Alexa By WorstWitch It had been a long, dismal day - a combination of rain and wind that made driving home a chore, and now dark, oppressive clouds had settled overhead bringing the threat of a thunderstorm. Joe Dawson closed the drapes and shut out the darkness, settling himself into the den which was illuminated by a cosy, peach glow from discreetly placed lamps, and comfortably warm now that the heating had kicked in. He felt better after a good meal, and, taking his time over choosing the book he was about to read, began to unwind after the hectic day that was now behind him. He fixed a pot of fresh coffee, large enough to last him through several chapters, and had just gotten comfortable in his chair when the doorbell sounded. "Aw, dammit," muttered Joe, closing the cover of his chosen book with a snap, and laying it down beside the cup of coffee that he hadn't even touched. "What now?" He grabbed his walking cane, hauled his aching body upright and headed for the door with the resentment picking up inside him. If this was a religious cold caller, he might just have a story about an Immortal or two that would send them gibbering for the nearest ... His angry thoughts silenced at once when he wrenched open the door and found himself looking into a familiar face. Gaunt and wet and clearly frozen, Adam Pierson forced a smile through chattering teeth. "Hi Joe." "Um ..." It took a moment for Dawson's brain to get off the track of vengeance and to register that Adam ... Methos ...his brain whispered, sending a shiver down his spine, probably wanted to come in out of the cold. "Adam. Hi. Come on in." He made way, and the young man ... young, get a grip on it Dawson ... didn't hesitate. The oldest living Immortal stood in Dawson's hallway, tugging off thick lambswool gloves that were sparkling wet, and surrendered to an almighty sneeze. "I'm sorry to drop in unannounced," he apologised, ears and nose and fingers already turning bright red with the sudden change of temperature. "If it's a bad time ..." "No," Joe lied, all thought of his planned peaceful evening slipping away into insignificance. It had been some time since he had spoken to Methos, and, he realised uncomfortably, he was unaware of how the guy was coping in the wake of Alexa's death. It left him unsure how to pitch his words. In the end he opted for jovial practicality, the pleasure of seeing an aquaintance so unexpectedly. "Take that wet coat off - come on through. There's coffee," he added, over his shoulder, and heard an appreciative response to the offer of a warm drink. "Pretty cold outside, huh?" "Yeah," Methos agreed, appearing in the doorway wearing jeans and a loose blue sweater that were probably inadequate against the temperature outside. "I left my driver's license in Paris," he admitted sheepishly, sounding as if he wasn't used to making such a basic blunder. "I went to the bar first and then walked here ..." Dawson fetched a coffee cup from the cupboard, and eased himself back into his favourite chair before leaning over to pour. "Sit down!" he urged, when Methos hesitated, and wondered as he watched the dark liquid fill the cup and let off a cloud of steam, whether that slightly awkward demeanor was genuine, or part of the 'Adam' act. Methos sat, placing his small travel bag on the floor beside the seat, and took hold of the warm drink immediately. "So, you were looking for me?" "Yes." Pushing one hand back through his damp brown hair, Methos rested back in the chair with a sigh of obvious relief, cupping the coffee between his palms to make use of the warmth. "Trouble?" Dawson tried not to show that he really wasn't in the mood for Immortal trouble, but it must have told in his voice. Methos shook his head with a smile, sympathetic. "Don't worry Joe," he advised with mock sincerity. "No trouble. No swords, no MacLeod whoopsies to clear up. I came to bring you something." "Oh." Relieved, and not minding that it showed seeing as Methos had seen right through his indifference anyway, Dawson took a first sip of his own coffee, and felt his thoughts turning to Alexa. In the weeks since her death there had been moments when the grief came; grief more that he had known her for so short a time than because he missed her enough to mourn. He did know that she had died with a loving man at her side - died happy and fulfilled instead of afraid and alone. And he was grateful to Methos for having the strength to be that man. He was therefore calm when Methos broached the subject, his voice dropping to an almost-croak. "I've been dealing with ... um ... Alexa's personal effects," he said, his shoulders actually sinking as he said her name. Dawson knew how it felt to lose a woman you'd barely had time to get to know - a woman you knew that you'd have loved forever if given the chance. Knew what kind of woman Alexa had been and that the grief must be a terrible burden. Did it get easier or harder as the centuries passed? "She left you a few things she thought you might like for the bar ..." he was fumbling in the bag at his side, eventually bringing out a stiff lawyer's envelope. "This is the list, I'll have the things shipped in a week or so." "Thanks." Joe leaned over to take the envelope, and caught Methos' eye as it changed hands. For a moment the wounds showed clearly, and Dawson could almost feel the Immortal's grief. He had to look away, and by the time he returned his gaze to the ancient's incongruously youthful face, the pain was hidden again. Methos offered a forced smile. "It's not much. Silly things. But she thought of you a lot Joe." " ... thanks," Dawson managed, wishing that his throat wouldn't tighten up like that when he got emotional. "I miss her too." There was silence, during which Methos drew a deep breath and reclaimed his drink. He looked like a man who needed something stronger than coffee - he was pinched and heavy eyed. Maybe that was jetlag, if he'd flown from Paris today ... but Joe didn't think so. The recuperative powers of an Immortal as old as Methos would ward off such a minor complaint in seconds. No. He had been a long time without restful sleep. Dawson had seen the same look in his own eyes when guilt or grief or regrets kept him from his ease. "How are you doing, Adam?" he asked, when he could be sure that his voice would comply. Methos shrugged, his tone lightening deliberately, and the sound of it warred in Joe's head with the heavy sorrow he had just witnessed. 'How do they survive, going through this time after time? How come they aren't all insane?' "You know how it goes," Methos said. "Keep busy, try not to get dragged down. But I miss her." He chewed his lower lip for a moment, searching for the right compromise between honesty and instinctive self defense. "It was almost a relief, when she actually died," he admitted, and then seemed to realise how easily that might be misinterpreted. "God that sounds awful. I'm sorry." He rubbed his eyes, trying to force some sense into himself. Dawson watched, wondering if the Immortal was about to break down in his sitting room, and not sure quite what he'd do if that happened. "No," he soothed, hating the uselessness of words. "I know what you meant." Methos nodded, not managing to smile this time. "It's just that she was in so much pain," he explained, unnecessarily. "I'd have spared her that." "I understand," Dawson assured him again. Had Methos come to him to talk? None of his Immortal friends had really known Alexa; no mortal could understand the added dimension to his grief unless they knew what the Watchers knew ... it would make sense. But it didn't feel right. Try as he might, Dawson could never truly reconcile himself to the fact that Methos, an Immortal, was also Adam Pierson, a Watcher. The scale of the deception, although brilliantly simple, was grandiose. The conflict with his own loyalty to the Watchers always troubled him when he was with Methos, to the extent that he could almost deceive himself into denying all knowledge. Almost. The feeling that he would go to hell for keeping this secret haunted his dreams. But he would not turn away anyone when they were in need of kind words or a strong shoulder. Joe pushed the conflict to the back of his mind and rested his chin on his clenched fist while he regarded Methos. Warm brown eyes flashed back at him, and, not for the first time, Joe got the distinct feeling that Methos knew everything that had just passed through his mortal companion's mind. "There's something else," he said, bending to the bag once more and pulling out his wallet; searching through it for a moment with a frown. Then he produced a bank note, American, and tossed the wallet carelessly back into his bag. "She asked me to give you this personally." Dawson craned forwards in spite of himself, curious to know what might have been important enough to bring the grieving Immortal all the way from France when he could have telephoned or written at far less inconvenience to himself. His heart lurched when he saw the fifty dollar bill, crumpled and torn clean in two. It had been taped back together, but he recognised it nevertheless. Methos looked at it, from his expression obviously not sharing Joe Dawson's understanding of its significance. Joe took the note with a shaking hand, all the sadness and anger at Alexa's tragedy settling over him at once. "Oh God," he whispered, lowering his head to his chest so that his emotion wouldn't be witnessed. Methos didn't move, watching him with those powerful eyes and palpable curiosity. "She kept it ..." "What is it Joe?" he asked, gentle, but clearly wanting an answer. Of course; he would want to know anything about Alexa now that she was gone - any tiny detail to help him fill in the vast gap in what he knew about her. Their time together had been so short - so much must have remained unsaid. Joe took a deep breath, and then another, and then bravely raised his moist eyes to meet those of the Immortal. "I gave it to her," Joe told him flatly. "The first day I met her." Methos waited for the explanation, the hunger for knowledge dominating all else in his expression. Thinking back over it and trying to cut out the pain of knowing Alexa was dead, Joe finally managed a wan smile, and settled back in the chair. "She'd never worked as a waitress before. She'd lost two jobs already because of her sick record, and by the time I took her on I could almost see her fading day by day." Methos looked down suddenly, fixing his attention on his drink and setting his face in stone. Dawson hesitated, determining that he should be more careful in what he said. "So I took her on as casual labour, she could pick and choose her shifts, that kind of thing." Dawson frowned, remembering the young woman who had leaned heavily against his bar, sad and withdrawn, and told him over a glass of sparkling water that she might as well be dead already for all the chance she had of getting a job now. And he had listened, watched her force back the darkness and apologise for being pathetic. And taken her on at once. "She was very grateful, Joe," Methos said, his voice low and confidential. "And not just because you made her feel worthwhile again. You didn't pity her." "She didn't need pity," Dawson responded, reasonably. "Just a little understanding." "So ... what about the fifty?" Methos asked, unable to make his tone of voice any lighter. Joe smiled broadly as he remembered, and Methos felt a pang of jealousy towards the mortal who had known Alexa before he had. There was so much that he didn't know; moments she had shared with Joe and a thousand others that he wanted for himself. "Like I said, she wasn't a born waitress. She was terrified on her first day, apologising for everything." Joe laid the fifty dollar bill down on the table between them, and poured himself some more coffee, able to see the anxiety in her pretty face in his mind's eye, like it was yesterday. "She said she was scared she'd drop a tray of drinks and I'd fire her before her first shift was over." Joe sighed, bitter at the young woman's former employers for tossing her in the waste the moment she discovered that she was terminally ill - and yet grateful, in a way, that he had the chance to know her because of it. "Getting fired had knocked her confidence pretty bad. So I took her in back to tell her it was okay - that I wouldn't fire her if she dropped a couple of trays. And I tore this fifty in half, and gave her one side, and told her I'd give her the other if she got through her first shift without breaking anything." That made Methos smile, and he raised his eyes, no longer brooding, but glad to hear the story. "I take it she did?" "All she had to lose was the chance at an extra fifty bucks," Dawson shrugged. "So she stopped being nervous and enjoyed herself. She never looked back. Best darned waitress I ever had." "I see." "She was meant to go buy herself something nice with this," Joe recalled, frowning slightly. "I wonder why she kept it?" "Because it meant a lot to her that you gave her a chance," Methos reasoned, his eyes on the money while he spoke. "She would have died bitter and withdrawn if not for you. And I would never have met her." "Are you glad you did?" Joe challenged the ancient Immortal directly, wanting to know if the brief moments of companionship were really worth the agony of knowing you were going to lose someone. Methos took a deep breath before he answered, the muscles of his jaw tightening when he swallowed, hard. For a second his brown eyes misted with tears, and then were hastily averted so that Joe wouldn't see. "Yes I'm glad," he said. "She was worth it." Methos closed his eyes until they stopped stinging, knowing that the worst of the grief wasn't over yet, comforting himself with the happy memories. "You know, every time I lose someone I tell myself 'never again'," he told Dawson, fingering the tattoo, the symbol of the Watchers, that adorned his wrist, and wearing a faraway look. How far back was he remembering? A century? Five hundred years? Five thousand? How many wives, lovers, friends, had Methos buried? "Until the next one comes along, right?" Methos nodded, shrugging in resignation. "Every time," he agreed, sighing, and then picked up the corners of his mouth in a sly smile that almost reached his eyes. "They're all worth it. But Alexa was one of the special ones." Dawson poured him some more coffee, suspecting that good manners would keep Methos there a while to drink it. He did not want to see the man leave in any hurry - he was pleasant company, even sad as he was, and echoing in Joe's mind were so many questions that he wanted answers to. The trade off for that might be sharing some more memories of Alexa with Methos; better that than watch him walk off into the cold night and regret it later. "I ... uh ... I have some photographs of Alexa," Joe said, suddenly remembering something that sorrow had made him try to forget. "Her birthday. Just a few friends, me, the band ..." he hesitated, unable to read the expression in Methos' eyes, or tell anything from his apparently relaxed body language. "Would you ... like to see them?" "I'd like that," Methos admitted, his voice soft. "Thank you." So Dawson fetched the packet of photographs from his study, and sat beside Methos while they went through them together, their uneasy comments slowly becoming more cheerful and relaxed; their sadness changing to a quiet celebration of the woman they had both known and cared for. In every shot Alexa was happy and smiling, playful and shining-eyed - the optimism and kindness and love of life never deserting her while she was surrounded by people she could call friends. It was late when Methos eventually made his excuses and left, and they had discussed Alexa, sharing fond memories of her, for hours. Dawson tidied away the debris of the improvised meal they had eaten while they talked, his eye falling back to the fifty dollar bill that had been the reason for the visit. Had Alexa asked Methos to bring it, knowing what would transpire? That the two men who loved her in very different ways would find a new bond and some measure of comfort in remembering her together? Probably - she had always been insightful like that, and always thought of others before herself. Finding that it no longer hurt to think of Alexa - that the sense of tragedy had been replaced by the pleasure of having known her, Dawson hoped that Methos was feeling the same way now; that it was the gladness which haunted him instead of the grief. Joe smiled wryly as he added the fifty dollar bill to the wallet of photographs, and sealed it carefully closed. All things considered, the evening had been much more rewarding than the one he had originally hoped for ...