Shelter From The Storm
The sky opens up and rain comes pouring down. Joe Dawson stood on the edge of the long looping oval racetrack the lights of the city of Paris forgotten in the background. He wasn't here because he was a fan of motorcycle racing. He was here serving in his capacity as a Watcher. Recent experience, common sense and training said that getting involved with your subject was never a good idea.
Circumstances being what they were had caused Joe to walk a thin line between duty, honor and his own conscience on several occasions. Right this moment Joe would rather not recall the fact that he had gotten involved. Rule number One in the Watchers's handbook, watch, record never get involved. Well he had. So there.
Memories are had to banish so quickly. He had walked in on Duncan Macleod, overwhelmed by a rare Dark Quickening, just as the Scottish Immortal had been about to take the head of his student, Richie Ryan, and Joe had shot Duncan. Oh, of course Joe knew it would not kill him, but it would slow him down long enough to allow Richie to get away. Incidents like that are enough for Joe to have twinges of regret. The decision had been made, he had acted, and despite the consequences of those actions, and the fallout he had received at the hands of the Watchers, Joe has come to terms with that decision.
Joe has had to live with that decision for months, he's woken up at night in a cold sweat, but he believes he finally laid that ghost to rest. He's had to make room for new ghosts. Some of those ghosts aren't garden-variety figments of the imagination when one has had too much to drink. These ghosts are the genuine go bump in the night phantasms. One of his ghosts is his old enemy Peter Horton. "Back from the dead and up to his old tricks," Joe gripes. "When did it all get so complicated?"
So taken all together, Joe stands here on the empty racetrack contemplating the unthinkable, Duncan Macleod killed his student, not to mention his best friend. "Sure, Duncan had been under the influence of the Dark Quickening, but that still doesn't excuse or explain what happened."
Richie had come to save Macleod from himself only to lose his head to his best friend. "Madness" Joe mutters under his breath, Joe's graying growing thin, and one hand leaning on his cane for support. Heavy rain always made the prosthetic leg ache more than usual. Tonight has been much like a surreal scene in a French noir film. It had all the right touches, the ground-hugging fog, the confusion and the eventual end.
Somewhere in the distance he can hear the gunning of his old motor of his car. And somewhere in the back of his mind he is aware that Methos, the oldest immortal still living, has resurfaced after months of making himself scarce. Methos or his moniker to hide in plain sight of the Watchers, Adam Pierson, pulls the car around to where Joe stands in the rain. The wheels screech on the tarmac, and Joe winces at the sound.
"Get out of the rain," Methos invites pulling up and holding up the passenger side door of the car. "Or at least wool gather like a sensible person and get an umbrella."
"Not just yet, we should get Richie's body, and....." Joe trails off at a loss for what to say next.
"I already took care of it."
"What about Macleod?"
"Recovering from taking Ryan's Quickening, Macleod took off. He's long gone." Joe nods and steps toward the waiting vehicle, suddenly grateful for the warmth of the heater and the security that the car represents. He pulls his coat closely around his body, shivering from both shock and cold, then closes the car door.
"Take me back to the bar," Joe asks and Methos nods. "You shouldn't drive right now.".
Once more back at the bar Joe goes into the back room off the main bar floor and shrugs off his wet clothes and changes into another pair of jeans and a wool sweater, throwing an extra pair to Methos who is waiting at the serving counter.
"Tell me how this all makes sense, tell me what happens next," Joe says.
"If you're looking for answers then I'm sorry, but you've come to the wrong place," Methos replies, sipping the pint of whiskey that he'd poured for himself, swirling a swizzle stick in the amber liquid and contemplating the tiny swirls, before looking the mortal in the eye. "I'm sorry, but that's the best I can come up with right now."
"Try harder," Joe demanded, folding his arms over his chest. "Or I won't refill that whiskey for you."
"Holding out my drinks and pumping for information, how very un- bartender of you."
"None of your cynical jokes right now, I'm not in the mood."
Methos plunked his whiskey glass down on the counter; the force of made the liquid inside splash up and just barely staying in the container
"What right do you have to dictate terms to me!"
"Oh, don't play holier than thou with, I know you better than that."
"Oh right, I forgot you have access to my Watcher files. You are aware that much of the information contained in them was written by me?"
"Wonderful, you can submit them as a autobiography later." Joe poured himself another glass of whiskey; suddenly getting drunk seemed like a wonderful idea. Wetness inside to make up for the wetness outside, and lifted the glass to his lips, and then downed a healthy swallow. "To madness, superstition, supernatural and things generally not making sense."
Methos raised his own glass and clinked his alongside Joe's. "One thing I still don't understand, is how some Zoroastrian demon got involved in all of this."
"Ahirman," Joe whispers. "Yeah, I've been trying to piece things together and that's a doozy." Joe laughs, but it is a brittle, hollow one. "I can just imagine putting this one in my report. "The demon Ahirman made him do it."
"They will never believe it, damn it, even I don't entirely believe it, and we both witnessed it with our own eyes." Methos shouts, and in second he has spun around on his bar stool, breath coming in short gasps, eyes and mouth narrowing into a thin line, arm cocked, and he hurls the half-empty whiskey glass away from him. In one swift motion he hurls the glass away. It flies across the bar, shatters on the wall, and tiny shards flutter to the floor. "Damn it."
"Nice aim," Joe shrugs, realizing he's feeling a bit punchy as well.
"Macleod's still out there somewhere," Methos says, sipping his drink," I think I should go look for him. If only to prevent him from harming himself or anyone else."
"Maybe, maybe not.
"Joe, dear boy," got any more of this whiskey?"
"Being you, I know you can hold your liquor, and pretty much drink anyone under the table," Joe shakes his head, "Right now getting drunk, while very attractive, is really not the answer.
"Wish I had your resolve, Joe." Methos gets up and walks over to where the glass lies on the polished wooden floor and begins picking up the pieces one by one, pivoting on his heel to accept a broom and dustbin that Joe hands over. "You can't fix this mess, Joe, no one can."
"Sounds like you're giving up, that isn't like you."
"I'm not advocating giving up," Methos replied, "All I am saying, is that you have got to stop beating yourself up. It's not your fault."
"Not my fault!" Joe yelled, his face turning red. "Not my fault! I was his Watcher! I should have put the pieces together long before this was even a glimmer in the eye. I should have done more!"
Silence fills the bar and the two men regard each, uncomfortable with each other, the situation and the silence.
"Finished with your self-recriminations, are we?" Methos arched one dark eyebrow.
" Yeah, yeah, just let me get out one more tirade then I'll be fine."
"Good."
"Good?"
"That's my story and I'm sticking to it." Methos grinned. "Well, for now anyway."
"You are incorrigible, do you know that?" Joe returned the grin.
"All part of my charm," Methos replied, grinning.