The mortal took one look at his charge's fatigued, reddened eyes and the dark circles under them and shook his head. "Still not sleeping, Mac?"

"I'm sleeping enough," the Immortal answered, trying to ignore his friend's concern. 'I'm okay, Joe, really I am. I've put all that business with Priest behind me once and for all."

"Have you really or are you just saying that to get me off your back?"

MacLeod stopped and steadied the bag. He stared at Joe and knew he could never fool him. His shoulders sagged and he methodically stripped off the leather gloves he wore. "You want a drink, Joe?"

Dawson nodded an agreement and accompanied him in the elevator to the loft. Shakespeare greeted them at the gate with a bark and a wagging tail, before returning to lie down on a rug near the sofa.

"Make yourself at home, Joe. You know where the bar is. I have to shower. I'll be out in a few minutes," MacLeod called out as he walked to the bath area in the rear of the one-room apartment.

Joe ordinarily didn't drink this early in the morning, but today he felt like he deserved it. MacLeod wasn't getting any better, not since he was freed from Lemuel Priest's clutches a month ago. He hardly exercised, had lost weight and his eyes grew darker every day. He was worried, big time, about his buddy. Mac hadn't resolved nearly as much of his multiple rapes and abuse as he let on. The Highlander needed help, and the only person Joe could think of that would be able to help him was halfway across the world in Tibet. If I have to, I'll haul Methos' ass over here. Mac needs all of his friends right now.

Duncan exited the bathroom, wrapped in a terry cloth robe and rubbing his wet head with a towel. "Can you pour me a shot, too, Joe?" he asked, as he removed a set of clothes from an armoire.

That was another worry for Dawson. MacLeod never used to drink in the mornings, not until the happy hour at least. Now he drank all times of the day. If he kept on, he'd end up getting challenged by the wrong guy and lose his head. Joe poured two fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to the Scot. He then picked up his own drink and sat himself in one of the chairs. "I'm worried about you, MacLeod, but I don't know what I can do."

Duncan, with a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes, responded, "There isn't anything you can do, Joe."

Dawson hung around a bit longer, but neither man knew what else to say. He knew he wasn't a counselor and that's who Mac needed, a professional who'd help him. On the other hand, he was definitely sure that the Highlander wouldn't go for it. He was lucky the hard-headed Scot would even talk to him.

After long moments of silent frustration in which the Immortal didn't say anything more, Joe sighed and got to his feet. He patted Mac's shoulder and said, "You know where I am, Mac, when you need me."

Duncan nodded and covered Joe's hand with his own, lightly squeezing it. "Thanks, Joseph, I'll be in touch."

MacLeod glanced over at Shakespeare after the Watcher had departed. The dog was wagging his tail in anticipation. It was time for his daily run. Duncan set aside his grim thoughts and smiled. "Come on, big guy, let's go chase some birds."

The Labrador happily allowed his Master to snap the leash to his collar and tugged him down the stairs and the street that led to the park.

Duncan arranged for Shakespeare to, at last, attend obedience school, contacted both Joe and Gene Lockheart, his dojo manager, of his destination and headed south in his Thunderbird. At least he'd have a change of scenery. That was bound to help him.