Inspired by a Highlander fic (Ace in the Hole by LadySilver) where Joe Dawson beat Methos at poker and won the chance to ask for information. It got me thinking of other questions the Watcher might ask of an Immortal.
I own nothing but my OFC, Rona Dubois. The title of this fic comes from a song in the TV series Witchblade.
Not sure how long this story will be or how often I'll be able to update.

Setting: Paris, could be any year in the late 20th or early 21st century (though that might change in later chapters)

Bid goddess rise from mist of memory . . .

"This apfelwein's nice," Joe Dawson remarked appreciatively to the dark-eyed woman sitting across from him in his dining room. "And this bread and cheese is like nothing I've ever tasted!"

She chuckled briefly. "My pleasure to bring it. The bread's an old recipe, and the cheese . . . No one makes it like that anymore."

He still couldn't place her accent. She sounded French, which made sense as she was fluent in the local language; hints of other lands made their way into some of her words. "Where is it that you're from?" he asked with what he hoped was casual interest in his voice.

"Lots of different places," she replied.

There it was again, the sense that he was looking at her through a fog. He had told himself earlier that it was only the moonlight coming in through the window behind her that made her appear veiled in shadows, but he had been watching Immortals too long not to notice that she was hiding something. She was friends with Adam Pierson, so Dawson figured she'd learned a trick or two from him, but there was something more behind her eyes. She was so guarded. Was it loneliness? Had she been betrayed once too often to trust anyone? Adam hadn't told him much about her, not even if she were an Immortal.

"You all right, Mr Dawson?"

He jerked himself back to the present moment. "Yes. Just thinking. And, please, call me Joe."

"Thinking of what, if I might ask, Joe?"

He paused to consider this. How much had Methos told her about him? For that matter, did she even know that her friend was the legendary oldest living Immortal?

When he didn't answer for a few minutes, she attempted to engage him in conversation once more. "Our good doctor told me you are an historian. Any particular period of history you focus on?"

"Oh, I study all history, Miss Dubois, but, lately, I've been focussing on the last four centuries or so."

She nodded. "Rona, please. Last four centuries . . . Renaissance, Age of Enlightenment, Industrial Revolution . . . So many changes came so rapidly."

"Were you there?" he asked without thinking.

She began to nod, then shook herself. "Whahahaht?" she asked, a smile spreading on her face.

"What, exactly, did Adam tell you about me?"

She gazed at her hand, mindlessly running a finger up and down the glass. "He said that you are an historian and that you are writing a
biography of a certain Scotsman of the Clan MacLeod. The boy scout, he said. What, um, what did he tell you about me?"

"Oh, that you were an old friend of his and he'd appreciate it if I showed you around town. Said you'd been on your own for a while and could use some rest. I have the spare bedroom, so it's no problem."

Some rest. There it was. There was the feeling that she'd been unable to put her finger on as she'd come down the street to this house. It was similar to the feeling she got whenever she returned to the land of her birth.

This house had been built on holy ground. Ancient holy ground, at that. She wondered if Joe were aware of this bit of the history of his house.

"Rest. Yes. I've been travelling so much lately that I've been needing to feel sturdy ground beneath my feet again. It will be nice to be able to stop for more than a night's -"

The way she tensed and flitted her eyes around told him that another Immortal was approaching. She rushed to her bags, situated in the corner of the living room, and retrieved her sword. Before she could rush out to meet a would-be challenge, Joe answered the knock at the door.

"Candygram!" came the sing-song voice of the man who'd brought them together. "It's all right, Rona; it's just me," he called past Joe's shoulder.

She let out a heavy sigh of relief. She was suffering from jetlag and wasn't much up for a fight.

"Don't worry, dear wife, a young friend of mine is on his way. Anyone comes looking for you, you're safe. Oh, don't worry about Dawson; he's well aware of what we are and the Game. And of who I am."

Her jaw dropped open in disbelief.

Methos smiled wistfully. "After all these years, Rona, it's good to know I can still leave you speechless."

Several minutes later, they were in the dining room, snacks and drinks spread out before them.

"So, Methos, I have to ask . . . You called Rona dear wife when you came in. You two actually married or is it simply a term of affection?"

Methos glared at his beer. He couldn't believe he had slipped up so easily.

"Term of affection, Joe," Rona answered for him, her eyes never leaving Methos's face. "We've known each other for so long that it feels like we're married sometimes."

He accepted that explanation with as much trust as he would have given anything Methos said.