"It's So Beautiful Over There".

Paula Stiles

<thesnowleopardAhotmail.com>

Summary: Methos' therapy hits a snag.

Characters: Joe, Methos, Alexa, Kronos, Amy Thomas, 
Stephen Keane, OCs.

Rating: PG-13.

Disclaimer: Rysher/Davis own Methos and Joe and the 
Highlander universe. I don't own any of the songs. This 
is just an experiment. I'm having a little fun and am not 
getting paid for it. 

Archive: Ask, and ye shall probably receive permission.

Note: This is the third story in the Joe and Methos 
"Armed Intervention" series. You will find it with others 
in the series (as well as my other stories), at: 
http:www.geocities.com/RainForest/Andes/3071/arch.html .

Many thanks to Judith Hill for betareading this 
thoroughly for me.




IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL OVER THERE


     He lives in the mist, in the fog. I meet him under 
the bridge at night. We fight. I win. I don't remember 
him, or what he means. I haven't yet told Joe.

     What does he want?


*********


     "White."

     "Death."

     Rene stares at me over his coffee cup. "Really?" he 
says.

     "Really," I say.

     He shrugs. "Okay. Black."

     I hesitate. "Ex-friends." Kronos, for example. My 
personal guardian angel. I haven't seen him in almost a 
month, which must be good.

     "Any particular ones?"

     "No," I reply firmly. He lets it go.

     "Trust."

     "Joe."

     "Hmmf."

     "You don't look surprised," I say.

     "Should I be?" He smirks at me. Fair enough. "Love."

     "Alexa." I'm startled by the jolt of sadness at that 
word. I thought I had got some distance.

     "Your wife," he says gently. "The one who died?" I 
nod. "Do you want to talk about her today?"

     "No...maybe another day, when I feel ready for it."

     "Okay. Death."

     "The past." That was easier.

     "The future."

     Whoo. Total blank. "Um...thesis defense? Bookstore?"

     "Now you're thinking about it. What leapt to mind 
first?"

     I shake my head. "Nothing, really."

     He stares at me. "Nothing at all?"

     "Nope."

     "Hmm." He scribbles. I hate when he does that. 
"Seacouver."

     Aww, that was low, Rene. "Flying monkeys," I say, to 
our mutual astonishment.

     "Flying monkeys?" He looks flabbergasted. "Where did 
that come from?"

     "I have absolutely no idea." This is the truth. 
"Hey, you were the one who asked the loaded question. I 
thought we'd agreed not to discuss Seacouver."

     "Did we?" He looks confused. Come to think of it, he 
is right. We made no such agreement. "Do you remember the 
hospital?"

     "Sure."

     "How was your stay?"

     "My *stay*? What stay? It wasn't a country club. 
They wouldn't let me leave."

     "Well, consider their reasons. Was it unpleasant, 
otherwise?"

     I grimace. "Oh, it was nice enough as prisons go. 
The staff were kind to me. They had a theory that I was 
some ordinary family guy who'd just snapped one day and 
wandered off. Pretty entertaining, listening to them 
gossip about me in the hallways." Pretty naked, too. 
"They'd ask me my name; I'd pretend not to understand. We 
got along okay."

     "But isn't that what happened? Were they not right?"

     I blink. "About what?"

     Rene puts his elbows on the table, folds his hands, 
leans his chin on them and gives me a disgusted look. 
This is what he does when he thinks I am giving him the 
runaround, I have discovered. I am not doing that at this 
moment. I do not understand the question.

     "You leave town after Duncan MacLeod murders his own 
student in front of you. Over a year later, you are 
picked up in Seacouver, drunk, confused and homeless. 
What do *you* call that?"

     "Ah," I say. Well, he has got me there.

     "Do you remember your arrest?"

     "Not really," I admit.

     "Not really? What does that mean?"

     I glare at him. He is beginning to piss me off. "No, 
Rene. I do not remember my arrest."

     "Do you remember your psych evaluation at the police 
station?" I shake my head again. He frowns. "No? That is 
odd."

     "What is so odd about it? I was drugged to the 
hairline. It is a wonder I remember being there at all."

     "You had periods when you were apparently conscious 
in that first week. Your eyes were open. You responded to 
some verbal stimuli, though what you said made no 
apparent sense. I think this is where the flying monkeys 
are."

     "Not to mention the wild things," I snap. "But that 
does not explain why it is so important that we have to 
talk about it."

     "Doesn't it?" He looks innocent. Ha. I don't buy it. 
I invented that look.

     "No," I say, in an end-of-discussion tone.

     "Hmm." More scribbling, on a big, yellow steno pad 
that doesn't look like Joe's journal, but reminds me of 
it nonetheless.

     "What is this 'hmm' thing with you? And what is it 
with all the scribbling? I didn't agree to your taking 
any notes."

     He looks disgusted, though he does stop writing. He 
does the chin-on-hands thing. Oh, here we go. The 
lecture.

     "You do not want me to take notes of our meetings?" 
he says.

     "No, I do not."

     "Adam, do you think I am your friend?"

     "Ye-es," I say, after a pause that even I think is 
long. "But my other friends don't take notes." This is 
not quite true, which may be the problem. I don't know. I 
just know it disturbs me when Rene does it. Or Joe, for 
that matter.

     "Your other friends, they are not les psychiatres, 
je crois?" Bastard.

     "No," I admit. "What does that have to do with the 
big, yellow steno pad?"

     "Me, I have a skill, a service. It is a service that 
you need. I give you this service because I am your 
friend. If you don't want the service, ca va. We will 
stop now and go for a beer, yes? Get drunk, talk about 
girls? I will still be your friend, but I cannot do this 
service for you sans...ah," he mutters to himself, 
"qu'est-ce que c'est le mot? La separation. When I am 
just your friend, I do not ask you uncomfortable 
questions. I do not push. When I am le psychiatre, I 
must, or I will do a bad job. Separation. You 
understand?"

     "I suppose," I say. Not that I am happy about it.

     "Bon. Do you want to stop?"

     "What?" The question startles me. Right out of left 
field.

     "Do you want to stop this?" He indicates the steno 
pad with his pen. "Go for a beer? Cherchez la femme? Just 
be friends?"

     Damn, he is good, leaving that padded door open a 
crack. Make the patient think he can leave at any time. 
Well, you can, can't you, Old Man? You can stop anytime. 
So easy. Just slip out the back door--and maybe end up in 
a place a lot worse than Seacouver this time. I look down 
at my still untouched coffee. "No," I say. "I don't want 
to stop."

     "Bon," he says, as if he already knew what I would 
say--though I suspect he is too smart to make these kinds 
of conclusions about me. "But perhaps it is enough for 
today, yes?" When do you want to meet again? Wednesday?"

     "It's only Monday," I protest. "We seem to be 
meeting a lot, right now. Twice this week? Twice last 
week? Twice the week before?" This was not how I planned 
on spending my October.

     "Is it too much?" He is watching me too closely. 
It's another bloody psychological test, I can tell.

     I sigh. Ah, bugger it. "No, Rene. It is fine. I love 
your company. Let's do the Time Warp again on Wednesday." 
He does smile at that.

     "Should we meet more?" he asks. He is pushing and I 
bet he knows that. "Is it enough?"

     "It is fine," I say, irritated. I have got other 
things to do besides this. Really. "To be honest, this 
is...a little rough on me." And the grilling that Joe 
will give me after I go to the Bar is going to be equally 
rough. I don't think Joe trusts Rene--or maybe he is 
jealous. Joe, old buddy, you have no fears there.

     "Rough," Rene muses. "The therapy. Is it helping?" 
Ooh, he said the Word.

     "I don't know yet." This is absolutely true. "I have 
heard that it takes a little getting used to. Let's just 
see what happens."

     He nods. "Bon. Wednesday, then." More scribbling. At 
least this is only appointment-making. He glances up at 
me. "Two o'clock?"

     "Make it four. I want to do some things in the 
bookshop, first." I would like to get it up and running 
by mid-November, but that could be too optimistic. My 
stomach is better than it was after my poisoning, but I 
still feel tired too much of the time.

     "Bon. I will see you then. If something happens," --
his codename for a flying monkey moment, I think-- "call 
me." He folds up the pad and puts it into his backpack 
before standing up. Before he leaves, he leans across the 
table and pats me on the shoulder, startling me. "You are 
doing fine," he says. Bemused, I watch him go out the 
door into the street. He always leaves first--to give me 
space, I think. Or maybe to leave me wanting more, 
expecting more. He is too smart for my own good, but I 
suspect he really could help me. Do I need help? I don't 
know yet. I stand up and leave, my coffee untouched. As 
usual, Rene has paid for it.


*********


     Le Blues Bar should be quiet about this time of day, 
but it is not. Joe and his bassman are practising. I love 
watching him play. Talk about throwing your heart over 
the fence before the horse. Joe is an amazing bluesman. 
People come to practise with him from all over Europe. I 
don't think he quite realises how large his reputation is 
in the local Blues community. And he is in complete 
denial about his reputation with the Watchers. It's 
better than mine at this point, I am sure. Though I was 
an obscure personality until the very end, which was 
deliberate, of course. The Methos Project was right up 
there with chasing unicorns. Wish it had stayed that way. 
I did not need that kind of fame again.

"Everybody's got a million questions.
Everybody wants to know the score.
What you went through is something you should be over 
now.
Everybody wants to hear the secrets that you never told a 
soul before.
And it's not that strange, 'cause it wouldn't change what 
happened anyhow.
But you swore to yourself a long time ago,
There were some things that people never needed to know.
This is one that you keep that you bury so deep no one 
can tear it out."

      I take a chair at a table, trying to be 
unobtrusive. I don't want to screw them up. Marie gets me 
a beer without my having to ask. What service. No wonder 
I keep coming here.

     The bass player, who is from Senegal, joins in on 
the chorus. He is also doubling on harmonica. The song 
sounds familiar, but Joe and the bassman are jamming on 
it so that I can't quite place it. They play with the 
melody, speeding up a bit for emphasis here and there.

     "My, he's good, isn't he?" I stop in mid-sip and 
look up, startled. For a moment, I could have sworn.... 
But no. The voice is female, not male, though low in the 
throat. And the woman pulling up a chair beside me is 
most certainly not Kronos. I don't recall ever seeing 
Kronos' bare legs in all the centuries I knew him. Even 
if I had, I would bet that Amy's are much nicer.

     "Hi, Amy," I say. " Yes, he is. How is the Watcher 
game?"

     She smirks at me as Marie comes over with a White 
Russian. "Now, Ben. You know I'm not supposed to discuss 
that with the likes of you." I don't take offense. 
There's no sting in it; she is only teasing. "Besides, 
I'm not here on business. I just came to watch Joe play." 
It is a pity that she cannot call him "Dad", but the way 
she smiles up at him on stage makes that almost 
irrelevant. I do believe she loves him.

     Joe and the bassman haven't seen us yet, as far as I 
can tell. They have got their heads together; Joe's eyes 
are closed. They roll through the song looking like two 
drunks belting out karaoke in a Country-Western bar--
except that Joe and his bassman can carry a tune much 
better.

"But you can't talk about it
'Cause you're following a code of silence.
You're never gonna lose the anger.
You just deal with it a different way.
And you can't talk about it.
And isn't that a kind of madness
To be living by a code of silence, when you really got a 
lot to say?"

     On the second verse, Joe and the bassman start 
switching off stanzas, some sort of antiphony and 
response thing, obviously experimenting. I wonder, 
sometimes, if Joe does not enjoy the practices more than 
his performances at night. In the practices, he can do 
different things, some that work, some that don't, and 
not worry about an audience complaining that, "it ain't 
what they call 'rock and roll'."

     "How does he do it, do you think?" Amy says.

     I drink more beer. "Do what?"

     "His music. How do you think he does it?"

     I shrug. "I wouldn't know. I don't have that kind of 
talent." That is what I have told myself for two thousand 
years, that I had no talent for creation, and that is 
true. Destruction is a very different story.

     "You were unique, Methos," Kronos once told me, 
shortly before I got him killed. "Of course, we all 
were," he added quickly. The man never gave me a straight 
compliment, ever.

     I don't want to think about Kronos.

     I rub the back of my neck, looking up at Joe, trying 
to find an answer to Amy's question. "Joe is very 
gifted," I say. "He hears patterns in the world that you 
and I can't, and then he converts them into something we 
can hear, that we can enjoy." In a dizzying flash, I see 
myself looking across a great, ancient plain, seeing the 
many thousands of people scattered across it, playing 
them all in my mind the way Joe plucks the strings on his 
guitar. I swallow. This is what I hate about therapy. 
Arguing with Rene opens boxes inside my head and things 
spill out. Post-therapy afternoons feel like picking up 
after a lazy toddler.

"You don't want to lose a friendship.
There's nothing that you have to hide.
And a little dirt couldn't hurt no one anyhow.
And you still have a rage inside you that you carry with 
a certain pride
In the only part of the broken heart that you could ever 
save."

     Whoo. That verse hit closer than I would have liked. 
Why is Joe singing this song, I wonder? It is angrier 
than his usual songlist. The way he bounces back and 
forth on his chair when he really gets into a song makes 
me laugh. It is a wonder he can hold his guitar steady.

     "You're drinking early today," Amy says. "What have 
you been doing?"

     "Therapy," I say absently. I glance over at her 
nearly-empty glass and raise an eyebrow. "What's your 
excuse?"

     She frowns. "Academy starts next week. I'm 
babysitting Jerry for Joe until we've placed him safely 
in the care of the Academy instructors. Since when did 
you start therapy?" Ah, Watcher Academy. That brings back 
memories. Some of them are even pleasant.

     "Jerry?" I grope for the blaze of anger that should 
accompany that name, but cannot find it. Just as well. 
Let it go. "Is he behaving?"

     "Oh, yes." She has the loveliest predatory grin. "He 
is almost as intimidated by me as he is by you."

     "You like that," I suggest.

     She chuckles. "I cultivate it. So...therapy?"

     "Ah. That." I am all out of beer, which is not good 
when I am on this line of questioning. "One of the 
Watchers working with Sean Burns' people has decided to 
take me on board as a sort of charity project."

     "I see." She swirls the remaining Kahlua in her 
glass, looking thoughtful. "Ben, can I offer you a piece 
of unsolicited, and possibly very unwanted, advice?"

     I lean my chin on one hand. "Why, Amy, you can tell 
me anything."

     She doesn't laugh. "If people want to help you, 
maybe you should start letting them do it. They're not 
all out to get you."

     I will admit to being surprised by this, but not to 
her. "Even paranoids have enemies, little girl."

     "Even cynical old men can take advice from a little 
girl from time to time," she retorts. That sets me back 
on my heels.

"But you been through it once; you know how it ends.
You don't see the point of going through it again.
And this ain't the place; and this ain't the time;
And neither's any other day."

     Joe is really throwing himself into the song as they 
sail into the second chorus. He must be pissed off about 
something. Considering that the verses of the song could 
apply to us both, I suspect it has something to do with 
me--and maybe with the Watchers, too. Perfect. Just what 
I need.

     "I don't see why you care," I say, more harshly than 
I intend.

    "You saved my life," Amy replies. "Consider it an 
obligation of mine to look after your welfare in my own 
small fashion."

     I shake my head, irritation shading to anger. "You 
do not have to feel obligated to me in any way."

    She looks amused. "Since it's not your obligation, 
you don't get to make that decision. Sorry."

"I know you well enough to tell you've got your reasons.
That's not the kind of code you're inclined to break.
Some things are known and best left alone forever.
And if a vow is what it takes, haven't you paid for your 
mistakes?"

    The last verse is quieter, with Joe singing into the 
mike, just above the music, eyes closed. The bassman 
joins in on the second half of each line. I have to lower 
my voice to keep from being heard onstage.

     "I don't need any help," I say.

     "Right. That would be why you're in therapy." I 
glare at her. She seems unfazed. "Has it never occurred 
to you that you might have lived so long because some of 
us care about you and not some legend?"

     I feel sick. It is all I can do not to show it. Tell 
me she is not saying what I think she is saying. "Not 
everyone feels the way you do."

     "I'm not Immortal," she says. "And I really don't 
give a damn what you did three thousand years ago."

     I want to scream and curse. I want to get up and 
run. I want violent action but instinct tells me to stay 
in my seat and calmly fold my hands on the table. It all 
comes out in the conversation, instead. "I did not kill 
Walker for you, little girl."

     "No. You did it for Joe." She doesn't elaborate; she 
doesn't need to. She is talking about loyalty, here, 
about family. She is making me an offer. I am just not 
sure that I want to accept it.

"After the moment passes
And the impulse disappears,
You can still hold back, 'cause you don't crack very 
easily.
It's a time-honoured resolution, 'cause the danger is 
always near.
It's with you now, but that ain't how it was supposed to 
be.
And it's hard to believe after all these years,
It still gives you pain and it still brings tears.
And you feel like a fool, 'cause in spite of your rules
You got a memory."

     Joe, and the bassman, blast through the last chorus 
and then kick into a riff that lasts for several minutes. 
At the end of it, Joe spots Amy with me and grins.

     "Let's take a break, Jean," he says, loud enough 
that I can hear him. "I think we've done enough for 
today." The bassman follows his line-of-sight to our 
table, nods and starts packing up. So much for being 
unobtrusive. I do so love being baby-sat by an entire 
bar.

     Joe packs it up. Amy and I go to help him get off-
stage. After we get him set up back at our table, Amy 
says her goodbyes.

     "I have to go check up on Jerry, get him ready for 
the Academy," she says.

     "Okay, honey. You take care." Joe hugs her. She 
leans down to kiss the top of his head. We both watch her 
walk out the door. I decide not to mention our 
conversation to Joe. Amy knows who I am. I need time to 
figure out what to do about that without worrying about 
Joe hating me afterwards.

     "That was a fun song," I say. "Who was it?"

     "Billy Joel," he replies. "'Code of Silence'. Not in 
my usual repertoire, but I guess we were in the mood." He 
looks annoyed. "That prick, Gabrieli, paid me another 
visit today."

     Ah. Not him again. "And?" I say cautiously.

     "And not much. Except he asked me if you were 
getting counselling." Shit. "He didn't seem too sure 
about it; it was pretty easy to get him off it. I dunno, 
maybe somebody spotted you and Rene and put two and two 
together."

     "Great. Just perfect." I'm beginning to wonder if I 
need to get rid of Gabrieli.

     "Come on, Old Man. You knew he was after you. He's 
just looking for an excuse to do things the easy way, as 
he sees it. Don't let him get to you. I can play 
interference if I have to. Speaking of therapy, how'd the 
latest brain-shrink go?"

     "Okay. I think. Not sure."

     "Not sure?" He frowns at me. "That's not 'okay'. 
What happened?"

     I wave it off. "Oh, we were just playing one of 
those stupid shrink games and something odd came up."

     He peers at me suspiciously. "Which game?"

     "You know. That one where somebody says a word and 
you say the first thing that comes into your head. Word 
association."

     "Sounds harmless enough."

     "Yeah, that's what I thought. It is not as though he 
can make all the wrong connections. Then he said, 
'Seacouver' and I said, um...'flying monkeys'."

     "'Flying monkeys'?!" He looks incredulous.

     I smile wryly. "Funny, that is the same thing that 
Rene said, and in exactly the same tone, too."

     "You were expecting something different?" He 
chortles. "Jesus, Methos. Where the Hell did that come 
from?"

     I shake my head. "I honestly do not know."

     "And that scares you?"

     "In response to the word 'Seacouver'? Yes. Anything 
that does not make any sense in connection with that word 
scares me."

     He scratches his beard and chews on his lip. "How 
much do you remember about Seacouver? Aside from visiting 
Mac, and stuff? Do you remember about being in the 
hospital?"

     "Sure." I nod. "Absolutely."

     "Even that first week?" I stare at the table. "Well? 
Do you?"

     "No," I admit. "Not that first week."

     "Do you remember getting arrested?" I shake my head. 
"What do you remember?"

     "I remember lying down on the tracks, wanting to 
die. Then I remember waking up in five point restraints."

     "Ow." Joe grimaces in sympathy. "And you don't 
remember anything in between?"

     "Nope." I shake my head. "I remember talking to 
Kronos before and after, but nothing in between."

     "You were talking to Kronos?" He looks horrified. 
"No wonder you were so screwed up. You didn't see him the 
entire time you were there, did you?"

     "No, he buggered off once I awoke to my situation--
which is about the way he always was, come to think of 
it." I suck down more beer. Maybe I should eat something 
before I have another one.

     "That sounds like Kronos, though I have to say, I 
never had the dubious pleasure of meeting the guy." Joe 
sits down next to me.

     "Believe me, there was never anything 'pleasurable' 
about meeting Kronos, dubious or otherwise, particularly 
if you were Mortal. The shorter the life, the more 
pleasure the man took in snuffing it out."

     "You, too, once upon a time." No, Joe does not pull 
his punches.

     "Me, too. Yes. Once. I grew out of it, or maybe I 
got tired. He did not." If Kronos had come after Joe, 
what would I have done? Run? Maybe. If he had gone after 
Alexa? Maybe not. How did I get tied up in Mortals' lives 
again? I swore I'd stop.

     Joe shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you, buddy. 
Flying monkeys? That is way outta my league." He 
snickers. I glare at him. He just gets louder.

     "What?" I say, trying not to sound as prissy as Adam 
Pierson. Ever since Stargate SG1 started airing over 
here, Joe keeps making cracks about my mild-mannered 
Watcher alter ego, particularly when I forget to use 
English in front of him. As if that is my fault. Thank 
you, Daniel Jackson, you little bastard.

     "Sorry," Joe says. "I just got an image."

     "What is so funny about that?"

     Joe waves me off. "Never mind. It wasn't you. It 
was, um...I just got this image of how Mac would have 
reacted to it."

     I don't know if it is the same image as Joe's but 
suddenly, I can see MacLeod running over the top of the 
barge, waving his sword in the air and screaming in Scots 
Gaelic at two flying monkeys as they flap off slowly, 
ignoring him. I throw back my head and laugh. Joe joins 
in.

     When I get enough breath, I say, "I can just see it. 
'Quick, Joe! Get the Flying Monkey Net! Throw it over 
'em, quick!'" Joe laughs harder. It takes a few minutes 
for us to get it together again.

     "We are bad. We are very, very bad," I say finally. 
"It'll be the cornfield for us."

    "Or the woodshed," Joe says.

     "Yeah," I sigh. "More wood-chopping. Yeeha. And yet, 
I feel better."

     "Good." Joe nods. "You are always way too tense 
after these chats with Rene. Are you sure you want to 
keep up with them?"

    "Yes." I am surprised at my own certainty. Joe looks 
surprised. "Joe, I have to do something. I cannot retreat 
to some cave and mutter to myself for the next twenty 
years. Even if I could find a cave that isolated in this 
century, I cannot just leave y--I mean, I am not quite 
ready to leave Adam Pierson behind." Or the people who 
love him. Joe smirks. He caught the slip, of course. Oh, 
well. If I am going to make mistakes, it might as well be 
with a guy who will like me better for it. "I don't see 
what harm it could do. It doesn't require any more self-
editing than the Confessional did. I rather liked 
Confession."

     Joe looks disgusted. "Jeez, don't tell me you lied 
to a priest. Next you'll tell me you stole Communion 
wine."

    "I did not." I mime outrage. This is fun. "And don't 
you get into some holier-than-thou act with me. I know 
you've been to Confession within the past twenty years, 
and I am damned sure that you did not mention any Watcher 
stuff."

     He looks guilty. Hah. "That is different."

     "How?"

     "Well, it--it just is."

     "Uh huh. Sure."

     He stands up, visibly clinging to his dignity. 
"Unlike some lazy graduate students, I have work to do," 
he announces and stumps off back to his office. I snicker 
and finish my beer. He'll be back.


*********


     "Is he dead?"

     "I hope not. I am really not in the mood for a DOA 
tonight."

     I open my eyes. Two flying monkeys hover over me, 
their wings waving as they scratch their heads.

     "Oh, look," says the one on the left. "He opened his 
eyes."

     "Great! Maybe he can walk." The second monkey leans 
down. "Hey! Hey, can you hear me?"

     "Of course," I say. They both look confused. Did I 
use the right language for this place? What is this 
place?

     "You'd better come with us," the first monkey says. 
I understand them well enough. The problem is with me. 
How do I explain to them that I want to die, so there is 
no need to go with them?

    "I don't want to go," I say. Again, they look 
confused and shake their heads. They retreat to consult 
with each other before coming back to pick me up. They 
sink to earth. Both bend over, each taking an arm, and 
try to pull me off the tracks. Magna Mater. When did 
killing oneself get so hard? Annoyed, I go limp, making 
it harder for them.

     "Oh, for Christ's sake, buddy," the second monkey 
complains. "If you're trying to kill yourself, you picked 
the wrong day. They closed this track for maintenance 
this afternoon."

     There are no trains running? How can I kill myself 
if there are no trains running? Maybe the monkeys will 
take me where I can do it right. Maybe I could persuade 
them to kill me, but I do not think they know how. If 
only I could find...if only I could find one of my own 
kind. But what is that? Je ne me souviens pas.

     The monkeys try to pick me up again. This time, I 
let them. Let it all burn.... I smell smoke. They speak 
to me again. No l'entenc. Semper paratus, I let them take 
me to their Batmobile. It has wings, but why is there 
white on it? Is it a cow? They put me in the back after a 
discussion, I think, whether to put me in irons. Have I 
done something wrong? Hurt anybody else? I am 
disappointed when the Batmobile does not fly, and it is 
very noisy. The back stinks of antiseptic overlaying 
vomit. Horses. Why didn't we stay with horses? I don't 
miss camels--disgusting beasts, perpetually angry with 
the god who made them. Don't remember which god that was 
now. Animaux ne faitent pas le chagrin. C'est tout le 
monde qui a des problemes. Tu n'es pas unique; tu n'es 
pas le seul. C'est tout le monde qui--Ah, we have arrived 
someplace. This is flat ground for a fortress. Don't they 
worry about attack? An assault on Precinct 13, I saw that 
once. One of the women survived. She deserved it. I would 
have married her. Strong women breed strong children. But 
I cannot breed.

     They are guiding me up the steps like an old man. 
Why must I never tell them that? And in through the 
castle doors, which slam shut with the force of doom. As 
they should. It is their job.

     The flying monkeys are talking at me. What is there 
left to discuss? I wanted to die today; I still want to 
die. Why won't they let me? Why do they care? It has 
nothing to do with them.

     We sit in a room with a mirror on one side. I sit 
with my hands folded on the table in front of me. One 
monkey stays in the room. How annoying. If they were 
indifferent, I could escape through the mirror. I stare 
straight ahead. They probably think that I am looking at 
them hiding behind it, but I'm not. I am looking into the 
mirror itself. The drink, that demon rum, is wearing off. 
Not yet. Not yet! Can't do this sober. My head aches.

     A young man comes in with the other monkey. He 
smiles at me, sits down and begins to speak to me. I 
understand that he is asking questions, but I don't know 
what they are. Go away, infant. He talks and talks. I get 
out of the chair and wander around the table. Will they 
stop me? No, they only watch. The young man turns to 
follow my progress. I go past him. He doesn't matter. The 
mirror is right there. My escape. Where is the latch? The 
mirror fogs up when I put my hands on it, mist flowing 
across it, cold and seductive. I can hear Alexa calling. 
I have to get through. They are still talking to me. 
Don't they understand that I have to break through? There 
is only one way. My hands cannot break the glass. They 
will never let me grab a chair. I suck in a deep breath 
against the hangover pain and smash my head into the 
mirror.

     I slump down against the wall, still caught by a 
thread. It is so unfair. I did try. The others grab me, 
dragging me away from the mirror. No! Don't they 
understand that I have to go through? I struggle with 
them, making no noise. The thread stretches. It hurts so 
much, so much blood sacrifice for nothing. Then, another 
sharp pain and I snap free. I vanish through, sucked up 
into the shards of glass. A neat trick, and none of them 
noticed it. Goodbye.

     The mist drifts around my boots, huddling on the 
ground like a flock of sheep. I disturb it as I walk 
forward, away from the barrier, drawing my sword. "Who is 
there?" I call.

     He is waiting for me under the bridge, but not 
hiding like a troll. "Who are you?" I say. He doesn't 
respond. He never speaks, only draws his sword and waits 
for my attack. The fog clears; I see his face. He looks 
like MacLeod when we first met, right down to the 
clothes. But he is not Duncan MacLeod. Even my dream-
addled mind can tell that. I strike. I am better than I 
was. He falls back. He does not gasp or pant. He never 
turns pale with fear or red with anger. His expression 
remains the same--calm, serene. The opposite of mine. His 
peace enrages me. It is not my fault! I leap forward, 
striking, on the offensive. He would beat me if I let 
him, I think, but I never dare let him off the defensive. 
In the end, I disarm him with a circular parry. He falls 
to his knees, the customary position for the defeated of 
our kind. I raise my sword.

     "Who are you?" I shout. As ever, he does not answer. 
I decapitate him with a backhand swing. His body falls 
forward, disappearing into the fog, which rises up to 
smother me, to drag me down. I struggle and cry out, to 
no effect. Joe, where are you? Help me! The trolls 
chatter at me from the bridge above.

    "He's still not rational? Look at this dosage!"

     "He's just not snapping out of it. It looks as 
though he could persist in this state for days."

     "Maybe there's some stressor that we overlooked. 
Keep him on the Haldol for now, but watch the dosage. We 
may have to try something else if he doesn't respond 
within the next couple of days. We can't just leave him 
like this."

     "Poor bastard. I wonder what put him over the edge?"

     Joe, help me. Get me out of this place. Please.


*********


     "Joe."

     "Who is this?"

     "Who the Hell do you think it is? It's me."

     "Methos? What the f--Do you know what time it is?" 
He sounds a bit pissed off. Must've been a late night. I 
wouldn't know. I turned in early.

     "Yeah, did I wake you? I'm sorry; I tried to wait."

     "Jesus, it's only eight o'clock. I thought you 
didn't do mornings unless you were pulling an all-
nighter."

     "Yeah, yeah." I wave it off, even though he cannot 
see it. "I had this dream. Couldn't sleep. They're the 
cops who arrested me."

     "Who are?"

     "The flying monkeys. I thought they were flying 
monkeys when they arrested--well, they didn't 'arrest' 
me, exactly. Took me into protective custody, whatever."

     "Wait," Joe says. "Are you telling me that you just 
remembered being arrested in Seacouver?"

     "Yep." I nod, even though he cannot see it. Doesn't 
matter. He'll know.

     "I thought you said you couldn't remember any of 
that?"

     "I couldn't--but last night, I had this dream and 
when I woke up, I remembered it." Why does that not sound 
quite as rational as I expected it to?

     Silence. "Give me an hour," Joe says. "I'll call you 
back in an hour."

     "Okay," I say, a little surprised. I had expected 
him to not give a damn. "It's not that big a deal--"

     "Yes! It is!" Sounding embarrassed by his outburst, 
he says, "Just give me an hour, Old Man. Don't do 
anything. Don't take anything. Don't go anywhere. Don't 
talk to anybody else. Just...watch Teletubbies or 
something until I get there."

     "Eugh."

     "Fine! Put in a tape, then. Just don't go anywhere, 
okay?" He sounds desperate. Uh oh.

     "Okay," I say, worried now. I have overstepped some 
line. Maybe I shouldn't have told him. So much for that 
'friends forever' crap.

     "I'll see you there." He hangs up.

     Teletubbies are definitely out. I choose "Leaving 
Harmony" out of my collection of The Prisoner tapes. A 
fractured, paranoid Western suits my mood. I flop down on 
the couch with the remote.

     "Do you think it was wise to just call up Joe like 
that?" The voice, coming from my left, makes me jump. 
Kronos is sitting on the arm of my couch, hands folded on 
one bent knee. He looks very amused.

     "Go away," I snarl. I feel sick.

     "You know it doesn't work that way, Brother," he 
says in that voice that the hospital attendants in 
Seacouver used to use. I am being unreasonable.

     "What doesn't work that way?" Maybe I can talk him 
into oblivion, figure out what the Hell he is doing here, 
find out his real name. Then, like Rumpelstiltskin, he 
will disappear.

     He waves his hand between us. "You and I. I have to 
help you, Brother, whether you want me to, or not."

     Now that I think about it, I am not nearly as 
sanguine about my discovery as I had thought. It was a 
violent dream and I know how it ended in real life, at 
least on the outside. No wonder Joe was freaked out. I 
haven't even told him about the mirror, yet. This is 
something of a disaster, come to think of it. The man has 
the power to get me locked up, for Heaven's sake. Now 
what? Do I casually mention that I am seeing my dead 
brother from the Bronze Age, again? Oh, that will go down 
so well. What was I thinking? 

     I toss the remote on the couch and go pack. Silas 
follows me across the room, confused and upset. He would 
be. He knows what it means when I pull out a backpack. He 
won't be seeing me for a while, maybe a long while. He 
will do okay, land on his own four feet. He doesn't need 
nine lives, anymore. He has got more than enough of one. 
Too bad Joe is not so flexible.

     Kronos strolls in behind me. I don't look at him. I 
don't need to. He is my hallucination, after all. "What 
are you thinking?" he says. "You can't abandon Joe again. 
You promised."

     I stop in mid-pack, breathing too fast. "So, what? 
C'est la vie. That's just the way it goes." No. No, I 
promised. How can I expect these Mortals to help me when 
I break my promises to them? I can't do this. I cannot 
leave; I cannot stay. I drop onto the bed. Silas takes 
the opportunity to jump in my lap. Typical cat.

     "You need to go away," I tell Kronos, glaring up at 
him as I stroke the cat. Silas butts his head against my 
stomach. He is frightened. I can understand that. I am, 
too.

     "I'm here for a reason, Brother," Kronos says. "You 
can't just wish me away. It's starting again; can't you 
feel it? You can't forget it this time. You have to face 
it, or it will destroy you; they will lock you away in a 
dark place just like Caspian and you will never get out." 
He fades, in pieces. "You cannot run from this," he 
whispers. "You know what you have to do. Now, you have to 
decide to do it." Isn't that so like him, to disappear 
right when he might be useful?

     I am still sitting there when I hear the knock on 
the door. Where did the time go? I turn my wrist to look 
at my watch. An hour fifteen. Pretty damned good for Joe. 
Wonder if he called somebody to help him? Traffic must 
have been excellent. I feel bad for making him come all 
the way out here. It really wasn't necessary. The knock 
sounds again.

     "Methos?" Joe says anxiously. Get up and go answer 
the door, Old Man.

     I yank the door open. "I take it back," I say, 
trying to explain. The tape is still playing in my VCR. 
Damn, that looks bad. "It really isn't that big a deal. 
Just a funny, little dream."

     "Uh huh." He stumps in past me. "How long were you 
up before you called me?"

     "I dunno. Couple of hours, I suppose. I sacked out 
early last night."

     Joe goes right over to the couch, picks up the 
remote and turns off the TV. "Okay," he says. "Tell me 
the whole thing, every detail you can remember, from 
start to finish."

     I shrug and start with the tracks, waking up to the 
monkeys. I continue through the trip to the police 
station. Joe winces when I talk about smashing my head 
into the mirror.

     "Jesus Christ, Methos. Can't you do anything the 
easy way?"

     "What way would that be?" I grin nervously. He 
doesn't respond. Never does. Don't know why I do that 
with him if it never works. "It is not a problem, Joe, 
really. I'm sorry I got you up early. I'll make it up to 
you."

     He looks behind me, to the cat and the half-stuffed 
pack on the bed. Damn. "'Make it up to me?'" he says, his 
face twisting into a sour expression. "How were planning 
on doing that? By shipping me some prayer wheel from 
Tibet?"

     There is nothing that I can say that will make this 
look any better, so I say nothing. Joe glares at me. I 
fold my arms and look at the floor.

     "If you are looking for me to give you an excuse to 
leave," Joe says, "forget it. You wanna leave? Fine. But 
you do it the hard way--with no excuses and no convenient 
fights with your 'best friend'."

     "I refuse to give you any reason to use that little 
piece of paper on me."

     "What little piece of--ohh." Joe's a quick one. I 
will always give him that. "Having second thoughts about 
that, are we?" I refuse to look at him. "Methos, come on. 
You are gonna have to get way more out of it before I 
even consider that option."

     "I was, before. I could be again. I dreamed about 
it, didn't I?"

     "Maybe you can handle whatever it was you forgot, 
now. Maybe it's important for you to remember it now." He 
sounds like Kronos! "This doesn't have to be a bad sign, 
you know. You sounded happy when you called me before."

     "I did?" I think about it. I suppose I was. "So, 
what?"

     "So, maybe you should stick around and find out why 
your subconscious is throwing you a flying monkey curve 
or two."

     I stare at him. "Are you telling me that you think I 
should pursue this? Are you crazy? I don't want to go 
back to being that way!"

     "If that's true, why are you leaving?" That rattles 
me. I hadn't thought of that. "You're settled here in 
Paris, at least for a little while. You have friends who 
will help you out. You have a business. You have a cat. 
Why not explore it, find out where you want to go? 
Where's the harm in that?" Aside from me getting so crazy 
that Joe will have to call Mac back to Paris to put me 
down like a mad dog? Gee, I dunno, Joe. Where is the 
harm, indeed? And to whom?

     I sit down on the edge of the couch. "Joe, I could 
lose it again. Badly."

     "So what? It's not as though it would be anything 
new. You can handle it."

     "You're serious!" I try to laugh, but I cannot think 
of any reason to do it. He is beginning to make sense.

     "About this subject? You bet your ass I'm serious." 
He gazes at me solemnly. I think he got the look from 
Mac. "You asked me to take on a big responsibility for 
you. Are you gonna start trusting me enough to do the job 
I signed on to do or not?"

     "Yeah...yeah, I guess. I just didn't expect you to 
be so...so...rational about it."

     He grins. "I'm full of surprises. Next time, though, 
do me a big favour."

     "What?" I say uneasily.

     "Next time, wait until after noon to hit me with 
these little epiphanies of yours. At this rate, I'm gonna 
end up sleeping on your couch permanently."

     Now, I do laugh. "Joe, Joe. Don't be such a silly 
git. I always let you have the bed. You know that."


*********


     I cannot stop rubbing my wrists. My ankles itch, 
too, but are harder to reach. I can still feel those 
damned restraints, even though they removed them over an 
hour ago. One of the counsellors is standing right 
outside while I take a shower. I am filthy. I suppose it 
is difficult to wash a patient in restraints, or keep him 
clean at all. They tell me that I was suffering from 
something called Acute Mania. They mean that whenever I 
was not drugged into a coma, I was fighting the 
restraints and screaming the ward down. Always good to 
know how one has been making oneself popular in one's 
mental absence. I do not remember any of it, save for a 
few frenetic scraps that I do not think I want to pursue.

     The hot shower feels good. I have always appreciated 
that particular invention. I do not linger, but it takes 
time to get my hair clean, the lint out of my navel and 
the wax out of my ears. The counsellor, who calls himself 
Max, makes no objections. When I do finish, he hands me a 
towel through the door, then a set of green hospital 
pyjamas. Happiness and joy. I suppose I should be 
grateful that they are not prison stripes or a hospital 
johnny with that drafty hole in the back. After I get 
dressed, he leads me to a room--not the one that I was 
in. That room, he explains to me, is "the quiet room"--
pleasant euphemism--where violent or out-of-control 
patients are kept until they calm down, as I suppose they 
must, at some point. Nobody can keep up that high an 
energy level forever. I should know. My entire body 
aches. Beatings that killed me have hurt less.

     Max sits me down on a simple bed with sheets and a 
blanket. There is a nightstand. No TV, of course. That 
would be in (what do they call it?) the "Day Room". 
Another staff member comes in with a tray. On the tray I 
see a glass of water and some pills. I feel a whimper in 
the back of my throat. What do they want from me? I 
cannot take any more of that. How much more can I 
cooperate before I disappear? I push myself back against 
the wall, wrapping my arms around my knees. How did I get 
myself into this mess?

     "It's okay," Max says. "We've readjusted the dosage. 
You'll be fine, just calm. We can't take you right off 
the Haloperidol. You'd have a really bad reaction to 
that."

     "I don't like pills," I say through my teeth.

     "We can give you a shot again, if you want." It is 
offered as an option, not a threat, which somehow makes 
it much worse.

     "I'll take the pills, then." The shot is definitely 
out of the question. They have been shooting me up with 
dope all week. At least the pills give a false sense of 
choice, very false. Max takes the pills and hands them to 
me with the cup. I stare at them. Okay, how do I do this? 
I have tossed back the occasional aspirin for a hangover 
or after driving all day. Just throw them in, then, I 
guess. I pop them into my mouth, all at once, and suck 
down a huge swallow of water from the cup. They do not 
slide down. Instead, they stick in the back of my throat, 
making me cough, choke and foam at the mouth like a rabid 
dog. Max and the other staffer watch me in anxious 
amazement.

     Max pats me on the shoulder. "Are you okay?"

     I nod, coughing, and wave him off. "I *really* don't 
like pills," I say, once my oesophagus calms down.

     "Hmm, we may need to consider the shot, then, 
because you'll need the Haldol on a daily basis for a 
little while."

     "No!" I surprise even myself with my vehemence. 
"I'll...learn."

     "We'll talk about it in the morning," Max says. The 
staffer leaves while Max pulls his chair closer. "How do 
you feel now? Do you want to sleep or would you like to 
talk for awhile?" I shrug. "What's your name? You never 
gave it to the cops. We can't keep calling you 'John 
Doe', you know."

     "Why not?" I start picking at my toenails. "What are 
you doing here, anyway? I thought I didn't need a 
watchdog, now that I'm out of restraints."

     "'John' doesn't quite suit you and you're still on 
Suicide Watch, bud. Will be a couple days more, at least, 
until we've got you stabilised." He grins at me 
engagingly. I hate the nice ones. They are harder to fend 
off than the bastards. Joe was like that. He could always 
get under my skin, though I have led him a merry dance or 
two. I miss him.

     "You got any family we should contact?" Max asks. Is 
he still here? "They must be pretty worried about you."

     "No. There's nobody." Get off it, Max. Should I ask 
him to contact Joe? No. Absolutely not. I need to stay 
far away from Joe. It is so odd; it is so very hard, to 
realise in this place that he is my best friend, and that 
if I want to keep from hurting him, I can never see him 
again.

     "Oh, come on. Somebody out there cares. You had some 
pretty well-worn photos of a woman and some older guy. 
Your wife and brother, maybe?"

     "She was." What does it matter anymore? She is dead. 
Nobody can touch her now. It is Joe I have to worry about 
betraying.

     "She's dead now?" He sounds sympathetic, damn him. 
It is his job.

     "Yes. She is. Couple of years now." Admitting that 
seems safe enough.

     "This guy in the pictures, is he 'Joe'? Should we 
contact him?"

     "What?" I lift my head off my knees.

     "Before, you were calling for somebody named 'Joe'. 
I figured he was probably the guy in the picture."

     What have I done? What have I done? I open my mouth, 
but what do I say? This is betrayal. I cannot simply take 
it all back. "I..." What do I do? "He's nobody. I'm Joe."

     "*You're* Joe?" He looks sceptical. I nod. "You were 
calling out to yourself?" I nod again. "That seems kinda 
odd."

     "I wouldn't know," I say. "I wasn't exactly there at 
the time, so I don't remember what I said."

     "Do you remember any of the past week?" he asks.

     "No," I say, and hope that he will leave it at that.


*********


     The problem with digging up old bones is that if you 
haven't waited long enough, they stink.

     It takes an hour or two for Joe to persuade me to 
stay in Paris, and another hour for me to convince him 
that I am not lying to him when I say I won't leave. You 
have got to love the trust that we have for each other. 
We know each other too damned well. After Joe leaves, I 
get my mail. There is a package from the Seacouver 
General Hospital. It is one of those large, padded 
envelopes. Hah. Nice irony. Rene must have given them the 
address. He did say he called them. Perfect. That is all 
I need.

     I rip open the envelope. Out fall a set of house 
keys, a wallet, a few old credit cards, four pictures and 
a note. One photo is of Alexa and me in Santorini. One is 
of Joe playing the Blues. One is of Don Salzer and me, 
years before Kalas murdered him. The last one is of Joe 
and me. Happy pictures. They are worn around the edges, 
stained, cracked. I have copies, but these were the only 
possessions I could not leave behind when I fled Paris.

     The note is short: "Dear 'Joe', I was glad to hear 
that you made it back home in one piece. Here are the 
things you left behind in Seacouver. I thought you might 
want them back, especially the photos. Max."

    I want to be angry. How dare he bring it all back? I 
cannot muster it, though. Max is right. These photos 
were--are--important, and I am glad to have them back. 
They kept me alive when I was in a dark place.

     Kronos does not reappear, but I am still jittery. 
Unable to shake the Seacouver memories, I drive over to 
the bookshop. Considering my epic lack of concentration 
in the past two months, I am doing well. I have all the 
bookshelves up and the storage downstairs is all laid 
out. I have started filling the shelves. I am doing 
inventory as I go along. I am amazed at what sells. "The 
Mists of Avalon" is a surefire hit. Try selling Alfred 
Bester stories, though. "The Stars My Destination" or 
"The Demolished Man"? Oooh. Too much reality. Soft-core 
fantasy? Yes. Rampaging mutant ants? Sure. I suppose that 
makes me bitter. And old.

     Will anybody care about this place or will I end up 
like Bernard Black in "Black Books": drunk, hostile and 
Irish? The first two I can already manage, but the third 
sounds tricky. I want this business venture to work.

     I do well for awhile, putting out books. Then, I go 
out back and settle down, cross-legged, in the middle of 
the garden for a lunch break. The grass still smells 
nice, even in autumn. I have brought my photos from the 
hospital with me. I stare at Alexa's for a long, long 
time. If I close my eyes, I can bring back her smell, her 
laugh, her voice, the feel of her breasts pressed against 
my back as I lie in her arms.

     "Penny for your thoughts," she says.

     I open my eyes and look up at her. "Oh, they're 
worth at least a guinea." She smiles at me. How would I 
love to make her laugh.

     "You should come inside," she says as I stand up and 
brush off my jeans, then offer her a hand up. "It's 
getting cold out."

    "Oh, I don't want to impose." Of course I do, but you 
cannot say that kind of thing to a woman when you are 
wooing her--especially when, like Alexa, she doesn't have 
much time left to waste.

     "It seems the least I could do after what you're 
offering me." 'Offering?' Well, that is encouraging, but 
the coercive possibilities bother me.

     "I don't want you to think...I--of course, I would 
like that kind of relationship with you, but don't feel 
that you have to *do* anything for those plane tickets. 
They were a gift. Really. No strings attached. You can 
even go without me, or with someone else, all of the 
dwarves, if you like--" I stop when she puts her fingers 
over my lips. It is all I can do not to go with the 
gesture. Control, Old Man. Control is essential, here. 
Very. Be nice.

     "Adam," she says, "Don't choke in the homestretch. 
I'm not going to throw you back." With her fingers she 
traces my lips, my nose, over the bridge of my eyes to my 
ears and down to the back of my neck. After that, it only 
seems logical to kiss her.

     "We'd better go inside," she says, after a moment. 
"We don't want to wake the neighbours." I have no 
objections to doing this myself, but whatever Alexa 
wants, she gets, as far as I am concerned. I do not 
protest when she opens the door and pulls me inside.

     "Dwarves' night off, is it?" I say, trying to stay 
in the spirit of our previous joke. Why yes, I would take 
on her husband, lover and all seven dwarves--and at the 
same time, too. But she is not interested in jesting. She 
slides my jacket off, not even commenting on the sword in 
its sheath. She stops my next attempt at humour with a 
kiss of her own. I like the way she does it, slow and 
exploratory, not those slobbery, loud smacks you will see 
two twits in temporary love give each other at the train 
station. Get a motel room! But of course, showing off is 
the point. Such love is meaningless unless publically 
declared. Give me a couple of forty years giving each 
other a solid liplock and seeing the travelling one off 
with a pat on the shoulder, any day. Not that Alexa and I 
will have that. We'll be lucky to get six months.

     "You're wandering," Alexa says, then bites me gently 
on the lip.

     "I was appreciating the way you kiss," I assure her. 
"It is very relaxed." She snorts at that, then leans her 
head against my shoulder.

     "I don't know if I can do this," she moans.

     I glance around. I like her housekeeping--efficient, 
vermin-free but not obsessive. I need a couch, but not a 
bed. Far too much meaning. Need something 
flexible...there it is--big, unthreatening, lots of 
cushions. I move over to it, tugging at her hands to come 
with me. I sit down and look up at her.

    "A couch?" She raises an eyebrow at me. "Why not just 
go straight to the bed?"

     "Couches have more options than beds. People 
sometimes even just sit on them. Hey, it's been known to 
happen." I hate when I babble. I can never stop myself.

     She smirks at me. Humour. This is a good sign. 
"You're choking, again," she says.

     "Oh, dear." I will *not* explore any possible 
implications of her statement. "We should do something 
about that." It is not until she presses me back onto the 
couch and lays her body on top of mine that I find out 
what her solution is.


*********


     He comes, but I do not fight him this time, only 
watch and wait. He watches me, too, making no move to 
attack. Eventually, I walk away. I am not getting this 
right at all, and I do not know why.

     I wake, curled up on the grass next to the bench 
behind the bookshop. I get up, shaking badly, go back 
into the shop, go downstairs where I have a cot set up 
and lie down on it. My first impulse is to call Joe. That 
impulse fades with the shakes. I have imposed enough on 
Joe's goodwill for one week. I will be fine. I am a big 
boy and I can handle this. I will be fine.


*********

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sitting at the 
table.
There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's 
done."

     Joe and a couple of new kids are ranting through a 
revved-up version of Kenny Roger's "The Gambler" when I 
walk into the bar. I've had a good night's sleep. No bad 
dreams of note. No new visits from Kronos. I doubt I will 
embarass myself.

     Damn, it's good to watch Joe work. Just because he 
is having fun doesn't make his music any less hard to 
play. This is some preliminary session, where they are 
getting down the basic song and their general approach to 
it--at least today. It is not the nearly finished version 
of that Joel song that Joe and his bassman were doing the 
other day. Joe keeps stopping them to adjust something. 
Then, they run through the whole thing, warts and all, to 
keep from getting hung up on some difficult part.

     I repeat my routine from Monday. This time, I go 
with a Coke. Beer when I am not really feeling in control 
may not be a good idea. I close my eyes and listen to the 
music. Should I tell Joe about yesterday? No. Better not. 
He has enough on his plate. I need to back off.

ÒLife is bare, 
Gloom and misery everywhere. 
Stormy weather, 
Just can't get my poor old self together. 
I'm weary all the time. 
All the time.Ó


     Joe is playing a sad tune when I walk into the bar. 
Many a suicide has been scored to music. I drop into a 
chair. He glances over at me, shakes his head and 
finishes up. "Did MacLeod find you?"

     "Yeah," I say. I don't elaborate.

     "I'm sorry I sicked him on you, but you needed 
protection and I didn't know who else to call."

     I laugh, but it does not make it past my lips. "It 
didn't exactly turn out the way either of us might have 
hoped." I get up to help him offstage.

     "Jesus Christ!" Joe says. "You're soaking wet!"

     "Kalas found me, too."

     "Oh. I see." Do you, Joe? Do you really understand? 
Don was trying to be my mentor; I was trying to protect 
him. We both failed pretty fucking miserably, as far as I 
can tell.

     "Maybe you should leave town for a couple of 
months," Joe says. "Go someplace quiet and remote. I'll 
figure out a way to cover your tracks."

     "Not until I have taken care of that son of a 
bitch." Kalas killed Don. Don was my friend. I want Kalas 
dead, but I cannot do it right now and I cannot trust 
MacLeod to manage the job. Rage and hate. I need more of 
that. Until then, I need Kalas put on ice. I look at Joe. 
"Where's your phone?" I say.

     He frowns at me. "Why?"

     "I gotta call the cops."

     The trolls laugh at me from the bridge overhead as 
he and I circle each other. MacLeod's face. MacLeod's 
sword--that goddamned dragonhead katana--but not MacLeod. 
Experimentally, I lower my guard. I snap my sword back up 
as he lunges forward. He stops, begins to circle again. I 
spread my arms, opening my guard. He lunges again, 
halting when I bring my sword back in a block.

     "Do you think he can hear us?"

     "His eyes are open. Maybe."

     "Nah. Forget it. He's in Oz with Dorothy."

     "Why doesn't he snap out of it? What are we doing 
wrong?"

     Those trolls are really beginning to irritate me.

     "Methos? Methos, can you hear me? Come on, man. 
Don't do this to me. Look at me. Yeah, that's it. There 
you go."

     I blink, and there is Joe, sitting right in front of 
me, squeezing my elbow. How did I not notice him before? 
"What?" I say. My voice sounds harsh, unused.

     Joe smiles anxiously. "Whoo, you were way out in 
space for a minute there, somewhere around Pluto. You 
okay now?"

     "Sure." What the Hell just happened? "Absolutely 
fine."

     "Great." He thrusts a double shot of whisky--the 
good stuff--into my hand. "Then you'd better drink this."

     I stare down at the glass. "Isn't it a little early 
for the hard stuff?"

     "Not when you are having panoramic, surroundsound 
flashbacks--and it looks like you just had a doozy."

     "It wasn't like that," I mutter.

     "Uh huh. Yeah, sure. So, drink up and tell me all 
about it. While you're at it, tell me if you've had any 
others."

     I narrow my eyes. "What makes you think this isn't 
my first flashback, assuming I just had one?"

     "'Cause you didn't seem very surprised when you came 
out of this one--which tells me that you've got a certain 
familiarity with the genre."

     "Not a flashback virgin then, am I?" I say, fishing 
for a laugh.

     "Nope." He doesn't smile. "Drink up."

     I knock back the double all at once. It is a nasty 
shock, but it does clear my head. "Gah." I set the glass 
back down. "What makes you think I wasn't with it? Got 
some personal acquaintance with the subject?"

     "Nope." He ignores the low blow. Joe knows how to 
keep his emotional priorities straight these days, damn 
his eyes. "And stop changing the subject. We're talking 
about you, not me."

     "It really was not that serious." I know that I am 
in slow retreat, but there is not much I can do about 
that at this point.

     "You and reality were not on speaking terms for 
several minutes, Old Man. That is about as serious as you 
can get. Maybe we should call Rene."

     "NO." Joe looks at me, clearly startled. "I just...I 
don't want to call him...yet," I explain lamely. This is 
not going well.

     "When was your last one, Methos?" Joe keeps his 
voice soft and non-aggressive--the kind of tone that you 
use with frightened children.

     "I do not know what you are talking about." Maybe if 
I stall....

     "Your last flashback, Methos. When was it?" His tone 
does not change. That must take great self-control. I am 
surely trying his patience today.

     "Yesterday," I croak.

     "Where?"

     "At the bookshop."

     "What was it about?"

     I balk. "That is personal. I don't want to talk 
about it."

     "Alexa? Were you remembering her?" I shrug. "What 
was it about today? It wasn't Alexa, I could tell that. 
What was it about?"

     I sigh. "It was about you and me in a bar the day 
Don died, with you telling me to take a vacation 
someplace."

     He looks confused. "I told you that?"

     I nod. "It is what I remember."

     "I was in Seacouver, Old Man. You were in Paris. 
That was why I sent Mac to your place; if I'd been in 
Paris, I would have warned you myself. Hell, I tried to 
call you but you'd left your phone off the hook. It 
didn't happen the way you said. Couldn't have."

     I grit my teeth. "That is not the point. If it 
didn't happen that way, fine. I am telling you what I saw 
just now."

     Joe sighs. "Yeah. Okay, okay. But why would you 
remember it that way? It doesn't make any sense. It's not 
a traumatic memory or anything." Not traumatic, my ass! 
"What else? Is there anything else?"

     "There's...this guy," I admit. "He looks like 
MacLeod when I tried to get him to take my head after we 
first met, but he isn't Mac."

     "What does he do?" Joe looks seriously unnerved.

     "Nothing, unless I let him." I run a hand through my 
hair.

     "What does he want?"

     "I don't know."

     "Have you asked him?"

     "Yes!"

     Joe puts up his hands in conciliation and sits back. 
"Okay! Take it easy." He leans forward again. "Was that 
the first time you saw him?"

     I shake my head. "No. I've been dreaming about him 
for a couple of weeks."

     "Like that flying monkey dream?" I nod. "Do you 
think there's a connection? It sounds as though there is. 
Have you told Rene?"

     "That was three questions," I point out.

     He looks annoyed. "You haven't told Rene." I shake 
my head. "Why not?" I shrug. "Don't give me that, Methos. 
Why haven't you told your shrink about this? What's the 
point of retaining the guy if you don't give him anything 
to work with?"

     "I don't trust him. He wants to put me in hospital."

     "I'm not gonna let him put you in the hospital, not 
for this kind of stuff. Unlike Rene, I'm sure you've been 
a lot crazier than right now. But you need professional 
help to deal with this. You need to start telling this 
guy some things or get rid of him and find a different 
way to deal with it. Either way, you still gotta deal 
with it."

     I glare at him. "You are such a pain in the ass."

     He grins back. "Part of my charm." Yeah, I backed 
right into that one. "Besides, I'm right. I know you're 
scared." I scowl at him. "Seriously, man. Hell, I'm 
scared just watching you go through this. But you still 
need to work through it. I do know enough about this kind 
of shit to know that it won't just go away. Talk to 
Rene."

     I run a hand through my hair. It is growing out; I 
need to cut it soon. It has been almost a decade since I 
have worn my hair longer than a few inches. I much prefer 
the Roman cut. I am wandering again, feeling mellower. 
That double shot must be kicking in.

     "That's your solution?" I say. "Go talk to my 
shrink?"

     "Yep." He grins. "Hey, I'll listen to you all you 
want--especially when you want to talk about 'the old 
days', but if you want to work this through, you need 
somebody who knows which questions to ask, and that just 
ain't me, babe. I don't have that kind of training. Do 
yourself a favour. Use the pro you got."

     So much for bartenders being good for free therapy.


*********


     I am beginning to dread coming to this bookshop. I 
had hoped it would be a peaceful place, what with the 
back garden and the bench, but I see bad things whenever 
I am here. And I don't know why. I am considering selling 
it all and having done with it. I have just enough saved 
here and there that I could pull it off for a couple of 
decades and still have an escape. I am still thinking 
about it. I rather liked this idea when I first came up 
with it. I don't want to abandon it without a fight.

     I need someone to help with this thing--no, not Joe. 
He has done enough, in more ways than one. I know he 
meant well with what he said yesterday. And he does have 
a point. But I am still not very eager to see Rene for 
our session today. Telling him what is going on will make 
it very real, somehow.

     I know. I'll call Stephen Keane. What the Hell. He's 
always eager to have a reason to worship at the feet of 
the Master. He will jump at the chance to work here. If 
he is any good, I may even pay him. I go use the phone I 
had put on the wall near the back.

     "Hullo?" He sounds bored. This is promising.

     "Hi, Keane? It's, um, it's Adam Pierson."

     "Oh! Yes!" Dropping Rosemary Roger's latest work 
like a hot potato, no doubt, he is now clearly giving me 
his full attention. Better and better. "How are you 
doing?"

     My, he has a talent for loaded questions. "Oh, fair 
enough," I hedge, rubbing my belly. "Stomach's better 
than it was, anyway." Which is about as well as can be 
expected, since I seem to have suffered from chronic 
dysentery before my long-forgotten first death. Amanda 
and I got together and compared tummy troubles once. It 
was highly entertaining until Mac walked in. He told us 
to act our respective ages and stop being disgusting. 
Children. "Look, I've started a bookshop over on the Left 
Bank and I was wondering if you would like to get 
involved at all."

     "You mean, working there? Of course. Anything you 
like." I squelch a sudden, hideous impulse to take him up 
on it. Down, Old Man. Be nice. He is trying. Very hard. 
"When did you want me to come over?"

     "Today would be nice if you could. Now, even." Sure, 
let's push this one as far as we can go.

     "That's fine. Just tell me where it is and I'll be 
right over." And yet, one could always push it a little 
further. I squelch that thought, too and give him the 
directions. As I hang up the phone, I wonder, for the 
five thousandth time, what the attraction really is. I 
insult them. I piss them off. I tell them things that 
they definitely do not want to hear, that make them stomp 
off in varieties of snits. Yet, they keep coming back for 
more. I do not get it. What am I doing wrong? I should 
ask Joe.

     Keane arrives promptly in a nice, new Jag. His Buzz 
precedes him like a war tocsin. Magic traffic for 
everyone but me these days, or so it seems. He gets out 
and bounces in through the door, nattily dressed as 
usual--or at least, as the four previous times I have 
seen him. I really know nothing about the man, even 
though Joe, bless him, coughed up Keane's file without 
being asked. It is nice to be able to use the thing after 
putting so much work into it.

     Keane comes across as straightforward beyond belief. 
I think he may be telling me the truth about not having 
much experience with life--or at least, not as much as, 
and not the kind, that he would like to have, or should 
have for his age. Welcome to the club, kid. I show him 
around the shop, which always seems small when I give 
people the guided tour. He absorbs my chatter as if I am 
inventing new Holy Writ. Perhaps this is his preferred 
version of it. Never quite got the god complex thing, 
myself. I've played god a few times--literally. Been the 
focus of a saint's cult or three. When you've been Death, 
you can get used to being a god. I have walked through 
fire, too, and found that to be a much safer option. 
Playing the Devil saves one from certain temptations.

     "So, what do you think?" I say at the end of it, as 
we stand in the cellar.

     Keane looks around. I try to see it through his 
eyes, this Mickey-Mouse operation, the sad vanity project 
of an old man who really needs to get a life. "I like 
it," he says, surprising me. "It has potential."

     "You think so?"

     "Yes, it's very well set up. I saw upstairs that 
you're on the Internet. That is an excellent way to pull 
in customers from outside your usual area. Of course, if 
you become successful, Amazon.com will probably buy you 
out."

     "Really," I say, taken aback. "I hadn't considered 
that." Most likely that's because I thought I had about 
as much chance of doing it as fighting a dragon anytime 
soon. Keane seems to think differently. We go back 
upstairs, Keane nattering on about my "potential". I will 
bet he is one of these quiet millionaires that we 
Immortals accumulate after the first century or so. Me, I 
think it is little bits of paper and metal that get you 
the things that you really want and need, but that 
doesn't make me care about the little bits of paper and 
metal. If clamshells were the currency, I would use them. 
Oh, sure, I have an emergency fund. I would be very 
stupid not to have one, but when Mac and Amanda told me 
once what their respective net worths were, I was 
shocked. When they asked me what I was worth, I changed 
the subject.

     Little bits of barter will not bring back Alexa. 
They will not bring back Don. I wish that they could. I 
would scrape the clamshells together somehow. "More 
precious than rubies," as they say, are the few people in 
my life.

     "What's wrong, Adam?" Alexa is still in bed as I 
tiptoe around the hotel room, trying not to wake her. Her 
sleep is as broken and painful as her waking hours now, 
despite all the drugs. I think that she has been staying 
in bed longer to compensate for it. "Adam, tell me."

     "Nothing, love. Just thought I would go out for an 
early run." This is not true. I simply cannot stop 
moving. If I stop, I will have to think. About how ill 
Alexa looks now. About how she seems to be moving more 
slowly and doing less. About how the time that I have 
with her is shrinking. How I hate the medication that I 
have to dole out to her several times per day because she 
has grown too confused to remember what she has taken and 
when. The damned drugs hide her away from me so that I 
have to unearth her over and over again. If I don't give 
them to her, she will die in agony. She probably will in 
the end, anyway.

     "Stop lying." She coughs, eyes closed. "It's a waste 
of time. Tell me what's wrong."

     "Nothing, Alexa. I told you." I cannot help it, 
though I try so hard. The tension still comes out as 
irritability. "Do you want me to bring you any 
breakfast?"

     She opens her eyes. They seem to have sunk into her 
skull. "No. I want you to come over here and lie down. 
You barely slept all night."

     "I slept enough." I spent the night watching her 
breathe. Every second I sleep is a waste. Someday, very 
soon, she will stop breathing and I won't be able to 
watch her do it anymore.

     "Come here," she says. "Come lie down." The tone is 
gentle, but this is not a request. Smiling half to 
myself, I obey her. "Under the covers," she insists. 
Pulling them back and sliding under them, I put my arms 
around her. She shivers. Her skin is cold and too dry. I 
often wish for my old, warm, vibrant Alexa back and I 
feel guilty. This *is* Alexa, for better or worse. I am 
too old to pretend otherwise.

     "Now that you have me where you want me, what do you 
want me to do?" I try to keep my tone light, but my voice 
cracks on the last few words. I am so tired. Why do we 
have to do this in fast-forward? I know that Alexa is the 
one dying, but it still is agony watching her do it. I am 
tempted to take some of those drugs, myself, but we only 
have so much medication left. She needs it all.

     Alexa's answer is unexpected. "I want you to close 
your eyes and breathe."

     "What?" I laugh nervously.

     "Close your eyes," she says. She waits until I do 
it. "Now, breathe."

     "I don't understand--" She stops me by putting her 
fingers on my lips. She has that sickroom smell to her, 
the smell of death. Yet, I don't mind anymore, as long as 
I can be in her arms. We have not made love in over a 
week. She is too tired. I miss it.

     "Just breathe," she says. "God, you are stubborn." 
She laughs at this and I smile. She does have my number 
there. I feel myself relax as she strokes my hair. I 
drift. Oh. Now, this kind of meditation I like. I have 
been so wound up trying to do everything for both of us 
that I have had no rest. I felt so trapped. I guess all I 
needed was a little comfort.

     "Methos? Are you all right?" The voice is male, 
nothing like Alexa's huskiness.

     "What?" The bookshop lenses back into view. I am 
sitting in a chair, one of my comfortable ones, while 
Keane hovers over me with a coffee mug full of water. For 
a moment, I cannot tell if he is trying to get me to 
drink it or is preparing to throw it in my face. Drink 
it, I think.

     "I said, 'Are you all right?'" Keane says anxiously. 
"You were talking to someone named Alexa. I don't think 
you were quite here."

     "I wasn't." My own admission startles me--and to 
Keane, of all people. It is time to face the music and 
dance. I am not 'all right' and I am not 'fine'. There is 
no point in saying that I am. Joe is right. I have a 
problem and I need to deal with it, sooner rather than 
later.

     "Oh, shit," I say, realising something. "What time 
is it?" No. This is far more serious. "What day is it?"

     "Thursday. Why?" He looks puzzled, as he should. I 
have neglected to tell him about Rene and our bi-weekly 
sessions.

     The phone rings. I can bet who that might be. I 
answer it. To my surprise, it is Joe.

     "Where the Hell have you been?" he says, with no 
apparent preamble. "I've got your buddy, Rene, in my bar 
and he is bullshit. He said you blew off your meeting 
with him yesterday. I thought you told me you were seeing 
him today."

     "I thought today was Wednesday," I try to explain. 
It sounds lame, even to me. Madre de Dios, what have I 
done? Ce n'est pas bon.

     "Right." Joe sounds very neutral. I don't think he 
is buying my story either. "Well, I think you'd better 
come down here and explain that to Rene in person. 
Somehow, I don't think he's gonna buy that story coming 
from me, and I don't think he's gonna leave here until he 
hears it from you."

     "Yeah, yeah, okay. I'll be right down, Joe. Sorry. 
Tell him I'm sorry."

     "Just get your butt down here." Joe hangs up. It is 
not as though there is much else to say--not over the 
phone. In person will, I suspect, be a very different 
story.

     "Something's come up," I tell Keane as I hang up the 
phone, trying not to remember the apocalyptic events that 
always seem to follow that phrase for me. "I have to go 
over to Joe's."

     "Maybe I should drive you," he says, looking at me 
strangely. I am getting so very tired of having people 
look at me like that.

     "It's okay." I grab my keys before he can do 
something like snatch them away from me. "My car is right 
outside." One of the things I like about this place is 
the great parking.

     "I really think I should drive you," Mr. Puppy Dog 
insists.

     "Hey, I have an idea," I say, groping for a 
semblance of compromise. "Why don't you ride over with 
me?" He looks alarmed. "Oh, come on, Keane. You're 
Immortal. You won't suffer anything permanent if we crack 
up. Live a little."

    "All right," he concedes. "But if you're going to be 
putting us both into this kind of danger, you really 
should start calling me 'Stephen'."

     I laugh at that. I like his sense of humour, when he 
shows it. "Allons-y, then," I say cheerily and go to lock 
up before heading out to the car.

     I stop laughing on the road. Paris traffic is not 
magic for me. I get a bit tense. Keane--sorry, Stephen--
spends most of the trip clinging to the doorframe. For a 
guy who drives a Jag, he is a wuss. I only got into the 
breakdown lane that one time.

     "I don't normally drive like this, really," I assure 
him as I kick up gravel for a quarter of a mile and dodge 
through a construction site. "It's just that it is really 
important that I get to Joe's and explain things to Re--
to, um, this guy I had the appointment with yesterday."

     "Uh huh," he says through his teeth. "Could you 
please keep your eyes on the road?"

     The upshot of it all is that I arrive at Joe's with 
absolutely nobody in my corner. I leave Keane, who looks 
paler than usual, to crawl out of the passenger seat 
while I slam my own door and bounce into the bar. "Just 
come along in," I call over my shoulder.

     Joe and Rene are sitting at a table near the back. 
This does not look good. I take a deep breath, let it out 
and proceed to their table. They both look up at my 
approach. Joe looks neutral, which is alarming. Joe is 
not a neutral kind of guy. Rene looks really pissed off. 
Ooh, hoedown time. I had better do cute rather than 
defensive. It might buy me some time.

     "Hey, Joe...Rene." The expressions don't change. 
When I look at Joe, he stares back without reaction. Hmm. 
I turn to Rene. "Uh, look, Rene. I'm really sorry about 
yesterday. I got my days mixed up. A lot has been 
happening this week, you know?" I grin nervously and 
giggle a little. Though it is an automatic reaction, it 
generally works. See? I'm harmless.

     "No, I do not know," Rene says coldly, "because you 
have not been telling me anything significant in our 
sessions." In the dead silence that follows, I hear the 
bar door open and shut as Keane's Buzz intensifies behind 
me.

     "Is everything okay?" he says. I wonder if he misses 
how Joe and Rene simultaneously scope him out. They are 
Watchers, after all.

     "Sure. Absolutely fine." I assure him. It's not, but 
how can I explain that?

     "I think you should come up to the clinic for a few 
days," Rene says.

     "Absolutely not." I drop the grin and the innocence. 
I don't give a damn what they think of me now. If these 
two are planning on locking me up, the gloves are off. "A 
few days", my ass. It would be months before they even 
considered letting me out.

     Rene scowls. "Adam, if you are having flashbacks 
with complete dissociation from reality, you need to be 
in a safe place. Your current situation is not 
appropriate for the level of treatment that you need." 
Hah. I knew it.

     I sit down across from him, fold my arms and slouch. 
Enough with the conciliation. "Fine. Lock me up then."

     If anything, he looks even angrier. "Joe refuses to 
give his consent." Ooh, what kind of good day is Rene not 
having? I glance at Joe, who shrugs. Thanks, buddy. 
"Besides, it would never work without your cooperation. 
These sessions of ours are not mind games, Adam. I do not 
wish to trick you, only help you."

     All right, Old Man. He has a point. Don't throw the 
baby out with the bath water. I sigh. "Rene, I have no 
problem with accepting your help, but what I said before 
goes--no drugs and no hospitalisation."

     Rene shakes his head, clearly exasperated with me. 
"Adam, this is not a safe situation for you."

     "Are you saying that I might hurt someone? Joe, 
maybe?" I will admit that is my one, great fear.

     "No," he replies, after appearing to consider the 
question. "You are more likely to harm yourself, or let 
yourself be exposed to harm, than to do harm at this 
point."

     "Then, I will take that chance." I am a survivor, 
but I will not do it at the longterm price of my freedom. 
Holy ground is prison, and so is hospital. I have been a 
slave and a prisoner enough times in my life that I will 
never willingly enter such a state again.

     "Um, what is going on?" Keane comes up behind me, 
but to my left so that I can see him. Both Joe and Rene 
spare him another glance. It is a classic gesture of non-
aggression in an Immortal. See? I won't attack you from 
behind. Being trained Watchers, they have just pegged us 
both as Immortals--even though Joe already knows that, of 
course, and I am fairly certain that Rene at least 
suspects my Immortality.

     I should answer Keane's question. "Rene is my 
shrink," I tell him without taking my eyes off Rene. "He 
works for the people who took over after Sean Burns 
died." Yeah, Keane's pretty clued-up on that one. He was 
one of Sean's patients, in a manner of speaking. "Rene 
thinks I should check into his psychiatric facility until 
I stop having vacations from reality like the one you saw 
at the bookshop today."

     "Christ, you had another one?" Joe exclaims. I wave 
him down. I'm not done.

     "Rene, Joe," I say, hooking a thumb in Keane's 
direction, "this is Stephen Keane. He was a friend of 
Sean Burns."

     "I see," Rene says. Joe frowns, but adds no 
commentary.

     "You're in therapy?" Keane says, sounding confused. 
Joe rolls his eyes.

     "Yep," I say.

     "Why?" he says, a question, which from an Immortal 
point-of-view, is actually a good one. We live through 
centuries of trauma. We hunt each other down and whack 
each other's heads off. What is the point of therapy in 
that crazy a worldview? If aliens from Betelgeuse landed 
tomorrow, Immortals and Watchers might be the only humans 
who would be unimpressed. And since I'm so very old, I 
suppose I must be very successful at negotiating this 
crazy life, even when I'm nuts.

     "Let's just say that you are not the only one who 
could benefit from some new survival strategies," I 
explain.

     "Ah," says Keane, in a voice that indicates that he 
does get it. Joe shifts uneasily in his chair. Rene looks 
downright alarmed. I suppose even veteran Watchers find 
the more extreme aspects of our survivalist natures 
alarming. For most Immortals, if something keeps you 
alive (within certain rules) then it is good and that is 
all there is to it.

     "You need to be in a safe place," Rene persists. "At 
the clinic, you will be on holy ground. No one can harm 
you there."

     "Like Darius?" I retort. Rene looks taken aback. Joe 
stares at the table.

     "We are not Hunters," Rene insists, but he sounds 
shaken.

     "Listen to me. I am not going into hospital and I am 
not going to hide on holy ground. And since when did you 
peg me for an Immortal, Rene? I thought I was just a 
confused ex-Watcher research guy who saw a little too 
much action in the field."

     "You are that, as well." Rene looks grim. "I can 
understand that discovering yourself to be an Immortal 
during the Ahriman crisis, after studying them for so 
many years was a great shock, but you need to get beyond 
it."

     "I don't know what you're talking about."

     "It makes sense, no? Your disappearance during the 
Ahriman crisis? Quite a shock to find out about your 
Immortality that way."

     "That is not what happened." Joe, tell him what 
happened. Tell him!

     MacLeod has fled, leaving his sword behind. I cannot 
believe he wanted me to take his head. Joe cries on my 
shoulder, gut wrenching sobs. I have never seen him like 
this before. It hurts to watch. I didn't always like 
Mac's brand of morality, but I never thought he was 
crazy. I hug Joe, but I am not certain that he notices. 
Poor, poor Joe.

     I glance down at Richie's body. I cannot believe 
that Mac killed his own student. I'm old, not cynical. I 
just can't...and what am I supposed to do now? I can 
scarcely take care of myself, let alone Joe. I suppose I 
should stand here and wait for him to cry himself out. 
Maybe I can get him to sit down somewhere, but the 
question is where. I--

     What? What is that? The sword glowed. No. It 
couldn't have done that. Swords don't glow. Mac was 
wrong. There are no demons. There are no gods. No. 
Richie, don't get up. You don't have a head. You cannot 
hold a sword anymore, let alone smile like that. Oh, God. 
God, no. It is not Richie Ryan, at all; it is Sean Burns. 
Joe, we have to go. Joe, let go of me. Stop it! Let go! 
Sean, put the sword down! OW!

     "Easy, man. Take it easy. That's it. It's all right. 
You're right here. Come on. Just breathe, Adam. Take a 
deep breath for me. That's it...."

     "Joe," I choke out. He stops talking in my ear. He's 
got his arms wrapped around me from behind, pinning my 
arms against my body. I must have been fighting him. Sean 
turns into Rene, who is quietly putting a small syringe 
back into a case. I though he was Sean. I thought he 
stabbed me in the leg with a sword. I strain to sit up 
and look at my leg, but my vision is too blurry. I can't 
see any holes in my jeans.

     "I'm sorry," Rene says. "I had to give you something 
to bring you back down. You weren't responding to 
anything else."

     "What?" I try to sit up again, but Joe won't let me. 
I am on his couch, in his office. They must have carried 
me in here--fighting or not, I don't remember. "I 
didn't...Where's my jacket?" Where the Hell is my sword?

     "Keane is keeping your sword safe in the bar. You 
tried to take it out. It caused some alarm." Rene won't 
look at me directly.

     "Safe." I can feel whatever he gave me starting to 
drag me down. "I said Ôno drugsÕ."

     "And I said fine, as long as you did not become a 
danger to yourself or others. We have passed that point. 
You need to be in the hospital."

     "No. No, I won't go." I try to look up at Joe, but 
his head is right behind me. I cannot see his face. "Joe, 
please. Don't let him put me in hospital." I feel so 
tired. That shit Rene gave me works fast. Must be Haldol.

     Joe is silent. Rene glares past my head at him. Even 
half-stoned, I cannot miss that interaction. "Dawson," 
Rene warns.

     Joe sighs. "Okay, Adam. We'll work something out."

     "No hospital," I insist.

     "No hospital," he agrees. I think I hear Rene curse 
in French, so Joe must not be lying. Oh, thank Heaven. 
Thank you, Joe. Thank you so much. I don't know if I say 
it out loud or not, before I slip away. I hope so.


*********


     The river far below glitters in the moonlight. I 
stand on the edge of the trees and breathe in the warm, 
night air. Then, I shoulder my pack and walk further out 
of the jungle. Alexa pads up beside me. I reach down to 
stroke her head. Her coat changes under my hand, now 
short and rough, now soft, now long and smooth--orange 
and black stripes, tawny, black on black, white with 
spots. She growls and rubs her head against my leg, her 
tail flicking back and forth. She led me through the 
jungle all night long, a mad race over roots and under 
tree branches, with me chasing her tail.

     She will not follow me down to the river. This makes 
me sad. Whenever she is with me, I know that all will be 
well. She will not take the long path that winds down 
into the valley no matter how I try to convince her. As I 
watch, she brushes past me and leaps down the rocks, one 
by one, to the river far below. I want to follow her, 
even if it means death, but I cannot. It is as though a 
sword bars my way. She pauses at the river to look up at 
me, before disappearing into the water. Alexa, I miss you 
so much. I trudge down the path.

     I have not seen Kronos in a long time.

     As I walk, the hillside around me changes, levelling 
out to a tiled floor. I find myself in a museum room full 
of odd things large and small--skeletons of dragons and 
fossilised footprints. I cannot see its walls in the 
distance. In the centre of the room rests an enormous 
ball of string, some giant cat's toy. It nearly reaches 
the ceiling, and rotates slowly, bright as the sun in 
some parts, light-sucking black in others. It is tangled 
and filthy, but compelling to watch. 

     Around it pace the Fates. I approach them, following 
the whorls of a giant seashell embedded in the slate 
floor. Their long hair flows like black water over their 
grey dresses, their fierce, identical faces. All three 
look like Cassandra. One spins at the very bottom of the 
ball, circling it over and over. Another follows her 
sister and measures the string, stretching it between her 
hands before she tosses it onto the ball. A third stands 
patiently by, a sword sheathed at her side.

     "It's so beautiful," Alexa says from beside me, her 
head cocked to one side. "But how will you ever unravel 
it?"

     "I know a way," I say, and draw my sword to cut the 
ball in half. Alexa puts a hand on my wrist.

     "No," she says, pointing at the Fates. "See? They're 
not done." As she speaks, the measuring Fate casts down 
her skein. The string rolls out along the floor, glowing 
white-hot, until it reaches a door at the end of the 
room. Above the doorway, a sign reads, "Joe's".

     "Go see where it ends up. Don't worry. Everything 
will be fine." Alexa puts a hand on my back and pushes me 
toward the door. 

     I look back at her. "Come with me," I say.

     She shakes her head. "I live here now." She turns 
and walks back out along the seashell's whorls, her 
shadow growing larger and more indistinct as the whorls 
spiral out. I cannot tell when she disappears. I turn 
back to the string path. Fearful, I edge forward along 
the string to the door. The knob is warm. I hear the 
sounds of laughter and happy conversation from the other 
side. I turn the knob and open the door.

     Inside the door, the bar stretches off into the 
darkness behind the stage. I still hear people laughing 
and talking, yet the bar is empty except for a man 
working at the counter. He looks up.

     "Come in," he says. It is not Joe; it is Kronos. I 
look back at the door. Through the glass, I see, not a 
museum, but fog curling up the street. Since I have no 
choice, I approach the counter.

    "Drink?" Kronos says, holding up a pint glass. I nod. 
He draws me a pint and hands it over.

     The beer is excellent, but I cannot place it. "Since 
when did you become a bartender?"

     He smiles. "People tell bartenders all sorts of 
things, all their secrets. You used to tell me your 
secrets."

     "Not all of them." I remember that much, if not 
everything.

     "You told me enough. I was your brother. You trusted 
me, as much as you ever trusted anyone. I thought I could 
control you that way."

     I don't want to talk about this. "Where is Joe?"

     "Where he belongs." Kronos cocks his head to one 
side. "Where you belong. You have to go back out there, 
you know. You haven't faced him yet."

     I stare at him, confused. "Who? Joe?"

     He laughs at me. "Of course not. You know whom I 
mean."

     He knows. How does he know? About the fog, the 
bridge. Why do I keep ending up back here? "Why is he 
trying to kill me?"

     "Who said he's trying to kill you?" He leans across 
the bar and puts his hands on my shoulders. "Finish your 
beer and go find him. I promise you, it will be all 
right."

     "You're not Kronos."

     He draws back, shaking his head, clearly amused. 
"People change when they die, Brother. Otherwise, what 
would be the point of Hell? Go and find out for yourself. 
You only need to go a little further."

     What utter rot. Nevertheless, I finish my pint. It 
does make me feel stronger. I slide off my stool and head 
back out to the door. At the doorway, I almost look back. 
Instead, I turn the knob and go out into the foggy 
street. 
     
     The fog rises about my legs as I pass under the 
bridge. Above me, the trolls chatter endlessly. Why do 
they keep wondering why I won't wake up? Wake up from 
what? He comes out of the mist, raising the katana. I am 
so tired. One way or the other, I want this to end.

     "Who are you?" I say. "What are you?" My voice 
echoes back at me from the fog, "Who are you? Who are 
you?"

     There is only one option that I have not yet tried. 
I am afraid. Why? I have been trying to die for months. 
Why back down now? What is the point? I crouch to lay my 
sword on the ground. He does not move. I back away a 
little, then kneel. He steps forward and raises his 
sword. I can feel my heart beating in my head--it will 
stop beating soon enough. I lower my head. I thought I 
wanted this.

     "Just get it over with." I scarcely recognise my own 
voice. I shut my eyes; I don't want to see my own death. 
As I hear the sword cut through the air, the weight of 
years that have suffocated me for so long like grave 
slabs falls away and all I want, all I want, is just one 
more day. Is that too much to ask for?

     I wake in the dark. Silas is a warm bulk curled up 
against my side. Next to me, Joe snores. I feel the Buzz 
of another Immortal. Keane. It is Keane. I remember now. 
Joe and Keane are staying with me. Keane has the couch 
and I don't have another bed.

     I have been waiting for this for two weeks. Somehow 
I knew, when I began to dream again, the flashbacks would 
stop. I have reached a crossroads.

     Joe had to fight hard to keep me out of hospital. I 
slept through most of his fight with Rene; that Haldol 
really knocks you for six. I think he almost threw Rene 
into the street at one point. Keane says it was all 
rather exciting. Keane thinks that watching paint dry is 
exciting. My mini-excursions from reality are better than 
a good book to him. He hangs out with Joe and me. They 
follow me around when I go outside. Joe told Rene no 
meds. Who'd have thought he would? Some days, it is fine. 
Some days...it's not good. Clinical depression is such a 
pain in the ass. I taught Keane how to clean the catbox 
and feed the cat, just in case. He might as well make 
himself useful.

     I slipped away from them both once at the zoo--had 
an hour or two to myself watching birds from behind some 
trees. I don't know; maybe I fell asleep or maybe I 
simply went away. I don't remember. When I strolled back 
out, they found me. Joe screamed at me for a good five 
minutes, until they kicked him out for scaring the Hell 
out of the zebras. To be honest, he scared me. I thought 
he was going to have some sort of attack in the parking 
lot. He was so angry and frustrated that he nearly burst 
into tears. I felt guilty, which is a rare emotion for 
me. He was trying so hard, and I was playing head games 
with him. It wasn't smart and it wasn't fair, for either 
of us. After that, I behaved, as far as I can remember.

     It is so quiet here, so peaceful, almost like being 
on holy ground. It won't last, of course, and yet.... I 
remember staying at MacLeod's barge a few years back, 
while I was puttering about, finding a new apartment. I 
let myself be lulled, even though the man was an 
Immortal-magnet from Hell. It was pleasant being with 
another Immortal in friendship. I thought for a time that 
Mac and I could even be brothers, before Kronos disabused 
us both of that fantasy. Joe, now, he is my brother. Why 
do I have to care so much about Mortals?

     I miss Alexa so much. I couldn't help but love her, 
from the moment I saw her. I wish...but there is no point 
in wishing. Losing that damned forever stone off a bridge 
taught me that. What am I doing with Joe? At least with 
Alexa I could say I'd fallen; I couldn't help myself. I 
saw her and I was gone. You don't "fall" with brothers. 
Maybe you get pushed, but you don't fall. No. They cover 
your back and you get used to it. One day, they are no 
longer there and you feel lost. You shouldn't have to 
cover your own back. Kronos did teach me that.

     I feel so blessedly clear. I know it won't last. I 
will wake in the morning and the day will begin in tears, 
I can tell. Rene tells me that I might as well put a 
half-loaded gun to my head and start pulling the trigger 
unless I go on medication. Bugger him. Stoned out of my 
mind the way Alexa was at the end? I don't think so. He 
says that the medication would only make me groggy for a 
few weeks, while he adjusts the dosage. I ask him if he's 
ever tried it himself. He gets angry. He says that this 
"process" will only take longer if I don't do the 
medication. Well, I have been crazy before and I got over 
it without any little white pills. I say, if the meds are 
the real cure, why is he coming around every day for 
therapy sessions? That is usually when he shuts up. As 
long as something works, that is one less voice in my 
head. I only talk to him because it helps. I don't trust 
him, not after he shot me up with Haldol. I don't care 
that he was only trying to help. I don't want that kind 
of help.

     I turn my head to watch Joe sleep--no, to watch him 
breathe. Didn't know he snored. He sleeps like a rock. I 
was surprised when he told me that he normally sleeps 
with one eye open. Who is watching whose back now? Beside 
me, Silas stretches and yawns. I stroke his belly. As I 
do, I realise where I am, what I am doing. I am going 
through a hard time, yes. And yet, on each side, I find 
people who care. I don't know why they do. I suppose I 
will never know why. Maybe this time, it doesn't matter. 
Maybe this time, they will bear me up when my legs grow 
heavy and I will not have to crawl down this path alone, 
as I have had to do so many times before. This timeÉyou 
know, I might be okay.


END


For now, but Joe and Methos will return in "Bring Out 
Your Dead".