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We have a total of 23 episodes, and they're all available if you follow the HFS link.





"Slob," Duncan grumbled in mild annoyance, as he moved about his living room, collecting empty beer bottles. "The least you could do is help."

"Your flat, your mess," Methos said cheerfully, while making a bed for himself on the couch. Duncan glared at him. "All right, then," Methos said. "Tomorrow night, we'll get sozzled at my place."

"Can't," Duncan said, as he stooped to collect another three bottles. How had they drunk so much?

"Sure we can, if you'll bring the booze."

Duncan snorted. "I'm meeting a friend who usually brings his own." {Peter,} he thought. {Peter and Sean: how we used to laugh together...}


"Shall I open another bottle?" Peter asked, as they relaxed by the fire in his parlor.

"I really should be getting back to the asylum," Sean began, but his sense of duty was clearly wavering. Duncan and Peter smiled at each other knowingly, then Duncan leaned over to stage-whisper in Sean's ear.

"But I need your advice," Duncan said. "You see, my friend has this problem..."

"What sort of problem?" Sean asked suspiciously.

Duncan glanced briefly at Peter before saying, "He makes mouthwash, but..."

"Mouthwash?!" Peter said indignantly. "I'll have you know I make some of the finest wine in France."

"See?" Duncan said. "He's suffering from a terrible delusion." Peter made a strangled frustrated noise and Sean laughed.

"Oh, all right; I'll stay the night," Sean relented. He turned to Peter and said lazily, "Waiter! Another bottle of your finest mouthwash."

"I don't know why I put up with you," Peter said to Sean, as he opened a bottle of wine and set it aside to breathe. "Or you," he said, turning to Duncan. "Especially you. And why are you running off to Berlin? You keep dodging the question."

"There's not much I can say," Duncan replied evasively.

"Someone's seen it, then," Sean said. "At last. Who are you working for? The British? The French? The Americans?"

"Seen what?" Peter asked.

"The signs," Sean said. "There's another war coming."

"With the Germans?" Peter said, paling at the thought. "Not again. It isn't fair..."

"Fairness has nothing to do with it," Duncan said. "In the meantime, it's eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow..."

"We'll still be Immortal," finished Sean.


"MacLeod," Methos said insistently, jarring Duncan from his reverie.


"Go to bed. You're falling asleep on your feet."

In the darkness outside, two men in a van sat watching the dojo. The driver smoked and shifted impatiently in his seat while his companion spoke to someone on a cell phone.

"He's got a visitor who must be spending the night; he turned off the lights ten minutes ago and no one's left the building." A pause, then, "No, this man has dark hair. We haven't seen the other guy. Do you want us to take them both?" He listened intently for a minute before saying, "Understood." He shut off the phone and turned to the driver. "We wait."

He was dreaming of Alexa when the phone rang. Alexa laughing, seemingly whole and healthy, Alexa nestled in his arms, Alexa on the beach... Reality slowly asserted itself as his thoughts drifted closer to the surface. The familiar ache of remembering Alexa was gone forever gave way to the momentary confusion of waking in a strange bed. No, he was on MacLeod's couch. {Too much beer and not enough sense. You weren't going to dream about her anymore, remember?}

Methos sat up groggily and fumbled for his watch. Twenty minutes past four. Duncan was hunched over the phone, speaking to someone in low, urgent tones. Bad news, then. What other kind would come at such an hour?

Duncan hung up the phone and, for the first time, noticed Methos watching him. Duncan looked worried... no, he looked worried and confused. Something had obviously gone wrong.

With a growing sense of unease, Methos asked, "What's happened?"

"That was Joe," Duncan said. "Richie's dead. Joe shot him. Rich broke into the bar and Joe thought he was a burglar. Why would Richie break into Joe's?"

Methos considered several possible answers to that question, including `How should I know?' and `Does it matter? He won't stay dead,' but he could see that neither of those responses would help. {You are too damned tied to that boy for your own good,} he thought, but he knew that bit of advice wouldn't be welcome, either.

In the end, he simply said, "I'll come."

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