This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting men. It this offends you, LEAVE NOW. The characters and melieux of Highlander:The Series are owned by Davis/Panzer Productions, et alia. I only play with them from time to time with no compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit. A Richie/Methos List Challenge Story. Beta-read by Nikki Memmott. Thank you, tapadh leat, gracias, merci beaucoup, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato, obrigado. Author’s notes follow.

Foothills, California. March 1998.

The oldest man in the world dropped a handful of brightly colored travel folders onto the open book in front of his lover. “I’ve got the tickets, love. We leave Friday right after your last class.”

“What?” Richie looked up from his text book. “Where are we going?”

Methos rescued a beer from the fridge and twisted off the cap. He poured half the bottle’s contents down his throat before answering. “Bora Bora. It’s nice this time of year.”

“I’ve got a term paper due right after Spring Break. I can’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll help you with the paper.” Methos was proud of how serious Richie was about his studies, even though his status at the university was based on Adam’s faculty position. Passing up a trip to Bora Bora, he thought, was a little excessive.

The blue eyes were cold, and Richie’s mouth was set in a hard line. “I don’t want you to help me with the paper; I want to do it myself.” He swept the folders from the table and closed his book, then rose from the table and stomped down the hall. “You could have asked,” he shouted over his shoulder before slamming the bedroom door.

Shit. Methos drained his beer and smashed the bottle on the counter. By the time the bleeding had stopped, he’d found the broom and dustpan, and had swept up the brown glass. He washed and dried his hands, twisting the ring on his left hand so the dark blue stone was face up. The last time he’d been involved with anyone, Alexa had been content to let him determine the itinerary of the short time they had together. His relationship with Richie was different, though. The ring on his finger, and the matching one on Richie’s, twin gold bands with identical star-sapphires set into them, were proof of that. Though they hadn’t taken formal vows or even made a ’til-death-do-them-part commitment to each other, just the sight of his ring reminded Methos how different this relationship was.

The bedroom door was closed tightly, and the passage lock engaged. The flimsy lock couldn’t stop Methos if he had really tried to force the door, but the symbolism of being locked out of their bedroom slapped him in the face. “Richie?” he called, just loud enough to be heard in the other room. “I’m sorry, love.” He listened to the silence for five minutes by his watch, then returned to the kitchen.

He busied himself preparing one of Richie’s favorite meals — macaroni and cheese from the blue box with sliced franks added at the last minute, along with tiny English peas and a salad. The space in the house that was called the dining room was occupied by a multi-station weight machine and a water-weighted heavy punching bag, so they ate all their meals at the table in the kitchen. Methos carefully crumbled bacon over the salad before placing the plates on the table.

He knocked gently on the bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready, Richie.” There was another long moment of silence before the knob turned within his grasp and the door opened.

Richie’s eyes were red-rimmed, but the boy didn’t say a word as he pushed past Methos. He seated himself silently, and pushed the orange pasta from side to side on his plate.

“I’m sorry,” Methos repeated as he dropped the napkin onto this lap. “I was stupid.” Screw the tickets, the hotel reservations. Nothing’s worth this. “We don’t have to go.”

“You said you already had the tickets.” Richie deliberately didn’t mention Methos’s admission of stupidity, letting the statement stand.

His mouth full of food, Methos didn't even try to find words to respond.

“They won’t give you your money back.” Richie stopped playing with his food and scooped up a forkful, feeding himself without his usual enthusiasm for the meal.

“The money’s not important. We can go later — this summer.”

A searing look from indigo eyes answered Methos. “You’re treating me like a kid again.” Richie paused for another mouthful of peas. “There you go again, planning my summer, just assuming I even want to go to — where was it? — Bora Bora. You get an idea in your head and go and do something that affects both of us without ever even mentioning it to me.” He attacked the salad, stirring the bacon into the lettuce, coating it all with the creamy dressing. “You’re not my father, or even my big brother.” He put the fork back on the table and sat back in the chair. “I thought we were partners .”

The words cut through Methos like a sword across his belly. No one had ever completed him like Richie did; no one had ever connected him so closely to life itself. Content before to simply survive, Richie made him want to live. He reached across the table a laid his hand over Richie’s. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “We’re partners.”

“Then act like it. Talk to me about things before you go and make plans.” Richie shoved his plate back from the edge of the table and stood. “I’m not hungry.” He stalked into the living room and pulled his jacket off the coat tree by the door. Shrugging into it he headed for the door to the garage. “I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dammit, Methos, there you go again — acting like my father. Or my teacher .”

The word teacher hit Methos like a right cross. They both remembered, all too well, that Richie’s first teacher had tried to kill him on three separate occasions. “I’m not Macleod.” There was a catch in Methos’s voice, a quaver that made him sound vulnerable and as young as he looked.

“Then give me some room.” Richie stopped with his hand on the doorknob, and looked back over his shoulder. “I’m not leaving, Methos. I’m just going out.” He opened the door, but hesitated, waiting for a trademark acerbic rejoinder from his lover.

“Watch your head, love,” the old man said softly.

A wan smile crossed the freckled face, and Richie nodded. “Sure thing, Old Timer.” In a moment Methos heard the rev of Richie’s motorcycle. Loud enough as he left the garage, the growling noise was cut off as the overhead door closed.

And another one’s gone and another one’s gone, another one bites the dust blared as Methos finished cleaning up the kitchen. It wasn’t often he indulged his taste for Queen this loudly, but he decided to make the most of Richie’s absence. Just a couple of hours, he thought. Richie’ll drive around a bit, get cold, and come back.

Methos finished the kitchen chores and set out several thick-pillared candles in the bedroom, anticipating the possibilities the later part of the evening offered once Richie got home and they made up properly. Two hours passed with no sign of the younger of the lovers. The older lover kept himself occupied updating his class records, outlining lectures for the remainder of the semester, then finally an extended entry to his own journal.

The journal had to be kept by hand, as this year he was using a language whose script had never been translated for the computer. He wrote several pages, then turned back and started reading, losing himself in the language long since dead but for his remembering it. When the stereo shut itself off after cycling through a handful of discs, he realized it was nearly midnight. Where is he?

A wave of panic washed over and through Methos. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe fast enough, his heart pounded in his chest, his palms were clammy and wet with perspiration. He closed his eyes, trying to center, trying to find his balance, trying to put aside the emotional baggage and analyze the situation. It seemed to take hours, but it was only seconds before he could think coherently.

Richie was missing. No, Methos corrected himself. He’s away later than expected. The old man finally settled enough so he could think clearly. Richie wasn’t home. What were the possibilities?

Richie had left him. No, he said he was just going out

Richie had been hurt. Methos knew that Richie had diligently filled out the generic emergency card that had come in his wallet. Satisfied that he could cross one possibility off his list, he moved onto the next.

Richie had run into another immortal. Most likely. Go from there.

Richie and the other immortal had a drink and went their separate ways. Not bloody likely.

Richie and the other immortal fought. Duh.

He couldn’t go on. Richie hadn’t faced anyone with a sword in months — nearly a year. Sure, they worked out, even sparred in the back yard from time to time, but Macleod’s last attack had left him so — gun-shy, for want of a better word — Methos hadn’t pushed the point. Richie kept himself fit, thanks to some good habits learned from Mac. He’d even found a dojo where he could keep up the eclectic martial arts skills the Highlander had taught him. But other than keeping his sword clean, sharp, and within reach, he hadn’t touched it since that night at the Paris racetrack. STOP!

Methos realized there was nothing he could do but wait.

Mile after mile swept under the whirling wheels of Richie’s motorcycle. He’d left the house intending to think, but now he found his mind a blank, concentrating only on keeping the heavy bike on the road, on safely weaving his way between cars and trucks to find the open road he craved. He rode on for more than an hour, then realized he was still far from open road. “Damned Los Angeles,” he muttered under his breath as he took the off ramp. “It’s too fucking big to get away from.”

Though he hadn’t found the open road, the time and distance had eased the anger he had felt at Methos, and the young immortal felt ready to return and make up. What was the big deal, anyway? he thought. I let Methos do everything for months, and when he does something romantic, I suddenly want to be consulted. Waiting for traffic to pass, he blushed, thinking about what he and Methos would do when he got home. The light turned green, but before he could make the turn, the all-too-familiar buzz of another immortal reached him.

Oh, god, not now, he thought. I’m not ready to face anyone yet. He knew the other felt him, too. He made the turn before the light changed back to red and stopped beneath the overpass and waited.

The reddest car he’d ever seen pulled over, drawing right up to the back wheel of his bike. It was a low-slung sports car, customized so much its original manufacturer was unidentifiable. He slipped off his helmet and drew his sword, then stepped away from the roadside, deeper into the shadows of the overpass.

The car’s gull-wing door swung open. The driver swung first one leg and then the other out of the car, then stood, dressed in black leather from head to foot. Richie recognized her immediately.

“Felicia,” he greeted her. “Long time no see.” Bringing his sword to en garde he prepared himself to fight. “I’ve been hoping to run into you one of these days.”

Felicia Martins was a formidable opponent, strong and fast. She fought with a long sword that extended her reach but could steal her balance. They both scored hit after hit, drawing blood from arms and legs, and Richie took one glancing slice across the chest that broke the skin just enough to soak his shirt with blood before healing. Richie fought as though he’d never left off training, the moves learned under the Highlanders’ tutelage so deep in his muscle-memory he didn’t have to think.

Richie wondered if Felicia and Annie Devlin had ever studied with the same teacher. The first move Mac had ever taught him, the counter to Annie’s favorite attack, came naturally to him when Felicia made the same attack. But this time, instead of pulling his strike, he completed the move, neatly taking the woman’s head.

He hadn’t wanted to kill her, but this was the Game. He was an immortal, and this was what they did. The Quickening hit him hard, the power exploding the windows of her car and the nearby streetlights. When it was finally over, he pulled himself together, climbed back on his bike and rode off, never seeing the dark-clothed figure crouched high up under the overpass with a distinctive tattoo on her wrist.

The sound of the garage-door opener startled Methos at the same moment he felt Richie’s approach. He jumped up and rushed to the back door and flung it open. Richie sat on his bike, helmet dangling from one hand, bent over the handlebars, the door-opener clutched in the other hand.

Richie raised his head and smiled wanly at his lover. “I’m back.” He started to swing one leg over the seat of the bike, but his foot caught on the seat cushion, costing the weary young man his balance. Before he hit the hard, concrete floor, Methos caught him under the arms, both of them ignoring the dropped helmet and opener.

“What happened?” Methos took in the blood-soaked shirt, the ventilated jacket and pants, and Richie’s overall look of exhaustion. “You were in a fight,” he said, lifting the shorter man back to his feet.

“Yeah.” Richie tentatively reached toward Methos’s face, and brushed his fingertips across the lean cheek. “But you should see the other guy — er, gal.”

Methos pulled Richie into an embrace, wrapped his arms around his lover, and buried his face in the strawberry-blond curls. “I was worried.” He drew back, and pressed a finger against Richie’s lips. “Just a little,” he added before he replaced his finger with his lips.

The kiss began gentle and soft, but without warning it turned hard and demanding. Richie’s fingers dug into Methos’s hair, holding their heads together as his tongue plunged past his lover’s lips. “I need you,” he gasped without moving his mouth away from Methos’s.

Methos knew very well what Richie needed. “Yeah, I know.” Settling a quickening was always a difficult task, even with a willing and knowledgeable partner at hand. There had been times when the old man had gone through this alone, trying desperately to give himself the release necessary. But masturbating through a quickening was only a mere shadow of what Richie — or any immortal — needed. Sorting out the flood of memories and feelings, setting aside the storm of voices, urges, and drives needed the grounding of a partner. There was something about the physical contact with another — the intimate connection of some form of intercourse — that finally put all the new memories and feelings in their places.

“Come on inside.” Methos kept a firm grip around Richie’s shoulders as he led him into the kitchen.

“Can’t…” Richie staggered and would have fallen but for Methos’s strong arms. “No farther.” He leaned back against the kitchen table and yanked at his belt. “You hafta do it here, Meth — oh, yeah, Methos.”

The old man had already pulled the buttoned fly open, the metal studs popping free. The denim constriction gone, the quickening-induced erection pushed its own way through the opening in Richie’s boxers, and Methos had only to guide the sensitive head past the rough fabric before he knelt between Richie’s long legs. He held the slim hips between his hands and without hesitating began by licking the exposed underside of the stiffened column of flesh from root to crown.

Richie sighed audibly, his volume rising unabated as Methos swallowed the whole of his cock. With practiced and efficient movements, the world’s oldest man sucked a massive orgasm from the golden, freckled body. His strong arms contained the jerking spasms of Richie’s release until once again he was still.

“Better?” Methos asked when he could speak again, resting his cheek against his lover’s thigh. He knew this was only the beginning. “Do you think you can make it to the bedroom?”

An anguished moan was Richie’s only answer. The orgasm hadn’t diminished his erection, still exposed through the openings in his shorts and jeans. Methos rose, and helped his lover to stand.

The younger man was unsteady, his body still reeling from the quickening and the intense orgasm. “You gotta help me, man.”

“I will, love.” Methos planted a kiss on the top of Richie’s head, supporting and leading him to the bedroom. “I will.” He flung open the bed, laying bare the smooth, cool sheet. “Here, sit down.” He kept his voice gentle, knowing Richie would respond best to simple commands, that explanations and excuses would go unheeded. Quickly he pulled Richie’s bloody and sword-cut clothes from him, and without stopping to appreciate the lithe, golden body, he stripped himself as well.

“Come on, Methos.” Richie found his voice between gasps. “I need you. NOW.”

The oldest man lay back on the bed and shoved pillows under his hips. There was a half-used tube of lube under one pillow, and soon he had applied it to Richie’s straining cock. “Now is good, Rich.” He raised his knees, offering himself to the desperate young man. He knew Richie wouldn’t — couldn’t take the time to prepare him, so he took more of the lube on his long fingers, and smeared it around and into himself.

While Richie moved into position between the upraised knees, Methos got ready for him, relaxing the muscles in his ass and stretching himself a little bit. He took a deep breath as the swollen head of Richie’s cock pressed against him, and as he let it out he felt himself open to accept his lover.

The quickening eliminated all of Richie's caution, and the powerful urges it left in its wake suppressed his gentleness. He pushed himself forward, sinking his whole length into Methos’s body in a single thrust. He pulled back, not the smooth, sensual back stroke they were both accustomed to, but a quick, backwards jerk to prepare for another strong thrust. Again and again he pumped himself in and out of the accommodating channel.

Methos breathed with Richie’s movements, memories from centuries before surfacing, washing over his mind. It wasn’t rape; it couldn’t be rape with consent, but neither was it lovemaking, as it had nothing to do with their love for one another, nothing to do with the passions they’d found together. It was Richie’s need, the urges of a hundred others, and the preternatural power of a strong quickening that fueled the powerful thrusts, each one seeming to drive deeper and deeper. The lubrication gone, the young immortal continued the now-dry pounding, oblivious to the harm he did to his partner.

Methos felt the tissues in his lower body tear, felt the rush of hot blood, but knowing he would heal, he cleared his mind and relaxed his body again.

Finally Richie found his release, and the spasms shot stream after stream deep inside the torn and bleeding immortal. As Methos healed, the energy found its way to the dazed and panting Richie, shoving them apart, the still engorged organ forced from Methos’s tight ass. The blood that followed his withdrawal shocked Richie into awareness.

“Oh, god, Methos, look what I did to you.” The bleeding stopped as the tendrils of blue healing energy completed their work. Richie eased himself over his lover’s chest, and gently kissed the older man’s lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against the receptive mouth, and was forgiven with a loving embrace and kiss.

Methos guided the strawberry-curled head to his shoulder, gently combing his fingers through the tangled mass of hair. “It’s okay, love. That part’s over now.” He kissed the sweat-slicked, freckled forehead. “Rest a while, Rich. I’ll be here when you need me.” But Richie was already asleep, his body curled around the Old Man’s.

The quickening overtook Richie again and again during the night, but as dawn broke the exhausted and satiated lovers finally slept soundly.

Methos woke his young lover with a kiss on the forehead and a swat on the behind. The blue eyes opened slowly, blinking against the morning light. “You’re all dressed?” he muttered. He rolled over and started to sit up, but lay back with a groan. “God,” he swore. “I must have been trashed last night.”

“No, love,” Methos replied, sitting on the edge of the bed. He stroked Richie’s cheek and jaw, and leaned over for another kiss. “You took a helluva quickening, that’s all.”

Instantly the young man’s eyes snapped open, and he was wide awake. “You mean that wasn’t a nightmare?” He pushed himself up to sit against he pillowed headboard. He shook his head, then pressed his palms to either temple with his eyes closed, and Methos knew he was sorting out the memories that filled his head, some of them his own, many of them from any number of other immortals through the quickening. He opened his eyes, and searched Methos’s face. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never.” The old man stood and brushed the wrinkles from his trousers. “I’ve got a ten-o’clock to teach, and office hours. I’ll be back for lunch.” He reached back to grasp Richie’s outstretched hand, their fingers interlacing for a moment. “Will you be okay ’til then?”

Richie began to nod and was joined by his lover, until they both broke into broad smiles. Their hands parted as Methos stepped away, determined to leave before losing his resolve. There was nothing he wanted more than to spend the day with his partner, in bed or out of bed. Relief didn’t come near to describing how he felt that the young immortal had survived his first challenge since nearly losing his head to a deranged MacLeod.

“Methos,” Richie called him back from the hall.

“Yeah?” The dark head looked around the doorway.

“When do we leave for Bora Bora?”

Methos felt the smile split his face, and he couldn’t do a thing to hide his delight. “Friday. Eight o’clock.”

“I’ll start packing today.”

Epilogue. Paris: 7 a.m. (local time)

The phone rang shrilly, startling Joe Dawson from his near meditative state, his hands moving unconsciously over the guitar strings. His legs still stood by themselves near the closet, so he fished the cordless handset out of the pocket that hung from the wheelchair’s arm.

“Dawson.” He had a fleeting suspicion that the call concerned Macleod; no one in Headquarters would call him so early for any lesser reason.

“Mr. Dawson,” a breathless voice on the phone said. “I don’t know if you remember me.” The voice paused as the background noise swelled and faded. “I’m Helen Pantuso. I watch — er, watched — Felicia Martins.”

“Do you know what time it is here?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dawson, but I had to tell you what I saw.”

“Drop the Mister, will ya? It’s just Joe.”

“Cool,” she replied, still trying to catch her breath. “Look, Joe, I’m about to write up my final report on Felicia. Did I tell you she’s dead?”

“No, but go on.”

“I used the database to look up the guy that whacked her. It says he died almost a year ago.”
The short hairs on the back of Joe’s neck stood on end, and a chill shook his body from head to thigh. He took a deep breath and asked, “Who was it?”

“I know this sounds crazy…”

“Who is it?” He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, waiting for an answer he knew couldn’t be.

“It was Richie Ryan.”

Joe couldn’t speak. He forced himself to breathe evenly, slowly and deeply, in defiance of the massive tremor that made his hands shake like a bad case of the DTs.

“Joe, you still there?” Helen shouted into the cell phone to be heard over the traffic noises at her end.

“Yeah,” his voice croaked. “Richie’s dead. I buried him.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Joe. I know it was Ryan. I saw him back, what? Five years ago? When Felicia went after the Highlander. He was just a kid then, but he and Felicia, well, it’s in the report.”

“Richie Ryan is dead. I saw his body. I buried him with his sword.” Joe recited the facts as he knew them, his only anchor to the here-and-now.

“Skinny kid, curly reddish hair. Rides a motorcycle. Uses a hand-and-a-half gothic, right?

Joe nodded, then realized Helen couldn’t hear his gesture. “Yeah. That sounds like him.” His voice faded off as he tried to fathom what really happened at the racetrack. “Look Helen,” he went on. “Can you keep his name out of your report until I sort this out?”

“Sure, Joe. Anything.”

“I just want to figure this out. It’s possible we have a look-alike.” Seven o’clock in the fucking morning and he needed a drink.

He could almost hear her say not likely under her breath. “Let me know what you find out, okay?”

He didn’t remember what else he said to her, or what she said to him before hanging up. He rolled to the desk and woke up the computer, logged onto his email client, and started typing.

Author’s notes:
This series begins directly after “Archangel.” This story takes place during the year Macleod spends in the monastery, and the series will extend into the so-called Sixth Season and beyond. At this point neither Macleod nor the Watchers (including Joe) know that Richie is alive, and that the body Joe buried was an illusion.

Part 2 of this series has not been completed yet; it will deal with Methos and Richie’s moving from Switzerland to Southern California, Richie’s new identity, Adam Pierson’s new teaching position, and Richie’s decision to enroll in college classes.

Richie is now known as David Richards (nicknamed Richie or Rich, with the explanation that there were too many Davids in his kindergarten class for the teacher to keep straight). Methos is known, of course, as Adam Pierson, Ph.D, assistant professor at the Foothills Colleges, a single institution consisting of five semi-autonomous colleges, each with its own individual emphasis and tone.

So far there are several stories planned in this series, and there are gaps in the timeline to allow for additional stories and interludes. However, this is not a promise that all the stories will be written.

This page last updated
22 August 2002

© 2001 Emma Keigh