"Duncan!" Connor exclaimed, masking his relief with genuine pleasure. He strode over to the door and took the bundles from his student and moved them to the bar. Joe went into the kitchen to procure plates and utensils. The others crowded around to remove the cardboard takeout boxes and breathe in the hunger-inducing aroma.
"Glad you could make it, MacLeod," said Methos as he opened one container to investigate its contents.
Duncan removed his coat and hung it with the others. "Sorry I'm late," he said as he made his way to the food.
Amanda met him half way, wrapping her arms around him and melting her body into his, making a grand show of affection for the viewing pleasure of the others. She landed brief, playful kiss before asking:
"And just what was so important that you couldn't pick me up at the airport?"
Duncan groaned in exasperation as he moved her to arms length. Joe returned from the kitchen and he and Richie moved the food over to a nearby booth. Methos grabbed the beer and Connor, grinning, helped himself to the bottle of top-shelf scotch and two glasses.
"The carbon monoxide detector went off at the dojo," Duncan explained. "I traced the problem back to the heater."
Connor frowned. "Gas lines?"
Richie smiled at the irony.
"Looks like," Duncan confirmed. Then, turning to Amanda: "I had to wait for the gas company to show. Took all afternoon."
Amanda's face contorted to a mix of relief and displeasure. She knew Duncan would need a serious reason for him to not pick her up at the airport when he himself had invited her here. The relief was for the fact that it had nothing to do with another immortal, and the displeasure was for that she still couldn't berate him for abandoning to the mercy of Seacouver cab drivers.
"The dojo isn't going to have any heat until it's fixed, and the gas company told me not to expect that before New Year's," Duncan continued with obvious displeasure.
"How much is that going to cost us?" Richie asked from the booth.
Duncan smiled. The dojo was his, and Richie was just an employee. He would in no way be tapped to foot any of the bill, but still the young man used the term 'us' as though he shared an equal weight. Duncan knew that this wasn't any attempt at staking claim to something that didn't rightfully belong to him, but was a simple expression of family. In Richie's mind, what one endured, the other must endure, and Duncan would not begrudge him that.
"A bit," Duncan admitted seriously, "since we have to replace the whole system."
Audible gasps from the peanut gallery. Methos whistled.
"So once they eventually get to working on it," he said, "they won't be done for another week or so."
"Pretty much," Duncan concurred.
Richie sighed and sipped his beer. He was looking forward to spending the holidays not at his dorm. He detested the overly structuralized way he was having to live his life since his decision to return to school, and even the a sleeping bag on the floor of Duncan's apartment above the dojo (because Connor would be taking the couch whilst in town) would have been a welcome improvement. Now he was going to have to file paperwork requesting permission to stay in the dorms.
Duncan turned to address the crowd. "I'm sorry, everybody. The MacLeod Inn will be closed for the duration."
Everyone caught the anger and regret in Duncan's voice. He knew they were counting on him to put them up for the night, and he had to turn them away. So much for highland hospitality!
"That's okay. Dawson's Bed and Breakfast is now officially opened for business," Joe declared with a Cheshire-cat grin.
"You wouldn't mind?" Duncan asked hopefully.
"Of course not. You'd all do the same for me," Joe said quite seriously. Then his expression changed. "The spare room's got a double bed, and then there's the couch."
"Perfect! I'll take the couch, and Duncan and Amanda can have the guest room," Connor informed them, raising his eyebrow just slightly at Duncan in an all-telling way.
"That sounds wonderful, Joseph," said Amanda, the delight plain in her voice. There were noises of agreement from the rest as they all piled into the booth to begin their dinner.
After a time Richie spoke up. "Hey Mac, do you think you could give me lift back to the dojo to pick up my stuff?"
"Sure, Rich," said Duncan; then he paused as the oddness of Richie's attire finally struck him. The blush returned to Richie's cheeks under Duncan's questioning gaze.
"My bike couldn't make the hills in this weather. I had to push it. Then the gas line froze and I wound up pushing it all the way. My clothes were soaked through. Joe loaned me these."
Duncan laughed. "The Thanksgiving storm?"
Joe nodded and this time Methos joined in the laughter. Then Duncan suddenly remembered that Richie was also staying with him throughout the holiday season, moving residency from a sleeping bag to the couch after Connor flew back to New York.
"Richie, where are you going to stay?"
Richie looked up as he felt all eyes turn to him. "It's no big deal. I can arrange to stay in the dorm," he said, quickly averting everyone's eyes. He would never ask any of them to make a fuss over him, not when he had a fallback place to stay. It would be a lonely way to pass the holidays, but still it meant a roof.
"You could bring the sleeping bag to my place," Joe offered.
"Or you could stay on my couch." Methos spoke for the first time since the conversation changed directions. No one had expected Methos to offer his hospitality to the tune that it never even occurred to them to ask him. All eyes veered towards him in stunned silence.
Richie schooled his face into neutrality out of practice and sheer habit. "You—you wouldn't mind?" He asked, trying to sound as detached as possible.
Duncan recognized the tactic and winced on the inside. All too often he had heard Richie take that tone, especially when Tessa was alive. He never allowed his hopes to rise, especially in dealing with other people and their supposed generosity. It was one of Richie's defense mechanisms, as well honed as any Duncan had taught him with a sword. Even after all this time, Richie still had trouble putting his faith in people, even the ones he considered his friends.
Methos also recoiled inwardly under the question, although it was easy to discern why it had been asked. He and Richie had never been close, and he had never given them any reason to suspect that he was capable of such random selfless acts for anyone except perhaps Duncan. And those were all life or death situations. The simple act of opening up one's home to his friends seemed to be something that all had put past him without a second thought.
Not that he hasn't given them reason.
"It's like I said before," said Methos quietly and more to his beer bottle than anyone in particular: "Mi casa es su casa." He had his own reasons for inviting Richie, and even surprised himself when he heard his voice offer the invitation. Connor's visit reminded him painfully of Ramirez, and how they had parted on heated terms that were never resolved before he died. It was like what would have been had Duncan died after informing him that they were 'through' that afternoon outside of Methos's apartment.
Then Methos caught himself wondering if it truly would have been the same. Did Duncan matter more to him today than Ramirez did back then? He had once told Duncan that he was the best he'd ever seen. While Ramirez had been a good friend, Duncan was the one Methos had picked to win the game. Perhaps it was his frame of mind at the time, all those hundreds of years ago, but such a thing never crossed his mind with Ramirez. Duncan was not only his friend, but was representative of his future. To lose Duncan the way he had lost Ramirez…
No! Methos would not allow himself to think such thoughts. Duncan was alive, and their friendship had been mended (though admittedly not as strong, but Methos was working on that).
The fact of the matter was that Connor's presence reminded him of the pain of Ramirez's loss, which in turn reminded him of how close he came to losing Duncan, if not permanently then certainly as a friend. Methos felt every one of his five thousand or so years and longed for an understanding and compassionate human interaction to ease the weight of those years. He would settle for Richie sleeping on his couch watching football and Christmas specials; and Richie didn't know about the horsemen, so there wouldn't be any awkward or painful questions to answer. Not that Richie is of the character to ask, he thought dryly. He is not like the highlander.
Methos looked up at Richie expectantly, who let the relief wash through him with a grateful smile.
"Thank you so much, old man," said Richie, trying in vain not to let his relief show. "I really appreciate it."
Methos grinned. An old man indeed.
With the living arrangements settled the conversation turned to more traditional things. Duncan continued to mope about the dojo, talking with Richie about paid leave and adjustments to his hours. From there he endured a lecture from Connor on not investing in general upgrades gradually after buying the place so that he wouldn't have to eat the enormous cost and inconvenience right now all at once. Connor, to his credit, kept that boyish grin off his face as he knew that everyone else was thoroughly enjoying Duncan having to take what he so often dished out, probably from the only person alive who could get away with it.
Once Connor had spoken his peace, Amanda chose to claim the spotlight as everyone's center of attention. She started by complaining about how it was just like Duncan to break his entire gas system in the dead of winter when he had invited her out for the holidays. That lead to her mock-regretful speech about how she couldn't convince all of them to winter on the southern coast of Spain with her and then the immortals found themselves trading stories and anecdotes about the country. Even Richie had been there.
Joe sat back and listened, trying to decide which of his emotions were strongest. He was taking mental notes of the conversation with the skilled precision of one who has done this so many times before. Every so often he should make a show of going to the restroom or getting more drinks from the bar, but secretly it was designed so he could jot down the casually revealed aspects of the immortals' pasts with the clear detachment of a scholar. If the chronicles had the information already written so be it, but if not, and especially if his added information could be corroborated, then for a fleeting instant he would feel as though his double life had meaning.
Watcher and friend, not an easy gap to bridge, and Joe Dawson finally believed that he had done it. He was their friend first, his actions and emotions declaring that loud and clear before he ever let his thoughts dwell on it. He remembered the incredible sinking, hollow feeling in his gut when Duncan saw him and Horton together on the boat, just when a friendship had started to form between them. He remembered the consuming pain when Duncan had severed ties after Charlie's death; a death, Joe thought bitterly, that he had every power to prevent. Then there was the crushing blow of thinking that Killion had killed him before they had the chance to patch things up to spite Amanda's best efforts, and then the pure elation he forced himself to conceal when Killion's watcher told him that Duncan was still alive. Then there's the time he asked Duncan's help to avenge his girlfriend's murder without thinking of the ramifications, and when Duncan stopped him from committing premeditated murder to protect the secret of the immortals; only later to watch helplessly from the ground as the Kallas's quickening raged on the Eiffel Tower, not being able to tell who killed who. And, of course, there was the dark quickening. Shooting Duncan to save Richie, effectively interrupting a challenge, was the most direct interference in the game he had ever ventured forth. He hadn't even realized he had done it until he heard the shots ring out.
Later on, he nearly paid the price for his interference at the watcher tribunal. He was ready to take a bullet, even wanted it to happen, because it meant that he had chosen the way of friendship, no matter what cost to himself had been. He knew that Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod had—had to understand and appreciate that gesture for what it was.
Joe smiled the easy smile of a man who has finally figured out his place in life. If it came right down to it, he'd do it all over again without hesitation, but he knew it never would. Duncan had protested vehemently the last time Joe tried to leave the organization, saying that the lives of the immortals should be recorded by people who feel and not just by detached historians, and Joe wound up going right back to them. Plus the watchers had finally stopped caring about his bending of a rule here and there, opting instead to turn the other cheek. After all, their first priority was recording the lives and truths of immortals, and what better way to get to know someone than through casual dinner conversation? He would be their friend, first and always, but he would still play the mindful observer in times like these, adding depth to the chronicles of his friends and those whose histories were intertwined with them. Hearing Duncan and Amanda wistfully reminiscing about one of Amada's theft schemes that involved a fairytale-esque rescue with an amusing side anecdote wherein Duncan masquerades as a matador was a precise example of everything Joe had finally decided he believed in as he excused himself to the men's room and the small notebook he kept hidden there for these occasions.
He returned in time to catch the shift in the conversation. When Connor reminisced about Spain, it wasn't his own memories he was reliving. He spoke softly, slowly, feeling the words as if they were precious gems, refracting some inner truth. Ramirez's identity had been Spaniard when he met Connor and showed him the ropes of immortality, and Ramirez's quickening was now happily swimming inside Connor's own head. The stories he had told around the dinner table in Connor's highland home with Heather now given the same color of remembrance that they had back then. He spoke of tiny peasant villages, and of when Ramirez had decided to love a widow for a time, not the same love he had felt in Japan, but a temporary love designed to make each day more bearable. His voice was reminiscent, seeming a slightly bizarre combination of highland brogue and French lilt, as he told of their daily routine and of peasant life in Spain, circa 1500. When she finally died Ramirez had traveled onward, catching a boat for England and brighter days.
The story ended and Connor looked down into his food, now cold from sitting too long. His mind was lost in the sea of memories, his own of Ramirez, and those of Ramirez himself swimming just below the surface and out of reach before they retreated back into the ether and were lost completely.
Joe looked at the faces of the immortals during and after this tale. Each sat transfixed for different reasons. Joe, being a well trained watcher, accurately guessed each immortal's thoughts as Connor droned on. Different breeds of pain were reflected in each set of eyes: loss, regret, memory, realization. This time he just listened 'possible romantic involvement in Spain' the only note he would dare make in the appropriate dates in Ramirez's long-closed chronicle from the entire story. The world should know that he loved her but wasn't entitled to anything more.
Richie had listened silently, too moved by the words to speak afterwards. The weight of immortality was an oppressive thing, and it was moments like these that made him realize just how oppressive it could get with the weight of long years stacked on top of it. To live forever: every young man's dream. Now that he had the chance, it took on an entirely different meaning. Hearing the immortals reminisce about their long lives was enough to depress anyone, especially a young man who at times perceives that pain and loss are the only highlights he has to look forward to.
Amanda also sat in silence, drifting back to her own memories. She too had loved for an all-too-brief time in Spain, some time before that. Still, the descriptions of the villages and people brought back emotions long since buried. She forced them back under with a few swigs of her drink. There were some things she was resolved to never mention, not even to Duncan, and her love affairs with mortals were among them. They were just too painful.
Duncan, on the other hand, felt the pain in every word of Connor's tale. His thoughts immediately drifted back to Tessa, and to Little Dear, and every other mortal woman that had been untimely ripped from him. He wondered what it was like to lose a love to the ravages of time, as Connor described Ramirez had… As Connor himself had. Duncan wondered how much of the emotion was a channeling of Ramirez and how much was simply relation due to his own experience with Heather.
Methos was the only one Joe couldn't peg, partially because so little was known of the Methos Chronicle, but mostly because the old man's emotions were just too hard to read. He didn't know Methos too felt the pain in Connor's voice, but for different reasons. Sure his mind settled briefly on the face of every mortal lover he has buried—Alexa and those before her, but then he was reminded, perhaps in the way Connor described the Spanish hills, even more painfully of his loss of Ramirez. He mentally cursed Kronos and the horsemen in a long-dead language, and he even cursed himself. Listening to Connor relate a portion of Ramirez's life was pure agony, agony that nearly surpassed that which he felt when he heard Duncan shout to Cassandra that he wanted him to live, but this agony would not bring catharsis. There would be no cleansing of the spirit or mending of friendship in any way. Ramirez was dead, and his ghost had come back to torture Methos in a very private way.
His thoughts then wandered to a place he had forbade them to go, and choking down the wave of nausea he quietly excused himself to the men's room just as Connor was finishing his tale. He suddenly thought of Richie, avenging Duncan's death, and later relating a story about the highlands and Deborah Campbell the way Connor had channeled Ramirez. He gripped the sides of the freestanding sink for support, musing about how even Alexa's death had not been so painful, or would not haunt him for this long. But Ramirez's death had been connected to the horsemen, and anything and everything connected to the horsemen would haunt him until his head detached from his shoulders. Now his brothers were dead, they could no longer threaten him or his friends, and most importantly they hadn't cost him MacLeod. Methos felt his strength return as he stood up straighter with the realization. He splashed cold water on his face to return his coloring to normal and banished those thoughts and emotions from whence they came. Methos left the men's room silently vowing that he would not lose Duncan MacLeod, not to the horsemen, not ever.
When Methos sat down again he discovered that the conversation had mercifully shifted its focus to Richie. Joe had decided that it was time to talk about less heavy-handed things. He asked him how his first semester went.
"Pretty well," Richie answered, not trying too hard to hide his pride.
"Ah yes," said Connor, "Duncan told me you finally enrolled in college."
Richie blushed. "Yeah, at Rainier."
"I see. How did you manage that—logistically I mean?" Connor caught himself just in time. Then, to clarify even further: "The last time I checked, Richie, you didn't have a diploma, and all of your records are quite a few years out of date. Not to mention the fact that family history is rather important for college admission."
Joe, Methos, and Richie all laughed, but Duncan and Amanda just smiled proudly, Connor thought, the way that parents often do.
"I got my GED a few years back, right after Tessa died. She always chided me about not finishing school," Richie admitted in a matter of fact tone that carefully hid all emotion. Duncan smiled sadly as he remembered the arguments the two would have on that subject.
"I helped him change the information," Joe explained, smiling.
"Ah." Connor returned the boyish grin. "Why am I not surprised?"
"It probably would have been easier if he let me help him," said Duncan, "but he had this silly notion to keep his application a secret until he got in."
"Let me guess," said Amanda sweetly, "couldn't have lived with yourself if he got our hopes up for nothing?"
"Something like that," said Richie. This time they all laughed.
"But what did you do about the personal information?" Connor asked.
"Ah, now that took a bit of fancy footwork," said Joe, smiling brightly. "The DSS isn't a terribly difficult place to hack, especially into what they consider 'cold files.'"
"Files of kids the department hasn't assigned a social worker to keep tabs on for a while," Methos added.
"So I, uh, removed his entire record from their files."
"You didn't!"
"Sure did," said Methos. "As far as the DSS is concerned, Richard Ryan never existed."
"I'm impressed," Connor declared, nodding his appreciation of the task.
"It gets better," said Duncan, no longer able to keep out of the discussion. All attention turned to him. "We gave his records to the French government."
"You gave them?"
"Yup," said Richie, wanting to be a bigger part of this tale. "According to L' Hopital de Saint Dennis in downtown—er, where was it again?"
"Lyon," Methos supplied.
"Right. According to the hospital in Lyon, I am the poor son of an unwed, teenage mother who abandoned me to the mercy of the doctors and disappeared without a trace."
"Sad story," said Connor, laughing the slight laugh of one whose heart isn't in it. That could very well be the story of all immortals.
"But it has a happy ending," said Richie. "After living as a ward of state, or whatever the French call it, I was officially adopted at age fifteen."
Amanda smiled. She hadn't bothered asking Richie how he managed to 'legally' enter college. She mused that it must have been harder than changing identities.
"This is the good part," said Methos, smiling mischievously.
"He was officially adopted by a French national named Tessa Noel, so he moved into her barge where they, and the live-in boyfriend of twelve years, tried to make a home." Duncan finished the tale, giving only a slight highlight of his legal position as 'live-in boyfriend.'
"This just keeps getting better and better!" Connor exclaimed, laughing outright now.
"Wait," said Richie. "Just before I turn sixteen we move back to the states into a quaint little antique store."
Connor stopped laughing abruptly, casting a glance at Duncan, who then continued the story.
"When Tessa died, I became Richie's legal guardian. He was sixteen, and somehow convinced me that he didn't need to finish high school, instead opting for his GED. That was the winter of 1993."
Connor sat back, his suspicions verified. Tessa adopted Richie, and when she died Duncan became his legal guardian. From what Connor knew of Tessa, he was sure that she would approve.
"So I worked for a few years for my, uh—for Duncan at the dojo, since we sold the antique shop upon Tessa's death." The word went unsaid, but everyone knew what it was. Everyone also knew that, even though the false documents now state the fact plainly, Duncan had felt that way for a long time now. Richie was as close to a son that Duncan would ever have, and as far as Richie is concerned, Duncan and Tessa are the closest he's ever come to having real parents.
"And then you decided that a blue-collar life wasn't for you and applied to University?" Connor asked, smiling once again to lighten the mood.
"Something like that," said Richie, also smiling. "I applied when I was nineteen, took the SAT and everything. Got accepted to Rainier and that's where I'm going. I turned twenty in September."
"So basically you just legalized everything that actually happened, leaving out your living with Duncan before they relocated to Paris and that little bit about breaking into his store, and adjusted your age back two years to make it more believable," Amanda rattled off. She also approved of their efforts, and of the results thus far.
"Pretty much," said Richie. "Richard Noel Ryan has just completed his first semester of college."
"That's wonderful, Richard!" Amanda declared. "I'm proud of you."
Richie just blushed and averted her gaze.
"Is poppa footing the bill for this?" Connor asked Duncan jokingly. It should have been an obvious yes.
"I offered," said Duncan, "but he flat-out refused."
"What?"
"Turning down free money?" Amanda was shocked.
This time Richie looked up, and there was a definite pride in his eyes. "I want to do this on my own," he said.
"But it's so expensive," Amanda stated, still aghast.
"I know," said Richie heavily.
"Are you taking out student loans?" Connor asked.
"I was planning on it, but I didn't have to this year. Apparently having a legal guardian under the French system means that he or she is in no way obligated to provide financial support after the child reaches the age of majority, or some other legal mumbo-jumbo like that."
"So Duncan's off the hook then?"
"Much to his displeasure," said Methos teasingly. Duncan gave him a mock-annoyed glare for his trouble.
"Rainier wound up giving me considerable financial aid. It's almost cheaper than some state schools."
"Not bad," Connor appraised.
"Yeah. And the rest, for this year anyway, is covered by scholarships." Richie said, again glowing with pride.
"It turns out the perpetual grad student over here pointed Richie in the direction of some independently funded scholarships and grants," said Joe, indicating Methos.
"Not bad at all," said Amanda.
"What kind of independent scholarships?" Connor asked, sneaking sidelong glances at the others, who deftly avoided his gaze, all without telegraphing anything to Richie.
"Uh, the American Bartenders' Association—"
"I recommended him for that one," Joe interrupted. "A bunch of bartenders in the union donate money to give scholarships to people who want to go back to school after entering the workforce."
"I see," said Connor, not believing a word of it. And he was right. Methos fronted the money for the dummy scholarship in return for Joe wiping out his entire bar bill. Joe had gladly agreed since the scholarship money was no doubt much higher than Methos's actual tab.
"The other one's from the Brighton Bay society. I have no idea who they are, but apparently they give away lots of money each year to various causes. I just had to submit a request with all my reasons for needing the money and they approved me for a grant." Richie explained, shrugging sheepishly.
"Brighton Bay huh?" Connor mused. Then, shifting his gaze sharply to Duncan: "I've heard of them."
Duncan quickly reached for a takeout box and served himself another helping so that he wouldn't have to look up. "I told you about them about a hundred years ago," he said. "They're great philanthropists."
"I bet," said Connor, doing his best not to laugh. Brighton Bay Antiques was the name of the store Connor owned at the turn of the century in England. Due to societal circumstances Connor was forced to fake his own death and entrusted the running of his store to Duncan. It was how Duncan got his start in the antique business.
Richie sat, smiling and proud and completely unaware that his immortal friends simply refused to take no for an answer to their offer to help him financially. Amanda also sat quietly, apparently enraptured by the story. To her credit she didn't give the secret away, but she knew that the money wasn't coming from independent organizations. She smiled to herself, thinking that Richie was the perfect good cause to rationalize her thieving ways. She would fence the goods, or auction them depending on how long they had been in her collection, and point Richie in the direction of some lesser known art society scholarships…
Amanda's thoughts returned to the conversation as Joe was updating everyone about the state of the game and the current affairs of the watchers. This part of the conversation was more like a debriefing, the older immortals paying close attention.
Methos took the opportunity to excuse himself for a drink, leaving his beer only half finished. Richie, not really paying attention to the affairs of people he'd never even heard of, was the only one to notice how odd it was for Methos to leave an unfinished beer and head to the bar. Something about the old man had been off tonight, Richie was certain of that. He had the same avoidance and defense tactics that he himself employed, but was a good five thousand years ahead of him in skill. Still, Richie was at least able to recognize that there was something bothering Methos, and if Richie's intuition was correct, it had something to do with his past, and ergo possibly to do with Connor himself. However, Richie knew better than to ever ask anything of or about Methos because even if he got an answer he couldn't be certain it was the truth.
Richie concluded that he wasn't enjoying the present conversation and decided to clear the table. He collected the takeout boxes and brought them over to the bar. Methos was standing behind the bar examining the glass he had just poured himself. Richie was surprised (well, maybe not all that surprised) to see that it was simply a different kind of beer. He began disposing of what wouldn't keep and transferring what would into disposable Tupperware containers that he grabbed from a shelf in the kitchen. Pretty soon his curiosity got the best of him.
"What was wrong with your other beer?" He asked Methos.
Methos looked up suddenly and regarded Richie with confusion. He blinked once and the fog abated. "Wrong?" He asked, slightly confused for only partially hearing Richie's question.
"You didn't finish your other beer. It was your third bottle so I'm assuming there wasn't anything seriously wrong with it. Now you're over here drinking a different beer that you pulled from the tap. What gives?"
Methos sighed soundlessly. The kid was observant. He felt anger surge momentarily for his reverie being broken, but it went away just as quickly. After all, doing something like not finishing a beer was an obvious telegraph to anyone that there was something 'up' with him. He laughed at how predictable he'd become on certain things. Then he turned to Richie, who was still expecting an answer to spite his apparent nonchalance as he finished putting the takeout into the disposable Tupperware containers. Methos briefly contemplated telling him that it was none of his damn business (which it wasn't), but then thought the better of it. He didn't want to create added tension between them if Richie would be living off his couch for a while.
"I'm a watcher, remember? I've heard it all before," he said, referring to the present conversation. He was hoping Richie would just accept this as his reason for leaving the table, but somehow he doubted it.
"I know what you mean. I'm only doing this because I don't know who they're talking about," said Richie, referring to his affair with the dishes. He then went back to the table to clear the rest of them. Methos allowed his hopes to rise that Richie wouldn't press the issue. "Immortals, watchers, the game, the gathering. Makes no difference to me any which way what they say," Richie added, returning to the bar to scrape the large remains of food into the garbage.
"What do you mean, it doesn't make a difference to you?" Methos asked, glad for the change of topic. "You're a part of the game. The gathering affects us all."
Richie shrugged half-heartedly. "I know that. It's just, well, every single immortal and watcher that I give a damn about is sitting in this bar right now, momentarily safe from the gathering for their numbers if nothing else," he explained as he continued to clean.
Methos smiled and shook his head; how well Richie understood the way of things. "I see your point," he conceded. "But if you want to stand a fighting chance, you should take advantage of all information provided about your enemies."
"Possible enemies," Richie amended without pause. "Every immortal outside this bar is a possible enemy. That goes for their watchers too."
Methos smiled, the reasoning sounding a lot like his own. The watcher remark might lean a little towards the paranoid, but in Richie's experience the only watcher who hadn't tried to have Duncan killed was Joe Dawson.
"But why pass up the chance to learn all you can about them? Know your enemy, Ryan. Knowledge can serve you better than your sword," Methos said heavily.
"Serve me where? The gathering?" Richie asked incredulously. "Come on, old man. You of all people should realize that I'm not, nor will I ever, be a serious contender for the prize. I was born too late, you know? The world has grown too small. Five'll get you ten I won't live to see a hundred, even if the gathering takes that long." Richie sighed and nodded his head towards the booth. "Mac and Connor are the real contenders here. They're who I'm rooting for anyway. Me? All I have to do is work on not being used against them and staying the fuck out of their way, and maybe I'll get to have a little fun in the meantime."
Richie finished his statement with a grin, but Methos could tell there was nothing behind it. Richie didn't hold any illusions, everything he said had been mostly correct. He would have to make up some serious training time if he were to stand a fighting chance in the game, but Methos could tell that he'd already written himself off. It's not that Methos had picked him as a contender in the game, or even to live to see a hundred with the pace of the gathering as of late, but hearing Richie state it plainly and with such resignation was enough to make even Methos's stomach turn. In truth it's why Richie went back to school, and why he always made certain to spend as much time with his friends as possible. Richie saw his days as numbered, an immortal hounded by the weight of his own brand of mortality. He didn't want to lament any regrets in the split second between the realization that he's lost a challenge and the instant his head is separated from his shoulders.
When Richie got up to put the dishes in the industrial dishwasher Methos was left alone with his own morbid thoughts. After all, even though he had long since given up all desire for the prize, he hasn't yet given up the spark to fight for his own survival, and the current juxtaposition of those two philosophies provided momentary amusement. His reason for surviving had grown beyond selfish desire, however. He now had a purpose to his life, a reason to want to crawl out of bed in the morning, and it was sitting in the booth laughing at some joke or anecdote told by one of his good friends.
Richie was right in that both MacLeods were serious contenders for the prize. However, what Richie failed to see was that Connor didn't have the fire to claim it. He would fight, go through the motions, and probably last a good long while after this, but he wouldn't try to win the game. He would back Duncan when it came down to it, putting his faith in his clansman like so many others had done. Darius, Rebecca, Mei Ling Shen, Cierdwyn, Gærath (or Graham Ashe as he was known to Duncan), and now Methos. Cassandra realized a prophecy about a highland child that waited nearly twenty-five hundred years to come true. She was still a slave then and Methos hadn't paid much attention, already being too cynical to believe in Cassandra's abilities.
However, others did believe it. The Kurgan thought that Connor was the highlander as Cassandra had put it, and so did Ramirez. Roland Kantos went so far as to try and kill Duncan when he was a boy, Felicia Martins went searching for his head, Grayson had been afraid of facing him, and even Kalas gave the highlander his endorsement with his final words: 'stay noble.' Fitzcairn had accused him once of having enemies on every continent, how very true that statement really is.
Methos only saw one snare in his plans for Duncan MacLeod: Richie Ryan. For all intents and purposes the kid was the highlander's son. He cringed to think what would happen if some immortal suddenly killed the beloved student. Methos realized that in order for Duncan to survive, Richie must also survive. Therefore Richie needs to take a more active interest in his own survival, and Methos decided that this holiday break was a good place to start thumping some sense into the boy.
Duncan was known for being fiercely loyal, and for invoking that trait in those around him. Unfortunately he is often times too emotional to think rationally. While this overblown sense of honor and justice is a good portion of the reason the immortal community feels that he is the best candidate to win the prize, it still proves to be his biggest liability. Methos wished he had more of a survivalist mentality, but at the same time knew that he shouldn't change that 'boy scout' aspect of his personality too much. Methos resolved that he just needed guidance, and that's what he was there to provide in his own unique way. He smiled through gritted teeth, realizing how long the list of complications to his ultimate goal truly is.
Richie returned from the kitchen and served himself a beer. Methos had all but forgotten the opening to their previous conversation when Richie said:
"You still haven't told me why you suddenly decided to switch beers."
Methos mentally cursed. The realization of the combined weight of the past and of his newfound responsibility made it difficult for him to have any fun at this get together. Right now he was not in the mood to dance around the issue again, so he settled for the truth.
"Oh, right. I just felt like something different. That's all."
"Any particular reason?" Richie asked. He removed the champagne for the ice bucket and was searching for flutes. Methos walked around the bar to the cabinet where such shaped glasses were kept and handed a few to Richie, saying:
"I decided I was in the mood for real beer, not that cheap stuff you Americans drink."
"I see," said Richie, not quite believing the lie as he gathered the flutes in his hands while Methos picked up the champagne bottle.
"You're well traveled, learn to have some standards," said Methos in an amused yet chiding tone. Richie laughed as they headed back to the booth. Both were relieved that the conversation had switched back to storytelling.
"Who's ready for dessert?" Richie asked, setting a flute in front of each person.
"Great idea, Richie," said Duncan, taking the bottle from Methos and peeling back the foil surrounding the cork. He stood slightly in the booth to get better leverage to open the bottle as Richie sat down. With a devilish grin he eyed Connor, who was just lucky enough to be sitting across from him. He loosed the cork and it went flying across the table, hitting Connor squarely on the chin with a loud pop-crack sound. Connor's head snapped back from the force of the blow. "Oops," said Duncan innocently as the others roared with laughter. "Sorry Connor."
Connor groaned and emitted a long string of Gaelic curses as he rolled his head forward to look at Duncan. He had the makings of a nasty bruise on his chin. After a few seconds it rippled slightly under his skin as Connor's quickening began to repair the damage done below the surface. The discoloring faded a second or so after that, leaving no trace of the injury that had just occurred. By now the laugher had dulled and all eyes were settled on Connor expectantly. He stared levelly at Duncan for a moment before speaking.
"It's alright, Duncan. I'm sure that was just an accident."
"Of course," said Duncan, matching his tone with the smile still lingering in his eyes.
"Of course," Connor echoed with acceptance. Just then Duncan howled with pain and threw himself out of the booth. Everyone was stunned to see a boot knife sticking out of Duncan's right shin just below the kneecap. "So was that."
The laughter returned, louder this time if possible. Duncan sat on the floor chiding himself for not watching where Connor's hands had been. With an over-exaggerated grimace he pulled the knife out, nearly three of the blade's five inches covered in blood.
"You can wash it off too, while you're up," said Connor matter-of-factly.
The others hadn't stopped laughing. Duncan briefly considered hurling the knife into Connor's chest, after all, it was his knife, but the fact that Joe was sitting next to him stopped him before he took aim. He hadn't been that errant in knife-throwing in longer than he could remember (well, no, that wasn't exactly true, but that humiliating event took place hundreds of years ago!), but he wasn't about to stake Joe's life on his skill over a simple trading of injuries between friends. He too muttered something in a foreign tongue under his breath and went over to the sink to wash his blood off the knife. He dried it on his pants and he walked back to the booth.
"Here," he said, handing Connor the knife hilt-first.
"Thank you," said Connor as he re-sheathed the knife in his boot. By now the laugher had truly subsided, but each was still smiling genuinely at the games immortals could get away with. Amanda then took it upon herself to pour the champagne. There was just enough for everyone to have one glass.
"Dom Perignon '85. Connor, you have taste," she appraised as she placed the now empty bottle on the booth beside her. Connor nodded in acquiescence.
"What shall we drink to?" Joe asked.
"Why don't we let Mac make the toast," offered Richie. "After all, I'm assuming the champagne is in honor of his birthday."
Duncan shot Richie an evil look.
"You would be correct," said Connor, smiling triumphantly at his kinsman.
"Yes, MacLeod. Do offer us some traditional holiday cheer," Methos encouraged in that friendly-yet-sarcastic tone of his.
Duncan, seeing no easy way out of this situation and not really wanting to argue the point (especially after just removing one of Connor's many concealed projectiles from his leg), he grit his teeth and stood, overplaying his discomfort at having to make the toast. In all honesty Duncan didn't mind performing such traditional social acts, especially among close friends. What he did mind was that he had been volunteered.
Duncan racked his brain for a few moments for an appropriate blessing for the occasion. Quickly settling on a standard, obligatory toast he'd heard used frequently at reserved upper class dinner parties in the late nineteenth century and knowing full well that Connor, Methos, and even Amanda would recognize the 'I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this, but I'm gonna smile and pretend I like you' undercurrent of meaning in his chosen saying. Grinning slightly, he raised his glass. The others followed suit.
He'd chosen the wrong stuffy, reserved, toast to offer.
"To absent friends," said Duncan, carrying out the stuffy and reserved routine perfectly. Everyone was about to repeat the toast per custom as they brought their glasses towards clinking. Unfortunately, it was the wrong toast to offer. Richie barely missed a beat, saying, before anyone else could speak:
"And dead relatives."
Laughter roared around the table once more. Champagne was slightly spilled from a few glasses as their owners hurried to put them down, fearing to spill more of their contents as they couldn't contain their hysterical fits of laughter.
"Joe, tell me quickly which one of Duncan's acquaintances is noticeably absent!" Connor was barely able to choke out the words.
"But it didn't taste like meatloaf!" Amanda answered, also barely able to talk through her laughter.
"Doesn't your band have a saxophone player?" Methos asked Joe with mock seriousness. This caused everyone's laughter to redouble in intensity. If it were possible for the laughter to intensify again, it did so after Joe's response.
"Well that's a rather tender subject," he said, matching Methos's seriousness. The laughter continued for nearly a minute afterwards, no one being able to speak coherently.
It was then that they noticed Duncan still standing, a look of utter bewilderment and confusion hanging on his face. He was still holding his champagne glass. Amanda looked around and forced herself to stop laughing.
"Hrmm," she said, feigning wonder. "Richie gets it, Adam gets it, Joe gets it, Connor gets it, even I get it…"
More laughter. Duncan sat down. The fact that he had missed some massive joke that the others shared was quite painfully obvious. The fact that it was at his expense was now dawning on him.
"I missed something, didn't I?" He asked, though already knowing the answer.
"Only the secret to life itself," said Richie, overacting and throwing in gesture for good measure. Once again the laughter renewed.
Methos sighed. "Let's not be too hard on him." He then draped his arm around Duncan. "After all, he's obviously still a virgin."
Even more laughter, although this time mostly at Duncan's facial expression than the actual joke. Silently Richie wondered if it were possible for an immortal to die from laughing too hard.
Joe decided that his poor friend had endured enough. "It means you've never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show live," he explained to Duncan.
"The musical?" Duncan asked, finally finding his voice after Methos's prior comment.
"No, the A&E Biography—of course the musical!" Methos said sarcastically.
"If that's what you'd call it," said Connor grinning.
"True," Methos admitted.
"No, I haven't seen it," Duncan admitted, aware now of the source of the inside jokes but still missing their relevance.
Richie picked up on this. "It was your toast Mac, they use it in the movie."
"I thought it was a musical?"
"They filmed a movie version," said Methos, annoyed at how slow Duncan was on the uptake.
"So he's never seen it," said Amanda.
"Buddy, you don't know what you're missing," said Joe.
"Obviously," said Duncan, slight sarcasm showing through.
"We'll have to correct that oversight," Amanda purred, curling her fingers around Duncan's ponytail and relishing the joys of being squashed three and three into one of Joe's booths.
"You'll have to see it in New York," Connor said.
"Harvard Square is better," said Methos. "New York doesn't do all the callbacks."
"Callbacks?" Duncan asked.
"Things the audience shouts at the screen during the show," Richie explained. "Like what I said after you made the toast."
Duncan found that rather hard to believe. "People actually shout at the screen?"
"It's the best part," said Joe. "Well, one of them…" he added cryptically.
"You know, they screen it once a month over in Olympia," Richie informed them.
"Do they now?" Methos mused.
"That's right, they do," Joe corroborated.
"We'll all have to go see it then," Connor declared, grinning that mischievous, boyish grin.
"Agreed," said Amanda definitively.
"Great!" Richie exclaimed. "I shudder with anticip—"
"Richie!" Methos, Connor, and Joe shouted simultaneously.
"What?" Richie shrugged amusedly.
"I look forward to it," Duncan said uneasily. He knew there was no way out of whatever it was they had planned.