A/N: pure silliness. Since most of the time, Watchers can't observe Immortals directly, they must rely upon circumstantial evidence… whatever it is.
Disclaimer: neither Methos, nor MacLeod, nor the typical plotline of MacLeod's love affairs belong to me.
Tape recording.
RUSTLE.
Clearly: 'One, two. One, two, three, four... Ok, I think it works.'
Mildly irritated: 'Do we have to?'
Matter-of-factly: 'I promised her I'll be good for a week. That means my private life isn't private anymore, and by extension, yours.'
Disbelievingly: 'Just how did she get you to do it?'
Sagely: 'Poker.'
PAUSE.
Concernedly: 'It looks ancient. Do we hold it, or something?'
'Naw, lay it here. Now spit, I don't have all day.'
PAUSE.
'C'mon, Mac, spill! Use a code, if you must.'
PAUSE.
Hesitantly: 'Lying on my back, I am, a hand behind my head. Searching another is behind my collar for an agile insect. An ant, it must be. Of the not-quite-black, hiding-in-plain-sight variety.'
'Way behind you collar. Bite, ant, bite!'
SNICKER.
[CENSORED:
'I don't really have to confess in you.'
'Great!'
'I just... need an advice.'
'Then speak so that I can understand.'
'Well... you see, 'I' is me, and the ant is you.'
'Sweet.'
'Don't go there.'
'I never!']
'For today it is where I find myself, on the cusp of another fall. Several wild pear-trees there are, branches thick against the sky; warm are the tart fruits in the postmeridian sun...'
[CENSORED:
'I assume you're talking about the Quickenings.'
'Actually, about the challenges, but that's a point-of-view question.'
'You are one conceited bastard.'
'Takes one to know one.']
CRUNCH. SIGH.
Mutedly: 'Yummy fruits. Wanna some?'
Distractedly: 'No, thanks.' Tediously: 'Still, of this place grasses are the be-all and end-all, and now ceases the wind, as all commas should, but lo! Up it is again...'
[CENSORED:
'Grasses?'
'Mortals.'
'As in, 'lower beings'?'
'As in, there's a bunch of them, and only a handful of us.']
Regretfully: 'Grammar, for centuries have I fought; revived it, each time. In the end, there can be only One.'
Resignedly: 'Down fall the pears with muffled thuds. Move now, I should. Out of the way. Resonate, they do, when on a skull they drop, the projectiles.'
THUD.
'Cool!'
THUD-THUD-THUD.
'Not fa-'
A FAINT 'CLICK', LIKE A MOUTH SUDDENLY SHUT. A GUTTURAL SOUND OF PROTEST.
'You were saying? Soar, the panicles - are they striking, high, first-to-remember, and sorrowless as angels, or simply to be expected in arid conditions?'
SPITTING.
'To blazes with botany! No - don't - don't - '
INDECIPHERABLE NOISE. MOANING.
Triumphantly: 'Ticklish, are ye?'
Pleading: 'I surrender!'
Peacefully: 'Swallowwort is abundant, too. Accumbent are its leaves, fixed in pairs, and drooping like sealed scrolls, though not yet withered. Seeds a-flying -'
To the side: 'Talk about double entendre.'
SIGH.
[CENSORED:
'That was no double entendre, you daft old man. I meant the Watchers.'
'Oh. And the panicles are?'
'Think, Adam. They make you laugh -'
'Under protest.'
'They are gentle, they bear flowers...'
'Got it. Who is she?'
'You don't know her.'
'I will, MacLeod. I will.']
'So, the swallowwort. Open, the pods did, but cling to them, offspring does. Rainbows, I see, when through their hairs at the sun I look. Even when in shadow they are, glows the base of the tuft.'
MUFFLED CHORTLING.
'Sorry. Couldn't help it. Ver-ry poetic.'
THUMP.
Indignantly: 'I said I'm sorry!'
'Sure. Now, asparagus. Adds to the green, it does, though not immediately notice it one might. Summer, it still lives in.'
To the side: 'Stupid vegetable.'
[CENSORED:
'She's not.'
'I bet they have a lot in common... And you're a pervert.'
'That's not the problem right now. Asparagus is Immortal.'
'You are one lucky man.']
Tensely: 'Long legs, red eyes - a spider passes by.'
To the side: 'You and your imagination.'
[CENSORED:
'I wish.'
'A vampire?'
'You vampire. He's Asparagus's old friend.'
'The usual, then.']
Graciously: 'He's beautiful.'
Evenly: 'Yeah. Edible.'
Horrified: 'M- Adam!'
Patiently: 'Next time you want my opinion on how to live your life, MacLeod, just ask. I promise I won't bite. Pierson out.'
END OF RECORD.