Chapter Five

Joe had never seen precisely that look on Methos before, and it scared the hell out of him. He looked impossibly young, and impossibly frightened. Methos had obviously taken one too many hits to the head tonight. "Handwriting," he said with as much gentleness as exhaustion would allow. He ignored Richie, whose jaw was in danger of developing rug-burn from scraping the carpet. "When you wrote your report and resignation, you lapsed into your old handwriting."

"My old--"

"I had access to Marcus Gaius' papers. The writing was identical. No way to get around it."

"You didn't include that in your report." Methos' voice cracked.

Joe shrugged marginally, doing his best to keep his manner soothing. A freaked-out Methos was disconcerting enough; a losing-it Methos would push him past the limits of his already depleted endurance. "There was a lot of stuff I didn't publish. No corroborating evidence."

"Why?" sputtered Richie, finally finding his voice. "Why would he do that to you? You saved his life!"

"I was a Watcher again."

"But--"

"There are no other considerations in Lucius' world view." Methos sank to the sofa, visibly unsteady on his feet; Richie glanced at Joe, openly horrified.

Joe nodded in response, his fatigued mind contemplating, as best it could, the essential unfairness of the universe. Why the hell did this have to be Methos? Why couldn't Marcus Gaius and Stephanos have been some poor mortal schmucks who died centuries ago? "Why the Watchers again? I would have thought you'd had enough the last time."

"I'd been away from Europe for centuries. I needed information."

"And then you heard about Lucius."

"Yes. The demon, the apostate of hell, the mad Immortal who killed Watchers at will without being either seen or heard. He could fly, you know, and shape-shift, and summon the dead from their graves." Methos tried to snort contemptuously and failed. "His legend was fully established by the time I became aware of his presence in Europe." Methos leaned back and closed his eyes. "I should have left. I should have gone back to Egypt."

"But you didn't," said Joe quietly. "You helped Gabriel--"

"Die young," cut in Methos brutally. "Yes. God only knows how Lucius discovered I'd joined the Watchers. But he did. His intelligence operation was better than that of most governments of the time."

"How did you get out of there?" Richie's voice was barely audible, and Joe restrained a sigh. They were all in pretty sorry shape for a bunch of guys preparing to take on the most dangerous Immortal on the planet.

"Joanna," was the unexpected reply.

"Joanna?" Joe sat up straight in surprise. "How the hell did she know where you were?"

"She didn't." Methos' voice was drowsy now. "Tracking Lucius." A sigh punctuated his last words, and he went still. Joe waited a few seconds before he realized that the man had fallen asleep.

"But whose--?" began Richie, but Joe nudged him with the tip of his cane and shook his head.

"Later. Let him sleep." Joe hauled himself to his feet and made his way toward his bedroom. "You get some rest, too, Rich. I have a feeling tomorrow's going to be one hell of a day."

"Count on it," grumbled Richie, stretching out on the floor. "I'll bet he snores, too."

***

The iron chains sliced deeper into the open wounds on his arms and legs as he strained against them; his throat, raw from screaming, continued its keening as the knife was yanked from his abdomen and thrust before his face, his blood forming delicate patterns on the blade.

"The sight of the blade appears to disturb Marcus Gaius, Master." A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man dressed in rich linen leaned over him, a vicious sneer twisting his face.

"Perhaps, then, it would be best that Marcus Gaius not see the blade," answered a deeper voice, thick with loathing. "Or aught else. Take his eyes, Nathan."

Nathan pinioned his head between his arm and his chest, gripping his chin tightly as he shifted his grip on the knife. "Remember my face well, traitor," he hissed. "It is the last you shall ever see."

Hot agony sliced into his right eye, obliterating sight, as his scream echoed off the vaulted stone ceilings, as Lucius' dark, soft laughter sounded in his ear, as his own blood gushed onto his face, as Nathan yanked out the knife and shifted his grip to gouge his left.

Duncan MacLeod bolted into a sitting position, shrieking Methos' name at the top of his lungs, and struggling against the bedclothes that had entwined themselves about him like a shroud.

He stared wildly about, his mind refusing, at first, to acknowledge his body's surroundings. The interior of the barge was brightly lit and clearly visible; he could no longer bring himself to turn the lights off when he went to bed. He was back. He was home. It was over...for now.

Duncan felt his heart racing; his entire body was drenched in sweat and trembling. His eyes scanned the vicinity of the bed frantically, then rested feverishly on the object of their search.

He clawed his way out of the covers and out of the bed, stumbling and falling to his hands and knees. Not bothering to get up, he crawled to the abandoned whiskey bottle and yanked it open violently. He then set the mouth of the bottle to his own and let the liquor pour over his tongue and down his throat unimpeded until he was forced to pause to draw breath. He breathed, then hoisted the bottle again. And again. And again.

The whiskey ran out long before the searing pain of the stabbing had begun to fade. It still throbbed fiercely in every nerve, slightly dulled now that he was awake, but still there nonetheless.

Duncan clutched the empty bottle to his chest, rocking back and forth as he stared unseeing into space. Vivid dreams, even nightmares, were to be expected after taking the quickening of a powerful and ancient Immortal. He had taken two such Immortals, Caspian and Kronos, in a single night. And Kronos' quickening had been taken under unique circumstances; Methos had taken Silas' head at the same instant. That quickening was unlike any Duncan had ever experienced; for before Kronos had become part of him, he had felt the power of Kronos and Silas blend, touch him, and then separate again as Kronos' power became his.

And then...and then he had felt Methos' power touch him, too.

But there was no point in thinking about that. It wasn't important. It couldn't have anything to do with what was happening to him now. It couldn't. It didn't make any sense.

Duncan had never heard of two quickenings being taken at such close proximity. He had had no idea what to expect at the time, and had braced himself for the bizarre. But at first, apart from the usual dreams, there hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Not really. Just a few strange dreams about Methos....

Well, wasn't that to be expected after everything that had happened? After having discovered the ugly truth about the man he had considered his closest friend? Finding out that someone you trusted with your life was a butcher was enough to give anyone nightmares. It was only natural. The dreams had begun to fade within a few days of Kronos' death.

Until two weeks ago.

The nightmares had sprung to life with a sadistic, lurid vengeance. These dreams bore no resemblance to any post-quickening experience that Duncan was familiar with. He couldn't really call them dreams. They were real. He was there. He felt these things happening to him.

And yet...they weren't happening to him. They were happening to Methos.

Why? Why was he being imprisoned in Methos' skin night after night, reliving the old man's ancient horrors? How had that bastard done this to him? He had no doubt that Methos knew exactly what was happening to him. Knowing Methos, he had fully expected Duncan's forced detour down Death's memory lane and had simply neglected to mention it--another nasty little surprise for the man who was supposedly his friend. He was probably gloating over a beer somewhere.

Consumed with sudden rage, Duncan hurled the empty whiskey bottle across the room and watched with perverse satisfaction as it shattered against the wall, sending razor-sharp shards and splinters of glass flying through the air to land on shelves, furniture, and floor.

His pleasure was short-lived. The signature of another Immortal cut through the miasma of nightmare and alcohol, sending Duncan crawling about on the floor on his hands and knees in a frantic search for his sword. For the first time in his life, he could not remember where it was. He groped under the bed and among the piles of soiled clothing and dirty dishes that littered the floor around the bed to no avail. The door had already begun to open when Duncan finally spotted the hilt of the katana sticking out from under a pile of books beside a toppled bookcase. He dove for the sword in a panic, sending an avalanche of dirty dishes and books clattering across the floor, and rolled to stand facing the intruder with the weapon firmly in his grasp.

It took him several seconds to realize who the intruder was, and several more to realize that he was standing on the remains of his whiskey bottle.

"Doesn't that hurt?" asked Amanda sweetly.

Swearing loudly in Gaelic, Duncan hobbled over to sit on the bed. He examined the sole of each foot gingerly, carefully removing the spikes of glass. "What do ye want?"

Amanda pouted. "Anyone would think you weren't glad to see me."

The woman was impossible. Couldn't she see that now wasn't a good time? That the past two weeks hadn't been a good time? She hadn't given him a moment's peace lately.

"I'm not," snarled Duncan, forcing himself through his whiskey-induced haze to concentrate on enunciating each word as distinctly as he could manage. "It's three o'clock in the morning, Amanda! What're you doing here?"

Amanda shrugged as she came down the steps, her eyes sweeping the filthy room as she took in every detail. "I just happened to be passing by and heard some shouting. I thought I'd pop in and see what the excitement was."

"There's no ex...excitement," growled Duncan, pulling the last of the glass from his foot and annoyed all over again at the obvious lie.

"Oooh...," purred Amanda, wrapping her arms about his neck as she slid down to sit next to him on the edge of the bed. "But there could be." She leaned forward as if to kiss him, then pulled back, wrinkling her nose. "If you take a shower first."

"Damn it, this is not the time!" Duncan pushed her away as gently as he could and stood up to pace the length of the room restlessly and unsteadily, desperately trying to remember where the rest of the Scotch was. He didn't want Amanda. All he wanted was a drink.

"Fine," said Amanda in her getting-down-to-business tone, which instantly coaxed the location of the Scotch bottle from Duncan's significantly impaired memory. "What's going on?"

Duncan yanked open the cabinet door and seized the bottle. "Nothing."

"I heard you screaming for Methos," continued Amanda determinedly. "Are you still having nightmares?"

"No," snapped Duncan, some raw part of him stung by the mention of Methos' name. He tried without success to open the bottle. Damn it, why couldn't the woman let it alone?

"How much of that have you had tonight?" Amanda's voice became more impatient.

"That's none of your business!" Duncan's frustration increased as the bottle continued to resist his attentions.

"Duncan, talk to me! What is happening?"

Cursing in frustration, Duncan gave up trying to open the bottle by conventional means and simply smashed its neck against the cabinet. Broken glass flew freely as he scooped up the first drinking glass he found lying on the floor and poured the liquor into it. He tossed back the drink with the ease of much practice, and savored the warmth as it traveled down his throat. Amanda would be much easier to deal with after a few more of these.

Amanda rose from the bed in one fluid, purposeful motion and strode to Duncan's side.

"Duncan, you can't go on like this. These nightmares about Methos--"

"I'm not dreaming about Methos! Why the hell would I be dreaming about him?" Duncan heard his voice rise wildly, and some small part of him wondered why he was lying. He swung away from her, pouring himself another Scotch.

"I don't know why! Have you told me everything that happened at Bordeaux?"

"There's nothing more to tell," gulped Duncan around a swallow. Why wouldn't she stop talking about this? Was Methos all anyone could think about? He didn't want to think about Bordeaux; that meant thinking about the Horsemen. Hadn't they claimed enough of his thoughts already?

"It must have something to do with that double quickening. But why are the dreams getting worse again? They were fading--"

"Don't know," muttered Duncan, his nose back in his glass. "Don't care." He realized that it was true; he didn't care. Did it matter why the dreams had come? They came. Nothing could stop them. There was no defense against dreams.

"Fine. I care. We have to figure out what's causing this. If you don't know, then I'll ask Methos. He'll know what to do."

Duncan swung toward her, consumed with sudden anger; his glass slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet with a soft bounce and a muted splash. He grabbed her upper arm tightly with his left hand, his right still clutching the Scotch bottle.

"Ye'll not ask him anything! It's none o' his business, nor yours!"

"Of course it's our business! We both care about you, you idiot! Can't you see--"

"Get out!" barked Duncan, incomprehensibly stung once more, and shoved her back roughly.

Amanda took a deep breath and tried again, softening her voice. "Duncan, let me help you. Just put down the--"

"I dinna want your help!" shouted Duncan furiously. "I want to be left alone! Get out! Just get out!"

Amanda folded her arms across her chest, an obstinate look settling over her face. "You are not throwing me out of here again, Duncan MacLeod. I am staying right here until you tell me what is go--"

Duncan bounded to the bed in two unsteady steps to snatch up his katana. He advanced on Amanda, one hand holding the weapon and the other holding the Scotch. He felt his entire body shaking with an unreasoning rage. "Ye'll go with or without my blade through your heart! Your choice!"

Amanda stared at him for a moment, clearly shocked; then began to back up as he took another step toward her. "Without," she said hastily, continuing to back away. "Without, okay? Just...settle down." She backed up the steps and fled, slamming the door behind her.

Duncan stared after her for a moment in confusion, then glanced down at the weapon in dismay, suddenly realizing what he had done. God Almighty, what was happening to him? He dropped the blade, then allowed himself to follow it as he succumbed to the trembling in his limbs and fell to his knees, still clutching the bottle. His eyes fell upon the fallen drinking glass, and with wildly shaking hands snatched it up to pour himself another drink.

Now he had something else to forget.

***

Sebastian?

Idiot! He's telling you that he has so little time. Stay with him!

Listen to him!

Fool, listen to him!

Don't leave him!

You stupid bastard, he'll be dying at dawn and he knows it; he'll be gone before you can reach him!

Listen to him! Listen to him, he's saying goodbye! Don't leave him! He'll die if you leave him!

The signature of an Immortal rolled over Methos like a wave as he awoke with a drowning gasp. His mind still seized by nightmare, he snatched up his sword and lunged toward the door.

***

Amanda slammed the payphone's receiver back into its cradle with a force that made the abused instrument ring in protest. There was no answer at Joe's apartment. But he must be there. Maurice had told her, when she had called the bar, that Joe, Richie, and 'Adam' had left for home hours ago. Obviously the little talk Joe had planned for this evening had had some effect; Methos had been dislodged from his table at Maurice's several hours before closing, which was a good sign. Joe had probably taken Methos and Richie home to sleep it off.

Amanda snorted. Joe Dawson, Den Mother. They were probably all still at Joe's, performing whatever weird male bonding rituals were appropriate on such occasions, and were refusing to answer the phone. Typical!

Men! Amanda gritted her teeth as she signaled a cab. Why do I bother?

She answered her own question silently as she opened the cab door and slid inside. You bother because of Duncan MacLeod.

She gave Joe's address to the driver and settled back, unconsciously drumming her fingers on the armrest, trying to ignore the soft but persistent voice of her common sense.

"It's a phase," snapped Amanda aloud.

"Comment?" The driver glanced back at her in confusion.

"Rien," replied Amanda with a sigh.

This adolescent crisis of Duncan's had been coming on for quite a while. She'd seen it before. Some Immortals clung fiercely and rigidly to the values they had been taught as children, refusing to admit that black and white made for great piano keys and zebras but precious little else. They refused to adapt, or even to accept that there were situations in which and people to whom their preconceived standards did not apply. They wouldn't bend.

So they broke.

In many different ways, of course, but without exception, they broke.

Amanda tried not to think about how many Immortals, friends and enemies, she had seen go down that path. If there was one thing she had learned in eleven centuries, it was this: if you couldn't adapt, you died...or you went mad. Amanda recalled the look on Duncan's face as he had come at her with his sword and swallowed hard.

Duncan had faced an increasing number of challenges to his childhood values over the past few years, and each challenge seemed to make him cling to them all the more desperately, and apply them all the more rigidly. It had only been a matter of time before some major conflict arose to bring everything to the boiling point.

Enter Methos and the Assholes of the Apocalypse.

Amanda snorted impatiently. It almost served Duncan right. Why did he insist on putting people on pedestals? It had been love at first sight...metaphorically speaking, of course. The man had been just plain infatuated with the idea of Methos, World's Oldest Living Immortal. Who better to fill Darius' shoes? It had simply never occurred to the Eternal Boy Scout that no one could live five thousand years without occasionally scoring some points for the forces of darkness.

Amanda shook her head. She could have predicted his reaction. It was classic Duncan MacLeod in moral outrage mode. Of course, the circumstances of the revelation hadn't helped. If only that cow Cassandra hadn't been the one to tell him! Amanda scowled, picturing the scene: the wide eyes, the tears, the trembling lips, the incredibly bad hair. Duncan had never stood a chance. His relationship with Methos had shattered when Methos' pedestal did, and Amanda was not sure that it could ever be rebuilt.

And now these dreams.

Amanda couldn't figure them out. Duncan could deny it all he liked, but it was Methos he was dreaming about. It was Methos' name he had been screaming all these weeks. All she knew was that the dreams had started after Duncan and Methos had taken Kronos and Silas, had started to fade, and then had returned stronger than ever--after Duncan had taken Byron. It didn't make any sense. But if anyone had the answer, it was Methos. Maybe Joe had sobered him up enough to talk sense.

Amanda snapped back to awareness of her surroundings as the taxi came to a halt outside Joe's apartment building. She paid the driver and got out of the car, noting as she did so the young man trying, with a pitiful lack of success, to remain unobtrusive as he hovered at the entrance of the alley to one side of the building.

A Watcher? Not a very good one, obviously, but then in her opinion Joe Dawson was the only Watcher worth his space. This guy bore no resemblance to Amanda's Watcher, whom Amanda tormented on a daily basis. Richie's, maybe? She'd have to ask Joe. She smiled at the young man and blew him a kiss as she entered the building, smirking as he blanched and disappeared behind the corner.

Watchers were so easy.

When Amanda arrived at Joe's door, the signatures of two Immortals touched her, and she smiled in perverse satisfaction. So they were here, and had refused to answer the phone. Joe knew perfectly well that she was going to the barge tonight; he had asked her to call after she saw Duncan. What the hell was going on?

Seriously annoyed, she raised her hand to knock. Before her knuckles could make contact with the door, however, it swung open suddenly to reveal thirty-six inches of fine steel.

At the other end was Methos, looking decidedly worse for wear. He was pale and unshaven, with deep circles under his eyes; his clothes and hair were rumpled as if he had just been roused from sleep. He held the blade at Amanda's throat with exquisite precision, despite the bizarre fact that his eyes were closed. "You're not touching him!" he snarled fiercely.

"It's me, it's Amanda," squeaked Amanda in surprise, involuntarily leaning away from the tip of the blade. She had never seen that look on Methos' face before.

"What?" Methos opened his eyes, squinting against the bright light in the hall.

"Amanda," repeated Amanda nervously.

"Not who, what?" Methos molded the ferocity of his expression into irritation. It didn't work. Whomever Methos had been expecting, Amanda knew it had not been her. "It's...it's four o'clock in the bloody morning! Nobody else would have the...the--"

"Balls," came Richie's sleepy voice from behind him. "Stones. Cojones."

"It's an emergency, Methos," snapped Amanda, pushing the sword gingerly to one side.

Methos returned it to its original position angrily. "God, where have I heard that before?"

"Would you mind putting that down? I've already had one sword pointed at me tonight." Amanda heard her voice shake slightly, and she cleared her throat.

Methos lowered the blade, anxiety briefly overwhelming the anger in his face. "MacLeod?"

Amanda nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She hadn't allowed herself to feel, until now, how much Duncan's behavior had shaken her.

"Get in here," growled Methos, pulling her inside with a gentleness at odds with his annoyed expression, then closing the door behind her as he flipped on the lights. "Bloody hell, what a night. Are you all right?"

"Mac challenged you?" asked Richie sharply, sitting up on the floor where he had obviously been sleeping. He wasn't looking too good himself.

"No," sighed Amanda, sinking into Joe's favorite chair wearily. "He just threatened to put his sword through my heart if I wouldn't leave. Where's Joe?"

"Asleep," said Methos, jerking his head in the direction of the bedroom. "Let's try to keep it that way."

"He'll want to hear this, Methos. Duncan--"

"Joe's heard enough for one night," returned Methos evenly. "And so have I. Coffee?"

"Methos, he's drunk out of his mind, and he won't stop drinking."

Unease passed quickly over Methos' face, only to be replaced with his best nonchalant expression. He shrugged. "And the problem with this is...?"

"Shit. Something's wrong. He'd never threaten Amanda no matter how drunk he was," said Richie in a strained voice. "I've seen him drunk before--after Tessa, after Darius, but he never--"

"No," interrupted Amanda, her eyes on Methos. "The drinking's not the problem. The problem is why he's drinking."

Methos flopped to the couch in one graceful motion, expression noncommittal and tone acerbic. "Let me guess. Yet another moral dilemma has presented itself to our gallant knight errant. Some new internal debate rages on the natures of good, evil, and Immortality. Some other poor Immortal sod faces judgment in the name of truth, justice, and the MacLeod way. Spare me, Amanda, please."

"Methos," said Richie in an edged tone, "Give it a rest."

"Oh, I have," said Methos unpleasantly. "The matter is of no concern to me whatsoever. Duncan MacLeod is free to execute whomever he pleases."

"Are you finished?" demanded Amanda, at the end of her patience. Sometimes Methos and Duncan MacLeod were more alike than any two men had a right to be. A matching pair of pigheaded brats. Amanda briefly considered taking their heads and having them bronzed for use as bookends.

"I'm through," said Methos bitterly, then shut his eyes as if to deny her existence.

"Why is Mac drinking?" asked Richie, ignoring him.

"Nightmares," replied Amanda, carefully watching Methos' face. "So bad he wakes up screaming, more than once a night."

Methos' face became noticeably paler.

He does know something.

Richie scowled. "What kind of nightmares? Did he tell you what they were about?"

"He won't tell me anything," said Amanda determinedly. "All I know is he wakes up screaming Methos' name."

Richie's eyes widened slightly, and he turned toward Methos. Amanda set her gaze on the older man too, willing him to speak. He had to know what was going on. He had to know how to help Duncan. But after everything that that pubescent pain in the ass had put him through lately, would Methos still be willing to help him? Not that it mattered; Amanda had decided that Methos was going to help Duncan whether he liked it or not. But it would make things a lot easier if he came along quietly.

There were a few moments of silence; Amanda watched Methos' chest rise and fall for several seconds.

"Damn him." Methos' voice was barely audible.

"You know what's wrong," said Richie softly, before Amanda could speak. It wasn't a question.

Methos swung his long legs over the edge of the sofa and sat up. "Of course I do!" he snapped. "I am Methos. I know all. I see all. I--"

"Say nothing of any use!" exploded Amanda in exasperation. Methos was definitely pulling ahead of Duncan in the 'world's most excruciatingly annoying Immortal' contest, although it was still anyone's race. God, they were both impossible! The bookend solution was looking better and better.

"Just spit it out," advised Richie in a warning tone.

"It's the double quickening, isn't it?" came a soft voice from behind them, and the three Immortals started and turned toward it.

Joe sat in his wheelchair at the entrance to the hall that led to the bedroom. Amanda couldn't help the surprise that sprang inadvertently to her face; in all the years she'd known Joe, she'd never seen him in his wheelchair before. And he looked like hell, too. What on earth had happened to these three tonight? This was more than the aftereffects of a bender and a heart-to-heart.

"What are you doing up?" growled Methos in a tone so laced with affection that Amanda couldn't call it a proper growl. "You were supposed to be sleeping."

"You're kidding, right? You expect me to sleep with this party going on next door?" Joe maneuvered his chair into the room and parked it beside Amanda. "He's worse?"

Amanda nodded wordlessly, still taking in the fear and exhaustion in Joe's face.

"He threatened to put his sword through her," said Richie wearily, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's lost it, Joe."

"Shit. Shit!" Joe looked to Methos. "Let me guess. You two crossed wires during that quickening, right?"

Methos let loose with a bark of startled laughter. "You're an analog man in a digital world, Joe. Very quaintly put."

Amanda watched carefully as Joe looked at Methos for a moment, a silent plea in those expressive blue eyes...and then smiled as Methos sighed resignedly and capitulated. So that's how it was. She couldn't blame Methos; she was a sucker for that look herself. But that certainly shot his Methos the Impervious routine to hell, and she had no intention of allowing him to forget it.

"Yes," said Methos in a subdued tone.

Richie glanced at Joe uncertainly. "The fight with--at Bordeaux?"

Methos gave him an annoyed look. "Nice save. Just how long is this going to go on?"

"'This' meaning what, exactly?" asked Joe blandly.

"'This' meaning Smokin' Joe Dawson's Nannies to Go," snapped Methos.

Joe grinned broadly. "A nanny's gotta do what a nanny's--"

"You were saying?" Amanda turned to Methos in exasperation.

Methos scowled. "I believe I was saying that every one of you is a certified pain in the arse, and that if I had any brains at all I'd be on a plane for Tahiti by now."

"Yeah, yeah. Before that bit," returned Joe, laying a hand on Amanda's arm as she bristled.

Methos rose from the couch and moved to stare out at the faint pre-dawn light. Amanda, pushed past the limits of her patience, tried to follow him, but Joe restrained her with a shake of his head. Biting her lip, she held herself still. Something was definitely going on here. Something that had increased Joe's anxiety level tenfold in the past twenty-four hours. He was looking at Methos as if the old guy were fine crystal teetering on the edge of a display shelf. Why?

"What do you know about multiple quickenings, Joe?"

"Not much," said Joe softly. "They're rare."

Another pause. "You were right," Methos said finally. "Our...wires crossed." He laughed shortly. "The results are unpredictable. During the quickening, there's usually an awareness of each other. Afterward, the survivors usually experience an exchange of memories, and dreams of those memories, as with any quickening."

"But that's not what's happening!" blurted Amanda, unable to restrain herself any longer. "These dreams aren't the kind you get after a quickening! They're killing him!"

"He has no one to blame but himself," snarled Methos, turning toward her. "If he hadn't taken another head so soon--"

"Damn," said Joe softly. "Is that it?"

"There wasn't enough time for him to adjust," said Methos raggedly. "Kronos would have been difficult enough for any Immortal to...accommodate. The memories he picked up from me must have made that even more difficult. And then, just as he was beginning to come to terms with all that--"

"He took Byron," finished Joe when Methos hesitated, "and stirred everything up again. That's where these nightmares are coming from?"

"I can't really call them nightmares," said Methos, his voice becoming more strained. "It's more like...like being trapped in someone else's memory."

"This happened to you, didn't it?" asked Richie softly.

Methos nodded wordlessly, his eyes far away.

"What about you?" asked Amanda gently, worried by the wounded look in Methos' eyes. "Haven't you had dreams?"

Methos laughed mirthlessly. "Dreams? Yes. Of course. Oh," he laughed again. "You mean about MacLeod. A drop in the bucket. The man's an amateur when it comes to nightmares. I imagine he's learned that much."

Methos' bitter tone grated on Amanda's ears. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" she demanded.

"Amanda," said Joe quietly. "I don't think there's anything he can do."

"We can't leave him like that," protested Richie. He turned to Methos. "How did you get rid of the nightmares?"

Methos met his gaze with far-away hazel eyes. "I killed the man I shared the quickening with," he said softly.

Richie's mouth fell open. Silence reigned for a few moments, and Amanda groped for a coherent response. Did that mean the only way Duncan could be free of these dreams was for him to....

"And it worked?" Joe's voice was strained and his face white.

"Yes." Methos seemed to become suddenly aware of Joe's reaction; he quickly squatted beside his friend's chair with a reassuring grin. "Relax, Joe."

"This is not an option."

"Of course not," said Methos, in a voice that Amanda had never heard before. "Come on, Joe. What are you thinking? That after five thousand years, I'm going to offer Kilt-boy my head?"

"Hey," said Richie indignantly.

"You did once before," Joe pointed out gruffly.

Methos pulled a wry face. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you? Temporary insanity. Full moon, and Mercury in retrograde. Could never happen again."

Joe laid a hand on Methos' shoulder with a rusty laugh. "Spare me the bullshit and tell me what you're thinking. Can we do anything to help him? Apart from what we have decided is not an option?"

"I think so. I've learned a thing or two since my experience."

Amanda drew a relieved breath.

"And nobody gets hurt?" persisted Joe, tightening his grip on Methos' shoulder to give his much older friend a gentle shake.

"Well, not me, anyway," said Methos with a grin.

Richie groaned. "The man is a menace, Joe." He stretched, wincing. "I'd better go with him."

"No," said Methos, rising fluidly despite the fatigue in his face. "Stay here, Rich. Amanda and I can handle the drunk."

Amanda rose eagerly. About time.

Joe's eyes narrowed. "Maybe we should all go."

Methos scooped his coat off the lamp. "Go back to bed, Dad," he said in his most off-hand manner. "We'll sober up Drunken Duncan and have him back to his lovably homicidal self before you can say decapitation."

"Will you please knock that shit off?" snapped Richie irritably. "You know he's not like that."

"I do?" Methos shrugged into his coat.

"It's a phase," said Richie and Amanda in unison.

"Fine," sighed Joe resignedly. "Take Richie with you. Mac may give you some trouble."

"We'll have to lose Richie's Watcher," said Amanda impatiently. "That will take time. I really think we ought to get back to the barge as quickly as--"

"Richie's Watcher?" asked Joe sharply. "Are you sure?"

"Cute little blond?" asked Richie with a grin.

"Well, he was blond, but unless your tastes have changed he wasn't your type," retorted Amanda.

"A guy?" Richie turned to Joe in disgust. "What did you do with Michelle? I liked her."

"I didn't hear that," growled Joe. "And I didn't do anything with her. Whoever's down there isn't Richie's Watcher."

"Black jacket? Brown sweater? Has that road-kill in the headlights look?" Methos fired the questions at Amanda, who nodded in confusion.

"Étienne," said Joe weary comprehension. "I should have known he wouldn't give up that easily. He's probably just waiting for you two to leave to try again."

"Rich, stay here. Don't let anyone in," said Methos in a commanding tone that made Richie nod immediate acquiescence and made Amanda do a double take. "Come on, Amanda."

"Hey. Hey!" called Joe in a tired voice as Methos opened the door and stepped into the hall. "You be careful out there, okay?"

Amanda saw a stricken expression cross Methos' face as he froze in his tracks; what little color he had drained away. His whole body seemed to shrink. For one brief moment, the haunted look in his eyes made him look his age.

Methos turned and came back inside, staring at Joe. "Maybe...maybe I should stay," he faltered, his commanding air completely vanished as he took a hesitant step in his friend's direction. Amanda came back to the door to stare at him in astonishment. Now he sounded younger than Richie. What was with him?

Joe's smile deepened to a reassuring grin. "What's the matter? You think Rich and I can't handle Étienne?"

Richie snorted derisively, his opinion of the young man in question abundantly clear.

"I don't give a damn about Étienne," said Methos in a low voice.

Joe jerked a thumb toward the door. "Then go baby sit Mac for a while."

"Joe...."

"Istanbul's quite a hike."

Istanbul?

"We don't know where he is, Joe."

"There's no particular reason for him to come to Paris, is there?" asked Joe, his eyes searching Methos' face.

"No," said Methos, after a pause. Amanda could see that he was thinking again; the more he thought, the more he regained his composure. She would have paid real money to know what it was that freaked him out. "But I think I should stay until you can alert the Watchers."

Joe considered for a long moment punctuated by the sound of Amanda's tapping foot, then shook his head. "I have to have something solid before I call the regional coordinators. I'll call Shapiro in Istanbul and find out what he knows and how he knows it. That'd be the best place to start."

"Excuse me," said Amanda in annoyance. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, it was being ignored. Not knowing what was going on was a pain in the ass too, but being ignored was definitely worse.

"Why start with Shapiro?" asked Methos sharply.

"Well, what am I supposed to say to the RC's? 'Hey, guys, Marcus Gaius aka Stephanos dropped by to tell me that Lucius Germanicus isn't dead after all, so let's all drop what we're doing and start looking for the bogeyman..'"

"Point taken," said Methos wryly.

"Hello," said Amanda loudly.

"Go," said Joe. "I'll be fine."

Methos hesitated.

Joe sighed and met Methos' eyes squarely with a sober expression. "He's not here, not yet. We've got some time. If he sticks to his old pattern, we have a lot of time. If not...."

Methos nodded, drawing a deep breath. He seemed to be steadying himself. "Yes, we've got some time," he said softly.

"Who's not here?" demanded Amanda from the door. There was definitely something going on, something these men weren't bothering to tell her about. God, they were insufferable! Whatever it was, it must be bad to freak out both Joe and Methos.

"Relax, old timer," said Richie, with an obviously exaggerated display of confidence. "If Lucius shows up, Joe and I'll take care of him."

Methos gave him a sharp look, then turned away as he caught on, obviously trying not to smile. "I can just imagine," he said sarcastically.

"Joe, am I right?" Richie cocked an eyebrow at Joe.

"Oh, absolutely," agreed Joe, the corners of his mouth twitching suspiciously. "I'll just whack him over the head with my cane and run the chair over him a few times while you chop his head off. No problem. We'll go halves on the new carpet."

"There you go," said Richie cheerfully.

"Why do I bother?" growled Methos.

"Because you love us," said Richie with sickening earnestness.

Joe cackled appreciatively.

"I'm out of here," said Methos in a deadly tone. "No one in or out. Stay put. Got it?"

"Go on," said Joe, still smiling. "And give MacLeod a good swift kick in the pants for me, okay?"

Methos grinned broadly and turned toward the door. "My pleasure. I'll call you when we get to the barge."

"Oh, are we through, now?" inquired Amanda waspishly. "Have we finished playing ignore-the-girl now?"

"Are you coming?" asked Methos casually as he passed her.

Amanda glared at Richie, but he was staring rather pointedly at the ceiling. The kid was in on it too. Well, she'd have it out of Methos. He was a tough nut, but all it took was the right nutcracker.

"Okay," said Amanda, catching up with Methos half-way to the lift, "What the hell was all that about?"

***

"That's it? One legend, one book and one dead Watcher and you guys are ready to call in the Marines?"

Methos glanced away from the cab window and shrugged. "What can I say? I live to cower."

Amanda glared at him with a reproach that bothered Methos not in the slightest. "You haven't told me everything, have you?"

Methos managed his usual smirk. "Safe bet."

In point of fact, he had given her only the barest sketch of the situation. There was no reason for her to know more. And he knew Amanda. Any more information would only produce more questions--questions he did not yet feel prepared to answer.

"Fine," snapped Amanda. "I'll ask Joe."

"Joe doesn't know any more than I've told you." Methos struggled to control his annoyance level. She's trying to provoke you into talking, old man. Don't you recognize one of your own tactics?

"Joe knows more than you've told him," retorted Amanda.

Methos stared at her, surprised that she would come to that conclusion with so few facts. "What makes you think so?"

"I saw the way he looked at you tonight. He's scared, Methos."

"Having a friend turn up in little pieces has been known to do that."

"No." Amanda laid a hand on Methos' arm. "He's scared for you."

Methos turned to stare at the empty, dawn-lit streets of Paris rolling by the cab window. If Joe had any sense at all, he wouldn't be wasting his time being scared for him. He'd devote it to being scared for himself.

"Did you hear me?"

"Look, Amanda, there's nothing that we can do about Lucius right now. Let's concentrate on MacLeod, all right? Or don't you think that will be enough of a challenge?"

Amanda pouted and subsided, evidently accepting the fact that she would get nothing further from Methos on the subject of Lucius. Methos returned his gaze to the window, trying to concentrate on MacLeod. He felt the appropriate surge of annoyance as he did so. MacLeod would pick now, of all times, to go off the deep end. Obviously something had to be done about him, and quickly. Joe was going to need his help. God, Joe was going to need all the help he could get. And if Lucius ever managed to figure out that Marcus Gaius was in Paris, then Methos was going to need his help.

How the hell had Lucius escaped? And where was he? Methos couldn't answer those questions, but he knew precisely what the man was doing. He was going through the records he had taken from Zwirner, planning his next...execution. Methos took a deep breath, thanking whatever gods existed that he had hacked into the new Watcher database and removed Adam Pierson's records. He might be mentioned elsewhere, but Lucius would find no face for that name, and no current location. If Lucius knew that he was here....

Methos noticed that his hand was gripping the edge of the seat tightly, and slowly forced the muscles to relax. Lucius didn't know. Yes, they had a little time. Perhaps they could devise a plan to trap Lucius before anyone else got killed, but he doubted it. Methos was enough of a strategist to appreciate the fact that any plan formulated with this many unknowns was doomed to failure. All it ever took to bring down such a plan was one coincidence.

God. How could he have been this complacent? It had been inevitable that Lucius would escape one day. Hadn't he said so himself? How had he allowed himself to forget that? Methos shook his head. He hadn't allowed himself to forget Lucius, any more than he had allowed himself to forget Kronos. He had deliberately willed himself to forget. How many dangling swords could a man live with if he permitted himself to be conscious of all of them day after day?

The taxi pulled up beside MacLeod's barge, and Amanda got out quickly and walked to the gangplank. She nodded at Methos as he paid the driver. "He's still here."

"Oh, joy."

The cab drove off, and Methos stared at the barge, shaking his head. He must be out of his mind. What was he doing here? He should be with Joe now-- barring the option of running for his life, of course. And yet here he was, playing I'll-save-you- Duncan-dear yet again for an inebriated Scottish clown with decidedly homicidal tendencies.

Why was he here? Were Joe's fears justified? Did he want MacLeod to kill him? Methos had, in the grief that consumed him after Byron's death, resigned himself to that inevitability; but although the condemned had mounted the gallows, the executioner had never arrived. And now that he was regaining his perspective, he knew that he had told Joe the truth: he wanted to live.

Methos tried to pinpoint the moment at which he had decided to help MacLeod, and couldn't. It was almost as if there had been no decision to be made, no point at which he could have turned his back on the man. He grimaced in disgust at the irritating irony of the situation. If he were really the man MacLeod believed him to be, he would have been long gone, leaving the boy scout to pickle in his own juice. But no, here he was again with helping hand extended.

He could almost hear Kronos howling with laughter. You've gone soft!

Methos took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind, and started up the plank.

Amanda stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Methos, we won't lose him, will we?" Her voice was strained.

So she had been concentrating on MacLeod. "Have a little faith," said Methos with a small smile.

"You're not sure," said Amanda, wrapping her arms around herself as if suddenly chilled. She gave him a sharp look. "Do you really know how to help him, or was that just for Joe's benefit?"

Methos briefly considered the possibility that he was losing his touch. "I have a few ideas," he said lightly.

Amanda leaned toward him fiercely. "You're not going to do something stupid, are you? If you offer him your head in the state he's in, he's likely to take it."

Methos snorted as he started up the gangplank. "Waste my quickening on Sulky MacPout of the Clan MacPetulance? You've got to be kidding."

"I wouldn't put anything past you," groused Amanda. "Would you mind telling me what the plan is, or are you making this up as you go along?"

Methos laughed shortly as he opened the unlocked door to the hold. "Just let me handle him, all right? Stay back unless I--"

"Yell for help?" interjected Amanda tartly.

"Precisely."

Methos heard a barely audible but impressive string of Middle English obscenities from behind him and grinned involuntarily, but his amusement didn't last long. He felt that grin fade from his face as he caught his first glimpse of the hold, and he stood on the first step inside the door, aghast.

The place had been torn apart; not a piece of furniture remained in place. Everything that had once occupied cabinets or shelves now lay strewn over the floor, so that the floor itself was no longer visible. The stench of rotting food, unwashed clothes, and an unwashed person was overpowering. Duncan was nowhere to be seen, but he was most definitely there. His Immortal signature was as strong as his smell.

Methos glanced back at Amanda; her mouth was open and her eyes wide. "It wasn't like this when you left?" he asked in an undertone.

Amanda shook her head. "It wasn't this bad," she whispered. "He must have gone postal after I left." She peered into the dimly lit room; the lamps were among the casualties that littered the floor. "Can you see him?"

Methos shook his head, his eyes sweeping the room. In the silence that followed Amanda's question, he finally heard the muffled sound of slow, labored breathing from the vicinity of the overturned bed. He pointed in the direction of the sound, then gestured for Amanda to remain where she was. Amanda nodded with an anxious expression.

Methos made his way gingerly through the debris on the floor, trying to spot the source of the rasping sound. He reached the bed, looked around in confusion, then finally realized that the breathing was coming from under the capsized mattress. Swearing under his breath, Methos pulled it aside.

Duncan lay curled in a fetal position on the floor underneath, an empty bottle clutched in one hand. He was filthy, pale, unshaven and reeked of old sweat and alcohol. The floor around him was littered with liquor bottles and piles of old photographs, some of them mangled as if they had been tightly clutched.

Methos knelt beside the unconscious man in shock, instinctively reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Whatever he had expected to find, this was not it. He had thought that seeing MacLeod suffer the consequences of killing Byron would give him some measure of satisfaction, but it only hurt him. It hurt him badly to see this man in this state.

Methos' gaze scanned the photographs quickly. He recognized the faces immediately: Tessa, Richie, Joe, Amanda, Hugh Fitzcairn...and Darius. Methos smiled bitterly, some small part of him stung by the glaring absence of his image from this group of Duncan's family portraits. Cursing himself for the worst kind of fool, Methos impatiently scooped the photos into a pile and placed them to one side, only to find a small pile of broken glass and a twisted picture frame beneath them. It was the only framed photo among the debris. Curious, Methos picked it up gingerly and carefully removed the photo from the frame. Turning it over, he froze, recognizing a snapshot Joe had taken at the bar in Seacouver on the same night he had met Alexa. Duncan's arm was draped over Methos' shoulders as they grinned with what now seemed absurd happiness into the eyes of a much sadder man.

"Methos!" hissed Amanda from the other end of the room. "Did you find him?"

"Yes, he's here," said Methos unsteadily. He shoved the picture into the breast pocket of his coat.

"Is he--"

"He's out cold," said Methos, regaining his control. He rolled Duncan carefully away from the broken glass and cradled the shaggy head in his lap.

Amanda picked her way through the obstacle course with her usual grace and stooped beside him. "I guess we should get him into bed."

"No," said Methos determinedly. "First we get rid of whatever liquor is left in the place."

"Why? The booze isn't the problem."

"It's not helping," said Methos, grimacing as he brushed the oily hair away from Duncan's face. "Trust me, Amanda, the alcohol only makes the dreams more vivid. I don't know why, but as usual, Mac's found a way to make a bad situation worse. It's a vicious cycle; he has a nightmare he wants to forget, he gets drunk, and the next nightmare is worse--"

"So he drinks more, ad infinitum," finished Amanda. "Did that happen to you, too?"

"Everything happens to me," returned Methos irritably. "Hand me that pillow."

Methos shoved the pillow under MacLeod's head, then spent the next three hours working with Amanda to restore some semblance of order to the barge. There wasn't much alcohol left on board, but they dumped all they could find. They threw out the rotten food and tossed the soiled clothing and bed linens into a pile by the door, where they also concealed Duncan's sword. They weren't able to find the phone anywhere, and finally agreed that the Scot had probably pitched it overboard. By the time they had managed to put the bed back together, Duncan had begun to stir. He groaned softly.

Methos sighed, running a hand through his hair wearily. "Now the fun really starts." He glanced at Amanda, who was regarding Duncan with justifiable apprehension. Now if he could just persuade her to leave.... "It might be better if you didn't stay. He's not going to be pleased that you brought me here."

"What are you going to do?" asked Amanda in a low tone.

Methos considered the question for a moment, then shrugged and took off his coat, flinging it across a chair. He then seated himself cross-legged beside Duncan on the floor. "Whatever comes to mind."

"Whatever comes to mind?" hissed Amanda in an exasperated tone. "Do you mean to tell me that in the past three hours you haven't come up with a plan?"

"I've never been good with plans," said Methos with admirable sincerity, watching Duncan's face carefully as he groaned and stirred again.

Amanda glanced nervously at Duncan, then glared at Methos, obviously unimpressed with the magnitude of the lie. "And I'm supposed to believe you don't have any idea of what to do?"

Methos shrugged, deriving a great deal of perverse satisfaction from her reactions. "I prefer to improvise."

"Methos, you said you could help him!"

"I said I had a few ideas," said Methos impatiently. "Look, what did you expect? The damage has already been done. All I can do now is get him to stop drinking so that the dreams will be endurable. But they're not going to go away for a long time--weeks, if he's lucky, months, if he's not. Even then he'll still have them occasionally, for the rest of his life. He's going to have to learn to live with them. I can help him learn how to deal with them, if he'll let me. But that's the best I can do."

"But I thought--"

"What? That I'd come over here and wave my magic Oldest Living Immortal wand and Sleeping Beauty here would just wake up with a song in his heart?"

"Sleeping Beauty was awakened with a kiss," said Amanda archly, with a wicked smile.

Methos snorted, unexpectedly unnerved by the image. "Don't go there, Amanda."

Duncan muttered something restlessly in what sounded like Persian to Methos' ears. Shit. Another dream.

Amanda edged closer. "Is he--"

"Yes," said Methos, wondering, as he watched the Duncan's restless movement and fearful expression, which of a thousand nightmarish experiences he was reliving.

"Wake him," urged Amanda fearfully.

"Too late. He's likely to be more violent than we could handle if we wake him now," said Methos grimly, kicking himself inwardly; he should have recognized the signs of an oncoming dream. "We'll have to let it run its course."

Duncan gasped and muttered Lucius' name. Methos flinched involuntarily at the sound.

"Why are they all nightmares?" demanded Amanda in obvious distress. "You said these things come from memories. Don't you have any good memories?"

"Define good," said Methos harshly, stung. "There was a time when I thought burning a village to the ground was good."

"Stop bragging," retorted Amanda. "You know what I mean. After five thousand years, you must have some pleasant memories."

Methos looked at her bleakly. "A few." God, they had no idea.

"Then why weren't any of them exchanged? Why doesn't Duncan dream about those?"

Methos sighed, not feeling quite equal to explaining just how few 'a few' really was. "It's the power of the memory that's working here. Whether the memory is pleasant or not is irrelevant."

"It's not irrelevant to him," snapped Amanda, as Duncan cried out, obviously in pain. "And I don't think it would be irrelevant to you either, if you were in his shoes."

Duncan's scream cut off any desire Methos had had to point out that he had already been in these particular shoes; he caught the younger man's flailing arms and held them tightly.

"Go on, Amanda. He'll be waking up in a minute. Take the katana with you and go."

"Are you sure?" Amanda hesitated. "Will you be all--"

"Lucius!"

"Amanda, just go!" gasped Methos, struggling to hold Duncan's fists away from his face. "Check on Joe and tell him everything's under control. Come back this afternoon with some food and a phone. And watch your back!"

Methos felt her hand on his shoulder briefly. "Thanks, Methos."

Duncan shrieked and managed to get one hand free long enough to sock Methos on the jaw. Swearing, Methos recaptured the wrist. "Don't mention it," he snapped. "Go!"

He heard the sound of her retreating footsteps and the door shutting behind her as Duncan lurched into a sitting position, nearly knocking Methos over.

"Methos!" Duncan stared with wild terror into Methos' face, obviously not seeing him; then his wide eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Present," said Methos mildly, still holding the younger man's wrists firmly. "Good morning."

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