Stateless 2: The Heart of Light

"Good. You're here," Methos said, ushering Joe through the gates of the Cimetiere du Montparnasse. Joe followed the Immortal past a few crumbling stone monuments and then stopped. Methos turned, his face impassive though he rocked on the balls of his feet with impatience.

"I thought Amanda said the burial was at noon?"

"It is," Methos replied.

"What are we doing here then?"

Methos looked puzzled.

"What'd you mean?"

Joe gestured around the ancient cemetery.

"You bought a plot here?" he exclaimed, finally putting the pieces together.

"Yes."

"But…" Joe shook his head, lost. It was nearly impossible, let alone prohibitively expensive, to acquire space in the famous cemetery.

"We're going to be late," Methos said. "The priest is supposed to meet me here."

"Priest?" Joe echoed.

Methos sighed at his look of surprise.

"Alexa was Catholic, Joe. I respect that."

"But I thought…" Joe started over. "What was all the fuss back at the funeral home then?"

Methos shrugged.

"I was… frustrated. I'd forgotten that death had become such a bureaucracy. It's been awhile since…" Methos shook his head, "I knew it would be this way."

Joe rubbed his face. Why couldn't the old Immortal behave as anticipated for once?

"I thought you wanted… I dunno-" Joe stammered.

Methos glanced at him and raised a speculative eyebrow.

"Looking forward to a reenactment of some ancient burial rite, were we?"

Joe stared at him, thrown by the ironic tone.

"No! Yes - I just thought you wanted something more… personal."

Methos sighed. He rubbed at his eyes and then his hand moved to grip the back of his neck

"Rituals are rituals, Joe, no matter the trappings. They're just the means we've developed to cope with loss, to say goodbye. I don't need a ceremony to say goodbye to Alexa. She's gone. There's nothing left of her to say goodbye to."

"But then - why?" Joe sputtered.

"Because she… she hated the way the doctors invaded her body. The drugs, the procedures. She felt… violated. I just…" Methos broke off and glanced away, shaking his head.

He didn't finish his thought and Joe didn't press him. The Immortal turned away and started back down the path, hands thrust deep in his coat pockets. Joe hurried to catch up to him, trying to read his face.

"How long has it been?" Joe asked.

Methos glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"How long has what been?"

Joe cleared his throat. The uncomfortable feeling that he was intruding where he shouldn't gripped him but he couldn't let it go.

"How long since you had to bury someone?" he clarified.

Methos flashed him an inscrutable look but didn't stop walking.

"Don."

Joe shook his head, recognizing the evasion.

"Christine buried Don," he corrected.

"I've buried a lot of people, Joe."

Joe nodded but managed to hold the Immortal's eye for a long moment.

"But not recently?" he guessed.

"Not…" Methos turned half away, voice flat, "Not in your lifetime."

Joe swallowed, his throat tight. To keep himself so separate - to avoid that level of human contact for at least fifty years… Joe tried to remember Methos as he'd first met him, nearly two years ago at Kalas' trial. No, that had been Adam Pierson still, he was sure of it. He hadn't really caught a glimpse of Methos until later, after Kalas escaped from prison.

Adam Pierson had always come across as reserved, self-effacing, with a quiet wit and sharp mind. At first Methos had seemed much the same, if more assertive. However he'd been strangely unflappable in the face of the exposure of the existence of Immortality. Even then Joe had sensed an odd disconnection about him, a fatalistic streak that didn't gel with Pierson's personality. He hadn't learned much about Methos since, only flashes here and there. Enough to intrigue him, his curiosity pulling down inhibitions he'd normally feel about delving into anyone's life.

"Why?" Joe asked finally.

"Because there didn't seem to be any point," Methos bit off.

The Immortal's expression went stony. The lines were back around his eyes. They added years of age to his long face. Even so he didn't seem a day over thirty-five. It was disconcerting. One of the first things a good Watcher learned was not to assume anything about an Immortal based on their outward appearance. Whether it was because he'd known Methos first as a mortal or because his true age was so incomprehensible, Joe found himself constantly forgetting that the man was 100 times his elder.

"I'm sorry," Joe said, careful now. "I didn't mean to pry."

Methos grimaced. "Don't kid yourself, Joe. Whatever else you are, you're a Watcher," he said, echoing Joe's thoughts, "And you can't help yourself."

"Maybe so," Joe said, "I might be a Watcher, but I'm your friend too. And I went over the line."

Methos gave him a tight nod but didn't speak again. Joe was relieved when they reached the gravesite and the officiating priest arrived a few minutes later. He introduced himself with a small bow and a tight handshake. Father Picard. Methos greeted the priest with aloof politeness. He responded to the man's attempts at consolation with disengaged, one-word answers until the priest gave up. Joe took pity on the priest and chatted with him about the Paris winter while they waited for the casket. Methos hovered just apart from Joe and the other man, his gaze fixed somewhere distant. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, like he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself.

Joe glanced up to see him straighten abruptly, his hands out and loose at his sides. A moment later Amanda appeared and the old Immortal slumped and folded his arms over his chest. Amanda flashed Joe a grin and shook the priest's hand, then planted a quick peck on Methos' cheek before he could move away.

"Expecting someone else?" she quipped. Apparently Joe hadn't been the only one to catch Methos' reaction to her presence.

"No." Methos answered.

Amanda frowned at him and then wrapped her arms around Joe. A moth's wing of a kiss, light and gone before he could enjoy it.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

Joe hugged her back tight. It felt good to be asked, even if he didn't have an answer. He shrugged and she let him go.

"Haven't had time to think about it," he admitted. Alexa didn't feel gone. Would it ever be real to him? Last time he'd seen her she'd been happy. Happy like she'd never been in the two years he'd known her and so… alive.

Amanda nodded and glanced over at Methos. He followed her gaze. The old Immortal had forgotten them already. He'd drifted a few feet away and stood staring off into the maze of graves. The ramrod straight posture and whitewashed expression roused a confused anger in Joe. Would Adam Pierson cry for Alexa, if Methos let him? Adam had pursued her with a fumbling, adolescent exhilaration that had made Joe feel twenty years younger just to watch. And Alexa…he remembered Alexa outside the battered VW. Looking up at Adam with such awe. Like she was certain if she closed her eyes he'd turn into fiction, just a character she'd seen in a movie somewhere. Like she thought it was worth the risk.

He looked at Methos now and wondered if he'd imagined it all. Was Methos even capable of such joy? Had it all been an act? Didn't the bastard feel anything?

Joe caught himself in a glare and forced himself to look away. The selfish prick hadn't once acknowledged that Joe had lost Alexa too. If not for Amanda he wouldn't have even known where to come for the funeral. Some of his pissy mood must have leaked into his face. Amanda gave him a rueful smile and squeezed his hand then turned to Methos.

"You never told me how you got this plot on such short notice," she said.

Leave it to Amanda to ask what had to be one of the most tactless questions conceivable at a funeral. Joe rubbed his eyes in embarrassment. The question had been gnawing at him since he arrived but he hadn't had the balls to just blurt it out. God. Father Picard turned a mortified stare on Amanda but didn't interrupt. Maybe he wanted to hear the answer too.

Methos' expression never flickered. He pulled out a tarnished pocket watch and flipped open the cover.

"They're late," he said to the priest.

Methos' hand curved around the cover and shut it with a click. If the dented watch cover was engraved with anything significant Joe couldn't tell. The watch dangled from Methos' fingers by a ragged grey loop of… shoelace. Seeing a watch in his hands was weird. Adam Pierson's total obliviousness to time was legendary among the Research division. Don had bought him a Darth Vader watch once for Christmas. Adam grinned like a kindergartener and wore it proudly until Christine served them all port after dinner. Adam made a toast Joe no longer recalled, drained his glass, and announced the watch was too precious, too collectible for a klutz like him to wear. Joe hadn't seen him wear a watch since, though the Vader piece still occupied its place of honor on a shelf in the office at Shakespeare and Company.

"Have patience, son," Father Picard assured, "Lacroix brothers is a fine funeral home. They'll be here.

Methos stared at the priest until the man shifted in unease. Then with a humourless smirk he turned that unwavering gaze back on the rambling stone monuments.

"It's impossible to get space here," Amanda continued. They could have been chatting about the newest hip condo development if not for the priest. Fuck etiquette. Joe wanted to know now. How the hell had Methos pulled this off?

"Alexa would have loved it," he added. It came out more snarky than he intended. She really would have liked the spot. Down deep, Alexa had been a romantic. It was life that made her practical.

Methos shoved his hands and the watch back into his pockets and tilted his head up to peer at the flat grey clouds gathering over the cemetery.

"It's going to snow." He sounded distracted.

She sat at the vanity, brushing her hair over and over again until it was as smooth as a fine pelt. How many women had he watched do this very thing, a ritual that he loved though never particularly understood? He lingered on the hotel balcony, his back to the railing and watched the clear early morning sunlight spill across the room and over her narrow shoulders, picking out blond highlights in her hair as it moved under her hands.

"Where do you want to go today?" she called, unaware of his attention.

He smiled. She always asked, always made sure this trip was for them both, instead of for her alone.

"Let's stay in," he teased, "Read the newspaper."

She turned to him, a smirk on her face. The brush paused in its work.

"Sure," she retorted, "We wouldn't want to venture out in such horrible weather, would we?"

"It may be best," he said, "This is the worse weather to hit Santorini for ten years. They're predicting a cloud or two for this afternoon."

The brush hit him squarely in the chest, knocking aside his coffee.

"This place wasn't always so popular." Methos glanced around the cemetery as if just noticing where he was. "When it first opened it was quiet."

Joe glanced covertly at the priest. The man only looked puzzled by his young client's impossible observation. Just so Methos didn't take the reminiscing too far. Amanda's hand tightened around Joe's, an unexpected reassuring presence.

"You must have loved her very much to buy this for her," Amanda commented.

Methos shook his head.

"I bought it years ago."

Joe wanted to ask just how many years. The priest fidgeted. Joe decided to ask another question instead.

"For someone else?" he guessed

"No."

Why the hell else would Methos have spent some ungodly amount of money on a plot in the same cemetery as Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir? Was he so used to burying the ones he loved that he kept a spare plot around just in case one of them died?

"So…what, this was a real estate investment?" Amanda looked as bewildered as Joe felt. Father Picard shifted again, clearly disturbed by such a callous discussion of the consecrated ground. Methos cocked his head.

"Not exactly. I liked it. I've always liked Paris."

Joe had heard Methos refer to his laundry with more inflection in his voice. Amanda turned to Joe as if he'd know what the hell Methos was talking about. Joe could only shrug. Methos' response troubled him. It wasn't so much the words - he was used to vague misdirection from Methos when it came to his personal life. The tone of his words though - there was something off about it.

Before Joe could push him for more two things happened. The hearse bearing Alexa's casket arrived. And the two Immortals froze.

Amanda's chin shot up and her hand slipped under her coat. Methos went statue still, his eyes locked on the sleek windowless cab of the black sedan. The priest was oblivious. He met the suitably solemn funeral home attendants at the hearse and shook their hands.

"Where?" Joe hissed to Amanda, "How close?"

Amanda shook her head and turned in a slow circle. Methos' rigid posture melted into a round-shouldered slump. He drifted toward the hearse, hands still in his pockets.

"Adam!" Joe protested.

"Let him go," Amanda appeared at Joe's elbow. Then tension ran out of her with a sigh though a wary watchfulness lingered in her face.

"The Immortal's gone?" he guessed.

Amanda shrugged. "Or moved out of range."

"You think it's the guy following Methos?"

"Could be a coincidence. Someone here visiting a grave," she said. She didn't look convinced.

The men from Lacroix Brothers carried the small casket towards them and lowered it to a frame that straddled the hole in the ground. Methos trailed behind them. Eyes straight ahead but not focused on anything. Father Picard spoke soft words to him. Patted his arm. He must have realized his valiant effort to reach the silent young man were doomed. Picard let out a heavy sigh and took his place at the head of the casket. The attendants backed away to a respectful distance and bowed their heads. Amanda slipped her arm though Joe's and clasped his hand. Fingers soft and warm between his own. Methos meandered around the casket as if uncertain where to stand.

"Monsieur Pierson?" The priest looked to Methos for permission to begin.

The Immortal was oblivious. Head down, he tramped back to the side of the coffin opposite Joe and Amanda and hovered there.

"Adam," Joe called. Jesus. If Methos didn't join their time-space continuum sometime soon the priest was going to up and leave.

Methos started. His head snapped up and he blinked like Joe's voice had dragged him to the surface of a deep pool. Comeon, buddy. Joe waited for some sign that Alexa's Adam was with them. No such luck. Methos' attention flickered between the casket and the robed man at its head. Mouth twisted, almost angry. Like he was about to call the whole thing off. Shit.

"Go ahead, Father," Joe intervened before Methos could fuck up the ceremony.

The priest nodded his gratitude and kept a wary eye on Methos as he began the service. Joe missed the quiet formality of the full funeral mass. Orphaned, the Rite of Committal felt lonely. Alexa deserved better than the three of them, huddled around a closed wooden box with the wind gnawing at their ears. Methos rocked to the balls of his feet and back in a restless pattern that distracted Joe from the priest's even recitation. Why couldn't he just stand still? As Father Picard invited them to pray Methos wandered to the foot of the casket. The priest's calm recital stuttered. He must be new to the order, not used to mourners who deviated from the usual sedate weeping.

"Adam," Amanda said, sotto voce, "Come here."

It wasn't a request. Wonder of wonders, Methos obeyed. He drifted to Amanda's side and she smiled at him. Joe's held breath ran out of him in a soft huff. The priest cleared his throat and stuck his nose into his missal. A by the book kinda guy. Har-Dee Har Har. Joe felt sorry for him. Guy was waaay out of his league.

Amanda slid her free arm around Methos' waist. When Methos let her draw him closer Joe barely hid his gape of surprise. Methos actually…listened to her. What did Amanda have that he didn't? Amanda's round hip nudged his and he rolled his eyes. Oh, yeah. That.

They stood intertwined while the priest moved on.

"A reading from the book of Wisdom."

Joe bowed his head, a response too ingrained to resist.

"The just man, though he die early, shall be at rest. For the age that is honorable comes not with the passing of time, nor can it be measured in terms of years…"

Joe couldn't swallow. A flame ignited behind his eyes. So young. She'd been so young. Same age as his niece, as the girl he couldn't let himself think of as daughter. And he'd been closer to her than either of his blood relations. The waitressing gig had started off as a way to pay for nursing school. Until she missed too many classes and had to pull out. Then had come the medical bills. A trickle at first, building to a flood of paper so deep she knew she'd never see the end. All this confided between beer runs, around the press of blissfully ignorant drinkers. Toward the end her soft laugh gained a fatalistic edge. Imagine, she told him one night before Adam noticed her, being your own first and only patient.

"Snatched away lest wickedness pervert his mind or deceit beguile his soul, for the witchery of paltry things obscures what is right and the whirl of desire transforms the innocent mind…"

What a crock. He'd always hated this verse. Justifying the loss of a young person by claiming that they were saved from sin. Alexa coulda used a little more sin in her life. He hoped Adam had shown her the 'whirl of desire' before she died. He looked past Amanda to the old Immortal. Methos' eyes were closed.

"Yes, the just man dead condemns the sinful who live."

Methos opened his eyes.

"And youth swiftly completed condemns the many years of the wicked man grown old."

Who picked this goddamn verse? Amanda rosebud lips thinned and Methos' mouth twisted into a carrion-bird grin. Disgust flared in Joe's chest. Sure the selection was ironic - but it sure as hell wasn't funny. The sick smile lingered on the face of the 'wicked man grown old' as the priest closed the reading.

"The Word of the Lord."

"Thanks be to God," Joe and Amanda intoned automatically, echoed by the two attendants behind them. Methos' smile tightened into a brittle grimace.

"Have some respect," Amanda hissed.

"I'm trying." Voice thin, garroted by razor wire. Was he choking back laughter or sobs? Joe couldn't tell and that pissed him off.

"Try harder," Amanda shot back.

"I can't-" Methos pulled away from Amanda's grip. "I can't do this. I thought I could but I can't."

The priest waded through the second reading over their low, staccato argument. When no one joined him in the recital of the Lord's Prayer his voice faded. He frowned his disapproval at Methos and Amanda. Amanda dropped Joe's hand and grabbed Methos' chin. Jesus, but this funeral was a mess. Joe figured she'd slap him. Instead she forced him to look her in the eye.

"You can," she said with an utter calm that betrayed her true age. "You have before. You will again. You don't have a choice. None of us do."

She let his chin go and waited. Methos blinked at her. Hands curled into cramped balls. Chin lifted, the marks from her fingers livid brands. He was going to walk away. Leave them behind to lay Alexa to rest. Her boss and a stranger the last witnesses to her life. Methos blinked again. Something in his eyes must have shifted. Amanda reclaimed Joe's hand with a quick squeeze. The priest cleared his throat and restarted the Lord's Prayer. Methos kept apart from Joe and Amanda but he did mutter the words with them.

"In nomine Patri, et Filius, et Spiritu Sanctu," Methos murmured at the close of the prayer.

"Amen."

Father Picard noticed the Latin and gave Methos a hesitant smile. Methos nodded and met the man's eyes for the first time. Things wrapped up quickly after that, like the priest was unwilling to bet the calm would hold. He asked if anyone would like to say some words.

A long moment of silence. The wind whipped their coats against their legs. When the voice began, the unexpected the cadence of poetry, it felt for a second like the words fell from the sky like snow.

"'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
-Yet when we came back, late, from the
Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence."

Methos fell quiet and the words settled around them, calming the wind. Joe swallowed, his vision wavering.

"Ah hell," he sniffed, swiping at his eyes, "She didn't deserve this. She shoulda had more time. Time to grow old."

"Old and wicked," Methos said. The black smile was long gone. His tall frame had slipped into a gentle slouch. Something of Adam finally there.

"Amen," Amanda added.

The snow held off until the casket was lowered down to nestle in the ground. Joe followed Amanda to the edge of the hole and tossed a handful of cold dirt onto the casket. It wasn't much - hardly enough to mar the shiny surface of the lid.

This wasn't…it wasn't real. In a moment Methos would crack an arrogant grin and let him in on the prank. They'd go down to the bar and Alexa would join them for a drink, wearing the merry smile he remembered from before she got sick. They'd-

"Joe."

A hand on his shoulder. Too heavy to be Alexa's. Joe blinked and the face before him went fuzzy around the edges. What was wrong with his damn eyes? Another hand held a paper tissue out before him. Joe snatched it and scrubbed at his eyes, his nose. When Methos offered him another tissue Joe shook his head. What the hell was an Immortal doing with Kleenex anyway? Not like Methos ever got a runny nose.

Methos' hand wavered. The white tissue fluttered between them, a flag of surrender. Methos' fingernails were caked with black soil, like he'd scratched out the grave himself. Joe must have stared too long. Methos shoved the Kleenex into his coat pocket with a grimace.

"Forgot to clean 'em out," he said, "Guess now I can throw them away."

Methos lifted his head to search the darkening sky. What did he see? Not much past noon and already half way to night. Joe was tired of winter. Would the days ever get longer? Methos shifted and Joe let his internal grumblings sink to where his feet should be. A lump of dirt was cupped, forgotten, in Methos' free hand.

Amanda twined her arm through Joe's and leaned her head against his shoulder. Both of them content to wait for Methos, for whatever he needed to do to let Alexa go. The dirt trickled from Methos' fingers, fine as sand in an hourglass.

Father Picard said his goodbyes to Amanda and Joe. He skirted around Methos like a mutt wary of a sudden kick. Joe didn't blame him. He watched the priest hurry away, glad to be rid of such unruly mourners. Once robes disappeared in the labyrinth of tombs Joe turned back to Methos. Now he was cold, ready to leave. Not that he'd ever mention it aloud.

Even as the trickle of snow steadied and thickened a band of sunlight broke through the low grey clouds and threw the cemetery into a momentary high-contrast. Methos' face sparkled in the sudden illumination. Only flakes of snow, melted on the warmth of his skin.

Once again I've stolen my title from T.S. Eliot, this time from The Waste Land. Blame my first fandom, X-Files, and the influence of Oklahoma.