This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting adult men. If you are under age or don't care for this, LEAVE NOW. As usual, characters from Highlander: the Series belong to Davis-Panzer et alia ; I only play with them from time to time without any compensation. No harm; no foul. Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again). Beta-read by Nikki Memmott. Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato. Any errors are mine alone. Author's notes follow.

Saturday, 20 September 1997.

“W hy do we have to get up so early?” Richie pulled on a blue chambray shirt that matched his eyes, buttoned it, then carefully tucked it into his faded jeans.

“I told you,” a boxer-clad Methos said from the adjacent bathroom. “It’s a surprise.” He stuck his head into the bedroom, shaving cream still covering half his face. “You’ll see when we get there.”

Richie followed him back into the bathroom and stood close, hands resting lightly on the waistband of the boxer shorts, and looked at their reflections. “Come on, Old Timer.” He nuzzled the back of Methos’s neck as the older man tried to finish shaving. “You know you can’t keep a secret from me.” He ran the tip of his tongue along the earlobe on the already shaved side, then blew gently on the dampened flesh.

“Damn!” Methos cursed as he cut himself. “That stings.” The white foam stained red before the cut healed without a trace. Methos turned, the straight razor held menacingly in his right hand. “This,” he said, his voice an octave lower, his hazel eyes suddenly dark, “can take your head as easily as a sword.”

Richie backed away.

“Now. Let. Me. Finish.” He turned back to the mirror, and chuckled to himself as he watched Richie’s reflection retreat. He took his time with the razor, making sure his face was completely smooth to the touch before he rinsed away the last traces of shaving cream. He ran a comb through his hair, now at that awkward length somewhere between short and long. I’ll have to ask the kid how he likes it, he thought as he tried to convince the unruly mess to lie flat instead of sticking out in half-assed spikes.

The bedroom was empty when he pulled on a pair of jeans and a too-big shirt. He pushed up the sleeves to the elbows, then pulled the sheets and blankets up from the foot of the bed. He retrieved pillows from the floor and tossed them toward the headboard, and considered the bed “made.” He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on socks and sturdy walking shoes, filled his pockets with his wallet and change, then secreted a variety of knives about his person. So dressed, he went in search of his lover.

He found Richie in the living room. The boy sat on the couch, hugging his knees to his chest, his face hidden.

Methos knew instantly what was wrong. He put one knee on the couch behind the cowering boy and wrapped his arms around him. With his voice low and soft he whispered, “I’m sorry, love.” He could feel Richie’s body shaking, shivering as if he were cold. “You know I’d never take your head.” He kissed the strawberry curls and held tightly with one arm as he tried to caress Richie’s face.

Richie lifted his chin from his chest to accept his lover’s apology. He still breathed in great ragged gasps, and when he tried to speak he couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” Methos told him. “I know what it was.” He gently rocked back and forth. “You flashed on the racetrack, right?”

Richie’s nod was nearly imperceptible, but his breathing began to slow.

“I wasn’t thinking.” He pulled Richie back to his chest, forcing the boy to raise his head, and continued rocking them both. “It’s okay.”

“I’m…” Richie cleared the lump from his throat. “I feel like such a wuss.”

“It’s okay,” Methos repeated. He twisted his head around to look at Richie’s face. “We’ve got a new rule.” They’d made some rules for themselves, mostly regarding sex, but also about personal space, and other areas of their new life together. Richie didn’t touch Methos’s journals. Methos didn’t clean up Richie’s engine parts. “No joking about taking heads.” He paused for a moment. “Does that sound okay?”

“A joke’s okay,” Richie admitted, his voice still small and quiet. “It was the razor.”

Methos nodded. “All right, then. No threatening gestures with blades.” They had sparred with swords, true, but Methos had never swung a potentially decapitating blow, even to pull it.

“Okay.” He let go of his knees and shifted to sit next to Methos, the older man’s arms still around him. “That’s good.” The shaking had stopped, and his breathing was almost back to normal. Their eyes met, and Methos could see a glint in the blue eyes. “Now,” the boy continued. “Where are we going?”

M ethos, still learning the maze of freeways that crossed Southern California like a spider web, had studied the map, then asked Jeanie Thompson for directions. “Sixty, Fifty-Seven, Ninety-One, Five,” he chanted under his breath like a mantra until he finally found the off-ramp he’d been instructed to use. Cars and mini-vans were lined up on the street waiting to turn into the enormous parking lot, and when Methos joined the line, Richie looked up from the morning paper.

“Disneyland? You’re taking me to Disneyland?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s your birthday, kid.” Methos carefully followed the mini-van in front of them, hoping the driver wasn’t distracted by the bouncing children the Immortal could see in the back window. The line moved steadily, and in a few minutes they paid the parking fee and were directed to a parking area seemingly miles from the entrance to the theme park.

“I can’t believe you’re taking me to Disneyland.” Richie’s was exuberant, his voice like an excited child’s. “I’ve heard about all the rides. There’s the Matterhorn, Space Mountain, Pirates of the Caribbean…”

“Okay, okay,” Methos cut him off, pulling into a painted space and parking the Jimmy. He patted Richie’s thigh and squeezed gently. “We’ll do everything, I promise.” They locked the SUV and joined the throng of other recent arrivals to await the shuttle to the entrance. “One thing, though,” Methos said to the boy, his voice almost a whisper. “Jeanie told me we better be just friends here. Evidently they’re not big on public displays of affection.” The departmental secretary had added the warning to the directions she had given the new professor along with the discounted tickets he’d ordered through the campus ticket service.

“Especially with — like us?” Methos knew it was still difficult for Richie to discuss their relationship, and was particularly uncomfortable with words like gay and homosexual . But the youngster was an affectionate person by nature, and after only a few months together the lovers had become accustomed to touching each other casually, even in public. The accepting atmosphere of the isolated campus had added to the ease with which they were learning to live openly with their love for each other.

The actual entrance to the world’s most famous theme park was a dark, low-ceilinged tunnel lined with concession stands. The crowd moved through quickly, no one stopping for souvenirs this early in the day, and they stepped out into a town square complete with horse-drawn carriages and trolleys.

“Wow,” was all Richie could say. He repeated the sentiment frequently during the day. They purchased a guide book with a fold-out map of the park and set out for the rides.

They arrived at Space Mountain before the labyrinth of crowd-control railings filled and waited only seconds before the short but intense ride. By the time they left the domed roller coaster, through the gift shop, of course, the lines at the other major attractions were long.

Methos found the long lines tedious, but the waiting time was filled with listening to Richie’s reading his guide book, the boy’s excitement unflagging as the day warmed into the usual Southern California Indian summer. The older man bit his tongue at the pseudo-alpine décor at the base of the Matterhorn ride, including the young men and women staffing the ride, all dressed in lederhosen.

“Didn’t you get enough of this while we were in Switzerland?” he asked Richie as they neared the head of the line.

“Ah, come on, Adam,” Richie poked a fist into Methos’ biceps. “It’s Disneyland.”

“This might be fun, after all.” Methos pointed to the instructions for entering the bobsled ride. “Front or back?” he whispered, his mouth close to Richie’s ear.

The hot breath on his ear sent a shiver of arousal though the youngster’s perpetually nineteen-year-old body. His ears were one of Richie’s more sensitive spots, even to the susurration of a whisper. He looked at the sign and caught his breath, and a lecherous smile crossed his face when he turned back to see Methos sprawled against the crowd-control fence. “I don’t know,” the boy answered. “Maybe we’ll have to take this ride twice.”

“Ooooooh. Both ways.” A familiar smirk punctuated the old man’s remark. “Can’t wait.”

In just a few more minutes it was their turn to sit in the ersatz toboggan for the ride through the steel and stucco mountain. Methos pushed ahead and stepped into the car first, sat down and spread his knees as instructed, then looked at Richie expectantly. The boy followed directions and first stepped onto the seat, then sat down, his bottom in the vee of Methos’s thighs. The lederhosen-clad teenager staffing the ride secured the safety strap across them both, and the car pulled away.

Without warning Methos pulled Richie’s hips back and clamped his thighs tightly. Richie’s surprised exclamation blended with the shouts of the other riders as the toboggan sloshed through the first pool on its way up and into the artificial mountain. The car climbed steadily, the turns here gentle and flat, but Methos didn’t loosen his grip on the lithe body before him. Then, suddenly, the world dropped out from under them and the car hurtled down, sharply turned, first to one side and then the other, occasionally gaining a few feet in altitude only to loose it quickly. At the last the car splashed through another pool, and pulled to a stop. The entire ride had lasted less than three minutes.

Both men were breathless when they climbed from the car, Richie from screaming along with the other riders, Methos from the exquisite sensations of Richie’s hips grinding into his groin with every lateral and vertical move. When Richie headed away from the mountain, Methos caught his arm. He tilted his head toward the now even longer line. “Let’s try that one again. You can sit in back.”

T wice more they stood in the long line for the Matterhorn, switching positions each trip. As they entered the car for the third time, laughing together over whose turn it was to sit in back, Richie caught the look on the face of the teenager who strapped them in. He watched him speak to the ride operator, and both looked directly at the two Immortals. Richie knew that look. He’d once looked at gay couples that way. He craned his head back to look at Methos and saw that the older man had seen the exchange as well.

“I guess this is our last time on this ride.” No more than a whisper, the ancient voice was hard and unforgiving. He snaked his arms around the young body in front of him. “In for a penny; in for a pound,” he quipped, hugging Richie to his chest. “Don’t let it bother you, love,” he whispered as the car started with a lurch. “There are other rides.”

The squeals of the other riders and the noise of the toboggan drowned out Richie’s response.

They meandered through the park as the day wore on, attraction after attraction, criss-crossing from Tomorrowland to Frontierland to Fantasyland to Adventureland, the lines long and the rides brief. Methos followed Richie’s lead without comment, twirling in the Tea Cups, climbing through the Swiss Family Robinson’s Tree House. Only at the Pirates of the Caribbean did he balk.

“No, Rich,” he said quietly. “Not this one.” His voice was hard, but he kept the volume low.

“What’s the matter?”

Methos took the boy’s elbow and steered him to a quiet corner at the end of an alley. “New Orleans. War of 1812. I was there.” He forced a smile and raised an eyebrow. “Understand?”

“Yeah,” he answered softly. The blue eyes glanced around the alley, then Richie touched his lover’s face. “I understand.” Their eyes met and held for a long moment, silently telling each other what they each already knew.

“I wish I could kiss you,” the older man whispered as they headed back into the throng of people heading for the rafts to Tom Sawyer’s Island. “It’s been hours. Feels like days.” He used the crowd as an excuse to press his body against Richie and was rewarded by another brilliant smile as they stepped onto the floating wooden platform.

“You said we couldn’t do that here.” Richie brushed his hand across the seat of Methos’s jeans as he reached for the handrail.

A sharp intake of breath acknowledged Methos’s pleasure at the unexpected caress. “We’ll just have to find someplace a little more private.”

“P rofessor Pierson?”

The staff dressed like Tom Sawyer here on the island, cut-off pants and a checked shirt with a straw hat. The young man who had addressed Methos looked the part, his sandy hair and freckled face a perfect match for Mark Twain’s hero.

The two Immortals stopped in their tracks, and the older man turned towards the speaker. “Yes,” he said, then smiled when he recognized the boy. “Emerson, isn’t it? Brian Emerson.”

“Yes, sir,” Brian answered. “In your Greek 101 class.” The student and professor shook hands.

“This is David Richards.”

“Call me Richie,” the younger Immortal said. “I think we’ve got a history class together.”

“Yeah,” Brian said. “Simpson — Western Civ.” After shaking Richie’s hand he looked up and down the path, then spoke in a hushed voice. “Look, Professor, I don’t mean to pry…”

Methos could feel Richie’s tension level skyrocket. He tried to maintain his usual calm attitude and hear the boy out.

“…I’ve seen you two together on campus, and now here,” the mortal continued. “If you’re together ,” he paused a moment, giving additional meaning to his last word, then went on. “You might want to try this path.” He indicated a paved side-path that disappeared into the trees a few yards away. “It’s got some fairly private spots, and since I’m on duty here for the next half hour, I can make sure no kids come along.” He pulled a chain across the access to the pathway and grinned conspiratorially. “The island closes then, anyway, at sundown.”

Methos was more than ready for a little privacy with his lover. “If you won’t get into trouble?” he asked Brian, and smiled when his student shook his head.

“Adam,” Richie hissed as they reached the cover of the trees. “He knows about us.” Both a statement and a question, it encompassed all the problems Richie had with their living together openly.

“So?” The oldest Immortal stopped and faced his lover. “I’m okay with it — and I thought you were, too.”

“I thought I was,” the boy admitted. “But it’s kinda different when somebody just looks at you and knows.” He stood with his shoulders hunched, his eyes on the ground.

Methos glanced around, and assured of their privacy, gathered the younger man into his arms. “Let’s find a place to sit down and we can talk about this, okay?” Richie’s body was rigid in his embrace, almost shaking with emotion. Standing back from the boy, Methos knew he had to be part friend, part lover, part counselor.

They walked on in silence, and found a small gazebo overlooking the artificial river that wound through the park and surrounded the island. Sitting opposite one another, Richie hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his head down. He didn’t — wouldn’t — look at his lover.

“Are you angry?”

The blue eyes slowly climbed from the ground. He looked at Methos, but didn’t meet his eyes. “No, I’m not angry. Maybe a little, at those guys at the Matterhorn.” He blew out a strong breath, his frustration evident. “I don’t know what it is I feel.”

Methos was silent. Richie would find the words he needed.

“And I don’t feel threatened. It’s just, I’m not used to being….” He turned his gaze away and looked at the water.

“You’re not used to being involved with a man.” Methos finished his thought. “You don’t have to use the other words if they make you uncomfortable.”

“But they’re still there. Other people will use them.”

“Has anyone on campus made any comments? Called you names?”

“No,” he answered quietly. “But this isn’t the college. You said they didn’t like people like us here.”

“That’s what I was told, yes. But I got the impression that the standard of behavior was extended to everyone.”

“I’ve seen straight couples holding hands. But we can’t.”

Methos could hear the touch of anger in his voice. Or was it fear?

“Do you want to leave?”

It was a long moment before Richie answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “No.” He stood and moved to stand before his lover. “I gotta get used to this sometime. Might as well be today.”

Methos took both Richie’s hands in his own and waited. In a moment he sensed a peace come over the younger Immortal, much like the feeling that washed over and through him when he meditated. Keeping his voice low and even, he asked, “Do the words really make a difference?”

The strawberry headed shook briefly. “No, not really.” He squeezed his lover’s hands. “But I am different.”

One dark eyebrow rose over a hazel eye.

Richie’s smile lit the gazebo like a halogen lamp. “I’m happy.”

I t was nearly dark when Methos and Riche stepped on the last raft leaving Tom Sawyer Island. The raft was crowded, and they took advantage of the mass of tourists by standing close to each other, their arms folded across their chests. Hidden by their bodies from the world, their fingers touched, the tips interlacing during the all too brief voyage from the island back to Frontierland.

“Let’s get a good spot for the parade,” Richie suggested, heading back toward Main Street. “It’ll start soon, and then there’s fireworks.”

The older Immortal started to smile at the younger man’s continuing enthusiasm, but his attention was ripped away by the unwelcome and unexpected presence of another Immortal. “Oh, gods, not here,” he muttered as he caught up with Richie. By the time he grasped the younger man’s arm, he, too, could sense the third.

“Anyone you know?” he whispered. Both of them scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar recognition of their kind.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Methos let go of Richie’s arm and stepped away from him. “Get out of here,” he ordered. “Now.”

“I’m not gonna leave you, Adam.”

“Wait for me, then, but get away now. I can handle this.” Their eyes met for a long moment, so much unsaid, so much understood without words.

With his mouth set in a grim line, Richie nodded at his lover, then turned and trotted off into the crowd.

Methos watched him go, then turned and approached the newcomer. “This way,” he muttered as he swept past the challenger. Striding against the crowd headed for the Electric Light Parade, the two Immortals made their way into the darker and almost deserted Critter Country. They walked silently until they were beyond the last attraction, ducked under the barrier, to face each other in the empty service alley. Calliope music filled the air as the parade started on Main Street, assuring them of privacy.

Methos drew his sword, but stepped back. “It’s been a while, Grady,” he said. “I don’t suppose we could laugh over old times and go our separate ways?”

“Not a chance, Adams.” Grady twirled his blade and moved to en guarde. “I’ve been waiting three hundred years to pay you back.” His last word was punctuated with his first stroke, and steel clashed upon steel.

Grady had been born a klutz, and Immortality hadn’t cured him of his clumsiness. He swung his heavy sword with all the finesse of a Neanderthal with a club, and Methos realized he hadn’t learned a thing in the three centuries since their first and, until now, only meeting. Grady had challenged him then, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Benjamin Adams, as Methos had been known then, had defeated him quickly, soundly, and sent him on his way with a swat to the rear with the flat of his blade. Humiliated, Grady had sworn vengeance as the older Immortal rode away.

Just as graceless as ever, he moved his body against the direction of the sword’s swing, robbing the blade of any power. Methos easily deflected the stroke with a half-hearted parry. He didn’t want to take Grady’s head, not here, not now. He didn’t press an attack, didn’t try for dominance, he simply blocked and parried Grady’s unschooled but aggressive attack.

Methos’s continual defense, with no counters or attacks only angered Grady and as the sky darkened to full night, the younger immortal found a reservoir of energy and renewed his efforts to best the elder.

Defense was suddenly not enough. Methos knew he would have to end this once and for all, realizing Grady would not tire and slink away. He blocked the next blow, and countered, swinging his long-reaching Ivanhoe up as he spun into Grady’s guard then down to sever the man’s neck with one stroke.

“Shit,” he muttered, as he dropped to his knees and waited for the inevitable storms of power that marked the death of an immortal.

Grady’s quickening was inconsequential compared to some Methos had taken, but still the lightning flared, the energy wrapping around his body, holding him in its grip until the last discharge sparked. Methos sank to sit on his heels, his breathing hard and fast. Another explosion startled him and he flinched at the thought of more quickening energy. Instead, though, a bright blossom filled the sky, followed by read and blue star bursts.

Fireworks, he thought. They do fireworks after the parade. As he caught his breath he gathered his somewhat scattered wits about himself, concealed his sword, and straightened his clothes. He ran fingers through his unruly hair, and headed back towards the center of the park to find Richie.

He trotted down the hill through the Critter Country attractions, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, while still moving quickly. As he came within sight of those watching the fireworks display, he pulled up, his eyes scanning the crowd. He saw Richie before he felt him, before the boy could feel his presence. It was an unusual opportunity, and Methos committed everything about his lover’s appearance to memory. He remembered watching Richie in Paris many years before, before they met, even before Richie had become Immortal. Then, he only had to stay out of sight.

Richie stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes darting back and forth, obviously searching, his quick movements telegraphing his impatience and anxiety, like a race horse in the starting gate.

Methos suspected, though, that it wasn’t only his instructions that held the boy back. He wasn’t ready to take on another immortal, as his reaction to the razor that very morning had proved. Macleod had done more harm to the boy than nearly taking his head and sending him into the fog of amnesia; he had traumatized him so thoroughly it would be a long time before he could face another of his kind. He must have sensed the Quickening, Methos thought. But he doesn’t know who won.

Not wanting to put Richie through any more agony, Methos moved out of the shadows and walked quickly towards him. After only a few steps, he felt Richie’s presence wash over and through him, and saw his lover’s reaction when he, too, felt it. Richie had told him he could recognize Methos as different from other immortals, but a brief second of terror crossed the young face nevertheless. It wasn’t until the blue eyes found his that a bright smile broke out on his face, drawing Methos to his side.

No rules or regulations could keep the two lovers from embracing when they met, pairs of strong arms each surrounding the other’s body. They pressed close for just a moment, an eternity between them, and then stood apart. Each of them kept one arm around the other, both of them unable to pull apart completely, glancing around to see if their emotional display had been noticed. The remainder of the crowd was still mesmerized by the fireworks display, and no one seemed offended or even aware of them.

“Let’s go home, Old Timer,” Richie said, just loud enough for Methos to hear over the oohs and ahhhs of the throng of people. They made their way across New Orleans Square and through Adventureland, never giving up contact with one another. First with their arms around each other’s waist, they threaded through the moving crowd, then with their hands firmly clasped they continued towards the exit.

“Damn,” Richie muttered as they passed the entrance to the Jungle Boat Cruise. “I wanted to go on that.”

“Next time, love,” Methos said, squeezing his hand to seal the promise, and they continued on, through the gateway to Main Street, down the cobbled street, and out of the park. As they approached the parked SUV, Methos fished the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Richie. “Here,” he said. “You drive.”

“You want me to drive?” Richie easily caught the keys and unlocked the doors. He looked closely at Methos’s face and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, Kid,” he answered. He spread his arms to show there had been no injuries from the duel. “Just a little shaky, that’s all.” He didn’t have to describe the post-Quickening adrenalin crash; Richie had been through them. “Let’s just get home.” The arousal that was already beginning would overwhelm him within minutes, and he didn’t want to drive in that condition. We gotta get home, he thought; I can’t — won’t — put Richie though a hotel-room quickie.

B y the time Richie pulled the Jimmy into the garage, Methos was breathing hard, the built-up energy from the quickening throbbing within him. The pounding in his head was uncomfortable, but not nearly as intense as the pulsating and growing pressure in his groin. He sat immobile, his head back against the headrest, his eyes nearly closed, while Richie shut off the engine and touched the remote control to close the garage door behind them. He felt Richie’s eyes on him and forced up his eyelids. The overhead light glared, but the interior of the car was in shadow. “Yeah?” he whispered.

“You okay?” The blue eyes added volumes to the simple question, and Richie’s right hand lightly rested on Methos’s knee, and gently squeezed.

The touch send a shock wave through Methos’s entire body. He screwed his eyes closed and grit his teeth against the increased pressure. “Get me inside,” he forced between his clenched jaws.

In an instant Richie was out of the vehicle and opening the passenger side door. He swung Methos’s legs around so his feet touched the ground, then took him by the hands, guiding him to stand. “Come on, Old Timer,” he kidded. “Work with me here.” He closed the door of the SUV and put an arm around the older man’s waist, propping his shoulder under Methos’s arm. They angled through the door into the house, through the kitchen and living room to the bedroom.

Once there, Richie settled Methos on the edge of the bed, then knelt to remove his shoes. He untied the laces, then looked up. Before he could see his lover’s face, though, his eyes caught sight of the bulge in the once not-so-tight jeans. The denim pulled at the fly buttons, the swollen flesh pushing the heavy fabric to its limits. “I’ll hurry,” he promised under his breath. With one deft move, he pulled the fly open, releasing some of the pressure on Methos’s throbbing erection. Remembering the shoes, he pulled them off before yanking the dark jeans down. While still on his knees, he pulled off his own shoes and yanked open his own belt and fly, shucking his own pants as he stood.

Methos managed to skin off his own shirt, leaving himself still gasping, clad only in his tented boxers, and he lay back on the bed. The buttons on Richie’s shirt proved to be an impediment overcome by the expediency of ripping the chambray from his body. With a knee on the bed, Richie leaned over his lover. Strong hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him down, and their lips met in a savage kiss. Methos pushed his tongue past Richie’s lips and teeth, not waiting for an invitation, and his strong fingers dug deeply into the flesh of Richie’s arms, bruising the fair skin. With a heave of his hips, he rolled them over so he lay on top of Richie, never giving up his claim on the boy’s mouth. He pressed as deeply as he could, as though he was trying to thrust his tongue down his throat.

Suddenly Richie pushed him up and away, and gasped for air. “Look, Methos,” he said as he caught his breath. “Let me help you.” He pushed one shoulder to turn Methos onto his back, and levered himself up on one elbow. “Fast and hard, right?”

Methos nodded wordlessly, closing his eyes against the still pulsating headache. Richie would help him. Richie knew what it was like after a Quickening, how strong the urges were, how undeniable the needs. Never noticing the boxers pulled from his hips, he only felt Richie’s hand on his cock, a feather-light touch at first, then a firm grip around the shaft.

Moist warmth suddenly surrounded the throbbing center of his universe as Richie took him deeply into his mouth. The long fingers gently massaged his balls as more and more of his cock was sucked deeper into the hot wetness. He cried aloud, his hips bucked, and he dug his fingers deep into Richie’s hair. Close, so close, he thought. When he felt those fingers brush the sensitive skin behind his balls, his breathing quickened even more, and he knew he was no longer in control. It only took a touch to that tiny spot, still tightly closed but ultra sensitive, to send him over the edge. He felt every muscle in his body spasm as the orgasm enveloped him, separating him from reality for a time.

The first thing he became aware of was Richie’s mouth still on his cock, the boy’s tongue softly laving spilled semen from the still firm shaft.

“Sorry, Methos. You came so hard,” he gasped, his breathing as labored as Methos’s. “I couldn’t swallow all of it.”

“’at’s all right, love.” Methos stroked his lover’s head, his fingers tangling in the short curls. He forced his lungs to breath more slowly and deeply, and he could feel some of the tension flow out of his body. Richie moved, his clean-up completed, and rested his head on Methos’s belly, the crisp curls tickling the hollow just in front of the hipbone. He tried to embrace the boy with his legs, and realized they were still at the edge of the bed, and Richie sat on the floor.

“Come up here.” Methos pushed himself up, swinging his legs up onto the bed. In a moment they lay lengthwise on the bed, the young immortal wrapped in the elder’s embrace. Turning to kiss Richie’s head, he tightened his grip and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Any time, Old Man,” the youngster mumbled against a smooth-skinned chest, punctuating his words with soft kisses. His hand roamed over the rest of the bare chest and abdomen, the long fingers teasing and caressing. He found the hard, dark nipple and tweaked it, sending a shudder all the way to the older man’s toes. He shifted his head to bring his mouth into contact with its twin, and suckled and nipped until it had risen, a hardened nub of flesh, to match.

“It’s not over, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Richie’s voice was hushed, and his hand stilled. He pulled his head up and looked into the hazel eyes of his lover. “What’ll it be this time?”

M ethos knew what he wanted, and he closed his eyes against the wave of desire that flooded him. He had wanted it for years without believing it ever possible, and for the last few months hoping that eventually Richie would offer it himself. Methos was content, even satisfied, as the bottom in their lovemaking, but there was nothing he wanted more than to totally possess his young lover, to give him the same pleasures, the same incredible sensations that came from their joining. But not this way, he thought.

“Methos?” A hand stroked his cheek. “You okay?”

He quickly turned his head and kissed the palm of Richie’s hand. “Yeah.” Already he felt the arousal beginning again, his cock stiffening even before it had lost all of the previous erection. He had to ask, before the urges overwhelmed him again. He didn’t want to; he wanted to let Richie offer when he was ready. But he knew he didn’t want to rape the boy, and that’s what he feared would happen.

“So soon?” Richie wondered aloud, the renewed erection catching his attention.

“’Fraid so.” He tried to push the urges away, the urges that demanded he drive himself deeply into that beautiful ass, pumping stroke after stroke until they were both raw with the friction of it, until they both screamed with the ecstatic pain of it. Not like that, he swore to himself, all the while knowing what little control he would have in the next few hours. “Richie,” he began, but couldn’t go on.

“What is it, Methos?” Richie stretched his head up to kiss Methos on the cheek, holding the other side of his face in his palm. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t want to ask you to….” He fought off another wave of lust. The pressure was building in his groin, and soon he would act without asking.

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Richie looked the length of his lover’s body, then back to his face, to the grimace that contorted the classic features. He lowered his head to softly kiss the tip of the opulent nose and pulled back. “I know what you want.” He swallowed, and closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s okay.” He lowered his head once more. “I want it, too,” he whispered, then kissed the edge of the five thousand year-old ear.

Richie sat up and away from Methos, and reached into the drawer of the bedside table. He rejected one almost empty tube in favor of bottle of gelled oil.

Methos was breathing hard again, a flush of arousal coloring his chest as his erect manhood bobbed with each breath. Rolling onto his side he reached for his lover, running his hand over the golden skin, up to the shoulders and back down the flank to the hip, then dipping around the luscious curve that was his ass. Richie shuddered and craned his head to look over his shoulder. “I’m hurrying.”

He flipped up the cap and squeezed the slick gel to into his hand. He turned back and applied the lubricant to the steel-hard cock that rose from the dark hair at Methos’s groin. The cool gel liquefied with the heat of Methos’s body. “There,” he said. “Is that gonna be enough?”

A silent nod was all the response Methos could give. Together they stuffed pillows under Richie’s hips, and he lay back, his legs pulled up and spread apart, his hands gripping the backs of his knees, assuming Methos’s usual posture. The older Immortal took the younger’s place

It was glorious, Richie’s body presented to him like that. Though his cock wasn’t hard yet, it was thick and pulsing, the growth of the erection visible from one heartbeat to the next. The heavy balls hung in their velvet nest, the soft skin of their pouch darkening as he watched. And there it was. The circle of puckered flesh was the same color as Richie’s nipples, nestled deeply between the twin globes. He felt the lust rise in him even more, but held onto the love that filled his heart. Methos rose up on his knees and leaned forward to kiss his lover before continuing. He saw a hint of fear in the blue eyes at first, but after the gentle kiss, the fear was gone. “Okay?”

Releasing his knees, Richie put his hands on either side of Methos’s face, and he nodded. “Yeah.”

The oldest Immortal kissed his way down the youthful body, and by the time his lips brushed the rosy crown, the boy’s erection was hard and straining. He didn’t spend much time worshipping Richie’s cock, but continued on to suckle and lick the heavy balls. The lust rose in him again, driven by the primal energy of the Quickening, and Methos knew he could no longer resist it. He looked once more at the boy’s face, their eyes meeting.

His vision narrowed until all Methos could see was the dark entrance to the young, perfect body. He squeezed the gel directly onto Richie’s ass, ignoring the shiver the cool oil elicited. Roughly he spread the lube around the opening, and without any warning, he inserted his index finger as far as it would go. He heard Richie’s cries, but did not listen to them, then twisted and pumped in and out of the tightness. If he had been able to watch, he would have seen Richie’s expression change from one of pain to one of pleasure as his body became accustomed to the invader. Without removing the first digit, Methos plunged a second next to it, and the two fingers twisted and pumped as one. Again Richie cried out, but the pleasure replaced the pain much more quickly this time, and when Methos scissored the digital probes, stretching the tight, virgin muscles, the cries became moans of growing pleasure.

More oil and a third finger completed the preparation, and Methos replaced the fingers with his already prepared penis. His hands went to either side of Richie’s hips, and holding them tightly, he pushed the hard, throbbing rod deep inside. Once fully engulfed by the hot, tight channel, he moved his pelvis, grinding against the sensitive skin, changing the angle of penetration to stimulate every bit of his own organ as well as the boy’s sensitive tissues and glands. Richie let out a yelp and nearly jumped out of Methos’s grip, but the strong hands which had wielded a heavy sword for five millennia held him fast. Pulling back, Methos repeated the actions, thrusting deeply and grinding, then easing back. The room filled with the moans and cries neither of them could contain, the loud, gasping breathing, and the sounds of flesh against flesh slicked with sweat and lubricant.

Each stroke pushed against Richie’s prostate, each grind stimulated him more. His cock danced, rock hard, with each thrust, the pearly liquid gathering at the dark crown and spilling down the turgid shaft drop by drop. As Methos increased the tempo of his thrusts, pushing deeper with each stroke, Richie tried to reach a hand to his own cock, but barely brushed the tip with his arm wrapped to the outside of his leg. He pulled his arm in, shoved his elbow in the crook of his knee, replacing the support, and grasped his erection firmly, pumping with the same rhythm as Methos’s thrusts. Needing even more, he released his other leg and snaked the freed hand down to cup his balls, rolling and squeezing them

It didn’t take much direct stimulation of Richie’s cock and balls to push him over the precipice. His entire body spasmed over and over, the strong streams of ejaculate covering his chest and abdomen.

Methos felt the spasms as well, as the tight passage became even tighter, and with only one more thrust he poured his own essence deep into Richie’s body.

The spasms finally abated, but Methos still held tightly to Richie’s body. Once more he ground his pelvis against the smooth, perfect ass, before collapsing across his lover’s body.

Methos awoke in a sticky mess of semen, oil, and sweat, the warm sensation of satisfaction enhanced by the feeling that the quickening had settled. He lay still, in spite of their condition, and reveled in the feeling of warm, strong arms around him, and of the familiar scent of his lover. His nose nestled in the crook of Richie’s neck, and he could hear the rhythmic tha-thump of his heart. He tried to nuzzle even closer to the boy, and felt the arms tighten around him. A hum vibrated through him and he felt a kiss on his forehead.

“You okay, Old Timer?” Richie’s voice was rough and husky.

“Mmm-hmmm.” He had to take another breath before he could continue. “You?”

“I love you, Methos.” Only their breathing broke the silence for a long moment. “I hadn’t realized how much I love you.”

Methos had never heard those words from Richie, though he had imagined them innumerable times. He loves me, echoed in the eldest one’s mind, and he snuggled closer, a smile on his face, before falling asleep again.

“M ethos,” he heard from far off. “Wake up, lover.” Lover? Richie had never called him that before. As he came more awake, he remembered the night before, and Richie’s confession of love. He loves me.

“I’ve got to have a shower. Come with me.”

Methos pried his eyes open to see a pair of incredibly blue eyes gazing into his own, and before he could breathe his mouth was captured in a sweet, gentle kiss.

“Now.” Richie pulled Methos with him as he rolled out of the bed, and together they stumbled to the bathroom and into the shower. With the hot water pouring over his body, Methos came fully awake, and stretched like a cat in the spray.

“Feels good, doesn’t it,” Richie observed, leaning against the tiled wall of the shower. He took his turn under the showerhead, ducking his head under the flowing water.

“About last night, Rich,” Methos began, soaping a washcloth to a thick lather. “I meant it to be a lot more romantic.” He applied the cloth to Richie’s back, scrubbing in long, even strokes.

“I know, Old Timer.” Richie turned and kissed the older man’s cheek. “You didn’t plan on taking a quickening.” He stepped closer to Methos, and molded himself against the long, lean body, his dripping head on a bony shoulder. “You’d have done the same for me.”

Methos planted a kiss on the wet hair, his arms encircling his lover. He dropped the soap and washcloth and they stood in each other’s arms for a long moment.

Then they washed each other, scrubbing the dried fluids from their skin and hair. They tried to keep their hands at work, busy with soap and sponge and washcloth. Richie’s fingers massaged shampoo into the dark hair. “You need a haircut, Old Man,” he observed.

“I was going to ask how you liked it. Should I let it grow?”

Water sprayed from his wet hair as Richie shook his head no. “Not unless you really want to.” He tilted his head to see another angle. “Maybe on top,” he suggested. “But keep the sides and back short.” His fingers traced the areas he spoke of , twisting in the soapy strands of dark hair before he pushed Methos back into the shower to rinse.

Eventually, as did most of their showers, they succumbed to each other, falling into a tight embrace and deep kiss under the cooling water. When the water became too cold for comfort, they blindly turned off the taps and stepped out, wrapping an oversized towel around them both. By the time they were dry from the shower, they were both aroused again.

“The bed’s a mess,” Methos observed.

“Who needs a bed?” Richie took his hand and led him into the living room, grabbing the partially used tube of lube on the way. They hadn’t furnished the large, carpeted room yet, and there was only a stereo system on shelves along one wall and some large cushions scattered on the floor. The back wall of the room was undraped windows on either side of a yet unused fireplace, the fenced back yard privacy enough. Richie sank to the floor and pulled his lover after him, leaning on a plump cushion. Their lips met in a kiss that seemed to go on forever as their hands roamed over each other’s body, their legs entwined, even their feet caressed each other. When finally they parted, both gasping for breath, Richie handed the half-crushed tube to his partner.

“Now let’s do it right, lover.”

Author’s Notes:
This series begins directly after “Archangel.” This story takes place during the year Macleod spends in the monastery, and the seris 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 as of 18 June 2001; 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. At least one original, continuing character will be introduced in that story: Jeanie Thompson, the Departmental Secretary. She is Adam’s first source for information about the college and the community, and helps both Adam and Richie.

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, of course, known 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.

An alternate ending to this story has been written as a PWP, "Bed, Bath, and Beyond.” It shows what would have happened had Methos not taken a Quickening.

This page last updated
22 August 2002

© 2000 Emma Keigh