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Disclaimers:
Not mine, not mine, no profit, not mine. That should cover it, except
some of them are mine, and well, oops? Let me know if you want
to borrow them; I'm reasonable. Truly. This is not, technically,
in my usual HL universe. Despite references to Erin, or anyone
else, consider it an AU. Sorry about that. It was written
that way for a zine five years ago, turned down, and has languished
on my hard drive ever since. I couldn't figure out how to make
it fit back into the universe, either, however, I hope you enjoy.
Please pardon any anachronisms. As per my standard, underlining
for titles or emphasis; italics for foreign language or thoughts.
The number displayed on the computer screen obstinately remained 1.79. "God damn it!" The open student handbook clearly showed that an overall GPA below 2.0 would revoke an athletic scholarship. His GPA had been 1.89 last spring, which had put Neil on probation; this would tear it completely as soon as the grades became official. He hadn't even read down far enough to find out that three semesters below a 2.0 could result in his expulsion from the college. "Revoked?!" The page tore as Neil crumpled it, tanned hand clenching around the paper until the fine white scars on the knuckles showed red from constricted blood. "Shit! This means I'm off the team! And my old man will never let me hear the end of it; he's already been ragging me about being on probation. He could buy the damn business department, but he went through on scholarship so I have to." The Cliff Notes for Hamilton's Mythology flew across the room, struck a wall, and fell with a thump to lie on the floor. "God damn him! I had B's and B minus's in every other fucking class, would have brought my GPA back up to 2 point something -- but no, Mr. Hotshot new grad student has to flunk me! Little prick, just because I didn't have my homework done a couple times. Just because I couldn't keep a couple fucking Greek names straight. Who gives a shit who Pollux and Poly-whosis are anyway?!" The tall teenager kicked the frame of his bed as he paced past it, knocking the football onto the floor, then slammed one hand at the desk he used as a clothes pile. "I'm the best running back this school has had in fifteen years! Who the hell does he think he is? Like they're going to give him tenure. Yeah, right." From the television came the sound of corn popping, a rolling, seemingly endless rumble, and Neil turned around in time to see the house on Real Genius blow apart from the pressure of expanding popcorn. Gears began to turn and he started to smile maliciously, as one of the better lines from the movie ran through his head. In a pleasant, reasonable voice, he spoke the words aloud. "We have to get even. It's a moral imperative." Time to deal with priorities, though, definitely. First he needed to appeal the Mythology grade. All he needed was a D and his GPA would be under control, sitting at exactly a 2.0. Damn Pierson anyway! Everyone knew Mythology was a joke, a blow-off course. Why'd he have to be a hardnose about it? It wasn't like the shit even mattered! Neil studied himself in the mirror, then ran a hand across close-clipped hair and preened at his reflection. Wide shoulders, the best abs on the offensive line, and nobody'd ever broken his nose in practice. "Fuck. I'll get even with him later. Right now, though, it's time to go do the sob story. I've got to get at least a D in there." He studied his face in the mirror, already practicing exactly the look he needed to use and running through the speech he'd use to persuade Pierson to up his grade just a bit. When Neil was confident he had it down, he changed into his most rumpled outfit and reminded himself what that last hangover had felt like so that he'd look appropriately worn and exhausted when he appealed the grade. Afterwards, though? Oh, yeah. Fuck up my scholarship, will you? Fine. I'll make sure you get yours. Nobody gets to get in my way. <><><><><><> Methos sat on the edge of the desk, looking down an admittedly large nose in amazement. He had more than two thousand years of teaching and studying to fall back on for examples, and this kid still struck him as having an exceptional capacity for self-delusion or self-absorption, one. Time to try and crack the shell, though, see if the boy could recognize reality when it bit him and drew blood. "Let me see if I understand you, Mr. Wake. You cut my classes repeatedly, even when the football team was on campus. On the rare occasions that you made it to class, you slept or flirted with whichever girl was nearest and most impressed with your average yardage to date. Your attempts at homework -- when you did attempt it, which was less than half of the time according to the grade book -- frequently bore no relation to the assignments. Given that the entire department uses the same syllabus, I'm amazed you couldn't even manage to find someone to copy from. Do you realize that I only had one final exam grade in the class below a 50? And you want me to boost you to a D because you 'tried'? If you hired an impersonator to attend class for you, you need to demand a refund." Neil stared at him in disbelief for a second. I'm the best running back on the football team, the main reason we're going to a bowl game this year. He's a fucking grad student. Hasn't even finished his doctorate. I'm just asking him to boost me to a D minus, for God's sake, just enough to get that 1.0 for the hours! Before he could even come out with an argument to that, Pierson went on coldly, "And if you do this poorly in Mythology, how are you planning to pass two semesters of a 2000 level language course? Granted, Latin doesn't have language lab requirements, but it's more difficult than Spanish. Miss more than six classes in a language class, Mr. Wake, and you'll never catch up. You have to be there so that the professor can catch your errors and correct them before the cumulative mistakes sink you. You have to show up; you have to study. What I can't understand is why you didn't withdraw partway through the semester. Does Coach Wilkinson frown on that during the season?" "I thought...." Neil paused to regroup, and lost his opportunity. "It seems to me that the whole problem is that you couldn't be bothered to think. Or study. Do you have a job waiting for you when you graduate or do you expect to get by on your looks?" "You're the teacher! If you could teach, I'd have passed your damn exam!" Methos half-closed his eyes, one finger rubbing along the side of his nose as he easily controlled his exasperation with the same complaint/excuse he'd been hearing from students forever. "We already went over this part, were you listening? How can I teach someone who isn't there? Or listening? Even awake would have been a good starting point. I can't show you where you're going wrong when you never turn in the papers." When that obviously wasn't sinking in, Methos shrugged mentally and changed tactics. "You're over 18, you know. You're a sophomore, not a freshman. By now you should know how to find tutoring at the Student Center or -- failing that -- when to cut your losses and withdraw from the class. If you'd actually tried, Mr. Wake, I'd be working with you. Two other people in your situation did extra papers to bring their grades up. But under the circumstances, I can't even justify putting you down for a grade of incomplete and letting you try that. You've been flunking all semester, from the first test on. It's a little late to come to me now." This son-of-a-bitch is going to flunk me because I didn't come for help earlier?! Other students in my situation? What the hell does that mean! Fuck him! A wry smile twisted Methos' face as the brat's stormy departure slammed the door against its frame. "If I'd only had someone to bet. Gods, but these idiots are predictable." The immortal shook his head and turned his attention back to the Greek exams, muttering to himself, "Well, at least this batch of students has better handwriting than the ones writing in the agora did." <><><><><><> Shit, I should have known this guy was gonna be a problem when Stephie was drooling over him. Now there's a bitch for you, and she only goes for the smart, snobby ones. What she's doing with a black boyfriend is beyond me. But, one way or another, I have got to get a D. Oh, yeah, I can do this. I may not be here on academic scholarship like Pop was, but I learned a few things from the old man. Wonder what Mr. Snotty Brit Grad Student will think when I go after his stuff? That's first, then his girlfriend. All I've gotta do is find out who he's dating and one of the little sisters at the frat house will know. They all think he's the hottest thing to hit campus since what's his name over in Art History. Flunk me? I don't think so. You just think you're smart, 'Prof'. You may be hot shit here, but let's see how you like the real world. <><><><><><> Gold-green eyes narrowed, darkening to forest green as Methos saw the gouge in the paint on his Explorer. The immortal stepped back without a word to examine the damage, backpack still slung over one shoulder and car keys in hand. The bright line of metal, made even brighter by the contrast to dark blue paint, ran the full length of his vehicle. "Great. Some little prick who didn't have anything better to do keyed my car." His mood did not improve when he realized that the damage extended along the back hatch as well. "Bastard." Methos sighed and cursed softly when he considered how long this would take to get fixed -- but the vehicle would be conspicuous with the scored paint on a recent model and no immortal liked being too visible. Definitely, the Explorer would have to go into the shop. "On the other hand, I do still have to get to classes. This has some possibilities...." The idea of harassing Duncan into playing chauffeur immediately began to improve his mood again. Methos pulled out his cell phone and called his lover, already beginning to invent absolutely necessary errands at the bookstore, the coffee shop, and the liquor store. With Christmas coming up, some of them were even real. <><><><><><> "Are you sure I didn't see you at the Kappa Gamma rush?" Neil asked the student worker. He'd seen her all right -- heading for that dweeb hangout, the Library, the bar of choice for the art fags and the theater crowd. Silly little bitch. Like I'd believe you could make it into the hottest sorority on campus? Dream on. "Umm, no, you didn't," she stammered. "But weren't you in McIntyre's Tuesday/Thursday Management Principles class?" "Yeah," he said absently, blue eyes flicking over the faculty address list. Damn, too many people in this department. Pierson's on the next page. "I knew I'd seen you before. What did you think of the questions on that final exam?" Neil shifted his attention back to her, giving the freshman know-nothing his best perfect-teeth smile, all expensive charm and looks. "Look, it's almost five. Why don't you grab your purse and we can go get a couple beers at the End Zone, if you want, talk about the class." Amy's face lit up at the offer. One of the best-looking football players was inviting her out to the jock hangout? Throwing a hasty glance around the office, she grabbed her purse and coat. "Yeah, it's only a couple minutes early. Let me just go tell Professor Shea that I'm gone for the night." "Sure thing. I'll be right here," Neil smiled, lounging against the side of her desk. As soon as she was out the door his smile shifted to a sneer. "Idiot," he muttered, "like I'm going to want to date Little Miss Shy and Retiring? Right. Nice tits, though." The top of page three yielded Adam Pierson's address and Neil quickly scribbled it down, stuffing the paper into his back pocket before Shannon or Heather or whatever her name was could walk in the door again. No problem ditching her at least. I buy her a couple beers, thank her for a nice night, and never call again. And Pop said I never learned anything from him. <><><><><><> Methos fumbled the key at the door, missing the lock by several inches. "MacLeod, learn some patience, will you?" A rumbling chuckle blew warm breath across the oldest immortal's ear as his lover pressed against his back, one hand playing with teasing lightness along his hip. Mac whispered, "I am being patient, Methos. I haven't pulled your clothes off yet, but if you don't get that door open soon.... Well, nobody uses this hallway except us." "You run immortal Central Station, MacLeod," came the mock-irritated reply. "We'd feel them coming. What's the matter, old man? Didn't you ever learn to concentrate? Or can you not do two things at once?" The husky, teasing voice raised the hairs at the nape of Methos' neck -- and other things as well. "That did it." Methos twisted around, abandoning the door for the moment, and with a step and push pinned the Scot against the opposite wall. He caught his lover's mouth with his own, robbing the younger man of breath and sanity in a single coordinated assault, hands roaming under his coat and rubbing against soft, fine-knit wool as they moved up the Scot's chest to his shoulders. Duncan groaned against his mouth, surprised by the sudden reversal in the older man's attitude but happily taking advantage of it. The hard fullness rubbing against his hip distracted the Highlander away from just what Methos' hands were doing until it was too late. "Now, Highlander," and Methos yanked his coat down his arms, tangling the younger man in his own sleeves, "hold still long enough for me to get the damn door open. I am entirely too old to be doing this sort of thing on a hard wooden floor." The wicked smile on his face carried over into his voice as the older man turned back to the door. "Although my knees would cope better than your head; you always thrash around when you come." The door clicked open at last as Duncan freed his arms from the coat, catching the fabric before the katana inside could hit the floor. "Who said you were going to be on top?" "Weren't you complaining at dinner that I always seem to come out on top in everything?" came the sweetly innocent reply, and Methos widened his eyes as he smiled at his lover before scooting in the now-open door. "That's because you cheat at everything," Duncan growled as he followed, only to stop cold just short of his partner's back. As he read Methos' sudden cold wariness in rigid shoulders and utter stillness, instincts honed over long decades as a warrior kicked in. Wordlessly the Scot drew his sword and stepped in and to the left, passion-darkened eyes scanning the empty loft apartment and registering immediately what had triggered Methos' reaction. The lighting had changed. When they went to Joe's for drinks and to take a break from grading papers, the light in the hallway had been left on as always, and the lamp on the desk, and the dimmed glow from the bathroom. Now light spilled from the guest bedroom, too. The two men glanced at each other, communicating clearly in complete silence. Mac tapped his chest with a finger and pointed toward the guest bedroom; Methos nodded a reply, one hand waving toward the bathroom. Without making a sound, the older immortal closed and locked the door behind them. Whoever their visitor was, he or she wasn't leaving that easily. The Scot prowled toward the guest bedroom, sword ahead of him in guard position. His earlier arousal faded unnoticed at this invasion of his home-- Our home, he growled to himself. No immortal presence spilled across his skin, but that didn't mean a mortal couldn't still be here. Mac slipped into the room, back instantly pressed to the wall, and glanced around. Furious brown eyes saw small signs of an intruder immediately, but there was no one there. It was too quiet. He checked the closet anyway, and under the bed, but knew it for a lost cause. Whoever had been here was gone. Methos scooped the broom out of the kitchen, throwing a quick look at the back of the couch on his way by although he was certain no one was there. The coffee table wasn't big enough to effectively conceal a person; there was no room in Mac's wardrobe for a person, either, not unless they'd found someplace to stash the television out of sight. Still, the older immortal hadn't made it to five millennia by being careless, and Methos glanced over both spots, then kept a wary eye on the bathroom door as he jabbed under the bed with the broom handle. Nothing stopped the thrust and sweep and he propped the broom against the wall a few feet from the bathroom door, leaving it out of range of an intruder's hand without conscious thought. Someone had definitely come through looking for something. It was subtle, but items had been rearranged on the bathroom counter. His aftershave sat by Mac's, instead of on the other side of the sink with the electric razor Methos preferred. The shower door was ajar, too, and Mac always closed it when they were through. Pale skin drew taut over prominent cheekbones as rage began to rise in a pooling flow which might eventually destroy someone -- but not yet. Hazel eyes flicked over the bathroom, noting other small signs of movement, investigation, but no one was here now. Methos turned and headed back into the main room, scanning everything more closely now. Duncan raised one eyebrow at his partner, shaking his head to show he'd found nothing. Methos indicated the spiral stair to the next floor and headed up first, finally pulling the 9 mm out of his coat pocket. The Scot let him make it around a full revolution of the stairs before following, a small part of his mind managing to find some humor in the fact that Methos always seemed to have one more weapon than even he expected. It took them a few minutes, but quite obviously no one was hiding among the stored boxes, and it didn't look like their unwelcome visitor had spent too much time up here. When they finished checking the room, Methos said almost absently, "It's a pity you keep the place so clean. Some dust up here could have been very helpful." "I'll remember that," Duncan said sarcastically. They headed back down, and the Scot didn't try to ascertain when the gun vanished again. "Drink?" "Yes," Methos answered softly, more dangerous than ever when he used that voice. "What's disturbed in the guest room?" "The comforter's disarranged which knocked a manuscript to the floor. The desk lamp's been moved and I'm may be wrong, but I think some of your papers on the desk have been rearranged. The jackets in the closet were shoved to one side. The bathroom?" The Scot moved to the bar to pour them both some Scotch. "My aftershave's been moved; the shower was investigated. You'll want to check your dresser." Methos inspected the windows as he moved down the wall and then said calmly, "Here's how he got in. The window by the fire escape's been jimmied." When that drew no answer, Methos turned quickly. Duncan was looking down at the bar thoughtfully, face almost calm in the lamplight. The curses were the more startling for the unruffled voice as the Highlander invoked plagues and pestilence on their visitor, using Arabic he'd learned while working for Lawrence during the First World War and throwing in a few Turkish phrases Amanda had taught him after her sojourn in a Constantinople harem. Methos listened to his partner, one eyebrow raised at some of the more pungent invocations. When Mac finally ran down, the older man grinned, humor partially restored by the commentary. "You sound like a Damascus street vendor, Highlander. I don't want to know where you picked up some of that. What did you find?" Mac turned and held out a glass with a small bit of Scotch still in it. "The bastard has expensive tastes. This was one of my best single malts." "He stopped to get a drink?" The hazel eyes narrowed as Methos' mind turned that small bit of information over and fitted it into the emerging pattern. "We're dealing with someone incredibly arrogant, Highlander. He thought we'd never notice that someone had been here, that putting things back somewhere close would be good enough." Mac gave Methos a fresh glass of Scotch and took a sip of his own. "Arrogant, yes. But not a common thief. I don't see anything missing yet. Not even the small stuff." Methos nodded thoughtfully, investigating his lover's desk. "Someone's been through your papers, Mac, unless you just meant to leave your Renaissance term papers mixed in with the Romantic period exams. What about the wardrobe?" "Yes," the Scot replied tersely. "Clothes out of order. Nothing's been taken, though, at least nothing obvious." He moved to glance over the files in the desk, seeing the same pattern there, too. Papers rifled, a few folders put back out of the correct sequence, but no immediate sign that anything was gone. "What do you think?" "I think," Methos said quietly, "that whoever did this had no interest in stealing anything and too much interest in one or both of us." He moved into the hallway and hung up both their coats, sword held casually in one hand as he turned out the light. Moving through the kitchen, Methos stepped into the guest room and turned off the light there, too. Duncan watched him move, admiring his lover's lazy grace despite his own temper. "Agreed. I'd almost be happier if something were missing." "Yes," Methos agreed. "Do you want to jury-rig the window frame until we can fix the lock tomorrow?" Mac moved to the kitchen and pulled a small hammer and some nails from the odds and ends drawer, calling over his shoulder, "What are you going to do?" "Put fresh sheets on the bed," Methos answered. "Then I'm going to exhaust you. And in the morning I'm going to talk to Joe, see if any immortals have been going missing under odd circumstances or any Watchers have been acting oddly." Duncan pounded the first nail into the frame with three hard blows, taking out his anger on iron and wood as he secured the window. "You think this has anything to do with your car being keyed?" "Do you think it doesn't?" came the ironic answer. "Awfully convenient timing. But was it vandalism or an attempt to put both of us in the same place at all times? I'll get a rental car tomorrow." Duncan put the hammer up and turned off the desk lamp as he went to help with the bed. "Why fresh sheets now?" "Because," Methos answered quietly, "this bastard's had his hands all over everything else. He doesn't get to touch this, Highlander. What's between us is not for him." Duncan paused, brown eyes wide and a bit surprised at his lover's unexpected fierceness. Then he stepped around the bed and cupped Methos' cheek with one palm, caressing the skin gently before pulling the older immortal into his arms. His instant agreement with Methos' possessiveness startled Mac as much as the intense emotional surge off his normally contained lover. The hard grip around his ribs physically conveyed his lover's fury, and for that moment Mac could taste his lover's rage across their shared Quickenings. Methos let him go just as abruptly and murmured, "But he doesn't get to ruin our night, MacLeod. We had plans, and I think I can convince you they're still a good idea." "Convince me, by all means. Won't take much work," Duncan chuckled and moved to get the other side of the sheets, perfectly willing to abandon his bad mood for Methos. They could deal with this problem in the morning. <><><><><><> Neil studied the picture on the table one more time and grinned viciously. "Oh, this is just too perfect." Pierson kissing another man, and it was no church 'Kiss of Peace' bullshit, either. To make it even better, Neil knew who the other man sitting at that outside restaurant was. "Mr. MacLeod from the Art History department. Oh, this could be good. I can work with this." Cowboy boots propped on the footboard of the bed, picture lying on his knees, the teenager gloated over the night's work again. Okay, so he'd had to stand on top of his car to get to the fire escape -- who'd have expected Pierson would live over a martial arts school? Skinny little wimp, the last place Neil would have looked for him was near a gym of any kind. His boyfriend on the other hand, yeah, he'd live near there. Might even run it. MacLeod's part-time, I think. But finding the pictures, now that was a bonus. Neil had found the grade sheets easily enough once he figured out which desk Pierson was using. A good fifteen minutes had been wasted sorting through MacLeod's finals and term papers, but after that, it was easy to figure out how Pierson sorted his stuff and change the final grades for the Mythology class. The temptation to change a few other grades in the class had been almost overwhelming, but if those little bitches complained Pierson might check the entire list. He'd even cleaned up after himself so that the two flitboys would never know he'd been there. The real surprise had been the envelope of 4 x 6 pictures of Pierson and MacLeod. Some of them could have been just friendly, but that kiss.... No. Not a chance. After that, well, he had to check the rest of the loft -- just to be sure. Nobody was sleeping in that guest bedroom, that was a cinch. The desk was in use, and the bookshelves and closet, but not the bed. Not with that many books, notebooks, and newspapers scattered over it. The real clincher was the bedside table in the main room: a couple tubes of lubricant in the top drawer, and some kind of fur (MacLeod must be kinkier than rumor on campus had it), and a copy of the Joy of Gay Sex. Who the hell would rewrite a sex manual for fags? This isn't a one-time thing for him, not if he owns that. No, Pierson and MacLeod aren't just splitting rent. Not even close. "Oh, yeah. I think I can use this. Try to flunk me, huh? Little prick's gonna get what he deserves for that. As for MacLeod... well, fag doesn't have any room to complain. If he slept with women, like a real man, he wouldn't have a problem. Bet the little bitches on campus won't be drooling over him when it comes out what he really likes." Neil sighed and stretched out, relaxing now that his inconvenient grade was fixed. "Grades get turned in tomorrow and then the day after they're permanent. No problem. In three days I go see Pierson and explain to him why my D's gonna stay." Neil tucked the picture into his astronomy textbook, knowing no one would look for it there, and went to sleep. <><><><><><> A soft murmur of protest slowed Methos' exit from the bed as he slid out from under Duncan's arm. Pale skin gleamed in the light from the street as he turned back and stroked the Highlander's hair until he settled further into sleep. When he was sure the other man would stay asleep, the older immortal moved soundlessly through the loft to his desk in the guest bedroom; he remembered to close the door before turning on the lamp. Quick hands ruffled through files and papers, hunting more closely for misplaced reports, rearranged folders -- anything. "Somewhere, somehow," Methos muttered to the hushed night air, "I'm missing something." The drawer with his various financial affairs, under the multitude of names and countries, was still securely locked, and no confetti had fallen on the floor below the desk to indicate someone had merely relocked it. But all his other folders had been rifled, apparently. Including.... "Fuck." A plain manila folder labeled 'Aristophanes' had the flap tucked in instead of held down with the attached string. Not at all how Methos had left it. The pictures inside had been meant to be part of Mac's birthday present, said birthday coming up all too soon. The Paris Watcher had gotten a little... enthusiastic with his camera, and Joe had grabbed the pictures before they could end up in Mac's permanent record. Not that it's any secret we're living together, the oldest immortal mused ruefully, and I resigned before I went to bed with Mac, but why give the Watcher Tribunal any ammunition? Granted, the new Watcher head is no worse than Jack Shapiro -- but he's barely better. One after another Methos laid out the photos, smiling a little as he remembered just how much fun that day had been. Duncan had been incredibly agreeable, spending the morning wandering among the booksellers on the Left Bank, laughing and teasing Methos as the older immortal happily inhaled the scent of old paper and tooled leather bindings. They had lingered over lunch at one of the cafes, arguing politics and history and eyeing passing women. None of that had been a problem, but some of the more affectionate poses the camera had caught were none of Sanderlin's business. Hmm, I could have sworn there were a few more of these. I think I'd better see if Joe has the negatives and check. Lovely. Whoever was here is certain that we're lovers. Well, Hunter or immortal, they don't know about me and that's going to prove lethal for our 'guest'. Priorities established and ground rules set, Methos tidied his desk and headed back to bed. He still had to run the averages for his last Latin class and turn in all his grade sheets by noon, which meant that three hours of sleep might be possible. With a resigned shrug he promised himself a nap after everything was finished, a vow which had gotten him through at least eight doctorates so far, and went to curl up on the Highlander. <><><><><><> "Incredible. Here I thought Pop took long lunch breaks." Methos raised one eyebrow at that, already half-way through the door to his office. "Mr. Wake. Some reason you seem to think this is your office?" With a sarcastic smile he indicated the student's feet on his desk and coat thrown over the one spare chair in the room. "Something I can do for you?" Neil returned the smile with one equally ironic. "Oh, I don't know. Probably. Or maybe I can do something for you." "I don't 'do' students. Against school policy, not to mention my personal standards," Methos replied caustically. "I believe the term in my contract is 'moral turpitude', turpe from the Latin meaning 'shameful' or 'ugly'. Did you want to move your feet? Or shall I put my backpack down anyway? I just came from the library, you might not appreciate it." Neil threw him a folded piece of paper with one lazy flick of his wrist, inwardly pleased that it came off as casually as he wanted and that his best poker face was still in place. "No, you're right. You don't do students. Teachers, now -- well, that's a different matter, isn't it, Mr. Pierson?" Damn, I even sound like the old man. Bet Pop thought I never paid attention to some of his 'negotiations.' When this is over, maybe I should see what I can do to get a better allowance. Turpitude, huh? Let's see what Pierson thinks of this. Old instincts kicked in and the slender immortal caught the paper out of the air. When he flicked it open one-handed, several centuries of control dropped down into place. Methos dropped his head as if to study the photocopy but actually to contain his expression for the moment it took to master his face and force himself back into his 'Adam Pierson' persona. "Interesting picture, Mr. Wake. It does raise the question of where, and how, you obtained it. The police frown on breaking and entering, you know." "Breaking and entering, Mr. Pierson? I think you must have dropped the picture outside your office where I accidentally 'found' it." Hazel eyes narrowed but Methos asked very calmly, "Questions of legality aside for the moment, what precisely do you want?" Much better. "Nothing much, Mr. Pierson. My grade stays a D. I take Latin from you and you pass me; I'll settle for D's there, too, you won't have to restrain your red ink too much." Neil paused, watching the way Pierson's face changed at the mention of the Mythology grade. Nah, they never knew I was there. Good. The teacher studied him dispassionately, face still an expressionless mask. "Anything else?" "I'll let you know if I think of something," the boy said coolly. "Have a good holiday, Mr. Pierson." "And if I should change your grade back, Mr. Wake? It can still be done, even though yesterday was the official deadline." Neil shrugged and stood up, tugging his snug sweater back into place with a blithe display of vanity. "That's just a photocopy. The possibilities...." Let him wonder. I can do all sorts of things with this picture. Newspapers. The Dean of Academics. The Board of Trustees. MacLeod. He brushed past Pierson and sauntered off to his apartment to get ready for his date. Unfortunately, Neil's arrogance kept him from turning back to see that the expression on his teacher's face was one of cold murder, not impotent panic. <><><><><><> The sliding Delta blues came to an abrupt stop as Joe took in his friend's expression and the bad mood wrapped around him like an extra coat against the weather. Sharp eyes flicked over Methos as the strong hands went still on the guitar strings; with a gusting sigh, Joe ran one hand through his greying hair while the other unconsciously cradled his precious instrument. "So. How bad is it and did you get the bastard's name?" Methos stopped by the bar, ignoring the early hour, and pulled himself a beer before walking over to the stage. Some days he was certain that half the ills in the modern world could be blamed on the change from beer to orange juice for breakfast. "Bad enough. And the kid's name is Neil Wake. I need to use your computer, hack into some data bases." Joe frowned at that. "Never heard of him. Who the hell is he, Methos?" The sharp, vicious smile on his friend's face made the Watcher nervous. "You've never heard of him, Dawson, because he's not one of us. He's a student at the university. I flunked him." "You flunked him? For this you need my computer?" The disbelieving look on the Watcher's face melted away as he studied his friend's cold expression and subtly altered body language. The deliberately assumed researcher's stoop was nowhere to be seen. "Come on, old man, what's the deal?" The immortal tilted his head, an ironic expression in dark green eyes. "You remember the pictures you gave me?" "Yeah, I remember. I gave you the negatives yesterday so you could blow one up and frame it for Mac's birthday. What about 'em?" "Well, bright boy broke into the loft and stole one. He's blackmailing me to get better grades." Dawson nodded slowly as he thought about that. "Yeah, you're right. You gotta problem, old man. You've been around longer than I have, but you know what? I don't remember blackmailers being prone to stop." "Not only do they not stop," Methos said grimly, "they usually escalate the demands. More money, more property, whatever. So. I give in for now, find my weapons... and attack. What's your password this week?" Joe rolled his eyes and eased the strings on his guitar for storage with the quick, economical motions of long practice. "To which program? Shit. Grab us a pitcher of beer and call Mike to come in for the early shift, huh? I'll go start logging in. Got anything to go on other than this kid's name?" "Oh, yes," Methos said softly. "Try Neil Wake, and try Marshall Wake." The second name sank in and the Watcher spoke carefully as his hands closed the locks on his guitar case. "Marshall Wake the financial buzz saw?" He turned to watch Methos, because all too often body language was the only answer the Watcher could get from the oldest immortal. "Mr. 'Hostile Takeover' himself?" "That would be the one, Joe. His only son, the school's football pride and joy, is a competent second-story man and budding blackmailer. I'll call Mike." Methos turned away and walked to the bar. Quick, contained motions dropped the empty beer stein in the bin for empties, and filled a mug with coffee. "The trouble you manage to find, buddy. Oh, well. I guess sooner or later you had to have something go wrong that didn't involve pointy steel." "Thank you so very much, Mr. Philosopher For the Ages. Go boot up the bloody computer, will you?" Methos pulled the phone out from under the bar and punched in the speed dial code on the phone for Joe's assistant bartender and back-up Watcher, Mike Barrett, as Joe sighed and pushed up onto his legs, heading for his office and the dubious joys of hunting down a blackmailer's history. <><><><><><> Much later that afternoon, the Watcher and the immortal looked up from the growing pile of notes, discarded plates of half-eaten food, and mugs full of cold coffee. Joe spoke first. "This is pretty ugly, Methos." "I would have to say that four accidents involving possible drinking or other 'substances' settled out of court is not a good sign, no," the older man replied coldly. "Then there's the other matter. Is it just me or is this family hazardous to the local population?" "Oh, let's see," Joe answered sarcastically. "Two illegal alien maids who vanished when the Immigration and Naturalization Service started looking into them, never to be seen anywhere again? Or were you talking about the rival quarterback in high school who came down with a broken leg before the big game?" "That would be a start. I'm equally interested in the repairs to his car." "His car? I wondered why you were hacking into the dealership's records." The Watcher glanced over, interested. "What about it?" "Body work is usually necessary for collisions, Joe. Six times in two years? Either the boy can't drive -- or he can." Methos reached over with one hand and flattened a Coke can with one hand, eyebrow raised as he looked to see if Joe had caught his point. It came as no surprise to see the Watcher had. "Methos, we're looking at a bush-league sociopath here, with Daddy's money covering up his messes. And if you do anything too permanent to him, Daddy will look into it." "Up to him, Joe. If he stops here, I'll let the little shit live. So far, he's only threatened Adam Pierson. No big deal. Adam's a harmless grad student, couldn't do anything more vicious than tell the truth on student term papers. If he escalates this, though...." The cold eyes and impassive face said everything his voice didn't, as did the subtle change in body language. Adam's easy sprawl pulled up into an erect readiness that Joe had only seen when Methos was taking a challenge from another immortal, one who was good enough to actually be a challenge. The Watcher ran his hands through his hair again, absently aware that it was a damn good thing he kept it so short or he'd look like a haystack after a high wind. "Methos -- make sure he thinks the picture is enough to keep you in line. If he investigates you or Mac...." One shake of head and the grim tone made it clear just what Joe thought of that possibility. "His daddy's got the money to get a real good P.I. Adam Pierson would pass inspection, knowing you. Duncan, though, has been using that name in this area for way too damn long, sometimes way too conspicuously." "I keep telling him to keep his head down," Methos groused, mood lifting a bit at his lover's name. "But hell, Joe, Connor can't get him to change his name and he's been trying for over a century. What luck did you think I'd have in four years? No, I'll make sure the little shit thinks Adam will stay in line." "Can't have some punk kid blowing immortal secrets to kingdom come, that's for damn sure," the other man agreed. "Look, Methos, let me see what else I can find out. Maybe we can get some dirt on him that he doesn't want to have to go to his father for help on." The Watcher paused then asked a question knowing he might not want the answer. "Does Mac know about this?" "My problem so far, Joe," the immortal answered, cold voice shutting down the discussion. "Is it?" came the level reply. Joe had known Methos too long to let the immortal intimidate him that easily. "Last I checked, Mac was still living at the loft. This little bastard went through his stuff, too, Methos. And he's using Mac to try and blackmail you? Duncan's gonna hate it if you hide this from him." "And if I have to kill this boy, he'll want me to find another way." "He might surprise you, old man, but I can see you're gonna do this your own way." Joe rolled his eyes at the trouble that could come out of this, then shook his head. "Your relationship, your business. I won't tell him." Methos nodded once. "Thank you, Joe. I don't want to go through the entire argument again about 'you should go somewhere safe while I deal with this.' My student, my grade, my problem." "And your solution," the Watcher nodded. "Not saying you're wrong, you know. Killing him may be the only thing we can do on this. Cleaner solution than leaving the little shit a vegetable for life, which is the only other certain way to keep his mouth shut. Is he the type to drag you down with him if he goes?" When the oldest immortal nodded once, cold eyes studying possibilities, alternatives, and consequences without flinching, Joe said quietly, "You do what you've gotta do, buddy." "Thanks, Joe, for everything." Methos helped him clear away the accumulated debris and research wreckage, using the time to pull his grad student persona back around himself. "Hey, what are friends for?" Joe reached out and caught his friend by the shoulder to drag that clear-eyed gaze around. "Yell if you need something, Adam. And watch your head." <><><><><><> Neil ripped the envelope open, scanning quickly down the lines to see what the GPA showed. He sighed and spoke out loud in his relief. "Hot damn! I was right; my GPA's back up to 2.0. Good thing, too! The bowl game's in ten days. Coach would've had my ass if I'd been suspended right before the big game!" That weight off his shoulders, Neil stretched his arms over his head, pulling down against nothing to ease stiff tendons. I think I'll stop by and congratulate Pierson on his good sense. What the hell, I wanted to check the board in the student center, see what bands are playing tonight. Gotta celebrate and I've sure got something to celebrate now. Hands in the pockets of his fleece jacket, Neil whistled cheerfully and watched his breath steam in the cold air as he walked through the mostly deserted University Center. Only a couple of the band flyers looked interesting; most groups didn't post ads on campus during the semester breaks. Oh, well. When he got to the Languages building, MacLeod was just coming out of Pierson's office, his dark brown hair back in a ponytail and wearing an expensive-looking sweater and slacks outfit. Neil couldn't help grinning. There was just something about knowing that he'd broken into this man's home and MacLeod didn't know about it. Pierson's not going to tell him; he'd have to explain what he was doing with those pictures hidden away like that. Huh. I wonder if Pierson was planning on blackmailing him, one day? Now that might explain why MacLeod doesn't have any pictures out of the two of them together, but Pierson has half-a-dozen in his desk in a mislabeled folder! Sneaky little bastard. And he played pure and righteous with me? Duncan called over his shoulder, "I'll go find Erin, then. Think you can pull your nose out of the book in the next twenty minutes?" "It's that or face Erin, MacLeod; I think I'll manage," Methos answered. "Besides, I'm reading this one for the pleasure of blasting the idiot over all the mistakes in it. Some people should use editors before they publish." Duncan saw Neil waiting a few steps from the door and nodded companionably to the student as he headed past. "If you're looking for Mr. Pierson, he's in for about another fifteen or twenty minutes." "No problem," the muscular, blond teen assured him. "I don't think this'll run him late. And Professor Shea's down in the Language office. She was cursing at the copy machine when I went by." "Thanks," Mac answered cheerfully. He didn't waste any energy on trying to remember who the kid was, though, as he continued down the hall to find their redheaded lunch date. If it's important, Methos will tell me. Methos heard footsteps in the doorway and said irritably, "MacLeod, I've still got eighteen minutes, go away and let me use them." "Sure," Neil answered him, one shoulder against the doorframe as he lounged in the doorway. "Just dropped by to say I'm glad you're being reasonable." "Bit public to be gloating, isn't it?" Methos asked. After a leisurely moment's pause, he turned around to face the brat. "Gloating? I was just on campus, and since I got the posted grades, I wanted to come by and say thanks." The sarcasm could have melted steel. "The football team thanks you, too, you know. Bowl game's next weekend." "So it is," Methos said coldly, watching the boy's reactions intently. That flush on his face... he's getting off on this whole situation. If he has a regular girlfriend, she's in for a rough time tonight. No. He's not going to stop. "I'll see you in the Latin class next fall, I suppose, Mr. Wake. I'm sure you have other things to do." "Yeah," Neil agreed in a treacherously sweet voice. "I need to go celebrate tonight before the team retreat this weekend. Coach thinks we need to get our minds off alcohol and women for a couple days, concentrate on the upcoming game." "I'm glad to hear you can focus on something. If you're through?" With one hand, Methos tapped his highlighter against the desk to illustrate that he'd been busy. Let's see how he takes a dismissal. Neil's eyes widened in astonished outrage. Skinny fag thinks he's better than me? Toss me out like junk mail? I don't think so. "You know, the more I focus on upcoming events, the more I think I should get my art elective out of the way next semester. I'm sure I could pass Mr. MacLeod's class." "That," Methos said softly, "sounded like a threat." "A threat? That might be actionable, Mr. Pierson. I was merely expressing an opinion. Aren't all students supposed to have opinions? I mean it says in the Student Handbook that the purpose of a liberal education is to learn how to think." God, look at him. Like he can do anything to me. What's he gonna do, take a swing at me? I'll eat him for lunch, he's a toothpick. Not that I go for men, but what in hell does MacLeod see in him? Pierson's not even good-looking. Methos let a minute portion of his anger show on his face, just enough to be convincing from 'Adam Pierson' so that the fool would think this was working. "And I suppose you want me to arrange it?" "I could," Neil smiled, "but I was under the impression you were keeping the pictures... private?" He settled more comfortably against the door frame with the easy hip-shot posture of youth to emphasize his control over the situation both with his leisure and the continued higher ground over the seated grad student. The little prick thinks I'm blackmailing Duncan?!? Talk about projecting! Outwardly, Methos allowed apparent shock to cross his face, then growled, "I'll see what can be done." "You'll see? Then I hope your eyes are good," Neil grinned. "I'm sure the Dean would be interested to know that two of the male professors split a bit more than the bills. Now me, I can see and I even know what to look at. And you know something? For twenty dollars at the right 'club,' you can get one hell of a view -- without having to take her home afterwards. Later, Mr. Pierson, I'm going to go have some real fun." Methos waited until the brat was well and truly gone before putting away the article on early Christian thought that he'd been reading. Joe and I were right. The child wants to be the local shark, intimidating everything and playing anywhere it's bloody. Just once, I'd like to be wrong on something like this. But the brat's made his choices; now he gets to live and die by them. The remaining time before lunch was devoted to firming up the walls that shielded his emotions from MacLeod. No sense letting the Highlander know what was going on; he might object to what Methos had planned. It was very simple, really. 'Adam Pierson' could die and Methos wouldn't bat an eye. Indeed, that identity needed to be destroyed at some point or Methos would have to 'discover' he was immortal before the Watchers noticed he wasn't aging. MacLeod, however, had never changed names in four centuries. He sure as hell shouldn't have to do it because of one little arrogant sociopath who should have been strangled years ago. Over lunch, the older immortal let one part of his mind turn over option after option for dealing with the boy. Centuries of planning, manipulating, and betraying had to be good for something after all. Something would come to him. Nice of the brat to mention his plans for the night though. The only question now is, which titty bar do the football players frequent this year? There're only three where you stand a decent chance of not being busted, so to speak, and no way this little bastard is going to get arrested before the bowl game. He's treacherous, but not a complete idiot. A certain low cunning, as Joe would say. Besides, Lady Luck just isn't that fond of me. Erin's voice broke across his planning. "Earth to Adam. You in there?" "Of course I am," he replied promptly. "Just plotting." Mac gave him a look that clearly said that that answer made him a bit nervous after Methos had thinned down the link they'd shared since the double Quickening in Bordeaux. "About what?" Methos shrugged and replied coolly, "MacLeod, you have a birthday coming up in two weeks and Christmas four days after that. You don't really think I'm going to tell you, do you?" Both statements true, although the one has nothing to do with the other. Erin laughed at her friend's reply and set her fork down, finished with her cannelloni. "Ah. I see. Adam, do I owe you or do you owe me?" "You owe me, of course." Methos smiled at her, seeing the familiar mischief in dancing blue eyes and hoping she was about to bail him out. Thank the Gods we spent ten years helping each other pull pranks before the University of Seacouver outbid the Watchers. "You would say that. Mind, it's probably your version of the story, but we'll go with it. Well, then, Professor MacLeod -- you have been promising all semester to help me rearrange the bookshelves and desk in my office. Since we don't have classes this afternoon, I think we should go do so." Quick hands rumpled red hair back into place and then grabbed her purse from the empty chair to her right. "Erin!" Mac protested. "I've shopping of my own to do!" "So do I," she retorted firmly. "I haven't been able to find anything good enough for Joe. You come help with my office and then I'll have time to go shopping, too." Red eyebrows drew down as she practiced her 'student death-ray' glare on the all too attractive Highlander. "I'm not one of your female grad students, Duncan MacLeod. Those big brown eyes don't get you any slack... with me, that is," and she shot Adam a mocking look, unable to resist the gibe. "I have an office to rearrange, lights to hang for the Christmas cantata this weekend, and shopping to do. For all I know, Joe needs the lights reset for the Christmas Eve party, which means I'll be busy there. Adam, thank you so much for covering lunch." Erin smiled wickedly at him, her Irish up because she considered lunch a reasonable cost for helping her former cohort in crime. "How soon can I let him free?" "Lincoln freed the slaves in 1860-something," Duncan complained, but he was grinning. "Oh, all right, Erin, let's go do this." "1863 was the first batch," Methos said calmly. "The Emancipation Proclamation, MacLeod, surely you can remember that? In 1865 they freed the slaves in the states that hadn't seceded; I believe it was called the Thirteenth Amendment?" Mac bit back one retort, then another, biting his tongue rather than blow Adam's cover. As a former Watcher, Erin knew how old the Highlander was and she was grinning at 'Adam's' jibes. But she had no idea that 'Adam Pierson' was Methos, or even immortal, and damn if Duncan wanted to blow his lover's cover... even if he was occasionally one of the most irritating people on the face of the earth. From the look on Mac's face, he obviously intended to get even later, and Methos found himself looking forward to it as an antidote from the rest of this day. Responding to Erin's earlier question, he answered, "Erin, don't cut him loose before at least four. Could you maybe make it six? That way he'll do all his sulking in the kitchen while fixing dinner and I won't have to worry about him before seven-thirty or so." Mac glared, genuinely irritated at the low opinion of his ability to keep himself occupied. However, Methos had a real genius for getting under his skin, and the Highlander knew it, so he kept his voice light as he asked, "Should I just go listen to Joe play all night, then, and see you whenever?" Methos leaned over and hugged him around the shoulders, catching the quickly stifled annoyance. "I'm going to be out for a while, Mac, I let the holiday slip up on me. Go help Erin with her office and enjoy yourself at Joe's, I'll probably be late getting home." He projected reassurance and love tinged with mischief over their link. Brown eyes probed for hidden meanings or agendas, and Methos smiled a little, shaking his head. I knew Mac would worry this was actually over the break-in. "It's shopping, MacLeod. It's not like I'm being Challenged or anything," he added in a sarcastic voice. That drew a laugh out of Duncan. Erin grinned at Adam, brushing red hair off her temples in the characteristic gesture that meant she was about to start in on some project. "So, Pierson, if I did enough research, could I find out when you did take your last head?" Her teasing tone made Duncan grin at how much the real answer to that question would startle Erin. Methos chuckled at her answer, and answered, "Go away, Erin. I'll get the bill, it's my turn. Take him away so I can hunt things down in peace, all right?" The redheaded professor stood up and pulled Duncan along with her, slinging the large purse over her other shoulder with a practiced ease. "Come on, Mac, the sooner we start, the sooner we're done." The Scot chuckled at that. "Mmm-hmm, and the sooner you'll give me that big-eyed little girl look of yours -- and don't deny it, Erin Shea -- and point out that if I help with the lights, too, you'll be free for the holiday and Joe will be in a better mood. Why not? What else was I doing? Unlike some people, I've got most of my holiday errands done." "Well, I don't think you're chasing him around the room until much later tonight, so come do something constructive. Besides, Mac, I'm forty years old. If the 'big-eyed little girl' look still works on you, I'd be a fool not to use it! Bye, Adam, six at least, I promise." Methos sipped the last of his coffee as Mac quibbled with Erin's wording all the way out of the restaurant. Thank God Erin and I used to raise so much hell at Watcher HQ. That's undoubtedly the sort of thing she thinks I'm up to now, so of course she'll help make sure I don't get caught. Ten years of habits pay off in my favor. I'll owe her later, but that's all right. If I can find a good Christmas present for Joe this afternoon, we'll be even. A half-smile crossed the older immortal's face when he remembered the conversation. He had not, after all, lied to MacLeod. If Mac had thought some of what he said was a joke, well, that was the Highlander's own conclusions, not Methos' words. Besides, he really was going shopping. Today's sweater was far too nice to be burned after he killed this little sociopath. <><><><><><> Methos handed over the five dollar cover charge and stepped into the Queen of Hearts, already inured to the pounding music from the last 'exotic dance' bar he'd been in. Once through the door, the immortal moved into a shadowed area and scanned the room almost casually. Damn, it's crowded as hell. He wormed through the massed people deftly, ostensibly paying attention to the gyrating, partially-clothed women on the tables and stage. One young black woman was particularly good and Methos smiled, remembering an exquisite Ethiopian slave in the Roman empire. When he heard familiar voices to his left, he glanced over and saw five or six of the football players sitting there. All of their attention, fortunately, was engaged in egging on a young woman doing a lap dance for the quarterback. Methos slid into a nearby booth and listened through the crowd noises until he could clearly hear Neil's voice. Ah, good, he's already nicely tanked. This should work. Having placed his quarry, the immortal slid off to check out the hunting ground. Booths along the walls, a door labeled 'VIP Lounge', more booths, a buffet that seemed to be slowly shutting down, the stage in the center of the room with tables around it. Off to one side was a bar which was staying very busy and a stair up to the second floor. Ah, there was what he was looking for -- the restrooms were by an emergency exit as they so often were. On the pretext of needing to use the bathroom himself, Methos headed that way to check the back door. Sure enough, it was marked for an emergency exit, but there was no alarm wired to it. Perfect. I don't even have to use any of the tricks Amanda showed me on her last trip through town. He glanced out the door, opening it a bare crack, and saw a service alley behind the building. Quiet, enough light for my purposes, no good sight-lines except the mouth of the alley, and nice high building walls to channel sound up and away. Good. Now I just wait until bright boy decides he needs the facilities. Two beers later, paid for in cash, and having refused the services of four young ladies so far, Methos sat in the shadowed side of a booth and pulled on a pair of thin, plastic gloves as Neil moved unsteadily toward the restroom. From the careful movements, it was obvious the boy was thoroughly drunk and very eager to reach his destination. Good, all his attention is on getting to the bathroom and everyone else is watching the stage. Not that I blame them; she's good. Now -- show time. Methos timed the boy's progress and intercepted him three steps from the bathroom door -- right in front of the exit. A single 'misstep' knocked Neil off what little balance he had and toward the door outside. Ducking his head to watch what he was doing, Methos 'accidentally' knocked into the release bar on the exit with one elbow while 'catching' Neil with the other arm. In a slurred voice, the boy complained, "Hey, moth'fuck'r, watch whe' y' goin'!" The hand that had propped him back up suddenly tightened and anger spun through the teenager's veins as he realized some man had a grip on him from behind. Ah, shit, some guy's making a pass at me! Or the bouncer's showing off for some piece of ass! Then they were outside, the door pushed shut behind them before Neil could really draw breath to yell. A sucker punch just over one kidney caught him harder than he'd ever been tackled in a game. The air rushed out of him in one convulsive breath and an arm instinctively dropped down to shield his ribs as Neil doubled over. Methos reversed the dagger in his hand; the hilt had done nicely to reinforce the strike at Neil's floating rib, but now he needed the edge. With his left hand, the immortal covered the boy's mouth and forced his head over to the right. At the same time, the blade came up in his right hand and slit Neil's throat wide open as Methos dragged his head back to the left against the cold steel. Blood sprayed out in a wide, hot arc against the alley wall, catching Methos' hands and forearms. Already the little bastard was sagging in his arms, body gone limp as bladder and sphincter cut loose. The immortal pushed away the familiar smells of death without conscious effort as he lowered the corpse, blood still steaming in the winter air. The blade was wiped clean on the back of the boy's sweater and his wallet pulled from the back pocket of the jeans before it could get too fragrant. Methos looted him with the quick efficiency of centuries of practice and left no valuables on the body that would let the police think this was anything other than a particularly brutal mugging. Not incidentally, it cleaned the worst of the blood off his hands. Forty seconds. Not bad at all for being out of practice. The immortal strolled casually down the service alley, stripping off the bloody gloves as he went. He was careful not to move into the light as he worked around to his car. Once in the car, he headed for Joe's place to clean up and change, aware that the blues player was busy at the club and had advertised both a nine o'clock and an eleven o'clock set. Methos had no worries that he would be interrupted there as he might have been at his and Duncan's place. It took a full twenty minutes of soaking in the hot water and inhaling the scents of modern shampoo and Joe's cologne that still permeated the room before Methos could drag himself back out of that older, predatory mindset and into 'Adam Pierson' again. Twenty minutes of remembering exactly what it was he loved about Duncan MacLeod, why Joe Dawson was so precious to both of them, and how Erin Shea's fun was such innocent mischief, before the former Horseman of the Apocalypse was certain that he wouldn't slip back into what he had been. I could wish this weren't so easy. I've been putting that behind me for two thousand years and more and Death is still only a few threats away. With a deep breath, Methos made himself laugh softly at a passing thought and spoke it aloud as he finished returning Joe's bathroom to its former state. "On the other hand, Kronos was much more of a challenge to outmaneuver." Yanking Neil's wallet open, Methos pulled out the cash inside and a single credit card receipt with his address on it. He left the plastic, because it was far too easy to trace. After stretching, he pulled on the outfit he'd worn earlier in the day, and bundled up the bloody gloves and the ruined clothes and shoes, wrapping the brat's wallet in the middle. Tied to a good rock this would sink nicely tomorrow when he drove up to one of the nearby lakes; even if they were eventually found, the police would simply decide this had been a professional job. The garbage sack of clothes could stay in his trunk for one night; no one except Joe knew he'd considered killing the blackmailer and Joe wouldn't say a word. "Now for the last job," Methos muttered. "His apartment." <><><><><><> More surgical gloves and his own lockpicks had been part of the equipment for the night, and Methos had no trouble breaking into the apartment. He'd been entering Mac's barge or apartment without a key for years before they became lovers. Glancing around the would-be Moriarty's apartment, he quickly eliminated several obvious hiding places for the picture. "Right, a certain low cunning indeed. So. Nothing obvious, which means not in the drawers, not in the files -- ah, he doesn't have any. That makes this easier," Methos muttered. "Right. You hide things where no one would look, or where they won't... be... disturbed." Unerringly he turned back to the desk. "What did the little bastard not use? His textbooks. Let's start with mine, he did have a rather black sense of humor." When those didn't pan out, Methos calmly proceeded through the literature book, shaking it carefully and finding two badly written love notes. The basic anthropology text was no more helpful. "Gods, no notes, no highlighting; he must've paid for crib notes in here if he passed it. Too cheap to buy them for my class as well, I suppose." Methos picked up the next text and muttered, "What the hell are they calling Management Principles?" That one he glanced through as much to see what the chapter headings were as to look for the picture. "Oh, sweet Gods, they teach this in college? Why didn't they teach these basics in high school? Well, it's not like Machiavelli wrote for the masses anyway." He ignored the detailed play diagrams in the end-papers, although it was amusing to see the several different handwritings on the phone numbers in the margins. "All right, let's see if it's...." The picture fluttered down as he shook out Basics of Astronomy and Methos sighed in relief. "Good. Time to get out of here. Mac must be rubbing off on me, I'm starting to think this place is a pigsty." The immortal closed his eyes to remember exactly what the desk had looked like before he started, then carefully replaced the texts. The picture went into the inside pocket of his jacket, then he worked his way to the door, turned out the light, and stepped cautiously into the hallway. No one was there, so Methos locked the door again, tucked his surgical gloves into his pockets, and ambled down the stairwell to the street. Two blocks brisk walk brought the crafty immortal to his car and he drove off, whistling softly as he meticulously observed the speed limit. Getting pulled over was on the list of things not to do tonight. <><><><><><> Duncan glanced up when he felt another immortal, then relaxed as he recognized Methos' signature. The older immortal glanced around the bar as he stepped through the door and Mac stood and waved to get his attention. Methos saw the wave first, then Erin's red hair in the crowd. He maneuvered carefully to protect his bundle as he headed that way. Erin poured him a glass from the pitcher on the table and Methos downed it in one long swallow. She raised one eyebrow at that and looked at the gaily wrapped parcel he'd set down. "Poor thing, did you exhaust yourself shopping?" "Laugh on, woman. I got you this to give Joe for Christmas, but I suppose I could give it to him myself...." Methos made as if to take the package back and Erin held it down with one palm while refilling his glass with the other. The friendly teasing fell away from her voice as Erin hastily said, "No, Adam, that's perfectly all right! You idiot, you didn't have to do this." "Of course not, that's why I did." Methos relaxed against Duncan's shoulder for a moment, enjoying the warmth against his side. The other immortal rubbed at his lover's neck casually, then frowned and pulled Methos into position for a serious massage. "What did you do, get caught in the crowd for 'Tickle Me Elmo' or something?" "Mmm," Methos groaned against the strong fingers untying the knots in his neck. "No, it just took awhile to find exactly what I was looking for. By the way, Erin, those are 78s and 33s of Tommy Dorsey, Ella Fitzgerald, and Billie Holliday. And I found an utter gem, one of the small label presses of Robert Johnson. It's in excellent condition, near mint." Erin squealed, a totally undignified sound from the usually professional teacher, and moved around the table to hug Adam fiercely. "Oh, that's wonderful! How much do I owe you? This is perfect!" She let him go and settled back into her seat, a mile-wide smile on her face. "Adam, who did you have to kill to get these?" Methos turned his head to glare at her and Duncan reached up impatiently to turn his head back again. "I'm working here, Adam, freeze her in place with a look later." "I was just in the right place at the right time, Erin." He could hear her snicker even over the crowd noise. "Seriously, Adam, what happened?" "The dealer hit a garage sale. Some damn fool was selling his entire record collection from the Forties and Fifties, Erin. I won't tell you what else was there, since someone may be seeing part of it at Christmas." He deliberately used a coy voice to tease his lover and distract him further. Having unlocked the last of the tension, Duncan shook Methos affectionately and said, "All right, Sassenach, you want the subject changed, I'll change it. Have you eaten?" Erin promptly said, "Oh, no, Duncan, we don't change it just yet. Adam, let me know what I owe you, all right?" "You can put part of it into one of those oversized hunks of meat Joe is selling as a sirloin," Methos suggested happily. "Medium-well, lots of mushrooms, a potato...." "I know, I know, and a huge salad with bleu cheese dressing," she laughed. "I know. Deal. We'll talk about what I owe you tomorrow. More beer, too, I assume?" "Of course." "Duncan, more scotch? As long as I'm going?" At his nod, she headed off to the bar to place the order rather than wait for a waitress to make it back to them. Behind her, Mac wrapped an arm around his lover's waist. "That was a wonderful thing you did, love. Erin had been tearing her hair out to find Joe something, and he'll love those." Methos sighed and relaxed back against the Highlander, letting their continued safety finally break across him. All his day's labors fell down into place and the last step, the albums for Joe, neatly covered his activities without making the oldest immortal lie to his honor-bound lover. "Some people are worth the effort, MacLeod, that's all."
~ ~ ~ finis 7/98 ~ ~ ~ Highlander
Stories: Aidan: Series
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