IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: When this site recently stopped accepting character section breaks like rows of asterisks, it removed this essential formatting from all earlier chapters of this fic. This means the jumps from present time to flashbacks are no longer denoted, which makes reading extremely confusing...sigh. I am attempting to go back and fix all early installments with some kind of notation for breaks, but this process is long and tedious and not yet complete. I deeply apologize. Please bear with me!

All ratings, categories, etc., apply to the series as a whole, rather than individual parts, and I reserve the right to revise these as the series develops.

DISCLAIMER: All belongs to Damien Kindler and Stage 3 Media and Ms. Tapping and all the usual suspects who aren't me. Just borrowing these beautiful people. Thanks for the favor.:)
CATEGORIES: Hurt/comfort, angst, adventure, Helen/John, Helen/Will (friendship now, telling you whether there's more would be a spoiler:))

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the first part in a series. Though there will be an overall unifying storyarc, each of the chapters will somewhat stand alone as well, though they really should be read in order, and I do believe it's necessary to read the first chapter in order to establish the basic scenario. But this is not, I believe, a dangerous sort of WIP to begin reading, as it doesn't exactly leave you "hanging" in the sense of a more traditional story. And the final chapter is, in fact, largely written and can be applied by me at any time, once enough of the stories have been told.:) For reference, Chapter 2 is already in beta (go me! LOL).

Jumps from present day to flashbacks will be denoted by "###". Traditional section breaks will use "88888".

Many thanks to Teddy E and Annie for the wonderful betas and for committing to a long term project!

INTERVIEW WITH THE PROTEGE
by
Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2010

Chapter 1:

The old man wraps lanky fingers around the bedpost and pulls himself upright. His knees crack as he straightens his legs, but he has long since learned to ignore the pain. Stop moving and death catches up with you. He learned this fact on his own. Not all those around him faced the same fate.

Friday mornings fall quiet at Whispering Pines. Visitors are rare. Weekday visitors tend to come on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, squeezing in some guilt-pacifying time with elderly relatives before the workweek gets the best of them. Other folks wait for the weekend and bring the family.

The old man's visitors are rare. Such is the limitation of the life he chose to lead. He wouldn't trade it for the world.

Sunlight streaks warmly through the windows of his room. He lives in one of the best suites in the facility, sporting an enviable view to the meticulously groomed courtyard below. He never expected to spend his last years in such luxury. Money aside, Will had long expected to end his days bleeding on the floor of some dirty warehouse or backstreet. Wrestling a monster underground, looking up at the passionately worried eyes of a woman shouting orders and skillfully wielding a scalpel.

But here he sits in his golden days, in a room with all the amenities he could desire; attendants at his beck and call. The weather has warmed and he intends to spend the remainder of the morning outside. He doesn't stay as warm as he did in his youth. Sitting on the veranda in the autumn breezes no longer holds much pleasure. He remembers his first time on a windblown rooftop, standing in the dark and asking her if she was a little cold. He remembers wishing later that he'd known her well enough that night to understand the rare revelation in her reply.

Today is warm, and he craves the sun.

The old man gathers a leather-bound journal and a fountain pen from his roll top desk. He takes a jacket from the coat tree by the door and lays it over his arm, checks the pocket for his keycard, then makes his way into the hall.

This place has become home now in as many ways as he thinks it ever can. He smiles and says hello to the fresh-faced and kind attendants he passes in the corridor, he waves to fellow residents he spots down the side hall in the game room. He is comfortable here, grateful for the luxuries. But he found his true home once upon a time, in the most unlikely and wondrous of places, and he knows his connections to that place will never fade.

The sun is like caring hands on his skin, and the old man follows the wide veranda around to the side of the building, choosing a large wicker chaise in a far corner, sheltered from resident traffic, but offering a no less spectacular view. He's far from the only one taking advantage of the brilliant weather. He has only just settled into his seat, balancing his journal on his knee and untwisting the cap of his pen, when a shadow falls across his lap.

The old man squints up at the figure before him.

"Excuse me. Are you Dr. Zimmerman? Will Zimmerman?"

The voice belongs to a man, no more than 30 years old. The old man thinks there is something of the East in this new arrival's ancestry, and he thinks of Mumbai and spiders beneath the sea.

"Who's asking?" the old man replies.

The new arrival gives a quirk of a smile, and the spark in his eye suggests he believes he's reached the end of a long quest. "My name is Michael Orman. I was told I could find Dr. Will Zimmerman here. One of the attendants pointed in me in this direction. You are Dr. Zimmerman?"

"Should I know you?"

"No. But I know you. I've known you for years."

"How could you? I haven't yet said who I am."

Michael Orman slips a hand into the pocket of his loose white slacks. "Forgive the presumption, Doctor. But frankly, I've been studying you and your work long enough to know that you are the Dr. Zimmerman I seek. You may have aged a bit from the photographs I have, but your eyes are just the same."

Will Zimmerman sits back for a moment and lets his gaze slide over this man, his own mind still as lightening keen as ever. His gaze absorbs detail after detail. The slight favoring of Orman's right knee in his weight distribution, the cut of his shirt, the price of the watch on his wrist, whether the tan line matches the jewelry, He can find nothing to tell him why this man has shown up at his feet, whether he is friend or foe.

"What can I do for you, Michael Orman?" Will says, without ever directly acknowledging his own identity.

"All I ask is a bit of your time. I seek...knowledge. Explanation."

"I cannot give you that," Will says simply. Then, "I'm not the man you seek."

Orman tries to continue the conversation, tries to argue, but Will turns his attention relentlessly to his journal, and eventually the young man walks away.

He returns the next day, in the afternoon sun.

"I know who you are, Dr. Zimmerman," Orman says again. "And I need your help. I need to know...about her."

"About whom?" Will asks, despite himself. He had intended not to look up from his reading.

"The doctor. The lady herself. Helen Magnus."

"I don't know who you're talking about," Will says. He sees the light, the spark again in Orman's eyes, and tries not to remember his own first walk through the residential quarters of the Sanctuary; the wonder and fear and sense of worlds unknown and adventures begun. He can still smell the perfume she wore that day, hear the rustle of her skirt and the click-clack of her heeled shoes.

"Come on, Dr. Zimmerman. You're the only one who can help me. Just give me ten minutes. Ten minutes of your time. I ask much more, but I will take only that. For now."

Will doesn't say a word. He returns to his book, though he can't focus on the words.

Orman returns the next day. And the next. And the next.

On the sixth day, Orman says, "This is the last time I'm going to ask you. Then I will go away if you wish. But you need to know...this woman, this Dr. Magnus...I met her. Long, long ago. She saved my life. My family's life. My mother, my sister, myself. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. We would have all been captured, most likely killed. She was there, out of the darkness, and then she was gone. And I want...I need to know...who this woman was. Who she is, if she still is. Who she truly is. She changed my whole life. Freed us from what we thought was a curse. Taught us what a gift we possessed. I have read all I can read, talked to everyone I can, learned what little information there is out there, on the streets, in books. I've learned so many of the facts, so much of the framework. But I can't find what I need to know. I need to know...who she is."

Will sits for a long time in silence, and for a moment he is not on the sunlit veranda of Whispering Pines, but shivering on an impossibly high tower rooftop, watching the woman of his childhood dreams with her hair blowing in the wind and her shawl close around her shoulders, explaining all that had haunted and plagued him from his childhood. Gentle long fingers in his hair and a blanket around his shoulders and a lifetime later a blurry face in the rain apologizing for her driver and telling him he's going down the rabbit hole and through the looking glass, this time to stay.

"Ten minutes," says Will Zimmerman.

Minutes meld into hours. He knew that they would.

Orman balances a steno book on his knee, a pencil bobbing between his fingers. Will is seated across from the man, in the wingback chair he favors, before the fireplace in Will's own sitting room. They've been talking for hours. Over the course of two days.

Will hadn't realized how long he waited to tell this tale. But the words spill out of him, as though this opportunity is the be all and end all he's been anticipating for years. The stories on his tongue taste like coming home. And he can't stem the tide.

"I can't believe you had the nerve to kill her?" Orman asks, eyes bright in the flickering fire, cheeks pink from the close warmth.

Will gives a gentle laugh. "Neither can I. Even now. I think my heart stopped with hers for a bit that day."

"Yet she didn't blame you?"

"Why would she blame me? It was her request. It was the only choice." He's sure of all of this now in ways he once was not. The irony of the inverted roles is not lost upon him.

"I suppose it was...but still...only a few months together, and the immortal Magnus, dead on the floor by your doing."

"She's not immortal," he says, words impassioned and strong, and for a moment he remembers feeling like a protector, sure-legged and confident. "She never has been. She's as vulnerable to a bullet or drowning or a blow to the head as you or I. Never forget that."

Orman looks duly chastised, and gives a sober nod. "I'm sorry." They fall quiet, and Orman scribbles a few more notes on his pad. There is pretense between them of writing a book, a story. Interviewing for research, and Orman plays the role of the archivist.

The exchange is more comfortable in this light.

"You spoke of the conflict between Dr. Magnus and her daughter," Orman ventures at last. "In the wake of the news...of her father..."

"Yes."

"May I ask where things went from there? Did the doctor and her daughter come to terms?"

Those simple words, and Will finds himself in a shadowy corridor of the Sanctuary, wrapped in shawls of memory. "I didn't discuss the matter with Magnus again, not directly. And I never spoke with Ashley about her father. Things were still...off for a while. We all saw it."

"But..." Orman is a perceptive man, a reader of faces and inflection. Will feels a wisp of admiration and recalls passing a test over verdigris and a doorknocker.

"But...I did overhear a conversation one night. I didn't mean to..."

"Tell me."

Will debates a moment, then gives free reign to let the years fall away.

He takes a sip of the Earl Grey at his side, then clears his throat to speak. "There was a party at the Sanctuary one night, not long after we returned from the Bermuda Triangle. A holiday party for all the staff, the abnormals who were allowed to roam free..."

###

Will slipped his hands in his pockets and turned another corner, moving quietly and casually through the Sanctuary hallways that were fast becoming his home. He was still in the stage of wonder, and part of him hoped that would never change. He caught the occasional spark in Magnus's eyes when she locked gazes with Sally or touched hands with extraordinary friends through glass. Considering her years, this gave him ample hope. But the idea of family was new to him, and he doubted whether he would ever trust in its true solidity. In this...he suspected he had more in common with his mentor than he acknowledged most days. Or than she acknowledged.

The sounds of music and lively voices floated behind him as the festivities continued. Will had been having a lovely time, getting the chance to get to know a few more of the resident abnormals, settling in more comfortably as one of the inner circle. For the first time in a long time, he actually found himself looking forward to the holiday season, and wondering what on Earth one buys a 157 year old woman for Christmas. Or worse, her rather deadly daughter.

Will told himself he was in the hallway to stretch his legs, get a bit of cool air and take a brief respite from the revelry. He refused to admit he was watching around each corner, tracing familiar circles and waiting for the click of high heels and the scent of lavender.

Magnus had disappeared from the party a little while ago. And he was worried.

Will was very near to giving up and returning to the party (and Henry's promised rousing round of Christmas Carols on his electric guitar), when he caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows.

Helen Magnus was standing just down the next hallway, almost breathtaking in her quiet elegance. She leaned back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle in her t-strap heels, shawl pulled close around her. Her holiday dress was simple and dark and flattering in all the right ways. Beautiful. Yet the sadness around her hung like a cloak.

Will watched in transfixed silence. He hadn't worked up the nerve to approach her when the opportunity flashed and was gone.

Ashley appeared at the far end of the hall, a splash of bright hair and red silk blouse, drink still sparkling in her hand, movement and manner on a faster plane than those hiding in the hallway, lingering in the shadows.

The women's eyes met, and suddenly Will's need to be invisible was all consuming. He had never quite announced his presence, but now he couldn't get away without intruding on the moment. As silently as he could manage, Will slipped into a narrow, curtained alcove and settled beside a Mayan vase. He meant not to watch his friends, but the pull was so strong...

Ashley moved purposefully down the hall toward Magnus. Magnus remained subdued, tired or...he wanted to say 'hurting'. But she acknowledged her daughter's approach with a small smile. Will had never seen these two lack for warmth in one another's vicinity, even in the darkest of times.

Ashley slowed her pace and took up a place beside her mother. "Hey. What you doin' out here?"

Magnus drew a soft breath, then shrugged. "Just...taking a breather." And it occurred to Will that her excuse sounded as weak as his own.

"You all right?" Ashley prompted.

Helen turned and offered a pacifying smile that failed to brighten her eyes. "I'm fine."

The two women were quiet for a long moment, Helen's gaze returned to the floor beyond the toes of her shoes.

Ashley let go an audible sigh, sagged a bit, and leaned the side of her head against the wall. "Mom..." She let the word draw out and speak for itself.

"What?" The determination was admirable, but the intimacy in Ashley's tone had cracked Magnus's fa ade and her eyes had hazed with tears. She couldn't quite speak and still keep it together, and Will found he wanted to be anywhere but here and he wanted desperately to have the right to intervene. He had never meant to betray her privacy.

"If you're fine, why are you crying?" Ashley asked simply.

"I'm not crying." But there was a dry humor in the defiant words, for even Magnus knew it was obvious.

"Mom." Come on, you're kidding me.

Magnus looked at her daughter and half shook her head. Because whatever it was, it was there, alive between them, the fact of it all, and Will could tell there was nothing left to say. He felt the ache from his place in the shadows.

"We're okay," Ashley said, her tone softening with a gentleness to which Will was so rarely privy.

When Magnus didn't respond, her daughter nudged her with a drink glass against her arm. "We are."

Magnus held Ashley's gaze for a long moment, then she nodded with something too akin to dismissal. When her gaze had settled straight ahead once more, she whispered, "Okay."

Ashley sighed, understanding the withdrawal as well as Will. She settled her back against the wall, shoulder just inches from her mother's and began to study the painting across from them with the same false intensity.

When Will began to think the silence would stretch forever, Ashley said softly, "Did you love him?"

"What?"

"My father." He could tell the words felt foreign on her tongue. "Did you love him?"

Magnus's eyes narrowed, her tone warning. "Ashley..."

But Ashley was undaunted. "No. Before. Back when he was...you know...just your boyfriend. Just...John. Some guy in your class." Her gaze remained locked on the painting.

Magnus drew a soft breath, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Fighting her tears with every syllable, she whispered, "I never loved anyone so much in my life. Until you."

Ashley cleared her throat and shifted her weight against the wall. "Well, then...it's okay."

Magnus closed her eyes, turned to face Ashley directly. "Ashley, just bec-"

"No. Mom. It's okay."

The solidity of Ashley's formidable tone pressed Magnus into silence, and she shifted once more to rest her back against the wall.
Ashley wiggled nearer, and nudged Magnus's shoulder with her own. "Hey. What do we always say? Hmm?"

Helen slipped a tongue over her lips, recrossed her ankles and gave an incredulous laugh that hurt to listen to.

But Ashley wouldn't let it go. "No, come on, Mom. What do we always say?"

She held Ashley's insistent gaze for a long long time, the pain thick in the air, then at last she forced the words across her parted lips. "You and me. To the very end."

Ashley gave her a soft smile. "That's right. So there ya go."

Ashley tangled her hand with Magnus's. And Will watched as his mentor's fingers clasped hard in return. Then, without a word or a moment's eye contact, Ashley turned and buried her face in her mother's shoulder. Magnus's hand rose to cradle her daughter's blonde head with a tenderness Will was both ashamed and grateful to see.

Magnus pressed her mouth to the top Ashley's head, and while her daughter couldn't see, Magnus's composure shattered and for the first time, Will saw Helen Magnus cry.

When Ashley lifted her head, Magnus's composure was immediate. The two women hung together a few moments longer. Then Ashley tipped her glass toward Magnus, and said impishly, "Don't be too long."

"I won't," Magnus said, voice still shaky, as her daughter spun on her heel and strode back toward the party.

Magnus lingered against the wall until Ashley had turned a corner out of sight, then with a heavy breath she pushed away from the wall and started off in the opposite direction.

Her hand rose to shade her eyes as she walked, no less even purpose in her step for the lack of sight. Will held his breath as her steps brought her dangerously close to his poorly sheltered position.

Then it happened.

The world slipped into slow motion as Magnus's free hand swung out, and she drug the backs of her knuckles quite deliberately down his upper arm.

She never opened her eyes, never slowed her pace. She took the next turn in the corridor and was off in the distance before he could restart his heart or catch his breath.

###

"She knew you were there? All the time?" Orman is quite literally perched on the edge of his seat, notebook forgotten on the arm of his chair, as captivated by Will's tale as the man himself once was by the scene playing out before him.

"She did. Magnus has...a keen sense of her surroundings. I learned that before long."

"Then why...why did she...?"

"Because...well, I didn't fully comprehend it myself at the time, but...she was telling me I was...family. Like I had said on the sub. She was telling me that she knew I was there, and that...it was okay. That she wasn't going to call me Dr. Zimmerman and leave the room. I think it was her way of saying I could come out of the alcove next time."

"Did you ever speak of it?"

"Not once."

"In all the years?"

"Never."

Orman presses back a bit into his chair, catches at his pencil as it threatens to slip to the floor. "There's no one like her, is there?" he says softly.

Will chuckles in the firelight. "You have no idea. And with that thought...I believe we've talked enough for today."

"Oh, no. No, one more story. Please. Just one more." The man is like a child resisting his bedtime. Question after question after question. "Ten hours trapped in a tin can with me...and all your questions."

Will gives the man his best skeptical gaze, but he knows even as he lays on the pretense, that there is so much more he himself wants to say. And maybe not many more years in which to say it, nor many more ears to listen.

"What do you want to know?"

#