Thanks to Atilla, for offering to read the first Chapter despite having many projects of her own, then demanding to read the rest thus giving me hope that the story wasn't totally awful; Andrea for having the same name as me but not calling herself Andie, thus saving us all a great deal of confusion; and Trudy, Goddess of Grammar who gave me so much encouragement when I was about to bin the whole thing in an excessively melodramatic 1 am moment and who was bizarre enough to laugh at my humour. So if you hate the story, you can blame Trudy who's fault it is that I finished it. OK? :) Also big hugs to Maygra for agreeing to put this up on her page. Oh and ignore things like "defence" "humour" and "realise". They ain't spelled wrong. They're just spelled British. :) Feedback appreciated if you liked it. Constructive criticism also appreciated. Can't improve if I don't know what's wrong. Nasty comments likely to send me spiraling into despair. Or not.

DISCLAIMER-None of these boys are mine, well except Ian Thompson and Linde and Shand and they're boring so I don't want them. The others belong to Rysher: Panzer/Davis. I'm only borrowing them and I'll return them all in reasonable working condition although Methos will probably slightly later and sweatier than the rest. :)

Rite of Fire

PART ONE:

But most of all, he was unhappy because it was raining; but not properly. In his considered opinion, it was a half-hearted attempt at rain, as though the long forgotten rain gods couldn't be bothered with it all anymore and were just drizzling sloppily. Thus, he was damp; and he hated damp. No wonder no one worships you anymore! he cursed savagely at the Gods that he suspected he had once believed in.

The drizzle got momentarily heavier, obscuring his vision, and he ended up ankle deep in a puddle. If there were gods out there, they were sniggering. Bastards!

Methos scowled, swore in a long dead language, and tried to twist the collar of his trench coat more tightly around his throat in a vain attempt to keep the incessant drizzle from trickling down the back of his neck. He knew that it would be a vain attempt as he'd being doing the exact same thing for the last twenty minutes. And so far, he had merely succeeded in getting chilled hands and an unpleasant sense of deja vu to the last time he had been throttled. When had it been? 17...? 17-something. Definitely the 18th Century. His lips quirked. He was quite sure that he had never worn quite that much lace and velvet at any other time in his life. What had he been doing? Something about a tryst with a truly lovely and deliciously uninhibited, but unfortunately very married redhead. He smiled in fond remembrance.

He abruptly pulled himself from his nostalgic reminiscences of redheads he had known when he realised that while lost in his memories, he had wandered into some dank back street alley, far off his intended destination. Dammit, Pierson, he chided himself. Getting distracted like that's a good way to find your head a disturbing distance from the rest of your body. Having the Boy Scout leaping to your defence at every given opportunity's made you soft.

The Boy Scout--MacLeod. Methos scowled again as he felt a particularly intrepid trickle of water go on a cold rampage down his back as it somehow slipped past the tightly clutched barrier of his coat collar and the chunky knit defence system that comprised his sweater. Damn MacLeod.

Methos cursed inventively, invoking the names of several deities, that various unpleasant things should happen to MacLeod's sexual organs every time Amanda visited. All right, in all fairness it wasn't MacLeod's fault that Methos was currently being laid siege to by the SAS of the rain world. But it had been his idea to meet at Joe's, claiming that the old bartender was complaining that his bar just didn't feel the same without an Immortal skulking in the corner.

Methos felt a corner of his mouth twitch upward in anticipation of the upcoming battle of wits in which the old bartender would attempt to get Methos to agree to pay his bar tab. The smirk widened to a grin. Like I carry that kind of cash around with me. I didn't live 50 centuries by wearing a sign saying 'Carrying fortune. Please attack' stapled to my forehead. In truth, the two had long ago given up any semblance of sensible argument and now competed by seeing which of them could come up with the most outrageously far fetched argument and counter-argument with whoever was listening as judge. With 5000 years of stories to fall back on, Methos was reasonably confident of a lifetime's supply of free beer.

Another elite rain squad broke through his neck defence and made a break for it down his spinal column. His smile disappeared as he returned to the task of cursing Duncan MacLeod and the Highlander's ungodly desire to live in such a damp climate. Well of course he did, it reminded him of his Highland origins.

Methos snorted. He had been to Scotland and his memories involved sheep; mountains; a truly astonishing amount of mist and little else. Except drizzle. Lots and lots of drizzle. Not wishing to consider why he was living in a climate he loathed just because the Highlander lived there, Methos shifted the focus of his thought to yet another attempt to break through the blackness that comprised his memories before his first Quickening; to find something that would indicate his own roots and origins. It was a masochistic task that he periodically indulged in, and as usual, the wall of black remained solid against his pushing. Well, Methos huffed grumpily, wherever I come from, I'm quite certain that it was warm and beer soaked and utterly devoid of drizzle.

Like Joe's bar, in fact. Methos brightened at this thought and resolutely quickened his pace in anticipation of the beer Joe would have waiting for him. So busy was he, concentrating on a fantasy of warm bars, cold beer and maybe even a redhead or two that he almost stumbled at the realisation of a tickle at the back of his neck. One that wasn't rain. It was an almost electric shock of awareness that crawled down his back and made his spine stiffen--the realisation that another Immortal was near. He concentrated. No, damn. Two Immortals. Methos tensed, eyes narrowing and turned slowly, trying to localise the direction the Immortals were coming from, and get an idea of their strength. One old by today's standards, seven or eight hundred years, the other younger--maybe five to six centuries.

He cursed again, MacLeod and his decision to live in a city that seemed to have more Immortals per square inch than anywhere else on Earth. When he next met him, he was going to have a serious talk with that young man extolling the virtues of moving somewhere new, somewhere warm. Somewhere rather like Bora Bora in fact.

He opened his trench coat, feeling the comforting weight that dragged down one side, even as he turned, hoping to get away before a Challenge was issued. Taking heads was never very high on his list of priorities. He had long ago decided on the prudence of running and remaining anonymous to confronting and possibly raising more challenges.

"Jason Linde." The voice rang out as a stocky, dark-haired, and inevitably trench-coated, figure appeared from the darkness, his drawn sword gleaming dully in the darkness.

"Adam Pierson," Methos lied easily, and curled his fingers around the hilt of his own concealed weapon. "Who's your friend?"

Lindes' advance faltered momentarily as he re-evaluated the figure in front of him. He realised there are two of us. Linde mentally added a few centuries to his estimate of the dark-haired man's age, and his heart sang at the thought of an old Quickening. Guy must be at least a thousand!

Outwardly he gave no sign of his thoughts and merely said, "Come on out, Alex. No point in hiding if the clever boy knows you're here."

Another patch of darkness detached itself from the shadows and stepped into the meager illumination provided by the overhead lights.

"Alexander Shand."

Methos studied the light-haired newcomer. Taller and more slender than his well-built partner, but while of a height with Methos, he was still more strongly built than the ancient Immortal. Not good. Nonetheless, he smiled and nodded at the newest arrival. "A pleasure." He waved perkily at them both. "Look. I really don't want to fight, it's too cold and damp for all this nonsense. I'm going to a bar; let me buy you two a beer."

Linde stepped forward, expression unchanged. "I have issued a challenge. You must fight."

Methos drew his sword. "Two against one. Rather uneven, wouldn't you say? Not to mention against the rules. One on One, surely you remember that?"

"It's just me, for now." Linde smiled coldly and lunged.

Methos parried and circled warily, considering Linde's words. "So even if I beat you, he takes me while I'm still vulnerable from taking your Quickening. Not terribly sporting."

"Moot point. You won't beat me." Linde lunged again, the battle was seriously joined and no more words were spoken.

Methos remained on the defensive, parrying and dancing out of Linde's reach as he considered his opponent. Linde fought with little style, long thrusts and hard swings that jarred Methos' arms when their swords connected in a flash of sparks. Swings powered by a muscular frame that far outweighed Methos' own slender body. Methos ducked another furious swing and rolled to one side, his sword tucked under his body as he tried to keep Shand in view, not trusting the other man to not interfere.

His split concentration cost him as Linde cut through his defences and scored a shallow slash across the ancient man's abdomen. Methos' eyes narrowed and he brought his full attention the fight, ignoring Shand for the moment. Linde was good. Too good to risk having to concentrate on more than surviving the encounter. He had analysed Linde's strategies, and it was time to turn this fight around.

Linde lunged at his seemingly outclassed opponent and faltered in surprise when, instead of giving ground as previously, Pierson neatly side-stepped his thrust before going on the offensive for the first time since the Challenge had been issued. Looking into the set features and the coldness in the hazel eyes, Linde, feeling the first pangs of fear, considered that he might have seriously underestimated the seemingly unremarkable man who spoke in a soft English accent like a college professor. Each time he swung, the slighter man somehow managed not to be in the same place as the sword, and would then launch a skilled attack that cut through Linde's defences and left him with numerous scores.

Methos, seeing the fear on his opponent's sweating face, pressed his attack. He almost laughed, feeling the rush of adrenaline and the fierce, too often denied joy of battle sing through him. Gods, he missed this. Despite what he had told the Boy Scout, he loved this. All of it.

Not the killing; any idiot could kill. Sneak up behind someone and push a knife between their ribs; pick up a gun and pump half a dozen rounds into them. You didn't get anything out of it except a corpse.

But ah... the fight... Studying someone's strategies and weaknesses; matching skill and strength and wit against an opponent. Breathing deep and inhaling the smell of fear and sweat and blood; hearing the rage in the clashing of swords; and most especially the feeling of power as a fallen opponent looked up at you in terror and knew they were going to die.

That was why he preferred running to fighting. He was all too aware of his love of the violence, the terrible and wonderful addictiveness of the power over life and death that winning gave you. Killing didn't do much for him. It was the barbaric, erotic, savagery of the fight that he loved. And with Immortals, fighting almost inevitably led to killing, and so he avoided both, denying and trying to bury his lust for battle.

But now, in the heat of the struggle, seeing his opponent bleeding and giving ground in fear, Methos surrendered to his most beloved and despised instincts and launched an attack that was without mercy.

Their swords clashed together, high over their heads. And both combatants grabbed each other's sword. They pushed against one another, grunting with the strain, each vying to trap the other's sword under their own, leaving him open and vulnerable.

Linde grinned, some of his confidence returning as his superior strength twisted the other man's sword downward, exposing the unguarded side. He was therefore completely surprised and overbalanced when Pierson suddenly surrendered the battle, allowing his sword to be trapped under Linde's. He looked at the other Immortal in surprise, briefly seeing the humourless grin before his vision whited out, and he doubled over in excruciating agony as Pierson resolutely, and forcefully, kneed him in the groin.

Methos smiled grimly at his fallen opponent , chest heaving from the exertion and excitement of the fight. He casually disarmed the man; the sword slipping easily from a grip loosened by pain. Methos savoured the feeling of victory for a moment, then seeing that Immortal healing had pushed the man to a semblance of recovery, raised his sword high to deliver the final, fatal blow. He looked down at the man whose life he was about to take, just in time to see Linde's eyes flick up, over Methos' shoulder.

Shand! The warning screamed into his brain. Even as he cursed himself for forgetting the other man, he started to turn to engage him. He was too slow, Shand sliding a knife into his back, between his ribs. Methos felt the tearing, searing agony of the knife wound and looked down to see Linde's features grinning up at him. A grin that faded to a look of horror as Methos, even as his knees buckled, brought his sword down and cleanly separated Linde's head from his neck.

Methos knew he was going to die, even as his sword completed its arc through Linde's neck. He fell to his hands and knees, body already beginning to numb as a prelude to death. He clutched his sword in defiance of the pain, and the blood in his lungs and mouth. Trying to deny the death that he knew Shand would soon deliver.

Dammit, NO! He was furious, raging against the fates that had decreed that his long life be ended in a damp, filthy back street alley. He saw Linde's body begin to glow, street lights already flickering in response to the build-up of Quickening. NO! He was Methos! He was 5000 YEARS OLD and he was NOT going to die on his hands and knees! He felt the rage burning adrenaline through his failing body, and with a last scream of furious defiance, he surged to his feet and swung. Startled, Shand raised his own sword to parry. The world exploded in an agony of blue-white lightning that signaled the Quickening.

In Joe's bar, even as Methos was trapped in a vastly unfair fight in a dark alley, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod reached for the new beer Joe was handing him. MacLeod was blissfully unaware that he had recently been cursed in an ancient language by an even more ancient friend to spend an unpleasantly sexually frustrated eternity. Thus he was in an uncharacteristically light-hearted humour as he listened to Joe's latest far-fetched reasoning for why Methos should pay his steadily growing bar tab.

He sat back, pushing his long dark hair off his face and regarded the Watcher/bartender with a grin. It was a grin that creased the edges of his warm brown eyes and lit up the darkly handsome features of the 400 year old Scottish Immortal. It was also a grin that (in Methos' loud and drunken opinion) made an unfairly large percentage of the female population go weak at the knees. This had provoked Duncan (who was even drunker and louder) to attempt to placate his complaining friend by patting him heavily on the shoulder and waving his finger in the Old Man's face until Methos seriously considered biting it off. Duncan had looked at Methos blearily and slurred "...weel ye've get fantastic eyes... all goldy one minute and green the next..."

"Yeah..." a much younger though no less drunk voice had piped up from across the table, "nice eyes, pity you can' see 'em passs't the nose..." He giggled, hiccuped, then froze, inebriated survival instincts attempting to get his body to move itself out of the range of the Old Man's glare.

Silence had reigned around the table for a few moments until Methos relaxed, smiled and raised his glass to Richie in toast. And Richie had giggled drunkenly at the release of tension as he realised he was getting to keep his head.

Duncan laughed with the remembrance of the sight of Richie's face next morning when he had come down to find his beloved motorcycle had been painted a startling colour of fuschia and decorated with an intricate pattern of daffodils and cornflowers.

"Hey, Mac," a voice broke through and he focused on the present to see Joe looking at him with amused tolerance. "What particular bit if history were you flashin' back to this time?"

Duncan grinned. "Richie's wildflower bike."

Joe laughed at the reference. "Yeah, the Old Man must have been up all night painting it. Who knew he had such an artistic bent? Now, more to the point, what do you think of my latest argument?" Joe looked at Duncan expectantly.

"Just wait a second and see if I've got this straight." Duncan regarded the grey-haired, seemingly older man in front of him. "You expect Methos, a man who by his own admission has spent the last 5000 years perfecting the art of scheming and manipulation specifically to avoid paying bar tabs, to believe that you need the cash from his bar tab," MacLeod paused here for effect, "to pay for 3 Haitian dancing girls to seduce the British Chancellor of the Exchequer, whom you will then blackmail into lowering the tax on the British ales Methos likes. Seems kinda' lame, Joe. Not up to your usual."

"That's 'cause you were obviously doin' your flashback thing when I explained the really clever part." Joe frowned at him in mock annoyance, industriously cleaned a glass with a rag and held it up to the light, absently checking his appearance in it and running a smoothing hand over his greying beard.

"Oh, don't leave me in suspense. Tell me of your plan, oh Great and Wise One." Duncan stifled a chuckle.

"If you insist, my child." Joe smirked at the far older man. "Well, if the tax is lowered, I'll get the beer cheaper right?" Duncan nodded; it was uncharacteristically sensible so far.

"Then," Joe brandished his stunningly clean glass in triumph, "I use the money I've saved to get a fleet of trained attack squid to smuggle the beer into the country for me. So in the end I'll get his beer far cheaper than before, and it'll work out better for him in the end." Joe beamed victoriously, then chuckled. "Hey Mac, you gonna' die on me here?" He grinned at the Immortal, who had been snorting beer out his nose and choking since the words 'attack squid' had been mentioned.

"Not bad, Joe," Duncan raise his glass in salute. "But you know that no matter what you say, he'll come up with something even more

outrageous and probably demand the phone numbers of the Haitian dancing girls. Face it, the man is a 5000 year old bad ass of bullshit. You're never going to beat him."

"I know," Joe shrugged, his grey eyes twinkling. "But it's fun listening to the stories he comes up with, and you never know, we might get a few facts about the Enigmatic Oldest Immortal into the bargain."

"In your dreams, Joe." Duncan shook his head ruefully, knowing that Methos never gave out information unless he meant to.

"Probably. But what about this one..."

Joe broke off as the Immortal suddenly stiffened. It wasn't 'The Look' that Joe had come to recognise after 15 years of watching MacLeod, the look that signified the presence of another Immortal. No, Duncan had hunched over the bar as though in expectation of pain, eyes glazed and unfocussed. It was enough to bring Joe around the bar and to his friend's side, the query on his lips dying as every light in the bar exploded in a shower of sparks.

Joe looked out the door and saw the neon sign that proclaimed the name of the bar, and the lights on the streets outside go up in similar (and familiar, Joe's subconscious provided) fountains of sparks. A rarely seen darkness settled over the area. Joe could see little in the blackness, but he could hear the panicked shouts and screams of the bar's other patrons and he shouted to try and reassure them. Who's going to reassure you, Watcher? "It's okay. It's probably just a lightning strike, on the city generators." Liar. Not 'lightning'.

He pushed away the voice in his head and turned back to Duncan, who was still doubled over in pain. He desperately wished that he couldn't hear what Duncan was going to tell him, knowing it was what his internal voice was trying to scream at him.

"Quickening." It was a barely audible gasp through clenched teeth and it tied Joe's stomach in knots.

"Naah, can't be. To take out so much of the city... Christ... it'd have to be huge and I know nobody like that's moved into the city recently. I'm a Watcher, aren't I? I'd know if anyone that powerful or that old--" Old! Sweet Jesus! No! Don't think about it!--"had moved here..." The rational part of Joe's brain, the part that hadn't given into the fear, was aware that he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. If he stopped he might think, and if that happened he might come to a conclusion he didn't want to acknowledge. "I'll have to check, see if anyone's moved in that I don't..."

Duncan grasped his arm in a desperate grip that would have been painful if either had felt it. Joe started at the pale face in the darkness, dark eyes ringed with white, and he knew that Duncan was going to say what his own brain refused to acknowledge. Oh God. Oh Shit. Sweet Mary Mother of God!

He felt his bowels turn to ice water. A whispered moan. "Methos..."

NO!

~end part one~

PART TWO

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Joe Dawson cursed the war in Vietnam that had robbed him of the lower half of his legs. Bracing himself for the pain, he put on a burst of speed that closed the gap somewhat between himself and the Scotsman jogging in front of him. The only reason he was keeping up at all was the fact that the Highlander still seemed to be suffering somewhat from whatever had caused him to double over in agony as the Quickening took out the lights in the bar. And half the damn city, by the looks of things.

Joe could not see how much of the city had been blacked out by the power surge; several blocks at least. He did know, by the ache in his lungs and legs, that it had been nearly ten minutes since Duncan had hauled himself to his feet and staggered from the bar. They hadn't seen a functioning light yet.

Duncan had grabbed one of the torches Joe kept behind the bar for emergencies and staggered out, ignoring the Watcher's attempts to talk. Once outside, the Immortal had frozen momentarily, and then suddenly turned and loped off, as though following something only he could hear. Which he probably is, Joe considered slightly sourly.

He had never understood the bond between MacLeod and the ancient Immortal; a bond forged by the strange Double Quickening they had shared. He had however, always been somewhat envious of it. Until the moment he had looked into the pale, agonised features of MacLeod as a huge Quickening had torn through the city. A Quickening that could only have come from someone very powerful. Or very old... No! Stop it, Dawson! He's 5000 years old. He can't be dead. Christ! To lose all that knowledge. All he's seen...

He'd always thought Don Salzer odd for wanting to research Methos, an Immortal that had barely been seen in centuries, when he could be watching Immortals in the field, be in the thick of the action. Then he'd met a man who had seen 5000 years of changes in the world, seen empires rise and fall so long ago that even the ruins had been lost, seen the stars shift their positions in the sky. And he'd understood then why Don had said that someone like that should not be lost to the Game.

From a purely historical point of view, the man was fascinating. And since knowing the ancient Immortal, he'd come to both like and occasionally dislike the man for his cynicism, his witty but occasionally cruel sense of humour, and his loudly proclaimed self-serving nature. A nature which seemed to have a tendency to be forgotten about as soon as Duncan MacLeod found himself in danger. Christ, he wouldn't have done something stupid like challenge someone who was after Duncan, would he? He'd know better than that. The thought that the knowledge and intelligence could have been forever lost from the ancient Immortal's eyes was enough to prompt another burst of speed to pull him closer to the running Highlander. Damn the pain!

Duncan was aware that he was putting Joe through agony as he sought to squeeze more speed from trembling, pained muscles, but he couldn't slow down, couldn't fight the pull that was drawing him onward, though to what end he still didn't know.

He had been at the bar when he felt the beginning of a Quickening, had not intended to give it much thought. Then the pain hit. It had doubled him over the bar, nails dug into palms; teeth sunk through his lip as he tried desperately not to scream, as he felt something slam into and rip through his Quickening. It took him only a second to realise that it wasn't his Quickening, but the part of Methos' that had been fused with his, as part of him was forever linked to Methos. Or at least till one of us dies. He pushed the thought away.

After it was over and the pain had faded to a level where he could stand, he had staggered out of the bar, Joe following behind and trying to ask what had happened. He had ignored the Watcher's pale, anxious face, and concentrated on trying to locate the thrum that was uniquely the ancient Immortal's. He'd never tried this before, could never have tried this before. Once all Immortals had to Duncan, 'felt' the same. Then had come the strange Double Quickening that had linked the ancient and he together, and Duncan had realised that he could seperate out the song of Methos' Quickening; stronger, deeper, more controlled than the common blandness of all the other Immortals. But he had never before needed to find the Old Man by following his Presence alone. Nothing. He swallowed thickly, and concentrated harder, using his fear to focus. There... a wavering presence, but... different from the one he'd come to recognise as being 'Methos'.

Maybe you're feeling what's left after someone's taken his Quickening. The thought intruded before he could push it away. He tried to run, staggering as muscles abused by the pain of what had happened shrieked a protest. He ignored it, focussing on the gossamer thread that marked Methos' Quickening. His face set and he felt for the weight of the katana in his coat. He would either find Methos, or he'd avenge him.

That had been nearly ten minutes ago. Ten minutes of running through darkened streets with the panicky screams of Seacouver's citizens as a background accompaniment to the beat of his feet against the asphalt, and the hammering of his heart. He smiled grimly. Methos, if he could hear his thoughts, would look disgusted at his melodramatic leanings and tell him to stop brooding. Be alive, Old Man. Please be alive. I don't want to bury any more friends. He tried to will strength along the wavering thread he followed. He was getting closer. He knew he was. But Methos, if he had won a Challenge, should be recovering from any Quickening he'd taken by now. Why wasn't his Quickening feeling any stronger? Be alive...

His footsteps abruptly began crunching and he swung his torch down to the shards of glass that covered the ground of the alley he was in. He drew the beam of light up the walls and saw the row upon row of shattered windows. Bingo! Quickening Central!

He heard Joe arrive behind him, the man's harsh breathing echoing loudly with the ominous crunching of their footsteps, but he could offer no comforting word of greeting. He'd seen the body. Trenchcoat, of course. No head, the body crumpled up, makes it difficult to tell the height. Thank God! Stocky build, well muscled. Not the skinny Old One, then. Probably too short, now that I get a closer look. He heard Joe breath a sigh of relief behind him and nearly smiled until his torch picked up a second headless body. This one was laid out flat on his back. Taller. No. Slimmer. No! Goddammit! Where's the head? Where's the fucking head? His torch swept frantically into the dark corners of the alley, even as he lurched towards the second corpse.

"Christ! Another one!" He turned towards Joe's voice, knowing he was doing so to avoid looking at the body sprawled at his feet. Methos could sprawl as an Olympic Event. He wanted to laugh at the thought but stifled it, recognising the beginnings of a grief he did not yet want to acknowledge.

He looked at where Joe was bending over the slumped figure of a man, this time head still attached. He took a step forward until he realised Joe was looking at a tattoo on the man's wrist. "Watcher?" He was amazed at how calm he sounded.

Joe nodded. "Yeah. Out cold though, must have gotten too close to the..." Quickening.

The word boomed loud in both their heads even as Joe's mouth refused to say it. Big Quickening from someone powerful or... Goddammit! Where's the FUCKING head!

"Easy Mac. We'll find it." Joe's voice startled him.

I'm losing it. I didn't even realise I was speaking out loud.

Both men swept their torch beams around the alley, Duncan finding some morbid amusement in counting body parts.One body. One sword. Two bodies. Two swords. His light swept further out, into the alleys many dark recesses. Ah. One head. Finally. Light hair. Not HIS head. Another sword. "Shit!" He felt Joe look at him but ignored it. Three swords. And a Watcher wouldn't carry one. Where's the other Goddamn Immortal! He felt the first stirrings of hope as he closed his eyes, searching again for the thread of Quickening that had led him here, a short laugh escaping him when he found it. Joe looked at him in shock. He whirled on the Watcher. "Where's the other ane, Joe? Find the third!"

"Mac?" An uncertain plea, ignored by the Immortal as he feverishly began searching the alley. "Mac, stop." Ignored again. Doorway... Boxes... Bags of rubbish... NO... There... something pale... Duncan moved forward urgently. Pale... Skin! oh please God... He leaned down to the patch of darkness that had resolved itself into a crumpled figure as he got closer. Immortal. Head attached. Methos or his killer. Please... Strewn garbage had camouflaged the dark trenchcoat before. Duncan hauled on the shoulder of the other Immortal, and felt his knees give out when he looked into the dead face of his friend.

Joe saw the big Highlander reach down to something in a doorway and fall to his knees. "Mac!" He hobbled to his friend as fast as his aching body could propel the lumps of steel and plastic he walked on, and almost fell over beside Mac as he saw a sight he hadn't thought he'd ever see again. Not since the lights had exploded in his bar as a result of a huge Quickening. The very dead, but very un-decapitated body of the world's oldest Immortal.

"Thank God." He still felt shaky and grabbed MacLeod's shoulder for support. If he went down now, he'd have to be carried out of here.

Mac gently lifted the pale body out of the pile of rubbish it must have been thrown into by the force of the Quickening, Dawson noted with some shock that the clothes appeared to have been shredded.

He saw Mac frown, but before he could ask, Mac turned Methos over and Joe saw what Mac must have felt. The hilt of a dagger protruded from Methos' back, pushed far enough through that the point had emerged from the left side of his chest. He saw Mac scowl again. "Two against one. He must hae engaged one while the other put a knife intae his back." Mac pulled the knife free.

"Two against one. How the hell could he have survived that?"

Mac's lips quirked upward. "He didnae."

"I mean with his head attached."

"I dinna know." Joe nearly smiled as the Scots brogue deepened in response to the stress of the last... 15? 20 minutes? God, it feels like a whole night. "It explains the size o' the Quickenin' though. Twa..." He heard the Doric slip in and corrected it. "Two at once."

"Christ."

A moan from nearby abruptly reminded Joe that they were standing around two?--three?--two and a half corpses and a rapidly-regaining-consciousness Watcher. "We'd better move, Mac."

"Right." MacLeod pulled himself from his regard of Methos' body, and quickly picked up all three swords, stripping the trench coat off one of the bodies and wrapping the weapons in it He used the coat's belt to secure the bundle over his shoulder. In contrast to the gentleness with which he had handled Methos earlier, he simply slung the cooling body over one shoulder, using his free arm to help Joe support the staggering, semi-conscious Watcher.

"Where to?" Joe tried to figure out where they were, even as he checked that they had left nothing incriminating behind. Apart from a couple of headless corpses that is. Well, nothing we can do about hiding the bodies...

Duncan looked thoughtful for a moment. "There should be some pretty seedy motels nearby. You stay there with Methos and the Watcher, while I go get the car and come back for you."

"Right. And just how the hell are we supposed to check a corpse into a hotel room?"

It proved to be remarkably easy after the seemingly endless time that it took to get there. A substantial amount of money, and a story about how the two bloodstained ones had gotten drunk and into a fight was offered to the desk clerk. And they were handed a key. Of course, Joe thought with a cynicism that would have impressed the man who was currently a corpse, the fact that the desk clerk was female and Duncan MacLeod did all the talking might have helped.

Duncan had left to get the T-bird, leaving Joe with an occasionally-conscious Watcher on the bed, and a corpse in the bath. Christ, if the cops raid this place, I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining this one.

He could imagine it now. No, officer. My friend isn't taking illegal substances. No, please just ignore all his ramblings about glowing bodies and people who live forever. He just has a very active imagination. Oh, there's a corpse in the bath? Gosh, I had no idea. No, Officer, I'm not a necrophiliac... thus start twenty to life.

Joe sighed and went to check on the corpse who currently decorated the bath tub like a particularly large and gruesome bath toy. Yeah... Forget rubber ducky. Get the kids a corpse to play with at bathtime. It floats, it's something for the kids to grab onto if they're about to drown, and it doubles as a great non-slip shower mat! He almost laughed, then shook his head, recognising the tension and hysteria that had underlain that last thought.

He looked down at Methos' too pale body, which had been dumped in a most undignified manner into the bath. When he woke up, he was going to be pissed. Joe smiled again, his relief at having found the old Immortal intact gradually eroding under the surety that he should have, if not woken up, then at least have come back to life by now.

The knife in his chest had prevented the Quickening from healing the wound, but normal (and Joe snorted at the thought of anything to do with Immortals as being 'normal') Immortal healing should be repairing the wound and breathing life into the body by now. And Joe was just enough of a coward to not want to turn the body over and see a wound that wasn't closing. He was still getting used to the idea of Methos still being alive and did not want to consider that he would not recover. A Quickening can't kill an Immortal, can it? Not permanently. Joe had certainly never heard of anything like that in any of the chronicles he'd read. Ironic that the person most qualified to answer the question was the one sprawled in the bath tub.

He sighed and returned to the bedroom to wait, hoping that he could sit down and let his brain idle for a while as he waited for MacLeod's return.

In retrospect, Joe decided that he really should have known better. When he got back to the bedroom, the Watcher, whose ID had informed Joe that the man's name was Ian Thompson, was awake and looking at his surroundings in enough confusion that Joe though he might just be lucid. Great!

"Ian Thompson?" Joe smiled wearily at the suddenly wary man on the bed. "I'm Joe Dawson." He showed the other man his Watcher tattoo, which matched the one on Thompson's wrist.

The man's eyes widened, fully taking in the appearance of the man in front of him for the first time. "Mr Dawson. Thank God. I wondered where the hell I was for a second there. Uhmm... Now that I think about it, where the hell am I?"

Joe smiled slightly at the man's humour. "Some cheap, crummy motel." He sighed; there was no getting around this. "I'm just waiting for Mac to get back."

Thompson frowned in puzzlement then his eyes widened slightly. "Mac... MacLeod... Duncan MacLeod... You came here with your Immortal?" Thompson was shocked. "But we're not supposed to interfere. Or even know the Immortals we're assigned to watch. God." He got up unsteadily, "I need to get some water or somethin--"

"NO!" Thompson jumped at the shout from Dawson. He stared at the older man. "I mean, look... shit..." Joe sighed. No point in beating around the bush. "Look, son," he said tiredly, "you can't go into the bathroom." He took a deep breath. "We've got a dead Immortal in our tub."

Thompson gaped, then sat down again, heavily.

Duncan, meanwhile, had jogged as quickly as his exhausted body could carry him, studiously avoiding going anywhere near the area where two headless bodies lay. God, it can't be much more than an hour ago that I was sitting in Joe's, drinking beer and talking about trained attack squid. How the hell did I get so tired in an hour? He knew how, though.. Terror had a way of draining the energy reserves. And terror was what he had felt, feeling the pain from Methos' Quickening, and believing the Old Man dead.

The intensity of his reaction surprised him. He'd barely known the man three years, and in that time had come to realise one thing. And that was that he didn't know the man at all. Upon meeting Methos, Duncan had initially been awed by the other man, awed by the 5000 years that Methos had seen. The awe had dimmed somewhat as the man simply refused to act like the oldest living Immortal; not a serene look or the wisdom of Darius in sight. The awe had been reinforced somewhat when Methos had offered Duncan his head and power to help him defeat the Immortal Kalas. Then anger at the man for interfering in his fight with Kalas, and disappointment when the ancient had disappeared afterwards.

When Methos had reappeared, he had seemed to show a perverse pleasure in forcibly integrating himself into Duncan MacLeod's life. Waltzing into his apartment or barge unannounced and stealing his beer, then deliberately provoking the younger Immortal into arguments. Awe swiftly turned to irritation, then friendship... with occasional bouts of irritation.

Looking back, and in a sudden startling insight, Duncan considered the possibility that Methos had been deliberately irritating. Methodically destroying the awe, and tearing down the preconceived ideas that MacLeod had had in his mental image of the Eldest. No wisdom or answers, just a--and MacLeod's lips twitched at the thought--just a guy. A really old guy, but just a guy.

He had relaxed then, welcoming the cynicism and wit of the Old Immortal, relaxing into the idea of the man breaking into his place and stealing all his beer. Then there had been Cassandra and Duncan's finding out about the Horsemen, and the slaughter and atrocities that had been Methos' life when he had chosen the name 'Death'. Their friendship had been almost destroyed; Methos refusing to go back and look at things done three thousand years in the past, and MacLeod unable to get beyond them.

Their friendship had recovered slowly. They spent a lot of time together at Duncan's or Joe's, but they had never really recaptured that easy trust. MacLeod realised he couldn't remember the last time he had arrived home to find a post-it note on the door of his refrigerator with a smiley face drawn on it, all that remained to mark the breaking into his home by the older man, and the passing of yet another six pack. Even more surprising was the realisation that he missed it.

With a pang MacLeod realised that he had been the one keeping the other man away, unwilling to trust him again fully. And Methos knew, Goddamn him! He must have known. That's why he always called to check with Duncan before coming round. Probably checking to make sure I won't take his head if he just turns up.

As MacLeod thought on it, he realised that it was almost always Methos who called to see if Duncan wanted to get together. Rarely was it that Duncan would call Methos. With a guilty start he realised that he'd never even been to Methos' apartment, though the older man had given Duncan the address. Then, suddenly, all the time spent keeping the man at arm's length, all the doubts about trustworthiness, all the petty annoyances, were burned away in the seconds when he'd shone the torch on a tall slender body, and believed his friend dead.

Well, no' any more. I dinnae have enough friends left to push them away, an' a friend what the skinny wee shit is, whether either of us like it or no'. Duncan ran up to his apartment, grabbing clothes to replace Methos' torn and bloodied ones. Then, feeling more at peace than he had for a long time, despite the vestiges of exhaustion and concern, he raced down the stairs to his car, and drove off to get his friends.

~end part two~

PART THREE

Joe, meanwhile, was attempting to convince a sceptical Ian Thompson that he had not broken his non-interference Oath by rescuing the Immortal currently residing in the tub.

"Look, Thompson," Joe sighed, "MacLeod was at my place when we both figured out there had just been the Mother of all Quickenings. Mac hared out of there to find out who had just died and I went after him. What the hell else was I supposed to do? I'm his primary Watcher, if he got into a Challenge I should be there. We got to the Challenge site, found the bodies and you, and MacLeod found the surviving Immortal..."

"Pierson. He named himself as Adam Pierson," Thompson interrupted.

Christ on a Crutch. Adam Pierson's just been ID'd as an Immortal. Joe cursed the body in the bathroom. What the hell did you go and name yourself for? What game are you playing now, you old schemer?

"Yeah... right... well... MacLeod found that 'Pierson' was a guy he knew, then we grabbed up everything we could and got the hell out of there."

"You worked with your Immortal to save another." Thompson was clearly disapproving.

Yeah... "No!" Joe exploded. "Listen, part of our job as Watchers, as well as keeping a record of our Immortal's movements, is also to keep the world at large from discovering the existence of Immortals and the Game. Right?" Thompson nodded slowly. "So we got there and there were bodies and swords and Watchers all over the place. We couldn't do anything about the bodies, so we grabbed everything else and made a break for it before the cops arrived. That meant getting rid of the swords; getting you away from becoming a murder suspect; and stopping the cops from getting a body that unexpectedly came back to life half way through the autopsy. Sound reasonable?"

Thompson considered the explanation for a long moment before answering. "I guess so, but why not leave MacLeod with Pierson and me with you, and go your separate ways once you had cleared the area?"

Joe picked up his cane and rapped it against the lower half of his legs, the wood clanking against something that was considerably harder than human flesh. "There's no way a guy like me, with half his legs missing, could carry a big fella like you anywhere." He laughed ruefully, and Thompson looked shocked.

"Ah... well... I see what you mean..." he stuttered in embarrassment, and Joe took pity on the floundering younger man.

"You feel up to telling me what happened tonight?"

Thompson closed his eyes, pressing his palms against his temples. "I guess... Christ, I get a headache just thinking about it. God, I think I'll retire from field work after I hand in my closing report on this. I mean, I've seen more than my share of Quickenings, but nothing like that. Christ, I have never been as scared of anything as I was tonight."

"If you want to leave it 'til your head feels better..." Joe felt obligated to make the offer, but wanted to shake the story out of the man opposite. What the hell happened tonight? What happened to Methos? And what connections have you made between Adam Pierson, ex-Watcher researcher, and Methos, the object of his research?

Joe had long ago decided to try and protect the Oldest Man from any possible harm that the Watchers might try and visit on the Immortal who had infiltrated their ranks. If Thompson had realised something, Joe needed to know; though what he would do about the problem was something he did not want to contemplate.

He brought his thoughts back to the man opposite as Thompson sagged back against the pillows, his eyes still closed.

"No. I'd better tell it all now, while the memories are still sharp. I assume my camera's toast?" Joe nodded. Even if it hadn't been, Duncan or himself would have exposed the film to prevent any pictures of Methos getting back to the Watchers.

Thompson sighed wistfully. He'd have gotten some truly amazing pictures of the Quickening if the camera had survived. Ah well. He settled back to still the throbbing in his head, and told Joe his story.

Ian had been assigned to watch Jason Linde nine years ago. The man was pretty good, taking a fair number of Challenges and winning every time. Then about six years ago, Linde had met up with Alexander Shand, apparently an old student of his, and the two had been together ever since.

Joe looked shocked. "Six years! And they were never hunted down by other Immortals for breaking the One on One rule?" It was one of the prime rules of the Game that all Challenges should be in the form of single combat. Those breaking this rule were generally hunted down by other Immortals and killed.

"They were good, Joe. No one ever got away from them to tell about it," Thompson looked a little angry, never having liked the way the two had fought. Then his gaze shifted to Joe. "Until about a two weeks ago..."

Two weeks ago they had been in New York. Shand had Challenged a female Immortal, confident of getting her Quickening. But their luck had finally run out as a friend of the woman's had come upon the fight just as Linde was readying himself to shoot her. The duo had fled, and had been going from city to city since, the pair from New York still hunting them.

They had arrived in Seacouver yesterday, and Pierson had been the first Challenge they had issued since they had arrived. Thompson was sure that meeting up with Pierson had been pure happenstance; he had been betting that they had been intending to take the head of the Highlander.

"But what actually happened during the Challenge?" Joe was growing impatient with all the background information. Thompson looked irritated at being interrupted again, and Joe sighed inwardly at the habit of all Watchers to spin tales of 'their' Immortals. He gave Thompson an apologetic look and gestured for him to continue.

He listened in some amazement to the description of 'Pierson's' fighting skills. Looks as if the Old Guy's been holding back some in his spars with MacLeod. Big surprise there! More secrets. Dawson nearly rolled his eyes, then brought his concentration back to the story Thompson was telling.

Pierson had taken Linde's head as he fell to his knees and Ian had moved forward, hoping for a decent picture of the Quickening. Linde's body had begun to glow with the blue-white aura of his escaping Quickening, and Pierson had slumped forward to hands and knees, blood from the fatal knife wound pooling on the asphalt. Silence reigned in the deceptively calm, charged atmosphere that characterised the pre-Quickening lull--the interval between decapitation and the first bolts of the Quickening-proper.

It was so quiet that Ian had almost lost bladder control when the mortally wounded Pierson suddenly whirled to his feet with a speed that was inhuman, a look of such fury on his face that Satan himself would have run for cover, and a scream that would have inspired another Canto or two from Dante. Startled, Shand had weakly raised his sword to deflect that savage swing, but the sheer desperate strength of the other Immortal was enough to knock the defending blade away, out of its owner's grasp, and to send the man's head after it.

That was when the first bolts of Linde's Quickening had hit. It was, in itself, a powerful Quickening; Linde had been just over 700 years old and had taken a great many heads. Pierson had dropped back to his knees, screaming under the force of it, hands clawing desperately at his back in an attempt to remove the invading agony of the blade between his ribs, to let the Quickening heal him.

Ian had stared in shock at the scene when the man on his hands and knees before him had raised his head and stared right at him, as for a moment silence returned to the alleyway. Linde's Quickening seemed to pause for a few seconds. Blood bubbled from the kneeling man's nose and mouth, liberated from filling lungs by the force of his screams, the power of the Quickening seeming to make his eyes gleam unnaturally gold-like in the straight planes of his face. Ian had found himself unable to break the tableau, and neither man moved in the too-short time before the Quickening hit in its full rage.

Those few seconds of peace had been enough time for Shand's Quickening to escape his body, the two Quickenings twined together in a writhing, boiling mist of light and sound. Ian, terror screaming through him, had wanted to back away--to run from the power he could feel gathering around them. But that same terror seemed to have atrophied his muscles into immobility and he could only watch, still staring into the gold-green eyes of the Immortal before him. Overhead, great stormclouds had raced to a thundering, crashing point above them, a high altitude mirror of the storm forming below, as Ian felt his ears pop under the force of the pressure building up in the atmosphere of the alley.

The silence had ended terrifyingly as the Quickenings had seemed to hurl themselves at Pierson, throwing the Immortal across the alley, the force of it enough to drive the knife deeper still until the point emerged from his chest. The lightning had hammered into the slender man, who had convulsed on the ground, howling out his agony. And still the mist raged around him, lifting him. Up to his feet, then further until he was suspended upright, no longer touching the ground, his body contorting with the force of the power being forced into him. Through him.

The storm had increased still further in fury: winds whipped the litter around; windows imploded into the alley, the liberated glass refusing to fall to the ground. Instead, cutting through the air in the cyclonic winds of the Quickening, they slashed into the upright figure in the centre of it all.

Ian had thrown up his arms against the deadly slivers and his screams had risen to replace those of the man who had passed into pain too great to be expressed by simple screams. A sudden crescendo, and the world had erupted in an explosion of lightning and wind and screams abruptly silenced as Thompson had felt something hit him and throw him against a wall.

Joe Dawson sat in shock, staring at the pale sweating figure who trembled on the bed.

"I know it sounds crazy, Joe." Thompson looked at Joe in desperation. "Shit, I've seen a helluva lot of Quickenings; but I have never seen anything like that before. And I hope to God I never do again. But I swear that's what happened."

Joe looked at the frightened face in front of him and nodded to reassure the man, the description of the glass fitting the evidence of Methos' shredded clothing. He wanted to reassure the other Watcher, but did not yet trust his voice to work properly. God Almighty. What the hell would a Quickening like that do to someone? Something scratched at the back of Joe's mind, the description of the Quickening striking a chord somewhere. Nothing I've seen, though. Hell, I think I'd remember something like that. He tried to focus on the memory clamouring for his attention, and so nearly died a death of his own when the door to the room opened abruptly. He spun towards the sound, heart hammering, then sagged in relief as recognition set in. "Mac..." He breathed the name, drawing comfort from the Highlander's solid presence.

Duncan opened the door to the motel room, still feeling the warmth of his resolution of his feelings for Methos. A warmth which quickly evaporated at the sight of the two shaken Watchers in the bedroom. Joe looked like he'd just about had a stroke when the door had opened, relaxing and sighing his name when he saw MacLeod.

Duncan strode into the room, eyes wide. "What's happened? Is M--?"

"Adam's fine," Joe broke in quickly, emphasising his use of Methos' current alias. "Ian here's attached the name Adam Pierson to our Immortal."

Dammit. This complicated things. No way to ditch the Watcher without an explanation of some description. It appeared that the Watchers were about to discover the Immortal status of one Adam Pierson. He kept the shock off his face. "Adam still in the bathroom?"

"As far as I know, Adam's still in the bath. He was still dead last time I checked."

Duncan frowned. He should be up and about by now. It was a clean kill. No major tissue trauma from the knife wound. "He should be fine by now." He glanced at Joe, some of the fear he had felt in the alley returning as he strode to the bathroom.

Sure enough, Methos had not moved, the throat still pulseless. The skin was ashen as he knelt down and touched it, smoothed the dark hair back off his forehead, where the dried blood had stuck it. The face was cold as his hand traced the features so mobile in life, so limp in death. The lips, always quirked with the private amusement that the old Immortal seemed to find in life, were lax and blue behind the blood stains. MacLeod swallowed, aware of Joe moving up behind him.

He pulled his hand away, turned the thankfully not stiffening body over and pulled away the trenchcoat, hand sliding under the blood-stiffened sweater and T-shirt. Methos'll be pissed that he's ruined another sweater. I swear the man is obsessed with wool. And he'll blame me. Says he's lost more sweaters in the time he's known me in the three decades previous. Calls me the Great Sweater Slaughterer. He couldn't smile, but he did thank the God he'd been brought up to believe in when searching fingers failed to find a gaping wound. He pulled up the sweater and T-shirt further, and felt Joe sag against him in relief as a two inch red line was seen to be all that remained of the fatal stabbing.

"He'll be okay then, right?"

Duncan could hear the desperation in Joe's question. "I dinnae... I don't understand why he hasnae come back yet. He's been gone too long, Joe. Far too long." He looked up into Joe's grey eyes and wondered if his own eyes mirrored half the worry that the old Watcher's did. He suspected they did.

"I talked to Thompson." Joe tried to come up with a reason for Methos' continued deceased status. "Adam took both Quickenings simultaneously. Both were pretty old and had taken a fair number of heads. Who the hell knows what taking that amount of power in one go would do to him? Maybe his body just needs time to process all that energy."

Duncan nodded absently, still regarding the still form he cradled in his arms.

"What now?" Joe laid a hand gently on one broad shoulder of the kneeling Highlander.

The Immortal appeared to rouse himself with an effort. "Now we get everything cleaned up in here, and go back to the dojo. Thompson should come with us till we figure out what to do about his ID of Adam. I brought clean clothes, so it'll look less like we're carting a dead body around with us. Go get Thompson organised; you can tell me all about this Quickening in the car."

Joe nodded and limped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and leaving MacLeod to the unenviable task of attempting to undress, clean and redress his friend's dead body. Methos, Duncan sighed to the man in the tub as he attempted to coax dead limbs into a semblance of co-operation, you owe me so much beer for doing this.

~end part three~

PART FOUR

The four of them sat in the Thunderbird, silence reigning since Joe had finished his recap of Thompsons story. Joe regarded each of them in turn. Duncan drove fast, chewing on one knuckle and obviously worried by the unknown effects of such a Quickening and by Methos' uncharacteristically long recovery time. In the front seat, Ian Thompson seemed uncomfortable with the amount of information Joe was giving the Immortal he was supposed to be watching, obviously feeling that he was breaking his oath of non-interference just by being in the car with two Immortals. And in the back there was himself, sitting next to the slumped body of the world's oldest Immortal.

MacLeod had exchanged Methos' torn and bloodied clothes for some sweats of his own that he had picked up from the dojo that they were now heading towards. The power to this part of town had been restored, and Joe studied the man on the seat next to him in the harsh flickering glare of the street lights they drove past. He looked half-buried in Mac's clothes, the man's slender frame swamped by the amount of fabric designed to cover the Highlander's far more muscular body. He looked young, Joe realised with a start. Not like a man who had survived fifty centuries at all, more like a kid wearing his older brother's still-too-big hand me downs that he would be expected to grow into. The Old Man's perpetual air of cynicism was gone, aiding the illusion of youth. A pale and sick looking youth, Joe admitted. Methos' normally pale skin faded to the grey hue of the death which had not released its hold on him yet.

The street lights cast harsh shadows over the angular face. It was a face that seemed to be made up of all the wrong angles if you looked at the features separately, not like the perfect handsomeness of the Highlander's features. For Methos, the nose was too big, the cheekbones too sharp, the mouth twisted into a seemingly perpetual sardonic grin. Separately the features were a mismatched set. But together, they blended together with the startling chameleon eyes and the sometimes overwhelming charisma of the man to give a face that was as startlingly handsome in its own way as the Highlander's.

But right now he just looked ill. The features were slack, the long hands limp and draped carelessly where they had fallen. Methos' slender frame contributed to the image of frailty that the pale skin produced.

Joe surprised himself with his sudden almost paternal protectiveness towards the man beside him and he had to resist the urge to smooth the short dark hair away from the ashen face as he had seen Mac do earlier, although he was fairly sure that Mac thought Joe hadn't seen the gesture.

Joe snorted to himself. Listen to me. Getting 'paternal' over a man a hundred times older than me! Joe shook his head, getting some comfort from the fact that Mac was as bad as he.

At 5000 years, Methos was over 12 times older than the 400 year old Scot, and 100 times older than the mortal Watcher. Yet both of them seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time protecting the elder man; MacLeod trying to keep the Old Man safe from any Immortal threats, sure that Methos was no longer good enough with a sword to survive a Challenge, and Joe making sure the Watchers did not discover who the man really was. And the Elder had watched them both with an air of affectionate amusement. Hardly surprising, since he took out two Immortals tonight, and seems to be planning on letting the Watchers know that Adam Pierson's Immortal.

Joe sighed. As usual, the man seemed to be half a dozen steps ahead of them all. Aware of this, Joe knew that he would still do what he could to keep the Old One safe, unwilling that 5000 years be lost without a fight. Ah, Don. You'd be so proud of me. Did you ever suspect that the man you called 'Adam', the man you worked with, the man you played poker with, was the very one whom you tried to so hard to convince us should be protected?

Joe was startled out of his ruminative regard of the man before him by a barely audible, short-lived noise from the old one beside him. A noise that sounded like nothing as much as a tiny inhaled gasp. He leaned over. No pulse fluttered against his fingers, no breath warmed his palm. Maybe it was just wishful thinking... No... His eyes widened at the fluttering of muscles across the pallid forehead, a tiny flex of the fingers Joe was now squeezing, another abortive attempt to draw air into abused lungs. Joe grinned. Hugely. Stupidly. And turned to see the Highlander regarding him in the rear-view mirror. "Mac..." His voice was loud in his excitement.

"I know. He's coming back." Duncan's voice sounded... wrong, and Joe took a closer look at the face in the mirror. Why isn't Mac happy? was all Joe had time to think as the car abruptly pulled off the road.

Duncan had driven as fast as he dared, desperate to get back to the dojo but not willing to be pulled over by the police and have to explain the body in the back seat. He adjusted the rear view mirror so that he could see both the men in the back. Joe looked stressed and worried, but seemed to find some thought amusing as he studied the Immortal on the back seat beside him.

Duncan stiffened slightly as he felt a flicker of Quickening brush against him. A steady strengthening of the Song of Methos' Presence that indicated the gradual climb back to life. But it felt... wrong, somehow. Not the hard, bass throb of tightly controlled strength that Mac associated with the Old Man. The Quickening spluttered and flickered, the pitch twisting from the familiar bass to grate discordantly against Mac's own Quickening. Something is very, very wrong here. Something's seriously messing with his Quickening. He saw Joe lean towards Methos in response to something Mac could not see, but could guess at.

He's coming back. Goddamn it, Methos! We're five minutes from home. Why the hell do you have to be so damn difficult about everything? Five more minutes and then you can freak or scream or do whatever the Hell you want. But not in the damn car. Not in public when we could still pulled over by any one of the cop cars that are swarming around the area trying to regain control after the panic of the power outage.

He knew it was too much to ask as he felt another strong surge in the Immortal's Quickening. He glanced in the mirror, seeing Joe grinning at him. "Mac..." The Watcher wanted to share his obvious relief in the seeming recovery of their friend. Duncan wished he felt half as confident.

"I know." He heard the grimness in his voice, in sharp contrast to the joy in Joe's. "He's coming back." He pulled over to the side of the road and almost threw himself out of the car, dragging Thompson from the passenger seat to the driver's. "You," he pointed at the startled Watcher, "drive. Joe? In the front; you give him directions. I'm going in the back with M--Adam."

Confused, they nonetheless moved to their newly assigned positions and the car moved off again.

"Mac?" He could hear the confusion in Joe's voice. "What's going on? What do you think is about to happen?"

Good question. "I don't... I'm not sure, Joe, but I know something's not right, and whatever happens, I'm better qualified to deal with it than either of you."

He turned his attention to Methos. The ancient Immortal's breathing was almost regular, if too shallow and gasping. His heart had found a rhythm and was even now speeding up to a normal frequency, the newly pumping blood warming and bringing some colour to the skin that had been cold for too long.

A small gasp, an almost inaudible moan brought Duncan closer to his friend, one hand on the man's shoulder, the other gently stroking his hair, hoping to bring a measure of comfort to the increasingly disturbed Immortal.

Another gasp, loud enough this time to make Thompson glance back from the driver's seat to see a face creased in pain; hands curled into fists, arms folded up to his chest, knees pulling upward. A moaning wail welled up from Methos' throat, choking off to a keening cry as Duncan looked on in disbelief. A small arc of blue Quickening was crawling over the body which curled up on itself to escape some pain Duncan could not guess at the origins of.

Not knowing what else to do, he pulled his friend's shaking body against his chest; one arm around the slim waist, the other in the short hair, tucking Methos' head protectively under his chin. He could feel the choking, sobbing breaths against his throat, as Methos fought to draw breath against pain that was great enough to cause suffering when he was still barely conscious.

"Goddamn it! Put your foot down!" he exploded at the man in the driver's seat, fear powering the anger that caused the Watcher to hastily increase his speed.

"Nearly there, Mac," Joe's voice sought to soothe him. "Just keep it together for another minute." Easy for him to say. He only just held back from lashing out at his Watcher friend in anger.

Joe couldn't feel the spasms racking the body in his arms, nor the racing heartbeat and the sweat that made the skin clammy. Joe could hear them, but Duncan could feel the anguished moans from where Methos' face was pressed into his neck, the hands twisted tightly into his shirt, even though Duncan was quite sure that Methos had absolutely no awareness of where he was, or whom he was clutching for comfort. And the thing that scared Duncan most of all was the violent, surging Quickening that he could feel through the link between them, raging around Methos.

Duncan was abruptly aware that Joe was directing Thompson to pull over to the side of the road. He recognised his building. Finally! He opened the door and got out, gently lifting Methos in his arms like a child. He didn't even wait to see if Joe or Thompson were following, just carried the trembling man to his apartment even as he felt Methos relax, giving up on his short-lived attempt at consciousness, and surrendering to welcome oblivion.

He laid the limp form on the bed and checked the wounds on his back and chest, relieved that there was no sign that there had ever been an injury. He looked up as he felt Joe move up beside him.

"I got Thompson up to the apartment, but he's not real happy about it. Thinks he's getting too involved." Joe paused. "Is he okay, Mac? I mean, he looked pretty bad in the car."

Duncan sighed. "I don't know, Joe. He's okay just now, though, so let's go talk to your Watcher friend."

Thompson was fidgeting beside the couch, refusing to sit, as though by making himself more comfortable he would be further compromising his oath. He looked up like a startled rabbit when Duncan came down to talk to him. "Mr. Thompson. I don't think we've actually been introduced yet; I'm Duncan MacLeod." The Highlander held out a hand, and Ian took it numbly.

MacLeod looked at him for a long moment before steering him towards the sofa and sitting him down on it, then disappeared to another room. He reappeared a moment later and handed a glass and a couple of pills to the dazed Watcher, who took them and looked at them dumbly.

"Aspirin. You took a whack to the head earlier on tonight and I thought you probably had a headache. I realise you probably want something a little stronger than water, but I think you might be in mild shock so I don't want to risk giving you any alcohol."

"Please. Risk it." Thompson looked at MacLeod fully for the first time, seeing the strain on the face even as a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth in response to Ian's answer. Ian downed the pills and water. "Your friend. Is he going to be okay? I mean, I know it's none of my business, and you probably shouldn't tell me anyway. In fact, I really don't think I should be here at all..."

Duncan grinned at the man's babbling. "I'm sure Adam will be fine." It didn't sound convincing, even to him. His smile faded and he sat on a chair, regarding the young Watcher. "I wanted to talk to you about what happened tonight, though. Just how much..."

"MAC! GET OVER HERE!"

Dawson's panicked shout propelled Duncan off his chair and up to the bed where Joe had been watching over Methos. Methos was no longer lost in blissful unconsciousness, but was writhing on the bed, groaning in agony as ripples of blue energy arched over his body.

"Sweet Jesus!" He heard Thompson cursing but ignored it as he focussed entirely on his friend. He sat on the edge of the mattress and reached down a hand to comfort the anguished man beside him.

The moment his hand touched him however, the hazel eyes snapped open and Methos sat bolt upright, tiny blue crackles of Quickening crawling over his body. Duncan watched helplessly as Methos' back arched in pain, fingers clawing and twisting Duncan's shirt. Duncan felt the barest echo of the torment the other man was enduring, but it was enough to make his own guts twist in sympathy. He felt Methos' Quickening battering against his own, and grasped the other man's jaw in both hands, forcing the head to look towards him and trying to force some awareness into the glazed hazel eyes that were a handspan from his own.

Over what felt like an eternity (although Joe later assured him that it was less than a minute) Duncan became aware of a calming in the turbulent energy raging against him, the frenetic buzz mellowing to the dearly missed familiar bass that marked Methos' signature.

The pain lessened, allowing cramped fingers to loosen their grip on him and to fall limply to the bed. The last of the electric blue flickers faded, leaving brown eyes staring into suddenly focussed hazel. A whispered question, "Mac...?" and a tentative hand reached up to touch his chest, seeking some reassurance.

"It's okay." His voice was thick with Scots brogue again. "It's over."

Methos smiled weakly, then sagged against him, exhausted, forehead resting against Mac's shoulder. Just as tired as the older man, Duncan's arms slipped around him in a loose hug, his shaking body leaning against the other man's for support. And there he remained, each leaning on the other, sharing strength and reassured of Methos' survival by the warm body pressing against his own. 

~end part four~

PART FIVE

Methos was the first to move. Palms against Duncan's chest, he pushed himself away. "Not now, Duncan. Not in front of the children." He glanced up at the younger man, lips quirking in a slightly mocking smile. Duncan coloured slightly, abruptly reminded of the two Watchers who had been standing, well, watching, as the two Immortals had embraced.

Joe laughed out loud, partly in genuine amusement, mostly in relief. "I always knew that inside that rugged Highland warrior exterior, there was a feminine side just waiting to be touched. C'mon, Mac, don't I get a cuddle too?" He opened his arms wide in invitation.

Methos barked a laugh at Mac's darkly growled, "Bugger off." He then loudly declared his need of a shower, causing another thought to suddenly occur to him. He looked down at himself.

"What happened to my clothes? These aren't my clothes." He pulled at the sweats in distaste.

"Sure they are. You just shrunk in the wash." Mac stood up stiffly and grinned down at the indignant man on the bed, who seemed to be trying to find his hands past the extra three inches of material on the end of each sleeve.

"Dammit, MacLeod." Methos gave up, too tired to waste energy on locating all his extremities. "You must have arms like an orangutan. I refuse to wear this. Where the hell's..." He trailed off, horrified realisation dawning across his features. "No." A bare breath of denial.

Duncan looked down again, his expression suddenly grave. "I'm sorry, Adam."

"No." Methos looked crestfallen.

"I'm afraid so. It's gone."

"No!" Methos flapped his hands, or rather sleeves in agitation. "But... We had barely gotten comfortable..." His face was grief-stricken as he sighed, "Gone too soon, MacLeod. Far too soon." He sounded depressed.

"I know, Adam. They always leave us too soon. But it was lost in the fulfillment of duty, and for that we should be thankful."

Thompson was looking on in consternation and growing fear. Dear God. Who else is dead? He looked over at Joe, the older man covering his mouth with his hands, shoulders shaking and eyes bright with emotion. He saw Duncan reached down to grip slender shoulders, as sleeves came up to rub at hazel eyes. "It died well, Adam. Don't cheapen the sacrifice by raging about it."

A wail erupted from the man on the bed, only slightly muffled by the fabric being held against his face. "But it was my favourite sweater!"

Sweater? Thompson blinked as the wail unleashed the roar of laughter that Joe had been successfully suppressing up until now. Ian felt a smile spreading across his own features as he saw Pierson glare petulantly up at the suddenly grinning Scot.

"It was just a sweater, Adam."

"JUST a sweater! Well for your information, Mr. Insensitive, it was not just a sweater. I'd just gotten it broken into a shape of perfect comfort. Do you think that's easy, or quick?" Pierson grabbed the Scotsman for balance as he hauled himself to his feet. "I want you to know, I blame you entirely, MacLeod. If you hadn't insisted on meeting at Joe's when you knew damn well my car was off the road, this never would have happened." He flapped a sleeve accusingly at the Highlander.

"I knew it!" MacLeod looked at the other Immortal in exasperation. "I knew the minute I saw your damn sweater that you'd find some way to blame me."

"So feel guilty!" Adam snapped as he risked a few steps, swaying dangerously until Joe grasped his arm. "Oh yes! You'll brood quite happily about every other damn thing and find some way to make it your fault. But not about the really important things. Like the wanton slaughter of my favourite items of wardrobe."

Joe could see the eyes of the man he supported dance wickedly, and he knew that Methos was working to ease the tension in the room by indulging in his favourite pastime, MacLeod baiting. He was extraordinarily good at it.

Mac spluttered indignantly, "Brood...? Important...?" He recovered slightly and leaned in towards the older Immortal. "You'd better watch your mouth, 'Adam'. Don't forget, I've now seen you naked." He leaned back again, brown eyes creasing as he fought against a satisfied grin, sure that this time he would leave the Old Man speechless.

Both Joe and Ian knew better. They could see the slight upcurve of the lips, and the narrowed eyes. Joe, with years of experience from studying the man, trying to figure out what was going on in that ancient brain, recognised the look. And knew that Methos was about to score the winning touchdown of this latest verbal match.

Methos spun towards MacLeod, Joe barely having time to catch and steady him before he went down. He savoured the moment of realisation when MacLeod read the look on his face and knew he had made a miscalculation. Methos went in for the kill. "Ah, but Mac... Everybody's seen you naked." His eyes narrowed and the soft voice had the sweet overtures of pure evil. "Amanda," he grinned, drawing out the moment, "had in her possession certain... pictures. Pictures which I... acquired. These self-same photographs are now permanent additions to your Watcher Chronicles and are actually posted on several webpages in the Watcher network. You can even," and Methos paused again to savour his moment of triumph, "get 'Bollock Naked MacLeod' screensavers, that say, 'I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod' when you turn on your computer!"

Methos made sure that MacLeod's expression of horrified disbelief was forever etched into his long term memory and grinned.. Then, gathering 5000 years of dignity, he swept towards the bathroom to the accompaniment of Joe's guffaws. Well, with as much dignity as possible in sweats that were 4 sizes too big and swathed over both hands and feet. Then he grinned even wider, some imp pushing him to further devilment. He paused for a moment and looked over one shoulder coyly. "Oh, and Mac," he cooed at the Highlander, "if you really wanted to see me naked, you had only to ask." He winked seductively and resumed his majestic exit to the shower.

His triumphant exit to the bathroom was halted, however, by a steady hand pressing against his chest. Methos glanced over at the hand's owner, but did not recognise the man. He was aware of the suddenly intense silence from Joe and Mac behind him. Such bright boys. They're learning. Waiting to see the way I want to deal with this. Methos turned on his 'harmless post-graduate researcher' persona and smiled brightly, holding out his hand. "I'm sorry, I don't believe we've met. I'm Adam Pierson."

The man hesitated, then took the proffered hand, "Ian Thompson."

Methos used the seconds of the handshake to take stock of the man before him. 5'10''. Mousy hair in a 'sensible' cut. Slightly overweight but non-descript face. Mid 30's, anyway. Looks like he's about to wet himself in terror. Wonder why? He glanced down at the man's wrist as he released the hand. Aha. Tattoo. Watcher then.

The silence from behind him was broken as Joe interrupted, "Ian was the Watcher assigned to the two who Challenged you tonight." Methos nodded, factoring the information into his Plan. But said nothing, waiting to hear what the young man would say.

Ian had been starting to relax, enjoying Pierson's teasing of the Scottish Immortal, when he heard Pierson mention MacLeod's Chronicles. He froze. My God. The guy had stuff ADDED to MacLeod's chronicles. An Immortal who's infiltrated the Watchers! He glanced at Joe Dawson, who did not seem in the least surprised at Pierson's seemingly intimate knowledge of their organisation. And Dawson knows! Christ, Dawson's turned! He's obviously siding with these two Immortals. Oh God, I'm dead! I'm totally fucking dead! He began to sweat.

He saw Pierson heading towards him and without thinking, reached a hand out to stop him. The Immortal smiled suddenly and introduced himself. Ian responded in kind and shook the hand in reflex, brain struggling to get past the feeling that he was about to die. The Immortal appeared to be waiting for him to say something.

Ian swallowed convulsively, "I... the Watchers... you said... Chronicles... I mean..." He was aware he wasn't making sense, a fact that Pierson seemed to find increasingly amusing, damn him. Ian's head was pounding with the effort of attempted coherence. "You're a Watcher!" The words started to come in a rush. "And you're an Immortal... So... so... you must have infiltrated us. And MacLeod knows. And Dawson knows. And now you're going to kill me!" His voice had become slightly shrill towards the end, and he waited to die.

Methos studied the terrified man and tried to keep the glee off his face. Oh, this is too perfect! He bared his wrists to the Watcher, showing both to be naked of any Watcher tattoo. Methos got ready for the next step in the game he had initiated when he had named himself in tonight's Challenge, knowing full well that there was probably a Watcher nearby. He wrapped himself in 'non-threatening-student' Adam Pierson, pushing away 'World's Oldest Immortal', and put on his best harmless look. He looked at the man who had just been chosen as the newest game piece in Methos' Plan.

Thompson couldn't believe he had run off at the mouth like that. Pierson was definitely going to kill him now. So he almost fainted in relief when he saw the bared wrists.

He studied the man fidgeting in front of him. Still pale and obviously exhausted, the Immortal wrung his hands together, looking upset and unsure. Like a kid who's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Taking into account the oversized sweats, the analogy seemed oddly fitting, and Ian had to forcibly remind himself that the nervous, almost fragile looking man in front of him had killed two people earlier in the evening. But that was part of the Game. It's kill or be killed once a Challenge is issued. Doesn't mean he slaughters mortals.

In fact, this man looked less like someone who had taken two heads, and more like a man who was capable of nothing more terrifying than returning a library book late. Yeah, and on really bad days he might actually try and sneak off without paying the fine. Ian was relaxing, almost in spite of himself.

Pierson abruptly ran his hands in agitation through already tousled hair. "Look... Aaah... It's ex-Watcher, actually... God what a mess... Uhmm, are you all right?" Pierson seemed to peer at him in concern. "You're terribly pale and you have a bruise on your head. You look a bit battered all round, really. Well I'm not one to talk, I feel like I've just gone three rounds with a Sherman tank... damn... I'm babbling again aren't I?" Pierson took a deep breath, swaying slightly as both hands went to his head. Then he breathed out slowly.

He looked at Ian with a weary smile. "Ian, first of all, no one's going to kill you. Unless you're allergic to Boy Scouts, in which case I suggest remaining at a distance from MacLeod."

MacLeod snorted slightly, and Pierson suddenly grinned boyishly, then looked serious again. "Look, I need to take a shower, but I promise I'll explain everything when I'm done. How about that?" He looked at Ian expectantly.

"I... I don't know." Ian was still somewhat nervous, though no longer afraid he was about to die. "I really don't think I should be here. I should probably go."

"Aren't you even slightly curious about what happened with tonight's Quickening?" Pierson's tone was seductive. "It'd make a hell of a closing report."

Ian visibly wavered and Pierson looked triumphant. He guided Ian to the sofa. "You sit down before you fall down. I'll only be a few minutes. Of course, if you want to leave, you can." He gestured at the elevator. Ian sat.

Duncan followed Methos, ostensibly to ensure the still unsteady man made it to the shower room. "What game are you playing now?" he hissed at the Old Man as he handed him fresh sweats.

Methos looked at them in disgust. "More sweats, Mac? And black again, too? What is with your obsession with black?" He looked up into the Highlander's 'I Want Answers If I Have To Beat Them Out Of You' expression. He rolled his eyes. "Look, Mac, everything's fine."

"Fine?" Mac Looked incredulous. "That man knows you're an Immortal and you just told him you were a Watcher. How long do you think it'll take Watcher Central to link Adam Pierson, Immortal, to Adam Pierson, ex-Methos researcher? Then who knows what they'll figure out!"

"Mac, you worry too much. And you drink too much caffeine. You should cut back before you get an ulcer." Methos gave him an expression of mock seriousness. "Trust me, MacLeod, I..." his voice deepened, "have a Plan." With a flourish, he closed the door in Duncan's face.

Mac closed his eyes and shook his head. A Plan. God help us.

~end part five~

The three remaining men sat in an uncomfortable silence as they waited for Adam to return from the shower. Two of the three were afraid to say anything lest it contradict whatever tale Methos was concocting, and the other was putting serious consideration into asking MacLeod or Dawson to get him some of the 30 year old whisky he saw in the corner. Either that, or getting MacLeod to take his head, whichever would give the fastest relief from the incessant throbbing in his temples.

Abruptly, Duncan got up and wandered aimlessly into the kitchen, damning silently the man in the bathroom who was undoubtedly using all his hot water. Again.

"Ah, does anyone want any coffee?" It was a weak offering to the Gods of Breaking Silences. But They were obviously not feeling merciful this night, as Thompson merely started at the sudden intrusion of sound then shook his head, Joe also silently declined, and though he did not want any either, Mac made a cup of instant for something to do. That done, he returned to the other men, sagging down on the couch beside Thompson and standing the unwanted cup of coffee on the table before them.

After a seemingly endless period sitting in a complete vacuum of silence (Joe was beginning to understand the horror of sensory deprivation) and just as Mac's nerves, already vibrating with stress, were about to snap, the bathroom door opened and Methos padded through barefoot, steam billowing around him. He thoughtfully studied the three strained faces turned towards him.

"Dear God, the three of you are fidgeting like you've got God's Own case of the haemorrhoids and have faces that would drive the Easter Bunny to suicidal depression. Who died?" He looked amused.

Mac didn't. "You did, if you'd care to remember. What the hell happened tonight? Why'd you take so long to come back?" His voice had risen slightly and Methos seemed taken aback by the Highlander's obvious distress.

He opened his mouth to say something, then abruptly appeared to reconsider, tapping a finger against his lips and frowning as he considered the Scotsman. He appeared to reach a decision.

"That's a bit of a long story, Mac, and I don't... I'm not sure of all the details. So why don't we start with what Mr. Thompson wishes to know." He moved to the side of the coffee table opposite the couch where Mac and Ian were sitting. Joe was in a chair off to one side. Methos looked around distractedly for a few moments, spotted the untouched cup of coffee, grabbed it and took a long swallow of the tepid liquid before sprawling himself into a chair wearily.

Duncan regarded the recently appropriated coffee grumpily. The man puts me through Hell tonight; blames me for his sweater getting trashed; moans about the clothes I give him. My own clothes, for God's sake! He's bound to have used up all the hot water so I can't have a shower and now he's stolen my coffee. Duncan decided to make a point to highlight all he had done for Methos.

"That was my coffee." He spoke in an even tone and regarded Methos steadily.

Methos looked surprised. "You weren't drinking it."

"I made it. It was sitting in front of me. Therefore it was my coffee. But you're drinking it."

"Do you want it back? It's cold." Methos seemed puzzled.

"No."

"Right." Methos blinked slowly. "Is there a point you're making here that I'm missing, Mac?"

"Yes. It was my coffee."

"And it's cold." Methos looked exasperated, then drained the cup. "And now it's finished. If you're going to make a fresh cup for yourself, get one for me. But not instant. I don't like instant."

"I don't want another cup. That was my cup."

"Mac, are you all right? You're acting awfully strange."

"I'm fine, I just wondered if you realised that was..."

"YOUR COFFEE! WE GET IT! CAN WE MOVE ON HERE?"

Both men stared in surprise and were taken somewhat aback by the slightly crazed look on Ian Thompson's face. Joe just grinned, having seen the exasperation growing on the man's face as the bickering continued. Joe had seen the point that Mac had been trying to make, and was almost sure that Methos had as well, and was just torturing MacLeod.

He looked into the seemingly baffled hazel eyes, and reconsidered. Or maybe not...

Methos recovered first from Thompson's protesting shout. "You're quite right, Mr. Thompson; I did promise you a story, did I not?" He smiled and sprawled even deeper into the chair, although Joe would have sworn that such a feat was impossible. A new Immortal talent. The ability to meld with furniture. Only available to those of 5000 years or over. It was a whimsical thought, and he turned his attention back to the others as Adam began to speak.

"As I said, my name is Adam Pierson and I used to be a Watcher. Not in the field, though; I was a researcher in Paris. Specifically, I researched the Methos Chronicles. Then about three years ago, I met MacLeod here. Joe, whom I already knew through a mutual Watcher friend, had sent him to protect me from an Immortal by the name of Kalas. This Kalas was hunting Methos, and had already killed a Watcher called Don Salzer, another Methos researcher," he looked up at Joe sadly, "and a good friend. It seemed logical that I would be his next target."

Thompson nodded. "I heard about this. It was all over the Watchers; even those of us in the field heard about it. MacLeod engaged this Kalas and you called the cops and had Kalas arrested for Salzer's murder. But if you were Immortal, why not fight Kalas yourself?"

"Ah, well, you see, this is the part I left out of my official reports. I'm afraid I rather foolishly rejected MacLeod's offer of protection, sure that Kalas would never find me. He did. He attacked me on a bridge, and in the course of the fight, we both went over the railing and into the Seine. I woke up at the side of the river. I thought I had lost consciousness in the water and that the river had deposited me safely onto an embankment, just clear of the water-line."

"You had died." Realisation dawned on Thompson's face, and Methos wanted to pat him proudly on the back for reaching the conclusion Methos had been drawing him towards.

Instead he simply nodded. "Exactly. MacLeod confirmed it next time I saw him."

"So you weren't Immortal when you joined the Watchers, you were pre-Immortal. And you came into your Immortality when you drowned. And you never told the Watchers." Thompson frowned suddenly. "But Joe..."

"Never knew," Methos interrupted smoothly.

Thompson considered this. "He didn't act as if he knew you. In fact, he said that MacLeod recognised you, not him." He frowned more deeply, and Joe held his breath. He's not buying it. The Watchers are gonna have my head for hiding this.

Methos, however, never missed a beat. He smiled at Joe affectionately. "I expect he was thinking he was in some way protecting me. You have to remember, he had just found out a friend of his was Immortal, and was currently dead and showing no signs of coming back. I expect he was in a state of mild shock and thinking less than clearly."

He shook his head. "No, I never told Joe. I wanted to remain with the Watchers. You see, I truly did enjoy my research." He allowed the alight regret he felt to creep into his tone. This part, at least, was true; he had enjoyed writing his own Chronicles. "And of course the position offered me a degree of protection when I didn't know one end of a sword from the other."

He heard MacLeod snort, "That's true." Mac smiled slightly at Methos' glare.

Methos returned to his story, already ready with suitable revenge if Thompson took the bait. "Then after I left the Watchers, I moved here." Come on, young man.

"And became MacLeod's student!" YES! You beautiful boy! You just keep coming to the right conclusions!

Methos smiled in satisfaction. "Exactly." He looked at Mac, who looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. "I. Became. MacLeod's. Student."

A tiny choked sound from one side made him glance at Joe. The Watcher was staring at him with wide, very bright eyes, then he abruptly stood, turned his back on them all and hobbled towards the bathroom.

Dawson, as he rose from his chair, saw the shocked pity on Ian's face and realised that the man thought him to be angry at being lied to about Adam's Immortality by two of his friends. Let him think that. It's easier. He moved beyond the other Watcher and on towards the bathroom.

He was fighting to keep his emotions in check when he heard Methos call to him. "I'm sorry, Joe." He sounded anguished.

Damn the man! He was deliberately hamming it up, knowing perfectly well the reasons for Joe's abrupt departure from the room.

"Joe! Let me explain!" Another pained cry. Joe moved faster. I'm not gonna make it. He felt like he was going to explode. Dammit, Pierson, it's your story that's going to go down the tubes if I lose it here!

"Joe!" He tried to move faster still.

"I wanted to tell you, Joe, but I didn't want to compromise your oath as a Watcher!" A muffled snort escaped.

"PLEASE don't be angry, Joe!" Methos' voice rose into a convincing Roger the Rabbit whine as the bathroom door closed with a slam, and it undid Joe completely.

He slumped against the tiled wall, tears streaming down his face, and stuffed a towel in his mouth to stifle the peals of laughter. Student! Oh dear sweet Jesus, Methos. Mac's gonna kill you for this one!

In the other room, Duncan's thoughts were an uncanny mirror of Joe's. But without the degree of amusement.

He had listened to Methos' only slightly skewed version of his and 'Adam's' first meeting and the fight against Kalas. In spite of himself he felt a certain admiration for the man's ability to mix truth with a tiny drop of fiction to twist the facts to suit himself. After all, everything Methos had said had been true. It was Thompson who had concluded that the drowning had been 'Adam's' first death. Methos had simply refused to correct him.

Then they had got to the bit at the end and he had almost choked. STUDENT...! No... he's gone too far this time. I am going to MURDER that skinny, manipulative, scheming.... SASSENACH! I refuse to take the blame for teaching that man all the dirty tricks he uses in fights! But he realised that he couldn't think of a way to contradict the statement without shining doubt on Methos' whole story. He was aware of his face going red.

He glared at the Old Man, but he seemed to be studiously avoiding Duncan's gaze. He watched Joe's departure from the room, knowing full well that the Watcher was finding the idea hilarious. He looked sourly back to the old Immortal. "And you're a terrible student. Clumsy. Arrogant. Overconfident. You should be very careful, or you might just lose your head." He looked pointedly at his own sword to make sure that Methos had heard the threat correctly.

He had, he just didn't care. He smiled irritatingly at the Scotsman. "Mac, Mac, Mac. You really have to stop worrying about me." He shook his head at him and turned back to Thompson as Joe emerged from the bathroom, tenuous control regained. "You have to excuse Mac, he's in maternal mode."

Maternal? Mac stared incredulously.

"He fusses all the time, you know. He's just a big Scottish mother hen, really. Cluck cluck cluck, all the time." Thompson stared in obvious doubt at the increasingly red-faced Highlander. "Oh, I know," Methos continued serenely, "he has this big tough image. But it's all a facade. He's just a big softie. A real sweetie, as my Gran would say." And then to add insult to injury as Mac saw it, he reached over and ruffled Mac's hair with every sign of amused affection. Joe had to retreat to the bathroom again.

Duncan, on the other hand, was seriously considering punching the man, just to wipe the insufferably smug grin off his face, when Methos stood and headed for the kitchen. No point in hitting him then.

Irritation quickly turned back to thoughtful concern as he watched Methos' slow and unsteady progress. He looks like he'd go down if I as much as breathed on him too hard, much less walloped him.. He continued to watch as Methos retrieved three beers from the refrigerator, then added a fourth at the sound of the bathroom door opening and Joe re-entering the room. Methos made his way back, and Duncan was aware of the concern from Joe as he too noticed the Old Man's unsteadiness.

"Jesus, Adam. You still look like shit."

"Why, thank you, Joseph," Methos grinned as he distributed the beers. "Does that mean I'm forgiven for not telling you about my Immortality?"

Joe looked at him seriously. "I wish you could have trusted me, but I understand the reasons why you felt you couldn't tell me. It's okay, Adam." He touched the man's shoulder gently as he took the beer.

Methos looked startled at the seriousness, then realised that Watcher was not referring to his recent tale-spinning, but to the 10 years he had kept his Immortality from Joe, unwilling to tell anyone that he was actually Methos; before MacLeod had discovered Adam Pierson to be the fabled Eldest, and had told the astonished Watcher. He regarded the Watcher in all seriousness. "Thank you, Joseph." His voice was quiet. "I am sorry I didn't tell you, but..."

"I told you. It's okay." Joe nodded at him and was rewarded by one of Methos' rarely seen full, genuine smiles, one without cynicism or artifice. It lit up his whole face, removing years from the man's apparent age.

Duncan, watching, wished the Old Man would let his defences down more often; the smile was a sight to behold. Wistfully, he wished he could get the man to smile like that. And so he almost hated himself for thinking the question he was about to ask, as the Elder collapsed tiredly into a chair and immediately sprawled in true Olympic fashion.

"What happened tonight?" His voice was quiet, gentle. But it still removed the lingering traces of the smile from Methos' face, and notched the tension in the room back up again. Duncan mourned the loss of the smile, the familiar defences being thrown back up.. But it had had to be asked. They needed to know what had happened, and Methos was avoiding the topic.

~end part six~ 

PART SEVEN

Methos opened his beer slowly and looked around for someplace to put the cap. Not finding anywhere suitable and not sure he could toss it behind the fridge from here, he tossed it distractedly over his shoulder.

Mac's expression didn't change. He obviously wasn't going to be distracted so easily. Methos surrendered. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face tiredly.

"I did say I'd try and explain, I suppose." His voice sounded small, even to his own ears. "I just... I still don't understand completely..." He shivered and unconsciously pulled his knees up onto the chair, body curling up on itself as though cold, despite the warmth in the dojo.

Although he wasn't aware of it, the effect of going from a sprawl to a position that was only two steps away from fetal made Joe and Duncan exchange worried glances.

Methos stared at the bottle of beer he had barely touched, long fingers working to peel off the label. When he spoke, his voice was oddly detached, and it was enough to make Joe's bowels clench. It was the voice he'd heard from vets in the hospital after the war, usually just before the soldier would curl up crying and rocking and staring at horrors that only he could see. Or they would explode in a sudden fury of violence that took several men armed with needles to still. Joe, too, shivered as though cold.

"I assume Ian's told you about the Challenge." He didn't wait for an answer, but continued conversationally, seemingly still focused on removing the label from the beer bottle. "To begin with, it was like a normal, fairly powerful Quickening; well, if you discount the knife in my back. Then it... changed..." He paused again, face closed, fingers starting to shred the label he had removed from the bottle.

"It became stronger, more violent. I think that's the point at which Shand's Quickening joined with Linde's."

He glanced at Thompson. "I don't know if you've ever been told what a normal Quickening's like."

He wasn't expecting an answer, but Ian shook his head anyway, shivering at the sight of dark eyes that only minutes ago had been a green-gold with effervescent humour.

"It's like... everything... It energises you and drains you. It gives you a better rush than heroin, but without the sedation. All your feelings are suddenly, perfectly focused. Your senses hypersensitive, almost painfully so. You can feel... everything... the movement of air, the growth of a tree. For a tiny fraction of a second you can feel every other Immortal, and you're not alone anymore."

No one was moving, or even seeming to breath, as the hypnotic voice continued, hands finally still and eyes unseeing. "It's the most painfully orgasmic sensation in the world. Like every bout of sex you've ever had, all at once. But it's rough sex, with no love to soothe any pain because along with the power, you get the Immortal's memories. Centuries, millennia of love and hate. And all their pain tearing through you until your own Quickening is able to control the onslaught and lock everything away before you're overwhelmed. But it hurts. Christ, it hurts."

The figure on the chair curled up tighter on itself, face partially hidden behind knees drawn tightly against a memory of pain. "It hurts because the person wanted you dead, their last feelings were of wishing you destroyed, wishing you pain. And as their last feelings, they're the strongest; and for a few seconds you're fighting the urge to ram your own sword through your belly. And it's worse if they're powerful or old; the personalities are stronger. And it's worse if the person hated you." He fell silent.

Worse? Christ. Joe felt sick. He'd never known that a Quickening would be like that. Of course, he'd seen plenty. But he'd always assumed that it was the physical pain of having lightning strike him that had caused Mac's screams. The thought of living through every experience your opponent had ever had in only a few seconds... Joe couldn't imagine it. But looking over at Mac, he saw in the pale and strained face that the other man could. And was.

So many of us envy them. Think they have it easy, living forever and getting to see so much. Shit, I envy them. I wished that I had been Immortal so that I would have healed in Vietnam. So that the damn surgeons wouldn't have cut off my legs and left me with plastic and steel and pain from limbs that aren't there. I wanted to experience all the life, see all the places that only those who never aged would be able to get around.

Of course he had always know there was pain, the pain of losing mortal loves and seeing century long friends lost to the Game. But he had always thought that the pain would be overshadowed by the pressure of so much life.

Looking at the pale and gently rocking figure of his friend, he wondered for the first time if the pain did not outweigh the advantages. How have you survived it, Old Man? For the first time in a long time, Joe felt awe of the man who had survived 5000 years. Not 'just a guy'. Not even close.

"Adam?"

Duncan's tentative voice seemed to bring a level of awareness back to the older man. He looked up at MacLeod almost desperately, his voice rising in distress. "Linde wasn't so bad. It was nothing personal for him. He hadn't even been expecting to die, sure Alex would save him. From him there was shock and fear from when he saw my blade go down, but nothing more. But Alex..." He swallowed. "Alex hated me... wanted me dead... wanted to hurt the man who had killed his lover..."

He was speaking faster now, focused solely on Duncan, seemingly unaware of the other men listening, pale-faced. "His desire, his need to be with Jason made the two Quickenings twist up together, and his hatred of me gave the Quickenings a violence born of his desire to see me hurt. All his hate. All his grief. All his pain, and the loneliness only eased by the man I had just killed. All of Jason's terror of death and desire to live whatever the cost. All of it tore through me, driven by over 1200 years of collective power and Quickenings. I..." His voice cracked slightly and his hands clenched into shaking fists. "I couldn't handle it! God knows I have more strength of will than most, but there were three separate sets of memories in my head and I could barely sense which ones were mine! I..."

"STOP!" Mac's voice was sharp, and loud with fear. He quieted it with an effort, "Stop..." and reached a hand out to soothe the trembling, wide-eyed man on the chair. "That's enough. Their Quickenings overwhelmed you; I felt it at the bar, your own Quickening fighting for control."

Methos nodded sharply, breathing still rapid from reliving the fear. "But it didn't end there. I... the knife in my back... I died, you see. Before I could get full control."

God. Mac would have happily ripped apart with his bare hands the two who had dared go against the Rules. He laid his hands on Methos' shoulders as the soft, lifeless voice returned. "When I came back, it wasn't over. I was still fighting to get control over their Quickenings."

The blue sparks that had crawled over Methos' body as he convulsed, the terrible raging Quickening that had smashed against his own. Mac swallowed. "But you got control..."

Methos abruptly interrupted. "No. No, I didn't. Not really... although maybe... I don't know..." He looked at Mac again. "I was exhausted and in agony; I felt as if my mind was coming apart. Then..." he hesitated and looked away, as though unsure whether or not to continue.

"What?" Mac was still gentle as he lifted the man's face to look at him.

"You came." The whisper was almost inaudible. "I felt you there. Your Quickening. It was like, I don't know, yours was strong and steady and you... didn't hate me like they did. Your... my Quickening somehow reached for yours and your stability was enough to give my own Quickening the grounding it needed to lock down Jason... Linde and Shand."

Mac relaxed slightly and released his grip on the other man, sitting back on his haunches when he was sure that Methos was no longer lost in the memory.

Methos' voice was suddenly stronger, almost normal. "Then you insisted in cuddling me in public. Dreadful public display of affection." He grinned wickedly. "Better put aside some of that whiskey of yours for purposes of bribery. God only knows what Joe's going to put in your Chronicles about that one."

Joe. The thought occurred to both Immortals at the same time, and they glanced over to where the two Watchers were still sitting silently. Methos groaned slightly and closed his eyes. "Bloody marvelous timing, Pierson. Pick a time when there are two Watchers in the house to run off at the mouth." He let out a weary breath, then looked at Thompson, a smile twisting one corner of his mouth bitterly. "Well, I made good on my promise to you. You'll get the best closing report in Watcher history." He closed his eyes again and leaned back against the back of the chair he was curled up in.

Thus he missed the measured look that Thompson gave him. "I... ah..." The Watcher almost sighed in regret. It really would make an astonishing entry. Something I'm not sure has ever been recorded in a Chronicle before. "Look, I don't see that I need to put most of what you said into my report."

Mac and Joe looked at him sharply, and Pierson slowly opened his eyes to regard him. "I'll need to tell Central that you're Immortal, obviously. I can't leave that out. And I'll put in a description of the Quickening; but all the other stuff you just told me? Well, I'm not your Watcher. As far as I'm concerned, I heard it, but it's of no value to Linde or Shand's Chronicles, only your own. And as I said, I'm not your Watcher."

Pierson regarded him for a long moment. "Thank you." He looked grateful, but it was difficult to tell past the hard lines of exhaustion.

"It's okay." Thompson shrugged a little shyly. "You used to be a Watcher, so I guess I can give you a little consideration. Besides, people in the Organisation will probably end up reading your Chronicles when they get under way, people who know you." He looked serious. "It wouldn't be fair to have something as personal as that plastered all over the front page."

Pierson was still watching him, digesting the answer. He smiled slightly at Ian, then relaxed as tension Ian hadn't even realised was there was abruptly released.

Only to start, and tense again as Joe abruptly sat bolt upright. "The Kurgan!"

Methos looked at Joe in vague astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"

Joe looked slightly sheepish at his outburst. "Sorry, but it's been bugging me since I first talked to Ian; that Quickening he described reminded me of something. And I just remembered what."

Duncan nodded in sudden understanding. "The Kurgan's Quickening."

"Right." He looked at Thompson excitedly. "The Kurgan was a real old, real powerful Immortal. Nasty piece of work, got off on killing and pain. Finally got taken by MacLeod's kinsman, Connor. The Quickening is described as being nearly exactly like the one you described tonight. Windows imploding; the winner being lifted off his feet; the way the Quickening almost seemed to have a life of it's own."

"Aye, and Connor told me that he was exhausted for nearly a full day afterward," Duncan added. "Then he was just fine. But there wasn't anything like what happened in the car or the dojo, at least as far as I know."

"I agree the Quickenings do sound similar," Methos spoke slowly and tiredly. "The Kurgan was strong, powerful and angry, but Connor only had his and the Kurgan's memories to deal with, not three completely disparate personalities, each vying for dominance. That was what made this Quickening so terrible." He closed his eyes again, sagging back into the chair, completely drained.

Ian stood suddenly. "I should go." Both MacLeod and Joe stood with him, but Pierson didn't even twitch. "Listen..." he paused a moment before pushing the button to take the elevator down. "Thanks for getting me out of there tonight. I never would have made it out under my own steam and the cops would have nabbed me." He appeared to be about to say something else, then changed his mind. "I'll maybe see you around, okay?" He waved jerkily and the other two smiled a little and said their own goodbyes. The elevator slid out of sight.

Joe and Duncan regarded one another. "Well. Helluva night."

Joe looked at the big Highlander. "Yeah, that's one way of putting it," he said. Mac grinned wryly. "You know, I bet we do see him again." Joe looked at the descending elevator.

"Thompson?"

"Yeah, I'm willing to bet he'll request to be Adam's Watcher. And I'm also betting that he won't put in what he heard tonight. Seems like a nice guy." Joe grinned suddenly. "So, how do you feel about your new student?"

"Right now? I'm torn between wanting to throttle him and..." Mac trailed off, expression tightening. "God, Joe, when I saw that body in the alley..."

Joe looked at him, seeing the exhaustion that he knew was mirrored in his own face. Exhaustion etched by fear and an uncomfortably close brush with grief. "I know, Mac, me too. But he's okay."

He smiled and grasped the Immortal's arm as he walked back towards the couch, to where the object of their conversation was sitting much as they had left him, curled up on his chair. Sound asleep.

One hand was tucked under his head as it lay back against the chair, the other was loosely curled around the beer bottle which was balanced precariously on one thigh. Joe grinned at the image of Methos seemingly curled protectively around a bottle of beer.

Duncan removed the bottle before its contents could be liberated all over the chair, gently uncurling long fingers from the warm glass. Methos shifted slightly in his sleep, quietly protesting the removal of his 'comfort beer'.

"Maybe I should replace it with a teddy bear?" Mac joked softly, grinning over at Joe. "It'd make a hell of a photo."

"You have a teddy bear?" Joe chuckled quietly. "My my, your masculine image really is taking a beating tonight. Cuddles? Teddy bears? Maternal instincts, Mac? You gonna give up your sword and start flower arranging next?"

Duncan rolled his eyes. "Et tu, Joe? Isn't it bad enough that he," he gestured at the slightly drooling Immortal, "has quite nicely destroyed my reputation with the Watchers already?"

Joe grinned again. "Yeah, he was in fine form tonight. You should be glad he avoids Challenges and so doesn't often end up nearly dying." His smile faltered slightly, but he gamely continued, "Can you imagine if he took as many heads as you? He'd make your life hell."

Mac shook the recently rescued bottle of beer. "Still mostly full."

Joe looked surprised. "Methos left beer? That's never happened befor