It’s done! It’s done! It’s done! All right, happy dance over. This is the second installment of the Fun & Games series. (The first one being Video Games.) Again, not quite a pwp. Methos just had to have his say, and then Richie joined in… what could I do? I need to send a huge thank you to everyone that offered moral support and scooby snacks during the writing process. I love to write, but this did turn into something of an ordeal. It was so great to have you all to lean on. Amy, you always had just the right thing to say. Bless you. The absolutely above and beyond the call of duty award goes to Emma. What a patient beta reader! The boyz were stranded in the shower forever, but you stuck with me. You let me vent my frustration when I needed to, offered encouragement when I needed that, too, and just generally kept me on track. You’re amazing! Feedback would be greatly appreciated. I’d love to know what you think. n.memmott@gte.net Enjoy!

“ Hurry up, Methos! Mac’s gonna have kittens if we’re late”

“Now that would be something to see,” Methos replied without walking any faster. “What is our distinguished professor lecturing about again?”

“I’m not sure. What’s that big battle that started with a ‘C’ again? Culligan or something?”

“Or something. Please tell me we are not going to listen to MacLeod lecture for an hour and a half on the battle of Culloden.”

“Culloden — that’s it.” Richie’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s wrong with that, Methos? I mean, he was there, right? He must know a lot about it.”

“He does. Much, much more, I suspect, than his students really want to know.”

Richie stopped suddenly, grabbing Methos by the arm. “Are you going to behave in there?”

Methos adopted his most innocent expression, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Repeat after me. ‘I will not interrupt the lecture.’” When Methos’ expression turned mulish, Richie pressed, “Say it.”

Methos sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, but finally mumbled, “I will not interrupt the lecture.”

“‘I will keep my opinions to myself,’” Richie continued.

“What is this? You can’t possibly think I’m going to do anything except sleep through MacLeod’s little monologue.”

“Can’t I?” Richie placed himself nose to rather large nasal appendage with Methos and looked him square in the eye. “I know you, Methos.”

He did, too, Methos admitted. Knew him better than anyone. Richie had always been able to see right inside him. Filled with the warmth that thought never failed to bring him, Methos could not stop a smile from creeping into his eyes or playing briefly on his lips.

Seeing it, Richie went in for the kill. “Say it, Methos. ‘I will keep my opinions to myself.’”

The smile broadened to reveal teeth as Methos surrendered. “All right, all right. I will keep my opinions to myself.”

Richie eyed Methos suspiciously for a moment, then relaxed. “Thanks,” he replied, relieved. He took Methos’ hand to give it a quick squeeze, then held on instead.

The buzz hit them when they reached the door to the small lecture hall. So much for sneaking in the back. Having discovered that holding Methos’ sword hand during the buzz was a sure way to get your own hand crushed, Richie flexed his hand painfully and let Methos get the door.

The rear of the auditorium was more crowded than they had anticipated, but they did find seats together. Richie caught Duncan’s eye, then wished he hadn’t. If the daggers shooting from Duncan’s gaze and his soaked shirtfront were any indication, Duncan had been taking a drink of water when the buzz hit him. Richie looked over at Methos, but the older man was rocked with silent laughter at the highlander’s predicament. To keep his own smile at bay Richie tried to focus on the lecture Duncan was giving. Soon, however, names, and clans, and who was where in the battle began to run together. Richie looked at the clock hopefully. An hour and fifteen minutes left. He would have taken notes, just to give himself something to do, but he hadn’t brought paper or anything to write with. Methos was sound asleep right beside him, but Richie wasn’t tired.

Something began to tease the hair on the back of his neck. Richie turned around to find five or six sheets of paper in his face. The blonde who was holding them smiled and leaned forward to whisper, “This might help.”

“Help?” Richie whispered back.

“Help you take notes.” She paused, then added, “Or at least look like you are.” She turned her notebook so he could see the drawings that covered the page where her notes should be.

Richie laughed softly and said, “Those are great!” He pointed to the paper she had given him. “Thanks for this, too. I appreciate it.” He turned back around and pulled the writing desk up from the side of the chair. He tapped the ends of the paper on the desk to line them up, set the pages on the desk, and paused. Something was missing. He stared at the pages for a moment before he felt the tap on his shoulder. It was a pen this time. He accepted the offering with a rueful smile and began to doodle idly on the top sheet.

Methos, awakened by Richie’s movement, turned to see what the younger man was up to. He studied Richie’s drawing for a moment before leaning close to whisper, “Not exactly Michelangelo, are you?”

His concentration broken, Richie cast a critical eye over his work. “Nope,” he shrugged. “But at least I’m pretending to pay attention.”

“Yes, you’re Saint Richard, I know.” Methos drawled sarcastically then settled more comfortably in his chair and tried to go back to sleep.

Richie laid his pen down and watched Methos pretend to doze for a few minutes. His lover was still a little sensitive since their last fight over the video games. Remembering how that argument had been resolved, inspiration struck. Two player! Richie quickly drew a tic-tac-toe matrix on the page and placed an “x” in the center square. He poked Methos with his elbow and waited for him to go through the motions of waking up. When a sleepy glare flashed in his direction Richie handed Methos the pen and turned the paper towards him.

Methos stared blankly at the page with the pen in his hand. What was Richie up to? When Richie took his hand and helped him draw a circle in the lower left hand corner Methos made the connection. Wonderful. Now he could either listen to MacLeod’s lecture or play a children’s game with Richie. Methos found himself drawing a circle in response to Richie’s most recent “x” and realized the choice had already been made. As “o” followed “x” Methos even found himself getting involved in the game. He had learned to enjoy the occasional video game that he and Richie played, but this was different. As simple as tic-tac-toe was, responding to Richie’s moves on the matrix offered insight into how Richie’s mind worked. He knew every nook and cranny of Richie’s body, and he had been welcomed into the deepest recesses of Richie’s heart, but Richie’s mind remained something of a mystery. So far, Richie’s mind most closely resembled a sponge soaking up knowledge and experience. As he and Richie played, Methos realized that Richie was able to process and apply those things as well. Methos won the first couple of games easily, but Richie began to see the strategy that was allowing his partner to win and made tactical adjustments accordingly. Methos suspected that Richie would even be able to take what he was learning about strategy and use it in other aspects of his life.

Methos’ train of thought was interrupted when he realized Richie was waving a hand in front of his face.

“Hello? Earth to Methos.”

“I’m here.”

“Yeah, well you weren’t for a few seconds there. Where did you go?”

“I was thinking.”

“About the game? It’s just tic-tac-toe, Methos.”

“Actually, I was thinking about a great recipe for stewed ostrich intestines I got from this tribe in Africa.”

Richie’s met Methos’ gaze head-on for one knowing moment, but his only response was to grimace and say, “That’s disgusting. Couldn’t that thought have waited until after lunch?” With one last shudder Richie returned to the match in progress.

Methos managed to make his moves without any more pauses, but his mind was in turmoil. He had avoided a direct question from Richie. Worse, Richie knew that he was lying and had let him get away with it. How difficult would it have been to answer with the truth—- that he had been thinking about Richie? And why, when his young lover had an excellent nose for bullshit, hadn’t Richie pressed him for that truth?

Before he had time to answer those questions, Methos realized the lecture had ended and the students were leaving. As if from a distance he listened while Richie and the girl that had given them the paper introduced themselves. When it was his turn Methos smiled and shook the girl’s hand, but it was MacLeod’s arrival that shook him out of his thoughts.

“Hi, guys. Nice of you to come, even if it was a few minutes late.”

Methos’ response was to arch an eyebrow and say, “Sorry, Professor. My dog ate my homework.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” The Scot turned to Richie, “It’s good to see you, Rich.”

“You, too, Mac. I’m glad I finally got to see one of your lectures.”

“Is that why you were drawing the whole time?”

Richie grinned and clapped his former teacher on the shoulder. “Sorry, Mac. I never did pay very much attention in school.”

“I remember,” Duncan acknowledged wryly. “Let’s go. Joe’s waiting for us at the restaurant.”

This time Methos’ eyebrow arched in Richie’s direction. “Joe’s waiting? At the restaurant? Really?”

Richie’s innocent expression was no more effective than Methos’ had been. Finally he just put his hands up and took a step back. “Come on, Methos. It wasn’t that bad,” he coaxed.

“Oh, thanks,” Duncan interrupted to add.

“You know what I mean, Mac.” Frowning slightly when Methos did not respond, Richie took Methos’ hands and pressed, “You had fun, didn’t you?”

Methos felt his annoyance melting with the warmth of Richie’s touch. The realization that melting around Richie was becoming a habit brought a fresh surge of irritation, but Methos just squeezed Richie’s hands and nodded in agreement. He was rewarded by Richie’s smile, which left a silly glow of pleasure under his heart. Methos swore inwardly. This was getting out of hand. He dropped Richie’s hands in disgust and turned to provoke Duncan into a debate.

As Richie listened to the two men argue back and forth he couldn’t help wondering about Methos’ strange mood. One minute he was responsive, even loving, and the next he had closed himself off completely. Richie thought back over the day and couldn’t arrive at an explanation. Not surprising, really, since Methos was difficult to read at the best of times. Richie would just have to go right to the source, would have to get Methos to tell him straight out what was on his mind. Richie’s mental laugh was only a little bitter as he acknowledged the supreme unlikelihood of such an event. Getting a direct answer from Methos about anything, let alone his feelings, was a rare and precious thing indeed. And, Richie knew, there was no hope at all unless he and Methos were alone. For the first time Richie wished he and Methos weren’t having lunch with MacLeod and Joe, but he tried to shake off his worry and enjoy the afternoon. He had managed to paste a smile on his face when his neck began to prickle as it always did when Methos was watching him. Moving to walk next to the older man, Richie put a hand on Methos’ shoulder and waited until his lover turned to face him.

The intent, questioning expression on Richie’s face set Methos off on another round of mental cursing. That look, combined with the set of Richie’s jaw, meant that Richie was not going to let Methos’ fluctuating mood go unexplained. Methos’ jaw clenched and unclenched as he and Richie waged silent battle before he acknowledged defeat with a grudging nod.

The relief flooding through him caught Richie by surprise. His system hummed with the satisfaction of knowing that he and Methos would talk when they got home. As the tightness that had begun to build in his chest eased, Richie realized he was starving. He ordered an enormous lunch, content to spend the next few hours focusing on the food and the company of his friends.

Lunch had turned into an open air concert near the waterfront, the concert had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into drinks at Joe’s before Richie and Methos finally returned to their apartment. The slamming of car doors seemed to echo after the silence that had descended as soon as they were alone. Although Richie had continued to respect Methos’ desire to postpone any discussion about what had happened at the school, Methos could hear Richie’s unasked questions as clearly as if they had been spoken, following one after another in a cacophonous din inside his head. Ruthlessly he pushed them to the back of his mind, determined to ignore them as long as possible.

One of the surest methods Methos had discovered for avoiding serious conversation was to have one’s mouth full. To that end, he headed directly for the fridge as soon as he and Richie entered the apartment. Twisting the top off a bottle of beer he took a deep swig. Although his beverage of choice did not settle well in Methos’ nervous stomach, force of habit had him continuing to drink as he surveyed the kitchen for alternative conversation stallers. There was an open bag of Richie’s favorite chips on the counter, but Methos rejected them. Even if the alternative was the rather daunting prospect of dissecting his feelings for Richie, Methos knew he couldn’t digest salt and grease in his current condition. He was debating between an apple and a bagel when he heard Richie coming back from the bedroom. With time suddenly a factor, Methos grabbed the apple and took a bite just as Richie came into view.

Hearing the crunch of Methos’ apple after a day spent waiting to solve the mystery of Methos’ mood made Richie’s normally even temper boil dangerously. The seemingly innocuous noise was a clear indication that Methos was still playing games. No way, Richie thought. Methos was not going to get off this easy. The battle had already been fought and won outside the restaurant, and Methos had agreed to talk about what was bothering him. Hanging onto the threads of his patience, Richie remained silent while he watched Methos chew and swallow. He waited, but Methos just took another bite.

Methos began to worry as Richie continued to watch a third, fourth, and fifth bite being swallowed. He might actually have to finish the apple if Richie didn’t give up soon.

Richie’s tolerance ran out as the sixth bite was torn from the apple. Heaven only knew why he ever tried to out-wait Methos. The old man was as stubborn as they came. Whatever obstinacy he hadn’t been born with had seeped into his bones after five thousand years. He certainly wasn’t going to be open and vulnerable in this mood even if Richie could get a word out of him. Venting his frustration with a disgusted sigh, Richie spun on his heel, walked to the bathroom, and shut the door firmly behind him.

Methos set the apple aside immediately and waited for his muscles to unknot. He had won. Richie had obviously granted him a reprieve from the big talk. Instead, as he heard Richie moving around in the bathroom, Methos realized his tension had increased. The sound of Richie’s sigh still echoed in the air, and the memory of the look on Richie’s face had uncertainty clawing at Methos’ stomach. Richie had never looked at him quite that way before. No matter what unpleasant revelations about his lover Richie had been asked to face, nothing before now had cast even a shadow on the foundation of faith and acceptance that Richie brought to their relationship. But in the heartbeat between Richie’s sigh and the closing of the bathroom door, Methos realized for the first time that the foundation could be shaken a little.

The sound of the shower gurgling to life brought Methos up short. Richie was taking a shower? He wasn’t sulking, wasn’t trying to make a point? Was there really no need for Methos to bare his soul?

Methos paused once more, his attention caught by his body’s predictable response to thoughts about Richie in the shower. Grinning to himself, Methos acknowledged wryly that he might need to bare something a little more substantial than his soul.

Despite his growing desire, however, Methos hesitated to invade Richie’s privacy. The closed bathroom door was hardly an invitation. On the other hand, Richie hadn’t locked the door. Methos argued all of the possible scenarios with himself, but finally the need simply to touch Richie overwhelmed all analysis. First one foot then another led Methos inevitably to the bathroom door. Defying the fine trembling in his hands, Methos managed to open the door without making a sound. The steam rushed over him first, eager to escape and filled with the scent that was soap and Richie combined. The room was hot, but the sweat that began to bead on Methos’ body had little to do with the temperature.

Methos closed the bathroom door as silently as he had opened it, and the rest of the world seemed to fade away. Nothing existed outside that room. The splash and patter of the shower were the only sounds in the universe. Steam began to fill the room once more, softening the glare of the overhead light. The flesh-colored blur of Richie’s body just barely visible through the shower door turned the sweet, aching arousal Methos had been savoring to an insistent cadence of need drumming through him. Methos’ entire body vibrated with the memory of how Richie’s skin felt pressed against it. Focused completely on recreating that sensation as soon as possible, Methos took an automatic step toward the shower. The drag and stretch of denim and cotton was a jarring reminder that one task remained before Methos could join his lover. Even though he had been undressing himself nearly every day for five thousand years, Methos’ fingers fumbled with the t-shirt that had become a straightjacket and shook with the effort to bring his zipper down as quietly, and thus as slowly, as possible. A long moment later Methos had removed the last of his clothes and taken the final step to the shower.

Richie, his head directly in the spray from the shower and his back to the shower door, was still unaware of Methos’ presence. It had taken awhile, but Richie had finally managed to relax and let the shower ease the headache pulsing sharply under his skull. He was so relaxed, in fact, that the opening of the shower door barely registered on his senses. When skilled hands joined in the massage, Richie was grateful. Methos always knew which touch would bring the most relief.

Methos… a distant alarm bell began to sound in Richie’s mind, but he ignored it. A familiar kiss centered between Richie’s shoulder blades caused no more than the small hitch in his breathing, the instinctive flexing of shoulder muscles that it always did. The movement brought Richie’s body into more intimate contact with Methos,’ however, and the pressure of Methos’ arousal against the cleft of Richie’s buttocks sent pinpricks of desire racing through Richie’s body. The world resolved into sharp focus once more. Even as Richie’s cock hardened he turned and backed away from Methos.

“What are you doing?” Richie questioned warily.

Responding to the invisible chasm between them, Methos stepped closer and threaded their fingers together. Keeping his tone playful, he replied, “I should think that would be obvious, Brat. We’ve done this before.”

Crammed into the corner of the shower, Richie pulled his hand free and met Methos’ gaze evenly. “Not tonight.”

Trying to gage the strength of Richie’s resistance, Methos tilted his head to one side and cast a considering glance up and down Richie’s body. There were subtle signs — the way each breath was more shallow than the last, the way Richie’s pulse beat wildly just under the tender flesh of his neck — that his resolve was weakening. Although Methos’ sharp eyes caught each of these small signals, there was no need for such minute observation. As Richie’s lover, Methos had often given thanks that there was nothing subtle about Richie’s erection. Tonight was no exception, and Methos’ gaze lingered appreciatively on the sensitive flesh. When it twitched and hardened further under his visual caress, Methos’ mouth curved into a triumphant smile. “Not in the mood, hmm?”

Richie leaned his head back against the shower wall and tried to slow the fierce rushing of his blood. Methos’ knowing laughter just added to the fire that had begun to burn inside Richie. He brought his head down sharply and hissed, “Is this really how you want it?”

Methos shifted so that his own hardness rested high along Richie’s thigh. “Oh yes. This is fine,” he purred. He reached down and captured Richie’s straining penis in one hand, squeezing gently. Satisfied with the moan Richie could not quite choke back, Methos released its prisoner and pointed out, “I’m not the only one that wants this.”

Although it was risky to touch Methos at all, Richie finally reached up and shoved Methos back. In a last effort at reason, Richie argued, “You know there’s more than this, Methos. This isn’t enough.”

“No?” Methos asked mildly, arching an inquisitive brow. His eyes, however, blazed into Richie’s. “This is what I want.” Richie reached for the shower door, but Methos grabbed his arm and insisted, “This is what you want, too.”

The emotion in Methos’ voice, his grip on Richie’s arm ignited the volatile combination of desire and anger that Richie had been trying to control. With one quick move it was Methos who suddenly found himself pinned against the shower wall.

His eyes bright with excitement, Methos crowed, “You see, you do want this.”

“I will always want you,” Richie admitted through clenched teeth. “But you chose this.” Richie’s grip on Methos’ wrists tightened painfully as the emotions swirling inside him finally boiled over. “You always get exactly what you want from me, damn you,” he accused before taking Methos’ mouth in a savage kiss.

The fierce pressure of Richie’s lips wiped Methos’ mind clean. His body, however, responded eagerly to Richie’s passionate assault. Methos returned Richie’s kiss with all of the hunger that throbbed in his own body, but still Richie demanded more. The hands that had bound Methos’ wrists moved upward to cup his face and take the kiss still deeper. Tongues chased each other, clashing and retreating. As his hunger mounted, Methos gripped Richie’s upper arms for support.

Methos’ desperate hold had begun to bruise Richie’s arms when the kiss suddenly changed from ravishment to enticement. Nibbling kisses and gentle bites drove Methos insane. Then Richie’s tongue would dart out to trace the outline of Methos lips and ease the small hurts his teeth had caused. The mindless need began to ease, but a slower, much hotter burning took its place.

When Richie’s mouth began easing its way down Methos’ chest, the older man’s sigh of loss was cut off by a new gasp of pleasure. Contact with Richie’s body had already stimulated Methos’ nipples into hardness, making them ultra sensitive to Richie’s tongue as it lapped over them. The brief caresses turned into long, lazy swirls around and around each tight bud. Methos found himself drowning in the delicious torment.

The shock of Richie’s lips finally attaching to one nipple and sucking sent Methos bucking away from the shower wall. The motion set them off-balance for a moment, but the ripples of ecstasy headed straight for his groin caused Methos’ knees to buckle, sending him back into the wall for support.

Richie was forced to swallow a groan as his suction on Methos’ nipple caused Methos’ hips to grind rhythmically against his. He was playing with fire, he, knew, trying to take Methos to the limit of physical passion while maintaining some emotional distance himself. His only hope for success lay in the thorough study he had made of Methos’ body language both in and out of bed. The instinctive movement of Methos’ hips, along with the strangled moans coming from deep in his throat, suggested he was close to fulfillment. A quick orgasm, however, wouldn’t get the point across. Methos needed more time to see what he was missing. Slowing things down would give him that time and allow Richie to put a stronger leash on his own arousal. Putting his plan into action, Richie’s mouth rose to trace Methos’ collar bone even as his hand trailed lower to brush Methos’ erection. One touch turned into two, then three, before finally becoming languorous, featherlight strokes. Even when Richie’s grip tightened a fraction, the motion was still maddeningly slow. Despite the encouragement Methos offered between each panting breath, Richie increased the speed only slightly. At last he increased the pressure on Methos’ hardened member another degree. Then more.

As the tempo of the strokes also crept slowly upward, every cell in Methos’ body began to scream for release. He was pulled back from the brink, however, when Richie’s hand released his cock without warning. Before Methos had time to moan in frustration, Richie spun him around. With his forehead pressed against the shower wall and Richie’s erection pressed firmly against his ass, Methos’ aborted moan became a prayer of thanksgiving. He forgot to inhale when he heard Richie reach for the shower gel, but the coolness of the first gel-coated finger to penetrate his eager opening made his breath draw in sharply. The unhurried pattern of thrust and retreat that Richie set soon warmed the lubricant, but the addition of a second and then a third digit brought small shocks of their own.

By the time Richie replaced his fingers with his straining penis, Methos was shaking with need. There was no teasing now, just hard, fast thrusts to drive them both over the edge. Richie reached around and once again used a hand to speed Methos on his way to passionate oblivion. As Methos approached the pinnacle, however, he became more and more conscious of waiting for something. A thought in the back of his mind was sending a tingle of unease down his spine, but it was impossible to focus. He gave up trying when the powerful orgasm broke at last.

Richie, stroked and squeezed by the muscles surrounding him, followed closely behind. As soon as the last drop of liquid had been wrung from him, he pulled out of Methos’ body. He lingered a moment, just standing there while his heartbeat slowed and his breathing resumed its normal rhythm. Releasing one final sigh that stirred the hair on Methos’ neck, Richie left the shower stall without touching Methos again.

Grabbing a towel, Richie headed for the privacy of their bedroom. After shutting the bedroom door, he leaned on the inside, head tilted back and eyes closed. What had he just done? Richie banged his head against the door. What had Methos made him do? Richie’s head connected with the door more forcefully, the slight pain a welcome change from the numbness that had seeped into him once his desire had spent itself.

Desire. Was that what it had been? Did a romantic word like desire even apply to something like the… coupling… in the shower, Richie wondered? More like basic physical response to a stimulus. Lust, maybe.

At least lust was honest, Richie thought bitterly. No game playing, no strong-arming involved there. Just two people acting on a mutual attraction and no strings attached. Nothing like Methos, who couldn’t take no for an answer. He just had to keep pushing and pushing until the only thing Richie could do was give Methos exactly what he’d asked for.

That wasn’t fair, Richie knew. Methos had pressed some sensitive buttons, had egged him on, but they shared the responsibility for what had happened in the shower. That thought made the curly head strike the door again. The old man had certainly been right about one thing, Richie acknowledged. His dick rose to Methos’ bait every time. No wonder they called it a dumb handle, when it didn’t even have the sense to see it was being manipulated. Methos might have initiated their encounter, but Richie knew he had responded.

The really unforgivable thing was not that Richie had been aroused, however. The worst part for Richie was knowing that he had taken something very precious and used it to make a point. He had taken knowledge gained through intimate, loving encounters with Methos, and used it against him. No matter how often Methos changed the subject or simply refused to discuss something, Richie knew Methos had never lied. Richie also knew that every ounce of seed that had spilled from his body in the shower had been at best half of the truth. He usually poured his heart out, too.

That, Richie admitted, was the problem. Almost from the first, his love for Methos had just overwhelmed him. There was no gentle falling, only one hard drop, with a deeper bond than he had ever imagined waiting at the bottom. There was no part of Richie that Methos had not touched, had not seen. As much as that knowledge thrilled him, Richie realized that Methos had only begun to let him in. Methos loved him and yet kept his distance at the same time.

Richie knew he could accept Methos’ reluctance to talk about his past. They had years, centuries even, to get their stories told. Bottled up along with that past, however, was a good portion of Methos’ soul. Every time Methos offered a glimpse instead of the whole picture it cut Richie’s heart like a tiny shard of glass. Not a large wound by itself, but enough of them close together caused as much pain as a major injury. Gradually, Richie suspected, the hurt would be too great. Even worse, he could stop feeling it. What if he simply stopped caring?

Beating his head on the door wasn’t going to provide him with any answers, Richie decided. A ride on his motorcycle would help clear his mind and also give him the space and quiet to decide what he needed to do. Tossing the towel on the bed, Richie headed for the closet. He’d just get dressed and ride out, hopefully before Methos got out of the bathroom.

The last orgasmic tremor had only just passed through Methos’ body when Richie pulled away. Suddenly empty, Methos felt a deep chill replace the heat of Richie’s body. Richie’s breath on the back of Methos’ neck warmed the older man slightly, but when Richie left without any further contact, the numbing cold returned. Teeth chattering, Methos realized that the frigid water now spraying from the shower might have something to do with his body temperature. He turned off the shower, and the room was plunged into near silence. The quiet ticking of the wall clock, the sound of his own breathing only emphasized that he was alone in the room. Alone. Alone. Alone. Like a grandfather clock striking midnight, the word resonated to every corner of Methos’ psyche.

An impatient shake of his head did little to clear Methos’ mind. Snap out of it, he ordered. You’re being ridiculous. How could he be alone, when Richie was in the next room? Not only that, but moments before they had been as close as two people can be. Richie had been inside him, for heaven’s sake.

And then he’d left, Methos remembered. That wasn’t like Richie.

Methos’ certainty that he was missing something returned full force. He had been unable to focus while passion ruled his mind and body, but there were no distractions now. Like a broken record, Methos’ thoughts returned again and again to Richie’s abrupt departure. He knew, however, that trouble had been brewing before Richie left. There must have been signs missed along the way that would explain Richie’s behavior.

Starting with his attempts to massage Richie’s headache, Methos mentally reviewed the encounter in the shower. He frowned as he recalled Richie’s words. I will always want you. But you chose this. How could it be only his choice when Richie had been hard, too? When Richie’s hands and mouth had driven him to the brink of insanity?

Awareness flooded over the bewildered immortal at last. Driven.

Oh, God.

Richie had used nearly every way he knew to arouse his partner. The tiniest touch or kiss had been calculated to excite Methos. Richie’s erection, however, even his orgasm, had been more about biology than desire.

You always get what you want from me, damn you.

Methos knew he had indeed gotten exactly what he’d been stupid enough to ask for. A hundred signals that he’d been too caught up in his own need to notice seemed glaringly obvious now. He realized that any moans of passion and gasps of pleasure had been his alone. Richie, usually the more vocal of the two, had barely made a sound. No growling in his throat while they kissed, no humming sounds of delight when Methos’ erection rubbed against his, no sigh of satisfaction when his full length was finally buried inside Methos. The thing Methos had missed the most, though, was the way Richie would cling to him when the storm of passion was over. The way his cheek would settle between Methos’ shoulder blades until they breathed in the same rhythm and the way his fingers would stroke slowly up and down Methos’ arms.

The extent to which Richie had closed himself off struck a spark of anger in Methos. How could Richie have kept his distance so completely? Richie loved him, damn it! Just having sex shouldn’t even be possible now. Methos wouldn’t, couldn’t hold back from Richie.

Not in bed, anyway.

The thought halted Methos’ inner tirade. Not in bed? he wondered. What does that mean? Was he keeping his distance from Richie in some way? Images from the lecture, from outside the restaurant, from their return to the apartment rose to convict him.

The kid doesn’t need to know every thought in my head, Methos argued. If I don’t want to talk about something, then I don’t have to.

You promised.

The hell I did!

You promised.

Methos scrubbed his face with his hands. All right. He’d promised. But if he’d come out and said that it was Richie on his mind, that Richie’s slightest smile turned him to mush inside, he could no longer deny that he had fallen completely, ass-over-teakettle in love with his lover. If he was that far gone, the need to share his past with Richie, to tell him everything, would be unstoppable. Giving Richie the whole story while Methos still held back a small portion of his heart was risky enough. Telling Richie everything when Methos’ heart had been given fully was suicidal. Methos knew he would never completely heal if Richie could not accept his past and love him in spite of it. That kind of absolute acceptance and love, however, was too much to expect from anyone. Richie, bless him, would try, but even his tolerance would be pushed over the limit. Better to keep the darkness locked away than to ask for the impossible.

He did need to tell Richie something, Methos realized. Richie was too perceptive not to notice when he shut down, and too in love with him not to be hurt when that happened. He could tell Richie a part of the truth — that it was difficult for him to talk about his feelings and that the depth of his feelings for Richie scared the hell out of him. Richie would understand, would give him some time to get more comfortable with his feelings, Methos knew. Then he would have a chance to give Richie a slice or two of the darker moments in his history and observe Richie’s reaction. If things went well, Methos could consider opening up even more. The important thing, though, was to buy some time.

The plan was a little weak, Methos acknowledged, but it would work. It had to. Tugging on his pants, he headed for the bedroom to talk to Richie.

Since the bedroom light was off, Methos stood in the doorway long enough to make sure Richie wasn’t sleeping. The jingle of keys in the dining room sent him racing to see what Richie was doing.

The sight of Richie, coat on and helmet in hand, made Methos’ heart drop into his stomach.

Richie was leaving.

All of the words Methos had thought to offer in explanation struggled desperately to get past the knot of panic clogging his throat. Finally, one word burst free. “Wait!”

Richie flinched, but kept walking. He couldn’t listen to Methos right now. It would be too easy to stay, to just let it go, and that wouldn’t solve anything. He needed some space to think about what kind of future he could have with someone that wouldn’t allow himself to love completely.

With each step Richie took, Methos could feel a little more of his heart breaking away.

Richie was leaving. Leaving.

Although he had misread Richie all day long, terror now sharpened Methos’ instincts. An awful certainty grew that if Richie left the apartment that night the chances were good that he wouldn’t come back. Methos’ mind shrieked in immediate denial. Richie wasn’t even carrying a bag. Why would he leave for good and not take anything with him?

Richie hadn’t decided to end it, Methos’ new insight answered him. Richie just wanted to do some thinking. But he was already building walls between them, and distance would make them stronger. His short life as an immortal had already taught him how to walk away and start over with almost nothing, so not even the things left in the apartment would bring Richie back if he decided to stay gone.

Gone. For good.

Methos doubled over as a new wave of pain struck him. Richie couldn’t leave, not forever. Somehow Methos had to convince him to stay tonight, to stay for always.

He had the means, Methos knew. Plans and explanations wouldn’t do it, but the truth would. All he had to do was open his heart and soul and let Richie in. Methos had thought holding back would lessen the agony if Richie left, but it hadn’t made any difference. Instead, his desire to protect himself had hurt them both. Bloody idiot. Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath to brace himself, Methos let the power of his love for Richie break down the barriers inside him. It filled him, as he had known it would, and then overflowed into tears that flowed freely down his face and cracked in his voice as he pleaded once more. “Wait!” When Richie’s step hesitated slightly, Methos begged, “Please, Richie.”

Cursing his own weakness, Richie stopped. He had never heard that tone from Methos before, and it paralyzed him. What did it mean? His reluctant limbs finally shifted enough so that he faced Methos. “Methos, I have to go.”

“Don’t leave.”

“I have to think. We can’t keep doing this to each other.”

“You’re right. But let’s think this through together. Don’t shut me out, please.”

“That’s rich, coming from you! You have *never let me all the way in.”

The anger was back in Richie’s voice, and Methos could feel the panic welling up again. “I know I haven’t.” He struggled to find the right words, but once he did, they poured out of him. “I have been so scared. I was going through the motions for so long, avoiding contact with people.”

“You were with the Watchers, Methos, not living on a deserted island.”

“But I was a researcher, Richie. How many people do you think I even saw while I was going over ancient chronicles, let alone talked to, had relationships with? My only goal was to protect myself, from discovery by the Watchers and from getting hurt by other people.”

“But you loved Alexa.”

“Yes, I did. But I was learning to say goodbye to her almost from the moment we met. I never even told her that I was immortal, Richie. I couldn’t do that to her.”

“So I should be grateful that you’ve told me as much as you have, is that it?”

“Bloody hell, Richie. Can’t you see that it’s different with you.?”

“How is it different? I already know you’re immortal. I’m not dying of a terrible disease But you still won’t let me in!”

The stakes were desperately high, but Methos still had to force the words out. “You know me better than I had planned on letting anyone know me again. Even when you thought I was just Adam Pierson you saw right into me. And then I fell in love with you. I have never been so happy and so terrified at the same time. If anything happened to you, Richie, or you got tired of me, I would never be whole again. I thought if I could hold back a little then it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Richie could see the haunted expression in Methos’ eyes as he contemplated a life where they weren’t together. Methos’ fear went a long way towards easing Richie’s hurt. The barriers he had erected starting to crumble, Richie responded as openly as Methos had. “I’m taking the same risks that you are, Methos. I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. I need you in ways that I have never needed anyone. But I can’t do this alone.”

“What do you want, Richie?”

“What do you think I want, Methos?” Richie asked, amazed. “I want you. Just you. But I need all of you, Methos. Not just the part you want to share, or think I can handle, but all of it.”

“You think I’ve told you the worst of it? That I’ve even begun to show you what has happened in my life, the kind of person I’ve been?”

“I know you haven’t! And I’m sure that there are some awful things left to tell. But nothing you could say would hurt me as badly as knowing you are keeping something from me, Methos.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Damn it, Methos! I’m not a kid. I’m not Mac. You have to trust me, trust that I love you enough to accept every part of you.”

Looking at Richie, Methos knew he was right. More than that, deep down Methos knew that the trust Richie was asking for was already there. Loving Richie the way he did, there was simply no other choice. “I do trust you. I will trust you,” Methos promised.

“Then let me in. Love me as much as I love you.”

“I will. I do.”

Richie read the truth of Methos’ words in his eyes, and the joy if it crushed the last wall Richie had placed between them. Smiling broadly, Richie set his helmet down and walked over to the man who loved him enough to conquer his fear.

Methos couldn’t take his eyes off Richie’s face. He looked so happy. Fearful of breaking whatever spell had been cast to bring about such a miracle, Methos’ hand hesitated before resting gently on Richie’s jaw. When Richie leaned into the caress, Methos knew it was not a spell, but rather the very best of dreams coming to life around him.

Methos’ breath caught when Richie kissed his palm. Hungry now, he moved his hand to curl around Richie’s neck, instead. The slightest pressure brought Richie’s head forward so their lips could meet. Methos stroked Richie’s tongue with his, and his lover’s delighted moan thrilled him. Relief weakened his knees, but with Richie’s arms wrapped tightly around him there was no danger of falling. Methos simply gave himself to the kiss, reveling both in the fullness of his own desire and in Richie’s ardent response.

Richie’s jacket, along with the rest of his clothes, had become a nuisance, but he couldn’t seem to let go of Methos long enough to take it off. And Methos wasn’t helping. He did yank the t-shirt out of Richie’s jeans so that he could reach the flat stomach and well-muscled back he adored, but that was all. Calling on every ounce of willpower, Richie at last broke free. He shook his head when Methos reached for him again, managing to avoid the seeking hands long enough to get his coat off. Methos recaptured him before he could get his t-shirt off, and sucked him into another mind-stealing kiss. It wasn’t until the t-shirt was bunched under his armpits that Richie again made the effort to disengage from Methos’ busy hands and mouth. He raised his arms and Methos eagerly freed them from the confines of the t-shirt, but the cotton now hung around his neck. “Methos...” Richie whimpered. “Let me… mmm… get the… ahh, Christ… shirt off.”

Off? Methos paused to consider Richie’s request, and that was all the time Richie needed to tear the collar of the t-shirt over his head. Methos growled happily when he at last had unrestricted access to Richie’s chest. Much better. Methos had kissed and petted and suckled Richie into near delirium when one of Richie’s hands crept inside Methos’ jeans. There wasn’t a lot of room, as Methos’ erection had stretched them to the limit, but Richie made the most of it. Richie’s hands fumbling with the button for better access woke Methos to the fact that they were still in the hallway. His hands intercepted Richie’s before they could complete their task. “Not here, Richie.”

Rather than speaking a reply, Richie sank to his knees and put his mouth to better use tormenting Methos’ navel.

For one delicious moment Methos allowed Richie’s clever mouth to do its work, but only one. Placing his hands firmly on either side of Richie’s face, he tilted it up to meet his. The blue fire in Richie’s eyes fogged Methos’ mind, turning his eloquent explanation about why they were not going to renew their commitment to each other on the hallway carpet into, “Not here. Bed.”

Richie got the message. He stood, took Methos’ hand, and led him to the bedroom. They quickly removed their jeans and Richie’s underwear, then met in the center of the bed. Richie sought out Methos’ mouth once more, and allowed Methos to press him back into the mattress. The friction of Methos’ swollen manhood against his own hardness caused Richie to hum with the pleasure he had failed to express in the shower. The quiet noise turned into a full-throated groan when Methos’ hand began to stroke Richie’s penis in a familiar rhythm. As the urgency of his arousal grew, Richie pled huskily for release. The verbal crescendo ended on a shout that echoed in the room as Richie’s passion spent itself.

Methos’ first thought after Richie’s orgasm was not satisfying his own painful arousal but holding Richie the way he had not been able to in the shower. He rolled off of Richie so they could get comfortable, and was surprised when Richie came down on top of him rather than lying beside him. It was hard to object, though, once Richie’s lips began blazing a trail down the center of Methos’ chest to the erection Methos had ignored. Richie’s agile tongue lapping up the moisture leaking from Methos’ cock generated pleasure so intense that Methos’ back arched off the bed. Methos collapsed back with a shocked curse when Richie’s mouth altered course and surrounded his weeping member with its moist warmth. The strong suction carried Methos to the edge of release, and a loving hand reaching down to caress his balls sent him hurdling over. Without his protective barriers in place, Methos felt as though he had jumped headfirst off a cliff. He wrapped his arms around Richie, holding tight as shudders rocked him. It was only when Richie settled his head on Methos’ shoulder and threw an arm across his waist that Methos felt true peace settle over him. A few silent minutes filled with the glide of skin on skin in tender caresses healed them both.

Richie was startled to realize the seemingly random pattern his finger had been doodling on Methos’ chest was in fact a tic tac toe matrix. He drew a trio of x’s inside the matrix, then three o’s, before finally lifting his head to ask, “Methos, what were you thinking about during the lecture?”

“Hmm?” Methos asked drowsily

“You know, when you zoned out. What were you thinking about.”

“Oh.” Methos paused before finally laughing, “You. I was thinking about you. How smart you are.”

Richie blushed uncomfortably at the praise, then frowned as another question occurred to him. “If that’s all it was, then why did you pull away from me?” Richie tensed as another pause lengthened before Methos responded.

“I pulled away because I realized that I’m putty in your hands, Richie. I can’t stay mad at you, I lose my train of thought when you smile. It’s a little hard to accept sometimes, that’s all.”

“It goes both ways, old man. I’m as much putty in your hands as you are in mine.”

“You are?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are,” Methos agreed thoughtfully. He tried to leave it at that, but before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “You were leaving.”

“Yeah, I was.”

Taking deep breaths, Methos reached for the courage to voice the most important question of all. He managed to ask quietly, “Were you coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Richie answered honestly.

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do, Methos,” Richie argued. “Yes, I was leaving. And we’ll never know if I would have come back or not. But that doesn’t even matter now, because you wouldn’t let me leave. You kept me, Methos, and now you’re stuck with me.”

“Not stuck,” Methos disagreed. A smile dawned slowly on his face as he gave Richie’s words back to him. “I will always want you. I choose you.” Methos took Richie’s mouth in a passionate kiss, knowing that this embrace, and every one that followed, would show his partner that love was a choice they would make over and over again.

© 2001 Nikki Memmott