They basked in the unseasonable warmth, autumn sunlight sliding like honey across exposed skin, the air redolent with the scent of crushed grass and late-blooming flowers. Methos relaxed with a sigh and closed his eyes; the impromptu picnic had been a good idea of Jack’s, and it had given him the opportunity to explain about Ianto, without the object of their discussion being a distraction to them both. Explanations were done with, and initial plans had been made which meant that all in all, Methos was feeling pretty good about the world. His reverie was disturbed by the sensation of fluid trickling onto his skin. His eyes shot open to be confronted by the vision of a shirtless Jack Harkness carefully pouring the remnants of the bottle of Cardinal Zin over him.
“I couldn’t reach the glass,” he said ingenuously, meeting Methos eyes with a wicked twinkle that belied the tone of his voice. Methos glanced down at the red liquid pooling on his chest, and then back up into Jack’s eyes.
“Fine,” he said, “just make sure you don’t waste any.”
“No chance of that,” Jack replied, and bent his head to deftly lap up the wine from Methos’s skin drop by drop. Methos let his eyes drift shut again, his skin tingling deliciously from the gentle rasp and suck of Jack’s tongue and mouth against his skin as he endeavoured to keep his promise of not wasting the wine. It had to rate as the best way Methos had shared a bottle of wine in a long, long time.