DISCLAIMER: The X-Files universe and all characters within that universe belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions, and The Highlander universe and all characters within that universe belong to Rysher Entertainment and Gregory Widen; no infringement on my part was intended. The original text is ©1998.

Author's Note: This is the first of a series of X-File/Highlander stories. For the next installment, Sam Adams and Bourbon, click on the link at the bottom of the page.

<Damn.>

"Mulder, I am not!"

"Then explain the tattoo!"

Scully looked discomfited a moment, then moved to scratch at the resting place of her Midgard Serpent. Mulder stopped his wild gyrations around the office to point an accusing finger at her.

"No, Scully," he said, slowly, dangerously, "not that tattoo."

She gazed back at him, all innocence. "Then which piece of body art could you possibly be referring to?"

<Play dumb.>

He strode toward her and lifted her hand with a savage force. Turning it over, against her will, he said, "This piece of body art, Scully. This proves you're a spy against me." He looked down at her wrist. The clean and inkless wrist.

"Mulder, I do not have a tattoo on my wrist."

<Don't look too closely, thanks.>

His eyes glazed over a moment, and then he was stalking away again, muttering.

"I saw it, Scully. I know I did. Just after I dropped you home after that vampire case. Your jacket and sleeve had been ripped off, remember? And I saw it. A big circle, covering an area about two inches in diameter just below the heel of your hand. It was blue, with . . . I don't know, hieroglyphics or something. Maybe it was the Boy Scout symbol."

<Yeah, like it'd be that subtle.>

"But the point, Scully," he said now, loud enough to be heard clearly, though she knew what he'd said, "is that I don't forget things like that. You had a tattoo. What's more, it was their tattoo."

<Uh oh.>

She rubbed her arm. "Mulder, I'm not one of them. I'm not spying on you. I don't have a tattoo on my wrist. I have one on my back, but not on my wrist." She stared at him till he looked her in the face. "And Mulder, you have yet to tell me who 'they' are."

He glared at her, then went and crashed down on his desk chair. Looking a bit worried, he mumbled, "I haven't?"

<About time he calmed down.>

"No, you haven't."

His face hardened. "They, as if you didn't know, are a secret society that has been going on for over a millenium, watching and possibly recording a select group of people. For some reason, they think they have to watch me now. I'm not sure who they're involved with, but MacLeod-- "

<MacLeod's in on this? Shit.>

"Who?"

Startled, Mulder answered, "I met him the other day. He and I sort of hit it off, and he checked out when I asked for background work done on him."

<I'll bet he did.>

"Scully, he knows the truths to the questions I've been asking. And one of those truths is that I'm constantly watched, constantly recorded. And that you're a part of it."

<Thank you, Duncan.>

"Uh huh. So you heard this before or after you supposedly saw my 'tattoo'?"

"Well," he said, hedging, "I saw your hand afterwards, but that doesn't mean-- "

<Pull the bombshell.>

Scully burst out laughing.

"Mulder, has it occurred to you that you're completely paranoid and possibly psychizophrenic?"

His posture stiffened. "I am not."

"Oh yes, you are. Or at the very least, delusional. Mulder, look at my wrist. Do you see a tattoo?" The slow shake his head gave didn't reassure her in the least. "Do you really think I could be doing stuff like that? Think carefully." He lowered his head into folded arms and groaned.

<He bought it.>

Voice muffled, he said, "Scully, I'm a dupe. I believed this MacLeod guy on his word alone." His voice was almost too low to hear. "They all know me too well . . ." He stretched and stood, forced cheerfulness oozing from him. "I better go check his records again."

<You do that.>

She looked at him expectantly.

He glanced down at the floor, abashed. "Um, sorry, Scully. Won't happen again, I promise."

"Sure, Mulder," she muttered as he left the room. The minute she heard the door click she went to the computer terminal and rapidly keyed in a series of codewords. Lines of biographical text appeared on screen, along with a photo of a handsome man with long dark hair, an easy smile, and penetrating eyes.

<They all have the eyes, dammit.>

She typed in another sequence of letters, numbers, and symbols, and with that changed the life of one Duncan MacLeod. He now had a very dark, or at least, slightly shady past, including gaps in the data and inexplicably absent antecedents.

One more command code and the new file followed a subroutine one of her colleagues had made up a while back. The file was now there for roving hands to dig up while not immediately being evident.

<I've done this so many times the system shouldn't let me in anymore. It'll crash in a week, just like the last time I messed around in here, and the time before that, and the time before that.>

Scully sighed and stepped away from the computer, rubbing her wrist. Bits of cosmetic putty rolled off into tiny cylinders, revealing the edge of a blue design underneath. Swearing quietly, she pulled out a small blue jar from her bag and snorted when she read 'new and improved'.

"I need to find a new supplier for this stuff . . . "

She sat down and began reapplying the flesh-colored goop. About fifteen minutes later Mulder slammed open the door to see a hopefully tattoo-less Scully reading an old file.

<The gunk better work this time.>

"His profile's been tampered with."

<Yep.>

"The MacLeod that I read about was a coverup for someone completely different. If I see him again . . . "

<Great. Now I have to call Duncan.>

"Don't worry, Mulder. I'm sure you'll get him." Scully checked her watch. "Leaving time. I've gotta go. Tell me how it all works out."

"I will, Scully." He came up to her and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "And I really am sorry."

<Damn.>

She gave a lop-sided grin. "Since you put it that way, you're forgiven. Against my better and more rational judgement. Just don't do it again. Ever. I don't like being accused of espionage every time you're feeling paranoid."

He smiled back. "Have a nice trip home."

Scully drove down the freeway, mind discontented and wrist itchy. She picked up her cell phone and punched in digits with her thumb.

"Hello," said a voice, its tones lightly emphasized by an accent that used to be Scottish.

<Hiya, you immortal bastard.>

"Hey, MacLeod. What's the big deal with telling Mulder about me?"

"Oh . . . hello, Scully. We've got to stop talking like this."

<Smooooth.>

"Uh huh. Well, in that case, you should know that I had to do some major changes to your FBI profile. Have fun. The police are probably going to have a good time if they ever have to do some serious searching on you."

Some mild swearing made it through the connection, though it would've been clearer if she hadn't been going under a bridge.

<Love ya, too, Duncan.>

A second or two passed. Then MacLeod spoke.

"Is this your revenge? Or should I thank you for getting Mulder out of my way?"

"Both. But mostly the revenge. What possessed you to tell him I'm his Watcher?"

"Because he had to find out sometime. Do you realize how many times he's died? And besides, he singled me out in a crowd and figured that since his head hurt every time he saw me, I must be part of the governmental conspiracy. I had to tell him something before he shot me."

<He pulled a gun on you? Yeah, Mulder, some accidental meeting. Hit it off really well, didn't you?>

Scully sighed. "That sounds like him. And I know he's died at least five or six times. Hell, he's done it in front of me. He's just never figured it out."

"Just tell him. Or, if you want, I can show up with you and we can do a demonstration."

"Lord, no. I can just imagine that happening. Maybe I should just get him really drunk." She sighed and took an exit ramp that she knew would lead to a Dairy Queen. Today was a frozen yogurt kind of day. "But I'm his Watcher, and I'm the one who's got to deal with him. You don't. Either tell him everything, or let me handle this."

"I don't need to have that much fun. No immortal or Watcher will come near him these days, and for good reason. His mental state has frightened lesser men than me. I can't see why even you've stayed with him so long."

<Ask me that again, and in that tone of voice, and I'll kill you so you stay dead.>

"Because I feel like it. But it isn't easy. Listen, you know that cosmetic stuff that friend of yours gave me to hide the tattoo? It isn't working. It comes off in the rain or if I rub at it, and it's giving me a rash."

MacLeod said something to someone in the background. She couldn't hear what. "Have you considered getting surgery it have it covered up or removed? With the life you're living, and who you're living it with, you might want to."

"Can't. Not if I want to be able to tell Mulder the truth someday."

"All right. I'll see if I can get you some of the old formula." A whispered conference took place again. Then, "Check your mailbox when you get to your apartment. There ought to be something."

"Then I guess that's everything. I'll see if I can do some remodeling in your file so that you're not quite as suspicious. Have fun whacking off heads."

"Sure. Goodbye, Scully."

"Seeya."