Emily's small apartment seemed to close in on her. As she sat at her small round kitchen table, fingers clenched tightly around the empty coffee cup, her head began to ache severely. Her stomach knots became tighter and she wanted nothing more than to hang her head to discharge the coffee she had consumed. She stared, across the table, at the now quiet man. The brightness of his white sweatshirt threatened to burn her retinas and sizzle her brain cells. It was a miracle that the nerve tingling vibrations had subsided sometime during Mr. Pierson's story. What a story it turned out to be. Emily closed her eyes and placed her forehead on the cheap Formica tabletop. The cool surface allowed a quarter-sized diameter of relief to which Emily tried to focus on. If only she could will the table to open up and swallow the throbbing pressure that her nerve endings were emitting. "I'd like the strange guy across from me to disappear as well," she thought with sarcasm.
"I can help rid you of the headache if you'd like," Methos volunteered soothingly. He had recognized the moment pain invaded her temples. It crept into her facial expressions as soon as his tale began to reveal himself as an immortal. Emily had become impatient and the look of worry washed over her face. Her sudden doubt had been coming to the conclusion, at a rather fast pace, that he was most likely a nut case. If he had been in her shoes he would have been racing for a butcher knife to wield as a weapon.
Emily managed to roll her head and rest her left cheek on the table's space between her hands.
"Look, I'm not feeling well and I'd like you to leave now. Hell, we're in New York. You need to take your story to a producer, not bring it to me. It would make a great movie." Her face turned an ashen color and her stomach lurched to her throat.
Two seconds before Emily's facial color change, he watched her eyes widen and become unfocused. He reached across the table and heaved her up by the underarms. Guessing that the only other open door, that wasn't her bedroom, would have to be the bathroom.
Methos casually leaned his left hip against the porcelain sink as he studied Emily. She sat Indian style before the elongated, sparkling white toilet bowl. Her arms rested on each side of the bowl and her head hung dangerously low toward the blue water. Methos was amazed that Emily still felt weakened after effects of the quickening. He was aware that each immortal received a quickening's result differently, but he had never heard of one causing discomfort for 14 hours. To him, it was curious that that she wasn't bursting with enough energy to run, and win, a marathon.
Emily leaned forward, retched and relieved her stomach of any remaining liquid.
Methos collected a fluffy, blue washcloth from the towel rack beside him. Wetting it slightly, he held it, eye level, to her once she sat back on her heels. Her head tilted back and her face was lifted to the florescent lights above her. She closed her eyes and parted her lips slightly to release a faint sigh.
Methos, still holding the damp cloth only inches from her face, cleared his throat and spoke with a teasing undertone, "You…ah…have a little on your face…there…"
Emily opened her eyes and glared at the intrusive stranger. The laughter she saw in Mr. Pierson's eyes was irritating enough to make her scream. If her eyes could do actual damage, the tall man standing beside her would have a face full of darts at that very moment.
"Are you still here?" she asked with less force and conviction than she'd hoped. She accepted the cool washcloth and held it to her face. A moan passed her lips and the tenseness in her shoulders melted. She gave way to the cool pleasure that soothed the heated blood in her face. She could almost feel as if she were alone…almost.
Methos watched her with interest. At first impression, Emily appeared soft and insecure. Methos had believed it would be a bit difficult to convince Emily that her life could no longer be what it had been before today. Short of tying her to a chair, while he pressed a gun to his chest, he'd been low on persuasive ideas. His opinion of her had begun to change as he stood in the doorway of her bathroom. He saw her strong will, whitty sarcasm and realized her had his work cut out for him.
"Joe had better find McLoed and soon. I am not cut out for this mentor shit," he thought to himself. He turned as Emily began splashing water on her face. He walked to the small kitchen sink and studied the dish drainer atop the counter. He pulled a chef's knife from the dried silverware cage and returned to the small table. He waited patiently for Emily to emerge from the bathroom.
Emily ran cool water to fill her sink basin. She stared at her complexion in the small medicine cabinet's mirror. The eyes that stared back at her were bright and clear with no sign of blood shot. Her skin appeared smooth and healthy. She cupped her hands, scooped up water and splashed her face, repeatedly. Satisfied, she dried her face and decided that food was now her main objective. She left the bathroom and stopped in her tracks when she saw that the irritating storyteller was still in her apartment. She stood tall and faced him with confidence, "I feel much better so you need not stay any longer."
She noticed a regrettable look in his eyes and felt the sharp tingle of cold fear run up her spine. Emily froze in a half turn when she spotted the sharp, stainless steel knife lying two inches from Methos' left hand. Both of Methos' hands were flat on the table and his unreadable eyes were fixed on her unwaveringly.
The short, fine hair at the back of her neck stood as the feeling of liquid ice reached her nerve endings. Her breath came in shallow intake as thoughts of him advancing upon her, with the knife outstretched.
She rose a non-threatening hand as she slowly began to back away from him, "Look, you can have…"
Methos easily lifted the knife and placed the pointed tip to the palm of his left hand. He continued to hold her eyes with his own and saw Emily's eyes widen with horror.
"You're crazy," she frantically whispered. Methos drew the knife across the width of his palm and then put the knife flat on the table's surface. Blood slowly pooled in his palm and the slowly seeped through the cracks of his fingers.
Emily stared in disbelief as the crimpson red rivers slowly coagulated on her table top, just below his outstretched hand. Even before she realized what she was doing, Emily snatched the extra large, white paper towels from the cabinet holder. She rushed to his side and held a torn towel to his separated flesh.
"What is wrong with you?!" She exclaimed in a panic. She inhaled deeply and continued to scold, "You might need stitched. Those knives are sharp."
Methos allowed her to wipe at his bloody hand. He watched her eyes and face. He had known the moment she believed he was going to murder her and the moment that compassion took hold of her. He was convinced that she was going to be a caring and passive immortal. If she became skilled with a sword, she would be able to survive. The only one who would be able to perfect her would be McLeod.
Emily was studying the long cut on his palm, assessing the damage. Methos watched the emotional changes in her facial expressions go from empathy pain to puzzlement. Her eye brows frowned dramatically. "I could have sworn this was deeper. It looks like a…" she didn't finish her statement. The bleeding had stopped as the wound healed itself from the inside out. The minute scratch fused and the only marks on his hand was the print lines of his palm.
Emily gasped and frantically searched Methos' hand, turning it over and over. She looked in his eyes as if expecting to find the joke played on her. She shook her head in denial, "It can't be true."
Methos remained emotionless and permitted her to absorb all that she had seen. She sat opposite him at the table, no longer holding his unharmed hand. She studied the bloody paper towel. If she hadn't seen the blood flow freely from his hand, she would still have doubt. There was something inhumanly possible about what had just occurred. He was claiming that she was like him. "No…" she thought half-heartedly.
She picked up the knife from the table and immediately knew that it was one of her own Chef's knives. It was no trick knife. Tears threatened to cloud her vision. She chanced a quick glance at Methos and placed her middle finger on the sharp blade. There was very little pain as she ran her finger to the pointed tip. She watched her finger intently for proof that this man was certifiably insane.