Hans and Foots

"Mr Bradford telephoned twice this morning."

"Tell him... Tell him I'm writing today, please. I asked not to be disturbed. Tell him..."

"Yes, sir." Hans lingered over the coffee pot until Methos looked up, and met his eyes.

"Is there anything else?"

"Your friend; Mr. MacLeod. He left a pair of gloves behind."

"My gloves, Hans," said Methos tonelessly. He'd seen them dropped on the table next to the door. He'd checked; and Hans knew better.

"My error. I called his hotel. The concierge said he'd returned to Paris."

"Thank you, Hans. If Roger calls again, you'll tell him that as well." Not so toneless this time; Hans stood over him with the pot in one hand, a serviette in the other. "Anything else?"

"If you'll be dining in tonight, sir..."

"It's Thursday. You don't cook on Thursdays."

"I'll have a stew tonight. Against the cold."

Somewhere in the primordial depths of Hans's ancestry was a Hungarian grandmother who passed the gene, or genius, for stews, ragouts, soups, and paprika chicken that would revive the dead. Hans was engaged on the strength of his hunter's stew before Methos had learned of his other sterling qualities. It was a stew of powerful persuasion, comfort, and intent.

"Thank you, Hans. That would be nice." And still, Hans and the coffeepot hovered. "Anything else?"

"Foots returns this afternoon."

"Ah. Consider me warned." The stew thickened and intentions, possibly, cleared. Methos pushed back his chair and unfolded himself. "I'll be in the study. No interruptions again, please."

***

On his leather-topped desk was a velvet tray with a dozen silver coins. Next to it were poised his loupe and magnifying glass, his camera stand, and, at a right angle, his laptop, open, in sleep mode.

He was in sleep mode. He lay on the study couch, his arm over his eyes, and let the world spin on underneath him. No one was allowed in when the door was closed. If there was an audio monitor in the room, against his express orders, it was hidden exceedingly well. As he admitted no visitors to the inner sanctum and was not in the habit of speaking to himself, he let it go.

He woke at 8 in darkness and stumbled to the door, kicking a pile of catalogues awry. Downstairs in the sitting room, by his armchair, was the evening paper. He sat, he shook the paper open, and the chair growled. Hans materialized at his elbow with a tray. He set a glass on the end table and cleared his throat. "There is a little dog who is not a good dog," he informed the world. "There is a little dog who chews our shoes."

The chair growled again. "On such matters Ministers gather and mutter in the deeps," said Methos. Hans laid a small dish on the table and melted away.

Methos turned the page, without remembering what he'd read. He picked up the glass and sipped, staring at a photograph of some building burning. Calvados; he was surprised. He thought the supply had run dry. The paper sagged to his lap, as apples, apples eaten on a laughing day ghosted his palate. The chair whuffled; he looked down and saw two inches of brown snout, tipped with black, quivering by his ankle. He picked up a biscuit from the small dish and held it at arm's length. "Come out, sinner, and repent." A sharper whuffle, a bark, and nails scrabbling on his sock. "Oh, come up, foolish Foots."

When Hans came in to announce dinner, Methos lay on the couch, above the ruins of the paper. A sleek reddish dachshund stretched on his chest, growling happily and chewing on his shirt.

"Buttons are not good for little dogs," said Hans. He smiled. "Dinner is ready. Shall I set up a tray, here?"

Methos scratched the belly of the little dog, who wrinkled his nose ecstatically and growled louder. "He's a good man. One of the finest I've ever known." Foots rolled onto his back, under Methos's hand, and a long ear flopped open on Methos's chest. "I think," Methos said, "...everything back to usual."

"Very good, sir," said Hans. He leaned over the back of the couch, tapped Foots on the nose, and retired to the dining room.

End