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Being only human, Kim tends to forget.
Methos is good, Kim has to give him that. He wouldn't have survived this long if he weren't the ultimate con artist. But watching the Adam he knows fade in and out of Methos's face is the freakiest fucking thing Kim has ever fucking seen.
Not that he's seen that many freaky fucking things, Kim has to admit. He was recruited out of grad school and sent to Geneva, then Paris. He's spent years of his life in basements and store rooms. If people knew him at all, before last year, it was as the sword guy. And now he's been handed the Methos Chronicle and told to clean it up.
It would be easier if Adam weren't still around, but the Watchers lost the right to give Adam orders when they gave him his discharge.
Discharge. Ha fucking ha. Kim had happily been in Paris when all that noise was happening in Geneva and Seacouver, had found out through Dawson -- fucking Dawson, that fucking traitor, and hadn't that hurt, to find out his closest compatriot was falsifying Chronicles -- and then it had been radio silence. Nothing but radio silence. And then down from the wire: Adam Pierson discharged, Tribunal reached agreement with legendary Methos.
Agreement. Ha fucking ha. Mutual non-aggression pact, more likely. Bill Schneider had pulled Kim out of a meeting, given it to him straight: "Methos picked you to run this farce. He thinks he can control you, but we trust in your abilities and your loyalties. Don't let us down."
Kim's never been a field guy. He's done field duty in an emergency, who hasn't? He's stepped in when they've needed an academic in the field, someone who could keep pace with Immortals like Marcus Constantine, someone who would talk antiques with Duncan MacLeod. His job was to hold the Immortal in one place while the real field agents did their jobs.
And then he'd been handed the job of watching the most elusive Immortal in history. Kim was not amused. He was even less amused when he'd been handed an archived copy of the Methos Chronicle circa fifty years ago, and compared it with Adam's work. And even less amused when Adam had left him a cheery message on his answering machine, asking -- ordering -- him to call.
It was bad enough with Dawson falsifying Chronicles. Now his goddamn ex-boyfriend had perpetuated the biggest fraud in the history of the Watchers, and had bequeathed it to Kim on a silver platter. Adam might as well have sent him a bunch of flowers with a note: "I made a mess and now it's your job to clean it up. Vacuum's in the closet. See you around some time."
Kim was not amused. He was, in fact, pretty fucking pissed off.
All his life, Kim had kept his nose clean. He'd gone to school on a fencing scholarship and had considered a research position with the Watchers to be his dream job. He played poker weekly for dimes, had a weekly sabre practice with Adam, and had enjoyed his life. He'd played by the rules and, naively, oh so naively, assumed everyone else was as well. Kim'd always liked rules.
And the biggest fucking rule of them all, and, Kim didn't know, he was only guessing, but was every other Watcher in Paris falsifying Chronicles? Jesus fucking Christ. Dawson had gotten too close to his target, but everyone liked MacLeod. He was one of the good guys. Kim'd had his eye on that katana for a long time, would have given his left arm to get a good look at it sometime. After the mess with Horton, Kim was one of the guys who thought that Dawson should have been pulled just for his own safety.
But Dawson, goddamn him, had pled his case. He'd pointed out to Kim over beers that MacLeod was walking a tightrope when it came to the Watchers. If Dawson left and someone else stepped in, MacLeod could panic. Dawson had to stick around and make sure MacLeod understood that the Watchers were the good guys.
Like Dawson was such a fucking martyr. When did he start playing games with the Chronicle? Before or after Horton started his rampage? Oh, sure, Kim knew Dawson had his reasons. They'd written each other brief, terse letters since Dawson had been put on trial for treason. Dawson had tried to mend fences, but, thank god, he at least seemed to understand why Kim was still fucking pissed off at him, and was staying the hell away.
And now Kim would have to work with him. Every day. The Tribunal had finally, finally, come to their senses and pulled Dawson off the MacLeod Chronicle and had given him a support position in Seacouver. Hallelujah. Kim blamed PTSD (Please-Trust-Shapiro's-Deal) on why someone ever thought it was a good idea to keep Dawson on the MacLeod Project at all, let alone keep him lead agent. Better late than fucking never, even though the horse had already flown the coop on this one.
It still fucking hurt. Kim wouldn't let Dawson get within two hundred miles of an active Chronicle if he were in charge. And now he was going to have to work with him. They're the tag team in charge of keeping an eye on Adam.
Goddamn fucking Adam. He would have to choose now to grow a conscience. He'd gone Academia and was setting up house in Seacouver. Permanently. So Kim'd had to take the Methos Project to Seacouver. And a Project it was. A proper one. When Kim had met Adam, back when the world was young and Kim still thought that Joe Dawson had principles, it was just Adam and whatever semi-permanent help he could get from the other experts floating around Paris. Now Kim had six agents and five historians who spoke sixteen languages between them, plus a verbal commitment for four more field-qualified agents and a host of researchers as necessary.
Setting them up in Seacouver was like herding cats. And then Kim had sat down on the couch, pulled up the latest surveillance photograph, and fallen back in time to Paris, 1988, meeting Adam. Damn the man. He looked exactly the same.
Kim watches now. He watches all the time. And he forgets, too. All the time.
He met Adam for coffee at the end of his first month in Seacouver. Kim had spent half the time staring at Adam's lips. Once upon a time, he would have been wondering if he could risk kissing him a public café. Now, he's wondering how the fuck Adam does it.
Kim knows Adam isn't real. He knows Adam is Methos. He's read the Chronicle backwards and forwards. He knows more about how Methos constructs identities than anyone mortal. But he forgets. All the fucking time. That Adam is Methos. Until Methos reminds him, forcefully.
Methos likes playing games with Kim's mind. Kim assumes it amuses him, for whatever fucking perverse reason. Maybe Methos likes lording it over ex-boyfriends. Kim watches Methos's face slip and slide. He becomes strangers with the tilt of his chin, the way he holds his lips together. Adam was bashful, Methos is a goddamn fucking chameleon.
Kim doesn't know who Adam is, probably he never did. He knows what Adam did, knows he should hate him, knows he should feel a simmering rage towards him that he does towards Dawson. But at least Adam had a reason. (And, oh, Kim knows he's rationalizing, knows there's still a part of him that's fucking wrapped around Adam's finger.) Dawson had his reasons, too, but they weren't basic survival. Adam's Immortal. The rules are different.
And he's forgetting, yet again. He's forgetting what Adam is. Dawson thinks of Adam as Methos; Kim can't. He's tried, and he can't.
He's still forgetting. But he's only human.