September 4, 2001, 7 PM (to roughly 1130 PM), Seacouver, Washington
Fiona mumbled a greeting, when the knock echoed on her office door somewhere close to seven. Her two o' clock class had not gone nearly so well. It had been an introductory philosophy and logic class, with close to thirty students. Mostly freshmen, with half a dozen sophomores mixed in, she had feeling most of the students were only in the class to fulfill the all-school ethics requirement. She already wondered, knowing the class met for an hour five days a week, just how many students would show up for every class, and how many students would make it to the end of the semester.
"Come in," she repeated, this time louder. She glanced up in time to see the door creak open, and a male presence slide in. "Oh, hello."
"Hello," echoed Richard Kramer. "Just thought I would stop in to say good night before leaving. How'd the first day go? Smoothly, I hope."
"Very much so," she confirmed, nodding her head for extra emphasis, hoping he did not see the wary spark in her eyes.
"Good. See you tomorrow morning then. Good night, Fiona." Apparently he hadn't, closing the door behind him.
Fiona sighed, and returned to her work. She had thought to save some time tonight, and draw her notes for tomorrow's lectures, but found it to be more work than she had wanted. Dropping the pencil, she passed a hand over her eyes.
"I need a drink," she murmured. Deciding she had had enough for her first day, she shuffled her papers into an orderly pile, and pulled on her coat. She was startled by the second knock on her door, more startled when the Immortal aura hit her senses through the door. "Come in," she called cautiously, her hand hovering over the right side of her coat.
"I forgot you were left-handed," greeted Methos, shuffling just inside the door, and closing it behind him. "Is that where you hide your sword these days?"
"Wouldn't you love to know?" she smirked. A quick, warning look flashed over her eyes, and she dropped her hand to her side again. "Did you want something?"
"Actually, yes. I was going for a beer, and wanted to know if you would care to join me? Thought we could play at happy families, and reacquaint ourselves with one another."
"Do you read minds now too?" she mumbled to herself, while out loud, she added, "I thought Adam Pierson already said he did not know me?" She raised her eyebrows challengingly, daring him to answer her.
"Adam Pierson is not the one asking. Methos is asking, however. They do not know who I am, but you do. And, it has been almost two centuries since I last saw you."
"Are you sure you want to take a chance? After all, you said yourself, last time we met, I purposely left you to die."
"I'm offering, aren't I?" he asked. He leaned against the closed office door, arms crossed over his chest, eyes somewhere between weariness and hopefulness.
"Fine, but give me a minute. I need to call someone first."
"I'll meet you outside," Methos nodded, opening the door, closing it again behind him. Fiona nodded, sighed, and ran a hand through her long hair.
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Methos stepped in the smoky bar, waving sheepishly to the bartender. "Hey, Joe. Been awhile."
"Adam, hey! Was wondering if I would see you this week. How was your trip?"
"Fine, got a lot of work done." Methos motioned to Fiona, who stood slightly to his right. "Have you met Fiona? She just started working at the university here."
"Sure, we met the other night." He turned quizzically to her. "You were here with Dylan, right?"
"Right," she nodded.
"Well, glad to have you back." Joe paused. "You two know one another then?"
"Just met today," responded Adam, ignoring the look Joe gave to him. "Richard Kramer brought her by my office this morning. Found we have some stuff in common."
Joe glanced to Fiona, who simply shrugged, offering a joking smile, and he did not know if she agreed or disagreed with they story given. But Joe Dawson had not served over two decades in the Watchers Organization without learning something of human nature. He knew when he was being lied to, and he knew how to read into people's words and emotions. He could usually read into Adam Pierson, (after all he had known Adam Pierson since nineteen eighty-four), even if he could not read into Methos.
But he did not know Fiona; he could read only a little into her. They had only met once, or twice, now. But something in the two expressions, something in the tone of their words, and something in her smile, made him think there was an underlying layer there, something they did not want to share.
He frowned slightly, in took his breath, and released it, and spoke: "What will it be then?"
"A beer," answered Methos, taking his usual place at his usual stool.
"Same," Fiona added. She perched herself on the stool next to his.
"Coming right up."
"So, nice coat," Methos smirked, speaking not directly to her, but to Joe's turned back.
"Thanks."
Uneasy silence having fallen, when Joe slid the two beers to them, and Fiona slid a couple dollars to him, Joe laughed, teasing, "Oh, look! A *paying* customer."
"Shut up, old man," but a smile quirked at the corners of his mouth.
"In the several years I have known Adam, he had never once paid for a beer. If I calculated his debt, it would exceed the national debt. Hell, it would probably exceed the international debt," he answered in response to Fiona's puzzled look.
"Shut up, old man," Methos repeated, a full-blown smile on his face. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed Fiona grinning. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be Dawson? Figuring out paychecks or something?"
Joe raised his eyebrows. "Giving me a hint, Pierson? I can take it. Just remember, who puts up with you. Because it sure ain't been Mac recently." He grabbed his cane, and limped across the bar to where his small back office was. His hand on the doorknob, he turned, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Try not to do too much mischief while I'm gone. I just finally got the place back to normal from the last time."
"Who's Mac?" asked Fiona, the door closing behind Joe echoing throughout the bar.
"Duncan MacLeod. He's a friend." His voice suddenly sounded forced, and when Fiona looked over to him, she was surprised to see how tightly his fingers gripped the beer mug. "So," he continued, his voice now lighter again, "how do you like Seacouver so far?"
"Definitely different from New York. Reminds me some of home."
"Greece?"
"No," she shook her head. "Britannia Isles. Ireland. All the greenery, and the climate, I suppose. Sometimes, I almost expect to see the Giant's Dance when I look out my apartment window."
"Stonehenge is in England, on the Salisbury Plain."
"Well, sure, now," she smirked, turning to him, her eyebrows raised, grinning. He offered her a smile in return. "Of course," she continued, "it's been years since I've been to my childhood home. Ireland or Greece."
"Join the club," Methos sighed. He swallowed some of his beer. "You married? Seeing anyone?"
"No, and kind of."
"Kind of?"
"Kind of," she repeated. "How about you?"
"No, not at the moment." He swallowed more of his beer. "How was the first day?"
"Fine," she shrugged. "Did you know Richard Kramer has a daughter?"
"He mentioned that to you?"
"Yes. Apparently, I remind him of her. From the way he talked, I had thought she had died."
"No, no she is still alive. Just, I am surprised he even mentioned it to you. Richard very rarely talks of his past to anyone. He can be more secretive than we are."
"A feat in itself. He refused to say more of it."
"Yes. . ."
Fiona sighed, sipping some more of her beer. Lightly, she jumped from the stool, and collected her bag. "Well, I've had fun, but I need to get going." Leaning in closer, she added, speaking in Ancient Greek, "If you want to speak more truthfully, here's my address," and she pressed a ripped napkin into his hand. He looked to it, only slightly surprised at the neat handwriting on it.
She waved, and only when she was at the door, did Methos recover his voice, and speaking in English, did he call, "So where did you get that coat?"
Fiona grinned mischievously, calling back, "Would you believe I made it from an eighteenth century dress?"
The door's slam echoed throughout the bar, and Methos frowned again, staring into his beer. He brought the mug to his lips, and drained what was left. Bringing the mug down again to the counter, his fingers again gripped the glass tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Goddam, MacLeod," he whispered, "where in bloody hell are you?"
Leaving his mug where it was, he slipped again into his own coat (a black trench), grabbed his keys, and he stalked from the bar. Under his touch, his car purred pleasantly to life.
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Fiona opened the door to her apartment, immediately unzipping the side zipper of her boots, wiggling her feet in the black stockings she wore. She dropped her shoes near the couch, quickly adding her coat. She carried a small stack of mail in her hands, shifting through it, noticing three of the five letters were addressed to the previous owner, and the other two were junk advertisements.
She tossed the two junk advertisements into the trash bin, leaving the other three letters temporarily on the counter. She would figure out later if it was worth trying to track the addressee down, or if she should just throw the letters out.
She pulled a pot from the cupboards, and found some spaghetti, letting the water come to a boil while she changed out of the skirt and blouse and into a pair of old sweatpants and a tank top. She pulled her hair back, and added the pasta to the water, alternating between stirring it, and sautéing some sauce over the low heat.
She ate her dinner while watching the ten o'clock news, leaving the dishes in the sink to be washed later. Heading to her bedroom to sleep, she was only slightly surprised Marius had not stopped by, but he had said he would be working late tonight. He had promised to come tomorrow night.
He had promised.
Fiona mumbled a greeting, when the knock echoed on her office door somewhere close to seven. Her two o' clock class had not gone nearly so well. It had been an introductory philosophy and logic class, with close to thirty students. Mostly freshmen, with half a dozen sophomores mixed in, she had feeling most of the students were only in the class to fulfill the all-school ethics requirement. She already wondered, knowing the class met for an hour five days a week, just how many students would show up for every class, and how many students would make it to the end of the semester.
"Come in," she repeated, this time louder. She glanced up in time to see the door creak open, and a male presence slide in. "Oh, hello."
"Hello," echoed Richard Kramer. "Just thought I would stop in to say good night before leaving. How'd the first day go? Smoothly, I hope."
"Very much so," she confirmed, nodding her head for extra emphasis, hoping he did not see the wary spark in her eyes.
"Good. See you tomorrow morning then. Good night, Fiona." Apparently he hadn't, closing the door behind him.
Fiona sighed, and returned to her work. She had thought to save some time tonight, and draw her notes for tomorrow's lectures, but found it to be more work than she had wanted. Dropping the pencil, she passed a hand over her eyes.
"I need a drink," she murmured. Deciding she had had enough for her first day, she shuffled her papers into an orderly pile, and pulled on her coat. She was startled by the second knock on her door, more startled when the Immortal aura hit her senses through the door. "Come in," she called cautiously, her hand hovering over the right side of her coat.
"I forgot you were left-handed," greeted Methos, shuffling just inside the door, and closing it behind him. "Is that where you hide your sword these days?"
"Wouldn't you love to know?" she smirked. A quick, warning look flashed over her eyes, and she dropped her hand to her side again. "Did you want something?"
"Actually, yes. I was going for a beer, and wanted to know if you would care to join me? Thought we could play at happy families, and reacquaint ourselves with one another."
"Do you read minds now too?" she mumbled to herself, while out loud, she added, "I thought Adam Pierson already said he did not know me?" She raised her eyebrows challengingly, daring him to answer her.
"Adam Pierson is not the one asking. Methos is asking, however. They do not know who I am, but you do. And, it has been almost two centuries since I last saw you."
"Are you sure you want to take a chance? After all, you said yourself, last time we met, I purposely left you to die."
"I'm offering, aren't I?" he asked. He leaned against the closed office door, arms crossed over his chest, eyes somewhere between weariness and hopefulness.
"Fine, but give me a minute. I need to call someone first."
"I'll meet you outside," Methos nodded, opening the door, closing it again behind him. Fiona nodded, sighed, and ran a hand through her long hair.
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Methos stepped in the smoky bar, waving sheepishly to the bartender. "Hey, Joe. Been awhile."
"Adam, hey! Was wondering if I would see you this week. How was your trip?"
"Fine, got a lot of work done." Methos motioned to Fiona, who stood slightly to his right. "Have you met Fiona? She just started working at the university here."
"Sure, we met the other night." He turned quizzically to her. "You were here with Dylan, right?"
"Right," she nodded.
"Well, glad to have you back." Joe paused. "You two know one another then?"
"Just met today," responded Adam, ignoring the look Joe gave to him. "Richard Kramer brought her by my office this morning. Found we have some stuff in common."
Joe glanced to Fiona, who simply shrugged, offering a joking smile, and he did not know if she agreed or disagreed with they story given. But Joe Dawson had not served over two decades in the Watchers Organization without learning something of human nature. He knew when he was being lied to, and he knew how to read into people's words and emotions. He could usually read into Adam Pierson, (after all he had known Adam Pierson since nineteen eighty-four), even if he could not read into Methos.
But he did not know Fiona; he could read only a little into her. They had only met once, or twice, now. But something in the two expressions, something in the tone of their words, and something in her smile, made him think there was an underlying layer there, something they did not want to share.
He frowned slightly, in took his breath, and released it, and spoke: "What will it be then?"
"A beer," answered Methos, taking his usual place at his usual stool.
"Same," Fiona added. She perched herself on the stool next to his.
"Coming right up."
"So, nice coat," Methos smirked, speaking not directly to her, but to Joe's turned back.
"Thanks."
Uneasy silence having fallen, when Joe slid the two beers to them, and Fiona slid a couple dollars to him, Joe laughed, teasing, "Oh, look! A *paying* customer."
"Shut up, old man," but a smile quirked at the corners of his mouth.
"In the several years I have known Adam, he had never once paid for a beer. If I calculated his debt, it would exceed the national debt. Hell, it would probably exceed the international debt," he answered in response to Fiona's puzzled look.
"Shut up, old man," Methos repeated, a full-blown smile on his face. From the corners of his eyes, he noticed Fiona grinning. "Don't you have somewhere you need to be Dawson? Figuring out paychecks or something?"
Joe raised his eyebrows. "Giving me a hint, Pierson? I can take it. Just remember, who puts up with you. Because it sure ain't been Mac recently." He grabbed his cane, and limped across the bar to where his small back office was. His hand on the doorknob, he turned, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Try not to do too much mischief while I'm gone. I just finally got the place back to normal from the last time."
"Who's Mac?" asked Fiona, the door closing behind Joe echoing throughout the bar.
"Duncan MacLeod. He's a friend." His voice suddenly sounded forced, and when Fiona looked over to him, she was surprised to see how tightly his fingers gripped the beer mug. "So," he continued, his voice now lighter again, "how do you like Seacouver so far?"
"Definitely different from New York. Reminds me some of home."
"Greece?"
"No," she shook her head. "Britannia Isles. Ireland. All the greenery, and the climate, I suppose. Sometimes, I almost expect to see the Giant's Dance when I look out my apartment window."
"Stonehenge is in England, on the Salisbury Plain."
"Well, sure, now," she smirked, turning to him, her eyebrows raised, grinning. He offered her a smile in return. "Of course," she continued, "it's been years since I've been to my childhood home. Ireland or Greece."
"Join the club," Methos sighed. He swallowed some of his beer. "You married? Seeing anyone?"
"No, and kind of."
"Kind of?"
"Kind of," she repeated. "How about you?"
"No, not at the moment." He swallowed more of his beer. "How was the first day?"
"Fine," she shrugged. "Did you know Richard Kramer has a daughter?"
"He mentioned that to you?"
"Yes. Apparently, I remind him of her. From the way he talked, I had thought she had died."
"No, no she is still alive. Just, I am surprised he even mentioned it to you. Richard very rarely talks of his past to anyone. He can be more secretive than we are."
"A feat in itself. He refused to say more of it."
"Yes. . ."
Fiona sighed, sipping some more of her beer. Lightly, she jumped from the stool, and collected her bag. "Well, I've had fun, but I need to get going." Leaning in closer, she added, speaking in Ancient Greek, "If you want to speak more truthfully, here's my address," and she pressed a ripped napkin into his hand. He looked to it, only slightly surprised at the neat handwriting on it.
She waved, and only when she was at the door, did Methos recover his voice, and speaking in English, did he call, "So where did you get that coat?"
Fiona grinned mischievously, calling back, "Would you believe I made it from an eighteenth century dress?"
The door's slam echoed throughout the bar, and Methos frowned again, staring into his beer. He brought the mug to his lips, and drained what was left. Bringing the mug down again to the counter, his fingers again gripped the glass tightly, his knuckles turning white. "Goddam, MacLeod," he whispered, "where in bloody hell are you?"
Leaving his mug where it was, he slipped again into his own coat (a black trench), grabbed his keys, and he stalked from the bar. Under his touch, his car purred pleasantly to life.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------
Fiona opened the door to her apartment, immediately unzipping the side zipper of her boots, wiggling her feet in the black stockings she wore. She dropped her shoes near the couch, quickly adding her coat. She carried a small stack of mail in her hands, shifting through it, noticing three of the five letters were addressed to the previous owner, and the other two were junk advertisements.
She tossed the two junk advertisements into the trash bin, leaving the other three letters temporarily on the counter. She would figure out later if it was worth trying to track the addressee down, or if she should just throw the letters out.
She pulled a pot from the cupboards, and found some spaghetti, letting the water come to a boil while she changed out of the skirt and blouse and into a pair of old sweatpants and a tank top. She pulled her hair back, and added the pasta to the water, alternating between stirring it, and sautéing some sauce over the low heat.
She ate her dinner while watching the ten o'clock news, leaving the dishes in the sink to be washed later. Heading to her bedroom to sleep, she was only slightly surprised Marius had not stopped by, but he had said he would be working late tonight. He had promised to come tomorrow night.
He had promised.