Baggage
Don't get me wrong, I'm not really an alcoholic-I just play one in real life. And as a part of my "cover", I have been hanging around Joe's on a regular basis. No, it has nothing to do with the fact that, more often than not, I run into Methos there. I don't have, like, some hang-up about older guys or anything.
So, I go to my usual stool (right where I can catch a glimpse of anyone walking in-sure, near Methos, who had beaten me there), order my usual (Jim Beam and Coke, just like mamma used to make) and I get pulled into Methos' love life.
Uh, that was just the topic of conversation. Again, don't get me wrong.
"You want a second opinion, Methos? Run it by Genevieve. Even she'll tell you it's a bad idea."
This got us both a semi-annoyed, semi-dismissive look. It's his constant shows of respect for me that keep me coming back, you know. But my interest was piqued.
"Bad idea? I love bad ideas. New Coke-loved it. Pauly Shore movies-adore them. Even disco has a certain appeal. What's such a bad idea?"
Joe leaned over the bar with a very confidential look. "He wants to apologize to a woman."
"That's usually the best thing to do."
"It's Cassandra."
"Oh."
Because I have an abnormally high tolerance for booze, and Joe is a natural-born yenta-how he handles this whole Watcher, not-interfering and keeping secrets thing is beyond me-I know who Cassandra is. I have squeezed a surprising amount of information out of my favorite Watcher-hell, he's the only one I happen to know. Except for the nice Asian lady who follows me around and takes pictures when she thinks I'm not looking. And I am in total agreement-this is a bad idea.
"Uh, what part of she wanted to take your head is causing you problems? She didn't. Move on."
He threw up his hands.
"It's not that. It's…I have unfinished business. There are a lot of things that I did that I have to own up to…"
"Murder, pillage, rape-yeah. Heard about it. You know Hallmark doesn't even make a card for that. She is probably okay-and very over it-so long as you stay the hell away from her."
"She's in town," Joe pointed out.
"Oh, really?"
This answered an important question. Duncan had been itching after me to meet with him, which, as you can imagine, I'd been avoiding. But I was aware what he was doing-the typical responsible Duncan thing. He found out I never had a proper teacher, and has been trying to hook me up. He can't seem to get it through his head that I never needed a teacher. I'm a nasty individual. I'm very tempted to tell him that cracking heads for the mob was one of my part-time jobs. Still might go back to it if they start returning my calls again.
And he found me somebody he thought would make a "good role model."
If Duncan can't see how tacky that is, I'm not going to point it out to him. Kronos' protégé-trained by Cassandra. Yeah, right.
"I just think I should…see her."
I watched his face over the rim of my glass. His face is amazingly expressive and some days, I can read him like a book.
"Methos, are you-uh, soft on her?" I asked, tentatively.
"Genevieve…you don't want to tread that territory," Joe warned.
No one warns me about the danger of pissing off Methos. Nobody. I think he's so cute when he's pissed off. Especially when he's pissed off at me. He really seems threatening that way-very genuine. Lovely, since I don't suspect he'll do anything about it. Not with Joe and Duncan being my friends, too.
"Joe, we need to draw up a list-'traits Methos should look for in his next girlfriend.' For the top of the list, let me suggest-'not a former victim.'"
"Should want you alive," Joe added.
"Shouldn't have that weird MacLeod thing…you know, what is their relationship?"
"Enough!" Methos yelled, exasperated. I smiled. Mission accomplished. "I am not thinking about a relationship, just a little closure. Besides-I've never really had an interest in a relationship with another one…" He paused there, looking at me as if he just realized he stepped in it.
He had.
"Of us? Immortal chicks don't do it for you?" I asked, pretending to be a bit offended. "What, are there, like, commitment issues there, or what?"
"Genevieve…" he began, voice grating.
"You know, I don't go around saying things like, 'Older men have too much baggage.'"
That got an irritated "Hey!" out of both of them.
"Let's make a little list for Genevieve," Methos said.
"Now, you're just being mean. You know I still don't even have the details of my divorce properly worked out. I may have to fake my own death to be out of it. Besides, I have my own list."
"Do tell," Joe asked.
"Not a psychopath. Not looking for a family. And, oh yeah," I said, ticking them off on my fingers. "My next boyfriend will not refer to his penis as '12 inches of love meat'."
"I knew Kronos had a certain poetry…but…"
I socked Methos in the arm. "Vinnie Bucco. Junior year of high school. Back then, I would chase anything in a Judge jacket. Football player. Very cute. Very dumb."
"Twelve inches of love meat," Methos repeated, as if savoring the words. Unless you've heard his voice, you can not know the effect it can have on a woman. It's just this deep, baritone, lusciously accented-ear tease! It's an ear tease!
"Omigawd, repeat that," I said, beginning to feel a bit warm (and this was only my first drink).
"What?" Methos said.
"No, really…just…humor me."
"Twelve inches of love meat?"
"Damn. It sounds better when you say it than when he did. Scrape me off of the floor," I commented, finishing my beverage. And then I got that little spine-tingle.
Luckily, it was only Duncan.
Unfortunately, he had come looking for me.
"Genevieve, we need to talk."
Sister Mary Pat, my field hockey coach…she used to say that. Why Duncan should remind me of Sister Mary Pat, I don't know, but he seriously did.
*****
"Yeah, chief," I said. I don't know why, but I give people nicknames, not everybody-just people who seem to be asking for them. He frowns when I say it, so I know I'm going to use it again.
He looked at the others, and then back at me. "Talk-now."
"Ooh, something about a monosyllabic man just gets me started," I commented, and then let him pull me aside. One thing to Duncan's credit-he's gotten used to my sense of humor. I flirt. Usually, I mean nothing by it.
"You've been avoiding me."
I pretended to look appalled. "Me? Never. I don't avoid people. I…"
"Genevieve."
I shut up. Duncan is every bit as stubborn as I am, so I let myself hear him out.
"You know what we were talking about before-you need to take this seriously. This is your head we're talking about."
"Didn't I mention something about not caring if I lived or died?"
"But I care."
I'm only human. And, I've discovered I'm full of shit when it comes to not wanting to live. I'm very interested in wanting to live. And Duncan seems very sincere about my welfare.
"There's someone I want you to meet," he went on.
"Cassandra," I said, grinning only slightly.
He raised an eyebrow, but when I gestured in Joe's direction, he only nodded. He is not unaware of his friend's willingness to share information.
"She's survived…"
We both turned, and then, Methos made a sudden trip to the men's room. Hey, nature calls, right? I'm not saying he didn't have to go-it was just well timed to the signature of the other Immortal's showing up.
I didn't have to ask who it was. And do you want to know what? She's completely intimidating. I mean it. I felt short and ten pounds overweight and way too young just looking at her. Her shit looks together. In other words, it's like running into the anti-me.
The lack of need for intros went both ways.
"Genevieve," she said.
"Cassandra," I responded.
There was a pause, of the pregnant type, while we looked each other up and down, the way women will. It was possibly a bit worse, her knowing about me, and my knowing about her. Almost in one voice we said, "It'll never work." We kept our eyes locked-the way pit bulls will, or any other animal bred for battle.
I shrugged. "I could have told you," I informed Duncan. I hoped she felt the same.
"When the student is ready, the teacher will come," she pointed out. Trite, but true. I was still waiting.
"Sexist of him to think it should be a female teacher, anyway," I added.
"Exactly," she agreed. We exchanged a look at that one. I liked her immediately. I can deal with being intimidated by someone. She then leaned over and whispered something to me that I swear I didn't catch-or, not exactly. I simply nodded, and then after a not-uncomfortable lack of pleasantries, they left. I found that puzzling, but not puzzling enough. I'm not the type who puzzles over things.
Other than the behavior of certain men I could name.
I went back to my seat just as Methos returned from his less-than-graceful exit.
"Very smooth," Joe commented.
"Yeah. I can see how you're ready to pour your soul out," I commented.
"What did she want?"
I rolled my eyes. "It's what Duncan thinks he wants. To see me set up with someone who will be-I don't know. A mentor. Apparently, he thought Cassandra would be…"
Methos made a disgusted face. "That's just like him."
"Yeah. Some people can't leave well enough alone," Joe agreed, but you know what he meant.
*****
So, as per usual, we shot the shit for a while, and then I set off for my lonely, little apartment to watch "The Sopranos." Damn, I love that show. While I let myself get engrossed, the phone rang. I let it ring. When the answering machine picked up, the caller hung up. This had been happening quite a bit, and I was taking it for granted that the last person to have this phone number really pissed someone off.
When the phone rang again, I got the odd feeling this wasn't the case. I picked up, and said, "Hello?"
"Start any good outbreaks, lately, whore?"
I slammed the phone down, heart pounding. That was a pretty damn specific crank call. Freaked me out, especially given that my number is unlisted. Part of me was wondering if it wasn't Big Brother-I mean, uh, the Feds. I'm used to the idea of wiretaps. And then it dawned on me-what if the Watchers do that-you know? Wire-tapping. I mean, think about it. It is illegal for private citizens to do, but you know-so is stalking. You know, if the Watchers ever wanted to go state's witness against Immortals, our asses would be screwed. Of course, the Watchers would have to explain how they got the info.
It wasn't the Watchers. I had no idea who it was-I just knew it was no good. The phone rang again. Nervous as all get out, I let the machine get it.
"Genevieve, I know you're there. Pick up."
Relieved, I did. "Duncan…something very weird just…"
"Weird?"
"Look, I'm going to go...uh…use an outside line, okay? Or maybe, drop by, if that's all right?"
"Are you okay?"
"Never better," I lied.
"I'm going to be right over."
Silently, I was thanking my lucky stars that Duncan is a chivalrous son of a gun and can take a hint.
"I'll see you."
When I hung up, the phone rang again. Hoping it was the "bad guys" again, I let the machine record, while I picked up. And had "second verse, same as the first" on tape.
With a sense of relief that I wasn't going to come off as a total paranoid, I sat and waited.
*****
"What do you think?" I asked, after he heard it for the second time.
"I think it's a very sick joke," he said, but his face told me a different story. He was afraid for me. He just didn't want me to see that. "What do you think?"
I knew what I thought. They know where I am, and who I am, and they could come get me at any time. And there was nothing anyone could do about that. The only reason I wanted Duncan to hear the message was so that someone else knew about it.
"It's…sick," I answered finally. "And it isn't the first time I've gotten this kind of call. I don't know what to make of it…I think I just…"
I trailed off. The stupid thing about the lives Immortals lead is that a lot of things can go unsaid-I have more in common with a four-hundred-odd year old Scottish do-gooder than I do with even people I grew up with. So I changed the subject.
"You called me for a reason?"
"About Cassandra…"
"Yeah?"
"I was…"
"Wrong," I said, smiling. "Look, I'm the kind of idiot who has to learn things on my own. I can't have a teacher-because I don't have a normal…Look. Could she help me with a thing like that?" I asked, pointing to the answering machine. "For that matter, can you? I have fought for my life a dozen times, and I'm still here. I don't know why. And no one ever showed me anything."
"No one but Kronos," Duncan said, wryly.
I had no answer for that. He showed me I couldn't die. He showed me nothing. I figured out everything by myself. But it's true that he's my example. How many years of violence did he face before he went mad, eventually? How many years before I figured I would?
"Why don't you try to teach me, Duncan?" I asked, suddenly.
He was taken aback by that. I realized I had my hand on his wrist, and I wondered how desperate I seemed. If he thought it was a horrible idea, he didn't say so.
"Meet me at the dojo, six o' clock."
I took his hand in mine, and we shook on it. After he left, I pulled the phone plug out of the goddamn wall. And tried like hell to sleep.
*****
What do I do when I'm not drinking or getting harassed? Business. Of course, I do most of my business by phone or laptop, and, might I add, I can't really explain what I do. I trade stocks. I look at prospects. I…look. I put the idiot in idiot savant-my professor was right about me. I make money-and I can't even explain how it happens. I still have my corporation-just a friendly little change of public record to another fictional name to keep my hubby's lawyers from ever knowing how much I'm really worth. Poor bastard. It's funny that he never really knew. He'll go to his grave (ugly thought-bad) thinking I was more or less small-time.
And who the hell knows what Methos allegedly is doing for a living? He's shut with the Watchers (do you want to know how long and hard I laughed when he explained to me that he was a Watcher?) and he seems to just-hang out. The way I figure it, thanks to the miracle of compound interest-he could be worth as much as I am. He may not even have to work-ever.
So it's no surprise to me when he stops by my place in the middle of the day. He does that-invites himself. And, of course, my door is always open. The more I can keep my eye on him, the better I like it. I find him very easy on my eyes.
"Hey, baby, what's shaking?" I asked as he made a beeline to my fridge. "Never mind…checking it from here."
He paused to give me a very dirty look, and then pulled out orange juice and cold pizza. My stomach was doing evil things just looking at the combo-but hell, it's his unrealistically flat stomach that has to put up with it. O.J. is a mixer, for god's sake. And cold pizza is only good for breakfast.
"Hear you got a phone call."
"Word gets around."
"And you've called upon MacLeod's tender…"
"Don't go there," I said, breezily, and finished a little e-trade transaction. "So…got up the guts to get in touch with Cassandra…her being in town and all?"
"I believe you said it was a bad idea?"
"I respect your bad ideas-you respect mine."
"Point taken." He then looked at me, doing my thing. "What is that?"
I smiled. "Nothing. Just a little something that will keep me in those imports you mooch."
"You know…you do have better taste in beer than MacLeod."
"I drink more."
"And?"
"I'm meeting with Mac…Duncan…at six."
"And I'm seeing Cassandra. Tonight."
"And she's aware of this?"
He glared. Men are thick. Even 5,000 year old ones. I sighed. I hate this topic. I'm not one of those women who have an "us vs. them" point of view. But I'm painfully aware that there are some experiences we have that men are just…dim about. And this is one of them.
"Methos, I know you are the older, more experienced person here. But…can you listen to someone who…isn't inexperienced?"
He looked at me, saying nothing. He's thick, but he isn't stupid. A lovely start.
"When a woman has been hurt," I began, feeling like a complete schmuck. "Or beyond hurt, okay? Like beyond?" He should know this, I told myself. At his age, he should know this. "There are some things…just don't confront her. Not even to apologize. I know this sounds stupid, but don't. She has her life, and her past. Looking at you…can only remind her of bad things. Do you see?"
He looked at me. "What do you know about it?"
I sighed. "Don't ask me how I know what I know. Just…believe me."
He's not entitled to my life story. I came by my insights the old-fashioned way. I earned them. And maybe there is a difference between a 3500 year-old former slave and a 27-year old ex-call girl. But there are some experiences-it doesn't matter who you are, or how long ago it happened. There are some things you can't really forget, or really forgive, when confronted with them.
He was about to speak, but I wasn't done.
"My mom gave me some good advice…want to hear it?"
He gave one of those humorless laughs. "Shoot."
"It will never heal if you keep picking at it."
A stare. I elaborated.
"Neither of us will have a problem with skinned knees, but it applies to other things, you know?"
I saw he knew, but I saw he was going to do what he wanted to do. I guess the odd thing is…you're never too old to make mistakes. Such a role model he is-I know right now that I will be making mistakes for as long as I'm around. Yee-ha!
"Methos…just think about it. But if you're still going to…I hope it goes okay."
"I know. And I hope it goes okay with MacLeod."
He gave me a look that led me to believe he had his own reasons to believe that what I was doing was immensely foolish. He finished his impromptu lunch, and then, left. He's like a fucking cat, you know? He comes and goes as he pleases.
*****
Duncan had no idea what to do with me. And I had no idea what to do with him. Really. I only know one way to learn-by doing.
"You shouldn't even have something that size," he commented, eyeing my sword.
I carry a broadsword. Okay. Shoot me. I'm not this Amazon or anything, but I feel good with a big sword. And I work out. Insanely. Ask me what I bench-go ahead. Welcome to the world of feminismo.
"I like it. You should have seen the guy I took it off of."
He rolled his eyes at me. Apparently, I violated a rule of Game etiquette with that comment. So? I've never been a rule queen.
"Fight me," I told him. It seemed simple enough. If I screwed up, I'd know about it.
"What?"
"Just, you know. We'll-what do you call it? Spar. And if I do something wrong-call me out. That's how my old man would do it."
"Your…"
"My dad used to run close-quarters drills with me since I was a kid. You know-hand to hand. So we'd mix it up."
He shook his head. But he drew his sword, and I got out mine. I don't even believe I hold the damn thing right. When I'm done a fight, my hands are still stinging like a son of a bitch. We got into it.
Big mistake. I should have realized what would happen when I was facing him with a sword in my hand. It all came rushing back to me. What Kronos asked me to do. What I told myself I would want to do. And also, what happened to me with every fight I was in-finding myself over-matched and probably doomed. I fought like some kind of cornered animal. I kept defensive, blocking everything that came my way, as much out of pride as out of instinct. And I could feel it-I don't know what to call it.
It isn't hate. Hate is personal, and this wasn't personal. I like Duncan. He's a friend, now. Maybe it's rage. He's a man. He's bigger and a fuck of a lot more experienced. He's strong. And something in me just couldn't put it down-I couldn't accept getting my ass wiped out by this guy.
I don't know which part was worse-thinking of Kronos or just the fact of Duncan being better than me, that made me do it. But I can't ever set it right.
Thrust, jump back. Steel meets steel, and the sound of it seems distant, even while my ears were ringing. My arms hurt like anything, and I almost wanted to toss the blade away-but no-I wanted something else-and if you know me by now, you know what I wanted. And it doesn't even matter that I like him. No, it doesn't even matter that I consider him a friend. No-the idea will always be there. I could kill him.
That's the Game, baby.
And he realized it had become too real for me. And he couldn't stop it, either. The knowledge that I was fighting with everything I had only made him fight harder-and I knew then that we were the same. We both had the instinct for going toe-to-toe-only he was trying to wear me out-to get me to stop.
And then he did it-cut me. I felt the blade go against my shoulder and was in shock that he was the one to err-if it could be called an error. And at that close range-eye-to-eye-I found him in arm's distance. My right arm left off of the handle of my broad sword, and I drove my palm into his face.
It wasn't planned. Far from it. If anything, I was more surprised than he was. But his sword drooped, and I realized what I had done. I couldn't drop my blade, I simply held it flat against his in a firm block so he couldn't raise it against me, as I leaned in.
I had broken the nose-just as dear old Daddy taught me to do. There was blood-as of course, there would be.
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry, Duncan. I don't know…it just got…away from me."
If it wasn't just an exercise, he could have easily killed me, but once I said that, we were both back to reality. This was not a match to the death. It was supposed to be a lesson. I was supposed to be learning from him, not frigging brutalizing him. He wiped at the blood, looking at me. I don't know what my expression was-probably despair. My heart was pounding. I had blown it.
"We can't do this," he said, finally. There was only a streak of blood left-I think the older we are, the faster we might heal. Without thinking, my hand went to his face.
"I'm sorry," I repeated. His hand wrapped around my wrist, and somehow, it felt familiar. Then, I remembered who had last grabbed my wrist tightly that way, and could feel hot tears stinging my eyes. "I know," I then said, "we can't."
My other hand released the sword, and it clattered to the floor. I don't know what moved me to drop it, any more than I know why our eyes locked, and stayed that way. I couldn't find the breath to say anything at that point. My one hand still touched his face, his hand remained on my wrist, and he was pulling me closer, and I knew he was going to drop his sword, and all hell was going to break loose if I kissed him. It could have happened. Just the way I could have killed him. Maybe, I was that close because I could have killed him. Maybe no one ever knows how close one is to murder or sex with another person. All I know is, our lips were that close.
But then I lurched back.
"No," I found myself saying. "No, this is a mistake."
I was backpedaling. I reached down and picked my sword up from the floor and then reached for my coat. I pulled myself together.
"No, um, I should get going," I said, and I heard the nervousness in my voice. "I don't think we should ever…"
"I know."
"I'm sorry," I repeated, and I meant it about a lot of things. I was even walking backwards. I found the door, and then I split.
Once outside, I took the deepest breath I think I ever took. I felt a familiar sensation, and saw a car pulling up. There was something very odd in that-but then I saw the driver's face. I realized I should make myself scarce-and so I did. And you can imagine where I ended up.
*****
"I guess it didn't go well," Methos commented, as I took my usual place next to him. Consider us the after-hours club. Joe seems to. I wonder how my Watcher regards us? I mean-the fact that I know about the Watchers. And Methos was one. And we're both friends with Joe. Oh, yeah, and my Watcher died. Talk about your odd couples-or threesomes, if you figure Joe Dawson-Boswell to MacLeod's Johnson (sounds awful, doesn't it?) as the complement.
"No more than it went well with you," I answered, tersely.
He gave me a quizzical look. "I…didn't get to talk to her. She saw me coming, and…things went badly."
"I know," I said. He waited for me to elaborate. "As I was leaving, she pulled up in front of Duncan's."
"As you were leaving?" he said. I felt myself wanting to tell the whole tale-but of course-this is Methos. He'd have given me hell about it for days if I told him the whole thing.
"I can't spar with someone I once swore I would kill," I said.
That, I realized, was a bad answer. His eyes narrowed, and I remembered that he is oddly protective of Duncan. I don't know why this is-the man can obviously take care of himself. I guess maybe that's the test of real friendship-you look after somebody even when they don't need you to.
"Things got physical, and then they got weird," I then admitted.
He looked me over, and then smiled slightly. "Well, you are only human."
"That's how it happens."
Joe brought over my Jim Beam and Coke, and I realized he gave me a heavy pour. I was thankful for that. The alcohol numbed my tongue and calmed my nerves.
Methos seemed lost in thought for a moment, and Joe and I waited. Sometimes, you expect something monumental out of the old man's mouth. You know-some wisdom of the ages. It doesn't actually end up coming, but it's interesting to wait. He then sighed, and held up his beer.
"To being wrong."
"I'll drink to that," I said, and clicked my drink to his. We both took heavy swallows, and then he seemed to be thinking again.
"I've been thinking…"
"Stop the presses," Joe commented.
Methos waved his hand, slightly, dismissive, but not angrily. "Genevieve-we get on all right."
"Yeah. You could say that."
"And you've never thought about…"
I knew what he was getting at. I never thought-even once-about whacking him. Duncan, yes-but never Methos.
"Please. You know I never could. I like you. Even when your drinks end up on my tab-Joe-make a note of this-it's his turn."
Joe was pouring himself one, and I knew what Methos was about to say. I don't know why he has this interest-except that I do know. It's because of Kronos. He feels responsible for me in some way-I don't pretend I understand. But I don't want him as a mentor. It would take the fun out of our relationship-whatever our relationship is.
"It would never get physical…and weird," he said, suddenly, with a mildly evil look.
I laughed, "Aw shoot, and here I was, hoping."
"Seriously."
I laughed. "I'm serious, too."
"Physical, and weird?"
"A gal can dream."
"Well, then," he said, and then whispered in my ear, "think about twelve inches of love meat."
His breath tickled my ear in a way that made me faint, and I looked him in the eye. His face was giving away no secrets. You know, sometimes it's hard to tell when the old guy is kidding. It's a part of his charm. It left me speechless.
"Well?" he smiled; knowing full well Joe had no idea what he whispered to me.
"I'm…thinking," I said, weakly. "Okay-consider me…your student."
Damn, a girl can learn, can't she?
Besides-I knew the old man didn't do a damn thing out of a sense of responsibility alone. He wants to keep an eye on me this way, more power to him, I figured.
*****
After leaving the bar, I felt a strange urge, one I haven't had in a good long time. I guess you could say I haven't exactly been a regular churchgoer for awhile-six years, if you want the precise number. But something told me I wanted to go to this beautiful old place I'd passed a few times since I'd been in town. I didn't question the urge. I simply went.
I entered the church and resisted the urge to cross myself-although old habits do die hard. But I don't believe in religion anymore, not that I ever did when dragged to church as a kid. And even though I respect not fighting on holy ground, I sometimes wonder if that rule isn't as arbitrary as any other tenet of any other faith. Yes, I said "faith." The Game, with its promise of some future Prize, is every bit the religion. And I don't believe in this one, either. I couldn't believe in Christianity or in the Game once I took my first head. Neither catechism nor Quickening could ever answer the questions I have.
I sat in one of the pews, and waited.
I felt her approach, not that I was surprised. I had heard about the Voice.
"Does the effect wear off over time? Does it work over a distance?" I asked, trying not to sound irked, although I was. I felt a little used.
"I wasn't sure you had heard me," Cassandra answered. She took a seat beside me.
"That's just it. I didn't, really. But when I felt the urge to come here, I did. I had no reason to, other than…" I looked at her. She hadn't answered either of my questions, not that I had expected her to. "You wanted to see me?"
"I was curious."
"You sure are." Still not sounding irked, am I? Okay, I have no restraint. I don't know for the life of me why this seriously irritated me. "What do you want to know?"
"Duncan is very concerned with your welfare." A statement. Not a question. She was inviting me to say something. My mom would do that. It never worked. Not that the direct route works very well with me either.
"I'm mostly harmless."
She gave me a very skeptical look. I can accept that I'm not going to fool all of the people all of the time. I wasn't prepared for her next statement, though.
"He thinks you're insane."
"Oh. That," I responded. "Funny how it never bothers me. It doesn't bother Joe or Methos either. Say, how did things go with Methos anyway? He didn't really elaborate. When I saw him, I mean." I could feel cruelty building up in me. I was seeing an aspect of myself I wasn't enjoying.
"You aren't insane, are you? Yet, I mean."
"Why? Should I be?"
"Duncan told me that you defended Kronos, and I wondered…"
"What kind of idiot I am?" I asked, quickly. I could feel myself getting red, and knew I was too defensive about this, but then, I'm defensive about everything. It's worse, because so much of what I defend is indefensible. But enough about me.
"No. I just wondered, how?"
"You've lived for over three thousand years. You tell me how you did that. Or tell me how come I came here, when all you did was drop a word in my ear. If you can answer that, I'll try to answer how I could defend him. Or have understood him."
She smiled then, sadly. I could feel the gulf between us. I don't know-it isn't made up of years, but experiences. I can't know hers, and she can't know mine.
"I can't tell you how I did it. I just did. I suppose you can't really tell me what it was you saw in him. Why he didn't appall you, even after you saw what he was. You did, didn't you? He explained what the Horsemen were, and what the virus was for-and yet it didn't affect you?"
"Affect me? I'd have…"
I'd have gone with him. I would have. My first instinct had not been to say no. Appalled? Why kid myself? I'd have embraced all of it. Him. And wholesale destruction.
"There are no answers!" I suddenly said, angrily. I could think of a few thousand answers, but none was sufficient where an absence of them would do far better. "You might as well ask him what he saw in me-he's dead, but you would get the same answer out of him if he were alive. Why not ask Methos why he did what he did? He wanted to apologize…maybe he's had time to think of an answer for what he's done. There are no answers."
"I think there are."
"Okay, you want an answer? I'm the same. The same. I put a knife in the first guy who ever laid a hand on me. I even roughed up Kronos-get it? I hurt everything I touch. If I try to do something good-it falls apart. Kronos could see that. He left me alive. I can think of two reasons why. Because I was the same, or I wasn't worth killing. Take your pick."
"Is that all?"
I did feel insane, then. I felt hopelessly insane, as if I had just had a sudden bit of raving lunacy that I had to get out. I wondered why she cared-but then I realized-there may be no reason about that either! Perhaps she saw me as being interesting-and nothing more. Or similar, and nothing more. Or wanted my head-and she could have it-if she wanted it.
But I answered, with the response I never wanted to give. It hurt to say.
"I pitied the poor motherfucker. The poor crazy fucking bastard. The world moved on without him. He was powerless to the very fucking end and it was senseless that he never knew that and there was something there. Something that could have been saved. Don't fucking believe me-I don't care. I couldn't do it, so I let him go and do the very stupidest most pathetic…"
"You think you should be dead."
"No. I just haven't figured out why I should be alive."
"There are no reasons. No answers. You just live."
I stared at her then. It suddenly dawned on me that she hadn't brought me here to ask me a question at all. I could feel the anger fading, and almost laughed.
"I live with myself. It sounds horrible."
"It is."
Yes. There is a gulf between Cassandra and me. Three of the worst enemies she ever saw are dead. Mine looks me in the mirror. And she still looks hers in the mirror-because nothing ever ends. Good, bad, indifferent?
There is only one way for us to die. And we try to avoid it.
"Beats the alternative."
She rose then. "You'll be fine."
I almost wanted her to stay, but I could only say, "Thanks." She touched my hair, briefly, and gave me a last look, but then, she turned around to go. Just before she disappeared out the door, though, she turned, and said the strangest thing.
"Methos is still alive because I feel that too. I pity him, because there's a part of him that will never move on, either. He just hides it better. He always could. Watch yourself."
Watch myself. I knew what Methos was before I ever laid eyes on him in the flesh. Kronos told me that he was a devious bastard-the most cold, calculating son of a bitch I would ever meet. He told me he was the one man he would trust-because he would do anything to save his neck. He was predictable, that way.
Kronos threatened his neck.
Kronos is dead.
I planned on being the best friend that cold, calculating son of a bitch ever had. But I'll have you know-I had no pity at all. Not for him, or myself. All I had was the definite sense that he and I had a little in common.
Baggage.
But as for me, I knew it was time to move on. I happen to know Paris is lovely. And I know that's where Methos is more comfortable-I know he'd only been hanging around Seacouver to keep an eye on me.
And I planned on giving him an eyeful.