"It's only a horse. You can't tell me you don't know how to ride one... You're the bloody 'pale horseman'."
"Of course I know how to do anything I might damned well please," Death responds, and lesser beings would quake at the ire in his glare.
But Methos has never considered himself a lesser being. More's the pity.
"But I don't please," Death continues. "I haven't literally ridden a horse in years." Three thousand, three-hundred and eighty-six to be exact. As soon as horse-drawn carriages became a more comfortable and yet equally efficient method of earth-bound travel as riding horseback, Death 'traded in' his 'spurs', as the mortals used to say. "Do you know what a saddle would do to the in-seam of these trousers?" Death laments.
The horses bridled before himself and his son paw at the ground, unperturbed.
Insoucient characters. Methos does love to surround himself with them. He'd get along just swimmingly with a certain Winchester in Death's acquaintance. In fact, if he were not Death, Death could nearly shudder at the thought of such a meeting.
"Do you know what that slop you made me eat the last time we met-"
"Watch your tongue, boy. That slop is the single greatest culinary accomplishment of the twenty-first century."
"-did to my stomach?" Methos asks, unimpressed by his father's dark stare. Glower all he wants, Methos will not credit the old man's love of greasy cheesesteak. "The least you can do is ride with me. The exercie will do you good."
It will not, as a matter of fact. Not that either exertion, or the absence of it, could ever do Death bad.
But falling off a horse doesn't help the old man's ego.
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: Accomplishments
Date: 2011-12-05 05:40 pm (UTC)"It's only a horse. You can't tell me you don't know how to ride one... You're the bloody 'pale horseman'."
"Of course I know how to do anything I might damned well please," Death responds, and lesser beings would quake at the ire in his glare.
But Methos has never considered himself a lesser being. More's the pity.
"But I don't please," Death continues. "I haven't literally ridden a horse in years." Three thousand, three-hundred and eighty-six to be exact. As soon as horse-drawn carriages became a more comfortable and yet equally efficient method of earth-bound travel as riding horseback, Death 'traded in' his 'spurs', as the mortals used to say. "Do you know what a saddle would do to the in-seam of these trousers?" Death laments.
The horses bridled before himself and his son paw at the ground, unperturbed.
Insoucient characters. Methos does love to surround himself with them. He'd get along just swimmingly with a certain Winchester in Death's acquaintance. In fact, if he were not Death, Death could nearly shudder at the thought of such a meeting.
"Do you know what that slop you made me eat the last time we met-"
"Watch your tongue, boy. That slop is the single greatest culinary accomplishment of the twenty-first century."
"-did to my stomach?" Methos asks, unimpressed by his father's dark stare. Glower all he wants, Methos will not credit the old man's love of greasy cheesesteak. "The least you can do is ride with me. The exercie will do you good."
It will not, as a matter of fact. Not that either exertion, or the absence of it, could ever do Death bad.
But falling off a horse doesn't help the old man's ego.
It certainly makes Methos laugh, though.