JOE'S TRUTH (part 6)
Joe's Truth (part 6)
by mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Warnings: slash, puns, occasion violence and so forth
beta by methos_fan
19.
Joe eased into the empty bedroom and exhaled slowly. Keeping up appearances in front of two canny Immortals took its toll. He glanced down at his right hand, then turned it over to expose the fricasseed sleeve. The hairs on his forearm were singed, and the skin was red, but he saw no real damage. It just stung like hell.
He glanced longingly at the bed, but opted for easing into his backup chair instead. There was a mile or two to go before sleep was an option. Besides, the smoky smell that had seeped into his clothes and hair and skin would keep him up all night, anyway.
Unstrapping his prostheses took longer than usual. He rolled down the hall and was hanging the smoky clothes out on the deck when he realized that he'd forgotten his gun, and he was very nicely sky-lighted against the hall lights. "I should dock my own pay for
that kind of rookie mistake."
He snapped off the lights, then double-checked the arming of the security system as well as each window and door. Gathering his computer, gun and cell phone, he rolled to the desk in his room to begin the touchy process of trying to determine which of his people
might have been already influenced by Liane's wiles.
Huddling into a thick hooded sweatshirt, occasionally shivering against a nonexistent breeze, Joe plotted every Watcher who had co-reported with Liane, and their cohorts. Did the Voice work over cell phones? Skype? What about videoconferencing?
After a few very careful inquiries, Joe relaxed somewhat. Apparently the Voice didn't digitize well. Just as well. Roland would have been a holy terror as a televangelist. But that didn't mean Liane hadn't insulated herself with some personal contacts inside or outside the Watchers.
Joe had a momentary vision of Voice-addled Watcher zombies stalking him. No...stalking Methos. Joe had just gotten in the way. Frowning, he leaned forward and punched up a new contact number on the laptop. Before he punched it in, he activated GarageBand, and lay down a dull, angry e-flat in the background.
He bared his teeth in his fighting grin as he uploaded the number. "How's it going, Liane?" he drawled into the cell phone.
"Dawson?"
"Surprised?"
"I shouldn't be," Liane shot back.
"What, no apologies? It's bad enough you burned me up...my dance floor isn't ever going to be the same."
"You were..no. You were rescued. You weren't burned up. I saw you walk out. From the roof."
Joe left her hanging on that sentence. He knew the uses of an artful silence.
"I saw you!" she finally repeated, with a touch more panic.
"Yes. You saw me. And I think we have to talk about that, Liane. Because I can't have you spreading around rumors. Not about supposedly seeing Methos. Adam is under my protection."
"But...Adam is Methos. The Methos Chronicles said that Cassandra positively identified Methos. At MacLeod's."
"I visit MacLeod's all the time," Joe teased. "And I write the reports." Deliberately, he changed the subject. "So...did Cassandra send you to burn me out?"
"No! I came on my own. For her. If I prove myself to her, she'll take me back. I know it."
"And what? Initiate you into the mysteries? Make you the next witch of Donan Woods? You're a Watcher. She'll never trust you."
"She will if I take her Methos' head!"
Joe dropped his voice to a warning hiss. "You missed your chance, Liana. And you missed your target. Let me leave you with one question -- if the real Horseman Methos could resist Cassandra's voice, how could you possibly fool him? You couldn't even fool me."
Joe let the question hang for four seconds, and then thumbed the phone off. He leaned back, reviewing the conversation. He hoped that he had shot enough holes in her assumptions to make her doubt her target.
Methos was known to be the architect of some of the biggest fibs in the Watcher Chronicles. Especially his own. Maybe he could get her to believe the biggest fib of all. That Adam was just another imposter.
And that Joe Dawson was Methos.
MacLeod stirred as he heard the shower start downstairs. "Joe's up early," he said with a slight frown. "I should make breakfast."
"Joe's up late," Methos said, giving MacLeod a warning tweak. Leaning back into the warm Scot, he wasn't yet ready to relinquish his pectoral pillow. "Liana put a fair-sized dent in his self-respect. Having to endure being rescued by his Immortals? Mortifying. Let him provide the bread and salt in his own tent this morning. He'll feel better."
MacLeod tweaked Methos in return. Much lower. "I thought I was his Immortal. Me. No stealing my Watcher. Mine." He let dark menace vibrate in his voice, and captured Methos' arms before he got pinched in a place that would really hurt.
"You keep losing him. Finders keepers." Methos retaliated by wriggling. Wriggling could be a science. Methos elevated it to an Art. A touch of struggle, a hint of rebellion, a taste of denial.
MacLeod arched in renewed need as Methos maddeningly tickled his inner thigh with just the tips of his fingers. Locking his legs around Methos', he forced the long limbs apart and reached down for his prize.
"Finders, keepers..."
While he dressed, Joe glanced at the ceiling and calculated the cost of installing more soundproofing. It helped suppress the unexpected sting of loneliness. Ruthlessly, he wrote it off as low sinful jealousy and a mark of weak character, just like his grandmama said at Sunday dinners.
Now his grandmama's ghost reminded him of the Laying Out Of The Towels ceremony that he had shamefully neglected for his guests the previous night. Methos would have to do with Amy's rose-edged set upstairs. That image gave Joe a belated smile.
He slapped a loose gauze over the small blisters on his forearm, buttoned up his shirt cuffs, and hauled himself up for another day. Coffee would be involved. Lots of coffee.
There was bacon in the freezer and chili in the cupboard. Some eggs hiding down in the crisper that weren't too out of date. By Immortal standards, anyway. Setting the chili to simmer and the bacon to drain, Joe settled onto the sofa in the front room to wait for his
Immortals. They seemed to be taking quite some time in the shower.
Joe fell asleep calculating how long it would take to use up the condo's hot water supply.
20.
Liane wore diamonds, only diamonds. The petite brunette had a diamond chocker around her tiny throat and wore bracelets, an anklet, and earrings all of diamond - except for one ruby at her navel. Joe was helpless to do anything but stare. He wanted to reach out and touch the ruby but when he tried the ruby became flame spreading all around him. He shouted himself awake.
While MacLeod finished the shower they had started together, Methos stepped out and dried off with a fluffy pink towel. Since it was the only one visible he hung it back up for Mac and then started a little investigating of the premises when he heard Joe hollering downstairs. He grabbed his sword and bounded down the stairs, dashing to the living area to find Joe on the couch shaking his head and running a hand through his silver hair.
“You’re alone?”
“You’re naked.”
Methos hefted his broadsword. “No, I’m not. Normally when I hear someone shouting like that I assume they’re under attack.”
“I - never mind. Get dressed will ya!”
“OK, Joe!” Methos grin was supercilious. He pranced back upstairs, naked except for his sword and attitude. At the top of the stairs he looked back over his shoulder at Dawson whose mouth was slightly open and eyes rounded following the lean nude’s ascent (sword jauntily used as cane). “Joe, I think the chilli’s burning.”
In the mean time, MacLeod had slipped from the shower as soon as he felt Methos leave the room so he could make that call. After a successful morning of extracting information from Methos the need for action over whelmed the Highlander. He needed answers. Wondering what time it was in Scotland, about four in the afternoon he would guess without looking as a clock, as he hunted his phone. Once located in the pocket of his smoky jacket he punched in contact 13. Cassandra had plenty to answer for in his estimation.
Near the bedroom door Methos caught the tail end of a conversation, “…you’d better! If you want to save her.” MacLeod closed the link as he walked into the room.
“Mac?”
MacLeod didn’t even consider lying to Methos. "I called Cassandra.”
Methos gaped at MacLeod, then replied, “Of course you did.” He leaned his sword against the wall, deciding it was better not to be holding it for this conversation.
MacLeod took a breath and began, “She needs to clean up this mess. Otherwise the Watchers will kill Liane. She’s obviously mentally unstable. How we treat the mentally ill reflects what we are.”
“Nice speech, Mac. You can tell that one to Joe. I’m out of here.” He started hunting for his clothing. MacLeod was at his side in a heartbeat and grabbed his arm to still him, then let him go, but did not back away. “No. Not this time. You won’t leave Joe, even if you would leave me.” MacLeod’s eyes filled with water, but he maintained a stern visage for long seconds, completely focused on Methos.
“You’re a manipulative - " He pulled Methos into his arms. “...bastard,” whispered against his neck. “Joe’s going to kick your butt.” Methos slipped out of the embrace.
"Perhaps. But how do you think he’d feel if he had to kill her?”
“She tried to kill him.”
“Aye. But Joe’s a sane man. A good man.”
Methos sighed. “I wonder how Cassandra will fit into Joe’s plans. Maybe I should take you both on a nice long trip to Tibet. I know this peaceful monastery, we’ve managed to keep out of Beijing’s clutches. A little long term meditating will do you both good.”
“I’d get us thrown out in no time.” He pulled Methos to him again.
“I’m angry with you.”
“Aye. I know. Perverse bastard that I am, it tends to turn me on. Sorry. Tessa would pummel me a good one for it. Would that make you feel better?”
“Pummeling you?” Another sigh of dramatic proportions. “Briefly. But what would really satisfy me is both you and Joe spending more time thinking before you come up with these schemes.”
“What scheme has Joe hatched?”
“I don’t know particulars, but I know.”
“Reading minds again.”
“Just faces.” Methos touched his cheek for a moment, then walked away. It was impossible to have a proper argument with MacLeod without clothes on.
by mackiedockie and adabsolutely
Warnings: slash, puns, occasion violence and so forth
beta by methos_fan
19.
Joe eased into the empty bedroom and exhaled slowly. Keeping up appearances in front of two canny Immortals took its toll. He glanced down at his right hand, then turned it over to expose the fricasseed sleeve. The hairs on his forearm were singed, and the skin was red, but he saw no real damage. It just stung like hell.
He glanced longingly at the bed, but opted for easing into his backup chair instead. There was a mile or two to go before sleep was an option. Besides, the smoky smell that had seeped into his clothes and hair and skin would keep him up all night, anyway.
Unstrapping his prostheses took longer than usual. He rolled down the hall and was hanging the smoky clothes out on the deck when he realized that he'd forgotten his gun, and he was very nicely sky-lighted against the hall lights. "I should dock my own pay for
that kind of rookie mistake."
He snapped off the lights, then double-checked the arming of the security system as well as each window and door. Gathering his computer, gun and cell phone, he rolled to the desk in his room to begin the touchy process of trying to determine which of his people
might have been already influenced by Liane's wiles.
Huddling into a thick hooded sweatshirt, occasionally shivering against a nonexistent breeze, Joe plotted every Watcher who had co-reported with Liane, and their cohorts. Did the Voice work over cell phones? Skype? What about videoconferencing?
After a few very careful inquiries, Joe relaxed somewhat. Apparently the Voice didn't digitize well. Just as well. Roland would have been a holy terror as a televangelist. But that didn't mean Liane hadn't insulated herself with some personal contacts inside or outside the Watchers.
Joe had a momentary vision of Voice-addled Watcher zombies stalking him. No...stalking Methos. Joe had just gotten in the way. Frowning, he leaned forward and punched up a new contact number on the laptop. Before he punched it in, he activated GarageBand, and lay down a dull, angry e-flat in the background.
He bared his teeth in his fighting grin as he uploaded the number. "How's it going, Liane?" he drawled into the cell phone.
"Dawson?"
"Surprised?"
"I shouldn't be," Liane shot back.
"What, no apologies? It's bad enough you burned me up...my dance floor isn't ever going to be the same."
"You were..no. You were rescued. You weren't burned up. I saw you walk out. From the roof."
Joe left her hanging on that sentence. He knew the uses of an artful silence.
"I saw you!" she finally repeated, with a touch more panic.
"Yes. You saw me. And I think we have to talk about that, Liane. Because I can't have you spreading around rumors. Not about supposedly seeing Methos. Adam is under my protection."
"But...Adam is Methos. The Methos Chronicles said that Cassandra positively identified Methos. At MacLeod's."
"I visit MacLeod's all the time," Joe teased. "And I write the reports." Deliberately, he changed the subject. "So...did Cassandra send you to burn me out?"
"No! I came on my own. For her. If I prove myself to her, she'll take me back. I know it."
"And what? Initiate you into the mysteries? Make you the next witch of Donan Woods? You're a Watcher. She'll never trust you."
"She will if I take her Methos' head!"
Joe dropped his voice to a warning hiss. "You missed your chance, Liana. And you missed your target. Let me leave you with one question -- if the real Horseman Methos could resist Cassandra's voice, how could you possibly fool him? You couldn't even fool me."
Joe let the question hang for four seconds, and then thumbed the phone off. He leaned back, reviewing the conversation. He hoped that he had shot enough holes in her assumptions to make her doubt her target.
Methos was known to be the architect of some of the biggest fibs in the Watcher Chronicles. Especially his own. Maybe he could get her to believe the biggest fib of all. That Adam was just another imposter.
And that Joe Dawson was Methos.
MacLeod stirred as he heard the shower start downstairs. "Joe's up early," he said with a slight frown. "I should make breakfast."
"Joe's up late," Methos said, giving MacLeod a warning tweak. Leaning back into the warm Scot, he wasn't yet ready to relinquish his pectoral pillow. "Liana put a fair-sized dent in his self-respect. Having to endure being rescued by his Immortals? Mortifying. Let him provide the bread and salt in his own tent this morning. He'll feel better."
MacLeod tweaked Methos in return. Much lower. "I thought I was his Immortal. Me. No stealing my Watcher. Mine." He let dark menace vibrate in his voice, and captured Methos' arms before he got pinched in a place that would really hurt.
"You keep losing him. Finders keepers." Methos retaliated by wriggling. Wriggling could be a science. Methos elevated it to an Art. A touch of struggle, a hint of rebellion, a taste of denial.
MacLeod arched in renewed need as Methos maddeningly tickled his inner thigh with just the tips of his fingers. Locking his legs around Methos', he forced the long limbs apart and reached down for his prize.
"Finders, keepers..."
While he dressed, Joe glanced at the ceiling and calculated the cost of installing more soundproofing. It helped suppress the unexpected sting of loneliness. Ruthlessly, he wrote it off as low sinful jealousy and a mark of weak character, just like his grandmama said at Sunday dinners.
Now his grandmama's ghost reminded him of the Laying Out Of The Towels ceremony that he had shamefully neglected for his guests the previous night. Methos would have to do with Amy's rose-edged set upstairs. That image gave Joe a belated smile.
He slapped a loose gauze over the small blisters on his forearm, buttoned up his shirt cuffs, and hauled himself up for another day. Coffee would be involved. Lots of coffee.
There was bacon in the freezer and chili in the cupboard. Some eggs hiding down in the crisper that weren't too out of date. By Immortal standards, anyway. Setting the chili to simmer and the bacon to drain, Joe settled onto the sofa in the front room to wait for his
Immortals. They seemed to be taking quite some time in the shower.
Joe fell asleep calculating how long it would take to use up the condo's hot water supply.
20.
Liane wore diamonds, only diamonds. The petite brunette had a diamond chocker around her tiny throat and wore bracelets, an anklet, and earrings all of diamond - except for one ruby at her navel. Joe was helpless to do anything but stare. He wanted to reach out and touch the ruby but when he tried the ruby became flame spreading all around him. He shouted himself awake.
While MacLeod finished the shower they had started together, Methos stepped out and dried off with a fluffy pink towel. Since it was the only one visible he hung it back up for Mac and then started a little investigating of the premises when he heard Joe hollering downstairs. He grabbed his sword and bounded down the stairs, dashing to the living area to find Joe on the couch shaking his head and running a hand through his silver hair.
“You’re alone?”
“You’re naked.”
Methos hefted his broadsword. “No, I’m not. Normally when I hear someone shouting like that I assume they’re under attack.”
“I - never mind. Get dressed will ya!”
“OK, Joe!” Methos grin was supercilious. He pranced back upstairs, naked except for his sword and attitude. At the top of the stairs he looked back over his shoulder at Dawson whose mouth was slightly open and eyes rounded following the lean nude’s ascent (sword jauntily used as cane). “Joe, I think the chilli’s burning.”
In the mean time, MacLeod had slipped from the shower as soon as he felt Methos leave the room so he could make that call. After a successful morning of extracting information from Methos the need for action over whelmed the Highlander. He needed answers. Wondering what time it was in Scotland, about four in the afternoon he would guess without looking as a clock, as he hunted his phone. Once located in the pocket of his smoky jacket he punched in contact 13. Cassandra had plenty to answer for in his estimation.
Near the bedroom door Methos caught the tail end of a conversation, “…you’d better! If you want to save her.” MacLeod closed the link as he walked into the room.
“Mac?”
MacLeod didn’t even consider lying to Methos. "I called Cassandra.”
Methos gaped at MacLeod, then replied, “Of course you did.” He leaned his sword against the wall, deciding it was better not to be holding it for this conversation.
MacLeod took a breath and began, “She needs to clean up this mess. Otherwise the Watchers will kill Liane. She’s obviously mentally unstable. How we treat the mentally ill reflects what we are.”
“Nice speech, Mac. You can tell that one to Joe. I’m out of here.” He started hunting for his clothing. MacLeod was at his side in a heartbeat and grabbed his arm to still him, then let him go, but did not back away. “No. Not this time. You won’t leave Joe, even if you would leave me.” MacLeod’s eyes filled with water, but he maintained a stern visage for long seconds, completely focused on Methos.
“You’re a manipulative - " He pulled Methos into his arms. “...bastard,” whispered against his neck. “Joe’s going to kick your butt.” Methos slipped out of the embrace.
"Perhaps. But how do you think he’d feel if he had to kill her?”
“She tried to kill him.”
“Aye. But Joe’s a sane man. A good man.”
Methos sighed. “I wonder how Cassandra will fit into Joe’s plans. Maybe I should take you both on a nice long trip to Tibet. I know this peaceful monastery, we’ve managed to keep out of Beijing’s clutches. A little long term meditating will do you both good.”
“I’d get us thrown out in no time.” He pulled Methos to him again.
“I’m angry with you.”
“Aye. I know. Perverse bastard that I am, it tends to turn me on. Sorry. Tessa would pummel me a good one for it. Would that make you feel better?”
“Pummeling you?” Another sigh of dramatic proportions. “Briefly. But what would really satisfy me is both you and Joe spending more time thinking before you come up with these schemes.”
“What scheme has Joe hatched?”
“I don’t know particulars, but I know.”
“Reading minds again.”
“Just faces.” Methos touched his cheek for a moment, then walked away. It was impossible to have a proper argument with MacLeod without clothes on.