The Bonds of Brotherhood

Greetings Loyal Readers!!
We're Baaack! Wellllll...kinda, sorta.
Actually the fact that we've been quiet for so long rests solely on my shoulders. Yes, I did the unimaginable, folks. I allowed RL issues to weigh down my fun time. We all know my REAL life is here with ya'll, right? My writing partner, Be'Tor, has been the soul of patience. She flattered. She cajoled. She threw pecans at me. She enlisted members of the local squirrel and chipmunk brigade to engage in a covert operation in and around my place of work. She tried to bribe me with chocolate...oh yeah, we're talking Godiva!! She even waved bottles of my favorite YellowTail wine at me but to no avail. Finally the poor dear had to write her own story. You see our little miss Be'Tor rediscovered Highlander and is hopelessly in love...okay, okay, OKAY!!...LUST with Methos and Kronos. So, while she sent the chipmunks on their covert op...she hammered away on her laptop and the result is what you see here. I promised her I would post part one before the holiday (Thanksgiving) and I'm a woman of my word. Hey, ya'll be sure to send feedback. We live for your comments and Be'Tor gets a kick out of corresponding...so let us know what you think.
Happy Reading ya'll!!
Lursa

Author's Note:
This is AU folks. The Horsemen have never been apart. Major SPOILERS for all of Seasons 5 and 6. And remember this is a Methos who's never had the calming influence of ole Duncan. Got that?? Oh, do not try this at home. All acts are performed by consenting adult characters in controlled situations. Do not...I repeat...Do NOT try this at home!!

DISCLAIMER:
We own nothing. We DO NOT claim to own Methos, Kronos or any of the other Highlander folk. We're just playing with 'em for a while. No, absolutely, NO money is being made here.


Part One

Methos frowns as he absently runs his hands over the comforting covers of the used books jumbled together on the long table in front of Shakespeare & Company. His fingers linger on the coarse texture of a cloth-covered book as he strokes his fingertips over the faded letters on the spine. How long will it take for his prolonged absence to penetrate his brother’s absorption? He had thought, hoped that the argument that he had provoked before leaving would be enough break through the fog of Kronos’ latest obsession. He wanted his brother’s attention on him…on them. He’s used to the annoying way that Kronos can drift off into meditative trances that last for hours, but the opportunity to watch his brother, and admire Kronos unobserved, has its own pleasures. He’s even used to reluctantly sharing Kronos with the others, always knowing that he can claim and reclaim his brother’s full attention any time he wants. But he refuses, absolutely refuses to take second place to this latest obsession with a damned microscopic organism. His jaw tightens as he remembers the way Kronos brushed his invitation for some quality mattress thumping in favor of more lab time. He might not have every time that he wants from his brother, but he will have Kronos’ full and complete attention.

“Adam!”

Methos looks up at the sound of his current name. He narrows his eyes as Jillian O’Hara hurries toward him. Oh, for God’s sake, what is it now? He’d just wasted a goodly portion of last night, crawling various bars with Jillian and some of the more frisky archivists. He is not in the mood for trading Watcher gossip and smiling. He wants to brood over Kronos, and fine-tune his plans for revenge, not listen to Jillian natter on and on and on.

"Adam, hello there." Jillian tilts her head back to smile up at him. Her long black hair is pulled back from her round face with a pair of combs decorated with tiny blue enameled flowers that matched the royal blue of her pantsuit.

Methos forces his lips to curve into Adam Pierson’s shy smile, and sternly represses the urge to treat her to Death’s cold smile instead. “Jillian! How are you?”

“Busy, of course,” She shifts her leather satchel from hand to hand as she eyes the book that he is holding. Mischief gleams in her eyes. "Find something interesting on Don's bargain table?"

Methos glances down at the title of the book that he had absently picked up and blinks – Mistress Kira's Guide to Managing the Strong-Willed Sub. A sneer tugs at the edges of his mouth as he sets the book back on the pile, and glances at the title running down the spine of the book nestling next to it – The Joy and Art of Bondage. He needs no advice on either subject. There is probably nothing in either book that he didn't already know, and done frequently, but it wouldn’t do to have anyone associate such needs with that nice studious Adam Pierson. Too bad he can’t blush on demand, he’ll have to settle for something else to convey the right message to Jillian. Methos ducks his head and fumbles awkwardly among the books, picking a volume on gardening. “Yes, I believe I have.”

“Really,” Jillian leans close to look at the title. She smirks knowingly at him. “Ahhh…Compost Basics: A Pictorial Guide for the Organic Gardener how…exciting.”

“I’ve been thinking about using natural fertilizers for my potted plants.”

“Have you now?” Jillian leans across him, brushing her breasts against his arm as she snags the bondage book. She turns the book around to expose the faded photograph of a bound woman on the cover. “Now here’s something worth reading, don’t you think?”

“Jilly!” Methos drops his gaze. “Put that down.”

“Oh, come on Adam, lighten up. Have you never fantasized about…”

“No!” Methos carefully looks everywhere, but at Jillian and the book that she is waving under his nose, as he takes a step back. How long is it going to take her to get tired of the topic so he can stop feigning embarrassment about an art that he is well versed in? As if he hadn’t spend centuries exploring the art with mortals when his heart aches to apply his art to the one man that he really wants to share his skills with. But fears of how Kronos might react had kept him from following through on the urges that he felt…the fantasies that haunted his daydreams. Both of them had come from a time when being bound and at someone's mercy was a deadly serious business rather than a form of sensual play. And while he had come to find pleasure in subduing a tangle of limbs to his own design…in the feel of leather, silk, rope, and metal sliding through his hands, and in watching his captives struggle, strain, and adjust to whatever bonds he had chosen to impose on them…he had never even hinted of his true desires to his volatile lover.

“Not even once?” Jillian teases as she makes a show of thumbing through the illustrations in the book.

Okay. He’s had all of this he can take and stay hidden under mild Adam Pierson. Methos forces another smile. "Are you escaping from HQ, Jilly?"

"I'll have you know that I'm on an actual errand." Jillian tosses the book back down, then fishes in her satchel and pulls out a folder. "This is for Don."

Methos takes the folder, glancing at the embossed seal holding it closed. He could have peeked at such a sealed folder, and left no telltale signs, but Jilly is much too honest to have attempted to inspect the contents. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you, Jilly, but they couldn't just email him?”

“Apparently not.”

“Not again.” Methos rolls his eyes. “The network is not on the blink again?!"

"Would you expect any less, the way it's been behaving lately?” Jillian shakes her head. “I wish the networking people would figure out what's going on and get it fixed. It's so exasperating."

"Perhaps we've grown too dependent on such things.”

“Don’t tell me you want to send up back to the Dark Ages, Adam?”

Methos tucks the folder under his gardening book. “No. Not that. But, I bet back in the days when scribes wrote chronicles, no one wrote a page only to have it disappear in the middle of a paragraph."

Jillian shakes her head. "You sound like Don. A pair of Luddites, the both of you. I, for one, am perfectly happy with the electronic age, misbehaving servers and power surges not withstanding."

"I am not as bad as Don. I can, at least, find the ‘ON’ button."

"One of you better be able to. I bet that's why Don wanted an assistant so he wouldn't have to be bothered with it. Are you free for lunch today? I'm having trouble translating part of Davina's chronicle…I was hoping that you could give me some pointers since you're so good with that sort of thing."

"I'll be happy to. I'll meet you at HQ and we can decide where to go eat."

"Thanks, Adam." Jillian smiles brightly at him and walks off.

Methos drops the gardening book back among its companions as the Watcher vanishes down the street. As he turns back, his reflection in the bookstore's windows catches his attention. He fingers the folder as he studies the image critically. This morning the faded blue Henley and denim jacket had seemed the perfect choice loose enough to fight in, and loose enough to conceal the blade and gun beneath it, and just the sort of thing that a student might wear…a perfect partner to the jeans covering his long legs. But now, seeing the way that the shirt clings to his chest beneath his jacket, he frowns. Perhaps he should invest in something bulkier and baggier…something to hide and soften the hard strength of his torso. The new hairstyle may have been a mistake as well…the short spikiness of it brings out the dangerous angles of his face and draws attention to the unusual shade of his eyes, but he likes the way that it bares his throat. Methos sighs sensually, involuntarily arching his throat as he imagines the tantalizing heat of Kronos' mouth, sliding along the tender skin…no matter how much the Horseman aggravated him, no one else's touch gave him a fraction of the pleasure that Kronos did. There were days when he ached so badly to wake and find Kronos in his bed again, he almost wishes that he'd dropped more hints to lead his brother to his current location, but the difficulty of the hunt will only stroke Kronos' desire to find him higher…providing his brother ever looks up from the damned microscope long enough to notice that he’s gone.

Motion behind the windows draws his gaze away from his own image to track the path of a short, balding man. He watches as the mortal carefully unlocks a display cabinet, and pulls out a leather-bound book, completely oblivious to everything, but the rows of books. Methos shakes his head. It's a good thing that being a field agent had never been one of Don Salzer's ambitions; the man had the survival instincts of a Dodo. No doubt that was why the Watchers had sidelined the man in Archives. Such delightful obliviousness had been one of the reasons why he'd maneuvered to be assigned as Don's assistant. He would have to completely drop character and show up to work in the full Death regalia before Don noticed anything different about him. Even then it would take Don a good ten minutes to notice the horse and facepaint. Methos sighs and compresses himself down into Adam. He pastes a smile on his face and opens the door, strolling into the shop. "Hello, Don. You’re looking chipper this morning."

Don starts. He turns away from the cabinet with a hopeful smile. His round blue eyes lock pleadingly on the tall man lounging casually in the doorframe. "Adam, thank goodness, you're here. I've been calling you all morning."

"Something the matter?"

"That damned machine.”

“Machine? The computer?” Adam raises his eyebrows inquiringly as he hands the sealed folder to the mortal. What has Don managed to do this time? He hasn't programmed the computer to do anything to Don today. He's waiting for the mortal to recover a little confidence from the last disaster that he had arranged, before creating another problem to intimidate Don into leaving the computer work to him. "Jillian caught me on my way in. She said that you were supposed to get this."

“Of course, the dratted computer. What else?" Don peers at the folder and frowns.

"Anything important?"

"Just some photocopies that I asked for." Don tosses the folder under the counter and picks up a book. His fingers linger lovingly over the faded binding. "It'll be a sad day if those mechanical monstrosities ever replace books the way that some people claim they will.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Don shakes his head in bafflement. “How can all that plastic ever compare to the smell and feel of leather? Who could possibly prefer one to the pleasure of a real book?"

“Certainly not either of us.” Adam smiles at the familiar lament. "But you have to admit that computers are useful."

"No, I don't. That…that…thing,” Don glowers in the direction of his back office, "is refusing to work properly. Can you look at it, Adam?"

"What happened?"

"I don't know." Don twitches his shoulders into an irritated hunch as he leads his assistant into the gloom of the small office. "I was trying to work on our special project. Update some records, and it stopped working."

"Well, let's have a look at it." Adam drops into the battered leather chair, carefully folding his long legs beneath the wooden desk. He'd painfully banged his knees against the underside on more than one occasion while working on his database of Immortals. Wait until his brothers saw the amount of useful information that he'd been able to compile. And in such delightfully portable format. All he has to do now is get Don so used to experiencing assorted data disasters, the mortal would never think to question the loss of the database, or most importantly, to report it as suspicious. He does not need, or want the attention that that would draw from the Watchers.

“Do you think you can fix it?”

“I’ll know in a bit.” Methos reboots the machine, and waits as the computer cycles back up to the desktop.

Don glowers at the screen. “The darned thing wouldn’t do more than chirp at me. You have a special touch, Adam.”

Methos clicks on the email icon and opens up the file that Don had been trying to access. His breath catches in his chest as he hungrily stares at the image on the screen…oh, gods, Kronos. It's been too long, too painfully long since he saw his brother. Kronos is caught in mid-turn, profile half obscured by wind-whipped strands of long black hair as he looks over his shoulder down the narrow street snaking behind him. One pale hand is frozen in the act of slipping beneath the loose black leather coat. Automatically Methos follows the line of Kronos' gaze to see the blurry outlines of a large man in the far background. He frowns as he studies the picture. What is Kronos doing in a file sent to a Watcher who specializes in mythical Immortals? Do the Watchers suspect who Kronos really is? A shiver races up his spine, raising the fine hairs on his nape at the thought…if anything permanent happened to his brother…Methos flattens his hands against the hard strength of his thighs. The image of his face reflects back at him from cheap mirror hanging on the wall opposite the desk…that hard-edged mouth and those dangerously narrowed eyes don't go with his Adam face at all. He blinks, consciously readjusting his features, relaxing the line of his mouth and widening his eyes. A quick glance reveals Don standing at the entrance of the office, paging gently through a book, and not paying any attention to him.

He clicks open the next image, and draws in a sharp breath at the rain-blurred figure of the Horseman…black hair sliding over a black leather coat that falls open to over Kronos' arched chest to reveal a white tee shirt rendered almost sheer by dampness…shoulders pressed hard against rough red bricks as another Immortal crowds close, staring into Kronos' eyes over their crossed blades. The picture is too blurry and too out of focus for him to read their expressions, but there is a disturbing air of intensity blazing between the two men; electric enough to make him wonder if the two men tangled together are really fighting or…if the strange Immortal is courting Kronos in the old way, as he had once courted the Horseman. He had once offered his mind, body, and sword to Kronos in the same way…with the same intensity. Methos sighs sensually as he briefly yields to the pull of those memories. He had not been the only Immortal warrior to come courting, but he had made certain that none of the others ever got close enough to draw Kronos' interest. Could this too handsome stranger have succeeded in interesting his brother in his absence?

A great stillness settles icily over Methos. Now that he considers it, Kronos had not resisted his leaving as much as the Horseman usually did. Kronos had seemed thoroughly submerged in a study of viruses. Caspian, always jealous of Kronos' attention, had been more than pleased to see him leave. But he felt confident that his bloodthirsty brother would have gotten word to him if Kronos had taken a serious interest in another Immortal. Caspian wouldn't have wanted the status quo upset if it only resulted in further divisions of Kronos' attention. Could this stranger simply be a temporary diversion? Could Kronos have become…bored after centuries of sharing his bed? Or had his brother sensed that he had been holding back part of his self instead of unleashing his full sensuality upon Kronos? The stranger certainly looks nothing like him; all honeyed skin, big eyes, full lips and bulky, brawny body. Methos stares hard at the image, anger slowly seeping through him, spreading heat through the chill hurt that blankets him.

Kronos head is tossed back against the wall, face distorted with some strong emotion. Pain? Anger? Ecstasy? The stranger's full lips are open on…a moan? A gasp? A curse? A plea? Methos grimly clicks through the other attached images, braced for the worse, but the rest are all pictures of the same handsome Immortal. He pauses on the last image and leans closer, staring hard at the tanned face framed by long, dark hair falling in loose waves over powerful shoulders covered with a loose white silk shirt. Thick brown brows are knit close together in a brooding frown that matches the moody set of the full mouth. The big brown eyes capture his gaze with a level, somber stare. Methos' gaze narrows ominously. He will not lose his brother to someone else: a cow-eyed creature like this cannot possibly appreciate and need the Horseman even half as much as he does. Perhaps it's time to stop holding back.

Methos scowls balefully at the strange Immortal. Could his crafty, clever brother take even a passing fancy to such a bovine creature? Neither of them had even cared about whatever mortals either had chosen to bed, or even wed…but to take an Immortal lover…that changed the whole dynamic of his relationship with all the Horsemen. Kronos' reaction to Cassandra had taught him that; it had taken a long, painful time to win his way back into his brother's good graces afterwards. Even Silas had been unsettled by Cassandra's presence in their camp. Methos checks the sender field on the email…C. Broome…not a Watcher that he knows. Who does this C. Broome think he, or she is watching – Kronos, or one of Kronos' alter egos? Either way he doesn't like the Watchers taking an interest in any of the Horsemen. Not even the eternally exasperating Caspian. He forces a tone of casual interest, "Don? I don't remember seeing this picture before."

“What?” Don looks up, blinking from his book. "Got database back up already?"

Methos taps the screen with a pencil, the eraser hitting the screen with a satisfying thunk right in the center of the stranger's face. “Who is this?”

"Who?" Don walks around to peek over Adam's shoulder. "Oh, him. That's Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod.”

“Duncan Macleod.”

“Yes. Man's a legend…don't tell me you haven't heard of him?"

"Heard of him, yes." Methos scowls. What Watcher hadn't? They were collectively obsessed with the notoriously seductive Immortal. Had Kronos become curious the Immortal's reputation? He can feel a growl rising in his throat at the thought of those melting looks and assured charms being loosed on Kronos; feel his Adam mask morphing into Death's face as the images fill his head. Methos keeps his face turned toward the screen, carefully giving Don only his profile to look at. "Seen him, no. So this is the legendary Duncan Macleod, is it? Why is someone emailing this to you? He's an active and known Immortal, not a mythical one."

"I asked a field agent I knew to send some pictures to me.”

“Is he dead?” Methos can’t quite hide the trace of hopefulness lacing his tone.

“Dead?” Don scoffs. “No, dear boy. Macleod's coming to Paris. Every Watcher here is probably hoping to catch a glimpse of him while he's visiting. You don't get to see an Immortal like that everyday…unless he's assigned to you, of course."

"Here?" Methos forces his Adam mask back into place, aided by a satisfying vision of besotted Watchers languishing about all over Paris in an attempt to 'accidentally' spot Macleod. With the Watchers pursuing the Scot like avid birders after the Great Tufted Whatsit, the Immortal should be quite busy trying to dodge them and while they are distracted by the beefy charms of His Royal Bovineness, it will be the perfect time for Adam to take a vacation. Is Kronos still busy with the ranch in Texas? Or has his brother gone elsewhere? He summons up a mildly inquiring expression as he looks over his shoulder at Don. "The famous Highlander is coming here?"

"That's the word that going around.”

Methos frowns slightly. “Why?”

Don shrugs. “Do Immortals need reasons for what they do, my boy? He’s been known to show up in Paris from time to time. But this time is different.”

“What’s so special about this time?”

“They say that he's hunting Kalas. I'm going to hang around the airport and see if I can spot him in the crowd."

"That might not be a good idea." Adam frowns. He better discourage that notion; working with Don suits his current needs perfectly. Not that the mortal would be likely to be in any danger from Macleod, but success in that area might give the old man ideas of making a hobby of trying to spot intriguing Immortals. Any Immortals like…himself, for example…would make very short work indeed of the researcher. "You're not a field agent, Don. Immortals can be dangerous company."

Don shrugs. "What's one more face in the crowd? There's no reason why Macleod or any other Immortal should notice me."

"Have you forgotten about the recently vanished Roger?"

"No, of course not, but who would go to the trouble of killing Watchers?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe an Immortal who has discovered that he is being watched and doesn't like the idea?" Adam asks dryly as he moves back to the second picture, glowering at the two men. Was the Scot fighting Kronos, or wooing the Horseman? One would think with all the training that Watchers received this C. Broome could at least take a decent picture instead of this mess…almost looked like a botched attempt at Impressionism.

"Why should they notice one of us? No reason for them too. Headquarters has already assigned someone else to Kalas, and nothing's happened to him."

"Immortals don't stay immortal long if they don't pay close attention to their surroundings." Adam clicks back to the first picture. He certainly had not been happy when he discovered the Watchers. Kalas had probably noticed Roger tagging along everywhere and done exactly what any Immortal would be inclined do in similar circumstances…taken Roger away to a nice quite place for a long chat. There were plenty of things that an Immortal might want after discovering the Watchers. Just look at how useful he had found the group. What use would a man like Kalas see in the Watchers? The most obvious is to use them to track down powerful Immortals to kill to increase Kalas' own power, or a means of taking revenge on enemies. But which would be Kalas' first choice…revenge or power? The chronicles that he had scanned, revealed Kalas as an impatient man, ruled by short-term goals that filled immediate needs and an inclination to hack a path through obstacles rather than using subtlety. All he will need to do to discover Kalas' goals is to follow the trail of bodies that will be scattered across Paris, and hope that the trail does not start leading toward his own doorstep...but if it does…then Kalas will be one more mysteriously missing Immortal to add to the list posted in the Watcher break rooms.

"Really, Adam. Why should the Immortals care even if they did figure out about the Watchers? It's not like we’re a threat to them. You know the rules as well as I do. ‘Observe and record.’ That's it." Don gently turns another page back in his book. "It's not like we are hunting them down, or revealing them to the authorities, or selling their secrets to their enemies. Why should one want to harm us? It's probably just chance that Roger disappeared. We are subject to accident and misfortune like any other human."

Adam snorts. As if all the Watchers limit themselves to obeying the rules. To be fair, some of them did abide by the sacred rules in all earnestness, but others…some made the mistake of becoming infatuated with their subjects. Just look at the fantasy object Mr. Bovine had become for some Watchers. It was a small, but deadly step from that, to wanting to covertly help an Immortal, or to find a way to profit from one. No need to enlighten Don about the things that his fellow Watchers got up to; much safer for Don to remain oblivious to the undercurrents of unrest and uncertainty flowing around the group these days. Adam clicks back to resume his study of Kronos' profile. He sighs as he wistfully eyes the perfect blackness of the Horseman's long hair, longing to feel the softness of it sliding through his fingers. "Some of the others at HQ believe that there is more to Roger's disappearance than chance and misfortune. Don, promise me that you will be careful."

Don grins impishly. "Who would care about an old man like me? Go ahead and assume an Immortal or someone else is targeting Watchers, what would they gain from me? I'm hardly in the thick things…I wasn't even when I was a young man, and I'm practically retired now. Who would notice me?"

"Don…"

"Oh, very well. I promise. Perhaps you should come to the airport with me to watch Macleod arrive. Keep an old man safe. And you don't get the chance to see a living legend every day." Don closes the book and sets it aside.

"I have some other things that I need to do, Don, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to take a field agent with you, if you absolutely must go to the airport." Adam finds himself leaning closer to the screen, drawn to Kronos' image. "Okay, so who's this guy? This isn't Macleod."

"Oh, him…that's Koren. Melvin Koren. No need to be concerned with him. He's not one of ours; he's an active Immortal like Macleod. I bet his pictures got mixed up in this batch by mistake."

"Koren…I don't think I know him either."

"No reason why you should." Don sniffs in distaste. "He appeared during the days of the Wild West.”

“Ahhh…” Methos sighs softly. “A cowboy.”

“Hardly! Koren was a bandit…or worse. He was last seen in…well, I'm not sure…Prague, perhaps? I think his last Watcher lost track of him after three days. I understand the field agents amuse themselves by taking bets on how long it takes Koren's Watchers to either lose the Immortal, or disappear, or show up at headquarters begging to be reassigned."

"You know how field agents are, Don…easily amused." Methos tilts his head and taps his pencil against his throat. "So who's watching Koren these days? I wouldn't mind laying a side bet."

"No one is right now. We don't know where Koren is. I just hope he isn't in Paris. It's scary enough to have a bad sort like Kalas roaming around, but maybe he won't be around much longer since the Highlander is coming for him."

Perhaps it would be Kalas that took the Highland Bull's head. Methos rubs the soft tip of the pencil's eraser against his neck. Does he want to allow Kalas the pleasure? He would be risking his current identity if he challenged an Immortal. It would be a particular risk with an Immortal that fascinated the Watchers like Macleod did. Methos smiles, imaging the slice of his blade through the bronzed throat. Taking the man's Quickening would be one way to discover exactly what His Bovineness might have been to Kronos and to insure that Macleod never touched the Horseman again. The pencil snaps between his fingers at the thought of those tanned hands sliding over his brother's fairness.

"Adam?" Don jumps at the loud pop of the breaking pencil and looks uneasily at the odd expression on his assistant's face. Surely Adam wouldn't be interested in…well, he'd noticed that his assistant happily dated both sexes; he couldn't imagine wanting to be with another man like that, but Adam is a nice boy, and an excellent researcher. He wouldn't want to see the young Watcher get hurt. "Adam…you don't think that he's, that Koren's…" Don's voice trails off as he tries to figure out a way to phrase the question.

"Koren's what?" Adam glances sidelong at the mortal, taking in the air of paternal disapproval. One would think, that Don's granddaughter just flirted with a tattooed biker in front of the man.

“He’s just not the sort of man…um…that…um you should be…” Don stammers.

Oh, Don wants to protect him. Methos’ lips quirk in amusement, if the mortal only knew…it's far too late to save him from lusting after Kronos. Still an infatuation would give him an excuse for seeking information about his brother; most of the Watchers had their favorites that they kept up with. Now how to play this…Don had eventually figured out that he was equally interested in boys and girls so…Adam slouches lower in his chair and allows a faintly husky note to enter his voice. "A man of mystery, hmmm? He looks…interesting."

"No." Don shakes his head. His round eyes turn stern. "No, Adam. There's nothing interesting at all about that one. Koren is nothing but a cold-blooded murderer. There's no good in him. The things that his Watchers have been forced to see…it's enough give a strong man nightmares. I don’t know how field agents deal with having to watch and record absolutely horrible things and do nothing. It must be hard. Makes me glad to be in archival section and chasing myths. Do you think you can fix that blasted machine?"

"Ummm, yeah. Give me a second." Adam glances at the image filling the computer screen. So the Watchers are clueless to Kronos' real identity; that's good news. He'll have to see what he can do to make sure that it stays that way. He grins wickedly as he pulls up the hidden files holding his latest work. One of the great things about having Don as his boss is that he can safely work on his computer virus, while the mortal putters around, crooning over first editions. Once he triggers its release, the Watchers' databases will be fixed indeed. He's doing them a favor really; the organization has gotten far to dependant on electronic records and access. He smirks as his fingers tap softly over the keyboard.

**


Silas tiptoes down the dark hallway, pausing outside the closed door of the master bedroom to listen. He shifts uneasily on his feet at the silence radiating from the room. Normally silence is a welcome sound to him, but this one is not the friendly silence that he shares with Methos, or the companionable silences that he sometimes shared with Caspian, but a silence that seethes with schemes and stratagems. Before he joined the Horsemen, he had no idea that silence could echo so loudly. Methos could do that too. Silas frowns, wondering which of the Immortals had learned the trick first. Had Kronos learned it from Methos? Or had Methos picked up the knack of it from Kronos? Caspian might know. Caspian had been with Kronos longer than any of them, but will his brother answer the question? Sometimes Caspian would explain things to him with as much patience as Methos did, but other times…Silas shivers, as the silence seems to get even louder with his lingering. He better move on before his hovering draws a response from Kronos.

He sneaks past Caspian's open door, carefully avoiding the warped floorboards that might launch into betraying creaks under his weight. He eases quietly into the kitchen and turns on the lights. Silas pauses to run an admiring hand down the soft flannel of his pajamas; the fabric is as soft and warm as the printed rabbits dashing across would be if they were real. He used to have a pet rabbit that Methos had persuaded Kronos into allowing him to keep. He would have liked to have another one, but this time Methos isn't around to talk Kronos into allowing it. Besides Harriet is just as good as a rabbit; better even 'cause she's smaller and easier to hide. Silas laughs, hastily stifling the sound as a black and white mouse crawls out of his pajama pocket to sit on his shoulder with her paws curled against her chest and her pink nose quivering. "Sssshh, Harriet. We don't want to wake them."

Harriet squeaks impatiently at him as her tiny claws dig through the flannel to prick his skin.

"Okay, Harriet, but be quiet…" Silas strokes a soothing finger down her soft fur. He opens the fridge, and peers inside, frowning at the number of blue plastic containers with Caspian's dainty script labels on them. He doesn't want anything in those. He wishes Kronos wouldn't let Caspian store…leftovers in the same fridge that the rest of them used, but at least Kronos did insist that Caspian label the containers. Silas grabs a bottle of orange juice for himself and a chunk of cheese for Harriet. He pauses, despite Harriet's increasingly impatient squeaks, to pick up one of Caspian's containers. He peers at the print suspiciously and reads aloud, "Fillet of H."

Silas straightens with a frown. The rancher who owned the neighboring spread had complained of a couple of missing horses yesterday, when he had been in the feed store with Kronos. Had Caspian—

"Finding anything interesting?"

Silas starts and drops everything at the sound of Caspian's quiet voice. The plastic container bounces with a wet slosh against the white tile floor while the cheese lands with a dull smack, but the orange juice shatters noisily. He can feel Harriet darting under his pajama top to hide. Maybe the noise hadn't disturbed Kronos. He turns, and scowls at the nude Horseman standing next to the oak breakfast table. Silas points to the container lying amid the shards of glass and pool of juice. "What is that?"

Caspian leans down to picks up the plastic box, his loose brown hair sliding over his tanned shoulders. He looks down at the label, and then at Silas. "I thought Saint Methos of the Morons had finally taught you to read."

"I can read." Silas draws himself up proudly. "And I'm not a Moron. You shouldn't talk about Methos that way either."

"I don't see anybody stopping me."

"If you wake up Kronos, you're the one who will be sorry that you mentioned…" Silas looks nervously down the hallway, and lowers his voice even more, "the M word."

Caspian raises his eyebrows, and asks in sweetly puzzled tones, "Moron?"

"Stop it. You know how he gets if anyone mentions…"

"Yes?" Caspian eases around the broken glass to the sink, and turns the water on to rinse the orange juice off his container. He picks up a dishrag, and wipes the plastic dry.

Silas glowers at his brother's back. Caspian knows as well as he does how much Kronos disapproved of Methos' decision to stalk the Watchers; they had both heard the arguments that began in normal tones and ended by sinking down to snaky hisses. It had made him uneasy enough to join Caspian as his brother sat on the couch, honing a dagger. Methos had gone away that night, leaving him with Kronos and Caspian. Several months later, he' d gotten distracted and mentioned Methos while Kronos was mending tack, and had gotten a look as sharp as his ax blade. Silas folds his arms over his chest, cupping one palm protectively over Harriet's soft shape. He is not going to be tricked into saying 'Methos' first where Kronos might hear. He glances warily at the dark hallway, but sees nothing but shadows. Silas nods toward the container sitting on the white countertop. "What is that?"

"I thought you said you could read." Caspian turns around, tilting the lid toward the other Horseman, and asks with sugary condescension, "Now what does it say?"

"Fillet of H." Silas growls, wishing he dared hit Caspian, but he couldn't risk a fight with Harriet hiding under his pajamas. He strokes her tiny body with his thumb.

"Well, then?" Caspian throws the damp dishrag at Silas. "What's your problem? You better wipe that mess up before Kronos steps in it."

Silas catches it, crumpling the red-striped cloth in one big hand. He stares suspiciously at his brother. "What's the H stand for?"

"What do you think it stands for? Hippopotamus? Hedgehog? Heron?"

"What is going on here?" Kronos leaves the shadows of the hallway to step into the kitchen; his black silk robe drifts around his bare legs with the motion, almost concealing the gleam of the sword in his hand. His irritated gaze flickers from Caspian's smirk to Silas' determined expression. He raises an eyebrow…is something creeping about under those ridiculous pajamas that Methos had given Silas? And does he really want to know? Keeping Silas in line is Methos' responsibility, just as Caspian is his. His grip tightens around the hilt of his sword as he considers killing both of them for disturbing him, but that would only mean returning to the nightmarish visions of death and disaster that have hectored him with growing intensity since Methos left to play spy among the Watchers. "Well?"

"Caspian has been eating the neighbor's horses," Silas rushes into speech.

Kronos turns a considering stare on the container that Caspian is holding. He glances at the fridge, calculating the number of similar containers inside…no, not enough to account for even one small horse, much less two that matched the missing animals' descriptions. "Caspian?"

Caspian shrugs. "It's a fillet that I'm marinating in my special sauce. Fillet de Higgins."

"Higgins? You ate the electrician?" Kronos sighs. Most things on the ranch, he could fix himself, but the mysteries of circuits and wires and such, he preferred to leave to Methos, but since his exasperating brother had chosen to disregard his counsel, and go to Paris, he had been forced to allow outsiders into their ranch. "Couldn't you at least have waited until he finished repairing the wiring?"

"I was hungry."

"I didn't like him." Silas hunches his wide shoulders, remembering the strange words that electrician had used while he was watching to make sure the mortal didn't go anywhere that Kronos had said that the man shouldn't. He still didn't know what 'imbecile' meant, or if a 'cretin' was someone from Crete; when he asked, Caspian only told him to ride out, and check the work on the fence that their men had mended the day before. He'd forgotten all about Higgins when he found Harriet sitting by the fence like she had been waiting for him. Silas drops to his knees and begins mopping up the spill, smiling at the feel of her tiny claws prickling along his back.

"Well, I do. He's been yummy so far." Caspian runs a hand through his long hair, pushing it back from his face.

"I still don't see why he would think I was from Crete. Me…someone who had been there told me that they were small with long, black hair."

"And so they were." Kronos gives Caspian a nod of approval. The Horsemen might fight and trade insults among themselves, but no outsider would ever be granted that right. "Put Higgins, and anything you want to keep in the freezer. We're leaving tomorrow."

Silas looks up, his face lighting with hope. "It's time? We're going to find Me…Paris?"

Kronos glances down, his eyebrows rising as he spots a small lump crawling across Silas' wide back. He lifts his gaze to meet Caspian's black eyes in question, but Caspian only shrugs, equally ignorant of Silas' latest acquisition. Kronos eyes the chunk of cheese. He's seen the marks of mice teeth often enough to identify them. It could be worse; a mouse is small, easily portable, and sweet smelling compared to the skunk that Silas had taken a fancy to on one occasion. And if it keeps Silas occupied, and out of his way, he's willing to tolerate it. "It's time."

"It's earlier than He wanted." Caspian settles his narrow hips against the white counter. Not that he cares overmuch what Methos wants, but he is in no hurry to have the other Immortal back in their camp, arrogantly claiming the lion's share of Kronos' time. But even absent, Methos is always in Kronos' thoughts, stealing some of the attention that should be his by prior right. Had he not had been the first of them all to be asked to ride with Kronos? Had he not died for the first time on the same battlefield with Kronos? Although they had fought on opposite sides, they had looked at each other as they stood, grimy and bloodstained, and known that they were kinsmen of a rare kind. Then Methos had slinked in and seduced Kronos. Caspian scowls at the memory.

"Pack and be ready, brothers. We leave for the airport at noon." Kronos turns and walks back to his bedroom.

***

Charles Broome cocks his head to one side as he studies the rounded prettiness of the woman sitting across the table from him. She might do. He didn't see the need, but Horton wanted an archivist on board with their group in case one of those fossilized myths showed up. What were the chances of one of them walking down the street some day? But if Horton wants an archivist, he'll damn well be the one who collects bonus points by providing one. He'd never had any trouble before with persuading his targets to cooperate with him; men and women alike seemed drawn to his golden boy looks, but so far Jillian O'Hara had been amazingly resistant. Had Pierson been a faster worker than he thought? Rumor had it that Jillian spent a lot of off duty time with the man. That could explain why she'd backed off every time he tried to flirt with her. But when he'd tried to approach her as one fellow Watcher to another, she still had failed to see the good sense in any of the arguments that he'd laid out against the existence of Immortals. He better back off, for now, before she got her panties in a twist over it. And if he can't persuade her…one archivist is as good as another for Horton's purposes, and later, when his group is firmly in control, he can make her pay for wasting his time. "Maybe when I've been around longer, I'll change my mind and stop seeing them as potential menaces.”

“Menaces?” Jillian frowns slightly. “Why would you think of them that way?”

Charles clamps his lips shut before he blurts his first thought: ‘Because they’re abominations you, silly chit!’ He toys with his soup spoon as he glances around, hoping the waiter will finally bring their order over soon. “It’s just that business with Roger just vanishing like that…it's enough to make anyone think twice."

Jillian smiles, the uneasy look in her wide eyes fading into a mild wariness. "I know what you mean, Charles, it does make you think, but I don't believe it was one of them. Roger probably just got mugged or something. I mean, you field agents, you're always out at all hours in all kinds of places; it makes you a target for any criminals looking for a victim."

"That's true. You may be right about that." Charles nods, and picks up his glass of wine. He takes a careful sip as he glances at the people walking by the bistro's windows. "Being a field agent is not one of the safest jobs. Some days I feel like one of those poor fools hanging in a cage in the ocean while sharks swim around them."

"Is it really that bad?" Jillian leans back as the waiter places bowls of soup between them. She picks up her spoon and dips into the rich broth.

"Some times, it can be." Charles shrugs, and catches one of the other customers watching him, clearly admiring the way his white sweater clings to the heavy muscles rippling across his torso. He flashes at smile at her, and admires the redhead's long legs in turn before meeting Jillian's questioning gaze again. He picks up his soupspoon. "We don't spend all that time in the gym, and training in martial arts just to stay in shape, you know. When you're following those…ah, the Immortals around, you have to be prepared for anything. You never know where they'll go, or what might happen."

"You make me glad that I went into archives instead of the field." Jillian slowly savors the rich melting smoothness of her soup. "Are you thinking about switching? It that what all these questions about how the Archival Section works and who's who in it about?"

"Well, it's true that I'm between assignments right now. The last Immortal that I was watching, lost a duel so…" Charles shrugs. "I'm waiting for a new job, but no harm in checking out other options, is there? Archives sounds interesting, but I'm not sure it's active enough for me."

"It's really interesting. It's such a privilege to be allowed to care for those journals and documents. Some of them are so old. And it's really so fascinating to read about what Watchers had to put up with in the Renaissance and how they managed." Jillian's blue eyes glow with enthusiasm. "I'd like to do a monograph one day, comparing…"

"More wine?" Charles offers, ignoring her nearly full glass. He is not going to listen to her babble any more about the joys of research. Maybe it's just as well that his attempt at seduction failed. She probably talked about her precious monograph in bed too. He tops off his own glass again. If he's going to have to listen to her chatter, she can at least chatter about something useful. He might as well try to find out what he can about his alternative archivist. Maybe Pierson will be more inclined to see things his way. As much time as Jillian spends with the man, she ought to be able to tell him plenty. "So, Jillian, I was wondering…"

"Hmmm?"

"That tall man, the one that I saw you with at HQ, who is he?"

"Oh, that's Adam Pierson," her voice softens on the name and a slow, dreamy smile sides over her face. "I could happily listen to him read a recipe. His voice is just sooo beautiful."

"He's in the Archival Section?" Charles asks, pretending ignorance. "Do you work much with him?"

"We were in the same class of trainees, so we got to be good friends. I was hoping that we'd work together at HQ, since Adam wanted to be a researcher too, but he got assigned as Don Salzer's assistant. They're researching," Jillan looks around and drops her voice to a whisper, "Methos. Isn't that exciting?"

"Terribly." Charles refrains from rolling his eyes with an effort. Not much competition there, he should easily be able to offer Adam more excitement than some fossil of an Immortal. Particularly one that most Watchers didn't believe ever existed. If Methos ever had, surely the old buzzard was dead by now with the way the freaks fought each other all the time. "So if I happened to wander by Salzer's book shop one day, I might find Adam there?"

"Well, when he's not at HQ, or traveling."

"Traveling? He travels a lot, does he?"

"Oh, yes. He's an excellent researcher. It's amazing the way that he can find evidence of Methos that needs to be checked out. Just last year, he went to Venice."

Right. Methos in Venice…that's a good one. Charles sniggers. Adam sounds more interesting all the time. "Is he traveling now?"

"No, he's still here." Jillian finishes her soup, and sits back to wait for the next course.

Charles chokes on his last spoonful as he spots a familiar figure slinking down the street, gliding gracefully through the crowd of tourists gawking at the sights. He coughs, pressing his napkin to his mouth, as he watches Melvin Koren stride past the bistro and on down the street to the bank sitting on the corner.

"Charles?" Jillian eyes him with alarm. "Charles, are you alright?"

"Fine." Charles grits his teeth. He tosses his napkin down on the table. Melvin Koren…he'd know that bastard anywhere after what the damned Immortal had done to him. He can almost feel every saddle sore that he'd gotten while trailing the freak of nature all over the grasslands of Outer Fucking Mongolia. It wasn't his fault that he'd gotten up one morning, at the crack of dawn, just like he'd had to do every damned day that he watched Koren, only to discover that the Immortal had vanished in the night, leaving a fake campsite to mock him. He'd had to crawl back to HQ, and take his ass whipping for losing Melvin Koren in the middle of nowhere, but it hadn't been his fault. He'd like to see those idiots do better; how the hell did those desk jockeys up at HQ think he was supposed to discreetly follow Old Melvie across the plains, or the steppe, or whatever the hell they called it…and on a horse too? He'd never been on a horse in his life, and the damn thing kept sneaking up on him, and biting him. He owed the freak big time for that little excursion and all the black marks that went on his record because of it. "I just saw someone."

"Who?" Jillian looks carefully around, knowing from the tone that her lunch companion means an Immortal.

"Someone that I used to watch." Charles drains the last of his wine and sets his glass back down on the table. He leans back as the waiter comes to take their empty soup bowls away. He refolds his napkin thoughtfully. Come to think of it; Melvie isn't that bad looking…not as tall as he preferred, but very nicely built. He'd always wondered if it would be different with an Immortal: they didn't get diseases so he could go in bare, and with their healing abilities, he could do…anything. Charles shivers in pleasure at the idea. This could be a once in a lifetime opportunity to live out his darkest fantasies, with no fear of getting caught. Horton wouldn't care as long as Melvin was very dead at the end of it. Charles licks his lips as he stares at the banks' door, waiting. "He just went in the bank."

"Who is it?"

"Melvin Koren is his real name. I don't know what name he's using right now."

"The bandit from the American Old West?" Jillian twists in her chair, scanning the people on the street. "Who's his Watcher?"

"I don't know. Is he being watched? I lost him in Mongolia awhile back. Has he been seen since?" Charles stares around him. Had Koren lost his Watcher again? The bastard seemed to have a gift for it. After he'd gotten his ass chewed, he'd asked around and found out that the Immortal was always disappearing and reappearing. Wait…if none of the Watchers know that Melvin is in town…oh, the points he can score for spotting the Immortal and calling it in. And even more points for having the initiative to follow Melvin around while the desk jockeys try to find a permanent Watcher to assign. Maybe even enough to erase all the black marks for losing Melvin in the first place.

"I don't see anyone. Charles, I don't think he's being watched. What a find."

Oh, yeah, what a sweet find. Payback, the chance to satisfy his all fantasies in safety, and the opportunity to prove to Horton that he's hit squad material. He's been aching to get on the squad since he found out about it, but Horton wouldn't put anyone on that hadn't proved they could do anything they had to. Charles pulls his jacket around him, to cover the hopeful throb of his erection. He can leave Jillian to call it in; she's not the type to snatch credit for spotting Koren for herself. He briefly considers sticking his lunch date with the bill, but he might need her later. Charles tosses enough money on the table to cover their lunch. "Jillian, can you call this in and let them know. I don't want to lose him."

"Of course, I'll take care of it. Go. Oh, this is so exciting."

If she only knew, Charles grins, and hurries out of the restaurant as Melvin steps out of the bank and back into the crowd. Good thing he's tall enough that he can see over the heads of most people. His stride lengthens as he spots his target. Bastard still looks the same…the too-long black hair is loose, brushing the shoulders of a long gray coat that covers…hmm, what is ol' Melvie Baby doing in a suit? The charcoal black fabric is typical; the Immortal really liked black, but usually the uniform of the day was jeans, or leather. Or at least it had been when he was following the scrawny freak all over assorted foreign crime districts, and, oh, yes, let's not forget that lovely trip to Mongolia. Charles runs an assessing look over the Immortal. He didn't like that long hair, but the color isn't bad. He's okay with black hair, but he'd preferred a darker skin tone to go with it…a nice golden suntan like his own. On the other hand, that snowy paleness ought to show bruises and cuts well; how long would the damage stay before it healed? He's wondered about that. If he just plunged right in…no lube, no condom, no nothing, would Melvin heal even as the Immortal bled around him? His breath quickens as he imagines it.

Charles pauses, pretending interest in a clothing shop display as Melvin suddenly stops in front of a jewelry store. How upsetting would it be to someone who was used to healing to discover his attacker's mark on him? Maybe, maybe Horton would let him be the one to try out that new stuff that he'd heard about. If the rumors, about some kind of compound that's supposed to keep the freaks from healing, are true…what he could do to Melvie's smooth skin with that. Oh, yeah, now wouldn't that be a rush?

TBC