He'd been reading so long that now the letters were swimming in front of his eyes, incoherent, mere shades of grey.
Shades of grey.
Grey - a sign of aging. And Methos was VERY old.
Yes, that was his colour: Grey.
Grey - neither light nor dark but in between.
Grey, not silver. There was nothing finely chiselled about him - he was rough on the inside, if polished on the outside.
Grey — tired, mousey, melting into the background easily.
Until someone crossed his path and lit up his life, thus turning the shades into unbearable darkness by comparison.
As per usual, Methos is not my toy, I'm just borrowing him from the owners of the Highlander Universe and characters. I will give him back clean and unharmed when done - in this case after exactly 100 words.
Also, I'm not making any money off this and I don't mean harm or anything.