Author's Note: Thank you so much, Jennaya, my lovely beta! So much easier with your help.

He had been gone for the better part of the afternoon. She checked her watch again. It had been four hours already. Four hours, however, seemed to be a reasonable amount of time for an errand like this. He had left, planning to meet with some Watcher contact in order to learn more about Helen. It couldn't hurt. After all knowing something about her past and perhaps even her weaknesses could proof to be vital for ensuring her prolonged survival in the most literal kind of sense.

Still, spending four hours of being cooped up in her flat was a major test to her patience. She had tried to distract herself with various activities: cleaning, ironing, arranging her books and CDs in alphabetic order... She drew a line, however, at sorting her clothes or worse yet her underwear by colour. The water kettle she had put on the stove minutes ago let out a loud chime breaking her out of her reverie.

She barely had the time to turn off the heat and get her cup from the kitchen cabinet when the doorbell rang. The Buzz washed over her. She grabbed her sword, which she had sort of disrespectfully placed on the working space like an overgrown kitchen knife and headed for the door. Her tenseness abated once she saw a distinctly male silhouette through the milky glass of the front door. It was backlit by the soft yellow shine of the streetlight that had just come on. It was seven o'clock in the evening.

She opened the door and waved him inside hiding her sword behind her back in the meantime, so that no casual passer-by or worse yet Mr Weatherspoone would see it. When he had hurriedly stepped in and she had closed the door, she disposed of her sword by shoving it into the umbrella stand. He just raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything to comment on her eccentric behaviour.

His willingness to pass up on making a snide remark when a good opportunity like that afforded itself, had her somewhat worried, so she asked hesitantly: "So? How did it go?"

He shook his head. "Information-wise? Pretty good. What I've learned, however, isn't particularly encouraging..."

"Stop trying to be nice about it. You're usually not that tactful. You know I appreciate a certain straightforwardness..." Impatience and worry were making her somewhat brusque, but he could understand her behaviour, so he took no offence.

"She's pretty good. Had her fair amount of kills in the last couple of months," he informed her matter-of-factly. There was no use being emotional about it, at least not yet. Her lack of an emotional response, took even him by surprise, though.

"Alright," Liz said simply and turned around. She started walking towards the living-room, through it, into the kitchen and finally stopped in front of the kitchen counter on which she had previously positioned the kettle.

Naturally he had followed her. After all he was still waiting for her to explain herself better and above all more eloquently. She could hear him drag one of the kitchen chairs over the floor, probably to sit down on it. "Aren't you going to say a little more than just 'alright'?" he enquired.

She threw him a look over her shoulder. He had not taken of his coat yet and was sitting on the chair with his arms resting on its back.

"What am I supposed to say? Dear me? Heaven help me? I'm not that sort of woman, you know that."

"Well, do you have a plan?" To him it was a logical question to ask. He thought she always had a plan, because that's how he worked and he naturally deduced the same was true for her. After all they had a lot of things in common.

"Yes, I'll fight her and then I'll either win or lose," she said casually and poured the hot water on top of the tea bag in her cup. Traditions were just as meaningless to her as conventions.

"It's not as simple as you make it sound." The tone of his voice made her turn around. It had a compelling quality to it. It was already clear to her that he would make an effort to convince her of his point of view, though he was yet to make her aware of what that particular point of view actually was.

"What would you have me do?"

"Leave. For as long as it takes. At least until this thing has blown over."

"That's what you would do," she observed, realising her words to be true the second she spoke them. It just fit the picture she had of him. It was true that they had a lot of things in common, but they differed considerably in the way they dealt with problems. While his tactic was evasion, hers was confrontation.

"Yes, it's what I would do," Methos said. "And it's the only reasonable thing to do," he added. "When you know you can't win, flight is the only option."

"I'm not so convinced I can't win."

"She could give MacLeod a run for his money," he gave to think.

She only nodded. "Nevertheless, what kind of solution is running? Whatever you run from will eventually catch up with you."

He sighed. "I was afraid you would say something like that. You make it sound frightfully close to a conviction."

"It is. I might not be the cleverest woman on the planet, but that's at least the one clever thing I've managed to pick up on," she explained.

"So there's no convincing you, is there?" he sounded pretty regretful, when he said those words. So regretful in fact that she had to smile.

"No, love, there isn't. But thanks for trying." She turned around to look at him, her by now ready cup of tea in hand. The first sip from it scorched her tongue and she grimaced. The look he was wearing on his face, one which was far too serious and solemn for the occasion, slipped her notice thanks to the hot drink.

"Would you mind preparing me one of those?" he pointedly looked at the cup of tea in her hands.

"I had you pegged for the beer drinking kind of guy...," she said in surprise.

He smiled at her. "I am, but I have just run around London for a couple of hours. It's winter almost and it's a bit cold out there, in case you haven't noticed."

"Okay," she said and turned around to prepare him a cup of tea. Little was she to know what would happen next. She was neither prepared for it nor could she have fathomed his next step. She felt something like a needle prick the skin of her neck. Her hands automatically flew up to touch the spot. It was a needle. She caught sight of his movement in the corner of her eyes. The plastic tube of a syringe briefly glinted under the artificial light of the kitchen lamps.

"What have you done?" were the last words she managed to get out before her knees gave out. He caught her. His face was hovering over hers. When his lips moved, the words seemed to be out of synch with his mouth. She clenched her eyes together and opened them again, willing them to focus better on her surroundings but instead everything got blurrier and blurrier with each second that passed.

"I'm sorry," she heard him say, before she lost consciousness.

She slowly came to again with a massive headache and MacLeod's concerned face hovering over her. She tried sitting up, but MacLeod told her not to, his voice soothing and full of reassurance. Liz complied begrudgingly, because the mere attempt to sit up had been enough to make her nauseous. There was a question she needed to ask, however.

"Where...," she started her voice raspy from lack of use.

"Where are you?" MacLeod tried to supply, ever helpful.

No, she cautiously shook her head. That thought was not the one that was in the forefront of her mind. Thankfully the nausea was receding and she could feel the dizziness abating somewhat. "Where is he?" this time she got out the whole sentence.

"Methos? He was just here..."

A glass of water hovered into her field of vision. Her eyes settled on MacLeod momentarily. She was tempted to ask something along the lines of 'What did you put in it?'. Having just been drugged brought out her suspicious side. She decided to trust MacLeod, however, because cautiousness would not make her any less thirsty. She tried to sit up, but failed, so he helped her. Only now, that he was kneeling down beside her, she realised that she was stretched out on a sofa.

She gulped down the first mouthful of water greedily and it was good, soothing and cool. While she was drinking down the glass in small sips, she tried to get her mind working properly again. It was still sort of sluggish from the drugs. The drugs Methos had administered. He had drugged her. She remembered that quite well, because she certainly hadn't seen that one coming. But she should have. Didn't she pride herself in being able to read other people so well? What kind of 'expert' of the human nature she had turned out to be... He had made her look bad, but that probably served her right, since she had made the mistake of lowering her guard with him.

MacLeod's presence raised one more question. A big one. She moved her hand and touched the wrist of the hand that was holding the water glass to her lips. MacLeod interpreted her gesture correctly and lowered the glass, so she could speak.

"Where am I, Duncan?" Her eyes looked at him expectantly. Her facial expression was devoid of any emotion, except maybe curiosity. He couldn't see what harm it would do to tell her where she was and so he did.

"Seacouver, Washington," he said quietly and deposited the water glass on the small table next to the sofa.

"Washington," her voice sounded thoughtful as she contemplated his words. "The States."

"Yes," he said cautiously, wondering why that was such news to her. Hadn't Methos said that she was just napping, because she had had a major case of flight sickness and was worn out by the long trip?

He watched her face for a reaction, for any indication of what might have happened between her and Methos, because the fact that she didn't know where she was already raised a couple of questions. Questions that needed answering in the near future. But looking at her, he had a feeling he would soon get his answers. Her expression darkened. It was like watching a storm brewing up. A frown spread on her forehead, anger flashed in her eyes, her nostrils flared ever so subtlety, and her eyebrows drew together. A string of curses fell from her mouth, some of which would have undoubtedly made a sailor blush.

"I'm going to kill that fucking bastard!" she hissed. Her movements were more determined and abrupt now, probably fuelled by anger. She grabbed a hold of the sofa's backrest and hoisted herself to a standing position. MacLeod was momentarily torn between being worried for her and for the leather cover of his sofa. Her nails were digging prettily deeply into the material. His worry for Methos's well-being on the other hand was considerably smaller.

"What's going on? What did he do this time?" he asked, also raising himself to a standing position.

"What he's done? He drugged me!" The combination of her sharp tone of voice and the angry sparkle in her eyes, almost made him flinch back, but then those eyes averted themselves again and started scanning the apartment searchingly. What was she looking for?

"Where is my sword?" Liz had by now let go off the sofa and taken a few cautious steps away from it. Obviously the drug was slowly wearing off. She had spotted the duffel bag Methos had brought in earlier, recognising it as her own.

"Careful, you're going to fall," MacLeod warned her and made a step in her direction, so he would at least be able to catch her if she stumbled.

"I'm not going to fall," she hissed stubbornly; before she slowly kneeled down to unzip the bag. She spent a few brief moments rummaging in it, but apparently her search wasn't crowned with success, since she shortly after let out a sound of disgust and frustration and standing upright. "Give me a sword!" she ordered, looking at MacLeod sharply. She held out her right hand in a demanding pose.

"Liz, don't you think that's a little premature?" he tried to reason with her.

"Premature?" she screeched. "Premature!" her voice had a shrill pitch to it and almost doubled over when she called out the word a second time. Also she had advanced on him a couple of steps. The Scotsman instinctively retreated a little. Angry women on the brink of their sanity sometimes were a scary sight to behold. They both stared at each other. MacLeod with a certain waiting cautiousness and Liz with something aching to murderous rage in her eyes.

That was precisely the moment the Buzz announced the presence of another immortal to them. Liz's eyes scanned the apartment frantically. It was a huge loft. Not a lot of walls there. The living room was right next to the kitchen area and there was one of those old-fashioned elevator grates to her right. She wanted to be prepared for when that grate opened.

"Don't bother, MacLeod," she hissed and marched over to the kitchen area to get a sharp kitchen utensil from the knife block she had spotted on the working space. "This will do nicely," Liz announced, now sporting a rather large kitchen knife. It was one of those fancy chef knives, rather big and sharp.

She whipped around. The grate opened. She was disappointed. It wasn't Methos. Just some baby-faced guy with sandy brown, sort of curly hair. The young man jumped back when she threateningly pointed the knife in his direction. "Who's the kid?" she asked the MacLeod through clenched teeth. She certainly wasn't in the mood for company.

"That's Richie, a friend," MacLeod, trying to keep his voice as calm and non-threateningly as he possibly could. No need to enrage her further. He had by now positioned himself protectively between Liz and Richie.

"Nice to meet you, Richie," she regarded him over the tip of her knife with her head slightly inclined to the left. "Now get out, unless you're in the mood for witnessing a bit of domestic violence and the most humiliating Quickening in existence. Death by kitchen knife is certainly not a way to go."

"Who is the nut case? And what does she want from you?" Richie whispered to MacLeod anxiously. The kid was starting to get decidedly twitchy. Luckily he hadn't made the mistake of reaching for his sword yet.

The woman decided to answer the Richie's question instead of MacLeod. "Name's Liz Gilbert. I've got no qualms with you, honey. Or MacLeod. Now could you be a love and please shove off?" she said in a saccharine tone of voice that sent shivers down Richie's back. By now she had lowered the kitchen knife, but hadn't discarded it, which didn't make her any less threatening. She ran her index finger down the blade and let out an appreciative whistle when the steel drew blood. "Oh, sharp! Good choice, Duncan. You shouldn't settle for anything less than quality."

"Drop the knife," Duncan said calmly.

She smiled at him. "Love, I like you, but no. Besides, you've got no reason to worry. I would never harm you and sweet-cheeks over there."

"Hey! The name's Richie," the young immortal piped in.

"Be quiet, Richie!" MacLeod hissed at him. He turned to Liz again. "Listen, there's no need for this. Whatever Adam's done, you can surely talk it out." Although suitable enraged, it didn't escape Liz's notice that he had referred to Methos with his fake name. So the kid wasn't in on the whole 5,000-year-old immortal thing. Interesting. She filed the information away for later use.

At the moment other things were more important. For example, MacLeod's most amusing suggestion of talking things over with Methos. Liz stifled a laugh. "He abused my trust, drugged me and abducted me. Any questions, dear? Is there anything unclear about the scenario that you can't get into your noggin?"

Again the Buzz hit the occupants of the room. "Jesus, MacLeod, I hope this time it isn't another one of your immortal friends! Anyone you don't know? It's like Grand Central Station in here," Liz told Duncan sardonically. In an afterthought she added. "Step away from the lift, will you, kid?" Richie didn't move. Young and stupid. Formerly her favourite variety, now it was just plain annoying. Liz sighed.

The grate opened once again. Methos stepped into the room. He was clad in a dark coat and the by now wrinkled clothes he had worn yesterday. The expression on his face was deceptively neutral even as he took in the knife Liz was holding in her hand.

"Good! You're finally awake," he commented dryly.

"If I were you, I wouldn't provoke her, Old Man," MacLeod told him quietly, neither leaving Methos nor Liz out of his eyes. What he saw when he looked at Liz worried him a bit. The anger was practically rolling off of her in waves now. Methos's mere presence was enough to increase its intensity once more. Hadn't he stood between the two of them, the knife would have undoubtedly been already embedded in Methos' chest. No sooner had he finished that particular thought, Liz had already launched herself at the other immortal with a loud battle cry. MacLeod had the presence of mind to throw himself in her path. He was able to wrench the knife from her grasp after a brief struggle, but at a cost. He was rewarded with four bleeding scratches on his cheek. All Methos did, was stand by and watch.

The knife clattered to the floor dramatically. "Stop it!" Duncan told the woman sternly, holding her by the shoulders. Her gaze was unfocused, directed somewhere behind him, probably at Methos. He shook her slightly. Her eyes settled on him, then on the already healed scratches on his face and finally, almost comically, widened in realisation.

"Oh my God! I'm sorry, Duncan!" she said quietly.

"It's nothing," he told her calmly, still not letting go off her shoulders.

"No, it isn't and I'm sorry," she apologised again.

"Just calm down, okay?" he fixed her with a stern gaze. Unfortunately he wasn't the type to do stern correctly, his eyes still held a residue of warmth and kindness. It was precisely that warmth and kindness that appealed to Liz and let some of her anger dissipate. Enough to be able to think something that remotely resembled coherent thoughts once again.

"I can't calm down," Liz told regretfully. "You don't know what's happened." If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn there was a trace of hurt in her voice, though it mostly sounded neutral and devoid of any emotion other than a slight hint of irritation.

"Then tell me!" Duncan implored her.

"I will. First let go of me," she said quietly. Her tone was deceptively compliant, so he let go of her shoulders and took a step back. He could sense her mood changed now. She was still angry, but no longer uncontrollably. It was sort of a cold, collected anger now. One she had by the leash like a bulldog. She walked passed him and he allowed her to, because she was unarmed and whatever damage she chose to inflict now would be on her and would probably not involve knives and blood and physical violence.

Liz's feet stopped in front of Methos. Their eyes met. He tried to communicate something with his gaze, something she didn't care to hear. All she wanted to do was slap him. And why reign in that particular impulse? She allowed her emotions to take over for a moment. A sharp slap resounded through the embarrassed silence of the apartment. He held his cheek, but there was no surprise in his eyes. He had seen that one coming. Just like he had seen a lot of things coming.

She bit her tongue to keep herself from saying something hurtful. Because the words that were on its tip would cause a rift between them, one that would be unrepairable. An emotional woman would have cried now. She thanked the gods or whichever higher power there was, that she wasn't.

"I am angry. Angrier than I've been in a good while," she finally said. She was stating the obvious, but sometimes the obvious simply needed to be stated.

"I can see that," he replied.

"You don't want to apologise." It was more a statement than a question really.

"No."

"Good, because I don't want to hear an apology. I want an explanation," she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Does it really need saying? She would have killed you," he said simply.

"I see," she looked at him raising her chin challengingly. "You seem to be a bit slow on the uptake. As I said, I don't need a bloody knight in shining armour and I don't bloody need protection."

"You were being stupid and unreasonable," he told her, a bit of his own temper leaking in the statement.

"Stupid and unreasonable!" her voice rose a pitch. She could hear MacLeod take a step closer. She held out her hand to him admonishingly. When she spoke again she had her temper under control once more. "Stupid and unreasonable was that you drugged me instead of talking to me."

"What's done is done. You're safe. It was worth it," he shrugged his shoulders ever so casually. He seemed to be under the impression that what he had done had been right. The temptation to slap him again was almost unbearable.

"What now?" he simply asked.

"What now?" she repeated his words with a humourless chuckle. "Fuck you, Adam! Seriously? As if you have to ask?" He didn't say anything, just stood there and looked at her expectantly, so she decided to answer her own question. "You go of course, because if you stay, MacLeod will soon have to wrangle another sharp and pointy object from my grasp."

He just nodded. "How long will you stay angry?" He dared to ask before he left.

"Until hell freezes over. Forever!" she spat at him.