Book I of the Michelle Evans Chronicles
by
Lisa Y. Drexel
A Serendipity Story

Author's notes: This story has been revised from its original form which had been posted on HLFIC-L in the fall of 1997. Unfortunately, I don't own the Watcher CD, so the dates are a bit askew. In my universe, Alexa died mid-to-late March and the events taking place during the 4th season finale happenned sometime in mid-May. This story takes place in August of 1996.

Mid-August, 1996
St. Louis, MO
Mike's apartment

The years Michelle Evans sat in front of the computer melted into one another much like the different flavors of ice cream on a banana split. They all became mixed in not necessarily with whip cream or toppings, but more like pain and sleeplessness.

Her friends—from high school, college and the watchers—called less often.

Her father worried more.

And she hid behind a computer monitor, letting the world of obscure names and clues pull her into their magic.

Other than the occasional phone call by her father, her only contact with other people was with other researchers in the watchers and, ironically, Mike didn't care. Disgusted with her life and herself, she didn't want to see anyone's pity reflected back to her. She didn't want to feel their disappointment or their impatience.

She had herself to remind her of all she had lost.

Was she depressed?

Mike wouldn't have agreed, but she was usually blind when it came to her emotional well being. Even though she knew she was slipping into that pit, she always believed that if the pain or exhaustion disappeared, the bleakness in her heart would as well.

A fool's mission, but she didn't care. As long as she had her computer, her friends in the chatrooms and the frequent emails and phone calls from Adam, her life was just fine.

It was this state of mind that Mike met her first death.

What an auspicious beginning for an Immortal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looking back, Mike could think of a thousand things she did wrong that evening when she opened the door for the Federal Express guy. One, she shouldn't have turned her back on him. Two, she should've gotten a better look at him and then she would've recognized him as the UPS guy from two nights before the minute she laid her eyes on him instead of when he was leaning over her—ramming his cold cock into her dryness... And third, she should've never, ever told the UPS guy that he could come into her home.

She had sealed her fate.

But unfortunately, Mike did all those things—too preoccupied about the coming visit of her closest friend, Adam Pierson, to worry about such details. Why should she? For the last three years, she had lived her life in the bubble that was her apartment—only leaving to go shopping or for the holidays, when she would fly to Chicago and see her father.

Her life was bereft of calamity and had been since she had gotten ill. She no longer saw danger every time she stepped out into the real world or let that same world into her sanctuary.

Her judgement had become lapse.

And she paid for it with her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The old-fashioned doorbell rang impatiently, pulling her away from the bathroom mirror. Sighing, she gave her reflection one last glance and left to the answer the door.

Although she was disappointed with herself and her appearance, she knew that underneath the extra forty pounds her illness gave her, she was still attractive. Her hair, long and blond, curled around her face, shoulders and back. Her figure, although once thinner, still kept its appeal—the curves were all in the right places—just more weight to fill it in. Her gray eyes still sparkled with humor and intelligence and her skin was still smooth and soft.

For a thirty-year-old recluse, she still had what it took—whatever the hell that meant.

Taking one last deep breath, she opened the door, thinking it was Adam on the other side and found herself taken aback at the sight of a uniformed Federal Express man holding out a book-sized package.

"Yes?"

"Ms. Evans?"

Mike nodded, watching the stranger, his dark hair falling over his pale face as he handed her the package and the clipboard.

"If you could sign this?"

Mike nodded, turning around to place the package on the bookshelf behind her when she felt a hard body bang up against her, pushing her so hard against the bookshelf that her breath caught and she dropped the damned book.

She reacted instinctively, silently thanking the Watchers for her self-defense training and yanked her head back, butting her attacker's forehead with the back of her head.

A hot, sharp pain seared its way through her head.

Groaning, she tried pulling herself out of his steel grasp as her hands clenched at anything she could use against her attacker that was within her reach.

Her fingers touched a lamp, sitting on an end table on her left side. Grabbing it, she lifted it in the air, preparing herself to hit him.

And then the world was black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the television that Mike heard first as she slowly drifted to consciousness. Sounds of gunfire and screams echoed eerily throughout the apartment as her heart raced.

She was afraid.

She tried to recall other times she had felt like this—following Speedy and fearing that she had been spotted or when Watchers were being murdered throughout the world and always wondering if she was going to be next—and she decided right there that nothing she had ever experienced could compare to the stark terror that was running through her body at that moment.

*Great, a deathbed ephinany,* she thought to herself as she felt her stomach twist inside out and her limbs quake with fear.

She was going to die.

A cold chill filled her as her body began to shake. She felt goosebumps appear and her teeth were begging to chatter.

It didn't even occur to her until later that she was naked.

"I know you're awake, little girl."

*Little girl?* was Mike's first reaction. *The fucker should get his eyes checked. There's nothing little about me.*

"Come on, sweets, open them gorgeous dark eyes of yours and meet your fate," he whispered in her ear.

Shuddering, Mike tried sitting up only to find her arms were tied down.

"Oh come on, you're smarter than that, Michelle. You think I would have you all to myself and not tie you down?"

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes to see him watching her carefully. As her eyes took in his appearance, she couldn't help but see the irony in it all—he was too good-looking to be a killer. Why would someone that had all that going for him, want to kill?

Mentally kicking herself at her stupidity, she ignored that innocent, wide-eyed part of herself. After a degree in a psychology and nine years as a Watcher, she knew the answer—it just didn't take away the horror of it all.

As a woman of her times, she was brought up to believe that attractiveness meant opportunity. A chance at wealth, freedom and fame—things that all late 20^th century-Americans dreamed of. Things that she had dreamt of at one time.

Obviously, the FedEx guy was following another path to infamy—the same one that the Son of Sam, Jack the Ripper and Ted Bundy took.

Smiling gently at her, he moved to touch her face—his cold hands marking her.

"So beautiful, Michelle. Like a picture—did you know that?"

Tears filled her eyes as she shook her head. *Just get it over with, asshole,* she inwardly chanted. If she was going to die then let her die. She didn't want to spend her last moments on Earth being petted like some prized dog at a showing.

"So sweet," he whispered as his hand drifted down her neck. His fingers traced her collarbone and moved upwards, pressing against her pulse point.

Her heartbeat echoed eerily—seemingly amplified by his touch.

His head bent down as his tongue slipped out and teased her pulse. His fingers flittered downward until he reached her breast, and suddenly he squeezed it with inhuman strength—causing her to scream.

As she thrashed wildly underneath him, he suddenly sat up, a sick grin curling his lips as he lifted his hands and deftly began to unbutton his shirt.

Once his shirt was off, he rolled off of her and proceeded to quickly shed his other garments, leaving him standing there—naked—as he slowly stroked his hard cock.

Mike felt her stomach turn and shut her eyes, fearing that she was going to lose her lunch as the implications of his actions sunk into her mind.

Not even a minute later, he threw himself on top of her, causing her to groan in pain as her bruised ribs screamed in protest.

Mike wasn't sure how long she lasted through his games when he finally pulled out the dagger. Long before he raped her, she'd felt herself drift off somewhere else—where the pain wasn't residing. She thought of her life, short in anyone's terms and decided right there, the next time she would do better.

As he held the dagger against her breast, right above her heart, he smiled down at her. "Thank you, Michelle—for a wonderful evening," he whispered before smashing his lips down hers.

As his cool tongue attacked hers, she felt the agonizing pain of the knife as it slid into her chest and punctured her heart.

And then all was quiet, as Mike Evans died her First Death.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dark-haired man glanced at his watch and sighed silently, ignoring the small tendril of excitement that wound its way into his gut.

It was time.

Not since meeting Duncan MacLeod, had he felt this kind of pleasant anticipation. This woman—whom he'd only had contact with online or by phone—knew him better and more thoroughly in some ways than even those who knew who he really was.

She only knew him as Adam Pierson, the perennial graduate student who researched the myth of Methos—rumored to be the oldest living Immortal. Most of his co-workers thought he was wasting his time on something so nebulous, but Adam knew better. What better way to ensure that he remains a myth than to work on those chronicles himself?

Because Adam Pierson knew what few people alive in the late 20^th century knew—Methos was no myth.

He was Adam Pierson.

He loved the irony.

Methos chuckled softly as he looked up, his eyes casually searching for his waitress. Once he spotted her and waved her over, his mind once again questioned the wisdom of his heart's decision.

It was just that everything in the past couple of months had been so eschewed that he felt like he had no choice. Too many hard truths had been thrown in his face, and for the first time in centuries, he had no idea what to do or who he was.

He was Immortal.

And he was a Watcher.

MacLeod demanded that he make a choice. But how could he? How could he separate himself from an institution that he himself had started over four thousand years before? Granted, at the time, his reasons were far from noble. Arrogant and full himself, he thought he was so clever to have mortals to do his dirty work—the tracking of and hunting for other Immortals. But as the years grew into centuries, his purposes changed with them. Once he left the Horsemen and began that long, hard road to redemption, he knew that the Watchers were one of the few good things he had done in the previous thousand years.

To record and watch was history. At 2000 years old, he'd seen more history disappear into the reckless abandonment of progress than anyone could remember. This way, someone would know all that there was, even through the end of time.

To know all that *he* was through the end of time.

But MacLeod had no inkling on how important this was to Methos. In the Scot's short, 400 years of life, he still saw things in that irritating starkness of black and white. Them or us. Good or evil. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had yet to learn the hard lessons surrounding the shades of gray of life, or more specifically, of immortality.

It was something that the old ones learned quickly—if only so they could survive. And as civilization expanded and compounded upon itself, the younger Immortals could afford to live in absolutes.

Methos had no such luxury. He had seen too much, done too much, experienced too much to ever recapture that innocence again. Matter of fact, he couldn't remember when he had been that naive.

Shaking his head, he looked down at the hastily scribbled check and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table. He stood up, grabbed his duffel bag and slipped out of his booth.

It was time to go see Mike.

His friend.

How it happened was nearly beyond him. Even though he had been there as she slowly broke through those sturdy walls he had carefully built around his heart and mind to protect himself, he couldn't help but feel a bit in awe of her.

Although she had no idea of his Immortality or of his identity, she had touched a part of himself that he long ago had buried. No, she didn't know who Methos was, per say, but she knew him far better than any of his friends could imagine.

Her gentle acceptance coupled with her intelligence and crazy sense of humor did more to pull him out of his hiding spot than Don Salaz or even MacLeod ever could. In no small way, Methos knew it was Mike's friendship that thawed his frozen heart—enabling him to fall in love with a dying waitress whose name was Alexa.

Mike's innate fairness never judged him—just prodded him to make choices that forced him to follow his soul. She saw goodness and light where he only saw blackness.

Her throaty laugh picked him up when nothing else could pull him away from the precipice.

Her quick mind—always thinking, contemplating and calculating—guaranteed his interest.

Her irreverence of herself and everyone around her reminded Methos that he too was just a guy, when the weight of his years lived seemed nearly impossible to bear.

All this, and he'd yet to meet her in person.

*I'm a bloody fool,* he thought to himself as he stepped out into the hot, humid July night.

A fool, yes. But also just a guy who needed to find himself in the midst of a growing storm of uncertainty.

And somehow, he knew, Mike was right person to lead Methos back to himself before his life spiraled completely out of control.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once he parked his rental sedan, he glanced at the clock on the dashboard and sighed. Seven-thirty and he was actually on time. A feat worth godhood as MacLeod would say. The Scot constantly complained at Methos' disregard to the clock. Unfortunately for MacLeod, Methos ignored his friend's complaints. Time just wasn't as important to him as it was to the younger Immortals. The young ones treated it almost as if it were a god instead of a way to track the movements of the sun and moon. Long ago Methos had decided Time was one deity that he had no desire to worship. Too many gods had clamored for his attention in the past, for him to be that overly concerned by the ticking of minutes or the turning of the earth.

*Quit it, Old Man!* he snapped at himself, recognizing the familiar melancholy turn of thoughts he was taking: how old he was compared to the rest of the world. He knew he had to shake himself out of this mood soon, or he would drive himself crazy. Sighing, he grabbed his duffel bag and opened the car door.

A blast of steam greeted the Immortal as he stepped outside his car. Gods, he hated the Midwest. The heat and humidity sucked the breath out of his lungs in the summer and the chilling, wet coldness froze his bones during the winter.

*Why would anyone want to live here by choice?* He asked himself as he jogged to the apartment building. And Mike did make that choice. Before she had gotten ill, she had lived in Chicago. Although the Windy City's winters were far worse than St. Louis'—at least their summers weren't as hellish.

Once inside her apartment building, he looked at the mailboxes and headed to the second floor. It was then, as he reached the top of the stairs, that a familiar sensation hit him. It was faint—almost a pre-Immortal buzz instead of an Immortal one—but he recognized it nonetheless. And it came from her apartment. Cursing, he dropped the duffel bag and pulled out his sword.

Lightly, he touched the door and was surprised to see it was open. *Not too smart,* he thought to himself as he eased himself in.

Once inside, he realized he had walked into a battle zone.

A table lap lay broken on the floor by the door. Books knocked from the shelves were strewed about the floor.

A few smatterings of blood stood out against the shiny, light brown hue of hardwood floors.

He closed his eyes as he shut the door—turning the deadbolt. His throat tightened as a wave of remorse swept through his body. He didn't want her to be the one in the other room where he realized the sensation came from. Steeling his heart, he followed those same instincts that had been with him since before Western Civilization itself and found himself in her bedroom staring down at a nude, beaten and bloodied body of a new Immortal—who was still dead—but healing.

Ignoring the stab of pain that sliced into his heart, he quickly searched the rest of the apartment and found it empty. Sighing in a strange mixture of relief and anger, he turned back to the bathroom and opened the small closet and pulled out an old, faded white sheet and returned to the bedroom. After covering her, he then walked into the kitchen, got himself a beer and her a glass of water—all the while trying not to think of what he was going to do afterwards—when she revived.

He cleared off a chair that had a precariously balanced pile of clothes sitting on it, and pulled it over by her bed. Methos then sat down beside her dead body and waited for her to wake up.

Although he never met Mike in person, he did see her file once and the woman beside him was she. A little bit older, heavier, but she was still very pretty. He could tell through the bloodied mess that her hair was beautiful—reminding him of the sun—golden and warm. Her complexion was creamy and clear and looked so soft, he was tempted to touch her if only just to confirm his suspicions.

Shaking his head, he tried to think about the practical matters. Like her training—who should be her mentor. Underneath that extra weight, she had an athletic build. With some luck and hard work, she could very well turn out to be an excellent fighter. She could learn to fight, but was he the one to teach her? He had students before, but he hadn't taken someone underneath his wing in a long time.

And a woman student? Even longer.

Until Richie, he hadn't even bothered with the young ones in over two hundred years; he had long since grown tired of watching them die.

But he felt like he owed this young woman something. She was his shoulder, his friend, and his confidant when the world seemed so black and temporary.

*Oh Methos, don't go there,* he warned himself.

But he did anyway.

*She could live forever...*

Three minutes later she gasped. A minute after that, she gasped again and this time she sat up, sheet falling—her face still twisted in fear and pain.

Holding her head, she looked over at him—her eyes wide and amazed.

"Mike? Are you okay?" Methos asked reaching for her hand.

She squinted, as if trying to shake a headache and looked down at herself and then back up to him. Yanking the sheet up, she shook her head. He had expected to see fear in her eyes, but once again she surprised him.

It was pure wonderment that shone back at him.

"Adam?" she croaked as she fell back against the headboard, wincing as it hit the wood behind her. Shaking her head, she lifted her head and pulled up a pillow to lean against it.

He nodded.

"What happened?"

"I came upstairs, felt the buzz and found you here—dead," he said. "I guess my secret's out," he said with a weak smile. "But, more importantly, how are you? You had a rough time of it."

Her face blanched and peeked underneath the sheet for the third time in as many minutes. "Oh my God," she cried. "I remember. The Federal Express guy. I just turned my back on him for second to put the package down. That's all he needed," she said softly, her eyes faraway. "He raped me."

Methos nodded. It just confirmed his worst fears.

Her face turned white as she looked underneath the sheet. He heard a sob and saw her rubbing her chest. He knew she was looking for the stab wounds he had seen earlier. He also knew they were gone by now.

"They're gone—not even a scar," she said, dropping the sheet. Then he saw something incredible pass over her face. A look of relief mixed with incredulity.

Her whole body relaxed as she turned her neck as if she had a crick. Then she smiled, her lips spread wide and joyous.

"No pain, Adam! It's all gone. My neck, my fingers," she said, wiggling her fingers and flexing her wrist. "My shoulders, my knees and my ankles—God, it's all gone!"

Methos found himself smiling. He had no idea how much pain she had been in before but from the look on her face; it must've been terrible.

"I never even realized how bad it was. It just was. Until now, that is," she finished as she pressed a spot on the inside of her elbow, grinning. "It's gone."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she pulled up her legs, hugging the sheet and them against her chest. As she began rocking, he could see the uncertainty, the pain of the last couple of hours cross her face.

Methos stood, recognizing her reaction. She was going into shock, and he needed to keep her occupied while he cleaned up in there.

"Hungry?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She nodded, still crying.

"How about I whip something up and you can get a shower and clean up. Then, we need to talk." She nodded. "I'll be here for you, Mike. Don't worry."

He left her alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once Adam left, she quickly got out of bed—dropping the sheet. She glanced down at the same mattress that held her sleeping body for the past three years and a cold chill caressed her spine.

"Well, that bed's history," she said to herself as her mind tried comprehending all the blood that she saw. "All of that—came from me," she whispered as the unrealness of the night sunk in. Feeling light-headed, she grabbed onto the chair that Adam had been occupying and decided a shower definitely was a good thing. Picking up her robe off the floor, she nearly ran to the bathroom—suddenly knowing that if she didn't wash the blood and that bastard's semen off her body right this minute—she would lose her mind.

And it would not be a pretty sight.

It wasn't until she had stood under the nearly scalding water for more than five minutes, did she allow her mind to even wander. Slowly, little tidbits of the last few hours seeped into her consciousness. First the FedEx guy—the pain, the horror, and the coldness.

The rape—the knife and the darkness.

She died.

She had actually died and revived.

Her knees suddenly buckled as her stomach heaved. Pushing the shower curtain to the side, she hung her head over the tub and lost whatever remained of her lunch she had eaten six hours before.

She died.

She was Immortal.

That meant...her father wasn't really her father. And her mother wasn't really her mother. Did that mean Phil Evans—the man she knew as her father—knew of this possibility?

Gods, she hoped not. If that were true, then her whole life had been a fraud and someone somewhere never had the balls to tell her.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her head back into the shower and closed the curtain. Leaning against the side, hot water beating on her breasts and legs, she held out her hand and stared at the dark Watcher tattoo on her wrist.

She was now what she had watched for the past nine years.

Her life—dedicated to the history and magical wonder of all things Immortal—was now obsolete.

Tears streamed down her face, her body shook with loud, uncontrollable sobs as she felt the last of her innocence swirl down into the drain. No longer could she sit on the outside and watch.

Mike Evans was now a participator.

Stunned by that revelation, her mind wandered to the other watcher that was now in her kitchen fixing dinner. He was her friend, confidante and if she were honest with herself, deep inside her heart she was in love with him.

And he too, was like her—an Immortal.

Adam Pierson, friend, researcher and watcher—was Immortal.

Her eyebrows creased as this next revelation—on top of all those other revelations—sunk in.

Suddenly curious, she pushed herself up and stood underneath the hot water and grabbed a bar of soap. As she absently rubbed the slippery bar across her body, her mind scurried through all the thousands of conversations and correspondence she had with him. Before she realized it, she was taking bits and pieces of information she had remembered about him and mentally piled them together in her mind. As she squirted a generous amount of shampoo into her palm, she examined each of the errant pieces and by the time she rinsed the conditioner out of her hair, she had figured out his secret.

It was, she realized, the only thing that made sense, once a person really looked at both the inside and the outside of Adam Pierson. From the thinly veiled cynicism to the vast intelligence and knowledge to the hidden depth of pain his voice always carried to the eclectic database of facts and dates he always kept in his mind...all these things were just small clues to whom Adam Pierson was.

If you only knew he was Immortal.

Who better than Methos himself to keep an eye on his chronicles—to maintain his status as a myth? Who more cunning and devious than the oldest Immortal alive to be able to pull off such a coup?

It wasn't until the water turned cold, that Mike was ready to leave the safety of her shower. Inwardly thanking her friend for taking her mind off the horrors of the night, she wondered how she was going to confront him? He could deny it, but for some odd reason she doubted he would. She really didn't want to exaggerate her importance in his life, but her gut instincts kept whispering to her that he had always been honest to her—within reason.

Would this be 'within reason?'

Shaking her head, she turned off the water and pulled the shower curtain open. Steam enveloped the room as she stepped out of the tub onto the bath mat—carefully avoiding her mess from earlier. Making a mental note to clean it up later, when her stomach didn't feel so unsettled, she reached over and grabbed her towel. As her fingers tightened on the terrycloth, she saw the bloody footprint she had made just before getting into the shower.

Somehow that image brought everything, once again, back into focus.

She had died that night.

She was Immortal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

After throwing together a couple of sandwiches and a salad, Methos peeked into the bedroom and saw it was still empty.

"Good," he said softly as he walked over to the bed and began stripping the bloodied linens off the bed. Once the bed was torn apart, he went back into the kitchen and wondered where she would put the trash bags. Finding them underneath the sink, he pulled out three kitchen-sized plastic bags and went back into the bedroom and bagged the sheets sitting on top of her bed.

After he had finished with that task, he flipped over the top mattress and studied his handwork. Satisfied that the lack of blood would only help her state of mind, he went back into the living room, and started straightening up. Although a lot had been knocked over during the attack, luckily nothing had broken other than the table lamp.

He trashed that as well.

Then he remembered. He wanted to call Joe. He opened the front door and grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it onto the couch. He pulled out his cell phone, walked back into the kitchen and dialed Joe's number

He had just opened his first beer when he heard a familiar voice answer the call.

"Joe's."

"Hi Mike, it's Adam. Is Joe around?"

"Yeah Adam—hold on a minute." Seeing this done a thousand times, Methos knew Mike had just placed the receiver down by the cash register as the sounds of the bar kept his attention. For a moment, Methos wished he were there. It was simpler in Seacouver. Good beer, good music and good friends—something he wondered if he would ever have that again.

"Hey Old Man—what's up?"

"Hi Joe," said Adam. "You won't believe what just happened."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shaking her head, Mike quickly dried off and wrapped the towel around her head. Once dry, she slipped on her robe, took a deep breath and left the safe haven her bathroom had just provided.

Shivering slightly, she jogged to the bedroom and found herself smiling at the bare bed—grateful that Adam (or was that Methos?) had the foresight to spare her the sight of her death again. It was funny, the things that kept running through her mind. As much as she shuddered at the thought of being raped and hurt, somehow that memory didn't hold nearly as much weight as it should.

On an intellectual level, she understood why—the rape and murder was the vehicle that gave her Immortality, which in turn took away the pain. Would anyone ever understand just how miserable she had been the past three years? Was there anyone, other than a fellow chronic-pain sufferer, that would look at this evening as anything other than a warped miracle?

Snickering softly, Mike doubted it. *You would have to be really out there to think of rape and murder as a good thing,* she silently added. Granted, if she had a choice, she would've much rather been just shot in a mugging or something, but she hadn't been out enough in the last three years for that to be feasible. No, unfortunately the way her life had been recently, home invasion was at the top of the list of violent deaths. That, or some natural disaster.

*What a fool, Mike,* she scolded herself as she began routing through her dresser for underthings. She was under no delusion that eventually this night and all its horrors would haunt her. But for now, she was going to revel in enjoyment of her body.

Sighing softly, she tossed her choices on top of the dresser and turned to her closet. She opened it, chose a pair of blue jeans and a violet sleeveless button down shirt. Shaking off her robe, she quickly dressed—barely noticing the bagginess of her jeans or how loose her shirt was.

Once dressed, she took off the towel that covered her head and began the arduous task of combing her hair. As she stood in front of her dresser mirror, she listened to Adam talking on the phone—his voice low and serious. She heard the click of the phone folding and wondered just whom he had been talking to. Three choices immediately came to mind: Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod or her father.

Mike put her money on Dawson.

After five frantic minutes she spent battling the mess that was her hair, she finally was ready to face him, her life and her future—in that order.

With a thousand questions on the tip of her tongue, she stepped into the kitchen and was finally able to properly welcome her houseguest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adam looked up from his beer as he casually took in her appearance. Although not as tall as some women he knew, she had to stand at least 5'7 or 5'8 in her bare feet. Her blond hair, now wet, easily went down to her waist. He could already see she was loosing weight and was sure by tomorrow, she would be at her optimum weight. One of the perks of Immortality. If weight gain had been caused by illness, it disappeared with one's mortality.

Although there were few positive aspects of Immortality, Methos was sure Mike was one of those people who would benefit from nearly all of them. Her loss of weight and pain had to be on the top of the list.

And despite the weightloss, Adam found himself admire her curves and beauty—inside and out.

He couldn't help but smile at her. "How are you doing?" he asked as he stood up and went to get the two plates and salad bowl.

"Better. But I have a million questions—" she started as she sat down at the table.

"I know. Why don't we eat first," he told her as placed her plate in front of her. "What kind of salad dressing do you have?" he asked as he opened the refrigerator door.

"Blue Cheese. There's Ranch in there too."

"I got it. Beer?"

"Yeah, please."

He walked back over and put down both dressings. He twisted the cap off the Budweiser bottle and handed it to her.

Smiling, she took a slip. "Thank you," she said. Methos looked up and saw her eyes pooling again.

"God, I'm a walking emotional sponge," she said, her face flushed in embarrassment as she quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. "I've been like this all my life."

Methos gave her a small, sympathetic smile, all the while clamping down on his innate desire to just run...get the hell out of there, change his name...leave. Let her work this out for herself. She had contacts. All she had to do is call Joe Dawson, and he would send her MacLeod.

MacLeod could be her teacher, and if not him, he could send her to someone else, like Connor.

Methos didn't need to be there to hold her hand, tell her that everything will be all right...

To watch her die.

*Stop it!* he yelled to himself. *Is this how you repay a friend who's given her heart to you? Listened to your cries as you held Alexa's limp, cold hand in yours while she lay dying in a hospital bed? Could you leave her?*

*Yes,* a part of him answered.

But as soon as he saw her give him a small, tentative smile, he knew he wouldn't leave her. He had messed up so many times in his life...destroyed so many women who hadn't deserved it. So what if she was overly sensitive? Maybe that wasn't a sterling quality for an Immortal, but for a woman it always appealed to him.

He would just have to help her. Toughen her up...

For a few minutes, they both ate in an uncomfortable silence. Not only could he see the million questions running through her mind as her face reflected nearly every one of them, but with his own doubts plaguing him, he didn't dare speak. *Not much of an actor there,* he thought. *She wears her heart on her sleeve.*

Once she was done, she leaned back in her chair and sipped her beer.

Suddenly she laughed.

"What?" he asked, finding himself smiling as well.

"This is not exactly how I pictured it, Adam. Us meeting for the first time," she said as she grinned.

"I'll have to grant you that one. This is definitely up there in the unusual," he said. "So, am I what you expected?" he asked, smiling back at her.

Her eyes sparkled. "The Immortal part or just Adam?"

"Adam."

She was silent for a moment and she smiled. "Yes," she said quietly as she stood up. "Finished?"

He nodded and watched her clean off the table. Afterwards, he followed her into the living room, only stopping to pull out another beer.

"So, what did you find out?" she asked. "I heard you on the phone."

"We'll find out in a minute," he told her. How much did she work out in that quick mind of hers during her half-hour long shower? "Joe's going to call back."

"You're Methos, aren't you?"

Adam choked on his beer, nearly spraying himself with his drink. *Yea Gods, that didn't take long, did it?* But for some odd reason, he wasn't too surprised. Hadn't he just said earlier that she knew him better than nearly anyone else alive? Of course, discovering his own Immortality was a definite clue, he mused.

"Yes," he answered quietly as he watched her face carefully. Her eyes smiled at his confirmation as she quietly sipped her beer. "But don't let it get around, will you? I like being a myth. I can keep my head that way." He took another huge gulp of beer and looked back up at her. "So, how did you figure it out?"

She sucked on her bottom lip as her eyes took on a faraway look. "I was in the shower—just trying to put everything in its own little box, and I kept coming back to you," she said softly. "Here I was, now an Immortal Watcher and it hit me, that even in that, I wasn't alone. You were like me. And then once that sunk in, all the little pieces that make Adam Pierson finally fell into place and I just knew. You were Methos," she finished, turning back to him. "I won't tell anyone. It's not my secret to spill. After Darius’ death and all those other Immortals whose Quickenings were lost—coupled with more than a few avid headhunters roaming the planet, I couldn't do that to you. I'm still too much a Watcher. And certainly too much your friend." She paused; dropping her eyes as her fingers tore at the label on the beer bottle. "At least, I hope I am."

Although shocked in general by her generosity, he found himself not at all surprised at what she said when he took into account everything he knew of her. She was one of the few true, genuine people he knew.

He reached over and grabbed her hand—stilling it and waited for her to look up at him. Seconds later she did and he made sure he had a smile waiting for her.

"Yes Mike, you do know me," he said softly. "Whether I'm Immortal or mortal, I'm still the same person that you comforted when Alexa died—encouraged me when I wanted to ask her out. Researched when I was desperately trying to find a way to save Joe and Duncan during the trial. You were my lifeline. And you kept me laughing," he said as he lifted up her hand and kissed her knuckles. "After 5000 years, it's hard to care—to watch someone you love die—when I have all this time. She was the first woman I fell in love with in a long time." His throat closed. He shut his eyes and leaned back on the couch.

He then squeezed her hand.

She squeezed back and gently pulled away. He heard her stand up and he opened his now clear eyes and watched her pace in front of him.

"Now what?" she asked as she stood in front of him—her body screaming impatience and action. *Such is youth,* he thought to himself.

"Who's going to teach me? How do I defend myself? My God, Adam—I can't even remember when was the last time I jogged! An athletic wonder I am not!"

Methos knew this was going to be problem. Her illness took so much out of her and yet to see her now, you would never known how much she had suffered. Taking a deep breath, he met her eyes. *Are you ready for this, Old Man?* he asked himself. *Can you take on another student—a young one, this close to the Gathering? Can you risk your heart this way?*

But even as he asked himself those questions, he knew he had to do something. This woman had already given so much of herself to him—even before she laid eyes on him.

He owed her.

"I'll do what I can. I know of an Immortal woman that may help you as well."

She nodded to herself as her eyes drifted around the room.

"God, I'm so scared," she said softly as a harsh laugh escaped. "And I feel so good. And so confused. Until I revived earlier and found myself fighting a killer migraine, I had no idea I was even adopted. Neither of my parents ever breathed a word. Did they know? And if they did, why did my father encourage me to watch. I was in the field for years! I could've been killed—really killed—and never even have known why. Speedy was such a prick, I'm surprised he didn't take my head—"

Methos smothered his smile as he inwardly agreed. Although he never had the pleasure of meeting the wonderfully active Speedy—he had heard horror stories from Mike and other watchers about his need to move—at all cost.

"Mike, not all Immortals can feel when someone is a pre-Immortal. So, if you kept your distance and didn't get too close, I'm sure you were never in any danger."

"Really?"

"Really."

She let out a huge sigh of relief. Too bad it quickly disappeared, Methos thought to himself, as he watched the wheels in her mind once again turn at an unbelievable pace. She began gnawing on her bottom lip as she looked down at him. "I was raped tonight. And what freaks me out the most is that it's not freaking me out nearly enough. Am I in denial? Or is it because I was so sick and so fucking relieved that I'm not hurting anymore—that any way I got here was definitely better than where I was? Is that making any sense?"

He nodded as he stood up and walked over to her. "Mike, a lot of crazy things have happened to you tonight. It's not unusual for someone in your position to feel so out of sorts," he said as he placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to stop moving.

Her head dipped to the side as her eyes closed. "I know," she said as she nodded. Tears leaked from her eyes as a heavy sigh was released. She began laughing softly as she shook her head. "God, what a fucking mess I am."

"Mike, look at me!" She opened her eyes, meeting his and wiped her face. "You're okay. You're handling this pretty well from where I stand," he said, stopping as he heard his phone ring. "Let me go get this," he said as he dropped his arms and quickly ran to the kitchen. After picking up the phone, he answered it.

"Hello? Joe?" he asked into the phone turning around when he felt Mike behind him.

"Hey Adam," Joe said. "I called Philip Evans and you were right. He knew. He'd been watching Samuel Smith and the Immortal knew he was being watched. He brought the child to Philip when she was just a newborn and told him. Philip has no idea where Smith found the child—but it is known that at that time, Smith had been working at a children's home."

Methos looked over at Mike and smiled.

"So, did you tell him?" Methos asked.

"Yes, but he guessed. As soon as he heard my voice—it was like he knew. He'd been waiting for this and almost sounded relieved. She'd been sick and in a lot of pain the last few years."

"Yeah well, he'll be happy to know it's all gone now," Methos said.

"Anything else?"

Methos frowned for a moment. "Hold on a minute," he looked up at Mike. "Who's your boss? How about a vacation?"

"I'd love one. Brent Tanner. He's under Joe," she said, nodding her head towards the phone.

"Joe, can you call Brent and tell him that Mike's taking some time off?"

Joe sighed. "Methos, she's got to quit."

"Joe," Methos could feel his irritation rising. Damn it, he knew Joe was right, but this was too much too soon. "Could we just take one step at a time here? How about a vacation first?"

"Against my better judgment, but okay," Joe said, sounding exasperated. "I'll call Brent."

"Okay, thanks Joe."

"Methos, tell her—"

"I will," Methos said and turned off the phone. "Joe says to watch your head," he told her quietly. "Also, you need to call your father."

"He knew, didn't he?"

Methos nodded as he handed her his phone.

"That's okay—I've got one," she said as she went back into the living room. He heard her pick up the phone and dial.

*Gods, Methos, what are you doing?* he asked himself as he walked into the living room and sat back down on the couch. He couldn't help but wonder how the hell he found himself in this spot once again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mike swallowed hard, desperately trying to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. As much as she knew she needed to talk to her father, she felt so confused about the whole mess that she had no idea where to begin. She loved him—which would never change. But to know that he had lied to her all these years hurt. Hurt her heart. Why couldn't he have told her she was adopted? Why the secrecy? It seemed to her that her possible Immortal status and her adoption didn't have to go hand in hand. He could've told her that she had been adopted, and she wouldn't immediately have assumed that she might become Immortal.

And how did he find her? What tipped him off? Something had to have, or he would've told her of being adopted. Groaning softly, she ground her teeth when she realized she had just thought herself in a circle.

Taking a deep breath, she let her finger go, waiting for the familiar sound of the dial tone and quickly punched her father's phone number before she froze up again.

As she stood there through two rings, her stomach rumbled, and she silently prayed she wouldn't lose her dinner so soon after eating.

*Remember Mike,* she told herself. *This is your father you're calling. The man who raised you—changed your diapers. Read stories to you at night and held you when her heart broke. He loves you.*

And he lied to her whole life.

"Hello," his deep, gravely voice spoke.

"Hi Dad," Mike whispered, hearing the tremble in her voice.

"Oh babe, I'm sorry we never told you—" his voice broke as he choked back a sob. "I didn't know if it was true. And after Smith died, I never had a chance to ask."

Earlier she had thought that if she knew he was hurting, it would somehow make her feel better.

Unfortunately, it didn’t. She only felt worse.

"It's okay, Daddy," she said, biting her lip. *God, don't let me cry again,* she thought as her heart seemed to catch, and she could feel the sob building.

"Are you okay? How bad were you hurt?"

She could hear his pain, which only made hers more poignant. *Oh Dad, let's not go down this road...*

"I died Dad—that's all. I'm okay," she lied, finding that she couldn't tell him the truth. Couldn't hurt him any more than he was now.

"Okay," he said, releasing a breath. "What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice tentative—almost as if he had no right to ask.

Another crack formed in her heart.

*Deep breaths,* she reminded herself and forced her voice to remain steady. "I don't know—see the world," she said snorting. "Learn the fine art of fencing and ki—" She stopped, forcing herself not to voice the fear that both she and her father didn't need to deal with just right then—that his little girl had to learn how to kill to survive. *Oh God, I can't do this,* she thought to herself as she took a deep breath. "I'll call you, okay?"

He sighed—the sound of his breathing echoing loudly in her ear. "All right, for now, Mike. But I want to know what's going on. I love you—you are my daughter."

She bent her head back, feeling her hot tears run down her face. "I love you too, Daddy," she whispered, and seconds later she heard him hang up. Clutching the phone to her chest, a huge sob racked her body.

Suddenly Adam was in front of her, gently taking the phone from her. He dropped it in its cradle and turned back towards her. She opened her eyes and saw her pain reflected in his. He then pulled her into his arms, and she finally cried those tears that she had been holding back since she revived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos yawned as he flipped off the television set. He leaned back against the headboard and glanced over at Mike, who was sleeping in the other bed. She had nearly cried herself to exhaustion just an hour before.

He had thought the one at the apartment, right after she had gotten off the phone with her father, would've been it. Unfortunately, he had been mistaken. After sobbing in his arms for nearly ten minutes, she pulled away, took a deep breath and appeared to center herself.

At his urging, she quickly packed a bag and within an hour, they were checked into the Hyatt under one of his numerous psuedonyms, when the tears began again.

He was worried.

*What an understatement, Old Man!* he snapped at himself as he remembered the way her body shook in his arms.

It was just that in his many years—many, many years, he silently amended—he had always believed it was the strong that survived and the weak that died. Everything about the way Mike dealt with pain—from the way her emotions easily played out on her face, to her inability to hold back the tears no matter how hard she tried—spoke of weakness to him.

It was a man's world and she was reacting like a typical female.

But even as soon as he thought that, he realized that was wrong too. She faced her father, despite her tears—dealt with her Immortality, despite the tears. He wondered what else she would handle, all the while crying?

Would she take her first head all the while crying like a baby?

Gods, he hoped not. What a way to live forever.

But was his way any better? Cloaking his pain under a mask of indifference and cynicism worked fine and well—he was still alive after all these years—but was he really living?

Groaning silently, he realized, he yet again, began questioning his actions while comparing himself to Mike. For the past three years, it seemed that was all he did was analyze himself and his life more and more, the better he had gotten to know her.

It was just such a hard life—the Immortal one. For women especially. For as long as he lived, women had lived their lives in the shadow of men. Modern times were such an aberration, he often wondered if equality between the sexes would remain in lieu of the thousands of years of their inequality.

And even though the modern woman enjoyed much more freedom—of all sorts—than any of her ancestors, it didn't change the fact that women were still victimized.

Even today.

And Immortal men—well, did he even need to go into that? The only reason he had changed his belief that women were just recipients of his infertile sperm, was his intelligence. It may've taken a few thousand years, but he had finally gotten over his own desire for subservient women.

But not all ancients were like him. And even Immortals like Duncan MacLeod or his kinsmen, Conner, still had a tendency to treat women with kit gloves—to protect them—guard them.

So, where did that leave Amanda and Mike?

To either be protected or abused. It didn't seem like much choice to him.

He sighed softly. Well, she could learn to protect herself—from other Immortals or mortals so she wouldn't be a victim anymore. That's what Amanda had done. Either that or she could live her life on Holy Ground, until someone yanked her off to take her head.

He yawned and sunk into bed, leaning back against the headboard. Methos still couldn't believe that he actually cared. After centuries of avoiding all emotional entanglements, not only was one of his closest friends the lightening rod of trouble for Immortals, but he found that he actually cared for this young woman—who's life was barely a blip on a radar screen in comparison to his.

So, he thought to himself, what changed him? Was it just a year with MacLeod—his innate 'goodness and just-'ness' rubbing off on the older Immortal or was it something more? Or was this Methos' redemption? For his past. For Cassandra, his last female student...

*Don't go there, Old man,* he told himself.

Or was it a need to be among the living—to feel again—to care again. Would Mike know this? Would she understand just how hard it was for him to care?

Especially after Alexa?

He doubted it. All those tears told him she never had a problem in that area. Actually, she seemed to suffer the exact opposite condition; she cared too much.

Sighing, he turned over and stared at her face in the dark. Earlier, she had been tossing and turning—apparently having a nightmare. But now, she looked peaceful and relaxed. So at ease...vulnerable...

*Damnit,* he cursed silently. *She's a fucking Immortal, you bloody fool,* he yelled to himself. *You can't afford to feel her vulnerability! It'll cost you your head!*

But...

Groaning, he got up and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. He had to talk to MacLeod. As he headed for the bathroom, he heard her stir.

"Adam?" She called out softly.

He stopped mid stride—her voice causing him to shudder.

"Adam?" her voice was a little bit louder, more apprehensive than the first time.

He turned around and faced her—taking in her tousled hair and swollen eyes. Resigned, he tossed the phone on his bed and walked over to her, sitting on the edge of her bed. Unable to stop—or was that unwilling to stop—he lifted his hand to her face and traced her jaw line with his index finger. "Umm?" he asked, enjoying the feel of her soft skin underneath his fingertip.

He heard her swallow a couple of times and then clear her throat. "Are you okay with this?" Her voice soft and almost childlike in the wake of her obvious insecurities.

Although he couldn't really see her face, he could hear the concern for him as well as for herself in her voice. He had heard it so many other times in the last three years.

This was how they communicated, by words—inflections in the voice or adjectives in print—sighs and hesitations...

And he found, like so many other times when she asked him something about how he felt—especially about his feelings, that he couldn't lie. Not then and not now.

*Damn her,* he thought to himself as he inched closer to her. She always did have to ask the hard questions. After nearly a minute, he finally just shrugged; shocked that after 5000 years he couldn't managed to verbalize all that was going on inside of him. Then he remembered that she couldn't see him, so he answered.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm—uh—um—I just don't know."

He heard a quick gasp—filled with fear and panic. He instinctively searched for her hands and found them squeezing her forearms tightly across her stomach. He laid his on top of hers.

"Can you find me a mentor then?" she asked, her voice quiet and resigned.

He sighed again and stood up, bringing his arms to his side. He abruptly switched the bedside lamp on and began to pace. He could feel those dark gray eyes following him—not in wonder or awe of Methos, but in pain and disappointment because her friend Adam was letting her down.

*Damn you,* he thought. *How dare you judge me!* he yelled at her in his mind. *You're thirty years old—a baby—and you judge me!* He glanced over at her and saw her nibble her bottom lip as her eyes filled with fresh tears. Cursing himself, he pushed the anger down and took a deep breath to calm himself.

His anger had no place here—in this room.

He was her friend—as she was his.

He stopped in front of her bed, looking downward, eyes shut tightly.

"How do you think I've survived for the last 5,000 years, Mike? Hmm?" he asked as he looked up and their eyes met. "By my strength? My agility? My deftness in battle?" He moved back over and sat down beside her, his eyes never leaving hers. He wanted her to know—to see him for what he was. Nothing great—just an old man in a young man's body...

"And I'm no Duncan MacLeod—guided by morality or ideals or justice. Unfortunately, I claim none of those attributes," he smiled weakly as he reached for her hand, slowly peeling it away from her forearm. He held it tightly in both of his.

"Then how did you survive?" she asked as she sat up.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm no slouch with the sword, but I've always tried alternative routes first. Using my strengths to the best of my abilities. My intelligence to manipulate events. And my basic distrust of human nature," he chuckled. "I hid, too. I tend to avoid other Immortals—choosing my battles—keeping away from the Game as much as possible. At times, taking sides and making the best out of horrid events.

"And, as time went by, I found myself as more of an observer of mankind than a participant. That's where the arrogance comes from," he added, surprised at his honesty.

He suddenly felt naked—baring so many truths to this child's soul and turned his head, staring at the curtain as it fluttered in the air conditioner's wake.

"It must've been lonely," she said quietly, her voice very matter-of-fact. It held no pity or sympathy, only empathy and compassion. He shouldn't have been surprised. Mike was like that.

She moved her hand and he felt her squeeze his.

He turned back and faced her. "Yes, it was. Although I don't think I realized it at the time," he admitted, enjoying the warmth of her hand draped over his. "And I guess, ultimately, that's why I left spectator's circle and joined the participants' once more."

He stopped and caught her eyes again. Acceptance and caring was reflected back at him. So much love in one person. Yes, this was the same Mike who was his friend—anonymous yet intimate—the one he told things to he would never say to anyone else. At times, she had been his closest confidant—compelling him to be honest with her and as a result, with himself.

"You know how I met MacLeod?" he asked suddenly.

She shook her head.

"I offered him my head because I didn't think he could defeat Kalas without my Quickening."

She gasped. "That was about a year ago, wasn't it?"

He nodded, knowing where this was going.

"That's what all those philosophical questions were about, wasn't it?"

He nodded once again.

"God, I remember that. Good and evil and responsibility. And if you had the power to stop evil, would you risk your life?" Her eyes filled with tears as she squeezed his hand tighter. "I said—Oh my God—I said to do nothing was as evil as if you were a participant in it..."

"You were right."

"Methos!" she yelled, surprising him by using his real name. "You almost lost your head! And for something a mere 29-year-old fucked up girl said?"

He laughed, surprised once again by her—this time by her temper. He leaned over, his face centimeters from hers—their lips nearly touching. "Aren't you being a little presumptuous?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. *Just a little closer and you could sneak a kiss, Old Man,* he thought to himself as he breathed in the peppermint scent coming from her mouth. *So close...*

She suddenly pulled back in surprise—her brows creased in frustration, but when he lifted his head slightly, he noted her eyes were definitely smiling back at him.

"Asshole," she whispered to him, inching closer to his lips. As he watched her face redden, he wondered if it was in embarrassment or something else. Sighing, he knew this was not the time to find out.

"That I am, Mike. I won't deny you that," he said softly and then pulled back—feeling the need to put some space in between them. His heart was beating in excitement and he felt incredibly warm. A mentor and a lover?

*Yea Gods, Methos, what are you doing?*

But, he still hadn't let go of her hand. He felt her own heat and excitement. This was what he had hoped for before he found out she was an Immortal. He had a feeling it had been one of her hopes as well.

"So, what changed you, Adam? Or whom? Was it Alexa? MacLeod? Or did the world suddenly become just more interesting again?"

He looked up for a second, wondering if he should dare tell her. Talk about vulnerability...

His vulnerability.

"Both, but neither. After Alexa died, I wanted to crawl back into the anomity that my life once held. But then there was Mac's Dark Quickening and Joe's trial," he looked back at her and she nodded knowingly. Both of them spent hours pouring over anything that could support Joe Dawson's case. Adam, because Joe was a friend, and Mike, because Joe had been like an uncle to her while growing up. "And after the trial, a lot was said between us. A man died—an Immortal—and I played a part in it. I could've pled ignorance, but 5000 years doesn't allow that. I just made a choice. One Immortal I didn't know for two people I cared for." He shrugged at his admission. "The choice wasn't hard to make."

He glanced at her, trying to gage her reaction, and, as he suspected, her faced showed everything: from anger to acceptance. Another small weight was lifted from his shoulders.

"And then? The trial was three months ago."

He walked to the window and parted the curtain. "I took a leave, but you knew that?" She nodded. "And I was trying to decided whether Adam Pierson would quit the Watchers or not. But, if I were to make Adam Pierson disappear, then I would have to really disappear. And I," he stopped and shook his head, "I can't do that. Not to Joe. He's mortal. He's too good of a friend. But he wasn't the only reason." He walked back over to her and sat down next to her.

"What else was?"

"You," he said, their eyes meeting fleetingly before he dropped his.

He felt her shift uncomfortably. "You always demanded honesty, Mike," he said quietly haphazardly studying the inane pattern of the bedspread.

Her free hand touched his face, lifting his chin up, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were wide in wonder. "What does that mean?" she asked as her arm began to drop.

He grabbed it and pulled his other hand out enough to grab hers. He pulled her to him, sliding his hands down her arms--their faces only a few inches apart. "It means that I didn't want to see you slip by, without holding you and caring for you—maybe even making love to you—before you died—like Alexa and so many others..."

He stood up and backed away, terrified at the intimacy this woman seemed to demand. "I—" he stopped and fell back into his bed. He closed his eyes.

He heard her scrambled out of bed and he opened one eye. She was standing beside him, clad only in a long white tee shirt with some nonsense printed on the front. A flurry of emotions were running across her face. He could almost pick each one out: fear, surprise, happiness, embarrassment, and indecision...

She sat down next to him. "I don't know what to say or do," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Silently cursing, he reached for her hand. Clasping it, he pulled her down beside him. "Oh Mike, is nothing ever easy?" he asked her as rubbed his index finger long ways on her cheek. Her smooth, soft skin sang to him. He suddenly couldn't wait. He reached behind her head and pulled her down, their lips touching.

She gasped.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his lips moving against hers.

She smiled against him. "Yes," she said, "but just this—for now."

He nodded as he sunk his mouth onto hers, somehow trying to convey what he felt in just one kiss—sinking himself into her—giving her a touch of all he was and knowing that she knew that as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mike felt her breath being sucked away as his mouth touched hers. Her heart was racing as her body instantly responded to his intensity. Intuitively, she knew what he was doing—he was Methos now—not Adam—wanting acceptance—demanding attention and life...

And then as soon as it began, he pulled away and turned, propping himself up with one arm, still keeping his other hand on her neck and scalp. She took a deep breath, grateful that she could still do so and forced herself to look into those ancient hazel eyes—afraid of what she would see.

Desire. Fear. She shivered.

He gave her a small smile, still running his fingers through her hair, occasionally sweeping across her scalp, making her arousal even harder to ignore.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. "You know, Methos, you're a hard man to put off. I guess after 5000 years, you have the art of seduction down pat," she added laughing.

He opened his eyes in mock shock and grinned. "Me?"

Shaking her head, she scooted herself next to him, her back touching his chest.

She plucked at the hotel comforter and sighed. "Before tonight, I dreamed that this would happen. I don't know when you became important in my life—but sometimes sitting in my living room with only the television, stereo and computer for company—your e-mails and letters and calls—became real important to me," she could feel her chest tighten and angrily shoved her tears back down. "It was nice—no, wonderful—to know that someone outside my father and Joe cared about me for who I was.

"I dreamed that we would make love tonight—and somehow, I could take that part that I hoped you were going to give me—and I could keep it—treasure it—when I hurt so bad I didn't even want to drag myself out of bed—I could pull it out and feel good about myself and know that someone else felt good about me," she paused, ignoring the tears as they ran freely down her cheeks. She was so grateful that he wasn't seeing these tears. They were too personal. "But now is not a good time. I don't want to confuse what could be wonderful with what was so horrible only a few hours ago."

She rubbed her face on the sleeve of her nightshirt and turned her head.

"Could you just hold me for now?"

He nodded. "It'll be my pleasure, Michelle," he said softly as he bent down and gently brushed his lips on her forehead. He then sat up and pulled the comforter out from underneath them and covered them both. In the warmth of the blankets, he pulled her towards him tightly.

She fell asleep feeling his warm body next to hers and his breath gently caressing her neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning Methos entered the hotel room with two large coffees to find that Mike had already awakened and was watching the morning news. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed with her hair still wrapped in a towel and her legs crossed and his sword across her lap. Once she saw him, she turned and slipped the sword back in his coat and smiled at him meekly.

"I thought it was you—but I wasn't sure," she said smiling as she shrugged her shoulders.

"It never hurts to be too careful, Mike," he said as he sat down next to her and handed her a coffee. "Is black okay? I've got creamer and sugar in my pocket."

"No, black's fine," she said as she pulled back the tab on the lid and sipped the coffee. "I think I know who killed me."

"Who?" he asked her, wondering if her suspicions was the same as his.

"That serial killer. My 'death' fits his M.O.," she stopped and turned to him. Her brows were furred together and he could see the question written on her face. "Can I give an anonymous tip or something and explain how he gets into the women's houses?"

"If you call from a pay phone. How about on the way to the airport?"

She nodded her approval and looked up at him. "So, where are we going?"

"Seacouver, if that's all right with you," he said. "MacLeod has a dojo which we can use to train you, and he and Richie can help me keep you safe until you can take care of yourself. And I have a place to stay there." He stopped for a moment, gauging her response. "Besides, we couldn't stay here—I can't stand this heat. How do you people live with it?" he asked laughing.

"Come on, Adam, after 5000 years, what's a little heat?" She asked as she playfully jabbed him on his arm.

"Hey watch it! The coffee!" Methos protested as he placed his cup on the floor. He turned to face Mike and those gray intense eyes widened. He took her cup and set it next to his. "I can take anything you may throw my way," he said mischievously as he leaned over and pulled them both downwards.

"Adam!" she yelped, trying to squirm out from underneath him. He reached for her hands, but she managed to keep one free and lightly jabbed him in the side.

He jumped, laughing.

"Ha! Gotcha!" She yelled, giggling.

He then managed to restrain her free hand and pulled both of them over her head. Still grinning, his whispered, "You already have." He pecked her lightly on the lips and rolled off the bed. "Well? What are you waiting for? Pack! We've got a plane to catch!"

As he walked into the bathroom he heard her mutter, "Aye, aye Captain," and he found himself chuckling as he closed the door.

"You'll be calling me a lot worse before this is over," he said softly. "I just hope she'll remember that she liked me as well," he said under his breath.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours later, Michelle Evans and Methos were on a plane, flying to Seacouver. She was asleep, her head resting on his shoulder, leaving him alone with his thoughts. A student—he couldn't believe it. He was taking on a student. The craziness of it was nearly overwhelming. When he talked to MacLeod that morning, the Scot tried not to act too surprised or shocked, but he did ask Methos if he was sure and if he wasn't doing this for the wrong reasons.

"Come on, MacLeod, as if you don't take on any students--."

"Methos, it's different and you know it! When was the last time you took a student? Five hundred years? A thousand years ago?"

"It's been a while," Methos admitted grateful that Mike was in the shower and didn't have to hear this.

"Why now?"

"She's my friend—without pretenses or expectations. I don't know, it's hard to explain."

"Methos," Duncan sighed. "Watch your head, my friend, and I'll see you tonight."

"Always do, Duncan. I'll see you tonight."

He couldn't blame MacLeod for being suspicious. It wasn't as if chivalry and honor were a part of his biological makeup. But, helping Mike wasn't a matter of doing the right thing. It was more because he felt as if he had no choice but to do otherwise.

For him and for her.

Would you like to read the next story in the series, Warrior in the Making - Part I?

If you have any comments or like what you've read, drop me a line!

©1999 Lisa Y. Drexel