"Both Sides of the Story". Paula Stiles Summary: It's a week from Hell, even by Methos' exacting standards, when Joe finds out why the Old Man joined the Watchers. Characters: Joe, Methos, Duncan MacLeod, Kate MacLeod, Amy Thomas, Stephen Keane, Kronos, Caspian, OCs. Rating: R. Disclaimer: Davis/Panzer Productions, Rysher Entertainment, and Gaumont Television own the Highlander universe. I don't own Kipling's Just So Stories or any of the songs herein. God, and the copyright laws, forbid that I should make any money off of this. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission is very real and can be found at: http://www.doj.gov.za/trc/index.html Archive: Ask, and ye shall probably receive permission. Note: This is a sequel to "Armed Intervention", and begins a couple of weeks after that story. This story, and the rest of this Joe and Methos series (along with my other stories), can be found at: http://www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html Many thanks to Judith Hill for betareading this story for me. BOTH SIDES OF THE STORY Monday I was born an original sinner. I was born from Original Sin. And if I had a dollar bill for all the things I've done, There'd be a mountain of money piled up to my chin. "Hey." Mouth on mouth. Hands pulling frantically at clothing--jacket, dress, shirt, jeans, bra. Fingers stroking skin too long untouched. A sword dropped carelessly on the floor in a tangle of clothing--hers and mine. Her dark hair hanging over me like a curtain, then spilled out on the pillow as she moves underneath me. Our breathing deepening and accelerating to near synchronisation at a moment of truth. "Hey. Wake up." I wake up naked, under a white sheet, no idea who I am, where I am, whether I am alive or dead, animal, vegetable or mineral. I am disconcerted, to say the very least. "Hey, um, what's your name again? Wake up." I pull the sheet off of my face and roll over in bed, finding out simultaneously that I am alone in it, and that it is not my bed. I open my eyes to see a dark- haired young woman standing next to the bed in a towel, drying her hair. "Look," she says. "I hate to rush you, but I have to leave for work in half an hour. Can you be out of here in 20 minutes?" Fifteen minutes later, the world's oldest known Immortal (more or less) stands on the street corner outside at six am, shivering in his jacket and hastily flung-on clothes from the night before. Ohh, do I feel like shit. I am teetering on the watershed between a wild drunk and a miserable hangover. Please, somebody, just shoot me and take my head. My sword feels twice as unwieldy as usual, and drags my coat down on one side. Of course it is pouring down rain. The girl does not want to continue our acquaintance. She was drunk enough to be keen on a one-night stand with an even drunker Adam Pierson last night, but morning sobriety has made her far less keen on anything longer term with his alter ego, Methos. Ow. As I slink down the street to the Metro (Abbesses? How the Hell did I end up in Montmartre?), I realise that I don't even know her name. This is a much more romantic concept in pop songs than it is in real life. In pop songs, it means that you engage in a lifelong dance with said mystery woman, finding her in one verse, losing her in the next. In real life, it effectively ends the relationship--unless one is a stalker. I just don't have that kind of commitment to a one-night stand. Ow. Try as I might, I cannot get the night before out of my head. The girl might have turned out a coyote date in the end, but the sex, at least, was great. I would have strongly preferred to wake up to a cuddle between the sheets rather than a boot out the door. I haven't had a long-term relationship since Alexa died, and my few other attempts have also been disastrous, involving too much alcohol and unrealistic hopes on my side. Ow. You have got to stop being such a cheap date, Old Man. Six pints of bitter with four shots of vodka and you are anyone's for the night. The real problem, I suppose, is how to be someone's for longer than one night. It is a trick I've never quite mastered, and Heaven knows I have practised at it. The Buzz creeps up on me. Takes some time to separate it from the hangover headache. Some Immortal is spying on me. Okay. I take it back. I do not want to get shot today, and I like my head just where it is. I look around, as sneakily as I can. Too many hiding places nearby. The Immortal could be anywhere. The presence retreats. Perfect. Now, I am being stalked. Half an hour later, I slink into my apartment building, cold, wet, and desperately needing a shower. I step through the door to my apartment without bothering to turn on any lights. I don't think my head could bear the shock just now, and I pity the home intruder who would try to burgle me this morning. I cannot see how my mood could get much worse. I should know better. As I stumble into the kitchen, I automatically head to the refrigerator to check for any opened cat food cans. It does not matter that I usually get up several hours later; Silas will want to be fed. As far as Silas is concerned, when I get up, it is breakfast time. Typical cat logic--I use it on Joe and MacLeod all the time. I don't think either of them has caught on yet, being both dog lovers. I like dogs, but cats take care of themselves better. I pick a can at random and open it. No cat appears. Silas is not shy about showing up for food. This is very strange. "Si-las," I call quietly (even that makes my head throb). "Ki-ki-ki...C'mon, Silas. Have a little pity, eh? It has been a bad night." No response, I come back out into the living room/bedroom. "Silas? Silas, where the Hell are you?" The cry is faint. It comes from my bed and makes my blood chill. I hurry over to the bed. "Silas?" I venture. The cry comes again, much louder, but muffled. I drop to my knees and peer around the back of the bed, where I stick in the nightlight. Silas is there, crammed up against the wall. He is covered in vomit, and panting in agony and terror. "Oh," I say, in a small voice that I would never, ever use in front of a human being. In fact, I sound almost like Silas. "Silas, what have you done?" ********* Four years and you haven't found out yet. That's pretty good. I know you like to snoop through my files whenever you think I'm not looking. I had to write this down on paper, the old fashioned-way, which is kinda risky. Or maybe you found out already, Old Man. No. I think you'd bring it up if you had. Pull back, Dawson. Get with the program. This is a chronicle, not a letter. Stop hoping you'll get into his chronicles through the back door. You drew the line, remember? "Look, let's make this real simple: I'm a Watcher. You're an Immortal. It's not my job to make your life easier." I still can't believe I said that; no wonder you called me a hypocrite! Talk about drawing a line in the sand. I am so lucky you did not knock me on my ass. Mac would have. Jesus, what a horrible day that was: fighting with you, nearly losing Amy, nearly losing you, having to choose between you, not being able to. You ever regret saying something so much it feels like somebody else saying it while it's coming out of your mouth? Of course you have. How about, "I did it because I liked it"? That one's a classic. Remember that conversation? Mac told me all about that--with colour commentary from Cassandra. "What do you want from me, Joe? Oh, now you need my help. I'm an Immortal, you're a Watcher, but we're in league together? Sounds a lot like 'interference' to me!" Of course you would throw my own words back in my face. My mom used to say, "Be careful what you spit out in anger. You may have to eat it later." "Who'd ever have thought I'd end up with a Watcher as my best friend?" That one came out of left field. Most of your home truths do. I have to ask you about that. Did you really mean it? I have to know, Old Man. You owe me that much. Don't tell me who my friends are. You can stop reading this any time, you know. By the time anybody else reads this, I'll be dead, so I really don't give a rat's ass what they think. Maybe you'll be dead, too. Five thousand years or five decades--doesn't make you any less mortal. You know that. Methos, if you ever read this journal...I'd better already be dead. You never talk about that Watcher six centuries ago. Did you know he kept a journal on you? Did he give it to you at the end? Or did you write it yourself, as a little joke on us? When you mention me to the next guy, six centuries from now, speak well, okay? Forget it, Dawson. He's never gonna read this. Amy will find it with my things and turn it in to the Watchers after my funeral. Twenty years later, it'll get filed under 'Adam Pierson's sick jokes'. Get on with the chronicle: I went down to Mac's this morning. I'd had a late night, but we were supposed to go out somewhere for breakfast, catch up on things while his wife Kate is in Zurich for a week. Was, I should say. I got down to the barge and there was his car, no sign of Mac. Great. Either he'd overslept, which he doesn't generally do, or he'd gone out on some quickie errands, or maybe something had happened to him. On the off-chance that I'd caught Mr. Morning Person in bed, I went up the gangplank and knocked on the door. It was weird, but I could have sworn I heard two voices in there. I waited, didn't hear much. Just as I was fishing out my cell phone to call him up, the door opened and Mac appeared, pulling on a bathrobe. "Joe!" he said. "Uh, Hi," I said. I barely restrained myself from saying, *Amanda back in town?* That would have gone over well, even if this was the way he used to look during one of her visits. Kate must have gotten back early. "Oh, God," Mac said, echoing my thought. "Joe, I'm so sorry. Kate came back from Zurich late last night and I forgot all about breakfast." "I see." This woman was turning into a real pain in the ass. She had a way of showing up just when Mac and I were supposed to go do something. I could have slept in. Then again, it's not as if Mac ever really needed a reason to blow me off before. I stomped on that little thought. Mac and I are friends, but we've never been pals. I'm finally dealing with the fact that we never will be. Mac was doing his distancing thing again, and I was just gonna have to live with it. "I'll make it up to you," Mac said. "I'll come by later. I'll buy you lunch, someplace nice." "Yeah, sure," I conceded. I listened to him give me the whole song and dance, but I knew when I'd been dismissed. He went on a lot longer than he needed to, trying to make it look honest. Why do newlyweds do that? They think the rest of us have got nothing better to do than hang around listening to them beg off a meal? I let him run on for a few minutes, then wrapped it up and said my goodbyes. At least he had the decency to watch me go back down the gangplank and over to my truck before he waved to me and closed the door. Score one for Kate, Joe nothing. I went over to the bar. "My head hurts, my feet stink and I don't love Jesus. "It's that kind of mornin', "really was that kind of night. "Tryin' to tell myself that myÊ "condition is improvin' and if I don't "die by Thursday I'll be roarin' Friday night." My first clue that you were gonna be a pain in the ass today came with the music. Nothing more appropriate for a hangover morning than Jimmy Buffett at top volume. You'll never be what I'd call 'clingy' or 'dependent', but 'high-maintenance'? You have your moments. And man, were you ready for your close-up this morning. *Uh, oh,* thinks I, as I stumped in through the door. The jukebox tune dominated the empty bar. My morning bartender, a Scottish college student due back up in Edinburgh next week, gave me a harassed look before disappearing into the back storeroom. You sat at one of the tables in the back, leaning far back in your chair with your feet propped up on the table, my only customer so far. "Hey! Get your feet off my table!" I yelled. "You know better than that!" You responded with a shrug and a dismissive snort, but you did put your feet down, letting the chair plonk back onto the floor. Old Man in a mood at twelve o'clock. "Something tells me your date didn't go so hot last night." I approached the table cautiously, the way I would any snake pit. The last time I saw you, you were disappearing into a taxi with a Monica Lewinsky look- alike at midnight. Maybe she turned into a pumpkin halfway home. I hadn't seen you that drunk in over a year. "Yeah?" You drained your beer. I hoped it was the first one of the day. "What makes you say that?" "Oh, I dunno. The choice of music, maybe? Jimmy Buffett has a bad effect on you." "Give it a rest, Joe," you growled. "I had about two hours of sleep last night and my cat's at the vet. It is- -" you turned your wrist to look at your waatch, "--10:30 in the morning and my day is already in the bog, all right?" Great. This would be the morning after I'd stayed up until two a.m. teaching some new talent the ropes. "Uh, okay," I sat down across from you. You stared at the table. "What's wrong with your cat?" I tried to come up with some vital stats on said cat. No dice. Not even a name. You sniffed. "The vet thinks he ate something poisonous...probably while he was outside. He hadn't got into anything in the apartment." "Well, he's gonna be okay, though, right?" I felt stupid about showing concern over a cat. Then again, I suppose it wasn't really the cat I was worried about. You looked me in the eye. "No, Joe. He's probably gonna die." "Oh. God, Methos. I'm sorry." The dead look on your face hurt. I hoped you weren't gonna start crying again, the way you did a few weeks ago. The last time you did that, I couldn't get you to stop for over an hour. Had to put on a Monty Python video to cheer you up. You didn't break down this time, though--just shrugged, and sucked down more beer. I admit that worried me more. I decided to change the subject. "So...how did it go with the girl last night?" Your face turned even grimmer. "Oh. That. The night before was lovely. It was the morning after that wasn't so wonderful." I snickered, considering the possibilities behind that statement. "What, did her boyfriend get out of jail?" "Huh." You smiled sadly. "You always can find a worse scenario, eh, Joe? Are you speaking from experience? No. She just had to go to work early, so she booted me out at six a.m. Guess she didn't trust me in the house alone. Can't blame her, I suppose. And on top of that, some Immortal is stalking me." That *bitch*. I knew I should have got her off you. "Jesus. Methos, it's only Monday." You snorted. "I know. I keep telling myself that it *could* be worse--although I'm still trying to work out how, exactly. I don't want to tempt any of the gods who might be listening in and enjoying all this." I could see you sinking into the tarpit of yet another marathon depression. Godammit. We just went through this three weeks ago! Don't they have some kind of Immortal Prozac? Don't keep doing this to me, Methos. "Life's vindictive," I reassured you, "not God." Which is a big, fat lie, but we all gotta tell our friends some porkies from time to time. "Maybe in your lifetime, Joe. And since when did you get religion?" I picked up an ashtray and set it on end, twirling it on the table. "I didn't. I just had to come to terms with a few things after I lost my legs." You know, it's the funniest thing, but after Ahriman offered me back my legs for betraying MacLeod--and I told him to go screw himself--I felt as though I'd passed some kind of test. I mean, this was Ahriman, Bad Guy of the Ages. Killed all these people, had Mac running scared, drove you right out of your tree, and when it came right down to it, he couldn't kill one old Blues musician with no legs for telling him where to go. Weird, huh? "Augh." You hung your head and rubbed the back of your neck. "I really hate when you do that. I could do with a little less perspective today, okay?" Ow. I dunno, Dawson. Was that a little too much angst, maybe? "Sorry. I don't mean to kick you while you're down. Have you seen this Immortal? Gotten any challenges?" You shook your head. "Whoever it is has not shown up. I've just felt a presence, and then it goes fast, as if the person wants to keep me in sight, but stay out of range." I scratched my beard. "Shit. Why can't your life be simple?" Whoever it was, I sure hoped it wasn't Cassandra. I decided I'd better check out who was in town. You snickered. "What, like MacLeod's?" "Mac's life *is* simple compared to yours. You're just more quiet about it." Mac has a lot more people after him than you do, but that's because most of your enemies are dead. The few left would give Ahriman a run for his money. I decided not to mention this morning's abortive meeting with Mac. You don't like Kate, either; I didn't need you egging me on. "Look, I'll check into this phantom Immortal of yours, see who's in town. I'm sure your cat will be fine and as for the girl...she's not worth it. To be honest, she looked like a total idiot. I don't know what you were thinking. Then again," I added slyly. "I guess you weren't exactly *thinking* last night." Were you ever not thinking. I was up on stage most of the evening, so I missed most of the courtship, such as it was. I think she made the first move, since you started the night sitting alone, drinking yourself half- blind. At one point, when I asked for requests, you yelled out "Copa Cabana". Smart ass. We played it anyway. I thought my bass player was gonna hurt himself. 'Monica' came in around ten with some friends, all of them young, rich and loud. About ten thirty, I saw her at your table, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. You were laughing. Looked like she had some kind of bet going with her friends, and you were it. By eleven thirty, she was in your lap, with her tongue halfway down your throat. It seemed a little crude for you. I mean, you've been romping in the fields with the ladies since the Stone Age, but still.... It's just not your style. I got busy with the new band, though, and I let it go. Next thing I knew, you were headed out the door with her, desperately in need of a hotel room before you got yourselves arrested. You seemed happy, so I let you go. "Oh, I was thinking," you said now. "I just wasn't doing it with my head. But it's not that. I...I don't know. I don't seem to have any luck in that, anymore." Ahh. Suddenly, the epic hangover made a whole lot of sense. "You're still missing Alexa." You didn't reply; you looked ashamed. Why didn't I see it sooner? "There's no set timetable for grief, Old Man. You yourself said you couldn't find a woman like her in ten lifetimes, so getting over her in six years might be a little premature." Alexa. You must be more messed up than I realised if you thought 'Monica' could help you forget her, even for one night. Jesus, what a mess. "We didn't have enough time," you said softly, after a moment. I sighed. "No. You didn't." No one ever does. Poor Old Man. "We should have had more." "Yeah. You should have, but you didn't." I studied you. You looked depressed and too thin. Why didn't I notice that before? "Look, there are other ways to not be lonely than to get into one stupid relationship after another. I should know. You're obviously still on the rebound. Give it some more time." You made a face. "Six years is already a long time." Hey, I hear that. "Methos," I said frankly, "I know you can do celibacy. And your heart needs a good, long rest. Try giving your johnson a rest, too. It's not gonna drop off." This got a chuckle out of you, which was a pretty good sign. "If necessary, you can always renew your acquaintance with Mr. Hand, or you could go to one of those massage parlours, or something." You rolled your eyes. "With all due respect, Joe, I got that last night for free. Paying for it tonight is not going to improve my mood. Besides, I hate that...look they get. If you're paying any attention to them at all, you can always spot that glazed look in the eye, the one that says she'd be looking at her watch if she were wearing one. Paying a woman so I can bore the shit out of her does not appeal to my ego--or my 'johnson'." "I'm just laying out your options here." Fair enough. You had a point. Not that I've had the guts to try a prostitute since 'Nam. Unlike you, I can get me a social disease from that kind of fun. You rubbed your face. You've been looking tired lately. Old Man, what am I gonna do with you? "I hear what you're saying, Joe. I just wish I didn't keep buggering things up every time." You sighed. "Maybe it's old, bad karma." I snorted. "Oh, knock it off." Self pity, now, I can handle with my eyes closed. "I'm trying to understand what I did wrong, Joe," you whined. "Don't bother." Time for a reality check, harsh as it was. "I'll be the first to admit that you're not perfect. And you can be a real pain in the ass. But in this case, I don't think you did anything wrong. It wasn't you; it was her. She came in here last night, obviously on the make. You were already drunk, and I guess you fit her profile for the night. I thought about getting her off you, but then it occurred to me that you've been around the block a few hundred times more than I have. You're a big boy; you can take care of yourself. And you sure didn't look unwilling, even allowing for all the booze on your already bloated bar tab. I'm sure she had a very good time. I sure hope *you* did, because I don't think you're ever going to see her again. There are plenty of nice women out there, Methos. You know that. Forget her and move on." "Yeah. Yeah, I know." Which meant, as it always does, "Get off my case." "Well, if you *know* already, quit moping and get on with it." I pushed myself up out of the chair. "I've got a bar to run, and you're scaring the shit out of that poor Scottish kid I got on the morning shift. The last thing you need to be doing is drinking all day on top of last night. Here." I dug into my pocket and pulled out some money. "Here's twenty Euros. Go see a movie, take a nap. Just get out of here and do something different for a couple of hours." I tried to hand the money to you, but you only stared at it. I set it on the table. I wasn't about to let you keep doing this to yourself. "I don't know," you muttered. "The vet was supposed to call...." "So? You've got an answering machine. You can check it once you get home." You raised an eyebrow. "I gave them this number." Great. I've become your second home. I shook my head, more amused than annoyed, to be honest. "You would. Fine. I'll take a message, okay? Just get out there. It's a nice fall day. The rain's cleared up. Go do something non-depressing." "Yeah...yeah, all right." You took the money and got up slowly. Rubbing your face and looking most of your five thousand years, you headed for the door. "Try getting some sleep, first, before you do anything else," I called after you. The door closed behind you before I heard any kind of response. ********* Coming out of Joe's, I consider taking my truck. Mmm, maybe not the best of ideas. I hop on the Metro, instead, get off at Cite and go over to Notre Dame. The visit is a colossal mistake. I have mixed feelings about that old Gothic monster on my best days. I can never shake the memory that once it wasn't there, that it has not always been holy ground. Today, the incense laden gloom that even a bright day cannot dispel and the mutterings of the ubiquitous old women in the central pews, rattling through their rosaries and their prayers, oblivious to the equally ubiquitous tourists who wander the inside perimeter of the dark walls, oppress me. The fact that Shakespeare & Co. is just around the corner does not help my mood. I really do not need to brood over Don's death today. I'll go wander through the Louvre, instead. The Louvre is crowded with loud Germans and shrieking children of various linguistic persuasions. Why can't they all bloody well go home? Today, it is indeed a small world after all, and the museum is as bad as the Parc Zoologique de Paris in summertime. I like zoos, but not when the weather is hot. The animals look listless and harassed. I always feel a nearly irresistible urge to even the odds for the large predators by tossing some incorrigible brat into the lions' enclosure. Pity that the only large predators at the Louvre are bored university students on the make. Maybe I should drive out to the safari park in Thoiry and watch tourists deselect themselves from the gene pool by rolling down their windows in front of the lions. But that would involve driving. Ugh. Maybe not. I am really too tired to be out in public. What if I ran into a challenge? I am not in any shape for that. But if I go back to the apartment, I would have to spend the next half hour behind my bed, trying to clean up cat blood and vomit before I could consider being able to sleep on top of it. I don't want to face losing Silas, not yet. Silas is the last of the three cats that I brought back from my sojourn in Cameroon in the winter of 1991. Kronos died of a liver tumour only eight months after his namesake lost his head at Bordeaux in 1997. Caspian died of kidney failure three months after I came back from that Ahriman- induced walkabout in '98. I still remember how Silas sat in the kitchen and yowled every night for several months after I had Caspian put to sleep. I did everything I could--both kind and unkind--to make Silas stop, but nothing worked. Then, he turned clingy. He was constantly underfoot, or on my lap, or sitting on my head whenever I tried to sleep. Some nights, even when I had essays to correct or a thesis chapter to write, I would leave the house just to get away from that damned cat. I'd either go down to Joe's or walk the streets. I didn't have a lot of friends that I felt I could just drop in on, and MacLeod was hardly ever around anymore. I had hoped to keep all three cats for at least 10-15 years, but it was not meant to be. Poor Silas is only 11. It is a stupid idea to keep pets, anyway. Their lives are so brief that the moment that I become attached to them, it seems, they are gone. Bad enough to befriend Mortal humans. Yet, the apartment is so empty without animals in it. Humans and beasts shouldn't live apart. It's one of the things that I can tolerate least about modern life, this complete separation from the natural world. With all the light pollution, you can scarcely see the moon now in Paris, let alone the stars. And with all the new climate changes, the seasons seem to be running together more and more. Not that it matters. With central heating for winter and air conditioning for summer, I can no longer tell what season it is unless I go outside--and who the Hell does that anymore? I decide to take a walk, crossing the Seine and heading west towards the Champs de Mars, which also brings up unpleasant memories. I really should leave Paris for a few decades, until I forget a bit more. As I wander down a street not far from the Eiffel Tower (may you rot in Hell, Kalas), I notice a temporary exhibition set up in a gallery. It is for the Committee of Truth and Reconciliation. I have heard of them; they're from South Africa. They engage in bringing the racial crimes of the Apartheid era to light, but their focus is healing the rifts in South African society, rather than punishment. Their mission is controversial, to say the least. There are many, many people in South Africa who do not wish to be cheated of their revenge. I shouldn't go in. I should not go in. I know that I will regret it. And yet...I go in. It is like picking at an old scab, one that keeps rehealing wrong. Just inside the door, there is a visitors' book. On impulse, I sign it, 'Adam Pierson, University of the Sorbonne', just to leave a mark. I never did leave a mark when I was there.... My head aches. I shouldn't be in here, not today. I am not up for a panicked flight down memory lane. I turn to look at the room. It is a simple gallery set-up, with photos hung on the wall and on dividers set up lengthwise along the rectangular room. Harmless enough. Drawn by the ordinariness of the room, I move closer to the photos, start to examine them. They are, as you would expect, pretty grim. The less harrowing ones (but only if you had never lived there) detail conditions under which many South Africans lived--the checkpoints, the sad, rundown houses of the townships, the trash heaps, the beaten-up old cars and trucks and the even more battered roads. The rain, the mud and the dust. I remember the dust.... ********* South Africa, 1984 Another long day of teaching done, I trudge home through the township to my house--a tin roof, flaking cement walls and floor. One room, and a latrine in the backyard that I share with my neighbours. No water, no electricity. My home. There are no paved roads in the township, so I wade through dust when it's dry, sticky mud when it rains. Why waste money on the Blacks, or on the few Whites who work for them? It is not so bad as all that for someone like me. When you spend forty-nine centuries without something, it is difficult to see it as a necessity--especially in a warm place like Africa, where it isn't. I still do not know why I came down here. I was looking for a sanctuary, I think, tired of being hunted like some rare predator, trying to make my trail even colder than before. It certainly was not for my love of humankind. I ache just thinking about who might be after me. The sun is setting. I need to get inside. Creatures that I do not want to meet come out in the dark-- scorpions and snakes, 'domesticated' animals like pigs. I trudge past a dusty old truck. It would be nice to have a truck, but I cannot afford one on my teaching salary. If the school did not provide me with housing, I couldn't afford that, either. I walk up the porch steps and go to unlock the padlock on my door. People in town tell me that, in the old days, you didn't need to lock your door. These are not 'the old days'. These are the days when the Government is cracking down on all political protest--and there is plenty of that. Crime and gangs are rising like a thermometer's mercury in boiling water. We hear about demonstrations, the destruction of entire shanty towns and mass arrests, all the time. The students are restless and angry, looking for a vent. These are the days when well-meaning people all over the world are pulling out their investments in South Africa, in order to force the government to abolish Apartheid. They do know, don't they, whom the Government will make pay first as the economy nosedives? And they do know what people at the bottom of a bad economy are forced to do in the end, don't they? No. Of course they don't. Bloody humanitarians. It all has to be black and white for them. The padlock is what alerts me first to trouble; it is broken. The corrugated tin door hangs almost open. I pause outside, hearing the movements of at least three men waiting inside my house. They are not Immortals. I cannot feel a Buzz. It would be wisest not to go in. I know that whatever these men are here to do, it won't be pleasant for me. A gang has moved into the township in the past month--four young men whose fortunes did not fare well in the crime community of Johannesburg. Having failed in the city they have returned home to their township--to find a White man teaching at the local school. I knew I should have taken my chances in Johannesburg, but I was completely skint and Jacob, the local headmaster, assured me that it would be all right. I would have been sleeping rough on the streets, probably arrested and in jail by now, if he hadn't taken me in. Why can there never be any simple solutions in life? Those three boys have been giving me dark looks all week. The only person in the township who has been acting colder towards me is the young girl in my English class whom I flunked. She is very angry with me, and has been harassing me after school, trying to get me to change my mind. She does have some raw talent. If she had put half the effort into her classwork that she is now putting into trying to talk me round to giving her a passing mark, she would have done so well. But no. It is never the ones who work hard who complain the most about bad grades. She is young and pretty, and she has the role of Victim down to an art. The conscious part of her undoubtedly thinks that she will become a movie star or a model in America. The unconscious part knows that she will be lucky to leave this village, so why bother? Might as well get down to the business of getting pregnant with the first of nine children and becoming old and fat as soon as possible. At 14, she might even be starting late. It is difficult for me to call this 'bad' and not sound like a raving hypocrite, considering my own past history with women. I have murdered every age from old crones to babies. I've enslaved girls younger than she, who were dead by her age. Yet...to see so many women go from cradle to grave with so little joy in between makes me sad. With so few opportunities for pleasure, they are geniuses at squeezing out what they can. Maybe I shouldn't be so hard on the girl. If only she would just take her own road to Hell without trying to drag me along with her, I'd be happy to let it be. I shouldn't go in. I should not go in. I know that I will regret it. I go in. It is my house, damn it. "Look, boys, it is Mr. Adamson, our schoolteacher," the ringleader, Eli (I think), says. He is lounging in one of my chairs, next to my coffee table. His three mates slouch in my other chairs (I have four for visitors). They snicker. I would like to know where my dogs have gone off to. Then, I see that one of Eli's mates has a long piece of pipe. No. Maybe I do not want to know where my dogs are, after all. "Hello," I say, as colourlessly as I can. "What a surprise to see you in my home. What can I do for you this evening?" "Mr. Adamson, we been hearing bad bad things about you." Johansen smirks at me, with the lidless glare of a bully. "We been hearing you mess around with your girls." "'You've been hearing'?" I keep my face blank. "You seem unsure of your information, Mr...Eli, is it? Perhaps your source is not so reliable?" "You got a big mouth." Which means that he has nothing better than a rumour or two, at best. "We been watching you some time, White boy. You like our women much much." I chuckle. "What, I let Mary Sobukwe give me free beer a few times a month and that's being familiar?" I like Mary, who runs the local shebeen, the township's inevitable illegal bar. She has a hard life. Thirty-five years old, three hundred pounds, two husbands killed by the diamond mines, ten kids--six of them still living-- breathing and heart problems that will probably kill her before she turns forty. She has a big heart, and ohhh, did she pick the black marble in life. And you know what? Two nights after her five-year- old daughter died of an asthma attack, I walked into her bar. Mary was sitting there, all alone, crying quietly. I went up to her and hugged her and told her it would get better in the end, if she let it. Well...Mary's body may be worn out, but her heart's not dead. She deserved a little joy, and anyway, she was damned good in bed. But Eli is not interested in Mary. She is over twice his age and much too fat for his tastes, I'm sure. He has just confirmed a suspicion of mine. He has hated me since he first saw me in this township. Tonight, he is going to do something about it. "Little boy," I say pleasantly, "are you threatening me?" I see his face turn hard. "What do you think?" he snarls. Force the situation now, while I still have any control over it. "I think," I say, "that you should get the Hell out of my house." His face twisted with rage, the boy with the pipe club leaps out of his chair and throws himself at me. I step to one side and let him stumble out through the door. But the other three come close behind him, crashing into me before I can block or sidestep. I am knocked back out onto the porch, like a water buffalo being brought down by lions. I trip and fall off the edge, landing on the ground hard, with three of them on top. In the mad scramble, I can feel them going for my arms, to pin me down. Eli has a knee in my stomach, grinning down at me. Bastard. You little bastard! I wrench my arms free, reach up, grab his head and twist that vicious smile sharply to one side. The snap of his neck breaking is audible, even above the fight. Eli's smile disappears and his body drops on top of me, smothering me. The other two let go, as if I had turned into a spider. Small surprise. A woman screams from down the road. The voice sounds familiar, but I am busy trying to get loose of Eli's body. If I can keep the other two at bay, keep them afraid, maybe I can get to the shebeen and safety. Then...a blur to the side before my sight explodes in black stars. The fourth boy comes in hard with the piece of pipe. I flip onto my side, stunned. Another blow, and my vision flattens to black. ********* Paris, Present Day "It is you. I knew it! Benjamin Adamson. It *is* you!" A woman's voice, oddly familiar, jolts me out of my reverie. I turn to see a black woman in her early 30s, tall and anorexically thin, approaching me as if I were the worst nightmare she has ever had. A stocky, teenaged girl with a club-foot limps after her. "Mother," she says, pulling at the woman's arm. "Leave him alone. Please. It's not him." The woman stops her advance, but she does not stop staring at me, eyes wide with horror. "It is. It is him, Mary! He's come back. He killed your father. He killed my Eli! He's finally come to kill me!" She puts her hands over her open mouth and begins to cry, loudly and theatrically. And yet, her grief and madness seem very real. "No, Mother," the girl soothes her. "That man died 18 years ago. You know that. You saw it." 18 years? No. It can't be. It has to be some horrible coincidence. "No! No! He's a witch! He came back from the dead! I saw him! He can live forever!" The woman's wail, muffled by one hand over her mouth, sounds clear enough to me as she points at me. I cannot seem to get my breath. It is too hot in here, too dusty. Now, I remember the voice. She was 14 years old, at the time, and a terrible student, but I remember her. I didn't know she was stepping out with that bastard Eli. That explains a few things. I back away towards the door, knocking a display awry in my haste. "Please." The girl--Mary? Is her name really Mary? She obviously wants to reassure me. There must be something in my face.... "Don't go," Mary pleads. "My mother, she has these spells. She's not dangerous. Don't leave. Please!" There is a desperate tone to her voice as I keep backing away, as if this is how she meets, and loses acquaintance with, an entire host of strangers. Too bad. She will just have to live with losing this one, too. "Stay. Away. From me." My voice comes out thick and congealed as blood drying in the sun. "Just stay away from me!" I crash against the door, the impact startling me. I scrabble for the doorknob. As it turns in my hand, I think that I understand what is going on behind that woman's eyes, because I feel the same thing, watching her daughter limp after me, dragging her foot. The damned door won't open! My body is blocking the way. I twist around, feeling Eli's head in my hands, the dust choking me. I yank at the knob. The door opens a few inches, and I slip through, barely ahead of Mary and her dragging walk. Once outside, I run like Hell. ********* I was setting up the bar for the afternoon when the last man I ever wanted to see walked in. David Gabrieli, the new European Section Head of the Watchers, was a tall, dark-skinned man with a soft, American Tidewater accent and a reputation for being a major hardass. His predecessor, Jason Anders got demoted a few weeks ago, after his wife found out he'd promoted his mistress to a supervisory position over her. Whoops. One Hell of a mess, but it made it real easy to cover your tracks-- until now. I'd been hoping to avoid any direct encounters with this new guy while he cleaned house, but with rumours floating around that the mysterious Methos was back in town, I knew it would only be a matter of time before Gabrieli called me in. I didn't expect him to come to me. Not sure I liked that at all. "The famous Joe Dawson, I presume?" Gabrieli said, sliding onto a stool with a grace that I envied bitterly the moment I saw it. I never envy your grace, any more than I would envy a great cat being hunted in the wild or caged in a zoo. You paid for it in blood. Gabrieli acts like it's his birthright. Those guys always do. Man, I'll just bet Gabrieli would love to get hold of the above paragraph. Real professional, Joe. Why don't we just cut to the chase? My boss is a complete son of a bitch. Stop laughing, Old Man. "You must be David Gabrieli, my new boss," I said. Might as well start off polite. "What's your poison?" "Oh, a little early for the strong stuff, I think," Gabrieli said, with clear regret. Maybe he wasn't such a jerk, after all. Hey, I could dream. "I'll take a Coke." "Sure thing." I got myself one, too, since I never drink on duty. Gabrieli's drink was on the house, of course, but it did torque me off a little that Gabrieli just seemed to assume that. After I filled up both glasses, I set them out and got down to business. "So, what brings you to my humble bar, Mr. Gabrieli?" I asked, and smiled ingratiatingly, in case it worked. Gabrieli rested his forearms on the bar. "Mr. Dawson, you have quite a reputation in our organisation, did you know that?" "Yeah, I've had my share of adventures." Better tread warily here. "Why? Am I in some kind of trouble?" "Not exactly." Gabrieli rested his chin on his hands. "I'm told that you just recruited a new Watcher, Jerry Merrick." Dammit, I knew that kid would blab. "He saw a Quickening and he'd been friends with a very old Immortal. Seemed a waste to just shoot the poor kid." "We prefer the term 'liquidate', Mr. Dawson," Gabrieli said coolly. "Only if you've never had to do it." I have. "Me, I prefer to call an execution an execution, if that's what I'm talking about." "I see." Gabrieli probably did. I've heard he was a field agent for 15 years. The guy's no tyro. That's the problem. "Well, I'm sure that he'll fit in just fine, once he's done his training in the Academy. Saw a Quickening, did he?" I knew where this line of questioning was going. "Yeah. Marcus Atticus. The guy they figured for Spartacus." "Umhmm. Except that when I phoned our new friend Jerry up the other day, he said that Spartacus is alive and well. In fact, he said that Spartacus was the Immortal who took Atticus' head." "Really. He never told me that." Jerry, we need to have a chat about your big mouth. "Now, that is funny--considering that, according to Jerry, the other Immortal was a friend of yours." I drank my Coke, playing for time and silently swearing to wring Jerry's neck, the first chance I got. "Jerry's a little confused," I said. Definitely a chat--a quiet chat, preferably with some hired muscle dangling Jerry out of a window by his feet while I told him how it was gonna be. Maybe I could get you to help. "That's understandable, I suppose," Gabrieli conceded. He played with the lemon in his Coke. "Rumour has it that Adam Pierson is in town." *Whoops. Here we go,* thinks I. "Yeah? I'm surprised. Didn't he quit?" "Watchers don't quit, Mr. Dawson, you know that." Gabrieli squeezed the lemon into the glass, crushing it. "Dawson, let me tell you a little bedtime story: once upon a time, there was an Immortal, a very, very old Immortal. One day, he decided to join the Watchers. Let's assume that it was just to avoid other Immortals, since no great hunting spree followed his entry into the organisation. He masqueraded as a young researcher, researching himself, as it turned out. And he hid very well for a decade, or so. Then, one day, he quit, burned off his tattoo and vanished. With him went, of course, a lot of valuable research. He made fools of the very people who were supposed to observe him, but he got away with it. You would think that he would have cut his losses and run, but no. He kept coming back. Why do you think that is?" "I wouldn't know, Mr. Gabrieli," I said as neutrally as I could. "It's your bedtime story." Gabrieli leaned forward. All that mid-Atlantic hominess evaporated like fog on a cold breeze. "You tell your friend Pierson, when you see him, that we would have put a bullet in his head years ago, if we thought it would do any good. You tell him that he's damned fortunate that he's an Immortal--that he's such a very *old* Immortal--and that he comes under the Non- Interference Rule. You tell him that he is still a Watcher, whatever he may have done to his tattoo and that he is still subject to our laws. He may think that he can mock us and leave us behind in the dust, but he is wrong. The non-interference goes both ways, Dawson. If he flouts that, he is a dead man. Now, I do not want to be the Section Head responsible for Hunting Methos, but if he pushes me far enough, if he threatens us, I will do it." "It's gonna be pretty hard for me to tell him that if I'm not supposed to have any contact with him," I replied coldly. What I thought was a lot less printable. I don't think I'll write it here. Gabrieli smiled, just as coldly. "I am not going to bother to threaten a man who survived a death sentence from the Watcher Council. I know that you and your daughter have frequent contact with Pierson. You used to be friends when he still carried our tattoo, especially after Donald Salzer was killed. It's hardly surprising that you would feel a little protective of him. I have no problem with your maintaining your acquaintance." He leaned further across the bar. "All I am saying is: do not take it any further than that." I leaned forward, too, until I was nose to nose with my new boss. "Don't tell me who I get to be friends with, asshole," I said, emphasising each word. "Like you said-- the Council's already done its worst to me. Unless you're here with a gun and some seriously bad intentions, there is not a thing you can do to me." Gabrieli broke the staring contest first, leaning back on his stool. "Not you, perhaps, but your old friend Pierson is a different story." "What the Hell are you talking about?" My head felt pumped up with too much adrenaline and anger, my voice coming out cartoon-like, the way it does when you've been sucking on a helium balloon at the Circus. "According to you, he's an Immortal. He's off-limits. 'Sides, whether you like it or not, he quit." "Nobody quits the Watchers, Joe. They might 'retire', like you tried to do a few years back, but they never quit." Gabrieli took his sweet time drinking from his glass. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought the man was trying to lower the tension in the room. "Pierson is a renegade. If he pushes it, we could put him on trial for desertion. He is a Watcher. We do have the authority." So much for a nice, quiet drink with my new boss. You chose that really unfortunate moment to stagger into the bar. You were panting, like you'd been running for your life. Hard to blame you for the timing. Gabrieli is Mortal. You don't get any early warning from his kind of threat. Didn't make it any better, though. You looked...hunted, more dishevelled and miserable than when you'd left--which was *not* part of the plan, by the way. I started hoping Bossman would make this short so I could get you off to a corner and beat whatever story you had out of you. I tried to wave you off as you came in, but Gabrieli jumped in before I could get your attention. "Adam Pierson," he said, sounding almost glad to see you. That was a neat trick. "Why, Dawson and I were just talking about you." "Really." The look you turned on me seemed neutral enough. You didn't think I'd give you up to a slime like Gabrieli, did you? I hope not. You coughed, then leaned against the bar and pulled yourself up onto a stool. "Company business?" you said, glaring at me. Yep. You did think I was selling you out. Thanks a whole lot, buddy. "Something like that," Gabrieli said cheerily. He held out his hand, which you ignored. Smart you may be, but diplomatic, never. "I'm David Gabrieli, your new boss. Dawson was just telling me that you were out of town. He said he hadn't seen you in weeks." "No. We've not been in touch." You smiled, looking very insincere and still more than slightly out of breath. You kept eye contact with me. I shook my head, very slightly. You needed to tread real carefully on this one. I hoped you'd take the hint. "And yet, you were trying to get a job at Shakespeare & Company in August, and now I hear that you've bought yourself a bookstore." Gabrieli's grin had turned downright predatory. He let his hand drop. "You know how we renegade types are, Gabrieli. We like to keep people guessing, go with our momentary impulses. We're funny that way. Joe, I could use a beer." So much for taking a hint. Now that you were getting your breath back, I could see you getting into it. A sword fight you can walk away from, but a good old-fashioned mud-slinging contest? Forget it. "Coming up," I said, and began drawing one of my experimental drafts of the week. I didn't know if you were helping yourself by twitting Gabrieli or not (probably not), but I wanted a front row seat. I just hoped you wouldn't do something dumb and slip up. I didn't think Gabrieli had anything concrete on you--yet. That could change. "Speaking of renegades," Gabrieli continued, unfazed, "You never did render an account to the Watchers of your conduct, either during your initial disappearance or now." He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "And then there are all those rumours that you're an Immortal." I nearly dropped your pint. You sniggered. "I've heard those. People seem to think that the only way I could have survived all that I have in the past ten years is because I am Immortal. Joe has been through just as much, if not more. Do you consider *him* an Immortal?" Hey! You leave me out of your fights next time. I'm just an innocent bystander. And while we're at it, stop discussing me in the third person. I don't do it to you, do I? Giving you a dirty look (completely lost on you), I handed you your beer. "Now, that is an interesting question," Gabrieli was saying, discussing me like a bug. "But the general consensus seems to be that he's not. After all, he does age, and he has suffered a permanent injury. It's not conclusive proof, since the injury wasn't fatal, but we tend to take it as proof that he is Mortal." "Well, it seems to me that you don't have any more evidence to indicate that I am an Immortal than you do for Joe." "Yes, you certainly do *seem* to have aged a little," Gabrieli sniped. Oooh. Catty. "Then again, it could just be that the past few years haven't been very kind to you. Being on the run from both the Watchers and any Immortal looking for your old research subject, Methos, must be wearing on you. Must have been a shock to find out he'd been one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And to think we'd thought of him as the archetypal wallflower scholar." I thought I was gonna throw up right there, but you didn't even twitch at that. "By the way, I've heard another rumour about you--that you knew that Watcher from Seacouver who was found without his head last month. You were the one that the police asked to identify the body, after all. It seems a shame that Amy Thomas forgot to mention that in her report, since she gave you a ride home from the station. But I guess she was just trying to shield you from Watcher discipline." "I've known many other Watchers," you replied, leaning your head on your hand. "Some of them have died. Are you accusing me of killing this guy?" Have you got a patent on that Adam Pierson act, or something? "No, but I am wondering if you knew that he was Immortal." "How do you know that he was Immortal?" I asked, trying to look innocent. The disgusted smirk on your face told me I wasn't doing a very good job of it. Too damned bad. You do worse when your blood's up. "Aside from his headless condition?" Gabrieli smirked. "Oh, only the fact that several of the cars in the parking lot looked as though they'd been struck by lightning, and that much of the electrical power in the nearby buildings had been knocked out. There was a Quickening there, and the prime candidate for the person who provided that Quickening is our deceased Watcher." Shit. I hate observant bosses. "I see," you said calmly, but not too convincingly. "And this has what to do with me? How was I supposed to know that he was an Immortal?" "An interesting question. Several members of the Watcher Council have been pondering it themselves. I'm sure they would love to talk to you about it." "Oh, I'll just bet!" I burst out. That would be some conversation, all right. Talk about wanting to have your lawyer present! You batted your eyes at Gabrieli over the top of your pint glass; I choked down a laugh. I hate it when you do that. It's embarassing to watch. "Did you have any other bits of Watcher gossip to impart to either Joe or me," you asked blandly, "or have you pretty much finished with this little intimidation game?" Gabrieli stood up to go. "Oh, I am finished, for now. I just wanted to bring you and Joe up to speed on where you stand with the organisation, Mr. Pierson--to clarify your position with us, so to speak. We'll talk again." I believed him. Gabrieli is a problem not likely to go away anytime soon. You need to start taking him seriously. You shrugged off his threat. "You know where I live- -and where I work, it seems--if you ever waant to actually do anything about that." We both watched Gabrieli retreat out the door. "That was some fishing expedition," you said brightly, as soon as he was gone. "Wonder if he thought he caught anything?" I sighed in exasperation. "Do you have to alienate every Watcher you meet these days?" You snickered. "Look who's talking." "Yeah, yeah, okay." I waved that off. "I have my moments. I've been known to punch out a boss or two. You would know; you picked me up off the floor afterwards. The question is, what are we gonna do about this guy?" Now, you looked unsure. "For now? I don't know. He's your boss, not mine. Wait until his next move, I suppose. I don't think he'll do anything for the moment. He's too cagey to just come in and warn us ahead of time if he had anything hostile planned. I'm sure I can handle him, though, if I have to." I didn't like the sound of that at all. You don't need to fall back on old, bad habits. "If I were you, I wouldn't get involved in this at all. You've got a bad enough reputation with the Watchers, already." I picked up a glass and started polishing it so hard it nearly broke. This day was going downhill fast. "Oh, yeah? Well, I'm not you, and while we're at it, I think you're full of shit. If he'd been after my ass instead of yours and you could get him off me, you'd do it. And don't tell me you wouldn't, or that MacLeod talked you into it the last time blah, blah, blah. You always end up saving my ass in the end, when you have to." You blinked at me. I think I flabbergasted you, for once. I don't usually admit to that kind of thing. "Um...okay," you said. "I would get involved, I guess." "But you're right," I added, thinking out loud, mostly. "He's probably not gonna do anything for now. He was fishing all right, trying to get a hook into you, I think, and maybe anybody who knows you. Bastard." "That he is." You nodded. "But for now, he's also your boss. It might be best if I make myself scarce for a few months." "No!" You looked startled. "Please," I said, carefully putting down the glass so I wouldn't shatter it in my hand. "I don't have that many years left, Old Man. I can cover for you, really, if you'll let me." Jesus, Methos. Don't leave. Mac's done that enough to me already, and I get used to having you around. The weirdest look came over your face. I'd swear in open court that it was the same look you got when I told you about Amy. Almost...protective. True to form, the moment didn't last. You looked down at your beer, picked it up and took a long swallow. What an obvious way to cover a feeling. I don't know why I never noticed that before. "So, how come you just came in here lookin' like you had the other three Horsemen of the Apocalypse on your tail?" I said, anxious to change the subject. You glanced up at me, clearly startled. We never discussed the Horsemen, by mutual and unspoken agreement. I always suspected that you're still pissed off at me for positively identifying the surviving Horseman as Methos in my report. It's not like I had much choice. Cassandra has a big mouth, and her Watcher is no fool. I had to give a little to hide a lot in plain sight. "Oh, that," you said. "I um...ran into someone unexpected." "Your stalker with a Buzz?" I asked neutrally. You shook your head and I was relieved. With Gabrieli sniffing around, you really need to swear off the Game for a few months, at least. Not that you're the most active guy out there, but still.... "It was a Mortal," you said. "I didn't recognise her at first. She's grown up a bit." *Shit.* "Did she recognise *you*?" I couldn't keep the edge out of my voice. "Yeah, but as she seems to be barking mad, and nobody believed her, I think I'm okay." I let out a quiet breath of relief. "More or less," you added. God, I hate when you do that. Add a little more grey to my beard while you're at it. "What do you mean, 'more or less'?" I snapped, more worried than I could admit out loud (sorry). "Is everything okay or not?" You sighed. "You remember that bit of trouble I got into before I first came up here? She was mixed up in that." I laughed in disbelief. "You're kidding. And here I always thought you were handing me a line of bull about that." ********* Paris, 1984 The cars pass by. I don't mind the ones that go by fast. They don't care. The ones that slow, they worry me. Not a good thing, since I'm hitchhiking. Too bad this uniform is proving such an asshole-magnet. Never thought of that the first time I ever put it on. "Fascist!" "Baby killer!" "Fucking pig! Oink! Oink! Oink! Sooooooooweeeeeee!" One van slows down, gravel crunching as it pulls over onto the shoulder. For a moment, I let myself think that it'll be okay. Just two girls, dressed like typical flower children, young and pretty. Couldn't be that bad, right? Then, I see the eyes of the girl in the passenger seat as the van cruises by--red-rimmed and implacably blank. I can see what she's about to do, right before she does it. I cannot believe it, though, not even as she clears her throat. I just sit there stunned. She wouldn't do that to a guy in a wheelchair, would she? The gob of spit lands right on top of my medals. Yeah. Guess she would. "Bullseye!" shouts the driver. Trailing shrieks of laughter, the van peels back out onto the road in a shower of gravel. I lost my legs for this? "Joe?" I blinked, yanked out of my reverie by one of the summer interns. Hadn't had a 'Nam dream in years. The one that woke me up this morning refused to go away. It just lay there, like a bad stain on the floor of my brain. *Fugedaboudit, Dawson,* I told myself. *Ain't worth the time and hassle.* "Yeah?" I said. "Somebody here to see you," the kid told me. "Who is it?" The bookstore co-manager, Don Salzer, and I had been working on the bookstore's yearly audit for two days now. I hate doing the damned thing and I was getting real tired of being interrupted all the time. "He wouldn't say. Just said he needed to see you." I swore to myself in French and English. "Yeah, yeah. Okay. I'll be right there." I could use a break, anyway. I needed to get out of this office, clear the cobwebs from my brain. If I'd wanted to sit in a room all day for the rest of my life, I'd be living in a VA Hospital. I hate audits. The intern went out ahead of me into the main reading area of the store. I saw him approach this kid sprawled in a chair by the door and shake him awake. I'd rarely seen a less remarkable human being in my life. As the guy yawned, stretched and stood up, I got a good look at him...and revised my first opinion downwards. He wore grey pants that used to be some other colour, a faded, ratty t-shirt that read "Anything a Man Can Do, A Woman Can Do Better" in big black letters, black, rubber sneakers holier than St Francis and a green fatigue jacket straight out of Goodwill. Not much for looks, either--short, dark, spikey hair (looked like he'd cut it himself), pasty face, five o'clock shadow, hound-dog eyes. He was a big boy, but badly underfed. This guy had 'homeless chic' written all over him. Shit. I don't like beggars. At all. "The sign out front says 'No Panhandlers'," I told the guy sharply, "in English *and* French." The guy gave me an odd look, then held out his hand. It was calloused and dirty, stained with what looked like oil or grease. He smelled not-so-faintly of rotten meat. "Joe Dawson?" he asked, smiling like a kid trying to get the priest to let him acolyte the Christmas Eve midnight service. "Yeah?" I said, ignoring the hand. This kid looked the type of acolyte that liked to swing the incense fit to fumigate the whole congregation. "I'm Adam Pierson," he said. "Jacob in South Africa sent you a letter about me?" I scowled at him. *This* was Adam Pierson? "That was five months ago. What the Hell did you do? Take a slow boat to China?" Pierson smiled wryly. "I drove a caravan for a group of backpackers up through Central Africa. Then, I hitchhiked up here to Paris. I didn't have the money for a plane ticket, I'm afraid." His voice was a soft growl, British. Didn't quite fit his little-boy attitude. An image from this morning's dream flashed through my head. I smothered it. I didn't need to adopt any strays. "I'm surprised your folks didn't cough up the dough for you--or are you not speaking to them?" Pierson shrugged. "I'm an orphan." "Oh." Nice going, Dawson. "Sorry. I didn't know." "It's okay," Pierson said. "It was a long time ago." He peered hopefully at me. "Um, Jacob said you and he worked for the same international organisation? He said that you could use a good historical researcher." Was this guy for real? "What did Jacob tell you about us?" Pierson looked bewildered. Christ, how did these kids live long enough to breed? "He just said that you were a philanthropic organisation, that you had a lot of interest in various areas of history. Why? Is there something wrong?" I sighed. "No. Nothing's wrong. What's your field of expertise?" "Oh, you know. The usual." Pierson rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Ancient Near-Eastern History. Pre-Roman, mostly." "Uhhuh." Figured. The kid was a total geek. A brilliant geek, too, from the sounds of the subject matter. Probably a complete innocent. I wondered how Pierson had managed to get all the way up through Zaire and the Central African Republic, let alone across the Sahara. Come to think of it, I wondered what Pierson had been doing in South Africa in the first place. Better not to ask. Suddenly, Pierson turned even paler than he already was and swayed. Alarmed, I stepped forward and grabbed him, steadying him. I guided him back to the chair by the door. "Hey, are you okay?" I said, as Pierson sank into the chair. He leaned forward, his head between his legs. Anxious, I patted his back. I sure didn't want him passing out in my bookstore. "Yeah, yeah," Pierson said shakily. "I'm fine. I just--I haven't been eating very well, lately." "When's the last time you ate?" I said, already kicking myself for getting involved. "Um, yesterday...I think," Pierson said, panting a little. "Didn't have any money. That's why I was hitchhiking." "Damn. Max!" The intern popped his head out from behind a bookcase. "Go get me a candybar. I know you got a stash." Max, bless him, didn't argue--just nodded and disappeared. He reappeared with several Mars bars. I handed one to Pierson. "Eat it," I said. "You'll feel better." Pierson nodded wearily and fumbled at the wrapper. I grabbed it out of his hand, opened the wrapper and handed him back the candybar. Pierson bit into it. I watched it disappear faster than a rabbit into a magician's hat. After a few minutes, the kid got some colour back. "Bet you could use some water, too, huh?" I said gently. Pierson nodded, looking too bewildered by the kindness to be grateful. So much for not taking in any strays. "Okay, look. You need to get some real food into you. Nothing challenging, just some soup or something, to start off with. There's a bar down the street that sells stuff. I'll take you down there. Get you a beer while you're at it." Pierson coughed. "I can't pay for it," he said. No. They never can. "Never mind that. Jacob offered you a job with us. I'll put it on the company tab, okay?" Pierson nodded. "Good. Can you walk?" "Yeah, I think I'm okay, now." I held out a hand to help Pierson up, but the kid waved it off. He was tougher than he looked. Before he got up, Pierson reached around the chair and pulled up a faded black knapsack, a pair of sunglasses (mirror shades, no less!) and the strangest hat I'd ever seen. It was woven from what looked like dried-out palm leaves, round and pointy like a wizard's hat. Most of it was a yellowish white, except for faded, red leather trimmings and a chin strap--and a big, red leather bulb on top. "What the Hell is that?" I exclaimed. "This?" Pierson looked down at the hat in his hands and fingered the bulb. "It is a Fulani hat. I picked it up in Cameroon. Very good for keeping the sun off." And damned if he didn't put the thing on, cinch up the chin strap, shoulder the pack and put on those wicked, mirror shades. Then, he gave me another choirboy smile, which looked downright sinister with the shades. I just shook my head and laughed. Don was gonna love this kid. Pierson was even more eccentric than he was! "Let's go, kid,"I said. I opened the shop door and led the way out into the street. ******** Joe Dawson. A straightforward name; a straightforward guy. He did not like me at all, initially. Thought I was a bum. He is right, of course, but why tell him that? There is a soft spot under that hard line, though. That near-faint did the trick. Wish I could say that I faked it. I try not to wolf down the soup and beer that he orders for me. I have starved to death enough times to know the drill. I do not want to vomit my first meal in days all over the bar. He sits and watches me while I carefully soak bread in the soup before eating it, grimacing and shaking his head at me when he thinks I am not looking. Take it easy, Old Man. There will be other meals. Only one beer and I already feel light-headed. I must be more tired than I thought. Certainly, I am hungrier. Surreptitiously, I look Dawson over in glances, as curious about him as he must be about me. Mid-thirties from the looks of things, but already turning grey. Bet he's had an interesting life. That cane.... There's something wrong with his legs; should I ask him about it? Maybe later. The clothes are a total cliche--casual chic. They look good on him, though. He looks like a man who enjoys a spot of Blues. I wonder if he plays at all? I don't know. I don't know if I want to get to know this one. He is dangerous. Silly as it may sound, I still meet every person hoping that all will go well. That we will be friends. Some, though--it is almost irresistible, the urge to connect. There is a part of me that wants to look Dawson in the eye and blurt out, "Hello. My name is Methos and I'm an Immortal. I am 5000 years old and--will you quit scribbling and *listen* to me?" Of course I cannot say that. He is a Watcher. His job is to Watch me, to record everything I say as if it were some oracular pronouncement, not to be my friend. The only way he can be my friend is if I lie to him. But if I lie to him, he can never really be my friend. This sounded like a much better idea when I was lying on the floor of Mary's shebeen in South Africa. Jacob had it all worked out. I still do not know why he is helping an Immortal infiltrate the Watchers. As one of my young charges put it a month ago, while we pushed our stalled truck out of a two-foot-deep puddle, "This *sucks*!" So far, Dawson seems to have bought my 'backpacking college student in over his head' act. Having just spent three months playing the Wise Old Git to twenty kids who fit that description exactly, it was not that difficult. Surreptitiously, I shift my ebony-handled Fulani shortsword to a place deeper inside my jacket. Wouldn't do for Dawson to see *that*. Not the right image at all. The sword sufficed for Africa, where the locals are not enthusiastic about headhunting, but it is a bit light- weight for this far north. I will need to get another blade very soon. Damn the Game. I wish I could find a way out of it for good. "Feeling better?" Dawson asks as I finish the soup. I nod. "Much. Thank you." I had thought Africa was bad, but at least there, the food was cheap, and when you couldn't pay for it, people might still feed you. Here, you cannot make currency on the curiosity value of a White face. "Jesus Christ, kid," Dawson says. "You look like Sid Vicious playing back-up for the Clash. What did you get yourself into down there in Africa?" "I was teaching in a little township near Johannesburg," I explain. "A gang moved in and they beat me up pretty badly. One of my students put them up to it because I had flunked her. Jacob sent me away before they could kill me." Well...not quite before, but I cannot tell Dawson that. "Africa wasn't really the problem," I admit. "I ran out of money in Marseilles." Once there, I skipped out on the backpackers and their over-grateful parents, spent all my remaining money on a visa, and hitched a ride up the Rhone Valley on a truck. Most of my 'rides' didn't know about their stowaway. One suspicious bastard nearly caught me but I managed to get underneath the chassis and hang on until he got bored and went off to take a piss. Refrigerated pork bodies? Ugh. Cold and bloody. But, his was the only truck going in the right direction, so.... Dawson shakes his head and laughs a little. "Please tell me you're here on a valid passport and visa, at least." A practical man. I like that. So nice to get one after three months with the Lost Girls and Boys. I think Dawson and I will get along just fine. The difficult part will be maintaining my distance, I think. I pull out my passport and hand it over. I had it altered to 'Adam Pierson' down in South Africa, so all the stamps are pretty much right. He flips through it carefully--more, I think, to make sure that the visa hasn't expired than to catch me out. My luck is holding. That is good. For a moment, back in the bookstore, I'd thought he was a bit suspicious of me. I am not in any shape to run again. Danny's daddy will be right pissed if he ever finds out I was the one who nicked his wallet, but I am sure the little shit will talk him round. Danny wants to see the back of me as much as I wanted to be shot of him, I am sure. I had no money left and the little bastard never would have paid me for all that driving, otherwise. Heaven forbid that I mention to Daddy how I kept his precious boy from getting thrown *en prison* in Zaire for assaulting a gendarme. Or Danny's great affection for African grass--and I am not talking about the Savannah vegetation. Not that I minded sampling a bit, myself. When you can get a large bundle of reefers for the equivalent of a French franc, why not? I have smoked, eaten and drunk worse things. Take Haa, for example. Palm wine moonshine. Maybe you'll get a really solid drunk out of it. Or maybe it will drive you blind or barking mad. One pill makes you smaller.... Joe slaps my passport down on the bar in front of me. I start. "Hey, don't fall asleep at the bar," he says. Had I fallen asleep? It's so easy right now. "Sorry," I say. I drain the beer. "We got hotels in this town, you know," he says, then grins. He was just having me on. I grin back. I can live with that. I don't think he means anything by it. "Are you sure you're okay?" he says, looking concerned. Ohh, Dawson, why couldn't you be a bastard? It would make this process so much easier. This is supposed to be a temporary hiding place, that's all, a small respite from the Game. I am not looking to get comfortable. "Fine," I assure him. Define "okay", Dawson. I just spent five months driving drunk up the rutted, red roads of Africa, on a steady diet of boiled peanuts and Gordon's Gin mixed with grapefruit soda. My definition of 'okay' is a bit fuzzy these days. So odd to play the Kid. I haven't in some time. When Danny hired me as a driver, the first thing he did when he met me was look me up and down and ask, "Where's your whip?" 'Indiana Ben' the kids called me. They oohhed over the sword when I first got it (before that, I made do with a machete). When we got to Cameroon, they bought me the Fulani hat as a joke. They were completely unprepared for Africa. They needed me. By the end, I suppose some of them honestly did want to introduce me to their parents, but I had had enough. They'll be hurt by my desertion but they will get over it. Danny will not miss me at all. Accused me of sleeping with some of the girls, the little git. I am not that stupid. The only action I got in Africa after Mary was that prostitute in Bertoua. She was lovely--funny and brassy, so tough. Cameroonian women don't have pimps. Maybe that's why they seem so much happier than the "respectable" women. "I'd better get you home to bed," Dawson says. "I got a couchbed for visitors. I can put you up for a week or two, until we find you a place." I open my mouth to protest, but the truth is, I don't have any other options. "Okay," I say in a small voice. "I don't want to put you out, Mr. Dawson." "Joe," he says firmly. "Just call me Joe. That's what my friends call me." ********* Paris, Present Day You're worrying me, Old Man. You've been in lousy shape lately, and you do not need this crap so soon after whacking Atticus. You'd have to get into some sort of recovery period before you could have a relapse. I wish Sean Burns' former associates at the hospital were more helpful. They promised to send somebody down to at least talk to you, but I haven't heard anything from them in almost two weeks. As usual with you, I'm flying blind with no landing gear. And don't tell me to quit "obsessing". You quit walking around with "Whack me" stencilled across your forehead in Immortal dayglo and I'll quit obsessing. Deal? "You're sure this woman, this former student of yours, recognised you?" I asked you after Gabrieli left. I'm starting to agree with you--you are having one Hell of a week. You rubbed your stomach as if it hurt. You looked like shit. "Yeah, Joe. I'm pretty sure, though I left there in kind of a hurry." That had the ring of epic understatement. "I suppose I had better call the vet about my cat." Gotta love your non sequiturs--right-brain thinking all the way down the line. "No. Methos, stay with me here." I tried to make eye contact; you looked at the liquor rack behind my head instead. "What did this girl see? Did she have any grudges against you? Anything that would make her want to set you up or rat you out to anybody?" "You could say that," you admitted. "I did kill her boyfriend." "Really." This was bad. "How did that happen?" "He came after me. He got too close. I snapped his neck." Your eyes were clear and bleak. "Great. Perfect." I leaned against the liquor shelf and ran a hand through my hair. No wonder I'm turning completely white at 54. Look at my friends. "Please tell me that she wasn't there," I sighed. "Oh, she was there all right." You drained your beer, then set it down, looking thoughtful. "You could say that she put him up to it." "And then what?" I asked, because I knew there was more. There is always more with you. "And then his friends beat me to death," you said. "Can I have another pint now?" It got real quiet. "What?" "I'd like another pint," you said. "Please." "You told me when we first met that they just beat you up." I didn't want that image. I didn't *need* that image. And I thought you were some sort of innocent when you first walked into my bookstore. I thought I could protect you and Don from the big, bad world. How wrong I was. You raised your eyebrows. "Well, I couldn't tell you the truth, now could I? Can I have the pint, now? I asked politely." I really hate being right so much of the time. "No. I want you completely sober as you explain to me that there is no problem here. That this girl did not actually see you die. For sure." "For sure?" You grimaced. "They whacked me in the head with a piece of lead pipe, Joe. Twice. How would I know what she saw after that? I'd really like a pint now, please. I'll even pay for it." I felt sick. How could human beings treat each other like that? It made me want to kill the little bastards. It made me want to pat you on the back and tell you it was gonna be okay, even if you laughed at me for it. The door to the bar slammed open. So much for compassionate gestures. I went for the gun I've got stashed under the cash register. You jumped and half- turned, only relaxing when Mac stormed in. I took a very deep breath, let it out and slipped the gun back in place. "Son of a bitch!" Mac was saying. "I can't believe the son of a bitch came back." "Sorry?" you said, looking bemused, your hand still held out for the pint I wouldn't give you. I didn't blame you. I really did not need Mac barging in like this all the time. You're already screwed up enough, and dammit, Mac knows it. Your blood is still all over his barge. Gee, I hope poor little Kate can deal with that. "Mac," I said. "You mind not busting in like that? I could have had customers." You rolled your eyes. I shot you an exasperated look. "Besides Methos, I mean." You are not 'a customer'. Don't you know that by now? "Stephen Keane's in town," Mac said as he stomped up to the bar and dropped onto the stool Gabrieli had vacated a few minutes before. So much for preamble. "Yeah?" I said, folding my arms. "That's nice." I figured this ought to be good. You groaned and covered your eyes. "Not *again*. What is it with you and your penpals from history, MacLeod?" Your last and only encounter with Keane didn't turn out so hot, as I recall. I haven't heard a thing about Keane since the guy blew into town back in '97, looking to kill Mac. None of the principles involved bothered to tell me what was going on at the time--which really left me out in the cold, but what am I gonna do? I'm just supposed to be Watching you all, anyway. Mac mentioned the incident a few years later, but didn't supply a whole lot of details. I didn't push it. It's best not to with Mac. It's not as though I was Mac's official Watcher anymore by then, though my 'retirement' from his beat still seems to be news to Mac. Amanda gave me a more colourful account when she blew into town for the Millennium, but I can't say that was high in useful detail. My own status in the organisation is a little fuzzy these days. I've been in an unofficial sort of middle management ever since Amy started under me in '98--the guy that everybody checks in with whenever they're in northern France. I'd miss fieldwork more if I didn't have so many Immortal friends bouncing in and out of my life. Hanging out with you and Mac ain't exactly boring. I still see more action than most any two field agents. "Are you sure it was Keane?" I said. "Yes," Mac snapped, agitated. "And? Did he challenge you?" "No." Mac looked bewildered. "I've seen him near the barge the past two nights, now. Whenever he sees me, he just leaves. It's unnerving. Kate's back in town on Saturday. What if he goes after her?" He put his head in his hands. "I do not *need* this. " "And you said he would never come back," you snickered. Mac glowered at you. Yeah. Like it was your fault. As usual, you'd nailed it on the head. Mac had misestimated yet another person in his life and he was freaking out about it. Well, tough shit. "I dunno, Mac," I said. "Doesn't sound like you've got a real problem here. I mean, if Keane were still after you, he would've challenged you by now. Maybe he's after somebody else. Maybe he's just here to see Paris. Maybe he's got a lady friend here. Who knows? Since I got yanked off Watching you, I don't get field assignments anymore. I don't automatically know who's in town." This is not exactly true, but I'm damned if I'm gonna give Mac any more ammunition than he's already got. "So, find out," MacLeod growled. "Excuse me?" I leaned forward, hands on the bar, suddenly feeling a little more light-headed than was maybe safe for either of us. I know Mac was upset, but Jesus.... I hate it when he just assumes that I will open all my files right up for him. And in front of you, too, of all people. You giggled, obviously getting a kick out of the whole thing. "Are you asking me to help you hunt Stephen Keane?" I said, keeping my voice level, though it cracked a little bit. Your inappropriate sense of humour was beginning to get under my skin. I don't get off on baiting Mac the way you do. Mac looked thunderstruck. "What? No!" "Really? That's news to me, 'cause lately, the only time I hear from you is when you want something from me. Doesn't sound like you're here just to hear the Blues these days." You had some crazy woman from your checkered past after your head; Mac was in a tailspin about some old enemy.... Another ordinary day in Le Blues Bar. I figured I'd see Amanda bust in any minute now with half of Interpol on her cute little ass. Not that you'd mind. I heard she broke up with that Nick loser. With Mac married off, you might have a chance with her finally. "Joe, he could hurt Kate," Mac pleaded. "After Kell, I think she's suffered enough, don't you?" Oh, please. Not the Kate Defense. He always brings her up. I barely know this woman and she already gets on my nerves. "He doesn't even know Kate. Try again." Keane's never gone after any of Mac's other friends; why would he go after her? Keane's never struck me as a guy who's into collateral damage. Mac looked confused. "Joe, what's going on? You've never turned me down when I've asked you for help before." The Hell I haven't. Mac and I have had plenty of bust-ups over this issue. "I got shot by my own people for helping you out once, remember?" Trying to distract myself from losing my fraying temper (talk about a losing battle), I drew you that pint you'd asked for and shoved it across the bar at you to keep you busy. You almost didn't catch it. I turned on Mac, who seemed to have lost the power of speech, for once. "What's the deal here, Mac? Keane's obviously not after you. Even if he were, he's not breaking any of the rules as far as I can tell. He is not the type. So, why should I help you cheat? The way I heard it from Amanda, he had a pretty good reason to come after you when he first blew into town. And when Amanda got Methos to get him off you, you told the Old Man to fuck off." I glanced at you. "Did I get that right? Is that what happened?" Your mouth dropped open. "Uh...more or less," you said after a moment. Mac glared at me. I glared back, teeth clenched. My jaw was probably sticking out in what you like to call my "Neanderthal Look". With all the practice I've been getting today in eyeballing, I'm becoming an expert at it. "What has got into you?" Mac exclaimed. I snorted. "Hey, my new boss came in here not half an hour ago and started threatening Methos--*really* threatening Methos--because after all my years of helping you, the Watchers have finally figured out that I've also been helping the old goat, which means that they've also pretty much figured out who the 'old goat' is." You started. I ignored it. "And then Methos came in, and the guy had a go at him, too. He went away--this time. But what about next time? What about when you go after Keane with information that I gave you and whack him? I'm on probation, here, Mac. And my boss made it pretty clear that Methos is walking a real thin line with the Watchers right now. I screw up, he gets it in the neck." Goddamnit. Why can't Mac try a little subtlety, sometimes? Better not mention your other issues of the day. Mac would either try to solve all your problems in five easy steps or get on your case. Usually depends on whether Mac blames you for them or not. "Um," you interjected hesitantly, "that isn't exactly what Gabrieli meant, Joe, I don't think." You looked like a duck caught in anti-aircraft fire. "You weren't here for the first part, Old Man," I shot back. You subsided, eyes wide. I rounded on Mac again. "You're a big boy, Mac. You can take care of yourself. For Christ's sake, start doing it. Methos and I really need to keep a low profile right now. Helping you settle old scores is not gonna help us do that. If Keane is bugging you that much, go hang out on holy ground until he leaves Paris. Call Kate and have her meet you there. In fact, I'll tell you what. I'll let you know when he leaves, okay?" Mac looked furious, but I just glared back at him some more. He'd either back down or he'd leave my bar. "Fine," Mac said tightly. He stomped out, slamming the bar door behind him. "Joe, what has got into you?" you blurted out, echoing Mac. "I am tired of being used, that's what." I picked up a glass and polished it, cursing myself over having just sent a good friend packing. "And it occurred to me that it ain't any better to let Mac pump me for info than it is to let you romp through my files unasked." I stopped. "Oh, shit." "What?" You looked confused. Guess I'm picking up your talent for right-brain thinking. "Come with me." I went to lock the door and put up the Closed sign, then headed for the back room. I had part of it walled off from the storeroom and converted into a heated office three years ago. Much nicer in the winter. "*What* Joe?" You trailed behind me through the curtain like a lost puppy. Some puppy. "I think I know who your stalker might be," I said. You sounded bemused. "Who?" "Stephen Keane." You laughed. "You're joking." "I wish I were." I opened my laptop and punched up the database, trying not to think about the time I caught you snooping through my files and kicked you out. Or that I had to go crawling to you for help finding Amy a few hours later. I'm sure you haven't forgotten. I could have been so screwed if you'd found my private journals, but fortunately, you were too busy looking for Morgan Walker's vital stats, at the time. "It doesn't sound like he's after Mac, and Amanda's nowhere near Paris, so you're the next best candidate." I wonder if Mac'll take off for good this time. Not much I can do about it if he does. If he goes, he goes. This latest bust-up had been coming since at least last winter. I suppose I could have been more diplomatic about speaking my piece, but at the end of the day, I still don't regret saying it. On the other hand, if he goes, it'll still hurt. And you could take off at any time--assuming you don't get yourself whacked during one of your bad moods. For people who live forever, you guys don't stick around for long. You peered over my shoulder. "Cassius Polonius is in town?" you said brightly. "Brilliant. He still owes me sixty denarii for that chariot race. Sixth century Anno Domini in Constantinople. He bet on the Blues." Jesus, are you the master of the Shaggy Dog story, or what? "Shoo!" I waved you off. "Stop breathing down my neck and go sit on the couch, or something." "But, Mom," you whined, backing up, "we saw all this when we had sex education in school. We put the condom on the banana and everything." I glowered over my shoulder at you. "Oh, all right. I'm going." You went over to the couch, making a big, huffy show, and pulled off the blanket cover. I refused to laugh. Taking off your coat, you pulled out the Bastard and laid it on the floor. Jesus, you never let go of that thing now. I don't remember you being that obsessed with the Ivanhoe. You sat down, then sprawled out, making yourself all comfy, as usual. "I don't see why you get so excited about me seeing anything in there, anyway," you grouched. "I designed the damned thing, you know. I should have some ownership rights." I shook my head, turning back to the laptop. I can't believe you still like to worry that old bone. "Methos, the way you make it sound, the original Watcher chronicles were some ancient Immortal's address book. Or hit list." "How do you know that they weren't?" you said, yawning. I looked back again. You'd lain down on the couch and pulled both the blanket and your jacket over yourself. "Yours, maybe?" I fished. "Wouldn't you like to know." Figures. You wouldn't give up anything that important on a whim. "Gonna take a nap?" Good plan. You looked like you needed one. "Only if you keep dragging this out." You closed your eyes, snuggling deeper into the couch. I chuckled and went back to work. "Five thousand years old with the attention span of a five year old," I muttered to myself. If you heard, you didn't answer. "Hang on," I added in a louder voice for your benefit. "He should be right here. We've got a new regional search that calls up all the Immortals in an area and puts them on a map." "Created it." "Show off." I called up all of the Immortals known to be in the area around Paris. These days, I don't kid myself that I have a complete list. After all, you're not on it, are you? "Okay. I've got Mac here." Until he blew town, anyway. I called up the area map. "Cassius Polonius is still in town, but he hasn't taken a recorded head in over fifty years and he's got a plane ticket to Brazil for tomorrow anyway. And...ah, damn. Here he is. Stephen Keane. Just got in three days ago." "Figures," you mumbled from the couch. "His Watcher doesn't seem to know where he's staying. She should have checked in with me when she got in yesterday, but it looks like she's taking a little unscheduled vacation. Gonna have a chat with her about that. He led her a merry dance all over Asia--worked with an NGO in Cambodia, hung out in a monastery in Nepal for awhile, wandered all over India. Huh. Sounds a bit like you. Hasn't taken a recorded head since he left here in '97. That's reassuring. Nothing in here that says why he's back, though. I think you might be okay, Old Man, at least with Keane...Methos?" I turned around. You lay on the couch, eyes closed, your hand hanging down onto the floor. I limped over to the couch and tugged the edge of the blanket down until it covered your feet. Don't tell me I shouldn't get involved. I know that, already. It's just that you're my friend, that's all. You were my friend long before I knew you were Methos. And yeah, that is more important to me than my Watcher Oath, as a matter of fact. Sue me. "I'll get up in a minute, Joe, I promise," you mumbled. "Just give me a few more minutes." Your eyes stayed closed, and I was pretty sure that you were sound asleep, but your hand rested firmly on that sword. That's the Old Man--sleeps with his sword in hand. That would explain the 5000 birthdays and counting. "Whatever you say, buddy," I said without irony. Gently, even tenderly, I tucked the blanket around your shoulders and feet. Then, I limped back out into the bar to order pizza. ********* Jerry wasn't having the best of days as he rushed, fifteen minutes late for work, into Le Blues Bar. His dog, Bubba, had decided to take off and explore the neighbourhood. Jerry was really glad that his concierge liked dogs and knew how to lure errant ones back inside. "Sorry, Joe," he said, as he entered the bar and saw Joe wiping tables. "My dog got out." "Don't worry about it, kid. Shit happens." Joe was a surprisingly lenient boss. "Just don't go in the back office. Adam's taking a nap on the couch." *Oh, f--*. Jerry felt the same stab of fear that he always did when the name 'Adam Pierson' came up. Methos. The baddest bastard on the planet, as far as Jerry was concerned. At least, his best friend Mark had thought so. And now, Mark was very dead. "Is he okay?" Jerry asked. "Yeah, he's fine, kid. Just a little hungover. Happens to the best of us. He's not having the best of weeks, though. His cat's at the vet." Joe finished up with the tables and went to dump the bucket in the sink. "Really? Why?" Jerry asked--casually, he hoped. Inside, he felt like screaming. "Got poisoned somehow. They're not sure." Joe was testing the different taps. "C'mere for a minute. We need to talk." Wiping his palms on his jeans, Jerry approached the bar. "Yeah?" "I had a visit from our regional boss, David Gabrieli," Joe said, still apparently concentrating on the taps. "He says he had a little chat with you about joining us." "Um, yeah. He seemed like a nice guy." Jerry licked his dry lips. "What about him?" Joe looked Jerry in the eye. "He said you told him a few things about Adam. Like that name that your friend Mark called him during their fight. That's not public information, kid. Not even in the organisation. Don't discuss it with anybody again. Ever. Got it?" Jerry nodded. "Absolutely," he squeaked. Joe's threat, normally masked by gruff humour, came through loud and clear. Joe went back to checking the taps. "If that needs to change, I'll let you know. Somebody brings it up again, you come to me, understand? Adam's not on the best of terms with the organisation bosses right now. Don't make it worse for him." "Okay," Jerry choked out. "Good," Joe said. And that seemed to do it. Jerry was forgiven--for now. Jerry watched Joe finish with the taps and go out back. He yanked off his coat and stowed it behind the bar. *Shit, shit, shit.* If Joe ever found out.... *Relax, Jerry. It was an accident. He's not gonna find out and the cat will be fine. Right? Right.* Despite his little self-peptalk, Jerry did not muster the courage to go out into the back storeroom for another two hours. ********* I feel like shit, and this is only my first beer for the night since I woke up from my nap in Joe's office. Don't know why Joe let me do that. Surely, he knows that I could break his password inside of five minutes and read whatever I wanted in the Chronicles database--but I didn't. My stomach, admittedly, has not quite recovered from the morning hangover. I've tried the 'hair of the dog' cure before, though, and have survived well enough. This feels different. I don't notice, at first. I am too busy worrying about Silas and brooding over my colossal mistake from the previous evening. The vet said we'd just have to wait and see. He would not give me many details, so it must be bad. As for the one-night-stand, Joe is right, of course; the girl is not worth all this angst. It is definitely time to move on. Oh, if only it were that easy to do. Maybe I should leave Paris for awhile. I glance over at Joe, who is serving a middle- aged Spanish couple. Then again, maybe not. I raise the bottle of Guiness to my lips, take a sip, grimace and set the bottle back down. There is a bitter, acid aftertaste to the beer that I cannot quite ascribe to my hangover. I sit at the bar, morosely picking the label off of my beer. A table would be more comfortable, but it is harder to talk to Joe from there. After a few moments, I set the bottle aside and rub my face. I am beginning to feel really queasy. Joe stumps over. "Adam, are you okay?" he asks, using my alias since there is a comfortable crowd for a Monday night. "You look a bit green." I shrug apathetically. "Define 'okay.'" His concern irritates me. "Well, unless somebody has come up with some superbug, I guess you won't die. But you don't look so good. Maybe you should switch to water, take a little Pepto Bismol. You wanna lie down for awhile? You can use the couch in my office again." Lying down seems suddenly like a good idea, almost as good as moving seems bad--very, very bad. I grip the bar and try to figure out how to transport myself, without moving, to Joe's office. As I find myself salivating uncontrollably, it all becomes moot. "Methos?" Joe says, quietly and anxiously. I shake my head, waving him off. "Be right back," I grit out. With that, I fall off my stool and stagger over to the Men's Room. I make it to the loo in time. That is my last bit of luck for the evening. I lose everything in my stomach in a short, but interminable, time. Then, I start dry heaving--something far down my list of favourite activities. By the time my stomach muscles have eased, I am shivering and clinging to the toilet, making small, child-like whimpers of pain. The smell does not do wonders for my nausea, but lying down is not an option. Whoever cleaned Joe's bathroom this morning hasn't mopped the floor in the past couple of days. Even kneeling on it makes me feel unclean. I consider telling Joe that his custodial help is incompetent, then decide that I just do not give a damn. "Adam? Adam, the ambulance is here," Joe says from behind me. "What?" I whimper. "Oh, no. No no no no no." "Yeah, I think you'd better go with them, Adam," Joe insists. How humiliating. Do I really look that bad? My question is answered when one of the ambulance attendants edges into the stall beside me and gently pries me off of the toilet. As the two attendants walk me out to the ambulance--Joe stumping anxiously alongside--I make an ineffectual effort to wipe off my face with my hands. Fortunately, I am too miserable to really notice the other patrons in the bar. Once at the ambulance, the first attendant hands me a towel. When I wipe my face, the towel comes away covered with blood--bright red, my old physician's training makes me notice. The two attendants help me crawl into the ambulance and lie down. "I'll call Mac and be right up," Joe calls as the doors close. Perfect, just perfect. That is all I need-- MacLeod, the Perfect Immortal, come to visit me at my moment of worst weakness with a bouquet of flowers. Bloody Hell. The pain does not increase exponentially; it just feels that way as my tolerance to it decreases at the same rate. Halfway to the hospital, I decide that I have had enough. It doesn't help. The pain does not abate, and I know, with the dread of having too much experience with the other side of the stretcher, that relief will have to follow evaluation. That will take far longer than I am willing to wait. Why the Hell am I not healing already? By the time the ambulance reaches the hospital, I have thrown up again, twice, and twisted completely around on the stretcher until I've jammed my face against the shelving. I am clutching the chrome railing on the stretcher like a lifeline. Finding a comfortable position seems as likely a goal as winning the Prize without getting all of my friends killed. I would settle for "merely excruciating", at this point, but the gods are not feeling kind, today. Kronos was right. I have gone soft. I feel distantly sorry for the attendant who sits at my head. I told the man, early on in the trip, that I have been a medic. Partly to distract me from my agony, and partly, I suspect, out of curiosity, the man later asks me about my training. I am short with him--the effort to make conversation takes away from my desperate measures against the pain. I feel bad about that. I would like to chat a bit about my more recent medical experiences, suitably edited of course, but the regret is as pale as the humiliation I should have felt when Joe and the attendants led me past the gaping bar patrons out to the ambulance. My stomach hurts too much for me to care. My condition does not improve with my arrival at the hospital. The attendants get me into a wheelchair and roll me into the emergency room. The doctor asks me a lot of questions, mostly about what I have eaten and drunk in the past few days. I wish he would just leave me alone. I am slowly discovering a way to deal with the agony, but I cannot do it unless I divorce my mind from my body and the rest of the outside world. "ca n'est pas bon," the doctor observes as I vomit again into a cardboard kidney basin. At least now I am vomiting up coffee grounds--old blood--which means that my body is finally healing itself. "I know...it's not good for me," I gasp. "Believe me, I wouldn't do it unless I had to." This is not quite true. Even dry-heaving brings a little relief, probably because it distracts my mind from the pain. I also keep panting like a woman in labour. I try to stop, to take slow, deep breaths, lest I hyperventilate until I pass out. It occurs to me that fainting might not be such a bad idea. I wish they'd just leave me alone. The worst thing is, when I finally find an almost bearable position, sitting up on the edge of the gurney, the nurses keep trying to get me to lie down, which isn't bearable at all. I nearly claw the sheets off the gurney before they put me in another wheelchair and whisk me up to a surgical ward, where they take blood and check my vital signs. There, they give me some morphine. It is not as pleasant, initially, as I'd expect. My scalp begins to tingle. The sensation quickly spreads down along my skin to my toes. Anaphylaxis. Some idiot son of Horton's has found a way to poison Immortals and I'm the bloody guinea pig! "Oh," I say, trying to sit up. "I don't like that. That feels just...wrong." "Sois calm, M. Pierson," the nurse assures me. "How is the pain? Is it going?" And it is, just like that. "Um, yes," I say, as the tingling and the pain faded together. "Bon. You will be fine. You will stay here tonight while we do tests to find out what is wrong with your health." I lie back and resign myself to a few days in the hospital. Unlike MacLeod, I am not very paranoid about having medics look me over (even though my last hospital stay, in Seacouver, was a disaster of biblical proportions). As a former medic, myself, I know there are limits to diagnostic testing. If I had been shot, I would have some problems explaining my quick recovery. Since my 'deaths' from trauma usually only last half a minute or so at most, though, I've had little trouble in avoiding medical attention on that score. It is one of the few advantages of having a vintage Quickening. Poisoning is a different thing. People often have a wide range of reactions to even one poison. I could be a 'miracle patient' without too much of a stretch. Obviously, the poison isn't strong enough to be immediately fatal to even a Mortal, so the dosage probably wasn't too outrageous. Unfortunately, it seems to be the type that likes to linger in the system-- something lipid based, maybe, that would linger in a Mortal's body for months, even years. I will need a couple of days to detox, at least. What better place to do it in than a hospital? No Immortal is going to challenge me here, in front of so many witnesses. And Joe can always bring me my sword before I check out. He has been following me around like a sheepdog for weeks. He'll do it. Got to find that silver lining inside every dark cloud, eh, Old Man? Make lemonade out of lemons, and all that? Well, what the Hell--it has worked for 5000 years, so far. Why not now? In truth, though, this is a strong contender for the worst day in my long life. It would not be *the* worst-- having both Cassandra and Kronos track me down within the same 24 hours made that day worse than this one quite easily. The first day I ever spent as a slave (or remember being one, anyway) was also worse. Being crucified was definitely worse. And being chased through the frozen streets of beseiged Leningrad by black market cannibals was one corker of a mad, bad, and dangerous few hours of my life (Oh, how Caspian would have laughed!). That wasn't quite as bad, in retrospect, as the day, a few years later, when an old friend and I found ourselves on a one-way train to the Gulag for the next 14 years, but it had still been a terrifying scramble of an escape. Those bloody meat merchants would have ended five millennia of living for the sake of a few haunches of mystery meat over a charcoal fire. All in all, though, this is still one crap day. I finally drift off to sleep, surrounded by the intermittent murmur of a public ward at night. I hope my cat's okay. *********