Happy Holidays, tansy!

[amand_r]

Title: Chase the Whiskey
Author: hafital, aka The Author You have Dialed Has Been Disconnected.
Written for: Tansy (tansyhl)
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Methos is housesitting for the de Valicourts and MacLeod comes over to help.



Chase The Whiskey

MacLeod trudged through a foot of snow up to the large house owned by the de Valicourts. All but one of the many windows were dark, and that single square of light shone far in the corner of the third floor. Even in the short time it took for him to walk from his car to the front door, his feet felt like solid blocks of ice.

He knocked loudly, stamping back and forth, blowing on his gloveless hands. He knocked again. Except for that one lit window, there was no sign of life in the great house but he could feel the tingle of Immortal presence mixing with the tingle of frozen limbs.

He banged as hard as he could. "Methos! Open up before I freeze my balls off or I swear I'm going to chop off your b--"

The door opened and MacLeod fell through into the front foyer. Sliding on the marble floor, he windmilled his arms to regain his balance.

"You were saying?" Methos smirked at him, closing the door. He stood nonchalantly by a bust of a noble-faced mustached gentleman and folded his arms across his chest. "You do realize Gina'd have your head if you bloodied her new rose pillows."

MacLeod glared. He put his hands on his hips because it helped with the glaring.

"I'm serious," continued Methos. "She said so. She said, 'Methos, my house is your house, feel free to do as you please. Play, sing, dance, but whatever you do, do not bloody my new rose pillows.' I swear, she said it." Methos held his hands up, as if that proved his point. "And Robert stood next to her with that look he gets when Gina starts in on her linens."

"I can't believe they left you in charge."

Methos smiled. "They must like me better."

Snorting, MacLeod looked through the long shadows cast by one lit sconce. The house was empty and lonely. "So, why'd you call me? Bored?"

"Would you like a drink? They’ve given me a bottle of Scotch, as a present. There's also coffee just brewed, waiting in that ridiculous sitting room Gina favors." Before Macleod could answer one way or the other, Methos turned the foyer light off and moved swiftly away, swallowed into the cavernous dark hallways.

MacLeod followed, because… well just because. "Methos," he said, only mildly annoyed. It had been cold and lonely on the barge, not that he would ever let Methos know that. "If you're afraid, you could just say so. No need to leave me fifty whining messages on my machine."

"Oh really, that's exaggerating, isn't it?" said Methos, leading the way through the shadows into the sitting room, where he turned on one lamp in the center by the coffee service. It made a limited pool of light. Then, he went straight for the liquor cabinet.

Watching Methos root around in the cabinet for a moment, MacLeod sat down on a plush armchair. He yanked a rose pillow from behind. "Tell me the truth, you're lonely, so you thought to call me. It's okay, you can admit it."

"Hardly," said Methos, muffled, still looking through the cabinet. He pushed aside several whiskey bottles until finally exclaiming, "Aha." Gripping his prize, he moved toward MacLeod. "I left you two, maybe three messages. Not fifty."

MacLeod looked around. The room was large with two of its walls windowed and imperfectly draped so he could see outside to the eerie, ghostly darkness, the snow glowing in the moonlight. "Do you have something against light?" he asked, beginning to feel the weight of the silent house pressing down. No wonder Methos had called; anyone would go a little daft all by themselves.

"Yes, I do, when I have to go around to hundreds of lamps and turn them all on and then off again, individually, every night. Damned annoying is what it is."

"Lazy. All work and no play makes Methos bonkers, does it? Never would have guessed."

"Very funny. I keep my axe by the bed."

MacLeod laughed. "You really are alone here. Where are the servants? Don't they normally have an army on staff?"

"That is the strange bit," said Methos, frowning slightly while serving coffee. "There aren't any. They let them go, for the holidays. Robert and Gina left so quickly I hardly had time to ask questions."

"Really?"

Methos shrugged. "None of my business."

MacLeod, reaching across Methos for his coffee, finally got a good look at the bottle unearthed from the liquor cabinet. He sat up straight. "Holy-- Is that what I think it is?"
MacLeod pointed to the old, fat-bottomed bottle with a much browned and battered label.
"They didn't! They don't-- Do they? Wait, where did you get that?"

"What? Oh this? It's just a bottle of whiskey." Methos was clearly faking innocence, much to MacLeod's annoyance. "A gift, from Robert, for you know, looking after the place. Just a little gift."

Stunned, MacLeod was speechless for a few sputtering moments. "That's the last bottle from Dun's Island Distillery. It's worth half a million pounds at auction. And they gave it to you?"

"Yes," said Methos, smiling, one eyebrow rising. "Didn't realize it was quite that expensive."

Macleod, still outraged, huffed. "I told Robert I was looking for the last Dun's Island whiskey. I told him I was bidding on it." MacLeod pursed his lips. "That bastard. He bought me out."

Methos smiled very broadly, obviously trying not to laugh. "You didn't win the bid? Half a million too rich for you? Can't say I blame you. That's ridiculous, for a bottle of whiskey. Want to open it?"

"No! Are you out of your mind? You can't just drink it."

"You can't? What do you do with it then? Use it as a paperweight? Doorstop?" Methos proceeded to open the bottle.

MacLeod made a strangled noise, then shut his eyes and held his breath, as if he were playing a tense game of Jenga and all the pieces just toppled to the ground. When he opened one eye, Methos was holding out a shot for him, trying not to laugh.

"Come on," said Methos. "It's just whiskey."

MacLeod struggled for a moment, then, with a woosh of defeat, he said, "Oh, all right."

"That's my Highland warrior."

MacLeod frowned and glared. It was really more of a grimace, which quickly disappeared when he downed the shot. Smooth, rich, dark, the whiskey slid warm down his throat, pooling in the center of his stomach.

"Damn."

"That was…"

"Yes."

"Another?"

"Definitely."

Methos poured each of them a double in regular tumbler glasses, then sploshed a healthy dose into their coffees. MacLeod, still miffed, muttered darkly into his cup. It didn't help that Methos was practically preening. "You know, it's all very odd, this business, leaving you alone like this. I'm their friend. They should have asked me. I'm the more responsible one. Do you know, besides that bottle that's now only half full, there is about four to five million pounds worth of art in this house?"

"Oh, no. I'd say at least ten million," said Methos, swallowing his coffee. "Twenty. Maybe even a billion. Worried about a little burglary? Is Amanda in town? Not to worry, they left me in charge." He pointed to his chest, then flexed his muscles.

MacLeod choked on his drink. He narrowed his eyes. "You're drunk."

Snow crunched underfoot. A figure dropped to his knees behind a large snow covered bush. With night-vision goggles, he scanned the house. Then switched to infrared. There were two figures inside, in the lower part of the house.

He pressed his ear. A radio channel opened. "He's opened the package finally. But he's no longer alone. MacLeod is with him."

A tinny voice responded. "This changes nothing. We'll just have to handle both.
Proceed as planned."

"Understood. Team Renard, Team Lapin, into positions. Wait for my orders."

Over the radio came affirmative replies.

"No, seriously," Methos waved his hand. "It's alarmed, you know. What could possibly happen?"

"Is it alarmed right now?"

"Yes. Well, no. No and yes." Methos waggled is hand.

"Methos," said MacLeod, trying to sound disapproving but only sinking further into his seat.

"There are cameras all over outside. Besides, what do you care?" said Methos, defensively.

"Cameras only do any good if you actually look at the feed. Not much comfort to know you've filmed the thieves after they've stolen everything. And I don't care. I'm just looking out for you." Bright, wide smile.

Methos snorted. He sat up, listing to one side. "Are you saying I should patrol every hallway, and all the grounds, and also keep a hand monitor on me at all times? Is that what you're saying?"

MacLeod hid his smile as he took another sip of his coffee. Damn, it was very good. Sinful waste, of course. "If you wanted to do your job right."

Methos made a sour face, mocking MacLeod in a high pitched voice. "If you wanted to do your job right. You're annoying, you know that?"

MacLeod lifted his free hand in a gesture of peace. "Like you said, what do I care?"

"What's the use of cameras anyway?" said Methos, languidly, settling deep into his chair, rose-colored cushions falling to the floor. "Too easy to trick. Everyone who's anyone knows thieves would be camouflaged. More?" He held up the bottle.

Soundlessly, ten shadows moved across the snow toward the house, five from the east, five from the west. They blended with the white of the snow, only here and there a bright reflection from their equipment or an uncovered hand flashing in the moonlight.

They converged on the house, pulled out crossbows attached to leading lines, shot silently over the roof. As one, five from the east and five from the west starting scaling the outside walls.

On the ground, remaining several feet away from the house, two other figures met at the front approach, watching with binoculars.

MacLeod shook his head, tempting though it was. He was feeling very sleepy and plenty drunk already. "It should be saved for a special occasion," he insisted.

"This isn't special enough?" asked Methos with a trace of an inviting smile on his lips that quickly disappeared. He had all but become one with the cushions, sinking so completely beneath several shades of rose pillows he was only partially recognizable as a human being.

MacLeod huffed again, not inclined to forgive all of the injustices he had received through the course of the evening, though he smiled a little. "What's so special?" he asked.

"Tell me something," said Methos, sitting up a little but the effort must have cost him because he almost fell off the sofa. "Tell me something," he repeated with an air of changing the subject, "If you were going to break into this monstrosity, how would you do it?"

"Why? What's the point of breaking in? We're already inside."

"I'm not serious. I'm not saying actually break in. I'm just asking, how would you do it?"

"Team Renard in position."

"Team Lapin in position."

"Standby. Not too hasty. All together now, on my count: one…"

MacLeod thought about it for a minute. "Well, you disable the alarm first--"

"How would you do that?"

"Either on site or at the company, those are your options -- easier said than done, but doable. You will need to cut the electricity, too, of course, but the alarm system has its own supply, in case of a blackout." said Macleod, warming up to the subject.

"Won't the company be notified?"

"Possibly, probably eventually, but if they are notified you'll have several minutes anyway -- at least ten -- before the police appear, way out here. Enough time to empty the house of the more valuable items."

Methos nodded. "Right, then sneak in through the back door, I suppose."

"You might as well ring the door bell, then. No, no, you enter from the top. Rappel down, discreetly break a window, incapacitate the residents, voila."

At that moment, the one lamp winked out, plunging MacLeod and Methos into darkness.

"…two..."

With no lights at all, MacLeod was blinded for a moment, but the night outside was so bright from the snow and the moonlight, that he could soon see all of the room and the entire outside as well.

"What just happened?" he asked, sitting up straight in his seat, but he was feeling the alcohol rather more strongly than he would have assumed. Darn good Scotch. He'll get
Robert. Maybe he would burgle the man, pay him back for stealing the Scotch right out from under him.

"The light just went out."

"I know that," said MacLeod, exasperated. "How?"

"Must have been the bulb, don't you think? Hey, did you just see that light outside? Like something flashing?"

"…three."

MacLeod turned toward the many windows lining the room like a glass cage. The gardens were beautiful, crystalline, looking breathtakingly cold and perfect under all the snow and ice. In contrast, he felt warm, almost overheated, sweating as he looked out to the coldness that seemed to vibrate, wondering at the trees and bushes encased in ice, so ready to be shattered. He felt it then, rather than saw it, the faintest flicker of Immortal presence.

Ten figures, dressed head to toe in white and gray camouflage, their faces covered with ski masks, swung into view, flying feet first through the windows, glass exploding in a burst of frigid air. The figures all ducked and rolled onto the floor in unison.

"Methos," yelled MacLeod, already moving, knocking over side tables, the coffee service clattering and banging to the floor, rose-colored cushions all over the place. Methos, MacLeod noticed, first saved the bottle of Dun's Island, and then ducked. Doing the same, MacLeod ran for the safety of the sofa but his legs gave out, and the furniture kept sliding around as if he were on a boat tossed on waves.

Methos scrambled next to him, tripping over the rug. MacLeod bumped into him; they held each other up, turning in a circle as they were surrounded on all sides by silent, camouflaged intruders holding semi-automatic weapons directly at their chests.

From the sides of the room, two individuals entered, also camouflaged, but with their hands free of weapons.

Dully, MacLeod realized the two new intruders were Immortals, their buzz rattling his teeth. He felt nauseous and reached for his sword but with rolling panic he realized it wasn't on him.

"Sword?" Methos asked him with wide eyes, obviously trying to focus. He kept swaying.

"No," said MacLeod, not doing much better in his attempts at remaining vertical.

One of the Immortals, the shorter of the two, raised his hand and shook his finger at them.

"Thanks. Everyone's a critic," Methos said under his breath.

Foggy, confused, MacLeod shook his head, trying to clear it. "What… what do you want?"

The intruders did nothing, not a nod or a twitch in acknowledgement, perfectly still until as one they all started moving forward.

MacLeod opened his mouth to breathe in air and ask what the hell was going on, but instead, his vision went black and he fell into nothingness.

When MacLeod woke he knew only total darkness and the howling pain of nails on chalkboard that made him shut his eyes, but that made no difference.

He thought maybe he moaned, but wasn't sure. It could have been someone else moaning, now that he thought of it, and suddenly he remembered Methos. He opened one eye just a crack. It was difficult to see in the darkness. Everything was blurry, but he was definitely mashed up against something. Something both hard and soft. There was a weird rumbling faintly heard, and what felt like puffs of air on his face.

With slow awareness, he remembered that he had arms and hands and fingers, not to mention legs and feet, and wondered where they were and what they were doing because he couldn't feel them at all. Panic set in and he thrashed, opening his eyes wide, grunting with the effort to stand and move. It was all pain, like fire, coursing down every nerve-ending.

"Mac, damn it. Ouch. Stop."

Something slapped his back and MacLeod fell still. "Methos?"

"Yes. For the love of God stop. And don’t yell."

Most of MacLeod's panic left. Clearly they were both alive. Methos sounded like he was right on top. Or right next to him. MacLeod's vision cleared and he was able to focus. He realized he was looking at an ear. Methos' ear. At least, he was pretty certain it was Methos' ear, having never had an occasion to study it up close before.

"Uh, Methos? What's going on?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

MacLeod thought about it for a moment. He knew it should be obvious, but he was missing a vital piece of information. Then, Methos sneezed, and it all became clear.

Methos' stomach and chest were pressed against MacLeod's. Methos' arms, wrapped around MacLeod's back spasmed momentarily. He suddenly became aware of his own arms wrapped around Methos in turn. He wiggled his fingers and hands, finding those were free, at least, for whatever good that did.

"Sorry," said Methos. "Your hair tickled my nose."

"Are we tied together?" As he said the words, he noticed the synthetic rope that was wound around their bodies prohibiting even the barest of movements. They were nose to nose, chest to chest, crotch to crotch.

"Never let anyone say you're not quick, MacLeod."

"Pardon me, but I was a bit disorientated. Where are we?" He tried looking around, his headache reduced to a more moderate sledgehammering. He didn't recognize the room, but wherever they were it was as dark as the rest of the house with only the drapes drawn back to let the moonlight in. He realized they were on a bed. A large bed, one of those ancient pieces of furniture the de Valicourts still kept, but really, he rather wished they'd upgrade because the mattresses were exceedingly lumpy. But still, a very large bed. They don't make them like it anymore.

"My bedroom," said Methos.

"Who are these people?" MacLeod made a half-hearted attempted to sit up. He had the distinct impression it made him look like a fish flopping around out of water.

"Haven't a clue."

MacLeod stilled. He pulled his head back as far as he could to get a look at Methos, suddenly very suspicious. This was all very curious, very strange. He smelled a set up and a trap, but Methos looked completely done in. Even with only the meager light of the moon MacLeod could see the bruises below Methos' eyes and the deep lines that creased his face.

"What?" asked Methos. If they both pulled their heads back they could look at each other. "Christ, that's exhausting, isn't it? Holding your neck out like that." He deflated, dropping his head forward. Or rather, sideways, since they lay on their sides. The effect was that Methos' cheek lay next to MacLeod's.

For several moments they lay there, silent, breathing as well as they could with their movement restricted, cheeks resting against each other, arms wrapped tightly around each other's backs.

"You know, Methos, if you wanted a hug, you could have just asked," said MacLeod.

Methos chuckled. It made them bounce a little on the bed. Jiggle, really. They jiggled a lot. MacLeod started chuckling, too. Then laughing. Soon, they were both laughing, unable to stop, gasping for breath, which is a lot harder to get when you're tightly bound to another human being and thus unable to inhale properly.

After a minute MacLeod felt extremely lightheaded. The laughter died down to a trickle, a random chuckle, a laugh here and there. "Not really helping is it?" he said once he could breathe again.

"No, not really," said Methos. "I suppose we should try to get loose, or something."

"Or something. Is there a bathroom in here?"

"Do you have to go? That could be interesting."

MacLeod slapped his cheek softly against Methos. "Let's not go there just yet, okay? I was thinking there would be something to cut these ropes."

"They're made of nylon, MacLeod."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Methos was silent. Then, "All right, I suppose it's something. There are scissors in there. The bathroom is on the other side of the room," he indicated with his nose, "behind you. How do you want to do this?"

"We have to try and stand."

"Okay."

They did nothing, but just looked at each other sideways.

"What are you--" asked MacLeod.

"I was waiting--"

"No waiting! No waiting, come on. On three we go for the edge of the bed, okay? If you lean on me and I lean on you, it should work. One."

"This must be what team-building exercises are like."

"Methos," growled MacLeod. "Two. Three!"

They grunted, jerked from one side to the other in opposite directions, one moving against, one moving forward. They banged their heads and noses together.

"Ow!"

"That didn't work," said MacLeod, trying not to laugh. "Okay, again, this time we shimmy."

"Shimmy?"

"Yeah, you know, shimmy." MacLeod demonstrated by wiggling like a fish.

"Oh, that's going to work," said Methos. MacLeod could hear the smirk.

"Just try it, please."

"Why don't we roll?"

"Oh. Yeah, okay. On three. One, two, three."

Together they rolled over and over again, not stopping, rolling right over the edge of the bed, landing on the floor with a thump.

Below the thieves were working quickly and efficiently. A truck had pulled up to the front, already one-quarter loaded. They had the third floor nearly done, stripped of all paintings and minor artwork. They'd even taken the rugs. The second floor would go as swiftly, but the first would be the most difficult and the most time consuming.

Each piece was wrapped and crated, then loaded. It was like an assembly-line, only as silent as the snow falling outside. The Immortals, still camouflaged and masked, watched the activity, pleased with the progress. They would get done ahead of schedule, although there wasn’t really that strong a press for time. The only thing left to deal with would be the two mice caught and held in the upstairs room.

Something thumped loudly. Everyone paused.

The two leaders looked at each other. "That didn't take long," said one.

"What did you expect?" asked the other, turning to point at one of the men carrying a large vase. "You," he said. "Go up and check on them. Use the radio."

The figure nodded, leaving the vase for someone else to carry.

MacLeod saw stars. He'd landed on his back, parallel with the bed, almost underneath it, with Methos on top, and had the wind knocked out of him. "That was brilliant," he said.

There was a large patch of moonlight where they had fallen so MacLeod could clearly see. Vaguely he wondered how long it had been since the burglary had gotten underway -- longer than ten minutes, surely. If the police had been notified, they would have been there by then, which meant, there would be no rescue. Damn it.

"Hey, at least we're off the bed."

"Yes, that's true," said MacLeod.

Without either of them speaking, they tried to stand up. MacLeod couldn't say why, but he knew time was short. Would the thieves leave them like this? Would they take their heads? Or maybe they would be taken elsewhere, leaving the destruction of the quickening for another location?

MacLeod tried pushing off the floor, but couldn't bend his knees. Methos grunted in MacLeod's ear. He struggled against the rope, trying to loosen it, shimmying to see if that moved him up or down.

Methos was the first one to stop mid-attempt, MacLeod a moment later, suddenly noticing how clear Methos' eyes were in the moonlight. It was hard to tell, because the light turned everything into varying shades of cold blue, but MacLeod thought Methos was blushing. He was breathing fast, in any case, and there was a definite hardness pressing against him. The wonders of friction.

MacLeod moved his hips, pushing his erection up. He groaned. Methos' eyes darkened to a fine, lustful shade of blue-green.

"Oh," said MacLeod, every inch of his body a hundred percent aware of Methos' warmth, his hardness, the weight of him.

"My thoughts exactly," said Methos. "I thought we weren't going there just yet?" he added, his lips mere centimeters from MacLeod's, his breath warm. He pushed down against MacLeod a second time. MacLeod saw stars for a second time.

"We're not. We shouldn't." MacLeod breathed in, slowly. "Unless your plan is to shock the burglars into letting us keep our heads."

"You don't think it'll work?" Methos talked with his lips right over MacLeod's, their breaths mingling. MacLeod could taste the whiskey left on Methos' lips. With a bone-deep sort of rattling certainty, he knew what he wanted to do most in the world at that moment was chase that whiskey on Methos' lips, chase it all the way until he'd made sure he'd tasted it all.

The floorboard creaked beneath them. They stilled, wide eyes meeting wide eyes.

The door was on the other side of the bed; they were hidden from view, but that wouldn't last. With slight a pressure from his hands, he indicated for Methos to lie flat against him.

The bed was one of those made high off the ground. Thinking quick, his fingers and hands free, MacLeod grabbed the underside of the bed and hauled with all of his strength. It wasn't quite enough leverage, but it was enough to slide them half under the bed. With Methos pushing from the bottom as best he could, and MacLeod hauling from the top, they were able to get entirely under just as the door opened.

Breathing shallowly, MacLeod stared up into Methos eyes, and they both listened to a pair of snow boots enter, stop, and walk around the bed to the other side.

They only had a few moments. Any second, and the man would radio and notify the others that they were missing. Something needed to be done. Now. This very moment, or it would all be over. But MacLeod could only stare into Methos' eyes.

Methos mouthed the words "Hang on," and rolled.

A not entirely distant part of MacLeod's mind wanted to ask, "Hang on? Do I have an option?" but he was too busy rolling to really form the thought entirely.

MacLeod scrunched his eyes shut, protecting his head as much as possible, helping the momentum as best as he could, but still he banged against the bedpost. There was just enough space, but even so he felt his sides scrape against the bottom of the bed, as well as his knees, his back, and he knew his knuckles were stripped of skin.

The camouflaged man yelped, backed up, lost his balance, and caused an even louder thump this time accompanied with a crash from a lamp and smaller thuds from various odds and ends tumbling to the ground from the bedside table. The man was knocked unconscious.

"Damn it. That didn't help us at all. We're going to have everyone up here now," said MacLeod, pushing Methos off.

"Well, sorry, it was the best I could do. I didn't see you coming up with anything better." Methos sat up, angrily pulling at the rope.

They both froze. They looked at the rope, at themselves freed, then each at the other's face.

"How'd that happen?" asked MacLeod.

"Must have gotten loose somehow, maybe under the bed, snagged on something? Beats me. I don't know. Quick, we'd better hurry." Methos untied the rest of the rope.

"Loose? How could it get loose? What kind of thieves are these people? Who ties a loose knot? This is ridiculous." Once free, MacLeod took Methos' hand and pulled him along, leaving the unconscious man alone. There wasn't enough time to tie him up. They crept from the room into the dark hallway.

"Stop asking questions. Just keep moving. Where'd you leave your sword?" Methos pulled back on his hand, making MacLeod stop.

"Um…" said MacLeod, feeling sheepish.

"Oh, Christ, you left it in your car."

"I didn't think I'd need it."

Grumbling about boy scouts, Methos yanked him along, moving quickly to the back staircase. MacLeod recognized it as the old servant stairs leading down to the kitchens. "Mine's with my coat, on the first floor."

"I'm surprised you don't keep it glued to your back. Where's your gun, anyway?"

Methos glared. By the looks of the deep breath he took, his swelling chest, and the sparks shooting from his eyes, MacLeod guessed Methos was about to let off a string of obscenities; however he would never know, because at that moment they spotted two more thieves at the other end of the hallway coming up the main stairway.

They ducked down the back staircase, crouching and peeking over the banister. MacLeod could tell these were not the Immortals. He sat back, taking a moment to collect his breath.

MacLeod stared at the wall and let Methos mumble about the best route they should take: "…down the back, through the kitchen entrance to the sitting room, scope out how many thieves, what our odds are. The camera monitors are down there, but of course the electricity's been cut. Forgot about that. I think Robert keeps an extra sword somewhere, though. In any case, we'd better go that way, then maybe go round by the outside, don't you think? Mac? MacLeod? Are you listening?"

"What? Oh yes. Sounds good." MacLeod followed Methos, stealthy in the intermittent moonlight, they padded silently down the back stairs, stopping every once in a while when they heard a noise.

MacLeod had not, in fact, listened to Methos, but had been instead mesmerized by the alarm system access panel that was at that end of the hallway. He was remembering when Gina and Robert had the system installed; he'd helped them pick out the company, and the level of protection. It was all coming back to him, the details having been lost in the excitement of being drugged, held at gunpoint, kidnapped, bound -- bound to Methos more specifically, sexually aroused, almost kissed -- almost kissed by Methos more specifically, banged around, and then freed again. These things tend to distract. He remembered now, though: there were access panels at the service entrance of each floor. When they came to the second floor, he spotted the panel right where it should be.

It was as he thought.

"What are you staring at?"

"Nothing," said MacLeod. "Lead on, Macduff."

"Very funny."

The second two men he'd sent returned carrying the first man between them. They shook their heads when they saw him. "They are gone, monsieur. As you can see, Bernard is unconscious."

"Thank you, Francois, you best put him in the truck. Tell the other men to be on the lookout but not to interfere. We shall take care of our difficult friends ourselves. Oh, and please hurry. We must not take too long. Leave the less valuable pieces. Tell Antoine to start the truck."

"Yes, monsieur." The men moved off, calling to the others.

MacLeod crouched behind Methos, creeping down to the first floor, entering the kitchen, which was empty and still. From there they had access to the sitting room where he was sure most of the activity was located. A truck roared to life. They stiffened and looked at each other.

Silently, Methos gestured for MacLeod to follow. They went through the door.

Methos pointed to where he could see two men supporting a third as they talked to another man. Other men were moving quickly carrying large, wrapped parcels or boxes out through the front door. "We'll never reach my sword this way," said Methos, pointing to where his coat was hanging on a hook in the front foyer just visible, one of the collars flapping in the cold breeze.

"Forget your sword."

"Forget my sword? What are you thinking?"

Immortal presence brought goosebumps and teeth-rattling shivers to the back of MacLeod's neck. MacLeod looked up to see the two leaders, distinguishable from the rest by a certain easy, comfortable manner, move together to talk.

"I'm thinking the gig's up," said MacLeod, grabbing Methos by the arm hard enough to make him wince.

"Ow."

"I figured it out."

"What are you talking about?"

"It's a trick, a sham, isn't it? You and Robert and Gina. You had me going there for a minute, but you see, I installed the alarm system. Did you know that? See that access panel over there?"

They both looked. Methos nodded.

"What color is the light?"

"Green."

"Exactly. It's on. Disabled, but on. You left the door open for them." MacLeod took out the knife from his shin sheath, pressing it to Methos' neck, grabbing him by the upper arm. "And now, it's my turn to have a little fun."

Methos' jaw dropped. "A knife?"

His fellow Immortal approached. "Did you hear?"

"Yes. Admit it, he’s really very clever. What should we do? We can’t hurt them."

"Clever! Not clever enough. And who ever said anything about hurting? No, we do nothing," he said, grabbing the smaller, more feminine Immortal and bringing her to his chest. "With these two, they will come to us, have no fear. And then, we shall see. Have I told you how beautiful you look in the moonlight?"

"But how can you see my face?"

"Ah, my darling, I have it memorized. You are indeed the most spectacular, the most gorgeous, exquisite creature imaginable."

At that moment, they both froze, turning together as MacLeod and Methos entered the room. MacLeod held Methos at knifepoint.

MacLeod force-marched Methos into the sitting room. There was still no light, but he had become accustomed to the darkness and could clearly see all the havoc the break-in had caused. The windows were of course shattered with glass everywhere. Rose-colored cushions scattered all over the floor. However, the walls were empty, only faint discolored squares left to indicate where paintings had once hanged.

The two Immortals stood in the middle embracing.

"I can't believe you had a knife on you all this time," said Methos. "Did you think of mentioning it?"

"It was at my shin. I couldn't reach it. It wouldn't have helped."

"Still! Some friend you are."

"Oh, don't start."

The two Immortals now stood opposite MacLeod and Methos. The other men only paused for a moment to look at MacLeod and Methos and their two leaders in the center of the room, resuming their tasks immediately, obviously instructed not to react or to provoke. Their behavior made it all the more certain for MacLeod.

"All right," he said. "Masks off. Come on. Game over. Very funny, hah hah. Now, come on Gina, Robert, take it off. I figured it all out. What are you two doing, anyway? Are you selling? What's the story? Don't tell me you're after the insurance."

No one moved. The two Immortals they faced were preternaturally still, their arms at their sides, their legs slightly apart, the picture of readiness.

Next to him, Methos cleared his throat, trying to whisper. "Um, MacLeod, I never activated the alarm."

Ignoring Methos -- obviously he hadn't activated the alarm! Wasn't that what he just said? -- MacLeod grew impatient. "What are you waiting for? Joke's over. I suppose claiming the bottle of Dun's Island wasn't enough, huh?"

He let Methos go, moving to the smaller of the two Immortals, reaching to take hold of her mask. Before he could pull it off, she blocked him with a martial move.

Everything became very quiet, and not even the other masked men made any noise, nor the wind or the snow outside. The only sound came from the purring truck drifting in through the shattered windows.

MacLeod made three realizations very quickly: First, this female Immortal was shorter than Gina by about three inches. Second, if the theft was real and the break-in real, and Methos had never turned on the alarm, which anyone would know from casing the place for the week Methos had been staying there and seeing how terrible a house-sitter Methos was, then they were back to the police never being notified and no help on the way. And last, MacLeod realized that millions upon millions of pounds worth of art was, at that moment, sitting in a truck ready to be driven away. These happened in a flash but he could tell from the glint in the female Immortal's eyes -- the only part of her face he could see -- that she had read all three on his face.

With his next breath, MacLeod lunged. She was a good fighter, well trained, and quick. They moved around the room, in and around the furniture, leaping over fallen chairs and broken end-tables. From the corner of his eye he spotted Methos and the other male Immortal fighting. Their fight was more brutal -- a fist fight, almost wrestling. Methos broke away and ran towards the foyer; MacLeod knew he was going for his sword.

MacLeod ducked and brought his weight to bear down on the woman, knocking her to the floor. He spun and blocked the male, giving Methos time. He fought both of them. With his knife he cut the female across the upper arm.

She hissed, pulling back. The male stopped as well. Methos came running in, brandishing his sword and yelling.

The two masked Immortals looked at each other, then turned and ran, diving in unison through the nearest open window out into the snow. With a tuck and roll, they disappeared.

"That's right, leave," said MacLeod, catching his breath, examining a cut on his hand already healing.

"Was it something I said?" asked Methos, smirking.

The truck was heard going into gear.

"Oh shit!" They both cried out at the same time, horror struck.

MacLeod ran to the window, calling to Methos as he climbed through, shards of glass tearing at his hands, ripping his pants. "Damn it, I'll stop the truck, you go and set off the alarm. The button. Push the button!" And he was out into the snow, hoping Methos heard him and figured out all you needed to do was push the little red button on any one of the access panels and you had a direct line to the police. It'd take them a good ten minutes to get there, but it was better than nothing.

The cold snow grabbed at his legs and feet but he muscled his way to the front. The truck was already ambling out of the driveway, starting down the long road to the main highway.

MacLeod ran. He pumped his legs has hard as he could, gasping for breath, his lungs seared by the ice-cold air, his chest about to burst, climbing over the snow drifts, trying to head the truck off, reaching the summit just as it was turning.

He dropped to one knee. He shut one eye, hefting his knife by the blade, aimed, and threw. The knife went whistling through the air, arcing and sinking straight and true into the center of the driver-side front tire.

It exploded. The truck careened on the slippery road and jack-knifed, skidding with an ear-splitting screech into the snow bank. There was a loud crack as a tree snapped followed by a metal groan when the truck finally stopped.

MacLeod winced, pulling his fingers out of his ears. He slid down the bank toward the truck.

Two figures climbed out of the cab and ran into the woods.

"Hey," called MacLeod. The shorter Immortal turned and waved, then followed her partner into the dark woods.

"Damn it," he muttered, finally reaching the truck. He found one of the semi-automatic weapons on the ground and picked it up, pointing it at the other accomplices who were mostly dazed or unconscious and not offering much trouble, tumbling from the now open loading doors.

Behind him he heard Methos skid down to meet him. Silently, Methos looked at the mess and pursed his lips. He found another automatic-rifle and trained it on one of the men trying to escape. "Uh uh," said Methos, cocking the gun. The man sighed and dropped to the ground.

MacLeod wasn't paying attention. He was staring off into the woods, listening, waiting for it. And there it was, the harsh growl of a motorcycle tearing through the woods, growing fainter with every passing second.

"Them?" asked Methos. "They escaped?"

MacLeod nodded, silent. Whoever those two were, they had almost won. He looked up as the sound of the motorcycle faded entirely only to be replaced by sirens and a larger rumble of several cars speeding over the road.

"Do you think they'll be angry?" asked Methos, still training his gun on the rest of the thieves.

"Gina and Robert? Oh, I'm sure they'll understand, seeing how you let two strange Immortals nearly rob them blind. No worries."

"Funny, funny. Oh shit," said Methos, smacking his head with his hand.

"What?" MacLeod looked around, ready for the Immortal couple to return, for hundreds of snow camouflaged men to come running from the woods, for Robert and Gina to pop out of the first police car laughing and crying out "Merry Christmas!" "What is it?"

"The rose pillows. She's going to kill me."

Robert and Gina returned early from their trip, none too happy to find out the extent of the damage to their estate. But mostly, they were understanding, and also thought the whole thing hysterical.

"Wait, wait," said Robert, doubled over, laughing. "You thought it was us?"

"Yes. It's exactly the kind of prank you'd pull," said MacLeod, very relieved neither Robert nor Gina were that upset, but also annoyed at the way they kept laughing at him.

"Me? Clearly, you've mistaken me for yourself." But Robert was smiling.

MacLeod glared. "And what about that bottle? That was low. You knew I wanted it."

Robert grinned, white teeth glinting in the warm light of Le Blues Bar. "Oh that. Sorry. All's fair in love and war, don't you know. Besides, I knew Adam would share it with you. Where is the bottle? Let’s have a drink."

"Being analyzed. It must have been tampered with. You don't know who the seller was?"

"No. You know as well as I do it was a blind auction. That’s damned odd, isn’t it? They must have been planning this for ages. I feel a bit bad, actually. Oh well." He shrugged. "Listen, forgive me for the whiskey, and I'll overlook all the damage to my home. It looks like you took a bat to the place."

He smiled. They shook hands. "Deal."

"Where's Adam?" asked Robert.

"Gina made him go shopping with her, to replace the pillows."

"Oh," said Robert, with a faintly horrified shake of his head.

MacLeod laughed.

MacLeod and Methos sat at opposite ends of the couch in the cozy warmth of the barge. After the excitement of the last three days, MacLeod was happy to sit in silence and watch the fire dance while listening to some jazz, letting the rocking of the Seine lull him in and out of sleep.

Methos seemed to have survived his shopping expedition mostly unscathed, although he did say he never wanted to enter another linens shop ever again and mumbled something about the subtle differences between rose versus pink pillows.

And so they were alone, finally. MacLeod observed the lazy way Methos sat, resting his head on his hand. Since the night of the burglary, he hadn't stopped to think of what had happened when they had been tied together, but he thought of it now, the feel of Methos pressed tightly against him, their hard erections pushed together.

"What did Joe have to say?" he asked to break the silence.

Methos turned to look at him. He shook his head. "Not much. He thinks it was Carolina Delgado and Gerard Lefebvre, otherwise known as The Fox and the Hare, no one knows what they look like," he said, smiling at the name, "Amanda might know how to find them."

MacLeod pursed his lips. He didn't want to find them. Although he wouldn't care to run into either of them again, and would certainly do everything in his power to foil their thieving if he did, the Immortal couple could have killed Methos or himself but they didn't. That wasn't their goal. They weren't blood-thirsty, only thieves, and MacLeod had plenty of experience with thieves and was inclined to just keep an eye out in case they were foolhardy enough to cross his path a second time. "And the whiskey?"

"Oh, I almost forgot." Methos stood and went for his satchel which he'd dumped by the galley. He returned with the bottle of Dun's Island and two tumblers. "It's clean."

"What? How?"

Methos shrugged. "Best guess is they used something that activates when the bottle's opened and then breaks down within twenty-four hours. Really quite ingenious. There's no trace. Not on the bottle, in the whiskey, or in the glasses we used. I had them check the coffee, too. Nothing. But that means we can drink the rest. It's a miracle the thing wasn't destroyed in all that action. What I can't figure out is how they knew when I would open it." He smiled, opened the bottle and gave one of the tumblers to MacLeod

MacLeod shrugged, taking the glass, his fingers touching Methos'. "Educated guess. They probably had contingencies."

He watched Methos swallow, desire flaring. He took a sip of his own drink, sighing in contentment. That was good stuff.

He put his drink down. MacLeod leaned in and captured Methos in a kiss, tasting that wonderful smoky flavor. Ah, that's right. MacLeod remembered his wish, made on the floor of Robert's and Gina's guest room: the desire to chase the whiskey on Methos' lips, to know him completely, to devour him. Carefully, he pulled Methos' glass from his hand and set it next to his on the coffee table.

Methos' eyes glinted, shining. "What's this?" he asked.

"Something I've wanted to do." MacLeod lay down, pulling Methos over him like a blanket. His hands and arms, blissfully free, roamed up and down, pulling Methos close; he ground their hips together, humming into the crook of Methos' neck, wanting another kiss, wanting more, widening his legs, arching up, meeting hardness with hardness.

"I guess it's finally time to go there," said Methos, pulling away, grinning. He leaned on one elbow, his other hand free to trail a thumb over MacLeod's cheekbones, over his lips. "Mac?"

"Yes?"

Methos rested his head next to his. They shifted till they could lie side by side. "I have a confession to make."

"Oh no. What is it?" MacLeod imagined all kinds of things: Methos had known Carolina. She, Methos, and Lefebvre had once been a threesome, roaming up and down the continent, planning elaborate break-ins and selling art on the black market.

"I was a bit scared, that night when I called you. Not trembling-in-my-boots scared. But it is a terribly lonely house when you're there all by yourself."

MacLeod held his breath and swallowed past his suddenly dry throat, happiness like laughter bubbling up from deep within. He pulled Methos close, wrapping his arms around and making Methos do the same, until they were almost as they had been when tied up three nights ago. "Next time, you call me earlier," he said. "So you don't have to be alone."

He felt Methos smile into the warmth of his neck, and then chuckle, making them jiggle.

They lay bound, wrapped around each other until MacLeod took his turn on top and resumed chasing the whiskey.

the end.