Disclaimers:  Original characters and concept of  Highlander and  Highlander: The Series are property of a host of people, none of whom, unfortunately, are  me.  The character of Kathryn de Sousa and the story herein, however,  are exclusively mine and cannot be used or posted without my permission.  Thanks.
Author's Note:  This story takes place somewhere in the fourth season or so of  Highlander: The Series.
Rating:  To be on the safe side, PG-13 -- consider it a stronger content "episode."

The (Somewhat)
Straight and Narrow Path

© 1996, Grace Macy

- 1 -

"I must be out of my mind," I muttered to myself.  "Completely out of my mind."

My accomplice -- and quite possibly soon the proverbial and literal death of me -- looked down and smiled blithely at me.  "If you don't like heights, de Sousa," Amanda said, "you should have told me so."

I glared up at her and clenched the climbing cord a bit more tightly.  "It's not heights that bother me, Amanda," I answered through clenched teeth.  "It's hitting the ground.  Some of us can only die once, you know."

"Just don't look down."

Little piece of advice, folks: when scaling a wall with an inexperienced partner, do not tell them to 'just' not look down.  It's kind of like telling someone not to think of pink elephants.  My eyes were magnetically drawn to the ground that swayed a few dozen feet below and I looked up again with a hard swallow.  "Right."

Amanda was trying not to look too amused, but she was failing at it miserably.  At the moment, I didn't even have to energy to glare at her.  I concentrated on climbing instead and found my thoughts wandering back to exactly how the hell I had gotten myself into this mess to begin with.

It had all started innocently enough, if that term can ever really be used in the same sentence as Amanda's name without a negative being attached.  (I was beginning to have my doubts.) Not to sound too cliched, but it was a beautiful spring morning in Paris.  Actually, it was very early on a beautiful spring morning in Paris.  I was fast asleep, dreaming of . . . well, okay, so it didn't start so innocently after all.  The telephone woke me up abruptly and, having only last night been granted the comforts of an actual bed and not what some hotels tried to pass off as such to unsuspecting tourists (and which I suspect are actually surplus items from the Museum of History's Spanish Inquisition exhibit), I was not in the best mood when I answered the phone.

"If this isn't a matter of life or death," I growled into the receiver, "it's going to be in about thirty seconds."

"Mademoiselle de Sousa?" a man asked, and I clenched my teeth against the headache I felt being summoned by his highly nasal tones.  Such a voice may sound fine on Fran Drescher, but attach it to this Frenchman and even the Nanny herself would cringe.

"Yes," I answered as civilly as I could, a task made all the more difficult when I happened to catch sight of the clock.  It was seven a.m. and my internal clock was screaming at me to go back to sleep for chrissakes, didn't I know it was actually one o'clock in the freaking morning and who gave a good goddamn about time-zones and the fact that I was in a different country now?!

"This is Robert Moreau, at Headquarters," he continued.  "I wanted to make sure you had arrived as scheduled.  You did not check in last night."  He said it the way your third-grade teacher would ask you for your homework.  It did not precisely endear him to me.

"It was after midnight," I said.  "I didn't think anyone would be up.  I was going to check in this morning.  When.  I.  Woke.  Up."  Diplomatic and tactful, that's me.

Bobby had the good grace to sound embarrassed; I decided I might not kill him after all.  "My apologies,  mademoiselle!  But considering what happened last night, I thought it wise to make sure that everything was all right.  After all, we have lost so many Watchers over the past three years that the Director decided one could not be too careful,  n'est pas? So --"

My brain caught up to the second sentence at the end of the third, which was actually quite good considering I hadn't even had any caffeine yet, and I stopped him as he started the fourth.  "Wait!  What happened last night?"

"Why, the fire, of course!  Did you not hear?"

I couldn't help myself; I growled.  "Of course I didn't hear, Bobby," I explained, using the same school-teacher voice he had used on me.  "I was on a plane from New York and then in Immigration and at the baggage claim for two hours.  Now.  What happened?"

"There was a fire at a warehouse last night.  Two bodies were found, one man and one woman.  We're sure the woman was an Immortal and . . . ."  My heart stopped cold in my chest and after a moment, I asked him to repeat the next part; his words had all sort of faded out.  The one thought going through my mind was that Amanda had come to Paris two days before me, playing one of her now infrequent pranks, so I had no clue where she had been last night.  "Are you all right,  mademoiselle?"

"Fine," I answered.  "Now, tell me again -- the part after the woman being Immortal."

"Certainement.  I said, we don't know who it was because the fire was too intense.  Before the firefighters got there, even the swords had melted.  But one of our Watchers disappeared at about the same time and . . . .  Well, the Director just wanted to be sure everyone was where they were supposed to be and in one piece."

I grimaced at his choice of words, but he just babbled on.  I didn't hear a word he said.  "Thanks, Bobby--"

"Robert."

"Right.  Robert," I said hastily.  "Thank you, everything's fine, and I'll be sure to check in regularly."  I hung up before he could even take another breath, and sat up in the bed, my mind suddenly blank.  Then I shot out of bed, stuck my head under a stream of cold water from the tub, dressed and went out the door.  I might not have known the number to call, but I did know where MacLeod's barge was anchored.

If I had had a rental car, I probably would have arrived there in a screech of tires, but as it was, I had to wait for the taxi to stop and then hurl some money (which probably included quite a generous tip) at the driver before I could launch myself out the door.  I raced up the ramp of the barge and pounded on the door, not stopping until it opened to reveal a barely dressed Duncan MacLeod.  It says something about my state of mind that I didn't even pause to admire the view.

"Is Amanda here?"

Duncan blinked at me sleepily.  "De Sousa?"

Considering I had matched sets of luggage under my eyes, my hair was undoubtedly sticking out in five separate directions, and it was now seven-thirty in the morning, it was no wonder he looked so befuddled.  "Is Amanda here?" I repeated, getting more anxious by the second.

"MacLeod?" a familiar voice called from inside and I leaned against the door, my knees suddenly weak.  For some insane reason which I couldn't fathom at the moment, I had actually grown fond of the woman since I became her Watcher.

MacLeod placed a hand under my right elbow; the sleepiness had disappeared from his face and been replaced by concern.  "What's wrong?"

I shook my head, suddenly feeling woozy.  "I think I need to sit down."  MacLeod led me inside, keeping a supporting hand under my elbow the whole time, and sat me down on the couch.  I heard a door open and looked up to see Amanda coming out of the bathroom.

"De Sousa?" She sounded as surprised as MacLeod had, and I couldn't blame her.  We hardly ever interacted face-to-face, due to the increased vigilance the Organization had kept since Joe Dawson's "trial."

I scowled at the reminder of that travesty and shook my head at Amanda when she took the expression to be directed at her.  "Don't ever do that to me again," I muttered and saw MacLeod give her a disapproving look before handing me a glass of orange juice.

"Drink this," he said.  At the same time Amanda exclaimed, "I didn't do anything!  I swear!"

"I didn't mean it that way," I clarified.  "It's just that I got a report that a female Immortal had been killed last night and . . . ."

Amanda looked at me in amazement.  "And you were worried about me?"

I glared at her as my headache started coming back.  "Best friends we ain't, Amanda," I told her, irritated at the relief that was still singing through me, "but I have no great wish to see you lying in a gutter somewhere."  I remembered the hassle she had put me through leaving New York on such short notice.  "Most of the time," I amended.  I took a sip of the orange juice and slowly started to feel human again.  I looked up at MacLeod's still-worried, extremely handsome face and smiled.  "Thanks.  I think the jet lag was starting to catch up with me."

He nodded and tugged at his robe, which had started to slip open.  As if I needed another reason to feel faint.  "The orange juice should help," he said, smiling encouragingly.  "When did you arrive?"

"Last night, around midnight."

Amanda raised an eyebrow.  "You work fast."

I glared at her.  I was getting very good at that.  "I have a friend who works for American Airlines," I answered shortly.  "That kind of thing helps when you've been assigned to an Immortal who decides to leave town -- for another country -- without any warning.  Do you have any idea how long it took me to get my passport in order?"  The look in her eyes told me the answer to that and I glared even harder.  "One of these days, Amanda . . . ."

Amanda shook her head with a chuckle.  "You have no sense of humor."

I looked to MacLeod for support and was gratified to see him give Amanda a Look.  She had the good grace (or sense) to looked abashed, which was enough to appease me.  For now.

"Have you had breakfast?" MacLeod asked.

I shook my head and was about to say that I would eat something at the hotel when he declared that I would have my meal with them on the barge.  I watched him head for the kitchen, then looked at Amanda and found her smiling as well.  We exchanged a look and her smile widened.  Apparently, there was at least one thing we had in common.  "Who am I to refuse?" I asked.

We were just finishing a pile of homemade Belgian-style waffles accompanied by a full pot of coffee, which impressed me even more than the food he piled on my plate (anyone can cook, but making coffee is an art), when someone else came knocking.  I looked at the clock on the wall and shook my head.  Eight-fifteen.  "What, is everyone in Paris an early riser?"

"I'm not," Amanda said around a last bite of waffle.

I smiled.  "You aren't an early riser  anywhere."

MacLeod smirked a little, hastily covering it up by heading for the door.  He opened the door to admit what seemed to be a human whirlwind.  "Is everything all right?" the man asked, his back to myself and Amanda, before MacLeod even had a chance to say hello.

MacLeod frowned at him.  "Come on in, Adam," he said.  "And yes, everything's fine."

"Good."  The man sighed in relief and turned around, seeming quite surprised by the sight of two women sitting at the table eating breakfast.  "Amanda!" Now the relief was even more evident.  "You're here!"

Amanda raised an eyebrow as he came down the steps to the 'dining room'.  "Yes," she said slowly, her tone inquisitive.

"There was a fire last night and-" He stopped, as if he had just noticed I was there.

I wasn't surprised; I had managed to tame my hair and the meal had brought some color back to my face, but I was still no match for Amanda.  I had a momentary twinge of envy, but it passed quickly.  I have never been what men would consider a great beauty, but my eyes, which my ex-husband once told me are the same shade as emeralds, usually made up for it.  They seemed to do so now, because the startled look the man gave me slowly turned friendly and a bit appreciative.

"Ah -- Adam Pierson," he introduced himself, extending a hand uncertainly.

I shook it as firmly as I could manage, considering I suddenly felt like I was sixteen instead of thirty-something at his smile.  "Kathryn de Sousa," I replied, smiling in return.  And if he knew about the fire, then chances were good we were 'related'.  "So did Moreau call you, too?"

He blinked in surprise and looked at MacLeod and Amanda, who both nodded.  Then he smiled.  "Actually, I heard it on the news.  It's not easy to keep a beheaded corpse from the media."

I chuckled.  "I would imagine," I said, with a teasing, half-questioning look to my Immortal hosts.

MacLeod smiled.  "Trade secret," he said.

I smiled back.  "What would you like to know?"

MacLeod laughed and Amanda nearly choked on her coffee.  I smiled and looked at Pierson, who was chucking as well.  It was a very nice chuckle, coming from a very nice-looking guy -- dark-haired, a bit on the skinny side, but instead of making him seem gawky, the slenderness enhanced his looks, complementing the high cheekbones and patrician nose -- who to all appearances was single.  The morning was definitely looking up.

"So, are you MacLeod's new Watcher?" I asked.  I hadn't heard anything from Joe to that effect, but . . . .

Pierson shook his head and seated himself on the chair MacLeod waved him to.  "No, I'm in research.  I'm working on the Methos Chronicles."

My eyebrows shot up.  "You don't do things in small measures, do you?"

He grinned.  "Nope.  What are you . . . ?"

Amanda cut in with a little smile.  "She's mine."

I arched an eyebrow at her, but Pierson just laughed and caught my eyes with a smile.  "No wonder you look tired."

I smiled in wonder; not many people could make that statement sound like a compliment, but he did.  "You have no idea," I answered truthfully.

MacLeod shook his head and laughed.  "I tried phoning," Pierson continued, looking at MacLeod now, "but it was busy. . . ."

MacLeod and Amanda exchanged a look.  "We disconnected it last night."

"Among other things, I'm sure."  The two Immortals gave Pierson a startled look and I tried desperately to stifle my laughter, my shoulders shaking as I covered my face with one hand.

Finally, I shook my head and wiped tears from the corners of my eyes.  "I definitely need sleep," I declared.

Pierson smiled bemusedly, MacLeod chuckled, and Amanda actually looked sympathetic.  I shook my head again, suddenly feeling extremely cozy and content.  It had been a long time since I had had a nice little breakfast get-together with friends.  Actually, it had been a long time since I had had any kind of get-together with friends.  What can I say?  Being a Watcher does not exactly lend itself to an active social life.  And as for a love-life . . . .  Honey, we might as well take a vow of chastity when we sign up, so I was considerably pleased when Pierson offered to drive me back to my hotel.

"I didn't know Amanda was back in Paris," he said, glancing over at me as he drove.

I smiled.  "Don't feel too bad; I didn't either until about twenty-four hours ago."

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?"

I nodded.  "Oh."

He laughed and his eyes twinkled.  I studied him as we continued towards the hotel; I couldn't quite decide whether his eyes were gray or an odd shade of hazel, and that intrigued and . . . enchanted me.  One thing was certain though, his eyes were old.  This was a man who had seen a great deal in his life; oddly enough, he reminded me of MacLeod in that way . . . .  I shrugged the thought away as being too strange to merit my time and turned my attention back to the present, realizing with a start that he had been speaking.  "I'm sorry," I said, feeling a little embarrassed.  "What did you say?"

But Pierson just smiled, apparently marking my lack of attention as a sign of fatigue, which considering the direction of my thoughts was probably accurate.  "I asked where you were from."

"Oh.  Chicago."  I had lost the accent a long time ago, but it still popped up occasionally.  Like in the pronunciation of my home-city's name.  Pierson glanced at me with laughter in his eyes and I was too charmed by it to take any kind of offense even if it had been intended, which I doubted was the case.  "You?"

He smiled, as if at a private joke.  "All sorts of places."

I frowned, wondering what caused the enigmatic sparkle in his eyes.  "Army brat?" I ventured.

Pierson's smile widened, the secret amusement still plain.  "Something like that."

I would have asked what he meant by that cryptic remark, but we were just pulling into the hotel's driveway.  "Well.  Thanks for the ride.  It was nice."  Damn!  How the hell had  that slipped out?!  "Of you," I amended quickly.  "It was very nice of you."

Pierson's smile changed and for a moment he looked as young as I suddenly felt.  "Yes, it was," he agreed, and I knew he meant the part before I had corrected myself.  I could feel myself blushing and fervently hoped it wasn't as obvious as it felt, warming up my cheeks.  "If you're in Paris long, we should do this again.  Well," he added, a blush starting on his face as well, "not just a drive.  Of course, if you need one, I'd be happy to! . . .  I mean . . . ."  He let his breath go out in one hard sigh, then shook his head.  "Did that sound as silly as I think it did?"

I laughed and shook my head; definitely edging towards seventeen now.  "Not at all," I said, then added, after a moment, "That would be nice . . . of you . . . too."

He laughed as well, then caught my gaze and held it, a faint smile starting at his lips.  For some reason it seemed a bit sad.  I frowned and reached out almost unconsciously to touch his hand.  I know he read the question in the movement because his eyes darkened and he looked away briefly.  "I'll let you go," he said suddenly.  "You must be exhausted."

Now, that was a closing statement if ever I'd heard one, so I nodded and thanked him again for the ride.  We exchanged good-byes and then he drove off, leaving me standing at the entrance for a long moment, staring after him, questions circling my mind.  Then I remembered -- or rather, my body reminded me of -- how true his statement had been.  I was exhausted.

The last thing I remember doing before I fell asleep was unplugging the phone.

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