The conversation returned to more traditional things as each indulged their own form of alcoholism. The two MacLeods enjoyed their scotch while Joe, Methos, and Richie polished off beer after beer. Amanda would return from the bar with the next round of beers for the men while she would have for herself many incarnations of mixed drinks, some harsh, some mild.
"What is that latest concoction you've fixed yourself now?" Duncan asked, eyeing the reddish-pink liquid in her glass suspiciously.
"What this?" Amanda returned innocently. "Just something I grew fond of that summer I spent on the Vineyard."
"When was that, again? Sometime early this century?" Joe asked, trying to remember her chronicle.
"Not bad, Joseph," said Amanda, impressed. "Actually it was most early spring to late fall, 1933."
"Good memory," Connor appraised.
"Let's just say I had something special to remember," Amanda informed them.
"Man, there are days I can't remember what I had for breakfast in the morning," Richie bemoaned.
"That's because you don't eat breakfast," Duncan reminded him.
"Sure I do," Richie corrected. "It's the best meal that Rainier serves."
"Now that is a sad prospect indeed," Connor informed them.
"Well it's true," Richie insisted.
"You still haven't told us what's in your drink, Amanda," Joe reminded them all.
"You're the bartender here, can't you figure it out?" Amanda teased.
"I have my guesses, but I have no way of being certain what you mixed it with," he said.
"It looks like a cosmopolitan," Duncan offered.
"Close," said Amanda.
"It's a Cape Codder," said Methos, grinning.
"Give the old man a prize!" Amanda declared, raising her glass.
"A what?" Richie asked a heartbeat later.
"A gift given in return for guessing correctly," said Connor slightly mocking.
"Very funny. What's in that thing?" Richie pointed to Amanda's drink.
"Just cranberry juice and vodka, with a twist of lime for effect," Amanda informed them, holding it at eye level so they all could see into the glass like it were some sort of crystal ball.
"Never heard of it," said Connor dismissively.
"That's because you spend all your time drinking scotch," Methos pointed out. Connor didn't refute the point.
"I've never heard of it either," said Richie.
"That's because you've only been legal for a year, Richie," Duncan reminded him, a hint of warning in his voice.
"Aw, c'mon Mac," Richie protested, "how old were you when you had your first beer?"
"Ale," Connor correctly sharply.
"Right, ale, whatever," Richie acquiesced dismissively. "I know you aren't going to tell me it was after you reached legal age."
"There was no legal age in those days, Rich. We were served if we could see over the bar and pay for what we ordered," said Duncan matter-of-factly.
"And you're telling me that you waited until you were old enough?" Richie asked with an air of disbelief. In truth if Duncan had told him he hadn't touched a drop until 1853 Richie probably would have believed him. He just wanted to see where pressuring his former teacher would lead. Joe sat back and listened intently, thinking that this could add perfect color to Duncan's chronicle since not much is known about immortals before their first death with very few exceptions.
"I don't exactly remember how old I was. I just knew that no one had any problems with it."
"Bullshit," said Connor. "You were about twelve and an undisclosed number of you snuck into the tavern through the 'hidden' back door."
Duncan nearly spit out his beer, causing everyone else to laugh. "How'd you know?"
Connor smiled and laughed that staccato laugh. "We all try it around the same age, Duncan. Old enough to be told to keep an eye on the wee ones, but not old enough to be considered a man."
"So you did it to feel older," Joe concluded.
"Mostly," admitted Connor.
"Just like the rest of us," said Richie, grinning triumphantly at Duncan.
"Not so fast," Duncan negated steadily, trying to save face. "It wasn't illegal back then. The worst possible consequence would be facing my father's belt for a few quick lashings. No one else would have made a big deal of it."
"Oh." Richie's voice suddenly grew quiet. "I can relate to that."
"What do you mean, relate?" Amanda asked him, suspicion in her voice, and Richie instantly regretted the statement.
"It's nothing, really. Nothing new anyway."
"Well if it's nothing then you won't mind sharing," said Duncan, making a bid to trap the young immortal with his own words. It wasn't done with malicious intent, by any means. It was more along the lines of a paternal need to know.
Richie sighed. In he decided that this story was a safe one to tell, given the range of severity of the others still unrevealed.
"I guess I was thirteen," he began. "My latest foster parents were alcoholics. He drank more than she did. The downstairs was always littered with empty beer cans. Place reeked like the morning after a frat party." Richie looked up to see the look on Duncan's face. "What? They there were two of them, holding steady jobs, no criminal record. Golden opportunity for the state to unload one of its charges." Pause. "They passed the rudimentary background check anyway."
Amanda was disgusted. "Must have been very rudimentary."
"Yeah well, like I said, the state wasn't exactly screening heavily. They had jobs and no record, so what could go wrong? At least, what could look wrong on paper?"
"Legally how could they have known," Connor concluded.
"Exactly," said Richie. "So anyway, there was always lots of beer in the house. It didn't take me long to figure out that they wouldn't miss a few if I, ah, liberated them to my room. Boy, was I wrong."
"He caught you?" Duncan asked.
"Yeah. I'd had, I dunno, maybe two beers. Two and a half I think. I wasn't feeling too good. I was half passed out on my bed when he came storming into the room, drunk off his ass and mad as hell. He called me an ingrate, and a thief, and a few other choice names I won't repeat." Another pause, Richie collected himself, knowing he wouldn't get away with not continuing with the tale. "He pulled me up by my shirt. I honestly don't remember what he said. The whole room was spinning. I do remember that he got real mad when I threw up on him."
Methos choked back a laugh. Richie smiled at the memory, his only revenge for his treatment. Then he continued,
"He was so loud, he woke her up. I—I remember she stumbled into the room wearing a large tee shirt and worst case of bed-head I'd ever seen. He told her—" Richie faltered, the memory obviously still painful for him. "He told her that nothing was going on and that she should go back to bed. And… she went. She mumbled something incoherent, nodded her head, and walked back across the hall to their bedroom and shut the door." There was anger in Richie's voice now, and it was reflected on everyone's face as Richie finished his story.
"I think I might have passed out, soon after that. I remember, you know, one minute seeing her leave, and the next I was on the floor against the wall. For the life of me I don't know if he threw me or if he let go of my shirt and I fell down." Another pause, halting, as if he didn't know how to proceed. "I remember everything was hazy. I think I hit my head against the wall, or maybe it was the alcohol. I saw him take off his belt before I passed out." Richie looked away, carefully avoiding making eye contact.
It didn't appear as though the story was going to continue. Everyone else was waiting patiently, not wanting to rush Richie or pressure him into telling anything that he wasn't ready to reveal. His life before meeting Duncan is still something he guards very closely. Duncan gritted his teeth and half smiled, musing that getting Richie to open up was sometimes harder than with Methos. Still, he needed to hear how the story ended, his emotions torn between his desires to protect Richie and to make the foster father pay dearly for everything he had done.
"What happened after you passed out," Duncan asked, concern mixing with urgency in his voice.
Richie inhaled deeply before continuing. "I'm not exactly sure. I woke up the next afternoon. My clothes were changed and I was tucked into my bed. I think she did that. She was… motherly, when she was sober." Richie smiled at some hidden joke. "Anyway, I was sore all over. Felt like a train hit me. And I had a massive hangover. I was sick a few more times, and then I took a cold shower. It made the hurt less, washed off some of the—dried blood and stuff. I think it was the buckle, from the shape of some of the welts. We never spoke of what happened, not that they were the type to carry on conversation anyway."
"That's it?" Joe asked, stunned, interrupting the silence that had descended.
"Pretty much," said Richie. "I'm just glad I slept through my punishment. He died, two months later. Heart attack. The state shuffled me off to another foster home, but that was my first time getting drunk." Richie finished his tale and stared into his own beer, his look telegraphing that he wouldn't be finishing it any time soon.
To everyone else, he seemed such the lost little boy. How could anyone want to harm him? Idly Methos wondered if it would comfort him to know that everyone at the table was currently contemplating what they would have done to the man had they been able to lay hands on him. Then Connor tried to lighten the mood.
"My punishment was chores. I think my father sent me around to every household in Glenfinnan, making sure I had enough odd jobs to keep me occupied for nearly a week straight."
"Ha!" exclaimed Joe, taking the hint. "Mine was better. My dad caught me and a buddy with a six pack when I was fourteen." Richie looked up expectantly. "His punishment was to grab another from the fridge and drink with us."
"That's a punishment?" Richie asked in disbelief.
"You bet," said Joe. "After we finished each can he'd ask us if we wanted another. The whole while he was sipping his slowly, but my buddy and I didn't realize it at the time."
"So you drank yourselves sick," Methos stated, an amused grin on his face.
"My buddy and I passed the night in the bathroom paying homage to the porcelain god. Whoever felt that they could stand at the time was forced to use the sink. My mother was giving us water whenever she thought we could keep it down. My father, I don't recall where he was. I just remember his voice coming from somewhere, laughing at me."
"I bet you learned your lesson," said Richie, finally leaving his troubled memories for the moment.
"Oh yeah," said Joe readily. "That morning—or was it afternoon? I dunno. At some point my father drove my buddy home. He was gone a while, so I'm assuming he was filling my buddy's parents in on the situation. They were Baptists—I'd hate to have been in Ted's shoes!" Everyone laughed at that.
Joe continued, determined to showcase the humor in the situation. "Anyway, my mother forced me into a cold shower. I'm pretty sure I had to sit down through it, but I don't exactly remember. Then they put me to bed with a giant glass of water and a bucket, and that's how I had to pass the weekend."
"What a pleasant story, Joseph. Thank you," said Amanda, sarcastically but lightly.
"I'll bet you didn't drink for a long while after that," said Duncan.
"And you would be correct my friend," Joe admitted. "In fact, neither of us touched a drop again until… wow, not 'til Vietnam nearly five years later."
"You see, that's the way it should be done," said Richie. "If the foster father of the month had any sense he would have taught me the real consequences of my actions as opposed to—"
"Tempting the bloody hell out of you to act in spite of him?" Duncan offered, saving Richie the necessity of finishing his statement.
"Exactly," said Richie, surprised.
"And what about you, Amanda sweet?" Connor asked. "You've been rather quiet."
"I'll bet she was stealing drinks right and left," said Duncan. "Or conning some rich buffoon into buying them for her."
Amanda shot him a withered look. "Sure, I worked the taverns," she said, "I'd pick a pocket or two and then beat the hell out of there fast. The penalty for drinking was a night in the stockade, and that's only for public drunkenness. Stealing, however, brokered a hanging."
"Was that how you died the first time?" Joe asked.
"You've read my chronicle, don't you know?"
"The watchers don't have anything on you before you started training with Rebecca," Methos told her.
"I see," said Amanda. Then, looking at Joe: "I'll make it easy for you to remember, Joseph. I was being chased by the authorities for stealing a loaf of bread, and then clubbed from behind. Blunt head trauma, not a pleasant way to die the first time, especially if it doesn't kill you instantly. I finally bought it in the mass grave as they were getting ready to cover it. The next thing I remember is waking up to Rebecca's face."
"All that for a loaf of bread?" Richie asked, stunned.
"Human life wasn't worth spit back then Richie," Amanda said sadly. "Especially the lives of the poor."
"Oh I believe you," said Richie a little too readily.
Amanda looked over at him and her expression softened. A silent moment of understanding passed between them. Of everyone here, Amanda and Richie have the most in common, at least as far as mortal lives are concerned.
"So when did you first taste the drink?" Connor asked, eager to change directions to lighter things.
"With Rebecca. We had wine my first dinner with her."
"Never before that? Not even once?" Asked Duncan, a little surprised.
"With the penalty for stealing so high, Duncan, do you think I'd risk my life stealing anything but food, or using money to buy anything else?" Asked Amanda, slightly annoyed.
"I suppose not," he admitted.
"Fascinating," said Joe to no one in particular.
"Now excuse yourself to the bathroom to go write it down," said Methos as though he was direct a small child.
Joe shot him a look of his own. "Very funny, old man. But you haven't told us your story yet."
"Now this I gotta hear," said Duncan, straightening in his seat.
Methos just stared into his beer.
"I bet alcohol wasn't invented yet," said Richie jokingly.
"Alcohol has been around since time began," Methos said into his beer.
"So have you," Joe reminded him without thinking.
Methos looked up sharply at this, giving Joe a look that conveyed both feelings of betrayal and hatred. Joe flinched and shifted in his seat, knowing he came dangerously close to breaking Methos's cover in front of Connor.
"What? Just because Adam has a personality to rival cantankerous old Mr. Wilson doesn't mean we have to joke about how he always acts so much older than he really is." Duncan tried to imitate Methos's best mocking tone in his best effort to cover for the mistake. Methos turned a questioning eye his way.
"Yeah," said Amanda, catching on. "You'd think he was older than I am!"
Methos smiled, touched and impressed at their readiness to keep his secret.
Connor offered no evidence either way as to what his feelings were. It was true that Benjamin Adams acted much older at times than he admitted to being, and that he was often far too jaded and cynical for a man of those years. Connor laughed slightly, knowing that one's attitude was far from indicative. He had his suspicions, however unfounded, but they were far out of pace for a supposed evening of celebration such as this.
The mood seemed to lighten and the conspirators seemed content that the disaster had been avoided. After a brief pause, each retreating to their own thoughts, the conversation resumed.
"You still haven't told us about your first magical encounter with beer," said Joe.
"Yeah, Adam. They way you worship the stuff I'm willing to bet there's a good story in it," Duncan added.
Methos quirked a smile. There was a good story, at that. "Like Amanda I didn't touch the stuff until after my first death. And even then, the drink of choice was mead, or wine if you could afford it."
"What, no beer?" Joe asked. Mentally he was altering the story to accommodate for Methos's age and the fact that he had confessed to having no memory before the taking of his first head. Joe didn't know whether or not to believe him on that count, but as far as this tidbit of information went, Joe gathered that the important part was that Methos didn't try beer until much later in life.
"No beer," echoed Methos, once again staring absently into his glass. "I don't remember when I first tried mead, only that I didn't much care for it. And I was never rich enough to buy wine. I had… modest beginnings I'm afraid."
The others sat, momentarily spellbound. Methos had never shared anything mundane about his past, and certainly never anything from so long ago. With the exception of the horsemen incident, Methos's only divulgences came in the form of anecdotes and pointed parables about his experiences with the clear purpose of giving the others some perspective, or to tip the balance of Duncan's actions.
However, they were never from so long ago. Cassandra is one of the oldest know living immortals, but she is barely 3300. That means that Methos was older than Amanda is now during the time of the horsemen, which makes for a lot of years unaccounted for in the early stages Methos's chronicle. They were each itching for some information.
"So how come you drink it so much now?" Asked Richie, giving voice to the unspoken question.
"Perhaps because I like it," Methos said sharply, irritated.
Richie looked away as if stung, but said nothing. The two had been getting along so well this evening. Painfully he remembered Methos's feelings and pointed comments towards him during the 'phony Methos' incident. For some reason, he wanted to earn the immortal's respect. Mortals he didn't much care about, but immortals, especially friends of Duncan, he was desperately keen on making a good impression with.
Methos noticed this but chose to say nothing. He would have an undisclosed amount of time to 'straighten' the kid out, and he had no wish to spoil the rest of his already tumultuous evening by beginning those arguments now.
"So when did you first try the stuff, if you're so keen on it?" Connor asked, not about to let him off the hook.
The tone of Connor's voice assaulted Methos's ears. It was low, slow, and frigid, almost as though it were a taunt slung at an opponent during a challenge. Methos looked up and regretted doing so as he found himself pinned by Connor's piercing gaze. While Duncan's eyes were painfully capable of showcasing his broad spectrum of emotion, the elder MacLeod could convey an easier, more natural expression of cold, hard reasoning that barely but carefully concealed pure malice. Methos knew that look well, for he had patented it during his reign as Death.
Methos took a slow draught from his glass, draining it almost in a bid for more time. He could still feel Connor's eyes upon him, along with everyone else's. Unfortunately for him, he realized that Connor's very presence brought his guilt over Ramirez surging to the surface of his conscious thought. That, coupled with Connor's deadpan impersonation of Death made Methos resigned to the fact that there was no way he could dodge around this question. Ramirez was kicking for the story to be told, probably from the forefront of Connor's own mind as his quickening swan inside that of his student's, and with a sigh Methos accepted that he couldn't refuse Ramirez this final… request. Begrudgingly he rose from the booth.
"Well, since this story is about beer," he began, "it's best told over a pint or six." Methos walked to the bar and filled two pitchers with the dark malt flavor he had been drinking previously, mentally reasoning out how he would tell this tale while keeping his identity a secret from Connor, the horsemen a secret from Amanda and Richie, and all the while making sure that Duncan and Joe picked up on every word and secret meaning. By the time he returned to the table and began pouring the rounds he had a pretty good idea of how to begin.