The Professionals Circuit Archive - On Faith and Trust Alone	     On
Faith and Trust Alone

 

by Tessa Rae & Sethra

  
 *Paris. May the 21st 1980.*

Straightening the collar of his coat, MacLeod gave the heavens what had
become his customary glare, not believing the late spring weather. It was
raining, drizzling again, making the old stone pavements under his feet
gray and slippery and giving Paris a dull, damp look. A grieving
appearance.... He would be very glad when the uncharacteristic wet spell
passed, because Paris in spring and summer was one of the few pleasures he
still savored, somehow it seemed to reaffirm life injecting his spirit
with hope.

The last decade had been hard. He had drifted from one casual relationship
to another with waning enthusiasm, touching life rather than living it. He
was tired of existing, of surviving, wishing for something that could fill
him with the joy of life again. But nothing had infused him so brilliantly
since Little Deer had been murdered on March 13th 1872. A date burned into
his brain by its viciousness. Not only because of her death but because it
had destroyed all he'd held precious, all he had protected and believed
in. He had endured the pain but felt like he was only observing life now.
Occasionally he had glimpsed happiness with friends, lovers, and events
but.... *he wanted something more.* He wanted a consuming relationship
that took up every ounce of his being. He wanted to be loved and be able
to love completely.

*Was that too much to wish for? Too much for an Immortal to desire peace
and happiness?

*Disillusioned, MacLeod shoved his hands further in to his coat pocket,
cursing the dampness of the fabric as he stood in the drizzling rain.
*What was wrong with him?* He had even kept away from the Game,
encountering the occasional Immortal, visiting those few Immortal friends
he cherished and fighting only when forced. He was not a hunter, never
wanted to be a hunter *but....* but otherwise he was simply trying to find
a direction for his life. Existing instead of living. What he wanted,
needed, he could never have. Permanency. 

That illusive feeling of utter peace. To have one person whom he could
rely on to be there, who knew what it was like to be immortal, who
understood the dangers, the pain, the thrill, *like Robert had Gina*, he
thought wistfully. To just belong. He craved to be able to come home and
find his life filled with the soul deep knowledge of acceptance and love.
*He had hoped Amanda.... *but he shook his head, water flying in all
directions as he muttered a curse. Amanda he adored but they would kill
each other. *Amanda needed to be free*, *noh -* theirs was a relationship
based on friendship, on affection and companionship. A casual affair,
though that was no longer enough for him either, so he had returned to
Paris. Hoping, desiring to find his heart as well as a new direction.
Paris the city of love and romance, only it was raining, washing his
dreams away. 

Shoving his hands harder into his damp pockets, MacLeod ambled down the
old stone steps to the Seine River level. Recently he had purchased a
barge and had great plans to do it up, to enjoy the best of both worlds by
living so close to the heart of Paris and living on the water. The
decision had felt right, had felt very good as he changed his lifestyle
and used his money. *Maybe he should continue with the antiques trade -
make a serious attempt of turning it into a profitable business? After
all, he had gone to all the trouble of getting that new license.... or he
could go into the art business. So many possibilities.* Already he was
aware of friends, good friends, Immortal friends, who had given into
despair and had lost a challenge to some eager headhunter, and he vowed
never to be like that. He would keep his head and keep his perspective. If
Connor could do it and Fitzcain could do it, then so could he.

Strengthening that silent resolve, MacLeod stopped under Tournelle's
arched magnificence and looked towards his silent home. The barge, his
barge, sat on the calm water, motionless and dark. Behind it loomed Notre
Dame, filling the evening skyline with its impressive bulk and majesty.
Involuntarily he shuddered.

*Damn!* He had to shake of this depression. *Had to or....*

Trailing that thought off, MacLeod tensed when the hairs on the back of
his neck prickled up, washing him in a strong buzz of unwanted presence.
Scanning the waterfront he turned slowly, rolling his shoulders back and
picking out a dark shadow that detached itself from under the bridge
behind him. This was just what he needed now. A challenge. *Maybe Paris no
longer possessed the luster and beauty he yearned for, and maybe there
would be no relief from this blackness of spirit he sensed? Maybe he was
doomed to loneliness...*. Hardening his resolve and shoving his surge of
useless anger aside, MacLeod drew his sword and held it before him in
warning. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod! I have noh quarrel with
you." He got a snicker in return, the figure moving closer being lit
briefly by the reflection of light off the sword's polished edge.

"A MacLeod. How poetic."

Deciphering the Scottish accent, MacLeod squinted into the dimness and
stepped back, forcing his opponent to follow so he could get a better look
at his challenger. "I have no dispute with you." He declared, doubting he
could halt the inevitable.

"But I do with you!"

"You know me?" MacLeod asked disconcerted. He had never seen the Immortal
before, getting his first decent look at the man's face. A hard stern
face, with long wavy hair, tied back, much like his own. Only the Immortal
sported a full beard and held a Scottish Claymore.

"You are a MacLeod!" The Immortal shot back. "What else is there to know
except it is my duty to give you a painful death."

Raising a brow at the overly dramatic statement, MacLeod carefully stepped
back, eyeing his opponent, noting his stance and confidence. "Do I at
least get a name?"

"McKellen." The Immortal spat. "And I curse you and all your kin!"

******

*Circa 17th century. Highlands, Scotland *

*"Connor?" Exhaling harshly Duncan grimaced as he lifted the thick,
blood-sodden blankets, half expecting to find his beheaded kinsman or
worse a mortal - dreading to see another child so brutally hacked to
death. "Who has done this?" He asked out loud, but only silence answered
him. He had seen many battles, had fought on many bloody fields, but
this.... this willful, unnecessary murder of the innocent turned his
stomach.

Dropping the blanket back over the body of the elderly man he had found on
the straw bed, Duncan carefully walked through the demolished cottage
desperately searching for his cousin or any sign of life. But not much was
left of the large family that had lived up here in the high country, and
he absently wiped his hand over his chin, aching with the grief of so many
deaths for so little reason.

"Connor?" Duncan called a second time, pushing back the partially
destroyed door and going outside. It was snowing now, a light fall of soft
flakes that magically started to obscure the blood and devastation of this
small community, masking the ugliness with pure whiteness and Duncan
lifted his face to the snow and breathed in deeply. The freshness was
welcome after the stench of the last cottage he had walked through, his
anger receding into a numbness of grief as he viewed the blatant
slaughter. Why?

He glanced around, knowing this place, knowing these people. They were
simple farmers, decent, honest folk who offered food and shelter to
travelers. They had opened their homes to him a few years ago, and Connor
had returned to visit. Distant relatives of the MacLeod's, or so Connor
believed, and Duncan smiled sadly remembering how his clansman had become
infatuated with one of the fiery-haired women of this small community.
Grace.... But she was now dead. He had found her lifeless body in the
first thatched roof cottage. Grace and her five younger siblings....

Tensing as the surge of Immortal presence swept over him, Duncan was
reaching for his sword, drawing it as he turned and snarled, finding his
anger was quick to rise as he stood in the middle of this atrocity. It
fired his blood, making him want to fight, to release the useless rage.
But his anger soon died as he saw his kinsman, bloodied but alive, an
inner fury discoloring the normally light blue eyes. "Connor?"

"I-I.... I thought you were someone else."

Hearing the suppressed rage, Duncan swallowed, the implications very
clear. "One of us did this?" He gestured around in disbelief. "Why?" But
his kinsman didn't answer and Duncan was forced to follow his cousin to
the end of the village as perfunctory, Connor started to bury the dead.
Shelving his questions, Duncan took off his coat, re-sheathing his sword
and offering silent help and support. 

It took them most of the afternoon to bury the dead, each small body
adding to the helpless feeling of desolation. It left a gaping wound in
the earth, in them both and Duncan could see how Connor bled grief, bled
vengeance - how his kinsman tried to hold it all in until after everything
was done. Then and only then did he cry in sorrow, in despair for the
pointlessness of this massacre.

"Why?" Duncan asked again as he tended a fire, both of them choosing to
stay outside, away from the death and carnage in the dark empty cottages
behind them. Gone was the laughter, music, and life. 

"Because they are MacLeod's." Connor whispered tiredly.

"What?" Duncan blinked at his cousin. "But they are only distantly
related. You said so yourself. So far removed they don't even carry the
name."

"They carry enough." Connor said tiredly, lifting his eyes to find
Duncan's. "Did Ian MacLeod never tell you of the dispute between the
MacLeod's and the McKellen's?"

"Noh," Duncan started, frowning. He thought back, knowing the name sounded
familiar but not remembering why.

"Four centuries ago there was a dispute," Connor stated, his tone
reflecting his distaste. "..over a fertile piece of land."

"A clan dispute?"

Shaking his head, Connor held his hands out to the small fire, staring
into it and remembering the trivial details. "No. It was between two
families. One a MacLeod the other a McKellen. But rather than settle the
dispute before the elders, the McKellen's decided one night to take
matters into their own hands. They killed all the sheep in one pasture
belonging to the MacLeods'."

"And I take it the MacLeod's retaliated."

Again Connor nodded. "Little by little more and more of the surrounding
family members were dragged into the dispute. From what I was told it went
on for years, until someone died."

Expecting this, Duncan still sighed, knowing how that would escalate to
war.

"I think it was an accident, and the life that was lost was a McKellen's -
but by then there was too much bad blood, nothing but distrust and anger
on both sides for anyone to see reason."

"So the McKellen's avenged their dead by killing a MacLeod?"

Connor nodded. "Only they killed all within the farmstead."

"All?" Duncan asked in disbelief.

"Even the little ones." Connor confirmed as he looked up at the night sky.
"Then the MacLeod's who lived in that province sought revenge and took the
lives of those responsible. Only that didn't end the dispute, rather it
turned the tragedy into a clan war and a war that neither side could win.
In the end I think most of the McKellen males were killed, leaving only
women and children to manage the farms." Connor sighed, collapsing back to
lie on the damp ground and study his hands. "The few that survived were
offered shelter in the MacLeod holdings. Those that refused, died the
following winter."

"When was this?"

"1472." Connor said.

"That was over 270 years ago. Surely this cannot be related. Connor?"

"Ahhh," Connor gave a twisted, humorless smile. "From the way I remember
the tale told, it seems a close cousin to the McKellen's returned near the
end of the war, and he sought revenge. He was killed, but refused to die."
Connor said his eyes meeting Duncan's and holding them for a long moment,
before he glanced away and spat on the ground in disgust. "Everyone
believed it was an ill omen and the land that was once fertile was
declared cursed and the few McKellen's that survived and refused to leave
the land were also cursed. They died." 

"An Immortal," and Duncan closed his eyes, now getting a good idea of who
and what they were facing.

"Bruce McKellen." Connor stated. "I have heard it whispered among the
older ones that his tormented spirit still lives and that he arose from
death to seek revenge for all the blood spilt by his kin." Connor shook
his head in fury. "I have never completely believed those legends. Until
now." 

"So what do we do?" Duncan asked, feeling his blood heat up at the
injustice surrounding him. "These people were innocent." He hissed. "He
has to be stopped-"

"And I will stop him." Connor vowed, his eyes pinning Duncan. "If he is
Immortal, then he can be hunted. You must go and warn the other clans."

"But-"

"This is now my fight, Duncan. I do not want you involved." *

******

*Present.*

Letting his mouth curve up into a wicked grin, MacLeod recognized the name
instantly and found his enthusiasm peaking in anticipation. Even after two
hundred and thirty one years he could still see the mutilated dead bodies,
could still smell the stench of death at the back of his throat and his
warrior instincts took over. *Bruce McKellen of the Clan McKellen - a
butcher, murderer and sworn enemy of the MacLeod clan since the 13th
century*. It was a dark piece of Scottish history, only MacLeod had never
believed he would ever meet the infamous Immortal who had been the cause
of so much hardship and tragedy for his people. "You are the one cursed,
McKellen." MacLeod pronounced harshly. "You are the one who kills your own
clan!"

Roaring in anger, McKellen didn't give a coherent reply, lunging at
MacLeod with a savagery that was inspirational. Side-stepping, MacLeod
didn't even get time to raise his blade, swiveling around to defend
himself when the sudden flashing of police lights blinded him.

"Curse you Highland dog!" McKellen hissed, stepping in close and pinning
MacLeod against the cold damp wall with his sword. "I would like to stay
and sever yewr despicable head, but I have a previous appointment in
London. Maybe another time, MacLeod!" He finished in Gaelic, laughing
insanely before gut-punching the Highlander. "Give my regards to Connor."
Laughing again when he saw pain sweep across MacLeod's face, McKellen
raised the hilt of his blade and brought it down hard on the other
Immortal's skull, then hastily moved back. He snarled at the approaching
police officers, taunting them and judging his options before cursing in
Gaelic a second time. Saluting MacLeod with his blade he determinedly
stepped towards the river's edge.

Hiding his sword, MacLeod placed a hand over his forehead noting the
stickiness of blood on his fingers before he watched in disbelief as
McKellen dived into the Seine. There were other ways to avoid the Police
and MacLeod blinked after him, stilling when he saw half a dozen police
officers level their guns at him. Slowly he raised his hands and turned to
give the officers' an innocent smile.

"Monsieur?"

Meeting the Police offer's gaze, MacLeod sighed. He had the strange
feeling this was going to be a very long night. *But hadn't he just wished
for some spice in his dull existence?*

******

Four hours later, tired and mildly frustrated, MacLeod glanced towards the
door, eyeing the Inspector who returned to the police interview room. Idly
he wondered if they were going to charge him or let him go. But the
Inspector only sent him a strained smile, closing the door softly and
pacing towards the table in the center of the room.

"Monsieur MacLeod," the French offer started politely. "Are you sure you
have told us all that you know?"

Rubbing his eyes in a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion MacLeod waited
until the man was level with the desk and gave him a forced smile. "To
tell you something I would have to know something." he countered blandly.

Not fooled in the least, the Inspector sat on the edge of the desk and
briefly eyed the duty officer behind their suspect. "So you are staying
with the story, stating that you did not know your attacker? That you had
never seen the man before?"

"I have never seen the man before in my life." MacLeod stated with
conviction. It was the truth after all. He might know of McKellen by
reputation but had never met him. Besides, Connor had long since wangled a
promise out of him not to hunt the mad, deranged Scottish bastard because
his ex-teacher had a personal score to settle - *for Grace and her clan*.
He respected Connor's request, understood Connor feelings, and knew his
clansman periodically hunted McKellen, but that still didn't mean he
couldn't challenge the bastard if their paths 'accidentally' crossed
again, *did it? Noh.... * "He gave me no reason for the attack, but I
assume he intended to rob me."

"And your sword?" The inspector pushed, knowing full well that MacLeod was
not telling him the whole truth. Only problem was he had no proof.

"I told you." MacLeod said on an exasperated breath. "I am an antique
dealer."

"It is an old sword, I will agree." The Inspector broke in. "But why carry
it around monsieur MacLeod? Why was it not locked away with other valuable
items?"

"I was moving it." MacLeod said with all sincerity. "I had been to the
auctions earlier that afternoon and-"

"Yes." The policeman stopped him, giving MacLeod a suspicious glare. "Your
alibi checks out."

"So?" MacLeod pushed, praying they would let him go. He really didn't want
to drag legal representation into this dispute. It would take too long and
he felt he didn't have the time to waste.

"If you remember anything else, I pray you will inform me, otherwise this
man may attack another innocent citizen. And they may not be so lucky,
monsieur." The Inspector went on, watching MacLeod's face intently. "For
McKellen is a known murderer, wanted by Interpol."

"I really wish I could help." MacLeod put sympathy into his tone. How he
wished he could tell the Inspector that no amount of police intervention
would stop a mongrel like McKellen. Only an Immortal could do that.

"If I were you, I would find new accommodation for a few days."

"I will." MacLeod assured him. "Thank you." 

"You are free to go for the present." The Inspector informed him
unhappily. "But I warn you, do not leave Paris, Mister MacLeod."

Frowning MacLeod slowly stood up, being escorted from the room. His mind
was already working over how to trace McKellen, then shoving the useless
desire aside. He couldn't actively hunt, *but....* Then he remembered
something else. McKellen had said he was going to London and MacLeod knew
Amanda was currently in London playing house with a wealthy Lord. *Dammit!
Amanda loved to be the social butterfly and he could just imagine her
getting into trouble if McKellen found her*. It was a slim possibility,
but all the excuse he needed to chase the Scottish Immortal to London. 

Stopping at the duty officer's desk, MacLeod signed for his sword and
found the Inspector still watching him distrustfully. "How long before I
can travel?" He asked casually.

"Why?" The Inspector countered.

"I have a.... ummm," MacLeod covered his hesitation by wrapping his sword
in a cloth the duty police officer had given him. "There is a auction in
London I was planning to attend next week." He said abruptly remembering
seeing it advertised in one of his brochures.

"How convenient." The Inspector stated. "When?"

Trying to remember the illusive detail, MacLeod covered his hesitation
with a smile to the pretty female officer close by. "The 24th, or 25th of
May. At Oxford." He did remember that part. "I'll only be gone a week."
MacLeod assured, deciding to ignore the suspicion. "Besides like you said,
I should change accommodation until you find this dangerous murderer."

Studying MacLeod, the Inspector nodded once, laying a hand on his arm when
MacLeod turned away. "Make sure you inform this office of your itinerary,
in case we need to contact you urgently." He ended with a pleasant smile.
In the back of his mind he had already decided to alert the relevant
authorities in the UK, just as a precaution.

Nodding, MacLeod pulled away, glad to get out of the stuffy police
station. Having the police follow his every move was not advisable, but he
was sure once he hit London he could lose whoever was tailing him and
finish his business with McKellen swiftly. For the French police, even
Interpol did not hold power in England. After that, all he would have to
do is find Connor and pacify him before telling his cousin that the
bastard, McKellen, was dead.

Stepping out onto the damp streets of Paris, MacLeod no longer noticed the
gloominess of the place, his mind filled with plans and strategies. First
he would get back to the barge. Book a flight and then ring Amanda. Make
sure she kept her head down and then arrange some hotel accommodation.
Something expensive and classy. It was time he lived again, seized life
with both hands and embraced his fate. It was the only way to survive the
Game. To survive the lingering depression of losing all you loved and
cherished.

And along the way he was positive he would find an anchor. Someone who
would fill his mind, body and soul again with the thrill and excitement of
life. With passion and danger. Love and happiness. He just had to be
patient. 

******

*May 23rd 1980. London.*

"And I suppose it was your bright idea, Bodie, to go charging in at the
drop of a hat?" Cowley growled, noting the guilty look that the target of
his outburst threw at his partner. Both operatives were standing before
his desk looking for all the world like schoolboys dragged in front of the
Head Master, which is effectively what was happening. "Do you know what
sort of explanations I have had to give the Home Office about this whole
sorry debacle?" Cowley carried on, taking off his glasses and studying his
two most experienced agents. "I've a good mind to send you both for a
refresher course. I'm sure Macklin could do something with you." He took
great satisfaction in the winces of dread that were displayed by both men
at the mere thought of spending time with the notorious Instructor. Cowley
smiled benevolently. "However, this morning I was informed of a particular
assignment that at this point in time seems right up your alley." A low
mutter from Bodie caught his attention. "I'm sorry Bodie, did you have
something to say?" Cowley demanded, pinning his errant agent with an icy
stare.

"No Sir." Bodie snapped out, straightening into the classic 'Attention'
stance.

"I'm glad to hear it. And you Doyle, did I say something funny?" Cowley
questioned, noticing the other man grinning at his partner's discomfit.

"You Sir? Say something funny, Sir? Never Sir." Doyle replied in his slow
relaxed style.

Cowley hid a smile, Doyle always was the one less intimidated by his
temper, and it was one of the things he respected about the other man.
"That's quite enough Doyle," he admonished making his tone stern. *It
would not do to let either man know how he really felt*. In his opinion,
*Bodie could have been right,* the actual disaster may not have been
foreseeable. However, this little dressing down just might make them both
think a few seconds more before rushing in next time. Picking up a folder
from his desk, Cowley held it out to Doyle. The curly-haired agent took it
and flipped it open while Bodie moved closer to peer over his shoulder. 

"This is your assignment." Cowley stated, letting a sly grin form. "This
is a covert surveillance operation I've agreed to handle for Interpol. We
are doing them a favor." He tapped the photograph with a hard finger. "A
one Duncan MacLeod, Antique Dealer. They think he is a target for a
suspected serial killer named Bruce McKellen." Cowley tapped a second
photograph of a mean looking man who was glaring at the camera. "Interpol
want us to look after MacLeod." Cowley paused to allow the customary
response to a babysitting job to occur, he was not disappointed as both
men groaned with feeling. "Your job is to make sure MacLeod returns to
Paris alive and in one piece. The operative word is 'alive' Bodie. Do I
make myself clear?"

"Sir," Bodie said as Doyle muttered a similar response, his eyes still on
the dossier.

"Good." Cowley ended. "Now stop cluttering up my office and get out to the
airport. He arrives in two hours." He finished with a vague dismissing
motion of his hand. 

******

"Great! Just flamin', bloody marvelous!" Bodie complained once the door
was closed. "That's all I need, another bloody Scot to baby-sit!"

"And a good looking one at that." Doyle pointed out.

It was an entirely unnecessary observation in Bodie's opinion and he
glared at his partner.

Doyle caught the scowl on Bodie's face and his grin widened. "Not worried
about competition are we?" He teased.

"Not bloody likely." Bodie answered hotly, before realizing that he was
being setup. He decided to ignore Doyle and strode on ahead, his partner's
laughter chasing him down the narrow corridor of CI5 Head Quarters.

******

Reaching the car, Bodie swore remembering Doyle had the keys. Putting on
his best scowl he slumped against the car, arms crossed, to wait for his
irritating partner to catch him up. *Damn but he hated babysitting jobs,*
and to add insult to grievous injury it was a *Goddamned Scotsman and a
rich one to boot*, and Bodie wanted nothing to do with him. He snorted at
Doyle's jibe. *Competition? Ha!* His musings were interrupted by the
arrival of his partner.

Doyle took one look at the scowl on Bodie's face and his grin widened of
its own accord. *This case might prove to be a far from boring,* he mused.
The instant dislike that his volatile partner had taken to their new
assignment was going to be fun to watch if the case turned from covert to
active and Bodie had to actually talk to this Duncan MacLeod. Not to
mention the excellent fodder for Bodie baiting that the whole thing was
bound to supply. Doyle would have been worried if he wasn't sure that
Bodie could keep his feelings from interfering with his work, as it was he
would just have to *sit back and enjoy the few relaxing days.... * Sliding
into the driver's seat, Doyle started the engine and didn't wait for Bodie
to finish getting in before accelerating out of the gates behind CI5's
parking lot.

"Hey! The plane doesn't arrive for another two hours. What's your hurry?"
Came Bodie's disgruntled rebuke.

"Didn't want the old man to stick his head out the window and see the car
still sitting there." Doyle replied by way of an excuse, grinning at the
glare tossed at him from the passenger seat.

******

The journey to the airport was very tedious, especially as Bodie
complained and bitched all the way about the 'new' assignment. Doyle was
about ready to strangle his exasperating partner when the turnoff for
Heathrow appeared and he could gratefully maneuver the car through the
traffic to the car park. "Bodie, would you just shut up!" He demanded.
"Bitching about it is not going to make it go away." Doyle finished as he
eased the Capri into a parking space. Switching off the engine he glanced
at the man sitting beside him, but Bodie had fallen into a dark sulk, and
Doyle sighed. "Just for being a pain in the arse, you can stay here and
I'll go and pick up the mark." Doyle took the continued silence for
assent, however unwilling, and got out of the car. Leaning back down, he
eyed Bodie's tense frame and tapped the keys, leaving them in the
ignition. Then he was gone, making for Terminal 4 to meet the British
Airways flight that would be arriving from Paris in less than half an
hour.

******

The flood of people from the arrival gate alerted him that MacLeod would
be making an appearance soon and Doyle easily spotted the uniformed driver
standing in the waiting crowd with a name board for the Mayfair Hotel.
Blending in with the crowd he waited as the stream of arrivals thinned,
they would be the British citizens, foreigners would be going through a
more rigorous customs check and the people waiting thinned. All except the
Mayfair chauffeur and Doyle logged the information away, impressed even
though he had briefly scanned MacLeod's folder in Cowley's office. The man
had money and obviously liked to spend it. 

Leaning casually back on the railing, Doyle picked up a discarded
newspaper, skimming the headlines as he kept an eye on the arrival gate
and surrounding terminal. *Now if he was really lucky, this McKellen would
show up as well and he could capture the serial killer, save MacLeod, earn
Cowley's favor and piss Bodie off.* Grinning to himself at the image of
him as conquering hero, Doyle absently noted the small dramas of welcome
being played out repeatedly around him. He was however very much alert,
and when the tall Scot came through the gate he spotted him immediately.
*Hard to miss actually....* MacLeod was carrying just one cabin bag, and
an unusual long metal case, which Doyle suspected contained a sword - the
man had been listed as specializing in antique weapons. In passing Doyle
noticed that his quarry moved with the unmistakable grace and confidence
of one who knew how to handle himself and he suspected that the sparse
notes in his dossier did not do the man's martial talents justice. *Bodie
would not be pleased* and he grinned even harder. He also could not help
but notice the effect the handsome Scot was having on his surroundings.
MacLeod was causing quite a stir as women stopped to admire, men turned to
glare and to make matters even more interesting, MacLeod appeared to be
totally oblivious to his effect, although Doyle was quite sure this could
not be the case. *No one was that naively blind.... oh yes, Bodie was
really going to love this.

*When he spotted MacLeod talking to the Limousine Driver from the Mayfair
Hotel, Doyle tailed along discreetly behind them until his target was
safely ensconced in the waiting vehicle. He loitered around the newsstand
until the immaculate Limousine pulled away, then he hastily returned to
the Capri.

Grinning, Doyle saw Bodie sitting in the driver's seat, and conceded the
minor point as he slid into the passenger's seat. When Bodie was out of
sorts he liked to drive, that way he could take his frustration's out on
the road. "He's staying at the Mayfair." Doyle told his irritable partner,
slamming the passenger door.

"Don't tell me," Bodie stated as he gunned the engine. "..he was picked up
by the Hotel limo?"

"Got it in one, Sunshine." Doyle replied, trying to keep the amusement out
of his voice.

"Figures," Bodie murmured sourly.

Doyle decided it would be wise to leave out his assessment of MacLeod's
fighting abilities, general size and devastating effect on the female of
the species, for provoking Bodie in this mood was not something he usually
did for fun. *Well not in the confines of a car anyway*.

******

Thanks to Bodie's intimate knowledge of London's streets, not to mention
his driving skills, they reached the Hotel in time to find the perfect
spot across the street from which to observe the front entrance. It also
gave them ample time to see the Limousine pull up and the tall Scot emerge
from the opened door and pass the driver what must have been a generous
tip as the chauffeur touched his cap and smiled with genuine warmth. While
Bodie kept an eye on the entrance, Doyle checked in with Base, giving them
a rundown on the movements of their assignment so far.

"So, I wonder if Kilt Boy is one of those stay at home types, or if he's
going to have us chasing him all over the bloody city." Bodie mused to his
partner.

Doyle chuckled. He had wondered how long it would take for Bodie to come
up with a nickname and a not very flattering one at that. "Him?" Doyle let
a speculative smile grace his lips. "I'd say you're in for some serious
driving mate. He doesn't strike me as the stay at home type at all. Not at
all."

"Bloody marvelous," Bodie began, but stopped moving back in his seat as a
taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. A stunning woman got out with
platinum blonde hair, wearing the shortest dress possible and the highest
shoes imaginable. Whistling through his teeth, Bodie gestured to the
female with his head as his eyes drank her in. Everyone at he Hotel
entrance had stopped to stare at her and the female seemed to lap up the
attention as she swayed her hips just a little more.

Doyle gave a wicked chuckle, seeing the doorman nearly fall in his rush to
offer aid, despite the fact the female had no luggage. In fact the woman
only laughed, the sound carrying even across the traffic and Doyle
breathed out deeply in appreciation.

"Now that, is what I call a woman!" Bodie enthused, his eyes tracking his
target like a heat-seeking missile. "I wonder how much that costs?" He
mused.

"More than you can afford on a humble civil servants wages, sunshine."
Doyle replied with a snort of amusement. "And keep your mind on the job. I
don't want your brains slipping into your trousers for the rest of the
assignment."

"My brains are in their usual place, thank you very much." Bodie replied,
slightly offended.

"My point exactly." Doyle retorted in a low mutter.

"I heard that." Bodie growled, as his partner fended off a scowl with a
raised arm.

"Speaking of being able to afford things, what if she's for MacLeod?"
Doyle mused, momentarily forgetting his own rule about not provoking Bodie
in an enclosed space. A very unamused grunt was the only reply he got
before the other fell into one of his famous silences. Sighing, Doyle
glanced at his watch, wondering how long they would have to sit here. At
this rate it was going to be a very long and boring day.

******

Sitting up straighter in his seat two hours later, Doyle raised a brow,
seeing the main doors of the Mayfair open and the stunning blonde from
earlier emerged, to casually slip on her sunglasses. Then as if on cue
MacLeod stepped out of the foyer of the Mayfair and glanced around before
donning his own pair of sunglasses. The blonde turned to MacLeod and
laughed at something he said before she reached up on tiptoes to plant a
quick kiss on his lips. Still smiling she linked her arm through MacLeod's
and smiled at the puce doorman. Grinning in delight, Doyle shook Bodie
awake as the hotel limousine pulled up and the happy couple climbed in.
"Wakey, wakey, Bodie. MacLeod's on the move."

Bodie grunted, jumping slightly. "I wasn't asleep," he protested
reproachfully reaching for the keys and starting the Capri's powerful
engine. Waiting to see which direction the limousine went, Bodie checked
his mirrors then easily slipped into the early evening traffic.

"Yeah, yeah, you were just resting your eyes, I know." Doyle shot back
with a grin. "Not going soft on me are you Bodie?"

"You'll keep. I'll show you soft next time I see you on the practice mat."
Bodie returned.

Doyle snorted. "Well I'll give the guy one thing," he went on ignoring
Bodie's teasing glare. "MacLeod's got stamina. That blonde bird's been in
there two hours, and it doesn't look as if he's even broken a sweat."

"Really?" Came the acid reply. "Well Einstein, maybe he just hasn't got
what it takes to satisfy a real bird." Bodie shot back.

Doyle decided that he had better not dignify that one with an answer-
Bodie was driving after all.

******

Bodie stared morosely out the car window at the handsome couple having
dinner across the street in the Italian restaurant. It had started
raining, which meant keeping the windows shut and the heaters on. It made
the car uncomfortable, muggy and stuffy. This was the worst part about
covert assignments, the sitting and waiting. The inactivity and boredom,
especially when you had a subject that was having just a little too much
fun with a drop-dead gorgeous woman. Bodie noted how familiar the woman
was with MacLeod, and vice versa until he had to begrudgingly conclude
that she was probably a friend of MacLeod's rather than a Call Girl.
*Pity....* Then again he wasn't sure if that made him feel better or
worse. "We're in the wrong business, Doyle. You realize that?" Bodie
observed breaking the companionable silence that had settled in the car
over the last few hours.

Doyle grunted agreement. "Especially if it gets you into a restaurant like
that. With friends like that." He added as an after thought. You could
learn a lot from somebody by watching them when they believed they were
unobserved, and Doyle had watched the couple very closely. 

Bodie noted that Doyle had come to the same conclusion about the woman,
which probably meant he was right. He trusted Doyle's judgement on such
things more than his own sometimes for his partner had always been a
better judge of human nature than himself. *Had to be Doyle's Copper
background,* he silently pondered. *You didn't exactly need to be a great
judge of character, in the army, to know that anyone on the other side was
probably out to kill you. *

******

They sat there for another hour, as MacLeod and his partner enjoyed a
five-course meal followed by coffee.

"Well, now we know where he gets all his energy." Doyle quipped, not
surprised when Bodie could manage no more than a snort of disgust. It
seemed to sum up the evening perfectly.

MacLeod signaled the waiter for the bill and threw another glance out the
window at the Capri parked a little way down the street. He had noticed it
after the limousine had dropped them off - something had woken his sixth
sense and he just knew they were watching him. *Dammit, it was probably an
Interpol tail.* He hated being watched as it always put him on edge and
made him feel exposed.

"Duncan?"

His name followed by a light caress on his hand brought MacLeod's
attention back to the matter at hand and he found Amanda peering at him.
There was an expression of concern on her pretty face as a waiter stood
patiently at his side with the bill on a small silver platter. Without
looking at the total, MacLeod handed over his credit card and acknowledged
the man's 'thank you' with a nod.

"What's the matter Duncan?" Amanda questioned, taking his hand and
bringing it to her lips to place a caressing kiss on the tips of his
fingers. "Is it that car outside? It is, isn't it." She answered herself
when he didn't reply.

"Aye. It's starting to annoy me." MacLeod returned, not surprised that
Amanda had picked up on the tail.

"I noticed it when we pulled up. Do you think we should do something about
it? It's not something I should worry about, is it?" 

"No. I think I know who it is. I'll leave it, see what else they do."
MacLeod broke off as the waiter returned with the credit card slip for him
to sign. He did so and they left the restaurant when the Mayfair limousine
arrived out front. Casting a discrete glare at the shadowed silver car,
MacLeod hastily helped Amanda into the spacious car and climbed in also.
As they pulled out onto the road, MacLeod kept a careful watch in the
driver's rear view mirror, both riled and vindicated when the Capri pulled
out to follow several cars behind.

From the look on his face, Amanda figured that the car was still following
them, and she nibbled her lower lip in genuine worry. In fact she had
begun to worry about Duncan a lot lately. It was nothing Duncan had done
or said directly, but there were subtle things that troubled her. For she
knew the signs well. Duncan was getting broody again, he did it every five
or six decades when he would start to search for a mortal companion to
settle down with and have a normal life. *And no matter how many times it
ended in disaster Duncan just kept on doing it.* Amanda sighed, judging
that it was probably time she rang Connor to warn him for she knew he was
in London and he would want to know how best to snap Duncan out of such a
mood. *Why Duncan didn't take her advice and play the field like she did*,
Amanda had no idea. But she supposed that was what made Duncan MacLeod the
man she adored and she sighed contentedly, snuggling into his solid
warmth. It just pained her to see him so out of sorts.

******

When the limousine stopped outside the hotel MacLeod escorted Amanda out
of the car and tipped the driver generously, glancing at the shadowed
Capri parked across the road. Thanking the driver, he followed Amanda into
the Mayfair's foyer.

"Who are they Duncan?" Amanda asked quietly as they entered the lift.
Duncan's suite was on the 17th floor.

"Interpol I think." MacLeod answered. "I'll explain later." He continued,
raising an eyebrow and inclining his head at the young man in uniform who
was operating the lift. He saw the young valet blush at the smile Amanda
directed the child's way.

Waiting until they were alone, Amanda pounced on Duncan, helping him shut
the room door. "Come on Duncan, give! What is this whole Interpol thing?"
She demanded. "You're not in any trouble are you?"

"No Amanda, I'm not in any trouble." MacLeod assured with a wry smile.

"It's not about me, is it? I mean, they're not here because I-I...."

"No Amanda, they're not here because of you." MacLeod replied in
amusement, wondering what she had been up to recently to be this paranoid.
It wouldn't be the first time that he'd had unwanted involvement with the
police because of the beautiful thief.

"Then tell me what this is all about Duncan. I can't leave if you're in
trouble, I won't leave!"

"Amanda, I told you, I'm not in trouble and this is nothing for you to
worry your pretty head over." Mac insisted, cupping Amanda's face with his
hands and leaning in to place a kiss on her parted lips. "Now lets forget
about who ever it is that is unlucky enough to be stuck out there on a
night like this, and get on to more interesting pursuits." He finished
with a flourish, sweeping her up into his arms and whisking her into the
bedroom.

******

Doyle sighed, if he had to put up with Bodie's grousing much longer he
would not be responsible for his actions, and he was certain that no jury
in the country would convict him. "Goddamit Bodie - will you shut up!
We're stuck here until the night guys arrive - if Control can spare a
relief team - and I can tell you, sunshine, I don't want to hear anymore
about how much you can't stand this guy. Okay!?!" Doyle exploded, ignoring
the slightly stunned look his partner was throwing at him. "Now, I'm going
to find somewhere that sells edible food under ten quid, so that leaves
you with Kilt Boy!" Not waiting for a reply he excited the car, slammed
the door, and went in search of dinner.

Bodie watched his partner's back as the other strode away. He supposed he
had been laying it on a bit thick, but he was still smarting from the
almost botched job they'd been on before they got landed with this *plum*
of an assignment. *A fucking babysitting Job!* He hated babysitting. He
supposed he shouldn't be taking it out on Doyle though, for it was hardly
Ray's fault. *Bloody Cowley.*

Ten minutes later Doyle returned with coffee and sandwiches from a late
night dinner he'd found down the road. Settling into the passenger seat he
handed Bodie one of the paper coffee cups and one of the film wrapped
sandwiches.

Steadying the cup on the dash, Bodie sniffed at the sandwich, suspicious
of the sly grin on his partner's face. "Jesus Doyle. You know I can't
stand liverwurst!" He exclaimed, barely resisting the urge to throw the
offending sandwich out the window.

"Oh, sorry mate. I forgot." Doyle returned, his best contrite look gracing
his face.

"Yeah, right. And I'm a sodding monkey's uncle," Bodie muttered under his
breath, knowing full well this was Doyle's way of paying him back. "Just
for that, you can take the first walk around the Hotel." He finished,
glaring up at the dark expanse of building before them. *At night, the
jungle of civilization differed little from the jungles of Angola.* He
couldn't wait until their relief arrived, *if they got relieved, *Doyle
had been right about that point. The mood Cowley had been in earlier
didn't suggest they would get much rest this night. *Flipping
marvelous.... *

******

*May 24th 1980. London.*

A light tap on the glass near his ear brought Bodie to full alert with a
start and he cursed as the sudden movement caused him to bang his knee on
the dash. Turning the full force of his glare out the driver's window he
found his view obscured by a thin film of condensation. Growling to
himself in displeasure and ignoring the chuckle from Doyle he wound down
the window to find a young man standing beside the car, dressed in the
royal purple and gold piped uniform of the Mayfair Hotel. The young man,
obviously a waiter, smiled down charmingly before gesturing to the large
tray he held.

"Good morning, Sirs." The waiter began. "I've been asked to bring you
breakfast. Compliments of Mr. MacLeod in room 701."

Bodie simply stared at the man, wondering when some idiot with a
microphone was going to step out from behind a telegraph pole and yell
*'smile, you're on candid camera'*. "Excuse me, what did you say?" He
asked, because he couldn't have heard the waiter right.

"Breakfast Sir." The young waiter repeated. "Compliments of Mr. MacLeod.
He rang room service this morning and said that there might be two very
hungry and cold gentlemen outside in a silver Capri that might just like a
hot breakfast. So, here you are Sirs." He finished by propping the tray on
the bonnet of the car and holding out one of the covered dishes to Bodie.

"Well come on mate, don't just sit there with your jaw dragging on the
ground, give me one of those. I'm starving." Doyle chimed in, prodding
Bodie in the side. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth." He was having a
hard time suppressing the laughter that threatened to spill out at the
stunned look on Bodie's face. *So, MacLeod had spotted them last night,*
very interesting, *perhaps there would be more to this assignment than
he'd first imagined*. He wondered *when exactly they had blown their
cover,* and Doyle smiled at MacLeod's obvious sense of humor. Then he
groaned, realizing they'd have to tell the Cow that their covert status
had been blown wide open. *Christ but the old man was not going to like
that. Maybe he could blame it on Bodie....* Dismissing that mischievous
idea, Doyle blinked up as something hot and smelling of bacon was shoved
into his hands.

"You get to tell the Cow about this." Bodie growled, glaring at the plate
of bacon, eggs and sausages that was now sitting in his lap and trying
very hard not to be grateful for it, as his saliva glands and stomach made
it known that he had been neglecting them for far too long.

"Alright." Doyle agreed far too easily. "But I'm eating this first. Don't
want to face the firing squad on an empty stomach." Doyle returned,
tucking into his food.

"I'll just be off back to the restaurant now Sirs." The young waiter
inturruped them a second time. "The breakfast crowd is big this morning.
I'll leave word with John, the Concierge, that when you're done I'll pick
up the dishes from reception."

"Thanks." Bodie muttered around a mouthful of bacon and eggs, watching the
young Mayfair waiter return to the Hotel.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to speak with your mouth full?"
Doyle teased, looking down his nose at his disgruntled partner.

Bodie chose to ignore the bait, concentrating on his breakfast.

Both men finished their meal in silence before Doyle broke the
companionable atmosphere. "Well, I guess I'd better tell the Cow the good
news." He mumbled picking up his R/T from the dash with a heavy sigh.
"Mind you I haven't eaten like that in years. 

"Think we can claim it on expenses?" Bodie asked absently, his eyes now
trained on all the people entering and leaving the posh interior of the
Mayfair. He hated to be upstaged, *especially by a bloody Scot. *

"In your dreams, mate." Doyle muttered and raised the R/T to his lips.
"4.5 to base. Come in base."

"Go ahead, 4.5."

"Patch me through to Alpha One." Doyle asked, checking his watch and
seeing it was close to 7am. This time in the morning, the Cow would be up
and on his way to the Ministry. 

"Patching you through now 4.5."

"Thanks." Doyle acknowledged, waiting for the connection to be made. 

"I trust this is urgent Doyle as I have a meeting with the Minister." 

Cowley's tone was gruff and Doyle pulled a face, hearing Bodies' snort of
amusement before lifting his R/T back up to his mouth. "I believe it is,
Sir." He started, choosing his words carefully. *The shit was going to hit
the fan regardless. Looks like a refresher course was coming up. *"Contact
has been made. Sir." He added the 'Sir' hastily on the end.

"Contact?!" Cowley grouched bad-temperedly over the line. "I never
authorized you to make...." 

Cowley's voice trailed off and Doyle could almost picture his bosses
displeased scowl. He winced, glancing at Bodie. 

"I see, 4.5." Cowley ended tartly. "How did that occur?"

"Don't know Sir." Doyle asked honestly, deciding not to beat around the
bush, offering no excuses and knowing that none would be accepted. "But I
suspect he was either tipped off, or he expected to be followed. Maybe
Interpol warned him before he left Paris. Sir."

"Very well," Came the measured reply. "Make formal contact with MacLeod
and explain the situation to him." Cowley returned. "Keep me informed.
Alpha One out."

Doyle released a breath he had not been aware of holding and glanced over
at his partner. "Well, I guess we go up to room 701 and get the
introductions over with." 

"Oh joy." Bodie replied with heavy sarcasm, handing his breakfast plate
over to Doyle and exiting the car without a backward glance.

Doyle glared at his partner's broad back then down at the dishes in his
hands, placing them both on the recently vacated seat before getting out
of the car himself. Gathering up the plates, he placed them on the tray
still sitting on the bonnet of the car, then locked the Capri. *The posh
neighborhoods were the worst for thieves.*

Catching up with Bodie, Doyle heard his partner give the Concierge
instructions regarding the dishes, receiving a polite nod in return. He
entered the Mayfair foyer, feeling Bodie beside him, glancing back once at
the Concierge and seeing the man's displeased glare. "Oie," he nudged
Bodie in the ribs. "I think you forgot to tip the man."

"He'd be bloody lucky," Bodie muttered, his dark blue eyes scanning the
immaculate interior expertly.

Dismissing Bodie's curt words, Doyle went to the lifts and pressed the up
button, bouncing on his toes and getting his mind into proper order,
knowing this first meeting with MacLeod was vital. He just prayed his
unpredictable partner didn't immediately put the Scot into an
uncooperative mood. 

Reaching the 17th floor they found the door marked 701 in bold brass
gothic lettering and Doyle made an 'after you gesture' to his partner. He
figured that after the past twenty-four hours of hell Bodie had put him
through, he would stand back and let his partner handle the pleasantries.
It was going to be fun to watch Bodie try and mind his manners within
MacLeod's presence.

Bodie just glared at Doyle, knowing what his perverse partner was doing
and taking up the challenge. Stepping up to the door, he knocked loudly, a
perfect imitation of the clichéd policeman's knock. He was about to try
again when there was the sound of a chain being removed and a stunning
semi-naked blonde woman confronted him.

Amanda had a fair idea who it was banging on the door, she'd heard that
particular knock too many times to mistake it, besides Duncan had told her
a little of what was going on - but only after she'd worn him out.
Although much to her annoyance he wasn't telling her everything. Like the
name of the Immortal who had challenged him. He'd also insisted that she
leave town immediately, extracting a promise from her, and growling that
*she would do as she was damn well told for once*. It would have been
cute, if she wasn't so worried about him. Then Duncan had added insult to
cuteness by having the gall to make her repeat her promise with her hands
in plain sight. She would have been miffed if she hadn't actually had her
fingers crossed. *Well, if Duncan thought she was going to leave this
alone, he had another thing coming.* Oh, she planned to keep part of her
promise, no fingers crossed, but she also planned to contact Connor and
fill him in on the situation. All Duncan's talk of responsibility and
honor was insignificant, making her teeth ache - she was more concerned
with something happening to him in this brooding state. *And now he had to
involve the police.* As a rule, she disliked the police, *but maybe she
could have some fun with these two plain clothed men. After all, it wasn't
often she got the chance to play with the law with relative impunity.*

It was with that thought firmly in mind that she opened the door at the
brisk, businesslike knock. Peeking out with an innocent, girly smile full
of charm, Amanda found herself facing a tall, well-built and very handsome
man. The only distraction to his masculine beauty was the scowl presently
decorating his face. "Oh my," she gushed in her best vacant voice. She
hadn't realized that the plain clothed police were so dashingly handsome.
*Would almost be fun to get caught....* "You must be room service," she
said impishly, turning back into the room before the stunning man could
answer. Calling out to Duncan in an exaggerated sexy tone, Amanda sent her
sometimes lover a mischievous wink. "Duncan honey, you shouldn't have.
Really. This one is *soooo* cute."

"Amanda." MacLeod warned under his breath.

"He didn't." Bodie interrupted, his face and tone completely neutral as he
pushed the suite door open and ran assessing eyes over the room.

Doyle hid a grin. *Yes, this was definitely going to be an interesting
assignment.*

"Bodie. CI5." Bodie stated, thrusting his ID under the semi-naked female's
nose. He'd seen women in less clothing, had busted birds with equally
appealing breasts, long legs, *pale, touchable softness....* Clearing his
throat, Bodie lifted an eyebrow, banking down on his appreciation of her
feminine form. "This is Doyle."

Doyle flashed the woman a quick smile, his eyes not missing a single
curve, taking out his own ID and centering his attention on MacLeod. The
Scot looked amused and he wondered how many times this attractive female
had pulled this trick on the male of the species.

"We're here to see Mr. MacLeod." Bodie informed the pouting female,
reaching over to pick up what looked like a hastily discarded bra that was
hanging off the side lampshade. *A 32D-cup if he wasn't mistaken.* He
handed it to the woman and gave her a charming grin.

"Oh, you mean you're not room service?" Amanda exclaimed with a
disappointed little frown and a seductive batting of her lashes. Taking
the offered bra she sighed sensually.

Growing impatient with the female's persistent teasing, Bodie tore his
eyes away from her artful stance to glare at MacLeod. *If this were his
bird he wouldn't parade her in front of unannounced visitors. *

"Amanda, give it a rest." MacLeod advised, stepping forward and taking the
towel from over his shoulders and wrapping it around Amanda's skimpily
clad figure. *She would be the death of him at this rate* and MacLeod sent
the two police officers a tight smile. He was only dressed in a pair of
sweat pants, his long hair damp and loose from their playful shower and he
noted with interest how swiftly both men at his door assessed him with
professional interest. *So maybe they were not police* and he peered at
the ID badge the curly-haired man held up a second time. *CI5? Now where
had he heard about that law enforcement agency? From Fitzcairn? Probably.
* "Amanda, why don't you go and get dressed." He told her, giving her a
pat on he behind for good measure. 

"But Duncan sweetie," she started, bending gracefully forward, displaying
a nice length of taunt thigh muscle and inviting cleavage. "I haven't had
any breakfast yet." 

"You'll survive." He informed her with a slight growl. Covering his smile,
Duncan shook his head. She could be so naughty when bored. Or when she
wanted something. Right now he couldn't decide which it was. Going up to
her he physically shoved her in the direction of the bedroom, allowing his
two guests into the room before closing the door. "Make yourself at home."
He gestured to the comfortable lounge in the center of the suite. "Get
dressed Amanda, or you'll be late for your flight." He stated pointedly,
throwing a behave-yourself look over his shoulder at her.

Amanda stuck her tongue out at him in retaliation, then sauntered with an
exaggerated sway of her hips in the direction of the suites massive
bedroom. She stopped by the dinning table and gingerly picked up the silk
stockings she'd discarded there the previous night, running them over her
fingers in a blatant manner. *Duncan could be such a stick-in-the-mud
sometimes,* she decided, sighing dramatically and imagining Duncan's wince
at her over the top display. *Serves him right for wanting to shove her
out of the way into a safe place. When will he learn that sometimes you
have to trust your friends?* Sighing a second time, she purposely let her
eyes caress the tall, dark-haired CI5 agent, liking his dangerous,
smoldering appraisal. *What she couldn't do with such a man,* and she
wrinkled her nose up in delight. Then just as quickly turned and
provocatively walked into the bedroom, shutting the door with a definite
snap.

 Doyle caught the interesting by-play and the resigned look on MacLeod's
face and stifled his grin. *Bodie was easy bait - governed by his
overactive hormones*, and Doyle turned away to look around the room.
Clothing decorated various pieces of furniture, some feminine and some of
a more masculine nature and he had to summarize that MacLeod and this
'Amanda' had enjoyed a prolonged sexual romp the previous evening. *That
would do wonders for Bodie's fantasies and overall opinions about
MacLeod*, and Doyle shook his head. *Didn't Bodie tire of the numerous
birds he chased and bedded? Apparently not*, and abruptly Doyle found his
mood was souring. Pulling his mind back to the assignment he settled his
eyes on MacLeod again and wondered what the Scot saw in the mischievous
'Amanda' - *besides great sex. What about a meaningful relationship?* He
didn't figure MacLeod for the type to go for airheads, so there must be
more to the bottle blonde than met the eye. But what had been seen was
definitely top class. *Poor Bodie.... *

"So how can I help you gentlemen?" MacLeod asked breaking the strained
silence after Amanda's departure. She could really make a mood or shatter
it. In this case he wasn't sure her feminine charms had been very well
received. The curly-haired agent - Doyle - didn't seem bothered, but the
smooth dark-haired agent looked like he wanted to kill something. MacLeod
could sympathize, *for he'd sometimes had a similar feeling after spending
a prolonged amount of time in Amanda's exasperating company*.

"We have reason to believe that you are aware that Interpol are
investigating a man by the name of Bruce McKellen. And that you are a
prime target for this man." *Serial killer*, but Doyle left that unsaid,
seeing MacLeod's raise brow in interest.

"I'm aware of that." MacLeod stated evenly.

"We are here for your protection." Bodie continued the word 'protection'
coming out a little weaker than the rest of the sentence. He saw MacLeod's
eyes twinkle in amusement and gave the man a tight humorless smile.

"I don't need protection. But thank you." MacLeod stated, just as
politely.

"It wasn't an offer." Doyle cut in before Bodie could stuff up the
assignment more. "How long do you intend to stay in London, Mr. MacLeod?"

"A few days. A week at the most." MacLeod shrugged, not liking the sound
of this. *Where they planing to chaperone him?* He hoped not.

"We'll need details of your proposed itinerary." Doyle stated, walking
away from the lounge and idly studying the contents in the suite. Very
little missed his expert eye and he walked behind MacLeod before going to
stand next to his silent partner. He caught a glimpse at Bodie's pinched
expression and hid his smile. At this rate MacLeod could be forgiven for
thinking they were playing 'good cop, bad cop'.

"This is unnecessary." MacLeod started to protest.

Doyle shrugged, unconcerned. "You either tell us, or we shadow your every
move." *We'll do it anyway*, he added silently, watching MacLeod's brows
draw down in annoyance. *So he wasn't so unflappable. Good. Bodie would
like that reaction. *

"I want to speak to your superior." MacLeod grated out. *How was he
supposed to find McKellen like this? *

"We'll see what can be arranged." Bodie grated out in a deadpan tone.

Staring from one CI5 agent to the other, MacLeod debated his options. He
really didn't want to draw attention to himself, so maybe he should play
along. Besides he was only planning on going to a charity auction that
evening in Oxford and it was unlikely McKellen would be there. If worst
came to worst he could lose the agents. Coming to a decision he plastered
on a cooperative smile and nodded. "Very well." He went over and picked up
his diary, seeing that it was open at Connor's London address. *Amanda!*
And he cursed under his breath. *Not that his cousin was there at present*
for he had tried ringing Connor earlier. *Still the sooner he got Amanda
out of town the better.* Walking back to the CI5 men and putting on a
studious look. "I have a charity auction to attend this evening. Dinner
tomorrow night and maybe another auction the following day."

"Fine." Doyle nodded, taking out his note pad. "We'll need details."

Modifying his glare, MacLeod begrudgingly complied. *This was going to
prove very annoying. *

******

Easing up behind the Hotel's Limousine when they arrived at Oxford that
evening, Bodie eyed the immaculate gardens, and high-class visitors to
this 'minor' function and charity auction MacLeod had told them about.
There was nothing 'minor' about this slice of high society, Bodie judged,
his scowl increasing. Waiting impatiently for the Limousine to pull away,
he purposely guided the Capri in front of the valet and awaited service.
But the young man in the smart red uniform took one look at the car and
promptly lost his ingratiating smile, ignoring Bodie's glare completely as
he refused to open the door for Doyle. Both agents got out of the car,
Doyle waving his ID under the nose of the valet to cut off the impending
protest, whilst Bodie threw the keys at the startled man. "And don't
scratch the paint." Bodie tossed over his shoulder grinning at his
partner. Stopping abruptly, Bodie looked down when he heard a pitiful meow
from somewhere in the vicinity of his left foot and found a small feline
looking up at him pleadingly. Startled to find such a creature amidst such
splendor, he scooped up the cat, getting it off the road. "Bloody
nuisance," he muttered, dropping the cat just as quickly when it bit him.

Looking at his partner, Doyle grinned seeing the black cat disappear down
behind the main hall. Bodie had a way with blonde birds, small children
and dogs. *But cats* - were just not on his partner's list of likeable
converts.

With the first obstacle successfully overcome, the pair entered the foyer
of the Great Hall and stopped finding themselves surrounded by patrons
wearing tuxedos and satin, pointedly reminding them of the class
difference and their state of being severely underdressed. Large flower
arrangements provided splashes of color amongst the dark clothing. The
murmur of low cultured voices a counterpoint to the string quartet that
was positioned at the back of the entryway. Young women in maid's uniforms
navigated expertly through the crowd carrying trays of appetizers and both
agents managed a good imitation of casual nonchalance. Both spotted
MacLeod, their assignment's tall broad frame and long ponytail instantly
recognizable in the crowd as MacLeod stood chatting easily to an older
couple. White uniformed waiters stood to the side of the entrance with
silver trays of Champagne Flutes and Bodie swept one up, eyeing the man
and daring him to protest. Wisely the man chose to keep his opinions to
himself.

"Bloody wonderful," Bodie muttered in an aside to his partner, his eyes
expertly sweeping the room and missing nothing.

Doyle rolled his eyes heavenward and for the hundredth time that day
prayed for strength. He hoped like hell that Bodie could refrain from
making a scene, no matter how small, for he didn't feel like experiencing
Cowley's boot all the way into Macklin's refresher course. Then on top of
that, he also hoped that some petty official didn't come along and give
Bodie an excuse for starting a scene, because then he would have to bail
out his stupid, erasable partner again, it was a full time job. *Bloody
hell, why me?!? * It was just the sort of thing that his sometimes-
contrary partner would derive enjoyment from and Doyle could just imagine
the debriefing in Cowley's office afterwards. In fact the image was
starting to make him wince in advance, almost smelling the arrival of
trouble. Determinedly he stepped over to his partner's side, noting how
Bodie was already trying to charm one of the maid's with his killer smile
and Doyle scowled at his perverse partner. *Only 3.7* - problem was - *the
daft female had already probably given his irresistible partner her phone
number, house key and bra size.* Doyle sighed, *oh well.... at least it
kept Bodie happy and out of immediate trouble,* and he placed a cautionary
hand on Bodie's arm. "Come on sunshine, you wouldn't want the poor girl to
lose her job for chatting to the guests. Now would you?" Doyle
interrupted. It only earned him a dirty glare.

Bodie turned back to the pretty brunette and smiled his patented smile.
"See you around then love. This elderly gentleman here needs my help."

The brunette smiled, blushed and murmured something along the lines of -
'see you later.' Before giving Bodie one last come-hither smile.

Doyle snorted. "I'll show you elderly next time we hit the mat!"

Bodie just grinned.

Then right on the dot of 8pm by some unseen signal the crowd started
moving and Bodie and Doyle trailed along behind. They passed what looked
like Greek or Roman statues set at intervals down the long hall until they
reached a set of blue velvet draped partitions that effectively cut the
rest of the hall off from view. One glance behind the curtains and they
rightly assumed this was where the Auction would be held.

"Lives of the rich and shameless," Bodie quipped to Doyle as he smiled
politely to one old lady who frowned at him. "I keep expecting to see
Cowley pop up at any moment."

"Nah, "Doyle intoned. "Not enough blood and guts."

"I keep forgetting. He likes establishments where men are men and boys
are-"

"Kept for better purposes." Doyle finished for his partner, having heard
the joke numerous times. 

At the front of the hall rested a podium and a long beautifully kept
antique oak table. Running his eyes over it Doyle knew one Scotsman who
would be showing appreciation for the magnificent items and table even as
he heard Bodie sigh impatiently beside him. But then his partner of three
years had long since compounded his ignorance when it came to the fineries
of life. Especially if said items got in the way of the job. Doyle would
never forget the time* they had gone to pick up a particularly nice desk
for the Cow....* and he grinned in memory now. Then he had winced at the
destruction of such craftsmanship, but looking back, he now had to admit
that Bodie was right. *He should have cut that desk loose sooner....*
Around him the items displayed were beautiful and Doyle assumed these were
part of the auction. They ranged from ornate vases to jewelry and a couple
of swords, which he assumed, were the reason why MacLeod was here. Plus
there were books, art pieces, statues and some old manuscripts.

"Oie," Bodie interrupted Doyle's appraisal of the table by nudging his
partner in the ribs. "The food, and-"

"Brunette," Doyle supplied in an aside voice.

"Kilt Boy," Bodie corrected with a patient look. "..are back here, mate."
He scanned the filling area and nodded his head minutely towards the
figure of MacLeod. Three absolutely gorgeous women surrounded the man and
Bodie let his scowl deepen. "Unless you want to collect more antique junk,
I say we move."

Hearing the slightly clipped tone, Doyle had a fair idea of its cause and
smothered his grin. This assignment was definitely going to supply him
with ample material to goad his partner with for years to come.

******

The Auctioneer had just called an intermission when Duncan MacLeod felt
the wash of a powerful presence assault his senses. He scanned the crowd
with difficulty, noting how everyone was now making their way back out
past the partitions to where the light buffet had been arranged. The other
Immortal, whoever it was, seemed not be in the immediate room, but he, or
she, was close before the presence faded almost as quickly as it had
arrived. Glancing back, MacLeod noted that his two watchdogs were
momentarily obscured by the retreating crowd and now would be a perfect
time to give them the slip. *So was it McKellen?* Walking calmly through
the crowd, MacLeod made his way to the fire escape doors at the far end of
the room, checking cautiously to make sure he was still unobserved. Then
he slipped out the door, leaving it slightly ajar so he could use it to
re-enter the hall if necessary. Drawing his sword, he slipped passed the
next outer doors and side-stepped slowly along the wall of the building,
keeping his back to it.

MacLeod glanced around, annoyingly seeing no sign of anyone and he
extending his senses, moving hurriedly away from the side of the building.
The sense of presence had vanished, and he doubted now that it was
McKellen, for the Scottish bastard would have stuck around for another
challenge, *or at least for a few taunts at his expense*. Despite that
fact, MacLeod never felt comfortable unless he knew who the potential
enemies were, so he scanned the area, curious what other Immortal would
attend a charity auction and why walk away without identifying themselves.
*Odd....* 

Bodie checked the crowd again, but he could not spot MacLeod's distinctive
form. Swearing he glanced over to the other side of the room catching
Doyle's eye. But his partner shook his head negatively. *No luck either*.
Turning, Bodie scanned the perimeter of the room again, but nothing looked
out of place, except for the staff setting up for the second half of the
Auction. Seeing Doyle had started another sweep of the room, Bodie
conferred with his partner by silent finger signals and moved to the
opposite end of the room to begin the search.

Finding a fire door slightly ajar, Bodie caught Doyle's attention with a
whistle ignoring the looks from the disapproving staff and guests. He
didn't care. When Doyle reached his side, they both drew their weapons and
slipped out, immediately finding the outside door and being greeted with
an empty walkway between the buildings. "Christ!" Bodie spat under his
breath, following Doyle's nimble figure into the evening darkness.
Squinting slightly in the gloom after the brightness of the auction hall,
both agents turned when they heard the fire door whisper shut behind.

Swearing Doyle took out his R/T and radioed base before following his
partner and keeping a cautious eye behind them. The alleyway took them
into a small courtyard and more dark walkways between old stone
structures.

Releasing a frustrated breath when the abrupt resurgence of Immortal
presence returned, Methos - alias Adam Taylor - stood waiting in the
shadows for his visitor to find him. He wasn't sure he should be doing
this, but he was intensely curious about the man whom he'd briefly
glimpsed in the auction hall. He had read so much about Duncan MacLeod the
last time he had been in the Watchers, that he was interested to know how
far the Scottish barbarian had come in the last two hundred years. Darius
was very optimistic of MacLeod's potential to take the Prize, which was
saying a lot. And out of curiosity - *boredom possibly* - he had kept tabs
on the younger Immortal ever since Darius had told him how intelligent the
Highlander was he had given his word reluctantly to the old priest that he
would watch out for Duncan MacLeod. *One of his weaker moments.... or
simply the fact Darius had dragged a promise out of him while drunk.* It
didn't seem to matter now for all his questions were about to be answered.

Cautiously approaching the end of the second walkway, MacLeod stilled and
let the timber of the buzz assaulting him sink in. Taking a deep calming
breath he raised his sword to a defensive position and stepped out into
the pool of light provided by the security light on the building's corner.
"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." He stated, and found himself
facing someone he had never met before. Someone who looked impossibly
young and who wasn't holding a sword. The youthful man before him stood in
a seeming relaxed stance, but MacLeod noted that his right hand was inside
the long dark trench coat. Frowning MacLeod tightened his grip on his
katana, seeing that this Immortal was lean, his face all planes and
shadows broken by the prominent nose, while he stood at the very edge of
the light. *A cautious ploy. *

"Soooo," a soft baritone drew the word out mischievously. "You are Duncan
MacLeod. I've.... heard of you." 

The silky tones were low and colored with amusement, sending a jolt
through MacLeod. The gentle words washed over him, lulling him by the
other's English accent along with something that he had never felt before.
Almost but not quite it was like a shock of recognition, of pieces of a
puzzle falling into place answering questions deep within his soul. *Only
he had not known that there were any puzzles or questions to answer...*.
Ignoring the disturbing feeling MacLeod took a breath. "Is that so," he
replied clearly and concisely. "And your name would be?" He continued,
relaxing slightly when the other showed no immediate threat.

"I'm here for the auction." Methos stated, giving MacLeod's tuxedo a
deliberate once over before a cynical grin tugged at the corners of his
mouth. "Thought I might see if any of it was mine." He finished, purposely
ignoring the question. "Did you manage to pick up anything of interest?"

Duncan MacLeod was having trouble keeping his jaw from hanging open. *Here
he was having a conversation with a complete stranger - an unknown
Immortal - about what he managed to 'pick up' at the auction, with his
sword drawn*. He found the whole situation veering towards the twilight
zone at an alarming rate and was just about to deliver an irritated reply
when the buzz of a second presence washed over him. He fell again into a
defensive stance, scanning the area around him, noticing that the other
man did the same.

"What is this, Immortal Grand Central!" 

It was an irritated mutter from the young man in front of him and MacLeod
glanced across and glimpsed curiously that the English Immortal had still
not drawn a sword. *He obviously carried one*, seeing the pale hand move
further inside his coat.... *so why hadn't he drawn it?* Strangely all
this Immortal had done so far was to take a long measured step backwards,
placing his face in complete shadow. *Very clever.... MacLeod mused. It
was obvious this young Immortal had decided to show his face to him only.*

Methos cursed silently to himself, *fuck this was all he needed! Another
bloody Immortal on the scene!* He dare not draw his sword, not with the
likelihood of a bloody Watcher lurking somewhere in the darkness. If he
was spotted and his description recorded it would ruin all his future
plans. So all he could do was step further back into the shadows and hope
that any Watcher either had bad eyesight, or they were too busy watching
MacLeod and the new idiot about to descend on them. *Fuck! *

"Well, well, well.... two pigeons for the price of one." A deep voice
interrupted from its own shadows. The Scottish burr more pronounced than
MacLeod's. "I should attend these type of auctions more often, for you
never know what you can pick up on sale."

"Your quarrel is with me, McKellen!" MacLeod growled, not wanting to drag
the unknown Immortal into the fight. This was clan business, and with a
shock he realized that his protective instincts were in full force towards
this unknown English Immortal. *Ridiculous! And he didn't even know the
young man's name, let alone history!* But he sensed innately that there
was no threat and never would be. Not like McKellen. 

"My quarrel is with whoever I like, Highlander!" McKellen snapped back
peeved. "Including the skinny kid over there!" McKellen growled back,
waving his blade in the stranger's direction.

A muffled, strangling sound emanated from the direction of the young
Immortal and MacLeod couldn't tell if it was laughter or outrage. But the
last thing he needed was for this young fool to now draw attention to
himself. 

McKellen advanced further into the light, his Claymore drawn but held in a
seemingly negligent grip. "I'll kill you first Highland dog, then I'll
take your friend!"

"My, my.... aren't we all being so civilized." Methos cut in with heavy
sarcasm. "Don't let me interrupt the reunion, just think of me as an
interested bystander."

McKellen's head swiveled to glare in the direction of the stranger, his
expression altering from annoyance to outrage in a second. "You!! I know
that voice-" he gasped then spat in disgust. "It is a voice I have vowed
never to forget!" He snarled, side-stepping to put distance between
himself and MacLeod, before advancing on the other Immortal.

"Stop right there, McKellen!" MacLeod ordered, moving forward in an
attempt to keep himself between the other two fighters. *Damn the younger
man's mouth! What was it with young Immortals and the need to be brash in
the face of danger!?! *

"Stay out of this, Highlander," McKellen snarled, slapping the katana
aside as he turned back to his tormentor with a vicious grin lighting his
lips. "Your sorry wolfshead is mine, Loxley! Or what ever you call
yourself now! And it will be a pleasure taking it."

"Some other time perhaps, de Renault." Methos returned, emphasizing the
name and twisting it into an insult expertly. Bowing slightly to Duncan
MacLeod Methos backed away further, intending to make his escape. He
trusted that MacLeod would delay the Scottish lunatic and that any
Watcher's would stick around to watch the fight. It was a risky chance. 

McKellen cursed, reaching into his pocket and taking out a gun to shoot
the retreating man before the other made it to the corner of the building.
The bullet slug slammed into the slender man's chest causing him to grunt
in pain and fall backward to land in an inelegant sprawl on the cold
cobbled ground.

"Fuck-"

MacLeod blinked, hearing the groaned profanity and not believing what had
just happened. He turned to snarl his rage at McKellen's dishonorable
actions, instinctively stepping between McKellen and the injured Immortal
on the ground with the intention of forcing the Scottish blaggart to deal
with him. "I challenge you! Or do you have no courage for a fair fight!?!"

It was at exactly that moment that two figures came skidding around the
corner, guns drawn and shouting for everyone to freeze. Both MacLeod and
McKellen froze, both hastily glancing in the direction of the CI5 agents.
Exhaling in frustration MacLeod backed up a step, already trying to think
of a way to explain the unexplainable as McKellen roared in anger at the
intrusion.

"You're bringing mortals into your fights now MacLeod?!" McKellen demanded
incredulously. "It's nice to learn that you are not so honorable as many
believe." He ended with a sneer.

MacLeod winced at the use of the word 'mortal' and hoped that neither of
his two hindrances understood the language. He also dismissed the insult
on his character, knowing McKellen's past history and despising him for
it. "Yewr mine," he hissed back in deadly promise, switching to Gaelic.

Lowering his sword, McKellen made a show of complying with the two CI5
agents request, before he spun around and lifted his gun a second time. He
fired two shots in quick succession, seeing both mortals dive for cover as
MacLeod stepped back instinctively. Then he swore again and took off at a
run down one narrow walkway.

Bodie dropped flat as the bullets whisked past him, unable to return fire
for MacLeod stood in his line of sight. He heard several shots from his
left, seeing Doyle roll to one side as the new assailant disappeared down
another dark alleyway. "Christ!" Bodie swore, hurriedly climbing to his
feet. If they weren't careful they would lose this madman in the labyrinth
of the University's grounds. And he had the sneaking suspicion this was
McKellen - *the serial killer who wasn't even supposed to be in London....
bloody Cowley! *

MacLeod cursed savagely, throwing a brief glance at the unmoving form of
the injured Immortal on the ground, torn between going to him and covering
his injuries, or chasing McKellen. But then before he knew it he was
heading toward the same buildings as his rival, wanting McKellen with a
passion that bordered on insanity. *This bastard had killed, murdered for
pleasure. Had slaughtered innocent children, was systematically destroying
his heritage. * He wanted Bruce McKellen and centered his mind on finding
the depraved bastard before more died.

Climbing to his feet, Doyle swore viciously checking his clip
automatically. He was sure he had clipped the man in the shoulder.
*Yet....* "Well this is going straight to hell real fast!" He growled,
glancing at Bodie. "That was McKellen-"

"No joke!" Bodie hissed, hurrying to the alleyway entrance and cursing
when MacLeod blocked his line of fire again. He swore.

"You go after them," Doyle ordered, stopping at his partner's side and
assessing the situation. "I'll call in and check this one over." He
snapped, gesturing to the barely moving man on the ground. *Cowley was not
going to like that fact a bystander was injured.*

"Right." Bodie replied tersely. Taking a steadying breath Bodie took one
more look at his partner kneeling next to the fallen bystander and set out
in pursuit of MacLeod. *If he was lucky he could cut the man off behind
the next building.... *Letting his senses expand, he sought out the
telltale signs of a chase from the myriad noises that made up the night,
catching the faint sound of a curse in an unknown language off to his
left. Smiling, Bodie follow the noise.

MacLeod came to a halt feeling McKellen's presence faded and he lost the
echo of the big Scot's retreating footsteps. Cursing loudly and
graphically in Gaelic he searched the area for signs of his quarry,
knowing it was futile but unable to just stand and do nothing. Then behind
him the sound of running footfalls on cobblestones had him swiveling,
automatically taking a defensive stance with his sword raised when Bodie
came into view. Breathing out loudly, MacLeod dropped his sword down,
peeved and frustrated, knowing his watchdog was going to have questions
and not caring to answer them. "Shit," he muttered not missing how Bodie
refused to lower his gun as the other man drew level with him.

Sliding to a halt, Bodie stared incredulously at MacLeod, anger warring
with respect at the expert way the Scot handled the weapon. *It took skill
to use such a weapon.... but this crap he didn't need* and he started to
wonder why MacLeod would bring a weapon like this to a charity auction.
*Antique dealer or not!* Bodie dismissed the oddities, for he liked clear,
easy fact. Doyle was the one who enjoyed a mystery. *Yet still.... a
goddamn sword? And a live edge by the looks.* "Okay sunshine, put the
sharp object down before you hurt yourself." Bodie ordered, ignoring the
scowl directed at him by MacLeod. He was not going to get into an argument
with this Scot for he was a firm believer in letting Cowley do the
interrogations. Besides he figured any explanation MacLeod now offered
would probably be a lie. "Pick that up at the auction did we?" Bodie asked
with false pleasantness, already knowing the answer. "I don't remember
seeing it on display, and I would have remembered something like that."

MacLeod eyed the tense operative, his scowl deepening with every second.
This was not going to be as easy as it had been in Paris. Lowering the
katana even more, MacLeod chose not to answer the agent, going instead for
a belligerent silence. At this point he was probably a lot safer with
silence than explanations. *Bodie would never believe the truth anyway....
*

Noting the closed stance and tight-lipped scowl directed at him, Bodie
figured that MacLeod was not feeling inclined towards being co-operative,
and that just pissed him off more. *He had an innocent bystander shot,
possibly dead and this damned Scot had developed a case of lockjaw?* This
jackass had just placed him and Doyle in danger, *an unnecessary danger*
and if there was one thing he was not going to allow it withholding vital
information. Not when it could mean his partner's life. Lowering his gun
but not returning it to its holster Bodie decided he was going to get some
answers. "Listen up MacLeod, I don't care who you are and I don't care
what sort of friends you have in high places! When you are under our
protection you will damn well do as you're told! And that means you don't
sneak out the back door and get innocent people killed!!" Bodie hissed,
gesturing to the alleyway behind him. *If the bystander died Cowley would
eat them for breakfast.... the Home Office would suspend them and the
media would crucify them. *

MacLeod took exception to the other's tone almost immediately. It looked
like this Bodie was going to be one of those men who just rubbed him the
wrong way from the very start and he painstakingly dismissed his own
anger. *Bodie was an arrogant child who thought he knew it all and didn't
have the brains to know when he was wrong.* But the agent's words did give
MacLeod a guilty start when he mentioned the other Immortal as an
'innocent bystander'. MacLeod was almost positive that the wound was a
fatal one, and dreaded to think what would happen now if the other
Immortal came back to life before his body hit the morgue. *Dammit all to
hell....* he swore to himself again. This was a complication he didn't
want to face. For it would mean the other Immortal would have to leave
England, change names and set up a new identity. *All because this English
Immortal had wanted to attend an auction.* "It is my fault," MacLeod
whispered to himself, not realizing he had spoken the words out loud.
Lifting his eyes he saw Bodie frown at him and MacLeod sighed. He would
have to make it up to the other Immortal. *Find out his name and offer
assistance. Offer him a life out of England.... perhaps even get Amanda's
help.* It was the least he could do.

Bodie took in the cold hard expression on MacLeod's face and decided that
returning to the auction was probably the best course of action. They had
after all lost the suspect and running around unfamiliar territory at
night with a sword-wielding-gun-toting-nutcase on the loose was not a good
idea. Besides he had a 'sword-wielding-nutcase' currently in his custody
which was enough to think about at present, and Bodie promised himself
that sometime soon MacLeod would explain. "Okay Sir Lancelot, let's pack
it up and get back to the auction hall."

MacLeod hesitated, hearing the jibe at his character and ignoring it also.
He was reluctant to give up the chase, even though he knew it was hopeless
and one look at the determined expression on Bodie's face confirmed his
worst nightmare. With a silent curse in the direction McKellen had taken,
MacLeod re-sheathed his katana and then gestured for Bodie to lead the way
back towards the auction building.

Turning his thoughts away from the chase with difficulty and banishing the
concern he felt for his partner being alone with no one at his back, Doyle
approached the young man on the ground and knelt down. His fingers
automatically searched for the carotid checking for a pulse and he let his
gaze assess the amount of bleeding with an expert eye. Under his fingers
Doyle found the pulse beat, weak and fluttery, his eyes returning to peer
down at the victim's blood stained hands that were clutching the long coat
determinedly closed. It was an odd gesture, and Doyle gently tried to pry
the fingers away only to be met with firm resistance. It baffled him and
he glanced back up at the man's pale face, seeing very white teeth bite
into a bloodied lip with grim determination. The young man looked to be a
student, not one of the well-dressed patrons from the auction in progress
and Doyle cursed again. *He just hated it when innocent bystanders got
dragged into the middle of such needless disputes. It was so unjust!*
Pulling out his R/T, Doyle let his gaze travel the length of the student's
body, seeing the shivers and knowing the man was going into shock. *Shit!*
"4.5 to Base." He said in a no nonsense voice. "I have a man down and
require an Ambulance at-" checking around the area, Doyle wondered if this
causeway had a name. "I'm at the back of the main faculty hall. Oxford
campus. 3.7 is on foot in pursuit of suspect. Require backup. Repeat,
requiring back up. Patch me through to the medics when they're rolling."
He finished.

"Base to 4.5. Acknowledged. Complying." Came the efficient voice of the
female dispatcher on the other end.

Placing the R/T on the ground next to him Doyle set about assessing the
man's condition, already knowing he was not going to like what he found.
*Problem was this student was also a witness.... * Reaching down Doyle
went to open the bloodied long coat a second time and found surprisingly
strong fingers still barring his way. He frowned letting his worried gaze
lift to see vivid green eyes now trying to glare at him. Doyle had seen
his fair share of glares in his day and this one was amazingly direct, yet
a little haunted. *Fear?* Well he could well understand that and
sympathize. "Come on mate," Doyle whispered in a reasonable tone, hoping
to relax his patient. "The medics are on their way-"

"No."

It was grated out and Doyle raised a curious brow. He didn't have time for
this bullshit, for his partner was alone with two maniacs. And unless he
was reading the signs wrong this young fool was going to die very quickly
if he didn't receive help. "Listen sunshine-"

"No." Methos repeated as he tried to warn the other off with his eyes. But
this stubborn man ignored his protests and he groaned in a mixture of
disbelief and pain. *Fuck! But he hated dying. Hated it even more when it
was witnessed.* His chest felt like it was on fire, a heaviness settling
insidiously over his entire body. The weight of death was pulling him down
and he knew there was nothing he could do. *So where the fuck was MacLeod!
Surely the self-righteous do-gooder he'd read about would not leave him in
the hands of this child, unless the big beautiful Scot was dead. Or
fighting. But surely....* Cutting off his thoughts, Methos coughed,
struggling to draw breath and catching one final look of the man leaning
over him so protectively. It made him want to laugh. The man's eyes were
filled with a useless anger, but also with a kindness and fear. The round
face was surrounded by abundant curls, one cheekbone looking oddly
disfigured. *Broken?* Yet there was definitely compassion in the darkening
green eyes that drew him back for a brief moment before he succumbed to
the inevitable. He no longer had any strength to fight the persistent
hands and fingers that tugged at his coat, his fingers turning numb as
death claimed all his limbs. Dropping his head back Methos breathed out a
painful breath. *Shit!* "No...." 

Hearing the sigh, Doyle acknowledged that this time the word was getting
weaker, and he watched in growing concern, hearing the other cough wetly.
Disregarding niceties, he pried the fingers loose and opened the ruined
coat, encouraged when the student continued to fight him, if only weakly.
*It meant he had a chance....* and Doyle let his eyes scan the damage,
feeling his small surge of hope fade. *Damn! What a waste of a young
life!* Blood covered everything, and Doyle took in everything from the
blood sodden sweater, hairless chest to the blood splattered white skin of
this man's throat, seeing where the sweater had ridden up. It was a mess,
and he doubted there was much he could do. The bullet had hit the student
in the center of his chest, and Ray Doyle cursed the murdering bastard a
second time shaking his head over the waste of such a young life. Gently,
but hastily he probed the wound, seeing how the younger man winced in
agony. "Sorry mate," he whispered, feeling his charge start to shake in
delayed reaction. He no longer got any fight from his patient and Doyle
watched the long lashes come down before a faint groan reached his ears.
*I'm going to lose him*, he thought desperately, swiftly applying pressure
to the wound, knowing it was useless. "Bloody hell, where is that medic!"
Doyle snapped in frustration as he gingerly turned this slender man over
and reached under his back to feel for the exit wound. It was there and
huge. "Shit!"

Sitting back on his haunches, Doyle glanced around helplessly before he
raised blood stained fingers to feel for a pulse again. It was hardly
there and he was not surprised to hear the slight exhale of breath as the
body under his hands went limp. "No-" he whispered, haunted by the image
of having seen too many lives lost for no reason.

Standing up, Doyle angrily kicked out at the cobbled ground, before wiping
his hands on his jeans leaving smears of blood. *It was such a damn
waste.... So pointless!* Sucking in a deep breath to calm his anger,
knowing Cowley would berate him for his reactions, *but he was not Bodie.*
He was not capable of turning off his feelings so easily. Shoving his
frustration aside, Doyle went back to the body and gently turned the young
man again, searching for identification. Some poor bastard would have the
task of telling the family and he didn't envy them. *Not one bit*. Behind
him he heard a sound and prayed it was Bodie, only to see a number of
student's rush over and stare down wide eyes. "Get back!" Doyle barked,
not wanting to deal with ghoulish spectators and inane questions.

The babble of voices behind him grew and Doyle pulled out his badge and
shoved it under a couple of noses. "Now I want you all to get back! By
that wall over there. Move!" He ended the last word with a firmness that
had the half dozen or so students obeying instantly. Shaking his head, he
opened the dead student's wallet and checked the contents.

One Adam Taylor. Born 1956, *which made him around 24 years old,* Doyle
calculated. Letting that information sink in, Doyle wondered if he was
doing a Masters in English, or just a postgraduate course. Looking at
other items in the younger man's wallet, Doyle noted that Taylor's current
address was the University dormitory. The few other items comprised only
of three student cards, some concession cards and about thirty pounds. No
pictures, no other information to suggest who they would have to contact
about his death. No phone numbers at all. Not even a driver's license.

Squatting down again, Doyle kept a careful eye on the growing number of
onlooker's, as he silently prayed for back up to arrive. He had not heard
any other gun shots echo around the grounds so had to assume his partner
was all right. Imagining anything else was pointless and dangerous. Start
down that road and.... *Bodie just had to be all right, just had to be. *

Glancing at the wallet again, Doyle jumped when the man next to him
abruptly gasped. Frowning he stared at Taylor's pale face, then tensed
seeing and hearing the body gasped a second time. Stunned, Doyle watched
fascinated as not only did Taylor gasp again but the young man also lifted
long lashes to reveal dazed eyes, his slender body arching up in pain.
Then the body lay still for a long, tense moment.

"Bloody hell," Doyle muttered stunned, falling back slightly in shock when
the dead body twitched a third time. Post death tremors? He speculated,
not missing how the body took a deeper, shuddering breath. *It wasn't
possible....* in fact totally beyond the realms of possibility. *Yet,* and
Doyle swallowed as not only did he hear another gasp of pain, but saw the
long lashes flutter open and stay open this time showing over bright eyes
that locked on him in anger and amusement. *Amusement? What the....*

Jumping as his R/T beeped, Doyle stared at it a moment before his eyes
went back to the breathing corpse at his side. *Was he imagining thing?
Hallucinating?* Snatching up the annoying R/T Doyle depressed the call
button. "4.5."

"Patching you through to the medic as requested, 4.5." Came the crisp
response before Doyle heard more static and then a deeper voice.

"We should be with you in ten minutes. Can you give us an update on the
emergency?"

Biting his bottom lip Doyle heard the urgency in the medic's voice and he
shook his head bemused before reaching forward and feeling for the
corpse's carotid again. *Yep, there was definitely a pulse where there had
been none....* and he trailed his fingers down the blood soaked sweater to
expose bloodied flesh that now lacked the bullet hole he had seen earlier.
Meeting the green eyes watching him, Doyle shivered, his mind trying to
find justifiable solutions, only seeing Taylor start to grin at him in
mischief didn't help matters. *It was insane....* Lifting his R/T again,
Doyle cleared his throat nervously. "Ummm, can I get back to you on that?"

"But we were informed there was a shooting-"

"There appears to be some...." He took his finger off the send button of
the R/T and just looked at Taylor with apprehension and growing distrust
when the student sat up and stretched. "Shit." He muttered before
depressing the R/T button again. "Take your time fellas, there's been a
mistake."

"Now where have I heard that before-"

Not bothering to acknowledge the comment, Doyle's eyes were riveted on the
man sitting up in front of him. *It was a miracle.... It was impossible. *

"Police, or...?" Methos opened the conversation not sure what to do. In a
different time, different place it would be simple. He would just kill the
witness. But times had changed and so had he. It had been over five
hundred years since anyone had witnessed his demise like this and he
pushed down his immediate panic.

"CI5." Doyle said automatically.

Coughing slightly, Methos peered down at his damp blood stained outfit and
pulled a face. He hated wallowing in blood, hated its smell and
stickiness. *Hated the pain....*

"What the hell is going on?!?" Doyle demanded, getting past his initial
shock and realizing Taylor was not surprised to be sitting up uninjured.
*In fact he looked mildly put out that his clothing was ruined. *"Who....
what are you?!"

"I take it that's not a rhetorical question?" Methos asked with a grin,
absently fingering his wet sweater.

"You got that right!" Doyle snorted. "I saw you die. And then.... then....
well, in my book you should be going to the morgue. In a bag."

Regarding the CI5 agent, Methos saw the slight wildness around the other's
eyes and stifled a curse. "Trust me, you wouldn't believe me if I told
you."

"Try me."

"I'm not having this conversation," Methos muttered glancing around to see
that a small crowd had gathered. *Fuck!* But he hoped there were no
Watchers among them or his cover would be ruined.

"Think again." Doyle growled.

Hearing the steel behind the tone, Methos turned back and considered the
agent. There was intelligence and honesty reflected back at him. A depth
of conviction that spoke of a strong moral and ethical mind, plus fierce
determination. *A rarity*, and he let his smile grow. *How long had it
been since he'd felt this reckless? This intrigued? First MacLeod and now
this man.* But the feeling was hard to squash and he let a smile enter his
eyes as he met this CI5 agent's frank stare. "I take it you are going to
insist?"

"Too bloody right," Doyle confirmed.

"A name?"

Burying his own emerging smile as he saw how quickly the student's large
eyes became petitioning and innocent, Doyle warned himself not to trust
this man's mildness. It was obviously a front. "Doyle." He said taking out
his ID and flashing it under Taylor's nose very briefly.

"Raymond Doyle." Methos mused just catching the full name on the badge.

"So, you were going to explain, or do I need to haul your arse down to
Head Quarters and get my boss to extract the information?"

"Cowley?"

Narrowing his gaze, Doyle nodded. 

"Yes, I've read the paper." Methos muttered. In fact he'd first heard of
George Cowley forty odd years ago when a mutual friend had talked about
this *young hot-headed Scot who possessed all the tact of a rampaging
German tank.* It was an old memory now. "So what do you want to know,
officer?" Methos asked with just a touch of mockery.

"How...." Doyle floundered slightly, gesturing to the vanished bullet
wound. If it wasn't for all the blood and the fact he had seen the man die
with his own eyes, he would say it had all been part of some weird drug
induced fantasy.

"Ah," Methos grinned. "Let's just say I have strong recuperative
abilities."

"And let's just say you give me the goddamn truth before I shoot you
myself."

"I'm immortal, Raymond Doyle." Methos whispered in all honesty, knowing
that the truth was rarely believed. It was his best defense until he could
get away.

"Immortal?" Doyle questioned, his eyebrows rising in disbelief. *Was this
another weird University cult thing? *Taylor looked normal, yet from
experience he knew it took all sorts of people to form cults. * Yet the
man had died....*

"Precisely." Methos quipped. "Now can I get up? Or-"

Placing a hand on a narrow shoulder to stop Taylor from rising, Doyle
glared at him hearing his R/T sounded. *Bloody hell, how was he supposed
to explain this to Bodie? And where was his irritating partner? * "4.5."

"6.2." Murphy's unmistakable voice replied. "We're at the front of the
hall-"

"Stay there." Doyle cut Murphy off as he stood abruptly. Reaching down he
dragged Taylor up also. "I'm coming to meet you." He added before shutting
the R/T off. Then he took a firm hold on his charge and started them
moving toward the front of the complex. He barely gave the few persistent
onlookers a glance, shoving Taylor in front of him.

"Doyle," Methos started in annoyance.

"Just shut up and walk." Doyle informed him. "You can explain it when we
get to an interrogation room."

"Oh brilliant!" Methos scoffed unimpressed.

Not trusting this man Doyle swiftly took out a set of handcuffs and locked
one around a slender wrist before Taylor could protest.

"What...!"

"Insurance." Doyle told him with a grin.

"You're arresting me?" Methos asked stunned.

"No." Doyle told him reasonably. "You are now a material witness and I am
insuring your safety."

"And do you treat all witnesses this way Mr. Doyle?"

"Just the uncooperative ones."

"I'm sure there is a law against this-"

Dragging his reluctant prisoner forward, Doyle navigated the old buildings
expertly, meeting Murphy and Anderson at the front of the immaculate hall.
Anderson was on the R/T and Doyle nodded in greeting to both men. "Bodie
is-"

"Don't worry," Murphy assured him with a grin as his eyes traveled over
the bloodied figure beside Doyle. "Been wrestling in a slaughter house
again, 4.5?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Doyle quipped, pulling Taylor
towards the car and handcuffing him securely to the door. "Stay." He said
condescendingly, reaching over to pat Taylor's pale cheek*. He would deal
with Taylor later. When he could think and when he knew Bodie was safe. *

"Ray?" Murphy asked as the older agent came back towards him.

"Material witness." Doyle explained. "Adam Taylor."

"Only he's not so helpful?" Murphy guessed.

"Got it in one." Doyle said as he glanced back once at the man behind him.
Taylor was currently looking as peeved as he felt. "Bodie?"

"Over near the library I think." Murphy said, gesturing to a building
behind him. "Anderson and I were just going to relieve him of his burden
before he kills MacLeod."

Suppressing a smile, Doyle could just imagine that. At least his partner
was okay. It was a relief. "Well, let's go."

"Ray," Murphy stopped him with a hand. "What happened," he left the rest
unsaid as he absently gestured to the man handcuffed to the car.

"Taylor got caught in the cross fire," Doyle started. *Hell, but what
could he say? What could he write in his report? *

"And all the blood?"

"He got winged-"

"Christ, Ray." Murphy admonished. "I'll call the medics-"

"No." Doyle stopped him. "He's fine. Trust me."

"Ray!" Murphy whispered furiously, seeing Anderson, his temporary partner,
walk towards them. "If he's not a suspect and he's injured then we-"

"Material witness, Murph." Doyle sighed. "And I checked him over myself.
It's all show. He's just got a bit of an attitude and I'd rather we didn't
lose him until Cowley's questioned him."

Still not completely satisfied, Murphy refrained from commenting as
Anderson lit up a cigar.

"Bodie's requesting our presence." Anderson drawled in his deep voice. "Is
it okay to leave Egyptian boy cuffed to the motor?"

"Egyptian boy?" Murphy and Doyle both said in unison.

"Either that or Arabic. I could never get those languages straight
regardless of Cowley's orders." Anderson shrugged. "But he's cursing like
a trooper." 

Glancing back at the muttering man locked to the car, Doyle felt awe eat
through him as he remembered what he had just witnessed. It was going to
take a lot to wrap his brain around it and come up with a coherent report.
But first he wanted to get to his partner and make sure Bodie was okay.
*Make sure his idiot other half didn't shoot the assignment.* Then he
would talk to Taylor again.

"So," Murphy started leaving the rest unsaid, but implied.

"I doubt he's going anywhere." Doyle said as he saw a couple of uniforms
turn up.

"Then after you my son," Murphy bowed, before following Doyle and Anderson
to where Bodie waited impatiently.

Keeping up a running monologue, Methos scanned the area surreptitiously,
making sure that no one was paying close attention to him before fishing
out a lock pick from his coat pocket. The copper - Doyle - hadn't even
bothered to check for anything like that, must be his innocent face he
smirked to himself. Shielding the process with his body, he picked the
lock on the cuffs before getting the attention of the nearest uniform.
"Ummm, excuse me, but I thought I saw those men over there trying to get
your attention." He said in his best 'I'm-just-a-poor-innocent-
student-caught-in-the-cross-fire' voice, pointing to where the others had
gathered around the Highlander.

"Oh, thanks." the man replied, tapping his partner on the shoulder they
made their way over to the indicated group.

"My pleasure," Methos murmured to himself as he placed the cuffs neatly on
the passenger seat, open. "I always like to help the boys in blue." He
finished with a tight grin, before assuming his best
'I'm-so-innocent-butter-wouldn't- melt-in-my-mouth' face and wandering off
into the crowd that had gathered to ogle the excitement.

Doyle approached the two men, his eyes automatically scanning his partner
needing to reassure himself personally that Bodie had taken no injuries
while out of his sight. Both Bodie and MacLeod looked angry, studiously
ignoring each other and Doyle could well imagine that Anderson had only
been half joking about Bodie's desire to kill MacLeod. "So, where's the
suspect?" He asked casually.

"We lost him." MacLeod informed him.

"MacLeod lost him." Bodie emphasized pointedly before he cast the Scot a
deadly glare.

Doyle sighed with long suffering exasperation. *For supposedly grown men
they acted a lot like children sometimes,* he mused to himself while
stifling a grin. Neither man would appreciate the comparison. 

"How's the shot student?" Bodie inquired, throwing another glare at
MacLeod. "Please don't tell me he died." He hated paper work.

Doyle swore to himself, *how the hell was he going to explain this to his
partner,* he wasn't sure he believed it himself yet, despite all the
evidence to the contrary.

Bodie noticed the troubled look and the hesitation and drew the obvious
conclusion. "Fuck! He's dead isn't he?" He snarled, turning to MacLeod.
"Okay Mr. High-and - Mighty you had better think of some convincing
arguments or that will be the last time you taste fresh air for a very
long time!" Bodie snapped, jabbing an accusing finger into MacLeod's chest
for emphasis.

Doyle winced, then saw the pained look that flashed across MacLeod's face
before the expression was swiftly hidden. Then only anger colored
MacLeod's eyes and Doyle groaned, knowing his partner's temper was going
to land them in more trouble with Cowley. "Bodie! That's enough. Taylor
is.... alive." He managed, pushing between his partner and MacLeod and
dragging Bodie away from the Scot with a restraining hand. "Calm down,
mate. Taylor was just winged," he added firmly, wondering if he was trying
to convince himself of that fact of Bodie.

MacLeod shot a searching look at Doyle, instantly knowing that the CI5
agent was lying. He knew damn well that the shot had been fatal.... *which
meant that Doyle now knew about Immortals. Noh!*

"Taylor?" Bodie asked, noting the strange look directed at his partner by
MacLeod and trying to fathom the reason behind it. "That was the kid's
name?"

"That's his name." Doyle confirmed, narrowing he gaze as he saw MacLeod's
worried glance. *MacLeod knew Taylor? Not possible. Yet....* "Taylor is
currently handcuffed to the car and only a little worse for the wear."
Doyle assured as another even scarier thought entered his head. *MacLeod
knew Taylor would revive? He knew about this immortal thing?* Doyle
suddenly had a sinking feeling that he and Bodie were getting into
something way over their heads. *But who the hell would believe him? *

"Handcuffed?" Bodie asked again, getting annoyed at having to ask so many
stupid questions and feeling like he was definitely missing the plot
somehow. "Ray?" He shook Doyle's arm to recapture his attention. "You
alright, mate?"

"Yeah," Doyle breathed, feeling far from all right. 

"You went a horrible dusky color for a moment," Bodie covered, forcing
himself to step away from Doyle before he did something stupid like hug
him. He hated it when Ray was hurting. 

"Taylor is a little reluctant to tell his story," Doyle covered. "You know
how I dislike those uncooperative types." He saw Bodie give him a warm
smile. "So I made sure he wasn't going anywhere. Not only is he involved
somehow in this mess, but he's also the only other witness apart from
MacLeod here. He could identify McKellen." Doyle finished, gesturing to
the silent Scot.

Bodie snorted. "McKellen is another bloody Scot. Isn't he?" Bodie asked,
settling a pointed look on their charge. "They're worse than the Irish, if
you ask me."

Choosing not to dignify that comment with a reply, MacLeod searched the
immediate area for Taylor. He could not feel his immortal signature, nor
see him by the cars near the front entrance and wondered if Doyle hadn't
already sent the young Immortal to CI5 headquarters. If so, then he hopped
that was where they were taking him, for he would like to have a word with
this Taylor. For some strange reason he found himself growing anxious to
see the other man, to find out who he was and if Taylor was his real name.
"If you 'gentlemen' will excuse me I'll be leaving now-" 

"Not so fast." Bodie cut in. "We still have some questions. Remember the
sword?"

Glaring at the infuriating agent, MacLeod sighed, before looking at Doyle.
The curly-haired agent seemed to possess more brains and courtesy. "Do you
mind if I return to the hotel? I will come to your headquarters later, if
necessary." He asked politely.

Doyle grinned at Murphy and Anderson. "Not at all Mr. MacLeod. We were all
just about to leave, so we will escort you back to the hotel." Doyle
replied, ignoring Bodie's dark look with the ease born of long practice.
It really made him laugh how similar in temperament both Bodie and MacLeod
were. Yet also so different. But if he dared voice that observation Bodie
would kill him, and Doyle smothered his grin. *Two dominant alpha
males*.... 

MacLeod turned back to the man in front of him and muttered a curse in
Gaelic about how a little power just went to some people's heads. At an
obvious signal from Doyle, Bodie stepped aside, and MacLeod glanced
between the two agents again, knowing now that he had worked out who
controlled the partnership. *Doyle....* and he let his eyes assess the man
again. *He obviously was the brains of the outfit* and MacLeod gave up
arguing as he walked toward the waiting cars. He felt both men flank him
automatically. *Bodyguard?* If they ever had to face McKellen, MacLeod
knew he didn't want to be responsible for their lives.

As they approached the cars, MacLeod searched again for any sense of
Immortal presence, but there was none, his eyes traitorously looking for a
certain tall, lean figure in a long coat. Then his mind flashed him an
image of another enticing, tall, slender figure in a short coat and he
stopped abruptly. *Since when had he forgotten Amanda? And more troubling,
why was he now associating Taylor with Amanda??* 

"MacLeod?"

Hearing Doyle's questioning tone, MacLeod shrugged and continued walking.
It was a shock, but he could not deny the urge to see Taylor again, and he
stopped a second time when Doyle reached out and pointed to one of the
unmarked cars before swearing. Going over to the driver's door, MacLeod
saw an open set of handcuffs sitting on the padded seat and bit back his
laugh. *Oh aye, this Taylor was one intriguing character.... *

Doyle crowded up next to MacLeod, cursing fluently. "Where the bloody hell
is Taylor?" He demanded out loud, glaring at the few plain clothed police
officers controlling the crowd. Then he heard MacLeod's laugh and directed
his glare at the Scot. Picking up the handcuffs he flung them onto the
back seat, fuming. *That arrogant little prick had left them like a
taunt,* and Doyle had a sudden overwhelming urge to find the skinny little
bastard and kill him again. *Maybe twice, just for good measure*. "Shit!"
Doyle exclaimed, *what the hell was he going to tell Cowley?!? I'm sorry
Sir, but he picked the lock -* just wasn't going to cut it and Doyle
glared at the still grinning MacLeod. "Not a word, MacLeod. Not a bloody
word or I swear...." he was interrupted by the sound of his R/T beeping.
"4.5!" Doyle answered trying to keep his temper down.

"I want MacLeod in my office. Now 4.5!" Came the distinctive voice of CI5
controller George Cowley.

Both Bodie and Doyle winced at the tone in the older Scotsman's voice. "On
our way." Doyle acknowledged. "4.5 out."

"Running all the way," Bodie intoned and he opened the passenger door and
pulled his seat forward before indicating for MacLeod to climb in. "It's
not a limousine, but it will have to do." He informed the over-dressed
Scot in a flat tone.

MacLeod ignored the snide comment, curiously wondering if George Cowley
was anything like his agents.

******

"Well Mr. MacLeod, I have to commend you on spotting my agents. Bodie and
Doyle happen to be two of my best men. I think perhaps a refresher course
will be in order for them when this is over." Cowley kept his gaze fixed
on the man before him, interested in his reaction.

MacLeod studied Cowley, knowing that he would have to tread carefully with
this man. "Lucky break I guess," he answered, leaning back in the chair
and adopting a casual air.

"Luck, Mr. MacLeod. No, I don't think so. I think you were expecting to be
followed. I think that you are here for some purpose other than that you
gave the French Police and Interpol. But that is beside the point. While
you are on English soil, Mr. MacLeod, you are under my care, and that
means you do as my agents say. And that does not mean you can slip away
and take matters into your own hands. Regardless of what challenge
McKellen may pose to you. In this instance I believe a student was injured
because of your fool-hardly actions." Cowley finished, capturing the other
man's gaze.

MacLeod winced at Cowley's astute words, they were a little too close to
the truth for comfort, and for a worrying few seconds he wondered if
Cowley knew about his kind. Dismissing the thought as a silly one, MacLeod
simply chose not to answer the unspoken question.

Cowley smiled inwardly, he had not expected any reply from MacLeod,
picking up a plain brown manila folder he flipped through the surprisingly
sparse pages, glancing sideways at the man sitting opposite his desk. "You
have an interesting history, Mr. MacLeod, but there are also some
interesting gaps. Would you care to fill in some details?"

Again MacLeod chose to remain silent.

"It says here you are an antique dealer who specializes in weaponry.
Ancient weaponry." Cowley corrected, looking over his bifocals at the
silent man seated across from him. "It also says you are an expert in a
number of different martial arts disciplines."

"It's good exercise." MacLeod remarked.

"So is walking a dog." Cowley countered his tone implying he didn't
believe MacLeod's spotless record.

"Owning a dog and traveling don't go together." MacLeod returned just as
blandly, letting a smile come into his tone when he saw Cowley relent and
offer a genuine grin.

"Point taken." Cowley told him, understanding a lot more than what was
being verbalized. "Thank you for coming in. I hope we get the opportunity
to speak again."

"I look forward to it," MacLeod replied politely, standing in one fluid
motion.

Pressing his intercom, Cowley gave an order to his secretary. "Betty, send
in 4.5 and 3.7."

"Yes sir."

Lifting his eyes Cowley didn't bother to stand. "Oh and Mr. MacLeod, one
last thing. Don't try and lose my agents a second time or I may be forced
to use other means at my disposal to safeguard your welfare while in
England."

Not misunderstanding the silent threat behind the plumy accent MacLeod
said nothing, turning to the door when it opened and his two watchdogs
stood there with unsmiling faces.

"You sent for us, sir?" Doyle asked.

"Return Mr. MacLeod to the Mayfair and make sure nothing untoward happens
to him in future."

"Sir." Doyle inclined his head and lifted a hand gesturing for MacLeod to
precede him out. Bodie was standing at his back and he could feel his
partner's irritation all the way down his spine. Closing the door of
Cowley's office they shepherded MacLeod back to the Capri. It had been a
hell of a night so far and Doyle was not looking forward to the morning.
The case no longer seemed like a walk in the park and he still could not
decide what to do about Adam Taylor. He'd said nothing to Bodie and the
hesitation was now making it harder and harder to broach the subject. *But
what could he say?* 'Hey Bodie, Taylor died in my arms then was magically
resurrected and nope I saw no long- legged blonde angel give him the kiss
of life'. *Yeah, right. As if Bodie wouldn't have him frog-marched to the
closest loony bin for that kind of comment.* Best he probably kept his
mouth shut and did some investigating of his own on Taylor. After all he
knew where the man lived. 

******

*May 25th 1980. London.*

Entering the University grounds for the second time in two days, Doyle
checked the time hoping he wasn't too early. Casting a long look around at
the immaculate gardens and cobbled paving, Doyle liked what he saw. In
another time, another life he would have liked to have been a permanent
student. Study of any type always fascinated him. *Ancient civilizations,
the mysteries of the human body, English Literature.... Art.*

Rubbing his nose in thought, he slowly did a full circle as he advanced
further into the large campus, wondering if his hunch would pay off. Adam
Taylor. Or as Anderson had dubbed the student, Egyptian Boy. *How old was
Taylor? What was Taylor? And could he be trusted?

*Baffled by what he had witnessed, Doyle still had not told Bodie, and in
all honesty was reluctant to tell anyone. For all he knew it could be a
hoax.... *yet the man had died*. He was positive of that fact, had seen it
with his own eyes. *Immortal? What in the blazes did that mean?* There was
no such thing as immortality - *outside the Catholic Church -* he
corrected silently. It was a concept his old gran had believed in
whole-heartedly. *Immortality of the soul*. But Taylor was alive, not
dead. *And Adam Taylor looked far too alive and real for a walking,
animated corpse. *

Seeing a group of students, Doyle stopped them with a smile. *He could be
just as persuasive as his silver- tongued partner, especially when he
wanted something*. "I'm looking for a student named Adam Taylor. I was
hoping you could tell me where I might go to find him?" He asked turning
on the charm. He knew if he asked informally first, he just might be in
luck and find the mysterious man. If he went through official channels he
had the strange suspicion Taylor would vanish. Like he had vanished out of
those handcuffs.

"Adam?" One of the girls piped up helpfully. She shifted her books and
sighed. "He's usually in the library-"

"Oh that cute recluse?" Another of the females said flashing Doyle an
interested grin.

"Why not try his room if he's not in the library. I think it's the second
level of the Connolly Wing." 

"You think?!" The first girl said in disbelief before laughing. "I thought
you had all the seniors staked out, Michelle."

"Especially at night." A third female chimed in helpfully.

"Thanks." Doyle cut in. It seemed Taylor had a bit of a reputation. *That
always helped.* "The Connolly Wing is...." Doyle left the rest unsaid as
he raised an inquisitive brow, not wanting to invite a bickering match.
All three girls pointed to the building off to the left. Thanking them
again, Doyle took the pathway and eyed the old brick structure. *How many
delinquents did this place put out a year? Potential bombers, drug
chemists and desperate gunmen?* 

Going up the steps two at a time he reached the second level and checked
the names on the doors, only seeing numbers. *Just his rotten bloody
luck....* Stopping as he spotted a tall, graying man exit one room, Doyle
smiled again. "Excuse me, but I'm looking for Adam Taylor's room?"

"82." The man said in a clipped tone before he carried on.

Blinking after him, Doyle shook his head. "Thanks," he called, wondering
what security was like in a place like this. So far it seemed non
existent. He could be anyone, *thief, murderer, rapist, bomber....* and he
chastised himself. He had to stop imagining the worst. Inspecting the door
numbers again, he soon found room 82 and checked his gun before knocking.
He didn't have to wait long as the old heavy door was opened and he found
himself half glared at by the man in front of him. If anything Taylor's
expression showed no surprise, and a little amusement.

"Officer Doyle," Methos sighed in mild sarcasm. "Don't tell me you've come
to handcuff me to your car again?"

"Very funny," Doyle said, not waiting for an invite and pushing his way
into the room. He swiftly scanned the neat enclosure.

"Oh do come in Officer. Make yourself at home." Methos muttered
sarcastically to himself.

Ignoring the snide comment Doyle continued his inspection. Apart from the
work desk covered with numerous open books, the only other notable object
in the small room was the cat stretched out on the comfortable looking
bed. A black cat. In fact it looked suspiciously like the one Bodie had
tangled with yesterday evening. "Nice," Doyle said before he turned back
to the room's owner. "You ready to talk, or do I march you down to my Head
Quarters?"

Closing the door slowly, Methos leaned against it and folded his arms.
"Are you always this obnoxious in the morning?"

"Only when I don't get a straight answer."

"I.... see." Ambling over to the bed, Methos collapsed down on it and
regarded Doyle with open interest. "So where's your shadow?"

Recognizing the evasion, Doyle decided to play along and he prowled the
room, fingering a couple of items. They looked old and expensive. Taylor
had good taste, if no manners. *But then maybe he was one of these rich
kids rebelling against his parents? The possibilities were endless....*
"Babysitting." Doyle replied after a prolonged moment, watching Taylor out
of the corner of his eye.

"MacLeod?" Methos asked in feigned interest, glancing down when the cat
decided to use him as a cushion. He stroked her head absently.

"Yeah, Kilt Boy." Doyle muttered.

Hearing that, Methos couldn't contain his amusement, blinking at Doyle
before bursting into laughter. He doubted MacLeod would see the funny side
of it, but it was hilarious, and damn fitting. "Kilt Boy?"

"Bodie has a way with words."

"No doubt." Methos acknowledged.

"What's going on Taylor? And I mean it. You better give me a damn good
answer or I'll haul your skinny arse out of here."

"I seriously doubt you could haul my 'skinny arse' anywhere, Doyle."
Methos cut back offended. "But for the sake of decorum, let me just say it
is probably for the best if you and your partner didn't interfere."

"Too late. We are already involved."

"Then uninvolve yourself."

"What the hell is going on?" Doyle repeated as he saw how serious Taylor
was. He walked over to him and pulled out a chair to sit down facing the
man, assessing the artful way Taylor sprawled on the bed. It was a cover,
and Doyle met the narrowed hazel eyes letting the other man know that he
understood the evasion. "You know MacLeod." He stated flatly challenging
the other to deny the charge. "You are part of this entire mess. You even
know McKellen. Don't you?"

"No." Methos said clearly. "At least not in the way you assume."

"Then how?"

"Trust me, you don't want, or need to know." Methos answered just stopping
the words turning sarcastic. He had a feeling they wouldn't work against
this determined man.

"Who the hell are you?" Doyle asked exasperated. "What are you?!?"

"Have you got a few years?" Methos quipped.

"Just give me the condensed version."

"No such thing." Methos stated as he sat up and pulled a sword out from
under his bed.

Doyle just blinked at him stunned never having expected to see a blade
produced so swiftly and with such grace. It was frighteningly
disconcerting and he automatically reached into his jacket to grip the
butt of his Browning.

"Relax," Methos admonished as he caught the reflex action. "You want
answers, I can only give you this." Then using the fine edge of the sword
he sliced open his hand, wincing in pain as blood welled up and ran down
his wrist.

"Christ!" Doyle was out of his seat and reaching over to take Taylor's
hand, eyeing the man as if he was deranged. "Are you out of your mind??"

"Watch," Methos breathed, biting his lower lip and willing the pain away.

Doyle just stared at him wide eyed, assessing his mental state before
dropping his gaze back down to the bleeding hand. Taylor had not only cut
the skin, but he had opened the hand to the bone.... but to his amazement
the skin was knitting neatly back together, tiny blue sparks dancing at
the edges of the fast closing wound. Feeling his jaw sag, Doyle swallowed
nervously, taking a step back as he watched Taylor wipe the blood away to
reveal unblemished skin. It was unbelievable. Totally off the planet.
*Right out there with Kirk and Spock....* Taylor then flexed his fingers
and Doyle fell back onto his chair as if he had been sucker-punched. 

"Satisfied?" Methos asked mildly, shrewdly watching the way Doyle reacted.
It was a dangerous ploy, but if he had read this man correctly, Doyle
could also be a very useful ally. *Risk - Chance - Fate or Death? Which of
the Ancient Gods was he now tempting? *

"I think I need a drink-"

"There's a pub down on the corner." Methos offered. "I'll buy the first
round." 

******

Still feeling numb, Doyle couldn't tear his eyes off Taylor as the man
savored his beer with obvious delight. The sparkle in the changeable eyes,
the smile on his lips and the ease of his movements, all spoke of
experience and Doyle in that instant felt very young and extremely out of
his depth as this 'creature' played with him like a cat toyed with a
mouse. *Or as Bodie played with terrorists....* Yet to look at Taylor you
would be forgiven for assuming he was impossibly young and innocent. *What
a farce! *

"Now this is a good drop." Methos said in appreciation. "Beats the canned
stuff any day."

"How old are you?" Doyle asked, his mind slowly trying to accept the
impossible. 

"Old enough to appreciate the head on this beer," Methos said with a
smirk.

"And you can never die?" Doyle carried on as if he hadn't heard the
attempt at humor.

"Never is a strong term." Methos pulled a face and glanced around. But
they were far enough away from the other patrons not to be over heard.
"Let's just say, it is extremely difficult."

"But you look so.... so," Doyle shook his head. He felt like he had
definitely entered an episode of Star trek. *There's Klingon's on the
starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow....*

"I don't age." Methos told him.

"Never?"

"Not physically."

"Bloody hell," Doyle lifted his beer and took a large sip. He let his eyes
flicker from the glass Taylor held to his assessing eyes. There was a
sparkle of mischief in them, and Doyle narrowed his own gaze in distrust.
Logically he should be hauling Taylor's arse down to Cowley, or Ross, but
for some reason he felt it would be a bad move. "Immortal."

Nodding once, Methos took another drink of this beer.

Pulling all the facts together, Doyle just stared at him in growing
realization. "MacLeod's the same as you, isn't he?"

Not saying anything, Methos just let his smug grin grow as he looked
around in amused disinterest.

"But what's with all the swords?"

"Listen, Ray.... can I call you Ray?" Methos asked as he tried to distract
the other man.

Doyle just gave a curt nod, his mind continuing to play back all he had
seen and read in the last 48 hours about MacLeod and McKellen. It was all
starting to make a sick kind of sense. *And now Taylor.... Bloody hell!
How many Immortals were there?*

"For your own sake, it is best you don't get involved."

"How many of you are there?"

Groaning slightly, Methos slid down further in his chair and drained his
beer.

"Answer the question!"

"I don't know." Methos hissed back, then covered his annoyance as he
watched Doyle scowl. "It's not important. The important thing is that we
only fight each other, and I advise that you don't interfere in a
challenge. Ever."

"Or what?"

"Or you'll die."

Hearing the cold tone, Doyle took in the words and saw how serious Taylor
was. *Deadly so*. "And MacLeod?"

"What about him?" Methos asked in exasperation, fiddling with the rim of
his glass.

"Is he one of the good guys or the bad guys?"

"Oh," Methos gave a secretive smile. "He's definitely one of the good
guys."

"And you?"

Covering his smile, Methos relaxed even more into his casual sprawl, his
eyes dancing with suppressed mirth again as he watched Doyle. "I'm
neither."

"What?" Doyle asked, and was interrupted as his R/T sounded. Swearing, he
reached for it and depressed the call button. "4.5."

"Where the hell are you!"

Deciphering Bodie's peeved annoyance through the static, Doyle couldn't
help but grin. "I'm busy," he said, eyeing Taylor. "..interrogating a
suspect."

"Without me!?"

Hearing the outrage, Doyle bit his lip to cover his smile. "I have my
Bodie handbook if I get lost-"

"Funny Doyle."

Licking his lips, Doyle caught Taylor's snort as the other shook his head.
"Report 3.7." He said instead of baiting his partner more.

"Listen sunshine, you either get back here, or I'll-"

"You'll what 3.7?" Doyle prompted as he heard his partner curse. "Has the
situation changed with MacLeod?" He asked abruptly, concern for his
partner cutting across the banter. Lifting his gaze he saw Taylor
observing him speculatively. It was unnerving.

"Kilt boy has just sent me out breakfast again, and if you don't get back
here, I swear I'll go up and strangle the bastard!"

Not bothering to cover his amusement this time, Doyle looked at Taylor and
laughed, taking his finger off the call button. "Tell me," he asked
directing his question at the man across from him. "Out of curiosity, if
Bodie shot MacLeod.... MacLeod will just get up again. Right?"

Considering Doyle's direct stare, Methos gave in and nodded.

"Just as I thought." Doyle muttered before he depressed the call button
again and heard Bodie curse. "Sit tight 3.7 and if you're good I'll bring
you back a beer."

"A beer?! Ray.... Doyle where the hell-"

"Later 3.7. 4.5 out." Doyle cut him off and ended the call before slipping
the R/T back in his coat pocket. "Bodie would be royally pissed off if he
knew that killing MacLeod wouldn't accomplish a thing."

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?" Doyle asked, then screwed up his nose. "Nah. I'm not even
sure I believe it. I can just see me trying to explain it to Cowley as
they drag me off to the funny farm."

"It would be best if you kept out of it."

"As I told you, we can't." Doyle replied. "MacLeod is our assignment.
Until McKellen is caught, I'm afraid you are stuck with me. And I strongly
advise you don't try and leave the country." Letting his eyes sweep over
Taylor's sprawled figure, Doyle thought of something else. "I suppose
asking you to give up your passport would prove as ineffective as
handcuffing you to a car was?"

"Indubitably." Methos confirmed.

"Just as I thought." Doyle sighed, getting up and taking out his wallet to
pull a card free. "If you think of anything relevant, you can contact me
on this number."

"So I take it, I'm no longer a prisoner?" Methos asked as he took the card
and committed the number to memory.

"No. But you are a witness." Doyle said, leaning down to pin Taylor with
his gaze. "And next time I'll use more than bloody handcuffs."

"Promises, promises," Methos muttered, grinning up as he caught Doyle's
wary look.

"You better believe it sunshine." Doyle hissed back before striding away.

Laughing softly Methos just nodded as he watched Doyle navigate the steps
of the pub. He could really learn to like Raymond Doyle, he decided. The
man had class and courage, plus a sense of humor. Pity they had to meet
under these circumstances. Stretching, he wondered if sticking around was
wise.

******

Leaning back against his work desk, Methos shook his head over the day's
events. *From the sublime to the ridiculous....* Next to him, he heard a
plaintive meow, and glanced down at his feline roommate. Nefertiri, as he
had named her six months ago when her small-bedraggled wet body had sat
shivering outside his door. He was a sucker for lost causes and she knew
it. Bending down he picked up her tiny frame and stroked her ears back,
being rewarded with a loud purr as she settled a paw on his chest and
flexed her claws. *The perfect hunter. So seductive and adaptive.* "You
want food again?" He asked in mock horror, getting a patient blink from
the golden eyes as she opened her mouth and yawned.

Sighing Methos gave in to her charms, adoring her heat and the way she had
taken over his life in such a short period of time. Finding her bowl he
filled it up with fresh food. "You do know that I'm a poor grad student,
don't you?" He asked conversationally while she butted against his legs.
"Feeding you is keeping me broke." *Yeah, right....* Standing up, he
watched her for a moment, then turned back to his current problem.

At Oxford he was trying to get a distinction in his second year of English
Literature without making it seem too simple and *now he has to run across
not only that jackass from Nottingham, but a nosey detective. Doyle.* And
the worst part was, he actually *liked* Doyle. Had acknowledged that fact
at he pub earlier when the man shared his company. He could well imagine
them having a good relationship if they had met under less questionable
circumstances. Doyle was intelligent for a street cop. Ex-street cop, now
CI5 agent. *And the man had balls to do the job he did with no
resurrection in sight.*

*No*, that wasn't the real issue disturbing his thoughts, though Doyle
knowing about him was a problem. *Having a loose cannon out there knowing
about Immortals was never a comfortable feeling*. But killing the man not
only felt wrong - it was impractical in this day and age. Bluff was a far
better tool and if that failed he could always postpone his scheduled
entry into the Watcher Organization as their new bright-eyed young grad
student by a decade or so. *What was time?*

*No,* it was MacLeod that troubled him. And troubled him in a way that was
frightening. *Kilt Boy?* Hearing Doyle's voice in his head brought a smile
to his lips. *So fitting. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.... *Seeing
McKellen had barely registered, but he could remember every detail of
MacLeod's face as the powerful Immortal had stood in front of him, proud
and commanding.

He shivered in recollection, wondering if his over-reaction was due to the
fact he was cloistered in the University with children*, or because it had
been a while since he'd played with real meat?* Then again maybe it was
because meeting the man only enhanced what he had read about him. *What
Darius had told him*.

So what he was feeling now was old-fashioned lust. Nothing new, just damn
inconvenient. *The spice of life* - because he knew bedding MacLeod was
one fantasy that would never be realized.

*Yet, MacLeod had stared at him so hungrily. Was it simply curiosity? Or
sexual desire? Or did the man want his Quickening? * Debating that, he
pushed away from the desk and ambled over to his cabinet and took out a
warm can of beer. He much preferred it chilled but had yet to educate the
dim minded within this facility of that. Beer was beer and right now he
needed a large drop of the amber nectar. It was either that or sex.

*Sex* - a pastime he indulged in sporadically. He currently wasn't
attached and speculated on what it would be like to wrestle MacLeod down
and taste his warmth. A hot lust driven imagining that would never
eventuate, and he groaned in dismay as he felt his body traitorously
respond to the idea.

*Yet was he feeling more than simple lust?* Those large brown Scottish
eyes had seemed to soften.... * Gods*, he felt suddenly confused and
claustrophobic. 

But in his extensive experience with sex, and male sex in particular,
Methos had found each encounter usually fell into one of five categories.
The first category was often the most difficult and the one he seemed to
blunder into with monotonous regularity. It was sex with a good friend. Or
comfort sex. Where from grief, shock or vulnerability sex was initiated
between two friends in an effort to forget the past and initiate a sense
of well-being. Solace. Usually, in most cases, the aftermath of this would
forever destroy the friendship making the encounter a bitter memory.
*Didn't he know it! *

The second category was pure, mindless pleasure. A sexual affair that was
found non-restraining and extremely exciting. While it lasted. Usually it
burned hot for a short period and then dissolved. Or he moved on. It was
wild, liberated, unconditional and guiltless. Passion of danger. Sex with
strangers. The spontaneous lust brought on by stress, physical tension, or
a recent fight. It was usually associated with mutual consent and was
totally physical, feeding the body and disengaging the mind. It usually
left him replete and unaffected in a mindless sort of way. *Like a good
meal.... *

The third category was the least desired. Sex under duress. Or rape. The
attacker not only fucked the body, but also fucked the mind, utterly
stripping the victim of control and leaving emotional scars. It also
destroyed the spirit and confidence and he found that afterwards no matter
how tough he pretended to be, the memory lingered. The vulnerability
existed no matter how many years he put between him and the experience.
Even now just the thought of past experiences, of Feldon, or Kronos
finding him made him break out in a cold sweat. He shuddered taking a
large gulp of his beer as he reminded himself why he hid so well. *Idiot
Old Man! That's why playing with the Highland brat is dangerous.... *

The fourth category was pure, brutal dominance. A state he was not proud
of, but a state he had lived in many centuries ago. This was where he was
the controller, where he took what he wanted, where he fed off fear, pain
and blood. A power rush of rage and destruction, that didn't ease the ache
or fill the heart with satisfaction, but subdued frustrations and hunger.
It was a state he never wanted to fall into again.

Which brought him to the final category involving sex. Category five - the
one brought on by instant desire. A craving that touched and tantalized
every sense. It was a total body experience. Not only satisfying the body
and mind, but screwing the heart as well. Fortunately this type of
emotional plundering was rare. Coveted, but devastating to both parties
involved. It destroyed all rational thought and left the recipient exposed
to outside influences and ultimately death. *Immortal suicide. *

A scary prospect, especially now as he could feel his heart constrict at
the simple memory of MacLeod's searching eyes. *Fuck! Danger, danger...*.
a small voice squeaked in the far reaches of his mind. *Heartache
approaching....* This new desire he would have to keep firmly to himself,
and under control. Besides, he doubted he would see the big Scot again.
Even Doyle had said that *McKellen was hunting the Highlander....*
stopping the thought, Methos frowned. McKellen was an unimaginative
bastard, but he doubted the blundering Scottish idiot could best MacLeod
in a fair fight. *Fair fight. That was the point, *and he snorted,
remembering McKellen's blunderings in Sherwood. *The narrow-minded idiot
was incapable of doing anything but cheating and if he shot MacLeod like
he had shot him earlier then the Highland boy scout would die. *

It was a prospect that did not appeal to him at all. *Bloody hell! *But
he'd seen the magnificent barbarian for all of.... * what? Two minutes?!?
And already he was smitten and hooked like a desperate groupie?
Pleeeeease!!* But even as he berated himself, he knew his heart had
already made a decision, and he groaned silently. For his own peace of
mind he would have to see what he could find out about McKellen. *To
protect MacLeod. For Darius' sake. Yeah, right....*

*Besides, wasn't living in Oxford just a tad boring? Hadn't he complained
about that in his diary just last week? Shit, careful what you wish for
Old Man -* and he raised his eyes to the ceiling imagining what he'd like
to do to that bitch, Fate.

Taking the card out of his pocket, he eyed Doyle's phone number, knowing
just how he was going to milk the information out of the curly-haired
operative. *He could do charm. Could do it very well.* Had seen the
curiosity and interest in Doyle's cat-like eyes. *Oh yes, but he was a
wicked, perverted bastard*. And if it meant seeing MacLeod again,
*then....* Swallowing he felt his gut constrict in irrational
anticipation. *He was sick. *

Definitely ill, *depraved*, and he should have learned by now that when he
felt this drawn to a person to run like hell. But somehow his feet never
seemed to obey his brain. And that little voice of survival that was
screeching in the back of his mind was also ignored as he started to plan
his strategy for involving himself in the Highlander's life.

******

Parking his gold Capri, Doyle released a slow breath and re-gathered his
thoughts. He knew Bodie was bound to moan about the fact that he had taken
off alone to interview Taylor. Bodie would be infuriated if he even
guessed he was now willfully with-holding information about Taylor. *But
what could he say? How could he explain it to Bodie - except to maybe drag
his opinionated partner back to Oxford and force Taylor to demonstrate his
incredible healing abilities a second time?!* An ability he was sure
Taylor would pretend didn't exist. That much he had picked up from the
deceptively young man. He had been shown a glimpse under the cynical mask
and behind the amused hazel eyes and Doyle knew enough to understand that
what he'd been told was dangerous information. He'd also noticed how
gleefully Taylor had watched him realize that very fact. *Bastard! Then
again, was Taylor even human?!? * Doyle scoffed at the term. *Adam Taylor
was a master of manipulation,* and Doyle could not think of a logical way
to expose him without getting himself, Taylor or Bodie killed. And that
was the problem.

For he did believe Taylor about the fact that this was a personal dispute
between MacLeod and McKellen. He also believed that this dispute had
nothing to do with an Interpol investigation or with CI5 or even Taylor
himself. *Yet how to tell Cowley that? Gut intuition??* "Bloody hell,"
Doyle sighed as he released his grip on the steering wheel. He really
hated being dragged into personal disputes, especially when it put him and
his partner in the firing line. *Bodie*. Shaking his head Doyle let the
image of his partner fill his thoughts. *From sheer bloody-mindedness to
uncanny tenderness....* that was Bodie. His friend - a man closer to him
than any other person on this planet. *And if he couldn't tell Bodie what
Taylor had just told him, then how could he tell Cowley? Immortals*? And
Doyle closed his eyes, dropping his head back against the headrest. *What
exactly did that term mean beside the obvious? Was it a curse? An
illness....* his police trained mind dismissing such oddities as mythical.
*If only Taylor would explain more*, but he had the impression that the
other man would bolt if he forced more details. So it was a very fine line
he now walked. *How old could Taylor be if the man couldn't die? And for
that matter, how old was MacLeod? Christ! * Bodie would be pissed off if
he learned that MacLeod had never been in any real danger during the
shooting.

Somehow he had to work out a way to find McKellen first and get the
bastard deported to France for his crimes so that neither he nor Bodie
were caught up in something that was beyond their understanding. *Or
killed in the crossfire*, as Taylor had so bluntly suggested. Because out
of everything that was one warning he truly believed Taylor had not lied
about - all else was open for interpretation.

"Damn him!" Doyle muttered, scanning the area and picking out his
partner's car. Seeing it was empty gave him a momentary pang of worry
until he forced himself to calm down. *Christ, but Bodie was going to be
the death of him with the ex-SAS' nonchalant disregard for personal safety
and CI5 procedure. The way Bodie acted you would think he was
Immortal....*

Dismissing that disturbing thought, Doyle quickly got out of the car
locked it and pocketed the keys. Since Cowley's little discussion with
MacLeod yesterday, they were no longer undercover, so he assumed MacLeod
had indeed invited his exasperating partner in for a late breakfast. *That
was guaranteed to get up his partner's nose faster than a speeding
bullet.* Thinking about an irritable Bodie and how it enriched the
partnership, Doyle nodded to the doorman outside the Mayfair and ambling
into the plush foyer. Not often did they get to breakfast in such an
expensive joint, *and be able to claim it on expenses*, Doyle added
silently. But the Mayfair made him feel definitely under-dressed,
especially when he was given a number of disapproving glances by the
staff. 

Ignoring the pointed looks, Doyle strolled forward, catching sight of his
partner with MacLeod towards the back of the terrace restaurant. He
gestured to the two men and flashed his ID at the stuffy Maitre'd, before
slowly making his way over to the table. Mentally he was preparing himself
to act normally around MacLeod while fielding his partner's inevitable
comments and looks. *But MacLeod was Immortal.... yet why did that bother
him more than the knowledge that Taylor was Immortal? Maybe it was because
MacLeod 'felt' dangerous while Taylor 'felt' harmless? *Speculating on
that disconcerting realization, Doyle's eyes automatically picked out
MacLeod's confidence, his obvious allure, power and strength, comparing
them to what he had seen of Adam Taylor. Frowning, Doyle was immediately
shocked to comprehend that the only definite image he had of Taylor was
his seductive vulnerability and he felt his mouth drop open in shock.
"That manipulating little bugger," Doyle muttered as he saw MacLeod stand
and gesture him over. The Scot flaunted his strengths, where Taylor hid
behind a mist of deception. * But which one was deadlier? *It was a
question he didn't need answered as he saw MacLeod's genuine smile
directed his way and Doyle started to re-evaluate all that Taylor had said
and not said. *Bastard! *

"Ah, Mr. Doyle," MacLeod said with a smile, his dark eyes twinkling in
genuine pleasure. "Care to join us? I can recommend the lobster."

"For breakfast?" Doyle questioned, sitting down and eyeing the two men.
"No thanks."

"It's a bit too exotic for Doyle, Mr. MacLeod." Bodie said just covering
his annoyance by keeping his face perfectly straight and his tone polite.
"The only seafood he recognizes is cod covered in batter from the local
chippy."

Choosing to ignore that, Doyle just sent his partner a look promising
revenge as he indicated to the waiter hovering at his left shoulder to
just bring him some tea.

Watching the two agents, MacLeod didn't miss the silent communication, or
the easiness between them before Doyle targeted him with shrewd eyes. "Mr.
Bodie tells me-"

"Please, can we drop the Misters?" Bodie asked on a tight breath. "They're
giving me indigestion."

Hiding his smile, Doyle knew how his partner hated titles of any sort, and
offered MacLeod an apologetic smile. "Since we are stuck with each other
until Mr. Cowley says otherwise, I'm Raymond Doyle and this one only
answers to Bodie."

"Duncan MacLeod." MacLeod said simply, singling Doyle out and noting that
he was the more temperate of the two men. *The teaming made for an
interesting combination*, and he admired Cowley's strategy. *But then
opposites not only attracted but also complimented each other perfectly*,
he acknowledged. "Bodie here tells me that you were visiting the student
that was shot yesterday by McKellen." He gave an innocent smile with that
comment as he watched the way Doyle's eyes darkened and narrowed. "I hope
the young man is recovering?"

Considering his answer while the tea was delivered, Doyle waited until
they were alone again, watching how Bodie eyed his lobster with disgust.
*His partner would definitely have indigestion*. "I was just doing a
follow up." Doyle replied, pouring milk into his tea before giving MacLeod
a slight nod of acknowledgement.

"And the young man," MacLeod hesitated, not sure how to proceed as Doyle
gave nothing away. "..I take it he's all right?"

"Fine." Doyle said, taking a sip of tea and pulling a face. He felt
Bodie's eyes on him and schooled his features, knowing his partner would
want information as well. Only a more detailed explanation could wait
until later. "One Adam Taylor." Doyle turned back to MacLeod and gave him
a thoughtful look as he studied the man. *This man is Immortal.* "He's
currently residing in the Connolly Wing, room 82. A student of English Lit
and History from what I can gather. He was only grazed and claims to know
nothing. Just one of those cases of being in the wrong place at the wrong
time."

"I.... see." MacLeod said slowly, his eyes telling Doyle that he didn't
believe a word spoken. His answer was a small smile in return before Doyle
sipped his tea again in unvoiced challenge. Not liking this, MacLeod
glanced away. *What the hell had the Immortal told this agent?!?* It was
disturbing, but looking back at Doyle he had the strong feeling that Doyle
knew a little too much for comfort and was now baiting him. That was a
dangerous attitude, especially with McKellen in the area.

"Oie," Bodie said as he glanced between his partner and the Scot. He had
the distinct impression he was missing something vital here. "I think
you've drunk enough tea sunshine otherwise your brain will get water
logged." Bode quipped, standing and dragging his partner up with him. "If
you will excuse us," he said politely to MacLeod.

"Mr. MacLeod," Doyle said as he easily slipped free of Bodie's grasp and
turned back to the Scot. "What are your plans for the rest of the day?"

"I have a parcel being delivered later this afternoon, but apart from that
I intend to stay in."

"Then we will accompany you upstairs for your own protection."

"Unnecessary." MacLeod said hastily covering his frown. "But as I promised
George I would co-operate."

Bodie gave a forced smile, not liking the way MacLeod said 'George' before
he gripped Doyle's shoulder hard and nodded to MacLeod. "We'll just be out
here."

Watching them go, MacLeod speculated on what Doyle had said. It had been a
deliberate statement of fact. *Adam Taylor. The Connolly Wing, room 82.
What was Doyle playing at? It was almost a set up, yet....* MacLeod
frowned. He remembered McKellen shooting Taylor in the chest. *It should
have been fatal, and McKellen had called Taylor - Loxley, so....* Baffled,
MacLeod picked up his wineglass and savored the flavor, wondering if it
was possible to lose his watchdogs and seek out Taylor himself. For there
were a few answers he craved.

******

Spinning Doyle around once they were back in the foyer, Bodie totally
ignored the gesture the receptionist gave him to be quiet when he hissed
at his partner. *No one shushed him!* "Doyle what the hell are you pulling
now?!?"

"Will you keep it down-"

Opening his mouth Bodie closed it and glared at the doorman who was
approaching them. The man stopped dead in his tracks under Bodie's glare,
coloring slightly before hastily backing away. Turning his demanding scowl
on his unfazed partner, Bodie tried to reign in his temper. "If you ever
leave me alone with that moron again, I swear, Ray, I'll not be
responsible for my actions!"

"And here I thought you had more self-control," Doyle quipped with
amusement, seeing MacLeod call for the cheque.

"He's playing us for fools!"

"Maybe-"

"Maybe!" Bodie exploded and then released a loud sigh as he counted to ten
slowly. "He knows what the hell is going on and he knows that we know that
he knows!!"

Blinking at Bodie, Doyle didn't try to hide his amusement. "I think
Anderson is right, you've lost it mate."

"Doyle!"

"Listen," Doyle admonished, understanding how volatile Bodie's temper
could be. Only he knew it was from frustration at being stuck on a case
that was going nowhere fast. "I'm sure MacLeod will make a mistake-"

"What about Egyptian Boy?"

Raising a brow, Doyle sighed. *So Bodie had been talking to Murphy again.
Figured. * "He didn't know anything."

"Bloody typical!" Bodie growled as he leveled his gaze on his partner. "I
don't like the feel of this, one bit. More is going on here than Cowley is
telling us. And I want to know what Kilt Boy told the old man in the
office earlier."

"And pigs will fly," Doyle answered. "Listen mate, this is not the first
time Cowley has kept us in the dark-"

"Do you think he's struck a deal?"

"What?" Doyle questioned. "Diplomatic immunity for information?"

"Or bait?" Bodie hissed as he leaned closer to his partner, invading his
personal space without pausing. "With the emphasis on us being the
'bait'."

Blinking at Bodie in startlement, Doyle didn't have time to comment as his
partner squeezed his arm indicating MacLeod's approach.

"I'll just go upstairs," MacLeod offered on his way past, giving them both
a tight smile.

"We'll accompany you." Bodie said, not giving MacLeod a chance to object
as he went to the lift and stabbed the up button viciously before turning
to giving the Scot a charming smile. "If that's all right with you." He
added in false politeness.

"Fine," MacLeod grated out, but silently cursed first McKellen for
involving the police in an Immortal matter and secondly Cowley for being
so bloody stubborn minded.

******

Half an hour later MacLeod was still sitting staring at the papers on the
desk. What he was seeing however was not the morning news but rather *a
young looking face, superimposed over the image of a long lean figure
sprawled on the ground*. Try as he might he could not budge the images
from his head and with the images, came the soft baritone that had
captured his attention so excitingly. It just added to the list of
contradictions in the man's behavior towards both himself and McKellen and
MacLeod had a very compelling reason to be intrigued, if not downright
curious about this Adam Taylor. He simply had to find him again, he had so
many questions that required answers. *Who are you?* Being the most
persistent, the most compelling, followed swiftly by - *Loxley?* The
comments had not escaped him and the implications of that name were
something he just had to discover. 

Then there was the little matter of how much the other Immortal had told
agent Doyle. MacLeod knew damn well that Doyle was suspicious of his
motives. Just the lack of practical evidence and British etiquette was
keeping Doyle from asking the blunt questions he saw in the other man's
frank stare. This was not a complication he liked. Mortals knowing about
Immortals.... *but what could he do?* 

Sighing, MacLeod stared at the newspaper before him, wordlessly admitting
that he was getting tired of the Game and he was sick of being alone. This
whole mess with McKellen was bringing it home to him sharply, and the
little visit from Amanda hadn't helped either. *Not that he hadn't enjoy
the experience*, he told himself with a grin. The memory of the wild sex
they had enjoyed still very fresh in his mind, it was just that she most
of all seemed to remind him of what he was missing in a stable
relationship. *One could only lie to oneself for so long before the truth
became too obvious to hide from any longer.* Making a face, MacLeod tried
to shelve his gloomy mood, wondering why thoughts of Adam Taylor merged
with his memories of Amanda. *That's what comes from brooding,* a snide
voice spoke up from his subconscious which for reasons Duncan refused to
even think about sounded suspiciously like the silky baritone of a certain
English male Immortal.... 

*Noh!! That did it!* MacLeod decided angrily. Allowing his warped
subconscious to continue to play games with him was getting him nowhere.
*He would find this damn Adam Taylor - if that was his real name - and
satisfy his curiosity and be done with it!* Although MacLeod disliked
breaking his promise to Cowley he had to know. *This was an Immortal
problem and had little to do with CI5, or even McKellen for that matter.*
But he had to know if McKellen was at the University yesterday by
accident, or if the bastard had followed him, or if McKellen was hunting
Taylor. However, *he was not going to learn anything relevant by sitting
in this small study with his two guard- dogs prowling around in his hotel
suite!* 

*He'd lose them*. No easy task when they were sitting practically outside
his door. Nor when they were so well trained and suspicious of his
movements. *His own fault he supposed for disappearing on them at the
auction. *

Cursing softly to himself, MacLeod concentrated on coming up with a plan,
his gaze wandering unseeing out the window, when his eyes finally focused
on the fire escape. *Yes, that was it. So simple. He'd go down the fire
escape. * *But first to deal with Bodie and Doyle. * It had been a while
since they had checked up on his continued presence in his private suite
so he would have to give them the impression that he intended to be there
for the rest of the morning and afternoon. Happy now that he had a plan of
action, he stood and left his large bedroom. Two heads swiveled in his
direction from where the agents were seated on the couch absently watching
the television.

"Afternoon gentlemen," MacLeod greeted them politely, receiving a nod from
Doyle and a suspicious scowl from Bodie. He felt Bodie's hard, blue-eyed
glare follow his every move and tried not to react as he went into the
small kitchen area and raided the fridge. He poured himself a whisky, idly
glancing over the complimentary fruit basket, selecting a couple of pieces
before turning back to his two silent companions. Both were watching him
with varying degrees of interest. "Help yourselves." MacLeod offered as he
gestured to the food and drink before making his way back into his private
retreat. "I have a ton of work to complete." 

"Thanks," Doyle muttered, fiddling with the remote control.

******

Closing the door behind him, MacLeod tried not to grin, listening to the
noises in the room outside before putting his few items down untouched. He
knew he wouldn't have long before they came looking for him, and prayed
his actions didn't get either man in too much strife with Cowley. He
guessed Bodie didn't like him much and grinned, knowing that the
curly-haired agent's professional attitude would keep Bodie silent. Still,
it was a curious partnership. Fascinating how two men with such vastly
differing backgrounds could work together so efficiently. He almost envied
them their closeness.

Dismissing that thought, MacLeod pulled on his coat and felt the
comforting weight of his hidden sword within the layers. Walking over to
the window he winced at the squeak it made as he forced it slowly open.
Pausing he listened carefully, but could hear no increased activity
outside his bedroom door, and carefully stepped out onto the fire escape.
Pushing the window closed, he hurriedly made his way to the narrow roadway
below.

Reaching the bottom MacLeod hesitated, scanning the area for the other
agents that he was sure were on watch outside the hotel, if not for his
benefit then to spot the potential arrival of McKellen. It took him a few
minutes to spot them, and he grinned to himself. Cowley's men were good,
but not as experienced as he was, and he studied the two men in the parked
Cortina at the end of the road. Crouching down low MacLeod slipped around
the back of the hotel, finding the goods entrance, then cursed when he
spotted another car parked near the outside gates. Another two men and he
cast around for a new plan. *Nothing for it but simple bluff.... *Taking
his hair out of its customary ponytail MacLeod messed the long lengths up,
taking care to let it fall over his face. Hunching his shoulders he picked
up a discarded box and pretended to carry it out of the loading bay. It
obscured his face and he just hoped neither man pulled him up. To their
credit he noted that they did not dismiss him out of hand, eyeballing him
until he was almost out of sight before looking away. Still he was
leaving, *not entering....* and that was the main factor.

Walking around the corner and out of sight, he straightened up and retied
his hair, discarded the box before looking for a taxi to take him to
Oxford University.

******

The taxi pulled up to the gates of the main campus, where the auction had
been held the previous day. Doyle had told him in his round about way what
he had guessed. Adam Taylor was posing as a student, the Oxford
sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers were hardly proper attire for a member of
the Faculty, but Doyle's comments had cemented that fact. *The Connolly
Wing. Room 82. How helpful.* Finding the old wing, MacLeod eyed the narrow
corridors of the dormitories and pondered again why Taylor was at Oxford.
Very few Immortals that he knew actually bothered to study so diligently
at a University, relying on age and experience to get them through life.
Or money. It was a curious trait and added another level of intrigue to
this tantalizing Immortal.

Checking the door numbers, MacLeod slowly made his way down the corridors,
noting possible exits and weaknesses in the old structure while he
searched for a feel of presence. *There it was*, just on the edge of his
perception and he let it wash over him, advancing slowly on his prey,
growing in confidence as the surge of Immortal presence gained in
strength. *What would Taylor do?* MacLeod wondered. *Would he come out and
challenge, or flee out a window? *

Measuring his steps, MacLeod let his feelings guide him until he found
room 82 and then he stopped in front of the old wooden door, shrugging his
shoulders and absently feeling for his sword hilt. It was a comfort and he
raised his hand to knock firmly. The sound echoed down the wide corridor
and MacLeod absently took in the carved paneling and threadbare carpets.
What he was expecting he didn't know, but the last thing he would have
guessed was for the door to swing open under his hand and he braced
himself for a trap, staring into the interior of the room. First thing he
noted was that it looked homely. Well lived in and warm to the senses.
Resting his fingers on the hilt of his sword, he determinedly took a step
inside, letting his eyes sweep around the room until they rested on its
single occupant. Adam Taylor.

Again it was like a physical blow to his mind and body. Taylor's lack of
resistance, lack of concern and lack of surprise troubled him deeply and
MacLeod met the wide hazel eyes not missing the sparkle of amusement in
their enticing depths. *Dammit! Taylor had been expecting him! Had Doyle
set him up? Noh*, and he shook his head minutely. *At least not
intentionally *and MacLeod let his eyes narrow as he considered this new
aspect. *Perhaps Taylor had manipulated Doyle to set him up...?*
Interesting, and MacLeod stepped further into the room with a little more
confidence. Shutting the door, his gaze drank in the slender male noting
how Taylor got up off the floor in a fluid, graceful motion to stretch,
revealing just a glimpse of pale flesh above his jeans before the other
Immortal grinned at him teasingly. It was a blatant challenge but not of
the normal variety and MacLeod felt his jaw drop.

"MacLeod."

"Taylor." MacLeod found himself saying while he hastily revised all his
opinions. *The man was a tease*, and he found his breathing had
accelerated while he unsuccessfully tried to glare at this seductive
being. Mystified even more when Taylor then presented him with his back,
MacLeod sucked in a breath finding his eyes darting down the full length
of the presented body before he found those wicked eyes watching him,
laughing at him knowingly. MacLeod blushed and tried to look annoyed.

"Me casa es sue casa." Methos muttered, offering the other man a beer,
holding it out to him as he let a small grin play over his mouth. *My, but
MacLeod looked good,* he thought hotly, feeling his heartbeat sped up.
*Fuck.... category five and heartache approaching, fast if he didn't slam
the breaks on immediately*.

Translating the words in his mind, MacLeod blinked, a little dazed as he
accepted the beer. *French?* This was not what he had expected and he
found that he was breathing erratically, reassessing this Immortal a third
time. Currently he was faced with vulnerability, innocence with just a
touch of imp. Yet he had a strong feeling these traits were a clever
deception. A veil of mystery designed to lull him. *Goddammit, but how he
wanted to go with this first impression, and suddenly his time spent with
Amanda and his other casual affairs vanished from his mind.* Taylor seemed
to answer the deep yearning inside his soul with a single look from those
changeable eyes. Like the other man had set off a liquid fire raging in
his blood that touched him in a way he needed, filling the void that had
been beckoning him. He felt immensely strong both physically and mentally
when bathed in that gold-green stare - and the scary part was that they
hadn't even touched yet. *But they would*, MacLeod was positive of that
certainty. Abruptly he could imagine himself being allowed to fulfill his
heritage, *being allowed to protect.... to be allowed to be himself and
totally relax with another of his kind. To learn, to teach, to practice
weaponry with an equal. No secrets, schemes, or hiding from the police as
Amanda did continuously. Just honest desire....*

"MacLeod?" Methos asked watching how the other just stared at him in a
consuming intensity, and he frowned disconcerted.

"Doyle told me were to find you." MacLeod said the first thing that came
into his mind. Strangely he felt no restrictions around Taylor. No
pretense. *Was that an illusion too? Or was it real? Please, let it be
real. *

"I thought he might."

"I could have been McKellen." MacLeod started, just now realizing how
stupidly Taylor had left himself open to attack. *Was he as young as he
looked or was that an illusion also?* "He could have come in and shot yew
again then taken yewr head!" For some reason Taylor's openness angered
him, for now all he could picture was the other's senseless death.

"Wow!" Methos held up a hand and speculated were that sudden anger had
sprung from. It was like dealing with Jekell and Hyde.

"Yew should not have assumed-"

"MacLeod!" Methos broke in, swiveling around and bringing his sword up to
the Scot's throat in one swift move.

Startled by the almost magical appearance of the broadsword, MacLeod
contemplated vaguely where Taylor had pulled it from. *His denims were too
obscenely tight to hide....*

"I am not unarmed. It was a calculated risk." Methos said, meeting the
searching brown eyes and feeling their irresistible pull. His loins
tightened and he let a hard edge enter his tone. "I have no quarrel with
you."

"Aye." MacLeod breathed as he raised a hand and gently pushed the Ivanhoe
away. A beautifully crafted weapon, 13th or 14th century by design, but he
found his eyes were traitorously drawn back to the Immortal behind the
blade. He felt like he had known Taylor for years, but in reality he knew
nothing about him. "Adam Taylor," MacLeod let the name roll off his
tongue, tasting it in an intimate way.

Methos shivered and took a step back lowering his sword. *Was it just the
sexy Scottish accent or the way MacLeod emphasized each syllable that
rendered him so defenseless? And what would it sound like if MacLeod
uttered his real name? *

"Is that your real name?"

"It will do for now." Methos muttered startled, not believing that he had
not given MacLeod a sarcastic retort. "Listen-"

"You are in danger."

Drawing in a breath, Methos forgot what he was going to say as his heart
did another little leap in his chest at the idea that MacLeod had come all
this way just to warn him. *A genuine boy scout. Hell, he used to eat boy
scouts for breakfast.*

"McKellen knows you are here."

"Why was he chasing you?" Methos countered, hoping to divert the topic. He
glanced around to see if his window was open. It was. *So why did it feel
so hot and stuffy in the room suddenly? *

"Old family dispute." MacLeod said and shrugged. "Which reminds me, what
did you tell that CI5 agent?"

Taking another step back, Methos put his sword down and collapsed on the
bed again as he tried to frown at his visitor. But it was so hard to stay
detached especially when MacLeod's aura swamped everything. The Scot was a
powerhouse of vibrant energy and it bombarded his senses in such an erotic
way.

"Taylor?"

"What?" Methos asked, sucking in a breath and watching the Highlander step
closer. *Such beauty and strength. Magnificent. In a different time - a
different world - he would take such a man and...*.

"What did you tell Doyle?"

"Nothing that he hadn't already guessed."

"What!" MacLeod said aghast as he drank in the open, artful sprawl before
him. Shoving his hands in his pockets, MacLeod concentrated on meeting the
wide eyes seeing how they darkened to a dangerous brightness. "You told
him about Immortals?"

"Fuck," Methos muttered under his breath as he felt Nefertiri jump up on
the bed and settle possessively in his lap. It was a welcome distraction.

"Adam-"

"What did you want me to do, since I died in his arms while you ran off
playing hero!" Methos cut back. "If you were so worried, you could have
stayed to make sure he never found out!" *There, chew on that a while!*
Methos decided, watching fascinated how MacLeod's expression went from
shock to guilt in a few swift seconds. It was enlightening.

"You are right." MacLeod whispered as he moved closer and sat on a chair.
Slowly he let his eyes move down to take in the cat stretched across
Taylor's lap. Her silky black fur doing nothing to hide the appeal of the
body she lounged over. *What was it about Taylor that made him feel so
giddy and hot suddenly?*

"Look, what is done is done, and I doubt Doyle will do anything for he has
no proof." Methos offered, surprised that the Highlander had taken his
accusations so hard. The man was a seductive mix of passionate conflicting
emotions, and he wondered what the Scot would taste like. *If only he
could force this into category two*, but he doubted the vibrant Scot
inspired anything but category five in all his lovers. *Dangerous....* too
dangerous for him to get involved with. It would be best to pack up and
leave. Vanish until this entire mess settled down.

"And McKellen?" MacLeod asked, more worried now that the evil Immortal
would come after this seemingly defenseless man.

"What about him?" Methos asked mystified.

"What if he comes back for you?" MacLeod asked, remembering what else had
been intriguing him. "He called you Loxley. What did he mean by that?"

"Long story-"

"Indulge me."

******

*Circa 12th century. Sherwood Forest, England.*

*Stopping again, Methos closed his eyes and counted to four very slowly,
wishing fervently that he had lost his persistent shadow. All around him
the forest was still, the few birds quiet as he let the lushness of the
trees and grass fill him in an attempt to soothe his nerves. Then behind
him ever so softly he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping.
*Damn, bugger, bother! Curse the Gods! *

Turning, he peered into the undergrowth and could just make out the leaf
green jerkin of this follower. *It was the nosey brat.... again! The one
with the incurable inquisitiveness that was going to get the child killed.
* Cursing his lot, Methos wondered for the umpteenth time why he had
stayed in Sherwood. He should have returned to London. Or better still
taken off across the ocean to find a nice uninhabited landmass. Anything
just to get away from the madness of the Crusades that was affecting
everyone's thinking. Last thing he wanted was to be on the wrong end of a
Sarisain's blade.

Shivering at the thought, he muttered under his breath at the stupidity of
mortals. Wars never accomplished anything. At least that was something he
had learned in all his centuries of life. The enlightened truth of
passionate causes eventually died and the land and its eternal designs
just kept on unhindered by time.

Dragging his mind away from those depressing thoughts Methos let his eyes
narrow and glared at the bush the skinny whelp was hiding behind. "You
might as well show yourself." He called, sick of always being followed by
this impressionable child.

"It was the twig, wasn't it?"

Hearing the unhappy tone, Methos sighed and begged patience from the
numerous Gods he was well aquatinted with. Looking skyward he rolled his
eyes. *At least the child had boldness. It would stand him in good stead
later in life. Or get him a quick death. * 

"But I am getting better, aren't I?" The young boy asked seriously. "I was
really trying-"

"Yes," Methos sighed agreeing whole-heartedly with that sentiment.
*Trying* was a very good description.

"Everyone says you are the best tracker-"

"Really?"

The child nodded enthusiastically as he scrambled closer and grinned up at
the man waiting poised. "Can you teach me? Please?"

Groaning as he meet those over-large brown eyes, Methos wanted to say no,
but found it was almost impossible to deny this precocious child anything,
especially when those large eyes begged him silently for help. With the
child's long dark hair and obvious enthusiasm, Methos could well picture
that this lad would one day be a force to reckon with. Only he doubted he
would be a very good role model for the child.

"Please?"

"What's your name?" Methos asked instead. Although he'd seen the child
often over the last few months, he'd not really focused on his name as
he'd been too preoccupied with avoiding the sheriff's patrols and keeping
the deer population under manageable control. And on the tables of the
poor. *It was a phase he was going through.... a self-purification
program. Or a relief from utter boredom, more like....* a little voice
insisted in the back of his mind. At least that was what he kept telling
himself as he prolonged his departure and stayed another week. *Besides
Gweneth of Loxley was a fantastic cook, and her family, though poor, was
extremely hospitable.* And he needed to feel the warmth of human
companionship. Craved it desperately. So he had lodgings and well cooked
food, ale and all for the meat he supplied the few scattered villages. A
very workable arrangement, for if he was caught the villagers wouldn't
suffer because he was not a native of the area.

"Robin, Sir." The young lad answered promptly and proudly. 

"Robin?" Methos repeated.

"Yes."

"And your father is-"

"He's dead." Robin said with only a touch of emotion as he wiped a grubby
hand over his eyes. "I live with Much and his family."

"I see."

"They own the Mill, and-"

Getting the picture, Methos nodded, knowing the Miller. Raising a hand to
silence the flow of words he watched Robin hiccup on an excited breath. He
smiled, glad the child was at least good at taking instructions. Lifting a
brow he reassessed this young one. Intelligence and obedience. Definitely
workable. 

"You're gonna trap another deer, aren't you sir?"

*Trap?* Methos frowned in annoyance. "Shoot," he corrected as he turned
away and gestured for the boy to follow.

"You know it's against the sheriff's law-"

Scoffing at that, Methos scanned the area, reminding himself not to dull
his senses. Though if the sheriff were around he would get fair warning by
the amount of noise his guards made. Rather it was the sheriff's so called
cousin he wanted to watch out for, for the man was a bumbling idiot and
Immortal to boot. A second rate swordsman whom the Sheriff had allowed for
some misguided reason to train his guards, if their incompetence was
anything to go by.

"I hear they cut off your hand for poaching-"

"And I think you talk too much."

"Oh," Robin closed his mouth and blinked up at his teacher. "Will you
teach me to hunt like you?"

"If you are silent."

Nodding Robin fell into step next to him and carefully watched how the
tracker walked through the thin layer of leaves and twigs. Studying the
movements conscientiously, Robin tried to imitate this amazing man. "What
can I call you, sir?"

Not having really decided on his new identity yet, Methos had just taken
the term given him by Gweneth. The 'tracker of Loxley'. Or as she had
joked last night, just Loxley. Besides, he hadn't planned to stay around
long enough to be memorable, so a name was unnecessary. Most villagers
kept to themselves and respected his privacy. But Gweneth had given him
the eye last night and he was now considering his options. She wanted more
than the occasional bounty he brought the villagers. She was offering him
an identity, a place he could hide. *Oh he was definitely going soft in
the head. Maybe he should go off and join the Crusades, just to sharpen
his perspective.*

"Sir?"

Dragged back to the present by the persistent child, Methos calmed his
immediate response. "Loxley. Just call me Loxley."*

******

*Present. *

"Robin??" MacLeod asked in disbelief, not trusting the look of utter
innocence he saw immediately come into Adam's eyes. "As in 'The Robin of
Sherwood?'" MacLeod continued, enthralled despite the nagging suspicion
that he was being conned, and by an expert.

"Didn't I just say that was his name. You're obviously not listening,
MacLeod."

"You expect me to believe, that you taught 'The' Robin of Sherwood how to
hunt?" MacLeod pushed, not sure if he wanted to laugh in delight or thump
the man in exasperation. Both options were terribly tempting especially
when Adam proceeded to lounge back nonchalantly on the bed.

"I was only in Sherwood six, seven months. A year at the most. I really
can't remember now. And at the time the child was adventurous and yes I
showed him a little about tracking and how to shoot-"

"Poach." MacLeod corrected.

"You want to quibble over definitions?" Methos asked, raising a brow in
challenge.

Deciding not to invite an argument just yet, MacLeod let the topic go as
he concentrated on something else. "So how did you meet McKellen?"

"He," Methos said with heavy emphasis as he stoked Nefertiri's head. "..he
was one of the Sheriffs cousins."

"A cousin?" MacLeod frowned baffled. "But how?"

"I don't know! I didn't stop to trade life stories with him." Methos said
in heavy sarcasm, really starting to enjoy himself now. "But I assume he
just killed the real cousin and took his place. The Sheriff, Robert De
Renoult, was not known for being a good judge of character. Or for his
intelligence."

"But-"

Seeing the Highlander's righteous streak surge to the fore, Methos buried
his smile and tried to look attentive. "In those days taking a new
identity was as simple as sticking a knife in someone's chest and
disposing of the body." 

"What!" MacLeod said shocked.

"Not that I ever did that." Methos added hastily, attempting to look
suitably horrified at the idea and battling to kill his grin. *God, but
MacLeod was too easy. And refreshingly naive. This was going to be fun.*
"I was just trying to make an honest living-"

"By poaching the King's deer?!" MacLeod reminded him not sure if he wanted
to encourage the man across from him or not. There were layers under that
mischievous smile that frightened and aroused him. 

"Everyone had to eat." Methos shot back. "It was a respectable living
outside of Nottingham. Besides, I was thinking of settling in Loxley.
Gweneth's father was making noises about inviting me into the family, so
to speak. And I needed a place to regroup for a while."

"You were planning to marry?"

"It has its advantages, Highlander." Methos told him, smiling wickedly as
he remembered how he had taught Robin the advantage of strategy and
preparation. Everyone was at the crusades, and he didn't much care for war
as the Saracens had a tendency to behead opponents. Shaking himself he
looked back at the Highlander. "But any peace I had hoped to gain was
destroyed by McKellen."

"So what happened?" MacLeod persisted, moving a little closer and watching
how Adam sighed in mild exasperation. "What did McKellen do?"

"Back then he was using the name David De Renoult, and he was part of the
Sheriff's inner court. A cousin-" Methos waved the term aside as he
thought back, finding that he could remember the time easily and that it
was not accompanied with the pain most memories accumulated. "The Sheriff
was a young man, but ambitious from what I can recall and he was always
open to new ideas of gaining more wealth. His brother was a Priest and
between the two of them they kept all the villagers in Sherwood poor."

"And McKellen was helping that bastard." MacLeod grumbled, picturing the
deranged Scot in such a setting.

"Your McKellen was doing very well out of it," Methos quipped. Then seeing
MacLeod's murderous expression, hastily added, "..but not for long." 

"So you exposed him to the Sheriff?"

"No." Methos sighed, settling his gaze on the passionate Highlander in
front of him. *To have so many firm, unshakable convictions was
refreshing* and he deliberately let his smile grow, noting how MacLeod
blinked a little dazed. "I'd heard the decree about the Sheriff's plan to
raise new taxes, but hadn't given it much thought. Until the day McKellen
came into the village I was living in with the Sheriff's Guards to collect
the tax. I was working outside the Mill when they rode in and he
completely took me by surprise. It had been years since I'd felt another
Immortal - my senses were dull and De Renoult had a sword at my throat
before I could retrieve my own blade. He then arrested me for poaching."
Watching MacLeod's expression change from interest into anger, Methos
shrugged. "He was right, but he had no proof and when the Miller stood up
in my defense McKellen clubbed him to the ground with the hilt of his
sword and then ordered his Guards to search the village for weapons and
valuables. I was chained and dragged back to Nottingham and thrown into
one of the lower dungeons." Absently petting Nefertiri, Methos shivered,
remembering the rats, the dampness and coldness, the insane peasants
inhabiting the darkness of the cell and the panic of being weaponless.
"After the first night of being locked in the dungeon the Sheriff himself
came down to view me and he told me that his cousin recommended that I be
beheaded for my crimes. Those crimes by now had escalated from poaching to
murder of the Sheriff's Guards." Methos pulled a pained expression. "It
seems the Guards escorting David De Renoult to Nottingham had been
murdered by an outlaw and I was now the logical choice to blame."

"Neat." MacLeod grunted, recognizing McKellen's deviousness all over the
ploy. "So they were going to behead you?"

"My sentence was to be carried out the following afternoon in the square
as a deterrent for other would be outlaws."

"How could they convict you without a trial or even witnesses?"

"Don't sound so surprised, Highlander, those times were different."

"I know, but still.... the Sheriff was supposed to uphold the law!"

Chucking slightly Methos shook his head in delight. The more he learned
about Duncan MacLeod the more he wanted to know. *Darius was right.* "The
point is moot." Methos informed the outraged Highlander. "As it was,
McKellen came and released me later that night when the castle was quiet
and he covertly led me out into the forest. He said our dispute was not
for mortal eyes - a point with which I agreed. He then threw me a small
dagger and told be to defend myself."

"A dagger?"

"I was wearing rags, or what the guards had left me, he was dressed in
leathers with a sword and that was his idea of a fair challenge." Methos
scoffed, then grinned, his senses suddenly filling with the woodland
smells of the forest. The foliage and dampness of the leaves under his
feet, *the freshness of pine and night blossom....*

******

*Circa 12th century. Sherwood Forest, England.* 

*"I challenge you, dog. Stand up and fight like an honorable man!"
McKellen - alias David De Renoult - snarled at his opponent.

Picking himself up off the damp ground, Methos absently brushed the leaves
and dirt from his thin, threadbare clothing and glared at the insolent man
before him. "Oh that's good coming from a coward like you, De Renoult. Or
whatever your real name is." Methos snapped back. "First you have me
wrongly imprisoned, then sentenced to a beheading and now you challenge a
weaponless man! And you name me dishonorable?"

Growling under his breath, De Renoult loosened his own short dagger and
tossed it at his opponent's feet. "Pick it up, peasant, and defend
yourself before you die."

Keeping his eyes on De Renoult, Methos crouched down and picked up the
dagger, weighing it in his hand. "So you kill me out here and take my
head. What will you tell the Sheriff in the morning?"

"That you escaped and that I tracked you and was forced to kill you before
you brought more outlaws against Nottingham." De Renoult informed him
flatly, stepping around his opponent's figure as he leveled his sword on
the patiently waiting man. "No doubt I will be rewarded for my valiant
bravery."

"No doubt." Methos muttered in disgust. "There's only one small problem."

"What?!?" De Renoult hissed.

Not bothering to answer that, Methos swiveled around, using his borrowed
dagger to protect his wrist as he spun into De Renoult's sword arm, using
the momentum to stun the other man in the gut with a vicious jab of his
elbow before capturing the man's sword. Then he was driving the blade into
De Renoult's gut. "I don't think I'm going to be the one the Sheriff will
behead." Methos whispered harshly into De Renoult's ear. Stepping back, he
released De Renoult's trapped arm and let the man slide down onto the
ground before he pulled the sword free. Crouching down over De Renoult's
gasping figure, Methos gave a nasty smile. "Tell me how does the Sheriff
reward betrayal and desertion?"

Opening his mouth to protest, De Renoult could get no sound out as the
pain in his abdomen crippled all responses.

Pretending to think, Methos laughed, bending down to grip De Renoult's arm
and drag the man back to sit him up against a tree. Then using his
borrowed dagger he plunged it into De Renoult's shoulder, pinning the man
to the tree effectively. "You know, I think I'll go and pay the Sheriff's
treasury a visit. I could use some travelling funds. In return for the
Sheriff's kind nature, I'll leave him your sword - in the treasury - as a
thank you for all his hospitality."

"No-" De Renoult gasped, reaching up to grip his opponents ripped tunic.
"Please...." 

Shoving the hand aside, Methos wiped the sword on De Renoult's leathers
and studied the hilt, noting the De Renoult crest and family stone set
deep into the metal. "I doubt the Sheriff will be amused when he finds
your sword. I imagine he will send out guards."

"I-I beg...."

"Begging is good, but I don't think you have the temperament to make a
good slave." Methos said sarcastically, patting De Renoult's cheek
condescendingly before standing. "If I were you, I'd leave Sherwood.
Fast." *

******

*Present. *

"You just walked away?" MacLeod stated aghast, shaking himself for
Taylor's voice had been mesmerizing. *Connor had taught him never to walk
away from an opponent, especially if the Immortal was capable of seeking
revenge. *

"His Quickening didn't interest me, and a body was useless to my plans. It
was better if the Sheriff was hunting De Renoult than me."

"So you stole the taxes and left his sword."

"Yes." Methos nodded.

"And you used the money to travel?"

Pinning the Highlander with his gaze, Methos could easily read the
disbelief behind that question and almost nodded. In the end he pushed
aside his perverse sense of humor and sighed. "No," he admitted
begrudgingly. "I gave most of the gold to the old Miller for I knew he
would distribute it to those who most needed it."

"You also owed him." MacLeod countered, so glad Adam had answered the way
he did.

"Yes, I owed him." Methos growled, miffed. He hated the way MacLeod had to
justify everything. *That sort of trait could be very limiting and
dangerous.* "I owed Gweneth."

"And Robin?"

"He had my bow and hunting knife - I didn't stay." Methos dismissed, not
wanting to discuss it any further. "I left."

 "So now McKellen has a vendetta." MacLeod finished. "McKellen doesn't
take rejection or losing well." 

"Do any of us?" Methos asked very quietly before he shook himself out of
the introspective mood. *Why he had told the Highlander a piece of his
past was beyond him. He must be totally deranged*.

"How old are you?"

"What?" Methos blinked over at his guest a little surprised. This was not
a question you normally asked another Immortal. But then MacLeod was no
ordinary Immortal.

"How old are you?" MacLeod asked again very softly as he watched the way
the afternoon light highlighted this man's pale features. It was
entrancing, especially as the long fingers absently raked through Adam's
long fringe before his hair fell back again to shadow his eyes.

"Old enough not to answer that, but young enough to still enjoy life."

It was no answer, as oblique as the man in front of him and MacLeod found
that he was returning Adam's mischievous smile with interest. It had been
a long time since anyone had captured his attention like Adam Taylor did.
*A very very long time*, and MacLeod wondered at the man's sexual
orientation. Yet from the heated glances he was receiving he doubted this
man was a stranger to pleasure, or blind to the building attraction he
felt growing between them. *Just as well*.

"So where are your shadows?" Methos asked teasingly, starting to relax
more while he slowly laced his fingers through Nefertiri's fur. She was
purring contentedly, warming his lap and he saw how MacLeod's eyes kept
darting down to his hands. *To his legs....* and he deliberately stretched
them out a bit more.

"I left them at the Mayfair." Saying that, MacLeod glanced at his watch
and groaned. He'd been gone over an hour and unless he wanted Bodie and
Doyle to come barging in here he'd best get back, for he wanted to keep
his association with Adam completely private. The last thing he wanted was
for the man to get spooked by the double act he'd been lumbered with.
*Sugar and Spice.* "I should be getting back before they start to worry."

"Oh, I see, you sneaked out." Methos grinned delighted. *MacLeod had
slipped out to visit him? Now this was special!

*Seeing the changeable eyes widen, MacLeod leaned forward and tapped Adam
on the nose. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"Yes MacLeod." Methos intoned, shivering at the brief contact and the
deepening sexy tone. It was the first time they had touched and it sent
his anticipation sky rocketing.

Pleased, MacLeod stood and took out a hotel card, scribbling his room
number on the back. "This is were I am staying. If you need anything, call
me."

Removing the warmth from his lap, Methos found himself accepting the card
as he followed MacLeod to the door. It seemed it was his day for
revelations. First to have Doyle on his doorstep with a card and now
MacLeod. "I doubt I'll need anything, and before you say it, I am more
than capable of fighting my own battles." He added, forestalling the
protest he saw hovering in the Scot's eyes. *Shit,* but he was lost
already and they barely knew each other.

"Maybe not." MacLeod growled, opening the door and pausing to regard the
slender man with warmth. "You might just want to visit. I plan to be in
London for a while yet." He left the invitation hanging between them,
gratified when he saw Taylor blink at him before a very faint flush
stained the pale skin. It was extremely enticing. Taking one final look at
the alluring male, MacLeod let his smile grow before he left the room and
closed the door behind him. Striding down the corridor, he let a laugh
escape feeling light footed and happy for the first time in many many
years. A sense of freedom, that not even the knowledge of McKellen's
threatening presence could dampen. For now he finally had a goal, a
promise to look forward to and savor.

******

Climbing back in the window of his Mayfair room, MacLeod was not surprised
to find two very disgruntled CI5 agents waiting to greet him. Bodie was
glaring at him with gun in hand, while Doyle was on the R/T, probably
calling off the search.

"Where the hell have you been!?" Bodie demanded as he debated the
advantages of shooting his assignment, yet again. *With a bullet wound
MacLeod would be in protective custody or tied to a hospital bed. Either
way it would end all the hassles and dramas. On the other hand Cowley
would be livid.*

"I went for a walk," MacLeod said with complete guilelessness.

"Out the bloody window!"

"I wanted some privacy."

"Shit!" Bodie snarled as he lowered his gun. "I ought to shoot you."

"Bodie." Doyle intervened, gesturing his partner away from MacLeod. He
spoke quietly to him. "8.1 just picked him up on return. He doesn't seem
to have a tail."

"So did you find what you were looking for?" Bodie snarled impatiently,
turning back to MacLeod and ignoring his partner's silent warning.

"I just went for a walk," MacLeod repeated.

"And McKellen?"

"Didn't see him." MacLeod said honestly. "I'm going to have a scotch, do
you both want one?"

About to reply, both agents stilled as a knock sounded on the front door.
Moving towards it, Bodie had his gun out again while Doyle cast a curious
glance at their annoying charge. He saw MacLeod's hand go instantly inside
his coat, like a reflex action and he frowned. Then Bodie took his
attention as his partner turned back to MacLeod.

"Are you expecting anyone?"

"Noh." MacLeod said, a serious edge coloring his tone. The buzz in his
head warned of another Immortal and if he had to face McKellen he didn't
want to involve these two men, it was too dangerous.

"No room service or blond piece?"

"Noh." MacLeod repeated as he eyes darkened in displeasure. He was
fleetingly tempted to hand Bodie over to McKellen.

Dropping the banter, Bodie hastily checked the spyhole and saw a
sandy-haired man glaring back at him. *A real personality plus case,*
Bodie noted wryly before opening the door and keeping his gun ready incase
trouble erupted. Bracing himself, Bodie sized up the visitor standing in
the corridor as ice blue eyes studied him in return. "Can I help you?"
Bodie asked in a very unhelpful tone.

"You are not Duncan."

"Great." Bodie groaned hearing the faint Scottish accent when the hard
eyes challenged him to hide the truth. *Another bloody Scotsman*. "It's
for you." Bodie said in an aside to MacLeod. "Old home week or something?"

Stepping past the dark-haired agent, MacLeod grabbed his visitor in a bear
hug, delighted to see him. "Connor!"

"Hello boyo," Connor said in his dry drawl, before he laughed softly and
eyed his cousin up and down.

"What are you doing here?" MacLeod demanded as he pulled Connor into the
room and ignored his two watchdogs with ease.

"Was in London and ran into Amanda."

"Ran into Amanda?" MacLeod repeated in disbelief. That was unlikely.

"She told me you were here." Connor said before his eyes swept over the
two Englishmen. Switching to Gaelic he muttered to Duncan. "What is going
on?"

Speaking in Gaelic also, MacLeod shook his head, thinking it was more
likely Amanda had contacted Connor and asked him to visit. It was so like
her to interfere. "They work for the London Criminal Intelligence Unit,
they're my bodyguards would you believe."

"Why?" Connor asked still in their native tongue.

"An old family friend is in town, he's got a record and they think he's
stalking me. They hope to arrest him-"

"Immortal?"

"Aye-"

"And you've involved mortals?" Connor asked incredulously as his eyes told
Duncan exactly what he thought of that. "Are you crazy!?!"

"Noh!" MacLeod defended, still in Gaelic. "They staked me out, and getting
rid of them now is extremely hard."

"Who's the Immortal?"

"McKellen."

"Hey!" Bodie interrupted picking up on that name and eyeing the two Scots
with annoyance. He hated it when people withheld information, spoke behind
his back or mumbled in unintelligible languages. It was damn rude. Besides
that had been no Welsh or Gaelic he'd ever heard before. Or any other
Scottish dialect he was familiar with. He wasn't quiet sure what it was.
"Do you want to introduce us, or do we need to haul your friend down town
for Cowley's pleasure?"

Sighing in exasperation, MacLeod gritted his teeth. "See what I mean?" He
said in an aside to Connor, then switched back to English. "Mr. Bodie and
Mr. Doyle of CI5." Giving them a forced smile he gestured to Connor. "A
distant relative."

"Relative?"

"Nash." Connor said as he bestowed a humorless smile on both agents. "John
Nash."

Filing that away, Doyle's eyes became suspicious, for he'd seen the way
Nash had stood when Bodie had opened the door. Like MacLeod he'd had one
hand inside his coat. *On a sword perhaps? Another Goddamn Immortal? Was
the bloody world full of these devious creatures? Or was he just imagining
things?*

"Duncan?" Connor turned back to his cousin and gave him a strained smile.

"Excuse us." MacLeod offered politely as he walked into the kitchen area,
reverting to Gaelic out of habit as he heard Connor mutter something
uncomplimentary under his breath. Eyeing the two agents MacLeod noted that
Doyle had pulled out his R/T and he dreaded to think what the smart man
was doing now. Or what George Cowley would make of this.

"What's going on Duncan?" Connor asked in their native tongue.

"I ran into McKellen in Paris and followed him here. Only I didn't know
Interpol was tracking him. That led to the involvement of CI5-" he
gestured helplessly to the two men standing a discreet distance away.
Doyle was still talking into his radio while Bodie just glared at them
both. "Then yesterday while I was at an auction I ran into McKellen again,
only there was a third Immortal there."

"Who?"

"Adam Taylor." MacLeod said, both hoping Connor did and did not know the
name. Adam was his little bubble of security and he didn't want any nasty
surprises. *Not now.*

"Never heard of him." Connor said in his usual deadpan way. "Describe
him."

"A little shorter than me, lean, dark hair. Sounds English."

"No," Connor shook his head. "Did this Taylor challenge McKellen?"

Shaking his head, MacLeod sighed as he vividly recalled the events. Could
see it in his mind when McKellen had pulled a gun and shot Adam.
Remembered how Adam had crumpled and grunted in pain. "McKellen recognized
Taylor and called him Loxley. Then McKellen shot Taylor and I challenged
McKellen. Taylor never even pulled a sword."

Frowning Connor turned away rubbing his lower lip. "Loxley?"

"Apparently they have a history-"

"The name Loxley goes back to the 12th century," Connor said as he
considered this. "Unless I am mistaken."

"Noh, you are not mistaken." MacLeod admitted remembering what Adam had
told him that afternoon.

"This Loxley said nothing else?"

"I got the impression he wasn't interested in a challenge." MacLeod added,
wondering how many of his judgments were clouded by his personal interest
in Adam Taylor. With a start, MacLeod realized *Taylor had to be at least
as old as Amanda....* It was not something he had consciously connected
before and it made him both nervous and excited. *Old and seductive*, and
MacLeod shivered, seeing how Connor eyed him worriedly. "Adam Taylor is
currently studying at the Oxford University."

"And that is where you last saw McKellen?" Connor asked shrewdly.

"Aye."

"Then that is where McKellen will go," Connor judged.

"But," getting concerned, all MacLeod could think about was that Adam
would be in danger again. *Shit, if he had led McKellen to the
university.... he would not forgive himself if McKellen went after Adam
because of him. * "Why?"

"Why?" Connor asked as he looked at his cousin thinking Duncan was really
not thinking. He had this dazed look in his eyes, and Connor contemplated
what else had happened that his cousin was not telling him about. Amanda's
message to him had not been very informative except to tell him Duncan was
being hunted and that he was brooding and searching for stability again.
*Always a worry in an Immortal. How many friends had he lost because of
loneliness?* "Duncan?"

"I have to warn Adam-"

"He's Immortal." Connor reminded him pointedly. "His battle."

"But I led McKellen to him," MacLeod explained. "Connor, I got the
impression Adam hasn't participated in the Game for years."

"His problem, cousin." Connor repeated flatly not liking this reckless
thinking in his old student. "Watch your own head-"

"Aye." MacLeod breathed. "But I still have to warn him."

"Just remember, that mongrel McKellen is mine." Connor told him in a
savage whisper. "I do not want you involved."

"And Adam?"

"Not interested unless he challenges me."

Knowing Connor was right MacLeod still felt shocked. "He won't-"

"Get rid of the mortals, before they get killed, Duncan, this is not for
their eyes."

Glancing again at the two agents who looked less than thrilled, MacLeod
just nodded his agreement.

Reaching out Connor dragged his cousin and old student into a hug, patting
his back before turning away. He ignored the two agents as he went to the
door and left silently.

Knowing his cousin was going to hunt McKellen, MacLeod lifted his eyes and
met two sets of suspicious stares. He did not have time for explanations,
right now his gut was telling him to warn Adam. To get back to the
University and find his new friend and warn him before McKellen tracked
him down. Reaching for the phone, his fingers paused over the numbers
wondering who to ring at Oxford and what to say. *Noh,* it would be better
if he went to Adam personally, forced him to see the danger. Removed him
personally before Connor turned up there. *Bring him back here to the
Mayfair,* and MacLeod stopped that thought wondering at his own hidden
agendas behind that appealing notion. Still, he had to try, for Adam's
sake *and for his own sanity*. Even though the other had produced a sword,
MacLeod would feel better if the other man was away from Oxford until
McKellen was found. Replacing the handset, he ignored Bodie's disproving
scowl as he followed in Connor's wake and went to the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bodie asked as he shoved the door shut
and glared at MacLeod. "You know since we were put on the case Doyle,
we've had nothing but interference and stall tactics." He said to his
partner as he kept his eyes trained on the frowning Scot. "I'm starting to
think that we are protecting the wrong person." 

"Frustrating I agree." Doyle said mildly as he went to stand with his
partner and give MacLeod an uncompromising look. "Are you thinking what
I'm thinking?"

"I think we should haul his arse back to Cowley." Bodie threatened. "Make
him tell us the whole bloody truth!"

Raising his hands MacLeod sighed. "Look, I just want to-"

"Go for another walk?" Bodie finished for him sarcastically.

"This does not concern yew." MacLeod hissed getting exasperated by their
interference. *They had no idea....* "This is outside yewr jurisdiction!"
Swinging his eyes around he saw how Doyle frowned, and prayed the curly-
haired agent believed him as he'd given up on making the sharp tongued
Bodie understand anything.

Hearing those words, Doyle was sharply reminded of Taylor and his quiet
words, which had hinted at the same thing. Only Taylor had gone further
and stated that it would cost them their lives if they interfered. *His
and Bodie's lives. *

"Wrong sunshine!" Bodie snapped. "Until Cowley tells me otherwise your
carcass is mine. Now what did your 'relative' have to say?"

"Nothing."

"It was a pretty intense exchange for nothing. Don't you agree Doyle?"

"John Nash." Doyle quoted. "Millionaire, much like yourself. Must be a
family trait." He added with bored interest. "Nash came into London a week
ago according to the dispatchers."

"Do you track everyone?" MacLeod asked appalled.

"Why, got something to hide?" Bodie asked pointedly.

"Noh-"

"Then answer the bloody question!"

"Look," MacLeod forestalled other comments, hearing the sarcasm and
admitting it was not their fault. "This really does not concern CI5. Now I
am not your prisoner and I am going out whether you like it or not."

"We'll drive you."

"I'd prefer to take the hotel limousine." MacLeod cut back. "You can
follow." With that he pushed Bodie's hand away and yanked the door open,
seething. *He didn't have time for this, Connor was right in that
assumption. This had nothing to do with mortals. He had to get rid of them
for their own safety. Had to find Adam before McKellen did and he
definitely did not want an audience when he talked to Adam again.* Only he
was stopped short as he came face to face with a young courier who was in
the process of raising a hand to knock on his door. MacLeod wasn't sure
who was more startled. *Him, the courier or Bodie*.

"Mr. MacLeod?"

"Aye?" MacLeod growled, before his eyes fell on the package. *Damn, but
this would be the auction piece he'd bought yesterday*.

"I have a delivery-"

"Let me." Bodie intervened and MacLeod rolled his eyes.

"It's just the book I bought yesterday Mr. Bodie." MacLeod informed him as
he reached over to sign for the parcel.

"Can never be too careful." Bodie advised as he carefully felt the parcel
over, looking for wires.

Taking out his wallet MacLeod paid the courier and swiped the parcel off
the CI5 agent. "You can stay and inspect it all you like just don't get
food on the pages. It is worth a small fortune." He ended with a twisted
smile before exiting the room.

Grumbling under his breath, Bodie turned to Doyle. "This is not working! I
swear Doyle, Cowley or no Cowley I'm gonna shoot that arrogant son of a
bitch!"

"Easy-"

"How can you put up with his shit!? By the way he treats us you would
think we're the enemy."

"Come on," Doyle just said as he preceded his angry partner out of the
room. "I don't want to be the one to explain to the Cow how we lost his
precious countryman." 

Swearing again, Bodie slammed the door behind him and he followed Doyle's
trim figure down the stairs. *Could the day get any worse?*

******

Not giving Taylor time to answer the door, MacLeod tried the handle and
found it was still unlocked and he re- entered the room he had been in a
few short hours ago.

"MacLeod!?" Methos released the grip he had on his sword and eyed the man
who'd entered his room without knocking. *It was definitely time he moved.
*

"You have to get out of here." MacLeod started as he checked the corridor
one final time before shutting the door.

"What?" Methos approached his visitor, mildly glad to see the Scotsman
again, but in all honesty he had not planned on seeing MacLeod for a few
days. He needed the distance to get his desires under control. Vaguely he
wondered who MacLeod's Watcher was. *Damn,* but it had been over a hundred
years since he'd been in the Watchers and he had to assume their methods
had improved in this technological age.

"McKellen." MacLeod said the single word as if it should explain
everything. Noticing how the expressive eyes narrowed as Adam moved
closer, MacLeod sucked in a breath really liking what he was seeing.

"What about McKellen?" Methos asked mystified. *Had the Scottish flob
found the big Scot, and had MacLeod taken his head?* Putting his sword
away, Methos kept his eyes on MacLeod seeing how the other looked torn
between worry and desire. *Oh goody....*

"He's coming here. For you." MacLeod said simply.

"What?" Methos stopped and just looked at MacLeod like the man had
sprouted three heads.

"Connor believes-"

"Connor?" Methos interrupted him as he started to get a sinking sensation
in his gut. *Fuck! He knew there was a damn good reason why he avoided
Immortals. Especially one's as dynamic as Duncan MacLeod.*

"Connor MacLeod-"

*Oh bloody hell.... *

"..my cousin-"

"I know him, MacLeod." Methos informed him tiredly. *Didn't he just! * Had
images of Connor from five, six hundred years ago and he doubted the man's
temperament had changed any.

"You do?" MacLeod stopped what he was going to say as he latched onto
that. He watched Adam raise a hand and rub his eyes. "How?"

"What did the venerable Connor MacLeod say?"

Noting the evasion again, MacLeod was prevented from answering as someone
knocked on the door behind him.

"Shit," Methos muttered, this was all he needed now. *Some student asking
to borrow a book, or the floor coordinator complaining again about his
number of off-campus visitors....* Pushing past MacLeod, he opened the
door and just closed his eyes, groaning. *Fuck!*

"Hello," Doyle said politely, hiding his grin and seeing Taylor's eyes
darken in annoyance. "This is my partner Bodie, and we were hoping you
could help us with our inquiries. We are looking for a Duncan MacLeod."
Doyle said needlessly, pulling out a photograph and knowing Taylor
wouldn't even glance at it, noting how the green eyes just narrowed and
sent him a silent warning. "Have you seen him?"

Shifting his eyes to Doyle's partner, Methos wasn't sure if he wanted to
hit Doyle or give him what he wanted. But he was saved the choice as
MacLeod swore behind him and moved to stand at his shoulder. The heat of
MacLeod's body pressing deliciously along his back, sent a shiver through
him and Methos glared even harder at Doyle. *What an infuriating little
Greek comedy this was turning into....*

"Surprise, surprise," Bodie muttered as he went to push the door wider
open.

"Now listen here," Methos started to protest as both agents skillfully
forced their way into his room. He saw Nefertiri jump out of the way and
make a hasty exit and wished he could do the same. 

"This is Adam Taylor." Doyle said needlessly to Bodie as he gestured
absently at the dark-haired student who was glaring at him. Bodie hadn't
formally met Taylor and he saw how his partner expertly swept his eyes
over the youngish looking man. *If only Bodie knew.* But his partner was
more interested in MacLeod.

"I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with the victim of yesterdays
shooting?" Bodie stated, homing in on MacLeod. "I'm sure Mr. Cowley will
find that fact extremely interesting."

"Will you cut the bullshit!" MacLeod snapped. "I'm trying to save lives
here!"

"Oh that's rich!"

"What lives?" Doyle asked as he concentrated on that, remembering that
Taylor had identified MacLeod as one of the 'good guys'.

"You wouldn't understand," MacLeod muttered, seeing how Taylor glared
firstly at him then at Doyle.

"Try us." Bodie snarled, getting to the point of really having enough of
this Scot.

Watching the scene unfold around him, Doyle had the strong suspicion
MacLeod was telling the truth. He got the impression that regardless of
the man's attitude, MacLeod honestly wanted to avoid trouble.

Cursing in Gaelic, MacLeod noted how Adam had folded his arms in
displeasure and he bemoaned the fact that he had probably lost the man's
trust. That knowledge only increased his anger at Bodie. So about to tell
him to get lost, MacLeod froze as he felt the strong wash of presence
surge up his spine a second time and he darted a quick look at Taylor and
saw that the other Immortal had backed up towards his hidden sword. *But
who was he feeling? Connor or McKellen? *

Noting the way both men tensed, Doyle shifted his shrewd eyes between
Taylor and MacLeod, seeing MacLeod's hand go inside his coat again.
Getting a sick feeling about this, Doyle acted on pure instinct and shoved
his partner away from the door. "Down!"

"Ray!?!" Bodie protested as he fell against the desk, grunting in pain
even as three gun shots rang out and peppered the door. "Christ!"

"Shit!" Doyle cursed, rolling to one side and pulling out his Browning,
prepared to fire when the door was kicked open. He got a quick glimpse of
McKellen before MacLeod was stupidly stepping in his line of fire. "Get
down!" He shouted, feeling Bodie scrambling to his feet behind him.

"MacLeod!" McKellen roared as he leveled his sword on the other man and
stepped back into the corridor. "I should have guessed." He snarled.
"You've come for Loxley's head as well?"

"Noh. Yewrs!!" MacLeod growled, pacing after the demented Scotsman. This
was the last thing he had wanted, because witnesses always complicated
matters. But now that he had McKellen in his sights again he was
determined not to lose the bastard.

"Bloody hell," Bodie hissed, scrambling to the door and leaning out to
check the corridor. He saw MacLeod and McKellen fighting, both with swords
as they danced away down the wide hallway. "I feel like I've entered the
twilight zone."

"Me too, mate." Doyle agreed, automatically checking all vantage points.
Swiftly he searched for Taylor and saw him pulling on a long coat, just
catching the flash of polished silver before the other turned away. 

"Cover me." Bodie hissed.

"Wait!" Doyle cautioned his partner remembering Taylor's words. *Could
they interfere? Would it accomplish anything except getting his partner
killed? * And that was definitely the last thing he wanted. He would not
willingly risk Bodie's life on something preventable.

"What?" Bodie turned to Doyle incredulously. "I don't much like Kilt Boy
either, but Cowley will have our guts if we don't get McKellen."

Knowing Bodie was right, yet still hesitating, Doyle found the events of
earlier paling when faced with reality again. "On three."

"One, two-" Bodie mouthed immediately preparing to launch out of the
cramped room.

"McKellen!"

Stopping mid word, both agents rolled out into the corridor to see John
Nash not only stride past them unconcerned by their presence, but walk up
to the two fighters and hiss something in a strange tongue at McKellen.
Then McKellen was turning and running with Nash giving chase before
MacLeod followed in hot pursuit. All three rapidly disappeared down the
far end fire escape stairs.

"Shit!" Getting up, Bodie swore again as he pulled out his R/T, yelling
for backup. Quickly he met Doyle's eyes indicating with a gesture what he
was going to do and saw Doyle nod. Then he was racing off down the
corridor after the three fleeing men.

Going in the opposite way, Doyle went down the steps, working to cut off
all exits while he circled around from behind. It was a ploy he and Bodie
had used many times to their advantage. Only this time he just prayed he
found them before Bodie did, because he had a very bad feeling about this.

******

Glancing out into the now deserted corridor, Methos swore in four
different languages before he leaned back against the door jam and
breathed out slowly. *There went his life - *plus his normal existence and
his identity. If the Watchers didn't have him after this, CI5 would, and
he liked that idea even less. Running a dismissive glance over his room,
he mourned the loss of what he had set up as he hastily grabbed up a bag
and shoved essential items into it. *His journals, papers, some clothing,
passports, books and money. * He just could not believe how quickly events
had gotten out of control. Twenty-four hours ago his life was set. His
plans made, his studies almost complete. And now he was thrust back into
the Game by one very attractive, yet over-powering Scot*. Was losing his
head worth the attraction? No....* he told himself harshly, looking down
as he felt a warmth against his shin. Nefertiri blinked up at him with
wide-eyed innocence and he smiled. *What was he to do with her?* Then as
if reading his thoughts, she jumped into his partially open bag and did a
full circle before settling on a rolled up sweater. "Nef, sweetheart, you
can't...." he trailed off feeling the unmistakable surge of presence
engulf him again. "Oh shit!" Spinning around he gripped the hilt of his
sword inside his coat and faced the door in apprehension. *Duncan MacLeod,
McKellen or the irascible Connor MacLeod?

*"You're packed. Good." Duncan MacLeod said as he entered the open door
with no preliminaries. Apart from being a little breathless MacLeod looked
to be in one piece. 

"Fuck off, MacLeod." Methos snapped, relieved yet exasperated at the same
time. Removing his hand from his coat he leaned back against the table.
For one awful minute he thought it might have been McKellen.

"We haven't got much time-"

"MacLeod, didn't you hear me?"

"Aye." MacLeod nodded. "But you'll be safer with me."

"Safer?!?" Methos asked incredulously as he gave a harsh laugh.

"Aye," MacLeod said again letting his eyes speak for him, seeing how
Taylor frowned now.

"I was safe until you turned up here yesterday." Methos pointed out
bluntly.

"McKellen will be back-"

"I don't doubt!" He snarled back. "Look," Methos stopped, seeing Doyle
appear with gun still in hand as the agent breathed out heavily. It looked
like he'd been running hard, his sharp green eyes missed nothing.

"Thought you might come back here." Doyle said to MacLeod as he pulled out
his R/T and spoke into it.

"Oh Great!" Methos cursed and glared at MacLeod in open accusation,
gesturing wildly towards Doyle. This was all he needed and wanted. He was
going to get dragged into the Highlander's circus-like existence if he
didn't escape now.

Ignoring that, MacLeod just reached for Adam's packed bag, wanting to go
before either Connor or McKellen returned. He had all the confidence in
his cousin, but knew how crafty McKellen was and knew Connor had lost the
bastard before in the past. So he figured both Immortals would return here
if they got separated and he wanted Adam gone.

"Do you mind!" Methos snapped, taking his bag off MacLeod. He was being
railroaded and he hated it.

"Cowley's sending two more teams."

Turning at the new voice, MacLeod groaned inwardly, seeing Bodie slide up
to his partner and look just as pissed off.

"Found MacLeod." Doyle said conversationally while he gestured to the men
inside the room. "And Taylor."

"What about McKellen?" Bodie asked as he eyed the occupants of the room
with a quick appraisal.

"Nope." Doyle admitted.

"Nash?" Bodie asked hopefully.

Doyle just shook his head.

"Tell me you have a lead?"

"Sorry mate."

"Brilliant." Bodie grumbled as he eyed his partner in disbelief.

"You?" Doyle asked, putting his gun away.

"Ran into band practice or something just as daft." Bodie muttered in
disgust. "Got a sprained tambourine."

"So," Doyle left the rest hanging as his R/T sounded.

"Cowley." Bodie mouthed the name and pulled a face as he also returned his
gun to its holster under his jacket.

"Do you want to tell him, or me?"

"Oh definitely you, mate." Bodie assured.

"But I'm not his blue eyed boy-"

Rolling his eyes at that, Bodie walked back into Taylor's room and left
Doyle to deal with Cowley as he cast MacLeod a disapproving glare. "Are
you ready to tell us what is really going on yet?" 

"Nothing to tell-"

"Pull the other one." Bodie cut him off. "But you can start by explaining
why you came back here."

"To warn Taylor." MacLeod said easily, ignoring the warning glance Adam
gave him. This could work to his advantage he decided suddenly and gave
Bodie a helpful smile. "I remembered that McKellen hates to leave
witnesses, so guessed he would return here to find Taylor. So I wanted to
warn him."

Not believing a word of it, Bodie swung his gaze from MacLeod's open
expression to Taylor's disgruntled one. He didn't know Taylor from any mug
shots, but had the strange feeling he couldn't trust him any more than he
could trust MacLeod. "You expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth." MacLeod said in feigned shocked.

Shaking his head, Bodie turned back to his partner as Doyle ambled over. 

"'He' says we are to get Mr. MacLeod back to the Mayfair then go in to
make our report." Doyle informed his partner in a tense tone.
"Personally."

"What about Taylor?" Bodie asked, seeing Doyle shrug. About to say
something more he just caught the glance between the two men and wondered
at it. Ray still hadn't filled him in on all that Taylor had told him
earlier.

"He's coming with me." MacLeod injected as he braced himself for a fight.
He was just relieved that no one had been shot or killed this time and
prayed he could keep it that way. 

"Now listen here-"

"I agree," Doyle broke in and sent a look of 'trust me' to his partner.

Not believing Doyle would agree with MacLeod, Bodie seethed, promising
himself to get some answers out of his other half as soon as he got him
alone. *Having MacLeod withhold information was one thing, but he would
not tolerate it from his partner*. Honesty was too important. It meant
their lives. 

"Now hold on," Methos protested, making another swipe for his bag and
missing as MacLeod picked it up again. But it was the pleased little grin
that graced the Scot's mouth that startled him the most for it promised
all sorts of unimaginable things. 

"I'm sorry," MacLeod said quietly to Adam before he motioned towards the
two CI5 men. "But you will be safer with me."

"Mac," Methos sucked in a breath, hesitating and catching the small
affectionate smile that lit MacLeod's handsome face. *Was it because he
had given in or said something amusing? Of all the rotten luck and
timings.... *

"I'll explain later, mate," Doyle said in aside to Bodie, though just how
he was going to explain the labyrinth of confusion circling in his mind
was beyond him. Only thing he did understand was that whatever John Nash
had said to MacLeod earlier in the hotel room, that information had led
then all back to Taylor, which had led them to McKellen. So if Taylor was
a target, then he wanted the smug bastard were he could watch him.

"Well you can explain it to the Cow!" Bodie said peeved before marching
away. 

"Thanks mate," Doyle mumbled as he indicated for both MacLeod and Taylor
to precede him out of the room. Last thing he wanted was to argue with
Bodie, or to get his partner in a right Irish temper.

Swearing under his breath, Methos was left little choice as he was forced
to follow the Scotsman. Leveling his eyes on the broad back he cursed the
gods of Fate and Desire as he refused to look at Doyle and meet those
questioning eyes.

******

Prowling around the penthouse suite, Methos wasn't sure if he wanted to be
angry, intrigued or amused. It had been a while since he had indulged in
such luxury, and that tilted his mood towards the peeved end again as he
remembered what he was jeopardizing. For the last twenty years he had
played it safe, had set up a number of identities he could move into with
ease and had concentrated on getting back into the Watchers. It was the
safest place at present especially as they were moving into the new
millenium in the next few decades. With the way technology was advancing
he wanted all the information possible to safeguard his own head. Only now
all his plans had gone to hell, for he was letting some barbarian lout
influence his carefully setup strategies. *Not that Duncan MacLeod was
just any dumb Scottish mongrel.* He was magnificent. All brute force and
stubborn righteousness that made him shiver in wicked anticipation. 

Sniffing slightly, Methos turned casually and eyed the man in question.
MacLeod was just hanging up the phone having ordered them room service.
*Oh yes, he could definitely soak up the luxury, pretend to be offended
and see how far MacLeod was willing to go to appease him.* But this was so
dangerous, because deep down he wanted to be here. Scary as that was, it
was also true and he centered his gaze back on the Highlander. Currently
the Scot was shrugging out of his coat while he argued with the tall
dark-haired agent, Bodie. Methos wasn't sure about Bodie yet. Doyle he had
pegged as an incurable romantic, a man shaped by society with an inbred
drive for justice and truth, but Bodie was a challenge to his senses. The
man was brash, loud and dogmatic. But Methos had also seen how he deferred
to his partner, how he incorporated Raymond Doyle into everything he did,
so Methos suspected the abrasive personality was a front. *Or just a mood
that the Highlander had inspired in the well-built agent.* A feeling he
could well understand.

Personally, Methos could admit that MacLeod drove him to distraction,
while the Scot obviously drove Bodie into a rage and Doyle into a pensive
mood. It was the last action that fascinated Methos and he studied the
slender curly- haired agent with interest. He liked Ray Doyle. Really
liked him and could sympathize with him, seeing Doyle wince at the
argument Bodie and MacLeod were having yet again. Keeping his eyes pinned
on Doyle, Methos held his breath watching the curly head lift as if Doyle
sensed his gaze and he met those wary green eyes squarely. *Cat eyes*. It
was like an electric shock as unspoken acknowledgement sped between them.
In that instant he knew that Doyle understood the seriousness of this
situation and knew that Doyle would never betray his trust. It warmed him
and he gave the other man a small smile, glad when it was returned. But
Methos also realized in that shared moment that Doyle would protect his
partner. *Bodie was the center of Doyle's world, the only person he had
complete confidence and trust in amidst their dangerous lifestyle.* It was
startling, and Methos tried to school his expression wondering what the
other man was picking up from his gaze.... and he slowly became aware of
the deadly silence around him. Bodie and MacLeod had stopped baiting each
other and were now glaring at Doyle and himself. Feeling
uncharacteristically self-conscious, Methos broke the eye contact with the
CI5 agent and narrowed his gaze to return MacLeod's stare. "Did I miss
something?" He asked sarcastically.

The silence stretched for another prolonged second before Doyle's R/T
sounded and the tension in the room broke.

"4.5." Doyle said promptly not looking at anyone while he concentrated on
the mindless action of answering his call. He felt stripped by Adam
Taylor's penetrating appraisal and re-evaluated the wisdom of not telling
Cowley the unvarnished truth of what he had learned. Only problem was he
had no evidence. *No hard fact.... And Bodie was going to be royally
pissed off with him - again!*

"6.2." Came the slightly distorted reply. "All clear. We're on our way
up."

"Understood. 4.5 out." Doyle ended as he forced a small smile. "Murph and
Anderson."

"Good." Bodie said, sending his partner a hard, displeased look. Something
was going on between Ray and Taylor and he wanted to know what it was. He
hated being the last to learn the truth.

Shifting his gaze from Adam to Bodie again, MacLeod frowned. As much as
agent Bodie riled him, the uncertainty that Adam fired through him was
worse. *What was going on? What did Raymond Doyle know that he didn't
know?* Hating the insecurity, MacLeod tensed slightly as a knock sounded
on the door. *His new watchdogs?*

Lifting a hand, Bodie checked the door and then opened it, letting his
expert eyes sweep the waiter dismissively. "Dinner." Bodie said in a
clipped tone even as he heard the elevator sound. With luck it was their
replacement for the night and he would be very glad to get away.

Just pointing to the table, MacLeod signed the docket as he saw two new
agents enter his room. He was getting sick of this and turned away, not
surprised to see the amusement on Adam's face. "I'm glad you are finding
this so funny!"

"I'm just constantly amazed at the world you exist in," Methos returned
with a sarcastic twist before he turned and ambled over to the table. If
MacLeod insisted on feeding him he was going to make the most of the
situation.

Watching the four men by the door, MacLeod went over to them. "Look, I'm
sorry about this afternoon, but I would really appreciate some privacy."

Nodding their understanding, Murphy just did a complete round of the large
apartment before nodding to MacLeod. "We will be outside if you need
anything."

*I doubt it.* "Thank you." MacLeod said sincerely as he finally closed the
door, refusing to listen to anymore of Bodie's muttered curses. Leaning
against the door he settled his eyes on his guest and hypothesized how he
was going to get information out of Adam Taylor.

******

Staring at the closed door, Bodie jerked an angry thumb at it. "Don't
trust him, Murph."

"Relax," Murphy said in a gentle tone. "I've read the reports and he won't
get out a window a second time." He raised a devise and grinned smugly.

"You bugged them?" Bodie asked in growing admiration.

"Sensor tapped them. If either one of them cowboys opens a window, we'll
know." He assured as he heard Doyle chuckle. "You two had an interesting
afternoon. The Cow wants you both before you knock off."

"What? Now?" Bodie asked incredulously.

"No, yesterday I think were his exact words."

"Strewth!" Doyle sighed. "Come on mate."

Grabbing hold of Doyle's arm to stop him retreating, Bodie looked at
Murphy again. "Any leads on McKellen?"

"None." Murphy offered. "I don't know who this geezer is, but he'd give
Houdini a run for his money."

"Nash?" Doyle asked as he felt Bodie's fingers relax their grip. 

"Same. Cow's not amused."

"I bet." Bodie muttered as he turned and shoved Doyle away with mild
affection. "Come on, goldilocks. I am so glad you told him that 'you' lost
McKellen and Nash."

"Why you-"

Hearing Doyle's mock outrage as the two agents jostled each other before
going through the fire escape door to the stairwell, Murphy shook his head
and walked over to his temporary partner. He was so grateful he didn't
have a permanent pairing, for it would drive him insane. *Didn't know how
Ray put up with Bodie in the first place. *

******

Only picking at the food, Methos firstly glared at the fridge and then
turned the glare on MacLeod, finding that its owner was watching him
openly. It sent a shiver of expectation through him in a way that had
little to do with cold. It was a sensation he had not felt for centuries.
*To be the center of an Immortals attention. To be the center of MacLeod's
world....*

"What?" MacLeod asked when he saw Adam open his mouth to complain and then
stop dead as the hazel-green eyes glazed over. Suddenly the room was muggy
and hot - the atmosphere charged with promise.

"You have no beer." Methos said lamely, kicking himself as he heard his
own voice come out in an almost pathetic whine. *Fuck, but he was losing
it! *

"Beer?" MacLeod repeated softly, slowly walking closer to watch how Adam
licked his lower lip. *It was damn inviting.* "You want beer?"

*No, he wanted his head read, but failing that, beer would have to do. An
endless supply sounded real good at present.* Pushing away from the small
fridge so he didn't get trapped in a corner, Methos went back to the table
and searched for something to consume that was not Scottish. He had to
control this raging desire or he'd ruin the relationship he wanted with
MacLeod. He could just imagine MacLeod's face if he told him he wanted a
meaningful exchange, rather than just a hot tumble into bed. *Sick! He was
demented! Deranged! Insane....*

"Adam?"

Turning at the questioning tone that sounded far too close, Methos tried
to remember if he had answered. Instead his eyes caught the cover of a
book resting on the bench behind MacLeod. It immediately pulled his mind
away from the dangerous direction he was going in and locked him in
reality. "Where'd you get that from?" Methos demanded as he went over to
the book and picked it up. It was a book by John Milton - 'Paradise Lost'
the second edition - completed not long before the man had died in 1608.

"I bought it at the auction yesterday." MacLeod stated as he went over to
stand next to the unpredictable man. One minute he had believed he was
going to be given a glimpse of the changeable Adam Taylor and the next
they were discussing literature. *Taylor was worse than the bloody English
weather. It was damn frustrating! *

"Ah," Methos sighed in regret. He really wished he'd had time to check out
the auction items. Had meant to until he'd felt the unmistakable sweep of
Immortal presence. *Bloody annoying.*

"Which reminds me, why were you at the auction yesterday?" MacLeod asked,
remembering how he had first found this man. *Serendipity.*

"Just looking," Methos mumbled, opening the book and absently caressing
the old pages. *He remembered when.... *

Catching the action, MacLeod reached over and covered Adam's hand, holding
it to the page before locking eyes with this tantalizing being. "You knew
Milton?"

"You could say that." Methos found himself admitting. *What spell had this
mystical Scottish creature cast over him? *

"And this book-"

"Leave it MacLeod." Methos decided as he controlled his breathing and
pulled his hand free. "Just another item lost to garage sale status."

Blinking at that, MacLeod laughed, never having associated auctions like a
common garage sale before. *But to Immortals.... Who was this man?!?*
"Adam-"

"Congratulations on your purchase." Methos ended as he snapped the book
shut and held it out the Highlander. "Have you read Milton?"

"A little."

"He can get a bit wordy, but it was an affliction during the fifteen
century that most writers suffered from."

"Adam-"

"Still some of his ideals are timeless."

"Adam!"

Stopping Methos raised a curious brow, refusing to be drawn in even as he
felt his heart speed up traitorously. 

"You can have the book."

"But-"

Ending the indecision, MacLeod closed the distance between them again, so
drawn to this man, to his fragility, his sharp tongued temper, his
elusiveness that he found he subconsciously raised a hand to skim Adam's
jaw and cheek. MacLeod let his gaze study the widening eyes, seeing
desires acknowledged and honest fear. *But of what?* Compelled to ease the
fleeting panic, MacLeod tasted the hot breath as Adam gasped slightly
before his lips touched cool dry skin, then he was moving to find Adam's
mouth, surprised by the softness, meeting no resistance. It was forbidden
and cherished, the kiss deepening of its own volition. None of the urgency
MacLeod had expected, instead he was washed in a timeless longing, a
completeness that answered a call deep inside his own soul as he savored
the delicate balance this sharing had created. The heat, the need and the
wetness addictive and he invaded Adam's mouth before he invited the other
man's tongue to capture his own. It was erotic, so powerfully arousing and
sacred. An act of love all on its own as the kiss became even deeper. In
his arms he could feel Adam's body, the warmth of his skin, the silkiness
of his hair and MacLeod took control back, plundering the moist mouth
pressed to his own so possessively. It sent a fire rolling through him
that had nothing to do with sex and he gave in to the hands tugging on his
hair by opening his mouth even wider. Never before had he been sucked so
intimately into another's soul by a single kiss, but Adam saturated him in
welcome desire. Permeated his whole being in a hungry need that seemed to
stop time.

Then they were stepping apart as the phone rang, both breathing
erratically, both shocked by the intensity they had just evoked.

"I'd answer that." Methos muttered, anything to get MacLeod moving away so
he could re-gather his defenses. It had been like falling into a vortex of
unimaginable beauty and pleasure. Spiraling off into madness or into a
passion he'd never imagined possible. And suddenly he wondered if there
wasn't a sixth category that was designed especially for Duncan MacLeod.
*Something that transcended even the boundaries of physical love.... No*,
he just had to calm down and think. *Put some distance between them and
make it clear that....* that.... *that what? He wanted to be fucked
senseless? Oh yeah.*

"Connor?" MacLeod instantly brought his mind back to the present as he
heard his cousin's distinctive voice. "Aye, but...." he trailed off when
Connor didn't give him a chance to reply. "I know, but-" again he was
interrupted and he lifted his gaze to find Adam's dazed eyes. His friend
was prowling the room, and he cursed as he saw the scowl gracing the pale
face. *Damn!* "Noh, Connor, but-" catching the final few words, MacLeod
just glared at the phone before putting it down. "That was Connor." He
said needlessly to his guest. *But why did he suddenly get the impression
that Adam was erecting barriers between them?*

"I gathered that much." Methos muttered in poor grace. He was just
figuring out what MacLeod had done to him and was pissed off. "Did he get
McKellen?"

"Noh." MacLeod said as he took a steadying breath. "He wanted to know if I
found him."

"I see."

"Adam-"

"I think I'll go down to the bar for a while," Methos decided as he made a
grab for his coat. He lifted his eyes and gave MacLeod a tight smile.

"But-"

"I'll be back later. Promise." He intoned not waiting for MacLeod's
answer. He really had to get out of there and work on his own tactics.
Strengthen his shields and resolves, or he'd just fall hopelessly under
the dynamic Scot's spell. *He wanted to get laid, not killed. *

Opening his mouth to protest, MacLeod just stared at the door when it
slammed shut. Swearing under his breath, he cursed himself for not moving
faster to intercept the other man. Obviously Adam was interested, but he
was not desperate. Plus, they knew nothing about each other - yet.
*Stupid, stupid, stupid....* MacLeod chastised himself. *Just take it
slower. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten the jumpy man away
after all.... *

******

*May 26th 1980. London.*

Eyeing his companion across the breakfast bench the following morning,
MacLeod speculated on a way to return to the atmosphere of last night.
Adam had taken off to the bar downstairs and although he had wanted to
follow, he had respected the other's privacy and stayed away. He'd
eventually gone to bed and had awoken hours later to the feel of a new
buzz - struggling out of his bed to see Adam curl up on the lounge with a
beer and blanket while he switched on the television. The only comment
he'd received had been along the lines of, 'Bar closed - think I'll watch
the late movie. 'Nite MacLeod.'

He had no choice but to go back to bed and now this morning MacLeod was
determined to recapture the easy friendship. *He just had to take things
slowly.* The blankets were all packed away and Adam Taylor was dressed in
his worn jeans with a different sweater, but with the same unreadable
expression on his face.

"You finished with the paper?"

"Sure." MacLeod chewed on his last piece of toast and pushed the Mayfair's
complimentary paper over to his uncommunicative houseguest. "Adam-"
Stopping as a knock sounded on the door, MacLeod groaned, but got up
noticing that Taylor completely ignored him. He went to the hotel door,
guessing it was his new watchdogs and absently glanced through the
spyglass. Bodie and Doyle's humorless faces met him and MacLeod closed his
eyes briefly, before plastering on a strained smile and opened the door.
"Good morning, gentlemen."

Doyle returned the greeting while Bodie nodded, then did a security check
of the rooms and windows before acknowledging MacLeod properly.

"I take it that CI5 had no luck in hunting McKellen last evening." MacLeod
stated, knowing they wouldn't find the skilled Scottish bastard. He never
expected them to, and found it hard to be concerned about the fact since
Connor was now on the demented Immortal's trail. It was probably for the
best if he found a way to distract these men and distance from the truth
and his cousin's whereabouts.

"Don't sound so cheerful, Mr. MacLeod." Bodie quipped, the mildness of his
voice belying the hardness of his glare.

Raising a hand, Doyle stepped between the two men and eyed the Highlander.
"What are your plans today, Mr. MacLeod."

Releasing a breath, MacLeod glanced over at Adam and briefly met his eyes,
glad suddenly that he had an ally in this crazy mess. Letting his smile
widen, he saw Adam roll his eyes in mock horror at CI5's intrusion before
the other man turned back to the paper he was reading. "I have no plans."
MacLeod declared turning his grin on the two agents. "I was thinking about
going and trying out the gym on the upper level of the hotel, and later
going out for dinner in the city. There's this restaurant that was
recommended and I'd like to try it." Walking back over to the breakfast
counter, he picked up his discarded coffee and took a sip. "The restaurant
has an old 'Robin of Sherwood' type theme," he went on mischievously,
hearing Adam sigh in response, "..and I'd like to treat Adam to dinner -
in apology for involving him in this trouble."

Lifting his gaze from the paper, Methos sent the presumptuous child a
murderous glance, before he masked his expression and looked over at the
CI5 agents. His eyes met Doyle's and he read a wary respect and distrust
in the frank green stare. *Interesting.*

"Your dinner plans are inconsequential." Bodie judged, his mind centered
on finding McKellen so they could wrap up this frustrating case and ship
MacLeod back to France pronto. "If Mr. Taylor were to return to the Oxford
campus, is it possible McKellen would go back there?"

"Oh, now hold on an damn minute." Methos interjected in disgust. "I'm not
a part of this and I will not play decoy. Regardless of what your fine
print says!"

"He's right." MacLeod stated frowning at Bodie, not believing Cowley would
order such a thing. "It's too dangerous."

"This is useless Doyle," Bodie muttered to his partner. "I'd rather face
Macklin and Towser for a month than put up with this shit!" He ended in a
hiss. "See if you can sweet talk them around, I'll go check with the boys
downstairs."

Nodding, Doyle waited until the door had closed behind his partner before
he released a tense breath. The door didn't slam, but it was close and he
rubbed at his neck not sure any longer what to do. He could sympathize
with his partner, but on the other hand he knew they were facing something
that neither them nor CI5 fully understood. "Bodie is just frustrated," he
opened by way of explanation. "If there is anything you can tell us that
would help in locating McKellen before more lives are lost I'd appreciate
it."

"If that were possible, Doyle, then I'd tell you." MacLeod told him
sincerely.

Hearing that, Doyle interpreted it to mean that MacLeod *knew* how to find
McKellen but he would not involve CI5. Glancing over at Taylor, that
impression was confirmed by Taylor's direct, warning gaze. So they were at
an impasse - *but what was he to do? How could he stop Bodie from charging
in where even angels feared to tread? *

"I'm going for a shower." MacLeod decided, walking to his bedroom door.
"Dinner tonight was not a idle comment, Doyle. You and Bodie are invited,
if that helps."

"Yeah, thanks," Doyle muttered after MacLeod had left the room.
Unfortunately he doubted it would help. Walking over to one of the main
windows, he took out his R/T and checked in with Bodie, watching the
street below and seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Behind him Taylor had
moved and was now collapsed on the spacious lounge while he fiddled with
the TV controls. Studying the man's sprawl, Doyle decided to see if he
could get some more answers out of the shrewd man while both Bodie and
MacLeod were absent. Ambling over to the seated man, Doyle perched himself
on the coffee table in front of Taylor and muted the television's sound.
Leaning forward he considered his words carefully, not missing how Taylor
regarded him in patient amusement. *Taylor was like a feral cat....*
"You're not worried about McKellen. Why?" Doyle started, deciding to be
direct.

"He's not my problem."

"He's gone after you twice now. I'd call that a problem." Doyle countered.

"Correction, Doyle. He went after MacLeod."

"You're saying you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Both
times?" Doyle asked, no longer believing that excuse. "I don't buy that."

"I can't influence what you want to believe."

Snorting, Doyle glared at Taylor, then let his mouth curve up in a knowing
smile. "You already have." He reminded the other man, seeing Taylor lower
his lashes in silent acknowledgment. *Stalemate*. "So don't tell me about
McKellen. Tell me about Nash."

"Nash?" Methos lifted his gaze again and frowned.

"John Nash. Scottish. MacLeod said he was a relative."

Releasing a breath, Methos relaxed further back into the soft cushions of
the lounge, remembering briefly feeling a third presence yesterday. The
only clan relative that Duncan had was his bad-tempered cousin, Connor. He
didn't know what alias the senior Scot was currently using, but he
couldn't admit that to Doyle.

"You know Nash." Doyle stated, seeing Taylor's expression. "Bloody hell,
how many of your kind are there?"

"Too many," Methos muttered absently before he sat up and glanced around.
*He really should leave.* This was getting a little too complicated now
and if Connor turned up then no doubt his Watcher would be here also.
*Fuck!* 

Reaching forward to stop Taylor from getting up, Doyle roughly pushed the
other man back into the cushions. "I need your help!" Doyle hissed.

"And I've already told you what to do." Methos cut back. "If you care for
your life and your partner's life, then walk away now."

"And I told you, I can't do that!" Doyle returned just as strongly. He
locked glares with the stubborn man on the lounge seeing, compassion,
understanding and respect reflected in those amazing eyes. The depth of
emotion kaleidoscoping in Taylor's eyes locked him in place and Doyle
froze, until nothing moved around him. No sound, no light and no time.
Nothing mattered - until a hand gripped his shoulder painfully hard.
Jumping, Doyle glanced up, blinking startled only to see Bodie's worried
and suspicious expression. *Shit! He hadn't heard the door open.... hadn't
heard his partner's approach *and he could just imagine what it must have
looked like between him and Taylor when Bodie walked in. Then Doyle
noticed that MacLeod was also standing in his bedroom doorway staring at
them in suspicion. Only the Scot's eyes held a possessive anger. Hastily
standing up, Doyle wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and backed away,
needing to get some air to clear his thinking. *But what the hell had
Taylor done to him this time?? And how was he going to explain his less
than professional reaction to Bodie??* 

Exiting the hotel room, it took Doyle a long moment to realize he still
had a persistent shadow and he went into the stairwell, hoping that would
afford them some privacy. *When Bodie was pissed off, usually the whole
world suffered. *

"Ray, what the hell is going on!" Bodie growled in barely suppressed fury.
"I leave you alone for all of five minutes and come back to see you and
Egyptian Boy making out on the lounge!!"

"Shut the fuck up!" Doyle shot back, pushing Bodie's bulk back and moving
away to lean against the cold brick wall. *He hated being crowded.*
Closing his eyes he tried to work out what had happened, or even how much
time had passed between him telling Taylor he couldn't back away and
Bodie's entrance. He couldn't remember. 

"Ray - talk to me." Bodie demanded. "This case is screwing with your head.
Half the time I'm not sure we're even on the same planet any longer and I
want to know what those pansies have done to you."

Feeling a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in his throat at Bodie's
typical response, Doyle opened his eyes and shook his head. "Nothing-"

"Bullshit!" Bodie spat. "MacLeod has done nothing but hinder us from the
moment he arrived in London. And Taylor.... Taylor - shit! Where the hell
does he fit into this case?!? And before you say anything, I've seen the
way they look at each other and I can tell you mate, that only one bed was
slept in last night!"

Swallowing his smile, Doyle pushed away from the wall loving how Bodie
always made everything so bloody personal between them. Yet in a way he
really envied MacLeod and Adam, *envied them the closeness.... *and he
blinked, feeling Bodie's hand still pressing against his chest. Up until
then he had not consciously considered the fact that Taylor and MacLeod
were an item. But thinking back he knew it was obvious just from the
magnetism the two men threw off - and he settled his eyes on Bodie's
outraged face, acknowledging how good Bodie looked in that instant. *All
angry and possessive*. Then another thought hit him - *Bodie was jealous*
- and he almost disgraced himself a second time by laughing. *Was it
possible?* After eighteen months of working together this was the first
time his blatantly heterosexual partner had ever called him on another's
sexual orientation. *Did Bodie feel threatened by his attraction to
Taylor?* "Their private life is not our concern. And before you say what I
know you are thinking," Doyle cut his partner off, seeing Bodie open his
mouth. "..there is nothing between Taylor and me. I asked him if he knew
anything about McKellen and he doesn't." 

"Then he's lying." Bodie stated belligerently, challenging Doyle to deny
it. 

"We have no proof." Doyle reminded his partner pointedly. "Either way."

"At present we have bloody nothing!"

"We have MacLeod." Doyle said softly, willing Bodie to calm down. If Bodie
was giving him hell for the little incident in the hotel room, then he
wondered what MacLeod was saying to Adam. Burying his smile a second time,
he tried to look serious. "McKellen knows we have MacLeod - so the next
move is in McKellen's corner."

Considering that, Bodie let his frown soften. "He will have to come to
us."

"Exactly, mate."

"So we-"

"We stick to Kilt Boy like glue." Doyle ended for his partner, glad when
Bodie reluctantly nodded.

******

Entering the gym later that morning, Methos grinned evilly to himself when
he realized that the gym was unoccupied. *Good*, he was in the mood for a
little seduction, especially since he had beaten his heart into submission
the previous night in the bar. *From now on they would do things on his
terms.* So since he was currently trapped in this impossible situation, he
might as well make the most of all the benefits. One of which was allowing
himself to enjoy Duncan MacLeod's company. Feeling MacLeod's strong
Immortal presence, he looked around, spotting the Highlander quickly and
noting that the area MacLeod was working-out in was deserted of other
hotel guests. *Better and better....* He watched openly as MacLeod, who
had changed into a white T-shirt and sweat pants, moved to the center of
the room for some warm up exercises. Admiring the view Methos sauntered
over to the bench-press and sat down, straddling the narrow bench facing
towards the MacLeod so he had a perfect view of the Highlander muscled
physique. 

Out of the corner of his eye MacLeod saw Adam observing him and he smiled
inwardly. He began one of his kata's, letting his body flow through the
familiar routine, freeing his mind to think about matters close to home.
Something indefinable drew him to this paradoxical Immortal and it was
something that he felt he could spend the rest off his long immortal life
trying to fathom. It wasn't just the physical side of things, although
that was mind-blowing enough, and they hadn't actually done anything
beyond kissing yet, rather it was the fact that Adam was such a mass of
contradictions. A puzzle wrapped up in a mystery enigma. And if there was
one thing he enjoyed, it was solving puzzles.

Methos watched, captivated, by the Highlander, liking the seeming ease
with which MacLeod shifted through the complex moves, and he just wished
that the man *would take off the damned shirt!* The bronzed skin was
slicked with sweat, beneath which lay well-defined, rippling muscles -
like strong, corded steel. And like the Scot himself, those muscles
radiated constrained power that could be turned from gentle lovemaking to
fierce battle in the blink of an eye. Images of MacLeod as a generous
lover and fierce warrior started to parade through Methos' mind and he
closed his eyes to kill the fantasy. *Fuck!* Obviously his brain was going
soft, *because he had believed he had solved this lust problem in the bar
last night! He would not do category five - he only wanted category
two.... Shit!* But he was like one of those weak-willed, doe-eyed,
love-struck idiots in a romance novel, mooning over their hearts desire.
Cursing to himself in Greek, he was forced to surreptitiously adjust
himself inside his jeans when the results of his latest flight of fantasy
caused them to become uncomfortably tight. *This was definitely turning
into a bloody catastrophe*, a potential disaster for them all, unless he
applied some self-control. But even knowing that, he also knew that he was
hopelessly lost. He couldn't walk away now, not with McKellen hunting this
beautiful Scot's head. Abruptly he was brought back to reality by the
clank of metal on metal and Methos blinked, noticing that MacLeod was now
working on one of the AB machines, lifting weights. *Oh.... screw the idea
of self- control.... * He also noted with a deep pang of something between
delight and dread, that MacLeod had removed the T- shirt.
*Fan-fucking-tastic.... there went his concentration*, his mind squeaked
as the rippling muscles drew his rapt attention. *Always be careful what
you wish for, Old Man,* he chastised himself severely, *for you may just
get it.*

Over on the AB machine, MacLeod saw the far away look that entered Adam's
eyes and noted with a sly grin the somewhat soppy expression that lit up
Adam's face. *Aye.... things were going along nicely.* He had seen how
Adam had stared at him while doing his kata and liked the way that his
soon-to-be lover had obviously enjoyed the view. *Well, lets just up the
anti a little shall we,* he thought to himself, finishing the last round
of shoulder crunches, and relaxing with a deep cleansing breath. Picking
up his discarded shirt he mopped his face and chest dry, then pretended to
concentrate on adjusting his next set of weights. He shifted on the bench
and found that from this new angle his gaze could slide down Adam's lean
body without being obvious. And his eyes easily homed in on the obvious
bulge in the tight denim jeans, and he grinned at the apparent direction
in which the other man's thoughts must have gone.

Methos picked up on MacLeod's gaze, frowning at the fleetingly sly look on
the Scot's face. *So, the young pup was trying to be devious was he? Well
we'll see about that. No four hundred-year-old manchild was going to
outsmart him.* Stretching languidly, Methos stripped off his own T-shirt
and sprawled artfully back onto the bench, making sure to spread his legs
wider, all the better to brace himself, of course.

MacLeod noticed the well-choreographed sprawl and felt a jolt of raw
desire shoot straight to his groin at the sight of the long lean expanse
of muscled chest that was briefly exposed to his hungry view. *If Adam
wanted to play games.... *Getting up from the AB machine, MacLeod
approached the sprawled figure stopping when he stood between the long
muscled thighs, his shins against the end of the bench. "Are you actually
going to do anything, or are you just playing?"

Methos looked up, startled at the proximity of the velveteen voice and a
strangled gasp escaped him at the sight of MacLeod standing there so tall,
*towering over him like Adonis....* his bronzed skin gleaming with the
results of his exertions. *Breathe, Methos.... breathe. You do remember
how to do that? Don't you??* "Why Mac, watching you has quite exhausted
me. I fail to see the point of all this anyway." Methos replied, waving a
dismissive hand at the rows of exercise equipment, amazed that his voice
worked at all, let alone that he could produce such an even tone.

"That's not all it's done," came the growled reply, the hot brown gaze
making its searing way down to the straining material at Methos' groin.

*Shit!* Methos cursed, slightly dazed and wondering when he had managed to
lose command of the situation. *Impertinent brat!*

MacLeod grinned down at the disconcerted man before him, relishing the
wide-eyed expression. Extending his hand he asked, "So.... do you want to
spar a little?"

Methos eyed the grinning idiot suspiciously. The last thing he wanted to
do in this state was get physically closer to the bronzed prince of
Scotland. He knew damn well that any pretence of self-control would
quickly become a joke if they actually touched. A move like that would
take fantasy and turn it into reality. But to refuse would be to confirm
what MacLeod was thinking, and Methos frowned as those laughing brown eyes
challenged him to refuse the extended hand. * Bloody hell! Of all the
times for his pride to kick in and accept a challenge!!* For he had never
refused a challenge like this.... *Well,* that wasn't entirely true, but
for some strange and probably suicidal reason he didn't want to refuse
this challenge. *He was most definitely deranged, but what a way to
go....* Mentally girding his loins, *yeah right*, Methos reached up and
allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

Keeping his hold on the pale long fingered hand, even when Adam tried to
pull away, MacLeod led him to the center of the room. Giving the captive
hand a small squeeze before letting go, MacLeod dropped into a waiting
defensive stance.

*Bloody hell fire.... what is the matter with you Old Man!?! You're acting
like a randy teenager. Since when can just the touch of a warm, strong
hand make you go weak at the knees?? Get a grip....* Methos berated
himself. *This is definitely one of the worst ideas you've ever had, and
that's coming from a very long list of very bad ideas.... * He just had to
get direction back and getting into a prolonged sparring match was not the
answer. For once, he almost wished that Doyle and his annoying partner
would walk in and save his stupid carcass.

Getting sick of waiting for Adam to make up his mind, MacLeod attacked,
catching the other man completely by surprise and knocking him to the
floor. He heard Adam grunt in shock.

"Great! Are we finished now? You win-" Methos growled, rubbing his sore
rear as he got up.

"Noh, we are not finished yet."

"You know, Greco Roman is more my style. You do know they used to do it
nude don't you?" Methos taunted, the fall putting him in a better frame of
mind to resist the Highlanders charms. *That had bloody well hurt! * He
countered the dirty look MacLeod threw at him with an evil grin. *Good,
the brat even looks good angry. *

*Alright Adam, you've asked for it*, MacLeod fumed. It pissed him off when
Adam teased him, especially when the other man had no intention of
following up on the tease. With a low growl he attacked again, admitting
to himself that any excuse to touch Adam was a good one.

Methos found himself on the floor again, but this time he was expecting it
and he managed to lock his grasp onto MacLeod's arms, pulling him down on
top of his own body. The completely startled look in the large brown eyes
was compensation enough for almost having the wind knocked out of him.
Taking advantage of the Scot's surprise he pulled MacLeod's head forward
and planted a short but through kiss on the open mouth, before pushing the
stunned Scot away. *Now that's more like it! *

At that precise moment the glass doors to the gym swung open and Doyle and
Bodie walked in. Doyle immediately took in the half clothed men on the
floor, seeing MacLeod doing an award winning imitation of a goldfish and
Adam sitting a few feet away grinning in triumph. "What's going on here?"
Doyle asked out of courtesy. 

"I'm winning." Methos declared in a smug tone. Getting smoothly off the
floor, and ignoring the deadly look and low mutter from the still stunned
Highlander. He used the interruption to put some much-needed distance
between himself and the Highlander's arousing presence. He most definitely
needed a cold shower now.

MacLeod noticed the curly-haired agent's gaze resting on Adam while he
stood up and a brief flare of jealousy shot through him, before it was
quickly squashed as unworthy. *Just like that morning when he had walked
into the main area of the hotel room to find Doyle and Adam locked in a
silent communication....*

Doyle had to complement MacLeod on his taste in partners, Adam was
definitely something else. Catching MacLeod's warning glare, he moved his
eyes away from Taylor, hiding a smile. *He's all yours sunshine.* Besides,
he could see quite clearly that Adam was only interested in MacLeod.

Bringing his attention back to the other occupants of the gym, Bodie
noticed Ray's speculative gaze resting on Adam when the student sauntered
off towards the men's changing rooms and for some reason he had the sudden
urge to thump somebody, preferably Taylor. But figuring he might get into
Cowley's bad books he restrained himself and settled for a deadly glare
leveled at the departing student's back instead.

Doyle noticed Bodie's black look and had to bite back a laugh. *So, Bodie
wasn't over his irrational jealousy yet. There was a God after all....*

MacLeod ignored the by-play between the two agents, instead concentrating
on Adam's retreating figure, admiring the way the other man moved and
wondering *what the hell Taylor needed a shower for?!* Then he grinned,
feeling his own diminishing arousal brush against his damp cottons.
*Perhaps Adam was not the only one who needed a cold shower?* For once he
wished he had worn his Karate GI, for he could do with their concealing
bagginess right about now. Taking a deep breath MacLeod fought to bring
his misbehaving body back under some semblance of control, amazed at the
effect that even so brief an encounter with Adam's hot demanding mouth
could have on his usual tight control. The man was devious and so
sensuous, that MacLeod wasn't sure if Adam was aware of the power and
magnetism that he exuded. The way that Adam's manner did nothing but draw
him closer - even if it scared the hell out of him to think what
irrational behavior Adam might produce in him next. "Perhaps we should
continue this in the shower!" MacLeod impulsively called out in Gaelic,
seeing Adam hesitate in his trek towards the showers.

"If you feel you're up to it." Came the reply in the same language,
accompanied by a come hither smile. 

Frowning, MacLeod wasn't sure who was wining this contest of wills and
flirts and he turned away, deciding to ignore the challenge. *Damn but
this was the weirdest courtship he'd ever had the misfortune - or fortune
- to be involved in.* Never in his four hundred years had he met anyone
who threw him so completely, and he began to have some suspicions about
one Adam Taylor's real identity and just exactly how old he was. *Maybe he
should follow the contrary bastard into the shower,* he wasn't quite sure
if the other man was bluffing or not. If he followed him he might get some
straight answers. *Ah shit, who was he kidding*, besides he was in the
mood for some fun tonight and an evil thought popped into his head.
*Dinner,* and he knew the place he had picked was no ordinary restaurant
either. He was sure he'd manage to get some entertainment out of it,
seduce Adam with alcohol and perhaps piss Bodie off into the bargain. *Now
that was a mission worth undertaking,* and he planned his strategy. The
most important factor was to seduce Adam and he was determined to get the
flighty man into his bed tonight even if he had to hit him over the head
and carry him there. *There was only so much frustration he could take....
*

Bodie noticed how the expression on MacLeod's face changed and speculated
what perverse idea the bloody Scot was thinking up now. *It just better
not include him or Doyle. *

In the shower area, Methos smiled when he got no answer to his challenge,
then he breathed a small sigh of relief. *He'd been half-afraid that the
brat would call his bluff - fuck!* All of a sudden he seemed to have this
insane urge to live dangerously. *Old Man, you should pack your bags and
get the hell out of Dodge before.... before what?* *Before you lose your
fool head? Or before you get yourself tangled up in perhaps the worst
category five relationship since Kronos! Not that Kronos had even
technically been a category five....* his sarcastic little survival demon
whispered in the back of his mind. *Shut up!* He tried to silence the
persistent voice. *Duncan MacLeod is not Kronos*, Methos argued
determinedly, *and he was not going to run out on MacLeod. Not to mention
Raymond Doyle. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!* He swore with feeling. *How
the hell had he managed to resurrect his troublesome conscience again?* He
thought he'd done a bang up job of losing it millennia ago. *It had to be
all that fucking barbarian's fault!* Detouring over to the bag MacLeod had
brought up from the hotel room, Methos satisfied his sudden urge to
strangle something by stealing the Highlander's towel before finally
heading into the showers. 

******

The sound of Bodie's R/T beeping made everyone jump and with a scowl that
usually made strong men cringe, Bodie took the interruption as an excuse
to leave the gym. 

Doyle watched the big Scot while he gracefully got to his feet, wishing
he'd had a chance to see the man in action. "I think you've picked a tough
assignment with that one." He observed, noting the quick glance MacLeod
sent toward the changing room.

MacLeod looked back at Doyle, startled by the comment. He found himself
looking at a pair of green eyes that held no judgment, just understanding
and slight sympathy, and instead of telling the agent to mind his own
business he smiled wryly. "Aye, I guess you could say that." MacLeod
replied.

Nodding, Doyle glanced around the spacious gym area, noting the windows
and exits. *So Bodie was right about these two. Trust his partner to pick
up on the sexual vibs.* "You planning on staying down here?" 

MacLeod snorted, following Doyle's gaze around the room. He liked Doyle
and he had the feeling that if they had met under different circumstances,
that they could have been friends. *Might still be if they all lived
through the current circus.* "I think I'll just head back to the room and
change." MacLeod stated, suddenly unwilling to face Adam again so soon.
Doyle raised a questioning eyebrow at that and MacLeod added - "Trust me."


"Alright. But if you're not there when we get back, I'll sic Bodie on
you."

MacLeod let out a bark of laughter at the image of Doyle letting Bodie off
a leash and saying - 'Kill'. "You win. I promise to behave," he finished,
going over to retrieve his bag before exciting the gym.

Doyle gave a heavy sigh, glancing at the showers one final time, deciding
Taylor would be safe enough alone and followed MacLeod to see how his
partner was faring. It had probably been Cowley on the R/T wanting an
update.

******

Bodie shot a last, black look back through the glass doors of the gym
before he depressed the call button. "3.7-" he acknowledged tersely.

"Report 3.7." Came the equally terse reply.

"Assignment is secure. Nothing new. Sir."

"Special Branch lost the tails on McKellen and Nash. Both it seems, have
gone to ground. There is no evidence either have left the country. I want
you and 4.5 to remain close to MacLeod and Taylor."

*We're having dinner with them for Christsakes, can we get much closer?!*
Bodie snarled to himself. "Yes Sir."

"See what you can find out about Taylor. He may be a material witness but
the University has little on his background. Just try not to get him shot
a second time. Do I make myself clear 3.7?"

*I'll shoot the bastard personally.* Taylor was getting entirely too much
attention as it was in Bodie's not so humble opinion. "Yes Sir."

"Remember, render all assistance possible to MacLeod. He could be useful
at a later date."

*Oh, now that was just going too far by half*, you didn't 'render
assistance' to someone you were baby sitting - *you told them what to do
and they bloody well did it! No questions asked! No arguments!* The only
assistance Bodie wanted to give the annoying Scottish bastard was
assistance into the next life. *Preferably with a bullet between those
smug brown eyes.* "Yes Sir."

"Alpha One out."

*Yes Sir, no Sir, three bags full Sir!* "3.7 out." Bodie snarled after the
click on the other end told him that the old man hadn't waited for his
reply. Resisting the urge to throw the inoffensive R/T against the wall,
Bodie took a large breath and tried to squash the urge to kill somebody.
Hearing footsteps, he turned and saw Doyle.

Approaching his partner warily, Doyle didn't miss the scowl that was
currently gracing Bodie's handsome face. He winced at the language Bodie
was muttering and guessed that Cowley had said something that had gotten
up his partner's nose. *Again.* Bracing himself for a snide answer, he
voiced the question. "So, what did the Cow have to say?"

Bodie's scowl softened somewhat when he saw Doyle tense and he looked
beyond his partner to the deserted gym area. If MacLeod had still been
around he just might have been tempted to give into his baser urges and
deck the bastard. "Oh nothing much. We're to 'stick close' to Kilt Boy and
Taylor. Shit Ray, do you think Cowley would notice if I shot MacLeod and
said it was terrible accident?" Letting out an explosive breath, he
calmed, reassured by Ray's amused smile. "The Cow said we had to 'render
assistance' to that bloody arrogant Scottish bastard. Render assistance!!!
I'll render him dead - that's what I'll do." Bodie ranted.

Doyle looked about at the stares they were drawing from the few hotel
patrons and staff alike, then noticed a security man looking in their
direction. Sending the guard a strained smile, Doyle made an effort to
calm his angry partner. "Bodie, for Christsakes - will you leave off. Or
at least keep it down. The last thing we need is trouble with the Hotel
Management."

Bodie muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely
threatening, before managing with an effort to get his temper under
control. "Fine." He growled, lifting a hand and showing Doyle the tiny gap
between his thumb and forefinger. "But I swear Doyle, I'm this far away
from doing something I won't regret."

Keeping his expression serious, Doyle nodded, remembering how he had felt
when Taylor had told him about Immortals and then confirmed that MacLeod
was one of them. *Man, was Bodie ever going to be pissed when he found
that fact out. If he found out*, he amended silently. "Look sunshine,
we're stuck with them. So let's just make the best of it. Besides dinner
is on Kilt Boy tonight, so let's enjoy it. The food should be good, for I
can't see him going down to the local for a meal. Then if we're real
lucky, McKellen will be waiting for us after dinner. So promise me you'll
behave tonight."

Giving Ray a dubious look, thinking that it would be just like the
arrogant Scottish prick to take them to the local, Bodie grunted his
assent to behaving himself - whilst keeping his fingers crossed behind his
back.

Taking the grunt for a sign of partial willingness to cooperate, Doyle
clapped Bodie on the shoulder. "Come on mate, we can leave the kiddies
with Turner and Anderson for a while."

"Where are we going?" Bodie asked suspiciously, even though he brightened
at the prospect of getting away from MacLeod.

"Back to Oxford. It seems one of the students saw McKellen get into a car
and I volunteered us to check it out."

"Bloody, marvelous." Bodie returned. "You know on days like this, I love
the way your mind works." 

Grinning, Doyle led Bodie away knowing this was only a reprieve. They
would still have to return and they would still have to endure dinner.
Privately he was looking forward to dinner, but he would never admit that
to his high-strung partner. *Never in a million years*.

******

MacLeod turned the not so hot shower off and stepped out to dry himself.
It was now evening and this was his second shower for the day and he
smiled in recollection of how easy and relaxed the day had been with the
absence of Bodie and Doyle. 

Hearing a faint noise coming from the other room he figured Adam must be
watching the television. *Adam Taylor* - such an innocuous name, attached
to a man who on the surface seemed just as innocuous. Only MacLeod knew
that was just a front to cover something far deeper. Ambling out of the
ensuite to get dressed, he knew that it was the hidden depths he sensed in
Adam that drew him to the other man. Those millisecond flashes of
something other than Adam's mild-mannered-grad-student persona. He also
couldn't deny that there was a strong physical attraction between them -
*like ice on inflamed flesh* - and he was not going to finish this evening
without at least satisfying his curiosity on that account. He had a very
strong belief that beneath that lazy, cynical front Adam wore, there
lurked a very sensual being. In his head he kept repeating the sight he
had glimpsed of - *pale smooth flesh, long inviting legs and that artful
sprawl* - not to mention the tantalizing taste of Adam's mouth.... *Damn!
If he wasn't careful he was going to need another cold shower*. Sternly
telling his errant body to behave, he finished tying his hair back and
went out into the main room to confront the cause of his current troubled
thoughts. Only he was greeted by the appealing sight of Adam stretched out
on the couch in a comfortable sprawl. *Typical....* but the picture was
marred by a small furry body draped over Adam's chest in perfect imitation
of its owner's sprawl, a loud contented purr issuing from the vicinity....
*That cursed black cat!* About to protest, MacLeod closed his mouth
realizing Adam was wearing his same faded denims and T- shirt. He checked
his watch and saw it was getting late and there was no way he was taking
Adam to dinner dressed like that.

Feeling the atmosphere around him change, Methos opened one eye to see
Duncan MacLeod standing over him. The man was dressed immaculately in a
pale linen shirt and dark trousers with his hair neatly pulled back. The
only problem with an otherwise perfect picture was MacLeod's expression
that read 'you-are-not-wearing-that' look. "What?" Methos mumbled in
feigned shock.

MacLeod found himself being glared at reproachfully by two sets of green
eyes, *Adam and the damn cat*, but taking his courage in both hands
MacLeod made his stand. "I am not taking you to dinner dressed like that."

Nefertiri lifted her head, stretched and sent the brooding Scot a final
glare before executing an exaggerated yawn and going back to sleep. Methos
didn't dare crack a smile when MacLeod's scowl darkened. Instead he tried
to look unconcerned. "Fine. Then I won't go."

"Oh yes you will. Go and get changed."

"Who died and made you God, MacLeod?" Methos growled. "I'm perfectly
comfortable here. I'll just order room service. Haven't you heard - that's
what living in the modern age is all about? Besides, I don't want to
disturb Nef."

"Adam!"

"Look MacLeod, I wasn't aware when I packed that we would be doing formal
dinners. Okay! This is all I have. End of subject."

"Really. Well, we'll just have a little looksee. Shall we? Hmmm?" MacLeod
replied, turning and heading for where Adam had dropped his bag the night
before.

Methos moved hastily when he realized the Scot was deadly serious.
Scooping up a very annoyed Nefertiri, he received a couple of painful claw
marks and a hiss of displeasure for his impertinence, but ignored her as
he dumped her hot weight on the lounge. *The last thing he wanted was the
brat finding his journal....* "Now look here MacLeod.... this is a gross
invasion of privacy." Methos complained, chasing MacLeod into his room
only to see the big Scot standing next to his bed holding a familiar bag
in the air with a look of smug triumph on his face. 

MacLeod saw the gold-green eyes narrow dangerously and wondered how far he
could push this unpredictable man. Slowly he unzipped the bag, his eyes
never leaving Adam's face. When the bag was halfway open he slipped his
hand in and pulled out the first thing his fingers found. It was a black
T-shirt and he dangled it from his thumb, taking his eyes off Adam long
enough to read the bold writing on the material. The word 'QUEEN' blazoned
across the front in flame colors and MacLeod raised an eyebrow at Adam in
question.

"What?!" Methos snapped in peeved defense. "They do great music. You have
a problem with that?" He finished, slowly realizing that MacLeod was only
teasing him.

"Uh huh," MacLeod shook his head. "Not your style - Adam." He said
pointedly, emphasizing the name. "But I suppose this sort of clothing goes
with the 'grad student' thing you've got going. Right?"

"A good disguise is all in the details, MacLeod. And I do like their
music." Methos replied, moving further into his room to sit on the bed.
Glaring at MacLeod he leaned back casually, placing his hands behind his
head before sending his tormentor a sly grin.

Enjoying the sight of the lean body draped over the bed, MacLeod reached
in for the next item. *Ah, now this felt more like it*, he thought when
his fingers encountered something that felt suspiciously like silk. "Hmmm?
Silk? I like the feel of silk." He purred, leering at Adam. "Don't you?"
Slowly MacLeod drew the slippery fabric from the bag, delighted when he
saw it was a deep emerald green in color and he knew instantly that it
would be a perfect complement for a certain pair of eyes that were at this
very moment blinking at him in assumed innocence. "Well, well, well....
what do we have here?" He asked rhetorically. "And I suppose you're going
to tell me you've never seen this before? Hmmm?" He finished, throwing the
shirt at Adam.

"Mac!" Methos caught his breath at the low sensual sound of MacLeod's
voice. It was like heavy velveteen and the sound made him shiver, his body
reacting instinctively. *Shit! Get a grip old man....* he chastised
himself.

"Shall we see what else you don't have to wear?" MacLeod continued,
grinning when he noticed the slight dilation in the glazed eyes. Reaching
back into the bag, his fingers touched something hard and when he drew it
out he discovered it was a leather bound book, and a very old one at that.
Glancing over at Adam, he thought he saw a fleeting look of panic cross
the angular features before it was covered by Adam's usual mask of
indifference. "And what's this? Your Little Black Book, perhaps? Adam?" He
teased.

Seeing his diary in MacLeod's hand gave Methos a moment of pure panic and
he stood, snatching the volume from the Highlander's grasp. "None of your
God damn business!" He snapped, knowing he was over-reacting but unable to
help himself. *If the damned inquisitive brat found out what was in his
journal he'd lose any chance of even having a friendship with the
too-honorable boy scout*. "Wouldn't want you thinking you had too much
competition," he finished, the excuse sounding lame even to his own ears.

MacLeod backtracked, shaken by the abrupt change in mood. *So the guy had
secrets. Hell.... didn't everyone? Didn't he?* And it was obvious that
this was a very sensitive subject with Adam. *So back off and give the guy
some room*. MacLeod cursed himself for killing the playful mood he'd
worked so hard to create and he just hoped he could get it back. Taking a
step forward so that he was well within the other man's personal space, he
reached up and brushed gentle fingers across a pale cheek. He waited for
Adam to acknowledge him then reached out very slowly and took the book out
of Adam's hand again. Letting his fingers that were caressing Adam's cheek
slide over to press against moist lips, he petitioned the other man with
his eyes for trust. For a long moment he did nothing else, praying that
his eyes conveyed his sincerity and MacLeod relaxed, seeing Adam's gaze
narrow. Gaining possession of the old book a second time, MacLeod then
purposely walked around the bed, pulled back the bed sheets and placing
the book under the pillows. Then he smoothed the sheets down and clasped
his hands behind his back, sending his nervous friend a small smile. 

Methos stood stunned at the simple gesture, having to swallow several
times before he could find his voice. "Thank you, Duncan." He managed, his
voice husky with pent-up emotion.

MacLeod felt a thrill of pleasure at the sound of his name spoken by that
sexy baritone and he walked back to Adam's patiently waiting figure.
Taking the initiative, he slid a hand behind the slender neck and took the
soft mouth in a sensual kiss that left them both breathless. "I'm sorry,"
he whispered against the parted lips.

A shiver slithered down Methos' spine, almost causing his knees to buckle.
*Oh Gods!* The generosity, the compassion in this Highland Barbarian was
going to be his undoing. It had been so very long since anyone had treated
him with such tender care, understanding and respect that he was utterly
unprepared for the feelings invoked in him and how they rendered him
almost totally defenseless.

Satisfied with the effect that his actions had produced in his
unpredictable friend, MacLeod stepped back and picked up the discarded bag
again, brandishing it in front of Adam. "So - do I see what other little
surprises are in here? Or will you admit that you do in fact own some
decent clothes? I'll leave the decision up to you."

Seeing the mischief come back into the soft brown eyes, Methos read the
intention behind the words and decided to go along with it. "Alright,
MacLeod - you win. Happy now?!"

"Uhuh. Not until you say it."

"Say what?"

"You know. Exactly. What. I. Mean." MacLeod pressed, crowding Adam towards
the bed and emphasizing each word with a gentle finger on the other man's
chest.

"I have no idea what you're raving about, MacLeod-"

"Say it. Or I'll have to punish you." MacLeod growled, backing Adam up
until he fell backward onto the bed.

"Are you threatening me?" Methos growled back, finding he could get to
like this playful side.

"Oh, I never make threats." MacLeod returned, leaning over the prone form
and lowering his head to nip at the parted lips.

"Promises, promises," Methos breathed, hooking a leg around the
Highlander's lower body and deliberately causing the bigger man to loose
his balance so he could roll them both over. His ploy worked and he ended
up on top of a very startled Duncan MacLeod. "Age and experience will
always overcome youth and enthusiasm, MacLeod. Always. So remember that."
He intoned, before claiming the Scot's mouth in a demanding kiss.

"So.... how old are you then?" MacLeod gasped when he was allowed up for
breath.

"You know I'm not going to answer that question, so why keep asking it?
Besides it's impolite to ask another Immortal their age." Methos answered,
stealing one last kiss before getting reluctantly off the warm body
beneath him.

"And who made that rule up?" MacLeod asked, making an unsuccessful grab
for Adam when the other retreated.

"I did." Methos returned. "Now get out so I can get changed."

"Make me." MacLeod taunted with a naughty grin.

"MacLeod!!" 

"Alright," MacLeod surrendered, hands in the air when suddenly a sword
wielding Immortal advanced him upon. "Jeez, some people have a real
attitude problem." He complained, startled at the speed with which Adam
had produced the weapon.

"Ha ha, very funny MacLeod. Now kindly leave." Methos emphasized the point
by stepping forward, forcing the Scot to retreat or be impaled. Firmly
closing the door on a slightly disgruntled Scot, Methos grounded the
Ivanhoe and leaned against it, his legs feeling suddenly weak again.
*Fuck! This was insane. * If Duncan MacLeod had been anyone else but
'Duncan MacLeod' he would have been long gone by now. *How many times
would it take him playing with fire before he learned that he'd get
burnt?!? Evidently quite a few,* he berated himself. But far from feeling
like he would get burnt, the Highland Warrior's fire warmed his cold, dark
soul, bringing light to places that hadn't seen it in centuries. He felt
at home in MacLeod's presence, like he belonged and the siren song of that
desire was becoming harder and harder to resist.

******

MacLeod stood staring at the closed door, a small, pleased smile playing
on his lips. He had managed to smooth over the awkwardness, yet Adam's
reactions really intrigued him. He would not, however, push for answers to
the questions now forming in his mind for that was not the way to keep
this flighty man at his side. He would have to learn to wait, and barring
that he would have to find a way to live with the secrets. And that he
knew would be the hardest part. *Could he have a relationship with a
person whose life was shrouded in secrets?* He had always been open about
his own past to those he cared about and found it hard to deal with the
secretiveness of others. And he could now admit that Adam had come to mean
something more to him than just a casual acquaintance. He could not
pinpoint the exact moment it had happened, but he now realized how much he
wanted Adam when so thoughtless a joke had almost destroyed the budding
friendship.

Sighing MacLeod turned away from the door and went to wait for Adam in the
lounge. He was greeted by the sight of Nefertiri curled up in what had
become his chair. One green eye opened and glared balefully up at him,
daring him to disturb her rest. Obviously she held him responsible for the
earlier disturbance of her nap and he was now in her bad graces. *Damn
cat.* Admitting defeat, MacLeod turned and sat down in Adam's usual perch
on the couch. Settling his eyes on the cat again, MacLeod saw her close
her eyes and stretch slightly, obviously very pleased with herself that he
had succumbed so easily to her will. Watching the sleeping feline, MacLeod
decided that she clearly shared some unfortunate personality traits with
Adam, and he briefly wondered if he could survive living with both of them
together. 

The bedroom door opening behind him disturbed MacLeod's speculations and
he glanced over, before quickly standing in surprise and turning fully to
face Adam. Gone were the scruffy jeans-clad-grad-student-persona and in
its place stood an incredibly handsome man. The emerald shirt tucked into
a pair of black pants, the black leather belt serving to emphasize the
trim waist and the narrow hips. MacLeod advanced on Adam and slipped his
arms around the tempting waist. "You look good enough to eat," MacLeod
growled before claiming the inviting lips in a devouring kiss. The sensual
feel of body warmed-silk under his hands matching the silken heat of
Adam's mouth. *Oh aye, tonight was definitely the night,* MacLeod promised
himself.

"Don't ruin the silk, MacLeod." Methos complained, fighting to keep his
voice steady while he tried to disentangle himself from the Highlander's
constricting embrace. *Fuck, but this was turning into a habit. What was
it about the bloody, annoying brat that caused him to lose all semblance
of control so easily? He was five thousand years old for fucks sake, and a
mere child should not be able to reduce him to acting like a crazed sex
addict!!* The problem was that he wasn't used to being pursued with such
single-mindedness and it was bloody disconcerting. He constantly felt like
a mouse in the presence of a cat - a cat that was sure it had its prey
exactly where it wanted it.

MacLeod let Adam go, delighted by the flush on the pale skin and the
slightly erratic pattern of the other's breathing pattern. Hearing a knock
on the door, he allowed Adam to pull away, glancing at his watch and
guessing it was his CI5 watchdogs. Doyle and Bodie. *Sugar and Spice. Had
the pair accepted his offer of dinner, or would they insist on staying in
the car? *Either way, he found he didn't really care. Not now that he was
slowly breaking down Adam's barriers. 

Methos found his mouth thoroughly plundered one final time before Duncan
went to answer the door. The phrase 'saved by the bell' sprang immediately
to mind and he battled to get his body back under control. For the second
time in one day he was extremely grateful for the interruption.

Opening the door, MacLeod stood aside, gesturing the two CI5 agents into
the room. He noticed that Bodie was dressed impeccably in a black jacket
and pants with a white shirt, but Doyle was dressed in jeans with a casual
shirt and a leather jacket. *So they were coming for dinner. Doyle's
doing? * He assumed so. Covering his grin, he blinked at Doyle's jeans.
Although MacLeod had to admit that the jeans were at least presentable and
without holes, they were not standard dress. Catching Doyle's eye he
asked. "What is it with you and Adam and jeans?"

"Yes, MacLeod, do tell me why he gets to wear what he wants while I'm
forced to dress up like some window mannequin?" Methos asked pointedly.

"Ignore him," MacLeod advised to his guests. "He's just feeling put upon
because I refused to take him out looking like a tramp." Ignoring the
outraged sputtering noise that was coming from behind, MacLeod shut the
door and went over to the phone to call the front desk and order the house
limousine.

Much to Bodie's annoyance, he noticed his partner eyeing Taylor up and
down and only just resisted the urge to kick Doyle in the shins. Glaring
at the opinionated student, he begrudgingly had to admit that Taylor
looked different - older - when dressed decently. And there was a certain,
strange appeal surrounding the man. He just didn't like Doyle taking too
much notice of that appeal.

When Methos realized that his outraged act was being ignored by its
intended audience of one, he gave up and turned his attention to the two
agents instead. He spotted Doyle giving him a once over and nearly laughed
out loud when he saw the disgruntled expression on Bodie's face. *Maybe
the night wouldn't be a total waste of time after all*, he decided. *A
little Mac baiting with the added bonus of some possible Bodie baiting.
Could be hilarious.* *And just maybe he could persuade Doyle to get in on
the act. *

Hanging up the phone, MacLeod saw immediately what Adam was doing and
threw him a warning look, mouthing the word 'behave' behind the other
men's backs.

Choosing to ignore the warning Methos sauntered up to Doyle and draping a
friendly arm around his shoulders before asking in an expansive tone -
"So, is everyone ready for a good time? MacLeod's paying."

MacLeod sighed and looked to the heavens for strength, wondering if Adam
had any suicidal tendencies he should be worried about. Glancing at Bodie,
he noted the growing storm clouds that seemed to be gathering around the
agent's shoulders. *This was a dangerous mortal when his own clan was
threatened. *A trait MacLeod could well identify with. "Okay, the
limousine is waiting downstairs. Shall we go? Gentlemen?" MacLeod
announced to the room in general, glaring at Adam and determined to
postpone any confrontations until they were alone.

******

The limousine pulled up in front of a non-descript brick building on the
waterfront, not far from the Tower Bridge. The drive over had been
interesting to say the least. MacLeod had had to resist the urge to kick
Adam several times when the other Immortal had persisted in what could
only be called *flirting* with Doyle. The fact that Doyle seemed to be
playing along with the so-called gag hadn't helped matters either and
Bodie had taken the position of ignoring them both. But MacLeod could tell
that the strain was beginning to take its toll.

******

As they stood waiting for MacLeod to finish giving the driver his
instructions, Methos looked around wondering where the entrance was for
this restaurant they were supposed to be going to. Restlessly his gaze
settled on a large wooden sign hanging above one of the wooden doors in
the large brick building to his left. It had 'Medieval Knights' painted on
it in large black Gothic lettering, next to a picture of an armored knight
on a black charger. Laying a hand on Doyle's shoulder, he pointed to the
sign. "You're not going to believe this," he murmured quietly into his
ear.

Doyle took one look at the sign, glanced over at Bodie and back to Adam
before breaking into hastily stifled laughter. *Strewth, but was this ever
going to be an interesting night.*

Bodie turned at the sound of laughter, ignoring Taylor's hand on Doyle's
shoulder with an effort. Picking up on the direction of interest, he saw
what they were looking at and got a sinking feeling in his stomach.
*Christ, please let this be some sort of sick nightmare that he was going
to wake up from any second.* Bodie realized then that this must have been
what MacLeod was so smug about back at the gym. Turning to scowl at the
Scot, he found his hand reaching for his gun almost of its own volition.

Spotting the movement almost immediately Doyle stepped in front of Bodie
and his target, laying a restraining hand on his angry partners arm. "Easy
mate. Don't be daft. If you shoot him now the paperwork's going to be so
bad you'll be chained to your desk till next Christmas. Plus the Cow will
probably shoot you himself." Doyle admonished, keeping his voice
conversational while he tried not to attract the attention of the
gathering crowd waiting to enter the same restaurant.

"It would almost be worth it." Bodie growled. "Just keep that pillock away
from me." He finished, his deadly gaze hitting on MacLeod briefly as he
flexed his fingers. "And 4.5-"

"What?" Doyle asked, reading Bodie's unhappy expression before it was
locked behind those steel blue eyes a second time.

"I don't think getting all chummy with Taylor is part of the assignment. I
don't want more trouble from Kilt Boy." He ended in a hiss.

Doyle shook his head, debating the wisdom of continuing to bait his
partner. Apparently, for some reason known only to himself, Bodie had
decided that the cause of all his problems was MacLeod, not Adam Taylor.
*He probably blamed the Scot for bringing Taylor onto the scene to
complicate matters and torture them*, Doyle mused. But he was not so sure.
Even though the meeting between the two Immortals appeared to all intents
and purposes coincidental, Doyle had seen enough to know that if 'Adam'
really wanted to disappear he could. The man seemed to be a master of
blending into his surroundings, in fact if he kept his smart mouth shut,
you hardly noticed he was there. It was almost as if Adam were *having
fun* by participating in events like a game, and the implications of that
were mind boggling. *How old would someone have to be to find these sort
of dangerous situations fun? * With a sigh, Doyle gave up speculating on
that, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.

Methos had seen Bodie's move and was almost sorry that Doyle had stopped
him. If MacLeod got shot it would serve the Highland brat right for
inviting the humorless agent on this outing. But having Bodie here also
kept MacLeod in check and gave him a chance to *play....* a bit of
harmless payback for that little fiasco outside the auction at the
University. *Not that it had been entirely Mac's fault,* but that was
beside the point.

Unaware of what had happened behind him, MacLeod turned away from the
driver to find three sets of eyes looking at him and got the distinct
impression that he had missed something important. Choosing to ignore the
uneasy feeling that skittered down his spine, MacLeod plastered a smile on
his face and approached the waiting group. "Well gentlemen, shall we go
in?" He asked, gesturing to the door that had been the topic of the
hastily diverted altercation. His suggestion was greeted with varying
degrees of enthusiasm, which MacLeod decided to overlook, because he
wanted to have a good time.

Inside the main entrance of the restaurant a pretty blonde woman stood
behind a desk dressed in a serving wench's costume. "Good evening Sir,
what name is your booking under?"

"MacLeod. Party of four." MacLeod replied, giving her his best smile. He
leaned on the mahogany counter and took in the artifacts lining the back
wall. *Chain mail, period costumes and swords.... this could be a fun
night.*

Seeing the petite blond blush, Methos narrowed his gaze targeting MacLeod,
then shook his head. *He was over- reacting again*. But he did find it
obscene and amusing that MacLeod had this constant effect on the female of
the species and he leaned over to Ray to hide his own discomfort. "It's
sickening really, don't you think?" He murmured.

Doyle nodded. "I know exactly what you mean." He replied, glancing over at
Bodie. "I have to put up with exactly the same thing. daily." He finished
with a grin. "But you know what the worst thing is, he doesn't even have
to try. He pulls birds like a magnet."

"Ah yes," Methos replied sagely. "But I wonder how long they stick?"

This caused Doyle to snicker and garnered another deadly look from the
object of his mirth.

MacLeod decided he would ignore the latest outburst, positive he could
feel his ears burning. Receiving confirmation of his booking from the
receptionist, he turned to direct the others down the staircase to the
dinning room. He was greeted by the sight of Adam and Doyle grinning like
a pair of idiots, while Bodie looked about two straws away from breaking.

Along with the other patrons they descended the spiraling staircase to
enter a dimly lit cellar. When they reached the bottom they noted the low
ceiling, dark drapes, lit candles and long wooden trestle tables set out
in rows. It looked like a reproduction of a medieval dungeon gone terribly
wrong.

"This brings back pleasant memories." Methos muttered to himself, earning
a puzzled glance from Bodie and a warning scowl from MacLeod.

Doyle caught the comment and instantly wondered again how old this Adam
Taylor really was and what he had possibly seen, and endured. The banging
of a stick three times on the stone floor to capture everyone's attention
interrupted further speculation and Doyle snorted in wry amusement when he
saw the entertainer's attire. This was a theatre restaurant - *Bodie would
positively hate this....*

"My Lord's and Ladies. If you would all make yourselves comfortable, the
entertainment will begin as soon as His Royal Highness, King Henry arrives
to begin the festivities." Announced the Master of Ceremonies in a loud
voice. To reinforce his words, the actor surveyed the gathering audience
and dinners with a haughty expression.

Bodie marched ahead of Doyle, muttering to himself about insufferable
Scot's and pain-in-the-arse-grad-students. Finding a table at the far end
of the room, he made his way to the end and sat in the last chair, with
his back to the wall and put on his best 'do-not-disturb' scowl. "Why did
you let me get talked into this?" Bodie growled at his partner once Doyle
was seated opposite, his scowl deepening when he saw Taylor take the seat
next to Ray.

Doyle sighed, *of course this was entirely his fault*. Well he guessed he
could put up with the blame, if it kept Bodie happy. Although happy was
probably not the best word to describe his partner at present. Bodie was
busy intimidating the tourists with a new scowl. *At this rate they'd be
sitting at a table all by themselves* and Doyle considered warning
MacLeod, then decided against it when he saw the Scot help a young lady to
her seat. It was perfectly gentlemanly, but then he also caught Adam's
hesitation and groaned. "Idiot. I don't believe this," Doyle muttered,
realizing that Bodie was watching him with a brow raised in question. At
that moment, Doyle wasn't entirely sure if he meant MacLeod, Adam or his
difficult partner, so he chose to stare back wordlessly at his other half.
"Bodie, would you please lighten up."

Bodie grunted, knowing it wasn't Doyle's fault, but he was brassed off
with the whole situation and Doyle was the safest target he had at the
moment. He was also more accessible than Cowley.

"And would you quit scaring away all the guests! Or we'll look very funny
sitting at the table by ourselves. Might as well paint a target on MacLeod
and have done with it!" Doyle finished, with practiced ease he ignored the
glare that came his way from Bodie.

Methos grinned to himself, watching the two agents conversing. *Aww what a
cute couple*, he mused mockingly to himself, *maybe he could put his
expertise as a matchmaker to work here?* He'd seen the reactions at the
gym earlier and from the look of things, there was a chronic lack of
communication of the right sort going on in this partnership. *So, he'd
just have to get things going in the right direction.* Besides it seemed
MacLeod was finding new interests, *so much for his charms*.

MacLeod caught the speculative gaze that his exasperating dinner companion
was directing at the two CI5 agents and groaned silently. It didn't take a
rocket scientist to see the wheels turning in Adam's devious, perverted
little mind and he could easily figure out what the other man was up to.
Only problem was, it spelled trouble. Stretching back in his hard chair he
casually leaned over the table and captured Adam's wondering attention by
touching his arm. "What ever it is you're thinking, I suggest you stop."
MacLeod growled the warning, noting with interest how Adam's smile grew
even more mischievous. *Damn!*

"Whatever do you mean?" Methos replied, leveling a look of pure blinding
wide-eyed innocence on the Scot. *If Mac wanted to play games, so could
he. *

"Don't give me that more innocent than a newborn routine Adam, I'm not
that stupid." Ignoring the skeptical snort from the other man MacLeod
continued. "I can see what you're trying to do. Leave them alone."

"I'm just trying to give Cupid a hand, Mac. Think of it as a public
service."

"Well if you want to play Cupid's little helper, you can look a little
closer to home." MacLeod retorted, suddenly and irrationally annoyed that
he couldn't pin the exasperating man down on their own frustrating
friendship. *Why did Adam have to meddle in Doyle's life! Damn him! Was
Adam only interested in torturing him with the permanently withheld
promise of a more intimate relationship? It never usually took him this
long to tumble a potential lover into bed.... *

Startled by the intensity of MacLeod's voice and stare, Methos looked up
into the other man's eyes and was shocked by the depth of frustration and
need that was reflected back at him. *Oh shit!* This was not what he
wanted to cause. *Maybe his conclusions of a moment ago were wrong?*
However, he was spared from giving an answer when the ridiculously dressed
Master of Ceremonies struck the stone floor again with his staff and
announced that the King was arriving and would they all please stand.

Seeing the look of relief on Adam's face, MacLeod resolved that after
dinner he was definitely going to have a chat with *young* Adam Taylor and
he wasn't going to be doing a lot of talking. *Panting yes.... talking
no.*

Standing, they all turned to look at the opposite end of the low-ceilinged
room where an archway curtained with blue velvet material was spotlighted.
A muted trumpet fanfare played over the sound system and the curtains
where thrown back by a couple of men dressed in chain mail and helmets.
The imitation guards walked out followed by a small man in a fool's
costume with the traditional rattle on a long stick. He jumped and tumbled
down the isle between the rows of tables to the delight of the children
and Japanese tourists. Next came a bearded man with a lady on his arm.
They were dressed in rich satin and were obviously supposed to be King
Henry VIII and his Queen. MacLeod raised a curious brow, just catching
Adam's yawn of disdain before looking at the CI5 agents. Both Bodie and
Doyle were checking out the crowd rather than the actors*. Curious. Did
they honestly expect trouble? Did Cowley know something that he wasn't
sharing? *MacLeod doubted McKellen would show in a place like this. Wasn't
the other Immortal's style.

The burly Master of Ceremonies rapped his staff three more times on the
stone floor and in a booming voice declared: "My Lords, Ladies and
gentlemen. His Royal Highness King Henry the VIII and Queen Anne."

Mildly interested, MacLeod watched, noting that the actors did nothing
more than retire to their throne and wave at the diners around the room.
Then waitresses dressed in serving maids costumes made their way around
the tables carrying pottery jugs of mulled wine and ale. The wench's
poured wine into the goblets before they were all encouraged to raise
their glasses and toast the King before being seated for the feast.

Methos leaned over to Ray after he was seated and grinned. "You know, Anne
Boleyn looked nothing like that. Neither did Henry."

Caught off guard with a mouthful of ale, Doyle couldn't decide whether to
laugh or swallow, and ended up doing both, which resulted in a coughing
fit. 

Methos placed a hand on Ray's arm whilst giving him a gentle thump on the
back with the other. "Sorry Ray, bad timing." He apologized before handing
him a napkin.

*Bad timing my foot*, MacLeod thought, glancing beside him at Bodie,
noting the scowl directed at Adam. *What was that idiot thinking? In fact
how had they ended up seated like this? He should be sitting next to the
demented Immortal and Doyle should be seated beside the humorless one-man
crusader, named Bodie. *

Bodie glared at Taylor, wondering what the younger man could have said to
get such a reaction out of his normally unflappable partner. He wished
that beating the crap out of an assignment wasn't so frowned upon, because
that was exactly what he wanted to do to Taylor. Hidden tendencies from
his old mercenary days were suddenly starting to seem temptingly
appealing.

Recovering from his coughing fit, Doyle looked over at his partner.
*Christ, things were not looking good. What the hell was Taylor playing
at?* You did not provoke Bodie and expect to get away with it unscathed.
You just didn't go around pushing Bodie's buttons like that. He remembered
the last time Bodie had looked that murderous and then not even Cowley had
been able to stop the stubborn man going on a rampage. *It had been after
Bodie's girlfriend had been injured in a restaurant bombing....* Doyle
stopped the thought, momentarily stunned at the sudden revelation. During
that frightful incident Bodie had believed he was in love and had wanted
to revenge her attempted murder. Bodie had been a man possessed. *A
dangerous man....* and now Doyle could see those same deadly desires in
his partner's blue eyes a second time. Blinking, Doyle hardly registered
the fact he was sitting in a room full of people as that realization sank
into his mind. *Bodie was jealous. Jealous of Taylor.... and Adam bloody
well knew it! The exasperating moron beside him was deliberately provoking
Bodie! But why? Did he have a death wish!?! * Doyle swallowed and turned
to look at Adam. The other just smiled back and Doyle raised an eyebrow in
silent question, knowing Adam would understand completely.

Methos caught the look Doyle threw at him and let his grin widen. *So Ray
had figured it out. Smart lad. But then he had suspected that Raymond
Doyle would catch on, he just wasn't sure if the Englishman would play
along.* "It's really up to you." Methos answered, letting the other
decide.

Doyle looked back at Bodie*. Adam bloody well knew! Knew that Bodie was
jealous and that.... that.... But was this the way he wanted to force
Bodie to admit all the unvoiced little intimacies between them? * That was
really the question here. *No....* But then he also had nothing to lose
and everything to gain by playing along. *If it didn't work Bodie would
blame Taylor and things would be as they always were. If it worked....
well.... if it worked then he would have everything he wanted and more*.
"Fine." Doyle answered in a clipped tone, narrowing his gaze to drink in
Adam's pleased smile. He'd known the man less than three days yet somehow
he trusted Taylor more than his closest friends. It was frightening and
illogical. "Just don't blame me if you end up dead." He added in a hissed
aside for Taylor's ears only. Unfortunately he knew it was a useless
threat.

Bodie was about to interrupt the little chat that was going on between
Doyle and Egyptian Boy when the soup course arrived. It forced him to turn
his irritated scowl on the serving maid standing next to him only to meet
complete disinterest as she dumped a stack of bowls under his nose. He
raised a displeased brow and gave her his killer smile. That didn't work
either and he sucked in a peeved breath when he was instructed to pass the
pottery soup dishes and spoons down the table. This earned him a smirk
from Taylor who leaned in close and made some barely audible remark about
'good help being hard to find' to Doyle. Manfully resisting the urge to
stand up and smash some crockery over the perverse man's head, Bodie
finished his task without a word. Cursing Cowley, MacLeod and Taylor under
his breath, Bodie suspected this was going to be one of the worst nights
of his life, and probably the longest. He was absolutely positive that he
would rather be back in the jungles of Angola surrounded by enemy soldiers
right now, than sitting at this table playing nursemaid. Irritably he
noticed that MacLeod was keeping out of the whole thing, *probably just as
well,* Bodie lamented silently. *Though it was the Scottish bastard's
fault for dragging the skinny little prick into this mess in the first
place! *

The noise level in the room had remained low for sometime while everyone
concentrated on their meal. Methos had done his best to keep up a stream
of observations on the authenticity, or lack thereof, of various items and
details. He could tell that he was getting on Bodie's nerves because the
looks the other man was directing at him would probably peel paint. Methos
was also getting equally dirty looks from MacLeod who persistently kicked
him in the shins whenever he touched Doyle in any way. It wasn't really a
problem, more hilarious than annoying, but Methos vowed to make the
infuriating Highland barbarian pay when they got back to the hotel.
Speculating on that, Methos glanced around for more inspiration, catching
sight of the man in the fool's costume. He grinned wickedly, finishing his
soup while he watched the Fool do some slight of hand magic tricks at the
table across. A new idea formed in his mind and Methos barely suppressed
his brilliant smile, glancing over at the object of his campaign. *Bodie.
Poor bastard....* His grin turned into as frown when he felt MacLeod kick
him in the shins under the table. But even that didn't stop his sick sense
of humor and he eyed Bodie a second time. Slowly a new wicked smile
ghosted across his lips and he wondered if Bodie liked magic tricks.

MacLeod, who was keeping an eye glued on his aggravating would-be-lover
spotted the change in expression almost immediately and cursed silently to
himself. *Why did he do this to himself?* He wasn't aware of any previous
masochistic tendencies so they must have developed when Adam turned up.
This time he trod on Adam's toes, hard. "Don't!" MacLeod hissed, pitching
his voice low.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Methos hissed back.

"Whatever you're planning in that sick little mind of yours - stop it!"

"You're insane." Methos snorted. "I'm sitting here minding my own
business. Which, by the way, is something you should learn how to do."

"Very unlikely." MacLeod said in mock belief. "Don't give me that
bullshit. Leave it alone." MacLeod finished. When it was obvious he was
going to be ignored, MacLeod closed his eyes briefly and pondered a way to
remove Adam from the immediate vicinity. *Drag him out, or march him out
at sword point??* Only when MacLeod lifted his lashes to glare dangerously
at the other man, he found himself traitorously smiling instead. If
anything Adam was adorable, especially with that impish expression
lighting up his changeable eyes, and MacLeod wondered if he was the insane
one for allowing the older Immortal to proceed with his teasing.
*Probably.... *and he shook his head. *Bodie was an arrogant bastard, but
he didn't deserve Adam's wicked sense of humor.... did he? * Opening his
mouth, MacLeod was just about to say something when the serving maid
reappeared and asked if everyone could pass their plates back to the end
of the table. It distracted them all and MacLeod breathed a sigh of relief
when Adam seemed to not only cooperate, but behave.

After the dishes were cleared away the unexcitable Master of Ceremonies
announced a round of entertainment. It seemed they were to be entertained
by a strong man, an acrobat and a juggler.

"Oh this should be fun." Bodie muttered caustically, and for the first
time in a long while found himself wishing that his R/T would sound and
give him a good excuse to walk out of this whole farcical excuse for a
meal. He was going to kill Ray when this was over. *What the hell was
Doyle playing at anyway, flirting with that smug, arrogant, obnoxious and
cynical little son-of-a-bitch!* Bodie was surprised that MacLeod had done
nothing and said nothing because he was damn sure he hadn't read those two
wrong earlier in the gym. At least he was positive there was something on
the Scot's side. He'd seen that 'keep-away- he's-mine' look enough times
during tours with the Merc's in the jungle to know when he ran across it
in civilian life. Obviously the Scottish bastard swung both ways, which
was something Bodie could understand. He'd done the same when there was a
lack of female company, especially when stationed overseas. It was the
unspoken rule, the ignored topic in the service. Which brought him back to
his dilemma with Ray. *What was he to do about his fiery- tempered little
partner?* For it wasn't as if either of them lacked female company.
Employment in CI5 was in a lot of ways similar to being in the army. You
were married to the job. You lived it, breathed it and took it home every
night. In turn it was hell on a relationship, on a social life and on
anything resembling normal living. Some of the operatives in CI5 had wives
or long term girlfriends, but the death toll on those relationships was
very high. In reality, *as Cowley always reminded them,* your only
certainty was your partner and your wits. Which brought Bodie's thinking
back to Ray Doyle. *Was that why he was drawn to Ray? Because they each
understood the risks and accepted them as part of their life and their
relationship? Or was there another reason?* Flicking his eyes over to
Taylor again, Bodie felt the responding flare of resentment and cursed
himself inwardly. Ray had fascinated him from the start. In fact Cowley
had lured him into the Squad by dangling Doyle under his nose. *Oh yes
George Cowley was one ruthless, calculating son-of-a-bitch.* Typically
Scottish by showing him something he found desirous and then letting him
slowly learn he would never have it. *Not his Raymond....* Tensing when he
was tapped on the shoulder, Bodie's speculation on his partner was broken
by the sound of a voice beside him.

"Excuse me Sir, but your friend has volunteered you for a small magical
illusion."

One quick glance at the men across from him and Bodie knew exactly which
so-called 'friend' had set him up. *Fucking Taylor.... McKellen should
have killed the little prick! * "I don't do tricks." Bodie growled barely
tearing his deadly gaze away from Egyptian Boy.

"Oh come on Sir, be a sport. Have some fun," continued the obviously
suicidal jester.

"Yeah William, get into the spirit of things. Have some fun." Methos piped
up helpfully.

Doyle froze mid sip of his ale. *Oh Shit....* he thought seeing the
grimace on his partner's face freeze and turn deadly. *Nobody called Bodie
William, not even Cowley did that. At least not within his hearing,* Doyle
relented. *Hell, he didn't even dare call Bodie by his first name.... *

Bodie gritted his teeth, but refused to give Taylor the satisfaction of
provoking him. *Later....* he promised himself. *Later he would find some
reason to drag the insulting, cantankerous little bastard up before Cowley
and have him charged as a menace to society....*

"See sir," the jester carried on in an even tone, oblivious to the
impending disaster looming. "Pennies." By slight of hand the talented
actor happily entertained all at the table by demonstrating how he could
make coins appear from his volunteer's ears and shirt collar. "I'm going
to be rich," he proclaimed in a comical fashion that had the patrons
laughing as an endless supply of money fell into his hands from around his
subject's person.

Biting his lower lip, Doyle didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry. Next
to him Adam was in hysterics, sliding down in his seat to sprawl
gracefully, those green eyes challenged Doyle to deny the fun. And it was
funny especially when the jester spun them a story while continually
finding more coins hiding on Bodie's person. Only his partner's lack of
movement alerted Doyle to the real danger of Bodie losing his legendary
temper and Doyle swallowed again, very glad when the jester stopped.
*Bloodshed in a restaurant was the last sort of publicity Cowley
needed....* only his reprieve was short lived for the foolish jester
returned and politely asked Bodie to stand.

"William, can I ask you to stand for just a moment."

Trying not to flinch under the light hand resting on his shoulder or to
the sound of his name, Bodie slowly stood, placing his hands firmly on the
table*. He would Kill Doyle. Kill Cowley. Kill MacLeod. Dismember
Taylor....* His litany was interrupted by the sound of coins falling into
a container and Bodie glared around to find the hapless jester standing
behind him with a bucket while old coins seemed to be falling out of his
backside. Exhaling hard through his nose, Bodie gripped the table hard
while the jester laughed and pretended an innocent look of dismay to all
the other customers until the last coin fell. Not waiting for permission,
Bodie sat down and picked up his drink. *It was either that or take out
his gun....*

Holding his breath, Doyle wished the jester would leave, debating leaning
across and saying something to his irate partner. Only he was not sure
what to say. *Relax mate, as it's only a bit of fun....* seemed lame and
Doyle winced when the jester returned. But the actor said nothing more,
still appearing heedless of his subject's temper as he stopped beside
Bodie's chair and twisted a balloon into the shape of a poodle. The jester
then placed the balloon animal in front of Bodie and Doyle cringed
inwardly at the look his partner directed towards the small pink poodle.
It was meant as a present for being such a 'good sport' and Doyle snorted.
Bodie had endured the tricks and the clapping with a blank expression, but
Doyle could tell poodles were the last thing on Bodie's mind. Only now his
unpredictable partner was sitting with an expression that was getting
stonier by the minute and Doyle was positive he needed to put a stop to
things before his partner reached breaking point and lost it completely.

Methos glanced over at the scowling Bodie, and bit his inside lip
thoughtfully*. If the man had been a dog his hackles would be up and his
ears laid back, with a vicious snarl on his face. Oh yes,* Methos judged,
*this was just the response he was looking for. Now was the time to back
off and leave the rest to nature,* he mused to himself with a satisfied
grin. Turning his attention back to the peeved Scot sitting opposite,
Methos speculated on how MacLeod might want to pay him back for the good
deed he'd just done. It was a prospect he relished.

MacLeod caught the self-satisfied smirk on Adam's face, like a cat with
cream on its whiskers, and just hoped that the contrary man had decided to
back off before he had to defend him against an angry CI5 operative.
MacLeod was definitely going to make the exasperating man pay for his
meddling, and the possibilities were interesting to contemplate. They were
also endless.

Hearing laughter around him, Bodie slowly placed his napkin down knowing
he had to get out of there before he lost all connection with reality. His
head pounded and he really wanted to strangle Taylor. So he shoved away
from the bench like table and marched out. Fresh air beckoned and he
needed to regain his composure.

Swearing under his breath, Doyle threw down his serviette and muttered an
apology to both MacLeod and Adam before he hastily stood. *Shit! He was
going to have to do some fast-talking to smooth this one over*, and he
followed his wayward partner out of the dimly lit establishment. He
avoided the entertainers and returning waitresses, his only concern was
catching Bodie before his partner did something terminally stupid.

Doyle caught up with Bodie at the top of the stairs, but his partner
shrugged out of his grasp and carried on out of the restaurant. "Bodie?"
Doyle hissed, following the other man out into the night, starting to
shiver as the cold winter air curled its chilly fingers around his body.

"Leave it Doyle! Just leave it!" Bodie retorted. 

Doyle lay a hand on the broad shoulder, feeling the coiled tension in the
bigger mans frame. "What is with you mate? Why do you let him get to you?
You've handled worse than him before."

Bodie flinched at the touch of his partner's hand feeling it send a
familiar sensation of frustrated and prohibited pleasure along his nerves.
*Because, Goddammit, he's to close to the painful truth and you can't
bloody well see it!* Bodie wanted to shout at the man standing beside him.
But it was no use, Doyle was somebody he could never have. *Friends,
partners, brothers*, and that was as far as it would ever go. It would
have to do, *but shit it hurt sometimes, to be so close*, but in reality
the distance may as well be cosmic. Bodie snorted - *Doyle would say it
was his Karma, he was paying for past sins now* - and paying dearly, Bodie
acknowledged feeling the smaller man's warmth press closer while Doyle
squeezed his shoulder in a comradely fashion.

Doyle felt the flinch and fought the urge to pull away, wincing inside as
the apparent rejection cut deeply at the hopes he nursed of being closer
than just partners and friends. Doyle knew what Adam was doing, trying to
play matchmaker, and Bodie was having none of it. *Well, if that were the
way of things then he would accept them, because to be separated from his
partner would be like losing a part of himself.* So in reality Adam's
little games had showed him one painful thing, had made the decisions he
had been toying with easier. He would stay in the partnership on any terms
- *on Bodie's terms*. "Come on 3.7." Doyle snapped, getting angry now when
all his hopes were dashed. "We have a job to do, and you acting like a
bloody prima donna is not helping!"

Shocked by the changed tone of voice, Bodie curled his lip, his own angry
glare meeting Doyle's uncompromising look. "I don't get paid enough for
this shit!"

"Save it for Cowley." Doyle hissed back, then swiveled on his toes and
went back into the restaurant.

Watching the trim, tempting figure walk away, Bodie shoved his hands in
his pockets and cursed Cowley, then himself. He had over reacted, *but
Taylor was driving him insane! Couldn't Doyle see what the skinny bastard
was doing? Obviously not.* Kicking out at the cobbled pavement, Bodie
begrudgingly followed his partner back inside. In the morning he would
present Cowley with a written report and suggest he and Doyle be
reassigned due to irreconcilable differences. Cowley wouldn't buy it, but
it might spare them the morning shift while the wily old man chewed them
out for wasting his valuable time. It was one plan.

******

MacLeod sighed loudly and glared at the man sitting opposite him, "Why the
hell did you do that?" He demanded in a harsh whisper.

"All part of the plan, MacLeod, all part of the plan." Methos replied with
a self-satisfied grin.

MacLeod snorted. "This plan, I hope it doesn't backfire on you. Because if
he kills you, this time you will have to disappear."

"Oh ye of little faith. I guarantee you by this time tomorrow they'll have
sorted it all out." Methos replied flippantly, gazing off in the direction
of the two agents. Around them the serving wenches were bringing the main
course, placing a huge pot in the center of the table with dishes of
vegetables and potatoes.

Ignoring the food, MacLeod looked at Adam's profile and grimaced,
concerned more with their own personal problem and the tantalizing
prospect of when they were going to get 'it' sorted out. Reaching under
the table he placed a gentle hand on the slender thigh across from him and
squeezed, grinning when the other man jumped and turned wide startled eyes
on him. "I do hope that they are not the only thing on your mind tonight?"
He growled, pitching his voice low so only Adam could hear.

Startled by the sensations that shot strait to his groin at the gentle
touch, Methos' breath caught at the sensual sound of the velvet voice that
promised so much. All he could do was stare at the man opposite, because
for some reason his brain seemed to have taken a momentary leave of
absence and for all his efforts he couldn't seem to make any sound come
out of his mouth. *Category five.... *

MacLeod grinned openly at the man he was determined would become his
lover. He drank in the bewildered expression, the green eyes just seeming
to get wider and wider as he glided his hand up the smooth fabric.
Reassured, MacLeod started to believe the evening would improve.
Delicately using his fingers MacLeod pressed into the firm flesh beneath
the warm cotton and felt the faint shudder that ran through the taunt
muscles. It was enough to make him grin knowingly.

Methos' breath caught, and he bit back on a groan of protest when the warm
hand was removed from his leg. *Oh Jesus fuckin' Christ....* It was insane
the effect that this man's touch had on him and he cursed, feeling himself
harden uncomfortably. There was no way he would be able to stand up now
and not announce his state of arousal to the entire restaurant. What made
things worse, was that the bloody barbarian brat was sitting there as calm
and collected as a saint with a sly grin on his face. *Bastard!* It had
been centuries since anybody had held this kind of sexual power over him,
or had this strong an effect on his senses. *No*, he corrected wordlessly,
*it had been a long time since he had allowed anybody to have this much
power*, he amended truthfully and then cursed himself for being seven
kinds of fool for sticking around. "What the fuck was that for?" Methos
growled peeved and frustrated, wanting to cover his own reactions.

"Oh, just my way of reminding you to behave. I do hope they are not the
only one's who are going to get lucky tonight." MacLeod said easily
reaching for the food placed before them.

Methos groaned inwardly at the mixture of threat and promise that colored
the Scottish brogue. "Why, whatever do you mean MacLeod?" Methos
prevaricated. *He should leave, get up from the table and just walk out
the door and never look back*, because feelings like this led to nothing
but heartache and torment. Besides it could never last, once the proud
Highland boy scout found out about his past, there was no way that those
beautiful eyes would look at him with anything but horror and disgust and
he could not bear that eventuality. But like a moth to a flame - against
all his so-called better judgment - he found he could not leave without
first sampling the heat of the forbidden fire that MacLeod stirred. "If
you insist," Methos replied, allowing a smile to curve his lips.

It was now MacLeod's turn to catch his breath. The slow seductive smile
that teased at the sensual lips tugged at his heart, not to mention his
groin, and MacLeod responded helplessly to the display. Craving the
promise mirrored in the desire darkened green eyes as Adam licked his lips
ever so slowly, MacLeod moaned low in his throat so glad for the covering
music. "Oh, I definitely insist." MacLeod whispered, replacing his hand on
the slender thigh again and giving it one final squeeze before he spotted
the two CI5 agents returning to the table. "Now behave." He growled,
leaving the implied threat hanging. *He couldn't wait for dinner to end so
he could get Adam home.... *

******

Slamming the door of the silver Capri, Bodie shoved the key into the
ignition and gunned the engine to life. The last few hours had been murder
and he didn't bother to glance at his unnaturally silent partner guessing
easily what Doyle was thinking. Instead he switched his glare to the
highly polished limousine parked outside the foyer of the Mayfair across
the road from them. MacLeod had been anxious to get out of the restaurant
and get back to the hotel and he didn't need a degree in psychology to
guess why. *Bastard! *So contrary to his wishes they had returned MacLeod,
*and guest*, safely to the designated destination and had thankfully
handed over the troublesome pair for the night to Murphy and Anderson.
Still the inaction of the case was driving him crazy, not to mention the
nature of the assignment. He was ready for a fight or failing that, a good
decent argument with anyone - *preferably Taylor*. Checking his mirrors
out of habit more than anything, Bodie smoothly pulled into the traffic
and let his simmering rage out by going through the gears harshly. "Bloody
Cowley," he muttered with feeling, flicking a swift glance at Doyle's
sprawled figure in the passenger seat when all he got in return was dead
silence. "I can't believe he has us babysitting that skirt-"

"Save it, Bodie."

"Aw, come on Doyle!" Bodie grouched exasperated as he dodged traffic to
run the lights. At this point he didn't care if he attracted the boys in
blue. *Didn't care period if he ended up in Cowley's office before being
reassigned to filing*. "This is a crap assignment and you know it! Cowley
has us chasing our tails, following that Mr. 'I'm- flippin'-marvelous'
MacLeod around like nursemaids when we should be out hunting McKellen.
Christ, McKellen could be out beheading some poor bastard and we wouldn't
even know because Cowley has decided to play 'old home week' with Kilt
Boy!"

"And just maybe MacLeod will lead us to McKellen. Or have you forgotten
that minor detail." Doyle cut back sick of listening to Bodie bitch. He
had enjoyed the evening, even if most of it had been at the expense of his
partner. *Taylor was damn good company. Pity he was an assignment, which
meant they wouldn't see each other again after McKellen was nabbed.*

"Fine!" Bodie growled his hands tightening in response to Doyle's unvoiced
challenge. "Then I say we bug MacLeod and let the lad's in the boogie boo
have them for a day or so."

"Impractical." Doyle said matter-of-factly, shaking his head and reaching
up to grab the panic strap when Bodie weaved past a slow moving truck,
just narrowly missing the on coming traffic.

"No, what is impractical is watching MacLeod making eyes at that little
prick tease, Taylor, while Cowley debates the topic in the Ministers
office!" Bodie half shouted, taking out his anger on his driving while he
sped them towards Doyle's current residence in Kensington. "I'm sick to
death of all the stupid games-"

"Wouldn't have guessed," Doyle quipped.

"..and what the fuck are you doing encouraging that toffee nosed bastard!"

"I wasn't encouraging anything, so get off your damn soap box and bloody
well slow down before you land us both in the drink!" Doyle snapped back
when Bodie just missed collecting a pedestrian. "Christ Bodie, but what is
wrong with you!? From the way you've been acting these last few days I
wouldn't be surprised if MacLeod asked Cowley to give you a shot for
rabies."

"Oh very droll," Bodie growled sarcastically. "Don't play cute with me! I
saw how you played up to Taylor and the only reason MacLeod didn't belt
you one was because he knew you were coming home with me!"

"Lucky me."

"Christ Ray!" Bodie hissed more in frustration now than anything else.
"What the hell is going on?!" 

"Nothing."

"Pull the other one mate, as I can smell a con job a mile off. You and
that little prick have been working off each other since I left you to
scrape his skinny arse off the pavement. So what gives mate?"

Hearing the rawness behind Bodie's tone, Doyle raised a hand and rubbed
his eyes. He was far too tired to cope with a disgruntled, bad-tempered
and insecure Bodie tonight. What his partner said was true, *he did like
Adam*, he *did* trust him and did *know* more about what was going on than
he could ever hope to explain to his hard-nosed, skeptical partner. And
that was the tragedy. "Like I said, nothing." Doyle muttered moodily,
bracing himself when Bodie stopped the car with a jolt across from his
flat.

"Ray-"

"Adam and I have.... similar interests. Academically speaking." Doyle
amended, knowing he had to offer something to the other man, otherwise
Bodie would be hell to live with after this operation was over.

"I noticed." Bodie said mockingly.

Not liking the tone or the inference, Doyle sent a glare his partner's
way. "Will you bloody well stop acting like some demented primadonna! What
the fuck is wrong with you? So.... I like Taylor! I think it's unfair what
has happened to him and before you say anything else, yes I know the two
of them are having it off, but since when do we judge the lives of
others?!? Start down that road mate, and you might as well kiss the squad
goodbye because Cowley doesn't tolerate prejudices."

"I'm not prejudiced!"

"Could've fooled me." Doyle retorted, opening the passenger door and
climbing out.

"Okay, Einstein!" Bodie called as he leaned over to glare up at his
partner and friend, just stopping Doyle from slamming the passenger door.
"Since when did you turn all altra-comfortable with the idea of
homosexuality?"

"Since always," Doyle whispered back, bending down to send his partner a
serious look. He watched Bodie's eyes widen fractionally before the other
man frowned to cover the surprise. Then he pulled back and slammed the
passenger door. He'd given the other man ample to think about for one
night and refused to look back as he crossed the road to his flat.
Reaching into his jacket pocket he fished out his keys, playing over in
his mind all that Adam had said to him and all that Bodie had said,
shaking his head at the pragmatic view on life Adam Taylor held. *It had
to be a side effect of Taylor's immortality*, a concept he was still
trying to wrap his brain around. But then watching Taylor with MacLeod he
had to admit Bodie also had a valid point. Both men were so besotted with
the other that it was almost laughable - would be hilarious if he didn't
find himself in the same position with one argumentative ex-SAS,
straight-laced William Andrew Phillip Bodie. Climbing the front steps two
at a time, Doyle shook his head, appreciating the fact that at least he
and Bodie were friends and he fitted his key into the security door and
pushed it open. Then suddenly he was turning, hearing a noise behind him
and instinctively reaching for his Browning before he was crashing into
the entrance foyer of his apartment building with a 200-pound CI5 agent on
top of him. "Bloody hell, Bodie what the blazers are you playing at
now?!?"

"You little sod!" Bodie growled, pinning his exasperating partner to the
floor. "Are you telling me you'd go for Taylor if he gave you the come
on?"

"No," Doyle wheezed, twisting around to shove Bodie off him. "Don't be
more of a moron that you already are."

"Then what?" Bodie demanded belligerently, watching Doyle rub sore ribs
and wince in both discomfort and anger.

"I said you dumb crud, that I wasn't against the idea! Not that I wanted
to jump Taylor's bones." Doyle clarified, annoyed now with his
thick-witted partner. Checking the safety was clicked on his Browning he
re-holstered his gun.

"So-"

"So nothing!" Doyle snapped, getting to his feet and glaring at Bodie's
scowling face. "Do me a favor and just go home before you get us both
arrested."

Giving his partner a dark look, Bodie let him walk away, slowly working
out in his own mind what the evasive answer might mean. If he wanted the
truth he would have to push Doyle, and he'd have to do it now before he
lost the chance or before Ray threw up barriers higher than Everest.
Standing, Bodie absently brushed the dust from his cords and followed his
obstinate partner. 

Not surprised to find Bodie behind him again when he opened his
apartment's front door, Doyle let out an explosive sigh, wondering if it
was all worth the aggravation. "What now?"

"I want to know what you meant." Bodie said simply refusing to look away
from those searching emerald eyes.

"Why?" Doyle asked simply.

"Because it could change everything." Bodie whispered honestly, noting how
Ray started to frown before he raised a hand to run fingers through his
thick curls. They sprang back obediently even as Doyle turned away from
him and entered the dim flat. Watching Doyle wrestle with some inner moral
decision, Bodie frowned, just catching the fleeting glimpse of
vulnerability and aching loss before Doyle covered the expression. Sucking
in a determined breath Bodie followed him inside, well aware that he had
not been asked to enter, but then neither had he been asked to leave. If
he had this all wrong Doyle would physically evict him and the partnership
would be difficult for a while, *but if he was right....* Inside the flat,
Doyle had not turned on any lights and Bodie could see him illuminated by
the streetlamps outside the bay windows and he shrugged out of the jacket,
throwing it over the lounge.

"What do you want from me Bodie?"

The quiet question disconcerted him for a moment and Bodie's first
response was to shrug until he caught a second glimpse of his partner's
pained expression. He relented and walked over to the other man, debating
what to say first. "Tonight.... tonight at dinner I was bloody-"

"Jealous?" Doyle interjected.

"Infuriated." Bodie finished with a growl. "To think that.... that-"

"That I'd go for Taylor while you were present?" Doyle asked mildly,
starting to enjoy himself now. This was more like their normal banter and
he wasn't sure if he was relieved the tension had broken or disappointed
because another opportunity was lost.

"Yes!" Bodie hissed. Hearing Doyle chuckle was the last straw, and Bodie
grabbed him roughly and savaged his mouth, wanting to either shock an
argument and fight out of him, or to seduce a willing participation. The
impulsive strategy worked surprisingly well, for Doyle jabbed him hard in
the gut, then swept him off his feet to land him on the floor with a thud.
*Schoolboy antics* and Bodie smiled up wickedly knowing that if Ray were
truly angry he'd be unconscious by now instead of flat on his back peering
up into the shadowed face of his partner.

"Have you totally flipped?" Doyle asked breathlessly not sure if he wanted
to allow this to happen or not. "If you keep this up mate, I'll recommend
to Cowley personally that you should go back to the shrink. Ross would
just love to see you."

"Nah," Bodie drawled sure now of his reception before reaching up to grab
a handful of Doyle's soft cotton shirt to drag him closer. "I know exactly
how to work off my paranoia, and you my son are a chief ingredient."

"Bod....ie...." Doyle yelped only protesting half-heartedly as he was
knocked sideways and blanketed by a hot body that seemed to touch him
everywhere. Abruptly just the idea that he was going to taste Bodie in his
most elemental form had the contact igniting all sorts of interesting
reactions in his body and he shivered, not finding the breath to argue
when his mouth was taken in a hot erotic kiss. 

******

MacLeod deliberately shut the door in agent Murphy's face. He'd had enough
pussyfooting around with CI5 and instead stalked after Adam's retreating
body. *The trip home in the Limousine, the looks cast his way in the lifts
and the whispered touch upon entering the hotel suite* were all taking
their toll on his self control. *There was no way Adam would deny him
further* and he hastily stripped off his coat, loosened his tie and
followed the other man into the spare bedroom. *Adam's room....*

"Mac-"

"Shut up," MacLeod growled, scanning the room and finding the
temperamental cat almost immediately. She had made herself at home next to
the pillows and he refused to be distracted by her possessive antics this
night. Going to the bed he expertly lifted her and propelled her out the
door, ignoring her screech and Adam's gasp before slamming the bedroom
door shut. Then MacLeod turned and regarded his guest, not missing the
slight flush on the pale cheeks before he advanced menacingly on the other
man.

"MacLeod!"

"Your mouth might be saying no, but your body is saying yes, so I am going
to give you five seconds to decide."

"What?" Methos asked stunned, giving a half laugh while he backed away
from the gorgeous man pacing after him.

"One-"

"You can't be serious!"

"Two-"

"If this is some sort of joke-"

"Three-"

"..I'm not laughing any more!"

"Four-"

"Did you hear me?!"

"Five."

"Mac.... Leod!!" Methos protested even as he was lunged at. Problem was he
was laughing to hard to make a serious escape and they both ended up
rolling across the bed until he lay pinned under a grinning Highlander.
"You are such a primitive!" He complained but found his mouth curved up at
the Scot's affectionate appraisal. "And so dead if you don't get off me!"

"Top or bottom, I don't care," MacLeod whispered huskily, gentling his
hold and trailing his fingers down to his captive's wrists. His words and
tone killed the playfulness, turning the moment serious, making them stare
at each other for a long drawn out minute until Adam blinked, breaking the
powerful spell.

"Fuck-" Methos breathed. He could feel himself tremble under MacLeod's
warmth and weight, could feel his heart contract at the emotion coursing
between them and knew he was lost. *Category five wasn't just threatening
his survival any longer it was smothering him in its deadly embrace.*
"Mac-"

"Can't you feel it?" MacLeod whispered, watching the man beneath him in
awe. "There is a connection between us. A bond-"

"Duncan!" Methos gasped suddenly desperately scared for them both as his
desires and needs entrapped him so firmly.

"Shh," MacLeod breathed, unconsciously soothing him, releasing the
imprisoned wrists to caress Adam's face. "I will keep you safe." Then he
leant down and kissed him.

Startled, Methos wanted to scream his acceptance, his need for this
seductive persuasion, but rather he cried inside when the Scot's soft lips
coaxed a gentle response from him. This tenderness was the last thing he
expected. He had wanted to be taken, to be plundered, to be forced - so
that he could keep the casualness in the relationship and prevent it from
turning serious. *But now....* now he devoured the glimpse of love MacLeod
feathered over him. He knew logically such an emotion was doomed, but for
one night he craved the feelings. Opening his mouth to the tongue softly
probing his lips, he relinquished all responsibility for this one
treasured taste of happiness and flew with his senses, praying this was
not another monumental mistake.

******

Having ended up somehow on the floor and pressed against the back of the
couch, Ray Doyle, tried to stop the inevitable as he pushed Bodie's hot,
possessive form away. "Bodie! Will you.... just.... back off!"

"Don't back out on me now, Ray." Bodie hissed, his hands tightening over
his partner's upper arms. Already his body was more than ready, eager to
sample his partner's lithe strength. Never in his wildest dreams would he
ever believe that Ray would let him this close, let him get this familiar.

"I'm not." Doyle snorted, dropping his head back on the cool wooden floor
and wincing.

"Then-"

"Floors bloody freezin'-"

"Oh," Bodie mumbled, glancing around in the gloom. He blinked up and saw
the front door was still wide open and he didn't think it was advisable to
have any neighbors walk past.

"..and me bums killing me." Doyle ended, sucking in a breath when his
partner rolled off him. "Jeez mate, you weigh a bloody tone-"

"Complaining 4.5?" Bodie quipped, getting up to close the front door and
bolt it. He toyed with the idea of switching on the lights but decided
against it, returning to Doyle's side and staring down at Ray's sprawled
figure. *Ray looked great in his eveningwear.* "You planing on lying there
all night?"

"Thinkin' about it." Doyle mumbled before slowly sitting up. He eyed his
partner with slight apprehension. "Bodie- "

"Here," Bodie offered reaching down to grab the other man and haul him
upright. Keeping hold of his partner's hand he pulled him gently closer,
his expression turning very serious. "I'm not going to force you to do
anything you don't want to do. But Ray," he paused, "..I can't promise to
forget anything that's happened between us either. Nor can I say I'm
sorry."

Considering this, Doyle studied the other man's handsome face, letting his
eyes drop down to Bodie's stern mouth. "I'm not asking you to." He
returned, making his mind up to follow his heart whether it was right or
wrong. Knowing this could ruin their partnership, *could ruin their
careers if Cowley found out.*

"That's alright then," Bodie said on a breath, relaxing instantly, his
mouth curving up into its typical smirk.

"So...?" Ray blinked at his partner, lost now as the atmosphere changed
yet again.

"So," Bodie elaborated, rubbing his hands together. "I've always wanted to
try out your bed."

"Christ, Bodie," Doyle sighed in exasperation.

"Come on old son."

"Listen-"

"No regrets." Bodie replied seriously again, moving forward to drag his
partner close and taste the parted lips thoroughly. He could feel Ray
tremble, could taste his desire, his fear and moderated the oral caress
marginally. Breaking away he captured the green eyes and stared into his
partner's confused gaze. "You ever done this before mate?"

"As a kid-"

"I don't mean wanking off behind the school shed neither." Bodie broke in,
keeping it intimate, but also matter of fact. Too much was at stake to
risk a misunderstanding.

"Then no." Doyle admitted softly.

Slowly Bodie let his smile increase with that whispered honesty, moving
his fingers behind Ray's neck to massage his tense muscles. It pleased him
to know that but it also placed a very precious burden in his hands and
Bodie shifted closer to his temperamental partner. "Then we take it slow-"

"I'm not a sodding female!"

The outrage was back and Bodie's grin widened. This was the Doyle he
adored, and he rewarded him with another hard kiss, biting his lip in
parting. "Never thought you were, mate."

"Bodie-"

"Let's try this again." Bodie suggested, running his free hand down his
partner's soft cotton shirt to tease erect nipples. He heard Ray gasp. 

"Christ!"

"I want to have sex with you." Bodie whispered, shifting even nearer and
pressing a thigh between the other man's slender legs. "I'll make you come
so hard you'll start to think you've died."

Sucking in a painful breath, Doyle couldn't have protested even if he
wanted to, his body so hypersensitive to Bodie's scent and his experienced
touch. *This was what he wanted, what he had dreamed about* and he nodded
his consent, willingly agreeing.

Laughing softly, Bodie released the swaying body and grabbed Ray by the
belt tabs, yanking him towards the bedroom and the spacious queen size bed
hidden there.

******

Discarding their clothing, Methos didn't have a clue how they ended up in
bed, his mind so befuddled by what MacLeod was doing to his body. It had
been so long since he'd had a lover whose physical beauty matched the
sensory images circulating in his steamed brain, but MacLeod did just
that. The Highlander's addictive Quickening overwhelmed him, and he gasped
out in pleasure when Duncan's sensual mouth did wicked things to his
throat and nipples. And the worst part was, he could hear his Scottish
lover snickering while that damnable mouth assaulted his abdomen, turning
his gut to water and his resolve to dust. *He really should at least try
to protest.* "Mac-"

"You taste of the hot earth," MacLeod whispered, his eyes closed while he
savored the essence of the being held captive in his hands. "You taste of
the sun. Of fermented grapes on a warm spring day."

*Fucking hell,* Methos opened his mouth petrified - terrified - his
nostrils strangely filling with the scent of heather and salt, *Scotland
at its most primal level.* It refreshed and calmed him, making him even
more receptive as he reached down to tangled his fingers in Duncan's
thick, long hair absorbing the silkiness and warmth. "Mac," he mouthed.

Moving up the spread body, MacLeod lent down over his partner, drinking in
the sight of him and loving the dazed look in the gold-green eyes. "Just
how old are yew?" He whispered, marveling at the easiness of the desire
and love that blanketed them. With a jolt MacLeod comprehend that *he
would have fallen in love with this creature whether Adam was male or
female*, the gender didn't matter for it was the uniqueness of Adam's
spirit and Quickening power that called to his soul. *It thoroughly
entrapped him* and that thought made him smile.

"Does it matter?" Methos asked, so utterly lost in this man's power. His
willpower fading to nothing and he knew with certainty he would tell this
man everything if MacLeod pushed, *if he insisted on an answer. *

"Noh," MacLeod assured, skimming fingers down to heighten the pleasure
between them. Bending he lick-kissed the heated flesh of his lover,
tasting the sweat and savoring it. "I want-"

"Absolutely," Methos answered without hesitation, finding a measure of
sanity returned as the Scot's body moved away from him. He had to control
this wild desire, so he purposely turned over, offering the other man his
trust and body, but trying valiantly to safeguard what was left of his
tattered heart. *If he didn't look at MacLeod he might be able to shove
this into category two.... *

Watching the slender body turn so gracefully, MacLeod almost came there
and then with the realization he was finally being offered freely what he
craved. He ran appreciative eyes down the long, lean back muscles then
caressed the warm skin with his hands, loving the feel of this man in
every way. His lips followed the path of his hands and he lent down to
taste and tease the aroused flesh. Slipping a hand under the narrow hips,
he cupped his lover's trapped sex, releasing a soft sigh into the moist
skin and feeling Adam squirm. Fondling the hard sex in his hand, he bit
Adam's rear, hearing his bedmate gasp, then he moved up the warm body to
gently nip the skin over one pale shoulder in affection. "Do you have
anything?"

Trapped on the edge of release, Methos panted for breath almost telling
the Scot not to bother with niceties. Then he remembered what century he
was in, and blinked over at the small bag he had on the bedside table.
*Fuck, he was an idiot. Why couldn't he simply fall into mindless lust
with a creature like MacLeod?!? Why did it have to be fucking love!?!*
Stretching up he made a grab for the bag, stilling when MacLeod's broader
hand covered his. *Dark over light - so perfect* - and he swallowed,
traitorously liking the imagery that produced.

"Here," MacLeod growled, his own loins aching with need. He grabbed the
small toilet bag and took out the lubricant, sending his sprawled lover an
amused grin before hastily applying it to his engorged shaft.

Rising up on his knees, Methos was glad he could not see the Highlander
and he closed his eyes tightly before cursing the God's of Fate and Love
when he tried to divorce his heart from this coupling. But it didn't work
and he cried out, feeling the first welcoming touch of MacLeod's fingers
on him, and prayed for them both when MacLeod explored him with such
heartrending tenderness. "Mac, please-"

Pulling Adam closer, MacLeod found himself impaled on the hot body without
trying, feeling Adam surge back to pin him and ignite his loins. His heart
hammered in his chest almost deafening him and he instinctively dragged
his lover up to sit the other man in his lap. Then he wrapped strong arms
around the heaving body, holding Adam still, preventing him from moving an
inch, wanting this to last for as long as possible.

"Mac?" Methos gasped, his insides on fire in an erotic mixture of pleasure
and pain while he lent back into MacLeod's damp chest and let the other
man take his complete weight.

"Just.... try and relax," MacLeod whispered urgently, the muscles gripping
his shaft threatening to devastate him and he ran possessive hands over
the body he clutched so desperately. This was no longer simply sex -
*never had been* - and MacLeod rejoiced in the feel of finally finding a
lover who opened his mind to new possibilities. *Someone he could love so
unconditionally and openly. Someone who understood the pain of immortality
and who gave so absolutely as Adam did*. It was like his whole life had
been rushing to this point and he kissed the body held safe in his arms,
tasting the warmed flesh and conveying his feelings fully. "You are
perfect," he whispered into the damp skin, thoughtfully caressing Adam's
chest and nipples, enhancing the sharing. "I love your taste. Your smell.
Your mind-"

"Jesus, Duncan," Methos breathed in hopeless wonder, flabbergasted by the
emotions churning between them.

Hearing the other verbalize his name with such passion, MacLeod gently
started to rock forward, heightening the thrill and absorbing Adam's cry
of pleasure.

******

Jumping, startled, Doyle watched the hands that trailed down his chest and
he willed himself to relax. *This was what he'd asked for, but now it
seemed harder than when Bodie had jumped him in the living room.* They
were standing beside his bed and he sucked in a breath when his expensive
trousers slithered down his legs to land on the floor. Shivering in fear
and anticipation he tensed, feeling Bodie's nakedness behind him.
*Fantasies were one thing, reality was down right scary*, he decided. He
wasn't sure if he wanted to go through with this, only knew that at
present he felt *safer facing a dozen highly armed terrorists than one
naked Bodie.* "Bodie-"

Reading his partner's agitation expertly, Bodie gave the slender man a
shove, sending him face first down on the bed.

"What the-"

Climbing on the bed after him, Bodie deliberately slid up behind Doyle and
waited for him to roll over and glare at him. It was worth the wait and he
gave his partner a superior smirk before claiming the protesting mouth
skillfully. It shut Doyle up, and he filed that useful piece of
information away for later consideration.

Traitorously his body responded eagerly to the caresses and Doyle gasped,
shocked at how easily Bodie reduced him to a sex-starved addict with so
few touches. He felt those callused hands tease him to full hardness while
sharp teeth marked his throat before he could object. "Hey!"

Grinning evilly, Bodie, fingered the purpling bruise. "Always fancied
seeing you with a hickey."

"Sod off!" Doyle growled, losing the advantage again when Bodie's teeth
latched on to a nipple. It was amazingly sensual and he had to admit that
Bodie had a better mouth than any bird he could remember bedding and he
arched up, lapping up the pleasure.

"Bloody little prick tease," Bodie whispered affectionately, content to
work his partner's body first and wring control from Ray's hands. He
trailed his mouth down the slender frame, tracing old injuries with his
fingers, paying special attention to the areas he knew Ray was susceptible
to and getting rewarded with gasped obscenities. *If only Doyle's critics
could see him now,* Bodie mused in glee, bending down to swallow his
partner's proud shaft and make the other man even more incoherent. He
sucked on him hard, lifting his head and moistening a finger before gently
circling the tight anal muscle.

"Bodie-"

It was a gasped warning and Bodie grinned wickedly up at him, dropping his
head down again to give him the blowjob of his life. Slowly, he teased the
tight muscle, working a finger in, stretching his partner until he was
able reach deep inside the heaving man and force him over the edge of
release by multiple stimulus.

"Bloody hell...." 

Snickering Bodie turned his finger again, hearing Doyle groan in pleasure
as the spent shaft twitched interestingly. "Is that all you can say mate?"
He asked innocently.

"You're a fucking freak of nature." 

Sliding up the sweat damp body of his partner, Bodie leaned down low over
Doyle and searched his gaze. "It's a good thing for you that I am, or who
would control you, sunshine?"

Giving an answering grin, Doyle glanced at Bodie's unrelieved erection. "I
suppose you want some help with that?"

******

Wishing now that he'd had the courage to face MacLeod, Methos stilled,
accepting the feather-like caresses over his throat and chest as the
delicious sensations continued to roll up from his loins. *Whoever taught
Duncan MacLeod the art of lovemaking needed to be commended*, he
acknowledged silently, letting his head drop back onto MacLeod's shoulder.
They were still joined, still riding on the brink of a release that
promised the impossible and he shuddered when MacLeod enclosed his hot
erection within the Scot's large hand. "You'll have to tell me who taught
you this," he whispered, starting to feel safe in the dimness of the room
and the cradle of the Highlander's arms.

Smiling into the hot skin under his mouth, MacLeod shook his head, lifting
his face to bury his nose in Adam's soft hair. His intentions were simple
- *he wanted Adam to fall in love, he wanted the other man to become so
besotted with him through their lovemaking that he could convince the
other man to stay in the morning.* Because from what he had glimpsed of
this man's inner beauty and courage, he was not sure he could live without
him.

Pressing down more firmly into MacLeod's lap, Methos bit his lower lip,
adoring the freedom, the pleasure, before gripping the arm holding him so
securely. But he was now ready for the more powerful touches, and he
wiggled, pleased when MacLeod gasped behind him, instinctively surging up
inside his welcoming body.

"If I tell you who taught me this, will you tell me your real name?"
MacLeod asked in a soft persuasive whisper, shifting their positions so he
could direct the pleasure and control his lover's movements. He ran a hand
down to Adam's thigh, massaging the long muscles, teasing him gently even
as he heard the other whimper in delight and need. 

"My name?" Methos repeated breathlessly, puzzled for a prolonged moment
until he remembered where he was. For a moment he had forgotten, the
experience stripping him down to his elemental desires that opened the way
for a dangerous honesty. This was a powerful gift MacLeod held over him,
and he was so tempted to give in and confess everything to the magnificent
Scot.

"I need to know all of you," MacLeod coaxed, increasing the tempo between
them, loving the friction of skin on skin, the aroused taste of hot, damp
flesh, the thrill of the Immortal buzz that filled his head and body - and
he pushed deeper into the silky heat entrapping him.

"I-I...."

"What is your name," MacLeod repeated like a litany, his voice dropping to
match his thrusts while he dragged them both to the brink of release. The
curling, insidious sensations in his loins filling him in hot burning
desire and he held Adam back, prolonging the anticipation. "Yewr name-"

"Met...." Methos gasped his body convulsing in climax as MacLeod tore a
scream from him. Every nerve ending tingled, his logic circuits fried by
the intensity of the climax while he felt the Highlander thrust into him
with a passion and strength that was frightening. Then he was falling
forward, his body damp and shaking and he felt MacLeod landed on his back,
crushing him into the cold sheets. There they lay, entwined and sedate
while the madness of the moment passed.

Dragging in a breath, MacLeod tired to think clearly, playing over in his
mind what he had almost learned, knowing now that his lover would
eventually tell him the truth. *So Adam's name stared with M* - his
lover's true name, and the last bit of deception that lingered between
them was slowly vanishing.

"God, Mac, but you are a bastard," Methos wheezed, far from upset as he
snuggled into the warming sheets, stupidly happy with himself. *This was
definitely the dreaded category five*, he intoned, especially when he
wasn't overly annoyed with the Scottish boy scout for trying to wring his
identity from him with sex. Rather, he was impressed.

******

"You want to-" Doyle started a little nervously, studying Bodie's
impressive erection. This was not a position he'd found himself willingly
in before.

"No, mate." Bodie assured him.

"But," Doyle frowned, not sure if he was insulted or relieved. "You don't
want me?" He cringed at his own words, wondering when he had turned into a
desperate teenager again.

"When you're ready." Bodie assured him gently, settling a hand on his
partner's chest. "Right now I want you to turn this skinny frame of yours
over."

"But-"

"Trust me Ray. Please?"

Narrowing his eyes, Doyle sent him a hard look then complied, suspiciously
glancing back over his shoulder. He grunted out in surprise when Bodie's
weight landed on his back. "I thought you said-"

"Irritating little sod," Bodie muttered, positioning himself between
Doyle's closed thighs and thrust down into the hollow created. In all
honesty just the thought of having Doyle this way was enough to bring him
off, for he had fantasized about Ray from the moment Cowley had partnered
them. It was only Ray's hard-nosed, tough-man act that had made him keep
his distance. *A distance he was now going to close with a skillful
seduction.* It would take time but eventually he would get what he wanted
from his tight-arsed little partner. Just visualizing that arse opening to
him, had Bodie groaning in pleasure and he thrust down urgently, mouthing
the back of Ray's neck until climax swept over him and he ground down into
the compliant heat below.

"Jeez Bodie," Ray muttered feeling both honored and shocked at what Bodie
had just done, then pulling a face when his partner's cum trickled between
his thighs. This was not what he had expected, and he started to doubt his
earlier convictions. Feeling Bodie roll off him, he glared at his partner,
getting confused as hell when the reality of what they had just done hit
him. *He was insane. Adam Taylor was a fucking lunatic to make him believe
a romance was possible with a man like Bodie.* "Christ!" He muttered
louder, reaching over for some tissues to clean himself.

"Come here-"

It was murmured in a low sexy tone, and Doyle froze. Then he had little
option for Bodie rolled over to him and dragged him down before covering
him in an octopus type hug. Doyle pulled a face wondering if this was what
all Bodie's birds felt like after sex. *Bloody typical.* It was obvious
they both expected different things from a relationship. *So why had he
been so stupid to forget that fact?!* One thing was for certain, he knew
this 'morning after' was going to be damn interesting.

******

Sliding off his lover, MacLeod peered over Adam's shoulder and saw the
other man had fallen asleep. Stunned, he stared around a little lost then
carefully gathered up the covers and settled back down. He would have
liked to talk a little more, and he glared at the ceiling. Sighing
resigned he cuddled up to the other man's warmth and started to plan the
morning's arguments.

******

*May 27th 1980. London.*

Struggling awake the following morning, Doyle opened his eyes and blinked
up in confusion at the ceiling before turning his head to squint at the
comatose form hogging all his bed sheets. *No wonder he was bloody
freezing his balls off....* he let his squint turn into a scowl as memory
fell into place and he remembered why and how he had ended up in bed with
his irritating partner. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he muttered in
self-disgust pulling an arm free of the dead weight snoring into his
pillow. Shaking his head again, he rolled away.

If ever there was a time Doyle believed he needed his head read by the
trick-psychiatrist Ross, *it was now* and he closed his eyes running
fingers through his curls to gain a measure of sanity. *What the bloody
hell had he been thinking?!?* Sneaking a look at his unconscious partner
he knew nothing less than World War Three would wake the ex- SAS man.
*Bodie could sleep through anything when he felt safe* and Doyle gave a
mock smile. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm now a bloody safe bet! A sure thing.
Great!"

Disliking himself and this new weakness, he got out of bed and stamped
towards the bathroom. *Why the hell did he think Bodie would treat sex
with him any differently than how his partner treated sex with his
numerous birds?!?* It was an exercise, a way to relieve stress, *a release
of responsibility....* he bloody well knew all that, yet still he had
allowed himself to believe this would be different. Shutting the bathroom
door, he glared at himself in the oblong mirror. "You my son, are an
idiot." He muttered in annoyance. Problem was he had spent the last two
days watching the attraction between MacLeod and Taylor reach smoldering
levels and had envied them. He craved that type of honesty in a
relationship. *To have any relationship *- and he had stupidly thought
Bodie could give him what all his female lovers had lacked. In the real
world that dream was impossible and he cursed his sick, romantic heart
that held on to such a concept. *He should know better given the job and
past experiences yet.... Bloody Bodie.*

Dropping his chin down to his chest Doyle replayed the previous night, his
apprehension, his excitement, the fear and pleasure mixed and all through
it was Bodie's smug expertise. *So his partner was no saint, he'd known
that.... but.... * "Fuck," he whispered lifting his head to stare at his
reflection. *So how would this effect the partnership because that was the
bottom line.* "Just ignore it." He told himself seriously. "Shelve it," as
he did other difficult topics when working. This was no different, *just
harder to bury*. Nodding minutely, he sucked in a deep breath and tried to
push his own inner doubts and disappointment aside. Friendship was better
than sex. *Had to be. *

Yanking open the shower door, Doyle hardened his resolve and turned the
hot tap up full, deciding to have a shower and clean up last nights
evidence before making breakfast. If he presented Bodie with no tangible
reminders, then he just hoped the other man would take the hint and
respect his silence. *That way they could both forget last night had ever
occurred.* Mind made up, he stepped under the hot spray and reached for
the soap.

******

Surfacing from sleep with that odd prickling sensation of presence down
his spine, Methos snapped his eyes open and blinked, relaxing slightly
when he met the dark amused gaze of the man he'd spent the previous night
with. Duncan MacLeod. *Oh yes he was definitely either going insane, or he
was regressing again into an impulsive teenager.* Either prospect was
daunting and he tried to cover his mild panic with a stretch and yawn
while he turned away from MacLeod's waiting gaze. Too many questions were
being asked blatantly in those persuasive Scottish eyes and he didn't feel
up to exposing any more of his tattered soul to this good-looking man.
There was no future in it. *Just think sex. Hot, horny, rough sex....* But
even as he tried to convince himself of that attitude, his thoughts were
rudely interrupted by a hot mouth that latched onto his neck and lovingly
marked him. The bruise-bite sent a delicious shiver of anticipation all
the way down to his toes and Methos found himself responding
instinctively. His morning erection twitched with interest and he cursed
his crumbling resolve as goosebumps spread like wildfire over his body at
MacLeod's caressing touch. *Fuck, but he was such an easy lay....* and he
frowned, intending to stop the Scot's exploring hands, only to gasp in
reaction when those talented fingers feathered over his semi erect shaft
then skimmed up to his sensitive nipples. "Mac-" he started, licking
sudden dry lips, glancing around to see what the time was. *If he was to
preserve any measure of self-respect he had to distract MacLeod quickly. *

"Morning," MacLeod growled, homing in on his new lover's parted lips.

The kiss that followed befuddled his senses and Methos found he was
opening his mouth wider, sighing into the thorough oral exploration and
admitting that *an amorous Highlander was not an unpleasant prospect first
thing in the morning*. MacLeod was a generous lover and Methos sank back
into the bedding, watching the man through silted eyes when his mouth was
finally released. *Duncan was a vision of power, of elegance, splendor and
magnificence. A genuine prince among his people trained to lead, to take
charge and to dominate* and a part of Methos wanted to feel all that power
directed his way. It had been a while since he had given over so much
control to another and the thrill of being dominated excited him. He
dragged in a hot breath speculating on how violently passionate MacLeod
could be if the Scot truly let go, *how primal....* and Methos sucked in
an another breath as that kissable mouth descended on him a second time.
MacLeod's mouth was anything but soft, rather it was hungry, hard, wet and
honest in need, and Methos let himself enjoy the experience, tensing only
slightly when the other man shifted position. Briefly he was washed in
cold air as the bed sheets were stripped from him, then an aroused
Highland warrior was covering him, sliding over his heated flesh in one
well-practiced move. It made him snicker into the open mouth, laughing
breathlessly when MacLeod pulled back to study him in amusement. "Mac-"
Methos tried again but was given no time to object, and he allowed the
possession, spreading his legs while he felt the Scot's knees push down
between his thighs, his traitorous body already preparing for the
tantalizing bulk of this man. Yet still the thrill of feeling MacLeod's
naked skin against his own, feeling the prominent erection press hotly
between his thighs surprised him. Aroused him more when the Highlander
latched onto his neck and sucked hard, making him moan. He stretched
automatically, extending his neck, loving the attention, arching up into
MacLeod's heat, feeling the Scot's engorged shaft slid down further
between his legs, then over his balls to tease his anus in maddening
pleasure. The carnal promise made him push up harder, his mind and body
getting so lost in the wantonness of MacLeod's arousal. He could feel the
Highlander's Quickening all around him, cushioning him, holding him safe
and he instinctively latched onto the heat above. He adored the feel of
MacLeod's coarse pubic hair stimulating his erection and he gasped, biting
his bottom lip to stop the sound, letting MacLeod's sensuous mouth moved
around to his ear before allowing the Scot to kiss him hungrily. "Fuckin'
hell.... Duncan...." Methos breathed, utterly dazed by the intense
sensations, opening further to expose other vulnerable areas to MacLeod's
clever mouth and hands as he was systematically stripped of all
inhibitions by this man. It overwhelmed him, the emotions generated
between them so dangerous to provoke this type of response, for it had
been years since he had wanted anything this desperately. As he now wanted
Duncan MacLeod. Shocked by that stark acknowledgment, he tried to stop his
beckoning surrender by pushing MacLeod to one side. But it didn't work.
Instead a callused hand cupped his face offering a gentleness which
completed his capitulation. Lifting his gaze he forced himself to meet
MacLeod's dark eyes and he realized that this was no longer a game.... *if
ever it had been a game.* MacLeod was deadly serious in his desire and
that both warmed, reassured and terrified him. Coming to a snap decision,
he opened his mouth with the intention of telling the Scot exactly who he
was and why they couldn't be lovers. But insistent fingers stopped his
words and he blinked in confusion when MacLeod only leaned closer and
smiled in silent understanding. It was a beautiful, precious, heart-
warming smile and he sighed defeated. Then the Scot was whispering to him
in Gaelic, the words jumbled and indistinct, yet the few endearments he
caught melted all remaining resistance. The soothing accent filled him
with a sense of well-being and Methos moaned softly as those caressing
lips left a trail of blazing desire in their wake before MacLeod bit him
teasingly on the shoulder. That sharp pain was immediately followed by
more pleasure, making him shudder in delight, heightening his urgent
responses to this persuasive man's touch and he pushed up to meet his
lover's thrusting hips. Only now he wanted the stronger touches, the more
forceful demands and he opened his eyes, drinking in the sight of
MacLeod's feverish gaze while the other devoured him with ravenous eyes.
In that instant he wanted everything that was offered, *he wanted to
receive all that power, all that sensual heat, all that hot, guiltless
desire....* and he reached up to drag MacLeod down so he could take the
Scot's mouth in a fierce, wet, searing kiss.

"Adam-"

It was a hoarse, eager whisper, washing over him and Methos sucked in a
ragged breath, licking his lips in silent invitation. He watched how
MacLeod's pupils dilated further in instant excitement and almost came in
reaction to the Scot's possessive growl, jumping when very strong hands
seized him. That made him laugh in wicked delight and he couldn't have
protested even if he'd wanted to when his laughter turned into giggles. It
was an infectious emotion heralding his own destruction and Methos tried
to stop his slide into insanity. *He was lost.... doomed by a beautiful
child....* Then he heard MacLeod curse in exasperation before he was being
firmly capturing by determined hands and pinned to the tangled sheets.
"Duncan-"

"Shut up!" MacLeod ordered, his eyes taking on a feral glint.

But the tone was in direct contrast to the mouth that plundered him so
swiftly and Methos gave up trying to think. He willingly lost himself in
the taste of the man kissing him and in the feel of MacLeod's fingers
traveling down his torso. How he had missed this mix of spontaneity and
rough sex coupled with such genuine affection. *It had been years....
decades.... centuries....* since he had felt so alive, and he bit back his
cry of disapproval when he was abandoned completely by his hot tantalizing
lover. "Mac-" Only this time he was smothered by MacLeod's bulk and silky
long hair trailing over his abdomen before MacLeod finished the
manipulative seduction and simply lifted his legs. Even expecting it,
Methos still cried out, gasping in shock, as MacLeod's demanding erection
penetrated the last fragile barrier between them and destroyed his
control. It unmade him. The burn of pleasure so intense that he felt
absolutely no pain. Wanting the passion, getting pressed into the sheets
and devoured anew by so talented a lover. *His highlander.... * Then his
world narrowed to heat, incredible heat and moans punctuated with softly
hissed Gaelic phrases of approval and need. He felt MacLeod increase the
pace, pounding into him, filling him with the power he had craved. Such
delicious pleasure couldn't last and Methos tried to prolong the instant
before MacLeod swept his hands aside to lean down and fleetingly capture
his mouth again in wordless apology. Then he was coming hard, stilling as
he felt MacLeod slam into him, shaking the entire bed before the
Highlander grunted his release. He watched fascinated when MacLeod threw
his head back and hot beads of sweat dripped from his gleaming body. It
was a powerful sight and Methos sagged back on the bed, reeling in utter
awe and spent desire, not surprised when MacLeod moved off him before
falling forward. The big Scot landed on his chest, clutching him tightly
before the younger Immortal lifted his head and sent him such a sweet,
loving smile. The sincerity behind the smile stunned him for it mirrored
Duncan's honest gaze and honorable intentions - and Methos held his breath
having forgotten how beautiful life and love could be, and he let his own
grin answer the serious question lingering in MacLeod's remarkable eyes.
*To be desired - loved - and be able to love in return with no
manipulation, no rules, no deception. It couldn't be that easy with this
man....* "Duncan...." Methos whispered the name like a benediction,
admitting to everything in that instant. *Duncan was such an important,
priceless addition to the Immortal Game.... a prize in his own right -*
and illogically Methos wanted to warn the other man away from him, to
protect him, but was stopped by warm fingers caressing his lips.

"What have you done to me?" MacLeod asked softly, lowering his gaze to
watch the trail his fingers made along the flushed skin beneath him.

"Duncan," Methos sought for something clever to say, so befuddled by what
he was feeling. But he didn't have to say anything for MacLeod simply
moved closer to half cover him before sighing in contentment and closing
his eyes in relaxation. Methos grunted in response to the weight along his
side, becoming saturated with MacLeod's damp hot essence a second time. He
was completely blanketed by the Highlander in every sense, absorbing the
other man's strong presence as it tingled through his senses, crushing his
final ounce of stubborn fear. Closing his eyes tightly, Methos drank in
the moment of peace knowing it couldn't last, wishing they never had to
move, but preparing himself for the inevitable. *Loving a man like Duncan
MacLeod was dangerous, suicidal, especially when they were both Immortal.*
Feeling MacLeod's small exhale of satisfaction brush over his skin Methos
hesitantly raised a hand and rested his fingertips on a broad shoulder,
memorizing all he could of this precious silence, glancing over at the
bedside table to see the time. He reached over and picked up MacLeod's
watch, scowling when he saw it was just gone 8am. "Mac...." 

Pushing up on an elbow, MacLeod let his grin spread, let his eyes feather
over the man beneath him. Adam looked so damn cute when ruffled - *and
thoroughly fucked* - MacLeod decided and let his grin widen. He was
extremely happy, content with life even though McKellen was giving them a
hard time. Nothing could dampen his private world and he reached down to
run fingers through Adam's hair. It was surprisingly soft, touchable,
inviting and MacLeod laughed when Adam' sent him a slightly exasperated
look. It covered the trace of fear in the hazel eyes and MacLeod let his
smile fade, knowing and understanding all the arguments about *why* he
shouldn't fall in love with this man. But he didn't care, and he would
just have to prove to Adam that the benefits outweighed the risks.

"You're deranged MacLeod."

"No more than the rest of us." MacLeod returned, unable to suppress his
delight at Adam's feigned displeasure. Last night and now this morning had
answered all his unspoken questions about this Immortal. It was bizarre
but he found that he trusted Adam in the most profound way, like they had
gone from strangers to intimate soul mates in the space of a few days.
There were still questions, but in the important things he had no doubts,
no fears and he celebrated his new feelings by shifting nearer to his bed
partner.

Not trusting the sloppy look on MacLeod's face, Methos wanted to scream
his joy and acceptance, but that small spark of common sense and
hard-learned survival in the back of his mind re-emerged with a vengeance
and he glared harder at MacLeod instead. "Do you have any idea what the
time is?"

"Noh." MacLeod muttered, blinking when he was expertly shoved away. "But-"
he was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. He moved to stare at
it, debating whether or not to answer it while he watched Adam roll away
from him. *The morning had been fantastic....* and he shivered, reaching
out automatically to touch the other man without thought. He wanted to
talk about the last few days, learn what Adam's true name was, but was
prevented from trying when Adam glared at him in irritation. *Just moments
ago he had listened to this man moan in pleasure, had tasted Adam's inner
desires and now.... *

"You going to answer that, or just let it ring annoyingly?"

"It's probably just CI5." MacLeod dismissed noting how Adam was climbing
out of bed then stretching before the slender form disappeared into the
adjoining bathroom. "Damn," he muttered again, snatching the phone up and
scowling at the bathroom door when it slammed closed. "MacLeod!"

"Duncan we need to talk."

Immediately recognizing his kinsman's voice, MacLeod sat up. "Problems?"
He asked, knowing that CI5 probably had this line tapped. It was
definitely time he went back to Paris and left McKellen to his cousin.
*Maybe he could convince Adam to accompany him.... *

"Are you listening to me?!"

"What?" MacLeod grumbled, bring his mind back to the phone conversation.

"I said, I think we should do breakfast. Tell your watchdogs I'm coming
up."

Not bothering to reply as the connection died, MacLeod dutifully rang down
to the reception desk and informed them he was expecting a visitor. He
knew that would notify the appropriate CI5 agents, then lifting his gaze
again he stared at the closed bathroom door deciding he was up to the
challenge if Adam wanted to be difficult. *For in the quiet, intimate
moments when he had locked gazes deliberately with the other man, Adam's
eyes hadn't lied, and he hoped Adam was just overwhelmed by the intense
emotions.* Considering that, MacLeod shook his head, not able to hold the
image in his mind of Adam being a mild- tempered college student. *There
was just something so unpredictable and dangerous about the man....
yet....* Disconcerted, MacLeod got out of bed and walked over to the
bathroom, opening the door. Inside the shower had been switched off and
MacLeod raised a brow, letting his gaze purposely travel down the graceful
wet body before it was covered by a large towel. "We're about to have a
visitor."

"Who?" Methos asked, not missing the frank appraisal. Nor did he miss the
way MacLeod moved closer like a sensual hunter and he bit his lower lip to
stop his smile. *If only....*

"Connor." MacLeod breathed, close enough now to inhale the fresh hot scent
of this naked man. He liked Adam wet and wondered what it would be like to
pin the other man in the shower *and....*

"How do you think he will take this?" Methos asked very conscious of the
hand that settled on his bare shoulder. He watched MacLeod's face,
captivated by this man's attractiveness. 

"None of his business." MacLeod whispered, sliding his hand behind Adam's
neck and dragging the other man into a kiss. Adam tasted good and he moved
his mouth away from the hot lips to nibble the damp jaw before biting the
pale skin of Adam's throat. He marked him deliberately, hearing Adam hiss
out a breath before drawing back to admire his handy work. "What about
you?"

"Me?" Methos asked, pushing MacLeod back and fingering his tingling neck.
The bruise/bite would heal within minutes but he still sent MacLeod a
reproving glare. "What the fuck were you in a previous life, MacLeod?" He
grumbled half-heartedly. "I know the Scottish moors were wild.... but
bloody hell, Mac, wild animals and vampires have nothing on you. Or are
you just lacking iron in your diet?!"

"I think I just added you to my diet," MacLeod muttered in provocation
liking the mischievous glint that entered Adam's changeable eyes with that
comment. *Oh yes, he absolutely wanted to sample more of Adam Taylor.*
About to say more MacLeod was stopped in his musings, hearing a knock at
the room's main door. Biding his time, he reached out and gently caressed
Adam's lips with a thumb then went back into the bedroom and dragged on a
robe. Later he would coax a willing admission of need from Adam, but right
now he had to find out what his cousin wanted. Picking up his katana even
as he was washed in the first waves of a new Immortal presence, MacLeod
reminded himself that he couldn't be too careful. Adam's presence was like
a comforting drone in the back of his mind, a sensation he could easily
get used to, and let his lips curve up even as he heard the knocking
repeated. *Had to be Connor for his irascible cousin was always so damn
impatient*.

Alone in the bathroom Methos stared after the closed door. Stunned
speechless by MacLeod's confident attitude, Methos knew that it would be
far too easy to fall into a relationship with the dynamic Scot. *As
tempting as it might be.... he had other plans. Important plans.
Schedules.... *that where currently in disarray because he was allowing
himself to get drawn into MacLeod's chaotic life. *He was never going to
infiltrate the Watchers unless he did the background work, and associating
with the likes of the MacLeod cousins was only going to get him noticed.
Fuck!

*Roughly toweling himself dry he pondered the alternatives. *Best thing to
do was distance himself* - but first he wanted to completely sample the
Highland child in every facet. Then he could fade into the background and
meet up with Duncan at a later date. "Priorities, priorities, priorities."
He reminded himself. *Besides, he had to make sure the Watchers had
absolutely no record of who Methos was....* and he straightened to glance
in the mirror. The lovebite on his neck was fading and he gently fingered
it again, his mind playing over alternatives. And then he mentally slapped
himself realizing that he was trying to find ways to keep MacLeod in his
life while still accomplishing his plans. *That would be so unfair on the
younger Immortal* and he closed his eyes to curse Fate's perverse sense of
humor. *Why couldn't this have happened to him five years ago? Ten - fifty
or even a hundred years ago? Why now!?! *

Making sure he was decently covered by one of the hotel's complimentary
bathrobes, MacLeod opened the door slightly and peered out. He was
immediately bathed in Connor's humorless grin, noting the two CI5 agents
who were patrolling the corridor. Hastily putting his sword behind his
back he opened the door wider, slightly curious that neither Bodie nor
Doyle had shown up yet. *Maybe last night's dinner had convinced Bodie to
walk away....* and he smiled waiting for Connor to enter before re-locking
the door.

"I thought I told you to lose the mortals." Connor snapped, swiftly
glancing around the room before settling his irritable gaze back on his
younger clansman.

Not bothering to answer that, MacLeod noted Connor's scowl and knew his
cousin was sensing Adam's presence. "Adam," he said by way of explanation
even as the man in question ambled into the room. He noted that Adam
looked relaxed, utterly uninterested in the fact there was a new Immortal
in the room and MacLeod narrowed his eyes wondering if that was another
clever front. *Probably.* He was amazed at how easily he was starting to
see behind the calm, careful façade to the real man underneath.

"Marquetos?!" Connor growled, taking a step towards the other man, before
turning back to glare at Duncan. "You didn't tell me Taylor's other name
was Marquetos?"

*Marquetos?* MacLeod blinked, *that name started with M* and he pondered
the idea that this was his intriguing lover's real identity. Switching his
gaze to Adam he saw the other man roll his eyes up in feigned amusement.
*Noh.... it was close but his sixth sense warned it was another deception.
But was he getting closer to the heart of the truth?* "You didn't ask."
MacLeod shot back, gesturing for Connor to proceed him. When his cousin
stubbornly refused to move, MacLeod sighed and stepped around him. "We had
this discussion yesterday," he muttered in Gaelic to Connor, walking over
to Adam and biting back on his leer. Adam was dressed in those wickedly
tight jeans and sporting one of his own favorite turtle neck sweaters. It
surprised and warmed him to think Adam would dress in his clothing.
Stopping to check that Adam was okay with Connor's arrival, MacLeod
indicated the sweater with a lifted brow, asking all sorts of things
privately and was rewarded with a muttered reassurance while Adam fingered
the turtle neck in question. MacLeod then looked back at Connor. "So you
two know each other?" He ventured, hoping one of them would give him some
answer.

"We've met. Briefly." Methos muttered again, not wanting to go into
detail. *Damn! If Duncan didn't have a Watcher then Connor would.* His
luck - *if he had any left* - would not hold at this rate.

"1588." Connor admitted staring at Marquetos, remembering the man he had
meet back then. *A blacksmith....* 

******

*Flashback Scotland, 1588.*

*Lifting his head painfully, Connor wished the liquor was stronger, or
that his tolerance level was lower.... he didn't care just so long as the
god-awful ache in his head vanished. Heather....

His beautiful Heather had died less than four moons ago and he was still
consumed with grief. Nothing seemed real. This immortality Ramirez had
told him about was a curse and he wanted to die. Willed it. The only thing
keeping him sane was the burning desire that was growing in his mind of
seeking revenge. If Ramirez hadn't died.... if Kurgan hadn't killed
him.... if Heather had been able to share his gift....

"Are you totally deranged?"

The voice was not in his head, it didn't even sound like his own voice.
For one it had a strange accent. Welsh - and he automatically spat in
distaste. Then he felt strong fingers in his hair and he winced, feeling
his head lifted. Belligerently he glared at the person who dared interrupt
his musings coming eye to eye with bright golden-green orbs. Not a gaze he
remotely recognized.

"Typical inebriated, dense-witted Scottish jackass...."

Hearing the uncomplimentary tone trail off, Connor tried to reply, to
direct a flowing insult back at his new tormentor and he turned. Only he
found himself falling, hitting the dirt floor with a numbing force. It
shocked him and he shook his head, groaning in pain when he finally
identified what the persistent awful pain behind his eyes was. Another
Immortal. It had been so long.... so long since he had felt that
threatening buzz that his senses were rusty, his mind too tainted with
images of revenge, of wanting Kurgan.... Squinting up into the dimness of
the rowdy tavern, he saw the man who had disturbed his drinking and
scowled at him. Immortal. But the other was busy pushing a second man
backwards. Slowly Connor's brain registered the fact that the second
intruder was also Immortal and he barely had time to sit up before both
combatants drew swords. Only his rescuer was better than the other in
sword skill and in a short confusing time the second challenger was dead.
Impaled on his own blade. Then the man with the vivid gold-green eyes and
Welsh lilt was dragging the dead body away and Connor opened his mouth to
protest before curious bystanders kicked him in the guts. He passed out,
not caring if he lived or died....

Coming to a second time, he was not surprised to find the unwelcome buzz
of an Immortal assaulting him again. Opening his eyes he glared at the man
sitting across from him, not surprised to see it was the same golden-eyed
man who had woken him in the tavern. Only they were no longer in the
tavern. Now they were in a barn. A filthy barn and he let his eyes adjust
to the dim lighting, just making out a huge firepit behind his new
associate. The bright glare hurt and he blinked before eyeing the man
across from him with open suspicion. The man was tall, slender, with long
dark hair tied back with a leather thong. He was wearing a leather apron
that was blackened and burnt with fire scolds while he hammered some item
on his workbench. Connor watched the rhythmic action, his eyes drawn to
the Immortal's sweat dampened muscles, his grim determination and patient
persistence. The ringing sound of metal on metal was annoying, increasing
the ache behind his eyes and he forced himself to assess the other
Immortal's obvious strengths and weaknesses. Was he about to become
another defeated opponent? "I'd like to say it is a pleasure to see you
again, but-"

His erstwhile savior just gave a sharp, gruff laugh.

"What happened to the body you dragged out of the tavern?" Connor
persisted, forcing himself to sit up. His head still felt fuzzy but the
effects of his continuous drinking were slowly wearing off. Pointedly he
glanced over at the huge furnace and raised a brow. His companion only
laughed again before picking up the item he was working on. It was a
sword. 

Refusing to be intimidated, Connor casually looked around for his
treasured blade. The one left to him by Ramirez. But he was weaponless and
he settled his hooded gaze back on his silent associate. Friend or enemy?
"Do you intend to challenge me?"

The other scoffed again, putting his partially finished sword down. "If I
wanted your head you would be dead."

It was a passionless voice. Definitely of Welsh origin, or at least this
man had spent time with its people. "So what...." Connor stopped as the
other reached over and lifted a beautiful katana. Connor recognized it
instantly and his gut contracted.

"Beautiful weapon. If I were you, I'd take better care of it." With that
the Immortal threw the sword at the startled Scot.

Catching the blade, Connor re-evaluated this Immortal, letting his eyes
look over him again, not missing the deceptive power of this man. This
Immortal was dangerous, of that he was positive. "So-"

"You want to drink yourself into oblivion, do it in private. Not in a
public tavern. Not for a solid month and not in the plain sight of every
opportunist, power seeking Immortal in the vicinity!"

Taken back by the hissed words, Connor closed his eyes briefly then nodded
before gracing the other man with a tiny smile. "That Immortal was after
my head." He stated, looking at the man with a sense of respect. How long
had it been since he associated honor with Immortals? "Why did you
intervene?"

The other shrugged. "Boredom."

Not fooled, Connor let his smile grow. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod, and I am in your debt." Keeping his eyes on the other man, he
started to speculate how old this man could be. Like Ramirez? Ramirez had
never hidden his knowledge and he wondered if this man would be adverse to
teaching him where Ramirez had left off. Suddenly he found it was
refreshing to be with another again who shared his secret. "Do you have a
name?"

"Marquetos." The other stated. 

"Can I-"

"You are welcome to stay here for a few days, but I suggest you move on.
Edinburgh is not the place you once remembered." *

******

*Present. *

Blinking, Connor brought his mind back into focus and saw Marquetos send
him a reminiscent smile. He had only stayed a few short days with this
man. Had never learned much about his host, but had found his own inner
balance. "1588," he repeated. "Edinburgh."

Casting an exasperated look between his lover and his cousin, Duncan
MacLeod frowned. *Obviously Adam was not going to enlighten him and it
looked like Connor was going to be closed mouthed as well.* "Nothing bad I
hope?" He asked on a worried breath.

"No." Connor sighed then dismissed the past. He was no longer that
searching, inexperienced man and he let his eyes flick away from Marquetos
to Duncan noting his kinsman's protective body language. *Duncan was....*
then he remembered Amanda's vague warning about how *Duncan was going
through his 'nesting' phase again*, as she termed it. *Could his cousin
now be fixating on Marquetos? *He hoped not for he knew Marquetos was a
loner. * Had learned that much the hard way. *

"Good," MacLeod said with more conviction than necessary. Later, in bed
he'd get the whole story out of Adam, but for now it could wait. Currently
he just wanted to make sure no one was going to pull a sword, *though it
didn't look like Adam was carrying.* "What did you want to tell me Connor?
Your call sounded urgent."

"McKellen." Connor exhaled, remembering why he was here. "I lost him in
the docks."

"Great," Methos muttered, seeing Nef appear from an adjacent room.
Mentally he calculated the last time he had fed her and glanced over at
the kitchen. This place was expensive and he was sure he could find
something suitable for her.

Seeing Adam or Marquetos heading to the kitchen, Connor concentrated his
glare on Duncan. *Oh yes*, now that he looked for the telltale signs of
Duncan's desperate need to connect with a normal life again, he could see
the seriousness behind his clansman's large eyes. *Amanda was right* - not
often was she right - but when it came to Duncan and his endearing
personality faults she was rarely wrong. He would have to have a private
word with Marquetos. "I think it would be best if you returned to Paris." 

"What?" MacLeod asked, not expecting this. Though he had considered this
idea only an hour or so ago.

"McKellen will implicate you, and I don't want the hassle of having to
work around complications. Go back to Paris Duncan. Let me deal with
this."

"And Adam?" MacLeod asked softly, checking to see where his lover had
gone. Adam was peering into the fridge, frowning over items as that little
minx of a cat Adam called a pet was rubbing against his jeans-clad legs.
*Lucky cat.... *

"Get him out of London, I don't care," Connor stated, reaching out to grip
Duncan's forearm. "Be careful." He whispered. "He is Immortal, and we know
little about him."

"But you know him," MacLeod returned just as softly, keeping his voice
down.

"We've met." Connor agreed, nodding once. "He saved my life, then he
vanished." He carried on. "He can take care of himself. I want you out of
London." 

Absorbing those words, MacLeod tried to imagine the past, coloring it with
what he could perceive and speculate on. *Connor had stated it was 1588 -
less than 400 years ago.... Adam had saved his life....* "What happened?"
He found himself asking almost on reflex.

Wincing slightly when he heard the undisguised longing in Duncan's tone,
Connor groaned inwardly. "You are playing a dangerous game-"

"Tell me!" MacLeod pushed, refusing to listen.

"I met him six months after Heather's death." Connor said with a sigh.
"Duncan-"

"I won't leave him here."

Swearing in Gaelic, Connor glared at his infuriating kinsman. "Then take
him to Paris." He growled, releasing Duncan when the man in question
walked out of the small kitchen area and eyed them both suspiciously.

"Problems?" Methos asked, feeling the tension in the room. Against his
better judgement he was instantly revising all his plans again, getting
worried about Duncan MacLeod's safety. *There was no fool, like an old
fool. *

"Yes," Connor hissed.

"Noh!" MacLeod overrode, sending Adam a strained smile.

Lifting a brow, Methos wasn't sure whom to believe, and he tensed when a
loud knocking at the door interrupted them all.

Sweeping his eyes from Adam back to Connor, MacLeod prayed his clansman
dropped the subject, reluctantly moving away see who was at the door. He
got no buzz of warning presence so yanked the door open in a mix of anger
and frustration. He was sick of these continual interruptions. "Yes?!" He
growled then stopped seeing Bodie and Doyle. "Fuck," he intoned softly,
letting a small smile form as he realized he was already picking up some
of Adam's habits.

"May we come in?" Bodie asked pointedly, glaring past MacLeod's
half-dressed body. They had been informed that John Nash had shown up and
he wanted some answers.

"Why not." MacLeod grumbled, letting the two CI5 agents in. They were
turning into personal little demons.

Running his gaze expertly around the room, Doyle let his eyes stop on
Taylor to find the man was staring back at him. There was a twinkle in the
hazel depths and he found his mouth traitorously curved up in silent
response to Taylor's silent questions. Shaking his head Doyle forced his
eyes away from Taylor, positive the man had read his thoughts far too
easily, only this time he met Bodie's disproving and slightly confused
glare. His partner was still not happy, but he could not let himself be
swayed by Bodie's petitioning blue eyes. Then to make matters worse Taylor
started to laugh.

Frowning MacLeod glanced over at his perverse lover and wondered what the
hell Adam found so damn funny. "Adam?" He asked, noting how Bodie's look
only darkened.

"Don't say I haven't warned you about him." Connor muttered in Gaelic to
Duncan before moving away from the two CI5 agents. Life was getting just a
little too complicated for his liking.

"What?" MacLeod mouthed, stunned, trying to ignore Adam as the other
collapsed down in an appealing sprawl on the padded lounge. Turning back
to the two agents he saw Doyle's sly smile and groaned inwardly. *What was
going on now?!? He'd had enough of CI5's bloody interference....* "This
had better be important." He stated, placing hands on hips and now wanting
to get rid of everyone so he could interrogate his exasperating lover.

"Duncan," Connor interjected in Gaelic, disliking games of any sort. "I
thought I told you to lose Bonny and Clyde."

Hearing this, Methos snorted, laughing even harder, feeling his ribs ache
as he caught MacLeod's perplexed look. *This had to be a bi-product of
stress.... *

"There have been a few," MacLeod hesitated, refusing to look at Adam,
"..complications."

"Understatement of the millennia!" Methos added in English. Then he too
switched to Gaelic. "I'll give them one thing, they are very persistent."

"That is enough!" Bodie cut in furious. So far his morning had been
disastrous and this triple act was now royally pissing him off. "I am sick
of repeating myself here! This can be classified as obstruction and we are
well within our rights to haul your Scottish arses down to headquarters
unless I start seeing some cooperation! You can start by speaking the
Queen's English."

"I think you've upset him," Methos muttered in Gaelic.

"Shut up!" Was spoken in unison by Bodie and Duncan MacLeod.

Blinking in false injury, Methos sighed and wiggled further into the soft
cushions, gesturing for them to continue. 

"What do you want Mr. Bodie?" MacLeod asked with exaggerated politeness.

Banking down on his anger, Bodie rolled his shoulders back, sure that
Cowley had *no idea* how troublesome MacLeod was. "MR. Cowley wants to see
you."

"Can't-"

"That was not a request." Bodie cut MacLeod off again.

Regarding Bodie for a long second, MacLeod glanced at Doyle and saw the
impassive expression. He had probably pushed both men as far as it was
advisable for one day already and he nodded slowly. "What about...." he
left the rest unsaid, gesturing to Connor and Adam behind him.

"I have the honor of staying here." Doyle said into the silence. Truth was
they had flipped a coin for the job of taking MacLeod to see Cowley at
Headquarters and Bodie had lost.

"Lucky me gets to escort you to Mr. Cowley." Bodie finished with a
strained humorless smile.

"Lucky." MacLeod repeated. "I'll just get dressed." He hesitated, seeing
that Adam was ignoring him. *Later*, he promised silently. Walking to his
bedroom, he stopped when Connor called to him softly. They were just out
of hearing range of the two agents but still Connor spoke in Gaelic.

"What do they know?"

"Nothing," MacLeod replied in the same language. "They think McKellen is a
serial killer. Nothing more. They have few clues from what I can gather.
They are hoping I will lead them to him."

Digesting that, Connor nodded. It was what he had expected. "Get rid of
them."

"What do you want me to do? Kill them?" MacLeod grouched as his eyes swept
over the room behind Connor and automatically settled on Adam's bowed
head. He could see that Doyle had walked over to Adam and was now speaking
to him quietly. Slowly MacLeod unclenched a fist. 

"Find out what this Cowley wants." Connor summarized. "I'll ring you
later."

Releasing a tense breath, MacLeod nodded. With one last look back at Adam,
he went into his bedroom seeing the immaculately tidy room and remembering
he had spent the night in Adam's room. It brought a small smile to his
face and he went to have a shower.

******

Waiting until Duncan had gone, Connor turned back to the other occupants
of the room. Both CI5 agents were by the main windows now, the
curly-headed agent talking into his radio and he cautiously glanced over
at Marquetos. Not wanting to get caught in a Police issue, Connor went
over to Marquetos - Adam - and leaned close over the back of the lounge,
making sure their conversation was private. "Marquetos," he started,
seeing the other turn slightly to study him. *No, he was not mistaken
about this man,* and he worried again for Duncan's sake. "I know you are
older than both of us and I'm not prying - but this is not a game for
Duncan. When he gets involved, he does it totally."

Taken back a little by Connor's forwardness, Methos narrowed his gaze, not
remembering this man being so interested in other's personal safety. But
then again, Connor and Duncan were kinsmen. Plus Connor had been the
younger Scot's teacher. 

"He commits with an intensity I have never seen equaled in another of our
kind." Connor advised. 

"Listen MacLeod-"

"Hurt him intentionally and our next meeting will be different. Kill him
and I'll come for you personally. Regardless of the blood debt between
us." 

Subduing his sense of unease, Methos said nothing when Connor moved away
from him, the dour Scot never glancing back as he went to the door and
exited the room with no further comment. *Fuck....* Methos let go of his
sigh, deciding that he needed to definitely reconsider his association
with Duncan MacLeod. *Last thing he wanted was to be on Connor MacLeod's
hit list. That would just draw too much attention. *

"Where the hell-" Bodie broke off, raising his R/T and alerted the agents
outside the hotel. Cowley would not be pleased if they lost Nash again.
Wanting to throw his hands up in the air, Bodie glared at the immaculately
dressed Duncan MacLeod when the Scot exited the bedroom. His orders where
to take MacLeod to Cowley while Doyle babysat Taylor. While the pair were
separated they would see if they could get information - learn anything
that could close this frustrating case. Failing that he intended to inform
Cowley that they should deport MacLeod back to Paris and let Interpol deal
with the problem. As for Taylor - apart from a very sketchy history from
the University there was nothing they could detain the man on. Glancing at
Doyle, Bodie hesitated, knowing they now had new issues that were clouding
the partnership. *Later,* after he had returned with MacLeod he would get
Doyle alone and make his position understood.

"How long will this take?" MacLeod asked, watching both agents. He knew
that there would be agents downstairs to watch the hotel and he had to
trust Adam's own skill when it came to the Immortal Game. It was just so
hard to walk away.

"An hour. Maybe two." Bodie said in a clipped tone. He nodded at Doyle,
receiving a nod in return and preceded MacLeod to the door. Opening it he
shepherded the man out, wishing that the sinking feeling in his gut would
ease. In two hours he would be back.

Glancing back once, MacLeod was gratified to see that Adam was staring at
him in mild worry and he buried his smile. *When he got back they would
finish their early morning talk. *

******

More pleased than he wanted to admit when MacLeod's presence faded from
his mind, Methos sagged back into the cushions and eyed the man prowling
around the room. *Doyle*. Raymond Doyle was almost as peeved and
frustrated as he felt and he closed his eyes to try and regain a measure
of calm. *But nothing had gone right*. At least not from the moment Duncan
MacLeod had exploded into his life. *Oh yes he was living again, not just
existing. He'd experienced death, life and mind-blowing fantastic sex....
but did he want the after-effects? That was the question.* Connor's words
still echoed in his mind, and he had to acknowledge the Scot's perceptive
assessment of the situation*. So Duncan was serious.... Jesus.... * All
that he craved was offered on a platter, *but was he brave enough, or was
that stupid enough, to accept the gift? Or did he walk away and mourn the
lost opportunity? Something like this only happened once in a millennia. *

"So who is John Nash when he's not being John Nash?" Doyle broke into the
poignant silence, ambling around to stare at Taylor's sprawled form. *The
man was attractive*, he had to admit, *but still Taylor did nothing
sexually for him. Bodie on the other hand.... *and Doyle paced away
restless again, angry with himself and his damn conscience.

"I don't know." Methos muttered then frowned, watching Doyle. "You look -
tense." Methos added after a pause, transferring all his doubts onto Doyle
as he saw the other man grunt in reply. "I take it things didn't go well
last night."

"That is none of your bloody business!" Doyle snapped, irritated.

"No." Methos conceded. "Just as Nash is none of your business."

Lifting his gaze, Doyle's eyes hardened. "Listen-"

"No you listen," Methos broke in seriously, levering himself up to stand
before pacing over toward the confused CI5 agent. "This is no game. There
are no winners here. And victims don't wake up in hospital." He took a
deep breath. "If you want to survive and you want to keep that
bad-tempered partner of yours alive and warm, then I suggest you back
off."

"I can't," Doyle whispered back. "This is my job."

"Then you are a fool." Methos stated.

Wanting to protest and explain his position, Doyle was stopped from
answering by a knock at the door. Automatically reaching for his gun,
Doyle cautiously went over the door and peered out the spyglass. "Room
service?" He mouthed back at Taylor.

Shrugging Methos shoved his hands in his back pockets. *No doubt Mac had
ordered them breakfast. *

"Yes?" Doyle called, unclipping the safety on his gun. *It was strange
that no one had called up to notify him via the R/T, unless Curtis was
getting bloody slack. *

"Room service, Mr. MacLeod."

Glancing again at Taylor, Doyle looked around the room, seeing no evidence
of a recent breakfast and sighed. Opening the door he looked at the hotel
employee, mentally cataloging him as early thirties, average build,
dressed appropriately. Swiftly Doyle glanced down the corridor and saw no
sign of anyone else and muttered an obscenity under his breath*. Wait
until he got hold of Curtis.... the man was as useless as tits on a bull
and Cowley would cream his arse for this breach in protocol*. Opening the
door wider he clipped his safety back on and lifted the cover, seeing and
smelling fresh hot bacon, eggs and toast. His own stomach responded
reminding him of his sparse breakfast and he indicated for the tray to be
placed on the table. Then he glanced at Taylor and saw the other send him
an amused grin. "Next time warn me." He ordered.

"How was I to know Duncan ordered breakfast," Methos asked innocently.

"What?" Doyle started, then stopped, reaching for his gun again, but
finding he was too late as the unassuming young man pulled out a gun and
shot him twice at close range. Two darts hit him in the chest, instantly
disabling him and Doyle went down seeing that Taylor was similarly
affected. Reaching for his R/T Doyle depressed the button feeling the
blackness of unconsciousness crowd his mind.

******

MacLeod let his mind drift idly, giving up on his attempts to get the
silent man in the driver's seat to talk. Bodie had been in a black mood
when he and his partner had arrived, but MacLeod was not going to let the
other man's problems destroy the warm happy and contented feeling that had
been buzzing through his system ever since he woke up this morning. He had
been immensely relieved to find a very real and thoroughly mussed Adam
sprawled in the bed next to him, because deep down he had harbored a fear
that the other man was just going to leave at the first opportunity and
vanish from his life. A wide sloppy smile plastered itself onto MacLeod's
lips as memories of the previous night's sex with his cantankerous lover
floated lazily through his brain. He replayed the sound of Adam's voice
while the other had writhed beneath him in the throes of passion, the
usually light baritone deepened with lust. 

Relaxing back in the Capri's passenger seat, MacLeod closed his eyes. *The
better to replay the images that were flipping through his mind's eye*. He
could see Adam sprawled on the bed but as he let his mind relax further,
the hotel room seemed to fade into darkness to be replaced by a tent.... 

*....His lover was now nestled in a bed of large cushions and Adam was
dressed in a long flowing robe that was partially open revealing a long
expanse of chest and slim hips. He could almost smell the cool desert air
and glancing out the open tent flap he realized it was dark, for the last
remnants of the sunset shimmered on the far horizon. Then his attention
was drawn back to the man before him and he gasped. Gone was Adam Taylor -
university student - in his place was a creature that MacLeod had never
seen before. Golden skin now gleamed where it once had been pale, long
silky black hair fanned out across the cushions and he ached to run his
fingers through it. Somehow the name Adam Taylor did not fit with the
exotic being that lay sprawled before him, and he wondered again what this
man's real name might be. Someday he would find out. That much he promised
himself.

"Come here." 

His dream lover commanded, reaching out a slim graceful hand to capture
his own hand and pull him down on the bed of luxurious cushions.... *

Bodie glanced again at his passenger, MacLeod, and his mood blackened even
further. *From the sloppy look on the other man's face he had obviously
gotten lucky last night. Very lucky....* But what made him angry now was
that although he himself had gotten what he wanted last night from Doyle,
this morning had been a different story. *Entirely.* Working the morning's
events over in his mind he tried to decipher what could possibly have gone
wrong between the moment he had fallen asleep and the time when he'd
woken.

******

*Flashback to Doyle's apartment - that morning.*

*Waking to his usual lethargy fogged-brain-after-sex feeling, Bodie
blindly reached for the warm body that should have been there beside him.
However, all he encountered was a cold bed and rumpled sheets. "Shit.
Doyle?" He mumbled rubbing sleep from his eyes and forcing them to focus.
"Ray?" He called, louder this time. Still no reply. Hauling himself to a
sitting position he searched the floor for his pants and pulled them on,
heedless of the evidence of last night's pleasure, it was laundry day
anyway.

Wandering into the kitchen he spotted his partner siting at the table,
coffee mug in hand and head down over the morning paper. "What's with
this?" Bodie demanded with a sweeping gesture taking in the whole kitchen.

"What's with what, Bodie?" Ray Doyle replied without looking up from the
fascinating contents of the paper, his nose twitching at the smell of sex
that still clung to his partner.

"Don't give me that bullshit Ray, I mean you - sitting out here when you
should still be in bed."

Doyle snorted, glancing up briefly. "I thought you liked your lays to be
gone when you got up."

What!!??!! *

******

*Present. *

Bodie silently snarled, cursing himself. Things had gone rapidly down hill
from there until the argument had been interrupted by his R/T going off
and they had been ordered to pick MacLeod up and bring him to Cowley's
office. *For a de-briefing*.

For once Bodie had been glad of the intrusion, at least it had stopped the
argument escalating to the point of doing irreparable damage to their
partnership. At least he hoped that was the case. The ride to the hotel
had been one of the most unbearable times in Bodie's life and he would
much rather have been travelling with a bunch of hostile Irish Bombers
than his silent and brooding partner. *Lover?* That was the question.
*Doyle had muttered something incomprehensible about not being a
convenient lay when his usual bird wasn't available....* 

Reaching the hotel and finding the obvious signs that MacLeod and that
pissy college student, Taylor, had screwed their brains out all night and
were still talking - had made his mood worse. Bodie just hated smug,
self-satisfied bastards. Glaring out his windscreen, he glanced over at
his passenger and noted that MacLeod had that distant expression on his
face again and Bodie had to suppress the overpowering urge to smack the
sloppy grin off the too handsome face. Instead he decided on a less direct
approach.

Sitting in his seat, unaware of Bodie's worsening mood, MacLeod let
himself totally sink into his small fantasy. He could almost feel the
phantom hands of his desert prince on his skin as the other reached up to
pull him down into a searing kiss.... 

*....Settling his body over his lover's, he allowed himself to revel again
in the feel of heated flesh on heated flesh and the pleasure of the
breathy moans that he was coaxing from the willing body beneath him as
Adam's hands caressed the sensitive skin of his neck.... *

Suddenly he was thrown sideways against the seatbelt and MacLeod's eyes
flew open, his blissful mood shattered as he instinctively gripped at the
dash in front of him. "Shit!"

"Sorry 'bout that." Bodie apologized.

MacLeod felt that there was a distinct lack of sincerity in the apology
from the CI5 agent and turned to glare at the man driving. "What the hell
happened?" He snapped, very unhappy at having his little daydream
disturbed.

"Took the corner a little too fast." Bodie replied blandly, ignoring the
anger coming from the other man with ease and trying to keep a
self-satisfied grin off his face.

MacLeod resisted the urge to snarl and settled back down into his seat
closing his eyes and using one of his meditation techniques to calm his
mind. *He was going to get back to his little fantasy,* and he refused to
let Bodie have the satisfaction of beating him. *Now where was he? Oh
aye.... *warm hands.... 

*....He slid a hand down his lover's side, the warm skin silky to his
touch. He smiled, absorbing his lover's breath, feeling the other shudder
when his hand finally found its way to the hot rigid shaft that was
trapped between their bodies. His fingers brushing away the light robe
that had hidden his prize.... *

Bodie scowled at his passenger, more than a little disappointed at being
unable to provoke the Scot. He was in the mood at the moment for a fight,
mostly because he wanted to avoid thinking about Doyle. Or the fact *Doyle
was alone with Taylor.* Convulsively his hands tightened around the
steering wheel. *He'd kill that little prick if he touched Ray.... *
Problem was he had no idea what had gotten up his partner's nose, and
unfortunately knew that Ray wasn't going to make things easier for him by
explaining any of it. He'd asked Ray if it was something he'd done and the
reply had been - 'If you have to ask, then I don't think I want to discuss
it.' That had been as enlightening as reading one of Cowley's cryptic
notes. Glancing over at MacLeod, Bodie silently swore to himself. *Christ,
the Scot was off in fantasyland - yet again. Anyone would think the guy
was still a teenager the way he was grinning. *

Lost in his daydream, MacLeod settled further into the comfortable
passenger's seat....

*....Under him his lover arched up, a moan forced from his throat while he
licked his way down the sweat slick torso. He growled at the sensations
those long talented fingers were evoking as they borrowed into his hair
and massaged his scalp, gently encouraging him on his southward
exploration. The warmth, wetness.... hotness.... *

Getting thrown forward just when he was about to claim his prize, MacLeod
found himself jolted by the seatbelt when Bodie braked vigorously a second
time. This time he allowed the snarl that sprang to his lips to show when
he turned to face Bodie and he caught the answering gleam in the CI5 man's
blue eyes. *So Bodie was spoiling for a fight*. Sorely tempted MacLeod bit
back on his response, damned if he was going to give the other man the
satisfaction of provoking him. Putting all of his four- hundred-years
experience into play, he simply glared back, letting his eyes say 'back
off' louder than any spoken word. Watching Bodie flinch slightly, he then
allowed a feral smile to spread over his lips.

*Christ, what the fuck was that!?!* Bodie had been intimidated by the
best, but never before had he met someone who could actually inspire a
reaction from him. There was suddenly a weight behind this Scot that Bodie
found hard to decipher. He'd judged MacLeod purely on what he had read in
the file and what he'd seen - and usually that was all he needed to make
an accurate call. But in MacLeod's case he suddenly found himself sitting
next to a person he had no clue about. All his previous evaluations now
become invalid and that was not a feeling Bodie found comfortable, or one
he was used to. Frowning, he hasty changed his preconceptions.

MacLeod smiled inwardly as he watched the various emotions flit across the
usually impassive face of the CI5 man. So he'd achieved the desired
impression. *Good....* because he really did not want to fight with this
man. They had to work together if they were going to run across McKellen
before Connor found the bastard. He was reluctant to involve CI5 in his
private feud with his deranged countryman, but since he had very little
choice in the matter - *Connor's warnings and mumbling to the contrary* -
he needed to work with both agents to resolve this. And being in constant
conflict with Bodie wasn't helping matters. Intimidation usually wasn't
his style, that was more in Connor's nature, but if it saved time he
wasn't above using it occasionally as a last resort. He just hoped he'd
made his point.

Bodie shot a fast covert glance across at MacLeod, to find that the other
man had settled himself back down in the seat and closed his eyes. *Well,
at least MacLeod wasn't going to make and issue of it,* not if he backed
down that is. Cursing to himself Bodie conceded defeat, but he'd die
before he admitted that to anyone else, Doyle included. Going with the old
adage that retreat was the better part of valor, Bodie concentrated on the
remainder of their journey to CI5 HQ.

Hearing the small sigh from the other man, MacLeod smiled inwardly and got
back to more interesting musings. *Now where had he been.... *

*....He inhaled his lover's scent deeply, tasting arousal on Adam's skin
before taking the weeping shaft into his mouth. The low moans coming from
his lover sent tingles across his skin as he worked the hot rigid shaft
with this lips and tongue. He held the thrusting hips with one hand while
with his other he fondled Adam's balls. Squeezing gently, he felt the
tremors that rippled through the body under him and the breathy sigh's
that issued from the sensual mouth. That baritone a purr along his senses.

"Ahhhh, graidh, please.... now-" 

Adam was begging and he reluctantly released the rigid shaft. Climbing his
lover's slender body he took the open panting mouth in another soul
stealing kiss, reaching out with his right hand to the small bottle of
scented oil that sat by their sides. Breaking the kiss with a last gentle
lick of his tongue across the bruised lips, he smiled down into the
passion dilated eyes, chuckling when a look of reproach at his abandonment
flitted across the glassy green-eyed gaze. "Soon love.... soon." He
crooned soothingly while he worked the stopper from the phial with his
thumb and forefinger, occupying his other hand with light caresses across
the warm golden skin of chest and stomach. Pouring a generous amount of
the oil into his hand he placed the bottle back on the carpet, before
rubbing his hands together to warm the oil with his body heat. Tracing a
finger up one long calf muscle to the now bent knee, he let his finger run
down a lean thigh, drawing a shuddering moan from the man beneath him. He
then followed the path of taunt muscles down to the heated groin and
further, slipping his oil-slicked fingers between his lover's firm
backside. He drank in the hiss of pleasure as first one then two fingers
slipped past the tight ring of muscle into the moist inviting heat. He
gently prepared his lover, leaning forward to lick kiss the damp skin of
Adam's belly. A low growl told him that his lover was growing impatient
and with a last glance at the hooded demanding eyes he withdrew his
fingers and replaced them with his own aching shaft. Gripping the slender
hips he thrust forward and in one long smooth motion he found himself
buried to the hilt in the welcome haven of his lover's body. Slipping his
arms beneath the bent knees, he slid forward up the sweat-slicked length
of Adam's body to again claim the pouting lips in a gentle kiss. He found
a sensual rhythm that pleased them both and supporting his weight off the
smaller man, he rained butterfly kisses over the upturned face, absorbing
the breathy murmuring in long languid kisses*....

Hearing his R/T beep, Bodie reached for it and depressed the call button.
"3.7."

Static was his return reply, then silence - a deadly, eerie silence and
Bodie frowned before depressing the call button again. "3.7 to 4.5, come
in." 

Nothing for a prolonged moment then a voice gasped out, the sound hallow
down the bad connection, but the words were clear. "Bodie.... room
service.... dru...." followed by a groan with a hissed curse in the
background before the connection was killed.

"Doyle?! Ray!!" Bodie snarled into his R/T, shaking the thing
subconsciously. "Ray - dammit talk to me! What's happening!" Getting no
reply he threw the R/T onto the dash and then threw the car into a
reckless U-turn, crossing two lanes of traffic. Amidst blaring horns and
swerving traffic he sped back in the direction of the Hotel, unconcerned
about the havoc he had caused behind. His mind was totally focused on
Doyle hoarse voice. Something terrible had happened. He was convinced of
that.

MacLeod snapped out of his relaxed and aroused state, peeved with Bodie
only to hear graphic swearing from the CI5 man, and blaring horns. Then
they were heading back the way they had come, only now at a much faster
rate. With one quick glance at Bodie's set face he knew something was
seriously wrong this time. Instantly he thought of Adam, and that happy
contented feeling that had been with him all morning vanished as if it had
never existed only to be replaced with a cold dark dread that whispered
death, destruction and pain. *Was he about to lose everything that
mattered in his life again?*

Expertly weaving in and out of the London traffic, Bodie snatched up the
R/T again and tried calling Curtis who was downstairs at the Mayfair. All
he got was static. He then tried Keel who was situated on MacLeod's floor
- with no luck. Swearing, he reached for his car radio. "3/7 to base, come
in."

"Base." Came the prompt reply.

"Require back up at the Mayfair. Suspect agents in trouble." He stated
clinically and fast, maneuvering around a truck. 

"Base to 3/7. Notifying all available units. ETA 15 minutes." Came the
immediate response from the dispatcher.

"Great!" Bodie spat to on one in particular. He doubted Ray or the others
had 15 minutes.

"What? What's happened?" MacLeod questioned, needing answers to settle the
rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Ray tried to call. It was garbled and cut off half way through.
Something's going down at the hotel." Bodie snapped shortly, sparing
little of his concentration from the task of driving.

*The Hotel.... that meant Adam was in trouble too. Dammit! Had to be
McKellen.* There was no other explanation and the panic surged again. *If
Adam lost his head because of him*, MacLeod would never forgive himself.
He had dragged the other man further into this mess by insisting that he
come and stay with him at the hotel. McKellen had probably raided the
hotel looking for him and instead had found Adam. *Would they fight? And
what of Doyle? Had he seen a Quickening? Was that what was blacking out
the communicators? Questions, questions.* Hanging on tightly as Bodie
drove them swiftly back to the Mayfair, MacLeod only had one thought - *if
McKellen hurt Adam, he would hunt the bastard down and kill him.
Regardless of what Connor said*. Hitting the passenger door hard when
Bodie swerved to miss a turning vehicle, MacLeod had to squash the urge to
demand that Bodie drive faster. But from the expression on the CI5 man's
face he could tell that Bodie was also thinking the worst.

******

Bodie slammed to a halt outside the Mayfair Hotel to be greeted by the far
from reassuring sight of an ambulance and several police cars with lights
flashing outside the main entrance. A kind of controlled chaos reigned,
with the uniforms carrying out efficient crowd control while a couple of
plainclothes detectives seemed to be asking questions of staff and hotel
patrons. Muttering to himself, Bodie, shook his head in disgust. *Flippin'
great! Just great. Now the flatfoot coppers were going to get in on the
act and muddy the water,* and he wished fervently that Cowley were here to
cut through all the inevitable bullshit he was now going to have to wade
through. Striding up to the hotel entrance, not bothering to see if
MacLeod followed Bodie snarled at the young constable who tried to block
his way. "CI5. Back off." He stated before shoving his CI5 ID under the
young officer's nose and pushing past the startled man.

MacLeod trailed along behind the Bodie, making an 'I'm- with-him' gesture
to the officer at the door. He grinned inwardly despite the circumstances,
a little stunned and impressed by Bodie's frank actions. He saw the young
Constable wave them through and he slipped inside the bustling hotel
lobby, catching up to Bodie just in time to see the lift doors open and a
stretcher roll out. He controlled the ridiculous urge to push past the
agent and see if the person on the stretcher was Adam, knowing that the
man would have healed from any wounds inflicted by now. *If Adam still had
his head*. Dismissing that last thought, MacLeod told himself that he
would know if Adam were dead. He was sure of it. He'd *feel *it somehow.

Bodie stopped the gurney with a peremptory gesture, ignoring the protests
of the attending paramedics. Beneath all the life sustaining paraphernalia
he could just make out the pale features of his fellow CI5 agent. Sam
Curtis. "Shit. Sam.... Sam, can you hear me?" He asked urgently, placing a
gentle hand on the wounded man's face to gain his wondering attention. He
was answered with a low moan, the hazel eyes barely focusing on him while
the man mumbled, trying to answer through the oxygen mask. Gently removing
the mask Bodie repeated his question, noting that the eyes were becoming a
little more focused.

"Didn't.... know what hit us.... Bodie-" Sam Curtis gasped out wincing in
pain.

Relieved that Curtis recognised him, Bodie tried to urge more information
from the man, but the Paramedics overrode the frustrated agent, pushing
him away as they carried on their way to the waiting ambulance outside. 

"Shit!" Bodie swore under his breath, watching the gurney go out the door.
*If Sam was shot, then where the hell was his partner Chris Keel? Partners
are supposed to watch each other's back.... *but even as he thought that,
he felt a pang of guilt over the fact that Doyle had been alone when this
had happened. *Bloody Cowley....* Swiveling he marched over to the
elevator stabbing savagely at the up button while he continued to curse
under his breath. *Christ, he should never have left Doyle alone. Every
time he turned his back on his infuriating partner something like this
happened!*

MacLeod stood beside Bodie, silently agreeing with the angry sentiment
plastered across the CI5 man's face while he waited for the elevator to
arrive. It seemed to take an eternity. When the bell chimed and the
elevator door rolled slowly open MacLeod resisted the urge to push past
the exiting people. Bodie it seemed had no such problem and snarling at
the startled patrons pushed his way into the lift and flashed his badge
belligerently at the few people that tried to also get into the lift.

MacLeod hastily stepped past the closing doors, just feeling them nick his
heels as they glided closed. Bodie jabbed at the button for their floor
and took up a position directly in front of the door, his body tense with
impatience as another eternity passed while the lift whined into motion.

The lift slowly climbed the floors necessary, stopping two floors lower
and the door soundlessly slide open. A young couple stood there and Bodie
barred their entrance, barking out 'Police business. Take the stairs.' He
then stabbed the close button again and took out his gun, checking it
over.

Watching all this with some amazement, MacLeod was glad when they finally
arrived on the fourteenth floor. Getting out of the lift, they quickly
retraced the steps to the penthouse and arrived to find further scenes of
chaos. Only this chaos was a slightly more controlled bedlam as various
police and other official personnel went about their business.

Bodie took a deep breath and strode forward just in the mood for some
officious flatfoot to challenge his right to be here, so he could take out
some of his frustration on the unfortunate victim.

It appeared however that by now most of the London police officers and
ancillary staff had had their run-in's with CI5's least diplomatic member
and they all seemed to magically melt from Bodie's path. If circumstances
had been different MacLeod might have found the situation funny, but now,
however he was just relieved. Dealing with Bodie's foibles was the last
thing on his mind, because he was close enough to his hotel room to see if
there had been a Quickening or to feel Adam's presence. He saw and felt
evidence of neither and his hope sank as his worst fears were realized.
Adam was gone.

Bodie walked into the room, aware of MacLeod's presence close behind and
unable to decide if he was disappointed that no one had challenged him or
not. Automatically he scanned the room, registering the changes since the
last time he had been there. "Who's in charge here?" He called loudly to
the room in general while he took in the overturned service trolley and
the fact that there were obvious signs of a struggle.

"That would be me." A tall dark-haired man stepped out from the far
bedroom and made his way towards the two men standing in the doorway. 

Bodie eyed the man approaching. *He must be new, *he decided because he'd
never seen him before*. Maybe he'd get his argument after all*, he mused
with an inward grin.

MacLeod noted the change in the man standing next to him and resisted the
urge to kick Bodie in the shins. They did not have time to indulge in
petty dominance games here, time could be running out for both Adam and
Ray Doyle. When he had entered the room, MacLeod had also been looking for
clues that would tell him what had happened and what state both Adam and
Doyle had been in when taken. It looked like they were taken alive, so
that would mean drugs. *Was it McKellen?* Had to be. But if so, *Adam
would have sensed him and there would have been a fight. At least there
would have been blood.... *

"And you would be?" Bodie asked when the other police officer stopped in
front of him.

"Detective Inspector Warrington." The man replied, flashing his badge.
"And you would be?" He returned in the same deadly tone.

"Bodie. CI5, and I'm in charge now." Bodie shot back in a no-nonsense
tone. Flashing his ID, he dared the Detective to contradict him.

DI Warrington had not met a CI5 agent in his line of work yet, for he had
only been in London 12 months. But he had heard of their reputation for
taking over in these situations and *he would be damned if he was going to
let that happen to him.* "Is that so? And where would that authority be
coming from?" He questioned, his voice cold.

MacLeod saw the feral grin spread across Bodie's face and groaned to
himself. *Damn,* things were starting badly and likely to head straight
down hill rapidly from there. Despite the potential danger to life and
limb MacLeod felt he had to intervene. "Excuse me Detective, but could you
tell me what you have found out so far?" MacLeod interrupted, placing a
hand on Bodie's arm. He felt like he had come within inches of having it
bitten off when the other man turned and snarled at him.

"Back off MacLeod, this is my territory. Doyle's my partner and I'm not
going to leave it to some flatfoot to mess up the investigation." Turning
back to Warrington, Bodie ignored MacLeod's 'What about Adam' and overrode
the retort from the Detective. "If you'd like to read the fine print on
this I think it will answer all your questions." He grated, flipping his
ID open at the startled man and pushing past him to check out the other
rooms.

With a last glance at the sputtering DI, MacLeod followed the angry agent,
parting from him when he reached what had been Adam's bedroom. Standing in
the doorway, MacLeod was suddenly overwhelmed by the memories of last
night, and he closed his eyes briefly, before divorcing himself from the
pain. He needed to find clues quickly if he were to track the kidnappers.
Stepping into the room he noticed that the bed had not yet been made, so
the kidnap had taken place before the maid had come in. Sitting down on
what had been Adam's side of the bed, MacLeod picked up one of the
pillows, bringing it to his face and inhaling the lingering scent of his
lover. Ruthlessly he squashed the emotions that were doing neither him nor
Adam any good, knowing he would be of no use to the other Immortal in this
incapacitated state. Carefully placing the pillow back on the bed, his
fingertips lingering on the soft fabric, before he took a cleansing breath
and restarted his search. He needed to stay strong if he were to bring
Adam home and live out the fantasy he'd dreamed up that morning. So as he
had done countless times in the past, he placed the bundle of precious
memories in a safe place in his mind and turned his attention to the hard
fact. *Adam Taylor and Raymond Doyle* - both expert fighters - *had been
taken unawares. How?* Thinking about that, MacLeod swiftly stood, then
knelt beside the bed and after a quick glance around to make sure he was
not being observed he felt under the base of the bed. Groaning to himself
in worry when his fingers encountered cold hard steel, he knew with a
certainty Adam was in serious trouble. "Shit." He swore, glancing briefly
at the beautiful Ivanhoe before securely sliding it back into its hiding
place.

Crossing to the wardrobe next, MacLeod yanked open the door and found
Adam's coat. He searched the pockets and cursed again, this time in Gaelic
when he came up with a gun and wicked looking knife. All items that Adam
thought he didn't know about. Crossing back to the bed he opened the
bedside draw on Adam's side of the bed and shook his head. There was
Adam's wallet and leather bound diary. The man was weaponless, without any
form of ID and MacLeod closed his eyes, sinking back down to sit on the
bed while he tried to recall what his lover had been wearing that morning.

With a jolt he remembered that Adam had emerged from the shower wearing
jeans and one of his own turtle necks sweaters. Adam's hair had been damp
and doing its best to point in all directions at once. *A newly scrubbed,
slightly pink and disheveled Adam had been such an appealing sight* that
MacLeod had not resisted the urge to smooth the wayward hair down.
Stalking towards his lover that morning, he had demanded to know *why Adam
was wearing his clothes when he'd brought plenty of his own*. To which
Adam had pulled aside the neck of the sweater to reveal a fading bruise on
his neck and growled something about 'feeding time at the zoo.' *So Adam
was wearing nothing but jeans and a sweater which meant he'd be cold*, and
MacLeod knew that Adam hated the cold.

Wondering if things could get any worse, MacLeod heard a pitiful mewing
sound coming from the ensuite and he remembered Adam's cat. *Nefertiri -
or something similar*. Rising from the bed he made his way over to the
bathroom and after a quick search found the small pathetic bundle of fur
trembling in the corner of the bathtub. Taking pity on the tiny creature
he reached down to pick her up, snatching his hand back and narrowly
missing getting lacerated as the frightened feline hissed and swiped at
him with her claws. Ignoring the behavior, knowing it came from fear
rather than real malice, MacLeod crooned to the tiny cat and slowly
reached out again. "It's okay, I won't hurt you. I'll take care of you
until Adam gets back." He reached down again cautiously, but all the fight
seemed to have gone out of the small body and with a small mew she seemed
to slump into his hand. Lifting the bundle of black fur out of the tub,
MacLeod cradled the still trembling body against his chest, stroking the
delicate head with one of his fingers as he crooned nonsense to the
creature in an effort to comfort her. Returning to the bed MacLeod tried
to deposit the kitten onto Adam's pillow, hoping that his scent would help
to reassure her, but the kitten had other ideas. Wincing when her needle
sharp claws penetrated his shirt and dug into his flesh, MacLeod tried to
dislodge her a second time, only to be greeted by an even more pitiful
yowl and a further tightening of the claws. *Well, he was stuck with her
for now, literally and figuratively,* sighing he gave up on his attempts
to put the feline down and settled her in the crook of his arm. Just as
MacLeod had managed to get the tiny kitten calmed down she was disturbed
by a call from the main room. Swearing softly he left the bedroom and went
to see what the problem was.

Bodie saw his assignment emerge from the bedroom with what appeared to be
a small cat and he was puzzled for a moment until he remembered that
Taylor had brought the cat with him from his dormitory room at the
University. Ignoring the cat, he gestured MacLeod over then held out an
object for the Scot to view. Waiting impatiently for MacLeod to dignify
him with an answer while the annoying man fussed over the cat, Bodie bit
back on his snarl. "This was found pinned to the wall over there - with
this blade." He stated, holding up another bag containing a small
pocketknife.

MacLeod took the proffered plastic bag with the piece of cloth in it and
studied the pattern. "It's the MacLeod Tartan," he said, fingering the
bag. He could easily remember the time when this had been all he'd worn.

"And?" Bodie demanded impatiently

"And what?"

"And what is it doing here. And before you say it, I do know it is not
yours."

"Noh. I'd say McKellen left it here." MacLeod stated quietly then after a
short pause added more. "It's a calling card of sorts. He thinks it's
funny."

Bodie noted the tone of the other mans voice. There was a helluva lot more
going on here than he or anyone else had guessed or been told, and it was
this vast untold story that was going to get Ray killed. And sometime very
soon he and MacLeod were going to have a little talk, and MacLeod was
going to give him some answers. *Willingly or not. * "A calling card?"
Bodie snarled. "So you've seen this before?"

"Noh," MacLeod said again, choosing his words with more care this time.
"But who else but McKellen would leave a piece of my clan's tartan? He's
taunting me."

Considering that, Bodie studied MacLeod's face, not believing the
expression of bafflement. "Tell me, MacLeod, is there anything else
missing from the rooms?"

Shaking his head, MacLeod glanced down at the cat briefly. "Nothing has
been taken from what I can tell. Adam's wallet is still here."

About to ask more, DI Warrington interrupted Bodie's questioning by
throwing the agents ID back at him in peeved frustration.

"I don't care who you are, or what your small print states - I'm not going
to let you take over this investigation!" Warrington stormed, turning a
slight shade of pink with agitation.

Bodie grinned in false charm when he spied Cowley entering the room. "Then
I suggest you take it up with my boss." He replied, replacing his ID back
in his pocket and gracing the fuming policeman with a nod toward the door.
"I'm sure he'll be able to set the record straight." And with that parting
remark he left the DI to Cowley's tender mercies. Accosting a young
uniformed officer Bodie demanded to know where the witnesses were being
held, scowling when the young man looked to his superior for guidance.

"Leave the boy alone Bodie." A voice behind him said, followed by a hand
on his shoulder. Turning, Bodie was about to snarl at the intruder, but
found himself looking into Anderson's familiar face. 

"Cowley will sort that out." Anderson said, ignoring Bodie's glare
expertly. "Have you heard?" He asked quietly, taking a draw on his
cigarette.

"Heard what?" Bodie grated out.

"Keel's dead." Anderson replied bluntly.

"Jesus! How?"

"He took one in the chest while trying to stop this." Anderson replied.

Muttering under his breath, Bodie cast eyes around the room before looking
back at Anderson. "Where'd it happen? Does Sam know?" Bodie asked his fury
at the injustice of the situation intensifying.

"Down in the service bay." Anderson stated factually. "The gunmen used a
van to get away. And no, Curtis doesn't. The Doc thought it would be best
to tell him later, when he's stable."

"And the van? Have the-"

"Bodie," Anderson cut in a warning in his voice, well able to read his
friends desire to find these murdering bastards before Doyle suffered the
same fate as Keel. "Don't tell the Police how to suck lemons. Of course
the Police have put an APB out on the van." He ended calmly. He was very
used to Bodie's temper. 

Bodie just grunted in response, everyone knew his opinion of the local
constabulary. "We should speak to the witnesses." He stated, changing the
subject. "And we need to have a little chat about this," he continued,
turning to MacLeod and waving the single piece of evidence they had at
him. "Because I will get the answers. One way or another." He finished
with a meaningful glare.

MacLeod sighed. It was obvious he wasn't going to be allowed to slip out
of this one, and that he was just going to have to come up with a version
of the truth that didn't involve revealing anything about Immortals. *Oh
yeah, that'll be a cinch he muttered to himself. Where was Adam when he
needed him?* He thought. *Adam always seemed to have a plausible story to
tell*. Then he remembered that Adam had told Bodie's partner, Doyle, about
Immortals and that Adam wasn't here anymore. Absently he stoked the small
kitten in his arms, suspecting that he was deriving as much comfort from
the contact as the kitten did from his warmth at that moment. Around him
he noted that Cowley had finished his talk with DI Warrington and that the
police were leaving the hotel room. That would leave only the CI5 agents
and he decided to lock the kitten back in Adam's room for safe keeping.
*When Adam returned he could comfort her....* for he refused to think of
any other outcome for this situation. *Adam Taylor was going to be found.
*

"Bodie!"

"Sir." Bodie nodded in greeting when Cowley limped over to him and
scowled. He was sure Cowley would find some way to blame him for this
disaster.

"Would you mind explaining this circus?" Cowley demanded when only his
agents were left in the room.

"Hotel security called the police. It's their policy. I was trying to
rectify the situation before you arrived." Bodie explained.

Cowley glared for a moment longer at Bodie, then sighed in acknowledgment.
"I hear Doyle got a message to you."

"Garbled mostly. I'd say he and Taylor were drugged, not shot."

"Then find them before I have to tell more families of their loss!" Cowley
barked, then he was walking away.

Releasing a tense sigh, Bodie closed his eyes briefly.

"Mr. Bodie?" MacLeod asked softly, well aware of the respect and results a
man like Cowley commanded from his men. It was what made agents like Bodie
so effective against the criminal elements.

"Do you have any idea why McKellen wants you so badly?"

"He hates the MacLeod's." MacLeod stated honestly. "Centuries ago there
was a feud between the MacLeods and the McKellens. But that is ancient
history."

"And do the MacLeods still kill the McKellens - say indirectly? On the
side?" Bodie asked, relieved that finally he was getting a straight answer
for once.

"Noh." MacLeod stated honesty. "I'm as confused by this as you are."

"So why would he take Taylor and Doyle?"

Thinking about that, MacLeod shook his head. "Blackmail?" He suggested.

"Right." Bodie agreed, having come to that conclusion himself. "You, my
son, are not leaving my side then. Not until I find this bastard." 

Covering his grimace, MacLeod exhaled strongly after Bodie marched away.
He had his own methods of finding McKellen. But had no idea how he was
going to talk Bodie into letting him leave unescorted. Then he remembered
something else. *Connor had promised to ring him later that day.* Glancing
at the hotel phone he wondered how he could talk to Connor without CI5
overhearing every word they said. *Dammit!* 

******

Sound was the first thing that returned. Sound and a *God- awful pain
behind his eyes*, and Doyle groaned involuntarily as he squeezed his eyes
tightly shut. But the pain didn't ease and he slowly forced his eyes open
again. Around him he could hear the rhythmic sound of water dripping. The
monotonous splatter of a single drop of water hitting something hard and
flat - like cement. *Or stone*. And it was that sound that forced him back
to partial alertness. His vision was blurry, his body sore with cramp and
he made himself lie very still by instinct rather than conscious thought.
*Drugs....* he had the acid taste of chemicals at the back of his throat
and he knew it had to be from some new designer drug. *Shit!* He vaguely
knew that he had to remember something and he doubted it was good, while
more of his surroundings came into focus. Flexing his fingers he glanced
up and saw that he was handcuffed to an old thick, iron bar and he
groaned, seeing the blood which covered his wrists and fingers. *Either
he'd put up one hell of a fight, or his captor was bloody clumsy.* Problem
was, he couldn't remember which it was.

Drawing in a calming breath, Doyle let that bit of information filter into
his brain, lifting his head to see if he could find his captor. *Nothing,*
but he saw where the sound of water was coming from. Looking over the iron
bar he was cuffed to, he saw a large concrete slab. It was slightly raised
off the ground and at least twenty foot by twenty foot in size. Around it
were troughs and old rusting benches, tables and racks, and Doyle didn't
need to be told that this was an old abattoir. The presence of the hooks
hanging from the roof over the slab was proof enough. He didn't need to
see the old bloodstains marring the concrete at the base of the killing
platform to know that his captor, or captors, had a warped sense of humor.
Lifting his eyes to the ceiling he noted that directly above the slab were
a number of old chains, wires and hooks and that was where the water was
leaking. Dripping with rhythmic monotony. *Complete lifelessness....*
Shivering, Doyle moved a little more, the lethargy in his limbs persisting
annoyingly while his vision slowly cleared. *So he was in an old, disused
abattoir. But which one?* The place was cold, eerie - the mesh louvers to
his right mostly smashed. Vandalized. Graffiti disfigured the walls to his
left and the stench of death permeated the entire area. *It was enough to
make him gag....* and then another memory intruded and he let his eyes
close. He had pins and needles in his fingers and felt as weak as a
newborn, but he forced the memory to resurface. He frowned, then suddenly
remembered that he and Bodie had been working a case. They were trying to
find a Scotsman - *Bruce McKellen. A sick, deranged psychopath who liked
to behead all his victims.... *then he remembered MacLeod and.... and....
*oh fuck - Taylor! And that he and Bodie were in way over their heads....
*

Hearing a sound behind him, Doyle hastily swiveled around and stopped,
feeling his jaw drop open in shock. Behind him was a similar set up with a
large blood stained concrete slab - *killing pad* - with troughs, benches,
more broken louvers, and a long, protruding wicked looking meat hook. The
only difference was that Taylor was hanging from the ugly meat hook right
in the middle of the killing slab and Doyle tasted bile rise in the back
of his throat.

"Ray?"

It was a forced whisper and Doyle moved around a bit more, yanking on his
cuffed wrists and tearing his skin more. His mind automatically slipped
into strategy mode, while his eyes tried to find a way out, or even the
slightest advantage. He could see nothing and he turned his gaze back on
Taylor, noting how Taylor's bare feet barely touched the ground while he
hung from his bound wrists which were linked over the meat hook. He also
noted that their perverse captors had stripped Taylor of everything bar
his jeans and Doyle shivered again in reaction. *It was bloody freezing in
this old icebox*. The abandoned abattoir was not a place he wanted to die
in or to see Taylor die in. "How long have I been out?" Doyle asked,
meeting Taylor's gaze, seeing the relief that washed over the other man's
face.

"Four, five hours." Methos told him. "I'm not sure. But I do know it's
getting dark outside." He nodded towards the shattered windows.

Glancing over to where Taylor indicated, Doyle used his teeth to pull his
sleeve up and saw that his watch was smashed. *Great! He doubted Cowley
would let him claim that on expenses....* then another thought hit him -
*Bodie. Christ Bodie would be frantic....* Letting his lashes drop, he
considered his partner and knew Bodie would be doing everything possible
to find him*. But how could Bodie possibly find him when he didn't even
know where he was? *

"You alright?"

Hearing Taylor's voice drift back to him, Doyle forced himself to
concentrate, giving the other man a nod. He'd been in worse situations and
survived. *Concentrate, old son,* he admonished himself, letting his eyes
assess Adam Taylor's state. His priority was to get his assignment out -
*safe and alive*. If that was possible, *or he'd die trying*. "I'll live.
What about you?"

Methos gave a gruff, humorless laugh. "I always survive," he muttered,
really peeved that McKellen was involving Doyle in this personal dispute.
"Can you get free?"

Running his eyes over the handcuffs, Doyle suppressed an ironic smile.
*They were his own Goddamn handcuffs* and he shook his head. Wiggling
around he tried to pat down his pockets feeling that he was missing more
than just the keys. His gun, wallet, knife and R/T were gone also. Turning
his gaze back on the old pipe, he braced himself and tried to yank on the
cuffs, but the pipe didn't even shudder let alone creak. All he achieved
was making his writs bleed again. "Nah, can't budge these." He offered,
turning back to look at Taylor. He saw the other man nod before Taylor
looked back up at his own bound wrists. It was then that Doyle noticed the
blood that stained Taylor's pale skin and the puffy appearance of his
swollen hands. He winced in sympathy. "That must hurt-"

"I've had worse." Methos mumbled. He'd already tried to lever himself off
the hook, but the wire binding his wrists was also wrapped around the
hook, making dislodgement impossible.

"I take it you haven't seen our hosts?" Doyle asked, imagining now how
painful Taylor's arms and chest must be if he had been hanging like that
for over five hours. *Immortal or not, the man would be in agony. *

"Nothing-" Even as he started to say that Methos got the first insidious
whisper of presence down his spine and he quivered in reaction. *How he
hated to be trapped in such a vulnerable position *and he pushed his
innate panic aside to find a solution. The buzz of Immortal presence grew
stronger and he readied himself for more unpleasantness, seeing his
opponent enter via a side door and casually walk up to him. *McKellen....
Why was he not surprised? But since when had the ignorant Scot lowered his
standards by using mortals to accomplish his dirty work? *

"I told you, Loxley, we would meet again." McKellen hissed, stopping at
the edge of the concrete killing pad to stare up at his captive. 

"Do you always fight like a coward, or do you save it for special
occasions?" Methos taunted, knowing Doyle was there, but admitting it was
far too late for niceties. This should not be witnessed - *but....* "First
you attack a defenseless man in Sherwood, and now you use mortals to drug
me??" He mocked sarcastically. "You have me totally restrained, but I
suppose that is the only way you can achieve a victory! You are a weak and
pitiful excuse for an Immortal! A disgrace-"

"Call me what you like. I don't care, because soon your Quickening will be
mine." McKellen sneered. 

"You'll have to come closer." Methos jeered, bracing his muscles. *This
was going to hurt* - but death was not an alternative he was willing to
entertain at present. He suddenly had too much to live for and envisioned
Duncan MacLeod's dark beauty in his mind, letting the Highlander's
passionate love of life feed him strength. *Thank you Duncan...*. 

"Oh I intend to make you beg for mercy." McKellen hissed in promise.

"I doubt it!"

"Then I'll kill your new friend and see if he can beg-"

"This is between you and me!" Methos spat in fury. "Our fight is not for
them!"

"We fight how I chose." McKellen corrected, taking out his sword and
showing it to the other Immortal in silent threat. "Now tell me where
MacLeod is and I just might let the mortal live."

"MacLeod?" Methos repeated evasively. He tried to turn his body so as to
keep McKellen in his line of sight when the other walked around the base
of the platform. "Why do you want Connor?"

"Don't be stupid!" McKellen roared, jumping up onto the slab swiftly and
lashing out with his sword. He deliberately used the flat of the blade to
slap at his victim, marring the hanging man across the back and flank.
Tiny lacerations appeared on the pale flesh, small wounds that bled before
they healed, discoloring the unblemished skin.

Bracing himself against the sharp pain, Methos bit the inside of his
cheek, knowing McKellen was only playing with him. *The real games would
start later.* For he could read a man like McKellen, had seen countless
men like him during his long life and knew the other man would first
strike at him before going after Doyle. It was a small comfort.

"I want Duncan MacLeod!" McKellen shouted, not bothering to keep his voice
down. 

The sound echoed around them and Methos squinted at McKellen seeing how he
was drawing in deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself. He was
insane. *Obviously they were miles from anywhere if McKellen could rant
and rave without fear of being overheard....* and Methos filed that clue
away, feeling his own spirits plummet further. *Mac would never find him
here.... And it would just be his bad luck that all the damn homeless
would be out getting a feed as well.... Fuck! *

"This is how it works. You will tell me what I want to know and I let
spy-boy live." McKellen stated in a flat, expressionless tone before
pointing his blade at Doyle.

"Why do you want Duncan?" Methos asked, trying a new track, needing to
deter this man away from Doyle.

"None of your fucking business!" McKellen returned, furious again as he
stepped closer, catching his target unprepared and using the hilt of his
sword to gut-punch his captive. He then clubbed him across the jaw,
watching in delight when the other groaned in shock before McKellen lifted
his sword and balanced the point under Loxley's chin. With pressure he
forced the other's head up and grinned nastily. "I have a joke for you,
Loxley."

Blinking tears away, Methos stared at the man, knowing he was in trouble.

"What do the Rolling Stones and a MacLeod have in common?"

"I don't know." Methos answered when McKellen pressed the tip of the blade
into his sensitive throat. "Enlighten me."

"The Rolling Stones sing 'Hey You! Get off my cloud.' But a Scot sings
'Hey MacLeod! Get off me ewe." Delivering the punch line, McKellen stepped
back and laughed, dropping his sword slightly before all traces of humor
abruptly left his face and he spitefully struck his victim a second time.
"You didn't laugh Loxley!" He hissed returning the tip of his blade
swiftly to its original position under his captives bloodied chin. "Never
mind. You English never had a good sense of humor."

Opening his eyes to slits, Methos struggled to breathe. His lower body was
numb, the muscles in his chest already burning in agony and he centered
his gaze with difficulty on McKellen. *The Scot was beyond insane*, he
could read the madness lurking behind the wide eyes and could see it in
the way McKellen held his sword. It was frightening to watch how
McKellen's whole body trembled with suppressed rage. *Just one wrong word
and he'd lose his head. *This was no longer the same man he had
encountered in Sherwood - McKellen was now a weapon, a conduit, for his
own pain and inadequacies. And he had never found a way to successfully
reason, or negotiate with such an opponent. * Damn you Fate! *

"You should have left London when you had the chance Loxley." McKellen
stated while he forced himself to calm down. "Now you will never see the
outside of this old abattoir and I will use your Quickening to kill Duncan
MacLeod."

"Why?" Methos ventured, watching the madness slowly retreat deep into
McKellen's eyes. He hated facing irrational, deranged lunatics. 

"Because to kill the student weakens the teacher." McKellen hissed,
leaning in closer and angling his blade up so that it cut his captives
skin very slowly. "I want Connor MacLeod to suffer as I have suffered. I
want him to bleed, to die a breath at a time. To break...."

*Oh shit. Fuckin' marvelous. McKellen wasn't only insane, he was now
trapped in a fantasy world.* Ignoring the pain, Methos held very still,
extremely aware of his dangerous position. *One slip and he'd lose his
head.* "So you want Connor," he breathed, hoping to draw McKellen out.

"I am sick of the way he dogs my every step!" McKellen ranted again,
moving his blade marginally before re- focusing his gaze on the man
hanging before him. "Connor is methodical. Part of his cursed Scottish
nature."

"And you, McKellen? What is in your nature?" Methos whispered, feeling the
sword slide further down onto his shoulder. *Just a little more and he
might be able to shove the Scot back and then use his legs to kill the
bastard*.

"I-" McKellen hesitated, blinking blankly at Loxley before realising what
the other was doing. Instantly he lashed out, punching the hanging man
viciously under the diaphragm before bringing his sword back up into
position. "Try that again and I'll shoot your friend." He hissed. "You are
not a hero - that is not in your nature. Or so I've heard. So don't act so
foolishly."

Gasping for breath, Methos blinked his tears away and glared at McKellen.
"Heard??" He managed to get out in a hoarse whisper*. What was the idiotic
man going on about now? *

"I met a friend of yours last century near Lebanon." McKellen said in a
more conversational tone, moving his sword down to rest its point against
the heaving man's chest. He turned it slightly applying more pressure and
hearing his captive hiss in a new breath. The skin under his blade cut
easily, leaving a zigzag pattern over the hairless chest. "Though I
wouldn't say he considered you a friend. Rather he thought of you as a
traitor. A coward. A thief even." Starting to enjoy himself now, McKellen
walked around his trapped victim, letting the edge of his sword mark the
tender pale skin at will, amused at the way Loxley tried to avoid its
sharp edge. "He cursed your existence."

"Really?" Methos said, sucking in a breath when McKellen completed his
slow circuit around him to stop in front of him again. "How do you know he
was talking about me?" Methos asked, mentally thinking back and knowing he
had not been near Lebanon in more than a century. "I'm not the only
Immortal on the planet."

"But you are the only one called Methos." McKellen whispered intimately,
moving closer to his captive and seeing the way the golden-green eyes
dilated fractionally before long lashes hid the other Immortal's thoughts.

"Now you are being absurd." Methos countered, feeling as if he had been
gut-punched a third time by that unexpected announcement.

"Maybe." McKellen shrugged, his grin growing in speculation. "He described
you perfectly, right down to your obnoxious attitude."

Giving a mock laugh, Methos shook his head. "Let me get this right?! You
think I'm this mythical being called 'Methos' all because I match some
physical description given to you by some pompous asshole in Lebanon?" He
shook his head. "You're more insane than I first imagined."

"It wasn't the description that gave you away, it was that maneuver you
pulled on me in Sherwood. I had never seen the likes of it before and
since then I have tried to adopt it, using it in some of my own
challenges. Until Lebanon. I met this enraged Immortal, he was beyond
reason when he came at me. In defense I used that little trick and he was
so stunned, that he pinned me to the ground with inhuman force and
demanded to know who had taught me. He accused me of being your student
and whore."

Getting a sinking feeling deep in his gut, Methos banked down on his panic
when McKellen stepped closer still and made every word familiar and
personal while the deranged Scot skimmed a hand down his body in emphasis.
Fingers settled over his groin and squeezed his lax sex hard. 

"I told him about you and he released me." McKellen mouthed the words his
lips curving up wickedly before he maliciously squeezed his captives
trapped sex a second time. He felt the man before him gasp, the wide eyes
losing all color as the pupils dilated fully in shock and pain. "This
Immortal *craved *your company," he whispered nastily. "He told me in
graphic terms what he would like to do with your remains."

"That's doesn't prove anything-"

"He told me your true name. He hissed it with so much hate it terrified
me. So I got out of Lebanon very fast and later learned that he had been
arrested by the military for crimes against the people. Cannibalism and
such." McKellen elaborated, pausing to make sure his words were sinking
in. "I see you do know him."

"No," Methos countered. "I am just amazed you're still alive."

Laughing nastily, McKellen stepped back and looked his subject over. "His
story had intrigued me, so I went to visit him in prison. I wanted
information and in exchange I promised to get him out." McKellen shrugged.
"The description he gave me fits you perfectly."

"And did you get him out?" Methos asked.

"Hell no." McKellen snorted. "He was insane. He was also sentenced to life
imprisonment."

Methos stared at McKellen in disbelief. "Did he give you his name?"

"Casparie - I think was how the authorities pronounced it."

"You're an even bigger idiot than I first assumed." Methos hissed back,
not believing his run of ill luck. *Caspian? Was it possible the mentally
deficient idiot had survived the Horsemen days?? Could nothing go right?!?
*"A century ago in Lebanon they hanged all those sentenced to life
imprisonment after the first few years and then buried them in the desert.
He's probably searching for you-"

"Shut up!" McKellen cut back. "Don't change the subject! You are Methos.
Admit it! For I am going to take your head and use your power to kill
every MacLeod that lives!!"

"Tall order for a man too incompetent to even win an argument against a
weaponless opponent." Methos spat back, deliberately provoking the Scot
and receiving a fist in the gut. He endured the punishment, knowing now
that he had to keep McKellen off balance long enough to work out a plan of
escape. Pain he could live through but letting McKellen get his perverted
hands on Duncan was a different story. *Jesus-fuckin'-Christ, but he was
as demented at this lunatic.... It was definitely time he vanished-
especially if Caspian was still alive. All he needed now was to learn that
Kronos was still walking the planet and his life would be over.* Gasping
in agony when a new pain engulfed his body, Methos felt his world fall
apart, snapping his eyes open to see McKellen plunge the sword into his
chest and twist it savagely. The agony crippled him, stealing all the air
from his lungs, suffocating him instantly. He sagged down heavily, the
wire around his wrists cutting off the circulation and applying more
pressure on his abused arms and shoulders. He gasped for breath, screaming
in agony as the blade was slowly pulled free. He knew he was dying when
the warm, tangy taste of blood rose in his mouth to run down his chin.
Convulsing in agony, Methos wished again that he had gone with his first
instincts and *left London that first fateful night when he'd met Duncan
MacLeod. But then what was life without love.... *

Stunned speechless by what he had just witnessed unfolding on the raised
platform, Doyle kept his mouth firmly shut when McKellen backed away from
Adam's abused, battered and bloody body. Regardless of the fact that Adam
was a freak of nature, that still had to hurt and he glared at the
psychopath who started to laugh insanely, seeing how McKellen threw his
head back and roared his pleasure in a harsh demented laugh. *This bastard
was ill.... and he had to be stopped. But how? And what had that last
little exchange been about? Methos? Was that Adam's real name?* It sounded
old - *almost biblical*, though Doyle couldn't recall ever hearing it
mentioned in Sunday school. Brining his mind back to the present with a
jolt, Doyle blinked away from Adam's limp figure to glare at McKellen when
the other walked down off the raised platform and headed over to him.
*Bloody hell* and he braced himself for the worst.

"Feeling suitably subdued, mortal?" McKellen mocked. "Life isn't as you
believed. Is it? Now you know Gods really do walk the earth." With that he
laughed again and walked away.

Swallowing his disgust, Doyle wished there was something he could do for
his friend. For as much as Adam didn't want him involved, he just couldn't
sit back and let the other get killed over and over like this. *Come on
Bodie.... where the fuck are you?!? *

******

Glancing at his watch, MacLeod sighed seeing it was close to 10pm at night
and closed his eyes to try and block out the sight of Bodie's pacing
figure. *The man's caged energy was not going to help any of them - let
alone Adam and Doyle.* Biting back on his comment, he tried not to think
about what might be happening to Adam and Raymond Doyle. Only every time
he closed his eyes he could picture Adam's face, could see the mischievous
smile light up those changeable eyes and could hear the soft baritone
tease him. *What was taking so long! It was over twelve hours now....
Where the hell was Connor!?! *

"What?"

Blinking up, MacLeod looked at Bodie.

"You just said, 'Where the hell was Connor?" Bodie repeated, his tone hard
and flat. He was frustrated and pissed off with the way things were
progressing so slowly. *Ray could be dead....* Cutting that thought off he
glared harder at the Scot. *He could not lose Ray like this - not when
they were just starting to explore what else the partnership could offer.
It was all MacLeod's fault.*

*He had said that out loud?? Shit, but he was starting to lose it.*
"Connor?" MacLeod tried to look confused. "I don't know a Connor."

"Don't piss me around, MacLeod. I know what I heard." Bodie growled.
"Don't you think it's past time that you started telling the whole truth
before more headless bodies appear?" He asked menacingly as he came to
stand over the seated Scot. 

Considering that, MacLeod glanced around the hotel room, glad that no
other agents were present. He knew the only reason Cowley had let him stay
at the Mayfair was because CI5 were desperate for a lead and he had told
them he was expecting John Nash to ring, or for McKellen to deliver
blackmail demands. Otherwise he knew Cowley would have shoved him away in
protective custody by now. "Connor is John Nash's middle name." He
admitted begrudgingly. "I've always called him that." It was the truth
after all.

"I see." Bodie said, filing that piece of information away. "How is Nash
involved in all this?" He asked. "We know that he hasn't left the country,
but he has checked out of his booked accommodation and for all intents and
purposes has disappeared off the map. Why?"

"I don't know-"

"He's hunting McKellen. Isn't he?" Bodie stated, yanking the coffee table
closer so he could sit on its edge and stare at MacLeod. "He wants to kill
him. Doesn't he."

"Listen-"

"No you listen to me, MacLeod!" Bodie hissed in a deadly voice. "I want
McKellen before he kills Doyle. I assume you want him before he kills
Taylor, so I suggest we start working together. Otherwise we are both
fucked and the bastard slips the country. So bloody well start talking to
me!"

"I can't help-"

"Bullshit!" Bodie spat. "You won't help!!"

Banking down on his own anger, MacLeod looked directly into Bodie's fierce
blue glare and saw the man for what he really was. At that moment Bodie
was shit scared about losing his partner and it was a feeling he could
utterly sympathize with*. Maybe he could deal with Bodie the man, rather
than Bodie the ruthless CI5 agent?* "If I find McKellen - CI5 cannot
interfere." He warned, watching how Bodie digested those words and seeing
the man nod in acceptance.

"I can't promise that." Bodie stated. "But I can promise they may be
delayed."

Letting a small smile grow on his face, MacLeod read behind the words and
decided to accept the silent peace treaty Bodie offered him. "Alright." He
whispered. 

"So where do we go?" Bodie asked, losing most of his anger as he felt he
was definitely starting to accomplish something.

"We wait for Connor." MacLeod said. "He said he'd ring, and he will."

******

*Nothing seemed real anymore. If he had once possessed a reference on
reality it was now gone and in this twilight world of pain, blood and
torture he was losing all sense of reality. He existed in a bubble of
white-hot heat, his body numb, his mind exhausted and his heart was
struggling to hold onto the last cherished imprint of feelings he
remembered. The touch of another's love - yet was it real, or just
imagined? *

Stifling a cry of despair, Methos knew he was shuddering again, could feel
the bone-deep tremors as his body tried to stay alive. *Why he tried....*
was the confusing question. His nerve endings so over-whelmed by the
continuous circuit of pain that he could no longer remember what he was so
desperate to live for. *Or was this just another nightmare? A self created
hell.... *

*No....* he knew that was a lie hearing his own voice cry out in agony
when a sharp, burning pain lacerated the skin down his spine. Utter
devastation consumed him in its hungry grasp and he desperately tried to
remember where he was - when he was - and why this was happening. *What
was he fighting so hard to protect?* But the snippets of memory faded when
his control was stripped away a second time by the tearing claws of agony
down his exposed spine that whispered seductively of death.

Staring wide-eyed up at the bloodied platform and its dying captive, Doyle
found he was shuddering in reaction to what he had been forced to witness
over the last few hours. *McKellen was beyond psychotic, there were no
words to describe what McKellen was* - and Doyle could only shake his head
in mute disbelief when the Scot had taken out a vicious looking chain whip
and flayed Adam's back. And that wasn't the worst of what McKellen had
done to Adam's unprotected body. *Killing the Scottish bastard would be
too kind*, Doyle decided and he gritted his teeth defiantly, wanting a
chance to get his hands on McKellen. How Adam managed to remain lucid
after what McKellen did to him was also another miracle, and Doyle just
prayed his friend hung on. If he had started to like Adam before this, he
now had nothing but admiration and awe for the man's courage and stamina.
For as McKellen attacked him, brutally assaulting him and stabbing him to
lower his resistance Adam had steadfastly refused to talk about Duncan
MacLeod. *And the way he healed* - though that phenomenon was getting
slower and slower as the night progressed, Doyle guessed that even that
ability would eventually fail his remarkable friend.

Seeing McKellen throw down the whip in annoyance, Doyle watched horrified
when the bastard sank a small knife into Adam's back and he broke his vow
of silence by shouting out to McKellen. "Don't you think that's enough!!"
He bellowed, seeing how Adam arched, his mouth open a cry barely escaping
his lips. Hours ago Adam had made him promise not to interfere, but he
could not sit back any longer. *Could not let this senseless slaughter
continue* and was determined to divert McKellen's attention even if only
for a little while. *Anything to help Adam heal....*

"So it does talk." McKellen sneered, pulling his short knife free of his
captive's flesh and stalking towards the handcuffed CI5 agent. "I was
beginning to think you were as gutless as all other mortals infecting this
planet."

"You're the fucking coward!" Doyle spat back. "To repeatedly kill a man
for your own personal satisfaction without offering him the chance to
fight back - shit - in my book you're worse than the filthy low-life that
collects in the bottom of the sewerage system!"

Growling in anger, McKellen lashed out at the CI5 agent, back-handing him
across the mouth and hearing the other grunt in pain. "I may kill your
friend repeatedly, but if I kill you, you will stay dead." He hissed in
warning. "Besides, he is no friend of yours!" He pointed back at the limp
form, letting his senses pick out the lack of presence and knowing his
opponent had died again. "He would kill you in a heart beat." He snarled,
his lip curling in a wicked sneer.

"No," Doyle shot back. "He would kill you with his bare hands if he had a
fighting chance. Admit it, you think you're such a big man, but you're not
fit to lick his boots-" Crying out again as he was rocked backward by a
solid punch, Doyle shook his head, dazed. He tried to move away from
McKellen, tried to find some leverage, but his position trapped him in
place. Then he saw McKellen raise a blade and Doyle desperately kicked out
at the bigger man. His boot connected with McKellen's hip, rocking the
other man backward and for a glorious moment he smiled in triumph. But his
advantage was short lived and Doyle copped another hard blow across the
head, falling over the pipe work to lie dazed as McKellen laughed
humorlessly. 

"Remember this, spy-boy?" McKellen sneered, taking out a gun and
displaying it for the agent to see.

Spitting blood from his mouth, Doyle glared up at the Scot, feeling his
eye swell and his vision blurred. But he recognized the gun. He should. It
was his own.

"Want to see a dead body dance?" McKellen asked conversationally, turning
and firing two shots at the hanging man's figure.

Doyle saw Adam's body jerk backwards, heard the chain rattle over Adam's
head and he winced in outrage and disgust at McKellen. But the Scot
ignored him, chuckling wickedly and firing two more time, dancing Adam's
dead weight backward. "Poetry in motion. Don't you agree, spy- boy?"

"You're ill." Doyle cursed, struggling to lash out at McKellen, but was
hampered by his trapped position.

Butt-whipping the agent with the hilt of the gun, McKellen shoved the
Browning into his pocket and watched the mortal collapse to the cold
concrete floor in a heap. Snarling in dislike he then started kicking the
downed agent, giving the man little time to recover between each
well-aimed kick. It amused him and passed the time, relieving his
frustrations while he waited for his men to locate Connor MacLeod, or for
Methos to revive. 

Gasping in agony, Doyle lost track of all time and found he couldn't move.
He didn't think anything was broken and he glanced up seeing McKellen
raise his wicked looking knife a second time, only in this instant he knew
the Immortal would go for the killing blow. Tensing, Doyle tried to
prepare himself for pain, surprised when McKellen abruptly stopped his
downward stroke to stare around in hostile anger.

"MacLeod?" McKellen stated, straightening to his full height and turning
full circle to glare into the surrounding darkness of the old abattoir.
"Show yourself barbarian!?" He demanded in hissed annoyance.

Stunned, Doyle battled to sit up, panting out a breath and not believing
his luck. Glancing around he heard Adam draw in a hissed breath, silently
pleading that the man stay dead for a while longer.... *please let it be
Duncan MacLeod. Please don let this bastard take out his ire on Adam.... *

"I knew you would come if I took the ancient." McKellen hissed into the
surrounding darkness. Slowly he let his senses guide him, picking out the
direction his opponent was coming from. From the rear* of the abandoned
abattoir.... *just like he had anticipated and he gave a feral smile.
"Tell me MacLeod - is it out of a sense of misguided honor that you have
let the ancient live? Or where you planning on taking his head at a later
date?" McKellen asked conversationally, shifting his feet and readying
himself for the challenge. The buzz was stronger now and he searched for
the tell-tail signs of a sword being drawn. 

"I only plan on taking your head, McKellen."

Hearing the growled response, McKellen tensed, raising his sword in
warning when he saw Connor MacLeod appear at the edge of his pool of
light. This he had not expected. *The baby barbarian yes, but not this
man. Not yet anyway.* "It's of no matter." He said more to himself than
his opponent. "Not another step Highlander, or I'll kill this one." He
started by moving towards the reviving Immortal, stepping behind Methos
and daring MacLeod to follow. "And if I take his head I'll be invincible.
Do you want that?"

Frowning slightly, Connor looked past Bruce McKellen's taunt figure to
Adam Taylor's bloodied form. The image produced a picture in his head of
the last village McKellen had massacred. *Bodies tied to poles, bloodied
corpses, dressed in rags, all neatly arranged in family groups.... All
crucified, then left to hang, rotting in the cold wind. Snow flecked
bodies swinging in the blistering winds.... Men, women, babes.... *
Blinking the memory away, Connor hardened his glare. "Nothing will stop me
taking your head!" And he charged up onto the platform, agilely
sidestepping McKellen's first predictable downward stroke.

"What if I tell you this one is the legendary Methos?" McKellen hissed,
studying Connor nervously and seeing Connor's fanatical hatred in those
ice blue eyes. *This was not what he had planned.* "To take his Quickening
would give you invincible strength."

"Fairytales!" Connor snapped back, forcing the other Immortal to meet his
challenge and dancing them around the cement slab. The concrete was slick
with blood, making the footing treacherous and Connor slipped, just
managing to hastily regain his footing only to hear McKellen laugh
mockingly. He glanced down at his hand and saw it was stained with blood.
*Taylor's blood.* 

"Not fairytales, my dimwitted cousin."

"I am not your cousin!" Connor roared.

"We are all kin." McKellen taunted. Sliding up behind Methos' slowly
healing form, he peered at Connor over the older Immortal's shoulder,
twisting Methos around and using him like a shield. "Meet Methos." He
introduced snidely, grabbing the healing Immortal's hair and forcing his
head up. "Think MacLeod. A five thousand year old Quickening. Can't you
taste the delicious feel of his reviving spirit?" He hissed, using the
edge of his sword to cut the reviving Immortal's exposed throat. A small
flicker of blue lightening teased across the cut flesh, healing the wound
and McKellen pretended to breathe in the seductive quality of the power
invoked by such an act. "Imagine how sweet his essence could be. How
powerful."

"No!" Connor stated, watching Taylor lift his lashes and stare at him
dazed and bewildered. Then he saw the slight flaring of panic color
Taylor's gaze when McKellen purposely cut his skin open a second time to
demonstrate his ownership and control of the situation. *Was McKellen's
claim true? Was this Methos? The Methos??* He didn't know, didn't want to
think about the possibility, needing to concentrate on McKellen's devious
manipulations and cunning ploys. He tried to step around Taylor's dead
weight, hindered when McKellen moved Taylor to block his move. It was
obvious McKellen wanted to use Taylor as a distraction, believing it would
gain him an advantage. *Not for long....* Connor decided. Muttering an old
Gaelic blessing, Connor locked gazes with Taylor briefly then drove his
sword through Taylor's body, impaling McKellen at the same time. He winced
in apology when Adam Taylor cried out, focusing his attention on
McKellen's shock and startled cry from behind the hanging man. Yanking his
katana free of both bodies, Connor swiftly went around Taylor's gasping
form and followed McKellen's hasty retreat as the other Immortal staggered
off the slippery platform. "There is no escape from justice, McKellen!"
Connor pronounced and swung his blade down on the injured Scottish
murderer. He avoided the kick aimed at him, deliberately knocking
McKellen's sword flying before pacing after the whimpering Scot. "How does
it feel McKellen to be helpless, at the mercy of a stronger force?!" He
spat, envisioning again in his mind all those that this man had killed in
cold blood. *In the name of hate. In the name of a senseless war that had
ended centuries ago. In the name of all those who had never stood a chance
against McKellen's viciousness and brutality.* 

"This is unfair!" McKellen cried outraged, sliding along the floor towards
the CI5 agent's position. *If he could not use the older Immortal as a
shield then he would use an innocent mortal. Connor would not kill an
innocent.* 

"Think again!" Connor growled, cutting off McKellen's path to the
curly-headed agent and giving his opponent a twisted grin of sheer
disgust. "Here you die. On your knees begging for your life!" 

"So you do want power." McKellen accused, raising his head and glaring at
Connor MacLeod. "I knew you were not that noble!"

"Believe what you like." Connor stated, raising his sword for the final
stroke.

"Tell me, MacLeod. When you have taken my head, will you take his?" He
asked, trying one last diversion, pointing up towards Methos' hanging
figure.

Hesitating slightly, Connor snarled at McKellen.

"He is five thousand years old!" McKellen hissed, desperate now. "Think of
it?! With his head you could be invincible!"

"I do not believe in myths!" Connor ended the discussion, swinging his
blade down and silencing McKellen's annoying voice. The Scot's head
tumbled from McKellen's body, rolling away to lie in a puddle of dirty
water and Connor turned away from the wide staring eyes, briefly seeing
the CI5 agent stare up at him in disbelief and horror. Then the Quickening
storm surrounded him.

"Bloody hell-" Doyle gasped out, trying to protect himself when a
ferocious wind and electrical storm broke out in the old abattoir.
Anything that was not tied down was uplifted and thrown across the open
space. The louver's shattered under the force of the miniature cyclone and
sparks exploded in every direction. Awestruck, Doyle glanced around wildly
at the total havoc surrounding him, not believing how all the charged
energy in the room seemed to target John Nash. A man that McKellen had
addressed as Connor MacLeod. *MacLeod?? Did all Immortals have duel
identities?* It was all too confusing and he let his eyes train on Connor
MacLeod, intrigued despite the danger he was in. Nothing in his training,
in his reading or in his life had ever prepared him for this type of
unstoppable power and he blinked up in awe when the storm ended and Connor
MacLeod stood up and cried his fury to the ceiling above. In that instant
he looked magnificent and powerful.

Releasing a shocked breath, Doyle knew what he had just witnessed was
impossible - yet he *had *seen it. *Lived it* and it was no drug-induced
nightmare. *This was utterly real*. Re-gathering his composure, he saw
Connor MacLeod roll his shoulder back before bending to pick up his curved
sword. Then the blonde Scot casually walked over to McKellen's decapitated
body and wiped the sword on McKellen's trousers. It was so normal an act,
but also so staggering. *This was accepted as normal in the Immortal
world? And what in God's name was that electrical display all about?!?*
Forcing himself to breathe out calmly, Doyle then watched how Connor
MacLeod glanced up at Taylor's body hanging so lifelessly from the large
meat hook. *What would Connor MacLeod do? Would he now kill Taylor as he
had killed McKellen? * Worried suddenly, Doyle pondered what *he *could
do. Tensing, he saw Connor MacLeod step up onto the platform and approach
Taylor. *Christ, he still had his sword out....* Doyle noted nervously.
*But what could he say or do to stop so powerful a creature as Connor
MacLeod? *

Eyeing Taylor, Connor frowned. He walked around the man to stand in front
of him and found baleful green eyes watching him in deadly apprehension.
"I am not interested in your head." He stated, feeling McKellen's
Quickening swirl around inside his own mind while he slowly pushed the
man's insane desires away.

"I didn't think you would be." Methos muttered, his voice coming out in
barely a whisper.

Sliding his sword away inside his coat, Connor reached up and gently
unwound the wire holding the injured man captive and then caught Taylor's
body when the other collapsed. He slowly lowered him to the ground,
clinically assessing the Immortal's injuries. He ignored the sharply
in-drawn breath of pain and the trembling muscles, finding that he was
cradling the man without thought. Looking at Taylor he wondered if what
McKellen had claimed was true or just a ruse to throw him off balance.
"Was he right?"

Debating whether he should pretend to misunderstand or not, Methos pulled
away from Connor's supportive embrace and forced himself to sit alone. It
hurt, but the pain of renewed circulation and healing would soon ease and
he could then think straight. But at present he felt he owed this man at
least some explanation - even though Connor had impaled him along with
McKellen. *It was a novel approach....* "Does it matter?"

Connor nodded to himself, acknowledging the soft words reading behind
Taylor's irritated tone. Moving back he crouched in front of the healing
Immortal, noting how stubborn and peeved Taylor now looked. Then he
remembered back to when he had been a young and immature Immortal in 1588
and he recalled how this man had not only saved his life, but had also
forced him to remember what he was. "Then it is true." Connor stated,
finding that looking at Taylor he could imagine what McKellen had
suggested. *The mannerisms, the masks, sarcastic comments and obnoxious
nature,* and he found the idea no longer seemed so far fetched. *Methos.
Five thousand years of history. Of knowledge? What he must know....
remember. What a teacher he would make.* "Does Duncan know?"

"No." Methos lifted his head and let his eyes speak for him, warning
Connor way from that subject. "He must never- "

"I understand." Connor assured him, reaching out to lay a hand on the
man's shoulder. Under his fingers he could feel the healing energy of
Methos' own strong Quickening and he gave the other man a small, rueful
smile. "Knowing a secret like that could get a man killed."

"It could." Methos said through gritted teeth. He really didn't feel up to
sparing words with Connor. "If the one knowing the secret lacked honor."

Giving a gruff laugh, Connor nodded in perfect understanding. "You have my
word and honor."

"Thank you." Methos mumbled with poor grace. In another time, another
place such a secret would force him to silence a warrior like Connor
MacLeod, regardless of his promise. But at that moment he found himself
strangely trusting the honest Scot. *What was it with him and Highland
brats' at present? Maybe he was learning, or maybe he was simply allowing
Fate to guide him rather than fighting against the inevitable so
insistently. * He smiled warily at his own ideas.

"What about him?" Connor asked indicating the battered looking CI5 agent.

"Let me deal with him." Methos stated, glad when Connor silently deferred
to his wishes. *He really didn't want to argue - or fight....* "Trust me.
I have a solution." He murmured, finding that his own mouth curved up
deviously.

Laughing out loud, Connor stood up and went over to the CI5 man. He
studied his dishevelled state before picking up McKellen's discarded blade
and testing its weight in his hand. "Hold still." Connor directed the
agent then lifted the blade.

"Shit!" Doyle muttered, holding his wrists wide apart, realizing what
Connor MacLeod was on about at the last instant. *What a way to ruin a
fine edge* and Doyle winced when the sharp blade came down hard on his
cuffs, severing the chain. *Strewth - he never wanted to get on Connor
MacLeod's bad side*. *Or whatever the man's true name was.* Rubbing his
sore wrists to help his circulation, Doyle saw Connor MacLeod study the
edge of McKellen's sword, before dropping the ruined weapon heedlessly on
the floor. Glancing at the headless body, Doyle determinedly made his way
over to Adam. *Get a grip old son,* he told himself wordlessly. *Check the
hostages then call backup....* he repeated, almost hearing Cowley's
commanding tones in his head. *But how the hell was he supposed to write
this up? *

"Do you want me to get rid of this?" Connor asked pointing to McKellen's
body.

"Umm, no." Doyle decided. He winced, thinking of the different ways he
could explain this to Cowley. *Oh Christ.... Bodie! His partner would
never believe any of this.* "CI5 will clean up."

"Good." Connor muttered. Looking at Methos he nodded slightly. "Give my
regards to Duncan." He said in Gaelic, then turned and walked away into
the enveloping darkness.

"Hey!" Doyle called after the Scot. "Just wait a bloody minute.... Shit!"
He turned to Taylor and saw the other man smile. It still blew him away to
think that half an hour ago there had been a sword in this man's gut and
now he was sitting up looking smug if not exhausted. "Okay!" Doyle
exclaimed to the disused abattoir in general. "I have no idea how to call
this one. Or even if I should report it!"

"Relax." Methos said, slowly getting up and testing his balance. He ached
from head to foot, but knew after a wash, something to eat - *beer * - and
a good night's sleep he would be fine. "You don't have to explain
anything." He went on persuasively. "We were drugged. Chained off to one
side when McKellen had a disagreement with one of his associates. They
fought, McKellen lost and the other man - *whom we did not see so cannot
describe*," Methos added pointedly. "..fled. On foot. End of story."

"But-"

"Tell me agent Doyle, do you really want to try and explain what you saw
to Cowley?" Methos asked in a reasonable tone. "Or to your cantankerous
partner?"

"Oh Christ," Doyle muttered dropping to sit on the side of the concrete
slab and look at Taylor's innocent expression. "I wouldn't know where to
start, and will you stop laughing!" He ended in annoyance.

"Relax. In time Ray," Methos said soothingly. "When you've had enough of
CI5, I know just the job for you."

"What?" Doyle asked suspiciously. "As an inmate at the funny farm?"

Laughing even more, Methos shook his head. "You like study - right?"

"Yeah-" 

"And history?"

"You know I do." Doyle stated, not sure he wanted to trust that look on
Taylor's face. Taylor looked perfectly healthy except for all the blood
that stained his skin. *It was disturbingly weird*.

"Then you'd make an excellent Watcher."

"A what?" Doyle asked confused.

"Ask me when you're no longer a CI5 agent." Nodding to himself, Methos
studied his bloodied form and pulled a disgusted face. "We'd better wash
up a bit before you call the boys in blue."

"Taylor!?" Doyle demanded exasperated, then remembered both McKellen and
Connor MacLeod had called this man by a different name. By a name that was
five thousand years old. "Methos-"

Turning abruptly at that, Methos stalked towards Doyle, letting his manner
change to intimidate the other man. He watched how Doyle hastily climbed
to his feet and scowled at him in confusion. "Never repeat that name."
Methos whispered in a dangerous tone.

"But that is your name." Doyle persisted, refusing to back down. "Your
true name. Isn't it?"

"It is a dangerous name. Something I left behind a very long time ago."

"Something that could get you killed if others of your kind learned of
it." Doyle finished seeing Adam/Methos nod minutely. "I deal in secrets.
No one will learn this from me. Hell - who would believe me?" Doyle asked
softly, wanting to lighten the mood between them. "But, listen," he called
reaching out to touch this intriguing man before him. "It is nice to
finally know who you are. Now I can trust you."

Accepting that, Methos covered the hand holding his arm and squeezed
Doyle's cold fingers. Surprisingly he found that he didn't mind Raymond
Doyle knowing either, instinctively sensing that he could trust this
sincere man. "You're too good for Bodie." Methos announced out loud,
pleased when he saw Doyle splutter in stunned outrage. "Now let's see if
we can find a phone so we can get back to civilization. I could really use
a beer."

******

*May 28th 1980, 2am. London. *

Hearing his R/T beep, Bodie jumped awake and hastily glanced around for
the annoying device. He spotted his it on the coffee table and reached for
it, checking his watch in the process. It was just after 2am in the
morning and he figured it had to be either Turner or Brown reporting in
from outside the Mayfair hotel.

"3.7," Bodie answered, covering a yawn and seeing MacLeod sit up and rub
his eyes. They were both sitting in the dimly lit main room of the
penthouse suite, with cold coffee on the table between them and a black
and white movie playing on the television. No sound was coming from the TV
so he assumed MacLeod must have hit the mute button sometime between the
last lot of phone-sex ads and the time his R/T woke him.

"Bodie. Christ mate - you won't believe how glad I am to hear your-"

"Ray!?" Bodie interrupted the other man, instantly alert and swiftly
standing while he grabbed his coat. "Where the hell are you!?" He saw
MacLeod mirror his actions while the Scot made urgent hand gestures and
mouthed Adam Taylor's name at him. He waved the Scot back and concentrated
on what his partner had to say. Never had he been so relieved to hear
Ray's voice.

"I'm not too sure." 

Even via the static, Bodie could tell that his partner was not seriously
hurt and he closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh of relief. A million
questions flew into his mind and he started to wonder if this was a set up
of for real. *A trick? Was McKellen setting them up?* "Listen mate-"

"We're at an old disused abattoir. I'm not sure but I'd say we're near the
Surrey Docks."

"Trouble?" Bodie asked, needing to know and mentally calculating the
quickest way to get across the City. *He could get CI5 mobilized within
ten minutes.... *

"Nah."

He could hear Doyle sigh into the bad connection, and from his partner's
tone he knew there was no set up or real danger. Relaxing even more, he
let his mind start to dwell on other issues. *Like who took them, what had
happened, if he was hurt in any way....* He felt all out of sync, like he
was missing part of his soul and knew that this feeling was getting worse
each time one of them got into trouble. Lifting his eyes to MacLeod, he
saw the Scot's pinched expression. "Ray?" 

"We're fine. Taylor's just a little knocked around. But McKellen's dead."

"What-"

"Look just get down here and then I'll explain. Oh and I suppose you had
better call the Cow." 

Hearing the connection go dead he stared at his R/T then back at MacLeod.
"Can this get any weirder?" Changing the frequency button he was about to
call CI5 HQ.

"Wait." MacLeod admonished.

"Cowley needs to know." Bodie informed him, softening his tone. Over the
last few hours of enforced association he had gained a new insight into
MacLeod's complex personality and could grudgingly admit to liking the
guy. "I'm sorry, mate. It will take ten minutes for the forensic boys to
swing into gear, that gives us a small window."

Knowing Bodie was technically correct in his assessment, MacLeod pulled on
his coat and headed for the door. *McKellen was dead? How? By Adam's hand
or Connor's? And what had Doyle seen? *

******

Half an hour later Bodie killed the ignition outside the old disused
factory and abattoir area, scanning the darkness for any sign of trouble,
snipers or Doyle. He had maybe 5 to 10 minutes at the most before other
CI5 agents arrived and he wanted to find his partner and make sure Doyle
was okay. Next to him he sensed the fact that MacLeod had tensed and he
spared him a brief glance. Seeing a figure appear at the edge of his car's
headlights, he flipped the high beam on. Automatically he took out his gun
and exited the car, crouching down behind the driver's door to wait and
see who it was. "Get down!" He growled at MacLeod. Shaking his head when
the other man took a moment too long to react. Staring off in the
direction of the approaching figure Bodie saw Doyle materialize in his
headlight beam and beside his partner was Taylor. "Ray?" Bodie called,
wanting to rush to his partner, but holding back out of instinct and
training. MacLeod wasn't so particular and Bodie swore when the Scot stood
up and jogged over to meet the two men. "Shit!" Bodie cursed.

"Bodie?"

Slowly standing, Bodie kept his gun ready and hurried over to his partner,
running his eyes over his mate's figure and noting the bloodied wrists,
swollen eye and wet clothing. "Christ, mate, what the hell is going on?"

"There's no one here. Taylor and I swept the building before I called
you." Doyle explained tiredly. "McKellen is inside. Dead as a doornail."
He turned and gestured back towards the building, seeing MacLeod drag Adam
away.

Noticing the move also, Bodie was about to protest, but stopped when Doyle
reached over and gripped his arm to get his attention. "Leave it mate." He
advised.

Glaring after MacLeod, Bodie, centered his gaze on Doyle and gave his
partner a small lopsided smile. "Shit, Ray, we'd better get these wrists
treated." He said to cover his true emotions, taking hold of Doyle's
injured hands and carefully studying the damaged skin. "You had me so
Goddamn worried." Bodie carried on, not looking up from his inspection of
the bruised and bloodied wrists. "Next time you step aside and let the
bastards take what they want. You don't play hero - do you hear me, Ray!"
Bodie hissed, lifting his head and glaring angrily at his partner. "Not
when the bastards cut us out of the loop, we look after each other.
Christ-"

"Hey," Doyle cut his partner's words off, turning his hands over to grip
Bodie's ice cold fingers. It hurt, but at that moment he was more worried
about his friend's mental state. It was always hard when one of them was
at risk, *but it wasn't like they hadn't been through this before. * "You
know the risks of this job as well as I do. We've been here before. Hell,
we've even been in worse situations. Remember that time you got knifed and
I-"

"That was then, Ray." Bodie whispered. "This is now. Things have changed."

Swallowing suddenly in a very dry throat, Doyle wasn't sure it was wise
for them to continue this conversation. Too much could be said under
stress and Bodie's eyes were always direct and telling. "Things don't need
to change." He offered softly.

"Too late, sunshine." Bodie admitted. "I don't think I could go back even
if I wanted to. This job is dangerous enough as it is without ignoring the
few benefits that we have."

"Oh hell, " Doyle sighed, closing his eyes. This was the last thing he
wanted to discuss at 3am in the Surrey Docks. "Can we discuss this later?"

"Sure." Bodie nodded, letting his mouth curve up in a smug smile. "Right
after you get those wrists checked and I take you home to my place."

"You're presuming a lot, aren't you?"

"No." Bode stated simply. "Just making sure we discuss all angles before
this becomes a problem within the partnership." He studied Doyle's
scowling face. "I take it you still want the partnership?"

"Goes, without saying." Doyle mumbled, shocked that maybe there was still
a chance for them to salvage the tatters of their relationship.

"Good." Bodie nodded. "Then my place it is." He checked his watch knowing
that forensics would be here soon. "Now tell me what happened in there."

Releasing Bodie's warming hands reluctantly, Doyle winced and ordered his
chaotic thinking. *He just had to remember what Taylor had told him.... *

Dragging Adam off to one side, MacLeod hastily glanced back at the two CI5
agents and then turned his full attention to the man standing semi-naked
before him. Adam looked drowned, even his jeans were wet, the dark stains
of blood covering the thick denim. "What happened?" He hissed urgently.
"Are you alright? Is McKellen 'dead' or permanently deceased?" 

Exhaling sharply, Methos blinked at MacLeod drinking in his concern and
traitorously trying to squash his rising hope at the fact that the
Highlander genuinely cared. "Connor took McKellen's head." He stated
simply.

"Connor-"

"And before you ask me where he is, I don't know." Methos interjected. "He
said to say goodbye to you incidentally. Oh and by the way, Doyle knows
about Immortals and all that crap."

Thrown by all the information he was given, MacLeod wasn't sure what to
ask first. *Doyle knew?!? Connor was gone....* but Adam lived and appeared
healed. "I.... I-"

"I need a beer," Methos informed him, loving the way MacLeod's eyebrows
climbed in confusion and how his eyes became impossibly big and
beseeching. He could really sink deeply into a man like Duncan MacLeod.
But the problem was he doubted he would ever surface again sane and be
able to function independently. *It would be best if he left.... *

"Then I'll take you home." MacLeod whispered. "But what will Doyle tell
CI5?" He just had to ask.

"Nothing." Methos shrugged. "Besides who would believe him?"

"But-"

"Neither Raymond Doyle nor myself saw anything. We were drugged." Methos
told him. "That is the official story."

Nodding, MacLeod instinctively took off his coat and placed it around
Adam's shoulders, using the opportunity to touch the other man and assure
himself that he was alive and safe.

Feeling the extra weight of the coat on one side, Methos lifted a brow and
looked at the Highlander questioningly. "You have just handed me your
sword, MacLeod." He stated stunned. "You should never give another
Immortal that kind of power."

"I don't." MacLeod admitted. "I only do that for those I care about. And
there are precious few of them. Three that I can think of, including
yourself."

Scared now by the implications of that frank, honest statement, Methos
blinked at the Highlander in utter awe. His mind was totally blank and he
hardly protested when MacLeod slid a hand under the lapel of his borrowed
coat and caressed his throat. "Duncan-"

"Come on, let me get you into the warmth of Bodie's car. We might even be
able to harass the man to turn his heater on." MacLeod covered, a little
shocked at his own forward announcement. He'd frighten Adam off for sure
this way. *Dammit!* 

"Don't count on it." Methos muttered.

******

Hearing his radio sound, Bodie went back to the Capri, seeing Taylor slide
into the back seat and shiver in cold. "3.7." He answered.

"Putting you through to Alpha One. Go ahead 3.7."

Taking a deep breath, Bodie prepared himself, hearing the frequency change
and Cowley's gruff voice sound out over the small speaker. 

"What the hell is going on, Bodie!?" 

"We've found McKellen, Sir. 4.5 called it in. He and Taylor were taken to
the vacant abattoir near the Surrey docks earlier today. Both are safe,
but it seems McKellen wasn't so lucky. He was beheaded at the hands of one
of his associates. We're searching the area now for clues. Sir." He took
his finger off the send button and held his breath waiting for the shit to
hit the fan. He'd known that Cowley had wanted McKellen alive. 

"Very good, Bodie. When you are finished up there, hand over to the night
team and go home. I'll want your full reports on my desk by 10 in the
morning."

Staring at the handset in his hand, it took Bodie a delayed second before
he replied. "Yes Sir." Then he threw the radio back in the car and glared
at Doyle who was standing at his shoulder. "That old bastard! It's after
3am in the fucking morning, how the hell are we supposed to get reports to
him by 10am!" 

"Not by complaining we won't." Doyle mumbled. He glanced into the Capri
and saw Adam rugged up in MacLeod's coat. Standing up again he eyed his
furious partner. "Who's on tonight?"

"Turner and Brown." Bodie said with poor grace, turning around when the
CI5 forensic boys arrived and parked beside them.

"Then get them down here to take over so we can go and get some shut eye."
Doyle suggested, walking around Bodie to direct the forensics team to the
murder site.

Grumbling under his breath, Bodie picked up the radio again. *What the
hell would he do without Raymond Doyle infecting his life? *

******

Duncan paused just inside the door admiring Adam's body as he moved
towards the couch.... *no doubt to fall into it in that inviting sprawl he
seemed to have perfected*. Checking the time he saw it was just after 4am
now and he came to a decision on the dilemma that had been bugging him for
most of the night and early morning. Shutting the door firmly, MacLeod
slid the security chain home with a click. Last thing he wanted was to be
disturbed by any more CI5 agents, or would be kidnappers. He and Taylor
had a lot to discuss.

Hearing the bolt drop in the lock, Methos stopped halfway to the lounge
and turned to raise an inquiring eyebrow at the other man. He wondered
what this little development was leading to, fearing he already knew the
answer. The damned Scot had been unusually silent on the way home in the
back of the Capri, but his actions of an hour ago and his expression spoke
louder than any words could.

Seeing the questioning look Duncan grinned back. "I've learnt from long
experience never to trust the 'Do Not Disturb' sign." He answered. "And I
definitely don't want to be disturbed," he growled, his voice deepening
with suppressed desire as an evil grin curled itself around his lips.
Slowly he advanced on his unsuspecting partner, wanting to hold him and
reassure himself that the ordeal was truly over.

*Oh Shit....* was the first thing that hit Methos' brain as he realized
that the bigger man was bearing down on him with obviously dishonorable
intent. Connor's words came back to haunt him and he backpedaled quickly
to avoid the bigger man. He was exhausted and really didn't want to have
an argument now with this beautiful Highlander. "Mac!" He squeaked when he
was caught in the vice like grip of a pair of strong arms, the other man
not fooled by his move. Hot demanding lips sought his in a bruising clinch
whilst broad hands urgently caressed his back, seeking the flesh beneath
his borrowed coat. He suppressed a moan, his half-hearted attempts to push
MacLeod away became feebler with each passing second while the other man
deepened the kiss demanding entrance. Large warm hands slid around to run
feather light fingers across his abdomen and Adam moaned deeply in his
throat. *Gods.... but he wanted this, wanted it more than the breath in
his lungs,* and that was the best reason for giving it up. For two hundred
years he had survived without this kind of madness, without the Game and
he knew he would not survive now if he surrendered. He cursed wordlessly
while he felt his traitorous body shiver in response to the blatant
demands MacLeod asked of him.

MacLeod heard the low moan, felt the fight leave the body in his arms when
his tongue forced entry into the moist warm cavern that was Adam's mouth.
For over eighteen hours he had lived in fear of learning that McKellen had
taken this man's head that now he had to release all that caged emotion
and show this man how serious their relationship already was. Even though
he knew Adam was scared of commitment. He'd seen the fear and knew with a
dreadful certainty that this would be their last night together. And he
felt helpless to stop the inevitable. This time. *But he would never
forget....* and next time he met this fascinating man he would not let
Adam leave so easily, for he could feel Fate whispering in his ear that
they would meet again.

When the Highland brat finally let him up for air, Methos hung almost limp
in MacLeod's arms, but with a steadying breath he straightened and renewed
his struggle, fighting the almost overwhelming impulse to throw the
manipulating bastard down on the floor and fuck his brains out. "Mac, we
can't do this," he gasped, pushing at the Scot's chest, needing distance
from the other's over-powering presence and the responses it evoked in him
so effortlessly. *Gods*, he could almost feel rational thought slipping
from his grasp at the mere smell of this aroused warrior.

"Why?" Came the inevitable question.

Methos looked at the man in front of him helplessly. A million reasons
flew to mind - starting with the obvious excuse about the Immortal Game
and digressing to the final reason concerning his harrowing night with
McKellen. But he said none of that. Instead he simply said - "Because." He
stopped, licking his lips nervously and then gasping in a breath when his
thoughts scattered like feathers in the wind. "Because we can't." He
finished lamely, feeling a bubble of hysterical laughter threaten to
engulf him. *Oh yeah, full marks for eloquence on that one! * He was
furious with the exasperating Scot. Furious for what this child was able
to do his rational thinking ability.

"Why?" MacLeod knew why, he had seen the trapped expression, had seen the
look of an animal ready to flee that had flitted like an elusive silver
fish in the green depths of Adam's eyes. With a sinking certainty he knew
that if he did not let the other go voluntarily, then Adam would walkout
the door and never return and he could not live with that. *Could not live
with the fear of not knowing if the other had left, or had been challenged
and killed. *

"Because I can't give you what you want, MacLeod. I don't do happy
families. Okay!?" Methos finished harshly, closing his eyes and turning
his face away, not wanting to face the hurt that was bound to be reflected
in those big brown puppy dog eyes.

"I know." Came the soft reply as MacLeod gently claimed the angry mouth
with his own, persisting until the stubborn resistance slackened. "I know
you won't be here in the morning, but does that have to mean we deny each
other tonight?" He asked quietly.

Methos' jaw dropped, this was the last response he had expected from the
stubborn Highlander, and he was immediately suspicious of the man's
motives. Placing his hands on MacLeod's chest he pushed him away to arms
length, leaving them there as if to hold him at bay. Capturing the dark
gaze with his, Methos found only acceptance tempered with regret and he
relaxed. "What's the catch?" He demanded suspiciously.

"No catch." MacLeod replied, taking note of the disbelieving look that
Adam shot him. He released his hold stepping back from the other man,
opening his arms in a gesture of release, offering Adam control. "If you
want to leave now, I won't stop you." MacLeod stated quietly, his voice
flat, without inflection.

Methos almost overbalanced at the sudden loss of support, not having
realized how much he had leaned into the other man's strength. The irony
of it was not lost on him and he cursed himself for being fifty kinds of
fool, for not comprehending what was happening to his own heart. He had
been so wrapped up in the Highlander's supposed feelings, and the
avoidance of those feelings, that he had been unaware of what his own were
doing. He had not even recognized that the overbearing, overprotective,
brat of a boy scout had wormed his way into the empty place in his soul
where he kept his loneliness under lock and key. *Serves you right you
idiot! *That's what you get for isolating yourself for so long! He glanced
back to MacLeod who was standing patiently before him, his face impassive,
the once obvious desire banked down now behind opaque eyes. When he left,
Methos knew he would hurt this magnificent warrior and he admitted
silently that he would also hurt himself. But he also knew he couldn't
stay. Not now. Not after what had happened with McKellen. Staring at the
Scot he was stunned to realize that MacLeod seemed to understand this too
and Methos acknowledged that maybe Duncan MacLeod was not such a child
after all. *Maybe he could be proved wrong*. So now he had to hurriedly
revise his preconceptions and he came to a decision. Honestly he did not
want to deny either of them the pleasure of this last night together. He
would need the memory of it, to hold close, to keep out the cold chill of
the loneliness that would wrap its familiar icy claws around him when he
left the burning heat that was Duncan MacLeod. So, making his decision,
Methos closed his eyes and sighed, knowing he would regret this in the
morning, but for one more night he would not care. He would live to the
full and make sure Duncan lived the few hours they had left to the full as
well. He wanted this beautiful man - *however brief their time together*.
Placing a hand on either side of MacLeod's face he pulled the slightly
taller man down to him and took the passive mouth in a gentle undemanding
caress. It was an invitation and for the briefest of seconds he agonized
that the other would not accept. Then to his eternal joy he felt two
strong arms enfold him in a crushing embrace as the mouth against his own
became aggressive and demanding.

MacLeod skimmed his hands over the slender back, smiling inwardly at the
shudder of pleasure that rippled through his lover's body and the moan
that escaped into his mouth. Gently he pushed the coat from the bare
shoulders, glad that the damp flesh was now warm and dry. Placing the coat
down carefully he smiled at Adam, remembering the trust he had placed in
Adam's hands by giving him his precious katana. Skimming hands over the
white skin, he looked for blemishes, but found only a few flakes of dried
blood and wondered again what McKellen had done to this man. If he asked
Adam might tell him, but at present he didn't want to break this spell of
desire. Taking a deep breath he shelved all his worries and he glided his
hands down to the tab on Adam's jeans, his own breath catching as Adam
attacked his shirt with equal vigor. When they were both naked, MacLeod
took Adam in a fierce hug, storing up the feel of this incredible man
against him for the famine that was to come. When his lover returned the
hug with equal strength MacLeod knew with a bittersweet surge of joy that
Adam felt the same way. Unwilling to let this last night turn maudlin,
Duncan tilted his head up and proceeded to lick kiss his lover's exposed
neck, knowing that this was a sensitive area for Immortals, and in
particular for this sensual being.

Methos tilted his head back to allow better access, moaning as darts of
pleasure spiked through his nerves and his body shuddered. *Fuck....* but
Duncan knew how to reduce him to near incoherence faster than almost
anyone else he had known in his long life. *And that, my foolish friend,
is why you have to leave,* a small annoying voice in the back of his mind
shot back pointedly. *Oh shut up!* He snapped peevishly. *Just this once
you can go to hell....* he snarled to himself, slamming the door on the
demon voice of survival. Taking deep uneven breaths and trying to keep his
quickly weakening legs beneath him, Methos broke the heavy silence. "Mac -
Duncan, this room has a perfectly good bed in it. Can we use it before my
legs give way, or do you want to use the floor? I hate carpet burns," he
complained.

Sniggered into Adam's neck MacLeod nodded. "Your wish is my command." He
teased breaking the embrace, and dragging Adam by the hand to the bedroom,
where he took the slender frame in his arms and sought out the tantalizing
mouth again. He was convinced that this strange man, whom he knew almost
nothing about, had him under some sort of spell and when he allowed Adam
to leave the separation was going to be one of the hardest, most soul
destroying things he had ever endured in his life.

Methos shuddered as he was drawn close into another embrace by his lover,
the other's powerful presence washing over him like a hot wave, engulfing
his mind just as the hot full lips engulfed his mouth. He could not stop a
moan from escaping, feeling the Highlander's straining erection brush his
own burning shaft, before large hands slid down his back to cup his
buttocks and pull him closer. Desperate to gain some distance from the
feelings that were swamping him Methos broke away from the fierce mouth
gasping for much needed oxygen, but found his eyes caught in an intense
brown gaze. *Oh Gods* but this Highland barbarian was the most beautiful
creature he had ever known, his eyes deep pools of undisguised emotions
and if he wasn't careful he'd be pulled into those bottomless depths and
drown.

Sensing the hesitancy, MacLeod moved away, pulling his lover onto the bed
with him, he pushed the other man gently down onto his stomach, ignoring
the questioning glance. Straddling the slender hips he lent down and
placed his lips on the exposed neck. "Relax Adam, you're too tense." He
breathed, letting his warm breath feather across the pale skin, eliciting
a shiver and a moan from the man trapped beneath him. MacLeod reached over
to the side table and picked up the small bottle of oil that he had taken
from the bathroom that morning, pouring a small amount of the contents
into his hand and putting the bottle back. He rubbed his hands together,
warming the oil before placing his hands on the tense shoulders and
beginning to massage them slowly.

Methos sighed, amazed at how easily MacLeod's hands found the knots of
tension in his muscles, mercilessly kneading them into submission. What
ever else he might think about the exasperating Scot, he had to admit that
Duncan had the most wonderfully talented hands. 

Duncan felt the change in the body under him and his caress became more
sensual as he reveled in the feel of the warm silky skin, and the muscles
beneath, under his fingertips. Looking down at the long slender back, he
was again surprised at the lean muscles that were hidden so well under the
baggy clothes that Adam insisted on wearing. He marveled at the way those
muscles moved beneath the pale skin as his lover squirmed under his touch.
Adam seemed to have perfected the look of innocent helplessness, but there
was a hidden strength now that belied that image. And it was this contrast
and the occasional glimpses of something much deeper in Adam's personality
that made for a puzzle that MacLeod knew he would one day have to solve. A
murmured protest bought him out of his revere and without warning MacLeod
found himself tumbled from his perch as Adam caught him off guard with a
twist of his hips. He found himself pinned beneath the slighter man, the
other holding his hands to either side of his head, the grip on his wrists
shockingly strong.

"Day dreaming can be dangerous," Methos whispered into MacLeod's ear, his
voice a low growl.

"Then it's a good thing you're not armed, isn't it?" Came the nonchalant
reply.

"Who said I wasn't armed?" Methos growled, a feral grin on his lips as he
suggestively rocked his hips causing his aching erection to rub against
MacLeod's own hardened shaft. His grin widened at the answering gasp from
the prone Highlander, feeling the other man arch upwards. Bending, he
found the strong dark column of MacLeod's neck and proceeded to nip along
its length, soothing the small red marks he'd made with his tongue.
Reluctantly leaving the Highlander's neck he slid his hands down the
muscled arms, admiring the darkly tanned skin - *such a stark contrast to
his own* - the rising moans from MacLeod causing his own breath to
quicken. Placing his hands to either side of the broad chest for support
he lowered his mouth to a dark nipple and enclosed it in his mouth,
nipping gently with his teeth. He felt the body under him tense and gasp
and repeated the move on its twin, before he slid further down the
beautiful form leaving hot wet trails with his tongue. Stopping briefly to
toy with the Scot's navel he resumed his southward journey, encouraged
vocally by MacLeod's hoarse groans of pleasure. Reaching the Highlander's
proud erection Methos grasped the base and proceeded to tease the swollen
head with his tongue, lapping at the leaking fluid before taking the
entire length into his mouth and sucking hard.

MacLeod cried out in ecstasy as he was engulfed in the hot, wet heat of
his lover's mouth. *A man who seemed to have turned into a demon, a demon
determined to draw his very soul from his body.* He moaned, reaching down
and running shaky fingers through Adam's short silky hair, holding the
other man's head as he thrust into the inviting heat.

Methos found a rhythm that seemed to please the Highlander, and he gently
fondled and squeezed the precious sacs with his other hand, causing the
other to moan and shudder. Noting how close his Highlander was, Methos
released the hard shaft from his mouth ignoring MacLeod's cry of protest.
Instead he slid up the now sweat soaked body to capture the open lips with
his own, whilst he reached for the small oil bottle. When he had it safely
in his hand he captured MacLeod's petulant gaze with his own. "I want you,
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." He whispered huskily, slipping a
probing tongue into his lover's ear suggestively. 

"Oh Gods yes.... Please-" MacLeod moaned, arching his body closer to the
sensuous, inviting heat above him.

Grinning at the plaintive tone of MacLeod's voice Methos moved back down
and positioned himself between the Scot's spread thighs. Pouring out the
remaining oil into his hand he tossed the empty bottle negligently aside,
keeping his eyes centered in his prize. Warming the oil between his hands,
he glanced up at his lover's face, to find the other man regarding him
with a desperate pleading expression. Gliding his finger tips down the
muscled thighs with feather light caresses, he worked his hands down to
the Highlander's firm buttocks slipping a finger between his cheeks until
it reached the small tight opening, causing his lover to gasp and buck.

"Adam?!" MacLeod protested, the teasing becoming unbearable.

With a wicked grin Methos used the remaining oil to lubricate himself,
before easing into the inviting heat, stilling momentarily to allow them
both to savor the feelings. Then he placed his hands on the Highlander's
hips and began a long, slow rhythm.

MacLeod groaned as he felt Adam slide into his body, fire coursing along
his nerves, the slow sensual rhythm enough to set him alight but
maddeningly below what he needed for release. He felt engulfed in his
lover's presence, the faint buzz of his immortality an ever-present
sensation in the back of is mind. It was something he had never felt
before, not even with Amanda, and it was another reason why letting this
incredible man slip away was going to be so hard. Having Adam next to him,
*with him*, in him was a feeling he was fast becoming addicted to.

As he slowly increased the rhythm of his thrusts, Methos felt his control
slipping and knew he could not last much longer. The gasping cries of his
lover's building climax spurring him on. Slipping his arms beneath
MacLeod's bent knees, he lent forward in order to deepen the penetration.
"Duncan?" He called softly, willing the other man to move with him, to
become in tune with him. *Duncan look at me, I want to see you - to
remember this always.* But he could not bring himself to say the words out
loud. For that would confirm his need for this feeling - *this intimacy* -
to fill the void in his life. And that was something he could never admit
out loud. Because that would then give this wonderful, exasperating man
the excuse he needed to try and make him stay. And Methos knew that if
Duncan MacLeod used his considerable powers of persuasion on him now, he
would cave in and stay.

Through the clouding fog of pleasure that Adam was creating in him,
MacLeod somehow heard his name called and opened his eyes to find himself
falling into a pair of vivid green pools. Reaching out a hand he brushed
the flushed face before him, tracing the open lips with his fingertips,
smiling as a warm wet tongue flicked out to lick them before the tip of
his finger was caught between very white teeth. "Adam.... Oh Gods-"
MacLeod moaned feeling the last of his control fly away in tatters, as he
panted out his release.

Methos shuddered at the sound of the name on MacLeod's lips, closing his
eyes he imagined that deep silky voice crying out another name. And for
the first time in centuries he wished fervently that it could be his true
name spoken with such feeling and passion. *What would it sound like for
MacLeod to say 'Methos'? * Opening his mouth to ask - he found his voice
gone, like it had been stolen by his own personal survival demon and he
gave a silent sob of frustrated regret. *It was not fair*, and he closed
his eyes feeling the Scot's shuddering contractions drag him over the edge
into completion and he spilled his essence into his lover's warm depths.
Collapsing onto MacLeod's abdomen in a boneless sprawl, the sticky
evidence of his lover's pleasure warm against his skin, Methos fought
desperately to control the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. But he
could not hold back as another sob forced its way past the knot in his
throat. *Oh fuck the Gods - fuck Fate, if he did not leave now he never
would!* But his body once again betrayed him as it shivered in the
aftermath of its pleasure and his strength deserted him. In the end all he
could do was listen to the beating of the Highlander's powerful heart as
its frantic pace slowed gradually and they both came down from their high.

MacLeod heard the strangled sob that came from his lover and reached down
to run gentle fingers through Adam's silky hair. "Adam? Are you alright?"
When he got no reply he became concerned. And he forced himself to move.
He sat up and reached for Adam, wanting to give comfort, needing to know
what had caused his lover pain.

Methos felt the bed move as the big Scot sat up and slipped a hand under
each arm, before he was dragged up MacLeod's cooling body to lie within
two strong arms. A hot mouth claimed his in a demanding kiss whilst he
felt MacLeod's legs entangle with his own in a full body hug.
Instinctively he felt trapped and his body tensed as an uncharitable
thought wormed its way into his brain. *The damned stubborn Highlander
wasn't going to let him go....* and he started to panic and struggle for
freedom.

MacLeod felt the body he held tense and struggle, but this time, instead
of letting go as before, he tightened his hold, guessing what the other
must be thinking. "Shh Adam. Easy," he soothed stroking his lover's head,
as if calming a frightened animal. *Damn*, but he hadn't expected a
reaction like this to a simple embrace. "It's okay, you're not trapped."
He whispered gently, appalled at the tremors running through the spare
frame in his arms. When the tremors did not lessen he loosened his hold on
the other man allowing him to move if he wished, unsurprised when Adam
rolled off onto his side and curled into a tight ball. His first instinct
was to move closer and give comfort, but he crushed that urge, instead he
reached out a tentative hand and laid it on the pale skin of his lover's
arm, stroking lightly. "I'm sorry, Adam. I didn't mean make you feel
trapped. Hell, I already said you could go when you wanted."

"Not your fault, Highlander." Methos replied, his voice harsh with
suppressed emotions. "Just my over active survival instincts." He finished
bitterly.

"Are you saying that I am a threat to your survival?" MacLeod asked
withdrawing his hand, shocked at such an accusation even a vaguely implied
one.

"Yes, MacLeod, that is precisely what I'm saying." Methos retorted
bluntly, uncurling from his protective posture and moving to sit on the
edge of the bed with his back to the stunned Scot.

MacLeod stared at the slim naked back, the tense shoulders still shacking.
He was torn between anger at being accused of such a thing and compassion
for his lover's obvious distress. He reached out a hand, but seeing the
other tense as if reading his intention, he withdrew it letting it drop.
At that moment he felt utterly helpless. "Why?" He hated to ask, but
needed the answer.

A choked sob forced its way between clenched teeth. *Gods - but that
question was one he was beginning to hate with a passion. Especially
coming from the mouth of this Highland child.* Taking a deep mental
breath, Methos decided charitably that it was not really MacLeod's fault.
*Maybe he could blame McKellen for this entire mess, or Connor. Now that
was more workable....* But then he sighed. *In fact it was his own fault,
for not leaving at the first opportunity. He was a fucking idiot. *
Sensing the other was still waiting for an answer he took a deep steadying
breath. "I've learned through long painful experience MacLeod, that to
become involved with our own kind is a short road to tragedy and loss. And
it's a road I won't willingly walk down again." He finished shortly. It
wasn't the real answer, *not all of it anyway,* but it was what the other
would expect to hear. So it should suffice. The truth was so ugly that he
did not even want to look at it himself, let alone show it to this moral
and upright Scot so he could be judged unworthy yet again of a love that
was being offered so freely.

Although MacLeod could hear the bitterness of the words spoken, he also
suspected that there was much more not being said out loud. He suspected
that Adam was hiding something very dark and very painful in his past that
he did not want him to know about. *So be it*. This time he did reach out
with his hand, laying it gently on the cool pale skin and feeling the
muscles twitch under his touch. But he refused to pull away, gliding his
hand up to Adam's shoulder and tugging firmly. "Come here," he coaxed,
putting all the reassurance and need he felt into his voice.

"Back off, MacLeod." Methos growled, shrugging his shoulder to try and
dislodge the caressing hand that was making a mockery out of his efforts
at control. It didn't work as the other tightened his grip. *Oh Gods how
he wanted to relent, to sink back down into the hot sensual embrace that
would envelope him like a blanket. *The heat of MacLeod's spirit would
thaw that part of himself that he had long ago placed in the deepest
darkest coldest recesses of his mind and locked the door on in order to
survive. "I said, BACK OFF!"

"No!"

Methos whipped around to glare at the man behind him, the implacable tone
in the refusal like a slap in the face. *Was MacLeod now denying his
feelings and rights? *

MacLeod grinned inwardly at the deadly gaze leveled at him. *My, my - if
looks could kill he'd be reduced to ashes on the spot,* but at least he
now had Adam's complete attention. "Adam," he started, injecting
seriousness into his tone. "I know nothing about you and although I would
be lying if I said that I don't want you to stay, I am also not going to
go back on my word and force you to remain." The *'this time'* he left
unsaid, hoping that the other could not hear the unspoken promise and
threat. "Now stop acting like a child and come here." He finished,
grinning openly at the outraged expression on the others face.

"Child!" Methos sputtered, torn between laughter and outrage at the
well-calculated dig. "Oh Mac, what am I going to do without you?" He
laughed, then seeing the brown eyes once again turn serious he reached out
a hand and placed gentle fingertips over the full lips. "Have you not
heard of rhetorical questions, MacLeod?" He interrupted with mock
exasperation, forestalling the reply he could see forming.

MacLeod took the slender hand in his, turning it he placed his thumb in
the palm and with gentle pressure he rubbed small circles, smiling when
Adam closed his intense green eyes and sighed in pleasure. Then with a
slow forward pull he tried to coax his skittish lover back into his
embrace.

Methos felt the gentle pull and this time he relented, ruthlessly
squashing his instincts to run. He knew he could trust the Highlander, he
just wasn't sure he could trust himself. The longer he spent in this man's
presence, the harder it was to contemplate leaving. But leave he must.
With a small sigh he slid back onto the bed, stretching out beside the
beckoning heat to be once more embraced by his lover's strong arms.

******

Not believing he had allowed Bodie to talk him into returning to his
partner's spacious flat, Doyle paced away from his shadow and went into
the kitchen to turn the kettle on. He checked his watch, remembering too
late that it was smashed, and pulled a face, not bothering to look up when
Bodie walked over to lean on the kitchen counter next to him. In a strange
way the action was very reminiscent of their entire eighteen month
partnership so far, Bodie the antagonist of the team, him the pacifier.
*Bodie the pursuer, while he preferred to wait.... So did he now want the
dynamics of the teaming to change?* "What time is it?" Doyle asked to
cover his apprehension and worry.

"Quarter past four - in the morning."

"Christ," Doyle muttered. "We have to get a report on the Cow's desk in
less than six hours."

"Ray, forget Cowley." Bodie said softly, crossing his arms and staring at
the polished tiles under his feet. "Forget MacLeod, Taylor and this whole
damn case for a moment and just talk to me. Please?"

Lifting his head, Doyle glanced at Bodie from under his damp curls, noting
his partner's serious expression and direct gaze. Suddenly the simple fact
that they were about to have the most important conversation of their
lives and careers seemed unbelievable and so dangerous, that his breath
caught and he felt a fit of unstoppable giggles rise up from his chest.
Then he was laughing, stepping away from Bodie and cracking up. He knew it
was stupid, but his mirth was uncontrollable, a reaction to the stress
over the last few days, *to the drugs, to the half truths he was forced to
tell, to the secrets he was cursed to hide from his partner, lover and
friend.* Doyle didn't know any longer what was up or down, he only
understood that he needed a release outlet. Unfortunately that was Bodie.
*Always would be Bodie....* and that thought sobered him, driving home a
point he had been too blind to see. "God, aren't we a sick pair of
idiots," Doyle wheezed, wiping his eyes and grinning at his partner.

Studying the other man with a dubious expression, Bodie hadn't moved an
inch during his partner's fit of giggles, well used the odd way the other
man dealt with issues and pressure. He'd just never seen Doyle crack up at
the mention of their relationship before and that was a worry. "You feel
better now?"

"I dunno." Doyle sighed, spooning tea into a pot and pouring in the hot
water. "Ask me after I've slept."

"Ray-"

"Listen Bodie, this thing between us is never gonna work."

"Why?" Bodie asked belligerently.

"Because I refuse to be the convenient lay you can throw a leg over when
you can't find a bird." Doyle stated bluntly, letting his eyes watch
Bodie's expression change from stunned disbelief to insulted outrage in
the space of a second. There - *he'd finally said it*. Admitted what had
been eating at him since he woken next to his exasperating partner. *Was
it only the previous morning? Less than twenty-four hours ago? Shit.... *

"Is that what you think I want?" Bodie demanded hurt.

"Isn't it?"

"No. Aw hell mate! What do you take me for?" Bodie growled angrily. "We're
partners for Christsakes, Ray! We're a team. What you do affects me and
visa versa! What I want from you I can't get from a bird and what I want
to give to you I guarantee you won't get from any of the females you
chase!"

Hearing the heavily emotion laden tone, Doyle blinked at his partner,
startled. "It sounds like you've given this some thought-"

"Too bloody right mate!" Bodie spat back, sticking his chin out and
challenging Doyle to back away. "I know you want meaning in your life,
Ray. I watch the way you search for it with each female you bed and fuss
over. I hate to see you hurt when every bloody time they leave, and you
turn all subdued on me. It scares me that one day I'll lose you to some
toffee-nosed bitch who won't understand you like I do. So I'm offering you
an alternative. I'm offering you a chance - only you have to tell me if
this is what you want."

Absolutely speechless, Doyle could only stare at his partner and friend.
Everything Bodie was feeling was strikingly clear in the vivid blue eyes
and Doyle had to look away. For the second time in less than twelve hours
he was shocked and he covered his mild panic by reaching up and taking
down two mugs. He poured the tea automatically, stirring in the sugar and
milk before handing one to his partner. His actions were pure habit and he
stopped, staring at Bodie's hand when his partner took the mug off him.
*Those sure, capable hands....* and Doyle closed his eyes. In all honesty
he couldn't turn away now. The door of possibilities Adam Taylor had
opened refused to close and he accepted the fact that he wanted to see
where this madness would lead. Coming to an instant decision, he took the
mug back off Bodie and reached up instead to cup his partner's pale face.
"Treat me like one of your easy lays, and I'll kill you myself!"

"Never-"

Not waiting for a response he moved and claimed Bodie's open mouth, taking
the initiative and tasting the other man's relief. Regardless of what
happened in the future, they needed to live in the present and that was
one lesson he intended to adopt from Adam Taylor's cynical philosophy on
life. *Besides, surely a five thousand-year-old man had gained some
insight into human nature.... *

******

Awaking with a start Methos welcomed the awareness seeping back into his
satiated mind and body with a languid slowness that drew a contented sigh
from him. He was surrounded by the warmth of a solid body and the now
familiar buzz of his lover's presence. He felt the weight of a strong arm
draped across his waist and the feathery exhalation's of his lover's warm
breath caressing his neck. All was right with the world. *McKellen was
gone. The threat to this beautiful Highland child was gone* and he grinned
at the memory of last night. Then another memory surfaced and his smile
faded as if it had never existed. *Last Night *- the irony of those words
like a knife in his heart, for it had been their 'last' night. Suddenly he
felt like a condemned man savoring the memory of his last meal while he
was sentenced to return to the safe but dull and cold existence of Adam
Taylor - forever exiled from the warmth and light that was Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod.

Lifting a hand, Methos caressed the smooth warm skin of MacLeod's arm,
marveling at the solid muscle beneath. *So strong and yet so gentle when
they held him. * A small sob escaped before he could suppress it and the
pit of dark loneliness that had disappeared briefly in the Highlander's
presence cracked open. Despair threatened to engulf him and he battled to
exercise his familiar controls to banish the darkness into the background.

*He had to leave now*, before the barbarian child woke and pleaded with
those soulful brown eyes for him to stay. He knew MacLeod would not say a
word to make him stay, *but oh those eyes, the brat could melt glaciers
and break even a saint's resolve with those pleading eyes*, and Methos
knew he was no saint.

Lifting the arm that banded his waist so possessively, Methos slipped out
of bed replacing his body with his pillow. He watched how MacLeod curled
about the still warm pillow with a contented sigh and was almost undone by
that simple act of trust.

Quickly and quietly, Methos set about getting dressed and gathering his
things. He dreaded what would happen if the Highlander should wake, while
a small traitorous part of him wished that he would. In his haste to be
gone, Methos failed to notice the small furry face that peeked out from
under the bed, a puzzled expression in the clear green eyes. Instead he
stood in the doorway of their shared bedroom, unable to drag his gaze from
the sleeping form that was just visible in the not quite darkness of the
early hours. *It was just gone 6am....* His traitorous mind kept replaying
images of their passion from the few hours before and unbidden he felt
something warm and wet slide down his face. Shocked Methos reached up an
unbelieving hand and touched the wetness, bringing it to his lips as if he
needed the salty proof that they were real tears. *Tears?* He hadn't cried
in longer than he could remember, and if that wasn't proof enough that he
was too involved for his own good, he didn't know what was. *Alright!
You've won!* He cursed the snide little voice deep in the back of his
mind. *Now leave me alone! *

Taking a shuddering breath Methos stole one last look at his Highland
prince and called softly - "Is fhea'r teicheadh math na droch fhuireach.
I'm sorry Duncan-" He whispered a second time, his voice breaking on the
last word. Abruptly he turned and let the tears flow, slipping out the
door soundlessly while the icy fingers of despair and loneliness wrapped
around his heart in cold familiarity. He felt dead inside before the
Highlander's presence even faded from his sensing range.

******

MacLeod felt the sting of hot tears, but he struggled to remain still. To
keep his breathing to the slow even rhythm of sleep, when all he wanted to
do was leap up and drag his contrary lover back to bed where Adam belonged
and never let him go. But he had given his word to Adam, and he *never*
broke his word, no matter the cost. Even if the pain would cripple him.
And he had felt his lover's eyes on him, had heard the whispered words -
*'Better a good retreat than a bad stand'....* He had heard the pain
behind those huskily whispered words and knew that Adam was suffering
also. A small nasty part of him was glad that Adam suffered, *for why
should he suffer alone?* He was a little ashamed of those thoughts, but
they were there and there was nothing he could do about them. Then he
heard the door close and held his breath as the precious buzz of Adam
Taylor's presence faded for the last time.

Closing his eyes, MacLeod lay for what seemed an eternity, his face buried
in the pillows, feeling the last of the heat left by Adam's body subside
also. He inhaled the unique scent, imprinting it on his memory along with
the images of the last few hours they had spent together, desperately
trying to remember the sound of that soft smooth baritone before it too
faded from his mind.

******

Later that same morning MacLeod woke with a start, groping blindly for the
warm body that should be beside him. When he encountered nothing but cold
empty sheets, memory returned and he groaned with feeling, the loss
cutting through him afresh. He flopped onto his back, staring blankly up
at the ceiling and began to curse Adam, Connor, McKellen and CI5 loudly
and graphically. 

MacLeod nearly jumped out of his skin when his verbal tirade was rudely
interrupted by a small black and white body that landed on his pillow with
no warning. Turning his head he was confronted by a pair of forlorn
emerald eyes. Instantly his heart went out to the tiny creature and he
reached up a finger to gently stroke the delicate head, rewarded for his
efforts by the beginnings of a purr. "So.... he left you too did he?" He
was answered by a subdued meow before a small, pink tongue flicked out to
lick his finger. Then the tiny feline proceeded to make herself
comfortable on his chest. She curled up into a tight ball, tail neatly
draped over her small perfect nose while a half-hearted purr vibrated down
through his chest bones. "I know exactly how you feel," MacLeod murmured
placing his hands behind his head. A small smile tugging at the corners of
his mouth despite the pain that still echoed through him. *At least he
still held a part of Adam.... *

Unwilling to disturb his new friend, MacLeod resigned himself to an
extended stay in bed. In truth he figured it was the perfect excuse to
give in to the urge to do nothing but mourn the loss of his lover. Because
no matter how much he thought he had prepared himself for this morning -
knowing that he would wake up alone - Adam's absence still cut like a
sharp knife. The thing he missed the most already was that constant buzz
in the back of his mind that had become a comforting presence. It was
almost like the physical sensation, similar to the cat's purring*. Never
again....* would he let Adam walk way when he found him a second time.
*And he would find him!*

Glancing at the time MacLeod saw it was almost 11.45am and he wondered
when Bodie and Doyle would show up. *Sooner rather than later* he
imagined. Settling his eyes on the cat he watched her sleep, seriously
considering what to do with her. As much as he wanted to keep her for
Adam's sake, at present he had no real address. He'd just bought a barge
in Paris but it needed work and he really needed to travel the auction
circuits if he wanted to seriously get back into the antique business. *So
what was he to do with the cat? * Frowning, he wondered if *Bodie liked
animals? *

******

Three hours later, MacLeod opened the door to his hotel room and invited
the two CI5 agents in. All morning he had been silently praying that Adam
would return, but deep in his heart he knew that was a false dream. "Come
in gentlemen. I trust this is only a social visit?" 

"Tying up loose ends." Doyle said pleasantly, glancing around. He saw no
sign of Taylor and raised a brow. "Mr. Cowley would like to have a word
with Nash."

MacLeod sighed, not surprised. "I don't know where he is. Last time I saw
him was yesterday morning." He offered honestly, assuming an open and
innocent expression. He slid his gaze to Doyle, wondering what was going
on in the agent's mind, remembering that Adam had warned him about Doyle
witnessing the Quickening between Connor and McKellen. *Could he be
trusted?* Adam seemed to think so. *Yet it was a risk....* "Surely you
don't think Nash is a suspect?"

"We would just like a word with him." Bodie restated his manner and tone
vastly different to what it had been over the last few days. Now he
appeared more relaxed. At ease with the world and his surroundings.

Looking at the taller agent, MacLeod regarded Bodie with interest. "I wish
I could help, but-" he shrugged.

"And your plans, Mr. MacLeod?" Doyle asked, returning from his brief
survey of the room to pin the other man with shrewd eyes. He and Bodie had
endured a grueling de- briefing in Cowley's office and he would be *bloody
glad when this operation was finished*. Forensics was already having a
field day with McKellen's sword and the decapitated body. And he prayed
that *Adam was as experienced in covering evidence as the man was in
fabricating lies*. 

"I intend to return to Paris in a day or so." MacLeod stated.

"All finished with the auctions?" Bodie asked, softening his tone with a
small smile. "You never did tell us how much you paid for that book."

Remembering the book, MacLeod felt a pain start under his heart, glancing
around and seeing that the old book was still sitting on the table by the
phone where he'd left it two days ago. He'd offered it to Adam and
suddenly he could hear Adam's *voice in his mind.* Could almost *smell him
and see him - hear his sarcastic reply* about the merits of that book.
'Paradise Lost' - *too damn right.... *

"Mr. MacLeod?"

Blinking himself back to the present, MacLeod sucked in a deep breath,
shelving his regrets and pain and noticed that both Bodie and Doyle were
regarding him with worry. *Oh hell....* "I paid too much," he stated,
dragging his mind back to the question Bodie had asked. "Adam though it
was a piece of junk."

"Which reminds me, where is Taylor?" Doyle asked.

"Gone." MacLeod stated, finding it was very hard to verbalize the truth.
"You may catch him at the University." *In a century or two. *

"We'll do that." Bodie nodded, turning away and going to the door. "Stay
out of trouble, Mr. MacLeod."

Lifting his lashes, MacLeod was not surprised to find Doyle still watching
him, half expecting the other agent to have already known that Adam would
leave. *What connection was it that these two vastly different men
shared?* He was no longer jealous of the friendship, rather he was now
curious. Not breaking eye contact with Doyle, MacLeod forced a smile,
losing it a moment later when Doyle walked closer. He had the sudden
impression that Doyle could read his thoughts.

"He'll be back." Doyle offered in a softer tone, turning slightly so that
he kept their conversation private from Bodie. 

"How can you be so sure?" MacLeod asked, knowing he should keep quiet, but
he wanted to know what Doyle knew. *Any comfort*.

Considering his words carefully, Doyle glanced over at his partner and saw
Bodie lift a brow in question. He shook his head and turned back to
MacLeod, trusting his partner to respect his privacy. So much had changed
in the last twenty-four hours that he owed MacLeod an explanation. *Maybe
even his thanks*. "I'm sure, because no one would put up with what
McKellen did to them if they didn't love the person they were protecting.
Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I'm starting to." MacLeod breathed. *What had McKellen done? And why had
Adam not told him? Why?!?* "Doyle-"

"Give him time."

Biting back on more questions, MacLeod reluctantly nodded. He would have
to track down Connor and get the information out of his clansman, though
Connor very rarely discussed challenges. Especially if they involved old
friends still alive. Then another thought hit him and he briefly glanced
over at his partially opened bedroom door. "Doyle, do you like cats?"

A little perplexed by the change in subject, Doyle frowned. "Depends on
its size." 

"Wait here." MacLeod said, coming to an instant decision and walking over
to his room. He went inside and swiftly found the small bundle of fur
curled on Adam's pillow. The sight of Nefertiri cuddled into the softness
of the pillow produced another pang of regret and loss, and MacLeod
exhaled strongly forcing himself to suppress the useless emotions. *Adam
was gone*. There was nothing he could do about that fact and later he
would grieve. But now he needed to make some decisions and he went over to
the bed and gingerly picked up the cat. She was warm and soft and he
smoothed down her fur when she protested the movement before carrying her
out to the waiting CI5 agents. "This is Nef, or I think Adam called her
Nefertiri."

"After one of the Egyptian Queens." Doyle said with a laugh.

"Probably. He liked his history." MacLeod agreed. He stroked her ears back
one last time then thrust her at the other man. "She needs a home and I
know Adam would trust you to find her one."

"Now hang on a minute." Bodie interjected ambling over. "What the hell are
we supposed to do with a sodding cat?"

Hearing the tiny animal start to purr, Doyle sent his partner a sly smile.
"I think I know the perfect home."

"Don't even think about it." Bodie growled. "Cowley won't sanction it, so
forget it."

Grinning wickedly, Doyle said his good-byes to MacLeod and preceded his
partner to the door.

Throwing his hands in the air, Bodie stopped at the door and glanced back
at the forlorn looking Scotsman and softened his scowl. "Have a safe trip
back to Paris."

"Thanks," MacLeod called, closing his eyes when the door whispered shut.
Now he was truly all alone. *Again. *

"Ray!" Bodie hissed, catching up to his partner and modifying his glare
when an elderly couple took a step back away from the lifts. Yanking on
Doyle's arm he dragged his partner into the stairwell. "What the hell do
you think you are doing?"

"Lay off," Doyle muttered, starting down the steps ahead of his partner.
"I didn't say I was going to keep her indefinitely, just until I found her
a decent home."

"Oh." Bodie stopped, all the ire draining away. He watched Doyle disappear
down the step, then hurried to catch up. "Just remember I'm allergic to
the bloody thing."

"Then you'll just have to sleep on the couch."

"Doyle!!" Bodie spluttered in outrage, his scowl turning to a mischievous
grin when he heard Ray Doyle's husky, wicked chuckle echo up to him.
Things were certainly on the improve.

******

*June 4th 1980. Paris.*

Returning to Paris a week later, MacLeod tried to sink himself into the
early summer warmth by remembering what he loved most about Paris in the
summertime. *The warmth, romance, elegance of the city that attracted
young love....* But he was now almost as depressed with life as he had
been before McKellen had turned up. He had stayed in London an extra four
days, hoping against hope that Adam would return, praying that Adam would
realize how stupid this unnecessary separation was. But the infuriating
older Immortal seemed to have vanished. 

He had even gone back to Oxford only to be told that Adam Taylor had
pulled out of all his classes and returned home. 'A family crisis' - and
MacLeod had rolled his eyes. *How often had he used that excuse, or heard
it used by another Immortal to escape a painful situation?* Too often.
*But then maybe Connor was right? Maybe Adam had not returned his feelings
and he was deluding himself? Yet what had Raymond Doyle told him?* 

*'-no one would put up with what McKellen did to them if they didn't love
the person they were protecting-'*

Another lost opportunity. *How many more lovers would he lose before he
managed to find his soul-mate? * Either way, MacLeod was now back in
Paris, oblivious to the sunny weather, mourning over a lover he had barely
learned how to touch. Yet a lover that was burned into his memory so
strongly that if felt like they had been together for centuries, not mere
days.

Shelving his brooding thoughts abruptly, MacLeod scanned the immediate
area when the sweeping sense of an Immortal presence feathered over him.
In that instant everything around him stopped, his complete concentration
focused on the Immortal presence - the drone of the traffic dimmed, the
laughter of the tourists faded, even the warmth of the sun diminished
while his entire being located the direction of the buzz. In the back of
his mind a desperate little voice was *begging for it to be Adam*, but he
knew that dream was impossible and his heart sank when his eyes fell on a
tall menacing figure on the other side of the busy street. *A glory
seeker?* Not feeling up to the aggravation of an unnecessary challenge, or
the exposure in front of so many witnesses, MacLeod swiveled on his heels
and hastily crossed the busy road, mingling with the tourists along the
riverside stalls. Glancing back he saw he still had his unwelcome visitor
and he grinned, detouring across the Rotal Bridge towards the Louvre.
Glancing down at the Seine, he saw a tourist barge drift slowly under the
bridge and on impulse swiftly vaulted over the edge of the old stone
railing to land on the open decking of the barge. His landing was met with
numerous stares as tourists turned to gawk and MacLeod mumbled an apology,
before finding the first vacant chair and sliding into it. Lifting his
head he found a petite, pretty blonde Tour-guide glaring at him and he
sent her a charming smile. She started to demand what he was doing and if
he were mad, and MacLeod let his smile increase, admiring her passion and
spirit. His smile only seemed to upset her more, so he tried to look
suitably chastised, pointing out that she was neglecting to tell them all
about the Louvre which was passing on their left.... His boldness seemed
to impress her and she spluttered, her cheeks turning a very becoming
shade of pink and MacLeod smiled. Around him other tourists were laughing.

Then he felt the resurgence of Immortal presence and MacLeod glanced up at
the bridge they were approaching, not seeing his persistent opponent
anywhere. He frowned in annoyance. The buzz of presence didn't ease until
they were moving away from the Carrousel Bridge and MacLeod glanced back,
puzzled by the fact the Immortal remained hidden. *A different Immortal? A
new challenger? Two Immortals? Paris obviously was not as it used to
be.... * He was positive it was not the same Immortal whom he had
originally seen, for that brash challenger would have made a point of
showing himself*. So who was it?*

Dismissing the problem when the feisty little French Tour- guide asked his
name, MacLeod turned his complete attention and charisma on the pretty
female. She was gorgeous and he saw her blush a second time under his
obvious appraisal. *Maybe summertime in Paris wasn't so bad after all? *

******

Sucking in a breath from shock and admiration when MacLeod had jumped from
a Rotal Bridge to the open aired tour boat, Methos pressed back against
the cold wall of the Carrousel Bridge and swallowed nervously. *MacLeod
was going to kill him at this rate*, and he let his eyes close, not
believing the younger Immortal's luck. He had seen the other Immortal
stalking MacLeod and for an instant had been so tempted to interfere and
warn the precious Highlander, but Fate had now removed his chance. 

So he would back away again and pick the Scot up outside his newly
renovated barge. It was the least he could do until he was in a position
to safeguard the Highlander's head properly. Once his new identity was
secure he intended to make himself known to one of the well-respected
historians' at the Paris University - a Donald Salzer - and from there
make sure he was sponsored into the Watcher Organization. For once he was
back in the secretive halls of the Watchers' vaults he could not only
check up on his own chronicles, but he could make sure MacLeod stayed
alive.

As plans went it wasn't perfect or what he craved, but for the moment he
had no other options. Besides, he was a patient man. 

*Very patient. *

******

**Epilogue**

*August 16th 1995. London.*

Methos stood at the edge of the road gazing somberly at the loan figure
crouching before a granite headstone with a hand outstretched as if to
caress the cold stone. His heart went out to the man who had so recently
buried a friend and lover. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward when
he saw the other man stand and take a step back.

Hearing the approaching footsteps, Doyle turned and was a little stunned
to see who it was that approached him, but glad all the same. "Adam." He
greeted his old friend, holding out his hand.

Methos paused, appraising Doyle's emotional state, cataloguing the changes
that five years had made to the other man since their last meeting. The
face was a little more lined the hair now salt and pepper, but the eyes
were the same clear direct green, although they were undeniably sad.
Taking the outstretched hand in his, Methos pulled the younger man into an
embrace, offering the comfort of one who knows what it is like to lose a
loved one. "I'm so sorry Ray," he whispered. "I would have been here
sooner, but I only just heard." He finished, feeling the tightening of
Doyle's arms around his back before the other pulled away, unshed tears
bright in those green eyes.

"I know. Thanks for coming." Doyle replied, turning back to the headstone
for one last look before resolutely turning his back and gesturing for
Adam to accompany him. 

The two friends walked in silence, absorbing the quiet peace of the
cemetery while Methos waited for Doyle to begin talking in his own time.

"It was so pointless," Doyle eventually began, before falling silent
again.

"It always is." Methos interjected quietly, more to himself than to his
companion.

A small smile tugged at Doyle's lips when he heard the words, knowing the
man beside him was 'Methos' rather than the softly spoken Adam Pierson. It
still amazed him at how different Pierson was even to Taylor and again how
different both were to the real man now offering him unconditional
comfort. Yet he liked Pierson, had known Pierson for over thirteen years,
but cherished the moments when they were alone and he was given a glimpse
of Methos' true personality. For over sixteen years he had known this
ancient Immortal's secret and he had come to respect him greatly, but also
to be wary of Methos' warped sense of humor and cynical attitude. He
remembered the many times that they had enjoyed baiting Bodie, and
abruptly a new sense of loss swept over him as he remembered whom he had
just buried. *Bodie....* and the reality of it crippled him anew, the pain
just as devastating now as it had been three days ago.

Methos heard the in-drawn breath and out of the corner of his eyes saw
Doyle stop then tense. Turning to Doyle he placed a hand on his shoulder,
feeling the tremors that ran through the too slim body.

"Oh God Adam, I can't believe he's gone. Everyday I expect to see him walk
through the door, and I want to tell him what a stupid bastard he's been
for leaving me!"

Methos registered the strain in Doyle's hoarse voice, listening to the
familiar words - words that he had heard from so many others, words that
transcended time itself in the agony they caused. Words that he had
uttered so many times. The denial, however woefully inadequate still
sheltered the soul from the full brunt of the loss, but also somewhat
cruelly, forced the mind to relive the loss over and over again.
*Perhaps*, he thought cynically, *repetition numbed one's mind and spirit
eventually. *

"It was better this way," Doyle said cryptically after regaining his
composure. "He would have hated being.... It was a car accident." He
whispered abruptly, closing his eyes briefly to shut out the images. "Some
stupid punk, drunk driver.... It broke his neck," he sucked in a breath.
"If he had survived he would have been a paraplegic. Could you picture
Bodie in a wheelchair?"

Methos winced at the rage behind the quiet words, feeling some of it
himself for whoever had caused his friend so much pain and anguish.

"We were supposed to go out together this weekend and.... and-"

Wincing in sympathy at that Methos shook his head, letting himself
experience the emotions, identifying with the sentiment. Bodie had
complimented Doyle perfectly. They had been a team, a partnership in
everything possible and Methos cursed Fate on his friend's behalf.

"So, how's life in the Watchers?" Doyle asked taking a deep breath,
needing to change the subject. He glanced sidelong at the other man and
noticed the transformation from Methos the Immortal to Methos the avid
historian and researcher. It wasn't anything obvious, but he had been
watching this ageless man for years and saw the small changes- the way
Methos stood up straighter when he wasn't being Pierson and the way his
eyes lit up when he had an innocent to corrupt or tease. Seeing the
affectionate twinkle enter Methos' eyes now, Doyle was bloody grateful for
the change as it numbed his grief. He needed his friend desperately now,
needed to be reminded that there was a reason behind everything, needed
Methos to carry him for a while and inspire him. It wouldn't be hard, for
he had liked this man for years and was as equally awed by him. Offering a
slight smile, Doyle noted how Methos' gold-green gaze lit up with
enthusiasm, and how Methos' broad grin increased.

"Guess what project I'm working on?"

Doyle shrugged, amused at the open ingenuous manner, guessing this must be
the 'Adam-Pierson-Grad-Student' persona he was seeing now. *Christ, but
when Methos sunk himself into a roll he really transformed.* Doyle had
never ceased being fascinated by the complex enigma that was Methos.
"Don't tell me, the Methos Chronicles?" Doyle replied laughing. "How did
you swing that? I seem to remember you saying they all thought you were
far to young to be looking after such an important project." He finished
with a smile, remembering how outraged Methos had been at the time.

Methos just grinned evilly. "I came up with some research I found in some
old texts that I just happened to find in a private collection. It seemed
that this anonymous collector was in possession of some lost diaries of a
supposed Watcher, proving that Methos was present at the first Crusade in
the Holy Land. They patted me on the head and assigned me to Don Salzer. I
was mildly offended by that." Methos finished after a pause.

Doyle snorted. "But it is what you wanted. I couldn't think of a better
way to make sure you're never found. And I suppose those diaries were
yours?"

"Of course," Methos smirked. "I always write in the third person. It's
safer that way."

"Must make for one hell of an identity crisis." Doyle quipped.

"You have no idea." Methos returned with a role of his eyes.

They walked in silence again for a short time, before Methos stopped and
turned to face Doyle his face serious. "Ray, I didn't just come for a
social call, I also came to make you an offer."

"Go on," Doyle prompted, when Methos hesitated, guessing what the offer
might be.

"Remember what I said to you years ago, one cold morning in a disused
abattoir? Well now I've come to offer you a place in the Watchers, as a
field agent - if you're interested. Of course you'd have to start in the
academy, but with your skills they would soon move you into the field."
Methos finished, meeting the other's gaze squarely. "You don't have to
give me an answer right away," he continued while he tried to find a
reaction in his friend's guarded expression.

"Why?" Doyle asked.

"Why?" Methos hesitated a second, wanting to tell his friend, *because you
need something to do to keep you busy. Because I don't want to lose
another friend to grief....* but knowing that was the answer Doyle
expected and would probably dislike the most, he said instead - "Because
we need more men like you in the field. Look, we've been losing agents
since the Watchers began. It's a dangerous job. There are some fairly
nasty Immortals out there-"

Doyle snorted at the vast understatement of that remark.

"..and I think you have what it takes to do the job." Methos finished
ignoring the interruption.

Doyle stood lost in thought for several minutes, silently grateful to
Methos for not stating the obvious reason for the offer, but also
intrigued by the idea of the Watchers. He had nothing to lose by taking up
the offer and it was almost like a second chance to become a student
again. A student of history, to enter this man's intriguing world, and if
he had his way he would not be doing fieldwork only, there would be some
research in there as well. "Alright. So what do I have to do to get into
this Organization?" He asked softly. 

Methos let out the breath, unaware he had been holding it and clapped
Doyle on the back. "You had me worried there for a minute." He joked.

"What? Don't tell me I worried you? That I might actually have surprised
you? The great student of human nature? I'm flattered." Doyle quipped in
return.

"Very funny, Ray. I'll put you in touch with a friend of mine. He's a
field agent, historian and general good-guy. His name is Joe Dawson.
I'm...." he hesitated, wrinkling his nose up in disgust. "I'm too young to
have known you all these years, so it will have to be Joe that brings you
into the Watchers." Methos finished with a grin.

"Uh huh," Doyle laughed. "Joe Dawson, isn't he MacLeod's Watcher?"

"The very same."

Doyle noticed the tension behind the words and caught the other man's gaze
with his own, but as usual he could read nothing from the poker
expression. "So.... how is MacLeod?" He asked, not really expecting an
answer, but interested in seeing if he could catch any reactions.

Methos opened his mouth, then closed it, catching Doyle's shrewd
expression and knowing Ray would read behind his hesitation. But his heart
was still so undecided about the beautiful Highland child. "He lost Tessa
just over a year ago." He answered heavily.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Have you seen him?" Doyle pushed, glad to have the chance at thinking
about something else. He knew Methos had purposely distanced himself from
MacLeod after the London incident and he also knew that Methos kept tabs
on the Scottish Immortal and tore himself apart with worry on occasions.
Many a night he had listened to Methos cry in his sleep when his friend
had imposed on his and Bodie's hospitality during the long years when
MacLeod had moved to America with the talented French artist. Methos might
like to fool himself, but Ray had seen under his masks too many times to
miss the way Methos now hedged around the subject of Duncan MacLeod.

"I'm not that desperate." Methos muttered.

"I never said your were."

Eyeing the ex-agent, Methos considered Doyle's neutral expression and
nodded to himself. *Doyle would make and excellent Watcher.* "I'm not good
at visiting-"

"Tell me about it." Doyle said under his breath realizing that they had
almost reached the parked cars. *Would this changeable man vanish now they
were back at the vehicles, or could he con Methos into returning with him
to his and Bodie's.... his.... flat?* It would be nice just to escape the
loneliness of the four empty walls. To just stop thinking for a few hours
and relax with a friend who truly understood his feelings.

"What do you want me to do? Turn up on MacLeod's doorstep and say 'I heard
about Tessa so I'm here to take your mind off things?!?'" Methos asked
with twisted amusement. "Or, I could just add, 'by the way MacLeod, I'm a
Watcher into the bargain.... so we can't see each other apart from this
once. Besides, remember I'm this cruel tease you once screwed.... wanna do
it again?'"

"Okay, you've made your point, professor." Doyle said with a smile,
remembering how Bodie used to always call Adam that. It was an
affectionate term. A cherished memory.

"MacLeod's big enough to look after himself."

"So that's it?" Doyle asked genuinely interested. It had always baffled
him as to why Methos had taken off sixteen odd years ago especially when
it had been so obvious MacLeod was smitten with him. That time in London
when he was in CI5 was a filled with fond memories and he could easily
recall the day he'd first met Taylor and MacLeod. Watching the pair fall
in love had forced him and Bodie into taking the final step in their own
stressed out relationship. Sixteen years of contentment - *to now be ended
by a stupid drunk driver who got off on a good behavior bond and a
thousand-pound fine! *

"Yes-"

Coming back to the present, Doyle blinked at Methos hating to imagine the
lost possibilities Methos ignored by always walking away. *How quickly
hope could die, how easily an Immortal could die just as Bodie had died. *
At least he had memories, *what did Methos have except a desperate hope? *
"You'll never see him again if you don't-"

"Never is a relatively short period of time for me, Ray."

"Moron."

Trying to look hurt, Methos turned to Doyle and let his grin widen. "No,
I'll probably meet MacLeod again the same way I met him the first time.
While he's chasing some deranged, lunatic psychopathic Immortal. He'll
probably lead the bastard right to my doorstep and demand to protect my
'innocent honor'."

"You know this or you hope?"

"Know." Methos said with a straight face. "It fits his profile."

"You're a dead set lazy bastard, do you know that, mate?" Doyle stated
with mock disgust. "You always take the easy road. Well one day you are
going to be forced to actually participate in life again."

Scoffing at that, Methos laughed, taking out his keys and studying them.
"I am participating you young, hot-blooded- "

"Watch it," Doyle warned as he leaned closer. Letting his gaze travel over
the impossibly young looking man next to him, he was hit with a strong
feel of deja vu. *A man too young for this world, but too old to live. *
Methos needed a balance and Doyle let his eyes become speculative. *Methos
needed MacLeod's balance. Needed his fire, his passion for life,* just as
he had needed Bodie's ire and cynical abrasive personality to force him to
live and survive in the world Cowley had thrown them into. "So tell me,
besides brooding, what else is MacLeod currently doing?" Doyle asked
shrewdly.

Glad they were off the less personal topic, Methos relaxed and saw how
Doyle had read him. This man was the only mortal in a long time that he
actually trusted with more than just his name. "He's on a Scottish hunt."

"A what?"

"A good friend of his was killed by this bad head-case Immortal a few
weeks ago. So MacLeod is playing judge, jury and executioner." Methos
wiggled his eyebrows as Doyle just blinked at him shocked. "See why I
don't want to get involved? Look what happened last time-"

"Yeah, you ended up in his bed."

"Shut up Doyle," Methos laughed good-naturally. "Besides it's all part of
the high intrigue driven world of Watchers, better than any movie I
guarantee."

"Be serious-"

"I am."

"So does this 'bad head-case' Immortal have a name?"

"Why?" Methos asked puzzled.

"Just in case I end up in the Watchers I want to know who to avoid." Doyle
gave a wolfish grin.

"Kalas." Methos muttered and shrugged. "It's an old dispute between
MacLeod and Kalas, goes back to the 1650's. It involves, honor, a female
and stubborn Scottish pride." Methos listed in mild humor. "Not
necessarily in that order."

"You're a fraud."

"Now you injure me."

"You're more involved than you want to admit." Doyle carried on, pinning
Methos with his eyes and reading him expertly. "I bet if I asked, you
could tell me exactly where MacLeod is at this very moment."

Lifting a brow, Methos checked his watch and shrugged. "He should be
arriving in Paris in two hours. His flight was delayed in New York." 

Letting his eyes linger on Methos' face, Doyle waited until all the humor
faded from his friend's expression and gave the other man a knowing smile.
"I think you're right."

"About what?" Methos asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. Somehow
Ray had managed to show him how pitiful he was for hanging on to the past.
And how much he *still *wanted MacLeod.

"I do want to meet this Joe Dawson." Doyle declared.

"I can arrange that."

"If only to keep an eye on you."

"Ray?" Methos asked perceptively. "Remember you can only ever watch, never
interfere. No matter what you see. Neither of us can."

Taking a deep breath, Doyle let himself meet the clear hazel eyes and read
the truth of Methos' quiet words. "Maybe I can't but you can."

"No." Methos shook his head. "Don't do this for me. Do it for yourself."

"I will." Doyle whispered, thinking suddenly about Bodie again and about
how his lover, partner and friend had never balked at any challenge. "I
think it's becoming a necessity. I have to understand this thing, your
world-"

"Ray, it can be dangerous," Methos warned. "And no one must ever know what
you do for a living. Nor can you tell anyone inside the Watcher's what you
already know about MacLeod or me. Not even Dawson."

Considering it all, Ray let his eyes touch the silent gravestones,
thinking suddenly how *Bodie would have been appalled by these types of
restrictions - how his lover would have been appalled by the world of
Immortals if he'd ever learned the truth*. "I kept your secret from
Bodie-"

"I know." Methos acknowledged. "That was why I didn't visit often. I
didn't want to make it harder for you."

"He was a pussycat really. A marshmallow," Doyle broke off, his eyes
suddenly filling with tears as it hit him that he would never be able to
tease his lover again. *Never see him again or hear Bodie complain about
the weather, the price of petrol or the new Soccer team. * Lifting his
eyes he saw the genuine compassion in Methos' face and nodded, not backing
away when Methos reached out and drew him into a fierce supportive hug. At
that moment he wanted nothing more than to fall into the promise Methos'
warm body and firm hands offered. Wanted the oblivion of peace, to feel
loved, to be cherished and to give up control for a single night. Turning
his face into Methos' neck he accepted the comfort, letting long, slender
fingers travel up his spine and tangle in his curls to massage the back of
his head soothingly.

"Ray?"

"I'm sorry-" Doyle started, pulling away and finding he was prevented from
going far as warm, hazel eyes held his own.

"Nothing to apologize for. I was just thinking we should go back to your
place. Get out of the cold." Methos murmured.

Floundering for a second, Doyle stopped and stared at Methos, reading the
silent invitation easily in the unblinking gaze. He could accept or reject
the offer of companionship, and he remembered Bodie, remembered what he
had learnt from his partner. There were many different types of love and
what Methos was now offering was the sharing of memories, the gentleness
of comfort and the warmth of a friend who cared and wanted to help him
remember the good times. Nodding slowly he gripped the hand sliding down
his arm and pulled Methos a little closer. "I...."

"Shh," Methos breathed, closing the distance between them and lightly
kissing Ray's lips. "You need this, and I think so do I. If I have learnt
anything in five thousand years it is to never turn away from the pearls
of friendship."

"I'm not," Doyle whispered, closing his eyes when Methos' lips brushed his
own, opening his mouth to sink into the feel of being alive and being
desired. Nothing would ever replace the fire he felt inside for Bodie, but
this would warm his heart and remind him why living was so important.

"Then let me help you celebrate Bodie's life.... his love for you."

Feeling his eyes fill with new tears, Doyle totally surrendered himself
into Methos' strong embrace.

******

*September 26th 1995. Seacouver.*

Checking the address on the slip of paper Methos had given him, Doyle
looked at his watch and released a tense breath. Everything Methos had
said had sounded logical when the other man had explained about this
meeting with Joe Dawson. But then he had been receptive to almost anything
at that point while he had lain in Methos' arms and soaked up the other
man's calming presence and warmth. There was just something so addictive
about the man, even Methos' annoying smug superiority was likable and
Doyle shook his head wondering at his own sanity. Methos had manipulated
him into meeting Dawson and it was only his training and good manners that
now kept him standing in the main foyer of the library in Seacouver
awaiting an interview with a man whom he knew little about. *Christ, but
Methos had even convinced him to travel to Seacouver....* He felt
strangely exposed and Doyle shivered wondering if it was because he no
longer had a trusted partner at his back, or because his life was now
taking an unexpected turn. *Bodie would turn in his grave. *

Glancing around he took another breath and checked his watch again. *Maybe
Methos was right. Maybe this would be just what he needed,* a job that
kept him active, his mind alive so he could live in tribute to Bodie's
memory. But then on the other hand, it would also be a way for him to
*keep tabs on the infuriating Adam Pierson and make sure the annoying son
of a bitch kept his head and eventually faced his own fears*. He really
wanted to see Methos and MacLeod meet again in his lifetime and he wanted
to be around long enough to tell the old bastard 'I told you so.' It was a
goal and one he intended to realize, especially after the few days he had
spent with Methos in London after Bodie's funeral. The man was an
experienced lover and he now understood why MacLeod had looked so dazed
after that first night he'd spent alone with the irascible Adam Taylor. 

Smiling fondly, Doyle turned, hearing the approach of another person and
eyeing the man who stopped three feet away. *Old habits died hard....*
Steel grey eyes met his own and Doyle was swept with a sense of
intelligence and strength while he assessed the man watching him.
*Dawson?* He wasn't sure, but the man was taller than himself, older by at
least ten years and the man was leaning on a cane and he appeared to have
either one or two artificial legs. *From the war, or from the dangerous
work inside the Watchers? *

"Raymond Doyle?"

"Joe Dawson." Doyle returned, holding out his hand and smiling when
Dawson's handshake inspired confidence. "Adam told me you would be here."

"This isn't exactly correct protocol," Dawson muttered, as he looked
around then gestured to a secluded bench and table in the far corner of
the library.

Foregoing to comment, Doyle saw Dawson limp forward and re- assessed the
man again, wishing Methos had told him more about this Dawson.

"I take it you know about the Watchers." Joe stated in a resigned tone,
sitting down before glaring up at Doyle.

"Adam-"

"Pierson has a big mouth." Dawson interrupted, then gave a small smile.
"Aw, hell, forgive me, it's just been a hell of a week."

Accepting that, Doyle frowned. Debating his choices, he decided to see
what Dawson had to offer and slid into the seat opposite the older man.

"So what has Pierson told you?" Joe Dawson asked, studying the man across
from him and seeing how Doyle frowned, those green eyes giving nothing
away. Adam had told him little about Doyle except the fact that the man
was ex-CI5 and that Adam had met the English agent in Oxford a few years
ago when he had attended an Ancient History seminar. Since then Joe had
tried to pull some information on Doyle. He'd learned that Raymond Doyle
had an impeccable record in the Police Service and the Intelligence
community before he had retired eight years ago with his partner. A male
partner who had been tragically killed in a fluke accident only a month
ago. Doyle's profile looked good, but Joe wasn't sure this man was ready
to face a new job so soon after burying a loved one - but the Directors in
Geneva had different ideas. Grimacing slightly he watched how Doyle's
frown increased and Joe remembered that one of the Directors had
telephoned him personally to stress their interest in this ex-CI5 agent.
*But how the Watcher Board had found out that he was going to meet Doyle*,
Joe never learned, *but the Director had told him that Doyle probably knew
about Immortals*. 

From the brief file Joe had acquired on Doyle, Joe learned that sixteen
years ago Raymond Doyle had been photographed in Duncan MacLeod's presence
while MacLeod had been hunting an Immortal named Bruce McKellen in London.
The case was unfamiliar to Joe, for at the time - sixteen years ago - he
had been in Washington completing a refresher course on the new Watcher
Policies. He'd only been watching his assignment for a few years and
Duncan MacLeod had traveled to London under the care of a relieving
Watcher. Then because MacLeod had not been responsible for beheading
McKellen, Joe had not followed up the facts. It was assumed Connor MacLeod
had taken the Quickening, but there was no proof. *Except maybe Doyle
knew.... *

"Dawson?"

Giving a small smile, Joe nodded slightly to himself, deciding to give
this ex-English agent the benefit of the doubt. *If Raymond Doyle knew
about Immortals - then he was already a risk, which was probably why the
Directors wanted this man either brought into the Organization or
tracked.* "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I have an interest in history and Adam suggested I talk to you. He
indicated the possibility of a job." Doyle stated, remembering all that
Methos had told him.

"Let me ask you Mr. Doyle-"

"Ray," Doyle interjected.

"Ray," Joe repeated, giving a slight smile. "Let me ask - where were you
in the spring of 1980?"

Taking a deep breath, Doyle didn't answer immediately, letting his eyes
remain on Dawson's face, noting how the American's eyes slowly crinkled up
in amusement. "I think you probably already know the answer to that one."
He answered seriously.

"You met this man." Joe continued, not willing to give anything away yet.
Instead he placed a photograph of Duncan MacLeod on the table between
them. "Do you remember him?"

Debating his answer, Doyle rejected the idea of denying all knowledge,
then reminded himself that it was no longer necessary. Rather he was
worried that Adam's cover might have been compromised. "Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod." Doyle said deliberately, sending Dawson a tight smile
when he saw the grey eyes widen in surprise. "Or I think that was how he
used to announce himself before pulling out a bloody great big sword."

"Son of a bitch-"

"Yes Mr. Dawson, I do know who he is and what he is."

"Joe," Dawson said absently as he reassessed Doyle again. "You have known
this for what, sixteen years?"

"And I have never told another living soul."

"Not even your partner?" Joe asked incredulously.

"No. Not even my lover and partner." Doyle clarified, remembering how hard
that decision had been. *But Bodie had never asked.... never pushed him to
talk about what had happened in that old disused abattoir so long ago.*
And now he wished he had told his partner.

"Except Pierson."

Doyle shrugged. "You didn't hear that from me."

"That manipulative little bastard."

"I don't want Adam to get into trouble." Doyle said instantly, reaching
over to grab Dawson's arm and stop the man from moving away. He let his
expression convey his seriousness. "It was not his fault I found out." 

"Don't worry, I'm not in the habit of divulging secrets either." Joe
assured him. "But Adam has one hell of a lot of explaining to do!" Joe
groused. "I'll wring his scrawny neck."

"He does provoke that type of response, doesn't he?" Doyle quipped,
relaxing when Dawson grinned then laughed softly. 

"But he's a damn good researcher." Joe added.

"He's had a lot of practice." Doyle said cryptically.

"So I take it you know about Immortals and about Watchers?"

"Only that Immortals exist and that you record their histories." Doyle
explained. "Adam thought I would make a good Watcher with my background
experience."

"Well you have the skills," Joe admitted. "..but it's not as easy as it
sounds."

"Neither was working for CI5."

"Point taken." Joe said, coming to a decision. "Why don't we go somewhere
else to discuss this further."

Agreeing, Doyle waited for Dawson to get up, knowing that the next part of
the process was probably going to be even more difficult. He just had to
remember that he *knew nothing*. Thinking about that he waited for Dawson
to catch up and eyed the older man up and down again. "By the way, do you
know where Adam is at present?"

"Why?" Joe asked instinctively.

"I have a few research books he was looking for." Doyle said off-handedly.

"He's in Paris." Joe growled not wanting to be reminded of the problems
befalling the Watchers in Paris. He wanted to be there himself, but the
Directors wanted him in Seacouver to assess Doyle and bring him into the
Organization. *Damn awful timing and if he lost Mac.... *"He's working on
a confidential research project."

"Is there a problem?" Doyle asked concerned and seeing how Dawson's
expression darkened with worry.

"Nothing that needs concern you," Joe started, then stopped when his cell
phone rang. "Excuse me." He muttered, taking his phone out and listening.
He closed his eyes and thanked the caller then swore furiously under his
breath. *This was the last thing he needed now! * Glancing around he saw
they were standing by the main lifts and Joe limped towards the far window
before dialing a new number. He waited impatiently for his call to be
connected. "Come on, come on...."

Not missing Dawson's agitation, Doyle followed the other man to the far
window, hearing his muttered curses and guessing the previous call he had
received had not been good news. From Dawson's reaction he guessed it was
Watcher business and he unashamedly eavesdropped, hearing Dawson's gruff
tones as he mentioned the name 'Mac' more than once. *Duncan MacLeod?*
Doyle didn't believe in coincidences like that and inched closer just
catching Dawson's tense tones, he seemed to want this 'Mac' to be careful.
*Someone had gone missing....* and Doyle missed the rest of the discussion
when a group of young college students noisily exited one of the lifts. He
didn't catch anymore of the hissed conversation and tried to look bored
when Dawson turned back to him and glared around in impotent fury. 

"Aw hell...."

"I take it that wasn't good news."

"No." Dawson snapped, then relented. He looked at Doyle again and came to
another decision, one that he hoped would not get him into more trouble.
"I need to chase up something immediately, so you are about to get a hard
introduction into the Watchers. I hope you can handle it."

"You'd be surprised."

******

*September 26th 1995 - morning. Paris. *

Methos struggled with his five thousand-year-old conscience, battling the
effects of MacLeod's powerful quickening while he stupidly waited for the
Highlander to 'discover' him. *Fuck, after sixteen years he had been a
hopeless fool to think that he had gotten over the remarkable Scot!*
"Well," Methos intoned, striving for a measure of nonchalance when he saw
the tall Highlander step into view. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.
Have a beer." Finding himself stunned beyond measure when he actually
managed to sound both calm and only slightly interested, Methos forced
himself to smile. *If the Highlander could only see the turmoil that
seethed below his calm exterior, then the other man would know him for the
fraud he was. *

MacLeod stood transfixed, gaping at the figure sprawled on the floor in
front of him. The splayed posture a blatant provocation and challenge to
every one of his shocked senses. He remembered to close his mouth while
his stunned brain caught up with what his ears were registering and he
blinked, hearing the achingly familiar baritone wash over him like a
verbal caress. That voice sent spikes of heat straight to his groin. *Adam
Taylor....* now Adam Pierson.... *was - * was.... "Methos?" The word
forced its way past his numb brain to his lips.

Methos felt a shudder pass through his body at the sound of his true name
being spoken by the man who had stolen his heart without his even
realizing it. He was suddenly flooded with memories of a night sixteen
years ago when he had wished futilely to be able to hear his name spoken
by MacLeod in the heat of passion. *Maybe Fate would be kinder this time
around? And maybe he'd finally met his match and now would lose his head?*
Battling again for calm, Methos reached down to the six pack that sat
beside him and picked up a can. "Mi casa es su casa." He said, tossing the
beer at the still gaping Highlander, before favoring him with his best
innocent look. He allowed a slight hit of mischief to play around the
corners of his mouth.

MacLeod caught the tossed can by reflex, his mind still disengaged from
reality as the softly spoken words threw him back to a similar moment in
London - *sixteen years ago*. Then to the man before him had greeted him
with those very same words and a beer. Releasing a tense breath, MacLeod
drank in the face before him, noting the smile and the teasing look that
was evident in the changeable green eyes that gazed up at him from beneath
the long dark lashes. *God, *but that smile had the power to melt his
bones and he had to lock his knees in place before he ended up on the
floor. But suddenly it didn't seem important anymore that he was chasing
Kalas and he took several steps closer to his former lover. Suddenly
sixteen years of ruthlessly suppressed feelings and memories almost
overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees in front of the startled man. He
instinctively reached out a hand with a desperate need to touch, to know
that the body in front of him was real and not some twisted trick of his
imagination. Since losing Tessa he had found it was becoming harder and
harder to suppress the memories of past loves. *Past regrets....* The
longing for what he had found with this man, however briefly, had become a
pain like an old wound. A wound that had never healed. Covered - but not
forgotten.

Methos drew in a sharp breath when MacLeod approached him, a sliver of
fear slicing through him as he took in the expression of longing on the
tall Scot's face. *Oh Christ, this was not good.* Methos cursed himself,
abruptly finding himself face to face and at eye level with the
Highlander, seeing a pair of chocolate brown eyes boring into his own.
*And Mac's scent....* it assaulted him. Smothered him. The heat in the
hand that lifted to touch his face almost burnt and Methos sucked in a
breath, seeing MacLeod stop the action and just stare at him.

"Methos." 

The soft exhalation of breath feathered over his skin and Methos read the
frantic need for confirmation in the depths of Macleod's brown gaze.
Helpless to deny the man before him he reached up and cupped the raised
hand, pressing the palm to his lips and placing a kiss at its center.

MacLeod shuddered at the first tentative touch of the velvet soft lips,
feeling a similar shiver pass through the slim form under his hand. He
felt a smile tug at his lips as a wave of pure joy rolled through him and
he fought the uncharacteristic urge to laugh out loud at the sheer
happiness that engulfed him. *This was the chance he had wished for all
those years ago, the chance he somehow instinctively knew he would get,
and this time he was not going to let Adam - Methos - walk away.* He
caught the instant shuttering of the green eyes and with an inward sigh
knew without a doubt that nothing had changed, *Adam Taylor, Adam Pierson,
or Methos....* whatever this man chose to call himself - he was still a
mystery that would never be easily solved. Finding him again had been a
chance, keeping him would be a battle, but it was a battle that MacLeod
would never walk away from. *Not again* and he certainly would not he let
Adam walk away from it either.

Methos fought the urge to bolt when the Highlander's warm hand slid behind
his neck and with gentle but irresistible force drew him close for a kiss,
*and what a kiss....* Methos was unable to stifle the moan that gave voice
to the white hot need that flared in his blood, drowning out the tiny
voice in his head that shouted at him to beware of what MacLeod would do
to him emotionally, mentally and physically. *Category number bloody
five....* and he shivered when the sensual mouth that was playing havoc
with his vaunted self-control demanded entry. A soft tongue brushing his
lips and he found himself pushed back against the bed end behind him.

MacLeod was thrilled by the needy moan that issued from Adam's - *Methos*'
- mouth and gently demanded entry into the remembered haven of this man's
warmth. Pushing forward, he deliberately trapped the slender male against
the bed, feeling one of Methos' hands come up to weakly try and push him
away. Reluctantly remembering why he was here - *who he was chasing* -
MacLeod broke the kiss and moved back. Slowly a smile played around his
lips when he heard the other man curse under his breath and gasp for
breath. Under his hand he could feel the erratic pulse beat and let his
fingers curl possessively around the slender neck.

"Fuck! MacLeod!" Methos growled, sweeping away the hand that rested on his
shoulder, desperately needing some air and room to gather the tattered
shreds of his composure before he could face the Scot.

"That's it!?"

"That's it.... what?" Methos snapped back, looking down at the floor and
therefore failing to notice the sly smile that spread itself across
MacLeod's lips.

"Five thousand years and all you can come up with is - 'Fuck MacLeod'?"

"Screw you, MacLeod. Is that better? What did you bloody well expect?
Shakespeare?!" Methos snarled, before he caught the look that the other
man was throwing at him. "Damn you to hell, Highlander."

"Already been there." MacLeod answered somberly.

Methos cursed his sharp tongue and reached out a hand cupping the other
man's face, remembering the many friends MacLeod had lost in the last few
months. "I'm sorry Mac. Truly sorry about Tessa." He murmured, putting as
much sincerity into his voice as he could. 

MacLeod shut his eyes on the wave of pain that swept through him at the
sound of her name, finding no anger inside him for the man in front of
him. Then what Methos had just said hit him and his eyes flew open, fixing
the older Immortal with a suspicious glare. "How did you know about
Tessa?"

Methos snorted. "Adam Pierson. Remember? Researcher extraordinaire for the
'Methos' Project. I've read your chronicles." He stated in a perfectly
matter of fact tone that implied there was nothing wrong with doing so.
"Besides, I was there when you met her. Tell me, do you always pick up
women in such a dramatic fashion? I thought you only did that with men."
He finished with a sly grin, ignoring the outraged sputtering coming from
the Highlander.

MacLeod forgot his outrage and he took in the sly smile, sorting through
the rest of what the exasperating man had said. "You were there when I....
that was you?!"

"What do you mean - what was me?" Methos snapped, cursing his big mouth.

"I felt an Immortal that day. I thought it was Kuyler." He caught the
hooded gaze before Methos glanced away. "But it was you, wasn't it? You
were the one watching me from the bridge. Why?" 

Methos looked down, refusing to meet the questioning gaze. *Fuck, this was
not how things were meant to be going.* All he'd originally wanted to do
that day was see the Highland barbarian - *throw him on the nearest flat
surface and fuck his brains out to get that crazy insane craving out of
his system before he disappeared for good*. But another Immortal had
ruined his plans. *Yeah right Old Man, keep telling yourself that and you
might start to believe it.* He was a thrice-damned fool for thinking he
could get away with such an obviously idiotic plan. *Would he never learn!
Apparently not*, and now he was stuck again with the overprotective brat,
because Joe had told him that MacLeod was coming to see him about Kalas,
to protect him from the psychotic Immortal. *Now where had he heard that
before? And why had he chosen to stay? *

"Methos?"

The sound of his name and the gentle hand on his cheek made him jump, and
Methos found his chin raised and his gaze captured by a pair of knowing
brown eyes. Fighting a losing battle with his unruly body, Methos flinched
when MacLeod leaned forward, the grip on his face tightening as a pair of
soft possessive lips engulfed his in a brief but thorough kiss.

"It's okay. It doesn't matter." MacLeod soothed before he reluctantly
released the soft, warm mouth beneath his. He had seen the trapped
expression on the other man's face and remembered from their brief time
together that this man did not like to be pressed for lengthy emotional
explanations. 

"Unfortunately MacLeod, it does matter." Methos replied softly, reaching
up to push an errant strand of silky hair aside. Taking a deep, bracing
breath he let his gaze fall again to the floor, fixing it on a neutral
spot between them as he recalled that fateful day in Paris. *It had been
the beginning of summer....* when he had resigned himself to watching the
Highlander from a distance. "Well, before you left London, it seems you'd
given Nefertiri to agent Doyle and he used his damned contacts in a most
inappropriate manner and tracked me down." Methos started, the outrage in
his voice conflicting with the laughter in his eyes. "He told me I had
been a fool to walk out on you. He took a leaf out of your book and used
blatant sentimentality and emotional blackmail to persuade me to make
contact with you and 'give things another go' as he termed it."

"Blatant sentimentality and emotional blackmail?" MacLeod repeated with a
laugh. "You mean he bullied you." He stated ignoring the sour glare from
the other man.

"Whatever. Do you want me to continue or do you want to carry on with the
hilarity?" Methos groused testily. Taking MacLeod's silence as a hint to
proceed Methos started again. "Anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings-"
he ignored the snort from his audience, "...I decided I would at least
check up on you. Make sure you hadn't gotten yourself in trouble with any
more insane Immortals. By the way, is attracting every power-hungry
psychopath a regular thing for you? Or do you just do it on special
occasions?"

"What do you mean?"

"This penchant for crossing paths with deranged Immortals."

"You've read my Chronicles, you tell me." MacLeod replied blandly. "Now
get back to the story." He demanded, not willing to let the other man get
away with so obvious a change of subject.

Methos muttered something about 'pushy barbarians' which was ignored by
its intended target and sighed. "Well, as it turned out you were running
true to form when I caught up with you. Kuyler could be persistent. Then I
saw you jump off the bridge and land on the tour-barge. Do you swing from
the chandeliers as well, MacLeod?"

MacLeod chose to ignore the dig.

Failing to get a rise out of the Scot, Methos continued. "I made my way to
the next bridge and that's when I saw you with Tessa Noel." His voice
trailed off to silence as the emotions he had experienced that warm summer
day rolled back over him. He was back on that bridge watching Duncan charm
a young, beautiful Tessa, and he knew he was too late. He could not
intrude on Duncan now and the loss hit him in the most unexpected place -
his heart. He had lost his last chance to be with the powerful Highland
child, at least in this lifetime. So he had bidden his lover a silent
farewell, feeling for the last time the wash of MacLeod's tantalizing
Quickening when the barge passed under his bridge.

"Why Methos? Why did you leave again? Tessa and I had barely spoken to
each other."

The urgency in MacLeod's voice startled Methos out of his revere and he
looked up. "I'm five thousand years old MacLeod, I can recognize love at
first sight when I see it. Even at that distance." He snapped, afraid that
he might have revealed too much to the deceptively perceptive Scott.

"Really? Then it's a great pity that you didn't learn to recognize it at
closer range." MacLeod replied quietly, leaning in and claiming the open
mouth before the other could reply or protest.

An anguished moan escaped around the skilful mouth invading his, while a
warm hand sought to worm its way beneath the sweater he was wearing. It
sent his senses spinning. Methos shuddered at the heated sensations that
the exploring fingertips were causing in his overcharged nerves.
Abandoning the last of his excuses he gave himself over to the waves of
pleasure that were crashing through his body, his legs spreading to slide
either side of his kneeling Highlander. Letting himself sink into the
support of the bed behind, he tilted his head back in an open invitation
to MacLeod, hoping the other would explore further. He was disappointed
when MacLeod pulled away.

MacLeod shivered at the open need that was embodied in the eyes that
pinned him, delighting in the surrender he could feel in the slender body
relaxed beneath his touch. *This was what he had wanted*, and with a last
longing sweep of his fingers across the taunt belly he broke the kiss,
sitting back on his heels. Seeing Adam - Methos - was a shock, but now he
was starting to remember his original purpose for coming here.

Methos groaned in protest at the sudden abandonment, his body shivering
with thwarted arousal. "Fuck MacLeod, you are a bloody tease!" He rasped
between breaths, shifting uncomfortably and trying to ignore the painful
tightness in his jeans. He threw a disgusted glare at the seemingly calm
and collected Scott. "You're a bastard. You planned this, didn't you?" He
snarled.

"Don't be stupid. I didn't even know you were here, so how could I plan
this?"

"Whatever," was the snappish reply. "So why are you here?" Methos asked a
moment later.

MacLeod knew damn well that Methos hadn't forgotten the reason he was
here, but found himself explaining anyway. "Does the name Kalas ring any
bells?" He asked, turning a blind eye when the scowl directed at him got
colder. "Look, we need to get out of here. Kalas will know where you live
by now, and I don't want you involved in this." MacLeod continued his
voice losing all playfulness.

"MacLeod, I'm not a child. I can take care of myself." Methos growled. He
needed to distance himself from the effects of the Highland child's
overwhelming presence and resurrect his protective shields.

"That, my dear Methos, is a fact of which I am very well aware." MacLeod
teased wanting to sooth the anger from his companion's face. Reaching up
he slid a hand along the nape of Methos' neck and attempted to draw the
other closer. 

Fighting the urge to give in, Methos forced himself to break the clinch
and half glare at the pouting Scot. "Will you stop doing that!" 

MacLeod didn't bother to answer the accusation for he knew what he was
doing. "Look, you were the one who decided to stay here. You could have
pulled another disappearing act and left before I arrived. I know Joe rang
you - Adam Pierson - to say I was coming." MacLeod finished, placing a
pointed emphasis on the name.

Methos chose to ignore the pointed statement.

"So, let's just call a truce." MacLeod continued. "We need to talk. But
that can wait until we get out of here."

"And where would we be going?" Methos queried, casting a suspicious glare
at MacLeod. He wouldn't put it past the barbarian to kidnap him and spirit
him away somewhere. *Oh Gods.... don't go there*. Methos groaned to
himself, dismayed to find himself not entirely disliking the idea.

MacLeod smiled inwardly not fooled by the show of ire. Standing he held
his hand out to the still seated Immortal. "Truce for now?" He offered,
much preferring those changeable eyes when they were smiling slyly at him.

Methos sighed his most resigned sigh and looked up into the sparkling
brown eyes of his erstwhile lover. *Damn it all and to hell with category
five warnings! * If he was honest with himself, this was what he wanted,
at least at this moment. Reaching up he grasped the offered hand,
shivering when his own hand was enveloped by the Scot's firm grip. 

"It's just a walk Methos. You're not going to your execution." MacLeod
said, hauling the slender Immortal off the floor.

"That's a matter of opinion." Came the muttered retort as the older
Immortal followed him from the apartment.

******

*September 26th 1995 - evening. Paris.*

"Methos? You found Kalas?" MacLeod studied the ancient Immortal seeing the
wet clothing even in the dim lighting under the Tournelle Bridge. Methos
looked like a drowned rat, exhausted and breathing heavy, his sword
shining dully in the muted light and MacLeod shook his head enchanted by
the sight. He could still not believe that this man - Adam Taylor/Pierson
- was Methos. *The Methos*. The man he had fallen in love with so many
years ago in London. Nor could he believe that he had run into this man in
Paris of all places - *and that Methos had been keeping tabs on him for
sixteen years!* It was enough to make him hope for the future. Squinting
as the evening mist thickened, MacLeod studied the other man noting how
Methos approached, easily seeing the way Methos' shoulders slumped in
defeat and how his eyes reflected a strange resignation and MacLeod found
his awe turned instantly into worry. *What had happened in the few hours
since they had talked and walked along the Seine? Had Kalas found the
other man? * "Is Kalas dead?"

"What do you think!" Methos returned, lifting his sword and swinging at
MacLeod's undefended figure. *The Highlander was far too trusting and
sentimentally big- hearted. It was a trait that would get the brat
killed,* Methos decided silently. Allowing that destructive thought to
grow in his mind he swung a second time at the unprotected Scot, noting
how MacLeod jumped back before grabbing his arm with lightening fast
reflexes and thrusting him back against the cold wall of the bridge. The
maneuver winded him, and if anything it only increased his determination
to safeguard this precious child of Scotland. Especially after their
intimate 'chat' in his apartment.

"Why?!" MacLeod demanded in a hurt tone. He couldn't believe this man
would ever seriously attack him with no reason. *His instincts could not
be that wrong surely* and he took out his sword, turning it into the light
and making sure Methos saw its edge before raising a hand to calm the
situation. 

"Why?!?" Methos spat back in disbelief and exhaustion. "Because there can
be only One!" He snarled before attacking again, lunging forward and
forcing the Scot to defend himself.

"Adam - Methos," MacLeod gasped, easily deflecting the blow. "Don't do
this."

"I have no choice."

Hearing the words, MacLeod stared harder at the other man wishing there
was more light to see Methos' but hearing the defeat coloring the soft
baritone.

"I can't kill Kalas - I tried. And he's not the type to give up!"

"So this is your solution?" MacLeod asked incredulously as he blocked a
series of well-angled strokes. "Kalas wants me! He is only after you
because he thinks by taking your head he can defeat me."

"He's good." Methos admitted. "Possibly better than you."

"A risk I am willing to take."

"No." Methos decided, taking a deep breath then going after MacLeod again
with grim determined. He wanted to force the other Immortal to fight him
properly. MacLeod was fast and strong, and Methos let himself admire the
economy of the Highlander's movements. He watched the gracefulness,
enjoying the dance and getting lost in the thrill of facing such an expert
fighter. Suddenly his mind filled with the *images of sixteen years ago
when he had watched this man perform his kata in the gym at the Mayfair.
MacLeod was sheer poetry in motion....* Mentally shaking himself, Methos
blinked up at MacLeod and saw his confused expression and silently said
his apologies for what he was about to do to this man's life. Then he
deliberately let one of his own strokes cut down a little further than
necessary. He covered the deception with a gasp of surprise, playacting
the moment well as he faltered and allowed his body's momentum to carry
him into the line of MacLeod's next stroke. The maneuver worked
surprisingly well and suddenly he had the sharp edge of the katana against
his damp, clammy throat. He closed his eyes tightly, holding his breath
and feeling his long life abruptly flash before him - *images of his joy
and regrets* filled his mind and disturbingly he was shocked to picture
Duncan MacLeod's face so imprinted on his memory. Utterly dismayed at how
blind he had been, Methos sank into the moment, surrendering completely to
the surge of emotion that rushed up to engulf him while he waited for the
finality of death. To co-exist within this magnificent warrior suddenly
became a very exciting prospect.

"Noh!" MacLeod hissed, stepping back as anger and fear vibrated through
him. Without thinking he cut down on Methos' sword and disarmed the other
man, seeing Methos stagger under the blow while that long neck was
extended further towards him. Methos' eyes were tightly closed and MacLeod
breathed out his rage in a forceful growl, shaking his head and glaring at
the man whom he had come to cherish. "Why!!" He spat. An intense hurt now
swept up into him his chest and he watched how Methos dropped his head
forward to sag even more in defeat.

"Because I can't take Kalas alone and I don't think you can either. But
together-"

"Noh."

"Mac - Duncan," Methos licked his lips and let his eyes lift to look at
the angry man scowling at him with such vibrancy and with so much life and
passion. "You think I want to die after all this time? After five thousand
years?"

"Then don't do this."

"If not Kalas then it will be someone else like him." Methos told him, his
voice resigned. "I don't have the fire, the passion anymore. The desire to
win. You do. You *want* Kalas," he stressed softly in a persuasive
whisper. "And with my Quickening you can take him."

"Aye, I do want him, but noh like this."

"There is no other way, Highlander." Methos petitioned, letting his gaze
hold MacLeod's for a long moment to convey his sincerity and convictions.
"Trust me." He whispered, slowly reaching down and taking MacLeod's sword
arm to raise it and place the cold katana blade against his throat once
more. He felt the polished steal kiss his icy skin where MacLeod's lips
had once caressed him and he shivered, allowing his fingers to brush over
MacLeod's warm hand before meeting the Scot's confused gaze and giving him
a small affectionate smile. "Listen to me Duncan - you have so much in
front of you, so much goodness, power and love for life that I need you to
do this. For both of us. Live Highlander. Grow stronger and fight another
day."

Staring at Methos, MacLeod felt almost hypnotized, his eyes focused on the
changeable gold-green eyes while his body was focused on the fingers
embracing his own hand. Then Methos released his hand and closed those
over-bright eyes a second time, breaking the hypnotic spell. Between them
a powerful emotion churned, locking them soul to soul for a terrifying
instant and MacLeod was so tempted to do as the other asked, but then he
remembered how final such an action was. How devastatingly brutal.... and
he winced, knowing it could not end like this. Shaking his head slightly
MacLeod found himself automatically stepping closer and reaching out to
cup Methos' nape with his free hand before he lowered the katana. He felt
Methos exhale sharply releasing a tense breath and MacLeod leaned forward
to rest his forehead against Methos' damp forehead, mingling their breaths
and shaking his head in answer to the silent question. "Noh, Methos. I
canna.... not like this."

"Mac," Methos protested slightly, his pulse traitorously speeding up at
the unlooked for intimacy and he lifted his lashes to stare at the man so
close. He could taste MacLeod's breath, could feel his warmth and smell
his distinctive scent all around him and Methos laughed weakly at his own
erratic thoughts and responses. "I would have killed you-"

"Noh." MacLeod informed him knowingly. "You would have made another
mistake and let me take your head." He slid his fingers further up into
Methos' damp hair and smiled, then leaned forward and lightly kissed the
open mouth when Methos gaped at him bemused. "Or are you forgetting that I
do know you."

"You know nothing about me," Methos started, totally disconcerted by the
Highlander's boldness, then his surprise turned into confusion when
MacLeod started to frisk him expertly. "MacLeod!" He spluttered as the
Highlander found firstly his concealed gun and then his pocketknife. He
saw the Scot send him a look of mock reprimand and narrowed his own gaze,
daring the man to comment. In another time or place he would have at least
carried a second blade or even a third but at this point in his life he
had not expected trouble. *Had not expected to find Kalas waiting for him
so soon. Slack, he was definitely out of practice. *

"I know more about you than you give me credit for." MacLeod returned,
dropping the confiscated items into his coat pocket. Then he reached over
and patted down the front of Methos' damp coat.

"Do you mind!"

"Noh." MacLeod said simply before dragging Methos closer by his coat
collars and smiling smugly when the other gave him a harassed glare. "I
think its time we took this discussion inside." Saying that he gave Methos
a shove towards the barge which was docked only a short distance away.

"MacLeod, I'm warning you-"

"Shut up and walk." Glancing around in the fog MacLeod hurriedly got them
into the barge, ignoring the muttered curses while he switched on the
interior light and closed the door. It was going to be a cold night and he
wanted to light the fire and get his unexpected guest out of those wet
clothes. "By the way, how'd you get so wet?" He asked off handedly, noting
that Methos had not moved from his position at the bottom of the entry
steps. Last time he had seen this man, he been bone dry and safely on his
way home - *away from the Seine River. *

"I went for a swim. Courtesy of Kalas."

"I see," MacLeod said, reaching over to tug on Methos' coat, dragging it
off the other man and not missing how Methos shivered in reaction to the
drop in temperature.

"I see your manners haven't improved." Methos grumbled half-heartedly.

"And I see you still haven't learnt to trust me." MacLeod shot back,
turning to hang their coats by the door.

"What?" Methos asked in mock confusion. He glanced around at the interior
of the tastefully decorated barge. Somehow the elegance and earthy feel of
the place fitted all his fantasies and impressions about this man
perfectly. "So what now Highlander? Do we wait here for Kalas to show up
or do we-"

"You," MacLeod said breaking into the cynical tones. "..you are going to
sit down and tell me why you didn't tell me the truth in London."

"Truth?" Methos repeated sarcastically while he watched MacLeod amble down
the steps and brush past him to go and kneel down in front of the open
fireplace and light the tinder. He could tell this was going to turn into
a long night and he wasn't sure he had the energy left to fight Duncan
MacLeod's stubborn personality, so he glanced tiredly away. He felt a
little disconcerted by how quickly his plans had been changed, at how
swiftly his world had been turned upside down and at how desperately his
treacherous heart wanted to accept the wordless offer of friendship from
Duncan MacLeod. Seeing MacLeod again had been exciting - too exciting -
for he had forgotten how beautiful the Highlander was in person as
compared to the glossy photographs he had seen of this man in Watcher
headquarters. He'd forgotten how devastating MacLeod's Quickening was, how
it impacted on his senses, how erotically powerful Duncan was, how
exhilaratingly sexy and dynamic the Highland child looked and *how he
wanted him*. Burying that need deep, Methos shivered in unconscious
acknowledgment of his weak resolve. *The thrill, the passion, the wildness
of having this man focus his entire attention on him for a single second
was....*

"You're wet."

Blinking when that sultry accent brought him back to the present with a
jolt, Methos found that MacLeod was standing closer than he remembered.
Involuntarily he could not suppress a second shiver and cursed his hungry
responses. Trying to cover the lapse Methos lifted his lashes and tried to
frown at the gorgeous man studying him, wanting to tell MacLeod to back
off. But the words died on his lips when MacLeod reached forward and
started to undo his belt buckle. "Duncan," Methos started, his protest
coming out like a strangled cry of pleasure instead of a reproach.

"I won't allow you to die!" MacLeod hissed back suddenly, feeling the
despondency surrounding Methos and seeing clearly the exhaustion and
defeat permeating this tantalizing man's aura. If anything that attitude
angered him even more and he savagely yanked the belt loose and pulled it
out of Methos' jeans tabs. *Why hadn't he seen this when he'd found Methos
in his apartment earlier? Because the damn older man was an expert at
wearing masks.... *

"Allow-" Methos gasped, stunned when MacLeod stripped him of his belt. He
wanted to find some semblance of anger, some valid protest, but again he
lost the upper hand when MacLeod glared at him determinedly. It was a
beautiful, seductive sight designed to melt his resistance and he groaned
in fear and anticipation.

"I won't let you commit suicide!" MacLeod hissed a second time, clutching
the belt in his hand painfully hard before throwing it across the room in
frustration. After living for five thousand years it scared him to think
that *this incredible man would now give up life in order to protect him
from Kalas*. It was an irrational rage, but MacLeod let it flow through
him, seeing Methos shiver again when he growled out his displeasure a
third time. He tried to banish the image of Methos lying dead at his feet
or at Kalas' feet*. Noh! * He would not allow that to happen and he freely
acknowledged that *yes he did love this man, *had loved him from the first
moment he'd met him in London - and* noh - he would not let one
egotistical Immortal bastard separate them again! * He had lost so much,
too much, already that *he could not lose....* "Noh!" MacLeod breathed,
sucking in a ragged breath. "I will noh let yew kill yewrself. Not over
Kalas!!"

"Wow," Methos mouthed stunned. He held perfectly still, putting up little
resistance as MacLeod stood before him and literally shook with rage. The
image was a powerful turn-on and he lifted his eyes to study Duncan's
face, frowning slightly when he read the underlying emotions behind the
fiercely whispered words and dangerous expression. *Desire and love?*
Methos felt his own eyes widen in shock at how easily he recognized the
driving emotions, finding that his own mind, body and heart mirrored the
dangerous emotions. It was like a potent drug and he blinked dazed, lost
utterly and he swayed closer to this alluring Highland barbarian.

"You will noh die. Not because of me."

Sighing Methos closed his eyes, breaking the spell between them with
effort and re-gathering his chaotic thoughts. *Think friendship.... * Then
suddenly he felt large, warm hands start to pull his damp shirt free of
his jeans and he snapped his eyes open wanting to glare at the
presumptuous Scot. "Mac - Duncan - you cannot fight my battles for me. You
cannot protect me. Or any of us for that matter. We each must decide our
own path-"

"Aye," MacLeod breathed, his hands stilling on the damp shirt, feeling
Methos steady strong heart beat through the layers of damp clothing. "I
let you chose your own path last time and look where it got us. I can't
live like this." He whispered, begging Methos to understand. He could read
the fears in the slender Immortal, and prayed he would be given a new
chance and he let his eyes, body language and smile convey his honest
emotions. "Don't answer yet," he added, watching Methos stare at him
bemused and lost. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes and warmed up
before we both say any more."

Sighing heavily Methos wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that
he was saved from admitting the awful truth, but instead he lowered his
eyes and nodded minutely. For sixteen years he had purposely stood back
and observed Duncan MacLeod's life from a discreet distance, watching him
silently and envying him the loves he had found, then grieving over the
losses. But never once did he permit himself to think or believe that
Duncan would remember him, telling himself that it had only been a few
days of temporary insanity, a brief interlude brought on by stress and
pressure. *But now....* now he was both gratified and terrified to see the
longing reflected in MacLeod's warm brown eyes and to find his own desires
were so easily rekindled.

"Move," MacLeod ordered gently, not missing the confusion in the hazel
eyes when he tried to lighten the atmosphere between them with
affectionate humor. Last thing he wanted was to scare Methos off.
Shepherding the complaint man into his small bathroom, MacLeod caught the
stark paleness of Methos skin in the harsh bathroom light and was again
reminded of the deep exhaustion permeating Methos' system. "Are you going
to help here, or do I have to do all the work?" He asked lightly while
starting to unbutton Methos' damp shirt. 

"Alright," Methos muttered. "Enough with the caveman routine." He stopped
the Scot's hands, pushing them aside and tried to send the other man a
disproving glare. "Do you have something I can change into, or am I to
parade around here naked?"

"Now there's a thought." MacLeod muttered, sending Methos a mock leer
before leaving the bathroom.

Feeling his jaw drop, Methos glared at the closed bathroom door, feeling
bereft at being suddenly alone in the small room. Closing his eyes he
battled to regain his lost equilibrium, exhaling strongly and dragging his
mind back to the main objective. *He didn't want to die, but if he had to
face Kalas again he would. Unless.... *and he shook his head to dismiss
the idea. Vanishing now *should *be his main goal, but leaving Duncan
would be harder than what it had been sixteen years ago. Surrendering his
head was no longer an option, and he cursed under his breath, feeling
stupid and disorientated by the last few torrid hours of fighting and
drowning. *Was he losing his mind? * Roughly he ran a hand up into his
drying hair and groaned, then yanked the shirt free of his jeans and
started to strip. Regardless of what his body and heart wanted, his mind
screamed caution and he knew that staying in MacLeod's presence would just
expose him to other Immortals like Kalas and that in the end it could kill
them both. *That was the reason why he had left the first time.... *he
reminded himself pointedly. Unzipping his jeans he heeled off his soggy
runners and pulled the T-shirt off over his head and threw it on the
floor. *Seeing MacLeod had been a calculated risk, but facing Kalas had
been a mistake. * And the consequent encounter with Kalas had done little
to aid his irrational thinking, except push him over the edge into a
dangerous exhaustion where impulses took over. One such impulse had been
to *give his head to the Highlander....* "Shit," he whispered, wondering
why his life always got so complicated. *Yet hadn't Ray Doyle told him to
face his fears and to go and see MacLeod? * But he doubted Ray had
envisioned this scenario and he let a small smile form just imagining how
Ray would roll his eyes up in exasperation. Thinking about the ex-CI5 man
he turned on the shower and gratefully stepped under the hot spray hoping
that with the heat his rational thinking would also return. Only his mind
traitorously returned to the image of Duncan when the man had scowled at
him with such open longing and desire. Turning his face up into the hot
spray, Methos groaned, letting the Highlander's presence surround him and
giving in to the sweep of pleasure while he let the hot spray drown his
numb senses.

"Are you trying to drown a second time?"

Snapping his eyes open, Methos blinked the water from his vision, not
having sensed MacLeod's approach and he stared at the Scot stunned. *He
was positive he was going to lose more than his mind now....* then a towel
was thrust at him when MacLeod turned the water off and Methos knew he was
gaping in disbelief at the man watching him so patiently. "I was trying to
relax," he tried to say with confidence, confusion assaulting him again
when MacLeod only held out a glass. *How long had he stood under the hot
spray? Five minutes?? Ten?? *

"Then try this." MacLeod suggested, waiting for Methos to accept the
balloon glass of brandy before he backed away. Being this close to Methos
hurt for he wanted to shake some sense into him, but then he also wanted
to grab him and hold him until the other man agreed never to leave.

Totally bewildered, Methos glanced down at the glass in his hand then back
up at the closed bathroom door and wondered what he had missed now.

Pacing angrily into the kitchen area, MacLeod cursed under his breath, his
eyes darting around the dim interior of the barge and seeing nothing but
hopelessness beckoning. Restlessly he went back to the fire and added a
few more pieces of wood, stirring the embers and praying for patience
while he waited for Methos to re-emerge from the bathroom. *Methos - Adam
- Methos - * when he thought about it logically he was not surprised, in
fact thinking back he remembered how he had almost gotten this tantalizing
being to admit his name in a vulnerable moment. His eyes suddenly lost
focus and he remembered *the first night they had spent together....* Yet
the name made little difference for he had fallen in love with the man and
MacLeod closed his eyes, opening them a moment later when he heard the
bathroom door whisper open and steam herald his guests reappearance.
Methos exited and MacLeod stared shamelessly noting how the dark towel was
dropped on the floor and how Methos picked up the few items of clothing he
had left on the bed. He watched how economically Methos dressed, each
movement flowing and graceful as the pale limbs were systematically
covered and MacLeod had to look away, dropping his head down to stare into
the bright fire before him. *It would be so easy to rekindle the love,*
and he sighed, waiting poised to see whether Methos would allow him the
chance to try.

"So...."

Sucking in a steadying breath, MacLeod plastered on a friendly smile to
cover his nervousness and apprehension then lifted his head to look at the
man standing only a few feet away. Briefly he caught a glimpse of regret,
fear and nervousness in the wide hazel eyes before Methos narrowed his
gaze and MacLeod suppressed a tiny flare of hope. He'd seen that same
expression sixteen years ago and remembered that even back then it had
hidden a precious, bruised soul that was scared to reach out. "I don't
want you going near Kalas." MacLeod stated, deciding the best place to
start would be on the non-personal issues. 

"Going near Kalas wasn't my first choice, trust me." Methos returned while
he folded his arms and looked away from the kneeling Scot. *It was too
tempting a sight.* "But he now knows I exist and that is a dangerous piece
of knowledge."

"I take it he also knows where you live?" MacLeod asked as he slowly stood
and walked towards his guest.

"Bright boy."

"So you'll have to stay here tonight."

Pinning the Highlander with a distrusted look, Methos tried to read behind
the warm smile directed at him, and gave up when MacLeod walked past him
to go into the spacious kitchen area. "I don't think that's wise."

"Why?"

Turning to stare at the Scot in exasperation, Methos let his expression
answer him. "Oh, let me think if I can recall what happened the last time
you talked me into staying with you."

"I regret none of it."

"Of course you wouldn't!" Methos quipped sarcastically. He felt better
talking about the past like it was a dead topic. *Safer*. "But then you
weren't the one tortured and killed-"

"I wasn't talking about that." MacLeod informed him as he moved back
towards his stubborn friend.

"Then you have a very selective memory." 

"Adam - Methos," MacLeod started again before he reached out and curled
his fingers into a fist when Methos predictably stepped back out of reach.
"If I could have stopped McKellen then I would have. You know that!" He
snapped. 

"That's comforting," Methos found himself saying automatically and wishing
he could bite his tongue when MacLeod's expression darkened.

"I won't let the same happen with Kalas!"

"Shit," Methos breathed, not wanting this discussion. He held up his hands
to forestall the arguments. "Listen-"

"Is that why you left me?" MacLeod demanded, his voice dropping down and
becoming suddenly gruff. "Because I failed to protect you from McKellen?"

"No," Methos started to protest giving up at maintaining a distance
between them as he felt himself hit the back of the lounge. Instead he
captured MacLeod's searching hands and imprisoned them in his own, shaking
his head gently. "Wrong choice of words." He whispered. "I never blamed
you for McKellen, just like I would never blame you for Kalas. If he comes
after me again then it will be my fight, not yours. Understand this
MacLeod. You cannot protect everyone. You could not protect Fitzcairn from
Kalas - he made the choice to fight. Just as I will."

"Not if I find Kalas first!" MacLeod whispered back fiercely. "You know
about Fitz?"

"I'm a Watcher. Well a researcher," Methos amended, giving the Scot a
small, soft smile. It gentled the tension between them and he felt MacLeod
relax under his hands. Slowly he released his hold on the large warm hands
and was only mildly surprised to feel MacLeod entwine their fingers. 

"You are also exhausted."

"Dying a couple of times from drowning has that effect." Methos admitted,
dropping his gaze to focus on the possessive fingers embracing his own.
*Light and dark, velvet and steel* and he closed his eyes remembering too
easily the cherished past.

"Stay," MacLeod breathed, inching closer and lightly brushing his lips
over Methos' hair covered forehead. He smelt the soap and brandy, and
MacLeod inhaled deeply, remembering how Adam - Methos - *smelt of the sun
warmed earth after rain *and so glad that he could now absorb that heady
scent again. Instantly he was aroused and MacLeod released his breath with
difficulty seeing how Methos' eyes had darkened to a vivid green.

"Mac-"

"Can't you feel it?"

Holding MacLeod's gaze Methos studied the other man's sincere expression
and felt his own heart constrict with the same desires. "I have always
felt it," he admitted in a moment of pure honesty.

Relieved and scared, MacLeod reached forward and kissed the parted lips,
delighted when he was met with no hesitation and he found his mind
instantly transported back to the morning. Just like sixteen years ago,
the kisses he had taken were devastating from this extraordinary man. *The
desire heartfelt and genuine* and he again savored the thrill of tasting
that elusive quality that filled his senses and mind with such longing.
How long they stayed like that MacLeod didn't know, but he eventually
pulled back from the intense sharing to find they were no longer standing
apart - his fingers were now threaded in Methos' soft hair while his other
hand pressed them closer.

"This is insane," Methos muttered lifting a hand to separate them,
sweeping his fingers along MacLeod's cheek before fingering a strand of
long, dark curling hair. 

"Not as insane as you walking out again would be."

"Mac-"

"At least stay the night." MacLeod asked, petitioning with his eyes. "No
obligations, no promises...."

Stepping back, Methos moved away from the lounge and regarded the other
man. *How he wanted to accept the offer*, to experience the fire and he
found he was nodding without realizing it. Then he was instantly swept up
into another fierce embrace and he laughed, hearing MacLeod echo the
emotion and allowing himself to give in to the irrational desires. His
hands immediately caressed up MacLeod's broad back, his fingers buried in
the long thick hair, where all the warmth, strength and vitality of this
magnificent warrior seemed to be mirrored. Yet oddly he felt utterly safe,
a rare condition and he remembered how MacLeod had made him feel this safe
in the past, and he gave up protesting completely. "You are unbelievable.
Totally irrational, and undoubtedly insane-"

"But you love me none the less." MacLeod finished for him, seeing how
Methos' eyes widened and how the startling truth of that was clear to see
before the lashes fell masking the emotion. 

"You are a brat," Methos spluttered, feeling his cheeks warm and frowning
harder at the presumptuous Scot. 

"I'll take that as a yes." MacLeod grinned, very pleased with himself now.
After all the years of fear and uncertainty in losing this man by a cruel
twist of Fate he was now starting to appreciate that the separation had
changed nothing. If anything it had strengthened his feelings and he idly
wondered what the last sixteen years had been like for Methos. He had been
blessed with finding Tessa, then Anne and Amanda and he suddenly frowned,
remembering what Joe had told him about Adam Pierson. *Adam had worked in
the Watchers for ten years.... so had Methos avoided him because he had
found Tessa? Was that why the other man had stayed away from him for so
long?* Abruptly it all started to make a weird type of 'Adam' sense and he
tightened his hold on the slender Immortal captured in his arms. "Please
promise me that you won't disappear again as soon as I take Kalas."

Breaking MacLeod's firm hold, Methos backed up a step and searched the
Highlander's dark, troubled gaze. Reaching up and cupping MacLeod's face
in his hands, his thumbs caressed the full lips even while he shook his
head. "This type of relationship is too dangerous."

"I'm sick of being safe." MacLeod whispered hoarsely. "Life is too short,
even for us, to simply ignore how we feel. Don't walk away again, Methos.
Please...."

"Mac I can't promise the impossible-"

"I'm not asking you to." MacLeod told him earnestly. "Just don't leave
without telling me why. Without saying goodbye. Without giving me the
option to follow or a way to at least contact you."

Closing his eyes firmly, Methos tried to deny how those words tugged at
his heart and his resolve, but he couldn't banish his own needs and
desires where Duncan MacLeod was concerned. "Duncan-"

"Surely I am not asking the unacceptable?" MacLeod asked, his tone
breaking slightly.

"No. But-"

"Then what is the problem?"

"The Watchers will know." Methos offered. "They'll relocate me after this
attack. After what Kalas has already done."

Nodding, MacLeod remembered all that Joe Dawson had told him and not told
him about the secretive Watcher Organization and he let his eyes fall
shut.

Seeing the expression of despair, Methos came to an impulsive decision,
reaching out to touch MacLeod's chest very softly with his fingers. "But,
I could ring you. Keep in contact-"

"Anything." Mac responded, lifting his lashes suddenly and feeling the
first stirrings of hope in his heart. "Just don't walk away again without
a word."

"Alright." Methos agreed feeling buoyant by his decision. *This was
dangerous*, but he didn't care. "In that case I should probably go and-"

"No." MacLeod said instantly. "Stay the night. Please?" He interjected.
"No pressure, just sleep. Then in the morning we can decide what to do
about Kalas."

"If you're sure...." Methos trailed off.

"Positive."

Letting his hand drop Methos nodded, suddenly very tired, feeling both
defeat and exhaustion rise up to swamp him and knowing that MacLeod could
read him expertly. Again he felt both honored and cherished that this man
would put his concerns before anything else and he almost capitulated to
his baser desires that *whispered to hell with the Watcher Organization.*
But that would place them both in unwarranted danger. 

"Get into bed," MacLeod urged, watching Methos absently amble up to the
sleeping area and stare down at the bed. He didn't want to know what
convoluted ideas and objections were now forming in that ancient mind and
MacLeod wondered how many sacrifices Methos had made over his long life in
order to survive. *How lonely such an isolated existence could be* and he
silently vowed to correct that situation. He trusted his own skill well
enough to protect them both and prayed Methos would eventually come to
trust him like he already trusted the older Immortal. Locking up the barge
for the night he switched off all the lights, leaving the barge
illuminated only by the fire burning in the hearth and one bedside lamp.
Quietly he went to the bed and stopped behind Methos, seeing the other
jump as if Methos had just woken from a dream to become aware of another's
presence. "You need sleep," MacLeod encouraged, reaching over to
fleetingly caress a finger down Methos' neck to shoulder. Then just as
quickly he stripped off his own clothes, placing them over a chair before
getting into bed and holding the bed covers up in open invitation.

Watching the display before him, Methos slowly sat down on the mattress,
positive this was not wise but pushing all regrets aside while he gave in
to his wants and his bone- deep exhaustion. To just relinquish control for
a short while would be wonderful and he stripped off his borrowed clothing
and slid into the coolness of Duncan MacLeod's bed. *For one night he
could pretend that they were safe, that nothing else mattered. That the
Watchers didn't exist and that Kalas was only a figment of his over worked
imagination. *

Turning on his side MacLeod pulled Methos closer, snuggling up to his
side, sharing body warmth, inhaling sharply when the glide of skin against
skin ignited so much pleasure. He was entwining their limbs without
knowing it, reaching down to capture the open mouth of his lover without
thought and finding that nothing but acceptance welcomed him. Strong
fingers threaded into his loose hair, a muscled thigh slid over his hip,
sending a shiver of delight along every nerve ending. The kiss deepened,
the urgency replaced by a gentle reaffirmation of the intimacy that
already existed between them while their bodies molded together so easily.
Both comforting and exciting.

"You said sleep," Methos murmured, his breath shuddering in his chest as
he watched the Highlander lean over him and devour him with passion
darkened eyes. *Such beauty*, rendering him so helpless that he arched up
in unconscious response to the wordless questions asked in the velveteen
brown gaze. *Oh yes, he would give this man everything eventually. So why
fight the inevitable? *

"Aye." MacLeod acknowledged, pleased with the instinctive response he
received to his silent questions. "You need sleep." Gently he reached down
and kissed Methos temple, lingering over the contact, muttering a Gaelic
vow while his lips feathered over dry skin. "In the morning we will talk
more."

Barely catching the muttered words, Methos closed his eyes, replaying the
sound of the Gaelic phrases and the emotion behind the tone over in his
mind a few more times. It sounded suspiciously like an old Scottish
betrothal vow and he felt stunned by that, defenseless in this man's
consuming presence, instinctively curling in on himself and never
realizing when his waking thoughts turned into dream images. 

Feeling Methos' limbs grow heavy in his embrace, MacLeod carefully turned
the other man on to his side so he was resting more comfortably. He heard
Methos sigh, then mutter in his sleep and he watched fascinated how
Methos' face relaxed and MacLeod was again swept with the impression of
how young this man looked with no masks. *An ancient mind forever caught
in a young man's body. Impulsive, vulnerable.... yet so jaded and
cynical.* It was one of the reasons why the man brought out every one of
his protective instincts, even though he knew it was probably unnecessary.
Still, he wanted to shelter him and MacLeod leaned up on an elbow and
carefully turned off the bedside light. Dimness enshrouded the barge and
he looked down at the man sleeping in his arms, his heart melting all over
again as the warmth of the firelight highlighted Methos' high cheek bones,
lashes and longish hair. In the quiet moments like this he could embrace
the concepts of forever and he settled a hand over a pale shoulder,
sliding his fingers down until he could cradle one of Methos' curled
hands. Rarely had he been happier and MacLeod shifted closer to his
charge, watching Methos sleep and preparing himself to stay awake all
night if necessary to safeguard this man's slumber. He wanted to burn this
memory into his brain, to drink in the perfection of the moment while he
held this strangely defenseless yet powerful Immortal in his arms.

Before him now stretched a future of endless possibilities and MacLeod
smiled. *He could live with that*

-- THE END --

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