Author's Note: Please note, I changed the date of the first two chapters.
Also, in the first chapter, I said the 26th was a Sunday, when it is in
fact a Monday, but it plays nicely into the next chapter. Also, as almost
a year has passed since last chapter, and both Asher and Richie were born
in September, both have celebrated another birthday.
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September 26, 2006, 1030 AM, Paris, France
Alone. He was alone. He had not been alone, not like this, since Alexa had died. And even then, he had had Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod to turn to. Now he had no one.
He cursed loudly. He cursed again, and again, and again. He remembered his last words. And while he remembered the tenderness of those words, and in that parting kiss, he knew neither had said, "I love you."
But the sentiments had been there. He knew they had bee, He had felt them, had felt it. Love was lessened every time it was spoken, he would take a kiss any day. In this, if in nothing else, he preferred emotion to words. Duncan MacLeod had always been the opposite, and perhaps, it was for that, that they had always complimented each other so well.
He remembered when they had first met. And, he had offered Duncan McLeod his head, and he had left Paris, remembering how close how he had been, imagining how Duncan MacLeod's hair might feel on his fingers, how dark his eyes were when he was impassioned. And, then he had come back. Joe had convinced him, but he had not needed much convincing. Don Salzer's, his mentor and good friend, death gave him the excuse he needed; the excuse to see the highlander again. But Amanda had been there, and he had not seized his chance. And, then Kristin had shown, and so had he. And, he had the highlander alone, and his nose had been painted, and the long uphill struggle had commenced for him there. It had peaked he thought, when Duncan MacLeod wore his sweater, that same sweater he had worn the day Duncan MacLeod had painted his nose, almost a year or more later, when the Immortals and Watchers had been brinking on war.
He had loved Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod had known it. For Methos had loved him unlike he had loved anyone, unlike Ruth, or Alexa, certainly unlike Byron (as that always been more of a mutual gratifying pleasure), unlike his other sixty-seven wives. The Highlander had been special, a class by himself.
But it no longer mattered. Duncan MacLeod was dead.
Methos frowned. He needed to escape the barge.
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"Bring out more of the whiskey, Havyn too, will you?" Richie called over his shoulder to his chief bartender.
"Sure thing, captain!" she called cheerily back. Little too cheerily, Richie thought, and she had only taken to calling him 'captain' since he and Asher had returned from Switzerland.
Shaking his head, Richie Ryan returned to stocking the newly cleaned glasses onto the shelves, listening to the muted sounds of the American- influenced pop-rock station playing on the portable radio. It was still early, only barely ten. But Havyn had arrived early, claiming she was bored, and Richie had put her straight to work, claiming much pre-opening work to be done.
"Did you want the rum too?" she called back again.
"Might as well. But just one bottle." Richie finished shelving the glasses, and he grabbed a rag to wipe down the counter. He heard the door chimes at the very same moment he felt the presence of another Immortal enter the bar. "We're not open," he muttered.
"How about for old, dear friends?"
"Adam!" Richie yelped surprised. "Didn't expect you here for some hours yet."
"Yeah, well," he waved his hand half-heartedly, at a loss of what to say. "I've had a difficult morning."
"Thought you'd drown it in a beer?"
"Something like that," Methos mumbled, but Richie had already slid a beer across the wood to him. "Thanks."
Richie nodded, finished wiping the counter, and he threw the rag aside, to lean across the counter to chat better. "So'd you hear Mike and Darcy might be coming for a visit?"
"No, I hadn't. Bringing Colin this time, or is he to stay with Mike's mother again?"
"I think they may bring him this time. Want him to see the country he was born in, I guess." Richie shrugged, squinting to look closer to Methos' haggard expression. "Did you get any sleep last night, old man? You look like you swallowed the car's motor oil driving over here, or like the car drove you."
Methos raised an eyebrow at Richie's anthologies, two which Richie shrugged again, and grinned to sheepishly. "No, nothing like that." This time, Richie raised his eyebrows, and Methos let another sigh. "I had a visit from the authorities today, not long after I had called you. . ."
"And?"
"I found MacLeod."
"Really? That's great. Where?"
"In the morgue," he whispered, the truth of it growing more real as he spoke it out loud. "Dead."
"Oh, well," clearly Richie was not concerned, "you helped him to escape, right? I mean, there are few worse places to re-wake than a morg. . ."
"Richie," Methos interrupted gently, "you misunderstand me. When I said MacLeod was dead, I meant dead."
"Dead?"
"Dead," repeated Methos, and he drained his beer.
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September 26, 2006, 1030 AM, Paris, France
Alone. He was alone. He had not been alone, not like this, since Alexa had died. And even then, he had had Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod to turn to. Now he had no one.
He cursed loudly. He cursed again, and again, and again. He remembered his last words. And while he remembered the tenderness of those words, and in that parting kiss, he knew neither had said, "I love you."
But the sentiments had been there. He knew they had bee, He had felt them, had felt it. Love was lessened every time it was spoken, he would take a kiss any day. In this, if in nothing else, he preferred emotion to words. Duncan MacLeod had always been the opposite, and perhaps, it was for that, that they had always complimented each other so well.
He remembered when they had first met. And, he had offered Duncan McLeod his head, and he had left Paris, remembering how close how he had been, imagining how Duncan MacLeod's hair might feel on his fingers, how dark his eyes were when he was impassioned. And, then he had come back. Joe had convinced him, but he had not needed much convincing. Don Salzer's, his mentor and good friend, death gave him the excuse he needed; the excuse to see the highlander again. But Amanda had been there, and he had not seized his chance. And, then Kristin had shown, and so had he. And, he had the highlander alone, and his nose had been painted, and the long uphill struggle had commenced for him there. It had peaked he thought, when Duncan MacLeod wore his sweater, that same sweater he had worn the day Duncan MacLeod had painted his nose, almost a year or more later, when the Immortals and Watchers had been brinking on war.
He had loved Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod had known it. For Methos had loved him unlike he had loved anyone, unlike Ruth, or Alexa, certainly unlike Byron (as that always been more of a mutual gratifying pleasure), unlike his other sixty-seven wives. The Highlander had been special, a class by himself.
But it no longer mattered. Duncan MacLeod was dead.
Methos frowned. He needed to escape the barge.
-----------------------------------------------
"Bring out more of the whiskey, Havyn too, will you?" Richie called over his shoulder to his chief bartender.
"Sure thing, captain!" she called cheerily back. Little too cheerily, Richie thought, and she had only taken to calling him 'captain' since he and Asher had returned from Switzerland.
Shaking his head, Richie Ryan returned to stocking the newly cleaned glasses onto the shelves, listening to the muted sounds of the American- influenced pop-rock station playing on the portable radio. It was still early, only barely ten. But Havyn had arrived early, claiming she was bored, and Richie had put her straight to work, claiming much pre-opening work to be done.
"Did you want the rum too?" she called back again.
"Might as well. But just one bottle." Richie finished shelving the glasses, and he grabbed a rag to wipe down the counter. He heard the door chimes at the very same moment he felt the presence of another Immortal enter the bar. "We're not open," he muttered.
"How about for old, dear friends?"
"Adam!" Richie yelped surprised. "Didn't expect you here for some hours yet."
"Yeah, well," he waved his hand half-heartedly, at a loss of what to say. "I've had a difficult morning."
"Thought you'd drown it in a beer?"
"Something like that," Methos mumbled, but Richie had already slid a beer across the wood to him. "Thanks."
Richie nodded, finished wiping the counter, and he threw the rag aside, to lean across the counter to chat better. "So'd you hear Mike and Darcy might be coming for a visit?"
"No, I hadn't. Bringing Colin this time, or is he to stay with Mike's mother again?"
"I think they may bring him this time. Want him to see the country he was born in, I guess." Richie shrugged, squinting to look closer to Methos' haggard expression. "Did you get any sleep last night, old man? You look like you swallowed the car's motor oil driving over here, or like the car drove you."
Methos raised an eyebrow at Richie's anthologies, two which Richie shrugged again, and grinned to sheepishly. "No, nothing like that." This time, Richie raised his eyebrows, and Methos let another sigh. "I had a visit from the authorities today, not long after I had called you. . ."
"And?"
"I found MacLeod."
"Really? That's great. Where?"
"In the morgue," he whispered, the truth of it growing more real as he spoke it out loud. "Dead."
"Oh, well," clearly Richie was not concerned, "you helped him to escape, right? I mean, there are few worse places to re-wake than a morg. . ."
"Richie," Methos interrupted gently, "you misunderstand me. When I said MacLeod was dead, I meant dead."
"Dead?"
"Dead," repeated Methos, and he drained his beer.