Debts,
the story out-take that ate [fill in the city of your choice]

* * *

"Mad dogs and Englishmen will go anywhere, I guess. Although this place never sees the noonday sun." Methos chuckled, a smile quirking at his lips as he moved next to Mulder. "It's been a while, Fox. But I take it this really is a bad time, then?"

Duncan straightened in his chair, one eyebrow raised in surprise that Methos knew the other man's first name. Methos, you're almost flirting. What the hell? Where do you know him from?

"That depends on your definition of bad," Mulder said gravely, trying to maintain some dignity in the face of an overwhelming desire to smile and ask what Adam was doing for lunch. Despite knowing better. Or do I? Maybe just this once it is coincidence? The body language isn't that of a man getting ready to pounce... well, not for blackmail anyway. And MacLeod looks startled, but not jealous. Good thing, too; judging from that class, he could probably beat me into a pulp one-handed.

"Dogs and cats living together?" Methos asked deadpan, drawing a startled look from Duncan and a brief flash of laughter in Fox's eyes as he caught the Ghostbusters reference. It's a good thing the Highlander trusts me; I'm going to have explaining to do. But he doesn't feel jealous, just intrigued.

"Oh, maybe that bad," Mulder said blandly, and then he did something he knew he'd curse himself for later. He pushed the photo at his lover of one night and asked, "What can you tell me about this man?" And if he answers, then maybe, just maybe, he's exactly what I thought he was. Please.

Methos looked at the picture and sighed in disgust. "Wonderful. Did Cory rob the Federal Credit Union this time or just swindle the Fraternal Order of Police?"

Mulder looked at him, surprise and relief lowering his defenses again. "Cory? I'm the FBI agent -- why am I the only person in this room who's never heard of Cory Raines?!"

"Most likely? Probably because the FBI isn't looking for him," Methos answered quietly, never looking up from the picture. "From this picture, you're looking at armed robbery, and I believe he does some swindling on the side. Also supports orphanages, schools, and needy people in general; unfortunately, he tends to do it with other people's money. But that's usually a police matter, not the FBI. Who did he rob this time?" Gods damn it, why did it never occur to me that Fox might be an investigator of some kind? Seer's eyes and bullet scars would seem to be obvious clues. I am getting old; I'm slipping.

Mulder sighed and gave up, for the moment. Great. Both of them say it's Cory Raines; neither one is lying. Shit. Maybe the Gunmen gave me a bad lead. "Right. Can one of you tell me how you spell that name, please?"

Adam flipped the photo over and borrowed a pen off Duncan's desk while Mulder went on to ask, "Would Ms. Montrose know where to find him?"

Duncan snorted. "Not if she can help it. Cory has a gift for talking her into stupid schemes, and she knows it." What's going on here? Both of them are dancing around each other as if they don't know what to say... or what's safe to say? And when Methos started flirting, Mulder... relaxed. Old Man, did you forget to tell me something? Why do I think I know why Mulder blushed?

"Meaning if I ask her, she not only won't know, she'll vanish shortly after I walk out the door?" Mulder asked, a smile escaping him as the pain of anticipated betrayal finally faded.

"Something like that," Methos said lightly, handing the photo back. Cory's name was clearly spelled out, as were the words 'Joe's Bar' and an address, which Mulder saw and didn't comment on. Adam went on, "Let's face it, Fox. The sun rose in the east this morning, it's supposed to rain this afternoon, and the Pope's still Catholic. Cory robbed someone. No great surprise. Amanda's avoiding being implicated. Also no great surprise."

"Amanda does have a fine regard for her own hide," Duncan chuckled. "Besides, her current boyfriend is a former policeman, remember? She's being very careful."

"If you're not looking for Cory, Fox, who are you looking for?" the oldest immortal continued thoughtfully, pulling a chair over without having to look back to grab it.

"Mr. Raines' evil twin brother, I think," Mulder groused. "A man named Alex Krycek."

"They're that much alike? Any differentiating features? An accent, a birthmark, tattoo, anything?" Methos persisted as he sprawled into the chair, within easy arm's reach of Mulder, but looking at Duncan as he asked the questions.

"Would you count having one arm as a distinctive feature?" Mulder snapped, slipping down into the disappointment at losing his lead. He was also bewildered by contradictions of Adam's behavior with himself and MacLeod. They were too clearly affectionate, at ease with each other's reactions both verbal and physical. Adam invaded MacLeod's space without a second thought, wandering into the office as if it were his own and propping booted feet on the desk. All he received in return was an irritated look as MacLeod casually lifted the shoes, slipped his papers out from underneath, and dumped Adam's legs back off the furniture.

If they aren't lovers, and damn if I'm sure either way, I'd still bet this is the man Adam was in love with. Hey, looks like I got to stand in for the best at least, Mulder laughed to himself, his mood swiftly lightening. Helluva compliment, I guess.

Both immortals watched the quicksilver changes in emotion roll across his face, seeing sorrow, bemusement, humor, and a certain wistful contentment move across in rapid parade. Methos saw the mortal accept disappointment with the air of a man who had never really expected to receive anything else, and the pain that caused him sparked across his link to MacLeod.

Dark brown eyes met green-gold across the desk, then looked at the controlled pain in the agent's hazel eyes. Startled comprehension shot through the younger immortal, and Duncan's generous heart adopted another member of the clan. And isn't this going to get complicated? Methos, when in the hell did you meet an FBI agent and get him to fall for you? And you're not exactly immune to him, either! You two need to talk, he thought grimly, pushing that thought at his lover across their linked quickenings.

"I guarantee you, Agent Mulder, Cory had both arms when I saw him even two years ago. He's not likely to have lost one since then, but we can discuss it later if you like. In the meantime, did you say your director was shot last night?" Duncan asked, changing the subject firmly.

"Yeah, why?" Mulder asked, the lack of sleep finally catching up to him as disappointment etched away his reserves of strength. I'm misreading this. I'm tired. Adam's being friendly, but he's not flirting. Not with MacLeod nearby and hopefully available. He'd better be available, because otherwise, MacLeod, you are really gonna hate yourself when you find out what you've been missing.

"In Washington, D.C., I assume? Not here?"

"Yeah," Mulder answered again, curiosity flickering at this line of interrogation. "Isn't asking questions more my job than yours? I could swear there are union regs against this."

Duncan chuckled. "Because you look like a mile or two of bad road. Why do I have a feeling you were in D.C. last night?"

"Because he was," Methos answered before Fox could. "The unmistakable smell of recycled air and that cramped, rumpled look you only get by riding in coach, which is designed for people 5' 6" and shorter. You've definitely been stuck in an airplane. Come on, Fox, I'll buy you lunch."

Mulder blinked as the emotional ground lurched under him. "What?"

"I said I'll buy you lunch. Take me up on it; it's a rare offer."

"That's the damn truth," Duncan groused. "Joe's?"

"Of course, Highlander. Where else am I going to find the man serious beer and comfort food? How does a steak sandwich sound?"

"It sounds wonderful, Adam," Mulder sighed, giving up and playing by the other man's rules for the moment. He was too tired to argue right now.

"Let's go -- I'll drive. Mac, have you got classes?"

"Yeah, unfortunately," Duncan told him, aware that the other immortal already knew that. "Adam." When Methos turned back, the Scot said in Gaelic, "Do whatever you think you need to do."

The implied trust in that statement drew a smile from the oldest immortal as he followed Mulder out the office door, already wondering what in hell to do now. Fox had paused a few steps away, waiting for him politely out of earshot. Methos could tell, however, that he'd been watching the interaction between the two immortals and he quirked a smile at the agent. "FBI, hmm?"

Mulder shrugged then said quietly, "Neither of us was asking questions. Not about things like that."

"No, we weren't," Methos agreed, speaking in the same low tones. "Would you rather forget about it?"

The agent drew a deep breath, bracing himself against grief, and asked, "Do you want me to?"

"No more than you do. That's settled, then," Methos told him, meeting the other set of hazel eyes levelly in hopes Fox would see that he was telling the truth. The frozen expression faded slightly from the other man's face and Methos continued, "Come on, lunch is this way."

Once they were out of the dojo, Adam said gently, "I'm not going to kick you away, Fox, not even if you ask."

"And MacLeod?"

Adam tilted his head thoughtfully, studying Mulder's face. "You like him, don't you?"

"He sure as hell isn't what I expected from a martial arts instructor associated with a known jewel thief," Mulder said, dry as dust.

"You're dodging the subject," Adam pointed out implacably. "Admit it. You like him."

"What's not to like?" Mulder asked, caving in. "He's charming, attractive, and intelligent. Besides, he's got a sense of humor that doesn't quit."

"Yes, it does, and at the worst times. Trust me. Give me the keys."

"How'd you know this one was mine?"

"The rental sticker." Adam grinned. "Come on; I'm driving, because I'm going to get you drunk."

Yeah, but are you going to take advantage of me afterwards? Mulder cut that train of thought off abruptly, reminding himself that hope sprang eternal... among other things. God, that's an understatement. If I'd known Scully would shoot down my offer so... politely, I'd have stayed in Key West. Well, maybe. "Is it up to the beer you served me in Florida?"

"Not quite, but the music is much better than storm winds," was the promise. "Get in."

Mulder sank gratefully onto the bar stool, leaning forward to prop himself on the bar on his elbows. He glanced around the bar with his usual interest in people's preferred habitats. "Nice place, Adam. No ferns, I see."

"I said I was taking you for food," Methos said bluntly. "Not trendy paper umbrellas. Let me order, Fox, all right?" Gods, but you look tired, Fox. What in hell have you been doing to yourself? No new scars, I don't think, but you want this Krycek very badly. And Aidan's protecting him. Lovely. How in hell do I land in these messes? I'm going to have to learn to quit involving myself in other people's lives.

Of course, there's one ever-so-minor dilemma here, the immortal mused, conveniently ignoring the fact that he was constitutionally incapable of not meddling. Are you looking for Alex Krycek to kill him or save him? And do you know the answer yourself?

"Sure," the agent agreed. "I didn't have any complaints before."

An older man, short-cut grey hair standing almost straight up, walked over to them with a peculiar hitching stride that Mulder had most often seen around the Vietnam Memorial. That and the cane told him the older man had definitely lost at least one leg. For a moment he reminded Mulder of Krycek and his prosthetic arm. He shoved that thought aside and focused on the alert man behind the bar.

"Adam," Joe said, looking interested and pleased. "Who's your buddy?" And what 'before'? That sounded like a shared joke or a shared memory, and he thinks Methos ought to remember it. What the hell? Who is this guy? That suit just about screams Fed, but I don't know. That tie isn't exactly the standard blue and red stripe.

"Joe Dawson, Fox Mulder. Make the man's life easy, don't use the first name, all right?" It's a damn good thing that Joe's discreet, as well as observant. Now, for God's sake, Joe, ask me later about Aidan's 'emergency'.

Joe chuckled at that, but Mulder had marked the quick, professional appraisal of everything from his hairstyle to the watchband peeking out from his sleeve. This man was more than just a bartender, and he was very interested in anything that concerned Adam Pierson.

"Nice to meet you, Mulder. What can I get you two?"

The sardonic look from Methos drew a chuckle, but Methos and Mulder simultaneously answered, "Beer."

"Great minds swim in the same brewery?" Methos asked pleasantly. "Joe, two steak sandwiches, fries, and save him a piece of cheesecake if Tony's got any back there."

"I think we can do that," Joe said, amused. "You two sound like you're dying of thirst. May I point out it's not even noon yet?"

Mulder said absently, "Nah, it's well past midnight. It's all in when you got up."

Methos turned and looked at him very thoughtfully. "Fox. When did you last sleep?"

The use of Mulder's first name didn't go over Joe's head, but he filed it away and continued to watch the beer foaming up in the pitcher while listening intently. This is getting interesting. Jesus, Methos, are you seducing a Fed?!

Mulder meanwhile looked over at Methos and groaned, "Oh, shit. That reminds me, I've got to contact my partner. By now she's staring at her cell-phone and tapping her nails on the laptop."

Joe chuckled. "Sounds dangerous. There's a pay phone over there, or you can use the line in my office if you'll reverse the charges."

"I've got a cell-phone, thanks, but could I use the office?" Mulder offered a wry smile as he took in the ambient noise. Someone had programmed the jukebox in the corner, and Billie Holiday was heating up the air with smoky promises over the chatter of the incoming neighborhood lunch crowd.

After the FBI agent worked his way to the indicated door, Joe turned to Methos , carefully keeping his voice down as he demanded, "What in hell are you doing bringing a Fed in and buying him lunch? And what's this about Aidan had a 'family' emergency?"

"Joe, we don't have time for this. He's an FBI agent looking for Cory Raines."

The bartender cut off his own tirade, drew a deep breath, and gave his full attention to the current problem. "Ah, hell, Methos, what did that idiot do this time?"

"He has a doppelganger. Mortal, I might add. Fox is looking for the mortal, but he found Cory's trail."

"So tell him so. Case closed," Joe commented, leaning on the bar as he waited to see where the catch was. There had to be one, after all, or Methos would have already done just that.

"Aidan's protecting the doppelganger, Joe. She owed him a debt and he called it in."

"What, Mac's habits rubbed off on her by injection? Was she always this-- "

Methos looked almost as frustrated as Joe felt. "Honorable? Obligated? She agrees she owes the man, Joe. She's paying her debt. Damn it."

"Huh." The Watcher almost visibly abandoned that argument and went on to the next. "So what are you doing flirting with the man, and what kind of history do you two have?"

"I do get some privacy, Joe," was the cold reply to that. "What's between me and Fox is our business -- and Mac's if he asks. For now, stay out of it."

"Dangle a secret in front of me and shut me out. Thanks, buddy. I'll remember you in my will."

"Yes, well, I put my bar tab in mine," Methos said cheekily. "Count your blessings that you're not my heir to get those debts. Go pour daiquiris for the darlings of the secretarial pool, Joe, you'll hear all about this sooner or later."

"Thanks, Adam," Joe answered sarcastically, but he passed over the pitcher anyway, and two glasses. "Right. Two sandwiches, chips, and a slab of cheesecake. If the man's a friend of yours, make him get some sleep, all right? And he doesn't get to drive."

Instead of replying to that, Methos said slowly, "Joseph, something to keep in mind: he's a Seer."

The Watcher paused, wondering at the emphasis the immortal had put on that word, and then memories of a late night discussion the previous month sprang to mind. Adam and Erin had been discussing the oracles of ancient Greece and Rome, something about a paper one of her students had written. This guy Sees things that are going to happen, the same way Aidan sometimes does?

Joe eventually got his mouth to work despite the spinning questions in his mind. "Are you serious?'

"Very." Methos began filling the glasses, but he promised grimly, "He will catch everything you say, everything you don't, and pick your personality apart from your choice of t-shirts, all right? Be very, very careful."

"Met a few, have you? A Seer? With the FBI? He must be a prof-- Ah, Christ, Methos, do you know who you've got?"

Methos stopped, head drawing back as he saw something click into place in Joe's mind. "No, who...? Oh, Gods. Erin's idol."

" 'Spooky' Mulder," Joe muttered. "If there is one guy the Watchers have been terrified might get called in to investigate a quickening report...."

"How in hell have you held it off this long?" Methos asked, keeping a careful eye on the office door. Who knows how long Fox's partner will yell at him? Hmm. That could take a while, actually.

"Friends in high places, of course." Joe counted his blessings that Erin had a department staff meeting that afternoon and was running late for lunch today. "You've got an hour before Erin gets here. Be gone by then, okay?"

"Not a problem," Methos assured him. "If you ever turn in our order, that is. Go on, Joe. Things will work out."

The Watcher was serving two college students farther down the bar by the time Mulder came back out, holding his cell-phone by thumb and forefinger and rubbing at one ear with the other hand. Methos gave him an amused look. "I take it she was a bit irate?"

"Does a Russian bear shit in the woods?"

That drew a grin. "Yes, but he can't find toilet paper."

Mulder returned the grin and relaxed against the bar. "I like your friend, by the way."

"Joe? He's hard not to like."

"Yeah, he is. Vet?"

That got an amused look as Methos wrapped a hand around the pitcher, sliding it slowly down the counter. "Easy choice, Mulder. Either you're off-duty and can have beer, or you're on-duty and I'll answer your question."

Mulder tugged the beer back. "All right, damn it, I'll drop it for now. What're we drinking, anyway?"

"A dark ale out of Portland. You'll like this, Fox."

"Suits. But you're taking unfair advantage, here."

"What counts?"

"What kind of questions can I ask?" Mulder took a careful sip from his glass, then sighed in pleasure and took a larger drink, promising himself this would only be a short break in his investigation.

"I thought I'd ask them," Methos told him, amused. "Change of pace and all that. A change is as good as a rest, supposedly, and you look tired."

"So you're giving me beer?"

"Worked last time," Methos purred.

"That's not all that worked," Mulder chuckled, then reminded himself he was 'on duty', so to speak. This is not the time to get distracted, Mulder. Even if the man puts off enough heat to melt an ice statue. "Adam," he said quietly, "I'm sorry, but this is a really bad time for this."

"I suppose it is, with you on a case," Methos said regretfully.

"No questions, huh?"

Gold-green eyes studied him thoughtfully. "I think you need food and sleep before we talk, Fox."

That sounded like a promise. And he's right, five yesterday morning was a long damn time ago. I got too busy on the 'Net last night to sleep before the flight took off. Mulder slumped a further fraction against the bar and asked tiredly, "Can you recommend a decent hotel? Not too expensive, but please, God, no cockroaches and a working hot water heater."

Methos shook his head in amusement. "Sounds like you've been staying in some of my student housing." He cocked his head and studied Mulder more carefully. " Shouldn't the government be reimbursing you for this?"

Mulder propped his chin on one fist, not looking at Adam. "Yeah, well, I still have to justify it."

"Fox, are you on assignment for this or not?" Methos pushed, having noticed the evasion.

Mulder sighed and rubbed his temples. "Shit. Not."

"No wonder your partner yelled. All right, Fox. How much trouble are you going to be in?" Methos asked him directly, refusing to let him look away and try to dodge the question or change the subject. I could always wrap a hand around the back of his neck. It makes Edana behave; I bet it would work on him, too.

"I'm on leave," Mulder said stubbornly.

"And passing this off as an official investigation," Methos pointed out more gently than he'd intended to. "Look, I'm not going to report you and neither is will Mac, but you need to get some sleep and think about what you're doing before you get yourself fired."

"Like I said, where's a good hotel?"

Methos shook his head. "Trust me, all right?" Mac said to do what I thought needed doing. As he is, Fox is a loose cannon; time we put a halyard on him and settled him back onto a gun deck, so to speak. Besides, I remember the nightmare in Key West, and that was when he'd been on vacation and was decidedly relaxed. If he's hunting Alex for shooting a friend of his, he's not relaxed. This is very personal.

And last, although not least, it would do the man good to be tucked into bed between me and MacLeod. Somehow I doubt Duncan will object. He was flirting blatantly. Besides, he was fussing over Fox; he won't mind if I bring him home for real food and real sleep. It may get complicated, but we can talk over and around him in Gaelic and make it sound like a lover's discussion if we have to. Fox knows I've been a grad student, and Mac's name is rather obvious. It would surprise him if the Highlander and I both speak Gaelic, but it shouldn't shock him.

Methos nodded purposefully, amused that Mulder was so busy examining the bar's patrons that he wasn't watching his companion. That's decided then. Now I just have to get him home.

After one absolutely killer sandwich (and Mulder could almost hear Scully looking at fat grams, cholesterol, and sodium intake and muttering about killer being the right term), an equally wonderful piece of cheesecake, and a few fries that didn't really live up to the rest, Mulder tried to stand up and had to adjust his center of gravity for a moment to match the world's tilt. I know I'm tired, but how much beer did I drink? A moment's pause for reflection convinced him that Adam had made sure that Mulder got most of the pitcher. Sneaky son of a bitch got me drunk. Why do I think I'm not lucky enough to get the other half of this situation?

Now that I've plied you with wine -- well, beer," Adam chuckled, "I'll take you home."

"Home's in D.C., Adam. Gonna be a helluva drive."

That drew that soft, sensual chuckle again. "No, Fox, my home. Come on, let's get you in the car."

"What about MacLeod?"

"Mac told me to do whatever I thought best," Adam pointed out. "So I'm bringing you home. Come on." He tugged carefully at Mulder's arm, guiding him out.

"Nope. Hotel, Adam. I'll just be in the way." And I don't want to listen to you and your lover at night, either, not by myself in a guest room, thanks. I'm not that much of a masochist.

Methos studied him, very aware of the understandable hesitation. Right, we'll do this the easy way then. "All right, Fox. I'll take you where you won't be in the way." He opened the car door and said firmly, "In. Seat belt. Now."

"Right." Mulder yawned widely and dozed as Methos drove. Not until Methos urged him out of the car, suitcase and garment bag already in hand, did the agent realize they were back at the dojo. Looking around the parking lot and the door into what was apparently a service entrance did he say, "Wait a second. I thought we agreed on out of the way?"

"No, Fox, we agreed that I'd take you where you wouldn't be in the way. You won't. In the middle, maybe, but not in the way."

"Adam, you've got a lover, remember? At least, I think you do."

Methos urged him into the elevator, taking shameless advantage of Fox's tipsiness. "Argue this upstairs, Fox. Come on, it's cold and damp. You don't need a cold on top of a hangover."

By the time Fox could muster another argument, the lift was already in motion. When Methos lifted the grate again, not trusting Mulder's balance to let him help, Mulder started to say something, then stopped to look around. "Damn. Who designed this?"

"Mac did. He doesn't quite grasp walls yet, but we'll get him there," Methos said casually as he dropped the bags on the floor and started working Fox out of his coat.

"Nice desk. And I like the Picasso print." Mulder yawned widely and let Adam take his coat. "But I'm still in the way, Adam."

"No, Fox, you're not." Methos ignored his protests to put away the coat.

Mulder sighed and ran his hands through his hair, rubbing his temples and scalp in a last-ditch attempt to sober up enough to outthink Adam. Unfortunately, the best his mind was managing to come up with was, Nice fireplace for one of the free-standing ones. He settled onto the couch carefully, unsure if the overstuffed cushions would let him up again. "Great couch. I need to get one of these; it's softer than mine. And it's actually long enough."

"Up, Fox. You're not sleeping on the couch."

"You are not putting me in your lover's bed, Adam. I like Duncan; that would be rude."

Methos gave him an exasperated look. "If I have to pick you up in a fireman's carry, you'll be sick. Do this the easy way, Fox, all right? And Mac will fuss if I don't let you have the bed. Come on, I'll tuck you in."

"I'm not a child," came the sulky reply.

"You're acting like one," Methos murmured, a more worrying tone from him than shouting. "And if you keep sticking that lip out, I'm going to have to do something with it."

Mulder shuddered under the dark, silky promises in that voice, then tried one last time. "Adam-- "

"Bed, Fox. Now." The swift hands stripping him weren't taking no for an answer, although they at least left him his t-shirt and boxers. "Lose the shoes or you'll get tangled in the pants. That would only make it easier for me to trip you onto the bed."

Mulder glared at him, shivering a bit in the loft despite the radiators and the fire burning in the fireplace. "You are one pushy son of a bitch."

"At the moment I'm being the soul of patience. When you're sober, it may be another matter," Methos promised silkily. "Into the bed, Fox, before I decide to tie you to it. To be sure you sleep, of course."

Heat and blood raced straight to Mulder's cock and he shivered at the images his fertile imagination called up. Well aware that his hard-on had to be visible through the boxers, he sighed and gave up before Adam did either take the underwear or tie him up. Bound spread-eagled to a martial artist's bed, by his lover, without his knowledge? Suicide. No, I don't think so. Although, and he chuckled as he kicked off his shoes, stepping out of his pants, after that 'We can still be friends' talk, it would serve Scully right to explain it to Skinner at the funeral.

Methos didn't ask what the other man was laughing about; their short, prior experience had already taught the immortal not to underestimate the weird tangents the Seer's mind went off on. Instead he pulled back down comforter, thermal blanket, and flannel sheets before telling Fox, "In."

"I--" A yawn interrupted his words, and Adam neatly pushed him off-balance so that he landed on the bed. A quick duck and scoop tucked the agent's legs up and under the sheets and Adam pulled the thick layers of covers back over him.

"One more syllable and I will tie you to this bed," Methos said grimly. "Go to sleep."

Mulder started to protest, until Adam picked up his tie -- at which point he hastily shut his mouth again. Narrowed gold-green eyes watched him intently. "You can nod your head. Warm enough?" A nod. "Comfortable?" Another nod, and a sleepy 'mm-hmm' as Mulder closed his eyes for just a moment.

The intimate, soothing voice eased across the FBI agent, soft as the rapidly warming flannel sheets and as reassuring to his subconscious. "Sleep, Fox, I'll be here. Don't worry, we'll talk when you wake up."

He will, too. That was a promise. Why do I feel safe for once? Better than my apartment. I don't think half the world comes trooping through here whenever they like. Besides, they'd have to come through Adam and MacLeod. Maybe just a short nap....

Adam's voice poured over him, a quiet stream of comforting syllables, but it was too much work to make sense of them. With a last sleepy noise of agreement Fox Mulder slid down into darkness more easily than he could remember slipping since his sister vanished.

Duncan felt Methos' presence move past and up without stopping, and heard the elevator as well, but he continued to focus on Sharon's lesson. As both the intern who helped run the dojo and one of his senior students, Duncan had been bringing her along very carefully for a while now. By the time they finished what should have been a class but had ended up as a private tutorial, both of them were wringing wet.

"Whoof," she sighed in relief, rubbing one wrist where she'd collapsed on the mat. "I thought I was never going to get that combination."

Duncan gave her a sardonic look and threw her a towel. "It was only a matter of time, and you know it. We do need to work on your disarming techniques, though, if you're going to teach those women's self-defense classes."

"That and throws," she agreed. "Talk to me after I pass my next rank test."

"At least you've given up and agreed you're going to pass it." Duncan grinned, smoothing his hair back into a ponytail again. "About time you admitted that. Tell you what; pass the test, and I'll let you practice the shoulder throws on Rich."

"I'm not sure putting him on the mat is a good idea. " She grinned up at him, rumpling close-cropped red-streaked hair with a towel.

"How many date offers is this now?"

"More than I have earrings," Sharon told him with a quick grin.

Duncan considered the multiple piercings in her ears for a moment. She had more sense than to wear them to practice and he didn't want to stare long enough to count them. "How many can you wear at once?"

"Eleven," she said cheerfully. "Look, that was Adam in the elevator, wasn't it? I can stick around for a few more minutes to let you go say hi, if you like."

"I'd appreciate it. Do you mind?"

"Nah, maybe Rich will come by. I can stand upwind of him, then." Sharon grinned again, flapping her t-shirt to evaporate some of the sweat.

"He might just like it," the Scot pointed out with a grin of his own. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Man likes his women tough," Sharon agreed, laughing. "Maria was a good influence. Go on, but I've got to research a paper tonight so don't take all day," she teased as Duncan headed for the stairs, keys in hand.

Duncan unlocked the door, wondering when and why Methos had done that. He found Methos sprawled on the couch, a beer in hand and book on his lap. "How was lunch?"

The older immortal held a finger up in front of his lips and then pointed to the bed. "Interesting," Methos said grimly.

Duncan glanced over and saw an almost frighteningly vulnerable-looking FBI agent curled tightly into himself under the down comforter, obviously deeply asleep. "That would be one good word for it," Duncan agreed, pushing down his own reactions as he sat on the edge of the wood coffee table to face his lover. "He did look tired. So what's the plan?"

Methos set down his beer and caught one of Duncan's hands, squeezing it for a moment before picking his drink back up. "We take him in for a while, I think."

"Is this wise?"

"More so than leaving him loose," came the quiet answer. Methos gave him a wry smile. "He's here on his own, MacLeod. This isn't an assignment."

"Can't he get fired for that?" Duncan tried to keep that question introspective rather than aggressive.

"Oh, definitely. So we make him think, before he gets into trouble." Methos took a sip of the beer, then said quietly, "I think he would have done this regardless. He wants Alex Krycek very badly."

"You're going to end up in the middle of this yet, gradhach. Aidan won't hand Krycek over... although I think she needs to know some of what we've found out."

"We'd have to find her first," Methos pointed out.

"You don't know where she is?" Duncan asked him, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course not, she's hiding. If this were Europe, I might have some ideas where to look. In the States, I've no clue. Connor might. Maybe."

"I always forget," Duncan said slowly, "how long you two were out of touch. Was she over here before that mess with the Kurgan?"

Methos nodded, fingers idly tearing at the beer label as he considered the question. "I think so, yes. When we were to meet in Budapest, it was partly because she wanted to convince me to spend some time on this continent with her."

"And you never met."

"No, we didn't. We can call Connor tonight, talk around this. Maybe he knows where she'd go to ground." Methos shrugged. "As for Fox, and Kryeck, well, I'm working on ways to control that situation. But, Mac, I don't think Fox knows what he wants to do with Krycek if he finds him."

"Alex killed his father," Mac pointed out grimly. "That's not exactly forgivable. And I get the impression that this Assistant Director who was shot is a friend."

"Yes, but Fox couldn't stand his father," Methos said bluntly. "Never specifically stated, but trust me, Highlander, it was not a pleasant relationship. Now, I suspect he feels guilty about not hating Krycek more, but I'm not sure he hates him as much as he thinks."

"The betrayal may bother him more," Duncan reasoned. "That can hurt. His partner turned out to be something very different than what he believed...." He glanced up in time to see Methos shielding his expressions and reached out to his lover. "I think I understand why he doesn't know what to do," Duncan said gently, one hand rubbing his lover's shoulder. Love and reassurance eased across their link, filling the older immortal with the knowledge that he was still forgiven, should never have worried that he wasn't.

"He's been betrayed every time he turns around, Mac," Methos sighed after a moment. "His family, his partner, I don't know who else, but I'm betting at least a couple of lovers. Fox doesn't expect anything in bed. He reacts as though anything he receives is an unexpected treat, something to be savored against the day it's yanked away and he's left with nothing. Watching him... hurts."

Duncan felt a wave of empathetic grief across the link, felt shadows of darker years try to cloud the other man's memories. Heedless of his own sweaty state, he pulled Methos against him, cradling his lover's head against his shoulder and stroking his hair and back. "Shh, it's all right. So we try not to add any more grief to his load."

"I do make your life complicated, don't I?" Methos managed to ask, masking his feelings in wry amusement as he pulled back, leaving one hand on Duncan's thigh.

"I was taking in strays before I ever met you," Duncan pointed out, smiling as Methos tugged his balance back. "You should remember that; you're always twitting me about it. It's all right, Methos. Going to take him back to bed, then?"

"Probably. Will it bother you? Or do you want to help?"

Duncan went from mildly offended at the first question to surprised and speculative. "I hadn't thought about it," he answered finally.

"MacLeod, you were flirting with the man," Methos chuckled softly. "And he was flirting back."

"I wasn't flirting." A derisive look was the only answer to that and the Highlander admitted, " I was surprised to meet an FBI agent with a sense of humor."

"Warped, mind you, but yes, he definitely has one. He's also intelligent, charming, and good-looking. You were flirting."

Duncan hesitated, then gave in gracefully. "I have good taste?"

That drew a chuckle and a salute from the beer bottle. "We'll see what Fox wants, shall we? Go teach your classes, Mac."

"What are you going to do?"

"I told Fox I'd be here," Methos said flatly. "It was the only way I could get him to sleep. So I'll be here. I've been wanting to catch up on some reading."

"Start dinner at some point, hmm? Don't forget, with Aidan out of town, we get to feed the monster appetites."

"Aidan.... I'll start working on spin control," the older immortal said, pale, slender fingers holding his place in the book. "Rich isn't going to like this at all."

"That," Duncan said, leaning in to collect a kiss, "is definitely an understatement. Marc's trying to keep him under control, but we'll see what happens. Is Joe still supposed to be coming over for dinner?"

"I think we could bet money on it. Erin had some department function tonight. I imagine he begged off from it. I would have."

"Smart man," Duncan agreed fervently, remembering some of the more boring meetings and parties he'd attended. "Have a pleasant afternoon, but I need to get downstairs and let Sharon get going."

Methos chuckled, but didn't release his leg. Duncan leaned in to let him steal another kiss, and heard a murmured, "Thank you, Duncan."

"You're welcome, Methos. Always." The Scot headed downstairs, shaking his head after he was out the door. If someone had told me even two years ago that I would have two lovers, one of them male, and be letting their old lovers sleep in my bed -- and possibly more than sleep -- I'd have said they were insane. Are you laughing, Darius? Sean, you'd love this....

Mulder woke to an agitated voice and held still, unsure where he was. The warm, thick comforter over him wasn't his own, and he could smell and hear a fire nearby. Someone was chopping garlic; he could smell that, too, the scent unmistakable. The echoes in the room sounded wrong, but sleep still fogged his brain and the synapses weren't really firing yet.

"Come on, Old Man, explain this to me again," Rich said impatiently. "We have an FBI agent sleeping in Mac's bed. Why?"

Classical music played in the background -- Lizst, maybe? Something sharp and complicated. Fox had no great inclination to move yet; everything was warm and his body still felt pleasantly heavy with sleep. The irritated voices would normally have spurred him awake, but Adam didn't sound concerned, just annoyed.

"Because he's exhausted, possibly?"

"Why? Are you fucking an FBI agent? Jesus, what were you thinking?"

"Keep your voice down," and now Adam sounded dangerous indeed. He should be wearing a black robe and carrying a scythe; he sounds ready to cut the kid down, that's for sure, Mulder thought, aware that he should probably be offended by the young man's comments. Actually, to him, it wasn't important. Fox didn't care what the FBI thought about him; a stranger was nothing. But his mind was fuzzy, trying to put puzzle pieces together as best he could manage right now. And this conversation sounded intriguing. What's wrong with Adam going to bed with me? I'm the one who could lose my job over it; well, what job I have. Tracking fertilizer shipments? Hell, analyzing crop reports for USDA would be more interesting.

Adam's voice continued in the same vicious tone. "When you can learn to plan more than two steps ahead, Ryan, you can talk to me about strategy. Until then, drop it."

"He's looking for-- "

"I said drop it." Methos turned on the young redhead, unarmed but frightening nonetheless. He switched to precise, idiomatic French, hoping to keep this under control and knowing the younger immortal had learned the language in his days in Europe. "If you wake him, Ryan, we will have a great deal of trouble, and as Edana suggested, I will take it out of your hide."

"What is this, jump on the kid day? Just because I'm not thinking with my gonads?" Rich persisted, not backing up, but taking the older immortal's cue and changing languages. "Look, the guy this morning was a friend of Aidan's. Fine. This one is a friend of yours. Fine. Which one are we going with? 'Cause it looks to me like they're on opposite sides of this little war!"

Mulder continued to breathe evenly, enjoying the warmth of the blankets and wishing he'd spent more time on French. His memory was superb, verging on photographic, but he'd spent more time on Greek than French. Some secret was being concealed, that was certain. What in the hell was that about? Why is sleeping with me a matter of strategy? Or is that just Adam's way of insulting Ryan? And I definitely remember a couple of those words: 'ami' is friend and 'petite guerre' is little war. I wonder what else I'll hear if I lie here? Adam, what are you and MacLeod hiding?

Silence had fallen in the kitchen, but it didn't sound any too peaceful. The quick, sharp noises from a knife on a cutting board sounded irritated. Someone was noisily building the fire back up; wood was making 'clunk' noises against other logs, and clanging against the sides of the free-standing fireplace where logs were thrown back in. A poker rattling against the metal sides finished the aural portrait of discontent.

A door opened, and an unwelcome draft moved through the room. From the far side of the room, MacLeod's voice asked pleasantly, "Did Mulder hire you as an alarm clock, Rich?"

"Just keeping us all from freezing," Rich said angrily.

Marc rolled his eyes as he took in Rich's temper, then he glanced over to see if the agent was still asleep. The limp form under the covers was either out or damn close, and right now, separating Rich and Adam seemed like a splendid idea. So he sacrificed his own shower for peace and quiet and asked, "Hey, Adam, you mind letting Duncan take over dinner? I'm having a problem with some irregular verbs in French. Can you look at this and tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

Methos raised an eyebrow at that, well aware of Marc's peacemaker tendencies. He sighed and reluctantly let MacLeod take over the cutting board. "Stir fry, I thought."

"Suits," Duncan answered. "Ginger beef all right?"

"Fine by me. I'll deal with the vegetables."

"Go give Marc a hand; I'll get this."

Duncan didn't mean dinner, despite his already dancing knife, and Methos nodded an acknowledgment. If he dealt with this right now, it might involve shredding Rich. To give him what credit he's due, Ryan is right. This is an avalanche zone, where the wrong word will start a pebble rolling downhill, although I think he's having more trouble with Fox being in law enforcement than with the idea that Cory might catch some grief. But he's not my student and I don't need him jostling my elbow while I handle Fox.

In the kitchen, Mulder could hear the knife on the cutting board, a slower, more relaxed pattern. Baritone and tenor rumbles came from the guest room as Adam and Marc worked through some fairly involved French passages the younger man had been trying to translate. Someone was clattering dishes around on the counter, too, a sullen sound.

"Rich, Mulder isn't stealing Aidan's place, you know," MacLeod's voice said quietly, reassuringly.

"Oh, really? What is he doing, Mac? I mean, come on, a Fed?"

"Rich.... I don't want to rub your nose in this, but if I don't mind, and Aidan wouldn't mind, why are you concerned?" the Scot asked him in the same conversational voice.

Aidan? Who's Aidan? And I wonder how I find out? Mulder eavesdropped on the conversation with only a twinge of guilt. They are talking about me; I'd say I'm entitled to hear it.

"Because there are days, Mac, when I think the Old Man just crooks a finger and you do whatever he wants. I don't want to have to bail you out of jail some night, y'know?" Rich growled, setting the table for six without verbal protest. His body language was more than sufficient.

"It's your turn, remember," Duncan pointed out mildly, a smile twitching at the sides of his mouth. "And besides, Rich, I haven't helped Cory with anything."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Come on, Mac, whose side are we on?"

Whose side of what? What in the hell is going on here? They know... what? Where Cory is? Or where Krycek is? Did MacLeod or Adam ever deny knowing Krycek, or did they just say that the picture wasn't Krycek? They weren't lying... but were they telling me everything?

"No one's," came the surprisingly firm answer. "We're staying neutral on this. Now drop it, Rich. Here and now, at these volumes, is not the way to discuss it. If you hate this so much," Duncan said in a carefully level voice, "you could stay at Aidan's until it's over. You're certainly due the vacation, and I can get help with the dojo for a few days."

"I'm not going to bail on you," the young immortal fumed. "I just want you to think for once."

"Rich." Duncan turned to face his student and friend. "As things stand, this is how it needs to be. Trust me."

"Oh, great, throw that in my face, too. Shit. Tell Marc to call me at Aidan's when he wants a ride home," Rich snapped, heading toward the door.

"Rich...."

"Look, Mac, I need some fresh air right now, okay? Some pavement under my wheels, and some fresh air. I know, I know, you wanna talk. Right now, I don't want to talk. Later."

Marc stuck his head out of the guest room door when the front door closed, then sighed and walked into the kitchen area. "Well, he didn't yell and he didn't slam the door."

"Yeah," Mac agreed. "Marc, do you have any idea what I'm missing?"

"I've been trying to figure it out all afternoon," the young black man said gravely. "And I think he's feeling deserted. My best guess, anyway."

"What?" Methos followed him back, incredulous at this reasoning. "Deserted how?"

"Because Rich is impatient and wants answers now, and you guys aren't giving them," Marc said bluntly, slouching against the kitchen island, hands in his pockets. "He's still young enough to think that means you don't trust him. I get that he wasn't the world's most responsible guy when you met, but he hasn't been dropping obligations since I've known him.

"And he's been sparring with Aidan, and in some ways studying with her... but she made arrangements for me and not for him. Doesn't matter that he knows, and she knows, and you know, that Duncan will take it right back up. I think he's upset that she didn't set it up. She essentially dumped him, and me, to take care of an obligation, and Rich isn't handling that real well right now. I think. If I'm right, she'll have some serious apologies to make when she gets home"

Methos said thoughtfully, "If HMOs paid out worth a damn, Marc, I'd tell you to go into psychology instead of architecture."

"I like architecture," came the level reply. "Come on, help me with that last paragraph so I can get a shower before dinner." Marc pulled Adam behind him, wanting to get done and get clean before Duncan started the rice... or the older immortals started asking him how he felt about Aidan leaving and Marc wasn't sure about that himself.

So they are hiding something, Mulder thought, surprised by how unhappy that thought made him. Why? Who is this Aidan, and why are two men studying with her? Studying what? French? Fighting? Odd combination. And why did she leave without making adequate preparation? Is she scatterbrained? Maybe she doesn't care? No, not from what Marc said.... Shit. I've got too many questions and not enough answers.

The frustration escaped him in a sigh and Mulder realized immediately that Duncan now knew he was awake. So the agent turned over into the middle of the bed, punching the pillow up and tugging the comforter back over his shoulder, as if he had only just started to wake up. The knife had stopped, the agent realized uneasily as he tried to breathe slowly. Shit. Adam's lover is... headed over here. Where I'm asleep in his bed? Oh, great.

The bed settled under MacLeod's weight as he sat on the edge, next to Mulder's hip. The larger man smelled of recently washed male, with a faint hint of some kind of cologne. Mulder was trying not to tense when he felt a gentle hand smooth a recalcitrant lock of hair off his forehead. That same hand rested momentarily on his shoulder, and MacLeod said quietly, "Almost awake?"

"Yeah," Mulder answered, deliberately fuzzy. "What time is it?"

"Nearly seven. You've slept all afternoon. You must have been tired." Duncan found himself resisting the urge to rub the other man's back. Incredible tension in the muscles, even after being tucked in to sleep off all the beer Methos poured down him.

"Don't usually sleep this heavily," Mulder offered in apology, twisting out from under MacLeod's hand to flip over and sit up.

"Then I'm glad you slept well. You needed it, I think." Duncan saw the flush on Mulder's face, and the careful concealment under the blankets suggested to him that the other man found the situation extremely uncomfortable. "I'm going to go finish dinner. Get up when you're ready, although I'll tell you now that Joe should be here in fifteen minutes or so."

"Meaning I might want to put clothes on?" Mulder managed to laugh.

"I'd be more worried about Adam's reaction to you still being in bed, actually," MacLeod smiled. "I'll start some coffee, if you like. You still don't sound awake."

He's not jealous, or clueless. He doesn't mind that Adam put me in his bed. I don't know that I could be that selfless. "I don't usually sleep this long at night," was the ironic reply Mulder finally managed to get out. "Coffee would be good."

From the other room, Mulder heard a voice he automatically identified as Marc call, "Coffee? Great! Hey, Duncan, what about that Italian roast I bought?"

"I was suggesting awake, not bouncing off the walls," MacLeod chuckled. "Don't you need to get a shower?"

"Hey, we're talking about one of the necessities of life here," came the laughing reply.

Adam cut in, saying, "Marc, let's finish these, all right? Mac, make the coffee. Marc always manages to make me think you've bought an espresso machine."

Mulder snickered. "That might not be a bad thing."

"The dead arise, I see," Adam called.

"You mean, you hear. And you're the one who kept refilling my glass," Mulder joked, falling back into the easy banter that, as much as anything, seemed to mark his relationship with Adam. The damnedest part of this is that even though I know I need to have the Gunmen check out their background, that I need to get last names for Marc and this Aidan... I can't seem to stop trusting them. Have I finally lost my touch? Where's the vaunted Mulder paranoia when I need it?

"Yes, well, you kept drinking, too."

"The chips were salty," Mulder offered, deadpan, as he finally sat up off the pillows, rubbing his eyes and trying to flatten his hair back into place from its current sleep-tousled state. Duncan's mouth twitched, humor dancing in dark brown eyes as he valiantly restrained several comments. Mulder saw the words being swallowed and asked, "How bad?"

"You've got time for a shower. Leave Marc some hot water, or he'll complain. I'll slow down on dinner."

Mulder couldn't help a faint smile at the other man's instinctive courtesy. Rather than let Adam know that his one-time lover currently looked like a ragamuffin, MacLeod had dropped his voice when he offered the use of a shower. "Yeah, I'd like that. Thanks. Tell Marc I'll leave him at least ten minutes of water."

"That's no problem. Unless you just like scalding yourself, the water tank's good for at least forty."

"Twenty minutes, no problem. I'll split it with him." Mulder was just nerving himself to wander past Adam's lover wearing nothing but his boxers and T-shirt when the other man stood up and went to the kitchen. Am I that obvious, or does he read minds in his spare time? Right, I'll think about it under hot water.

Mulder found his bags set neatly beside the armoire on the other side of the bed and pulled out a Georgetown sweatshirt and jeans, and his toiletries kit. I don't know what in hell to think, he mused, testing the water temperature with one hand before turning to look for towels. If Rich is the other instructor from this morning, and I could swear I recognized the voice, then MacLeod just defended me to him. The man doesn't even know me, not unless Adam's told him a helluva lot, and I don't think Adam's a profiler to figure out that much. Does MacLeod know we were lovers for a night? I suppose Adam might have told him. MacLeod strikes me as someone who'd rather have the truth, even if it hurts.

The agent stepped into the shower stall, grinning at its size. "How many people did you build this for, MacLeod?" he murmured. "The thing's damn near big enough for small parties." Then the water was pouring down on his head, and Mulder reached for shampoo, letting himself fall into the contemplative near-reverie of profiling.

I'm going to like Marc, I think. Sounds like a nice, sensible guy. But... business. What is going on here? What are they hiding, and how? They haven't lied to me, I'd bet a paycheck on that. But there are too many things out of place here; what I'm seeing isn't the picture, just the sections of it they've decided to spotlight for me. What are they hiding in the background, where I might not see it?

Well, for one thing, Joe Dawson. Not simply a bartender, not even close. I've known police sergeants who didn't study people as efficiently or as quickly. And he's coming over for dinner? Might be coincidence; he and Adam seemed to be good friends. Then again, it might not be coincidence. He's very sharp, and I suspect he diverts conversations very well.

Mulder rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, reaching automatically for soap. /Nice; sandalwood, maybe? Mm-hmm, and this one smells great, too. Rose, with something sharper under that. Rosemary? Bay? One of the aromatics. Scully might like this. The fond memory of his partner's scent faded under the remembrance of her refusal to be anything other than friends and co-workers. Forget it. I'm here with Adam and his lover. I'll think about Scully later. Especially since I need to call and check in soon. It's getting late on the East Coast.

The conversations with Rich Ryan were interesting to say the least. He made me as an 'officer of the courts' the moment I walked in the door. That kid's seen the inside of a cell, and they're doing something that he thinks could land them in jail. But what?

Mulder pulled out a razor and began shaving, mind still wandering along paths for the investigation. Ryan mentioned that I was looking for someone, and Adam cut him off. Why? Do they know where Krycek is? Hell, do they just know Krycek? They haven't denied it. For that matter, how did Adam do that? I wouldn't have thought Hillary Clinton in a rage could shut up a teenager who thinks he's right, but Adam did it with no trouble. That tone might have intimidated Skinner. Who did I sleep with? I won't ask which one's real, because both sides of him are, but what is he? Where did he learn that kind of command voice?

He rinsed the razor out, then continued both the shave and the speculation. And who is this Aidan? When did she leave, and why? What's her last name? What is her 'place' that Ryan thinks I'm taking? In MacLeod's bed, I guess, but MacLeod's got Adam. From what Duncan said, though, he's got both of them, or maybe it would be more accurate to say Adam has them. The shower is certainly big enough for three. So is the bed, for that matter.

Mulder tilted his face into the spray, soaking up the heat and steam until he knew he needed to get out and leave Marc some hot water, too. Right. I get last names on everyone, then excuse myself to check in with Scully. And while I'm downstairs, I call the Gunmen. I'm sorry, Adam. I've got to. Whatever you're hiding, I have to know. If one or all of you are hiding Krycek... I have to know.

Joe settled down into his chair cautiously, wary of his balance as ever. Yeah, half the room would give him a hand up if he needed it, but he damn well didn't want to need it. He was getting older; that one beer while waiting for Marc to finish his shower was really all he needed for the night, especially if he was going to play "keep away" with a Fed.

Scary thing was, for a Fed, Mulder was a decent guy. A sense of humor as warped as the Old Man's, for one thing. They'd been trading obscure British jokes and insults for a good five minutes while finishing up dinner, which had kept Mac laughing steadily. Joe had caught most of the references himself.

The Watcher glanced over the table and asked casually, "So where's Rich? I thought he was eating over here tonight."

"He had some other things to do," Mac answered a little too calmly.

"Get real," Marc snorted as he dished rice into a bowl. "He threw a snit, Joe. He was acting like a teenager, so now he's out riding around until that hot head of his cools off, and then he'll have to work himself up to apologizing to Mac, too."

Mulder chuckled. "Hey, cut him some slack, Marc. How old is Rich? Nineteen or twenty, tops? He'll grow out of it."

Joe's first thought was, Maybe by his first century, if we're lucky. "He's come a long way from being a street rat, guys. Mulder's right."

Adam shrugged. "He'll outgrow it, Joe. Everyone else does. Some take longer than others, that's all."

Mulder muttered, "Not all of them, Adam."

Joe tilted his head and asked the obvious question rather than make this very sharp man suspicious that he already knew the answer. "Mulder, I gotta be rude and ask. What the hell do you do for the FBI? And do they know you still have a sense of humor?"

"It's non-standard issue," he joked. "They only give it back to you if you need it for crime scenes."

Marc gave him a slight nod. "Yeah, a couple of my cousins are Philly cops. And they've got senses of humor blacker'n I am."

"You're not exactly dark," Mulder teased the obviously mixed-blood young man. "A few Scots in the family?"

"More like a bunch of Italians," Marc jibed. "I'm adopted."

"Italian?" Fox asked, fishing for information with a careful touch. "I'd have thought Scottish, if you're hanging around with MacLeod."

Marc waved one hand, wine safely in the other. "Nah, Italian. Sorry, we never did introductions, the guys just told me who you were. Marc Scipio."

"Marcus Aquilla Scipio," Joe chuckled as the rest of them finally moved to the table. "He's Italian, Mulder, don't let the skin fool you. And don't turn down his tiramisu, either."

"Not tonight," Marc sighed. "I am not serving tiramisu with ginger beef." He brought a plate of egg rolls to the table and sat down next to Joe. Adam sprawled out next to Fox after setting the rice and a bottle of soy sauce on the table.

Duncan calmly passed the bowl of ginger beef to Mulder first. "Here, it's the only way I can be sure you'll get some. Marc looks harmless but he's actually a walking appetite."

"Rich is worse," Marc pointed out as he dropped egg rolls on his plate and passed them to Joe. "And you cooked for six of us. There should be plenty of food. So what do you do, anyway, Mulder?"

Mulder sighed and decided he wasn't getting out of this. "I'm an investigator for the FBI."

Marc tilted his head. "Yeah, I kinda guessed that when you came to talk to Mac. What branch though? Espionage, violent crime...." He paused when that suggestion made some of the animation fade from Mulder's face. He didn't freeze, but he became less accessible. "Oh, great. Did I eat shoe leather again?"

"No," Mulder sighed. "I was with Violent Crimes for three years as a profiler. I started out profiling for ISU -- Investigative Sciences Unit to the uninitiated," he clarified. "I was department head for the X-Files from '91 until last May. Now I work in Domestic Terrorism."

"Profiler? Like that chick in Silence of the Lambs?" Marc asked immediately.

"Something like," Mulder agreed.

Duncan studied the tensed shoulders of the man sitting across the table from him and made sure a couple egg rolls made it onto his plate before passing the hot mustard to him. "I must not have read that, then. What exactly does a profiler do?"

Adam glanced at Joe, then studied his one-time lover. "If you'd rather drop this, Fox, we will."

"Fox?" Marc asked, grinning. "Hey, beats my name. I just got named for dead generals and declined empires. Does it help with dates?"

Joe threw a wadded-up napkin at Marc, who batted it out of the way reflexively. "When are you gonna learn to think before you open your mouth?"

"Do you know how many dates I could get with a name like that?" was the incredulous reply. "And you've talked to Nona; I thought she told you I never think."

"Not quite what your grandmother said," Adam grinned maliciously. "But you've never paid me to find out what she did say."

Duncan glared at him until Joe elbowed him in the side. The bluesman growled, "Aidan's not here, gentlemen, so I'm playing referee. Act at least a few years older than Rich."

"Aidan?" Mulder asked curiously. "You mean there's someone brave enough to try and keep Adam in line?"

"I understand you have a partner," Adam shot back.

"Yeah, but she gets paid," Fox grinned. "What, did someone hire you a nanny?"

"No, a personal factotum."

Marc grinned. "Tell you what, Adam, you tell me what Nona said, and I don't repeat that to Aidan."

Adam cocked and leveled a finger at Marc. "You're learning. We'll take that as a starting point and haggle it out some other time."

Duncan sighed, passed Methos a beer, and pointed out, "If the lot of you don't shut up for a few minutes, the man will never be able to answer my question."

Mulder sighed and asked, "How simple an answer do you want?"

"As complicated as you feel like making it, or as simple," Duncan told him. "You're out of it now, Fox; is it still that bad?"

Why is it that he and Adam can use my first name and I don't mind? I'm getting too trusting in my old age. He pushed that worry aside for the moment; he didn't need any more distractions. "Actually, I'm not really out of it. I still get called in to consult when ISU can't spare people and the case is too hot to ignore."

He paused to take a bite of egg roll and wash it down with the hot green tea Duncan had poured into his cup. "Duncan, who'd you get the tea from?"

"I'll send some back to DC with you," Mac grinned when he saw the other man's appreciative smile. "A store here in town imports it from China."

"I'll take you up on that. And profiling has become one of the FBI's more notorious skills. What we do is try to think like the criminal to find him and stop him." He fell silent for a moment trying to find a way to describe it. "We look at the crime scene evidence, the autopsy reports... everything. And then we visualize what happened, how the suspect felt while he was doing what he did. Once we're in his head, we can see what kind of person it would take to do it, what set him off that he's committing these crimes now instead of three years back or five years from now. And then we know who to look for."

In a noncommittal tone, Duncan pointed out, "You keep saying 'he'."

"Most of the time," Mulder said bluntly, "serial killers are male. Usually white males from a middle-class background and with above-average intelligence. They almost always had an unstable home-life, and usually a previous history of arson or animal mutilation which may or may not have been reported to the authorities. Many of them are geniuses and with one or two extremely notable exceptions they work alone."

"Did they ever have you work on anything other than serial killers?" Marc asked, appalled.

Mulder took a deep breath, then bluntly answered, "Marc, most of the time I hunted the baby-killers. Serial killers who preyed on children. But they always had me working on the mass-murderers, yeah."

Methos set his beer down with a precise click. "Fox, are you telling me that you spent several years learning to See into the minds of psychotics so that you could hunt them down?"

"Basically? Yeah. I'm not really cut out for private practice, Adam; be a helluva thing to completely waste an Oxford psych degree."

Joe carefully said, "How many years did you do this?"

"I got out of Oxford in '86, largely because the FBI recruited me, and went straight into Quantico. I worked in ISU until '88; then I went to work for Reggie Purdue in Violent Crimes. He at least let me have a variety of cases to work," Mulder shrugged. "Lightened up my case load, too. Eventually I found out about the X-Files in '91, spray-painted a 'golden boy' reputation a nice tarnished red, and got assigned to the X-Files full time. I spent my days in the basement of the Hoover building instead of being nominally based in the basement at Quantico, trying to solve the unsolved files the FBI accumulates."

"Five years?" Joe asked, horrified. "Damn, son, I didn't spend that much time in 'Nam before I invalided out. Hell, military snipers do shorter rotations. And they still yank you back?"

Fox pushed the ginger beef around in the rice for a few seconds, then spoke in a tone so unlike his own that they knew he must be quoting someone else. "'No one ever gets out of ISU for good.'"

"Sort of like the lower circles of Hell," Methos said grimly, frustrated anger in his own eyes to match the tension in the set of Duncan's mouth. Now I know why he has those nightmares. Gods, a Seer deliberately looking at that every single day? "Golden boy, hmm?"

Mulder shrugged. "ISU didn't want to give me up. I had a very high solve rate."

"How high?" Marc asked disbelievingly, trying to grasp that the sharp-witted man who'd been joking with Mac and Adam was used to thinking like a psycho.

"Ninety-something percent," Fox admitted, never looking up from the random patterns he was drawing in his food.

Joe whistled. "Damn, Mulder, who'd you blackmail to get out?" He also refilled his own mug of tea to have a chance to think.

"No one, Joe. Patterson broke Bureau regs once too often and Reggie Purdue mortgaged his soul to get me assigned to Violent Crimes and placed under him. He wasn't a bad boss."

Adam, however, blandly wondered, "Ninety-plus percent with or without the old, unsolved cases?"

"With.... Shit. We ought to hire you, Adam. Slick." Mulder toasted him with his mug.

"Which regulations, precisely, did he break, Fox? The ones about your time between cases, maybe?"

Hazel eyes clashed and then Mulder deliberately reached for the soy sauce, mixing some in with the hot mustard already on his plate. "He screwed up, Adam. That's enough."

"So what are these unsolved cases? And why are they called the 'x' files?" Duncan asked, changing the subject firmly.

Mulder laughed and forked a bite of ginger beef in, following the old need to go ahead and eat while the food was available. He deliberately extended his cup out to Duncan, who grinned and refilled it while Adam muttered about, "People who don't hold out for beer...."

"I don't need the alcohol right now, Adam. And they're 'X' files because the secretary who used to file them in the '50s ran out of space under 'U' for 'unknown'. I investigated all the cases that are too strange for the regular FBI agents to work them. I got the flying saucer reports, and the Bigfoot sightings, and the 'swamp gas' in the middle of the desert, and the kids found dead with fang marks in their necks and no blood at the crime scene...."

"Hopefully you took a cross on that case?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, actually," was the slow reply. "That one got interesting, too. Oh, and the sighting of Big Blue down in Georgia...." Mulder sounded more cheerful again as he changed the subject. He glanced around and then said, "The South's answer to the Loch Ness monster. Turned out the deaths were due to an oversized alligator. It ate my partner's Pomeranian, too."

That drew snorts of laughter, and Adam offered, "Where do I contribute for the public service award?"

"Adam!" Marc protested.

"It's a lap-dog, Marc. A more obnoxious thing was never born than one of those atrophied, inbred little yapping monstrosities."

"They'd make wonderful mopheads," Mulder suggested, deadpan. "Nah, the X-Files were great. Every now and then my Assistant Director had to loan me back out to profile, but most of the time I was in the basement trying to convince him to let me go look at the latest leprechaun sighting. Now I make sure that the people buying large quantities of nitrogen fertilizers are really farmers and not mad bombers."

"Hey, the leprechaun would at least have been one way to reduce the deficit," Joe growled and neatly deflected the conversation to let the man eat in peace. They spent the rest of dinner arguing about what the idiots in Washington thought they were doing, and enjoyed Mulder's occasional caustic comments on the elected and appointed officials whose doings he heard about in office scuttlebutt.

Marc finished the dishes and grinned at Duncan. "All right, I'm gonna call over and get a ride home. I'll argue some sense into Rich tonight, or catch him at breakfast while his defenses are down, okay, Duncan?"

"Good luck," Joe chuckled. "At least the kid never seems to hold a grudge."

"One or two," Duncan shrugged, "but yeah, he'll be calmer in the morning. Marc...."

"Hey," the young black man interrupted, "I'm the one with my head on straight. Don't worry about it, Duncan. I'll call Rich. Night, folks. Mulder, nice meeting you. Staying awhile?"

"A couple days, I think," Mulder answered cautiously, then groaned. "Shit. I need to call my partner."

"Considering that it's coming up on midnight on the East Coast," Duncan pointed out, "don't you need to wait until tomorrow?"

"I'd like to live," Mulder said, shaking his head. "She's probably sitting in Skinner's room and wondering what happened to me and whether she needs to make plane reservations."

Joe turned on his stool by the bar and asked with a studied casualness, "Skinner?"

"Yeah, my former AD. He was shot last night, ended up in the hospital. We're... keeping an eye on things, making sure nothing else goes wrong. Scully's a forensic pathologist, so her bedside manner needs work, but she knows what shouldn't be going in his IV."

Joe carefully kept his thoughts off his face, but he knew damn well he was going to call around Washington tomorrow and get in touch with Walter Skinner. We didn't make it back from Nam just so you could get shot in the line of duty, Walt, you stubborn son of a bitch. And we sure as hell didn't survive rehab for nothing.

"Back in a few minutes, I'm going to go let my partner yell at me," Mulder added, standing up from his comfortable seat near the fireplace.

Duncan casually offered, "There's a phone in the dojo office if you want, Fox."

"Thanks, that'd be great." I'll use the cell phone, but this way I can ask the Gunmen to check backgrounds. And hopefully Aidan's last name will be in Duncan's Rolodex.

He waited until he was downstairs before pulling out the cell phone and dialing.

"Scully."

"Scully, it's me."

"Mulder, I was thinking about calling the Seacouver PD. Where have you been?"

"I got a room and fell asleep," he admitted, carefully neglecting to mention that it wasn't at a hotel.

"Mulder, did you sleep last night? Never mind. Skinner's doing fine. He spiked a fever today, but that's not uncommon from the wound and the surgery. Byers and Frohike kept an eye on things today; they said to tell you to call them if they can help."

"I'll call them next," he promised.

"What are you doing in Seacouver? They didn't want to explain it in the hospital."

"Where are you?" he asked curiously.

"At home, Mulder, I was about to get some sleep. They gave Skinner his last meds for the night and Frohike is sitting with him."

"Got it. Right now I'm trying to track down Krycek in Seacouver, Washington. We thought he was associated with a jewel thief named Amanda Montrose, but it looks like it may be a false lead. I'm checking out a couple things, but I'm not sure yet what's going on."

"Is it a false lead or not, Mulder?" Scully sighed.

"On Krycek? I'm not sure. Is something odd going on? Yeah, probably. I'm just not sure if it's anything illegal."

"There's a jewel thief involved, Mulder; it's probably illegal," was the dry retort.

He snorted. "You haven't met the martial artist she framed, Scully. You'd be drooling. Serious beefcake, and high moral standards."

"If he's intelligent and rich, Mulder, I'm going to know you've found another X-File."

"Start a new folder," he drawled. "He's also single."

"And gay?" she chuckled.

"Don't ask, don't tell," Mulder shot back and listened to her ladylike snort as Scully tried not to laugh.

"Seriously, Mulder, are you going to be there for a couple days?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'll keep my cell phone with me, Scully, and I'll let you know where I'm going next. I'm gonna call the guys, see if they have another lead. I might as well stay here until they do, though. Saves airfare, and it'll give me a chance to look into this, whatever it is."

"Mulder, you don't have backup," she reminded him. "Be careful."

"Always." That got a quiet sigh from the other side of the call, and Mulder admitted, "Well, almost always. I think it's okay, Scully. But if I'm gonna wait on the Gunmen, this will at least keep me from being bored."

"Mulder, you really do need a vacation," she pointed out. "And if you come back exhausted, Kersh will find a way to make an issue of it."

"Hey, Personnel can tell me to take a vacation, but they can't make me have fun. This isn't the Army." That drew another soft laugh. It's odd; she'll laugh over the phone, but in person I have to work to get her to really smile. Maybe she remembers I can't see her face like this. He sat down at Duncan's desk, phone between his shoulder and ear, and began flipping quickly through the Rolodex looking for the name 'Aidan' somewhere.

"You have a point, Mulder. All right, call the guys, and call me tomorrow. At a more reasonable hour," she added dryly.

"Yes, teacher," he chuckled. "And I'll bring you an apple, too."

"Do that, Mulder, I need to practice my poisoning techniques."

"Kersh again?"

"Still," she groaned. "Great big piles of manure, Mulder. I'm about ready for another bomb threat, you know?"

"Mmm-hmm," he agreed. "I'll look around for that mirror for you, too. Night, Scully."

"Night, Mulder."

He cleared the line as he kept flipping past pages in the rolodex. He was in the 'F's' and still hadn't found anything. He dialed the Lone Gunmen, eyes flicking over entries with a great deal of interest. I'd hate to see Duncan's phone bills; a lot of these are international numbers.

"Lone Gunmen," Langly snapped into his ear.

"Hey, Langly, any luck?"

"Mulder. Good, Scully was starting to worry. Where are you?"

"Ran into an old acquaintance in Seacouver; I'm staying with him. Use the cell phone number. Look, I need you guys to do some background checks for me."

"You found Krycek?" the lanky Gunman asked in surprise. "I didn't think that lead was gonna pan out."

"I'm not sure it got me Krycek," Mulder told him. "But I may have found something nearly as good: a relative. I need you to look into someone named Cory Raines," and he spelled it out. "That's who was in the picture you gave me. There should be plenty on him; apparently he robs banks."

"And the Russian Mafia, the idiot," Langly griped. "Well, hey, so the rat has relatives? That could be useful. You think this Cory is his brother?"

"Or cousin, or something," Mulder chuckled. "They really do look alike." He paused, eye caught by something, and flipped back. Got it. Logan, Aidan. Now, if the phone number matches the most recent one for Rich Ryan or Marc Scipio.... It does. That's her.

"Listen, I need some other names checked out, too. There's something odd going on out here, and I need some information on these people: Joe Dawson, Rich Ryan, Marc Scipio, Duncan MacLeod, Amanda Montrose, Aidan Logan, and Adam Pierson."

"You don't want much, do you, Mulder?" came the sarcastic question. "Don't forget, we're taking shifts at the hospital so Scully can get some sleep."

"Yeah, I know. All right, here's what I've got that might make it easier. Joe Dawson is a double amputee who runs a blues bar in Seacouver called Joe's; I think he may have served in Vietnam, but I don't know what branch. Rich Ryan has got a juvenile record somewhere, probably here in Seacouver. He's nineteen or twenty years old, so it's a recent record. Marc Scipio has relatives on the Philly police force, may even be from there. He doesn't have a West Coast accent yet. Duncan MacLeod you already know about; the same for Amanda Montrose. Aidan Logan, I can't tell you anything about other than the fact that she lives here in Seacouver and apparently owns her own house. I don't have an age, or a profession. Adam Pierson went to St. Aidan's College in Wales a few years ago and worked on a post-graduate degree at the Université in Paris."

"That helps," Langly agreed when the sound of pencil-scribbling finally stopped on the other side of the phone lines. "I'll see what we can find for you by tomorrow afternoon, but no promises."

"Thanks, Langly." I may hate myself for this, but I have to do it. I'm sorry, Adam, I don't see a way around this. I need to know what's going on here, and I'm going to find Krycek. So why do I feel like such a double-crossing bastard over this?

"You owe us, Mulder," his friend in Washington growled.

"I always owe you," he agreed, resetting Duncan's Rolodex to the page it had been on, and replacing it in its former position on the desk. "Everything okay with Skinner?"

"He's grouchy, Mulder; you know, he'll be fine."

That drew a quick chuckle. "Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Langly. I didn't want Scully trying to keep an eye on him by herself and still working, too. Kersh is running her ragged."

"Kersh is running both of you ragged," came the quick agreement. "And he's way too damn clean, Mulder. We can't find anything."

"Really? Now that's interesting. I thought everyone did something," Mulder drawled.

"Maybe we should be looking to see if someone sanitized his records," Langly mused. "We'll try that angle after we do these checks for you and get the newsletter out."

"Thanks, Langly. Tell Frohike and Byers that I checked in. I need to get moving before my friend comes to check on me."

"Right. Later, Mulder."

The FBI agent clipped his cell phone back onto his belt and headed up the stairs, enjoying the chance to stretch his legs. Have to admit, I feel a lot better for the sleep, though. Can't remember the last time I crashed that hard. My instincts are saying they're safe; they're just up to something. Can they be both at once?

Well, hell, I've done it enough times. Told Scully and Skinner one thing and headed off on a different lead that I'd just 'forgotten' to tell them about. Shit. Who knows. I don't want to push this until I get something from the Gunmen. I trust them both, and I can't remember the last time I did that. This can wait for one night... can't it?

When he got back into the loft apartment, Joe was still arguing with the guys, but this time it was about somebody named Gina, and the likelihood that she had or had not won an argument. Adam, who was supervising the loading of the dishwasher from a barstool, pointed out, "She's female and Italian, remember?"

"Yeah, well, Connor's Scottish and male," Joe retorted before Duncan could say anything. "No bets. I say he won the argument."

"He's Scottish and frugal," Duncan snorted. "You know, cheap. I bet you he let them pay for the plane tickets."

"Sorry, Joe, I'm with MacLeod on that one. You won't win betting him on what his cousin did, and you know it." Adam turned to face the younger man. "Get your calls taken care of, Fox?"

"Yeah. She complained about me not calling, then fussed some more because she'd been getting ready to go to bed. But she says Skinner's doing pretty well."

Duncan nodded, turning to face Mulder after he set the last pan into the dishwasher. "Good. You, on the other hand, aren't. What did you do, trade your shoulder muscles in on steel cables?"

"You're underestimating the tensile strength," Adam jibed. "Titanium alloy at the least, MacLeod."

"Yeah, well, upper back or lower, Adam? You are going to help on this."

Joe grinned at the startled look on the Fed's face. "Mulder? Just give up. Mac's decided you're his project of the week, I'd say. The good news is, he gives one hell of a rub-down. The bad news is, the stubborn Scot isn't going to give up until he thinks you're fine."

"I'm fine," Mulder hastily said, not eager to have Adam and Duncan's hands on him at the same time. Oh, great, let the martial artist get his hands on me in time to find out I'm still attracted to his lover. Morgue, here I come. Frohike doesn't need to inherit my video collection yet, honest.

Adam's snort answered Joe's comment conclusively. "Fox? Give up. We're going to win. And anyone who can stay tensed up through a pitcher of beer and a seven hour nap needs some help. You're going to get it, whether you like it or not."

That got a crooked smile which hadn't capitulated yet. "Is this the part where you say, lie back and try to enjoy it?"

Mac's offended look set Joe off even worse. Through his laughter, the blues man managed to say, "Damn, Mac, first time I've heard your backrubs compared to rape. Did I miss something recently?"

"You never used to have this reputation, Highlander," Adam agreed, obviously amused.

"I only started hanging around with you a few years ago," Duncan shot back. "I'm not going to torture the man, you two, you don't have to panic him."

"Forget panic," Adam replied. "I think we'll try blackmail. Fox, get out of the sweatshirt and sprawl out in front of the fire, or I'll see if I can't get in touch with your partner and tell her what you're up to."

"You don't know her number," Mulder pointed out, backing cautiously away.

"I'm sure redial on your cell phone would be very informative," came the immediate riposte. "Come on, we can even have Joe stay as a diversion for that overactive mind of yours. Or to guard your virtue, if you really think it's necessary."

Joe heard the purring tone and muttered, "You're playing with fire. What in hell are you up to?"

"It's good for him," Methos murmured back. "Call it a distraction, Joe."

"Uh-uh, Adam," the Watcher said more loudly, "you start looking for chaperones and I'm out of here. My heart can't take the strain of watching you two try to drive me even crazier. Mulder, nice meeting you, and don't take too much guff off of them. But I'd take the backrub. Mac doesn't even charge for them, and he should."

"Night, Joe," Duncan said a bit absently. Most of his attention was on the spooked mortal in front of him. "Fox, we're not going to hurt you. But your shoulders are in lousy shape."

"His back's worse," Adam agreed, sliding off the bar stool to prowl towards Fox as Duncan followed Joe to the door, presumably to lock it.

The agent backed up again, and found himself standing in front of the coffee table, in front of the fire. Great. I'm following his orders by accident, now? But if MacLeod gives a backrub as well as Adam does, why am I arguing?

Because, Mulder, you'd be half-naked with Adam and his lover. We've already had this discussion, remember? All Duncan would have to do is ask me to roll over and I'd have signed my death warrant. No, thanks.

While Mulder was watching Adam warily, Duncan turned back from walking Joe to the door. "Adam. Quit chasing him around the fireplace."

"We have yet to make a complete circuit," Adam commented. "I'm just holding him at bay for you. Fox. The sweatshirt. You're getting a rubdown whether you like it or not. If you're in as bad of shape as you were last time, you won't like the first several minutes."

"Why do you seem to think you can order me around?" Mulder asked, sounding more curious than offended.

"Because," Adam purred, "I can." His voice sharpened to an authoritative tone that caught Mulder off-guard coming from that academic façade. "The sweatshirt, Fox. Now."

The shirt was on the couch before Mulder quite knew what had happened. He stared at the offending article of clothing, then at Adam, and asked in bemusement, "How in hell did you do that?"

"Would you believe practice?" Adam chuckled as he pushed the coffee table towards the couch to make room.

Duncan spread a blanket on the floor in front of the fireplace and instructed, "Fox, here, lie down and get warm. Adam, get a bowl of hot water."

"Do you two ever take no for an answer?"

Now Duncan gave him an amused look. "Do you really want to say no to a backrub?"

You know, when he puts it that way.... Why is it that I want to be suspicious, I want to back off and get a hotel room and be sensible, and it seems like such an unnecessary thing to do? One night with Adam, one evening with Duncan, and I trust them both. I've lost my mind. I know I have. Arrive in Seacouver with luggage, without brain. Great.

"I'm going to regret this," Mulder groaned and lay down where the Scot had indicated. He took shameless advantage of Adam being in the kitchen and Duncan heading to the far side of the room to adjust himself in his jeans. I am not squirming around under them with a bent erection. That would be just too damn embarrassing. Not to mention painful.

Already the thought of Adam's hands on him again had him half-hard and Mulder spared his anatomy an amused, resigned thought. I suppose it would kill you to behave, for once? Never mind, don't answer that. This might get me killed. Why am I so sure Duncan's safe? Am I working with my instincts or my dick? He's too damn gorgeous, but hell, I managed to think straight around Krycek. One Scot shouldn't be a problem, right?

Duncan came back with massage oil and a towel, which he rolled up and set on the blanket in front of Mulder. "Here, put your forehead on that so your neck doesn't get any tighter." With Mulder stretched out in front of him, the Scot shook his head, all too aware of the source of some of that tension. You still want Adam, but you're honorable enough to leave him alone because of me, because we're lovers. I think that we've had enough misguided nobility for one night, Fox.

Methos could feel the amused tenderness coming off Duncan, directed at Mulder. The growing desire didn't completely surprise him. Mac did have good taste, after all, with a few notable exceptions. Duncan had warmed some of the oil in his hands and was working carefully on Fox's shoulders and neck, reaching into the muscles for the deep knots and tensions that kept the mortal's shoulders too tight.

Fox groaned under his touch, denim-covered ass and legs tightening visibly in uncontrolled protest. Despite Mac's best efforts, the first probing touches had hurt. Methos watched from eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as Duncan's face reflected his growing attraction to the man moving under his hands. The older immortal settled onto his knees on Mulder's other side, setting the hot water near the fire and murmuring in Gaelic, "There's just something about muscles moving under firelight, isn't there, Duncan?"

Intent, dilated brown eyes met green-gold laughter and then Duncan answered in the same language, "Which of us were you setting up tonight?"

"All three, of course," was the amused answer. Methos reached out and snagged the oil, pouring some into one palm before snapping the top back in place and dropping the bottle into the bowl of hot water. He warmed the oil in his hands and turned his attention to Fox's lower back, chuckling at the contented groan which drifted up.

Fox damn near purred, wondering if he was drugged or just a severely repressed hedonist. It was all almost too much. Every sense was alive at the moment, raised and roused by their massage. The air smelled of the firewood burning, of the sandalwood oil slicking his skin, of a cologne that was not store-bought and which smelled subtly different on each of the two men working on him. A faint trace of ginger tickled his nose, not yet diffused from dinner.

The blanket under him was faintly prickly, just distracting enough to keep him awake, but not uncomfortable, and thick enough that between it and the rug he couldn't fell the hardwood floor. In addition, he seemed to be feeling each fingertip working on him individually, occasionally purring as callused palms wrapped around his shoulder muscles. Adam's fingers were surprisingly familiar, more so than he'd have expected after only the one night. Duncan's fingertips were broader, more inclined to pry into the deep layers of muscle and work the underlying knots, seemingly without going through the upper layers first.

He had his head down, but the changing play of dark and light from the fire still made it under one arm for his amusement and distraction. He licked his upper lip and the lingering salty taste of dinner tingled against his tongue as he resettled his head more comfortably before Duncan reached out to move his arms where he wanted them.

The crackling of the fire underlaid both Fox's occasional moans of combined pleasure and pain, and the affectionate, sometimes mildly exasperated comments Adam and Duncan were trading over his back in some rolling, consonant-thick language that must surely be Gaelic. The accents sounded like Duncan's earlier startled burr of protest. If Mulder hadn't already been sure that they were lovers, the tones of voice alone would have convinced him. Somehow that didn't bother him, as Adam and Duncan had managed to wrap that relationship around him like a thick coat freely given against the cold.

At last the knots in his shoulders gave way under their synchronized attacks and his back eased immediately as if it had only been on sympathy strike with his shoulders and gave up when they did. Duncan crooned, "Better, Sionnach," and shifted around to kneel in front of him. Those strong fingers shifted, too, sliding onto the back of Mulder's neck and working up under the hairline. They trailed back down, unlocking pain along the way as if someone had given the Scot the skeleton key to Mulder's musculature, then worked back up and around to ease lingering tension in the jaw muscles as well.

Adam's hands had shifted, too, working steadily up and down his spine to unclench the cables running alongside bone. Now that those muscles had eased with the release of his shoulders, Adam's hands firmly rearranged one arm so that Fox's right hand lay in the small of his back rather than above his head, cocking the elbow out and the shoulder blade up. That last, apparently, was what Adam had wanted. He dug into the knots under the shoulder blade as if he'd known all along they were there, and it was clear no quarter would be given.

Mulder groaned again as pain swept down him in a sharp blaze that seemed to run from Adam's fingers directly to Fox's heels before it subsided almost as swiftly.

"Sorry," Adam murmured unrepentantly. "Take a deep breath, Fox." He waited until the younger man had done so and let it out before releasing the pressure, and felt most of the knot leave with the air. He shifted his fingers, pressed, and murmured, "Again." He reached for Fox's other hand and smiled when Fox moved it to the small of his back without instructions or complaint.

Duncan's hands were rubbing small circles along Mulder's temples, soothing what he could of the pain Adam was causing. In a fairly sarcastic voice, he asked, "Almost done?"

"Mmm-hmm," Adam muttered. "Just... about... come on, Fox, one more breath." The gleaming, oil-painted back under his hands heaved and then relaxed as Adam's hands let go. "That seems to have taken care of that."

Duncan watched with a predator's focus as Fox seemed to sag in relief, muscles from the nape of his neck to the arches of his feet giving way. He looked like nothing so much as a cat which had just found the exact, perfect spot in a sunbeam. The Highlander could almost feel Methos' steady regard and refused to look up to that knowing smile. Instead their hands worked in unspoken unison, rubbing and soothing muscles back into place from neck to small of back.

In Gaelic, Duncan asked Methos, "I take it foxes purr?"

"This one does," Methos chuckled in the same language. "You get that arm, I'll get this one." They worked from shoulder point to fingertips, pacing each other without thinking about it, both of them now kneeling against Mulder's side. A steady buzzing, purring noise was in fact coming from the limp form between them, and Duncan smiled down at him, shaking his head in disbelief.

The Scot continued to stroke Mulder's palm, idly working between the metacarpals, and asked Methos in Gaelic, "Shall we tell the lad to roll over?"

"Are you joking, MacLeod? We're not done with this side yet." Methos switched to English and said calmly, "Feeling better, Fox?"

"God, you guys should market that," came the muffled response.

"No, that would take paperwork and fingerprints," Adam told him. "Right, peel the jeans off."

Duncan rolled his eyes and dramatically, if silently, smacked his forehead with one palm in the classic 'oh, why didn't I think of that?' motion. Fox snorted and stiffened for a moment under Adam's hands.

"Don't undo our work," Adam told him in a silky, authoritative tone. "Just peel the damn denims off so we can get to your legs."

"Adam...." Fox didn't get a chance to finish the protest; he was trying to figure out how to voice his objection without sounding like an idiot. Since he was having trouble remembering why he wanted to object, that was rather difficult.

"Fox? Where did you get the idea that Duncan's dense?"

"Your comments on the loft? Give me one good reason I should take off my pants when I'm lying between you and your lover."

"Because if you don't," Methos told him, "we'll stop."

Duncan's irritated question took a moment to filter through Fox's paranoia, only to shut down his defenses when he finally heard it. "What's wrong with my loft?"

Helpless laughter erupted from the FBI agent, until he was almost howling with it. Adam wants to strip me down, and he's asking about architecture?!

Adam's hands were tugging insistently at his waistband, and the only thing Duncan was doing was chuckling at Mulder's reaction. Almost without noticing it, Fox twisted to one side to let Adam loosen the button and zipper, and Duncan helpfully tugged the denim down his legs.

When he turned back with another throw blanket for Fox's back and chest, Adam had just finished wrestling Fox for his boxers as well. "Adam," Duncan growled, switching back to English for Fox's reassurance, "you're pushing this."

"Duncan, we can't very well give the man a proper rubdown with his clothes on," Adam pointed out in a tone of perfect reasonableness. "Besides, he's still laughing. Don't worry about it, just pass me that blanket so he doesn't freeze. Watch out for his feet, he's ticklish."

The purely matter of fact instructions coupled with Adam's blatant intent of seduction made Fox laugh even harder, shaking under their hands with release as he gave up on the suspicion and paranoia which were taking too much effort to maintain. I shouldn't trust them this much, but I do. Duncan's almost too gorgeous and too honorable to be real... but he is. I don't want to be alone, not when they're offering me something so much better.

Duncan's hand rubbed easily at one shoulder, and the agent had a moment to wonder how he could already recognize the difference between them before he heard the quiet comment, "We'll stop whenever you like, Fox, don't worry about that."

The obvious sincerity of the comment relaxed the last of Mulder's defenses and he acquiesced to his ongoing seduction gratefully. He knew full well that MacLeod had notbeen referring solely to the massage, and the other man's concern for him, and interest in him, was too real and too rare to be passed up. I may regret this later, but for tonight, I'm going to enjoy it.

A small part of his mind murmured, And if they turn out to be hiding Krycek?

Fox snapped at himself, Then I'll ask them why in the hell they did it. But Duncan wouldn't seduce a man to distract him. And shut up, anyway. Who asked you?

A soft, thick warmth descended onto his shoulders, drifting down to mid-thigh, and Fox sighed and gave himself over to their hands with an obvious contentment. "Where's the white flag?"

"What?" Duncan asked him, amused.

"The white flag. I surrender, I'm just wondering what the terms are."

"Fox, your mind may actually be more demented than mine. Congratulations," Adam told him as he worked on Mulder's feet. "And who said we're giving terms?"

"Adam," Duncan growled. "Of course we're giving terms." Methos had just started to give him a disapproving look when the Scot continued, "Unconditional surrender is a term. You're in good hands, Fox."

"So my back told me," came the snickering answer, only to break into another groan as the second set of hands caught his other foot. The atmosphere now was anticipatory, broken only by the occasional pop of the pine log in the fire, or a soft hiss of pain from Fox as a muscle gave way to their ministrations.

Duncan caught Methos' eye and asked in Gaelic, "Now what? This was your idea."

"My idea?" Adam snorted. "As if you haven't helped every inch of the way, MacLeod? Simple enough, though. We finish his legs and tell him he's going to have to move to the bed for the rest because I'm allergic to rug burns."

"Subtle," the Scot pointed out, his humor resurfacing. "Very subtle."

"You have a better idea?"

"Yes."

"Oh, this I have to see," Methos muttered as they continued to work. "Did you lock up the place when Joe left?"

"Of course," Duncan sighed. "I'm supposed to believe that you'd remember to?"

Methos ignored the slur on his reputation, aware that Fox wasn't catching a word of this. At least he's still awake. Not that I could sleep through Duncan's hands on me like that, either. His hands continued to work along Fox's hamstring, and it was taking conscious effort not to stroke along the mortal's inner thigh. At least Duncan seemed to be having the same problem.

Fox sighed and spread his legs farther to let them work, and Methos paused to take a deep breath against temptation. Duncan caught his eye and grinned at him, then reached over. One strong hand slid into Methos' waistband as the older immortal exhaled hastily to give him room to work. The Scot carefully rearranged his lover's cock in his pants, murmuring in Gaelic, "Just trying to make you more comfortable." The loving caress of palm along rapidly rousing erection and the anticipatory tracing of the Scot's own lips by his tongue, however, were not precisely... comforting.

Methos hissed at him, then hastily stroked Mulder's thigh, saying in English, "Sorry, Fox, relax. It's all right." The mortal laughed softly, as if he had some idea what the problem might be, but made no effort to look back and see what was going on.

Duncan knelt up and peeled his own sweater off, then placed one of Methos' hands on the leg the Scot had been working on. Methos stared at him in surprise as Duncan rolled smoothly to his feet and stripped off his own jeans, briefs, and socks. The clearly aroused Scot settled back into his previous place with that silent grace that years of martial arts imparted, one eyebrow raised in an obvious dare.

Methos reached over and freed his lover's hair from its band, finger-combing it into loose waves over his shoulders, before indicating with a swift head motion that Duncan should help with the massage so that Methos could also get... more comfortable, he repeated to himself, amused at this insanity. Still, he made a conscious effort to move as fluidly as the younger immortal, holding Duncan's gaze with his own as he made a minor production out of peeling his own worn jeans down his legs. The spike of lust he caught from the other man drew a wicked smile in return.

Mulder had felt them playing Chinese fire drill with the rubdown and heard the zippers in the silence of the room, but he grinned to himself and held still, willing to be patient. He'd enjoyed everything so far. Still, did they think he was oblivious? Come on, Adam, your hand's a different shape from Duncan's. It's kind of obvious who's doing what here. Well, sort of.

I have two naked men giving me a rubdown, both of them gorgeous.... What Scully wouldn't give to be where I am. Nah, who am I kidding, I don't think she'd be too happy that there are two of them. Guys, what are you up to?

His mind provided him a vivid memory of what Adam was probably 'up to' and began gleefully speculating on Duncan. Mulder was momentarily appalled that he'd obviously eyed the tall Scot so... thoroughly earlier. His own erection grew harder at the images, but Fox couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed. There was no doubt what was going on, and it was quite obviously voluntary and consensual, certainly on his part.

Duncan's hands had worked up to the sensitive crease where thigh turned to ass, and Mulder had been trying not to squirm against the firm, knowing touch. Just as he thought his self-control was going to give, the hands moved off him completely and Fox stifled a curse. Adam's hands also stopped and then the blanket was pulled down over his legs completely as they murmured something else in that same language. Adam sounded... fondly sarcastic? Duncan just sounded amused, both secretive and knowing, and Fox could hear him moving, feel the change in the heat on his skin from the fire as the broader man changed position.

Fox felt a finger tap him gently on one shoulder, the side that Duncan was on, so he turned his head to see what the tall Scot wanted. When he opened his eyes, Duncan was propped on one elbow next to him, one hand extended to cup his cheek. Fox met that intent, dark brown regard steadily as Duncan moved closer and closer, finally giving up and closing his eyes as an unfairly lush mouth descended on his, licked and teased his lips open, and kissed him as if time were going to stop for a few centuries to let them do it properly. With a soft moan, Fox first acquiesced to the exploration and then surrendered to it completely.

When Duncan finally pulled back, it was by a bare fraction of an inch, just enough to shift his target to the corner of Fox's mouth, licking and then nipping gently before blazing a trail of marks down to the jaw and back, heading to the sensitive spot at the point where jaw met throat as if Duncan had been there before and knew exactly the squirming reaction he'd get. Fox shuddered against the palm on his cheek, the warm hands kneading his back, and heard a husky whisper from Duncan.

"Bed?"

It sounded like the best plan since Alexander decided to cut that damned knot instead of untying it.

"I'm supposed to walk after that?" Fox protested, stalling to give himself time to recover.

The wicked smile in front of him told him the Scot had seen through his excuse. "I suppose I could carry you."

Adam chuckled behind him, a whiskey-rough, decadent sound that made promises Fox knew he could deliver on. "Come on, Fox. Or shall I dig out the tie?"

The immediate flush on Fox's face only widened Duncan's smile. "Ties, hmm? I suppose we could work with that, Adam. Shall I raid the wardrobe?"

"I'll walk," was the hasty, chuckling response. Fox would have been more worried if either of them had sounded serious. Duncan sounded... aroused, but not serious. Well, not yet.

Fox watched Adam walk over to the bed and peel back the sheets, admiring the long, lean body he'd explored once before on the opposite corner of the continent. Firelight on that sculptured form suited him, and the play of shadow across skin brought back some of his favorite memories. Warm arms wrapped around his waist from behind and Duncan settled his chin familiarly on Mulder's shoulder, pressing the length of that muscular body against Fox's side as his hair fell around Fox's neck.

The soft murmur by his ear blew warm breath across sensitive skin, as Duncan commented, "Aye, he's a sight by firelight, isn't he?"

"Why aren't you jealous?" The question slipped out before Fox really thought to censor it, and he tensed under the easy grip, expecting the worst.

"Because I don't own him," was the quiet answer. "I love Adam, and he me, but he's not my possession, and he's not a fool. He doesn't love lightly, and he doesn't give up his lovers lightly, either. The question was never was he going to bed with you, Sionnach. The question was whether you and I wanted me to be here. Do you?"

That's a question, Duncan? The insistent erection pressed against his ass told Fox that Duncan definitely wanted this. Do I, though? Warm arms around him, warm breath breezing gently across his cheek, freely offered strength around and behind him....

It was the safest Mulder had felt in ages, if he didn't count falling asleep this afternoon under Adam's guardianship; the most inclusive sensation since his Quantico class had successfully concluded the Yellow Brick Road; and the first time in his life that he thought someone had wanted him for himself. Not because my parents have money, not because I'm the American notch for an English garter belt, not because I'm 'Spooky' Mulder and the best way to manipulate any man is by his cock.... They don't want anything, they just want me.

"What's Sionnach mean?" he asked instead, apparently diverting the question. A soft chuckle rumbled past his ear.

"It's Gaelic for Fox."

Adam started rummaging through the bedside table, which seemed to involve an unfair amount of bending over, exposing that lovely ass; he eventually knelt next to it, which painted lines of firelight and shadow down his back.

Fox smiled as he said, "Yeah, I want you here. Just don't lose the coat check for my mind, I'll want it back in the morning."

"Going to plead temporary insanity on us? You mean you won't respect me in the morning?"

"Depends on how you do tonight, I guess," Fox chuckled, deliberately brushing his hip along the hard cock behind him as he turned around to let Duncan see the laughter in his eyes. The Scot's arms slid up his back, wrapping around his shoulders as one hand moved to cradle the back of his skull just under the hairline.

Fox brought his hands up the back of Duncan's thighs, tracing lightly up along the cheeks of his ass and settling them just along the top curve as he looked his fill at the other man, reluctantly stepping back from that fond embrace for the moment to be able to see. It was a sight worth the momentary loss of body heat. If Fox had thought firelight was kind to Adam, it loved Duncan, painting additional warmth on already golden skin. The faint flush might have been from the massage, or the fire, or perhaps from arousal.

Mulder's gaze moved slowly down, going from the clean lines of the face, softened by the waving hair, to the delineation of collarbone, running down chest muscles barely obscured by dark hair to the clean-cut abs. The line of body hair was the map he followed, wider on the chest, a narrow band down the belly, arrowing out again as it reached the now erect cock that told Fox that yes, Duncan wanted him. The callused hands lay on his shoulders, not Adam's, and those dark eyes were not looking at the bed but at someone closer that that. I'm not a replacement, and I'm not stealing Adam's place, and this is sure as hell not a pity fuck.

That low, amused voice held the faintest trace of the Gaelic burr as Duncan said softly, "We can still stop if you'd rather, Sionnach."

"Duncan, are you letting him get away?" Adam called from behind Fox.

"If he wants, yes, we are. Next question?"

"Do I look that crazy?" Fox asked, interrupting whatever Adam might have said.

Rumbling laughter approaching from behind answered that question. "Do you want an honest opinion, Fox?"

"Not really," Fox sighed, stepping into Duncan's welcoming embrace again. Adam's arms slid along his ribs below Duncan's grasp, long enough to wrap past Fox and enclose the Scot. For a moment all three of them stood there, Fox's head relaxed against Duncan's shoulder. He felt Adam's lips touch lightly at the nape of his neck, then heard that same affectionate laughter again.

"Now that I've made the ultimate sacrifice and stood naked in the cold so long, will you two get a move on? There's a perfectly comfortable bed over there."

Fox and Duncan exchanged looks of complete understanding. "Really, Adam? You don't say. What in the world would we do with...." The deliberate grind of an erection against his ass pressed Fox's cock even more tightly against Duncan's, and stopped Fox's words for a moment. His instinctive squirm between the two of them as he tried to maximize both sensations simultaneously would have made any belly dancer proud.

Duncan tilted his head just enough to nip at the exposed throat and ear beneath his mouth. "You were saying?"

"Bed. Now." Fox thought he was doing well to get those words out.

Methos slid his hands down to Fox's hips and started walking them both backwards, guiding the mortal carefully and resisting the mischievous impulse to count the steps out loud. This was not the time for samba. His mind was absently running through different ways to arrange the three of them for maximum satisfaction, hatching plans as he went.

Duncan matched his steps to Methos' guidance and concentrated on kissing Fox into oblivion. The poor man had no real idea that he'd stumbled onto five and a half millennia of combined experience, but he was certainly willing to take advantage of it. When he gives in to the moment, Sionnach does believe in unconditional surrender. Duncan laughed against his mouth and kept kissing him.

All three of them paused when they reached the bed, and Duncan broke off to reach for Adam. Fox watched in detached surprise as they kissed almost over and around him, both sets of hands still stroking him, connected to each other only by the exploring mouths and the almost tangible love between them. He would have expected to feel jealousy, and was surprised by its absence. His porn videos sometimes left him detached; this pulled him in, tugged him along, drew his hands up to stroke up each back, scratch down each spine, and nip at each throat in turn.

Adam finally broke away from Duncan's mouth and turned to Fox, murmuring, "Well, it's my turn, you have to admit."

Duncan tugged them both down onto the sheets, catching Fox as Adam pressed him back onto the mattress, settling the too-thin agent against his chest and exploring him with fingertips again. This time he wasn't looking for locked-in pain, but for access to pleasure, to where, exactly, and how, the other man preferred to be touched. A steady succession of startled-sounding groans and gasps of pleasure were escaping Adam's kiss, growing louder as he abandoned Fox's mouth and began to taste and bite at his throat and collarbone.

Skilled fingers tugged at Fox's nipples, played along his hips, as teeth scraped and nipped across shoulders and back, until he wasn't sure who was doing what. He certainly didn't care, at this point. His own hands were busy, caressing wherever they could reach, and his head was thrown back against the cotton sheets, too busy feeling to look at anything other than the dark behind his eyelids.

Sure hands arranged him, rolling Fox up onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm, and a warm, wet mouth traced a sure path down his torso. He heard soft laughter and almost opened his eyes, but the blunt, slick warmth that somehow tapped lightly against his lips was unmistakable. Fox opened his mouth, tongue extended to taste and trace the cock in front of him, teasing around the head for a long drawn-out moment before drawing it in with steady suction and a strong arm wrapped around the hips that he knew must be in front of him.

He heard Duncan gasp something against his belly that sounded like it must be obscene or profane and chuckled deep in his throat, knowing it would drive the other man mad as the vibrations were transmitted to the cock he suckled. Then it was his turn to gasp and shudder as his top leg was rearranged, knee drawn up to make room for slick fingers to slide in, twisting and probing and rubbing up against the prostate almost immediately.

Fox's throat and jaw relaxed automatically under the growing pleasure and he pressed further down on Duncan, taking more of his cock in, tongue sliding along the underside as he went. Those stroking fingers moved back and forth within him, both teasing and preparing, and he found himself speeding up the bobbing of his head. The Scot's tongue traced spirals and figure eight's along Fox's cock, teasing him as the fingers inside him did.

If his mouth hadn't been full, Fox would have yelped in surprise and pleasure when Adam replaced his fingers with his cock and Duncan simultaneously engulfed him. The brief moment of surprise as his body yielded to the invasion staved off imminent orgasm... barely. Hot, wet friction around his cock, tight, slick heat within him, and a hard, salty cock in his mouth were almost all he could feel. The teeth biting at his shoulder and the hands on his hip and nipple passed almost unnoticed in the rapid climb toward explosion.

Adam's voice behind him was chanting something, words he should almost know, as the cadence sped up, as the thrusts into him came faster and harder, rocking his own hips into Duncan's mouth, rocking him onto Duncan's cock in his own mouth.... Fox heard a word that he understood on some primal level meant 'Now, damn it,' and came harder than he could remember ever coming in this life and wondered, briefly, if he was leaving it. Then there was nothing in the world except lights exploding behind his eyes and fading to black.

Sometime after he finished swallowing and could let go of the death grip he'd transferred to Methos' hips just before he came, Duncan caught his breath and leaned back away from Fox. The slack body in front of him was at least breathing. "Is he conscious?"

Methos sounded sleepy and smug simultaneously. "Nope. Have fun?"

"Yup," Duncan deliberately mimicked. "Who's in the middle?"

"He is. I don't have the energy to move him."

"You have to. You'll have to get a pillow under him."

"What are you going to do?" Methos asked, obviously trying to dodge any kind of effort just now.

"Get you a washcloth. If you'd rather wake up sticky...."

"Go on, MacLeod. I'll get him," was the sighed complaint.

When Duncan got back from staggering to the bathroom, he tossed Methos the hot, damp cloth and turned to bank the fire for the night. After a minute he heard the familiar faint thump behind him, and the exultant mutter of "Three points. Maybe I should go out for the NBA."

"Not a chance, old man," Mac chuckled as he strode back to the bed. A soft wolf-whistle from his lover sparked a smile across his face.

"And you say I'm gorgeous by firelight?" Methos purred. "You should see yourself."

"You are," Duncan told him quietly as he pulled the covers up over the two men in the bed.

"I think Sionnach here Sees you clearly, too," Methos sighed, spooning behind Fox and wrapping an arm over him towards Duncan.

The Scot settled under the covers, pulling the comforter up over the two men in front of him before draping an arm and leg over Fox and wrapping fingers around Methos' upper arm. "What brought on the Greek, anyway? Usually if you slide out of English, it's into something I can't recognize."

"Greek? Really?" Methos asked in sleepy interest. "Ask me tomorrow, I'll think of some good excuse. Sleep well, Highlander."

"And you, gradhach." A minute's silence was broken by an uneasy chuckle, and Duncan added thoughtfully, "So. Do you think he'll respect us in the morning?"

"We knocked him out. I would."

"Good point. Night."

"How does Mulder find things like this?" Frohike asked his computer screen.

"I don't know," Langly muttered as he put down his coffee mug without noticing the caffeine was almost too hot to be drinkable. "But I hope he finds more like this one. It's more interesting than the cult he had us looking into last month that thought alien abductions are really test runs for the Rapture. Did you see some of these photos?"

"Amanda Montrose? I saw. She doesn't need to steal; men should line up to give her the money," Frohike answered reverently. "Take a look at this one, though."

Over Byers' muttered complaint that research didn't have to involve leering, Langly turned to see the image on Frohike's terminal and blinked. "Damn. That's almost an X-File by itself. Someone managed to look human for a driver's license photo?"

"Yeah," Frohike grinned. "Aidan Logan traded in a New York license for a Washington one. Interesting, though; it looks like the name's bogus. I don't find anything for her once I go more than, oh, seventeen years back."

"So? She's, what? Twenty-five?"

"Immunizations? School records? And according to her date of birth on the first papers, she should be coming up on forty. Does she look forty to you?"

Langly shrugged and, completely deadpan, suggested, "She uses Oil of Olay?"

"Maybe this is evidence that cryogenics can be reversed?" Byers offered, interested now. "Or did she take over Aidan Logan's identity because of a resemblance? What does Mulder think of her, Langly?"

"Said he couldn't tell us much about her. He may not have met her yet, come to think about it, 'cause he usually says more than that. But that's nothing. Have you guys seen the stuff on Cory Raines?"

"Nah, what about him?"

"Even weirder than the mystery lady, there. Get this. I've got a few pictures of him, here and there, and there's always a major robbery going on nearby. What got really interesting, though, was this one. Come see this picture. Somebody in South Dakota's been putting the town newspaper on the net."

"Langly? That says... 1926," Byers finished, staring at the screen as the picture finished loading. "Oh, my."

"Mmm-hmm. Looks like the same two idiots who robbed Sam Grinkhov, and man, does she look hot in that stuff. Who knew '20s dresses let women have curves? I mean, Grapes of Wrath never looked this good," Langly grinned. "Take a look, though: 'Five State Spree Ends.' They were robbing banks and armored cars from Missouri to South Dakota. Is this a family career, you think? Their grandkids got back together?"

"Well, it's that or Krycek's related to Superman and never ages. Tell me that Mulder is sure this guy isn't Krycek." Frohike frowned even as he asked, "How far back does the colonization project go?"

Byers said, "World War Two, we think. But Alex Krycek and Cory Raines are probably two separate people. I can place them in two different places while Krycek was at Quantico. Unless he was important enough, even then, to have one of the morphing aliens doubling for him, I don't think this man is Krycek."

"Clone?" Frohike suggested.

"Possible, but not likely. If they lost a clone, they certainly wouldn't allow it to stay this visible," Byers pointed out. "You don't get much more noticeable than robbing the Federal Reserve in Kansas City."

"He did that job?" Frohike asked in surprise. "The 1990 heist?"

"We've got a partial match on the face again," Byers told him.

Langly grinned. "Get this, though; they lost $2.1 million, right? Over the next two weeks, 'mysterious' donations came in to Boys Club, St. Mary's Orphanage, and the Neo-Natal Intensive Care department of the Baptist hospital. The received anonymous donations totaled $2 million."

"Did the government try to get the money back?"

"They decided the publicity would be... adversely expensive," Byers commented, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"But it's the same guy?" Frohike asked, getting back onto the subject.

"I'll do image overlays for these," Byers shrugged, "but they look the same to me. Well, barring the fact that he's a very well-preserved nonagenarian."

Langly rolled his eyes. "Right. You check that and start on this MacLeod; I'm gonna see what else I can find on Ms. Montrose. I wanna see how a jewel thief from the '80s and '90s can be a dead ringer for a bank robber from the '20s."

Byers found himself wishing, wistfully, that Mulder had given them even one more female name. Somehow, it just wasn't fair that Langly and Frohike kept getting to look at the ladies....

Fingers combing hair back off his forehead woke Mulder, and he lay still for a moment, trying to remember who'd be in his apartment, and then trying to figure out who was guarding his back and why he felt safe. A whispered comment of "Go back to sleep. I'm just going for a run," slowly filtered in and his mind kicked back out an identification. Oh, right. Duncan.

Then he woke up.

I'm in Duncan's bed. Last night was real. That's Adam at my back. Right. I need coffee. Or a long run. By myself, though, I think. He blinked a couple times and managed a sleepy, "Go run." To his surprise, Duncan leaned down and brushed a light kiss across his forehead, which, granted, was about all that was sticking out from under the blankets. Then the Scot was gone, and Mulder lay there watching dust motes in the sunbeams as his mind debated the comparative merits of work and sleep.

Adam's warmth against his back, though, was distraction enough, and at last Mulder gave up and admitted to himself that, yes, he was awake and apparently was going to stay that way. I might as well go run, he groused to himself. At least that way, I'll get some thinking done. His muscles were pleasantly loose already, a silent testimonial to Duncan and Adam's skills and a reminder of the activities of the night before, and he eased himself out of bed reluctantly.

Behind him Adam muttered something that sounded like it had the word morning in it, before he pulled the covers more firmly over himself and subsided back into sleep. From the tone, Mulder rapidly concluded that Adam considered this time of day something he'd really rather miss, all things considered. However, after a six hour nap the night before, and what looked like probably another six hours after they had knocked him out, Mulder was wide awake again.

He smiled as he pulled on sweats and running shoes, thinking, Twelve hours? Can't say I'm not catching up on my sleep on this 'vacation'. He slung his wallet, badge and gun into a fanny pack and eased out the door next to the elevator; finding stairs down to the parking lot took only a minimum of work. His watch read 5:50 and Mulder shrugged mentally as he pulled his map out of the rental car. The dojo sign had said they opened at 7:30, and he should be back from running by then.

The drive to the nearest park went smoothly. His body was still so relaxed from the massage -- And other things, he silently admitted -- that the run was the kind of effortless joy that made being awake at this time of the morning a pleasure. And as it so often did, running let Mulder piece together stray thoughts and observations into a more coherent picture.

All right, until the Gunmen come through with something, or Scully does, I might as well stay put; no sense in moving before I have someplace to move to. The guys will call if they find that little rat bastard, although damn if I know how Krycek vanished like that. Still, it's only been two days. He'll turn up somewhere. He nodded to the tall woman running in the opposite direction, aware that she'd passed him twice now on the one mile path.

As for last night.... I wonder. Did Duncan know I'd have told Adam no? Maybe. But I'm glad he made the offer. I'm even more glad I said yes. What they were discussing while they were rubbing me down, though? I'm not surprised Adam speaks French, although Rich did surprise me. Fast, too, and certainly not the formal French I learned back in high school. Was he in Canada or France, I wonder? Maybe some of the Caribbean islands, or New Orleans, I suppose.

But that wasn't French Duncan and Adam were using last night. Scottish, maybe? Duncan said Sionnach is Gaelic. Actually, I don't mind that name; for that matter, I don't mind Adam calling me Fox. I wonder why not?

Mulder laughed softly at that, unamused. Probably because the man can make morning sound like a blasphemy, but he makes Fox sound like someone he wants to see. That's... a pleasant change. I can't stay here long; I don't want the Consortium thinking they're that important to me. Hell, if the Consortium even cares, now that I'm tracking fertilizer. But I won't take that kind of chance, with Adam or Duncan. Although I think they'd find either of those two tougher than they expected.

Marc circled around Duncan warily, bastard sword gripped in both hands and his knees flexed to keep his center of gravity low. He was watching the other man's torso as much as his blade and cursing whatever had the Scot in such an energetic mood this morning. Already, the session wasn't going well, and Marc had the slashed shirt and oil-stained arms to prove it.

Almost casually Duncan batted his sword aside -- again -- with a sound like bells chiming, and let the back of his blade slide across his bicep as he withdrew. "You're keeping your point down, Marc, and leaving yourself wide open from sternum up. Your blade should be angled for my throat, not my chest. Keep in mind I'm taller than Aidan."

The young black man nodded, face intent, and brought his sword up to the correct angle. So far this morning, he'd gotten comments on his footwork, his grip, his stance, and now his point work. Great. I know what I'm doing this morning. Point work, sword forms, and more point work. Bleah.

"Better. Now, again," and Duncan came at him, pressing Marc back onto the defensive immediately with a flurry of attacks. All too soon, the blows pushed Marc's blade down and again, he didn't raise it quickly enough. This time the Highlander deliberately came over the top of Marc's weapon and nicked his upper arm, near the pectoral. He stepped back, circling away, and repeated, "Keep your blade up, Marc. You're taller than I am; your arms are longer. Use them."

Marc nodded again, not bothering to argue. He had an inch of height on Duncan, yes, but the Scot had at least twenty pounds of muscle he didn't, and over four hundred years of practice that Marc couldn't even begin to match. He concentrated more intently on blocking Duncan's shots, deflecting them, or angling his blade to throw the other man's katana off and away. His footwork had improved dramatically after eight months with Aidan, as had his fighting, but Duncan had apparently decided that he needed work on his defense.

This is not going to be one of my better mornings, he thought as he barely held off another sequence of attacks that spun him around to face the sun coming through the windows. Marc later decided that the opinion had in fact been prophecy. Because his blade dipped again, the angle ingrained in his muscles from months of working primarily against his shorter, female, teacher, and Duncan immediately slid past it and ran his katana through the younger immortal's chest.

Duncan caught Marc's blade before it could hit the floor, shifting the angle on his own blade so that Marc would slide off it as he fell. His expression was grim, brown eyes serious as he watched the younger man's shocked face as he died. And then from behind him came the last words he expected or wanted to hear.

"FBI! Freeze, damn it!"

Mulder's gun never wavered, but his face was horrified as he stared at Duncan who stood there, back to him and a sword in each hand. The curved one was still dripping blood onto the hardwood floor. The agent had come back up the steps to the dojo and assumed that the motorcycle chained to the building was Rich's, then seen Marc and Duncan sparring with swords. And with no warning, and so far as Mulder could see, no remorse, Duncan had simply... run Marc through.

The slim young black man was clearly dead, chest not moving under the blood-stained t-shirt, but Mulder had to check. "Put the swords down, MacLeod, and move over to the wall."

Duncan held his arms out from his sides before he lowered himself to one knee and carefully put the swords down on the floor. The tall man stood back up just as slowly, turning to look at Mulder. "Fox... this isn't what it looks like."

"I'll check that for myself, thanks," came the tautly-controlled reply as Mulder used his gun barrel and his chin to indicate the bench on the far side of the room. "Over there. Hands behind your head and keep them there. I'm not going to underestimate what you could do."

The Scot moved where he'd been told, and laced his fingers at the back of his neck as he tried to reassure the mortal. "A deal, then. Wait ten minutes, and then you can do anything you think necessary."

Mulder stared at him over Marc's body, his free hand resting lightly on the young man's throat. There was no pulse under his fingers and he knew the shock and hurt he felt had to show somewhere in his face. But he knelt there, smelling the fresh blood in the morning air, tainting the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee coming from the office, and couldn't manage to come out with words just yet to answer Duncan's insane request. His stomach roiled, and all he could manage to say was, "I can't begin to figure out why you did this."

Duncan sighed, eyes closing for a moment in reverie or supplication, and then said quietly, "Ten minutes. Please."

"What, in ten minutes you're going to come up with a believable excuse?" Mulder snapped. "Think faster. You're under arrest, Duncan MacLeod, for the murder of Marc Scipio. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose not to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?"

The Scot looked at the floor for a moment, but the slight smile still showed. "I've heard them once or twice. I know what my rights are." He raised his head and looked Mulder directly in the eyes, nothing but sympathy and concern on his own face. "Please, Mulder, for your sake, give me ten minutes."

"What in the hell is going to happen in ten minutes?" Mulder asked angrily, face frozen and gun never wavering off-target.

"Non habebis corpus," Duncan muttered.

"What?" Hazel eyes widened as college Latin clicked through Mulder's mind; it only took only a few seconds for him to translate the changes in the common legal phrase. "What do you mean I won't have a body?"

And under his hand he felt a wild flutter of pulse before Marc's body convulsed, coughing in racking spasms that hurt Mulder to hear. Marc curled onto his side, wrapping around himself as he continued to cough weakly, blood trickling from his mouth as he spat out a word Mulder had heard once or twice in his life. "Vaffanculo, Duncan, what did you do that-- "

The young Italian had flopped onto his back as he spoke and opened his eyes to look directly at Mulder. The words died in his throat as Marc took in Mulder's pallor, the gun in one hand, and the blood on the other. The young immortal closed his eyes and muttered, "Merda. No, finire in merda. Fortuna, sei la una vaffanculo puttana che apre le gambe. Ah, maledizione!"

"Your grandmother would wash your mouth out with soap, Marc," Duncan pointed out calmly. "Can I put my hands down while we talk about this, Fox?"

Mulder backed away from Marc, careful not to lose his precarious balance physically or mentally. "Marc?"

"Yeah, Fox?"

"What just happened?"

The young man glanced at Duncan hastily, at Mulder, then back at Duncan who finally shrugged and gave the most infinitesimal of nods. If Fox hadn't been watching for it, he'd have never seen it. "I screwed up and he needed to make a point, I'd guess. Dropped my point again, huh, Duncan?"

"I gave you two warnings," the Scot told him. "You know the routine."

"Yeah, but I wasn't exactly expecting-- " Marc shut up hastily at the look on Duncan's face and only said very levelly, "Yes, sir."

Mulder said in an oddly calm voice, "Ten minutes?"

"I wasn't sure how long it would take him to revive," the Scot told him quietly. "Marc. Go get some towels and clean up this mess, then call Rich and tell him I need him to take the morning classes."

Marc glanced back and forth between Duncan, who was still standing with his hands behind his head, and Mulder, who still had his gun out, although at least he wasn't pointing it at anyone now. "Um...."

"Go."

"Yes, sir." He rolled up to his feet, stripping off the trashed shirt as he moved and sopping the remaining blood off his chest with it.

"Marc -- stop. Come back here," Mulder snapped, his voice strained. To his surprise, Marc did just that.

"Could you put that down? I really don't feel like dying again this morning." But Marc's voice was very gentle, almost sympathetic, as he indicated the gun with a lazy motion of the cloth-filled hand.

Mulder reached out with his free hand and traced the rapidly vanishing mark on the younger man's chest, then yanked his hand back with a muffled curse. "What was that?" The hairs on his wrist and hand were standing straight up, although he had no idea why or how touching Marc had sent an electric shock across his fingertips.

"It's how we heal," Marc told him, then winced. "Ah, shit."

"Does it hurt?"

"It sure doesn't feel good! Four inches of steel through the chest hurts like hell, Fox. Look, I've got to get this cleaned up, we're gonna have customers in here soon. C'mon, go upstairs with Duncan and get some breakfast, and let him explain it to you, okay? He wasn't... well, he was trying to kill me, but not quite the way you usually think of it, all right? He wouldn't have hurt me permanently."

"I've put too much time in on you," Duncan said dryly. "And I don't think you're helping much here."

Mulder turned to the Scot, only then realizing just how careful he'd been. Duncan hadn't moved an inch from where he stood; his hands were still behind his head. And the look on his face was one of sympathy for the FBI agent, rather than concern for his own status, when Fox asked, "Will you explain this? Or are you just going to put me off, pretend it didn't happen?"

That got a quick, rueful smile. "You'd never believe us if we both told you it didn't happen. Come upstairs and get a shower while I make some breakfast. I'll tell you what's going on."

"Next you're going to tell me it's nothing illegal," came the sarcastic comment.

"More that it's outside normal laws," Duncan told him gravely. "But it has its own laws, Fox. You have my word: I'm not going to try to hurt you, and I will try to explain what you saw. But let's go upstairs for this."

"Marc? You're sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just screwed up, Fox, it's no big deal. I fuck up all the time, trust me. Duncan was only making a point."

"That's a lousy pun," Mulder muttered absently.

"Hey, it's the truth. Go on, Fox. I'll be up in a few minutes, as soon as Rich can get here to take the classes, okay?" Oddly wise amber eyes studied the agent before Marc added quietly, "You're not asking if I'm okay. You're asking if you can still trust Duncan. Watch." And he tossed the swords to Duncan one at a time, easy underhand throws that the tall Scot caught out of the air as he finally moved.

Marc moved to stand immediately in front of the re-armed man who had just killed him and said, "Yes, Fox. I still trust him. So can you. Go upstairs and get a shower; you smell as bad as I do. Leave me some hot water," he added as he ducked under the blades to go get cleaning supplies from the men's locker room, leaving a shell-shocked FBI agent in his wake.

"He gets a bit dramatic," Duncan said quietly, "but he means well. Are you all right?"

"I'm not the one covered in blood."

Duncan just cocked his head, brown eyes intent and concerned. "Your hand is. And you're paler than you were yesterday when you hadn't slept. Do you need to sit down?"

"I just...." Mulder stared at the blood on the floor, the gun in his hand, and the tall man in front of him. I just arrested him at gunpoint, and he's worrying about me? What the hell is going on around here? I didn't see a rabbit hole....

"Does Adam know...." Mulder gestured at the floor, then the swords, running out of words for once in his life.

"He knows," Duncan told him quietly. "It's not really something to talk about much, though. Do you want breakfast?"

Mulder gave up and clicked the safety into place on his gun before putting it back in the fanny pack. "Let's start with coffee and work from there," he acquiesced. Silence rode in the elevator with them, an irritating, near-tangible problem as Mulder's thoughts ran across topics and questions. Duncan simply looked resigned.

The grate on the freight elevator rose into the air with a rattle that made Mulder wonder absently why Duncan needed warnings about visitors. The noise made Adam roll over, propping up on one elbow to look down the length of the room at them. Mulder could see the instant he came fully awake, sleepy irritation dropping away to the alert, intent expression that Adam had worn while walking through a hurricane in Florida.

But those sharp eyes tracked from his hand to Duncan's contained worry, from the no-doubt still shocked look on his face to Duncan's unstained clothes. "Of all the mornings for you to get serious about Marc's training," Adam asked caustically, "you had to pick this one?"

"Training?" Mulder said incredulously. "Training?!" He glared at Duncan. "Marc was dead."

Duncan ignored that for the moment and pointed out to Adam, "Yes, and it's your turn to explain."

"Oh, no, you don't. Besides, it's Erin's turn."

Mulder stepped into the kitchen, wondering if he needed his gun after all. "I want to know why in hell I shouldn't get someone in here to check the dojo floor for bloodstains."

Adam casually said, "It's a dojo, Fox. People take bruises and cuts in training if they're serious about it. The only thing I'm worried about is whether any of it's yours. And, Duncan, you're explaining this to Erin, not me."

"Why me?" Duncan countered. "I need a shower. You're the one who hasn't gotten up yet."

"Because you're the immortal," Adam shot back and restrained his smile as that yanked Fox's attention away from calling the police.

"He's the what?" Fox spluttered, eyes wide and any call to the police forgotten completely.

Duncan watched Mulder spin to face Methos and had to hide a smile as he realized what he'd just done. Marc's cover was blown; almost certainly so was Duncan's. But this way 'Adam' was still mortal. Good. The longer we keep 'Adam's' cover, the safer Methos stays. And the longer he'll stay with me.

The Scot put the swords on the counter and deliberately used an irritated tone of voice to say, "Oh, thanks so much, Adam. She was your friend first."

"Yes, which is why I'm telling you that you get to call her. Fox, are you sure none of that's yours?"

"You said he's immortal," Fox repeated, clearly unwilling to drop the point.

"Yes, I did. I'm also saying that this story will make more sense if we get you cleaned up and coffee in all of us." Methos deliberately stretched cat-style, first leaning onto his arms to stretch his back and hips, then sitting back, arms still out, to get his shoulders and upper back. And that it distracts Fox is completely irrelevant, of course.

He stood, all lean muscle and naked skin, and told Duncan, "I'm stealing the shower while you call Erin. Why do I have the feeling that under the circumstances you don't want your back washed, Fox?"

The wary look in the mortal's eyes made Methos want to sigh or flinch; obviously Mulder had his guard up again. Understandable under the circumstances, but frustrating.

"No thanks, Adam." Mulder managed a more normal smile as he added, "I've noticed that taking a shower with you isn't exactly conducive to thinking clearly, and I really need to think."

Methos shrugged, ignoring Duncan's chuckle, and pointed out, "Look on the bright side, Fox. It's not like a crime's been committed."

"Yeah, well, he may not have stayed dead but I just saw a murder," Fox replied immediately, only to frown as he saw Duncan restrain a flinch; he didn't think it was just because of the on-going phone conversation. "Look, Duncan, you may have known Marc would revive, but I didn't. Either way, it's a stronger jolt than caffeine, okay? Go get your shower, Adam. I'm going to want some answers from someone this morning." He paused then added more quietly, "Because I get the feeling you two don't want me to look into this on my own."

Duncan shook his head vehemently at that and turned from his phone conversation, saying into the receiver, "Erin, hold on just a second." He put one hand over the phone and told Fox, "If she won't come tell you, Fox, yes, I will. But don't go looking into this; it might just get you killed."

"Is that a threat, Duncan?" Fox's voice was level and grimly professional; his hand didn't quite move toward his fanny pack and Methos had no doubt that he was armed and debating pulling his weapon.

Methos waved Mac back to his call before Erin had apoplexy by remote and told Fox quietly, "No, Fox, it wasn't a threat. Not from Duncan. He's both honorable and law-abiding. A great many immortals, however, are neither. If they caught you investigating them, they'd torture you to see what you'd found out, then kill you. It happened to a friend of mine."

"Many-- how many immortals are there, Adam? What's going on here?" Fox sat down on the couch, still intently focused on what they were saying even as his world shifted on its axis again.

Methos sighed, seeing his shower receding into the distance, and commented, "Right. Half a moment if you don't mind. I just got up and could stand to use the bathroom. For that matter, why don't you come talk to me while I shower? It would give you a chance to get the blood off your hand," he added.

He could almost see the thoughts whirling through Mulder's eyes and frowned. Oh, this is going to get tricky. I do not want him to start Seeing things on this, which means the entire day, maybe the entire visit, is going to be spent in misdirection. Lovely. Methos moved into the bathroom anyway, hearing Duncan's voice get louder in the other room as he tried to cope with Erin Shea's early morning temper.

A few seconds after flushing the toilet, he heard someone walk in behind him and then the water began running in the sink, too. Methos continued to check the water temperature in the shower, not wanting to spook Fox any further this morning.

"Did they just size this shower off the ones downstairs for plumbing convenience, or is Duncan a closet hedonist?" Mulder asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"What do you mean 'closet'?" Methos snickered, accepting the peace offering of a neutral topic. "Have you looked at his wardrobe? The man lives in silks, cottons, and wools. He's a sensualist to the bone."

That drew a soft laugh. Methos stepped into the shower and turned the spray up before Fox commented, "Are you going to tell me anything? Or just try to scare me off and give me the runaround?"

"We'll tell you," Methos promised firmly. "But I want a shower first, thank you. And it's Erin's turn to tell someone what's going on, so I'm sticking her with the job."

"Who's this Erin? Other than a lady with one hell of a temper, judging from Duncan's side of that conversation."

"Joe is dating a short redhead with a temper. And she's undoubtedly furious that we hadn't told her you were in town. But no, she is not, thank heaven, an immortal."

"I'm not even going to touch that one right now," Mulder muttered, low enough that Methos barely heard him over the water. "Adam -- why isn't Duncan explaining this, or you? Who's this Erin and why am I waiting for her? And what's an immortal, anyway?"

"Erin is neither immortal nor sleeping with an immortal, Fox, which makes her a bit less...biased a witness. And the two of you have a great deal in common. Trust me on this much; once she starts talking, you'll understand why she's the one explaining it all to you. As soon as she calms down that is," Methos finished more softly.

"I need to call my partner," Mulder said, apparently apropos of nothing.

Water splashed across the walls as Methos stuck his head out from under the spray to look at the mortal. "Did that follow from the previous conversation? And are you going to try to explain this to Dr. Scully before you know what's going on?"

"My partner," Fox explained patiently, "is also a short redhead with a temper."

"Ah." Methos moved back under the water.

"And no, I'm not going to tell her anything yet. For one thing, what am I going to tell her, Adam? That I saw a man killed, but didn't call the police? Why didn't I call the police? Well, Scully, he's not dead anymore." Mulder snorted and sat down on the toilet lid. "Do I look stupid enough to want to listen to a lecture on how to tell if it's really a corpse, followed by questions about what saint am I attributing this miracle to? No, thanks."

Methos scrubbed shampoo into his hair and commented, "I take it she's Catholic."

"Yeah. She... had a close call recently. She takes her religion pretty seriously lately."

Methos tilted his head back to rinse the shampoo out and let the conversation lag for a few minutes while he soaked under hot water. Only after he was in the middle of shaving, eyes half-closed, did he point out, "You're in a dangerous profession, Fox. If she's a pathologist, then she has a fairly sharp mind of her own and knows it. Why do you sound like you're blaming yourself for that close call?"

"Have you considered hanging out a shingle?"

"No." Methos rinsed the razor out and cleared another patch of shaving cream while waiting for the answer. He had more patience than Fox and this seemed important. The annoyed, defensive tone of voice told him that much.

"We got a little too close to something when I had the X-Files. She was kidnapped. Vanished for three months."

Fox's tone flattened as he spoke, holding deliberately to facts untainted by emotion or involvement, and Methos' skin crawled. Survivor's guilt, and war trauma. Lovely.

Fox paused momentarily, then went on in the same intolerably flat voice. "About a year later, we found an implant in her neck. A microchip of some kind. She had it removed. She developed cancer almost immediately afterwards. I... acquired another chip for her."

And it cost you more than you want to discuss, Methos recognized immediately, hearing all sorts of events left unsaid in that bare-boned recital. Old guilts, mistakes taken to heart as unforgettable, wounds that hadn't healed and might never close completely... those were there, but not in the words. "And?" he asked quietly, prodding Fox back into speech, trying to ease some of the contained pressure he sensed.

"Her cancer went into remission the day after we implanted the new chip," Mulder answered tonelessly. "It had metastasized, but it went into remission."

No wonder he's paranoid, then. I didn't think cancer did that. I wonder if she's been injured since? No, he would have noticed if she were immortal. Fox doesn't miss nearly enough, I don't think.

"And Adam?" Fox deliberately changed the subject, clearly trying to find something more pleasant to discuss. "Why is Erin going to be furious that I'm in town? Do you introduce her to all your old lovers?"

"You're hardly old," came the spray-muffled reply before Adam turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. "Pass me the towel, would you? I left you hot water if you want to get in."

"You're dodging the question," Fox pointed out, eyes almost amused.

"Erin is an old friend of mine. Where I met her, and why she's going to be furious, are both tied in with why she gets to explain all of this to you," Methos told him calmly as he tousled his hair mostly dry. "So yes, I'm dodging the question. Would you rather I discussed the Redskins' chance to make the playoffs?"

"If we're going to discuss sports, we can talk about why the Hoyas are going to the Final Four this year," Fox groused, stripping off his own clothes after hanging his fanny pack next to the shower. "You going to stay here and talk to me?"

Methos gave him a wry grin as he continued to towel himself dry. "Afraid I'm going to collaborate with Duncan on our story?" And I see you're keeping your gun within reach. You are paranoid enough to be immortal, Fox. I hope you rub off on Duncan and Marc.

"Afraid? No." Fox turned the water back on, setting it a bit cooler than Methos had, before adding, "But why take chances? Besides, it's your turn to talk to me."

"What about?"

"Coincidences, I suppose," Fox answered. "Paranoia, maybe. Why don't you tell me who knows about this, so I'll know who not to ask?"

That got a chuckle. "And if I tell you that, Fox, then you're going to keep pushing for why they know, and I'll still end up telling you things I'm not supposed to. Why don't we try coincidence instead?"

"What were you doing in Key West, then?"

Methos raised an eyebrow as he pulled on a bathrobe. "You don't pull punches, do you? I was vacationing, Fox. I wasn't looking for you, didn't even know you were on the island. I was simply taking a break from everything and didn't feel like leaving for a hurricane when my house had handled plenty of them in its day. What were you doing down there?"

"Getting away from everything and everybody to a town where I didn't have any memories and no one was going to ask me anything more important than did I want to sleep with them that night," came the grim answer. You know -- taking a vacation."

"Aside from the memories, nice shot. I take it you're angry I didn't tell you anything about this?"

"How long have you and Duncan been together?" Mulder asked, his voice still clear despite the fact that he had his back to Methos as he scrubbed sweat out of his hair.

"Off and on, since September a year ago. As much off as on, unfortunately. He had to take a few months to take care of some family problems and I was... angry about it. He didn't want company and I took that a bit personally."

"Was that why you were in Key West?"

Methos noticed that Fox's voice had lost some of its harshness. "Yes. I wanted to bury myself in books, beaches, and beer for a little while. So I did." He combed his hair into a semblance of order and pulled out a toothbrush.

"So you didn't sleep with me just to get even with him?"

"No, Fox," Methos said patiently. "I seduced you because we were both lonely and because I wanted you."

"No strings, no agendas, no nothing?" came the faintly surprised question.

"No. No strings, no agenda, no devious machinations." Methos chuckled. "Just a hard-on over a good-looking man with a sense of humor as warped as my own."

"You only love me for my mind?" But Mulder was chuckling himself under the hot water.

"Of course not. It's a very nice package, too. Fun to unwrap," Methos added cheerfully. "Next question?"

"Why do I trust you? Even when you say things like that, even when Duncan kills someone in front of me?"

"I've no idea," Methos told him bluntly, shifting to a more sober mood himself. "It seems to run both ways, though. I don't usually tell people nearly this many unadorned facts, myself."

"What do you usually tell them?"

"I'm a passable story-teller. Helps keep college classes focused on the assignment of the day," Methos said blandly. "Rinse your hair, Fox, and give me a moment to get my teeth clean, would you?"

Duncan knocked on the door and called through, "Coffee's ready and breakfast will be on the table in five minutes. Erin, by the way, will be here in fifteen."

Mulder raised his voice over the shower to tell him, "Out in a minute, Duncan."

"And Marc wants to know if you left him any hot water or does he have to shower downstairs?"

"Last night, you said it held forty minutes or so; there should be enough hot water left for you," Mulder called. "Marc may want the one downstairs." He turned the water off and began to sluice drops off his skin from long habit of using hotel towels that were never absorbent enough, or big enough.

Methos passed him a bath sheet, pleasure lighting his eyes at Mulder's startled half-grin. Quickly rinsing his mouth out, he opened the door enough to ask Duncan, "Yes, but is Marc up here now?"

"No, he's down keeping the dojo open. You won't shock him by getting dressed out here," Duncan teased.

"This time." Methos smiled wryly. "I didn't know he could blush like that."

"What happened?"

"He was out here fixing himself some coffee when we came out of the shower one morning, and let's just say he found our state a little embarrassing."

"Naked, horny, or both?" Mulder asked with a grin.

"Tenting out the towels," Methos commented dryly, "and arguing about whether to soak the sheets or the rug by the fireplace."

Mulder did laugh at that idea. "Let me guess. Grabbed his coffee mug and beat a hasty retreat?"

"Mmm-hmm," Duncan agreed, a little red himself but grinning. "It was empty, too."

"He did leave us good coffee at least," Methos reminded the Scot.

"I do need to call Scully, tell her I'm all right," Mulder told him.

"You know, Fox, if I hadn't seen your scars, I might think your partner worried too much," Methos answered. "Since I have, I understand her attitude perfectly. Go call her; we'll save you some breakfast."

Duncan reached out, apparently without thinking about it, and used the towel in Mulder's hand to pat the lingering drops of water off his shoulders. "Go on, Sionnach. Get dressed; call your partner. We'll be over in the kitchen."

Mulder shook his head. "I'll make it fast, Duncan. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Duncan told him quietly. "Thank you for trusting us."

"Wait until I start asking questions."

"Start?" Methos snorted.

Methos looked at him and said seriously, "Start. This was nothing, Adam."

"No wonder you're in the FBI," Methos muttered.

A redheaded temper did seem like a fairly good description, Mulder decided as he came back in from talking to his partner. Erin Shea reminded him a lot of Scully. Her hair had a bit more gold in it than Scully's, and some silver at the temples, but the blue eyes shot off sparks the way Scully's did. She was a few years older than Scully, probably somewhere close to his own age, but she faced down both Duncan and Adam the same way his partner ran over obstructive local police and obnoxious district attorneys: hands on hips and comments flying.

At the moment, whatever she was saying to them was almost certainly insulting and definitely not in English. Mulder couldn't help chuckling at the difference in heights; both Adam and Duncan were a head and some taller. For all the good it was doing them. They looked like two hounds who'd been backed into a corner by a cat and weren't sure whether or not it had claws.

She cut off in mid-comment when Mulder laughed, glanced over at him, looked back at the two miscreants, then audibly growled. It sounded like someone had misplaced one of the great cats from the local zoo. If it had been aimed at Mulder, he might very well have backed up or at least looked around for his gun.

"Fine. I'll finish explaining your lineage and sexual habits to you two in small words and simple concepts later. I'm assuming you need time to grasp the details explained so far," she finished sarcastically.

Turning to Mulder and ignoring Duncan's chagrined expression and Adam's openly cynical grin, the casually clad woman held out her hand. "I'm Erin Shea. I'm very pleased to meet you, Agent Mulder, I've admired you for years now."

Behind her Mulder could see Adam smiling. Duncan had turned away to get more coffee. So he looked her over in the quick, flickering appraisal all law enforcement agents learned. Her brown jeans looked comfortably worn; the kelly green sweater draped over her curves like an old favorite; and her tennis shoes were rather thoroughly paint-spattered. So he widened his eyes in mock shock and reached out to shake her hand. Erin looked and sounded to be intelligent, sharp, and caustic. They were either going to get along wonderfully or try to kill each other, and he might as well find out which right now. "Should I duck, or do I have time to check over my will?"

"Only if you really want to." She grinned at him, her ire fading away to be replaced with an enthusiasm he didn't quite understand yet.

The firmness of her grip was a pleasant surprise, but he was more interested in the flecks of paint on her nails that didn't quite match the colors on her shoes. "Artist?"

"Language professor," she corrected him. "I help the theater stagehands when I can, though."

"My French is abominable, my Greek was years back, and I'm told my reports might as well be written in Old High Martian. Are you sure you're looking for me?"

"That's calumny. Your writing makes perfect sense some days."

Mulder stared at her, his face freezing into the expressionless mask he used for poker games and clandestine meetings with his enemies. "Really? My reports are usually classified, Dr. Shea. I don't suppose you'd care to explain how you've seen them?"

"The ones you turn in, I haven't seen," Erin promised him. "It's all right. You don't have to start worrying about a leak. But I've seen transcripts of some of the lectures you've given, and I read your dissertation. Throw in Mr. Luder's articles in MUFON and I think I can say I've got some idea of your writing style. Of course, I don't suppose you'd know a gentleman named Reynard Brewer? The one who wrote those articles on why the Sasquatch should stay on the endangered species roll in Washington?"

Her perfectly innocent tone made Mulder flinch. "Ouch. Nailed again?"

"Afraid so. The 'Reynard' was more inventive than M. Luder, though," she told him. "You really ought to talk to Adam about suggestions for an alias. He does have a thoroughly devious mind; it ought to be useful for something," and Erin skewered the person in question with another blue-eyed glare.

"Why do you know more about me than my boss does?"

Erin turned back from scowling at Adam in the kitchen and studied Mulder in an unnervingly sharp manner before answering that. "Because in my own way, I had the same job you did for several years. You handled the X-Files for the FBI. I handled the equivalent cases for the Watchers while I was with them, and I still help out in the summers."

"Watchers?" Mulder asked, his mind working furiously at what she had just said.

Erin sighed. "They didn't tell you anything, I see. All right. Let's start at the beginning, then. Adam, one single 'helpful' comment out of you and I will tell Duncan all sorts of stories you'd rather I didn't remember. Understood?"

"Stories?" Adam protested from the kitchen. "Me, Erin?"

She laughed at that. "Shall we start with the anonymous flyer suggesting that the immortals are descended from the Sidhe?"

"I'll just wash dishes," Adam agreed pleasantly.

Duncan looked at his lover. "How did you fit the Sidhe's allergy to iron with our use of swords?"

"Later, MacLeod. I still have the article on my hard drive." He paused then added, "Password protected, of course."

Mulder looked back and forth between them. "Save me a copy. All right, Dr. Shea, let's start at the beginning. How far back is the beginning?"

"About eight thousand years ago, if you want to get picky. And make it Erin, would you? Dr. Shea makes you sound like one of my teaching assistants, and Ms. Shea is what my mother calls me when she wants to know when I'm going to get married."

Mulder nodded sympathetically. "I can understand that. Call me Mulder. Do I need to sit down for this?"

"You might want to," she told him and perched on the edge of the wooden coffee table herself.

"Erin, have you had breakfast?" Duncan asked as he brought Mulder a plate.

"When, Duncan? Before you woke me up to tell me that I got to do this, or after I quit thinking about ways to make your life interesting?"

The Scot looked at her and decided not to touch that. "Cinnamon raisin toast? And orange juice?"

"That sounds wonderful," she agreed with an unrepentantly evil smile. "You still owe me for this, though."

"Eight thousand years?" Mulder asked, interrupting the friendly bickering that he suspected could go on all day. "That predates Knossos, doesn't it?"

"Actually," she corrected him absently, "it predates the oldest cities in Mesopotamia. Although the cave paintings in France and Spain go farther back. Now, then, let's start with immortals. What, precisely, did you see this morning?"

"Duncan didn't tell you?"

"What Duncan told me and what you saw are almost certainly two different things. You're a trained observer, but what you're preconceived to believe makes a difference in what you see." Erin smiled at him and he couldn't help smiling back. "How many eyewitness reports have you taken down that were completely at odds with the physical evidence?"

"Too many," he groaned, relieved at the same time by how easily she accepted the way the human mind worked. "All right, Erin. I came back in from running and saw Duncan stab Marc with a Japanese sword. I believe it's called a katana?"

"They are," she agreed, fingers fidgeting in a way that told Mulder she really wanted to be taking notes. "What else?"

"Marc slid down to the ground. He had blood all over his shirt, including several slices that weren't bloody, and one on his arm that was." Mulder's eyes narrowed as he looked up and away at nothing, calling the memory back up. "There was blood on Duncan's sword; a drop hit the floor. He took Marc's blade away before it ever hit the ground. So I pulled my gun and told him to freeze."

"Perfectly reasonable from your point of view," Erin sighed. "Wonderful. Duncan, did you have to decide to get ruthless this morning?"

Duncan handed her a glass and set a plate of thick-sliced toast between her and Mulder before he answered that. Mulder watched the exchange of glances between them thoughtfully because there was some kind of warning in Duncan's eyes as he finally said, "He hadn't taken the first several hints, Erin. Including the torso jabs and the slice on his arm. That was the blood you saw, Fox."

"Isn't this a lot of trouble to go to, to teach Marc an antiquated skill like sword fighting?" Mulder asked.

"No." Duncan's voice had gone implacable. "It isn't too much trouble and he has to learn it. If I have to kill him a few times to get him to keep his defenses up, then I will."

Erin caught Fox's eyes with her own. He could see the faint laugh lines around eyes and mouth, although she wasn't laughing now. "Mulder, go back to your story, please. Why didn't you assume it was stage blood?"

"The swords are real," Mulder told her bluntly. "I know what steel on steel sounds like. Forged steel doesn't sound like cast steel, or the aluminum that some of the prop swords are made of. And I know what blood smells like."

"You would," she nodded and she sounded sympathetic. "And?"

"I checked Marc's pulse, and he didn't have one. So I Mirandized Duncan. While he was trying to convince me not to call it in yet, Marc started breathing again under my hand. Actually," Mulder admitted, "he started coughing, then cursing. When I checked the wound, it was healing and giving off static electricity."

Erin closed her eyes and muttered something under her breath that sounded a great deal like 'Why me, God?' She turned to look at Duncan and inquired sarcastically, "Was there anything you didn't show him? Short of a quickening, of course?"

Mulder sprawled back on the couch and asked, "Okay, so what is the beginning? And why do I get the feeling all of you would really rather I hadn't seen that?"

Adam turned and gave Mulder the same irritated look that Erin had been giving Duncan, the one that clearly said, Are you awake over there? Or talking in your sleep?

"Mulder, you're in government service; you've seen more conspiracies at work than most. Do you really think that Duncan or Marc wants the government to know that they get up again after they've been killed?"

The implications of that ran through his mind, a cascade of alternatives that were gruesome enough in and of themselves. Then Fox considered what it would take to force Duncan to do undercover work, or Marc, and the possibilities for that were even worse.

"No. No one they love would ever be safe again," Mulder agreed quietly. "I'm not going to report this, you know. I wouldn't even if I had the X-Files. I'm certainly not going to tell Jeff Spender about this."

"Some time, I would love to hear your version of what that little ignoramus is doing running the X-Files." Erin snorted in disgust. "From what I'm hearing, he's not exactly open-minded?"

"No, he's not," Mulder said, shrugging. "Repression. He was abducted as a teen-ager and now he pretends there's no such thing. He and his mother have had a few disagreements on that."

Adam raised an eyebrow. "Abducted?"

"Aliens," Mulder said dismissively. "Or government conspiracy. Probably both, actually. Immortals, though?"

Duncan shook his head in surprise. "And you're asking about us?"

"I already know about the other," Mulder pointed out grimly, "and got reassigned for learning too much about it. We can talk about aliens later, after I hear about immortals and why Marc is still cursing and drinking coffee when we should be calling a funeral home and pricing caskets."

Erin sighed and asked, "But you admit he was dead and came back to life?"

"I saw it," he snapped. "Of course I admit it, Erin. I felt his pulse start back up."

"No, no, Mulder, I'm not saying you don't know what you saw. I just wanted to make sure we were at the same starting place, that I didn't need to ask Duncan to do something like cut his arm to show you about immortal healing."

Duncan rolled his eyes, although he didn't flinch at the idea. "Tell me I don't need to, would you, Fox?"

"Do you heal the same way Marc does?"

"Yes."

"Then, no, I don't need to see it," Mulder hastily promised. The idea of mutilating the body that had been so close to him all night made his stomach clamp down uneasily on the toast he'd been eating.

"Good," Erin sighed in relief, although Mulder wondered how much she was catching of the interplay between him and the other men. Probably not too much; I get the feeling I panicked several people when I saw Marc die and come back. I wonder why? This can't be the first time it's happened, not if it's Erin's 'turn' to explain things.

"All right, Mulder," she went on, "there are people who, after they die the first time, eventually revive. They seem to heal all wounds acquired in that first death, although not scars received before that event, and they don't age from that day forward."

"So if you die at fifty, you're always going to look fifty?" Mulder inquired curiously.

"Something like," Duncan agreed, but his voice was cautious and those expressive lips were holding to a very neutral position.

"Yes or no?"

"You're fifty until final death," Duncan told him quietly. "Dying that late usually means you won't make it long in the Game, though. Come back to that, will you, Fox? Let her finish."

Mulder studied Duncan and noticed the tensions in the other man's shoulders and neck, the grim solemnity in the set of his mouth. Mulder nodded to Erin, then, mutely asking her to continue.

"Mortals -- the rest of us," she commented wryly, " -- don't know who's going to be immortal and who won't. Most immortals can sense pre-immortals. That's what they call the ones who haven't died for the first time yet."

"Sense them?" Mulder asked, watching Duncan as much as Erin.

"We can feel them coming," Duncan told him, and a slight smile crossed his face as if he'd briefly remembered something amusing. "Pre-immortals feel... different. Weaker for one thing. A different feel, too."

"That's helpful," Mulder sighed. "Is it the hairs at the nape of your neck, or a phantom pain from an arm you don't have, or--"

"It varies from person to person." The Scot shrugged. "For me, it's vibration, like too much bass at a concert or the rumble of thunder at a distance. Marc, on the other hand, gets a headache. One friend of mine sneezes; another compares it to hearing bells, or gongs, or wind chimes. Basically, we just know. It's a survival mechanism."

"Survival of what? You're immortal."

"Not entirely," Erin cut in before Duncan had to. "They can be killed permanently if you know how. And immortals tend to fight each other."

"Killed permanently?" Mulder turned to Duncan, his mind racing through old folklore and modern clues. "And you use swords. I've noticed that no matter what the legend or the monster, cutting off someone's head usually leaves them permanently dead. And I get the impression that stakes through the heart wouldn't do anything permanent. You've got too much wood in this house to be allergic to it."

Duncan gave him a smile that was simultaneously admiring and rueful. "You are quick. And no, we're not vampires. We don't live on blood, as you saw last night and this morning."

"And Mr. Morning Person there is definitely not averse to sunlight," Adam called from the sink.

"Go back to doing dishes, Adam," Erin said, laughter brimming through her voice. "No, they're not vampires."

"No vampire would go to the trouble of learning to cook like that," Mulder muttered.

"A few of them have pretended to be," Erin continued, leaning back on the couch and ignoring the breakfast in front of her, "to cover up their kills with superstition, but no, they're definitely not vampires."

"Eight thousand years, though?"

"The oldest immortal we've ever heard of was a man who was calling himself Emrys at the time of his death. He was thought to be approximately six thousand years old when he died, and that was in 410 after Alaric sacked Rome."

"You have reliable information about something from the Dark Ages." Mulder let the skepticism creep into his voice to see how Erin would react to it.

"We had Watchers on Emrys." Erin shrugged, apparently sure of her facts. "He hadn't left Paris in more than seventy years. He was a nice, stable assignment."

"Okay, assuming I buy this-- Wait a second." Mulder turned to Duncan. "How old are you?"

"Four hundred and six in December," Duncan told him quietly. "I was born in 1592 in Scotland, and died of battle wounds in 1622."

"Four... hundred." Mulder stared at the bigger man in surprise, but it was impossible for him not to believe that prosaic voice and the sincere face. Too, it made a few other things more comprehensible. Duncan's accent, which slid across too many countries, and his skill at both armed and unarmed combat, as well as that enveloping courtesy and knowledge.... "Four hundred years would give you enough time to pick up a few languages and some weapons training, wouldn't they?" he asked at last. "What battle?"

"A skirmish with the Campbells over some sheep-raiding," Duncan told him, clearly aware that it was a damned small thing to have died over. "No great battle, Fox. I saw enough of those over the next few centuries to know the difference."

Erin glared at Adam, who hadn't even turned around. "Don't say it, Adam."

"Oh, not a word," he promised gleefully. "I wouldn't dream of mentioning Scots and sheep, Erin. Really. Not a syllable."

"Adam, shut up shutting up already, would you?" she groused. "You can be such a pain in the ass!"

"We're not going there, either," Mulder interrupted firmly, telling himself he would not blush. "So, immortals can be killed by decapitation and you tend to fight each other, which is why you're so serious about Marc's defenses. But if you tend to kill each other, why are you teaching him in the first place?"

"Because not all of us kill each other," was the grim reply. "I have a lot of immortal friends, and I'm not the only one who would just as soon not play that Game. But some of us are headhunters, and I want Marc to survive them."

"A lot -- " Mulder cut himself off and yanked his thoughts away from the swirl of questions he wanted to ask and into a more coherent order. "Back up. Headhunters, huh? Makes sense you'd have a name for it. Why, though? What's the point?"

"The usual point," Adam replied caustically. "Power."

"I thought it was usually money," Mulder shot back.

"You can use the one to accumulate the other. Power is more flexible than money, though."

Duncan glanced over at the kitchen. "Adam, hush. Right now, you're only staying over there to dodge Erin. Fox, if one immortal kills another, they take both his head and his quickening. All of that immortal's accumulated power and strength, all his knowledge and skills roll into you. It's an extremely intense experience, more overwhelming than orgasm or drugs. Some of us get addicted to it. Others turn to drugs rather than keep hunting." For a moment his voice was so casual Mulder clearly heard the layers of pain under the control.

"So you have the memories and skills of people you've had to kill?" Mulder asked. His own voice sounded distant, he suspected, but he was too busy thinking about what they were saying, about the implications and complications to these immortals. "Is this like personality transference, or reincarnation?"

"It's not that clear," the Scot told him. "I don't want their memories, generally, and we try not to think about it too much. You could get lost in yourself that way."

"Overwhelmed by a sea of knowledge that isn't your own... yeah, that could be very disorienting," Mulder agreed. "Sort of like brainwashing on a larger scale."

"It's closer to an immersion, like the language schools where everyone around you speaks the language you're learning to make it seep in faster. It can be difficult at first to hold on to yourself, but you get the knack of the balance. It's a matter of shunting the other memories aside, I suppose you could say," Duncan said, clearly trying to find words to explain Beethoven's Fifth to a deaf man.

"Right. That makes an odd kind of sense," Mulder told him, all the while suspecting that he would never understand unless he actually did it and hoping he never did. "It's not just power then, you're saying, but it can be addictive. Power to do what, though?"

"Heal faster, for one thing," Duncan answered.

"And the older immortals tend to become more and more charismatic," Erin added. "One theory says that's simply a result of their age, but we won't discount quickenings, either. But the older ones frequently know exactly who they are, because they've fought the new memories and personalities so often that they're more at home in their own skin. That kind of certainty can be very attractive."

"I can see that," Mulder said thoughtfully. "Where do the Watchers fit in?"

"We're a private historical society, basically. Watchers Watch immortals. We try to observe, record-- "

"-- and not get caught interfering," Duncan added sarcastically.

"Emphasis on caught?" Mulder asked, wondering how annoyed Duncan really was. He had a half-smile on his face, yeah,but his voice had sounded irritated, and his shoulders were tense again, his hands tight around the arms of the chair. He doesn't like Watchers? Or he doesn't like this entire discussion? I wouldn't, in his place....

"We can go down that road another time," Erin suggested diplomatically. "We're not all bad, Duncan. You did get Adam because of us."

"Hah! I got him, you mean," Adam snorted, but he looked fondly at Duncan as he added, "and he snores."

"You harass and corrupt my students and have a genius for stealing the last can or bottle of anything in the fridge," Duncan mock-growled, his muscles easing again as they teased each other.

"Yes, well, that almost makes up for --"

Mulder, who suspected they could keep this up all day, interrupted. "You were a Watcher, Adam? What did they do when you started sleeping with Duncan? Have a group coronary?" He was beginning to see why Adam hadn't told him any of this. If he wasn't already in the habit of keeping quiet... well, anyone telling this story would be dismissed as a loon without proof. And to have proof, you'd have to convince or kidnap someone a few hundred years old, who's probably a trained fighter, probably thoroughly paranoid.... No. Don't think so.

Adam smiled pleasantly at Mulder, an expression that suggested that one day the Watchers were going to strongly regret ever having heard the name Adam Pierson. "Well, if I hadn't already quit, they'd have drummed me out. And there's an official memo stating that they aren't to talk to me about anything. Including the time of day and the weather," he added casually.

"Not that anyone pays attention to that." Erin shrugged. "Not unless they're sucking up for a promotion, and even then, they're usually just discreet. He was too damn good a Researcher for the normal rules to apply, thank God."

"So what do you do for the Watchers, Erin?" Mulder turned to look at her; it seemed safer than whatever deviltry Adam was contemplating. "Watch Duncan, maybe?"

"Not me!" she immediately replied. "I'm a professor at Seacouver U these days, and I used to be in Research. I never wanted to be a field agent, and I'm not entirely happy to be stuck with an immortal at this late date."

Adam glanced up, attention refocused from his plotting. "I'll remember that wording, Erin. You can pay me later not to repeat it to the relevant party, too. However, why don't you answer the man's real question?"

"No wonder you drove the teachers at the Academy crazy," she muttered before grinning at Mulder. "I did say there was a reason they're making me explain this to you, Mulder. I worked the immortal equivalent of the X-Files. All the really weird stuff went across my desk. I guess they thought a good Irish girl wouldn't mind reports of banshees and shape-changers, or ghosts--"

"-- and telepathy, and Voice, and a few other things," Duncan agreed, grinning at the shocked expression on Mulder's face. "What, Fox, you thought being immortal was as strange as it was going to get?"

Mulder ignored him and reached out a hand to Erin. "No, I didn't think I'd run into a counterpart who spoke English. Russian or Chinese wouldn't have surprised me. Always nice to meet a fellow spook. We're going to have to get together and compare stories."

Erin shook his hand again and said cheerfully, "That's part of why I was so furious this morning. I've been sort of your secret fan club since you opened the X-Files. They knew I wanted to meet you and didn't even tell me you were in town."

"Fan club?" Mulder asked, startled enough by the idea that the question slipped out.

"Well, I was fascinated by some of the stories I pieced together. And a few of the researchers have been worried you might put together the pieces if an immortal got too careless. You were a profiler, Mulder, and then you started looking into the really odd cases... and taking them seriously. Of course you worried some of the Watchers. For that matter, Adam, how do you know Mulder?"

"We met at the beach this summer but didn't exchange last names. We weren't exactly discussing jobs after all; we were both on vacation. I didn't know quite who he was until yesterday, Erin, and the man was exhausted," Adam finished reasonably.

She thought about that, then nodded. "Well, I'll forgive you last night then, but somehow, Adam, I doubt you were going to call me today. You still owe me dinner." She turned to Mulder, leaving Adam sentenced and on temporary parole. "So what are you doing in town, Mulder? If you didn't know Adam's last name, you certainly didn't come to visit him."

"I'm looking for someone. Unfortunately, I seem to be tracking his unknown twin, a bank-robber named Cory Raines who associates with Amanda Montrose."

"Oh, God," Erin groaned. "I should have known. Amanda's involvement has been known to explain all sorts of things. And of course, looking for her would bring you to Duncan. Duncan, how many years have people been telling you Amanda would get you into trouble?"

"Get?" Adam scoffed. "More like she's kept him in trouble."

[there was probably going to be more here -- Rhi]

"Hey, guys?"

"Yeah," Frohike answered absently, still staring at his own computer screen.

"Didn't we send Mulder to talk to someone named MacLeod?"

"Yeah, Duncan MacLeod. The guy Byers is looking up." Frohike paused and turned around. "Why?"

Langly still looked surprised as he said, "'Cause I found Amanda Montrose's double all right. In 1926 Amanda Darrieux was working as a tight-rope walker and fortune teller for Barnum and Bailey circus -- with her assistant, who also signed a contract. Guy named Duncan MacLeod."

"Any pictures?" Byers asked immediately.

"Not even a carnival poster," the blond Gunman admitted. "Barnum usually gave lead billing to the trapeze artists, not the tightrope walkers, like all the other circuses. I wish the Russians had more of their stuff on the net; they're incredible circus fiends, and this lady likes to wander from what we're seeing. Still, there's got to be something. I'll keep looking."

Frohike sighed gustily and said, "What the hell, I've come up dead on Aidan Logan. No police record, a lot of international travel, but... she looks normal. Well, really, really young for her age, but pretty normal compared to the stuff Mulder usually gives us. I'll go to work on MacLeod. Why not?"

Byers commented, "The worst I found for Adam Pierson is that he witnessed a murder in Paris three years ago. He owns bookstores in Paris and Seacouver, both called Shakespeare and Company. He also does research in ancient languages, and from his record, he's only a dissertation away from his doctorate. He was in Key West last August, though."

"When Mulder was?" Frohike frowned.

"Yes," Byers confirmed. "It's not that large an island, Frohike."

"Right." For a minute the shortest Gunman grinned. "Well, I needed a challenge. A subtle way of asking Mulder if he ran into someone when Mulder isn't telling us...."

"Hah. Five bucks says you can't do it without getting busted," Langly offered.

"Deal."

"Can we get back to work?" Byers suggested pointedly. "Frohike, why don't you check Marc Scipio first? I'm going to look into Joe Dawson; MacLeod may take a little while."

"Just because he's got a 1926 namesake running around with a look-alike for Amanda Montrose? Yeah, let's get Scipio out of the way. Maybe he and Ryan will be simple."

"And pigs will fly," Langly muttered as he turned. "What the hell. I'll take Ryan. Juvie records in Seacouver; this should be easy enough."

"For a Federal Agent, Mulder's asking about some interesting people," Langly concluded. "Get this. Richard Ryan was in and out of foster homes until he was fifteen. Mostly out, those last few years, too. He's got a juvenile record a mile long: thief, con-artist, second story work, you name it. One of the last things on his juvenile record is an arrest in 1992 for breaking into Noel and MacLeod Antiques, owned by Tessa Noel and Duncan MacLeod. They refused to press charges, apparently. Looks like they took him in for some reason. Blackmail, maybe.

"He also got arrested for trying to steal his records from the orphanage, but, hey, they were his records." Langly shrugged. "Then we get mondo weird. Get this.

"Some woman, name unknown, took a swan dive off a skyscraper. Only thing in her pocket was a business card for Richard Ryan, care of the antiques shop. Her body vanished from the morgue."

"What, you're suggesting he has a Frankenstein complex or something?" Frohike grinned.

"Somebody does," Langly told him. "'Cause it only gets weirder. He got arrested for trespassing in Paris; the guy whose house he broke into turned up without a head later. The police in Spain and France were looking for him in 1994, claiming he'd murdered three different people by beheading, but he was cleared of that."

"Beheading?" Byers blinked a couple times then said thoughtfully, "Langly, wasn't there something about a decapitated corpse for Ms. Montrose? An old carnival partner of hers who'd escaped from prison?"

"Yeah, I forgot about that. Zachary Taylor. Too weird. Anyway, that's not the strange stuff. We need to ask Mulder if he's seen this Ryan breathing and in sunlight, 'cause the French newspapers claim he's dead."

"Huh?" Frohike turned completely around on his stool. "Dead?"

"Yeah, in a motorcycle racing accident in '95. Of course, a few months later he was arrested again in Seacouver for assault, no charges pressed, and then got a commendation a few months after that for rescuing passengers from a subway disaster. Then in '96 he broke into a museum and tried to rob a display of, get this, swords."

"Swords. As in Indiana Jones, chop your head off, swords?" Frohike asked, disbelievingly. "Right. Mulder found an X-File in Seacouver. Byers, tell me that Joe Dawson is normal."

"Fairly normal, yes," Byers agreed. "If you don't count the fact that he went through rehab in Vietnam in the same ward with one Walter Skinner."

"No way," Langly crowed. "Hey, someone who has dirt on Skinner?"

"Rehab is off limits, Langly," Frohike snapped. "Come on, cut the man a little bit of slack."

Langly nodded, looking a little sheepish. "Yeah, okay, sorry, Frohike. But you have to admit, someone who knew Skinner back before the man had all those frown lines and when he had a little more hair...."

That got a grin. "Yeah. What else, Byers?"

Byers cleared his throat and went on, "Well, he was in the Marines in Vietnam and lost both his legs to a landmine in 1968. It would probably be more accurate to say that Skinner was briefly in the same ward with him; Mr. Dawson was in there quite a bit longer than Skinner. He now owns blues clubs in both Seacouver and Paris. He used to manage the Shakespeare and Company in Seacouver and is listed on the Board of Directors for that chain. Apparently they have several stores around the world.

"He seems to be a moderately successful businessman with a very good reputation in the music world as a guitar player and a gift for spotting new talent. He brought Mike Paladini from London to Paris last year; apparently the young man was an up and coming guitarist until he died of a drug overdose. According to the police report, he didn't have a previous record for such things. The police think the rock star he was visiting, Byron, had something to do with it, but he vanished before he could be brought in for questioning."

"But Dawson's normal, right?" Frohike asked.

"He certainly seems to be. No wife, no children, a sister and a few nieces and nephews in Chicago. What about Marc Scipio?"

"No juvenile record; plenty of school and parish information on him. His family filed a missing persons report on him two and a half years ago; he turned back up about six months ago, said he'd been kidnapped by some lunatic and finally gotten free."

"And they bought that?" Langly asked cynically.

"Apparently, yeah. His entire family vouched for him, and it's a big Italian family up in Philly. Couple of his cousins are cops on the force up there. Want to bet Mulder checks him for implants when he hears this?"

"No bet."

"Smart move. He was a very junior architect before he disappeared; now he's working as a research assistant for Aidan Logan according to his tax info."

"What does she do that she needs a research assistant?" Langly asked disbelievingly.

"She's a writer," Frohike shrugged. "Who knows?"

All three of them looked at each other; no one mentioned sleep. This was too interesting to want to waste time on sleep. Besides, Frohike justified it to himself, Mulder's in Seacouver with some of these people. We need to look into them so he doesn't get himself killed.

"So who's left?"

"Duncan MacLeod," Byers smiled. "The gentleman who keeps turning up around Ms. Montrose."

"Right," Langly grinned. "Dibs on the 1920s stuff. I want to see if I can't find something on him, or his grandfather, or whoever that was."

Byers shrugged. "I was going to see what I could find in the French records; I think he had more on his record than just that jewel theft that Ms. Montrose framed him for."

Frohike sighed. "Right, right, I'll look into his current stuff in the States. Hey, Byers. Set that face-matching program of yours running, would you? We've still got that military database download."

"Certainly. I think there are also a few European sites that might have circus pictures, Langly; I'll send it through those next."

"Thanks, man," Langly muttered, already typing in the commands to break into the IRS computer again. "I gotta see this guy's tax record. Wonder how far back it goes?"

Author's note: It just got more out of hand from here and stalled until I realized that no, really, this was gonna be a disaster. It just took me several years to figure out the problem. Hope y'all enjoyed the outtake/glimpse into an alternate universe....

Oh, and Marc's Italian:

"Vaffanculo" - "Fuck"

"Merda. No, finire in merda. Fortuna, sei la una vaffanculo puttana che apre le gambe. Ah, maledizione!" -- "Shit. No, catastrophic shit. Fate, you're a fucking, spread-legged whore. Ah, damn it!"

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