Archive of Our Own

Steps echoed back off the pavement, a quick, decisive rhythm in the warm night.  Late September in Australia meant spring had already started but the woman moving along so briskly wore an unseasonably heavy long coat as she walked.  Her nature seemed to be incapable of strolling, whether from tiredness (and it was late) or simply to enjoy the lovely night.  With her short, stocky frame and determined pace, an onlooker might have compared her with a World War II tank rolling implacably to its destination.  Some of her academic colleagues would have agreed with that analogy.

She stopped abruptly and slid one hand inside her coat.  She scanned the night around her with swift motions of her head, planted as solidly as if she had decided to set down roots.  Ahead of her, a tall bald man stepped out of the shadows of a building and spoke pleasantly enough in South African-accented English.  "Challenge."

The smaller woman nodded, golden skin catching the light as she did.  "There's an alley just past you."

As the two of them moved into the enclosed area, another man slid out of the shadows farther down the street and followed them into the alley.

When he stopped to look down the alley, the Indonesian woman had already begun the fight wielding a oddly shaped sword which resembled a boomerang sword from a machete; the blade bent forward about a third of the way down from the hilt. With the coat off, she looked even stockier, heavily muscled shoulders no longer counterbalanced by the length of the fabric.

Her taller opponent blocked her blows effortlessly with a heavy longsword, fighting just hard enough to keep her busy.  When his partner come in from behind them, he smiled and swiftly blocked his opponent's blade again.  This time he used his greater size to force her sword against the wall as he could have done at almost any point in the fight.  He was surprised to see her release the blade with one hand.  A kris buried itself in his upper abdomen, forcing him to double over in pain.  The terror didn't set in until he realized that he couldn't draw a breath because the strike had nicked his diaphragm.  The gold-skinned woman brought her sword up for the decapitating blow.

She never made it entirely around.  A thick-bladed shortsword severed her neck with one powerful stroke as the brown-haired immortal from the alley entrance brought his arm down.  The shorter man saw his partner drop to his knees, knife still in his solar plexus, as the lightning began to coil up from the woman's body.

From the same spot in the entry to the alley, a grey-haired woman watched silently as the quickening slammed him against the brick wall.  Knowing the lightning storm would obscure the flashes from her camera, she snapped a couple of pictures quickly, and turned away regretfully.  It wouldn't do for them to find her there, and she needed to report to Watcher Headquarters for reassignment.

But it was a hell of a thing to see two immortals break the rules like that.  Rabi had been a good woman, if a bit rigid in her thinking.  She had deserved better than to be taken by a pair of immortals who didn't think that the 'one on one' rule applied anymore.  And Rabi could have taken either of them in combat singly, her Watcher judged sadly.  You didn't last six and a half centuries in the Game without being good.

Oh, well, by this time next month, she'd have a new immortal to watch.  The Game went on.

The two men walked out of the terminal and into the sunlight, still chatting amiably in English.  The taller man wore his dark hair drawn back into a short pony-tail and carried most of their bags, moving easily despite his burdens.  Sunglasses obscured his eyes from sight but his easy laughter betrayed his good mood.  The other man had rapidly greying hair, cut short, and a beard and mustache.  He wore sunglasses also and walked with a cane, carrying a guitar case in his free hand.

"Adam!  There you are!  We thought you'd gotten stuck in traffic."

The man who sauntered up to them smiled at that statement and took one bag.  "Not quite, Joe.  It was finding a place to park that was nearly impossible.  Hello, Mac."

Mac smiled back, quickly looking him up and down for the sheer pleasure of seeing that he was well.  "Hello yourself.  Good timing, that bag was getting heavy.  Joe, what did you pack?  Bricks?"

The grey-haired man grinned at him.  "Nah, some extra barbells for you.  Getting slack, pal?"

"Not with my sparring partners."  All three of them began to work their way to the parking area, Duncan and Adam taking point without discussing it to shield Joe from jostling.

"So is Rich still in Seacouver?" Adam asked casually, referring to Duncan's student.

"Running the dojo and renovating Aidan's fourth floor on the weekends.  I think they were going to install a fireplace this weekend before it got too cold in there.  They're debating putting one on the fourth floor."  Duncan slung their bags into the back of Adam's beat-up Volvo station wagon as he spoke.

"Who's on which side of the debate?"  Joe glanced up, interested.  "I hadn't heard this."

"Oh, we were all discussing it at dinner night before last.  Aidan wants to put one in upstairs, on general principles as she put it.  Rich thinks giving a new student an apartment of their own is spoiling him or her rotten, much less putting in a fireplace.  I told Rich that he was pushing his luck.  Aidan finally told him very sweetly that it was about time he learned some new meditation techniques and that a flame to focus on helped immensely.  Did he want a cold floor and a candle or a warm rug and a fire?"

Joe and Adam both laughed at that.  The blues-man's eyes crinkled with easy laughter as he said, "Yeah, Mac, I can just hear it.  Damn, she's dangerous when she uses that tone.  I take it Aidan won, since it's her house and money?"

Duncan slid into the back seat.  "She's going to, but officially she's going to decide in a couple days.  More to let Rich save face than anything else."

"To give credit where it's due, Aidan always does turn out well-trained students.  Of course, she usually takes fifteen years or so to do it."  Adam concentrated on the Paris traffic for a moment as he changed lanes, then raised an eyebrow at the other two in the car.  "Well, she does.  Ask her sometime about what her students learn before she cuts them loose.  It's a long list."

"Fifteen years.  Damn, Mac, what was it, six, eight years before Connor sent you off?"  Joe shook his head, wonderingly.

"Nine, but then he had less than a year with Ramirez before the Kurgan showed up.  Of course, Aidan said she spent about twenty years with you, Adam, and another fifteen with Ramirez.  Why so long?"  Duncan leaned in between the two front seats to hear the answer, watching Methos' eyes to see when to duck out of the way of the rear-view mirror.  The Scot could almost feel the other man's attention shift back and forth as he drove, the two of them moving around each other smoothly.

In the driver's seat Methos shrugged, but his casual body language was deceptive.  Part of his mind was on the discussion, part on the traffic, and a small part had noticed the change in MacLeod's behavior and was wondering what it portended.

"We wanted her to live, MacLeod.  Both Ramirez and I thought Edana had a shot at the Prize if we could make her fast enough, and she's not one to be easily corrupted by power, which makes her a good candidate for it.  Too responsible for her own good, I think.  So we trained the hell out of her and kept her busy at anything we could find while teaching her every dirty trick she could absorb.

"It worked, I'd say; she's made it this far.  Also, it gave us an extra couple of decades to take fights for her and make her more dangerous.  Rule of thumb, Joe.  Immortal females who make it past the first century will go far.  Immortal males have to make it past the first five centuries.  After that they're fairly safe.  Well, until they piss off someone like one of the MacLeods, that is."

"Why so long, Adam?  Hey, wait, Mac hasn't made it to five hundred yet."

"The men think they can bull through on muscle and expect that the smaller, weaker opponents are harmless.  Most of the women lack that kind of strength.  Either they compensate or they die.  But they learn the first law of survival almost immediately."  Methos caught Duncan's eyes in the rear-view mirror but his voice never changed.  "Any challenge can kill you if you're careless -- male, female, child, helpless-looking, whatever.  Once the men figure that out, they'll make it.  But it usually takes about five centuries."

In the mirror, he saw Duncan nod, very serious, and Methos nodded to him, then went on.  "But Aidan thinks her students should be able to survive as much as she can, and most of them aren't as smart.  So it takes longer."

Joe shook his head and said, "I don't follow the math.  She took thirty-five years, hers usually take fifteen, and it takes longer?"

"I started with a teen-ager who had never held a sword before and had no training in strategy or tactics.  Joe, she had no idea how to clean a blade, much less sharpen it.  Her students have usually picked up a weapon before, even the women.  Quite a few of them had been raw troops, once or twice out of military families.  She makes them learn basic accounting, languages, how to travel without being too obvious.  But she doesn't push them into ancient languages, or smithing.  She rarely makes them learn higher math, or gem-cutting, or the laws of rhetoric and drama.

"We could have cut her loose after ten years, certainly.  We simply didn't.  Ramirez had learned how to do some odd effects with his quickening, and managed to teach them to Aidan.  She always said her Druidic training made it easier.  And the woman can still do astronomical calculations, speak and write a score of dead languages, and knows three dozen other skills to keep mind and body flexible."

Duncan nodded, watching and listening with a great deal of interest.  "I've seen her workshop.  I see what you mean.  But didn't she ever get impatient?"

"No, not really.  She's always enjoyed studying, and I think she enjoyed staying with us for so long.  She was a foundling dedicated to the gods, MacLeod.  The clan elders and the priests raised Edana; she never had a family.  Ramirez was the closest thing to a father she ever had."  Methos shrugged as they took a corner, eyes lit with amused mischief.  "Besides, we told her this was normal."

Joe snorted.  "I bet you did!  Did she believe it?"

"She didn't ask for centuries; she was laughing when she did.  I think Edana believed it at the time."  Methos pulled up in front of an apartment building and parked.  "Here you are, Joe, safe and sound at Jean-Phillipe's place."

"Gave up your old apartment, Joe?"  Duncan hefted one of the bags out of the back as Methos grabbed the other one.

"Hell, Mac, I never know where you're going or for how long.  Didn't make sense to keep an apartment here.  Besides, my old place went when I sold the bookstore.  The new owner insisted on us throwing it in as part of the purchase."

Methos laughed.  "Damn right I did, it's convenient.  But I did help you pack everything into storage... during mid-terms at the university, I might add."

Duncan commented, "Come on, you two.  Been a long day."

"Yeah, that it has.  So, Adam, any idea whether there's food in the fridge?"

They carried Joe's bags in, cheerfully debating the likelihood of there being food in stock, whether the two immortals could be talked into staying and helping Joe shop, and when Joe wanted a ride to pick up the car he used when he was in Paris.

Joe studied the apartment he was subletting (from another Watcher, Duncan suspected) and nodded.  "Yup, all the comforts of home.  Hey, hey, there's even food in the kitchen.  Now if my other bags just get in on time, which is definitely expecting too much of Aire France ....  All right.  I'm gonna get a shower and some sleep.  One of you wanna give me a call tomorrow and we'll get my car?"

Duncan glanced at Methos.  "You've already taken an afternoon away from the bookstore; would you rather I take care of it?"

Methos raised an eyebrow, then nodded.  "Thanks, Mac."

Joe shooed them out the door.  "Go on.  I want to clean up and I'm tired."

Duncan walked to the car, admiring Methos' easy stride as they went.  The older immortal glanced back and said, "You that tired, MacLeod?"

"No.  Why?"

Methos commented wryly, "You don't usually lag behind.  You sure you're not tired?"

"I'm fine, just wool-gathering.  Damn, I should have stayed and gotten a shower there.  It'll take awhile for the hot-water heater on the barge to warm up.  Oh, well, more time to start uncovering and unpacking."

Methos smiled.  "Oh, I don't know, Mac, that might not be safe.  Aren't you afraid of the giant killer dust bunnies?"

"What?"  Duncan stared at him.

"Well, if you're going to worry about domestic problems, I thought I'd mention the obvious.  You have been gone for a while...."  Both of them were laughing as they climbed in the car and the older immortal casually continued, "Besides, I already turned on the water-heater and the other utilities."

MacLeod raised an eyebrow.  "Been hanging around Amanda again?"

"Gods, no, MacLeod, I like my head firmly on my shoulders.  She manages to talk men into more trouble....  No, Rich left his keys to the barge with me; he was afraid he'd misplace them somewhere between here and Seacouver."  Methos smiled at the Scot and said, "Besides, how else could I make sure there'd be cold beer to steal from your fridge when I dropped you off?"

"If it's yours, is it still stealing?"  Mac asked dryly.

"It's all in the mindset, Highlander; it's your refrigerator, therefore, technically it could be theft.  Have to keep my hand in, you see."

"From when?  Have you stolen anything but beer since Butch and Sundance retired south of the border?"

"A few dates, several good quotes, a few million marks...."

Duncan turned in his seat and stared.  "As in deutsche marks?"

"Well, what other kind would be worth stealing?  Besides, the owners certainly weren't entitled to them."

"Do I want to ask or should I shut up about here?"  Duncan firmly reminded himself about that one apology he'd already had to make this year and those talks with Aidan.  He was not going to judge Methos again.  Well, he'd try not to, anyway.

Methos raised an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised, then said, "Oh, you can ask.  I took them off a truck that had held some very unpleasant men in grey uniforms with silver lightning bolts on the collars.  This was about fifty years ago."

"No, no.  That's not stealing, Methos, that's instant karma."  Mac shook his head, face darkening from old memories.  "Nazis.  God, killing them was nearly a community service."

"I forgot, you helped in that war, didn't you?  A lot of us did, on both sides."

"Connor and I rescued Rachel from that war.  He found a six-year old child hiding from the SS in some boxes.  They shot him while he was holding her and he came back to life literally on top of her.  She's never given us away once in all the time since.  Not even when she was a child."

Methos glanced at him, pulling his attention from the traffic briefly.  "No, I didn't know about that.  No wonder she's so loyal to him.  I knew Rachel lived with him after the war, but most of the Watcher Chronicles from that period are a little sparse on information.  Our Watchers kept getting killed or drafted; no few volunteered for covert ops.  They seemed to think they were suited to it for some odd reason."

Duncan matched his tone, irony for sarcasm.  "I can't imagine why.  Just because they only needed minimal training at a time when Europe couldn't spare much training for anyone.  Who was on the other side of the war that you know of?"

"Well, Alexei Voishin for one, but didn't you take his head?"

"Yes, I did.  And he was with the Russians, so it's questionable which side he was on.  He was black marketeering certainly.  There were others of us here and there.  I took a few heads in those years.  You?"

A faint smile flickered across Methos' face.  "Oh, I was safely buried in MI6, MacLeod, translating broadcasts, papers and other... acquired items for the military.  Did the occasional intelligence analysis for them.  Kept my head down in the bomb shelters, in other words."

"Why do I have trouble believing that's all you did?" the Scot commented, not expecting an answer.

"Because you're a Boy Scout?"

"No, no, Baden-Powell set that up decades too late for me to join.  There's an age limit, you know."

Methos immediately riposted, "How would they notice, MacLeod?  You never act yours."

"And you do?  That would explain the rocks in your head," the younger immortal replied.  "Legacy of the Stone Age, o venerable one?"

"Who's driving, MacLeod?  Do you want to make it there?"

"Why?  Eyesight giving out on you?  I understand that and the memory are the first to go."

"That would explain why you can never sort out your girlfriends, but doesn't it get embarrassing calling them by the wrong name?  Don't you miss the days when you could write their names on your shirt cuff?"

"Didn't you know?  In those days you called them all 'my darling.'  Made things much simpler," Duncan grinned.

"You spent too much time with Bryan Cullen, Highlander.  He was terrible about that.  Besides, calling them 'my darling' at the wrong time led to the wrong impression; they began to think marriage was around the corner.  But I've said for years that you were simple."

That drew an indignant noise from Duncan.  "Simple?  Damn, Fitz wasn't that insulting, Methos."

"Round One to me," Methos murmured and they came to a stop on the quay in front of Duncan's barge.

"Round One to you," Duncan agreed.  "But simple?"

"All right, will you settle for basic?"  Methos asked, fighting back a smile.

"It's a slight improvement.  Explains why I get along so well with you, too," he chuckled.

"What?  How?"  Methos eyed the other man warily, sensing a trap in that one.

"Well, they say opposites attract, and you can certainly be acidic...."  Mac hefted his bags out of the Volvo.

Methos gave him a lazy two-finger salute for that shot.  "Nice, you may yet start winning some of these.  But I think I have the advantage in the war."

Duncan shrugged casually.  "Who's fighting?  Sparring, maybe.  But we established a good while back that I don't want your head.  And if you wanted mine, you'd have taken it ages ago."

They took the bags onto the barge and Duncan looked around.  Everything was under dust-covers or packed away in the crates that his storage company had delivered during the last week.  "I hate this part.  I'm beginning to understand why Aidan was threatening to move rather than close up her place."

Methos chuckled.  "That sounds like her.  Come on, MacLeod, I'll do my good deed for the day and make a food run while you get a shower.  I assume you can dig up supplies for that easily enough?"

Duncan looked around, found the crate he wanted (at the bottom of a pile, naturally enough, Murphy's Law being what it was) and then realized the fundamental problem.  "Methos?"

"Yes?"  He waited, sure from the tone that this was going to be good.

"One question."

"And that would be?"

"Do you have a crowbar or something in your car?  The towels are in here."  Mac shook his head, his ironic sense of humor coming to the fore.

"Just for my curiosity, what were you going to do if I didn't?"  Methos had to ask.

"Kick the thing to pieces, but if you have a prybar...."   The Highlander shrugged.

"I'll get it.  Grab me a beer, would you?"

In the end Mac came and helped at the bookstore for the afternoon rather than face the boxes by himself.  Methos had decided it was a fair trade.  The Scot could come charm customers and then buy dinner; the older immortal would help him unpack boxes and figure out where the hell the bed linens had gone.

So after work they sat at one of the sidewalk cafes, drank coffee and ate, and commented on the women going by in the fashion of Parisians from time immemorial.  Methos slouched in his chair, threw out opinions on anything that came up, and contemplated his companion.  He had never seen the Scot more relaxed.  Duncan was amiable, opinionated, ready to discuss anything that came up, and completely at ease.  The change from the brooding, judgmental man in Bordeaux a few months ago was incredible.  I'll have to find out what did this and stock in a supply!

Duncan glanced up, brown eyes glinting with contained humor.  "I thought I was the jet-lagged one here."

"You are, Highlander.  Why?"

"You keep losing the thread of the conversation.  Where are you, anyway?"

A half-smile crooked across the older immortal's mouth.  "I suppose I could point out that I'm right here, and this is Paris, but why be annoying?"

"Because you're practicing it as an art form?" was the cheerful reply.

"Has Aidan been rubbing off on you, MacLeod?"

Duncan laughed at that.  "Probably.  We've been in and out of each other's pockets for four months now.  Is that a problem?"

"No, just an odd sensation.  Other than dealing with Rich, how is she?"

"Frustrated, I think, because she's suspended on that damn manuscript, waiting for the galley proofs to come back so she can be done with it.  Other than that, she's terrorizing Rich and doing fine."  Duncan laughed.  "She did say something about writing an article for Speculum.  Isn't that the medieval history journal?"

Methos snickered.  "Yes, it is.  I'll have to write and ask her what she's up to.  Ah, speaking of writing, you have a letter from her in the barge.  I brought your mail in this morning."

Duncan raised an eyebrow.  "I only left yesterday morning.  How can I already have mail from her?"

"She did the same thing to me," Methos commented.  "The letter went out before you did.  Seems to be her version of a housewarming present."

"That woman."  Duncan chuckled low in his throat and settled his one leg more comfortably across the other, then sipped at his coffee.  The silence between the two of them was relaxed now, unlike the days after Keane's challenge and Byron's death.

Wait 'til you read it, Duncan.  If it's anything like what she sent me, you're in for a pleasant shock.  I'd be more surprised if it wasn't a love letter.  I know you were sleeping together.  Probably not sleeping much, either.

Duncan met that enigmatic green-gold gaze calmly, enjoying the company and the comforting feel of the other immortal's presence.  Somehow the simultaneous quickenings in Bordeaux had bounced between him and Methos briefly, tying the two of them together in some odd fashion.  Just being near the other immortal eased a tension he hadn't known he felt when they were apart.  And the more time they spent together, the more closely they seemed to resonate off each other.  It wouldn't entirely surprise him to find out they were breathing in synch at the moment.  But why hadn't this started earlier -- when they were both in Seacouver, say, or immediately after Bordeaux for that matter?

"You're starting to fade, MacLeod, let's go."

At the same time, Duncan said, "Shall we get going?  Even with this coffee, I'm going to need sleep soon."  They looked at each other and then smiled.  "Come on, let's go see what didn't get delivered."  Duncan dropped the tip on the table as they left.

Moonlight cast pale shadows along the rocky path, hiding more than it revealed, but the tall whipcord-slender woman moved smoothly along the path using a spear as a walking stick.  She seemed to expect at any step that the earth would not be there, and thus was never surprised when it wasn't.  Her coloring suited her surroundings admirably.  Jet-black skin and hair drank the moonlight from the sky; comfortable khaki clothes matched the sere grass she moved across.  In the dark night she simply paused to blend into the shadows along the trail, watching and listening as the night went still around her.

At last a mocking voice spoke out of the blackness in roughly accented Italian.  "Shall we stay awake until dawn and fight then?"

Mandisa settled herself more comfortably against the boulder and waited for the fool to leave or the sun to rise.  She could afford patience; she had learned it in a very hard school and paid dearly enough for the lesson.

The voice tried again, in careful, badly phrased Amharic this time.  "Going to fight or run, woman?"

She smiled to herself, careful not to bare white teeth in the dark, and waited.  This would be a long night but it had a definite potential for entertainment.  Perhaps he knew some languages she didn't.  With one hand she checked to be sure her spear was still there;  the other loosened her knife in its sheath for easy access when she needed it.  She had slept all afternoon, planning to walk through the night.  Somehow Mandisa doubted that he had.  Come pre-dawn, when light was uncertain and he was tired, she would take the fool's head -- if he was still here.

Methos glanced back once at Duncan and tried valiantly not to laugh at the look on his friend's face.  At first the Scot had appeared surprised, then his eyes had widened even farther and his face had gotten flushed.  Now his expression held both fascination and intrigue.  Nice to know Aidan hadn't lost her touch with love letters.

Duncan reread the last paragraph and put the letter away.  Methos handed him a beer from the fridge and asked in a deliberately level tone, "Need something cold?"

The Scot shook his head.  "My God, no wonder she makes a living as a writer."  He took the beer almost absentmindedly and drank half of it in one long swallow.

The older immortal started in surprise.  When MacLeod's fingers had brushed his on the beer bottle, Methos had felt arousal, and love, and bemusement -- but they hadn't been his feelings.  "Mac...."

Duncan was staring at him, taken equally unawares.  "What was that?"

Methos tilted his head to one side, fascinated by this.  "MacLeod-- No, what do you think it was?"

The Scot paused for a long moment, clearly trying to find the precise words he wanted.  "For a moment I knew how you felt.  Not because I was thinking about it, or trying to figure it out, but because for a moment, I was feeling what you did.  You were amused, and a little curious, and pleased... and not at all jealous.  Good.  I wasn't trying to steal Aidan from you, Methos."

That drew a raised eyebrow.  "Gods, MacLeod, I never thought you were.  For one thing, if you were the type to try, Edana wouldn't sleep with you.  But you're right, that's exactly what I was feeling.  You were aroused, a bit bemused, and you love her, but you can't quite believe she wrote you that.  Yes?"

"Aye, that's it exactly.  God, this is strange, Methos.  What is it?"  Duncan realized that he wasn't frightened of whatever was doing this, just startled.

Methos sprawled on the couch, hands steepled on his chest while he thought.  He heard Duncan move, but didn't look up until he felt a hand wrap around his wrist.  Duncan was checking his pulse... with the other hand feeling for his own?  Astonishment from the Scot, definitely.

"Highlander?  What is it?"  Now Methos was starting to see a pattern.  Implications began to crowd across that agile mind, screaming for attention, only to vanish when he tried to listen to them.

"Our heartbeats are in synch, Methos.  Feel."  Duncan let go and turned his own wrist up to let Methos check.  "What are you worrying about all of a sudden?"

The older immortal took both their pulses, then listened for their breathing and heard one pattern in the room, not two.  He let go of Duncan's hand and gently pushed the other man away.  "Go stand by the door, Mac.  Let's check this."  After the Scot got there, Methos deliberately set his face into a bland mask, but he wanted to change his emotional state to one the Scot wouldn't expect.

With an internal loathing, the ancient immortal called up memories of a time in the Horsemen's camp when Kronos had allowed Caspian to 'play' with him.  He could still hear the caressing voice.  'Don't kill him, brother, just punish him.  He has to know that the only the strong can be our brothers, and only our brothers are safe from us.'

"What am I feeling, MacLeod?"  He kept his voice calm and uninflected by any stress.  Duncan had gone pale under that golden skin, the former Horseman saw.

"Rage.  Disgust.  Stubbornness.  Unclean.  You were-- Caspian was--"  The Scot ran out of words, visibly distressed, and Methos realized in shock that he had caught the edge of some of the memories not just the emotional state behind them.  Thank the Gods all he had let himself remember was the torture.

"Easy, easy, Highlander.  It's all right.  That was centuries ago."  Instinctively the older immortal shunted his mind away from that time to a more pleasant one, calling up some of the peace he had known sleeping beside Alexa and trying to throw that calm to Duncan.  This time he could feel the tension ease out of the younger man. The connection between them seemed to be that same place that he turned within himself after Bordeaux when he needed the reassurance of knowing MacLeod had survived what Kronos had thrown at them.  That double quickening had linked the two of them, all right.   It remained to be determined by how much, and what other repercussions might yet show up.

"It's not all right, Methos," Duncan insisted as he moved back across the room.  "Was that real?  What I saw?"

Gold-green eyes met his, then Methos nodded, trying to ease his friend's distress.  "Yes, it was real.  I shouldn't have used those memories.  I'm sorry."

"I only saw it, man, I'm not the one who had to live through it!  Are you all right?"  Warm strong hands caught Methos' shoulders and the older immortal felt love and a protective worry wrap around him.

He murmured in Greek, "This could get addictive."  For a moment he simply enjoyed the certainty of a friendship he could almost wrap around himself, and the feel of Duncan's hands on him.  Then, carefully, before he could betray emotions that would send MacLeod running for the hills, he began to mute his feelings as he had learned years before in meditation practices.

"I'm fine, MacLeod.  Can you still feel what I'm thinking now?"

Duncan closed his eyes, concentrating, and caught a faint touch of concern and fondness that weren't his own, but even as he reached for them, they vanished.  "No, not now.  But I can still feel you.  Even if I couldn't see you, I'd know you were alive.  Methos, when did we start doing this?"

"After Bordeaux, I could think about you and know you were still out there, still had your head.  But it was nothing like this.  Now that I think about it, when I picked you up at the airport, I knew it was you and not some other immortal."

"Really?  Now that you mention it, I was sure it was you, too.  And it wasn't just the strength of your presence."  Duncan yawned widely, then apologized, "Sorry about that.  Are you all right, though?"

"I'm fine, MacLeod, it was only pain.  You know as well as I do that it goes away.  I needed an emotion you wouldn't expect.  I never expected you would catch any of the images or I'd have picked something less disturbing."  Methos stood and quickly scanned the boxes piled around.  "Here, hold on a second."

A few seconds work with the prybar opened the box and Methos threw him a plastic bag full of sheets and pillows.  "You need to sleep.  Tomorrow we'll start figuring this out."

"That we will.  Here, pass me the blankets."  The two of them quickly got the bed made up and Duncan walked Methos out to his car, both of them silent but enjoying the company.  Once there, he reached out and caught the older man's shoulders again.

"I'm glad to see you.  Watch your head, all right?"

Methos stepped back a pace, making Duncan drop his grip, but he caught one arm as it dropped.  He wrapped his hand around MacLeod's forearm, and felt the clasp returned. "I try, Highlander.  Watch your own.  I'll see you later?"

"Definitely."  The younger immortal watched his friend drive off.  Even after Duncan went back into the barge, he could very faintly feel him.  The letter from Aidan sat in a box on the bedside table, still smelling of the rose perfume she wore.  The Highlander wrapped that scent and the comfort of Methos' signature around himself as he slid under the blankets and went to sleep.

They fought in the grey light of first dawn, spear against cavalry saber.  To an onlooker it was a frightening sight, the tall black woman darting and striking like a snake with the much longer weapon against a smaller man and a shorter weapon.   The compact man had sandy hair, a tan, and wore khakis and an Australian bush-hat.  He was all of a color and as suited to the environment as she.  Unfortunately for him, he was also losing.

Mandisa stepped lightly to one side and feinted with the butt of her spear, then swung to slice open his belly with the blade.  She had already laid open his arm once; not two minutes ago a crippling jab to one thigh had nearly ended this.  Now she blocked his sword with the ironwood shaft of the spear and reversed the motion into a stroke that disemboweled him.

His knees buckled but the man caught himself on his sword.  He knelt there, hunched over and shrieking as the pain seared through him.  "Finish it, damn you!"  He looked up in time to see the spear head swing at him and then he felt nothing at all.

Lightning battered at Mandisa briefly before the quickening soaked into her skin like rain into the thirsty ground.  She straightened, frowning.  Almost absently, she shoved down at his personality with her will, disturbed by several things now.

Pulling a collapsible shovel from her pack, the tall black woman quickly dug a shallow grave and rolled the body into it.  His sword went in with him, but she took his wallet.  Later there would be time to see who he had been and what his papers told about him; for now she needed to move.  Regretfully she buried her own blood-splattered clothes in with him, then covered the grave with dirt and rocks.  Rather than exhaust her own supplies, she used water from his pack to clean herself off.

Hurriedly she pulled on her one spare set of clothes and picked up her spear again.  Within fifty yards, she had settled into a fast-moving pace that would cover thirty miles before afternoon.  As she ran, her thoughts turned to the puzzle of the night's challenge.  She had never seen him before, and he was neither good enough nor old enough to have been challenging  her.  Mandisa had wandered the world for almost six centuries now.  That man had been much, much younger than she was.  Who would hunt her in the middle of nowhere?  And why her?  There was purpose underlying this, a plan somewhere.  He had waited through the night for her. Why?  If he was the goat, where was the tiger?

In the back of her mind, a new sense of urgency laced through Mandisa.  Something was badly wrong.  Her path now led to Bur Sudan and the ships there.  Time to get to Alexandria, access her money and change her name; time to call her friends and line-kin and sound them out.  She had felt no pull to travel, no tug at her soul, no increase in aggression.  If the Gathering had not started, then what had?

In the unmarked grave, unnoticed in her hurry, the man held his final secret with him.  In his shirt pocket he'd had a photograph of her face.

Duncan turned unerringly to face the door, knowing it was Methos before he looked.  Two days of experimentation had brought a few conclusions.  They could read or project emotions to each other over a short distance... sometimes.  Touch helped a great deal.  When it was working particularly clearly the two immortals could catch images or actual words, but it was tiring to try for too long.  Methos could keep Duncan from reading his emotions if he concentrated, although Duncan hadn't yet mastered that.  More frustrating, they never knew when the empathy would work.  The sole comfort so far was that nothing either of them did could keep from the other that almost subconscious knowledge of continued life.

The older immortal shed his coat as he walked down the steps into the barge.  "MacLeod?"

"Back here.  Come on in."  The Scot turned long enough to be sure there was no one else with Methos, a welcoming smile on his face.  "Beer in the fridge or wine on the counter."

Methos looked around appreciatively.  "Have you bothered sleeping, or did you turn into a one-man unpacking crew?"

"Long practice," came the dry reply.  "Dinner will be ready in about ten, your timing's perfect."

Methos poured himself some wine and refilled Duncan's glass.  Wandering over, he explored the CD's under the stereo and sighed in mock disgust.  "Highlander, when's your birthday?"

"You've read my chronicles," Duncan laughed.  "Don't you remember?"

"Details, MacLeod, details.  And actually I do, now that you mention it.  Joe told me.  Midwinter's Eve, right?  The 21st of December?"

"Yeah.  Why?"

Methos straightened and said, "Because I agree with Aidan; I'm buying you music from this century.  Did Joe give you the jazz CDs?"  He began loading the stereo as he talked.

"No, just the names of the artists.  I liked some albums he loaned Rich and thought I'd remove some of your ammunition."  Duncan wandered over to see what CDs his friend had put in the stereo and nodded.  "Yeah, that's a good one.  You'll like it."

The china on the table was particularly good, and for that matter so was the wine.  Methos looked around in interest, catching a faint flavor of mischief off Duncan that vanished as he reached for it.  "Why the good china?  Did I come on the wrong night?"

"No, you're here on the right night.  That's the only china I have at the moment.  Kasim torched the barge last year and I haven't replaced all the everyday stuff yet."

Methos nodded and settled down to look at the chess board.  "Yeah, this is a different set.  Didn't you have insurance?  I thought they usually hounded you to replace everything at once and be done."

"That's Darius' chess-set.  The brothers at St. Julien's gave it to me.  And the insurance company wanted me to total out the boat and buy a new one, said she was too old to be worth replacing.  I used the check to repair her instead."  He shrugged.  "The Nobile and I get along to well for me to ditch her."

"No one respects antiques anymore," Methos commented.

"Oh, I dunno, Aidan respects you."  The delivery was so offhand that Methos took a second to catch what had been said, and by then MacLeod was on the other side of the barge.  The older immortal smiled and shook his head but refused to dignify that one with a response.

Duncan glanced over and said, "Don't start a chess game.  I'll burn dinner trying to beat you."

Methos commented, "That would be the only way you distracted me enough to lose."

"We'll see, but later.  You are not making me destroy this.  Come and eat, Methos."  Duncan served up the food and they both sat down, cheerfully discussing what sorts of things the barge still needed and how long it would take Gina de Valicourt to figure out that Duncan was in Paris.

Methos knew Duncan was up to something but it was too much effort to try to feel his emotions.  All the attempt got him was a raised eyebrow and a laugh.  "Behave.  What did you want to know?"

"Oh, trying to see how much preparation it takes.  Maybe it's the right frame of mind, too."  He turned his attention back to dinner, part of his mind wondering what was going on.  Now that he thought about it, Duncan's clothes were much more casual than usual.  Dark jeans and a white poet shirt suited him, and from the wear on the jeans they were old favorites, but it was a definite change from the more formal slacks and silk dress shirts he usually saw Mac in.

The food, however, was excellent.  They talked about a little of everything as they ate.  The mention of Gina led to her estate, which led to classic cars, which went to classic music.    From there, they wandered to gossip about other immortals.  Duncan talked to a fair number of them and the Watchers still came through Shakespeare & Company on a regular basis, ostensibly to buy books.  More often they really came to gossip with Adam Pierson or ask opinions or suggestions for research directions.

The look on Methos' face was one of malicious amusement as he finished one story.  "They had no idea where to look in the journals and Monique's description was so vague, it could be any of three dozen men or a handful of women who like to travel as men."

"So what did you do to her?  You look pleased with yourself."

"She's a prurient, back-stabbing bootlicker; I gave her what she deserved.  I sent her after someone I know perfectly well was nowhere near the scene.  Lidell Benton hasn't been seen by the Watchers in two decades.  No great surprise -- Amanda took his head.  But I certainly couldn't tell Monique that, now could I?  I was only a lowly researcher.  I'm not supposed to be gossiping with the immortals, now am I?"

Duncan did laugh.  "You have her suspecting an immortal who's twenty years dead?  Nice work."  He put his wine glass down, and his expression was both mischievous and a bit nervous.  "But there was some gossip I wanted to ask you about."

Methos glanced up at him, caught by some shade or texture of his voice, then shrugged and took a sip of his wine.  "Ask away, Highlander."

Duncan watched him from serious dark brown eyes and said, "I heard a rumor that you were in love with me."

Methos choked on his wine and set his glass down abruptly, coughing.  His mind spun wildly, trying to come up with explanations, denials, something or anything other than the one recurring thought:  I'm going to kill Aidan for this.  Before he could manage to say anything, Duncan had come around the table and slapped him on the back a few times.

"Are you all right?"

"MacLeod, I--"  The oldest immortal couldn't come up with anything to say for a second and Duncan's hands slid up along his sweater to wrap around the narrow shoulders.  The quiet, loving tone in the Highlander's voice silenced Methos before he could get any more words out.

"Because I was hoping the rumor was true."  Duncan held still, unwilling to push this any farther until he got some kind of response from the unmoving form in front of him.  Despite what Aidan said, what even Duncan was sure of, he didn't believe in pressing his attentions on women who didn't want them.  He wasn't about to start with men.  So he stood there, a chair separating their bodies, hands motionless on Methos' shoulders, and hoped.  Deliberately, he didn't try to see what Methos was feeling, but he let his own love flow out across their link.  Push, no -- convince, sweet talk or persuade, well that was another matter entirely.

The older immortal sat there, stunned and disbelieving, but he kept hearing the words and the tone of voice.  After a few seconds that felt like hours, he realized what he was feeling from Duncan and that the younger man was deliberately letting him feel it.  Loosening his grip on three years of protective wall, Methos reached up and wrapped his hands around Duncan's where they lay on his shoulders.  They stayed where they were for a long moment, fingers intertwined.

Hesitancy and worry moved back across the link to Duncan, but affection was mixed with them, too.  The younger man freed a hand and moved to one side of the chair.  Still holding Methos' left hand, he dropped down to one knee which brought his face to the same level as his friend's.  "I tried not being your friend, Methos."  The rueful chuckle drew the startled gold-green eyes to his face.  "I'm surprised it didn't kill both of us.  I'm going to be your friend whether the answer is yes or no.  But I'd like to be your lover, too."

Those multicolored eyes widened even more as Methos absorbed that last shock.  Watching him, Duncan couldn't help smiling with pleasure and a little mischief he couldn't suppress; the joy on his face finally gave Methos the control to speak.

"Duncan, are you sure about this?"

The Highlander leaned forward slowly to give his friend time to back away if he wanted.  Methos literally could not have moved if his life had depended on it; then that warm, full mouth was on his and he didn't want to move.  Duncan kissed him gently, not pressing for entry, but enjoying the taste and scent of the other man's skin.  With the last of his control, the younger immortal kept his free hand down at his side.  He knew that he had to be the one who started this, but he needed to know that Methos wanted it, that the older man wasn't simply allowing but enjoying.

Methos tightened his grip on Duncan's hand and leaned into the Scot without realizing it, lips opening to draw the younger man in.  Duncan promptly deepened the kiss, tasting garlic and basil from dinner, the wine they had both been drinking, and the particular flavor of Methos himself.  His free hand wrapped behind the other man's neck, thumb stroking across the sensitive spot just under the ear and his fingers buried in the short hair.

They started slowly, exploring the taste of each other, each wanting to learn what the other liked.  Methos nibbled along Duncan's lower lip and smiled at the gasp that drew.  Then it was his turn to whimper as Mac ran his thumb along the outer curve of an ear, teased the inner corner of his mouth with tongue.  Duncan finally pulled back a few inches and smiled at him.  "Yes, I'm sure.  Can I assume this is a 'yes'?"

With a touch of his usual humor, Methos replied, "Well, I'd hate to rush into anything.  Let's try it again without a chair-arm between us and see...."

Duncan threw his head back and laughed, joy echoing off the walls.  "Well, there's a perfectly good couch if you don't want to rush anything, or a bed if you'd rather sprawl out and still leave me a little room."

 Almost shyly the older man commented, "The bed would be more comfortable."

Duncan couldn't seem to stop smiling as he stood, hand still linked with Methos'.  Neither of them said anything as they walked across the barge to the bed.  Duncan kicked off his shoes and settled onto the comforter, careful not to pull at Methos yet.  Then he saw the uncertainty on his friend's face and the sense of loss and fright he felt from across the link made him tug sharply.

Methos landed on him, all his usual grace lost for the moment, and spluttered indignantly.  "What was...?"

A quick roll pinned him under Duncan's arm on the bed. Leaning over the more slender body, the Highlander simply said, "Yes, I want you.   You don't have to doubt that.  I didn't want to press you into something."  Mischief lit his eyes for a second, quirked in one corner of that full mouth, as the younger man commented, "Although I could just press against you if you'd rather...."

"I'd rather you kissed me again."  Methos reached up, wanting to feel that solidly muscled chest against his own.  They went back to a leisurely exploration of mouths that rapidly became more urgent.  The feel of body against body escalated the intensity of the explorations and Methos quickly decided that if Duncan hadn't done this before, he was sensualist enough that it didn't matter.  Also, there were advantages to that poet's shirt; it refused to stay tucked in and offered such wonderful access to the body under it.

Duncan moaned against his throat and bit down without thinking about it when Methos scratched lightly along his ribs.  Methos dug his fingers into the younger man's side, gasping himself.  Another playful chuckle surprised him and he pulled back a little to see what had brought it on.

"Just thinking that we're a bit overdressed for this."  Duncan sat up and stripped off his shirt, then said cheerfully, "Hold on a second, while I take care of one other detail."

Methos pulled sweater and t-shirt off, ruthlessly suppressing his tension when he felt Duncan move off the bed.  Glancing around once he could see again, the older man realized exactly what the Highlander was doing.  He hadn't been deserted, there were no second thoughts.  It was simply a cold night, and Duncan was building up the fire, banking it to burn untended for a while.  The Scot moved across the barge and locked the door, then turned off lights until the only illumination came from the flickering fire.

When he settled back onto the comforter, Duncan caught some of his lover's worries and wrapped both arms around him, pulling Methos against his chest and kissing his neck and shoulders until the tension eased.  Methos twisted in his grasp and kissed him again, long and lingering, then shivered as Duncan began to work his way down his now-exposed chest.  Hands and mouth sampled and lingered across taut muscle under faintly salty skin.  Nip and kiss, warm tongue and cool breath -- the older man gave himself over to the pleasure for a long moment.

Paler skin moved over olive-toned as Methos began to return the caresses, running his hands over that broad chest.  Long fingers traced muscles lovingly, scratched lightly along nerve bundles originally learned for combat purposes, and then settled into circling and teasing the younger man's nipples.  Easily half of Methos' pleasure came from watching Duncan's responses and the younger man was not trying to hide how much he enjoyed this.  The occasional soft gasp of air, or sometimes a quiet bass purr, or just watching that strong back arch to press into what Methos' hands were doing....

Now Duncan's mouth had selected its target.  He teased with teeth and tongue, tracing a long spiral that closed on the nipple entirely too slowly to suit Methos.  At the same time, his hands cupped both pectorals from underneath, pressing up slightly to give his mouth better access and Duncan ran thumbnails sharply along the underside of the muscles.  The older man arched up into it, head thrown back and hands tightening on Duncan's back.

That too-talented mouth began to draw on the tautened nipple, suckling and flicking the tip with his tongue while a hand moved up to repeat the spiral on the other nipple, and Methos found his entire attention drawn to those tiny points of sensation.  Duncan gasped as the other man's hands began tracing tiny circles centering around the spine, right over the chakras.  The sensation was exquisitely pleasurable and somehow intensified all his senses to the same edge that combat did, the adrenal high of fight or flight reflex without the need to run.  Leaving was the last thing on the Scot's mind now.

Methos moaned as Duncan's mouth moved off his nipple, but he quickly found that the younger man had decided to feast on his torso.  Broad hands stroked and shaped Methos' arms as Duncan turned his attentions to the other nipple, then those hands played more firmly across his ribs.  The Highlander pulled his head up from what he was doing long enough to ask, "You're not ticklish, are you?"

That drew a shaky laugh.  "No, why?"

"Oh, this."  And MacLeod moved further down the bed and bit at his ribs.  He chuckled against Methos' side at the groan that drew, then nibbled up the arch of bone to nip right at the diaphragm.  He wrapped his hands firmly around denim-clad hips to hold the older man still and began drawing patterns down the tight belly with his tongue, feeling muscles quiver under his mouth as he went.

Methos let his hands slide up Duncan's back as the younger man kept moving down the bed.  Long fingers stroked along collarbone and neck, catching all the sensitive spots along the juncture of shoulder and throat.  On another immortal, Methos knew, some of the spots were exquisitely tender and he concentrated on what he was doing to Duncan to try and control his own reactions.  His jeans were almost too tight, but he didn't want to rush this.

The Scot released one hip and stroked a finger just inside the waistbands of both the jeans and the boxers underneath.  Methos shuddered, his hips arching up before he could control the convulsive movement.  Too long since anyone had been in his bed, too long wanting this man -- his controls were dissolving away, melting under the impetus of that eager, loving mouth.  He had to slow this down or he'd never be able to make sure he returned the pleasure, and Methos desperately wanted this to be equal, to give and take both.

Still holding onto the younger man's shoulders, Methos tugged insistently.  Duncan immediately raised his head, hands falling still.  "Too much, too far?"  The Scot's voice was shaky as he tried to control himself, but his first thought was for Methos' reactions.

An equally unsteady laugh answered and Methos soothed the fear in his friend's voice.  "Nothing I don't want, Mac, but I won't last long if you keep that up."

Duncan studied him intently, seeing the set expression on his face, gold-green eyes dilated with pleasure until they were almost black in the firelight.  Muscles strained under his hands, Methos' hips still flexing against him in an instinctive movement the younger man knew well.  The straining bulge confined under denim made him realize just how close his friend was to coming.  The Scot smiled as he reached for the snap on the other man's jeans.

"May I?"  His hands waited, careful not to press against already quivering skin.

"Gods, Highlander, yes, but...."  The words trailed off as deft hands peeled the jeans off him and Duncan deliberately trailed the backs of his fingers along muscled thighs as he tugged downward.  Methos moaned as the younger man carefully freed his straining erection from the boxer shorts, one hand stroking the crease between thigh and groin lightly as the other threw the boxers off the side of the bed.

Mischievous brown eyes caught a green-gold gaze.  "We've got all night.  Who said you have to last this time?"  The younger immortal moved between his legs, settling onto his knees to get better access.

Duncan didn't tease him; leisurely exploration could wait for another time.  He had done this before, only this time he was looking forward to it.  Warm lips wrapped around the head of Methos' cock, and his tongue flicked out to steal the first seeping drops.  With one hand he cupped the other man's balls, fingers playing along the scrotum and the sensitive skin just behind.  The other hand had already started a steady stroking motion around the base.

Any protest Methos might have made vanished into the pleasure of that warm mouth descending farther and the feel of those strong hands moving on him.  Duncan deliberately set out to drive him immediately over the edge.  He spent only a little while at the head, grazing with his teeth, soothing again with his tongue.  His tongue played over the head and around the ridge under it, tasting, exploring, enjoying.  But the steadily mounting muscle tension he felt against his tongue and in the palm cupping his lover told him he was running out of time, for now at least.  The younger immortal engulfed Methos in his mouth, then pulled back with a steady suction, repeating the pattern again and again, tongue flicking around the crown at the top of each stroke.

Methos' scent surrounded him, musk and sandalwood, and the jazz piece playing on the stereo was heading toward its climax.  Strong fingers had tangled in Duncan's hair, flexing against his scalp in time with the hips arching up toward his mouth.  And while the older immortal was surprisingly vocal, not a word of it had been in any language Duncan understood.  The attempt to pull him away he did understand -- and ignored.

At that, Methos gave up what little control he'd held onto.  Duncan found a small part of his mind remembering Amanda teasing about the occasional difficulty of swallowing fast enough, and he had to control his laughter so as not to choke while his new lover seemingly came forever.  After the last surge had spent itself, Duncan gently released Methos from his mouth.  He settled himself along the older man's side, wrapping an arm over him to pull the comforter across without making Methos move yet.  Even with the fire going, the barge was still cool.  But the Scot draped himself along and over his thinner partner, lending his own warmth as well.

Methos let himself drift back up to coherent thought, luxuriating in the unfamiliar sense of safety.  He could feel love and pleasure, arousal and loyalty, filtering into his mind from the man wrapped around him.  Eventually more precise details began to settle in, not least of them the steady pulse of cheerful, as yet unsatisfied lechery from beside him. He could feel warmth at his feet from the fire and... denim?  Now wait, that was decidedly unfair!

He twisted in Duncan's arms before the other immortal quite realized he was back among the sentient, tilted his head, and nipped at his new lover's throat.  The Scot's hips pressed forward against him even as he arched back to give Methos better access to his neck.  The purely instinctive motion bespoke a level of trust that unnerved the older immortal, but he swiftly decided that there were ways of taking advantage and then there were ways....

With one arm Methos pulled Duncan's head back toward him to feast on that mouth, tasting himself on the Scot's tongue.  Long fingers cupped the back of the younger man's head, splaying up among that dark hair, tilting his head to best advantage.  Methos used his other hand to undo Duncan's jeans, unfastening the snap one-handed and peeling down the zipper almost as quickly.  He cupped the Scot against his palm, stroking gently along the silk underwear and determined to tease him about that later.  Much later.  For now, time to remove those pants.

From Duncan's point of view, one second he had been holding Methos, feathering fingers across the other man's cheek, and the next second an extremely amorous, quick-moving man was intent on stealing every bit of breath and sanity from him.  Just as he surrendered to that sensation, a swift motion tumbled him onto his back on the bed.  Methos laughed at his startled expression and peeled his jeans off.  "Too many clothes, MacLeod."

Methos deliberately left the silk briefs on the younger man, wanting to play and tease through them for a little while.  The warm, slick fabric acted as a completely unnecessary reminder of the treasures hidden within it.  Moving forward off his knees, Methos rubbed cat-like along and across Mac's body, ending up braced on elbows and toes just barely over the larger man.

The Scot lay motionless, grinning at him.  "Is this where you work your wicked will on me?"

"Wicked?  I can do wicked."   He leaned in and licked just above Mac's ear, knowing the warm breath would drive the other man crazy.  Duncan reached for him, but found his hands pinned before he could quite see how Methos had done it.

"Ah, ah, MacLeod, I distinctly heard you ask for wicked.  Besides, it's your turn to lie back and enjoy... so to speak."  Hazel eyes glinted with merriment and mischief and Duncan settled back onto the bed.  The Scot was stronger, no question -- but if this had been solely about strength, or winning, he wouldn't still be tasting Methos on his tongue.  Besides, either he trusted the old man or not.

Methos waited until his new lover and current victim had subsided before letting go of his hands.  "Try to hold still, it'll make this much more interesting."

"Hmm.  Do I have to be quiet?"  Laughter tinged Duncan's voice.

"Well, sound does carry over water... but the doors are locked and the windows closed.  I suppose you can get as noisy as you like."

"You certainly did.  But I was thinking about a running..." Duncan broke off what he was saying as talented hands ran up his thighs, distracting him for a moment, then gasped, "...commentary.  Never mind.  I'll bow to your expertise."

Methos leaned in and bit him sharply on the belly.

"Hey, what was that for?"

"I told you to stay still.  No bowing until later."  Methos ran a finger under the edge of the silk briefs and teased one hip bone to watch the younger man twitch.  When Duncan opened his mouth to reply, Methos leaned in and kissed him again, free hand running briefly along the edge of his ear.  The younger man arched up into the touch and kiss, lifting from above the waist only -- but he kept his hands on the bed.  Methos chuckled into his mouth and pushed gently on the Scot's chest to force him back to the bed.

"Ah, ah.  That's cheating."  He nipped along Mac's throat, enjoying the salt and heather taste of the younger man.  To his pleasure, Duncan promptly tilted his head back to give him better access to that entire sensitive and vulnerable area.  From the sounds, Mac enjoyed having teeth on his neck as much as most immortals did:  a lot.  Eventually, reluctantly, Methos moved onward and down, nipping at the collarbone as well, which drew a cheerful comment from the younger man.

"I haven't had so many little tooth marks since I had to baby-sit that basket of teething kittens."

"Oh, really?  Shall I go looking for the cream, then?"  Methos stroked roughly across the silk-covered bulge at Duncan's groin and the moan he heard was definitely not one of pain.

"And the East German judge says he'll shut up and watch the show now."

Methos chuckled at that.  "He'd better.  I'm torn between teasing you within an inch of your immortal life and heading for the main attraction.  Decisions, decisions...."  That same hand continued to stroke Duncan through the silk and he decided that teasing could wait until another time.  Moving as quickly as he had when he flipped the younger man on the bed, he pounced again.

At the feel of that talented mouth against his silk-covered cock, Duncan inhaled sharply, not quite screaming.  The heat and motion felt wonderful, but the layer of fabric in between the two of them was both arousing and incredibly frustrating.  Methos, however, seemed determined to drive him insane with it.  A small part of Duncan's mind decided not to mention the rabbit fur in a drawer under the bed.  Keeping his hands in place occupied just enough of his attention to be distracting, thank God.  Before he got to the point of begging, Methos slipped the silk off him.

The older immortal was in no mood to tease, now.  All he wanted was to taste MacLeod, feel those hips coming off the bed, and see how quickly he could get the younger man to abandon the control which was keeping his hands in place.  He indulged himself for a few seconds, lipping and nuzzling around the head of Duncan's cock to catch the flavor of him and enjoy the musky scent.  Old habits made him brace his forearms across Mac's thighs, before he relaxed his jaw and throat and went all the way down on Duncan without any other warning.

"God!  Methos!"

The surprised, ecstatic sound would have brought a smug smile to Methos' mouth if it hadn't been otherwise occupied.  As it was, the older immortal quickly became grateful for those ingrained habits.  Only his arms on Mac's thighs kept the stronger man from lifting them both off the bed when his hips flexed up.  Since that would have moved Methos by the throat, he had some slight objection to the idea.  Choking was not on his list of good ways to die.

Now that he had Duncan's undivided attention, Methos moved back up.  No sense letting the man off too lightly the first time.  Having shown the Scot what was in store, or at least possible, the older immortal started a slow, steady movement from base to head and back down again.  After a few repetitions, he let Duncan escape his mouth entirely, which drew a groan, and smiled up at him.  "You requested wicked, I think?"  Before any reply could be formed, he nipped just under the head of Duncan's cock, hard enough to get a yelp out of his partner.

A warm tongue soothed the bite immediately and Methos cupped the other man's balls in his palm, rolling first one and then the other.  Duncan was whimpering in Gaelic, he noticed.  Interesting to hear that in Scots Gaelic and a baritone voice instead of Aidan's Irish-accented soprano.  Impressive, though -- the Highlander still hadn't wrapped his hands around anything except sheets.  Might be time to change that, the bed clothes might not stand up to this.

No, Duncan's control was holding up and he had said 'wicked', although Methos knew damned well this was not what he had intended with that comment.  But the Scot was definitely enjoying it, judging from both what he was saying and the way his hips kept moving.  Amazing how sheep comments came up around Scots.  What was that saying?  'As well hung for a sheep as a lamb'?

The older immortal wet his fingers in his mouth and reached behind his lover's balls to tease him.  To his immense surprise, when he ran one finger around the rim of Mac's anus, the Highlander immediately spread his thighs farther apart, hips tilting up in an unmistakable invitation.  Without thinking about it, Methos pressed inward and felt Duncan immediately relax into the movement.

Green-gold eyes widened at that.  Despite the fact that he had never quite admitted to it, Methos had read the chronicles about Duncan years ago after Darius had mentioned the Highlander a few times.  None of them had made any mention his being anything except a ladies man.  Where had he picked up reactions like that?  On the other hand, anyone who could keep Amanda interested for three centuries....

Automatically, Methos had continued to lick and tease at Duncan's cock, not trying to bring him to orgasm but just to keep him on that climb toward it.  Equally instinctive had been the movements of his finger, rubbing against his lover's prostate.  Now that the older immortal's mind had, within a few seconds, caught back up with his body, Methos decided to see how far this would go.  He had no intention of making Mac uncomfortable, though.  Carefully, he pressed a second finger in with the first.

Duncan pressed back against his hand, obviously trying to take all of the length of the fingers.  Still speaking Gaelic, he moaned, "God, yes.  Please."

Methos couldn't remember the last time he had come and then been this hard again less than fifteen minutes later.  The temptation to find some kind of lubricant -- anything! -- and slide home into Duncan was almost overwhelming... but a few fingers were one thing.  In his experience, actually being fucked was frequently another matter entirely, for men or women.  Definitely time to finish this bout and sound the Highlander out on the subject afterwards.  But Methos had to concentrate on something a bit safer before he did something that one of them would regret later.

The older immortal leaned in to go all the way down on Duncan again, gently withdrawing his fingers as he did; no sense adding to temptation at this point.  The groan he heard sounded disappointed.  While Methos was still telling himself that was wishful thinking, the Scot pulled his head up, saying, "Methos, please.  I want you."

Methos pushed up onto his elbows, staring at his lover in surprise.  He needed to be certain that the younger man knew what he was asking, so he answered in Gaelic, "Duncan, are you sure about this?"

Green-gold eyes were met by brown, dilated with arousal but steady.  "Yes."

Methos slid back into English and asked, "Well, have you got anything we can use?"

Duncan twisted up onto one elbow and dug into a drawer under the bed.  Leaning over to see what he was doing, Methos chuckled when he saw what looked like fur, some silk ties, a book (not a cover he was familiar with, he noted for future investigation), and the massage oil Mac was handing back to him.

He took the oil, watching the younger man closely for any sign of stress or nerves.  So far, so good.  A long reach procured one of the pillows and he smiled at Mac.  "Lift your hips for a second."  He slid the pillow into place as soon as the younger immortal moved, then ran a caressing palm along his cheek.

The massage oil smelled of sandalwood and heated in his palm very quickly.  He watched Mac's eyes while working the lubricant into him, not wanting to cause the younger man any pain.  Shivers rippled across that lovely body but Duncan didn't flinch as he gently worked both fingers back in, pressing steadily in and then withdrawing again and again.

"Easy, Highlander.  Relax," he murmured.  Slowly, carefully, Methos prepared him for this, adding a third finger and rotating gently.  The man was incredibly tight; maintaining control so as not to hurt him was going to be a gloriously maddening torture.  He leaned in and kissed the Scot long and thoroughly while applying more of the oil to his own cock.

Mac drew his legs up, thighs apart, feet planted on the comforter to give Methos full access.  Pulling back from the kiss, he murmured, "Carte blanche, Methos."

"Gods, Duncan...."  Methos moved up over him and used one hand to position himself at the entrance to his lover's body, then slowly began to press forward.  For a long moment, despite the painstaking preparations, the younger man's body resisted.  Then Duncan drew a deep breath and relaxed.  Opposition suddenly released, Methos slid further in on the first stroke than he had intended.  Duncan's eyes widened and his mouth opened in a silent gasp, head thrown back on the pillow as he shuddered.

Methos froze, forcing himself to hold still as the Scot sorted pleasure from pain and adjusted to this new invasion, but the man was incredibly beautiful arched back and aroused.  Another long breath from Duncan and then the younger man reached up and caught his shoulders.  "I'm all right, just don't stop."

The older immortal didn't answer; he simply moved.  Tightened abdominals pulled him farther into his lover's body; flexed buttocks moved him slightly back and then he began again, pressing barely farther each time.  Duncan watched Methos' face as he moved, forcing himself to relax.  His lover's cock felt much larger than the vibrator Aidan had used with him, but the knowledge that it was Methos, not unfeeling plastic, aroused Duncan enough that the minor discomfort was ignored as he focused on relaxing.  After a few strokes there was no longer even discomfort, only a steadily growing pleasure.

It was incredibly erotic, the slick warmth and friction within himself, the strokes that brushed across his prostate with every advance or retreat.  There was just enough of a tinge of the forbidden to add that spice to the delight.  Even better, though, was watching Methos' face and knowing just who was inside him.  Gold-green eyes were narrowed in pleasure and concentration, and those long fingers were intertwined with Duncan's.  Then the other man let go of one hand and wrapped oily fingers around Duncan's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

Duncan quit thinking, caught up by the slick intensity around him, the hard heat within.  Hips bucked up to meet Methos' advances and the older immortal groaned as his control began to dissolve.  Both of them moved faster now, taking their cues from each other subconsciously. Despite his best efforts to watch his lover, Duncan's eyes closed as the feel of Methos' cock moving in him demanded more and more of his attention.  A last thrust dropped him over the edge and he came.

Methos saw Duncan's head arch back, heard him cry out, and then muscles clamped around his cock.  The younger man's hips bucked up one more time, impaling himself even farther on Methos and forcing his own cock farther into his lover's hand.  The sight of that gorgeous, long-desired man so far gone in ecstasy was all the older immortal had been waiting for:  Methos let go of his own control and let his own orgasm rip through him.

Somehow, he never knew how, Methos managed to keep some coherence.  Taking one long breath after another, he stayed up on his arms, not letting Duncan take his full weight.  When he could think of it and be sure his body would obey, he withdrew from his lover carefully so as not to hurt him.  Rather than flinch, Duncan reached for him with one unsteady arm without ever opening his eyes.

"Let me get something to clean us off.  I'll be right back."   Methos came back with warm, damp towels and sponged them both off, then tossed the cloths in the laundry hamper.  Duncan slipped under the blankets, then held the covers up and made room for Methos when he came back.  The Scot curled around the other man's body, one arm and a leg thrown over him.

Methos wrapped an arm around his back and basked in Duncan's warmth for a few minutes.  Both of them lay there, sated and content, neither asleep despite the earlier exertion.  The jazz CD's were still playing and Methos chuckled quietly when he heard the opening track of Red Shoe Diaries.

"What?"  Duncan sounded lazy and comfortable.

"An album I like, that's all.  Are you all right with this?"  He waited patiently for the answer, willing to take whatever reply he got but hoping for the best.  To his surprise, Duncan started laughing.

"Who seduced who here?  I'm fine, Methos.  I should probably ask if I pushed you into something you didn't want.  Did I?"  He propped himself up on one elbow, watching his lover in the firelight.  The movement trailed one hand across Methos' chest, and while the younger man made no attempt to caress him, he didn't draw away either.  That slow, lazy smile he loved so well and rarely saw reassured Duncan.

"MacLeod, the last time I've been so surprised was when Edana decided to break that promise of hers.  But Gods, yes, I wanted you and this."  Methos reached up and ran his fingers lightly along the other man's cheek, admiring the lines of his face in the firelight.  The lack of stubble told him that the Highlander had most certainly planned this in advance.  Usually by this time of night the man had a fair bit of five o'clock shadow.

Duncan smiled back at him and flexed his fingers, stroking idly through the scant chest hair and admiring pale skin.  "Did you know you're beautiful?"

"I what?  Mac, are your eyes working?"  Startlement brought his hand down to Duncan's shoulder.

"I thought you spoke English."  The teasing tone made Methos smile again despite himself.  "You're gorgeous."

"Highlander...."  Words failed him for a moment and all Methos could do was stroke his fingers across the younger man's skin.  Duncan bent down and kissed him gently, then wrapped back around him, settling his head on Methos' shoulder.  One hand continued to idly feather across the older immortal's chest and stomach.

"So what brought this on, anyway?"  Methos deliberately kept his tone casual, but he felt Duncan throw a leg across him.

"Take a guess," came the amused answer.

"Should I plan on killing Edana then?"  The voice stayed calm, but Methos' muscles began to contract involuntarily.

Duncan felt the tension and sat up, instinctively aware that he had just screwed up, somehow, somewhere.  "Do you really think the only reason I went to bed with you is Aidan?  Methos....  Look at me.  Do you actually think that?"

Green-gold eyes had shuttered, locking Duncan out, and the emotions were suppressed out of their link.  "Highlander.  Why did you?"

Duncan hauled Methos up to face him, aware that in a wrestling match the older, trickier immortal could almost certainly kill him, but not giving a damn.  "You idiot!  This was not a sympathy fuck of any kind, and I sure as hell wasn't trying to take advantage of you!"  For a second he stopped, thinking about how that had sounded, then finished weakly, "Well, not like that....  Oh, hell.  I love you, damn it!"

Methos stared at him, then a grin began to crack through his mask.  Within a few seconds, he was laughing.  The confused, indignant look on Duncan's face just made him laugh harder.  For a few seconds, the Scot sulked, until he began to hear his own voice playing back in memory.  Duncan started to grin, and then chuckle, himself.

The older immortal finally sagged back, pulling pillows around to make himself a back rest.  "Gods, as a declaration that was inimitable.  I don't know that I've ever heard that much profanity out of you in one shot, Highlander."

Duncan settled back against him, feeling arms reaching for him before he really saw them, and catching love and humor through their link.  As they came into skin-contact, the connection between them strengthened and the younger man could almost hear his lover's laughter at how completely ridiculous the whole discussion had been.  Deliberately, before the link could fade, Duncan gathered up all his love for the other man, all the lust, all the trust and acceptance that he had worked so hard to get to, and pushed it off his skin the same way he'd have done a chi manipulation in kung fu.

Methos gasped as the feelings flooded across him for an instant.  He burned the moment into his memory, unwilling to trust that the link would ever be this strong again; he knew full well he'd warm himself at that fire in years to come.  But he could almost feel the fears lift away.

"Let me try that one again, all right?  I went to bed with you because I love you.  It wasn't because Aidan told me you loved me, it wasn't a pity screw or anything like that.  Where did you get the idea that it was?"  Duncan said it quietly and with complete seriousness.

Strong arms tightened around him for a moment.  "I've wanted you for three years now; I think I've loved you since I saw you.  But I never thought you were interested, not in this.  Why do I feel Aidan's hand in this?"

"Because she did have something to do with it.  She made me admit I loved you, and then she made me admit I wanted you in my bed and in my body. The woman plays rough."  Duncan shrugged and made the laughing comment, "She said it was only fair since I did the same thing to her."

He fell silent for a moment then asked, "Do you mind that I was sleeping with her?"

The half-smile on Methos' face carried into his voice.  "I don't know.  Were you actually sleeping?"

Duncan's voice was tinged with humor as he replied, "Only eventually."

"Then no, I don't mind.  I already knew, Mac; she told me."   He reached down and tugged at the blankets.  Duncan shifted to help and they ended up with the comforter up around both of them, but Methos was now wrapped up in Duncan's embrace.  After a short silence, he said, "Can I ask you a question, Highlander?"

"I gave you carte blanche, Methos.  I'm not revoking it.  Ask what you want."

"Gods, Highlander, have you lost your mind?"

Duncan heard the agitation in Methos' voice and answered that more than the question.  "Yes, I trust you.  It took me long enough, and I hurt you badly enough getting there, but I trust you.  So ask.  And quit worrying."

After a few seconds of silence, Duncan chuckled quietly.  "Shall we play twenty answers?  I give answers, and you let me know when I'm on the right topic?"

The older immortal smiled, unaware that Duncan was watching his profile against the firelight.  "That sounds like an interesting game."

"Rebecca taught it to me.  There were times it was the only way to get Fitz to talk about whatever was really on his mind.  So, answer number twenty.  A month or so ago, after her fight with the punk biker moron from hell."  Duncan deliberately put a world-weary, TV announcer accent onto the answer, trying to keep Methos in a good mood.

"What is 'When did Edana drag you into bed?'  Well, I'm assuming she did the dragging.  Hmm, that question doesn't sound quite right."  Methos shook his head, amused.

Duncan listened to the emotions coming off Methos, the easy breathing against his arms, and decided the game was definitely working.  "Yes, she started it.  Are you really surprised?  But, no, that doesn't seem to be what's on your mind.  Let's see.  Answer number nineteen.  Off and on ever since, well, after she was through working her wicked ways.  Are you sure you two aren't related?"

That drew a choked laugh, but Methos stayed where he was against Duncan's chest, watching the firelight.  "What is-- Never mind, have you been sleeping with Aidan since then?  No, we're not related.  Wicked, hmm?"

Something in the tones of Methos' voice told Duncan he was on the right track now.   "Answer number eighteen..."

"I always heard it was the Poles who were backwards.  Or was that the Croats?"

Duncan poked him in the rib as he went on, "... fooling around only."

That stopped Methos for a moment as his agile mind tore at the answer to figure out the question.  He came up with one possibility, then a second, and stopped.  "So what is the question?"

"What did you come up with?"

"I begin to see why Rebecca taught you this.  You're dangerous, Highlander."

Duncan shrugged and replied, "You prefer me that way.  Would you rather I drop this?"

"No.  Is the question, have you had a male lover before?"  Methos leaned back against him, enjoying this odd, not-quite cat and mouse game they were playing.

"That would be the one.  What other questions did you come up with?" Duncan asked easily.

"What makes you think I did?"

"Because you had to ask if you were right.  Shall I go on to another answer?"

Methos turned to look at him.  "You'd let me avoid this, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."  Brown eyes reflected firelight back, calm and steady.

"Ask me later."  Methos watched him and saw only acceptance.  The younger man gently pulled him back around, settling Methos easily against his chest again.  An interesting way of giving privacy, but effective under the circumstances.

"So, answer number seventeen.  Yes, but this I wanted to do and enjoyed.  A business transaction, basically."

He sounds calm enough, was Methos' first thought.  Rage followed it in a heartbeat, as that swift mind wrung implications and nuances out of both the words and the tone of voice. Blackmail, I would bet.  Business transaction, my ass, and more likely his.  But he enjoyed what we did, that much I'm sure of.  Gods know he's gorgeous enough that I shouldn't be surprised someone coerced him into bed; if he were even another two hundred years older I wouldn't be.  But if it's still an option, I'm going to find the bastard and kill him slowly.

Duncan spoke quietly when the silence dragged at him.  "Methos?"

"Who, MacLeod?  One of us?  Or a mortal you needed something from?"

Now it was the younger man's turn to flinch, not remembering that Methos could read his muscles, too.  "One of us.  He's dead, now.  I took his head a few years ago."

"Would you believe that it hadn't occurred to me to ask if you'd had a man in your bed, only to ask if you'd had a male lover?"  The voice was exquisitely detached, except for the sudden blazing anger on the last word.  Methos held Duncan's arms tightly against his chest.

"Why are you so angry?  At me for not being the perfect Boy Scout, for being willing to trade sex for something I needed?"  The younger man's voice didn't stay as steady as Mac would have liked.  He had long ago come to terms with what he had done, but not the fact that he had done it.  Charming people was an aspect of diplomacy a chieftain's son was expected to use.  That use of his looks and body he could cope with and accept as the way things were, but trading his body for what he needed had been, and to his mind still was, whoring.  No matter that it had been the only coin Alexei wanted, or that he had paid full worth in good faith, Duncan still felt that he should have found another way.

Methos twisted and kissed Duncan so hard it nearly left bruises.  His hands roamed across the younger man's torso, stroking, pressing, pinching, admiring until the Scot opened his mouth and moaned into the kiss, aroused and yielding to it.  Methos ended the kiss abruptly and said, "That is how little it bothers me that you would trade your body for something.  It does not make you dirty; it does not make you any less desirable.

"But I know you.  You didn't do it as anything other than a last option.  I would have liked to teach whoever did this to you a few of the finer pointers in dying slowly.  The question was, 'Have you ever had a man in your bed before?'  What did he blackmail you with, Mac?  What did he hold over your head?"

Brown eyes were a little dazed from pleasure and surprise as Duncan answered, "I needed a ship.  He had one.  There wasn't time to find another or to find something else he'd take as payment.  He didn't rape me, if that's what you're asking."

Methos held his eyes.  "You mean he didn't penetrate you, Duncan.  He raped you all right."  The unfamiliar sound of his given name on Methos' lips impressed on the younger immortal as few other words could have just how serious his new lover was about this.  The older man went on, "What, blow job or hand job?  An hour, an afternoon, all night?  It doesn't matter what you did or for how long, the fact remains that he used force to get your body.  Don't deny that or pretty it up for him.  Why did you need a ship so badly?  Who had one?"

"Methos, I agreed to it.  It was the only fee he would take.  I was trying to get forty-seven people out of Russia before the pogroms started.  Alexei had a freighter, the Sea Witch, so I struck a deal with him.  He didn't need money, and I wasn't going to give him my head."  Duncan expression softened from upset to rueful.  "If I'd known a little more about him, I'd have never struck the deal."

"The fact that you agreed to go to bed with him doesn't keep it from being rape.  He held the knife to their throats, not yours, but it was still force.  And I would bet he maneuvered you into being the one who offered, didn't he?  It was Alexei Voishin, wasn't it?"

Duncan raised one eyebrow, somehow resigned and rueful and ironic all at once.  "Am I that predictable or did you know Alexei?  Yeah, somehow I'm the one who brought it out as an option.  We settled on anything except penetration.  He wanted more but knew he couldn't take my head, so he agreed to that."

He shrugged and continued, "If he'd wanted me to take him, I could have lived with that, but I wasn't willing to have him inside me.  But if I'd had time to find out more about Alexei, I'd have known he wouldn't keep the bargain anyway, and I'd never have done any of it."

Methos touched his face, surprised.  "You let me...."

"I love you.  I will try anything you want, Methos.  And I enjoyed it a great deal, in case you didn't notice," Duncan said, smiling.  "It's all right, you know.  It wasn't going to bed with a man that bothered me so much as... I don't know, screwing anyone as payment."

"You felt like a whore?"  There was no censure in his voice when he asked it, and Methos curved his hand around Duncan's cheek, stroking along the cheekbone.

"Yeah, that pretty well sums it up."  The younger man exhaled slowly to calm himself further, then shrugged and relaxed his grip where he held the comforter around them both.  "That's why I've never asked Aidan about being a slave, you know.  I don't like talking about Alexei and that was only one night.  I can't imagine having twelve years of memories like that, not the way we tend to remember."

Methos only said quietly, "You're not a whore, you know.  Neither is Aidan.  If you did it voluntarily, as your preferred means of dealing with problems, then yes, you would be.  But neither of you does."

"I do know, Methos, but I keep thinking there should have been another way,  something else I could have used for payment.  And I didn't even get them out.  He betrayed us and the police killed all of them, except one woman.  I found out later that Alexei had taken her as part of his price."

"They're gone.  Finish your grieving for them and go on.  As for Alexei, you did the best you could.  Don't beat yourself because it didn't work.  There's no shame in surviving, Mac.  It's what we do best.  Live, grow stronger, fight another day.  You did."

Duncan pulled him into a hug.  "I know.  I'm all right.  Really."

"Hell of a game you play, Highlander.  Harder on you than me, at least so far."  Methos nestled back within the younger man's arms, trying to lend emotional support without being too obvious.

"So?  I've been harder on you than you have on me for most of the time we've known each other.  You ready for the next answer?"

Methos chuckled and said, "Oh, we were equally hard a little while ago."

"True enough and a definite pleasure.  Did you have something else in mind?  This can wait if you want,"  Duncan offered, already rousing again from the kiss Methos had given him.

"Mmm, in a little while.  This is an interesting game; Rebecca never told me about it."

"All right, answer number... what, sixteen?  It's Aidan's doing.  She didn't want me nervous, and then we found out that I like it."

That got a smile out of Methos and Duncan leaned to kiss him on the top of one ear.  "That's cheating, Highlander.  Besides, she's not equipped for it.  Pulled out her toy box, did she?  So, I suppose the question is, 'How did you develop an appreciation for inferior congress?'  Not that I'd call what we did inferior."

Duncan chuckled at the phrasing.  "So that is a good translation of the term?  I never picked up Sanskrit."

"The Kama Sutra is very interesting in the original language.  Did I hurt you?"

"No, you didn't.  It felt wonderful."  Duncan laughed.  "What, you couldn't tell I was enjoying you?"

"I guessed."  The dry understatement in the voice had the Scot smiling against the older man's hair.

"Ready for answer fifteen?"

"You're really going to go back through twenty of these?"  Methos shook his head wonderingly.

"Unless you want to stop, why not?  We do need to talk, and it's... easier this way.  Simpler to talk in the dark, watching the fire."

"Mac, if it's that difficult to discuss, it can wait."

Duncan buried his nose against Methos' neck and then shook his head, knowing the other man would feel it.  "No, I'd rather talk now.  Unless you mind."

"No, I don't mind," came the surprisingly mild answer.  "Would some wine make this easier?"

"I don't want to let go of you.  I'm wondering if this was a dream."

Methos promptly pinched one of the arms wrapped around his waist.  When Duncan yelped, the older immortal cheerfully said, "Nope, you're awake, MacLeod.  Wine or beer?"

"Wine, I think.  Ask nicely and I'll keep the blankets warm for you."

"Well, it's that or freeze yourself."  Methos reluctantly disentangled himself from both the blankets and MacLeod and poured a brandy snifter full of wine.

Duncan chuckled at the amount of alcohol the old man had brought back.  "Do I need to be drunk?  I thought you already had your wicked way with me."

"Well, I was going to share it, but if you're worried...."  Methos twitched the glass away from his hands, only to have Duncan retrieve it deftly while making room for him in the blankets.

"Thanks," and the Scot handed it back after stealing a sip, wrapping his arms around the older immortal again to warm him.

"So, answer number fifteen?  As long as we're counting down?"

"Where were we?  Oh.  No, it doesn't apply solely in bed.  Or couch, or floor, or shower, or whatever."  The cheerful, teasing tone in Duncan's voice masked the serious nature of that answer for a second.

Methos blinked as one thought occurred to him, then forced himself to relax against Duncan as he hunted for  any other questions that could apply to that answer.  After a moment, he found a second possibility and used it.  "What, where are you willing to try something I like?  There are some interesting theaters we could go to, in that case."

Duncan stole another sip of the wine, then handed the glass back and calmly said, "That's not quite the question, although it's implied.  Try again."

"Where are you giving me carte blanche?"  Methos sounded deadly serious.  He hadn't expected this kind of trust.  If he came to expect it of Duncan and was betrayed....  The older immortal hastily shunted that thought down and away, marking it as 'examine later'.

"Anywhere you want it, Methos.  Any topic, any possession, any act.  What do you want?  Although I'd rather you didn't bankrupt me or ask me to walk naked through the middle of the Sorbonne."  Duncan's voice had been perfectly serious until the last sentence, and Methos was learning swiftly when the Highlander used humor to mask a topic too intense to be borne easily.

"MacLeod, they outlawed slavery in this nation," Methos prodded.

"I'm not offering to be a slave, not even for you.  But if you tell me to close my eyes and walk off a cliff, I'm going to trust you to have a good reason, and I'm going to step."  The laughter resurfaced in his voice and he went on, "If you tell me to lie back or sit back and enjoy, I'll try.  God knows I loved what you were doing earlier."

"And if you don't want to do something?"

"I'm not a saint, and I'm not Darius.  Are you asking if I'm going to argue with you still?  Yeah, of course I am.  I'm human, Methos.  But I'll try it once if you really want.  I'm going to do something terrible to you; I'm going to trust you not to hurt me intentionally."

"You're going to trust Death?"

Duncan's voice held a quiet intensity that compelled Methos to listen.  "I wouldn't have trusted you then; I won't lie about it.  But you're not the same man who rode with Kronos.  Do I trust you now?  Yes."

"How do you know, MacLeod?  What makes you think I won't kill you in your sleep tonight?"

"If that's what you want, the sword's under the bed."

Methos jerked against his arms and Duncan caught the wine before it could spill.  "Have you lost your mind, MacLeod?"

"No.  Is there some reason to think you've lost yours?"  Duncan relaxed his grip so that Methos could get out of bed if he wanted, but didn't entirely let go.  "Methos, you've offered me your head more than once, stepped in to save me from myself or someone else more than once.  One of the most cautious and sane immortals I've ever met trusts you implicitly.  Give me one good reason not to trust you."

"Aidan's biased; she's in love with me.  I was Death, MacLeod.  I liked it, do you understand?"

Duncan set the wine aside, but he didn't turn Methos to face him.  "Yes, I hear you.  I wish I didn't understand it, but I remember what that dark quickening felt like.  There were times when I liked what I had become, Methos.  And you knew it."  The younger man refused to flinch as he convicted himself, too intent on trying to reach through this defense which was trapping his lover.

"But you know what?  You keep using the past tense, Methos.  Are you going to tell me you liked manipulating me and Cassandra during that whole mess with the Horsemen?  That you'd do it again in a heartbeat?"

"This is insane. I'm trying to get you not to trust me?"  The older man pulled free and went to sit on a pillow in front of the fireplace.  Duncan followed and dropped a blanket over Methos' shoulders, then settled onto the couch behind him.

"Yeah, this is a little crazy, but what between us has been sane?"

"I don't know, I was sleeping in the middle, not Aidan."  The sardonic quip came out before Methos could quite stop it.

"Yeah, I remember.  Nice way to wake up in the morning, too.  Methos, if you were still Death, you'd never have waited two thousand years for Aidan to come to her senses.  The Horseman would have never offered his head to defeat Kalas.  Hell, you'd have raped me instead of waiting to see if I'd offer."

Methos came up off the pillow so quickly that Duncan didn't have time to react.  The blanket that had been wrapped around the older immortal's shoulders trapped Duncan's arms against his side, pinned in place by Methos' knees.  "Do you think I wouldn't do it now?" he hissed, eyes gone cold and measuring.

Instincts honed down four long centuries had already started to struggle against the trap.  Mac controlled himself, fighting his own reflexes, and commented, "So what's stopping you?"

"Not a thing, Highlander."  Methos leaned forward and kissed him savagely, bruising the younger man's lips and then biting.  His hands moved as well, pinching, scraping, leaving marks and welts that healed immediately but also aroused MacLeod against his will.  Pain and pleasure mingled, with pain dominant.

In the back of Duncan's mind, he heard Aidan's voice, light and for once uninflected, saying, 'Oh, if it comes to that, you can even take pleasure from agony.  Try not to let it come to that.'  The only thing he could think of to do was relax and kiss Methos back.

The mouth on his abruptly softened, licking gently at healing bruises.  Strong, long-fingered hands slid up his body in wordless, caressing apologies.  Duncan leaned into the kiss, drinking in the taste of Methos and wine.  Methos pulled back and settled his head on his friend's shoulder, stroking his mouth with silk-soft touches.  "Gods, Duncan.  You pushed those buttons deliberately."

"You had to know you wouldn't do it.  I don't judge you half as harshly as you judge yourself some days."

The only reply to that was a long sigh.  After a minute, Methos licked at Duncan's neck, then nibbled at the same spot.  He paused long enough to ask, "Why are we on a couch, anyway?  I had some ideas, if you're interested...."

The younger man tilted his head back to give Methos more access and sighed in pleasure at the skilled mouth on his throat and jaw.  His voice hazed by delight, he commented, "Well, I'm here because you won't let me up."

Methos smiled and knee-walked off the couch, freeing him from the blanket.  "Shall we go back to bed?  I have an apology in mind that I think you'll like."

"Who needs an apology?  I just want you."  Duncan caught Methos by the shoulder and the waist.  "Understand me.  I know some of what you were, and I'm starting to know what you are.  I love you.  You aren't going to chase me off just because you used to be one of the Horsemen or whatever other checkered past you accumulated in five thousand years.  I've done a few things myself that I'm not proud of."

"Like Alexei?"  Methos pulled Duncan against him.

"Like Alexei.  Like Sean Burns.  Like Kristen."  That brought Methos' eyes up to his.  "Yes, I should have finished that.  I'm sorry you had to."

"I came over knowing I might have to, Mac.  It's all right.  I'm sorry I had to kill one of your lovers."

Duncan tilted his head to one side, irony implicit in the set of his mouth and eyebrows.  "Lover?  I did some thinking about that after you and Rich were both gone, Methos.  I lusted after her for a while, but mostly I resented being controlled and treated as an infant.  I should never have been stupid enough to think that sharing her bed meant something to her or to me.  Kristen used me as a mirror to make her feel young and beautiful.  That's not love; I just didn't see it soon enough."

Methos shook his head.  "What brought this on?"

"Too much time to think, what else?"

"Come to bed, Highlander, you think too much."

"I think too much?  Me?"

Methos kissed him to quiet him and walked the younger man backwards onto the bed, never letting go of his mouth.  Duncan fell back onto the bed, chuckling.

"Yes, Highlander, once you do think, you think too much."

"Yeah, well, I do other things too much when I get started, too."  He pulled Methos onto the bed with him.

"Good.  Anything worth doing is worth doing to excess."

Duncan decided turnabout was fair play, and he quieted his lover's constant commentary, kissing his fingers and nipping at the ends.  He had found that the older immortal had the most incredibly sensitive finger-pads....  He had to wonder if the man could read Braille and wouldn't be surprised to find Methos could.

This time both of them could and did take their time, wandering and teasing.  Hands stroked and caressed, exploring with a bit less urgency this time.  Duncan took a great deal of pleasure in reducing Methos to a purring puddle on the bed simply by kissing and nibbling along his fingers and palm.  A nip on the inside of the wrist, however, turned the older immortal into a swift-moving cat who twisted, pounced on his prey, and flipped Duncan onto the bed on his stomach.

Now it was the younger man's turn to allow exploration.  The control it took to hold still and let his new lover play kept Duncan from feeling overwhelmed.  He knew full well that Methos would stop if something became too intense, or that he could wriggle free if it did.  When Methos unerringly found several sensitive points along Duncan's thighs, the Scot gasped out, "Have you been talking to Amanda?"

Methos chuckled at that.  "No, do you think she'd tell me?  Much more fun to find out on my own.  How about... here?"  A strong hand ran fingernails along the top of Mac's forearm, tracing down to the webbing between thumb and first finger.  By the time Methos had reached his hand, the touch had lightened so much Duncan was straining to feel it.  He gasped as the older man licked at the webbing near the thumb and then sucked strongly at it.

"Are you all right?"  Methos hadn't expected quite that reaction.

"Oh, I always make noise at this point," Duncan replied, deadpan.

That drew an ironic chuckle.  "What, can't think of anything to do with that lovely mouth?"

Duncan promptly twisted and bit him on the thigh, which drew a startled noise and then laughter.  "Next time, I'll be more precise in what I ask for," the older immortal commented.

The younger man twisted onto one hip and reached an arm up.  "Come kiss me."

"In that order?"  But Methos settled in against him and willingly trapped the other man's mouth with his own, letting the kiss say everything he couldn't yet force words out for.  Passion was there, and love, admiration and affection.  Underlying all of it, though, was the whimsical sense of humor that would not be denied or thwarted, not even here and now.  That odd, black humor was what kept Methos sane and moving through the centuries.

Mac accepted all of it, teasing back with his own mouth and tongue.  He licked around the edges of Methos' lips, nibbled at one corner, then kissed him again, letting Methos plunder as he would, accepting and inviting everything.  Bodies pressed against each other, hard cocks trapped between them and straining, brushing against both at once, driving Duncan half-wild.

Methos pushed at him, rolling the younger man onto his stomach again.  Duncan gave a purring groan, legs coming apart slightly in anticipation of being taken again.  Instead he heard soft laughter.

"Not yet, MacLeod, let's take our time."

Duncan chuckled softly.  "Is this where I accuse you of being a tease?"

"Gods, no.  This is where you start worrying about whether you've been taking your vitamins."  Methos knelt next to him, nails and tips of fingers already searching out sensitive spots on the younger man's back.  Warm breath brushed across Duncan's ear as the older immortal whispered, "Let me know if it's too much."

Before Duncan could reply, Methos went to work on him, finding and activating chi points all across his body.  There was no rhyme or reason that Duncan could notice with what little attention he had left.  Sometimes that all too skilled mouth brushed across a chakras, maddening him with suction and grazing teeth.  At other times, the fingers probed and stroked across meridian points, activating chi centers and spreading heat through the younger man's body in rippling waves that Duncan could only relax into.

Methos tasted wherever instinct drew him, settling on arm or leg, back or curve of ass, ribs or hip, teasing and learning all at once.  Whatever time he could have with the Highlander he would take and savor, although he was starting to think his new lover had been serious about the carte blanche.  Now that's a frightening thought.

A strained voice beneath him said, "Do I get to play, too?'

Only then did the older immortal realize how long and thoroughly he'd been arousing his friend.  Muscles were quivering under his hands, against his legs, and a thin sheen of sweat covered that golden body even in the slight chill of the barge.  "Gods, Mac, did anyone ever tell you there's such a thing as too much control?"

"I thought I was the one saying that," came the shaky reply as Duncan flipped over, taking that response for a 'yes.' He reached for Methos and pulled him into an almost brutally thorough kiss.  Now Mac was propped on one elbow, leaning over his friend while devouring his mouth.

His hand roamed more gently than his mouth, searching for and finding nipples, teasing them to even harder points.  Duncan's mouth followed the path his hands had blazed, trailing bites and kisses down Methos' jaw, behind his ear, back down to his throat.  Remembering the older man's fondness for teasing collarbones, he returned the favor and watched his new lover arch into it.  Deliberately the Scot left a line of hickeys and reddened bitemarks along the fine-drawn bone structure, watching them bloom and immediately fade again under immortal healing.

Strong hands on his head encouraged him to bite the tendon of the thrown-back neck and Methos cried out when he did.  It was no language Duncan knew, but he understood the pleasure in the sound very well.  He soothed the mark with his tongue, swirling patterns on the skin until the redness faded, feeling the older immortal shiver under that touch as well.

Now the Scot used his hands to trace a slow, deliberate path down his lover's chest and stomach, kissing everywhere his fingers had roused.  The older man was writhing under it, holding nothing back from his lover.  To his dismay, the palms only skimmed along his stomach, trailing just under his straining cock and then veering to one side to tease the indentation where hip met ass.  Duncan scratched lightly just under the curve of Methos' ass as his mouth ignored the path his hands had trailed.  When that warm, skilled tongue traced the older man's cock, Methos arched back, mouth open but no sound coming out.

Duncan deliberately teased him, licking lightly along his length, then moving farther between his lover's legs to cup and tease his balls.  He blew lightly on the curls there, then sucked the globes into his mouth one at a time, rolling them on his tongue.  When he glanced up before moving back up the shaft, he stopped involuntarily.  The sight of Methos arched back, pale skin gleaming in the firelight, strong, slender hands tightened convulsively on the blankets, was too beautiful to ignore.

The pleading sound that came out of his lover drove him back to what he was doing, and the younger man concentrated on taking as much of his cock into his mouth as possible, then pulling away and blowing warm air across it.  By the third time he did that, the elder immortal was going insane.  After what felt like an eon of that deliberate mischief, Methos abandoned dignity and decided to try begging.

"Are you planning on teasing me all night, Highlander, or were you going to do something about it?"  Methos reached desperately for the oil and passed it to him.  Right now, if that infuriating, maddening, all too sensual Scot moved anywhere but into him, Methos was going to commit murder.  Repeatedly.

"Oh, I thought I'd do something about it eventually, but since you're in a hurry...."  Duncan moved behind him, settling in so that both of them lay on their sides.  He nipped at the nape of his lover's neck and teased him farther down as well, sliding oiled fingers along the base of his spine and then slowly into his ass, pleasuring and preparing him at the same time.  From the way Methos' muscles were jumping, he wasn't going to last much longer.  The younger man oiled himself as well now, not wanting to tease any longer.  He needed to feel Methos wrapped around him, know that he was giving him as much pleasure as Duncan had felt.

This was more familiar to Duncan than being taken had been.  Both Amanda and Aidan enjoyed this as well as the more usual passage and Mac had some practice at making it easy for both parties.  Of course, with them he also knew exactly where to stimulate to make sure they enjoyed that route, too.  With a man, a certain amount of the pleasure was built in, so to speak.  Duncan withdrew his fingers and heard Methos moan, "Wait."

The younger man paused, surprised.  "Methos?  What?"

"I want to see you.  Here, roll over."  The older immortal rolled Duncan onto his back and moved to straddle his waist.  He smiled down at his lover and used one hand to position the younger man's cock, then slid down slowly.  There was a brief moment of resistance before Methos relaxed.  Duncan shivered, both from the pleasure he was feeling and from his lover's joy as well as the older immortal settled onto the Scot's cock in one leisurely, almost unhurried movement.  For a brief moment Duncan thought he could almost hear Methos whisper, 'Oh, Gods, at last,' but the other man's mouth never moved.

The Scot reached out, running both hands up across Methos' chest to his nipples, then sliding his hands in different directions as the older man began to move on him.  Fingers intertwined with his lover's, offering strength and balance as he moved.  The feel of that steady rhythm on him was as exquisite as the friction and heat from his lover's body around him.  Duncan's free hand traveled down to wrap around his lover's cock, stroking in time with the other man's movements.

Methos groaned at that and sped up, muscles flexing around Duncan's cock as he did.  Green-gold eyes had narrowed with pleasure and concentration both, an expression Duncan was starting to recognize and love.  The slender body shivered, trying to hold against the on-rushing orgasm, but it was too good.  The sheer ecstasy of being filled, the exquisite sensation of riding Duncan, the stroking hand wrapped around his cock with almost too much pressure as only men knew how to do -- he had fantasized about this before, and the reality exceeded his imagination by a frightening degree.  Brown eyes had dilated almost black from the low light in the room and from pleasure, but they never stopped watching him.  That strong, olive-skinned hand tightened around Methos' cock, hips arching up, that gorgeous mouth slightly open as he tried to catch his breath.

The older immortal shivered again, moving faster now.  He needed this, but he needed the Highlander's pleasure, too.  Methos tried to control his breathing, to slow down and let them both take their time, but Duncan gasped and arched up, then again, strong enough to impose his own will in this.  The younger man set the rhythm now with hips and hand, stroking up into Methos, down around his cock, calling words in Gaelic that Methos knew he would understand later when he could think.  What undid the elder immortal at the last, dissolving his control and throwing Methos over into his orgasm, was the love that surged across the linked quickenings as Duncan arched up one last time, pulsing heat into him as he called Methos' name almost desperately.

Somehow the Highlander kept his eyes open this time.  The sight of Methos arched back, throat exposed in one long elegant arc running down chest and stomach, etched itself into his mind and stayed there even after Duncan closed his eyes.  The Scot threw one hand up to catch his lover before he could fall, the other coaxing the last fluid from his cock.  He heard Methos gasping for breath and looked up again to see olivine eyes smile at him.

"Going to live, Highlander?"

That drew laughter, somehow, and then Methos arranged himself on the younger man's chest without ever dislodging Duncan from his body.  The Scot let one hand rest on his lover's back, stroking lazily; the other curled around the base of his skull, fingers rubbing easily at the muscles of the neck.  The older man sighed in continued pleasure at the ministrations, a rumbling noise suspiciously reminiscent of a cat escaping from Methos as he rubbed his cheek against his lover's shoulder and neck.

"You purr, too?" Duncan asked casually, relaxed and sated.  He took the hint, though, and kept rubbing Methos' neck and shoulders.

"Too?  Oh, Aidan."  That got a chuckle.  "Well, you know she didn't learn it from me."

"As if I'd speculate about a lady's habits.  If I weren't so relaxed, I'd spank you for that."

"You and what army, Highlander?  Swords you might beat me at, but wrestling?  I ought to make you put money on it."  The competitive tone in Methos' voice was completely belied by the unmoving languor of his body.

Duncan hastily changed the subject, all too aware that he'd probably lose in a wrestling match.  He chuckled under the older immortal and offered, "Wrong verb obviously.  Try 'scrub' instead.  How's a shower sound?  I'll even get your back for you."

"I'd have to move, MacLeod."  Now the older man sounded as lazy as he seemed.

"You were certainly moving before.  Are you sure the memory isn't the first thing to go?"

"If I get up to shower, Highlander, I won't have time or incentive to remember a few other things that I suspect you'll like."

Duncan ran a hand down Methos' neck to his ear, then swatted him lightly on the ass with the other hand.  "Come on, let's get a shower while we can still move.  If your back isn't sore, I don't know why not.  Last offer, I wash your back and rub it out."

"Hmm, if I stay here a while yet, do you keep adding to the offer?"

The mercenary, speculative question drew a harder smack on the ass and an indignant response of, "No, I said that was your last offer.  And you get to get the beers out of the fridge when we get out."

Methos pushed himself up and cheerfully said, "Why didn't you say there was beer involved?"  But he moved very carefully as he pulled himself off Duncan and settled in against his lover's side rather than heading for the shower.

"My turn to ask.  Are you all right?"  Concern colored the younger man's voice, but the half-smiling reply he got reassured him.

"If I were any better, MacLeod, I'd be the leading contender for the Prize.  I just didn't feel like moving away from you yet."  That response brought a warm arm up around his back.

Both of them lay there for a couple minutes, enjoying the slow descent into more normal breathing and heart rate.  Duncan chuckled and said, "You realize we're breathing in synch again."

Methos shrugged against his side.  "So?  Who'll notice?"

That drew an automatic reply of, "Joe."  Duncan paused for a second, muscles tensing slightly.  "Well, I knew this would change things, but I hadn't thought about that."

The more slender man sighed and said, "Shower.  We'll deal with the Watchers after we're clean, possibly after we sleep.  It's nothing we can't handle, Highlander."  Methos sat up and pulled Duncan with him to clean up.

The shower was big enough for two if they worked at it.  With the link still resonating between them, they ducked and moved around each other as if they had been doing it for years.  Methos braced himself against the wall as Duncan rubbed out his back, soapy, blunt-tipped fingers digging into muscles and relaxing them.  No sooner had the Scot finished that than he began washing the older man's hair as well, rubbing in soothing circles along his scalp and temples as he worked the shampoo in.

"It's a good thing you're no older than you are,"  Methos commented lazily.

"Why's that?"  Humor laced Duncan's voice but his hands never stopped moving.

"Because you'd have brought an incredible price as a body servant even a thousand years ago, Mac.  I'd have gone bankrupt getting you free."

Duncan raised an eyebrow but decided not to derail this unusually talkative mood.  "Nice to know you would have bought me."

"Of course I'd have bought you out.  Although every idiot there would have been bidding on you, and all the really intelligent ones, too."  Methos tilted his head up to let the shower spray wash the shampoo out, then moved to get Duncan's back for him.

"Why those categories?"  Now the younger man was genuinely curious.  He'd seen slave auctions before and been sold once himself, though thankfully not from the block.  Ultimately he ended up with the abolitionists, but Duncan was educated enough to know that his dislike of the institution was a result of his time period and upbringing.  Methos had spent most of his life in times when the owning of slaves was normal, accepted -- frequently necessary to the economy.

The older man paused with his hands on Duncan's back, then said gravely, "This is not meant as an insult in any way, Highlander.  But the idiots would never have seen past your looks to the brains and would have bid themselves into the ground for the money they would have thought you'd bring in.  The intelligent ones would have seen the brains and your native stubbornness and been convinced they could break you anyway.  Depending on how good they were and the techniques they used, they might have managed it... in your first century, at least."

The Scot's first reaction was indignation until he remembered some of the wounds he'd seen on the slaves he had helped along the Underground Railroad.  Had he been subjected to that before he became immortal -- or after, which might be worse, whispered the back of his mind -- well, who knew?  He might have held out; he might not have.

Methos meanwhile had gone on talking and had started rubbing out the younger man's shoulders as well.  "No, I don't think simple pain would have done it.  But appealing to your intelligence or vanity, letting you work your way up to a position as, say, majordomo....  The right combination of abuse and reward might well have worked.  By the time Kristen had finished with you, you were immune to those tricks.  But before then?"

"You might be right," Duncan admitted quietly.  "I hate to say it."

Methos steered him under the water.  "Why?  These were men who spent their entire lives breaking others to their will, because they were good at it and frequently because they liked it.  There's no shame in admitting a butcher knows how to cut meat, MacLeod."

Silence fell while they cut off the water and grabbed towels.  Duncan finally broke it.  "How old was Aidan when she became a slave, Methos?"

"Eight hundred or so.  And no, they didn't break her.  But they bent her very badly.  She didn't know how to... become someone else, someone who could survive everything they did, and let her real self out when it was safe.  So Edana endured it all and clung to the hope that sooner or later I would find her, or Ramirez."

"How bad was it?"

Duncan's voice held only concern; Methos could tell that morbid curiosity was not part of this.  He stayed silent a moment, trying to decide how to explain it, then began.  "Edana was working within limitations that wouldn't have applied to a mortal, Highlander.  In many ways, that made it worse.  Any wound she took would heal; if she died, and the body wasn't moved quickly enough, there was a high possibility she would be exposed as an immortal.  In those days, they still had diviners in the public meeting areas, MacLeod.  What can you do with a sacrifice which will come back, even if it is a day or so later?"

The Scot's stomach knotted at the thought of their lover gutted, her entrails pulled out to be read for omens, and then the body thrown to one side to revive and start over again....  "I could wish I was a bit less educated," was all he said.

Methos put a hand on his shoulder.  "I thought you would know what I meant.  But that was what she worried about, she told me later.  Edana did the only thing that she could; she bent.  The owner of the Golden Lamp waxed rhapsodic when Xan, Alex, and I finally tracked her down.  He had bought an educated Celt, a rarity in and of herself, and she was far and away the most obedient slave he'd ever had."

Duncan shuddered.  "Aidan?  Obedient?  Oh, sweet Lord."

"What else could she do?  There are ways to break immortals, too.  By the eighth or ninth time you've died screaming in agony, other options start looking very good."  Methos' voice was exquisitely detached, and he shuttered his thoughts away from their link.

The younger man hugged him tightly.  "Is that what Kronos did to you?"

Methos shrugged, still holding his thoughts away from Duncan.  "Part of it.  Not all.  I'd been a slave before they stole me, Highlander.  The thought of being able to do to others what they had done to me was very tempting, I won't lie to you about that.  Too, if I joined them, I kept my head."

Duncan looked at him, studying the shadows in those gold-green eyes, then said gently, "You don't have to tell me anything, Methos.  Leave it alone.  Talk about it sometime if you need to, but for now leave it alone.  That one's too raw."

That drew a faint smile.  "Are you supposed to be the sensible one of us?"

"Any time you can't be.  Let it be, Methos.  Bed or couch?"

"Did you want to sit and talk?"

"Do you want to finish the story about Aidan or tell me later?"  The younger man watched him with a carefully masked concern.

"Oh, I'll tell you.  You need to know, it's still a painful spot for her and one best not brought up."  Methos pushed him gently toward the bed.  "Grab a blanket, I'll get us some more wine."

They met again at the couch and Duncan stretched out, then pulled Methos to rest between his legs, back to Duncan's chest.  "Comfortable?"

"Oh, yes.  So.  Aidan.  You do understand what the Golden Lamp was?"

The Highlander replied, "I remember that dance she did for Connor.  I take it the Lamp was a brothel?"

"A very expensive one, but yes.  She was sold straight to them apparently.  I doubt the auction block bothered her much; even after all our time in Greece and then Persia, Edana considered clothes something you wore to keep the locals happy or to deal with bad weather."

Duncan chuckled at that.  "She still does."

Methos smiled.  "I know.  Where do you think she picked up the habit of sleeping naked?  She's a consummate Celt in some ways.  Or is that a cat?  Likes to clean up before bed and then can't be bothered with clothes.  Regardless of that, Gracchus, the oily bastard who ran the Lamp, thought she'd make a dancer if nothing else.  Then he found out she was literate in Greek and Latin and she became an upper-class courtesan, hetaera might be a more accurate term. Apparently Gracchus took charge of training her personally.  I really should have gutted him,"  Methos muttered, then went on.

"From what little she said, she ended up with an interesting mix of customers.  Military men and merchants from the city, some traders from elsewhere who could afford the Lamp and enjoyed a bed-partner who could talk to them.  Anyone likely to want an intelligent courtesan, basically."

"Did she like any of them?"  Duncan asked it calmly, trying to keep some detachment on the subject.  It was history after all, eighteen centuries old... but it had left near-visible scars on a woman he and Methos both loved very much.

"I don't know that 'like' is the right word.  She said once that one of them was as much help as he could be, but from her tone I think she would have preferred to do without.  Even before she was a slave, Edana had a high pain tolerance.  By the time we got her out of Rome...."

Duncan flinched at the implications of that; he had seen her master pain before.  Methos stroked his forearm where it rested across the older man's chest.  "You asked, Highlander.  Shall I stop?"

"No.  Tell me."

In a quiet, musing voice, the older immortal said, "Just because she lived through it doesn't mean you have to endure the story.  Would you rather I stop?"

"Only if you want to."  The Scot took a sip of his wine.

"Edana and I had spent a year training Alex and Xan.  I'd acquired both students at once and needed the help, and they needed to learn not to underestimate female immortals.  At the end of that year, she wanted to travel to Sicily with some North African traders; she was looking into some mercantile possibilities.  She was supposed to meet us in Naples in a year or so.  It was a good place to train those two, and she liked the area.  She never showed up -- not in one year, not in two."

Methos took a sip of Duncan's wine, then went on.  "I don't know how Edana ended up on the block, although with enough alcohol she'd probably tell us.  I do know it was another ten years before we tracked her to Rome.  None of us were willing to assume she was dead, so we looked in every port from Sicily to Naples.  Eventually we found a man who remembered an unconscious slave being sold to a caravan going to Rome.

"Knowing she'd been sold sped things up and at the same time it slowed them down.  The odds were high that she'd been sold as a pleasure slave of some kind but we couldn't be sure someone hadn't purchased her to teach his daughter.  We ended up having to check every backwoods village along the way, too.  With her education it was a chance that we had to look into, but it took forever.

"By the time we hit Rome, I'd taken three heads and the boys had each taken one.  Then as now, it was a busy territory for immortals.  We finally gave up and simply quartered the city, hoping to feel her presence without getting into any more damn challenges.  Xan found her, Xenokrates he was then.  He looked over the house she was in, and came back to tell me this was going to be expensive."

"Methos, if she was a slave, she didn't have a sword.  Aidan had to have been frightened to have an immortal find her."  Duncan started to sit up, then let the warm weight of his lover press him back.

"She probably was, Mac, but Xan didn't think of it.  All he knew was that he didn't have enough money to buy so much as an hour with her to tell her what was going on.  If her presence weren't so distinctive, he wouldn't have even been sure it was her."  Methos shrugged and said quietly, "Xan did the best he could.  They're still friends, so I'd say she didn't carry a grudge."

"When we got to the Golden Lamp, I told Gracchus we wanted to buy his Celt.  He quoted me an outrageous amount for a night with her, the three of us, and told me she wasn't for sale at any price."

Duncan laughed.  "Don't let Aidan hear you say the amount was outrageous.  She'd tell you she was worth every coin of it."

"And so she is, but that's beside the point.  I was getting ready to try some subtle pressure on the man, but when I looked down Alex had a gladius against the man's belly -- a sizable target -- and was offering to push slowly.  Alex doesn't lose his temper often, so it's worth backing up when he does.  Xan always followed his lead on such things; he went for the next best target, the bastard's balls.  I gave the man my nastiest smile and explained to him that he'd bought a free woman, namely my wife.  He was listening very closely when I started telling him that my brothers and I had some interesting ideas on how to clean her good name.  Most of them involved gratuitous amounts of his blood.

"Gracchus handed over the keys to her chains.  I'm still amazed he didn't wet himself from sheer terror.  Xan and Alex left blood stains on his tunic, and I doubt he spoke for weeks after I twisted a chain around his throat.  It seemed only fair," Methos murmured silkily.  "When I saw her, I almost went back to finish tightening it."  Methos shook his head, still angry, and felt Duncan stiffen behind him.  "Highlander?"

"Oh, God, she did look terrible.  She wasn't that thin when Gustav was stalking her."

Methos carefully controlled the link between them, gradually thinning the image away from Duncan.  "Yes, and brittle.  The only thing Edana said when I unlocked the chains was that I needed to bring them with us.  She didn't say anything else, and had to force herself to walk beside me instead of behind.  Xan and Alex were furious.  They came up with some rather inventive threats for the man, and so did I, but we wanted to get her out of there. Once we were satisfied he'd never admit there had been a woman of her description there, all four of us left."

"How long did it take before she started talking?"  Duncan took another long drink from the wine.  Methos caught his hand when he gave the glass back and pressed a kiss into the palm.  "What was that for?"

"Comfort, Highlander.  She asked one question once we were in the street.  Edana had my cloak on over the tunic they'd had her wearing -- necessary, fabric that sheer would only be worn by a slave, never a free woman -- and she wanted to know whether I had any money.  When I told her yes, she headed straight for a nearby bathhouse and spent over an hour getting clean.  While she did that, Alex went to the travel station and retrieved all our gear, including the extra broadsword I'd brought for her.  She walked out of the baths wearing only my cloak:  no sandals, no tunic, not so much as a hairpin that she'd worn out of the Lamp did she keep.

"We bought passage on a ship going to Athens and holed up to wait for the tide.  Xan went to the market and bought her sandals and some tunics.  We got the hell out of there before the fat bastard could try to arrest us for theft.  I've always wondered if Xan and Alex went back to deal with Gracchus.  I ought to ask, it might be interesting to find out."

"So how long before Aidan recovered?  Obviously she did."  He propped his chin on Methos' shoulder, arms loosely linked around the other man's waist as he listened.  Some of the emotions behind the story were bleeding through, and if he closed his eyes, sometimes Duncan could almost see Methos' memories of the time.

"It took a while.  I had to tell Alex and Xan to leave her be, that she'd talk when she was ready to.  The freedom not to say anything was doubly precious to her after what she'd been doing.  Whole days would go by without a word from her, except when I tried to get rid of her chains.  She insisted that I keep them.  When we got to a small village that assumed barbarians would do anything, Edana melted them down and forged them into a dagger.  She lost it eventually, shattered in a fight, but she carried it for years.

"The four of us traveled together for three months.  She began to come back out of her shell and I saw problems coming, so I sent the boys off.  They were ready to head out on their own anyway, and they knew they were distracting me from healing her."  Methos sighed and fell silent.

"What did you do?"  Duncan prodded gently.

Eventually, when he had started to think the older immortal had fallen asleep, Methos replied, "I gave her what she needed.  We headed away from the settled areas and into the Cyclades.  When we got there I told Edana that from now on she was making all the decisions -- everything from where to go to what time to set up camp for the night.  And I held her to it."

"You put her in charge?"  Duncan frowned, thinking about that; then a snippet of conversation he'd overheard one night began to make sense.  Once, when both Aidan and Methos had thought him asleep, she'd said something about Methos making her control him.  "Oh, so that she would have to stop reacting like a slave or thinking she still was one."

"Yes."  It was all he said.

Duncan waited for a few minutes, then offered him the rest of the wine.  "Should I drop this?"

"No, MacLeod, you shouldn't.  Would it surprise you to find out that Aidan can make a Marine drill instructor seem like a sweet, kind grandmother when she chooses?"

"No, actually it wouldn't.  How bad did it get?"  Duncan rubbed his shoulders casually, not digging into muscles, but simply offering the same comfort Methos had given him earlier.

"It could have been worse.  I had to push, goad, snip, and be an all-around bastard before she would start to give orders.  Once she did....  I gave it a couple months, then started snapping back at her.  We got things settled out after that, although I tell you, I would not have wanted to be a collared slave of hers for those two months."  Methos smiled in the firelight.  "I can't decide whether I've gotten into bad habits, or hers have rubbed off on you."

"What counts?"  Duncan smiled back at him, knowing he couldn't see and not caring.

"Well, Aidan and I discussed you after making love, now you and I are discussing her--"

"And she brought up you and me....  It's her fault."  Duncan chuckled again.  "Shall we get some sleep?  Or am I making too many assumptions?"

"Such as?"  Methos turned to look at him.

"Well, I'd like it if you slept here with me, but I suppose I ought to ask at least."

Methos smiled at that.  "Waking up with you sounds wonderful, Highlander.  Remind me to thank Aidan, right after I beat her."

"I'll sell tickets for the fight.  Come to bed, Methos."

Duncan woke slowly to the feel of warm breath on his neck and strong arms wrapped around his chest.  He reached for Aidan, erection already rousing, felt hips that angled instead of curved and realized that the pressure against his side was another erection.  His brain kicked back into gear and purred, 'Methos.'  He smiled as he deliberately ran his hand across a cheek with surprisingly little stubble.

The Scot rolled onto his side and pulled his new lover into his arms, burying his face in the other man's hair, breathing in his scent, and trying to hold off the day through sheer willpower.  A sleepy murmur changed to a more awake sounding complaint of, "Gods, it's bright out there.  Don't you believe in curtains?"

"For portholes?  If you're going to stay over on a regular basis, I suppose I can do something about it.  Here," and Duncan twisted so that Methos was mostly out of the morning sun.

"Mmm, much better. Thanks."  The older man settled against him and said drowsily, "Now this is a good way to wake up, not like turning off the damn alarm clock....  Hells, what time is it, Highlander?"

The younger immortal looked at the clock and said ruefully, "Ten past eight, I'm afraid.  You need to get clothes and open the store, don't  you?"

Methos stretched against him, lazy and abandoned to pleasure as any cat in the middle of its morning grooming.  "Oh, there's time for a shower if we don't take too long and you loan me a clean sweater.  But no sense feeding the Watcher rumor mill until we decide what to tell them."

"Damn.  I would love to keep you in bed for a week."

That drew a slow, sensual chuckle.  "Oh, I could find ways to keep you amused, Highlander, never fear.  But they'll have to wait for tomorrow, I'm afraid.  Well, tonight, at least."

Duncan abruptly started laughing and Methos turned over to prop up on both elbows and watch him.  The pleasure from his half-smile lit the older immortal's eyes, too.  "What is it?"

"Isn't this role reversal?  Usually, you're the one wanting to stay in bed and I'm saying we have to get up," Duncan teased.

"My good habits rubbing off on you, MacLeod?"

"You have good habits?  Although something was rubbing me last night."

Methos' eyes darkened from gold to green as he whispered, "Oh, is that why I woke up at three this morning and you were going down on me?"

"Complaining?"  Duncan gave him an innocent look that brought the smile back.

"Only that I have to go to work.  Going to get a shower, MacLeod, or go back to sleep?"

"That's not a choice.  Come on,  I'll dig out a sweater for you.  Next time, I'll seduce someone on his weekend rather than at the end of his work week."

"Quit complaining, Mac.  Come on, or there won't be time for so much as a kiss."

Duncan didn't complain when Methos backed him against the wall of the shower and wrapped long fingers around both their cocks at once, stroking them off together under the warm water while kissing the younger immortal nearly senseless.  He did gasp and swing indignantly and ineffectually when Methos switched the water over to cold to get him moving.

Methos caught the sweater Mac threw him and pulled it on; as a result, the Highlander's first words were a bit muffled by wool.

"Do you want me to catch up with you for lunch around two or so?  I'll be over there anyway, I've got to run out to the bank this morning."

Methos did smile at that.  "Trying to set people talking, Highlander?"

"Nah, I don't think it'll take much work."  Duncan paused, then asked, "Do you care?"

Methos turned, caught by the note in his voice, and kissed him.  It was a slow, gentle exploration that ended with the older immortal standing against Duncan, one arm around his waist and the other hand cupping his face.  "No, Duncan, I don't care who knows.  You can tell Joe to post it on the door at Watcher HQ for all of me, but I thought it might be a good idea to think about a few things first.  For a while at least, it is still useful for us to get some of the Watcher gossip."

The idea of the banner on the door of that estate in Lyon drew a smile from the younger immortal.  "Well, the announcement might be a bit much, I agree.  All right, we talk at lunch if my timing's good for you, later tonight otherwise?"

"Your timing is just fine, MacLeod, but I have got to go."  Methos headed out the door and Duncan laughed, then turned to cleaning up the mess left from dinner before running his own errands.

Joe wanted two things:  a good book to read, since he was caught up on his Watcher journals, and some good company for lunch.  He had decided, sensibly, to try Shakespeare & Company, in hopes of combining the errands.  The sun was shining, good-looking women were in sight -- a perfect day to shut down the store for a little while and go get a sandwich, or so the Watcher planned to tell Adam.

When he got to the bookstore, Adam was showing three college students where the art history section was and MacLeod was gleefully arguing Scottish history with a fourth.  The dispute seemed to center around the use of cockades as identification in battles or solely as decorative ornaments, with an occasional sideways foray into the differentiation between tartans.

Joe gauged the tone of the argument for a few seconds, decided that MacLeod was winning despite student stubbornness, and went to take pity on a boggled Watcher hiding in the philosophy section.  He knew he'd seen her at Watcher HQ before, although he didn't think they'd ever talked.  Just in case she didn't recognize him, though, he rubbed his arm with the wrist facing her to let her see his tattoo.

She raised laughing, desperate eyes and said, "Is it just me, or is that Duncan MacLeod over there arguing?"

Joe did a slow, deliberate check, then turned back and said thoughtfully, "No.  That's discussing.  His accent gets thicker when he argues."

She tried to glare at him but instead slipped into giggles, a thoroughly charming sound that took five years off her age.  In a single, careful look Joe catalogued wavy red-gold hair going silver at the temples, wide blue eyes, a snub nose, and freckles.  She was probably getting close to forty from the fine lines around her eyes, but she looked more like thirty, especially when she laughed.

"I'm Joe Dawson.  Nice to meet you.  Did you know you have a wonderful laugh?" She may be carrying an extra ten pounds but if so, they're distributed in good places, he thought.

She tried, fairly successfully, to rope and tie the giggle.  "They told me you were a madman.  Nice to get accurate gossip for once.  Or does that mean it's not gossip?"

"Oh, it's probably still gossip.  Which 'they' this time?"  Joe reached idly for one of the books on Tibet and the Dalai Lama that he'd been considering for a while.  It might give him some insights into Mac; the immortal had lived there once for a few months and been good friends with that incarnation of the holy man.

"The researchers at the HQ.  But you write very well, it's actually a pleasure reading your reports," she continued.

"Okay, so you're one of the catalogue workers?" Joe asked, more and more interested in this lady.  Someone else could have made that sound like an insult.  From her it was a compliment, an offhand assumption of skill.

"Oh!  I'm Erin Shea.  I handle what Adam likes to refer to as the 'Unsolved Mysteries' files.  You know, the stuff that's bizarre even by our standards and the people who've vanished and we have no bloody clue what happened.  I end up reading a fair number of MacLeod's Chronicles.  I mean, Garrick's clairvoyance, and Coltec's soul healing... even that odd mess with Michael Moore, or Quentin Barnes, or whoever he was."  She spread her hands.  "And me just a simple country girl."

Joe did laugh appreciatively at that.  "Oh, sure.  I doubt that.  You're one of our senior researchers, aren't you?  We don't give those files to idiots."

She gave him a speculative look, blue eyes suddenly serious.  "No, and I don't think you're one either.  Did you mean to follow MacLeod in here?"

"Nah, had no idea he was here.  I came to drag Adam off for lunch and catch up on news.  However, since the two of them are friends, and you're a friend of Adam's, how about all four of us go get some food?"  Joe grinned wickedly at her.  "Or do you not want to meet Mac?"

Erin dropped the books she was holding, and had to scrabble to pick them back up.  Joe nudged one over to her with his cane, but stayed out of her way.  For a lady named for peace, she seemed to have a redhead's temper to match her mane.  Still squatting on the floor checking the cover on a tradeback, she muttered a few choice comments in a language that was definitely not English, French, Arabic or Gaelic.  That much Joe was sure of.  He was fairly sure he didn't want a translation, either.

Straightening up again, Erin switched back to English and replied, "You do realize that I'm a Watcher and he's an immortal?  You know, the powers that be frown on this kind of--"

Annoyance flared and moved through blue-grey eyes; the effect reminded Joe of cloud shadows scudding across the ocean, and he made a mental note to duck if she ever looked at him like that.  Erin had the most intriguing habit of biting down on her lower lip when she was irritated, he noticed absently, and rubbing one thumb across her first two fingers.  Her next words surprised him very pleasantly.

"Oh, to hell with it.  Yes.  I would love to go to lunch with the three of you, and you will introduce me.  Is he as quick as your reports say he is?"

"Mac's no fool, Erin, he wouldn't have made it this far in the Game if he was."

"And Adam wouldn't be playing chess with an idiot.  Right.  Fine, introduce me as a researcher and let him draw his own conclusions.  In for a penny, in for a pound.  Damn if I'm giving up this chance."  She nodded once in determination, then glanced at the book he had pulled off the shelf.  "Good volume, if a little basic.  You familiar with the tenets?"

Joe never blinked at the rapid change of subject.  "Yeah, barely.  Good starting point?"

"Definitely.  Shall we go rescue them and blow this taco stand?"

"Lady, I like the way you think.  Come on."

They walked up to pay for their books and found Duncan patiently explaining to the student that yes, as a matter of fact, Braveheart had been fairly accurate.  When the kid kept protesting, citing a lecture his teacher had just given the week before, Erin smiled pleasantly at him and said, "Tell you what.  Aren't you in Nora Smythe's class on British history?"  The kid froze, then nodded.  "Good.  What's your name?"

"Umm... Jason Robertson."

"Right.  Jason, you just picked your term paper.  Go find your references and be prepared to do a fifteen page work justifying your opinion on how the movie compares with the standard histories.  Nora does still require her students to write a fifteen page foot-noted paper, double-spaced, with bibliography and Turabian's notations, doesn't she?"

Duncan raised an eyebrow in surprise, not sure who the redhead was.  The young man didn't know either, the Scot thought, from the startled 'Oh, shit' look.

"Yeah, she does.  Umm, I already had my topic picked.  It's been approved."

"When's the paper due?"

"Five weeks."

"That's plenty of time, then.  I'll call her and let her know about your new topic,"  Erin said pleasantly.  "But if you're going to argue with a man with a Masters in History, I really think you'd better read your sources.  Talk to Donna at the reference desk at the library, she'll help you with your source materials.  Shall I tell her to expect you?"

Adam had one hand up to cover the smile on his face.  Erin on a tear always made for grand entertainment and she didn't do it nearly often enough.  Duncan glanced back at him, trying not to grin at the kid's discomfiture.

"Uh, no, thank you, I'll find her.  Right.  Braveheart compared to the historical William Wallace and his battles.  Got it."  He sighed and muttered in fairly good Italian, "Damn it, I'm going to have to go over length to do this right.  Shit."  Jason headed out the door still muttering but quite obviously already thinking about the paper.

With surprising and uncharacteristic tact, Adam waited until the door had completely closed before bursting into laughter.  Duncan grinned and started laughing himself.  Joe looked around and said cheerfully, "Well, now that the store's cleaned out, let's all go get some lunch.  Come on, Adam, it's a great day out there."

"After that, Joe, beer is a wonderful idea.  How's the Blue Star sound?  Erin?  Mac?  Coming?"

Erin reached behind the counter with the ease of long familiarity and grabbed the phone.  "Sounds great, Adam, but let me call Nora and tell her Jason changed his paper.  And I think I will warn Donna to look for the boy.  He's so stubborn, he'll use a nineteenth century source because it agrees with him and flunk because Nora will assume he didn't look around."

Duncan raised an eyebrow at Joe, got a hands-up wave to disclaim any responsibility, and turned to Methos.  The older immortal was busy ringing up Erin's purchase and grinning at her half of the conversation.  It had started as purely informative, wended through some extremely salacious gossip, and concluded with a promise to put a book on hold and come by for dinner that evening.

"Adam, here, fill out the damn check and I'll sign it."  Erin handed him her checkbook and dialed a second number.  This conversation, to Duncan's carefully concealed amusement, took place in rapid-fire Italian.  It started with a yelling match, wound down to a query about what sounded like a husband and two kids, then ended with a very unprofessional retort about some people hogging more than their fair share of the available sex-life and a threat that 'You'd better not be pregnant again!'

Erin slammed the phone down and chortled, "Damn, for once I got in the last insult.  Beautiful day!  Adam, how bad's the damage?  Oh, is that all, and no, you will not add on an overhead.  But let me know if I owe you a new phone, although I think that one's okay."

Methos took the signed check and passed her the bag.  "That sounded like Donna's in fine form.  So is she expecting again or trying to fix you up with another cousin?"

"No, her youngest uncle."  Erin rolled her eyes.  "My mother would turn in her grave if I married anything but a good Irishman, but try telling Donna that."

Methos said wryly, "Just because she's met your mother and knows she not in her grave?"

"Well, that would definitely be part of the problem," Erin agreed with mock gravity.  "The rest would be the minor matter that Father's Irish, which is why Mother's so insistent that I marry a Celt -- but Mother's as Italian as Donna."  She turned to Duncan and said pleasantly, "Erin Shea.  Nice to meet you, whoever you are.  Was I right about the degree?"

Duncan gave in and roared with laughter, bracing himself on the counter to keep from falling down.  Erin stepped over to the romance section and pulled out a copy of Fabio's latest attempt at writing.  "Hold this for Nora, will you, Adam?  She'll be in sometime in the next few days."

"Nora is going to read this?  Are you joking?"  But he put it behind the counter anyway, and dropped Joe's money in the till.

"She lost a bet, so now she has to try and find one paragraph of good writing or a plot, whichever comes first.  Failing that, she has to read the entire thing."  Erin shrugged.  "Personally, I wouldn't have taken the bet, but she was sure she could win that shooting match.  Does he always laugh himself into crying?" she asked Adam, contemplating Duncan's streaming eyes and the hand smacking the counter in emphasis to his attempts to breathe.

"Only on good days, I think.  Erin, this is Duncan MacLeod.  And Mac could easily get a Masters in Art History, he was an antiques dealer.  He lived with Tessa Noel for thirteen years."

"The statues in the park?  She did exquisite work, Mr. MacLeod."  Erin held out a hand for him to shake, now that Duncan had regained a vertical alignment.

"Yes, she did.  You make a memorable entrance, Dr. Shea.  I assume it's Doctor?"  He shook her hand since he suspected that kissing it would only annoy this woman.  Her hands didn't have many calluses, other than ridges on her fingers of someone who wrote a lot, but they were fairly strong and, he saw with amusement, paint-splattered.  "Crimson and gold?  What are you working on?  Illuminations for a manuscript?"

"It's Doctor, but make it Erin anyway.  Formality is only to be used on assholes; anyone who'll laugh like that doesn't need my brand of formality.  I've been painting the good ship Lollipop, since you so kindly asked."

Joe grinned and said, "Lady, this I've got to hear.  Come on, you two, let's get some lunch or Erin and I will leave without you.  Adam, the beer is that way.  Past the door, past the sign that you put up that says 'Back in an hour' -- you remember the routine, right?"

Methos raised an eyebrow at him.  "Erin, hmm?  You know, I have beer back in the office, Joe, shortest distance and all that.  But why not, I'll just keep laughing at that poor boy if I stay here."

 They adjourned to the Blue Star and ordered beers all around.  Duncan sounded calmer when he asked, "So what are you painting?"

"Scenery for The Pirates of Penzance; I really am painting a ship's figurehead.  Sorry, couldn't resist the name for the ship.  I do backstage theater work for fun and a change from manuscripts.  Damn, I shouldn't have picked on that kid so much...."

Adam interrupted her.  "It won't kill him and he might even do a good job on the paper.  Don't worry about it, he was being obnoxious.  MacLeod's too bloody polite to tear into him, that's all."  In the back of his mind, mischief began to stir, egged on by Erin's earlier meddling with the kid's head as well as Mac's.  Masters in History, indeed.

"So what do you do for a living, Erin?  Now that you know I deal in antiques?"  Mac wanted to hear this answer.  He strongly suspected she was a Watcher, but that could be paranoia.  She might as easily be a friend of Methos' from the University of Paris.

"Oh, I'm a researcher for a private foundation," she replied blandly.  "At the moment, that is."

Joe took a swig of his beer and Methos raised one eyebrow.  "At the moment?  Considering a career change, Erin?"

Duncan looked back and forth from Joe to Methos, but he didn't ask if she was with the Watchers.  He did start keeping a surreptitious watch on her wrists, waiting for the heavy sweater to ride up when she moved.

"That's what I came in for, Adam.  I want your opinion on an offer I got.  I already know what my coworkers will say, but you'll at least be biased in a different direction."  She handed him a letter out of her coat and turned back to Duncan.

"So, how's the antique-hunting business?"  They chattered about antiques and ancient drama and had happily worked their way over to a discussion of the artistic merits of Michael Mann's version of The Last of the Mohicans when Adam finished re-reading the letter.

"So when do you move?  I'll miss you terribly, Erin, but this is a fine offer.  You'd be an idiot not to take it.  I told you that last article was excellent."  Methos handed back the letter and took a long swallow of beer.  Under the table, he moved one hand toward Mac's leg, working carefully to keep Joe from seeing what he was up to.  He finally settled more comfortably into his chair, using the arm which held the beer to screen what he was doing.

Erin sighed and said, "I haven't quite decided to take it yet, I only got that yesterday.  I'm still thinking.  Yes, it's a good offer, but we've had too many good people leave, Adam.  I don't like the trends I see among the rest of them, you know?"  She reached out and collected the letter from him.

MacLeod noticed three things simultaneously.  He saw just the top of a Watcher tattoo on her right wrist; the letterhead on the envelope was from the University of Seacouver where he occasionally taught part-time; and Methos had just placed those long fingers on his thigh and was kneading the muscle like a purring cat.  Brown eyes shot daggers at Methos whose quirky half-smile went all the way to those hazel eyes.

Joe started seriously wondering if he had missed something, somewhere, between these two.  The tension between them had just jumped, but there was nothing hostile in it.  He let part of his mind start to work on that puzzle; with the rest of his attention, he listened to Duncan.

"Erin, I'm going to be nosy.  Is the University of Seacouver trying to lure you across the sea?"

She raked red hair off her forehead with her fingers and asked, "Where do you hide it?"

"What?"  Duncan was having trouble following the conversation with one of Methos' fingers tracing a slow pattern on his inner thigh, but he tried valiantly.

"The crystal ball, or maybe I should be looking for a deerstalker hat.  Which is it?  And where?"

The waiter arrived with their food, much to Duncan's relief, because Methos had to remove his hand to collect lunch.  The Highlander rearranged himself in his chair to maneuver his leg farther away from the mischievous man sitting next to him, debating a suitable answer to her question.

"It's a meerschaum pipe," Duncan replied, after another taste of his beer.  "And I left it at the bookstore.  The crest is on the envelope," he pointed out.  "And you did mention a career change."

Joe pointed out, "Seacouver is a damned nice place to live, Erin.  How good an offer is it, if you don't mind my being nosy?"  What in hell was going on with those two?  That glare from Duncan was the one he usually reserved for Amanda when she was causing trouble.  But he and Methos weren't fighting, it seemed to be some kind of mischief-making going back and forth over there.

"It's pretty good," Erin replied hesitantly, looking mildly flustered and nothing like the self-assured teacher who had dealt with the obstreperous student.

"It's excellent, Joe," Methos overrode her.  "Assistant professor, generous relocation allowance, bonus for any books published in the first five years, and tenure decision within three, based on student and peer evaluations."

Duncan whistled.  "That is good!  Which department, Erin?"  The Scot rearranged his coat on his lap to conceal his need to rearrange the position of his erection in his pants.

"Languages, although they also want a commitment on some ancient history courses.  No problem on that; several of my sources for Ancient Greek and Classical Latin are the primaries for those classes."  She glared at Adam.  "And I haven't decided anything, so not a word from you to the others, all right?  I mean it, Adam, one rumor and I swear I'll tell Martin what really happened to that pear wine experiment."  Duncan contained his grin with an effort but laughter danced in his eyes as he watched a thirty-some academic successfully threaten a five-thousand year old immortal.

Joe decided that he was going to get a dinner date with this woman.  Anyone who could squash Methos... and she was well-worth talking to.  Quick-tempered, quicker with an apology if she changed her mind, opinionated and she had the education and good sense to make those opinions interesting.  Best of all, she was a Watcher, too, which meant he didn't have to hide what he did or why.  She even knew about the damned Tribunal from a couple things she hadn't quite said.  Oh, yeah, he definitely had to find out more about Erin Shea.

Methos countered hastily, "Now wait a second, Erin, not that I'd tell them a bloody thing, but you helped with that!  I remember it clearly!"

"They're more likely to believe that you're trying to frame me than that I'm trying to blame you.  Not a word, Adam.  I mean it.  I have to think about this.  I haven't lived in the States in... eleven years, for one thing.  I'd have to get used to thinking in English again.  Well, American.  I can almost think in English."  Her expression had turned unexpectedly serious.  "And I really do not like some of the current thinking at work.  Not many of the people who agree with me will speak up now that you're gone.  We were the main two who actually snapped back, remember.  That's important, too."

 Methos nodded slowly.  "Yes, it is.  But I won't go back, Erin.  I burned those bridges."

"You sure as hell did.  What did you say to Sanderlin, Adam?  Did you know there's a memo that says we aren't supposed to talk to you?"

Duncan stared.  "You aren't supposed to--"

Joe's head snapped up and he snarled, "They did what?"

Methos started cursing in Ancient Greek and worked his way back steadily through eight other languages, sounding more irritated and flamboyant with every switch.  Joe and Duncan didn't understand a word of it, but Erin listened admiringly.  At one point she grabbed a pen and started scribbling busily on first her napkin, then Joe's, in something that bore no relation to any alphabet Joe was familiar with.  That finally stopped Methos; he had to look over and read it.

"No, Erin, what I said was this," and he took the pen and changed the notations.

"Huh.  Can you really do that?  I didn't think bodies bent that way," she said thoughtfully.  "I'll have to drag back out my Kama Sutra, I didn't recognize half of those terms.  I don't want to know how you remember them, by the way!  Yes, he put out the memo."

Erin watched Adam's eyes narrow as she continued, "Worked real damn well, too; now they watch the bookstore to see which of the youngsters they trust.  The only problem is that his spies are sending their reports through the normal channels, marked 'Private.'  For some reason, the idiots seem to think the filing clerks don't pay attention to what they work with.  The clerks know who makes sure they get paid on time."

Adam shrugged and said in a deceptively pleasant, level voice, "I did say that offering to help in Payroll would be useful eventually.  Just because Senior Researchers are considered to have sufficient discretion to pitch in during holidays and summer staffing shortages without revealing later who makes what...."

She gave Adam a wicked smile and said, "Do you know how computer illiterate Sanderlin is?"

"No, how bad?"  The two of them were smiling at each other in dangerous accord.

"He still lets his computer automatically input his email password -- I don't think he even has password-protection on his screen saver.  And Maddy has all his passwords for all his systems in her files because he keeps forgetting them...."

Methos said thoughtfully, "Does she still file her notebook in the same place every night?"

"Maddy will change her filing systems when God invents a better one and not before," Erin responded forcefully.  "And if you ever decide to do something with this, you call me, d'you hear?"

Duncan interrupted them both, saying, "Erin, if you're a Watcher, why are you trying to take the place apart?"  At the same time he decided to get revenge on Methos, and toed off one loafer.  Time to see what he could do with sock feet under the table.  There's a table cloth; this should be safe enough.

She turned to him thoughtfully, then told Joe, "I'm buying your lunch.  You said he was quick.  And I'm not going to take the Watchers apart, Duncan MacLeod.  But someone has to keep them doing what they're supposed to be doing, not pursuing vendettas and trying to kill our field workers for living in the real world and still doing their jobs damn well.

"Most of us didn't know about that Tribunal until it was too late, you know.  Some of us wondered about your reports, Joe, we could almost feel a change in the texture.  But hell -- people change, times change.  You did good work and MacLeod wasn't getting into new challenges or taking on new opponents and winning too conveniently.  We never thought you were telling him anything you shouldn't be, even if you were talking to him.  Don Salzer thought it might hurt you too badly if Duncan ever lost, but if that happened we were going to twist arms until you came and worked with us.  Just get you out of the field entirely."

Methos jumped slightly as something touched his calf and slid upwards.  He controlled his reaction immediately, although the narrow-eyed glare he threw MacLeod should have singed... well, paper maybe.  It was not even remotely fair that an infant of a mere four-centuries could arouse him this easily.

"For that matter, the researchers never had any idea that someone was deliberately wiping out field workers -- not until we saw the names start changing too quickly, on too many reports.  By then it was over and the entire power structure shifted when Shapiro went out, and the new field directors came in.  Mind you, it does seem like Kendrick Sanderlin isn't much better, but for a while we had hopes.  But you know, Duncan, most of us admire anyone who can stay alive in the Game and still be a decent human being."

Erin giggled suddenly, and Duncan saw what she must have looked like as an undergrad student.  "Did you know that a lot of you have unofficial cheering sections?  We used to sit around over drinks at eleven at night, when it was only the nuttiest researchers still in the library, and try to figure out how much money Amanda has stolen and then frittered away.  And we by God threw a wake for Hugh FitzCairn."

Duncan stared at her, unexpectedly touched.  "You did?"  Much to Methos' relief, he even quit moving his foot for a moment.  The older immortal immediately started plotting.  He didn't need to listen to this.  He'd been at that wake.

"He was a rake, a lecher, and one of the nicest men to live in a long time," she said positively.  "So he was allergic to steady jobs, incompetent with money, and feckless.  So what?  He liked people and made everyone around him laugh and be happy.  We liked him.  We threw a wake and had hangovers for three days, except for this grinning bastard here."  She pointed accusingly at Methos who looked irritatingly smug.

"Just because I pointed out you shouldn't have had all the brandy."

"You called and woke me up at eight in the morning, and you were singing, Adam.  He hummed loudly for days in the halls while the rest of us were still living on aspirin and prayers and curses in any language we could dredge up out of alcohol-poisoned brain cells.  It was terrible."

Joe gave up and laughed uproariously.  "Oh, my God, is that what happened?  I had to call Mordecai for some information on Ramirez that week and he sounded like death warmed over.  No wonder!"

Duncan shook his head wonderingly.  "The two times I was ever in Watcher Headquarters, people were either staring at me like I had a second head or trying to execute me.  Are many of them like you, Erin?"  Something in the grin he was getting from Methos was making him nervous now, but quite deliberately he continued to tease the other man by running his toes just along Methos' calf.  Might be time to quit, though, before Joe noticed anything.

"I'm just a researcher, Duncan.  That's all.  But most of us in the Headquarters are decent people.  We have jobs that we do, some of us have the gall to think it's important to history or something, but we're people.  Yeah, we get assholes who live to play politics and we get bigots, too.  Academia is no safety from them, let me tell you!

"As for staring at you that time you came through -- and I was one of the ones doing it, too, from an alcove -- what would you do if Gaius Julius Caesar walked onto your barge?  You're almost mythical to most of our people.  You're an immortal.  You carry a sword, you know more ways to kill people than I can think of, you've lived through things we consider history!  Of course everyone stared."

She searched for an appropriate analogy to an immortal, and saw Adam sitting on the other side of the table, which reminded her of his former research topic.  Of course!  "Come on, Duncan, honestly -- what would you do if Methos walked into your dojo?"

Duncan stared at her over the sandwich he'd been lifting to his mouth, then grinned at the opportunity being handed to him.  "Well, for one thing, he'd have to prove he was really Methos."

Joe chuckled and said, "Mac, I hate to point this out, but they didn't have photo ID's in his day.  What do you want, a baked clay tablet?  But I suppose you could do worse.  Adam'd probably just throw him a beer."

"Joe, you wound me.  I'd take the cap off for him first."

Erin saw the strained looks on Joe and Duncan's faces, the way Adam was looking carefully at nothing, and came to the conclusion that the Watchers and the immortal might be talking, but they probably tried not to discuss other powerful players in the Game.  Smart ground rule for Joe to set, she decided, and decided to help him out.  "Someone else talk about something more interesting so that I can listen and eat my lunch.  I have to meet up with Nora in four hours and run errands first.  Talk.  You'll do nicely, Joe Dawson.  Tell me something cheerful."

"Have you met a maniac named Maurice?  He makes the best bouillabaisse in Paris.  Did you ever hear about the time...."  Joe started talking, telling stories about people they'd met in Paris, in Seacouver, in Glenfinnan.  Duncan and Methos chimed in periodically, Adam being his usual sarcastic self and telling outrageous jokes as they went, and Duncan charming her thoroughly.  The Highlander had, sensibly, backed off on teasing Methos; it was stirring up too many things he couldn't do anything about just now.  Erin ate, drank her beer, laughed frequently and wrapped Joe around one capable hand without realizing it.

Reluctantly, she stood up after dropping francs on the table.  "I'm sorrier than you all know, but I have to go.  Duncan, it has been a pleasure actually talking to you."

The Scot teased, "You mean instead of reading about me?  One of these days I'll ask you what you actually research over there."

Erin grinned at him, "Oh, I've had to read about you all right.  I research the really oddball stuff:  Kantos and Cassandra and their use of 'Voice' for example.  There've been two other people that we know of who could do it, both female, and only one of them where we're sure she was immortal.  Rihana of the Silences was trained by Ramirez, but she hasn't been seen in over three hundred years.  We have no idea if she's alive or not; our last reliable report placed her in Spain in the 1780s.

"The other woman was in Jakarta in the 1400s.  The only name the Watcher got was Mahina, which is Hawaiian, but the Watcher was adamant that she was Caucasian.  If it hadn't been for that discrepancy and the use of Voice, we wouldn't even wonder if she was immortal.  Who knows, maybe she was.  But I've never seen the name anywhere else, and neither has Adam."

Duncan looked interested.  "I've heard of Rihana from a few immortals I know, and none of them have seen her either.  She and Terrence Coventry were good friends.  I've never heard of an immortal named Mahina, but I can tell you that immortality isn't a prerequisite for learning the Voice."

Erin blinked.  "Really?  It isn't?  What is, do you know?"

Adam laughed and said, "Erin, go run your errands.  You can grill Duncan another time, but I have to go run a bookstore and he challenged me to a chess game this afternoon."

Duncan thought about the way Joe had been watching Erin all through lunch and decided to meddle in his friend's life for once, instead of the other way around.  "Hey, Joe, when are you playing at Maurice's again?"

Erin hesitated, already two strides away from the table, then turned back.  "Playing what, Joe?"

The bearded Watcher smiled at her.  "Blues guitar, Erin.  I'm not too bad.  And I'm playing tomorrow, Mac.  Don't you ever check your messages?  Maurice said he left word for you to come by."

"Oh, was that the message?  Maurice tried to leave me two pieces of information at once and made both of them incomprehensible as always."

Methos chimed in, "I don't think Maurice can walk and chew gum at the same time, MacLeod.  How does he manage to cook without slicing up his hands?"

"Damn it, you all are determined to make me late," Erin growled, exasperated.  "Adam, here."  She stole his napkin and hastily got the name and address of Maurice's club, then said, "What time, Joe?"

"Second set, Erin, 10:30 or 11:00.  Too late?"  He could hope she wouldn't mind.

"Oh, that's great.  I'll have time to see how the flats worked out, and I might even get the backdrop roughed in."  She looked thoughtful, then smiled.  "This is perfect.  I'll see you tomorrow night, Joe.  Adam, save that book for Nora, I'm looking forward to the howls when she has to read it.  Duncan, it's been  a pleasure, and I've got to sit down with you some time if you don't mind.  Although explaining how I got my information...."  Erin headed off, musing to herself in first French and then Russian as she contemplated labyrinthine evasions and obfuscations.

Joe couldn't resist staring as she left.  The back view was worth watching, even through a heavy coat, and that copper hair caught the light for quite a while.  Besides, thick wool couldn't disguise those curved hips.  When he turned back, Duncan seemed too intent on his beer but he was grinning a rather smug smile.

"What, Mac, you think I need a matchmaker or something?  When am I playing at Maurice's?  At your age, that's the best you can do?  Subtle, MacLeod, real subtle."  He snorted at the weakness of that lie.

Joe's heart wasn't really in the scolding, though; he had been racking his brains for ten minutes trying to come up with some way to make sure he saw her again, but wasn't quite ready to ask her out yet.  Dawson, you're not getting any younger.  What's she gonna do that ain't been done to you before?  Say no?  What the hell, tomorrow during intermission I'll ask Erin to dinner.

Methos raised a mocking glass to Joe.  "No, you don't need a yenta, Joe.  Erin does.  But since the idea's distasteful to you, I'll call Donna this afternoon and see if her uncle--"  He broke off with a yelp and turned to glare at Duncan.  "MacLeod, your timing is abysmal and so is your aim."

"Now, look, Adam--" the Highlander started, only to be interrupted in turn by Joe.

"By the way, what in the hell is up with you two?  I haven't seen you glare at anyone like that since Amanda headed to Singapore, Mac.  And you, Adam."  Joe paused, then grinned wickedly at Methos.  "Oh, no, that look doesn't fool me."

Methos was giving the Watcher his best cynical amused smile, all too aware that too bland a smile would be a confession of some kind of guilt.  Unfortunately, it didn't work.

"Uh-uh, Adam, there's just one problem with that.  Did I tell you that I finally learned how to read you, old man?"  Joe continued to grin knowingly.

"Really?"  The flat tone could have concealed disbelief or irritation.  It was meant to convey both.

"Yeah, I just have to remember what any particular expression would mean on Aidan's face.  Like teacher, like student."  Joe bowed from the shoulders to acknowledge Mac's raised beer bottle.  "Thanks, Mac.  Keep it in mind yourself."

"I'll definitely try that, Joe."

"However, back to the question.  Adam, what in hell are you up to?"

Across the table, Duncan couldn't resist the mischief.  He'd had his chin resting on intertwined fingers.  Now he lifted his head, caught Methos' eyes, and moved his hands about eight inches apart with a deliberately thoughtful look on his face.

Methos exhaled beer rather suddenly and Duncan solicitously started pounding on his back before Joe could quite see what had started this.  To the Watcher's surprise, Mac kept rubbing easily on Methos' back even after the other man started to get his breathing under control.

God knew they'd gotten a lot more casual about touching each other while working together on Aidan's place, but somehow this seemed just slightly off-tune for them.  Or was it?  Duncan had never had a problem with physical contact with any of his other friends:  Rich, Brian Cullen, Fitz, Connor....  Tension between them, but not snapping at each other; mischief on both sides, glaring at each other in turn during lunch, but never really angry....

Meanwhile, Methos scowled at Duncan again and got a slight shrug of the shoulders and an apologetic grin that didn't quite conceal the laughter behind it.  Somehow the apology didn't seem too complete, but the Scot's chuckle was affectionate and Methos didn't seem inclined to stay exasperated.

Joe watched as Mac finished rubbing Methos' back and the hand strayed up onto a shoulder.  The older immortal not only didn't shake it off, absently or deliberately, he couldn't seem to hold the irritated look.  The corners of his mouth were twitching as a smile tried to break forth despite Methos' best efforts at staying mad.

"Come on, you two, let's walk back to the store.  It'll give you an extra ten minutes to try to come up with a believable line of bullshit."  Joe stood and collected his napkin and Erin's.  She'd left her notes on whatever Methos had said.  No problem, Joe decided, he'd see her tomorrow and give them to her then.

Walking back, Joe noticed one other thing.  As usual, the other two were walking slightly ahead because they didn't want anyone bumping into him and throwing him off balance.  It was never discussed, had never been asked for, but he'd noticed that both of them tended to do it anyway.  Just an offhand courtesy without any flavor of condescension or pity.  He'd seen it plenty of times before, including a few days ago at the airport.  This time, though, the body language was different.  They were walking in perfect step with each other without any effort.  And they were a hell of a lot closer to each other than he'd seen them in a while, back to walking well within the normal 'personal space' each of them maintained.

Hell, maybe they'd finally gotten drunk together and settled out the last of the arguments from that mess in Bordeaux with Kronos and Cassandra?  Aidan had done a good job laying the groundwork to disperse the last tensions; maybe the guys had finally finished resolving everything?  They certainly looked more relaxed with each other than they had in months.

Joe let those thoughts and speculations entertain him on the way back with the occasional diversion into the question of what would happen when Aidan came to Paris next month.  She'd been sleeping with Methos in June.  When he went back to Paris, she had waited until mid-August -- deliberately, Joe was sure -- and then dragged Mac into bed unless the Watcher was reading the signs wrong.  With almost any other woman, Joe would have expected fireworks when she got to town.  Well, fights at least.  Somehow, he didn't think she'd allow it.  As much work as she'd put into healing the last breach between them, Aidan might just do something drastic, like renouncing immortal lovers again, before she'd cause more trouble between the two of them.

When they got back into the bookstore Methos went back to the office and brought Joe another beer.  "Have a seat, Joe."

"Is the bullshit gonna get that deep?"  Joe asked in amused interest as he stole the stool behind the counter. This should be good, Methos can spin some real doozies.

"No, no bullshit, Joe," Mac said, still chuckling.  "But you're going to figure things out sooner or later, so I thought we'd do this the easy way."  The Highlander slouched against the doorframe that led back to the office, almost as bonelessly relaxed as Adam could be.

"Hell, Mac, who're you dating now?  You know I try to stay out of your personal life unless it looks like it's gonna lead to a challenge."

"Oh, right, like Methos is going to challenge me over Aidan."

"Only if you were idiot enough to turn her down, Highlander," came the amused reply.  "And I've always hated challenging half-wits."

"I am not!"  Mac protested, sounding outraged and a bit offended.

"Learn logic, MacLeod.  If you're an imbecile to turn her down and you didn't turn her down, what does that make you?  I'll give you a hint -- it involves 'idiot' and a negative," came the teasing commentary.  Methos hadn't bothered to put half the bite into the comeback that he usually did.

"If you're going to pick on my education, at least throw me some water.  If you keep anything in that fridge that isn't alcoholic, that is."  Duncan sounded thoroughly offended, but looked more amused than anything else, Joe noticed.  Damn, this was a nice change, to see them joking back and forth rather than sniping at each other and probing for blood.

"Okay, since both of you know about Aidan and the other, what's the news?" Joe asked.

"Oh, it's Aidan's fault, basically."  Duncan reached for the bottle of mineral water that Methos had excavated out from behind the beer and cider, examining the top absently for dust.  Methos leaned against the other side of the doorframe, which to Joe's eyes turned the two of them into rather outré bookends.

"Hell, Mac, that wouldn't surprise me a bit.  Straightforward woman, my ass, she learned long-range maneuvering from a master,"  and Joe raised his beer to Methos.

"Oh, it was some rather close-in maneuvers," Duncan muttered, which made Methos sputter with laughter.  "No, I thought you'd figure this out at some point, but this way you can pretend not to know while you decide how to record it."

Joe shook his head, startled.  "Figure out what, Mac?  I thought we just settled that you're not doing anything in your personal life I need to know about."

"No, we just said I wasn't going to get challenged over it.  Well, actually," and Duncan gave Methos a laughing glance out of mischievous brown eyes, "is Aidan likely to challenge me, d'you think?"

"I don't know, MacLeod, she might challenge me.  Just for practice, probably, but you never know."

Joe set his beer down on the counter without noticing it.  He was trying to think, but his mind wouldn't seem to work and neither did his mouth.  He kept opening it and no words were coming out.

Duncan finally shook his head.  "Joe, don't blow a fuse."

Methos said coolly, "Yes, Joe, we just said that we're both sleeping with Aidan as well as each other."

"Jesus wept.  I'm gonna have to turn in my Chronicles.  How'n'hell did I miss THAT?!?"  Joe had a singer's projection, and usually controlled it, but his voice went straight up through the decibels as he kept talking.

"Whoa, whoa, Joe, the two of us are a recent development, all right?  You don't have to retire yet, honest,"  Duncan hastily soothed.

"Recent.  I suppose last night counts as recent,"  Methos mused in a speculative tone.

"LAST NIGHT?!?  Damn it, Mac, don't do things like this to me!  Did I forget to tell you that I'm supposed to watch my blood pressure?"  The Watcher was still growling but he was actually calming down as quickly as he'd gotten incensed.  All the puzzle pieces had just dropped into place and the Rorschach blot had turned out to be one of those damn 3-D puzzles at the wrong angle.  Yeah, they were acting like discreet lovers.  Okay, now that it made sense....  Joe reached for his beer and took another drink.

Methos was giving him an interested look.  "Are you really?"

"Am I really what?"  Joe snapped.

"Watching your blood pressure."  Methos pushed, speculations turning almost visibly across green-gold eyes.

"Hell, no, but it got you two to shut up for a second," Joe retorted.  "Damn, Mac, this is going to make life interesting!"  He turned and stared at Methos.  "You realize this is going to reduce you from persona non grata with the Watchers down to keeping company with Judas and Benedict Arnold."

Methos shrugged calmly.  "So?  It ought to help hold my cover for another year, too, Joe.  You'll be the only one Watching me once you report this."

For a brief moment pain spiked through Duncan at that matter-of-fact rationale.  Immediately, though, he pushed it down and away.  He'd felt Methos' emotions last night; concealment had had nothing to do with them becoming lovers and the Scot knew it.

The older immortal pushed off the wall and took the one step necessary to get his arms around Duncan.  "No, Mac, that's not why I went to bed with you.  You know that."

Brown eyes met green and Duncan said quietly, "No, it isn't.  I know.  Sorry."  He wrapped his free arm around Methos' waist and tightened it imperceptibly.  The younger man crooked a smile and said, "You think in terms of advantages and angles as automatically as I think about high ground and loyalties.  We'll get used to it."

Joe shook his head as three years of encounters suddenly shifted perspective in his mind.  How long had those two been in love?  Since the first day or so?  When had either of them actually known?  Joe knew he'd probably never get an answer to that, but this was definitely not some chance encounter or friendly sport to relieve mutual tensions, that he could tell.  God, what was this going to do to the Game?  One of the strongest immortals linking up with the oldest?  And both of them in love with one of the fastest?  If it weren't for the rule about 'There can be only one' Dawson would have sworn he was looking at the nucleus of the immortal Dream Team.

The Watcher considered his friends standing there, not quite wrapped around each other, and shook his head again.  This was going to be one hell of an uphill road they'd started on.  But Joe determined he'd smooth what he could on the road, where he could.  Eventually he cleared his throat and said, "You two still there?"

Methos glanced over at him, laughter quirking his mouth.  "We're immortals, Joe; we're good, but we don't teleport.  This isn't Star Trek, you know."

"Smart ass," came the affectionate reply.  "Look, what do you want in the Chronicles?  I'm going to have to put in something, you realize.  Do you want me to just say that sometime this week -- no one needs an exact date and I'm going to forget I heard one -- you and Duncan seem to have gone a couple steps past friendship, and I'll try to leave it at that?"

The Watcher saw them glance at each other, talking without words from what he could see.  Something in the set of Mac's mouth, the querying tilt of Methos' eyebrows, the way Mac's eyebrows drew down in a frown and then they both nodded....  When had they started doing this?  They were even breathing to the same rhythm which surprised him as much as their silent communication had.

Duncan said firmly, "Do what you need to do, Joe.  We both know I haven't taken a male lover before.  This is too radical a change, you're going to have to put it in the records.  So do it.  I'm sleeping with a former Watcher, Adam Pierson."

"And all you are, Adam, is a former Watcher," Joe stated with certainty.  "Fine.  I don't want to see either of you at Maurice's tomorrow.  In fact, why don't you dodge me for a few days while I figure out how to word this when I do have to pay attention to it."  He gave them a wary look.  "Does Aidan know yet?"

Duncan laughed at that.  "Joe, I said it was her fault.  No, she's not going to challenge anyone."

"Well, as long as we call her at some point and tell her that yes, it worked,"  Methos added.  "Do you know how long she's been scheming towards this, Highlander?"

Joe raised his gaze to the ceiling.  "Please, God, keep that woman's mind busy on the Game and not on my personal life.  I don't ask much, honest.  I've even quit complaining about the legs.  Just keep her away from my sex life.  Come on, I've already got You on retainer about Amanda."

For the second time in one day, Duncan was reduced to laughing until tears rolled down his face, with Methos leaning on his shoulder trying to catch his breath from his own laughter.  When he could breathe again, Duncan managed to gasp out, "I'm afraid to ask, but when did she start plotting?"

"About thirty minutes after she seduced me," came the choked reply.  "I think.  Frightening, isn't it?"

Joe fell back on the medieval history he'd studied and raised the stakes.  "Right.  I'll donate an altar cloth, a box of beeswax candles, and a case of good wine for Mass to St. Julien's, God.  That does it.  You do Your part; I'll do mine."

Methos started chuckling again and said, "Joe, get out of here.  Why don't you go practice guitar so you can present Aidan with a fait accompli?"

The Watcher raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about, Adam?  Did you laugh your brains out?"

"Impress Erin and you won't have to worry, old friend.  Aidan will adore her," came the sardonic reply.

"That did it.  If you're messing with my love life, I'm outta here.  Congrats, you two.  Don't catch up with me, I'll call you at some point,"  Joe said hastily and headed for the door.  "Besides, doesn't your weekend start tonight, Adam?"

"Yes, why?" came the ill-considered reply.

"Because MacLeod never does let new lovers out of bed for a while.  Hope you stocked in plenty of beer, Mac."  Joe closed the door gently on the sputtered reply and grinned.  Two friends happy and he'd gotten the last word with Methos, too.  Even without the prospect of seeing Erin again, this would be one hell of a good day.  Now, how to phrase this for the Chronicles?

In the bookstore, Mac tried to conceal his grin without much success.  "I'll buy some beer, I promise."

Methos swatted at him, chuckling himself.  "Forget the chess game, Highlander, you were entirely too distracting at lunch.  Don't you have errands, too?"

"Yeah,"  Duncan laughed, "beer.  You coming over for dinner?"

"I don't know," Methos said thoughtfully.  "What's for dessert?"

Duncan licked his lips.  "We'll come up with something."

"I'm sure we will.  I'll see you tonight, MacLeod, get out of here before I do something foolish.  And no," the oldest immortal added sternly, "you are not going to sweet-talk me into doing something foolish.  Out."  But Methos yanked Duncan back and kissed him breathless before he could get out from behind the counter.

"You are a tease," Duncan shivered, eyes wide and heart pounding.  I thought Amanda could kiss!  Of course, he's had five times as long to practice.

"Says the man who was playing with my leg under the table?  Besides, MacLeod, it would only be teasing if I didn't deliver or didn't satisfy.  That was a promissory note."  Methos pushed him toward the door.  "I'll see you tonight."

Johannes Engel stopped short as the blade swept up to his throat.  Florescent light shone steadily off his bald head while he stood unmoving until his mentor and current employer lowered his sword.  The damascened steel flickered in the light as it slid back into the sheath.

"Manners, Johannes.  One of these days I'll take your head by mistake simply because you can't be bothered to knock."  The singing cadences of the tenor voice made the threat seem less immediate, until the cold blue eyes of the speaker froze the younger immortal in the doorway.

Owain Rhys-Tewdor flowed back into an office chair, the formal tuxedo oddly incongruous against the modern office decor.  At 5' 11", he was all smooth muscle and elegant languor, sleek and sophisticated as a society playboy and with the strikingly handsome looks to match.  Black hair springing back from a widow's peak would eternally show silver at the temples, and only a few faint lines marred his face.  He had died in his early thirties in a time when years hit harder; most observers would have thought him a dangerous forty-some years old.

"So what's as important as all that?" that deadly, purring voice asked.

"The report came in from your detective in Seacouver.  The one who was tracking Duncan MacLeod?" Johannes reminded him.

"Ah, yes.  I remember.  So, what is the young Highlander up to?  And did she get us blueprints of his building as requested?" His attention seemed to be on the letter-opener he was idly examining under the lights, but Johannes knew better.

"She did, and a pretty penny they cost you.  Owain, is this Cynthia worth the trouble?  You told me once that you've been feuding with her off and on for eight centuries.  Why go after the woman and her line now?  Why not ninety years ago when she killed Gwydion?"  Johannes sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs Owain used to encourage visitors to leave.  He could endure some discomfort for answers to something that might get him killed permanently.

"Killing Gwydion was part of the Game," Owain said calmly.  "He challenged, she won.  His mistake.  Cynthia is quite dangerous.  And I'm hunting her because I want something she has, a piece of knowledge.  I'll destroy her line-kin first to weaken her, then take her alive and get my information.  First you apply the pressure, then you crack the nut."

"How do you know she's even still alive?  You haven't seen her since she was using the name Danika Ostrau in the late 1930s,"  Johannes went on.

"She's alive, Johannes.  I've felt her subtle touch here and there among the immortals in the last few years.  A feud dispersed, some money dispensed, a weak opponent carefully strengthened and polished....  Oh, yes, she's alive, make no doubt of that.  And sooner or later, the line of Ramirez will disclose her location.  We have only to tap on the web here and there.  She'll turn up."

The younger immortal carefully contained his impatience.  Owain paid well and this line war might be very profitable in more ways than one.  Money was always a possibility, stripped from the accounts of the dead, and of course quickenings.  Power for the Gathering was never to be sneered at.  But Johannes had his own plans, his own agenda.  He wasn't fool enough to trust Owain Rhys-Tewdor.  In the end, there could be only one.

"Well, she may have shown up," he replied deferentially.  "MacLeod has a lover who matches your description."

"No."  The word was simple and absolute.  "Are you sure they're sleeping together?"

"Your detective said they could have gotten arrested for the goodbye kiss in the airport."  Johannes laughed.  "From the photograph, I believe her.  I've seen sex with less body contact."

"File the photo; a mortal lover may yet be a useful handle on Duncan MacLeod, he's vulnerable there.  For that matter, her phone records could be helpful to us, the younger MacLeod is notorious for having friends among our kind and keeping in touch with them.

"But the one constant about Cynthia is that she never takes immortal lovers.  Mortals she'll bed, male or female, but never one of us, Johannes.  Not willingly.  Her name changes, her profession, her supposed country of origin, her language of choice -- but never that.  It's one of the very few ways to track her."

Owain dismissed the matter with a negligent wave of one hand, turning to other strands on his web.  "Tomorrow we start on the matter of Damien Appesard, Johannes.  And we'll need to start looking at Terrence Coventry as well.  Get some sleep, man, I'll be running you ragged this next week."

Johannes nodded and stood up.  "I'll be going then, Owain.  I'll get to work on Appesard as soon as I come in; I think I found something useful.  How do you feel about my setting him on MacLeod's latest student?"

"Connor or Duncan?"  Owain asked, sounding bored.

"Duncan.  Connor hasn't taken a student in at least fifteen years."

"Let me see what you have in the morning.  Good night, Johannes."

After the door had closed, Owain leaned back in his chair and turned off the desk light.  The full moon threw light across the room and onto the wall where it tangled in the subtly-patterned wallpaper.  The smile on the immortal's face would have chilled the blood of more than one of his enemies.

The fool has no idea what kind of stakes I'm playing for.  Not just the quickenings of the MacLeods, a considerable stake in themselves, but the quickening of one of our kind who can use magic.  Real magic, the kind that tangibly  affects the world around, and she has hidden this fact from me for eight centuries.  What I could do with the ability to whistle up storms, to call fire or lightning....  The possibilities are incredible.  This could be the key to winning the Gathering.

All I have to do is take her and break her.  Cynthia's weakness has always been her strength -- she loves her friends, her line-kin.  She won't bed immortals because she can't stand to face a lover in combat.  Fine.  I'll take away that strength by challenging her to a line-war, making her call on her nearest and dearest to fight me.  And I'll bring my nastiest allies, my most ruthless students.  Losing her people one by one will cripple her.  As the challenged, she will have to fight last, which means she will have to watch each death, knowing that she brought them to it.  Then instead of taking her head, I'll simply take her prisoner.

Sooner or later, whether with drugs or torture, blackmail or promises, Cynthia will break.  Everyone has a breaking point somewhere, it's just a matter of finding it.  First I will learn her magic, then I will learn everything she knows about any immortal.  She's always been one for information; it should be very interesting to find out who loves where, who fights what styles with what weapons, who has a weakness for gold, for women, for men, for art.  In the end, when she has no will left with which to fight, I'll take her head and all her power.

Owain smiled as he watched clouds obscure the moon, dimming the light streaming across the room.  He always functioned well in the uncertain areas, in storms.  So did Cynthia, though.  This would be interesting.  The challenger chose the number of participants in the challenge, as well as the date; his prey on the other hand had choice of time and place.  That might get very interesting, as he didn't think she'd spent the last few decades in a hot climate.  Perhaps he could maneuver her into someplace... inhospitable?  There were plenty of options that could lead to his victory, and he planned to force as many factors to his favor as possible.

And before I take your head, Cynthia, I will enjoy hearing you beg to please me, beg for mercy, beg for your head if not your freedom.  And I will take great pleasure in finally saying, 'No.'  Eight centuries we've thwarted each other, never quite willing to push to the death.  I will make sure you come to this fight.  When's the last time someone started a line-war with a calling card?

Owain laughed softly in the silent room.  "Enrique will enjoy this.  He's had so few opportunities for artistic expression since the Inquisition ended."

He considered his options in the quiet of the night, savoring the possibilities, the time to contemplate and visualize. Who to use for the calling card?  The youngest of the line of Ramirez, Claudia Jardine?  Or the youngest student of Ramirez, Connor MacLeod?

Time enough to decide later.  For now, though, he needed to sleep.  In the morning, he would begin shaking the line of Ramirez again, plucking at students of Ramirez, students of Cynthia.  Past time they found out where Mandisa had vanished; Ted hadn't reported in, so presumably she had won despite his element of surprise.

Owain chuckled softly, viciously, at the thought.  Ten months he'd been moving people into place for this.  He could afford patience in this maneuvering.  You'll never know what's going on until it's already too late, Cynthia.  Even if you do figure it out, it will be too late, as it was the first time we clashed.  There can be only one.  It's going to be me.
 
 

1.  The 'boomerang' sword is an Indonesian weapon called a parang.

2.  No, I'm not putting out a list of what all Aidan makes her students learn.  Sheesh.  Y'all think I plan this stuff out or something?  (You know, on second thought -- don't answer that.)

3.  Duncan apologized for his behavior during and after the Horsemen fiasco in the story "Quarrels of All Kinds."

4.  Yes, that really is how Rachel Ellenstein (Connor MacLeod's secretary/assistant in the first Highlander movie) ended up with him.  The scene is in the director's cut of that movie.

5.  Amharic is the official language of Ethiopia; Italy invaded and failed to conquer in 1880, then tried again in 1936 and succeeded until 1941 when the British threw them out.

6.  The scene from the Horsemen's camp?  That's my opinion and I'm sticking to it.

7.  It was about bloody time Duncan chilled out, loosened up and relaxed... and besides, he looks too damn good in that poet shirt is Season one.  So I'm making him change his dress habits.  Sue me.

8.  Chakras are energy centers along your spine, each connected with a different organ and aspect of your life.  (The bottom-most is tied to your sexual organs and your sex drive, for example.)  And yes, they can add a very stimulating aspect to foreplay.  That is an understatement.  <weg>  Information about their location is available in the New Age section of any bookstore, most likely.

9.  Actually, I believe the quote is closer to "Might as well be hung for stealing a sheep as a lamb", but Gods forbid I keep Methos from indulging in innuendo.

10. 'Carte blanche' is literally a 'blank document'.  It's full discretionary power, or unconditional authority.  Anyone else remember the scene in The Three Musketeers when Milady deWinter received the letter from his Eminence, Richelieu?  The one that read, "The bearer of this note has done what he has done for the good of the state.  Richelieu."  No questions about what she would do to achieve her goal, just authority to do what she thought necessary.  That's carte blanche.

11.  Twenty answers?  It works very well.

12.  Mac needed transport for the Russian dissidents during Stalin's pogroms, as portrayed in the episode "The Sea Witch."  After I read Kellie Matthews-Simmon's Firebird Suite series, I watched it again and I agree with her.  The body language between Duncan and Alexei makes me think that Duncan paid very dearly and very personally for the use of that ship.  However, as you may have noticed, I have my own opinions on why it bothered him.

13.  Immortals do seem to have particularly vivid memories.  I'm assuming it's a normal survival trait for them (well, as normal as anything can be when you're in the game!)

14.  The Romans used auguries to tell the future.  This involved slaughtering an animal and then disemboweling it to read the omens in any irregularities of the organs.  The more important the question, the more expensive the sacrifice.

15.  A hetaera was a Greek courtesan.  They were usually intelligent, learned, and skilled in more arts than just bedsport.  Ptolemy I of Egypt, who may have been half-brother to Alexander the Great, took a hetaera named Thais with him on half of Alexander's travels.

16.  According to the Highlander novel The Path, Duncan became friends with the Dalai Lama in 1781.

17.  Kate Turabian's Manual of Style is the standard of bibliography and notation style for historians.  Promise.

18.  Yenta is Yiddish for matchmaker.  Possibly the best character part in Fiddler on the Roof, after the old rabbi.

19.  Line-wars are my doing, based off of a chance comment on the dojo wars of the '40s and '50s and some knowledge of the rivalries between tongs in China.  Yes, there are rules for them; hell, no, they don't happen often! See The Line War Rules.

20.  As far as Owain is concerned, Claudia Jardine is the youngest member of the line of Ramirez.  Duncan kept an eye on her for years and paid her way through Juillard.  I suspect Walter periodically shows up and tries to convince her to travel with him, train with him, let him be her mentor... and after a few days of his pestering, she probably throws him right back out again!

21. Last, completely out of order, but not least -- the jazz piece playing while Duncan was seducing Methos?  "Prelude to the Storm" by Nakai, Eaton, & Clipman's album Feather, Stone, & Light.