How many times had he done this? A hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand? Sometimes, practice doesn't make perfect. How many times had he put his arms around a grieving friend and carried him home? How many times had he tried to lessen the grief by offering the ineffectual comfort of words? All that practice, and he never had found the words that would do it. But he kept trying. Year after year, century after century, death after death. Always more words.

But not this time. Tonight he was silent, offering no comfort beyond his presence. He hoped it was a comfort, anyway -- it was all he had to offer. For some things, there were no words. None that would help, none that would explain. None that would enlighten, or give meaning to a senseless tragedy -- the tragedy they'd just witnessed, or the one in the making.

Methos pulled his silence around him like a shield and forced himself to face the thought he'd been avoiding: Duncan might not get through this. He'd suffered too much, too quickly. There was a limit to how much pain even the strongest man could take. This could be the final blow that pushed him over the edge into insanity, or it could be the shock that brought him back. Please God, let it bring him back. He couldn't lose Duncan. Not now. they were finally starting to talk again, to laugh again. Not now. Please.

"MacLeod might not get through this." Methos turned to the man sitting across from him, not shocked at hearing his thought echoed out loud, just surprised that Joe could talk. He'd thought Joe was out cold. Methos had poured a good two thirds of a bottle of liquid comfort into him, he should be out.

"He...I was going to say he'll be allright, but..."

"Yeah. Me too. Methos, we have to do something. We can't just sit here."

"I know. But all we can do now are the normal things. We have to...

"Plan a funeral."

"Yeah. But tomorrow's soon enough for that, Joe."

"Someone should call Amanda. She deserves to hear this from us. She shouldn't have to...She'd want to be here. For Duncan. And for..."

"Yeah. I'll take care of it, Joe. Go to bed." Methos watched as Joe stumbled into the bedroom, alcohol and grief bigger infirmities than his legs, but still nothing he would have wanted help with.

Amanda. Methos picked up the phone and held it without dialing. God, he hated being the bearer of bad news. And this news was going to hurt her, badly. She was honestly fond of the kid, and not just because Duncan was, but in his own right. And for him to die like that -- Methos shrugged away the picture of Duncan kneeling over Richie's body, sobbing and incoherent. No. Not now. If he thought about it now he'd be crying too hard to be coherent. He couldn't do that. He had to be calm.

Somebody had to be, and he was the only one here.

Amanda. Joe was smarter than he knew. Amanda could help. If pushing Duncan into Amanda's arms, into her bed, was what it took to keep Duncan here, to anchor him on this side of sanity, away from his delusions and demons, Methos would put aside his own dreams and hopes and call her. Please God, let it work.
Anything. He'd do anything. He could wait his turn, he just prayed they had that much time.

He dialed, and waited.

"Hello, you have reached 555..." Oh, fuck. An answering machine. He wasn't ready to talk to a machine. How did you leave this kind of message on a machine? How do you do it without shocking, without being abrupt? What did you say? All that practice, all those years of words. Surely he had the right ones somewhere?
Nothing shocking, just prepare her for bad news. Gently, Methos, gently. He was five thousand years old. He had done this a thousand times. He could do it again.

<BEEEEEP>

"Amanda, it's Adam. Call me when you get this message. Uh...we have a problem. Richie's on the roof and we can't get him down."