Okay, here’s Valentine’s Day story number 2. No song this time, though : ) Lots of sap, but no song. This story basically picks up after Richie leaves the cemetery in I Want To Be Loved Like That. I suppose this story make a little more sense if you’ve read that one, but it’s pretty self-explanatory. The title kind of suggests first person, but it’s really not. The usual m/m relationship applies. (Although at 3 am I wrested creative control away from the muses and cut off their last minute plans for a lovemaking scene.) If you don’t like m/m relationships or you’re underage please delete this now. Neither of these characters belong to me, although I’ve been spending a little too much time in their heads lately. They might start charging me rent for a change! Archive anywhere you like, just let me know. Please send feedback. We love it. (n.memmott@gte.net) Although this story has been read by a number of very helpful and encouraging people, this has not received Emma’s usual fine-toothed comb treatment. Any and all errors are mine alone. Enjoy!

C lear and blue for most of the day, the sky had turned an ugly gray by the time Richie got home. It was Valentine’s Day, but since the closest thing he had to a Valentine was out of town, Richie doubted that the worsening weather conditions would make much difference to him. Dinner and whatever video he could find in his collection that had no romance in it whatsoever was pretty much an all-weather activity.

His breath caught as a sudden certainty took hold of him a heartbeat before the thrumming of immortal presence overwhelmed everything else. He’s here. Oh, God, he’s here.

Warned by the buzz and the extra sense that seemed to know whenever Methos was around, Richie still felt his heart falter dangerously at the first sight of the familiar scowl as Methos rubbed the back of his head. “Hi,” was the only word Richie’s brain could communicate to his vocal cords.

“Hi yourself,” Methos replied sourly, although the corners of his lips twitched upward briefly.

“Is something wrong with your head?”

That’s an understatement, Methos thought, but said only, “I was getting a beer when I felt you coming, and I whacked my head on the top of the fridge.”

Richie snickered, the sound turning to full fledged laughter when the oldest immortal alive blushed to the roots of his hair. “I wouldn’t worry, Methos. You have a pretty hard head.”

“You would know,” Methos smirked. His voice was low and husky when he challenged, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Do? About your head?”

“Yes. It’s your fault.”

“My fault that you were raiding my fridge when I wasn’t here?” Richie asked innocently.

“Your fault that I was still in the fridge when you got home,” Methos argued. “I couldn’t decide which pitiful excuse for a beer I’d be able to choke down.”

Richie’s playful mood evaporated as suddenly as it had begun. “Sorry the selection doesn’t meet with your majesty’s approval,” he sighed before heading towards the bedroom. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have made sure it was up to your standards.”

When the bedroom door shut firmly, Methos cursed roundly. Shit. Bloody hell! Well done, old man. Don’t tell him how much you wanted to see him, tell him how bad his taste in beer is. His first instinct was to follow Richie and correct his mistake, but experience had taught him that Richie in a bad mood was a poor listener. He’d just have to wait until Richie came back out.

There were no obvious signs of irritation on Richie’s face when he emerged from the bedroom, but Methos knew there were still some fences to mend. “I didn’t come here for beer,” he pointed out.

Richie absorbed the words for a moment, then cocked his head to one side and asked, “Why are you here, Methos?”

“Are you saying you want me to go?” the ancient immortal responded with a question of his own, the first stirrings of panic beginning to flutter in his stomach.

“No, I’m asking you to tell me why you’re here.” Richie replied, his voice neutral.

“I need a reason?” Methos questioned soberly.

“No, I guess you don’t *need one, but you don’t do anything on a whim, Methos.”

“Never say you find me lacking in spontaneity,” the elder quipped, making one last attempt at levity.

“Christ, Methos!” Richie exclaimed, his frustration boiling over. “Answer the damned question! No more smart remarks, no cute evasions — all I want to hear is the simple truth. Just once give me a straight answer instead of making me dig through all of your bullshit.”

Resisting the urge to take a step backwards, Methos struggled to hold his ground against the whirlwind of Richie’s words blasting him from the outside and his own powerful emotions tearing him up on the inside. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He needed to give Richie an answer, but the facility with words that had come to his rescue countless times over the centuries completely failed him. How could he explain what had brought him to Richie’s door, when he couldn’t string two words together?

“I...” he began. “I...”

Holy shit, Richie marveled, He’s stuttering. Going with his instincts, Richie kept his tone harsh and pressed, “Is that all you’ve got, Old Timer?”

“Damn it, Richie, I...”

“Say it, Methos!” Richie snapped.

“I wanted to see you, okay ?!”

There.

It was out.

“I needed to see you,” Methos continued, speaking barely above a whisper this time. He lifted his eyes to meet the blue orbs that haunted his dreams. “Richie, it’s Valentine’s Day.”

“I know,” Richie replied solemnly. His lips were slow to stretch into a full smile, but once they did it gleamed with all of its usual brightness. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” Methos grumbled as joy and relief threatened to weaken his knees.

“Is this better?” Richie asked, pulling the disgruntled immortal into his arms for a thorough kiss.

When Richie pulled away, Methos’ eyes remained closed for one breath, then another, and his tongue traced lazily over his lips once, then twice, before he opened his eyes and spoke. “I have been wandering the world looking for something that moves me as much as the taste of you.”

“And?” Richie asked around the lump in his throat.

“And here I am. There’s nothing, Richie, not anywhere, that touches me as much as you do.”

“Do you mean that?” Richie breathed, hope warring with caution.

“What do you think?” Methos returned, meeting Richie’s gaze squarely.

“You mean it. Oh my God.”

“Richie, what’s wrong?” Methos asked, concerned when his lover’s breathing began to hitch and snag in his chest.

It was Richie’s turn to fumble for the right words. “You... No one has ever opened their mouth and turned me inside out the way you do, Methos.”

“You have a way with words yourself, Brat,” Methos replied, covering the wrenching of his heart with a strained laugh.

“We haven’t spent a whole lot of time talking,” Richie noted, “not about the important things, anyway.”

“You mean we haven’t talked about ‘us’.”

Richie nodded.

“There hasn’t been that much to talk about.”

“No, there hasn’t,” Richie agreed. “But...”

“But now there is,” Methos finished.

“It’s just... you get inside me, Methos,” Richie explained. “Not just when we’re in bed, but all the time now. Which is crazy, since I don’t even have your phone number.”

“Phones are a luxury for most of the world, you know,” the elder immortal drawled in his instinctive sarcastic manner.

“Don’t even start, Methos. You know what I mean.”

Methos inclined his head once in acknowledgement, but considered his words carefully before actually speaking. “I’ll give you my phone number, Richie,” he finally replied. “You can have my email address, my ATM password, and the key to my flat in London, but I can’t give you what you really want. I can’t promise to stay, Richie, not right now.”

“I don’t expect you to. To tell you the truth, Methos, I’ve got places to go and things to do that don’t, that can’t, involve you. But I needed to know you were going to be here today. I need to have the right to expect to see you, or to at least hear from you, when it’s important.”

It still surprised Methos, the way Richie’s words were so often a perfect echo of his own thoughts. Although miles apart in terms of age and experience, they understood each other on so fundamental a level that it was almost frightening. Instead of fear, however, Methos found that his growing connection with Richie made him feel whole, like he was living life in the round instead of flatly surviving day after day after day. Yet another tie on his self-imposed emotional straightjacket burst free as his heart insisted on making even more room for Richie.

“When it matters,” Methos assured the man who was by far the most beautiful thing in his life, “I’ll be wherever you are. I promise.”

I promise.

Richie had come away from the cemetery with some grandiose notions about declarations of undying love, but those two words just overwhelmed him. It wasn’t just hearing the words, he realized, it was hearing the right words at the right time.

When it matters...Wherever you are... I promise.

It was the perfect thing to say. It was enough. For now, it was more than enough.

His mind and heart settled, Richie felt his lips curve once more. “Wherever I am?” he asked mischievously.

“Wherever,” Methos agreed carefully.

“Does that mean if I go somewhere, you have to follow me?”

“Anywhere,” Methos acknowledged, reassured by the familiar glow in Richie’s eyes. “Where did you have in mind?”

“It’s pretty far,” Richie murmured against Methos lips.

“How far?” Methos asked hoarsely when Richie’s hands settled on his belt.

“Mmm,” Richie hummed into the hollow of Methos’ collarbone. “Twenty, maybe thirty steps.”

“Ohhh,” Methos moaned when Richie deliberately brought their groins into contact. “Too far,” he protested, grabbing Richie’s ass and pulling him even closer.

“I guess I can show you my new queen-sized bed later,” Richie conceded, taking Methos’ lips once more.

Methos tore his mouth away from Richie’s. “Queen-sized bed?”

“Yeah,” Richie panted as Methos’ hands absently explored his ribcage. “King sized pillows, satin sheets... Hey!” Richie laughed when a deceptively slender hand grabbed his and tugged him towards the bedroom.

“You haven’t even looked at the headboard,” Richie complained, his petulant tone spoiled by the wide grin on his face as Methos tossed him unceremoniously onto the mattress and came down on top of him.

“I didn’t come here to see a headboard,” Methos pointed out, echoing his earlier words. “I came to see you.”

© 2001 Nikki Memmott