Ann Wortham

Call me Jake. No, wait. That was my name in 1925. Okay. Call me Dan. No... that was 1845. Actually, you could call me just about any name and I’d probably answer. When you’ve lived over five thousand years, you go through a lot of names, a lot of identities...and you leave a lot of people behind, remembering you. These days, I’ve been going by Adam Pierson. It’s a solid name and I’ve always liked the pun inherent in using the name “Adam.” The first man. I don’t know if I was the first immortal, but I’m sure as hell the oldest left alive. Really, I’m not even sure anymore exactly how old I am...or what my real name is.

Yeah. Call me Adam.

Alexa always called me Adam.

I sipped at my beer and wished I had something stronger to drink. But Joe Dawson was staring at me from across the room and he’d already refused to give me any whiskey. He knew I’d already had too much to drink. He was one hell of a bartender, always ready with a willing ear and a snappy answer to any problem. He always called me Adam, too.

I wondered about that, because Joe knew I was an immortal. He even knew I was the “legendary” Methos, the oldest living of us all. Joe was more than just your average bartender. He was also one hell of a Watcher.

Of course, I wasn’t Joe’s assignment. Joe watched Duncan MacLeod. I was my own assignment.

I only realized I was laughing out loud when I saw Joe’s eyes narrow. I stared down at the table, trying to will him to go away, but it was already too late.

“Adam,” he said, pulling up a chair across from me. “You should go home now.”

I laughed again. I didn’t have a home. At least, not here in Seacouver, Washington. My home was in Paris and I couldn’t stand to be there right now. It was winter, and the cold and the snow only reminded me that I was alone. “I don’t have a home,” I mumbled, wishing Joe would just leave me alone and let me get drunk. It was hard enough to get drunk when you were immortal. Our metabolism tended to deal with the alcohol rather quickly.

“I thought you were staying at Mac’s place?’

I was. But it was lonely there. MacLeod was still in Paris and Amanda was off who knows where. Even Richie Ryan had taken off for parts unknown. I don’t even know why I came back to Seacouver... no, that’s not true. I came back because Alexa was dead and I’d met her right here. In Joe’s bar.

“Adam?” Joe prompted, and I realized I’d never even answered his question.

I studied the man across from me a moment and I wondered why I’d never noticed that look of caring, of worry, on his face before this. “It’s lonely there,” I admitted.

“It’s lonely here, too,” Joe pointed out. “Because you’re sitting over here in a corner, all alone, and shutting the world out.”

Damn. He saw too much sometimes. I suppose it came from years of watching my kind. Or maybe it was just a natural talent for understanding people.

“Alexa was my friend, too,” Joe said softly, and then he reached out a hand and closed it over my arm. “We could share some memories. It might help.”

Suddenly, I realized why I’d come back to Seacouver, after all. Somewhere along the line, I’d come to think of Joe Dawson as a friend... and he was the only other person who had known Alexa as more than just someone I ran off with. Mac’s sympathy was all well and good, but he’d never cared for Alexa. Not like I had. Not like Joe had.

I looked up at Joe. “Call me Methos,” I said. “All my friends do.”

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Ashton Press/Ann Wortham

Leah Rosenthal

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