Happy Holidays, amberleewriter!
Title: According to His Own Demon
Author: bittersweet325, aka I Should Just Appropriate This Space for Public Service Announcements.
Written for: amberleewriter
Characters/Pairings: Byron/Methos, Joe, Duncan (mentioned only)
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Warnings: Mentions of drug use and slash, neither is pervasive or terribly overt, but it is there.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy.
Summary: Methos reflects on his relationship on Byron after his death. He finds that Joe is one of the few people who might actually be there for him.
“Come on, Doc,” Byron dangled the bottle of laudanum in front of his teacher’s tempted eyes. “Live a little.”
Methos looked from the gleaming glass of the bottle to his student’s equally gleaming eyes. He knew what Byron thought he knew about Benjamin Adams. By Byron’s estimation, the good doctor wasn’t that much older than he, himself, was, one or two lifetimes perhaps, at the very most. More than that, he saw Benjamin as completely innocuous and in need of a great deal of loosening up.
If he only knew…The voice always present in the back of Methos’s head said in a long dead language.
“Perhaps you, my friend, should live a little less.” Methos looked away returning to a book he had been reading by the fire before Byron had begun on this particular tangent.
Byron melodramatically sat the bottle down on the table before falling into a chair. He could sulk like a child when the mood struck him and clearly it had. A mere moment later he jumped to his feet and grabbed the book from Methos’s hands.
“What are you reading anyway?” Byron turned the book in his hands. He looked at the spine, “William Blake, eh?”
Byron sat down on the edge of the couch not even giving Methos the chance to sit up or move. Methos recognized the expression on Byron’s face. He’d seen it before under similar circumstances.
“I have a theory about you, Doc.” Byron said, his hand resting on Methos’s thigh.
“Do you?” Methos questioned amused. “And what is your theory, your Lordship?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you reading poetry. I imagine you are a would be poet who, since he can not string one word to the next with any sort of elegance or finesse, has a tendency to attach himself to anyone with moderate talent or fame. Case in point.” Byron gestured to the book and to himself before idly flipping through the pages.
“I’ve not met William Blake, but as always George, it’s good to know you are ever the humble artist.” Methos chuckled. He shifted a little uncomfortable. Byron’s touch was not so easily forgotten even as his attention was constantly shifting.
“If you ever told me about your past, I wouldn’t have to guess at it.” Byron said still flipping through the book. “It’s probably for the best that you didn’t know him. Mary Godwin will as always be accompanying Percy Shelley. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be recognized by a friend of a friend’s daughter.”
“Well, at least you’ve been listening to me about something. Discretion should not be under estimated.” He shifted into teacher mode for one brief second.
“Ah! Here it is.” Byron said stopping on a specific page. “‘If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees things through narrow chinks of his cavern.’”
“It’s very beautiful,” Methos sat up, one leg still behind Byron, the other resting on the floor.
“It’s brilliant,” Byron snapped the book shut. He tossed it away and for a moment Methos thought he meant to throw it in the fire. “I wish I’d written it.”
Byron got to his feet once again. He paced around the room before finally picking up the bottle of laudanum again. He pulled out the stopper and threw it to the floor before downing a large mouthful. He looked into the fire with darkened eyes. Methos stood up and walked over to Byron. He knew that darkness well, if it were in a very different sense.
“And you will.” Methos said. He brushed his fingers against Byron’s cheek, cupping it with his palm gently. “You will.”
Within moments Byron’s eyes began to gleam with a million ideas as they so often did. Methos didn’t know if it was a result of his assurances, the laudanum or both. Byron’s lips curled into a grin. He brought his free hand to rest on Methos’s hand. He lifted the bottle to his own lips and drank once more.
“Then I best get started.” He guided Methos’s hand from his cheek to the bottle. “And you can help.”
“Very funny.” Methos looked at the bottle. Every instinct he had said it was a bad idea. Drinking was one thing, laudanum was another. If a challenge were to come…
Come on, Doc. Live a little. Methos took the bottle and drank deep.
“Now you’re getting it! We’ll have you properly initiated by the time the other’s arrive!” Byron captured Methos’s mouth with his own. “Properly initiated.”
1997: Père Lachaise Cemetery; Paris, France
“James Douglas Morrison,” Joe shook his head as he looked at the head stone. “If I hadn't read it in Byron's chronicle with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it.”
“Another tragedy.” Methos muttered under his breath. He sat a bottle of wine down amidst the other assorted bits of junk left by fans. “Three bodies of work cut short now.”
“Maybe artists just aren't supposed to be immortal, man.” Joe suggested. “Not literally anyway. I mean I wouldn't exactly say Claudia Jardine is handling it that well.”
“Claudia is a spoiled child.” Methos shrugged. “I guess so was Byron. But he never lost his gift, his genius. Immortality spurred him on.” He paused. “At least at the beginning.”
“So just a punk kid, then?” Joe still had little sympathy for Byron after what had happened with Mike. He wasn't, however, used to seeing Methos grieve. If Methos was upset or uncomfortable with any situation he usually ran. He wasn't quite sure why Methos has asked him to come with him to visit the closest thing Byron had to a grave in Paris. Joe was there no matter the reason. After all, Adam Pierson had been a friend for nearly fifteen years. And Joe was nothing if not loyal to his friends.
“I don't know maybe,” Methos looked aroudn at some of the junk people had left at the grave site. He could hear Byron's voice in his head: Look, Doc, even in death they adore me. He's loved every second of adoration even as he had longed for more. “I think if he had been able to be Lord Byron longer, it would have been different. I told him not to go to Greece...”
“I take it he didn't listen?”
Methos's lips quirked into an amused smirk, “Do they ever?” He chuckled. “No, he didn't listen and I had to sneak him out of the country.”
“What about the drugs?” Joe couldn't help, but mention it. That had been the part that he and Duncan had found so distructive and what had claimed Mike.
“What do you want me to say, Joe? He was a drug addict. Many people are.” Methos pointed out. “Many artists, for that matter.”
“Forget I mentioned it. I wasn't expecting some Just Say No, anti-drug message from you...”
“Why not?”
“I said I'd read Byron's chronicle. Methos isn't mentioned, but Doc Adams gets his share of pages.”
So Joe knew many more of Methos's secrets than Methos had thought. He had read Byron's chronicle, himself. It detailed his own drug use, his own sexual escapades, his own brushes with law. Yet, even knowing the hairy details, Joe wasn't being nearly as harsh as Duncan.
“So he did.” Methos said thoughtfully. “How do you manage it?”
“Manage what?” Joe asked, his eyes scanning the area around the grave site.
“You aren't exactly getting on a moral high horse here. You read the chronicle you know how...treat my students. You know I was as much of a drug addict as he by the time I left him to fend for himself and you aren't blaming me for Mike's death.” Methos explained the situation as he saw it.
“No one's blaming you.” Joe pointed out.
“Yeah, right.” Methos rolled his eyes. “This isn't the first time you've defended me. What about the Horsemen? You've yet to call out friendship off. The same can not be said for the Highlander.”
“That was thousands of years ago, and Byron was a century ago. I've done things in my past I'm not proud of...” The briefest flash of Vietnam and some of his less noble acts flashed through Joe's mind even as he spoke. “If Byron hadn't been a mess and hadn't taken Mike for such a rough ride, I wouldn't care what he had done. Or what you two did as a combination.”
It was an acknowledgment Methos hadn't expected. He was old, if not particularly wise, and experience had taught him that Joe idolized the Highlander. He was everything good and noble left in the world, Immortal or otherwise. Methos was the polar opposite. And it didn't matter, apparently.
“This is why you are the better man of us all.” Methos said quietly.
“Yeah, plus I don't cheat at poker.” Joe joked. Methos smirked in return.
“I don't cheat. I just improve my odds slightly.” He said. “Come on, let's go. Cemeteries are depressing.”
“Couldn't agree with you more, buddy.” Joe replied.
Author: bittersweet325, aka I Should Just Appropriate This Space for Public Service Announcements.
Written for: amberleewriter
Characters/Pairings: Byron/Methos, Joe, Duncan (mentioned only)
Rating: PG-13 (just to be safe)
Warnings: Mentions of drug use and slash, neither is pervasive or terribly overt, but it is there.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoy.
Summary: Methos reflects on his relationship on Byron after his death. He finds that Joe is one of the few people who might actually be there for him.
“Come on, Doc,” Byron dangled the bottle of laudanum in front of his teacher’s tempted eyes. “Live a little.”
Methos looked from the gleaming glass of the bottle to his student’s equally gleaming eyes. He knew what Byron thought he knew about Benjamin Adams. By Byron’s estimation, the good doctor wasn’t that much older than he, himself, was, one or two lifetimes perhaps, at the very most. More than that, he saw Benjamin as completely innocuous and in need of a great deal of loosening up.
If he only knew…The voice always present in the back of Methos’s head said in a long dead language.
“Perhaps you, my friend, should live a little less.” Methos looked away returning to a book he had been reading by the fire before Byron had begun on this particular tangent.
Byron melodramatically sat the bottle down on the table before falling into a chair. He could sulk like a child when the mood struck him and clearly it had. A mere moment later he jumped to his feet and grabbed the book from Methos’s hands.
“What are you reading anyway?” Byron turned the book in his hands. He looked at the spine, “William Blake, eh?”
Byron sat down on the edge of the couch not even giving Methos the chance to sit up or move. Methos recognized the expression on Byron’s face. He’d seen it before under similar circumstances.
“I have a theory about you, Doc.” Byron said, his hand resting on Methos’s thigh.
“Do you?” Methos questioned amused. “And what is your theory, your Lordship?”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you reading poetry. I imagine you are a would be poet who, since he can not string one word to the next with any sort of elegance or finesse, has a tendency to attach himself to anyone with moderate talent or fame. Case in point.” Byron gestured to the book and to himself before idly flipping through the pages.
“I’ve not met William Blake, but as always George, it’s good to know you are ever the humble artist.” Methos chuckled. He shifted a little uncomfortable. Byron’s touch was not so easily forgotten even as his attention was constantly shifting.
“If you ever told me about your past, I wouldn’t have to guess at it.” Byron said still flipping through the book. “It’s probably for the best that you didn’t know him. Mary Godwin will as always be accompanying Percy Shelley. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be recognized by a friend of a friend’s daughter.”
“Well, at least you’ve been listening to me about something. Discretion should not be under estimated.” He shifted into teacher mode for one brief second.
“Ah! Here it is.” Byron said stopping on a specific page. “‘If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees things through narrow chinks of his cavern.’”
“It’s very beautiful,” Methos sat up, one leg still behind Byron, the other resting on the floor.
“It’s brilliant,” Byron snapped the book shut. He tossed it away and for a moment Methos thought he meant to throw it in the fire. “I wish I’d written it.”
Byron got to his feet once again. He paced around the room before finally picking up the bottle of laudanum again. He pulled out the stopper and threw it to the floor before downing a large mouthful. He looked into the fire with darkened eyes. Methos stood up and walked over to Byron. He knew that darkness well, if it were in a very different sense.
“And you will.” Methos said. He brushed his fingers against Byron’s cheek, cupping it with his palm gently. “You will.”
Within moments Byron’s eyes began to gleam with a million ideas as they so often did. Methos didn’t know if it was a result of his assurances, the laudanum or both. Byron’s lips curled into a grin. He brought his free hand to rest on Methos’s hand. He lifted the bottle to his own lips and drank once more.
“Then I best get started.” He guided Methos’s hand from his cheek to the bottle. “And you can help.”
“Very funny.” Methos looked at the bottle. Every instinct he had said it was a bad idea. Drinking was one thing, laudanum was another. If a challenge were to come…
Come on, Doc. Live a little. Methos took the bottle and drank deep.
“Now you’re getting it! We’ll have you properly initiated by the time the other’s arrive!” Byron captured Methos’s mouth with his own. “Properly initiated.”
1997: Père Lachaise Cemetery; Paris, France
“James Douglas Morrison,” Joe shook his head as he looked at the head stone. “If I hadn't read it in Byron's chronicle with my own eyes, I'd never have believed it.”
“Another tragedy.” Methos muttered under his breath. He sat a bottle of wine down amidst the other assorted bits of junk left by fans. “Three bodies of work cut short now.”
“Maybe artists just aren't supposed to be immortal, man.” Joe suggested. “Not literally anyway. I mean I wouldn't exactly say Claudia Jardine is handling it that well.”
“Claudia is a spoiled child.” Methos shrugged. “I guess so was Byron. But he never lost his gift, his genius. Immortality spurred him on.” He paused. “At least at the beginning.”
“So just a punk kid, then?” Joe still had little sympathy for Byron after what had happened with Mike. He wasn't, however, used to seeing Methos grieve. If Methos was upset or uncomfortable with any situation he usually ran. He wasn't quite sure why Methos has asked him to come with him to visit the closest thing Byron had to a grave in Paris. Joe was there no matter the reason. After all, Adam Pierson had been a friend for nearly fifteen years. And Joe was nothing if not loyal to his friends.
“I don't know maybe,” Methos looked aroudn at some of the junk people had left at the grave site. He could hear Byron's voice in his head: Look, Doc, even in death they adore me. He's loved every second of adoration even as he had longed for more. “I think if he had been able to be Lord Byron longer, it would have been different. I told him not to go to Greece...”
“I take it he didn't listen?”
Methos's lips quirked into an amused smirk, “Do they ever?” He chuckled. “No, he didn't listen and I had to sneak him out of the country.”
“What about the drugs?” Joe couldn't help, but mention it. That had been the part that he and Duncan had found so distructive and what had claimed Mike.
“What do you want me to say, Joe? He was a drug addict. Many people are.” Methos pointed out. “Many artists, for that matter.”
“Forget I mentioned it. I wasn't expecting some Just Say No, anti-drug message from you...”
“Why not?”
“I said I'd read Byron's chronicle. Methos isn't mentioned, but Doc Adams gets his share of pages.”
So Joe knew many more of Methos's secrets than Methos had thought. He had read Byron's chronicle, himself. It detailed his own drug use, his own sexual escapades, his own brushes with law. Yet, even knowing the hairy details, Joe wasn't being nearly as harsh as Duncan.
“So he did.” Methos said thoughtfully. “How do you manage it?”
“Manage what?” Joe asked, his eyes scanning the area around the grave site.
“You aren't exactly getting on a moral high horse here. You read the chronicle you know how...treat my students. You know I was as much of a drug addict as he by the time I left him to fend for himself and you aren't blaming me for Mike's death.” Methos explained the situation as he saw it.
“No one's blaming you.” Joe pointed out.
“Yeah, right.” Methos rolled his eyes. “This isn't the first time you've defended me. What about the Horsemen? You've yet to call out friendship off. The same can not be said for the Highlander.”
“That was thousands of years ago, and Byron was a century ago. I've done things in my past I'm not proud of...” The briefest flash of Vietnam and some of his less noble acts flashed through Joe's mind even as he spoke. “If Byron hadn't been a mess and hadn't taken Mike for such a rough ride, I wouldn't care what he had done. Or what you two did as a combination.”
It was an acknowledgment Methos hadn't expected. He was old, if not particularly wise, and experience had taught him that Joe idolized the Highlander. He was everything good and noble left in the world, Immortal or otherwise. Methos was the polar opposite. And it didn't matter, apparently.
“This is why you are the better man of us all.” Methos said quietly.
“Yeah, plus I don't cheat at poker.” Joe joked. Methos smirked in return.
“I don't cheat. I just improve my odds slightly.” He said. “Come on, let's go. Cemeteries are depressing.”
“Couldn't agree with you more, buddy.” Joe replied.