Note: This is a snippet that takes place during the over-arching events of Stumbling Into, and does not require being read either before or after. There are details referenced in this fic that are covered in the early chapters of Stumbling Into, but reading out of order won't spoil anything. Canon-wise, this would fall between "The Messenger" and "Valkyrie" and, therefore, takes place in The States.
Reviews:PLEASE!
Disclaimer: Seriously, like I would be lucky enough to own Methos? And if I did you think we'd be hanging out here? We'd be totally tearing it up in Bora Bora. I'm not making any money off this and I have no assets, so kindly leave me alone.
###
What have I become
my sweetest friend?
Everyone I know
goes away in the end
I will let you down
I will make you hurt
I wear this crown of thorns
upon my liars chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair
Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here
If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way
-Johnny Cash (covering Nine Inch Nails), Hurt
###
Duncan MacLeod, having some mundane affairs to tend to, wasn't at home to be goaded and irritated, so Methos chose to drop himself on Amy's couch for the afternoon. She might not have been as easy to rile as the Highlander, but she could generally be counted on to slide into a friendly argument over any topic he could dream up.
He read, she cleaned her guns, they enjoyed companionable silence for an unusually long period of time before it was interrupted by the crawling sensation at the back of his neck.
"You expecting anybody?"
"No, why?"
Before Methos could explain, a knock sounded on the door which was quickly opened.
"Mike!" Amy threw herself into the open arms in front of her, missing the look that passed between the two men over the top of her head.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, sit down!" She drug him inside, barely giving him time to grab the large bag from the floor. "Why are you in town? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"Your dad's in town."
Amy froze for a moment. "Gotta pack, ya'll see yourselves out. Bye." And she was in the bedroom before there was a chance to stop her.
"Amy, slow down! We'll be leaving tomorrow, so don't bother. I just wanted to see you while I had a shift off." He looked towards Methos and raised an eyebrow. The response was a single slow nod.
"Never could get her to slow down," Mike muttered.
Amy came back out, holding her small duffel. "Promise?"
"Swear. Before lunch. Now will you come sit?"
She threw the bag into the bedroom and finally realized she hadn't introduced anyone.
"Mike, this is Adam. Adam, Mike my teacher and… You!" Amy was suddenly, painfully, aware of the tension in Methos as he maintained the most non-threatening 'young immortal' face he could. "You're - you… Of course you are!" She barked a small exclamation and dropped into the small arm chair as she realized her first and favorite teacher had a secret. She stared at him, elbows on the arms of the chair, fingers rubbing across her lips while her brain reviewed their years together.
"How could I not... Suddenly so much makes sense. Mother and Dad don't know."
"No."
"But Da' and Mom do."
"Yes."
"Woah! I'm sorry, but Mother, Dad, Da', and Mom?" Methos held his hands out, begging for help.
"Sorry, Adam. The parents who raised me, and the parents who birthed me. I still - seriously, this explains so much!"
She jumped up and stalked over to Mike where he still stood, circling him with eyes narrowed and hands on her hips. Being so much shorter and so close, her head was thrown almost straight back as she inspected him.
He stood at five foot eleven, with gray streaks running through his hair in the most distinguished manner. The lines on his face weren't too deep or too shallow and his bearing was military-straight even though this persona had "retired" as a Navy Seal over twenty years earlier.
Methos was having a hard time not laughing at the fierceness she was projecting. If she caught the look on his face, he had no doubt he would be busy dodging some form of bodily harm.
Her head tilted to the side as she moved to regard her teacher from several feet away. "How long have you worked for my family, taken care of them, whatever you want to call it?"
"As long as I've been alive."
"And how old are you?"
"Close to three thousand."
Her jaw dropped and she walked into the kitchen, muttering to herself in a mix of ancient languages Mike had taught her.
"Well, she's actually taking this better than I expected," he smiled down at Methos who had re-asserted his place by melting back onto his end of the couch.
"I'm surprised she hasn't thrown something sharp at you yet," Methos replied quietly.
Amy suddenly shot out of the kitchen to Mike's side, arm raised to hit him as she moved. "How," she swiped, he blocked, "could," another miss from her, "you not," she swung a third time, still getting blocked, "tell me yourself!"
Their arms turned into a small flurry as she kept trying to get inside his guard with short, sharp punches, but he continually blocked her. Methos simply watched in bemusement.
Mike finally stopped defending and jumped backwards out of reach and Amy remained in her position, conceding. Both men missed the flash in her eyes.
"Right, then." She quickly lifted her hands, as if holding a small ball, and thrust them towards Mike, who promptly stumbled backwards and landed on his backside, laughing. Amy was back in the kitchen before Methos joined in the laughter.
Amy returned, holding beer bottles which were tossed at both men who were now sharing the couch, studying each other from opposite ends, and dropped herself back into the chair.
"Twenty years, Mike. You couldn't tell me after twenty years?"
"Twenty years?" Methos sputtered in shock. His own twelve years as Adam Pierson were really starting to push the limits of prudence.
"Well, closer to twenty-five. I did have to get established in New Orleans before she was sent there."
"In one identity? Are you suicidal?"
"It was necessary this time. I'll move on soon; go back to her parents and start over again."
"Hair dye," Amy suddenly interjected while staring at the gray streaks in his hair. "On the man who ever so casually suggested I'd really enjoy stage make-up classes." She shook her head, still trying to process her discovery. "How old were you at your first death?"
"More than twenty, less than thirty." He shrugged. Counting individual years had been that important to him that long ago.
Methos grinned at her, that irritating and smug Cheshire cat grin he used on occasion, gleeful at the opportunity to see her so completely flabbergasted. "You know, I think this actually explains more about you."
#######
Mike was happy to stay in and have dinner at Amy's. However, he did insist that they find a good place where he and she could have a thorough sparring session, just as they used to. Methos, fully wrapped in Adam Pierson, asked if he could come along - just to watch. Amy wasn't the least bit fooled about his motives, but didn't say anything to Mike. Knowing of a perfectly suited and abandoned (of course) warehouse, Amy drove the three to the docks in her own car.
Methos would normally be fine with the quiet ride. He absolutely appreciated the lack of probing and questions from the other Immortal, not sure whether it was due to his friendship with Amy, or the other's own great age. Mike's willingness to state his true age in front of another Immortal was hard to fathom - why would he allow a stranger to know how desirable his head might be? He decided either Mike was far too confident in his own skills, or he was altogether unconcerned with the Game.
This trip, he decided to be the one full of questions - after all Adam Pierson did question a lot - hoping her teacher's presence would get Amy to loosen up. Her parents were the subject she refused to talk about, period. She never gave one of her half answers, never volunteered information, and always changed the subject immediately.
"Don't most kids like it when their parents come to town?"
"I love them coming to town. I do not love the baggage and tag-a-longs that come with them."
"So you would rather run than see your family."
"First, my parents know exactly how I feel. And B, I've spent a lot effort and many years making sure all those tag-a-longs don't know where I am or what I'm doing. I'm hardly going to blow that by accidentally stumbling into any of them while Mother and Dad are here."
"You never talk about your parents you know."
"It's a little complicated."
"So un-complicate it for me."
Amy rolled her eyes at him through the rear-view mirror and took a corner a little too fast, throwing the unprepared Methos across the back seat. He didn't fail to see the triumphant glint in her eyes.
"I was given to my parents by my parents to be raised quietly. Anonymous. Safe. And then Dad got involved in politics. Thinking about it, Mother probably pushed him into it, but anyway - suddenly we weren't anonymous any more. Suddenly it mattered that I was eight and in high school, that I happened to be able to play the violin really well. Suddenly people were surrounding us, prying and watching." The last word was sneered.
"You really don't like it, do you?"
"It never leads to anything good."
######
Once parked inside the warehouse everyone quickly climbed out of the car. Mike and Amy unloaded gear from the trunk while Methos wandered away from the other two, pretending to be overly curious about the collapsing building. In reality he was curious, but he was curious if this building had been prepped by Amy for any surprises for anyone unlucky enough to be on her bad side.
Mike knew this was likely to be his only opportunity to ask Amy about her friend, so he stepped close and pitched his voice low.
"So, tell me about this Adam."
Amy looked at him sideways and pinched her mouth together. "What are you, my dad?"
"Amy, come on. He's Immortal and my charge is involved."
"He's Adam. He's not a headhunter, he's a grad student. We have a couple mutual 'old' friends, he's sarcastic, loyal - not that he'll admit it - and he's my friend."
"Is he new?"
"He's old enough," she shrugged. "Mike, you're going to have to trust me on this one."
"So long as you don't forget what you've been taught."
She leaned her head on his shoulder and wrapped both her arms around his biceps. "I promise I won't forget, Sensei."
Anyone else who would dare pat her head or ruffle her hair the way he just did would normally be in danger of losing the offending hand. Amy lightly punched his arm.
"And?"
"And what?" She refused to acknowledge she understood the question he asked.
Mike simply steadily gazed at her, one eyebrow up, looking for all the world like he really was her fifty-two year old father.
"Quit, Mike."
######
Amy and Mike both shed layers - her oversized sweater, his coat and dress shirt - until they stood in nearly the same clothing. He in jeans and undershirt, she in her armor and jeans. The chill air would not bother them for long. Then they watched each other strip themselves of additional weapons. Methos stood to the side, mouth twitching, watching as throwing knives, guns, and even a short sword were pulled out of their hiding places and dropped to the ground.
When both finished disarming they stepped a few feet apart and got into a stance, ready to spar the second one of them so much as twitched.
Methos had seen Amy spar several times now and this stance she was using was quite strange. She would typically stand left arm crossed in front of herself at about chest level, right arm cocked above her right ear. At the moment, she stood with her left arm raised to chin level, wrist bent back so her fingers were pointed straight up. Her right arm was inexplicably swept to the back, practically resting on the back of her right thigh.
Even Mike noticed her strange stance. "You find an obscure new style you prefer now?"
"Bring it, old man, and find out." Her wrist turned so her palm was up and her first two fingers beckoned him forward.
Mike immediately moved forward to throw a punch and didn't get very far. As soon as she saw the weight shift in his feet, Amy's right arm moved, raising the knife she had left in its hiding spot. Without hesitating she rapidly aimed and threw it into his shoulder.
He bent over, stunned. Not so much that she intentionally stabbed him - he was sure it was only because she now knew he was an Immortal. What really gave him pause was that she had managed to keep the knife without his noticing. Perhaps she had finally exceeded what he could teach her. No matter, he would continue with his plans for the evening. As soon as this healed. No, he really couldn't believe she had actually stabbed him!
"Now we're even for twenty years," she said brightly before dropping to the ground to sit and wait for his shoulder to heal.
Methos watched closely as Mike pulled the throwing knife from just below his collar bone and the healing began. "And there it is. What took you so long?"
Amy simply wrinkled her nose at him.
#######
Amy again stood a few feet from her teacher in her ready stance - a normal one this time.
"No no, I know how proficient you've become. I want to know if you've kept up with the old ways." Mike returned her wary frown with a smile as he reached into the bag he had kept with him.
From within he pulled a pair of swords. One he kept by his side, the other he handed to Amy, blade down. Truly elegant in their simplicity, neither had decoration other than the smooth grip made of Zebra wood. The double-edged blades were polished to a fine sheen and glistened in the dim light. The sword he handed her had obviously been made specifically for Amy and her small frame. At twenty-four inches her blade was the same length as Mike's, but thinner and with a small fuller running its length, allowing her to wield the blade one-handed as easily as Mike's greater strength would allow him to wield his.
Next appeared two round shields. Made for practicing, they were functional only with no beauty at all, wood forms covered with a thin skin of steel. Mike tossed one across to Amy who easily caught it in one hand. Her arm slid through the first strap and her hand grabbed the second in a familiar move she hadn't practiced since leaving her family and her teacher almost eight years earlier. As Mike readied his own sword and shield, she swung the blade around a few times, getting used to the weight and balance. When she was satisfied they faced each other with shields up, knees bent, swords at the ready.
Sparring began at a rather leisurely pace with the two simply trading blows against either sword or shield. They quickly fell into the old pattern of teacher and student, speaking in the oldest of Celtic tongues - that which Mike was born speaking. They soon slid into Latin and Elvish, switching between the two randomly and smoothly - Mike leading the conversation and Amy following the switches with hardly a notice.
Methos was glad they chose languages he could understand and follow the conversation without Mike knowing; it allowed him to learn more than Amy had ever told him about her education. That she had been homeschooled, he knew, but she had never shared details. If her lessons had been like this since she was a small child, no wonder she had advanced so quickly.
Strike, block, stab, jump back. Strike, clash of blades, strike, push back with the shield.
As their swords clashed Mike questioned her in geography, in history, in military tactics, even in physics and customs of various cultures. Just as he had when she was a child, just as he did through college to help her study. In between questions he also goaded her, taunting with his words, inciting her with his blade, pushing, hiding his purpose in their old habits, searching for the edge of her control. Gradually the number of questions decreased until the only speaking heard were his verbal taunting and her replies. Physical strikes came harder, faster, even the verbal sparring ceased as the pace of the swords increased.
Methos quickly realized just how thoroughly and competently Amy had been taught the art of war by this ancient Immortal. It was surprising enough to to see someone so young that could fight with sword and shield so well, but she wielded them like she had been born to it, slipping into the forms without thought, her muscles as accustomed to the work as his own. Mike had spent much of his long life as a student, had become an exceptional teacher, and had turned his student into a singular warrior.
More than ever before Methos appreciated Amy never asking him for a match and wondered how much she held back when sparring with MacLeod. More, it was becoming obvious she favored Eastern martial arts because of the control she could maintain and Mike was purposefully pushing her to the point of fraying of those controls. Methos hadn't seen anyone fight with a berserker fury for over a millennium and it was becoming clear that was the intended result of this match, and it would be spectacular.
Feints and dodges increased in speed, the strikes increased in power. Blades met only the shields or each other; occasional swipes at bodies and legs were dodged with jumps and spins. They shared a deadly dance at which they were now equals.
Mike pushed hard, forcing Amy back while she caught every blow with her shield and the shoulder she had refused to let Peter heal a year earlier. High, low, low, center, low, high, high, the blows rained down on her. Still she caught them all, until her feet hit unnoticed sawdust and sent her sprawling to the floor. He did not pause in his attacks.
Mike pressed his advantage from above with unrelenting strikes. Amy managed to keep her shield or sword between herself and the blows while she gathered her feet and used one to brace her shield while the other to kicked at his shins as her own blade searched for the backs of his legs. As soon as Mike was forced to jump backwards to get away from her flashing tip, Amy quickly rearranged herself to a suitable position and flipped up to her feet.
She pressed back, her sword seeking any opening, any weakness. It probed his defenses hunting for an arm or leg or side, but always met by the other blade or its companion, the shield. Amy's blows fell more and more quickly, clashes of steel ringing and echoing through the empty space. Always met, they had no effect.
She pushed harder, forcing her tiring sword arm to strike faster. She demanded her shoulder accept more abuse as she not only absorbed strikes from Mike on the shield, but also shoved back more forcefully each time, trying to get his blade into a position where she would be able to score a hit.
From the outside it was obvious Amy's attitude had finally changed from a friendly spar to fighting. While she hadn't been letting any opportunities slip by, she hadn't been fully pressing her advantages even as Mike had been goading her more and more. However, since her feet had hit the floor after that flip, her face showed that her attitude was different. Dangerous. Harder. There were no more little extra flares in her sword strokes; every move was purely utilitarian. Every swing designed to be a killing blow.
Mike sidestepped to Amy's left, swinging his blade at her back, forcing her to reach her shield far to the side in order to stop his blow as she was pulling her sword back to begin another attack against him. Her shield did its job properly, though Amy had allowed herself to be caught with her arms spread wide, leaving her chest open for an attack momentarily - not that there were any other adversaries to deal with. It was an opening she would not normally allow to happen.
She quickly twisted her body and brought her sword around in a horizontal follow-through, keeping her shield against Mike's blade and continuing to push it to the side, forcing him to step backwards. Her sword was coming at his ribs and his shield blocked it, causing the blade to slide off towards his ankles. Mike pulled his own sword back for an overhead strike, Amy flung her shield over her head, jumped forward and to her left, dodging around Mike's shield, blindly raising her sword, and bracing for the blow his blade would deliver.
Her legs were in a good balance stance, she bent her knees and prepared as best she could for the powerful downswing, though both shields blocked her view. The awkward stab upwards with her blade was meant to force Mike to move backwards to nullify most of the power behind his attack.
Horror quickly supplanted the warrior in Amy's eyes when she opened them and finally realized what she had done. Still frozen in their pose, Mike's sword stopped by her shield, Amy's left arm actually rested on her head, as it had been pushed down by his blow. Her own sword pierced his side - in just under the ribs, out underneath his shoulder blade.
Unable to try - let alone be successful at - moving, Amy was frozen, her arms slowly starting to shake from shock and the pressure of Mike's weight. Two sounds eventually pushed into consciousness - the grating of his blade on the metal skin of her trembling shield, and their labored breaths.
Mike finally released a groan and began to fall.
As his sword slid off her shield to the ground Amy unbalanced and staggered backwards, forcing her blade to pull free of his body. Growing whiter by the second, she watched him crumple to the ground. Blood soaking his shirt. Blood splattering the ground. Blood running down her blade. Blood finely sprayed up her forearm.
Sword and shield both hung limply at her side as her entire body trembled.
On his hands and knees and struggling for a deep breath, Mike gasped out a staccato chuckle as he finally spoke.
"Well kid, I'd say you're finally ready."
The tip of the sword she held hit the ground as Amy cycled through fear, rage, shock, and relief.
"Damn you," she whispered. "Damn you, Mike!" Her sword was thrown to the ground to emphasize the yell. "Damn you!" The shield was flung away to land on the floor as her final shriek echoed around the building.
She staggered across the large expanse needing space, air, light, anything that would take away the blackness that threatened to swallow her. Finally falling into a large support beam Amy gripped it, desperate to stay on her feet. Her head and forearms rested against the flecks of rust and paint. Screams of rage tore from her throat as she beat the column with her arms until the pain demanded she quit.
When Amy inadvertently sent her sword through her teacher Methos was stunned, and he considered himself to old to be surprised anymore. The move had been sloppy, unconventional, and unexpected. Two out of the three had proven to be typical of her fighting; the sloppy was obviously from not being able to actually see what she was doing. But for her to mortally wound a friend? She was not handling this well, even though she knew it would be temporary.
After Amy flung her shield and left the spot, he finally moved to crouch down next to the wounded man. Sitting back on the heels of his boots, Methos' dark, cold eyes studied him, weighing, calculating.
[And what if you're wrong? What if you've called someone friend, and they're not?]
[Then it doesn't generally come out too well for them.]
"Three thousand years, and that's the only way you could come up with to make your point?"
"You already know I could talk to her until we're both deaf, and she wouldn't hear the point." Mike coughed up blood. "Do me a favor? Don't take my head."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Well, yes, he could but - "Besides, Amy would have mine before your Quickening even began." Methos looked to the other side of the empty warehouse, noting she was on her hands and knees beside a pile of rubble and trash. Or maybe she wouldn't.
[Then it doesn't generally come out too well for them.]
Perhaps it's much worse for you, after all, child.
As he finally welcomed death, Mike heard the sounds of Amy retching at the other end of the building.
"Think she'll forgive me today?" He wheezed to Methos.
"I'd say at least next year, if you're lucky."
"I recommend leaving her alone. I'll talk to her when I get back."
######
Mike found Amy sitting on the sea-wall, her legs dangling over the edge, eyes firmly fixed on the black water below, back slumped, hands still trembling as she tried to rub away the pain in her left shoulder. She had not yet put her sweater back on. He quietly sat down next to her, put his feet over the edge, and leaned back on his own hands.
"I hate you." Her voice was tight and quiet, her eyes didn't even flicker his direction.
"I know." He also pitched his voice to be low, soothing rather than dangerous.
Her jaw clenched tightly when she wasn't gasping for air while fighting to keep tears in.
"I'm sorry they got their hands on you. I wish I'd known."
"What for?" She scoffed. "I was made a killer, then I simply put my lessons to use."
"No, you were being made a warrior. If you didn't realize that, you wouldn't have walked away."
"Doesn't matter. Killer is what I became. Killer is what I am. Killer is what I'll always be." She was too flat. Too emotionless. "Seven years. Seven years of working for them and not once did I ever raise a weapon against a friend." The word years was sneered out with every bit of hate she could shove into it.
[...it generally doesn't come out too well for them.]
"Amy, what you'll have to face - you may be convinced your opponent is a friend. Worse yet a friend - even a lover - may actually betray you. You can't hold back. Ever."
She simply continued to stare at the water.
"If you're not willing to give your all in every fight, no matter what, no matter who, it's not just you that can fall, Amy. It could be your family, it could be your entire world."
Amy gathered her legs under her, turned away from Mike and stood, brushed her jeans off, and began to walk back into the warehouse.
"I'll have Adam drive you back to your hotel. Goodbye, Michael."
The breeze moving across the harbor finally made her shiver. That's what she told herself it was.