Happy Holidays, sapphiresmuse!
Title: Crouching Stargate, Drunken Yak
Author: amand_r, aka Why do I Even Bother? Oh. Yes. JAZZ HANDS.
Written for: sapphiresmuse
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Joe, Duncan, Richie, minor OFC, a hairdo that might be self-aware.
Rating: PG-13 for language, I think
Warnings: THERE IS NOTHING SERIOUS IN THIS STORY. Well, sorta.
Author's Notes: I cannot write SG-1 or SGA, and I'm sorry, sapphiresmuse. But I did put the movie in there! Do I get points for that? Somehow, in an inexplicable way, Richie made his way into this story. He's an unending tool source of comic relief. I went for the preferences of "humor, snark, friendship and sword fights." No angst for the holidays! Ho ho ho sorry! Thanks to my beta, idyll.
Summary: Between the three of them standing there, they had a mini arsenal. Hell between the three of them, they also had a mini bar.
November 15th, Joe's Bar, Seacouver:
"So, why is the warp core almost breached in every episode? That doesn't seem to be a very safe form of power, if it's so vulnerable, does it?" Mac asked.
Joe was pretty sure that Mac was smart. The man was four hundred years old, owned his own business and could quote Proust. It was just this whole sci-fi thing he had problems with.
"That's on Star Trek," Methos muttered, eyes never leaving the television.
Mac smiled out of the corner of his mouth, and Joe knew for sure that he was aiming for the Official Tell Off. "I thought this was Star Trek."
Methos shook his head. Apparently the bait was still not enticing enough. "No, this is Stargate."
"Oh." Silence. "So, what's a starga-"
"That is!" Methos said in a staccato, gesturing at the TV so strongly that an arc of beer shot out over the bar. "That's the fucking stargate, Mac."
"Oh."
Joe poured himself a beer and watched some bald dude with a circle on his forehead beat the ever-loving crap out of some other dudes. It was the start of poker night, and here he was, completely sober. He needed a few before his poker magic kicked in. He poured Methos two more; Methos needed a few to get rid of his poker magic, and with any luck he'd be pleasantly powerless before he noticed.
Mac swilled from his beer and glanced out the door. "So, there's no Klingons, then?"
Methos moved three stools down, which wasn't saying a lot because the bar was empty. Well, empty of customers, anyway. Bob was setting up the table, and Joe dug around behind the register for his lucky hat. He didn't really like wearing hats, but he would if it meant that he'd weasel another five hundred dollars out of his opponents. He had his eye on a new Gibson, and his tax refund had been eaten by medical bills.
"Wings wings wings wings," chanted Mike as he rolled in from the front door, arms laden with plastic delivery bags. "Five different kinds, including nuclear."
Mac tore himself away from the television and took a few bags, dumping them on the counter before digging through them. "Nuclear? How hot is nuclear?"
"My man, be thankful you have regenerative powers," Joe said softly. He found his hat, but it was dusty. Had it been that long? He washed the visor under the bar spigot; Mac gave him a skeptical look as he continued to unpack the foil wrapped packages.
"Just call me National City." Richie closed the front door behind him and shrugged off his coat, tossing it on the bar with a metallic thud. Joe winced. Methos looked over his shoulder quizzically. Joe hadn't told him that Richie would be here, but it was kind of a given.
When no one said anything, Richie spread his hands, his eyes wide. "Get it? National City? A bank? Get it? Tonight, everyone is going to make a deposit."
Joe concentrated on drying his visor, but Methos's eyes went wide and he stared at the bottom of his glass, lips twitching.
"No." Joe shook his head, but not looking up. "Don't say a word."
Methos complied, but from the stiffness of his neck and shoulder it seemed a Herculean task. Instead, he studied the television. Mac continued to unwrap the many parcels of completely unhealthy and probably deadly junk food. There was a mandate from some ancient god or another that healthy food was anathema at a poker table. Methos would probably tell him that it was some archaic form of "Las Vegas."
Richie reached past them and grabbed a wing from the bucket. "Oh Stargate, right? I love this movie." He bit into the chicken and made a surprised face at it, then back to Methos. "Boh ni?" He held out the chicken and made an ecstatic face. "Boh ni way!"
Methos huddled around his beer, ignoring Richie. "You're banned from playing; Joe, tell him he's banned from playing."
Joe thought about it for a second. "You got any money?"
Richie pulled out a wad of bills in a money clip. Joe wondered if they were all ones with a twenty wrapped around them. Only time would tell.
"Sorry man, he stays."
Methos opened his mouth to say something, but three seats down, Mac dropped a chicken wing on the counter and dove for his half-empty pint. Everyone watched him drain the glass, then Methos's, and then sit at the bar and stare at them, eyes wide, hands over his mouth.
Mike sighed dreamily. "Nuclear."
***
"Oh my god, I've had too many beers for this," Richie said as he almost dropped the sword. "Little help?"
"No." Methos leaned against Mac from their perch on the lid of the dumpster and tossed the beer bottle in an open trashcan. "Mac?"
Mac handed him the apple. "I bruised it up some," he said with a slight slur. His mouth curved up in a smile. "Juicy impact."
It wasn't Joe that thought this was a good idea. It was the scotch that thought this was fucking high-larious. Richie was cleaned out, and he owed Methos, and Mac, and Joe was pretty sure that before he left, Mike had collected an IOU slip from Richie too. It was official-- Richie was the worst poker player in the world. He got excited when he had a good hand, and he always refilled his glass when he decided to bluff. It was, wow, was it bad.
"Now come on guys, this is crazy-" Richie waved the sword a bit and almost hit the wall of the alley. Joe stepped back further into the doorframe of the bar. The scotch was pretty sure that it didn't want him to die, at least not like this.
Methos and Mac had come across the apples, and who knows who had decided that the best way to collect blood from a stone was apparently to pitch apples at the offending party in the alley behind the bar. Joe was reminded of a few horrible games of dodge ball from his wayward youth, back when he had legs and more brain cells than he felt he needed. Then again, he hadn't had a sword to cut the dodge balls with either.
That they had even sold Richie on this bladed William Tell mutation was an indication of either how drunk he was or how desperate he was to be debt-free. Or if he understood the phrase 'double or nothing.'
Part of Joe wondered if Methos had ever been a loan shark.
"Oh for god's sake, Luke," Methos groaned, polishing the apple on his sleeve, "the blast shield isn't even down. You can see fine."
"Blast shield…" Mac dug in the bag for another apple and pounded it on the lid of the dumpster. "Is this another Stargate thing?"
Methos spit on the apple and fingered it like a baseball. "Star Wars," he answered off-handedly.
Mac shook his head. "They all start with Star, don't they?"
"Just the good ones," Methos answered and wound his arm back before lobbing the apple so hard at Richie that he almost fell off the dumpster. It went wide and smashed against the wall before skipping like a sideways stone out into the street. "Woah!" Methos's feet flailed in the air a minute, and Mac grabbed his shirt collar. "No. I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay."
Joe sighed. "Move closer, man. You'll never hit him from that far away." Indeed, Richie was using every moment of distraction to take a few more steps out towards the street.
"No, don't move closer!"
Mac wound up his arm, then paused. "It's like Zen, Rich. Cut the apple in half in the air. Be the apple." Richie raised his eyebrows and waggled the sword, and Mac shrugged. "Well, no, I guess you wouldn't want to be that apple."
Methos pounded two apples on the lid of the dumpster, and Joe leaned against the doorframe. It was fun, once one got over that pesky sense of kindness; what was that called again? Oh yeah: sobriety.
Mac pulled back and tossed the thing quickly, too fast for Joe to notice, but then again the lights in the alley were low, and Joe was three, six, maybe thirty sheets to the wind. Or just buzzed. He couldn't really tell, now that he thought of it…
Richie yelped, and the sword swung way too late. The apple rebounded and rolled to a stop at Mac's feet. Joe watched him pick it up and ask Methos about a mulligan.
"No," Richie yelled, so incredulous that he lowered his sword. "No do-overs. I am not a piñata."
"Don't be stupid," Methos replied, his voice fairly crisp for a drunkard. He slammed an apple against the lid of the dumpster so hard that a chunk of it flew in Joe's direction. The sweet fruit smell made him want hard cider. "You're not filled with tasty nougat." And to Mac, "Mulligan."
Richie closed his eyes and swung the sword up in time to cut the apple in two, albeit a lopsided two: one half hit the far wall, and the other flew past Joe and into the bar. He opened his eyes then, looking rather surprised to have not been pummeled, probably, and blinked at them as they applauded. "I did it?"
Methos leapt from the top of the dumpster and wound his right arm around in circles. "I always knew you could do it. Keep this up and you won't have to pay any rent."
Richie had decided that his baseball technique was apparently working, so he grasped the hilt like a bat and tilted his body to the side. "I don't pay rent anyway." He raised the weapon and rolled from the ball of one foot to the other, and then suddenly froze, his head swiveling away from them to the mouth of the alley. Joe sighed. He didn't feel anything of course, but the telltale signs of another immortal approaching were even more exaggerated when all the immortals present were marinated in brandy and Pete's Wicked Ale.
"Uh, that's not good," Mac said softly and turned to Methos, who was frozen in place, his arm still pulled back for the pitch off the dumpster mound.
Mac dropped his apples, began stumbling towards the alley entrance, and might have gotten farther if he hadn't steered a little too much to the left and run slightly into the wall. It was becoming increasingly apparent to Joe that if someone had to fight, it probably shouldn't be Mac.
"I'm Theolonius Bachman," a male voice said, and Joe wondered if there was any immortal named Joe Smith. Why were they all crazily named? Wasn't that kind of attention grabbing? He repressed an urge to ask after Turner and Overdrive. To add insult to injury, when Bachman turned the corner finally, and they all had a chance to see him, Joe thought he was wearing some sort of spiky hat.
Oh no, that was just his hair. Hair in two big curled peaks, like some sort of poster child for mousse abuse. Or post modern art.
"Three of you?" Bachman said, and Joe could swear that the little shit grinned. He grinned at them. "Who is going to fight me first?"
First? Joe wasn't sure of the guy was boasting, on crack, or just really really confident.
Mac pulled his sword from the back of the dumpster, and Joe then had to wonder how it had gotten there in the first place. He had thought he would have noticed Mac carrying it when they came out here, or maybe he was too preoccupied with the possibility of whack-a-Richie. Or maybe the sword teleported. It wouldn't be the first time Joe would have seen something he had trouble believing. Or, not seen something that he had trouble believing. Or thought of something that he had trouble-oh hell, it was a mystery.
Mac was ready to go. He bounced once a little on the balls of his feet, handed Methos the apple still in his left hand, and took off in the man's direction. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of-"
Joe used his cane to bar Mac's body from running forward. "Just give us a second, okay?" Bachman snorted and crossed his arms, making him look younger than he probably was. Joe had no indication of his age, of course, but he'd never heard of this guy. That could either mean that he was relatively brand new, or so old that he escaped detection. Or from Belgium.
When he turned back to his friends, Methos gave him a critical eye. "Really, in charge of the whole Northwest Territories, and you can't even keep track of one immortal?"
"Bite me," he spat back. Richie remained silent, wiping apple juice from his sword.
"No, really," Methos continued. "I mean, what good are you if you can't be reasonably sure who's in the area we happen to be getting terribly pissed in and-"
"And tell my bestest buddy all about them?"
Mac looked away from giving their challenger the evil eye. "You don't have to tell me anything about your work," he said. It slowly dawned on Joe that Mac was also his 'bestest buddy,' and that if he didn't steer the conversation into a more productive arena, they'd spend the next five minutes drunkenly arguing over who was Joe's BFF. And really, he'd seen Salvador Dali short films that were less painful than that impending conversation.
Joe clenched his fists in frustration and wished, for the thousandth time in his life, that he could stamp his foot without taking a header into the trashcan next to him. "This is less the time to be arguing about all of that and more the time to be worrying about that dude over there," he said testily. The scotch was leaving his system at an alarming rate, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache, though it was unclear as to whether that was from the dehydration or the situation at hand.
"I'm not hearing a lot of discussion about who will be dying tonight," Bachman said loudly. If this guy wasn't careful, Joe was going to behead the ass himself. Richie mumbled some unflattering things under his breath and the four of them crouched together in a huddle. Or rather a sort of huddle. As much of a huddle as four drunks, one of whom was on prosthetics, could handle.
"Okay," he said, deciding that he would be the ringleader since he was the only one who didn't have to fight anything. "Let's take care of this."
No one said anything. Richie straightened. "I have to stand up, or I'm gonna ralph." He stiffened his back and gulped air. Mac stepped away.
"Really, here," Methos said finally, his arms crossed over his chest. "Who is the most sober?" Richie raised his hand. "I was serious," Methos added.
Joe glanced behind them to Bachman, who was leaning against the wall, his Flock of Seagulls hair illuminated by the street lamp. "You could draw straws," he added helpfully.
Methos glared at Joe; something told him that this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. In fact, Joe was pretty sure that he was set on excluding himself from this exercise. "Great idea, Joe," he simpered. "Do you have any straws?"
That was a very valid question. He patted himself down, thought about the stocks at the bar and was forced to shake his head, admitting defeat. Methos's mouth quirked a little. "Right then. Who's done this trashed before?" All three raised their hands. "In the past five years?" He and Mac lowered their hands. "Under the influence of hard liquor?" He and Mac raised their hands again. "Against someone dressed like a New Wave keyboardist?"
Mac lowered his hand. "How is that relevant?"
Methos smiled and kept his hand up. "Never underestimate the distracting power of hair product, Mac."
Richie also had his hand raised. "I bet it smells like strawberries."
Mac leaned against the dumpster. "You can ask him that when you fight him, Rich." Methos snorted, and it seemed to egg Mac on. "In fact, open with that: 'I can't help but notice your extravagant hairstyle smells of elderberries. Do you use Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty?'" They all stopped to stare at him, and he shrugged. "Shut up."
Joe leaned back on his cane a bit more. "I didn't say anything."
Methos shook his head, but Richie reached out to touch Mac's tousled hair. "Is that what you use to do that? Because I've been-"
"I'm not going to wait all day," Bachman said testily. "Pick your champion."
Oh yeah. That was right. Joe had almost forgotten that someone was going to be dead in a half-hour.
Mac looked at Joe pleadingly. Methos threw his hands up. "Well, that's settled. He wants Mac." He frowned. "Or an item of sport apparel."
Mac spun the hilt of his sword in his hand. "You're not funny." Joe wasn't sure how drunk he was, but maybe the sheer seriousness of the situation had helped to sober him up a little. To be honest, Joe wondered if this happened more often than he knew, immortals fighting drunk. Depending on the fighters, it could get really messy really quickly.
Richie sighed and there was an overwhelming silence in which no one really wanted to do anything. Bachman cleared his throat; he was a persistent little fuck, and really, as small and irritating as he was, it didn't necessarily mean that he was unskilled with a weapon. Maybe just a blow dryer.
"For god's sake," Mac said testily and a little slurringly, "I'll do it."
Methos looked perceptively relieved. "Are you sure, Mac? Because I'll-"
"Unless you want to do it-" Mac began.
"-oh no no, it's all yours," Methos finished, waving his hands and looking more than a little worried that he'd still end up with the short end of the sword.
Mac rolled his katana in his wrist and Richie had to move out of the way quickly. He turned away then and this time didn't head for the wall. He made it to the middle of the alley before stopping, raising his sword and almost braining himself with the dull edge of the blade. Richie groaned.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."
Bachman retrieved a short sword and rapier from his long red overcoat and clanged them together most annoyingly. "Charmed," he sneered.
When steel first met steel, Joe leaned against the dumpster next to Methos. "So, is there anything else you could possibly do to prove how much of a wuss you are right now? Become a florist? Cry at a chick flick?"
Methos's eyes didn't move from the fight. "Bite me."
It only took about thirty seconds for Joe to realize that Mac was still fairly drunk, and it was a frightening concept. And it was because Joe was drunk that it took him thirty seconds longer to notice his friend's inebriated state, even though Mac over-reached on three thrusts that were ill timed in the first place. Joe was pretty sure that it was his own impaired state that caused him to take even longer realizing that Bachman was...well, he just sucked
It was like a godsend. The man thrusted when he should have parried, he left himself wide open at the waist, and he liked to leap about in a nonsensical way that was probably supposed to appear pretty badass, but ended up reminding Joe of something out of Fantasia. He wondered if Flock of Seagulls had done screen tests on the coat, as it swirled about him very much in the wind from his useless spinning.
And he certainly had a handicap, because Mac seemed to be incapable of mounting any decent offense. So far all he was doing was ducking and occasionally thrusting in a completely predictable manner, a useless tactic (if it was one) against the crimson lord-a-leaping. Bachman slipped on a chunk of apple, and Mac missed a perfectly good opportunity to 'knight' his shoulder with his blade. Richie sighed and let out a low groan that Joe thought resembled the word, "Duuuuuuuuude."
"I know," Methos said loudly. "It's like the other guy is the drunk one, and not the other way around." Mac glared at him, a maneuver that he probably wouldn't have done if he'd been completely sober, because then he had to dodge a swing he just didn't seem to have time to parry.
Joe edged closer to Methos, farther from the fight. He was going to end up in the doorway again. "Is this…like some sort of Shao Lin thing? Jackie Chan? Like…"
"Drunken Monkey or Drunken Yak or something?" Methos answered, shaking his head. "No. Mac is doing perfectly horribly." He cringed when Mac managed to bang his head a bit with his own left hand. "The other guy is worse, actually." Bachman illustrated his point by missing Mac. "It's as if his tutor was Conan the Barbarian or something." He snorted. "Pull back, aaaand swing. Pull back, aaaand swing. It's like he's chopping wood."
"Or making an exercise video," Richie said when he emerged from the bar with Methos's sword and a few bottles of beer. When Joe glared at the beer, Richie shrugged. "One hand for victory," he held up the beers. "One hand for ass kicking," he held up the sword, and Methos took it with a roll of his eyes. Between the three of them standing there, they had a mini arsenal. Hell between the three of them, they also had a mini bar.
One had to wonder what Bachman thought was going to happen if he won, what with Methos and Richie standing right the hell there with swords. Sometimes Joe wondered of Immortal Logic was different from his Earth Logic. Joe watched Mac deflect another hideously planned swing and also wondered once again how they all managed to get into these scenarios that were both made of suck and yet pretty ridiculous. This guy was really really bad, and Mac was really really buzzed.
Methos apparently wasn't worried. He took a beer from Richie's hand and snapped the cap off with the pommel of his sword. He offered the bottle to Joe just as Mac swung out and caught Bachman's neck, taking the head cleanly off. Joe shoved off from the dumpster, grabbing the beer from Methos and making his way to the back door of the bar. They left Mac out there, mostly because really, the alley wasn't exactly equipped for a Quickening with bystanders.
When he reached the bar, he took a pull from the bottle, then dug around in the lower depths of the bottom shelves with his foot. The bottom shelf was actually his bane. Instead, he smacked Richie with his cane and glanced at the back door, its window shuddering. Blue flashes illuminated the frame.
Methos brushed Richie out of the way and stuck his long arms back into the recesses of the shelf, emerging with the box just as Joe opened the register and removed a lighter from the fifties slot; no one ever gave him fifties.
And then the power went out, or the window broke. He couldn't tell which one happened first, or maybe they happened at the same time. He flicked the lighter and Methos pulled the first of many candles from the box.
"Ah," Methos said softly, "just like old times." He lit another candle from the first, and the next and the next, until they had lit up their space at the bar like a Catholic votive table. Richie opened the back door when the light show was over, and the smell of ozone drifted in. Joe had forgotten that side effect. He breathed in deeply.
It wasn't that Mac didn't take heads anymore; that was inevitable. It was that Joe wasn't really his watcher anymore. Joe's hands were full with the whole bureaucratic thing, and he was glad in some ways: he didn't have to run around as much, and that was of the win; he got to order people he didn't like about everywhere, also of the win; and had he mentioned the not running about as much bit? But he had missed seeing Mac as much has he used to. Now that he was stationed in Seacouver, he actually had to stay in the Northwest, so no more trips to Paris or wherever his assignment went. And that also meant that he couldn't get decent Madeleines or drink a beer in a movie theatre.
On the other hand, his doctor had told him to lower his cholesterol and he hadn't been to the movies in three years anyway.
Methos began moving the candles to a table so that they could all sit down, which was good because he'd been standing for longer than he liked to. Joe dug around behind the bar again, this time on a more accessible shelf, and finally managed to locate a dusty bottle of scotch. Richie walked in from the back, a bedraggled Mac behind him.
Mac stood in the doorframe and swayed a bit. "Tha," he slurred, "was 'orrible." Joe wondered if he was going to fall down. If it had been possible, Joe would have said that Mac was even drunker than he had been going into the fight. Oh hell, maybe it was possible. "Ahm gonnae be sick."
"Okay buddy," Richie said, wrapping one arm around his waist, the other one taking the sword from his hands. "Let's just go to the bathroom to do that, all right?" Joe shook his head and sat down at the table as Methos transferred the last few candles closer to their area of focus.
"I hope he holds his hair," Methos mused, sitting across from Joe and leaning his chair back on two legs.
Joe snorted. "You are a horrible man."
Methos tilted his head. "Yes. Yes I am."
From the bathroom they heard Richie say something like "not the sink!" and Joe knew how he was going to cash in all of those IOUs Richie owed him. He realized that immortals didn't vomit much and wondered if this was Mac's first time. There was a retching noise from the bathroom. Joe flipped open his phone to call a cleaning crew, for the alley, that was. Richie was going to be his one man cleaning crew for the bar.
"Drunken Yak?" Joe asked suddenly.
Methos shrugged. "Nepal. It's a thing."
***
Thirty minutes later, the power was miraculously back, everyone was vomit-free and kind of sober and Joe thought that it was a rather sad turn of events that they all be here in the bar, sitting around the poker table, picking at the remains of three baskets of wings and jalapeno poppers. Actually, Richie was the only one picking. The smell of them made Mac ill, and Methos hadn't eaten them in the first place, which might have explained his quick descent into inebriation earlier.
The cleaning crew was working out back, with strict instructions to not go near the bar, especially since Methos had gone out back and put the body in the dumpster. They had simply procured a garbage truck and were in the process of picking up the whole thing to cart away. It was good to have connections in city council, Joe mused, or maybe the mob. On the other hand, the incessant beepbeepbeep of a backing up truck was not soothing his raging headache.
Mac's sweater was damp and burnt and Methos smelled a little like a dumpster. Richie's clothes were splattered with drying apple chunks, and Joe himself was considerably over rumpled. The bar was cold, because although they had secured something to cover the broken window in the door, it was simply a tarp from the one time the ceiling over the stage had flooded.
The jukebox was on, and Joe had programmed it to go through random order. This meant that the machine would finally get to play those three CDs of Sam Cooke that he'd thrown in the back slots three months ago and then forgotten to label on the selection grid. No wonder no one was playing them.
"He couldn't have been thinking too clearly," Mac said softly, "since the two of you were right here. What, did he think you would just let him go after that?"
Methos snorted, but he didn't raise his head from his study of the felt on the poker table. A five-dollar chip flipped over the knuckles of his left hand, index to pinky, pinky to index, over and over again. His other hand reached for his glass, and he sipped his bourbon without making eye contact.
"You wouldn't have avenged me?" Mac said. Joe couldn't decide whether he was hurt or amused.
Methos made a face. "Only if he wouldn't take no for an answer." When Mac continued to stare at him, he set his glass down. "What? I'm drunk. You're lucky I didn't take off the moment he arrived."
"Yeah, but the guy sucked." Richie tilted his chair back on two legs and threw a nut into the air for the fifth time. So far he had caught none of them in his mouth. Joe was pretty sure that he was going to make him sweep the entire bar as one of his many IOUs. "And it's not as if this doesn't happen." When Methos shot him a dirty look, Richie landed all legs on the floor and leaned in on the table conspiratorially. "Oh come on. You've never fought anyone while you were pissed?"
Methos shrugged. "That's not the point."
"That is the point," Richie said. "Do or do not," he said in a gravelly voice, making a puppet with his left hand. A peanut fell out of it. "There is no try."
Methos shook his head and picked up his glass again. "You fail miserably at pop culture references and their relevance."
Richie leaned back on two legs again. "Next time I'm in Barnes and Asshat, I'll be sure to pick up a copy of your instruction manual, then."
Methos looked to say something, but he was interrupted. "Connor fought while he was drunk all the time," Mac said, pouring himself more water.
Joe smiled. Sometimes he loved being privy to insider information. This was one of those times. "Actually, Connor fought under the influence once, and that dude was mortal." When Mac frowned, Joe laughed. "What'd he tell you?"
Mac sighed. "Connor said something about---"
"If this even contains the words Drunken Monkey," Methos said to Joe, "you will have proof that Mac is the most gullible man in the universe." Mac only shrugged. "Ah, who else better to hoodwink than family?"
"So, you guys actually do this drunk?" Joe asked. Methos shrugged. It was hard to tell when he was joking or serious, but this wasn't a new problem.
"Oh yeah," Methos said off-handedly, "happens all the time, really. Malta, 1250, Daemus Baltus. He was totally plastered." He looked off into space. "Of course, I think I might have been the one to get him plastered." When Mac gave him a dirty look he shrugged. "He started it."
Joe wasn't sure if this was going to be another argument that ended up with moral judgements and body slamming against vehicles, and what was more, he wasn't sure how he would intervene if it was. Luckily, Mac sighed and continued to tear the label from his bottle. "Prince Edward Isle, 1853, Christian DeMarque. One too many glasses of red currant wine."
"Houston, three months ago, Willie Nelson." Richie tossed a nut into the air and then looked genuinely surprised when he caught it in his mouth. "Not, you know, that Willie Nelson. Willie Nelson, used car salesman."
Methos shook his head. "Imagine, an immortal life span, and still, a used car salesman."
Joe was less interested in Willie Nelson and more on the matter at hand. "So, is it because you just happen onto challenges, or do you issue them because you're drunk?"
Mac shrugged. "Luck."
Methos agreed. "I have the worst luck."
Richie avoided Joe's eyes. "Sometimes you're in a crowded bar and you convince yourself that the dude grabbed your ass. Then it might escalate from there."
Methos made wide eyes. "That happens to me all the time."
Joe rolled his eyes. "It's a wonder that any of you are alive." He raised a hand when Methos opened his mouth. "And don't even bother to tell me how many important government decisions are made under the influence."
He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just kept his mouth shut and his observations to himself. Instead he had to make an observation, followed by a request that no one at the table would ignore.
"The Magna Carta resulted from drinking," Mac said with a nod.
"And Hands Across America," added Richie.
Methos smiled and drained his glass. "And the Shriners."
Joe stood up. "That's it. You're all fired. I'm getting new Immortal consultants." He waved his hands. "Get out, bar's closed."
There was a serious amount of chair scraping and mumblings about temperatures and sobriety levels (now that they had mostly returned to normal), and Joe almost slipped on Richie's peanuts twice. Methos carried the glasses and empty bottle into the bar area and set them in the sink. Joe would make Mike wash them tomorrow afternoon when he showed up to open the bar. In fact, he was leaving everything for Mike. That was the price he paid for cleaning Joe out this evening.
"Richie," Methos called over his shoulder when he bent behind the bar to replace the bottles they'd taken out. "You better be here tomorrow to sweep this floor." Joe wondered why Methos felt the need to enforce the law sometimes, like he was ever in the mood to dole out any sort of punishment anyway. In this case, Joe didn't mind all that much because it meant less things to trip over on the floor, and that was made of goodness.
"Okay baby killer," Richie snickered. He slipped into his coat and slid his sword inside the lining.
Methos made a 'oh you're so funny but not really' face and turned back to the poker chips on the table, piling them into the holder. It wasn't like him to be so fastidious. Then again, he was probably waiting for Mac and Richie to leave so that he and Joe could conspiratorially look up immortals on the database.
"Baby killer," Mac said. "You named your sword baby killer?"
"Oh for god's sake," Methos said without turning back to them. Joe unplugged the jukebox and leaned against it for a moment. Bending down sucked. "You're fact checking with Richie?"
"He oils it with baby oil," Richie said smugly. Methos ignored him, but Mac smirked and grabbed his coat, hiding his face. Richie grinned at him, "I was handling it earlier."
"Really?" Mac asked as he shrugged on his jacket. "When was this?"
Richie thumbed towards the alley. Joe handed him a box of wings as he walked them to the door. Methos was already on his way to the back of the bar to get Joe's laptop. They were probably going to fake the entry on Bachman in Mac's Chronicle.
"Oh, when you were taking care of business." He grinned at Joe. "Get it? Taking care of business?"
Joe shoved the box in his hands. "I get it. Now go away." He raised an eyebrow at Mac. "You two are trouble."
Richie opened the door and let the cold night air in. Mac scooted past him and waited in the street. He was never very sociable after, well, the heads started rolling. Joe didn't blame him. "Hey, what about him?" Richie said indignantly, pointing at Methos, who had emerged from the office with the laptop and a bottle of something very amber and dusty. Jose Cuervo?
Joe shrugged. "He brings me presents." And then he shoved hard on Richie's chest and slammed the door, which was good, because the cold made his hands ache. Outside, he faintly heard Richie say something to the effect of 'Work out!'
"I don't bring you presents," Methos said, booting up the computer and hunching in front of the screen, running his hands through his short-cropped hair. "Unless you mean my scintillating wit and panache."
Joe batted him away from the screen. "Panache sounds like a pastry."
Methos snorted and took the dusty bottle from the table, wiping it down with his sleeve. "Right. Profiteroles, then?" Joe keyed in his password, shielding the keys from Methos. "I saw that. Your password is 'mobetterblues101.'"
Joe laughed and used his cane to drag a chair over to the laptop. "Profiteroles are a pastry." He paused before calling up the master list of current immortals. "Man, I wish I had some profiteroles."
Methos set the bottle down and made a face. "It's Old Crow. No wonder it was back there." He settled in the chair next to Joe. "But I know an all-night pastry shop."
Joe searched for Theolonius Bachman in the database. If there had been one good thing about Methos being a Watcher, it had been that he had dragged them all kicking and screaming (and with many faux pas) into the twentieth century. Today's young Watchers were all but booted into the net with phone jacks, and filed their reports multiple times a day from secured Blackberries.
"An all-night pastry shop? Really? Or do you mean Mel's Diner three blocks down?"
Methos shrugged. "You say pastry, I say pie." He paused. "Or am I saying pastry and you saying pie? Whatever." He looked over Joe's shoulder. "Not in there, huh?"
Joe straightened, and slammed the top of the laptop down. "Nope." He glanced at Methos. "This means only one thing, you know."
Methos handed him his coat and shrugged on his own. Joe passed his cane from one hand to the next as he thrust his arms into his sleeves. "That we can blow this off and pretend he never existed?" His face was earnest. "I don't really care either way, except in my version, we have pie."
"We make it up over pie," Joe answered, which was a pretty good compromise, if he did say so himself. He dug the keys to the front out of his pocket as he walked through the little tables. Behind him, he heard Methos locking the back door, though it was kind of useless, what with the plastic over the broken window and all. Good thing Joe had a safe. He turned about to get the laptop, but Methos had already put it back into its bag and shouldered the whole thing.
"You may not have that," he told him.
Methos handed over the bag and he slung the strap over one shoulder, so he wouldn't have to hold onto it. "Not even for pie? Not even for your second bestest buddy?"
Joe opened the door and let Methos leave first while he fiddled with the lock. Upon reflection, those wings had been ages ago, and he wanted something comforting in his stomach.
"No," he said, half-shutting the door and looking Methos in the eye. "Not even for my best buddy."
There was a split second when he saw something glimmer in Methos's eye, and he wondered what that meant then, that his best friend was Adam, and not Mac. Mac was a great friend, a noble and fierce friend, but he didn't send him ecards that said things like, 'Wishing you best on the anniversary of becoming three feet shorter,' or 'Thank you for allowing me to drink myself into a stupor on your credit card.' He didn't surreptitiously place Vicodin on the counter next to Joe whenever his face got that pained look after three hours standing up, and he certainly didn't play the wingman when the ladies came a-calling on Tuesday nights, when every female drank for half-off.
He thought to say something about all of this, to voice anything that might emphasize his point, to reassure Methos that he wasn't placating him, but before he could, Methos turned and started to walk in the direction of the diner. "Then you can buy me two slices of pie," he said over his shoulder.
The door clicked shut, and then the only sound was the contented hum of the neon sign.
END
Author: amand_r, aka Why do I Even Bother? Oh. Yes. JAZZ HANDS.
Written for: sapphiresmuse
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Joe, Duncan, Richie, minor OFC, a hairdo that might be self-aware.
Rating: PG-13 for language, I think
Warnings: THERE IS NOTHING SERIOUS IN THIS STORY. Well, sorta.
Author's Notes: I cannot write SG-1 or SGA, and I'm sorry, sapphiresmuse. But I did put the movie in there! Do I get points for that? Somehow, in an inexplicable way, Richie made his way into this story. He's an unending tool source of comic relief. I went for the preferences of "humor, snark, friendship and sword fights." No angst for the holidays! Ho ho ho sorry! Thanks to my beta, idyll.
Summary: Between the three of them standing there, they had a mini arsenal. Hell between the three of them, they also had a mini bar.
November 15th, Joe's Bar, Seacouver:
"So, why is the warp core almost breached in every episode? That doesn't seem to be a very safe form of power, if it's so vulnerable, does it?" Mac asked.
Joe was pretty sure that Mac was smart. The man was four hundred years old, owned his own business and could quote Proust. It was just this whole sci-fi thing he had problems with.
"That's on Star Trek," Methos muttered, eyes never leaving the television.
Mac smiled out of the corner of his mouth, and Joe knew for sure that he was aiming for the Official Tell Off. "I thought this was Star Trek."
Methos shook his head. Apparently the bait was still not enticing enough. "No, this is Stargate."
"Oh." Silence. "So, what's a starga-"
"That is!" Methos said in a staccato, gesturing at the TV so strongly that an arc of beer shot out over the bar. "That's the fucking stargate, Mac."
"Oh."
Joe poured himself a beer and watched some bald dude with a circle on his forehead beat the ever-loving crap out of some other dudes. It was the start of poker night, and here he was, completely sober. He needed a few before his poker magic kicked in. He poured Methos two more; Methos needed a few to get rid of his poker magic, and with any luck he'd be pleasantly powerless before he noticed.
Mac swilled from his beer and glanced out the door. "So, there's no Klingons, then?"
Methos moved three stools down, which wasn't saying a lot because the bar was empty. Well, empty of customers, anyway. Bob was setting up the table, and Joe dug around behind the register for his lucky hat. He didn't really like wearing hats, but he would if it meant that he'd weasel another five hundred dollars out of his opponents. He had his eye on a new Gibson, and his tax refund had been eaten by medical bills.
"Wings wings wings wings," chanted Mike as he rolled in from the front door, arms laden with plastic delivery bags. "Five different kinds, including nuclear."
Mac tore himself away from the television and took a few bags, dumping them on the counter before digging through them. "Nuclear? How hot is nuclear?"
"My man, be thankful you have regenerative powers," Joe said softly. He found his hat, but it was dusty. Had it been that long? He washed the visor under the bar spigot; Mac gave him a skeptical look as he continued to unpack the foil wrapped packages.
"Just call me National City." Richie closed the front door behind him and shrugged off his coat, tossing it on the bar with a metallic thud. Joe winced. Methos looked over his shoulder quizzically. Joe hadn't told him that Richie would be here, but it was kind of a given.
When no one said anything, Richie spread his hands, his eyes wide. "Get it? National City? A bank? Get it? Tonight, everyone is going to make a deposit."
Joe concentrated on drying his visor, but Methos's eyes went wide and he stared at the bottom of his glass, lips twitching.
"No." Joe shook his head, but not looking up. "Don't say a word."
Methos complied, but from the stiffness of his neck and shoulder it seemed a Herculean task. Instead, he studied the television. Mac continued to unwrap the many parcels of completely unhealthy and probably deadly junk food. There was a mandate from some ancient god or another that healthy food was anathema at a poker table. Methos would probably tell him that it was some archaic form of "Las Vegas."
Richie reached past them and grabbed a wing from the bucket. "Oh Stargate, right? I love this movie." He bit into the chicken and made a surprised face at it, then back to Methos. "Boh ni?" He held out the chicken and made an ecstatic face. "Boh ni way!"
Methos huddled around his beer, ignoring Richie. "You're banned from playing; Joe, tell him he's banned from playing."
Joe thought about it for a second. "You got any money?"
Richie pulled out a wad of bills in a money clip. Joe wondered if they were all ones with a twenty wrapped around them. Only time would tell.
"Sorry man, he stays."
Methos opened his mouth to say something, but three seats down, Mac dropped a chicken wing on the counter and dove for his half-empty pint. Everyone watched him drain the glass, then Methos's, and then sit at the bar and stare at them, eyes wide, hands over his mouth.
Mike sighed dreamily. "Nuclear."
***
"Oh my god, I've had too many beers for this," Richie said as he almost dropped the sword. "Little help?"
"No." Methos leaned against Mac from their perch on the lid of the dumpster and tossed the beer bottle in an open trashcan. "Mac?"
Mac handed him the apple. "I bruised it up some," he said with a slight slur. His mouth curved up in a smile. "Juicy impact."
It wasn't Joe that thought this was a good idea. It was the scotch that thought this was fucking high-larious. Richie was cleaned out, and he owed Methos, and Mac, and Joe was pretty sure that before he left, Mike had collected an IOU slip from Richie too. It was official-- Richie was the worst poker player in the world. He got excited when he had a good hand, and he always refilled his glass when he decided to bluff. It was, wow, was it bad.
"Now come on guys, this is crazy-" Richie waved the sword a bit and almost hit the wall of the alley. Joe stepped back further into the doorframe of the bar. The scotch was pretty sure that it didn't want him to die, at least not like this.
Methos and Mac had come across the apples, and who knows who had decided that the best way to collect blood from a stone was apparently to pitch apples at the offending party in the alley behind the bar. Joe was reminded of a few horrible games of dodge ball from his wayward youth, back when he had legs and more brain cells than he felt he needed. Then again, he hadn't had a sword to cut the dodge balls with either.
That they had even sold Richie on this bladed William Tell mutation was an indication of either how drunk he was or how desperate he was to be debt-free. Or if he understood the phrase 'double or nothing.'
Part of Joe wondered if Methos had ever been a loan shark.
"Oh for god's sake, Luke," Methos groaned, polishing the apple on his sleeve, "the blast shield isn't even down. You can see fine."
"Blast shield…" Mac dug in the bag for another apple and pounded it on the lid of the dumpster. "Is this another Stargate thing?"
Methos spit on the apple and fingered it like a baseball. "Star Wars," he answered off-handedly.
Mac shook his head. "They all start with Star, don't they?"
"Just the good ones," Methos answered and wound his arm back before lobbing the apple so hard at Richie that he almost fell off the dumpster. It went wide and smashed against the wall before skipping like a sideways stone out into the street. "Woah!" Methos's feet flailed in the air a minute, and Mac grabbed his shirt collar. "No. I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay."
Joe sighed. "Move closer, man. You'll never hit him from that far away." Indeed, Richie was using every moment of distraction to take a few more steps out towards the street.
"No, don't move closer!"
Mac wound up his arm, then paused. "It's like Zen, Rich. Cut the apple in half in the air. Be the apple." Richie raised his eyebrows and waggled the sword, and Mac shrugged. "Well, no, I guess you wouldn't want to be that apple."
Methos pounded two apples on the lid of the dumpster, and Joe leaned against the doorframe. It was fun, once one got over that pesky sense of kindness; what was that called again? Oh yeah: sobriety.
Mac pulled back and tossed the thing quickly, too fast for Joe to notice, but then again the lights in the alley were low, and Joe was three, six, maybe thirty sheets to the wind. Or just buzzed. He couldn't really tell, now that he thought of it…
Richie yelped, and the sword swung way too late. The apple rebounded and rolled to a stop at Mac's feet. Joe watched him pick it up and ask Methos about a mulligan.
"No," Richie yelled, so incredulous that he lowered his sword. "No do-overs. I am not a piñata."
"Don't be stupid," Methos replied, his voice fairly crisp for a drunkard. He slammed an apple against the lid of the dumpster so hard that a chunk of it flew in Joe's direction. The sweet fruit smell made him want hard cider. "You're not filled with tasty nougat." And to Mac, "Mulligan."
Richie closed his eyes and swung the sword up in time to cut the apple in two, albeit a lopsided two: one half hit the far wall, and the other flew past Joe and into the bar. He opened his eyes then, looking rather surprised to have not been pummeled, probably, and blinked at them as they applauded. "I did it?"
Methos leapt from the top of the dumpster and wound his right arm around in circles. "I always knew you could do it. Keep this up and you won't have to pay any rent."
Richie had decided that his baseball technique was apparently working, so he grasped the hilt like a bat and tilted his body to the side. "I don't pay rent anyway." He raised the weapon and rolled from the ball of one foot to the other, and then suddenly froze, his head swiveling away from them to the mouth of the alley. Joe sighed. He didn't feel anything of course, but the telltale signs of another immortal approaching were even more exaggerated when all the immortals present were marinated in brandy and Pete's Wicked Ale.
"Uh, that's not good," Mac said softly and turned to Methos, who was frozen in place, his arm still pulled back for the pitch off the dumpster mound.
Mac dropped his apples, began stumbling towards the alley entrance, and might have gotten farther if he hadn't steered a little too much to the left and run slightly into the wall. It was becoming increasingly apparent to Joe that if someone had to fight, it probably shouldn't be Mac.
"I'm Theolonius Bachman," a male voice said, and Joe wondered if there was any immortal named Joe Smith. Why were they all crazily named? Wasn't that kind of attention grabbing? He repressed an urge to ask after Turner and Overdrive. To add insult to injury, when Bachman turned the corner finally, and they all had a chance to see him, Joe thought he was wearing some sort of spiky hat.
Oh no, that was just his hair. Hair in two big curled peaks, like some sort of poster child for mousse abuse. Or post modern art.
"Three of you?" Bachman said, and Joe could swear that the little shit grinned. He grinned at them. "Who is going to fight me first?"
First? Joe wasn't sure of the guy was boasting, on crack, or just really really confident.
Mac pulled his sword from the back of the dumpster, and Joe then had to wonder how it had gotten there in the first place. He had thought he would have noticed Mac carrying it when they came out here, or maybe he was too preoccupied with the possibility of whack-a-Richie. Or maybe the sword teleported. It wouldn't be the first time Joe would have seen something he had trouble believing. Or, not seen something that he had trouble believing. Or thought of something that he had trouble-oh hell, it was a mystery.
Mac was ready to go. He bounced once a little on the balls of his feet, handed Methos the apple still in his left hand, and took off in the man's direction. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of-"
Joe used his cane to bar Mac's body from running forward. "Just give us a second, okay?" Bachman snorted and crossed his arms, making him look younger than he probably was. Joe had no indication of his age, of course, but he'd never heard of this guy. That could either mean that he was relatively brand new, or so old that he escaped detection. Or from Belgium.
When he turned back to his friends, Methos gave him a critical eye. "Really, in charge of the whole Northwest Territories, and you can't even keep track of one immortal?"
"Bite me," he spat back. Richie remained silent, wiping apple juice from his sword.
"No, really," Methos continued. "I mean, what good are you if you can't be reasonably sure who's in the area we happen to be getting terribly pissed in and-"
"And tell my bestest buddy all about them?"
Mac looked away from giving their challenger the evil eye. "You don't have to tell me anything about your work," he said. It slowly dawned on Joe that Mac was also his 'bestest buddy,' and that if he didn't steer the conversation into a more productive arena, they'd spend the next five minutes drunkenly arguing over who was Joe's BFF. And really, he'd seen Salvador Dali short films that were less painful than that impending conversation.
Joe clenched his fists in frustration and wished, for the thousandth time in his life, that he could stamp his foot without taking a header into the trashcan next to him. "This is less the time to be arguing about all of that and more the time to be worrying about that dude over there," he said testily. The scotch was leaving his system at an alarming rate, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache, though it was unclear as to whether that was from the dehydration or the situation at hand.
"I'm not hearing a lot of discussion about who will be dying tonight," Bachman said loudly. If this guy wasn't careful, Joe was going to behead the ass himself. Richie mumbled some unflattering things under his breath and the four of them crouched together in a huddle. Or rather a sort of huddle. As much of a huddle as four drunks, one of whom was on prosthetics, could handle.
"Okay," he said, deciding that he would be the ringleader since he was the only one who didn't have to fight anything. "Let's take care of this."
No one said anything. Richie straightened. "I have to stand up, or I'm gonna ralph." He stiffened his back and gulped air. Mac stepped away.
"Really, here," Methos said finally, his arms crossed over his chest. "Who is the most sober?" Richie raised his hand. "I was serious," Methos added.
Joe glanced behind them to Bachman, who was leaning against the wall, his Flock of Seagulls hair illuminated by the street lamp. "You could draw straws," he added helpfully.
Methos glared at Joe; something told him that this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. In fact, Joe was pretty sure that he was set on excluding himself from this exercise. "Great idea, Joe," he simpered. "Do you have any straws?"
That was a very valid question. He patted himself down, thought about the stocks at the bar and was forced to shake his head, admitting defeat. Methos's mouth quirked a little. "Right then. Who's done this trashed before?" All three raised their hands. "In the past five years?" He and Mac lowered their hands. "Under the influence of hard liquor?" He and Mac raised their hands again. "Against someone dressed like a New Wave keyboardist?"
Mac lowered his hand. "How is that relevant?"
Methos smiled and kept his hand up. "Never underestimate the distracting power of hair product, Mac."
Richie also had his hand raised. "I bet it smells like strawberries."
Mac leaned against the dumpster. "You can ask him that when you fight him, Rich." Methos snorted, and it seemed to egg Mac on. "In fact, open with that: 'I can't help but notice your extravagant hairstyle smells of elderberries. Do you use Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty?'" They all stopped to stare at him, and he shrugged. "Shut up."
Joe leaned back on his cane a bit more. "I didn't say anything."
Methos shook his head, but Richie reached out to touch Mac's tousled hair. "Is that what you use to do that? Because I've been-"
"I'm not going to wait all day," Bachman said testily. "Pick your champion."
Oh yeah. That was right. Joe had almost forgotten that someone was going to be dead in a half-hour.
Mac looked at Joe pleadingly. Methos threw his hands up. "Well, that's settled. He wants Mac." He frowned. "Or an item of sport apparel."
Mac spun the hilt of his sword in his hand. "You're not funny." Joe wasn't sure how drunk he was, but maybe the sheer seriousness of the situation had helped to sober him up a little. To be honest, Joe wondered if this happened more often than he knew, immortals fighting drunk. Depending on the fighters, it could get really messy really quickly.
Richie sighed and there was an overwhelming silence in which no one really wanted to do anything. Bachman cleared his throat; he was a persistent little fuck, and really, as small and irritating as he was, it didn't necessarily mean that he was unskilled with a weapon. Maybe just a blow dryer.
"For god's sake," Mac said testily and a little slurringly, "I'll do it."
Methos looked perceptively relieved. "Are you sure, Mac? Because I'll-"
"Unless you want to do it-" Mac began.
"-oh no no, it's all yours," Methos finished, waving his hands and looking more than a little worried that he'd still end up with the short end of the sword.
Mac rolled his katana in his wrist and Richie had to move out of the way quickly. He turned away then and this time didn't head for the wall. He made it to the middle of the alley before stopping, raising his sword and almost braining himself with the dull edge of the blade. Richie groaned.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."
Bachman retrieved a short sword and rapier from his long red overcoat and clanged them together most annoyingly. "Charmed," he sneered.
When steel first met steel, Joe leaned against the dumpster next to Methos. "So, is there anything else you could possibly do to prove how much of a wuss you are right now? Become a florist? Cry at a chick flick?"
Methos's eyes didn't move from the fight. "Bite me."
It only took about thirty seconds for Joe to realize that Mac was still fairly drunk, and it was a frightening concept. And it was because Joe was drunk that it took him thirty seconds longer to notice his friend's inebriated state, even though Mac over-reached on three thrusts that were ill timed in the first place. Joe was pretty sure that it was his own impaired state that caused him to take even longer realizing that Bachman was...well, he just sucked
It was like a godsend. The man thrusted when he should have parried, he left himself wide open at the waist, and he liked to leap about in a nonsensical way that was probably supposed to appear pretty badass, but ended up reminding Joe of something out of Fantasia. He wondered if Flock of Seagulls had done screen tests on the coat, as it swirled about him very much in the wind from his useless spinning.
And he certainly had a handicap, because Mac seemed to be incapable of mounting any decent offense. So far all he was doing was ducking and occasionally thrusting in a completely predictable manner, a useless tactic (if it was one) against the crimson lord-a-leaping. Bachman slipped on a chunk of apple, and Mac missed a perfectly good opportunity to 'knight' his shoulder with his blade. Richie sighed and let out a low groan that Joe thought resembled the word, "Duuuuuuuuude."
"I know," Methos said loudly. "It's like the other guy is the drunk one, and not the other way around." Mac glared at him, a maneuver that he probably wouldn't have done if he'd been completely sober, because then he had to dodge a swing he just didn't seem to have time to parry.
Joe edged closer to Methos, farther from the fight. He was going to end up in the doorway again. "Is this…like some sort of Shao Lin thing? Jackie Chan? Like…"
"Drunken Monkey or Drunken Yak or something?" Methos answered, shaking his head. "No. Mac is doing perfectly horribly." He cringed when Mac managed to bang his head a bit with his own left hand. "The other guy is worse, actually." Bachman illustrated his point by missing Mac. "It's as if his tutor was Conan the Barbarian or something." He snorted. "Pull back, aaaand swing. Pull back, aaaand swing. It's like he's chopping wood."
"Or making an exercise video," Richie said when he emerged from the bar with Methos's sword and a few bottles of beer. When Joe glared at the beer, Richie shrugged. "One hand for victory," he held up the beers. "One hand for ass kicking," he held up the sword, and Methos took it with a roll of his eyes. Between the three of them standing there, they had a mini arsenal. Hell between the three of them, they also had a mini bar.
One had to wonder what Bachman thought was going to happen if he won, what with Methos and Richie standing right the hell there with swords. Sometimes Joe wondered of Immortal Logic was different from his Earth Logic. Joe watched Mac deflect another hideously planned swing and also wondered once again how they all managed to get into these scenarios that were both made of suck and yet pretty ridiculous. This guy was really really bad, and Mac was really really buzzed.
Methos apparently wasn't worried. He took a beer from Richie's hand and snapped the cap off with the pommel of his sword. He offered the bottle to Joe just as Mac swung out and caught Bachman's neck, taking the head cleanly off. Joe shoved off from the dumpster, grabbing the beer from Methos and making his way to the back door of the bar. They left Mac out there, mostly because really, the alley wasn't exactly equipped for a Quickening with bystanders.
When he reached the bar, he took a pull from the bottle, then dug around in the lower depths of the bottom shelves with his foot. The bottom shelf was actually his bane. Instead, he smacked Richie with his cane and glanced at the back door, its window shuddering. Blue flashes illuminated the frame.
Methos brushed Richie out of the way and stuck his long arms back into the recesses of the shelf, emerging with the box just as Joe opened the register and removed a lighter from the fifties slot; no one ever gave him fifties.
And then the power went out, or the window broke. He couldn't tell which one happened first, or maybe they happened at the same time. He flicked the lighter and Methos pulled the first of many candles from the box.
"Ah," Methos said softly, "just like old times." He lit another candle from the first, and the next and the next, until they had lit up their space at the bar like a Catholic votive table. Richie opened the back door when the light show was over, and the smell of ozone drifted in. Joe had forgotten that side effect. He breathed in deeply.
It wasn't that Mac didn't take heads anymore; that was inevitable. It was that Joe wasn't really his watcher anymore. Joe's hands were full with the whole bureaucratic thing, and he was glad in some ways: he didn't have to run around as much, and that was of the win; he got to order people he didn't like about everywhere, also of the win; and had he mentioned the not running about as much bit? But he had missed seeing Mac as much has he used to. Now that he was stationed in Seacouver, he actually had to stay in the Northwest, so no more trips to Paris or wherever his assignment went. And that also meant that he couldn't get decent Madeleines or drink a beer in a movie theatre.
On the other hand, his doctor had told him to lower his cholesterol and he hadn't been to the movies in three years anyway.
Methos began moving the candles to a table so that they could all sit down, which was good because he'd been standing for longer than he liked to. Joe dug around behind the bar again, this time on a more accessible shelf, and finally managed to locate a dusty bottle of scotch. Richie walked in from the back, a bedraggled Mac behind him.
Mac stood in the doorframe and swayed a bit. "Tha," he slurred, "was 'orrible." Joe wondered if he was going to fall down. If it had been possible, Joe would have said that Mac was even drunker than he had been going into the fight. Oh hell, maybe it was possible. "Ahm gonnae be sick."
"Okay buddy," Richie said, wrapping one arm around his waist, the other one taking the sword from his hands. "Let's just go to the bathroom to do that, all right?" Joe shook his head and sat down at the table as Methos transferred the last few candles closer to their area of focus.
"I hope he holds his hair," Methos mused, sitting across from Joe and leaning his chair back on two legs.
Joe snorted. "You are a horrible man."
Methos tilted his head. "Yes. Yes I am."
From the bathroom they heard Richie say something like "not the sink!" and Joe knew how he was going to cash in all of those IOUs Richie owed him. He realized that immortals didn't vomit much and wondered if this was Mac's first time. There was a retching noise from the bathroom. Joe flipped open his phone to call a cleaning crew, for the alley, that was. Richie was going to be his one man cleaning crew for the bar.
"Drunken Yak?" Joe asked suddenly.
Methos shrugged. "Nepal. It's a thing."
***
Thirty minutes later, the power was miraculously back, everyone was vomit-free and kind of sober and Joe thought that it was a rather sad turn of events that they all be here in the bar, sitting around the poker table, picking at the remains of three baskets of wings and jalapeno poppers. Actually, Richie was the only one picking. The smell of them made Mac ill, and Methos hadn't eaten them in the first place, which might have explained his quick descent into inebriation earlier.
The cleaning crew was working out back, with strict instructions to not go near the bar, especially since Methos had gone out back and put the body in the dumpster. They had simply procured a garbage truck and were in the process of picking up the whole thing to cart away. It was good to have connections in city council, Joe mused, or maybe the mob. On the other hand, the incessant beepbeepbeep of a backing up truck was not soothing his raging headache.
Mac's sweater was damp and burnt and Methos smelled a little like a dumpster. Richie's clothes were splattered with drying apple chunks, and Joe himself was considerably over rumpled. The bar was cold, because although they had secured something to cover the broken window in the door, it was simply a tarp from the one time the ceiling over the stage had flooded.
The jukebox was on, and Joe had programmed it to go through random order. This meant that the machine would finally get to play those three CDs of Sam Cooke that he'd thrown in the back slots three months ago and then forgotten to label on the selection grid. No wonder no one was playing them.
"He couldn't have been thinking too clearly," Mac said softly, "since the two of you were right here. What, did he think you would just let him go after that?"
Methos snorted, but he didn't raise his head from his study of the felt on the poker table. A five-dollar chip flipped over the knuckles of his left hand, index to pinky, pinky to index, over and over again. His other hand reached for his glass, and he sipped his bourbon without making eye contact.
"You wouldn't have avenged me?" Mac said. Joe couldn't decide whether he was hurt or amused.
Methos made a face. "Only if he wouldn't take no for an answer." When Mac continued to stare at him, he set his glass down. "What? I'm drunk. You're lucky I didn't take off the moment he arrived."
"Yeah, but the guy sucked." Richie tilted his chair back on two legs and threw a nut into the air for the fifth time. So far he had caught none of them in his mouth. Joe was pretty sure that he was going to make him sweep the entire bar as one of his many IOUs. "And it's not as if this doesn't happen." When Methos shot him a dirty look, Richie landed all legs on the floor and leaned in on the table conspiratorially. "Oh come on. You've never fought anyone while you were pissed?"
Methos shrugged. "That's not the point."
"That is the point," Richie said. "Do or do not," he said in a gravelly voice, making a puppet with his left hand. A peanut fell out of it. "There is no try."
Methos shook his head and picked up his glass again. "You fail miserably at pop culture references and their relevance."
Richie leaned back on two legs again. "Next time I'm in Barnes and Asshat, I'll be sure to pick up a copy of your instruction manual, then."
Methos looked to say something, but he was interrupted. "Connor fought while he was drunk all the time," Mac said, pouring himself more water.
Joe smiled. Sometimes he loved being privy to insider information. This was one of those times. "Actually, Connor fought under the influence once, and that dude was mortal." When Mac frowned, Joe laughed. "What'd he tell you?"
Mac sighed. "Connor said something about---"
"If this even contains the words Drunken Monkey," Methos said to Joe, "you will have proof that Mac is the most gullible man in the universe." Mac only shrugged. "Ah, who else better to hoodwink than family?"
"So, you guys actually do this drunk?" Joe asked. Methos shrugged. It was hard to tell when he was joking or serious, but this wasn't a new problem.
"Oh yeah," Methos said off-handedly, "happens all the time, really. Malta, 1250, Daemus Baltus. He was totally plastered." He looked off into space. "Of course, I think I might have been the one to get him plastered." When Mac gave him a dirty look he shrugged. "He started it."
Joe wasn't sure if this was going to be another argument that ended up with moral judgements and body slamming against vehicles, and what was more, he wasn't sure how he would intervene if it was. Luckily, Mac sighed and continued to tear the label from his bottle. "Prince Edward Isle, 1853, Christian DeMarque. One too many glasses of red currant wine."
"Houston, three months ago, Willie Nelson." Richie tossed a nut into the air and then looked genuinely surprised when he caught it in his mouth. "Not, you know, that Willie Nelson. Willie Nelson, used car salesman."
Methos shook his head. "Imagine, an immortal life span, and still, a used car salesman."
Joe was less interested in Willie Nelson and more on the matter at hand. "So, is it because you just happen onto challenges, or do you issue them because you're drunk?"
Mac shrugged. "Luck."
Methos agreed. "I have the worst luck."
Richie avoided Joe's eyes. "Sometimes you're in a crowded bar and you convince yourself that the dude grabbed your ass. Then it might escalate from there."
Methos made wide eyes. "That happens to me all the time."
Joe rolled his eyes. "It's a wonder that any of you are alive." He raised a hand when Methos opened his mouth. "And don't even bother to tell me how many important government decisions are made under the influence."
He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just kept his mouth shut and his observations to himself. Instead he had to make an observation, followed by a request that no one at the table would ignore.
"The Magna Carta resulted from drinking," Mac said with a nod.
"And Hands Across America," added Richie.
Methos smiled and drained his glass. "And the Shriners."
Joe stood up. "That's it. You're all fired. I'm getting new Immortal consultants." He waved his hands. "Get out, bar's closed."
There was a serious amount of chair scraping and mumblings about temperatures and sobriety levels (now that they had mostly returned to normal), and Joe almost slipped on Richie's peanuts twice. Methos carried the glasses and empty bottle into the bar area and set them in the sink. Joe would make Mike wash them tomorrow afternoon when he showed up to open the bar. In fact, he was leaving everything for Mike. That was the price he paid for cleaning Joe out this evening.
"Richie," Methos called over his shoulder when he bent behind the bar to replace the bottles they'd taken out. "You better be here tomorrow to sweep this floor." Joe wondered why Methos felt the need to enforce the law sometimes, like he was ever in the mood to dole out any sort of punishment anyway. In this case, Joe didn't mind all that much because it meant less things to trip over on the floor, and that was made of goodness.
"Okay baby killer," Richie snickered. He slipped into his coat and slid his sword inside the lining.
Methos made a 'oh you're so funny but not really' face and turned back to the poker chips on the table, piling them into the holder. It wasn't like him to be so fastidious. Then again, he was probably waiting for Mac and Richie to leave so that he and Joe could conspiratorially look up immortals on the database.
"Baby killer," Mac said. "You named your sword baby killer?"
"Oh for god's sake," Methos said without turning back to them. Joe unplugged the jukebox and leaned against it for a moment. Bending down sucked. "You're fact checking with Richie?"
"He oils it with baby oil," Richie said smugly. Methos ignored him, but Mac smirked and grabbed his coat, hiding his face. Richie grinned at him, "I was handling it earlier."
"Really?" Mac asked as he shrugged on his jacket. "When was this?"
Richie thumbed towards the alley. Joe handed him a box of wings as he walked them to the door. Methos was already on his way to the back of the bar to get Joe's laptop. They were probably going to fake the entry on Bachman in Mac's Chronicle.
"Oh, when you were taking care of business." He grinned at Joe. "Get it? Taking care of business?"
Joe shoved the box in his hands. "I get it. Now go away." He raised an eyebrow at Mac. "You two are trouble."
Richie opened the door and let the cold night air in. Mac scooted past him and waited in the street. He was never very sociable after, well, the heads started rolling. Joe didn't blame him. "Hey, what about him?" Richie said indignantly, pointing at Methos, who had emerged from the office with the laptop and a bottle of something very amber and dusty. Jose Cuervo?
Joe shrugged. "He brings me presents." And then he shoved hard on Richie's chest and slammed the door, which was good, because the cold made his hands ache. Outside, he faintly heard Richie say something to the effect of 'Work out!'
"I don't bring you presents," Methos said, booting up the computer and hunching in front of the screen, running his hands through his short-cropped hair. "Unless you mean my scintillating wit and panache."
Joe batted him away from the screen. "Panache sounds like a pastry."
Methos snorted and took the dusty bottle from the table, wiping it down with his sleeve. "Right. Profiteroles, then?" Joe keyed in his password, shielding the keys from Methos. "I saw that. Your password is 'mobetterblues101.'"
Joe laughed and used his cane to drag a chair over to the laptop. "Profiteroles are a pastry." He paused before calling up the master list of current immortals. "Man, I wish I had some profiteroles."
Methos set the bottle down and made a face. "It's Old Crow. No wonder it was back there." He settled in the chair next to Joe. "But I know an all-night pastry shop."
Joe searched for Theolonius Bachman in the database. If there had been one good thing about Methos being a Watcher, it had been that he had dragged them all kicking and screaming (and with many faux pas) into the twentieth century. Today's young Watchers were all but booted into the net with phone jacks, and filed their reports multiple times a day from secured Blackberries.
"An all-night pastry shop? Really? Or do you mean Mel's Diner three blocks down?"
Methos shrugged. "You say pastry, I say pie." He paused. "Or am I saying pastry and you saying pie? Whatever." He looked over Joe's shoulder. "Not in there, huh?"
Joe straightened, and slammed the top of the laptop down. "Nope." He glanced at Methos. "This means only one thing, you know."
Methos handed him his coat and shrugged on his own. Joe passed his cane from one hand to the next as he thrust his arms into his sleeves. "That we can blow this off and pretend he never existed?" His face was earnest. "I don't really care either way, except in my version, we have pie."
"We make it up over pie," Joe answered, which was a pretty good compromise, if he did say so himself. He dug the keys to the front out of his pocket as he walked through the little tables. Behind him, he heard Methos locking the back door, though it was kind of useless, what with the plastic over the broken window and all. Good thing Joe had a safe. He turned about to get the laptop, but Methos had already put it back into its bag and shouldered the whole thing.
"You may not have that," he told him.
Methos handed over the bag and he slung the strap over one shoulder, so he wouldn't have to hold onto it. "Not even for pie? Not even for your second bestest buddy?"
Joe opened the door and let Methos leave first while he fiddled with the lock. Upon reflection, those wings had been ages ago, and he wanted something comforting in his stomach.
"No," he said, half-shutting the door and looking Methos in the eye. "Not even for my best buddy."
There was a split second when he saw something glimmer in Methos's eye, and he wondered what that meant then, that his best friend was Adam, and not Mac. Mac was a great friend, a noble and fierce friend, but he didn't send him ecards that said things like, 'Wishing you best on the anniversary of becoming three feet shorter,' or 'Thank you for allowing me to drink myself into a stupor on your credit card.' He didn't surreptitiously place Vicodin on the counter next to Joe whenever his face got that pained look after three hours standing up, and he certainly didn't play the wingman when the ladies came a-calling on Tuesday nights, when every female drank for half-off.
He thought to say something about all of this, to voice anything that might emphasize his point, to reassure Methos that he wasn't placating him, but before he could, Methos turned and started to walk in the direction of the diner. "Then you can buy me two slices of pie," he said over his shoulder.
The door clicked shut, and then the only sound was the contented hum of the neon sign.
END