September 11, 2001, 1 PM (to about 11 PM), Seacouver, Washington

"So, how many did we lose?" Methos asked quietly. Having heard the university was closed, and all classes cancelled, today, he had eventually headed to Joe's Bar, if anything so he could have the company. He had nursed the same beer since he got there, playing more with the beer bottle than drinking the actual beer, an action Joe Dawson thought unusual, even as he asked nothing about it.

"Upwards of about hundred researchers. Maybe more, maybe less," answered Joe. He sighed, moving to wipe down the bar counter. "Less field observers." He paused in his cleaning to frown. "However many we did lose, we lost too many."

"Any news from your guys?"

"I didn't know I had guys." Joe Dawson shrugged, smiling slightly. "But no, haven't heard anything from my guys. Know Day is ok, as he's following Mac in Europe somewhere. Wells is here." He paused again. "We had our North American office in there, Adam."

And, briefly, he wished himself to truly be Adam Pierson. At five thousand years old, he had seen civilizations crumble, only to rise again; he had seen structures -built of stone, brick, glass, and clay -fall before in attack; he had watched Europe destroy itself from within --twice.

But Adam Pierson had never seen anything. Adam Pierson was slightly eccentric, slightly clumsy, slightly bumbling at times. He was too lanky for his body, and slightly too naïve for his mind. Duncan MacLeod had once told him, that while Methos had initially intrigued him, the guise of Adam Pierson had been the sealer of the deal.

"Yes, I know," sighed Methos. He frowned, and looked to his beer, perhaps he hoped to find the answers.

But he was wholly Adam Pierson. He was Methos. Adam Pierson did not officially exist. He was just that. . . a guise, a disguise to protect his true identity, his true nature. But Adam Pierson had never seen anything, had only been born after the Second World War, and had done very little on the political front during Vietnam. He knew nothing, or at least, very little.

But Methos knew too much; Methos had seen too much. He understood too well. And, he understood how to dull the shock and the pain.

"Any guesses as to who is behind this?" he added. His voice sounded blank.

"No, but I have a feeling, that this is only a beginning of a long scheme."

"Great. Suppose now would be a good time to look into that Bermudan property I bought fifty, sixty years ago."

"Bermuda?"

"Fine," amended Methos, "Sweden. That's still neutral, right?"

"Still is," agreed Joe, frowning. He reached over to the far side of the counter to turn the radio back to full volume again, hoping he might catch more updates. He preferred the voice to the images, as those images were already burned into his mind.

Methos simply grunted non-committaly in response. He swirled the beer a few times, keeping an ear to the radio, his thoughts on Duncan MacLeod. For some reason, for what he did not quite know, he wanted to know Duncan was alive, and well, and what he thought of the situation. But Duncan MacLeod was in Scotland, and Methos couldn't ask.

"Heard anything as to where the new headquarters might be?" asked Methos after several moments. He had sipped more of the beer, and now he swirled it again. He doubted Joe would know anything, especially this soon, but he talked to fill the silence, afraid to hear the quiet.

"No." He paused, the door chimes rang, signaling an arrival, and he noticed Methos sit straighter. "I don't need more fighting today," he mouthed. "They want you, you take it outside." But Methos only saluted his silent agreement, and Joe frowned his disapproval.

But Methos relaxed again, when he saw Fiona step inside, an uneasy smile across her face, her hand ready to pull her sword. "Is that any way to greet your oldest friend?" he asked.

"Who?" she scoffed. She took the stool next to his, fanning her green coat over the leather. "Hey, Joe."

"Hello, Fiona. Get you something?"

"Same I had last night, please? No ice," she added.

"Wouldn't dream of putting ice in there," he smiled. "So, you ok?"

"Ok covers it," she shrugged. "The New Yorkers send their regards. To both of you."

Methos grunted, to which Fiona turned to him, to ask, "Come again?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "Never mind."

Fiona nodded. Joe set the drink before her, and she dragged a couple bills from her wallet, but Joe shook his head. "Don't worry about. On the house today."

"Thanks, Joe," she smiled. It was her first real smile of the day.

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Fiona spent four hours in the bar. She added little to the conversation, but would occasionally hear Methos quip a response to the news broadcasts, and somewhere around three-thirty, Joe received a call from a higher Watcher, in which he cast Methos a significant look, excused his leave, and took the call in the office.

"Hope it's good news," commented Fiona. Her tone was very dry.

"Politics," responded Methos. "Very status quo." He finished his beer, and he helped himself to another from behind the counter. But Fiona only frowned, and nodded.

Fifteen minutes later, Joe returned. From his expression, Methos (and Fiona) guessed the phone call was not good. Joe passed Methos a look to say he would explain later. This time, Methos nodded. At ten to four, Mike Ross called, to say he and Darcy had re-located back to her apartment to watch the news. He added they would both be in about five, but Joe told them not to bother, to just be back into work tomorrow.

At five exactly, Fiona's cell phone rang. She frowned, but still, she answered. It was Paul. ".what?. no, of course not. I'm glad you did. no, would have called myself, but realized I didn't know if you still worked today, and I didn't know where to call. no, the university is closed. tomorrow would be better. sure, tomorrow night. night."

She did not mention to neither Joe Dawson or to Methos who Paul was, but from the glances Methos shot in her direction, she knew he knew. She stared back, and she turned away first. She threw the last of her drink down her throat (her second drink), and she said her farewells, ready to return home.

Marius sat on her couch. He watched the news, and he claimed he waited for her. He had only been there for maybe fifteen, twenty minutes. Fiona frowned; she was slightly miffed he did not call her cell phone, as she expected him to be more worried than he seemed to be.

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"Reminds me of the barricade," Marius mumbled.

"What?"

"Today. This tragedy. Reminds me of the barricades, and when they fell."

They wrapped themselves in blankets and sheets, their legs entangled. His arm looped around her waist, and she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Do you regret?"

"Regret.?"

"Living. Surviving the barricades. . . when your friends did not?"

"Empty chairs at empty tables," he mumbled again.

"What?"

"From a note I wrote to my friends afterwards. 'Oh, my friends, my friends please forgive me, that I am here and you are gone. Empty chairs at empty tables, for my friends, are all dead and gone. . .' I hated myself for along time, but eventually you begin to cope again, and to live again. I don't know if the pain ever goes way." Marius paused, and he tightened his hold on her. "Why do you ask?"

"Bella was in there. Every Tuesday, she meets her husband, James, for breakfast. Neither made it. Neither would make it. Both were. . . Mortal." She spoke the last word like poison.

"Oh, Fiona. . . I am so sorry. Do you want me to. . .?"

"No," she shook her head. "No."

And, Marius nodded. He bent to kiss her at the temple, and she buried her face in bare chest to cry. Sleep was a long time coming.