Solstice Reprieve
Posted By: ShelBel MacViking <ssatre@hotmail.com>
Date: Tuesday, 19 December 2000, at 1:59 p.m.
The snow was falling softly on Paris, like it
always seemed to this time of year. It never stayed, though- like so many
things in her life…
Amanda sighed and turned from the window. She was
beginning to think coming back for the holidays had been a mistake. Yes, it was
beautiful- but Paris always was. The new snow covered the dirty sidewalks and
perched precariously on bare branches, lending an unearthly air of- something.
Amanda struggled to find an appropriate word. Artifice, perhaps. A covering up-
no, a temporary ignorance- of the true nature of life. That even when it was
cold and bleak and frozen it still went on in it’s eternal rhythm.
The barge was gone- sold a long time ago. The
river still rose and fell according to it’s ancient schedule, like the ebb and
flow of blood through veins, pushed by it’s heart, the sea. Or would it be the
moon? she wondered. The moon controlled the tides…
She tried to shake herself out of her reverie.
C’mon, girl, she chided herself. It’s Christmas. Drag yourself out of your rut
of self-pity and introspection and do something fun- like shop.
But even the thought of beautiful things failed to
cheer her. It was only fun spending money when it was someone else’s-
especially Duncan’s. She smiled at the memories of the many times she’d
absconded with his credit cards. Half the fun was watching his expression when
he realized what she’d done. She didn’t even mind the fact that he usually made
her take everything back. Well, almost everything, anyway.
Damn it- damn HIM- it always came back to Duncan.
It wasn’t bad enough that it was Christmas season- her favorite holiday- but
his birthday as well served to remind her. She’d never missed him like this
before, but then, she’d always known that he would be there, that she could
find him when she wanted. This time, it was different. He was the one who had
left, left the barge, left his life- left her. She sighed again and leaned her
forehead against the glass, the cold creeping through the single pane to slowly
chill her face.
The soft knock on her door startled her. She
frowned and straightened, wondering who in their right mind would be making
social calls on a night like this. The snow was beautiful, yes, but it coated
the streets and walks in slippery muck and made driving and walking an
adventure that not many cared to court.
Half way across the flat the buzz hit and she
froze. The knock came again, and with it came the tiniest flicker of hope, a
tiny flame of chance… She fairly flew across the apartment, paused at the
mirror to check her hair and face, practiced her most winsome smile, and flung
open the door without checking the peephole.
“I wasn’t expecting…” Her voice trailed off into a
confused mumble. She frowned again. “Methos?”
The oldest living immortal stood there, snow still
melting on his shoulders and in his hair, mouth quirked into a
self-depreciating smirk. “Not who you were expecting, eh?” he drawled. He
handed her a bottle of champagne with one hand and with the other gently shut her
still-gaping mouth. “Thanks, I’ll come right in.”
He shed his wet trench coat and shoes, hanging the
coat on the rack and leaving the shoes- rather neatly, she noticed numbly- on
the entry mat. She shut the door behind him and watched as he opened the doors
to her china cabinet and drew out two flutes, went to the sofa, then proceeded
to light the candles that populated the coffee table. Then, with the ease of
long practice, he settled himself onto the cushions in a loose-limbed sprawl
and looked over his shoulder at her expectantly.
“Well? Are you going to join me in getting
rip-roaringly drunk this dreary December day, or am I going to have to do it
alone?”
A slow smile crossed her face and she sat down on
the sofa next to him. Methos took the bottle, deftly loosed the cork, and
smoothly poured the two flutes. Setting the bottle down, he raised his glass.
“To old friends,” he said softly. Amanda inclined
her head slightly, her heart aching, her mouth curling up into a reluctant
smile.
“To old friends,” she echoed. The flutes clinked together with a gentle chime, the bubbles tickled her nose, and she thought for a moment that old friends really weren’t so bad- when they brought the champagne.