Minor Incidents

by Loui

Highlander: The Series is copyright © Rysher Entertainment and Panzer/Davis. No infringement of that copyright is intended by this story.
"Minor Incidents" is copyright © Loui.

"Are you sure, Mr. Pierson?"

Methos looked into the cornflower blue eyes of the Valkyrie addressing him and gave her his best shy and retiring grin - projecting the persona of a meek and mild-mannered grad student.

"I'm sure, Ingrid. I did what anyone else would have done. All the gentleman needed was his angina pills... I'm just glad that I took that First-Aid refresher class last term."

Bestowing on him a heart-stopping smile of gratitude, Ingrid finally accepted that he wanted no recognition from the airline for his brief stint of First-Aid.

You should know better than to get involved. All it does is draw unasked-for attention. Idiot! Methos slouched further down in his seat. It was never a good start to the day if you had to take yourself to task for ignoring millennia of your own rules about 'getting involved'.

Ingrid interrupted his disgusted musings and handed him a glass of whisky. Smiling his thanks, he sipped absently at the amber liquid. Peat and smoke... Lagavullen... a very welcome distraction from his self-remonstration.

Resting his head against the back of his chair, Methos pictured Ingrid's face in his mind. She looks familiar... I wonder if I was married to one of her ancestors... Gods, she reminds me of someone... Brigitta? No... Anya... wife number twenty-ei-- no... twenty-nine. What a woman!

Making sure he was first off of the plane when it landed in Seacouver, Methos avoided any unanticipated scenes with grateful passengers or airline staff. Slipping quickly into a waiting cab, he asked to be taken to one of his two 'other' homes in Seacouver, Joe's Bar. He wanted to catch up with what had been going with Joe in the six months since the O'Rourke-centered melodrama in Paris.

Twenty-five minutes into the cab ride, spying the three-car wreck in front of them and seeing the trapped commuters, live wires and spreading puddle of gasoline, Methos swore under his breath. It was going to be one of those days.

In a commanding tone that was full of the authority that came from over five millennia of survival, Methos ordered his driver to call for the authorities and to - absolutely, under no circumstances - drive off without him, the Immortal left his coat, his rucksack and his sword in the cab and went to render whatever aid he could to the mortals that needed help.

Four hours later than planned, thanks to the incident itself and the resultant and unavoidable paperwork with the cops, Methos finally made his way in through the entrance of Joe's Bar. What was the first thing he saw? Maria - one of the younger waitresses at Joe's - being harassed and groped by two drunken cretins that wouldn't take no for an answer.

Methos saw red. Dropping his bags in the first available corner, he stalked along on silent feet to the increasingly nasty melee going on in plain sight in front of him. Absently recognising the fact that the 'cretins' were wearing jackets indicating that they belonged to the University of Seacouver's football team, Methos made his displeasure felt.

In the space of ten seconds he had worked off the excess adrenaline and irritation that had been caused by the many interruptions to his journey - that had started all those hours before when he rescued the girl from the muggers daft enough to operate in the street next to his apartment building in Paris. Smiling in satisfaction, he looked down at the unconscious forms of the two footballers that had incurred his wrath. Now I feel better.

Gently escorting the still shaken Maria to the bar, he turned her over to the tender care of one of her friends. Joe - who had come in to the room just in time to witness the end of the little drama - offered the Old Man a beer and his thanks.

Drinking half the bottle in one go, Methos sat wearily on the nearest available bar stool, sighed and said, "You would not believe the day I have had, Joe."

Twenty minutes later, a smiling Joe Dawson said, "I guess Mac's Boy Scout tendencies are rubbing off on you, Old Man."

Eyes widening in offended horror at the implication, the world's oldest Immortal said, "That's it. I'm going to have to kill MacLeod. It's the only solution. You'll help me hide the body, won't you, Joe?"

Joe looked at the Old Man's face and began to chuckle. At Methos' despairing comment of "millennia of common sense, wiped out in three short years of knowing the Highlander - I'll never live this down", the chuckle became outright laughter.

That was when - of course - MacLeod finally walked in. He nodded his head in greeting at his two friends, a grin on his welcome on his face to acknowledge Methos' arrival from Paris. A grin that quickly melted into a confused frown, as he clutched his jaw - head reeling from the punch that the Old Man had greeted him with - completely bewildered by his Watcher, who was having a fit of hysterical laughter behind the bar.

Sighing, he sat on the bar stool next to Methos and said, "What did I miss?"

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Last modified May 21st, 2001.
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