As You Are

by Tazlet

The invitation to the de Valicourt's fourth wedding reception said, 'Come as you were.' It didn't say when.

The Chateau de Valicourt 1996

A society editor could have showcased the de Valicourt's fourth wedding reception as the most brilliant costume ball of the season. The ballroom of the Chateau de Valicourt glittered, as it had not for a hundred and fifty years. The murals, the moldings and mirror frames had all been cleaned and re-gilded for the occasion, and the crystal pendants and prisms on the chandeliers sparkled in the lambent glow of hundreds of beeswax candles.

And the guest list – so exclusive! The jewels – so exquisite! The costumes – so creative! Did you ever see such authentic recreations of the styles of the Roman Republic, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and the Directoire? The wines being served were unbelievably rare and the food…well, stuffed lampreys aren't to everyone's taste. But let that pass. The excellent chamber orchestra was dressed in matching white sport coats and pink carnations. Conducted at the moment by the sackbut player, they were swinging a favorite of Queen Elizabeth the First. The dance floor was packed.

"And fireworks after," de Valicourt informed MacLeod with a nudge.

"Did you warn the fire department to be on alert?"

"Were you always such a stick in the mud? I don't remember you being such a stick in the mud. Seriously, Mac, how many years has it been since you've seen anything like it?" DeValicourt's sweeping gesture, instead of encompassing the length of the hall, collided with MacLeod's glass of shrub. "Oh. Sorry."

"More and more," MacLeod said, as both of them dabbed the sticky drink off of the lace tiers of his jabot, "this is reminding me of your second wedding."

"That was the idea. And if it burns down, we'll rebuild it again."

Duncan knew he wasn't displaying the proper celebratory spirit but, surrounded by so many immortals, with the varying sensations of Presence playing on his nerves, it felt like having a particularly bad itch you can't scratch in public. Fortunately, there was the scent of lilacs and the Presence of Gina de Valicourt washing over him to offer a welcome distraction.

"Here you are." De Valicourt turned to greet his wife. "Look at her, Mac. Am I not the luckiest man in the world?"

The former pirate was wearing a short pleated doublet of blue velvet open at the throat to expose a chemise of fine linen trimmed with gold braid. The flat chaperone on his head was richly embellished with cock's combs and scalloped tails. Thigh-high boots with rolled tops and a Flemish broadsword completed the ensemble. But, if de Valicourt could have posed for Durer, Gina might have stepped straight out of a portrait by Larkin. Her dark hair was pulled back severely, caught up in a cylindrical cap of pearls, but the sheer ruff with large soft figure-of-eight pleats set off the exquisite sweetness of her face. Below the ruff, the décolletage of her black silk bodice was cut low and, as if any man needed it, the jewel she had pinned in the center was an excuse to stare. A baroque pearl had been fashioned with gold and enamel into a tiny caravel that dangled on even tinier chains from the setting of a flat-cut emerald.

"That," Duncan said, "is a masterpiece."

Gina's laughter bubbled. "Robert gave it to me on our very first anniversary."

"From the very first Spanish treasure ship I ever looted." DeValicourt chuckled. "Good days. Good days." He patted his wife's hand as the baroness shimmered between them.

"My love," she said. "Duncan. You are both gorgeous tonight." Briefly, before her arms became entwined with theirs, Duncan felt her hand caress his bum, "What a delightful tradition! If you had dressed this way in 1694, Duncan, I don't think I could have resisted you."

"Play fair," Duncan growled. He could feel himself blushing.

"I never play fair," Gina giggled. "Ask Robert."

"No, she doesn't," de Valicourt said, smugly.

"So, Duncan, have you seen your friend Pierson?" Gina said.

"Yes, where is the Mad Monk?" Robert said. "And what will he be wearing?"

"No idea," Duncan said. Woad and a smile. Methos had said he was going out for dinner, remaining adamant in refusing to come. …with who knows how many immortals I don't know, all of them carrying very sharp weapons… "He was a bit surprised you sent him an invitation."

"Of course we did!"

"Duncan! We owe our present happiness to him!"

The deValicourts paused, locked in a moment of mutual, connubial understanding. The galliard had come to an end and the orchestra was giving Johann Strauss's cheeky Weiner Bonbons a workout.

"May I," de Valicourt said, "have the honor of this waltz?"

"Of course," Gina said.

And they were gone, lost in the swirling, circling couples.

"Pardon me," Duncan said to nobody. "I'll go. Just go. Get myself another drink." Before I get sick.

Instead, he captured a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and stood watching the dancers gliding around the floor. The de Valicourt's friends, both mortal and immortal, tended toward the rarified, but there were familiar faces. Surprisingly familiar. With a start, he recognized the man in petticoat breeches with a bit of Flaming Youth in his arms. Rowley had put off his wig and was showing a head of gray stubble, but he was still slashed, beribboned and laced, and there were diamond buckles on his shoes; every inch a king. His partner was very dark and comely, too, and her Eton crop was glossy with Brilliantine. As he watched the purple and green beaded fringes of her dress swaying back and forth, it occurred to Duncan to wonder what sort of blade she was hiding.

Methos had been right. Most of the guests were visibly armed. But it was only in the last hundred-odd years or so that a gentleman did not go armed and many of the guests were not, nor ever had been, gentlemen – Gina might not appear to be carrying a weapon, but experience had taught Duncan never to underestimate what could be hidden under a farthingale.

Duncan wrinkled his nose. There was a familiar smell nearby. Someone either had saved a recipe for pomatum that called for lard and rose water or had else tried out every tester at Worth's. Looking around for the source, he spotted a patched and powdered creature wearing the badge of Montrose. The man was scowling at Duncan – or rather at Duncan's plaid – with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Duncan caught the man's eye, gave a short curt bow and moved away. Happily, the Englishman chose not to follow. Reflected in the pier mirror, Duncan could see a silver-haired young woman in a mini-dress and black leotards had caught his hand. She looked like the most effective distraction imaginable and the waltz had ended. A few people streamed past Duncan, heading for the buffet, but the clarinet player stood up and began to sing:

You could have a great career,
And you should;
Yes you should.
Only one thing stops you dear:
You're too good.
Way too good!

Maybe, Duncan thought, it was time he found someone to foxtrot with.

Instead, he made his way to the library on the second floor. Paneled in dark wood, it had always been one of the most inviting rooms in the chateau. Above the bookcases, the walls were hung to the ceiling with paintings. In addition to a number of works by Rubens, Jordeans and Cranach, there were an astonishing number of Cannelettos. Of course, there were long tables, but comfortable arm-chairs and well-upholstered sofas had been arranged in cozy conversational groups. At the moment, despite welcoming islands of lamplight, it was empty – to Duncan's great relief. He closed the door behind him and that shut out much of the noise, although, he could still hear a tinny, tiny voice:

If you want a future,
darling why don't you get a past?
'Cause that fateful moment's comin' at last...

He was drawn to the shadows in front of the windows. It had snowed the night before and the moon was full. The park outside looked like the land of counterpane, soft and white and peaceful…

Five ells of heavy wool and a broadsword hadn't been Duncan's choice of party clothes recently and it had taken a few tries before he remembered the knack of folding the feile mor. Kneeling on the fabric with his toes on the edge and the rest spread in front of him, he drew the fabric toward his knees, folding it every four inches or so. The trick lay in getting the folds even. Finally, when he had most of it gathered in the middle, except for a bit about the same width that he was kneeling on, on he slipped a long leather belt under it crossways.

At this point, he looked over at the sofa where Methos had his face buried in the most recent issue of Burlington's. Since the coast looked clear, he pulled the front of his blouse down as far as he could and lay down quickly on top of the whole thing. That left panels of fabric spread out to each side. Those, he flipped over his hips and then secured the whole thing around his waist with the belt. When he got up, half the fabric was hanging down in back. He pulled one corner of that over his left shoulder and the other corner under his right arm, crossed them at the shoulder. A garnet broach pinned them in place. Methos wasn't looking, although the Burlington's was trembling, slightly.

"Well," Duncansaid, shaking out the full sleeves of his blouse "What do you think?"

"I think I need to get a new hobby – coins, stamps, something…"

"Thank you. What are you wearing?"

"Woad and a smile."

"Really? I thought you had that Roman slave boy's costume stuffed in your backpack."

"That's was a Camembert sandwich, thank you very much."

"The invitation said, 'Come as you were.' Five thousand years has to give you a lot to choose from."

"Then what I've got on will do, nicely." What Methos had on was jeans an old Cornish fisherman's sweater with a hole in the left elbow.

"Methos!"

"MacLeod! I've been packing all day! The idea of freezing my bollocks off at a party with who knows how many immortals I don't know, all of them carrying very sharp weapons, just doesn't have a lot of appeal for some reason."

"They're all friends of Gina and Robert's," Duncancajoled.

"But not necessarily friends of yours." Methos finally did look up. "And definitely, not friends of mine..."

Good times, Robert had said, and so they had been. Not so long ago, either, in this very room.

He leaned his forehead against the glass. There were tears running down his cheeks. Was this gut wrenching feeling of dissatisfaction because part of him was still in love with Gina and, seeing her dressed like that…? No. Part of him was still in love with Gina. But the first time she had married Robert, there had been Fitzcairn to drown his sorrows with. And the last time she had married Robert, there had been Fitzcairn…and Sean.

Suddenly, the music was louder –

…feel quite sure affaire d'amour
Would be attractive.
While we're still active…

Then –

Somebody's sure to tell,
But what the heck do we care?

Duncan could hear the key being turned in the lock. He was drawing the broadsword as he turned. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!"

The figure by the door was unfamiliar, but strolled across the room with an air of studied insouciance. Hair cropped à la Brutus, cravat tied in the Oriental style around his neck, in a plain, dark coat, dark embroidered waistcoat, and tight, perfectly fitted, fawn-colored pantaloons, he stopped and presented himself to Duncan. Then, sighing, he tucked an ebony sword cane under his arm, and divested himself, finger by finger, of a pair of pale yellow gloves. He then raised the quizzing glass that was dangling from a black grosgrain ribbon around his neck and a hazel eye grew monstrously large. "'Pon rep, MacLeod, isn't that a bit extreme?"

"Methos." Duncan closed his eyes.

"You were expecting?"

"Ancient history."

Dropping the quizzing glass, Methos slipped a small box from his pocket and gave it a curious double flip. With great precision he took a pinch of pale powder between thumb and forefinger, brought that to his nose and inhaled a bit in each nostril. "Ah," he said, "funny thing, history. Never touch it m'self…ah…ah-wahchoo!"

"You couldn't get the slave boy costume," Duncan said.

"Don't push it." Methos wiped his nose with a large handkerchief. "And don't tell me you're not impressed."

"No! I'm very impressed. It's just of all the things I ever thought of you." Actually, Duncan was, suddenly, having a hard time not grinning like an idiot. "I never thought of you as…"

"As anything but a scruffy lay-about-the-barge. I believe, I'm offended." Methos looked around. One of the over-stuffed sofas was nearby and he threw himself down on it. Tossing the cane and gloves aside, he crossed his arms and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them, too, as though for good measure. The pose only focused attention on the shadowed bulge at his crotch. "Oh, do put that away."

Reminded that he was still holding a naked blade, Duncan re-sheathed his sword.

"Look at me, MacLeod, and just for once, and see the kind of man who really would seek status by cultivating his body, and by flaunting it, and by satisfying every selfish whim and every passion."

"Passion for what?" Duncan said.

"For wealth. For women. For men. For beauty, of course. For thinking and not feeling and…" He stopped and looked at Duncan intently. "For you."

Unbuckling his sword belt, Duncan pulled the shoulder strap over his head and dropped it on the carpet. When he sat down next to Methos, the cushions sank beneath his weight and, given that they were covered in polished chintz, Methos slid close. After that, it wasn't clear what exactly happened. Both of them moved. There was a colliding of heads, laughter and a of flurry butterfly kisses to take the pain away before their mouths found each other and – apologies accepted – the kiss grew deeper and more and more urgent. Both of them were panting when they broke apart, but break apart they must; it took both of them to get Methos' coat off and waistcoat unbuttoned. His trousers were easy, though, and, when the flap fell, his cock sprang up. As for Duncan – the feile mor is the most practical of all men's garments. The belt was unbuckled and the kilt was undone. He slid out it and off the sofa with Methos already on top of him, their shirts bunched between them, their cocks thrusting and sparing, and then grinding together in a wild drive to completion, until a certain sense of place or propriety, forced Duncan to roll over.

Methos sat up, cursing him, turned and bent. Duncan felt himself engulfed, and the hardness nudging his cheek demanded attention. He opened his mouth and sucked it in.

They were too hot to last long. There was no rhythm, only need. A few hard thrusts and he felt Methos stiffen and groan. The sound reached to the root of Duncan's soul, he lost control, pouring himself out as the shaft in his mouth pulsed and released. When they rolled apart, the softening flesh slipped from his mouth and Duncan swallowed the taste of sweat and tears. He lay there until he felt Methos's hand touching his and then laced their fingers together.

Methos sighed. An interrogatory, "Mmm…?" was all that Duncan could manage.

"How are we getting out of here?"

Duncan propped himself, up on an elbow. "What?"

"You want to walk out of here in front of all of those people like that?"

The lace of Duncan's jabot was hanging in shreds. If he stood up, it would be in shirttails with his stockings around his ankles. "Could be worse," he said.

"How?"

"Oh, I don't know." He could see one of his shoes over by the window. "We could be trapped by a cave-in in a coal mine in Siberia."

Methos sat up. Even though his waistcoat had shed buttons, he was still disheveled but probably more easily reparable than Duncan. "That may be the stupidest thing you've ever said, MacLeod. It doesn't make any sense." He leaned back against the sofa and started fumbling under his coat. "Times like this I wish I had a cigarette."

By the time Duncan scooted over beside him, Methos had recovered the snuff box and opened it with that curious double flip. He helped himself to a pinch. "Ah…ah…rahchoo!" This time he scrubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "Disgusting habit."

"Disgusting," Duncan agreed. "Are you going to offer me any, or not?"

"Sorry." Methos proffered the box.

Duncan helped himself, placing the snuff in that triangular depression where thumb joins wrist. He inhaled and experienced the sudden rush that always made the world seem a bit brighter.

"I wasn't going to come." Methos snapped the lid of the box shut. "No pun intended. I am too old and too cynical to be charmed by this fantasy of Gina and Robert, the perfect immortal couple, living happily ever after, for ever and ever, that you're committed to. It's a certain sort of hell."

"I know Gina and Robert aren't perfect." Duncan said. He had a sudden memory of Gina 'accidentally' making a date with Fitzcairn and himself on the same night. Gina coming through the snow to tell them that she was getting married. "Well, Robert isn't.

"Methos, there was a time it was just Gina and Fitz and me. And, if Gina and Robert ever break up, I will miss Fitz more than ever I do. So tell me, you old cynic, what made you change your mind?"

Instead of answering, Methos handed him the snuff box. Duncan took it and read what was engraved on the silver, "Within you see what pleases me." He had noticed that there was a trick to the opening but simply lifting the lid revealed the mirror inside. "As you are, not as you were," Methos said. He took the box back and turned it around. Just snapping the lid, he said, softly, "And as I am, not as I was. But, when you stood up in that plaid, and I still cannot believe I'm doing this, you could have caused a riot in a nunnery." Laughing, Duncan put his hand on the back of Methos' neck and pulled him close.

After the kiss, he said, "Over there, under that large view of the Grand Canal, there's a door in the paneling that opens to a backstair. I am ready to go home, now."

December 15, 2007