Just What I Do

Disclaimer and Notes: Inspired by a plot bunny Rhiannon Shaw gave me and one encouraged by Killa. Panzer/Davis owns the Highlander characters, Mutant Enemy the Buffy ones. Title inspired by the Trick Pony song of the same name, which has been stuck in my head for a week now....

Just What I Do (The Extended Remix)

By Raine Wynd

Oz was tired. The drive up the West Coast had been more than enough time to think...too much time, really. If he was honest with himself, he was sick of navel-gazing and just wanted someplace to pull out his guitar, somewhere where the blues would be appreciated. A friend of a friend of a friend of a passing acquaintance had pointed him towards Seacouver, and this morning's paper in a Denny's that had seen better days had pointed him towards a bar in the warehouse district not far from the port. "Joe's" read the neon sign.

It was an odd place for a bar, but even at 7 pm on a Thursday night, the parking lot was full of cars. He stepped out of the battered van and stretched, popping his neck. He grabbed the guitar case out of the back and hesitated. The “Open” sign invited strangers in, as did the scent of food, well prepared. Almost on cue, his stomach rumbled, reminding him that breakfast had been a long time ago. Habit born of Sunnydale had him scenting out danger, and there was something...here, as if someone had taken the time to bless the place.

Interesting, he thought. Makes sense to worship Bacchus in a place like this, though. Let's just hope it's not the bad kind of worship. Only one way to find out. He didn't bother locking the van; if it got stolen, it would be something of a miracle. Once parked, the van just didn't start unless one knew how to work it, and that wasn't the only thing the anti-theft spell he'd had put on it did.

He crossed the pavement to the entrance and walked in. Memphis blues filled the speakers from some hidden stereo, and the scent of liquor and pub food was stronger here than it had been outside. Smells assaulted him, and he took a moment to process them as his eyes adjusted to the softer light in the bar. A few patrons looked his way, but most ignored him as he headed straight for the bar and the grizzled older man who stood behind it, chatting up a customer. A thin slip of a girl with dark hair and a blue T-shirt emblazoned with “Joe's” on the left side abruptly popped up from under the bar, clutching a bottle like it was a prized find, and greeted him.

"What can I get you tonight?" she asked with a professional smile as she deftly unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and exchanged the cap for a pourer she pulled from an empty bottle that sat just on her side of the bar.

"I'm looking for Joe Dawson," he told her. "He had an ad in the paper about needing a blues guitarist."

Her smile warmed. "Just a sec." She moved down the counter to the older man and tapped him on the shoulder. They held a quick conversation, and then he excused himself from the customer and headed Oz's way.

"I'm Joe," he introduced himself, reaching out a hand to shake it. It didn't escape Oz's notice that he'd moved stiffly, as if something was wrong with his legs. "You are?"

"Daniel Osbourne. I go by Oz, though." The eyes that watched him were older than age would tell, Oz guessed, friendly enough but way too wary for a simple bar owner. In Oz's experience, nothing was ever as simple as it should be. Something told him he needed to speak quickly but firmly. "I used to play in a band that was the house band in a club in California." He didn't bother mentioning it had been the only club. "If you're willing, I'd like to play."

"Memphis or Delta?"

"Who cares as long as it's what you feel? Playing's just what I do." God, he was tired. Full moon had been three days ago; parting with Willow had been a month, but he'd packed the pain away, buried in a place that came out in full-fledged howls when he was least conscious of it. Right now, it was threatening to break loose if he didn't pour it out somehow. He preferred to do it in public; it made shifting into a wolf less of a temptation. "I also serve a mean cocktail, but I'd rather play."

Joe stared at him a long moment, as if he could see through the clothing he wore, and then nodded. "We'll talk about pay and paperwork in an hour, if you're up to it. Go on, go up. You look like you need it."

"Thanks." Oz shook his hand, then threaded his way through to the stage.

*****
Joe watched Oz pour his heart out over the course of the evening. He let him play, intrigued by the talent, and by the emotion that seemed to drive the almost-too-thin man. While it was true that Joe had been looking for a new guitarist, he hadn't been in any particular hurry, either, as playing got him off his feet and out from behind the bar. He'd only put the ad in as a means to allow him to spend more time with Mac, who'd been worrying about Joe losing business in the bar due to a lack of music. Around 9:30, the arrival of the band he'd scheduled for that evening finally drove Oz off stage, but not before Joe saw Oz get offered a chance to jam later if he was still around. Joe hid a smile and made his way over to Oz, who was in the process of putting away his guitar.

Joe then led the way to the back office, which was located just off the kitchen towards the rear fire exit. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk, abruptly grateful that the only thing on the desk that was in any way telling was the stack of invoices; the Watcher journals he'd been reading earlier in the day locked safely up in the desk itself. He sat down in his chair, noting the way Oz tried not to stare by covering his interest in the need to set aside the guitar case.

“Land mine in Vietnam,” Joe told him as he unearthed the employment forms from the lower drawer of the desk. “Lost both legs.”

“My uncle Roger was there. Never came back. At least, not in the way anyone wanted him back.”

Something about the way Oz spoke made Joe wonder just what the kid knew. “Like what?”

“He was severely allergic to sunlight,” Oz replied, completely deadpan.

Vampire? Oh, God, no. I didn't need to know they were around in ‘Nam! Joe thought wildly. Process that later, he ordered himself. Right now, you've got a guitarist who needs to play the blues, no matter how much it costs.

“So am I hired?”

In reply, Joe pushed the employment forms and a pen at Oz. “What brings you from California?”

Oz shrugged. “No place else to be.” He filled out the forms in a deft hand, as if he'd filled them out a hundred times before, and handed them back.

Joe looked them over. Everything seemed to be on the up-and-up, but he'd run it through a background check anyway. It wouldn't be the first time his instincts had been wrong about someone, and right now, everything about Oz rang just this side of “not enough information”, which made Joe's Watcher-honed paranoia stand on alert. If memory served, the address Oz listed was one of the seediest motels in town. In of itself, that could mean anything, everything, or nothing. It paid to know which, and Joe wasn't in the habit of hiring anyone he didn't trust.

Still, he named the rate he was going to pay Oz, told him he had the regular “opener” slot on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, with the option of joining the Sunday night jam session, and what his expectations of a performer at Joe's was. “No fighting in the bar. No smoking in the bar,” he told Oz. “You get drunk on shift, you will be fired. Call if you're sick and try not to be too much.”

Oz nodded. “Got it.”

“Any questions?”

Oz shook his head. “I'm clear. Thanks, Mr. Dawson.”

“It's Joe to anyone who plays like you do.” Joe paused. “Care to talk about that pain before you go?”

Oz hesitated. “I left. I came back. Things were different.”

“Come on, you can tell the rest of the story to an old man who's already heard you play it.”

Oz sighed. “Her name is Willow.”

“She moved on, got a life without you in it?” Joe leaned back. Clearly, whatever Oz's story was, it was going to take some pulling. “With your best friend?”

“No, someone new to town.” Oz half-chuckled. “Might've been easier if it had been my best friend.” He thought about that a moment, reconsidered. “No, because he'd be dead.” He sighed, apparently resigned to explaining himself. “Willow fell in love with a girl while I was gone.”

“I'm guessing you and Willow were involved before you left, and you thought you'd come back and she'd still be waiting.”

“She promised.” Oz drummed his fingers on the desk and caught himself at it. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes. “Look, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather just play than talk.”

Hearing the pain behind the too-calm words, Joe acquiesced. “Feel free to order anything from the kitchen if you want to hang around. I'll waive your bar tab tonight. You can leave your guitar here until you leave.”

Oz exhaled slowly, seeming to regain control of himself. He opened his eyes and smiled. “Thanks, Joe.” He got up, shook Joe's hand, and then walked out.

Silently, Joe resolved to keep an eye on his new guitarist. Heartache, Joe knew, made a man do things he might regret later. Moreover, Joe needed time to find out why it felt like Oz was a young man with secrets he wasn't willing to share. There'd been rumors and scattered news reports that Sunnydale, California, which was the address Oz had listed as “last permanent address”, had some very weird things happening there.Oz didn't strike Joe as an immortal or pre-immortal, but it was Joe's job to find out, either way.

It was going to be an interesting life for the next little while. Joe chuckled wryly as he thought that, wondering, as he'd done since Slan Quince had come to town, when his life wasn't going to some fine example of a Chinese curse.

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