This tale was written in the winter of 1999 for the zine, Wounded Heroes, published in Spring 2000.  I would like to thank rac and Killa for editorial assistance and a lot of moral support, and Killa for the incredible illustration. I am pleased to note that this story won the 1999 'STIFfie' award for Best Novella in its category.

   The air was crisp and invigorating. The leaves, just turning yellow-gold and fluttering in the afternoon sun, decorated the city like gaudy jewelry. It was still warm enough in the afternoon for the outdoor cafés to harbor patrons sipping wine and steaming cups of cinnamon-scented coffee. It was a lovely day, and MacLeod took in a deep breath to shake off his uneasy mood as he slid in and out of the tourists and shoppers filling Paris' perpetually crowded streets. It was only a couple of miles to Joe's, and walking not only provided exercise, it saved trying to fight traffic and finding that ever-elusive parking space.

     It also gave him thinking time. Although, perhaps he had been doing a little too much of that lately. Lately, he chided himself. Try always. But his mind stubbornly continued on its chosen path, the path that it had faithfully trod for centuries: Brooding. Lord knew he had ample fodder for dark ruminations. But these days he really didn't need his own over-wrought conscience to trouble his days and torment his nights. It seemed his friends were taking care of it for him. Well, a friend.

     Or was he? Why did he continue to subject himself to this, MacLeod wondered. His relationship with the oldest Immortal had started out with a certain mystery and awe, but quickly progressed to a sense of kinship found only with someone else who had come face-to-face with all the grotesque evil of which he was capable, and yet managed to find a reason to go on. A marvelous, quick-witted, sharp-tongued annoyance of a man who always made him think twice, and then a third time, about the reasons behind his actions, beliefs, and their possible consequences.

     By the time MacLeod had finished listing all the things Methos meant to him, the reasons why he kept pursuing their so-called friendship were obvious, even in the face of the man's unremitting taunts and barbs of the past months. But they had never recovered from that horrible business with the Horsemen. They had tried. Each wanted it, maybe even needed it.

     But Christ, the man made it difficult! All he had wanted to do was thank him for stepping in when O'Rouke was about to take his head, but Methos refused to look at him, deliberately occupying his hands with opening the wine, face closed and distant. Mac only remembered feeling awkward and cut off, and knowing with sickening certainty that he did not know the man at all. How could anyone know or understand someone who had walked the earth for five thousand years?

     Mac smiled sadly to himself. Despite Methos' declarations that he was the ultimate pragmatist, the man had put himself at risk again and again. Behind the old man's self-serving rhetoric was a moral code that, while perhaps not the same as Mac's own, served as a foundation for the ancient man's beliefs and actions.

     Even so, knowing that Methos had once been more ruthless and evil and without conscience than any Hitler or Gengis Khan, and for a lot longer, still gnawed at the Highlander's soul. He was willing to accept that Methos was not that man anymore, but the old Immortal's regrets, as heartfelt as they may be, hardly constituted retribution for thousands of years of mass murder, torture, rape and pillage.

     And Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, in his deepest soul, believed in retribution. That a sinner must pay as he, himself, had paid-in blood and tears and regret. As he continued to pay every day of his long life, for every failure, every dark deed, intended or otherwise. He tried to make amends by protecting those he loved, by not standing idly by when he saw wrongdoing, especially by his own kind. That was the gift he could give-to survive where others would not, to take risks his more fragile mortal brethren could not.

     Therefore, it galled him that Methos, of all people, was such a staunch proponent of ennui as a lifestyle. Of course, Methos was often correct. Inaction in the face of a wrong was frequently more appropriate than an action which might make things worse, and that painful reality grated like chalk on a blackboard. But it was...stimulating, nonetheless. And necessary. And oddly refreshing.

     They had so many issues and obstacles to overcome. Methos' unmet expectations of Mac. Mac's disappointments in his ancient friend, grounded, he knew, in his own unrealistic expectations

     He turned the corner, and the garish blue neon sign of Le Blues Bar came into view, along with the shoulder-twitching, hair-raising sensation that was the universal warning signal of the proximity of another Immortal. MacLeod sighed. He didn't hold out much hope that Methos would be anything other than caustic and critical. He counseled himself to patience. Someday, the old man would forgive him, give him an opening to reestablish their friendship, their trust.

     Maybe today.

     Joe was barely paying attention to the moderately inebriated, overly talkative customer draped on one of his barstools. He kept himself busy polishing glasses, counting the cash in the cash register, making certain there was enough ice, and other mundane chores. He had heard this particular customer's rant many times before, and he had developed standard responses, nods and grunts and a word here and there to ensure the man felt that he was not being ignored.

     This particular customer had a habit of going on and on and on, obviously enjoying the sound of his own voice. You never knew whether he was telling the truth or spinning some outrageous story just for his own amusement. Much to Joe's consistent irritation, when he really wanted the oldest Immortal to talk, to open up about his life and his rich past, Methos would clam up tighter than a tick, and gaze at Joe with an annoyingly surprised, innocent look.

     But Joe noted that Methos, a/k/a Dr. Adam Pierson, purported expert in ancient languages and cultures, had discarded his shy-graduate-student guise like an old suit. The ancient man had parked his angular form on the barstool at lunch and spent the afternoon working his way through a rather astonishing volume of the exotic imported brew Joe stocked just for him. Gradually, Methos' tone had gotten angrier, expounding on the stupidity of many of the so-called experts in his current chosen profession.

     "Well, I sure as hell don't know much about the copper smelting capacities of early mid-Eastern cultures," Joe offered, trying to sooth the old man's ruffled feathers, "but I do know that if you challenge these so-called experts' entrenched notions head on, they'll slap you down, and hard. I've seen it happen over and over again."

     "Right. With your favorite Scot, no doubt. Mr. Righteous Indignation." Methos' lips twitched into an unhappy moue.

     Joe watched the other man's mobile face carefully, suddenly recognizing in the change of topic that MacLeod had been on Methos' mind all along, and was the real source of the man's bad humor. "Oh, come on. He's not that bad." Joe felt the need to defend his friend, given the nasty tone Methos was using.

     "Well, Joe, even you have to admit he can be a real pain in the arse, sometimes." Methos tried for another swig of his beer and looked mildly offended when it came up empty. He waggled the bottle at Joe, who reached underneath the bar for another Umbel Magna. Joe made a mental note to order more. At the rate it was being consumed, his current stock was going to be gone within the week.

     "Well, buddy, sometimes you're no picnic in the park either," Joe's response was amused. "Especially when you've had more than enough to drink," he added. Eventually, even Methos could feel the effects of alcohol, and lately, it inevitably seemed to make the prickly man downright morose.

     "I was drinking alcohol before your ancestral protozoa crawled out of the primordial ooze," Methos snarled in only a slight exaggeration. He had been in an increasingly foul humor all afternoon. "And you'll have to excuse me if dealing with arrogant anthropologists who don't know petrified human shit from shinola makes me a little testy."

     "If it's that bad, then why don't you tell them to go to hell?" Joe asked. "It's not like you need the job."

     "Because, Joseph, if I'm going to keep Adam Pierson around, he needs to maintain their respect, if not their good will. And creating new identities using a completely different occupation and a credible set of decent work credentials when you only look thirty years old is a fucking nuisance," he groused. "I'm not quite ready to give up on this one yet."

     Joe smiled. "Well, MacLeod's managed to keep his identity intact for 400 years. Got kind of a streak going. As far as I know, he has kept a single identity longer than anyone in the Chronicles, except maybe Darius. But I think the church must've helped him on that one."

     "Yeah, well, the great Duncan MacLeod is certainly the standard against which all the rest of us are measured, isn't he?" Methos drawled.

     "I didn't mean..."

     "Don't you get tired of watching an icon, Joe? Doesn't the 'hero to the rescue' routine get just a little tiresome after awhile?" Methos interrupted petulantly, once again scratching at the real source of his ire. "Wouldn't it be interesting to see if the world could survive without Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod always sticking his nose in every time he sees anyone in a fifty mile radius stub a toe?" He tipped the fresh bottle towards his mouth and swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down as the liquid slid down his throat.

     Joe was beginning to lose patience with Methos' inability to let the topic go. He leaned on the bar, putting his face close to the other man's. "Adam, let it go!" he whispered. "I know he scared the shit out of you. Hell, he scared the shit out of me, but I guess I'm used to it after all these years. He will always walk close to the edge. That's a large part of what makes him so compelling. If you can't deal with it, you shouldn't be sticking around."

     With a small frown, Methos set the brew down. After half a case of beer, even an Immortal was subject to nature's call. "Gotta take a leak," he groused in annoyance at the interruption before rising and carefully making his way to the men's room in the back.

     A refreshing surge of crisp, autumn air pierced the bar's stuffy interior as the entrance opened, then closed. "Well, well, speak of the devil," Joe smiled, then mentally kicked himself, or would have if he still had the appendages to accomplish the trick. Mac had been fighting internal and external demons too much in the past few years not to make the phrase a little too meaningful for comfort.

     The Scot's dark, intense eyes scanned the room. "Where's Adam?"

     Joe tilted his head towards the back. "The man has the capacity of a camel, but every once in a while even he has to go."

     "Was he speaking of me in reference to bathroom functions, or was the mention of my name mere coincidence?" Mac asked as he reached a long arm over the bar to grab a glass and a bottle of Glenmorangie.

     Joe chuckled and shook his head. "You two are somethin' else. But you better be careful, he's being a real pissant today."

     "And this is a change?" Mac smiled questioningly.

     Methos peered suspiciously out of the men's room door to confirm that the Immortal presence he had felt was, indeed, that of the notorious and irritating Highlander. Despite his almost intimate familiarity with the man's Immortal aura, thousands of years of caution would never allow him to presume anything.

     "MacLeod," Methos greeted with a nod, honing in on his fresh beer like a heat-seeking missile. "What're you up to these days?"

     Mac shrugged, searching for a neutral, acceptable topic. "This and that. I seem to be getting dragged back into the world of antique acquisition and valuation again. Sotheby's wants me to scope out some American's collection of Revolutionary and Civil War weapons."

     "So, you'll be headed to the States, then?" Methos' voice was casual, bored.

     "Perhaps. I might stop over in Toronto. Amanda keeps sending me cryptic e-mails about a new friend she has. An ex-cop that she seems to care about a lot. But something about him is bothering her." Mac's smile was distant and thoughtful. "She's changed in the past few years. Gotten more serious. Maybe she's finally found someone to settle down with."

     "Great timing," Methos commented. "Just when the Gathering is getting all revved up, Amanda finds true love." He turned to the Scot with an amused, raised eyebrow. "And you're going to visit? What's the matter, this ex-cop horning in on your territory?"

     Mac gave his friend a hard look. "I'd be delighted if Amanda found someone she loved."

     Methos looked at Joe as though they shared an amusing secret. "Yeah, right."

     "Adam," Joe murmured, recognizing the oozing malevolence in the old Immortal's tone that had been building all afternoon.

     Duncan held his breath for a moment to control the flash of defensive anger Methos' acid tone evoked. "Methos," he whispered, "she's my friend."

     "Ah," Methos sighed, raising his hands as though enlightenment had just dawned. "Of course. Your friends, your lovers. The fortunate recipients of your great strength and wisdom, your protection from all those big, bad monsters that populate the world."

     "I do believe you're drunk, Adam Pierson," Joe stated firmly. "So it might be a good idea to shut up."

     Methos blew out a small, wet raspberry at the bartender. "Why? Just because I'm one of those bad guys? I can take care of myself. Been doing it for a very long time."

     "Methos," the Scot said gently, gripping the other man's shoulder a little more tightly than necessary, "I think we need to talk"

     "The child wants to talk!" Methos announced to the nearly empty bar, saluting the room with his beer. "And what do you want to talk about, young man?"

     "Come on, Methos, let's sit down." Mac guided them both to a table towards the back.

     Joe watched with ill-concealed concern. The tension between the two had been building for months, and with Immortals, the potential for fatal violence was always close to the surface.

     Mac waited until Methos found a way to mold himself to the chair. "Okay, Methos," Mac said quietly, "You've been sniping at me for weeks now and even Joe's getting sick of it. I'd really like to move past this, so let's discuss it, get it out in the open once and for all."

     "What are you talking about, MacLeod?"

     Mac closed his eyes and counseled himself to patience...again. "I have done something to piss you off and you've been ragging my ass ever since. Is it the business with O'Rourke?"

     "Awww. Has little Dunky gotten his feelings hurt?" Methos drawled in a nasty tone.

     "No!" Mac growled, his patience fraying, although his denial did not ring true, even to his own ears. His feelings had been hurt, but he had told himself he deserved the abuse since Methos had been required to intervene to save his mangy hide once more. "I just..." he made himself take a deep breath and forced calm into his voice and brain, "I'd like to think we're still friends, but somehow..." the big shoulders shrugged.

     The oldest Immortal turned sideways in his chair, draping his arm over the back and eyeing the Scot with a speculative smile. "You know, MacLeod, being your friend has been an interesting experience. A person gets to see the entire panoply of possibilities." The long-fingered hands spread and waved descriptively. "Brother, confidante...oh, but then you wanted to tell half the known universe who I am, but who am I to complain? And then of course, you are judge and jury as faults and shortcomings are evaluated and examined in detail. Since the rest of humanity is not as perfect as you are, of course, your friends are found wanting and subject to possible rejection depending on how charitable you are feeling at the moment. But then, being the hero that you are, you magnanimously intervene whenever your friends show the slightest sign of difficulty. After all, in comparison to the great Highlander, they are weak and helpless and dependent upon your strength, wisdom and prowess." The thin man leaned forward at last, resting both elbows on the table, his face hard with malice. "And you wonder why you seem to have a dearth of friends lately?"

     Mac had paled as he listened to Methos nasty recitation. He stood slowly, his chair scraping harshly on the floor. His focus shifted to Joe, who had heard every ugly word and was shocked into silence. Joe's gray eyes momentarily locked with Mac's before his discomfort made him look away.

     When Joe refused to say anything and couldn't hold his gaze, Mac's breath caught in his throat. Even Joe, he thought. He looked first at the floor, then around the room, searching for something to say, something equally cutting, equally hurtful. But he knew when it came to a battle of sarcasm and hurtful comebacks, the oldest Immortal's weapons were vastly superior to his own. Even so, every warrior's instinct told him to strike back, hard and fast.

     "I see," MacLeod said at last. His lips were drawn up against his teeth into a thin, hard line. "I'm sorry knowing me has been such a terrible burden, Methos. But at least I place some value on friendship," he said softly. "You may think me misguided, but at least I still care, still have some small vestige of human feeling. Maybe after five thousand years, you've forgotten what that's like."

     Methos watched as Mac turned on his heel and slammed out of the bar. Serves the bastard right, he decided. Too long in coming, that. Should have said something a long time ago and maybe that whole business with O'Rourke would never have happened. He started to take another long swallow from his beer, but after one sip, put it back down. It tasted flat.

     The ominously heavy tread of two steps and a thud, two steps and a thud, signaled Dawson's approach, but Methos concentrated on memorizing the label on his beer. Joe levered himself into a chair, set down his cane and rested his weight on his big forearms.

     "Adam Pierson," Joe pronounced the name like the voice of doom. "That was uncalled for, unnecessary, unkind and untrue. If you're afraid that Mac is gonna die on you, there are better ways of dealing with it than destroying your friendship."

     "Oh, thank you, Dr. Ruth," Methos said, his lips curling in contempt. "I guess bartending automatically qualifies you as a relationship counselor. Next, I suppose you're going to start an advice to the lovelorn column."

     "You better go after him before he decides to banish himself from Paris, since, for some currently unfathomable reason, he cares deeply about what you think of him," Joe urged, waiting for those long limbs to be put in motion. When the other man remained relentlessly still and silent, Joe pushed himself to his feet. "I don't get off until after midnight. If you want to come with me when I try to talk to him, meet me here."

     But the oldest Immortal only seemed deeply interested in the condensation rings on the table, and by the time Joe was ready to call it a night, he had disappeared.

     Joe hesitated at the gangplank leading to the barge, not surprised to see the light on inside, but he probably should have called before dropping by this late. Mac let him in without a greeting. Joe had been right. What few possessions Mac had kept in the barge were now out of sight, and a lone duffel bag sat beside the bed.

     "Going somewhere?"

     "What did you want, Joe?"

     There was no furniture for Joe to sit on, so he braced his legs apart and took the extra weight on his cane for balance. "Methos didn't mean what he said, you know that."

     "Did he tell you that?"

     "Not exactly, but..."

     "Did he send you?"

     "Well, not really, but he would know..."

     "Stop it, Joe!" Mac was stuffing clothes into the duffel with a little more force than necessary. "Don't do this to yourself or to him." Mac sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his blunt, warrior's hands. "Whatever reason he said it, he believed it. And I suppose it's true, when you look at it from his perspective. Being my friend has been hard on him. It's been hard on you."

     "Mac, I'm still your friend. That hasn't changed. That will never change," Joe said softly.

     MacLeod zipped up the duffel and carried it with him down the steps, stopping in front of his Watcher. "I know that, Joe. But you can't tell me that I haven't abused that privilege, many times. I could see it in your eyes this afternoon. In your heart, you believe what Methos said, as well."

     "No, Mac! I..."

     "It's okay! Really," Mac roughly overrode Joe's objections. "I just need to get away. To think. I've been doing something wrong and I've got to figure out what it is. Maybe I don't let others solve their own problems out of pure ego. Amanda doesn't really want or need my help. And Methos is right. I judge everyone too harshly. I thought...well, it doesn't matter now."

     "It does matter, Mac! Come on. I'm getting kinda old to traipse around all over the world after you any more, buddy," Joe put in a smile in his voice, but he knew it still sounded desperate. "And you don't judge anyone more harshly than you judge yourself," he added.

     "I'm just headed to the island, Joe. It's holy ground. Nothing is going to happen to me there, so there'll be nothing to Watch." Mac put a reassuring hand on the Watcher's shoulder. "Tell you what, I'll keep in touch by e-mail so that you won't need to travel at all. Stay in Paris if you like, or in Seacouver. Give yourself a break. You might find it to be far more peaceful without me haunting your doorstep, and certainly better for your health," Mac smiled.

     "You let me worry about my own damn health, MacLeod," Joe growled.

     "Ah, that sounds just like what your friend Dr. Pierson would advise, that I let you worry about your health and stop interfering." Mac picked up the duffel and headed towards the door. "Take care, Joe. Be well."

     Joe Dawson was left standing alone in the deserted space.

     The clean mountain air filled Mac's lungs with the sweetness of pine and grass. Once away from the city, away from the influences of the twentieth century, his senses automatically shifted and reverted to old habits. He fell back on skills learned hundreds of years before when he had read the sky and the land like a rich storybook, full of life and adventure.

     Mac's paddle silently cut through the water, the canoe gliding smoothly toward the bank below his cabin. He hadn't been here since Mai Ling died almost four years ago, and then, he had only spent one day and night. The place had been built with the expectation of long periods without occupancy, but he knew he had weeks of hard work ahead to get ready for winter. There would be rotted wood to be repaired, leakage between the huge logs of the cabin to be patched, bird nests in the chimney, and rodents inhabiting every corner. But it was home in a way few places were, built with his own hands over a century before as both a meditation and a release of grief and anger. A sanctuary on holy ground far from the killing field his life had become over the past decade. He had no idea how long he would spend here, but somehow, something fundamental had changed. Some aspect of who and what he was needed reexamination and maybe here he would have the time and peace and patience to sort it out.

     The canoe gently scraped up against the mud and rocks of the lakeshore and he started unloading his supplies, moving them to dry ground before dragging the canoe past the waterline and turning it over. It was a steep trek up the rocky slope to the cabin, but halfway up he had carved stairs into the earth, lining them with rocks to prevent erosion. He deposited the box he had brought on the porch and opened the door, taking a quick look inside. Dust was everywhere and there were rodent tracks all over the floor, but otherwise things looked as he had left them. The handcrafted furniture was covered with muslin, the other linens stored away in airtight cedar boxes. He tried the handle at the kitchen sink and was gratified when, after several minutes, the pipes coughed and gurgled, finally spurting out brown water that eventually ran clear after several minutes of hard pumping.

     With a sigh of relief at the absence of major disasters, he returned to hauling his supplies up the hill. It would take several more canoe trips over the next few days, but eventually he would be 'snug as a bug in a rug,' as Joe would have said.

     "Aw, come on, Joe!" Methos protested. "Why are you going back to Seacouver now? It's nice enough in the summer, but -- this may come as a shock -- it gets damn cold up there in the wintertime!"

     Joe grimly continued his packing. "This may come as a shock to you, but I have a job! My job is to be Duncan MacLeod's Watcher. It's rather difficult to watch the man if I'm half a world away, now isn't it?"

     "What's to watch when he's determined to hide himself away? And what about the bar? If you go, you know the music will go to hell. First they'll cancel the live concerts, and the next thing you know they'll start playing Barry Manilow CDs!" Methos let an exaggerated shudder wash over him as he slouched on the battered old couch in the rather seedy, furnished apartment Joe had lived in while in Paris.

     "You're just afraid you won't be able to mooch as many beers. Lord knows, nobody else would go to all the trouble I do to find you the latest, most esoteric brew in creation!" Joe growled. He slammed his battered old suitcase shut and tried to press the latch closed, but the thing was too full. "Damn it!" he snapped, suddenly unreasonably angry at the inconvenience. "I've collected too much crap!" he pronounced. He threw open the bag and started yanking things out, tossing them violently onto the bed like so much trash. His mouth was set in a hard line and his throat closed. He knew he was being irrational, but somehow...then long arms folded around him, stopping his movements, gently taking the clothing out of his hands and laying it on the bed.

     "Stop it, Joe," Methos whispered. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" He circled around and sat on the bed, keeping one hand on Joe's forearm. "You aren't going to accomplish anything by going to Seacouver, you know. He's gone to the island, and unless you are prepared to camp out in a boat on the lake with a pair of binoculars, you're just going to have to wait until he decides to come out of hibernation."

     "And what if that isn't in what's left of my lifetime, Oh Wise One?" Joe rasped. "What then? You think 'sorry' is going to make me feel better?" He snatched the clothes back and started re-packing, shoving things back into the suitcase and mashing them down. He slammed the lid down and pressed hard, finally getting the latches to close.

     At last he sighed, leaning against the offending luggage and shaking his head at his own inner turmoil. "He's my best friend," Joe said softly. "The best man I know. He's been my life for almost twenty years. I've watched him grow and change and suffer and die and live again, hoping that if there had to be a last Immortal, it would be someone like him. Someone who cares, who is kind and unselfish, who hates the killing, who judges himself more harshly than he ever judges anyone else. And just because it makes you feel better, just because you know he respects you more than any being living on this earth, you rip his heart out and stomp on it. Congratulations, old man. How does it feel to be alone again?"

     For once, the oldest Immortal was without words. His mouth opened and closed again, but nothing came out. Joe Dawson struggled into his jacket and picked up the heavy suitcase, carefully balancing the weight so he could maneuver it with his cane. But it was snatched out of his hand, almost toppling him over until the Immortal's steel grip somehow managed to hang onto the heavier man's weight and keep him on his feet.

     "I'll take this," Methos mumbled. Joe stole a quick look, and the man had a grim, angry set to his features.

     Well, Joe congratulated himself sourly, I guess I finally said something that got under that thick hide. Methos escorted him down to the curb, but didn't offer to take him to the airport. The last sight Joe had of him was standing on the street watching the taxi pull away, hands stuck deep in the pockets of that voluminous dark coat he always wore, shoulders hunched, chin tucked down, deep in thought. Joe wondered sadly if that would be the last he would ever see of the oldest Immortal. He sat back in the seat, silently cursing the Gathering, the Millenium, the Hunters, all the ugly influences of the past decade that had torn away everything dear to his heart. MacLeod hadn't been the only one left damaged and battered on this wretched battleground. They were all nursing deep wounds whose scars would endure a lifetime, however long that life might be.

     The work felt good. Setting things to rights, cleaning, repairing the roof, sending the birds and mice and a raccoon family on their way to find new quarters, spending at least an hour every day chopping wood for a long winter, building up a healthy sweat in the crisp autumn air. The effort felt like re-tuning a long-unused instrument and he stretched the workday from before dawn until the light had fled, usually finishing with a long kata at the top of the hill behind the cabin. He would meditate as the sun set in a dramatic display of magnificent gold and peach and pink, fading into azure and purple and midnight blue. He knew the isolation would eventually pall. But after over 400 years, he had learned to live with solitude. It wasn't what he preferred, and he could never be truly happy without someone to share his life with, someone he loved, but these days life wasn't about happiness. It was about endurance. About survival.

     That thought led him to Methos. He found himself frequently thinking of the old man. About how much he would dislike the primitive conditions. No beer. No luxuries. Even a hot bath took considerable advance preparation and effort. But sitting before the crackling fire built in a big fireplace whose stones he had laid with his own hands over a century before was, well, 'cozy' was the only word that came to mind. And the sanctuary represented by holy ground enabled him to totally relax as he could nowhere else, reading classic literature by lantern light until his tired body simply shut down his brain, and he fell deeply asleep. As much as he was sure the oldest Immortal would complain about the absence of modern amenities, Mac wished he could share this sense of peace with the man.

     Joe had been gone for almost three weeks, and Methos was already getting pretty ticked off at the new bartender at Le Blues Bar. The man insisted he always pay his tab immediately, as if he wasn't one of their best, or at least most regular, customers. They didn't even bother to stock his favorite beer anymore. And the quality of the music was quickly degenerating to honky-tonk, of all things.

     And while autumn in Paris was usually lovely, for some reason this time it seemed cold and blustery, the blowing leaves an annoyance, the traffic a pain. All those pesky students were back at University, taking up seats in the library, whispering in the corners, their hormones filling the air. It was enough to make a man want to get out of town.

     Seacouver U. had asked him back to teach an ancient languages seminar for graduate students. And if you had to be cold, it might as well be someplace where you could see rivers and mountains and such, and be among friends. He had found friends, real friends, had become a dangerous addiction these past few years. It was a rare and wonderful feeling; he had not realized how much he would miss until it was gone, the comfort of being with people he trusted, people who knew who he really was, where he didn't have to maintain his mortal façade.

     And he needed to do something about MacLeod. He wasn't sure what, exactly. He certainly wasn't going to apologize. Everything he'd said was absolutely true. Why should he apologize? Besides, the man would be holed away in his wilderness sanctuary, communing with the bears or something.

     He'd think of something, he decided. Maybe he'd just hang around until Mac came back and pick up as though nothing had happened. Mac might have given it some thought, might have learned something in the interim, after all. He was an intelligent man, for all his stubbornness and outmoded ideals.

     All these thoughts rolled around in no particular order over the three days it took Adam Pierson to extricate himself from his local obligations, pack his relatively few belongings and obtain tickets from Paris, France to Seacouver, USA.

     "Well, this was one of your more brilliant ideas, you stupid, old fart," the oldest Immortal chastised himself as he slogged through the university's quad, now more of a quagmire. He seemed to have blissfully forgotten during his rationalization of why he ought to leave the beautiful city of Paris, France during one of her most charming seasons, that Seacouver was renowned for rain, rain and more rain. He was sure he could feel the mildew growing in the crevices of every fold of skin.

     And it was cold, as well. Breath fogging, chilblain-inducing, shoulder-hunching cold. Great for some big lummox like MacLeod who had all that muscle mass to keep him warm and just loved all that outdoorsy, woodsman crap. He should have known better. Classes were over for the day and he needed a drink. A hot toddy. Or a beer. Or anything alcoholic. He'd been here for over a month and had managed to immerse himself in finding a place, settling in, and starting his classes. He realized he really wanted to see Joe, but knew there would be a price to pay. What the hell. Might as well get it over with.

     The ambiance of Joe's Bar was delightfully stuffy and close. Methos breathed deeply, smiling as he inhaled the intoxicating, comforting smell of damp wool, sweat, cigarette smoke and booze. His kind of place.

     Joe didn't appear to be in residence, although Lou, retired Watcher and part-time barkeep, was on duty. He uncapped a long neck and plopped it down in front of the pale, lean man without a word, just a welcoming smile. That was one of Lou's best qualities. Knowing when no words were necessary.

     Equally non-committal, Methos picked up the bottle, tipped it in a grateful salute to the thoughtful barkeep and took one, two, three, four, five deep swallows. Oh my, yes. That was better. He nodded at the ex-Watcher and found a seat against the wall. He liked the padded bench, especially where the wall curved slightly so he could lean up against it. And if he did it just right, he could prop his legs up on the seat and the curve just fit his back. It was almost as comfortable as MacLeod's couch, which seemed to mold to his frame as well as any piece of furniture he had tried.

     Four beers and one bowl of chili later, Dr. Adam Pierson spotted a familiar addition to the bodies already crowding the saloon. Joe Dawson made his way through the evening crowd, greeting the regular customers, sharing a friendly word here, a joke there, finally reaching the far end of the well-polished mahogany bar where he shucked his coat and scarf. Lou whispered a quick word in the owner's ear and Joe's eyes swept the crowd, quickly spotting his Immortal friend lounging against the back wall. Their eyes met and Methos nodded his head in an almost invisible salute.

     It was the better part of an hour before the crowd cleared and business slacked off enough for Joe to have time to make it to Methos' table.

     "Slumming?" Joe asked. He seemed cautious in his otherwise friendly greeting, lowering himself into a chair with a sigh, obviously grateful to take the weight off his prostheses.

     "Now, Dawson, you know that, for me, this place is a regular Windsor Palace. The very finest establishment a man could ask for. Haute cuisine and all the beer a man can drink."

     Joe chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not sure that even I stock enough beer for you, Adam, but it's good to see you, anyway. I'm glad you finally decided to make peace with Mac."

     The ancient man's eyes narrowed. The thin lips pressed together in irritation. "What makes you think that?" he asked. "I have a life, too, you know. The last time I was here, the University offered me a very attractive position. Christ, Joe, you think my whole life revolves around some stubborn Scot who hasn't yet managed to survive one tenth of my life span? Gimme a break!"

     Joe leaned back in his chair, eyeing the thin man hunched protectively over his beer. How very odd, he thought, that someone so experienced, so knowledgeable, so intelligent, was so utterly blind to his own motivations. It would be fascinating to watch the old man work it out, which he would eventually, of course. In the meantime, Joe would have to find some way to get a regular stock of that dreadful brew the ancient liked. It was available in Paris, at a price, but in Seacouver? Hmmm. He'd have to think of someone who might have the right contacts to exploit.

     Eviscerating and skinning the doe was difficult and messy work, especially on top of hauling the animal back across the width of the island. It was well after dark by the time he finally had the carcass hung up in the smokehouse. He'd butcher it in the morning when he wasn't so tired the knife was likely to slip and cut something it shouldn't.

     He'd been stocking up on meat, drying, smoking or salting it for preservation, although the temperature was now cold enough to constitute pretty effective refrigeration. The meat, along with the canned goods and grains he had stocked, plus the carefully gathered and dried herbs he had hanging in clumps in the kitchen, ought to be plenty to get him through the winter, although his weather instincts were beginning to hint that this might be a rough season. Already, the leaves were mostly gone and the lake was beginning to get that odd, cracked-surface look, especially early in the day, indicating that the water was beginning to freeze.

     Mac washed up in the icy-cold water from the pump, then decided to perform his weekly obeisance to the modern age by cranking up the generator and turning on his computer during the brief period while satellites were sufficiently aligned to send signals through the mountains. He made a connection to the internet and quickly checked for major news stories: NATO's campaign against a small-time Hitler-wannabe in the Balkans; school kids killing other school kids; bad weather in the southern states. They seemed familiar, like headlines he had read many times before in other decades, other centuries. He checked his e-mails, answering a question from his accountant and sending instructions to his brokers. There was a note from Amanda that made him smile, and another from Joe. That one made him stop and think, its contents disturbing the sense of peace that had settled over him during the past few months of hard work and solitude.

     Joe reported that Methos had moved to Seacouver, taking a position at Seacouver U. Why on earth? Well, in a way it was good, Mac assured himself. Joe would have a strong Immortal looking out for him, and when you hung around their world, even on the fringes, mortals were always at risk. After several minutes of thought, he sent a quick e-mail to Joe, as he did every week, just saying hello and letting him know everything was okay. He didn't comment on Methos' change of cities. He honestly couldn't think of anything to say.

     "Two cases, just like the last four weeks," Joe described into the phone. "Yeah, I know its hard to get, but I've got every confidence in you, Benny." He waited while the person on the other end of the connection described all the difficulties incumbent upon supplying a beer only available through rather dubious sources. "I've made it worth your while, and nobody has to know but you and me, right?"

     Joe paused as more complaints were poured in his ear. "Look, Carbassa, don't give me a hard time about this, I know you can find a few extra cases a month from your regular deliveries." Joe listened to whining and rants for another moment before he found a pause in the stream of words. "You know, Benny, if I were you, I'd find a way. You might be surprised at how I knew you had access to this stuff, and about your involvement in Andy Michaels' little liquor cartel."

     Joe waited as Benny Carbassa sputtered his denials about any involvement in criminal enterprises. "Yeah, right. Whatever you say. But I'm sure Mr. Michaels would be interested to find out the few other sidebars you run in addition to siphoning off his liquor inventory. Or perhaps, your old friends-your really old friends, some of whom I know quite well-might be interested to learn your whereabouts, eh, buddy?" The silence on the other end was profound.

     "Good. Delighted to hear it," Joe smiled broadly at the suddenly enhanced level of cooperation. The deal was struck and a delivery schedule set, and Joe felt only a small pang of guilt after he hung up from his conversation. Benny Carbassa was a petty criminal and a user, and over the decades had abused MacLeod's good nature any number of times for his own dubious purposes. It was about time some of Mac's friends got some benefit from the little leech. Although Mac wouldn't approve, Joe was sure. The man lived by a nearly immutable set of rules, and smuggling, even in such a good cause, was not on the approved activities list.

     That thought reminded him to check his e-mail from Fred down at the Lakeside Trading Post, who saw Mac every two weeks, like clockwork, when Mac came in for fresh eggs and fruit. While it didn't really fulfill Joe's mandate to watch the Immortal's day-to-day movements, those reports, plus the weekly tidbits from Mac himself had allowed him to keep generating reports for the Powers That Be.

     The lean man entered and slouched onto a bar stool, letting his wet coat slide off his shoulders and onto the floor with a thunk, where it formed a widening pool of water from the runoff. Joe popped the top off the bottle of Umbra Magna with a flourish and sat it in front of Methos, who personified the descriptive, "drowned cat".

     "Nasty out," Joe needlessly observed. The other man looked up with an expression that had serious, furniture-refinishing potential.

     "Nasty out?" Methos snarled. "A hurricane would be nasty out. A blizzard would be nasty out. That," he gestured with his thumb in the general direction of the exit door, "is pure, unmitigated, wrath-of-god awful. Sleet, snow, rain, wind-all at the same time. In your face, down your neck, squishing in your shoes, so slippery you fall on your bum every ten steps. Why does MacLeod choose to live in these cold, awful places?" he asked, not for the first time in the past few months.

     "Because that's what he grew up with," Joe replied, also not for the first time, and once again amused that Methos always managed to work MacLeod into the conversation. "The real question is," Joe leaned on the bar and gazed at his very old friend with a crooked smile and a wicked gleam in his eye, "why you chose to live here."

     The old man scowled at the bartender. "I'm here because your life would be unbearably boring without one of us around, and you know it. Besides, the Languages Department here has a program of Inuit and native northwestern languages that I've never studied before," Methos huffed.

     "Yeah, right," Joe smirked, drawing another killer look.

     "Look, I didn't come in here to be abused, you know. I have students who do that on a regular basis, to say nothing of my fellow faculty members, my landlady, and the neighbor's dog who leaves a personal deposit on the front steps every morning for me to scrape off my shoe."

     "Well, aren't you just the most put upon person on the planet," Joe smiled unsympathetically. "Mac, of course, is sitting on an island north of here, without electricity or any modern amenities."

     "And I'm supposed to feel sorry for him? Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't he choose to isolate himself in some godforsaken wilderness with only his bowie knife to keep him company?"

     Joe leaned against the bar, cocking his head at his damp friend. "Then I will correct you because you are wrong. He didn't choose, he was bullied into it by one of the few people he cares about that he still has left alive."

     "Oh, puleeze," Methos stood and reached down for his coat, shaking it to get the water off and spraying the bar and the bartender in the process. "Mac is in Highlander heaven, off communing with the bears and the deer and all the 'wee creatures of the forest'," Methos lapsed maliciously into an exaggeration of MacLeod's almost eradicated native brogue. "He has probably started a small school, teaching them all how to live together in peace, giving daily meditation lessons. I can see him now in a lovely forest bower, in full lotus, surrounded by Thumper, Bambi and Yogi the Bear." He draped the coat over the next barstool, then took his beer to a table, setting his bum on the nearest wooden chair and propping his muddy, booted feet on the next closest seat.

     "I doubt it," Joe responded, wiping the spray from Methos' coat off the bar and himself before joining the oldest Immortal at the table. He brought a new beer with him. "If he's out in the woods communing with the critters, he's going to get mighty cold and wet. They say this is going to be a really bad winter, what with La Nina and all."

     "The man has been taking care of himself for 400 years, Joe."

     "Oh, I'm not concerned he won't survive," Joe smiled. "But I'm his Watcher, and his friend. And right now, all I get is a cryptic weekly e-mail, and frankly, I don't know when, or even if, he plans to come back to his old life." Joe frowned in frustration at the scars and dents on the well-used table. "And I am concerned about you."

     "Me? Now that's downright ridiculous."

     Joe shook his head sadly. "Adam, you have the sharpest tongue in creation," he said gently. "But I doubt that you intended to chase Mac away."

     "So now you're deciding what I do, or do not, intend?" Methos asked.

     "Hey," Joe shrugged with a smile, "I calls 'em as I sees 'em. And I see you hanging round here like some sad, ol' hound dog waiting for his buddy to come home from school."

     "I'm hanging around here because of your unique selection of brews, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth suffering the insults from the help."

     "Yeah, well, you better damn well appreciate it. Do you have any idea of the lengths I go to, just to satisfy your fairly bizarre taste in alcoholic beverages?" Joe asked.

     "See?" Methos raised his bottle in tribute to himself. "My very presence lends class and elegance to an otherwise déclassé place of business."

     "I'll déclassé you," Joe snarled. "Dealing with the liquor distributors in this town is quite a racket, you know."

     Methos leaned back, sipping his beer appreciatively. "I know how it goes. I once owned a bar in this little town in southern Greece, I forget the name. Didn't like the local brew, so I started concocting my own. Nito and his brothers got down right unfriendly about it, as I recall. Next thing I knew, I was on a slave ship sailing towards Egypt."

     Joe shook his head, not knowing whether to probe for more of the story or ignore the man, given the likelihood the whole tale was a complete fabrication. Then more customers arrived, and truth or fantasy, the opportunity to learn more slipped away.

     The weather had, if anything, gotten worse, and with it, the mood of the oldest Immortal. His classes were winding down for the semester, and the papers his students had turned in, in his opinion, sucked. He needed a drink, even if it entailed going out in icy precipitation not fit for man nor beast.

     Methos' pulled his SUV into the otherwise empty gravel parking lot of Joe's bar. He sprinted towards the front door, pulling the collar of his black wool coat up tight against the icy rain. He reached for the door handle...and paused, the beaked nose pointing up like a hound on the scent. He considered the dreadful weather a moment, then sighed and shook his head before moving slowly back along the side of the building towards the back loading dock, one hand unbuttoning his coat and reaching inside. He moved silently to the corner, paused as though listening, then whipped around, confronting whatever was there with a long, elegantly simple, but deadly blade.

     But there was no one there. He cocked his head in puzzlement, his hands still wrapped around the golden hilt of the medieval sword, then stepped further into the alley. "Who's there!" he called. "Show yourself!"

     But all he heard was a low groan, coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the dumpster. Methos searched the other side of the huge metal trash holder before he at last lifted the lid, throwing it back with a clang and looking inside.

     "You gonna help me out or take my head?" a nasal voice whined, echoing off the metal walls of the dumpster.

     "You got in there," Methos snapped. "You can get out." He stepped back, warily keeping his sword at the ready.

     The small-sized fedora that eventually poked out the top of the dumpster was decorated with small bits of lettuce leaves, old french fries and less identifiable but equally unsavory trash. The body that followed was unimpressive. He was a short, round man with small eyes that swiveled fearfully from place to place, finally resting on the thin man with the big sword. Hands went up defensively.

     "Hey, no fighting, big guy, okay? You're probably after MacLeod anyway, and I'm not him, ya know? He's...." Benny waved in the general direction of away, "out there somewhere, in the woods."

     "What the hell are you doing in Joe Dawson's dumpster?"

     "Uh. Well, sort of, being dead, I guess. For a while, anyway," Benny replied, picking bits of food off of his clothes. As he did, he revealed three neat holes, complete with bloodstains, in the front of his suit.

     "Okay, " Methos' patience was obviously being strained. "I'll bite. Why were you dead in Joe's dumpster? And is Joe okay?" The last question was growled through clenched teeth.

     "Oh. Are you a friend of Joe's?" Benny asked, all innocence and light.

     That was it. Methos grabbed the annoying little asshole by the collar and dragged him, yowling and complaining, out of the trash and pushed him up against the cold metal, with the steel sword tip delicately tracing a fine red line on his neck.

     "The whole story. Short version. Now."

     Benny Carbassa looked into glittering gold eyes and swallowed.

     "Well, you see, I was doin' Joe this big favor, you see, by getting him this weird beer kinda under the table, but this guy I work for sometimes, Andy Michaels, he's not as nice a guy as I am and..." Benny made a small 'urping' noise when the other Immortal's long fingers closed around his throat.

     "I said the sort version," Methos pinned Carbassa with a hard stare. The little man went very still and pale as icy pellets pattered onto his pudgy cheeks.

     "Okay, okay," he answered breathlessly. "They think Joe's been stealing booze from them." When the sword began to dig deeply into the folds of his neck, Benny squealed. "Okay, when they caught me, I...sort of...let them think that Joe was the one who did it, but I swear I tried to help him! When he mentioned Mac's name, I went along with it. Said Mac was the money man behind the deal, that MacLeod was trying to move in on Michaels' territory. Dawson offered to take them to see MacLeod." Benny smiled tentatively. "Pretty smart, eh? If they try to cross MacLeod, you know they're toast, right? They drive up to see Mac, he does his thing with the...," Benny tried to mimic the Scot's martial arts moves in the confined space. "You know, the hitting thing and the kicking thing? And everybody is cool, right?"

     "If anything happens to Joe Dawson," Methos whispered very quietly into Benny Carbassa's ear, "I will find you. I will tear out your tongue and gouge out your eyeballs. Then I will cut off your dick and stuff it down your throat so you choke on it. Then," he added. "I will kill you."

     He released the little man and moved in long, smooth strides to his car without a backward glance. The trembling little man slowly slid down the side of the dumpster until he was sitting in an icy puddle in the alley.

     If Joe hadn't appeared to be in imminent danger, Methos might have enjoyed the irony of the situation. This time it wasn't Mac putting his friends at risk, it was the other way around, including their dependence on Mac's talent for dealing with bad guys to extricate them from their dilemma. Methos gunned the SUV and spun out of the parking lot, heading north.

     Methos had to peer closely ahead just to see the lines in the road. His car's four-wheel drive helped, but the roads were getting really slick. The only fortunate consequence of the weather was that there was almost no one else on the road, so that when he finally spotted a long, dark car ahead, he had few doubts that he had located his quarry.

     He was certain when he saw them turn off towards the lake road. Joe was leading them straight towards Mac, somehow hoping that the inveterate Immortal hero who had stepped into the fray so many times to help his friends, would find a way to come to the rescue.

     Well, that seemed most unlikely, given that MacLeod was on an island several miles away, didn't know where they were, and likely didn't even know anything was amiss. Joe's desperation must've been extreme, Methos decided grimly. But then, one of the innumerable tidbits of memory that drifted like flotsam in his brain floated to the surface. Every two weeks, Joe had said. Every two weeks, like clockwork, MacLeod visited the local trading post to restock his fresh food supply. It was a reminder of one of the Scot's more annoying character traits-predictability.

     Mac went out on the porch, looking up at the threatening late morning sky. Precipitation had started in the form of icy rain, but would soon turn to snow, he was certain. It was early in the year for a really big storm, but this one felt heavy and thick. His weather sense told him that trying to get to the trading center for his bi-weekly supply run today was a bad idea. He could probably get there pretty easily; it was getting back that would be tough if the weather got really nasty. And he really didn't want to get stuck off the island. He felt uneasy, restless, and decided to chop some more wood to burn off excess energy.

     He had been working steadily for almost an hour, barely noticing the dropping temperature, when he paused. Was it just the sense of impending snow? There was that persistent, uneasy feeling between his shoulder blades. He'd relied on his instincts for far too many centuries to dismiss such indistinct feelings out of hand, but there was no reasonable threat he could attribute to his discomfort, especially here on holy ground. Still, he couldn't afford to ignore such a strong premonition. The satellite phone only worked for a few hours at a specific time each day. It was troublesome and expensive, but perhaps this afternoon would be a good time to check with Fred at the Trading Center to let him know he wasn't coming today, at least. And to find out if perhaps there was some Immortal lurking about, some danger just beyond his perceptions.

     Joe was escorted into the Lakeside Trading Store, feeling like he was in some weird film noir scene, with three burly guys in black coats at his back. The four of them went in lock-step up to the counter to confront a sweet-faced, little man whose feet were propped up on a chair while he watched some game show on television.

     "Hey, there," he called out with a smile. "What can I do for you gentlemen? You're lucky you got here when you did. I was gonna close up early. I understand there's a pretty big storm on the way and few folks are going to come out in this kind of weather."

     "You know a guy by the name of MacLeod?" asked Michaels.

     "MacLeod? Duncan MacLeod? Sure. He owns a cabin a few miles up the lake. Comes in here about this time every coupla weeks to get supplies." He looked from face to face, focusing briefly on Dawson. "Although he's awfully late and I kinda doubt he'd come in this kind of weather. Something wrong?" The question was directed to Joe.

     "No!" Joe said quickly. He looked nervously around at his companions. "You just tell Mac as soon as you see him that Joe stopped by, would you? Tell him I was here with some friends who wanted to meet him."

     The four men huddled together near the door and Fred strained to hear, but all he caught was Dawson insisting that all they had to do was wait awhile, but evidently he was overruled by a complaint about "...not waiting out here in this godforsaken wilderness..." Then Joe Dawson was hustled out the door.

     As the long, black car pulled out of the parking lot, the SUV slowly pulled out from the trees, waiting until the vehicle was out of sight before following.

     "They just left!" Fred shouted into the phone. The connection was poor, as it frequently was here in the mountains when using a satellite phone. MacLeod was the only one who could afford such a device, and Fred had told him more than once that he thought it was hardly worth the expense. "Joe Dawson and three guys. Said to tell you he was with some friends who wanted to meet you. Mac, I think there was something..." The static on the line buzzed and popped, the sound fading in and out, finally cutting off entirely when the satellite several miles above them passed out of range.

     Mac looked at the bulky device in frustration. Clearly, there was something wrong. Guys who wanted to meet him? Not good. Not good at all. An Immortal once again using Joe to draw him out, most likely. He set the phone back its it's cradle, already making a mental list of what to take.

     Methos followed the limo at a good distance, closing in a little bit as the rain turned into slush, then into the constant tit-tit-tit of hard ice pellets against the windshield. He tried to think of some plan since he no longer knew what these guys intended, although paranoia had certainly served him well over the centuries. He'd just have to wait, and improvise, he decided. Then the car slowed, pulling off onto the shoulder where it edged up against long drop into a nearby ravine.

     Methos hung back, turning off his motor to avoid detection, and watched as one of the goons got out, came around and opened the door and waited for Joe to struggle to his feet. This did not look good. This did not look good at all.

     Joe had a chilling sense of déjà vu as he stood in the gravel by the road, wondering when it was going to come, when the bullet would again tear through his flesh. Lord, he had been down this path too many times, and his number was bound to come up sooner or later. And to think this had nothing to do with the war in Vietnam, the Watchers or with Mac or with anything other than a desire to satisfy the eclectic tastes of a customer at his bar. He suspected if Methos were here, he would have a lot to say about the irony of the situation.

     When Michaels stepped out of the car as well, Joe was surprised. He wouldn't have expected the man to do his own dirty work. He turned to face his killer, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to meet the man's eyes over the small barrel of a .38.

     "What? You expect me to shoot you?" Michaels laughed, waving the gun casually. "I'm a civilized man, Dawson, we're just going to leave you here. Now, you might make it back to that store a few miles back, you might not, but either way, MacLeod will know he's next, right?"

     "So you're not going to kill me yourself, you're just letting the cold do it. That's real big of you!" Joe replied. "All in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

     Joe knew he didn't have a chance to make it back to the Trading Post on these icy, deserted mountain roads in freezing weather. He closed his eyes and turned away, not wanting to see the car drive off. He heard the expected roar of an engine followed by something unexpected - a shout of enraged pain. He risked a peek, turned and, wonder of wonders, saw a sight-as the pundits say-for sore eyes.

     "Coming?" Methos shouted through the open passenger-side door. Michaels lay writhing on the ground, clutching a leg all bent the wrong way. The other doors to Michaels' car were opening, and Joe made what, for him, could be considered a dash for it. He fell into the passenger side headfirst and hung onto the seat for dear life as Methos sped away with Joe's legs still hanging half out the door.

     The Highlander adjusted the large pack on his shoulders and checked the sky one more time as he stepped off the porch. His long strides ate up the ground, and he quickly disappeared into the forest, even the traces of his footprints disappearing when the icy rain turned into snow, quickly covering the muddy ground in a thin layer of white.

     "What the hell are you doing here?!" Joe managing to gasp, dragging the door closed as they skirted around a tight corner, all too close to the mountain's edge.

     "What? You would rather I leave you there?" Methos hit the accelerator as the limousine pulled up close behind them. They could hear the sharp zing and ping of bullets hitting the car.

     "Well, if you'd just waited five minutes, they would've..." The thunk of another bullet striking the frame vibrated the whole vehicle. "Can't you go any faster?" Joe insisted, hanging on for dear life as Methos took another sharp curve fast enough to tilt the vehicle almost far enough to overbalance it.

     "You want to drive?" Methos shouted, ducking as a bullet smashed through the back window, throwing tiny plastic chunks everywhere before lodging in the dashboard, leaving a large hole in the black plastic. "Damn! Don't you know anybody who doesn't try to shoot at you, Dawson?"

     "This, from a man who has spent 5,000 years cutting off people's heads!" Joe shouted back. "Look out!"

     The sharp curve loomed suddenly out of the mist and snow. Methos slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. For a second, the wheels bit, but gravity and centrifugal force and weight and slick roads combined to send them sliding sideways as well as forward, edging them closer and closer to the edge with a high squeal of straining tires. The only consolation Joe could conceivably feel as the jeep slowly, inexorably tipped over the edge was the sight of Michaels' limo shooting past them at full speed, appearing to hover in mid-air before it nose-dived straight down to the bottom of the ravine.

     The figure passed through the woods in absolute silence, leaving almost no trial behind, except for footsteps that quickly disappeared in the snow, now falling in steady, large flakes. A small vibration shook the air, just a distant sound, but he stopped instantly and cocked his head. He moved more slowly now, stopping frequently, listening. And then there was something else that made him pause, his head in the air, sniffing the slight breeze coming down the valley. Like a lion on the hunt, suddenly he was on the move again.

     Consciousness came slowly. At first he was only aware of the gentle touch of snow on his face, his eyelids, his lips. Then there was the intrusive, ugly smell of burning rubber and gasoline, a wrenching reminder of where he was. Once that awareness sank in, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to be conscious. He carefully tested arms, legs, neck. Remarkably, other than a few nasty scrapes and bruises on his elbows and a dislocated finger, he seemed to be in one piece...at least in the pieces that had been left to him after that land mine in 'Nam had stolen a third of his height. He opened his eyes, finding himself on his back, looking up into tall pine trees and gray sky, now stained by a large black cloud rising up from below. A check of the rest of his condition found him smiling at the irony. If he had, indeed, had legs, they would not have fared well, since his pants were torn into shreds from the knees down and there were long, dark scrapes on his artificial lower limbs.

     He struggled up onto his elbows, looking for Methos' SUV. Evidently, he had been thrown free as the vehicle slid and tumbled past him down the ravine, finally coming to a rest on its side up against a grove of tall pines. Unfortunately, the ravine was so steep, without legs for leverage, getting back up to the road might prove to be a very challenging endeavor.

     "Methos!" he shouted. The scraped and battered van was smoking slightly, the wheels still spinning idly with an irritating squeaking noise. No answer. "Adam!" he called again, but the only sounds were the squeaking of the wheels and the distant crackle of fire from the burning limousine about 200 feet below.

     The Immortal was either unconscious or dead. Nothing for it but to wait, then. Eventually, the man would revive. Joe hoped it would be soon. Getting caught alone in the snow, in the wilderness, without two good legs to carry him where he needed to go, was not a fate he wished to contemplate.

     Of course, there was the admittedly slim possibility that MacLeod would somehow figure out what had happened, where they were and what needed to be done, but the more Joe thought about it, the less likely the Highlander's fortuitous intervention seemed. He scooched around in the leaves and dirt a little to avoid the worst of the rocks and sharp branches, and settled back to wait.

     "Fuck!"

     Joe woke from a light doze to the sound of cursing from a familiar voice.

     "Oh, bugger all! Look at my car!"

     The driver's side door momentarily lifted, then slammed down again, sending the vehicle rocking slightly in its resting place in the underbrush. The curses that followed were not ones Joe Dawson was familiar with, except that those same sounds, in generally the same order, had previously been uttered by the present speaker. At last, however, the door was heaved up with enough force that it stayed open, and the oldest Immortal's hands, then his head, then the rest of his long body struggled to exit from the trashed vehicle, rolling finally into the dirt with an ungraceful thud and several more gasped curses.

     Methos immediately turned, searching the landscape, until his focus settled on Joe. The genuine grin that painted his otherwise bloody and battered face was warm with relief. "Joe! You okay?"

     "I'm bruised, cold, wet and dirty, if you call that okay. But all my parts appear to be in working order. At least all the parts I started with this morning."

     "Well, that's a relief! What happened to your buddies?" Methos glanced down the ravine at the boiling smoke cloud staining the view. "Decide to have a weenie roast?"

     "I think it was an unplanned side trip," Joe responded. "How are you doing?"

     Methos rubbed his forehead, where a dark bruise still remained, left over from a far more serious injury, no doubt. "A few broken ribs, a battered skull, broken leg. Sore as hell, but gimme a few minutes and I'll be okay." He looked up the steep side of the mountain, his face carefully neutral at the daunting sight of the long distance back up to the road. "But we'd best get moving. It's only a few hours before dark and this weather isn't getting any better."

     "Uh, Methos, my friend," Joe said in his most normal, friendly tone. "You know climbing mountains isn't exactly my strong suit. Maybe this would work better if you went for help while I made myself comfortable right here."

     "Joe," Methos frowned at his friend. "It's cold. It's snowing, and the temperature is dropping every minute. I think leaving you out here is a very bad idea. Besides, you have the upper body strength of any three men I know. We'll get there. Don't worry."

     "Adam..." Joe tried again.

     "Enough discussion, Joe." Methos hauled himself up to where Joe was lying. "Now turn over and start climbing. I'll give your feet some stability, and you pull up with your arms. It'll be slow, but we'll get there eventually. Besides, Mac will be along any minute with help, right?"

     "Yeah. Right," Joe murmured, rolling over with a sigh.

     It had taken them almost an hour to move 50 feet up the ravine, all the while working against a rising wind and temperatures that were quickly moving into sub-arctic zones. Joe was trembling with fatigue, Methos' hands had been scraped raw time and again, and his face was white with the strain of trying to help his mortal friend leverage his way up the steep slope. Both men were depressingly aware of what the other was thinking. Methos was certain Joe was going to insist that the Immortal go on alone for help, leaving him to probably freeze to death. Joe was equally certain Methos would completely exhaust himself, and both of them would die out here in the cold and wilderness. While the Immortal would eventually revive, his sacrifice and suffering would have been for absolutely no purpose.

     Joe was concentrating solely on putting one hand up, finding a handhold and pulling, then reaching with the other, and started violently when something smacked him on the shoulder. Thinking it was a falling branch, he automatically brushed it out of the way. Then he heard a surprised explanation behind him.

     "I don't believe it!"

     "What?" Joe asked.

     "Grab the rope, Joe!" Methos gasped, out of breath. "MacLeod found us. That predictable SOB found us. Grab the fucking rope!"

     Through Joe's haze of fatigue, he spotted the yellow nylon rope dangling from above. "Mac?" He looked up, but anything beyond twenty feet was obscured by trees and falling snow.

     He grabbed the rope, twisting it around his arm, and suddenly between Methos below and the invisible savior above, moving took half the effort and went twice as fast. In only minutes, he had reached the ledge where Duncan MacLeod sat braced against a rock, the rope taut across his shoulders to give him leverage to pull. Joe reached up, grabbed a gloved hand and was hauled to level ground. Before he had the breath to say thanks, Mac was reaching for Methos, and then the three of them were sprawled together, gulping great lungfuls of air.

     "What took you so long?" were the first words out of Methos' mouth.

     "Adam!" Joe growled. "How the hell did you find us?" he asked the Scot.

     Mac chuckled breathlessly, then reached up to tap his nose. "The smell, of course."

     "How rude!" Methos muttered, but a smile twitched his lips.

     Mac ignored him, flexing his hands and shoulders to relieve the cramps from hauling Joe up the ravine. "You guys okay? I was afraid that fire was from your car until I spotted the two of you crawling up through the woods, and then got close enough to feel Methos."

     "Yeah. I got thrown free and Methos...well, he appears to have recovered," Joe answered.

     "Recovered? What about my car? It's a total loss, and my sword is in there!" Methos hadn't moved from his original collapsed position, content to complain in place.

     Mac moved to the edge of their position, looking down. "Tell you what. I'll retrieve your blade and you get Joe to some shelter. If we get up to the next ledge, there's an overhang about a quarter mile to the north, almost a cave. We can rest there. Then there's a logging road a few miles further on that will save Joe from having to do any more climbing."

     "What about this famous cabin of yours?" Methos asked. "Isn't that closer?"

     Mac shook his head. "It's in the opposite direction over rougher terrain." He frowned at Joe, who was shivering convulsively, his bare head and hands exposed to the air, torn pants and an old navy pea coat the only protection from the fierce winter wind. "Here," Mac said, pulling off his gloves, coat and hat. "Put these on," he instructed.

     "Don't be ridiculous!" Joe groused, rousing himself to a sitting position, even though his teeth were chattering so hard the words didn't come out quite the way he wanted.

     "Come on, Joe, be reasonable! I'm used to the cold, and you're probably in shock from the accident. I'm just going to grab Methos' sword. You two head to the shelter and I'll join you. Won't take me long. It doesn't make any sense for you to gut it out. Jesus, Joe, the two of us are Immortal! A little cold won't kill me."

     "He's right, Joe. It's the only sensible thing to do," Methos found himself agreeing with the Highlander, for once. He was shivering in a medium-weight coat, also ill-suited to their situation. And while his lean frame had less built-in protection from the cold, Immortality was the ultimate shield.

     Joe looked back and forth at the two men, both of them ancient and well-nigh invulnerable compared to his frail, mortal frame, and tried to give in gracefully to the inevitable, although it galled him to be considered weak, and it especially galled him that someone else gave up their comfort for him. Wasn't right.

     But the down coat with the hood on it felt wonderfully warm, still carrying a vestige of Mac's body heat, and the gloves took the sting away from his fingers, which had felt like they were going to crack and fall off any minute.

     Mac nodded in satisfaction, donning Joe's now-tattered and torn jacket, then he led the way once again up the ravine. This time, with him above, using a tree branch to leverage his strength, and Methos below to provide stability, the next 50 yards were achieved in a fraction of the time the previous 20 yards had taken. Dusk was closing in as Mac pointed the other two men in the direction of the shelter he had described, then disappeared back down the path.

     Mac forced himself to concentrate on his task and not worry about the other two men. Despite Methos' grousing, he had complete confidence that the man would keep Joe safe. One didn't get to be 5,000 years old without knowing everything necessary about survival, and Methos, for all his protests, would do whatever he had to, including sacrificing himself, to keep their mortal friend alive.

     He shivered as a dollop of snow melted in his hair and trickled down his neck. Joe's coat was a poor barrier to the elements, but he really needed to go all the way to the bottom of the ravine and check on the other car. It was unlikely that there were any survivors, but he had to at least check. He assumed Methos knew that, as well. The bit about retrieving Methos' sword was more for Joe's benefit than anything else. He wrapped the rope firmly around the branch they had used to help pull Joe up, and eased himself over the side, wishing he had a rappelling harness and gloves, but his hands would heal quickly enough.

     The light was almost gone, and his face and hands were getting seriously numb by the time he made it to the bottom of the ravine. The rope had played out after 150 feet, and the rest of the way, he'd scrambled, slid and slipped down the mountainside, only to find a smoking, burned-out carcass of a vehicle at the bottom. He briefly searched the area for signs that anyone had survived the crash, without success. With a frustrated sigh at the waste of it all, Mac turned to climb back up the hillside, now covered with a four-inch layer of snow and ice.

     By the time he got back to the van, he knew it would be iffy to make it back to the ridge. It had gotten too cold, too fast, and he was too exposed. His hands were completely numb, he had sweated with exertion, his damp clothes were sticking to his flesh, and his exposed head and neck were stinging with cold. He perfunctorily peeked into the precariously balanced van, but decided survival would have to take priority over retrieving Methos' sword. He would come back another day.

     Reaching the rope was a great relief, although using it with hands frozen stuff and clumsy was more difficult than he anticipated. He went a few feet and had to stop, then a few feet more. Each time, getting started again was a little more difficult.

     One hand over the other, pull with the arms, push with the legs. Find a foothold, keep moving, don't stop. The litany played itself over and over again in his mind until the rope jerked ominously in his hands, and he froze, hearing an unwelcome creaking and cracking sound from the tree branch he had used to tie off the rope above. He was so close, so close, only twenty or twenty-five feet away from the top. At this point, without the rope to help hold his weight, against the slick surface, he would be in serious trouble.

     Slowly, oh so carefully, he began to move again. Hand over hand, push from below, pull with the arms. The sound warned him, but his cold body was simply not reacting quickly enough. The rope went suddenly slack. His purchase on the icy slope was gone, and the mountain slid past in a blur of white and gray...and then black.

     Methos' teeth were chattering so badly by the time he got Joe settled underneath the overhang Mac had described where the wind and snow couldn't reach them, he knew he was dangerously exhausting himself. He briefly paused, sinking into a meditation that helped him regain control of his muscles. It didn't help with the cold, but the constant shivering stopped and he could breathe a little easier. He took a few deep breaths, gathering his strength.

     Fire. First, he needed to build a fire. Finding the wood wasn't hard. Finding kindling sufficiently dry to feed the rest of the fuel long enough to get it burning seemed almost impossible. But eventually, with help from the lighter in Mac's backpack, Methos had a small fire going.

     Further exploration of Mac's backpack brought forth a space blanket: a compact, shiny lightweight tarp that completely blocked out wind and cold and held in body warmth. Methos wrapped the cover around Joe, and soon, both men warmed up enough to put them out of immediate danger.

     They were too tired to talk for a long time, but at last Joe spoke.

     "He's gone back to that damned car, hasn't he?" Joe asked, even though he knew the answer.

     Methos nodded. "Of course." He carefully added fuel to the fire. It was tricky, since he could just as easily put it out.

     It was almost dark, and Mac had not yet appeared.

     "Something's happened. We've got to go back," Joe said at last.

     "I'll go."

     "No. We both go," Joe insisted.

     The trip back down the path took half an hour. They almost missed the ledge, given the quick covering of new snow and the failing light. Even with Mac's aura to tell him he was in the general vicinity, Methos thought he had gone too far until he finally spotted the rope they had used to haul Joe up the hill still dangling from the branch. A now-broken branch with the rope hanging loosely, snow already catching in its rough threads.

     "MacLeod?" he called down, getting as close to the edge as he dared. The woods were oddly silent, the soft swish of falling snow and sighing wind the only sounds he heard. "Mac!" he called more loudly.

     The air seemed suddenly colder as he waited and got no answer. "Damn it, MacLeod, answer me! I'll re-wrap the rope. Even if you broke something, you've had time enough to heal. We can't wait around all day, you know, it's cold out here!"

     The silence was deafening.

     "Shit!" Methos knelt in the snow, then lay down on his belly, scooting forward until his shoulders and head were well over the ledge. The details of the rocks, limbs and edges of the ledge below had been obscured by the falling snow, but fifty feet below he could make out the outline of a snow-covered leg and boot.

     "Mac?" But even as he pushed himself further out, the Scot's aura seemed to blur, soften, dim and fade. Oh, shit. "Mac!" he shouted. "Come on, man. Don't do this to me!"

     Methos crept back from the edge, feeling more than the physical cold seep into his old bones. He could never get Mac's body up that ledge by himself. The Scot outweighed him by twenty or thirty pounds and he was now literally dead weight.

     Joe had scooted to the edge beside him, looking down.

     "Oops," he observed. "That doesn't look good."

     "It's getting dark fast, Joe. I'll never get him hauled up here before it gets too dark to find our way back to the cave."

     "Shit!" Joe murmured. "Can things get any worse?"

     The sound of rustling leaves disturbed the deep silence of the snow-covered woods and was followed by the distinct noise of movement in the underbrush. It was coming towards them, up the side of the ravine.

     Methos pointed as a flash of gray-brown fur darted through the undergrowth. Then another, followed by another. "Take it from someone who knows, Joe. Things can always get worse." When the bartender gave him a dirty look, Methos smiled. "That's one of those bits of ancient wisdom you guys always expect from me."

     Then the shapes broke into the clearing just underneath the ledge where Duncan's body was lying. Wolves. Five of them. Their yellow, feral eyes caught the dying light as they hesitated, their attention split between the living, two-legged animals above them on the ledge and the ready meal close at hand.

     The largest crept forward, going slightly down on his haunches, creeping towards the body while his eyes remained riveted on the men above.

     "Hey!" Methos yelled, startling the animal back a few paces. "Get away from there!" He waved his arms, dislodging snow that went tumbling down the slope, and the pack retreated into the bush, the leader backing away only very slowly.

     Methos pulled on the rope left dangling loose around the stump of the broken branch. If he could tie it off up here on something, he could rappel down the side, then use it to help haul Mac's body back up the ravine. But the rope snagged and went taut as he pulled, and Methos realized some portion of it was still wrapped around the Highlander's body 50 feet below.

     "Damn!" he murmured. "We'll never get him hauled back up here before dark, and getting back up that trail..." he stopped his murmured speculations when he realized Joe had gone very still.

     "You can't leave him!" Joe snapped.

     "He's Immortal, Joe," Methos said calmly, turning to look straight at his friend. "You're not."

     "There's a newsflash! Now get your ass down there. I'll keep hold of this end of the rope and use it to help haul him up once you get to him." He nodded towards the body. "But you better hurry, or you'll have to share him with our furry friends down there."

     The beasts were gathering again, their eyes glowing brightly in the dusk. Methos slipped quickly over the side. His trip down was more of a controlled fall; he lost skin on his hands and felt the stones bruise his knees and shin. He could hear Joe above, shouting curses at the animals as they scattered at his approach. But they were getting bolder every minute, and by the time he had found firm footing and turned, the largest was only 20 feet away. Methos could see his long canines shining against wet, black lips pulled back in a snarl.

     The big wolf crouched, inching forward, flinching when Methos yelled and waved at him, but not backing off. The rest of the pack circled, growling and yipping. It reminded Methos of a bar fight, with cowardly, drunken hangers-on urging the big bully on to violence. Methos knelt, folding himself protectively over Mac's body, feeling in the snow for a rock or a branch, something large he could wave or throw.

     The only weapons he was carrying were the knife in his boot, and one in a sheath in the middle of his back. But he doubted that either would serve to frighten off the big wolf. His fist closed around a rock and he threw, fast and hard. It glanced off the animal's shoulder, prompting a yelp and a snarl, but Methos almost missed the second gray shadow that came up at him from the left, barely getting his forearm up in time to protect his throat. The boot knife was in his hand, and the animal's blood was pouring into the snow in a matter of seconds. He had to shake the carcass off, prying the animal's jaw loose from his arm. Fortunately, his coat had protected him from the worst of it, with Immortal healing taking care of the rest.

     Then he heard Joe cry out from above, and turned...and lunged, grabbing onto Mac's arm before the pack could drag the body away. Fortunately, the rope was still wound around his waist, and they had only pulled him a few feet before Methos found himself in a tug-o-war with a hungry wolf pack. The leader growled deep in his throat, his teeth sunk into the meaty portion of Mac's upper thigh. The others nipped at the body, darting in and out, tugging at Mac's hand, one even going for the throat. There were too many, and Methos held onto an arm while he reached for the second knife at his back. With a flick of his wrist, one wolf yelped, whined and darted away into the woods, leaving three still-snarling, growling, determined canines, one of them with a firm grip on a forearm, the leader still with his jaws locked deep into Mac's leg. The third, the smallest, kept snapping at Methos as the others tugged at their prize.

     "Joe!" Methos yelled, not knowing what the man could do, but knowing he desperately needed the help. It came in the form of a barrage of rocks and branches while Methos, now with two hands holding onto Mac's arm, fought for possession. With uncanny accuracy and force, a fist-sized rock smacked right into the face of the smallest. The wolf yipped, whined and turned away, staggering slightly. Another rock followed, straight into the flank of the one pulling on Mac's arm, knocking the animal off its feet. Then when Methos screamed at it, lunging forward, it ran after its retreating packmate.

    That just left the big one. The one with blood smearing his mouth. The one with a death grip on Mac's leg. He had evidently had a taste of fresh meat and wasn't about to let it go.

     "Ya!" Methos screamed, yanking hard. He had a grip now on Mac's torso and slapped with his free hand at the wolf's face. "Let go, you bastard!" He was on the ground now, kicking out, slapping, yelling, until his lungs were aching for air and they had all slipped an additional ten feet down the ravine, stretching taut the rope wound around Mac's waist.

     The wolf just hung on, his eyes never leaving Methos', and when Methos paused for breath, the two of them just stared at each other, the only sounds the human's gasping breath and the wolf's barely audible low growl. Methos leaned forward over Mac's body, putting his face close enough to feel the wolf's hot breath, to smell its carrion odor. In that moment, he summoned Death, and with it the darkness he had lived with for so many centuries. "Begone!" he snarled.

     The wolf pushed back on its haunches, the yellow eyes now half-closed, watching speculatively.

     "I said, BEGONE!" Methos roared, raising his arms, his hands extended like claws. With a hard, violent shake, the wolf broke free at last and stood, meat dripping blood from his jaws. The two predators eyed each other for several, long heartbeats, then the wolf disappeared into the dusk.

     By the time the two men had hauled Mac's body to the higher ledge, they both collapsed into the deepening snow, exhausted and gasping. Until Joe saw Mac's leg, or what was left of it.

     "Oh, Christ!" he choked and turned away, his hand clapped over his mouth. He hadn't seen anything that bad up close since 'Nam. Most of Mac's thigh was just...gone, the bone showing whitely in the dimming light.

     Without a word, Methos staggered to his feet and hauled the Scot over his shoulder. "Can you make it?" he asked Joe breathlessly.

     "I'll make it."

     If it hadn't been for the lingering smell of the fire, they would have missed the shallow opening in the dark. Methos dumped the body and collapsed onto the ground, not stirring again until Joe had somehow managed to rebuild the embers into low flames, carefully feeding the fire so that the damp wood kept burning.

     The two men were silent, staring into the smoky warmth of the tiny fire.

     "What are we gonna do with him?" Joe asked at last, nodding towards the body Methos had abandoned just under the overhang of their small shelter.

     Methos looked over at it for a long moment. "I guess we have to revive him. I don't think I can carry the bloody bastard all the way to the road."

     "How're you gonna do that?" Joe asked. "He looks awfully cold and awfully dead."

     "Yeah, well, at least they didn't carry off his leg."

     "Yeah. Thanks to you. So we gotta warm him up?" Joe prodded.

     Methos nodded. "Enough to get his heart going, and get the healing started on his thigh. I'd rather not leave any more trails of blood. There's definitely a wolf out there with a taste for filet of Highlander."

     The space blanket was again firmly folded around the protesting mortal, and after wrapping Mac's leg in gauze from the backpack's first aid kit to prevent blood from oozing any more than it already had, Methos managed at last to get him inside the sleeping bag. By that time, he was beyond exhausted, freezing and really pissed off. If Mac hadn't been determined to play hero once again, this wouldn't have happened.

     He sank down beside the tiny fire, trying to warm his hands. All he could see of Joe was his eyes.

     "Well?" Joe finally asked.

     "Well, what?"

     "That's it? Stuff him in a sleeping bag when he's already dead from cold? How is he going to get warm enough to revive?"

     "What the hell do you want me to do? We can barely keep the fire going as it is! You know if he hadn't been so determined to see if those assholes were still alive -- as if anyone cared -- this would not have happened! It's his own damn fault he froze to death," Methos groused. When Joe just looked at him, the Immortal almost snarled back. "Oh, no you don't! Don't look at me like that, Dawson! He's...he's a....a Scotchsicle, for God's sake!" Methos pointed at the inert body. All they could see was Mac's pale still face, almost indiscernible in the dark.

     "Yeah? And how're we going to go anywhere if he doesn't revive, old man?" Joe asked quietly.

     "And you want me to crawl in there with him! Are you nuts!? "

     Joe's lips twitched at the corners. "You know he won't revive until someone lends him a little spare body heat."

     "Then you crawl in there!" Methos spat indignantly.

     Joe just waited for the inevitable.

     "Shit! The things I do for this man," Methos muttered as he angrily unzipped the sleeping bag, wiggling into the small space next to Mac's body. "Damn, he's cold!" With a purse of his lips at the mortal, Methos finally pulled the sleeping back up around his shoulders. "O'course, you could throw some nice, handy, really dry wood on the fire, and we can all get warm."

     "What does that mean?" Joe asked suspiciously.

     Methos smiled in the darkness. "Think about it. What we really need is some nice, dry wood for a warm, hearty fire."

     "Ha!" Joe barked a harsh laugh, and whapped his cane against the hard surface of his prosthetic limbs. It made a hollow clacking noise. "Sorry to disappoint," Joe smiled, his white teeth shining dimly in the firelight. "Wooden peg legs went out of style a few years back, along with the parrot on the shoulder. Nothing but the finest in plastics."

     "Oh, well," Methos' sigh was only slightly exaggerated for effect. "It was worth a try. I'm sure Mac would have been happy to replace them with the latest souped-up model.

     Joe chuckled at the old man's rather feeble attempt at humor. He reached for Methos' and his own battered coat, throwing both over the other two men. "Don't worry, Methos. Snuggling with Mac won't kill you," he smirked, knowing he was safe from immediate harm now that the oldest Immortal was encased in a closed sleeping bag. "You know, they say it works best if both of you are naked."

     Whatever reply the oldest Immortal made, it was in a language Joe did not understand, and he was just as glad he didn't.

 Continued in Part Two