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As soon as she walked through the door of Joe's, the attention of everyone in the room was on her. She stood a towering 5'10" tall, and framed in the doorway as she was, her long, white-streaked gold tresses glowed like a halo around her head. She seemed to light up the room. She sashayed towards Joe and Duncan with a slow, graceful ease, as if drawn to them by some sixth sense. As she came closer, they could see her perfect, pale complexion, her sparkling blue eyes of an impossible, riveting, cerulean shade, and her lips, which glistened wetly--lips suited equally well to a brilliant smile or a sexy pout. She could tell immediately they were entranced.
"I'm sorry, miss. We aren't open for business yet," the man behind the counter told her. Her piercing, insightful gaze struck into him. He was aging gracefully: steeling hair, smooth face, dignity--but she knew without anything having to be said that it was a romance doomed to failure. He would hate how ancient and decayed his body looked next to her smooth, slim, young form. It would eat away at his self-respect, wondering when or if she would leave, if she was only with him for his money... Already, she loved him too much to do that to him.
And his companion--there was something about him that told her his heart was taken by someone else. He was a driven man, haunted by his past. She could tell these things. It was almost a gift she had--a gift, but a terrible, terrible curse. To see into a mind.. there was such darkness. Oh, she had seen first hand that darkness, and come out the other side a better person, rejecting the evil in her own soul. She wished she could help this man sitting mournfully in a blues bar at noon, but she sensed already that he was too prideful to ever accept her help, her wisdom, or her experience.
"Miss? We aren't open for business yet," the bartender repeated. She batted her eyelashes at him, knowing he couldn't help but be moved. A hand rose gracefully to toy with her hair.
"That's all right," she told him graciously, "I don't mind waiting."
He blinked and frowned, so she batted her eyes at him again. He looked at his companion, who shrugged.
"Sure thing. Can I get you something to drink, Miss...?"
"Amethyst Rainbow Starlight MacLeod," she said dramatically.
The man sitting at the bar next to her blinked. "I'm Joe Dawson; this is Duncan," the bartender introduced them.
"Duncan. No last name?" she inquired, leaning forward on the stool to show her interest.
"MacLeod," he said, grimacing. She understood. He was embarrassed. She was used to such random, unexpected events in her life, but for him! How odd to find a stranger with his name, and such an uncommon one at that!
"Why, that's wonderful!" She smiled brilliantly to show him there was nothing to be embarrassed about. "We must be related."
"No, I don't think so," he said distantly. "I was adopted." She knew it! She had sensed the pain--his tragic past. He must feel so alienated! She understood that only too well. Her beauty set her apart from society as much as his tragic past set him apart. From the moment they met, there had been that connection. He must be able to feel it, too.
"Miss MacLeod," Joe repeated patiently--he was such a dear!--"Can I get you a drink?"
"I'll have a Chopange," she told him, French accenting her words. His brow furrowed, and she realized her mistake immediately. How silly of her to expect him to recognize it! He certainly wouldn't speak French, and a place like this catered to a certain, non-aristocratic clientele. She was suddenly, deeply shamed by her faltering noblesse oblige. Pure, crystalline tears welled up in her eyes.
"Here, why don't I just get you a bourbon?" Joe said hastily. "On the house." He poured a glass out for her. She accepted it graciously and sipped at it politely. She had had better, of course, but she was not going to mention that to the dear man. He was such a kind friend, after all!
Her eyes wandered around the bar, lighting on the stage. "Oh, do you play?" she exclaimed.
"I do a bit of blues guitar, yes," Joe acknowledged.
"I'm a pianist myself," she confided, already moving towards the piano. She ascended the stage, acknowledging her audience of two with a gracious wave. She sat down at the piano and, with flare, went immediately into Beethoven's "Fur Elise." She lost herself in the music, feeling it consume her soul. It was the only time she was truly alive. When the last notes of the piece rang through the bar, she looked up, surprised to note that in her musical rapture, she had failed to notice the entrance of a third man. His nose was too large, she decided, and there was something of an unpleasant cast to his features. But anyone who was a friend of Joe's and Duncan's was a friend of hers. She would simply have to be the better person and not comment on the obviously unwelcome young man.
The stranger continued clapping after Duncan and Joe--kind souls they were--had finished their boisterous round of applause. She thought there might be something sardonic about his slow measured rhythm and curled lip, but she deigned not to notice. She detested sarcasm on general principle. It was such a crude form of humor. It took no skill, only bitterness, and she had given up bitterness with evil.
"Bravo," the unknown man said, ceasing his clapping. "I am impressed. Please, continue. I would love to hear you play more."
"Oh, no, I couldn't," she demurred, lowing her gaze modestly.
"Oh, sure, you could," he returned quickly. "I haven't heard Clementi in ages. Why don't you play a bit of him for us?"
"I don't play Clementi," she informed him primly. There was no point in getting mad, she reminded herself. He couldn't possibly know about her tragic past and the terrible, terrible psychological block she had for playing, well, anything except Fur Elise.
"That's a shame," he said. "What about Rachmaninoff?"
She almost asked who he meant, but then she remembered that anyone she had not heard of or learned to play was simply not worth knowing. He was so cruel to tax her knowledge so! Tears seeped delicately from her eyes at the injustice of it all. He crossed his arms, distinctly unimpressed.
"You do know that no one's attractive when they cry, don't you?" he asked her. She promptly stopped. How dare he! The rude, uncouth beast! Did he have so little respect for the pain of others? She stood in a huff and marched down the stairs of the stage past him to sit at the bar with her drink. She ignored him when he slipped into the seat next to her, picking his beer back up. Of course, she would never be so unrefined as to drink beer. She took a second sip of that awful bourbon.
The man next to her cleared his throat. "I'm afraid we've gotten off to a bad start. I'm Adam Pierson. You must know how much of a pleasure it is to meet a lady as beautiful as you," he flattered her winningly. Perhaps he had not intended to be rude. Some people simply had more charm than others, and not everyone was as blessed at she. It would be the noble thing to give him a second chance. She smiled graciously at him, batting her eye lashes. His own gaze widened innocently.
"Have you got something in your eye?" he asked in what she thought was genuine concern. She stopped batting her eyes immediately.
"No, of course not," she said hastily. "I'm Amethyst Rainbow Starlight MacLeod," she introduced herself, holding out her hand for him to kiss. He eyed it like a venomous snake.
"Stage name, I take it?"
"Absolutely not!" How dare he! A stage name! Every one of her names had been properly and legally changed! Stage name!
"Oh, my mistake," he said easily. "I simply thought that with the tacky dress, the powder caked on your face, and that excuse for gloss you have smeared on your lips, you had to be a cheap showgirl. Generally speaking, when you attempt to improve your appearance, you *don't* make yourself look like a giant blow up doll. Not that it would be difficult, in your case; you have enough synthetic hair in that wig to cover yourself in melted plastic if you get too close to an open flame. Your eyes even match. They're contacts, correct? I would hate to think a real person had eyes that hideous shade of blue. Come to think of it, you'd probably look better as a blow up doll--ten years younger and not so anorexic."
Her lip trembled. Tears glistened at her eyes. A shaky hand rose to pat at her luxurious wig. She leaned forward, furious. "You awful, awful, venomous man!" she exclaimed.
"Careful," he cautioned, unimpressed. "You don't want to fall out of that dress."
"Oh! You... I hope you die!" She burst into tears and ran from the bar. Methos watched her go, a pleased smile playing at his lips. One more pest successfully gotten rid of. He should start charging Joe by the silicon on these things. He took a drink of his beer.
"She left without paying," he commented at last.
"It was on the house," Joe said gruffly. Methos smirked.
"Why, Joe. You old softie. Dazzled by her beauty? The way she lit up the room?" His look was decidedly wicked. "You know, I lit up the room when I opened the door, too. When do I get *my* free drink?"
"Nice try," Joe said, shooting him a dirty look. Methos chuckled.
"Really, Dawson, I didn't figure you for that much of a sucker," he said, enjoying himself. "Lighting up this place isn't that difficult to do. Your atmosphere in here is pitiful."
"She was crying," Joe said at last, exasperated.
"Ah, I see. Anything to get her to shut up and stop bawling, eh?" Methos asked. Joe rolled his eyes and nodded.
"Honestly, you're too nice. A little vicious sarcasm goes a long way towards dealing with problems like that. Trust me, next time one like her shows up, hand her the business card of the nearest strip joint and tell her you aren't hiring. Works every time."
MacLeod snorted into his beer. "We'll keep that in mind."
"Or you can just keep me around," Methos suggested. "I'd do it for pleasure if I wasn't doing it for the beer."