Many thanks are offered up on the altar of proper English grammar and coherency to my poor beleaguered beta, Olympia. Without her this story would make even less sense than it does.

        "Adam!" Madame nearly fainted with shock to see the young man on her doorstep. "What are you doing here, cher? We have been so very worried!" Dieu, she could not seem to cease this prattle and Adam would be tres suspicious. She glanced at him quickly; thanking her stars Amanda had gone some time before. There was no knowing what might have happened had he arrived and found his lover’s ex-wife still here – making plots against him. Enough gushing, Genevieve, she told herself sternly, watching the young man’s eyes narrow and the dark brows pull down over the aristocratic nose.

        "We, Madame?" Adam asked, a smile tugging at the fine mouth. "Who ‘we’? And why might ‘we’ be so worried?" He grinned and gave her a hug. "I’m a big boy, Madame; I can take care of myself." He could, too, and take care of himself much better than he could take care of MacLeod or let Mac take care of him. Yet another reason for you to make tracks, old man, he told himself firmly, not liking the idea for some reason much at all. He’d spent years taking care of himself and not worrying about anybody else; he’d spent centuries, in fact, doing just the opposite. Why should he start worrying now for God’s sake? Why now, after 5000 years should the idea of being alone seem so disturbing to him? And was it the idea of being alone that was so disturbing or the idea of being without MacLeod?

        "Why are you here? Where have you been?"

        He grinned again. "Easy, Madame, please! I’ve been house-hunting." He smiled gently at her crestfallen look. "Can’t seem to find anything I like, though. At least nothing in the neighborhood so I could continue my work at the library." He leaned against the door, waiting. "I was considering leaving the City, but I can’t, Madame; I’m too fond of the people, I like my job and I’m not willing yet to be run off just because MacLeod and I had a minor tiff." He cocked his head and nodded toward the interior of the apartment. "Can I come in or must we stand out here in the hallway to continue this conversation?"

        She blushed and opened the door to let him in. "I have held the apartment, Adam, just as I promised."

        He nodded and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "I never doubted for a moment you would, Madame." He looked around and she followed the hawk-like gaze a trifle nervously. He missed nothing it seemed.

        "Jeanette and I have been cleaning a bit. The dust collects after even so short a time when there is no one to tidy up." She and Amanda had also been checking shirt and trouser sizes, but there was no need to tell him that. Amanda was, of course, quite conversant with the Scot’s size and taste in clothing and had already purchased several fine ensembles for her ex-husband to wear on his honeymoon.

        "Jeanette," he mused glancing once more about the apartment. "I had no idea either of you were Opium users." He sniffed delicately. "That is Opium, isn’t it?" He frowned a little. Opium was Amanda’s scent – or one of them at least. He’d caught a good whiff of the same fragrance on Mac while he’d had his sword at his throat that day on the barge. His frown grew a bit grimmer. Perhaps he should have used his sword while he’d had the chance.

        She nodded. "Oui, Adam. Jeanette’s most recent admirer presented her with a small bottle the other day and she wished to sample it before wearing it in public." Dieu, but she was becoming almost as accomplished a liar as Amanda was.

        The old man ducked his head. "Oh, I see. Probably a good idea to test it out in the privacy of one’s own home before attempting it in a more public venue." Gods, the woman must be taking lessons from someone. She’d fed him that one with a completely straight face and almost no shame at all. But why would she be covering up for Amanda and Mac? She’d been so determined to split Mac and him up, one would think she would be more than happy to ‘spill the beans’ as it were and tell him every sordid detail of the affair. Unless . . .

        Unless she thought he’d be so devastated by it that he might do something really rash – like commit suicide or run off to Timbuktu or something. He looked at his landlady. The woman had been the closest thing to a mother he could remember. This must be killing her. God knew it was killing him.

        He thought back to Mac’s story of his attempted burglary of the barge. God! Mac, too. He could guess who Madame had been taking lessons from; he'd seen Amanda leave not twenty minutes past. Thank God she’d seemed utterly distracted and hadn’t noticed him lurking in the shadows across the street. Hadn’t felt his buzz either. He fought back a savage grin. If the little minx was sleeping with Mac, it was a fair guess what might be the cause of that distraction and the next time he saw her – he’d kill her. She’d probably chalk it up to a random mugging in her present condition. Mac, though, was another story entirely. Who could possibly have been teaching him to lie like that?

        "Madame," he said finally. "Can we talk?"

        Madame nodded and sat down on the sofa. "But of course, cher. What do you wish to talk about?"

        "MacLeod," he said briefly, easing down beside her and taking one of her hands in his.

        "MacLeod?" she squeaked, then cleared her throat and peered nervously at her young friend. "What about Monsieur MacLeod?"

        "Precisely what I wanted to ask you, Madame," he answered. "What about MacLeod?"

        She feigned ignorance. "I do not understand, Adam, cher. What could I know of your Scotsman that you do not?"

        Adam sighed, almost longing once more for the days of the Inquisition - or perhaps the return of Death on a Horse. This was going to take longer than he had thought. "Have you seen him, or his charming ex-wife, recently? Any idea what the two of them are up to now that I seem to be out of the picture?" He waited while she sat seemingly stunned. "Any plans for him now, Madame? He's out of jail, I hear; surely there must be some scheme you've got rattling around in that lovely head of yours to put him back."

        Madame shook her head. "Mais non, Adam. What happened before on the barge was none of my doing; though I will admit I was not displeased at the time to learn you had been rescued from so foul a fiend." She smiled and patted his hand gently. "You are safe now, cher. No harm will come to you, here. I have had the locks changed and the security for the building is among the best in all of Paris. The man will not show his face again here, that much is certain, unless you wish to invite him to dinner or some such thing." She sighed. "But as you are not living here at present, we cannot do that, can we?"

        Right, he thought. As though he hasn’t been here already and with Amanda, too, unless I miss my guess. He choked back a snide retort keeping fast to Adam Pierson and letting Death sit quietly on the sidelines for once. "Not exactly what I was asking, Madame," he said gently and she looked up in surprise.

        "What were you thinking, mon petit?" Madame asked with a tiny frown. The boy was behaving very strangely of late and she was certain the Scot had something to do with it. She sighed. "Adam, cher, I would do nothing to harm your Scot. You explained before how very much he meant to you." She stood, pulling her hands free from his grip. "But I will not have him coming and going about the apartment at will. It is not appropriate."

        "No, of course not," he muttered rising gracefully from his seat and wandering over to the bedroom. "Madame," he said slowly. "Why are my shirts lying on the bed?" He turned around to face her and her eyes widened. "Madame? All my clothes are lying on the bed. Is there something you’re not telling me?"

        "Non, petit," the woman said slowly, shaking her head. "What could there possibly be?"

        Adam frowned. "That’s rather what I was asking now isn’t it?" He bit at his lip – Adam Pierson at his most harmless, his most utterly wounded. "Is this a not-so-subtle hint for me to be packing, Madame?" he asked plucking at a loose thread in the bulky greenish sweater he was wearing – the one Mac had said made his eyes look like a ‘storm-swept sea’. He sighed and collapsed onto the bed. "Oh, Madame." His voice was half-choked and his former landlady sat down beside him, stroking his hair and making little cooing noises of consolation, which he did his best to ignore. It would be too easy to burst out laughing, despite the seriousness of the situation, so he concentrated instead on projecting an aura of betrayed innocence.

        MacLeod opened the door to the apartment, waved his accomplice through, and looked around, surprised. Methos was out but the door hadn't been all that thoroughly latched. Amanda hadn't had to try wiggling the American Express (don’t leave home without it) card more than twice, in fact, before the lock had sprung open. "Open Sesame," Duncan muttered and drifted in after her, closing the door with a snick behind him. He glanced quickly around the living area searching for something but not sure what exactly. He’d expected Methos to be a lot more cautious than this. The Old Guy must be as distracted as he was. Or maybe he just wasn’t planning on being gone all that long, in which case they’d better hurry.

        "It’s all right, Duncan," Amanda hissed behind him and his heart lurched in his chest as he grabbed for the sofa. "I saw him going into his old apartment building a little while after I left. If Madame spots him, he should be there a while. We’re perfectly safe."

        "This is his old apartment, Amanda," Duncan growled back. "And with Methos you’re never safe. Don’t even think it."

        It was time to call in the Big Guns; time to find somebody to help him convince the Old Immortal that people - including Immortals - could live together as friends or lovers for more than a week at a time despite statistics. But to whom could he point as proof of that? Who did he know that Methos would listen to? Robert and Gina might be willing to help. Hell, they owed him and Methos for getting them back on track; it was time they returned the favor.

        He stared once more around the living area while Amanda bustled about in the bedroom. "Don’t touch a thing, Amanda," he called down the stairs. "He’ll know if anything’s missing."

        "Oh, pooh," the dark-haired vixen pouted. "There’s some really nice stuff here, Mac and we’d be doing Methos a favor to take care of it for him. Impoverished grad students really shouldn’t be keeping things like this in their apartments. Could give rise to all sorts of ugly suspicions."

        Mac shook his head. The girl was incorrigible, but he loved her anyway. There was some nice stuff here. He wandered about a bit more, still looking for something and still not quite sure what it was he was looking for. Until he stepped into the kitchen.

        Methos' laptop was sitting right there on the counter. Mac didn't even need to boot it up and the e-mail program was already up and running. God, the old boy really was distracted. He hoped Methos was distracted for the same reason he was lately. He chuckled and sat down on one of the stools, then started skimming the older man's address book. He felt vaguely guilty, betraying Methos' trust like that, but not guilty enough to stop what he was doing and not that it was a betrayal exactly. If the old man left his address book in plain sight, he had to expect someone to look at it. He also felt vaguely uneasy about what the results might be if the old man came back and found him reading his mail. Once again, though, it was not enough to make him stop. He was desperate and desperate times called for desperate measures. He'd read that somewhere and it sounded appropriate. Methos was too important to lose and Mac was determined not to give the other man another opportunity to get away.

        He sent a quick vague e-mail to Robert and Gina informing them he’d be by later in the week to discuss his own romantic difficulties and stressing how important it was to him they advise him. He didn’t want to press, exactly, but he made it clear he thought they owed him a little something for what he and Adam had done for them. It was only after he hit ‘Send’ that he remembered they were in Tahiti on their honeymoon – still.

        Not a lost cause, though. They could pack their things and be back in France before the week was out – or not. He could pack a bag and be in Tahiti before the week was out, too. How hard could it be to track down two fairly powerful Immortals on an island the size of Tahiti? How many Immortals could there be on an island the size of Tahiti? Hell, the only Immortal he knew who had ever even mentioned going to Tahiti, other than Gina and Robert of course, was Methos and he was still in Paris, for the time being at least. He could always wind up in Tahiti before the week was out, too. He thought for a moment. Well, Amanda had mentioned it once or twice but he didn’t think she meant it. It was too quiet there and Amanda needed excitement like bees needed pollen or nectar or whatever it was they needed.

        He scanned through the address book some more until he stumbled on a pair of names he hadn’t thought of in a while. Quentin of York and Lamartin of Bordeaux were old friends of Methos. Probably the oldest friends he had. And they had been together for a millennium or two, too. And, they were both men which was another point in their favor as examples, not that their relationship hadn’t had its rocky moments, too, but they’d overcome the rough spots and were happy as clams now. He hoped.

        He hit ‘Compose’ and sat lost in thought for a moment or two. They wouldn’t come to Paris for him, that much was certain. The last time they’d met, Quen had made it clear they didn’t think he was good enough for Methos – too young, too much a ‘Green Boy’ and too callow (or was that ‘shallow’ they thought him?) and uncivilized for their friend. Too much a magnet, too, for other Immortals out hunting heads. Too much a danger to their beloved Methos is what they thought he was. Well, fine then. If they wouldn’t come to Paris for Duncan MacLeod, perhaps they’d come if Methos issued the invitation.

        He sketched out a brief note to the pair. He knew his style was nothing like Methos’, so best to give them as little opportunity to analyze the thing as possible. He floundered a little when it came to a reason for the invitation. It’d be no good claiming to celebrate a birthday. Methos couldn’t even remember his own and they’d never come all the way to Paris to celebrate Mac’s. Lemartin might. He’d seemed to be softening up a bit after Mac and Methos had helped get him and Quen back together, but Quentin was another story entirely. The Ice Prince would thaw about the same time Hell froze over.

        An anniversary might do it, though. Quentin would love the opportunity to tell Methos again what a mistake he was making. Mac grinned, finished up the note and hit ‘Send’. Then deleted every trace of the missive from Methos’ mail, trudged downstairs, dragged Amanda away from her perusal of Methos’ artifacts and out the front door, locking it securely behind them. No sense leaving the door open for the criminal element to just waltz in and take whatever they wanted.

        A nagging suspicion that he’d just made a horrible mistake lodged itself in his head on the way home. Quentin and Lemartin were perhaps the only two Immortals still alive who Methos might listen to. In fact, it was possible – not probable, but possible – that Quen’s disapproval of MacLeod lay at the heart of Methos’ sudden urge to distance himself from Mac. If this was the case, he had just given the baby-faced blond the means to put an end to what Quen considered a most inappropriate alliance. He swore softly to himself as he marched up the gangplank to the barge, Amanda trailing in his wake. He swore more loudly as he staggered into the living area, threw his coat at the coat-rack, stomped into the sleeping alcove and threw himself on the bed. He covered his eyes with one arm and groaned. If this didn’t work, he would . . .

        Hell, he didn’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. He was pretty sure it would involve swordplay, copious amounts of blood and someone doing a lot of screaming and yelling. He could hear Amanda humming as she bustled about in the kitchen and he smiled. It had been more than decent of her to help him break into Methos’ apartment and she hadn’t whined even once about not taking a little something for her trouble when he dragged her out the door. He sat up suddenly, his head swimming. "Amanda?"

        Methos unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped briskly inside, tossing his coat on the coat rack by the door and dropping his sword into the brass umbrella stand beside it, then strolled into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. He set the kettle to boil and went about gathering sugar, cream, a cup and saucer, a spoon and one whole lemon, setting all on the counter next to the stove, then sat down and drew his first real breath since he’d arrived.

        He sniffed. The interrogation hadn’t gone nearly as well as he had hoped. Madame had been singularly uncooperative. He sniffed again and coughed. Damn! That Opium really clung. He drew another harsh breath and shook his head. The sweater was ruined unless the cleaners could get the smell out; he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing scent like that. He turned the heat down on the stove and stomped downstairs and into the bedroom where the smell of a woman’s perfume threatened to gag him. Must be the lack of ventilation, he thought, sauntering toward the bath where he started the shower running. That was odd. The scent didn’t seem all that strong in here.

        He shrugged, toeing off his shoes and socks, then pulled off his shirt and trousers, dropped them into the hamper and ambled back into the bedroom. Good God! The smell was practically over-powering. He lifted one arm and sniffed delicately. It wasn’t him. "Amanda?" he called softly. "Amanda?" He wondered vaguely what she might have wanted coming here when she could just as easily gone to the barge and been with MacLeod. "Been with," he snarled. Now there was a tidy little euphemism – ‘been with’ as though nobody could guess what one meant by that. He moved cautiously further into the room. There was no sense of another Immortal’s Presence lingering in the room at all, just that god-forsaken smell, so what was he thinking of calling her name as though she might pop out of the closet and take his head?

        He strode, naked, over to the bed. "Hmmmm," he murmured noting the mess in the covers he had straightened neatly just before leaving that afternoon. "Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed or at least" he amended, "resting on my bed." An evil grin flickered across his mouth. "And I think we know who, don’t we?" He reached into the top drawer of the night-stand and pulled out the pistol he kept there for emergencies. An intruder certainly ought to qualify.

        He stared around the room feeling vaguely uneasy. Something was amiss here and it was more than just the scent of Amanda’s perfume or the bed’s disarray. Things were out of place, only slightly, true, but out of place nonetheless and the old Immortal growled low in his throat. Bad enough the strumpet just waltzes in uninvited, he snarled, stalking over to the dresser and pushing things back into place. Bad enough she leaves her scent all over the bedclothes like a cat marking its territory, he hissed, making his way to the bed and twitching the covers back into place. This is my territory by God and I’ll thank her to keep her hands off of it – and off of Mac, too.

        He dropped down onto the bed and picked up the phone. Perhaps he ought to call Mac and apologize for running off the other day. Or, then again, perhaps not. No, Mac was with Amanda now and for some reason Madame was trying to keep that from him. Perhaps he’d finally done it – pushed the Highlander away for good with his refusal to stick around and work things out, his patented solution to anything perfected over long centuries – do nothing. Perhaps, too, it was more this time between Mac and Amanda than a little ‘slap and tickle’ before she took off again to wherever it was she took off to when she took off – as if that made any sense.

        He put down the phone and reached for the rosary Darius had given him when they’d parted all those centuries ago. He needed to think and the narrow string of amber-and-gold beads frequently helped. Amazing that he and Darius had stayed friends after the general’s conversion. Well, once he’d had time to think about it, anyway. Even the general’s protégé had seen the change as a betrayal of sorts – a betrayal of them and their whole way of life. If he hadn’t changed so much himself, Methos might have agreed with Grayson’s need for revenge when their leader took holy orders and left them to fend for themselves. He’d stayed in that monastery with Darius for weeks trying to convince him to come back and lead their army again, but the new priest wouldn’t budge and look what it had gotten him – killed by a bunch of rabid mortal Hunters.

        His hand dropped onto the nightstand and he felt around in surprise, aware for the first time the rosary was not where he’d left it. He pulled open the drawer again, thinking perhaps he’d put it there the last time he’d had need of it, then dropped down onto the floor and peered under the bed thinking maybe Amanda had knocked it off the stand when she lay down. He fished around behind the nightstand, too, but no. It was nowhere to be found.

        Methos swore and hurried over to the dresser, only to realize as he stared at the polished surface that the rosary was not the only thing missing. Several other items seemed to have been liberated as well. The silver pocket-watch he’d carried since his Butch and Sundance days was gone, too. And the ebony-and-ivory-handled dagger Marcus Constantine had given him as a token when he’d served with him in Egypt had disappeared as had an onyx-and-silver wolf’s head ring he’d won playing at dice with Fitz and some Musketeer chaps.

        He dropped down onto the bed feeling tired and sick. Despite their differences, he’d thought Amanda and he were friends. Whatever had she been thinking? She hadn’t thought enough that was certain. To come here and steal from him – Death on a Horse? And to take what she had taken? Small stuff, really, and not worth a great fortune except as reminders of his past lives and old friends, some of whom were gone for good now. He’d kill her for this – several times.

        He staggered back to the bed and picked up the phone. "Hello, police? I’d like to report a burglary."

        Joe Dawson picked up the phone on the second ring, casting a nervous glance at the man on the other side of the bar. "Dawson here."

        "Joe?" The other voice sounded strained and the bartender frowned.

        "Mac? What the hell! Where are you?"

        There was a wry chuckle on the other end of the line and then a deep sigh. "I’ve been arrested – again."

        "Arrested?" Dawson fairly shouted, shrugging off his companion’s tug at his sleeve and trying to ignore the sibilant whispering of the figure across from him.

        "Is that Mac?" Methos hissed and Dawson covered the phone. "Where is he?"

        "He’s been arrested," Joe said glumly. "Now hush!" He turned his attention back to his caller. "What the hell happened, Mac? I thought you and the old lady had kissed and made up. What’re the charges this time?"

        There was another sigh. "Breaking and entering for one thing."

        "For one thing?" Dawson asked in disbelief. "You mean there’s more?" There was a long silence and Joe could almost see the Highlander nodding, then realizing the other half of this conversation was several blocks away and couldn’t see the non-verbal cues.

        "Yeah, Joe. Some things were stolen, too, apparently."

        Joe groaned. "Apparently? Good God, Mac! Don’t you know if anything was taken or not? You were there for Christ’s sake! Weren’t you?"

        On the other side of the bar, Methos sat up straighter and frowned. The police had said they had a suspect in custody but they hadn’t said who nor had they asked him to come down and identify his missing property. If they’d arrested MacLeod, though, it must mean that he and Amanda had been in on it together.

        There was another brief silence and Joe heard the Highlander clear his throat. "Not exactly, Joe. I wasn’t in the room the whole time, you see. I was upstairs using the computer." He cleared his throat again. "We weren’t in the damned apartment more than half an hour all told and I told her not to touch anything, Joe, I swear it."

        "Told who not to touch anything, Mac? Where were you? MacLeod what the hell is going on?" He had an awful suspicion he knew the ‘who’ and possibly the ‘where’. What he wanted to know now was the ‘why’.

        "My friend, Joe. The one who helped me break into . . . Adam’s apartment."

        The bluesman sighed. "Amanda?" There was a long silence on the other end. "You left her alone in the old man’s apartment and you’re surprised things when walk out? Mac, what were you thinking?"

        "I’ve asked him the same thing," Methos muttered, sipping at his beer. "Several times."

        "I don’t know, Joe," Mac muttered on the other end of the line. "I wanted to see him, talk things out and I took her along as moral support."

        "Moral support?" Joe huffed. "You have got to be out of your ever-lovin’ mind, MacLeod." He waited for the Highlander to continue. "So, what went wrong?"

        Mac snorted. "So, what went wrong is he wasn’t home and I didn’t want to wait for him out in the hallway."

        "So you broke into his apartment? What if somebody had called the cops?"

        "Somebody did," Mac wailed. "I let Amanda borrow my credit card and she jimmied the lock." There was another deep sigh and then a gust of laughter. "You know, Joe, for a guy as old and wise as he supposedly is, he’s awfully careless sometimes. His security system is a joke. Hell, it only took her two tries at that lock and wham! Open Sesame!"

        Joe chuckled. "I’ll tell him, Mac."

        "Is he there?"

        The mortal cast a quick glance at the man sitting in front of the bar. "When I see him, Mac. I’ll tell him when I see him. Did you get it back?"

        "What?"

        "The credit card, Mac. Did you get it back?"

        It seemed the Scot had to think about that one for a moment. "Ah, no," he said at last. "I don’t think I did."

        The Watcher groaned again – loudly – and Methos tugged on his sleeve. "Joe?"

        "Will you hush for cryin’ out loud? I’m talkin’ here." The old man sighed and began peeling the label off his beer as Joe continued. "So, Mac, you want me to come bail you out? Get you a lawyer? What?"

        "A lawyer might not be a bad idea, Joe," the Highlander answered. "I think I’m gonna need one this time."

        "How bad are we talkin’ here, Mac?" Joe asked. "Petty larceny or grand theft? And what evidence do they have it was you?"

        On the other side of the bar, Methos raised his head, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. "Joseph?"

        "Shush!" Joe hissed and the other man subsided temporarily. "Mac?"

        "They found my fingerprints all over the apartment, Joe, and some of the ‘loot’ was on the barge when they dropped by to ask questions. Perhaps, if you see Adam, you might tell him he can stop by the station and identify it."

        "Oh, God!" Dawson could feel a headache coming on and he reached under the counter for a bottle of Scotch, thought better of it and grabbed the vodka instead. "Damn, Mac. How much did she take?"

        "That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Joe. I don’t know. The police didn’t say what all was missing, they were too busy gloating over the stuff they did find."

        "I’ll bet," Joe muttered, dropping his head into his hands. "You think maybe it’s a frame?"

        Methos shook his head and leaned over the counter, reaching for another beer. "If Amanda’s involved, Joe," he hissed loudly, "she doesn’t need a reason."

        "Rubbish. Why would she do a thing like this to Mac? They’ve been friends for years; hell, they’re more than friends."

        "Thanks, Joe," Methos growled. "Like I need that little reminder. This is just the sort of thing she pulled when Keane was hunting MacLeod’s head, remember?" Joe nodded and looked at the old Immortal quizzically. "Perhaps that’s all the reason she needs. Tell him I’ll be there in an hour, Joe, two tops."

        "Mac," Joe said quickly. "I think I’ve got you a lawyer."

        "I recommend you give them the name of your accomplice, MacLeod."

        The Highlander shook his head. "It won’t help, Me . .Adam."

        "What do you mean it won’t help you?" the other man snapped, springing to his feet and beginning to pace. "They’ll have the real culprit and perhaps the charges against you can be reduced to mere trespassing. You’ve already served your time for that I should think." He leaned back against the bars of the cell. "I’m not dropping the charges, Mac."

        "Why not?"

        "I love you both dearly but I . . . What?" The older Immortal straightened up with a jerk. "What do you mean ‘why not’?" He cocked his head to one side. "You’re joking, right?"

        MacLeod shook his head again. "Why would I be joking, Adam? You think I like it here?"

        Methos chuckled. "I was beginning to wonder, MacLeod. It certainly seems like you’re spending enough time here." He moved forward again and squatted down before the Scot. "I can’t drop the charges, Mac. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. Surely you can see that."

        The Highlander sighed and leaned back on his hands, spreading his knees slightly and arching his hips. Methos flushed and drew a harsh breath of his own. "Damn you, MacLeod."

        "Come on," Mac said, smiling. "You know you want to. If it was me, I’d want to." He reached one foot forward, rubbing the old man’s thigh through the coarse denim.

        Methos shivered. "You slut." He rested the palms of his hands on his knees, careful not to touch the other man, and sighed. "You really mean it, don’t you?" The Scot nodded. "What are you willing to do to keep her out of this, Mac?"

        Mac shifted slightly on the cot. "Whatever it takes, Adam, whatever it takes."

        "Still playing the Clan Chieftain, MacLeod?" the old man mused. "It’s a grand offer and I’m sure Amanda would appreciate it but chivalry is dead and in any case, I think she’s quite capable of making her own deals. She’s had a bit longer to develop her technique than you have."

        "I’m not offering her a deal, Adam. I’m offering you one."

        Methos sighed again. "You two broke into my home, Mac. I can’t just let that pass." He frowned momentarily. "Well, I could I suppose. Mi casa es su casa, after all." He looked up to see the Highlander nodding energetically. "But she stole from me, Mac. Me – Death on a Horse!" He looked around suddenly to make sure no one was nearby. "I will not tolerate that, MacLeod. No one steals from me – no one. I don’t care whothey are – friend, foe, family. Let one person get away with filching a few trinkets just because they’re a passing acquaintance and before you know it, total strangers think they have the right to come in and help themselves to everything you own. And then where are you?" He looked at the Scot expectantly and continued more softly. "You’ve no privacy, no safety, no sense of self in your own home, Mac. I’m sorry, Mac, truly, but I can’t allow that. Try to understand. Please?"

        The Highlander nodded. "Oh, yeah. I understand about no privacy, Adam. All those months you’d drop by, flop on my couch, drink my beer, toss bottle caps behind the fridge and your clothes from hell to breakfast, spend hours in the bathroom while I had to wait to use the shower so I could get ready for classes. What’s yours is mine; what’s mine’s mine own. That’s your motto, right?"

        "You gave me a key, Mac," the older man hissed. "Told me to make myself at home. There’s a difference there, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I never ‘liberated’ any of your belongings – except for the occasional beer and I replaced those." He looked up, hazel eyes stormy. "And the things she took! That’s what makes me more angry than anything else. The things I’ve kept over the years are things that help me remember the past, Mac! That string of amber beads the police found? Darius gave me that when he told me he wouldn’t be coming back to lead our army. And the dagger she left on the barge? Marcus Constantine gave me that when I was with him in Egypt. I did him a service once and that was my reward. He could hardly give me a commission considering I died right there in front of the troops."

        He looked down at his hands, gripping them tightly to keep from throttling his friend. "You try living 5000 years and remembering everything that’s happened without some tokens, MacLeod. Even the journals I’ve kept are sketches, not detailed accounts. It’d be too dangerous to keep them lying around otherwise." He sighed heavily. "Most of my friends are gone, Mac, and those things and the memories are all I have of them. I don’t want you to feel guilty, you understand. I mean, you haven’t killed all of them, just the last five or six."

        "Five or six? I killed Kronos and Byron, Adam. I hardly think you considered Caspian a friend."

        "True. But Haresh Clay was a friend and so was Xavier, once. And you didn’t kill Fitz, but Kalas was trying to hurt you when he took his head. He had no quarrel with him otherwise."

        The Highlander winced. "Kalas had no quarrel with half the Immortals he killed, Methos, and you know it. He killed because he liked killing." He looked hard at the other man. "And Fitz was my friend, too. Don’t forget that."

        "I know," Methos said nodding. "But just the same, Amanda has to pay for what she did. It’s your choice, Mac. Either the police punish her or I do. Which will it be?" He looked up. "If she’s willing to return the items she stole, I can at least have the charges reduced to a misdemeanor – malicious mischief or something like that. We can say she was playing a joke, trying to get us back together. What about it, Mac? You think she’d be willing?"

        Duncan shook his head. "I want her out of it entirely, Adam. No harm, no foul. She was only trying to help."

        "Right. Of course, Mac. It’s not her fault she’s a kleptomaniac and can’t keep her hands off other people’s belongings." The old man sighed. "All right. You have her call Joe and let him know where my things are and I’ll forget about pressing charges." "On you," he muttered under his breath turning his back on the Scot and striding toward the door of the minuscule cage in which the Highlander had taken up residence. "I’ll see you when you get out."

        Dieu, but she could not understand what had happened. They had had everything under control, she was sure. Why then had the stupid Scot and his ex-wife done such a foolish thing? And what had possessed Adam to press charges against the ex-wife of his lover even after his belongings had been recovered? Jealousy, perhaps?

        Well, at least the former Madame MacLeod was no longer languishing in that wretched cell. She and Amanda had much to accomplish, if she could just convince the woman to forgive Adam his little joke. Amanda had not seemed amused by it, though, even after Monsieur Dawson had seen to her bail and she, Genevieve de Lancie, had called upon her relations in the prefecture to reduce the charges against the young woman even further.

        She doubted she would be able to do the same again, though, since Amanda had gone straightway to Adam’s abode and made certain vocal and disparaging remarks about his parentage and sexual preferences. Adam had retaliated with a scathing rebuttal albeit couched in terms a bit more diplomatic than those employed by his guest.

        The Scot, too, had been furious with both of them and it had taken all Adam’s considerable powers of persuasion to calm the man before he had himself arrested for disturbing the peace. She shook her head. Adam wanted the Scot; the Scot wanted Adam. This was as certain as the sunrise in the morning, though neither of them seemed inclined to admit such a thing to the other. Well, there were ways to deal with such male stupidity and stubbornness if one but had patience. Adam would have what he wanted, if she had to drag both the young men before a justice of the peace herself.

        Madame de Lancie chuckled softly as she dialed another number. The police, the courts and even Adam’s very good friend from the historical society may have failed to make the Scot – or Adam – see reason, but for a certainty the young men would listen to Bertrand. Her brother could be most persuasive.

        The tapping grew louder and more insistent. "Bloody hell," Methos groused, sticking his head out of the shower. Was there a neon sign somewhere that started flashing the minute he got undressed? He only hoped it was not the police this time. He had thought the latest talk he had had with Madame had seemed to settle that little misunderstanding as evidenced by the unconscious Scot’s presence on the barge. Duncan might be comatose but at least he was home. For how long, though, was an unknown; one could never be quite sure with Madame or the Highlander how much exactly had been settled. He turned off the water and stepped out. He really should begin carrying a robe with him – preferably one of Duncan’s large velour ones. Towels were so passé and they really didn’t cover anywhere near enough when you had company.

        He strode toward the door, adjusting the towel as he went, and stole a look at the man still slumbering soundly on the big bed. A slight smile tugged at his mouth and he almost forgot the door in favor of something a bit closer at hand. The tapping commenced once more and he hurried to open it before the noise woke his friend. Cracking it open, he peered outside, then hurriedly slammed it shut again, sagging weakly against the frame. Not the police, oh no, but someone perhaps infinitely worse. At least, under the present circumstances. He stole a quick glance at the naked Scot sprawled on the bed. Duncan’s head was buried under the pillows, the bedclothes crumpled around but not over the muscular bronzed body. He groaned. Oh this was definitely much worse.

        "Could you hold on just a minute Father," he inquired very politely. "Just let me throw on something a bit warmer and I’ll be right out."

        The black-robed priest on the other side of the door chuckled wryly. "If you don’t mind dear boy, I’d much prefer to come in and perhaps have a bit of something warm."

        Adam sighed. "Very well. I’ll just tidy up a bit and then we’ll talk." He opened the door a bit and motioned the other man inside. "I assume you are here to talk?" He was very careful to remain in a position to block the man’s view of the barge’s sleeping quarters and the occupant of the bed, though it was extremely difficult given the open layout of Duncan’s damn barge. If he was going to be staying here, they were going to install walls or at least curtains around that bed. Of course, given their ups-and-downs of late, there was no guarantee he would be staying long enough to worry about it.

        The cleric sat down by the fire and leaned back comfortably, eyes closed and hands folded peacefully over his chest. A small sigh escaped him.

        Adam leapt up the steps of the platform, jerking the covers over MacLeod’s body and grabbed a pair of sweats. The Scot’s prickly conscience was a constant bone of contention between them, especially of late when it seemed the things he thought Duncan should be concerned about the bloody Scot wasn’t, and he had no intention of giving it something more to fret over – at least not tonight. Duncan had been so exhausted when he returned to the barge, they’d not even had time for a proper reunion as yet.

        He slipped quietly back down the steps, careful not to wake his lover, and strode briskly into the kitchen. "A cup of tea, Father?" The priest opened his eyes and nodded, taking in the pleasant domesticity of the scene. Such a nice polite young man he was and in such a familial setting. Surely there could be nothing inappropriate going on and he would tell dearest Genevieve so when next he saw her. He wondered where the Scotsman was, though. Genevieve had said the police had released the man after this latest imbroglio and so he might expect to find him on board his boat. It was certainly more desirable to speak to him of such a private matter in his home rather than his place of business and, as Genevieve had pointed out, he was unlikely to return to his place of business for some days. She had further insisted it was most urgent he be spoken to immediately – before Adam’s honor was besmirched any further.

        He shook his head sadly. Genevieve was such a romantic – it was no wonder Jeanette, for all her brilliance and education, had similar delusions. Life was not a Danielle Steele novel he kept reminding them. It was not a novel by the Brontes or Miss Austen either. Life did not always end ‘happily ever after’ – no matter how much one wished it did. He glanced again at the young man dithering about in the kitchenette. The boy looked happy enough – perhaps in this one case, Genevieve was right. Seeing the Scot and how he interacted with his young friend - he would make no further assumptions - would perhaps give him a clue as to what steps might be taken to insure Adam’s honor and virtue remained intact, or at least as intact as it was possible for it to remain.

        Adam returned to his guest bearing a plate of sandwiches in one hand and tiny cakes in the other. He had had to have something to occupy his time whilst Duncan recovered from his ordeal. So, he had spent several pleasant hours that afternoon baking the dainty little cakes and frosting them carefully. He had baked the bread, too – something he would ordinarily have left to Duncan who had a knack for such things – and a large bread-maker that Adam refused to touch since it had bitten him once already. Who would have guessed his culinary endeavors would come in so handy so soon?

        The teapot whistled and a noise from the bed startled them both. The priest sat up a little straighter, eyes traveling unerringly to the lump under the bedclothes. So, that was where the Scot was hiding. "Your friend is asleep?" he asked with a tight little smile. Oh, this was most unfortunate. There was obviously only the one bed, but perhaps Adam – being less bulky than the other man – slept on the large leather couch and allowed MacLeod the comfort of the bed. Genevieve had said the boy was of a generous and giving nature – it was only to be hoped he had not given too freely.

        Adam nodded, sinking into the sofa. "Last time I looked," he muttered, flushing only slightly. Duncan did guilt – and very nicely, too. Methos, as he had told MacLeod more than once, hadn’t felt guilt since the eleventh century and he had no intention of starting in again now. Guilt was MacLeod’s forte, not his. It was none of the good Father’s business what they did – in the privacy of Duncan’s own home. It was nobody’s business – really – although Madame seemed to have made it hers for some unknown reason.

        Priests and police, he thought unhappily, must have a sixth sense about things like this and he wondered again what had brought the man here tonight of all nights. Was there something in the gendarme job description that said ‘must know the exact moment to appear at a suspect’s door to provide the maximum discomfort and embarrassment’? Was there a little codicil in the application for priesthood that said ‘must have the ability to force an immediate confession of wrong-doing with a glance’? Though these could hardly apply to him; he’ been the suspected victim when the police arrived and as far as he knew, no one blamed him in the slightest for the difficulties with MacLeod.

        Perhaps another discussion with Madame de Lancie was in order and this time he would take Duncan with him. He glanced uneasily at the priest and prayed Duncan would not be permitted an opportunity to indulge his penchant for self-recrimination. His prayers went unanswered, however, as the subject of their brief conversation rose up in all his glory, shouldering off the light blankets and sliding out of the bed and onto the floor.

        "Sorry ‘bout that," the Scot remarked blearily as he climbed unsteadily to his feet, clinging to the bedpost for support. Adam groaned and covered his eyes. The Highlander made it halfway to the bathroom before the presence of the man in the easy chair filtered into his awareness, then halted in mid-stride, flushing rosily, as the identity of their guest insinuated itself most uncomfortably into his consciousness. He glanced warily from the priest sitting stiffly by the fire to his lover. Methos/Adam was sunk in the sofa in an apparent attempt to become invisible by merging with the cushions.

        MacLeod groaned and started back toward the bed. "Here, Mac. Put these on," Adam said briefly, tossing the Highlander a pair of leopard-print briefs rescued from the back of the sofa. They didn’t cover much but at least they covered the essentials and they looked rather intriguing on MacLeod. He’d bought them for the Highlander hoping to spice up their reunion a little, but – alas! – Duncan had been too exhausted to make any effort in that direction at all.

        "Genevieve said I might be too late." The priest stared reproachfully at MacLeod, then turned his eyes upon Adam in a gaze meant to convey both sorrow and pity at the young man’s evident fall from grace. Adam sank lower in the sofa as the Scotsman dropped down beside him. "You have, ah, consummated this relationship?" The priest’s tone was mildly disapproving and both men stared blankly. He coughed, delicately. "You have been intimate?" he asked, fairly unnecessarily in Adam’s opinion given the state of undress currently favored by at least one of the barge’s occupants.

        They nodded and the cleric turned his attention once more to the Highlander. "Your intentions, monsieur?" Methos squirmed in his seat. He had a sudden sinking feeling he knew where this conversation was heading and he did not want to be around for the denouement. Duncan stared blankly.

        "Intentions?"

        "Regarding the boy, monsieur," the good Father repeated patiently. "Your intentions are honorable, are they not?" Surely the man must know to what he referred. He could not be so lost to propriety and a sense of decency as that. He stole another look at the young man on the sofa. The child was crimson with embarrassment and Father Bertrand felt for him, deeply. Ah, le pauvre petit innocent, just as Genevieve had said. He had no idea the depths of depravity into which he had stumbled. The boy caught his eyes and choked back what sounded like a sob. Covering his mouth, he rose quickly and fled into the bathroom, leaving MacLeod staring, glassy-eyed in the direction of his lover’s sudden exit.

        "Honorable?"

        The Scot was being most obtuse and the elderly cleric found his patience wavering. "Oui, monsieur. Honorable." He fixed MacLeod with a frosty glare. "You do intend to make an honest man of him, n’est-ce pas?"

        Duncan guffawed and snorted impolitely. "An honest man, Father? Him?" A hysterical breakdown seemed imminent and Bertrand was glad the child was not present to hear what the man he so obviously adored was saying. It would break his poor innocent heart.

        Duncan wished Methos were here to share the joke. Where had he gone anyway? He giggled uncontrollably; the giggles turned into snorts which rapidly developed into roars of laughter and Duncan clutched his sides as tears rolled down his cheeks. The good Father did not seem amused.

        Adam had poked his head out of the bath at the first snort and had been watching the proceedings intently. Duncan was struggling manfully to contain his amusement but succeeding hardly at all. Father Bertrand was on his feet looming over the Scot – fire in his eyes and ice in his tone. "You do not wish to legitimize the relationship, monsieur?"

        The laughter stopped suddenly as Duncan looked up. "Legitimize?"

        "Mais oui, monsieur. I assume you would wish to make your relationship legal? Surely you cannot expect a young man of Adam’s tenuous position to remain in such a questionable situation?" Most irritating this Scotsman – how could Genevieve even suggest a marriage between such a one and her former neighbor? Much better to remedy the situation by convincing young Adam to return to the bosom of his family and forsake this most reprehensible Scotsman. How could the man fail to see the consequences of his actions to the future of his young companion?

        Duncan felt lost. The conversation had taken a left turn somewhere and he’d missed it. Since when had Adam’s situation become questionable? He was the solid upright citizen here, not Adam. Adam could hardly care less what people thought or said or did. It was he, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod who had a reputation and a position to uphold in the community and doing a poor job of it at the moment he was too. "Excuse me, Father?"

        Methos sagged to the floor. Madame had gone too far this time – calling in a priest indeed - but Duncan’s words surprised and hurt. He didn’t know why they should – surprise him, that is – Duncan saw everything in black-and-white. Life must be terribly boring with no shades of gray and no Technicolor, but that was Duncan’s way. Everyone had to fit into their own nice little niche, too – the good guys and the bad guys. For two years and a bit of change, Adam Pierson had been one of the good guys – or so the Highlander had thought. And, perhaps, that was the problem. Duncan had thought him one of the good guys and then Cassie had come ‘round and exposed a part of his sordid past he’d hoped was dead and buried long ago – a bit he’d tried for centuries to forget. And Duncan, with his curiosity about ancient history – although Lord knows he’d never asked him a single thing about it – and his gullibility – where women were concerned at any rate – had swallowed it whole and suddenly Methos was one of the bad guys – in spades.

        Duncan had assumed, then, that everything Adam had said from day one had been a lie. He might not have told the whole truth, but he’d never lied. And he’d dropped plenty of hints, too – if Duncan had wanted to pick up on them. But the stubborn Scot hadn’t asked even one question about anything. So, how could he say ‘you lied to me’? He’d not lied to the Highlander, ever. Not even about Cassandra really, though he knew Duncan didn’t see it that way. It was true what he’d said to Cassandra in the dojo. She didn’t know him – not the man he was now at any rate. It hadn’t been him who’d done those awful things. The man he was today wasn’t the man who’d killed her all those years ago. Although, if he were being completely honest, he had to admit that dumping her off that bridge and watching her hit the water had given him just the teeniest bit of satisfaction – especially considering all the trouble she’d caused him.

        He crouched there on the floor of the bathroom for what seemed a very long time while Father Bertrand and Duncan continued their ‘discussion’ about him in softer tones. He wondered what more Duncan might be saying about him and if his reputation was irrevocably ruined. He certainly hoped not. He liked his nice quiet position at the library – he had time to read and to write and it kept him almost as much out of the way of other Immortals as his job with the Watchers had. He dropped his head into his hands and leaned back against the door jam with a little whimper.

        It was a good thing, he thought, that he’d not closed up the apartment or severed all ties with Madame de Lancie. She had intimated she would hold the rooms for as long as he needed to ‘come to a decision’. Well, it seemed the decision had been made for him.

        He should have told Duncan straight out about the Horsemen and Cassandra. He should have remembered from reading Duncan’s Chronicles about the Witch of Donan Wood and put two-and-two together and come up with four or something close to it. But no – he’d tried so hard for so long to put that thousand or so years out of his mind he’d honestly not remembered much of it at all – until he found Kronos’ dagger sticking in his chest. God, what an awakening that had been! Kronos swinging those damn chains around – "How do you feel, Brother?" How the hell did he think he felt? He knew it unnerved him. That’s why he did it – why he’d done everything he’d ever done in all the years they were together.

        He shuddered and drew his knees up to his chest wrapping his arms tight around them. He and Duncan had come awfully close to losing it then – not just their friendship, but everything and the thought nearly made him ill.

        He bit his lip and tried to think. Was there anything else the Highlander needed to know about his past? Probably a great deal. Nobody lived 5000 years without making a few mistakes – some people more than others – and he had made plenty. He sighed. Hopefully, Kronos and that lot were the worst of the ghosts he and Duncan would have to deal with; although, Byron’s sudden appearance had nearly quashed their re-emerging acceptance of one another – or, rather, Duncan’s acceptance of him. What the hell – had Duncan expected just because he’d not taken a head in 200 years he’d lived like a monk, too?

        Poor old Byron – such a tragedy that had been – the poor deluded self-destructive bastard. He wondered if that’s what George Gordon had been aiming at all along – finding someone with the requisite moral fortitude and sense of righteous indignation at his total lack of responsibility to take him out of the misery his life had become. Well, he’d certainly found that in MacLeod. Methos’ stomach churned as he thought of how much differently things might have turned out had he told MacLeod that first day about his past – or at least as much of it as he could remember. He might not have had to offer his head more than once before Duncan would have seen fit to oblige him.

        Adam crawled slowly to his feet and splashed cold water over his face. He did not have that many belongings to pack. He could be off the barge and back in his apartment by morning. No more trying to live up to the Highlander’s lofty expectations of him. No more sticking his neck out for every passing Immortal to take a whack at. No more dodging and weaving every time a ghost from his past popped into town. Perhaps dating would be a very good thing indeed. He was almost sure Madame de Lancie could fix him up with someone or – if he wheedled nicely – possibly several someones.