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For FMC #9
The old house echoed his footsteps, dust sparkling in falls of sunlight, white sheets going grey over all the furniture. Quickening song hummed lightly along his nerves while he wandered, fading in and out. Duncan didn't hurry. There wasn't any need to rush, and the empty rooms were calming. An English garden in spring outside the enormous windows, showy flowers heavy with perfume against the white marble, so many they made it past ostentatious and back into elegant. It might have been a hundred years earlier.
He found the kitchen, all antiquated cabinets and bleeding-edge appliances, copper saucepans hanging from the ceiling, bright and untouched. He made tea and ate cold roasted chicken at the wooden counter. Methos came in after a while and stole a drumstick, then helped him wash up in comfortable silence.
They wandered through the house together afterwards, shoulders brushing every once in a while, and Methos told him outrageous stories about the stiff figures in the formal portraits that Duncan suspected were entirely invented. The shadows stretched long, and the unlit hallways turned gold, then twilight blue.
Only one bedroom was unwrapped, rumpled white sheets under a heavy canopy of dark wood. It was almost too easy, as he hadn't dared hope it could be.