Happy Holidays, mackiedockie!
Title: Ace in the Hole
Author: The Holly and the Caffeine I.V.
Written for: mackiedockie
Characters: Joe & Methos
Rating: PG for one use of the F word
Word Count: 3500
Author’s Notes: mackiedockie, I don’t usually like to blatantly inflict my headcanon on people, but I couldn’t resist the scenario for these two guys. I hope you enjoy. Thanks to TT for the beta.
Summary: A stormy night stuck in the bar with Methos gives Joe the chance to find out something he’s wanted to know for a long time.
Joe laid his cards on the table with a flourish and let the smug grin that had fought to be on his face take over. “Read 'em and weep.”
Methos' gaze flicked from his cards to the mitt full of aces that Joe played, then back to his hand. With a sigh, he laid out his cards, flipping them onto the table one at a time. He should have won. The only possible hand that could have beaten him was the one Joe had played, and the odds of getting that one were next to impossible. “How?” he demanded to know. “How did you pull that off?”
“Must be fate,” Joe answered. “What's important is that I did, and now you need to pay up.” He rubbed his fingers together in the gesture of asking for money and saw a scowl spread across Methos' face. Someone as old as he was really should have more experience being a graceful loser, Joe thought.
“We weren't playing for money.”
“Oh, I know. What I want is a lot more valuable.”
“Right,” Methos agreed. The wariness in his tone belied the still casual way he slumped in his chair, the posture of a man who still waiting to see if a threat loomed before deciding how to meet it. “You said 'information.'”
“And you agreed to it,” Joe reminded him.
Methos' scowl deepened. He really hadn't expected to lose. He had, in fact, been so confident that he was going to win this little gamble that he'd been willing to risk a wager he could regret. “Information about what?”
“Not you,” Joe assured him, and Methos' guard dropped fractionally. Though it had never been explicitly stated, they'd reached a gentlemens' agreement long ago that Joe had no intention of violating: Methos would tell Joe about his past on his own terms, and Joe would keep whatever he'd learned to himself. “I want you to give me one clear and accurate answer about something related to Immortals or Immortality.”
“You mean the Watchers don't have all the answers? I seem to recall a few classes at the Academy...”
“You know we don't!” Joe banged his hand down on the table. If there'd been anyone else in the bar, the noise would have been loud enough to make his outburst the center of attention, which wasn't his preferred place to be. Being on stage was one thing, but his profession as a Watcher demanded the ability to not draw attention to himself, and he'd long ago separated the two parts of his personality into those very discrete boxes. “The Watchers have been recording Immortals for 4000 years and most of what we think we know is pure conjecture. There's no way we've got it all figured out.”
A small grin tugged at the corner of Methos' mouth, then vanished. “So you've decided to go right to the source. Why me? Why not MacLeod? Amanda?” He swept up the cards, stacked them neatly, then split the deck in half and began to riffle it. Stack, cut, shuffle. His hands moved with the practiced finesse of a casino dealer, the casual disattention of a con man. Joe watched the long, dexterous fingers manipulate the cards, and the arthritic ache in his own fingers throb in counterbalance. “Are you afraid they won't tell you the truth?”
“Like they’re the ones I need to worry about,” Joe commented. That was why he’d tried to salvage this late, stormy night that had kept the customers away in droves by playing a few rounds of cards with the old man. “They’d tell me truth, sure. Inasmuch as they know it.” Joe could barely tear his gaze away from the show. He half expected Methos to fan the cards and tell him to pick one, any one, as if the Jack of Spades would grant him a different answer than the Nine of Hearts. “Somehow I suspect that you know a great deal more than they do.”
“That might be true,” Methos agreed. Stack, cut, shuffle. “Then again, it might not be. There's a lot about ourselves that even we don't know.”
Joe tapped the spot where he'd laid his winning hand. “So do your best. No lying. No disassembling.”
With a slow nod, Methos agreed to the terms. “Fine. One clear and accurate answer to the best of my knowledge. What do you want to know?”
Joe sucked in a breath. After all the conversations they'd had, all the ways and times he'd tried to get Methos to spill any useful information, to finally have the opportunity felt an awful lot like getting to make one wish from a genie. He suspected that his genie was more than capable of making him regret that wish. “OK, OK. What I want to know: When one Immortal senses another, how does that work?”
Methos closed first one eye, then the other, his face contorting through some strange expression as he sought to wrap his head around the question. “Joe,” he groaned, “I can't answer a question that doesn't make sense. What do you mean 'how does that work?' Are we talking biological processes, psychic reasoning, or pragmatic value?”
Ideally, Joe would have liked the answers to all of those, but Methos would never go for it, which was made obvious by the fact that Methos was still talking and not having much to say.
“Because the short answers are: I don't know, I have no fucking clue, and to keep us from being able to sneak up on each other, obviously. It's pretty clever, if you think about it. It's also frustrating from an evolutionary perspective. How would an early-warning mechanism develop in people who can't breed? Obviously the ones who couldn’t sense other Immortals would lose their heads very quickly and the ones who did would have an advantage in the Game--”
Joe held up a finger to stop him before Methos could wind so far down the road of one of his diversionary rambles that they both forgot what they were talking about. “What I want to know is, I guess the day-to-day stuff. You sense others, but what's the range? Sometimes it seems like the sense doesn't kick in until you're in the same room as another Immortal, and other times it seems like you're picking up their presence from the other side of town. Can you sense others who are up or down from where you are? Like, say you're on the third floor of an office building: Do you know when an Immortal walks through the front doors, or do you have to wait until their elevator gets to the third floor? What about the one who's working on the fifteenth floor? Can you tell if there are multiple Immortals approaching? Can one Immortal hide in...let's call it another one's shadow? Can you tell anything about an Immortal's age or power from what you sense? Can you change what you 'feel' like?”
Not until presented with the chance to get his questions answered did Joe realize just how many he had. He'd thought about the topic a lot over the years since becoming a Watcher, and speculations on the answers had occupied many a Watcher gathering, and now all the questions were rolling off his tongue faster than he even realized he was formulating them.
“That's a lot of questions,” Methos pointed out.
“Sub-questions,” Joe shot back, before Methos could get the idea to go with only one of them. “They're all part of the same topic: How does your ability to sense other Immortals work?”
“Oooh, now that's a different question entirely. Do you want to know about me specifically or us in general?”
Joe's eyebrows shot up. It hadn't occurred to him that there might be different answers. “How about you tell me about Immortals in general, and then make addendums where your experience is different.”
“I don't know,” Methos hedged. “That sounds like you're trying to claim more winnings than you should.” To punctuate his point, he fanned the cards across the table face down, then flipped the fan over just like an experienced Vegas dealer who was putting on a show.
“You agreed,” Joe reminded him again. “Clear and accurate.”
“I suppose there are worse questions you could have asked. Honestly, Joe, I thought you'd go straight for the big one.”
“You mean taking a Quickening?”
Again Methos nodded. “I seem to recall that being a hot topic in the Academy.”
“Next time,” Joe promised. As much as he did want to know about that, too, he'd witnessed enough of them over the years to suspect that the answer would be something like “Ouch” and “Ooooo,” and that was awfully close to discussing someone's very kinky sex life with them. He also recalled more than a few late nights in the Academy when the trainee Watchers speculated on exactly what the ratio of “Ouch” to “Oooo” was. There’d been a great deal of alcohol involved then, and there was nowhere near enough involved now. Now that he counted so many Immortals as friends, he didn’t know if he was ready to broach that topic for real.
“This one's a lot more doable,” Methos said. Letting the cards rest, he propped his chin on his laced fingers and mulled over the myriad sub-questions. “So, range. Near as I've been able to tell, range is highly individual and has some connection to intent. And, no, I'm not holding back on you. I really don't know what that connection is. What I've noticed is that if one Immortal wants another to notice him, such as to issue a Challenge, then the range at which they are sensed is larger. I also don't know how conscious this is, or if other Immortals know they are doing it. Is that ‘clear and accurate’ enough for you?”
“So far, so good,” Joe assured him. He’d hoped for a more specific answer. On the other hand, if someone asked him how far away he could clearly see, he’d’ve been unable to supply more than a guess, and he’d had an eye exam only the previous week. An eye exam that he’d passed, thank you for asking. “Can I get you a drink?”
Methos reflexively glanced at the bar, then caught himself. “Isn’t that a little Pavlovian there, Joe?”
“Only if it works,” Joe answered. He’d switched to coffee himself when the card game started, knowing that he’d need all his facilities to pull off a win. Since he had a reward drink wouldn’t be amiss. Then again, he didn’t want to risk forgetting any of the answers he had won.
“Better not,” Methos answered, regretfully. He flicked his forefinger against the latest empty on the table. The hollow ringing the glass should have made was swallowed in the insistent drumming of rain. “I have to drive home in this. In fact--” He started to rise.
“Sit down and keep talking,” Joe said. “You haven’t said half of what there is to say, and you should know by now that I’m keeping track.”
His effort to escape thwarted, Methos slumped back into his chair like a toddler who’d been told he couldn’t leave the table until he cleaned off his plate. “Fine.” He picked his beer bottle up and set it back down without drinking, since it was already empty. The next chunk of explanation was offered up so quickly that Joe once again sensed the genie: offer up a lot of information and let the listener get tangled in the details. “It's not possible to shut the sense down entirely. There's no stealth mode, but it is possible to learn be...smaller, I guess. If I concentrate, I can make my presence fit--” He glanced around the bar, assessing its dimensions-- “mostly in here. That's not as useful as it sounds because I'd have to know that someone who wants my head is outside, doesn't already know that I'm inside, and, like I said, it takes a great deal of concentration. If I'm not trying to change my presence, I can be sensed at roughly fifty feet. I can also, with concentration, extend my range to almost four times that.
“Height. The sense is mostly two-dimensional. I'd guess that it's more-or-less eye-level, though we obviously do not need to see another Immortal to know that they're there. Some Immortals do seem to have the ability to sense others who are above or below them. Perhaps their sense is three-dimensional. I don't know. I'm not one of them. I can make my presence extend up and down if I want to be noticed--”
“Which you never do.” Joe’s interjection was just enough to derail Methos’ train of thought, earning him a glare.
“Which I almost never do,” Methos agreed. “Sometimes giving others some extra warning is the way to keep your head. Are we done yet?”
Joe had to roll all the questions back through his head to remember where they left off. He hadn't been taking notes, though his fingers itched to record every detail. Spelled out like this, it all seemed so obvious. Why had no one ever thought to ask an Immortal what was going on, rather than spending thousands of years speculating on a topic that they weren't equipped to understand, given that mortals didn't have the requisite sense. “Multiple Immortals.”
Methos shook his head. “The sense has no directional component, which is why you've always seen us looking around to find out where it's coming from. It also has no variation for distance. It's not like sound. Once another Immortal is in range, he could be at the outer limit of his range or standing right up close, and there's no way to tell. Along with that, two Immortals who are standing together feel the same as one Immortal does. If an Immortal were paying attention, he might be able to figure out that there were two others in the same place because both were trying to make eye-contact with him, or because they were standing far enough apart that the range was too big for one person. So, no, we can't tell. Now, if two Immortals are in a room and a third one enters, we can tell that. But once all three are together, there's no way for any of the three to sense that there are three.”
Joe was nodding along. He'd seen that when Claudia Jardine had first become Immortal and was trying to adjust to being able to sense others while Walter, Duncan, and Methos all crossed in and out of her range. Which brought up a different question. “Is there a difference between your ability to sense other Immortals and your ability to be sensed by other Immortals?”
“Like, can I sense Duncan before he senses me?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Yes. Exactly like that. I...think that may be a function of age. The older Immortals I've known seem to have better sensitivity. Could be a function of paranoia.”
“Could it have anything to do with how many heads you've taken?” The Watchers had records of the heads taken by every tracked Immortal, which meant they had no clue where Methos ranked. Some day, he really wanted an answer to that question too.
Methos shrugged. “Could be. I think to learn the answer to that would require the kind of quantitative/qualitative study on Immortals that every Watcher is itching to do, but can't break their Oath long enough to research.”
“In other words, you don't know.”
“Nor do I have any way to know. Do you seriously think other Immortals would be willing to sit down with me and discuss their sensing ranges, much less let me measure them? I might as well be asking them to hand over their swords.”
“All right. So we chalk that one up to 'unknowable.' I figured that would be the answer to a few of the questions. What about being able to sense age and power?”
Methos smiled, one of his self-satisfied grins that gave Joe the impression that he'd been waiting to talk about this. “Ordinarily, no,” he answered, then stopped to tease out the drama of the moment by resuming his ministrations of the cards. Outside, the storm raged on, the pounding of the rain on the bar’s roof broken only by the occasional crash of thunder.
“But?” Joe prompted in the silence after a crash that shook the building and left both the men inside flinching.
“I've learned a few little tricks that can help me make fairly accurate guesses about an Immortal's age, and I can play with my own presence a little to make it...more interesting.” Giving up on the shuffling, Methos started to lay the cards out on the table in four rows by suit.
A glance at the clock over the door showed that keeping the bar open for a late straggler was rapidly becoming a senseless endeavor. Since his time for getting answers was running out anyhow, Joe decided to see what else he could eek out. “Interesting how?” He added a waggle of his eyebrows in suggestion.
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Methos asked. “Five thousand years and it never occurred to me...wait, yes it did, and no not like that. Geeze, Joe. Here I thought you were an adult. I don't know what my presence feels like to another Immortal. I only know that I've been able to make myself uniquely identifiable on a few occasions.”
“Unique-You mean you figured out a way to tell another that you are the one approaching?”
“That's what I said.”
“And you don't do this all the time?”
“There's no reason to. Also, it kind of gave me a headache.”
The rows were filling up, and Joe started to marshall the energy to get his creaking bones out of the chair. It was taking longer these days and getting more difficult each time, especially on nights like this. Methos started to place the next card in its designated position, then looked closer at it and the spot where it was supposed to go. The spot that already had a card in it. His mouth dropped open in shock, then closed again, his lips spreading through a slow smile that crept across his face and etched itself deeply into the corners of his eyes and into his forehead. “Well, well,” he said. He tossed the extra ace card at Joe. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Angering Immortals, even ones who were friends, was flirting with a danger. That Methos appeared proud rather than angry was even more worrying. “Sure you did,” Joe replied.
Methos considered the contradiction for a moment while finishing off the placement of the rest of the cards and, in the process, uncovering one more superfluous ace. “You’re right; I knew you were capable of it. I didn’t know that you had developed the ability to not get caught. When did you learn to make and keep a poker face?” Once again, he mimicked the face that he’d accused Joe of making when he was lying.
“Practice, Old Man,” Joe said. “Lots of practice.” Years' worth, with this singular goal in mind. He gathered up the two extra aces and slipped them back in his pocket. He’d never be able to use this trick again, but at least he knew that it was possible to put anything over on the man who had probably invented all the scams.
“All because you wanted definitive information for the Chronicles? That’s either some truly impressive dedication to the Watchers, or a truly warped obsession.”
Joe listened to the rain for a moment, noting that it finally sounded like it was letting up. Didn’t matter now; it was past bar time, and well past time for him to go to bed. With a groan he stretched his back. “How about option C,” he suggested.
Taking the hint of Joe’s standing, Methos had also started to finish cleaning off the table and gather up his coat to go. “C?”
“I’m getting older. Starting to feel my mortality, you know?” Joe worked his fingers, trying to ease out the ache that the damp had brought so he could do the last few steps of getting the bar shut down for the night. Since no one except Methos had come in all evening, there wasn’t much to do. “I guess that after so many years of hanging out with you guys, just once I wanted to see if I could get away with cheating death.” He waited a second, then gave Methos a broad wink.
Methos let out a loud laugh, thankfully taking the dig at his history in the spirit it was intended. “So you did, Joe. So you did.”
END
Author: The Holly and the Caffeine I.V.
Written for: mackiedockie
Characters: Joe & Methos
Rating: PG for one use of the F word
Word Count: 3500
Author’s Notes: mackiedockie, I don’t usually like to blatantly inflict my headcanon on people, but I couldn’t resist the scenario for these two guys. I hope you enjoy. Thanks to TT for the beta.
Summary: A stormy night stuck in the bar with Methos gives Joe the chance to find out something he’s wanted to know for a long time.
Joe laid his cards on the table with a flourish and let the smug grin that had fought to be on his face take over. “Read 'em and weep.”
Methos' gaze flicked from his cards to the mitt full of aces that Joe played, then back to his hand. With a sigh, he laid out his cards, flipping them onto the table one at a time. He should have won. The only possible hand that could have beaten him was the one Joe had played, and the odds of getting that one were next to impossible. “How?” he demanded to know. “How did you pull that off?”
“Must be fate,” Joe answered. “What's important is that I did, and now you need to pay up.” He rubbed his fingers together in the gesture of asking for money and saw a scowl spread across Methos' face. Someone as old as he was really should have more experience being a graceful loser, Joe thought.
“We weren't playing for money.”
“Oh, I know. What I want is a lot more valuable.”
“Right,” Methos agreed. The wariness in his tone belied the still casual way he slumped in his chair, the posture of a man who still waiting to see if a threat loomed before deciding how to meet it. “You said 'information.'”
“And you agreed to it,” Joe reminded him.
Methos' scowl deepened. He really hadn't expected to lose. He had, in fact, been so confident that he was going to win this little gamble that he'd been willing to risk a wager he could regret. “Information about what?”
“Not you,” Joe assured him, and Methos' guard dropped fractionally. Though it had never been explicitly stated, they'd reached a gentlemens' agreement long ago that Joe had no intention of violating: Methos would tell Joe about his past on his own terms, and Joe would keep whatever he'd learned to himself. “I want you to give me one clear and accurate answer about something related to Immortals or Immortality.”
“You mean the Watchers don't have all the answers? I seem to recall a few classes at the Academy...”
“You know we don't!” Joe banged his hand down on the table. If there'd been anyone else in the bar, the noise would have been loud enough to make his outburst the center of attention, which wasn't his preferred place to be. Being on stage was one thing, but his profession as a Watcher demanded the ability to not draw attention to himself, and he'd long ago separated the two parts of his personality into those very discrete boxes. “The Watchers have been recording Immortals for 4000 years and most of what we think we know is pure conjecture. There's no way we've got it all figured out.”
A small grin tugged at the corner of Methos' mouth, then vanished. “So you've decided to go right to the source. Why me? Why not MacLeod? Amanda?” He swept up the cards, stacked them neatly, then split the deck in half and began to riffle it. Stack, cut, shuffle. His hands moved with the practiced finesse of a casino dealer, the casual disattention of a con man. Joe watched the long, dexterous fingers manipulate the cards, and the arthritic ache in his own fingers throb in counterbalance. “Are you afraid they won't tell you the truth?”
“Like they’re the ones I need to worry about,” Joe commented. That was why he’d tried to salvage this late, stormy night that had kept the customers away in droves by playing a few rounds of cards with the old man. “They’d tell me truth, sure. Inasmuch as they know it.” Joe could barely tear his gaze away from the show. He half expected Methos to fan the cards and tell him to pick one, any one, as if the Jack of Spades would grant him a different answer than the Nine of Hearts. “Somehow I suspect that you know a great deal more than they do.”
“That might be true,” Methos agreed. Stack, cut, shuffle. “Then again, it might not be. There's a lot about ourselves that even we don't know.”
Joe tapped the spot where he'd laid his winning hand. “So do your best. No lying. No disassembling.”
With a slow nod, Methos agreed to the terms. “Fine. One clear and accurate answer to the best of my knowledge. What do you want to know?”
Joe sucked in a breath. After all the conversations they'd had, all the ways and times he'd tried to get Methos to spill any useful information, to finally have the opportunity felt an awful lot like getting to make one wish from a genie. He suspected that his genie was more than capable of making him regret that wish. “OK, OK. What I want to know: When one Immortal senses another, how does that work?”
Methos closed first one eye, then the other, his face contorting through some strange expression as he sought to wrap his head around the question. “Joe,” he groaned, “I can't answer a question that doesn't make sense. What do you mean 'how does that work?' Are we talking biological processes, psychic reasoning, or pragmatic value?”
Ideally, Joe would have liked the answers to all of those, but Methos would never go for it, which was made obvious by the fact that Methos was still talking and not having much to say.
“Because the short answers are: I don't know, I have no fucking clue, and to keep us from being able to sneak up on each other, obviously. It's pretty clever, if you think about it. It's also frustrating from an evolutionary perspective. How would an early-warning mechanism develop in people who can't breed? Obviously the ones who couldn’t sense other Immortals would lose their heads very quickly and the ones who did would have an advantage in the Game--”
Joe held up a finger to stop him before Methos could wind so far down the road of one of his diversionary rambles that they both forgot what they were talking about. “What I want to know is, I guess the day-to-day stuff. You sense others, but what's the range? Sometimes it seems like the sense doesn't kick in until you're in the same room as another Immortal, and other times it seems like you're picking up their presence from the other side of town. Can you sense others who are up or down from where you are? Like, say you're on the third floor of an office building: Do you know when an Immortal walks through the front doors, or do you have to wait until their elevator gets to the third floor? What about the one who's working on the fifteenth floor? Can you tell if there are multiple Immortals approaching? Can one Immortal hide in...let's call it another one's shadow? Can you tell anything about an Immortal's age or power from what you sense? Can you change what you 'feel' like?”
Not until presented with the chance to get his questions answered did Joe realize just how many he had. He'd thought about the topic a lot over the years since becoming a Watcher, and speculations on the answers had occupied many a Watcher gathering, and now all the questions were rolling off his tongue faster than he even realized he was formulating them.
“That's a lot of questions,” Methos pointed out.
“Sub-questions,” Joe shot back, before Methos could get the idea to go with only one of them. “They're all part of the same topic: How does your ability to sense other Immortals work?”
“Oooh, now that's a different question entirely. Do you want to know about me specifically or us in general?”
Joe's eyebrows shot up. It hadn't occurred to him that there might be different answers. “How about you tell me about Immortals in general, and then make addendums where your experience is different.”
“I don't know,” Methos hedged. “That sounds like you're trying to claim more winnings than you should.” To punctuate his point, he fanned the cards across the table face down, then flipped the fan over just like an experienced Vegas dealer who was putting on a show.
“You agreed,” Joe reminded him again. “Clear and accurate.”
“I suppose there are worse questions you could have asked. Honestly, Joe, I thought you'd go straight for the big one.”
“You mean taking a Quickening?”
Again Methos nodded. “I seem to recall that being a hot topic in the Academy.”
“Next time,” Joe promised. As much as he did want to know about that, too, he'd witnessed enough of them over the years to suspect that the answer would be something like “Ouch” and “Ooooo,” and that was awfully close to discussing someone's very kinky sex life with them. He also recalled more than a few late nights in the Academy when the trainee Watchers speculated on exactly what the ratio of “Ouch” to “Oooo” was. There’d been a great deal of alcohol involved then, and there was nowhere near enough involved now. Now that he counted so many Immortals as friends, he didn’t know if he was ready to broach that topic for real.
“This one's a lot more doable,” Methos said. Letting the cards rest, he propped his chin on his laced fingers and mulled over the myriad sub-questions. “So, range. Near as I've been able to tell, range is highly individual and has some connection to intent. And, no, I'm not holding back on you. I really don't know what that connection is. What I've noticed is that if one Immortal wants another to notice him, such as to issue a Challenge, then the range at which they are sensed is larger. I also don't know how conscious this is, or if other Immortals know they are doing it. Is that ‘clear and accurate’ enough for you?”
“So far, so good,” Joe assured him. He’d hoped for a more specific answer. On the other hand, if someone asked him how far away he could clearly see, he’d’ve been unable to supply more than a guess, and he’d had an eye exam only the previous week. An eye exam that he’d passed, thank you for asking. “Can I get you a drink?”
Methos reflexively glanced at the bar, then caught himself. “Isn’t that a little Pavlovian there, Joe?”
“Only if it works,” Joe answered. He’d switched to coffee himself when the card game started, knowing that he’d need all his facilities to pull off a win. Since he had a reward drink wouldn’t be amiss. Then again, he didn’t want to risk forgetting any of the answers he had won.
“Better not,” Methos answered, regretfully. He flicked his forefinger against the latest empty on the table. The hollow ringing the glass should have made was swallowed in the insistent drumming of rain. “I have to drive home in this. In fact--” He started to rise.
“Sit down and keep talking,” Joe said. “You haven’t said half of what there is to say, and you should know by now that I’m keeping track.”
His effort to escape thwarted, Methos slumped back into his chair like a toddler who’d been told he couldn’t leave the table until he cleaned off his plate. “Fine.” He picked his beer bottle up and set it back down without drinking, since it was already empty. The next chunk of explanation was offered up so quickly that Joe once again sensed the genie: offer up a lot of information and let the listener get tangled in the details. “It's not possible to shut the sense down entirely. There's no stealth mode, but it is possible to learn be...smaller, I guess. If I concentrate, I can make my presence fit--” He glanced around the bar, assessing its dimensions-- “mostly in here. That's not as useful as it sounds because I'd have to know that someone who wants my head is outside, doesn't already know that I'm inside, and, like I said, it takes a great deal of concentration. If I'm not trying to change my presence, I can be sensed at roughly fifty feet. I can also, with concentration, extend my range to almost four times that.
“Height. The sense is mostly two-dimensional. I'd guess that it's more-or-less eye-level, though we obviously do not need to see another Immortal to know that they're there. Some Immortals do seem to have the ability to sense others who are above or below them. Perhaps their sense is three-dimensional. I don't know. I'm not one of them. I can make my presence extend up and down if I want to be noticed--”
“Which you never do.” Joe’s interjection was just enough to derail Methos’ train of thought, earning him a glare.
“Which I almost never do,” Methos agreed. “Sometimes giving others some extra warning is the way to keep your head. Are we done yet?”
Joe had to roll all the questions back through his head to remember where they left off. He hadn't been taking notes, though his fingers itched to record every detail. Spelled out like this, it all seemed so obvious. Why had no one ever thought to ask an Immortal what was going on, rather than spending thousands of years speculating on a topic that they weren't equipped to understand, given that mortals didn't have the requisite sense. “Multiple Immortals.”
Methos shook his head. “The sense has no directional component, which is why you've always seen us looking around to find out where it's coming from. It also has no variation for distance. It's not like sound. Once another Immortal is in range, he could be at the outer limit of his range or standing right up close, and there's no way to tell. Along with that, two Immortals who are standing together feel the same as one Immortal does. If an Immortal were paying attention, he might be able to figure out that there were two others in the same place because both were trying to make eye-contact with him, or because they were standing far enough apart that the range was too big for one person. So, no, we can't tell. Now, if two Immortals are in a room and a third one enters, we can tell that. But once all three are together, there's no way for any of the three to sense that there are three.”
Joe was nodding along. He'd seen that when Claudia Jardine had first become Immortal and was trying to adjust to being able to sense others while Walter, Duncan, and Methos all crossed in and out of her range. Which brought up a different question. “Is there a difference between your ability to sense other Immortals and your ability to be sensed by other Immortals?”
“Like, can I sense Duncan before he senses me?”
“Exactly like that.”
“Yes. Exactly like that. I...think that may be a function of age. The older Immortals I've known seem to have better sensitivity. Could be a function of paranoia.”
“Could it have anything to do with how many heads you've taken?” The Watchers had records of the heads taken by every tracked Immortal, which meant they had no clue where Methos ranked. Some day, he really wanted an answer to that question too.
Methos shrugged. “Could be. I think to learn the answer to that would require the kind of quantitative/qualitative study on Immortals that every Watcher is itching to do, but can't break their Oath long enough to research.”
“In other words, you don't know.”
“Nor do I have any way to know. Do you seriously think other Immortals would be willing to sit down with me and discuss their sensing ranges, much less let me measure them? I might as well be asking them to hand over their swords.”
“All right. So we chalk that one up to 'unknowable.' I figured that would be the answer to a few of the questions. What about being able to sense age and power?”
Methos smiled, one of his self-satisfied grins that gave Joe the impression that he'd been waiting to talk about this. “Ordinarily, no,” he answered, then stopped to tease out the drama of the moment by resuming his ministrations of the cards. Outside, the storm raged on, the pounding of the rain on the bar’s roof broken only by the occasional crash of thunder.
“But?” Joe prompted in the silence after a crash that shook the building and left both the men inside flinching.
“I've learned a few little tricks that can help me make fairly accurate guesses about an Immortal's age, and I can play with my own presence a little to make it...more interesting.” Giving up on the shuffling, Methos started to lay the cards out on the table in four rows by suit.
A glance at the clock over the door showed that keeping the bar open for a late straggler was rapidly becoming a senseless endeavor. Since his time for getting answers was running out anyhow, Joe decided to see what else he could eek out. “Interesting how?” He added a waggle of his eyebrows in suggestion.
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” Methos asked. “Five thousand years and it never occurred to me...wait, yes it did, and no not like that. Geeze, Joe. Here I thought you were an adult. I don't know what my presence feels like to another Immortal. I only know that I've been able to make myself uniquely identifiable on a few occasions.”
“Unique-You mean you figured out a way to tell another that you are the one approaching?”
“That's what I said.”
“And you don't do this all the time?”
“There's no reason to. Also, it kind of gave me a headache.”
The rows were filling up, and Joe started to marshall the energy to get his creaking bones out of the chair. It was taking longer these days and getting more difficult each time, especially on nights like this. Methos started to place the next card in its designated position, then looked closer at it and the spot where it was supposed to go. The spot that already had a card in it. His mouth dropped open in shock, then closed again, his lips spreading through a slow smile that crept across his face and etched itself deeply into the corners of his eyes and into his forehead. “Well, well,” he said. He tossed the extra ace card at Joe. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Angering Immortals, even ones who were friends, was flirting with a danger. That Methos appeared proud rather than angry was even more worrying. “Sure you did,” Joe replied.
Methos considered the contradiction for a moment while finishing off the placement of the rest of the cards and, in the process, uncovering one more superfluous ace. “You’re right; I knew you were capable of it. I didn’t know that you had developed the ability to not get caught. When did you learn to make and keep a poker face?” Once again, he mimicked the face that he’d accused Joe of making when he was lying.
“Practice, Old Man,” Joe said. “Lots of practice.” Years' worth, with this singular goal in mind. He gathered up the two extra aces and slipped them back in his pocket. He’d never be able to use this trick again, but at least he knew that it was possible to put anything over on the man who had probably invented all the scams.
“All because you wanted definitive information for the Chronicles? That’s either some truly impressive dedication to the Watchers, or a truly warped obsession.”
Joe listened to the rain for a moment, noting that it finally sounded like it was letting up. Didn’t matter now; it was past bar time, and well past time for him to go to bed. With a groan he stretched his back. “How about option C,” he suggested.
Taking the hint of Joe’s standing, Methos had also started to finish cleaning off the table and gather up his coat to go. “C?”
“I’m getting older. Starting to feel my mortality, you know?” Joe worked his fingers, trying to ease out the ache that the damp had brought so he could do the last few steps of getting the bar shut down for the night. Since no one except Methos had come in all evening, there wasn’t much to do. “I guess that after so many years of hanging out with you guys, just once I wanted to see if I could get away with cheating death.” He waited a second, then gave Methos a broad wink.
Methos let out a loud laugh, thankfully taking the dig at his history in the spirit it was intended. “So you did, Joe. So you did.”
END