Fiction by Maygra

Worth Having
by maygra

Highlander: Methos/Joe implied, PG.

for kensieg & Sweet Charity. Many thanks to dswdiane & acostilow for the look-over and encouragement.

3,183 words

As One Who Having Wandered All Night Long
by Robert Louis Stevenson

As one who having wandered all night long
In a perplexed forest, comes at length
In the first hours, about the matin song,
And when the sun uprises in his strength,
To the fringed margin of the wood, and sees,
Gazing afar before him, many a mile
Of falling country, many fields and trees,
And cities and bright streams and far-off ocean's smile.

+++++

It's dark and it's small. The only place to set up even a hint of a stage is in the corner opposite the bar which has all the acoustical resonance of a sewer pipe and is too close to the bathrooms.

He had a small, raised platform built anyway; hired two young guys to hang up foam and scraps of carpet. Neither of them were carpenters by any stretch of the imagination, but by the time they got the panels hung and secured they at least both knew how to make an angle cut and sink a countersunk bolt. Joe figured that got him off teaching anybody else anything for the next decade or so, and maybe if he was lucky, he'd be dead by then.

He didn't intend to compete with the more chic, trendier bars in the area, nor the huge warehouse style sprawl of the well established Manuel's Tavern down the street a few blocks. The Virginia Highlands part of Atlanta was a little pricier than he really intended, but he'd spent weeks scoping out the neighborhoods, the downtown revitalization. He'd spent not a few nights in a couple of decent music joints, some offering names he recognized for a couple of gigs. Atlanta had it's fair share of blues and jazz bars, but most of them had four- or five-star chefs and people were more interested in the name of the bar than they were in the name of the musician.

Which was fine by him. He wasn't anybody anyone knew, and it was only vanity that made him want to have an audience when he played, rather than seeing it as a step up to some kind of fame.

He got around the blue laws by arranging with the sandwich shop across the street to lay in some extra: fast fixings, sandwiches and chips, nothing that needed more than a microwave to heat up. Lucie did a decent array of standards and a corned beef that Joe actually appreciated more than Lucie's not so subtle flirting. He wouldn't mind being closed on Sundays, and it wasn't like he was planning on making a killing here -- the lease alone would make sure that never happened.

It had been years since he'd been in the south, and it hadn't made much of an impression in the sixties and it didn't now. But there was a familiarity to it, a slowness that Joe craved after the last few years. As much as he loved Europe, loved Paris and London, even rainy Seacouver, he was ready for some slow. Ready to…not so much start over where no one knew him, but where he could maybe get to know himself again.

He'd always thought of himself as a man who knew himself pretty well. He might not have the years -- centuries -- some of his friends did, but he'd never been all that great at self-delusion. He had a pension and a disability check and more than a little cash socked away in some investments that wouldn't give out when the stock market shuddered and shook with economic palsy.

He paid the lease for a year then spent two months on the redesign, although redesign was an overstatement by any standards. He had the old pine floors sanded and refinished dark, rebuilt the shelving and bought a better dishwasher for the glasses. The bar itself he left alone, if only because the son of a bitch was so huge and ugly it had it's own charm. Plus it was oak and probably a century old and ugly or not, it was a piece of history, worn and weathered and banged around the edges. It was scarred and marked and the end nearest the kitchen that Joe wasn't planning on using, looked like it had survived a pretty decent fire -- the char secured under year and years of fresh lacquer. Most of the intricate scroll work façade had long since been chipped or fallen off, exposing the heavy wood, and Joe paid Lucie's daughter a hundred bucks to come in and paint the remaining scroll work bright red and yellow, pointing up the breaks, making the wear stand out. The only new addition he made to it was a series of brass foot rails that he got on the cheap. He called her Matilda in his head, like she was a boat.

It was gaudy and bordering on tacky and it made Joe smile every time he walked in the front door. Matilda was like an old whore who knew her best days were behind her but give her a little makeup and a fancy dress and she'll show the young ones a thing or two yet.

He went for a tin sign and a wrought iron hanger, floodlight instead of neon, and made the "Bar" under "Joe's" small, but within city regs. He didn't put any beer signs in the windows but he put a speaker above the door and let the music fall on the sidewalk in between the sound of cars and the chatter of folks hurrying on foot through the area to get to somewhere else. He didn't advertise and he didn't have a grand opening.

The first night was a Friday. He had a couple of people poke their heads in, come in and take a look around. He had Martin Simpson on the stereo, and his guitar set up on his tiny stage.

He bought the first round, let people talk and ask questions, took their money when they bought the second, answered that yes, he played. The first adventurers were young, eyes out for the next big thing in Atlanta nightlife.

Saturday night he had Greg, the kid he'd hired from Emory, come in and tend bar with him -- nothing fancy, get a license, anybody wants a drink that requires a blender, send 'em to Murphy's or Dark Horse. Martinis we can do, use the right glass…but mostly it was the beer and bourbon crowd and that suited Joe fine. He did his first set at eight and another at ten, maybe a half dozen people both times and that suited him fine too. The applause was scattered but they lingered for another drink.

The next week brought the older crowd and a few who sang along to what they recognized, nodded their heads and tapped their feet to the ones they didn't. The capacity in the bar wasn't huge, and Joe was pretty clear he'd, at best, break even.

He was a little surprised that a month after he opened a couple of cases arrived, damn fine Scotches a few seriously expensive wines that were really out of the scope of his little bar. The note was terse but not cold. I hope you're doing well. Congrats on the new bar, DM.

As far as Joe knew, Duncan was still in Europe. He hadn't talked to him in six months or better; wasn't his job to keep tabs on the man any longer. They hadn't parted on bad terms, but they'd been cooling for awhile, even before Joe left the Watchers and turned in his laptop, had his tattoo removed. He wouldn't be surprised if Watchers were still watching him, though, and that as much as anything made him take the God-awful flight back to the states, consolidate his holdings and look for someplace with fewer memories.

Didn't explain how Duncan knew where to find him, although he probably shouldn't be surprised that he'd looked. Duncan valued his friendships too much to let them go easy, no matter the reasons. No matter how good the reasons.

There was no return address on the note, the booze had been shipped from within the states, so the best Joe could do was crack open a couple of the 12's and offer a round on the house as a toast to his absent friend. He added the wines to the list, offered the Sherries to the trio of little old ladies who came in on Wednesday evenings after church, and let it go. Duncan obviously knew where to find him if he wanted.

Three months in and he had a rhythm, opening around noon for the older lunch crowd who liked Lucie's sandwiches but wanted a place to sit and eat, since she had only four tables in her narrow shop; her biggest customers were the take out crowd. Lucie herself usually stopped in around six, with a basket of evening fare, had a beer and talked about her dead husband, and the joy of her kids. Joe didn't bring up his own daughter, and Lucie wasn't so dense that she didn't finally cotton onto the fact that Joe was either an avowed bachelor or queer or both.

Friendship wasn't something Joe took lightly either, and Lucie was a good companion on Sundays to take in what Atlanta had to offer, and came to like Joe's music even though she was an avowed country fan.

It was good place to settle, good place to work and just be, instead of do, and Joe had almost forgotten that in the past decade or so of always feeling like he had to do something.

At least he thought so, figured he'd finally settled, waiting for the last of his years to come and get him. There were worse ways to go out than to tend a bar and sing a few songs, spend an afternoon with a pretty widow watching a city re-invent itself.

When he played, he forgot about most of it, the music taking him someplace the same way a good book did. The clink of glasses as Greg tended bar, the soft murmur of voices between songs, the rush of cars on the road outside the front door.

He didn't notice him at first, too lost in the song, and there was no bell over the door to announce when someone entered or left. He left the door open most nights as long as it was warm and dry enough. The angle of the stage didn't let him see much but the end of Matilda's heavy curves and the swinging door that led to the back. The lights were subtle but enough that he couldn't see past the first set of tables.

He finished his set to the smattering of applause and the resumption of conversation and hitched his way to the bar for a cold drink, cane more necessary to him after sitting so long than it used to be.

He didn't break his stride when he finally caught a glimpse of the broad, hunched shoulder or the dark head, didn't need to see the familiar face or prominent nose. He knew Methos backwards and forwards, from the set of his shoulders to the cant of his hips where he braced a foot against one of Matilda's rails and sipped the fresh beer Greg set in front of him.

He did go behind the bar instead of heading straight on, as he might do with anyone else he recognized; not even recognizing the defensive and distancing move for what it was until Methos looked up at him. Joe found himself bracing for a blow or a punch that logically he knew he wasn't going to get, but half-expected anyway and even knowing that Methos wasn't here out of anger or anything threatening at all.

His own reaction hit him about the same time Methos straightened up, the slim build on the man always making him look taller than he actually was. "Color me surprised," he said and deliberately countered his own instinct by offering his hand across the bar. Methos took it without hesitation, grip firm and cool from the cold lingering on his beer bottle.

"Pleasant one, I hope." Half mocking, and half-serious, eyes smiling though his lips remained uncurved.

"Depends on if you're paying for that beer," Joe said and the smile that broke on Methos' face had softened harder hearts than Joe Dawson's.

Methos drew his hand back and pulled out his wallet and dropped a ten-spot on the bar. "Wouldn't want to get off on the wrong foot with my host," he said and settled onto a bar stool. "You sound good." He tossed his head back toward the small stage.

"Thanks," Joe said and pulled cold one for himself off the taps, and took a sip rather than asking the burning question, what are you doing here?

Methos sipped his own beer and shifted his gaze, watching Greg maneuver around the tables, picking up empties, taking order and settling tabs. "Found your niche, have you?"

Joe shrugged. "It's all right. Quiet. I needed a little of that," he said, edged. Warning and question all in one.

Methos met his eyes. "Deserve it, I'd think."

The silence that followed was awkward and too heavy for the otherwise brightly lit bar. Methos didn't try and dodge it though, only took another long swallow of his beer. He fingered the bowl of complimentary peanuts and cracked a few. "Not wondering why I'm in Atlanta?"

"Not sure I'd want to know, even if I was."

Methos hesitated a fraction of a second before popping a peanut in his mouth. "I didn't realize we'd parted on such bad terms," he said and dropped the peanut shells neatly onto the bar napkin.

We didn't, except they had on some level, as much on Joe's as on the man in front of him, possibly even more weighted toward Joe. "So, why are you here?" Joe asked and Methos cut him a sharp look.

"Curiosity?" Methos said and Joe snorted.

Methos half-smiled and finished his beer. "I was in the area, just wanted to see that you were all right," he added and got up. "Whether you believe it or not. It's good place, Joe. I wish you well." He got up and headed toward the row of hooks near the door where a scattering of coats hung.

That would be it then. Joe wasn't actually sure he did believe him, but he wanted to. He started to call out, only to realize he didn't know what name Methos was using. Easy to fall back on old habits though. Maybe too easy. "Adam," he called and Methos stopped, turned, all easy grace and lethal ease. Bad terms wasn't the right word, uneasy was more accurate, something Methos had recognized the last time they'd met, the last time they'd been this close to each other. This had been the problem then, and it was now.

Like with Lucie, there was nowhere to go beyond a friendship, but unlike with Lucie, there was more than one side to the desire to be close to someone. Not anyone, just somebody who mattered a little bit.

It had never been an overt offer, or even spoken thing. Just a sudden recognition of something that was only barely simmering. Joe had chalked it up to the last crisis of Duncan's conscience, if not his own. It was easier with Methos when they had Duncan between them, and less confusing too. Duncan was in your face with his wants and needs and hopes and yes, his damn honor and obligations.

Methos was always around the edges, out of the corner of Joe's eye, watching and weighing so when the first hint of this had come up, Joe had been less surprised but still off kilter. Hadn't been willing to be more than grateful when Methos had pulled him to his feet and steadied him at the end of Duncan's encounter with Kell, stood shoulder to shoulder while Duncan grieved his kinsman's loss.

They'd all gotten really, really drunk that night, ensconced in Methos' London townhouse. Joe had wanted to celebrate Duncan's survival and Duncan had wanted to mourn his cousin.

But Methos…even now, Joe wasn't sure what Methos wanted at the time. He'd put them both up until Duncan did what he had to, while Joe figured out what to do next. Duncan went to ground for awhile, recover.

Joe and Methos went to Spain, to Madrid -- too many Watcher eyes on them both to linger, then to Majorca, Morocco, and finally back to Paris. A little over three months, in each other's pockets except, not quite. Joe turned in his resignation in Majorca, got the tattoo removed in Paris.

"What next?" Methos asked him then, changing the bandage on his wrist. All the time traveling and this was as close as he'd ever been, breath soft against Joe's wrist and hands capable and sure -- a reminder that Methos had been a doctor once upon a time.

"I'm feeling a little old to start over."

Methos' fingers had closed over his wrist, feather-light but firm. "I think I have the authority to say, you're never too old to start over."

To this day, Joe couldn't remember if there had been a kiss or not. It seemed like there should have been, something more shocking than an offer and an opinion that had sent Joe booking plane reservations, and checking his accounts.

Methos had said nothing, not pursued nor protested, had driven Joe to the airport. Seen him off, not lingered at the gate.

Six months, almost a year now, and Joe had blamed prudery, and unfamiliarity, stuck to his heterosexual roots and still been unable to deny that it wasn't so much fear that drove him away as an undefined want.

Methos was still lingering by the door, coat in hand, the heavy fall of it a reminder of some other reasons why this was a bad idea all around.

Except for the part where he had started over, and the years he was waiting for would come regardless and he couldn't shed his history any more than Methos or Duncan could.

"I play another set in an hour."

Methos regarded him solemnly for a long moment before hanging his coat back up. Joe pulled him a draft and slid it across the bar and didn't flinch when Methos' fingers covered his for a brief and fleeting moment. "So, what have you been up to?" he asked.

"Went to Tokyo for awhile. Came back with a grudging appreciation of saki and sushi."

"Just grudging?"

Methos sipped his beer, eyes warm on Joe's. "I'm fond of the familiar, Joseph. Good beer, good music, good friends."

"Good memories," Joe said and slid the ten back toward him. "Why don't you settle up when you leave?"

"That could be awhile."

Joe felt a little tingle up his spine and a little warmth in his belly. "Yeah, well, I'm sure you're good for it," he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. It wasn't much.

"So, I've been told," Methos said and smiled, broad and easy and tapped his glass to Joe's. "Here's to starting over."

Here's to starting something, Joe thought and smiled himself and patted Matilda's solid surface.

Some things were worth having just for what they were.

-end-

2/9/2008