It was raining again.
Typical. Methos borrowed into his long overcoat, muttering about meddlesome ageing bluesmen, inconsiderate Seacover rain and windmill tilting Highland infants. And that Cursed Bitch Fate.
He'd disappeared. That had been the Plan after O'Roarke – especially after he'd gotten that oh-so generous character reference from Macleod (arrogant little-yes, yes, always welcome for ensuring said stubborn head remained firmly intact yet again!) – but as was the case when anything remotely Highlander-related, he'd found himself at the Scot's doorstep yet again.
Course, this time it wasn't exactly anything Macleod should worry his pretty head over. But still.
Methos scowled ferociously to himself, causing the woman passing by to take a wary side step before continuing on. His lips twitching, and feeling lighter at the however inadvertently caused discomfort, he whistled on his way to Joe's.
He had a lot of work to do.
Three days later
The bar was teeming tonight, Joe thought whilst covering a grimace and smiling out a greeting to yet another customer whose no doubt sole desire was attaining inebriated bliss for the evening. He certainly wouldn't mind it- the past seventy two hours had been decidedly not been the most peaceful he'd endured. Watcher Headquarters were a seething mass of unadulterated panic over the catastrophic system crash they were suffering world-wide and drooling spasmic delight-especially the researchers- over a scroll of parchment sent to Regional quarters- worldwide, precisely at 1100 hrs, Eastern Time.
And who was the cause of this grind-halting fuss? That's right, the world's biggest, oldest pain in the ass. Although- Joe thought with furrowed brows, -it wasn't verified – what in gods green earth that contrary snova' bitch thought he was doing –if indeed it was Methos– sending out Old Latin written parchments to Watchers for Chrissake?!? And hacking into the database- well, even though it wasn't directly admitted that he was responsible for it, merely alluded to- Joe knew very well that Old Man was more than capable of introducing that worm into watcher files. And derive pure sadistic pleasure whilst cackling as they scrambled their asses in gear. Bastard.
Not that Joe had actually seen said parchments –already given the utterly predictable and unimaginative name- Methos' scrolsl – jeeezus! Did the Old Man want Joe to expire of a coronary?!- but the Directors were being especially tight lipped about it, though a bulletin had been sent out – they had received an untraceable document that was purported to been handwritten and signed by the Oldest of immortals- one who so far in history had been steeped and saturated in myth and legend-(no doubt intentional) and who was considered the proverbial Holy Grail to the Society…
Just what was the ornery bastard up to? Joe exhaled a sigh while gesturing for Mike to takeover, covering the wince that muscles strained from constant stress of the last three days gave him. Not that Joe was going to find out anytime soon- oh no, Methos had done another one of his disappearing acts again, and had continued to remain elusive despite Joe's best efforts over a period of 18 months... the gall of- couldn't the Old Man have the common courtesy to at least give a inkling of the bombshell he was going to drop on their collective laps? not even to his so-called friends?
Hope you're having a good one in Bora Bora- or wherever the hell you are Methos, Joe thought bitterly, cause it ain't none like the rest of us can escape the Pandora explosion you've caused here.
Three hours later
Joe's back office was a mess. He had last months' bank loan to sort out, the bar's licence renewal form and a multitude of other paperwork of various bureaucratic institutions and had a raging headache. And his phone was temporarily in hiatus again due to the overload of incoming calls and messages he'd received in the last seventy two hours. simultaneously.
Closing his eyes momentarily and leaning back in his battered old office chair, Joe let out a hiss as he tried soothing away the flairs of pain arcing up from his thighs, letting his breath leave with a whoosh as his tried to massage the stiffness out of his limbs. I'm getting too old for this, he thought ruefully. The days where he could pull consecutive all-nighters for days on end were a thing of the past. Ah, he could just remember Don, himself and Meth– damn. What he wouldn't give to have the ancient here so he could wring him by his bloody neck- oh, but that was the problem wasn't it? Joe frowned to himself. It was unlike the other man to not give a single sign (gloating rights!) over the utter mayhem he was responsible for.
A shiver of unease slivered through him. Methos should be fine shouldn't he? He'd checked pretty regularly for any U.N.immies –unidentified immortals– the old guy could take care of himself. So this feeling of- apprehension Joe was feeling made no sense. Never mind that with Macleod gone the Highlands with Conner so that they could put Rebecca to rest had left Seacover with the calm that was evocative in its very silence.
He'd been pulling in favours –the few left to him in the organisation anyway– to find out exactly what it was that the- the- Methos' scrolls –he gave an involuntary shudder – entitled. Admittedly, wading through the frantic calls from field operatives and homies who were demanding to know what the fuck was going on Dawson we can't even log in to update entries for chrissake… well Jeeze, wouldn't he like to know what the fuck was going on himself!
The only meagre pieces of were some too fantastic and needed un-entangling from the web of hysteria via word of mouth- that it was impossible to separate fact from fiction. Joe snorted- fact from fantasy more like! As if the reports he was hearing weren't highly improbable in the immortal grand scheme of things– that the first time anyone touched the parchment you could feel the age of the immortal in question? Riiiiight. So, what, now mortals could feel the Quickening of a five thousand year old immortal?
Joe ignored the tiny voice that muttered about the amount of immortal –related pecularities that watchers were excluded from uneasily. No. It wasn't possible. Just as it was impossible for Jacob Kell to manipulate his Quickening so that the Elder Macleod had very nearly forced the Highlander into taking his teacher's head -and fuck had that been a close call- and nearly destroying Mac in the process. Well shit. And shouldn't the highlander be back at Seacover by now? Joe had respected Macleod's wishes for privacy and left him unwatched – but god, if there ever was a time that the eternal boy scout could bloody well stay tru-
What the… the phone! It had deigned to work again did it? Joe swore loudly and colourfully as mounds of paperwork landslided on to the floor in the attempt to get the reticence snova-tempremental-as-of-lately phone.
"All right! All right! Wait a bloody moment will you!" shit. There nearly went his prosthetics. Joe swore creatively as he groped the edges of the table in a Herculean effort to stay up rooted. Growling about gods that won't! just give an aging geezer like yours truly a break he unceremoniously dumped all manner of inanimates viciously and gave a triumphant grunt as he grabbed the receiver and collapsed back into his sturdy chair with a huff of air.
"Gotcha!" inhaling sharply through his nose to steady his breath- "yeah?" Joe rasped.
"…Joe?" and promptly lost what breath he had. "Joe? Is that you?" hearing that Scottish brogue made him look at the handset bemusedly. Speak of the devil…. The Highlander normally merely traceable accent had thickened to a rowling burr. All that highland air no doubt, Joe thought dazedly.
"….ody hell have you been Dawson!! I've been trying to…" it speaks, Joe thought. Aren't I supposed to be doing something here? With a start Joe brought the receiver close to his ear and tried to clear his previously unobstructed throat.
"… the bl'min hell is going on?!" oh, but Macleod sounded furious. "…when I get my hands on that old b… Joe? Are you listening?! Joe? Joseph!" the frustrated strain in the Highlander's voice as it intoned Joe's first name brought him out of the stasis he's been in.
"Macleod-" Joe croaked. Wonderful. He was doing froggy impressions. Pull yourself together man! he shooked himself and tried again. "Macleod, you want to slow down and try running that by me again?" there you go ol'sunny, much better. The voice cut off with what was surely stifled cursing before the voice on the other end took a deep breath.
Only to burst out with "I'm going to kill that snovabitch!"
With a sinking heart Joe asked slowly, "ah, Mac… you wouldn't be talking about Adam would you?" and waited a beat. His voice must have given something away because the next time the other man spoke he sounded calmer. Wary.
"Joe," a slight pause "why haven't I been able to get through to you? " "I've been trying to get hold of you–" "–since three days ago?" Joe cut in shortly. "yeah I figure you must have."
There was a horrified silence on the other side. "Does this mean that–" " –that Watcher headquarters world-wide received a particular scroll of parchment written and signed in relevant Old languages by a certain utterly depraved old guy?" Joe finished with a weary sigh.
"Then yes they did. We did. Though I'd take a guess that what is written in your scroll varies to mine." God but he needed a drink. A stiff drink with copiously high alcohol content. Jesus mary joseph. What in Shittin' hell was going on?
The Highlander could be heard to be breathing heavily from the other end. "is- what-…" "what is going on Joe?" Mac's enunciation was practically indecipherable. "Have you heard from Me– him?" when Joe didn't respond to that, the Scot inhaled sharply and stated tersely, "Joe? You have heard from Methos?" the sudden dread produced by Macleod's tone caused Joe's already tautened stomach muscles to twitch painfully.
"jeez Mac," Joe grated, "the Old Man is more than capable of looking after himself right?" "Hell he's probably somewhere warm and sunny laughing his rat-assed head off at the rest of us." He continued with forced lightness.
"I'm coming home" what? "Mac-"
"-You don't understand Joe. If.. if t-that parchment has been copied and sent to watchers as well as all immortals, on top of the fact that you can literarily feel'his Quickening Presence at touch- then, I-I I'm afraid that something might have happened to the old man!" The Highlanders normally smooth brogue was steadily turning guttural with frustrated anxiety.
Despite the situation Joe's heart gave a little tug at the concern the other man was displaying for Methos- ever since Bordeaux, the two immortals had been circling each other like two once-bitten-twice-shy toms, hissing and spitting at each other for fear of the other going to the jugular. Though if one were keeping scores –Joe had certainly been keeping scores– the younger immortal seemed to be ahead of the game- so to speak.
Abruptly the other man realized what the Highlander said. "Feel his- Macleod are you saying that you can feel his Age?" oh no. no no. so much for fact vs. fantasy. This was bad.
"it was amazing Joe" Mac's tone was thick with wonder. "I could feel how old he was- how far he's travelled I- it was beautiful." The line was silent for a moment, Joe feeling oddly reluctant to break to the hazy tender reverence Mac's voice held.
Hoo boy. "Mac? Is it possible for a mortal to- to feel that Quic- feel it too?" Joe relentlessly bit his tongue on saying Quickening. It made everything seem so- final. Irreversible. Shifting the handset from one ear to the other he uncrimped stiffened fingers to waited. There was a whistle of air that sounded like the Scotsman had been sucker punched. Shit. Better get the rest out as quickly as possible.
"Its just what I've been hearing Mac," he hurried on awkwardly. "I have no idea what's the truth and what is just the product of all the excitement that's been sweeping everywhere." Joe gave a strained chuckle.
"D'you know that the old bastard's gone and corrupted the entire Watcher database?" "He's created a worm that eats all programs and files and turns the screens into a cascade of cartoon voyeurs and subjects with the italics circling them tutting 'shame on you!'"
A huffing chuckle filled the phone. "Well you have to give him points for cheesy originality" Macleod's voice turned sober. "I'm catching the first plane tomorrow." A pause, "I need to be home. Joe- I know Methos and I haven't exactly been seeing eye to eye –even if things have gotten better– ever since Bor- " here Joe snorted and Mac's voice tightened as he went on "-ever since Bordeaux, but if what I'm understanding is right- then the place is going tobe crawling with watchers and I need to be home if- when Methos calls."
Joe felt his jaw grinding, and made a concerted effort to relax. "Are you sure Mac? Conner…" "-I'm sure" came the steely response. "Conner will have kin to look after him" Kin? Ah. That would be Rachel.
"You got it buddy. Do you need a lift?"
"No." pause "I'll be fine. Thanks for offering Joe." They said their good byes and finished the call. Well then.
Joe felt so tired all of a sudden. Positively decrepit. There was a soft knock on the door and Joe shifted heavy eyes to it. Mike popped his head in and gave him one of his sloped smiles. "Hey Joe, last round going- you want me to take over closing? "
Thank the gods for Mike. After assenting and nodding in thanks Joe leant back on his trusty battered chair. Yeowch. Now that was a phone conversation for the books. Running a tired hand through his beard he ran through the conversation again. He suspected he was in shock. A shell-shockedness that had lasted 3 long days.
That had to be one of their longest phone calls. If not The. Joe's fingers suddenly itched for guitar strings under his finger tips, the comforting body of his guitar and his soul-quaking Blues. Yeah. Soul-quaking is right. Maybe that's how it feels to touch the scroll for the first time. That's what they'd been talking bout right? Joe allowed the wonder to seep into him for the first time. Imagine that. Even mortals were able to feel the tingle of Presence…. Something all immortals took as due- hold on.
Joe lurched forward in his seat. All Immortals. All Immortals? Mac said something about parchments being copied and sent to all immortals. Fuckin'A. the implications that meant started racing through him. Well shit. Regardless what the parchment said, the mere fact of its existence- what it meant for the Game…..
Jeez. A guy could get all sorta health complications from such stressful friendships. When –and it would be when, Joe told himself firmly– the contrary smug sorry excuse of an immortal turned up– well, it wouldn't be this mortal's ears that would be bleeding.
After all, the bastard still had to pay up his bar tab. Joe gave a laugh-sob. Hell Methos, the beer's not run out yet.