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

Chapter 7

       It was already hot when Michael returned from his early morning jog which, despite his most scrupulous intentions, did not prove to clear his preoccupied mind. Images glided behind his eyes of Y/N's knees and ankles, her shoulders, and her mouth. He couldn't picture her eyes quite right; each attempt made them either too lifeless, or too cartoonish - either way, they were unreadable and disappointingly inaccurate. The combination of frustrations and the quickly rising temperature of the island made a cold shower the only comfortable option this morning.

After an insignificant attempt at a toweling off, Michael abruptly met with his reflection in the large square mirror that hung above the dressing table in his bedroom. His hair was dark with wet and slicked back for the moment. A droplet of water made its way down his forehead, took a turn at his brow, and slipped down to settle at the tip of his nose. His reflection confronted him:

What are you doing, Michael? What exactly is your plan? What possible outcome could you wish for that would benefit the group as a whole?

Maybe none, he answered himself. Maybe it's time I act for my own benefit. Or at least for Y/N's. Anyway, there's no harm in being kind, is there? Attentive... curious... I could be good for her. Better. Perhaps Eric needs bringing back down to earth.

He remembered Eric's words the first night he and Terry arrived: "This must be what being a god feels like." Well, Michael was a man of flesh and blood, brought up on eggs on toast, tea, and marmalade. He could quietly pride himself on being sensible.

After tossing a comb through his hair that had almost fully dried in moments from the hot island air, and dressing himself (paying more mind to both than he would care to admit), Michael regarded the stacks of books he'd brought with him. He remembered Y/N's request for a title for distraction. One stood out to him and he chuckled his approval, tucking the book under his arm with his script and editing papers.

The route to Y/N and Eric's room seemed a long one. Michael's composure came and went as he imagined her waking, like she had recently done beside him, only this time she'd be at ease, in no hurry, and the book would be a welcome and pleasant surprise. Ah! He could picture her face again, clear and bright. He could feel his heartbeat through his chest and up into his ears as the destination drew nearer. Before he reached it, the sliver of the open door widened and out slid an unexpectedly perky Eric.

"Mr Palin! What brings you to my door?" he greeted him with an unsteady grin and softly closed the door behind him.

"I thought I might catch Y/N. Is she free?"

"She's having a bit of a lie-in this morning, I'm afraid. She hasn't been sleeping well. And I think it's catching."

"Right," Michael hesitated, hoping his disappointment wasn't detectable. "Well, it's just I've a book that I've been meaning to lend her..."

He drummed his fingers on the hardcover, eyeing up the doorknob and frame.

"Nevermind," he resigned himself with a tight smile, "It can wait, of course."

Leaving the quiet of the bedroom behind them, Eric and Mike set off down the wide corridor that was almost twinkling with morning sunshine peeking through the net curtains over the windows. It was a bold and tremendous contrast, Michael noted, to the well-trodden and familiar corridors of the BBC studios with their dated painted concrete and the occasional sparkle of quartz in the terrazzo tiled floor. That was a place of industry and experimentation, of forward motion in wool suits, with clipboards and coffee cups, and thick tortoiseshell glasses. And now here they were in cotton and linen, flip-flop sandals and sunglasses, short shorts and Muppet t-shirts. Success looked very different to how Michael had once imagined.