private1

Private Eyes
    by Diana DeShaun

November 1998

Disclaimer: Rysher and Panzer/Davis Productions own the original
characters. Hopefully they will be making use of them soon, but
until then they decided to stay with me for a little while. I'll
send them back as soon as they're needed for filming.

Warning!! Rated: NC-17 m/m same-sex sexual content. Use the
delete key now if you are under the legal age in your locality or
if that isn't to your taste.

Special Thanks to Ruth who always sets me straight. And to Sarah
who can always come up with something crazy in a pinch.

Editor's Note: After having written this, Diana then ran across
some online debates about certain actors' real-life situations
that involve the subject of stalking. She felt hesitant about
publishing this story, concerned that the comedic treatment of
this subject might offend some. I felt that the slash audience was
more sophisticated than that: given the nature of slash to begin
with, I think its readers are more equipped than average in
separating *reality* from *fiction*...and the characters we write
about from the actors that play them. But just in case you, the
reader, are having trouble finding that line, let it be known that
this story is a *work of fiction*, is not in any way, shape or
form patterned after or supposed to represent anyone who is alive
or real. If you're not sure if you can find that line, I'd
recommend you not read further. Then again, I'd recommend you not
reading any slash at all <eg.

Private Eyes

   To call Joe Dawson a study in frustration was to call the Chicago fire a
weenie roast. "But why me?" he yelled into the phone. "Whadda ya mean it
was voted on? By who?"

   At the end of a ten minute tirade that had gotten him exactly nowhere, he
slammed the phone down and drew a deep shuddering breath to try to bring his
breathing back under control. Staring blankly at the wall of his office, he
squared his shoulders then slowly swiveled his chair around to face the
embodiment of his outrage.

   There, attempting to make herself as unobtrusive as possible, sat a girl.
An impossibly young, forlorn looking girl. Or was she? Joe cocked his head
as he studied the face before him. She was young, certainly, but there was
something in her eyes...

   Suddenly engulfed by a wave of guilt, Joe grimaced in what he hoped passed
for a smile. "Er, sorry about that. It's nothing personal you know, it's
just that I honestly had no idea you were being sent to me...Miss...."

   "Desmond. Taphelia Desmond."

   "Right. Miss Desmond. This is the very first I've heard about any Watcher
Intern Program, and frankly, I'm at a loss as to what to do about you."
Gazing pensively at the infant still cringing before him, Joe visibly shook
himself and settled back into his chair to think.

   Finally, a glimmer of a plan occurred to him. Clearing his throat, he
began, "Well. How about this: what you need is practice, right? An intern
teacher practices teaching, so an intern Watcher should practice watching."

   Even though Joe would've sworn her earlier fright had rendered her
speechless, Taphelia responded eagerly, "Oh yes, Mr. Dawson! That's it
exactly, but who?"

   Smiling a bit grimly, Joe continued, "As it happens, I have the perfect
Immortal in mind. Duncan MacLeod."

   Had Joe been watching his unwelcome charge more closely, he might've
noticed the satisfaction that briefly washed over the young woman's features.
In the next instant, however, it was gone as Taphelia gasped ingenuously,
"Duncan MacLeod! But, he's your Immortal, isn't he, Mr. Dawson?"

   Joe chuckled, liking the idea more with each passing moment. "Yeah that's
what makes it so perfect." He scribbled on a post-it note then passed it to
the girl. "Here's his address. Now, he'll be going out of town today, and he
won't be back till Friday afternoon, so you can wait and start then. That is,
I assume you know what to do. Right?"

"Yes sir."

"That should be just fine then. Do you have any other questions?"

   Still seeming a bit taken aback by the madman who'd gone from yelling to
grinning in the space of five minutes, Taphelia shook her head. "No sir."
Standing, she raised her chin and looked Joe straight in the eye. "I'll do a
good job for you, Mr. Dawson. You'll see. I'll keep such a close eye on
MacLeod that I'll be able to tell you how many times he blinks in an hour."

   Waving his hand in vague dismissal, Joe nodded absently. "Fine. Fine.
You do that." Picking up the telephone, he was already intent on giving
Watcher Central another piece of his mind for springing the little intern on
him. "Oh, and Taphelia? Don't forget to check back in with me on Monday or
so."

   "Yes sir!" A vague flicker of something flitted across her open young face
as Taphelia snapped to an almost military attention, then she was gone.

   A sizzle of unease zinged across Joe Dawson's mind, but he dismissed it
before it could fully form. This was Duncan MacLeod, for pete's sake,
definitely in the running for the title of World's Most Honorable Immortal.
He certainly wouldn't hurt Taphelia, even if he did discover her. And, if she
did her job right, the Highlander would never even know she was there....It
was the perfect solution to a pesky problem. What could possibly go wrong?

   Outside Joe's office, Taphelia Desmond, Watcher in training, Obsessive by
leaning, thought about her first move. Taking a couple of plain pieces of
paper from a pocket, she walked slowly out of the bar and began to plan.

     "Methos...oh, Meeeethooooos..." It hung just at the edge of audibility,
more of a suggestion than a sound. Nevertheless, the world's oldest man
stirred in his sleep. Like a fly buzzing near his ear, it came again, "Oh,
*Methosssss.....*" This time it was accompanied by an assault on another
sense: touch.

   Some...*thing* was flitting ever so lightly across his back and down onto
his exposed ass. His cold, exposed ass, he registered dimly. A vague sense
of outrage began to percolate through the cobwebs of sleep. Muzzily thinking
thoughts of revenge, Methos reluctantly freed himself from the arms of
Morpheus and rolled over onto his back. The sight that greeted his gritty
eyes was enough to make him doubt whether he was actually awake.

   Caught in the very act of wreaking havoc on his lover's person, Duncan
MacLeod looked briefly like a deer caught in a spotlight. But Mac was about
as much like a deer as Godzilla was like a garden lizard. The big Scot was
nothing if not swift thinking. Now, as he crouched on his knees, leaning
over Methos with a big pink feather in his hand, his mind began to whirl.
Still pinned in Methos' befogged glare like an entomological specimen, Mac
quickly did the only thing he could think of to rid himself of the offending
feather, he stuffed it down the back of his big, droopy sweat pants.

   "Oh hi!" He said brightly, his innocent expression totally at odds with
the glint in his dark eyes. "You're awake! Did you sleep well?"

   "What happened to the feather?"

   "Feather? What feather?"

   "Don't start with me, MacLeod. I know you had a feather. I saw it."

   In answer, the Highlander leaned over and gave the old Immortal a mighty
pinch on the tender flesh near his armpit.

   "Ow! Bloody sod! What was that for?"

   "Oh did that hurt? Sorry. I was just trying to wake you up. I figured if
you were seeing big pink feathers you must still be asleep."

   "I never said it was big or pink." Getting up on his knees, Methos began
to advance menacingly across the bed.

   Duncan MacLeod was a brave warrior. He had been taught from the cradle
that only cowards ran in the face of danger. Determined to live up to the
lofty ideals of his clan, willing to play the innocent as long as it suited
his purposes, he held himself rigidly still as the enemy approached.
Gathering his Scottish dignity about him, he decided to bluff. "I'm sure you
said pink, Methos. You just don't remember it. Poor old thing, if you
weren't asleep, it must have something to do with encroaching senility. Come
to think of it, you have been acting a bit off lately....What are you doing?
Methos, what are you doing?"

   By now, the ancient Immortal had circled around behind his victim. Mac
couldn't see what was going on unless he twisted around himself, and since
that might be seen as an act of cowardice, and since the thrice-damned feather
had managed to work its way between the crack of his butt cheeks, and since it
produced the most *unsettling* sensations every time he so much as wiggled,
Mac tried to stay perfectly calm and still. This little game had distinct
possibilities.

   Unfortunately for him, Methos had other ideas. He knew damn well MacLeod
had a feather. Since it wasn't on the floor or on the bed that only left...
Reaching out, he grabbed the waist of Mac's sweat pants and jerked them down
in one smooth movement to puddle around his knees. "Aha!" he stated with grim
satisfaction. "MacLeod, when someone says you have a feather up your butt,
it's not meant to be taken literally."

   Arms crossed over his chest, Mac stared stonily ahead, lips twitching and
chest heaving as he strove to contain his amusement.

   "Okay, if that's how you want to be." Methos plucked at the tip of the
feather and slowly slid it back up through his lover's ass cheeks. In spite
of his best efforts, Mac couldn't suppress the shivers that shot through him
at the action.

   Seeing the Highlander's response, Methos grinned. "Why Duncan, did you
like that?" He began to flick the feather teasingly over the other man's
back. "Just think of all the other places it could go."

   Reaching around from behind, he slid the puffy pink plume over Mac's
collarbone to the hollow of his throat and on down to his chest. As the
feather crested the roseate peaks and lingered to coax them even higher, the
Highlander moaned softly, a contented smile on his face. He swayed against
Methos, preening himself like a cat, rubbing enticingly against the silky
hardness at his back.

   Luxuriating in the wild freedom of Mac's response, Methos bent even closer
to whisper, "Lie down, Highlander."

   Obeying with alacrity, Mac soon found himself pressed into the mattress by
a horny five thousand-year-old man with a feather. Mac purred, "I guess I'm
not the only one who likes this."

    Methos leaned back on his haunches between Mac's legs, "Like it? Why
Duncan, I invented it." Pulling the sweat pants the rest of the way off, he
trailed the feather with excruciating slowness along the outside edge of Mac's
thigh, shivering in sympathy as he watched tiny goose bumps prickle in its
wake.

   With a saintly little smile, Methos began to ply his weapon with a will.
It was ridiculously easy to reduce the big brawny warrior beneath him to a
quivering heap of nerve endings. Drawing the feather up one leg, down one
leg, across the shoulders, over the spine...Methos was unrelenting in his
torment. Reaching out, he spread Mac's butt cheeks apart, and began to paint
lazy circles around his anus.

   Nearly prone, Methos was so close to Mac's cleft that the younger man could
feel Methos' hot breath stirring the tendrils of the feather as it brushed
softly across the tight rosebud. Totally focused on the flitting caresses,
Mac was deliciously vulnerable when something very hot and very wet--
definitely not a feather--plunged deeply between his cheeks to tease at the
dark opening.

   It was like being doused with gasoline. Mac twisted around and sat up in
the bed so suddenly that Methos jerked backwards in surprise.

   "My God, Methos! What are you *doing*?"

   His mouth quirked in a grin as Methos considered his tousled lover, "It
suddenly occurred to me that I might have missed a vital area in my ongoing
quest to map every square inch of Duncan MacLeod. The more I think about it,
the more I'm convinced I missed a spot. And you know how important this
mission is to me." He closed the remaining distance to his lover and pressed
his long, lean body against the other man's heated golden flesh. Before he
urged Mac to lie back, he drew away slightly.   Suddenly serious, he looked
levelly into the brown eyes so near his own, "If you'd rather I didn't--"

   Methos could see a half dozen thoughts flitting across the Highlander's
expressive face. The laughter had faded, leaving behind arousal and
curiosity. Finally, Mac fell back onto the bed and nodded solemnly, "Far be
it from me to cause the world's oldest cartographer to falter in his chosen
profession." Mac wriggled until he lay spread-eagled, arms and legs akimbo.
"Carry on, my good man."

   A sly look crossed Methos' face as he grinned toothily. "Nope. Been
there, done that. Besides we need to get started on the day's business, don't
we?"

   "Methos, if you try to get off this bed now, I'll have to resort to
violence."

   "Promises, promises," Methos growled throatily as he nonetheless began
tonguing his way down Mac's sprawled body.

   Reaching the site of his original investigations, the old man paused
significantly until he had Mac's attention. Then holding the Highlander's
eyes with his own, he slowly lowered his face to Mac's groin.

   At first, Mac could only feel the barest whisper of heat as Methos' breath
caressed his skin, lighter than the softest kiss. But then, Mac's eyes
slowly closed even as his mouth stretched open in a soundless "*oohhhh...*"

   Methos had picked up the feather again and was dusting it down Mac's
weeping shaft. When his tongue flicked out to taste the length left quivering
behind the feather, Mac began to moan, "Oh*god*oh*god*oh*god*..."

   Like a collector on the trail of a rare treasure, Methos followed the
feather down past the base of Mac's cock and over the soft sac resting
beneath. When the feather ghosted over his anus, Mac gripped the sheets
beneath him in a desperate attempt to keep still, to prolong the delicious
agony. But, as he felt the first tentative touch of Methos' lips over the
tight opening, Mac gave up all pretense of self control. "God! Methos!"
Rolling his head frantically, Mac fought his natural inclination to thrust
himself violently into the sweet fire.

   In answer, Methos tossed the feather aside and pushed Mac's legs back
towards his chest. Settling himself more surely, he kissed the tight
opening. Again he kissed it, and again, drawing forth the most delicious
response. Then he began to paint each crease of muscle with his tongue.

   Stopping at the nexus of the muscles, Methos suddenly plunged his tongue
inside. Twice, three times, it flicked out, as he continued to feed on Mac's
pleasure like a starving man presented with a feast. Finally, a low,
strangled groan from the man above him filtered dimly through Methos'
concentration. "*Uhhnnnnnn*....."

   Pausing, flushed and panting, Methos looked up at his oh-so-willing victim,
"Want me to stop?"

   With a guttural roar, Duncan MacLeod reached down and grabbed the ancient
Immortal by the shoulders. Tugging furiously, he 'encouraged' Methos to
scramble back up his body until they were nose to nose. "Are you gonna fuck
me, or not?" he hissed.

   Swallowing convulsively at the unfettered lust that blazed from Mac's eyes,
Methos nodded jerkily.

   "In me. Now!"

   In answer, Methos gripped Mac's face and kissed him savagely.

    A brief flash of apprehension flared in the depths of the dark eyes, then
it vanished, swamped by the passion that poured off Methos like a flood.

   Fumbling for the bottle of Wet on the bedside table, Methos finally managed
to work the cap off and squeeze a generous amount onto Duncan's flat abdomen.
As the Highlander jerked at the chilly sensation, Methos was already working
the lube down past Mac's straining erection, past the soft sac beneath and
over the perineum.

   With his finger drawing languorous circles around the loosened rosebud,
Methos stretched to capture the Highlander's lush lips. The old man poured
himself into the kiss even as his finger finally slipped into the gloriously
tight depths of Duncan MacLeod.

   Time seemed to dilate as Methos took a century to slip deeper and deeper
into the coveted darkness. Mac held himself utterly still as he concentrated
on the feeling, his entire being centering around this one point, this one
locus in time and space where everything was slowly coming together.

   Another decade passed, then another, and Methos added a second finger to
their timeless dance on the edge of forever. The excruciating pleasure of the
act was slowly stripping away all the walls of superfluity that the two men
had erected between them. A sense of incompleteness, of need, began to build,
at its core the bare essence of what they meant to each other, and what they
could come to mean.

   In one blinding flash, Mac's inertia vanished as Methos plunged through the
last barrier, three fingers establishing a connection born of fire when he
brushed against the spongy mass of Mac's prostate.

   Withdrawing his fingers, Methos immediately positioned himself and began to
push inside. It took one long slow glide....then another.....and another,
before Methos was able to relax the confining shackles of his mind and
concentrate instead on the profound pleasure of being inside the Highlander,
body and soul.

   It came to Mac then that he had miscalled it. They weren't fucking each
other at all. Utterly simple and terrifyingly complex, the emotions coiling
between them lifted the mere act of coupling to something he had seldom had
occasion to examine in all his long life. Methos and Duncan MacLeod were
making love.

   As the universe collapsed to a single blinding point of light, Mac's last
coherent thought as he joined his lover in the plunge toward sated oblivion
was to wonder just how he was going to convince Methos of that.

   An indeterminate amount of time later, Mac began to stir. Groaning a bit,
he gingerly peeled the snoring old man off his chest and levered himself out
of bed--whereupon he promptly fell on his muscular backside with an "oomph" as
his foot slipped out from under him.

   The noise was enough to wake Methos who leaned over the edge of the bed to
peer at the man sprawled on the floor. "Are you down there again? What is it
with you and the floor anyway, MacLeod?"

   "Very funny. I slipped on something..." Twisting around, he began to
search for the offending item.

   Suddenly, Methos began to snort as he leaned over and pulled the pink
feather out from under Mac's butt. "Here's the culprit. Stuck to your
ass...again. Something you want to tell me, Mac? About fetishes perhaps?"

   Pretending to be mortally offended, Mac snatched the feather away.
"Hardly. I'm not the one who has an entire box of sex toys, now am I? This
is all your fault anyway."

   "Trying to divert me, MacLeod?"

   "You had it last. You were the one who tossed it down here. Your fault--
as usual."

   On cue, Methos began to sputter and protest, "Oh sure, MacLeod! Blame your
clumsiness and unnatural attachment to that...that *sex toy* on me. Can I
help it if--*Hey*!" Methos ended with a startled yelp as Mac silenced him in
the most effective way he could think of.

   Reaching up, Mac wrapped both hands around the arm that Methos was dangling
over the edge of the bed and pulled. A moment later Methos landed with a
splat, directly on top of Duncan MacLeod.

   None the worse for the experience, Methos was deeply gratified when all the
air whooshed out of the Highlander's chest, and he began to gasp for air.
"Methos...get off...get...off..."

   Grinding his elbows into Mac's belabored torso, Methos recalled other times
when the positions had been reversed. Smirking at the slowly purpling man
beneath him, he asked insouciantly, "But why? I feel the most delicious sense
of d�j� vu, don't you?"

   The only answer was a glare and another strangled gasp. Taking pity on
his fading friend, Methos placed his lips over Mac's and blew a mighty puff of
air into the Highlander's slack mouth, then proceeded to do his damnedest to
suck it all back out again.

   Twisting violently, Mac managed to detach himself from the old man's
sucker-like mouth and finally draw a full breath. "So now you're trying to
kill me? What *was* that? Your vacuum cleaner imitation?"

   "I'll have you know that was mouth-to-mouth resuscitation...buddy
breathing--I invented it, too. Let's see, must've been about 3000, maybe 4000
years ago. We'd had a lot of really bad weather you see, and there was this
huge flood and..."

   "If you start talking about how you built a great big boat, I swear--
Damn! Look at the time!"

Rolling his lover to the side like a man rolling an old carpet, Mac
scrambled to his feet and began grabbing clothes. "Get dressed, man! I have
to be at the airport in less than an hour."

   Laughing at the man frantically rushing about the loft, Methos stood up and
stretched languorously, "My, it is getting late, isn't it? It's not like you
to put something like this off to the last minute, MacLeod." Shaking his
head, he pulled on the nearest pants, a pair of his as it happened, and
'tsked' mournfully. "What ever were you thinking? If you hadn't been playing
around with that feather...When will you learn that Duncan MacLeod and sex
toys just do not mix?"

   Fully dressed, Mac bent to pick up one of Methos' shirts and flung it to
him. Ignoring the old man's questions, he said, "You'd better hurry up if
you're leaving when I do. Though you don't have to. In fact, I still don't
see why you won't stay here while I'm gone. It's only for two days."

   Completing his wardrobe by slipping on his shoes, Methos smiled. "Nope.
We've already talked about this. I'm going to my apartment. There are some
things there I need to check on. It's only for forty-eight hours, Duncan.
We'll see each other the day after tomorrow."

   Clamping a warm arm across his lover's shoulders, Methos steered him to the
elevator. "Now let's go before you miss that antique auction."

   Still grumbling, Mac allowed himself to be herded downstairs and out the
door. Spying an envelope sticking out of his mailbox, he grabbed at it as he
passed by.

   "I thought you got your mail earlier, Mac."

   "I did." Mac frowned at the envelope in his hand. "Must have missed this
one." Tearing it open, he pulled the single folded sheet out and perused it
quickly. "Hmmm..." Looking back at the envelope, he turned it over in his
hand, searching in vain for a return address or, for that matter, even a
postmark. "That's odd."

   "What?" Methos leaned in over Mac's shoulder to see.   He read, "'Just
wanted to let you know that everything is going to be just fine. Trust me. By
the way, your hair looks better down.' Who is that from? One of your
numerous admirers, no doubt."

   "I have no idea." Mac was thoroughly perplexed. "Amanda maybe?"

   "Ha. More likely one of that army of former lovers that occasionally
surface. Of course, as I recall the second time around they are more apt to
be after your head than your...head." Forestalling any retort with an
upraised hand, Methos continued,   "Whatever it is, you don't have time to
worry about it right now." Leading the Highlander onward, Methos headed
towards their parking slots.

   Pausing one last time behind their two vehicles, Mac ask, "Are you sure?
About not staying here, I mean? Or if you don't want to stay here alone, why
not come with me? I might need your expert opinion."

   "You always need my expert opinion, Mac, but no. I really need to check on
my place. I haven't been there longer than an hour since we got back to
Seacouver." Stepping close, he brushed a fleeting kiss across the younger
man's lips. "I'll meet you at the supermarket, on Friday, at 4:00 p.m. Just
like we planned. Okay?"

   Mac placed one hand along Methos' jaw. Staring deeply into the old man's
eyes, he saw affection and amusement in the green depths. With an answering
smile, Mac nodded. "Okay.   Friday at 4:00 p.m. Ciao, old man." Stepping
back, Mac turned to climb into his car while Methos walked over to his ranger.

   "Duncan..." Methos waited till the Highlander looked up from where he was
settling in behind the wheel. "Watch your head." Putting the vehicle into
reverse, Methos pulled out and was gone.

   "You too, Methos. You too." Watching as the ranger turned at the corner,
Mac wondered how he was ever going to survive till Friday. Shaking his head
ruefully, he followed it to the end of the street, and turned to head for the
airport.

   Almost before the two Immortals had rounded their respective corners, a
shadowy figure detached itself from the dimness of the nearby alley and
stepped into the light.   Looking for all the world as if she had just stepped
off the set of Carmen SanDeigo, Taphelia Desmond was dressed from head to toe
in beige: beige fedora pulled low over her eyes, voluminous beige trenchcoat,
and sensible beige shoes. As she stared into the distance where MacLeod's car
had disappeared, a mieu of distaste spasmed across her features.

   "I can't believe it! Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod in the clutches of
that...that whoever that was!"

   Stepping briskly down the street until she came to her parked car--a non-
descript beige coupe, the woman unlocked the trunk and began setting various
cartons and cases on the roadway at her feet. She continued to grumble to
herself as she worked.

   "Obviously, I've gotten here just in the nick of time. I suppose that
other man must be an Immortal too. But the gall of that...that deviant! No
way is that snarky snake good enough.   Duncan MacLeod is a legend! He wasn't
meant to stride through history with just anybody. I'd have thought he had
better taste than to fall for someone who is obviously so average. Must have
one hell of a pick up line.   MacLeod didn't seem that gullible in his
chronicles....maybe the other Immortal is blackmailing him. Or maybe he's
using some kind of hypnosis...."

    Placing the last box on the pavement, the woman lifted out a luggage
carrier and began to arrange the items in an uneasy pyramid. After a couple
of mishaps, she finally succeeded in lashing the entire load in place, closed
the trunk, and turned to survey the dojo. Strolling over to the main
entrance, she reached into a deep pocket and pulled out a slim case. Opening
it, she peered at its contents for a long moment then chose a slender metal
rod. Inserting it into the keyhole, she gave it a deft half turn, and the
door opened with a snick.

   With a satisfied smile, she returned the lockpick to the case, grabbed the
handle on the luggage carrier, and went inside. "Well, that was certainly
easy.   Damn, I'm good. I'm going to prove it to the Watchers too....I'm
going to turn in the best apprentice Watcher report in the history of the
organization. After I get through investigating Duncan MacLeod and whipping
him into shape, Mr. Dawson will be so impressed, he'll assign MacLeod to me
permanently."

   Still smiling and talking softly to herself, the Watcher-in-training
carefully relocked the dojo door and started for the elevator that would take
her upstairs.

   The next several hours passed in a flurry of activity.   Opening one box
after another, she quickly assembled an impressive array of the latest in
electronic surveillance equipment. Still keeping up a running discourse, she
proceeded to install bugs, both audio and video, all over the loft. Chuckling
to herself, she affixed one last electronic eye to the ceiling over the bed.
"This place is bigger than I thought. Good thing I took advantage of that two
for one special in last month's Covert Gazette. I'd hate to skimp on
coverage."

   Casting one last satisfied look around the loft, the young woman stacked
the empty boxes back on the luggage carrier and prepared to leave. Pulling a
portable tape recorder out of yet another pocket, she slid her thumb over the
record switch and cleared her throat loudly.

*Personal Log, Day One.
I've just finished installing the surveillance equipment in the
dwelling of my primary subject. All items are totally hidden from
any casual observer and test out as operational. It is fairly
apparent to me that the other Immortal is living here with
MacLeod: Everything about his personal habits in the chronicles
states that he is a neat and even fastidious man, yet his
apartment is a mess.   Odd bits of clothing are thrown about,
books lie open on the table, and, most disquieting of all, there
is only one bed in evidence.   I have decided to take further
actions to nip MacLeod's relationship with this man in the bud.
I feel this is necessary in order to preserve Duncan MacLeod's
status and protect his interests, even if it is from himself.*

   When Taphelia Desmond again entered the loft the following day, the first
thing she did was to put down the heavy box she was carrying. Removing its
lid, she considered the two bottles inside. "I really hate to do this to
him...but no! I owe it to history. I owe it to MacLeod to save him from his
own baser proclivities."

   Lifting one of the heavy bottles, she tilted it up towards the light,
studying the translucent fluid within. "This has worked for hundreds of
years. Immortal or no, it should work on Duncan MacLeod too, especially with
a boost from modern science."

   Squaring her shoulders like a good soldier called upon to perform an
unpleasant but necessary task, she went to the kitchen. She began to remove
every jar, bottle and box from the refrigerator and set them on the counter.
Lifting the lids, she poured the contents of the bottle into each container,
using a spoon to stir where necessary. "It's completely odorless and almost
tasteless...that's good. If I'm going to reform Duncan MacLeod, not to
mention chase off that Pierson person, they can't suspect a thing."

   It hadn't taken long for Taphelia to ascertain the other man's identity.
Checking the files of MacLeod's known associates had yielded pay dirt almost
immediately. The information in the file had been very interesting indeed.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Taphelia hurried to finish the task at
hand. Time enough to begin the Pierson end of the operation later.

   After affixing a special filter to the faucet, Desmond turned her attention
to the liquor cabinet, then finally to the bathroom. The determined young
woman mixed generous amounts of the mystery solution into the toothpaste and
mouthwash. Last, she attached a special filter to the bathroom sink faucet
also.

   Taking a moment to indulge in a bit of research, she paused after
replacing the cap on the Crest and pulled a last bottle from the cabinet.
Opening it slowly, she breathed in the aroma of Duncan MacLeod's cologne. It
smelled earthy, woodsy--much like she imagined the man himself would.

   Sighing deeply, she replaced the cologne in the cabinet and went back into
the main room.   The chemist had assured her the effects should be virtually
instantaneous. Of course, that was on a mortal. Even so, according to her
calculations, within twelve hours of ingestion, MacLeod should begin to feel
the effects.   Still, just in case MacLeod or his paramour proved stubborn,
she had a few additional avenues to pursue. The campaign to save Duncan
MacLeod was underway.

   Friday afternoon found Mac strolling leisurely through the aisles of the
Warehouse Supermarket wondering what was keeping his lover. As he idly tossed
items into a cart, he entertained himself by making plans for a reunion
dinner. So engrossed was he in this pleasurable activity that he failed to
notice he was being followed.

   Some distance behind him, carefully maintaining several carts' length gap,
was Taphelia Desmond. Every time MacLeod added an item to his cart, Taphelia
took note of the box or can and took one for herself as she passed it by.
Keeping her eyes pinned to the exact center of the Highlander's broad back,
she chanced a quick entry to her personal log.

*Personal Log: Day Three
   MacLeod has returned to Seacouver. He is currently in
Warehouse Supermarket buying a fairly extensive assortment of
items. I'll add a complete list later. The subject appears to be
distracted, paying scant attention to his surroundings or his
shopping. I wonder if it has anything to do with that other
Immortal. I'm going to attempt to get closer and find out more.*

   As Mac vanished around a corner into the produce area, Taphelia began to
make her move. Adjusting the long red wig firmly on her head, she came up
behind him. The Highlander was standing stock still, apparently gazing over a
daunting array of fresh fruit.   As she boldly swung her cart up beside him,
she realized that   MacLeod had a couple of kiwis in his broad palm.

   "You know how to tell if they're ripe, don't you?"

   Mac refocused his attention with an effort. "Excuse me?"

   "The kiwis." She indicated the fruits nestled in the cup of his hand. "Do
you know how to tell if they're ripe?"

   "Oh. No, actually, I don't."

   Placing both of her smaller hands around MacLeod's, Taphelia purred, "You
have to gently squeeze them. Like this." Folding his big hand around the two
fuzzy spheres, she continued to knead his flesh gently as she continued.
"Notice how they're firm yet yielding to the touch."

   "Um hum." MacLeod gave them a few experimental squeezes on his own.

   "Also, you can see they're a nice round shape, full and heavy. And the
fuzz should be soft and uniform over the entire surface of the fruit."

    As Taphelia brought Mac's other hand up to stroke the fuzzy surface of the
kiwis, he cleared his throat loudly. "Ahem! That's....that's fascinating,
Miss?"

   Ignoring his query, Taphelia continued to smile up at him, her small hands
still wrapped around his. Suddenly, Mac stiffened and began to turn his head
from side to side as he felt the unmistakable buzz of another Immortal.

   Sure enough, there standing at the end of the aisle, arms akimbo and a
sardonic smile on his face, was Methos. Mac jumped back from Taphelia with an
almost guilty start, dropping the kiwis in the process.

   "Adam! There you are. I was wondering when you would get here."

   Strolling forward, Methos drawled, "Oh yes, I can see that. Who's your
friend, Mac?"

   Belatedly gathering his wits, Mac turned to the young lady at his side only
to find her wheeling her cart off at a furious pace. Before he could get a
word out, she had rushed past Adam in the narrow space, handily running flush
over his sneaker clad feet in the process.

   "Ow!" Methos yelped, bending over to rub his wounded toes just as Taphelia
careened around the corner, dislodging a huge display of grapefruits in her
haste. As the grapefruits rained down over Methos' back and head, Mac could
only watch in amused horror and brace for the explosion sure to follow.

   Amazingly, when the avalanche subsided, Methos carefully straightened up,
picked his way delicately through the debris and peered into Mac's cart.
"Hello, Duncan. Did you miss me?"

   Blinking slowly, Mac nodded. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Did you
miss me?"

   Grinning now, Methos finished his perusal of the cart's contents and said,
"Yep. Let's hurry and finish whatever you were doing so we can go home and
compare notes. By the way, just what exactly were you doing?"

   "Hmmm?   Oh, I was buying kiwis. That woman was just telling me how to
tell if they're ripe. Do you know how to tell?" Picking up a couple of
fruits, Mac pressed them into Methos' palm and proceeded to explain.

   "You have to squeeze them like this, see? They're supposed to feel
yielding but...firm...." Mac's voice trailed off into a snicker as he became
aware of just what his words sounded like.

   Looking from the round spheres in his hand to the devlish grin on Mac's
face, Methos had to struggle to maintain a calm demeanor. Putting the kiwis
back in the bin, he turned to Mac, with his lips twitching, "No, I can't say
that I do know how to tell if kiwis are ripe, and I don't want to, thank you
anyway. If you want to buy those fuzzy little balls, grab a bag and let's
go."

   Mac shook his head. "You know, old man, fresh fruit is supposed to be good
for you. Never mind though. I don't think I want any after all. Let's go
home."

   Chuckling softly, Methos draped an arm casually around the younger man's
waist and escorted him to the less exotic locales of the check-out lanes at
the front of the store.

   When the two Immortals arrived back at the dojo, Methos quickly pulled his
ranger into a slot next to Mac's T-bird and hopped out. Swaggering over to
help the Highlander unload the groceries, he noticed a black motorcycle parked
nearby. "Oh joy and bliss. Isn't that Ryan's bike?"

   "Yeah." Mac was pleased. "I haven't seen him in a couple of weeks."

   "Well, as usual his timing sucks." Methos grumbled as he hefted a couple
of bags and started for the stairs. "So much for you missing me."

   Catching up with him hastily, Mac frowned, "Now, Methos. Don't be like
that. You know you like Richie."

   Stopping at the top of the stairs while Mac fumbled with the key, Methos
slanted a sly look at the man in front of him. "Fine. Tell me this: were
you at home long before you came to the supermarket?"

   "No, I just dropped my bag off and left again. Why?"

   "Oh no reason really. It's just, I seem to recall the loft was in a less
than pristine condition when we left."

   His eyes widening in horror, Mac paused in the act of opening the door.
"Oh God! You left your stuff strung everywhere! And the bed's not made...in
fact.....Oh God!"

   Jerking the door open, Mac rushed in, his coat flying out behind him in the
wake of his passage. Chuckling evilly, Methos followed at a more leisurely
pace, willing to give the situation a few more seconds to heat up before he
entered the fray.

   Sure enough, there stood Richie Ryan in the center of the loft with a
cockeyed grin on his face, a pair of Methos' jeans in his hands. Mac had
dropped his burdens smack in the middle of the floor and reached out to grab
the pants also. Both men stood stock still, frozen in a tableau as Methos
nonchalantly picked his way around them on his way into the kitchen.

   Seeming to snap out of it with Methos' passing, Mac painted a strained
smile on his lips and gave the jeans an experimental tug. "Richie! You
shouldn't be doing this. Sit down, relax. Let me get you a beer."

   His grin widening ever further, if that were possible, Richie maintained
his grip. "Oh come on, Mac. It's not as if I'm a stranger here. We're
family, and when I got up here and saw the mess....well, I had nothing better
to do so I thought I'd tidy up a bit. I put all your mail on the desk, and I
was just about to gather up the rest of the clothes and put them into the
hamper." Shaking his head in admonition, Richie continued, "This is not like
you, Mac. You're usually so neat. You are the same man who used to rag on me
for not picking up after myself aren't you?"

   "Richie...." Mac let out a low growl of frustration as he gave the jeans a
hearty yank.

   "Hey! Ease up there, Mac." Effecting a look of eloquent befuddlement,
Richie appeared to be seeing the pants in his hands for the first time.
"Wow. Prada. After four hundred years, you suddenly decide to get trendy?"

   Twisting the waist this way and that, Richie made an elaborate show of
examining the various labels and tags on the jeans. "What size are these
anyway? I might want to borrow them sometime...huh, looks like they'd be
kinda tight on you, Mac.....*oofff*!"

   With a mighty heave, Mac at last succeeded in wrenching the pants from his
young, inquisitive friend's grasp. Of course, it wrenched Richie violently
forward as well.   As he careened past Mac to slam into the nearest wall, the
Highlander quickly tossed the jeans to their rightful owner, who looked about
for a moment then shoved them into the nearest hiding spot....the
refrigerator.

   By the time Richie slowly straightened up, rubbing his skinned nose
ruefully, Methos was cheerfully unloading the grocery sacks Mac had carried
over to the kitchen. Settling himself at the bar, Richie propped his head in
his hands and asked casually, "So Mac, how long has this been going on?"

   Both older Immortals froze in mid-stride. Carefully putting down the large
package of cocktail sausages that had somehow found its way home with him, Mac
ventured, "Uh, what do you mean, Rich?"

   "Oh come on...I know you, remember? Methos, you tell me then...how long?"

   Totally failing to notice the wicked gleam in the big blue eyes drilling a
hole into him, Methos nevertheless strove to shrug nonchalantly and said, "Not
long really, a few weeks. Why do you ask?"

   "Because whoever she is, she's obviously got Mac totally distracted. I'd
say he really has it bad."

   Methos suddenly became very busy putting up cans and boxes. In a slightly
strangled voice, he ventured, "Oh, I don't know about that, Ryan. Mac has
never been exactly reticent about his light o'loves before. I'd say this
current one really doesn't mean too much to him at all."

   "Methos!"

   Shrugging, Methos stacked the last item in the pantry then strode across
the room to the elevator. "I just call them like I see them, MacLeod. I
mean, let's face it, you were flirting with a woman in the supermarket, for
gods' sake. If you can't even wait a couple of days....well, what does that
tell you?"

   At Mac's abashed silence, Methos nodded. "Exactly. Now, if you'll both
excuse me, I have some pressing matters to attend to at my apartment. I'm
sure I'll see both of you later tonight at Joe's."

   When Methos stepped into the elevator, it broke the spell of inaction that
had surrounded Mac. "Wait! I'll ride down with you. I need to get some
papers out of the office. Rich, make yourself at home. I'll be right back."

Without waiting for a reply from his former student, MacLeod strode into the
elevator and pulled down the grate. Barely waiting for it to sink belong the
level of the loft's floor, Mac turned to Methos and slammed him none too
gently against the back wall. "Just what was that all about?" he demanded,
nose to nose with his lover.

   "Just what I said, Mac. It suddenly occurred to me that you perhaps hadn't
missed me quite as much as...as you thought you did."

   "As I thought I did?"

"Oh, I'm not blaming you, Duncan. It's your nature. You are a lover of
women. All women. Period. Whatever aberration brought you to me, well, it
was just that, an aberration."

   Still holding the old Immortal captive, Mac ground out through clenched
teeth, "And that's just it then? An aberration that has now passed?"

   "No harm, no foul." Methos whispered. "It was fun while it lasted."

   Nearly incoherent with frustration, Mac shook his head in disbelief. "No,
no! You don't...you aren't...." Finally, he did the only thing he could
think of: he kissed Methos. He kissed him with every ounce of passion and
power he possessed.   Punishing, bruising kisses slanted across the lips
beneath his until the ancient Immortal was gasping for breath.

   Grimly satisfied, Mac tore himself away from the old man, his own chest
heaving. Dark brown eyes aglitter, he ask, "Still think it was just an
aberration, Methos? You big bloody idiot."

    Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, Methos fought the smile
that was quirking the corners of his lips. "Well....when you put it that
way....but you were letting her squeeze your kiwis!"

   Widening his eyes in feigned innocence, Mac replied, "I'd be happy to teach
you how to squeeze them too, Methos. Unfortunately, I forgot to buy any."

   Reaching a hand down between them, Methos got in a few squeezes of his
own. "I think we can find a suitable substitute. We'll talk about it later,
okay? Right now, you'd better get back upstairs to the Immortal answer to
Martha Stewart. He could always get the notion to change the sheets."

    Methos buried his fists in the Highlander's long dark hair and yanked him
forward into a quick, hard kiss. Biting down on Mac's lush lower lip just
before he pushed him gently against the wall of the elevator, he smiled in
satisfaction at his flushed lover.

   "I'll see you tonight, Duncan. Now get up there, and stop Ryan before he
starts rummaging in the night stand."

   "Oh God." Mac groaned as Methos slid out of the elevator, pulled the
grate down, and stepped back.

   "Tonight, Mac. Tonight."

   Raising a single hand, Mac slowly rose out of sight. Quite satisfied with
himself, Methos turned and left the dojo.

   To Mac's intense relief, Richie was lounging comfortably in one corner of
the sofa swigging a beer. He had a bland little smile on his face that
widened perceptibly as he got a close look at his former teacher who returned
sans the papers he'd been so eager to get. "Hey, Mac. Why don't you grab a
beer and come talk to me for a while?"

   Relieved at Richie's inactivity, Mac agreed readily. "Sure, Rich. Just
let me get one." Walking over to the fridge, he opened the door as he
continued, "So, I take it everything's going pretty well? You certainly don't
look--"

   Mac broke off abruptly as he bent over to get a bottle and came face to
face with Methos' black jeans. Jerking around, Mac peered at Richie
suspiciously, but the younger Immortal seemed totally engrossed in the label
on his beer.

   Walking slowly back across the loft, Mac lowered himself reluctantly onto
the opposite end of the couch. Buying a last few seconds to gather his
thoughts, he twisted the cap off his beer and took a long swallow just as
Richie said, "So how'd you get plaster dust all over your bed?"

   Spewing beer in all directions, Mac gasp, "What?"

   Carefully maintaining his innocent facade, Richie elaborated, "I told you,
I was going to clean the place up a bit. I mean, God, it looks like a couple
of wild animals have been living here." Watching Mac surreptitiously, Richie
continued, "I was planning on adding the sheets to the laundry along with all
of your dirty clothes. Of course, I didn't actually get around to it, but I
did notice they were covered in white dust."

   Frowning a bit, Mac wasn't really registering Richie's words as he searched
for a noncommittal reply. "Well, Rich. They've been exposed to a lot of it
while I was gone."

   "No, Mac. Not *dust* dust. Weird white dust. Same color as the ceiling.
Either you guys have been bouncing on the bed, or we musta had an earthquake
or something."

   Mac jumped up and stalked over to the bed, intrigued against his better
judgment. Richie, struggling to restrain his laughter as he planned the next
zinger to follow his bouncing on the bed line, followed.

   Sure enough, the bed was covered in what had to be bits of plaster.
Staring from the bed to the ceiling, Mac tried to think of a logical
explanation for the oddity. The ceiling didn't really look any different, did
it? He'd have to ask Methos.....Checking that thought abruptly, Mac grabbed
the edge of the sheets prepatory to removing them from the mattress. As he
jerked them up and off, a small item flew into the air and sailed across the
room to land with a smack at Richie's feet.

   If an Immortal could die from mortification, Duncan MacLeod thought he
would have expired on the spot. Staring fixedly at the tube resting against
the scuffed leather of Richie's left boot, Mac cast frantically through his
mind for an explanation that would explain why he had lube on his bed when the
only person who'd been staying with him for the last several weeks was
Methos. Cringing inwardly as he came up blank, he braced himself for the
inevitable and waited. And waited.

   When it became apparent that Richie wasn't going to speak, he chanced a
cautious glance up at his friend. The young Immortal was sipping casually at
his beer, still staring fixedly at the ceiling above the bed. As incredible
as it seemed, Mac decided Richie hadn't noticed a thing, and he intended to
keep it that way.

   Clasping the younger man firmly by the shoulder, Mac stepped forward
carefully and steered Richie to the elevator.   "Well, thanks for dropping by,
Rich. I'm glad you're back in town. I know you must have a million things to
do."

   "Well, actually..."

   "No, no. Don't worry about it. I understand. The impatience of youth,
always on the run. No problem. As you so rightly pointed out, I've got to
clean up this mess anyway. I'll see you at Joe's tonight."

   Allowing himself to be bundled inside the elevator, Richie couldn't resist
one last parting shot. "Oh, by the way, Mac?"

Now that he was sure he'd succeeded in safeguarding his personal life for a
little while longer, Mac felt expansive. "You need something, Rich? Some
money?"

   "Naw, no money, thanks. But, there is a favor you could do for me."

   "Name it."

   "Well, when Methos comes over to get his jeans out of the refrigerator,
would you ask him if I could borrow them this weekend? I'm going trawling at
that new club downtown, and those things are guaranteed chick magnets. At
least they would be for me...maybe I should say 'whatever floats your boat'
magnets?" With a grin and a wink, Richie pressed the button and sank out of
sight.

   Shaking his head, Mac walked over to the desk and leafed through his mail.
Noticing several large beige envelopes, he pulled them out. None of them had
a return address, or even his address---just his name Duncan MacLeod.
Frowning, he opened one and began to read.

   Several minutes later, Mac looked up from the last letter. It was a joke,
it had to be. One of his so-called friends was trying to play with his head.
The letters ranged from the first one's 'just to let you know you're special'
to a more intimate 'you should wear that black open weave sweater more often,
it makes my breath catch in my throat to just look at you in it'. Obviously,
they were written by someone who had a passing knowledge of his wardrobe...it
occurred to him briefly that they were from Methos, but he dismissed that
thought almost immediately. Definitely not the old man's style. Amanda
then. Now she would do something like that. Or maybe Joe and Richie were up
to something to punish him because he was loathe to talk about his personal
life. Finally, Mac tossed the letters into a drawer and gave up. Sooner or
later, whoever it was, he or she would tip their hand, until then there was no
use in worrying about someone having a little harmless fun.

   From the vantage point of her car, Taphelia watched as the tall redheaded
young man she'd observed earlier spilled laughing out of MacLeod's dojo. She
knew from her research and the conversation she had just listened in on, that
he was Richie Ryan, MacLeod's most recent student.

   The Watcher frowned as Ryan, still chuckling madly, mounted his bike and
roared off. Surely, if Ryan was half as observant as his sly questions had
seemed to imply, he knew what was going on with MacLeod and the man styling
himself as the world's oldest Immortal. He couldn't possibly approve of the
liaison between the two. The only explanation for his good humor was that
Richie Ryan was just as naive as his mentor--totally taken in by the lies and
machinations of the man actually known as Adam Pierson.

   She'd known he had to be another Immortal, but it wasn't until she began to
dig through the chronicles that she'd come across the startling information
that Pierson was a former Watcher! The details of his Immortality had not
been available, locked away under a high level security code. Obviously, the
man had wreaked havoc during his stint with the Watchers, as he was now doing
with MacLeod.

Squaring her shoulders and raising her head with renewed determination,
Taphelia turned once again to her recorder and began to speak.

   *Personal Log.   It's true. I didn't believe it, I still don't
want to, but Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod is engaging in a
tawdry fling with a flimflam man named Adam Pierson. The evidence
is overwhelming, and my course is clear. In order to save
MacLeod, I must pursue a two-fold attack. First, I must remove
Pierson from the playing field. Then, I must present MacLeod with
a more suitable alternative.   Getting rid of Pierson shouldn't be
too difficult. The measures I plan to adopt might seem extreme to
some, but history will adjudge me correct in applying that old
adage: desperate times call for desperate measures.

   After all, since Pierson is an Immortal, albeit a very poor
example of one, it is not as if I can do him permanent injury. As
for MacLeod, I believe once he has seen the error of his ways, he
will be grateful for my intervention. He, too, will not be
permanently inconvenienced, though I do plan to have an
appropriate palliative at the ready to reverse any lingering ill
effects.

   All that remains now is to wait for Pierson to leave his
apartment tonight so that the next phase of the plan can be put
into motion.*

   When MacLeod left his loft en route to his rendezvous at Joe's Bar,
Taphelia swiftly stole back inside. She immediately stalked to the
refrigerator and took out one very cold pair of black Prada jeans. Shaking
her head in disapproval, she held the pants at arms' length and proceeded to
stuff them into the trash can under the kitchen sink.

   Pulling a large dun colored envelope from an inner pocket, she clicked it
against her teeth a minute as she considered its placement. Opting to be
cautious, she resolved to drop it into MacLeod's mailbox downstairs as she
left just as she had the others. She'd written several to MacLeod over the
last couple of days, knowing he wouldn't receive them until he returned home.
The man was just so very special, she figured it was time someone reminded him
of that fact.

   Fingering the large vial in her coat pocket, she pulled the jeans back out
of the trash and sprinkled them with the tube's contents, just in case.
Satisfied, she returned them to the trash bin, repocketed the vial and headed
for Adam Pierson's apartment.

   A quick detour past Joe's Bar confirmed the presence of MacLeod's entire
cadre. Judicious application of a switchblade to the back tires on Adam
Pierson's jeep insured that his stay would be a lengthy one.

   Arriving at the apartment she had located via the unsealed portion of
Pierson's records, Taphelia put her latest note to Pierson into his mailbox
then quickly used her lock picking skills again to gain entrance. No time was
spared in a leisurely examination of Pierson's abode. Taphelia had absolutely
no interest in the upstart Immortal's taste in accessories, and made short
work of her mission. Laying out the contents of the wardrobe drawer by
drawer, she sprinkled several drops of the concoction in the vial on each
garment.

   Pausing when she came to the drawer that held Pierson's boxers and t-
shirts, a nasty little smirk creased her face, and she applied even more of
the liquid to them. After following suit in Pierson's closet, she took a
quick glance around to make sure she had contaminated all of his clothing.
Espying a large duffel near the door, she quickly unpacked the clean clothes
in it and sprinkled them with the last drops in the vial. Obviously, Pierson
was planning on a stay of several days with someone. Taphelia was certain she
knew with whom, and she planned to do her part to make what should be his last
visit a memorable one.

   After carelessly shoving the clothes back into the duffel, the Watcher
carefully washed her hands with soap and water then descended back to the
street. Standing by her car, she decided to give this next part of her grand
plan a little test. Uncapping the now empty vial, she held it at arm's length
and peered into the lengthening shadows at the end of the street.

   At first, nothing happened. Desmond was just beginning to frown when a
noise from the opposite end of the narrow avenue caught her attention.
Turning to confirm that what her ears reported was true, Taphelia's eyes
widened in startlement. Hastily recapping the vial, she all but dove into her
car, locked the doors, and roared off into the night. Catching her breath,
she allowed herself a little laugh of triumph. The operation to save Duncan
MacLeod was about to take another giant step forward.

   Back at Joe's, the evening was progressing and, Methos thought to himself
ruefully, the game was afoot. There was absolutely no doubt in Methos' mind
that Joe Dawson and Richie Ryan were up to something. Obviously, Richie had
filled Joe in on his afternoon visit to the loft. In order to deflect the
inevitable speculations, or at least delay them a bit, Methos immediately
launched into the tale of Mac's fuzzy fruit fondling.

   When the Highlander arrived a few minutes later, Joe began plying him with
questions about his 'mysterious new girlfriend'. Thinking of the letters that
had been waiting for him when he returned to the loft, Mac considered
mentioning them, but decided the presence of a secret admirer would only add
more fuel to Joe's fire, so he continued to prevaricate. The more Mac hummed
and hawed, the more Joe poked and prodded. Methos thought briefly of trying
to help his hapless lover, but finally decided it was probably his best chance
for entertainment that evening and sat back to watch MacLeod squirm.

   "So, Mac. You had a rendezvous with her in the supermarket?"

   "What? Of course not! I had a rendezvous with Methos in....that is I met
Methos in the supermarket. I told you that, Richie."

   Richie held both hands up in a 'don't blame me' gesture while Joe, not the
least deterred, turned to Methos and said with over exaggerated surprise, "So
Methos, you were there too." At the old Immortal's amused nod, he continued,
"Had you met Mac's girlfriend before this? What did she look like?"

   Methos shrugged, "You know, actually she was kind of medium. Medium
height. Medium build. Medium. Nice red hair though."

   "She was not my girlfriend!" Agitated now in spite of his resolve not to
fall victim to Joe's game, Mac fairly shouted it out.

   "She wasn't?" Joe leaned forward as if he were about to divulge a state
secret. "And yet...you let her squeeze your kiwis?"

   "Why does everybody keep saying that! She was not squeezing my kiwis,
Joe." Mac sounded downright surly, casting a sidelong glance at his lover to
see if the line of questioning was beginning to upset him. When Methos
returned his stare with bland equinimity, Mac decided to go for broke.
Adopting a much put-upon expression, he opened his eyes wide in the most
innocent expression he could muster and said, "I was squeezing them myself.
She was just showing me how to cup them in my hand and examine them."

   At that, Joe totally lost control of the mirth that was bubbling in his
chest. Loosing a loud guffaw, he fell back into his chair and proceeded to
laugh until the tears streamed down his face. With Richie and even Methos
snickering helplessly in the background, Joe took several deep, shaky breaths,
attempting to speak.

   "It's all right, Mac. I believe you. In fact, we all believe you, don't
we guys?" Having valiantly reigned in their jocularity, the other two
Immortals nodded.

   Acting affronted for a minute longer, Mac finally dropped the pretense and
took a long draught of beer. "Well, I suppose it does sound kind of odd.
But, honestly, Joe, I don't have a girlfriend."

   For the first time since the entire conversation had begun, Richie piped
up. "Oh, we know that, Mac."

   Methos frowned at the smirk on the young redhead's face. "What do you mean
you know that?"

   Joe interposed hastily. "Nothing. Nothing at all." He frowned a warning
to Richie. "Just that if MacLeod did have a girlfriend, we'd all know about
it. I mean, you would certainly know about it since you've been staying with
him. Right?"

   Methos tilted his head to one side, meeting the challenging glint in Joe's
eye with one of his own. But, before he could speak, Mac suddenly leapt to
his feet and dragged Methos along with him. "Look at the time. Methos,
didn't you tell me you had an early appointment tomorrow? We'd better get
going."

   Rolling his eyes at Mac's transparency, Methos reminded him mildly, "I
came in my own vehicle, MacLeod. Remember?" Relenting when Mac began to
squeeze his arm in a vise, Methos complained loudly, "Ow! Okay, okay. It
suddenly occurs to me MacLeod is right. I do need to go. Good night, Joe.
Ryan.   It's been... entertaining."

   "Yeah, goodnight guys." Mac chimed in. "Call me tomorrow, Rich. Okay?"

   Leaving Joe and Richie snickering over their beers, and towing the still
protesting Methos behind him, Mac escaped into the night.

   After the door had closed behind them and they were alone with the night,
Methos stopped and pulled Mac to a halt. "Why did you do that?"

   "Do what?"

   "Go through all that ridiculous folderol with Joe."

   "Well, I..."

   "Duncan. He knows. They *both* know."

   "Yes."

   When nothing more was forthcoming, Methos gave an exasperated snort and
moved towards his vehicle with Mac following silently behind. Suddenly,
Methos stopped so quickly that Mac crashed smack into the back of him, causing
them both to stumble forward.

   "Damn!"

   Assuming Methos was still worrying at his evasive maneuvers in the bar, Mac
tried to explain as Methos rushed around to the other side of the Ranger. "Oh
come on, old man. Do you really want those two busy bodies nosing into--"

   "Double damn! What the fuck is this?" Methos suddenly vanished behind the
Ranger.

   Mac finally realized that Methos wasn't listening and looked more closely
at his friend's jeep. The rear passenger tire was flat. Too bad, but
still....Methos must have changed a lot of tires in his time. When he moved
to follow his friend around the end of the vehicle, Mac saw Methos squatted
beside the other back tire, which was also definitely, unequivocally flat.

   "Wow," he said mildly. "Two flat tires. What are the odds?"

   "Oh I don't know, I'd say pretty good when you use a knife on them."
Methos straightened up in disgust. "I can't believe this. I should have
stayed in bed today. Oh that's right, I never made it to bed today, thanks to
Ryan and the fruit lady."

   "Now, Methos. It's no big deal. We'll just leave the ranger here
tonight. Tomorrow, we'll come down and handle it. Okay?" Moving closer to
his disgruntled friend, Mac put his arms around him.

   Methos sighed. "Okay, Mac. But, you have to take me by my place first. I
need to pick up a few things." Allowing Mac to lead him to the Thunderbird,
he continued, "Why me? I hate flat tires."

   "Oh come on, Methos. It's nothing personal."

   "Those two tires didn't go flat on a whim, MacLeod. They were slashed with
a knife...or a sword." Methos frowned as the thought occurred to him.

   Mac stopped as he considered the possibilities. "A sword?" He thought
furiously. "No. If another Immortal was around one of us would've sensed
him. Especially you, Mr. Long Range Immortal Radar. It was probably just
some punk who happened by."

   "And they just happened to single out *my* Ranger--great." Not completely
convinced, Methos nevertheless climbed into the passenger side of the car and
allowed Mac to take him to his apartment.

   As they pulled out into the street, Methos caught a quick movement out of
the corner of his eye. Twisting in his seat, he just glimpsed a figure in a
pale trenchcoat walking swiftly away through the night. He frowned a bit, the
thought that he'd seen whoever it was before teasing at his memory. But then,
Mac's big warm hand closed over his thigh, pulling his attention back to the
man beside him, and the mystery person was dismissed from Methos' mind.

   At Methos' apartment building, Mac surprised Methos by stepping out of the
car and following him inside. "Mac, this will only take a minute."

   "I know. I just thought I'd stretch my legs a bit."

   "Uh huh. Not trying to protect me from possible marauding punk hoodlums
with swords are you?"

   Changing the subject, Mac noticed an envelope sticking out of the line of
mailboxes in the foyer. "Methos, isn't that your mailbox? Don't you think it
would be nice to empty it once in a while?"

   Still chuckling at his own wit, Methos unlocked his mailbox and grabbed the
handful of envelopes inside.

   Saved the necessity of further discussion by their timely arrival at
Methos' apartment, Mac gestured him to silence as he started to unlock the
door. Faint, weird sounds could be heard coming from somewhere inside. Eyes
widening, Mac drew his sword silently from its sheathe, and nodded.

   Methos made an elaborate, casual play of unlocking the door as noisily as
possible. Swinging it wide, he stepped calmly forward then dove to the side,
promptly tripping over the bag he'd left sitting nearby and landing on his
stomach with a loud *oommph*!

   MacLeod swarmed into the space behind him just as the door began to swing
shut on its hinges. Thinking someone was trying to keep him out, he gave a
mighty shove and sent the door crashing back into the wall.

   Swiftly rising to a crouch, his own sword in hand, Methos struggled to see
in the deep gloom that pervaded the room. Finally locating Mac, Methos moved
swiftly to his side where the two assumed a classic defensive posture,
guarding each other's back. One slow circuit of the room, another. Both
times the results were the same. Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement.
Nothing.

   Turning to instruct Mac to flip the light switch, Methos froze in mid-
pivot, his eyes fixed on the dark windows that opened onto his fire escape.
"Mac," he stage-whispered.

   "I see it," Mac's voice in his ear made him jump. "What is it?" *It* was
fully half a dozen tiny pinpoints of light apparently clustered on the fire
escape.

   Just then the same weird noises they'd noticed earlier began again. Not
surprisingly, they were centered on the lights in the window. Scrabbling,
scratching, whirring...purring. Purring?

   "Wait a minute." Mac strode over the light switch and flipped it up
decisively. The glowing points vanished in the glare of electric illumination
to be replaced by...cats.

   Methos found himself staring bemusedly at three scraggly looking alley cats
who had apparently fixated on his apartment as some sort of feline nirvana.
As he and Mac continued to watch, the cats began to bat and paw and scratch at
the window, seeking a way inside.

   Shaking his head at his own folly, Methos finally turned away and grabbed
his duffel which was now lying on its side, clothing scattered all around it.
Shoving everything back inside, Methos wrinkled his nose as the barest
suggestion of a scent wafted to his nostrils. What? Sniffing the air in all
directions, Methos stopped as he met the eyes of the amused Highlander.

   "Doing your bloodhound imitation?"

   "No, I'm not doing my bloodhound imitation. I smelled something for a
second--sort of. I'll have you know I've always had an extremely sensitive
nose."

   Sniffing himself, Mac shrugged. "I don't smell anything. Must be the size
of the proboscis in question."

   Finishing his repacking, Methos stood, duffel in hand. "For your
information, this proboscis has made me a very comfortable living in the past,
working in perfumeries. Who do you think persuaded Cleopatra that ambergris
was her scent?"

   Chuckling, Mac steered the other Immortal to the door. "Right. You gonna
do anything about your furry friends there?" Hooking a thumb back towards the
window and its clutch of kitties, Mac waited expectantly.

   It was almost comical to see Methos restrain himself from further comment.

With one last long look at the tabby trio, Methos shrugged and pushed Mac out
the door, pulling it shut behind them.

   Back on the sidewalk, Methos was feeling expansive. "You know MacLeod.
You really would have loved ancient Egypt. Most of us wore those little skirt
things, so you with your penchant for kilts would have felt right at home.
And those long hot--"

   He was interrupted by the sounds of several cats screeching and clawing
their way down what he could only presume was his fire escape to the alley
below. Turning toward the cacophony, he was surprised and a little unnerved
to see the original threesome along with a goodly number of their friends and
neighbors bearing down on him at a furious clip. Wondering if a Little
Friskies truck was overturned just around the corner, Methos twisted around to
see what savory treat they were zeroing in on.   He was totally unprepared
when the entire mass of rowling, spitting felines hit him at full tilt.

   MacLeod could only watch the proceedings in slack wonder as his friend
staggered and nearly collapsed under the unexpected assault. The cats were
everywhere. At least three had sunk their claws into the fabric of Methos'
great coat and were advancing apace up his rump and onto his back.

   Two were engaging in a violent fight for the ownership of Methos' duffel.
And one, the biggest of all, had happily settled on top of Methos' booted
foot. Its front paws were wrapped around the old Immortal's shin; its eyes
were closed; and it was humping to its heart's content.

   Seeing his lover become the inamorata of a randy and possibly rabid feline
was the impetus that broke Mac's spell. As Methos began to yell and flail
about, Mac swiftly considered all courses of action available to him at that
moment. He finally settled on one that couldn't help but meet with the old
man's approval. Nothing. He did absolutely nothing. To be truthful, he
couldn't really think how to help anyway, so he settled in to watch the show.

   Methos was turning and twisting like a dervish, faster and faster in a
tight circle, looking very much like a dog chasing its own tail. Added to
this, he was periodically hopping furiously on one leg as he tried to sling
his amorous boot ornament off the other. Try as he might, he couldn't
dislodge the cat's orgasmic grip on his leg, and he just couldn't quite
contort enough to reach the creatures still ascending his backside like
climbers scaling Mount Everest.

   When one particularly determined specimen sank jagged claws into his butt,
the ancient Immortal howled, "MacLeod! If you *don't* get these succubi off
me, my sword *will*!"

   By this time, Mac had sunk back against the Thunderbird laughing
helplessly, too overcome by the spectacle to speak. However, he didn't want
his increasingly desperate lover to resort to cat carnage, so he utilized
every ounce of willpower he possessed, and stepped forward into the fray. The
Highland warrior reached a tentative hand out toward the two kitties still
atop Methos' duffel. They had apparently worked out their differences and
were proceeding to get to know each other very well. A spit and a hiss from
the happy couple stopped Mac in mid-reach. Considering a moment, Mac took the
entire bag, strap and all from Methos' shoulder, and set it off to one side.
Two cats down, four to go.

The remaining four posed a somewhat greater challenge. By this time, Methos
was hunched over, trying to prevent the creatures on his back from reaching
his head and face. Every time he attempted to straighten up, an extended claw
and a warning hiss sent him back into the crouch. This posture had two other
effects.

   First, it gave the old Immortal the most intimate view he'd ever had in all
his 5000 years of a copulating cat. Locked in the throes of ecstasy, the cat
seemed determined to be permanently attached to Methos' lower leg. While
totally oblivious to its human audience on a conscious level, the cat
nevertheless had its wide staring eyes fixed on Methos' face. This left the
old man with the uncomfortable notion that he and the cat--that is in the
cat's mind......no, best not to pursue that line of thought.

   The second thing Methos' position did was give the cats on his back the
advantage of defending their prize from high ground. The three remaining
felines were ranged atop Methos' back, holding their lofty perch against all
comers. In this case, the 'comer' was Duncan MacLeod.

   Snickering again, totally at a loss, the Highlander warily circled the
trio, looking for an opening. He'd thrust, they'd parry. He'd feint, they'd
sink their claws into their human hillock a little deeper. As Methos' yowls
became louder, Mac grew a bit desperate. He didn't want to actually hurt the
cats, just shoo them away. Maybe...."Scat.   Go on, scat!"

   No effect. Maybe a bit more forceful. "*Scat*!!!" Three pairs of gold-
green eyes peered up at him in disdain--four if he counted the look Methos was
slanting at him. Okay, time to resort to something a bit more drastic.
Drawing his sword, Mac moved back a step.

   "MacLeod!" Methos yelped when he caught the glint of metal out of the
corner of his eye. "I didn't say you should whack them! What if you miss?"

   "Relax, Methos. I'm not going to whack them...well, not the way you
mean. I'm just going to use the flat of my blade to strongly suggest they
take their party elsewhere"

"Oh. Good. You'd better hurry though, Casanova down here looks to be
gearing up for the big moment."

   Looking down at the cat still vigorously rubbing itself against Methos
shin, Mac gulped, "Right." A huge grin on his face, he extended his sword as
far as he could, and began to whack gently at the backsides of the perverse
pussies. First one, then another hissed in anger, but gave up in the face of
a greater power. As Mac circled one more time to get just the right angle to
dislodge the last cat, it decided to take matters into its own...paws.

   With a loud hiss, it leapt straight up off Methos' back and landed on the
flat side of Mac's blade. The cat swarmed up its narrow perch toward the
Highlander, fangs bared, back arched, intent to do bodily harm plain in its
eyes. Taken aback, Mac did what any redblooded Immortal hero would in the
face of such menace, with a yelp of startled laughter, he dropped his sword
with a loud clatter.

   Leaning against the car again, Mac decided to put a positive spin on his
part of the evening's events. "Okay, old man. I took care of five of them.
I believe you owe it to your furry boyfriend there to deal with him yourself.
I'll start the car."

   Methos straightened slowly when he realized his back was at last feline
free, then crossed his arms as he listened to Mac's little speech.   He shook
his head in disgust as he watched the big brawny Highlander laughing and
fumbling for his keys.

   Wrenching the driver's door open, MacLeod slid under the wheel and started
the car, then slipped across the leather bench to slam into the opposite
door. Opening it just a crack, he yelled to the man still standing slack
jawed and staring, "Methos! What are you waiting for? Come on! Oh, and, um,
bring my sword, will you?"

   Methos looked from the cat on his leg, to the katana lying on the sidewalk,
to the little colony planted on his bag. For a moment longer, his eyes met
Mac's in mute appeal. When it became obvious no more help was forthcoming
from the grinning Scot, the ancient Immortal bowed his head.

   Mac felt guilt wash over him, as Methos appeared to give in to defeat. The
Highlander tried to decide whether he should step back into the fray. The
decision became moot when an astounding thing occurred. Mac had only seen it
happen a handful of times in the past--always in moments of direst need.

   Methos, aka Adam Pierson, mild-mannered researcher, changed. His gaze grew
fierce, his shoulders squared, his nostrils flared. Death stared across the
battlefield.

   Pivoting on his free leg, Methos swung the carnal creature on his other
limb in a wide arc, finally slinging it free in an exacting trajectory that
landed it with a soft plop in the midst of its fellows. Scooping up Mac's
katana, Methos strode purposefully forward, until he towered over the suddenly
silent felines.

   Inclining his head, he fixed a gaze as cold as green ice on the furry
beings that had so disrupted his serenity. "Get. Off. My. Bag. *Now*!"

   For a timeless moment, it was a stand-off. Then, turning en masse, the
cats seemed to zero in on Methos' recent cat du jour. Said kitty took off at
a furious pace, his five new suitors in close pursuit.

   The danger past, Methos sagged visibly before bending down to drag his bag
over to the car.   MacLeod bent the seat forward to allow the old Immortal to
toss his burdens into the back, and, when Methos had settled into the
passenger seat, took off for the dojo in silence.

*Personal Log. Obviously, the substance I imbued Pierson's
clothing with is working as per specifications. I anticipate
several more hours of potency before it dissipates with exposure
to light. With this in mind, I am moving my surveillance
permanently to a vacant apartment directly across from MacLeod's
loft quarters in order to observe and record more fully MacLeod
and Pierson's reaction to both substances. The next twelve to
twenty-four hours should be pivotal in the operation.*

-----------------------------------------end part one                 to part two--->

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