September 5, 2001, 530 AM (to roughly 930 AM), Seacouver, Washington
Fiona half-sat in bed, one eye open, before she mumbled incoherently (in a language other than English), and fell back against the pillows, in hopes to return to sleep-land. But no, her phone rang again, and she groped the top of the nightstand, answering the phone with a healthy dose of swears, only five of which the caller understood.
"Morning to you too, darling. Did I wake you?"
"Amanda?" she mumbled, flopping onto her pillows. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I woke you."
"Yes, it is five-thirty in the morning." She paused. "Send me telephone coffee, and I'll forgive you."
"Already sent," she laughed. "Just be thankful I called and not your friend Bella. She would be dead now, to know her precious Fiona knew so many swearwords."
"She might have understood two," grinned Fiona. "So?"
"So, I'm calling to see how you are. We miss you. We're worried about you. You said you would call, and you never did. The boys decided I would best call, get the girl talk from you, I suppose."
"Girl talk, huh? You could tell them how I had a drink with the devil last night?"
"Really?"
"Well, not exactly the devil. But Adam Pierson, or rather, I had the drink with Adam Pierson, but Methos invited me."
"I assume you know his real identity?"
"Since I was sixteen. A *real* sixteen, before I died." Fiona paused again. "As naïve and eccentric as Adam Pierson is, Methos has changed very little." She shook her head, knowing Amanda could not see the movement. "He is exactly as I remember him."
"When did you last see him?"
"Late nineteenth century."
"Some words of advice, my dear? I know Methos is unapproachable around the edges. I, myself, am guilty of almost taking his head once, and. . ."
"I wish you had. Would have saved me the trouble," Fiona interrupted.
"And," Amanda continued, her amusement heard in her voice, "he is lacking some social skills, but he is a good guy to know."
"Are we talking about the same Methos? He leaves without saying farewells, he lives only to survive, and he distances himself from those he loves and loved, in hopes he may further protect himself."
"He's changed. We all have."
"Why are you defending him, Amanda? You've always called him a git before."
"Because I know him, Fiona."
"And I don't know him? I first met him before you were born."
"I know. Fiona, please. I know you and he have issues, but look past them, for him, please. He is going through a tough time right now."
"Tough time?"
"You mean he didn't tell you? His lover left him. For once, he's the one sticking around." Amanda paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was significantly brighter. "So, have you met Joe Dawson yet? And, how about that guy you mentioned living there?"
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Having talked to Amanda for another thirty minutes, Fiona decided to skip her morning run, and head straight to the shower. The hot water and the steam was a poor substitute for coffee, but it was not until she was dressed, and in her car, did she get her first caffeine fix of the day, stopping in at a local bakery, buying a large coffee and a cinnamon chip scone.
"Morning!" she called, hiding her uneasiness behind a cheery exterior, greeting Rebecca in the office.
"Good morning, Fiona, right?" Fiona nodded, and Rebecca smiled. "I'll remember it tomorrow, promise. Took me nearly a week to remember Richard, and he even has the same first letter as I do. Same initials as my husband too."
"Don't suppose the last name is Kramer?" Fiona teased.
"No, god forbid! It's Kitterman. Been married for fifteen years. My husband is far from being a perfect mensch, but I love him." She smiled fondly. "So, anyway, you have a message in your mailbox."
"Oh." Setting her coffee and scone on an empty desk, Fiona ducked into the backroom, finding her mailbox three up from the bottom left, finding the half-folded letter pushed towards the back. "Strange," she mumbled. Stepping back into the office again, she retrieved her coffee and scone, sipping a much needed swallow, and smiled at Rebecca. "Thanks."
"You're welcome!" Rebecca called after her, mumbling to herself once Fiona was out of earshot, "Although for what, I don't know." She sighed, and turned again to her computer, answering the phone when it rang, "Hello. Philosophy and Classics Department."
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Having reached her office, Fiona found another folded note taped to her door, her name written in shaky letters on the front. She sighed, ripped it off the wood, and read it, before crumbling it into a ball, and tossing it into the nearby trash receptacle at the hallway end. Mumbling once under her breath, she pushed her door open, only to find Methos sitting behind her desk, his feet propped on the desktop.
"How did you get in here?" she asked, making no effort to hide the surprise or the venom in her voice.
"Paper clip," he smiled, bringing his feet down, and sitting upright in the chair. "I told Joe you went sick. It seemed the best reason to explain your early departure last night."
"Didn't realize Joe liked me enough to care why I left."
"Can't exactly understand it myself, but he obviously does," shrugged Methos. "Why did you leave?"
"I was tired." She dropped her bag and the scone on her desktop, passing a withering look to Methos' general direction. "So, I know how you got here then, but why bother?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"So, talk." She shrugged, sipping at her coffee. "And, give me back my desk. You have your own office."
"Was that sarcasm I heard?" he grinned, but stood coming around the desk. She sat before he changed his mind, shaking her head, taking another sip of coffee. Methos sighed, he sat in a chair opposite her desk, and he ran a hand through his dark hair. "I know I was never a very good one, Fiona, but I tried. I had promised Socrates, and. . ."
"You never tried." Her eyes brewed a storm, her face dark. "You stuck around for three years, found it to be too much, and left one night, breaking two hearts in the process. You never tried, Methos. Socrates was my father, and even Plato was my father. But you, you were an interloper, there for a short period, giving rise to my hopes, leaving when I finally loved you."
"You loved me Fiona?"
"Sure, then. Now, I just wished I had taken your head when I had the chance." She shook her head, and looked away. "And, to think I had actually considered listening to Amanda."
"Amanda?" Methos swallowed nervously.
"Yes, she called me this morning." She paused, looking Methos in the eyes again. "He loved you, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"After you left. . . He wasn't himself. He had lost some part of himself. You had been there for him, Methos. You had been his comfort, and when you left, he felt like he had no one." She paused, again. "I was newly married, and he had yet to meet Aristotle. But Aristotle never understood, not like you did."
"No?"
"No."
Methos paused, looking in the direction of the window, noticing the leaves were now first starting to turn. He returned his gaze, steady under her anger. "How did you die, Fiona?"
She blinked to him, startled, before shaking her head. "It doesn't matter." She paused. "You knew, didn't you?"
"Yes," he nodded, knowing he spoke of her Immortality. "I knew."
"Is that why you left?"
"It was one reason."
She nodded, and looked to her hands. Methos reached across the desk, to touch her hands with his, and Fiona looked to him again, an unreadable expression on her face. "Big hands," she murmured. Methos gave her a half- smile, hesitantly, Fiona returned the gesture. "Give me some time, ok? Let me sort everything between you, me, us. I promise, I will not kill you this time."
"Agreed." He stood to rise, stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He paused once, a hand hovering over the doorknob. "I'm glad you came," he whispered, gone before Fiona could respond. She blinked, before turning her attention to the preparation of her class.
Fiona half-sat in bed, one eye open, before she mumbled incoherently (in a language other than English), and fell back against the pillows, in hopes to return to sleep-land. But no, her phone rang again, and she groped the top of the nightstand, answering the phone with a healthy dose of swears, only five of which the caller understood.
"Morning to you too, darling. Did I wake you?"
"Amanda?" she mumbled, flopping onto her pillows. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I woke you."
"Yes, it is five-thirty in the morning." She paused. "Send me telephone coffee, and I'll forgive you."
"Already sent," she laughed. "Just be thankful I called and not your friend Bella. She would be dead now, to know her precious Fiona knew so many swearwords."
"She might have understood two," grinned Fiona. "So?"
"So, I'm calling to see how you are. We miss you. We're worried about you. You said you would call, and you never did. The boys decided I would best call, get the girl talk from you, I suppose."
"Girl talk, huh? You could tell them how I had a drink with the devil last night?"
"Really?"
"Well, not exactly the devil. But Adam Pierson, or rather, I had the drink with Adam Pierson, but Methos invited me."
"I assume you know his real identity?"
"Since I was sixteen. A *real* sixteen, before I died." Fiona paused again. "As naïve and eccentric as Adam Pierson is, Methos has changed very little." She shook her head, knowing Amanda could not see the movement. "He is exactly as I remember him."
"When did you last see him?"
"Late nineteenth century."
"Some words of advice, my dear? I know Methos is unapproachable around the edges. I, myself, am guilty of almost taking his head once, and. . ."
"I wish you had. Would have saved me the trouble," Fiona interrupted.
"And," Amanda continued, her amusement heard in her voice, "he is lacking some social skills, but he is a good guy to know."
"Are we talking about the same Methos? He leaves without saying farewells, he lives only to survive, and he distances himself from those he loves and loved, in hopes he may further protect himself."
"He's changed. We all have."
"Why are you defending him, Amanda? You've always called him a git before."
"Because I know him, Fiona."
"And I don't know him? I first met him before you were born."
"I know. Fiona, please. I know you and he have issues, but look past them, for him, please. He is going through a tough time right now."
"Tough time?"
"You mean he didn't tell you? His lover left him. For once, he's the one sticking around." Amanda paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was significantly brighter. "So, have you met Joe Dawson yet? And, how about that guy you mentioned living there?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------- - ----------------
Having talked to Amanda for another thirty minutes, Fiona decided to skip her morning run, and head straight to the shower. The hot water and the steam was a poor substitute for coffee, but it was not until she was dressed, and in her car, did she get her first caffeine fix of the day, stopping in at a local bakery, buying a large coffee and a cinnamon chip scone.
"Morning!" she called, hiding her uneasiness behind a cheery exterior, greeting Rebecca in the office.
"Good morning, Fiona, right?" Fiona nodded, and Rebecca smiled. "I'll remember it tomorrow, promise. Took me nearly a week to remember Richard, and he even has the same first letter as I do. Same initials as my husband too."
"Don't suppose the last name is Kramer?" Fiona teased.
"No, god forbid! It's Kitterman. Been married for fifteen years. My husband is far from being a perfect mensch, but I love him." She smiled fondly. "So, anyway, you have a message in your mailbox."
"Oh." Setting her coffee and scone on an empty desk, Fiona ducked into the backroom, finding her mailbox three up from the bottom left, finding the half-folded letter pushed towards the back. "Strange," she mumbled. Stepping back into the office again, she retrieved her coffee and scone, sipping a much needed swallow, and smiled at Rebecca. "Thanks."
"You're welcome!" Rebecca called after her, mumbling to herself once Fiona was out of earshot, "Although for what, I don't know." She sighed, and turned again to her computer, answering the phone when it rang, "Hello. Philosophy and Classics Department."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----
Having reached her office, Fiona found another folded note taped to her door, her name written in shaky letters on the front. She sighed, ripped it off the wood, and read it, before crumbling it into a ball, and tossing it into the nearby trash receptacle at the hallway end. Mumbling once under her breath, she pushed her door open, only to find Methos sitting behind her desk, his feet propped on the desktop.
"How did you get in here?" she asked, making no effort to hide the surprise or the venom in her voice.
"Paper clip," he smiled, bringing his feet down, and sitting upright in the chair. "I told Joe you went sick. It seemed the best reason to explain your early departure last night."
"Didn't realize Joe liked me enough to care why I left."
"Can't exactly understand it myself, but he obviously does," shrugged Methos. "Why did you leave?"
"I was tired." She dropped her bag and the scone on her desktop, passing a withering look to Methos' general direction. "So, I know how you got here then, but why bother?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"So, talk." She shrugged, sipping at her coffee. "And, give me back my desk. You have your own office."
"Was that sarcasm I heard?" he grinned, but stood coming around the desk. She sat before he changed his mind, shaking her head, taking another sip of coffee. Methos sighed, he sat in a chair opposite her desk, and he ran a hand through his dark hair. "I know I was never a very good one, Fiona, but I tried. I had promised Socrates, and. . ."
"You never tried." Her eyes brewed a storm, her face dark. "You stuck around for three years, found it to be too much, and left one night, breaking two hearts in the process. You never tried, Methos. Socrates was my father, and even Plato was my father. But you, you were an interloper, there for a short period, giving rise to my hopes, leaving when I finally loved you."
"You loved me Fiona?"
"Sure, then. Now, I just wished I had taken your head when I had the chance." She shook her head, and looked away. "And, to think I had actually considered listening to Amanda."
"Amanda?" Methos swallowed nervously.
"Yes, she called me this morning." She paused, looking Methos in the eyes again. "He loved you, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"After you left. . . He wasn't himself. He had lost some part of himself. You had been there for him, Methos. You had been his comfort, and when you left, he felt like he had no one." She paused, again. "I was newly married, and he had yet to meet Aristotle. But Aristotle never understood, not like you did."
"No?"
"No."
Methos paused, looking in the direction of the window, noticing the leaves were now first starting to turn. He returned his gaze, steady under her anger. "How did you die, Fiona?"
She blinked to him, startled, before shaking her head. "It doesn't matter." She paused. "You knew, didn't you?"
"Yes," he nodded, knowing he spoke of her Immortality. "I knew."
"Is that why you left?"
"It was one reason."
She nodded, and looked to her hands. Methos reached across the desk, to touch her hands with his, and Fiona looked to him again, an unreadable expression on her face. "Big hands," she murmured. Methos gave her a half- smile, hesitantly, Fiona returned the gesture. "Give me some time, ok? Let me sort everything between you, me, us. I promise, I will not kill you this time."
"Agreed." He stood to rise, stuffing his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. He paused once, a hand hovering over the doorknob. "I'm glad you came," he whispered, gone before Fiona could respond. She blinked, before turning her attention to the preparation of her class.
