Title: The Day Before the Seine Froze

Author: Triskell

Fandom: Highlander (Duncan/Methos)

Rating: PG-13 (slash)

Disclaimer: Highlander isn't mine. I'm just borrowing the characters, no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Notes: Translations for the meagre French bits are at the end of the fic; I hope my French isn't as abysmal as I have the feeling it is. I should've been practising more... This is fluff, seasoned with a touch of slash and poetry.

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Dedicated to X, as it is inspired by her gorgeous picture of the same title. Thanks for sharing, I hope you like this!

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THE DAY BEFORE THE SEINE FROZE

© Triskell, 14 July 2004

The day before the Seine froze, Duncan did a number of things. He couldn't remember all of them, but they included doing his weekly washing, cleaning the bathroom, and restacking the cereal boxes in his kitchen cupboards. Winter in Paris was beautiful, but cold, especially that year.

"La météo pour aujourd'hui – froid et beaucoup plus de neige que hier avec des temperatures de –13 à –15 degrés. Le temps d'hiver restera à Paris pour le reste de la semaine, avec les temperatures encore plus froids, bien que la neige s'arrête demain. Restez dans la maison et passez une belle soirée." (1)

Duncan didn't bother sighing, it wasn't as if he hadn't heard the same weather forecast for the past couple of days. As there weren't any pressing matters keeping him, he could spend as much or as little time outdoors (usually until the tip of his nose and his ears felt sufficiently frozen), then come back to the Barge; he usually settled on the couch, facing the window, watching the snow dance outside, with a cup of hot tea (or cocoa) in his hand – with a little splash of something stronger in it, usually rum.

Sometimes, he indulged in a whisky, but the French didn't provide a Scotsman with a lot of choice in this respect, so he was usually careful not to deplete his stash too much. It was a very quiet, comfortable life, but it was also spectacularly boring and lonely. Amanda hadn't stopped by for ages and Methos – despite the beers waiting for him in the fridge – hadn't been to see him for a while as well; the man probably wouldn't care too much for Paris winters anyway.

Too much carefully tempered romance in the air when the early twilight and greying snow mounds called people home; or the muted light from the streetlamps crystallized in sparkling diamonds across the white around them.

The day before the Seine froze, Duncan decided to take a long walk, just after a quick, healthy lunch of Heinz baked beans and wholemeal toast. Snow crunched under his boots, but every other sound was diminished and swallowed by the flakes on the ground and in the sky; heavy, darkening clouds hung low, wrapping the world securely, dying it grey, with a veil of white blowing against his cold cheeks in the cool breeze.

It was barely four o'clock when the day dimmed and the few people about drew their jackets closer around themselves, hurrying away from the snow- covered streets; the lovers holding hands as they strolled smiled at each other, promises in their eyes as they returned to their cosy nests to pass the night. Nothing that Duncan hadn't done or felt before, but on that particular day it was strangely disconcerting, leaving him feeling heavy and alone instead of fondly amused.

As one of the church clocks struck 4:30, he was alone on his track through the parks, towards the quay, towards the barge. His boots crunched more deeply into the stale white beneath his feet and his steps seemed to echo more loudly than before, his breath steaming in foggy wafts from his dry lips. He stopped, distantly aware of a buzz around him, behind him. His gloved hand slipped beneath the folds of his thick coat, closing around the familiar hilt of the katana. He waited, as the buzz grew more pronounced, as the steps behind him became distinguishable from the quietness. The church clock struck a quarter to when the other immortal stopped, a few metres behind him.

"Arrêtes-toi, Mac, il ne faut pas m'évader; je suis revenu juste pour te voir et je n'aime pas ce temps, tu sais." (2)

A slow smile bloomed on his lips at the sound of the dark, soft voice, the lilting accent. He didn't turn around, "Alors, on y va, il y a de la bière chez moi." (3)

The snow crunched ominously, then a gloved hand slid across his shoulder, brushing his ear, making him shiver from the sudden impact of warm wool against his chilled skin, "Your French is rusty; I said I came to see you, Mac, not your beer."

Duncan turned around, and smiled, stepping back without conscious thought as Methos' proximity reduced his personal space. Another step, and his back was against a tree off the side of the path, the bark rough and old, catching the wool of his gloves as he placed his hands against the trunk. The other man closed the distance, space suddenly gone, the shimmer of white on dark lashes startlingly clear, the paleness of Methos' skin enhanced by the darkness around, his black coat, sprinkled with sugar, the fuzzy line of his grey sweater, hugging the long line of his neck, black turtleneck peaking out from beneath it, starkly shadowed.

Slowly, Duncan's eyes fluttered closed, even as their breath mingled in a white puff between them, warm and moist on their lips, before they met, cold on cold, dry on dry, a smooth closure, sealing their body heat between them.

The day before the Seine froze, Duncan did a number of things. The most exciting and memorable of which was kissing the world's oldest immortal.

Fin. (1) The weather for today – cold and even more snow than yesterday, with temperatures from –13 to –15 degrees. The winter weather will stay in Paris for the rest of the week, with still lower temperatures, even though it will stop snowing tomorrow. Stay at home have a good evening.

(2) Stop, Mac, you mustn't avoid me; I've come back only to see you and I don't like this weather, you know.

(3) Right, let's go, there's beer at my place.