by
Fandom: Highlander The Series
Rating: PG
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Author's Note: Inspired entirely by a typo. A loving gift to the Krell.
Copyright and Disclaimer: Highlander The Series and the characters of Duncan and Methos are copyright Rhysher/Panzer-Davis. I make no claims to ownership or creation. This bit of not for profit modern folklore (thank you Prof. Jenkins) is mine.
Baklava.
Food of the Gods.
As far as Methos was concerned, heaven was a kind of a giant library and every 30 or so minutes a cart laden with baklava rolled through.
He had actually talked Duncan into making some. The Boy Scout may have grown up on oats, mutton, haggis, and ... er ... whatever else passed for cuisine up in the back forty of the British Isles, but 370 odd years of exposure to civilization had certainly broadened his horizons.
Methos opened the fridge and pulled the cover off a large Tupperware tray. Well, well, well, Duncan had certainly gone all out. Granted, he hadn't rolled his own phyllo dough — only mad Greeks did that. Triangles, squares, circles, flowers, "birds nests" and ... a baklava gingerbread man?! greeted his eyes.
Chuckling a bit, Methos placed the "baklava boy" on a plate. For such a moody, broody fellow, Duncan had a fine sense of whimsy when he chose to indulge it. Putting a kettle on to boil, Methos placed the baklava boy in the microwave and set the timer for 30 seconds.
There were certain rules to eating a food as important as baklava, the most
important concerned temperature. It had to be room temperature. Not too cold.
Not too hot. Methos calculated that by the time he set his teabag in the mug
to steep, the baklava
would have cooled to optimal eating temperature.
Methos opened the microwave door and a blast of baklava perfume — no odor so divine could be called a smell; "aroma" was about as pedestrian as he could get when describing baklava — filled the loft's kitchen. It was all Methos could do to not start wolfing it down. "Patience, patience," he told himself, "all good things to those who wait." His fists involuntarily clenched. Not taking his eyes off of the baklava for even a moment, he dropped a bag of Quietly Chamomile into the mug and poured the hot water.
He sat at the kitchen island, impatiently twiddling his thumbs when the buzz washed over him. It had better be Duncan. He snatched the biggest knife from the carving block and leapt off the stool. If it wasn't Duncan, well, gods help the headhunting fool who tried to come between him and his baklava.
"Ah, Duncan!" Methos said cheerily as the Scot entered the room, "I'm about to have a piece of your baklava. Shall I get a bit out for you?" He surreptitiously placed the knife in the sink.
"Nah, go ahead." Duncan settled himself on the couch, "I just had a big lunch. Thanks, though. It's been a couple of years since I made it. Let me know if it's okay."
At last, the moment was upon him. Chamomile tea, steeped. Baklava, room temperature. All systems go. Let the baklava ceremony begin.
Fork?
He didn't need no stinking fork.
Closing his eyes, Methos inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of Duncan's baklava. The man was a master. The toasty notes of the pistachios and walnuts blended with the butter in the phyllo wafers and aroma of cinnamon (with a touch of nutmeg and some allspice for good measure); binding the whole together was the syrup. A pedestrian chef would've used a simple syrup of sugar and water. A good chef would've used brown sugar to make his syrup. Duncan MacLeod, ever a man of wealth and taste, used orange blossom honey boiled with orange flower water.
With a happy sigh, Methos raised the baklava boy to his lips and bit off the right leg.
Oralgasm.
Eyes shut, head bobbing to only music he could hear, Methos continued to eat bite after rapturous bite of the baklava, pausing only for the occasional sip of tea, or to lick the sticky syrup from his fingers. Yes, he knew he probably looked like the world's biggest 3 year old. He didn't care. This was BAKLAVA. He was humming happily after eating his last bite when something made him open his eyes.
Duncan stood inches from him, bathed in soft golden light from the windows; dust motes danced in the beams, sparkling, making Duncan seem like some sort of enchanter. His chocolate eyes were enormous — soft and luminous with need.
Before Methos could lick the last sticky baklava flakes from the corner of his lips, Duncan's mouth was devouring his. Only when the room had begun to spin for want of air, did Duncan finally tear his mouth from Methos's.
"Remind me to make baklava more often." Duncan purred. He put Methos's honey cinnamon sticky finger in his mouth and sucked.
Oh.
Oh my.
Oh yes, that damned boy scout better be prepared, because there was
a lot of baklava making in his future ... and the ways of burning it off were
just as good as eating it.
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