Author's Note: This is the fourth and last story to my 'Phobia' series,
please read the first three first. I only lay claim to Asher Jacobs, Darcy
Gallagher, and to the concept of Mike Ross. --------------------------------
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September 26, 2006, 6 AM, Paris, France
Methos yawned, and flung his arm across the opposite end of the bed, expecting for his finger to fall across the small of his lover's back, but instead, he only touched the cotton of the white sheets. Perplexed, he lifted his head a few inches, squinting to read the clock in the half- light. Six AM, it read.
He had kicked the sheets and blankets off sometime in the night, and he pulled them closer to him now, cold from the lack of contact. In the movement, his gaze fell on the Scot sitting in the armchair across the room, pulling on his boots. "Duncan?" he mumbled.
The Scot frowned, glancing to the bed. "I had hoped you would not wake."
"Too late," he groaned, forcing him to sit, running a hand over his eyes. "Where are you going at this hour? On a Sunday, no less. Only homeless men trash collectors are out this early."
"I'm going out," the Scot's frown deepened. "I won't be gone long. Scout's honor."
"Duncan. . ."
Methos watched Duncan pull his black overcoat on, fastening his sword in the inside left pocket. He sighed. They had returned to Paris three months ago, in the first week of June. From a trip he had promised to Egypt, became a year-long world tour, traveling from the Middle East through Asia, Southeast Asia, spending the early weeks of October on a sheep farm in New Zealand, passing through Australia, Africa, before stopping in Methos' house in Bermuda for Christmas, New Years, and some rest. Both had thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas morning "gifts". From there, they had moved up into South America, traveling through Central America, Mexico, the United States, and Canada, before crossing the Atlantic Ocean, and visiting a few European cities before returning home to Paris.
Even as they had decreed nothing official, Methos had all but officially moved into Duncan's barge upon returning, moving half his stuff there, and sleeping there every night. Duncan had made no effort to re-take the bar from Richie, and instead he spent his time teaching at the local university three days a week. Methos painted in the park, and much to Duncan's shock, the oldest Immortal was a good painter, having learned, he claimed, from the Renaissance experts. They had had their friends over countless times, or going out with them, especially since Amanda and Nick had moved to Paris in February.
They had never mentioned much in regards to their seven month separation, as both had agreed they would keep their relationship in the here and now, enjoying each other, and enjoying each other's company. They had agreed to fight battles letting the other know, and Duncan had mentioned nothing.
"Do I get an explanation, at least, then?" Methos pressed.
Duncan paused in the doorway, turning again to Methos, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He sighed, and Methos was reminded again of how much more he liked Duncan's face under short hair.
"I was challenged, Methos. Coming home last night, I was stopped in the alley, and I agreed to meet him at six-thirty the next morning. Today morning." The Highlander bit his lip, facing Methos, judging him at his reaction.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry."
"I would have worried when I woke up and found you gone."
"I hoped to be back before you did wake. I was going to buy breakfast to cover my tracks."
"Duncan. . ."
"Methos. . ." The two Immortals shared a small smile. Duncan leaned over to kiss Methos gently. "I promise. I will not be gone long."
"I hold you to that, MacLeod."
Duncan smiled, releasing Methos's hand to cup his cheek in his, bending to kiss him again before he was gone. Methos sighed. It was close to thirty minutes before he fell asleep again, and even then, he only slept fitfully.
September 26, 2006, 6 AM, Paris, France
Methos yawned, and flung his arm across the opposite end of the bed, expecting for his finger to fall across the small of his lover's back, but instead, he only touched the cotton of the white sheets. Perplexed, he lifted his head a few inches, squinting to read the clock in the half- light. Six AM, it read.
He had kicked the sheets and blankets off sometime in the night, and he pulled them closer to him now, cold from the lack of contact. In the movement, his gaze fell on the Scot sitting in the armchair across the room, pulling on his boots. "Duncan?" he mumbled.
The Scot frowned, glancing to the bed. "I had hoped you would not wake."
"Too late," he groaned, forcing him to sit, running a hand over his eyes. "Where are you going at this hour? On a Sunday, no less. Only homeless men trash collectors are out this early."
"I'm going out," the Scot's frown deepened. "I won't be gone long. Scout's honor."
"Duncan. . ."
Methos watched Duncan pull his black overcoat on, fastening his sword in the inside left pocket. He sighed. They had returned to Paris three months ago, in the first week of June. From a trip he had promised to Egypt, became a year-long world tour, traveling from the Middle East through Asia, Southeast Asia, spending the early weeks of October on a sheep farm in New Zealand, passing through Australia, Africa, before stopping in Methos' house in Bermuda for Christmas, New Years, and some rest. Both had thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas morning "gifts". From there, they had moved up into South America, traveling through Central America, Mexico, the United States, and Canada, before crossing the Atlantic Ocean, and visiting a few European cities before returning home to Paris.
Even as they had decreed nothing official, Methos had all but officially moved into Duncan's barge upon returning, moving half his stuff there, and sleeping there every night. Duncan had made no effort to re-take the bar from Richie, and instead he spent his time teaching at the local university three days a week. Methos painted in the park, and much to Duncan's shock, the oldest Immortal was a good painter, having learned, he claimed, from the Renaissance experts. They had had their friends over countless times, or going out with them, especially since Amanda and Nick had moved to Paris in February.
They had never mentioned much in regards to their seven month separation, as both had agreed they would keep their relationship in the here and now, enjoying each other, and enjoying each other's company. They had agreed to fight battles letting the other know, and Duncan had mentioned nothing.
"Do I get an explanation, at least, then?" Methos pressed.
Duncan paused in the doorway, turning again to Methos, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He sighed, and Methos was reminded again of how much more he liked Duncan's face under short hair.
"I was challenged, Methos. Coming home last night, I was stopped in the alley, and I agreed to meet him at six-thirty the next morning. Today morning." The Highlander bit his lip, facing Methos, judging him at his reaction.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry."
"I would have worried when I woke up and found you gone."
"I hoped to be back before you did wake. I was going to buy breakfast to cover my tracks."
"Duncan. . ."
"Methos. . ." The two Immortals shared a small smile. Duncan leaned over to kiss Methos gently. "I promise. I will not be gone long."
"I hold you to that, MacLeod."
Duncan smiled, releasing Methos's hand to cup his cheek in his, bending to kiss him again before he was gone. Methos sighed. It was close to thirty minutes before he fell asleep again, and even then, he only slept fitfully.