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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Going to live, Highlander?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How bad was it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you want to sit and talk?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duncan chuckled at that.  "She still does."

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

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

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

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

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

"No.  Tell me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did you do?"  Duncan prodded gently.

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

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

"Yes."  It was all he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Umm... Jason Robertson."

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

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

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

"When's the paper due?"

"Five weeks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll definitely try that, Joe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Am I really what?"  Joe snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

Melbourne, Australia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~ finis 3/98 ~ ~ ~