Author's Note: yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah. These characters are
not mine. Neither do I own the city. Although, I would not mind owning
Methos. of course, if I did, he would have his own show now.----------------
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September 11, 2004, 2 PM, the MacLeod barge/ the New York Apartment of Nick Wolfe
Aware of Methos' hand and lower arm flung across his stomach (for even in sleep, the oldest immortal sprawled), with the first opening of his eyes, Duncan MacLeod swore lightly under his breath. It was already the early afternoon. He had a business to run, and could not afford to sleep late. Quietly, he removed himself from underneath the sprawled Methos, and extracted himself from the bed.
"Come back to bed," slurred Methos, the sleep still thick in his voice.
"No can do. I've slept too late already."
"It is Saturday morning, MacLeod. Lighten up." Methos had still not opened his eyes.
"Actually, it is Saturday afternoon. We slept the morning away."
"In double-speaking," he mumbled, and the highlander had to strain to catch it. "Come back to bed, MacLeod. It is still Saturday."
"Cannot," he paused briefly. "I'm taking a shower. There's some cold lasagna in the fridge if you're hungry." Methos only mumbled another incoherent response.
When Duncan returned, still wet from the shower, Methos was sitting upright on the side of the bed, having already dressed in the same crumpled clothes he had torn off last night in heated passion. Head rested in hands, and when he raised his head at the light pressure of Duncan's reappearance, he wore sadness on his face. "We need to talk, MacLeod."
"Abou--"
"Let me rephrase that, MacLeod. I talk, and you listen." Duncan gave a curt nod, and honed his full attention. "We're good together, Duncan. In the past several months, we have given to one another something we both needed, and both wanted."
"Yes, but--"
Methos raised a hand to issue silence, and somewhat hesitant, Duncan gave it. "But we keep it behind closed doors. You give more to Le Blues than you do to this, to us. No matter the conversation, you mention the lost revenue, or the dwindling crowds." He shook his head, and Duncan swore he saw tears in the old one's eyes. "You care more for a building than you do for us."
"No, nonsense. It's just," the highlander's words trailed.
"It's just what, MacLeod. Because I know what it is I know. I love you."
"Wh-what?" sputtered Duncan.
Something in Methos' expression and posture sagged, and he managed to stand, and managed to shrug into his coat, and to hide his sword. "I am not repeating myself, MacLeod. When you come to your senses, give me call.
"Wh-where are you going?"
"Away. I've been in Paris too long."
**************************************************************************** ***********************
In the second floor New York Apartment he owned, Nick Wolfe dressed, while Amanda watched unabashed, still wrapped naked in the sheets of hid bed. "I have some vacation coming soon, Manda. Thought we could visit Paris?"
Amanda shook herself from the hypnosis of her lover's body, and took a moment too digest the words. Neither had visited Paris since the first month following Joe Dawson's untimely death. It had been at Duncan's barge that they had first heard the news, and if not for the support all five had offered one another, all five would have lost. She forced an easy smile, whispered of genuine pleasure. "I always did love Paris, Nicky love. You working late to night?"
"Not too late, I promise. Keep the sheets warm for me."
Amanda laughed huskily, and silently pulled Nick in for a farewell kiss.
September 11, 2004, 2 PM, the MacLeod barge/ the New York Apartment of Nick Wolfe
Aware of Methos' hand and lower arm flung across his stomach (for even in sleep, the oldest immortal sprawled), with the first opening of his eyes, Duncan MacLeod swore lightly under his breath. It was already the early afternoon. He had a business to run, and could not afford to sleep late. Quietly, he removed himself from underneath the sprawled Methos, and extracted himself from the bed.
"Come back to bed," slurred Methos, the sleep still thick in his voice.
"No can do. I've slept too late already."
"It is Saturday morning, MacLeod. Lighten up." Methos had still not opened his eyes.
"Actually, it is Saturday afternoon. We slept the morning away."
"In double-speaking," he mumbled, and the highlander had to strain to catch it. "Come back to bed, MacLeod. It is still Saturday."
"Cannot," he paused briefly. "I'm taking a shower. There's some cold lasagna in the fridge if you're hungry." Methos only mumbled another incoherent response.
When Duncan returned, still wet from the shower, Methos was sitting upright on the side of the bed, having already dressed in the same crumpled clothes he had torn off last night in heated passion. Head rested in hands, and when he raised his head at the light pressure of Duncan's reappearance, he wore sadness on his face. "We need to talk, MacLeod."
"Abou--"
"Let me rephrase that, MacLeod. I talk, and you listen." Duncan gave a curt nod, and honed his full attention. "We're good together, Duncan. In the past several months, we have given to one another something we both needed, and both wanted."
"Yes, but--"
Methos raised a hand to issue silence, and somewhat hesitant, Duncan gave it. "But we keep it behind closed doors. You give more to Le Blues than you do to this, to us. No matter the conversation, you mention the lost revenue, or the dwindling crowds." He shook his head, and Duncan swore he saw tears in the old one's eyes. "You care more for a building than you do for us."
"No, nonsense. It's just," the highlander's words trailed.
"It's just what, MacLeod. Because I know what it is I know. I love you."
"Wh-what?" sputtered Duncan.
Something in Methos' expression and posture sagged, and he managed to stand, and managed to shrug into his coat, and to hide his sword. "I am not repeating myself, MacLeod. When you come to your senses, give me call.
"Wh-where are you going?"
"Away. I've been in Paris too long."
**************************************************************************** ***********************
In the second floor New York Apartment he owned, Nick Wolfe dressed, while Amanda watched unabashed, still wrapped naked in the sheets of hid bed. "I have some vacation coming soon, Manda. Thought we could visit Paris?"
Amanda shook herself from the hypnosis of her lover's body, and took a moment too digest the words. Neither had visited Paris since the first month following Joe Dawson's untimely death. It had been at Duncan's barge that they had first heard the news, and if not for the support all five had offered one another, all five would have lost. She forced an easy smile, whispered of genuine pleasure. "I always did love Paris, Nicky love. You working late to night?"
"Not too late, I promise. Keep the sheets warm for me."
Amanda laughed huskily, and silently pulled Nick in for a farewell kiss.