"I don't get it." Richie stabbed at the ground beef that was frying on the stove, breaking the chunks up a little further. He wasn't sure yet what the ground beef was going to turn into: tacos, maybe, or the stuffing for the bell peppers that had materialized in his fridge a couple days ago. All he knew is that the meat had been on deep discount and he wasn't going to pass up that kind of deal. Its sizzle filled the room, warring with his desire to speak loudly enough for Methos would hear him over it, and softly enough that the neighbors wouldn't. "He's just going to leave. Up and—" He made a swirling motion with the spatula over his head like it was a magic wand—"gone."

From his ever-present spot on the couch, Methos gave a short hum of acknowledgment—the kind of hum, in fact, that clearly indicated that he wasn't listening to Richie at all.

"Dude!"

Methos glanced up; the glow from his laptop screen lit a path up his face. "What?"

"Liam is splitting town. I know you guys have spoken, like, twice, but you could at least pretend to care. As you have emrepeatedly/em pointed out, I don't have a lot of friends here, and I'm not excited to lose one of the few I do have."

Instead of quipping something back, as Richie expected, Methos stared at Richie for several seconds, his expression a blank, then he sighed. "I'm sure he has his reasons." He clicked a couple keys, then his hands settled to a rest, whatever task that had so occupied his attention now finished — for the moment at least.

"Not good ones!" Richie stabbed at the meat some more, and watched as a small chunk flew from the pan, landed on the range, then bounced onto the burner. It shriveled into carbon and a thin line of smoke before he could rescue it. Fortunately, the fire alarm was broken, so he didn't have to worry about the smoke setting it off. "It would be different if he'd died in public or some—" Richie's phone buzzed from an incoming email, and he reflexively reached for it, bumping the handle on the frying pan. He caught it before the pan could tumble from the stove.

"Put the spatula down and take a step back," Methos ordered. Richie heard the click of the laptop closing and the rustle of Methos standing up; a moment later, hands settled on his shoulders and pushed him toward the kitchen table that was barely far enough from the range to be considered out-of-reach. "Since I'd like to eat something tonight that is not take away, I'll finish up here. You, sit."

"You're going to cook?" Richie couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. In the few months since Methos had moved in, he'd never helped with the cooking. The eating, absolutely. The washing up, sometimes. Never the preparation itself. He tilted his head in suspicion. "What's going on?"

"I'm sure I can manage to fry up some ground beef. Why don't you read that email that just came in. I think you'll want all your attention for it."

Richie's eyes narrowed as his wariness deepened. "Why?"

With a shake of his head, Methos turned toward the stove, making it clear that he wasn't going to give Richie any hints.

So, there was a lesson, then.

Richie hated that. Life would hum along as it did, then out of nowhere, Methos would twist what seemed to be an ordinary event into a teachable moment. Not that the lessons weren't useful, but Richie didn't like being blind-sided by them.

Slowly, he pulled his phone out and thumbed open the most recent email. He read it, read it again, went back to study the header in case he'd read that part wrong, then smirked as he caught up with the obvious catch.

He wasn't going to let Methos trick him this time.

"Ha, ha," he deadpanned, "Very funny. I'm rolling on the floor with laughter. Got a stitch in my side and everything."

Methos watched the meat sizzle in its pan. "Funny?"

"I get it, man. You have mad hacking skills, and sometimes you just gotta show them off." Richie pointed the screen of his phone toward Methos, the email open and on display. "Good job on hacking into the rental agency's email account. I'm impressed."

He wasn't really; while his computer skills were more-or-less limited to getting the spreadsheet software for the studio to produce numbers that made sense, he figured that cracking someone's password probably wasn't that difficult to learn — if he felt like taking the time to do it. "Kinda hitting low with the prank itself, though, don't you think?"

Methos cut him an over-the-shoulder glance, his brow creased. "You think I emhacked/em the rental agency's email?" He spat the verb as if what it described didn't come close to what he had achieved.

"Well, yeah," Richie answered. It was too bad, too: For the second in between when Richie read the update announced in the email and when he considered the information logically, he'd felt a surge of excitement. His rent going emdown/em? And by that much? It would change his life. "Gotta admit: I'm a little fuzzy on the lesson, though. I've already had emplenty/em of internet safety training. That's practically the first thing every job I get hired for bothers to cover."

"There is another possibility you haven't considered."

"Oh, like what?" Richie was past the point of trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. If Methos wanted to play coy, Richie would just have to make it clear that he wasn't falling for whatever trick Methos thought he was getting away with.

The grease sizzled and popped, and Methos reached up and flipped on the fan for the vent. Nothing happened. The vent had never vented, as far as Richie knew, no matter how often they tried the switch, thinking that this time it might work. Methos sighed. "Like—" He emphasized the word—"I didn't hack the email, because it's emmy/em email."

"What does that mean? You got an email just like the agency's?" Richie peered again at the message, searching the address for an underscore or transposed letters or anything that could have misled him. Nothing jumped out, and he looked his question back at Methos—whom he now realized stood as far back from the stove as possible without standing on Richie's feet. "Dude, might be easier to get the cooking done if you got closer."

Acquiescing, Methos took a small step forward. "I'm trying not to get hit with grease spatter," he explained, rubbing at a spot on his forearm. "And what I emmean/em is that I bought out the leasing agency … and all their properties. I'm the landlord now."

Richie couldn't have just heard what he thought he'd heard. He flicked his head, as if to dislodge water trapped in his ear. "Say what?"

"I bought the company," Methos repeated. Instead of elaborating, he busied himself fishing through a cabinet in search of spices.

Figured.

Richie still wasn't convinced he'd heard correctly. While the individual words made sense, the totality presented a huge issue: Money. Namely, the fact that he'd assumed Methos didn't have any. Why else would he insist on rooming with Richie?

"You bought the company?" Richie sprung to his feet, the phone still clutched in his hand. The white light from the screen flashed off the walls and floor as he gesticulated and gave voice to those questions. "Are you telling me that you have enough money laying around to embuy a fucking building/em, and instead you decided to move in with me? Where, I might add, you've 'let' me foot nearly all the rent? And the utilities?"

"Remind me to add cooking and palate development to your training roster," Methos commented as he eyed the meager selection of spice jars that now clustered on the counter. "I had more variety to work with before Marco Polo wandered across Asia."

"And the groceries!" Richie had completely forgotten his earlier effort to keep his voice down. The neighbors in the apartment on the other side of the stove banged on the wall in a sharp reminder that others could be listening. "You've made me pay for nearly all the groceries." Except for the peppers. Probably.

Methos turned, finally facing Richie straight on. He, at least, had the courtesy to look chagrined at being called out on how he'd taken advantage of Richie's generosity. "I've finally been able to tap into some resources that weren't easy to access. We'll have a talk about the dos and don'ts of financial backup plans another time. As for you covering the rent: Why do you think I lowered it so much? That number—" He gestured toward the phone—"isn't going to change appreciably. For as long as I live. Consider this apartment rent controlled now, and my half of the rent paid back."

Richie stumbled in his pacing around the small stretch of kitchen floor. Rent controlled? Starting with a number like the one in the email? Essentially forever? That was better than any dream. He might actually be able to start banking some money. "Seriously?"

"Totally."

That left only one question: "So … if you own the building now, does that mean you're finally going to get your own place?"

Not that Richie didn't appreciate Methos stepping into the teacher role, but did they really have to live together for it to be effective? Pretty much the first thing that happened after he became Immortal was him moving emout/em of MacLeod's, and he'd learned just fine then. True, this apartment was technically a two-bedroom, so they had their own spaces. That, however, was more a function of creative wall-addition than architectural intent.

To his surprise, the possibility that Methos might actually move out left Richie feeling oddly hollow. First Liam, now Methos. It wasn't right. Only out of habit did he manage to add, "I know there's a vacancy downstairs…"

"No." Methos shook his head, and turned back toward the stove, hiding his expression. "It's complicated."

"Complicated, how?" The answer struck Richie as soon as he asked: Every decision Methos made was about furthering his own survival. He'd always been perfectly candid in admitting that — except right now, where he didn't seem to want to admit to anything.

"That's emalso/em a conversation for another time."

"Dude! Come on, you gotta give me something. Is someone after you? Is that what's going on? Another one of your bad decisions from back in the day has discovered you're still alive and now they're out for revenge? Is that it?"

"No," Methos answered, then: "not that I'm aware of." Richie thought he caught a note of amusement in the denial.

Richie shoved the kitchen chair back into place so he had a little more room to pace in. It didn't help, so he dragged a hand through his hair instead. He could let this go, but he didn't want to. While the financial debt had been settled—or would be settled in a few months—he'd gotten to know Methos well enough to understand that Methos wouldn't keep dropping these hints of trouble if he didn't want Richie to ask about them. "Then, what?"

The neighbors banged on the wall again in a series of loud thumps that rattled the light hanging over the kitchen table.

Methos folded his arms and leaned back against the counter, the spatula still in his grip like some kind of scepter. "If you really must know, I took a Quickening."

The confession overlapped with the end of the pounding, and the words landed softer than Methos probably intended. They, in fact, seemed disappointing in their mundanity. Immortals took Quickenings; it was part of the package. They were so hardly worth mentioning that they almost never did. Hell, after Richie's most recent Quickening, the only thing Methos had to say about it was that Richie would need to be extra attentive to cleaning his sword.

"Yeah, so … what?" Richie asked. "Was it really bad? Are you, like, emevil/em now?" He peered closer at Methos, as if he'd be able to spot some new aura that he hadn't previously noticed.

Besides the white undershirt Methos wore that has grease spots peppering the front and that perhaps needed a little extra attention in the pit area, he didn't see anything untoward.

"It wasn't a Dark Quickening," Methos assured him. That the response dodged the actual question didn't escape Richie's notice—though aside from becoming a slumlord, Methos had never seemed to exhibit any evil behaviors.

An awful thought struck Richie, and he spoke it before even considering whether he might be signing his own death warrant. "Was it Mac's? It wasn't Mac's, wasn't it? Cause I don't think I could forgive you for that."

The expression Methos turned on Richie silently condemned Richie for the accumulation of emevery/em stupid thing Richie had ever said, and it was all Richie could do not to slink away.

"You just spoke with him two—or was it three?—weeks ago."

"Oh. Yeah," Richie agreed, at the reminder. Mac had called Richie to let him know that Mac was going to one of his island retreats for awhile and wouldn't have any internet connectivity. Nothing about that was suspicious.

Methos was certainly crafty and capable of planning a long, emlong/em way in advance, but Richie didn't think even he could have predicted exactly the conversation Richie and Mac would have, then convinced Mac to record his half months ahead of time, to be saved and used for a future alibi.

"And Connor's head is just fine, too." Methos preempted Richie's next question. The fact that they both knew two people who used Mac as a nickname had a way of creating some semantic wiggle-room—a feature Methos had once tried to exploit. Richie still felt proud of himself for seeing through that one. "At least, as far as I know. I'm sure you've spoken to him far more recently than I have."

Richie shrugged. Methos' social life was his business. Never mind that Methos didn't extend the same courtesy to him. Of course, if he hadn't, Richie wouldn't have a girlfriend right now, so maybe he had to let Methos off the hook with this one.

"It wasn't any of your friends."

Though the assurance was nice, the continued clarification had an edge of desperation. That pointed to one conclusion in Richie's mind: If the Quickening hadn't belonged to one of emhis/em friends, it must have belonged to one of Methos'. He was bound to have known people over the centuries who weren't genocidal monsters. Maybe this one had been one of the good guys.

Richie nodded and hummed noncommittally. "Good to know, man." He was trying to think of what to ask next when Methos spoke again.

"As I said when I arrived, I just need to lay low for awhile." Methos turned back to continue the cooking, as if in doing so, he was putting a pin in the conversation.

Which brought them back to the whole roommate thing. Richie didn't want to let this topic go either. He spun on his heel, seeking an outlet for his pent up frustration. He'd liked having his own place; though, realistically, he wouldn't have been able to stay sans roommate much longer—not with the rent he'd been paying.

He'd dwelled on it enough to conclude that maybe the issue wasn't that he had a roommate so much as Methos hadn't given him a say in the matter.

And still wasn't.

That was safer ground to address than sussing out the details of the Quickening Methos seemed like he wanted to talk about, except for when given the opportunity to talk about it.

"Sure? But … it's kinda been awhile."

A plastic bag crinkled as Methos ripped it open; pots and pans rattled; the water ran in the sink. Methos' body blocked him from seeing what exactly any of those activities produced, though the scent of the spices Methos had chosen began to fill the apartment, and Richie's stomach rumbled loudly.

At last a lid clanked into place on the pan, and Methos turned again to face Richie. "You might as well get used to me, then, because 'awhile' isn't over."

Richie scrubbed his face, defeated. This again: Your idea of recent, or my idea? Your idea of a long time, or mine?

At least they both agreed on what 'cheap rent' meant. Maybe that was one of Methos' self-serving choices too, but since Richie also benefited from it, he shouldn't complain.

Methos rubbed at his arm, leaving a red mark on his skin. "You're doing me a big favor, Rich."

Of all the statements Richie imagined he'd hear, that wasn't one of them. That Methos had decided to become Richie's teacher was from a favor called in, and Richie had half-expected to learn that accepting Methos' tutelage would leave him in debt. For Immortals, favors were the second most valuable thing they had.

Richie couldn't keep his eyes from widening in surprise; so much for playing it cool. "A favor?" That was … well, it wasn't quite the same thing as getting a choice about sharing his place, but he'd take it. He mouthed a "wow" that held not a trace of sarcasm.

"Bigger than you know," Methos added. His solemn tone drove home that he'd chosen his words deliberately. A moment passed, then he grimaced and shook his body, as if sloughing off any further comment.

He gestured to the pan. "That needs to simmer for half an hour with the lid on. Don't peek or it won't cook correctly. Until then, I'm going to go start a list of all the things that need to be repaired and replaced around here—starting with improved sound proofing." He cast a poisoned gaze toward the wall they shared with the neighboring apartment before starting back toward the couch, and the laptop that awaited there.

Richie spun the kitchen chair around and dropped onto it, propping his arms across the back. "Great! I have a embunch/em of suggestions."

"I'm sure you do," Methos answered, dryly. He settled onto the couch, and pulled the towel across his thighs to protect them from the heat of the laptop before bringing his attention once more to bear on Richie. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about Liam." Something that looked like real sympathy glinted in Methos' eyes. "Give him time. He's frightened—justifiably so. Eventually, he'll want to reconnect again. A century or so from now, it'll be like nothing changed."

"Yeah," Richie managed, without much enthusiasm. Knowing that he and Liam might resume a friendship in a hundred years didn't help him understand Liam's decision to leave now. And he didn't want to wait to figure it out. No matter what Methos thought, a hundred years was a long time. "Still hurts."

Methos drummed his fingers on his laptop and his brow creased in consideration as he stared into a distance better measured in years than in feet. Finally, he stated, "It always does."

"Thanks, man." Richie felt like Methos had revealed something important, whether he could pinpoint exactly what that was or not. That simple 'thanks' felt inadequate, yet anything more threatened to make Methos clam up all together. Better not to push it, he decided. Not until he'd signed the new rental contract, at least.

Re-settling his arms on the chair back, he leaned forward until the chair balanced only on its two back legs. "So, since you're renovating anyway, how about springing for carpet that emdoesn't/em reek of weed?"

"That may be asking too much," Methos answered, once more looking at the shared wall, this time in silent reminder that the occupants of that apartment had their own vices. "I'm not a miracle worker."

Richie's laugh echoed through the room. "Your secret is safe with me."