May 27th 1980. London.

Struggling awake the following morning, Doyle opened his eyes and blinked up in confusion at the ceiling before turning his head to squint at the comatose form hogging all his bed sheets. No wonder he was bloody freezing his balls off.... he let his squint turn into a scowl as memory fell into place and he remembered why and how he had ended up in bed with his irritating partner. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he muttered in self-disgust pulling an arm free of the dead weight snoring into his pillow. Shaking his head again, he rolled away.

If ever there was a time Doyle believed he needed his head read by the trick-psychiatrist Ross, it was now and he closed his eyes running fingers through his curls to gain a measure of sanity. What the bloody hell had he been thinking?!? Sneaking a look at his unconscious partner he knew nothing less than World War Three would wake the ex- SAS man. Bodie could sleep through anything when he felt safe and Doyle gave a mock smile. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm now a bloody safe bet! A sure thing. Great!"

Disliking himself and this new weakness, he got out of bed and stamped towards the bathroom. Why the hell did he think Bodie would treat sex with him any differently than how his partner treated sex with his numerous birds?!? It was an exercise, a way to relieve stress, a release of responsibility.... he bloody well knew all that, yet still he had allowed himself to believe this would be different. Shutting the bathroom door, he glared at himself in the oblong mirror. "You my son, are an idiot." He muttered in annoyance. Problem was he had spent the last two days watching the attraction between MacLeod and Taylor reach smoldering levels and had envied them. He craved that type of honesty in a relationship. To have any relationship - and he had stupidly thought Bodie could give him what all his female lovers had lacked. In the real world that dream was impossible and he cursed his sick, romantic heart that held on to such a concept. He should know better given the job and past experiences yet.... Bloody Bodie.

Dropping his chin down to his chest Doyle replayed the previous night, his apprehension, his excitement, the fear and pleasure mixed and all through it was Bodie's smug expertise. So his partner was no saint, he'd known that.... but.... "Fuck," he whispered lifting his head to stare at his reflection. So how would this effect the partnership because that was the bottom line. "Just ignore it." He told himself seriously. "Shelve it," as he did other difficult topics when working. This was no different, just harder to bury. Nodding minutely, he sucked in a deep breath and tried to push his own inner doubts and disappointment aside. Friendship was better than sex. Had to be.

Yanking open the shower door, Doyle hardened his resolve and turned the hot tap up full, deciding to have a shower and clean up last nights evidence before making breakfast. If he presented Bodie with no tangible reminders, then he just hoped the other man would take the hint and respect his silence. That way they could both forget last night had ever occurred. Mind made up, he stepped under the hot spray and reached for the soap.

---

Surfacing from sleep with that odd prickling sensation of presence down his spine, Methos snapped his eyes open and blinked, relaxing slightly when he met the dark amused gaze of the man he'd spent the previous night with. Duncan MacLeod. Oh yes he was definitely either going insane, or he was regressing again into an impulsive teenager. Either prospect was daunting and he tried to cover his mild panic with a stretch and yawn while he turned away from MacLeod's waiting gaze. Too many questions were being asked blatantly in those persuasive Scottish eyes and he didn't feel up to exposing any more of his tattered soul to this good-looking man. There was no future in it. Just think sex. Hot, horny, rough sex.... But even as he tried to convince himself of that attitude, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a hot mouth that latched onto his neck and lovingly marked him. The bruise-bite sent a delicious shiver of anticipation all the way down to his toes and Methos found himself responding instinctively. His morning erection twitched with interest and he cursed his crumbling resolve as goosebumps spread like wildfire over his body at MacLeod's caressing touch. Fuck, but he was such an easy lay.... and he frowned, intending to stop the Scot's exploring hands, only to gasp in reaction when those talented fingers feathered over his semi erect shaft then skimmed up to his sensitive nipples. "Mac-" he started, licking sudden dry lips, glancing around to see what the time was. If he was to preserve any measure of self-respect he had to distract MacLeod quickly.

"Morning," MacLeod growled, homing in on his new lover's parted lips.

The kiss that followed befuddled his senses and Methos found he was opening his mouth wider, sighing into the thorough oral exploration and admitting that an amorous Highlander was not an unpleasant prospect first thing in the morning. MacLeod was a generous lover and Methos sank back into the bedding, watching the man through silted eyes when his mouth was finally released. Duncan was a vision of power, of elegance, splendor and magnificence. A genuine prince among his people trained to lead, to take charge and to dominate and a part of Methos wanted to feel all that power directed his way. It had been a while since he had given over so much control to another and the thrill of being dominated excited him. He dragged in a hot breath speculating on how violently passionate MacLeod could be if the Scot truly let go, how primal.... and Methos sucked in an another breath as that kissable mouth descended on him a second time. MacLeod's mouth was anything but soft, rather it was hungry, hard, wet and honest in need, and Methos let himself enjoy the experience, tensing only slightly when the other man shifted position. Briefly he was washed in cold air as the bed sheets were stripped from him, then an aroused Highland warrior was covering him, sliding over his heated flesh in one well-practiced move. It made him snicker into the open mouth, laughing breathlessly when MacLeod pulled back to study him in amusement. "Mac-" Methos tried again but was given no time to object, and he allowed the possession, spreading his legs while he felt the Scot's knees push down between his thighs, his traitorous body already preparing for the tantalizing bulk of this man. Yet still the thrill of feeling MacLeod's naked skin against his own, feeling the prominent erection press hotly between his thighs surprised him. Aroused him more when the Highlander latched onto his neck and sucked hard, making him moan. He stretched automatically, extending his neck, loving the attention, arching up into MacLeod's heat, feeling the Scot's engorged shaft slid down further between his legs, then over his balls to tease his anus in maddening pleasure. The carnal promise made him push up harder, his mind and body getting so lost in the wantonness of MacLeod's arousal. He could feel the Highlander's Quickening all around him, cushioning him, holding him safe and he instinctively latched onto the heat above. He adored the feel of MacLeod's coarse pubic hair stimulating his erection and he gasped, biting his bottom lip to stop the sound, letting MacLeod's sensuous mouth moved around to his ear before allowing the Scot to kiss him hungrily. "Fuckin' hell.... Duncan...." Methos breathed, utterly dazed by the intense sensations, opening further to expose other vulnerable areas to MacLeod's clever mouth and hands as he was systematically stripped of all inhibitions by this man. It overwhelmed him, the emotions generated between them so dangerous to provoke this type of response, for it had been years since he had wanted anything this desperately. As he now wanted Duncan MacLeod. Shocked by that stark acknowledgment, he tried to stop his beckoning surrender by pushing MacLeod to one side. But it didn't work. Instead a callused hand cupped his face offering a gentleness which completed his capitulation. Lifting his gaze he forced himself to meet MacLeod's dark eyes and he realized that this was no longer a game.... if ever it had been a game. MacLeod was deadly serious in his desire and that both warmed, reassured and terrified him. Coming to a snap decision, he opened his mouth with the intention of telling the Scot exactly who he was and why they couldn't be lovers. But insistent fingers stopped his words and he blinked in confusion when MacLeod only leaned closer and smiled in silent understanding. It was a beautiful, precious, heart- warming smile and he sighed defeated. Then the Scot was whispering to him in Gaelic, the words jumbled and indistinct, yet the few endearments he caught melted all remaining resistance. The soothing accent filled him with a sense of well-being and Methos moaned softly as those caressing lips left a trail of blazing desire in their wake before MacLeod bit him teasingly on the shoulder. That sharp pain was immediately followed by more pleasure, making him shudder in delight, heightening his urgent responses to this persuasive man's touch and he pushed up to meet his lover's thrusting hips. Only now he wanted the stronger touches, the more forceful demands and he opened his eyes, drinking in the sight of MacLeod's feverish gaze while the other devoured him with ravenous eyes. In that instant he wanted everything that was offered, he wanted to receive all that power, all that sensual heat, all that hot, guiltless desire.... and he reached up to drag MacLeod down so he could take the Scot's mouth in a fierce, wet, searing kiss.

"Adam-"

It was a hoarse, eager whisper, washing over him and Methos sucked in a ragged breath, licking his lips in silent invitation. He watched how MacLeod's pupils dilated further in instant excitement and almost came in reaction to the Scot's possessive growl, jumping when very strong hands seized him. That made him laugh in wicked delight and he couldn't have protested even if he'd wanted to when his laughter turned into giggles. It was an infectious emotion heralding his own destruction and Methos tried to stop his slide into insanity. He was lost.... doomed by a beautiful child.... Then he heard MacLeod curse in exasperation before he was being firmly capturing by determined hands and pinned to the tangled sheets. "Duncan-"

"Shut up!" MacLeod ordered, his eyes taking on a feral glint.

But the tone was in direct contrast to the mouth that plundered him so swiftly and Methos gave up trying to think. He willingly lost himself in the taste of the man kissing him and in the feel of MacLeod's fingers traveling down his torso. How he had missed this mix of spontaneity and rough sex coupled with such genuine affection. It had been years.... decades.... centuries.... since he had felt so alive, and he bit back his cry of disapproval when he was abandoned completely by his hot tantalizing lover. "Mac-" Only this time he was smothered by MacLeod's bulk and silky long hair trailing over his abdomen before MacLeod finished the manipulative seduction and simply lifted his legs. Even expecting it, Methos still cried out, gasping in shock, as MacLeod's demanding erection penetrated the last fragile barrier between them and destroyed his control. It unmade him. The burn of pleasure so intense that he felt absolutely no pain. Wanting the passion, getting pressed into the sheets and devoured anew by so talented a lover. His highlander.... Then his world narrowed to heat, incredible heat and moans punctuated with softly hissed Gaelic phrases of approval and need. He felt MacLeod increase the pace, pounding into him, filling him with the power he had craved. Such delicious pleasure couldn't last and Methos tried to prolong the instant before MacLeod swept his hands aside to lean down and fleetingly capture his mouth again in wordless apology. Then he was coming hard, stilling as he felt MacLeod slam into him, shaking the entire bed before the Highlander grunted his release. He watched fascinated when MacLeod threw his head back and hot beads of sweat dripped from his gleaming body. It was a powerful sight and Methos sagged back on the bed, reeling in utter awe and spent desire, not surprised when MacLeod moved off him before falling forward. The big Scot landed on his chest, clutching him tightly before the younger Immortal lifted his head and sent him such a sweet, loving smile. The sincerity behind the smile stunned him for it mirrored Duncan's honest gaze and honorable intentions - and Methos held his breath having forgotten how beautiful life and love could be, and he let his own grin answer the serious question lingering in MacLeod's remarkable eyes. To be desired - loved - and be able to love in return with no manipulation, no rules, no deception. It couldn't be that easy with this man.... "Duncan...." Methos whispered the name like a benediction, admitting to everything in that instant. Duncan was such an important, priceless addition to the Immortal Game.... a prize in his own right - and illogically Methos wanted to warn the other man away from him, to protect him, but was stopped by warm fingers caressing his lips.

"What have you done to me?" MacLeod asked softly, lowering his gaze to watch the trail his fingers made along the flushed skin beneath him.

"Duncan," Methos sought for something clever to say, so befuddled by what he was feeling. But he didn't have to say anything for MacLeod simply moved closer to half cover him before sighing in contentment and closing his eyes in relaxation. Methos grunted in response to the weight along his side, becoming saturated with MacLeod's damp hot essence a second time. He was completely blanketed by the Highlander in every sense, absorbing the other man's strong presence as it tingled through his senses, crushing his final ounce of stubborn fear. Closing his eyes tightly, Methos drank in the moment of peace knowing it couldn't last, wishing they never had to move, but preparing himself for the inevitable. Loving a man like Duncan MacLeod was dangerous, suicidal, especially when they were both Immortal. Feeling MacLeod's small exhale of satisfaction brush over his skin Methos hesitantly raised a hand and rested his fingertips on a broad shoulder, memorizing all he could of this precious silence, glancing over at the bedside table to see the time. He reached over and picked up MacLeod's watch, scowling when he saw it was just gone 8am. "Mac...."

Pushing up on an elbow, MacLeod let his grin spread, let his eyes feather over the man beneath him. Adam looked so damn cute when ruffled - and thoroughly fucked - MacLeod decided and let his grin widen. He was extremely happy, content with life even though McKellen was giving them a hard time. Nothing could dampen his private world and he reached down to run fingers through Adam's hair. It was surprisingly soft, touchable, inviting and MacLeod laughed when Adam' sent him a slightly exasperated look. It covered the trace of fear in the hazel eyes and MacLeod let his smile fade, knowing and understanding all the arguments about why he shouldn't fall in love with this man. But he didn't care, and he would just have to prove to Adam that the benefits outweighed the risks.

"You're deranged MacLeod."

"No more than the rest of us." MacLeod returned, unable to suppress his delight at Adam's feigned displeasure. Last night and now this morning had answered all his unspoken questions about this Immortal. It was bizarre but he found that he trusted Adam in the most profound way, like they had gone from strangers to intimate soul mates in the space of a few days. There were still questions, but in the important things he had no doubts, no fears and he celebrated his new feelings by shifting nearer to his bed partner.

Not trusting the sloppy look on MacLeod's face, Methos wanted to scream his joy and acceptance, but that small spark of common sense and hard-learned survival in the back of his mind re-emerged with a vengeance and he glared harder at MacLeod instead. "Do you have any idea what the time is?"

"Noh." MacLeod muttered, blinking when he was expertly shoved away. "But-" he was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing. He moved to stare at it, debating whether or not to answer it while he watched Adam roll away from him. The morning had been fantastic.... and he shivered, reaching out automatically to touch the other man without thought. He wanted to talk about the last few days, learn what Adam's true name was, but was prevented from trying when Adam glared at him in irritation. Just moments ago he had listened to this man moan in pleasure, had tasted Adam's inner desires and now....

"You going to answer that, or just let it ring annoyingly?"

"It's probably just CI5." MacLeod dismissed noting how Adam was climbing out of bed then stretching before the slender form disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. "Damn," he muttered again, snatching the phone up and scowling at the bathroom door when it slammed closed. "MacLeod!"

"Duncan we need to talk."

Immediately recognizing his kinsman's voice, MacLeod sat up. "Problems?" He asked, knowing that CI5 probably had this line tapped. It was definitely time he went back to Paris and left McKellen to his cousin. Maybe he could convince Adam to accompany him....

"Are you listening to me?!"

"What?" MacLeod grumbled, bring his mind back to the phone conversation.

"I said, I think we should do breakfast. Tell your watchdogs I'm coming up."

Not bothering to reply as the connection died, MacLeod dutifully rang down to the reception desk and informed them he was expecting a visitor. He knew that would notify the appropriate CI5 agents, then lifting his gaze again he stared at the closed bathroom door deciding he was up to the challenge if Adam wanted to be difficult. For in the quiet, intimate moments when he had locked gazes deliberately with the other man, Adam's eyes hadn't lied, and he hoped Adam was just overwhelmed by the intense emotions. Considering that, MacLeod shook his head, not able to hold the image in his mind of Adam being a mild- tempered college student. There was just something so unpredictable and dangerous about the man.... yet.... Disconcerted, MacLeod got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom, opening the door. Inside the shower had been switched off and MacLeod raised a brow, letting his gaze purposely travel down the graceful wet body before it was covered by a large towel. "We're about to have a visitor."

"Who?" Methos asked, not missing the frank appraisal. Nor did he miss the way MacLeod moved closer like a sensual hunter and he bit his lower lip to stop his smile. If only....

"Connor." MacLeod breathed, close enough now to inhale the fresh hot scent of this naked man. He liked Adam wet and wondered what it would be like to pin the other man in the shower and....

"How do you think he will take this?" Methos asked very conscious of the hand that settled on his bare shoulder. He watched MacLeod's face, captivated by this man's attractiveness.

"None of his business." MacLeod whispered, sliding his hand behind Adam's neck and dragging the other man into a kiss. Adam tasted good and he moved his mouth away from the hot lips to nibble the damp jaw before biting the pale skin of Adam's throat. He marked him deliberately, hearing Adam hiss out a breath before drawing back to admire his handy work. "What about you?"

"Me?" Methos asked, pushing MacLeod back and fingering his tingling neck. The bruise/bite would heal within minutes but he still sent MacLeod a reproving glare. "What the fuck were you in a previous life, MacLeod?" He grumbled half-heartedly. "I know the Scottish moors were wild.... but bloody hell, Mac, wild animals and vampires have nothing on you. Or are you just lacking iron in your diet?!"

"I think I just added you to my diet," MacLeod muttered in provocation liking the mischievous glint that entered Adam's changeable eyes with that comment. Oh yes, he absolutely wanted to sample more of Adam Taylor. About to say more MacLeod was stopped in his musings, hearing a knock at the room's main door. Biding his time, he reached out and gently caressed Adam's lips with a thumb then went back into the bedroom and dragged on a robe. Later he would coax a willing admission of need from Adam, but right now he had to find out what his cousin wanted. Picking up his katana even as he was washed in the first waves of a new Immortal presence, MacLeod reminded himself that he couldn't be too careful. Adam's presence was like a comforting drone in the back of his mind, a sensation he could easily get used to, and let his lips curve up even as he heard the knocking repeated. Had to be Connor for his irascible cousin was always so damn impatient.

Alone in the bathroom Methos stared after the closed door. Stunned speechless by MacLeod's confident attitude, Methos knew that it would be far too easy to fall into a relationship with the dynamic Scot. As tempting as it might be.... he had other plans. Important plans. Schedules.... that where currently in disarray because he was allowing himself to get drawn into MacLeod's chaotic life. He was never going to infiltrate the Watchers unless he did the background work, and associating with the likes of the MacLeod cousins was only going to get him noticed. Fuck!

Roughly toweling himself dry he pondered the alternatives. Best thing to do was distance himself - but first he wanted to completely sample the Highland child in every facet. Then he could fade into the background and meet up with Duncan at a later date. "Priorities, priorities, priorities." He reminded himself. Besides, he had to make sure the Watchers had absolutely no record of who Methos was.... and he straightened to glance in the mirror. The lovebite on his neck was fading and he gently fingered it again, his mind playing over alternatives. And then he mentally slapped himself realizing that he was trying to find ways to keep MacLeod in his life while still accomplishing his plans. That would be so unfair on the younger Immortal and he closed his eyes to curse Fate's perverse sense of humor. Why couldn't this have happened to him five years ago? Ten - fifty or even a hundred years ago? Why now!?!

Making sure he was decently covered by one of the hotel's complimentary bathrobes, MacLeod opened the door slightly and peered out. He was immediately bathed in Connor's humorless grin, noting the two CI5 agents who were patrolling the corridor. Hastily putting his sword behind his back he opened the door wider, slightly curious that neither Bodie nor Doyle had shown up yet. Maybe last night's dinner had convinced Bodie to walk away.... and he smiled waiting for Connor to enter before re-locking the door.

"I thought I told you to lose the mortals." Connor snapped, swiftly glancing around the room before settling his irritable gaze back on his younger clansman.

Not bothering to answer that, MacLeod noted Connor's scowl and knew his cousin was sensing Adam's presence. "Adam," he said by way of explanation even as the man in question ambled into the room. He noted that Adam looked relaxed, utterly uninterested in the fact there was a new Immortal in the room and MacLeod narrowed his eyes wondering if that was another clever front. Probably. He was amazed at how easily he was starting to see behind the calm, careful façade to the real man underneath.

"Marquetos?!" Connor growled, taking a step towards the other man, before turning back to glare at Duncan. "You didn't tell me Taylor's other name was Marquetos?"

Marquetos? MacLeod blinked, that name started with M and he pondered the idea that this was his intriguing lover's real identity. Switching his gaze to Adam he saw the other man roll his eyes up in feigned amusement. Noh.... it was close but his sixth sense warned it was another deception. But was he getting closer to the heart of the truth? "You didn't ask." MacLeod shot back, gesturing for Connor to proceed him. When his cousin stubbornly refused to move, MacLeod sighed and stepped around him. "We had this discussion yesterday," he muttered in Gaelic to Connor, walking over to Adam and biting back on his leer. Adam was dressed in those wickedly tight jeans and sporting one of his own favorite turtle neck sweaters. It surprised and warmed him to think Adam would dress in his clothing. Stopping to check that Adam was okay with Connor's arrival, MacLeod indicated the sweater with a lifted brow, asking all sorts of things privately and was rewarded with a muttered reassurance while Adam fingered the turtle neck in question. MacLeod then looked back at Connor. "So you two know each other?" He ventured, hoping one of them would give him some answer.

"We've met. Briefly." Methos muttered again, not wanting to go into detail. Damn! If Duncan didn't have a Watcher then Connor would. His luck - if he had any left - would not hold at this rate.

"1588." Connor admitted staring at Marquetos, remembering the man he had meet back then. A blacksmith....

---

Flashback Scotland, 1588.

Lifting his head painfully, Connor wished the liquor was stronger, or that his tolerance level was lower.... he didn't care just so long as the god-awful ache in his head vanished. Heather....

His beautiful Heather had died less than four moons ago and he was still consumed with grief. Nothing seemed real. This immortality Ramirez had told him about was a curse and he wanted to die. Willed it. The only thing keeping him sane was the burning desire that was growing in his mind of seeking revenge. If Ramirez hadn't died.... if Kurgan hadn't killed him.... if Heather had been able to share his gift....

"Are you totally deranged?"

The voice was not in his head, it didn't even sound like his own voice. For one it had a strange accent. Welsh - and he automatically spat in distaste. Then he felt strong fingers in his hair and he winced, feeling his head lifted. Belligerently he glared at the person who dared interrupt his musings coming eye to eye with bright golden-green orbs. Not a gaze he remotely recognized.

"Typical inebriated, dense-witted Scottish jackass...."

Hearing the uncomplimentary tone trail off, Connor tried to reply, to direct a flowing insult back at his new tormentor and he turned. Only he found himself falling, hitting the dirt floor with a numbing force. It shocked him and he shook his head, groaning in pain when he finally identified what the persistent awful pain behind his eyes was. Another Immortal. It had been so long.... so long since he had felt that threatening buzz that his senses were rusty, his mind too tainted with images of revenge, of wanting Kurgan.... Squinting up into the dimness of the rowdy tavern, he saw the man who had disturbed his drinking and scowled at him. Immortal. But the other was busy pushing a second man backwards. Slowly Connor's brain registered the fact that the second intruder was also Immortal and he barely had time to sit up before both combatants drew swords. Only his rescuer was better than the other in sword skill and in a short confusing time the second challenger was dead. Impaled on his own blade. Then the man with the vivid gold-green eyes and Welsh lilt was dragging the dead body away and Connor opened his mouth to protest before curious bystanders kicked him in the guts. He passed out, not caring if he lived or died....

Coming to a second time, he was not surprised to find the unwelcome buzz of an Immortal assaulting him again. Opening his eyes he glared at the man sitting across from him, not surprised to see it was the same golden-eyed man who had woken him in the tavern. Only they were no longer in the tavern. Now they were in a barn. A filthy barn and he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, just making out a huge firepit behind his new associate. The bright glare hurt and he blinked before eyeing the man across from him with open suspicion. The man was tall, slender, with long dark hair tied back with a leather thong. He was wearing a leather apron that was blackened and burnt with fire scolds while he hammered some item on his workbench. Connor watched the rhythmic action, his eyes drawn to the Immortal's sweat dampened muscles, his grim determination and patient persistence. The ringing sound of metal on metal was annoying, increasing the ache behind his eyes and he forced himself to assess the other Immortal's obvious strengths and weaknesses. Was he about to become another defeated opponent? "I'd like to say it is a pleasure to see you again, but-"

His erstwhile savior just gave a sharp, gruff laugh.

"What happened to the body you dragged out of the tavern?" Connor persisted, forcing himself to sit up. His head still felt fuzzy but the effects of his continuous drinking were slowly wearing off. Pointedly he glanced over at the huge furnace and raised a brow. His companion only laughed again before picking up the item he was working on. It was a sword.

Refusing to be intimidated, Connor casually looked around for his treasured blade. The one left to him by Ramirez. But he was weaponless and he settled his hooded gaze back on his silent associate. Friend or enemy? "Do you intend to challenge me?"

The other scoffed again, putting his partially finished sword down. "If I wanted your head you would be dead."

It was a passionless voice. Definitely of Welsh origin, or at least this man had spent time with its people. "So what...." Connor stopped as the other reached over and lifted a beautiful katana. Connor recognized it instantly and his gut contracted.

"Beautiful weapon. If I were you, I'd take better care of it." With that the Immortal threw the sword at the startled Scot.

Catching the blade, Connor re-evaluated this Immortal, letting his eyes look over him again, not missing the deceptive power of this man. This Immortal was dangerous, of that he was positive. "So-"

"You want to drink yourself into oblivion, do it in private. Not in a public tavern. Not for a solid month and not in the plain sight of every opportunist, power seeking Immortal in the vicinity!"

Taken back by the hissed words, Connor closed his eyes briefly then nodded before gracing the other man with a tiny smile. "That Immortal was after my head." He stated, looking at the man with a sense of respect. How long had it been since he associated honor with Immortals? "Why did you intervene?"

The other shrugged. "Boredom."

Not fooled, Connor let his smile grow. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I am in your debt." Keeping his eyes on the other man, he started to speculate how old this man could be. Like Ramirez? Ramirez had never hidden his knowledge and he wondered if this man would be adverse to teaching him where Ramirez had left off. Suddenly he found it was refreshing to be with another again who shared his secret. "Do you have a name?"

"Marquetos." The other stated.

"Can I-"

"You are welcome to stay here for a few days, but I suggest you move on. Edinburgh is not the place you once remembered."

---

Present.

Blinking, Connor brought his mind back into focus and saw Marquetos send him a reminiscent smile. He had only stayed a few short days with this man. Had never learned much about his host, but had found his own inner balance. "1588," he repeated. "Edinburgh."

Casting an exasperated look between his lover and his cousin, Duncan MacLeod frowned. Obviously Adam was not going to enlighten him and it looked like Connor was going to be closed mouthed as well. "Nothing bad I hope?" He asked on a worried breath.

"No." Connor sighed then dismissed the past. He was no longer that searching, inexperienced man and he let his eyes flick away from Marquetos to Duncan noting his kinsman's protective body language. Duncan was.... then he remembered Amanda's vague warning about how Duncan was going through his 'nesting' phase again, as she termed it. Could his cousin now be fixating on Marquetos? He hoped not for he knew Marquetos was a loner. Had learned that much the hard way.

"Good," MacLeod said with more conviction than necessary. Later, in bed he'd get the whole story out of Adam, but for now it could wait. Currently he just wanted to make sure no one was going to pull a sword, though it didn't look like Adam was carrying. "What did you want to tell me Connor? Your call sounded urgent."

"McKellen." Connor exhaled, remembering why he was here. "I lost him in the docks."

"Great," Methos muttered, seeing Nef appear from an adjacent room. Mentally he calculated the last time he had fed her and glanced over at the kitchen. This place was expensive and he was sure he could find something suitable for her.

Seeing Adam or Marquetos heading to the kitchen, Connor concentrated his glare on Duncan. Oh yes, now that he looked for the telltale signs of Duncan's desperate need to connect with a normal life again, he could see the seriousness behind his clansman's large eyes. Amanda was right - not often was she right - but when it came to Duncan and his endearing personality faults she was rarely wrong. He would have to have a private word with Marquetos. "I think it would be best if you returned to Paris."

"What?" MacLeod asked, not expecting this. Though he had considered this idea only an hour or so ago.

"McKellen will implicate you, and I don't want the hassle of having to work around complications. Go back to Paris Duncan. Let me deal with this."

"And Adam?" MacLeod asked softly, checking to see where his lover had gone. Adam was peering into the fridge, frowning over items as that little minx of a cat Adam called a pet was rubbing against his jeans-clad legs. Lucky cat....

"Get him out of London, I don't care," Connor stated, reaching out to grip Duncan's forearm. "Be careful." He whispered. "He is Immortal, and we know little about him."

"But you know him," MacLeod returned just as softly, keeping his voice down.

"We've met." Connor agreed, nodding once. "He saved my life, then he vanished." He carried on. "He can take care of himself. I want you out of London."

Absorbing those words, MacLeod tried to imagine the past, coloring it with what he could perceive and speculate on. Connor had stated it was 1588 - less than 400 years ago.... Adam had saved his life.... "What happened?" He found himself asking almost on reflex.

Wincing slightly when he heard the undisguised longing in Duncan's tone, Connor groaned inwardly. "You are playing a dangerous game-"

"Tell me!" MacLeod pushed, refusing to listen.

"I met him six months after Heather's death." Connor said with a sigh. "Duncan-"

"I won't leave him here."

Swearing in Gaelic, Connor glared at his infuriating kinsman. "Then take him to Paris." He growled, releasing Duncan when the man in question walked out of the small kitchen area and eyed them both suspiciously.

"Problems?" Methos asked, feeling the tension in the room. Against his better judgement he was instantly revising all his plans again, getting worried about Duncan MacLeod's safety. There was no fool, like an old fool.

"Yes," Connor hissed.

"Noh!" MacLeod overrode, sending Adam a strained smile.

Lifting a brow, Methos wasn't sure whom to believe, and he tensed when a loud knocking at the door interrupted them all.

Sweeping his eyes from Adam back to Connor, MacLeod prayed his clansman dropped the subject, reluctantly moving away see who was at the door. He got no buzz of warning presence so yanked the door open in a mix of anger and frustration. He was sick of these continual interruptions. "Yes?!" He growled then stopped seeing Bodie and Doyle. "Fuck," he intoned softly, letting a small smile form as he realized he was already picking up some of Adam's habits.

"May we come in?" Bodie asked pointedly, glaring past MacLeod's half-dressed body. They had been informed that John Nash had shown up and he wanted some answers.

"Why not." MacLeod grumbled, letting the two CI5 agents in. They were turning into personal little demons.

Running his gaze expertly around the room, Doyle let his eyes stop on Taylor to find the man was staring back at him. There was a twinkle in the hazel depths and he found his mouth traitorously curved up in silent response to Taylor's silent questions. Shaking his head Doyle forced his eyes away from Taylor, positive the man had read his thoughts far too easily, only this time he met Bodie's disproving and slightly confused glare. His partner was still not happy, but he could not let himself be swayed by Bodie's petitioning blue eyes. Then to make matters worse Taylor started to laugh.

Frowning MacLeod glanced over at his perverse lover and wondered what the hell Adam found so damn funny. "Adam?" He asked, noting how Bodie's look only darkened.

"Don't say I haven't warned you about him." Connor muttered in Gaelic to Duncan before moving away from the two CI5 agents. Life was getting just a little too complicated for his liking.

"What?" MacLeod mouthed, stunned, trying to ignore Adam as the other collapsed down in an appealing sprawl on the padded lounge. Turning back to the two agents he saw Doyle's sly smile and groaned inwardly. What was going on now?!? He'd had enough of CI5's bloody interference.... "This had better be important." He stated, placing hands on hips and now wanting to get rid of everyone so he could interrogate his exasperating lover.

"Duncan," Connor interjected in Gaelic, disliking games of any sort. "I thought I told you to lose Bonny and Clyde."

Hearing this, Methos snorted, laughing even harder, feeling his ribs ache as he caught MacLeod's perplexed look. This had to be a bi-product of stress....

"There have been a few," MacLeod hesitated, refusing to look at Adam, "..complications."

"Understatement of the millennia!" Methos added in English. Then he too switched to Gaelic. "I'll give them one thing, they are very persistent."

"That is enough!" Bodie cut in furious. So far his morning had been disastrous and this triple act was now royally pissing him off. "I am sick of repeating myself here! This can be classified as obstruction and we are well within our rights to haul your Scottish arses down to headquarters unless I start seeing some cooperation! You can start by speaking the Queen's English."

"I think you've upset him," Methos muttered in Gaelic.

"Shut up!" Was spoken in unison by Bodie and Duncan MacLeod.

Blinking in false injury, Methos sighed and wiggled further into the soft cushions, gesturing for them to continue.

"What do you want Mr. Bodie?" MacLeod asked with exaggerated politeness.

Banking down on his anger, Bodie rolled his shoulders back, sure that Cowley had no idea how troublesome MacLeod was. "MR. Cowley wants to see you."

"Can't-"

"That was not a request." Bodie cut MacLeod off again.

Regarding Bodie for a long second, MacLeod glanced at Doyle and saw the impassive expression. He had probably pushed both men as far as it was advisable for one day already and he nodded slowly. "What about...." he left the rest unsaid, gesturing to Connor and Adam behind him.

"I have the honor of staying here." Doyle said into the silence. Truth was they had flipped a coin for the job of taking MacLeod to see Cowley at Headquarters and Bodie had lost.

"Lucky me gets to escort you to Mr. Cowley." Bodie finished with a strained humorless smile.

"Lucky." MacLeod repeated. "I'll just get dressed." He hesitated, seeing that Adam was ignoring him. Later, he promised silently. Walking to his bedroom, he stopped when Connor called to him softly. They were just out of hearing range of the two agents but still Connor spoke in Gaelic.

"What do they know?"

"Nothing," MacLeod replied in the same language. "They think McKellen is a serial killer. Nothing more. They have few clues from what I can gather. They are hoping I will lead them to him."

Digesting that, Connor nodded. It was what he had expected. "Get rid of them."

"What do you want me to do? Kill them?" MacLeod grouched as his eyes swept over the room behind Connor and automatically settled on Adam's bowed head. He could see that Doyle had walked over to Adam and was now speaking to him quietly. Slowly MacLeod unclenched a fist.

"Find out what this Cowley wants." Connor summarized. "I'll ring you later."

Releasing a tense breath, MacLeod nodded. With one last look back at Adam, he went into his bedroom seeing the immaculately tidy room and remembering he had spent the night in Adam's room. It brought a small smile to his face and he went to have a shower.

---

Waiting until Duncan had gone, Connor turned back to the other occupants of the room. Both CI5 agents were by the main windows now, the curly-headed agent talking into his radio and he cautiously glanced over at Marquetos. Not wanting to get caught in a Police issue, Connor went over to Marquetos - Adam - and leaned close over the back of the lounge, making sure their conversation was private. "Marquetos," he started, seeing the other turn slightly to study him. No, he was not mistaken about this man, and he worried again for Duncan's sake. "I know you are older than both of us and I'm not prying - but this is not a game for Duncan. When he gets involved, he does it totally."

Taken back a little by Connor's forwardness, Methos narrowed his gaze, not remembering this man being so interested in other's personal safety. But then again, Connor and Duncan were kinsmen. Plus Connor had been the younger Scot's teacher.

"He commits with an intensity I have never seen equaled in another of our kind." Connor advised.

"Listen MacLeod-"

"Hurt him intentionally and our next meeting will be different. Kill him and I'll come for you personally. Regardless of the blood debt between us."

Subduing his sense of unease, Methos said nothing when Connor moved away from him, the dour Scot never glancing back as he went to the door and exited the room with no further comment. Fuck.... Methos let go of his sigh, deciding that he needed to definitely reconsider his association with Duncan MacLeod. Last thing he wanted was to be on Connor MacLeod's hit list. That would just draw too much attention.

"Where the hell-" Bodie broke off, raising his R/T and alerted the agents outside the hotel. Cowley would not be pleased if they lost Nash again. Wanting to throw his hands up in the air, Bodie glared at the immaculately dressed Duncan MacLeod when the Scot exited the bedroom. His orders where to take MacLeod to Cowley while Doyle babysat Taylor. While the pair were separated they would see if they could get information - learn anything that could close this frustrating case. Failing that he intended to inform Cowley that they should deport MacLeod back to Paris and let Interpol deal with the problem. As for Taylor - apart from a very sketchy history from the University there was nothing they could detain the man on. Glancing at Doyle, Bodie hesitated, knowing they now had new issues that were clouding the partnership. Later, after he had returned with MacLeod he would get Doyle alone and make his position understood.

"How long will this take?" MacLeod asked, watching both agents. He knew that there would be agents downstairs to watch the hotel and he had to trust Adam's own skill when it came to the Immortal Game. It was just so hard to walk away.

"An hour. Maybe two." Bodie said in a clipped tone. He nodded at Doyle, receiving a nod in return and preceded MacLeod to the door. Opening it he shepherded the man out, wishing that the sinking feeling in his gut would ease. In two hours he would be back.

Glancing back once, MacLeod was gratified to see that Adam was staring at him in mild worry and he buried his smile. When he got back they would finish their early morning talk.

---

More pleased than he wanted to admit when MacLeod's presence faded from his mind, Methos sagged back into the cushions and eyed the man prowling around the room. Doyle. Raymond Doyle was almost as peeved and frustrated as he felt and he closed his eyes to try and regain a measure of calm. But nothing had gone right. At least not from the moment Duncan MacLeod had exploded into his life. Oh yes he was living again, not just existing. He'd experienced death, life and mind-blowing fantastic sex.... but did he want the after-effects? That was the question. Connor's words still echoed in his mind, and he had to acknowledge the Scot's perceptive assessment of the situation. So Duncan was serious.... Jesus.... All that he craved was offered on a platter, but was he brave enough, or was that stupid enough, to accept the gift? Or did he walk away and mourn the lost opportunity? Something like this only happened once in a millennia.

"So who is John Nash when he's not being John Nash?" Doyle broke into the poignant silence, ambling around to stare at Taylor's sprawled form. The man was attractive, he had to admit, but still Taylor did nothing sexually for him. Bodie on the other hand.... and Doyle paced away restless again, angry with himself and his damn conscience.

"I don't know." Methos muttered then frowned, watching Doyle. "You look - tense." Methos added after a pause, transferring all his doubts onto Doyle as he saw the other man grunt in reply. "I take it things didn't go well last night."

"That is none of your bloody business!" Doyle snapped, irritated.

"No." Methos conceded. "Just as Nash is none of your business."

Lifting his gaze, Doyle's eyes hardened. "Listen-"

"No you listen," Methos broke in seriously, levering himself up to stand before pacing over toward the confused CI5 agent. "This is no game. There are no winners here. And victims don't wake up in hospital." He took a deep breath. "If you want to survive and you want to keep that bad-tempered partner of yours alive and warm, then I suggest you back off."

"I can't," Doyle whispered back. "This is my job."

"Then you are a fool." Methos stated.

Wanting to protest and explain his position, Doyle was stopped from answering by a knock at the door. Automatically reaching for his gun, Doyle cautiously went over the door and peered out the spyglass. "Room service?" He mouthed back at Taylor.

Shrugging Methos shoved his hands in his back pockets. No doubt Mac had ordered them breakfast.

"Yes?" Doyle called, unclipping the safety on his gun. It was strange that no one had called up to notify him via the R/T, unless Curtis was getting bloody slack.

"Room service, Mr. MacLeod."

Glancing again at Taylor, Doyle looked around the room, seeing no evidence of a recent breakfast and sighed. Opening the door he looked at the hotel employee, mentally cataloging him as early thirties, average build, dressed appropriately. Swiftly Doyle glanced down the corridor and saw no sign of anyone else and muttered an obscenity under his breath. Wait until he got hold of Curtis.... the man was as useless as tits on a bull and Cowley would cream his arse for this breach in protocol. Opening the door wider he clipped his safety back on and lifted the cover, seeing and smelling fresh hot bacon, eggs and toast. His own stomach responded reminding him of his sparse breakfast and he indicated for the tray to be placed on the table. Then he glanced at Taylor and saw the other send him an amused grin. "Next time warn me." He ordered.

"How was I to know Duncan ordered breakfast," Methos asked innocently.

"What?" Doyle started, then stopped, reaching for his gun again, but finding he was too late as the unassuming young man pulled out a gun and shot him twice at close range. Two darts hit him in the chest, instantly disabling him and Doyle went down seeing that Taylor was similarly affected. Reaching for his R/T Doyle depressed the button feeling the blackness of unconsciousness crowd his mind.

---

MacLeod let his mind drift idly, giving up on his attempts to get the silent man in the driver's seat to talk. Bodie had been in a black mood when he and his partner had arrived, but MacLeod was not going to let the other man's problems destroy the warm happy and contented feeling that had been buzzing through his system ever since he woke up this morning. He had been immensely relieved to find a very real and thoroughly mussed Adam sprawled in the bed next to him, because deep down he had harbored a fear that the other man was just going to leave at the first opportunity and vanish from his life. A wide sloppy smile plastered itself onto MacLeod's lips as memories of the previous night's sex with his cantankerous lover floated lazily through his brain. He replayed the sound of Adam's voice while the other had writhed beneath him in the throes of passion, the usually light baritone deepened with lust.

Relaxing back in the Capri's passenger seat, MacLeod closed his eyes. The better to replay the images that were flipping through his mind's eye. He could see Adam sprawled on the bed but as he let his mind relax further, the hotel room seemed to fade into darkness to be replaced by a tent....

....His lover was now nestled in a bed of large cushions and Adam was dressed in a long flowing robe that was partially open revealing a long expanse of chest and slim hips. He could almost smell the cool desert air and glancing out the open tent flap he realized it was dark, for the last remnants of the sunset shimmered on the far horizon. Then his attention was drawn back to the man before him and he gasped. Gone was Adam Taylor - university student - in his place was a creature that MacLeod had never seen before. Golden skin now gleamed where it once had been pale, long silky black hair fanned out across the cushions and he ached to run his fingers through it. Somehow the name Adam Taylor did not fit with the exotic being that lay sprawled before him, and he wondered again what this man's real name might be. Someday he would find out. That much he promised himself.

"Come here."

His dream lover commanded, reaching out a slim graceful hand to capture his own hand and pull him down on the bed of luxurious cushions....

Bodie glanced again at his passenger, MacLeod, and his mood blackened even further. From the sloppy look on the other man's face he had obviously gotten lucky last night. Very lucky.... But what made him angry now was that although he himself had gotten what he wanted last night from Doyle, this morning had been a different story. Entirely. Working the morning's events over in his mind he tried to decipher what could possibly have gone wrong between the moment he had fallen asleep and the time when he'd woken.

---

Flashback to Doyle's apartment - that morning.

Waking to his usual lethargy fogged-brain-after-sex feeling, Bodie blindly reached for the warm body that should have been there beside him. However, all he encountered was a cold bed and rumpled sheets. "Shit. Doyle?" He mumbled rubbing sleep from his eyes and forcing them to focus. "Ray?" He called, louder this time. Still no reply. Hauling himself to a sitting position he searched the floor for his pants and pulled them on, heedless of the evidence of last night's pleasure, it was laundry day anyway.

Wandering into the kitchen he spotted his partner siting at the table, coffee mug in hand and head down over the morning paper. "What's with this?" Bodie demanded with a sweeping gesture taking in the whole kitchen.

"What's with what, Bodie?" Ray Doyle replied without looking up from the fascinating contents of the paper, his nose twitching at the smell of sex that still clung to his partner.

"Don't give me that bullshit Ray, I mean you - sitting out here when you should still be in bed."

Doyle snorted, glancing up briefly. "I thought you liked your lays to be gone when you got up."

What!!??!!

---

Present.

Bodie silently snarled, cursing himself. Things had gone rapidly down hill from there until the argument had been interrupted by his R/T going off and they had been ordered to pick MacLeod up and bring him to Cowley's office. For a de-briefing.

For once Bodie had been glad of the intrusion, at least it had stopped the argument escalating to the point of doing irreparable damage to their partnership. At least he hoped that was the case. The ride to the hotel had been one of the most unbearable times in Bodie's life and he would much rather have been travelling with a bunch of hostile Irish Bombers than his silent and brooding partner. Lover? That was the question. Doyle had muttered something incomprehensible about not being a convenient lay when his usual bird wasn't available....

Reaching the hotel and finding the obvious signs that MacLeod and that pissy college student, Taylor, had screwed their brains out all night and were still talking - had made his mood worse. Bodie just hated smug, self-satisfied bastards. Glaring out his windscreen, he glanced over at his passenger and noted that MacLeod had that distant expression on his face again and Bodie had to suppress the overpowering urge to smack the sloppy grin off the too handsome face. Instead he decided on a less direct approach.

Sitting in his seat, unaware of Bodie's worsening mood, MacLeod let himself totally sink into his small fantasy. He could almost feel the phantom hands of his desert prince on his skin as the other reached up to pull him down into a searing kiss....

....Settling his body over his lover's, he allowed himself to revel again in the feel of heated flesh on heated flesh and the pleasure of the breathy moans that he was coaxing from the willing body beneath him as Adam's hands caressed the sensitive skin of his neck....

Suddenly he was thrown sideways against the seatbelt and MacLeod's eyes flew open, his blissful mood shattered as he instinctively gripped at the dash in front of him. "Shit!"

"Sorry 'bout that." Bodie apologized.

MacLeod felt that there was a distinct lack of sincerity in the apology from the CI5 agent and turned to glare at the man driving. "What the hell happened?" He snapped, very unhappy at having his little daydream disturbed.

"Took the corner a little too fast." Bodie replied blandly, ignoring the anger coming from the other man with ease and trying to keep a self-satisfied grin off his face.

MacLeod resisted the urge to snarl and settled back down into his seat closing his eyes and using one of his meditation techniques to calm his mind. He was going to get back to his little fantasy, and he refused to let Bodie have the satisfaction of beating him. Now where was he? Oh aye.... warm hands....

....He slid a hand down his lover's side, the warm skin silky to his touch. He smiled, absorbing his lover's breath, feeling the other shudder when his hand finally found its way to the hot rigid shaft that was trapped between their bodies. His fingers brushing away the light robe that had hidden his prize....

Bodie scowled at his passenger, more than a little disappointed at being unable to provoke the Scot. He was in the mood at the moment for a fight, mostly because he wanted to avoid thinking about Doyle. Or the fact Doyle was alone with Taylor. Convulsively his hands tightened around the steering wheel. He'd kill that little prick if he touched Ray.... Problem was he had no idea what had gotten up his partner's nose, and unfortunately knew that Ray wasn't going to make things easier for him by explaining any of it. He'd asked Ray if it was something he'd done and the reply had been - 'If you have to ask, then I don't think I want to discuss it.' That had been as enlightening as reading one of Cowley's cryptic notes. Glancing over at MacLeod, Bodie silently swore to himself. Christ, the Scot was off in fantasyland - yet again. Anyone would think the guy was still a teenager the way he was grinning.

Lost in his daydream, MacLeod settled further into the comfortable passenger's seat....

....Under him his lover arched up, a moan forced from his throat while he licked his way down the sweat slick torso. He growled at the sensations those long talented fingers were evoking as they borrowed into his hair and massaged his scalp, gently encouraging him on his southward exploration. The warmth, wetness.... hotness....

Getting thrown forward just when he was about to claim his prize, MacLeod found himself jolted by the seatbelt when Bodie braked vigorously a second time. This time he allowed the snarl that sprang to his lips to show when he turned to face Bodie and he caught the answering gleam in the CI5 man's blue eyes. So Bodie was spoiling for a fight. Sorely tempted MacLeod bit back on his response, damned if he was going to give the other man the satisfaction of provoking him. Putting all of his four- hundred-years experience into play, he simply glared back, letting his eyes say 'back off' louder than any spoken word. Watching Bodie flinch slightly, he then allowed a feral smile to spread over his lips.

Christ, what the fuck was that!?! Bodie had been intimidated by the best, but never before had he met someone who could actually inspire a reaction from him. There was suddenly a weight behind this Scot that Bodie found hard to decipher. He'd judged MacLeod purely on what he had read in the file and what he'd seen - and usually that was all he needed to make an accurate call. But in MacLeod's case he suddenly found himself sitting next to a person he had no clue about. All his previous evaluations now become invalid and that was not a feeling Bodie found comfortable, or one he was used to. Frowning, he hasty changed his preconceptions.

MacLeod smiled inwardly as he watched the various emotions flit across the usually impassive face of the CI5 man. So he'd achieved the desired impression. Good.... because he really did not want to fight with this man. They had to work together if they were going to run across McKellen before Connor found the bastard. He was reluctant to involve CI5 in his private feud with his deranged countryman, but since he had very little choice in the matter - Connor's warnings and mumbling to the contrary - he needed to work with both agents to resolve this. And being in constant conflict with Bodie wasn't helping matters. Intimidation usually wasn't his style, that was more in Connor's nature, but if it saved time he wasn't above using it occasionally as a last resort. He just hoped he'd made his point.

Bodie shot a fast covert glance across at MacLeod, to find that the other man had settled himself back down in the seat and closed his eyes. Well, at least MacLeod wasn't going to make and issue of it, not if he backed down that is. Cursing to himself Bodie conceded defeat, but he'd die before he admitted that to anyone else, Doyle included. Going with the old adage that retreat was the better part of valor, Bodie concentrated on the remainder of their journey to CI5 HQ.

Hearing the small sigh from the other man, MacLeod smiled inwardly and got back to more interesting musings. Now where had he been....

....He inhaled his lover's scent deeply, tasting arousal on Adam's skin before taking the weeping shaft into his mouth. The low moans coming from his lover sent tingles across his skin as he worked the hot rigid shaft with this lips and tongue. He held the thrusting hips with one hand while with his other he fondled Adam's balls. Squeezing gently, he felt the tremors that rippled through the body under him and the breathy sigh's that issued from the sensual mouth. That baritone a purr along his senses.

"Ahhhh, graidh, please.... now-"

Adam was begging and he reluctantly released the rigid shaft. Climbing his lover's slender body he took the open panting mouth in another soul stealing kiss, reaching out with his right hand to the small bottle of scented oil that sat by their sides. Breaking the kiss with a last gentle lick of his tongue across the bruised lips, he smiled down into the passion dilated eyes, chuckling when a look of reproach at his abandonment flitted across the glassy green-eyed gaze. "Soon love.... soon." He crooned soothingly while he worked the stopper from the phial with his thumb and forefinger, occupying his other hand with light caresses across the warm golden skin of chest and stomach. Pouring a generous amount of the oil into his hand he placed the bottle back on the carpet, before rubbing his hands together to warm the oil with his body heat. Tracing a finger up one long calf muscle to the now bent knee, he let his finger run down a lean thigh, drawing a shuddering moan from the man beneath him. He then followed the path of taunt muscles down to the heated groin and further, slipping his oil-slicked fingers between his lover's firm backside. He drank in the hiss of pleasure as first one then two fingers slipped past the tight ring of muscle into the moist inviting heat. He gently prepared his lover, leaning forward to lick kiss the damp skin of Adam's belly. A low growl told him that his lover was growing impatient and with a last glance at the hooded demanding eyes he withdrew his fingers and replaced them with his own aching shaft. Gripping the slender hips he thrust forward and in one long smooth motion he found himself buried to the hilt in the welcome haven of his lover's body. Slipping his arms beneath the bent knees, he slid forward up the sweat-slicked length of Adam's body to again claim the pouting lips in a gentle kiss. He found a sensual rhythm that pleased them both and supporting his weight off the smaller man, he rained butterfly kisses over the upturned face, absorbing the breathy murmuring in long languid kisses....

Hearing his R/T beep, Bodie reached for it and depressed the call button. "3.7."

Static was his return reply, then silence - a deadly, eerie silence and Bodie frowned before depressing the call button again. "3.7 to 4.5, come in."

Nothing for a prolonged moment then a voice gasped out, the sound hallow down the bad connection, but the words were clear. "Bodie.... room service.... dru...." followed by a groan with a hissed curse in the background before the connection was killed.

"Doyle?! Ray!!" Bodie snarled into his R/T, shaking the thing subconsciously. "Ray - dammit talk to me! What's happening!" Getting no reply he threw the R/T onto the dash and then threw the car into a reckless U-turn, crossing two lanes of traffic. Amidst blaring horns and swerving traffic he sped back in the direction of the Hotel, unconcerned about the havoc he had caused behind. His mind was totally focused on Doyle hoarse voice. Something terrible had happened. He was convinced of that.

MacLeod snapped out of his relaxed and aroused state, peeved with Bodie only to hear graphic swearing from the CI5 man, and blaring horns. Then they were heading back the way they had come, only now at a much faster rate. With one quick glance at Bodie's set face he knew something was seriously wrong this time. Instantly he thought of Adam, and that happy contented feeling that had been with him all morning vanished as if it had never existed only to be replaced with a cold dark dread that whispered death, destruction and pain. Was he about to lose everything that mattered in his life again?

Expertly weaving in and out of the London traffic, Bodie snatched up the R/T again and tried calling Curtis who was downstairs at the Mayfair. All he got was static. He then tried Keel who was situated on MacLeod's floor - with no luck. Swearing, he reached for his car radio. "3/7 to base, come in."

"Base." Came the prompt reply.

"Require back up at the Mayfair. Suspect agents in trouble." He stated clinically and fast, maneuvering around a truck.

"Base to 3/7. Notifying all available units. ETA 15 minutes." Came the immediate response from the dispatcher.

"Great!" Bodie spat to on one in particular. He doubted Ray or the others had 15 minutes.

"What? What's happened?" MacLeod questioned, needing answers to settle the rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Ray tried to call. It was garbled and cut off half way through. Something's going down at the hotel." Bodie snapped shortly, sparing little of his concentration from the task of driving.

The Hotel.... that meant Adam was in trouble too. Dammit! Had to be McKellen. There was no other explanation and the panic surged again. If Adam lost his head because of him, MacLeod would never forgive himself. He had dragged the other man further into this mess by insisting that he come and stay with him at the hotel. McKellen had probably raided the hotel looking for him and instead had found Adam. Would they fight? And what of Doyle? Had he seen a Quickening? Was that what was blacking out the communicators? Questions, questions. Hanging on tightly as Bodie drove them swiftly back to the Mayfair, MacLeod only had one thought - if McKellen hurt Adam, he would hunt the bastard down and kill him. Regardless of what Connor said. Hitting the passenger door hard when Bodie swerved to miss a turning vehicle, MacLeod had to squash the urge to demand that Bodie drive faster. But from the expression on the CI5 man's face he could tell that Bodie was also thinking the worst.

---

Bodie slammed to a halt outside the Mayfair Hotel to be greeted by the far from reassuring sight of an ambulance and several police cars with lights flashing outside the main entrance. A kind of controlled chaos reigned, with the uniforms carrying out efficient crowd control while a couple of plainclothes detectives seemed to be asking questions of staff and hotel patrons. Muttering to himself, Bodie, shook his head in disgust. Flippin' great! Just great. Now the flatfoot coppers were going to get in on the act and muddy the water, and he wished fervently that Cowley were here to cut through all the inevitable bullshit he was now going to have to wade through. Striding up to the hotel entrance, not bothering to see if MacLeod followed Bodie snarled at the young constable who tried to block his way. "CI5. Back off." He stated before shoving his CI5 ID under the young officer's nose and pushing past the startled man.

MacLeod trailed along behind the Bodie, making an 'I'm- with-him' gesture to the officer at the door. He grinned inwardly despite the circumstances, a little stunned and impressed by Bodie's frank actions. He saw the young Constable wave them through and he slipped inside the bustling hotel lobby, catching up to Bodie just in time to see the lift doors open and a stretcher roll out. He controlled the ridiculous urge to push past the agent and see if the person on the stretcher was Adam, knowing that the man would have healed from any wounds inflicted by now. If Adam still had his head. Dismissing that last thought, MacLeod told himself that he would know if Adam were dead. He was sure of it. He'd feel it somehow.

Bodie stopped the gurney with a peremptory gesture, ignoring the protests of the attending paramedics. Beneath all the life sustaining paraphernalia he could just make out the pale features of his fellow CI5 agent. Sam Curtis. "Shit. Sam.... Sam, can you hear me?" He asked urgently, placing a gentle hand on the wounded man's face to gain his wondering attention. He was answered with a low moan, the hazel eyes barely focusing on him while the man mumbled, trying to answer through the oxygen mask. Gently removing the mask Bodie repeated his question, noting that the eyes were becoming a little more focused.

"Didn't.... know what hit us.... Bodie-" Sam Curtis gasped out wincing in pain.

Relieved that Curtis recognised him, Bodie tried to urge more information from the man, but the Paramedics overrode the frustrated agent, pushing him away as they carried on their way to the waiting ambulance outside.

"Shit!" Bodie swore under his breath, watching the gurney go out the door. If Sam was shot, then where the hell was his partner Chris Keel? Partners are supposed to watch each other's back.... but even as he thought that, he felt a pang of guilt over the fact that Doyle had been alone when this had happened. Bloody Cowley.... Swiveling he marched over to the elevator stabbing savagely at the up button while he continued to curse under his breath. Christ, he should never have left Doyle alone. Every time he turned his back on his infuriating partner something like this happened!

MacLeod stood beside Bodie, silently agreeing with the angry sentiment plastered across the CI5 man's face while he waited for the elevator to arrive. It seemed to take an eternity. When the bell chimed and the elevator door rolled slowly open MacLeod resisted the urge to push past the exiting people. Bodie it seemed had no such problem and snarling at the startled patrons pushed his way into the lift and flashed his badge belligerently at the few people that tried to also get into the lift.

MacLeod hastily stepped past the closing doors, just feeling them nick his heels as they glided closed. Bodie jabbed at the button for their floor and took up a position directly in front of the door, his body tense with impatience as another eternity passed while the lift whined into motion.

The lift slowly climbed the floors necessary, stopping two floors lower and the door soundlessly slide open. A young couple stood there and Bodie barred their entrance, barking out 'Police business. Take the stairs.' He then stabbed the close button again and took out his gun, checking it over.

Watching all this with some amazement, MacLeod was glad when they finally arrived on the fourteenth floor. Getting out of the lift, they quickly retraced the steps to the penthouse and arrived to find further scenes of chaos. Only this chaos was a slightly more controlled bedlam as various police and other official personnel went about their business.

Bodie took a deep breath and strode forward just in the mood for some officious flatfoot to challenge his right to be here, so he could take out some of his frustration on the unfortunate victim.

It appeared however that by now most of the London police officers and ancillary staff had had their run-in's with CI5's least diplomatic member and they all seemed to magically melt from Bodie's path. If circumstances had been different MacLeod might have found the situation funny, but now, however he was just relieved. Dealing with Bodie's foibles was the last thing on his mind, because he was close enough to his hotel room to see if there had been a Quickening or to feel Adam's presence. He saw and felt evidence of neither and his hope sank as his worst fears were realized. Adam was gone.

Bodie walked into the room, aware of MacLeod's presence close behind and unable to decide if he was disappointed that no one had challenged him or not. Automatically he scanned the room, registering the changes since the last time he had been there. "Who's in charge here?" He called loudly to the room in general while he took in the overturned service trolley and the fact that there were obvious signs of a struggle.

"That would be me." A tall dark-haired man stepped out from the far bedroom and made his way towards the two men standing in the doorway.

Bodie eyed the man approaching. He must be new, he decided because he'd never seen him before. Maybe he'd get his argument after all, he mused with an inward grin.

MacLeod noted the change in the man standing next to him and resisted the urge to kick Bodie in the shins. They did not have time to indulge in petty dominance games here, time could be running out for both Adam and Ray Doyle. When he had entered the room, MacLeod had also been looking for clues that would tell him what had happened and what state both Adam and Doyle had been in when taken. It looked like they were taken alive, so that would mean drugs. Was it McKellen? Had to be. But if so, Adam would have sensed him and there would have been a fight. At least there would have been blood....

"And you would be?" Bodie asked when the other police officer stopped in front of him.

"Detective Inspector Warrington." The man replied, flashing his badge. "And you would be?" He returned in the same deadly tone.

"Bodie. CI5, and I'm in charge now." Bodie shot back in a no-nonsense tone. Flashing his ID, he dared the Detective to contradict him.

DI Warrington had not met a CI5 agent in his line of work yet, for he had only been in London 12 months. But he had heard of their reputation for taking over in these situations and he would be damned if he was going to let that happen to him. "Is that so? And where would that authority be coming from?" He questioned, his voice cold.

MacLeod saw the feral grin spread across Bodie's face and groaned to himself. Damn, things were starting badly and likely to head straight down hill rapidly from there. Despite the potential danger to life and limb MacLeod felt he had to intervene. "Excuse me Detective, but could you tell me what you have found out so far?" MacLeod interrupted, placing a hand on Bodie's arm. He felt like he had come within inches of having it bitten off when the other man turned and snarled at him.

"Back off MacLeod, this is my territory. Doyle's my partner and I'm not going to leave it to some flatfoot to mess up the investigation." Turning back to Warrington, Bodie ignored MacLeod's 'What about Adam' and overrode the retort from the Detective. "If you'd like to read the fine print on this I think it will answer all your questions." He grated, flipping his ID open at the startled man and pushing past him to check out the other rooms.

With a last glance at the sputtering DI, MacLeod followed the angry agent, parting from him when he reached what had been Adam's bedroom. Standing in the doorway, MacLeod was suddenly overwhelmed by the memories of last night, and he closed his eyes briefly, before divorcing himself from the pain. He needed to find clues quickly if he were to track the kidnappers. Stepping into the room he noticed that the bed had not yet been made, so the kidnap had taken place before the maid had come in. Sitting down on what had been Adam's side of the bed, MacLeod picked up one of the pillows, bringing it to his face and inhaling the lingering scent of his lover. Ruthlessly he squashed the emotions that were doing neither him nor Adam any good, knowing he would be of no use to the other Immortal in this incapacitated state. Carefully placing the pillow back on the bed, his fingertips lingering on the soft fabric, before he took a cleansing breath and restarted his search. He needed to stay strong if he were to bring Adam home and live out the fantasy he'd dreamed up that morning. So as he had done countless times in the past, he placed the bundle of precious memories in a safe place in his mind and turned his attention to the hard fact. Adam Taylor and Raymond Doyle - both expert fighters - had been taken unawares. How? Thinking about that, MacLeod swiftly stood, then knelt beside the bed and after a quick glance around to make sure he was not being observed he felt under the base of the bed. Groaning to himself in worry when his fingers encountered cold hard steel, he knew with a certainty Adam was in serious trouble. "Shit." He swore, glancing briefly at the beautiful Ivanhoe before securely sliding it back into its hiding place.

Crossing to the wardrobe next, MacLeod yanked open the door and found Adam's coat. He searched the pockets and cursed again, this time in Gaelic when he came up with a gun and wicked looking knife. All items that Adam thought he didn't know about. Crossing back to the bed he opened the bedside draw on Adam's side of the bed and shook his head. There was Adam's wallet and leather bound diary. The man was weaponless, without any form of ID and MacLeod closed his eyes, sinking back down to sit on the bed while he tried to recall what his lover had been wearing that morning.

With a jolt he remembered that Adam had emerged from the shower wearing jeans and one of his own turtle necks sweaters. Adam's hair had been damp and doing its best to point in all directions at once. A newly scrubbed, slightly pink and disheveled Adam had been such an appealing sight that MacLeod had not resisted the urge to smooth the wayward hair down. Stalking towards his lover that morning, he had demanded to know why Adam was wearing his clothes when he'd brought plenty of his own. To which Adam had pulled aside the neck of the sweater to reveal a fading bruise on his neck and growled something about 'feeding time at the zoo.' So Adam was wearing nothing but jeans and a sweater which meant he'd be cold, and MacLeod knew that Adam hated the cold.

Wondering if things could get any worse, MacLeod heard a pitiful mewing sound coming from the ensuite and he remembered Adam's cat. Nefertiri - or something similar. Rising from the bed he made his way over to the bathroom and after a quick search found the small pathetic bundle of fur trembling in the corner of the bathtub. Taking pity on the tiny creature he reached down to pick her up, snatching his hand back and narrowly missing getting lacerated as the frightened feline hissed and swiped at him with her claws. Ignoring the behavior, knowing it came from fear rather than real malice, MacLeod crooned to the tiny cat and slowly reached out again. "It's okay, I won't hurt you. I'll take care of you until Adam gets back." He reached down again cautiously, but all the fight seemed to have gone out of the small body and with a small mew she seemed to slump into his hand. Lifting the bundle of black fur out of the tub, MacLeod cradled the still trembling body against his chest, stroking the delicate head with one of his fingers as he crooned nonsense to the creature in an effort to comfort her. Returning to the bed MacLeod tried to deposit the kitten onto Adam's pillow, hoping that his scent would help to reassure her, but the kitten had other ideas. Wincing when her needle sharp claws penetrated his shirt and dug into his flesh, MacLeod tried to dislodge her a second time, only to be greeted by an even more pitiful yowl and a further tightening of the claws. Well, he was stuck with her for now, literally and figuratively, sighing he gave up on his attempts to put the feline down and settled her in the crook of his arm. Just as MacLeod had managed to get the tiny kitten calmed down she was disturbed by a call from the main room. Swearing softly he left the bedroom and went to see what the problem was.

Bodie saw his assignment emerge from the bedroom with what appeared to be a small cat and he was puzzled for a moment until he remembered that Taylor had brought the cat with him from his dormitory room at the University. Ignoring the cat, he gestured MacLeod over then held out an object for the Scot to view. Waiting impatiently for MacLeod to dignify him with an answer while the annoying man fussed over the cat, Bodie bit back on his snarl. "This was found pinned to the wall over there - with this blade." He stated, holding up another bag containing a small pocketknife.

MacLeod took the proffered plastic bag with the piece of cloth in it and studied the pattern. "It's the MacLeod Tartan," he said, fingering the bag. He could easily remember the time when this had been all he'd worn.

"And?" Bodie demanded impatiently

"And what?"

"And what is it doing here. And before you say it, I do know it is not yours."

"Noh. I'd say McKellen left it here." MacLeod stated quietly then after a short pause added more. "It's a calling card of sorts. He thinks it's funny."

Bodie noted the tone of the other mans voice. There was a helluva lot more going on here than he or anyone else had guessed or been told, and it was this vast untold story that was going to get Ray killed. And sometime very soon he and MacLeod were going to have a little talk, and MacLeod was going to give him some answers. Willingly or not. "A calling card?" Bodie snarled. "So you've seen this before?"

"Noh," MacLeod said again, choosing his words with more care this time. "But who else but McKellen would leave a piece of my clan's tartan? He's taunting me."

Considering that, Bodie studied MacLeod's face, not believing the expression of bafflement. "Tell me, MacLeod, is there anything else missing from the rooms?"

Shaking his head, MacLeod glanced down at the cat briefly. "Nothing has been taken from what I can tell. Adam's wallet is still here."

About to ask more, DI Warrington interrupted Bodie's questioning by throwing the agents ID back at him in peeved frustration.

"I don't care who you are, or what your small print states - I'm not going to let you take over this investigation!" Warrington stormed, turning a slight shade of pink with agitation.

Bodie grinned in false charm when he spied Cowley entering the room. "Then I suggest you take it up with my boss." He replied, replacing his ID back in his pocket and gracing the fuming policeman with a nod toward the door. "I'm sure he'll be able to set the record straight." And with that parting remark he left the DI to Cowley's tender mercies. Accosting a young uniformed officer Bodie demanded to know where the witnesses were being held, scowling when the young man looked to his superior for guidance.

"Leave the boy alone Bodie." A voice behind him said, followed by a hand on his shoulder. Turning, Bodie was about to snarl at the intruder, but found himself looking into Anderson's familiar face.

"Cowley will sort that out." Anderson said, ignoring Bodie's glare expertly. "Have you heard?" He asked quietly, taking a draw on his cigarette.

"Heard what?" Bodie grated out.

"Keel's dead." Anderson replied bluntly.

"Jesus! How?"

"He took one in the chest while trying to stop this." Anderson replied.

Muttering under his breath, Bodie cast eyes around the room before looking back at Anderson. "Where'd it happen? Does Sam know?" Bodie asked his fury at the injustice of the situation intensifying.

"Down in the service bay." Anderson stated factually. "The gunmen used a van to get away. And no, Curtis doesn't. The Doc thought it would be best to tell him later, when he's stable."

"And the van? Have the-"

"Bodie," Anderson cut in a warning in his voice, well able to read his friends desire to find these murdering bastards before Doyle suffered the same fate as Keel. "Don't tell the Police how to suck lemons. Of course the Police have put an APB out on the van." He ended calmly. He was very used to Bodie's temper.

Bodie just grunted in response, everyone knew his opinion of the local constabulary. "We should speak to the witnesses." He stated, changing the subject. "And we need to have a little chat about this," he continued, turning to MacLeod and waving the single piece of evidence they had at him. "Because I will get the answers. One way or another." He finished with a meaningful glare.

MacLeod sighed. It was obvious he wasn't going to be allowed to slip out of this one, and that he was just going to have to come up with a version of the truth that didn't involve revealing anything about Immortals. Oh yeah, that'll be a cinch he muttered to himself. Where was Adam when he needed him? He thought. Adam always seemed to have a plausible story to tell. Then he remembered that Adam had told Bodie's partner, Doyle, about Immortals and that Adam wasn't here anymore. Absently he stoked the small kitten in his arms, suspecting that he was deriving as much comfort from the contact as the kitten did from his warmth at that moment. Around him he noted that Cowley had finished his talk with DI Warrington and that the police were leaving the hotel room. That would leave only the CI5 agents and he decided to lock the kitten back in Adam's room for safe keeping. When Adam returned he could comfort her.... for he refused to think of any other outcome for this situation. Adam Taylor was going to be found.

"Bodie!"

"Sir." Bodie nodded in greeting when Cowley limped over to him and scowled. He was sure Cowley would find some way to blame him for this disaster.

"Would you mind explaining this circus?" Cowley demanded when only his agents were left in the room.

"Hotel security called the police. It's their policy. I was trying to rectify the situation before you arrived." Bodie explained.

Cowley glared for a moment longer at Bodie, then sighed in acknowledgment. "I hear Doyle got a message to you."

"Garbled mostly. I'd say he and Taylor were drugged, not shot."

"Then find them before I have to tell more families of their loss!" Cowley barked, then he was walking away.

Releasing a tense sigh, Bodie closed his eyes briefly.

"Mr. Bodie?" MacLeod asked softly, well aware of the respect and results a man like Cowley commanded from his men. It was what made agents like Bodie so effective against the criminal elements.

"Do you have any idea why McKellen wants you so badly?"

"He hates the MacLeod's." MacLeod stated honestly. "Centuries ago there was a feud between the MacLeods and the McKellens. But that is ancient history."

"And do the MacLeods still kill the McKellens - say indirectly? On the side?" Bodie asked, relieved that finally he was getting a straight answer for once.

"Noh." MacLeod stated honesty. "I'm as confused by this as you are."

"So why would he take Taylor and Doyle?"

Thinking about that, MacLeod shook his head. "Blackmail?" He suggested.

"Right." Bodie agreed, having come to that conclusion himself. "You, my son, are not leaving my side then. Not until I find this bastard."

Covering his grimace, MacLeod exhaled strongly after Bodie marched away. He had his own methods of finding McKellen. But had no idea how he was going to talk Bodie into letting him leave unescorted. Then he remembered something else. Connor had promised to ring him later that day. Glancing at the hotel phone he wondered how he could talk to Connor without CI5 overhearing every word they said. Dammit!

---

Sound was the first thing that returned. Sound and a God- awful pain behind his eyes, and Doyle groaned involuntarily as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. But the pain didn't ease and he slowly forced his eyes open again. Around him he could hear the rhythmic sound of water dripping. The monotonous splatter of a single drop of water hitting something hard and flat - like cement. Or stone. And it was that sound that forced him back to partial alertness. His vision was blurry, his body sore with cramp and he made himself lie very still by instinct rather than conscious thought. Drugs.... he had the acid taste of chemicals at the back of his throat and he knew it had to be from some new designer drug. Shit! He vaguely knew that he had to remember something and he doubted it was good, while more of his surroundings came into focus. Flexing his fingers he glanced up and saw that he was handcuffed to an old thick, iron bar and he groaned, seeing the blood which covered his wrists and fingers. Either he'd put up one hell of a fight, or his captor was bloody clumsy. Problem was, he couldn't remember which it was.

Drawing in a calming breath, Doyle let that bit of information filter into his brain, lifting his head to see if he could find his captor. Nothing, but he saw where the sound of water was coming from. Looking over the iron bar he was cuffed to, he saw a large concrete slab. It was slightly raised off the ground and at least twenty foot by twenty foot in size. Around it were troughs and old rusting benches, tables and racks, and Doyle didn't need to be told that this was an old abattoir. The presence of the hooks hanging from the roof over the slab was proof enough. He didn't need to see the old bloodstains marring the concrete at the base of the killing platform to know that his captor, or captors, had a warped sense of humor. Lifting his eyes to the ceiling he noted that directly above the slab were a number of old chains, wires and hooks and that was where the water was leaking. Dripping with rhythmic monotony. Complete lifelessness.... Shivering, Doyle moved a little more, the lethargy in his limbs persisting annoyingly while his vision slowly cleared. So he was in an old, disused abattoir. But which one? The place was cold, eerie - the mesh louvers to his right mostly smashed. Vandalized. Graffiti disfigured the walls to his left and the stench of death permeated the entire area. It was enough to make him gag.... and then another memory intruded and he let his eyes close. He had pins and needles in his fingers and felt as weak as a newborn, but he forced the memory to resurface. He frowned, then suddenly remembered that he and Bodie had been working a case. They were trying to find a Scotsman - Bruce McKellen. A sick, deranged psychopath who liked to behead all his victims.... then he remembered MacLeod and.... and.... oh fuck - Taylor! And that he and Bodie were in way over their heads....

Hearing a sound behind him, Doyle hastily swiveled around and stopped, feeling his jaw drop open in shock. Behind him was a similar set up with a large blood stained concrete slab - killing pad - with troughs, benches, more broken louvers, and a long, protruding wicked looking meat hook. The only difference was that Taylor was hanging from the ugly meat hook right in the middle of the killing slab and Doyle tasted bile rise in the back of his throat.

"Ray?"

It was a forced whisper and Doyle moved around a bit more, yanking on his cuffed wrists and tearing his skin more. His mind automatically slipped into strategy mode, while his eyes tried to find a way out, or even the slightest advantage. He could see nothing and he turned his gaze back on Taylor, noting how Taylor's bare feet barely touched the ground while he hung from his bound wrists which were linked over the meat hook. He also noted that their perverse captors had stripped Taylor of everything bar his jeans and Doyle shivered again in reaction. It was bloody freezing in this old icebox. The abandoned abattoir was not a place he wanted to die in or to see Taylor die in. "How long have I been out?" Doyle asked, meeting Taylor's gaze, seeing the relief that washed over the other man's face.

"Four, five hours." Methos told him. "I'm not sure. But I do know it's getting dark outside." He nodded towards the shattered windows.

Glancing over to where Taylor indicated, Doyle used his teeth to pull his sleeve up and saw that his watch was smashed. Great! He doubted Cowley would let him claim that on expenses.... then another thought hit him - Bodie. Christ Bodie would be frantic.... Letting his lashes drop, he considered his partner and knew Bodie would be doing everything possible to find him. But how could Bodie possibly find him when he didn't even know where he was?

"You alright?"

Hearing Taylor's voice drift back to him, Doyle forced himself to concentrate, giving the other man a nod. He'd been in worse situations and survived. Concentrate, old son, he admonished himself, letting his eyes assess Adam Taylor's state. His priority was to get his assignment out - safe and alive. If that was possible, or he'd die trying. "I'll live. What about you?"

Methos gave a gruff, humorless laugh. "I always survive," he muttered, really peeved that McKellen was involving Doyle in this personal dispute. "Can you get free?"

Running his eyes over the handcuffs, Doyle suppressed an ironic smile. They were his own Goddamn handcuffs and he shook his head. Wiggling around he tried to pat down his pockets feeling that he was missing more than just the keys. His gun, wallet, knife and R/T were gone also. Turning his gaze back on the old pipe, he braced himself and tried to yank on the cuffs, but the pipe didn't even shudder let alone creak. All he achieved was making his writs bleed again. "Nah, can't budge these." He offered, turning back to look at Taylor. He saw the other man nod before Taylor looked back up at his own bound wrists. It was then that Doyle noticed the blood that stained Taylor's pale skin and the puffy appearance of his swollen hands. He winced in sympathy. "That must hurt-"

"I've had worse." Methos mumbled. He'd already tried to lever himself off the hook, but the wire binding his wrists was also wrapped around the hook, making dislodgement impossible.

"I take it you haven't seen our hosts?" Doyle asked, imagining now how painful Taylor's arms and chest must be if he had been hanging like that for over five hours. Immortal or not, the man would be in agony.

"Nothing-" Even as he started to say that Methos got the first insidious whisper of presence down his spine and he quivered in reaction. How he hated to be trapped in such a vulnerable position and he pushed his innate panic aside to find a solution. The buzz of Immortal presence grew stronger and he readied himself for more unpleasantness, seeing his opponent enter via a side door and casually walk up to him. McKellen.... Why was he not surprised? But since when had the ignorant Scot lowered his standards by using mortals to accomplish his dirty work?

"I told you, Loxley, we would meet again." McKellen hissed, stopping at the edge of the concrete killing pad to stare up at his captive.

"Do you always fight like a coward, or do you save it for special occasions?" Methos taunted, knowing Doyle was there, but admitting it was far too late for niceties. This should not be witnessed - but.... "First you attack a defenseless man in Sherwood, and now you use mortals to drug me??" He mocked sarcastically. "You have me totally restrained, but I suppose that is the only way you can achieve a victory! You are a weak and pitiful excuse for an Immortal! A disgrace-"

"Call me what you like. I don't care, because soon your Quickening will be mine." McKellen sneered.

"You'll have to come closer." Methos jeered, bracing his muscles. This was going to hurt - but death was not an alternative he was willing to entertain at present. He suddenly had too much to live for and envisioned Duncan MacLeod's dark beauty in his mind, letting the Highlander's passionate love of life feed him strength. Thank you Duncan....

"Oh I intend to make you beg for mercy." McKellen hissed in promise.

"I doubt it!"

"Then I'll kill your new friend and see if he can beg-"

"This is between you and me!" Methos spat in fury. "Our fight is not for them!"

"We fight how I chose." McKellen corrected, taking out his sword and showing it to the other Immortal in silent threat. "Now tell me where MacLeod is and I just might let the mortal live."

"MacLeod?" Methos repeated evasively. He tried to turn his body so as to keep McKellen in his line of sight when the other walked around the base of the platform. "Why do you want Connor?"

"Don't be stupid!" McKellen roared, jumping up onto the slab swiftly and lashing out with his sword. He deliberately used the flat of the blade to slap at his victim, marring the hanging man across the back and flank. Tiny lacerations appeared on the pale flesh, small wounds that bled before they healed, discoloring the unblemished skin.

Bracing himself against the sharp pain, Methos bit the inside of his cheek, knowing McKellen was only playing with him. The real games would start later. For he could read a man like McKellen, had seen countless men like him during his long life and knew the other man would first strike at him before going after Doyle. It was a small comfort.

"I want Duncan MacLeod!" McKellen shouted, not bothering to keep his voice down.

The sound echoed around them and Methos squinted at McKellen seeing how he was drawing in deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself. He was insane. Obviously they were miles from anywhere if McKellen could rant and rave without fear of being overheard.... and Methos filed that clue away, feeling his own spirits plummet further. Mac would never find him here.... And it would just be his bad luck that all the damn homeless would be out getting a feed as well.... Fuck!

"This is how it works. You will tell me what I want to know and I let spy-boy live." McKellen stated in a flat, expressionless tone before pointing his blade at Doyle.

"Why do you want Duncan?" Methos asked, trying a new track, needing to deter this man away from Doyle.

"None of your fucking business!" McKellen returned, furious again as he stepped closer, catching his target unprepared and using the hilt of his sword to gut-punch his captive. He then clubbed him across the jaw, watching in delight when the other groaned in shock before McKellen lifted his sword and balanced the point under Loxley's chin. With pressure he forced the other's head up and grinned nastily. "I have a joke for you, Loxley."

Blinking tears away, Methos stared at the man, knowing he was in trouble.

"What do the Rolling Stones and a MacLeod have in common?"

"I don't know." Methos answered when McKellen pressed the tip of the blade into his sensitive throat. "Enlighten me."

"The Rolling Stones sing 'Hey You! Get off my cloud.' But a Scot sings 'Hey MacLeod! Get off me ewe." Delivering the punch line, McKellen stepped back and laughed, dropping his sword slightly before all traces of humor abruptly left his face and he spitefully struck his victim a second time. "You didn't laugh Loxley!" He hissed returning the tip of his blade swiftly to its original position under his captives bloodied chin. "Never mind. You English never had a good sense of humor."

Opening his eyes to slits, Methos struggled to breathe. His lower body was numb, the muscles in his chest already burning in agony and he centered his gaze with difficulty on McKellen. The Scot was beyond insane, he could read the madness lurking behind the wide eyes and could see it in the way McKellen held his sword. It was frightening to watch how McKellen's whole body trembled with suppressed rage. Just one wrong word and he'd lose his head. This was no longer the same man he had encountered in Sherwood - McKellen was now a weapon, a conduit, for his own pain and inadequacies. And he had never found a way to successfully reason, or negotiate with such an opponent. Damn you Fate!

"You should have left London when you had the chance Loxley." McKellen stated while he forced himself to calm down. "Now you will never see the outside of this old abattoir and I will use your Quickening to kill Duncan MacLeod."

"Why?" Methos ventured, watching the madness slowly retreat deep into McKellen's eyes. He hated facing irrational, deranged lunatics.

"Because to kill the student weakens the teacher." McKellen hissed, leaning in closer and angling his blade up so that it cut his captives skin very slowly. "I want Connor MacLeod to suffer as I have suffered. I want him to bleed, to die a breath at a time. To break...."

Oh shit. Fuckin' marvelous. McKellen wasn't only insane, he was now trapped in a fantasy world. Ignoring the pain, Methos held very still, extremely aware of his dangerous position. One slip and he'd lose his head. "So you want Connor," he breathed, hoping to draw McKellen out.

"I am sick of the way he dogs my every step!" McKellen ranted again, moving his blade marginally before re- focusing his gaze on the man hanging before him. "Connor is methodical. Part of his cursed Scottish nature."

"And you, McKellen? What is in your nature?" Methos whispered, feeling the sword slide further down onto his shoulder. Just a little more and he might be able to shove the Scot back and then use his legs to kill the bastard.

"I-" McKellen hesitated, blinking blankly at Loxley before realising what the other was doing. Instantly he lashed out, punching the hanging man viciously under the diaphragm before bringing his sword back up into position. "Try that again and I'll shoot your friend." He hissed. "You are not a hero - that is not in your nature. Or so I've heard. So don't act so foolishly."

Gasping for breath, Methos blinked his tears away and glared at McKellen. "Heard??" He managed to get out in a hoarse whisper. What was the idiotic man going on about now?

"I met a friend of yours last century near Lebanon." McKellen said in a more conversational tone, moving his sword down to rest its point against the heaving man's chest. He turned it slightly applying more pressure and hearing his captive hiss in a new breath. The skin under his blade cut easily, leaving a zigzag pattern over the hairless chest. "Though I wouldn't say he considered you a friend. Rather he thought of you as a traitor. A coward. A thief even." Starting to enjoy himself now, McKellen walked around his trapped victim, letting the edge of his sword mark the tender pale skin at will, amused at the way Loxley tried to avoid its sharp edge. "He cursed your existence."

"Really?" Methos said, sucking in a breath when McKellen completed his slow circuit around him to stop in front of him again. "How do you know he was talking about me?" Methos asked, mentally thinking back and knowing he had not been near Lebanon in more than a century. "I'm not the only Immortal on the planet."

"But you are the only one called Methos." McKellen whispered intimately, moving closer to his captive and seeing the way the golden-green eyes dilated fractionally before long lashes hid the other Immortal's thoughts.

"Now you are being absurd." Methos countered, feeling as if he had been gut-punched a third time by that unexpected announcement.

"Maybe." McKellen shrugged, his grin growing in speculation. "He described you perfectly, right down to your obnoxious attitude."

Giving a mock laugh, Methos shook his head. "Let me get this right?! You think I'm this mythical being called 'Methos' all because I match some physical description given to you by some pompous asshole in Lebanon?" He shook his head. "You're more insane than I first imagined."

"It wasn't the description that gave you away, it was that maneuver you pulled on me in Sherwood. I had never seen the likes of it before and since then I have tried to adopt it, using it in some of my own challenges. Until Lebanon. I met this enraged Immortal, he was beyond reason when he came at me. In defense I used that little trick and he was so stunned, that he pinned me to the ground with inhuman force and demanded to know who had taught me. He accused me of being your student and whore."

Getting a sinking feeling deep in his gut, Methos banked down on his panic when McKellen stepped closer still and made every word familiar and personal while the deranged Scot skimmed a hand down his body in emphasis. Fingers settled over his groin and squeezed his lax sex hard.

"I told him about you and he released me." McKellen mouthed the words his lips curving up wickedly before he maliciously squeezed his captives trapped sex a second time. He felt the man before him gasp, the wide eyes losing all color as the pupils dilated fully in shock and pain. "This Immortal craved your company," he whispered nastily. "He told me in graphic terms what he would like to do with your remains."

"That's doesn't prove anything-"

"He told me your true name. He hissed it with so much hate it terrified me. So I got out of Lebanon very fast and later learned that he had been arrested by the military for crimes against the people. Cannibalism and such." McKellen elaborated, pausing to make sure his words were sinking in. "I see you do know him."

"No," Methos countered. "I am just amazed you're still alive."

Laughing nastily, McKellen stepped back and looked his subject over. "His story had intrigued me, so I went to visit him in prison. I wanted information and in exchange I promised to get him out." McKellen shrugged. "The description he gave me fits you perfectly."

"And did you get him out?" Methos asked.

"Hell no." McKellen snorted. "He was insane. He was also sentenced to life imprisonment."

Methos stared at McKellen in disbelief. "Did he give you his name?"

"Casparie - I think was how the authorities pronounced it."

"You're an even bigger idiot than I first assumed." Methos hissed back, not believing his run of ill luck. Caspian? Was it possible the mentally deficient idiot had survived the Horsemen days?? Could nothing go right?!? "A century ago in Lebanon they hanged all those sentenced to life imprisonment after the first few years and then buried them in the desert. He's probably searching for you-"

"Shut up!" McKellen cut back. "Don't change the subject! You are Methos. Admit it! For I am going to take your head and use your power to kill every MacLeod that lives!!"

"Tall order for a man too incompetent to even win an argument against a weaponless opponent." Methos spat back, deliberately provoking the Scot and receiving a fist in the gut. He endured the punishment, knowing now that he had to keep McKellen off balance long enough to work out a plan of escape. Pain he could live through but letting McKellen get his perverted hands on Duncan was a different story. Jesus-fuckin'-Christ, but he was as demented at this lunatic.... It was definitely time he vanished- especially if Caspian was still alive. All he needed now was to learn that Kronos was still walking the planet and his life would be over. Gasping in agony when a new pain engulfed his body, Methos felt his world fall apart, snapping his eyes open to see McKellen plunge the sword into his chest and twist it savagely. The agony crippled him, stealing all the air from his lungs, suffocating him instantly. He sagged down heavily, the wire around his wrists cutting off the circulation and applying more pressure on his abused arms and shoulders. He gasped for breath, screaming in agony as the blade was slowly pulled free. He knew he was dying when the warm, tangy taste of blood rose in his mouth to run down his chin. Convulsing in agony, Methos wished again that he had gone with his first instincts and left London that first fateful night when he'd met Duncan MacLeod. But then what was life without love....

Stunned speechless by what he had just witnessed unfolding on the raised platform, Doyle kept his mouth firmly shut when McKellen backed away from Adam's abused, battered and bloody body. Regardless of the fact that Adam was a freak of nature, that still had to hurt and he glared at the psychopath who started to laugh insanely, seeing how McKellen threw his head back and roared his pleasure in a harsh demented laugh. This bastard was ill.... and he had to be stopped. But how? And what had that last little exchange been about? Methos? Was that Adam's real name? It sounded old - almost biblical, though Doyle couldn't recall ever hearing it mentioned in Sunday school. Brining his mind back to the present with a jolt, Doyle blinked away from Adam's limp figure to glare at McKellen when the other walked down off the raised platform and headed over to him. Bloody hell and he braced himself for the worst.

"Feeling suitably subdued, mortal?" McKellen mocked. "Life isn't as you believed. Is it? Now you know Gods really do walk the earth." With that he laughed again and walked away.

Swallowing his disgust, Doyle wished there was something he could do for his friend. For as much as Adam didn't want him involved, he just couldn't sit back and let the other get killed over and over like this. Come on Bodie.... where the fuck are you?!?

---

Glancing at his watch, MacLeod sighed seeing it was close to 10pm at night and closed his eyes to try and block out the sight of Bodie's pacing figure. The man's caged energy was not going to help any of them - let alone Adam and Doyle. Biting back on his comment, he tried not to think about what might be happening to Adam and Raymond Doyle. Only every time he closed his eyes he could picture Adam's face, could see the mischievous smile light up those changeable eyes and could hear the soft baritone tease him. What was taking so long! It was over twelve hours now.... Where the hell was Connor!?!

"What?"

Blinking up, MacLeod looked at Bodie.

"You just said, 'Where the hell was Connor?" Bodie repeated, his tone hard and flat. He was frustrated and pissed off with the way things were progressing so slowly. Ray could be dead.... Cutting that thought off he glared harder at the Scot. He could not lose Ray like this - not when they were just starting to explore what else the partnership could offer. It was all MacLeod's fault.

He had said that out loud?? Shit, but he was starting to lose it. "Connor?" MacLeod tried to look confused. "I don't know a Connor."

"Don't piss me around, MacLeod. I know what I heard." Bodie growled. "Don't you think it's past time that you started telling the whole truth before more headless bodies appear?" He asked menacingly as he came to stand over the seated Scot.

Considering that, MacLeod glanced around the hotel room, glad that no other agents were present. He knew the only reason Cowley had let him stay at the Mayfair was because CI5 were desperate for a lead and he had told them he was expecting John Nash to ring, or for McKellen to deliver blackmail demands. Otherwise he knew Cowley would have shoved him away in protective custody by now. "Connor is John Nash's middle name." He admitted begrudgingly. "I've always called him that." It was the truth after all.

"I see." Bodie said, filing that piece of information away. "How is Nash involved in all this?" He asked. "We know that he hasn't left the country, but he has checked out of his booked accommodation and for all intents and purposes has disappeared off the map. Why?"

"I don't know-"

"He's hunting McKellen. Isn't he?" Bodie stated, yanking the coffee table closer so he could sit on its edge and stare at MacLeod. "He wants to kill him. Doesn't he."

"Listen-"

"No you listen to me, MacLeod!" Bodie hissed in a deadly voice. "I want McKellen before he kills Doyle. I assume you want him before he kills Taylor, so I suggest we start working together. Otherwise we are both fucked and the bastard slips the country. So bloody well start talking to me!"

"I can't help-"

"Bullshit!" Bodie spat. "You won't help!!"

Banking down on his own anger, MacLeod looked directly into Bodie's fierce blue glare and saw the man for what he really was. At that moment Bodie was shit scared about losing his partner and it was a feeling he could utterly sympathize with. Maybe he could deal with Bodie the man, rather than Bodie the ruthless CI5 agent? "If I find McKellen - CI5 cannot interfere." He warned, watching how Bodie digested those words and seeing the man nod in acceptance.

"I can't promise that." Bodie stated. "But I can promise they may be delayed."

Letting a small smile grow on his face, MacLeod read behind the words and decided to accept the silent peace treaty Bodie offered him. "Alright." He whispered.

"So where do we go?" Bodie asked, losing most of his anger as he felt he was definitely starting to accomplish something.

"We wait for Connor." MacLeod said. "He said he'd ring, and he will."

---

Nothing seemed real anymore. If he had once possessed a reference on reality it was now gone and in this twilight world of pain, blood and torture he was losing all sense of reality. He existed in a bubble of white-hot heat, his body numb, his mind exhausted and his heart was struggling to hold onto the last cherished imprint of feelings he remembered. The touch of another's love - yet was it real, or just imagined?

Stifling a cry of despair, Methos knew he was shuddering again, could feel the bone-deep tremors as his body tried to stay alive. Why he tried.... was the confusing question. His nerve endings so over-whelmed by the continuous circuit of pain that he could no longer remember what he was so desperate to live for. Or was this just another nightmare? A self created hell....

No.... he knew that was a lie hearing his own voice cry out in agony when a sharp, burning pain lacerated the skin down his spine. Utter devastation consumed him in its hungry grasp and he desperately tried to remember where he was - when he was - and why this was happening. What was he fighting so hard to protect? But the snippets of memory faded when his control was stripped away a second time by the tearing claws of agony down his exposed spine that whispered seductively of death.

Staring wide-eyed up at the bloodied platform and its dying captive, Doyle found he was shuddering in reaction to what he had been forced to witness over the last few hours. McKellen was beyond psychotic, there were no words to describe what McKellen was - and Doyle could only shake his head in mute disbelief when the Scot had taken out a vicious looking chain whip and flayed Adam's back. And that wasn't the worst of what McKellen had done to Adam's unprotected body. Killing the Scottish bastard would be too kind, Doyle decided and he gritted his teeth defiantly, wanting a chance to get his hands on McKellen. How Adam managed to remain lucid after what McKellen did to him was also another miracle, and Doyle just prayed his friend hung on. If he had started to like Adam before this, he now had nothing but admiration and awe for the man's courage and stamina. For as McKellen attacked him, brutally assaulting him and stabbing him to lower his resistance Adam had steadfastly refused to talk about Duncan MacLeod. And the way he healed - though that phenomenon was getting slower and slower as the night progressed, Doyle guessed that even that ability would eventually fail his remarkable friend.

Seeing McKellen throw down the whip in annoyance, Doyle watched horrified when the bastard sank a small knife into Adam's back and he broke his vow of silence by shouting out to McKellen. "Don't you think that's enough!!" He bellowed, seeing how Adam arched, his mouth open a cry barely escaping his lips. Hours ago Adam had made him promise not to interfere, but he could not sit back any longer. Could not let this senseless slaughter continue and was determined to divert McKellen's attention even if only for a little while. Anything to help Adam heal....

"So it does talk." McKellen sneered, pulling his short knife free of his captive's flesh and stalking towards the handcuffed CI5 agent. "I was beginning to think you were as gutless as all other mortals infecting this planet."

"You're the fucking coward!" Doyle spat back. "To repeatedly kill a man for your own personal satisfaction without offering him the chance to fight back - shit - in my book you're worse than the filthy low-life that collects in the bottom of the sewerage system!"

Growling in anger, McKellen lashed out at the CI5 agent, back-handing him across the mouth and hearing the other grunt in pain. "I may kill your friend repeatedly, but if I kill you, you will stay dead." He hissed in warning. "Besides, he is no friend of yours!" He pointed back at the limp form, letting his senses pick out the lack of presence and knowing his opponent had died again. "He would kill you in a heart beat." He snarled, his lip curling in a wicked sneer.

"No," Doyle shot back. "He would kill you with his bare hands if he had a fighting chance. Admit it, you think you're such a big man, but you're not fit to lick his boots-" Crying out again as he was rocked backward by a solid punch, Doyle shook his head, dazed. He tried to move away from McKellen, tried to find some leverage, but his position trapped him in place. Then he saw McKellen raise a blade and Doyle desperately kicked out at the bigger man. His boot connected with McKellen's hip, rocking the other man backward and for a glorious moment he smiled in triumph. But his advantage was short lived and Doyle copped another hard blow across the head, falling over the pipe work to lie dazed as McKellen laughed humorlessly.

"Remember this, spy-boy?" McKellen sneered, taking out a gun and displaying it for the agent to see.

Spitting blood from his mouth, Doyle glared up at the Scot, feeling his eye swell and his vision blurred. But he recognized the gun. He should. It was his own.

"Want to see a dead body dance?" McKellen asked conversationally, turning and firing two shots at the hanging man's figure.

Doyle saw Adam's body jerk backwards, heard the chain rattle over Adam's head and he winced in outrage and disgust at McKellen. But the Scot ignored him, chuckling wickedly and firing two more time, dancing Adam's dead weight backward. "Poetry in motion. Don't you agree, spy- boy?"

"You're ill." Doyle cursed, struggling to lash out at McKellen, but was hampered by his trapped position.

Butt-whipping the agent with the hilt of the gun, McKellen shoved the Browning into his pocket and watched the mortal collapse to the cold concrete floor in a heap. Snarling in dislike he then started kicking the downed agent, giving the man little time to recover between each well-aimed kick. It amused him and passed the time, relieving his frustrations while he waited for his men to locate Connor MacLeod, or for Methos to revive.

Gasping in agony, Doyle lost track of all time and found he couldn't move. He didn't think anything was broken and he glanced up seeing McKellen raise his wicked looking knife a second time, only in this instant he knew the Immortal would go for the killing blow. Tensing, Doyle tried to prepare himself for pain, surprised when McKellen abruptly stopped his downward stroke to stare around in hostile anger.

"MacLeod?" McKellen stated, straightening to his full height and turning full circle to glare into the surrounding darkness of the old abattoir. "Show yourself barbarian!?" He demanded in hissed annoyance.

Stunned, Doyle battled to sit up, panting out a breath and not believing his luck. Glancing around he heard Adam draw in a hissed breath, silently pleading that the man stay dead for a while longer.... please let it be Duncan MacLeod. Please don let this bastard take out his ire on Adam....

"I knew you would come if I took the ancient." McKellen hissed into the surrounding darkness. Slowly he let his senses guide him, picking out the direction his opponent was coming from. From the rear of the abandoned abattoir.... just like he had anticipated and he gave a feral smile. "Tell me MacLeod - is it out of a sense of misguided honor that you have let the ancient live? Or where you planning on taking his head at a later date?" McKellen asked conversationally, shifting his feet and readying himself for the challenge. The buzz was stronger now and he searched for the tell-tail signs of a sword being drawn.

"I only plan on taking your head, McKellen."

Hearing the growled response, McKellen tensed, raising his sword in warning when he saw Connor MacLeod appear at the edge of his pool of light. This he had not expected. The baby barbarian yes, but not this man. Not yet anyway. "It's of no matter." He said more to himself than his opponent. "Not another step Highlander, or I'll kill this one." He started by moving towards the reviving Immortal, stepping behind Methos and daring MacLeod to follow. "And if I take his head I'll be invincible. Do you want that?"

Frowning slightly, Connor looked past Bruce McKellen's taunt figure to Adam Taylor's bloodied form. The image produced a picture in his head of the last village McKellen had massacred. Bodies tied to poles, bloodied corpses, dressed in rags, all neatly arranged in family groups.... All crucified, then left to hang, rotting in the cold wind. Snow flecked bodies swinging in the blistering winds.... Men, women, babes.... Blinking the memory away, Connor hardened his glare. "Nothing will stop me taking your head!" And he charged up onto the platform, agilely sidestepping McKellen's first predictable downward stroke.

"What if I tell you this one is the legendary Methos?" McKellen hissed, studying Connor nervously and seeing Connor's fanatical hatred in those ice blue eyes. This was not what he had planned. "To take his Quickening would give you invincible strength."

"Fairytales!" Connor snapped back, forcing the other Immortal to meet his challenge and dancing them around the cement slab. The concrete was slick with blood, making the footing treacherous and Connor slipped, just managing to hastily regain his footing only to hear McKellen laugh mockingly. He glanced down at his hand and saw it was stained with blood. Taylor's blood.

"Not fairytales, my dimwitted cousin."

"I am not your cousin!" Connor roared.

"We are all kin." McKellen taunted. Sliding up behind Methos' slowly healing form, he peered at Connor over the older Immortal's shoulder, twisting Methos around and using him like a shield. "Meet Methos." He introduced snidely, grabbing the healing Immortal's hair and forcing his head up. "Think MacLeod. A five thousand year old Quickening. Can't you taste the delicious feel of his reviving spirit?" He hissed, using the edge of his sword to cut the reviving Immortal's exposed throat. A small flicker of blue lightening teased across the cut flesh, healing the wound and McKellen pretended to breathe in the seductive quality of the power invoked by such an act. "Imagine how sweet his essence could be. How powerful."

"No!" Connor stated, watching Taylor lift his lashes and stare at him dazed and bewildered. Then he saw the slight flaring of panic color Taylor's gaze when McKellen purposely cut his skin open a second time to demonstrate his ownership and control of the situation. Was McKellen's claim true? Was this Methos? The Methos?? He didn't know, didn't want to think about the possibility, needing to concentrate on McKellen's devious manipulations and cunning ploys. He tried to step around Taylor's dead weight, hindered when McKellen moved Taylor to block his move. It was obvious McKellen wanted to use Taylor as a distraction, believing it would gain him an advantage. Not for long.... Connor decided. Muttering an old Gaelic blessing, Connor locked gazes with Taylor briefly then drove his sword through Taylor's body, impaling McKellen at the same time. He winced in apology when Adam Taylor cried out, focusing his attention on McKellen's shock and startled cry from behind the hanging man. Yanking his katana free of both bodies, Connor swiftly went around Taylor's gasping form and followed McKellen's hasty retreat as the other Immortal staggered off the slippery platform. "There is no escape from justice, McKellen!" Connor pronounced and swung his blade down on the injured Scottish murderer. He avoided the kick aimed at him, deliberately knocking McKellen's sword flying before pacing after the whimpering Scot. "How does it feel McKellen to be helpless, at the mercy of a stronger force?!" He spat, envisioning again in his mind all those that this man had killed in cold blood. In the name of hate. In the name of a senseless war that had ended centuries ago. In the name of all those who had never stood a chance against McKellen's viciousness and brutality.

"This is unfair!" McKellen cried outraged, sliding along the floor towards the CI5 agent's position. If he could not use the older Immortal as a shield then he would use an innocent mortal. Connor would not kill an innocent.

"Think again!" Connor growled, cutting off McKellen's path to the curly-headed agent and giving his opponent a twisted grin of sheer disgust. "Here you die. On your knees begging for your life!"

"So you do want power." McKellen accused, raising his head and glaring at Connor MacLeod. "I knew you were not that noble!"

"Believe what you like." Connor stated, raising his sword for the final stroke.

"Tell me, MacLeod. When you have taken my head, will you take his?" He asked, trying one last diversion, pointing up towards Methos' hanging figure.

Hesitating slightly, Connor snarled at McKellen.

"He is five thousand years old!" McKellen hissed, desperate now. "Think of it?! With his head you could be invincible!"

"I do not believe in myths!" Connor ended the discussion, swinging his blade down and silencing McKellen's annoying voice. The Scot's head tumbled from McKellen's body, rolling away to lie in a puddle of dirty water and Connor turned away from the wide staring eyes, briefly seeing the CI5 agent stare up at him in disbelief and horror. Then the Quickening storm surrounded him.

"Bloody hell-" Doyle gasped out, trying to protect himself when a ferocious wind and electrical storm broke out in the old abattoir. Anything that was not tied down was uplifted and thrown across the open space. The louver's shattered under the force of the miniature cyclone and sparks exploded in every direction. Awestruck, Doyle glanced around wildly at the total havoc surrounding him, not believing how all the charged energy in the room seemed to target John Nash. A man that McKellen had addressed as Connor MacLeod. MacLeod?? Did all Immortals have duel identities? It was all too confusing and he let his eyes train on Connor MacLeod, intrigued despite the danger he was in. Nothing in his training, in his reading or in his life had ever prepared him for this type of unstoppable power and he blinked up in awe when the storm ended and Connor MacLeod stood up and cried his fury to the ceiling above. In that instant he looked magnificent and powerful.

Releasing a shocked breath, Doyle knew what he had just witnessed was impossible - yet he had seen it. Lived it and it was no drug-induced nightmare. This was utterly real. Re-gathering his composure, he saw Connor MacLeod roll his shoulder back before bending to pick up his curved sword. Then the blonde Scot casually walked over to McKellen's decapitated body and wiped the sword on McKellen's trousers. It was so normal an act, but also so staggering. This was accepted as normal in the Immortal world? And what in God's name was that electrical display all about?!? Forcing himself to breathe out calmly, Doyle then watched how Connor MacLeod glanced up at Taylor's body hanging so lifelessly from the large meat hook. What would Connor MacLeod do? Would he now kill Taylor as he had killed McKellen? Worried suddenly, Doyle pondered what he could do. Tensing, he saw Connor MacLeod step up onto the platform and approach Taylor. Christ, he still had his sword out.... Doyle noted nervously. But what could he say or do to stop so powerful a creature as Connor MacLeod?

Eyeing Taylor, Connor frowned. He walked around the man to stand in front of him and found baleful green eyes watching him in deadly apprehension. "I am not interested in your head." He stated, feeling McKellen's Quickening swirl around inside his own mind while he slowly pushed the man's insane desires away.

"I didn't think you would be." Methos muttered, his voice coming out in barely a whisper.

Sliding his sword away inside his coat, Connor reached up and gently unwound the wire holding the injured man captive and then caught Taylor's body when the other collapsed. He slowly lowered him to the ground, clinically assessing the Immortal's injuries. He ignored the sharply in-drawn breath of pain and the trembling muscles, finding that he was cradling the man without thought. Looking at Taylor he wondered if what McKellen had claimed was true or just a ruse to throw him off balance. "Was he right?"

Debating whether he should pretend to misunderstand or not, Methos pulled away from Connor's supportive embrace and forced himself to sit alone. It hurt, but the pain of renewed circulation and healing would soon ease and he could then think straight. But at present he felt he owed this man at least some explanation - even though Connor had impaled him along with McKellen. It was a novel approach.... "Does it matter?"

Connor nodded to himself, acknowledging the soft words reading behind Taylor's irritated tone. Moving back he crouched in front of the healing Immortal, noting how stubborn and peeved Taylor now looked. Then he remembered back to when he had been a young and immature Immortal in 1588 and he recalled how this man had not only saved his life, but had also forced him to remember what he was. "Then it is true." Connor stated, finding that looking at Taylor he could imagine what McKellen had suggested. The mannerisms, the masks, sarcastic comments and obnoxious nature, and he found the idea no longer seemed so far fetched. Methos. Five thousand years of history. Of knowledge? What he must know.... remember. What a teacher he would make. "Does Duncan know?"

"No." Methos lifted his head and let his eyes speak for him, warning Connor way from that subject. "He must never- "

"I understand." Connor assured him, reaching out to lay a hand on the man's shoulder. Under his fingers he could feel the healing energy of Methos' own strong Quickening and he gave the other man a small, rueful smile. "Knowing a secret like that could get a man killed."

"It could." Methos said through gritted teeth. He really didn't feel up to sparing words with Connor. "If the one knowing the secret lacked honor."

Giving a gruff laugh, Connor nodded in perfect understanding. "You have my word and honor."

"Thank you." Methos mumbled with poor grace. In another time, another place such a secret would force him to silence a warrior like Connor MacLeod, regardless of his promise. But at that moment he found himself strangely trusting the honest Scot. What was it with him and Highland brats' at present? Maybe he was learning, or maybe he was simply allowing Fate to guide him rather than fighting against the inevitable so insistently. He smiled warily at his own ideas.

"What about him?" Connor asked indicating the battered looking CI5 agent.

"Let me deal with him." Methos stated, glad when Connor silently deferred to his wishes. He really didn't want to argue - or fight.... "Trust me. I have a solution." He murmured, finding that his own mouth curved up deviously.

Laughing out loud, Connor stood up and went over to the CI5 man. He studied his dishevelled state before picking up McKellen's discarded blade and testing its weight in his hand. "Hold still." Connor directed the agent then lifted the blade.

"Shit!" Doyle muttered, holding his wrists wide apart, realizing what Connor MacLeod was on about at the last instant. What a way to ruin a fine edge and Doyle winced when the sharp blade came down hard on his cuffs, severing the chain. Strewth - he never wanted to get on Connor MacLeod's bad side. Or whatever the man's true name was. Rubbing his sore wrists to help his circulation, Doyle saw Connor MacLeod study the edge of McKellen's sword, before dropping the ruined weapon heedlessly on the floor. Glancing at the headless body, Doyle determinedly made his way over to Adam. Get a grip old son, he told himself wordlessly. Check the hostages then call backup.... he repeated, almost hearing Cowley's commanding tones in his head. But how the hell was he supposed to write this up?

"Do you want me to get rid of this?" Connor asked pointing to McKellen's body.

"Umm, no." Doyle decided. He winced, thinking of the different ways he could explain this to Cowley. Oh Christ.... Bodie! His partner would never believe any of this. "CI5 will clean up."

"Good." Connor muttered. Looking at Methos he nodded slightly. "Give my regards to Duncan." He said in Gaelic, then turned and walked away into the enveloping darkness.

"Hey!" Doyle called after the Scot. "Just wait a bloody minute.... Shit!" He turned to Taylor and saw the other man smile. It still blew him away to think that half an hour ago there had been a sword in this man's gut and now he was sitting up looking smug if not exhausted. "Okay!" Doyle exclaimed to the disused abattoir in general. "I have no idea how to call this one. Or even if I should report it!"

"Relax." Methos said, slowly getting up and testing his balance. He ached from head to foot, but knew after a wash, something to eat - beer - and a good night's sleep he would be fine. "You don't have to explain anything." He went on persuasively. "We were drugged. Chained off to one side when McKellen had a disagreement with one of his associates. They fought, McKellen lost and the other man - whom we did not see so cannot describe," Methos added pointedly. "..fled. On foot. End of story."

"But-"

"Tell me agent Doyle, do you really want to try and explain what you saw to Cowley?" Methos asked in a reasonable tone. "Or to your cantankerous partner?"

"Oh Christ," Doyle muttered dropping to sit on the side of the concrete slab and look at Taylor's innocent expression. "I wouldn't know where to start, and will you stop laughing!" He ended in annoyance.

"Relax. In time Ray," Methos said soothingly. "When you've had enough of CI5, I know just the job for you."

"What?" Doyle asked suspiciously. "As an inmate at the funny farm?"

Laughing even more, Methos shook his head. "You like study - right?"

"Yeah-"

"And history?"

"You know I do." Doyle stated, not sure he wanted to trust that look on Taylor's face. Taylor looked perfectly healthy except for all the blood that stained his skin. It was disturbingly weird.

"Then you'd make an excellent Watcher."

"A what?" Doyle asked confused.

"Ask me when you're no longer a CI5 agent." Nodding to himself, Methos studied his bloodied form and pulled a disgusted face. "We'd better wash up a bit before you call the boys in blue."

"Taylor!?" Doyle demanded exasperated, then remembered both McKellen and Connor MacLeod had called this man by a different name. By a name that was five thousand years old. "Methos-"

Turning abruptly at that, Methos stalked towards Doyle, letting his manner change to intimidate the other man. He watched how Doyle hastily climbed to his feet and scowled at him in confusion. "Never repeat that name." Methos whispered in a dangerous tone.

"But that is your name." Doyle persisted, refusing to back down. "Your true name. Isn't it?"

"It is a dangerous name. Something I left behind a very long time ago."

"Something that could get you killed if others of your kind learned of it." Doyle finished seeing Adam/Methos nod minutely. "I deal in secrets. No one will learn this from me. Hell - who would believe me?" Doyle asked softly, wanting to lighten the mood between them. "But, listen," he called reaching out to touch this intriguing man before him. "It is nice to finally know who you are. Now I can trust you."

Accepting that, Methos covered the hand holding his arm and squeezed Doyle's cold fingers. Surprisingly he found that he didn't mind Raymond Doyle knowing either, instinctively sensing that he could trust this sincere man. "You're too good for Bodie." Methos announced out loud, pleased when he saw Doyle splutter in stunned outrage. "Now let's see if we can find a phone so we can get back to civilization. I could really use a beer."


...Continued in Part 4...

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