I wrote this absolutely ages ago, only just found it again. As ever with me, if you squint you can see the slash, even if it's not intentional. Also, apologies for horrendously incorrect French for anyone who understands it, and yes I know that half of the accents are missing. I never could do accents.
Lyrics belong to Bryan Adams, not me. Oh and they're italicised for extra emphasis in that they're not mine.
"Bonjour Paris, c'est un beaux jour!"
Methos cracked his eyes open as the radio alarm burst into life beside him. He reached out a weary hand to knock it off as the disturbingly jolly woman twittered on in French, but missed and instead flicked it onto a different station. He was about to try again when a song began to play. A Canadian song, to be more precise. The corners of Methos' mouth twitched as the lyrics all came back to him, and he flopped back down on the bed, grinning up at the ceiling.
"Can't live forever, that's wishful thinking," he said sang softly, conscious of Macleod still sleeping not too far away. "Whoever said that… must have been drinking."
Stretching luxuriously, he hoisted himself up off the bed, tossing the blankets on the floor as he strode to the kitchen, snatching a mug off the desk as he passed it.
"Don't want to grow up, I don't see why – I couldn't care less if time passed by."
He dumped coffee into the mug as the water boiled, his voice getting louder as he got carried away with himself, forgetting that he had company as the chorus kicked in.
"Methos!"
Methos steadfastly ignored the grumbling of the younger Immortal as he belted out the lines, pouring out the boiling water as he did so. He took a long drink from the mug before sashaying to Macleod with it and setting it down before the Highlander.
"Bonjour Monsieur Macleod, c'est un jour magnifique! Alors, se reveille, et bois le café que j'ai apporté a toi!" he announced loudly. Macleod groaned and buried his head in the pillow.
"Why are you talking in French?" he asked in a slurred voice. Methos grinned.
"Parce que… quand en Roma, fait les memes choses que les Italiennes!"
"I think you mean the Romans there, not the Italians in general. And we're in Paris, not Rome," Macleod harrumphed, turning away from Methos, who shrugged.
"Whatever."
"Go away."
"Anyway, I just want to say… why bother with what happened yesterday?" Methos sang as he wandered back through to the kitchen, hauling the fridge door open and pulling out a can of beer. "It's not my style, I live for the minute." He flicked the cap behind the fridge.
"You're cleaning those up!" Macleod called to him.
"If you want to stay young, get both feet in it!"
Turning the volume up, he leapt up the steps and flung the door open, bounding out onto the deck. He could hear Macleod's faint noises of protest behing him.
"A little bit of this, and a little bit of that. A little bit of everything, got to get on track."
"Methos?"
The Old Man looked down onto the ground, where Joe was staring at him, dumbfounded. The Watcher seemed lost for words.
"It's not how you look, it's how you feel inside. I don't care when, I don't need to know why!" Methos hollered, jumping down to land beside Joe. The ageing mortal cleared his throat as a bird sang nearby in perfect discord with the music.
"Methos, it's seven on a Saturday morning in the middle of winter and you're dancing around in the snow half-naked," Joe said flatly. Methos span around in the snow covering the ground, regardless of his bare feet.
"The woman on the radio was right, it is a beautiful day!" he announced with a grin, and then bounded back up onto the barge and through the door. Joe followed at a more sedate pace, and came out into the barge to see Macleod glaring at Methos from his bed, a steaming mug of coffee held under his nose, whilst Methos himself danced around the room.
"Don't worry about the future, forget about the past!"
"He's lost his mind," Joe commented, avoiding the singing Immortal as he made his way over to Macleod, and sat sitting down beside him. "I don't think I've ever seen him this cheerful on a morning. What did you do to him?"
Macleod smiled ruefully.
"You don't want to know."
"Gonna be eighteen til I die – one thing's for sure, I'm sure going to try!"
Macleod started laughing as Methos struck up a classic power stance, his fingers moving deftly over the frets of the air guitar as he completed the song.
"Eighteen til I die…" he trailed off as Bryan did, posing dramatically in the middle of the room with his air guitar. The other two men broke into a round of applause as the song ended and Methos stood up straight, grinning, and reached for his beer.
"God, I love that song."
"Et cet chanson était Dix-huit Ans Jusqu'a Je Mors, par Bryan Adams…"
So yeah. Comments very welcome and much appreciated.
Regards,
smokey