Disclaimer: I do not own them. Davis/Panzer do. No money, just mail. Happy Amand-r. Not scary. Not even creepy. Failed at Halloween story. Go read. Beer foamy. Say bye! WARNING: This ia a dogmatic story an that it contains religious content. It is not intended to offend, but to make a scary story. Indeed, when you read this, you will know that it's all crap. Not poking fun, just posting an AU question. Please, not in the face! Not in the face! I just watched Dogma twice, and I have to apologize about the Platypi, too. *~*~*~*~*~* Reign in Hell, Serve in Heaven a bit of blasphemous ooh la la by Amand-r *~*~*~*~*~* "In courts and palaces he also reigns, And in luxurious cities, where the noise Of riot ascends above their loftiest towers, And injury and outrage; and when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons of Belial, flown with insolence and wine." (Milton, "Paradise Lost", I. ln 500) "You know it was you." "Nope. Wasn't me." "Are you saying that you're *not* responsible?" "Uh...no." Joe slammed the shot glass on the table and eyed the Immortal across the table. Methos yawned, but his eyes were bright and insistent. He grinned like a mad fool, and Joe could do nothing else but mirror it again. They were having their ages old argument. "Mac fell because of his hubris," Joe drawled. "It's evident. Look at the remains of what happened." He waved his hand, gesturing to nothing, though he wanted to call up a VCR and reply the Highlander's life over and over until Methos would see reason. The other man shrugged. "I think it was planned. He may have fallen because of hubris, but it was planted there, inside him. It built over the years." Joe watched his drinking partner pour another finger of brandy and then stopped to look at the hand itself that held the bottle. It was thin, every bone in the top of the hand jutting to reveal a deceptively delicate structure. His eyes flowed from the hand up the arm, covered in a ratty old sweater, one that the ancient didn't mind having smell like smoke and beer. The sweep up the arm led to the neck, and the pulsing vein there, and the handsome chin. Finally, over the arch of the nose, to the eyes, and then the cap of spiky hair that was his crown of thorns. Perhaps his laurel of the sacrament. "The last time I checked, hubris was something everybody has," Joe answered Methos. "Mac fell to his. C'est la vie" The ancient snorted and his brows furrowed. He swirled his glass when he leaned back. "No no, this is not something that is always at the forefront. Every seed needs things to germinate. Even disease needs to grow, Joseph." Joe snorted. "So? Think of this: he bested the dark Quickening. He beat Kalas atop the fucking Eiffel tower. He beat the End of Time. He beat Ahriman. Dude, he beat a god--" Methos's eyes narrowed at the word "god", head snapping a little to beg attention. "So he's a God now, is he?" When Joe filled his glass again in silence, he chuckled. "My but allegiances are fickle, and bowing and scraping is the music that we dance to." Joe rolled his eyes. "The poetry is as bad as when you wrote sonnets to Cher." Methos sniffed dismissively, glancing about the empty bar. "It was not his fault alone. We make the monsters. They do not fall by themselves." Joe shook his head and fingered a stray napkin. "Theseus did." Methos threw his extra shot glass, missing widely. Joe knew that he had done it on purpose. "Please," the elder whined. "Don't read any more Edith Hamilton. It just makes you foolishly educated and you sound like a cad." Joe grunted. "Uh, well, I'se be an ed-ju-ma-cated chile' from de deep delta, sir. I done got all that there learnin' from them there books in ma granny's attic--" This time, the shot glass didn't miss. And it was full of brandy. *** "You offered him liquor? In his state?" "Yes. It seemed to be the best way to make things go hideously awry." "You sick fuck." "Guilty as charged." Joe sighed and rolled his eyes. "He'll get over it." When the other man smirked, he only shook his head. He will." And then, one musician's finger reached out to accuse the immortal. "You, are too much." Methos stretched out and set his feet on an empty chair. "Oh, puhlease. Let us not speak of temptation. Neither of us is fit to handle that conversation clearly." He poured another shot. "We need more liquor for that." Joe nodded firmly. The jukebox turned itself off, and the cheerful colored lights of its display dimmed the whole room when they went out. "Sure thing. Serve me up, oh lush of the ages." *** "This debate will go on forever," Joe whined. "We'll never get to the bottom of it, and this body will be dead. It'd take years for me to be able to find you again." Methos smiled. "Ah, the limitations of those who have lost the favor of God." The shot glass sailed back in Methos's direction. "You know, at least I don't bend over and take it like some people I know." Methos blinked. "What people? Do I know them? It's Gabri-el, isn't it?" *** In those stormy days before Lucifer had actually physically fallen, the Son of Light and Micha-el had actually worked alongside each other. It had been good. It had been Micha-el's hand that had stilled the celestial harp when the strings had broken; when Lucifer had been thrust into it, away from G**. His wings had cut the tender cord of it, ending the pulse of music that seemed in the heavens to be as common as air on Earth. All sound ceased to thread through the echoes of it. Silence reigns in heaven. It was not that act that tossed this one out of Heaven, Methos knew, as he watched Joe play with the chords on his guitar. No, it was after that, then all sound muted forever, and life seemed to become so very slow. G** left music to the mortals. And the Immortals. "You left for the sake of the stillness," Methos intoned slowly. He locked eyes with his old friend, old adversary, thinking that these two things were too closely linked to even tell them apart anymore. No, that was a dangerous thought, and he resisted casting his eyes upward. "You left Heaven for a song." Joe shrugged. "Is this supposed to make me feel bad? And I didn't leave for a song. I left for all songs. I left for every musical sound that had ever come out of His mouth. Heaven is silent, filled with weeping angels and chaotic Bara." He smiled. "I see that you haven't been back since, either." A few more notes sang from the guitar. "There's a betting pool as to whether you'll actually fall or not. I have leading odds." Methos tried to look indignant. "I go there all the time," he muttered. "Your two-second visits every time this body is killed do *not* count." When Methos had no reply, the other angel continued. "I left for all of those reasons, but you, my friend, are worse. You stay, just like you stayed with Kronos. You stayed out of fear." He twisted the glass in his hands. "There is nothing there you want, nothing there that gives you sublime pleasure, a sense of purpose, and so then you fear." The angel's fingers danced on the tabletop. "Perhaps," he intoned slowly. "Perhaps you are-- wait! This is a trick!" Joe smiled. Methos knew that smirk. It was that look that his friend had worn the day he had entered the holy tabernacle and stolen the Master's instruments. It was a god-be-damned look. But of course, the first time Joe had actually made it, there had been no Hell. "In any case," Methos muttered. "I don't see you in Hell these days, do I? Too busy leading the Highlander around by his sword and his dick." Joe shook his head and played with the guitar. "It's a living." Pause. "I almost had you." Methos gave him the finger. "Bite me." He was greeted with another smile. "Not in this incarnation." *** Amand-r One should part from life the way Ulysses parted from Nausicaa--blessing it rather than in love with it." <Nietzsche>