"Sir?"

"Sorry I was wool gathering." The man replied.

He was tall and lean his age hard to place; he looked like a student but his eyes were sharp and observant. His dark hair was cut close, he had lean sharp edged features and a largish nose with a thin expressive mouth and a strong jaw. He was standing in the hallway of a dilapidated apartment. The building itself had lain unrented and ignored for almost five years. He was there to inspect it and put in a bid to purchase it. It was part of his newest facade. It was wise to change up your tricks, he knew, the Watchers would never give up on finding him. Now that they knew some of his predilections and had actual photographs to use...well.

"Did you want to see anything else sir?" She asked again.

"Yes, every room, the attic and basement. I don't buy lemons." He said pleasantly. She nodded and studied him for a moment with an unreadable expression then lead the way down the hall to a door which she unlocked and opened for him.

Inside lay a neglected attic, dust sat an inch deep and a sad huddle of battered oil stained boxes sat in one corner with a painting opposite the door. He moved smoothly like an athlete, no heavy ponderous tread or awkward swing of shoulders, no stiff gait or physical awkwardness. He entered the room glanced over the boxes then examined the painting.

It depicted a handsome youth, he guessed from the mid-1800s. The figure wore the garb of a gentleman; someone of standing and stature. His gaze was steady and calm but somehow sad. His face was stunning, skin of alabaster, gentle sad eyes, lips soft crimson and curved in an almost indecipherable expression of loss.

Methos wondered how such a beautiful figure could be so sad and lost. How could someone of that age, no more than twenty-five he guessed, bear such a burden? He wondered idly if the man-child in the painting had been one of his people, cut off from his mortal coil at an early age and damned to endure centuries while aging no further.

Had he lost a challenge and his life?

"This painting, it comes with the property?"

"Terms state all contents included sir."

"Buy it. All of it. Have this crated and sent to my personal residence."

"Uh…yes sir, immediately sir."

That was how we met. Or rather, how I met him. He was a beautiful creature himself. Not traditionally handsome, taken individually his various features and physical aspects were a train wreck. He was gangly and muscular, too pale, his hair an unruly mop or a ridiculously overcropped mess. He was physically talented but too intellectual. Quick to caution but equally quick to manipulation. But, as a whole, he was exquisite. I knew at once that he would be interesting. I felt a surge of gratitude and would have thanked god if I could that it was this man that had found me after years of silence. This man of all people.

The painting arrived the next day. He stood in front of the crate it had been packaged in and wondered about its subject. He thought about accessing his back door to the Watcher's secure archives and attempting to confirm his suspicion about the picture's subject. Irritated he dismissed the urge. The last thing he needed was the Tribunal re-opening the Methos files and renewing their hunt for Adam Pierson, Amy Brennan-Thomas had put her ass on the line to throw off Dr. Zoll's research already. No. That would be stupendously reckless.

Still, he had to know about the beautiful youth and his sad countenance. He opened the crate with his bare hands ignoring a sliver as his Quickening forced it from his hand and healed the damage.

That was when I knew he was something different. I had seen Toby heal and it wasn't anything like that. He was something new. That, above all else, fascinated and me. In all my long life I had never encountered such a being.

The painting was just as he remembered; the hauntingly beautiful youth with the too old, too sad expression. He raised a hand and brushed at the wounded canvas. Methos felt a low electric thrum crawl up his hand to his elbow and slowly dissipate. Smiling he flexed his hand and carefully, using both hands, placed the edges of the torn canvas together.

He blinked and frowned the image seemed to have shifted though he wasn't certain if it was only a trick of the light, a change in perspective caused by temporarily completing the image or something else altogether. He brought the painting closer to his bedside table and turned on the reading lamp that rested there. He scanned the painting looking for a signature or title. There, it looked like it might be initials but it was difficult to tell, the painting was dirty, long abandoned to dust and rodents a layer of grime dulled its colors and made details muddied. He rubbed his thumb along it and decided it was probably a B and an H or possibly a D and a B.

"You need a good clean." He muttered then set the painting down and turned off the lamp.

Several years later the cleaned painting was delivered to a nondescript house in the midst of woods and silence. Nearby ran a thin brook. As the delivery driver pulled away a pair of deer startled by the cough of the driver's engine darted across the front lawn of the home and disappeared into the woods. The driver grinned at them and put the truck in gear, slowly pulling away; she looked at her mirror and wondered who the recipient of the heavy oddly shaped crate was.

Methos watched her leave before retrieving the crate hearing the grunting whine of the truck's worn gears and tired engine swallowed by the woods. He wasn't sure why he hesitated to be seen. He was known here in what little patch of civilization clung to the base of the mountain, a small store with vital supplies, a post office, and a diner with passable coffee and a Wi-Fi connection.

He was tired, and raw, recovering from wounds of the heart more than anything else. Love, he decided, was not worth the effort. Not anymore, not with a mortal. He had sworn it off before but each time the siren song had dug its ragged claws into him and he had responded. He took comfort in the fact that it had taken rather strong convincing this last time.

Satisfied the driver and her cargo were gone, secure from invader's eyes; he retrieved the heavy crate and brought it inside. He placed it on his kitchen table and carefully opened it. The painting had lain forgotten for a very long time, long enough that he felt almost guilty over it.

It was beautiful. He had an eidetic memory so he couldn't really claim to have forgotten the image, but now, freshly cleaned it had been given new life. The canvas was still torn; the cleaner had recommended several restorers but declined to do the work himself stating he hadn't the skills needed. The youth's hair was curled in soft waves, dark blue eyes glittering. The expression was still there, soulful and out of place with such beauty and youth.

"Who were you?" Methos asked out loud. He glanced at the corner where the dull unclear initials had been. It was an H and a B as he had originally thought. He flipped the painting over hoping to see a title or some other detail revealed by the cleaning; instead the movement dislodged an envelope.

Methos retrieved it and tore it open. A typed letter fell out; he caught it before it hit the floor and unfolded it.

Mr. Pierce

I hope my work is up to your high standards. As promised I've included the contact details for those I would trust to properly repair the piece below. I was unable to locate the full name of the artist when reframing the piece I did find what I suspect is a title, it is under the current frame and simply says , 'Dorian'. I hope this information is helpful.

-Ben

Methos frowned over the letter then carefully set it aside intending to contact the restorers listed on it later.

"Dorian." He said aloud and studied the painting. He remembered the optical illusion of the completed painting, how it had made it appear that the subject moved. Curious, he moved forward and studied the image closely again then slowly, cautiously, adjusted the cut and torn edges until they were completed.

The image changed.

The figure of the youth was almost facing him now. He was absolutely positive that when he had found the painting in that English attic the figure had almost been in profile. Or had it? Years and miles had passed and yes he had an eidetic memory but it was fallible when it came to inconsequential information. He had learned to recall emotionally charged incidents, individual's names and stations in life, and other details with extreme precision over his long life. The skills were dictated by need. In his life it was more useful to remember a name and position than the color and cut of a garment for instance. His recall was extraordinary but not superhuman.

All of which meant he could still be wrong. Right?

He released the painting and the edges curled away from one another settling in to their accustomed places. He picked up the letter and his cell phone.

Hearing him say my name was a special thrill all it's own. I didn't mind that he had left me for years I had my memories and regrets to occupy me. Now that I was his again I longed to see more of this remarkable creature so at odds with so much of the world I had grown weary of. Yet he thrived in it, where I had grown maudlin and broken he seemed to be strong and vibrant. I wanted to be closer to him, to hear his voice and the sensation of his gaze, his touch on my painting.