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. Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again). Beta-read by AC the Incomparable. Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato. A special merci beaucoup to Helene Lecuyer for assistance with my very rusty French. Any errors are mine alone. Author's notes follow.

Paris: 19 May 1997.

Something was wrong. Methos’s eyes told him that Duncan Macleod had beheaded his own student. There was a body, a head. There had been a quickening. Macleod offered his head, his sword. Methos refused. Something was terribly wrong.

For five thousand years and more Methos had been immortal. He had taken more heads than he could count — than he could remember. He had witnessed a lesser but still uncountable number of beheadings and quickenings. He knew what it felt like to be near a quickening.

He hadn’t felt Richie’s death, nor his quickening, even though he had seen the body, seen the lightning. He had to believe Richie was alive. It was more than wishful thinking, more than the somewhat carnal desires he had for the younger Immortal. For two years he had held his feelings for Richie inside, covering his interest with cynicism and irony. He was relieved when Richie had learned his real name, the truth peeling away one of the layers between them. Patience, he had told himself. There’s plenty of time. Richie was young, and they both had time.

Now, though, Joe needed him. The maimed Watcher could barely stand, the grief lay so heavy on his shoulders. The eldest immortal supported his friend, held him while he wept. Eventually, the sobs quieted.

“Joe,” Methos said, his voice purposely low and quiet. “Joe, you’ll have to take care of things.” That was it, the immortal thought, give him something to do. Remind him of his duty.

The mortal snuffled back the last of his tears and pulled away from Methos’s embrace. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll — I’ll take care of this.”

Methos looked around the deserted racetrack. He was convinced the body in front of him wasn’t Richie. But if it wasn’t Richie who Macleod had killed, where was the boy? And who — or what — lay dead on the floor?

Eglise de St. Julien le Pauvre, three days later.

Father Lucien was not surprised to find a young man huddled in the corner of the sanctuary near the shrine to the Virgin. The church had often been the shelter of last resort for more than one man or woman, and for that reason the heavy wooden doors were never locked. Row upon row of chairs were set up, ready for a much larger congregation than now attended regular services, but often needed for a wedding or funeral. The confessional stood against the wall to the right as one entered, just beyond the basin of holy water and the rack of candles behind the poor box.

“Mon fils,” the priest said. “Dormez-vous?” He hoped the man was sleeping. For a moment, though, he feared the man had come to the church to die. From arm’s length Father Lucien could see no movement, not even the rise and fall of the sleeping man’s chest. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered, making the sign of the cross, and as he reached his hand to touch a shoulder, the young man’s entire body leapt as though shocked with electricity, and he gasped deeply. His eyes snapped open. Startled, Lucien pulled his hand away, but thought better of it and gently patted the man’s shoulder. “Ca vas? Ca ne va pas?”

“What?” was the only response. His eyes darted around the sanctuary, and finally found their way to Lucien’s.

“You speak English?” the priest asked haltingly.

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh — je parle français, aussi.” He levered himself up onto one elbow and looked around, this time his eyes more focused. “Where — this is Darius’s church, isn’t it?”

“Darius?” the priest asked. “There used to be a Darius here. He died before I was assigned.” The English came more easily. “Did you know him?”

Silently the young man nodded. “He was a friend.”

Lucien straightened and held a hand out. “Can you stand? If you are hungry, there is food in the refectory.” The strength in the man’s grip surprised him. With barely a tug on the priest’s hand, the young man rose to his feet. Now that he stood, Lucien could see he was medium height, taller than the priest but not quite six feet. His reddish-gold hair was cropped close, but had grown out enough since his last haircut to curl. His most striking feature were his eyes, blue as a clear morning sky, but… Lucien tried to see into those eyes, to read what troubled his soul, but saw nothing.

They walked to the refectory without speaking, but at the door, Lucien laid a hand on the man’s arm. “What is your name, mon fils? ”

A puzzled look crossed the clear blue eyes. “I don’t know.”

No name. No identification. No money.

He only knew that this was Darius’s church, and he had been Darius’s friend. Another of the fathers remembered seeing him visit, but did not know his name, so carefully had Darius’s privacy been respected by the order. A mugging was presumed, and the fathers at St. Julien le Pauvre fed him, gave him a place to sleep, and asked no other questions. For the first day, he ate and slept, watched carefully for signs of further, hidden injuries.

“What shall we call you?” Father Lucien asked when the young man awoke the next morning. “Do you remember anything more today?” They walked through the corridors to the refectory for breakfast.

“No.” The young man answered the second question first. “I still can’t remember my name.”

“I prayed for you,” Lucien confided. “I prayed that you would remember.”

His smile seemed to light the room. “Thank you, Father Lucien. That was kind of you.”

“I am sorry my prayers were not answered.”

“All prayers are answered, Lucien. Sometimes the answer is ‘No.’” He stood still for a moment, thinking. “Darius taught me that.”

“It is — what — interesting? that you remember Darius and not yourself.”

“Maybe it’s this place. I feel like he’s still here.” He gazed up towards the ceiling as if Darius’s soul hovered there.

Lucien nodded. “Oui. You are not the only one to say that. I have heard people sit in the back row and talk to him, as if he were sitting next to them.” They walked on in silence. They paused at the door, just as they had done the day before. “You still have not told me what to call you, mon fils. ”

“What does that mean — mon fils?” His French was fair, but there were large gaps in his vocabulary.

“It means ‘my son,’” Lucien translated.

“No one ever called me that before.”

The priest nodded, a smile on his face. “Then that is what we shall all call you, if you like.”

“Yeah,” he answered. “I think I’d like that.”

---

19 May 1997.

Running from the racetrack, Methos was bent on finding out what had happened to Richie. He knew in his heart, in his soul, if indeed he still had one, that the Richie Ryan he knew had not died. Maybe this demon Macleod thought he was fighting had fooled them all. I lied when I said I’ve never seen a demon, Methos admitted to himself. I see one every time I look in the mirror.

23 May 1997.

Methos was exhausted. He had searched Paris day and night for any sign of Richie, taxing even an Immortal’s stamina. He had run across a dozen other Immortals, exchanged greetings with half of them and fought the others. He’d taken more heads and quickenings in the past three days than in the past three centuries.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to stop, find a hot bath or in a pinch a shower, and sleep for a week, but he was driven by an undeniable need to find the real Richie Ryan. The compulsion went beyond what he felt for the young Immortal — Methos had to prove to himself that the boy was still alive, that Macleod hadn’t done the unthinkable and killed his own student. He had restrained his revulsion when Cochrane had killed his student in a fit of obsession-fueled rage. He’d forgiven himself when he had killed his own student, but it had been millennia since he and Silas had been teacher and student when he had killed Silas; Macleod was still mentor to Richie, and more than that, his friend.

He’d come nearly full circle, covering the city methodically, one arrondisement after another until he found himself back in the Latin Quarter, across the cobbled street from Eglise de St. Julien de Pauvre. He, too, knew St. Julien’s as Darius’s church. He had known Darius since before the Gothic general took to Holy Ground, and had visited every few centuries since. Methos had respected Darius’s skills as a general, and later came to appreciate his serenity and the depth of his beliefs, but he had never attempted to follow his teachings of peace and non-violence. He who had been Death could never walk the way of Peace, he believed, though Darius had always offered understanding and forgiveness, never knowing the full extent of Methos’s past.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, my friend, Darius had said. It matters what you will do.

Standing across the street from the old stone church Methos felt the pull of Holy Ground with its promise of safety. The site had been Holy Ground since long before the Christians built their church of stone; a well on the grounds sacred to a series of deities through the ages. I’ll rest for just a little while, he thought crossing the street and courtyard. A meter from the heavy wooden doors he felt it. A sweat broke out on his forehead.

No. He shook his head. Not another. Not here. He knew he could not fight here, he only wanted to rest before he continued his search for Richie.

The doors swung open and Methos stopped in his tracks.

The open door revealed a figure in a hooded robe like Darius had worn. He held his right hand behind the folds of the robe, and Methos knew there was a sword concealed within the brown cloth. The priest’s face was shadowed by the hood of the robe, hidden by the tilt of the head. Another robed man stood behind him in the shadows.

“This is Holy Ground.” The voice was hushed, almost a whisper.

Methos could hear fear behind the words, but he held his breath at the sound of the voice, and his heart raced. “Richie, is that you?”

The robed figure lifted his head and pushed the hood back with his left hand. “Do you know me?”

The oldest Immortal sighed with relief when he saw the familiar youthful features. He looked carefully, wary of another of Ahriman’s illusions, but the sensation he got from the boy was right, not like the feelings from the racetrack. It was Richie, he was sure, but there was a blankness behind his eyes, and he obviously didn’t recognize the older man. Hysterical amnesia? He thought of Warren Cochrane’s ordeal. Cochrane eventually got his memory back, along with all the pain that went with it. Aware of the mortal guarding Richie’s back, he answered, “Richie, it’s me, Adam. Adam Pierson. You’ve been missing for nearly four days.”

Father Lucien stepped forward and extended his hand to Methos. “Monsieur Pierson — Adam? I am happy someone knows our young friend. I am Father Lucien.”

Shaking the priest’s hand Methos explained. “He — he’s had a terrible shock. He saw someone killed — in an accident.” He made up his story as he went along, but so far, none of it was actually a lie. He turned to face Richie. The boy still held his sword behind the folds of his robe, his whole body reflecting the fear Methos had heard in Richie’s voice.

After releasing Father Lucien’s hand Methos reached to touch Richie’s left shoulder. Before he made contact, though, the boy drew away, and Methos dropped his hand and turned back to the priest. “May I come in, Father?”

“Certainly, Monsieur.” He snaked an arm between the two Immortals and turned Richie towards himself, and they led the way into the church, the priest’s arm protecting, dividing, guiding.

Methos noticed that Richie did not shrink from Father Lucien’s touch. It’ll take time, he thought. Lots of time.

Methos — Adam Pierson — sat opposite the Abbot of St. Julien’s, a wide mahogany desk between them. He’d drunk a cup of coffee while he waited for the abbot to see him, and the beverage had refreshed him, at least temporarily. He knew he still needed sleep, but first he needed to take Richie somewhere that they could work on bringing back his memory, somewhere that he would be safe from both other Immortals and from the prying eyes of Watchers. Adam knew most of the watchers in Paris, hell, he thought, in all of Europe. He didn’t want to compromise this persona any more than it had already been, and he knew that restoring Richie’s memories — gently, to minimize the trauma — would take time. But if need be, he decided, he would sacrifice Adam’s anonymity to help Richie.

“You say you’re a relative of, of Richie Redstone? you call him?” The abbot was a large man, tall and big boned but also corpulent, like so many of the abbots and bishops Methos had known from time to time in the last two thousand years.

“Yes, Father,” he responded. “We’re brothers — half brothers, that is,” he amended when he realized the discrepancy in last names. Oh, what a tangled web, went though his mind. Again, he was making up his story as he went, keeping to the truth as closely as possible. It was always easier to almost tell the truth. Then the lies easier to keep up with.

“He saw someone killed?” The abbot read from the notes Father Lucien had prepared. Finally he looked up. His eyes were an unremarkable brown, small in his round face. “Are the police looking for him?”

“Oh, no,” Methos assured him. “It was an accident. There’s no trouble.” He trusted that to be true; Joe would have arranged that the death look like an accident, or perhaps covered it up altogether. After all, Richie Ryan was already officially dead in France. It would be awkward for a newly dead body to appear.

“But his memory. I am concerned to let you take him; he does not seem to know you at all.”

“I know a sanitarium in Switzerland that has had very good luck treating this kind of amnesia,” the ancient Immortal lied. “I can assure you he will have the best care available.” That much was true; though it was Methos himself who would care for Richie.

The abbot sat quietly for a long moment, reading and rereading Father Lucien’s notes, then looking long and hard at the oldest Immortal. “You have his identification, then?”

“No, not with me.” Methos hoped Richie’s wallet and passport were somewhere on Macleod’s barge, if not, it would take an extra day or so to build a new identity.

“D’accord,” the abbot finally said. “You may take him. But let me warn you, Monsieur Pierson. Richie sought sanctuary here, and has claimed friendship with Father Darius. That means a great deal to us. He is welcome here anytime.”

“I understand.” Methos didn’t dare bring up his own friendship with Darius; he hadn’t openly visited St. Julien’s in fifty years, and he didn’t care to explain how he could have known Darius for so long.

---

Western Switzerland. The next day.

It wasn’t a hospital Methos took Richie to, but a quiet, out-of-the-way inn. He had called ahead to make sure there were no other guests, and since he had owned the châlet for more than three hundred years, his wish was the manager’s command. He didn’t maintain the inn to be a profitable enterprise; he kept it as a hideaway, a sanctuary of sorts, where he could stay for a week or a decade, away from the world but still part of it. But whenever he was away, he reasoned, he might as well let the place work for its keep, and it took in paying guests. Over the years the inn had been modernized, but it still looked like a seventeenth century châlet, the satellite dish on the peak of the steeply-pitched roof the only outward sign of the late twentieth century.

The long drive from Paris had been mostly silent. Methos drove, on and on, it seemed, and Richie alternated between watching the scenery and dozing in the passenger seat.

“We’re brothers?” the younger man had asked as soon as they were away from the church.

“Not really.” Methos’s response was almost brusque as he concentrated on making their way safely through the Parisian traffic. “I told them that so they would trust me to take you with me.”

Richie stiffened in the seat, leaning against the door, as much space between them as possible. “You lied to the abbot?”

Methos tilted his head in acknowledgement, keeping his eyes on the traffic. “In a way we’re closer than brothers, Richie. We’re just not related by blood.”

The boy hadn’t questioned anything else Methos had said. It was obvious to the older man that Richie felt his presence, but he made no mention of it. Somehow, even in his amnesia, he still understood basic things, including his Immortality, unlike Warren Cochrane.

He’d read about hysterical amnesia. Patients retained their language, of course, and physical and social skills. It was usually only identity — their own and others’ — and events that were inaccessible. It was like a computer, he’d been told. All the data is there, and the operating system still works, but you keep getting an access denied message. You had to find the right password, then deal with the original trauma all over again. Sean Burns would know how to deal with this, Methos thought. He briefly wished the immortal psychiatrist were still alive, but had long ago learned not to dwell on the vagaries of the Game.

“Wake up, Richie,” he announced as the car came to a stop in front of the inn. “We’re here.”

“Huh?” Richie came awake slowly and looked around while his eyes focused. “Where’s here?”

Methos got out of the car and walked around to Richie’s door and opened it before he answered. “It’s called L’hôtel du Chevalier Jeune. The Young Knight’s Inn. That’s knight with a ‘K.’”

“I thought you were taking me to a hospital.”

“Why? Are you ill?”

“I can’t remember anything.”

“I can help you. I’m a doctor, remem — no, you wouldn’t remember.” He lifted the bags from the back of the car and they walked the short distance to the door. “Believe me, this is the right place for you to be. Consider it a private sanitarium.”

The staff greeted Methos enthusiastically, and in minutes the two immortals were situated in a suite of rooms with a view of the valley below them. “You can have that bedroom, Richie,” Methos told him. He pointed to a door at one side of the sitting room. “Isn’t this more comfortable than a hospital? And you don’t have to wear those draughty gowns.” Richie’s duffel bag already sat on a bench at the foot of the bed, visible through the open doorway.

“Where will you be?” Methos could hear the apprehension in the boy’s voice.

“Just across there,” he answered, indicating a door on the opposite side of the room. “Or would you like more privacy?” He didn’t want to leave Richie alone, and he hoped the boy wouldn’t object to the living arrangements. If he had indeed been manipulated by Ahriman, as Methos suspected, he needed to feel in control of at least himself and his immediate surroundings.

“No, that’s okay.” Richie’s voice seemed to be slipping away in to the distance. It wouldn’t do to let him withdraw again. He’d already lost three days in who knows what kind of mental state. He’s lucky some other immortal didn’t find him and take his head for real.

“Richie.” Methos’s voice was insistent now, and he put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, turning him so they were face to face. “If anything — anything at all — makes you uncomfortable, or if you have any questions, speak up. Okay?”

The blue eyes looked into the hazel as Richie nodded, but he didn’t pull away from Methos’s touch. “Okay.” A long moment passed, their eyes locked together. A connection was made, coded information exchanged, and then, when Richie turned his head away and walked into the bedroom, the connection was broken.

It was several seconds before Methos remembered to breathe again. What was that? he wondered. He didn’t take his eyes off Richie’s retreating form, and his doctor’s eyes noted the droop of the shoulders, ignoring the curve of the tightly-jeaned ass and long legs. He watched as the youngster flung himself on the bed, shod feet politely off the coverlet, an arm bent up over his eyes. It was encouraging that he hadn’t closed the door, indicating to Methos a level of trust slightly higher than he’d expected.

Methos nodded to himself and went to his own room. He, too, left the door open, more in invitation than trust. He busied himself putting clothes into drawers and arranging things in the bathroom just the way he wanted them. The familiar tasks kept him from dwelling on the man in the other room, and the many fantasies he’d spun over the past two years. Unpacked, he sat at the desk and booted the computer, hacking his way into the Watcher computer without a hitch. He’d set up his own back doors into the system years earlier, and no one had yet discovered them, or if they had, they had left them alone.

There were two final reports on Richie Ryan, one submitted by Joe Dawson; the other by Richie’s official Watcher, Claire Bailey. Accidentally beheaded in a training accident, Joe had written. Claire’s report was more metaphorical, extolling Richie’s trusting nature and vilifying Macleod. Better the Watchers think him dead, Methos thought, at least for now. He tapped the keys that would bring up the most current report on Duncan Macleod. When the screen loaded, Methos stared in amazement. There hadn’t been an entry on Macleod since Byron was killed. Nothing about the breakdown he and Joe had presumed Mac was experiencing, nothing about his beheading his own student. Nothing telling him where Macleod might be now, no observations about his erratic behavior over the past week . Come on, Joe, help me out. Find Macleod for me.

“Got any games on that thing?” Richie’s voice from the doorway startled him, and he instantly sent the screen into saver mode, covering the information and photograph that was displayed.

“There’s a PC in your room, and there should be some games loaded.” He turned around in his chair. Richie stood in the doorway, leaning on the wall, his arms folded in front of his body. “You can get on the internet, too, and download whatever new ones you want.”

Richie’s eyes brightened for a moment, then the blankness returned. “That’s cool.” He leaned himself up from the doorjamb and turned away, but then came back into the room. He walked across the room to where Methos sat, his arms still folded. When he reached Methos he stopped, and stared at the carpeted floor for more than a second.

“Uh, Adam,” he began, using the name Methos had supplied at the church. He looked up and into the hazel eyes once more, and extended his hand. “I didn’t thank you.”

Methos stood and took his hand. Again, there seemed to be a connection between the two men as their eyes met, but this time Methos remembered to breathe. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“You spent four days looking for me,” Richie reminded him. “I gotta thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Methos said simply. Before Richie could take his hand away, he went on. “I better tell you now, so you won’t think I’m lying to you. ‘Adam Pierson’ isn’t my real name.”

“Oh?” He drew his hand back, and folded his arms across his chest, building a barrier between them.

“My real name is Methos. When you remember everything else, you’ll understand why we use other names.”

“We?”

“Your name isn’t really Richard Redstone. It’s Richie Ryan.”

“But the ID you gave me….”

Methos put his left hand to Richie’s shoulder. “It’ll come back to you, along with your other memories.” This time Richie didn’t pull away from his touch, and the older man squeezed gently, trying to add comfort to his words.

“You know, Methos,” he hesitated before saying the older man’s real name. “This amnesia thing really sucks.”

“Yeah. I guess it does.” Richie turned away and started towards the door. “And Richie,” Methos said to his back.

Richie turned his head, one eyebrow raised.

“I won’t lie to you.” Methos held the boy’s gaze with his own. “You have my word.”

---

“Slow down,” Methos cautioned. “The food isn’t going to run away. There’s plenty.”

Richie froze, his fork half-way to his mouth. He swallowed and lowered his hand. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” He had already put away about half a pound of roast beef and potatoes, three rolls, and a salad. Methos had instructed the kitchen to prepare American-style meals for Richie, hoping at best that familiar foods might trigger memories, or at least that they would keep him comfortable.

“Do you remember eating before you got to the church?”

“Mmmm-umgh,” he mumbled around a mouthful of peas. “No. Nothing before Lucien woke me up.”

“You were asleep?” Neither Richie nor Lucien had mentioned that bit of information.

“Yeah. Lucien thought for a minute I was dead, he told me. But when he touched me I woke up.”

Methos nodded. “Maybe you were dead.” He kept his voice low. None of the staff were aware of Immortals, and Methos wanted to keep it that way. “Did Lucien say anything about how you woke up?”

The freckled forehead wrinkled as Richie thought. “He said I took a deep breath and jumped.” He took another bite, and half a dinner roll disappeared. Methos waited patiently while the boy chewed and swallowed. “So, I guess I was.” He looked from side to side, a conspiratorial look on his face. “Dead, I mean,” he whispered.

It was encouraging to Methos that Richie knew they were Immortal and remembered the secrecy that surrounded their lives. “So you’ve remembered about — Us?”

“You mean like phffffft-phffffft-phffffft Us?” Using his dinner knife like a sword, he sliced the air over his plate. At Methos’s nod he went on. “Yeah, I guess so. It wasn’t like a great revelation or anything, though. I just knew it.”

“Like you knew to draw your sword when you felt me at the church.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize. You had no way of knowing it was me. And even on holy ground you have to be ready to defend yourself.”

“Yeah.” Richie dropped his head and shoveled more food into his mouth, his table manners forgotten.

Shit. Methos thought. He quickly analyzed the conversation. You have to be ready to defend yourself. That had to be it. He hadn’t defended himself from Macleod. Methos still didn’t know exactly what had happened, how Ahriman had made it appear that Mac had killed his student. Had it been the real Richie up to the moment the katana touched his neck? Ahriman was capable of anything, Macleod had told them. Had Richie seen Macleod swing the killing blow, knowing such a strike would take his head? His sword had been in his hand, but he had not defended himself. He had not raised his sword against his teacher — his friend.

The bottom had dropped out of the mood, and they finished the meal in relative silence, only occasional comments on the food and the inn passing between them until the waiter brought coffee.

“I haven’t seen you with a beer all day, old timer,” Richie quipped.

Methos smiled. No alcohol, he had decided. Richie didn’t need any depressants, so he would go without as well. “Why do you say that?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t you drink beer?” He raised his eyebrows with the question.

“Yeah, I drink beer. From time to time.” He sipped at the coffee. “And you called me Old Timer. You’re remembering.”

“I guess. A little.”

“Little by little — that’s good.” Minimizes the trauma. “A few more days, and you’ll be back to normal.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want, Richie.”

Though Richie had slept most of the day while Methos drove, he was yawning by the time they returned to their suite.

“We need to talk,” Methos told him. “That’s the best way to bring back your memories.”

“I’m sorry, Methos,” Richie said. “I’m really wiped.” He extended his hand and Methos grasped it firmly. “Tomorrow?” He smiled at the older man, released his hand, and went straight to his room, closing the door firmly.

Alone on his room, Methos logged onto the net and entered the private chat room as Ben Adams, MD.

<<cutterjoe: hi doc>> he read from the screen in seconds.

<<doc_a: how they hanging, joe? im looking for shrinky>>

<<shrinky: here doc what can i do for you?>>

<<doc_a: got a pt with hyst amnesia any ideas?>>

<<shrinky: cause?>>

<<doc_a: almost killed by a friend>> Close enough, Methos thought as he typed.

<<cutterjoe: some friend>> Joe had a reputation for understatement.

<<doc_a: hallucinating>>

<<shrinky: drugs?>>

Methos hesitated. How was he going to describe what had happened to Mac? <<doc_a: PTSD>>

<<cutterjoe: shit happens>> The surgeon had served in Vietnam and veterans’s hospitals, and had seen more than his share of post traumatic stress disorder.

<<doc_a: duh>> Ben used much more American slang than Adam Pierson did.

<<shrinky: condition>> The American psychiatrist nicknamed Shrinky got serious.

<<doc_a: physically stable starting to remember bits and pieces but not about attack>> The slang of the internet gave way to long practiced medical jargon.

<<shrinky: emotionally?>>

<<doc_a: quieter than norm tends to withdraw when he can’t remember>> Before anyone could respond he added, <<scared>>

The advice the psychiatrist offered was encouraging. The therapy regimen he suggested followed what Methos had already planned, and doc thanked his on-line colleagues.

<<shrinky: keep us posted doc might make a good paper>>

Not bloody likely. <<doc_a: let you know>> Methos logged out of the chat room and off the net. He powered down the computer and leaned back in his chair, interlacing his long fingers behind his head. This is going to take time, he thought. But time is something we have plenty of.

His reverie was interrupted by a cry of terror from the other bedroom. In seconds he was at the door to Richie’s room.

“Richie? Richie! Are you all right?” He tried the door; it wasn’t locked. Entering the darkened room, his eyes adjusted quickly and he could see Richie in bed, tossing in the throes of a nightmare. Or a memory.

“No — Mac, no!” the boy cried out, and Methos knew what memory he was reliving.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Methos took Richie’s shoulders in his hands. “Shhhh, shhhh,” he hushed, his voice low.

Richie was strong, but Methos was stronger, and the older man held the boy as the nightmare faded away. Once his body was still, though, his head continued to jerk back and forth.

Seeing Richie like this lit a fire of pain deep in Methos’s gut. He forced it down before it threatened to consume him entirely, but still felt the ache in his heart when he looked at the younger Immortal. I have to be his doctor now, Methos thought. I can’t love him, too. The conflict within him was a darkness at the edges of his vision, so all he could see was Richie lying before him. He had thrown off the blanket and sheet, and Methos saw that he had worn only boxer shorts to bed. Calmer now, only the quick movements of his eyes beneath the lids and the rapid rise and fall of his chest gave away his agitated state.

Methos’s grip on Richie’s shoulders softened, but he didn’t pull his hands away. Gently his fingers stroked the smooth flesh under them, his thumbs caressed the angular collar bones. Richie’s hair wasn’t long enough to fall in his eyes, but Methos pushed the short curls back from his forehead nevertheless, memorizing the feel of the boy’s hair, sweat-soaked from his terror. Methos had fantasized for years about being intimate with Mac’s student, but when he felt the beginnings of arousal in his own body he pulled his hand back. No. Not now, he told himself. Not until he’s well.

The physician sat with his patient until he was again soundly asleep, with no sign of the nightmare’s returning. He pulled the covers up over Richie’s shoulders, and smiled as the sleeping boy nestled into their warmth and began to snore softly. Methos stood, smoothing the blanket where he had sat, then bent to touch Richie’s temple with a soft, chaste kiss. “No more dreams, my boy. No more dreams,” he whispered, then left the room, the door ajar.

Methos wanted to sit all night with Richie, to make sure there were no more nightmares. He sat in the sitting room, a bright light in his eyes, and worked at polishing his sword, carefully honing the edge back to its usual razor-sharpness. Six fights and no time to properly clean or sharpen his primary weapon between challenges had left the blade nicked and dulled. He had felt the blade drag during his last duel, the beheading requiring an extra degree of effort he shouldn’t have needed. Even with the light in his eyes though, his eyelids drooped and his head nodded. Pain as he sliced open his hand woke him, and he realized he needed sleep more than anything. His hand healed; he wiped up the blood, and leaving both the bedroom doors open, he stripped to his shorts and climbed into bed.

---

The sun was high in the eastern sky when Methos woke again. Blindly he found the shower and stood immobile under the hot water for several minutes. As the fog of sleep cleared from his mind, the first coherent thought that came to him was Richie. The water sluicing over his body stimulated him and aroused him, and with the image of the virile young man in his mind’s eye he ran his hands over his own flesh, finally wrapping long fingers around a straining erection. Richie’s name came to his lips in a deep moan as he leaned against the tile, his feet planted wide, and quickly brought himself to a strong but unsatisfying climax.

As his breathing slowed and his heart beat returned to a more normal rate he turned the water to cold, washing away all traces of his passion, all traces of his arousal.

He dressed quickly, his usual jeans and an oversized sweatshirt over a waffle-knit Henley sufficient for the day. There was still snow here in the Alps, but Methos didn’t expect to spend much time out of doors. Sockless, he slid his feet into soft leather loafers, disdaining his usual hiking boots, then went to find Richie.

The door to the other bedroom was still ajar, but Methos knocked lightly before leaning his head into the room. “Good morning,” he chimed, his eyes quickly scanning the empty room. “Richie?” he called, stepping inside. He didn’t hear the shower running, but he could feel that the other immortal was nearby.

“Yeah?” Richie’s voice was muffled.

Methos turned to see Richie stepping out of the bathroom, a towel snuggly wrapped low around his hips, another towel over his head and face. He rubbed his wet hair and pulled the towel away. As soon as he saw Methos, he smiled.

That smile, Methos thought. It brightens the whole room. His eyes took in all he could about the half-revealed form. He knew Richie’s chest and shoulders from the night before but he had never seen the boy’s bare legs. They were long, the muscles of the thighs and calves well-developed and lean. Comes from riding that motorcycle, he thought, the fleeting image of Richie riding him like a Harley almost too much to bear.

“Breakfast time?” Richie asked, a hopeful note in his voice. “I’ll be just a minute.” He rubbed the towel over this chest and arms, then hung it around his neck, his hands gripping the ends.

Methos realized he was staring, and pulled his eyes away from Richie’s nearly naked body. After too many seconds he remembered to breathe, then he said, “Yeah, breakfast. What would you like?”

“Let’s start with coffee.”

“Sure. Coffee’s easy.” He turned to go, and turned back when he reached the doorway. “Anything else?”

Richie spread his arms wide. “How about some clothes?” He pointed to the neat pile on a chair. “I wore those for four days straight.” He made a face and shuddered at the thought of wearing them again without benefit of laundry.

That first day set the pattern for the days that followed. The two men spent time together, time alone. They played chess and cards, they read and walked. Methos wrote in his journals now and again; little by little Richie remembered his past. But still he remembered nothing about those last few days before the racetrack. He claimed to know nothing following the night at the opera, nothing about the old man who stopped Macleod, nothing about Mac’s visions of Horton and Kronos, nothing about Duncan Macleod’s beheading his own student. They ate together, and every night each of them went to his own bed. The nightmares diminished in both frequency and intensity, and soon their sleep was uninterrupted.

Methos encouraged the boy to write down his thoughts and memories as they came to him in a journal, and each day they used the book as a starting point for their talks.

“I remember the first time I met you,” Richie read one morning as they sat in the solarium with coffee. “It was at the dojo, and Mac had his sword at your throat.”

Methos nodded. “You said something about it not being for real.”

“You said your name was Adam Pierson .” Methos detected a hint of anger in the boy’s voice. He was using everything Sean Burns had taught him about reading voices and body language, trying to understand what was standing in the way of Richie’s memories.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, ignoring the anger, confident it would evaporate. “Do you remember anything else about that time?”

“I remember Kristin.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, I remember Kristin.” Lust replaced the anger in his voice.

“She’s hard to forget.” He poured more coffee in both their cups. They both drank their coffee black, eliminating the need for cream or sugar.

“Why did you introduce yourself to me as Adam?”

“I was scared,” Methos admitted. He knew he had to be honest with the boy, even if it revealed more of himself than he would have in other circumstances. “I wanted to be just a guy. I wanted to get to know you eye to eye as it were — one young immortal to another.

“I could tell you weren’t that young — the way you feel — it’s different from anyone else — old or young.

“But you didn’t know what it means — the difference.”

“Yeah. Not then.”

There was a long moment of silence between them. Methos noticed that Richie had not touched the fresh coffee. The ancient immortal waited. Richie would talk more when he was ready.

“Adam?” Richie said quietly and turned to face Methos more directly. Hesitatingly, tentatively, the boy reached his hand to rest on the ancient one’s arm. “Do you know what happened? Those last few days?”

A nod was all the response Methos could give. The touch of Richie’s hand sent a wave of energy through his body, and it was all he could do to maintain a semblance of calm.

“Why won’t you tell me?” The light touch from Richie’s hand became a grip. “What did I do?”

“Oh, Richie, no,” Methos assured him, taking his hand. “You didn’t do anything. It was Macleod.” Damn, I didn’t mean to say that.

“What did Mac do?” He had already remembered the two times Macleod had come close to taking his head before, and they had discussed the dark quickening. “What did he do?” He was insistent, demanding an answer.

It was bound to come to this, Methos thought. It was only a matter of time before he asked point blank.

“Methos!”

The volume of Richie’s demand forced Methos to look around, anxious that one of the staff had heard his true name.

“I’m sorry. Adam.” He was calmer now, but there was just as much fire in his eyes. “Tell me what happened.” It was both a demand and a request. “Please?”

There was no denying him. The clear blue eyes, and the open, trusting face both pleaded with Methos for the truth.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Let’s go upstairs.” Methos stood and took Richie by the arm, forcing him to stand as well.

“What’s wrong with…” The sound of footsteps interrupted him. “Yeah. Private.”

As soon as the door to the suite was closed Richie asked again. “What did Mac do?”

Methos went directly to the closed cabinet that concealed the bar. He had not opened it since they had arrived. Without a word he poured three fingers of twelve year old whisky and threw it down his throat. Completely missing his tongue, the liquor burned its way to his stomach, the fire spreading from there throughout his body.

“I didn’t know that was there.”

Still silent, Methos took down another glass and poured like amounts in each. “Here,” he said, handing the new glass to Richie. “You might need this.”

Taking the bottle with him, Methos moved to the couch. He set both the bottle and his glass on the glass topped table, and Richie put his untouched glass next to them before sitting next to the older man. The two men sat with their knees almost touching, their bodies angled away from each other so they nearly faced each other head on.

“Is it so bad you needed a drink?”

Methos looked at the clear blue eyes for a long moment before answering. He nodded a second before he spoke. “Yeah. It’s that bad.”

The younger man picked up the glass and brought it to his lips but stopped before drinking. “No,” he said. “I want to hear this sober.”

“It started the night you and Macleod went to the opera.”

“That’s where my memories stop.”

“Yeah. Well, I don’t know all the details about what happened for the next few days, but it comes down to this: Some ancient demon called Ahriman taunted Mac with visions of men he had killed, and then used an image of Joe and Horton to lure you to the old racetrack. Mac followed you.” He couldn’t go on. The memories of the racetrack were too fresh in his mind, too new to his psyche. He realized he hadn’t dealt with them himself yet, but he knew he had to go on. He drank from his glass, this time just a sip, savoring the peaty taste of the whisky.

“What happened?” Richie’s voice was calmer, but Methos could detect more than a touch of fear.

“I don’t know, exactly.” He couldn’t lie to the boy, even if he had an idea of what happened outside his knowledge. “By the time Joe and I got there…”

But Richie wasn’t looking at him any more. His eyes were unfocused, gazing into the distance. “Racetrack? Joe and Horton?” He turned his face back to Methos. “God, Methos, I remember!”
His blue eyes were wide with fear, the pupils dilated. His already fair skin blanched, and his breathing quickened.

“What?” Methos asked quietly. “What do you remember?”

“I looked all over the place for Horton and Joe. I knew they couldn’t be too far ahead of me; Joe can’t walk that fast.” He panted as though he’d been running, as though his body was reliving the ordeal as his memories returned.

“I heard noises,” he went on. His voice started to shake, and Methos knew his adrenalin levels were high. “I followed the sounds…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “This can’t be true,” he said, almost to himself.

“What, Rich?” Methos said gently. He grasped Richie’s shoulder firmly, hoping to be an anchor to reality, to the here and now. “What do you remember?”

“Mac was fighting — all by himself at first. Then, when I got a little closer, I could see them. But they weren’t real. I could see through them — like ghosts.”

“Who?”

“Horton,” he said without hesitating. “Some guy in leather and armor with his face painted.”

“Kronos.”

“I guess.” Richie reached for his glass, and gulped half of the amber liquor. He grimaced at the unaccustomed taste. “And… and me.” He whispered, whether from the whisky or from the memory, Methos couldn’t tell.

“I went closer.” The volume in his voice returned, and his breathing slowed. Methos watched as his facial features relaxed into a look of serenity, then into the blank look he’d seen at the abbey. The light in his eyes seemed to fade as well.

Suddenly Methos realized that Richie wasn’t breathing at all. He sat there, staring into the distance, in some strange sort of trance. Quickly Methos grasped the boy’s other shoulder and shook him gently. “Richie — Richie!” He shook harder, with no effect. “Richie!” he shouted now, and gave off his shaking to slap the unresponsive face.

The slap brought Richie around, and he put a hand to his head. “What happened?”

“You zoned on me, Rich.” Methos kept a close eye on the boy. “Do you remember any more?”

“He killed me, Methos. Mac killed me. Duncan Macleod took my head.” He looked squarely at Methos for a moment, then his eyes rolled back and he fainted.

---

Methos didn’t panic when Richie fainted. He checked his breathing and his pulse, then calmly went to the bathroom for a wet cloth. Kneeling at the boy’s side, he laid the cloth on freckled forehead, and propped Richie’s feet up with a cushion. A moment later the blue eyes fluttered open.

“Lie still for a minute, Rich,” Methos instructed. “Don’t sit up too fast.”

Richie reached for the cloth on his forehead and pulled it away. “I fainted?” He started to sit up, only to be forced gently back.

“Yeah.” The doctor took the cloth from him and replaced it on his head. “Now lie still.” His voice was more insistent, and the boy obeyed.

“I remember, now,” he said, excitement building in his voice. “Before it was like I’d read a book about it all. Now I really remember.” He reached his hand to Methos’s shoulder, grasping it awkwardly from his supine position on the sofa.

Their eyes locked, and the touch of Richie’s hand on Methos’s shoulder was galvanizing. It was like everything they had never said to one another was immediately known by the other with just the touch and look, the connection a conduit between mind and mind, heart and heart. They breathed in tandem, shallow breaths that barely filled their lungs. And when Richie’s hand slipped, breaking the connection, they both gasped for air.

“That was weird,” Richie whispered. He pushed himself to sit up and tossed the damp cloth onto the table. He closed his eyes, and pressed the heels of this hands on his temples. “It was like we were —”

“Connected?” Head pounding in time with his racing heart, Methos closed his eyes against the pain. The throbbing pain slowly faded and he opened his eyes. Richie still held his head, and he knew the boy was experiencing the same reaction. “You okay?”

The blue eyes opened, dilated wide, leaving only a thin ring of sapphire around the black pupils. He took his hands away from his head and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll live.” There was a tremor in Richie’s voice.

Methos moved to sit next to him, a discreet hand’s breadth between them and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He still breathed deeply, needing to recharge his body with oxygen, needing to sort out what was going on between them.

“That ever happen to you before?” Still weak, the tremor was gone from Richie’s voice.

“No. It was almost like a Quickening.” He sat back and looked at Richie. “It was like that time Mac and I…” His voice faded as he remembered the strange Quickening.

“Mac and you what?”

Mac didn’t tell him about the Horsemen, Methos realized. “It was a few months ago. Mac was fighting Kronos, and I was fighting Silas. At the same time.” The memories were still painful, still unsettled in his mind. “We took their heads. At the same time.” He took a deep breath, preparing himself to go on. “The Quickenings, well, they joined. Mac and I were — connected — for a time.”

“Mac didn’t tell me.”

“It’s not something he’d talk about.” Methos paused and was greeted only by a silence that urged him on. “You know how…” he searched for words as emotionally neutral as he could find. “…how arousing a Quickening can be?”

“Yeah. I know. It’s not like I’ve never taken a head, Methos.”

“I know.” Damn, he thought. The last thing I should do is treat him like a child. “Well, this one was — intense. Both Silas and Kronos were more than three thousand years old.” He had to pause again . What’s the matter, old man? he asked himself. I haven’t been embarrassed about sex for thousands of years. “Afterwards there was just Mac and me.” He didn’t think he had to go on.

“You and Mac?”

“It happens. You know that.” Oh, gods, don’t let him be homophobic, Methos prayed.

The blue eyes dropped. “Been there; done that.” Methos could barely hear the whispered confession.

A dark eyebrow rose above a hazel eye; a smirk twisting the lower part of his face. “Oh?”

The fair, freckled skin blushed easily, and Richie nodded. “After Coltec?”

“Mac’s Dark Quickening?.”

“Yeah, I went on the road, and took a bunch of heads.” His voice was flat, the lack of inflection telling Methos he wasn’t comfortable talking about this time of his life.

“Sometimes,” Richie went on. Well, sometimes there weren’t any women around after. You know?”

Methos nodded his understanding. “And you were okay with it?” Might as well find out now, before I make a fool of myself.

“Yeah. Now.” He raised his head to look at Methos. “It took a while, but…” he smiled, lighting up the room, warming Methos’s heart. “I kinda liked it,” he admitted quietly.

“Just kinda?” He picked up his drink and turned on the couch, then leaned back on the arm, stretching his legs out at an angle, his sprawl taking up more than half the seating area. The old man shifted slightly, and his leg brushed against Richie’s. While he moved he kept his gaze on Richie, expecting him to slide to the opposite end, but the boy held his ground, though he blushed even more deeply.

“You got something on your mind, old timer?” There was something seductive in his voice, the lowered pitch, the gentle tone, his casual use of an old nickname.

He hid his smirk with a slow sip of his drink, still watching as Richie leaned back against the cushions. Lowering his glass, he inclined his head slightly. “Have for a long time, kid.”

Richie blushed again, then reached forward for his drink. “I — ahem.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat before he went on. “I see.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Is that what this is all about?”

“No.” Methos kept his voice low and even, and he schooled his face into an unreadable mask. “Maybe,” he admitted. “I knew things weren’t what they seemed to be at the racetrack.”

Richie moved to settle against the opposite end of the couch, mirroring Methos posture. “Tell me what else happened. After Mac took my head.” His voice was amazingly calm, Methos thought.

“When Joe and I got there, we saw the end of a Quickening. But it didn’t feel right.” He kept his eyes on the boy, afraid the details might send him over the brink. “You’ve been near a Quickening, haven’t you?”

“Sure.”

“You can feel the power in the air, even afterwards. This didn’t feel right.” He started to sip at the whisky again, then thought better of it. He sat up and set the glass down. “When we found Mac, he was kneeling next to a headless body.” He took a deep breath. “It looked like you. Mac and Joe thought it was you. I knew it wasn’t.”

“How? I mean, if it looked like me…” He followed Methos’s example and set his drink aside was well.

“That soon, there’d be some residual of the Quickening. I’d still be able to feel you. And it wasn’t you.”

“So you knew I wasn’t dead.”

“I didn’t know what had happened.” He steepled his fingers in front of his face and went on. “Mac asked me to take his head. He offered me his sword.” Richie had to know how Macleod had reacted. If the two of them were to ever have any kind of relationship again, the boy had to know.

Richie gestured go on.

“I refused.”

“You didn’t avenge me?

“You weren’t dead.” He waited in the silence for another moment. “What else do you remember?”

“Nothing. I saw Mac take my head, and then I woke up at the church.”

“And now you’re here.”

“And now I’m here. We’re here.” He sat up straight again. “You said you had something on your mind, old timer.”

A slow nod was Methos’s only response. He wasn’t about to be teased, and he wasn’t sure this was the time to go on. Richie had taken the revelations of this morning too calmly. True, he’d been shaken by some of the events they’d related, but where was the anger, the betrayal, the resentment that should have come along with his memories?

“It can wait,” the oldest Immortal said quietly. “I can wait.”

---

Two weeks later.

The spring days continued to lengthen, and the weather warmed. There was still snow on the north-facing slopes, but the meadows soon filled with fast-growing grasses and wildflowers. As the tourist season approached, the staff opened the chalet to an occasional paying guest, though Methos and Richie were assured of their privacy in their suite.

It had been an uneventful two weeks since Richie had remembered the events in the racetrack. For two weeks Methos had held his breath while Richie spent more and more time on the internet, browsing from site to site, playing games, but never chatting, never emailing anyone. With his browser slaved to Richie’s, Methos learned that he was focusing on motorcycle and racing sites. He returned to one site in particular, over and over.

After the tragic deaths of top racer Basil Dornan and newcomer Richie Ryan in April, 1995, Team Saracen has not been the same. Only now, after more than two years, are they front runners on the flat-track circuit once again.

“I thought you might like this,” Methos said as he led Richie to the garage. The overhead lights in the garage cast harsh shadows. A pair of Kawasaki ZRX1100s stood in an unused stall of the large garage, next to Adam’s gray Volvo. “I thought we might get out a little, now that the weather’s getting nicer.”

“Cool.” Richie ran an hand over the seat and gas tank of the nearer bike. A helmet hung on the handle bars, and he quickly slipped it on, then raised the visor. “Perfect fit.” He swung a leg over the saddle and pushed up the kick-stand. Holding in the clutch, he walked the bike backwards towards the open door. Before he lowered the visor, his face broke into a wide grin, the like of which Methos hadn’t seen since the return of his memories. “You coming?”

Methos couldn’t be heard over the growl of kick-starting the Kawasaki. He mounted the other bike, donned the helmet, and walked the bike into the yard. He started the powerful engine, and with a wordless look to one another, they rode off.

They rode side by side for hours, Methos following Richie’s lead. He grew accustomed to the vibrations of the bike between his thighs, the tug of the handle bars on his shoulders. It had been years since he had ridden a motorcycle, but it came back to him quickly as he remembered to take the bumps with his legs, rising out of the saddle like posting on a trotting horse. He would be sore after this he knew, but it would fade, and the smile on Richie’s face when they stopped for lunch made it all worthwhile.

Richie had found a small village, little more than some quaint late-medieval buildings, and it included an old fashioned tavern. “God, I’ve missed that.” Richie pulled the helmet from his head and hung it on the handle bar, then dismounted and set the kickstand in one movement.

Methos did the same, his dismount more awkward. His foot missed the kickstand twice before he got it set and leaned the heavy bike on it. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness before it set in. “It’s been a long time since I rode like that.”

“Didn’t know you were into bikes, old man.”

They had a country lunch, thick soup and dark bread, local cheese and ale. Methos relished the old fashioned food, so much like what he had eaten for centuries, but Richie ignored the bread and picked at the cheese after finishing the soup.

“This is like a Big Mac and fries to me, Rich. Real comfort food.” He washed the bread down with another swallow of ale. “Don’t you like it?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a Big Mac and fries.” He grinned before tasting his ale. He swallowed, and made a face. “You like this?” He pushed the glass away.

“An acquired taste, I guess.” He drained his glass and wiped the creamy head from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ready to go?”

Once again Methos followed Richie’s lead, and though they took a different route, they arrived back at the châlet just before dark. Methos spoke quickly to the major domo as they came in, and once back in their suite, they each headed for a hot shower. The grime and sweat washed away, they met in the sitting room where a very American meal had been laid out. Richie had dressed again in black jeans and a tee shirt, his feet bare, but Methos had decided on a baggy sweatshirt and loose sweatpants.

“You think of everything, old timer.” Richie dug into the familiar food, slathering ketchup on the mound of fries, picking the onion off the cheeseburger.

“Root beer or wine? Methos offered, to be answered with a mouth-full grunt. Hearing only one syllable, unintelligible as it was, he poured two glasses of wine and put the root beer back in the refrigerator.

Methos ate a little less enthusiastically, taking more pleasure in watching Richie than in the burgers and fries. “So,” he said when the last french fry disappeared into Richie’s mouth. “You like the bike?”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

“It’s yours.”

“I can’t take that from you.” He looked down at the empty plates, taking his eyes away from Methos.

“Why not?”

“I mean, it must cost ten grand. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Richie, you’re going to have to start all over.” Methos tried to catch his eye again. “Did you have a will?”

“Yeah. Mac insisted. But I didn’t have anything but my bike.”

“So you need a new one.”

“But…”

“But what?”

“I’m not dead.”

Methos picked up their plates and stacked them on the serving cart. “Yeah, Richie, you are.” He turned back to face the boy. “Officially you’re dead. Joe had you buried in Paris. The Watchers closed out your file.” He had continued to hack into the Watcher’s records, and had downloaded the official obituary that had run in the Paris papers. Joe even had it run in the Seacouver paper. There was no doubt, Richie Ryan was dead.

“So what do I do now?” Richie stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Decide who and what you want to be.” Please decide to stay with me, he thought. We can do whatever you want. Just stay with me.

“What if I don’t know what I want?” He turned away, his back to Methos, and whispered, “What should I do, Methos?”

Methos knew now was the time to show Richie how he felt, what he wanted for the two of them. He stood behind Richie, and rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders, not gripping, not holding. The thin jersey of the tee shirt let Methos feel the warmth of Richie’s skin. Without moving his hands, he brought his body closer, until his hips and chest touched Richie's ass and back, the curves and planes of their bodies fitting together like a tessellated puzzle. He bent his dark head to nuzzle a fair ear, following the curve of the upper ear with his nose before teasing the earlobe with the tip of his tongue and gentle nips of his teeth.

A low moan, almost a sigh, escaped Richie’s mouth, and he leaned back against the lean body. Methos tightened his grip, holding the shoulders to his own. He took his kisses along the side of Richie’s throat to the junction of neck and shoulder, and he was rewarded with another moan of pleasure. The old man felt fingers comb into his hair, holding his head to the satiny, cool flesh of Richie’s neck. He felt his own arousal build, his cock beginning to tent the loose-fitting sweats, and he pressed his hips harder against the boy’s ass. He kissed his way back up the sweet, smooth skin on Richie’s neck, and spoke softly in his ear.

“Okay?”

Another moan, this time an acknowledgement, answered him, and he moved his hands away from the strong shoulders, never breaking the contact between them. One hand went down Richie’s chest, Methos’s hand hovering over the thin shirt, the heat between them building. The other hand meandered down Richie’s back to this waist, then snaked around to hold their bodies together, Richie’s back to Methos’s chest, the old man’s head bent to the youngster’s neck, his tongue tracing vague spirals along the line of his jaw.

Richie stretched his head back giving Methos better access to the sensitive skin of his neck and throat. Methos touched his lips to the pulse point at the base of the boy’s throat, feeling the pounding rhythm of the boy’s heart in sync with his own. Higher and higher the questing mouth moved along the fair skin, then along the line of his jaw.

“Oh, yeah,” Richie sighed, then turned his head to capture Methos’s mouth with kiss. He turned in the old man’s embrace, their arms holding, hands caressing.

Methos pulled his mouth away. “You’re okay with this?” he asked. Gods I hope so. He had to ask, had to take the risk that Richie didn’t want to go on. He sought out those blue-as-sapphire eyes, dark and dilated with arousal, but he still worried that Richie would reject his advances even as his body responded to them.

---

The blue eyes locked with the hazel, and Methos felt as if his soul were on display, that Richie could read every secret of his long life. The touch of fingertips on his face startled him, so lost was he in those blue eyes. The fingers skimmed over his skin, tracing the line of his beard, a day’s growth of stubble that shadowed his jaw.

“Yeah, man. I am so okay with this.” Then suddenly the gentle caress became a firm grip as Richie held the old man’s face. But this time the kiss was just a brush of lips against lips, a caress.

Methos felt his heart racing at this delicate torture. He wanted to take Richie’s mouth hard, to push his tongue past those lips and teeth, to explore his mouth. He wanted to learn Richie’s own flavor, the texture of his teeth and tongue.

Instead, Richie continued to brush kisses across his lips, first at one corner of his mouth, then the other, then just the upper lip, then the lower. Finally, just as Methos thought he could take no more of this teasing, Richie moved his hands to the back of the dark head and pulled him into just the kind of hard, demanding kiss Methos wanted. But it was Richie’s tongue that pushed its way into Methos’s mouth; it was Richie who learned Methos’s taste and texture.

This response from Richie was more than the ancient immortal had hoped for. He had thought he would have to lead the boy along gently, slowly, step by step. First a kiss, later a caress, building the youngster’s trust and confidence, making him believe he was loved and desired, preparing him for the subtle differences of men together. He wrapped his arms around Richie and pulled their bodies closer together, the hard planes of their chests fitting together, the heat of their bodies a fire that threatened to consume both of them.

Methos felt an unexpected thrill in being the recipient rather than the giver. Seldom in all his many years had he had a lover, male or female, who took the lead from him. True, he had been dominated, far too much, he remembered, in his centuries as a slave, not to mention the millennium he had ridden with and given in to Kronos.

But Methos wasn’t passive to Richie’s kiss — he gave back every bit as much passion as he received.

After a long moment enjoying Richie’s explorations he turned the tables, and spiraling his tongue around the invading flesh he savored the taste of his young lover. He took control, shifting his body next to Richie’s, pressing his growing erection against the hard, hot body he held in his arms. He ran his hand down Richie’s back to his ass, cupping one round cheek, and pulled their hips more tightly together until he could feel the hot swelling he hoped to find.

Richie gasped at the sudden barrage of sensations that came from every direction, from Methos’s hands on his ass and in his hair, from the swelling of their erections, to the thrusting, probing flesh that searched his mouth.

Methos had to have more. He pulled the shirttail from Richie’s jeans and slipped it over this head, breaking the contact between their mouths for only a second. The skin was smooth over Richie’s back, the muscles rippled as his strong arms moved to hold Methos closer, more tightly. His hands barely skimmed the satin surface, and the boy’s breathing quickened more as he squirmed in the older man’s embrace. He felt Richie’s hands pulling on the baggy sweat shirt, and he raised his arms so it could be lifted off.

Before Methos could lower his arms and embrace Richie once again, the boy bent his head to lick and nibble at the dark circles on the old man’s chest. His thumb flicked over one, his teeth pulled gently on the other.

“Oh, that’s good,” Methos cried out, his head thrown back. He lay his arms on Richie’s shoulders; one hand petted the curly hair, then twisted the curls around his fingers, tugging gently in time with exquisite attention Richie paid to his nipples. He held the teasing head to his chest as Richie traced a line of kisses up his breastbone, each kiss punctuated by a gentle lapping with the hot wet heaven that was Richie’s tongue. When he reached the hollow at the base of Methos’s throat the gentle hands in the curly hair suddenly grasped tightly and raised Richie’s mouth to his own.

With his long fingers buried in the strawberry curls, Methos held the head still. He looked at Richie, seeing finally the wide pupils in the blue eyes and the flare in the nostrils that spoke of the boy’s arousal. He watched as the tip of Richie’s tongue touched his lips, as he pulled his lower lips under this front teeth. He pressed his own mouth to Richie’s, his tongue darting against the waiting lips, then slipping inside, past the luscious lips, the perfect teeth, then back.

“Bed,” they each said, one a command, the other a request.

Was it because they were nearer the door to Methos’s room? Or was it the older man’s desire to make Richie his own? Was it the youngster’s willingness to follow Methos wherever he led? Or his need to give himself completely to the oldest — perhaps the first — of their kind? There were two beds available, and they went directly to Methos’s.

Whatever the reason, they found themselves next to the large bed. Methos grabbed the coverlet and flung it to the floor, yanked the top sheet and blanket back. He turned back to Richie to see his hands at the fly of his jeans.

“No,” Methos said firmly.

Richie stopped immediately and dropped his hands to his sides. He was already smiling when Methos went on.

“I want to do that.”

“Whatever you say, old timer.” He stretched his arms out away from his body, offering himself.

Methos felt his heart pound in his chest at the sight. The strong arms, with well defined biceps and muscled shoulders, reminded him of a Greek statue, but the pelt of red-gold curls that covered his body had never been carved from marble. He pulled at the waistband of the black jeans, popping loose the button, then slowly lowered the zipper.

As the zipper tab was moved lower and lower, a smile split both their faces, Richie in anticipation, Methos in discovery, for there were no briefs or boxers beneath the snug jeans. He slid one hand between the denim and the fair skin, and finding his prize, cupped his fingers around the firm erection and eased it free.

“Now, there’s a picture,” he chuckled, stepping back in admiration. Richie’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths, his arms still extended, the proud cock exposed as it rose out of the open jeans. The velvety head was dark and rosy, topping a thick, rigid shaft more than a handspan in length. Methos felt his own breath quicken. He moved behind the boy and set his hands at either side of his hips. With his fingers and palms against Richie’s skin he hooked his thumbs over the waistband and slowly pushed the jeans towards the floor, running his hands along the strong thighs until the pants dropped of their own weight to the floor.

Methos could feel the nearness of the bare ass to his cheek when he released his hold. As Richie shifted his weight to step out of the crumpled jeans the round flesh brushed against the lean face, and both men gasped at the contact. His eyes closed, Methos shifted from his crouch to kneel behind the boy, and moved his hands back to the slim hips. He leaned his face against the firm globe, and lightly brushed his lips against the pale skin.

It was as though Richie had read his mind, for Methos knew he had not spoken when he felt the body between his hands and against his face rotate, bringing the turgid, weeping cock within reach of his mouth. He sat back on his heels, and looked up to Richie’s face.

The blue eyes begged. “Yeah, Methos. Do it.”

It was a glorious cock. It stood tall from a patch of reddish curls, large blue veins just under the skin reaching the entire length, to disappear at the rim of the dark crown. He watched as a drop of pearly fluid collected at the dark slit, then rolled over the head and down the shaft.

He caught the drop with his tongue as it reached the base, then re-traced its route with the tip of his tongue, all the way back to find another drop ready to fall. He pursed his lips at the slit and sucked the fluid into this mouth, then flicked the tip of his tongue back and forth across dark recess. With his tongue softened, he laved the whole of the head, then blew softly across the wet flesh.

Richie shuddered, and his knees nearly buckled. He put his hands to Methos’s shoulders for support.

“Hmmm,” Methos hummed. “You like that.”

Richie’s only reply was a sigh and another shudder.

“Bed,” Methos commanded, guiding him a step backwards until his legs touched the side of the bed. Richie sat on the bed, his knees apart. Methos still knelt on the floor.

“Stand up.” Pitched low, Richie’s command was full of passion.

Methos stood.

The pink tip of his tongue flicked out and wet Richie’s lips as he reached for Methos, settling his hands at the waist of the sweatpants. The soft fleece hung loosely, except for the conspicuous tent right in front of the boy’s face. “I bet there’s nothing but you under these, old man.

The old man couldn’t speak; his breath came in such deep, strong gasps. He put his hands on top of Richie’s and pushed.

“No. I’ll do it.”

This wasn’t like the commands — the orders — Methos had been given as a slave. Then he had obeyed out of fear, responding after years of conditioning. This was an command he gladly followed, knowing it would lead to as much pleasure for himself as for Richie. He extended his arms away from his body, standing in the same posture Richie had.

The younger man dipped his fingers into the front of the sweatpants and pulled loose the drawstring. With just his fingertips inside the elastic waist, he ran his hands around to each hip, then reached to the back as far as he could without getting up from the bed. Slowly he thrust the whole length of his index fingers past the constricting elastic. He pulled at the waistband, stretching it, loosening the drawstring. Deep inside his fingertips brushed the sensitive spot over the point of his hip, and Methos arched towards his tormentor, gasping wordlessly. He was hard now, harder than he’d been in all his fantasies, for never in his dreams had Richie been as enthusiastic and sure of himself.

“Hmmm,” Richie hummed. “You like that.” He eased a second finger into each side, then a third and a fourth, the palms of his hands molding to the curve of the lean hips. He pulled the elastic out and over the steel-hard erection, and shoved the pants towards Methos’s knees. Once freed of the pants’ confines, the swollen cock bobbed and danced in time with the older man’s deep, gasping breath.

Nodding his head, Richie sighed, and without any hesitation, ran his tongue from the base to the top, circled, teasing at the edge of the foreskin, then softly kissed the very tip. He pulled his head away, then pushed himself back onto the bed, and leaned back on the pillows. One leg bent slightly at the knee, the other extended, his pose silently invited Methos to join him, to ravish him, to love him.

---

Methos smiled at the vision before him. His gaze traveled up the long legs, over the waiting cock, the furred chest with hits punctuation of dark hard nipples, the well muscled shoulders, tanned forearms, the face that smiled back at him fro the pillow. It was Adonis in his bed and Methos would be his priest, his acolyte, his worshipper.

“You just gonna stand there?” Richie lifted his hand and caught Methos’s fingers with his own, intertwining them, and tugged gently.

Methos let himself be pulled to the bed, stretching his lanky frame along Richie’s side. He leaned over the younger man, their lips meeting as their hands resumed their exploration of each other’s body. He covered Richie’s face with soft kisses, caresses with lips. Flicking a thumb across a hardened nipple brought a small cry from his Adonis and Methos whispered in a perfect ear, “No one can hear us,” then traced the curve with the tip of his tongue. He caught the fleshy earlobe with his teeth and gently pulled it into his mouth to suck briefly. At the same time he pinched the nipple he’d teased and pulled on the tender flesh.

Richie squirmed beneath Methos’s hand, and a wordless sound, louder this time, announced his pleasure.

As Methos moved his oral attentions lower, his hand skimmed over ticklish ribs and lean flanks to find the neglected cock. With a feather light touch he stroked the turgid member base to crown and back, circling round the thick shaft, only his fingertips in contact with this most sensitive flesh. His lips and teeth found the so far neglected nipple and as he flicked it with his tongue he used the flats of his fingers to stroke and massage Richie’s manhood.

“Oh, god. Methos. I can’t get any harder.”

Methos felt a hand on his head, fingers in his hair, push him away from sucking on the tight nipple. He raised his head and caught Richie’s eye. “What do you want me to do?” His hand now encircled the straining erection, harder than ever, bobbing as the boy raised his hips, trying to thrust into Methos’s hand. He ran the fist up and down the shaft. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” Richie cried. “I want you.”

“To do what?” Methos’s voice was low and even and his fist continued to pump on the weeping cock.

Richie was gasping now, his head and shoulders writhing on the bed. “Suck me, dammit. Just suck — ”

Before Richie could repeat his request, Methos slid his lips over the dark crown and pulled back, sipping the pearly pre-cum in a tender kiss. He lapped at he velvety skin, each lick collecting more of Richie’s leaking essence. He somehow knew how much the boy could take, knew he could bring Richie such heights of pleasure never even imagined. Slowly he took the organ back into his mouth, massaging with his tongue, sucking as he engulfed more and more of the hard pillar of flesh. One more deep breath opened his throat, and he took the boy completely, the golden curls tickling his nose before he eased back, still sucking as he slowly gave up his prize. He glanced up to see Richie staring, wide eyes, as he took him again.

Methos held Richie’s hips still while he deep throated him. He knew what would send the boy over the edge. He slid his hand from hip to groin, cupping and lifting the heavy balls, teasing the soft akin with questing fingers, then rolling and lightly squeezing.

He felt the sac tighten up and new the end was near. He extended one finger and lightly stroked the perineum once, twice, and Richie came, filling his throat with hot cum. He swallowed greedily, over and over, the muscles in his throat milking the boy dry. He swallowed one last time, then drew his head back to release the flagging cock. He reverently kissed the tip before moving back to the head of the bed and his lover’s waiting mouth. He opened to Richie immediately taking the questing tongue deep inside his mouth. He felt the silken flesh everywhere in his mouth, around his teeth, sparring with his own tongue, thrusting as far into this throat as possible.

When the kiss finally ended they snuggled together, Methos nuzzling into the hollow of Richie’s shoulder, kissing and tasting the sweat that had gathered there.

“Is that how I taste?”

“Mmmmm hmmmm. Good.” Methos felt a wet kiss planted on his forehead.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Methos felt another kiss on his temple, then soft lips brushed against his eyelids. A hand skimmed his flanks and cupped around his still hard cock, then lightly fondled his balls. He couldn’t stop the moan that came from deep in the center of his being.

In an instant, Richie rolled them both over. He pushed himself up from Methos’s chest.

“Now it’s my turn.” His smile was almost a leer, but there was not mistaking the sparkle in his eyes. He dropped his head to press a brief, searing kiss on Methos’s mouth. Richie stretched his body on top of Methos, trapping the older man’s erection between them, his shoulders raised on stiffened arms. He bent his elbows as if he were doing a push-up, bringing their mouths together again in a kiss that deepened as they each opened to the other.

Methos wrapped his arms around Richie. His hands ranged over the boy’s back, teasing with his fingertips, stroking with his palms. He could feel the muscles move beneath the silken skin as Richie used his entire body to caress Methos from shoulder to groin. Their bodies were different, one as smooth and pale as alabaster, the other freckled and furred with golden-red curls. Still supporting most of his weight on his arms, the younger man tickled the older by brushing the smooth skin with the golden curls.

When Richie pulled away from the kiss, Methos raised his head in an attempt to continue the gentle battle their tongues waged, the subtle caresses of lip on lip, the incredibly arousing heat of their shared breath. But even craning his neck he couldn’t reach that luscious mouth, and with a sigh dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. He could feel Richie’s cock filling, reaching between his thighs. He moved his hips slightly, bringing his legs together, holding the growing erection, his subtle movements caressing and rubbing the sensitive organ.

With a moan deep in his throat, Richie changed his kiss to a suckling bite, the tender skin at the base of Methos’s throat his target. He moved down the pale chest, finding the dark buds, one and then the other, with his mouth, kissing, licking, and sucking until they were hard and erect. With a last flick of his tongue in farewell, Richie slid farther down the lean body, shifting his weight from his arms to his knees as he knelt between Methos’s thighs. His mouth was followed by his hands, the fingers feather light in their touch.

It was sweet torture, this teasing, but Methos could endure it, for he knew what was to come would be everything he had imagined. He opened his eyes, the pillow raising his head enough so he could watch what Richie did to him, he could see the movement of the boy’s head, as he traced the hot, silken tongue and the velvety lips across his body, closer and closer to the now throbbing center of his being.

But Richie didn’t touch the hard, weeping cock with is mouth. He sat back on his heels, his own erection jutting out from his lap like the horn of a unicorn. “You got some lube?” The boy’s voice was husky, filled with passion and need. Methos reached a long arm to the bedside table and blindly groped in the drawer. The tube was where he had left it, and he made to toss it to Richie.

“No.” He was breathing hard and fast, his furred chest rising and falling in an increasing rhythm. The blue eyes, dilated to almost totally black, locked with the hazel orbs. “Put it on me, Methos. Get me ready to fuck you.”

The domination thrilled Methos, and he saw his cock dance at the order. Discarding the cap he squeezed a generous portion of the lube into his palm. He sat up; Richie leaned back on his arms, presenting himself for preparation. Methos applied the lube to the weeping cock, paying special attention to the mushroom-shaped head, and on down the thick blue-veined shaft. He trailed his fingers along the whole length of it, traced the underside of the dark crown, then lay back again, his task finished. His own cock bobbed with each beat of his heart; he was so hard he knew he could not last long once Richie kept his promise.

Silently, Richie held out a hand for the tube and once it was in his grasp he spoke again. “Over,” was all he said, the tenor of his voice more commanding than ever.

In a single motion Methos pulled his legs in and flipped over, his head and shoulders on the bed, his backside raised. Now he couldn’t see what Richie did, and when the cold lube was squeezed directly onto his ass he shuddered. He tried to concentrate on controlling his ragged breathing, but lost control when the cold lube was rubbed between his ass cheeks and around his entrance. He shifted his knees to open himself to Richie, and cried out when a single finger found its way inside.

He almost cried out again, this time in loss, when the digit was removed.

“Did I hurt you?” The command in Richie’s voice was gone. Methos could hear the little boy again.

He forced an almost coherent “No,” from his throat. “More, please,” he begged.

His request was granted immediately as the digital intruder twisted its way into his most secret place. Twisting while pumping in and out, one finger was soon replaced by two, and together they found that one spot that made Methos Richie’s slave.

“Yes! Oh, Richie, yes!” Methos pushed his hips back, trying to take even more of Richie into himself. The fingers scissored and twisted, stretching the ring of muscle at the entrance. A third, and then a fourth continued the task, readying the ancient body for what was to come.

Methos knew he was ready for anything, and when he felt the hot velvety head of Richie’s cock rub against his perineum, he knew the joining he had craved for years was near.

“Ready, Old Timer?” Richie didn’t wait for an answer, but moved his hands to hold the slim hips, and in one long, slow thrust he filled Methos. Just as slowly he pulled back, then repeated his thrust. With a building rhythm, he pumped himself deep into Methos, each stroke rubbing across the prostate, each stroke the full length of his steel-hard cock.

Gasping in time with Richie’s thrusts, Methos reached for his own organ, catching the pre-cum in his hand. He spread the natural lubricant over the shaft and pumped himself, his hips held motionless in the boy’s strong grip. He could feel the slap of heavy balls against his own, then the tensing in his body that signaled the beginning of his climax.

“You like this, Methos?” Richie stopped pumping, grinding his hips against the pale ass. Methos could feel the rod of flesh moving inside him, possessing him, owning him. He felt Richie lean forward over his back, and the motion inside him continued. His hand was pushed away from his cock, his pumping replaced by Richie’s hands, both circling the thick shaft, pumping and pulling. “You want this, old timer?”

The wordless scream as he came, ejaculate shooting through the ringing hands was his only answer.

Again Richie drew back and thrust forward, the strokes hard and fast, and when Methos thought he could take no more, there was yet another thrust, this one harder and deeper than ever, and the spasms that filled him with the young man’s seed.

Methos didn’t remember collapsing onto the bed, Richie’s body above his. He felt fingers comb into his hair, a caress on his scalp, and hot breath at his ear. “Yeah, man. I am real okay with this.”

---

“When did you first know? Methos traced his fingers idly across Richie’s back, barely skimming over the smooth skin. “I mean, how you felt.” He turned his head to press a kiss on the top of the boy’s head. They lay in a tangle of arms and legs and bodies, oblivious to the drying, sticky evidence of their passion.

“Like — it was the first time I met you. I walked into the dojo and there you were, Mac’s sword at your throat. I thought it was ’cause I’d just come from Kristin, but it was you, submitting to Mac like that but still so — I don’t know — in control.” He wiggled his head, nestling even deeper into the hollow of his lover’s shoulder.

“Then later, when I got Kristin out of my system — every time I saw you I got turned on, so I had to figure it was you.” He planted a kiss on the smooth chest beneath his lips, and breathed in the complex but unique scent that was Methos.

“And after I found out you were really Methos, well I just couldn’t deal with it. I could handle being turned on by another man — god, it’s not like I haven’t — well, you know. But the oldest man in the world? I figured what could you possibly see in me? I was like a baby compared to you.” He closed his eyes, a satisfied hum in his throat.

“So I left.” A long moment of silence filled the room, broken only by the barely audible thrum of Methos’s fingertips on Richie’s back.

“But I couldn’t get away from you. It was like you were haunting me. You know, I’m starting to learn to recognize how we each feel a little different? And every time I felt one of us I hoped it was you but I know it wasn’t. I know I’d never mistake anyone else for you.”

“Most immortals can’t do that for centuries.” Methos stretched out his legs, knees and ankles popping. “And you’re what — three years immortal?”

“Four,” Richie corrected. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Hanging with Mac I met a lot of other immortals — ones he fought, and his friends…”

“Doesn’t matter why,” Methos reached to Richie’s face and pushed the short curls back from his forehead. “Let me tell you how it was for me.” Again he kissed the top of Richie’s head. “I knew about you, of course. I’d always kept up on Mac’s chronicles, and you were part of them as soon as you broke into the antique shop.”

“You know about that?”

“It was Darius who told me you were one of us. He thought you were a special person, Richie. He saw the trust in your heart and the goodness in your soul. And he somehow knew he wouldn’t be around when you learned the truth.” He paused a moment, and a nearly forgotten prayer to a forgotten god crossed his mind.

“Then,” he went on after coughing down a lump in his throat. “After you became immortal I kept up with your chronicles as well, and did some of the research into your past. The Watchers like to know about an immortal’s first life, too.” He realized he was digressing again.

“So how did we get here?” Richie’s hand found a flat nub of a nipple. He flicked the pad of his thumb back and forth over it a couple of time, then pinched the hard center that rose from the smooth chest.

Methos gasped as the touch sent bolts of energy to every part of his body. He closed his eyes, relishing the sensations, and the feelings of desire that filled his heart. “I wanted you from the first time I saw you.”

“In the dojo?”

“Hmmff,” he stifled a laugh. “No, Rich, I saw you long before that.” His hand returned to aimlessly caressing the boy’s back, feather touches from neck to buttocks and back. “Whenever you were in Paris I kept track of you.” He ran his fingers up both of Richie’s flanks at the same time, smiled when he felt the body in his arms gasp. “Was Tessa’s opening the first time you ever wore a tux?”

“You saw that?”

“And I watched you die on the track.” He kissed the strawberry curls once again. “Way too public, kid.”

“Yeah, I know.” Richie slid to lie at Methos’s side, tracing his fingers idly across Methos’s chest and abdomen, barely skimming over the smooth skin. He stretched his neck to touch the older man’s cheek with lips. “We’re not in public now, Old Timer.”

A week later.

“Richie,” Methos said. “We have to make some decisions.” They had eaten breakfast in the sunroom, the view of the flower-filled meadows and the mountains beyond like a scene from The Sound of Music.

“About what?”

“I’ve heard from the university. I was graduated in absentia with a doctorate in ancient languages.” The coffee was hot, and he paused to blow across the surface. “We need to talk about where we’re going to live, how we’re going to live. What you want to do.”

“Go on.”

“I can get a teaching job at any university in America and most of Europe. We can go anywhere you want. If you want to go to college, it can be arranged.”

“I don’t want to go back to Seacouver.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“And I can’t stay in Europe.”

Methos nodded. Richie had died twice in France in the space of two years; Europe was out of the question for him for a generation or more.

“And I guess I’ll need a new name.”

“The Watchers still think you’re dead.”

The boy’s eyes brightened. “You mean they won’t be Watching me anymore?”

“Not unless somebody else’s Watcher notices you.”

“Do they know about you?”

“Only Joe.”

“So we’d be safe from them.”

“Yeah. For the time being anyway.”

Richie sat motionless and silently for a long moment. Methos held back, wanting to touch him, to tell him how much he was loved. But this had to be Richie’s decision, and he had to make it on his own.

“What do you want to do?” Richie asked.

“Don’t worry about what I want.”

“No,” he said strongly. “What you want is important to me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, and he lowered his eyes to the floor.

“I want to be a part of your life, Rich, in whatever way you want.” When Richie made no comment, Methos went on. “We can be whoever and whatever we want. If you want to live alone, fine. I’ll be nearby. If you want to share a home, better. If you want to share a bed, great. It’s up to you.”
Methos reached his hand towards the younger man. His hand was palm up, not for a handshake, but in invitation. His hazel eyes looked not at his proffered hand, but at the bright blue eyes in Richie’s face. Say yes, Richie, please say you want to live with me. The words were so strong in his mind he almost thought he spoke them. Please say you want me in your life.

“Could we live in California?” He sounded even younger than he was, almost like a child.

“Anywhere you want. I can teach anywhere.”

Richie’s smile lit the room. “I always wanted to live there.”

“California?”

“I was there once, when I raced at Long Beach. It’s warm all year, and there’s so many people, we could disappear.” His enthusiasm was contagious. Methos smiled broadly.

“Then California it is.” He reached his hand a bit closer to the boy, still inviting Richie’s response.

“Southern California,” Richie amended. “Around Los Angeles?” The question in his voice sounded like any teenager pushing his limits.

“We’ll see. I’ll send word to the universities out there. It depends which one needs a professor of ancient languages.”

“Okay,” he said. He took the hand the old man still held out, and gripped it strongly. Suddenly he pulled Methos to him, meeting his lips with a soft kiss.

When the tip of Richie’s tongue brushed against his lips, Methos sighed and leaned into the kiss, returning the gentle caress. He moaned softly when Richie drew away, but kept his eyes fixed on the still smiling face.

“And I want to be part of your life, Old Timer. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Methos couldn’t speak for the lump in his throat, the swelling of this heart in his chest. He pulled Richie back into his arms and held him tightly. It was all that he had hoped for, more than he had expected.

Author ’s Notes:
References and Acknowledgements:
1) Thanks to Tirnanog for the information on St. Julien de Pauvre
2) The New Watcher Chronicles: Final Report on Richie Ryan by Claire Bailey.

This page last updated
22 August 2002

© 2000 Emma Keigh