Happy Holidays, krastakin!
Title: A Yuletide Theft
Author: Where's the sherry, I can't find the pudding
Written for: krastakin
Characters/Pairings: Amanda, Methos, Joe Dawson, Amy Dawson
Rating: G
Author's Notes: I wrote a vaguely Christmassy story, I don't really know how that happened. I don't know if this is exactly what you wanted, Krasakin, but it has Amanda and it has shenanigans, and hopefully it'll make you smile a couple of times.
Summary: It's Amanda's favourite time of the year again...
A Yuletide Theft
Amanda leaned back in the stiff cafe chair, taking a sip of her morning latte as she read the morning paper. It was a fine and frosty December morning in Paris and she was in a bit of a dilemma. The heist she had been subtly planning in New York over the last few weeks had run into difficulties then the owner of the bauble she’d set her sights on - a rather nauseating arms dealer by the name of Nancy Ryan - had dropped dead of a heart attack in Bloomingdales.
Under normal circumstances, this would not be a problem, but this was no ordinary heist. Amanda liked to maintain the illusion of unpredictability but, after over a millennia of living, little rituals have crept in to mark the time. It was December and that made it the season to plan her favourite heist of the year - her birthday heist.
Amanda was just a babe, had been left on a steps of a convent in Normandy. It was a place known for sheltering abandoned waifs and strays, although there was no formal kind of orphanage in those days, and it was there that she was watered and fed there until she was eight years old. After that, she was sold into indentured servitude, which she later sourly surmised more than covered costs of her upkeep at the convent. In the end, the only thing the Convent had truly given her was a name and a birthday. Amanda of Rouen, birth date uncertain, but entered into the records on mid-winter’s eve.
She spent nearly three years under the roof of the household she had been sold to, before the wandering eyes of the man of the house gleamed a little too brightly, and she made good her escape, stealing the wife’s cloak and a few measly coppers. It wasn’t long before she found herself on the streets of Rouen once again, but a new threat had made its way into her life. The Black Death was making its first pass over Europe
Fear and death stalked the streets and Amanda, being a bright little thing even at the age of eleven, knew that the best course of action would be to run ahead of it. But first, she thought it only fair that she revisit the convent. It was her birthday, and she felt she was owed a gift.
And so began a tradition that shifted slightly over the centuries but never truly changed. Every mid-winters eve, Amanda would creep into some hidden place and steal herself a birthday present. There were rules, of course; she wouldn’t want to be accused of not being in the holiday spirit. She never targeted anyone who couldn’t afford it or didn’t deserve it and she always made sure it was a challenge.
It had been a long and tedious year and she needed a little pick me up. Something a little different was in order this time. Something with a little more challenge. With a flicker of irritation, Amanda turned the page of her paper, her eyes glancing over the lifestyle section until something caught her eye, a name that hadn’t crossed her path in over half a century.
Oh.
Amanda’s lips curved into a sly smile as she read the article. Perhaps things were going her way after all.
~8~
Joe slapped the newspaper onto the bar counter and under Methos’s nose. Gracing the lifestyle page, was a colour photo of Henry Ketteridge, beaming for the camera in an expensive suit. “So, are you just going to sit there or are you going to tell me what you know?” he said, as Methos slouched on the bar stool.
“Henry Ketteridge?” Methos drawled as he cradled the scotch glass in his hands and avoided Joe’s gaze. “No… sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, old man. Thanks to that little incident with my daughter, I happen to know where you were in the late 1800s - Doc.” Joe said. “And don’t try to tell me that this little after hours visit is a coincidence either, you don’t do season’s greetings.”
“Ah, that Henry Ketteridge,” said Methos. “What about him?” He lifted the glass to his lips, his face the picture of genuine bemusement, but Joe wasn’t fooled for a minute.
“That was my question, old man,” Joe said.
Methos shot him an amused look. “As unbelievable as it may seem, not every Immortal I’ve met wants my head, Joe,” he said.
“That’s not what your chronicle says, Doc Adams,” Joe said.
“Oh? Do tell.”
“It says that you and Ketteridge fell out over a little heist involving Dutch and Sundance.” The old Watcher said, his eyes sharp as Methos’s face melted into a grin.
“Let me guess,” he said. “The Chronicle was mysteriously missing the details of said heist and the subsequent falling out.”
“How did you… you bastard,” Joe growled. “You doctored the chronicle.”
Methos shrugged. “I may have,” he said, grinning into his glass.
Joe huffed. “So, are you going to tell me what happened, or are you going to just sit there looking smug for the rest of the evening?”
“You may need to sit down for this,” Methos said. “Because this story involves another Immortal you know.”
“Who - Mac?” Joe asked, bemused. Methos gave him a long look and Joe sighed. “Amanda.”
“I hope you’re in the mood for a bedtime story,” Methos said. “Because this is one is a doozy”
~8~
1899, The Hole-in-the-Wall Hideout, Wyoming
It was quiet evening. The look outs had reported no new activity from the Pinkerton posse camped out in the foothills, and Methos was looking forward to relatively quiet night hunkered down in the cabin, filled with poker and alcohol, and tall tales of impossibly successful bank heists. So when the first flicker of an Immortals’ presence entered Methos’s mind, it was safe to say he wasn’t expecting it.
“Bad hand, Doc?” Sundance drawled, looking up from his cards and eyeing him as he stiffened in his chair.
“I thought I heard something,” Methos said.
The table stilled and Butch tilted his head as he listened. “I don’t hear anything,” he said eventually. “You must be getting twitchy in your old age, Doc.”
Methos smiled humourlessly as the jangle of reins outside made everyone start in the chairs. “And you must be getting deaf in your old age,” he said, as he unholstered his pistol and placed it on the table in front of him, within easy reach.
“How the hell did they get past the look outs?” Butch hissed.
“Don’t look at me,” Sundance muttered. “Maybe Curry is getting doddery in his old age.”
Etta, Sundance’s lover, quickly stood up and headed for the backroom - no doubt to get her shotgun - as Butch nodded at him. He stood behind the door as steps crunched on the frozen desert brush outside. A loud rap made the door shudder.
“Cooey,” a feminine voice called out, and Methos blinked. No, it couldn’t be, it had been centuries. Surely, it couldn’t be-
“I know you’re in there, old man,” Amanda thrilled, from the other side of the door. “Now be a dear and open the door. It’s not good form to leave a lady freezing on the doorstep.
Abruptly, Methos got to his feet and whipped open the door, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of Butch and Sundance. “You have been many things. Amanda,” he said dryly. “But you’ve never been a lady.”
“Charming, as always, I see,” she said, which a coy smile.
“Are you going to introduce us, Doc, or are you two just going to swap barbs with each other on the doorstep,” came Etta’s amused voice from behind him. Amanda’s smile widened, and Methos reluctantly made way for her to step into the room.
“Amanda Montrose,” she pronounced to the room. “I’m an old… friend of the Doc’s.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Butch said, a gleam in his eyes as his eyes took in the expensive, if dusty, riding attire and the bejewelled ears. “You never mentioned you had a lady friend coming to call, Doc.”
“Yes, Methos said flatly. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, old man,” I brought scotch - the good stuff,” she said, as she produced a bottle of ten year old Lagavulin Scotch. Methos’s eyes narrowed. He knew damned well that Lagavulin was rarely found outside Scotland, never mind a ten year old bottle of it. It only meant one thing - that he was about to be royally played with.
“Why are you here, Amanda?” he asked.
“Who does anyone come to the Hole in the Wall, Doc,” she drawled. “I need to relieve someone of their worldly goods and I’m in need of your friend’s special services.”
Methos sensed Butch perk up in his chair and bit back a sigh. It had been a month since their last job and Methos recognised the signs of restlessness. “Last time I looked, you didn’t need someone to help you to pick a lock, Amanda.” He said aloud.
“Ah, I forgot the part about the moving train part, didn’t I?” Amanda sighed. “How about we open this bottle and I fill you in?”
~8~
“So, you’re telling me that in the late 1800s, you and Amanda, and Wild Bunch planned a heist together,” Joe said.
“That’s the upshot of it, yes,” Methos said.
“And you’re only telling me about this now,” Joe said, his eyes narrowing. “Which means you’ve left something out. “
“Oh, you could say that,” Methos said. “Tell me, Joe, have you ever heard of Sword of Fierbois?”
Joe blinked. “Joan of Arc’s sword, last seen at the battle of Paris and reputedly broken over the back of a soldier; it’s said to have been given to her by God, and that when she broke it, she lost his blessing… or, at least, that’s how the story goes.
“Well, I cannot attest to its origins or God’s blessing,” Methos said. “But I can tell you that she did indeed break it on the back of a soldier - and that soldier was?”
“John Ketteridge,” Joe said softly. “It would tie with what our records say about his origins.”
“Nice to see you’re not just a pretty face, Joe.”
“Yeah, yeah--so you’re telling me that the Sword of Fierbois didn’t disappear but was taken by Ketteridge?”
“Well, in his defence, he didn’t actually take it, so much as picked up the remains after he revived.”
“So she did kill him, then.”
“Quite a few times actually. Apparently, he had his first on the battlefield and, unfortunately for him, Joan saw him revive. I think the poor girl thought he was demon, and the fact that he kept on getting up again, even after she slashed and beat him with the sword, didn’t disabuse her of the notion. It was the beginning of the end for her, I think. It was one thing hearing voices, it was another thing to battle a revenant. Ketteridge didn’t waste time spreading his version of the story. By the time she was captured and brought to Rouen, the incident was public knowledge, even though she belatedly tried to deny it. It made her sound like a liar, which I suppose she was, but what could she have them - the truth?”
“Man, oh Man,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Why do you always have the craziest stories?”
“Yes, well, I do try to keep it interesting,” Methos said, raising his glass for a refill. Joe obliged.
“You still haven’t told me what this has got to do with Amanda,” Joe reminded him.
“Ah, then you don’t know who Ketteridge’s first teacher was?”
Joe groaned. “Seriously, that asshole?”
“In her defence, she didn’t actually know how much of an asshole he was at first,” Methos said. “It was only when Ketteridge decided that he was going to bring the broken sword to the court in Rouen as proof that Joan was liar, that she realised how eager he was to have his revenge. She tried everything to dissuade him but, when that didn’t work, she reverted her most tried and tested way of solving her problems.”
“She stole the sword,” Joe said.
“And thus began nearly six centuries of tit-for-tat, as the sword passed hands between them again and again.”
“Why haven’t they just tried to kill each other?” Joe asked.
Methos shrugged. “Amanda is sentimental that way. She doesn’t like the idea of killing one of her students.”
“And Ketteridge?”
“Strangely enough, I believe the same holds true of him. She may have robbed him of his revenge, but she still is still is the person who helped him when he thought he was going mad, and taught him about his Immortality and the Game. He may have devise a few torturous ways of getting the best of her, but I don’t think he’ll ever try to kill her….unfortunately, the same may not be said for me”
“So he is after your head.”
Methos shrugged. “If you’re asking me if that’s why he is in Paris, I doubt it, it’s been over a century since we pulled off that heist, and I believe he succeeded in stealing it back during World War II.”
Joe leaned forward. “We don’t have any record of that, either,” he said accusingly.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Methos said. “I was nowhere in the vicinity at the time. It’s not my fault the blitz interfered with your record keeping.”
“Hmm, I’m onto you, old man,” Joe said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Joe,” Methos said, with a smirk.
~8~
While Amanda may have had a reputation for recklessness, she was an assiduous planner when it came to thievery. Unfortunately, due to the fact her target was an Immortal, she needed to employ others to do her reconnoitring for her. Unfortunately, Butch and Sundance were no longer available, and she was somewhat out of touch with Paris’s seamy underbelly of the mortal persuasion, so she had to think a little out of the box.
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Amy Dawson said, with a half laugh, as she handed over the USB key.
“Thank you, Amy, it’s much appreciated,” Amanda said.
“And you promise you’re not going after his head?” she asked, a small frown marring the bridge of her nose.
“Word of honour,” Amanda pronounced. “I’m after a relic, not his head.”
“Joan of Arc’s sword,” Amy said, her eyes gleaming. “Do you really think he’s going to unveil it at the opening of the exhibit?”
“Well, the article in the paper certainly hints in that direction,” Amanda said. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll let you have a look,” Amanda said, recognising the zeal of a historian when she saw it.
“It’s not that… it’s just, maybe we should let him reveal it at the opening. After all, it’s part of history.”
“So is the part where Joan of Arc tried to kill an immortal on the battlefield,” Amanda said dryly. “But somehow I don’t think either you or Ketteridge would be so eager to impart that piece of information.”
“Can I take photographs?” Amy asked tentatively. “I promise they’ll never go beyond the Watcher Archives.”
“As long as don’t tell them where you got them,” Amanda allowed. “The last thing I need is an over eager Watcher deciding that I’d be better off without it.”
“That would never happen,” Amy protested.
“If you say so,” Amanda said, as she pulled a tablet out of her bag and plugged the USB in. Nobody does surveillance better than a Watcher, and as they’re specifically trained not to catch the eye of an Immortal, they were not as likely to be noticed by Ketteridge, who would spot a career criminal from a mile off.
“Oh, very nice,” Amanda said, as she noted the Louis XV chairs and the original Degas over the mantelpiece. “Maybe I’ll pick up a few extra pieces - for the poor box, of course.” She added hastily, seeing the expression on Amy’s face.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Amy groaned.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Amanda said. “I’ll keep this our little secret.” With a wink, she got t her feet, pocketing the USB. “I’ll see you at Joe’s on Christmas Eve?”
Amy gave her a wry look. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?”
“It’s part of my charm,” Amanda said. “Au revoir!” With a spring in her step, Amanda bounced into the chill Parisian air. It had taken her 70 years to find him again, but now it was time to take back her prize.
~8~
1933, London, the Blitz, Lobby of the Ritz
She sensed another Immortal nearby. It was only for a moment, a brief shiver of awareness, but there was somebody close, watching her. People flew by them, jostling them in their eagerness to reach safety, all propriety lost as the sirens throbbed their warning. Amanda felt her eardrums ache, but she stubbornly dug her heels in as Terry tugged at her arm.
“Can’t you see, old thing? We can’t stay here, the Gerries will be here any moment,” he hollered, over the clangor of air raid warning. “We need to get to the basement.”
“But we’re in the Ritz, darling, one of the most solid buildings in London. It’ll only take a minute, Terrence; I just need to get my case.”
“There may be steel girders in the walls, my darling, but our rooms are no match for a Gerry bomb,” Terry pleaded. “Can’t you see, nothing is more precious than your life! Besides, nobody is going to break into our hotel room during an air raid - it’s just not done!” Poor, precious Terry, he would never understand that not everyone was as honourable as he was.
It was in that moment, that Amanda realised that she needed to forego her possessions. She may be Immortal, but Terry was not, and she knew with every fibre of her being that if she refused to descend the stairs without the case, he would refuse to leave without her.
“You’re right,” she said. “Let’s go.” They broke into a run as they heard the low thrum of a bomber engine, and Terrence let out a small sigh of relief as they reached the steps and descended into the Pink Sink.
“Dash it all, that was close,” Terrence said. “I need a Martini - can I get you something, Amanda?”
Amanda smiled and asked for a pink gin, dropping onto a seat as the first impact of a bomb made the chandelier above them shake. It was going to be a long night.
~8~
Amanda scowled as she remembered the condition of their rooms after the bombing. The room had been thoroughly ransacked and they’d taking everything of value… but it was when she realised the sword was alse missing that she knew who it had been - Ketteridge.
Amanda smiled to herself grimly, her revenge would be very sweet. She just needed to fill in that final piece of her puzzle. In order to retrieve the sword before the opening of the exhibition, she would attend Henry’s Gala tomorrow night, which was meant to be a celebration of the opening the following day. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she stepped onto the cobbled walkway that descended to the Seine. The Barge was tied off in its usual place and Amanda sensed Duncan’s quickening - good, he was in.
She climbed onto the barge and hesitated as she realised that Duncan’s presence seemed a lot stronger than usual, almost as if-
The door was flung open and Amanda jumped back, startled.
“Amanda, how nice to see you again!” Methos pronounced, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Methos,” Amanda said archly. “It’s not that I’m not glad to see you, but I was expecting Duncan to answer his door.”
“Ah, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, I’m afraid,” Methos said. “Duncan felt the need to embrace his roots in the Highlands before the holiday season begins, he isn’t due back for a few days. . I’m just keeping his place warm while he’s gone.”
“I see,” Amanda said flatly. “Does he actually realise you’re doing that, or did you just help yourself?” Methos’s grin became wider, and Amanda grew suspicious.
“Well, don’t stand on ceremony, come in from the cold, I’ll make us some tea,” he said, confirming the fact he was up to no good. Methos was never this pleased to see her.
“Make it a scotch,” Amanda said, as she tentatively stepped inside and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Whatever the lady wishes,” Methos said, as he headed for the liquor cabinet. Amanda eyed him warily as she shrugged off her coat, her eyes perusing the room until it fell on yesterday’s paper, the page folded beneath the photo of Henry Ketteridge. Damn, he knew.
“So… who told you?” she sighed.
Methos smirked as he handed her a tumbler. “What makes you think anybody told me? Maybe I was just perusing the lifestyle section over my morning coffee.” Amanda gave him a look and he relented.
“Fine, it was Joe.” He said, as he folded himself into the couch, glass in hand.
“It wasn’t my fault, you know,” she said defensively.
“Are we talking about the posse of Pinkertons hiding in the mail cabin or the angry Immortal lurking in first class?”
“Ketteridge wasn’t supposed to be on the train,” Amanda said. “He was supposed to have gone ahead.”
“But instead he was on the train, going after my head,” Methos said flatly.
“It was an accident, you know that!” Amanda protested. “That’s why you forgave me - remember?”
“Forgave, yes, forget? Not so much.”
Amanda pouted and slumped onto the couch beside him. “What is it you want?” she said.
“I want the Degas,” Methos said lightly, raising a finger as she opened her mouth to protest. “The Degas or I make a phone call.”
“You’re no fun anymore,” Amanda said.
“Well, we’ll see about that tomorrow night, when we attend his little party,” Methos said, a tad smugly.
“And makes you think I need a plus one?” she asked archly.
“Because Duncan isn’t here,” Methos said. “And that’s why you came here tonight, correct?”
Amanda let out a huff. “You better own a decent tux,” she said.
“I shall endeavour to look my best.”
~8~
It was a glittering affair, and Amanda had to grudgingly admit that Methos did look rather well in a tuxedo. She herself was wearing a rather delicious Zuhair Murad confection that showed off her assets rather nicely, and she thought they made a rather striking pair She smiled widely as she felt the presence of another immortal approach them.
“Showtime,” she said, the crowd parted to reveal Henry talking to a small circle of well-heeled Parisian’s. She caught his eye as it darted in their direction, and waggled her fingers at him.
“Careful, don’t antagonise him,” Methos murmured. “We have a plan, remember?”
“But he gets so delightfully flustered,” Amanda said, as she accepted a flute of champagne from a passing tray.
“There’s a thin line between flustered and homicidal,” Methos said dryly. “Let’s not get him too het up, I’d rather not have to defend my head tonight.”
“Don’t be silly, Henry won’t try anything when there’s this many people watching. All we have to do is mingle a little and then part ways when he least expects it.” They glided past Henry, and Amanda let her hand slip into her bag, her fingers gliding over her phone. She really did love modern technology. It was only a matter of moments before she’d cloned his phone.
“All done?” Methos asked, as they headed for the buffet table. She palmed the phone into his hand and he slid it into his inside pocket, watching as Henry making his excuses and heading in their direction
“Here he comes. Try to keep him occupied, will you?” Methos said, lifting his champagne glass to his lips.
“Amanda, Doctor Adams, it’s been a while,” Henry said. “I didn’t see you names on the guest list?”
“Well, I didn’t see your name on invitation card either, Henry and yet here you are.”
Henry graced her with a humourless smile. “Care to dance, Amanda?”
“Well, as long as my dance partner doesn’t have any objections.”
Oh, by all means, dance away,” Methos said.
Amanda resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she extended her hand to Henry and, with a cold smile, he led them out onto the dance floor. “It’s not yours, Amanda,” he said, under his breath. “It’s mine to have and mine to keep. It’s been over five centuries, why don’t we put this game to bed?”
“Ah, but where would the fun be in that?” Amanda asked, as they glided across the dance floor. One thing that could always be said about Henry, he knew how to dance.
“You can’t win this one, Amanda,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’m going to reveal it at the exhibition, and from that moment onwards, it shall become one of the most protected relics in all of France.”
“Well, you’ve obviously thought of everything,” Amanda said. “So you don’t mind if continue to enjoy the party?”
“Oh, by all means, drink my champagne, eat my h’oderves, and make merry,” he said, as the waltz came to close. With a knowing smirk, he kissed the back of her. “Oh, and by the way, happy birthday, Amanda.”
Amanda smiled, despite herself. “How darling, you remembered.”
“I try to remember the important things Amanda - it helps maintain me my grudges.”
“Oh,” Amanda sighed “You just had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”
Henry’s eyes darted around the room. “Where’s your friend?”
“Oh, he probably decided discretion was the better part of valour and departed,” Amanda said. “He doesn’t like making a scene.”
“Is that so?” Henry said suspiciously, as he surveyed the room.
It was then that his phone started to chirp anxiously at him, and his face paled as he realised it was a query text from his alarm. “What did you do, Amanda?” he hissed, his hand tightening on her arm.
“Moi?” she said. “I did absolutely nothing. I merely danced the waltz with you.”
His lips narrowed into a pale thin line, as he shoved her arm away and hurried away, his phone held to his ear. Mission accomplished - at least, the first part.
~8~
Methos leaned back in the Louis XV chair, and looked up from the laptop on his knees to admire the Degas perched on MacLeod’s couch. The theft had been almost been too easy, a small white with a couple of local hirelings to do the heavy lifting. The main house’s alarm and surveillance system wasn’t a match for the sophisticated software Amanda usually used for museums, and they didn’t waste time trying to even find the safe. That wasn’t the point of this little excursion. The hirelings were in and out in five minutes, their part of the mission safely accomplished
Feeling the first shiver of an approaching Immortal’s presence, Methos closed the laptop, took out the earbud out of ear, and hid them both in a bookshelf just in case. It was only Amanda, however, and Methos relaxed a little.
“Expecting someone else?” she asked
“Just trouble,” he said. “And it seems it has arrived.”
“Oh, you’re so amusing,” she said. “Well… show me.” Rolling his eyes, Methos produced the laptop, and handed Amanda the ear bud, and her face broke into a genuine smile as watched Henry move from room to room.
“Do you often hack other people’s surveillance systems?” Methos asked.
”Not often, just when the need arises - like when I’m dealing a particularly devious opponent.”
“Yes, I’m sure you taught him everything he knows,” Methos drawled.
Amanda slapped him on the arm absentmindedly. “Behave… where is he going?”
The wine cellar, I believe,” Methos said, as they watched him descend into the bowels of the chateau.
“Oh, you don’t think he actually…” And that’s when they watched him press a seemingly random brick in the wall and a wall segment slipped aside, revealing the door to a walk in safe. Methos watched as Amanda practically bounced with delight as he pressed in a code and the door opened. Unfortunately, the cameras didn’t extend inside the safe, but luckily they had no need of them. The cloned phone in his pocket chirped, and Methos hurriedly opened up a shell box on the laptop, a few moments later, the phone call came through the laptop’s speakers.
“Stand down, the safe hasn’t been breached, we’re secure,” said Henry’s voice. “But reset the code just in case and relay it to my phone.”
Silently, Amanda pounded the air. “Yes!” she crowed. “Now it’s time for the denouement.”
~8~
Joe Dawson wondered how he got himself roped into this kind of thing, he really did. He was pretty sure there was nothing in his résumé that screamed getaway driver, yet here he was, on Mid-winter’s Eve, keeping the engine warm for a couple of immortals who, for all their age, never seemed to grow up. It wasn’t fair, damn it.
A sharp tap on the passenger door window caused him to leap in his seat, and he let out a loud curse when he recognised the face that bobbed into view.
“Hi, Dad,” she said her voice muffled through the glass. “Any chance of you popping the lock? It’s bloody freezing out here!”
“Amy,” he hissed, as he opened the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“My job,” Amy said, as she slid inside and rubbed her hands together for warmth. “Watcher, remember? You, on the other hand, are definitely playing away from home.”
Joe snorted. “Methos told me he’d shaken your tail.”
“Yes, well, maybe he told you little fib,” Amy said, with a grin. “Not that he didn’t try, mind you, but then I reminded him that I was fully aware of what he was up to tonight, and that if he didn’t stop trying to shake me, I’d have no choice but to call the gendarmes.”
“That’s… positively Machiavellian,” Joe said wryly. “I’m beginning to think you’ve been the old man’s Watcher for a little too long.”
“Oh please, you’re just annoyed that it wasn’t you that got one over him,” said Amy, grinning.
The back doors suddenly opened, and Amanda and Methos jumped into the back seat. “Drive, Joe!” Methos hollered. “Amy - what the hell are doing here? Observe and record, remember?”
“Says the Immortal who conscripted my father into aiding and abetting,” Amy said. “Pot and ket-”
A gunshot rang out and everyone flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the roof.
“Joe,” Methos said.
“On it,” he said, as he forced the accelerator down. The car shot forward and they sped down the lane. Amanda turned in her seat and looked out the rear view window.
“I don’t think they’re following us,” she said.
“They’ve probably realise that by he time they get in their cars we’ll be too far ahead of us. They’ll call the cops instead,” Joe muttered. “They’ll be circulating our description and our plate numbers in a matter of minutes.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Amanda said. “Do you actually think I never thought of that - pull in to this little side street, Joe.”
“I better not end up spending Christmas in a jail cell, is all I say,” Joe muttered, as the pulled into a quiet street and, Amanda produced a second set of car keys as he pulled to a halt.
“Plan B,” she said, and she hit the lock button. A sleek Jag chirped in response.
“Fancy,” Amy said, amused, as they got out of the sedan. Joe spared a glance at the roof and winced as he spotted the deep groove the bullet made. They’d been lucky.
“Well, I figured that a red Jag was as different as you could get from a dark sedan,” Amanda with a shrug. “In you get, boys and girls, Mummy’s driving.”
~8~
The familiar shiver that heralded another immortal ran down Methos’s spine as they approached the barge and, a moment later, Amanda stiffened and shot a look at Methos.
“You don’t think he got here before we did, do you?” she whispered.
Methos shrugged. “Depends how motivated he was,” he said, reaching inside his coat for his sword.
Amanda rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to go after our heads,” she muttered. “He’ll just make things uncomfortable for us.”
“Correction, he’s not going to go after your head. I think you’ll find he thinks me fair game,” said Methos.
“Scaredy cat!” Amanda said. “Very well, I’ll go first, hold this.” She handed him the case that held the Sword of Fierbois before stalking ahead, and it was at that very moment that Methos’s conscience inopportunely raised its head.
“Here, hold that,” he muttered, shoving the sword case into Amy’s hands before darting after her, unsheathing his Ivanhoe just in case. They gained the deck and, on the count of three, Amanda went first.
What greeted them wasn’t what they expected.
“Amanda, a Degas and a pair of Louis XV chairs, you shouldn’t have,” MacLeod drawled, sitting in one of aforementioned chairs, a dark gleeful look in his eyes and a Santa hat propped on his head. “I’m afraid all I got you was a pair of socks and champagne!”
“Duncan, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Amanda said.
“Obviously, “ he said wryly. “Why else would my presents not be wrapped yet?”
Methos struggled to hold back a snort of laughter, and he turned to look at Joe and Amy, who were now entering the barge. One look at Joe’s face told him that the Watcher knew damned well that the Highlander had flown back into town early. Wily old coot.
“It’s not like that, Duncan,” Amanda wheedled.
“Right, because this isn’t your birthday, and I haven’t caught you red handed after performing your annual heist,” he said, with a grin.
“Oh, you remembered,” Amanda said coyly.
“Yes, I remembered, and it’s for that reason and that reason only, I’m going to overlook the fact you used my barge to stash your ill-gotten goods in.”
Amanda smiled cheekily. “I did rather well, didn’t I?”
“Ah, ah, ah, the Degas is mine, remember?” Methos said.
“And I suppose that leaves me the chairs,” Duncan mused.
“Wait, that’s not fair!” Amanda protested. “What do I get?”
“Wait, what is that I hear - the Sword of Fierbois?” Duncan said, holding his hand to his ear.
Amanda sighed, deflated. “Oh, very well, I don’t suppose we could have some of that champagne now?”
“It’s chilling in the fridge,” Duncan said. “I’ll get the glasses.”
“Are there nibbles?” Methos piped up.
“Don’t push it,” Duncan said, thrusting a flute in his direction.
“Well, can’t blame a guy for trying, thievery is thirsty work, I’ll have you know.” Methos said, as he commandeered the other Louis XV. He’d forgotten how comfortable these chairs were - maybe he could convince MacLeod to do a swap?
“So,” Amy said. “What will we toast to?”
“Amanda’s birthday,” Joe suggested.
“Filthy Lucre,” Methos added.
“Friends, and knowing how to put up with them,” Duncan said, throwing him a quelling look.
“How about…all of the above,” Amanda said, with a wide, sly smile. Their glasses clinked, the champagne fizzed, and all ended well on that fine Mid-Winter’s night.
~8~
The same couldn’t be said the next morning, however, when both Methos and Duncan woke up sans Degas, sans Louis XV chairs, and sans Amanda.
The End
Author: Where's the sherry, I can't find the pudding
Written for: krastakin
Characters/Pairings: Amanda, Methos, Joe Dawson, Amy Dawson
Rating: G
Author's Notes: I wrote a vaguely Christmassy story, I don't really know how that happened. I don't know if this is exactly what you wanted, Krasakin, but it has Amanda and it has shenanigans, and hopefully it'll make you smile a couple of times.
Summary: It's Amanda's favourite time of the year again...
A Yuletide Theft
Amanda leaned back in the stiff cafe chair, taking a sip of her morning latte as she read the morning paper. It was a fine and frosty December morning in Paris and she was in a bit of a dilemma. The heist she had been subtly planning in New York over the last few weeks had run into difficulties then the owner of the bauble she’d set her sights on - a rather nauseating arms dealer by the name of Nancy Ryan - had dropped dead of a heart attack in Bloomingdales.
Under normal circumstances, this would not be a problem, but this was no ordinary heist. Amanda liked to maintain the illusion of unpredictability but, after over a millennia of living, little rituals have crept in to mark the time. It was December and that made it the season to plan her favourite heist of the year - her birthday heist.
Amanda was just a babe, had been left on a steps of a convent in Normandy. It was a place known for sheltering abandoned waifs and strays, although there was no formal kind of orphanage in those days, and it was there that she was watered and fed there until she was eight years old. After that, she was sold into indentured servitude, which she later sourly surmised more than covered costs of her upkeep at the convent. In the end, the only thing the Convent had truly given her was a name and a birthday. Amanda of Rouen, birth date uncertain, but entered into the records on mid-winter’s eve.
She spent nearly three years under the roof of the household she had been sold to, before the wandering eyes of the man of the house gleamed a little too brightly, and she made good her escape, stealing the wife’s cloak and a few measly coppers. It wasn’t long before she found herself on the streets of Rouen once again, but a new threat had made its way into her life. The Black Death was making its first pass over Europe
Fear and death stalked the streets and Amanda, being a bright little thing even at the age of eleven, knew that the best course of action would be to run ahead of it. But first, she thought it only fair that she revisit the convent. It was her birthday, and she felt she was owed a gift.
And so began a tradition that shifted slightly over the centuries but never truly changed. Every mid-winters eve, Amanda would creep into some hidden place and steal herself a birthday present. There were rules, of course; she wouldn’t want to be accused of not being in the holiday spirit. She never targeted anyone who couldn’t afford it or didn’t deserve it and she always made sure it was a challenge.
It had been a long and tedious year and she needed a little pick me up. Something a little different was in order this time. Something with a little more challenge. With a flicker of irritation, Amanda turned the page of her paper, her eyes glancing over the lifestyle section until something caught her eye, a name that hadn’t crossed her path in over half a century.
Oh.
Amanda’s lips curved into a sly smile as she read the article. Perhaps things were going her way after all.
~8~
Joe slapped the newspaper onto the bar counter and under Methos’s nose. Gracing the lifestyle page, was a colour photo of Henry Ketteridge, beaming for the camera in an expensive suit. “So, are you just going to sit there or are you going to tell me what you know?” he said, as Methos slouched on the bar stool.
“Henry Ketteridge?” Methos drawled as he cradled the scotch glass in his hands and avoided Joe’s gaze. “No… sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, old man. Thanks to that little incident with my daughter, I happen to know where you were in the late 1800s - Doc.” Joe said. “And don’t try to tell me that this little after hours visit is a coincidence either, you don’t do season’s greetings.”
“Ah, that Henry Ketteridge,” said Methos. “What about him?” He lifted the glass to his lips, his face the picture of genuine bemusement, but Joe wasn’t fooled for a minute.
“That was my question, old man,” Joe said.
Methos shot him an amused look. “As unbelievable as it may seem, not every Immortal I’ve met wants my head, Joe,” he said.
“That’s not what your chronicle says, Doc Adams,” Joe said.
“Oh? Do tell.”
“It says that you and Ketteridge fell out over a little heist involving Dutch and Sundance.” The old Watcher said, his eyes sharp as Methos’s face melted into a grin.
“Let me guess,” he said. “The Chronicle was mysteriously missing the details of said heist and the subsequent falling out.”
“How did you… you bastard,” Joe growled. “You doctored the chronicle.”
Methos shrugged. “I may have,” he said, grinning into his glass.
Joe huffed. “So, are you going to tell me what happened, or are you going to just sit there looking smug for the rest of the evening?”
“You may need to sit down for this,” Methos said. “Because this story involves another Immortal you know.”
“Who - Mac?” Joe asked, bemused. Methos gave him a long look and Joe sighed. “Amanda.”
“I hope you’re in the mood for a bedtime story,” Methos said. “Because this is one is a doozy”
~8~
1899, The Hole-in-the-Wall Hideout, Wyoming
It was quiet evening. The look outs had reported no new activity from the Pinkerton posse camped out in the foothills, and Methos was looking forward to relatively quiet night hunkered down in the cabin, filled with poker and alcohol, and tall tales of impossibly successful bank heists. So when the first flicker of an Immortals’ presence entered Methos’s mind, it was safe to say he wasn’t expecting it.
“Bad hand, Doc?” Sundance drawled, looking up from his cards and eyeing him as he stiffened in his chair.
“I thought I heard something,” Methos said.
The table stilled and Butch tilted his head as he listened. “I don’t hear anything,” he said eventually. “You must be getting twitchy in your old age, Doc.”
Methos smiled humourlessly as the jangle of reins outside made everyone start in the chairs. “And you must be getting deaf in your old age,” he said, as he unholstered his pistol and placed it on the table in front of him, within easy reach.
“How the hell did they get past the look outs?” Butch hissed.
“Don’t look at me,” Sundance muttered. “Maybe Curry is getting doddery in his old age.”
Etta, Sundance’s lover, quickly stood up and headed for the backroom - no doubt to get her shotgun - as Butch nodded at him. He stood behind the door as steps crunched on the frozen desert brush outside. A loud rap made the door shudder.
“Cooey,” a feminine voice called out, and Methos blinked. No, it couldn’t be, it had been centuries. Surely, it couldn’t be-
“I know you’re in there, old man,” Amanda thrilled, from the other side of the door. “Now be a dear and open the door. It’s not good form to leave a lady freezing on the doorstep.
Abruptly, Methos got to his feet and whipped open the door, ignoring the startled looks on the faces of Butch and Sundance. “You have been many things. Amanda,” he said dryly. “But you’ve never been a lady.”
“Charming, as always, I see,” she said, which a coy smile.
“Are you going to introduce us, Doc, or are you two just going to swap barbs with each other on the doorstep,” came Etta’s amused voice from behind him. Amanda’s smile widened, and Methos reluctantly made way for her to step into the room.
“Amanda Montrose,” she pronounced to the room. “I’m an old… friend of the Doc’s.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Butch said, a gleam in his eyes as his eyes took in the expensive, if dusty, riding attire and the bejewelled ears. “You never mentioned you had a lady friend coming to call, Doc.”
“Yes, Methos said flatly. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, old man,” I brought scotch - the good stuff,” she said, as she produced a bottle of ten year old Lagavulin Scotch. Methos’s eyes narrowed. He knew damned well that Lagavulin was rarely found outside Scotland, never mind a ten year old bottle of it. It only meant one thing - that he was about to be royally played with.
“Why are you here, Amanda?” he asked.
“Who does anyone come to the Hole in the Wall, Doc,” she drawled. “I need to relieve someone of their worldly goods and I’m in need of your friend’s special services.”
Methos sensed Butch perk up in his chair and bit back a sigh. It had been a month since their last job and Methos recognised the signs of restlessness. “Last time I looked, you didn’t need someone to help you to pick a lock, Amanda.” He said aloud.
“Ah, I forgot the part about the moving train part, didn’t I?” Amanda sighed. “How about we open this bottle and I fill you in?”
~8~
“So, you’re telling me that in the late 1800s, you and Amanda, and Wild Bunch planned a heist together,” Joe said.
“That’s the upshot of it, yes,” Methos said.
“And you’re only telling me about this now,” Joe said, his eyes narrowing. “Which means you’ve left something out. “
“Oh, you could say that,” Methos said. “Tell me, Joe, have you ever heard of Sword of Fierbois?”
Joe blinked. “Joan of Arc’s sword, last seen at the battle of Paris and reputedly broken over the back of a soldier; it’s said to have been given to her by God, and that when she broke it, she lost his blessing… or, at least, that’s how the story goes.
“Well, I cannot attest to its origins or God’s blessing,” Methos said. “But I can tell you that she did indeed break it on the back of a soldier - and that soldier was?”
“John Ketteridge,” Joe said softly. “It would tie with what our records say about his origins.”
“Nice to see you’re not just a pretty face, Joe.”
“Yeah, yeah--so you’re telling me that the Sword of Fierbois didn’t disappear but was taken by Ketteridge?”
“Well, in his defence, he didn’t actually take it, so much as picked up the remains after he revived.”
“So she did kill him, then.”
“Quite a few times actually. Apparently, he had his first on the battlefield and, unfortunately for him, Joan saw him revive. I think the poor girl thought he was demon, and the fact that he kept on getting up again, even after she slashed and beat him with the sword, didn’t disabuse her of the notion. It was the beginning of the end for her, I think. It was one thing hearing voices, it was another thing to battle a revenant. Ketteridge didn’t waste time spreading his version of the story. By the time she was captured and brought to Rouen, the incident was public knowledge, even though she belatedly tried to deny it. It made her sound like a liar, which I suppose she was, but what could she have them - the truth?”
“Man, oh Man,” Joe said, shaking his head. “Why do you always have the craziest stories?”
“Yes, well, I do try to keep it interesting,” Methos said, raising his glass for a refill. Joe obliged.
“You still haven’t told me what this has got to do with Amanda,” Joe reminded him.
“Ah, then you don’t know who Ketteridge’s first teacher was?”
Joe groaned. “Seriously, that asshole?”
“In her defence, she didn’t actually know how much of an asshole he was at first,” Methos said. “It was only when Ketteridge decided that he was going to bring the broken sword to the court in Rouen as proof that Joan was liar, that she realised how eager he was to have his revenge. She tried everything to dissuade him but, when that didn’t work, she reverted her most tried and tested way of solving her problems.”
“She stole the sword,” Joe said.
“And thus began nearly six centuries of tit-for-tat, as the sword passed hands between them again and again.”
“Why haven’t they just tried to kill each other?” Joe asked.
Methos shrugged. “Amanda is sentimental that way. She doesn’t like the idea of killing one of her students.”
“And Ketteridge?”
“Strangely enough, I believe the same holds true of him. She may have robbed him of his revenge, but she still is still is the person who helped him when he thought he was going mad, and taught him about his Immortality and the Game. He may have devise a few torturous ways of getting the best of her, but I don’t think he’ll ever try to kill her….unfortunately, the same may not be said for me”
“So he is after your head.”
Methos shrugged. “If you’re asking me if that’s why he is in Paris, I doubt it, it’s been over a century since we pulled off that heist, and I believe he succeeded in stealing it back during World War II.”
Joe leaned forward. “We don’t have any record of that, either,” he said accusingly.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Methos said. “I was nowhere in the vicinity at the time. It’s not my fault the blitz interfered with your record keeping.”
“Hmm, I’m onto you, old man,” Joe said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Joe,” Methos said, with a smirk.
~8~
While Amanda may have had a reputation for recklessness, she was an assiduous planner when it came to thievery. Unfortunately, due to the fact her target was an Immortal, she needed to employ others to do her reconnoitring for her. Unfortunately, Butch and Sundance were no longer available, and she was somewhat out of touch with Paris’s seamy underbelly of the mortal persuasion, so she had to think a little out of the box.
“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Amy Dawson said, with a half laugh, as she handed over the USB key.
“Thank you, Amy, it’s much appreciated,” Amanda said.
“And you promise you’re not going after his head?” she asked, a small frown marring the bridge of her nose.
“Word of honour,” Amanda pronounced. “I’m after a relic, not his head.”
“Joan of Arc’s sword,” Amy said, her eyes gleaming. “Do you really think he’s going to unveil it at the opening of the exhibit?”
“Well, the article in the paper certainly hints in that direction,” Amanda said. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll let you have a look,” Amanda said, recognising the zeal of a historian when she saw it.
“It’s not that… it’s just, maybe we should let him reveal it at the opening. After all, it’s part of history.”
“So is the part where Joan of Arc tried to kill an immortal on the battlefield,” Amanda said dryly. “But somehow I don’t think either you or Ketteridge would be so eager to impart that piece of information.”
“Can I take photographs?” Amy asked tentatively. “I promise they’ll never go beyond the Watcher Archives.”
“As long as don’t tell them where you got them,” Amanda allowed. “The last thing I need is an over eager Watcher deciding that I’d be better off without it.”
“That would never happen,” Amy protested.
“If you say so,” Amanda said, as she pulled a tablet out of her bag and plugged the USB in. Nobody does surveillance better than a Watcher, and as they’re specifically trained not to catch the eye of an Immortal, they were not as likely to be noticed by Ketteridge, who would spot a career criminal from a mile off.
“Oh, very nice,” Amanda said, as she noted the Louis XV chairs and the original Degas over the mantelpiece. “Maybe I’ll pick up a few extra pieces - for the poor box, of course.” She added hastily, seeing the expression on Amy’s face.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Amy groaned.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Amanda said. “I’ll keep this our little secret.” With a wink, she got t her feet, pocketing the USB. “I’ll see you at Joe’s on Christmas Eve?”
Amy gave her a wry look. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?”
“It’s part of my charm,” Amanda said. “Au revoir!” With a spring in her step, Amanda bounced into the chill Parisian air. It had taken her 70 years to find him again, but now it was time to take back her prize.
~8~
1933, London, the Blitz, Lobby of the Ritz
She sensed another Immortal nearby. It was only for a moment, a brief shiver of awareness, but there was somebody close, watching her. People flew by them, jostling them in their eagerness to reach safety, all propriety lost as the sirens throbbed their warning. Amanda felt her eardrums ache, but she stubbornly dug her heels in as Terry tugged at her arm.
“Can’t you see, old thing? We can’t stay here, the Gerries will be here any moment,” he hollered, over the clangor of air raid warning. “We need to get to the basement.”
“But we’re in the Ritz, darling, one of the most solid buildings in London. It’ll only take a minute, Terrence; I just need to get my case.”
“There may be steel girders in the walls, my darling, but our rooms are no match for a Gerry bomb,” Terry pleaded. “Can’t you see, nothing is more precious than your life! Besides, nobody is going to break into our hotel room during an air raid - it’s just not done!” Poor, precious Terry, he would never understand that not everyone was as honourable as he was.
It was in that moment, that Amanda realised that she needed to forego her possessions. She may be Immortal, but Terry was not, and she knew with every fibre of her being that if she refused to descend the stairs without the case, he would refuse to leave without her.
“You’re right,” she said. “Let’s go.” They broke into a run as they heard the low thrum of a bomber engine, and Terrence let out a small sigh of relief as they reached the steps and descended into the Pink Sink.
“Dash it all, that was close,” Terrence said. “I need a Martini - can I get you something, Amanda?”
Amanda smiled and asked for a pink gin, dropping onto a seat as the first impact of a bomb made the chandelier above them shake. It was going to be a long night.
~8~
Amanda scowled as she remembered the condition of their rooms after the bombing. The room had been thoroughly ransacked and they’d taking everything of value… but it was when she realised the sword was alse missing that she knew who it had been - Ketteridge.
Amanda smiled to herself grimly, her revenge would be very sweet. She just needed to fill in that final piece of her puzzle. In order to retrieve the sword before the opening of the exhibition, she would attend Henry’s Gala tomorrow night, which was meant to be a celebration of the opening the following day. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she stepped onto the cobbled walkway that descended to the Seine. The Barge was tied off in its usual place and Amanda sensed Duncan’s quickening - good, he was in.
She climbed onto the barge and hesitated as she realised that Duncan’s presence seemed a lot stronger than usual, almost as if-
The door was flung open and Amanda jumped back, startled.
“Amanda, how nice to see you again!” Methos pronounced, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Methos,” Amanda said archly. “It’s not that I’m not glad to see you, but I was expecting Duncan to answer his door.”
“Ah, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, I’m afraid,” Methos said. “Duncan felt the need to embrace his roots in the Highlands before the holiday season begins, he isn’t due back for a few days. . I’m just keeping his place warm while he’s gone.”
“I see,” Amanda said flatly. “Does he actually realise you’re doing that, or did you just help yourself?” Methos’s grin became wider, and Amanda grew suspicious.
“Well, don’t stand on ceremony, come in from the cold, I’ll make us some tea,” he said, confirming the fact he was up to no good. Methos was never this pleased to see her.
“Make it a scotch,” Amanda said, as she tentatively stepped inside and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Whatever the lady wishes,” Methos said, as he headed for the liquor cabinet. Amanda eyed him warily as she shrugged off her coat, her eyes perusing the room until it fell on yesterday’s paper, the page folded beneath the photo of Henry Ketteridge. Damn, he knew.
“So… who told you?” she sighed.
Methos smirked as he handed her a tumbler. “What makes you think anybody told me? Maybe I was just perusing the lifestyle section over my morning coffee.” Amanda gave him a look and he relented.
“Fine, it was Joe.” He said, as he folded himself into the couch, glass in hand.
“It wasn’t my fault, you know,” she said defensively.
“Are we talking about the posse of Pinkertons hiding in the mail cabin or the angry Immortal lurking in first class?”
“Ketteridge wasn’t supposed to be on the train,” Amanda said. “He was supposed to have gone ahead.”
“But instead he was on the train, going after my head,” Methos said flatly.
“It was an accident, you know that!” Amanda protested. “That’s why you forgave me - remember?”
“Forgave, yes, forget? Not so much.”
Amanda pouted and slumped onto the couch beside him. “What is it you want?” she said.
“I want the Degas,” Methos said lightly, raising a finger as she opened her mouth to protest. “The Degas or I make a phone call.”
“You’re no fun anymore,” Amanda said.
“Well, we’ll see about that tomorrow night, when we attend his little party,” Methos said, a tad smugly.
“And makes you think I need a plus one?” she asked archly.
“Because Duncan isn’t here,” Methos said. “And that’s why you came here tonight, correct?”
Amanda let out a huff. “You better own a decent tux,” she said.
“I shall endeavour to look my best.”
~8~
It was a glittering affair, and Amanda had to grudgingly admit that Methos did look rather well in a tuxedo. She herself was wearing a rather delicious Zuhair Murad confection that showed off her assets rather nicely, and she thought they made a rather striking pair She smiled widely as she felt the presence of another immortal approach them.
“Showtime,” she said, the crowd parted to reveal Henry talking to a small circle of well-heeled Parisian’s. She caught his eye as it darted in their direction, and waggled her fingers at him.
“Careful, don’t antagonise him,” Methos murmured. “We have a plan, remember?”
“But he gets so delightfully flustered,” Amanda said, as she accepted a flute of champagne from a passing tray.
“There’s a thin line between flustered and homicidal,” Methos said dryly. “Let’s not get him too het up, I’d rather not have to defend my head tonight.”
“Don’t be silly, Henry won’t try anything when there’s this many people watching. All we have to do is mingle a little and then part ways when he least expects it.” They glided past Henry, and Amanda let her hand slip into her bag, her fingers gliding over her phone. She really did love modern technology. It was only a matter of moments before she’d cloned his phone.
“All done?” Methos asked, as they headed for the buffet table. She palmed the phone into his hand and he slid it into his inside pocket, watching as Henry making his excuses and heading in their direction
“Here he comes. Try to keep him occupied, will you?” Methos said, lifting his champagne glass to his lips.
“Amanda, Doctor Adams, it’s been a while,” Henry said. “I didn’t see you names on the guest list?”
“Well, I didn’t see your name on invitation card either, Henry and yet here you are.”
Henry graced her with a humourless smile. “Care to dance, Amanda?”
“Well, as long as my dance partner doesn’t have any objections.”
Oh, by all means, dance away,” Methos said.
Amanda resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she extended her hand to Henry and, with a cold smile, he led them out onto the dance floor. “It’s not yours, Amanda,” he said, under his breath. “It’s mine to have and mine to keep. It’s been over five centuries, why don’t we put this game to bed?”
“Ah, but where would the fun be in that?” Amanda asked, as they glided across the dance floor. One thing that could always be said about Henry, he knew how to dance.
“You can’t win this one, Amanda,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’m going to reveal it at the exhibition, and from that moment onwards, it shall become one of the most protected relics in all of France.”
“Well, you’ve obviously thought of everything,” Amanda said. “So you don’t mind if continue to enjoy the party?”
“Oh, by all means, drink my champagne, eat my h’oderves, and make merry,” he said, as the waltz came to close. With a knowing smirk, he kissed the back of her. “Oh, and by the way, happy birthday, Amanda.”
Amanda smiled, despite herself. “How darling, you remembered.”
“I try to remember the important things Amanda - it helps maintain me my grudges.”
“Oh,” Amanda sighed “You just had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”
Henry’s eyes darted around the room. “Where’s your friend?”
“Oh, he probably decided discretion was the better part of valour and departed,” Amanda said. “He doesn’t like making a scene.”
“Is that so?” Henry said suspiciously, as he surveyed the room.
It was then that his phone started to chirp anxiously at him, and his face paled as he realised it was a query text from his alarm. “What did you do, Amanda?” he hissed, his hand tightening on her arm.
“Moi?” she said. “I did absolutely nothing. I merely danced the waltz with you.”
His lips narrowed into a pale thin line, as he shoved her arm away and hurried away, his phone held to his ear. Mission accomplished - at least, the first part.
~8~
Methos leaned back in the Louis XV chair, and looked up from the laptop on his knees to admire the Degas perched on MacLeod’s couch. The theft had been almost been too easy, a small white with a couple of local hirelings to do the heavy lifting. The main house’s alarm and surveillance system wasn’t a match for the sophisticated software Amanda usually used for museums, and they didn’t waste time trying to even find the safe. That wasn’t the point of this little excursion. The hirelings were in and out in five minutes, their part of the mission safely accomplished
Feeling the first shiver of an approaching Immortal’s presence, Methos closed the laptop, took out the earbud out of ear, and hid them both in a bookshelf just in case. It was only Amanda, however, and Methos relaxed a little.
“Expecting someone else?” she asked
“Just trouble,” he said. “And it seems it has arrived.”
“Oh, you’re so amusing,” she said. “Well… show me.” Rolling his eyes, Methos produced the laptop, and handed Amanda the ear bud, and her face broke into a genuine smile as watched Henry move from room to room.
“Do you often hack other people’s surveillance systems?” Methos asked.
”Not often, just when the need arises - like when I’m dealing a particularly devious opponent.”
“Yes, I’m sure you taught him everything he knows,” Methos drawled.
Amanda slapped him on the arm absentmindedly. “Behave… where is he going?”
The wine cellar, I believe,” Methos said, as they watched him descend into the bowels of the chateau.
“Oh, you don’t think he actually…” And that’s when they watched him press a seemingly random brick in the wall and a wall segment slipped aside, revealing the door to a walk in safe. Methos watched as Amanda practically bounced with delight as he pressed in a code and the door opened. Unfortunately, the cameras didn’t extend inside the safe, but luckily they had no need of them. The cloned phone in his pocket chirped, and Methos hurriedly opened up a shell box on the laptop, a few moments later, the phone call came through the laptop’s speakers.
“Stand down, the safe hasn’t been breached, we’re secure,” said Henry’s voice. “But reset the code just in case and relay it to my phone.”
Silently, Amanda pounded the air. “Yes!” she crowed. “Now it’s time for the denouement.”
~8~
Joe Dawson wondered how he got himself roped into this kind of thing, he really did. He was pretty sure there was nothing in his résumé that screamed getaway driver, yet here he was, on Mid-winter’s Eve, keeping the engine warm for a couple of immortals who, for all their age, never seemed to grow up. It wasn’t fair, damn it.
A sharp tap on the passenger door window caused him to leap in his seat, and he let out a loud curse when he recognised the face that bobbed into view.
“Hi, Dad,” she said her voice muffled through the glass. “Any chance of you popping the lock? It’s bloody freezing out here!”
“Amy,” he hissed, as he opened the door. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“My job,” Amy said, as she slid inside and rubbed her hands together for warmth. “Watcher, remember? You, on the other hand, are definitely playing away from home.”
Joe snorted. “Methos told me he’d shaken your tail.”
“Yes, well, maybe he told you little fib,” Amy said, with a grin. “Not that he didn’t try, mind you, but then I reminded him that I was fully aware of what he was up to tonight, and that if he didn’t stop trying to shake me, I’d have no choice but to call the gendarmes.”
“That’s… positively Machiavellian,” Joe said wryly. “I’m beginning to think you’ve been the old man’s Watcher for a little too long.”
“Oh please, you’re just annoyed that it wasn’t you that got one over him,” said Amy, grinning.
The back doors suddenly opened, and Amanda and Methos jumped into the back seat. “Drive, Joe!” Methos hollered. “Amy - what the hell are doing here? Observe and record, remember?”
“Says the Immortal who conscripted my father into aiding and abetting,” Amy said. “Pot and ket-”
A gunshot rang out and everyone flinched as a bullet ricocheted off the roof.
“Joe,” Methos said.
“On it,” he said, as he forced the accelerator down. The car shot forward and they sped down the lane. Amanda turned in her seat and looked out the rear view window.
“I don’t think they’re following us,” she said.
“They’ve probably realise that by he time they get in their cars we’ll be too far ahead of us. They’ll call the cops instead,” Joe muttered. “They’ll be circulating our description and our plate numbers in a matter of minutes.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Amanda said. “Do you actually think I never thought of that - pull in to this little side street, Joe.”
“I better not end up spending Christmas in a jail cell, is all I say,” Joe muttered, as the pulled into a quiet street and, Amanda produced a second set of car keys as he pulled to a halt.
“Plan B,” she said, and she hit the lock button. A sleek Jag chirped in response.
“Fancy,” Amy said, amused, as they got out of the sedan. Joe spared a glance at the roof and winced as he spotted the deep groove the bullet made. They’d been lucky.
“Well, I figured that a red Jag was as different as you could get from a dark sedan,” Amanda with a shrug. “In you get, boys and girls, Mummy’s driving.”
~8~
The familiar shiver that heralded another immortal ran down Methos’s spine as they approached the barge and, a moment later, Amanda stiffened and shot a look at Methos.
“You don’t think he got here before we did, do you?” she whispered.
Methos shrugged. “Depends how motivated he was,” he said, reaching inside his coat for his sword.
Amanda rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to go after our heads,” she muttered. “He’ll just make things uncomfortable for us.”
“Correction, he’s not going to go after your head. I think you’ll find he thinks me fair game,” said Methos.
“Scaredy cat!” Amanda said. “Very well, I’ll go first, hold this.” She handed him the case that held the Sword of Fierbois before stalking ahead, and it was at that very moment that Methos’s conscience inopportunely raised its head.
“Here, hold that,” he muttered, shoving the sword case into Amy’s hands before darting after her, unsheathing his Ivanhoe just in case. They gained the deck and, on the count of three, Amanda went first.
What greeted them wasn’t what they expected.
“Amanda, a Degas and a pair of Louis XV chairs, you shouldn’t have,” MacLeod drawled, sitting in one of aforementioned chairs, a dark gleeful look in his eyes and a Santa hat propped on his head. “I’m afraid all I got you was a pair of socks and champagne!”
“Duncan, we weren’t expecting you until tomorrow,” Amanda said.
“Obviously, “ he said wryly. “Why else would my presents not be wrapped yet?”
Methos struggled to hold back a snort of laughter, and he turned to look at Joe and Amy, who were now entering the barge. One look at Joe’s face told him that the Watcher knew damned well that the Highlander had flown back into town early. Wily old coot.
“It’s not like that, Duncan,” Amanda wheedled.
“Right, because this isn’t your birthday, and I haven’t caught you red handed after performing your annual heist,” he said, with a grin.
“Oh, you remembered,” Amanda said coyly.
“Yes, I remembered, and it’s for that reason and that reason only, I’m going to overlook the fact you used my barge to stash your ill-gotten goods in.”
Amanda smiled cheekily. “I did rather well, didn’t I?”
“Ah, ah, ah, the Degas is mine, remember?” Methos said.
“And I suppose that leaves me the chairs,” Duncan mused.
“Wait, that’s not fair!” Amanda protested. “What do I get?”
“Wait, what is that I hear - the Sword of Fierbois?” Duncan said, holding his hand to his ear.
Amanda sighed, deflated. “Oh, very well, I don’t suppose we could have some of that champagne now?”
“It’s chilling in the fridge,” Duncan said. “I’ll get the glasses.”
“Are there nibbles?” Methos piped up.
“Don’t push it,” Duncan said, thrusting a flute in his direction.
“Well, can’t blame a guy for trying, thievery is thirsty work, I’ll have you know.” Methos said, as he commandeered the other Louis XV. He’d forgotten how comfortable these chairs were - maybe he could convince MacLeod to do a swap?
“So,” Amy said. “What will we toast to?”
“Amanda’s birthday,” Joe suggested.
“Filthy Lucre,” Methos added.
“Friends, and knowing how to put up with them,” Duncan said, throwing him a quelling look.
“How about…all of the above,” Amanda said, with a wide, sly smile. Their glasses clinked, the champagne fizzed, and all ended well on that fine Mid-Winter’s night.
~8~
The same couldn’t be said the next morning, however, when both Methos and Duncan woke up sans Degas, sans Louis XV chairs, and sans Amanda.
The End