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Adam Pierson. Such a plain name for a man with so much history. Not plain enough, though; he isn't one of a dozen John Smiths, and he can't hide among numbers in the phone book.

Well. Not the phone book, precisely; he's not fool enough to be listed there. But one man with a tattoo on his wrist led to another to another, and sooner or later one of them had Adam Pierson written down neatly in an address book, and Kronos went to Methos's apartment building to wait.

He comes out of his doorway, and Kronos sees it the minute the buzz hits. He's not sure what, exactly, he's going to do, until Methos opens his mouth.

"MacLeod? Is that you?"

Rage sparks red behind Kronos's eyes, and the knife is out of his hands and buried in Methos's heart in an instant.

"Greetings, brother."


"I missed you, too."

He means it. He missed Methos like this most of all: bleeding, dying, and calling his name.

It's good to be reunited again.