MacLeod smiled to himself as he led the way onto the barge, ignoring the muttered litany behind him. Even if he listened closely he probably wouldn't understand half the insults, but he was touched Methos was being so inventive on, presumably, the behalf of some Scottish donkey or other in his ancestry.

His hand was on the latch before he realised the main door of the barge was open, a thin line of the inner darkness against a frame that should have been flush. Then the signature of another Immortal rushed in to sharpen his attention; the sudden jolt had to be a Revival, it was too sudden for anything else.

There were only a few Immortals he could think of that would use his barge as a convenient temporary mausoleum and all were friends, but his hand sought the hilt of his katana anyway as he glanced back to Methos. The man was standing with an air of polite interest, hands still in his pockets. He took this to mean he was on his own as he pushed open the door.

A young woman sat on the floor of the barge, trying to rouse the man half sprawled across her lap. She was leaning over his upper body as if she could protect it, a familiar enough tableau that MacLeod paused for a moment, trying to avoid giving the figures faces and context from other times.

Enough of the man was visible for identification as he stepped closer, it was definitely Richie. Even with the mind only semi-aware the body reacted to the threat of another Immortal nearby, the boy's legs moved slightly in an effort to restore circulation. Unfortunately, that only served to cripple the newly revived as nerves woke up too, sometimes quite literally screaming.

MacLeod's hand searched for and found the light-switch and he flicked it on sharply. The woman's head jerked up blindly, pale skin almost luminously white, eyes stark relief, black with shock and fear. She was drenched with water, blond hair dark and flat against her skull. Richie was in a similar state but his t-shirt was a far darker shade of red than it should have been. There wasn't much blood on the carpet; he was willing to bet most of it had been lost in the Seine.

Duncan took all this in as he spoke to the woman he now recognised. "Greta?"

"Duncan?" She blinked rapidly as she tried to pull the strands of hair out of her eyes to look at him. "We … we were just … he …"

"It's okay, you're safe now." The words came automatically and so did the intent to make them true, no matter how many times he said it or how increasingly clichéd it sounded as the years went on. There was a snort behind him but he ignored it to walk to Greta's side.

She blinked dumbly as he pulled her away from Richie and led her to the couch. The thick blanket Tessa used to wait the nights away curled under was still there and he wrapped it around the shaking frame. Tessa would have been cursing someone by now, railing against her fear with anger until she'd forced it away. Greta just stared ahead.

"Tessa, you're stronger than she was. If something happened to me, you'd be fine."
"You only think so because it suits you."

They'd just got it the wrong way around.

He swallowed to clear the tightness in his throat and turned back to his student, helping him to sit up.

"Mac?" Richie's voice was dazed but aware; he half dragged the younger man over to the couch and dropped him next to Greta. They made a pretty pathetic sight and he turned towards the kitchen area to start the coffee machine but stopped seeing Adam already had it covered.

Instead, he snagged the closest chair and took a seat facing them, trying to look calm and controlled for his own benefit as much as theirs, fighting the instinct to find and battle whatever had harmed his student even if Richie had long since stopped seeking or needing his protection.

"What happened?"

They looked at each other, then back to him but stayed silent. He tried again, this time looking specifically at Richie.

"What happened?"

"Greta …"

"Don't you blame this on me, Richard Ryan!"

Her eyes were still huge but indignation cleared some of the shock as she lightly backhanded Richie's arm. "I told him to leave it alone!"

Richie rubbed at the spot automatically as he defended his intentions. "How could I? You can't tell someone something like that and …"

"I said it was probably nothing, you know I get weird flashes that don't mean anything."

"Yeah, but …"

Duncan held up a hand, stopping the fight before it could start. "Explain now, spat later. What did you see, Greta?"

"We were at this cafe talking about this place we had to show you, it wasn't anything weird but it might have … and then I saw the river and there were bodies floating down it…" She trailed away, swallowing convulsively against the nausea of the memory, then took a breath and went on. "… lots of bodies. Like, you could have walked on them. If, you know, you were really, really, sick. So, Richie said we should go look at the river for real."

"I was just trying to make it better, Mac. Like, so Greta could see there was nothing in there. She …" Richie turned apologetically to the woman now leaning against his shoulder "… you looked really freaked. I figured seeing the river properly would help."

Greta absently took Richie's hand, apparently all was forgiven. At least for the moment; Duncan suspected someone was going to be buying flowers for a while when whatever had happened was sorted out.

"Anyway, so we're on the bridge where I was when I saw … whatever it was … and there's these guys throwing something over the top. Richie went to see what they were doing 'cause…"

As Greta trailed off, clearly wondering how to explain Richie's tendency to get involved without thinking of the consequences, he filled in the gap himself with a pointed look to the man in question. "'Cause Richie doesn't know when to leave something alone."

"Hey!" Before Richie could argue, Greta went on quietly.

"… and one of them said something only it was in French and it went a little beyond my phrase book, you know? And then they pulled guns and I thought I was going to die.

"Richie got shot and he made me jump off the bridge with him. I don't remember much else, just getting dragged onto the barge and then Richie died for so long I didn't know if he was going to wake up … and then you got home."

So Greta knew what Richie was. With so many things to rebuke the young man over, he chose the one that angered him the most. It wasn't as if someone with Greta's gifts wouldn't have worked it out eventually. "Richie, she could have been killed going over the bridge!"

"And she would have been killed staying on it. I didn't have a choice, Mac!" The boy was scared and angry and fully aware of what he'd done. Greta wouldn't be put in that kind of danger again.

He studied his student for a long moment before nodding and speaking in a less strident tone. "Stay here tonight, we'll figure out what to do tomorrow."

Richie began to raise an objection but gave up without a word, just rolled his eyes in a way that made him glad he hadn't been there for the kid's really angry adolescence.

A warm cup was pushed into his hand and his fingers closed about it reflexively, reminding him the other Immortal was still there. Adam hadn't taken the opportunity to escape, he was strangely touched. In the interest of politeness, he made introductions as Richie and Greta received their drinks.

"Richie, Adam. Adam, Richie. Greta, Adam. Adam, Greta."

Adam held a hand out to Richie, who took it automatically. "A pleasure to meet you, Greta."

And the tension broke on a bad joke. He rose to make sure all the entrances to the barge were secure while Richie solicitously hustled Greta towards the shower and the promise of warmth.

When MacLeod looked back, Adam was pulling his coat back on. "Well, it's been a lovely evening, full of high adventure and people dripping on me. I'll include it in my memoirs. See you around, Highlander."

"You're staying too, Adam." He crossed his arms and stood in front of the man, fixing him with the same expression he had gained Richie's acquiescence with earlier.

"The glare won't work on me."

Glare thwarted, he turned to coaxing. "You're staying because you promised to tell me the rest about Doyle."

"No I didn't, I don't make promises."

Coaxing down his tone turned, as it almost always did, back to flat tenacity. "Fine, you're staying because I've locked all the doors. You can either sulk in silence, or tell me the rest about Doyle."

"You don't think you have slightly more important things to worry about - random men throwing random things off random bridges and firing random bullets?" Adam grinned and side-stepped, MacLeod gave him half a foot before reaching out to take a firm grip of the man's collar.

"Maybe they're connected."

"Maybe you're deluded." His hold was shaken loose but at least Adam had stopped walking. Unfortunately, it was only so he could continue speaking. "Have you considered therapy for this white knight complex of yours? Maybe you should get another hobby."

"Caring about my friends isn't a hobby. The beer's in the refrigerator, with the food, and Amanda isn't after your head."

"And Richie and Greta will be joining us shortly; do you really want them to hear all the grisly details? I would have thought they'd been through enough tonight."

MacLeod felt his jaw flex against the thought, despite himself. "No, I don't. But they're going to. Richie should know what's out there and Greta might be able to help."

"Greta might be able to help with what, now?"

Richie stood on the top stair, looking down with some trepidation. After a moment he slowly descended to join them. Some of the colour had returned to his cheeks and he clung to his cup of coffee as if trying to force the heat into himself.

Finally Adam frowned and began to unbutton his coat; the Ivanhoe was stripped out to rest against the hull wall. There was no hint to what his thought process had been but somehow his 'run' switch had flipped to 'stay' in the last few moments. MacLeod wished he could figure out how to trigger it, life would get a lot easier.

The man spoke as he dropped his wet coat over the back of an antique chest. "Greta can help with something I'll tell you about when everyone's here because, frankly, I can think of several hundred things I'd rather do than repeat this story more than once. One of them includes having my head taken by Kenny."

That drew both other Immortals startled attention, questioning in unison. "You know Kenny?"

"Everyone knows Kenny." Adam threw himself on the couch to rest in a haphazard sprawl. "If I'm staying, MacLeod, you're cooking."

Richie nodded tentatively. "Greta will be pretty hungry … "

MacLeod snorted and shook his head at the man still inconsiderately dripping water and diluted blood onto his rug "… and you, of course, couldn't possibly eat another thing after swallowing half the Seine."

Richie grinned. "Okay, I'm pretty hungry too."

The voice of the couch came again "And it's only polite to cook for guests."

"Greta is the only guest here. Richie's family and you're …"

Adam spoke with quiet nonchalance. "I'm …?"

He hesitated before replying, the lightness in the tone of the question didn't match the focus of the gaze; Adam had spoken but Methos was asking. "Family doesn't usually check the door to see if it's really locked when they think I'm not looking."

"Nor do guests, unless your hospitality is more terrifying than I've been led to believe."

There was that dichotomy of stare and tone again and he honestly had no clue what he had been meant to reply.

"Then I guess you're family." Richie spoke up "You know, the weird uncle that drops by and you watch the silver."

"That's not very polite." The world's oldest Immortal looked severely at one of the world's youngest and MacLeod abruptly felt himself let off the hook somehow.

"He generally isn't when he's right. Don't worry, it doesn't happen very often."

Digging through the cupboards for something that could feed four people, one of whom included Richie 'Sucking Vortex' Ryan, gave him something to do while the other two talked. The conversation drifted over to him, and he listened with some interest to see how the two would react to each other.

"So, Adam, known Mac long?"

"Relatively speaking, no. It just feels like centuries."

"He does kinda have a way of sticking around you."

"So does malaria."

Feeling the need to maintain just a little respect for his dignity after hearing Richie snickering, MacLeod spoke up "I can still hear you and it's not too late for me to run out for some arsenic to flavour your food with."

Adam replied lazily, good humour apparently restored. "I appreciate the thought but I can probably make it through whatever you're making without having to kill myself."

"How did you guys meet?"

When Adam failed to reply to Richie's question, MacLeod did so. "Kalas." Then he poured all the pasta he could find into boiling water and hoped for the best.

"Yes, Kalas. He was running a singles agency; it was love at first sight."

And now he felt the need to strangle Adam as he corrected the statement. It wouldn't do any good but there would be a certain amount of satisfaction to be had. "Kalas was after his head. He isn't anymore."

Richie grinned, clearly enjoying the differing versions of the story. "Why was he after you?"

Adam laughed self-mockingly, but with no trace of shame. "A case of mistaken identity - he thought I was someone who wouldn't go running to MacLeod screaming bloody murder."

"You got Mac to fight for you? I thought that wasn't allowed."

"Yes, I did. Kalas wasn't too upset at the last minute substitution. Well, until he lost his head anyway. I imagine that upset him quite a lot. Briefly."

MacLeod just watched as Methos recounted the events with close to complete honesty but still managed to lie through his teeth. He made a mental note to ask exceedingly specific questions about Doyle. But that could wait for the moment; instead it was time to ask some exceedingly specific questions of Richie. The younger man might not be in Methos' league but he'd been practising evasion since he could talk. Occasionally he wondered why he always seemed drawn to people who laughed at his sense of honour and usually allowed them to run rings around him, but he didn't wonder too hard.

"Greta said there was something you guys had to show me, Richie."

"That was meant to be a surprise for tomorrow but I guess it'd be kinda stupid to wait. I took Greta over to the church where Darius was 'cause she wanted to see it, and she started telling me about him. I never even told her she was Immortal, Mac, but she was just coming out with this bunch'a stuff about him … anyway, she said she wanted to see where else he'd lived. I told her it was just the church but she said there was someplace else …"

"Richie, even Immortals need to breathe occasionally." Duncan smiled as Richie took a breath, pleased he'd misjudged the amount of pressing he'd have to do to get to the point.

"Right. So, we did the tourist thing and ended up on the left bank. Then Greta starts walking and says this was the route Darius took when he was trying to sneak some of the Protestants out of the city when the Catholics were after them, like, hundreds of years ago. We end up at this place where she says the basement used to lead out under the old walls and hey, presto, the persecuted are gone. But Darius kept something in there and I guess he never went back for it; she said he'd want you to have it."

As he listened, MacLeod began to feel a nagging disquiet over what it could be. The last time Darius had left him something to find, after all, it had been because the Priest had dreamt of his own death. "What's over it now?"

"Just some apartments. She said the cellars are still there, but she doesn't know if there's a way down there."

"Okay, thanks. That's really …" Really what, he wasn't sure. Dark foreboding aside Darius' death, like Tessa's, like a hundred others, still hurt enough he could spend a day mourning without feeling unjustified. Richie meant well, he knew, but … But.

Richie's face fell. "You don't want to know, sorry man."

"I do. I really do. After we've dealt with Michael Doyle and the guys on the bridge, show me where it is."

He was rewarded by the reappearance of a smile and then by a puzzled frown. "Who's Michael Doyle?"