Title: Personal Affects
Author: Rebecca Ann Brothers
Email address: brotherse@sprynet.com
Rating: PG
Story type: Gen - drama
Characters: Methos and Alexa, 
with brief appearances by Duncan, Joe, and Amanda
Date: 6/27/98

This is set 4th season, sometime between Timeless and Deliverance.  
It can also be found in the print zine, Highland Fling #4, in a 
slightly different version. Thanks to my beta readers Rena and Liz 
for their help.

Characters and concept copyright owned by Panzer/Davis, Gaumont, 
Rsyher Entertainment, etc.; this is a work of fan fiction, no one's 
making any money.  Comments welcome -- I think.


Personal Affects
(c) 1998 by Rebecca Ann Brothers
********************************

Alexa had been here before: this numbness, this sense of detachment. 
It had first hit her when the doctors had said there was nothing 
more to be done, that her time was going to run out so quickly.  
Everything she had planned, hoped for -- all of it turned to dust, 
and nothing left but that emptiness. And then Adam had come along, 
and suddenly there had been almost too much to feel, to experience. 
Ironically, so much to live for.

Fumbling with the keys, she dropped the awkward bundle in her arms.
Swearing, wanting to kick it, she instead took some deep breaths, 
hanging onto her desperate control, and let herself into Adam's 
apartment, dropping everything on a table by the door. She moved 
through the rooms, turning on lights, touching his things, finally 
curling herself into a corner of the sofa and hugging a pillow to 
herself. It just wouldn't sink in: she had known their together 
would be too short, of course she had, it was only -- she clutched 
the pillow more tightly -- it was only that *she* was the one who 
was supposed to die too early. Not Adam, not *him.*

If only it would stop playing through her mind, like a scene from a 
movie: Adam smiling, waving at her from across the street, starting 
to cross to where she waited, then stopping and looking around with 
a distracted air, heedless of the oncoming car until she screamed 
his name -- and then it was too late. So much blood, so much Alexa 
couldn't believe Adam hadn't died right there. Hope had fluttered 
then, for a little bit, that maybe he would be okay, maybe it wasn't 
as bad as it looked. She had expected a miracle right up to the 
point that kind nurse had come up to her, saying, Mademoiselle Bond? 
The doctor would like to speak to you. She'd known what he was going 
to say, it was already there on the nurse's face: Adam's injuries 
had been too severe, there was nothing they could do -- Adam was dead.

And everything had begun fogging over.

Dry-eyed, Alexa looked around at rooms she had only begun to be 
familiar with, wondering what she was meant to do now. She didn't 
know anyone in Paris, she could only speak a tine amount of French; 
enough to get by, Adam had told her, but now she knew that wasn't 
remotely true. She had no idea what to do about a funeral, or whom 
to notify. And that had been so strange at the hospital, when she 
couldn't answer the simplest questions about Adam, not even when he 
was born, or where, let alone anything about his family. All she 
could say was that she guessed he was about thirty, and she thought 
he was English. Other than that...? When he had been here to tease, 
to make her laugh in turn, there had been something fun, even 
exciting, about being with a Mystery Man. Now, though, it was so
frustrating to realize she knew so little about him, even a little
frightening. Somewhere in the fog Alexa thought she might even be a 
little angry with Adam. Why had he been so secretive about 
everything? He couldn't have anything to hide, not really.

There must be papers here somewhere, at least an address book. Maybe 
in his desk? Legs a little unsteady, she went over there, tugging at 
a drawer, frowning as she found it locked -- as usual. Whenever she'd
thought about it, and she'd tried not to, *that* had bothered her 
too, that he kept so much under lock and key. Everytime she had 
tried to talk with him about it, though, he had deftly turned her 
aside, distracted her. 

She sighed, looking over at the table where she dumped his keys, the 
short distance suddenly daunting. In all the rush she had forgotten 
her own condition, but it was beginning to attract her attention now,
with growing weakness, and a queasy sensation in her stomach. Her 
pills were over on the table too, in her purse, so -- no choice.

Making it over there, she shifted the bulky bundle that was Adam's 
personal effects, and on second thought scooped up everything to 
carry back to the couch, spreading it out. Finding her pills, she 
worried she only had enough for another couple of days, and wondered 
how she would get her prescription filled now. Adam had been taking 
care of that for, as he had everything else.

She couldn't worry about that now, she decided, getting a pill down, 
then settling back on the couch and trying to make herself relax.  
*All* she could deal with was the immediate present, she couldn't 
think about tomorrow or the day after that. Right now was all she 
had anyway.

Dragging his coat over, she wondered again why it always felt so 
heavy, and guessed she would finally get to see what he carried in 
his pockets. She tried to pull up a smile at that, but it wouldn't 
come. As she unfolded the material, though, her eyes grew wide at 
the object revealed, and suddenly she understood why some of the 
people at the hospital had given her some strange looks, asked some 
odd questions about Adam.

A sword. Why had Adam been carrying a sword?

Tentative, she touched it, curled her fingers around the hilt, tried 
to lift it. It was so heavy, she could barely hold it with both 
hands. What could he have had it for? she wondered, running her 
fingers along the cold steel of the blade. Shaking her head, giving 
it one more uneasy look, she managed to place it on the coffee table,
then turned her attention to the other items. His wallet -- yes, 
that had to have something in it, and she examined it eagerly. His 
driver's license gave his birth date as March 29, 1962 -- that would 
make him, what...thirty-three? She would have guessed he was a little 
younger than that, but of  course that was always so hard to judge.

What else...? Credit cards, bank cards -- an I.D. card for something
called International Assets Corporation. What was that? Something to 
do with the bookstore, maybe? It was funny, though, it featured an 
icon on it just like the tattoo on Adam's wrist. Like the one on Joe 
Dawson's. She had wondered about that as well, but it just one more 
thing Adam had managed to avoid ever explaining.

*Joe*... Of course! Her sense of relief was enormous and she reached 
for the telephone; Joe would know what to do about all this. Hoping 
it was as easy to make international calls as Adam had made it look, 
she bit her lip as she worried about the time difference -- if it 
was eight o'clock here, it must be, what, the middle of the afternoon 
in Seacouver? Better than the middle of the night, she thought, and 
dialed, listening to the phone ring several times on the other end, 
about to hang up, then--

"Hello? Joe's", answered a sort of familiar voice.

"Uh, is that Mr. MacLeod?"

"Yes. Who--"

"This is Alexa -- you know? I went off with Adam--"

"I remember." The voice warmed in welcome. "How are you?"

"I-I'm all right." She swallowed. "It's Adam. He - he...."

"Alexa, what happened?" Duncan MacLeod asked as she faltered, his 
voice so kind, so gentle.

Her own sounded very small. "He was hit by a car, crossing the 
street." She had to pause, swallow again. "Mr. MacLeod...he was 
killed. And, and...I don't know what to do about anything."

She heard a whispered conversation on the other end, and supposed Mr.
MacLeod was telling Joe, because his was the next voice on the line:

"Alexa? Where are you right now?"

"In Paris, at Adam's apartment."

"Okay, honey, you stay right there. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, but-- What do I do, Joe? How do I make arrangements for...for 
a funeral, for..."

"Don't worry about any of that, honey. Mac and I'll take care of
everything," Joe told her. "You just sit tight, try and get some 
rest."

He kept her talking awhile longer, trying to reassure her that 
everything was going to be all right, and she just needed to take 
care of herself now, get some rest. He didn't exactly say everything 
would look better in the morning, but as Alexa finally hung up she 
couldn't help thinking that's what he meant. Didn't he understand?  
Adam had been her whole world. With him gone now...  Wanting to cry,
but afraid to, afraid she'd never stop, she curled down into the 
sofa, hugging the pillow to her again, drawing a comforter around 
her. She was so tired, but she was so afraid to close her eyes, that 
all she would see was his face, all bloody, the light fading from 
his eyes. Squeezing the pillow, staring out into the shadowed room,
she had never felt so lost in her life.

***

Life coursing through him, Methos' eyes snapped open, darting about 
in frantic disorientation. His last memories were a jumble of pain, 
Alexa's face hovering above him, then a too-familiar oblivion. But 
how long ago? Minutes, hours? Sensing the presence of another 
Immortal now, he started to sit up but was stopped by a hand on his 
shoulder -- his bare shoulder.

"Take it easy -- you know internal injuries always take a little 
longer, and I think you had some doozies."

He blinked, focused on the voice. "Amanda?"

She smiled brightly. "At your service."

"That'll be the day," he grumbled, feeling some uncomfortable 
twinges here and there. "What are you doing here?"

"Mac called me, he and Joe thought you might need some help. Alexa 
called them a little while ago."

Oh hell. He took real note of his surroundings, realizing he was in 
a morgue, realized what that meant. "She thinks I'm dead."

"Yeah."  Amanda opened her bag, taking out some clothes and handing 
them over. "There are Mac's, but they should fit okay."

He took them, nodded, and started to dress. "Do you mind?" he said,
frowning at Amanda's bold stare, but almost welcoming the teasing,
though, at it held reality at bay a little while longer. Far too 
soon, however, they were safely out of the hospital, walking through 
the chill rain to Amanda's car, and Methos had to think of what to 
do next.

At the wheel, Amanda canted him a look. "Home?"

Sinking into the seat, blowing out his cheeks, he shook his head.  
"I don't know. What am I going to say to her?"

"The truth?"

"It's not that simple, Amanda. She's dying -- really dying. How do 
I tell her I've lived five thousand years, that I get to live forever 
unless cuts my head off, when she only has months -- when she counts 
the *hours*?" Feeling the sting of helpless, angry tears, he was 
grateful for the enveloping darkness.

"So -- what?" Amanda said, maneuvering through the late night traffic.
"You let her think you're really dead? You think that's going to be 
easier on her?"

It was on his lips to say, "She'll get over it," but he bit back the
foolish words. "There's more: I sensed another Immortal, just before 
I got hit by the truck, or whatever. And it wasn't the first time. I 
think someone's hunting me." And thinking about who that might be had 
given him more than one bad moment the last few days. He knew Alexa 
had been worried, finding him sitting up in the middle of the night, 
disturbed by dreams he couldn't share with her. He knew she'd felt 
hurt, shut out by his refusing to discuss it. How could he explain, 
though, tell her about the Game, about who he most feared might be 
coming after him? He hadn't even told Mac about Kronos, he couldn't.  
"I can't expose her to that."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you got involved with 
her."

Amanda's tone was neutral, and Methos sensed she didn't mean it 
unkindly, but it stung all the same. All the more so because it was 
a thought that had crossed his own mind more than a few times. Before,
when he had gotten involved with a mortal, he had told them everything,
given them the choice as to whether or not they wanted to join their 
life to his and risk being on the periphery of the Game, but this 
time... "Maybe I should've," he said with a deep sigh that misted the
glass of the window he gazed through. "Maybe it's better this way."

"For which one of you?"

Methos couldn't answer that one. He didn't think there *was* an 
answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end he had Amanda drop him at MacLeod's barge, wanting more 
privacy than Amanda was likely to give him. Pushing a dustcover off 
the sofa, Methos stretched out, willing himself to relax, to clear 
his mind. He had to think about this rationally, sensibly; he couldn't 
let his emotions govern his decisions, not this time. There was more 
to consider than Alexa, too. If it had not already done so, the 
bureaucratic world, that of the Watchers included, would soon declare
Adam Pierson dead, and that was a major pain he did not want to deal 
with on top of everything else.

Yes, begin with that, the purely pragmatic. The easy part.

Hunting up the telephone, he punched up a number, impatiently waiting 
for the person on the other end to answer. Finally, after eight rings,
a sleepy voice came on the line and Methos said, "Georges? It's Thomas
Dillane," he gave his last, official Immortal pseudonym. "I'm calling 
in my marker." The sleepy voice didn't sound happy about that, but 
Georges was in no position to argue, not if he didn't want his own 
cosy life disrupted. "Don't worry, it's not your head I want. I need 
you to get into some files, change some information. Adam Pierson was 
killed earlier today, and I want that little detail erased from the 
official records. Yes, of course right now. Can you do that?" The 
grudging answer was positive. "No, there were too many witnesses to 
the accident. I just want the hospital records to say Adam Pierson 
was treated for minor injuries and released." And with no body in the
morgue to provide any kind of proof otherwise, who was to say any 
different?

He had no sooner hung up than the phone rang. He let it go a couple 
of times, then picked it up with a cautious, "Yes?"

"Methos?" It was Duncan. "Amanda called, she told me she dropped you 
off there."

"Is it a problem? I couldn't think where else to go."  Certainly not 
to his home -- and he found the brief respite hadn't made the prospect 
of Alexa any easier to deal with.

"No, it's okay, stay as long as you need to."

"Thanks."

"Yeah. You okay?"

Methos actually felt a smile crack his face. "Pretty good for someone 
who got hit by a truck."

There was a brief, faint laugh on the other end of the line. 
"You know Alexa thinks you're dead?"

"Yes."  He sank back down on the sofa. "How did she sound?"

"Not great, like she was in shock. Joe's on his way over; he caught 
the first place to New York and will get the Concorde to Paris from 
there."

"He's coming to take Alexa back to the States?"

"If that's what you want." Duncan's tone was as neutral as Amanda's 
had been, but Methos got the feeling the Highlander had a definite 
opinion on what he should do -- and it didn't include running away.

"That would be the easiest thing." Methos couldn't put a lot of 
conviction into his voice. "She doesn't have much longer, Mac -- why 
burden her with all this?"

"Maybe she wouldn't think it was a burden."

"No, maybe she'd think it was some cruel joke." Five thousand years 
given to him, for no discernible reason, and so much of it wasted -- 
worse than wasted.

"Or she might take some comfort from it," Duncan said. "When they're
dying... I don't know, sometimes I think it gives them some comfort, 
some reassurance, to know the people they love will be all right, 
after they're gone. She's not a child, Methos, and this isn't a fairy 
tale, not anymore."

It never had been, not really. "Don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know, Methos -- do you? Who are you really protecting?"

Methos felt a flare of anger at that, and almost hung up on him -- but
then he settled back against the cushions with a weary sigh. "It's 
harder than I thought it would be, Mac."

"Yeah, I figured it would be." MacLeod's voice was sympathetic. 
"Maybe she needs to know that too."

They talked awhile longer, not really deciding anything, but Methos 
felt a little more centered and at ease when he finally hung up. He 
still wasn't sure what was the right thing to do, the best thing for 
everyone, but he knew what he had to do, whatever the consequences.

***

Pulling the comforter more tightly around her, Alexa sank back on her
heels, looking at the upheaval around her, trying to find down a 
feeling of betrayal that kept threatening to overwhelm her. She had 
already given into the anger, scattering papers across the floor in 
a moment of frustration that had left her exhausted.

Who had she been living with all these months? Could she believe 
anything he had told her? She wanted to hold onto his declaration of 
loving her, hug *that* to her as something real. But could she?

Was he Adam Pierson, or Michael Kaufman, or Thomas Dillane, or -- or 
so many others? Was he born in 1962, or 1929, or 1815?

Her fingers sought out the gilt-framed miniature again, her Adam's 
features so skillfully painted there -- but it was a portrait of a 
man who would have lived and died two hundred years ago. Yet she knew
it was Adam, it couldn't be anyone else. A striking resemblance to a
great-great-grandfather was one thing, but *this*... She knew every 
contour of his face, she loved to watch him early in the morning,
before he'd awakened, and had memorized every inch of him; she *knew* 
that look in his hazel eyes, she knew that smile. It *was* her Adam 
-- they all were, images of him captured in some moment in time over 
the past two centuries.

And all the documents: passports in a dozen different names, birth
certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses -- divorce papers 
from 1957, with his signature in a different name; bank accounts from 
all over the world, including one in Switzerland. And the journals: 
most of them in languages she couldn't read -- languages only some 
archaeologist might be able to identify; but what he had written in 
English only deepened her bewilderment, her fear, and made her wonder 
not only who he really was -- but *what.*

Picking up the most recent one, Alexa read the damning entries again:

5 March: Don's dead; Kalas got him, at least that's what Dawson 
things. He's sending MacLeod to see me, wants me to help MacLeod 
find Methos before Kalas does. Someday I'll look back on this and 
laugh.
   
What the *hell* am I going to do? The minute MacLeod walks through 
the door he's going to know what Adam Pierson, mild-mannered Watcher 
really is; it might not be that difficult for him to work out *who* 
Adam is. And then...? Joe says I can trust him, that the Highlander's 
one of the good guys and will keep me safe from Kalas, and I want to 
believe him. But what about if MacLeod figures out I'm Methos?  
Wouldn't a 5,000-year-old head tempt *any* of us?
    
But if I run, what about Don? I owe him something. Christine's 
beside herself, and she doesn't even known Don's murderer was an 
Immortal. I've always had the sense she's none too keen on us, maybe 
not on a scale with Horton and his goons, but I can't help thinking 
there could be problems with her down the road. That's probably 
something Joe should know about.

Alexa stared at that word -- Immortal -- for a long time before moving 
on to the next entry, where Adam recounted his meeting Duncan MacLeod 
and more: his encounter with this Kalas person who had wanted to kill 
Adam; they had fought, with swords (her gaze was drawn to the 
beautifully lethal object on the coffee table); Adam had escaped and 
later met with, and fought, Mr. MacLeod who, to Adam's surprise, had 
refused to kill him and take his head. It concluded with him deciding 
to pack up and move, lie low for awhile until he could determine 
whether or not MacLeod and Joe Dawson would keep his secret. Later on 
he recorded the resolution of the Kalas affair: how Duncan MacLeod 
had beheaded this man atop the Eiffel Tower, resulting in, "one doozy 
of a Quickening."

There was more about his experiences with MacLeod, more references to 
these Watchers. And then the most disturbing entry of all, dated a 
few weeks before she had met Adam at Joe's.  In it he told how he'd 
come to Seacouver to visit Joe and Mr. MacLeod, and to warn the latter
about a woman named Kristin. Alexa remembered seeing some reports 
about this woman on the local news back then, how she had been the 
world famous head of a top modeling agency, and that she had 
disappeared under mysterious circumstances during her visit to 
Seacouver. The police hadn't found a body, and wouldn't say if they 
suspected murder, suicide, a kidnapping, or what, but it had all been 
played up as very mysterious and sinister. Now here, in Adam's neat 
hand, Alexa read how Kristin had seduced Richie Ryan, nearly murdered 
one of her own models, and then tried to kill Duncan MacLeod, who had 
spurned her attentions -- in the 17th century. Then, finally, with 
cold-blooded simplicity, Adam wrote that when he saw Mr. MacLeod -- 
"the Highlander," he called him -- would not take this woman's head, 
Adam had stepped in and done it himself. That it had been his first
Quickening in two hundred years.

Alexa tried to picture it, *her* Adam, with a sword in his hand, 
cutting off a woman's head as she knelt before him -- but her 
imagination failed her completely. He was so sweet, so gentle, there 
was no possible way to reconcile the Adam she knew with this, this...
No way, unless he was insane, or something. It couldn't be true. How 
could it be true? And yet, what about all the rest of it, the 
photographs and documents? That had to be proof of something, of some 
kind.

Stiff and uncomfortable, Alexa got to her feet, walking back to the 
couch, and stopping to look at the sword again, touch the cold metal. 
Shaking her head, unable to take in any of it and make sense of it, 
wanting to wake up beside Adam and find it was all some horrible 
dream, she settled down on the cushions, tugging the comforter close, 
tears beginning to sting her eyes at last. She wanted Adam's arms 
around her, wanted the comfort of his warmth, his presence. Wanted 
him to make a joke of it all.

***

Paying off the cab driver, Joe sighed, looking at the building Adam 
Pierson had called home. Maybe still would, depending. Joe had 
checked with Watcher H.Q. here and discovered there were no reports 
of anything having happened to dam, so maybe the world's oldest 
Immortal had already managed to handle damage control so there would 
be no fall out. At least not where the Watchers were concerned. What 
about Alexa, though?

With a shake of his head, he let himself into the apartment, 
immediately spotting Alexa curled up, asleep on the couch. She 
looked exhausted, drawn, thinner than he remembered. How much was 
the stress of the last twenty-four hours, and how much from her 
illness progressing? Probably half-and-half, he figured, trying not 
to make too much noise with his stick as he made his way further 
into the room, noting the disarray -- drawers pulled out, trunks 
open, papers and stuff scattered everywhere. So, how much had she 
found out, and could she handle it?  Would she even want to?
Either way she was going to have a lot of questions, most of which 
he could answer, but *he* shouldn't have to. Where the hell was Adam?

He must have made some noise because Alexa stirred, sitting up and 
looking around the room with a touching, bewildered vulnerability on 
her face.

"Adam?" she said, sounding uncertain.

"It's Joe," he said, making his way over to her, seeing when the 
memories clicked into place and the lost look crept into her eyes. 
"How you doing?"

"Okay," she said, not sounding very convincing.
He sat down beside her. "Been pretty rough, huh?"

Tears in her eyes, in her voice, she said, "It's been horrible, Joe,"
and she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. 
"One minute he was right there, smiling at me, then..." She gulped 
down tears. "Joe, I don't understand anything. I've found things 
that... Who *was* he, Joe?"

Joe blew his cheeks out. She would start with the $64,000 question.  
"What do you mean, honey?"

Alexa drew back a little, gesturing around the room, at the papers.  
"This, all of it. Dozens of different names, some of them centuries 
old, but they're all Adam." She drew something out from the comforter,
showed it to him: a miniature portrait of whoever Methos had been two
hundred years ago.

"It's him, Joe, I know it is, but...but it *can't* be."

"It can, actually," came a new voice, a soft, British-accented 
baritone, and Joe breathed a little sigh of relief even as he 
wondered how Methos had got in her without them noticing.

Alexa wasn't taking it nearly as much in stride, though. She held 
herself very still, focused on Joe, not looking around at the source 
of that voice.

"Joe...?"

"It's okay, honey," he tried to assure her. "You're not imagining 
it. Look at him."

She searched his eyes for a long moment, then turned her head, just a
little, just enough to catch a glimpse. Her gaze turned back to Joe,
questioning; he nodded, saying, "It's real, you can believe it."

Looking more lost than ever, Alexa turned again, looking at Methos
directly. "You're dead. I saw you die."

Methos tried to pull up a smile, saying, "Yeah, well, I got over it,"
in a lame attempt to ease the tension. "Alexa," turning serious, he 
took a couple of steps toward her, "will you let me explain?"

She looked to Joe for guidance.

"Listen to him," Joe told her. "Believe him, no matter how crazy it
sounds." Then he levered himself up, walking over to Methos, touching 
his arm. "I'll wait outside."

The oldest Immortal nodded, his eyes never leaving Alexa's face, 
and Joe left him to it.

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

Why had he thought it would be easy, just because he'd done it so 
many times before? Methos wondered as he carefully approached Alexa. 
So  many times down this path, and every one of them coming out 
differently. Some couldn't accept the truth at all, and didn't even 
want to try; others believed, but couldn't cope; worst of all had 
been the ones who believed, and hated him for it -- for its injustice 
or unnaturalness. He found some bleak humor at that, at least: Alexa 
wasn't likely to turn him into the local witch-finder and watch with 
righteous satisfaction as he was burned at the stake.

How could she do anything but hate him, though, for having infinite 
years before him while her days were dwindling to nothing?

He sank to his knees before her, trying to catch her eye, wanting to 
touch her, but not daring to. "Alexa, just let me explain, and then...
and then Joe will take you home. You have a right to know the truth, 
though. I owe you that much."

"I don't even know your real name," she said, her voice strained.

His mouth quirked wryly. "I'm not sure I do, either -- but I've gone
by Methos for a long time."

She tried it out. "Methos..."  She shook her head. "How can you not 
know your own name?"

"Because..." He sighed. "Because I don't even know when I was born, 
Alexa, or where, or to whom." He took a deep breath. "I'm an Immortal. 
I've lived, give or take, about five thousand years. I can only die 
if someone cuts my head off."

He might as well have told her he came from Mars, to judge by her 
look of disbelief. "Alexa?"

"Why can't you tell me the truth, Adam?" she demanded, a note of 
anger creeping into her voice. "Not some bizarre fantasy."

"It *is* the truth, Alexa. It's the most true thing about me."  
He gestured to the documents, the journals she must have read. 
"That's my life -- all of them." He reached out to her now, gently 
prying the miniature from her fingers. "This is me, from 1789. My 
name was Nicholas Ross, and I was living in Virginia with my wife, 
Abigail. She's the one who painted it."

"That's insane."

"More than me being here, talking to you, when you saw me die?"

"How can I believe it?"

Damn, he hated this part. "You want proof?" He got up and went to the
kitchen, coming back with a knife. "Watch," he told her, and before 
she could voice any protest he drew the sharp blade over his palm, 
deep, wincing, holding the hand steady for her to watch the blood 
well and spill, the healing sparks of Quickening coming in the next 
second to mend the flesh and leave not the slightest scar. He wiped 
the blood away, letting her see the whole, undamaged skin. "Don't ask 
me to explain it, I can't. It's not magic, it's not witchcraft; it's 
just what we are."

Alexa touched his palm, tracing hesitant fingers where the wound had 
been, clearly not understanding, still not quite believing. 
"Are you...an alien?"

He laughed then, almost in relief. "No. And I'm not a demon or angel,
or anything like that. We're as human as you, just...just blessed, or 
cursed, with immortality. I don't know why it was me and not someone 
else -- why it couldn't be you.  It just is."

Brow furrowed, she said, "There's more, like you?"

"Yes. As long as there've been humans, I guess. The oldest of us I 
ever knew had me beat my about three thousand years. No one knows, 
for sure, how many of us there are, or have been."

"And you can't die, except if...?" She couldn't put it in words, and 
he supposed he couldn't blame her.

Methos reached for his sword, balanced it in his hands. "When one of 
us meets another, usually, it ends in a sort of duel with these. One 
kills the other, takes his or her head, and with it their Quickening 
-- their life force, their knowledge, everything that they were. The 
more Quickenings we take, the stronger we become."

"For what?"

"For the Gathering, the final move in the Game -- that's what we 
call it. There aren't many rules: no taking heads on holy ground 
-- we don't know why, for sure, but suspect the consequences could 
be fairly unpleasant. The main rule is, there can be only one -- only 
one of us left in the end, to claim the Prize."

"What prize?"

"God knows," he said, and wasn't sure how literally he meant that. He
looked at her, searching her eyes for some sign that she believed one 
word of this. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. It-- I read your journal, about Mr. MacLeod and, and 
Kalas, and that woman -- Kristin?" She looked at him, earnest, 
bewildered. "You killed her? You really killed her, cut off her head?"

"I did."

"*Why*?"

He sighed, knowing only the simple truth would do. Well, that make a
novelty, he wryly reflected, something to try every other millennia 
or so.

"Because she was sick and dangerous, because she'd killed one friend 
and was going to kill another."

"Mr. MacLeod, you mean?" Alexa said, and then her eyes went wide as 
she realized. "He's one too -- like you?"

"He is -- about...four thousand, six hundred years younger, though."

Her eyes went to his wrist, to the Watcher icon tattooed there.  
"And Joe?"

"No, he's mortal, like you. But that's a whole other part of the 
story. He's a Watcher, part of a secret organization of men and 
women who found out about us ages ago, and made it their task to try 
and keep track of us, chronicle our lives.=94

"Why?" she asked, and he had to smile at the question, the sense of 
almost innocent wonder it conveyed.

"I don't know, really. Because it was a secret who knowledge set them
apart from everyone else?" He shrugged. "They give our lives a sort of
meaning, though. Whatever we do, however much it must remain anonymous
from the rest of the world, some Watcher somewhere might know about 
it, might record it. When there's only one of us left, or maybe none 
at all, their Chronicles will be there to tell the world we *did* 
exist, and this was who we were, what we did."

Alexa touched the tattoo. "But -- you're both, an Immortal and a 
Watcher?"

"Umm hmm. It's not supposed to happen, but I wanted out of the Game,
for awhile at least, and taking a sabbatical amongst the Watchers 
appealed to be more than taking holy orders. It lets me keep track 
of the others, so I can avoid them. Methos is a myth to most of them, 
a legend they don't really believe. I like it that way."

"Because if they knew, they'd want to kill you?"

"Uh-huh. Because Methos is so old, it's assumed he would have the
most powerful Quickening of any Immortal. The one who takes his head,
my head, would have a major advantage over all the others; they would
be the most likely to be the last one standing to claim the Prize."
He sank back on his heels, searching her face, trying to gauge her 
reaction. "That's about it really."

Her expression was a mix of wonder and fear, acceptance warring with
disbelief. She reached a hesitant hand out to touch him, her cool 
fingers just barely brushing across his cheek. "You're five thousand 
years old....?" She shook her head. "You never age?"

"No. Whatever age we are when our first death comes, that's what we 
stay."

"And you don't get sick?"

Hell. Methos caught her hand, enclosed it in his own. "No, we don't.
Alexa..."  He could feel tears burning again. "If I could change 
places with you--"

"Oh no, no," Alexa placed her other hand against his face. 
"I couldn't wish that on you."

"But it's so unfair. If you knew..." If she the things in his past, 
the man he had been, she wouldn't think it unfair at all. A braver, 
honorable man would have told her all of it. "I'll tell you anything 
you want to know, Alexa, but only if you ask." He hoped she'd 
understand what he meant.

He could see her working it through, nodding. "Like that Chinese 
curse -- be careful what you wish for?"

"Yes."

She looked at him so closely, as if she could somehow read everything 
she wanted to know in his eyes. "I don't care who you were. I only 
want to know who you are now. Is Adam real?"

"Here, now, yes. You have to know it could change. The accident 
yesterday -- it was because I was distracted, I'd sensed the presence 
of another Immortal. Someone might be hunting me. You could be in 
danger if you stay with me." He indicated the miniature again. 
"Abigal was murdered by someone after me." He didn't tell her about 
the satisfaction he'd taken in tracking down Kincaid, in unleashing 
a savagery he hadn't felt in more than two thousand years; how that 
feeling had so appalled him he had left the Game, stayed out of it, 
until the day the Highlander walked through his door. That was 
something else that gnawed at him: the fear that if Alexa was used 
against him, it would let loose that darkness again, and he might not 
be able to get it back under control.

"Do you want me to go back with Joe?"

"I should."

Alexa framed his face. "*Do you*?"

"No," it was a whisper of pain, of need. "I never want you to go."

She smiled then, her eyes glowing with a vitality so at odds with the
truth. "Then I won't. At least," her smile faltered, "at least not 
until there's no choice."

He wondered if the joyous agony he felt was visible on his face. 
"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," she promised, leaning in to kiss him, letting her 
forehead rest against his. "Maybe you'd better call Joe back in?"
"Yeah." He didn't move for a couple more minutes, though. He didn't
deserve this but, God, he wanted it so much.

"Joe?" she prompted.

He took a deep breath. "Joe, yeah." Reluctantly, he drew away, got 
to his feet and went to the door.

Joe was waiting just outside, turning to look at him, ready for 
anything.

"She wants to stay."

Joe nodded as if he'd expected it all along. "Then what're you doing
standing here talking to me?"

"You should stay for breakfast, or something." It didn't seem right 
for them to turn Joe out.

"I'll go see what Maurice has on the menu."

"No, that--"

"Adam, get in there and finish making up.  Now."

"If you're sure...?"

"Go." Joe emphasized the command with a jab of his stick.

"Hey!"

"Get."

"I'm going"

"Good."

Methos almost had the door closed. "Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

The Watcher nodded, a wry smile touching his eyes as the door finally
closed. "Just wish it could be happily ever after for you, buddy," 
he whispered, before he turned to go.

On the other side of the door, Methos sighed. "Me too."



the end