Armistice
11 November 1918
The night starts in a tavern in France, one of the few buildings in the village that isn't a bombed-out ruin, and maybe it's the giddy hysteria of sudden peace, but instead of running when he feels Presence, Methos decides to stay where he is. He's numb and shell-shocked and not bloody moving, not for the whole German army at this point.
Fortunately, the other Immortal has no intention of challenging him to anything but a drinking contest, and after a round of introductions and a round of shots, they're well on their way to establishing a comfortable rapport. Hugh Fitzcairn practically radiates a sort of harmless geniality that Methos is almost certain is not feigned, and he's surprised by how very much at ease he is in the man's company. He hasn't wanted to talk to anyone in what feels like a very long time.
They spend the early part of the evening at the bar, getting steadily more intoxicated as the hours wear on. Fitz carries on an idle flirtation with a pretty waitress who seems entranced by the captain's bars on his uniform; Methos watches him, amused, and somehow fails to read any significance into the sidelong glances that Fitz sends his way.
When Fitz suggests that they move on, Methos is faintly startled; he'd expected that the man would be happily ensconced near his waitress until closing, and maybe take her to bed afterwards. Still, he's happy enough to acquiesce, and they buy two more bottles of wine to take with them when they leave.
Fitz, by virtue of his captain's bars, has a relatively comfortable room in the only remaining inn, though it's small enough to seem crowded with both of them in it. There's no chair, but they're both old enough not to be self-conscious at stretching out next to each other on the bed, passing first one bottle, then the second, back and forth between them. Methos has just been startled into laughter by an improbable story of Fitzcairn's about a plot to blow up one of the more irritating English kings when the man looks at him, eyes bright with wine and something else.
"You should laugh like that more often," he says, his voice more serious than it's been all evening, and Methos has only a second's warning before Fitz leans in and kisses him, gently, gently, one large hand coming up to cradle Methos' face. His eyes when he pulls back are asking permission, and Methos, to his surprise, finds himself granting it with a kiss of his own. This one moves quickly past gentleness and into the blatant desire in Fitzcairn's face, and as he pulls Methos down for a third, Methos can't help feeling hopeful for the first time in what seems like an age.
Author's Notes: Written for a 'first kiss' prompt from lferion.