This story was written in 1996, and is the longest story I've ever written. It is a "three-some" between Methos/Joe/Duncan, though it is mostly Methos/Joe and a small bit of Methos/Duncan. It is my reaction to the episode in which Charlie DeSalvo was killed and the friendship between Duncan and Dawson was seriously damaged... mostly by (in my opinion) Duncan's lack of understanding.
This story is sappy... I must warn. I also did some editing, but I can't guarantee this is error free. I'm also in the process of rewriting this one all the time, so if you see something strange that's why :-)
Comments are welcomed... otherwise... ENJOY!
Disclaimer: The characters used herein belong to TPTB. I'm just borrowing them... no money is made... what is made is freely given. But please, in good faith, please do not duplicate, forward, copy, or archive without asking me... okay? Thank you.
On Reflection
by Atira
Kei
"It's
either this or that way
It's one
way or the other
It
should be one direction
It could
be on reflection…
(Anything Is…
Enya)
Pain
seeped into his consciousness.
Slowly he became aware of the throbbing in his head, the bright light
burning into his closed eyes. And
his stomach...
“Christ!" Joseph Dawson groaned, moving his body
carefully. He was on the floor, his
arms splayed, his legs... Joe
opened his eyes, focusing on the window across the living room of his one
bedroom apartment. Daylight. “Damn,” he muttered, moving his arms,
preparing to sit up. In response,
his stomach rebelled, his head cracked with agony. Dawson cried out as he lay back down on
the hardwood floor. How long
have I been out? The smell of
urine wafted to his nostrils, informing him he’d been out far too
long.
And
all this for what? Joe asked himself.
For an immortal who didn’t give a damn. An immortal he shouldn’t have been
getting close to anyway simply because he’s immortal. Oh god, look what you’ve done now,
Joseph!
A slight
sound and the vibration of footsteps caught Joe’s attention. Had he left the door unlocked? No, he was sober enough when he came
home... last night? He couldn’t quite remember. All right, four people in the universe
have the key to my place.
Amanda. Adam. Richie. And… “Get out of here, Mac. I don’t want to see you!" he called out in the angriest voice he
could manage. “Get
out!”
“When
I’ve only just arrived?" a light, oddly accented voice replied. A cold chill captured Joe as he
recognized the voice. “Methos," he
whispered, wishing he could die on the spot.
“For the
moment,” Methos replied without emotion.
Joe heard measured footsteps draw nearer. “You’re a pathetic
sight.”
Shame
worked its way up against the pain and general sickness. Gentle hands arranged Joe into a more
comfortable position. “Don’t!" he protested after the fact, slapping
the hands away. “Just get
out!”
“Good,”
his friend encouraged. “There’s
some spirit in you yet." Precise
fingers moved over Dawson’s body, over his shirt to his pants, pressing and
examining. “Looks like you took a
fall." *Sniff* Smells like you drank enough to cushion
the pain quite nicely.”
“Fuck
you!" Joe swatted out with his hands, finding only empty air. “Just go away! I've had enough of immortals! I can take care of
myself!”
“And a
fine job you’ve been doing up to now."
Methos' voice lost its light banter and took on an edge. “Joe, you’re hurt and hungover. You’ve got a bump on your head, and a
cut to go with it." His hands
returned to continue their exam.
Dawson
groaned. The strong, aristocratic
face hovered above his, hazel eyes bright with a variety of complex emotions Joe
couldn’t quite separate. It was the
mystery of this man, a young man's face holding an ancient gaze, the only
evidence of his true age for those who knew what to look for. “I want to be left alone,” he tried one
more time.
“No you
don’t." Methos brushed the hair
from Dawson’s forehead. “I’m here
to help you... and
Duncan.”
At the
mention of the Highlander's name, Joe slapped his hand on the floor. “What do you know about Duncan and
me! Did he call you? Send you? Is that why you’re
here?”
Methos
sighed. “No, Joe. He doesn’t know anything about
this." His eyes scanned the
apartment. “Where’s your
wheelchair?”
Dawson
sighed, hearing the truth in his friend’s words. “In the bedroom." Methos disappeared. The immortal had been here once, just
after Duncan had called from Paris a year ago to inform him that Adam Pierson
was Methos. By then, the American
had known Pierson for nearly ten years.
And in all that time, Joe never suspected the “grad” student who was
given the thankless job of keeping records on an elusive ancient immortal was
actually Methos himself. He simply
enjoyed Adam’s company. They shared
many interests. Joe even imagined
they could have a relationship. But
at the time, he thought Pierson to be half his own age. And what would Adam find interesting in
an old guy with no legs anyway?
Then there was the matter of gender.
Watchers
are a conservative lot. Gay
Watchers were barely accepted. When
one was discovered, even strongly suspected, life was made difficult, promotion
was impossible.
Joe bit
his lip and shifted, trying to ease aching joints. After twenty-five years, he believed
most of his peers had figured his sexual preference, but staying celibate kept
them guessing, and his career was kept on an upward climb. Staying celibate, he reminded himself,
until recently.
A month
ago, Duncan MacLeod had been in Paris then suddenly he was on his way to
Scotland, to the place where he had been born and raised, Glenfinnan. Even if he wasn’t already Mac’s friend,
Dawson the Watcher had to check it out anyway.
Something
happened between them during those few days in Scotland. Dawson learned more than most Watchers
ever dared to dream about an immortal’s past. MacLeod searched for the grave of a
young woman, Deborah Campbell. Four
hundred years ago, before his first death, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod
tried to get permission to marry her.
But instead Deborah was promised to his cousin, Robert. The results were tragic. Robert died at MacLeod’s hands, and
Deborah fell from a ridge in a suicide attempt turned
accident.
But
there was more. There was an
immortal lurking in Glenfinnan, one who was murdering innocent mortals in ritual
sacrifice. His name was Kanwulf, a
Viking. If only for this, MacLeod
would have taken the Viking’s head to stop the killing. But there was one more piece to the
puzzle.
He
killed my father!
Dawson
closed his eyes, remembering the glow of vengeance in the Highlander’s dark
eyes, the bone deep anger he projected.
The Watcher had tried to interfere, had asked MacLeod to give the Viking
what he wanted, then leave. It was
stupid. It was wrong. But the thought of losing Duncan was too
overwhelming. For the first time,
he didn’t care if MacLeod might be ‘the One’ spoken of in legends, so long as he
was out of danger.
[Glenfinnan,
Scotland.... One Month
Ago]
Dawson
sat on the thin mattress of the bed in Duncan MacLeod’s room at the Leuni Inn,
waiting. Mac had been gone for two
hours, and Dawson felt every minute passed like an eternity, his ears sensitive
to every creak and step outside the door.
Across
his lap was Duncan’s weapon, his katana, the sword MacLeod had used to protect
himself for nearly 250 years.
Scottish authorities had returned it shortly after Mac left, saying it
was a fine weapon, but not the murder weapon they were seeking. Both he and Duncan MacLeod were free to
go about their business.
Little
did they know.
Nearly a
half hour ago, Joe had heard the thunder, the kind of thunder he always
recognized as a quickening. He’d
seen the flash of lightening in the short distance between the little inn and
the fields where he knew the two men fought. As the Watcher assigned to watch
MacLeod, he should have been there to witness the event, to see the
results. But all he could do was
sit on the bed and stare at the sword he held, wondering when his beliefs had
really changed, wondering when he’d fallen in love with MacLeod in a way that
went beyond physical attraction.
Quiet,
well-measured footsteps came up the wooden stairs then down the hallway. Joe Dawson tensed, gripping the hilt of
MacLeod’s katana in anticipation as the door began to open. If it was not MacLeod, then he would do
his best to put Kanwulf to rest.
“Joe?" Duncan’s head popped through the door,
followed by the rest of him. He was
dirty, his face covered with dust, his shirt cut and torn. The Highlander had been injured, but
those injuries were gone, leaving behind only bloodstains to hint at what really
happened. Joe stared at him,
feeling relief and an even stronger emotion he didn’t want to
face.
“Joe,
are you all right?” MacLeod put his father’s broadsword, the weapon he’d used to
take Kanwulf's head, aside and knelt in front of the
American.
Trembling
began in the pit of Joe's stomach, then spread until his whole body shook. Dawson studied his friend’s face
carefully. Duncan MacLeod had
survived another battle, another quickening. The Highlander was here, kneeling before
him. To distract himself and
Duncan, he carefully folded the silk around the katana on his lap. “Scottish authorities came fifteen
minutes after you left, “he said with an unsteady voice. “They brought this back.” He sniffed with dark amusement. “They said it wasn’t the murder
weapon.”
MacLeod
blinked then focused on the sword.
He touched the soft covering.
His fingertips brushed Joe’s hand as he lifted the sword and stood
up. Silently, he put the weapon
back into the wardrobe beside the bed then walked over to a pitcher and basin
sitting on a side table. He
stripped off his shirt and quickly washed his face and hands, then cleaned the
spots of blood from his side and chest.
Dawson
watched all of this, respecting the silence, appreciating the well-developed
chest and shoulders. Duncan picked
up a towel to dry himself then returned to kneel in front of Dawson. Joe’s mouth went dry as he met the
Highlander's dark gaze. MacLeod
presence sparked from the quickening he'd taken, touching Dawson like static
electricity.
“Joe, I
had to do it, “MacLeod said softly.
“My father’s at rest now."
Duncan's fingers traced over Dawson's cheek, wiping the wetness
there. Wetness? Joe's vision blurred. Suddenly, MacLeod's arms drew him into a
tight hug, handsMacLeod sighed, pulling him into a tight hug. "It’s all right, “Duncan
soothed
Dawson
clung to the Highlander, pressed his face against the bare shoulder, feeling the
warmth of smooth skin beneath his hands, the unyielding strength in the
well-trained muscles. For a hazy
space of time, it remained this way.
Joe took comfort in the reassuring contact, feeling a rush of excitement
mixed with hesitation. His body
tingled as he took a deep breath.
The scent of MacLeod was wonderfully exotic. Arousal washed through Dawson’s
body.
And
there it was… the attraction.
Dawson had long ago accepted this, since the first day they had actually
met, since the day Joe had taken the first step in breaking long held beliefs
held by Watchers. Now he there was
this next step, the next decision.
Energized with quickening, MacLeod was sensitive, even needful for
contact. Dawson sighed, letting go
his concerns, his hesitation. It
had been a long time since he'd experienced intimacy with another person…
decades. Softly, shyly, his lips
touched the bare shoulder under him, then again in an obvious gesture MacLeod
could not mistake.
Duncan
drew back quickly. Dawson prepared
himself for the shock, the anger.
But instead the dark eyes held him.
MacLeod’s brows knitted in confusion, then stretched in surprise. Joe swallowed, afraid to do anything
more, leaving the decision with MacLeod
The
Highlander’s expression softened, his fingers caressed the mortal's cheek in a
more intimate gesture. “Are you
sure, Joseph?" he asked, his Scottish accent lending a kind of formality. "I do want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. But I didn’t know… I don’t want to hurt
our friendship.”
Joe
chuckled. “I was thinking the same
thing a few days ago, before I came out here." His hand shook as he caressed the
Scotsman’s golden skin. "I thought
I wouldn’t see you again,” he whispered, his mind filling with the image of
Duncan MacLeod’s body against his, making love to him. “I really need to know you're here, that
you’re alive." His cheeks burned as
he made his desire known. "I need
you.”
MacLeod’s
eyes raked over the American, his expression growing more intense. With careful movements, his broad hands
cupped the Watcher’s face, his lips brushed Dawson’s. “Aye, so do
I.”
[Seacouver,
USA...
Present]
“Here we
are." Methos returned, pushing a
wheelchair in front of him. Dawson
blinked then sighed, ending his reverie into the recent past. He eyed the device brought to him with
disdain. His wheelchair…an
unavoidable prison. From the day he
left the field hospital in Viet Nam, Joe had worked hard to master the ability
to walk on his own using his prosthetics, and a cane.
But there were limits. His stumps could not endure the constant friction of the hard plastic that supported him. Many times he could last up to twelve hours, so long as he didn’t stand the whole time. But when he returned to his apartment, he had to shed his artificial legs, to be helpless once more. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe Mac didn’t want to deal with this.
Don’t be stupid, Joseph! That had nothing to do with it! The issues were bigger than the both of you.
“Joe?" Strong arms came under Dawson’s
shoulders. “Come on. Sit up.”
Dawson
moaned as Methos helped him. But
the shifting physically unbalanced his already delicate stomach. Joe pushed at the immortal. “I’m sick!" His abdomen convulsed, but nothing came
up. There was nothing left. Methos' arms came around his shoulders
from behind, supporting him as dry heaves wracked his
body.
Then it
was over. Joe’s head fell back onto
Methos' shoulder, the relief overwhelming him. Reality rested on the edge of
unconsciousness. The immortal’s
embrace tightened reassuringly, then warm breath touched the mortal’s
ear.
“Stay
with me, Joe,” Methos urged gently.
“It won’t take long, especially if I don’t have to carry you. Yes?" He carefully help Dawson to stand. But as Joe’s weight settled onto his
artificial limbs, pain shot through his thighs, into his hips and back. The Watcher cried out, losing his
balance completely. “Here,
Joe!" Brute force dragged Dawson
then dumped him into his wheelchair.
Fighting
the pain, Joe felt his pant legs pulled then heard a smooth tearing sound. Dawson looked down. Adam was using a small hunting knife to
cut away the fabric. “What are you
doing?" he demanded
weakly.
“These
things are coming off you before they cause more damage." He continued to cut, exposing an array
of plastic and metal arranged into a resemblance of lower legs. The immortal briefly examined the
mechanisms then sighed. “This might
hurt,” he warned then began undoing the small straps and Velcro
fastenings.
At
first, Dawson felt nothing. Then he
gasped as his stumps were freed from their confines. His legs throbbed, his skin protested as
his friend removed the cotton sheaths that served as a necessary cushion between
himself and the hard plastic cup that supported him.
“You’ve been very naughty,” Methos chided, his attention focused on the stumps. Joe shifted uncomfortably, as much a physical reaction to the probing touches as it was to the mental discomfort of being examined like this. Looking over Methos' shoulder, Joe caught sight of an overturned stool, a broken bottle, and stains of urine and even blood on the floor. Made a real jerk out of yourself Joseph, didn’t you?
“The
skin has pressure wounds,” Methos announced as he stood. “We’re going to have to get you cleaned
up and get some ointment on those before you get sores.”
“You a
doctor?" Dawson quipped, even as he
wondered.
“I have
been,” Methos answered shortly. His
hand tilted Dawson’s face up for examination. “I was a shaman, then a physician over
the centuries."
Joe
nodded, silently accepting, bracing himself for the expected pain the
examination would bring. But
instead of pain, delicious warmth flowed from the immortal's touch, soothing his
nerves.
“You’ve
got a scrape on your scalp, but it’s not deep and the bleeding’s stopped,”
Methos announced after a moment.
“And you were unconscious I suspect, so a concussion is a possible." His fingers moved away, taking with it
some of the comfort, returning some of the pain. “You need a good clean up, some proper
sleep, then food.”
“Adam--”
Dawson began.
“Don’t
talk,” the immortal ordered tersely, his tone clipped. The wheelchair moved forward. “You don’t have anything to say that I
want to listen to right now."
Dawson opened his mouth to protest, then stopped, sensing anger from his
friend for the first time, knowing he was the cause.
The
bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, had been customized to his needs. There were bars and handles everywhere,
some of it installed by MacLeod to allow Dawson access to every area. Methos rolled him into the bathroom then
came to a halt next to a large, custom-made shower stall. Inside the molded plastic formed a deep
chair made to comfortably support Dawson during a shower. Joe remembered protesting, but Mac
insisted, saying showers shouldn’t be a chore. Joe looked at the Highlander’s
handiwork, bittersweet feelings surfacing then leaving him as his attention
shifted. I stink like hell, but
I don’t want to do this. The
Watcher sensed Methos standing behind him, waiting. Please leave me alone, he pleaded
silently, his fragile emotions rolling to the next extreme. I don’t want this kind of
attention.
“Can you
get in yourself? Or shall I
help?" Methos asked quietly,
coaxing but cautioning against a lengthy answer.
Dawson
sighed, knowing there was no escape.
“I’ll do it on my own." He
began to move--
“No,
Joe. Wait." Methos, his expression sternly
professional, began to unbutton Dawson’s shirt. “Clothes are not an option. Especially ones you’ve bled, urinated,
and thrown up on.”
The
immortal's no-nonsense approach and his steady presence kept Dawson quiet. His shirt then undershirt was
removed. However, as Methos
unbuckled his belt and unzipped the fly, Dawson found himself treated to another
close up of the ancient's handsome features, the aristocratic jaw, and sensuous
mouth.
His
ability to control his emotions were fragile at best. This man's proximity, his touch aroused
Joe. His cock quivered. Memory flashed. Decades ago, there had been another man
who had peeled him off a dusty floor after a fight. There was a feeling of power to his
rescuer, the same feeling he’d sensed in MacLeod when they touched, and now
Methos... Oh god, no. His waistband was being drawn open, to
be moved down. The Watcher bit the
inside of his mouth to keep a groan from escaping. His body tightened with anticipation of
the next move. No! No! Dawson grabbed the immortal’s wrists,
stopping them.
“Adam...”
Methos
studied him, his expression curious.
“Don’t be shy, Joe. There’s
nothing I haven’t seen before, honest.”
I’m
sure, but not on me. Dawson wanted to hide himself, but that
was not an option. Instead he
masked his panic in an aggressive facade.
“I want to do this myself”
Methos sighed then smiled gently, his eyes taking on an odd glow. “All right. Do it yourself. Can you get yourself into the shower?”