HL fic: "All that's best of dark and bright"
Fandom, Pairing: Highlander; Methos/Byron, Methos/Alexa
Summary: Methos looks back on two lovers.
Challenge: Written for pat_t's One Year Anniversary Challenge.
Rating: PG for canonical character death and grief.
Thanks to: My beta reader, mackiedockie
Disclaimers: Methos and Joe Dawson are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions. The title belongs to Lord Byron himself. No harm, no foul, no money changing hands.
April 27, 1997
Methos sat in Maurice's bar, waiting for Joe. The man had been in England for the past few days, attending Mike Fontaine's funeral. Methos wasn't sure when Joe was flying back in, but he was supposed to play tonight. Joe Dawson was a professional; never missed a scheduled appearance unless there were lives at stake.
Methos wondered idly where Byron was buried. Assuming MacLeod had buried him, and not disposed of the corpse in any of a dozen more expedient ways.
Joe settled onto the barstool next to him and gestured to the bartender, ordering two more of the microbrew Methos was drinking. He slid one bottle over and sampled the other himself. After a moment's pause to consider the brew, Joe nodded approvingly.
"So, any plans for tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
Methos wasn't sure what he was getting at. The classic car show MacLeod had been so excited about had taken place yesterday. He hadn't attended, of course.
"I understand if you want to be alone," Joe continued. "But Alexa was a friend, and I thought we could …"
Alexa? Ah. Tomorrow was the 28th of April. She'd died 364 days ago. Methos' reply came out sharp-edged. "I have lost people before, Joe, and I'm quite capable of dealing with it on my own."
Joe sat back on his stool, shrugged and sipped his beer, eyes wary. Methos stood up, put on his coat, rushed up the stairs and out onto the streets of Paris.
He sat by Alexa's side in the hospital as her labored breaths grew shallower, as the alarms went off, as the light faded from her eyes, as the doctor came in, turned off the alarms, and gabbled at him. He sat there holding Alexa's hand until her skin was cool to the touch.
Then he left the room, said the right things, filled out the right forms, called the phone numbers on the paper that Alexa had written out weeks ago and placed in his wallet. He shook off the attentions of a particularly solicitous nurse and walked out to the parking lot, searching for his rental car. Eventually he found the car, but the key … it just … it wouldn't … go in. He slid down the car door, asphalt cool against his knees.
He looked up after a time to find the moon hanging in the sky above him, waxing, nearly but not quite full. It's bright light on his face reminded him of the fall of Alexa's hair over his skin when she slept beside him.
Days of the week, days of the month, the trivia of the Gregorian calendar had no power over him. But twelve times now Alexa's moon had risen into the sky above him, and each time, he had remembered her.
The last time had been the night Byron died. It had seemed almost disloyal, thinking of her that night. But Byron had left behind words, poetry, music, a hundred ways for a million people to remember him at his best, his genius a beacon through the ages.
Alexa had left behind nothing but her moon, and he wasn't willing to share it with anyone. Not even Joe.
Summary: Methos looks back on two lovers.
Challenge: Written for pat_t's One Year Anniversary Challenge.
Rating: PG for canonical character death and grief.
Thanks to: My beta reader, mackiedockie
Disclaimers: Methos and Joe Dawson are the property of Davis/Panzer Productions. The title belongs to Lord Byron himself. No harm, no foul, no money changing hands.
April 27, 1997
Methos sat in Maurice's bar, waiting for Joe. The man had been in England for the past few days, attending Mike Fontaine's funeral. Methos wasn't sure when Joe was flying back in, but he was supposed to play tonight. Joe Dawson was a professional; never missed a scheduled appearance unless there were lives at stake.
Methos wondered idly where Byron was buried. Assuming MacLeod had buried him, and not disposed of the corpse in any of a dozen more expedient ways.
Joe settled onto the barstool next to him and gestured to the bartender, ordering two more of the microbrew Methos was drinking. He slid one bottle over and sampled the other himself. After a moment's pause to consider the brew, Joe nodded approvingly.
"So, any plans for tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
Methos wasn't sure what he was getting at. The classic car show MacLeod had been so excited about had taken place yesterday. He hadn't attended, of course.
"I understand if you want to be alone," Joe continued. "But Alexa was a friend, and I thought we could …"
Alexa? Ah. Tomorrow was the 28th of April. She'd died 364 days ago. Methos' reply came out sharp-edged. "I have lost people before, Joe, and I'm quite capable of dealing with it on my own."
Joe sat back on his stool, shrugged and sipped his beer, eyes wary. Methos stood up, put on his coat, rushed up the stairs and out onto the streets of Paris.
He sat by Alexa's side in the hospital as her labored breaths grew shallower, as the alarms went off, as the light faded from her eyes, as the doctor came in, turned off the alarms, and gabbled at him. He sat there holding Alexa's hand until her skin was cool to the touch.
Then he left the room, said the right things, filled out the right forms, called the phone numbers on the paper that Alexa had written out weeks ago and placed in his wallet. He shook off the attentions of a particularly solicitous nurse and walked out to the parking lot, searching for his rental car. Eventually he found the car, but the key … it just … it wouldn't … go in. He slid down the car door, asphalt cool against his knees.
He looked up after a time to find the moon hanging in the sky above him, waxing, nearly but not quite full. It's bright light on his face reminded him of the fall of Alexa's hair over his skin when she slept beside him.
Days of the week, days of the month, the trivia of the Gregorian calendar had no power over him. But twelve times now Alexa's moon had risen into the sky above him, and each time, he had remembered her.
The last time had been the night Byron died. It had seemed almost disloyal, thinking of her that night. But Byron had left behind words, poetry, music, a hundred ways for a million people to remember him at his best, his genius a beacon through the ages.
Alexa had left behind nothing but her moon, and he wasn't willing to share it with anyone. Not even Joe.