This takes place an hour or so after "The Messenger".
--- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Perspective
By Teresa C
"Richie left? Where was he going?" Joe asked. Joe
brought a bottle of Glenmorangie over to the table where the world's oldest
immortal slouched. MacLeod stood nearby, at the bar. It was the
middle of the day. Joe's wouldn't be open to anyone but his friends for
hours.
"He didn't say. Said he might go looking for
some answers," MacLeod smiled, thinking of his protege. He was proud
and enormously relieved that Richie had defeated Culbraith.
Joe looked unhappy with his answer, and MacLeod wondered
for a moment if Joe's curiosity was personal or professional.
He shifted his attention from Joe to the irritating
enigma sitting next to Joe. Methos had seemed somewhat subdued since the
exchange with Richie an hour earlier. MacLeod decided not to resist the
temptation to needle him. "The real Methos wouldn't give him any words of wisdom.
Guess he went looking for some real enlightenment."
Methos snorted.
"What exactly is it you have against Richie?" MacLeod
demanded.
Methos looked up, started to say something, then
looked away. He returned his gaze to his glass.
"Now, there's another one," he proclaimed.
"What?"
"Another one of those questions I can't answer.
At least not truthfully."
"And what is so hard about it?" MacLeod inquired.
Methos fidgeted with a coaster. MacLeod didn't miss his attitude of preoccupation.
Something was bothering his friend. Something Richie had said?
"You know what I get from being 5000 years old, MacLeod?"
the man mused. "It's not wisdom. It's isolation."
"Oh, boo hoo," MacLeod responded, "All immortals are
isolated."
"That's true," Methos agreed, his tone turning speculative,
"And so is most everyone else, I expect. So it's a matter of degree."
"What's this got to do with Richie?"
"Just that I can't answer your question without making
you despise me." Methos flicked the coaster across the table, where it
came to rest just on the edge.
"What are you talking about? If you don't like
Richie, just say so."
"Yeah, that would be the easiest thing," Methos didn't
look up.
MacLeod stalked from the bar to the round table where
Methos and Joe sat, turned a chair around backwards, and straddled it.
He fixed a glare on Methos, who looked up and flinched at the expression.
Methos sighed and sat forward, hunching
over his drink. "Look, you ask me `What do I have against Richie', and
three answers occur to me. Two are lies, but they are the easiest to understand."
"Oh, I wouldn't understand the truth?"
Methos looked uncomfortable.
MacLeod went on. "And why is that?"
"Because you're not old enough to share my perspective."
"Oh, spare me!"
"See? I can't even begin to explain without sounding
condescending."
"You've got that right!"
"Look, I could lie and tell you I don't like Richie
because he's a punk kid with an attitude who gets on my nerves."
"And that's the lie that is supposed to keep
me from despising you?!"
"Yeah. It's a good lie. Consistent with
my behavior. It would hold up."
"But it's not the truth," Joe put in.
"No," Methos agreed.
"You set this up, buddy. Now you have to follow
through. What is the truth?" Joe insisted.
Methos nodded and finished his drink. Pouring
another one, he said, "The truth is I've seen hundreds of Richies. They
usually get killed
before they become worth knowing, so I don't want to get attached."
"Oh, is that all!" MacLeod exploded. He stood
and shoved his chair at the table. He walked back to the bar, struggling
with the fury that boiled up in him. Behind him he heard Joe breathe "Jesus,
Adam."
Then there was silence. MacLeod got himself under
control and turned back to the other two men. Joe was giving Methos a
disgusted look, and Methos regarded MacLeod with an expression MacLeod couldn't
quite identify. It was neither cynical nor hostile. It might have
been ... apologetic.
"It's the truth," Methos said quietly, "and that's
why I don't like answering questions like that."
MacLeod wasn't going to take that. He hadn't
let go of the previous affront.
"So you just write Richie off! That's pretty
damn patronizing!"
"You think I don't know that?" Methos retorted.
"Wouldn't you rather have the lie?"
"No! I want you to explain how you think you
can know that Richie won't live long."
Methos ran his hand through his short-cropped hair.
"Because he's so typical. Sure, some young immortals will live a while,
but I know the type who don't and Ryan is that type. It's nothing personal,
MacLeod, it's just ... my perspective."
"Your perspective! It's just your excuse for
being a son-of-a-bitch." MacLeod paced around the table, glaring.
Methos stared at his empty glass. "If you're afraid to get close to people,
just say so. Don't try to hide it behind some kind of `ancient wisdom'.
You can't know what's going to happen. How dare you dismiss him because
you're afraid of getting hurt?!"
"That's who I am, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod," Methos bit out. "All I'm saying is, when I tell the complete,
honest truth, I get spit on. That's isolation."
MacLeod drew back from the bitterness in Methos's words.
He tried to unravel the conversation. He was not at his best when he was
angry. A glance at Joe reminded him of the flaw in Methos's argument,
and he went back on the attack.
"What about Alexa?" he demanded.
"Alexa!" Methos snapped his head up to look at MacLeod
in shock.
"Yeah, Alexa! What about..." he paused when he
saw the pain on Methos's face. Damn, he hadn't expected to wound the old
smart ass in this. Like drawing blood when you were only sparring.
He relented slightly. Dead lovers really should be off-limits. He
spoke more gently.
"You can't pretend you won't get attached to ..." people
you know are going to die. He couldn't finish the sentence. Not in
front of Joe. Not every battle, he reflected, is worth winning. He hadn't
meant to go here.
Methos stood and walked to MacLeod's old place at the
bar. MacLeod stood still, behind his chair at the table. He tried,
but failed, to catch Joe's eye. Joe seemed very interested in Methos's
response.
"That's different," Methos answered.
Of course it is. MacLeod intended to drop
the conversation, but ...
"How so?" Joe asked. MacLeod sighed, recognizing
Joe's right to spar on this particular ground.
"Truth or a good lie?" Methos asked, studying his hands.
"You know I'm gonna say truth."
Methos looked up at Joe and smiled. It was a
warm smile - oddly disarming.
"I'll try, but take it easy on me, okay?"
Joe didn't smile back. Methos sighed and sauntered
back to the table. If Methos felt the disapproval MacLeod was not able to completely
quell, he gave no sign. Or, maybe he did. Methos deliberately chose
a chair well within MacLeod's personal space, tipped it back, and looked at
MacLeod. MacLeod moved around closer to Joe's chair and sat. Methos
reached across for his glass.
"Young immortals," he explained, "are not complete
human beings like everyone else is."
His audience said nothing.
"When someone learns they are immortal, they lose ...
a finiteness about their life. They become unbounded, un ... grounded.
And with it goes about half of their humanity." He took a drink.
"They get it back. If they live a while. A century or so. Then they
get their sea legs again. Like your friend the musician, what was her
name?"
"Claudia," MacLeod supplied, through a tight jaw.
"She couldn't put her heart and soul into her music,
because she had lost part of her heart and soul. If I knew her,
which I won't, and was interested in giving advice, which I'm not, I would tell
her not to worry about her music for a while - worry about her swordwork.
In maybe a century or so, her music would come back, but she has to live that
long."
Which is exactly what I told her, MacLeod
thought.
"Sounds like teenagers to me," Joe observed.
Methos grinned at him. "Which is why I don't
like teenagers, either. But after a few years, teenagers are human again.
I can put up with a few years." He slid his glance to MacLeod, looking
apologetic again. "A few centuries is a pretty big investment
in someone who's likely to die before they become a human being again."
With a superhuman effort, MacLeod held his tongue.
Methos stood and gathered his coat.
"Now there is 5000 year old wisdom for you. You
don't like hearing it, I don't like saying it, so let's not do this again.
Thanks for the drink, Joe. I'm going to go see a movie. There's
a 2:30 showing of Titanic. I'm going to go watch a bunch of people die
in the North Atlantic. That ought to cheer me up." With that, he
left.
MacLeod gave the door an exasperated gesture.
"There goes living proof that it takes more than age to make wisdom".
Joe didn't answer at first. Then he said, "Well,
Mac, if we could tell what 5000 year old wisdom would look like, we wouldn't
have to live 5000 years to get it, you know?"
MacLeod snorted. "It doesn't look like that.
He's just being an asshole."
"Yeah, I know," Joe said, almost sadly.
They both looked at the door for a long time.
The End