At first he wasn't even sure he heard it, but then it came again: a clear, hollow rapping sound. Someone was knocking on the front door! Curious and suspicious, Joe replaced his guitar and went back to the booth to grab his gun. He went over to the door and opened it, holding the pistol visible at his side. An unexpected but welcomed sight greeted him.
"Methos!"
There stood the old man himself, disheveled, soaking, covered with snow. "May I use your phone?" he asked, his voice choked and strained.
Joe opened the door wide and quickly stepped out of the way. Methos entered a few paces, enough for Joe to be able to shut the door. He stood rigid for a moment, eyes closed, letting the warmth seep in.
"Christ, old man! What the hell happened to you?"
Methos's eyes snapped open suddenly and he whirled around to face the watcher.
"What happened?" Joe asked, softly this time as Methos's look suggested that he either didn't hear or didn't understand the question the first time.
Methos muttered something unintelligible under his breath before answering. "Ice. Curb. Took out a rim. Need a tow."
"Take off that coat, you're drenched."
"Had to walk. I'll clean it up. Phone?"
"Behind the bar." Joe reached for Methos's duster in an attempt to relieve the immortal of the garment. Methos spun out of the grip and backed up quickly. Joe grimaced, waving an awkward hand towards the immortal. "You're shivering."
Methos nodded gruffly, muttering, "s'cold out," as he headed for the bar. Finding the phone he picked up the receiver, only to stare at it dumbly for a moment before replacing it in disgust.
By this time Joe had made his way behind the bar. He fished out the phone book and handed it to Methos. The immortal took it with a grunt of thanks and began flipping through the pages, awkwardly, as though his fingers were still numb from the cold. After several agonizing minutes Methos was finally able to call for a tow truck. Meanwhile Joe had started the coffee pot.
"Coffee will be up soon," he said.
Methos frowned slightly. "Have to wait for the tow truck."
"Where'd you break down?"
"Exeter Street."
Now Joe frowned. That was near the access road for the airport. Implications aside, it would take Methos over an hour to walk back there.
"You can't go walking in this."
"Have to."
"You don't need to be there. They'll just take your car to the nearest garage."
"Have to go."
"No, you don't." There was a pause in the conversation. The two men seemed entranced, staring at each other across a void of either five feet or five thousand years. The spell was only broken when a sudden, violent shudder tore through Methos's frame.
"You're soaked," Joe admonished when Methos finally returned his attentions to the watcher. "Why don't you hang your coat up to dry?"
Methos stood stock still though his eyes were moving, darting back and forth between the watcher and the front door. After what seemed an eternity he made up his mind. He shrugged out of his coat, revealing a soaked sweater underneath. Joe reached out to take it and Methos let him, but only after he removed his sword from its hidden inner pocket. Joe eyed it warily for a moment before retreating to the coat hooks on the wall.
After hanging up the soaking duster, Joe turned to see Methos seated at one of the booths, hunched over and wringing his hands for warmth. The Ivanhoe sat innocently on the table in front of him. Joe made his way to the coffee pot, poured two cups, and headed over to the booth.
"Did you hit some black ice or something?" Joe asked, placing a cup of steaming coffee in front of Methos.
"Must have," the immortal said into his coffee. He held the cup in his left hand; his right was tracing patterns in the hilt of the Ivanhoe. It made Joe rather nervous and he eyed his pistol that sat all the way over on the bar. For the time being they just drank their coffee in a heavy silence. Eventually it seemed as though Methos's color improved and his shivering had lessened.
"Thanks for the coffee," said Methos at last, rising to leave.
"Where do you think you're going?" Asked Joe, rising as well.
"It's a long walk back to Exeter Street. I'd better go now if I want to beat the tow truck." It seemed the immortal was more or less his old self again despite the bone-numbing weariness. His eyes were golden.
"I can't let you go walking in this," Joe protested.
"I'm immortal, remember?" Methos retorted, adding a slight sneer to the last word.
"I don't care who you are. Have you looked outside recently? I wouldn't let the abominable snowman go walking in this weather!"
"Walking is safer than driving but you didn't seem to care then," said Methos, stepping out of the booth and grabbing his sword.
Joe bit his lip, choosing his words carefully. He'd seen Methos wield that sword countless times. He'd even seen him take heads with it. Never had he felt so uneasy around it as he did just now. "I don't think either of us noticed the weather then," he answered finally.
Methos regarded him critically for a moment as though the proverbial gears were turning. In truth he had no intentions of coming back here. He was on his way to the airport and someplace warm when he got careless. Four-wheel drive doesn't do a thing to help you brake. He didn't have any change for a payphone so he had no choice but to comb the streets looking for someone who'd let him call for a tow. He hadn't found a single place or person until he found himself back at Joe's bar. Now it seems that Joe is asking him to stay, a direct turnaround from accusations and commands to go. Methos thought hard about his decision, or tried to at least. He was oh so tired, and he really, really hated the cold. Eventually that's what made the decision for him. He cast his sword back down on the table and crumbled back into the seat in the booth. His expression was akin to that of a petulant child.
Joe knew that he had to say something; that he needed to apologize. And there sat Methos, as though he were (mostly) patiently waiting for it. So Joe did the best thing he could think of: he left to refill the coffee. This time he added a generous dose of Irish whiskey to Methos's mug, thinking the immortal could use it.
"Brought you a refill," he said, handing the steaming mug over. Methos mumbled a thank-you and then downed the entire mug in one long gulp. Joe involuntarily winced. The coffee hadn't stopped steaming. An awkward pause threatened to take over, but Methos deftly averted it.
"I'm going to freshen up," he said to no one and then made for the men's room. Shortly thereafter Joe heard the telling sounds of the electric hand dryers. After a time Joe began to wonder if the immortal had rigged them to stay running and then taken off out the back, but dismissed that thought quickly because the Ivanhoe still sat on the booth in front of him. Almost in an answer to the watcher's thoughts, Methos reemerged from the men's room. He had removed his sweater and was clomping around barefoot in damp jeans. His socks, shoes, and sweater were in a bundle in his hands. For a second Joe almost thought that the immortal's facial expression conveyed embarrassment, but that wasn't exactly it. His eyes were green again. Joe marveled at this constant changing--it just wasn't natural.
"Here, let me take those from you," said Joe, reaching out to take the bundle from Methos's hands. Methos's expression changed to one of surprise and he absently released the bundle into Joe's hands. The watcher disappeared with it into the kitchen, clutching it awkwardly in one hand so that he still had use of his cane. He reappeared a moment later to find Methos seated at the booth, once again fingering his Ivanhoe. He looked a little less like a drowned rat, but his coloring was still off, especially in his hands and fingers.
"Another refill?" Joe asked, pausing halfway between the booth and the bar.
Methos looked up at him, golden eyed. "Beer, if I may," the immortal answered, the words sounded off-handed, casual, and Joe winced. He definitely needed to apologize, and soon.
"Of course," he said as though there were nothing to it. He returned to the booth with two bottles of beer.
"Thanks."
"Look," said Joe awkwardly, trying to decide how to begin. Methos tensed, which was easy to see without the baggy sweater to disguise it. Joe pushed on regardless. "About what I said earlier…"
"It's ok," said Methos, still tracing incomplete patters on his sword hilt.
"No, it isn't," Joe insisted. "I was way outta line, I'm sorry."
Methos's hand stilled. In the following pause he finally dared to make eye contact. "You were right," he said, holding Joe's gaze as though it pained him. "I shouldn't have come."
"That doesn't matter," Joe insisted. "I shouldn't have said those things and I'm sorry."
Methos broke eye contact at last, drawn to another long swig of beer. When he finished he stared down into the booth, but at least his hands were still. "But you weren't wrong," he confessed to his silent hands.
Joe was taken aback by this but recovered quickly. "You mean you actually came here to steal my beer?" he asked, making sure that the joking tone of his voice was emphasized. Methos laughed slightly, but the smile quickly faded. "I thought not."
"It doesn't matter," Methos dismissed. "I pushed, you pushed back stronger. Not your fault I wasn't up to trading verbal blows tonight."
Joe winced at the comment. "That doesn't excuse what I said," he insisted. "I was wrong, completely out of line, and I'm sorry."
Methos sighed, taking a pause to collect himself. When he finally looked up his expression was unreadable. "I didn't come here to rob you," he said, his tone just as unreadable. "But you weren't wrong with what else you said."
Joe thought back, desperately trying to remember what else he'd said. However, angry words aren't often remembered after the fact. "You don't mean that crack about forgetting your friends…" Joe asked, though the question was rhetorical. He took Methos's silence as admission. "No," Joe insisted. "We both know that isn't true."
"Isn't it?" Methos questioned. He seemed so very tired. "I come and go as I please and take off for long periods without any warning."
Joe was silent for a moment. He couldn't argue with that and so needed to try something else. "I--no, we know it's dangerous for you to stay in one place too long," he said at last. "We understand. We're not surprised by it and I know none of us ever feel slighted by it."
Methos let out a short laugh, which was unexpected. However, there was a sadness to it that Joe couldn't place. "You're not surprised by it because it's my custom. Are you ever surprised when MacLeod broods or Amanda steals or Richie gets in over his head?" Once again Joe was silent. There was no arguing the point. "And I know that if MacLeod took off without warning that you'd feel slighted."
"Well, that's because I'm his watcher," Joe defended. It was a weak defense and he knew it.
Methos quirked an unusual smile, but said nothing. His fingers were tracing patterns in his Ivanhoe again. Silence crept in until Joe could put the correct words together.
"Ok so maybe you're guilty of ditching us when it's convenient, but that hasn't stopped you from being there whenever we needed you." Methos tensed again, his fingers tripping slightly in their designs before he recovered. Joe decided to press the issue further. "You came all the way from Tibet to warn MacLeod about Kristen. You even took her head to protect him."
"He didn't seem to appreciate the gesture," was Methos's reply, spoken mostly to the sword in front of him rather than the watcher across from him.
"Well MacLeod can be an ass with blinders on," said Joe, and the vehemence behind that statement made Methos look up again. "You hadn't taken a head in two hundred years, and then you're reentry into the game was for his benefit and not yours."
"He wishes that I hadn't gotten involved."
"Yeah, well everyone interested in seeing that his head remains attached is pretty damn grateful."
Methos's expression softened, hearing the truth in the watcher's statement. His lips barely contorted into a smile, but it was there, and it was genuine.
"And I know Mac's grateful that you were there during the dark quickening."
That wiped the smile faded from Methos's expression, for good or ill. "We needed someone who could handle him. He'd lost it, Joe--barely stopped himself from killing on holy ground. Not even--" whatever he was going to say caught in the immortal's throat and he fell abruptly silent around a pitiful, strangled noise. Whatever it was Methos shook it off, and finished his train of thought though sheer strength of will. "An immortal with no regard for the rules and an intimate knowledge of the watchers is dangerous to all of us."
"But you volunteered yourself, leaving Alexa, after you knew that he'd already killed Sean. Shit, you even went to Scotland to get the sword!"
Methos's expression darkened with some emotion that Joe couldn't quite recognize. "Like I said, we needed someone who could handle him. With Darius..." Another unfinished sentence, another almost shudder, as though Methos's thoughts were running in one direction and his good sense was barely keeping up. "The task fell to me," he finished lamely.
Joe just shook his head. "I could go on if I have to," he said, hoping that he'd gotten his point across. There was a pause during which Methos gave no indication either way, so Joe pressed on. "You tried to save my life at the watcher tribunal. Adam Pierson didn't have to step forward and risk his neck like that."
That slightly sad but mostly inscrutable smile returned. "That doesn't stop you from avoiding Lynn because you feel that you should have been condemned like Horton."
Joe opened his mouth to retort but no words escaped. The anger flashed again, hot and bright and oh so familiar, but Joe throttled it mercilessly. He needed to stay in control here, and to do that he couldn't make the same mistake twice. "That doesn't stop me from appreciating the gesture," he said finally, almost grudgingly.
Methos looked up at him then, holding him in scrutinizing gaze that made Joe very uncomfortable but he dared not look away. He saw again the subtle shifting of Methos's expression, Adam Pierson falling away and the ancient immortal resurfacing. Up close and personal he saw the slight hardening in the lines of the mouth, the narrowing of brilliantly green eyes as the color bled from them, a slow hemorrhage of warmth. In the back of his mind, Joe wondered at the effects of a five-thousand-year quickening on hazel eyes, but all such musings fled when Methos spoke.
"Listen to me, Joseph," he said at last, and there was no denying the authority present in his voice. "You are in no way anything like your brother-in-law. He committed hate crimes against immortals. All you're interested in is helping the Highlander survive. The difference is literally life and death. You are nothing like James Horton."
Joe stared, transfixed. This cold, damp, half naked immortal spoke with a presence and authority that stemmed from the confidence of hard-earned wisdom. For all his shrugging off of his five thousand years of experiences, he was never as 'just a guy' as he pretended.
"I know I should know that," Joe admitted at last, this time being the one to look down and away. "But every time I try and talk to Lynn… Her father's dead because of me, and she doesn't even know it."
"Would you rather tell her what her father was? Destroy her memories of him to appease your conscience?"
"Of course not!" Joe declared as though the question were ridiculous.
"Well if she's better off not knowing, then aren't you doing her a favor?"
Joe didn't answer. He didn't have to.
"Horton had to be stopped, everyone agreed on this. It's tragic that you were related, and that's the only reason you feel guilty about it."
Finally Joe sighed. "Maybe that's true," he admitted. "But that doesn't change the fact that I hold him guilty of things that I myself have done."
This time Methos was silent. He closed his eyes briefly, almost like an elongated blink, and waited patiently for Joe to continue. There was something left unsaid there, Joe was certain, but he pressed on regardless.
"I dunno, maybe it does boil down to intent, but that doesn't make things any easier. I mean, who's to say that we weren't both wrong?"
Methos sighed heavily, tiredly. "Only you, and those of us who agree with you."
Oh yeah, there was definitely something there. Joe kept going, Methos's reactions giving him courage to finally give voice to truths he'd kept locked up tight for years. "Even if I can rationalize it to myself, I'll still never really be able to look Lynn in the eye again."
Methos's smile returned briefly but then faded as he blinked again. "You don't need to so long as you yourself accept it."
The immortal's words were almost predictable, though perhaps because he said them, or perhaps because Joe found himself actually having this conversation in the first place when up to a moment ago he would have sworn it was the last conversation he would have ever wanted to have with anyone, he gave cursory consideration to what Methos was saying.
"I guess I do accept it," Joe said at length. "Unless of course I'm with Lynn."
Methos laughed slightly, tiredly. "And that's why you didn't go to Chicago this Thanksgiving," he surmised, with the air of an exhausted grandmaster finally announcing checkmate long after the game should have ended.
There was a pause during which all of this sunk in, wherein he suddenly realized that Methos had played expertly and then just suddenly as suddenly decided that he didn't care. "You knew all along, didn't you ya bastard," he asked around a low, rueful chuckle, but there was no malice in the statement.
"I suspected," Methos answered, not making eye contact. "But since you weren't sure, neither was I."
"Did I ever call you a manipulative, calculating son of a bitch?"
"You may have mentioned something along those lines once."
"Well I mean it as a compliment buddy." It was as though the weight of the world had been lifted from Joe's shoulders. Methos smiled broader this time, but it didn't quite reach those mutable eyes. "That's why you came here tonight, isn't it," Joe added. It wasn't a question. Methos's expression darkened and the smile fell back into nothingness. "Methos?"
"I honestly don't know why I came here, Joe," Methos replied eventually.
"What do you mean?"
Methos half shrugged, not entirely sure of that himself. "The flight crew wished us all a happy Thanksgiving when we landed. I was planning on stopping by for a pint, but then I figured you'd be closed."
"But you came anyway?" Joe was confused. He really didn't believe Methos would have stolen beer from a closed bar, so what the hell?
"Yeah," Methos said softly. "I know. Force of habit maybe." He went pack to tracing patterns on his sword.
Joe was baffled by all that had happened. Methos drove to his bar but claimed to not know the reason why. Then he broke in but not to steal. He caved under a fierce verbal beating but then came back after wrecking his Range Rover. And somehow he knew exactly what was troubling the watcher, and even got him to admit to it. Oddly enough, these events added up to a typical encounter with Methos. Well, excluding Methos's flight and subsequent return that is. A calculating son of a bitch indeed. Joe nearly suspected that his leaving and coming back had been orchestrated to make him feel guilty and thus make his confession easier.
That would have made sense if it weren't for the other strikingly un-Methos-like goings on. Not even Adam Pierson was this withdrawn, and neither he nor Methos ever looked so tired and, well, miserably depressed. Not even after Alexa died. There was definitely something troubling his friend tonight, and Joe was determined to get to the bottom of it. Return the favor, as it were.
"You look like hell, old man," Joe said at last.
Methos nearly laughed. Nearly. "Not quite," was the vague reply.
Joe didn't want to hazard a guess at what it meant, and so decided to change the subject. "Why'd you leave you sword on the booth?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
This was frustrating; he was getting no where. "Did you really see me as a threat?"
Methos looked up sharply, not understanding the nature of the question. Then it dawned on him. "No," he answered with that same sad smile. "You are no threat to an ally of the Highlander. The sword was for your benefit, not mine."
The first thing that struck Joe about that statement was that he used the word 'ally' instead of 'friend,'and for the second time he referred to MacLeod as 'the Highlander'. Many of MacLeod's opponents called him that, especially the older ones, but the title had originally been given to Connor by The Kurgan. The recent trend was for the elder MacLeod to be called by the surname and for Duncan to be called 'Highlander.' Not many immortals had earned nicknames among their own kind to the degree that the 'Highlander' moniker owned. Everyone who had heard of him called him that, while the equally infamous Connor was simply called 'MacLeod'. The watchers could only offer mere speculation, though Joe guessed it had something to do with Cassandra's prophecy (not that he believed in prophecies, of course).
Only after pondering this first part for a while did the second part sink in. For your benefit, not mine. Joe could have kicked himself. It wasn't that Methos kept the sword within reach, it was that he kept it between them, resting in plain sight. "I know you're not a threat," Joe answered at last.
Methos snorted a laugh. "Then you don't know me very well," he retorted bitterly. His hand weakly clutched the hilt of the Ivanhoe.
Joe's grin flashed feral for a moment. "I know you can talk all you want about me and Horton by pretending we're you and Kronos."
The sword clanged out of Methos's hand and back to the booth. If possible, he was even paler than before. "Why do you say that?" he asked with deceptive calm. The immortal's posture all but sang of tension and tight control.
"Oh, I dunno. Just that bit about hating to judge your brother for the same crimes that you've committed."
The tension remained for a brief time, but then suddenly Methos let out a bark of derisive laughter. "And he lives up to his title at last!"
Surprised and uncertain as to whether or not he should be insulted Joe simply gave a half shrug. "Well I am a watcher," he insisted. "Shouldn't I occasionally be good at my job?"
Methos shook his head and sighed, amused despite himself. Then suddenly the exhaustion was back. He pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes, hard enough to make his vision swim after he released them. Thusly reminded of the immortal's early uncharacteristic behavior, Joe was instantly concerned.
"Methos?"
His response was a guttural mumble in a language Joe didn't recognize. Familiar with MacLeod's tendency to conduct his truly vicious swearing in languages other than English (Gaelic, Sioux, and Cantonese sitting at the top of that list), Joe took it in his stride. He waited patiently for Methos to get over the impulse and answer him, but the ongoing silence swiftly unnerved him, as did Methos's continued need to shove his palms through his eye sockets.
"That bad, huh?" the watcher prompted, hoping to illicit some sort of response.
Well it worked, just not as Joe intended.
Methos moved his hands around to let his fingers massage his temples, as though to displace a growing headache there. His eyes stayed closed, and unless Joe was mistaken there were lines of pain there now that weren't a moment ago. And when Methos spoke again it still wasn't in any language Joe recognized.
"Lossë untupa silme. Im na vanwa."
Joe was starting to worry now. He'd never heard his friend utter complete sentences in irrelevant languages before. He'd once seen Methos in Switzerland at the Watcher's Headquarters carry on a three-way conversation in English, French, and German with an ease that was both fascinating and a bit disconcerting, but this? Hell. This was different, and taken with the immortal's overall appearance, was beginning to frighten the watcher. "Um, remember English?" he asked uncertainly.
Methos's eyes snapped, and Joe got the impression that the immortal was surprised to see him sitting there. A small moment passed that the watcher could have sworn Methos used to reorient himself before a smile crossed his lips that didn't quite reach his eyes--eyes that shimmered golden like ripples across a pond. "I don't think the world will let me forget this pitifully crude language," he said at length. "But then, I thought the same thing of Latin, too."
Joe just shook his head. "Yeah, but Latin I recognize. I have no idea what that was."
"What what was?" Methos asked, all innocence. Any other night the watcher would have thumped the immortal for the ill joke.
"I think perhaps you should take the couch in my office," he said, his face lined with concern.
Surprisingly though, Methos did not object. "Yeah," he agreed distractedly, rising from the booth. "Now that you mention it, a nap sounds really good right about now." The immortal yawned, stretched, and plodded heavily in the direction of Joe's office across the bar without looking back.
Joe was confused, worried, and slightly guilty, thinking that he was partially to blame for the immortal's fatigue. However, he also sensed that there was more to it than that. Something else was eating at Methos, and Joe felt determined to find out what it was.
