Work Text:
When pain knocks on the door,
Wise ones breathe deep and say:
“Come in.
Sit down with me.
And don’t leave
Until you’ve taught me
What I need to know.”
Momastery
Let me tell you something. Losing a loved one is never easy. Watching a five-thousand-year-old man grieve his loss is damn near impossible. Remember Alexa? The one I warned Methos away from because, well, I guess I was trying to protect both of them. But what do I know? They were happy for the short time they had together. In fact, Alexa sounded damn near radiant whenever I talked to her on the phone.
Methos arrived back in Paris a week ago, with Alexa’s remains. She had died a week prior; he gave no explanation for why it took him a week to tell me, but I could guess.
Ever since the brief grave-side service, Methos has been absent, although I was fairly certain he was still in Paris. His absence itself isn’t worrying; he’s always hopping in and out of my life. But this time he made a point to let me know he’s all right, which, dammit, makes me worry he isn’t all right. It’s a conundrum, right?
And now I’ve got MacLeod at my bar, after hours, looking worried.
“Still no Methos?”
I shake my head.
“Should I be worried?”
I stop wiping the bar top and shoot Mac a look. “What? You think he’s suicidal? You know Methos. He just needs some time.”
Mac doesn’t do helpless well. He likes being there for his friends. Someone like Methos makes that hard to do. I watch him struggle over it for a moment before he asks, “Do you know where he is?”
“He . . .” I pause, trying to decide how much to say. If I tell MacLeod where I think Methos is, he’ll go running after him. I know he wants to help but Mac can be a bit smothering at times. So, instead, I say, “He let me know he’s . . . okay.”
We both go quiet and the only thing on both our minds is obviously Methos and the loss of Alexa. I have to tell you, Methos shocked me, how fast and hard he fell for Alexa. I mean, hell, he’s been around the block more than a few times. I guess I figured that would have hardened him some. Then again, if anyone was going to be multi-faceted, it’d be him. One moment he’s cynical Methos and the next he’s like a young pup discovering first love. At first, I thought it was just an act to get Alexa to go on a date with him. Later, I was just glad he’d been there for Alexa. Now . . . now I hope he’ll let us be there for him.
I remember when Methos was an enigmatic legend. Then Mac and I confirmed his identity and—Adam Pierson, right under my nose, Jesus Christ!—I met him. Methos, that is, not Adam Pierson, although Adam was still there, amid the layers of personalities, and, well, now he’s one of my best friends.
My heart broke for him when he told me Alexa had passed. Methos had been wearing his grief openly and it was gut-wrenching to see. I know Mac had seen it too.
Returning to the present, I blurt out “How do you do it?” and immediately wish I’d kept my mouth shut. MacLeod has been through his own personal hells and didn’t need me bringing them to the surface.
Looking almost relieved to talk about it, he said, “What? Lose a loved one? Go on? Survive? Not get lost in the grief?”
“How do you continue to care?” I ask. “After so many losses . . .”
MacLeod took a long drink of his beer and then, still staring into his drink, said, “Not all of us do.”
“But the best of you—you, Methos, Darius, others—after hundreds of years, you still . . .”
“I don’t know if Methos would agree with this or not,” MacLeod told me, “but . . . I . . . if I don’t keep myself open to life, to the experience of life, to loving others and being loved . . . what’s the point? Why keep struggling to survive?”
“I thought you all survived for the Prize of being The One?” I didn’t really believe that—I’d been around MacLeod too long for that belief to still hold true—but I was curious what his response would be.
“Joe . . .” Duncan admonished me with a small smile.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Not the time for playing devil’s advocate.” I refreshed both our drinks before saying, “I just can’t help but . . .”
“Worry about Methos?” Duncan said.
“Yeah. It’s ridiculous. He’s managed to take care of himself for over five thousand years.”
“You don’t like seeing him hurting. We don’t.”
Seeing the familiar stiffening of MacLeod's posture, I reach for the gun under the bar. An unknown immortal was nearby. Then MacLeod’s tension drained away and I was relieved to see Methos stroll through the door. I had a beer ready before the immortal even pulled up a stool to join us.
“So . . .” Methos paused dramatically. “Talking about me? Again?”
I stopped being embarrassed a long time ago at being caught out by Methos. “Well, you know,” I grumped. “You’re so damned fascinating.”
“Really?” Methos turned to look at MacLeod. “Compared to the loudness of MacLeod’s life, I’m a virtual recluse.”
“It’s always the quiet ones,” MacLeod mused.
Methos’ eyes narrowed.
“The mystique,” I agreed.
“The elusive behavior,” MacLeod added.
I couldn’t help grinning. Wasn’t much more fun than egging on Methos. “Secretive,” I added. “Tends to make a person curious.”
“Or make you forget they’re even there,” Methos said dryly.
“Oh, that too,” I said agreeably. “How you doing, old man?”
There was a lengthy but not uncomfortable silence.
Finally, without looking at either of them, “Still grieving.” Methos, being surprisingly honest, added, “Still . . . sitting in the pain.”
I saw MacLeod nod in understanding but found myself straightening, maybe even a little worried by the emotional openness. But then, Methos was always surprising me. Part of the mystique, I suppose.
“You mind if we sit with you for a bit?” MacLeod asked softly.
Methos toasted us with his beer bottle but otherwise said nothing.
Reading the mood correctly, I could see that talkative Methos had left the building. So I left them sitting at the bar and stepped onto the unlit stage. Settling onto a chair, I grabbed my guitar while contemplating what to play.
Something melancholy, I decided. Sometimes, a fella just needs to wallow in it a bit.
I began strumming an intro to the song and knew I’d made the right choice when I saw Methos’ shoulders unhunch slightly.
And we wallowed and sat in the pain together that night, we three.
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone.
It’s not warm when she’s away.
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone
And she’s always gone too long anytime she goes away.
Wonder this time where she’s gone,
Wonder if she’s gone to stay
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone
And this house just ain’t no home anytime she goes away.
And I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know,
I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know
Hey, I ought to leave the young thing alone,
But ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, only darkness everyday.
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone,
And this house just ain’t no home anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Anytime she goes away.
Written by Bill Withers