Disclaimers: Not my characters, if they look familiar from Highlander: the Series.  No profits made.  Alternate Universe out the wazoo, folks, from a dream that woke me.  Tarsh's fault, I think--she wanted me to do a piece with Methos as a Horseman in the present.  I'm also blaming cari, who wanted an X-Man/Highlander crossover, and my husband, Dragon, who let me go to sleep thinking about his explanation of how Wolverine might be an immortal....
However:  don't trust canon.  Because nothing went the way you think it did, and nothing is going to go the way you expect. 
Rated NC-17, and be thou warned:  this one gets downright... nasty.  Not for sex, so much, or even violence, although they're in there.  Never mind.  You'll understand when you find it.  But if you were looking for something fun, and light?  This isn't it.  You'd better try Split Hide instead.

More added 2/6/04 for WIP Amnesty Day.  No promise, implied or stated, that I'll finish this, and if I do, it won't be until after I finish the first draft of my profic novel.  In other words, bitch to the monitor if you must, but not to me.  It includes not just story but also story notes and ideas.  If you're feeling brave, read on.  Click here to go to the new stuff.

Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus

Plus Ça Change --  

-=-=-=- Las Vegas, Nevada -- late September, 1995 -=-=-=-

His heartbeat pounded in his ears, eyes wide with stress and too much adrenaline -- not quite panic, not yet -- as Duncan MacLeod realized that the hallway ended, appropriately enough somehow, in more hotel rooms.  No fire escape, and the emergency stairwell lay forty feet behind him.  Too far.  Security men were coming, he knew that, down those stairwells, down the halls... he could feel the faint vibrations of men moving in step together.  Worse, he could sense other immortals coming this way, too.  Oh, God, Methos, why are you working with him?  What in hell did you mean, 'I go with the winner?'

Later he could worry at that, mourn the loss of his friend if necessary, but Duncan had to survive to get that far.  He looked out the windows -- undoubtedly there to brighten the hallway and boost the morale of the spa patrons, or make the gamblers more optimistic -- and noticed that two stories down, the glass curved out and down.  It would hurt, landing on it, but it would break his fall, dump him on concrete near the parking lot, and his options were narrowing with every passing moment.

Three kicks, textbook perfect, with centuries' honed accuracy and strength, slammed into a single point on the window.  Once:  it shuddered.  Twice, still on the same precise target:  it starred, not shattered, but cracked.  Thrice:  glass exploded out, as the jarring blows made even an immortal's leg hurt.  Duncan followed the glass out and down, twisting to take the blow on his back as he hit the restaurant's ceiling/wall and slid down it.

It was an odd feeling, sliding down glass as he had rolled down icy hills when he was a boy.  Only this was the heat of the Las Vegas desert, and the cries behind him weren't encouragement for his daring, but the tourists' shock at the sight and the raging cries of the security forces tracking him.  Duncan's feet hit the concrete sidewalk first, and he dropped and rolled as he had during his paratrooper training for MI6.  Somehow he came up again, moving surprisingly quickly toward the parking lot.

The silver Oldsmobile was a mess, honestly, full of student debris:  books, notebooks, loose CDs, and a battered leather backpack.  But it was highly noticeable in a parking lot full of SUVs and town cars, not least for the layer of desert dust on the sides, and an older model, too....

Duncan was already breathing silent apologies to the owner as he broke the window with his sword hilt, pulled the door open, and broke the steering column shield the same way.  A quick twist and lift that Amanda had taught him years back started the engine and Duncan MacLeod slid into the seat of the now-stolen car and drove, slowly, sedately, out of the parking lot, trying to keep his mind on survival and off his friend's apparent defection.  At least until he was somewhere safer.
 

~*~*~*~*~

"You lost him," Methos repeated slowly into the receiver.  "I see.  I'll expect your report, Captain," he added more softly and heard the security guard, an experienced, seasoned professional, gulp nervously.

Methos didn't dare allow himself even that much; he could feel Kronos' presence moving towards him, swift and implacable as his brother always was.  The door to his office slammed open as he put the phone down and turned, his face a calm mask, to deal with Kronos.

One eyebrow lifted, as much reaction as he'd allow, as he saw the blond girl/woman Kronos had brought along.  Forcibly, of course -- Kronos didn't give people options.  She was cooperating unwillingly at best, her body stiff with pain and leashed anger.  Kronos held one arm twisted up and behind her back; only double joints and impressive flexibility on her part kept it from breaking.  His other hand was fisted in her hair, drawing the scalp back painfully, tightening her eyes to watering slits of pain as he used her body to force the door open.

Kronos forced her over Methos' desk, head still held up, her spine a painful curve as Methos knew from experience.  He kept any sympathy out of his face, his eyes -- as best he could, out of his soul.  MacLeod had run and Methos' hopes had escaped with him.  Now there was only Kronos and the necessity of becoming someone who could work with him.  Which meant Methos must be of value to the Horseman, one way or another.

"Well, brother," Kronos purred, grey-green eyes bright with a dangerous anticipation, "recognize her?"

Methos straightened, chin coming up and back with unfeigned surprise, one eyebrow lifting inquiringly.  He looked more closely at the girl.  Nineteen?  Twenty-one, maybe?  Probably not old enough to be--   Then his eyes narrowed, lips flattening, as he did indeed remember who she was -- and realized that Kronos would have seen that recognition.

"Now I do, yes," he agreed slowly.  "Arlen... Green, wasn't it?  Three years ago.  Linguistics."

She yelped as Kronos lifted her arm even further.  The pleased smile of concentration on Kronos' face as he watched her response was familiar to Methos, and did not bode well.  Arlen twisted on the desk, not caring how her body moved against the man behind her.  Her one concern was easing the pressure on that arm, and somehow she did, torso flexing and curving like an acrobat's.

Kronos' humor quirked in one corner of his mouth.  "Impressive, isn't she, brother?  No wonder you remember her."  He stepped forward, and Methos knew intimately the sounds he heard then:  Kronos' boots kicking her legs apart, dropping her farther toward the desk, ruining her earlier maneuvering.  Methos had been in her position before... and his brother's, too, he remembered grimly.

She slid a precious inch downward and hissed through clenched teeth as the pain spiked.  Methos couldn't help watching her face, waiting for the moment he knew would come.  Agony faded, or simply didn't increase, which was almost as good in that position, and Arlen adjusted.  Then her eyes widened.  The color drained from her face as she realized just how closely Kronos stood behind her, that the hard pressure against her ass was his arousal and it came from her pain and helplessness.

Methos asked calmly, "What are you doing here?"

Kronos shifted forward minutely, still smiling with that focused, feral pleasure.  Methos focused more closely on her than he should have, unwillingly intrigued by the way her emotions flowed across her face.  Despair shoved aside for determination, a convulsive swallow that stood out clearly on that arched throat, and behind those intelligent blue eyes was an unwavering intent to survive that made Methos ache to see it.  Kronos was going to love breaking her.

"Looking for you," she forced out, trying hard to keep her voice level and almost managing it.

"Why?" Methos sat down in his chair, casual as if this were a conventional business meeting.  He steepled his hands, elbows on the chair arms and index fingers against his jaw, looking like an executive considering some minor irritant in his daily routine.

She hesitated and the wattage of Kronos' smile increased.  "No, I don't think so," he purred at something Arlen had done; she cried out harshly at his response.  "I like you just where you are," he added in that same satisfied voice.  "Answer him."

"The Banshee is your design," Arlen forced out, clearly trying to keep her voice level rather than give Kronos any more proof of her pain.  "I'm being blocked on acquiring the local dealership for it."

"And you thought that having taken a class or two with me should give you an edge?" Methos inquired coldly.

"You--"  She cut her own words off, breath hissing through her teeth as Kronos leaned farther in.  

His shoulders tensed, muscles rippling smoothly under the light-weight grey shirt, and the intent set of his mouth reminded Methos of the way Silas used to look when he would train his pets.  Methos pushed that memory aside to watch his brother train this new acquisition.  Whatever he had decided to do (and Methos could think of several possibilities in that position) etched sudden lines of anguish around Arlen's mouth and eyes, drew her eyelids and eyebrows down in pain.

" 'Sir,' " Kronos whispered into her ear.  "Respect might help here."

"Sir," Arlen forced out and gasped as Kronos eased off minutely.  She drew a shuddering breath, eyes still closed.

Methos kept the frown off his face, but his mind was hastily running over both what she wanted and why his brother showed every sign of wanting to break this one to his leash.  She was more than intelligent enough to interest Kronos, Methos knew; did she not realize that the only alternatives were death or surrender?  Those blue eyes were open again, studying him, and Methos saw that she knew exactly how far in she had fallen.  An unflinching refusal to die, there, and spinning calculations, and an odd... acceptance, as if Arlen not only knew this was bad, but that it was going to get much worse before it got better.  And she was prepared to deal with it, if that was what it took to survive.

She reminds him of me, Methos realized numbly.  Gods, woman, I hope you're as strong as I remember.  I hope you're stronger.  Arlen was in no position to help Methos now, which meant he had no choice but to help Kronos break her.  Of course, by the time that was done, she'd have no desire to help Methos, either, which was undoubtedly part of what his brother intended....  Oh, Gods.  Damned if he did, damned if he didn't, and Kronos knew what he had done, what Methos' choices were now.

"They aren't going to make many of those cars anyway," Methos said curtly, no sympathy at all in his voice as he made his decision and moved on.  "You wanted to trade on acquaintanceship?" he asked, loading the suggestion with innuendo and insult.

"No, sir," Arlen answered carefully -- holding herself where Kronos wanted her rather than risk more pain, Methos suspected.  "On reputation.  I worked my ass off in your classes, and I was good.  I've built up my dealership in two years, and my reputation there is good too."

"Was," Kronos commented mildly.  "Was."

Methos shook his head as he stood up.  "You brought her in for this, brother?"

Kronos glanced up at Methos then, away from his contemplation of the woman's nape, and... smiled.  It wasn't pleasant, that expression.  Hungry, yes, and attentive, and not entirely sane.  But not pleasant.  

"No, brother.  I was wondering, really, what the connection might be between one of your old... students," he said thoughtfully, shifting his hips forward to grind his groin against Arlen, making her shiver despite her attempts to remain still, "and Duncan MacLeod."

One eyebrow started to rise, startled, before Methos controlled his expression.  More slowly, he said, "None at all that I know of.  Why?"

"Because," and Kronos watched him like a hunter seeing the game sniff the edges of the pit trap, "MacLeod escaped in her car."

"My car!?"  The words escaped her, and Kronos tugged up on her arm without ever taking his eyes off Methos' face.  The blonde yelped, back bowing until her stomach touched the desk, shoulders and head lifting toward Kronos to ease the pain.  To Methos' surprise, he let her do it.

"Did I say you could speak?" Kronos asked mildly, emphasizing each word with a tug.

"No, sir."  The words were grated out, the 'sir' a tad slow, but Kronos only smiled and let her get away with it.  For the moment.

"Ah, I was right," he said jovially.  "You can learn.  MacLeod, though."  He paused, studying Arlen thoughtfully.  "How do you know him, girl?"

"I don't know anyone named MacLeod, sir."  Arlen obviously realized the pain would be coming.  Methos watched her teeth bite into her lip as she stared straight across the room, trying desperately to focus on a filing cabinet as Kronos pulled her head farther back, her wrist just that fraction farther up and torqued farther in.  Methos could almost hear the tendons in her arm and shoulder creak under the strain.

"MacLeod," Kronos repeated in a crooning whisper.  "Duncan MacLeod.  A big man, more than six feet tall, with dark hair past his shoulders, and the looks to be a male model.  Big brown eyes, kind to women and puppies... but he did leave you here."

Arlen shook her head, a miniscule motion, but all she could manage while she was held like that.  "I don't know him, sir.  I don't know anyone like--"  She broke off, breath hissing out in relief as Kronos eased his grip again.

"I believe you.  This time."  Those fever-bright eyes came up to meet Methos' gaze as Kronos went on, "Do you know, brother, I believe you, too?  Odd coincidence, though."

"Yes," Methos said grimly, "it is."  He glanced at Arlen, seeing the new track of tears running down from her eyes, the swollen lip.  He looked back up to Kronos' smile and asked, "What shall we do with her, brother?"

That smile widened then, softened into something more affectionate as the cool disinterest of Methos' tone registered.  "I'd been thinking about that, you know."  Kronos stepped back, pulling the blonde up with him.  "And I was wondering," he added thoughtfully, "what the owner of a car dealership was doing in a linguistics course."

"Triple major," Arlen answered, "in linguistics, psychology, and history.  Sir."  She added it quickly before he could decide to break her arm after all.

"Running a car dealership," Kronos pointed out in a surprisingly polite tone of disbelief.

"My great-uncle left it to me," she forced out.  "The family is waiting for me to screw up, so they can take over.  I haven't let them."  The last words were almost a growl, too close to a challenge.

Kronos laughed softly, derisively.  "History?  Really."

"African and European, 19th and 20th centuries a specialty," she snapped.  

Goading Kronos, Methos realized, and wondered if Arlen had any clue what kind of dynamite she was playing with.  He mentioned coolly, "Yes, and no one ever quite knew what in hell you were doing with that combination, either.  They almost didn't let you do it."

"Getting the most out of my scholarship, sir," Arlen told him, then went up on tiptoe as Kronos nearly touched her wrist to her nape.  The harsh, strained whine of pain was all too familiar to Methos, and brought a smile to Kronos' lips.

"The words were fine, but the tone needs work," Kronos instructed almost gently.  "Again."

"Getting the most out of my scholarship, sir," Arlen repeated respectfully.  Her free hand clutched the edge of the desk for support.

"Better," Kronos commented.  "We'll get you there yet."

"Where?  And why?  Sir," she added quickly.

Kronos let go of her abruptly and she almost fell, off-balance as she came down off her toes, trying to catch the injured arm with her good one.  Kronos caught the collar of her shirt and yanked her back and down, tumbling her into an office chair.  Her hip caught the corner of the chair arm with a bruising impact, but Kronos' knife was at her throat and she caught her gasp in her throat.

"Why, where we want you," Kronos answered with a rumbling chuckle reminiscent of a leopard crouched over its prey.  He twined his free hand through her hair again, arching her over the back of the chair, and glanced up at Methos expectantly.

Methos stalked toward her, deliberately menacing, and produced a knife of his own from under his sweater.  Arlen's eyes widened then, resolve giving way momentarily to fear then hardening back into that fierce control again, despite the pain, the odds, and the betrayal of someone she might have hoped would help her.  Rather than use the knife, though, Methos ran the edge of his thumbnail along her cheek.  He pressed hard enough to dent the skin, leaving a faint red trail as he traced the ridge of her eye, across her nose, along the other orbital ridge, close enough that she had to half-close her eyes to watch what he was doing.  That close, Methos could see the way her eyelashes shaded from gold to brown and back to gold at the lid.

"So, brother," Kronos asked cheerfully, "is she bright?"  His hand flexed, pulling her shirt collar more tightly around her throat.  Green fabric strained under his hand, wrapping against fair skin.

"Yes," Methos answered immediately, still considering the pale, frightened face under his hand.  "Why?"

"And we've seen she can learn," Kronos added, musing aloud.  "Then, too, she took a liberal arts degree and managed to run a car dealership... so she can apply knowledge in useful ways."

Methos contemplated what Kronos was saying, his head tilted as he watched him drag this out.  His own mind was darting across possibilities.  What is he up to?  A new toy?  For which one of us?  A new spy, once he's done with her?  A test of my loyalty?  All of the above?  Damn it, it's been too long since I played these games with Kronos.  "True enough on all counts," he finally agreed.  "Why?"

"Because," Kronos said pleasantly, "it's been too long since you trained an apprentice.  Not that anyone could ever replace you, of course," he added, smiling at Methos and studying the delicate skin at the juncture of jaw and throat.  Just the patch he bit down on during sex when he wanted to make it very clear who was the dominant partner, Methos remembered with a flash of fear-spiked arousal.  "But could she could make a passable assistant?"

Methos considered that, running his thumb absently along her cheek, down her jaw, and stroking the jumping tendon in her throat.  Spy, then.  Or pawn.  Perhaps both.  "She might," he finally, reluctantly, acquiesced.  "She wouldn't even need more than minimal training, I don't think."

Kronos smiled, studying the woman between them now.  He leaned in over his knife and kissed her.  His lips flattened against her mouth, head twisting as he moved to just the right angle to control her.  Methos could see his cheeks hollowing as his tongue invaded Arlen's mouth, dominating her, establishing exactly who was and was not in charge.  She had closed her eyes.  For a moment she fought him -- until Kronos pressed his knife more firmly against her throat.  Then Arlen yielded and he laughed into her mouth before straightening up.

"We'll have to train her, of course, but she has some potential," Kronos agreed, lips wet and red from the force he'd used, the blood from her bitten lip.  He raised an eyebrow at Methos.  "You do still have that healer on staff, don't you?"

"Of course," Methos commented dryly.  "She's even one of the new oddities who've been cropping up these last few years, rather than an EMT ."  He glanced down at his knife, then at Arlen, then back up at Kronos with an inquiring tilt to his head.

"Good," came the purred reply.  "And after we're done training this one, you'll have more time free, brother."

Methos forced himself to nod... and lifted his blade.

-=-=-=- Colorado Springs, Colorado -- one week later -=-=-=-

The long trip from the bus station to Connor's house had only strung Duncan's nerves tighter and tighter.  He'd managed to doze in quick catnaps here and there, but most of the last week had been spent on the run and thus awake.  Even coffee and extra food couldn't keep him that way much longer, but given the things he'd been thinking while he was conscious, he was almost afraid to sleep.  It was a damn good thing his teacher and kinsman had been there to meet the bus.  Duncan might not have been able to make it to the house otherwise.  

Immortal presence rolled over them both as they walked through the door, solid and angry and strong; Duncan nearly staggered from the force of it and his own surprise.  Connor, he saw immediately, had known it would be there.  "Damn it, Connor -- "

The irritated gold eyes that looked up at him told Duncan he was pushing his luck, but he was angry enough to hold the gaze.  Connor glared at him, though, until Duncan reluctantly muttered an apology.  That got a quick smile from his kinsman.  "You asked for my help, Dhonnchaidh, I'll give it as I see fit."  The sandy-haired Scot waved at the array of computers now set up in his living room and somehow the motion included the unknown immortal.  "In this case, I called in an expert."

Duncan bit back any number of comments, looking for some neutral way to explain his unease and wondering again how Connor could get under his skin so quickly.  Finally he asked, "Who?  And why?"

"Better."  That raspy, irritating laugh comforted Duncan.  It was Connor, which in some odd, frustrating, endearing way meant he was home.  His kinsman caught his eye and stated, "Calm yourself, hmm?  You'll do your friend no good like this, Dhonnchaidh, and well we both know it."

"Connor... this might not be a good idea."

That irritatingly knowledgeable gaze saw right through him.  "Really.  Are my friends likely to be wanting this Adam Pierson's head?  Have you taken up with a scoundrel beyond even your usual pale, Duncan MacLeod?  Or do you just not trust me and those I say are safe to you and yours?"  Connor's voice, already chillingly level, nearly raised welts on Duncan's skin with the last question.

"No!"  Duncan flinched, his hands coming up in defense and supplication.  "No, kinsman.  I trust you."

Connor nodded slowly.  "I knew that, man, but I'm thinking you forgot it for a while.  You know Damiano, don't you?" he asked, in an apparent non sequitur.

Duncan pulled the desk chair toward him and spun it around to perch on it, his arms folded along the top.  It felt far too good to rest, even in that uncomfortable position.  "Burly redheaded man, right?  A friend of Amanda's."

His clansman raised one eyebrow in a sardonic acknowledgment of something that Duncan apparently didn't know.  All he said, though, was, "That's him."  

Duncan nodded, running his hands through his thick sable hair.  "Yeah, I know Damien.  Ran into him in Italy after World War II.  Very good with a bastard sword, but he needs a longer fuse on his temper.  What about him?"

"He and I have been business partners off and on for a century now," Connor answered.  "He went into computers and programming back in the '70s -- now he's one of the best hackers around."

"One of us?" Duncan asked as his eyes widened slightly.  "He's that good?"

"He goes after new systems the way he goes after opponents in a sword fight."  Connor shrugged and moved to the high, narrow table where he kept alcohol for visitors.  Duncan watched him in surprise; Connor rarely drank before dinner.  Despite the fact that it wasn't yet noon, the smaller Scot calmly poured a stout three or four fingers of whiskey into a glass and walked back.

"Drink this."

Duncan frowned at the command.  "Connor -- "

"Do as I say," his teacher ordered him firmly, and despite his apparent youth he sounded like a clan elder laying down the law.  "You're too tired for this, Duncan MacLeod, and that makes you a liability.  Drink that and go upstairs and crawl into a bed.  The northwest room is free; it'll be the one that isn't full of programming books.  But I don't want to see you before sunset, and you'd best have found both a shower and an appetite," he added.

"The photos -- "

"The ones your friend is sending here?" Connor asked.  When Duncan nodded reluctantly, Connor said calmly, "I'll not open them, man; it's your mail.  And who knows what notes he'll have sent you, after all?  Be easy about that.  Go on, sleep."

Duncan frowned uneasily, trying to explain what he had barely worked out for himself.  "It's not you, Connor, but...."

His teacher watched him from those unwavering, unnerving mutable eyes.  "But what?" he prompted quietly when no further words emerged.

"Who else are you bringing in?  Damien is bad enough, with that temper of his," Duncan admitted.  "And Adam can be more annoying than you, some days."

Connor did laugh at that.  "So?  Damien has more rough edges left on him than an old oak.  Is it Alex and Xan you're worried about?  Or that Damien will want to bring in that thief lover of yours when he knows something?"

"Amanda isn't going to help with this," Duncan vowed even as he filed away the names Alex and Xan to ask about later.  "Koren is too damn dangerous."

"That bad?  You never said much about him."

"He nearly killed me a century ago.  With a scythe," and Duncan's eyes narrowed as he reconsidered the memories.  "I remember now.  He said something about he loved the old ways best."

"You're still here," Connor pointed out mildly.  His voice didn't match the anger in his eyes.

"The Rangers shot him in the back," Duncan said with a shrug, letting go of the memory and the train of thought as well.  There had been something there, some connection....  It would come to him while he slept, most likely.  If not, well, he'd think about it this evening.

Connor pressed the glass into his hand, wrapped his fingers around it, and pushed the whiskey toward his lips.  "Drink, man.  You can't even think straight right now."  He gave Duncan no choice, but stood over him until the younger Scot forced himself to drink all of it, then, exasperated, tugged him up off of the chair with an easy, exasperated strength.  "Come along, Dhonnchaidh."

Connor guided him up the stairs and down the hall to the correct guest bedroom, patiently accepting of the sudden heaviness against his shoulder as the alcohol rolled through and over Duncan, turning his arms to lead and his legs to rubber.  On an empty stomach and far too little sleep, Duncan told himself, of course it's hitting me hard.  That's all it is.

His teacher stripped his clothes off, as casual as they'd always been about such things.  Too many years traveling together had left them that ease with each other, too many long parties or longer battles, and too much care for the other to leave cold, wet, or bloody clothes on a friend who wasn't up to handling the problem himself for whatever reason....  No, what startled Duncan was the way Connor pushed his shoulder to roll him onto his stomach and then pulled an overstuffed armchair over to the side of the bed.  Those strong hands that Duncan knew so well after so many years settled onto the nape of his neck, kneading away the tensions and fears, stroking away tremors that Duncan hadn't realized were running through his body.

"We'll find him for you, Dhonnchaidh," Connor told him quietly.

"He's not dead...." Duncan forced out somehow.

"No, lad, or there'd have been a quickening.  He's an old one, isn't he?"

"Aye, Connor, he is," Duncan admitted at last, unwilling to lie to his teacher and clansman, the man who'd known him best and longest, and not just because lying to Connor never seemed to work.  Ramirez' training, probably.  "The oldest of us all.  He's Methos."

"No wonder you're frightened for him, and of my friends."  Connor's voice held no rancor, and his hands were still soothing Duncan down towards sleep.  "They're not head-hunters, Duncan.  Not the one above his shoulders in any case," Connor added with a chuckle.  Duncan tensed at that and wanted to curse when he realized what else he'd just given away.

"So it's like that.  I'd wondered about that, too.  He's not your lover, though, or you'd have told me from the beginning.  Is he so blind he doesn't know you love him?"

"I didn't know what you'd say," Duncan said finally, ignoring Connor's question.  "I'm sorry, Connor."

That soft rasping chuckle relaxed Duncan even more.  "And I was supposed to think you wouldn't notice half the humans in the world?  Did you think I didn't know about you and Brian Cullen?"

"You did?" Duncan asked, surprised.  A firm hand on the back of his head kept him from sitting up or turning around.

"Aye, Dhonnchaidh, I did.  I'm sorry for your loss.  He used to be a good man."

"Just... weak," Duncan admitted quietly.

"They wore at him," Connor agreed just as softly.  "Leave it be.  Remember him as he used to be instead.  We can't all be Highlanders, bred of granite stubbornness -- "

" -- and Highland winds and streams," Duncan sighed as the whiskey slid further through his defenses, leaving him feeling young and vulnerable and grateful for the solid shield of Connor's strength.  "I miss the smell of the wind over the heather, Connor."

"And the first scent of snow over rock," Connor whispered in agreement, his voice a whiskey-rough comfort and his palm still rubbing firmly along Duncan's back.  "Fresh salmon over the fire, Dhonnchaidh, and coarse salt to eat on it.  Brown bread, and butter just churned the day before, and the fire warm on the plaids and sheepskins."

"Aye," Duncan breathed, a smile creasing the corners of his mouth as he remembered earlier years and days spent traveling with Connor and sometimes Ramirez as well.  The steady flow of words and memories, all in that familiar, familial voice, rolled over him.  Duncan never knew when he fell asleep, but for the first time since he'd left Methos behind, his dreams were peaceful.

~*~*~*~*~

The smell of good food drew Duncan down the hallway and he smiled as he wondered who was responsible.  Connor could cook, but he generally preferred to let anyone else do it.  So could Damien, for that matter, but coffee and meat were the safest things to let him work on.  A heavily muscled man came out of the kitchen doorway, still talking, and Duncan stopped short rather than run him over.  Speak of the devil....

"-- because, Connor, I'd only --" Damien broke off then and grinned at Duncan.  "Hey, you're awake.  Good.  Now I can really get going."

"Damien."  Duncan nodded to him, but kept heading towards the tantalizing smells.

"No, no, MacLeod, I need you to --"  Damien tried to catch his arm, but an unfamiliar baritone voice broke in from the kitchen.  

"No, Damien, he needs coffee at the least.  And when's the last time you ate, nephew?  Both of you come sit down."

 Duncan stepped into the kitchen, nodded at Connor who was stirring something in a wok, and dug around in the cupboards for a mug -- something smaller than the oversized monstrosity that Damien had been carrying, hopefully.  Connor set his spatula down and first pointed out the correct cabinet, then passed the coffee pot to his kinsman.  "Here, man, you need this.  Now.  Do you know Alex and Xan?"

Duncan filled his mug, took a long sip heedless of the heat, and used the time that delaying action bought him to appraise the new immortals.  Both stood five foot nine or so.  One had a runner's build, sun-streaked blond hair, and a profile that made Duncan half-wonder if he'd stepped down off a pedestal... but no Greek statue would have been wearing worn-out now-grey jeans and a faded button-down shirt that had clearly seen better days.  The other man was Mediterranean-dark, all curly black hair and dark eyes, with a wrestler's build, maybe an inch less height, and the same casual taste in clothes.  His jeans had once been blue, not black, and his shirt had started as red rather than his companion's blue, but those were the only differences.

Duncan had never met either of them before, he knew that much.  Something in the way they stood, in the way they'd moved around and with each other at the kitchen counter as they worked on bread and salad, spoke of a long familiarity and partnership that tugged at his memory.  He shook his head, as much at a memory that wouldn't quite fall into place as at Connor's question.  "No, I don't think we've met."

The blond nodded at him companionably.  "I'm Xan Morgan.  A pleasure to finally meet you."

"Alex Daniels."  The black-haired man also nodded to him.  "We're two of Ramirez' brothers if that'll make you any easier about our being in on this.  And I agree with Xan:  nice to finally meet you, although it's a damn shame it takes something like this to get the lot of us together."

Duncan managed a smile when he recognized Alex's voice as the one that had leashed Damien's impatience.  "Thanks for telling me.  But Connor brought you in; that's enough for me."  He shrugged as if to make it clear he wouldn't contest that judgment of them.  "Thanks for getting me my indulgence for coffee."

"It's a good thing he did," Connor agreed, clearly amused.  "You slept like a rock.  Awake yet?"

"Getting there."  Duncan stifled a yawn behind his hand.  "Sorry, long week."

"Yeah, well, pass him that packet, Connor.  If he's got useful photos, that will speed this up a hell of a lot."  Damien stalked a chair and perched restlessly on the edge of it.

Connor pointed to the white FedEx envelope on one end of the table.  "Right there.  Damien, do I need to keep you away from the coffee?"

"Hey, all programmers live on the stuff," Damien protested.

He ignored Xan's mutter of, "Likely excuse."  Instead Damien's attention stayed firmly on the possible lead as Duncan pulled out a pocket knife, unfolded a blade, and slit open the envelope.

The Scot pulled out the contents, skimming quickly through the first few paragraphs of the cover letter.  "Joe says Adam hasn't shown up in Seacouver yet."  He read through the rest of it, keeping his comments to himself although his mouth twisted into a frown at something he saw.  "And he found a picture of Adam from a few years ago, and what he refers to as a 'passable line drawing' of Koren."

Alex and Xan glanced at each other before Xan commented in a scrupulously neutral voice, "Your friend has interesting sources."

Duncan looked up and said flatly, "He does.  And don't ask me what they are, because I won't tell you.  I can't afford to lose access to them right now.  "

"Some day later, then," Alex suggested blandly and went back to slicing radishes for the salad.  "However, about those pictures?"

Duncan nodded, refolding the letter and sliding it back into the envelope.  "Right.  This is Melvin Koren."

He slid a photograph across the table.  It was clearly a reproduction of an old wanted poster, describing one Melvin Koren, desperado, bandit, and murderer, worth a thousand dollars dead or alive to the authorities in Texas.

Damien glanced at it, raised an eyebrow as he took in the thick beard and long scar running down across one eye, and shook his head.  "Never seen him before."

Alex, however, got a clear look at it and hissed something in what Duncan thought was Greek.  It brought Xan's head up immediately.  Then he gave Koren a name Duncan had never heard before:  "Camillus Martinus."

Connor never turned from the stove.  "You know him, then."

"He's dangerous," Xan answered, but he moved to set a hand on Alex's shoulder as he went on, "And old.  Older than we are.  Older than Ramirez for that matter."

Connor passed the bowl of stir-fried chicken to Damien.  "Sit down, Damiano."  He raised that unsettling gaze to Xan and Alex.  Alex was rubbing at his wrist as if it ached; when he saw Connor watching, he let go.  He shook his head curtly, clearly unwilling to discuss whatever memory the picture  had called up.  

Connor nodded in temporary acquiescence.  "Bring the rest of it, and let's eat before we start in on this."  Ignoring his own suggestion, though, the older Highlander sat down and pulled the photocopy over.  "Older than the haggis?" he muttered, then his eyes narrowed.  "Him."

Damien shook his head and piled food on his plate.  "Am I the only one who doesn't know this son of a bitch?"

"Xan never met him," Alex said grimly as he slid bread onto his plate and Xan's.

"One of us would be dead if I had.  One of us will be dead after I do."  Xan served salad onto his plate automatically, clearly more interested in the food as fuel than something to be savored, then passed the bowl to Damien.  "Connor?"

"Ramirez described him to me once."  Connor stared at the picture as if etching something into his mind, or planning something thoroughly unpleasant.  His controlled anger transformed the words into something considerably less innocuous than they should have been.

"Yes," Alex agreed.  "I'm sure he did."  His tone made it clear he wouldn't be elaborating on that anytime soon.

Duncan turned to look at his kinsman, breadbasket forgotten in his hand.  "Who is he, then?"

"We'd have gone after your friend for your own sake, Dhonnchaidh, but I'll be taking on Koren."  

Connor's voice offered no possibility of compromise or alternatives, and Duncan considered arguing with him... then decided to wait.  There would be time later, while they hunted for Koren and Methos.  Interestingly, Xan seemed to have the same reactions:  disagreement, then a willingness to shelve the matter for the moment.

Damien just shrugged, swallowed another mouthful of salad, and then commented, "He's an old enemy of half the family; that's fine, means I'm not gonna worry about whether or not we kill the bastard, but I need some more data, damn it.  Who's this friend of yours that Koren caught, Duncan?"

Duncan braced himself to dodge any questions, and pulled out the other photograph.  Joe had managed to snap a picture of the two of them bargaining with a book vendor on the Left Bank:  Duncan was in profile, but Methos stood facing the camera, a half-grin on his lips and one hand gesturing impatiently about something he found outrageous -- the price, Duncan remembered, not the condition of the text.  

Duncan slid that picture into the center of the table, saying, "This is Adam."  The various reactions to it startled him.

"Matthew?" Damien asked as he leaned forward, audibly and visibly shocked, his food forgotten.

"Robert Morgan?" Connor muttered, adding, "Someone captured that mongoose?"

Xan hissed, either at the picture or the information; Alex growled, a low rumble deep in his throat.  After a moment, Xan turned to Duncan and asked carefully, "That's the man who's been taken prisoner?"

"Yes."  Duncan studied them just as carefully.  Those reactions could mean they were furious, or it could mean they had just seen an old enemy.  "And?"

"We'll help you," Alex said softly, his hand still tight around a hapless fork which was beginning to bend under the pressure.  

"For his freedom, or so you can face him?" Duncan asked bluntly.  He made no attempt to dodge the solid, deliberately painful punch Connor aimed at his shoulder.  Duncan knew he'd just abused hospitality laws shamefully with that suggestion, but he wasn't sure he cared.  They'd forgive him or not, but he wasn't turning old immortals onto Methos' trail without being sure they were friendly.  Not after those reactions.

Alex said bluntly, "His freedom, Duncan.  That's our teacher.  And Ramirez'."

"What?" Connor and Duncan both snapped.  Damien only nodded slowly as if he'd just received the answer to several questions.

"That's our teacher," Xan repeated patiently as he reached over and, without looking, removed the fork from Alex's fingers.  "He also taught Ramirez, and Damien's teacher, and a score of others.  Some of them are even still alive."

Damien casually said, "Well that explains why you call me nephew.  Where is Magistra?"

Alex shook his head.  "I don't know, Damien.  We haven't heard from Edana in almost thirty years.  Not since she left Italy, at least.  And with Darius dead...."

"Damn."  The word held no real anger, though.  "More recent news than I had of her, though.  The last I heard was that she'd run into Farrell Jameson in --"

Connor cut in.  "Damien, if you're looking for Edana, you should have asked.  She's well enough, and I'll give you her current name and address later, but it's irrelevant right now.  Do all of us know the man, then, whatever name he was giving that decade?"

"Sounds like it," Damien agreed, propping his chin on one hand.  "And yes, Duncan, before you have to ask, Matthew Adams was a friend of mine.  I always liked the tricky bastard.  Besides, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't have had either of my teachers.  Don't worry about my wanting his head.  I'm not crazy enough to want a few centuries of his sarcasm in the back of my mind."

That pulled a quick, strained grin to Duncan's face.  "Yeah, you know him," he muttered, before he gave Xan and Alex a curious look.  "Your teacher, though?"

Alex chuckled, humor restored for a quick moment as he began to force his mind to more pleasant subjects.  "Primarily.  For the first year or so, Edana, Damien's teacher, helped him.  Two of us at once were a bit much, apparently."

Connor however, caught Alex's eyes, mutable hazel easily holding black.  "Alexandrias -- later.  Right now, start thinking about names the man might have used, bolt holes he might own, ways he might have stashed his money.  You trained with him, you half-mad Greek, you should be able to think like him.  Explains a few things, too," Connor muttered and ignored Xan's half-choked snicker.  "Damien,  get on the outside of that food and then pull together a wish list of things other than the photo to speed up your side of the hunt."

Duncan paid close attention to his food, suspecting what was coming next. 

"As for you, you daft fool."  Connor reached over and tugged his chin up, an indignity Duncan never seemed able to begrudge his teacher.  "What in hell were you doing going back into that damned hotel?  Trying to get yourself killed?"

"They were gone," Duncan said simply, ignoring the food growing cold on an incongruously cheerful plate.  The chilling stir fry didn't even start to match the frozen ache in his heart at the idea that he'd run and left Methos... where?  In the hands of an enemy?  And yet, what he'd said, what he hadn't said, left Duncan wondering queasily just how well Methos knew Koren or Camillus or whatever his name might be.  And how he knew him, as well....

"I had to see if there was anything there," Duncan finally answered.

"Was there?" Damien asked bluntly, then added, "Connor, yell at him later.  He lived through it."

"No."  Despair laced the syllable and Duncan had to take a deep breath before he answered, "No.  There was nothing.  And no one who'd say anything, either."

Damien nodded, clearly both unsurprised and relishing this hunt.  "Give me the hotel name, Matthew's current name and address, and anything else you can think of.  What he's been studying lately, any ideas on what he's doing with his money lately -- you know how this goes," the burly redhead added, clearly considering a wide-ranging search.

In an oddly thoughtful voice, Connor said, "Duncan.  The car you stole on your way out.  What did it look like?"

"Connor, what does -- "  Damien shut up when Alex glared at him.  "What?"

"And you trained with Edana.  Just let the man answer the question," Alex ordered as he turned back to study Connor with those intent black eyes.

"A silver two-door Oldsmobile, Connor, one of the sports coupes from the early '80s."

Connor nodded then, very slowly, his eyes focused on something that wasn't in the room with them.  "Did you ever find out who it belonged to and when they got it back?"

"That friend of mine is checking through the Department of Motor Vehicles as to when.  I know who," Duncan told him, frowning now.  Like many Scots, Connor had a surprisingly wide mystical streak under his practicality.  Years of training with Ramirez had honed that into a shockingly useful tool.  "Why?"

"No reason," his teacher said, clearly meaning just the opposite.  "Just... wondering.  How did you get rid of it, Duncan?"

Duncan flinched slightly but didn't dodge Connor's eyes.  "Dropped it at the bus station, made sure the hotel receipt showed on the front seat, and called the police to give them an anonymous tip about a stolen car."

"Did you get the license plate number?" Damien asked curiously.  "I can work on it from this end if necessary."

"Missouri plates, AFR350, no idea when they expire.  One of the older Oldsmobiles, say, mid-80s?  Silver, as I said, two door, full of books and papers.  It looked like a student's car, but it was in the guest parking lot, not near the employee parking.  It had an alumni sticker for Brown University."  Duncan had closed his eyes to call up the details; now he opened them again to see Damien staring at him in surprise.  "What?"

"You sounded like Amanda casing a house," the redhead told him almost apologetically.  "Nothing.  Got it.  Anything else?"

"Yes, of course.  I got her name and address off the hotel slip so that I could send her money for the damage to the car," Duncan said impatiently, as if it should be obvious.  "Arlen Green, 2067 Chablis, Apartment 5-B, Creve Couer, Missouri.  No phone number."

Alex grinned at that.  "He's your student all right, Connor."

"Nice of you to notice," Connor replied sarcastically.  "Damien, look into the girl, too.  Everything."

"You and your damn hunches," Damien growled.  Then he shrugged.  "On the other hand, they always pay off, too.  Yeah, sure, Connor.  I can hunt for her, too.  What's one more damn name, when I'm gonna have a list a mile long looking for Matthew or Adam or Robert or whatever the hell his name is this year?"

"Good."  Connor ignored Damien's sarcasm.  "Eat, then."  But the older Highlander's contained motions and cynical half-smile made the others wonder what kind of hunch he'd had this time.

Duncan rolled his eyes at that evasion, but accepted it; Connor always did answer things in his own good time.  And if I say anything, he decided, he'll only remember minor things like I said I'd trust his friends, our linekin, and went back into a trap without backup....  Given that alternative, and his own hunger, dinner seemed like a very good idea after all.
 

-=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - January, 1996 -=-=-=-

He's never satisfied.

There's something unfinished in Kronos, some empty space, or connecting pin waiting to lock into place with... something. I don't know what. I'm not far enough down in the dark yet to see the shape of that absence. Before I came to Vegas, I'd have been grateful. Now, though--knowledge and secrets are the only power I have. They aren't going to be enough. I know that. Kronos will, sooner or later, grow bored and I'll be dead.

Unless I'm very, very careful.

"Again." He sounds so... cheerful, Kronos does. Until he's angry. Then he purrs, or rages. Rather than hear that silky voice that means I'm going to scream, I lift the weights again. My muscles scream instead of my voice, but it hurts less than what he does to me when I disobey, or simply don't obey fast enough.

I ache, constantly. Better than being dead, though. Better by far than letting Susan 'heal' me.

Kronos sees me frown at that. It just makes him smile. "Hurting?" He sounds interested but completely unsympathetic.

I don't trust that smile, that volatility, but there's no point in lying. Kronos has caught every active lie I've tried to get past him. The cost has never been cheap. "Yes, sir," I tell him, trying to force out another rep, one more bench press....

"Time to switch," he says and catches the bar like the dead weights are balsa instead of iron. My arms are shaking, fingers cramping from holding it, but I never know where Kronos has a knife, or how he'll use it, so I sit up somehow. I haven't been so tired since senior year when I had to do final papers in three subjects at once. Everything is focused down to essentials now: Kronos, his hands, and the weight equipment he's using to break me apart and rebuild me.

So I lie there, face down so I can curl my legs up to work the hamstrings. And if that leaves my back to Kronos, my mind wondering where he is, or what he'll do next, well, it's no accident. He wants me to worry, wants me to think about everything and everyone in a room, no matter how exhausted I may be. He has no tolerance for weakness in anyone. I'm learning to conceal mine, or at least push past it to new levels of stamina.

It's not just my body Kronos and Methos are reshaping to suit themselves. I don't have any illusions about that. I don't think I have any illusions left about much of anything by now.

Late at night, when I'm chained to the foot of the bed, or lying beside them, usually still hurting from what they've done to me and with me... I can't sleep, no matter how tired I am. Not really. Certainly not well. This is going to end, badly, if I don't find a way to end it, end them. I'm not like them. Sooner or later, I won't be able to do what Kronos wants. When that day comes, I'll die. I hope so, anyway. If I don't, if I'm like them... how long could this go on?

I don't know what Kronos is, what they are. I know Professor Pierson's name is Methos, or used to be. To Kronos, it still is. And we get mail addressed to Mason Kane, but his name is Kronos. Chronos, the god of time? Kronos, the father of the Greek gods who swallowed his children to prevent them from killing him? That Kronos died at the hands of his own child. Come to think of it, Father Time dies every New Year's, too. Can they die? Permanently? But... Kronos was replaced by Zeus; Father Time is replaced by Baby New Year. Do I have to become him to kill him? Much as I want to live, I'm not sure I'm willing to pay that to do it.

Speculating, spinning my mind down a dozen dead-ends looking for possibilities, for puzzle pieces to add to this, helps keep me from thinking about how much my muscles want to spasm, to tear, to quit. I don't have that option. And I'm getting better at paying very selective attention to my own senses. Eating what they put in front of me, no matter what it is, because I need the fuel, but making sure food for them is cooked properly. Feeling a blade on my skin as pressure more than pain, but knowing by touch in the dark which of them is which, because Kronos is more volatile but Methos is more comprehensive when it comes to everything--including pain. Ignoring the sounds from the bed on the nights I'm on the floor, but listening for the fine edges and nuances of both their voices so that I can duck fast enough....

If I still believed in karma, I'd wonder how many slaves I owned a few incarnations back that I've ended up one this time around. But wondering that is a waste of energy and I've none to spare.

A change in exercises again. My legs have damn near given out, so of course Kronos wants me to stand. Odd I should think about slaves. The next one Kronos wants me to do is the one I refer to, to myself, as 'yassum, massah.' I hate this: balancing weights on my shoulders, when my arms and hands are already shaking, then bowing from the waist, straight-backed, and forcing myself upright, again and again.

Kronos is a sadist with these weights, and I have to wonder what he's doing. He pushes me until I can't lift any more, then lowers the amount of weight and begins again, until I can't move. Then he switches what I'm doing, which muscles I'm working. Upper body to legs to lower body to arms and begin again. The next day, he'll make me walk a treadmill until I'm ready to drop, then run me through the weights again at barely lowered settings. But why? Yeah, I'm turning into nothing but muscle over bone--deceptive muscle, like Methos', all long lines rather than bulk. I'm developing a bone-crushing grip, too, from holding onto things so tightly for so long. And I'm firmly convinced that Excedrin is a gift from the gods. Kronos sneers but lets me have it when he's not annoyed enough to give me to Susan.

But why does he want me this way? I'm never going to look anything but female, no matter how thin he wears me or how much muscle he puts on me. I'm not Methos, never will be. So what does he really want?

"Better," I hear him purr and have to fight not to close my eyes, to keep my skin from shivering convulsively. That tone is a bad sign. Someone's annoyed him and no matter who it was, I'm the one who's here.

Please, God or Goddess, don't let him ask what I was thinking. I have no good answer right now, and my mind is spinning too slowly.... Everything is too clear, too sharp, and not connected to anything else. O God, I'm punch-drunk--around Kronos. He doesn't say anything else, though, so I keep going. And now it hurts too much, takes too much attention to think. I'm nothing but breath and weight now, exhaling as I drop and inhaling as I lift, forcing myself to do it right rather than see what new toy he's found this time to 'encourage' me. I never thought a knife would be a kindness.

"What do you think, Methos?"

I hadn't heard him come in and that shock, familiar though it should be by now, nearly breaks my rhythm. This once, Kronos decides to take my wavering as weakness, not startlement. He lightens the bar as easily as he picked it up during the bench presses, then waves me back into motion. I'm just as glad to have an excuse not to look at Methos. I don't recognize him anymore. I almost did when I first saw him. He almost looked like himself, like the linguist I studied with. Now, he's someone else entirely, cold and remote, and implacable as one of Kronos' knives.

I can hear that same dispassionate evaluation in his voice. "You're honing too fine again."

Until Kronos speaks, I think they're discussing a weapon. "A day off, then? Or change her diet?"

"Both," Methos tells him casually. "There've been some interesting advances in training this last century. Your drug supplier might have some of what we need for her."

Methos catches my chin as I straighten, and I freeze, caught between Kronos' training orders and Methos' unspoken command to be still. Odd. Almost, for a second, I thought Methos looked... regretful? Something in his eyes? Whatever it was, it's gone again as he asks casually, "Stiletto or main gauche, brother?"

Kronos laughs at that, and I breathe a little more easily. Whatever Methos meant, it's amused him. "Neither, brother." His fingers twist into my braided hair, knotting there and holding me still. My muscles have to endure, because it's that or Kronos will be holding me up by the hair. Not a good idea; I'd pay too dearly for it.

"I was thinking of something a bit more utilitarian. Say, a sgian-dhu?" Kronos asks Methos, and I have to wonder what he means. From the expressive lift of an eyebrow, Methos understood it perfectly--and hadn't expected it, either. I curse myself again for not spending more time studying medieval history. Stilettos are slim knives, assassins' tools; a main gauche is a fencer's parrying blade. I've no idea what a 'skeen do' is, or even how to spell it to research it, if I could steal time in the middle of my work for them. It may be in one of my sources on weapons, though....

Methos just inquires, "Going to dye her hair then?" He's sarcastic, yet... interested. What does my hair have to do with this?

Kronos must have smiled. That's the only thing that pulls that light into Methos' eyes. All I hear, however, is, "Do you know, that has... possibilities." Kronos laughs again then, and releases me. Before my back completely gives up, thank God. "Go on, girl. Clean up and go back to work."

It seems I still want to live. No matter what. "Yes, sir."

-=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - later -=-=-=-

In safer times, he woke as if he were walking down a hall. On one end lay sleep and dreams; on the other, wakefulness and threats. In between, well, that was a lovely place full of warmth from blankets, and a chance to feel through his skin for light and heat, or the lack thereof, so he could sleepily decide what kind of day it was and did he want to face it now or later?

Now Methos went from sleep to complete alertness with the same abrupt speed that he'd have used going through an unknown door. Consciousness lay on one side, sleep on the other, but that in-between spot held no safety or comfort now. It had reverted to no-man's land, the perfect place in which to be ambushed.

He woke to a firm arm laid possessively over his ribs, a solidly muscled body coiled tightly against his back. Methos' breathing never changed, held deliberately slow and regular as he lay against Kronos and hoped his brother wouldn't wake. This was the only time he had to think, to react as himself and not Death. He could hear Arlen's even breathing at the foot of the bed and part of him hated what they were turning her into. Slowly but surely Kronos was shaping her into something cold, precise, and his. Methos didn't try to deny to himself that he was helping in her forging.

Kronos' dagger. Not an assassin's tool, not a line of defense: an all-purpose tool, honed to his specifications, shaped to the touch of his hand. Poor woman. Not what she bargained for when she came looking for the rights to an electric car.

He wasted no time considering the fact that it wasn't what he'd bargained for either, when he'd come to meet the man who'd just finished acquiring stock or proxies on forty percent of the hotel. Methos had expected to deal with mortal tactics, possibly some of the Families who still owned so much of Las Vegas. He hadn't expected to run into another immortal, or to find his escape routes cut off so easily: accesses closed, blocked, rerouted until all he could do was work his way into an area with enough space to fight, if he could, sure he was finally going to lose his head but determined to keep trying.

Kronos' Voice never gave him that chance. Two words, two simple, fucking words--"Greetings, brother"--and the man had held him again as he had for so many years. No comfort to realize that it was those years which had trapped Methos as effectively as the skillful, subtle manipulations of Kronos' Voice. Long years of mutual need, of conditioning, of desire used as reward and tool and even punishment at times--all of that lay in those two words, and the net had come crashing down around Methos again.

All he could do was hope desperately, in those times when he could think, that Duncan would come. His disappearance wouldn't startle the Highlander, but the fact that Methos had left an apartment still full of belongings -- his art, his computer, his journals --  No, that would be a sign a tracker like MacLeod literally could not miss.

He hadn't.

At which point, for the second time in as many weeks, Methos found he had underestimated Kronos. His brother had known where Methos was for months before he set his snare, quite possibly for years. Where he was, what he was doing, where some of his money was invested -- hence the buyout of casino stock -- and who his friends were.

The security force had already been provided with pictures of Duncan. As soon as he'd arrived on the grounds, they'd picked him up. Realistically -- and most of the time now Methos was very realistic -- he knew MacLeod had never had any choice but to run. He'd been damned lucky to make it out; Kronos almost caught him, for whatever purpose.

And what purpose would Duncan's capture have served? Methos wondered grimly, frowning into the night as he considered that puzzle. Even a year ago, I'd have expected Kronos to take his head as a rival. Rival for my attentions, rival in skill -- from sheer bloody-minded alpha male head-butting if nothing else. Now, though... now I don't know just how subtle Kronos is. He was never a fool, but now my brother isn't just plotting and reacting as forces change his plans -- he's actually thinking. Methos repressed a shudder automatically; just as automatically, he waited for several long moments to see if Kronos would wake up.

Of course, Methos realized, if I'm falling back into the old habits... is he? He lay there in the dark, thinking furiously and moving closer to the heat of Kronos' body without ever noticing it.

Is he relying more and more on my thinking rather than his own? Or is he using Arlen as a breathing reminder of which patterns to work within, to prompt him to do his own planning? It might be much simpler than that. Kronos may be shaping her loyalty to him to ensure, one way or another, that I do nothing he'd disapprove of.

An even nastier thought occurred to him, and Methos did shiver this time. Or is he using her to test ways to break MacLeod? Oh, Gods, does he want the Four Horsemen again? Caspian's dead, and Silas, too. Not Duncan. Please. And not Arlen, either, for that matter.

The tightening grip of the arm along his ribs gave Methos his first clue that Kronos had woken. His second clue was the twisting tug that left him on his belly with Kronos lying along his back and between his thighs. Moist heat raised the hackles on his neck as Kronos blew air over the nape... and then bit down, hard. It felt like a mother cat getting ready to heft a kitten, like a wolf enforcing pack supremacy, and Methos fought down the conflicting urges to submit and to struggle.

"Awake, Methos?" Kronos asked softly, sleepy and amused by something.

"I am now," he said dryly, holding his tone level rather than give in to either of the impulses struggling through his veins.

"Good," Kronos murmured, sliding back into a desert dialect that had been old when they'd used it millennia before. A scholar might have thought it related to Aramaic and been right. Kronos simply considered it a useful reminder of old ties. "Sleepy?"

"That depends on what you have in mind," Methos said cautiously. Later, another night, he'd allow himself to be appalled by how easy it was to let Death slide back into place. Now, though, survival dictated his responses.

"Fucking you until you don't wake in the middle of the night, brother. You're never at your best when you can't sleep," Kronos pointed out in a smoothly reasonable voice as he slid his hands up Methos' arms. Strong, callused hands wrapped tightly around Methos' wrists, sliding across the tender skin and exposed veins of the inner wrists in a too-familiar pattern.

Methos eased his legs farther apart before he even thought about it, and heard Kronos chuckle against his nape just before he set teeth there again and began, slowly, to bite down. Methos' last coherent thought before he gave himself over to old patterns of dominance and pleasure was that he'd have to remember to turn the tables on the other Horseman soon--and stay. Otherwise, Kronos would grow suspicious....

 -=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - a few days later -=-=-=-

Kronos waited, apparently impatient, for Arlen to finish running an Internet search. In actuality, he was fairly pleased with her progress. The girl was getting stronger by the day from his training; under his brother's demanding tutelage she'd learned any manner of tricks on the computer. Besides, standing here enabled him to keep an eye on the reflections on the monitor.

Given that advantage, he had no trouble in striking just as Methos' screen was loading with data. As soon as the monitor blanked and then began to fill, he spun and pulled his brother's chair back from the keyboard.

Methos only lifted his head to stare at him, that old, familiar taunt of an exposed throat. Kronos glanced at the email, reading it in a single swift look. "Transferring money, brother? A problem?"

Methos shrugged, ignoring the knife which lay along his Adams apple. "This would be the wrong place for anything permanent, brother. You might lose both your strategists and all their files."

Kronos eyed him narrowly, watching the careful mask of the ironic smile and shuttered eyes... then smiled. He leaned in and trapped Methos between the blade at his throat and a hand at the base of his skull as he kissed him, hard. He pulled away finally, smiling at how passionate Methos always was, even when he was angriest. "Ah, but I know you, Methos. You've backed everything up, haven't you, brother?"

The faintest of smiles lifted the edge of Methos' mouth and vanished again. Kronos released his head to brush that corner of his lips with one callused finger. "Besides," he added more casually, "I don't want to do anything too permanent. I've looked for you for too long."

"Always nice to be appreciated." The flippant reply annoyed Kronos and he shoved the dagger up, leaving a trail of blood along that pale throat and a rapidly widening line of crimson along the jaw line. Methos held very, very still, head tilted back and his hands clenched on the arms of the computer chair as he realized just how deeply that comment had struck. He met Kronos' gaze evenly, however.

"In all my years, Methos, only one thing has been unique. You." Kronos wasn't smiling now and he pressed the knife more firmly against the bone, ignoring the blood creeping steadily down that extended throat. "With you, brother, I can have the Horsemen. Without you, I have nothing but thugs. Fools. Bandits, but nothing more."

Methos spoke as if the words were being dragged out of him; Kronos doubted it was the knife making him hesitate. "You tried, then?"

"Again and again. I met your friend MacLeod that way once," Kronos snapped. Not a sound from Arlen. Good. The girl had potential, but she wasn't yet rebuilt as completely as he'd like; he'd hate to have to kill her early. "But they were nothing, brother. Useless gangs of incompetent marauders, without the pure edge of madness I need. Where is Caspian?"

"Dead," Methos told him, his tone so level that for once Kronos couldn't tell what lay under it. "The damn fool went headfirst through a windshield in Utah."

"Caspian?"

Methos barely tilted his chin; it drew a fine line of blood along one edge of the blade and widened the viscous red flow sliding down his throat. "He had those damn mushrooms in his luggage, Kronos. He was driving Route 66 and the skid marks stretched three-quarters of a mile. Glass and blood along a thirty foot stretch of sand." He shifted to their old desert dialect to add, "And his head ten body lengths from his shoulders."

"And how did you get to see it, brother?" Kronos never eased up on the blade, but he was more intent on watching those changeable eyes for lies. He kept it in English rather than unduly interest Arlen. Sooner or later, he had no doubt, she would put the pieces together and learn how to truly kill them. As tired as they kept her, it might be a while yet, but she was more than canny enough to come to the correct assumptions eventually. That intelligence was the double-edged blade Kronos valued so in her. It made her both useful, and a threat. All he had to do was point her at someone else....

Methos raised one sardonic eyebrow, not fool enough to try to take advantage of Kronos' minor distraction. It could have been a trap, after all. "You know I always kept track of things."

Kronos waited, grey-green eyes bright as he didn't ask any of the questions he knew Methos expected. There was no point; Methos was too much the strategist to be caught lying about something so easily verified as that. "So. And Silas?"

Pain or grief shifted across Methos' face, etching faint lines along his mouth and eyes, before he answered grimly, "Also dead."

"You?" Kronos asked with deceptive mildness until he saw the startled widening of Methos' pupils and the barely visible indignation. "No, not you. Not Silas." The remarkable gentleness of his voice served as an apology, one he knew Methos would catch. "Who?"

"The Kurgan," Methos said simply. "And before you ask, he's dead, too."

"Connor MacLeod." Kronos nodded once, having heard that news years ago. "Perhaps we owe him one. But not Duncan."

"Duncan's his favorite student," Methos said calmly. "Leave him alive and perhaps we'll have some negotiating room with the older Highlander."

An eloquent shrug concealed the gesture that removed the knife from Methos' throat. "None of my plans for the younger Highlander involve his permanent death. Although perhaps later we should discuss whether the elder might not be a better fit." Kronos smiled at his brother, taking in the slight widening of Methos' eyes. "Or have you met Connor?"

"A few centuries ago," Methos answered him with a negligent shrug. "He was very, very drunk at the time." He reached over to the desk and snagged a handful of the Kleenex Arlen kept there. Kronos caught the hand, however, before it could make it to the keyboard and delete the email.

Kronos loomed over him, and not only because Methos was seated and Kronos was standing. "So," the smaller Horseman purred, his earlier gentleness gone like a desert mirage, "you never said. Why the transfer?"

Methos took his time cleaning the blood from his throat, ignoring the tingle and spark as the last of the cut healed. When Kronos growled, however, he answered, "A last account from an identity long since dead, brother."

"Purely routine, then?" Kronos asked silkily, grey-green eyes clearly disbelieving.

Now Methos did stare at him -- exasperated, by the set of his shoulders and neck. "Have you never managed to conserve any of your money from name to name, Kronos?"

"Of course. But I usually let the humans do it."

"And end up rooked," Methos growled, "or blackmailed?"

Kronos leaned in, all contained, bristling energy. "No one blackmails me, Methos. Or betrays me." His words slid into the commanding tones of Voice as he snapped, "The truth, Methos. Why the transfer?"

"To give Arlen practice in tracking money," Methos told him immediately. "And to close the identity."

"Is she up to that yet?" Kronos asked. He was only listening for the answer with part of his attention, however; he was much more interested in whose trail Methos intended to set her on.

"Not yet. That's the point." Methos stood up, and Kronos barely concealed his own smile. Much, much better. This tall, dangerous man was the Methos he'd known and ridden with, not that stooping, mawkish persona that he'd used as concealment.

Kronos smiled up at him without backing away and the sheer affection in his smile made Methos pause. Kronos slid into the desert dialect to tell him, "Ah, it's good to see you back to your old self, brother." He could see the moment the true purpose of his baiting sank in, the moment when that cold, purposeful intelligence transformed annoyance into anticipation.

Death leaned in, biting and kissing until Kronos could taste his own blood in his mouth and feel the fingerprint bruises forming and fading along his shoulders and neck. Ages since he'd had lust mixed with anticipation, and love, and fear; he'd forgotten the sheer intoxicating headiness of the mix. Methos was always unpredictable, dangerous at the oddest times and safe only when allowed to be dangerous. That combination had kept Kronos with him; he didn't know what had kept Methos with him, or why the other man had eventually left. Right now, he didn't care.

Strong hands, fighter's hands for all the skill with which they handled pen or chisel, wrenched his shirt apart and back; rent cloth pinned his arms at his waist and exposed his belly. Methos tugged roughly at the buttons of his jeans without pause and without caring if it hurt. That controlled roughness was warning enough to Kronos that this was for Methos' pleasure. His own release would be a side effect or afterthought, if it happened at all. Fortunately, that alone was enough to rouse his hunger.

Brutal fingers pinched his nipples until the pain drove him to gasp into the predatory mouth locked over his, and Kronos growled, arching into it. He felt like a lemming rushing over a cliff, locked into patterns of behavior that might kill, or might explode into ecstasy with no warning. Nails clawed down over tightened nipples, along taut muscles over the exposed solar plexus. The fingers paused there, stiffened into claws that could strike through flesh and rip away Kronos' ability to breathe... then moved on, and he shuddered in pleasure and relief as those callused palms rubbed, hard, across his stomach and settled onto his hips.

Kronos shivered when his jeans were shoved down around his thighs. Papers and books rustled and thudded to the floor from a single movement of Methos' arm, right before Kronos felt himself spun around and bent over the now bare section of desk. He waited, one cheek pressed against smooth-grained wood that smelled of lemon oil and ink, and barely kept himself from laughing. Kronos had meant every word; it was good to have the real Methos back.

"Don't move," came the harsh warning just as Kronos heard the familiar rasp of metal on leather. Body-warmed steel caressed his hip, trailed over the curve of his ass, and slid down, point first now, to leave a trail of blood and sparks. Then he felt the fabric dig into his thighs and heard the hissing rip of fabric being parted by steel. The jeans slid down his legs as the dagger bit into the wood next to his throat. Methos kicked his legs apart and rubbed his erection, still covered by denim, against Kronos' vulnerable flesh.

"All this trouble, brother, just because you wanted to be fucked? You could have asked," Methos mentioned in that same deceptively soft voice. His fingers bit into Kronos' hip, drawing bruises immediately. Metal squealed as a drawer was yanked open, bruising Kronos' thigh in the process; the wood drawer slammed home again, the sound covering a bottle popping open. The scent of lemon filled the air as a bottle was slapped into his hand.

"Don't drop it," Methos warned as he forced two fingers into Kronos. He hissed and tried to relax, but as eager as he was, it was still difficult. Methos gave him no quarter, though, and the dagger came out of the desk. Razor-edged metal against Kronos' nape did what his own will hadn't; muscles yielded, and he gave over all control to Methos with the same heart-pounding, cock-hardening fear and anticipation he always felt. Kronos never assumed he'd survive the surrender. He knew better than to gauge Methos by past behavior.

"Better," Methos purred and withdrew his fingers, leaving Kronos empty and wanting. The silence in the office held its own nuances, then: Arlen's controlled, quiet breaths as she tried not to attract their notice, apparently unaware that they'd never ignored her completely; Kronos' own aching desire that he knew would only last longer if he said or did anything; and the sound of buttons being undone, one by one.

Smooth-washed denim rubbed along Kronos legs, and the bunched-up cotton of his own shirt cut into his waist as Methos leaned into and over him. The knife pressed firmly against his nape and teeth bit into his shoulder under the pommel as Methos speared him with one long, hard thrust that drove Kronos' breath completely out of his body. It was pain and pleasure, possession and surrender, and all Kronos could do was clench his fists against the sensations jolting through him, remembering vaguely not to drop the damned bottle, and enjoy each successive thrust.

Until Methos stopped, buried so deeply in his brother that Kronos didn't know if he could think, much less breathe, and asked, "This is what you wanted, isn't it, brother?" Kronos tried to come up with some answer as Methos went on with that same implacable false courtesy, "I mean, you went to such trouble to get it that I'd hate for you to be disappointed." He punctuated that with a deliberately hurtful thrust of his hips that made Kronos gasp despite his best intention to silence.

"Yes, damn you." The words grated out, grated on Kronos to say, but Methos moved then, a slow, silken slide that shifted pain to ecstasy in one smooth motion. A moan broke from Kronos then, and it held nothing but pleasure.

Methos chuckled softly. "Better?" he asked mildly, as casual as if his slow, deep strokes into Kronos weren't almost rocking the desk. When the only response was a shuddering buck of Kronos' hips, Methos laughed again, and stopped. "You were going to say?"

Kronos reared back and felt the blade press against his nape. "Ah-ah," Methos cautioned. He still sounded far too far in control of himself.

The smaller Horseman surrendered then, sliding back into their oldest tongue together without thought. "Yes, it's better! Will you just fuck me?"

Methos pressed deep in one long stroke, then paused again. "Is that what you want?" Methos inquired silkily.

Kronos deliberately relaxed against the desk, then groaned and forced words out rather than yielding to incoherency. "Whatever you want, brother."

After a wait long enough to make Kronos want to squirm, he heard Methos chuckle wickedly. "Much, much better. Don't move, Kronos. You will not make me happy if you do."

He shifted, then, and Kronos groaned his pleasure. No one was as thorough as Methos, particularly when he was in a mood like this. The strokes were too slow, though, and hitting at the wrong angle; Kronos knew damn well he wouldn't come from it, and that Methos had done that deliberately. Too soon, he felt his brother speed up, ramming harder and harder until he froze, the flat of the knife now pressed against Kronos' neck, and growled.

Only after his panting had evened out did Kronos shift his weight back a bit, sighing in contentment as he moved away from the edge of the desk and felt Methos shift inside him, brushing against his prostate. Not enough to let him come, to settle the heat burning his nerves... but much, much better than nothing. He could hear the change in Arlen's breathing now and had to repress a chuckle; about time she learned to enjoy watching.

A hand settled against Kronos' lips, and Kronos smiled against Methos' palm, then licked at it, nipping along the webbing between thumb and forefinger. The soft warning growl incited him to do it again. Methos didn't get everything his way, ever. Not from Kronos. He took his time licking Methos' hand, sucking at his fingertips. The anticipation was almost as good as the pleasure could be, and Kronos considered complaining when the hand moved away.

Then those long fingers wrapped firmly around his cock, slick palm gliding along his skin, and Kronos shuddered under Methos' weight. Too good, this familiar stroke, and far too skilled to let him come yet... Methos was still teasing him. "Bastard--  Yes, there--" Kronos tried to buck into his grip, but the desk wouldn't allow it; tried to back up for that silky heat and friction of cloth against skin and couldn't budge Methos' advantage of position and size. And still that tantalizing stroke went on, too light, too skilled, too little....

Methos chuckled then, and let go. "It's been pleasant, brother, but I need a shower." He backed away, withdrawing from Kronos' body with the same careless force he'd used to enter it. "But it was good."

Kronos resisted the conflicting urges to howl in frustration or laugh in admiration, and stood up. He moved more slowly than usual, hampered by his body's own desires and the remnants of his clothes; the door out of the office opened and closed before he was completely upright. His cock stood upright, too, still hungry for more.

A pleased, vicious grin crossed his face as he shifted his arms to free them from his shirt. Well played, brother. Worthy of me, Kronos decided, and set about removing what was left of his clothes. Arlen wouldn't say anything, and if Susan did, well, she could always use another lesson.

The hideout knives he strapped back to bare skin; denim and cotton went into the trash can. That left his shoes under the desk, and Kronos turned to Arlen. She had her back to the desk, and was working on three screens in rotation -- banks, from the look of them. Continuing the assignment Methos had given her?

Kronos set his hands on her shoulders, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Busy, then?"

"Yes, sir." Arlen's voice stayed level even as her skin shivered under his fingertips in a reaction too instinctual for her to control.

"Do you have a problem?"

"No, sir," was the prompt reply. "Not that I know of." She watched the monitor only, motionless as a deer suspecting a cougar.

For a long moment Kronos considered bending her over a desk and relieving the arousal that was almost an ache now. He smiled slowly and shook his head. No, he'd take this out on Methos later, but his brother had played it out well; why change the endgame? It would make an interesting opportunity to see how Arlen worked through arousal and distraction, too. He could smell her heat through her clothes, see the way she was squirming in the leather chair.

"Good," he whispered into her ear, and hesitated there, lips only millimeters from pink skin. "I'd hate to have to teach you what is and isn't your concern."

One hand tightened around the arm of the chair, but she didn't move. Very good. Kronos smiled then, and leaned forward just enough to brush his mouth across her cheek. "Finish your work, Arlen. I'll expect to see you in the gym in two hours."

Her 'Yes, sir,' followed him out of the office, and Kronos chuckled. This one had definite potential. It would be nice to have another Horseman who understood control. In the meantime, though, he needed to get clothes, and a shower, and see what, exactly, Methos was up to. Most likely, his brother was in fact taking a shower, but he'd check and be sure. Methos had left the Horsemen the last time after sex very much like this. Almost certainly, he'd repeated it on purpose for the extra spice of worry and anticipation, but Kronos believed in never making a mistake twice.

This time, he'd check and be sure.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

[[Come back in a few days, after Methos *has* turned the tables, deal with his reactions to his own slide back down into old behavior patterns, and mention that he accessed money from four names back. A name that Alex and Xan knew, that possibly the MacLeods can get. If they're looking, if Duncan's had the sense to call in help, just in case Duncan can track that far back .... Something, anything, for Methos to feel like he's doing something. And the fact that Arlen is tracking it in a later scene will stir up activity around the account, make it a little easier to find....]]

-=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - later -=-=-=- 

It's getting harder and harder to keep anything intact.

Kronos knows there are parts of me -- places, names, skills, attachments -- that I'm hiding away. I feel like some squirrel, stockpiling for the winter in as many trees as possible so the ice storms won't take out all of my stashes. But... Kronos knows I'm doing this. It's in his eyes, in the traces of laughter when he asks me something. He knows I'm hiding myself, and he's allowing it, for now, because it amuses him. Because it will make him that much happier when he finds my treasures and strips them away, one by one. Or because when he wins, I'll know I fought him and still lost.

Would it do any good, then, to hide things for him to find? I'll have to think about that. In my copious free time, of course.

It's odd, though, some of the thinking that I am managing to get done. Not while I work out; not with Kronos keeping an eye on me. Half the time he simply tells me it's time for his swordwork, which means he's going to use a sword and I'm to come along and work out while he does. He'll look over every so often, and I'd better be doing everything exactly right. It's painful as hell if I'm not. What's so odd is the other half of the time, when he says it's time for knifework. That's even stranger.

They're teaching me to kill and cripple people. Right now, I'm learning knives and what Methos laughs and calls bar brawling. Neither one of them hesitates to hurt me in the process, although oddly, Kronos is gentler about it when I'm completely, genuinely confused. He'll slow something down and walk me through it a few times to make sure I get it. Methos simply runs the precise same move at me again and again until I find some way to block it or get around it -- then he'll show me both how to do it and at least one way to stop it, sometimes five or ten. But not before I've proven I can survive this latest attack in real time.

And when they're done with me or when I'm just done in, when I absolutely don't have the energy to get back up for one more try, no matter how much Kronos' knives hurt, or when I simply can't fight anymore, because too much is torn or broken... then they call Susan.

It should frighten me how much she likes pain. All it does anymore is make me numb. She wants me to hurt. She wants to hear me scream and beg and plead. If Kronos would let her, she'd make me scream for the rest of my life, and she'd make damn sure it was a long life and that my vocal cords held out. But he has something else in mind for me apparently and not even Susan is willing to cross him.

She doesn't sleep with him. Not with either of them, now. She claims she was Professor's Pierson's... bed partner before Kronos found him again. Not lover. The man who taught me linguistics just wouldn't have cared for her that much, and the man who walks next to Kronos now doesn't love anyone except Kronos, I don't think. Maybe not even him. But Susan took too long figuring that out. She made the mistake of complaining once while she was healing me that Methos never came to her bed anymore. Susan didn't know Kronos was there. She doesn't listen for him. Even hurt, even with her hands making me bite things so I won't scream, I listen for both of them. She's a useful fool, but she's a fool.

Kronos wrapped his hand around her neck, one thumb pressed against her carotid until even she paled and shut up. "We share everything, my brother and I." It was all he said. I could have told her that, but it never occurred to her to ask. Hell, it never occurred to her to look, really look, at what they are, how they are, at the wounds she heals.

That was the first night they chained me to the foot of the bed and let me sleep on the floor. It was the only time I've ever heard Susan scream. For a woman who likes to give pain, she certainly has no taste for it herself, but Kronos warned her that anything she healed before he gave permission would cost her dearly. I believed him. She should have. After the first mistake, she didn't make another one.

Plain and simple, Susan forgot her place, and Kronos made damn sure she won't ever do that again. He's in charge. That simple, that direct. She knows that now. But he wants her available as a healer, so he doesn't touch her unless she fucks up. Susan doesn't; she wouldn't dare.

But... I'm learning things. Things they didn't mean to teach me, I know that much. In vino, veritas, right? Well, there's truth under stress, too. Or maybe not truth so much as the other side of the mirror. People talk about the dark side of the moon, but the truth is, we never see it. It's always the same side facing the earth. And the dark side of a mirror is the tarnish of the silver coating that reflects images back through the glass.

What we become, under stress, is just another aspect of ourselves, I think. The sides of our personality we shove aside during the day, the parts we maybe don't want... but it's still us.

I always knew that I don't panic when everything goes to hell. I never have. I'm the one snapping orders and coming up with all the steps and solutions and making sure everything gets handled. Right up until the point where I know it's over, that I can collapse. Then I come completely unglued, sure, but I don't lose it until then. When I was ten, I limped home leaving bloody footprints behind because I needed stitches and I wasn't going to get them sitting in an empty lot in a new subdivision. When the surge protector went up in smoke, trying to take the curtains and wall with it, my sister and I put out the fire, and I was the one looking over my hand wondering, 'Huh, is that black plastic or black skin? Who do I know that will remember the signs of shock, and second and third degree burns, and not panic about having to tell me over the phone?'

I fell apart later, when I didn't have to be calm, but that cold-blooded calculator lives somewhere in the back of my mind. Lately, she lives in the front of mind instead. So much of the time now it seems like that's all I can do, all I can afford to be. And what frightens me the most is that I don't think I'm going to be able to fall apart enough, when it's over, to find all the parts of me that I'm hiding away so desperately. The worse this gets, the more I hide, change, pull out the shapes and facets of myself that will please Kronos and keep me alive. What I don't know is, where's the rest of me? Where did I hide her? Am I fragmenting, splitting into different personalities? If there's anyone else in here, I haven't heard a sound.  Of course, I wouldn't, would I?

When I was twelve, Mom made me stay up in my room until it was clean. Kept yelling up to make sure I hadn't sat down with a book, either. I found twenty dollars in quarters on the top of my bookshelf. Had no idea when I'd put it there, or how long it took me to hide it away. I just lucked out and found the money. What I didn't wonder then was, why didn't I remember hiding it? When this is over, am I going to be able to find the parts of myself? Will I even remember I need to look for them? Or will Kronos and Methos have burned those parts away until all I'm left with is the charred shell of whoever they're making me into? What if I don't even want those parts of me I hid away? Who will I be then?

I'd be scared if I wasn't so tired from just trying to think.

Who am I kidding? I'll have to live through this to have anything to worry about. And at this rate I almost hope I don't.

I never thought I'd say that again.

-=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - later -=-=-=-

It wasn't even remotely fair, Methos knew. As Death, however, 'fair' only meant that he was willing to kill anyone at need except his brothers. Arlen was Kronos' tool, not a Horseman. Not yet. Maybe never. And not even the other Horsemen had ever been exempt from Kronos' temper, or his moods.

He could see from the doorway that she had been buried in some arcane research on the 'Net. Kronos had taken to assigning odder and odder things he wanted her to find, simply to see what she could manage to pull together. The odd sources she'd found in libraries both on and off line hadn't surprised Methos nearly so much as the skill with which she pieced together odd bits of data to reach shockingly accurate conclusions.

[[Work this into the mistake of having Arlen singing along with Townsend's "Secondhand Love" when Kronos comes in-- it's the line about 'I want my defenses layin' in your hand/I don't want to rest in the palm of another man' that caught Kronos' attention, Gods help her. See bottom of file for lyrics for "Secondhand Love" and "Give Blood".]]

-=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - later -=-=-=-

I don't think I'm ever going to understand them. Either of them. I'm starting to think I'm not going to understand myself, either, if this is ever over.

Release from pain is said to be a pleasure in itself. Add actual pleasure on top of that, and now I know what ecstasy feels like. I also understand why the Catholic Church tried to move away from it, too. It was almost terrifying to feel that good and realize it would end again.

What's frightening is that I don't know who was being rewarded tonight. Kronos is usually very... direct in his rewards and punishments. It works, too, even though I know exactly what he's doing. Hell, maybe my understanding of what he's doing makes it work even more deeply. But when I make him angry, he's very, very thorough about ensuring I know what brought on both his temper and my pain. His rewards are just as explicit, and, to give him his due, nearly as evenly distributed. After all, if I know what pleases him, I'll keep working in that direction. It's safer. And more pleasant.

But before tonight his rewards to me have never taken place in bed. Not for me. Sometimes for Methos, and the things they consider pleasure occasionally startle even me, and I thought I'd read a lot. Lady knows my mother thought I'd read too much.

Methos has been teaching me how to track information across the Net. Including quite a few very illegal hacking techniques, more operating systems and database languages than I want to think about, and an education in the finer points of finance and hiding money that still makes my head hurt to contemplate. I thought I understood the basics before I met these two. I ran a car dealership, after all, dealt with loans and risk-management, long- and short-term financing.... Not a chance. I wasn't even an amateur.  I was an infant.

Kronos and Methos consider money and power to be as essential as air, and as fragile as objets d'art. They're teaching me to handle it the same way, with the same instinctive precision of force and direction. Today, I finally traced one of Methos' accounts until it simply ran off the Net data. Beyond that, well, I'd have to break into the bank and burgle their records, but I bet I could do it from the files. That, they haven't taught me yet. I'm sure breaking and entering is on the list, though. But... Methos was proud of me. He didn't give me an easy job, and we both knew it. It felt like being back in one of his linguistics classes, correctly sorting language cognates through vowel slippage and instinct. Kronos came in while Methos was still making sure I'd managed it deliberately, not by accident, and he seemed pleased, too. I didn't think he was this pleased though.

But what was the point of tonight? Usually, I'm there for their pleasure and relegated to one side of the bed or the floor when they're done with me. Not this time. This time Kronos was teaching me how to please Methos, embarrassing though that was. It's not that I didn't know the words he used, just that the way he used them made me understand the stereotypes about construction worker crudity. And why men do it, too. Embarrassing and hot as hell, both. Completely normal, from his point of view, I guess. It felt so strange though. Sex isn't something my mother ever talked about, and my friends in high school and college talked about boyfriends, or putting out, whether or not they enjoyed it, maybe who was a good kisser. We never talked about where to touch, or how, when to move, and how, and why. Hell, I'd never guessed you could do some of that with your mouth and I think I read the Kama Sutra instructions on blowjobs when I was fourteen.

What worries me, though, is that for once Kronos was making sure I enjoyed it, too. I didn't know I could feel like that. From something Methos said, they've known just how little pleasure I've gotten from them. What I didn't know was just how much I could enjoy sex, and that they've realized all along. Experience and age, I guess. Unnerving, that they've known something so personal about me that I haven't known. I didn't realize my coming like that would feed back to Methos, either. Or that Kronos would use me as a more... individual tool to give his brother pleasure.

The other odd thing is that as much as I enjoyed it, and I can't deny I did -- I'm still horny. If that word even covers this, being hot and restless, itching and empty in my own skin. And for once, I still want more. Even from them. At home, I could just masturbate. No big deal. Here... even at the foot of the bed, I'd be worried about the damn chain rattling. I am not about to wake these two up. Certainly not for that! They might be amused. They might not. No, thanks. Trapped between them, though, all I can do is try to regain some sense of perspective despite the fact that I'm going a little crazy. I should be too tired for this. I really should.

Is this how my friends felt, when I teased them about two percent blood/ninety-eight percent hormones? If so, I owe some apologies, if I ever get out of here.

Maybe if I try to meditate I can sleep? But did Kronos leave me like this deliberately? If so, does that mean he's waiting to see how much I squirm? Or if I go to sleep? Gods, I hate their 'tests.'

Snarky son of a bitch.

The hell with it. I need the sleep more. And I don't want to wake either of them. I don't think....

-=-=-=- Chicago, Illinois - later -=-=-=-

What am I doing on the floor? It's not the office.

<Stood up, while fighting off mono from work, exhaustion, etc; blood pressure dropped and she did, too. Methos checked her out while she was still lying there. Pick it up there, his hands still along her windpipe. Susan deliberately let her get mono; Methos knows exactly what happened -- the throat gland swelling is hard to miss! -- and has her kiss and make out with Susan, Methos behind Susan, Kronos behind Arlen, so that Susan won't dare argue about it... and only after he's quite sure *Susan* is probably infected does he make her heal Arlen. Wanted to know what Arlen thought about sex with women, among other things.>

Snippets to eventually work in:

A smarter woman might have died.

I know this, now. But... I wanted to live. Unlike Kronos and Methos, I won't stand back up after someone puts a knife through my heart. At least, I'm fairly sure I won't. Kronos would have done exactly that by now if he could. He's ruthless when he wants to be sure of something, and my training, my behavior, is something he wants to be very, very sure of.

I can't cross him. The very idea of it... hurts. Kronos and Susan saw to that. One of my books of names says Susan comes from the Hebrew, that it means 'rose' or 'lily'. She's the thorn. One of these days, if I live that long, I will find some free time to write some long, nasty letters to some of the fantasy authors. No one ever thinks about what might happen if someone gets a gift for healing and mixes that with a psychotic, sadistic personality.

The old saying 'this will hurt me worse than it hurts you' is bullshit. Susan knows how to make a wound hurt as much or more while it's healing as it did when I got it. Her one saving grace, from my point of view at least, is that she's a lot of things... but she's not subtle. She programmed me not to betray Kronos or Methos. But the woman has no idea of the distinction between commission and omission. I do.

I've known people who need absolute peace and quiet to work, to study, but I've never understood that. I used to memorize required poetry on the school bus in the mornings. Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach", more Shakespeare than you could beat down with a stick, the prologue to the Canterbury Tales (in the Middle English), Browning's "My Last Duchess"--all of it with kids talking, a driver yelling, music playing, people gossiping.... Didn't matter to me.

I can read through a hurricane and still know what people are saying around me and repeat it back or stick my nose in if I want to. Anymore, I don't. It's safer to keep quiet.

So ignoring Douglas wasn't a problem, even with his latest beat 'em up video game playing at top volume just off the kitchen. Ignoring Susan, though... well, I don't ignore Susan. Her name comes from the Hebrew for 'lily' or 'rose'. In her case, it should be thorn. Some sick, twisted bastard gave a sadistic sociopath the ability to heal. She has her own ideas of how to heal people. When Kronos wants--or just doesn't stop her--her healing hurts as much, or more, as the original wound. So I keep an eye on her when she's in a room with me.

The problem is that I can't hear Kronos walking around even when Doug isn't playing his damn 'kill them all' games. And I was paying too much attention to the meanings between the lines of the article in the morning newspaper, and to what Susan was doing at the counter

Footnotes to this AU that's eating my mind:

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose." -- "The more things change, the more they remain the same."  Alphonse Karr, Les Guêpes

Pay close attention to the date when this starts.  It's definitely relevant.

Las Vegas, a spa/resort, some gambling. Methos owns it, theoretically. Kronos really owns it, and Methos, and Duncan doesn't know that. Came in to find and talk to Methos: had to fight his way back out to get out alive. Does in fact get out in one of my old cars (Monte Carlo) (full of gear which makes it look more like a student/worker car and less like something he'd have brought). No quickening; switched to my POV again (and being in Mac's as he maneuvers/bounces/rides a fall down several stories to get out and away from Methos and Kronos was unreal!).

Duncan got free; I didn't. Kronos brought me in to see Methos, asking what one of Adam's old students was doing there. I didn't look old enough to be in the building. Kronos wanted to know where my car was, where MacLeod was, had me pinned back. Methos was tracing out with a nail, just a little too sharply, where the knife was obviously going next if I didn't start answering. Kronos is asking what I majored in that I'd been in Adam's classes. Triple major, I said. What, he said. Psychology, Linguistics, and European and African history, 19th & 20th century a specialty, I said, all of 'em social sciences. I knew in the dream that this was going to be bad, they were going to kill me, so I'm being a smart ass to get to do it for at least a little while before I start screaming. Kronos wants to know what I wanted, still thinks I have information. I wanted control in St. Louis of some car design Methos has and he just looks at me and tells me there's too many of them on the road already. Methos is tracing a line across cheek, across nose, across other cheek w/thumbnail as I close my eyes so he doesn't cut them. They're going to get everything I know, everything I don't know which is too much, and I'm trying to think what to tell them, how long it will take before they'll believe I broke. Don't want to die.

Shift forward several years, find brat in kitchen (13-14) that for some reason Methos is raising/spoiling rotten. Some kind of interplay from brat, growl from Methos' mistress/eyes on staff, I made the comment of 'It could be worse, he could be an abrasor," realize I haven't meant to say it. That's some new mutant power I've figured out is loose in the world. (Yes, apparently there are mutant abilities, if no Prof X or other superheroes). Methos turns around from making breakfast (we're in his section of the complex) and after 15 years w/Kronos, sans MacLeod, he's a Horseman again, no question. He asks me to repeat it, cold, precise voice. I'm keeping my face still, eyes down, and answering. Kronos catches my braid in his hand, first clue I've had that he's behind me, and tugs my head back so Methos can watch my eyes and suggests I'd better speak up, hadn't I? I think Methos' mistress is one, completely devoted to his every desire, and two, a very good healer. The Horsemen make me keep my hair long and braided for just that handhold, make me stay in shape (daily workouts; I remember being back in shape the way I was in HS) so I can take what they dish out and still keep studying, learning, for them. Apparently Kronos found it impressive that I'd manage a triple soft-science major and used it to create and run a strong business; he kept me alive, and mostly intact if terrorized, as their spare consultant/synthesist for Methos and himself. Partly to please Methos, give him another odd mind to work with, partly to control Methos with threat of 'someone else can think for me, brother, if I need it. She can be trained.' (Not really serious with that; just an extra edge for when Kronos needed it.) I think they've been getting me books/'net access, and Kronos checks up on me as he sees fit. I know I could tell that once he stuck his nose into it I quit trying to fight, knew I'd lose and this wasn't worth pushing. Not complete despair, but... definitely gave up, gave in.

Odd -- I don't know where the MacLeods were or what was going on w/them. Don't think they were dead; didn't get that feeling of complete despair off myself in last shift, (other than wanting to kill overweight, whiny vid-playing brat). Part of my brain thought Duncan/Connor assembling coalition to take the place and deal with the Horsemen and welcomed it, trying not to let Methos know what I suspected or piss Kronos off before I could get out of there. Had never told either of them I know how to kill people because they'd have made me do it for further control over me. No sign of Caspian or Silas, either, oddly. Doesn't feel like Caspian was there; I was too intact for that. Or Silas; I might have found him reassuring, and I don't remember any sense of that, either. Weird.

My notes:

Damien will want any and all names for Methos -- be prepared to come up with several.

The shit my muses tell me in the middle of the night.... Identical twin pre-immortals are a dangerous thing, Kronos says. You can end up with one quickening split between them. Kill them both sequentially, and you get one dead (the first), and the second one will revive if she was close enough to take what quickening her sister had. Kill them at a distance, and no one will revive. Kill them simultaneously, and neither is likely to revive.

But kill one in the arms of an older, stronger immortal... and their quickening will sustain her long enough to jumpstart hers, whether she'd have revived or not.

Lovely. Kronos is trying to seduce Methos back; Methos has given up on rescue and is trying to slowly subvert Kronos back to something a little more human, more like what they were before Caspian and Silas showed up and changed the dynamic. And Arlen's going to get to watch it and survive it.

Also, go back through and rework to account for Ramirez' survival, the added training it gave Connor, and him knowing Aidan, although not where she is just now. Possible Caspian death: decapitation during car accident pre-seatbelts? Yup, in Utah on old Route 66 in the desert. Did *anyone* get his quickening? Let's hope not! Tarsh suggested that the Kurgan found him, found out he was immortal, and took his head on the Kurgan's way to NYC in 1986....

Brat boy is a pre-immortal who's there solely to be used to jumpstart her quickening with his own. Kronos means to kill him first, let him revive once, kill him and Arlen simultaneously (sword through both bodies at once) and his quickening will kickstart her. Once she begins to revive, Kronos will kill the boy and give Arlen her first head and some needed strength.

Relevant song lyrics from the album White City, by Pete Townsend:

Questions, comments and speculation more than welcome.

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folks have watched this evolve since 5/19/01.
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