This story contains descriptions of a romantic/sexual relationship between two consenting men and of overt heterosexual lust. 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; no profit. Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again). Not beta-read. You have been warned.

Seacouver, October 1996.

I t was still late afternoon when Richie Ryan parked his motorcycle outside Joe’s. He sat on the bike for a long moment before dismounting, and stood next to it for an even longer time. Finally he pushed down the kickstand and sauntered to the door of the bar.

I don’t have to come right out and say anything, he told himself. But if it comes up, I’m gonna be cool about it. “Cool,” he said under his breath as he pulled open the heavy metal door.

The interior of the bar was dim compared to the afternoon sun outside, and it took Richie’s immortal eyes a moment to adjust. He headed towards the bar out of habit, then remembered he was meeting someone. Veering away to sit at a table, he raised a hand in greeting to the bartender. “Hey, Mike. How ’bout a beer? Draught, I think.”

“Sure thing, Rich,” Mike Barrett responded. He finished wiping the glass in his hands, set it on the shelf, and tossed the towel over his shoulder. He grabbed a mug from the rack and pulled the tap to fill it to the brim with amber liquid that formed a thick, cream-colored head.

“Thanks.” Richie only glanced at the waitress as she set the beer and bowl of peanuts on the table. His attention was riveted on the door.

“That goes on your tab, I suppose?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He tore his eyes away from the door. “When my friend gets here, he’ll have the same. Okay?” His gaze returned to the door before she answered.

Damn, he thought. What do we think we’re doing? He lifted the mug to his lips and gulped a quarter of it down. He wiped the foam from his mouth with the back of his hand, never shifting his eyes. Coming here, where everybody knows us? Somebody’s going to figure it out.

“Something wrong with my door?” The voice and the slap on the shoulder startled Richie out of his meditations. Joe lowered himself into a chair between Richie and the door, blocking the boy’s entire view of the entrance.

“No,” Richie answered automatically, his voice distant.

The gray head nodded. “I see. You’re waiting for someone.”

Richie’s blue eyes snapped to lock with Joe’s. “How did you know?”

A crooked smile crossed the grizzled face. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. It’s cool,” he continued. “What’s her name?”

“Who?”

“The woman you’re meeting.”

“I didn’t say it was a woman.” I shouldn’t have said that.

“You didn’t have to. I know the signs.”

Shit. Richie slumped in his chair. I’m gonna have to tell him. He knew it was useless to try to lie to the Watcher; Joe could read him like a book. “Well, it’s not a woman.”

Richie could see the gears turning in Joe’s mind as he pursed his lips and tilted his head in thought. He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, it’s not a woman.” He cleared his throat before he went on. “I didn’t know you went that way.”

“I don’t.” God, it’s not like I could care less about any other man, Richie said to himself, then a smile crossed his face as he sensed the approach of another Immortal. It was a quickening he could identify, one he was intimately familiar with.

Joe knew the sudden change in expression meant another Immortal was near. When Richie’s look of alarm turned into one of anticipation, he said quietly, “And he’s Immortal.”

“Yep,” was all Richie said as he watched his lover enter the bar and walk towards them.

Methos walked around the table, circling behind Richie, before he pulled out a chair, turned it back to the table, and sat astride it. It looked to Joe as though he had touched Richie’s shoulders as he sat, but if he had, the gesture had been very discreet.

“Dawson,” Methos greeted the Watcher with a nod of his head. He gestured at Richie’s beer and asked, “Do I get one of those?” just as the waitress set the fresh-drawn beer on the table. “Thanks,” he told her. He touched his glass to Richie’s half-empty one, then raised it to Joe. “Cheers.”

Richie stared at his beer, a blush rising in his cheeks. It felt good be near Methos again, as though the few hours they had been apart were years. He turned his head, and watched as the ancient Immortal drank half the beer in one swallow. “Joe knows.” His voice was low, pitched so only Methos and Joe would hear him.

Methos very nearly spewed beer over both of them, but managed to control himself. “You told him?” His hazel eyes bored into Richie’s face, but the boy didn’t return the stare.

“I figured it out,” the Watcher admitted. “Richie tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.”

Richie blushed even more when Methos replied, “Yeah, I’ve noticed.” His voice was hushed, almost reverent, and in the silence that followed he moved his hand to touch and then cover Richie’s hand. He squeezed gently, and the caress brought a smile to the younger man’s face. Lifting his chin to look at Methos, Richie interlaced his fingers with the slender digits.

When their eyes met, it was like a connection between them, and they both smiled even broader, even more brightly than before.

“Well,” Joe said, pushing himself to stand. “I can see I’m not needed here.” He stood still for a moment, looking at the two Immortals, one the oldest of his kind; the other one of the youngest. He leaned towards them, supporting himself with one hand on the table. “If you two are happy with this,” he said, “so am I. But, uh,” he hesitated. “Don’t give the place a reputation, okay?” A crooked smile and a wink put them both at ease, and it was a long moment before they released each other’s hand.

“Well,” Methos said. “That’s one down, one to go.”

“I don’t understand why we have to tell him.” It’s nobody’s business who I sleep with, he thought.

“Would you rather he guessed? Or walked in on us?” The two men kept their hands to themselves, but under the table the oldest one’s booted feet nudged the other’s Reeboks. “This way, he won’t show up unannounced.”

“If he ever speaks to us again.” Richie drank more of his beer and signaled to the waitress for another.

“Two,” Methos added to Richie’s silent order. “What makes you think he won’t understand?”

“’Cause he’s Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod. Richie mimicked the Highlander’s strongest brogue and dour look.

Looking around the room, Methos was confident no one was paying them the least attention. He touched Richie’s cheek. “He’ll understand,” he promised.

“Why? Because he’s been there, done that?” Richie attacked his new beer. “I don’t think so.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Richie’s retort was aborted when both men suddenly looked up and then to the door as Duncan Macleod entered the bar. “We don’t have to just — announce it, do we?” Yeah, right. By the way, Mac, Methos and I are sleeping together. Wanna make it a threesome? “Euwwwww.” His face contorted at the thought.

“What’s wrong?” Methos asked under his breath. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Nah,” he answered. Probably, if that ever happens. “I just had a really bad idea.”

A smirk replaced the look of concern on Methos’ face. “Really? You’ll have to tell me about it — when we’re being bad.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Don’t want to know what?” Macleod stood where Joe had, a beer in his hand. “May I join you?”

Methos was the first to respond to the Scot. He looked the Highlander squarely in the eye. “Sure, pull up a chair.”

“Hi, Richie,” Macleod continued. “Haven’t seen you around.”

He couldn’t look at the brown eyes in the face of the man who was the closest thing to a father he’d ever known. He didn’t want to see the disgust he was sure would be there. I’ll bet he already knows, he thought. He can tell just by looking at us. “I been keeping busy,” the youngster answered, his eyes still on his beer. God, now I’m being rude, he realized, and lifted his head.

Macleod’s eyes were focused across the room on the stage. Richie turned in his chair to see the night’s entertainers setting up their equipment, the singer adjusting the microphone. She was blonde, her short hair cut in layers around her face, and she wore skin-tight capris with a cropped halter top. Richie couldn’t tell if Macleod was staring at her ample cleavage or the ring in her navel. An idea formed in Richie’s mind and his mouth twisted into a smirk learned from his new lover.

“Earth to Macleod, come in Mac,” Richie intoned.

“Huh?” For a split second, Macleod seemed disoriented and confused. “Did you say something?”

“I just said that Adam and I are — ” he broke off, and looked at Methos, a question in his eyes. “Involved?”

“Involved,” Methos agreed, and nodded his head.

Macleod still stared at the blonde singer as she bent over to adjust the microphone stand. His mouth opened slightly; his eyes glazed.

“You got a problem with that?”

“No, none at all.” Macleod’s voice was distant. He rose from the table, never looking at either of them. “Excuse me,” he said, and crossed the room to the stage.

“That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Methos drained his second beer and waved the waitress away. “Not that he’ll remember what we said.”

“But we told him.” Richie looked over to Macleod and the singer, already deep in conversation. “He said it was okay.”

“I could have told you it was okay.” Methos set his hand on Richie’s shoulder in what looked like a casual touch. He squeezed gently, just enough of a caress to remind the boy of his love. “I did tell you it was okay.”

“Yeah, I know.” A sheepish grin replaced the smirk.

Methos rose from the table, took Richie’s hand in his, and pulled him to stand next to him. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. “I’ve got better ideas for tonight.”

“What about Mac?”

Methos looked back at the seduction-in-progress. “What about him?” Before the boy could respond, he went on. “Joe will make sure he understands.” With a hand on the center of Richie’s back, Methos guided him towards the door. “And believe me, you’re going to be too busy to worry about him.”

This page last updated
22 August 2002

© 2000 Emma Keigh