As Richie recognized his gaff, he scrambled for a cover. His fists dropped, the adrenaline that'd powered the physicality now freezing him. This was bad. This was really, really bad. He needed an excuse, an exit strategy that was more than 'turn and run away,' because he knew he wouldn't get far with all the people in the way. It was too late to pretend that he wasn't who she thought he was. He couldn't play the "I'm my own kid" card that was Mac's standard excuse when people questioned how the Duncan MacLeod they'd known thirty years before looked so much like the one standing in front of them; Maria knew that he hadn't had any kids when he was twenty. And he certainly couldn't claim to merely have good skin or a fortunate hairline; no forty year old man could pass for half his age without a great deal of theatrical help. With no ready excuses, he had nothing at all to say.

Maria recovered her aplomb before he did. Flinging up her arms, she spoke to the gathered crowd, "Fight's over. The real show will start in about ten minutes. Please take your seats." It was a tone used to giving orders and having them followed; after only a moment's hesitation, the audience began to comply.

"Ma'am?" the security guard asked. He was a big guy, a lot of muscle that had mostly gone to weight, with sagging features, yet his gaze was set hard; he took his job seriously, and disturbances on his watch would not be permitted.

"It's OK, Don," Maria answered. "I know him. He won't cause any more trouble. Right?" She nailed Richie with a look that he'd never been able to withstand.

Richie nodded dumbly, agreeing with her, but still locked in the whirl of thoughts. Oh, god. Here he was: an Immortal who was trained to kill, who was experienced in killing, and he was still helpless against his little sister.

"Hello," Methos said, stepping up. "Maria, right? Richie and I were just clearing the air. I believe we've done that now..." He trailed off because Maria wasn't paying him the least bit of attention. Her eyes were fixed on Richie, and one hand was half-raised as if she'd started to reach out to touch him, and was only just managing to keep her impulse in check. Turning to the guard, Methos continued, "We're really OK here. See? No harm." He motioned to his cheek, now completely healed. "Do you think you could get Maria some water?"

Though reluctant to leave her side, the guard had only to see the pallor that had spread across his charge's face for him to understand the wisdom of the request. He eyed up Richie and Methos for a long moment, and Methos gave him his best innocent smile, which was enough to get him to hurry off to fulfill a concrete task.

"Good," Methos said, as soon as the guard was gone. "Now, to answer your questions: Yes, he is. No, he hasn't. And now's not the time to talk about it."

Finally realizing that someone was speaking to her, Maria slowly pivoted toward the voice, then stopped, head tilted. "Excuse me, have we met? You look familiar."

"It was a long time ago," Methos agreed. "You'd have no reason to remember." He stuck his hand out. "Adam Pierson."

Maria accepted the hand and gave it a quick, polite pump.

"A-Adam?" Richie asked, his fog of surprise dissipating at hearing a name and an accent that he hadn't heard in years. "Maria?" Burying his head in his hands, he whispered, "Fuck." How was he supposed to get himself out of this one?

The guard reappeared then with a bottle of water and a new sense of purpose. "I'm going to need you two to come with me." He gestured for Richie and Methos to fall in line with him.

"I said it's OK, Don," Maria snapped. "No one was hurt and Adam here doesn't seem to be interested in filing a complaint." She raised an eyebrow at Methos, who shook his head in verification.

"We should be going anyway," Methos countered. "Richie has a date he needs to get ready for. So, if you don't mind, we'll take our purchases and leave, and you can avoid doing a mountain of tedious paperwork."

Don gave the the offer serious thought, his thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his pants where they probably spent a great deal of their day. With a sharp nod, he settled his inner debate. "I'm gonna escort you outa the building, and I'd better not see you 'round here again anytime soon."

"No problem," Richie replied, grateful that this bit of trouble, at least, didn't appear to be escalating. He could only too-well imagine the unpleasant hours that would've followed otherwise, dealing with the mall security and, likely, the police, if anyone decided to make an issue out of him clocking Methos.

The banks of lights turned on with a thunk that managed to pull everyone's attention to the stage.

"That's my signal," Maria stated. She didn't move. Music started up, and Don scratched his head as if trying to figure out if it was too soon to bodily pick her up and haul her to the stage.

On impulse, Richie pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Tucked in with driver's licenses and debit card was a business card. He'd had a couple dozen made as part of a freebie offer, for no reason except to have something else with his new name on it. Its corners were crumpled and a crease marred the plain white card stock, but he handed it over. "The number works," he said. "You can call anytime."

He was going to regret this; he knew he was. She'd call, they'd have a nostalgia-filled conversation about their childhoods, and then he'd either have to tell her the truth or start lying to her, and neither were good options: not with a person who now qualified as his oldest friend, but then his mouth was opening and he was saying more things that should have stayed locked in his head. "I'd really like to keep in touch. It's been...too long."

Maria nodded. "I will." She read the card, then brought her eyes back to Richie's in silent question at the name in print that wasn't the one she knew.

He could only give her a wan smile. "Some things did change," he answered. Not his looks, not his apparent age, not his inability to avoid trouble. Just his name. And, with it, the history of the person that name belonged to—a history that, up until this moment, hadn't included his former foster sister.

Maria regarded the card a moment longer, then tucked it into an inner pocket of her blazer. "Oh, Richie." The sadness in that utterance took him back to the day he got the news that he was being transferred from the Alcobar home to another foster home. For once, it hadn't been any fault of his; the Alcobars' were needed for a pair of younger kids, biological siblings, whom the system was trying to keep together, and shuffling Richie to a new home opened up the requisite number of beds. Like then, Richie caught the wetness glimmering in Maria's eyes, a stinging in his own held back with only a hard blink. Then she launched herself across the space between them and threw her arms around him. "Don't lose touch again," she said into his ear.

Richie's resistance collapsed immediately, and he hugged Maria back. "Don't tell anyone you saw me," he responded. "It's important." Against his head, he felt her agreement. He hoped she'd listen, as he really didn't want her to learn that hard way that everyone back in Seacouver thought he was dead. Somehow no one had passed the word on to her, and Richie had never been more grateful for an oversight of that magnitude.

At last, he pulled away and began, once again, gathering his bags. "Good luck with your show," he said, then with a grin meant to end the encounter on a good note he added, "I always knew you'd end up in charge."

Maria chuckled, planted a peck on his cheek, and, with a departing wave at Methos, turned back to her stage.

"Time to go." Don made pushing motions with his hands. "Let's get a move on."

"I hope you were done shopping," Methos commented. There wasn't much else he could say with the security guard following them as they were hustled toward the main exit. Their passage drew only a few stares that were quickly averted.

"Not quite," Richie answered. "I still need to pick up a lighter-weight jacket. Can't keep wearing the winter one now that it's warming up outside."

"Ah, well there's plenty of other stores for that. I'm pretty sure I can get the name of Connor's tailor, if you're interested."

Now that was a gift from Connor that Richie could appreciate. "You bet," he said. It hadn't even occurred to him to delve into the mortal resources Connor would have left behind. He probably couldn't afford to make use of most of them, but correctly tailored coats and jackets were priceless to Immortals.

Don walked them into the parking garage and once more reminded them that they weren't welcome back to the mall "anytime soon"—whatever that meant for him.

Stepping into the dim, hot parking garage after the bright, cold of the mall was a shock. Sweat broke out instantly on Richie's forehead. If this heat is what he could expect for the next few months, someone really needed to teach him how to hide his sword in a muscle shirt. He thought about asking, then decided he had more important inquiries still.

"Adam Pierson?" he asked, pausing right after the metal detectors to wait for his eyes to adjust. In the sudden lighting change, his companion appeared as only a dark form, another pillar. Slowly he took on detail again, resolving back into the thirty-something man with short hair and clothes that never quite fit who walked in the world. "Never thought I'd hear that name again."

Methos shrugged. "I didn't know how much she'd remember. That name was in the police report and on the hospital records."

"You visited her in the hospital?" Richie asked in surprise. He'd arrived at Kristin's just as the first police car had, long after Kristin had been killed, and had turned around and gone straight to the hospital. The whole way he'd ridden with teeth clenched tight, dread growing about what he was going to learn when he got there.

"Someone had to debrief her," Methos commented. "It turned out that she didn't see anything that couldn't be chalked up to hallucinations caused by the poison."

Pragmatic, as always. Richie grumbled at his hope that Methos might've had reasons otherwise.

Scratch that. Methos definitely had reasons otherwise; he simply wasn't going to share them with Richie. Oddly enough, Richie was fine with that, since all that mattered was the result.

Their steps echoed off the cement walls, an unsyncopated beat under their conversation. Exhaust fumes tainted the air, encouraging Richie to pick up his pace. "Yeah, well we can't say the same anymore," Richie pointed out. "She definitely knows something's up now."

Richie felt his heel come down in the puddle of something he hoped was only a spilled drink. He was checking that nothing had splashed up onto his clothes when Methos spoke again, so quietly he almost missed it.

"She wasn't supposed to see you."

"What?"

Methos' eyes dipped shut and he let out a long sigh. "Look, I know you think I'm some kind of master manipulator, ancient guy with the strings of the universe wrapped around his fingers." He cut off Richie's reflexive protest with another short sigh. "The faster you get it through your head that I'm not, the easier our relationship will be. I bolloxed this one up and I'm sorry."

Nothing had splashed. Now Richie just had to be more careful about where he put his feet. "All right, so that's something I never thought I'd hear you say."

"I say it when I mean it."

Reaching the car. Richie popped the trunk and pulled the swords out, propping them against the car's bumper while he loaded the bags. They quickly filled the space, proving that he'd benefited from Methos' foresight more than once, at multiple levels. The swords went back in last, within easy reach should the situation call for it. For a long moment, his hand hovered over his own sword and he thought about bringing it into the car. No, he decided; that was not the person he wanted to be. Only after he closed the lid did Methos resume speaking.

"Most Immortals don't make it more than a few decades. The average is about thirty years, in fact. Did you know that?"

"Changing the topic?" Richie countered.

"Not as much as you'd think. Thirty years, Rich. That's not even a mortal lifespan."

"Because of the Game," Richie supplied. No surprise there. The Game was brutal. New Immortals didn't stand much chance against those with hundreds of years of experience. Mostly all that saved them was luck: a good teacher, fights that went their way, a chance to study and learn without being Challenged.

Methos shook his head. "No. Yes, but no. The Game isn't what kills them. The Game is how they choose to die."

Richie rubbed his head, feeling a headache coming on at trying to follow whatever this convoluted logic was. "What's the difference? Head comes off, and it doesn't matter anymore."

"It matters because you're right in the pocket. You've shown that you can survive in the Game, and considering what, and who, you've gone up against, that's saying a lot. Connor wasn't worried about your ability to fight; he was worried about your ability to live. The Game is less of a threat to you right now than your Immortality."

Richie barely felt the leather beneath him or heard the mirrored sounds of Methos climbing in on his side. Again, the pieces had all been laid out for him, and now it was on him to put them together. He idly saw the change in shadows on the wall as the car backed out of the spot. "You think I'm going to blow my next Challenge because...I'm lonely?" he asked slowly, incredulously. "That's stupid. I have friends. I have a job."

"But you don't have a future," Methos replied. "At least, you don't think you do. You're still trying to fit your life into the path you imagined when you were mortal—"

Richie barked out a laugh. "When I was mortal, I expected to be dead long before reaching forty." It was the truth, but it was also an attempt to lighten the gravity of what Methos was saying. He sobered immediately, though, as what Methos had been telling him all day started to sink in. He had been killed long before forty. That he'd been fatally wounded at nineteen was the whole point. "So that's why you insisted we come out here. You knew she'd be here, and you brought me to see her because we were the same age once. And now...we're not."

Methos nodded. He didn't need to spell out the trap that Richie saw so clearly he'd fallen into; each time he started over became harder because it felt like he was starting from further behind and having to fight harder to catch up. It never worked. A couple more resets, and he could reach a point where he stop fighting, with or without a sword in hand.

Reaching the conclusion Methos wanted him to was easy; believing it wasn't.

"Why does it matter how old our bodies look?" Richie protested. "We went to junior high together. We know the same music, watched the same TV shows, hung out with the same people. Isn't that the stuff that should matter?" He thought about the girl in the coffee line, Emily, and how she'd laughed about finals coming up. Richie had never been to college, had never wanted to go to college. Not that he had a problem with people who did, it was just... her world was so different from one he'd ever lived in. "I mean, I don't have anything like that in common with Emily. She was barely talking when 9/11 happened!"

"Somehow, I don't think 9/11 will be at the top of either conversational list," Methos countered. "You'll pick up on the pop culture details fast enough. The rest isn't as important as you think it is." His concentration switched to navigating the car out of the garage without hitting or breaking anything in the narrow confines. When they finally pulled out, both of them blinking against the sudden onslaught of daylight, he continued, "As far as Maria goes, I suggest only answering her basic questions."

"Greaaaaat," Richie drawled. "Perfect. What happens when she asks the wrong question? Wait. I know this one. You're going to tell me to make sure she doesn't." He dropped his head back against the seat with a groan. "So I tell her things. Then what?"

"Then keep her close. As you said, she knew you when you were a child. For one of us, having someone like that is a rare gift. She can help you remember who you were while you're trying to figure out who you're going to be."

As much as he knew what the answer would be, Richie couldn't resist asking, "Speaking from experience?"

Methos made a show of checking the mirrors, either trying to come up with a lie that sounded like the truth or a phrasing of the truth that sounded like a lie. "Yes," he finally admitted, "but not mine." He sounded not sad, exactly. Wistful. He sounded wistful, and Richie wondered at what could inspire that tone five thousand years after everyone Methos had grown up with would have died.

To take his attention off the past, Richie changed the subject. "What about you? Have you figured out who you're going to be this time?"

Taking his eyes off the road long enough that Richie sent out a silent thanks that they were both Immortal, Methos again peered in the rear-view mirror. "I've a few ideas," he answered, stroking his chin.

Richie had a horrifying vision of how Methos had watched the bearded men at the caricature booth. "Oh god. Please tell me you aren't planning to grow a full beard? I thought you hated the whole 'mystical guru' image."

"Beards are in style right now." Methos smiled. From this close, Richie saw the creases around Methos' mouth and across his brow deepen along old, old lines, and he shivered.

"You know what? Do whatever you want. Just don't expect me to take you seriously." Richie squinted at the face in question, not ready to be done having the final word. "I don't even think you can grow a full beard."

"I can. It's not my favorite look, and I've done my best to avoid it without good reason for choosing otherwise." He gave his chin one last rub before returning both hands to the steering wheel where they belonged. "Remind me to teach you how to use your sword for shaving."

Richie's mouth dropped open. His sword? Methos wanted him to voluntarily put his sword that close to his own neck? "You're kidding, right? You have to be kidding." The sun glinted off Methos' eyes in a way that had to be a twinkle. "I don't think so. If I hafta choose between that and shaving with my sword, I'll risk being mistaken for a wild hermit." He shook his head slowly at both the image and the reason for it. Was Methos serious? A side-glance at the man revealed only that infuriating smile hovering around his lips again. If he was going to have to put up with for the next couple years, he needed to learn to give as good as he got.

"Goatees, now. I might give one of those a try, just for a different look."

"Whatever," Richie responded, refusing to take the bait. He wasn't really listening anymore, anyway; facial hair as a topic only had so much novelty, no matter what Methos might threaten. Pressing his head against the glass, Richie stared out the side window for a long time, watching the flow of traffic without really seeing any of the cars in it. He'd thought today was only going to be a shopping trip, a chance to rebuild his wardrobe—and now he was looking at rebuilding his whole life. Picking a new name, getting new ID, and moving to a new town had turned out to be the easy part. Was he ready to tackle the relationships he'd been offered? He could handle things not working out with Emily; he'd just met her and barely knew her. In his experience, romantic relationships burned bright and briefly. Maria was different. If she came back into his life only for him to scare her away, he'd never forgive himself.

Methos had navigated the car out of the mall's property and onto the main road without any discussion about which way to go. Soon they were passing a crumbling hunk of a building that stood sentry at the edge of town. Richie spotted it and twisted around in his seat in confusion. "We're going home?" he asked. "I thought we were going to the nightclub?" Not that he was unhappy about missing a forced evening out. A few years ago, he'd have insisted on hitting the club, simply because it was one he hadn't been to before. Now he'd only be going because someone made him. It was funny how something like that could shift without him noticing. These were the kinds of details he'd have to start paying attention to so he could figure out what to put back.

"Change of plans," Methos answered. "The best thing I can teach you is how to adapt. The second best is the value of strategic retreat." Without using the indicator, he changed lanes and merged onto the on ramp. "Beside, I think you're going to want some privacy for the phone call you'll be getting tonight."

Richie squeezed his eyes shut. The phone call. Right. Maria would call him as soon as she could after her show, which meant he had, at best, only a few hours to figure out what to tell her. And he was going to have to stay sober during them. No wonder they were avoiding the nightclub. "Uh-uh, man," Richie said. "I mean, that's great that you're letting me off the hook with Emily tonight, but you got me into this with Maria, so you're going to be right there to back me up with whatever I tell her."

"Or what?"

Now here was a place where Richie felt like he had the upper hand. "Or I give Connor a call. I haven't talked to him in awhile, and I'm sure he'd like to know how you're settling in." He crossed his arms with a mental so there. Besides, if he had to stay sober, so did Methos. It was the least he could do.

"Careful, kid." Methos responded. "You don't know who you're dealing with here." Though his tone was stern, Richie got the impression that Methos was trying not to laugh. Good. Maybe Richie could successfully push back.

Settling back into the seat, he let his arms drop. He'd finally won one against Methos. Letting him stick around might turn out to be fun. Certainly it was going to be a revelation. "Neither do you," he pointed out. "We were interrupted before I could finish shopping. Seems to me that your new student could turn out to be a different man than you think he is."

The sussurating of wheels on the road and the rumble of the engine filled the car, the only noises, while Methos gave the statement due consideration. At last he replied with a simple, amusement free: "Then I'm looking forward to meeting him." Changing lanes again, he flattened the accelerator.

Richie watched the passing mile markers count down the distance until he had to make some decisions to live with. No matter how fast he went, he was going to get there on time. "So am I," he said. "So am I."

END

A/N: Thank you for reading this. I hope you've enjoyed. As always, questions, comments, squee and concrit are all welcome.

Out of curiosity, and without any pressure, perhaps you'd be willing to share your favorite line? I've been working on this story for so long that it's lost all insight and humor. I'd love to hear what, if any, you saw.