Friends Will Be Friends meme (for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mackiedockie)
Fandom: Highlander
Characters: Methos, Joe, Amanda
Gen, c. 1700 words
Dark Blue
Music thrummed quietly in the back of Joe's head; echoes of a long night in the bar. Everybody had gone home now; the band had packed up and left, following the customers out into the balmy night, and the staff had vanished with them. Most of the chairs stood on the tables, casting weird, geometric shadows across the freshly swept floor. Only three chairs were still down. Amanda was seated on one, a glass of rich, dark wine on the table in front of her. It was almost black, and every so often she swirled it around in the glass, sending the scent drifting about, to mingle with the last remnants of cigarette smoke still hanging in the air. Joe had the second chair, half asleep and head heavy, guitar solos and saxophone breaks filling his thoughts, and preparing to fill his dreams. The third chair belonged to Methos, sprawled with his feet up on the table, a bottle of beer swinging from a trailing, perfectly relaxed hand. He looked asleep, but Joe knew better. He had seen before how that languid, lazy form could erupt into action at the slightest hint of a threat. The faint crack beneath the eyelids was the one reminder that he was not just an ordinary man; that his life was not an ordinary life. It was a truth that was often easy to overlook.
Joe heaved a quiet sigh, and took a sip from the glass in front of him. It was whisky, a finely aged single malt that he had been savouring for some while. It was perfect for the atmosphere of the almost abandoned club; perfect for a quiet, peaceful night with friends. The heavy, mellow flavour lingered on the back of his tongue as the initial burn faded, and he leaned back in his chair, staring out at the occasional lights that flashed beyond the windows, reminding him of a busy, racing world that existed outside of this moment. It seemed such a long time since he had had the chance to relax like this. There was always some crisis; some battle to be fought; some evil Immortal striding through his life with a swinging sword, or some evil mortal causing equivalent carnage. Now, though, was a time for peace; for sitting here in the half-dark with his usual cares a million miles away. A quiet pause when he might almost forget that the beautiful woman opposite was a thousand years old; that the sprawled man beside him was so much older. Joe smiled at the thought, and pushed the booted feet off the table. Methos shot him a hooded glare, and took a sip of beer in so sulky a fashion that it made him seem younger than ever, and made Joe's smile grow all the more.
"I'm glad to be such a source of amusement," said the world's oldest man, and set down his bottle upon the table. Amanda shoved a coaster towards him, and he pointedly ignored it. Joe's smile didn't fade, something about the old man's affronted air amusing him all the more. It fitted the five thousand year old Immortal that Methos truly was, but it contrasted sharply with the youthful body that he lived in. There was a similar contrast in the almost childish giggle that bubbled from Amanda's throat.
"Don't be such an old grouch, Methos." She took a sip of her wine, watching him over the top of the glass - the better, perhaps, for hiding her smile. Methos glowered in her direction.
"But I am old. Everybody always seems to forget that. Old, wise, and deserving of a good deal more respect."
"Oh, we respect you." Joe could feel the corners of his eyes crinkling into little smiles of their own, which were sure to undermine the attempt to be serious. Methos scowled, then turned his attention to his beer, staring down the neck of the bottle to the crisp, brown liquid swirling idly within.
"Time was, one's elders were properly appreciated," he said, just a shade too solemnly to be sincere. Joe laughed, pushing himself to his feet to head towards the bar.
"Tell me about it. Oh, I might not have your thousands of years of alleged wisdom, old man, but I have enough creaking bones to qualify for at least a little respect. So don't even think about putting those feet back on that table." He didn't need to look back to see that Methos had frozen, halfway to doing just that, before letting his feet drop back to the floor. Amanda's quiet laugh told him that his suspicions had been correct, and he smiled to himself as he collected his guitar from beside the cash register. "Immortal lives are all very well," he continued, as he sank back once again into his chair, "but there's a whole different kind of experience that comes from slowing down. From back pain, and eyes that don't see so well anymore, and wrinkles you don't remember getting. That's proper age. Age that writes a story other people can read."
"I shudder to think how I'd look if my life showed on my face," said Amanda, her eyes widening significantly at the thought. "And that's just the years. Never mind the misdemeanours."
"You'd still be a lot prettier than Methos," Joe told her, and was rewarded with a beautiful smile - and a barbed, grey-green glare from the other direction.
"We can't all be blameless boy scouts," grumbled the old man, and Joe nodded, finishing his whisky in one last, smooth swallow, before leaning back to strum softly on his guitar. There were still saxophones blowing in the back of his mind, and the steady beat of a sleepy, husky drumkit to march his waking dreams in gentle time. His own notes played out in idle improvisation, lingering in the warm, heavy air, as though trying to recreate, in musical form, the taste of whisky still spreading across the back of his tongue. It was a tune that told a tale, and he let it play itself out, his fingers speaking his mind in a way that he himself never could.
It was too smooth at first; too much like the easy, hazy days of a long gone youth. His strings added more of a spike; a bite to each note that spoke of regrets left by the wayside. Of Amy's mother; of Amy herself; of moments long past that could never be recaptured. Thoughts of colleagues lost to the enemy, tripping now off steel strings, ringing out of a hollow, wooden body that was somehow always more eloquent than he could ever be. So many stories lining up to be told, their rhythm given piquant flavour by restless images of women that might have been; women that had been, and shouldn't; women that probably shouldn't have been, but had, and weren't regretted. He wished that the saxophone he still heard in his mind was real; that there was more than just the heavy tap of his leg against the table to recreate the drummer only he could hear. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe this was a tale that he had to tell by himself.
The music slowed. There was more to it now; layers beyond layers, so that each string was a thousand words, each word still bringing to mind that last, fading swallow of whisky. Warm but sharp, mellow but with a burn that would not be forgotten. Notes like crowsfeet in the corners of his eyes. Notes like scars, fading with the years into white lines, writing their own story beneath a weathered tan. Chords thrumming like back pain, like phantom aches in legs long lost; in knees he had forgotten how to bend. A quiet, persistent refrain bringing to mind the stiffness that came with cold, damp mornings, and conjuring up fears of a maybe time when old, arthritic fingers might fail to form those all-important shapes upon the strings. Fears and memories; aches and pains; loves and regrets and wonderings, all echoing together in a dark, quiet room. And something else as well. Something that rose out of the middle of it, forming the backbone of the Blues. Something that sped the music up again, and made Joe's invisible drummer strike his skins with greater force. Life. The man behind the years. The smile that went with the crowsfeet; the vigour that was behind each swinging and sometimes awkward step. The steady, thrumming riff that was Joe Dawson. Opposite him, her eyes closed, Amanda smiled.
The music ended, as music always does, the last note drifting away to join the others in the warm, still air. Amanda nodded, the glass of wine in her hand forgotten, the black-red liquid swaying back and forth in time to a tune of its own. After a moment Methos moved too, a small smile dragged forth across the face of a man who had been young for five thousand years, and intended to remain so for many thousands more.
"Thank you, Joe," he said quietly, and raised his bottle of beer in salute to a friend so very much younger than him, and yet so very much older. Joe smiled as well, and nodded an acknowledgement in return.
"My pleasure," he said, and heaving himself to his feet once again, he headed back towards the bar. There was time for one more drink, for a little more conversation, before dawn began to chase the darkness away. It was good, sometimes, to see the sun rise. Good to sit in the company of friends and watch a new day begin. There was a song in that too, somewhere; but that would be a tale for another night. For now there were words to do the talking. There was Amanda's quiet laugh, and gentle teasing; there were Methos's beer-coaxed reminscences, and moments of habitual sarcasm. Joe laughed along with them, telling his own tales, his own jokes, watching the shadows begin to glide across the floor as black gave way to grey beyond the windows. Times like these were precious; he knew that more acutely than either of his companions. Knew it, but had long ago learned to live with it. Another day beginning meant another day older, but that was not such a burden to bear. Every line on his face was a story, and every story was another verse of the Blues.
The End
mackiedockie)Fandom: Highlander
Characters: Methos, Joe, Amanda
Gen, c. 1700 words
Music thrummed quietly in the back of Joe's head; echoes of a long night in the bar. Everybody had gone home now; the band had packed up and left, following the customers out into the balmy night, and the staff had vanished with them. Most of the chairs stood on the tables, casting weird, geometric shadows across the freshly swept floor. Only three chairs were still down. Amanda was seated on one, a glass of rich, dark wine on the table in front of her. It was almost black, and every so often she swirled it around in the glass, sending the scent drifting about, to mingle with the last remnants of cigarette smoke still hanging in the air. Joe had the second chair, half asleep and head heavy, guitar solos and saxophone breaks filling his thoughts, and preparing to fill his dreams. The third chair belonged to Methos, sprawled with his feet up on the table, a bottle of beer swinging from a trailing, perfectly relaxed hand. He looked asleep, but Joe knew better. He had seen before how that languid, lazy form could erupt into action at the slightest hint of a threat. The faint crack beneath the eyelids was the one reminder that he was not just an ordinary man; that his life was not an ordinary life. It was a truth that was often easy to overlook.
Joe heaved a quiet sigh, and took a sip from the glass in front of him. It was whisky, a finely aged single malt that he had been savouring for some while. It was perfect for the atmosphere of the almost abandoned club; perfect for a quiet, peaceful night with friends. The heavy, mellow flavour lingered on the back of his tongue as the initial burn faded, and he leaned back in his chair, staring out at the occasional lights that flashed beyond the windows, reminding him of a busy, racing world that existed outside of this moment. It seemed such a long time since he had had the chance to relax like this. There was always some crisis; some battle to be fought; some evil Immortal striding through his life with a swinging sword, or some evil mortal causing equivalent carnage. Now, though, was a time for peace; for sitting here in the half-dark with his usual cares a million miles away. A quiet pause when he might almost forget that the beautiful woman opposite was a thousand years old; that the sprawled man beside him was so much older. Joe smiled at the thought, and pushed the booted feet off the table. Methos shot him a hooded glare, and took a sip of beer in so sulky a fashion that it made him seem younger than ever, and made Joe's smile grow all the more.
"I'm glad to be such a source of amusement," said the world's oldest man, and set down his bottle upon the table. Amanda shoved a coaster towards him, and he pointedly ignored it. Joe's smile didn't fade, something about the old man's affronted air amusing him all the more. It fitted the five thousand year old Immortal that Methos truly was, but it contrasted sharply with the youthful body that he lived in. There was a similar contrast in the almost childish giggle that bubbled from Amanda's throat.
"Don't be such an old grouch, Methos." She took a sip of her wine, watching him over the top of the glass - the better, perhaps, for hiding her smile. Methos glowered in her direction.
"But I am old. Everybody always seems to forget that. Old, wise, and deserving of a good deal more respect."
"Oh, we respect you." Joe could feel the corners of his eyes crinkling into little smiles of their own, which were sure to undermine the attempt to be serious. Methos scowled, then turned his attention to his beer, staring down the neck of the bottle to the crisp, brown liquid swirling idly within.
"Time was, one's elders were properly appreciated," he said, just a shade too solemnly to be sincere. Joe laughed, pushing himself to his feet to head towards the bar.
"Tell me about it. Oh, I might not have your thousands of years of alleged wisdom, old man, but I have enough creaking bones to qualify for at least a little respect. So don't even think about putting those feet back on that table." He didn't need to look back to see that Methos had frozen, halfway to doing just that, before letting his feet drop back to the floor. Amanda's quiet laugh told him that his suspicions had been correct, and he smiled to himself as he collected his guitar from beside the cash register. "Immortal lives are all very well," he continued, as he sank back once again into his chair, "but there's a whole different kind of experience that comes from slowing down. From back pain, and eyes that don't see so well anymore, and wrinkles you don't remember getting. That's proper age. Age that writes a story other people can read."
"I shudder to think how I'd look if my life showed on my face," said Amanda, her eyes widening significantly at the thought. "And that's just the years. Never mind the misdemeanours."
"You'd still be a lot prettier than Methos," Joe told her, and was rewarded with a beautiful smile - and a barbed, grey-green glare from the other direction.
"We can't all be blameless boy scouts," grumbled the old man, and Joe nodded, finishing his whisky in one last, smooth swallow, before leaning back to strum softly on his guitar. There were still saxophones blowing in the back of his mind, and the steady beat of a sleepy, husky drumkit to march his waking dreams in gentle time. His own notes played out in idle improvisation, lingering in the warm, heavy air, as though trying to recreate, in musical form, the taste of whisky still spreading across the back of his tongue. It was a tune that told a tale, and he let it play itself out, his fingers speaking his mind in a way that he himself never could.
It was too smooth at first; too much like the easy, hazy days of a long gone youth. His strings added more of a spike; a bite to each note that spoke of regrets left by the wayside. Of Amy's mother; of Amy herself; of moments long past that could never be recaptured. Thoughts of colleagues lost to the enemy, tripping now off steel strings, ringing out of a hollow, wooden body that was somehow always more eloquent than he could ever be. So many stories lining up to be told, their rhythm given piquant flavour by restless images of women that might have been; women that had been, and shouldn't; women that probably shouldn't have been, but had, and weren't regretted. He wished that the saxophone he still heard in his mind was real; that there was more than just the heavy tap of his leg against the table to recreate the drummer only he could hear. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe this was a tale that he had to tell by himself.
The music slowed. There was more to it now; layers beyond layers, so that each string was a thousand words, each word still bringing to mind that last, fading swallow of whisky. Warm but sharp, mellow but with a burn that would not be forgotten. Notes like crowsfeet in the corners of his eyes. Notes like scars, fading with the years into white lines, writing their own story beneath a weathered tan. Chords thrumming like back pain, like phantom aches in legs long lost; in knees he had forgotten how to bend. A quiet, persistent refrain bringing to mind the stiffness that came with cold, damp mornings, and conjuring up fears of a maybe time when old, arthritic fingers might fail to form those all-important shapes upon the strings. Fears and memories; aches and pains; loves and regrets and wonderings, all echoing together in a dark, quiet room. And something else as well. Something that rose out of the middle of it, forming the backbone of the Blues. Something that sped the music up again, and made Joe's invisible drummer strike his skins with greater force. Life. The man behind the years. The smile that went with the crowsfeet; the vigour that was behind each swinging and sometimes awkward step. The steady, thrumming riff that was Joe Dawson. Opposite him, her eyes closed, Amanda smiled.
The music ended, as music always does, the last note drifting away to join the others in the warm, still air. Amanda nodded, the glass of wine in her hand forgotten, the black-red liquid swaying back and forth in time to a tune of its own. After a moment Methos moved too, a small smile dragged forth across the face of a man who had been young for five thousand years, and intended to remain so for many thousands more.
"Thank you, Joe," he said quietly, and raised his bottle of beer in salute to a friend so very much younger than him, and yet so very much older. Joe smiled as well, and nodded an acknowledgement in return.
"My pleasure," he said, and heaving himself to his feet once again, he headed back towards the bar. There was time for one more drink, for a little more conversation, before dawn began to chase the darkness away. It was good, sometimes, to see the sun rise. Good to sit in the company of friends and watch a new day begin. There was a song in that too, somewhere; but that would be a tale for another night. For now there were words to do the talking. There was Amanda's quiet laugh, and gentle teasing; there were Methos's beer-coaxed reminscences, and moments of habitual sarcasm. Joe laughed along with them, telling his own tales, his own jokes, watching the shadows begin to glide across the floor as black gave way to grey beyond the windows. Times like these were precious; he knew that more acutely than either of his companions. Knew it, but had long ago learned to live with it. Another day beginning meant another day older, but that was not such a burden to bear. Every line on his face was a story, and every story was another verse of the Blues.
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