Tavern Keeper by enviropony
Title: Tavern Keeper
Author: enviropony
Summary: One night in the working life of Mike the Watcher.
Characters: Mike the Watcher, Adam Pierson, MacLeod, Joe, original characters
Rating: PG-13 for language
Character/Prompt: Mike the Watcher/circus
Word count: 6300
The phone rang as Mike was signing the wine delivery invoice. He tossed the clipboard back to the driver and turned for the office, ignoring the, “Hey, that’s my pen!” that echoed after him.
They never had enough pens at the bar.
“Joe’s,” he answered, just before the machine picked up.
“Hey, Mike,” Joe greeted. “Wine get there yet?”
“Guy just left,” Mike said. “What’s with all the East Coast labels?”
“I had a few recommendations. Tried them at that show last weekend, figured I’d see if folks like them as much as I did.”
“Didn’t think you were a man for wine,” Mike teased.
“Exactly,” Joe confirmed. “If I like it, it’s a good bet other people will, too.”
“Other people like MacLeod?” Mike rolled his eyes. “Is he the one who put you onto this stuff?”
“Nah. You remember Wesley Wilkins?” Joe’s easy drawl went sly at the end.
“That fuzzbrain?” Mike groaned. “How could I forget?”
“Well, ol’ Wes is a bit of a wine connoisseur, and when his assignment moved to Virginia, he did a couple of wine tours in his spare time.”
“What spare time? How does a field Watcher have spare time?” Mike asked.
“One whose assignment doesn’t check in on his own, you mean?” Joe replied with a chuckle. “Well, it wasn’t spare time so much as medical leave. He broke his leg trying to follow his gal Moira into the mountains on a backpacking trip. You wanna know what the kicker is?”
Mike snorted in derision. “Let me guess, she was the one who had to help him back to civilization?”
“Bingo!” Joe said, gleeful. “And she asked him if she’d seen him around before. Needless to say, he’s getting a new assignment. In fact-“
“Wait, wait, please don’t tell me he’s coming back here,” Mike pleaded. “Seriously, please!”
“Sorry, buddy.” Joe didn’t sound very sorry. “None of the field coordinators back east wanted him, so he’s flying in tomorrow. I’m sending him to San Francisco, but all his new creds are sitting in my safe, and his new assignment is up here visiting MacLeod, so I figured I should take the opportunity to ease him in.”
“If he blows this one, at least he won’t have far to run,” Mike articulated Joe’s thoughts.
“You got it. Plus, I know MacLeod won’t kill him outright if he’s spotted.”
“And his new guy might?”
“It’s another gal, but yeah, she might. Women don’t take kindly to being stalked by strangers, I’m told.”
“I heard the same thing once,” Mike agreed with false gravity.
Joe’s warm chuckle ended with a sigh. “Anyway, what I really called to tell you was that I’m going to be running late tonight. Finally got an appointment with that damned chiropractor. I should be in by nine…” he trailed off.
“But if it goes as well as last time,” Mike continued, “you’re gonna have to bail on me. It’s alright, Joe, don’t sweat it. It’s Wednesday, it’ll be a slow night.”
---
It started as a slow night.
It did not end that way.
Mike was on the phone again, on hold with the beer wholesaler, when Wesley Wilkins shoved through the front doors lugging two suitcases and a carryall.
“Michael,” he greeted, letting his baggage fall into a pile by the door. “Is Mr. Dawson in yet?” His stilted manner and clipped British accent betrayed his public school upbringing.
Or so Mike had been told. Personally, he thought Wesley was just a prissy dweeb.
“He’s not-“ he began, cutting off as the wholesaler came back on the line. “Yes, six cases, and eight of the lager. No, four kegs. What? Hey!” He slapped the earpiece against the bar in frustration as he got put on hold again, then examined it for damage, wincing at a new crack in the casing. He looked up at Wesley. “Why are you here?”
“Mr. Dawson asked me to report in as soon as I arrived. I realize I’m a day late, but-“
“You’re a day early,” Mike corrected.
Wesley blinked, his officious façade dissolving into confusion. “What?”
“He’s not expecting you until Thursday,” Mike said.
“I, uh- no, no I’m certain it was Tuesday,” Wesley insisted.
“I just talked to him two hours ago,” Mike told him, “and he said he was expecting you tomorrow.”
“But-“
“Why are you arguing?” Mike asked, incredulous. “You’re early.” He paused at Wesley’s continued consternation, then said, slowly, as if talking to a child, “You are early. It makes you look good. Go find a hotel. Check into it. Relax. Come back tomorrow.”
Wesley puffed up with indignation. “Now see here, there’s no need to speak to me that way!”
“What way?” Mike asked, blinking innocently. “I don’t know what you mean, Wesley. Also, it’s Mike, not Michael, and,” he pointed at the pile of bags, “get your luggage off the floor.”
Wesley grumbled self-importantly, but went to collect his bags. He came back to the bar, eyed Mike sternly for a moment, then sighed and let the bags fall again. “Ah, I don’t seem to have anywhere to go,” he confessed, shoulders sagging. He bit his lip nervously, then said, “My credit card was cancelled as part of the identity blackout after my- ah, at any rate, I only have twenty dollars in cash.”
Mike closed his eyes for a moment, pushing back the frustration, and said, “Fine. Put your bags in the office for now. Let me finish this phone call and I’ll get you some money out of the safe.”
Wesley nodded awkwardly, then grabbed his luggage and shuffled on back to the office with it. He emerged a moment later, asking, “Would you- is there any chance I could, ah, get something to eat? This neighborhood is a little intimidating, and I see the kitchen’s open-“
“Yes, fine, go tell Ellen what you want.” Mike waved him off, shaking his head. Intimidating? They had this guy on field assignment?
-----
The kitchen was small, barely equipped enough to cook hamburgers, but Wesley thought Ellen did quiet well with what she had. It helped that Mr. Dawson was scrupulous about the ingredients he purchased. Wesley was hard-pressed to say he’d had better bar food anywhere.
Ellen put a plate in his hands. “Be careful, it’s hot. You want me to cut you a piece of pie, too? We’ve got apple and cherry.”
“Oh, yes,” Wesley agreed eagerly. “Cherry, if you please.”
Ellen grinned, snapped her gum, and reached for a knife. “I’ve got some ice cream left, too.”
Wesley left the kitchen laden down with food, and decided it would make sense to eat at the bar instead of in the office. Mr. Dawson often said he was worried about vermin setting up house in the back. No need to encourage them. Mike shot him a scowl as Wesley sat down, but said nothing. He seemed to be on hold with the distributor, still.
Wesley ate slowly, savoring the first decent meal he’d had in two days; the Watchers had cancelled his card on Friday afternoon - right after they made sure he’d paid for his plane ticket, of course - and he’d been living off fast food and airline meals ever since.
He frowned as he thought about the mess he’d made of his last assignment. He was fortunate that Mr. Dawson was willing to give him another chance. He was pretty sure, too, that this would be his last one. Another foul-up, and he’d be back in research.
He glanced up as the door opened, and his eyes widened. Speaking of desk jobs, there was that snotty Methos researcher. Wesley didn’t know how Mr. Dawson put up with him.
Pierson paused visibly as he caught sight of Wesley, and glanced at Mike, who shrugged and reached under the counter. He came up with a bottle of beer, which he offered to Pierson as if in sympathy.
Wesley felt positively unwelcome. He hunched his shoulders and paid close attention to his meal.
Pierson did not come over.
----
Mike finally got off the phone ten minutes after Adam walked in.
“What was that about?” Adam asked, leaning over the bar to look for a third - third! - bottle of beer.
“Keeping you in lager and stout,” Mike said, reaching for a glass. He drew a pint of microbrew from one of the taps and set it down in front of Adam, who eyed it suspiciously. “Hey, you’re the one who recommended this stuff,” Mike said.
“It was a different color,” the researcher declared. “A totally different color.”
“The lady’s trying something new,” Mike said. “It tastes fine.”
Adam sipped cautiously, looked pensive for a moment, then beamed. “Fine, indeed,” he said. He took a longer swallow, then tipped the glass in Wesley’s direction and asked, “What’s he doing here?”
“Short answer? Waiting for money,” Mike said.
Adam snorted. “From who? Joe or Western Union? Anyway, wasn’t payday last week?”
“Yeah, but he flubbed his assignment and his identity got blacked out. It’ll be a week before he has access to that money again.” Mike glanced around, making sure there were no customers waiting on him. “I need to go get him some cash so he can get his ass out of this bar and to a hotel room. He’s making me twitch.”
“I know he’s obnoxious, but he’s not that bad,” Adam chided.
“He will be when he figures out that Joe’s not the only Watcher in this bar on a first-name basis with MacLeod,” Mike said. “Or when MacLeod’s lady friend asks if she didn’t maybe see you in Germany a while back, or something.” Mike knew Adam was Immortal - it was hard to miss, as much time as the man spent around Joe and MacLeod - but there was a whole lot to the story that nobody had offered to share. They all - Joe, Adam and MacLeod - pretended like Adam had ‘woken up’ Immortal after he joined the Watchers, but that obviously wasn’t true, not the way he talked. Mike thought Joe and Adam forgot sometimes that he’d taken all the same classes at the Watcher Academy as they had.
Adam’s eyes had narrowed worriedly at the words ‘MacLeod’s lady friend,’ and now he asked, “Who is this lady friend, exactly?”
“Don’t know,” Mike said. “I’d have to look it up. All I know is that she lives in San Francisco, and fuzzbrain over there is her new Watcher.”
Adam glanced over at Wesley, who was studiously ignoring them in favor of his pie. “Well, she can’t be that bad, then.”
“Famous last words,” Mike declared. “Keep an eye on the bar for a minute, will you?”
He went into the back, to where Joe kept the Watchers’ safe in a drawer at the bottom of his desk. It was sturdy enough to survive a serious break-in attempt, but light enough to pick up and run with in case of trouble - provided one knew the trick to extracting it. The bar safe, which held nothing more suspicious than a bottle of really expensive Scotch, stood more prominently against one wall. The bar had been robbed once, and they’d never even bothered with the drawer.
Good use of time on their part, Mike supposed as he opened the Watchers’ safe, because it was nearly empty. There were emergency identification packets for Joe, and Mike himself, along with some travelers’ checks in those names, but no cash. Staring in frustration at his picture on a license that said ‘Malcolm Dwight,’ Mike remembered Joe saying that Wesley’s new ID was in the safe - but it wasn’t this safe. Mike closed the lid and slammed the drawer shut. Joe never kept Watcher stuff in the bar safe, but he checked it anyway. No dice. There wasn’t even cash in it - which Mike would gladly have foisted on Wesley despite Joe’s rule of never mixing bar and Watcher balance sheets - because they’d sent it to the bank this morning.
Mike looked at the clock. Joe wouldn’t be out of the chiropractor’s yet - and where he’d found a guy who did evening appointments, Mike didn’t know - so there was no sense in calling. He wiped a hand over his face and thought maybe he was being too paranoid about Wesley’s presence. What were the chances that MacLeod was going to come by, anyway?
Wesley looked up expectantly when Mike came back out to the bar. “Well, what kind of hotel room will I be spending the night in?” he asked. “I do hope there’s enough for the Holiday Inn, at least?”
Mike shook his head. “Sorry, there’s no money in the safe. Your new ID’s not there, either. Must be at Joe’s house. I’m afraid you’re stuck here until Joe gets back.”
Wesley’s shoulders slumped. “I see. Can’t you take any money from the register? I really don’t need much - I’d just like a clean bed to spend the night on, that’s all.”
“I can’t do that,” Mike said, even though Wesley really did look tired. “Joe doesn’t like to mix our business with the bar’s balance sheets.”
“But this is an emergency,” Wesley protested.
“Hardly,” Mike said. “If there was a guy with a sword after you, that would be an emergency. Look, Joe will be back in a few hours. Until then, sit back, relax, enjoy the atmosphere.” He paused, looked at Wesley’s plate - scraped clean - and finished, “Go have some more pie.”
He turned before the other Watcher could protest again, and went back to where Adam was sitting. There was a man standing next to him, vaguely familiar, drumming his fingers impatiently on the polished wood near the register.
“Mike!” he boomed. “Where’s Dawson?”
“Busy,” Mike said with a shrug. “Won’t be in for a few hours, probably. What do you need?”
The man pulled a business card from his metallic, black jacket, and slapped it on the counter. “My name is Ron Worsky, as I’m sure you remember. I represent Rolling Blue.”
Mike blinked, shot an amused look at Adam. Adam shrugged.
“Yes, I remember you,” Mike said, “You come in here every couple of weeks, harass the band, order a Bud Light-“Adam shuddered “-and whine about how the music industry let you down.”
Ron scowled. “I’d really be a little more polite if I were you. Barkeepers are replaceable, you know.”
“So are windbag talent managers,” Mike shot back. “Whatever you want, Joe’s the one to talk to. Come back later.”
“I don’t think so,” said Ron with a shake of his head. “My clients would like to discuss a pay increase-“
“So they can pay you?” Mike asked. “Fat chance. Anyway, read my lips. Joe’s not here. Come back later. Or never.”
Ron dragged a stool close, and sat down. “No, I’m going to wait right here. You ask me to leave one more time, and you can find another gig for Friday. Now, get me a Sam Adams!”
“Ooh, living dangerously,” Adam offered.
“What would you know?” Ron shot back.
Mike and Adam glanced at each other and burst out laughing.
- - -
Ron was actually less annoying than Mike had expected, mostly because he stayed at the bar, while Mike played waiter. The late shift - one lone grad student, on Wednesdays - wouldn’t show until ten.
Adam, on the other hand, had decided that Wesley was the lesser of two evils, and was gamely trying to discuss Near East history with him. Wesley, it was becoming clear, hadn’t done well in Near East History at the Academy.
Mike had called Joe’s cell phone, then his house, but there was no answer at either. He figured he’d give it another half an hour before calling again. He wasn’t too worried about Ron’s threats. Rolling Blue’s guitarist had gotten his start with Joe, and Mike seriously doubted he’d cancel on them. They had to do something about Wesley, though, before the poor bastard face-planted into his next piece of pie.
Mike couldn’t believe he was actually starting to feel sorry for the man.
An hour later, he still hadn’t reached Joe, but he’d added another non-paying layabout to the motley bunch dotting the bar stools.
The beer wholesaler, in an effort to apologize for so profoundly screwing up Joe’s order, had sent its delivery truck over on a custom run, to drop off early the stock Joe would need for the weekend. Why they thought it was a good idea to unload beer in the dark, Mike wasn’t sure, and of course the guy had tripped over something in the alley on his way out. No beer was harmed in the incident, for which Mike and Adam were both very grateful, but now Paul the truck driver was sitting at the bar, complaining about poor lighting, overtime shifts, and absolutely refusing a ride to the hospital.
“It’s just a sprain, and you already bandaged my hand,” he told Adam. “I’m not payin’ for a trip to the emergency room just so they can give me some aspirin. My wife’ll pick me up when her shift’s done.”
Adam shrugged. “Do you have any anti-inflammatories at home?” he asked.
“Yeah, all sorts,” Pau said. “My wife saves ‘em from when the kids get banged up in lacrosse. They’re always playing tough girls, never take the full dose.”
“Tough girls?” Ron echoed.
“Hell yeah!” Paul sat up. “You got a problem with girls playing sports?”
“No! Just, ah, they’re usually, you know…” Ron trailed off at the look on Paul’s face.
“Usually what?” Paul growled.
“Nothing, nothing,” Ron backpedalled, waving his hands in negation.
“Don’t drink any alcohol while you’re here,” Adam said, and very pointedly drained his own glass. “Let’s try that new coal porter,” he told Mike.
- - -
Wesley watched Pierson sample another beer - it had to be his tenth - and wondered where the bookish man had learned to treat wounds with such efficiency. He’d broken off their stilted conversation about Persia with relief at Mike’s call for assistance, and handled the truck driver’s protests and curses with the aplomb of a trained emergency medic. (Wesley had a basis for comparison, due to his unfortunate hiking accident). Now, instead of arrogantly patting himself on the back, as Wesley expected, Pierson continued his diligent pursuit of the worst hangover ever.
Wesley sighed, yawned, and went back to the kitchen. Ellen handed him the whole rest of the cherry pie, and told him she’d put on some coffee.
- - -
A few more regulars trickled in just before the grad student called in high - er, sick. They weren’t demanding folks, though, and gave Mike plenty of slack. Ellen came out of the kitchen to help out, but she’d been there all day and Mike wanted to send her home, so he announced last call on food orders early.
“Kitchen’s closing in ten! Last call for solid food!”
Wesley perked up. “Uh, could I have-“
“God, Wilkins, you’re a bottomless pit,” Adam interrupted.
“I could say the same about you, Pierson,” Wesley declared, waving vaguely at the glass with which Adam was presently communing.
“I’ll leave you the key,” Ellen said, patting Wesley on the head. She snapped her gum and went to take an order from the table by the stairs.
Things ran smoothly for maybe half an hour after that. Ellen cooked up some burgers and fries for the couple by the stairs, made a sandwich for Paul, slid the kitchen key under a napping Wesley’s hand, and headed out the door. Mike wiped down the bar, poured Ron (the cheap bastard) a glass of water, and called Joe again.
“No answer?” Adam asked, looking concerned.
“Maybe he got home and crashed,” Mike said, not worried. “Those sessions take a lot out of him.”
“He usually answers his messages before he goes to bed,” Adam pointed out. “Maybe I should swing by and check on him. If he’s asleep, I’ll take Wilkins home with me.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Adam asked, the picture of innocence.
Mike gave the Immortal his patented ‘don’t bullshit me’ glare.
“Oh please, give me some credit,” Adam scoffed, then lowered his voice. “I know enough to keep my sword hidden.”
“Yeah, and what else do you have stashed at your place that our boy Wesley doesn’t need to see?”
Adam scratched his chin. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Mike snorted. “You’re something, you know that?” He was going to say more, but Adam got that look on his face, that wide-pupiled, thousand-yard stare that was the only indication he sensed another Immortal.
No way in hell was Pierson new to this, Mike thought as he turned to the door. No other Immortal he’d ever seen gave away that little.
“Well, things just got interesting,” he declared a moment later. “It’s MacLeod and that woman I was telling you about.”
Adam, who’d kept his eyes on his beer, looked up casually. “Wilkins asleep, still?”
Mike glanced to the other end of the bar. “No such luck. Guess the man’s got some sense of danger after all.”
Wesley was sitting up, rubbing his eyes, the kitchen key clenched in one fist. He looked around warily, as if seeking what had woken him. He nodded to Mike when their gazes met, then saw MacLeod, and had a very silent, remarkably unobtrusive panic attack.
Let the games begin, Mike thought. “Hey, Mac! Who’s your lovely friend?”
“Hi, Mike,” MacLeod said genially. “Adam.” He clapped a casual onto Adam’s shoulder. Adam scowled, probably at losing his chance for escape. Mike had noticed he wasn’t too fond of meeting new Immortals. “This is Clarice Magrico. She’s here to visit the university’s immigrant art collection. Clarice, this is Mike, Joe’s right-hand man, and Adam Pierson. Adam’s an historical scholar.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Clarice said with a knowing laugh. “Nice to meet you, boys.”
Mike grinned. “Pleasure’s all mine.” He’d pretty much given up on the ‘never interfere’ part of his Watcher oath after he teamed up with Joe. Now he kept a mental tally of all the Immortals he met face to face, kind of like a celebrity groupie. He felt no shame about it. “What can I get you to drink? We just got in some new brands of beer and wine.”
“New wines?” Mac asked, curious. “Where from?”
“East Coast, mostly,” Mike said, then with a conspiratorial glance at Adam, pointed down the length of the bar. “Wesley over there recommended them to Joe. I’m sure he can tell you all about them. What say, Wes?”
Wesley shot upright as if he’d been electrocuted, his eyes widening. “Ah, sorry, wh-what? No-no, no, I’m sure you know all about them, Michael. I have to, um… kitchen! Apples! Yes! That!” He scrambled off his stool, stumbling as his leg caught in the rungs, and rushed into the back.
Mike snickered uncontrollably, propping himself against the bar to keep from doubling over. Across from him, Adam was snorting with laughter, thumping his empty glass on the dark wood. “Oh gods, you are an evil, evil man!” he managed at last, gasping for breath, before exploding into laughter again.
Mike eased the abused glass out of his hand, and refilled it. “I try,” he said modestly.
Mac and Clarice were looking between them and the door through which Wesley had vanished. Clarice was thoroughly perplexed, but MacLeod had a wary gleam in his eye. “Friend of Joe’s?” he asked, with a peculiar emphasis on ‘friend.’
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Sorry, he’s so easy to wind up, I couldn’t resist.” He turned to Clarice. “Mac has something of a reputation among Joe’s friends.”
“What kind of reputation?” Clarice asked, sounding almost worried.
“And where is Joe, anyway?” Mac preempted.
“He had to be somewhere,” Mike said. “He said he might not come in at all. Probably just went to bed early.”
Mac looked disappointed, and a little worried. “He didn’t call?”
“Mike’s been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering,” Adam said, utterly sober now.
“I’m telling you guys, he’s fine,” Mike insisted. “And he won’t be happy if either of you show up at his door demanding to know why he’s ignoring you.”
“He’s not, is he?” Mac asked, sounding a little hurt. “Ignoring us?”
“For god’s sake, MacLeod!” Mike snapped, losing his patience. “Not everything revolves around you!” God forbid we mere mortals take care of ourselves for a day, he thought bitterly.
Mac startled at the outburst, but Adam seemed to sense the reason behind it. “Why don’t you call, what’s her name, Angie?” he suggested. “The girl who lives across the street from Joe. Check to see if his car’s there. Just so we know he wasn’t in a crash on the freeway or anything.”
Mike had to concede the logic behind that, and rifled through the notes pinned under the cash register to find her number. Angie worked the graveyard shift at the docks, and was almost guaranteed to be awake by now. Joe kept her number at the bar because she had a knack for finding them last-minute talent when their live acts cancelled.
Angie confirmed that Joe’s car was there. She thought he’d gone to bed, because the lights were on when she’d gone out to get the mail, but the house was dark now.
Mike hung up and glared triumphantly at MacLeod. “He got home a while ago, and he’s asleep. Satisfied?”
MacLeod visibly wasn’t, but an elbow to the ribs from Adam kept him quiet.
“So, you said something about wine?” Clarice put in, trying to dispel the bitter mood.
Mike grinned, glad for the change of subject. “I did. We’ve got Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot, Rose, Riesling, Pinot Noir, Pinot Grigio, Shiraz, and some Icewine from Ontario.”
Mac looked puzzled. “Joe’s not that into wine,” he said, tentative, apparently afraid to set Mike off again.
“That’s what I said,” Mike agreed with a shrug. “He liked what he sampled at the last trade show. Wesley really did put him on to some stuff. It just got here today, so I can’t vouch for any of it…”
“But if Joe likes it,” Mac said, “it’s probably a sure thing.”
Mike snapped his fingers and pointed at the Immortal. “Man knows his barkeep,” he announced to the bar at large.
“Does the assistant barkeep mind getting me another beer?” Ron cut in from where he and Paul had reached a truce over a deck of cards. Mike would’ve minded them playing at the bar for the space they took up, if they and the Immortals weren’t the only ones using it.
“You sure you can handle another one?” Adam shot back. “That Sam Adams packs a punch. Might need another glass of water before you try again.”
Ron half-rose from his seat, but Paul said, “Relax, man. Just think of the hangover he’ll have in the morning.” Paul was a little resentful, still, at Adam’s declaration that he couldn’t have any alcohol.
Ron settled, and growled, “Just get me a Budweiser, will you, Mike?”
- - -
Wesley slipped back into his seat as quietly as possible, apple slices, cheese cubes and devil’s food cake mounding the plate he set gently on the bar. He appraised the plate for a moment, and mentally agreed with Pierson’s assessment that he was a bottomless pit. He felt well justified, though: he’d spent a long ten weeks first hobbling on his crutches, then suffering through physical therapy - rewarding himself with a wine tour or two - only to find as soon as he walked out of his last session that his identity was being blacked out, and he had to be in Seacouver in four days to get a new one. He was tired, emotionally and physically, and if he didn’t have the good fortune to be able to sleep peacefully tonight, he should at the very least be allowed to start gaining back the weight he’d lost. How else was he supposed to get back in shape for his new assignment?
He watched the reflection of MacLeod and his companion - also Immortal; he’d seen her picture in the database - in the mirror behind the bar. Some of the view was obscured by glasses and bottles, but he still had a decent sightline, and he could hear the conversation well despite the ambient noise.
The female Immortal was asking Pierson if she’d met him before. Wesley flashed back to his own encounter with Moira as Pierson shook his head, confused. “Maybe you saw me at the university?” he offered. “I spend time in the library there, occasionally.”
“No, I’m sure it was somewhere else,” the woman said. “Quite some time ago. Lisbon, maybe?”
Pierson shook his head again, looking, Wesley thought, much too calm for a backroom researcher trapped between two Immortals. “Never been there.”
The woman scowled faintly. “If you say so,” she demurred, accepting the glass of wine Mike was offering. She swirled it, watching the way the wine ran down the sides of the glass before inhaling the scent. She smiled, twirling the glass delicately, letting it breathe a bit before taking a sip. “Coimbra?” she asked, and Wesley thought she was trying to catch Pierson off guard.
MacLeod was the one who answered. “I doubt it. Adam doesn’t travel much.”
And yes, there were rumors Joe Dawson wasn’t the only one on good terms with MacLeod, but Wesley was surprised that Adam Pierson would pull his nose out of a book or a beer glass long enough to catch the an Immortal’s attention, let alone this Immortal’s.
It must be Dawson’s influence. Look at the way Mike was chatting up the woman, even though he must have seen the same file Wesley had.
None of these people seemed to care for their oath at all, and here was Wesley, spending the night in a bar, twenty dollars and some luggage to his name, because he’d jammed his leg in a hole and spent two bloody hours being grateful and polite to his assignment!
Talk about a double standard. Wesley thought for a moment of going over there, stepping behind the bar and walking over to grab the wine bottle from Mike, pouring himself a glass of his own, but he just wasn’t that suave. Instead, he popped another cheese cube in his mouth and went to make a new pot of coffee.
- - -
It turned out that two beers didn’t have much effect on Ron, but three tipped him right over into ‘belligerent drunk.’
“Hey! Hey, those guys are holding hands! Have a look at the queers, Paul!” And up Ron went, still pretty steady on his feet, marching over to the table under the stairs.
“Oh, god damn it,” Mike groaned. “Somebody stop him!” He set down the bottles he’d been carrying and hurried out from behind the bar. Paul hobbled after him.
“Not me,” Adam said, hunkering down behind his double shot of whiskey - the only outward sign that he was displeased at being stuck with Clarice and her prying questions. “I’m not the knight in shining armor here.”
Sure enough, MacLeod beat Mike to the table, stepping between Ron and his targets, but David and Nicholas were both standing up.
“Don’t worry,” Nicholas said. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“Not in this bar, you can’t,” Mike declared. “No brawling. House rule. Sit down, guys. Ron, get your ass back on that bar stool. I’m calling you a cab.”
“I told you,” Ron wheeled on Mike, red-faced, finger jabbing the air between them, “if you asked me to leave one more time, my guys’d be playing somewhere else Friday night!” He took a step forward, looking ready to go on a tirade, but MacLeod grabbed his arms and held him in place. “Let me go! Call the police! I’m being harassed!”
“You’re being harassed?” David echoed. “Isn’t that the way of things, Nick? Poor man just trying to do his civic duty, and getting harassed for it.”
“Sit back down,” Mike urged. “We’ll get this guy out of here.”
But another guy was standing up, over by the stage, and calling, “Man said to let him go!”
Ron, hearing the note of support, began to struggle. Mike reflected, even as MacLeod brought him swiftly to his knees, that Ron was like a fly caught in a spider web: the more he thrashed the more trouble he got in.
Watching two more people push their chairs back, Mike raised his voice and demanded, “Everybody sit down, right now! Ron’s just had a little too much to drink!”
“He don’t look drunk to me!” the guy by the stage avowed. “He looks like he stood up to say his piece about those perverts over there, and you come down on him for it!”
“Come over here and call me a pervert to my face!” Nicholas shot back.
“SIT DOWN!” Mike roared, but to no avail. Ron’s defender was coming over, Ron himself started shrieking about assault, and people were standing and rolling up their sleeves left and right.
“Call the cops, Mike!” Mac yelled, and then, “Adam, get over here and help me!”
Mike scrambled to the bar, hoping the sight of the phone in his hand would bring folks to their senses, but the Thursday gay night crowd and Tuesday evening Christian blues fans that favored the bar on their off days had always looked at each other askance; this was their excuse to give the other side what for. Mike had told Joe once they should keep the place closed on Wednesdays.
Adam already had the phone on the bar, his hand hovering over the keypad. “What’s the emergency number here?” he asked with that damned, feigned innocence. “Nine nine nine or nine one one? I can never remember.”
“Give me that!” Mike snatched the handset away and dialed. He turned around as the call connected and watched Nicholas throw a punch at the guy from the stage. “Hey, I’ve got a bar fight breaking out here,” he told the operator, then winced as someone cracked a chair across MacLeod’s back. “Can you send a couple of squad cars over to Joe’s Bar?”
“For god’s sake, Pierson, go help him!” Clarice yelled, pointing to where MacLeod had let go of Ron and was blocking wild punches from a heavyset biker that Paul was trying to sneak up on from behind.
“Why?” Adam was asking as he took a sip of his whiskey. “He looks like he’s holding his own.”
Ron, free of MacLeod, was trying to get up, but David grabbed him in a chokehold and wrestled him back to the floor, whereupon someone promptly kicked David in the ribs.
“You know,” Mike said into the phone, “I think you’re going to want to bring a paddy wagon or something.”
Clarice ground her teeth. “I did see you in Lisbon, Pierson,” she said. “During the riot in 1506. You were the coward hiding in the doctor’s cellar, who wouldn’t come out and help!” She spat at his feet, and plunged into what had turned into an all-out brawl, complete with verbal accompaniment. Mike was sort of amazed that twelve people could cause that much noise.
“I wasn’t just hiding myself, you know,” Adam said casually. “I was hiding a group of conversos, too.”
“Is it safe to be sitting here?” Wesley asked, edging along the bar, eyes glued on the melee. “I mean, what if one of them ends up pointed this direction?”
Adam turned to consider Wesley, then said, “The man has a valid point.” He set his drink down, hoisted himself onto the bar, then swung his long legs over and hopped off the other side before Mike had time to say, “Get your ass off of there!”
Wesley took the long way around, joining Adam near the register and watching as the brawl died down, then escalated again as new opponents made eye contact.
“That woman’s quite the fighter,” he said of Clarice.
“That woman’s your new assignment,” Mike told him. “Hey, operator? Maybe you want to get an ambulance over here, too.” A couple of the patrons weren’t looking so quick off the mark anymore. “I’m gonna hang up and go hide, okay?” He racked the handset, the operator cut off mid-protest, and followed Adam’s example. At the Immortal’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Don’t tell Joe.”
Wesley looked like he was bordering on an apoplectic fit. “You just exposed me to my new assignment? Don’t you have any sense of duty left at all?!” He ran a hand through his hair. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t. Nobody here’s got any bloody standards left.”
“Hey, I’ve got standards,” Adam protested.
“Only when it comes to beer,” Mike said.
“This is a regular circus,” Wesley muttered, pouring himself a full glass of the icewine.
“Hey, go easy on that!” Mike demanded. “That’s a seventy-five dollar bottle.”
“Now it’s a twenty-five dollar bottle,” Adam said. “And this is not a circus. A circus is-“
“Round, yes, I know, you’re so pedantic,” Wesley interrupted.
“Also, there’s not enough blood,” Adam finished, unperturbed.
“But of course you’d know,” Mike said. “Because you were there, and all.”
“Of course I was,” Adam agreed.
“I think I hear a siren,” Wesley said.
“Over this noise?” Mike asked, incredulous.
“Lisbon, 1506,” Wesley said, looking at Adam. “Hiding the Cristãos novos, were you?”
Adam eyed him long and hard, then raised his whiskey tumbler in the air.
Wesley blinked, lifted his wine glass and let it clink against the crystal.
Just then, police burst in.
-end-
Author: enviropony
Summary: One night in the working life of Mike the Watcher.
Characters: Mike the Watcher, Adam Pierson, MacLeod, Joe, original characters
Rating: PG-13 for language
Character/Prompt: Mike the Watcher/circus
Word count: 6300
The phone rang as Mike was signing the wine delivery invoice. He tossed the clipboard back to the driver and turned for the office, ignoring the, “Hey, that’s my pen!” that echoed after him.
They never had enough pens at the bar.
“Joe’s,” he answered, just before the machine picked up.
“Hey, Mike,” Joe greeted. “Wine get there yet?”
“Guy just left,” Mike said. “What’s with all the East Coast labels?”
“I had a few recommendations. Tried them at that show last weekend, figured I’d see if folks like them as much as I did.”
“Didn’t think you were a man for wine,” Mike teased.
“Exactly,” Joe confirmed. “If I like it, it’s a good bet other people will, too.”
“Other people like MacLeod?” Mike rolled his eyes. “Is he the one who put you onto this stuff?”
“Nah. You remember Wesley Wilkins?” Joe’s easy drawl went sly at the end.
“That fuzzbrain?” Mike groaned. “How could I forget?”
“Well, ol’ Wes is a bit of a wine connoisseur, and when his assignment moved to Virginia, he did a couple of wine tours in his spare time.”
“What spare time? How does a field Watcher have spare time?” Mike asked.
“One whose assignment doesn’t check in on his own, you mean?” Joe replied with a chuckle. “Well, it wasn’t spare time so much as medical leave. He broke his leg trying to follow his gal Moira into the mountains on a backpacking trip. You wanna know what the kicker is?”
Mike snorted in derision. “Let me guess, she was the one who had to help him back to civilization?”
“Bingo!” Joe said, gleeful. “And she asked him if she’d seen him around before. Needless to say, he’s getting a new assignment. In fact-“
“Wait, wait, please don’t tell me he’s coming back here,” Mike pleaded. “Seriously, please!”
“Sorry, buddy.” Joe didn’t sound very sorry. “None of the field coordinators back east wanted him, so he’s flying in tomorrow. I’m sending him to San Francisco, but all his new creds are sitting in my safe, and his new assignment is up here visiting MacLeod, so I figured I should take the opportunity to ease him in.”
“If he blows this one, at least he won’t have far to run,” Mike articulated Joe’s thoughts.
“You got it. Plus, I know MacLeod won’t kill him outright if he’s spotted.”
“And his new guy might?”
“It’s another gal, but yeah, she might. Women don’t take kindly to being stalked by strangers, I’m told.”
“I heard the same thing once,” Mike agreed with false gravity.
Joe’s warm chuckle ended with a sigh. “Anyway, what I really called to tell you was that I’m going to be running late tonight. Finally got an appointment with that damned chiropractor. I should be in by nine…” he trailed off.
“But if it goes as well as last time,” Mike continued, “you’re gonna have to bail on me. It’s alright, Joe, don’t sweat it. It’s Wednesday, it’ll be a slow night.”
---
It started as a slow night.
It did not end that way.
Mike was on the phone again, on hold with the beer wholesaler, when Wesley Wilkins shoved through the front doors lugging two suitcases and a carryall.
“Michael,” he greeted, letting his baggage fall into a pile by the door. “Is Mr. Dawson in yet?” His stilted manner and clipped British accent betrayed his public school upbringing.
Or so Mike had been told. Personally, he thought Wesley was just a prissy dweeb.
“He’s not-“ he began, cutting off as the wholesaler came back on the line. “Yes, six cases, and eight of the lager. No, four kegs. What? Hey!” He slapped the earpiece against the bar in frustration as he got put on hold again, then examined it for damage, wincing at a new crack in the casing. He looked up at Wesley. “Why are you here?”
“Mr. Dawson asked me to report in as soon as I arrived. I realize I’m a day late, but-“
“You’re a day early,” Mike corrected.
Wesley blinked, his officious façade dissolving into confusion. “What?”
“He’s not expecting you until Thursday,” Mike said.
“I, uh- no, no I’m certain it was Tuesday,” Wesley insisted.
“I just talked to him two hours ago,” Mike told him, “and he said he was expecting you tomorrow.”
“But-“
“Why are you arguing?” Mike asked, incredulous. “You’re early.” He paused at Wesley’s continued consternation, then said, slowly, as if talking to a child, “You are early. It makes you look good. Go find a hotel. Check into it. Relax. Come back tomorrow.”
Wesley puffed up with indignation. “Now see here, there’s no need to speak to me that way!”
“What way?” Mike asked, blinking innocently. “I don’t know what you mean, Wesley. Also, it’s Mike, not Michael, and,” he pointed at the pile of bags, “get your luggage off the floor.”
Wesley grumbled self-importantly, but went to collect his bags. He came back to the bar, eyed Mike sternly for a moment, then sighed and let the bags fall again. “Ah, I don’t seem to have anywhere to go,” he confessed, shoulders sagging. He bit his lip nervously, then said, “My credit card was cancelled as part of the identity blackout after my- ah, at any rate, I only have twenty dollars in cash.”
Mike closed his eyes for a moment, pushing back the frustration, and said, “Fine. Put your bags in the office for now. Let me finish this phone call and I’ll get you some money out of the safe.”
Wesley nodded awkwardly, then grabbed his luggage and shuffled on back to the office with it. He emerged a moment later, asking, “Would you- is there any chance I could, ah, get something to eat? This neighborhood is a little intimidating, and I see the kitchen’s open-“
“Yes, fine, go tell Ellen what you want.” Mike waved him off, shaking his head. Intimidating? They had this guy on field assignment?
-----
The kitchen was small, barely equipped enough to cook hamburgers, but Wesley thought Ellen did quiet well with what she had. It helped that Mr. Dawson was scrupulous about the ingredients he purchased. Wesley was hard-pressed to say he’d had better bar food anywhere.
Ellen put a plate in his hands. “Be careful, it’s hot. You want me to cut you a piece of pie, too? We’ve got apple and cherry.”
“Oh, yes,” Wesley agreed eagerly. “Cherry, if you please.”
Ellen grinned, snapped her gum, and reached for a knife. “I’ve got some ice cream left, too.”
Wesley left the kitchen laden down with food, and decided it would make sense to eat at the bar instead of in the office. Mr. Dawson often said he was worried about vermin setting up house in the back. No need to encourage them. Mike shot him a scowl as Wesley sat down, but said nothing. He seemed to be on hold with the distributor, still.
Wesley ate slowly, savoring the first decent meal he’d had in two days; the Watchers had cancelled his card on Friday afternoon - right after they made sure he’d paid for his plane ticket, of course - and he’d been living off fast food and airline meals ever since.
He frowned as he thought about the mess he’d made of his last assignment. He was fortunate that Mr. Dawson was willing to give him another chance. He was pretty sure, too, that this would be his last one. Another foul-up, and he’d be back in research.
He glanced up as the door opened, and his eyes widened. Speaking of desk jobs, there was that snotty Methos researcher. Wesley didn’t know how Mr. Dawson put up with him.
Pierson paused visibly as he caught sight of Wesley, and glanced at Mike, who shrugged and reached under the counter. He came up with a bottle of beer, which he offered to Pierson as if in sympathy.
Wesley felt positively unwelcome. He hunched his shoulders and paid close attention to his meal.
Pierson did not come over.
----
Mike finally got off the phone ten minutes after Adam walked in.
“What was that about?” Adam asked, leaning over the bar to look for a third - third! - bottle of beer.
“Keeping you in lager and stout,” Mike said, reaching for a glass. He drew a pint of microbrew from one of the taps and set it down in front of Adam, who eyed it suspiciously. “Hey, you’re the one who recommended this stuff,” Mike said.
“It was a different color,” the researcher declared. “A totally different color.”
“The lady’s trying something new,” Mike said. “It tastes fine.”
Adam sipped cautiously, looked pensive for a moment, then beamed. “Fine, indeed,” he said. He took a longer swallow, then tipped the glass in Wesley’s direction and asked, “What’s he doing here?”
“Short answer? Waiting for money,” Mike said.
Adam snorted. “From who? Joe or Western Union? Anyway, wasn’t payday last week?”
“Yeah, but he flubbed his assignment and his identity got blacked out. It’ll be a week before he has access to that money again.” Mike glanced around, making sure there were no customers waiting on him. “I need to go get him some cash so he can get his ass out of this bar and to a hotel room. He’s making me twitch.”
“I know he’s obnoxious, but he’s not that bad,” Adam chided.
“He will be when he figures out that Joe’s not the only Watcher in this bar on a first-name basis with MacLeod,” Mike said. “Or when MacLeod’s lady friend asks if she didn’t maybe see you in Germany a while back, or something.” Mike knew Adam was Immortal - it was hard to miss, as much time as the man spent around Joe and MacLeod - but there was a whole lot to the story that nobody had offered to share. They all - Joe, Adam and MacLeod - pretended like Adam had ‘woken up’ Immortal after he joined the Watchers, but that obviously wasn’t true, not the way he talked. Mike thought Joe and Adam forgot sometimes that he’d taken all the same classes at the Watcher Academy as they had.
Adam’s eyes had narrowed worriedly at the words ‘MacLeod’s lady friend,’ and now he asked, “Who is this lady friend, exactly?”
“Don’t know,” Mike said. “I’d have to look it up. All I know is that she lives in San Francisco, and fuzzbrain over there is her new Watcher.”
Adam glanced over at Wesley, who was studiously ignoring them in favor of his pie. “Well, she can’t be that bad, then.”
“Famous last words,” Mike declared. “Keep an eye on the bar for a minute, will you?”
He went into the back, to where Joe kept the Watchers’ safe in a drawer at the bottom of his desk. It was sturdy enough to survive a serious break-in attempt, but light enough to pick up and run with in case of trouble - provided one knew the trick to extracting it. The bar safe, which held nothing more suspicious than a bottle of really expensive Scotch, stood more prominently against one wall. The bar had been robbed once, and they’d never even bothered with the drawer.
Good use of time on their part, Mike supposed as he opened the Watchers’ safe, because it was nearly empty. There were emergency identification packets for Joe, and Mike himself, along with some travelers’ checks in those names, but no cash. Staring in frustration at his picture on a license that said ‘Malcolm Dwight,’ Mike remembered Joe saying that Wesley’s new ID was in the safe - but it wasn’t this safe. Mike closed the lid and slammed the drawer shut. Joe never kept Watcher stuff in the bar safe, but he checked it anyway. No dice. There wasn’t even cash in it - which Mike would gladly have foisted on Wesley despite Joe’s rule of never mixing bar and Watcher balance sheets - because they’d sent it to the bank this morning.
Mike looked at the clock. Joe wouldn’t be out of the chiropractor’s yet - and where he’d found a guy who did evening appointments, Mike didn’t know - so there was no sense in calling. He wiped a hand over his face and thought maybe he was being too paranoid about Wesley’s presence. What were the chances that MacLeod was going to come by, anyway?
Wesley looked up expectantly when Mike came back out to the bar. “Well, what kind of hotel room will I be spending the night in?” he asked. “I do hope there’s enough for the Holiday Inn, at least?”
Mike shook his head. “Sorry, there’s no money in the safe. Your new ID’s not there, either. Must be at Joe’s house. I’m afraid you’re stuck here until Joe gets back.”
Wesley’s shoulders slumped. “I see. Can’t you take any money from the register? I really don’t need much - I’d just like a clean bed to spend the night on, that’s all.”
“I can’t do that,” Mike said, even though Wesley really did look tired. “Joe doesn’t like to mix our business with the bar’s balance sheets.”
“But this is an emergency,” Wesley protested.
“Hardly,” Mike said. “If there was a guy with a sword after you, that would be an emergency. Look, Joe will be back in a few hours. Until then, sit back, relax, enjoy the atmosphere.” He paused, looked at Wesley’s plate - scraped clean - and finished, “Go have some more pie.”
He turned before the other Watcher could protest again, and went back to where Adam was sitting. There was a man standing next to him, vaguely familiar, drumming his fingers impatiently on the polished wood near the register.
“Mike!” he boomed. “Where’s Dawson?”
“Busy,” Mike said with a shrug. “Won’t be in for a few hours, probably. What do you need?”
The man pulled a business card from his metallic, black jacket, and slapped it on the counter. “My name is Ron Worsky, as I’m sure you remember. I represent Rolling Blue.”
Mike blinked, shot an amused look at Adam. Adam shrugged.
“Yes, I remember you,” Mike said, “You come in here every couple of weeks, harass the band, order a Bud Light-“Adam shuddered “-and whine about how the music industry let you down.”
Ron scowled. “I’d really be a little more polite if I were you. Barkeepers are replaceable, you know.”
“So are windbag talent managers,” Mike shot back. “Whatever you want, Joe’s the one to talk to. Come back later.”
“I don’t think so,” said Ron with a shake of his head. “My clients would like to discuss a pay increase-“
“So they can pay you?” Mike asked. “Fat chance. Anyway, read my lips. Joe’s not here. Come back later. Or never.”
Ron dragged a stool close, and sat down. “No, I’m going to wait right here. You ask me to leave one more time, and you can find another gig for Friday. Now, get me a Sam Adams!”
“Ooh, living dangerously,” Adam offered.
“What would you know?” Ron shot back.
Mike and Adam glanced at each other and burst out laughing.
- - -
Ron was actually less annoying than Mike had expected, mostly because he stayed at the bar, while Mike played waiter. The late shift - one lone grad student, on Wednesdays - wouldn’t show until ten.
Adam, on the other hand, had decided that Wesley was the lesser of two evils, and was gamely trying to discuss Near East history with him. Wesley, it was becoming clear, hadn’t done well in Near East History at the Academy.
Mike had called Joe’s cell phone, then his house, but there was no answer at either. He figured he’d give it another half an hour before calling again. He wasn’t too worried about Ron’s threats. Rolling Blue’s guitarist had gotten his start with Joe, and Mike seriously doubted he’d cancel on them. They had to do something about Wesley, though, before the poor bastard face-planted into his next piece of pie.
Mike couldn’t believe he was actually starting to feel sorry for the man.
An hour later, he still hadn’t reached Joe, but he’d added another non-paying layabout to the motley bunch dotting the bar stools.
The beer wholesaler, in an effort to apologize for so profoundly screwing up Joe’s order, had sent its delivery truck over on a custom run, to drop off early the stock Joe would need for the weekend. Why they thought it was a good idea to unload beer in the dark, Mike wasn’t sure, and of course the guy had tripped over something in the alley on his way out. No beer was harmed in the incident, for which Mike and Adam were both very grateful, but now Paul the truck driver was sitting at the bar, complaining about poor lighting, overtime shifts, and absolutely refusing a ride to the hospital.
“It’s just a sprain, and you already bandaged my hand,” he told Adam. “I’m not payin’ for a trip to the emergency room just so they can give me some aspirin. My wife’ll pick me up when her shift’s done.”
Adam shrugged. “Do you have any anti-inflammatories at home?” he asked.
“Yeah, all sorts,” Pau said. “My wife saves ‘em from when the kids get banged up in lacrosse. They’re always playing tough girls, never take the full dose.”
“Tough girls?” Ron echoed.
“Hell yeah!” Paul sat up. “You got a problem with girls playing sports?”
“No! Just, ah, they’re usually, you know…” Ron trailed off at the look on Paul’s face.
“Usually what?” Paul growled.
“Nothing, nothing,” Ron backpedalled, waving his hands in negation.
“Don’t drink any alcohol while you’re here,” Adam said, and very pointedly drained his own glass. “Let’s try that new coal porter,” he told Mike.
- - -
Wesley watched Pierson sample another beer - it had to be his tenth - and wondered where the bookish man had learned to treat wounds with such efficiency. He’d broken off their stilted conversation about Persia with relief at Mike’s call for assistance, and handled the truck driver’s protests and curses with the aplomb of a trained emergency medic. (Wesley had a basis for comparison, due to his unfortunate hiking accident). Now, instead of arrogantly patting himself on the back, as Wesley expected, Pierson continued his diligent pursuit of the worst hangover ever.
Wesley sighed, yawned, and went back to the kitchen. Ellen handed him the whole rest of the cherry pie, and told him she’d put on some coffee.
- - -
A few more regulars trickled in just before the grad student called in high - er, sick. They weren’t demanding folks, though, and gave Mike plenty of slack. Ellen came out of the kitchen to help out, but she’d been there all day and Mike wanted to send her home, so he announced last call on food orders early.
“Kitchen’s closing in ten! Last call for solid food!”
Wesley perked up. “Uh, could I have-“
“God, Wilkins, you’re a bottomless pit,” Adam interrupted.
“I could say the same about you, Pierson,” Wesley declared, waving vaguely at the glass with which Adam was presently communing.
“I’ll leave you the key,” Ellen said, patting Wesley on the head. She snapped her gum and went to take an order from the table by the stairs.
Things ran smoothly for maybe half an hour after that. Ellen cooked up some burgers and fries for the couple by the stairs, made a sandwich for Paul, slid the kitchen key under a napping Wesley’s hand, and headed out the door. Mike wiped down the bar, poured Ron (the cheap bastard) a glass of water, and called Joe again.
“No answer?” Adam asked, looking concerned.
“Maybe he got home and crashed,” Mike said, not worried. “Those sessions take a lot out of him.”
“He usually answers his messages before he goes to bed,” Adam pointed out. “Maybe I should swing by and check on him. If he’s asleep, I’ll take Wilkins home with me.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Adam asked, the picture of innocence.
Mike gave the Immortal his patented ‘don’t bullshit me’ glare.
“Oh please, give me some credit,” Adam scoffed, then lowered his voice. “I know enough to keep my sword hidden.”
“Yeah, and what else do you have stashed at your place that our boy Wesley doesn’t need to see?”
Adam scratched his chin. “Well, now that you mention it…”
Mike snorted. “You’re something, you know that?” He was going to say more, but Adam got that look on his face, that wide-pupiled, thousand-yard stare that was the only indication he sensed another Immortal.
No way in hell was Pierson new to this, Mike thought as he turned to the door. No other Immortal he’d ever seen gave away that little.
“Well, things just got interesting,” he declared a moment later. “It’s MacLeod and that woman I was telling you about.”
Adam, who’d kept his eyes on his beer, looked up casually. “Wilkins asleep, still?”
Mike glanced to the other end of the bar. “No such luck. Guess the man’s got some sense of danger after all.”
Wesley was sitting up, rubbing his eyes, the kitchen key clenched in one fist. He looked around warily, as if seeking what had woken him. He nodded to Mike when their gazes met, then saw MacLeod, and had a very silent, remarkably unobtrusive panic attack.
Let the games begin, Mike thought. “Hey, Mac! Who’s your lovely friend?”
“Hi, Mike,” MacLeod said genially. “Adam.” He clapped a casual onto Adam’s shoulder. Adam scowled, probably at losing his chance for escape. Mike had noticed he wasn’t too fond of meeting new Immortals. “This is Clarice Magrico. She’s here to visit the university’s immigrant art collection. Clarice, this is Mike, Joe’s right-hand man, and Adam Pierson. Adam’s an historical scholar.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Clarice said with a knowing laugh. “Nice to meet you, boys.”
Mike grinned. “Pleasure’s all mine.” He’d pretty much given up on the ‘never interfere’ part of his Watcher oath after he teamed up with Joe. Now he kept a mental tally of all the Immortals he met face to face, kind of like a celebrity groupie. He felt no shame about it. “What can I get you to drink? We just got in some new brands of beer and wine.”
“New wines?” Mac asked, curious. “Where from?”
“East Coast, mostly,” Mike said, then with a conspiratorial glance at Adam, pointed down the length of the bar. “Wesley over there recommended them to Joe. I’m sure he can tell you all about them. What say, Wes?”
Wesley shot upright as if he’d been electrocuted, his eyes widening. “Ah, sorry, wh-what? No-no, no, I’m sure you know all about them, Michael. I have to, um… kitchen! Apples! Yes! That!” He scrambled off his stool, stumbling as his leg caught in the rungs, and rushed into the back.
Mike snickered uncontrollably, propping himself against the bar to keep from doubling over. Across from him, Adam was snorting with laughter, thumping his empty glass on the dark wood. “Oh gods, you are an evil, evil man!” he managed at last, gasping for breath, before exploding into laughter again.
Mike eased the abused glass out of his hand, and refilled it. “I try,” he said modestly.
Mac and Clarice were looking between them and the door through which Wesley had vanished. Clarice was thoroughly perplexed, but MacLeod had a wary gleam in his eye. “Friend of Joe’s?” he asked, with a peculiar emphasis on ‘friend.’
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Sorry, he’s so easy to wind up, I couldn’t resist.” He turned to Clarice. “Mac has something of a reputation among Joe’s friends.”
“What kind of reputation?” Clarice asked, sounding almost worried.
“And where is Joe, anyway?” Mac preempted.
“He had to be somewhere,” Mike said. “He said he might not come in at all. Probably just went to bed early.”
Mac looked disappointed, and a little worried. “He didn’t call?”
“Mike’s been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering,” Adam said, utterly sober now.
“I’m telling you guys, he’s fine,” Mike insisted. “And he won’t be happy if either of you show up at his door demanding to know why he’s ignoring you.”
“He’s not, is he?” Mac asked, sounding a little hurt. “Ignoring us?”
“For god’s sake, MacLeod!” Mike snapped, losing his patience. “Not everything revolves around you!” God forbid we mere mortals take care of ourselves for a day, he thought bitterly.
Mac startled at the outburst, but Adam seemed to sense the reason behind it. “Why don’t you call, what’s her name, Angie?” he suggested. “The girl who lives across the street from Joe. Check to see if his car’s there. Just so we know he wasn’t in a crash on the freeway or anything.”
Mike had to concede the logic behind that, and rifled through the notes pinned under the cash register to find her number. Angie worked the graveyard shift at the docks, and was almost guaranteed to be awake by now. Joe kept her number at the bar because she had a knack for finding them last-minute talent when their live acts cancelled.
Angie confirmed that Joe’s car was there. She thought he’d gone to bed, because the lights were on when she’d gone out to get the mail, but the house was dark now.
Mike hung up and glared triumphantly at MacLeod. “He got home a while ago, and he’s asleep. Satisfied?”
MacLeod visibly wasn’t, but an elbow to the ribs from Adam kept him quiet.
“So, you said something about wine?” Clarice put in, trying to dispel the bitter mood.
Mike grinned, glad for the change of subject. “I did. We’ve got Cabernet Franc, Cabernet Sauvignon, Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot, Rose, Riesling, Pinot Noir, Pinot Grigio, Shiraz, and some Icewine from Ontario.”
Mac looked puzzled. “Joe’s not that into wine,” he said, tentative, apparently afraid to set Mike off again.
“That’s what I said,” Mike agreed with a shrug. “He liked what he sampled at the last trade show. Wesley really did put him on to some stuff. It just got here today, so I can’t vouch for any of it…”
“But if Joe likes it,” Mac said, “it’s probably a sure thing.”
Mike snapped his fingers and pointed at the Immortal. “Man knows his barkeep,” he announced to the bar at large.
“Does the assistant barkeep mind getting me another beer?” Ron cut in from where he and Paul had reached a truce over a deck of cards. Mike would’ve minded them playing at the bar for the space they took up, if they and the Immortals weren’t the only ones using it.
“You sure you can handle another one?” Adam shot back. “That Sam Adams packs a punch. Might need another glass of water before you try again.”
Ron half-rose from his seat, but Paul said, “Relax, man. Just think of the hangover he’ll have in the morning.” Paul was a little resentful, still, at Adam’s declaration that he couldn’t have any alcohol.
Ron settled, and growled, “Just get me a Budweiser, will you, Mike?”
- - -
Wesley slipped back into his seat as quietly as possible, apple slices, cheese cubes and devil’s food cake mounding the plate he set gently on the bar. He appraised the plate for a moment, and mentally agreed with Pierson’s assessment that he was a bottomless pit. He felt well justified, though: he’d spent a long ten weeks first hobbling on his crutches, then suffering through physical therapy - rewarding himself with a wine tour or two - only to find as soon as he walked out of his last session that his identity was being blacked out, and he had to be in Seacouver in four days to get a new one. He was tired, emotionally and physically, and if he didn’t have the good fortune to be able to sleep peacefully tonight, he should at the very least be allowed to start gaining back the weight he’d lost. How else was he supposed to get back in shape for his new assignment?
He watched the reflection of MacLeod and his companion - also Immortal; he’d seen her picture in the database - in the mirror behind the bar. Some of the view was obscured by glasses and bottles, but he still had a decent sightline, and he could hear the conversation well despite the ambient noise.
The female Immortal was asking Pierson if she’d met him before. Wesley flashed back to his own encounter with Moira as Pierson shook his head, confused. “Maybe you saw me at the university?” he offered. “I spend time in the library there, occasionally.”
“No, I’m sure it was somewhere else,” the woman said. “Quite some time ago. Lisbon, maybe?”
Pierson shook his head again, looking, Wesley thought, much too calm for a backroom researcher trapped between two Immortals. “Never been there.”
The woman scowled faintly. “If you say so,” she demurred, accepting the glass of wine Mike was offering. She swirled it, watching the way the wine ran down the sides of the glass before inhaling the scent. She smiled, twirling the glass delicately, letting it breathe a bit before taking a sip. “Coimbra?” she asked, and Wesley thought she was trying to catch Pierson off guard.
MacLeod was the one who answered. “I doubt it. Adam doesn’t travel much.”
And yes, there were rumors Joe Dawson wasn’t the only one on good terms with MacLeod, but Wesley was surprised that Adam Pierson would pull his nose out of a book or a beer glass long enough to catch the an Immortal’s attention, let alone this Immortal’s.
It must be Dawson’s influence. Look at the way Mike was chatting up the woman, even though he must have seen the same file Wesley had.
None of these people seemed to care for their oath at all, and here was Wesley, spending the night in a bar, twenty dollars and some luggage to his name, because he’d jammed his leg in a hole and spent two bloody hours being grateful and polite to his assignment!
Talk about a double standard. Wesley thought for a moment of going over there, stepping behind the bar and walking over to grab the wine bottle from Mike, pouring himself a glass of his own, but he just wasn’t that suave. Instead, he popped another cheese cube in his mouth and went to make a new pot of coffee.
- - -
It turned out that two beers didn’t have much effect on Ron, but three tipped him right over into ‘belligerent drunk.’
“Hey! Hey, those guys are holding hands! Have a look at the queers, Paul!” And up Ron went, still pretty steady on his feet, marching over to the table under the stairs.
“Oh, god damn it,” Mike groaned. “Somebody stop him!” He set down the bottles he’d been carrying and hurried out from behind the bar. Paul hobbled after him.
“Not me,” Adam said, hunkering down behind his double shot of whiskey - the only outward sign that he was displeased at being stuck with Clarice and her prying questions. “I’m not the knight in shining armor here.”
Sure enough, MacLeod beat Mike to the table, stepping between Ron and his targets, but David and Nicholas were both standing up.
“Don’t worry,” Nicholas said. “We can take care of ourselves.”
“Not in this bar, you can’t,” Mike declared. “No brawling. House rule. Sit down, guys. Ron, get your ass back on that bar stool. I’m calling you a cab.”
“I told you,” Ron wheeled on Mike, red-faced, finger jabbing the air between them, “if you asked me to leave one more time, my guys’d be playing somewhere else Friday night!” He took a step forward, looking ready to go on a tirade, but MacLeod grabbed his arms and held him in place. “Let me go! Call the police! I’m being harassed!”
“You’re being harassed?” David echoed. “Isn’t that the way of things, Nick? Poor man just trying to do his civic duty, and getting harassed for it.”
“Sit back down,” Mike urged. “We’ll get this guy out of here.”
But another guy was standing up, over by the stage, and calling, “Man said to let him go!”
Ron, hearing the note of support, began to struggle. Mike reflected, even as MacLeod brought him swiftly to his knees, that Ron was like a fly caught in a spider web: the more he thrashed the more trouble he got in.
Watching two more people push their chairs back, Mike raised his voice and demanded, “Everybody sit down, right now! Ron’s just had a little too much to drink!”
“He don’t look drunk to me!” the guy by the stage avowed. “He looks like he stood up to say his piece about those perverts over there, and you come down on him for it!”
“Come over here and call me a pervert to my face!” Nicholas shot back.
“SIT DOWN!” Mike roared, but to no avail. Ron’s defender was coming over, Ron himself started shrieking about assault, and people were standing and rolling up their sleeves left and right.
“Call the cops, Mike!” Mac yelled, and then, “Adam, get over here and help me!”
Mike scrambled to the bar, hoping the sight of the phone in his hand would bring folks to their senses, but the Thursday gay night crowd and Tuesday evening Christian blues fans that favored the bar on their off days had always looked at each other askance; this was their excuse to give the other side what for. Mike had told Joe once they should keep the place closed on Wednesdays.
Adam already had the phone on the bar, his hand hovering over the keypad. “What’s the emergency number here?” he asked with that damned, feigned innocence. “Nine nine nine or nine one one? I can never remember.”
“Give me that!” Mike snatched the handset away and dialed. He turned around as the call connected and watched Nicholas throw a punch at the guy from the stage. “Hey, I’ve got a bar fight breaking out here,” he told the operator, then winced as someone cracked a chair across MacLeod’s back. “Can you send a couple of squad cars over to Joe’s Bar?”
“For god’s sake, Pierson, go help him!” Clarice yelled, pointing to where MacLeod had let go of Ron and was blocking wild punches from a heavyset biker that Paul was trying to sneak up on from behind.
“Why?” Adam was asking as he took a sip of his whiskey. “He looks like he’s holding his own.”
Ron, free of MacLeod, was trying to get up, but David grabbed him in a chokehold and wrestled him back to the floor, whereupon someone promptly kicked David in the ribs.
“You know,” Mike said into the phone, “I think you’re going to want to bring a paddy wagon or something.”
Clarice ground her teeth. “I did see you in Lisbon, Pierson,” she said. “During the riot in 1506. You were the coward hiding in the doctor’s cellar, who wouldn’t come out and help!” She spat at his feet, and plunged into what had turned into an all-out brawl, complete with verbal accompaniment. Mike was sort of amazed that twelve people could cause that much noise.
“I wasn’t just hiding myself, you know,” Adam said casually. “I was hiding a group of conversos, too.”
“Is it safe to be sitting here?” Wesley asked, edging along the bar, eyes glued on the melee. “I mean, what if one of them ends up pointed this direction?”
Adam turned to consider Wesley, then said, “The man has a valid point.” He set his drink down, hoisted himself onto the bar, then swung his long legs over and hopped off the other side before Mike had time to say, “Get your ass off of there!”
Wesley took the long way around, joining Adam near the register and watching as the brawl died down, then escalated again as new opponents made eye contact.
“That woman’s quite the fighter,” he said of Clarice.
“That woman’s your new assignment,” Mike told him. “Hey, operator? Maybe you want to get an ambulance over here, too.” A couple of the patrons weren’t looking so quick off the mark anymore. “I’m gonna hang up and go hide, okay?” He racked the handset, the operator cut off mid-protest, and followed Adam’s example. At the Immortal’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Don’t tell Joe.”
Wesley looked like he was bordering on an apoplectic fit. “You just exposed me to my new assignment? Don’t you have any sense of duty left at all?!” He ran a hand through his hair. “What am I saying? Of course you don’t. Nobody here’s got any bloody standards left.”
“Hey, I’ve got standards,” Adam protested.
“Only when it comes to beer,” Mike said.
“This is a regular circus,” Wesley muttered, pouring himself a full glass of the icewine.
“Hey, go easy on that!” Mike demanded. “That’s a seventy-five dollar bottle.”
“Now it’s a twenty-five dollar bottle,” Adam said. “And this is not a circus. A circus is-“
“Round, yes, I know, you’re so pedantic,” Wesley interrupted.
“Also, there’s not enough blood,” Adam finished, unperturbed.
“But of course you’d know,” Mike said. “Because you were there, and all.”
“Of course I was,” Adam agreed.
“I think I hear a siren,” Wesley said.
“Over this noise?” Mike asked, incredulous.
“Lisbon, 1506,” Wesley said, looking at Adam. “Hiding the Cristãos novos, were you?”
Adam eyed him long and hard, then raised his whiskey tumbler in the air.
Wesley blinked, lifted his wine glass and let it clink against the crystal.
Just then, police burst in.
-end-