gave the older woman an enthusiastic grin,
before turning her full attention to the two customers
approaching her stand.
"And I just know Lucia would too," Mrs. Guerra
continued thoughtfully to herself.
At that, Mrs. Cordero slapped her fan down on the
booth hard and turned to face Mrs. Guerra. "Maria," she
said, fixing her long-time friend with a hard stare, "Tell
me you're not thinking of matchmaking that English boy with
your baby girl."
A sullen expression fell across Mrs. Guerra's face.
Her lips tugged into what looked suspiciously like a pout;
she refused to meet Mrs. Cordero's eyes. "Yes. Well," and
her hands quickly occupied themselves rearranging the folds
of her brightly printed cotton dress. "I just think he's a
nice boy and Lucia...Well, the silly girl's always away at
that magazine of hers, I don't think she's ever had the
time to meet any boy, and I wouldn't trust her to bring
back the right one anyway from that big old city." She
leaned in confidentially toward her old friend, clucking
distastefully, "Do you *know* what goes on in Madrid? What
kind of *people* are there?"
After a long silence, Mrs. Cordero finally spoke
wearily, "Maria, you don't even know Pierson that well; you
have no idea why he's here or how long he's staying." She
gave her friend a wry look. "And in all likelihood he's a
city boy himself."
Mrs. Guerra glared at her old friend reproachfully.
"You're always like this. Can't you not pick on something
for once?"
Looking slightly offended, Mrs. Cordero harrumphed
and turned her attention back to her sitting oranges.
"Whatever makes you happy, Maria," she muttered, and
began determinedly flapping away with the fan again.
About to chide her old friend for her grumpiness, a
flash of color suddenly caught the corner of Mrs. Guerra's
eye and she glanced over, and suddenly all her previous
thoughts scattered. "Oh my. Would you look at that..."
Mrs. Cordero glanced up impatiently from her oranges.
"What now --...oh."
Both women stared wordlessly at the vision before
them.
A tall, dark-haired, dusky-skinned man stood
resplendent in the middle of the marketplace. The late
midday heat had drawn a faint sheen of sweat over his skin,
and curly wisps of hair lay glistening darkly against the
nape of his exposed neck. The stranger looked around the
marketplace, seemingly oblivious to the people milling
around him, head cocked as though listening for something.
It was Mrs. Guerra who spoke first.
"Now that is an impressive figure of a man." She
nudged her friend, her eyes never leaving the stranger,
"Italian, you think?"
Attention also firmly fixed on the stranger, Mrs.
Cordero squinted. "Hard to tell." And then she shrugged,
her meaty shoulders rolling beneath her thin cotton dress,
"Could be."
Another long thoughtful pause.
Then Mrs. Cordero commented, "But you'll have to
suspect the wits of the man to wear a coat in this sort of
weather."
[end "With Love From Spain" – Part 1]
===========================================================
Author's Notes:
Ah, after a year or so of lurking in the Highlander fandom,
I'm finally writing my own story. :) If anyone is curious,
the story currently takes place in Andalusia, a part of
Spain that with its flamenco dances and always-present sun
is what the typical foreigner thinks as "traditional"
Espana.
Feedback needed, please, to keep this fanfic author sane. ;)
--------------------------
noir_corbeau@hotmail.com
www.geocities.com/corbeaun
--------------------------
===========================================================
8/30/02