Wolf at the Door - Part Two

Chapter Four

At last. Nick's heart surged with anticipation, spiced with more than a little fear. Finally, Mac was actually going to spar with him. Despite his annoyance with the man, he felt he should thank Pierson for finally egging his teacher into going one-on-one with bared blades. The last week had been grueling, boring and frustrating, as Mac had twice begun a spar, then broken it off almost immediately, walking away with a distracted snarl, only to return later, each time pushing both himself and his student harder and harder in increasingly complex drills.

But Adam had been relentless in his acerbic commentary, not letting MacLeod off the hook for a single moment of inattention, of exhaustion, of choice of drills or technique. He didn't know why MacLeod put up with it. Nick would have long sense punched the smug bastard right in that big beak of his. But there seemed to be an endless well of patience of these two older Immortals for each other's constantly traded barbs and taunts, a little like an old married couple.

Nick made a slight bow to his teacher, as he had been taught, and watched as MacLeod answered his move. The Scot's body flowed easily into a stance simultaneously so threatening and so graceful that Nick's mouth went dry as he took his position. Suddenly, he was painfully aware of his inexperience, and that he was facing possibly the single most awesome opponent in an entire race of people whose sole reason for existence was to dance this dance -- to the death. An opponent who had taken the head of his last student.

Mac waited, motionless, dark eyes cold and virtually expressionless, as though he had wiped his mind clean of whatever doubts and demons had kept him from facing his new student with a blade. After a long, breathless pause, Nick realized he would have to make the first move, all the time wondering at his sanity. He had wanted to do this? Yes, he acknowledged. He both wanted and needed to do this, to see if he could hold his own. Okay, he took a shuddering breath, centering himself...and struck.

The next two hours went by in an instant and an eternity. The swords flashed, and each time he struck, Nick's blade found either air or hard steel, and each time Mac's blade swung and Nick did not managed to meet it with his own there was a nick, a cut, a tiny stab. None of them dangerous or very deep, but each served as a specific reminder. Keep your blade up here, watch your footing or you would be vulnerable there, don't let your wrist sag or you would be naked and defenseless here. At first, the Highlander's expression had been pale and grim, but determined. As they fought, with Mac exercising meticulous control, the Scot began to relax, and a small smile formed on his face and gleam of satisfaction glinted in his eyes.

As the session wore on, and Nick maintained his stamina and aggression, at last Mac occasionally chuckled at his student's sometimes foolish audacity, and would also call out praise as Nick was particularly quick or skilled in his response. At some point the passage of time seemed to cease and there was only the two of them dancing, the call and response, the test of metal and mettle and Nick's blood ran hot with the almost sexual excitement of it, of trying to anticipate, of watching the constant ripple of hard muscle over sweat-slicked golden skin, his teacher's dark eyes gleaming with almost gleeful satisfaction.

Sensing that Mac was viewing him with growing respect, Nick felt a warmth grow deep in his belly. It was exhausting, it was painful, it was exhilarating and exciting in a way he had never before experienced. When Mac called a halt at last, Nick answered his teacher's salute, feeling as much pride in himself as he ever had in his entire life, then almost dropped the rapier when his arm's strength suddenly gave out, still he couldn't keep the wide grin off his face.

"Wow!" Nick gasped, still trying to get his breath. "That was..." he searched for a word or phrase that didn't have a sexual connotation.

"A real turn on?" Mac finished for him, one dark eyebrow raised. Mac's face was flushed and shiny with the sweat of his exertion and his mouth twitched as he nodded towards Nick's burgeoning erection, obvious through his damp and clinging sweatpants.

Nick blushed, knowing his already flushed face was now radiating heat. "Yeah," he nodded, still unable to keep the smile off his face. "I've boxed before, and certainly sparred in karate training, done some competitive meets, and had some real mean encounters on the streets, but this was..."

"Different," Mac supplied with a tight smile. He threw a towel to his student, then retrieved one for himself, sharing a knowing glance with Pierson, who had watched the session from the floor, long arms draped loosely over his knees. "Combat is in our blood, Nick. Most of us seem to have a natural affinity for it. And you're right, it can be a real turn-on that is both a blessing and a distraction."

Mac swiped the towel over his forehead and draped it over the back of his neck. He pinned his student with an intensity of focus that told Nick this was a particularly important point he wanted Nick to hear. "Not only can your cock start doing your thinking for you, the combat can become an addiction. A dangerous and fatal attraction, especially after you've taken your first Quickening." He stepped up to his student, and Nick stiffened in shock when the katana was at his throat without warning. "Just a warning, Nicolas. I've seen it take over an Immortal's life," Mac said softly. "When that happens, it's only a matter of time until someone comes along who is faster, smarter, luckier, and then the ride, however erotic and exhilarating, is over."

Mac put his katana and towels away and, without the usual lesson summary or final technique critique, was gone.

Nick stared after his teacher for a moment in surprise, then turned to Pierson, who had watched the exchange in silence. "Was it something I said?" Nick asked innocently. He was still feeling buoyant and Mac's words of caution about liking the combat too much seemed almost absurd.

Pierson performed one of his trademark shrugs that could be interpreted a thousand different ways. "Look at it this way, it was better than having to listen to one of Mac's lectures on honor and integrity and truth and justice and how all Immortals have a duty to look out for mortals and not to use their Immortality to harm others," Pierson rolled his wrist a few times. "Yadda, yadda, yadda," he finished with a smile.

Nick frowned a little at the other man's continued denigration of his teacher. "I take it you don't believe in such things?" he asked.

"I believe in survival," Adam replied, helping Nick gather the scattered towels, wipe up the sweat and small spatters of Nick's blood that spotted the floor. "Mac believes in people and ideals."

Nick pursed his lips in thought as he carefully put the rapier away and zipped up his bag. "He believes in something outside himself, and I deeply respect that," he said. "He is a hard taskmaster, but I'm very, very lucky to have him as a teacher." Nick smiled to himself. "You know, when we first met, I didn't think I would like him. Here he was, this 400 year old guy, said to be the deadliest fighter alive, all that experience and charisma, living like a monk...he seemed just too..." Nick groped for words.

"...much like you?" Pierson asked.

Nick's fists started to curl into resentful balls, and he opened his mouth to snap a sharp comeback. But the glint of humor in Adam's eyes caught him up short and he realized that, as usual, there was a core of truth to the man's words, no matter that they were couched in irony and sarcasm.

"Maybe," he reluctantly admitted. "Maybe too much like I would like to be, a reminder of all my own shortcomings."

Nick shook his head and picked up his bag, checking the room one last time before he headed for the door. "There are times when I want to slug him for not cutting me a little more slack, but there are other times when I feel kinda sorry for the man. He never cuts himself any slack at all."

Pierson followed him out. "You have no idea," he murmured.

Once again, Nick Wolfe wondered what the history was between the two Immortals. There always seemed to be more going on between them than met the eye.

Mac was at the front desk talking to Claude, the handsome young blond who purportedly worked in order to have access to discounted lessons and practice space, and appeared to have a serious case of hero-worship of Duncan MacLeod.

"Mac!" Nick called. "Same time tomorrow for the morning run?"

Mac looked thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Nick. Take a break for a couple of days, do something you enjoy. We're both tired. By the way," he called, "you did really well today."

Suddenly, Nick's legs didn't feel quite so rubbery and weak, and a warm flush spread out from his belly at his teacher's praise. "Thanks," he barely managed to say past his constricted throat. He turned toward the locker rooms but it suddenly occurred to him just what today's session must have cost his teacher, physically and emotionally. "Mac!" he called to get his attention, "You did well today, too. I know how hard it must...anyway, thank you."

MacLeod looked a little surprised, but then a quiet smile reached all the way to his eyes and he nodded briefly.

The shower felt soothing and warm and relaxing. Nick closed his eyes and leaned up against the wall, wondering how long he could just stand there before somebody chastised him for using too much hot water. His mind replayed the afternoon's combat, reviewing his mistakes as well as some of Mac's incredible moves. He still had so much to learn. The echoing slam of a locker door pulled him out of his reverie, and Claude wandered in, taking the next shower over in the open room.

"I heard what Monsieur MacLeod said," Claude commented as he lathered up his skin. "To hear the praise from such a master," the young man shrugged enviously, "I would give anything to have him as a teacher. Are you planning to enter any competitions?"

"Competitions?" Nick asked stupidly, then realized the mortal was talking about fencing tournaments. He started to laugh, but smothered it at Claude's insulted reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by that. No, I'm not planning to enter any public meets, if that's what you mean. I, uh, belong to a group that sponsors, uh, private tournaments." Yeah, private as in one-on-one to the death. Envy that, Mr. Tight Buns.

"Private, eh?" Claude looked at him speculatively. "May I assume you use bare blades, then? I've heard about such groups. Real blood sports, est-ce qu'ils ne sont pas?"

"What makes you think that?"

It was Claude's turn to laugh. "Your practice clothes today. You looked like you'd been in a knife throwing contest and everyone had a blade but you."

Nick swallowed, trying to think of a way to explain all the bloody nicks and cuts on his sweats. "Those were from another event," he hastily explained. "Old clothes. See?" he turned around in the shower to show his unmarred flesh. "Not a cut on me."

"Oui," Claude remarked, his eyes warming. "I see. Very nice. Very nice, indeed."

Nick blushed until he thought the roots of his hair would melt.

"You know, Monsieur Wolfe, I would be most grateful if you would tell me how you got Monsieur MacLeod to take you as a student." Claude ran the soap over his chest slowly, then down between his legs and through his curly, light brown pubic hair.

"I, uh..." Nick was suddenly speechless, remembering all the times Claude had asked about Mac, had found reasons to interrupt their practices, had stopped Mac at the desk to discuss scheduling of rooms. With a sinking flash of understanding, Nick realized Claude wanted Duncan MacLeod, and not just as a teacher. The possibility had simply never occurred to Nick, given Mac's unambiguously masculine nature. "Claude, if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, I don't think Mac is really into, uh..."

Claude laughed a low, seductive chuckle. "How can you be so sure?" he asked. "He is a man of, how do you say?" he gestured with one hand, "great experience, I think. Maybe it is you who do not see?" Claude turned back into the spray to rinse himself off.

Nick found himself watching, astonished that he was riveted by the sight of another man washing himself. Claude was small but compact and perfectly proportioned, with a well defined chest and rippling abdomen. The mortal gently massaged his half-erect cock, pulling back the foreskin and cradling his balls to rinse off all the soap.

What the fuck am I thinking? Shit.Nick turned the water temperature over to cold to discourage the sudden reaction his own lower anatomy was having to his wildly out-of-control imagination.

Methos settled comfortably into his usual chair at Maurice's and pretended to study the menu. He had long since memorized all the available items, but it served to hide his eyes as he leisurely examined the man sitting across from him. Mac leaned back in his seat and rolled his neck around to release tension or maybe just to stretch over-taxed muscles. He had gone home and showered and changed after the day's practice, dressing in casual slacks and a soft, loose, creamy silk shirt. His thick hair was getting overly long, and Methos hoped it was a sign that Mac was going to let it grow long again.  It framed an expression that was unusually calm and peaceful, but which changed to curiosity when Mac looked over at him.

"What are you looking at?" Mac asked.

Methos' ruse with the menu evidently wasn't working. "You," he answered honestly. "You are looking very pleased with yourself tonight." Methos continued before Mac could deny it. "And you have every reason to, you know. You were in absolute control today. Every move, every nuance a study in perfect hand to eye coordination, dazzling technique, and uncanny anticipation of your student's reaction and response. You were brilliant, never seen better."

Mac's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Uh, thank you. And?"

"And what?"

"You never complement me without a rather nasty 'and' or 'but' in there somewhere."

"You don't think I'm capable of giving you an unqualified complement? I'm hurt, Mac. Really, you wound me." Methos lay his hand upon his heart, letting a pained look cross his face.

It was an ineffective show, since Mac only snorted, shook his head and went back to his menu.

"I just thought for a control freak like you, this afternoon was a real triumph," Methos said, once again studiously examining the menu.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why should it mean anything other than what I said?" Methos answered innocently.

"Because everything you say means something other than what you said."

"Take it however you like, MacLeod. Do you suppose the duck is any good tonight?"

"The duck? What does the duck have to do with this? And what's wrong with being a stickler for control of a deadly weapon? The object of the exercise was to teach Nick not to kill him."

"No," Methos put down his menu, meeting his companion's eyes. "The object was to give him a taste of real combat and see how he would respond. After the first exchange, when you barely nicked him, he knew he was in no danger, that you were calling the tune every step of the way."

"So what did you expect me to do, stab him through the heart? That would have been a real confidence builder. I thought he did very well. There were several times when he almost cut me, and he's only been studying for what? Ten weeks? The kid's a natural!"

"Bullshit! He never came close. You just let him get close a couple of times to see what he would do. And you're right, he has great instincts, but most new Immortals do. Something in the genes, I suppose. No, Mac, my objection is not about how you train Nick, its about how you train yourself," Methos stated.

"This from a man who doesn't train at all," Mac's lips curved into a slight smile. He picked up the menu again. "And I wouldn't order the duck. Too much fat on it. Might clog your arteries. Or maybe your brain."

Methos leaned forward onto the table, speaking quietly. "There is such a thing as too much control, Mac. Nick is no fool. After he gets over the initial thrill of surviving this afternoon's exercise, he'll realize it was a lot more about Duncan MacLeod's fear of losing control than it was about Nick Wolfe's training. And I'm not telling you anything you don't know. You're just too tightly wound to admit it."

"Don't be ridiculous, I am not too tightly wound!"

Methos eyes glinted green in the flickering candlelight as he looked up when the waiter approached. "I rest my case," he stated with a smile. "I'll have the duck," he told the waiter.

Duncan MacLeod looked across the table at the oldest Immortal, uncertain whether he should be angry or amused. Methos had now taken up the wine list, studying it with rapt attention. Part of him wanted to pin down exactly when Methos' opinion of him became so important. It seemed to have been almost from the moment they had met, but it was still a source of constant amazement. No matter how irritating, condescending or interfering the man was, Mac never tired of Methos' caustic wit, his thoughtless grace, his much-touted and oft-contradicted supreme indifference to the fate of anyone but himself.

It didn't make the man any less annoying, however. And it belatedly occurred to Mac that he was, just by sitting here, violating one of his self-imposed restrictions. His proximity was toxic to his friends and here he was, once again trading barbs in a public restaurant. He closed his own menu and set it down, his appetite suddenly gone.

"Stop it, MacLeod."

"What?" Mac looked up to find Methos' gaze focused on him once again.

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

Mac frowned. He hated it when it felt like Methos was reading his mind. "You don't always know what I'm thinking, old man. As a matter of fact, I was just considering the idea that Nick might benefit from going against a variety of opponents. Perhaps you should spar with him next."

"Me?" Methos leaned back, shaking his head in denial. "Oh, no you don't. You're the kid's teacher. I'm the monitor. I watch. You sweat. That's the deal."

"Yeah, you watch me sweat, then stand around and criticize," Mac snapped.

Methos mobile mouth twisted to one side in a half-smile. "We each have our special talents, Mac. You sweat very nicely."  He picked up the wine list, reviewing it carefully.  "You're the gourmet, MacLeod, what wine would you suggest with duck?"

Mac's hands restlessly tinkered with the silverware for a moment while his eyes focused only on his empty plate. "Really, Methos, now that I've got Nick past the initial training stage, and I think he has picked up the basic forms and moves really well..."

"Oh, no you don't, MacLeod!" Methos shook his head in firm denial. "I'm the original boogey man, remember? Not fit for association with small children and new Immortals!"

"That's crap!" Mac snorted. "You make an excellent teacher, even if the lessons are hidden under a lot of bullshit. Take it from one who knows," he added almost under his breath.

"And you know only a small part of what I've been, and even that made you cringe, didn't it?" Methos snapped, suddenly serious. "You think I haven't abused that relationship? You even questioned me about Byron, for God's sake! What makes you think you can trust me with Nick Wolfe?"

MacLeod's large, dark eyes, always unnervingly luminous and deep, fixed him in a thoughtful stare. For several heartbeats, Methos waited while the Scot processed what he had said. His skin grew cold and he had to suppress a shiver that wanted to crawl down his spine. Why did he think that this time it would be different? Why did he put himself through this? Why did what this 400-year-old would-be hero-to-the-world think of him matter, anyway? The man was incapable of...

"Faith," MacLeod said.

"What?" Methos had not really been listening, too lost in his own sudden, almost irrational anger at Mac's propensity for casting judgment on anyone not meeting his exalted standards of behavior.

"Methos," MacLeod leaned closer, speaking very quietly, never letting his eyes leave the other Immortal's face. "I know what you were, at least a little of it. But I also know what you are. I've seen it. I've felt it. That's what kept me from assuming you were my enemy in Bordeaux. Instinct told me you were not what Cassandra believed you to be, and instinct kept me looking for a way not to kill you."

"Instincts can be wrong," Methos snapped, suddenly off-balance. "They can get you killed."

"Then they're wrong," Mac said with a matter-of-fact shrug. "But I wasn't wrong then, and I'm not wrong now. You would not harm Nick Wolfe. Not even if it put you in jeopardy."

"Now you are stretching it, MacLeod," Methos laughed. "And why would I give a rat's fuzzy behind about what happens to Nick Wolfe?"

Mac cocked his head, a smile quirking his lips. "Because you are a warm and caring human being?"

"I didn't come here to be insulted, you know," Methos muttered with a frown, returning his attention to the wine list.

"I know, I know. You came for the duck."

"Certainly not for the company!"

"Poor Methos, so put upon," Mac agreed solemnly. "I've changed my mind. I think you really ought to have the duck. As a matter of fact, have two. You'll need all those extra calories for your spar with Nick tomorrow."

"You are deluded, MacLeod."

"Perhaps. By the way, the '72 Cote Rotie will go best with your duck."

"You lie very poorly, Duncan," Methos replied quietly. "It's one of your most endearing and dangerous character flaws."  He called the waiter over, who had wandered away in frustration when his two patrons wanted to talk instead of order.  "We'll have a bottle of the '70 Haut-Brion."  He looked up with a smile. "My friend is paying."

The encounter with Claude had thrown Nick Wolfe completely off his stride. The afternoon's triumph paled in importance to his sudden confusion about his own feelings. He had never been attracted to a man, didn't even like Claude what's-his-name, so what was this sudden erotic surge at the sight or thought of a naked man?

Not just any naked man, he realized with a heart-stopping lurch of insight. As he walked home from practice he took the long way, just to give himself time to think. This hadn't been about Claude. He was still tingling from the excitement of the spar with MacLeod and the vision of the Scot's powerful, graceful body expertly wielding the deadly instrument of their Game overlaid itself across the sight of Claude's deliberately provocative, overtly sexual self-absorption.

Now this was getting really strange. As a cop, Nick had dealt with every conceivable lifestyle, up close and personal, and liked to think of himself as accepting of just about any lifestyle preference that didn't harm others. All the same, he had always been firmly entrenched in the heterosexual camp, and had even participated in mental and verbal queer-bashing on more than one occasion. It was not something he was proud of, but locker room jokes and stereotyping had been an inevitable part of his job. In his world, gays were limp-wristed, squeaky-voiced wimps who liked to suck other guys off in public bathrooms. Nick Wolfe had absolutely nothing in common with such people, and didn't want to have anything in common with them.

But to see another person, a male person he respected and admired, as just another human being full of the infinite possibilities of relationship, with a form that was interesting and appealing -- it was as though a door had opened in his mind and he was peeking through to another, fascinating dimension, another universe entirely. He was Immortal, after all.
Was his body suddenly recognizing that an unlimited lifespan opened up unlimited possibilities? Or was it just the excitement of the Game, the new and erotic thrall of feeling the power of the Quickening in such close proximity? Was that why MacLeod was so charismatic and so -- Nick reluctantly admitted to himself -- attractive? If he had felt in over his head before, Nick was now floundering in an ocean full of high winds and swells. He needed to talk to somebody, and it obviously couldn't be MacLeod.

Liam Riley hadn't helped at all. Nick left the church more confused and frustrated than ever. The good Father had smiled as Nick stammered out his uncertainty and blushingly confessed the direction his errant thoughts had recently taken.

"Think of it like going through adolescence all over again, Nick. After all these years, it seems unlikely that you would change your basic sexual orientation, but experimentation and partners of either sex among Immortals is inevitable," Liam had advised. "And Duncan is your first teacher, perhaps a little hero worship is also inevitable. And he is an extraordinarily attractive individual, after all. However, such a relationship, right now, is definitely not a good idea for reasons that have nothing to do with your new-found attraction to him."

"But I think it's not just his looks, or the fact that he 's my teacher, Liam. Doesn't it have something to do with the Game itself? When we fought, it became almost..." Nick hesitated, blushing again. "Erotic. Like foreplay."

Liam pursed his lips, shaking his head a little. "That's certainly possible. I haven't fought another Immortal in over 150 years, and the Gathering hadn't started then, either. The most I can remember feeling is scared out of my mind. The Quickening was awful, then gave me a hard-on that lasted for days. I finally got to a town and practically beggared myself paying for several nights in a whorehouse to get it out of my system. I'd hardly call it erotic, just painful and damned inconvenient. But my experience is very limited, both with Quickenings and with sex, I'm afraid. Although I've certainly heard some of the most bizarre stories you can possibly imagine in the confessional," he added brightly.

But the interview ended on a somewhat ominous note. For all that Liam had seemed unperturbed at the thought of Wolfe's attraction to another man, he had left him with a warning.

"Nick," he had said as they reached the outside church gate. "It's probably nothing, but..."

"But, what?"

"There's a reason Immortal teachers and students don't have sex." He raised his hand to prevent Nick interrupting. "It almost inevitably ends up badly for a variety of reasons. Mac knows this, I'm certain and he won't let anything happen that shouldn't, but I just don't want you to get caught up in this attraction for Mac. Not right now."

"What are you trying to say, Liam?"

The priest shrugged uncomfortably, shifting his feet, then shaking his head. "This is silly. Nothing bad is going to happen between you and MacLeod. But come talk to me first, if things start getting serious, okay? Promise?"

Yeah, right. Like he was going to run to a priest if he found himself on the verge of sex with a man. Right. "Sure, Father," Nick conjured up a smile.

Nick found himself wandering the streets after he left Father Liam. He knew he should go back to his apartment, that being out like this was dangerous, but he just couldn't face those same four walls right now, not with his mind in such turmoil. He walked over a bridge, pausing to stare into the gray-blue water glinting in the sun, then turned off St. Germaine, not heading in any particular direction, just letting his feet take him away from the river, away from MacLeod's barge, away from...what? This new reality had changed everything, had turned his whole existence upside down and now...even his sexuality?

Cold swept like a dash of ice water across his neck, up into his head and down his spine, bringing him to a sudden halt. Nick quickly scanned the street as he reached inside his light raincoat to touch the hilt of his rapier. A figure in a dark coat had stopped a half block behind him. Nick's heart was thumping so hard he couldn't really concentrate on the man's face. All he saw was one hand reaching inside the coat. He wasn't ready for this. What was he supposed to do now? It was broad daylight in the middle of a Paris street!

Nick turned, walking quickly up the next block and found himself on the Avenue du Maine. Ah, suddenly he knew where he was and turned left, now almost running, but still painfully aware of that cold presence dogging his steps. Here it was, the Cimetiere du Montparnasse. Holy Ground. Nick turned into the grounds of the ancient, crowded burial ground and quickly stepped down a narrow walk. He took a deep breath, then turned and waited.

The unknown Immortal stopped at the entrance, then walked forward a few steps and paused, looking Nick over with an amused appraisal that made Nick's hackles stir in irritation and aggression...and fear. He was used to being the aggressor, being in control and in charge. Nick suppressed a familiar surge of anger at the unwanted upheaval Amanda's interference had caused. Mac had taught him that anger was the real enemy, that it clouded judgment.

"What do you want?" Nick demanded. Stupid question, he realized immediately, but forced himself to stay silent and still.

"Andre Villiers, a votre service," the man bowed slightly from the waist. His French was slightly guttural, but otherwise excellent. "You are American, est-ce que vous n'etes pas?" he asked with a slight smile.

"Nicholas Wolfe," Nick replied.

"And very young, I think," Villiers stated, one eyebrow raised in question. He was tall and lean, but his skin had that suntouched cast that bespoke of hours on Mediterranean beaches. His clothes were very expensive. Light, loose silk sweater, Burbury coat, brown hair carefully cut to look fuller than it was. He had light eyes that were hard to read, and a mouth that seemed permanently twisted in disdain.

"But not defenseless." Nick eased the rapier out of his coat enough so that Villiers could see that he was armed.

Villiers chuckled, raising his hands to show they contained no weapon. "You were the one who stepped onto holy ground." He stepped slightly closer, but Nick reflexively backed away, so he stopped. "You need a teacher, perhaps, Mr. Wolfe? There are many things you could learn from me."

"I have a teacher!" Nick snapped, suddenly confused. What did this guy want, if not to take his head?

"Oh? And who is that?" Villiers asked, that annoying smile still curving a wide, thin mouth.

"Duncan MacLeod!" Nick announced with a certain amount of haughty pride, then went cold as Villiers' eyebrows went up. Mac had warned that other Immortals would use Nick to get to him. Had he just blithely walked into that trap?

"Well, well, aren't you the lucky one, then?" Villiers stepped closer and Nick found himself backed against the cold marble of an ancient obelisque. "Tell the Highlander we met and that he now owes me. We will meet again, no doubt. Perhaps when I see your teacher? I hope that happens before you have had your first taste of a Quickening." Villiers reached up, his cold fingers touching Nick's jaw until Nick jerked his head away. "It might be...fun." With a wicked, mischievous smile, Villiers bowed slightly, turned on his heel and left. In only a moment, Nick realized he could no longer feel any Immortal presence, and his knees almost gave out from beneath him.

Methos gathered up his lecture notes, placing them neatly in a folder inside his sports bag. His carefully cultivated messiness was really only a character trait of Adam Pierson, exaggerated to annoy MacLeod, of course. When it came to knowledge, to recorded words, he was always meticulous. Several students followed him out, peppering him with questions and requests for appointments. One lovely coed had been particularly persistent.

"Adam?" she widened her lovely green eyes at him. "I've been working on my thesis topic and would really love to go over it with you," she gushed.

Methos went very still when the presence of another Immortal washed over him. Damn! He didn't really have time for this. "Great, Juliette" Prof. Pierson responded. "Leave your notes off at my office and I'll read it and get back to you with any comments I have." He turned away from his disappointed student while his eyes searched the crowd in the hallway. His focus settled on Nick Wolfe hovering near the exit, looking nervous and unhappy.

Nick followed him out of the building, his hands stuck deep into the pockets of the incongruous new raincoat worn on a sunny, summer day. Methos found a shady spot under a tree out on the quad and sank down with a sigh, draping his arms over his knees.

"Well?" He looked up at Nick, then patted the ground beside him. "Pull up a leaf and sit down," he invited.

Nick just squatted, his hands laced together, forearms resting on his thighs. He was pale and a fine sheen of sweat dampened his forehead.

"Spit it out, Nicholas," Adam instructed, then he smiled and held up his hand. "No, wait, don't tell me. You ran into another Immortal and he made threatening noises at you." The brush of presence he had felt the night before must mean someone was out hunting, and whoever it was had probably just stumbled across the new Immortal. All the more reason to figure out who the bastard was. "The only real question is why you came to me and not MacLeod."

"I...he...He knew about Mac, had heard of him, and I was afraid..."

Pierson nodded sagely as Nick faltered. "That he would just use you to get to Mac. Well, we knew that was a risk." Adam shrugged. "But he didn't threaten you or take you hostage. He'll probably eventually track Mac down, but that was inevitable whether he had run into you or not. I wouldn't worry about it."

"I don't want Mac to have to fight someone just because of me," Nick said, his brows beetled together. "He's...he's too important..."

"...to lose?" Pierson finished for him, giving him a hard, close look. "In just about any fair fight Mac can take care of himself, Nick. Or is there something else that's bothering you?" he asked, his head tilting to the side to watch his troubled young companion.

Nick finally sank down to the grass. "I'm confused," he said with a disconsolate sigh.

Pierson's mouth twitched, but he somehow managed to control the chuckle that threatened to escape. He leaned back against a tree and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. His hands folded together neatly in his lap and he carefully arranged his expression into patient listening mode. "Okay, Nick. Exactly what are you confused about?"

"Something's been happening to me lately, probably since I...died, but I really began to notice it after Mac and I sparred."

Nick paused long enough that Pierson felt it necessary to prompt him. "And what's that?" he asked.

"When Mac gave me that lecture about the battles between Immortals being a, uh...well, kind of a turn-on, being addictive, I thought it was sort of a joke, you know? After all, just because I got a boner doesn't mean...doesn't mean anything! It's just that..."

"It's just that now you can't stop thinking about it, and your whole world has suddenly turned upside down because there's a universe of possibilities out there that simply never occurred to you before."

"Well...yeah...sort of."

"Look, Nick, I've seen it happen time and again. A new Immortal's paradigm shift can be slow or fast, traumatic or simply enlightening, but it comes to all of us eventually. And I think things happen more quickly now, in an age when everything has become about speed. Speed of travel, speed of communication, speed of growing up." He laughed, almost to himself. "You'd think that time would not be particularly important to someone like me...like us," he corrected himself. "But even time changes, trust me on that one."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Nick sounded both mystified and annoyed. "I come in here to confess to you that I am attracted to a man for the first time in my life, to my own teacher, for God's sake, and you give me a lecture on the nature of time?" Nick surged to his feet, walking away, then pacing back. "Are you telling me that all Immortals are qu...are homosexual? Oh, boy," he sighed, running his fingers through his hair in distraction. "I didn't bargain for this. No, way!"

"You didn't bargain for this," Pierson repeated, almost to himself, his expression suddenly moving from benign amusement to a cold, steely stare. He leaned forward, ambiguous multi-colored eyes pinning his young companion. "Well, bargain for this, then, Mister Wolfe. You are Immortal! A candidate for the final Prize that may very well determine the fate of humankind. You think that comes easy? You think it's supposed to come easy?"

The metallic eyes softened a little as he watched the ruddy color drain completely from the young man's face. He leaned back against the tree, regarding Nick now with an indulgent, speculative smile. "Grow up, Nick. You should feel lucky. Today's society is really a lot more understanding about such things than a lot of them have been. Just think of what Mac had to overcome. He grew up in a world where sex between men was equivalent to or worse than fucking sheep! Although, when you think about it, sheep really aren't so bad. Never a question of having to deal with the morning after, no jealous husband or outraged father, doesn't require a condom or anyth...."

"For God's sake, Pierson, are you incapable of focusing on one thing for more than ten seconds at a time?! I...wait a minute," Nick stopped himself abruptly. "Are you saying that Mac...?" Nick shook his head in denial. "No! I've known lots of gay guys and he's as hetero as they come! You, maybe. But MacLeod? Not a chance!"

Pierson let a long silence pass, until Nick sat back down again, flushing again in embarrassment and confusion, unable to meet his eyes. When the young man seemed have suffered enough humiliation at last, Pierson's tone was gentle and conciliatory.

"You are just beginning to see the world through different eyes, Nick. And no, Immortals aren't generally gay. They aren't usually exclusively heterosexual either. Like most of humanity, each of us has general preferences, but the notion of exclusivity gets a little silly when you have either an infinite amount of time, or no time at all, and when sex has nothing to do with procreation. It takes some of us longer than others. I think Mac was well into his seventies before he had more than a passing encounter with another man. It all depends on the society and times in which we were raised."

Nick sat and blinked a few times, as though trying to see through clouded vision. "So the whole sex thing is for real?" he whispered. "If it's so common, why did Mac warn me off? Am I repulsive to him or something?"

Pierson's bark of laughter did not seem all that humorous. There was an edge to it that almost sounded like derision or...irritation. "No, Mr. Wolfe, that's not what's going on here. Not everything is about you, you know."

Methos carefully gathered his thoughts before continuing, contemplating his original objectives in getting MacLeod to teach the boy in the first place. He had wanted Mac to come out of his shell, to reconnect with his friends, specifically to reconnect with one very old friend and sometime lover. Mac had walled himself away, hoping that those walls would protect himself and everyone else. But walls only blinded you to what was on the other side.
He had thought to use Nick Wolfe to break down those walls, without thinking of the other danger -- that Wolfe would see MacLeod as a person of compelling magnetism -- physically, intellectually and emotionally. Methos had been willfully blind not to see this coming, and now Wolfe, himself, was both a threat and greatly at risk. Mac had been right in the first place. This had been a bad idea. A very, very bad idea, and now Methos had to figure out a way to get Nick out of Mac's orbit without triggering all the Scot's protective instincts.

"Mac told you at the beginning that he was a risk, a danger to you," Pierson pulled his legs up, loosely holding onto his knees as he chose his words carefully. "There are many layers of danger here, Nick. His is a powerful Quickening. You've felt it when you sparred, that excitement, the desire to take what he's got. That desire translates through some part of your brain and expresses itself the way desire has always been expressed, sexual tension. That's what you're feeling, that intense need."

Methos let his eyes darken and his face get cold and serious, watching Nick's body react as it tensed and leaned in slightly. "But if you get too close, if you push too hard, what Mac fears is that he will lose control, that his own desires will take over. He could kill you in a heartbeat, Nick. One second of lost concentration and MacLeod would be wallowing in your Quickening."

"But you said he would never..."

"I know what I said, but I saw what happened when you two sparred. You could practically smell it in the air. The two of you are, perhaps, too much alike. You were each feeding off of the competition, the need to be the alpha male. And Mac's lost it before, you know. Killing his student wasn't the first time."

Nick Wolfe regarded Methos for a long, silent minute. The young man's eyes were oddly blank of expression, almost ferally curious, making his surname potently appropriate. "Why the warning now?" Nick asked slowly. "You were the one who pushed me into asking him to be my teacher."

Pierson shrugged. "I still think he was the best teacher for you, your best option to learn what you need to survive in the short term. But now I think you need to find someone else. Someone less dangerous than MacLeod."

Wolfe smiled, his teeth showing slightly. "You may not trust Mac, but I do, and I've barely begun to learn what I need to know. Why should I go to someone else when I've got the best right here, and willing to teach me? As for the rest, well, you've given me a lot to think about." Wolfe pushed himself to his feet with an easy ripple of powerful arms. "Should at least make for some interesting dreams, eh?" he cocked an almost insultingly saucy grin at the other man and sauntered off.

Methos watched the man retreat into the rest of the traffic of attractive young student bodies strolling in the warm sun of the grassy quadrangle. Shit! That's all he needed, another cocky, stubborn smartass who never listened to his elders.

~~~~~~~

Chapter Five

Classes were over for the day, and Prof. Adam Pierson had a completely free afternoon for the first time in weeks. Oddly enough, he didn't really welcome the spare time. He had truly enjoyed watching Mac train Nick Wolfe. There was something wonderfully theatrical about a young Immortal so hot for a Quickening that you could see his eyes dilate, his face flush, his whole body just at the near edge of arousal. It had all been very...titillating.

A diversion that would now have to come to an end, if Wolfe's concerns were to be believed. And Methos believed. He could almost smell it, that raw sexuality combined with all the Immortals around, plus the constant subliminal pull of the Gathering. Put that together with MacLeod's remarkable personal magnetism and it spelled trouble with a capital "T".

Well, he did have one chore to do, and perhaps this mystery Immortal both he and Nick had encountered could provide the solution. It was too far to walk to Joe's, so he headed to the nearest entrance and stepped down the stairs into the echoing depths of Paris' Metro. He passed through the turnstile, followed the corridor to the platform, then waited, leaning against the welcome coolness of the tile walls, half closing his eyes, always aware of the teeming movement around him, but distancing himself from it.

Then his eyes flew open. There was an Immortal here, just coming into range. Methos pushed himself away from the wall and scanned the crowd. The mingling bodies moved and shifted like a kaleidoscope of humanity, with one unmoving participant in a long coat. He was tall. Thin in that pre-adolescent way of knobby wrists and elbows, his head a little too large for his body. Their eyes met just as a train roared into the station, stopping with a noisy huff and a rattle. Methos waited a few heartbeats, then walked slowly toward the train doors and stepped into a crowded car.

The other Immortal moved towards him, but was too far away to make it to Methos' car in time, so he stepped into a car further down the track. A musical chime signaled the imminent closing of the doors, but just as the opening narrowed, Methos slipped back through. He watched as the train pulled out, just catching sight of his pursuer as his face flashed by.

So, there was, indeed, an Immortal stalker in town. Was he after Nick, or was he after Adam Pierson, or was he using either or both of them to get to MacLeod, who was by far the most notorious Immortal in the City of Lights? Interesting. Depending on the nature of this hunter's skills, it might be possible to resolve this little connundrum with Wolfe once and for all.

Methos headed back up the stairs, deciding to take a cab to Joe's.

"What makes you think I'll tell you a damn thing?" Joe ended up asking, eyeing him suspiciously. Methos had tried to be subtle in his attempt to extract information, but the perceptive barkeep and long-time Watcher was not being fooled. "So you see some guy you don't know on the subway, so what? Do what you usually do." Joe waved his bar towel at him. "Skip town, go to ground for a few weeks or months or years, set Mac on him...whatever. What makes this asshole any different?"

"Because Mac is worried the guy might come after Nick just to get to him," Methos lied smoothly. "Nick was chased by somebody the other day. It almost has to be the same guy. And Joe," Methos leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. "Can you imagine Mac's reaction if Nick got killed by some hunter who was really just out to get MacLeod? He'd probably disappear into the woodwork for the next hundred years."

Joe looked at him, his lips tight with irritation, uncertainty and disgust. The noise he finally made when he threw down the towel was part animal growl, part raspberry, part sigh. "Damn you and damn MacLeod and damn Nick Wolfe and damn Amanda!" he muttered. He snatched up his cane and stumped over to a back table where he had his laptop set up.

"Ah, sure an' ye'r a fine friend, Joseph Dawson," Methos replied in a broad Irish accent, unperturbed by the global cursing of so many members of his race. He followed him over and settled into a nearby chair by turning it backwards and straddling it, leaning his head on his arms to try to look over Dawson's shoulder.

Dawson stabbed at the keys for a few minutes, contemplating the screen with a frown. "Well," he reluctantly said, "The only new Immortal in town answering your description is only thirty-three years old. Been Immortal for about 15 years, only recently split from his teacher and has taken very few heads. I can't imagine him being much of a threat to anyone. And that," he shut the laptop lid with a snap, "is as much information as you're gonna get from me."

"It's plenty." Methos pushed himself out of his chair and squeezed Joe's shoulder, aware that both he and Mac periodically abused this man's loyalty and friendship. On one level he regretted it, but the Watchers were, after all, an unwelcome and sometimes fatal intrusion into their private lives. Using the information they gathered seemed only fair, so long as it wasn't used to...well, Methos didn't want to think about that right now. This time, both Mac and Joe would probably think he was crossing the line. But then, both of them tended to view life in the terms of the now, the immediate, rather than in the long view.

And Methos was an expert on the long view.

Mac prepared carefully for his next spar with Nick, although it seemed a little easier each time, and he and the young man had developed an easy camaraderie. Nick had a lot of rough edges, a lot of preconceptions and did not yet have a real appreciation both for the opportunities and the dangers of his new immortality. All the same, Mac recognized a firm set of values, someone who shared his own respect for mortal lives, and for the need to not stand by doing nothing when they were threatened.

The meditation, followed by a long, slow physical warmup, always centered his thoughts and his body. In recent years he had learned to pay proper respect to his own dark urges instead of simply denying their existence.

He had arrived at the academie a couple of hours early, and was finishing off his last kata when he felt the tingle of Immortal presence that was unique to Methos. Speaking of dark urges, the thought flickered through his mind as the man sauntered in.

Sauntered. Methos probably invented it, moving with a loose-limbed grace that always drew Mac's eye and sparked his imagination. This wasn't helping to sustain the serenity he had just spent two hours achieving.

"You're a little early," Mac had finished his move and crossed to his sports bag to pull out a towel to wipe his face and neck.

Methos dropped his canvas bag and leaned up against the wall, eyeing Mac with a look that only further damaged the impact of his meditations. He wished Methos wouldn't do that. Their relationship was already too complicated.

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

Damn. This wasn't good. Couldn't possibly be good. "Yeah? What about?" Mac busied himself pulling out his katana and carefully rubbing it down with a soft cloth.

"I think there's an Immortal out for Nick."

Mac's practiced, almost ritualistic movements paused, then continued. "What makes you think that?"

"Nick told me. He didn't want to worry you."

"Is he out for Nick, or is he really out for me?" Mac asked. He concentrated on wrapping the katana in soft material so it would be protected, but still ready for use when Nick arrived.

"I don't know, but somehow I doubt that Nick cares. Like his teacher, he tends to rush in where fools fear to tread."

"You think he actually plans to try to fight this guy?!" Mac turned on Methos accusingly.

"Hey, I have no idea. I just thought you might want to know." Both men turned towards the door as they felt Nick's approach. Mac turned back to Methos with a hard, questioning look, but Methos just cocked his head and gave his usual, annoying enigmatic shrug and boyish smile.

Nick did seem particularly aggressive during the spar, so Mac pressed him, catching him several times in completely indefensible positions, trying to teach, trying to support and encourage and praise, but also trying to discourage over-confidence. Not recognizing their own limitations was the most frequent cause of death among Immortals in their first twenty years. The thought of statisticians making little charts about such things made Mac smile grimly, until he saw Nick get an answering, rather feral smile on his face.

Then Nick attacked with a series of aggressive moves that backed Mac up until he tripped over his own sports bag, slamming against the wall of mirrors. Nick pressed close, leaning his whole body in, the smile widening to a leer, and Mac could feel Wolfe's erection ridged hard against his thigh.

"Feeling good about ourselves today, are we?" Mac asked, breathless from the exertion.

"Oh, yeah. Feeling real good," Nick answered, pressing his groin more deliberately into Mac's leg.

Well, well, well. The boy was growing up fast. Maybe a little too fast. Mac hooked a leg around Nick's calf at the same time he shoved up hard with his elbows, throwing Nick's blade aside and managing to catch Nick hard on the chin in the process.

Nick ended up on the floor staring at the ceiling with a dazed expression on his face. Mac knelt beside him. "You met up with an Immortal recently and didn't tell me?" he demanded.

Nick rubbed his chin, shook his head a little to clear it, then nodded.

"Where?"

"Uh, on Rue du Maine, near the Cemeterie du Montparnasse. Mac, I didn't want you to..."

"Did you agree to a challenge?"

Nick sat up on his elbows rubbing his chin, refusing to meet Mac's eyes. "No! He just seemed to be sort of...toying with me. Wanted to know if I wanted a teacher. When I told him you were my teacher he said something about us meeting again after you and he...well, I was a little flustered and I don't exactly remember. It only lasted a minute or two."

"Do you think he had been following you?"

Nick obviously resented Mac's peremptory tone, but gritted his teeth and answered smoothly. "No. I'm an ex-cop, remember? I would have noticed someone following me. I think it was a chance encounter. I gave him your name without intending to, Mac. I...I'm sorry."

For a few heartbeats, Mac hesitated, his ire dimming in the face of Nick's admirable restraint and candor, even if he had demonstrated nearly criminal stupidity before. And now Mac had placed another student, another friend, in jeopardy. "But now he knows you're my student." Mac stood, his katana tucked close behind his right shoulder.

"Mac, I can take care of myself!" Nick pushed himself to his feet.

"NO!" Mac swung around, the katana slicing through the air to come to a dead stop a hair's breadth from Nick's jugular. "You can't take care of yourself! Don't you understand? It will be years before you have a chance against anyone with the necessary experience to even consider coming after me. That's not arrogance, Nick, that's just a fact."

Mac lowered the blade and turned away. Nick instinctively touched his throat, then inspected his fingers to see if there was blood.

"I want you to work out on your own or spar with Adam until I track this guy down. Stay with him, or in crowds if you can. If you feel him again, head for Father Riley's place and stay there!" Mac wiped down his blade and tucked it away in his bag.

Methos watched Nick babble useless protests as Mac left the salon without another word. Nick's eyes finally pulled away from the door as it banged shut. "Is he always that stubborn and controlling?"

Methos shrugged. "Four hundred years is a lot of time to fine-tune character traits."

Nick stomped over to pick up his sword, swinging it in frustrated anger. "Okay, Pierson. Mac wants us to spar, are you up to it?"

"Am I up to it?" Methos smiled, the double meaning clearly intended.

Mac barely managed a polite nod to Claude, who, as usual, seemed anxious to talk to him. He managed to slip past him and get halfway down the steps of the building before it registered what the young man had been trying to say to him. He turned and went back into the building.

"You said there was a message?"

Claude seemed quite excited about it, bouncing on his feet, blathering in rapid-fire French that quickly degenerated into nearly incomprehensible backstreet slang that revealed origins belying his carefully cultivated, sophisticated facade.

"Calm down, Claude. Take a deep breath, and tell me what happened," Mac instructed slowly.

"This man, this Monsieur Villiers, he comes into the salon, asks lots of questions about you, and tries to interrupt you. I said non! I said you had given strict instructions, but the man, he does not listen. He pushed me! Then he grabs my arm, here. See? There is already a bruise," Claude waived his arm in front of Mac's face.

"I'm sorry he hurt you, Claude." Mac gently took the arm over the top of the counter. Sure enough, there were dark indentations in the pale skin of Claude's forearm. "Did he say where..."

"But then he...he came behind the desk and, he," Claude had gone pale, then bright red, his head ducking down, unable to meet Mac's eyes.

"He what?" Mac demanded.

"He traps me up against the desk and put his hands on me," Claude confessed, his face hot with embarrassment. "He said things about you, and about your student." Claude's chin raised defiantly. "But I know they are not true, and I told him this."

Mac took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing away his anger that an Immortal had drawn this mortal bystander into the ugliness of their Game. "I don't know what to say, Claude. You shouldn't have had to put up with that. Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

Claude stood up straight and a tight smile touched his lips. "I do know how to defend myself, Monsieur. Sometimes, being not so tall can be an advantage, eh?" He mimed bringing up his knee, hard and fast. "The gentleman was left, how do you say, grasping his acorns?"

Mac chuckled. "Holding his nuts, you mean. Good for you, Claude."

Claude almost preened at the praise. He leaned onto his forearms over the dark mahogany expanse of the reception counter. "You know, Monsieur MacLeod, I would very much like to take the lessons from you. I, uh, have not much money, but it would please me very greatly to...repay you in any way you wish." His voice was quiet, almost breathy as the boy batted his eyelashes in brash, open flirtation.

It was an effort to prevent a sigh of frustration. Of all the times and places he did not want to have this conversation...."I will be happy to give you a few fencing lessons, and you don't need to worry about payment. Now did this Monsieur Villiers...."

"I don't want you to misunderstand," Claude insisted. He reached out and daringly lay his hand over Mac's. "It would give me great pleasure to discover what pleases you."

Mac gently extricated his hand. "Mai non, Claude. Ceci ne devrait pas être. Vous avez fait bien avec Monsieur Villiers. Très bien. Vous remercier beaucoup."

Claude smiled sadly. "Ah, well. There is someone else, yes? Perhaps I was wrong about Monsieur Wolfe, then."

"No. You weren't wrong about Nick, now did Villiers leave..."

"You mean it is the skinny man avec le grand nez?" Claude looked vaguely scandalized as he waved his hand in the general direction of his face.

Mac really didn't want to go there. "Claude," he said sharply, trying to move the man's mind away from his hormones. "Did Villiers leave a number where I can reach him?"

"You intend to see this man?! But he is un bâtard. Un chien sale!"

"Claude!"

"All right, all right, if you insist. Here. He left this for you," Claude reluctantly handed Mac a business card.

The spar lasted only a short while. Methos was much less forgiving than Mac, and Nick was already tired. While it felt good to spar, Methos would have preferred a more challenging opponent. Facing off with MacLeod was always a treat because they were well matched and felt free to push the margins of safety. With Nick, most of his effort was spent trying to not hurt the guy. He was pretty good for a beginner, and he was a stubborn SOB, but after the third time he ended up disarmed and on the floor, Nick raised his hands in surrender.

"Enough!" Nick gasped, reaching up and grasping the hand offered, and hauling himself to his feet.

For a few moments of silence, the two men cleaned their weapons and straightened the room.

"I want to find that Immortal before Mac does," Nick suddenly announced. He had been thoughtfully folding his towel and putting it away, and was now just staring into his bag as though it held some secret truth.

"That would be a very bad idea, Nick."

"I've got to do it sometime, Adam. I'm tired of being afraid."

Methos considered his options. According to Joe, the Immortal he had seen was new, not that much more experienced than Nick, and Nick was really pretty good, considering. But Mac would be incensed if he thought Methos had facilitated the challenge. On the other hand, if Nick did manage to find the guy, take his first Quickening and gain some confidence and power, that experience could easily get him past this current fixation the man had on MacLeod. And he could be sent on his way to another teacher far more easily.

And Methos would make it his business to see that was exactly what happened, leaving Mac free of obligation. Everybody would gain.

"Let's go see Joe Dawson," Methos offered.

"You'd help me?" Nick seemed surprised.

"Sure. What are friends for?" Methos replied with a boyish grin. "And after all, Mac said to stay in public places right? A bar seems like a good place to be."

As Mac's guests at the academie, they had to sign out on the way past the front desk. As Methos scribbled in the book, he glanced up to find the desk clerk staring at him. "Is there something wrong?" he asked.

The pretty young man blushed. "Non! No, monsieur. I apologize."

Methos narrowed his eyes, considering. The boy was flustered for some reason. "What happened..." Methos dredged his memory for a moment for the kid's name, finally coming up with it, "Claude?"

Nick listened to Claude's colorful recitation of his encounter with Villiers with growing frustration. The man was clearly enjoying the fact that he had a riveted audience and was milking the occasion for all it was worth, demonstrating the brief tussle behind the desk, and mimicking Villiers' body language after he had given the man a swift kick in the gonads.

It seemed like hours before Pierson managed to get Claude to impart any truly useful information, like the fact that Villiers had left a card.

"And do you remember what the card said?" Adam asked.

"Well it said his name, of course!" Claude looked insulted.

"Do you remember a number, an address?" Pierson leaned in, fixing the clerk with a hard stare.

"Do you expect me to memorize every business card someone leaves, monsieur?"

"Okay," Pierson said softly, circling rounding behind the counter and backing Claude to the wall. "Tell me anything you remember about the card, Claude. Anything at all." Suddenly, the room was dense with the menace in Pierson's voice, and Nick was vividly reminded of how little he knew about this man.

"But I do not remember! There was a name and number on the front, and he wrote something on the back, but it made no sense." Claude had gone pale and a light glistening of sweat had popped out on his high forehead.

"And what did the writing say?"

"LeMarc. 2:30"

Pierson gently patted Claude on the cheek and stepped back. "Very good, Claude. Tre bien. Merci."

Nick glanced at his watch and grimaced. It was already 2:20. It would take at least a half hour to reach the old LeMarc Engines factory site.

As a near-term candidate for demolition, the crumbling factory had already been stripped of anything usable, the vast interior now just a jumble of exposed, rusted rebar and steel pillars. The floor had probably once been vinyl tile, but it, too, had been stripped away to the ancient concrete below. The high mullioned windows were mostly bare frames, and the afternoon sunlight caught on thousands of tiny glass shards littering the floor, which sparkled as though the concrete had been embedded with glitter. Metal catwalk grates built to maintain what must have once been an acre of enormous machinery were stretched like intricate spider webs overhead.

Methos paused to inspect the interior as they stepped into the vast, echoing room. Wolfe's feet made a gritty, grinding noise on the glass and dirt as he paced restlessly behind him.

"Charming," Methos muttered as he looked around. "We do hang out in the nicest places."

Then both sets of eyes shifted toward the shadows at the far end, at least 150 feet away. Wolfe broke into a trot, reaching inside his coat for his rapier, the sounds of movement and metal against metal echoing in the huge chamber.

"Nick, wait!" Methos called, but the young man was now running towards the noise. "Idiot!" Methos growled, as he took off after the youngster.

Methos arrived on the scene just in time to pull Nick back from diving into the middle of the fray. "No, Nick! You can't interfere!" he gasped, holding the bigger man tight around the upper chest.

"But he was after me!" Nick shouted, his voice echoing back at them in the big, empty space.

"Not exactly," Methos hissed into Nick's ear. "He was after Duncan MacLeod's student. You just happened to fill the bill. And you are lucky Mac found him first. This guy is good." Methos realized with a sickening sensation that whoever this was, it wasn't the man he had encountered on the metro, and he certainly was no slouch as a swordsman. Then they had to scurry out of the way as Villiers backpedaled in their direction, fending off MacLeod's flurry of blows. Mac didn't even acknowledge their presence, his concentration totally focused on his opponent. He was cut in a few places, none of them serious, but enough to demonstrate to Nick that this was a serious opponent.

But Mac must have been more aware than they had realized. As Villiers dashed past them, and up a creaking, ancient metal stairway to the catwalks, Duncan growled "Get out of here!" at one or both of them, then followed his prey, his coat billowing behind him like great, dark wings.

Nick backed up to watch the two men scrambling up and up again, their footsteps making an irregular, echoing metallic thumping counterpoint to the cymbal crash of their blades. Mac was relentless in his attack, pressing Villiers back up against the railing time and again.

Methos' attention was split between the fight above and watching Nick below. The young man's face was flushed with excitement, his eyes wide and dilated, his lips pulled into a feral smile as he watched the combatants. With each thrust and parry he bounced on the balls of his feet, as though subconsciously participating in the deadly ballet being danced above them.

Nick jerked and gulped with fear and Methos looked up. Villiers had shifted position and strategy, now on the attack, pressing Mac back toward the stairs, taking an enormous, desperate risk along with a nasty slice along his ribs. The risk paid off when Mac's foot encountered a weak spot on the grid and it gave with a harsh squeal. Mac stumbled, fell back and Villiers pressed his advantage.

Methos heard Nick yell a warning as Mac took a deep stab wound into his shoulder. He had nowhere to retreat in the confinement of the narrow catwalk, and no room to swing his blade. But as Villiers drew back for a fatal blow, Mac rolled towards him, grabbing him around the knees and throwing him into the guardrail until Villiers was flailing the air for balance. With an earsplitting squeal of tearing, bending metal, the rail gave way and, almost in slow motion, the two men tumbled at least twenty feet to the concrete, landing with a sickening thud accompanied by the clatter of their blades.

Their harsh breathing filled the space, along with Villiers' low groan. He had landed hard on his back and lay stunned and almost motionless. MacLeod had tucked in his body as he fell, taking the blow on his right shoulder before he rolled and tumbled, landing in a heap up against a steel pillar.

Methos stomach lurched when he saw that Mac's right arm was hanging at an unnatural angle, but Mac barely paused, using his left arm to push himself to his feet, staggering for a moment, then shuffling over to where Villiers still lay.

"Get up!" he snarled.

"Mac!" Methos shouted in dismay. "For Chrissake, just kill the bastard!"

Mac ignored him.

"Get up!" Mac yelled again.

Villiers raised his head, then rolled over to his side, pushing himself to hands and knees. He groped for his blade, then managed to make it to a standing position.

Nick was in a state of surreal sensory overload. The Quickening energy in the room, the life and death battle, the sights and sounds had affected him almost as though he were a participant. He found himself gasping slightly through his mouth, his heart pounding, his whole body straining towards the combatants, wanting to be there, wanting to be one of them. He found both hands on his rapier, convulsively gripping its hilt, sweat pooling in the creases of his skin, and his dick hard, hot and throbbing in his pants. He couldn't take his eyes off of his teacher.

MacLeod watched Villiers like an eagle follows a rabbit. There was a powerful inevitability to the whole scene, made all the more thrilling by the violence already wrought upon both men. Villiers was a stumbling, bleeding wreck, and the Highlander was smeared with dirt and blood, his sword arm clearly dislocated from his shoulder, but whose spirit and will was indomitable. Villiers grunted, raising his blade with both hands, once again on the attack, but Mac parried, using his left hand as easily as he had used his right.

The left-handed style sent Villiers stumbling back as he was forced to completely change his expectations and strategy, but it was too late. Mac swung low, striking deep into the man's belly, cutting all the way across. Villiers convulsed forward, his sword slipping nervelessly out of his hands. On his knees, doubled over, he raised his eyes one last time. With a whistling of wind, Mac swirled his whole body in a graceful pirouette, needing the momentum to cut clean with only one hand. And the deed was done.

Nick had seen it before while still mortal, had been sickened by it, a revulsion that had fed his rejection and fear of becoming Immortal himself. The head flew away from the body and for a brief, horrifying second the young man saw Villier's eyes widened in comprehension, and knew that at that moment, the brain still functioned, that he was aware. A shudder worked its way from Nick's gut even as he found himself moving forward, towards the mist that rose from Villier's body and stretched its tendrils towards MacLeod.

Then Pierson was there, holding his arm. "Stay away," Adam instructed, his voice barely heard above the wind rising inside the building. "This is very dangerous for you." But Nick needed to be closer, needed to feel what it was like.

"Leave me alone!" Nick snapped, yanking his arm away. The mist had now encompassed MacLeod, who stood, eyes closed, breathing heavily, his face set in grim anticipation. Then it began, the massive release of energy that always followed the transfer of one Immortal's essence to another. A blast of white hot electricity erupted, danced along the overhead catwalks, then found its way back to Mac, who jerked and grimaced, stumbling back until he ran into a steel beam.

Nick wanted to help his teacher, who was in obvious agony as now blast after blast of unbridled power speared his body, pinning him helplessly against the beam. But he also wanted to be there to feel that power for himself. It was a draw as inevitable and irresistible as the sensuality of a beautiful, naked woman. His mouth watered, his stomach churned, and his dick, oh, Christ, but he was hard.

Pierson was yelling something at him, pulling on him, but Nick could hardly hear him over the noise, and reflexively shoved him away. Another blast thundered through the space and this time, the aging, weakened catwalk gave way entirely and with an ear-splitting cacophony of grinding, screeching metal, crashed to the floor around them, sending spears of handrails and steel supports tumbling and flying. Nick fell towards Mac, dodging flying debris but still irresistibly compelled to get closer to the source of all that power.

With a final nerve-shattering screech, the last catwalk section fell, and an eerie silence descended. Nick dared look up. Mac was still standing, slumped against the pillar, eyes closed, ghastly pale. Pierson was...where was he? Nick looked back, finally spotting him amongst the debris, lying either dead or unconscious. It was impossible to tell with the thrumming inside his head and body, as though he were surrounded, almost consumed by Immortal presence pulling him towards its source, like water down a drain.

He had reached Mac. Was close enough to touch his icy hands, his hot torso. "Duncan?" he whispered, fingers moving over the man's face, his neck. His teacher seemed barely conscious, eyes half-shut, focus entirely inward. The right shoulder had somehow moved back into its socket during the Quickening, but Mac's arm was still hanging heavy and limp. Nick pulled off the tattered dark coat, inspecting the multitude of cuts and tears in Mac's clothing, but the healing had erased all evidence of the wounds, leaving behind only blood and dirt and smooth, golden skin.

Mac swallowed, then gasped slightly, licking his dry lips before exhaling a soft groan. He rolled his head, his hand covering his groin as he grimaced with pain or frustration or passion or exhaustion -- it was impossible to tell. Nick took a shuddering deep breath. Here it was, presented in a stunning package of power and presence, and all his confusion and fear evaporated like rain on a hot sidewalk after a summer storm. Want filled him, consumed him. Mac's lips tasted both salty and sweet. He had never kissed a man before and the feeling of soft full lips as well as rough stubble was exciting and totally new. Mac opened his mouth, suddenly responsive, both their swords clattered to the floor and his hands were at Nick's shoulders, his groin jammed hard against his thigh.

Nick's hand gravitated to that bulging, throbbing length of flesh so like his own, fumbling at buttons and zippers. Mac reeked of energy and power, of sexual heat and need. As Nick's hand finally felt his naked sex, such soft skin over such impossibly hard flesh, Mac gasped and let out a long groan, arching into his hand. Nick reluctantly pulled away from MacLeod's warm, wet mouth, but he wanted to put his tongue somewhere else, to taste the essence of all that energy for himself. But first, he licked along that sweat-drenched shoulder, compulsively bit down into warm Quickening-saturated flesh before he bent his knees, moving ever closer to his ultimate goal.

"No!" It was the barest gasp, and Nick looked up.

Mac was looking at him now, eyes finally focused. "No, Nick. You can't do this!" Mac pushed at his shoulders, but Nick had a firm hold around his teacher's hips.

Nick almost chuckled. "Don't give me that crap, Duncan. You want this even more than I do!" He sank lower, finally able to lay his cheek against Mac's throbbing, hot cock, then took it into his mouth. It was like nothing he had ever experienced, this urgent, desperate need. The taste, the smell, was like a powerful hit of an addictive drug, a rush that obliterated every other consideration.

And he could feel Mac tense, uttering a low, long growl as his hips involuntarily thrust deep into Nick's willing mouth. Still the hands at his shoulders pushed away, even as the cock was sliding so easily to the back of his throat.

"Oh, Christ, don't, Nick!" The voice was almost strangled and choking. "I can't...you've got to stop." It was just a whisper now, a weak gasp when Mac bent over him, unable to make himself pull away.

Nick would have smiled if his mouth hadn't been so occupied elsewhere, his tongue feeling and tasting all along the velvet flesh. Mac's protests were a classic "no" that really meant, "yes". Who would've thought that a 400-year-old man would have been squeamish about something so incredibly, wonderfully erotic?

Then he was jerked away, thrown to the floor onto his back, and a blade was at his neck. Adam Pierson's sharp, angry face loomed above him, covered in dirt and blood. "Back off, Wolfe!" he snapped. "The man said no!"

After all his weeks of hiding from other Immortals, hiding from what he was, Nick was amazed when he felt no fear, not the slightest tremble. He brushed the blade aside and rolled to his feet, circling back towards MacLeod, who had sunk to his knees and was hunched over as though in pain. He could relieve that pain, if only Pierson would get out of the way. Pierson, who had tried to come between them from the very beginning.

"Get out of my way!" he instructed coldly. "I'm not going to hurt him." Then another possibility dawned on him. "You want him for yourself, don't you?"

Pierson cocked his head. The small quirk of lips looked a little grisly on the bloodsmeared face. "You have no idea. Not about me, not about yourself, not about him."

"You're too late, Pierson. I'll take care of this. You just run along back to your students and your books." Nick turned, moving back towards MacLeod, confident that the other Immortal would never kill him in cold blood.

He was barely aware of the sound of the shot as it reverberated through the vaulted building. But he had been shot before, and knew when the pain struck that a bullet had entered his back, tearing through muscle and organs, lodging somewhere deep inside his chest. He managed to turn before his legs gave way and a rushing noise filled his ears. The cold concrete struck first his back, and then his head. And he couldn't breathe, liquid bubbling up into his throat as burning agony spread through his body. Suddenly he was cold, freezing, everything slowing to a surreal, majestic pace. Pierson was standing over him, the barrel of his gun still smoking slightly, then the light dimmed. Could it be night already, he wondered idly, as darkness closed in completely.

Mac was burning alive. He might have managed to control it but for the hands touching him, stoking the furnace. Then hot lips were on his, a hard hand was rubbing his cock and the barely banked fire became an inferno. He had assumed it was Methos, and was about to chastise him for bad timing when he opened his eyes and found Nick Wolfe's blue gaze staring into his face.

His student. A student who had never tasted a Quickening before. Oh, shit. He summoned the strength to push away, trying to tell Nick that this was forbidden, but every muscle was protesting any use at all and he could hardly tell if his tongue was working, not when Nick was licking at him, sucking his skin, invading his mouth.

Then his groin was rubbed, seized and owned and all of existence was reduced to need and sensation. His legs almost gave out and he curled over his center, unable to think or speak or do anything but react to the heat in his cock, the grinding need to push into that warm mouth.

Until it was yanked away, and he fell hard onto his knees. This time he heard his own groan, barely audible above the pounding of his heart.

"Mac?"

He wanted to answer but honestly couldn't move. He was hanging on a desperate precipice, so close to coming that he could barely breathe, but not quite there and knowing that, for some reason, it was absolutely vital that he not.

"Duncan, come on. Let's get you out of here before he wakes up." There was a hand on his arm, lifting him. That pain made him gasp, his whole side still healing from complete shoulder dislocation as well as a fracture of his elbow and ribs. "Sorry, Mac, but we've got to move."

He managed to raise his head, unbelievably grateful to see that it was Methos' feline eyes that were studying him with concern. "Help me," he whispered, fumbling at his clothes. His hands weren't working any better than any other part of his body.

With clinical detachment, Methos carefully pulled Mac's shorts up over his straining cock, ignoring the clenched fists and choked cry, then fastened Mac's pants. "There," he said, a tiny tone of amusement in his voice. "All tucked away. Now, come on."

Mac let Methos lead him out of the huge building, dependent on the other man for guidance and direction and cringed at the hot, bright late afternoon sunlight as they stepped outside at last.

Methos drove carefully, trying to avoid sudden starts or stops or bumps in the road. The sense that Mac was barely holding himself together diminished bit by bit in the half-hour ride back to the barge. He knew Mac was in desperate shape. Some Quickenings left you like that, with an internal tension that could all too easily trigger violence. In former lifetimes, that had led to some of his own bloodiest rampages in a life chock full of them.

But Mac had rarely allowed himself that incredibly satisfying, but destructive outlet, and would undoubtedly hate himself if he let that beast loose now. All the same, Methos smiled as they neared the Quay, it opened the door to some intriguing and entertaining possibilities for them to renew an acquaintance too long left dormant.

~~~~~~~

To Part Three