Monty Python And The Barbados Fic (Eric/Mike/OFC)

Chapter 3

            Mornings at the villa were an unusual sort of quiet. Far away from the noise of traffic and the public, the only sounds here belonged to various morning birds, and the gentle swish of waves on the beach outside the door. It was very early, and Y/N lay awake, examining the details of the grand bedroom she and Eric had been enjoying for the last few weeks. Diaphanous veils draped from the ceiling, furniture with curving legs and brass attachments dotted the corners, molded window frames matched intricate pieces over the doors – pediments, she remembered. Or are those architraves? This was a room meant for fancy people: upper classes, people of importance and means, and wealthy people who made waves in their professions - people very much unlike her.

            She couldn’t place exactly what it was that kept her awake but intrusive thoughts continued to swim through her head, and it was another hour at least before Eric awoke beside her. With his arm across her waist, he gently kissed her bare shoulder before rolling over to check the time on the bedside clock and he rose from the mattress. She watched him pause at the closet doors, then over to the bathroom, and back again a few minutes later. He got dressed and brushed his teeth quietly, presuming Y/N to be asleep until he noticed her heavy-lidded eyes on him.

            "Good morning, beauty,” he grinned from the other side of the room. “Are you about to tempt me back to bed?”

            "Maybe,” she toyed. “Or I might do this,” and she stretched her legs beneath the sheets to starfish across the large bed.

            "Oh, I see! Well! Don’t let me disturb you,” he laughed and started for the hall.

            "Wait wait wait,” she said, leaping from the bed, and hurried over to him at the door. “Let me kiss you good luck for your first day back at the office.”

            "I’m only down the corridor,” he half-protested between kisses.

            "Shush-shush, let me pretend,” she commanded, and raising herself onto tip-toe she met his lips with hers and extended their embrace.

            As they parted, there was a moment of hesitation in Eric’s face. Y/N wasn’t going anywhere, he felt the need to remind himself – she’d still be around in the afternoon, and she’d be beside him when they fell asleep that night, and still again in the morning. He found this assuring and delightful, and truly mystifying.

            The daily schedule played out as productively as could be, with mornings dedicated to work and evenings devoted entirely to enjoyment and light debauchery. With their academic upbringings and achievements, the Pythons dutifully committed to three hours each morning of writing, editing, discussion, and more editing. Deep rumbles of the voices of Terry Jones, John, and Graham filled the corridors, echoing off of the limestone walls, and punctuated by barks of laughter and rustling paper.

            On that first morning, however, the first hour of work ticked on with the Pythons assembled in what was quite appropriately titled the “morning room,” and Eric gazed dreamily out of a window. Y/N had taken advantage of the morning heat and lay on a lounge chair before the afternoon sun came and cooked everything beneath it. She was trying to be engrossed in a book she’d found about the history of the villa and its past visitors, but it was proving to be far less thrilling than she’d hoped. What else could she find to distract herself during the Python workday?

            Realizing she’d re-read the same line of text about four times already, she looked up from the book and glanced at her immediate surroundings: an enormous tree with the deceptively pretty apples, wrought-iron chairs and lovely stone tables, charming statues of sleeping lions, and - through a window – wonderful Eric. His face stretched into a childlike smile when their eyes met, and he gave her a tiny wave.

            Seizing the opportunity for temptation, Y/N traced her bare thigh in as much of a tease as she could muster. She brought her hand to her lips and blew him a kiss, and with a smile to match his, dropped all of her fingers except the middle one. She sealed her message of love with a romantic and reassuring wink.

            “What a woman,” said Eric, just loud enough for himself to hear.

            "Observing the wildlife, Eric?” Terry Gilliam called from across the room.

            "I think he’s spotted a rare bird and he’s obviously taking notes. Aren’t you, Eric?” said Terry Jones, helping.

            Eric wasn’t sure for how long he’d been quiet and distracted, but John was quick to bring him back to earth.

            "I maintain this working holiday was a good idea,” said John, “so if you’ll please, Eric, do join us and let’s get on with business.”

            Pulling out a different chair, Eric turned and sat with his back to the windows, face-to-face opposite Michael. Unfortunately, this would prove not to be a better option, for, lifting his eyes from the bundle of papers in his lap, and holding his trusty pen between his teeth, Michael shot Eric a wide Cheshire cat grin, and the latter was no more able to focus now than he had just been with his outdoor entertainment.

            In the rare instances he wasn’t speaking, Michael Palin could still say a great deal. He could wear disappointment like a hat, enjoyment like a bright yellow sports-coat, and mischief… he spoke of mischief through his eyes and lips, frequently darting out his tongue to wet his bottom lip in concentration … or determination. Or both.

            All of these and their variations Eric had observed and grown to admire over their years of friendship and working together – cold filming shoots, late nights that turned into early morning writing sessions, mid-flight booze-ups, mid-scene meltdowns, and power-cut scrambles in the dark. He was never surprised by Michael’s popularity among their female fans, and he was so terribly easy to like – the friendly bastard – that, despite Eric’s insistence that he always worked alone, he found himself hoping for more opportunities for the two to put their heads together.

            The face across from him now silently teased, “You’re still on holiday, aren’t you, Idle?” and before he could slip further into his daydream, with a committed effort and a small shake of his head, Eric rejoined his colleagues and returned his attention to the script in his hands.