Stepping out from the hotel's large front doors, Methos and MacLeod took in a large lungful of the not-so-clean or refreshing Vegas night air. Thank Providence for immortal healing; those pesky particulates had finally met their match! Looking about for a moment, trying to decide what would be their best course of action, MacLeod seemed very intent on demonstrating his best Stevie Wonder impression.

"What the hell are you doing, MacLeod?" Methos snapped, casting glances towards the other people on the street in embarrassment and slight paranoia. He stared as a flock of Elvises passed them by. Not pausing in his cranial weaving, the Highlander answered his friend. "Every time I move my head quickly, the lights seem to streak following the movement. It's really ...neat."

Methos shook his head and chuckled as he experienced the phenomenon Mac was describing. "Those are tracers MacLeod. And, here in halogen heaven, or hell, depending on your point of view, they're going to drive us to distraction. Or at least to nauseam."

Grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of the other man's head, the old Immortal stilled his movements. "Now where do you want to go? And are we walking or taking a cab?"

Mac seemed to think about it for a moment before answering. "Let's just walk around and see what we come across."

Nodding his head in agreement, Methos let the other man go and strode down the street with MacLeod obediently following behind him. They flew past several restaurants, coffee and souvenir shops without missing a step. Methos really wasn't pining for that ever-charming novelty T-shirt with Elvis or some farm animal spouting crud slogans on its surface. Turning right, he moved from the more expensive area of the city into a less than premium section of town. Now this was more like it! Instead of coffee shops, there were porn shops, the trinket shop replaced by the night club. When one was as high as a kite, this was where fun could be had. Besides, all the hookers would make Mac feel more at home. Catching sight of something interesting across the street, Methos stopped. MacLeod nearly bumped into him but managed to pull up in time, looking quizzically in the direction Methos was staring.

"What?"

A small smile crept across the older Immortal's face. "What do you spy with your little eye, MacLeod?" he asked, never taking his eye of his discovery.

Studying the block facing them Duncan rhymed off its residents. "Umm, I see a shitty diner called 'Mid ack' - but since there's a large number of letters burnt out, I think it's supposed to be 'Midnight Snack' - a car sitting on cement blocks, an S&M club..." His pupils as wide as 'Midnight Snack's' dinner plates, MacLeod looked over to his friend. "No! No way Methos! I'm not..."

Holding up a hand to stop the tirade before it got going, the other man shushed him. "Don't worry MacLeod; that's not what grabbed my attention. Continue."

Heaving a sigh of relief Mac looked to the building beside the club. "A thrift shop?"

Nodding his head, Methos started to cross the street without a word.

"You're all excited about a thrift shop?" MacLeod asked as he caught up to the other man.

"Yeah, it'll be fun. Let's go back in time and revisit our pasts MacLeod. Let's immerse ourselves in history, or a least in go-go boots and bell bottoms."

"I'm having trouble picturing you in a pair of bell bottoms, Old Man," MacLeod laughed.

Frowning for a moment, the older Immortal stopped before the door of the shop. "You know - so am I. I don't think I've ever worn a pair."

Slapping the other man on the back, MacLeod pulled the door open with a tinkle of a bell and bowed, motioning for his friend to enter. "Well, here's your chance, my good man."

Stepping across the threshold from the street into the warm and softly-lit interior of the cramped shop, Methos let out a small whistle. The store was packed to the rafters with old articles of clothing and accessories from at least four different decades. Shirts, pants, skirts, jackets, dresses, earrings, necklaces, hats and a rather impressive assortment of wigs cluttered the small, one-room shop. There was a change room set up to one side, with several mirrors strategically placed around the room for convenience. Hearing the bell ring again as MacLeod closed the door and stepped in behind him, Methos didn't bother to look back at the other man.

"Hey, boys!" A petite red-headed women in her early thirties wearing a fetching, yellow satin, fringed skirt and yellow and black striped tube-top called from her position beside a shoe- and tie-laden counter with an old-style cash register sitting on its top.

"Hey!" MacLeod smiled absently, still taking in his surroundings.

"Anything I can help you with?" she asked, leaning on the counter and grinning like a wolf with a couple of lambs in her sights.

"No, no we're just browsing," Methos informed her, walking further into the store slowly.

"I thought you wanted a pair of bell-bottoms, Adam?" MacLeod interjected well aware of what his seemingly innocent question would start.

"Oh, we've got plenty of those," the woman informed them, walking up to Methos and taking him in. "You looking for any particular color, Honey? Cord, flowered, pattern or solid?"

Throwing MacLeod a deadly glare, Methos shook his head at the woman. "I really don't think..."

"I've got just the ones!" she suddenly thundered, cutting him off in mid-sentence. "Come on." She grabbed his hand, pulled him towards the change room and pushed him in. "You just shuck yourself out of those jeans and I'll be right back, darlin'." She closed the dressing room door behind her and moved off to search for the pants.

Suppressing his laughter, Mac moved about the store, picking through the assorted items in fascination. There was a waist-length jean jacket with suede fringes on the arms hanging on the wall over by the changing rooms, another understated checkered suit jacket beside it. He frowned. He had a jacket just like that back home; he hadn't worn it in quite a while. Moving to a table, he waded through its contents while listening to Methos cursing quietly. Guess the saleswoman found his pants. Oooh, look, a feather boa and purple at that! And a patent leather pink mini shirt. MacLeod lifted the tiny woman's garment up and envisioned Amanda in it. He grinned, a little short even for her standards. Maybe he should buy it for her. Just for fun of course. Dismissing the idea, he threw it back onto the pile and turned when he heard the saleswoman clear her throat. He saw her standing beside the dressing room door with her hand on the knob.

"He's ready." She informed him, tugging to open the door for Methos' big entrance. Nothing happened and she tugged again only to have the door remain closed. "Let go!" she growled and tried again.

This time, the door did open to reveal a thoroughly mortified Methos. There the oldest living Immortal stood, shoulders slumped and head down refusing to look anyone in the eye. There he was, squeezed into the most atrocious orange pants which could have given the liberty bell a run for its money. But it got better. On the front of these lost wonders of the world were a set of a woman's shapely arms, one starting from the bottom cuff of each leg and curling around to disappear 'round back about mid-thigh.

"Turn around, Sugar, and let your friend see!" the woman directed the humiliated Immortal.

Snapping his head up to look the woman in the eye, Methos took a long time before surrendering. This was his idea after all. Turning to face the back of the dressing room, Methos revealed the destination of the painted-on arms. There, right on his ass, were the wandering hands, one on each cheek, red nails and all.

MacLeod burst out laughing and just couldn't stop. The pants, oh God the pants! After a long while Methos turned to the still-laughing Highlander and put his hands on his hips.

"Ye gods, MacLeod, you're going sprain something if you don't shut up!" He glowered.

"Sorry, sorry!" Mac apologized, quieting down and wiping his eyes.

"Right. Now if you've had your fun, I'll just wrestle myself out of these things and..." He trailed off as he spotted something across the room and made a beeline for it. Picking up a pair of shoes from the counter he looked upon them in awe.

"Are these real, fake alligator skin?" he asked in wonder.

"Of course." The woman smirked.

"Hey, and look at this!" Methos changed directions in an instant. He moved to pick up a blue cowboy hat with a brown and white feather arrangement on its front. He ran his hands over the material finding it was rather like suede, but not. Placing it on his head, he looked at his reflection in the closest mirror and nodded once in satisfaction.

"Yup, the pants are definitely going, but this baby's coming home with daddy!" he notified the other two occupants of the room as he turned to show off his newly-acquired hat.

MacLeod rolled his eyes. No big deal, Old Man, it's not as if you discovered Inca gold or anything.

"How about you, Sweetheart? Your friend found something; now it's your turn." The saleswoman turned her attention to MacLeod.

"I don't really know. I guess I could...oh wait, how about this?" He strode across the floor to a dummy draped in a calf-length, heavy brown coat. The jacket had thick, matted cream-coloured faux fur trim, the kind found on old teddy bears and cheap throw rugs, on its cuffs and collar. It might have been white at one point; it was hard to tell. He lifted the thing off its resting place to find it surprisingly heavy, probably from several years' worth of dust and mites. He slipped into the coat and looked into the full-length mirror which hung near by. He caught Methos' reflection as the other man came up behind him and looked him in the eye via the reflective surface.

"Pimp Daddy Mac and his bitch Methos?" Mac mouthed to the other man.

Methos snorted but smiled all the same. "It's you Mac; it really is you."

"If you're going to take that one, a word of advice," the saleswoman called.

Both men turned, throwing her curious looks.

"Don't stand too close to an open flame!"

Joseph Dawson struggled to open his eyes, fighting off the remnants of sleep. Blinking a couple of times, he slowly became aware of his surroundings. He was lying in bed; the room was dark, therefore it must be late and there was an ice bucket clutched to his chest. He groaned as the events leading up to his finding himself in bed with an ice bucket came back full force, along with the taste of stale vomit. Methos! That little bastard had given him some bad oysters, which he, stupidly, he was the first to admit, had eaten. You'd think he'd know to be wary of Methos bearing gifts! If the Immortal had managed to incapacitate him with the rancid shellfish he began to wonder what he'd done to Mac. Would he get up only to find Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod dead from contaminated beer?

Shifting to the side of the bed, fully intending to go out there and gut-shoot the son-of-a-bitch, Dawson had to grab the headboard as another wave of nausea overcame him and his mouth began to water threateningly. Okay, maybe he'd pass on the homicide and settle for a good rant. Taking a few deep breaths to calm his rebelling stomach, he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled out to the main sitting room.

The first thing he noticed as he moved into the room, was a pungent, yet oddly familiar odor in the air. He couldn't quite place it; the answer was just out of his reach. Secondly, he noticed that there was no-one else in the room. There was, however, evidence of recent activity. One lamp had been left on and the fireplace looked as if it had been used recently, some faintly glowing embers being still visible. Making his way over to the couch, Joe noted the ashtrays along with several strips of what looked like phone book cover. Slowly putting the pieces together, Dawson's jaw clenched. It was worse than he thought! He was never, ever going to put anything past that trouble-making shit again! He had actually convinced Mac to share in a couple of joints, the manipulative... Wait! Don't go off half-cocked Dawson, just because Methos smoked some pot doesn't mean MacLeod did. In fact, now that he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. The older Immortal probably whipped out the weed, tried to convince Mac to share with him and failed, then proceeded to smoke his purchase all on his own out of spite. Eyeing the roaches, Dawson doubted his little scenario. That was an awful lot of drug for one man, even if he was five thousand years old. Whatever the case, he still wanted to know where they'd got themselves to. Stoned or not, that duo could find a whole lot of trouble without even trying.

Before he could contemplate any more, a moan and the creaking of a door caught his attention. Turning towards MacLeod's room, he saw Richie standing there in the doorway, eyes squinted, hair sticking up, clothes rumpled and a big-ass Honey Nut Bee on his forehead. Gaping in total astonishment, the Watcher could only follow the younger man with his eyes as Richie lurched from the doorway to the bathroom. It was a moment before he heard the tell-tale manifestation of the young Immortal's earlier alcohol consumption. That went on for an impressive amount of time and it was another moment after its completion that a cry of outrage and disbelief was heard, followed by the door's slamming open and a sputtering Ryan's storming out.

"What the fuck is this?!" He pointed to his forehead with a shaking index finger.

Joe raised his eyebrows. "A bee with a cereal hula-hoop."

"I know that, but what the hell is it doing on my face and more importantly, how did it get there?"

Dawson sighed and sank down onto the couch rubbing his eyes. It was looking less and less as though MacLeod had sat back and kept an eye on the Old Man while he wreaked havoc. If that had been the case he would never have let Methos stick that stupid tattoo on Richie.

Before he could voice his suspicions, a key card trying to be shoved into the slot, along with inadequately stifled laughter and instructions to get the damned door unlocked, could be heard. A few more moments of fumbling and the door finally opened. Mac and Methos both tip-toed in, trying their very darned best to be quiet. For what seemed like the umpteenth time that night, Joe started in astonishment. There the two Immortals were, decked out in the ugliest pieces of clothing Joe had ever had the displeasure of laying eyes on. Methos was wearing a peacock-blue cowboy hat with a spray of feathers on its front, while MacLeod was adorned in a heavy, and equally hideous, long coat, complete with grimy trim. The two men stopped and looked up at them when Richie burst out of his shock.

"What, in Christ's name, are you wearing?" he said, shocked, cartoon tattoo suddenly forgotten.

"Joe, Richie - how are you guys feeling?" Mac asked, avoiding their stares. The question snapped purpose back into Dawson. The Watcher got to his feet and strode over to Methos, who had opted to remain unusually passive so far, letting MacLeod do all the explaining.

"I'm feeling kinda sick, MacLeod," Joe replied, not bothering to tear his attention away from the older Immortal. "I wonder why that is?"

"Haven't a clue, Joseph," Methos offered innocently. "Maybe you're coming down with something."

"I don't think so." When no more comments were forth coming, Joe decided on the direct approach. "Where'd you get those oysters, Methos?" he asked calmly.

"Room service." The other man replied confidently. Joe only glared. "All right, all right. I lifted them from a room service cart parked out in the hall. There, you happy?"

Joe's face turned a shade of red as yet unnamed. "And you gave them to me!" he raged.

The Immortal could only shrug his shoulders. Mac had wisely moved away from the other Immortal to stand over by Richie, where the two looked on, fascinated by Joe's tantrum. When it looked as if the Watcher was going to smack the Immortal for the shrug, Methos quickly pulled off his hat and presented it to the livid man.

"Here, Joe, to make it all up to you, you can have my hat." He really loved that hat; he hoped Joe appreciated the gesture of goodwill, realizing how much it was costing the Immortal. Namely his hat.

It wasn't to be. Dawson snatched the hat from Methos' hand and dashed it to the ground. "I don't want the stupid hat!"

Dipping down to rescue the item, Methos drew himself back up indignantly and brushed the nonexistent dust off of it. "Hey watch it, I paid MacLeod's good money for that!"

"Oh, for the love of..." Joe didn't finish; he just gave up with a sigh and trudged back to his room, closing the door behind him. Why did he even try? He should just have heeded his own advice and let the whole thing slide.

"Hey, Mac I'm going to hit the sack too," Richie informed his mentor as he moved past Methos, forehead adornment long forgotten.

The two remaining men stared at each other for a long while before MacLeod produced a false yawn and slumped his shoulders. "I'm beat. See you in the morning, Old Man." Shedding his coat and letting it drop to the floor halfway to his room, the Highlander closed his door with an audible click.

Methos stood alone in the silence for a moment, realizing he was probably the only one who was genuinely exhausted. He'd done a lot of walking today. Tossing his hat on the coffee table he dragged rapidly failing legs over to the end table to turn off the lamp, then moved to crash on the couch, only to trip on the edge of the table and take a tumble to the floor. Lying on his stomach for a moment to get his bearings, the old Immortal attempted to push himself up on his hands. Gawd, that dog won't hunt! He decided it wasn't worth the effort. Reaching out one long arm, he snagged Mac's 'new' coat and pulled it over to him, stuffing it under his head. Yeah, he was just fine where he was.