FIC: Broken Swords in the Snow 1/2(BTVS/Highlander)
Paradoqz
AUTHOR: Paradoqz
EMAIL: para...@hotmail.com
SHOW: Buffy the Vampire Slayer / Highlander
SUMMARY: It's Christmas Eve in Seacouver. Guess who's coming to dinner.
RATING: PG-13
ARCHIVE: Please ask.
DISCLAIMER: All characters mentioned and implied belong to Joss
Whedon, Panzer/Davis Productions and Marvel Entertainment Group. No
profit is being made.
****
Joe wiped the counter yet again. And sighed. Yet again. An unbiased
bystander might have decided, after a brief analysis, that the counter
was spotless. After a longer observation the unbiased bystander would
undoubtedly come to the conclusion that a madman with a pound of
Kleenex had been let loose in the bar. Fortunately for himself, Joe
Dawson was not unbiased. So he swiped the washcloth across the
gleaming mahogany and sighed. In fact, truth be told, Joe Dawson was
desperately bored. And a little sad. Not that he'd admit to either.
"Man's got to have some dignity," he muttered and nodded firmly. And
then he caught a sight of the moist washcloth and his reflection in
the counter. He shuddered disgustedly. "Who the hell am I kidding?"
He scratched the three-days-old stubble and sighed. Again.
"This is ridiculous! So those bastards all disappeared and left me all
alone. So they have a life. And I...not so much. I've still got Her!"
He nodded, more determined now, and a small, genuinely happy grin
tugged at the corner of his mouth. Amy had really outdone herself,
when she'd got Her two years ago, for his birthday.
He waddled stiffly and carefully across the freshly mopped floor, the
prosthetic legs squeaking slightly. As always they felt heavy and, in
an absent-minded, long-familiar way, utterly alien. He left the cane
leaning by the stage and pulled himself up. "Damn. A genuine." He
chuckled in quiet appreciation, lovingly tracing the graceful lines of
the plugged-in guitar. "A customized Oberheim. You pretty thing,
you." He sat down on the high stool and carefully looped the wide
belt over his head, hooking it under his right arm. The instrument
settled comfortably and habitually in his hands and he plucked the
upper string experimentally. The sound resonated strongly and clearly
and Dawson hummed in quiet appreciation.
"Engaging into unnatural rituals with your guitar again, Dad?" For a
split second Joe thought that the voice was simply the echo of the
fading note, so in synch with the clear, joyful sound were the
amusement-tinged, lightly teasing words. He grinned and slowly took
off the guitar. The cold gust died suddenly as the door slammed shut
and the quick clicking steps approached the platform. Squinting,
Dawson looked down at the young woman before the stage, examining her
with a critical eye. Of medium height, but made to appear taller by
her slenderness and shortly cut brown-reddish hair, Amy Thomas looked
little like her heavy-set, graying and generally somewhat grizzly
father. Although at the moment her almond-shaped, laughing blue eyes
erased the subtle differences, making the resemblance unmistakable.
"Nothing unnatural about a man and his guitar spending some quality
time together. And you? Calling it a night early?" he retorted,
squinting perceptively.
Amy wrinkled her nose. "I was bored. And it's not that early. Six --
already dark outside."
Joe chuckled and got up. "Jake didn't show, huh?"
His daughter glared at him for a second, before passing up the cane.
Dawson smothered another chuckle. "C'mon. You're dripping all over my
clean floor."
"How come it's suddenly your floor? Barely two hours ago when you had
me clean it, it was my future inheritance."
"I ain't dead yet. Plus -- hey! I did the kitchen and the dishes."
"Slacker." Amy giggled as it was his turn to glare. She shrugged off
the heavy coat, the material wet and sodden with the melting snow.
Dawson hobbled toward the counter, frowning at his daughter briefly.
"Hey. Hang it, don't throw it on the table. What, were you raised in
a barn? What do you want?"
"Mostly for you to stop mothering me, but since that ain't
happening... Bourbon on the rocks, pretty please." Amy shuddered
expressively. "It's beastly cold outside. Snow everywhere and the
wind has actually gotten worse. I need something to warm me up."
"Right. Coffee it is."
"Dad! I am 26 years old, for chrissakes!"
"Yeah. And?"
"You suck. Don't skimp on the cream and sugar." She considered for a
moment, before she finally concluding thoughtfully, "A LOT of sugar.
Enough to rot my teeth from the distance."
"That'll show me."
Not dignifying the comment with an answer, Amy simply stuck her tongue
out at him and looked around the murky interior of the bar. "Wow. The
place is really jumping tonight."
"Hey, it's Christmas. What kind of people would spend their Christmas
in a blues bar?" Amy grinned and he winced. "Ouch. I walked right
into that one, didn't I?"
"Gimme my coffee, old man. Mmmm... Cofffee-coffee-coffee. Waaaaaarm."
Amy closed her eyes and tasted the scalding liquid, savoring the
sensation. "Suuuuugary."
"You're a shameless hedonist, you know that?" Dawson observed the
intricate process of his daughter ingesting caffeine and sugar with
undisguised fondness.
"I know how to enjoy life. Unlike some old and grouchy bar-owners with
disreputable rabble as an excuse for friends and who wouldn't know a
good time if it sat on them." Amy smiled sweetly and blinked
innocently. "Not that I am pointing any fingers, or anything."
"Of course not. Drink your coffee before I decide to charge you for
it."
"You are beast, a beast I say! Will I be forever made to suffer the
cruel injustices of fate and my father?!" Amy's voice climbed
dramatically and she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead --
an image out of Shakespearean tragedy. "And you...whoa. You're aware
that you have a customer, right?"
Joe quirked an eyebrow and half turned to follow his daughter's
glance. "Who, the kid?"
"Yeah." Amy's eyebrows, thin and graceful lines of black, came
together in a half-puzzled expression. The blue eyes narrowed
speculatively and for a second the giggling schoolgirl exterior fell
away like dry leaves, revealing the Watcher beneath. Amy's gaze grew
cold and perceptive, the little details all being catalogued and
filed away by a trained mind.
The subject of her attention presented an interesting view to the
world and dared the world to say anything about it. A short, thin
figure sat perched cross-legged on a chair, the hard-worn wool-lined
leather jacket thrown rather carelessly on the back of the stool.
Remarkably enough the youth -- he couldn't have been older than 22,
Amy thought detachedly -- appeared to be wearing only a green tee-
shirt and a pair of brown slacks, both every bit as weathered as the
jacket. Just thinking about going out in Seacouver winter dressed in
that tee shirt and jacket made Amy shudder in sympathy and take
another long sip.
Then she saw the sneakers. And took another long sip. Deciding to
forego the clothes for a moment she transferred her attention to the
guy himself. Her eyes immediately and unsurprisingly were drawn to
the hair. In her mind it rather quickly became as "The Hair." She
admonished herself for a rather childish fascination later, but...the
childish fascination persisted stubbornly. Not entirely surprising,
considering. The shape alone drew the eye, as the somewhat haphazard
and rather spiky 'do looked very much like an irritated porcupine.
That first impression was quickly overshadowed, however, as Amy took
another look. No porcupine could ever be that color. On further
thought -- Amy quietly decided -- nothing produced within the laws of
nature could be -that- color. The fading blond dye clashed with the
even older remnants of red and with the irresistibly assertive natural
light brown, the end result truly defying description.
Amy shook her head in silent admiration and stopped cold as the kid
suddenly raised his head and looked straight at her. For a briefest
of seconds she felt disconcerted to the point of loss, unable to
pinpoint exactly the reason for the shiver of alarm that slithered
along her spine. True, it was hardly a regular face, with the
prominent bone structure and the hollow cheeks, the strong jaw and
slightly sloping forehead all merging to produce a somewhat primal,
almost simian appearance, a throwback to the Cro-Magnon age. The
deep-set eyes glittering strangely in the lamplight added another
note to the disturbing composition, until Amy actually Looked. Really
looked, catching the green stare with her own eyes and seeing the
calm, quiet intelligence.
The young man smiled at her suddenly and returned to his book, leaving
Amy somewhat frustrated. Joe smirked. "Unusual-looking kid, huh?"
"He looks like a crazed weasel," Amy replied somewhat uncharitably.
"Did you card him? It better not be some Immortal looking for
trouble. I'm on vacation."
"Yes I did, as a matter of fact." Dawson coughed, somewhat
embarrassed, remembering the raised eyebrow of one 22-year-old Daniel
Osborne upon being carded while ordering a bologna sandwich. "Anyway.
Speaking of slightly mad Immortals who are magnets for trouble..."
Joe ignored the blue-eyed glare with the ease of long practice and
sipped his own drink, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "Where is the
Old Man?"
"How should I know? I told you. Vacation. Can you say vacation? Ho-li-
day. No work. Work Bad. Amy time."
Dawson swished the bourbon around his mouth savoring the taste before
swallowing it. Raising the glass and swirling the amber liquid in the
artificial light of the bar, he glanced at his daughter out of the
corner of his eye. "Who are you trying to kid, Em, hm?" He shook his
head and seemingly absently scratched his wrist. Right where his
Watcher's tattoo was hidden by the shirtsleeve. "You know exactly
where he is. And I bet the current unfortunate Watching him has got
your beeper number, your home number, the bar number, and a homing
pigeon. So spill."
Amy's glare reached epic proportions before she hid her nose in a cup
and muttered something sullenly.
"What's that?"
"I said he's home. Last I saw he had a six-pack and a bunch of movies.
He's gonna be home all night making fun of Braveheart and Gladiator.
Casting dispersions on Hollywood's historical accuracy and killing
his brain cells with alcohol. All right? Now lemme alone." Amy
finished her coffee in one gulp and pondered the empty cup with the
air of infinite loss about her. "I'll be in the kitchen."
Dawson chuckled quietly, quickly killing the sound as Amy suddenly
wheeled around looking at him with suspicion. "There are not going to
be any of your reprobate buddies dropping by today, are there? It's
going to be nice, peaceful, and quiet." Before Joe could assure her
that that, indeed, was going to be the case, she'd already done the
thing with the eyes. "Lie to me, Dawson. Tell me tonight is going to
be nice and quiet."
"Git. Go on, get outta here."
Amy grinned and disappeared into the kitchen. Dawson muttered
something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "brat" and,
throwing his lone patron a look, shrugged and ambled back toward the
stage. He didn't bother with the stool or the belt this time, simply
squaring his shoulders and standing in the middle of the platform,
thinking. Eventually he nodded, settling on the song. He felt the
need for something old, something classic tonight, and so he touched
the strings gently and closed his eyes as the first notes of Ole Miss
floated gently across the bar. He didn't see the matted head of the
blond-brown hair rise suddenly from the book, the green eyes narrowing
as Daniel's right foot unconsciously tapped the floor, keeping the
beat.
After a while Joe sunk into the melody, the soft music enveloping him
as he rocked slightly, his fingers, so rough and callused at the
first glance, running over the strings with surprising grace. He
didn't sing; it didn't seem right. So he just stood there, swaying,
the squeak of his dead legs and the intermittent, habitual dull ache
pushed to the very back of his mind, drowned out by the music.
He'd just reached the moment when it all really meshed, when he and
guitar teetered on the edge of becoming one, but then reality rudely
intruded in the form of a thunderous crash from the vicinity of the
kitchen, followed after a short pause by a timid, "Oops..."
Joe's fingers slipped and the air was suddenly split by a jagged,
screeching death of a chord. Dawson's eyes flew open just in time to
catch a pained wince on the face of the kid in the corner. Mildly
irritated by the whole thing, Dawson drew his busy eyebrows together
to fix the young Mr. Osborne with a not-quite-glare. "Problem?"
Daniel considered the question carefully and nodded. "You're dragging
on the 'A.'"
"Is that right." Dawson's eyes narrowed fractionally. "You play?"
One skinny hand with black-painted nails dragged itself through the
multi-colored hair. "Used to."
Dawson looked at him expectantly, tapping the guitar softly. The kid
again carefully pondered the situation before closing the book and
jumping off his perch. "Cool."
Daniel moved unhurriedly across the room, lightly leaping on the
stage. Dawson harrumphed quietly and jerked his finger toward the
back wall. "C'mon, Mr. Osborne."
"Oz." The kid didn't appear to be overly disappointed, although he
clearly expected Dawson to turn over the Oberheim.
"Oz?"
The calm green eyes abandoned the neat row of the instruments to
thoughtfully regard Joe for a second.
Joe grinned suddenly. "Yeah, I expect you heard all the jokes by now."
Oz shrugged and scratched his chin, pausing for a split second before
reaching for the gleaming blue Tobias. He plugged it in with a quick
sure motion and gingerly plucked the strings, frowning as a false
note sounded out.
Joe harrumphed again meaningfully, but with no visible effect as Oz
carefully tuned the guitar. Dawson was starting to get the impression
that there wasn't much that Oz didn't do carefully. Finally the kid
nodded in satisfaction and raised his head, surprising Dawson with a
frankly happy grin that completely transformed the somber face. Almost
reluctantly, Joe returned it. "Shall we?"
Daniel nodded, running his fingers along the smooth surface, the
strings still humming from his last tuning strum. "Ole Miss?"
Dawson looked at him flatly, noting the subtle inflection. "Why? W.C.
not good enough for ya?"
"Handy's cool," Oz replied laconically.
Dawson sighed. "But?"
And what did the skinny punk do but shrug and touching the strings
lightly, launch into "Call It Stormy Monday." Dawson bit down a curse
and, settling for a short glare, timed his entrance. Soon enough the
Seacouver evening was filled with the languid sounds of T-Bone
Walker's classic. But it appeared that this night was destined to
thwart any musical attempt. They were barely into the song when the
door to the bar was kicked open, followed by what sounded like a
truly vile imprecation, although not in a language either of the duo
knew. A cold gust of air followed, bringing with it a cloud of snow
and a lunky, dark-haired, and thoroughly wet and irritated man in a
long black duster. "...isgusting! Absolutely unacceptable!"
"Well. Look what the wind blew in..." Joe's tone was dripping with
sarcasm, almost disguising the fact that his eyes were intent on the
soaked and pitiful-looking figure. "Adam."
Anyone would be hard-pressed to guess the truth about the newcomer on
any day, but today as the lean-almost-to-the-point-of-gauntness man
shrugged off his coat and let it fall on the bar with a wet "plop"
Adam Pierson couldn't look any less like a 5,000-year-old Immortal.
Joe sighed with no small measure of regret and shrugged, turning to Oz
with a rueful smile. "Sorry." The word seemed to break the kid out of
some trance; he was looking at "Adam Pierson" with narrowed eyes as
if trying to remember where he'd seen him before.
"No problem." Daniel nodded and started to take off the guitar; he
stopped, raising questioning eyes as Dawson's hand gripped his bony
shoulder.
"Nah, kid. I gotta go see about this snake-in-the-grass lest he steals
my beer cooler blind. You can stay and fiddle with the axe if you
want."
Oz started to say something, but stopped and settled for a nod of
gratitude.
"Just don't touch the Oberheim."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Adam," Dawson repeated more firmly as he clambered off of the stage,
not expecting and getting no assistance from his friend. His friend.
It still seemed surreal to him sometimes, even after over thirty
years as a Watcher, that his closest friends were people who fought at
Troy or stole from Louis XIV. Life was a strange, strange thing, he
thought not for the first time, making his way toward the bar where
Adam was making himself blatantly at home. It was odd, but sometimes
Dawson found it simply more comfortable, easier... safer to think of
this man as Adam Pierson, perennial graduate student, rather than
Methos, one of the Four Horsemen. He had a sneaking suspicion that
Methos knew this perfectly well but let him get away with it. Up to a
point. And then he'd drop comments about Cleopatra's nose with
seeming innocence.
"Hands off the booze, boy."
"You call this booze?" Methos's Roman nose twitched in a moue of
disdain. "Please."
Dawson smiled, an expression brimming with insincerity, and grabbed
the bottle away. "All the more reason to leave to for us lesser
mortals, isn't it? Get the hell out from behind my bar."
Methos sighed and shook his head, vaulting over to the other side. "Is
that any way to treat a valued customer?"
"No." Joe put the bottle back with a loud clang. "Hence I am treating
you this way." He turned around to find Methos clutching his chest
dramatically.
"You wound me, Joe."
"I'll aim better next time." Dawson nonchalantly put his back toward
the stage, from where faint notes could be heard still, and quirked
an eyebrow as he silently mouthed a query.
Methos' thin sharp-featured face didn't give any clue as to whether he
understood as he sighed in deep melancholy and hooked a nearest chair
with his leg, dropping into it. The clever-green eyes moved almost
imperceptibly toward the heap of his trenchcoat and back to Dawson as
Methos burrowed deeper inside the chair. "I can't believe you people
celebrate this time of the year. It should be mourned! Mourned I tell
you!"
"Oh noooo. No. Noooo. It's not fair. No!"
Methos's eyes brightened suddenly with the unwholesome light of a cat
spotting a canary. "Amy, light of my life. How's your vacation going?"
Dawson steeled himself for the inevitable, meanwhile carefully
concealing the sigh of relief. The kid wasn't Immortal. Methos would
never have put his coat, which also held his sword, out of his reach
otherwise. Even though, as Dawson knew perfectly well, those faded
blue jeans and the oversized sweater concealed at least one dagger.
Methos believed in being prepared.
"You. You... You incredible bastard! What...what are you doing here,
you sneaky louse?!"
Methos pondered the empty glass that Joe was cleaning just to keep his
hands busy. "Vainly expecting this establishment to live up to its
name. Whom do I have to decapitate to get a drink around here?"
Dawson opened his eyes wide. "Oh, you haven't heard? See, I just
learned this fascinating new business concept. It's called solvency.
You pay, me serve." He put the glass down looking at Methos
expectantly. The latter looked back in him in undisguised horror.
"You want me to pay?! For beer?! Here? And let the carefully
cultivated tradition go to waste? Joe... You vandal!"
Joe smirked and turned around, looking over the drink cabinet. Beside
him Amy let out an explosive breath. "Hey! You! I asked you a
question. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Who, me?" Methos sounded surprised. "Well, due to the beastly
weather, the electricity in my flat went a little out. And then the
beer ran out." A sad sigh sounded as Methos dragged his hand through
the wet mass of the short black hair. "Everything ends. Such is life.
And beer. It's quite tragic really." He concluded philosophically.
Dawson started to consider whether the Tribunal would really be all
that upset if his daughter decapitated the oldest known Immortal in
the middle of his bar with a spoon. Methos, however, appeared to be
less concerned. "What interests me, " he continued, ignoring the
fuming young woman, "is what you're doing here, so early. I was rather
under impression that there was a party today."
"I was bored. So I left. All right?"
"Ah." Methos nodded understandingly and looked at Joe. "Jake didn't
show?"
Dawson nodded, keeping his face somber with a truly superhuman force
of will. Amy glared at them both with an indiscriminate measure of
disgust before stomping off, muttering under her breath and grabbing
her cell-phone on the way.
"Here." Dawson slid the full glass down the bar toward the Immortal.
"You derive a truly indecent amount of pleasure from teasing her, you
know that?"
"Yes," Methos agreed complacently and partook of his beer with an air
of a man fully content with his place in the world. Pausing, he
raised his voice slightly. "Oh Amy, my dear heart. Do convey my
deepest condolences to your fellow Watcher on his unfortunate accident
with that plow truck. I do hope his car wasn't too badly damaged."
Amy's reply was clear, well-thought-out, precise and quite definitely
not learned in the halls of the University.
Methos shrugged at Dawson. "She was starting to take me for granted."
"Right."
Methos relaxed, long legs stretched out and beer in hand. He gave the
bar a cursory overview and grinned suddenly. "That's what I like
about your place, Joe. You meet the most interesting people."
"Hm?"
The Immortal pointed with his chin toward the far corner. "Only here
the customers eat bologna sandwiches and read Rumi, Joe."
"It's the ambience," Dawson replied, absently, meanwhile looking back
toward the stage and reevaluating the serious young man yet again.
"If that's what you want to call it." Methos smiled lazily, shaking
his head. "To imagine that you left Paris for this town. The cushy
teaching job at Watchers' Academy. Fully furnished bar. For this. Why
oh why would you come back to this place? What came over you? What
possessed y--"
Methos stopped short of finishing the sentence as he registered
Dawson's flat, serious gaze.
"Ah. Yes. Of course." He smiled a little sadly and nodded as if to
himself. Dawson didn't say anything as he returned to wiping the bar.
He could have asked why Methos himself had reappeared in Seacouver
only weeks after Dawson settled back in. Why the Immortal strolled
into "Joe's" one evening, loudly complaining about the weather, the
people, the gas prices and the American beer. He didn't. Although he
was more curious than he might have shown. Dawson knew, without ever
asking, that Methos didn't believe that Duncan would resurface in his
lifetime. Perhaps he didn't even believe that if MacLeod did come
back it would be to Seacouver. Still... Still and yet.
Their eyes met suddenly and the unspoken agreement passed between the
blue and green. Joe nodded imperceptibly and reached behind the bar.
"Check this out."
"Oh, hellooo there. Is that what I think it is?"
"Surely is. The game."
"Joe, I take back almost everything I said about you. C'mon."
Dawson chuckled and put the tape in, tilting the TV.
As the familiar music sounded from the television set, the music from
the stage faltered slightly. "Is that the Rangers/Capitals game?"
Dawson nodded and Methos waved his glass in acknowledgement. In less
than a minute Oz abandoned the guitar and grabbed a chair, eyes
intent. "I heard Ollie is back on the roster."
Dawson nodded again and fast-forwarded the tape impatiently. Methos
grimaced. "Eh. I fail to see the fascination with the Capitals. One
decent player on the team and he's the goalie."
"What about Bondra?"
"Please. Mediocrity incarnate."
"Hey, shuddap, both of you. Here we go."
***
When Amy finally decided that she was once again calm enough to deal
with the men in her life and reentered the bar, the scene playing out
before her stopped her cold. She watched, biting her lip to keep from
laughing, as the dignified Joe Dawson slammed his cane on the nearest
table and bellowed like a wounded bear. Next to him the legendary and
elusive Methos was doing serious damage to the shoulder of serious and
intelligent young Daniel Osborne, whose face was buried in his hands.
"The Caps/Rangers game?"
Three heads nodded in unison, their eyes still locked on the screen
where Chris Simon was going after Eric Lindross with admirable
persistence and obvious homicidal intent, the players of both teams
and the referees presenting only the nominal of obstacles.
"Who you rooting for?" Amy asked, making herself comfortable behind
the bar. The innocent and sensible question was met by three
uncomprehending pairs of eyes.
"What?" Amy asked warily.
"It's Eastern Conference," Methos said slowly and deliberately.
"Doesn't matter who wins," Oz clarified.
"As long as someone kick-- Oh! Oh! Look at that. Did you see that?!"
Amy regarded the three quite obviously gone men and shook her head.
She pondered her options when suddenly Methos cocked his head and his
eyes grew hard. He gave respite to Oz's shoulder and, in a carefully
casual manner, strode toward his coat. Amy's eyes narrowed and she
glanced at Dawson. What surprised her was the fact that her father was
looking at Daniel, who was looking at the door...with his hackles
quite literally up.
Just as Amy was about to say something and Methos laid his hands on
his coat, the much-abused door flew open and let in a slender,
immaculately dressed young woman. "Darlings! I do declare this city
is not the place to spend the winter. Amy, my dear, you look
absolutely ravishing!"
"Amanda." Amy grinned as the shorthaired platinum blonde, apparently
completely unaffected by the snowstorm outside, proceeded to sweep
through the bar like a mini-tornado. Methos appeared to be unfazed as
he hung his coat up on a hook, for all the world his only original
intention. Amanda nodded to him and imperiously shrugged off her coat.
"Adam, be a dear--"
Amy stifled a snicker as Methos deftly caught the coat before it
touched the floor and hung it near his own. The darkening green eyes
promised dire retribution. Amanda appeared to be mostly unconcerned
as she hugged Amy and kissed air near her cheek. "What are you doing
here? I though you had a party?" Amanda's eyes suddenly lit up with
understanding. "Oh! Did Ja--"
"Yes! All right already! Jake stood me up. Okay?! Can we lay off Amy
now?"
Amanda nodded and patted Amy's hand. "Sorry. Did these two gang up on
you? Don't worry. They'll get theirs."
Dawson suddenly looked alarmed and Amanda smiled sweetly at him.
Which, interestingly enough, appeared to do nothing for his peace of
mind. Satisfied, Amanda turned to Methos, who was already back in his
chair nursing the refilled beer glass. Feeling her eyes on him, he
smiled lazily. "Tell me, Amanda... Aren't you a little overdressed for
this humble establishment?"
"Hey!"
Methos blithely ignored both Dawson and Amy's objections and quirked
his eyebrow at Amanda.
The latter narrowed her eyes dangerously. "For your information I'm
coming from a prior engagement."
"Should we expect company then?" Methos leaned back into his chair and
closed his eyes. "You know - like to dress in blue and have
unhealthily fondness for handcuffs?"
"I resent that, Mr. Pierson. Why, you might give this young man a
completely wrong idea with your infantile sense of humor."
Dawson winked at Daniel in sympathy, the latter appearing a little
taken aback as Amanda unleashed the full force of her charm on him.
It didn't take long, however, for him to collect himself. Joe noticed
the green eyes jumping from Amanda to Methos several times. So he
wasn't completely taken by surprise when the question was asked. "Is
Adam your brother?"
Amanda was less prepared and was uncharacteristically struck dumb in
the middle of a sentence. From behind Dawson Amy appeared to have
swallowed something wrong and was coughing rather loudly. Methos'
response was delivered with his usual aplomb and grace.
He fell out of the chair laughing.
Amanda glared at her fellow Immortal and retreated behind the bar.
"You guys suck."