Disclaimer:  "Highlander" and associated names are the sole property of Davis/Panzer Productions.  In other words, even though I would very much like it if they did, neither of these guys belongs to me.  Original portion of this fanfic belongs to me, me, me.

Note:  This story takes place outside of Highlander canon.  Sorry, but for the idea to work, it had to.  Just go with it.

Unthinkable

©, HonorH

Richie Ryan sat on a stone bench, chin pressed firmly into his folded hands.  People flowed past him on the street, occasionally throwing curious glances his way.  The young Immortal was oblivious.  Even the chill in the air didn't seem to bother him.  His thoughts were on a girl named Lauren and her laughing brown eyes.

Suddenly, he stiffened, becoming alert as the buzz of another Immortal hit him.  He raised his head, glancing around.  After a moment, his eyes settled on the tall, lanky figure ambling casually toward him.

"Great," Richie muttered.  He wasn't in the mood to talk to anybody right at the moment, let alone the world's oldest man.  Methos, though, continued his leisurely approach.

"Mind if I sit down?" the ancient asked, then sat down without waiting for an answer.  Richie gave him a dirty look and said nothing.

"Nice day for it," Methos commented after a moment.

"Nice day for what?"  The younger Immortal was confused enough without Methos adding to the mix.

"Brooding.  Nice day for it."

"I'm not brooding!" protested Richie.

Methos didn't appear to take notice.  "Sky's heavily overcast, it's mucky underfoot, all the autumn leaves are down, it's unpleasantly chilly, and--" he sniffed the air "--the wind's coming up from the pulp mill.  Yep.  Can't think of one redeeming factor for the day.  Makes it perfect for brooding."

"I'm not brooding," Richie repeated, emphasizing each word.

The ancient looked vaguely startled.  "Really?  That's what it looks like to me.  But then, I haven't done any serious brooding myself since the Romantic era.  It was a respectable occupation back then."  Richie didn't care to answer, and Methos, after a short pause, went on.  "Question is, if you were brooding, what would it be about?  Did you and MacLeod have a falling out?"

"Of course not."  The motorcyclist sounded irritated.

"Good friend get beheaded?"

"No."

"Lose a motorcycle competition?"

"Lemme alone, Methos."

Methos snapped his fingers.  "I've got it.  It must be the situation with the lovely Lauren."

Richie gave an exasperated sigh.  "Okay, so I'm brooding."

The five thousand year-old looked smug.  "Well, now that we've established that -- what is the situation with the lovely Lauren?"

"You mean Mac didn't tell you?"

"Let's just say I'd prefer to hear it from you."

Richie ran a hand through his thick red hair.  "Well, I . . . I'm thinking of . . . I mean, I know I've only known her for a year, but . . . she's just so . . . ."  He trailed off.

"That's informative," commented the ancient, earning another dirty look from Richie.

"She's just so . . . amazing.  She's warm, smart, funny, beautiful -- and the longer I know her, the more beautiful she gets.  I've never been in love before, not like this, and the fact that she loves me too--!  It blows me away.  It's like -- wow!"  Richie caught the amused glint in Methos's hazel eyes.  "I know, I know.  Young love."

"All love is young, Richie."  There was a gentle note in Methos's voice Richie had never heard before.  The younger man suddenly felt an urge to confide in the ancient.  He fished in his pocket, producing a jewelry box, and handed it to Methos.  Methos opened it to reveal a sculpted gold ring set with a Marquis-cut diamond.

"I'm thinking about asking her to marry me."

Methos nodded, looking at the ring.  Richie could almost see him looking back through the centuries -- the millennia -- and wondered what he saw.  Abruptly, the ancient snapped the ring box shut and handed it back.  "So what's the problem?  Does she know what you are?"

Richie pocketed the ring.  "For about five months now.  When I realized this was getting serious, I just felt like it was right to tell her."

Methos nodded again, more slowly.  "It's always a judgment call.  Still, especially if you're going to get married, it's a good idea to let her know early on.  It's either that or wait until she gets her first gray hair an then announce that incidentally, darling, I'll never have one of those.  How did she take it?"

"Pretty well.  A little shocked at first, but she stuck with me.  Like I said, she's amazing."

The ancient glanced up at the sky, which was looking more like rain every minute.  "So I reiterate -- what's the problem?"

Richie leaned forward, head falling.  "It's a big decision, you know?  Big commitment.  I've . . . never done this before."

"I have," Methos volunteered.

Richie rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, you've had what?  Something like seventy wives?"

"Not all at once."  Methos grinned almost boyishly.  "Most I ever had at one time was three -- no, four.  Back in Babylon."  He shook his head.  "Ahh, those were the days."

"Four wives?!?" Richie practically shouted.

"Oh yes.  Two of them didn't get along at all.  Ye gods, the fur could fly.  The youngest one, though -- what a sweet little thing she was."

"Four wives."  Richie shook his head.  "And I'm having enough trouble deciding to propose to just one."

"Things were a little different back then.  Some things haven't changed, though.  I had to bury each one of my wives . . . just as you'll likely have to bury Lauren, if you marry her."

Silence.  From the look on Richie's face, Methos could tell he'd hit exactly what the younger man was brooding over.

"That's it, isn't it?" the ancient asked.  "You marry Lauren, but you don't grow old with her.  You watch her age, and eventually watch her succumb to death -- an accident, an illness, doesn't matter.  She dies, and you live."

"How can I do that?" Richie whispered, suddenly finding himself close to tears.  "I even think about losing her and it hurts, even now."

Methos looked out at the street, not seeing the traffic.  "It's never easy.  I've buried close to seventy wives, and more friends and lovers than I can count.  The first one, though -- even after millennia, I still remember."

"Mac says that Connor MacLeod still lights a candle honoring the memory of his first wife every year on her birthday," Richie said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"I know."  Gentle melancholy colored Methos's voice.

Richie fixed Methos with an intense stare.  "Is it worth it, Methos?"

Methos returned the look.  "You have to decide that, Richie.  For me, yes.  They were all worth it.  But I'm not you."  He waited a moment, then went on.  "What are your options?  You can propose to her, Richie, and marry her.  Spend whatever time she has by her side, loving her, then lose her, and part of your heart with her.  What's the alternative?"

"The alternative."  Richie rubbed his hands over his face, thinking.  "The alternative," he repeated.

The younger man breathed a deep sigh before finishing his answer.  "The alternative . . . is unthinkable."

Richie became aware of Methos's astonished stare.  Shock was written across his angular features.  "What did you say?" Methos demanded.

The younger man's brow knitted.  "The alternative is unthinkable."

"Go."  It was an order.  "Why are you wasting time here?  Go find Lauren, propose to her, then marry her as soon as possible.  Before she has a chance to think better of it."

Richie gaped at the ancient, open-mouthed.  Methos grabbed his arm and physically propelled him off the bench.  "Go on!  Time's wasting."

The young Immortal went to his bike and grabbed his helmet, then looked back at Methos, who made a shooing gesture.  Suddenly, Richie grinned, gave the ancient a thumbs-up, mounted his motorcycle, and sped away.

Back at the bench, Methos shook his head, letting out a brief, astonished chuckle.

"Unthinkable."

--end--

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