FIC: Some Days Are Stranger Than Others
Title: Some Days Are Stranger Than Others
Author: Sapphire
Summary: Over the centuries of watching immortals, it wasn’t uncommon for a Watcher to stumble across unusual happenings completely unrelated to immortal events. Most of them panned out to be nothing but the recent string of shriveled, mummified-looking bodies in Joe’s district had apparently piqued Methos’ interest enough to insist on accompanying Joe to check out some abandoned warehouses in the dock district where the most recent bodies had turned up:
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Methos grumbled.
“When’s the last time anyone talked you into anything?” Joe grumbled right back. “You came because you wanted to so stop bitching about it.”
And so begins the adventure . . .
Beta: maisierita -- Many, many thanks for the tremendous help. This story wouldn’t be all that it could be without her. I’ve been struggling to get back into writing again and I doubt very much it would be happening without Maisie.
Challenge: Written for morgynleri_fic for hlh_shortcuts
Characters/Pairings: Methos (and Adam Pierson). Joe Dawson. John Sheppard. Rodney McKay. Teyla Emmagan. Ronon Dex.
Crossover: HL/SGA
Author’s Notes: This was not an easy fic to write. Creative writing in general has not come easily to me in recent years for one reason or another. I’ve never participated in one of the annual Santa gift challenges but this year I decided to give it a go. I decided to make it a personal challenge to not only write a fic for someone else (oh the guilt, the guilt if I didn’t get it done!), but to write a fic to encompass some of their wishes and to not only finish the story but finish it by a certain date. I figured if I couldn’t manage this then I was a lost cause for fanfic writing and it might be time to put away my shingle. Took me three tries to get to this fic out. The opening scene for one of the aborted tries (which might eventually turn into a full-fledged story) will be shared on my LJ in the next few days when I manage to spiff it up a bit. There will be naked Rodney McKay and Joe and Methos bantering. It might possibly turn into something really fun one of these days. ;) Meanwhile, I did manage to finish this fic for the challenge and it’s made me feel somewhat better about attempting to dive into writing again but I’m darned rusty and it’s still proving to be a bit of a struggle. I think the secret is to practice, practice, practice until it gets easy again. Here’s hoping ‘easy’ starts happening in 2008.
Published: December 15, 2007 at hlh_shortcuts
Rating: PG-13 for explicit language and violence.
Words: 5,956
Website: Archived on the LJ for now. Eventually (one of these years) it’ll go up at my website (http://musings.slashcity.net/)
SOME DAYS ARE STRANGER THAN OTHERS
by Sapphire
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Methos grumbled.
“When’s the last time anyone talked you into anything?” Joe grumbled right back. “You came because you wanted to so stop bitching about it.”
The ensuing silence as they made their way through the warehouse was broken only by the tap-tap-tap of Joe’s cane.
“How you ever manage to sneak up on anyone is a mystery to me,” Methos said.
“Oh, shut up already. You’re the one who was so engrossed in breaking into my laptop that I was able to sneak up and thump you with my cane.”
“You didn’t have to tell MacLeod about it.”
“Let it go, Methos. Your 5K mystique has worn off with us. Time you grew up and faced it.”
“If you say so, Dad.”
Methos stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. Joe halted in his tracks, watching Methos tilt his head to one side in listening mode.
While Joe waited for Methos’ signal to (a) proceed, (b) hide, or (c) run the hell for it, he recalled the escalating reports coming over Watcher channels in the last few weeks. As happened upon occasion, the reports weren’t always about immortal battles and beheadings. In fact, they weren’t even certain immortals were involved in this current mystery.
Over the centuries of watching immortals, it wasn’t uncommon for a Watcher to stumble across unusual happenings completely unrelated to immortal events. Most of them panned out to be nothing, but the recent string of shriveled, mummified-looking bodies in Joe’s district had apparently piqued Methos’ interest enough to insist on accompanying Joe to check out some abandoned warehouses in the dock district where the most recent bodies had turned up. Autopsies so far had turned up bodies with a mysterious looking mark on the victims’ chests along with some sort of apparent accelerated aging.
Joe and Methos were currently checking out their third warehouse and so far all they’d scared up was way too many rats, a few stray cats, and a couple of homeless individuals, both of whom had been adamant about steering clear of this particular warehouse, which, of course, had Joe and Methos heading directly for it.
Suddenly, Methos grabbed Joe and dragged him around a corner. “Stay here,” he instructed and then was gone in a flurry of flying coat, gun in hand, before Joe could even voice a protest.
After nearly five minutes of waiting, Joe had enough and was about to move out in the direction Methos had gone when an eerie stillness in the air behind him was the only warning he got. He turned as quickly as his legs would allow, bringing his gun up, but his gun arm was knocked aside, the weapon firing as it flew from his hand to skitter across the cement floor several yards away.
Joe had a brief impression of white hair and a snarling mouth before his assailant’s hand was around his throat, choking off his air supply as the attacker’s other hand hit him in the chest. Then there was pain. Terrible pain.
==\\==
Cursing, Methos circled back around. Whoever this was moved quickly and with a familiarity with the territory that put Methos at a disadvantage. Nevertheless, he recognized the signs of someone trying to come up on them from behind.
Methos broke into a run when he heard the gunshot.
The sight that greeted him as he skidded around the corner was of a large man, at least a couple of heads taller than Joe, choking the life out of his friend. Methos found himself hesitating purely out of disbelief for a horrible moment as he took in the scene. Joe’s grey-speckled hair was now snow-white. Even though he had seen many things in his long life, the sudden change in Joe’s appearance gave him pause.
Then Methos caught up to the moment and fired his gun at Joe’s attacker. He could hear the bullets impacting flesh but they didn’t seem to be slowing the attacker down, other than the man giving a slight twitch as if to ward off a pesky mosquito. Methos fired the rest of the bullets in the chamber, but when that didn’t slow the attacker down, Methos dropped the gun and pulled out a dagger, throwing it with deadly precision to hit the man under the arm. It sank to the hilt into the man’s left side, near the heart. There was a reaction this time, but not what Methos was expecting.
The attacker released his chokehold on Joe, but the other hand slammed against Joe’s chest with enough force to pin him against the wall. It was only then that Methos got his first clear look at Joe’s face. His skin had aged to the parchment-like skin of a dying eighty-year-old. Joe’s eyes, mere slits against the pain, found Methos’. Confusion and desperation were buried under pain in those familiar eyes. Methos tore his gaze away to target Joe’s attacker just in time to see his own dagger flying at him. He managed, barely, to sidestep the thrown weapon.
Methos pulled out his sword, but stopped in his tracks when the attacker turned to growl at him. Methos’ eyes narrowed. The . . . man . . . or whatever he was didn’t look human. His skin was tinged an oddly pale greenish color and his eyes . . . weren’t . . . human. Then the thing snarled, revealing a mouth-full of needle-sharp teeth that looked as if they could do quite a bit of damage all on their own. The attacker’s hand flexed on Joe’s chest, forcing a groaning gasp from Joe.
Methos swore under his breath as Joe seemed to age another ten years in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t certain what was happening here. He was getting no immortal vibe off the thing that had hold of Joe but it was clear it had some sort of power-that it was somehow taking Joe’s life with just a touch.
When Methos had first read the Watcher reports about withered bodies there had been a sensation of having encountered something similar before, but try as he might he was unable to remember. Seeing this . . . thing . . . in the flesh had the feel of awakening an old nightmare.
Memories, long ago buried, came rushing to the fore: a tribe of people and withered bodies amid terrified cries of Demon! Demon! Methos had seen firsthand what the demon had been capable of back then even though he had never been close enough to fall under its attack himself. Stories had been told of a monster who with one touch could eat one’s soul. Of course Methos hadn’t bought into that but the desiccated bodies had told of a being that was capable of killing in a way that was still unexplainable. The so-called demon who had done this ages ago had been taken down by the warriors of the people it preyed upon and then burned. Methos had only gotten a brief look at the being back then but it had looked like nearly identical to this thing now taking Joe’s life.
Cursing under his breath and acting purely on instinct, Methos charged forward, managing to insert himself between Joe and this monster who was stealing his friend’s life.
The creature growled its displeasure before moving faster than Methos could follow. He found himself pushed back against Joe when the thing’s hand slammed into his chest. Methos tried to catch his breath and found he couldn’t.
There was a moment of white hot pain and then Methos felt it. The energy. The Life. His Life. The thing’s Life. A great hunger. Their life essences intermingled, the hunger overpowering, and then, astonishingly, Methos could feel the thing pulling his life from him in a steady stream that was terrifying. Fear rose in Methos as he realized his immortality was, perhaps, no guarantee of survival against the power of this thing. That fear, however, was quickly slammed down and Methos the tactician took a mental step back, analyzing the situation.
He knew the moment the thing tasted his immortality, much richer than a mortal’s essence. The speed with which it was taking his life picked up pace as the creature consumed him in a gluttonous feeding frenzy.
Methos fought to remain calm. He had time. He had to have time. He had five thousand years of time. Surely, that was enough.
The logical part of him said that if there was power going out, the flow could be reversed. If the idea coming to life in his head worked, possibly he could save Joe as well as himself.
Firmly grasping the sword that was still in his right hand, Methos, aware of the fragile mortal behind him, ever so carefully maneuvered himself sideways so that Joe was at his left shoulder and the creature at his right. Looming over them both, the thing growled its displeasure at Methos’ movements but subsided when Methos made no further attempt to escape.
Without Methos pressed up against him, holding him in place, Joe started to slide down the wall. Methos grabbed for him with his left hand.
“Hang in there, Joe. Just a bit longer buddy.”
Weary blue eyes met his. Methos held that gaze, refusing to let him go. Evidently, Joe saw enough in Methos’ searing gaze to struggle to get his legs back under him, propping himself against the wall.
Methos nodded and gently placed his left hand on Joe’s chest, near the bloodied mark the creature had left. Joe grimaced but Methos had no time to worry about discomforts. His own life was being taken away by their attacker far too rapidly.
He turned his attention back to the creature that was siphoning his life away as if he were an unexpected treat after dinner. The aura of power surrounding the creature was a twisted, corrupt hunger that was dragging Methos into its bottomless black maw.
Methos grimaced. He had a vague feeling the thing was toying with him. Letting his anger grow, Methos used it to augment his will to beat this thing back. Summoning his strength and the eons of immortality that blazed fiercely within and refused to just sit down and give up, Methos snarled at the thing, “Give it back! It’s not yours to take!” And Methos pulled. He put his five thousand years worth of quickening behind his anger and yanked, halting the outpouring of his life into the thing and then, slowly but surely, reversed the power flow.
The creature, startled, tried to pull back, but this was Methos’ game now and he wasn’t about to release his victim. Not until this was over. “I’m not finished yet,” he viciously bit out. The creature snarled in outrage, unable to move away under Methos’ onslaught. It raised its free arm to strike at Methos but he was prepared. He brought his sword up and hacked off the creature’s left arm. Its roar of pain and fury brought a triumphant grin to Methos that would have been all too familiar to Kronos many lifetimes ago.
Methos’ gaze burned into his attacker’s slit-like pupils, letting the thing know this was only over when he proclaimed it over. Bearing down, he concentrated, hoping this would work-that he could be a conduit to give Joe’s life back to him.
The energy he pulled from the creature surged through him, coiling around his own quickening and filling him with the bright vitality of life. Methos forced the surge of life force away, compelling it to move through him to the point where his own palm rested near Joe’s heart, a heart whose beat was frighteningly weak. Methos put all he was into the attempt to put back what had been stolen from Joe.
Moments passed and then Methos felt it take-felt Joe’s dying body, thirsting for life, take hold and eagerly embrace what Methos was offering, using it to replenish the prematurely aged body. Methos broke the deadlocked gaze with the creature and turned, half-afraid he wouldn’t see what he hoped for.
But his fear was for naught; it was working. Joe’s aging had reversed and he was beginning to look like his old self. Methos pushed, giving Joe as much as he could but was finally forced into retaining some of the life essence for himself. This had taken a huge toll on his own body and he knew he needed to keep enough of the energy pouring through him to control the flow into Joe as well as have the energy to finish off this creature who had been preying on helpless humans.
Minutes went by and, finally, Methos saw the Joe he was used to seeing. The salt and pepper hair was no longer snow white and thinning and Joe’s face was back to its fairly hale and healthy appearance.
Methos gave a last push, giving Joe what he could, then released the Watcher, who slid down the wall to collapse into a loose heap on the floor.
Ripping the creature’s hand from his chest, Methos took a stumbling step away. Straightening to his full height, he pivoted around, bringing his sword up and cleaving a clean arc through the air. The creature’s head went flying just as a strange energy enveloped the creature and touched upon Methos’ sword, traveling down its length to send a jolt of heart-stopping energy through Methos.
Methos collapsed in a puddle of unconsciousness beside Joe’s unmoving body.
==//==
Ronon Dex moved quickly for a man who was six-foot-five. His dreadlocks and long-coat flew about him as, on the run, he fired his weapon at the Wraith. Its head went flying. He stopped, surprised, looking at his weapon. It had never managed to take an enemy’s head off before. When he looked back up, he saw a man beyond the Wraith. As the Wraith went down, Ronon spotted the sword in the man’s hand just as he wobbled on his feet and then he was down as well.
Ronon and the others warily approached the scene. Ronon kicked at the Wraith’s severed head and it went rolling. “I like his style.” He indicated the either unconscious or dead man who, still clutching his sword, lay on the ground.
Rodney McKay, self-proclaimed genius astrophysicist, snorted. “You would.” Rodney stared at the downed man. “The Wraith had him . . .” He trailed off in confusion, looking over at Sheppard, who was checking their perimeter. “Didn’t it? The Wraith had his hand on his chest. Right?”
“The Wraith had his hand on his chest,” confirmed Sheppard, lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Air Force and team leader.
“Well, he’s not dead!” retorted Rodney, as if offended by the man’s ability to survive a Wraith attack. “Is he?” he asked Teyla, who had knelt beside the two fallen men.
“They are both alive,” she confirmed as she checked both men for weapons.
“Huh.” Ronon double-checked his blaster. “He shouldn’t be. I had my weapon set on kill.”
Sheppard joined the rest of his team. “He was swinging that sword about the same time you shot the Wraith, wasn’t he? He must have taken a partial hit.” Sheppard gave Ronon a nudge. “What have I told you about keeping your weapon set on stun unless I tell you otherwise?”
Ronon shrugged. “You wanted the Wraith alive?”
“Well, no. But I’d prefer his victims weren’t killed by us.”
“John.”
Sheppard looked down to where Teyla knelt between the two men. He gazed at the impressive display of knives and guns she had liberated from the younger man. “You sure he’s not related to you?” he asked Ronon, who just grinned.
“What’s he doing carrying an armory around with him?” asked Rodney.
“Good question,” said Sheppard. “But aren’t you glad Teyla checked so he didn’t rise from the dead and kill you?”
McKay snorted. “He’s not dead. Despite Conan’s best attempt.”
Teyla had pulled aside the older man’s shirt to reveal a Wraith feeding mark. There was another similar reddish mark near that one. Sheppard crouched down by the younger man, twitching his overcoat aside to find a bloodied mark on his shirt. Rifling through the man’s pockets, he located a wallet, which he flipped open. Pulling out the driver’s license, he was relieved to see the man’s appearance in the photo looked the same as the unconscious man.
“Doesn’t look like he’s been aged,” said Sheppard.
Following his moves, Teyla had likewise located the other man’s wallet. She held the man’s license up for Sheppard to see. “He, too, looks as he should.” She paused. “Yet, they both have feeding marks.”
“Nobody’s that lucky,” scoffed Rodney, who waggled his fingers in an impatient ‘gimme’ motion at Sheppard.
Sheppard took both licenses and, standing, handed them to Rodney, who pulled out a digital camera and snapped pictures of them.
Sheppard tapped the radio on his shoulder. “Sheppard to Daedalus.”
“Caldwell here. What have you got, Sheppard?”
“One dead Wraith and two injured civilians.”
“Status of the civilians?”
“Both unconscious. Both with feeding marks but neither show any noticeable signs of aging. I guess the Wraith didn’t have enough time to feed.” Sheppard paused. He could hear distant sirens quickly approaching their location. “Colonel, one of the civilians decapitated the Wraith with a sword just as we arrived on the scene.”
There was a moment of startled silence before Caldwell came back on the radio. “My XO tells me the local law enforcement are headed in your direction. Can the civilians be left on-site?”
Sheppard looked at Teyla, who nodded. “They don’t seem to be in immediate medical danger,” he told Caldwell.
“Are you crazy?” interjected Rodney. “What about what they’ll tell the police?”
Sheppard turned to McKay. “What are they going to tell them, McKay? That there was a creature here who attacked them with its hand? And they killed it before it killed them? Where’s the creature? Where’s the body?”
McKay didn’t bother to point out the body was right there. He knew it would soon be up on the Daedalus. Still, he couldn’t help but argue the point, or at least protest the ease with which the military was able to cover up the evidence. “There were gunshots!” he protested.
“But there won’t be any weapons,” said Sheppard as he turned his attention back to Caldwell on the radio.
“Colonel, we could use a large body bag and a sanitation kit down here on the double.”
“On its way,” Caldwell confirmed as the requested items appeared in a transport beam. “You don’t have much time, Sheppard. Local law enforcement will be on the scene shortly.”
“Understood. Sheppard out.”
Sheppard turned to Ronon. “We’re not going to have time to do a full sanitize of the place. Gather up all the weapons and anything else that might have Wraith DNA on it.”
Ronon held up the sword the unconscious man had used to decapitate the Wraith. “We taking this too?”
Sheppard eyed the sword. It was obviously an antique but also obviously well-used. It also quite obviously had Wraith blood on it. “Bag it,” he told Ronon.
Ronon turned the sword over in his hand, getting the feel of it. “He’s gonna be pissed.”
Sheppard glanced down at the man who had managed to defeat a Wraith then back at Ronon. “Can’t be helped,” he said.
As Ronon went to gather the other weapons strewn about, John looked down at Teyla who still crouched between the two men. “Keep an eye on them. Let me know if they show signs of coming ‘round.” He pointed at the younger man’s overcoat. “There’s Wraith blood on that. It’ll have to come with us.”
“I will see to it,” Teyla reassured him.
“Come on, Rodney,” said Sheppard as he grabbed the body bag.
“Why do I always get garbage duty?” whined Rodney.
“Suck it up, McKay. It’s not every day you get to run around on Earth playing hero.”
“I bet Batman never had to deal with cleanup,” McKay grumbled as he helped Sheppard lift the headless Wraith into the body bag.
==//==
Minutes later, with the approaching sirens growing ever nearer, Methos dared open his eyes to take a peek just in time to see everything, the mysterious foursome, body bag, and his Ivanhoe, disappear in a flash of light.
“What the hell?” sputtered Joe and Methos was relieved to discover that Joe had been faking his unconsciousness as well.
“You okay, Joe?” asked Methos as he sprang to his feet.
“Been better.”
“We need to get out of here.”
“You think?” grumbled Joe, aware of the approaching sirens. He held out a hand and Methos helped lever him back to his feet, where Joe swayed unsteadily.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Just get us out of here. The bastards took my cane.”
“They took my sword.”
“Like you need that to walk.”
“They took my coat too.”
“Whatever.”
“I liked that coat, Joe.”
“You mean MacLeod liked that coat.”
“He shouldn’t leave his closet unlocked.”
“I think he was counting on the front door keeping you out.”
The bickering continued as they scrambled to get out of the warehouse and away from the docks area before the police arrived. Its normalcy was reassuring as neither man wanted to admit quite yet that they were both a bit unsettled by what had just happened.
==//==
Methos had driven them back to Joe’s house. Once there, Methos had deposited Joe in his bedroom where he could ditch the prosthetics and relax in his wheelchair. Joe had waved Methos off at that point, indicating the immortal should go take a shower because he smelled.
Methos had gone willingly enough. Maybe too willingly.
Now, fresh from the shower himself an hour later, Joe wheeled himself out to the living room, hoping the immortal hadn’t taken off for parts unknown, not to be seen again for months.
Joe was worried about Methos. The immortal had been looking strangely wiped out while Joe, on the other hand, had been feeling invigorated. It was like being on an adrenaline high and not coming down from it.
He finally found Methos. He was wrapped up in Joe’s bathrobe and sound asleep on the couch. Frowning at the purple shadows under Methos’ eyes, Joe rubbed at his own chest. The place where that thing-Wraith those other people had called it-had grabbed his chest had strange puncture wounds and was sore as hell. Next to that mark was another, reddish as if from a bad sunburn. Joe hadn’t been fully aware of what was going on, but he was pretty sure the second mark was where Methos had touched him.
On a hunch, Joe leaned forward and moved the lapel of the bathrobe aside. Methos had the same puncture wounds on his chest and they didn’t appear to be healing. It made no sense. Immortal healing should have restored Methos’ body by now.
One of Methos’ eyes popped open. “You done groping me?”
“You wish!” Joe grumped back.
Leaning back in his wheelchair, he asked, “What’s going on, Methos?”
Methos reluctantly abandoned his loose-limbed sprawl on the couch. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up, scrubbing a hand tiredly over his face.
“Would you believe me if I said I haven’t a clue?”
Nothing but silence answered Methos.
He met Joe’s gaze. “I really don’t know, Joe. I can hazard some guesses.” Methos eyed him critically. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Methos stood, approaching Joe’s wheelchair to check him over but when he reached for Joe, Joe slapped his hands away.
“I told you I’m fine. You’re the one who looks like hell.”
At that moment Methos teetered on his feet and Joe ended up reaching out to steady him. “Go sit down before you fall over,” he said gruffly.
Once Methos was reseated, Joe headed for the bar in one corner of his living room and grabbed a couple of glasses and a bottle of Scotch.
After they’d both had time for the Scotch to hit their systems, Joe tried again.
“What was that thing?”
Methos was loose-limbed again, sprawled across the couch. “Not sure. They called it a wraith.”
“Felt a little too solid for a ghost.” Joe eyed Methos. “You’ve seen one of ‘em before.”
“Yeah.” Methos sipped his Scotch. “It was a long time ago.”
“Everything is with you,” Joe said wryly.
Joe thought about what he’d felt in those minutes before Methos had intervened. “It didn’t feel . . . human,” he ventured, hoping Methos wasn’t going to ridicule him for that.
“No.” Methos looked thoughtful. “I think you might have met your first alien, Joe.”
A voice inside Joe was clamoring about the surrealism of it all but in his gut he knew Methos was right. That thing hadn’t felt of Earth; he couldn’t pinpoint how he knew that-he just did.
“What did it do to me?” he asked.
Methos shrugged. “It was killing you,” he replied evasively.
“I know that, you idiot,” Joe shot back. He shivered at the memory of it. It had felt like it was . . . taking something from him. Suddenly he had felt old and worn-out. It had been creepy, and scary as hell.
Methos took another healthy swallow of his Scotch. “When I ran across the other one, it had been preying on the locals, leaving desiccated bodies in its wake. The one time I saw it attack a victim, it put its hand to the victim’s chest and, quite literally, seemed to suck the life out of him.” Methos stared into his drink. “The villagers called it Soul-Eater.”
Joe’s mind went blank for a moment before he snapped out of it. “Jesus Christ,” he swore softly. “Is that what it was doing to me?”
Methos’ gaze met his and the immortal’s eyes said it all.
“But I don’t understand,” Joe fumbled. He had a vague recollection of Methos breaking the creature’s hold on him and then Methos’ hand on his chest and this feeling of . . . Joe wasn’t sure what to call it. Light? Power? It had been vibrant and alive and he had soaked it up like a sponge. He stared at the immortal, seeing all the signs of fatigue that he himself should be feeling but wasn’t. “What the hell did you do?”
Methos shrugged. “Just took back what belonged to you.”
“At what cost?” Joe was angry now. “What did that thing do to you?”
“Don’t worry about it, Joe.” Methos tapped his temple with a fingertip. “Takes a licking but keeps on ticking.”
Joe’s breath huffed out of him in an exasperated groan. He could tell he wasn’t going to get any more out of Methos about this. At least not tonight, if ever.
Filling their glasses again, Joe said, more lighthearted, “It was kind of Star Trekish, wasn’t it? You think the government has secret spaceships with transporters and phasers?”
“Stranger things have been known to happen,” Methos said.
Looking at his five thousand year old friend, Joe had to agree.
==\\==
Joe awoke the next morning to find Methos gone. It wasn’t unexpected. What with the government types who had ID’d both of them, he suspected Methos, aka Adam Pierson, would lie low for a while. What was unexpected was that Methos had actually left a message this time.
Leaning against the couch was a new cane for Joe. There was a note taped to it.
Surprised you didn’t think of this years ago.
See you in a few months.
Joe looked the cane over. It was nothing fancy but solidly built. On a hunch, Joe twisted the handle. It came loose and Joe pulled out a long thin sword. Chuckling, he put the sword back, pleased with the gift.
After Methos had fallen asleep the night before, Joe had done some digging online on the names they had picked up from the mysterious foursome. If he had the right people, Joe had to wonder what an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel was doing running around with a Canadian astrophysicist and chasing down . . . space aliens? Joe shook his head. Most likely, he’d never know.
He still wasn’t sure about the hypothesized spaceships he and Methos had joked about either. However, having his own experience with secret organizations, Joe wouldn’t put it past the military and government to have some huge secret that involved spaceships and aliens.
For now, Joe was content to keep to his more Earthly secrets of immortals and watchers, and if the others came looking, hopefully he could keep them off Methos’ trail.
EPILOGUE
FIVE MONTHS LATER
“You Joe Dawson, owner of this fine establishment?” a voice from the other side of the bar asked.
His back to the bar, Joe frowned. The voice had a vague Irish lilt to it that was obviously faked. Turning to face the owner of the voice, he blinked.
“Jack O’Neill?”
The man grinned good-naturedly and Joe grasped the other man’s hand in a heartfelt handshake. “How the hell are you? And your Irish accent is just as bad as it always was.”
“It was either that or Homer Simpson,” replied O’Neill. He glanced around at the bar. “Looks like you’re doing pretty well for yourself.” His eyes fell on the stage. “You still playing that beat-up guitar and fooling folks into thinking you can actually sing?”
“At least I can carry a tune,” Joe shot back.
O’Neill held up his hands. “You were the one who insisted I get up on stage and be your backup singer. Good thing it only lasted one night, huh?”
They grinned at each other while remembering a time that seemed another lifetime ago.
“You still a Guinness man?” Joe asked as O’Neill seated himself on a barstool.
“If you’ve got it.”
Joe set an opened bottle in front of him. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
O’Neill took a long drink of the Guinness before answering. “Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d look you up.”
Joe paused, acknowledging a customer who had just walked in and waving him over to a table. He nodded to Jenny to take the customer’s usual over to the table, then turned back to O’Neill. “You still in the Air Force?”
“Made General. Can you believe it?”
Joe shook his head remembering a younger and brash Jack O’Neill whose stubborn streak had a tendency to get him in trouble with his CO’s. “Only in the Air Force.”
“Hey! No dissing my alma mater.” O’Neill paused, playing around with his drink coaster.
Joe recognized a stalling tactic when he saw one. “What are you really doing here, Jack?”
Joe didn’t think it was a coincidence that he had an Air Force General, whom he hadn’t seen in over a decade, on his front step five months after his encounter with another Air Force officer. He suppressed a shiver at the memory of that creature and how it had nearly killed him. Was the creature some military experiment gone bad or an alien of some sort or something completely unthought of? He stared at Jack O’Neill and wondered what his involvement with all this was.
“Heard you got yourself into a bit of a predicament a few months ago,” O’Neill finally said.
Joe shrugged. “Got myself out of it too.”
“With the help of a friend who carries a sword?”
“Forget my friend. Star Trek’s got nothing on you people. Phasers. Transporters.” Joe leaned in closer. “What the hell is a daedalus?”
Jack’s eyes widened in what was obviously faked surprise. “Didn’t know you were into sci fi, Joe.”
“Didn’t know you were into space aliens,” Joe shot back.
Jack didn’t confirm or deny, just placidly took another drink of his Guinness.
Joe attempted a more indirect direct question. “So, no recent Close Encounters of the Third Kind?”
O’Neill considered his beer for a long moment before commenting off-handedly, “I’ve always been more of an Independence Day guy myself.”
Jesus, Joe hoped Jack wasn’t saying what he thought he was saying. Deep down, though, he knew he was. Joe had enough trouble keeping up with certain immortals; he really didn’t need to add aliens into the mix. Running a hand over his beard, he said, “Guess the Air Force is flying high these days, huh?”
“You could say that,” agreed Jack. “Listen,” he said as he stood and pulled on his jacket, “I really came here just to return something.” Reaching down, he hefted a long oblong container up onto the bar and shoved it in Joe’s direction.
Raising his brows at Jack in inquiry, the other man indicated he should open the container. Joe unlatched the lid, lifted it and found himself staring at Methos’ Ivanhoe.
“Thought your friend might like to have that back,” offered Jack, “seeing as how it’s not a replica.”
Seeing Methos’ sword had Joe flashing on that day five months ago. Involuntarily, his hand went to his chest, rubbing at where the creature had attacked him and Methos had healed him. When he looked back up, he saw acknowledgment in Jack’s eyes in recognition of the hand-to-chest motion. Joe’s voice, when he spoke, was a bit gruff.
“Don’t suppose you brought my cane too?”
“I’m already bending the rules quite a bit just by being here,” Jack said.
“Yeah, sure.” Joe pulled himself together. “You always were good at bending the rules.”
Jack eyed him. “Still won’t tell me?”
Joe shook his head, a faint grin playing about his mouth. “You?”
“Naw.” Jack waved a hand. “I might have to kill you or something if I did.”
The two men shook hands again.
“It was good seeing you again, Jack.”
“You too, Joe. Try to stay out of trouble, hmm?”
Jack headed for the door but once there he paused, turning toward a table in the bar where the recent arrival had seated himself and was sipping on a beer. Waving in that general direction, Jack called, “Nice not meeting you, Pierson. And, by the way? The little naked grey guys are good guys. Try not to take them out with your sword.”
He was out the door and gone before anything more could be said.
Joe’s gaze moved to Methos. Methos shrugged.
“That’s it? Five months and I get a shrug?”
“Sorry, Joe. Forgot the flowers again.”
“You big fraud,” accused Joe as he walked around the end of the bar and approached the table. “You’ve been shadowing me for a couple of days, haven’t you?”
“Actually, I was following your buddy Jack. He likes his steak medium rare. He’d rather drive a truck than a sports car. And before his current gig he was stationed in Colorado Springs for several years at a base that specializes in telemetry.”
“Telemetry? Jack?” Joe scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
Methos shrugged, then nodded at the container on the bar. “What’s in the box?”
Joe grinned. “Go take a look.”
Methos did just that. Joe watched Methos reach in the box and gently touch the sword as if greeting a long lost friend. Then the moment was over and Methos was back at the table. They looked at each other.
“Spaceships?” said Joe.
“Transporters,” replied Methos.
“Big ugly ass aliens,” shot back Joe.
“What about the little grey guys?” Methos’ lips quirked.
“He wasn’t serious about that, was he?” asked Joe.
“Do you really want to know?” Methos was wearing that inscrutable expression that drove Joe nuts.
Oh yeah, Joe thought, some days were definitely stranger than others.
________
-End
Author: Sapphire
Summary: Over the centuries of watching immortals, it wasn’t uncommon for a Watcher to stumble across unusual happenings completely unrelated to immortal events. Most of them panned out to be nothing but the recent string of shriveled, mummified-looking bodies in Joe’s district had apparently piqued Methos’ interest enough to insist on accompanying Joe to check out some abandoned warehouses in the dock district where the most recent bodies had turned up:
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Methos grumbled.
“When’s the last time anyone talked you into anything?” Joe grumbled right back. “You came because you wanted to so stop bitching about it.”
And so begins the adventure . . .
Beta: maisierita -- Many, many thanks for the tremendous help. This story wouldn’t be all that it could be without her. I’ve been struggling to get back into writing again and I doubt very much it would be happening without Maisie.
Challenge: Written for morgynleri_fic for hlh_shortcuts
Characters/Pairings: Methos (and Adam Pierson). Joe Dawson. John Sheppard. Rodney McKay. Teyla Emmagan. Ronon Dex.
Crossover: HL/SGA
Author’s Notes: This was not an easy fic to write. Creative writing in general has not come easily to me in recent years for one reason or another. I’ve never participated in one of the annual Santa gift challenges but this year I decided to give it a go. I decided to make it a personal challenge to not only write a fic for someone else (oh the guilt, the guilt if I didn’t get it done!), but to write a fic to encompass some of their wishes and to not only finish the story but finish it by a certain date. I figured if I couldn’t manage this then I was a lost cause for fanfic writing and it might be time to put away my shingle. Took me three tries to get to this fic out. The opening scene for one of the aborted tries (which might eventually turn into a full-fledged story) will be shared on my LJ in the next few days when I manage to spiff it up a bit. There will be naked Rodney McKay and Joe and Methos bantering. It might possibly turn into something really fun one of these days. ;) Meanwhile, I did manage to finish this fic for the challenge and it’s made me feel somewhat better about attempting to dive into writing again but I’m darned rusty and it’s still proving to be a bit of a struggle. I think the secret is to practice, practice, practice until it gets easy again. Here’s hoping ‘easy’ starts happening in 2008.
Published: December 15, 2007 at hlh_shortcuts
Rating: PG-13 for explicit language and violence.
Words: 5,956
Website: Archived on the LJ for now. Eventually (one of these years) it’ll go up at my website (http://musings.slashcity.net/)
SOME DAYS ARE STRANGER THAN OTHERS
by Sapphire
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Methos grumbled.
“When’s the last time anyone talked you into anything?” Joe grumbled right back. “You came because you wanted to so stop bitching about it.”
The ensuing silence as they made their way through the warehouse was broken only by the tap-tap-tap of Joe’s cane.
“How you ever manage to sneak up on anyone is a mystery to me,” Methos said.
“Oh, shut up already. You’re the one who was so engrossed in breaking into my laptop that I was able to sneak up and thump you with my cane.”
“You didn’t have to tell MacLeod about it.”
“Let it go, Methos. Your 5K mystique has worn off with us. Time you grew up and faced it.”
“If you say so, Dad.”
Methos stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. Joe halted in his tracks, watching Methos tilt his head to one side in listening mode.
While Joe waited for Methos’ signal to (a) proceed, (b) hide, or (c) run the hell for it, he recalled the escalating reports coming over Watcher channels in the last few weeks. As happened upon occasion, the reports weren’t always about immortal battles and beheadings. In fact, they weren’t even certain immortals were involved in this current mystery.
Over the centuries of watching immortals, it wasn’t uncommon for a Watcher to stumble across unusual happenings completely unrelated to immortal events. Most of them panned out to be nothing, but the recent string of shriveled, mummified-looking bodies in Joe’s district had apparently piqued Methos’ interest enough to insist on accompanying Joe to check out some abandoned warehouses in the dock district where the most recent bodies had turned up. Autopsies so far had turned up bodies with a mysterious looking mark on the victims’ chests along with some sort of apparent accelerated aging.
Joe and Methos were currently checking out their third warehouse and so far all they’d scared up was way too many rats, a few stray cats, and a couple of homeless individuals, both of whom had been adamant about steering clear of this particular warehouse, which, of course, had Joe and Methos heading directly for it.
Suddenly, Methos grabbed Joe and dragged him around a corner. “Stay here,” he instructed and then was gone in a flurry of flying coat, gun in hand, before Joe could even voice a protest.
After nearly five minutes of waiting, Joe had enough and was about to move out in the direction Methos had gone when an eerie stillness in the air behind him was the only warning he got. He turned as quickly as his legs would allow, bringing his gun up, but his gun arm was knocked aside, the weapon firing as it flew from his hand to skitter across the cement floor several yards away.
Joe had a brief impression of white hair and a snarling mouth before his assailant’s hand was around his throat, choking off his air supply as the attacker’s other hand hit him in the chest. Then there was pain. Terrible pain.
==\\==
Cursing, Methos circled back around. Whoever this was moved quickly and with a familiarity with the territory that put Methos at a disadvantage. Nevertheless, he recognized the signs of someone trying to come up on them from behind.
Methos broke into a run when he heard the gunshot.
The sight that greeted him as he skidded around the corner was of a large man, at least a couple of heads taller than Joe, choking the life out of his friend. Methos found himself hesitating purely out of disbelief for a horrible moment as he took in the scene. Joe’s grey-speckled hair was now snow-white. Even though he had seen many things in his long life, the sudden change in Joe’s appearance gave him pause.
Then Methos caught up to the moment and fired his gun at Joe’s attacker. He could hear the bullets impacting flesh but they didn’t seem to be slowing the attacker down, other than the man giving a slight twitch as if to ward off a pesky mosquito. Methos fired the rest of the bullets in the chamber, but when that didn’t slow the attacker down, Methos dropped the gun and pulled out a dagger, throwing it with deadly precision to hit the man under the arm. It sank to the hilt into the man’s left side, near the heart. There was a reaction this time, but not what Methos was expecting.
The attacker released his chokehold on Joe, but the other hand slammed against Joe’s chest with enough force to pin him against the wall. It was only then that Methos got his first clear look at Joe’s face. His skin had aged to the parchment-like skin of a dying eighty-year-old. Joe’s eyes, mere slits against the pain, found Methos’. Confusion and desperation were buried under pain in those familiar eyes. Methos tore his gaze away to target Joe’s attacker just in time to see his own dagger flying at him. He managed, barely, to sidestep the thrown weapon.
Methos pulled out his sword, but stopped in his tracks when the attacker turned to growl at him. Methos’ eyes narrowed. The . . . man . . . or whatever he was didn’t look human. His skin was tinged an oddly pale greenish color and his eyes . . . weren’t . . . human. Then the thing snarled, revealing a mouth-full of needle-sharp teeth that looked as if they could do quite a bit of damage all on their own. The attacker’s hand flexed on Joe’s chest, forcing a groaning gasp from Joe.
Methos swore under his breath as Joe seemed to age another ten years in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t certain what was happening here. He was getting no immortal vibe off the thing that had hold of Joe but it was clear it had some sort of power-that it was somehow taking Joe’s life with just a touch.
When Methos had first read the Watcher reports about withered bodies there had been a sensation of having encountered something similar before, but try as he might he was unable to remember. Seeing this . . . thing . . . in the flesh had the feel of awakening an old nightmare.
Memories, long ago buried, came rushing to the fore: a tribe of people and withered bodies amid terrified cries of Demon! Demon! Methos had seen firsthand what the demon had been capable of back then even though he had never been close enough to fall under its attack himself. Stories had been told of a monster who with one touch could eat one’s soul. Of course Methos hadn’t bought into that but the desiccated bodies had told of a being that was capable of killing in a way that was still unexplainable. The so-called demon who had done this ages ago had been taken down by the warriors of the people it preyed upon and then burned. Methos had only gotten a brief look at the being back then but it had looked like nearly identical to this thing now taking Joe’s life.
Cursing under his breath and acting purely on instinct, Methos charged forward, managing to insert himself between Joe and this monster who was stealing his friend’s life.
The creature growled its displeasure before moving faster than Methos could follow. He found himself pushed back against Joe when the thing’s hand slammed into his chest. Methos tried to catch his breath and found he couldn’t.
There was a moment of white hot pain and then Methos felt it. The energy. The Life. His Life. The thing’s Life. A great hunger. Their life essences intermingled, the hunger overpowering, and then, astonishingly, Methos could feel the thing pulling his life from him in a steady stream that was terrifying. Fear rose in Methos as he realized his immortality was, perhaps, no guarantee of survival against the power of this thing. That fear, however, was quickly slammed down and Methos the tactician took a mental step back, analyzing the situation.
He knew the moment the thing tasted his immortality, much richer than a mortal’s essence. The speed with which it was taking his life picked up pace as the creature consumed him in a gluttonous feeding frenzy.
Methos fought to remain calm. He had time. He had to have time. He had five thousand years of time. Surely, that was enough.
The logical part of him said that if there was power going out, the flow could be reversed. If the idea coming to life in his head worked, possibly he could save Joe as well as himself.
Firmly grasping the sword that was still in his right hand, Methos, aware of the fragile mortal behind him, ever so carefully maneuvered himself sideways so that Joe was at his left shoulder and the creature at his right. Looming over them both, the thing growled its displeasure at Methos’ movements but subsided when Methos made no further attempt to escape.
Without Methos pressed up against him, holding him in place, Joe started to slide down the wall. Methos grabbed for him with his left hand.
“Hang in there, Joe. Just a bit longer buddy.”
Weary blue eyes met his. Methos held that gaze, refusing to let him go. Evidently, Joe saw enough in Methos’ searing gaze to struggle to get his legs back under him, propping himself against the wall.
Methos nodded and gently placed his left hand on Joe’s chest, near the bloodied mark the creature had left. Joe grimaced but Methos had no time to worry about discomforts. His own life was being taken away by their attacker far too rapidly.
He turned his attention back to the creature that was siphoning his life away as if he were an unexpected treat after dinner. The aura of power surrounding the creature was a twisted, corrupt hunger that was dragging Methos into its bottomless black maw.
Methos grimaced. He had a vague feeling the thing was toying with him. Letting his anger grow, Methos used it to augment his will to beat this thing back. Summoning his strength and the eons of immortality that blazed fiercely within and refused to just sit down and give up, Methos snarled at the thing, “Give it back! It’s not yours to take!” And Methos pulled. He put his five thousand years worth of quickening behind his anger and yanked, halting the outpouring of his life into the thing and then, slowly but surely, reversed the power flow.
The creature, startled, tried to pull back, but this was Methos’ game now and he wasn’t about to release his victim. Not until this was over. “I’m not finished yet,” he viciously bit out. The creature snarled in outrage, unable to move away under Methos’ onslaught. It raised its free arm to strike at Methos but he was prepared. He brought his sword up and hacked off the creature’s left arm. Its roar of pain and fury brought a triumphant grin to Methos that would have been all too familiar to Kronos many lifetimes ago.
Methos’ gaze burned into his attacker’s slit-like pupils, letting the thing know this was only over when he proclaimed it over. Bearing down, he concentrated, hoping this would work-that he could be a conduit to give Joe’s life back to him.
The energy he pulled from the creature surged through him, coiling around his own quickening and filling him with the bright vitality of life. Methos forced the surge of life force away, compelling it to move through him to the point where his own palm rested near Joe’s heart, a heart whose beat was frighteningly weak. Methos put all he was into the attempt to put back what had been stolen from Joe.
Moments passed and then Methos felt it take-felt Joe’s dying body, thirsting for life, take hold and eagerly embrace what Methos was offering, using it to replenish the prematurely aged body. Methos broke the deadlocked gaze with the creature and turned, half-afraid he wouldn’t see what he hoped for.
But his fear was for naught; it was working. Joe’s aging had reversed and he was beginning to look like his old self. Methos pushed, giving Joe as much as he could but was finally forced into retaining some of the life essence for himself. This had taken a huge toll on his own body and he knew he needed to keep enough of the energy pouring through him to control the flow into Joe as well as have the energy to finish off this creature who had been preying on helpless humans.
Minutes went by and, finally, Methos saw the Joe he was used to seeing. The salt and pepper hair was no longer snow white and thinning and Joe’s face was back to its fairly hale and healthy appearance.
Methos gave a last push, giving Joe what he could, then released the Watcher, who slid down the wall to collapse into a loose heap on the floor.
Ripping the creature’s hand from his chest, Methos took a stumbling step away. Straightening to his full height, he pivoted around, bringing his sword up and cleaving a clean arc through the air. The creature’s head went flying just as a strange energy enveloped the creature and touched upon Methos’ sword, traveling down its length to send a jolt of heart-stopping energy through Methos.
Methos collapsed in a puddle of unconsciousness beside Joe’s unmoving body.
==//==
Ronon Dex moved quickly for a man who was six-foot-five. His dreadlocks and long-coat flew about him as, on the run, he fired his weapon at the Wraith. Its head went flying. He stopped, surprised, looking at his weapon. It had never managed to take an enemy’s head off before. When he looked back up, he saw a man beyond the Wraith. As the Wraith went down, Ronon spotted the sword in the man’s hand just as he wobbled on his feet and then he was down as well.
Ronon and the others warily approached the scene. Ronon kicked at the Wraith’s severed head and it went rolling. “I like his style.” He indicated the either unconscious or dead man who, still clutching his sword, lay on the ground.
Rodney McKay, self-proclaimed genius astrophysicist, snorted. “You would.” Rodney stared at the downed man. “The Wraith had him . . .” He trailed off in confusion, looking over at Sheppard, who was checking their perimeter. “Didn’t it? The Wraith had his hand on his chest. Right?”
“The Wraith had his hand on his chest,” confirmed Sheppard, lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Air Force and team leader.
“Well, he’s not dead!” retorted Rodney, as if offended by the man’s ability to survive a Wraith attack. “Is he?” he asked Teyla, who had knelt beside the two fallen men.
“They are both alive,” she confirmed as she checked both men for weapons.
“Huh.” Ronon double-checked his blaster. “He shouldn’t be. I had my weapon set on kill.”
Sheppard joined the rest of his team. “He was swinging that sword about the same time you shot the Wraith, wasn’t he? He must have taken a partial hit.” Sheppard gave Ronon a nudge. “What have I told you about keeping your weapon set on stun unless I tell you otherwise?”
Ronon shrugged. “You wanted the Wraith alive?”
“Well, no. But I’d prefer his victims weren’t killed by us.”
“John.”
Sheppard looked down to where Teyla knelt between the two men. He gazed at the impressive display of knives and guns she had liberated from the younger man. “You sure he’s not related to you?” he asked Ronon, who just grinned.
“What’s he doing carrying an armory around with him?” asked Rodney.
“Good question,” said Sheppard. “But aren’t you glad Teyla checked so he didn’t rise from the dead and kill you?”
McKay snorted. “He’s not dead. Despite Conan’s best attempt.”
Teyla had pulled aside the older man’s shirt to reveal a Wraith feeding mark. There was another similar reddish mark near that one. Sheppard crouched down by the younger man, twitching his overcoat aside to find a bloodied mark on his shirt. Rifling through the man’s pockets, he located a wallet, which he flipped open. Pulling out the driver’s license, he was relieved to see the man’s appearance in the photo looked the same as the unconscious man.
“Doesn’t look like he’s been aged,” said Sheppard.
Following his moves, Teyla had likewise located the other man’s wallet. She held the man’s license up for Sheppard to see. “He, too, looks as he should.” She paused. “Yet, they both have feeding marks.”
“Nobody’s that lucky,” scoffed Rodney, who waggled his fingers in an impatient ‘gimme’ motion at Sheppard.
Sheppard took both licenses and, standing, handed them to Rodney, who pulled out a digital camera and snapped pictures of them.
Sheppard tapped the radio on his shoulder. “Sheppard to Daedalus.”
“Caldwell here. What have you got, Sheppard?”
“One dead Wraith and two injured civilians.”
“Status of the civilians?”
“Both unconscious. Both with feeding marks but neither show any noticeable signs of aging. I guess the Wraith didn’t have enough time to feed.” Sheppard paused. He could hear distant sirens quickly approaching their location. “Colonel, one of the civilians decapitated the Wraith with a sword just as we arrived on the scene.”
There was a moment of startled silence before Caldwell came back on the radio. “My XO tells me the local law enforcement are headed in your direction. Can the civilians be left on-site?”
Sheppard looked at Teyla, who nodded. “They don’t seem to be in immediate medical danger,” he told Caldwell.
“Are you crazy?” interjected Rodney. “What about what they’ll tell the police?”
Sheppard turned to McKay. “What are they going to tell them, McKay? That there was a creature here who attacked them with its hand? And they killed it before it killed them? Where’s the creature? Where’s the body?”
McKay didn’t bother to point out the body was right there. He knew it would soon be up on the Daedalus. Still, he couldn’t help but argue the point, or at least protest the ease with which the military was able to cover up the evidence. “There were gunshots!” he protested.
“But there won’t be any weapons,” said Sheppard as he turned his attention back to Caldwell on the radio.
“Colonel, we could use a large body bag and a sanitation kit down here on the double.”
“On its way,” Caldwell confirmed as the requested items appeared in a transport beam. “You don’t have much time, Sheppard. Local law enforcement will be on the scene shortly.”
“Understood. Sheppard out.”
Sheppard turned to Ronon. “We’re not going to have time to do a full sanitize of the place. Gather up all the weapons and anything else that might have Wraith DNA on it.”
Ronon held up the sword the unconscious man had used to decapitate the Wraith. “We taking this too?”
Sheppard eyed the sword. It was obviously an antique but also obviously well-used. It also quite obviously had Wraith blood on it. “Bag it,” he told Ronon.
Ronon turned the sword over in his hand, getting the feel of it. “He’s gonna be pissed.”
Sheppard glanced down at the man who had managed to defeat a Wraith then back at Ronon. “Can’t be helped,” he said.
As Ronon went to gather the other weapons strewn about, John looked down at Teyla who still crouched between the two men. “Keep an eye on them. Let me know if they show signs of coming ‘round.” He pointed at the younger man’s overcoat. “There’s Wraith blood on that. It’ll have to come with us.”
“I will see to it,” Teyla reassured him.
“Come on, Rodney,” said Sheppard as he grabbed the body bag.
“Why do I always get garbage duty?” whined Rodney.
“Suck it up, McKay. It’s not every day you get to run around on Earth playing hero.”
“I bet Batman never had to deal with cleanup,” McKay grumbled as he helped Sheppard lift the headless Wraith into the body bag.
==//==
Minutes later, with the approaching sirens growing ever nearer, Methos dared open his eyes to take a peek just in time to see everything, the mysterious foursome, body bag, and his Ivanhoe, disappear in a flash of light.
“What the hell?” sputtered Joe and Methos was relieved to discover that Joe had been faking his unconsciousness as well.
“You okay, Joe?” asked Methos as he sprang to his feet.
“Been better.”
“We need to get out of here.”
“You think?” grumbled Joe, aware of the approaching sirens. He held out a hand and Methos helped lever him back to his feet, where Joe swayed unsteadily.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Just get us out of here. The bastards took my cane.”
“They took my sword.”
“Like you need that to walk.”
“They took my coat too.”
“Whatever.”
“I liked that coat, Joe.”
“You mean MacLeod liked that coat.”
“He shouldn’t leave his closet unlocked.”
“I think he was counting on the front door keeping you out.”
The bickering continued as they scrambled to get out of the warehouse and away from the docks area before the police arrived. Its normalcy was reassuring as neither man wanted to admit quite yet that they were both a bit unsettled by what had just happened.
==//==
Methos had driven them back to Joe’s house. Once there, Methos had deposited Joe in his bedroom where he could ditch the prosthetics and relax in his wheelchair. Joe had waved Methos off at that point, indicating the immortal should go take a shower because he smelled.
Methos had gone willingly enough. Maybe too willingly.
Now, fresh from the shower himself an hour later, Joe wheeled himself out to the living room, hoping the immortal hadn’t taken off for parts unknown, not to be seen again for months.
Joe was worried about Methos. The immortal had been looking strangely wiped out while Joe, on the other hand, had been feeling invigorated. It was like being on an adrenaline high and not coming down from it.
He finally found Methos. He was wrapped up in Joe’s bathrobe and sound asleep on the couch. Frowning at the purple shadows under Methos’ eyes, Joe rubbed at his own chest. The place where that thing-Wraith those other people had called it-had grabbed his chest had strange puncture wounds and was sore as hell. Next to that mark was another, reddish as if from a bad sunburn. Joe hadn’t been fully aware of what was going on, but he was pretty sure the second mark was where Methos had touched him.
On a hunch, Joe leaned forward and moved the lapel of the bathrobe aside. Methos had the same puncture wounds on his chest and they didn’t appear to be healing. It made no sense. Immortal healing should have restored Methos’ body by now.
One of Methos’ eyes popped open. “You done groping me?”
“You wish!” Joe grumped back.
Leaning back in his wheelchair, he asked, “What’s going on, Methos?”
Methos reluctantly abandoned his loose-limbed sprawl on the couch. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and sat up, scrubbing a hand tiredly over his face.
“Would you believe me if I said I haven’t a clue?”
Nothing but silence answered Methos.
He met Joe’s gaze. “I really don’t know, Joe. I can hazard some guesses.” Methos eyed him critically. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Methos stood, approaching Joe’s wheelchair to check him over but when he reached for Joe, Joe slapped his hands away.
“I told you I’m fine. You’re the one who looks like hell.”
At that moment Methos teetered on his feet and Joe ended up reaching out to steady him. “Go sit down before you fall over,” he said gruffly.
Once Methos was reseated, Joe headed for the bar in one corner of his living room and grabbed a couple of glasses and a bottle of Scotch.
After they’d both had time for the Scotch to hit their systems, Joe tried again.
“What was that thing?”
Methos was loose-limbed again, sprawled across the couch. “Not sure. They called it a wraith.”
“Felt a little too solid for a ghost.” Joe eyed Methos. “You’ve seen one of ‘em before.”
“Yeah.” Methos sipped his Scotch. “It was a long time ago.”
“Everything is with you,” Joe said wryly.
Joe thought about what he’d felt in those minutes before Methos had intervened. “It didn’t feel . . . human,” he ventured, hoping Methos wasn’t going to ridicule him for that.
“No.” Methos looked thoughtful. “I think you might have met your first alien, Joe.”
A voice inside Joe was clamoring about the surrealism of it all but in his gut he knew Methos was right. That thing hadn’t felt of Earth; he couldn’t pinpoint how he knew that-he just did.
“What did it do to me?” he asked.
Methos shrugged. “It was killing you,” he replied evasively.
“I know that, you idiot,” Joe shot back. He shivered at the memory of it. It had felt like it was . . . taking something from him. Suddenly he had felt old and worn-out. It had been creepy, and scary as hell.
Methos took another healthy swallow of his Scotch. “When I ran across the other one, it had been preying on the locals, leaving desiccated bodies in its wake. The one time I saw it attack a victim, it put its hand to the victim’s chest and, quite literally, seemed to suck the life out of him.” Methos stared into his drink. “The villagers called it Soul-Eater.”
Joe’s mind went blank for a moment before he snapped out of it. “Jesus Christ,” he swore softly. “Is that what it was doing to me?”
Methos’ gaze met his and the immortal’s eyes said it all.
“But I don’t understand,” Joe fumbled. He had a vague recollection of Methos breaking the creature’s hold on him and then Methos’ hand on his chest and this feeling of . . . Joe wasn’t sure what to call it. Light? Power? It had been vibrant and alive and he had soaked it up like a sponge. He stared at the immortal, seeing all the signs of fatigue that he himself should be feeling but wasn’t. “What the hell did you do?”
Methos shrugged. “Just took back what belonged to you.”
“At what cost?” Joe was angry now. “What did that thing do to you?”
“Don’t worry about it, Joe.” Methos tapped his temple with a fingertip. “Takes a licking but keeps on ticking.”
Joe’s breath huffed out of him in an exasperated groan. He could tell he wasn’t going to get any more out of Methos about this. At least not tonight, if ever.
Filling their glasses again, Joe said, more lighthearted, “It was kind of Star Trekish, wasn’t it? You think the government has secret spaceships with transporters and phasers?”
“Stranger things have been known to happen,” Methos said.
Looking at his five thousand year old friend, Joe had to agree.
==\\==
Joe awoke the next morning to find Methos gone. It wasn’t unexpected. What with the government types who had ID’d both of them, he suspected Methos, aka Adam Pierson, would lie low for a while. What was unexpected was that Methos had actually left a message this time.
Leaning against the couch was a new cane for Joe. There was a note taped to it.
Surprised you didn’t think of this years ago.
See you in a few months.
Joe looked the cane over. It was nothing fancy but solidly built. On a hunch, Joe twisted the handle. It came loose and Joe pulled out a long thin sword. Chuckling, he put the sword back, pleased with the gift.
After Methos had fallen asleep the night before, Joe had done some digging online on the names they had picked up from the mysterious foursome. If he had the right people, Joe had to wonder what an Air Force Lieutenant Colonel was doing running around with a Canadian astrophysicist and chasing down . . . space aliens? Joe shook his head. Most likely, he’d never know.
He still wasn’t sure about the hypothesized spaceships he and Methos had joked about either. However, having his own experience with secret organizations, Joe wouldn’t put it past the military and government to have some huge secret that involved spaceships and aliens.
For now, Joe was content to keep to his more Earthly secrets of immortals and watchers, and if the others came looking, hopefully he could keep them off Methos’ trail.
EPILOGUE
FIVE MONTHS LATER
“You Joe Dawson, owner of this fine establishment?” a voice from the other side of the bar asked.
His back to the bar, Joe frowned. The voice had a vague Irish lilt to it that was obviously faked. Turning to face the owner of the voice, he blinked.
“Jack O’Neill?”
The man grinned good-naturedly and Joe grasped the other man’s hand in a heartfelt handshake. “How the hell are you? And your Irish accent is just as bad as it always was.”
“It was either that or Homer Simpson,” replied O’Neill. He glanced around at the bar. “Looks like you’re doing pretty well for yourself.” His eyes fell on the stage. “You still playing that beat-up guitar and fooling folks into thinking you can actually sing?”
“At least I can carry a tune,” Joe shot back.
O’Neill held up his hands. “You were the one who insisted I get up on stage and be your backup singer. Good thing it only lasted one night, huh?”
They grinned at each other while remembering a time that seemed another lifetime ago.
“You still a Guinness man?” Joe asked as O’Neill seated himself on a barstool.
“If you’ve got it.”
Joe set an opened bottle in front of him. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
O’Neill took a long drink of the Guinness before answering. “Just in the neighborhood and thought I’d look you up.”
Joe paused, acknowledging a customer who had just walked in and waving him over to a table. He nodded to Jenny to take the customer’s usual over to the table, then turned back to O’Neill. “You still in the Air Force?”
“Made General. Can you believe it?”
Joe shook his head remembering a younger and brash Jack O’Neill whose stubborn streak had a tendency to get him in trouble with his CO’s. “Only in the Air Force.”
“Hey! No dissing my alma mater.” O’Neill paused, playing around with his drink coaster.
Joe recognized a stalling tactic when he saw one. “What are you really doing here, Jack?”
Joe didn’t think it was a coincidence that he had an Air Force General, whom he hadn’t seen in over a decade, on his front step five months after his encounter with another Air Force officer. He suppressed a shiver at the memory of that creature and how it had nearly killed him. Was the creature some military experiment gone bad or an alien of some sort or something completely unthought of? He stared at Jack O’Neill and wondered what his involvement with all this was.
“Heard you got yourself into a bit of a predicament a few months ago,” O’Neill finally said.
Joe shrugged. “Got myself out of it too.”
“With the help of a friend who carries a sword?”
“Forget my friend. Star Trek’s got nothing on you people. Phasers. Transporters.” Joe leaned in closer. “What the hell is a daedalus?”
Jack’s eyes widened in what was obviously faked surprise. “Didn’t know you were into sci fi, Joe.”
“Didn’t know you were into space aliens,” Joe shot back.
Jack didn’t confirm or deny, just placidly took another drink of his Guinness.
Joe attempted a more indirect direct question. “So, no recent Close Encounters of the Third Kind?”
O’Neill considered his beer for a long moment before commenting off-handedly, “I’ve always been more of an Independence Day guy myself.”
Jesus, Joe hoped Jack wasn’t saying what he thought he was saying. Deep down, though, he knew he was. Joe had enough trouble keeping up with certain immortals; he really didn’t need to add aliens into the mix. Running a hand over his beard, he said, “Guess the Air Force is flying high these days, huh?”
“You could say that,” agreed Jack. “Listen,” he said as he stood and pulled on his jacket, “I really came here just to return something.” Reaching down, he hefted a long oblong container up onto the bar and shoved it in Joe’s direction.
Raising his brows at Jack in inquiry, the other man indicated he should open the container. Joe unlatched the lid, lifted it and found himself staring at Methos’ Ivanhoe.
“Thought your friend might like to have that back,” offered Jack, “seeing as how it’s not a replica.”
Seeing Methos’ sword had Joe flashing on that day five months ago. Involuntarily, his hand went to his chest, rubbing at where the creature had attacked him and Methos had healed him. When he looked back up, he saw acknowledgment in Jack’s eyes in recognition of the hand-to-chest motion. Joe’s voice, when he spoke, was a bit gruff.
“Don’t suppose you brought my cane too?”
“I’m already bending the rules quite a bit just by being here,” Jack said.
“Yeah, sure.” Joe pulled himself together. “You always were good at bending the rules.”
Jack eyed him. “Still won’t tell me?”
Joe shook his head, a faint grin playing about his mouth. “You?”
“Naw.” Jack waved a hand. “I might have to kill you or something if I did.”
The two men shook hands again.
“It was good seeing you again, Jack.”
“You too, Joe. Try to stay out of trouble, hmm?”
Jack headed for the door but once there he paused, turning toward a table in the bar where the recent arrival had seated himself and was sipping on a beer. Waving in that general direction, Jack called, “Nice not meeting you, Pierson. And, by the way? The little naked grey guys are good guys. Try not to take them out with your sword.”
He was out the door and gone before anything more could be said.
Joe’s gaze moved to Methos. Methos shrugged.
“That’s it? Five months and I get a shrug?”
“Sorry, Joe. Forgot the flowers again.”
“You big fraud,” accused Joe as he walked around the end of the bar and approached the table. “You’ve been shadowing me for a couple of days, haven’t you?”
“Actually, I was following your buddy Jack. He likes his steak medium rare. He’d rather drive a truck than a sports car. And before his current gig he was stationed in Colorado Springs for several years at a base that specializes in telemetry.”
“Telemetry? Jack?” Joe scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
Methos shrugged, then nodded at the container on the bar. “What’s in the box?”
Joe grinned. “Go take a look.”
Methos did just that. Joe watched Methos reach in the box and gently touch the sword as if greeting a long lost friend. Then the moment was over and Methos was back at the table. They looked at each other.
“Spaceships?” said Joe.
“Transporters,” replied Methos.
“Big ugly ass aliens,” shot back Joe.
“What about the little grey guys?” Methos’ lips quirked.
“He wasn’t serious about that, was he?” asked Joe.
“Do you really want to know?” Methos was wearing that inscrutable expression that drove Joe nuts.
Oh yeah, Joe thought, some days were definitely stranger than others.
________
-End