Shades

by Gryphonrhi

Summary:

Mornings after the nights before, and the realities are settling in. Matthew's moving; Duncan's getting on with his life; and their friends, of course, have opinions.

Notes:

Disclaimers: Kim, Skinner, Mulder, and anyone else who looks familiar from the X-Files belong to Fox and 1013. Matthew, Duncan, Joe, and anyone else who looks familiar from Highlander belong to Rysher: Panzer/Davis. Agent Creed is from "Solidarity" by Sleeps with Coyotes, and used with her permission because I couldn't resist and she thought it would be funny. Anyone else is mine.
Rated: PG at most for language and strongly implied slash relationships. Sequel to Reflections and Form and Substance, both NC-17 for explicit m/m sex. If male/male relationships bothers you, you're really in the wrong place. (And if you're looking for the really explicit sex, I'm sorry, but it's not in this one.)

J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.
Monday, March 15th

"Oh, damn it." Skinner groaned as he got to the bottom of that stack of paperwork. The words sounded more plaintive than angry, and his secretary craned around to look in the partially open door.

"You found the transfer application," Kim said in resignation. "One aspirin or two? I scheduled him for 4:30."

"Two." Skinner held out a hand for the aspirin, nodded appreciatively when she also handed over a Styrofoam cup full of iced tea, and added, "And Kim? Cancel my 5:00, will you?"

She smiled at her boss and said, "It's already rescheduled for tomorrow, sir. And I understand from the grapevine that SAC Michaels in San Francisco is a grandfather again. A girl this time."

Skinner managed a grin through his headache. "I'll remember to ask about her when I call him. Thanks. Kim, why don't you just run this desk?"

"And have to justify Mulder's reports to Accounting?" She shook her head decisively as she retreated back to her desk. "Oh, no, you deserve every cent they pay you, sir."

"Mmm-hmm, and you deserve lunch. Tomorrow okay?"

"Tomorrow would be fine," Kim said cheerfully. "We're both free. And no, SAC Michaels hasn't filled the White-Collar ASAC position yet."

Skinner looked over the top of his glasses at her. "Kim, how do you get all the paperwork done and still know all this?"

Her laugh was cut off by a ringing phone and she called over her shoulder, "Trade secret, I'm afraid. A.D. Skinner's office, may I help you?"

Skinner looked down at the paperwork on his desk, picked it up and flipped quickly through it, but, as he'd expected, it was concise, thorough, and didn't tell him a damn thing about the real reasons for the request. Three more months, maximum, and Elaine Hunt in Baltimore was going to announce her impending retirement.... "Damn it, McCormick," he growled, "your timing sucks."

# # #

Kim typed a correction into the A.D.'s calendar, flagged it to pop up on his terminal, and asked the counselor on the phone, "Now, then, Dr. Shankar, you said the report would be out in the mail tomorrow? Thank you, sir, I'll expect it, then, and call you Thursday if it doesn't arrive." She paused, barely keeping a smile off her face, and then said pleasantly, "Oh, I see. Then I'll expect it by FedEx on Monday instead. Thank you very much, sir."

She shifted over to her own 'To Do' list, moved Agent Creed's latest psych evaluation over to Monday's 'check back' section, made a note at the bottom to speak to his SAC about the fact that he was playing with the psychologists again, and sighed.

"Long day, Ms. Cook?"

A smile as slow as his drawl spread across her face while she looked up. "Agent McCormick, you just don't know. And I keep telling you to make it Kim."

He smiled back at her, hands in his pockets as always and suit jacket pushed back by his arms. "About the time you make it Matthew, I do believe."

She rolled her eyes, then laughed. "Certainly. He's running about ten minutes behind, I think. That call was almost the fourth crisis this afternoon."

"Is that all?" Matthew sounded serious rather than sarcastic as he went on, "For March, that's not bad. Something about the Ides in this town...."

"I hadn't thought of that one," Kim answered appreciatively. "You might be right, though. Anyway, would you like some coffee, Matthew? I brewed a pot just a few minutes ago."

"I won't even ask if you'll drink it with me," he answered with a chuckle. Both of them were morning larks, awake and active by five, and only looking for coffee late in the afternoon as the day finally wore on. They frequently ran into each other at the commissary around three on a mutual quest for caffeine. "Pass me your mug, by all means." Matthew filled both mugs, then passed her a packet of the artificial sweetener she preferred.

"How do you drink this stuff?" he teased lightly.

"How can you stand it black?" Kim responded with a shudder as she doctored her coffee to taste. "I mean, really, Matthew, it's horrible that way."

"Not really," he answered with a shrug. "You use good coffee." He tightened the lid on the carafe and slid it back into its place on the coffeemaker. "When did you get this?"

"A.D. Skinner knows the one about binding the mouths of the oxen who tread the grain," Kim said pertly. "And he lives on coffee during the end of the month reports; this way it doesn't scorch by the end of the night."

"True enough. So, anything interesting in the morning's news?" Matthew inquired idly as he settled into a chair rather than make Kim crane her neck.

"As if you weren't up and watching CNN?" Kim asked, amused, and smiled as he raised his mug in concession. "No new idiocy from the mayor, no new scandal from the President. Quiet morning. So what's the latest between you and Murray?"

Matthew smiled, shaking his head slightly. "How did you hear I was having a few discussions with him?"

"I'm the Assistant Director's secretary, remember? I'm supposed to know these things. So are you still having problems with the Forensic division or not?"

Matthew took a long sip of his coffee, then told her, "Not lately. I do believe he got tired of my emails."

That drew a quick laugh. "Matthew, your emails are lethal weapons. He should be tired of them."

He tipped his mug up again rather than comment and Kim just smiled. She knew perfectly well that most of the agents who stopped in to chat with her were trying to gauge Skinner's mood and get a feel for his reactions. Some secretaries were barometers for their bosses; Kim made a point of being pleasant to everyone instead. The more senior agents got to see something closer to how she really felt, but not by much. She was quite careful to keep Matthew from knowing he was actually one of her favorite ASACs. Unlike some of the other agents, he made a point of being courteous to anyone who worked in the building: secretaries, security guards, cleaning personnel... everyone. That kind of tact kept the office running just a bit more smoothly and made her life just that little bit easier. Kim appreciated that.

So when the light on the phone went out, indicating that her boss had finished the latest phone call -- and she'd given it a few seconds to be sure he wasn't going to make another -- Kim smiled at Matthew as she said, "All right. He's free now, Matthew." More quietly she added, "Good luck in San Francisco."

He raised an eyebrow at that, then said pleasantly, "Thank you for the coffee, Kim." The quick smile and nod, though, told her he'd caught the implications of her words... and appreciated the information.

# # #

Matthew waited for Skinner's impatient order to, "Sit down, damn it," before sprawling into the indicated chair. Then he simply let the silence hang between them, undaunted by the man behind the desk. Skinner was good, but Matthew had dealt with stronger; he'd taken orders from l'Éminence Rouge and Bobby Lee, among others.

Eventually, Skinner sighed and leaned back in his chair. He pulled his glasses off, setting them on the desk with one hand while he massaged the bridge of his nose with the other. Without looking over, he growled, "You stubborn, pig-headed Southerner, I swear you make Mulder look reasonable some days." That didn't get a response, and Skinner waited a few moments before asking, "I take it I can't talk you out of this?"

" 'Fraid not," Matthew drawled from his chair, and lounged even further into the comfortable leather and wood. "I have my reasons for requesting this move; it's all in the report."

Skinner sat back up, chair coming upright as he did, and glared at his subordinate. "Don't give me that shit, Matthew. I know that Savannah case was a bitch, and I know about the skirmishes you've been having with Murray in the Evidence Lab. But we both know damn good and well that you're on the short list for an SAC slot and that a couple are coming open soon. The San Francisco job isn't a drop in grade, but it's pretty close. What the hell is going on?" The AD leaned forward and added fiercely, "And either give me a straight answer or tell me to mind my own damn business, but don't tell me it's all in the report."

Matthew sat there for a long moment as he turned options and plans over in his mind, weighing them to decide which would work best. As a general rule, Skinner cared for getting the job done in a way that would hold up in court, and if his agents needed leeway in their private lives to make up for the strains on their public lives, he left them room. So long as it didn't affect their cases.

Lord knows Walter cuts Creed and Mulder plenty of slack, and those two are stranger than tits on a boar. Compared to that, one ASAC who's giving up the fast track for a man is nothing. He shrugged then, casting off his doubts with the motion. And if he has a problem with it, well, it's not as if I could have stayed in the Bureau more than another five years anyway. I might be leaving a tad early, that's all.

"Off the record, then, Walter?"

Skinner settled his elbows onto the relatively clear desk blotter, disregarding the stacks of paperwork on either side of his arms. "Hell yes, off the record. Come on, Matt, why in hell do you think you're my last appointment today?"

Matthew raised a surprised eyebrow and almost straightened up. "I didn't realize I was."

"I didn't know if this was going to take a while, or if we were going for beers afterwards." Skinner chuckled abruptly. "And trying to wait you out always takes forever. You are one stubborn bastard; always have been. I figured I'd need the time. So, what's the real story?"

"I'm getting involved with someone who lives in San Francisco," Matthew said simply. A slow smile spread across his lips and he had to push away a scattering of memories that might have distracted him from the ongoing conversation. The faint scowl from Skinner made Matthew think his attempt at control might have been a bit belated, or simply insufficient.

"San Francisco." One eyebrow lifted and Skinner rubbed his forehead, then put his hand back on the desk. "Uh-huh. 'Someone.' Is this where I don't ask and you don't tell, Matt?"

Matthew chuckled at that, slouching further into his chair. "Walter, I didn't have to tell you that much."

"We're off the damn record, Matt, unless you've just decided my word's no good." Skinner shook his head. "Of all the agents I never-- Getting involved? You don't sound too certain. I hope he's worth this." He glanced over the desk at one of his best ASACs and asked more quietly, "Do you want to know what cities you were up for?"

Matthew shook his head, wavy hair askew from his habit of rumpling it back from his face when deep in thought. "Not really, no. It won't change my mind," he added. "I've had enough and more than enough of D.C., when it comes to that. I'm ready for a change, and San Francisco is where I need to go."

Skinner started to say something, then tilted his head and simply studied Matthew for a long moment, his eyes tracking down over the agent's face, lingering briefly at the loosened collar and tie, and considering the relaxed sprawl. Then he shook his head, a reluctant smile gracing his lips and signaling his shift from irritated bureaucrat and senior agent to an acquaintance/near-friend who had simply been worried.

"Never mind," Walt told him, with a reluctant chuckle. "You look like Mulder when he's trying not to let anyone know just how interested he is in a case. All right, damn it. Stay there while I convince Michaels that I've got the ideal candidate for that White Collar ASAC slot he's got open. And after that, you and I are going to go find some beers and some steaks. At the very least, you can tell me about this guy."

Matthew laughed at him, but he was sitting up as he did. "Thank you, Walt. What about 'Don't ask, don't tell,' though?"

"Oh, screw that." Skinner shook his head. "How much do you think I already don't tell, you idiot?"

"Mulder reports to you," Matthew said mildly, "and Hawkeye always did fall into the weird cases as fast as a five year old falls into mud puddles. Have you considered having him investigate himself as an X-File?"

"I'll remember that the next time I need some way to keep him busy," Skinner agreed, then held up one hand to halt any further conversation. "Tell me over the drinks, but I said I'd call Michaels by five our time." He punched in the number, chuckled at something, then said, "Jack? Walter Skinner. How's the new granddaughter...?"

~*~*~*~

Chicago Blues, San Francisco, CA
Thursday, March 18th

The last sustained chord wavered, wailed, and slid down into a song Duncan should have known and couldn't immediately place. He didn't worry about that. Joe had a repertoire of blues, jazz, rock, and gospel that had stumped Claudia more than once. This one might be an original, or an old favorite from some other style being reworked into delta blues. The immortal was content simply to sit and listen, enjoying the quiet, introspective mood of the music.

From behind him, Joe's newest bartender asked quietly, "Another beer?"

"Iced tea if you've got it, Dave," Duncan answered without turning around. "And one for Joe, too, please, on my tab."

"Not a problem." Ice rattled into glasses, liquid gurgled over that, and two glasses of tea appeared next to Duncan. "Man, I don't think I've heard The Who done on slide guitar before. Nice."

Duncan chuckled. "Thanks, I'd been trying to place that."

"That's 'Behind Blue Eyes.' Classic Who. Off a truly excellent album, too." The bartender moved off, humming along with the music, and the Scotsman picked up both teas and moved towards the small stage.

This time, Joe set his guitar down when he finished the song and grinned at Duncan. "Damn fine if I have to say so myself."

Duncan passed him the glass, and smiled back. "I'll say it for you: damn fine slide guitar. Damn fine new bar, too."

Joe laughed. "Hey, when you get the good silent investors, you can open in the good corners of a city. Hope I don't get too many requests for 'San Francisco,' though."

"I'd bet you're safe." Duncan grinned at him and ignored the implied question about the investor, as he'd been doing for weeks. "So did you hire Dave for his bartending or his musical education?"

"Hey, I like having a bartender who can appreciate the management's real talent," Joe huffed before breaking out in a smile. "Nah, the music was a serious plus. He's reliable, he needs afternoon employment, and he's a psych student. He enjoys listening to the customers who want someone to talk to."

"Here's to perfect employees, then," Duncan suggested as he raised his glass.

Joe tapped the edge of his drink against Duncan's and asked casually, "And speaking of customers who want someone to talk to? What's had you grinning so much lately? Or is that who?"

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Grinning, huh?"

Joe chuckled and took a long, deliberate swallow of his drink before repeating, "Grinning. Same friend from D.C.?"

"Yeah." Duncan sipped at his own drink and used the extra moment to remind himself that Joe was a friend, as well as his Watcher. He wouldn't have hesitated to tell any of his other friends who he was dating. Of course, even Amanda might be a little startled that he was interested in a man. What the hell; let's edge into this one. "I ran into him again in Savannah."

Joe only looked at him over the top of his glass and mock-growled, "Oh, come on, Mac, even I can figure out you're occasionally interested in men." While his immortal suppressed a chuckle at how easily Joe read him, the man went on, "I'm a Watcher, not a complete idiot. What's his name?"

Now it was Duncan's turn to watch his friend over the rapidly disappearing iced tea. "Sheer curiosity, Joe. What do your Chronicles say about me and men?"

The Watcher laughed at that. "What, you want quid pro quo, Mac?"

The immortal gave him a quick, impish smile. "Why not? I mean, I'd hate to be accused of interfering in Watcher affairs...."

"You devious son of a bitch," Joe said admiringly. "Hoist by my own petard. What the hell, I'll just consider it really weird pay," and he lifted his drink, "to a really weird informant." Both of them grinned at that and Joe asked, "So, what, we play twenty questions?"

"More like an answer for an answer. It beats Truth or Dare," Duncan pointed out and had the pleasure of hearing Joe's rich, deep laughter.

"What the hell. Wouldn't want to get you in trouble for interfering in Watcher concerns," Joe agreed. "Deal. You first. What's his name?"

"You're going to have another Watcher in town," Duncan told him with a grin. "Matthew McCormick requested a transfer to the San Francisco office."

"Son of a bitch," Joe crowed as he set his glass down. "I thought you two were getting along too damn well during that mess with Carl."

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "You did?"

"Hey, hey," the Watcher said hastily, one hand coming up to ward off any irritation from his immortal. "All I'm saying is that even with the disagreement over Carl, you two seemed to be enjoying harassing each other."

"Joe Dawson, you're a closet matchmaker," Duncan growled, but he couldn't keep the irritation in his voice. "About my Chronicles?"

"I'm not as bad as the lady who was keeping track of Brian Cullen back in the 1850s. She thought the two of you might be an item." Joe shrugged. "Actually, the Chronicles from those days make pretty entertaining reading. Your Watcher took offense at the insult to your honor or masculinity. He got pretty snippy in the notes he'd give her on Brian, and her notes on you got more and more sarcastic. The senior Watcher in the area finally told the two of them to act like professionals or he was gonna send 'em both to Washington City."

Duncan had been irritated by the idea of some unknown Watchers speculating on his sex life but even he winced at that threat. "Joe, the European diplomats were still getting hardship pay for D.C. in those days."

Joe only grinned wickedly. "I know, Mac. I know. The entries got a lot more civil after that."

"That's it, though?" Duncan asked, interested.

"Thirsty work, talking about dusty books," Joe said meaningfully, holding his empty glass out to Duncan.

"You just want time to edit your answer," Duncan called over his shoulder as he walked back to the bar. Fortunately, Joe hadn't changed much of his setup from the way he'd had it in Seacouver; it didn't take long for Duncan to find what he was looking for.

"Hey, Mac, don't you need the glass?" Joe asked sarcastically, then started chuckling when the immortal leaned over the counter and snagged the tea pitcher. "Never mind."

"Well, this might take a while and I'd hate for you to get thirsty." The Scot chuckled as he refilled both their glasses. "Now. Is that it?"

"Almost. Cory Raines' Watcher in the 1920s had a pretty cynical attitude, figured there had to be some good reason you were putting up with Cory and Amanda's crap during that five-state run of theirs. And one of Fitz's Watchers during the 1720s didn't know if you two had a woman in the room with you or not." Joe grinned at Duncan and added, "Of course he also said that as drunk as you two were, he didn't think you knew either."

Joe waited until Duncan was drinking from his refilled glass before asking cheerfully, "So did you?"

Duncan turned an alarming shade of red under his already tanned skin as he relearned how to breathe. Joe only grinned when his immortal choked out, "You did that on purpose, Joe! Are you trying to kill me?

"You'll live, Mac." Joe thumped the man a bit more energetically than his lungs really needed. "So. Did you?"

"Did I which?" the Scot asked cautiously.

"Do you want me to get a lot more selective with my answers?" Joe waited for that to sink in, then grinned. "Did you?"

Duncan laughed at that. "Joe, you've read the Chronicles. What do you think?"

His Watcher didn't even hesitate. "I think you did. The back and forth between you and Fitz just didn't seem like that kind of relationship." Charitably, Joe left unsaid a name or three that he suspected Duncan could have settled in with. "But, nah. I don't think you've been in love with any of the guys yet, Mac. Am I right?"

"No. You're not wrong." Duncan shook his head slowly. "I've loved them, yes, but not the way you mean." He shrugged ruefully. "And the first one I did fall in love with I've never gone to bed with."

Joe bent to loosen his guitar strings before putting it up, more from a desire to give Duncan some privacy than from a need to clear the stage for the afternoon's entertainment. "I keep enough of your stuff off the record, y'know, Mac. If you ever want to just talk...?"

Duncan shrugged and told him, "Thanks, Joe. I do appreciate that. But... no, it's nothing I need to talk about. Just something that didn't work out." The tall Scot chuckled abruptly and reached for Joe's glass, while the Watcher snapped his case shut over his guitar. "I feel like the dog in Aesop's fable."

"What, holding one bone in your mouth and trying not to go for the bone in the river?" Joe teased him ruthlessly, and had the pleasure of seeing Mac's face darken again. "Man, you must have been an easy tease when you were younger."

"To misquote Amanda, I was never easy." Duncan carried both their glasses to the bar; Joe preferred to carry his own guitar case, much the way Duncan preferred to be the one who carried his sword.

"Uh-huh." That profoundly skeptical note got a grin from Duncan, and Joe asked, "So how serious is this, Mac? I mean, the man's moving cross-country."

"I don't know," Duncan admitted quietly. "Not a clue."

Joe considered that and then asked, "So? How serious are you? Be a hell of a thing for him to move out here and you to change your mind."

Duncan's only wry reply was, "I did say not a clue."

Fortunately for Duncan, Joe Dawson was a good enough friend to let him change the subject.

~*~*~*~

Nash Antiques, Manhattan, New York
Saturday, March 20th

Rachel Ellenstein glanced up from the desk in the reception area, automatically trying to gauge what the gentleman who'd just come in might be wanting to buy from Nash Antiques. Tall, dark-haired, wearing a very good quality suit under a heavy wool greatcoat that was well-suited to fend off winter's last ditch attempt at lingering... he looked like an excellent candidate for the 18th century foxhunting painting that had come in just the week before.

"May I help you?" she asked politely, setting to one side the wooden chess set she'd been polishing.

"I rather think so," he answered in a deep drawl that somehow surprised Rachel. The gentleman unbuttoned his coat as he walked up to her desk... and pulled out a sheathed sword. For a moment, Rachel thought her heart would stop. Then he set the blade onto the desk, the hilt clearly tied into the scabbard and pointing toward her hands, not his, and she found she could breathe evenly again.

"I need to speak to Mr. Nash, please. This is not," he added gently but firmly, "any kind of challenge, ma'am. If you'd kindly tell him so?"

"I--" Rachel hesitated for a moment, then suppressed her nervousness ruthlessly and said, "I see, sir. If you'll give me your name, I'll call and see if he can come to the shop."

That got a quick smile which would have charmed Rachel if she weren't aware of just what kind of rogues some of the immortals could be. Cory Raines and Kit O'Brady had definitely been learning experiences. "I suppose you could tell him Matthew McCormick, but 'that damned Englishman' might work just as well." A quick sideways motion of his head and another flashing smile preceded his apology. "Begging your pardon for the language, of course."

"Just a moment, Mr. McCormick," Rachel said dryly, and dialed the full number for Connor's apartment upstairs rather than let this stranger realize it was an interior line.

"Yes?" her foster-father grated out, and Rachel smiled.

"There's a gentleman here named Matthew McCormick who'd like to speak to you. He says it's not a challenge."

"Does he?" Connor asked her, sounding as ironic and amused as she felt. "He's not flashed a badge, I hope?"

"No. If anything, he put a peace-tied sword on my desk," Rachel said, sense of humor slowly resurfacing with Connor's. "Crusader-period broadsword, I think, but I'd need to see it out of the sheath."

"I'll be down," Connor said simply, then laughed wickedly. "Show him that chess set, Rachel. You might mention, eventually, that Cory brought it by."

"Oh, dear," she sighed when Connor hung up. "He'll be here, Mr. McCormick. Might I interest you in this chess set, by any chance?"

Matthew McCormick finished draping his coat over one arm and glanced down at it, then smiled slowly, an expression which made Rachel think of a wolf considering a snow-foundered deer. "You might at that. I do enjoy a good game. By all means, what is the provenance on it?"

"A bit uncertain," Rachel admitted freely, and McCormick only nodded at that as if he'd already known the answer. "We can trace the set back through 1918, when it came to a charity auction after the influenza epidemic. And the carved signature in the bottom matches that of a sideboard by a Colonial-era woodcarver whose work has come through our shop before. I haven't been able to verify yet that it is his work, however." She smiled up at him as he stiffened in a way she'd seen Connor freeze, more than once. "Of course, I can't say I'm surprised that something Cory Raines sold us didn't have all the documentation."

The elevator doors opened behind her and Connor stepped out into the store. "McCormick. Handing your sword over to just anyone these days?" His sardonic, amused tone reassured Rachel more than any long explanation could have.

McCormick never looked away from the chess set. "Connor, in all the long list of insults I ever heard heaped on your name, no one ever said you played by anything other than rules." He glanced up, a pleased smile on his face as he added, "In the Game, that is. And the chess set was carved by Samuel Kingsman, ma'am, commissioned as a wedding present."

"I thought I recognized it," Connor said calmly. "How did Cory get it?"

"The same way he usually does," McCormick told him mildly. "Theft. Although his involvement does explain why this was the only item taken. Receiving stolen property, Connor?"

"Is the statute of limitations still valid?" was the sharp counter-query as Connor moved to perch on one edge of Rachel's desk.

"Of course not," McCormick said in that same gentle tone. "When did my knave of a student come through town, though?"

Rachel's eyes widened momentarily at that question; somehow she was having trouble imagining this refined, courtly man training Cory. Connor had clearly known about it, however. He grinned and said, "About three weeks ago. Rachel Ellenstein, meet Matthew McCormick. Again."

Matthew dropped a half-bow. "A pleasure, Rachel. May I say, you're still as lovely?"

"I beg your pardon?" She straightened in her seat, oddly conscious of the oil and dust on her left hand and the way the sharp creases on her shirt had long since flattened under impetus of the central heating. "Have we met before, sir?"

"Quite a while back," Matthew said slowly and then paused as if to reorder his thoughts or find just the right word.

Connor saved him the trouble. "Matthew helped cut the paperwork to get you into the States after the war, Rachel."

"Oh!" She stared at him as the relevant memory was abruptly jogged loose. "I remember now; you had a tin of spice cookies on your desk."

Matthew smiled suddenly. "Yes, I did. You sat there and ate cookies and told me that kicking your feet was for babies and you were a young lady."

Connor said softly, "It was the most I'd seen you smile since we'd left Europe, Rachel. " He glanced at Matthew and commented, "And then you said you still owed me that favor, that helping her into the States was a pleasure, not a debt. How've you been, Matthew?"

"Quite well, especially lately." His smile softened to something gentler and he reached out for the sword on the desk. "I'll just take this back, thanks, and then perhaps I could buy you dinner and a drink, Connor?"

Both of them looked away from Rachel, letting her regain the composure their comments had scattered. "So did you want the chess set?" Connor asked mildly as Matthew removed the rawhide cord that had held his sword contained within its sheath.

"Possibly," Matthew answered as he settled the sheath back into its place within his greatcoat. He looked up from that and told Connor pleasantly, "Or you may want to gift it to someone. Dinner, Connor?" Matthew gave Rachel a regretful smile. "I'm afraid he may decide to get loud or profane, Rachel. If you'll forgive me, I'd be happy to offer a rain check...?"

Connor looked at him thoughtfully. "A chess set Kastagir carved for your wedding and you think I may want to give it to someone? And just us at dinner? This should be interesting. Steaks or Thai?"

"Italian or Greek," Matthew countered firmly, then switched to another language to ask Connor something Rachel couldn't understand. Whatever he said made Connor consider him even more carefully before he answered in the same language.

Rachel gathered her wits about her and told them both firmly, "Go enjoy your dinner, gentlemen. I believe I can handle the store for another hour without you, Connor, and it does sound like you have some kind of business to discuss. I'll just finish polishing the chess set and box it up for you, Mr. McCormick. It will be ready when you get back."

"We haven't settled on a price," Matthew pointed out as he traced the grain of the board with his forefinger.

"That's between me and Connor," Rachel said firmly. "Please consider this an overdue thank you." She frowned at him when he started to argue the point and repeated, "Very overdue."

Matthew studied her thoughtfully, then repeated the half-bow, a quick, surprisingly elegant motion. "Thank you, kind lady. I assure you it was a pleasure... but I'll not deny you the pleasure of being able to give thanks as you see fit."

Rachel smiled at him, then glanced at Connor. "You see? That's how you concede gracefully, Connor. Go on; enjoy your dinner." She smiled at Matthew. "I'll redeem that rain check another time, and thank you."

Connor leaned in and hugged her fiercely. "You'd never forgive me if I learned that, Rachel. Well enough, I'll see you when I get back, or in the morning." He stood up, glanced at the chess set and at the visiting immortal who was settling his greatcoat across his shoulders. "And I think I will enjoy dinner. Or at least be entertained."

# # #

Connor leaned back in his seat, pleasantly full of chicken marsala and a very good white wine. The chair was surprisingly comfortable, the evening was still young, and he was ready and willing to indulge in mischief. He glanced across the table, studying Matthew thoughtfully. He'd known the man before he'd acquired that Southern accent and had no compunctions at all about twitting him. If he didn't, McCormick might think he was off his stride.

Besides. This ought to be fun.

"So, who are you marrying?" Connor asked over the rim of his glass.

"Just now at the courting stage, actually," Matthew drawled slowly, and left it there for the moment. The contained laughter in his voice combined with his visit to Manhattan told Connor several things, foremost among them that Matthew thought he was either going to be very annoyed... or very, very amused.

Which means it's someone close to me. Well, well. "You've just now met Rachel again." Connor tilted his head as he thought about the matter. "And I haven't trained so many students that I can't make a guess or two. Since Maddy is happily married, what are you doing dating my kinsman?"

Matthew laughed at that, freer and more content than Connor was used to hearing from him. "I did think you'd catch on quickly enough. Making him happy, I hope."

Connor shook his head, grinning. "A Sassenach like you and a braw Highlander like Duncan? I wonder if the clan blood thinned in those seventy years, then?" When Matthew only tilted his head, his expression as calm as when he was deciding who to arrest in a decimated tavern, Connor laughed. "Not that much, then. Good. He's in California these days, too.... So," he asked curiously, "were you asking permission to marry the man or did you simply think I should hear it from you?"

"I did say we're not at the marrying stage, Connor," Matthew told him, amused. "But if you were going to harass someone, it seemed only fair that you get me for your target. After all, Duncan didn't know that you and I have given each other grief all these years. I knew that you'd trained him, however."

Connor snorted at that logic. "I'm starting to think you two may deserve each other. That sounds like his idea of sense. Perhaps you're too much alike to be together," he suggested slyly.

Matthew only laughed at him. "Connor, Connor, Connor... I never said it would do you any good to object. Only that I felt obliged to inform you."

Good. Duncan needs someone to teach him when to ignore the rules. He might just listen to the Sassenach. "I'll not have you taking him lightly. And I don't want him getting stuffy," Connor commented almost idly. "But I'd take it very badly indeed if it turned out you were trifling with his affections, Salisbury."

Matthew nodded, apparently unsurprised that Connor knew his earliest name. "And I'd take it badly if you interfered between us for anything minor, Connor. You and I have been friendly rivals quite a while now; I'd be dismayed to see that fall away, but Duncan is worth the risk."

That got a slow smile and Connor relaxed back into his chair. Then he is serious. Very, very good. "We understand each other, then." Connor laughed, then, and said, "Settle the bill, man. There's good scotch back at the house and I want to hear how this started."

"If you're lucky," Matthew said in that mild, amused tone, "I might even tell you the truth."

~*~*~*~

Napa Valley, CA
Wednesday, March 24th

Duncan was sampling the vineyard's chardonnay when his nerves tried to claim someone had dragged splintered wood across his skin. He kept his face level, and the wine out of his lungs, with an effort. He swallowed and automatically tried to catch the aftertaste of the wine while he listened for a challenge or just a new voice. A hint of vanilla and lemon, Duncan decided as he heard a delighted female voice call, "Duncan!"

Robert de Valicourt came in behind his wife, smiling every bit as broadly as Gina. His hands were extended to welcome Duncan; hers were coming out of her coat pockets. "Duncan, mon ami, what a pleasant surprise! Tasting, investing, vacationing...?"

Duncan laughed, the adrenaline surge making it louder than he'd intended, and went to hug them. "Robert, Gina, how are you?" He kept a hand on an arm apiece after the hug, stepping back just enough to look them over. "The honeymoon's agreed with you. You both look wonderful."

"Pfui." Gina waved an argumentative hand. "It still agrees with us, Duncan. We're not home yet." She went up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "But what are you doing in California? I thought you had taken a vow of foggy homes...?"

Duncan laughed. "This is northern California, Gina, where the best vineyards get fog -- and extra moisture from it?" He shrugged, a slight, very Gallic motion that he knew they'd be able to interpret. "I moved to San Francisco. It was time."

Gina nodded and placed her hand on his forearm. "The grief is finally settling, then?"

Robert interrupted gently. "Duncan, do you have lunch plans? Since we have been lucky enough to run into you almost half a world from home?"

Duncan shook his head. "It's all right, Robert. Thank you. And yes, Gina, it is." He smiled ruefully. "Tessa would have yelled at me for taking this long."

"From everything I have heard of her, and seen of her art, yes, she would," Gina said bluntly. "But you're male. We'll make allowances," she teased, and Duncan could only laugh. "So? Come to lunch with us, and we'll all drink too much and tell stories about your lady -- whom you never introduced to me," Gina added indignantly, and now Robert was chuckling, too.

"You'd have tried to steal her from me," Duncan teased back, grinning. "And I'd have hated to challenge you over her."

Gina's eyes narrowed. "Ah. Definitely lunch, Duncan, and I wish to know this one's name."

Duncan stared at her and groaned. He'd seen that 'cat stalking a new mouse' look on Gina before; there'd be no distracting her. "How do you do that? Did someone brand 'new romantic prospect' on my forehead?"

"It would take small print," Robert said thoughtfully, and grinned and shifted away from Duncan's attempted cuff. "You walked into that, Duncan. And she's right. There's a certain quality to the smile. Come along. Finish sampling the wines and deciding what cases you're taking home, and we'll go eat lunch and trade stories of our honeymoon and your new paramour."

"Did I agree to that?"

Gina lips curved up in the dangerously sweet smile of a courtesan who knew the precise limits of her charms and how best to deploy them on the fields of love. "Do you really want to argue with me about it?"

Duncan considered it only for a moment, then hastily discarded the idea under the edges of her smile. "Fine. But you're buying."

"Of course," Robert said, amused. "It's traditional when seeking information, Duncan."

# # #

"Ah, but Matthew is delightful, Duncan." Gina eyed him thoughtfully despite the teasing tone as she went on, "Certainly for an Englishman." Robert settled more comfortably into his chair and sipped at his wine as he watched his wife back her prey into a corner. There would be no assistance from his quarter, obviously. Not on Duncan's side of this, at least.

Duncan eyed her suspiciously and refilled his glass. "For an Englishman who's lived over here as long as he has, yes, he is. I do get along with some of the English, Gina."

She waved that off. "Only because FitzCairn was irresistible, Duncan." Gina paused, then asked, "You didn't resist him, did you?"

Duncan coughed violently as he learned again that Connor might be able to breathe water, but he couldn't breathe wine. Robert clouted his back more energetically than usefully. Gina, of course, just repeated her question.

"Well? Did you resist? Surely you weren't so foolish?"

Robert sat back, mischief dancing in his eyes. "Let the poor man have a moment, cara mia."

"He would use it to assemble some story that vaguely resembles the truth only where details can be verified. As if my ears are delicate," Gina huffed. "Duncan, you're a lovely man and a gift to women everywhere, but with reactions like that, what are you doing chasing a man?"

Robert leaned back and it wasn't the mischievous friend who dropped his question into the opening Gina had left. It was the Bloody Baron: nobleman, pirate, and corporate raider. "And why aren't you chasing Adam?"

Duncan sighed. God. Friends could be such a pain in the ass. Particularly friends who knew him well enough to ask questions like that. "I'm not chasing Matthew. He's courting me. I ran into him in Washington last fall, and then again in Savannah in February, and we want to see...." Duncan spread his hands, palms out, reaching for the thoughts. "We want to see what's there."

Robert studied him then switched to French to ask gently, "Are you in love with Matthew or not, Duncan?"

Duncan's elbows thumped onto the table, manners abandoned for the comfort of resting his chin on a cupped fist. "I'm in like with him." He caught his breath and went on, "I can talk to him, Robert. Not just about this," and he indicated their coats, hung off the backs of their chairs rather than be surrendered to a coat check. "About everything. Anything. Books, music, history, friends, lovers...."

Gina asked bluntly, "And in bed? You are not just talking, I hope?"

Duncan flushed. "We're not using a bundling board."

"A bundling board? You?" Gina arched an exquisitely disbelieving eyebrow. "As if you know anything about those?"

Robert considered him thoughtfully, then said, "You know how to contact us, yes, Duncan?"

"Through your Paris lawyer, Monsieur Lucas." Duncan frowned. "Why?"

Robert shrugged. "We still owe you for the help at our last wedding, my friend. When this goes wrong, call if you need company."

Duncan stared at him. "When it goes wrong? Shouldn't that be 'If,' Robert?"

"He is courting you," Robert said quietly. "You, on the other hand, have not said you wish to court him in return. If you were to ask me, Duncan, I would have to say I think you're chasing the wrong one."

"I don't know where Adam is," Duncan said.

Gina sniffed, a delicate, exasperated huff of sound. "Yes, but do you want to find Adam? Or take up with Matthew?"

Duncan groaned and reached for his wine glass. "Gina, yes, I remember how to tell someone 'no' if I'm not interested. It's not like this is the first time a man's been interested."

Gina tilted her head. "But do you know how to tell a man 'yes,' Duncan? You are a beautiful, charming man who is used to doing the pursuing, not being the one pursued." She smiled. "So? Tell us everything, amico caro. Otherwise, we'll have to keep worrying at you until you do." Her gaze left him no possibility of escape, and lunch hadn't arrived yet. "So? Washington, last fall, you said?"

Duncan gave up and started talking. "I needed to go to the Lincoln Memorial...."

The last of the pastry was gone, and their coffee cups were down to the last few sips as Duncan finished, "He got the transfer to an FBI post in San Francisco, and gets here sometime next week."

Gina smiled at him. "Better. You smile so when you talk about Matthew. You do want him, then?"

"Do you have any idea how much fun he is to argue with?" Duncan asked, his voice shaded with laughter.

Robert grinned. "Perhaps not the same type of arguments, Duncan, or the same ways of solving them, but yes, I do. Matthew was a distressingly honest Customs man years ago." Robert dropped a credit card onto the tray with the bill and waved off Duncan's hand. "We asked the questions, Duncan; we'll cover this."

Gina chuckled. "And we won't bring up other meanings of that word. This time."

Duncan could feel the flush spread across his face and groaned. "I'm too old to be reacting like this."

"Perhaps." Gina smiled and reached out to cover his hand with her own. "But it seems a very good sign. Enjoy yourselves, hmm, Duncan?"

"I was planning to," Duncan told her, grinning despite himself. "But I think I'll keep you updated over email, Gina. You're a little rough on my lungs...."

Robert chuckled. "It could be much worse, Duncan."

"She married you because you're braver than I am," Duncan teased. "So? How long are you two going to stay on this honeymoon? And do you have a business to go back to, Robert?"

Gina finished touching up her lipstick. "Of course we do, Duncan. Cell phones, faxes, internet... it's amazing how much can be done even on honeymoon. You never did say, though. Were you here for business or pleasure?"

Duncan shrugged. "My business, your pleasure, apparently." He smiled at her, though, remembering scrapes Gina and Fitz had gotten him out of, that he and Gina had rescued Fitz from, the time he and Fitz had helped her meet Robert-- "Thank you for worrying."

Gina hugged him, her hands sure on his arms as she stepped back on fashionably high heels. "What else are old friends for, Duncan?"

~*~*~*~

Alexandria, VA
Saturday, March 27th

Mulder stretched, easing his back from an hour of packing books into boxes, and rumpled back fly-away hair that wasn't actually long enough to have been in his eyes. "Matthew, your library's as bad as mine. What do you do, read on all the planes?"

Matthew chuckled and passed him a bottle of water. "Five-hour flights don't pass quickly for anything short of real books. Only so many times a man needs to reread the case file, after all."

"Files," Mulder said with a grin, and took a long drink. "You're the lucky one who's usually on one case at a time."

"I'm also the one who had to keep the Savannah police off while you worked, remember. I'm well aware of how many files you tend to read over." Matthew glanced down, reading labels across the row of boxes before his gaze stopped at the one near Mulder's left hand. "That the most recent box?"

Mulder laughed. "You don't really think we're going to get everything properly labeled, do you? You don't want us to, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Law of Conservation of Moving Frustration. If you get it packed properly, the movers will have to break or lose something. It's a law. No move can go smoothly." Mulder grinned at the skeptical reaction and told him too seriously, "You need to screw it up, Matthew. For the good of the universe."

Matthew finally gave him an amused grin. "I'm sure I'll lose part of the list somewhere, Hawkeye. Don't worry so."

"You ever going to give up on that nickname? It hasn't taken yet, and with you going to San Francisco, it's not going to now." Mulder scribbled a number on the label and started a new box. "Besides. No one reads Last of the Mohicans anymore."

"Beats 'Spooky,' Mulder. I keep trying." Matthew started stacking boxes by the bookshelf.

"Mind a question?"

That got a sidelong, evaluating glance before Matthew said thoughtfully, "I take it I may not like it, then? You can surely ask, Mulder."

"But you don't promise to answer?" Mulder shrugged. "None of my business, I know. But did everyone find reasons not to help you pack because you're getting the ASAC job in SF and they're jealous, or did they figure out there was a guy involved?"

Matthew never stopped what he was doing, but he took a moment to answer that. "Mostly jealousy. In a couple of cases, it's a matter of not wanting to be seen as currying favor. I'd be curious to hear why you think there's a man involved, though."

Mulder said thoughtfully, "Curious. Not offended?" He sounded faintly apologetic though as he said, "In Savannah, you smelled of cologne when we met in the coffee shop for breakfast. And I was up most of the night. I never heard you come in."

That got a slow nod as Matthew placed the meeting. He didn't try to pretend he didn't know what Mulder meant. "Ah. That a problem?" Matthew kept the words even, uninflected, but he turned to watch Mulder.

"Not for me." A shrug. "I didn't mention it anywhere, Matthew. No one else's business either. I just wondered. Scuttlebutt had you on the shortlist for Baltimore SAC or the Organized Crime ASAC in NYC, and no one expected you to go to San Francisco." Mulder said seriously, "Mostly, I was surprised that you didn't have more people offering to help with the packing."

Matthew shrugged but his voice was more serious as he said, "Partly it's that I can't ask, Mulder. Conflict of interest and all that. Partly it's that San Francisco is considered a prime assignment, but I'm taking a position with less responsibility than I have now. No one can decide if they want my good will or if I'm political poison." A certain wry amusement tinged Matthew's voice as he finished, "And then, I'm moving to San Francisco, and I haven't been dating lately. There are some speculations already, yes. Mostly fueled by Murray down in Forensics."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I've heard some of it." He chuckled. "So did Scully. She laid into him about 'inappropriate speculation' into your personal life and then she shredded his opinions on a recent autopsy, and his reputation along with it. It may not have helped you much, but it sure didn't help Murray, either."

Matthew leaned against the wall and laughed, head-back mirth that got a grin from Mulder. "Oh, my. I've heard your partner give a dressing-down before. I do wish I'd been a fly on the wall. Were any of the evidence voice recorders on, by any chance?"

"No, or I'd have begged the tape off Scully for you." Mulder finished his water and pitched it into the garbage bag hanging off the doorknob. "Come on, let's shove everything into one place. This room's done, so you might as well put all the boxes in here. When are the movers coming?"

"Forty-eight hours, give or take," Matthew said with a shrug. "Everything's weeded out already, and the kitchen's packed except for the coffee maker and the coffee. I'll get it done somehow." He chuckled. "Every time I move, I swear I'm not doing this again, or that I'll throw out books more ruthlessly the next time. And every time, I still have too many boxes."

Mulder grinned at him. "Take pity on me. I still don't know what I'm going to do with that waterbed if I ever have to move."

"Are you still claiming it 'showed up' one weekend? You're an FBI agent; why haven't you investigated where it came from, if you're worried about it?" Matthew glanced up though, surprised, as the doorbell rang. "Wonder who that is?"

Mulder stood up with him. "No one from the local office, I'd bet. Well." He reconsidered. "Kim come to keep you organized? Skinner, maybe, to make it clear you're still in his good graces?"

"Kim was attending a birthday party today, and with Skinner's schedule, I'd hope not. The man doesn't get time to breathe as it is." Matthew opened the door and looked at the two men standing on his doorstep. They were eyeing each other as warily as a cat and a dog recently brought under one roof by newlyweds. "So much for that hope. Walter, haven't you ever heard of sleeping in on the weekends?" He turned to look at the second, shorter man, and asked, amused, "And did you move out of Manhattan and I missed it?"

Skinner just held up a bag and a cardboard drink holder full of paper Starbucks cups. "I brought breakfast, Matt. Would you rather I just turned around and took the coffee with me?"

The man beside him had been looking Mulder over. Now he held out a hand. "Connor MacLeod. And the words are, 'Thank you, come in.' " Mulder grinned and shook his hand as MacLeod went on, "And here I'd heard it was Southerners who knew about hospitality."

Matthew laughed and took the coffee. "Connor, you'll complain about the eulogy at your funeral. Come in, by all means. The table's not wrapped yet, but we'll have to make do with paper towels for plates."

Skinner shrugged, still keeping a cautious eye on the man beside him. "Packing kitchens is always a pain, Matthew. I'd have started early, too. Whole wheat croissants if you want to be vaguely healthy and doughnuts for those who aren't worrying about it."

Mulder ignored them both to evaluate the stranger in the doorway. Scruffy hair, scruffy coat and shoes, an apparent aversion to daily shaves, and wickedly sharp eyes to match the earlier words. No wonder he'd shown up to help McCormick pack. "Fox Mulder. Mulder to everyone and that includes you."

MacLeod grinned at him, sharp eyes amused. "I'll keep it in mind."

Matthew was handing out paper towels while Skinner passed cups of coffee around. "Mulder, he's got a miserable sense of humor. The man likes practical jokes. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Skinner added, amused, "And an inability to answer a direct question."

Connor stole two doughnuts without spilling powdered sugar all over the table. "You're FBI. A lack of straight answers is good for you. Consider me a multivitamin sent by fate."

"Thanks so much," Skinner said dryly. "I get plenty of evasive answers. Every time I get a report from one of these jokers, say." One hand made it clear which jokers he meant. "And how did you know I was FBI?"

Connor shrugged. "It was that or military, and you're more relaxed than that, though not by much."

"So why are you here?"

That got Mulder a disbelieving look. "The same reason you are. Someone has to help the man pack."

Mulder grinned and leaned back in his chair. "What, you didn't think the Bureau had it?"

"He's moving to one of the more popular cities on the West Coast, which should come with an automatic cost-of-living increase in pay, and he's taking a job at least two dozen others had to have applied for." Connor shrugged and sipped his coffee. "Not bad. Almost worth the mark-up on it. Why would I think he'd have help?"

Matthew added dryly, "And you wanted to make sure your cousin could read all of my books by helping me pack them?"

Connor raised an eyebrow before saying mildly, "A MacLeod look at books? Next you'll be thinking we're literate or something."

Matthew laughed at that. "You're only illiterate when you're four sheets to the wind, Connor, and Duncan reads more than you do."

"Don't ask, don't tell never did seem likely to work. And I'm never so illiterate I can't tell bad whisky from good."

Mulder said dryly, "There's such a thing as bad whisky?"

"Aye. It's called bourbon."

Skinner grinned at MacLeod. "We'll get along just fine, I can tell."

Matthew said simultaneously, "That did it, Connor. Why don't you go move sealed boxes into the office?"

Connor laughed, a husky, staccato chuckle, and finished his second doughnut. "You just want an excuse when it turns out I've packed more than you."

Matthew laughed. "We are not speed-packing my belongings, MacLeod."

"Not at this rate, no. Three strong men still sitting around the table. Probably slept in this morning, too. What happened to 'up before dawn,' Matthew? Are you sure you won't be a bad influence on cousin Duncan?" He vanished down a hallway, calling over his shoulder, "What, it takes a pry bar to get you moving?"

Matthew drained his coffee in one long set of swallows, then pulled over a checklist of things he still needed to do. His voice was a slow, deliberately lazy drawl as he mentioned, "Keep it up, Connor, and I'll be buying the steaks for everyone except you."

MacLeod only laughed again. He reappeared carrying two boxes of books and said, "Your manners won't let you, man. Unlike me. So? It's your place. Why're you still sitting there?"

Mulder grinned at Matthew, finished his doughnut, and took his coffee with him when he stood up. "And you're dating his cousin?"

"Scary thing is, Duncan can be every bit as bad." Matthew didn't seem worried by the prospect.

Skinner considered him for a long moment, then chuckled. "No wonder you wanted an easier work position," he teased and watched Matthew grin wickedly at him. "Come on, Matt. What's ready to be packed?"

Matthew winced suddenly. "Damn it, Connor would-- Walt, help them move boxes while I go put the things I don't want packed by the door."

Skinner was still laughing as he followed Matthew down the hallway... much more slowly than the ASAC was moving.

~*~*~*~

San Francisco, CA
Thursday, April 1st

Duncan answered the phone before he was fully awake, and lay there for a moment wondering what had woken him before he placed the sounds at his ear as a voice rather than music from his alarm clock.

Connor laughed and repeated, "You're getting old and slow, Duncan. It's five-thirty in the morning, man -- why aren't you awake?"

"On which coast?" Duncan grumbled but he didn't bother checking his clock. Connor knew that revenge was sweet, especially between the two of them. "Everything all right, Connor?"

"Things are fine, and when are you getting a real job?"

"I'm doing work that makes me money. It's not like I don't have funds to manage."

"And you've always done that in addition to a regular job. You're bored," Connor said bluntly. "You should have found something more to do months ago. The Sassenach'll be too busy settling into his new position to keep you entertained in other positions."

Duncan blinked and carefully ignored part of the comment. "Did I mention a Sassenach?"

"No, I had to hear from McCormick that he was courting you." Connor's voice was wickedly knowing and even more wickedly amused. Duncan resolved, again, not to ask Connor for stories anytime soon. His cousin would have too much fun trying to fluster him. "Anyway, he'll not be there for a few days yet; can you go to an estate auction for me this weekend?"

"Wait. How do you know when he's getting here?"

"I have my ways. Can you go or have you already got plans, then?"

Duncan growled and stretched across the angle of the bed, then restrained a purr as his muscles relaxed from the tension of an early morning call. "You're trying to drive me crazy before I wake up, aren't you? Where's the sale?"

"Well, it's not like I'm there to burn breakfast to see if you're awake yet," Connor pointed out reasonably. "And if you were doing your morning runs, you'd have been awake already. The auction's in Santa Barbara."

"Which is five hours down the coast on a good day," Duncan countered. "You know what California traffic can be like...."

"I'll even reimburse your travel costs without a deduction for the scenery you'll be enjoying while I'm in the back of the shop cleaning a new silver set." Connor's voice held no sympathy at all and Duncan grinned, enjoying the back and forth.

"What are you trying to talk me into this time, Connor? And how many miles did you do this morning?"

"Five miles, plus katas. And talk you into something? Why would I do that?"

"Because hitting me with rocks just annoys me?" Duncan teased. He smiled, enjoying the morning insanity and the promise of a distraction over the weekend. "I can go; it's not a problem. Do I need to write down the details, or do you just want to fax me the brochure with items and price ranges set as usual?"

"I'll send it over, Duncan, and thanks. Rachel says to tell you good morning and she's fussing at me for calling so early."

"Nice to know someone's on my side," Duncan chuckled. "Give her a hug for me."

"I'll do that," Connor promised. "And I've been considering something, cousin. How would you feel about opening a store out there?"

Duncan paused and then folded an arm behind his head. He thought about it, eyebrow arching quizzically despite the fact that Connor couldn't see it. "Antiques again? What, to keep me busy or to give you a branch out here?"

"Both," Connor said bluntly. "I'm taking back the clan name when I 'die' here in a few months. The Kurgan's dead; no reason not to, for a while anyway. Rachel's wanting to stay here until she retires and then move out there for the milder winters. She says she started working here; she'll finish here, thanks."

Duncan said thoughtfully, "I can start looking for a good site, yes. Rich sold all the stock after Tessa died, but I still have some contacts.... What were you wanting to call it? Not Nash Antiques, I take it?"

"You're the one with the gift for words," Connor teased. "What should we call it?"

"Hmm. Not Nash, not MacLeod, not after Heather or Tessa or Rachel.... Not 'Antiquated' -- we want people to buy them without thinking the furnishings will come apart...."

Connor chuckled. "Interested, then?"

Duncan grinned. "I think so. Hmm. Complement?"

Connor paused, then, "Which spelling?"

"Not the sweet words meaning. I meant the missing piece that fits perfectly."

Connor chuckled. "How well does McCormick fit you, then? He was certainly smiling."

Duncan laughed. "I'm not telling you that, thanks." He grinned. "I wouldn't have told you about Tessa or Little Deer, either."

"Oh, so now you're politically correct," Connor laughed. "You should get over that."

"What?" Duncan asked, amused. "Go back to women or something?"

"He's not Amanda, that's for sure. But you sound happy, cousin. So does he." Connor chuckled. "Rachel still likes him, by the way."

Duncan laughed. "Still?"

"It's a long story." Connor's wicked grin was almost visible even over the phone call. "But come to think of it, she's known him longer than you have...."

"Connor, go get some work done," Duncan said, laughing softly. "I need to run, remember?"

"Working on your stamina?" Connor teased ruthlessly; Duncan only laughed. "I'll send you the brochure. Let me know what site you find and how much of the investment you want to cover."

"You're moving out here?" Duncan asked, interested.

"I don't think so. Both of us in one city might be irresistible to headhunters." Connor smiled, though. "But it was my idea; I'll cover half if you want."

Duncan smiled. "I'll let you know. No reason I can't cover it, though, Connor. I'll be running the store, after all, and any profit or loss will be my doing."

"We'll sort it out when you find a site. It's good to hear you happy again, Duncan." Connor grinned. "Even if you're now going for some of the men."

"It gives you a better chance at the good women," Duncan teased and heard Connor laugh.

"Fair enough. Call if you need me, Duncan."

"Connor... have you ever...." Duncan paused, well aware that was none of his business, but wondering. He finally settled for, "Do you mind?"

"What, that he's English? I suppose not. He did fight in some of the wars over here. It lets him claim to be American--"

Duncan cut over that. "That I'm wanting a man."

"Not as long as he's good for you and you're happy," Connor said. "I'd object to a woman who wasn't good for you, too."

"Where were you when I was with Kristin?" Duncan muttered.

"Studying with Nakano. Or I'd have killed the bitch for you," Connor told him implacably. "You need to check your eyes about women, cousin. Female doesn't mean weaker. Or safer."

"And Matthew?"

"Matthew will be good for you, I think. And if he's not... he'll see it, or you will, or I will, and it'll stop. Most likely, though, he'll be good for you." Connor shrugged. "Besides. I already warned him."

Duncan couldn't help laughing. "You didn't."

"Of course I did. He came by to tell me he was courting you. I told him he'd best not let you get soft, or trifle with your affections. I'm older; it's my job, Duncan."

Duncan groaned. "If he doesn't come by, Connor, we are going to see if you've been practicing your swordwork!"

"The next time we spar, I'd better find you've picked up a few of his tricks," Connor pointed out. "Go on. Go run. I've paperwork to handle before the state of New York complains I've not paid sales tax."

"All right." Duncan stretched again, then sat up. "Have a good morning, Connor. And thanks for calling."

Connor just chuckled, that irritatingly knowing laugh. "You're up. Go run. Duncan."

"Connor." Duncan laughed at the dial tone and wondered, again, when Matthew would get to town. The smile that bloomed at that thought stayed with him, off and on, for the rest of the day.

~*~*~*~

Oakland, CA
Wednesday, April 7th

Matthew moved through the rooms of his new house, checking the furniture and boxes strewn everywhere against both the paperwork and his own memory. A very large, amicable man with the incongruous name of Evelyn Coombes paced along beside him, checking the condition of the pieces against any damage noted on the original paperwork. He and Matthew saw the misplaced boxes at the same time and repeated, simultaneously, "Anything marked books goes to the back bedroom."

Evelyn's nephew Claude winced at the reminder and grabbed the offending boxes, carting them off to their proper destination.

Evelyn chuckled as the teenager vanished. "He'll learn, Mr. McCormick, but relative or no, the boy's got a fine touch for maneuvering heavy pieces through doors. That's harder to find."

Matthew chuckled as he moved into the back bedroom, the one he was going to use as an office. His desk wasn't where it would eventually end up, but he had a carpet to put down first, so that was acceptable. In fact, all of the rooms had looked well enough. "He'll learn to listen, all right. It looks fine, sir, and thank you."

Matthew signed the paperwork, initialing it on each page, and handed the company's paperwork to Evelyn, along with a sizeable cash tip; his furniture was old, sturdy, and heavy. The mutters over the couch had been quiet but emphatic, and they'd been nothing compared to the obscenities he'd heard about his Colonial-era four poster bed when the movers had thought he wasn't in hearing range. "Buy them lunch and a round on me, if you would. I appreciate the hard work you gentlemen did."

"I will and welcome, sir. Feel free to recommend us to any of your coworkers who might be moving." Evelyn tucked the bills into his shirt pocket and looked around. "Good luck in your new job, Mr. McCormick. I'll just make sure my boys have cleaned up as we go."

Matthew paced along beside him, already debating which room to start unpacking first: bedroom, kitchen, or bathroom. Claude was going through rooms, making sure the box labels he could read were in fact in the right room -- embarrassment over the previous reminder surfacing, apparently. The other two movers, Jack and Larry, were folding moving pads and tossing them onto a rapidly growing pile for removal. Matthew nodded to them and hefted the first bags of tape, shrink wrap, and some newspaper to go out to the trashcan.

A motorcycle growled outside and Matthew looked for it as he came out the front door, moving in and out of the paths of the movers as he did. The motorcycle wove around the moving truck and the two cars parked at the curb before coming up over the curb, across the sidewalk, onto the driveway... only to skid into position precisely behind Matthew's car (still with Virginia plates; he'd need to handle that this week). The kickstand came down as soon as the motorcycle stopped and the final muttered purr of the engine fit perfectly with the purr of immortal presence along Matthew's skin.

The rider sat up, pulling his leg over the seat in a seemingly uncontrolled motion that made even dismounting a swaggering joy. Matthew was trying to control his smile even before the helmet came off. "Corwin, what are you doing here?"

Cory Raines just grinned at him and hung his helmet off the handlebar, then peeled his backpack off. "Helping you move in. And bringing lunch. Objecting?"

Matthew tossed the bags towards his trashcan, a slow grin escaping. When he looked back up, Cory was in arms' range: leather jacket half-unzipped, arms spread in protestation of some innocence, and grinning. Matthew stepped into his grip and hugged him, hard. "Scamp. It's good to see you."

Cory's arms were tight around him for a moment, then he murmured, "No, Matthew, no one's after me. I really did come to help." Then he stepped back and picked up the backpack again, voice cheerful and louder again. "Looks like my timing's still perfect." Larry went past him with a large stack of the blankets; from his grin at that comment, he'd heard about their tip.

"Nothing new in that, Cory." Matthew threw an arm around his shoulders and steered him inside. "Lunch, hmm? What'd you bring?"

"Paper plates and napkins, plastic silverware, oranges, sourdough, Swiss and gouda, and a six-pack of beer. Once that runs out, well, it's time for us to take a break and go hit a store again anyway." Cory grinned at Matthew, green eyes bright and mischievous as they'd been for most of the seven centuries and some that Matthew'd known him.

Matthew smiled at him, well aware that Cory was up to something and equally aware that Cory had deliberately shown up in time to help him unpack. "Thank you."

"I was in the area," Cory said with such patent sincerity that Matthew started laughing helplessly as Cory vanished towards the kitchen. Matthew also hoped, equally helplessly, that Cory wouldn't do anything in the area of which he'd have to take official notice.

Evelyn came looking for Matthew as the chuckles were dying down. Together, they did a ceremonial final check to be sure the moving truck was empty before the movers vanished in a final crescendo of rumbling diesel engine and contrapuntal male voices.

Their departure left Matthew staring around the wreckage that might be a house soon but right now looked like a shambles. "God, I hate this stage of it."

Cory wound past the boxes and rolled-up carpet in the living room to hand him a beer. "I remember. Do you know how hard you are to find? Worse than parts for my motorcycle."

"She's a beauty, too. What, '40s or so? That would make it difficult. How did you find me?" Matthew asked, curiously, and toasted his oldest student with the bottle before draining half of it in one long swallow. He came up for air, only then realizing he'd been thirsty, and added, "Water in the fridge. Want some?"

"Good thing it's bottled. I didn't see any of the top boxes marked 'glasses,' " Cory warned him. "And I emailed Carl when you weren't in Virginia. He said you'd gotten a transfer and I should come do some honest work for once."

Matthew chuckled. "He's one to talk." He followed Cory back to the kitchen and got bottles of water out of the fridge while Cory started setting out lunch. It wouldn't do to get drunk just yet. Not when he didn't know yet why Cory was really here.

"That's what I told the million dollar arm." Cory unwrapped the gouda before producing a dagger from the back of his coat. He started cutting slices of cheese, heedless of the mess he'd be cleaning off the steel later. "Transfer, huh?"

"Mmm-hmm. They needed a White-Collar ASAC." Matthew sawed thick slices of sourdough off the loaf as he teased ruthlessly, "And since I've learned so much from my rogues of students...."

"Hey, I'm more straightforward than that," Cory pointed out indignantly.

"That you let me find out about, yes," Matthew agreed mildly. "Of course, there was the half a million marks you collected off Mr. deVries."

Cory only allowed the surprise to show for a moment. "Who?"

Matthew chuckled. "Statute of limitations is up, Cory. It's all right. What did you do with the money, anyway?" He bit into the orange peel to start it, then stripped the rind off in quick motions.

"A scholarship fund needed it. And he'd been concealing a few sins rather than making reparations." Cory shrugged and slid down onto the floor rather than find out the hard way (and too late) that he'd perched on a box of glassware. "Isn't it about time you got out of the Bureau, by the way? You went to Quantico, what, twelve years ago?"

"Something like that. And yes, I'm getting out in another couple years." Matthew layered cheese onto bread and passed it to Cory, then made another rough sandwich for himself. "You just sorting out where I'm working now?"

Cory grinned and didn't bother to look offended. "No. I'll keep any business out of California until you move again, Matthew. Don't worry. I don't want to dodge you any more than you want to chase me again."

"Thanks, Cory." Matthew bit into his food, grateful for the sharp, clean tastes and for a meal that he hadn't had to shop for. "Carl and Derek doing all right when you talked to them?"

"They're doing fine. Carl says Derek's getting faster daily, and Derek says Carl's blowing softer than he did." Cory looked over at him. "Amanda was in town last week, by the way."

"Not working with her at the moment, I hope?" Matthew asked and tossed Cory an orange.

Cory shook his head. "She keeps claiming she's gone straight. I hope not. Amanda lives for adrenaline rushes and if she can't get them stealing jewelry, well...."

Matthew shuddered and instinctively made a gesture to avert ill-fortune. "Lord, she would find trouble somehow, wouldn't she?" He relaxed against the wall, eating his orange segment by segment while he studied the set of Cory's shoulders and the set of his mouth. No, the other man wasn't yet ready to start discussing whatever was worrying him. All right. No matter how badly Matthew wanted to see Duncan, he wanted to court the man, not simply date him, and not least because he suspected that was something of a rarity in Duncan's life. The sooner the house was fit for company, however, and Matthew was settled in, the sooner he could start the courtship and see him again.

"What do you think? Start in here, in the bedroom, or in the bathroom?"

Cory considered him. "When do you report to the new office?"

"I've this week off to get settled and learn the lay of the land. Hospitality's not much yet, but I can offer you a couch if you like, or the other half of the bed once we get it assembled."

"Sounds good to me," Cory said lazily. "You can buy dinner tonight, too. Right. Let's start with the essentials: the bedroom, then the bathroom. We're only going to eat out tonight anyway."

Matthew chuckled. "We are?" He stood up, though.

"You hate shopping for food when you're tired," Cory said reasonably. "And this way we can look around for the local hangouts and information sources. If the two of us can't find it, well...." Cory grinned at him, bright, blithe, and too innocent to be anything other than dangerous.

"Fair enough," Matthew agreed, trying not to encourage his rogue of a student by returning too much of that smile. He suspected it wasn't working though. "Come on. Let's go pull order out of chaos."

# # #

Cory talked about anything under the sun while they unrolled carpets, assembled and placed furniture, and cut boxes open to find the sheets and start them in the washer. The discussion ranged across US politics, Canadian politics, the lack of political cooperation in the former Soviet Union, and the problems of avoiding DNA tests -- and Kalashnikovs -- after jobs. They unpacked suitcases into dressers and emptied Cory's saddlebags into one side of a wardrobe while discussing the ongoing race between dock security and would-be pirates in South America and the complications of catching counterfeit fashions that were traveling in containers with nine- and ten-character identification numbers that were too easily 'mistyped' on paperwork. The segue into counterfeit twenty dollar bills started in the bathroom and took longer than setting up shower curtain and bath mat, and unpacking a toiletries case into the medicine cabinet and onto the ledges of the bath.

Finally, in the kitchen, washing dishes by hand for the speed and from long habit, Cory finished his story about Amanda, some old plates for one hundred dollar bills, and the corrupt FBI agents who'd been tried and convicted for killing her and her accomplice. Matthew knew that story from the FBI's point of view, although he hadn't known Amanda was involved, and he was wondering who the accomplice was. Not Cory, from the tone of voice; someone Cory knew, from the phrasings. Matthew dried dishes patiently, sorting them into order in the cabinets as he waited for his student to get around to whatever was bothering him.

"Amanda says Mackie-boy is living in San Francisco now." Cory kept washing and rinsing highball glasses, passing them to Matthew, and left that statement in the air.

"If you mean your cohort in bank-robbing from the '20s," Matthew said mildly, "then yes, Duncan is."

Cory nodded and passed him another glass. "She was expecting him to be free to date. It got me a nice night, anyway."

"Hmm." Matthew put up the last highball and cut open the next box, setting coffee mugs and press onto the counter for Cory to start on. "Might want to run some fresh water. That's looking murky. And technically, I'd have thought Duncan was still free to date, for the moment anyway."

Cory turned to look at him. "Then you are seeing him?" He frowned, a rare expression from Cory. "And serious about it?"

Matthew kept digging through the box and pulled out the kettle. "Coffee after this? And yes, actually, to both." Matthew leaned back against the stove, hipshot and rolling his sleeves back up his arms. They kept slipping down between the humidity in the kitchen and the constant reaching up to shelves. "What's wrong, Cory?"

Cory looked at him, then said quietly, "I think you're going to get hurt, Matthew."

Matthew considered that, his smile fading as slowly as it had blossomed at Duncan's name. "Brought the beer to talk, then?"

"Well, and to cut the edges on the sourdough," Cory said, but his gaze was more serious than the words. He pulled the plug, watching suds circle down the drain before rinsing the sink and running more water when Matthew didn't move. "It's not you. And it's not Duncan. It's the combination that worries me."

Matthew nodded and rinsed, then filled, the kettle. "Get the press and some mugs while I dig for the coffee, would you? And what's wrong with us as a combination? Seeing as you haven't seen us in combination?"

Cory shrugged and went back to washing. "I haven't put artichokes and hollandaise on a peanut butter sandwich, either, but I know better than to try."

Matthew winced. "Dear God, Cory. I think you've finally found something that doesn't go with peanut butter."

"Anchovies don't work either," Cory said lightly. "And no, I'm not the one who tried." He let his hands disassemble the press while watching Matthew. "I'm not sure, but I think Carl's worried too."

Matthew frowned at that, and resisted the urge to try to see this from Cory's point of view. Usually, that was too easily done for his comfort. "Cory... Duncan's an honorable enough man by his own lights. Intelligent, educated, good taste, a wicked sense of humor, and a great deal of fun. What are you worrying about?"

Cory rinsed the press and set the pieces into the drying rack while Matthew kept digging for the coffee. So far, he'd found his spices, a corkscrew, a pair of scissors he'd have sworn he'd thrown out, and a packet of cigars he didn't know he owned. "You still smoke cigars?" Matthew asked, tossing them onto the counter. "Connor's sense of humor, I think."

"I think part of what I'm worrying about is Duncan's honor," Cory eventually said, ignoring the offer of the cigars. "Matthew... he thinks he's supposed to be a hero, for one thing. And he likes rogues. Amanda, Fitz, Kastagir."

Matthew chuckled. "Brave man, anyway." He paused, then frowned. "What about you?"

Cory shrugged. "He thinks I'm a lightweight. Irresponsible, brainless, and he's not sure I carry a sword."

"You don't," Matthew pointed out, but the frown lingered. "And your knives?"

"I don't think he paid much attention to that." Cory shrugged. "Well. And Amanda showed up during a heist a few years ago. I accidentally annoyed someone from the Russian mafia and they kidnapped her.... Mac hasn't really forgiven me for that."

"She's still alive, though. Did they kill her?" Matthew watched him thoughtfully.

"No, we got her back out." Cory smiled a little ruefully. "I was a bit closer to the explosion than I wanted to be, but it's okay."

"You know, after teaching you, I was ready for the worst two and twelve year olds could do," Matthew mentioned casually, but he laid a hand on Cory's shoulder, too. "Are you all right?"

Cory shrugged. "Hey, we take a licking and keep on ticking-- I'm fine, Matthew. It was a couple years ago, anyway."

"And the Russians wouldn't report it to the police," Matthew agreed, "so I don't have to do anything about it. So. Duncan?"

"I can't see you two working out is all," Cory said honestly. "His eyes... don't work as well as I'd like, and as for his balls, well, Amanda leads him around by them and has for centuries. From what I've seen, when MacLeod gets frustrated, he doesn't argue with her, or stand up to her, Matthew -- he leaves. But you don't leave until you've tried to work things out every way possible and a few that wouldn't work if it weren't you. I just don't think this is a good idea."

Cory put the mugs in the rack, reached into the back corner of the box to pull out the coffee, and looked up at Matthew. "And I'm too damn late. You're in love with him, aren't you?"

"Close enough, and falling fast," Matthew said quietly. "I won't know if it'll work 'til I try, Cory. And we're too good together, in and out of bed, not to at least try."

Cory nodded and handed him the coffee. "All right. Try. If it's me being right or you being happy, I'd rather be wrong."

Matthew took the coffee and reached over to clasp his arm. "Cory. I'm well aware this may not work out. If it doesn't, well, I've a job to distract me, and it's not as if I don't know ways to contact you, or Ceirdwyn, if I need someone to talk to."

Cory smiled at that. "Marcus is still in France, if you just need someone to yell at, for that matter." He nodded and gripped Matthew's arm before letting go. He found the coffee grinder and filled the press while the kettle started to sing its way up to a boil. Cory poured the water in, watching grounds dance along the sides of the glass. "So why isn't Duncan here helping you unpack?"

"I didn't tell him I was in California yet, nor the address." The rueful shrug matched the undertones of his chuckle as Matthew said, "I'm here to court the man, Cory. Doesn't quite seem to fit with asking him to help me unpack, somehow."

"Court him." Cory's smile widened into a imp's grin. "What, flowers, wine, chocolate, and dates? Mackie-boy won't know what's hit him. Good for you."

Matthew grinned at him wickedly. "I do seem to catch him off-balance."

Cory grinned. "You do that to a lot of us." Cory chuckled every bit as evilly and said, "So? Keep in mind that I'm your student and don't want to know everything -- and I'm sure as hell not going to tell everything either--" green eyes flashed mischief as Matthew bit back an exasperated question, "--and tell me how in hell you ended up with Duncan, anyway?"

Matthew bit back his first three annoyed comments and riposted from an angle instead. "Surely. Just as soon as you explain to me why you stole my chess set back from Martin Wells before I could finish haggling him down to a reasonable price on it... and why you then sold it to Connor instead of returning it to me?"

Cory stared at him, winced, and then muttered in a pained voice, "Maybe I am glad you're dating Duncan...."

~*~*~*~

San Francisco, CA
Saturday, April 10th

The sun lay low enough in the sky to pour honey light across the bay, gold and amber chasing grey fog along the blue water. It had been unseasonably warm and the night promised to be cool and fogbound... but that was later. Duncan stood on the flat roof of his house, looking around at the beauty of the bay and the remnants of a container garden from years and owners past. He was making desultory plans to replant, and sipping his wine, when he heard the doorbell.

He sighed and abandoned the sunset to head down the flights of stairs. If it was Jehovah's Witnesses again, however, he might actually break down and be rude early about not wanting the latest copy of the Watchtower. The last pair hadn't seemed to understand that 'No, thank you,' still meant 'No.' Duncan could feel an immortal as he came closer to the front door, and that convinced him to reach for the longsword in among the umbrellas. Amanda had been in town earlier that week; she'd been meeting Cory. For drinks, she'd said. Duncan opened the door, smiling despite himself at the memory of her pique when he'd said he was involved with someone. He hoped she and Cory had had legal fun....

Matthew chuckled when Duncan answered the door, knowing eyes taking in the way Duncan's hair was growing out (and curling madly that day), the strip of chest revealed where he hadn't bothered to button up his shirt yet, the arm out of sight behind the door that surely held a sword, and the bare feet under worn-thin jeans.

"That smile for me?" Matthew drawled. The almost-purr of his voice matched the 'cat in the cream' tilt at the corners of his smile. Duncan looked at him, at recently shaven skin over a visibly soft black sweater, at slacks that revealed just enough to make Duncan lick his lips reflexively, and felt his smile widen.

"If it wasn't before, it is now. Come in, please." Duncan couldn't stop smiling. Not when he put the sword up, or when he accepted the flowers Matthew handed him (and laughed to get potted violets instead of cut roses or something predictable), or when Matthew chuckled and asked where the kitchen was, since the wine he'd brought was already cold.

Duncan found himself hanging up Matthew's coat, amused and pleased by how easy it was for them both to put away their weapons. Giving Matthew a quick tour of the first floor that turned into a lazier discussion of renovations and decoration was just as easy... and they were both smiling. Constantly. The budding pleasure of Matthew's arrival almost overrode his resolve. But it wasn't fair to either of them for Duncan not to say something. Gina and Robert weren't fools. Neither was Connor, and Joe... Joe was one of the most perceptive people Duncan ever met, mortal or immortal. They were pleased for Duncan, but concerned as well, and Duncan was unsure himself of what, precisely, he wanted.

The silences with Matthew had been as comfortable as the conversations almost from the beginning; no matter what this relationship ended up being, Duncan didn't want to lose that ease. So, before the texture of the silence changed around them, before things that should have been said could throttle things that needed to be said, Duncan made himself force the words out.

"We need to talk."

For a moment, he thought it was just the acoustics of the room, then Duncan realized that Matthew had said the same thing at the same time. When he looked up, a smile already reemerging from his worry, he realized that Matthew was as amused and relieved as he was. Duncan chuckled, muscles relaxing from the certainty that he wasn't the only person wondering where their relationship might end up, how to get there, and whether their seatbelts were fastened....

This might just work out.

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~

Comments, Commentary & Miscellanea:

1. FBI ranks: SAC -- Special Agent in Charge (pronounced Ess-A-See); ASAC -- Assistant Special Agent in Charge (pronounced A-Sack); AD -- Assistant Director.

2. Thanks to the lovely folks at Deep Background for Kim's last name.

3. "Muzzle not the ox that treads the grain" is from Deuteronomy 25:4.

4. l'Éminence Rouge -- His Red Eminence, the Red Cardinal of France: Richelieu. l'Éminence Grise, the more familiar title, refers to Richelieu's successor, Mazarin, the Grey Cardinal.

5. Bobby Lee -- Robert E. Lee, head of the Army of Northern Virginia, and eventually commander in chief of the Confederate forces, during the United States Civil War.

6. Samuel Kingsman is an alias of Kastagir's from Shrewreader's story "Booking the Hours." I'm not sure which of us came up with it over ICQ, but she said I can use it, so that works.

7. Gina's past as a courtesan is based on information from the Watcher CD, as is Robert's pirate title of 'The Bloody Baron.' For that matter, the lists of teachers and students (Marcus Constantine taught Ceirdwyn, who taught Matthew, who taught Cory and Carl, who's teaching Derek) are also from that source.

8. For the curious: a bundling board was used in New England during the winters. If a boy was courting and got caught overnight by the weather, he might end up sleeping with his would-be intended, both of them bundled up in clothes and their own blankets with a body-length board placed between them. Needless to say, the board and bundles did not always manage to keep them separate....

9. Thanks beyond measure are due to Tere, who never seems to flinch about emails that start off, 'You're my San Francisco expert! Where would...?' Everything I get right about the city is her doing; all errors are mine.

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