The Bird Sings
Written for the All Fandom Gift Exchange. Happy New Year!
Title: The Bird Sings
Fandom/Genre: Highlander (post-series), Gen, Ficlet
Rating: PG-13 for cussing?
Summary: Joe hates the holidays. Methos is a pain in the ass.
Joe Dawson isn’t a big fan of Christmas. Since he got back from Vietnam, Christmas has tended to be more depressing than not. It's the time for catching up. There are two kinds of cards Joe gets. One is the kind where an old friend talks about his wonderful wife and kids and their new house and his new job. The other is the kind trying to put a brave face on the dying, the shell-shocked, the alcoholic and lost. Each disheartening in its own right. His cards are always highly edited; not much he can talk about. He often feels like he should just write 'Not dead. Hope you're well too.' on his cards.
But that's just the self-pity talking. No one can have everything all the time.
Joe Dawson has hit the rough side of sixty. No wife. Only one kid and that’s just biology. His only sister long gone and they hadn’t been close. The legs he doesn't have still hurt like hell some days. He doesn’t even have a calling anymore, not since the Watchers gave him his metaphorical gold watch and told him to shove off.
What he does have is a tall, angular man strolling into his bar. The guy looks like he's in his thirties, but Joe knows damn well that "Adam" isn't. Joe has no damn idea what Methos is still doing here in France. Admittedly, Joe's slightly dingy blues bar in Paris is miles away from Julia's home in Cap D'Adge, but Joe had honestly expected when Methos walked out of Amanda's place that he'd never see the guy again. Apparently his new rule about avoiding risking mortals doesn’t apply to ex-Watchers or something.
More worrisome is that Methos is being all... cheerful. Which he only ever does when he wants something. Joe hates to leave the new guy watching the bar on his own, but Methos' inscrutable face is worn a bit thin today. It isn't five minutes before Joe is pulling out his cell and telling, Yves, his new managed to call in Marie-Jacques, the 20-some they've been using on busy nights. "Let's walk," he tells Methos.
"So, where you been?" Joe asks, because Amanda's the only one who sort of stays in touch anymore and if she's had any idea where Methos has been, she's a hell of actress. Woman still looks incredible, but she sounds tired as any of them now. Midlife crisis at 1,189. She’ll bounce back, maybe a little wiser for it.
"Around," Methos replies casually, and Joe's always hated that routine. Like being 5,000+ contractually obligates him to be mysterious at least once a day. Joe would chew him out, but the streets of Paris are icy in the winter and Joe's aging bones demand that he focuses on not slipping. "Would've brought you a souvenir, but-"
"Why did you come back?" There's snow down his collar and while walking ultimately hurts less than not-walking, he still wants to be back in his own bar, sitting with a draft beer and tuning up the guitar. Tonight is the kind of night made for singing the blues.
Methos shrugs, a quick jerky little movement, awkward and coltish and too young for his face. "Why do you stay?" he asks Joe in return, answering the question with a question. That's... annoying as hell, but Joe answers, hoping the cagey old bastard is going somewhere with this.
"I live here," Joe reminds him.
But Methos shrugs that off too. "Before that, there was Seacouver. Before that, there was Detroit."
Joe still has no idea what Methos is getting at. "Yes." He draws out the word into a few exasperated syllables. "And now there's Paris. I live here. I work here-"
"He's not coming back."
It's so out of nowhere that Joe has no idea what to say at first. But there's no need to ask who 'he' is. "I know."
"Do you?" Now Methos finally stops, looking Joe right in the face. "So why are we all hanging around France? Why not New York or Rome or Bora Bora?"
Very slowly and a bit loudly, some of the old snap in his voice, Joe repeats, "I live here."
Methos looks up. In the streetlight and the snow, he could be 18 or 50. Nice timeless face. He'd look the same in another thousand years when Dawson was dust. "Do you remember, once, sitting in your bar, and we made a toast to 'Someday'?"
Joe did remember that. He remembered it every time Amy took it into her head to call her old dad. Not often, but it always gave him hope. "Well?"
Deep eyes half-hidden by snow. "Well, when did you stop looking forward to 'someday' and start living on memories?"
And that was why you had to watch yourself around Methos. The old man might act goofy and excitable like a little boy, right up until his tongue slashed you to ribbons. Joe held the curse behind his teeth and turned himself around toward the bar. He owned Le Blues Bar and if he wanted to toss Methos out on his bony ass, he damn well could!
But the bastard was already catching him up. "Joe! Joe!"
"Where should I go?" Joe asks rhetorically, trying to hit that balance between indignant stride and not falling on the ice.
"I don't know!" It was a little gratifying that Methos has to skip and jog a little to keep up. "Denmark. Hawaii. Corsica. Let's just choose a place and go!"
Joe falters and stares. There’s a long silence before Joe slowly echoes. "Let's just go?"
When Methos cups his face again, for one hysterical moment, Joe thinks the guy is about to kiss him, which is a little weird since these days Joe tends to think of Methos a bit like a son. Not really, of course- he’s ‘the devious old bastard’ for a reason- but a bit. But the hand just rests there and Methos says, "You won't be this young forever, Joeseph," and taps Joe's cheekbone with his thumb. Joe suddenly wonders if Methos feels the same way; does the wily old bastard think of Joe like a son? Strange thought.
"I'm not young," Joe points out. "I mean, I'm not 5,000- whatever- bullshit- you're- spouting- this- week, but I'm old. Body's slowing. Mind's slowing. Starting to get hard to even play the guitar."
Methos stands close enough that his face is barely even obscured by flakes. "All the more reason."
Joe finds himself thinking of Alexa, dying by inches on their whirlwind romance, on their whirlwind tour. Carpe Diem because today can be your last. "In a couple hundred years, you won't even remember me," he reminds archly, but Joe is smiling and he knows he’s actually considering it. Mad, stupid idea. What's he going to do in Denmark, or New York, or Tahiti except continue getting older?
Methos makes a rude noise. "Like you ever believed that."
Joe didn't. He starts walking again, putting one artificial foot in front of the other and looking up into the snow. He lives while so many of the men he served with are dead. He has his health, such as it is. He has a business that he can keep or sell or give away as he pleases. He has the Watchers off his back, so no one cares anymore if he 'interferes' or 'gets involved' or whatever with the lives of Immortals. He has an old (old, old) friend that just invited him on a world tour. Even if Joe says 'no,' it feels good that Methos offered.
"No one really wants to spend their life on the road," Joe says reasonably, but it's not a real protest. "Eventually, people want a place to settle down and call their own."
Methos nods. "And someday you'll find that again."
Joe grins a bit to himself as the reached the threshold of Le Blues Bar. He's going to sit the old man down with a good draft, he's going to play a set, and he's going to think about it. Joseph Dawson has had one hell of a life, and he isn't done living yet.
”The bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.”-(Chinese proverb)
Title: The Bird Sings
Fandom/Genre: Highlander (post-series), Gen, Ficlet
Rating: PG-13 for cussing?
Summary: Joe hates the holidays. Methos is a pain in the ass.
Joe Dawson isn’t a big fan of Christmas. Since he got back from Vietnam, Christmas has tended to be more depressing than not. It's the time for catching up. There are two kinds of cards Joe gets. One is the kind where an old friend talks about his wonderful wife and kids and their new house and his new job. The other is the kind trying to put a brave face on the dying, the shell-shocked, the alcoholic and lost. Each disheartening in its own right. His cards are always highly edited; not much he can talk about. He often feels like he should just write 'Not dead. Hope you're well too.' on his cards.
But that's just the self-pity talking. No one can have everything all the time.
Joe Dawson has hit the rough side of sixty. No wife. Only one kid and that’s just biology. His only sister long gone and they hadn’t been close. The legs he doesn't have still hurt like hell some days. He doesn’t even have a calling anymore, not since the Watchers gave him his metaphorical gold watch and told him to shove off.
What he does have is a tall, angular man strolling into his bar. The guy looks like he's in his thirties, but Joe knows damn well that "Adam" isn't. Joe has no damn idea what Methos is still doing here in France. Admittedly, Joe's slightly dingy blues bar in Paris is miles away from Julia's home in Cap D'Adge, but Joe had honestly expected when Methos walked out of Amanda's place that he'd never see the guy again. Apparently his new rule about avoiding risking mortals doesn’t apply to ex-Watchers or something.
More worrisome is that Methos is being all... cheerful. Which he only ever does when he wants something. Joe hates to leave the new guy watching the bar on his own, but Methos' inscrutable face is worn a bit thin today. It isn't five minutes before Joe is pulling out his cell and telling, Yves, his new managed to call in Marie-Jacques, the 20-some they've been using on busy nights. "Let's walk," he tells Methos.
"So, where you been?" Joe asks, because Amanda's the only one who sort of stays in touch anymore and if she's had any idea where Methos has been, she's a hell of actress. Woman still looks incredible, but she sounds tired as any of them now. Midlife crisis at 1,189. She’ll bounce back, maybe a little wiser for it.
"Around," Methos replies casually, and Joe's always hated that routine. Like being 5,000+ contractually obligates him to be mysterious at least once a day. Joe would chew him out, but the streets of Paris are icy in the winter and Joe's aging bones demand that he focuses on not slipping. "Would've brought you a souvenir, but-"
"Why did you come back?" There's snow down his collar and while walking ultimately hurts less than not-walking, he still wants to be back in his own bar, sitting with a draft beer and tuning up the guitar. Tonight is the kind of night made for singing the blues.
Methos shrugs, a quick jerky little movement, awkward and coltish and too young for his face. "Why do you stay?" he asks Joe in return, answering the question with a question. That's... annoying as hell, but Joe answers, hoping the cagey old bastard is going somewhere with this.
"I live here," Joe reminds him.
But Methos shrugs that off too. "Before that, there was Seacouver. Before that, there was Detroit."
Joe still has no idea what Methos is getting at. "Yes." He draws out the word into a few exasperated syllables. "And now there's Paris. I live here. I work here-"
"He's not coming back."
It's so out of nowhere that Joe has no idea what to say at first. But there's no need to ask who 'he' is. "I know."
"Do you?" Now Methos finally stops, looking Joe right in the face. "So why are we all hanging around France? Why not New York or Rome or Bora Bora?"
Very slowly and a bit loudly, some of the old snap in his voice, Joe repeats, "I live here."
Methos looks up. In the streetlight and the snow, he could be 18 or 50. Nice timeless face. He'd look the same in another thousand years when Dawson was dust. "Do you remember, once, sitting in your bar, and we made a toast to 'Someday'?"
Joe did remember that. He remembered it every time Amy took it into her head to call her old dad. Not often, but it always gave him hope. "Well?"
Deep eyes half-hidden by snow. "Well, when did you stop looking forward to 'someday' and start living on memories?"
And that was why you had to watch yourself around Methos. The old man might act goofy and excitable like a little boy, right up until his tongue slashed you to ribbons. Joe held the curse behind his teeth and turned himself around toward the bar. He owned Le Blues Bar and if he wanted to toss Methos out on his bony ass, he damn well could!
But the bastard was already catching him up. "Joe! Joe!"
"Where should I go?" Joe asks rhetorically, trying to hit that balance between indignant stride and not falling on the ice.
"I don't know!" It was a little gratifying that Methos has to skip and jog a little to keep up. "Denmark. Hawaii. Corsica. Let's just choose a place and go!"
Joe falters and stares. There’s a long silence before Joe slowly echoes. "Let's just go?"
When Methos cups his face again, for one hysterical moment, Joe thinks the guy is about to kiss him, which is a little weird since these days Joe tends to think of Methos a bit like a son. Not really, of course- he’s ‘the devious old bastard’ for a reason- but a bit. But the hand just rests there and Methos says, "You won't be this young forever, Joeseph," and taps Joe's cheekbone with his thumb. Joe suddenly wonders if Methos feels the same way; does the wily old bastard think of Joe like a son? Strange thought.
"I'm not young," Joe points out. "I mean, I'm not 5,000- whatever- bullshit- you're- spouting- this- week, but I'm old. Body's slowing. Mind's slowing. Starting to get hard to even play the guitar."
Methos stands close enough that his face is barely even obscured by flakes. "All the more reason."
Joe finds himself thinking of Alexa, dying by inches on their whirlwind romance, on their whirlwind tour. Carpe Diem because today can be your last. "In a couple hundred years, you won't even remember me," he reminds archly, but Joe is smiling and he knows he’s actually considering it. Mad, stupid idea. What's he going to do in Denmark, or New York, or Tahiti except continue getting older?
Methos makes a rude noise. "Like you ever believed that."
Joe didn't. He starts walking again, putting one artificial foot in front of the other and looking up into the snow. He lives while so many of the men he served with are dead. He has his health, such as it is. He has a business that he can keep or sell or give away as he pleases. He has the Watchers off his back, so no one cares anymore if he 'interferes' or 'gets involved' or whatever with the lives of Immortals. He has an old (old, old) friend that just invited him on a world tour. Even if Joe says 'no,' it feels good that Methos offered.
"No one really wants to spend their life on the road," Joe says reasonably, but it's not a real protest. "Eventually, people want a place to settle down and call their own."
Methos nods. "And someday you'll find that again."
Joe grins a bit to himself as the reached the threshold of Le Blues Bar. He's going to sit the old man down with a good draft, he's going to play a set, and he's going to think about it. Joseph Dawson has had one hell of a life, and he isn't done living yet.
”The bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.”-(Chinese proverb)