Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sea air was chilly as night fell over the city of Baltimore. The slender figure of a man, tall, lanky, yet agile, moved through the shadows with the ease of long practice. The folds of a long, black trenchcoat whipped around his legs as he walked aimlessly, yet purposefully among the dim buildings. This was not the prettiest part of the city, disrepair and age darkening the cement walls with silent shame. But nothing this American city could offer would ever out-age the man who now walked within it.

Methos had been wandering for weeks now. Paris had become too difficult, fraught with endless troubles. MacLeod was being MacLeod, and the life of a perpetual graduate student had lost its appeal. So the oldest of the old took up his spare belongings and set out, as he had done a million times before, waiting for something or someone to catch his interest. For a sparrow to fall, a star to rise, a glitter of gold to hold his eye. A fleeting touch of a mortal life perhaps, to still his wanderlust.

The streets narrowed, lengthened, light spilling from an occasional doorway or window. The harsh beat of modern music filtered out of a bar, activity spilling onto the sidewalk. The ancient immortal slid across the road, drawn by the promise of a cold beer and warm soup. Shoulders brushed his, and he pulled inward upon himself, disdaining contact, until...

A faint stirring of presence. His head shot up, his green-sparked eyes focused, and followed. A glimpse of golden hair and fair skin above a black leather jacket. A man -- and not immortal. Not yet. But ripe with the promise of what could be. Methos turned, hesitated, knowing it was not time to interfere. The blond man was young still, and innocent. Or perhaps not quite so, for that head lifted and weary blue eyes returned Methos's gaze. Grave lines furrowed into the fair brow and deep black bruises underlined the eyes. No, this was not an innocent, unknowing as he might be of his future. Methos recognized the elements of sorrow and guilt, rage and despair as surely as he knew his own soul. If he had one. Shrugging off the wisps of his own endless past, he let his eyes drop away from the other man, barely catching the movement out of the corner of his vision as the blonde fled out into the night. Hunching his shoulders, Methos moved to enter the bar, then abruptly stopped in his tracks.

Something in the younger man's expression held him. Something in the way he held his body. Something in the way he moved. Five thousand years of experience combined with ruthless intuition, and before he knew he'd made the decision, he found himself swiveling on his heels and hurrying to follow a swiftly moving figure as it disappeared into a nearby alley.

OOOOOO

The alley stank of refuse and urine. A drunk snored, a dark lump within a pile of cardboard boxes. Mike Kellerman stepped around him, staggered against the far wall, stopped in his tracks. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't know what he was going to do. In one afternoon, his entire life had fallen apart. Or perhaps, it was more truthful to say that his life had collapsed in one split second of decision more than a year before.

His fingers, yet again, traced over the empty spot on his belt where his badge used to be, slipped downward to find the holster, empty of its contents, still there. But bereft of all meaning. As he was. There was something ironic, symbolic, in that, he was sure. He chuckled bitterly and tried to focus, but he couldn't. The haze of pain and anger, fed by the booze, colored his vision. He couldn't see. And he didn't want to.

Like many cops, he had access to more than one weapon, and it hadn't been difficult to rescue a back-up from his locker. The small pistol was strapped to his ankle, and he retrieved it now, balancing the light metal form in his hand. He squinted at it, trying to bring it into clarity. With a sharp flash it came clear, and he grinned at it openly.

"Hello, my friend," he whispered. Not really expecting a response. The gun, warm from close contact with his body, stayed silent.

He smiled. He lifted the gun.

Now there was no emotion. He was faintly, distantly surprised at that. Shouldn't he be doing this out of pain, anguish, fear, hurt? Something? There was nothing. He felt nothing. Except a calm, quiet sense of confirmed purpose.

He pressed the steel muzzle against his forehead and closed his eyes. Drew in a deep breath.

And squeezed.

OOOOOO

The gunshot rang loudly in the confined space. Methos' jog turned into a run, even as he knew it was too late. Sliding to a halt beside the crumpled form, he knelt down and retrieved the weapon from the pale, lifeless hand. His first thought was to toss it over his shoulder, his second caught him in time. Shifting fluidly, he dropped the heavy metal object into a side pocket of his overcoat, then turned his full attention on the presently, if not permanently, dead young man. At closer look, the immortal-to-be was even more youthful than Methos had anticipated. Despite the open wound emblazoned like a bloody third eye on his forehead, the man couldn't have been much older than Methos had been when he had suffered his first death. Or so he supposed, for with the exception of an occasional nightmare, he had little remaining memory of that time.

Pushing the past aside with the easy ruthlessness of long practice, Methos settled down to wait. Checking his watch, he gave the youngster about fifteen minutes, then leaned back to take in his surroundings. As far as he could tell, the gunshot had not disturbed anyone else. The bum was still curled up in his pile of filth, and no lights flickered in nearby windows. At least the boy had chosen a secluded spot for his suicide attempt -- that would make things easier. And yet...

Methos sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. Suicide as first death was most definitely not an auspicious beginning to immortal life. If the will to survive wasn't there to begin with, it rarely developed quickly enough. And the last thing the ancient had the patience for this night was a round of self-destruction attempts. He'd seen another suicide discover his immortality -- and that immortal had tried just about every way possible of killing himself except the one that would actually work. Learning had only sent him in search of that further blow as well. He'd found it easily enough. So it truly was foolish to stick around here. And yet again...

There was something about this particular pre-immortal that had struck a chord within the ancient soul. There had been an echo of a familiar pain, a spark of a familiar fire, the shadow of a familiar darkness. He saw the edges of possibilities, and was unwilling to abandon them without further examination. Besides, he realized, ruefully, half-surprised, that he was quite simply bored. Tired of hiding; tired of running; tired of living in the shadows. And it had been centuries since he'd taken a student, unless you counted a few raw attempts to get the stubborn Highlander to see sense.

Chuckling roughly, Methos watched the first tingles of blue fire lick at the wound between the blonde's shuttered eyes. Anything would be easier than trying to communicate with that Scottish mule. The fierce buzz of a newborn immortal scratched at his senses, and he leaned in closer. The compact, but lean body jerked with returning life, and the blue eyes flew open.

OOOOOO

Mike felt as though he had been tossed into a washing machine and then wrung out to dry. Every inch of muscle, bone and sinew in his body ached immeasurably. A sullen pain throbbed behind his eyes, filling his ears with an insistent ringing. He moaned aloud and shifted, seeking some recognition of his surroundings. Memory was slow to awaken, it ached as his mind focused, like a muscle cramp in his soul. But as his eyes creaked open, the memory came clear and he jerked with sudden shock.

He had to be dead. But if he was dead, then what was this? Where was he? Why did he feel so painfully alive? The light was faint; the smell was worse. In fact, if he didn't know better, he'd be certain he was exactly where he'd been before he pulled the trigger. Squinting, he lifted his head and looked up.

"Easy there," a soft velvet voice sounded from just above. A firm hand closed on his shoulder and steadied him as he leaned forward. Blearily, he focused on the figure that belonged to the voice - dark, slim, cloaked, and unfamiliar. As foreign as the voice which sounded again.

"Reviving is always rough, especially after first death. Stay still for a moment. Do you remember your name?"

The sentences were spoken slowly, carefully. The words and meaning were faintly clear, yet utterly confusing. And the accent was exotic, elegant, and different to Mike's American ears. It was clearly British, bringing to mind tea and cricket, Faulty Towers and Doctor Who. Mike fought for a response, one question only pounding at his skull.

"Is this heaven - or hell?"

The foreigner laughed richly, warmly.

"Neither, I'm afraid."

"I am dead?" Somehow it came out a question, though Mike was sure of that, for surely he remembered...

The stranger seemed to divine his thoughts instantly.

"No. You're not dead. Well, it would be more appropriate to say that you were dead, but you're not dead anymore."

"What?" Mike blinked. This didn't make any sense. He knew he was in the same alley where he'd... No, he swallowed hard, thrusting that particular memory away from him. It wasn't that he was sorry for it; he simply didn't want to think it too closely. That had been the whole idea. He didn't want to have to think anymore.

Again the stranger seemed to read his mind. Mike could feel, more than see, him grimace.

"I know this is hard to believe, but it is the truth. You shot yourself in the head. You died. You revived. Like it or not, you're immortal."

"I'm what?" Now Mike was awake enough to realize he was sounding like an idiot. But then, this whole thing was crazy.

The other man sighed, his fingers still clasped across Mike's shoulder. He replied softly.

"You are immortal. You cannot die permanently...well, there is one way, only, but we can talk about that later. Right now, you need to understand that you are still alive, and trying to shoot yourself will only cause you momentary pain. Do you think you can keep from trying that again for a while?"

The exotic voice rose on the last question, a sliver of pleading hope weeding its way into the otherwise matter-of-fact tone. Mike concentrated on it, discovering that, in fact, he truly was in no hurry to repeat his recent experience. Whatever the hell was going on, it was obvious that shooting himself in the head was not going to help him out of it.

He nodded.

"Yeah. I think so." His own voice was hoarse. His throat felt like it was being rubbed with sandpaper. He licked at his lips and swallowed again.

"Good." The calm was back in the other man's tone. "Then I suggest that we find a more comfortable place to talk. Perhaps the bar around the corner?"

Mike suddenly remembered his surroundings, and as appropriate as the gloomy, unpleasantly odorous alley might have seemed to the act of suicide, it was becoming increasingly unattractive.

"Yeah," he agreed again. Struggling to his feet, he accepted his companion's help, then pulled away to tug at his clothing and run his hand through his hair. His hand paused at his temple, and he traced the clear smooth skin with trembling fingertips. The smooth surface was unbroken, unmarred. He pulled his hand down and stared at his fingers for a moment, then a firm grasp on his elbow pulled him forward towards the street.

OOOOOO

Methos leaned back against the fake-leather backing of the booth, and warily studied the man seated across from him. Exhaustion and shock had left their toll, bruises marring the red-rimmed blue eyes.

The short fair hair was disheveled, the mouth tight and thin. The expression was closed, the focus drawn solely towards the amber liquid in his glass. Mike, as Methos had discovered his name to be, had taken in the necessary explanations with barely a response. But it would come, soon enough, the ancient immortal knew.

"Who are you?" Mike didn't lift his eyes as he asked the question. Only on Methos' first, hesitant syllable did he bring his gaze upward.

"I...my name for the present is Adam Pierson. But my true name...the first one I remember..." This was not an easy decision to make. He had become more accustomed to the use of his real name since MacLeod had entered his life, but he was still acutely aware of the danger of being discovered by head-hunting younger immortals. And he was always attuned to secrecy as a way of life. Yet, if this American was to become his student, then he deserved the truth. The teacher-student bond was a vital one in an immortal's life, and Methos could not bring himself to begin it with a lie.

He paused, then finished softly, not betraying the internal struggle as he spoke.

"My name is Methos."

"Methos?" Mike repeated, a faint edge of curiosity beginning to eke from him. The bloody sapphire eyes focused more intently. "That sounds like something out of Ancient Greece."

Methos chuckled, relaxing slightly as they fell on familiar ground.

"Well, I definitely was there, but no, I'm a bit older than that."

"Older than...?" Another spark fired in Mike's expression. He leaned across the table separating them. "How old are you?"

Methos shrugged.

"A few thousand years, I think."

"A few what?" Mike replied incredulously.

Methos couldn't help a sly grin.

"About five thousand or so. I'm afraid my memory gets a bit shaky before that."

Mike took a quick slug of his drink, attempting to absorb that piece of data. He dropped it back, mostly empty, to the table, then eyed Methos with disbelief.

"Right."

"Yes," Methos said with total unconcern. That more than anything else seemed to strike the younger man.

Really?"

"Truly, absolutely."

"Unbelievable." Mike shook his head as though trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "And you say that I'm like you...that I could..."

"Live forever. Or at least as long as you can manage to keep yourself alive," Methos confirmed.

"I'll always wake up after I die, like tonight?"

"Yes."

Mike was silent again, digesting the idea, then abruptly he tossed his head back and started laughing. Though the mirth was genuine to begin with, it soon flew into open hysteria.

"OK, that's enough for tonight," Methos decided firmly. Sliding out of his seat with characteristic grace, he took hold of Mike's arm, again. "Come on. You need some sleep. Where do you live?"

Mike's hysteria choked off almost with a sob. He drained the dregs of his beer, then stumbled to his feet beside his elder companion.

"My boat. Down at the marina."

"Boat?" The elder man exclaimed. Then he sighed dramatically, as urged Mike towards the door. "What is it with living on boats these days? What's wrong with a perfectly good, dry, unmoving house?"

OOOOOO

Mike woke to the comfortable, familiar sway of his own bed. Sinking drowsily into the mattress, he drew the covers up to his chin and lazily remembered the utterly bizarre dream of the previous night. God, he must have been completely smashed, though he really didn't feel hungover. Still - what an odd dream...

"I couldn't find any decent tea, so I made some coffee instead."

Mike bolted upward in his bunk. An oddly familiar stranger was standing over him, shoulders slumped to keep his head from striking the low ceiling. A thick shock of dark hair surrounded a sharply angular face, a pair of dimples creasing one side of the mobile mouth. He was tall, painfully slender, dressed in a dark T-shirt and blue jeans. The expression on his face was one of restrained amusement, mixed with pointed intelligence. Both of his hands held steaming mugs, the long fingers curled around the handles.

"What?" Mike groaned.

"Coffee," came the equable reply, the exotic lilt of his accent coloring even the two simple syllables. "Here..." He held one out, and Mike automatically reached for it. It felt real in his grip, the heat permeating his fingers through the painted ceramic. His fingers brushed the other man's..."Methos" supplied his memory...and the jolt brought him fully awake. Still, he waited until he'd had a couple of good swallows of the thick, unsweetened brew, before responding.

"It really happened." His inflection rose into a question, then dove into a statement. That brought out a deeper look of amusement from Methos.

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"My God..." Mike said, as the details fell into place. "I'm...you're..."

"Immortal," Methos completed for him. "Better get used to it, since it's not going away."

Mike grimaced. "This doesn't make any sense."

That won a chuckle from the foreigner.

"Very little in this world does, in my experience."

And that was a lot of experience, if Mike's memories held any truth. He sat silently for a moment, reviewing what little he could recall from the fragmentary explanation of the previous night. Part of him was screaming to deny this, all of it...but another part knew it was the truth. He knew there was no way he could have survived shooting himself in the head, at least not without a long hospital stay. And here he was, totally well and unharmed. So it was the truth, and yet, a lot seemed to be missing from the explanations.

"I have a feeling that there's a lot you haven't told me," he replied.

Methos' eyes sparkled, and the corner of his mouth quirked.

"Bright boy," he said warmly. Moving away from Mike's bed, he looked back over his shoulder. "Take a shower and get dressed. We've got a long morning ahead of us."

OOOOOO

By the time they had finished their discussion, punctuated by a couple of rather painful experiments with a sharp knife, Methos felt as though the youngster had absorbed most of what he needed to know. Most - but certainly not all. Understanding the existence of the Game was a far cry from being ready to fight in it, and sword-fighting lessons were high on his list of immediate chores. But the boy needed time to adjust to the extraordinary changes in his life, and for the moment, Methos could protect him.

Mike was staring intently at a previously poked fingertip, rubbing at the drying blood that coated the utterly healed skin, his expression taut, focused, yet somewhat bemused. Well, that shock would fade in time. In the meantime, there were preparations to be made. First and foremost, they needed a good, solid sword. Unfortunately those weren't as easily available as they used to be, and Methos could only think of one truly reliable source. He sighed, then studied his so quickly assumed burden.

"Why don't you see about finding us some lunch? I've got a phone call to make." Even as he was digging the cell phone out of his overcoat as it draped over the back of his chair, Methos caught the quick, dazed blue glance as it moved in his direction. But Mike merely nodded, and got to his feet, turning towards the already-in-reach fridge.

Methos, meantime, studied his phone warily. The Highlander had been in a strange mood lately, and he was far too likely to take this piece of news with great amusement. Methos did not like being the source of hilarity for anyone, even the man who could, sort of, be called his best friend. Ah well, nothing for it but to make the call.

Even at such a distance, MacLeod's voice was characteristically direct and forceful as he answered.

"MacLeod."

"Rescued any damsels in distress lately?" Methos questioned acidly.

"Methos," came the identifying, breathy reply. "Where are you?"

"On yet another boat. What is it with living on these things?"

The other immortal laughed, then returned to his previous concern with typical stubbornness, ignoring his elder's complaint.

"And where is said boat?"

"A rather charming, if damp, American city named Baltimore."

"Baltimore? What are you doing there?"

"Taking on a student, apparently." Methos dropped his bombshell with casual unconcern, then waited patiently for the explosion.

"Taking on a what?" MacLeod didn't disappoint him. Methos grinned into the receiver. He could never resist a chance to assume the lecture tone with the Highlander.

"A student...you know, a baby immortal who needs basic lessons in how to handle a sword, how to avoid getting his head chopped off, and how to find the nearest church on a moment's notice. Rather..." Methos instantly swallowed the next sentence, memory rising thickly, heavily, choking off the barb before it began. Richie Ryan was no longer a fair subject for teasing. Not anymore, not ever again. So instead he took a deep breath and changed tacks.

"A bit of a nuisance, but this one shows promise." Even as he said that, his eyes lifted to Mike's nearby figure, studying him with long, long years of experience. Yes, the boy had potential, but... There was still the open question of why this obviously personable and intelligent man had put a bullet through his brain. They hadn't addressed the subject yet - but they would. Soon.

MacLeod was already chuckling, filling his ear with deep, chocolate-rich mirth.

"So Mr. 'don't get involved' has gotten involved. Hmmm."

"Don't let it go to your head, Highlander. I was just a bit bored, and besides, someone has to do it. I was there when he died, so..." His shrug was eloquent even over an international phone call.

Mac was still greatly amused, however, and it showed in his voice.

"So how can I help, old man?"

"He needs a sword. Preferably a good, solid broadsword. Roman design if you can find it."

"Sure you don't want anything more modern?" Mac teased.

Methos sighed dramatically.

"Whatever you can lay your hands on quickly, please. I don't want to waste time trying to track down a bloody sword." A touch of annoyance showed there, and MacLeod responded quickly.

"Yes, you're right. Actually, the timing is pretty good. There's an auction this morning that includes a very nice blade. Somewhat of the Spanish style, but made of solid wrought iron. I hope your student has some upper body strength. This thing weighs a bit."

That, at least, wasn't going to be a big problem. This boy obviously had indulged in the modern fascination with weight-lifting. His arms and shoulders looked muscular and solid. Thank goodness, he hadn't picked up a young woman or a scholarly clerk sort. Methos had once tried to train one young man who had never picked up anything heavier than a stylus... It taken months before he could wield the sword for any length of time without exhaustion and pulled muscles.

"That's fine," he replied. "The sooner you can ship it..."

"What's the address," Mac questioned, and with Mike's help, that particular problem was quickly dealt with. But while they waited for Federal Express to do its job, there was another little difficulty to cope with. That one would be better served over lunch.

OOOOOO

"So we do need to eat?" Mike questioned, even as he dug into the lunch he'd quickly tossed together.

His strange, often acerbic, but definitely charming new friend smiled warmly, twin dimples creasing his cheeks.

"Absolutely. Preferably on a regular basis. Dying of starvation is not something I'd recommend." His slender frame shuddered, but Mike found the inevitable question drying up on his lips as those fiercely acute green eyes settled firmly on him. "We can 'die' by any means that a mortal can die, except for old age and disease. We simply don't get sick, and we don't age. But anything else, starvation, thirst, stabbing, car accident, fall -- 'gunshot' -- will do the trick. The difference is that we wake up afterwards."

The emphasis on 'gunshot' was not lost on Mike, and the food he was swallowing sank heavily in his belly. He knew what was coming next, and fear sparked across his veins. These revelations had been startling enough to make him forget, briefly, how he had died and why, but now the memories rushed over him, thick with rage and shame.

However, Methos' voice was gentle when he asked the inevitable question, and there was a world of patient understanding in that ancient, youthful countenance. Somehow Mike found the words, and once he started speaking, they tumbled from his throat in rapid-fire succession.

OOOOOO

Methos could feel little but relief as Mike's story broke free. The boy looked terribly upset, but his confession was far less serious than the older immortal had been expecting. It was difficult to avoid answering with "that's all?" when Mike finished, but Methos was far more capable of holding his tongue than MacLeod would ever have guessed. Instead, he nodded sagely, and sought his words with caution.

"I know that losing your job, and your friends hurts." He paused, then fixed the youngster with a hard stare, trying to emphasize his words. "Unfortunately, that is something that you're going to have to learn to live with. Life as an immortal is a constant shifting of identities, relationships, and lives. However painful this seems right now, it will fade with time." That last was a both a lie and a truth. Yes, memories did fade...but the truly important ones, the lost loved-ones, the hurts, the joys, but oh-so-especially the mistakes -- those stayed. Those haunted you forever. But the boy didn't need to know that now.

"And you have time," he continued. "It will be difficult at first, for every new immortal must abandon his mortal life and all that it contains when he becomes immortal. You will never age again, but those you know in this time will. They will grow old and die, and you must move on. It never gets easy, but it does become...familiar."

Mike simply looked confused. This was not the response he'd expected. That actually pleased Methos, for it meant that the shame and hurt that had led to the suicide attempt was already giving way to the exigencies of life-at-the-moment. Best to keep him focused on staying alive now -- the rest would come with experience and time. So Methos simply smiled, and leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands before him on the table.

"You think I ought to be shocked, or disapproving, or upset. Right?"

Now Mike looked even more lost. His wide blue eyes were vivid against the pale skin of his face. He blinked at Methos, not responding verbally, and the immortal couldn't help chuckling.

"Do you think I haven't done as bad, or worse, over the past five thousand years?" That brought out a flash of attention from Mike. He leaned forward, and fixed Methos with a sharp, suddenly intelligent stare. Ahhh, Methos thought, there's the detective at last. He leaned forward as he continued.

"Do you have the slightest idea of what it takes to survive as long as I have? How many people I've killed? How many friends and lovers I've lost over the centuries? We all do the wrong thing sometimes; it's called being human. You screwed up, OK. Live with it! You will kill again, to survive. It's rarely pleasant, and you're better off hating having to do it, but you'll learn to accept it. Believe me, it could have been far, far worse. From what you've told me, this Luther Mahoney character is hardly going to be missed." Methos shrugged exaggeratedly. "One less sick bastard in this world -- looks like you did humanity a favor."

Mike suddenly broke into laughter. It was sharp-edged, high with the touch of hysteria, but Methos let him fly with it. He laughed until tears ran down his face, his body trembling. Methos watched as it slowed off, subsided into a soft choking sob, and then settled into silence. Both men remained quiet for a while, Mike's eyes fixed on the remnants of his lunch. Then, at least he spoke, his voice rough.

"I feel like such an idiot. To try to kill myself...."

"No, you did kill yourself. Don't forget that." Methos interrupted.

Abruptly Mike smiled.

"Another lesson?" he asked.

Methos grinned in response.

"Absolutely. And we're barely getting started."

OOOOO

Those words couldn't have been truer. Mike learned that lesson the hard way. The sword was a dull ache at the edge of his arms, pulling them down with the inexorable forces of gravity and exhaustion. But his teacher seemed oblivious, the old man moved with a sure and certain grace, sudden bursts of energy flashing through his natural grace, intermittent and deadly.

The blades sung in conflict, clash, clang, strike, and yield. Mike was thrown backwards and he fought to lift the heavy sword, rage surging through his veins. Damned if he'd take yet another death -- despite the perfect healing, it simply hurt to get stabbed through the chest. And Methos never spared him an inch. 'No, not again, not..." he muttered through his harsh breath as he broke to the attack, swinging wildly, desperately, only to find his opponent dancing away, smoothly, easily.

"Control your anger!" Methos demanded. "Use it, don't let it use you!"

"I'm trying!" Mike grated out through clenched teeth.

"Try harder!" came the inevitable response.

'Son of a bitch,' Mike swore silently, as the battle shifted again, and he found himself pushed back towards the edge of the wharf. Legs straining, he threw himself to the side, and rolled over his sword, this time, finally, managing not to spear himself on the sharp instrument in his hands. He'd been dumped in the drink once already that evening, and he was not about to let that happen again.

"Good! On your feet now!" Methos commended the move. Mike groaned, but followed, biceps screaming as he hefted the blade up - up - over his head, around and down...

Methos leaped back, his own sword swinging in instant, counterbalance, coming down, around, up. Both men's bodies tensed in preparation for the contact; both sets of feet braced against solid ground...

And one found it not so solid.

Without time to even take a breath, much less shout with shock, Methos tumbled backwards as his feet suddenly slid out from underneath him. The offending piece of trash went flying the opposite direction, bouncing off the edge of the walkway and falling into the harbor. Still moving, automatically following through with the drilled stroke of attack, Mike, too, was thrown off-balance as his sword sliced through empty air instead of colliding with the weight of Methos' own sword. He stumbled, but caught himself, turning - eyes wide - to find Methos splayed out at his feet.

The reaction was instant. The barely checked temper flared. Days of being on the sharp edge of the elder man's biting tongue and well-aimed blade swelled up inside Mike's throat, his rage rising, fiery, immediate. Without a thought, riding the wave of fury, he flipped his arm around, the heavy metal dragging on the air itself, then thrusting downward, a sudden blast of gravity pulling it home.

Right through Methos' chest.

OOOOOO

Air flooded into his lungs, nearly choking him on the richness of it. Methos gasped aloud, clutching at his diaphragm as he felt the long-familiar rush of life returning. Electricity tingled along every nerve in his body as his eyes flew open and his body convulsed.

Alive. He was alive.

Taking a few deep breaths, he quickly took in his surroundings. The few trickles of light from the street lamps did little to break the deepening gloom of early night. A faint gleam on the horizon was all that remained of the setting sun, and the damp chill of the air reflected that loss. The ocean rumbled nearby, and the wooden surface on which he lay stank of fish and sand and sweat.

Memory was soon to follow, and he let him lead it to the man kneeling by his side. Mike's face was hidden in the night, but the tenseness of his body communicated itself clearly. His hands were clenched in his lap; his sword lying abandoned by his side. Groaning as he sat up, Methos favored him with a sharp command.

"Don't leave your sword laying around like that. Pick it up - it needs to be cleaned. Care for your sword first, everything else later."

"Wha...But I..." Mike's hands were obeying his mentor's command, even as he argued aloud. His voice was hoarse, uncertain, unsteady. "I killed you!" he finally cried out, anguish tearing through the sound.

Having already recovered his own sword, and found his feet with the sureness of practice, Methos sighed to himself and reached out to place a steadying hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Yes you did," he replied calmly. "And it's about time."

That shook Mike; he turned and gaped upward at the dark figure standing over him.

"But...but..."

Methos chuckled wryly, rubbing at his breastbone.

"Well, I can't say that I enjoy being stabbed through the heart, but it was a good stroke. Clean, neat, and relatively quick. Not too bad, kid."

"But..." Mike had managed to get to his feet. Methos grinned at the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of shock, and wrapped a long arm around his protege's shoulder.

"But nothing. You did exactly what you should have done."

The calm reassurance did seem to help, and Mike fell into step with Methos as he guided them back towards the moored boat.

"But you fell!" Mike finally protested. "I took advantage of it. I'm sorry - I was just pissed off because I'm always losing, and you always kill me."

Methos laughed outright at that, his fingers squeezing on Mike's shoulder in silent accompaniment.

"Damn right I do. And I'll keep on doing so. Death is something you're going to have to get used to. Sometimes it's the only way out if you're in trouble. Mortals tend to forget about someone they think is dead. It's useful."

"You're not mad that I stabbed you?" Mike was still stuck on that, his voice taut with anxiety.

Methos stopped in his tracks, and moved to face the younger man. Looking him straight in the face, he spoke slowly, carefully enunciating each word.

"No, I am not mad. You did exactly what I want you to do. Listen to me, Michael. When you are fighting another immortal in the game, you are fighting for your life. If fate throws you an advantage - take it."

Mike was indeed listening, his entire body tensed with the pureness of his attention. Every fiber of his being was focused on the sound of Methos' voice. The elder sensed this, and pressed his lesson home.

"If you can avoid the fight, do so. Run, hide, maneuver, get the hell out of Dodge. But if you can not avoid the battle, then fight to win. Finish it. Do not hesitate. Kill your opponent, take his head, get it done. Or you will lose - and you will die. Do you understand?"

Mike was silent for a moment, then he nodded.

"Yes." He swallowed visibly, then met his teacher's fierce gaze steadily. "Yes, I understand."

"Good," Methos sighed, finally allowing himself to relax. Lessons done for the night, he turned back towards the waiting boat.

"Let's clean these swords, then have a beer. Better yet, let's have two beers."

OOOOOO

Methos took the time to take a few good swallows of the foamy beer before shrugging the torn, bloody T-shirt off his shoulders. Mike studied him over the top of his own beer, still shaken by the events of the evening. He'd killed him - without hesitation he'd driven a sword directly through this man's chest. The time with Mahoney -- it was all blurred in his memory now. It had been such a quick and rapid decision, and his mind had thrown layers of confusion over the actual events, trying to rationalize, protect, hide it. But this -- he couldn't hide from it. And the fact that his victim was up, walking around, totally healthy, not a mark on the slender, but muscular length of his torso, only made it all the more -- the more -- strange. Mike had killed him, and Methos actually seemed proud of him for doing it. The reason did make sense, in a Methos-kind of way. But still...

"Relax," the rich lilting voice sounded in his ear, and Mike looked around to find the object of his consideration staring back at him. Mike took a deep breath, then a long swallow of his beer, and tried to follow the gentle instruction. He slumped in the chair, his confused mind finally settling on the fact that if his merciless instructor felt he had done right, then he must have done so. That made it all seem easier; he sighed and took another drink. And looked up to find those old, knowing eyes fixed on him again.

"Better!" The voice was approving now. One side of the ancient's face was creased with a pair of characteristic dimples. "Get used to this. Death is a part of life, even for us. You've got to get accustomed to dying - which is why I will kill you as often as I can - and to dealing death yourself. You can not hesitate to take another immortal's head in combat; or you will lose your own. And that you will not wake up from."

"I know!" Mike insisted, a touch of his temper rising at the constant repeat of the lessons.

"Good. But it has to be instinctive, not intellectual. Which will come with time." Methos replied dryly. He was sprawled out on the couch now, long limbs stretched out, feet dangling off the end. He looked totally at ease, and Mike shifted in his chair, unconsciously trying to mimic that ease.

"Were you telling me the truth when you said you were thousands of years old?" Mike finally asked. The question had been dogging him for a while. He was, simply put, damned curious about his teacher.

Methos smiled wryly.

"Yes."

The single syllable answer was frustrating. All of Mike's detective's instincts were swimming to the forefront. The ironic, slightly amused look in the old man's expression seemed to indicate that he was expecting the questions that would follow. But Mike indulged them anyway.

"Were you...I mean, did you..."

Methos shook his head.

"Nope, sorry, I was freezing my ass off in Albion at the time. Believe me, if I could've been in nice, warm Jerusalem instead, I would've been. But I..." he grinned brightly in remembrance, "Let's say I had a couple of good reasons to get out of Rome, and a garrison was leaving for the north at the necessary moment, so..."

"How did you know what I was going to ask?"

Methos shrugged eloquently.

"It's the first question everyone asks. And the answer to the second is that, no, he wasn't an immortal."

"But how did you know?" Mike had the uncomfortable feeling that he was starting to stutter -- and that he'd lost all control of the conversation. But Methos was blithely continuing on.

"A couple of years before I left for the frozen tundra, I heard the man speak in a small village outside Galilee. We were there to make sure no riot broke out...." his expression turned pensive, "I've got say he was a persuasive speaker. Held the crowd in the palm of his very filthy hand. And it was hardly that unusual of a message. Well, a little different, since most of the itinerant preachers were calling on the Jews to rise up and so forth, but still..." The ancient shrugged again. "It didn't seem like anything earth shattering. Who would have guessed?"

"Did you talk to him?" Mike was fascinated now, every nerve in his body alert. This was incredible. Methos had truly been there! "What was he like?"

Methos chuckled, then took a dramatic swallow of his beer before answering.

"Not really, except to warn him to move along. And as for what he was like -- quite frankly, he could have used a bath." His big nose wrinkled dramatically and Mike lost it.

In between gusts of Mike's laughter, Methos continued dryly. "I never did understand why the rest of the world was so slow to adopt the Roman's quite wonderful preoccupation with taking hot baths. In the relative scheme of things, it is one of the great advances of all times. Indoor toilets are about the only thing that outrank it."

Mike began to argue the point, but he truly couldn't. The expression on Methos' was simply too much. The other man was obviously serious about his statements, but the sharp hazel-green eyes were sparkling with a communicative amusement. So Mike gave up and enjoyed the moment.

"Baths, huh?"

Methos nodded solemnly.

"You try going a couple of centuries...a millennium...without one."

That sobered Mike up - a bit.

"No thanks!" he replied fervently.

Methos raised his glass in agreement.

"Amen."

They drank to great human invention of the hot bath, then settled back into a comfortable silence. For the first time since this had begun, for the first time in long over a year, Mike felt utterly relaxed. His life had turned from a tragedy into a science-fiction story, and yet...

He really liked his new friend and mentor.

Still, there were more questions he wanted to ask. And the old man did seem to be in talkative mood. So...

"You said that you've made mistakes over the years. Like what?" he questioned. He'd wanted to ask this since they'd had that conversation about Mike's own troubles. He needed to know for sure that the other man truly understood.

Methos' eyes darkened, and his mouth tightened. His angular features turned to stone. He froze in position. The atmosphere abruptly darkened.

Mike sat up sharply, and desperately reached to recover the easy warmth that had fled.

"Only if you want to...you don't have to tell me anything. I'm sorry...I just..."

Methos shook himself like a wet cat, then sighed and shifted into a properly seated position. His beer was abandoned on the coffee table, and his large, finely boned hands were curled up into his lap.

"No. You have a right to know."

"No, I don't." Mike denied. "You don't have to tell me anything."

Methos disagreed grimly. "It may come up later; so you'd better know now."

"What is it?" Mike was truly worried now. His mind was flying, trying to figure out what could be so horrible.

Methos grinned without amusement, his eyes now a clear, coal black.

"Have you read your Bible?"

The apparent nonsequitor surprised Mike, and he simply nodded his head.

"Yeah..." Then his mouth opened as he asked, "Wait - you're in the Bible?"

"Yes. Oh yes, indeed. Unfortunately."

"But where...I don't..."

"Remember Revelations?"

"Yes, but most of that is prophecy or myth, not history."

Methos was frowning now.

"Most of it is based on truth, if more than a little slanted. A bit out of context, a lot of rumor, and out of chronological order, but most 'myth' is based on some level of fact."

"I still don't get how you're involved with Revelations."

Methos froze for a moment, then took a deep breath and plunged ahead. His face held the expression of someone forced to drink something truly revolting.

"Remember the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

"Yes, but they were..."

"They were four immortals on horseback."

"But..." Mike was doing it again, repeating himself. He stopped and tried to focus. Four immortals...Four immortals!

"You mean that they really were four immortals."

Methos grinned abruptly. The smile fled quickly, but it held a hint of approval.

"Yes. We had the advantage of being around for several hundred years, and we couldn't get killed. So reality turned to legend..."

"So there were four of you - immortals - but what did you do to make people think you were the apocalypse?"

Methos' expression was closed now, as hard and determined as Mike had ever seen it, even in the midst of sword-fighting.

"We raided villages and caravans. Murdered most of the people, men women and children, took the rest as slaves."

Mike swallowed hard, trying to absorb this information. It simply didn't gibe with what he knew of his teacher. "So you were like..." and suddenly it hit, "...like pirates."

Methos barked a short, bitter laugh.

"Yes, you could say that. Pirates on land, who lived a very, very long time."

"And so people made stories about you that ended up in the Four Horsemen in the Bible."

"Yes." Methos' reply was uncompromising.

"But why did you do that?" Mike was struggling for understanding. He was shocked, but it still seemed so distant. As a Homicide detective he'd seen some destruction and horror visited by city gangs and drug cartels, random, senseless violence, and yet... he hadn't expected anything from his quiet, gentle if extremely firm and determined new friend. Methos had been relentless in instruction, but otherwise had shown an extremely scholarly and intellectual bent.

Methos seemed to take the question seriously. He paused, and appeared to be choosing his words carefully.

"This was about three thousand years ago. The world was a very different place. I'd recently lost a woman, and a home - a life I had loved very much. It seemed like everything that was familiar to me had been buried by the weight of time. I was adrift, and took to wandering...stealing what I needed, when I needed it. No connection to anything or anyone until I met Kronos. He was a very young immortal, and very much a symbol of his time and place. A total barbarian. Oh, very bright, and charismatic. A natural leader. But unskilled, inexperienced, and rather brutal. His gang of mortals captured me and he immediately knew I was like him. In order to save my head, I managed to convince him I could be of more help to him alive. I started planning his raids, and I was very, very good at strategy. It was like a mental chess game, and Kronos' approval came to mean everything to me. It was the first time I'd had another immortal as a companion, and I was desperate to hold onto him. For once, I had a relationship that wouldn't end with me watching the other person grow old and die. And killing is addictive. We could take whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted without hesitation. The power of that is worse than any drug you could imagine." He paused and shivered before continuing, "In time, we picked up two more immortals, and we were very good at what we did. It was a way of life for many people back then, but after - oh, six or seven hundred years, the world started changing around us. And I... Well, as addictive as the lifestyle was, I grew tired of it and... Well, that's a story for another time. We broke up."

"I can't even begin to imagine what that must have been like," Mike tentatively, struggling with the shock of these revelations. He still couldn't connect the man he knew with the specter of the Horsemen. And above all else, he desperately didn't want to endanger this relationship. He needed Methos, and more than that, he truly liked and admired the man. "Three thousand years ago," he added softly. "Just the concept of being alive for that long is amazing. I have no idea what it must have been like for you back then. As for what you did...I don't know. It doesn't seem real. You're not like that now." Mike stumbled to a halt, his eyes wide with surprise and uncertainty. He wanted to understand, but it was difficult. Yet, he was hardly in a position to throw stones. The pain of his own fall from grace was too close, too vivid in his mind and emotions. However, it seemed that he had managed to say the right thing. Methos settled back into the couch, his body relaxing as he spoke in response.

"The world changes and you change with it - if you want to survive. And you'll gain better understanding with time if you manage to keep your head attached to your shoulders. Unfortunately, the mistakes we make stay with us forever. The best you can hope for is to learn from them -- and not repeat them." He chuckled dryly. "I figure we're due for creating one major disaster about once a century...though I managed to do about twenty centuries worth in that 7 seven centuries with the Horseman."

"Yeah, I guess so," Mike agreed. "Do you think I'll live for that long? God, I can't even imagine it! It's incomprehensible. Hell, knowing me, I'll probably fuck up even worse than you did."

Methos laughed. For the first time in what seemed ages, it was a real laugh. Twin dimples creased his cheeks.

"I certainly hope not. But it happens. We may be immortal, but we're still human. If you stay alive, well...The first century is a milestone, as is the first millennium. Your image of the world, of yourself, changes in ways I can't begin to describe. But a lot of immortals have trouble accepting the changes that go on around them. Most hold fast to the way things were when they were mortal. The key to survival is to learn how to adapt. To change with the world around you. The balance between remaining connected to the mortal world, yet maintaining a perspective beyond it -- it's not easy."

"No. I can see that. I think..."

Whatever Methos was going to reply to that was lost in the abrupt shrill sound of the telephone. They both jerked in their seats, simultaneously shocked by the sudden intrusion. Yet it helped, they shared a quick glance of mutual amusement, then Mike reached for the offending instrument.

This time it was Mike's past that reared its ugly head.

OOOOOO

Methos leaned back into the leather seat, watching out of the corner of his eye as Mike maneuvered the car through the close, claustrophobic streets. Mike had protested Methos' presence, but only perfunctorily; it was clear that the young man was inwardly grateful for the company. That was good, but almost certainly beside the point. Methos wasn't going to let his new student out and about without him, not now, not yet. The boy showed promise with the sword, but his training had barely begun. He'd be no match for any stray immortal he might run into, and if that weren't problem enough - Methos was still uncertain of Mike's emotional stability.

Hell, Methos wasn't sure of his own mental stability.

All he knew was that he would not let Mike walk back into the mess that had caused him to attempt suicide without being there himself.

And if that wasn't enough to keep his mind fully occupied, concerned, actively plotting and aware, there was still the circulating uncertainty, fear, and anguish over having just dropped the worst nightmare of his life on Mike's unsuspecting head.

Speaking those words - explaining the Four Horsemen, if such a thing was possible - had been one of the hardest things he'd done in a long, long time. Only the previous confrontation with Kronos and company had been worse. And perhaps that was the point. Not again. There was too much in his past to ever attempt to warn anyone about it all, but this at least, this, he could prepare Mike for if it ever fell on their heads again. Cassandra was still out there, as was MacLeod, and there was no way that Mike wouldn't find out. If he survived long enough, that was...

And that, always and inevitably, was the question. Would the boy survive? He would if Methos had anything to say about it. Unfortunately, he might not get the chance to say much at all.

Mike was parking the car now, shutting off the engine without a word. Methos followed his eyes up to the large brick building looming over their heads. Methos turned towards his student and spoke calmly.

"Take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then let's go. Get it done, then you can put this all behind you."

"Right," Mike's response was hardly firm, doubt clearly etched in every line of his face. But he followed direction - in that, at least, Methos was making progress.

So, silently, together, they exited the car and hurried up the steps.

OOOOOO

The squadroom was just as he remembered it. Busy, hectic, voices chiming and phones ringing, cabinets slamming. Mike stopped just inside the doorway, checking his motion towards his desk. It wasn't his desk anymore. The surface was shiny clean, empty, except for a small overflow of debris -- sandwich wrappings and coffee mugs. The chair was missing, stolen, symbolic of everything of his life had lost. His life, both ended and endless at once. He paused, nearly choking on the overflow of emotion. Rage. And Pain. Constant companions that he suddenly realized had been absent for the past two weeks -- absent, but not far away.

Never far away.

And then the others saw him. Heads raised, eyes focused, conversation dimmed. Voices that had been raised before, dove into whispers. Whispers that Mike could still hear whenever his eyes closed. Meldrick was getting to his feet, his face a study in conflict. Mike took a step forward, a mental vise closing down on his heart, stilling the beat of his pulse as he braced himself. But it was Falsone he came face-to-face with. Falsone's voice which broke the sudden stillness.

"What are you doing here?" the Italian detective asked, his voice cold, dismissive. Mike's diaphragm squeezed in his belly, his lungs forcing air outwards. Anger rose, fiery and hot. His hands clenched into fists at his side. Only the barest control held them back.

"Gee called me in," he replied, invoking a 'higher authority.' A small part of his mind was surprised at how calm he sounded. His voice floated away from him. It didn't even sound like it belonged to him. His mind felt like it was floating, as though he was watching himself from above. Time seemed to stand still, yet move inexorably, yanking him along on a relentless tide. What would happen now, would happen. His bridges were already burnt to a crisp.

Falsone stepped closer, his voice dipping into a stage whisper.

"Maybe he's finally decided to press charges. About time."

Mike's fists clenched as he leaned back. His muscles tensed, itched, he balanced forward, already applying the recent training. He didn't need a sword for this, all he needed was one clean swing...

But before he could move, a hand closed on his arm. A presence inserted itself between him and Falsone. A shoulder shifted before his eyes, a few black tendrils of hair curling over the collar of a trenchcoat. Methos. Mike had forgotten the other man; Methos had not forgotten anything.

The now familiar, cultured voice was colder than Mike had ever heard. It cut through the room like a winter wind. Frosty, elegant, the exotic accent was as sharp as an icicle.

"Stand aside." Two simple words. Falsone reared back as though he had been slapped, then shifted forward again, veins pulsing in his temples.

"Who are you?"

"None of your business. And neither is Michael. So stand aside. Now." The last word was spoken at a near whisper, but it had its effect. Falsone moved back, one step, then two and then three, drifting like a man who doesn't quite know that he's been pushed.

Mike stepped forward past Methos, then turned to glance back at the immortal. The emerald eyes were piercing sharp, intense in a face that had lost all of its human quirks. The nose didn't seem too big now, and the cheekbones stood out like raw bruises above a mouth that was pursed thin. A jolt in the pit of Mike's stomach reminded him of their recent conversation. He had been unable to place it in the perspective of the man he thought he'd come to know. But here was the living echo of the man once called "Death." No wonder Falsone had backed off -- Mike himself felt his feet shift backwards.

Then Methos' gaze flickered to him, and his expression softened, flowed into something more familiar and far less menacing. He tilted his head to the side and gestured for Mike to go. Mike glanced towards Gee's office then look back at the old man. Methos quirked the side of his mouth, and faintly shrugged his shoulders. The "go" was still silent, but Mike read it easily. He nodded and turned away, but got no more than a foot away when the fiery Lieutenant stuck his head out of his office, sighted Mike and bellowed his name.

"Kellerman. In here now!"

The familiarity of that struck Mike's funny bone. He had to stifle a laugh as he broke into a jog. He gave Methos a darting glance before closing the door behind him, but he had little worry for his teacher. Methos could handle anything the others might throw at him, and as to whether they could handle him...Mike's only sorrow was that he'd have to miss the show. Bracing himself to face whatever Gee at to throw at him, he spared just enough rough bitterness to hope that the Horseman would give Falsone, and a few of the others, a very bad case of indigestion.

OOOOOO

Methos favored the belligerent detective with one last quelling glare, then slid past him. He knew the power of that look; he'd spend many a century developing it. Mortal fool. Methos snorted at his own anger. Mike could have handled this one. All bluster and no follow through. At least not in terms that Methos could respect. As for the others...

Methos took one of the least uncomfortable-appearing chairs he could find and settled into it with a dramatic sigh. Leaning back, he stretched out a long, denim-clad leg and looked up around him with his most innocent expression.

"I don't suppose you've got any beer around here?"

"What?" That was a young man with a moustache and coffee-colored skin. The immortal quickly matched appearance with description. He had to be Mike's lost partner. Lewis...that was his name, Lewis. Methos turned and gave him a patient look.

"I asked if you had any beer around here," he replied.

"Not in here, though there's an excellent bar across the street," replied another man. This one was tall, thin, with dark hair and glasses. Handsome in a funeral-attendant sort of way. His eyes were filled with bright curiosity and Methos' spirits suddenly rose. He liked a challenge, and this man reeked of intelligence.

"Sounds good, do they deliver?" he asked.

The man grinned, coming over to sit on the desk closest to Methos.

"Afraid not. I'm Munch, by the way. John Munch."

"Adam Pierson," Methos replied, taking the offered hand. The handshake was quick and solid, and he suffered the appraising stare with calm amusement. Munch echoed that reaction, cocking his head to the side. The rest of the squad was clustering around them, though the Italian detective was keeping his distance.

"Known Mike long?" Munch asked pointedly.

Methos shrugged. "For a while."

That didn't satisfy Munch in the least. He gave Methos another piercing look.

"Where are you from? You sound English."

Methos smiled, spread out his hands.

"I've lived there. I travel a lot." He offered a quick closed smile. "Spent most of the last decade in Paris, though."

"Paris?" That was Lewis, his face contorted as though through a badly made glass. Methos turned to him and nodded.

"Paris," he repeated. "A bit of a nuisance, really, but the university is quite good, as is the food."

"How did you meet Mike?" This was Munch again. Methos turned back to him, then inclined his head at the dark-haired woman sitting to his right. Her left foot was stuck out at an angle, the ankle wrapped in a plaster cast. Dark eyes lingered on his, her chin lifting in response to his attention. He smiled softly, then answered the waiting question.

"Ran into him one day..." Methos sank down deeper into his chair, carefully exuding a total lack of concern. "Except for his rather bad taste in living accommodations, he's a good kid."

"Good kid?" the dark Italian snorted. Methos' eyes narrowed as they all turned in his direction. "Mike's pure trouble. He's a loose cannon -- dangerous."

The tension in the room rose sharply again. Lewis seemed to draw inward on himself while Munch glowed. His curiosity was sparked...his eyes lit up behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. He was ready and willing to watch the scene play out. But Methos was ready to handle this. One young mortal was child's play for the ancient immortal.

He let his voice deepen, soften, so that they all had to pay attention to hear him. His eyelids drooped, while he managed to sink even further into creaky chair, melding his bones to its shape.

"I doubt you truly know what 'dangerous' means, boy," Methos purred.

The raven-haired woman drew in a deep breath, while the Italian bristled. Pushing past Munch, he stood over Methos, glaring down at him.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"What do you think it means?" Methos replied lazily. He shifted and rose to his feet in one rapid, fluid motion. It caught the detective by surprise and forced him to shuffle back a step. Methos gave him a quick study -- eyes traveling up and down -- and then moved away. Dismissive. Turning to the woman, he gestured at her injured appendage.

"What happened?"

"I...I got shot," she replied, stammering slightly. Her coal-black eyes flickered towards the Italian then back to Methos. He grimaced in sympathy.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I hate getting shot."

"You sound like you've done it more than once," she asked, confused, but intrigued by his attention. Methos smiled wryly and settled his hip on the desk before her.

"Yes, you could say that. Not my favorite experience."

"Mine either," she laughed nervously.

"What did you do to get shot?" This was Munch again, on the prowl. Methos met his inquiry with calm assurance.

"In the wrong place at the wrong time, I'm afraid. Even a seasoned traveler can make mistakes sometimes."

"What do you do?" Munch wasn't going to give up his interrogation, Methos recognized. He barely held back a snort of laughter as the detective rephrased his question. "For a living. What's your job?"

Now Methos did chuckle. He grinned up at the other man.

"I guess you could say I'm a perpetual student. I'm still working on a doctorate at the University of Paris; I teach a few classes here and there; and I do some freelance translating. Mostly Ancient Greek, Medieval Latin, plus some occasional Sanskrit and Egyptian. A bit of this and a bit of that." He shrugged. "It pays the bills, and I have a small inheritance as well."

"You translate Ancient Greek?" Munch was clearly fascinated now. The others looked simply confused.

Methos shrugged agreement.

"Like I said, it's a living."

"But..."

Before Munch could get another question out, a small, middle-aged black woman burst into the squadroom.

"I don't believe it! Guys, you will never believe what just happened!"

Various version of "what's going on?" broke out in unison. She approached Lewis, then turned to take in them all.

"Georgia Mahoney's body is missing from the morgue.

"What?" Lewis jerked, his eyebrows rising in a nearly comical expression of shock.

"How? When?" That was Munch and the other woman together.

The newcomer waved her hands in a gesture of uncertainty.

"No one knows. Apparently, she's been missing almost since she was brought into the morgue. The new M.E. couldn't find her body when he went to do an autopsy on her, so he put it off in favor of the half-dozen other cases he had waiting. Then he simply forgot about it until now."

"You've got to be kidding!" The white woman exclaimed, rolling her expressive dark eyes.

Munch grinned and moved around the desk towards her. "Probably some nut case with a taste for dead bodies. Necrophilia is a well-known impulse."

"Oh come on!" she replied. "Who'd want to do that with Georgia Mahoney...except maybe her brother...and he's dead?"

"Maybe someone wanted to be sure she was dead," Lewis broke in. He'd lost the shock and had settled into a quiet bitterness. "I was certainly happy to get the news myself."

"Maybe Kellerman took her," the Italian broke him, though his eyes avoided Methos.

"No!" Lewis broke out. "Mike'd have no reason. It's over now."

"Who knows what's going on in his head? He killed her brother. She was after him because of Luther."

"Not possible," Methos interrupted. "Mike was with me." He grinned triumphantly. "I think I would have noticed if he was carting a dead body around. Or at least smelled it."

"Why should we take your word for it?" Falsone challenged. Methos gave him a disgusted look.

"Why shouldn't you? I have no reason to lie," Methos replied, expressing cool disinterest as he spoke. His facile mind was churning, however, for something had sparked a tingle of memory. He chased after it, his mouth pursing tight as he concentrated...

"You said her name was Georgia? And her 'brother's name was Luther? She was darker-skinned than he was? They both liked to play games with authority?" Methos asked -- no demanded. He got nods in reply, and another sharp question from Munch. Methos ignored it, his mind flying into the past.

The Past.

Oh how it haunted his every step. Five thousand years of memory all jumbled up into a tangled cobweb in the corner of his mind. Memory...

He remembered...

OOOOOO

Sun-blasted sand shifted beneath his feet as he hunted through the sea-side cliffs. Even the soft white cloth of his burnoose was no protection against the intensity of the African summer, heat pounding at his senses, white light glittering off the grainy surface of the beach and reflecting off the water. Beneath the surface, deeper senses strained, open, listening, hoping for an echo of what he ought to find. What should be there, and wasn't.

He'd told the boy to wait. He'd warned him not to play Luthin's sick games, ordered him to stay away from Gerga. That woman was dangerous, Methos had known the moment he looked into her eyes. Luthin was simply mad, clever with it perhaps, but still insane. Gerga, on the other hand, Gerga knew exactly what she did. She took pleasure, perverse, but sane, from the results of Luthin's madness. So Methos had warned his young student, hoping against hope that the boy would listen.

Methos knew he hadn't.

Another few steps across the beach and he found what he knew had been waiting for him. An emotion that wasn't simply pain, or anger, or sorrow, but was a tangled skein of all three rose sharp and bitter in his dry throat. He felt empty, bored almost with the inevitability of it, frustrated with the remaining options open to him. He could fight or he could leave. Neither would do young Anzur any good. He was dead, his head laying loose in the sand near his elbow, sand coating his soft features. He was dead.

And nothing Methos did would make any difference.

Sometimes he wondered why he bothered.

"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered under his breath, tongue flickering against parched lips. And suddenly all he wanted was something cool to drink. Turning, he left the severed head and body where it was and walked silently away.

OOOOOO

Methos came awake to his surroundings, eight hundred years of memory passing by in the blink of an eye. This was a new place, a new time, and a new student. A student he refused to lose without a fight. He'd let it go once before, but not again.

Ignoring the startled looks he gathered from the clustered mortals, he leapt up out of his seat and strode forcefully towards the office into which Mike had disappeared. He pushed the door open and stuck his head inside.

"Michael, time to go."

"What?"

"Who are you?"

Two voices chimed at once. Methos ignored the large black man behind the desk, his eyes focused only on his student. Mike's blue eyes were large with surprise, but he was already climbing to his feet.

"We need to go - now!" Methos hissed, putting every ounce of urgent authority he had into the command.

"Now wait a minute..."

"Sorry Gee...Gotta go. Drop the rest of the paperwork in the mail, and I'll take care of it."

Mike moved to the door as he spoke, and the instant he was close enough, Methos seized his arm and pulled him away.

The shout behind them was ignored as they hurried towards the door. Mike wasn't protesting to Methos' relief, though he could see the curiosity quivering on Mike's lips.

"Outside," he whispered sharply, and received a reluctant nod in reply.

OOOOOO

Mike let Methos drag him out to the car, not truly unhappy to be spared a longer session with the fierce Lieutenant. But there was something serious happening; he'd only seen that look in the Ancient's green eyes twice before, and both times had meant a great deal of pain for him. Yet, this wasn't aimed at him, and he was somehow quite certain that it wasn't another lesson in immortality. No, this screamed of something very, very wrong.

By the time they'd gotten in the car and Mike had started the engine, his stomach had sunk to the level of his toes.

"OK. Spill," he told Methos firmly.

A look of sheer confusion shot across the other man's grim features.

"Spill what?"

Mike shook his head, then gunned the gas, shooting the car out into the street. Only when he was comfortably moving forward in an appropriate lane of traffic did he turn his head to glance at his teacher.

"Tell me what the hell's going on!"

"Aahhh," Methos replied, leaning back in his seat. "I'm afraid...well, we might have a bit of a problem..."

OOOOOO

That statement turned out to be quite the understatement, Mike decided a few hours later. His plans for the evening, hell, his plans for the next century, certainly did not include standing in a damp cemetery with a shovel, digging up the grave of the man he'd killed. But Methos had been insistent. And Mike had given way to his elder's certainty.

And so here he was, knee-deep in mud, soaked through to the skin, shoveling dirt out of a grave. At least Methos had deigned to help, and he went about his half of the task with characteristic silent intensity. His arms and shoulders moved swiftly, efficiently, tossing dirt aside in a steady, easy rhythm that Mike envied. His own breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Despite all the exercise with the sword, he was already exhausted and they'd only been at this for an hour at most.

Then his shovel slid through dirt and hit something hard with a loud clank. He paused, and looked up to meet Methos' cool gaze. Then together they swiftly cleaned away enough of the remaining dirt to see the wooden coffin below. Mike paused, dropping the shovel and wiping the cleanest part of his forearm over his eyes.

Methos, on the other hand, simply dropped down into the dirt, shovel and all. Using the shovel as a hammer, he broke the lock on the coffin and then began to tug it open.

"Give me a hand," he ordered briskly.

Mike grimaced, but did what he was told.

"This is disgusting," he complained, even as he leaned down beside Methos and yanked on the coffin lid.

"You'll see worse," Methos told him bluntly.

He paused as the coffin lid creaked open far enough for both men to look inside. Mike held his breath, then released in one rush.

The coffin was empty.

OOOOOO

"You mean that sonuvabitch is immortal and he got me to 'kill' him deliberately?" Mike shouted.

Methos rubbed the towel over his wet hair and grimaced.

"He was playing with you. He and Gerga both were."

"Bastards!" Mike turned and slammed his fist into the wall of the cabin. Methos was beside him in an instant. He closed his hand over Mike's wrist, pulling him around.

"Yes, but dangerous ones. They're still out there, and they won't have forgotten about you."

"They're still in Baltimore?"

"They won't go without taking your head." Methos' mouth twisted as he amended his statement. "They won't go without trying to take your head."

"Well, they can't have it," Mike replied.

Methos chuckled harshly.

"I certainly hope not."

"But..."

Methos let Mike go and sprawled out on the nearby sofa.

"But they've got almost a thousand years on you. And there are two of them. At least I can even the odds a bit."

"Oh no, no," Mike felt a familiar guilt rise up to twine with the anger. "This is my problem," he insisted.

Methos shook his head.

"No, it is our problem. They killed another student of mine, once. I won't stand for it again."

"Another?" Mike questioned.

Methos shrugged.

"It was a long time ago."

"Methos..."

"It's not important. Right now, we have two choices. We either disappear from here, or we stay - and fight."

"We fight," Mike answered immediately.

Methos sighed, leaning back to stare at the ceiling.

"Why are you kids always so damned impetuous?"

"Damn it, I'm not a kid. And this isn't about wanting a fight. It's about not running away. This is my home. I killed Mahoney the first time to stop him from doing more damage to this city, to the people here. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, I don't know. But I won't run away now and leave him free to hurt anyone else. Not while I've got a chance to stop him."

"God damn boyscouts," Methos muttered under his breath, but Mike heard him.

"He ruined my life...or maybe I let him ruin my life. I don't know. I don't regret shooting him - not really - but I won't take the fall on this and then leave him out there to do it again to someone else. I'm in this, like it or not."

Mike held Methos' eyes, his determination firing through his gaze, bubbling through his skin.

"I need an end to this."

Methos sighed, and for once gave way. He shrugged, then quirked his lips in a wry image of a smile.

"I figured as much. And frankly, I'd like to see the world rid of those two myself. But it's not going to be an easy fight - and they're not likely to play by the rules."

"Who said anything about playing by the rules?" Mike responded dryly.

Methos grinned openly.

"Perhaps you've learned something after all."

OOOOOO

They continued to circle around the situation, partially arguing, partially agreeing. Mike was firm. He would stand and fight. And Methos wasn't really in a running mood either. He'd done that for too long. He was bored with it. Bored with hiding in the shadows. Bored with disappearing every time a potential menace reared its head. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was the same immortal who had fought for Troy against the Greeks, with the Greeks against the Romans, and with the Romans against the Picts. And sometimes it was impossible to forget.

Now was one of the latter times. The man who had once been the symbol for Death itself was in a mood. A definitely unpleasant one at that. The restlessness that had driven him to wander the New World was reasserting itself. It had settled in response to the need to train his new student, but now - now that that student was in jeopardy - now it was screaming with a vengeance. For vengeance.

He itched. That was the most basic way he could describe it to himself. He itched. And it wasn't the physical kind of itch that he could simply scratch or put a lotion on. This was a mental, emotional, intellectual itch. The very same one that had driven him into Kronos' arms those long millennia before. Not that he wanted anything like that again. He had no desire to walk down that dark corridor again. But...

He bloody well itched.

OOOOOO

There was a look in Methos' hazel eyes that Mike couldn't quite place. It sent a strange sort of shiver up his spine just feeling that intense gaze turn in his direction. For the second time he could truly believe that this man was what he said he was, that he truly had been the Pale Rider himself. That shiver turned into a bone wrenching chill when Methos actually smiled at him. Openly. Mike couldn't say the smile didn't reach those eyes, for it did. It made them gleam with glittery amber highlights. The effect was damned scary.

"So...unh...what do we do now?" he demanded, struggling to break past that icy spark of fear.

"Find them before they find us," came the soft-spoken reply.

"I'm still not sure why you think they're still here. Everyone thinks they're dead. Surely they'd get out of town as soon as possible."

Methos shook his head. His expression was pensive. On the surface he looked every inch the quiet British scholar, but Mike could see through that fragile cover now.

"No," the ancient immortal responded with calm certainty. "They're not through with you yet. They've been waiting for you to become immortal. I think if you had not taken your own life, they would have found a way for you to meet with an accident."

"But it's been over a year since I shot Luther, and weeks since Georgia was killed. Why wait so long?"

Methos shrugged.

"They've been playing with you. Gerga loves her games, and Luthin indulges her. I doubt they will wait much longer, though my arrival must have thrown a monkey-wrench into their plans. Still, they took down one of my students already, so I doubt they'll have qualms about doing so again." He paused, sinking deeper into the cushions. "I made a mistake not taking them out then. But it would have been two against one. I'd never have survived long past taking one of their quickenings." He aimed a sharp glance in Mike's direction.

"You are never more vulnerable than right after you've taken a quickening. Be careful of that. If you don't have backup, make sure your opponent doesn't either."

Mike nodded, filing away that piece of information with all the rest. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever make sense of this new life of his, but right now he had other concerns.

"So...we go after them?" he asked.

Methos nodded, stretching out a long leg until the foot dangled off the far end of the sofa.

"Best to choose our own ground."

OOOOO

The problem was, Methos mused the next morning, that there was very little to do until Luther and Georgia made their next move. Immortals were experts at hiding themselves, especially the older ones, and while Methos had the advantage of about 4 millennium, he simply wasn't psychic. Even so, there were paths to be taken by those devious to use them. He had promised himself, and both Don and Joe, that he wouldn't use the Watchers to hunt. But this wasn't hunting - not really. It was self-defense. And after all, the Watchers would need to assign someone to young Michael.

That, at least, gave him the excuse to call Joe and broach the situation. The only question was how to rouse the wily watcher's protective instincts enough to get the info he needed, without getting him pissed off again. Methos supposed that he could be open about it, and just ask, but that hadn't really worked too well last time, though Joe did, in fact, owe him one for that. Anyway, if he knew Joe, the mortal would see right through him instantly.

Methos smiled to himself as he settled down at Mike's tiny excuse for a kitchen table, a steaming cup of hot tea cradled in his elegant, bony hands. With any luck - if the conversation went just right - he'd have a lead on his opponents' location by mid-day. They could take a break from training to verify the lead, and then...

His hopeful, crafty thoughts were interrupted by a sharp, staccato series of knocks on the cabin door. He hadn't felt the visitor approach, so it was a mortal. Despite that relief, Methos was still suspicious. Many immortals used mortals for just such a reason, and he was never one to be incautious.

Making sure his dagger was at reach, the sword always close by, he rose from the table and approached the door. Just as he reached for it, it swung open.

"Mike? Mikey, you there?" called out a male voice. A face followed the voice, peering in through the open doorway, dark eyebrows raised over black eyes in a chocolate-skinned face.

Methos quickly recognized the man from the previous afternoon: Mike's former partner.

"He's still asleep, Detective Lewis," Methos drawled, relaxing his stance and sliding downwards to allow Lewis room to enter. The mortal clambered down the short flight of stair, ducking his head with the ease of familiarity. His ebony eyes narrowed as they focused intently on Methos' face.

"Your Mike's friend...uhh..."

"Call me Adam," Methos replied, reaching out a hand. It was quickly, firmly, enveloped, squeezed and released.

"So you're staying with Mike..." Lewis questioned.

"For a while," Methos replied casually, returning to his abandoned cup of tea. "Would you like some tea?"

"Tea?" Lewis questioned it as though he'd been offered something truly exotic. Then he shook his head. "No thanks. I need to talk to Mike."

"I haven't heard him moving around, so I'd guess that he's still dead to the world in there. But you're welcome to wake him up."

Lewis grinned, shaking his head.

"I think he could sleep through anything."

Methos chuckled.

"Don't knock it. That can be a very useful talent."

"I suppose, but..." Lewis faltered, uncertainty dimming his expression. He gazed towards the narrow hallway that led to the bedroom and bathroom, his entire body hesitating.

"I can..." Methos began to offer, sharply aware of the history between these two men.

"No, that's OK. I'll do it. No use getting yourself cussed out," Lewis replied with a wry hint of humor.

"Thanks," Methos replied. Echoing Lewis' tone. He sipped at his tea and waved generally behind him. "He's all yours."

Lewis grimaced, struggled with himself for another brief instant, then moved quickly across the small cabin. Methos watched him disappear, every sense alert. This wasn't really his business, and yet... He'd become very fond of his young protege. He would prefer not to see him hurt. On the other hand, this was something that Mike had to deal with, sooner or later, if he wasn't going to take the option of running away. Mike hadn't wanted to the previous night - whether that decision would last - well, Methos had a feeling that this morning might be a deciding factor.

And in the meantime, he had a tricky conversation of his own to pursue.

OOOOOO

"Hello Joe!" Methos said brightly into his cell phone. Deep, thick strains of music filtered through the background, mixed with the clatter of voices and glasses, the familiar sounds of the bar preceding and surrounding Joe's answer.

"Methos! Where are you?"

"In Baltimore," he replied. "Didn't MacLeod tell you?"

He could sense Joe shaking his head.

"Nah, he's been busy antiquing lately. Haven't talked to him in a few days. So what're you doing in Charm City USA?"

Methos paused, seeking the words carefully.

"Well," he drawled. "I appear to have been caught in a bit of a situation."

Joe barked a laugh into the phone. "Why am I not surprised. Who'd you run into this time?"

"Do you remember a pair of immortals called Luthin and Gerga? They like to play brother and sister."

"Oooh, you do know how to pick them, old man. Nasty. They have a reputation for picking on newbie immortals," Joe replied.

"Yeah - nothing changes," Methos agreed dryly. "Looks like they're up to their old tricks again."

"What? Oh hell...who's the target?" Joe demanded.

"A baby immortal named Michael Kellerman. I'd be surprised if the Watchers know about him yet. He's only been immortal for a couple of weeks, and I managed to lose my Watcher a couple of cities before that."

"So what's your involvement?" Joe questioned sharply.

Methos sighed, then laid it on the line.

"Someone's got to teach the kid how to survive." He shrugged eloquently, the motion echoed in a faint sigh.

Joe broke out into open laughter.

"You took a student? Oh, this is good!"

"Not so good, Joe. Luthin and Gerga have been playing cat and mouse with him for over a year. I just accidentally walked into the middle of it. They had him so fucked up that he committed suicide."

"Suicide..." Joe's voice settled somberly, his mirth choking off. "That's how he became immortal?"

"Yeah. Luckily, I was nearby and was able to catch him when he woke up and found out that the bullet he'd put into his head hadn't quite done its job."

"Shit!" Joe breathed softly.

Methos let the silence settle for a moment before speaking again.

"Joe, I..."

"You want info from the Watchers, right?" Joe interrupted.

"He's just a kid, Joe. They'll make mincemeat of him without help." Methos took a deep breath and waited, every muscle in his body tensed for the reply. It came with a long, deep sigh and then a rueful chuckle.

"Mac'd be proud of you, old man," Joe told him.

"I don't want to hear it," Methos replied archly, though he couldn't help the warmth that filled his voice. "Mac can get his fun out of this later, right now I've got trouble."

"Yeah...yeah...I hate doing this, but you're right. Two-on-one isn't fair anyway. I'll see what I can find out." Joe sounded sad, but resigned. Inwardly, Methos was both relieved and delighted, outwardly, he held to a quiet word of gratitude.

"Thanks, Joe."

"Yah, well...just take care of that student of yours."

"I'll do my best," he promised. "Call me back?"

"As soon as I can," Joe promised in return.

Methos pocketed his cell phone and then cocked an ear towards the bedroom. Lewis and Mike hadn't come out yet. It was a good sign that they weren't shouting at each other loud enough for Methos to hear. Who knows...perhaps they were due for some luck. At his age, Methos had learned to place all worship due to that most fickle of goddesses - Fate.

OOOOOO

"You think I'd go digging up bodies in a cemetery?" Mike questioned, trying to ignore the chill in his lungs that reminded him that that was exactly what he had done the night before.

Meldrick sighed, running a big, brown hand over the back of his head.

"I dunno, Mikey. But someone did dig up Luther's grave last night and take his corpse."

"And of course, I'm the number one suspect," Mike replied bitterly. There was no way he could possibly begin to explain the truth to his ex-partner - ex-friend. He'd never believe it, and even if Mike proved it - no. He was not going to get Meldrick involved in this. He owed him that much at least. The steep ravine that separated him from his former best friend widened even further. Mike's life had changed beyond measuring now, and he couldn't reach Meldrick any more. Methos was right. It was time to let go.

But Meldrick couldn't read those thoughts. His bright chocolate eyes were filled with sorrow as he stared at Mike.

"I don't believe you did this. I mean... well, it's just that.... First Georgia's body disappears from the morgue and then Luther's is dug up. It's gotta be personal, and you...well..."

"I've got the best motive?" Mike pushed himself up off the bed and slid past Meldrick towards the bathroom. Meldrick trailed after him, his shoulders hunched tight.

"Meldrick..." Mike sighed, thrusting his hands under the water, then splashing his face. He rubbed his skin dry, then turned around to meet Meldrick's sad gaze.

"What the hell would I want with their corpses, for God's sake? What'd I possibly do with them?" he demanded.

Meldrick waved his hands through the air, struggling for the words.

"Hell, I dunno. But someone had to ask you, and I figured better me than anyone else, ya know?"

Mike nodded, leaning back against the sink, playing the towel nervously through his hands.

"I suppose." He paused, fighting for his own words. "Look, I had nothing to do with it, OK? You can ask Me... My friend. Adam was with me all night. We talked until late."

That much was true, and Mike let the sincerity ring through his voice.

Meldrick signaled his acceptance, then squinted his eyes.

"Who is this guy anyway? He sounds like some kinda British Duke or something."

Mike chuckled.

"Not exactly, though I think he lived in England for quite a while." Trying to figure out how much to tell Meldrick about his very unusual new friend, he dropped the towel on the sink and pressed past Meldrick into the bedroom. Peering into the closet to find a clean shirt, he continued lightly. "Just a friend who's visiting for a while."

"Unh huh," Meldrick appeared to accept that. When Mike turned around, a soft blue T-shirt clutched in his hand, he found the other man sitting on the side of his bunk bed.

"Look, Mikey...I...Unh...How're you doing? Everything OK?" Meldrick was staring down at his hands, which twisted around each other in his lap.

It was tough not to respond with open bitterness. That acrid emotion rose sharp in his throat, but Mike managed to force it back down to settle like a lead weight in his stomach. He swallowed, trying to wet his abruptly dry mouth and attempted to remember the lessons Methos had been drilling into him over the past fortnight.

His tone rang with fake cheeriness as he replied.

"Sure, I'm doin' great. Lots of time off. It's like having a vacation. No stress."

Meldrick finally looked up, his dark eyes piercing as they focused on Mike's face.

"Glad to hear it," he responded, echoing Mike's tone. "You needed the break, I think."

"Oh yeah," Mike agreed, swallowing the hard rush of emotion that threatened to swamp him again. He hid behind the required motions to draw the T-shirt over his head and struggle into a pair of jeans.

Meldrick fell silent as he got up and followed Mike as he left the room to rejoin Methos in the main cabin.

OOOOOO

Methos glanced up as the two men joined in the cramped confines of the cabin that served as both living and dining room on the boat. He kept his expression bland, waiting for Mike to take the lead.

"Someone dug up Luther Mahoney's grave and stole his body," Mike announced loudly. He dropped into the couch, meeting Methos' eyes.

"You're kidding?" Methos exclaimed ingenuously, his body slumping into his chair. His expression, demeanor, voice, settled comfortably into his guise of geeky scholar. The corner of Mike's mouth twitched in response, but it flew straight over Meldrick's head. The detective remained standing, uneasy, his shoulders hunched forward.

"Lewis here wanted to know if I'd done it."

Meldrick shuffled his feet, waved his hands, but Methos beat him to words. The immortal burst out in easy laughter.

"Good heavens. Well, if it helps any, detective, I can promise you that Michael was with me last night. I assure you we had better things to do than dig up graves."

"I never believed Mike had anything to do with this," Meldrick finally protested. He pinned his eyes on Mike's face. "I thought you should know, I mean..."

"Hey better you than Falsone," Mike interrupted. His expression was shuttered, tense. He didn't meet Meldrick's hungry gaze.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about this Mikey," Meldrick offered.

"Yeah, me too," Mike replied, finally lifting his blue eyes towards his ex-partner's worried face.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"I should get going. Gotta get to work," Meldrick finally said, moving towards the door.

"Thanks for coming by," Mike tossed after him, speaking to his back. Lewis didn't stop and turn, he simply mumbled something unintelligible as he hurried out of the cabin.

Once the door had shut behind him, Mike turned to Methos. All of the emotion he'd hidden during his conversation with Meldrick came surging out now. His blue eyes dilated, his mouth twisted, his body jerked and tensed. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.

"God damn it. What the hell do we do know?" he muttered.

Methos was across the room and seated by his side in nearly a heartbeat. His warm hand settled firmly on Mike's shoulder.

"Take it easy. We knew they'd discover the grave. But there's no way to link it to you. We were careful -- and Luther and Georgia aren't going to be in any hurry to expose themselves either. They may be crazy as a pair of bedbugs, but they're not likely to pull a 'miraculous return from the dead.' There are limits to what immortals will accept. Hunting baby immortals is within the bounds of the Game, exposing us all to the mortals is not. They'd be hunted and silenced by any other immortals in reach."

Mike sighed, rocking back against the couch.

"I suppose," he said doubtfully, then he burst out raw and bitter again. "I hate lying to him. Not now, not after everything..."

Methos didn't reply, he simply gazed calmly, pointedly at his student. Mike already knew the answer to that. He'd proven it by not telling Meldrick earlier.

Mike drew in a sharp gasp of air, then let it out slowly, his chest deflating, his body shrinking in on itself.

"I couldn't involve him in this," he answered his own complaint. "He's been through too much as is. This is my problem to solve."

"Our problem to solve," Methos reminded him implacably. "And speaking of that problem, we've got work to do. Get your sword." He leapt up out of the sofa and gathered up his own weapon, which was inevitably near to hand. Bracing it against his chest, he turned gleaming green eyes on Mike.

"You've found them?" Mike exclaimed, jumping up to join him, face-to-face.

Methos shook his head.

"Not yet. I've got a friend working on it. In the meantime, you need practice." The skin drew painfully tight across his sharp cheekbones as his mouth curled into a joyless smile. "A lot more practice."

"But..." Mike protested. Methos forestalled him by simply leveling a cool glare in his direction. Mike subsided without another word. Turning, he recovered his own heavy weapon and meekly followed his teacher from the boat.

OOOOOO

Meldrick Lewis was confused and upset as he stalked down the dock towards his distant car. He couldn't - wouldn't - believe that Mike Kellerman had had anything to do with digging up graves and stealing corpses. That was insane, and however angry and bitter Mikey was, he wasn't nuts. They'd been through a lot in the past few years, and even when the situation had been at its worst, Mike had handled it. He had a raw and easy temper, which had been the root of a lot of the trouble, but that surely didn't extend to desecrating corpses.

Did it?

No. Of course not. And Meldrick knew deep in the curling, aching mass of his guts that Mike wasn't solely to blame for the disaster of the last year. No one person could take full responsibility, even though Mike had taken the worst of it on his shoulders. Meldrick felt sharp seizures of guilt over that, sometimes. But Mike had made his own decisions and Meldrick learned to live with it. He had to. Mike had thrown their lives into a whirlwind when he killed Mahoney, and nothing would ever be the same.

And yet...digging up dead bodies? No. Meldrick wouldn't believe that without a lot more proof. Besides, Mike had an alibi. That friend of his was a bit odd, but there was no reason to disbelieve him. Still, there was something strange about this Adam. He looked young, barely out of college, but his voice and eyes had held a deep weight of experience. And there was something in his manner that put Meldrick on edge. He couldn't put his finger on it, but...

"Hello, Detective Lewis," sounded a silken male voice to his right. Meldrick turned - and froze.

Luthor Mahoney stood there, a gun pointed directly at Meldrick's chest, smiling. Alive.

"But you're dead!" Meldrick managed to exclaim, just before a sharp pain on the back of his neck sent the world flying into sudden, absolute darkness.

OOOOOO

Methos drilled him with implacable, ruthless determination. He repeated the now-familiar exercises again, and again, and again. All he heard from his teacher were a series of sharp corrections.

"Use your shoulder, not your wrist."

"Keep the tip up."

"Turn on the ball of your foot, not your heel."

"Left, not right."

"Up, over, down, to the left, now again!"

Over and over and over again, until he was moving like an automaton, a robot, each command bypassing his brain and directly stimulating the muscles. He flowed with Methos' words, responding instantly to each hissed order, shifting, falling, rising, turning, swinging the heavy weight of the blade up and around. The clash of it against Methos' sword reverberated through every nerve in his body. Again, and then again. Clash, turn, leap, swing, clash, down, around, and clash again.

The entire world narrowed down to this moment, to the demands of his body. His lungs fought for air, his muscles strained, bunched and released, his eyes struggled to see through a haze of sweat and exhaustion. The dance drew him forward, pushed him back, pulled him onward again. His opponent, his teacher, was seemingly inexhaustible and Mike found himself stretched to - and past - his own limits in a desperate attempt to keep up. To simply stay on his feet and swing the leaden weight attached, no welded now, to his right hand.

Iron screeched against iron, the contact of the blades sparking, then sliding apart. Mike caught a gasp of air, his body following the blade around, up and then...

The piercing cry of a cellular phone threw him off-balance. His hips followed his shoulders, which followed his arms, which followed his hands, which followed the sword. Over to the right, and down.

Hitting the ground with a heavy thud, he collapsed, struggling to breathe, waiting for the death blow that didn't come.

Instead, his merciless instructor quietly tucked his own sword under his arm and dug out the shrilling phone.

"Yes," he barked into the receiver, his voice hardly showing signs of wear. Mike glared up at him, but was too grateful for the chance to rest to disturb the other immortal. Methos listened intently, his eyes focusing on the air before him, then he nodded grimly and said a quiet thank you. The phone was quickly tucked away, and dark eyes shifted to focus down on Mike.

"I know where they're holed up. Come on, we don't have a lot of time. They've got your friend."

"What?" A new burst of emotion-fed energy burst through Mike's veins and stimulated his tired muscles. He was instantly on his feet, the sword handle still clutched tightly in his right hand. "Who?"

"Lewis. They've got Lewis." With that tiny piece of information, Methos turned and strode forcefully towards the docks. A thousand bursts of panic, fear, excitement, worry lancing up and down his spine, Mike hurried after him, but all of his attempts at questioning his elder, were met with a sharp command to wait.

"Showers and food first, then we'll talk."

And Mike had to be satisfied for that. For the moment.

OOOOOO

An hour later they were sitting over sandwiches and soup, eating in a tense silence. Methos waited until he'd finished his meal before he leaned back and fixed Mike with a penetrating stare.

"They're staying in a renovated warehouse on the other side of town. My source says that they picked up Lewis right after he left here; they've been keeping an eye on us."

"Bastards!" Mike swore roughly.

Methos chuckled harshly.

"Probably so. Regardless, our course is clear. Tonight we finish this."

"Tonight? Why not now?"

"Because I want some time to scout the place and it's always better to choose your own time of attack. I'd like to see if we can get your friend out before we fight. The last thing we need is a mortal policeman witnessing a double quickening."

Mike rubbed at his eyes, an abrupt flood of exhaustion washing over him. It was his fault Lewis was stuck in the middle of this.

"What if they kill him?"

Methos shook his head.

"They won't...at least not until after they kill you and me," he answered firmly. "And I don't intend to let that happen."

"It's not high on my list of to-do's for today either," Mike rejoined. That won him a darting smile from his teacher.

"Good...now listen to me..."

OOOOOO

So far, it had gone according to Methos' plan. Mike never caught more than glimpses of his elder's mysterious sources, but there were at least two other shapes that flitted in and out of the shadows around the darkened warehouse. The grounds were empty, except for a few piles of refuse, and the building stood cold and alone, apparently abandoned, except for the faint gleam of light that sneaked out through cracks in the boarded windows.

Methos was sure the Mahoneys were inside with Lewis, but he forced Mike to wait. Dusk crept up on them all too slowly, the afternoon dribbling by in lengthy increments. Mike's temper was rising against the dam of control he confined it behind; his patience ebbed with each passing second. Methos, however, was implacable and certain. Again Mike could catch glimpses of the man who had been the nightmare of generations, a legend writ strong in every muscle and sinew of his lean body, every glittering glance of those obsidian eyes. Methos was cold and confident, quiet and patient, a shadow of the dying day. Waiting...

Until the sun began to slip behind the horizon and the day gave way to the fall of night. Finally, Methos signaled to Mike and they inched across the short wasteland towards the warehouse. The only advantage they had was surprise - Methos suspected the Mahoneys meant to contact him with an ultimatum, but Mike had not answered his phone. So they wouldn't expect a move now. Or so the oldest immortal had planned.

Methos drew his sword as he approached the metal-lined side door. Mike echoed his choice of weapon, the heavy blade feeling strange in a hand accustomed to the lighter feel of a gun. Yet the situation was terribly familiar. How often had Mike stood outside doorways, weapon in hand, not knowing what he would find inside - except for certain violence? Then Methos signed him with a sharp slice of his hand through the air, and Mike moved on instinct.

The door crashed open beneath the impact of his foot, the rusty lock giving way easily to the application of force. Mike was through the opening a second later, Methos close behind. They didn't bother to be quiet - the purpose was to make as much noise as possible. To distract and hold the Mahoneys' full attention while Methos' accomplices rescued Meldrick Lewis. With any luck, he'd be out and safe before the battle began in earnest.

OOOOOO

The inside of the warehouse was a sheer contrast to the outside. One half formed a workplace and garage, housing long bench tables and a shiny gray sports car. The benches supported the paraphernalia of drug production, packaging and distribution. Neither immortal paid them much attention. Methos couldn't have cared less, and Mike had other problems on his mind.

They turned to the right, ducking through a divider made of hanging tapestries, and found themselves entering a scene reminiscent of Arabian nights. The entire second half of the warehouse was draped in brightly colored cloth, the floor wooden and open with scattered fine rugs and throw pillows piled to make a seating area to one side. The corners were hidden behind more draped tapestries - and it was to the far left corner that both immortals were instantly drawn.

They had felt Luther and Georgia's presence from the moment they had stepped inside the building, and now it rang loud and clear in both minds. Mike had to struggle to keep himself focused, the immortal signals burned at his senses like a thousand angry bees. Methos had become familiar to him, the depth and strength of his presence almost comforting, but this was different. This hit Mike like a knife blade between the eyes. His anger, biting and bitter, rose sharp in his throat.

"Easy," Methos cautioned him with almost psychic awareness. Mike could only nod in reply, swallowing hard to wet his acrid throat. Methos paused for a second, his eyes scanning their surroundings, then he stopped in his tracks. Mike pulled up sharply beside him. Methos signaled him to wait.

"They know we're here," he hissed softly. "Let them come to us." Mike settled uneasily by his teacher's side, turning his head to scan their surrounding with a disbelieving eye. But he wasn't given time to make a comment, for Luther was less patient than Methos.

Mike's eyes widened with shock as Luther and Georgia came through the hanging draperies, Meldrick clutched between them like a prize burden. He was bound and gagged, but his eyes spoke violently, scanning his surroundings, focusing like twin lasers on Mike's face. Mike attempted to smile a reassurance at him, but he hardly felt reassuring. While he'd accepted the truth of his situation by this point, it was still tough to face the reality of Luther standing there, obviously alive and healthy, after all Mike had suffered for his supposed death.

"Sonuvabitch!" Mike yelled, instinctively stepping forward. His hand reached under his coat for his gun, but hit up against the heavy weight of his new sword instead. He jerked in abrupt surprise and realization, closing his fingers on the hilt and bringing the blade up before him. Luther chuckled, tossing Meldrick aside to land on his back on the floor, drawing out his own sword.

"No," Methos insisted, cold and clear. In one swift motion, he interposed himself between Mike and Luthor, bringing his own sword to attention.

"You can't interfere old one," Luthor taunted.

Methos smiled Death's smile, the corners of his mouth curving upward while his eyes turned a dark, watchful jade.

"It is my right to fight you first. My challenge takes precedence - for the death of my previous student and as teacher to this one. You fight me first - if you dare." The foreign lilt in his voice was sharper now, less distinctly British. The tones of the ages crept in coloring his words with a million shades of meaning. But Luthor took only one. His grin widened.

"If you wish. Your quickening will be icing on the cake tonight." Then he charged forward.

Methos silently met his blow with a quick twist of his shoulder, the contact of the blades singing out like cracked bells. Mike had moved to protest, argue, resist Methos' assumption of a fight he was certain was his own, but before he could say a word, they were already dancing away, swords flashing.

"So you will be mine tonight. I'm glad. I will enjoy taking your head." Georgia's voice was deep and sultry. Mike turned on his heels, automatically bringing up his sword. That piece of training saved his life, as her sword came down hard toward him, all of her strength behind it. Mike managed to hold his ground, deflecting the blow and carrying through with the counter. She met that easily, and the battle began.

Mike had only fought with Methos up to this point, and he had unconsciously matched his blows and speed against the other man's. Georgia was lighter, quicker, her strokes stinging at him. He felt ponderous, slow, and heavy at first, as he struggled to match her. But Methos' training, short as it had been, had also been thorough and demanding. He had an advantage in strength, size and reach, and he knew he was fighting for his life. Inch by inch, he managed to push her back, across the floor, unconsciously spacing the distance between the two of them and the fierce raging battle behind them. He would have to leave Luthor to the implacable mercy of his teacher, but at least he could make Georgia pay for the months of pain she caused, and the deaths which had followed in their wake. And for Bayliss, who still lay in a hospital bed, nearly three weeks after he had been shot. Oh, yes, this was especially for Bayliss.

Rage flowed through him, clear and cold, no longer blinding. It was a friend now, it surged with strength, firing his muscles and buoying his resolve. His strokes lengthened, their power rising, as he slipped into a semi-trance. His mind, drilled by the relentless Methos, knew the hit and parry of this dance, and he flowed into it fully. Foot by foot now, he drove Georgia back across the open area, confining her further with each step.

OOOOOO

Meldrick struggled against the ropes binding him into immobility, but he was well and truly caught. Gagged, he couldn't make more than breathy noises, and it was increasingly difficult to breath around the damp cloth. His nose was stuffy, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded from lack of oxygen. Being unceremoniously dumped on the hard floor hadn't helped.

Rolling to his side, he tried to track the four figures moving across the shadowed room. Mike was the most clearly visible, for even electric light shimmered on his golden hair as he moved. Meldrick focused hopefully on him, hoping against hope that Mike would get him out of this mess, but Mike was totally caught up in his battle with Georgia.

Georgia, who was supposed to be dead. D. E. A. D. Dead. Meldrick repeated that to himself, squeezed his eyes shut, and reopened them, as he had done repeatedly all day. It didn't help any more this time than it had before. Georgia and Luther were still there, still alive, still fighting with Mike and his odd new friend. Fighting with swords.

When that realization struck, Meldrick gasped loudly through his gag. His heart seized, skipping a beat, then racing forward. What the hell! Swords? This was crazy! Maybe he'd fallen and hit his head and was dreaming...

But if so, it was a dream he hadn't been able to wake up from, and a dream that felt way too real. Struggling to breath, he focused his eyes on Luthor and Adam. They moved in a wide, deadly dance step, the silvery blades flashing as they met and flew away and met again. Adam's long limbs swung around his thin body, the long sword an extension of his arm that seemed as though it had been born there. Every line of his form flowed behind the tip of that blade, at one with it, in form and purpose. Luthor was larger, yet not clumsier. He handled his own blade with the ease of long familiarity, and he seemed a good match for the taller, slenderer man opposite him. They circled, like black vultures, striking and retreating, turning, and striking again.

A loud clang from the other side of the room drew Meldrick's attention, and he twisted around to locate Mike and Georgia. Their fight was less well choreographed, more staccato, less even. Yet, somehow, Mike handled his sword with strength and assurance. He was pushing Georgia two steps back for each step forward, hounding her towards the far wall. Mike's body twisted and flowed with the sword in his hand, less sure than the other two men, but surprisingly certain to Meldrick's stunned eyes. Then abruptly, Georgia twisted loose, spinning away, behind Mike, forcing him to pivot sharply. But he managed to meet her sudden thrust at his back, the blades screeching across each other. Meldrick cringed at the sound, even as his heart leapt with a beat of sheer relief.

He writhed in his bonds, aching to get free, then froze suddenly as unfamiliar hands closed down on his shoulders. Turning his head, he looked up into two strange, shadowed faces.

"Shhh, be silent," he was told the instant before his gag was ripped away. He gulped for air, his lunch expanding hard against the ropes that bound his chest. And then those too were gone, torn away by the two strangers. They hauled him to his feet, tossing the cut ropes aside, and then again urged silence. Too surprised to do much more than breathe, he hardly had time to try to speak before they were dragging him away.

The two men who carried him outside swiftly bundled him into the backseat of a van. Another man was waiting there for him, his face dark in the interior gloom. His hands were firm, but gentle as he helped Meldrick into a sitting position.

"Do you need medical attention?" the man asked, his French accent coloring the words with a foreign tang. Meldrick squinted at him, unable to make out his expression.

"No." A quick self-examination told him that much. He was sore, bruised, exhausted, but otherwise whole. Medical treatment he didn't need, answers he did.

"Who the hell are you guys?" he exploded, his voice scratching at the back of his throat. "What the hell is going on?"

His 'rescuer' merely shook his head, the motion only a faint stirring in the darkness.

"Damn it man, answer me! What the hell is going on?" Meldrick insisted.

"The less you know, the better," came a whispered reply.

"Oh no way, don' pull that kinda bullshit on me!" Meldrick exclaimed. "I saw two dead people walking around in there looking freakin' well alive, and my ex-partner fighting with 'em with swords. Now you better start talking or..."

"Or nothing, Mr. Lewis," interrupted the quiet stranger. "Forget what you saw."

"Or what?" Meldrick challenged.

The responding shrug was eloquent even in the dark.

"I assure you that you don't want to know." Then the French-accented voice turned slow and solemn. "This is beyond your control, Detective. The situation is being handled by those in a position to deal with it. If you value your own life, and that of your 'friend' I suggest that you develop a rapid and complete case of amnesia. Do you understand?"

"Hell no!" Meldrick shouted, but a painful part of him did. Whatever the Mahoneys, and now Mike Kellerman as well, were into, it was some deep serious shit. A shiver drew tiny icy fingers up, and then down the length of his spine, settling in his guts like a jagged piece of ice stuck in his intestines. He shifted uneasily, leaning against the side of the van for support.

"Just tell me this - Mikey - he's gonna be OK, right?" His own voice had dropped into shadow of itself, the sound barely a breeze over the roar of the van's engine.

The stranger sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't know. It depends on Kellerman himself. But he's got an invaluable ally. If anyone can help him, it is the old man."

"You mean Adam?" Meldrick questioned, thinking as he said it that he'd known there was something weird about Mikey's new found friend. "What do you mean by 'old man?'"

The stranger simply chuckled.

"Simply accept that appearances are deceiving. Don't worry about your friend. He's in safe hands. In fact, it would be best if you forgot about him altogether. He's...let's say he's going somewhere you cannot follow."

"But..." Meldrick spluttered.

"But nothing, Mr. Lewis." The van swerved, then jerked to a stop. "We have returned you to your car. Do not try to find the warehouse, or any evidence of these events. I assure you, there will be none. If you attempt to tell anyone, you will not be believed and will only make yourself look foolish - and quite possibly put your life in danger. Please take my advice on this." And with that last piece of advice, Meldrick's 'rescuer' took him by the arm and all but threw him out of the van. Meldrick stumbled, hitting the pavement with a hard thud that sent a shock of pain up through his right leg.

"Fuck! Shit!" he swore, trying to right himself in time to catch hold of the stranger or the van. He was too late. By the time he was on his aching feet, the van was already squealing out of the parking lot. The license plate was obscured by dirt, and the color was a pale gray in the dim parking lot lamps. Then it was gone and he was left standing alone in the night, lost, confused, and scared with that foreign voice still ringing in his head.

"Forget..."

But Meldrick wouldn't forget. Maybe he'd hold his peace for the time being, but someday he'd get answers. That much he promised himself as he limped towards his car.

OOOOOO

Luthor was a better fighter than Methos had anticipated, given his preference for taking the heads of newborn immortals. He was strong and quick and obviously well-trained. He was, however, not truly in the ancient's league. Methos had always been a powerful fighter, despite his deceptively frail appearance, and he had sharpened his skills against the best of each generation. MacLeod had been an excellent teacher, even though the Highlander had never known he was teaching anything. One of Methos' greatest skills was the ability to learn, mimic and adapt. That talent had kept him alive for five thousand years, and it wasn't abandoning him now.

He started out easily, watching his opponent's moves, sizing up his strengths and weaknesses. Luthor had strong arms - his blows were powerful. Yet, he was slow in recovering. Perhaps only a couple of milliseconds off in his timing, but it was there, and Methos could see it. Methos' own strength was in his agility and endurance. Luthor was also putting too much into the fight too early. Methos knew to hold back, to save just a bit of extra energy for the end. That was a lesson Luthor had obviously never learned.

Or he'd become lazy; glutted on the easy quickenings he could steal from younger immortals.

In the end, it didn't matter. He was not - and never could be - a match for the oldest living immortal. Kronos would have played with Luthor for hours, enjoying himself. MacLeod would have finished it quickly, nearly instantly. Methos leaned towards the Highlander's style, but couldn't resist taking just enough time for Luthor to know he was outmatched, to know he was facing his own death. Rage built higher in the dark-skinned immortal as that realization struck home, and the flood of emotion only threw him further off purpose. Methos never lost focus. Never. And when the right moment came, he took it.

One swift, nearly floating turn of his body and a long, backhanded sweep of his sword, and it was done. Luthor's head rolled cleanly free of his torso and both hit the floor with a sullen thud. Methos let his stroke carry him around, then he dropped his sword downward to plant the tip against the floor. He drew in a deep shuddering breath, bracing himself for what was to come.

OOOOOO

Mike found himself fairly matched in Georgia. She had a huge expanse of experience on him; he had strength and purpose. He wanted this - wanted her dead - in a bone-shearing way he'd never felt before. Shooting Luthor had been an instant of sudden rage, a single burst of terrifying clarity that had been gone almost sooner than he had felt it. This time he knew what he was doing, and he wasn't afraid of it. Methos had been right - when it came down to this - her life or his - he wanted it to be his. The bout of self-destruction that had brought him into immortality had died, practically at the moment he had looked up into Methos' warm jade eyes. Now he wanted to survive - now he wanted to make Georgia pay for the long year of shame and guilt and pain her and her 'brother' had put him through.

But the fight was hard. The sword became heavier and heavier in his hand. His fingers went numb, a cramp spreading painfully up his arm, through his shoulder, down his back, He gritted his teeth and gasped for breath, stumbling, yet somehow finding the strength to meet another strike. The impact jarred his entire body, and his breath whistled roughly through his clenched teeth.

Her eyes were feral, her face contorted into a mask of hatred. She snarled and leapt for him, chopping at him again and again. He parried each blow, desperately seeking an entry...and at last finding it. Something made her head jerk to the side, and he instantly took advantage of it. Unconsciously mimicking Methos' fighting style, he spun around and swept the sword up and out, backhanded, slicing through her throat in one swift, certain motion.

Her head and body tumbled for the floor. It was all Mike could do to keep from following her. He stumbled, hyperventilating, struggling to breathe. His muscles screamed, his bones turned to jelly, he dropped to his knees.

And then the lightening began to strike.

OOOOOO

The warehouse exploded with gleaming streams of white light. The ceiling and walls screamed under the pressure, the glass of the windows shattering outward in shimmering sprinkles. The tapestries sizzled, filling the air with the stench of scorched linen. Snakes of light wriggled and slithered throughout the air, hitting everything in sight, but always returning to bombard the two men stranded in the middle.

Methos arched back, raising unseeing eyes towards the sky, his arms thrown out behind him. Mike doubled over, burying his face, then suddenly tossing himself backwards as he was enveloped in a fireball. He landed several feet over on his back, his sword still glued to his outstretched hand. He screamed, and Methos echoed him in a long low groan.

The streams of light arched higher, exploded near the ceiling with a massive thunderclap, and then sizzled, suddenly, out of existence. Both immortals collapsed, bodies still tingling, shaking, as the remnants of the energy continued to race along nearly fried nerves. It was only several long moments later that the trembling began to ease and both began to breathe more easily. Methos had the longer experience with the after effects of a Quickening, and he managed to drag himself over to his student.

Mike moaned at the touch on his shoulder, his blue eyes dazed and dilated in his pale, sweating face. Methos gathered up both their swords, then tugged wearily at Mike's shoulder. Mike gasped hoarsely for air, then stumbled to his feet. Leaning on Methos' arm, he let the older immortal lead him across the room and out the door, his mind and body still reeling.

Once the two immortals had left the building, the waiting Watchers swept inwards, working swiftly and efficiently to clear the damage and remove the bodies. Within a couple of hours, not a trace would remain except for the scorched walls and broken glass.

OOOOOO

Mike wasn't that happy to be leaving his boat, much less the city of Baltimore, and yet, he knew that Methos was right. He needed to get away from this place, from the memories. At least for a while. Paris was as good a destination as any other, and it was Methos' place of choice. Mike sighed, hefting his suitcase for the big step down from the deck to the dock. Methos was there to steady him, and Mike leaned into the other man's strength gratefully. Even with a long sleep between him and the events of the previous night, he was still shaken.

Nothing could ever have prepared him for the Quickening. Thinking back on it now made Mike shiver with a combination of remembered pain and pleasure. It had been like a million orgasms all rolled up into one, while being electrocuted to death at the same moment. No, it had been like... It had been indescribable. Now he understood why it could become addictive. A small part of him was hungry to experience it again, and the faint whisper of Georgia that lingered in the back of his mind like a psychic ghost echoed that reaction. But the rest of him was far less enthusiastic. This was the worst hangover he'd ever suffered, and he detested the way Georgia seemed to hover over him.

"She'll fade in time," Methos told him as they got into the car. Mike glanced over at him, startled again by the ancient immortal's seeming ability to read his thoughts. Methos grinned wryly, twin dimples creasing one side of his face.

"That comes with the territory. The stronger - and older - the personality of the immortal who’s quickening you're taking, the longer they stay in your head." Methos' smile turned into a grimace. "The sooner Luthor settled down, the happier I'll be. Frankly, he stinks."

All of a sudden, the entire situation became funny. Mike choked over a laugh. Methos' green eyes twinkled at him before he eased the car into drive, and Mike lost it. Leaning back into his seat, he roared with slightly hysterical laughter.

"Oh God," he moaned as he finally regained control, his diaphragm aching. "This is so crazy!"

Focused on the traffic, Methos didn't turn to look at him, but his voice was mild as he replied.

"That's as good an assessment as any other I'd heard."

Mike glanced at him, but the other man's expression was as calm as his voice. He settled down in his seat, breathing deeply.

"So what now? We just take off for Paris and that's that."

Methos shrugged. They'd already had this same conversation twice. But Mike obviously needed the reassurance.

"Yup." He paused, then turned briefly to meet Mike's sapphire gaze. "I know you're worried about Lewis, but he'll be a lot better off if you put some distance between you. The Watchers will keep an eye on him for a while, but as long as he stays quiet and make waves, he'll be fine. If you decide later that you want to return to Baltimore, you can deal with him then."

Mike nodded, biting at his lower lip. His hands curled around each other in his lap, then he forced himself to relax. Stretching out his legs as much as he could, he took a few measured, deep breaths before responding.

"So who are these Watchers anyway?"

"Ah well," Methos drawled softly. "I've been meaning to tell you about that..."