Tag Scene

There was still an hour before Le Blues Bar would be open for the evening, but Methos was already in position on a bar stool, hands wrapped around his second beer. Joe mentally clucked his tongue. The man should be at Shakespeare and Co., trying to keep his own business afloat.

But Joe was in too good a mood to worry about him. He whistled as he cleaned the bar. Jacqueline had been to the bar three evenings in a row, now. The first two nights she had come with friends, but last night she had come alone. Joe had taken care to sing to her from the stage.

Speaking of romance …

"How's Neal doing?" Joe asked.

"Not too well," Methos replied. "MacLeod's got him painting something, but I don't think he and Madeleine are doing very well."

"So Madeleine is the one who told Delanoye about the Pissaro under Darling Boy?"

"She says she told her father, not Delanoye. Sounds like she accused her father."

Methos looked up, eyes widening. "Company," he announced in a wary tone. Both men looked toward the door.

MacLeod and Neal entered, Neal holding a package under his arm. Everyone exchanged greetings, and Neal and MacLeod took seats at the bar. Joe thought the boy looked rather somber.

"What's happened with the Pissaro, Joe?" MacLeod asked.

Joe took his attention from Neal and sighed. "The state appropriated it. National Treasure, you know."

"Are they paying you?"

"I get a nice finder's fee, which should probably go to Neal." Joe watched the boy for a response, but Neal seemed barely interested in the conversation. He stared blankly at the rectangular package he had brought in. He hadn't even pestered Joe for a drink.

"Finder's fee!" MacLeod exploded. "Pouchet got twelve million francs for the fake! Joe, we can fight this. I have attorneys who specialize in art suits."

Joe sighed again. He had already decided that he didn't care to argue over a painting which properly belonged to whomever the Nazis had stolen it from, or their heirs.

"It's okay, MacLeod! It's not really mine to sell, you know?"

MacLeod looked at Methos and then back at Joe. "It's not right!"

"It's okay, Mac. Really. It'll probably end up in the Louvre, eventually, which ..." Joe added loudly, to drown out Methos' sudden attempt to insert his opinion of that establishment, "is Where. It. Belongs." He ended with a glare at the ancient immortal. Methos simmered, but held his peace.

"What I really hate" Joe continued, "is losing that portrait. I really liked it."

"Well then ..." MacLeod grinned, and looked at Neal. The young artist looked up, interested at last, though Joe still hadn't seen that huge endearing grin the boy could flash. Neal glanced at MacLeod and pushed the package across the bar. Joe accepted it, studying the other three faces - MacLeod and Neal expectant; Methos curious.

Joe unwrapped a freshly painted duplicate of Darling Boy. "Oh," he breathed.

It was beautiful. Neal may have tried to imitate his grandfather's style, but his own superior talent couldn't be stifled. The colors were more intense on the face, more subdued on the uniform. The features were clear but not sharp, the expression - the only description Joe could think of was, young. Heartbreakingly young, like most soldiers. "Oh," Joe said again. The portrait was everything Joe had seen in the original, but this time, done well.

"Do you like it?" Neal asked.

Joe smiled at him. "I love it. It's great. Thank you." Joe was sure he owed the thanks to MacLeod for the commission, but, from the immortal's smug look, he also knew he didn't need to reassure the Highlander of how much he liked it. MacLeod knew how good it was.

Neal smiled, relieved. But something was still not right with the boy, Joe was certain. Where was that enthusiasm, that huge grin? Joe turned the portrait over to Methos' questing hands, and looked hard at Neal.

"What's wrong, Neal?" Joe asked.

"Nothing!" he replied, but he blushed.

Joe felt the immortals' attention on him. He ignored them.

"Kid," Joe advised, shaking his head, "I hope you don't play poker. You're a lousy liar."

"He and Madeleine had a fight," MacLeod said.

"It's more than a fight," Neal corrected. "She's leaving. She doesn't want to ever see me again."

"What!" Methos exclaimed. "What do you mean, she's leaving?!"

"She's catching a plane today, to Bern. Her mother lives there. And she won't ever see me again."

Oh, no.

"Neal," Joe asked, sternly, "you accused her of ratting on you to Delanoye, didn't you."

"When's her plane? Does it leave from Orly?" Methos cried.

Neal glanced at Methos, looking confused. "Yeah. Tonight sometime."

He looked back at Joe. "Well she did, didn't she? And how did you know?"

Joe sighed. He'd had a few of those fights, himself, in his time. God, but this boy was so young, it hurt. "She told her father, kid, isn't that right? If he was in trouble, she had to protect him. He's family. It's not the same."

"The results are!" he protested, then slumped. "I said some things I shouldn't have. She threw me out when I said she only cared about money."

"You said that!?" Methos yelped. He got to his feet, his hands at his temples.

Joe didn't think Methos' histrionics were helping anything.

"Adam, sit down," Joe ordered, slamming another beer in front of the man. Methos lowered his hands, but he still looked appalled.

Joe leaned on the bar in front of Neal, trying to block the other two men out. "Neal, you could still apologize."

"I tried," cried Neal. "Do you think I didn't try? She has an incredible temper. I didn't know she would take it this way!"

"Neal," Methos said in a low and earnest tone, "you told a rich girl with a rich father and a rich fiancé, who was going to throw it all away for you, that she only cared about money? She was going to marry you, right?"

Neal nodded, miserably. "It's off, now. She's gone."

Methos strode to Neal's bar stool, and turned the boy to face him. Even MacLeod started at the sudden movement.

"No, she's not. Not yet. You go to the airport and try to head her off. You try anything you can. You say you're sorry. You beg for forgiveness. You buy flowers. You buy a ticket on her flight. You do anything. Do you understand?" Methos lifted an astonished Neal off the stool, then held out one palm toward MacLeod. "Car keys, MacLeod!" he ordered.

"The man has his pride, Adam," MacLeod said gently, but he handed over the keys.

Still looking only at Neal, Methos pressed the keys into his hand with such force it shook the boy's whole frame. "Fuck pride! Neal, who is the most wonderful, amazing, beautiful, intelligent, funny, passionate woman you've ever met? Huh? Listen to me. If you let her go you will regret it every single day of the rest of your life. I mean it. Every single day. That's a lot of days to feel like shit. You go after her. You got it?"

The young artist looked dazed by Methos' vehemence. Joe and MacLeod exchanged amazed glances, too.

"But ..."

"No buts! Trust me, Neal. You saved my life. Now I'm saving yours. You can find other women. Will you ever find another Madeleine?"

The tears which had been contained in the boy's eyes spilled over. "No," he choked, and rushed out the door, keeping his face turned away from them.

Methos returned to the bar, shaking his head. The other two men watched in silence as he claimed his new beer.

He looked up at them. "What?"

"Nothing." Joe grinned and resumed hooking up the CO2 canister on the fountain.

With careful casualness, MacLeod said, "She'll be back."

"How do you know?" Methos asked.

"Well, she's not really giving everything up. While her father does jail time, she has to run the Academie and its holdings. And she's acquiring the famous and valuable Cartier Collection for their exhibit hall. So she'll be back in Paris."

So, that's what MacLeod had decided to do with the Cartier Collection. Joe was pleased. He tightened the spigot on the beer tap a final turn, testing his own feelings. How many fortunes had he given up in the last week? The Cartier Collection, Delanoye's bribe money, and lastly, the Pissaro. Did he regret any of it? He couldn't find that he did. He just hoped the Highlander remembered that he owed Joe a new roof.

Methos smiled. "Good. I still hope he makes it."

"So do I," agreed MacLeod. "But I don't understand one thing. Why did he need my car?"

Oh Mac, you're catching on, Joe thought.

Methos reached for his beer. He glanced at Joe, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Well, I figured he couldn't work Joe's hand controls. He needed to hurry."

"Yeah, but what's wrong with your car?"

Here it comes!

Methos looked surprised. "Well, Mac, I need my car."

"What!" the Highlander yelled.

Joe burst out laughing. Methos took a swallow of beer, watching MacLeod sidelong.

"You ... you ..." MacLeod sputtered, his face turning red.

Methos set his beer down and gave MacLeod a gamine grin. MacLeod stopped sputtering, and hung his head briefly, in defeat. When he looked up he gave Joe a rueful smile. "Don't try to figure it out," he said.

"I told you," Joe replied, still grinning. They were all silent for a moment, each with his own thoughts.

MacLeod swiveled his stool, very deliberately, to face Methos full on.

"Adam," he announced, "you're just an old romantic."

"Duncan," the other man responded, "you're just an old cynic." He held up his bottle, and MacLeod clinked it with his glass.

They all laughed.

The End.