"What the hell am I doing here?"
Six and a half hours after his call to Pacific Charter, Joe Dawson was in the air. He had never taken a long haul charter flight before and he had to admit it was certainly the way to travel. Comfortable cream leather chairs, tiger's eye maple wood appointments, and private attendant who had served him aged single-malt scotch neat at 45,000 feet without even being asked. Dinner was a fillet of beef with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus served with a French Bordeaux. The attendant, a young man name Steven, set up a bed shortly thereafter and offered to assist Joe with removing his prosthetics -- an offer Joe politely declined -- though he did accept the sleeping pills.
An hour before touchdown Steven woke him with coffee. By the time Joe had finished a cup and freshened up there was a spread of fruit, pastry, and smoked salmon on the table. While Joe had breakfast, Steven converted the bed and made the cabin ready for landing. Before he disembarked, the two pilots came out of the cockpit, introduced themselves, and handed him a black leather portfolio. They explained that there was a planned three-day layover in Tokyo and that if, at the end of that layover, he wanted to return to Seacouver all he had to do was tell them when he got on the plane. Steven ushered him through customs and assisted in loading his luggage and guitar into a waiting car.
It took about an hour for the drive from the airport to the Royal Park Hotel. He looked over the papers in the portfolio on the drive. They weren't terribly revealing. A list of local phone numbers for the car company, hotel, and charter company. A short flyer of things to do in Tokyo. No letter from Methos. No indication of where he might be headed next.
Check-in was expedited. The young woman explained that his executive suite on the sixteenth floor gave him access to the complimentary breakfast in the Orpheus Sky Lounge from seven until nine-thirty, cocktails and refreshments in the executive lounge from five until nine each evening, a special concierge, and late checkout. She suggested a tour of the Imperial Gardens and told him to ask his concierge if he had any questions or wanted to arrange for a tour guide. He asked if there were any packages or letters waiting for him and she answered in the negative.
The porter had deposited his luggage and asked, in broken English, if he was a famous musician. Joe had smiled at that and told the young man that it depended on what you meant by famous. It amused him but seemed to confuse the porter.
Now he sat with gin and tonic watching the Tokyo skyline shift from day to night, the Sumida River winding along the east and south of the hotel and the Tokyo Tower glowing in the distance. Joe felt a strange detachment, his fingers brushing against the black leather of the journal he had brought with him from his room as if it might anchor him somehow.
"I must be outa my mind."
I have killed more in five years than I have in five hundred. I have betrayed my own kind, set up my brothers, allowed my former student to die, and taken the head of someone I loved. A well-constructed identity is useless to me now and I've got Watchers following me.
When did I become such an idiot?
A pianist played a strange mix of old standards and seventies love songs that sounded more like elevator Muzak than anything else. Around him people chattered in a language Joe didn't understand. Everything was slightly skewed and surreal. He had no purpose, no plan, nothing beyond putting one foot in front of the other on a path that someone else had set. Now that he had stopped, now that he had time to think about where he was and what he was doing, he really had to question his sanity.
Hands settled on his shoulders and he jumped.
"Whaddya know, Joe?"
Joe snorted a half-laugh, "You keep it up and you're gonna be the death of me someday."
Methos removed his hands and walked around to take the seat on Joe's right. In all the years Joe had known him, he had never seen Methos in a suit. He cut a rather striking figure from the three-button black pinstripe suit coat and starched pale lavender shirt, to the deep amethyst and aubergine diamond pattern silk tie with coordinating satin pocket square. Wingtips, cufflinks, and a glint of gold on his wrist to hint at an expensive watch completed the picture. It was altogether bizarre.
"Did you have a good flight?"
Joe shook his head in wonder. As usual, Methos simply acted as though everything were perfectly normal -- as if they weren't in the middle of a Tokyo lounge with a hack pianist killing It Never Rains in Southern California for background. "Why am I here?"
Methos arched an eyebrow. "You're asking me that?"
"Yeah, I'm asking you that."
There was a pause as a waiter delivered Methos' drink. Methos said a few words in Japanese then signed a card before the man disappeared. He leaned forward, an elbow resting on a knee, as he regarded Joe. "That's a nice sweater you're wearing."
"Look, let's dispense with the bullshit, shall we?" Joe took the journal and tossed it onto the cocktail table where it landed with a resounding slap. "I just closed up my house, got on a plane with no idea where I might end up, and flew almost five thousand miles on the off chance that you might be at the end of the trip. I'd appreciate a little less game playing and a little more honesty."
"That works both ways, Joseph. Are you sure you're ready for that?"
"No, but I'm here, ain't I?"
"Yes," Methos said quietly, looking at his hands. "Yes, you are."
Joe went on the attack. "You living here?"
"No."
"What's this 'next destination' the pilots talked about?"
Methos shook his head and wagged a finger back and forth. "Now, now. That's two in a row." He picked up his drink and took a sip. "Let's try again. Why are you wearing my sweater?"
"It's not your sweater. It's Mac's sweater."
"Technicality." Methos over-enunciated the word, clearly irritated. "Answer the question."
Joe met Methos' gaze. It was like a game of chicken waiting to see who would flinch first. "Because it smells like you." There was a flash of something in Methos' eyes and Joe knew he'd actually managed to surprise him. He tried not to look smug. "So what is the next destination?"
"That depends entirely upon you." Methos wrapped both hands around his glass, rolling it back and forth against his palms. He looked down at the alcohol as it swirled around the ice. "Have you read all of them?"
"As much as I could. My French is good enough but I could only manage about half of the Latin and I never did learn Greek." Joe shifted in his seat and reached out to tap a finger against the journal on the table. "You're pretty colorful with your Gaelic."
"Given the company I was keeping, can you blame me?"
Both of them knew the question was rhetorical. MacLeod was a good man but sometimes being his friend was a major pain in the ass. "There is one phrase I'm a little curious about though."
Methos arched an eyebrow.
"Ab asino lanam?"
"'Wool from an ass,' my dear Joseph." Methos chuckled and put down the drink. "Or, as they like to day these days, 'blood from a stone.'"
"Thought it might be something like that."
The pianist started playing You and Me Against the World. "That's it. I gotta get outa here before I have to execute that guy for musical crimes against humanity."
"What? You're not a Helen Reddy fan?"
"Shut up."
They both stood. Methos took the journal from the cocktail table. "There's a bar downstairs that's a little more your speed: The Royal Scots," he said with a smirk. "Can't vouch for the music though. Could be bagpipes and fiddles."
Joe shook his head. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I think I'll turn in. Been a bit of a long day."
Methos stepped a little closer, his eyes sweeping over Joe before nodding. By unspoken agreement they both started moving to the elevator, Methos measuring his footsteps to keep himself by Joe's side.
"You staying here?" Joe asked while they waited for the elevator door to open.
The bell chimed and Methos held his hand in front of the opening until Joe was safely inside. "Yes."
Without asking, Methos pressed the button for Joe's floor.
"Why here? Why Tokyo?"
"Neutral ground, Joe." Methos tucked the journal under one arm and clasped his hands behind his back. He kept his eyes firmly focused on the light display as the elevator began to move. "The playing field is level; we have no history here. There are no distractions. No responsibilities. No prying eyes."
The elevator opened and Methos held the door again as Joe exited. They walked in silence down the hallway until they reached Joe's suite. He felt nervous, all the unknowns of this situation abruptly asserting themselves in Joe's mind. So far the only thing he had been asked for by anyone on this trip was his passport. No credit cards requested. No mention of money or payment at all. Joe slipped a hand into his pants pocket to pull out the card key. The suite was rather big for one person -- as was the bed. He hadn't asked where in the hotel Methos was staying. What was expected here? What were the rules? What had he agreed to when he got on the plane?
Slick and trembling fingers fumbled the card key and it fell to the floor.
Methos bent down and picked the key up from the carpet. He slipped it in the lock mechanism, the light on the door going green accompanied by a soft click, before wedging the card between the pages of the journal he held in his other hand. A swift turn of the knob had the door open, but only a crack. Methos then turned to Joe. "Shall I meet you in the lounge for breakfast? Eight-thirty?"
They stood there staring at each other, Joe nodding his head like a puppet on a string -- his body too overwhelmed with the remnants of fear and disappointment to get anything past his lips. He watched Methos' eyes shift and realized he was seeing his own hesitance reflected there mingled with something he was pretty sure was desire. When Methos' hand left the knob and found its way to the side of Joe's face, neither man really heard the door click shut. Joe watched, as if not in his own body, while Methos' face drew close to his. But, instead of a kiss, Methos simply touched his forehead to Joe's; his eyes closed and nose butted up against Joe's cheek.
"I didn't think you'd come."
The words were a whisper -- almost a sigh. Joe could smell scotch and mint on Methos' breath as it skimmed his face. It was a combination Joe knew well and his lips parted unconsciously to take it in. He felt hot and cold, longing and dread, attraction and repulsion. His body began to shiver with the force of pent up adrenaline and the dichotomy of the moment. It would be a simple thing, a matter of millimeters, to bridge the gap between their lips and answer the part of himself that wondered if Methos would taste the way he smelled but he couldn't move. He was frozen in time, in this spot, like some fractured fairy-tale version of Sleeping Beauty waiting for the kiss of life.
When it came it wasn't what he expected. It was a chaste press of lips to Joe's forehead. "Sleep well, Joseph Dawson."
Joe had no idea he'd even closed his eyes. When he opened them Methos was walking away. At some point the journal had been pressed into his hands. Joe watched as Methos' black form, hands shoved into his pants pockets, walked to the far end of the corridor and turned right, disappearing without a backward glance. He slumped into the door, grateful for the cool solidity of the wood against his head where Methos' lips had been only a moment before. He felt so weak that if his knees hadn't been artificial they'd have given out.
"Holy shit."
"Good morning, Joe!" Methos folded his newspaper and stood up when he saw Joe enter the lounge. He went to the other side of the table and pulled out the chair. "I hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of ordering something for you. Rest assured it is suitably western and full of trans-fats and cholesterol."
"Yeah, yeah." Joe settled himself into the seat. "So, what, you stay up all night reading Emily Post or something?"
"No, I just thought you might appreciate some good manners," Methos replied as he scooted the chair toward the table. "Perhaps I was wrong."
"Sorry," Joe mumbled, feeling a little awkward. "I'm afraid I'm not used to displays of chivalry."
"Not used to displays of chivalry!" Methos threw his head back and laughed. "How many years have you been watching MacLeod?"
"You know what I mean," he grumbled.
"Yes, I do." Methos' laughter died away but the smile remained as he took his seat. "Still, you have to admit the choice of words was particularly ironic."
Joe busied himself with his napkin. He felt like a teenager out on a first date, hesitant, shy and completely lacking any kind of poise or self-assurance. At least Methos looked a little more like himself. The immaculate suit of the previous evening had been exchanged for more casual clothes: a maroon, olive, and blue variegated stripe dress shirt worn open with a plain black t-shirt and pants. This outfit, in spite of its simplicity, was still not one Joe would have associated with Methos. Nothing was oversized or mismatched. Every piece fit him like a glove and accentuated his lines -- something the Adam Pierson persona with which Joe was so familiar would never have worn.
"Coffee or tea, Joe?"
The question startled Joe back into the moment. A young woman was standing next to the table. "Uh, coffee."
They lost themselves in the eating of breakfast. Methos asked a few questions about mutual acquaintances but pointedly avoided asking about MacLeod. After a while the conversation shifted to Joe's daughter. That relationship was still tenuous and strained. The fact Joe couldn't seem to bridge the distance was a constant source of regret for him, but the mutual bond he and Methos shared where she was concerned made it easy for Joe to talk about her with him. He found it oddly comforting.
Methos had gone for a traditional Japanese breakfast and it gave them another topic for conversation. Joe thought that rice and soup were a little odd as breakfast fare, but when he verbally balked at the concept of salted pickled plums and grilled eel, Methos went into one of his classic diatribes about some of the odder foods he'd had the dubious pleasure of eating including roasted scorpions, honeyed ants, and fermented fish heads.
"Do ya mind? I'm trying to eat here."
All Joe got in response was a smirk over the edge of a teacup.
By the time the dishes were taken away and the drinks topped off, Joe was feeling a bit more relaxed. It was as if they were back in Paris, the pair of them bickering for no reason other than the fact that they could. He half expected to see Methos' eyes glaze over swiftly followed by the entrance of MacLeod.
"Well, Joseph," Methos said as he slumped down into his chair and stretched out his legs, "Now that you are well rested, duly caffeinated, and properly fed, I think it time for a little talk."
"Methos…"
He stopped Joe by raising his hand; his tone serious. "I need you to listen now, Joe. All right?"
Methos waited until Joe nodded before going on. He picked up the spoon resting on his saucer and turned it in his fingers as if trying to find words. "This doesn't last," he said waiving the spoon around. "This little microcosm, this bit of utopia, it's transient and the clock is ticking." He let the spoon slip and it found its way to the table. "The last thing I wanted, Joe, was to pressure you in any way, but you started this -- put it in motion when you got on the plane -- and now you're going to have to make a choice. I know what I want. I've known for a long time now. But last night, you said something to me and I realized that you still don't even know if this is possible for you. I think part of you wants it to be, but the want of a thing and the reality of having it can be very disparate."
Methos turned his head to look out the window, his pensive face unexpectedly harsh in profile. "In two days this ends. You have that long to make up your mind; to decide if you can love me back the way that I love you. I'm not going blame you if you can't and I'm not going to try to push you into something for which you are not ready. If you want me, you're going to have to be the one to ask -- to make the first move. You're the one in control here and I'm the one holding my heart in my hands." Methos paused, shifting in his chair and returning his gaze to the man across the table. "All I ask is that you be honest with me. Can you do that, Joe? Even if you think it's going to hurt me?"
Joe forced himself to look Methos in the eyes. He had asked for this last night and now that the brutal truth was out there in all its poignant candor, he wasn't going to flinch. Methos deserved that much from him. "Yeah."
"Good." Methos closed his eyes and let his head fall back to rest on his chair in obvious relief. He smiled. "Now that we've got that out of the way, what do you want to see first? Tokyo awaits."
Joe stood at the foot of the bed looking at his clothes trying to figure out what to wear. He had a date. It seemed strange to think of it in that manner -- going out with Methos, much less a man, and calling it a date -- but Joe knew he had to stop shoving things that bothered him about this situation into the void of 'I'll think about that later.' Later was now and he was having dinner and going out to, "someplace I think you'll really like," afterward. It was, no matter how you looked at it, a date.
"Something nice but not too nice," he muttered. "What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway?"
It had already been a full day. They spent part of it at the Imperial Palace's East Gardens. Methos had immediately fallen into historian mode and talked animatedly of traditional Japanese construction techniques and the movement of the Imperial court from Kyoto signaling the start of the Meiji Restoration. He joked that Joe should have waited until spring to set out from Seacouver so he could take in the famous sakura in full flower. When Methos mentioned that the palace had actually been destroyed by bombing during the Second World War and later rebuilt, they started talking about MacArthur, Hirohito, Eisenhower, and the moral implications of the creation and use of the atomic bomb. That led from the Pacific Theater to guerilla warfare and then to Vietnam. They started sharing war stories. Methos, unsurprisingly, had a lot of experience with various types of military through the ages and it was actually pretty fascinating. They debated and questioned and challenged one another. At one point Joe told Methos he was full of shit and Methos had laughed so hard that he'd barely been able to breathe.
They ended up in Ginza where technology got them both on the topic of the Watchers. They argued the positives and negatives of the modernization of records while they ate udon and drank beer. Finally they headed back to the hotel. That was when Methos let Joe know they had dinner reservations and that he'd stop by the suite about six to pick him up.
Joe frowned at the clothes. If it were a woman he'd be wearing a nice shirt, a sport coat, and a tie. But Methos wasn't a woman. What was the protocol here?
"Well, I know one thing, I'm not wearing pink."
He settled on the dark brown jacket because he was in the mood to wear the fedora. He thought about a button-down and tie but decided against it because it seemed a little stuffy. In the end he pulled on a pair of Dockers, a black t-shirt, and a dark green chambray. He had just turned up the cuffs on the shirt and pulled out his scarf when Methos knocked.
"Ready?"
"Considering I have no idea where I'm going, I suppose so."
Methos moved into the suite. He was wearing dark indigo wash denim and a fitted charcoal grey t-shirt with a black leather jacket. "You bring a guitar?"
"Yeah."
Methos scanned the room then headed over and picked up the case. "I think we'd better take it along."
Joe's eyes narrowed. "What are you up to?"
"Come on," Methos said as he headed for the door. "We don't want to be late for dinner."
"Methos."
The grin Joe got in response did not make him feel any better.
By the end of the night, Joe had to admit that Methos was a great date.
Dinner had been good. The restaurant was a quiet place near the Nihonbashi River that Methos informed him had been there since the 1870s. They finally talked about Mac a bit while they put back some sake. It wasn't that he was a taboo subject; it was just that Joe had a different perspective on the dynamic between them now that he had read Methos' journals. He'd suspected for a while that there was more going on than friendship, but it seemed that wasn't the case. Duncan drove Methos nuts, to put it bluntly, mostly because they never could get on the same page. He wanted a sage to fill the void left by Darius' death and found a guy that liked to drink beer and listened to punk rock. Methos just wanted to be a friend -- an equal, not a teacher or someone to protect -- and when they finally managed to get on even footing, Kronos had shown up and shot it all to hell. It wasn't that Methos wasn't attracted to Duncan. He was. In fact, it was part of the problem. Methos was drawn to certain kinds of Immortal personalities like a moth to a flame. To a man, each of the passionate individuals that Methos had found and fallen for over the years had ended up waltzing down the path of dysfunction and self-destructive behavior. Even Duncan had had his day. And Methos, ever one to try to avoid making the same mistake twice, held himself apart. He couldn't make himself walk away, but he could try to keep from getting too close. It hadn't always worked, and both he and Duncan had been hurt over the years because of Methos' decisions, but it was what it was. Would it ever be a friendship both Methos and Duncan could live with? Joe didn't know. Though he sure hoped, for both their sakes, that it could be one day.
So they ate and drank and talked. They shared so many common interests that they jumped from topic to topic with ease. And if Methos sometimes dropped a comment or two that reminded Joe the guy was something like five thousand years old, he decided to forgive him for it when their car pulled up outside Alfie. Joe could hear the music, feel the sound waves hit him, before they ever got inside. "How the hell did you find this?"
Methos just grinned, Joe's guitar case in one hand and his other resting lightly at the small of Joe's back to steer him inside.
The club was already fairly full and the band into the first set when they got there. Dim lights, hot jazz and top-notch musicians. They managed a table and Methos slipped the guitar case out of sight while they got the feel of the place and had some scotch. At a set break Methos played translator. The owner was a drummer, though not playing yet that evening. They discovered a mutual affinity for the Mississippi Sheiks, and by the time the second set got underway Joe had a new friend in spite of the language barrier.
It got late and the place got loose. It turned into a jam session and a combination of Methos' wheedling and the owner's insistence had Joe finally pulling out his axe. He did a Muddy Waters tune for a warm up and moved to T-Bone Walker when he hit the groove. Joe had a strange moment of clarity as he looked out into the crowd. Methos was slouched down into his chair, feet on the vacant one next to him, staring at Joe through half-closed eyes. This was the way things were supposed to be. Joe looked right back at him while he sang.
"Love is just a gamble, it's best you know that 'fore you start
Love is just a gamble, it's best you know that 'fore you start
Stakes run mighty high boys, you pay with little pieces from your heart."
It was stellar night in more ways than one -- the kind you never want to end -- and it was nearly two in the morning before they left the club. Joe closed his eyes as the car shot though the streets of Tokyo and back to the hotel, starting to come down from the high. He had a good dozen names and numbers of musicians to follow-up for the bars when he got back.
If he got back.
By the time they reached the hotel, the performance and alcohol buzz were wearing off and exhaustion settling in. Joe fumbled with the card key again, but this time it had nothing to do with being nervous; he was just tired. Methos gave him a patient smile and took over, opening the door and waiting until Joe was clear to prop the guitar case back against the wall. He shoved his hands down in the pockets of his jeans and leaned against the desk, watching as Joe took off the fedora and tossed it so it landed on the couch.
"I had a great time tonight." Joe took a couple of steps toward Methos and stopped just shy of touching distance. "Thank you."
Methos dipped his head and grinned. "It was entirely my pleasure."
"Hope you didn't have any big plans for the AM." Joe took another step. "Something tells me I won't be up for breakfast."
"A reasonable assumption." Methos shoved off the desk with his hip. "How about lunch? We can take the subway to Harajuku, find a café, then check out Yoyogi Park. Unless you have a deep and burning desire to ride It's a Small World at Tokyo Disney."
"Shockingly enough, I think I can pass on that."
They both chuckled and then Joe yawned. He couldn't have stopped it if he'd tried.
"Well, I think that's my cue," Methos said with a grin. "Unless you want a hand with those legs of yours."
Joe made himself consider the offer. It wasn't as though Methos hadn't seen him without his legs on -- hadn't seen him naked for that matter. The guy had dug bullets out of his body and stitched him up. It occurred to Joe that if he was really going to do this, if he was going to give whatever this was a chance, that he was going to have to start somewhere. If he couldn't handle the intimacy of letting Methos help him with his legs, what hope was there of anything more? "Yeah, actually. If you don't mind."
Methos seemed a little surprised by Joe's answer. "Anything you need to do before you take them off?"
"Probably should brush my teeth."
"Well, how about you give me that jacket then. I'll make myself useful."
Joe slipped off the sports coat and the chambray shirt, handing them over before he headed for the bathroom. After he shut the door he leaned against the sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror -- a worn-out man with white hair staring down the barrel of sixty gazed back and he shook his head. They had a saying about old dogs and new tricks for a reason.
"I hope I know what the hell I'm doing."
He did a rush job on his teeth, splashed some water on his face, and then looked down at what was left of his clothes. Did he just walk back out like this or should he take things off now? Would leaving the pants on be an invitation for Methos to undress him? Was he ready for that? Joe pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, frustrated with himself and his own insecurities. Why did everything have to seem so complicated?
Finally he decided on boxer shorts and the t-shirt; he usually slept in his boxers anyway. He'd basically be ready for bed and that, after all, was kind of the point.
A couple of deep breaths to calm his nerves and Joe headed back out into the room. Apparently he wasn't the only one considering how to minimize the awkwardness of the situation because Methos was leaning against the sofa with his leather jacket still on. Moving with more purpose and confidence than he felt, Joe walked over, turned back the covers, and took a seat on the bed as if letting someone help him take his legs off was something he did all the time.
Without a word, Methos came over and knelt down in front of Joe. He started with the left leg and kept his eyes focused on the work, his hands moving swift and sure. Joe watched him, looking down at the dark hair on top of Methos' head as he tried to remember to breathe. He put one hand on Methos' shoulder and braced the other on the bed to give a little extra leverage and, just like that, the leg was off.
"Where do you want it?"
Joe jerked his head to the right. "Been leaning them on the nightstand."
Methos nodded and propped the leg where Joe had indicated then turned back to the task. There was nothing sexy about this, nothing erotic about the touch, and yet Joe felt something passing between them as Methos loosened the strap, put a hand to a thigh and pulled. It dawned on Joe that allowing this kind of liberty was, in a strange way, like Methos giving him his journals. It was an act of complete trust. One he would never even consider with someone else. Not even Duncan.
The right leg joined the left. Methos rubbed his hands against his jeans in a somewhat nervous gesture and stood up. His eyes lingered on the floor for a moment before he met Joe's stare. "Well, I'll ring you about eleven if that's all right and…"
Joe reached out and put his hands on Methos' hips. "You don't have to go."
Methos closed his eyes and Joe could feel the muscles under his hands tense. Why had he thought he was the only one in this situation that had something to lose? "Don't get the wrong idea." Joe forced his voice to sound light but he kept a firm grasp on Methos. He slipped a hand up and under the jacket, pulling him a little closer. It was an easy thing to lean forward and rest his head on Methos' chest. "I'm pretty wiped out. My head hits that pillow and I'll be dead to the world. So, if you're worried about your honor…"
"Joe."
Joe could hear the thud of a heart and wasn't quite sure if it was Methos' or his own. He fanned out his hand and slipped it along the small of Methos' back, surprised at how natural it seemed, how much comfort he gained from the warmth that radiated through the fabric of the t-shirt. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm asking."
Methos took Joe's face in both hands and pulled it up, eyes searching and pleading at the same time. It was now or never. Joe closed his eyes, tilted his head, and shifted forward gently brushing their lips together.
At first there was no reaction at all. Joe could tell Methos wasn't even breathing. Then, like a levee giving way, Methos' hands were in Joe's hair and his mouth was hot and open. The raw intensity of it was devastating. Joe had gone to the Grand Canyon once about twenty years ago. He walked to the edge and pressed himself up against the guardrail at a lookout point on the south rim. It had been so vast, stretching off into the horizon until it seemed that it must go on forever. He had looked down, the land falling away just a few feet from where he stood. It had been breathtaking. Awe-inspiring. He had felt small and insignificant in the face of the kind of almost incomprehensible power that could create something like that. He had felt fear.
He'd also had the nearly overwhelming, suicidal urge to jump.
That same breathless vertigo reached up from somewhere inside Joe and took hold. Without thinking he pushed, trying to get some space, some air, some way to anchor himself in the maelstrom. He didn't see the look on Methos' face; didn't see the shock or the hurt or the pain. All he could see was the black of the inside of his eyelids and hear the roar of his blood rushing past his eardrums. Then the one thing that fixed Joe to the moment, Methos' body against his hands, disappeared.
Joe opened his eyes to the view of Methos headed toward the door.
"Methos."
He didn't stop.
"Methos!"
He just kept walking until he got to the door and put his hand on the knob.
"Goddamn it, don't you dare walk out on me, not when I can't get up and follow you!"
That stopped him. Methos stood there, framed by the door, his hand clenching the brass knob. He didn't turn though. "This whole thing was a mistake."
"That's your answer to everything, isn't it? Walk away! Well, it's your turn to listen to me now." Joe ran a hand through his hair, frustrated beyond belief. "This is not what you think. It's not about you and it has nothing to do with you being a man." Methos snorted at the comment and Joe threw his hands up in the air. "Ok! Fine! Maybe some of it does have something to do with you being a man but right now -- this moment, this situation -- is not about my issues with sexual orientation. It's just about me."
Joe sagged under his own weight, wishing he could get up, walk across the room, and make Methos turn and look at him so he could see if anything he was saying was getting through. He dropped his head to his hands, curling into a protective posture without even knowing what he was doing. He felt like a complete fucking idiot. "I haven't been with anybody in so long, Methos. You've touched me more in the last two days than I've been touched in years. You cart me half way around the planet, pull me away from my life, then tell me I've got two days to come up with answers for questions you've had hundreds -- thousands! -- of years to come to terms with. Can you blame me for feeling a little overwhelmed? Christ, man, cut me some slack!"
He heard a sigh and a soft thump. When Joe looked up, Methos had turned around and was leaning against the door, his head tilted up to look at the ceiling. "I guess I deserve that."
"You're damn right you do."
"How'd you get so smart, Joe?"
"Hanging around with you."
Methos shook his head. "I very much doubt that."
Joe scrubbed a hand over his face. He'd been tired before this whole mess started and now with the tension leached out of his body he could hardly keep his eyes open. "So are you stayin' or not?"
After a long pause, Methos said, "It's probably not a good idea."
"Yeah, well, I didn't ask if it was a good idea, I asked if you were stayin'."
Methos regarded Joe carefully, his expression wary and guarded as if weighing a potential gain against a negative return. Finally, he shrugged, the leather jacket slipping off his shoulders as he left the door behind him and moved toward the bed. He toed off his loafers, leaving them in a trail on the carpet. The coat got thrown over the back of the couch and the t-shirt came off and was tossed aside to land on the desk. His belt was whipped off and dropped as he came to a stop in front of Joe.
"I sleep naked," he said like a challenge. "If that bothers you I can leave the boxers on."
Joe just shrugged. "Whatever."
The rest of the clothes came off. Joe found himself in the strange position of forcing himself not to stare at a naked man. He could feel himself flush as he realized that he was admiring what he saw -- and not the way you admire Michelangelo's David with a dispassionate kind of appreciation for form and symmetry, but the kind when your hands itch to touch and you start imagining what someone's face will look like when they come. He covered by shifting himself back on the bed and pulling his own shirt off while Methos went around to the other side. Joe couldn't help noticing that Methos had a couple of tattoos that only a lover would see. He also noticed he was uncut.
Joe turned off the lights.
Both of them rustled around a little getting comfortable. Joe lay on his back, staring up into the dark. There was a weight shift and he could tell the empty space between he and Methos got smaller because of the radiation of body heat. Still, Methos didn't touch him.
"Joe, when you said it had been years, exactly how long are we talking about?"
"Since '96."
The words hung there in the dark of the room. Joe could almost hear the shocked expression on Methos' face. "Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why?' You think I carry that cane so I can beat off the offers? I'm damaged goods, Methos; on the downhill slide. It's not like I'm permanently frozen at thirty like some people I know." Joe turned his head to the left. Methos was a blacker lump in an already black room. He could just make out some of the features of his face. "It's not easy trying to find someone that can look beyond the disability. I know because there are times when I can't look beyond it. I'm past the expiration date, my friend, and there ain't no getting' around that."
Methos reached out and put a hand to the side of Joe's face. Joe's vision had adjusted enough to the dark that he could see the glitter of Methos' eyes so near his own. "Joe Dawson, I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again," he rasped. "You aren't anywhere close to an expiration date. I have never known any man more vital, more strong, more passionate, or more in his prime than you. Anyone who can't see that is a fool."
Just like that, it was all there -- all the pain and insecurity and need that Joe bottled up and compartmentalized and only carted out late at night when he was all alone and looking at the bottom of a bottle of scotch. It was different when he talked to the young folks at the hospital or at the support group for amputees. He could tell them in a dispassionate tone that you go through your life and do what you have to do -- that there will be times when you're going to be angry, when you feel broken and diminished, when you think you just can't take it anymore -- because it was the truth. He could stand on his artificial legs in front of a room of people and say that there would always be times when they would hurt -- when the scars, the ones they could see and the ones that they couldn't, would have to be looked at for what they were so they could accept life as it is -- and that they had to find a way to make their days about what they've overcome instead of about what they've lost.
But sometimes the truth was just another way to hide from the pain. He might shield himself behind those words in public, but they couldn't bring him comfort in the dark; couldn't make up for the legs he no longer had or replace the arms of a lover who accepted and wanted him in spite of it all. They couldn't protect him from the man lying in his bed offering him hope.
Joe was surprised when he didn't feel self-conscious as he cried, but Methos' arms were strong, and his body was warm, and somehow the only thought Joe had before falling asleep was that this was love and he'd better get with the program.