Feedback:  Yes, please!

Disclaimer:  The usual.  Duncan, Richie, Methos, and
Joe belong to Rysher, DDP, and Highlander:  The
Series. Father Liam Riley belonged to Highlander: The
Raven, though.  I've got no claim to any, mean them no
harm, etc., etc., etc.

Giving credit where credit is due:  The idea for this
story came from two places.  An IM chat about Richie's
"return from the dead" and a reference made about
Bobby Ewing's infamously bad "return from the dead in
the shower" scene on "Dallas".  And the title and some
of the plot was inspired by the Brian and Justin love
fest on "Queer As Folk" this season.  (Making
reference to episode 202 and the "like the first time"
love scene.)  Finally, my eternal thanks to Nikki for
beta reading!
 

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Chapter One
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Paris, France

Richie Ryan stood in front of the towering cathedral,
contemplating if he should go inside or not.  He'd
been walking the streets of Paris for hours, avoiding
the very people he had come to the city to see.  He'd
passed Darius' church earlier, but made himself keep
walking instead of stepping inside.  Ironic, he
supposed, that his aimless footfalls had brought him
to the door of another church.

Perhaps that was a message from Darius, he thought
with a sad smile.  He hadn't known the ancient warlord
turned priest as well as Duncan had, but he'd always
found the man easy to talk to.  How he needed that
advice and wisdom now, he realized, snuggling deeper
into the leather coat he wore.

It was a bitterly cold winter day; icy rain had
pelted the city for most of the morning.  The rain had
stopped shortly after noon, but the hazy clouds had
lingered in the sky, blocking the sun that might have
offered just a hint of warmth.  The wind was freezing
and sliced through him each time it blew.

It was a hell of a "Welcome Home", he silently
grumbled.

He'd arrived in Paris late last night and crashed in
a cheap hotel, although he hadn't slept much.  His
mind had worked over-time, keeping him from resting.
Mostly, he'd thought about Methos.  He'd left his
Immortal lover nearly three days ago, but it felt more
like three weeks to him.  He hadn't relished waking up
alone these last few mornings and reaching across the
bed to find it empty, but he told himself that he
would have to get use to it.  He reminded himself that
parting ways with the Old Man was what Methos had
wanted.

Richie released a weary sigh, running a hand through
his long, dyed curls.  He still hadn't gotten a
haircut since leaving London and Methos behind.

Methos. . .He closed his eyes as a wave of pain shot
through him.  His relationship with the other Immortal
had been ruined by a lie.  His lie.  Hell, who was he
really kidding here?  There wouldn't have been a
relationship period had he not allowed the Old Man to
believe a certain untruth.  Methos would've found and
read his good-bye letter by now and learned of
Richie's dishonesty.

Did Methos hate him now?  He knew the Ancient One had
the right to after the stunt he'd pulled.  He'd
resisted the urge to call the last few days.  He knew
now that he never should have left Methos the way he
had.  He'd packed his bags early one morning while
Methos slept, slipped out like the thief he'd once
been, and left nothing behind but a note to explain it
all.  He should've stayed until his lover awoke and
said it all to Methos' face instead of taking the easy
way out.

Well. . .perhaps he shouldn't think of it as "easy".
Nothing he'd done these past eighteen months had been
easy.  And it was about to get a lot harder, he knew,
because now he had to face the other man he had
betrayed with his lie:  Duncan MacLeod.

Richie sighed again, shivering as the freezing wind
ripped through him, leaving him feeling empty inside.
But he supposed his own regrets were also to blame for
the vacant, cold spot that was now permanently etched
in his soul.

His mind drifted back over the years he had spent in
this city.  He'd been only eighteen the first time Mac
and Tessa had brought him here.  He'd been caught up
in the glamour of Paris then, as well as the exciting
new opportunities that awaited him.  He'd spent most
of his life bouncing between foster homes and the
streets.  He hadn't had much hope for himself in those
days, until Mac and Tess had taken him in and offered
him a new life.

His first trip to Paris with them had been thrilling
for him.  He'd spent most of his life thinking he'd
never see anything outside of Seacouver, Washington,
much less travel to another continent.  He'd
experienced many firsts in this city. . .including his
first encounter with Methos and his first night with
the Old Man that had left him wanting more.

Richie shook his head at the memory, tucking a curl
back behind his ear.  Had he really been that young
once?  He knew he was hardly an "old man" now, but he
felt like he'd lived centuries instead of years.

He'd been young and inexperienced when "Richard" had
first met "Benji" at a costume party n a local hotel.
He'd encountered the masked Zorro at the bar.  The man
had called himself Dr. Ben Adams that night.  And what
a night it had been!  He'd wanted it to never end, but
it had.  At first, he'd longed to see his lover again,
but "Benji" had turned him down.  He'd eventually put
the encounter out of his mind.  He'd left Paris with
Mac and Tessa after Darius' death and returned to the
States.  Tessa had been killed and he'd become
Immortal and entered the Game.  He'd met the female
Immortal Kristen, and then the bombshell had been
dropped.  "Benji" had came back into his life, only
the name was now changed to Adam Pierson.  And, in
time, Adam Pierson's name had been revealed to be
Methos.

Methos--the world's oldest Immortal--had been his
first male lover.  It still boggled his mind sometimes
when he thought about it.  They had shared passing
moments since their first encounter in Paris, coming
and going from each other's lives.  But that had all
changed a year and a half ago when Duncan MacLeod had
gone to battle with a demon called Ahriman.

Methos hadn't believed in Duncan, though.  He'd
thought the Highlander was losing his mind.  He'd had
faith in his friend and teacher and had stood by Mac's
side until the night he had followed "Joe and Horton"
into an abandoned racetrack.

He still couldn't recall all the details of that
night.  He knew he'd called Mac from a pay phone
before going to "save Joe".  Once inside the old
building, he'd walked the halls in search of his
friend.  He'd heard a gunshot at one point and the
rest of it blurred after that.  He knew he hadn't been
knocked unconscious or "killed" or drugged.  As odd as
it sounded, he'd felt as if time had simply stood
still.  He'd lost over an hour without knowing what
exactly had happened to him.  He'd known it was
Ahriman, though.  He'd felt the evil presence as
strongly as he felt another Immortal's Quickening.  He
knew that whatever had occurred that night or had
happened to him, the demon had manufactured it.

When he'd finally returned to his senses, it'd been
to find himself propped against the wall of a long
hallway, Methos standing over him, sword in hand.
He'd tried to ask what was happening and to explain
his lost time, but Methos had just stood there,
watching him with an expression of disbelief on his
face.  Occasionally, the Old Man had looked back over
his shoulder as if recalling something terrible he'd
seen.

Richie had been overcome with a sick fear for Methos'
safety then.  If this Ahriman could make Mac
hallucinate horrible things, make the Highlander see
Horton when Horton wasn't really there, and literally
make time stop for Richie for over an hour. . .what
might the monster do to Methos?  Could it possibly
have the power to hurt the Old Man?  Or could it cause
MacLeod to lose it and go after Methos?

The mere thoughts had left him cold inside.  He'd
only wanted Methos to get out of town then so the Old
Man could be safe.  The details of that night were
still fuzzy to him, but he thought he'd said that out
loud to Methos.  He knew he'd babbled something about
Horton and Joe.

Although he doubted that Methos had heard most of it.
 The Old Man had stared at him in shock and disbelief
before he'd grabbed the front of Richie's shirt,
hauled him to his feet, and slammed him against the
wall.

Richie had protested aloud when his head connected
with the unforgiving wall.  "You do like it rough,"
he'd tried to joke, thinking of the night Methos had
repeated an almost identical motion on him that had
led to a kiss and then so much more.

His jokes had died quickly, though, when Methos
pressed the sharp blade of his sword into the
vulnerable and exposed neck.  "Who are you?"  the Old
Man had demanded in a voice so hard and cold it had
sent a shiver of fear down Richie's spine.  He'd never
seen such intense, almost murderous rage on the face
of one man before.  For a moment, he'd feared that
Mac's demon had gotten to his lover and done something
to his mind.

"It's me," Richie had tried to assure him, swallowing
in fear when the blade pressed further into his neck,
drawing blood.  "It's Richie."

Methos had seemed to waver then, but his eyes had
been a storm of a thousand other emotions, too.  Pain,
fear, disbelief.  The Ancient One had opened his mouth
to speak, his Adam's apple bobbing as he finally
forced the words out, "If you're Richie, then tell me
about Paris."

He'd known what the Old Man meant with that simple
request.  He'd wanted to tell Methos to quit playing
games, that Joe or Mac could be in trouble, but
something in the man's face had proclaimed not to mess
with Methos too much in that moment.  It'd certainly
been the coldest expression he'd ever seen on his
lover's face before.

"It was a costume party.  You were Zorro and I was Al
Capone," he quietly reminded.  "We met at the bar.  I
was drinking whiskey and you ordered beer.  We talked
a little, then danced, and went back to your room.
And you know the rest."

"Don't play games with me," Methos had spat, but the
sword pressed into the other's throat had been pulled
back slightly.  "What names did we use that night?"

"I told you I was Richard and you used Ben Adams.
But I called you Benji--"

Richie's words had been cut off by a groan from the
other man.  Methos' sword had fallen to the floor and
he'd tangled a hand in soft curls, pulling Rich
forward for a rough kiss.

Richie'd had no defense from the assault on his lips
by the Old Man.   Methos had kissed him until his toes
curled.  The hand in his hair had held him still,
refusing to let him pull away.  Not that he'd wanted
to pull away.  He wasn't sure how long they embraced
before his lover had ended the kiss, whispering very
softly, "God, it is you.  It's really *you*."

"Methos. . .?" he'd questioned in confusion, but the
only answer he'd received had been another kiss.  This
one not as rough, but filled with a desperate need.
And tears.  He'd been surprised to taste the salt of
tears as they kissed.  He'd not been sure who was
shedding them, him or Methos.  Perhaps they both had.

Methos had broken the kiss again, pulling Richie
closer and pressing his lips against the younger
Immortal's hairline.  He'd drawn a shaky breath,
whispering, "I've got to get you out of here."

"Mac," Richie had recalled then.  "Methos, we have
to--"

"MacLeod's alive," the Old Man had interrupted him,
and Richie had thought he'd heard a twinge of
bitterness in the reply.  "He's. . .gone.  He left the
city, I think.  And Joe's fine, too.  I just sent him
home.  But we have to get out of here, Richie.
There's a clean up crew on its way and they can't see
you."

"Whoa, wait," Richie had interjected then.  "A clean
up crew?  That's the Watchers who ditch bodies, right?
 Oh, no, you mean someone--"

"One of Horton's people," Methos had declared, but
refused to look his lover in the eye.  "Mac and Joe
are both alive.  I wouldn't lie to you about that.
Horton had Joe, but MacLeod got here in time.  And now
we have to get out of the city, Richie.  For both of
our sakes."

Richie had watched him for a moment, his mouth open
to tell Methos that there was no James Horton.  The
man was dead.  It had been Ahriman he'd seen, but the
words had never came.  The only thoughts that had
stood out in his mind were that only Mac could fight
the demon, but if they stayed in the city Methos could
get caught in the middle.  His lover could be killed.
. .The mere thought sent a cold chill through him.

Methos apparently thought that Horton was still alive
and Richie knew that his lover feared the possibility
of renegade Watchers finding out about him at some
point.  He'd stood at a crossroads that night, clearly
seeing the two paths he had to choose from.  He
could've told Methos the truth and they both would
have gone back to Mac's barge and offered their help
to the Highlander.  And Methos could've possibly die
because of it.  Or he could let his lover believe the
lie that Horton was still alive.  He could leave Paris
behind and disappear with Methos.

He'd chosen Methos and it'd led him back here, Richie
realized with a sigh.  To the city where it had all
began.  He'd told so many lies that night and the Old
Man had only been straight up with him in return.
He'd intended to contact MacLeod once he got Methos
out of the city, but Methos had told him that MacLeod
had disappeared and the Watchers didn't know where he
was.  Methos assumed Duncan was in hiding, but Richie
knew that he'd really gone off to deal with Ahriman
alone.  Richie had pressured Methos not to contact
Joe, as well.  He knew how wrong that was, but at the
time he'd feared Dawson might reveal to Methos that
Horton wasn't alive and Richie was scamming him to
keep him out of Paris.  He would have to find a way to
make that up to Dawson someday.  And to MacLeod as
well.

Methos had promised that he would tell Richie the
moment the Watchers located Duncan.  There had been no
word on the Highlander since, though.  Richie hoped he
was fine, wherever he was.  It was a hope that was
accompanied with a large dose of guilt.  He would know
where his teacher was if he'd stuck around and not
bailed on him.  But he'd been too consumed with the
need to protect Methos at the time.

They had ended up in London, using the aliases
"Richard and Benji" again.  Methos had gotten them new
jobs and a sprawling estate to live in.  Richie had
changed his appearance at the Old Man's request.  And
they had lived together as friends and lovers for one
sweet and glorious year before it had started to
change.

Richie had known it would, in time.  He'd always
known that one day he would have to tell Methos the
truth, but he'd tried to pacify himself with the
thought that it would have to be after Duncan returned
to Paris.  It'd be after Mac had defeated the demon
and Methos was safe.  It'd hardly gone as he'd hoped,
though, because Mac hadn't returned.  Methos would've
told Richie if the Highlander had resurfaced.  And
then Methos had gotten bored with him.

Richie had known it would happen in time.  He'd just
never thought it would happen so quickly, but he
supposed he should have.  What did he have to offer a
five thousand-year-old man to interest him for the
long run?  Sex, perhaps.  But that hadn't worked.
Methos had eventually gotten bored with him even in
bed.

He knew Methos could have any man or woman he chose
to pursue.  The man had a world of experience and
knowledge to speak of.  Methos had been a doctor and a
scholar and who knew what else in his past lives,
while he was just an ex-thief from the wrong side of
town who was still relatively new to the Game himself.
 He certainly didn't have the qualities needed to hold
the attention of a man like Methos.  Yet Richie had
still hoped that, in time, the Old Man might come to
return some of the deep feelings he held for Methos.

That dream had died a few months ago.  They'd been
living together for over a year when Methos had gotten
a phone call late one night.  His lover had changed
then.  Methos had begun to treat him differently.  The
Old Man had become distant and moody.  Richie had
begun to suspect it was someone else.  Methos was
seeing someone behind his back, but was unwilling to
say it to his face because they were still "hiding
from Horton".  Methos had made plans for a trip to
France then, claiming he had some details of Adam
Pierson's life to wrap up.

Richie had pretended to believe him, but deep inside
he'd thought Methos was using that as an excuse to
leave him or to go away for awhile with this other
person.  And those lingering doubts had grown the
longer Methos stayed away.  The Old Man had called
every night, but had insisted that Richie never call
him.  Richie had dialed his cell phone number one
night and instantly regretted it the moment a woman
had answered the phone.  She'd said her name was Amy
Thomas and that "Adam" had stepped out for the moment,
but she'd take a message.  He hadn't left one, though.
 Just the sound of her voice and the Blues music
playing in the background had been all the message he
needed.

Richie had wondered about her.  He'd spent many
jealous, sleepless nights in an empty bed and thought
about "the other woman".  He imagined she was
beautiful.  She had to be to have captured Methos'
attention.  But he wondered what made her so special
that the Old Man would want to be with her.

A trip that Methos had told him would only last a few
days had extended into weeks and Richie had come to
believe that the Old Man was never coming back to
London.  And then one night Methos had simply walked
back into his life as if no time had passed at all.

Despite his wish for things to be otherwise, their
relationship had not gotten better, but worse.  Methos
had acted distant and troubled after his return from
France.  The Old Man had repeatedly said that they had
to "talk about something", but they never had.  Methos
had hesitated to say whatever was on his mind and
Richie had tried to avoid what he knew his lover was
really trying to say.  Methos wanted them to part
ways.  So Richie had given him that.  He'd left
Methos, leaving behind a note to explain things.
Methos now knew of Richie's lies.  The Ancient One was
free to begin any life he chose without the fear of
Horton and his renegade Watchers hanging over his
head.

And Richie had been left to sort out the mess he'd
made of things.  He'd left Paris when MacLeod needed
him the most and now he had to make that up to his
friend.  Assuming he could find him, that is.

He'd left Methos' estate and checked himself into a
hotel in London, trying to contact MacLeod from there.
 He knew it was a long shot, but he'd tried to call
Mac at his barge only to have an operator tell him the
number had been disconnected.  He'd tried the dojo in
Seacouver and had been shocked to learn that Mac had
sold the place.  He'd tried to call Joe's bar in
Seacouver, too, only to learn that Dawson had also
sold his place and moved to Paris.  So Paris, he had
decided, was his best option.

He knew he had a lot of explaining to do when he saw
Dawson again.  He owed the man an apology, too.  Yet
he still put off contacting Joe.  Perhaps he was
waiting until he found the right words to say.  And so
on his first full day back in Paris, he'd found
himself walking aimlessly through the city and had
ended up in front of a towering church.

With his mind made up, Richie pushed a hand through
his long hair and stepped onto Holy Ground.  Methos
had insisted on a change in appearance for him during
their time in London.  Nothing too obvious, the Old
Man declared.  Hiding in plain sight often kept one
hidden better than an obvious disguise.  So he'd let
his hair grow long and kept it dyed a few shades
lighter than his natural color.  He'd donned a pair of
non-prescription reading glasses for when he was in
public and had grudgingly given up his comfortable
jeans and T-shirts for slacks and dress shirts.  He
supposed the one good thing about ending the charade
he'd been playing was that he could stop being
"Richard Pierce" and go back to just being plain and
simple Richie Ryan, faded jeans, short hair,
motorcycle boots, and all.

He climbed the steps to the church and stepped
inside, the warm and inviting heat welcoming him.
Soft organ music echoed through the old building and
he walked towards the sound.  His footfalls made no
sound on the thick carpet of the aisle as he made a
path towards the altar.

Richie stopped abruptly in his tracks as the strong
buzz of another Immortal touched him.  The organ music
stopped as well and Richie's gaze sought out the
musical instrument and the man who sat at it, his back
turned to Richie.

The Immortal sighed loudly before calling out, "I was
hoping you wouldn't do this."

"Excuse me?" Richie asked in confusion, watching as
the man whirled around in surprise, looking
embarrassed.

"Forgive me," he warily stated as he stood, his
attire proclaiming him a man of the Cloth.  "I was
expecting someone else."

"Yeah, well, I can leave then," Richie offered.

"Nonsense," the priest disagreed, a noticeable accent
in his voice as he walked towards Richie, his hand
extended.  "I'm Father Liam Riley and this is Holy
Ground.  All of our kind is welcome and safe here."

"Richard," he introduced himself as he'd been doing
for the last eighteen months, shaking the other's
hand.  After a silent pause, he made himself say the
words he hadn't said in over a year, "But most people
call me Richie."

"A pleasure to meet you, Richie," Liam stated.  "What
can I help you with today?"

"Uh, nothing," the younger man stated in a voice that
lacked conviction.  "I just wanted to get out of the
cold."

"So just being cold is why you look so troubled?"
Liam challenged, the light of knowledge in his eyes.

Richie released a short bark of laughter as he shook
his head, knowing the priest saw through his lame
excuse.  He stepped past the man then and walked
towards the altar, taking a moment to light one of the
candles and silently declaring it as being in memory
of Tessa Noel.  If she was here, he knew he could've
talked to her.  He could've talked to Darius even.
But both were gone and he was left to sort through his
own jumbled thoughts alone.

"I was friends with another priest in this city
once," Richie admitted as he stepped away from the
candle and took a seat on the front pew.  "He used to
do that, too."

"Do what?" Liam inquired, taking a few steps towards
the troubled young man.

"He could tell when something was on my mind.  I wish
he were here now," Richie softly admitted.

"I'm here," Liam volunteered without pressing the
matter.  "I can leave you alone here to deal with your
thoughts or I can sit down and talk with you."

Richie considered the offer for a moment before
sliding over on the pew and making room for Liam.  He
waited until the priest had sat down beside him before
admitting, "I told a lie."

"Would you prefer to do this in the confessional?"
Liam inquired.

"I don't think you have that much time to hear all my
sins," Richie assured.  "Let's just say I haven't been
to confession in a long time."

"No confession, then," the priest agreed.  "So you
said you told a lie.  That doesn't sound as bad as
some of the things I've heard over the years."

"It isn't that simple," the young Immortal sighed.

"It never is," the other man acknowledged.  "At least
not for our kind."

"My lie was a pretty selfish act.  I did it for me.
I told myself I was protecting someone I love very
much, but the truth is, I did it so I could be with
this person.  And now the truth is out and I'm sure he
probably hates me for it."

"But you don't know," Liam realized, "because you
haven't spoken to him."

"No," the young Immortal shook his head, studying the
carpet under his feet.  "I figure he might not want to
hear from me.  And I'm not ready to face that anger
just yet.  Also, it wasn't just this person that I
love who got hurt.  I betrayed a good friend, too.
Now I have to find a way to make that up to him.  Of
course, first I have to tell him what I did."

"Do you think your friend will understand?" the
priest inquired.

"Probably.  More than likely.  Yeah, I think he
will," Richie sighed.

"You don't sound happy about that," Liam stated.
"I'd think you would want your friend's forgiveness."

"I do," he assured.  "I want Mac to forgive me for
leaving him high and dry, but I don't think I
*deserve* it.  I bailed on him when he really needed
me to hang around, and after I had promised him that I
wouldn't bail.  He's entitled to take a swipe at my
head for that, but he won't."

Liam's eyes narrowed at the mention of taking heads
and inquired, "Is your friend one of us?"

Richie hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much he
should trust this stranger with.  He barely knew the
man, but he felt a certain peace around Liam Riley.
He seemed old and wise.  Besides, he was a priest and
resided on Holy Ground.  Obviously, he had given up
the sword and wasn't likely to challenge MacLeod.
Relenting, he acknowledged, "He's Immortal.  But he's
not just a friend, he was my teacher, as well."

"Ah, teachers and students," Liam smiled.  "There's a
special bond there, one that is very hard to break.  I
could be wrong, Richie, but I judge that you haven't
been in the Game nearly as long as some of us have.
I'm sure your teacher made plenty of mistakes when he
was younger.  And if he's as good of a friend as you
say, he will try to understand why you did what you
did.  At least give him that chance.  And perhaps you
should contact this other person, too, and see if they
can't give you the same benefit of the doubt."

"I will," Richie assured, "but it'll have to be after
I catch up with my teacher.  Assuming I ever do.  Last
I heard, he was laying low and I don't have a clue
where."

Liam's reply abruptly died in his throat as the
presence of another Immortal touched them both.  The
priest stood to his feet and turned his attention to
the man who had entered the church.

"I take it that's who you were expecting?" Richie
inquired, glancing towards the new comer.

"Excuse me," a distracted Liam stated, his long
strides carrying him down the aisle and to the other
man.

Richie curiously studied the Immortal newcomer.  He
looked to have experienced his first death when he was
around forty.  He was taller than both Richie and
Liam, his body round.  Nature had already claimed most
of his hair and the lights shined off his bald head.
A thin white scar raced across his forehead which was
marred by a permanent scowl.  His cheeks were full,
his eyes sunk into a pale face, and his thin lips were
drawn tight.  There was a coldness about him that sent
a warning signal through Richie.  This man was not
here for a confession.

Liam and the unknown Immortal were obviously involved
in an argument and Richie strained his ears to hear
what was being said, but he only caught bits of it.
Liam was refusing whatever the other wanted.

It was a challenge, Richie suddenly realized.  Baldie
had came here to challenge a priest!  The thought left
a bad taste in his mouth.  He'd done a little
headhunting himself for a time after MacLeod's Dark
Quickening, but there were some lines that shouldn't
be crossed.  And challenging a holy man was one of
them, in his opinion.

All three Immortals turned as an elderly woman
entered then, her slow steps carrying her towards the
confessional.  The priest waited until she had entered
before refusing the challenge a final time and walking
away.

Richie waited until Liam had entered the confessional
as well before standing and letting his steps carry
him towards the other Immortal.  The man watched him
with cold blue eyes before barking, "I'm Christopher
Welk."

"Richie Ryan," he spoke back.  "Leave the Father
alone."

Welk laughed mockingly at that, asking, "So Riley has
stooped to sending children to protect him?"

"I'm just giving you some friendly advice," Richie
countered.  "Leave him alone.  He's not part of our
Game.  So try finding someone who carries a sword to
challenge, all right?"

"Do you carry a sword?" Welk mocked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he assured, patting his
leather coat.

"Then why don't we step off Holy Ground," Welk
invited.  "I'll leave your head on the altar for the
good Father when we're done."

"Lead the way," Richie said, accepting the challenge
and falling into step behind Welk.

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Two
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Richie stepped into the vacant ally, carefully
choosing his footsteps through the cracked and
crumbling cement.  He watched his challenger as the
man circled him, sword in hand.

MacLeod had always taught him that if he didn't have
to fight, he shouldn't.  With that thought in mind, he
stated, "We don't have to do this.  Just leave the
priest alone."

"Chickening out already?" Welk laughed mockingly.

*So much for that lesson, Mac,* he cryptically
thought, taking his sword from his coat and watching
his opponent.  Welk charged him and he countered the
attack.  Welk was well trained, and a good fighter and
Richie guessed them to be an even match in their
battle.

"So Riley found himself a mercenary to fight his
battles?  Typical," Welk snarled when he realized his
opponent was a skilled swordsman.

"I'm no sword for hire," Richie shot back.  "And you
started this by challenging an unarmed man."

"You haven't a clue what he really is!" Welk shouted
and charged Richie.

The other Immortal easily defended the assault,
countering each blow of the other's sword.  He gained
the upper hand when his opponent lost his footing on
the loose ground and Richie managed to knock Welk's
sword from his hand and send the man to his knees in
the process.  He pressed the blade of his sword to
Welk's throat and the Immortal raised cold and angry
eyes to him, decreeing, "Do it."

"Whatever you say," Richie muttered, raising his
weapon to strike the fatal blow.

"DON'T!"

The shout startled both Immortals and Richie turned
to see Father Liam Riley as he sprinted towards them.
There was a note of pleading in his voice as he
requested, "Don't do it, Richie!"

"You can't interfere!" Richie called back.

"No, but the police can," Liam announced, holding his
hand up to reveal a cell phone.  "They got a call that
two men were fighting in an ally behind a local
church."

Richie cursed under his breath as he heard the sounds
of sirens wailing in the distance.  He gave the priest
a disbelieving glare and Liam shrugged, assuring,
"That would be them."

Richie realized he didn't have the time to finish the
fight, take the Quickening, and disappear before the
cops showed.  He raised a booted foot and roughly
kicked Welk, knocking the man several feet back.  "I
guess it's your lucky day.  Get out of here."

The Immortal scrambled to his feet, retrieving his
sword and turning back to vow, "I'll be back for you,
Riley!"

Richie watched him disappear around the end of the
ally, tempted to chase after him and finish what he'd
started.  Instead, he turned his increasing ire to the
priest as he stomped in his direction and demanded,
"Why the hell did you do that?!"

"I wasn't going to let you fight a battle you know
nothing about," Liam snapped.  "I couldn't have lived
with myself if you lost your head over this."

"I had him beat until you butted in!" he angrily
reminded.

"We can't discuss this here," Liam announced as the
sounds of police sirens grew louder and closer.
"Where are you staying?"

"I got a hotel room," Richie replied.

"You can't stay there now.  Welk will be looking for
you," Liam thought aloud as he placed a hand on
Riche's shoulder and steered him back towards the
church.  "I have an extra room at the parish.  You'll
stay with me on Holy Ground."

"I didn't come to Paris to hide from some
headhunter," he snapped.

"No, you came to find your teacher," Liam reminded.
"I have a few contacts in the city.  I'll help you
track him down if you'll just agree to stay on Holy
Ground for a few days."

Richie started to argue, but then reconsidered it.
The parish was certain to be better than his cheap
room.  And it would give him a chance to track down
MacLeod, not to mention get some idea of what was
happening between Liam and this Welk.  He nodded his
agreement as they moved back towards the church.

Neither of them noticed the Watcher who stood at the
end of the ally, hastily finishing off his roll of
film before he, too, made a hasty departure as the
police arrived.

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Three
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Les Blues Bar
The Following Day

"Here ya go, MacLeod.  The best grilled cheese
sandwich in all of France."

Duncan MacLeod nodded his thanks as he watched Joe
Dawson walk from the kitchen area of his bar, a plate
in one hand and his cane in the other.  He set the
plate down on the bar in front of the Immortal.

MacLeod shifted on his barstool and reached for the
sandwich.  He bit into the toasted bread, insisting,
"You didn't have to cook for me."

"Consider it payment for fixing the beer tap," Dawson
insisted, leaning his weight against the polished bar
top.

"You should open for the lunch crowd," Duncan
suggested, pushing the pile of greasy potato chips
aside to lay his meal back on the plate.  "This is
good."

"You're not going to eat the chips?" Joe asked.  When
his friend negatively shook his head, he snatched
several of them from the plate and popped them into
his mouth.

"Do you have any idea how unhealthy those things
are?" Mac complained.

"Who wants to live forever?" Joe shot back with a
broad grin.

"It'd take an Immortal to survive what those things
do to the body."

"Yeah, well, they were Richie's favorites--" Joe
began, but then suddenly broke his words off, looking
away from the Highlander.  "I'm sorry.  I shouldn't
have said that."

MacLeod took a sip of his drink, having suddenly lost
his appetite.  "You can talk about him in front of me,
you know," he stated after an awkward silence.
"Amanda does and it. . .it helps sometimes.  To
remember.  So these chips were his favorite, huh?  I
didn't know he had a favorite junk food.  I always
thought he loved all of it."

"Yeah," Joe acknowledged.  "I used to keep some in my
bar back in Seacouver for him.  I guess old habits die
hard.  I should stop ordering them.  I mean, he was
the only one who ever requested them anyhow."

"I know why you kept some in stock," Duncan sighed.
"They reminded you of him.  That's not a bad thing,
Joe."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's time to stop," Dawson sighed.
 "It's not like he's going to walk through the door of
my bar again and ask for them."

The almost mocking sound of the front door being
opened made both men turn their attention to the
newcomer.  The man dared a cautious glance at MacLeod,
recognizing him, before turning his gaze to Dawson.
He gave his supervisor a slight nod before moving to
claim a seat as far away from MacLeod as possible.

"I'll be back," Joe stated to Mac before moving to
his fellow Watcher across the bar.  "What's up,
Billy?"

"I followed Welk back to Riley's church yesterday,"
the Watcher related.  "He ended up getting into a
fight."

"Son of a bitch," Dawson swore under his breath.
"Why couldn't he just leave Riley alone?  So another
good guy is gone, huh?"

"Riley's not dead," Billy quickly assured, reaching
into his coat and pulling out a camera and setting it
on the bar.  "Welk didn't fight the priest, he fought
some other guy instead.  The cops interrupted before
either of them won, though.  But I think I got some
good pictures."

"Who was the other Immortal?" Joe inquired.

"I don't know.  He was young looking.  Long blonde
hair.  I've never seen him before in any of the files
we have on active Immortals, and there wasn't anyone
watching him.  That much I'm certain of."

"So this guy is new to the Game," Dawson pondered
aloud.  "We'll see about tracking him down through
your pictures and get a Watcher on him."

"I don't know if he's a new one or not," Billy
hesitantly admitted.  "He fought pretty good.  Like
he'd had a lot of practice, you know.  His technique
reminded me a little of your MacLeod's style."
 
"Is there something else?" Joe pressed, detecting the
note of uncertainty in the other Watcher.

"I could be wrong, but. . .I went back to the church
a few hours ago and talked with Father Liam's Watcher.
 Apparently Riley took this new kid back to his parish
and let him stay there last night.  Anyhow, the
Father's Watcher got a good look at this kid.  He
thinks it's possible that he could be our, uh," Billy
paused to lower his voice, "our guy from London.  The
one you were keeping tabs on."

"No kidding," Dawson breathed in surprise at the
revelation.  "My superiors thought he might be
Immortal, but this could prove it."

"I got some good pictures," Billy assured, patting
his camera.  "Unfortunately, the lab at Headquarters
is down and these aren't exactly the type you drop off
at One-Hour Photo, if you know what I mean.  When we
get them developed, I'll bring them by and let you
have a look.  Then we'll know if he's really our
London boy or not."

"Good deal," Dawson assured, saying good-bye to his
friend before moving back down the bar.

"Something up?" Duncan MacLeod inquired, sipping the
drink he held.

"Maybe," Joe sighed.  "It's just. . .My guy saw two
Immortals fighting yesterday.  One we have an already
established file on, the other we don't.  Billy thinks
the second guy is someone we were keeping tabs on
already.  We suspected he could be Immortal, but we
didn't have any solid proof before."

"What made you think he might be one of my kind?" Mac
curiously inquired.

"He is. . .uh, living with Methos," Dawson admitted.

"So you suspected Methos was teaching him," Duncan
concluded.

"Methos went to some pretty drastic lengths to ditch
the Watchers.  In fact, we lost him for over a year.
Then one day he just strolls into my new bar.  He was
having trouble with an old foe at the time and wanted
to go through the Watcher's files.  Anyhow, he left
Paris a few days after you fought O'Rouke and I had
someone follow him.  Apparently, he's been living in
London for awhile now.  We've only been able to keep
tabs on him from a distance because we're afraid that,
if we get too close, he'll realize we're watching him
and disappear again.  The Watchers knew he was living
with someone, but we weren't sure if his friend was
Immortal or not.  In fact," Dawson admitted, "we
thought it was more of a romantic thing."

When MacLeod only nodded, showing little reaction to
that revelation, Dawson blurted out, "You don't look
too surprised, Mac."

"And you are?" the Highlander shot back.  "Come on,
Joe, he's over five thousand years old.  I'm sure he's
lived every lifestyle out there and some you don't
even know about."

"I guess you're right.  It's just that, well, after
Alexa, I just assumed he was. . .Ah, hell, I don't
know what I assumed," Dawson sighed.

"I've known for awhile that Methos had his little
secrets," MacLeod muttered, calling to mind the
argument he'd once had with the Old Man over Methos
involvement with Richie.  After the encounter with the
fake Methos, Duncan had seen the two men having a very
passionate exchange in the ally behind his dojo.  He'd
confronted Methos about it a few days later and the
other Immortal had admitted to his involvement with
Richie.  Duncan had never talked to Richie about it,
though.  He'd never found the right time or right
words to broach the subject with his student.  And now
it was too late.  Richie was gone and he had a long
list of regrets and things he wished he'd said.

"What was Methos doing hiding from the Watchers,
anyhow?" Duncan asked as Joe's earlier words
registered on him.  "Did something go down between him
and your people while I was. . .gone?"

Joe winced at the carefully worded sentence.  When
Duncan was "gone".  What he really meant was, "What
happened during the year I was recovering from
Richie's death and out of touch?"  It was a
conversation that he'd often hoped he would never have
with MacLeod and apparently that showed on his face,
for Mac gave him that look, the one that said he would
keep pushing the subject until he got his answer.

Dawson sighed then, admitting, "He disappeared the
same night you did.  After. . .after the accident at
the racetrack, I was pretty shaken up.  Methos told me
to leave and he'd handle things.  He said he'd call
for a crew from the Watchers to. . .to, uh, see about
Richie.  He did and I left.  The crew did showed up
and did their job, but they said 'Adam' was no where
in sight when they got there.  He just disappeared
into thin air that night."

Dawson sighed aloud then, pouring himself a mug of
beer from the newly repaired tap.  He took a drink of
it before finishing, "I assumed Methos had gone
looking for you.  I heard the occasional rumor that
he'd been in contact with someone within the
organization, mostly inquiring about you.  I gave them
permission to tell him what info, if any, we had on
you.  We could never get a fix on where he was
staying, though, until we followed him back to London
a few months ago and found him living with this guy."

"How did the Watchers learn his real identity?"
MacLeod inquired.

"Hey, I didn't tell them," Joe assured.  "He was
exposed during his beef with Morgan Walker.  My
daughter, Amy Thomas, learned of his Immortality then.
 She wasn't going to tell anyone because she felt we
both owed him for saving her life from Walker.  But
apparently when Amy disappeared another Watcher began
tailing Walker and he saw the fight between Methos and
Walker.  The truth came out--Adam Pierson was really
Dr. Benjamin Adams who was really Methos.  The last
week he was in Paris, he had dinner with Amy and me
here.  I knew then that his cover had been blown
within the organization, but I kept a lid on it.  I
knew they weren't going to do anything to him, but I
didn't want him to get spooked and disappear again.
We'd looked too hard for Methos to lose him now."

"So that's when your people followed him to London,"
MacLeod concluded.  "I was wondering where he went to.
 He stopped contacting me as well, until about five
days ago.  I got this weird letter from him--first
class, hand delivered--saying he had to tell me
something very important.  But I haven't heard from
him since."

"I don't know what that could be about," Joe shook
his head.  "Unless it has something to do with this
student or friend or lover of his.  Whatever the guy
is.  Whoever he is."

"What's your take on it?" MacLeod inquired.

"I thought it was a romantic thing, honestly," Dawson
admitted.  "One of the Watchers got a photo shot of
him and Blondie kissing outside a nightclub in London.
 It wasn't a good picture.  The distance was too far
and Blondie had his back turned to the camera.  You
could barely see him.  My take was that Methos was
having himself a little fling.  I never took him for
the type to get involved with another Immortal, so I
didn't pursue that angle.  My superiors felt he could
be Immortal, though.  It looks like they might be
right.  If this guy that was seen fighting today is
Methos' friend, then that means he's probably new to
the Game.  Methos must've been teaching him until
recently.  Now he's sent him out into the world, as
all teachers do their students at some point.  But the
kid picked one damn mean man to make an enemy of right
off the bat.  Christopher Welk," Joe sighed, shaking
his head.  "That guy won't stop until he either does
what he set out to do or loses his head."

"Is he a headhunter?" MacLeod inquired.

"No.  Worse.  He's a man looking for revenge," Joe
sighed.

"Those are the most dangerous kind," Duncan reminded,
standing from the bar.  "I should be going.  I've got
some errands to run.  I'll be back to hear this new
band of yours tonight."

Saying his good-byes, MacLeod left the bar and spent
the next several hours in the city running his
errands.  He paid several bills, visited the phone
company to have his phone re-connected, took some
things out of storage, and made a hasty trip to the
market before returning to his barge.  He knew he had
only a few hours to eat, shower, and change before he
had to be back at Joe's for the premiere of a new
Blues band Joe was excited about.

Duncan stepped onto his barge, balancing the grocery
bags in one arm as he tried to dig his keys out of his
pocket.  He stilled when he noticed the door was
slightly ajar.  He knew he'd locked it before leaving.
 He cautiously stepped through the doorway, stilling
as the presence of another Immortal washed over him.

"I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the
Scotsman announced as he stepped into his home.

"You should really get your phone reconnected,
MacLeod," a very familiar voice declared.  "It's hell
getting in touch with you these days."

"Methos," Duncan recognized, walking down the few
steps and eyeing the man who was sprawled across his
new couch, one of the few luxuries he had allowed
himself since his return from the monastery.  Methos
sat with one leg draped across the couch, the other
booted foot propped on the coffee table, a beer a few
inches away.  A magazine was lying in his lap and with
one hand he idly flipped the pages.  In the other hand
he held his sword.

"You broke into my place," the Highlander accused.

"Oh, please, it's hardly like you have anything worth
stealing anymore," the Old Man grumbled, warily eyeing
the other Immortal.  "About the phone--"

"I'm getting it hooked up again," Duncan assured,
setting the sacks from the market down on the coffee
table and pushing Methos' booted foot off the glass
surface in the process.  "Funny, I was just talking
about you a few hours ago."

Methos stiffened, his face carefully schooled to hide
his reaction to that, but Duncan still noticed how his
hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.  The
defensive movement caught his attention.  It was
almost as if Methos was expecting an attack from him.

"Oh?" the five-thousand-year-old man drawled,
sounding disinterested.  "Anything interesting I
should know about?"

"Not really," MacLeod shrugged.  "So what brings you
by?  I got your letter about needing to tell me
something."

"Yeah, but that will have to keep for a better day,"
Methos sighed, avoiding the Highlander's eyes and
turning his attention back to the magazine he held.
"I. . .misplaced something.  I thought it might be
here in Paris."

"Something important?"

"More than you know," the Old Man whispered softly.
"But, obviously, it's not here."

"How can you tell?" MacLeod asked as he took the
perishable items from the grocery bags and carried
them to the kitchen.

"I just can," Methos smirked, rising to his feet.  He
still kept his sword in hand, close by in a defensive
gesture.  He turned to face the other Immortal from
across the open bar and his eyes fell on the laptop
computer on the counter.  "Do you mind if I look
something up on the Internet?" he asked.

"No," Duncan motioned towards it, tugging his coat
off and moving towards the shower.  "Stick around.
I'm going to get a shower and then head over to Joe's.
 I'm sure he'll be happy to see you again.  He might
even have some questions for you," he knowingly added
under his breath.  "Maybe he can help you find
whatever it is you lost."

"I doubt that," Methos sighed as he turned on the
computer and rubbed his weary eyes.  MacLeod had been
one of his few promising leads to finding Richie.

He recalled to mind the morning he'd awoke alone to
find Richie gone and a "Dear John" letter left behind
in which Richie had confessed his sins.  His sins,
Methos thought with a mental snort.  The kid had no
idea what real sins were.

So the brat had told him a little white lie about
Horton.  Hell, that was petty in compared to the lies
Methos had told Richie and everyone else this past
year.  But he'd been thinking with his heart and not
his head the night he'd discovered a still living
Richie at the racetrack.  He'd been so relieved then.
Richie--*his* Richie--hadn't died that night, but the
kid just might if Methos was fool enough to let him go
running off after MacLeod again.

MacLeod had raised his sword to Richie in the past,
and that time Methos had believed that the kid was
gone forever.  MacLeod had offered up his head while
kneeling over Richie's "body" on the floor, but Methos
had declined.  Not out of friendship to Duncan, but
out of his love for Richie.  He'd assumed that Richie
was really dead and to have taken MacLeod's head
would've been to take Richie's still fresh Quickening.
 He would've had the kid inside of him.  He would've
felt everything Richie felt.  He would've known the
kid's thoughts.  Rich would have been with him, but
gone forever.  And that would have driven him mad.

Instead he had opted to let Richie's Quickening
settle.  He would honor his lover with a proper
burial. . .and then he would have gone for MacLeod.

Duncan had left the racetrack then, leaving him to
comfort a distraught Joe.  There'd been no one to
comfort him, though.  No one had known about his
affair with Richie except himself, the kid, and Mac.
He'd sent Joe home with a promise that he would see to
Richie's proper burial.  He'd made the call for a
clean-up crew from the Watchers to come and assist
him, and then he'd knelt beside the other Immortal's
body and said a quiet good-bye.  He hadn't cried in
that moment.  He'd refused to let himself.

And then he'd felt the other Immortal near by.  He'd
considered that it might be MacLeod returning and had
drawn his weapon and stepped into the hall to see for
himself.  Instead, he'd stumbled upon a confused and
disoriented young man.  Methos had thought he was
losing his mind when he had knelt beside the other
Immortal and tilted the man's head back to see the
face of Richie Ryan starting back at him.  It wasn't
possible, he'd tried to rationalize.  Richie was dead
in the other room.  He'd knelt beside the body.  Yet
the Immortal that he'd found in the hallway looked so
damn much like his lover.

His mind had rationalized that it was some type of
trap and then he'd hauled the kid to his feet and
pressed the blade of his sword to the look-a-like's
neck and demanded answers.  He'd gotten them.  He'd
learned all he needed to know when Rich had called him
"Benji".  He'd kissed the other man then, and his
answer had been sweetly reconfirmed in that moment.
No one kissed like Richie.  No one tasted like him or
leaned so trustingly into Methos' arms as that kid
did.  It was Richie he'd found alive.  He'd been
unable to hold back the tears then.

His sweet discovery had been followed by a bitter
reality, though.  MacLeod and Dawson thought Richie
was dead.  Mac was obviously losing his mind.  He was
psychotic to the point that he'd actually "killed
Richie", or so everyone thought.  Who was to say he
wouldn't do it again?  Who was to say he wouldn't be
successful with his next attempt?

Those lingering doubts had literally sickened Methos
to the core.  For a brief and terrible moment, he'd
believed Richie dead.  He couldn't imagine a lifetime
of that pain.  MacLeod was either losing his mind or
really fighting some sort of demon, he'd rationalized.
 Either way, Methos wanted Richie safe and away from
the reach of Duncan MacLeod's katana.

So he'd told his lies then.  Richie's incoherent
ramblings had led him to believe that the kid thought
Horton was alive and after them, so that was the cover
story he went with.  He'd never told Rich that MacLeod
and Dawson thought the kid was dead.  He'd never
mentioned the headless body that strongly resembled
his young lover.  He'd never allowed himself to think
about it or question it.  He had his miracle and that
was finding Richie alive and unharmed.  Never look a
gift horse in the mouth, he reminded himself.

He'd taken the kid to London and started over.
Ironic, he supposed, that while he'd been making plans
to protect Richie the kid had thought himself doing
the same thing, lying to protect Methos.  But his
untruths were far worse than Rich's.  It was likely
Richie would never forgive him for letting their
friends believe the kid was dead, and he was prepared
to face that anger.  Yet, even knowing that, he still
wanted the truth to come from him.  He wanted to be
the one who explained to Richie why he had done this.
It was the least he owed the younger Immortal.

Hell, if he had just kept his promises from the
start, he wouldn't be in this position now, he
reminded himself repeatedly.  While in London, Richie
had asked only that Methos tell him if the Watchers
found MacLeod or if Mac returned to Paris.  It was a
vow Methos had wanted to keep.  He'd intended to keep
it.  But somehow he'd gotten lost in the fantasy of
"Richard and Benji".  He'd tried to pretend that the
day would never come when he would have to be honest
with Richie.  It had came, though.

Late one night, over a year ago, he'd lain awake in
bed after making love to the kid.  He'd been watching
Richie sleep, marveling at how beautiful he was.  How
his flesh glowed in the aftermath of passion.  How
dark his eyelashes looked against his smooth, pale
skin.

And then the phone had rang.

He'd tried to catch it before it woke Richie up, but
it was a call he would forever wish he'd never taken.
A Watcher source had panned out. . .And Duncan MacLeod
was alive and well and back in Paris.

He hadn't relayed that to Richie at the time.  He'd
wanted to see about MacLeod first.  He'd made the trip
to the city to see the Highlander because he wanted to
judge the man's state of mind, perhaps find some valid
reason to keep up his charade.  There was none,
though.  Whatever demons or evil MacLeod had been
facing, he'd defeated it.  And the "death" of Richie
was still haunting Mac.  Methos had tried to ignore
that at first.  Then he'd told himself that MacLeod
would get past it, but when Duncan had been willing to
give up his head to save Joe and Amanda, Methos had
realized how deep those emotional scars ran.  He'd
intervened to stop the bloody fool from committing
suicide.  Richie would've never forgiven him if his
mentor died because of a guilty conscience over
something that had never happened to begin with.

But then he'd faced an ugly reality. . .He had to
tell the truth.  It would destroy whatever fragile
feelings Richie held for him, he knew.  And it would
probably lead to him losing his head at the hands of
his lover or a pissed off Scotsman.

He'd returned to London then and he had tried to tell
Richie.  He'd tried a thousand times, but the words
hadn't come.  He'd distanced himself emotionally from
the kid, hoping it would make the break easier.  And
still the words had failed to come from his lips.

Finally, four nights ago, he'd promised himself he
would tell the truth when Richie woke up the next
morning.  He'd even sent MacLeod a special delivery
letter so that he couldn't chicken out again.  He was
going to come clean this time, but instead it had been
Rich who had dropped the bombshell in his little "Dear
John" letter.  The kid had been keeping secrets of his
own, apparently.  Rich had said in his note that he
was going to find MacLeod and Methos assumed that
Paris would be his most logical choice, so he'd taken
the first flight from London to Paris he could get,
hoping to head Richie off at the pass.

He knew there was nothing to stop this storm that was
about to explode around all of them, but the least he
could do was soften the blows.  Richie would hate him
for this, he knew.  And he stood the chance of losing
Richie forever.  He'd be crushed by that, but there
was none to blame but himself.

Five thousand years of protecting his heart and
carefully building the walls so that no one could get
too close to him, and it had all came tumbling down
with one blue-eyed brat.  Richie hadn't even had to
climb the walls he'd erected around his heart.  He'd
basically opened the door himself and invited the kid
in.

Maybe he'd been lonely for too long and it was just
time for him to fall in love again.  Or maybe it was
just Richie.  He'd certainly came to love everything
about the other Immortal.  His youth and beauty.  His
zest for life and new experiences.  His passion.  How
many nights had Methos taken his beautiful body,
filling him with slow and deep strokes.  He'd made
Richie keep his eyes open the entire time they made
love, wanting to see everything the kid was feeling in
his blue, blue eyes.

He was always awed by what he saw in Richie's eyes.
Passion.  Desire.  Need.  Trust.  And. . .something
more.  Methos had never dared put a finger on that
emotion.  Sometimes he imagined it was love.  Perhaps
it was to some degree.  Or maybe Rich just loved what
they did to each other's bodies.

But for himself, it hadn't all been about passion.
He'd found thousands of reasons to adore that kid.
Richie had a strength and compassion that surprised
Methos, especially considering his almost loveless up
bringing.  He had wisdom, too, a surprising amount for
one that young.  The kid was both simple and complex
at the same time.

It was all of those qualities that had made him fall
in love with the other Immortal.  And it was all those
qualities that would make Richie turn away from him
now, but not before the other heard the truth from him
first.  Methos imagined it wouldn't make much of a
difference, but he needed to be the one who explained
his actions and decisions.  That was why he came to
Paris and that was why he had to find Richie before
Richie found MacLeod.

He'd felt that he had three options when it came to
finding Rich.  The first one hadn't played out,
though, so he'd called on Plan B and came to visit
MacLeod.  He'd half-expected to find a newly reunited
MacLeod and Richie, both furious at him and both
wanting his head.  He'd come prepared for that, he
thought cryptically, glancing down at the sword he
still held, but that hadn't been the case.  Richie
wasn't here and, if he had been, Methos was certain
MacLeod wouldn't have greeted him so fondly.

Option two was a bust, as well.  Now it was time for
option three.  The Watchers.  He quickly called up
their website on-line and typed in Dawson's secret
password.  Joe would be furious--as would
MacLeod--when they traced this back to Duncan's
computer, but it was a chance he had to take.  With
any luck, he would have found Richie, said his piece,
and been on his way out of Paris before they connected
the dots back to him.

The computer beeped aloud then, jarring his attention
back to it as he obtained access to the site.  He
quickly went to the file on Richie Ryan, finding the
kid to be still listed as deceased.  There were no
flags or notes to indicate that the Watchers thought
otherwise.  He quickly went back to the main page and
was about to look for MacLeod's name when he noticed
the "Urgent Message" icon.  He clicked on it, briefly
scanning over the request for all Watchers to be on
alert that a new Immortal might have been discovered.
Methos re-read the description of the "unknown
Immortal" several times, knowing in his heart that it
was Richie.  The kid had had an encounter with
Christopher Welk and was believed to be residing on
Holy Ground with Father Liam Riley.

He quickly wrote down the address for Riley's church.
 It was the best lead he had.  The *only* lead he had
to find Richie.  Methos signed out of the site and
turned off the computer before making a hasty retreat
from the barge.  With any luck, he could find the kid
before Richie ended up in more trouble than he could handle.
 

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Four
<><><><><><><><><>

Richie hit the concrete with a thud of pain, his head
bouncing off cement that was cold and still wet from
the rain that had fallen during the night.  Stars
exploded behind his eyes and it took a moment for his
gaze to clear.  When it did, the first thing he saw
was the hand extended to help him up and the apology
in Liam Riley's eyes.

"That was a foul," Richie grumbled, kicking the
basketball with his foot as he let the priest pull him
to his feet.

"You young ones have no taste for a good battle.  On
the court, that is," Liam laughed, retrieving the
basketball and bouncing it on the cement.  "Odd, but I
thought you told me you were a real player and fan of
the game.  I'd hoped you might give me a better
match-up."

"I haven't played in awhile," Richie defended
himself, cutting off Riley's slash for the basket and
stealing the ball in the process.  He dribbled once
before sinking the two point shot, a little surprised
that he made it with such ease.  He hadn't been
exaggerating on not playing basketball in some time.
As a kid and teenager, he'd played nearly everyday.
Basketball had been one of the few stable things he
could count on.  There was always someone in the old
neighborhood looking for a match-up.  He'd played less
after moving in with MacLeod and Tessa.  Mac had
occasionally shot a game or two of hoops with him, but
his playing time on the court had diminished greatly
after becoming Immortal.  He'd found it more prudent
to practice with a sword than perfect his jump shot.
He'd played less and less after moving to London.
Methos wasn't a big fan of the sport and not much
competition.

Methos, Richie mentally sighed, watching as Liam
chased the ball down and banked a three point shot in
answer to his two.

The priest gave him a broad grin as he declared in a
voice laden with an Irish accent, "I've had alot of
practice."

"So I see.  Decades of it, probably," Richie replied.

"You'd be surprised how many kids will open up to me
out here," Liam admitted, glancing around the
basketball court behind his church.  "Kids who won't
talk to me in confessional or in therapy, but they
will tell me anything that's on their minds out here."

"Their defenses are down here," Richie acknowledged,
moving to the bench nearby and retrieving the
sweatshirt he'd taken off before their game and tugged
it on to ward off the cold air.  It had stopped
raining hours ago, but dark and gray clouds still hung
in the sky, threatening another downpour.

"What?  You calling it a game?" Liam asked in
disappointment.

"It's. . .half-time," Richie negotiated, claiming a
seat on the stone bench.  He reached for one of the
towels that Liam had laid on the bench earlier and
wiped his face with it before claiming his bottle of
water and twisting the cap off.  He took a long drink
from the cool liquid, carefully studying the priest
from across the half court.  True to his promise, Liam
had brought him back to Holy Ground after his
encounter with Welk the previous day.  Liam had gotten
him settled in a room within the parish and had
arranged for his things to be sent from his hotel to
here.  Apparently the priest had a few connections in
the city.

Richie had spent a restless night tossing and
turning, dreaming about Methos in those brief moments
when he had dozed off.  He'd dragged himself out of
bed late in the morning, found something to eat, and
then spotted the basketball court while touring his
temporary home.  Liam had caught him dribbling the
ball on the court and challenged him to a game.  "So
were you hoping that the court would work on me, too?"

"What do you mean?" Liam inquired, moving to join him
on the bench and reaching for his own bottle of water.

"You said that this is where you get most people to
talk to you," Richie reminded.  "Were you hoping
that'd work on me, too?"

"No," Riley shook his head.  "I invited you to play
because I need the practice.  But I'll listen if you
want to talk."

"I'd rather talk about this Welk guy," Richie
declared.  "And why you stopped me from killing him."

"Because it wasn't your battle to fight," Liam said
simply.

"Then whose is it?" the younger Immortal challenged.
"You're a priest.  You're not going to pick up a sword
and take on a headhunter--"

"Christopher isn't a headhunter," Riley sighed.
"He's an. . .old acquaintance."

"You know him," Richie realized.

"We have a history," the priest admitted.  "I wasn't
always a priest, Richie.  I have a past of my own.
Christopher and I date back to the late 1700s."

"What went down between you and him?" Richie
demanded.

Liam heaved a deep sigh before admitting, "Something
that he has the right to hate me for, I suppose.
Anyone would in his position.  Before I became a
priest, I was a soldier, true and loyal to The Crown.
I fought your American ancestors in the Revolutionary
War, son.  I fought to keep America from becoming an
independent nation and to keep you under British rule.
 Had we met a few centuries ago, I would've been your
enemy.  Just like I was his enemy."

The last words were said so softly that Richie almost
didn't hear them.  "So that's how you met this Welk.
During some war a few centuries ago?  Hell, nobody
even cares about that now."

"Watch your language, and people care still," Liam
scolded.  "I was a soldier sent to control the
Colonists who were rebelling against British rule.
They were refusing to pay their taxes in some cases.
It was at that point that I encountered an Immortal
who was encouraging the Colonists to revolt against
us.  I was challenged by this Immortal.  We fought and
I won."

"I don't understand," Richie shook his head.  "How
does that connect you to Welk?"

"The Immortal I killed was his teacher," Liam
revealed.

"Oh," Richie realized, sighing as he leaned back
against the stone bench.  It made more sense to him
now.

Riley avoided the other Immortal's eyes then as he
continued, "It wasn't just his teacher I killed,
though.  She was also his wife."

"She?" Richie asked in surprise.

"Yes.  The Immortal was a woman.  She challenged me,"
Liam recalled.  "It was a different time for me,
Richie.  I was a different person.  Not who I am
today.  Yes, I killed his wife and his teacher.
That's why he wants to fight me.  I suppose I would,
too, if I were in his place."

"It still doesn't make it right," Richie argued.
"You're different now.  You've changed."

"She was his wife," Liam reminded.  "How would you
feel if someone killed your teacher and your lover at
the same time?"

"I'd probably want to wack his ass," Richie
grudgingly admitted.  If someone were to take the head
of Methos or MacLeod, he would want revenge.  But
wanting it didn't make it right, he knew.

"So you understand why he wishes to kill me and why
you should stay out of it."

"I said I would *want* to kill him, not I would try
to kill him," Richie corrected.  "And I will get
involved if I want to.  There's nothing fair about a
fight between you and him, especially considering that
you've already said you won't take up a sword and
fight him."

"I made a vow to give it up and I'll never go back on
that," Liam passionately decreed.  "Besides, don't you
have enough troubles of your own without adding mine
to your burden?  Now I promised to help you track down
your teacher and I intend to do that.  I have a friend
named Nick Wolf who is a former police officer.  He's
also one of us.  He works for a security service here
in Paris and he'll help track down your teacher if I
ask him to."

Richie shook his head then, causing a lock of long
hair to fall out of his ponytail and tumble into his
eyes.  He irritably brushed it back, declaring,
"MacLeod'd be too smart to leave a trail that could be
followed--"

"MacLeod?" Liam interrupted.  "Duncan or Connor?"

"You know them?" Richie asked.

"I know Connor.  I've never met Duncan personally,
but a friend of mine speaks highly of him.  Perhaps
you know her.  Amanda."

"Amanda?" the younger Immortal repeated, suddenly
suspicious of the priest.  Somehow he couldn't picture
her frequenting church services often enough to become
friendly with a Father.  "Yeah, sure, I know Amanda.
Sister Amanda.  Such a good and virtuous woman.  I was
always so inspired by her devotion to teaching the
elderly how to mold pottery--"

"Amanda is a thief and a con artist," Liam
interrupted, a knowing smile on his face.  "I also
know her from my days before the priesthood."

"You really do know her," Richie realized in
surprise.  "Is she here in Paris?  Maybe she could
help me track down Mac."

"No, she's not in Paris right now.  But I do know
that this MacLeod is living here in this city now,"
Liam revealed.  "It's a long story, but Amanda was
hoping he could help her with a little problem a few
months past.  She said she was going to speak with
him.  He was living on a barge I believe.  Does that
sound right to you?"

"Yeah," Richie sighed, feeling a heavy weight being
dropped on his shoulders.  He hadn't thought much on
what he would say to Duncan when they met up again.
He'd been too preoccupied with finding Mac.  But now
he knew where MacLeod was.  He had to face the friend
he'd let down.

"I. . .I guess I'd better go see him."

"You sound like you'd rather face a guillotine," Liam
laughed.

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly know what to say."

"The words will come when you see your friend.  Of
course, it never hurts to take your time and think of
what you'll say first.  Visit him when you feel the
time is right for you."

"I just might do that," Richie sighed.

"I have an evening service to prepare for," Liam
stated as he stood.  "Richie, you're welcome to stay
here on Holy Ground for as long as you need."

"Thank you," he stated sincerely, watching as the
priest left and made his way back towards the parish.
He knew Liam's advice about getting his own thoughts
together before visiting MacLeod was sound, but he
wondered if it would work for him.  It might take him
decades to come to terms with the mistakes he'd made.

With a sigh, he stood and retrieved the basketball
and practiced his shots as his mind mulled over what
he and Liam had talked about.  He shot baskets for
another hour, blocking out everything around him,
including the thunder that'd started to rumbled
overhead again.

He wondered what type of reception his teacher and
friend would give him.  He'd left when Duncan needed
him the most.  He'd left after swearing he would stick
around.  How could he make Mac understand why he'd
done that?  He knew MacLeod had disappeared himself
for over a year, but if he hadn't been too busy
playing house with a man who didn't love him, then he
might've found a way to track his teacher down.

He had to check on Duncan now, he realized, tossing
aside the ball and moving to the jacket that he'd lain
on the ground near the bench.  Thunder rumbled again,
but he ignored it.  He wasn't going to let a little
rain stop him from knowing if Mac was okay and if the
Highlander had defeated whatever evil it was he'd
fought so hard against.

And he would call Methos, Richie also decided.  Maybe
tonight if it wasn't too late when he finished
visiting MacLeod.  If not tonight, then tomorrow.
He'd talk with his former lover and face whatever much
deserved anger was hurled his way.

Richie pulled on the coat, made all the more heavy by
the sword inside.  He knew he needed a shower before
making this trip, but he'd made his mind up and wasn't
going to give himself time to re-think it.  He would
just have to smell bad when he visited his teacher.

His long strides carried him from the safe walls of
Holy Ground and back onto the busy streets of Paris.
A light rain began to fall on him then and he pulled
the collar of his coat up around his neck to protect
himself from the cold mist.  Deciding to take a short
cut, he darted down a nearly vacant street and made
his way towards MacLeod's barge.

Richie stopped in the center of the street when the
presence of another Immortal suddenly overtook him.
He turned slowly, watching as a figure stepped from
the mouth of a nearby ally and walked towards him.
Dust dark had started to settle around them and the
clouds overhead darkened the sky even more, making
Richie have to squint to make out his face.

A flash of lightening shot through the sky then,
lighting up their surroundings and offering Richie a
clear view of the other Immortal's face.  He stood
rooted for a second, but then breathed in recognition.
 

"It's you. . ."

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Five
<><><><><><><><><>

Methos guided his car down the nearly vacant and
rainy street several blocks from Father Liam Riley's
church.  He'd visited the parish earlier, but hadn't
encountered Richie or the priest.  A brief talk with
one of the parish's occupants had revealed to him that
Father Liam had brought a young man to stay at the
church the day before, but he wasn't there now.  He'd
last been seen leaving the parish a few hours before
Methos' arrival and walking this way.

With a resigned sigh, Methos turned the volume up on
his police scanner.  It was one of the few things he'd
kept from his days as a Watcher.  It never ceased to
surprise him how much information on Immortals they'd
gathered from listening to the confused baffle of
local authorities who either found a headless corpse
or lost a "dead" body.

The scanner crackled several times and he nearly
slowed to a stop when he heard the call being
transmitted over the air.  Two men reported sword
fighting on a nearby bridge.  He slammed on the brakes
then, hastily doing a U-turn on the street and driving
in the direction of the report.

He drove as fast as he could in the steady rain, a
sick fear twisting his gut.  It was Richie, he knew.
He had no explanation for it, he just *knew* it was
his lover locked in battle with another of their own
kind.  Richie hadn't faced one of their own in well
over a year.

Methos slowed as he came near the bridge in question,
quietly cursing at the sight of blue lights up ahead
of him and the sounds of police sirens.  He parked his
car, hopping from it and racing towards the bridge.
He carefully avoided being spotted by the police as he
walked down the slippery bank and looked up at the men
fighting above him.

It was Richie, he realized, his stomach twisting in
fear.

The other Immortal he didn't recognize, but the rain
that fell without mercy around them made his bald head
shine under the dim streetlights.

Richie looked exhausted to him, as if their fight had
been going on for hours.  His hair had fallen free
from his ponytail and the rain soaked locks fell
around his face.

Why had he insisted on Rich growing it out as a
disguise, Methos silently condemned himself.  Didn't
he know that could hinder Richie in battle?  An
opponent could grab him by the hair or it could get
into his eyes and distract him.

Richie had shed his coat and Methos could clearly see
the cuts and stains of blood on both his shirt and
pants, telling the brutality of their battle.  How
badly he wanted to yell out a warning to Richie, but
that could be another distraction that could cost his
lover his life in the middle of a fight.  As it was,
Methos wasn't close enough for them to feel his
presence yet and he would make himself stand far
enough away so that they wouldn't.  He couldn't risk
distracting Richie.

The sounds of sirens grew louder, but neither of the
Immortal warriors seemed to hear them.  If they did,
they ignored them and concentrated simply on the
battle before them.  Methos cried out when the Bald
Immortal slipped on the wet concrete, giving Richie
the advantage.  Rich ran him through with his weapon,
sending the man to his knees as he raised his weapon
for the fatal blow.

Richie started in surprised when a voice identifying
itself as a police officer shouted the order for him
to freeze and drop his weapon.  In surprise, he
glanced around to see himself surrounded by men with
guns, all of them pointing at him.  With a groan of
frustration, he knew the only choice he had was to do
something drastic.

Methos knew what his lover intended when Richie
raised the sword instead of lowering it.  It still
didn't stop him from flinching when the police shouted
one more order before opening fire on the kid.
Richie's body jerked around as the bullets slammed
into him, knocking him backwards and over the railing
of the bridge.  Methos watched him fall into the swift
waters of the Seine River, his sword coming free of
his hand just before his body hit the cold, murky
water.

Methos turned and began to run downstream, praying
that he could catch sight of Richie's body in the
muddy waters.  From above him, he heard the shouts of
the police officers as they gathered around the
railing and looked down while others tried to tend to
the "dead victim" on the bridge.

No one noticed the Watcher who quickly fished a sword
from the river.

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Six
<><><><><><><><><>

Duncan MacLeod ducked into Joe's bar, pausing just
inside the door to brush the raindrops from his hair
and coat before stepping further into the
establishment.  The place was packed to hear the
newest band Joe had brought in and he glanced around
the bar, but didn't see his friend and Watcher.

He hoped to have a private word with Joe before the
night ended to tell him that Methos was back in Paris.
 After finishing his shower, he'd stepped out of the
bathroom to find that Methos had vanished from the
barge just as abruptly as he'd appeared.  The only
signs that he'd been there at all were the open laptop
on the bar and mud from his boots on the coffee table.
 Methos had said he was looking for something he'd
lost, and Duncan had the suspicion that it was this
kid Joe and the Watchers were trying to track down.

MacLeod moved to the crowded bar, having to raise his
voice to be heard over the band as he inquired to the
bartender, "Where's Joe?!"

"In the back room!" the Frenchman shouted back.  "He
said to tell you to come back as soon as you got here.
 Said it was important business.  He looked pretty
upset.  I'd go on back if I were you."

Duncan nodded, worry creeping into his mind.
"Important business" to Joe meant Watcher business,
and for him to include Duncan in that then something
must be seriously wrong.

MacLeod's long strides carried him to the back room
and he knocked on the door before turning the handle
and entering.  Dawson sat at his desk, his face eerily
pale.  A bottle of Scotch sat before him and he had a
half-full glass in hand.  In the corner stood a silent
young man that Duncan recognized as Billy the Watcher
from earlier in the day.

Duncan quietly pushed the door shut behind him, the
thick oak blocking out the sound of the music from the
bar.  "What's wrong, Joe?" he  asked quietly.

"Sit down and let me pour you a drink," Dawson
suggested, looking upset.

"What's wrong, Joe?" he repeated.

"We've had a breach in Watcher security," the man
began, looking rather numb as he spoke.  "Someone
accessed our files using my password today.  But they
did it from a computer that was traced to you."

"Methos," the Highlander swore.  "He used my computer
today."

"I figured it might've been him," came the muttered
response.

MacLeod opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it
when the light glittered off an object on the shelf
behind Joe.  He moved to it, feeling the blood drain
from his face as Dawson softly cursed.  Duncan's hands
trembled as he reached for the sword he would have
known anywhere.  Graham Ashe's sword.  *Richie's*
sword.  The weapon he'd given to his student. . .The
one Richie had supposedly been buried with.

He turned to Dawson then, a thousand questions and
demands in his eyes.

"Billy fished that out of the river," Joe muttered,
nodding towards the silent Watcher in the corner.
"The Immortal using it lost it when he went over a
bridge."

"I thought you buried this with Richie?" Duncan spat
in fury.

"I did," Joe insisted, gulping down the strong liquor
in a single swallow.  "You've seen his grave.  It's
sealed tight.  No one could've robbed it."

"Unless. . ." MacLeod sighed, reverently rubbing the
hilt of the ancient weapon.  "Unless someone did it
before he was buried.  Someone at the funeral home.
It could've been fenced on the market for a fortune.
Or the Watcher's could've--"

"No," Joe butted in, a noticeable tremble in his
voice.  "I used the organization's cover at the
funeral home to arrange his burial.  I put that sword
in his coffin and closed it myself just a few hours
before we buried him.  He was never out of my sight.
That coffin was sealed."

"Apparently it wasn't," Duncan snapped.  "Otherwise
we wouldn't be having this conversation now.  Who was
the Immortal with this weapon?"

"The guy we've been tracking," Joe sighed.  "Methos'
friend."

"Methos?" the Highlander repeated in surprise and
confusion.  "Methos should've known this was Richie's
sword.  Unless this is what he was looking for
earlier.  But why the hell would a friend of his have
this?"

Joe was silent for an endless moment before
whispering on a raw voice, "It's Richie."

"What is?"

Joe glanced towards the still silent Watcher before
explaining, "Richie is the Immortal Billy has been
tracking.  Richie's the guy living with Methos.  I'm
guessing Methos hacked into our files today looking
for information on Richie.  Because he's alive.
Richie's alive, Mac."

"No," the Highlander shook his head defiantly.
Refusing, or perhaps unable, to believe that.  He had
wished it.  He'd even dreamed it.  But he couldn't
allow himself thoughts like those.  They were too
self-destructive.  "Richie's dead, Joe.  There has to
be some other explanation--"

"I thought so, too, at first," Dawson interrupted.
"Until I saw these.  Billy just got them back from the
lab."

MacLeod turned to see his friend holding out an
envelope to him.  He watched it like it were a snake,
before laying the sword back down.  He moved to
Dawson's desk and cautiously took the offering.  He
opened the flap and spilled the dozens of photos onto
the desk.  His hands trembled as he reached for them,
his mind frantically trying to rationalize what he
saw.  In perfect, enlarged color, the face of Richie
Ryan started back at him.  The hair was different;
longer and blonder.  The eyes looked older.  His face
was carefully schooled into an emotionless mask as he
fought the other Immortal, but it *was* Richie.

"Oh my God," MacLeod whispered as his knees gave way
and he sank into the nearest chair.

"I had the same reaction, too," Joe sympathized,
pouring another shot of the Scotch and handing it to
MacLeod.  "Those pictures.  The sword.  Methos being
involved. . .It's him, Mac.  He's alive."

Duncan heard the joy in the Watcher's voice and
wanted to echo it with happiness of his own, but all
he felt was numb inside.  Joe had apparently had time
to process this new information.  He hadn't, and it
felt like the breath had literally been kicked out of
him.  Finding his voice, he turned to the silent
Watcher and demanded, "Where did you get these?"

"I took them this morning," Billy answered.  "The guy
in the pictures is the same guy who lost that sword on
the bridge tonight.  I'm positive of that.  Mr. Dawson
showed me the pictures of this other Immortal--the one
you thought was dead--and he's a perfect ringer for
the guy I've been trailing.  I know the hair is
different, but that can be a disguise.  According to
the license he showed when he rented a hotel room the
other day, his name's Richard Pierce from London."

"Richard," Joe butted in, his eyes boring into
MacLeod.  "Richard.  Richie.  The sword.  The
pictures.  Mac, he's alive."

"Son of a bitch!" Duncan suddenly exploded.  "That
bastard!"

"Richie?" Joe asked in surprise at the outburst.

"No!  Methos!" MacLeod shouted as he stood and kicked
his chair back.  "That little piece of--Ugh!  He lost
something.  That's what he had the nerve to tell me at
the barge today.  He had 'lost something' and he
wanted to check and see if it was at the barge.  Yeah,
he lost something all right.  Richie!  That bastard
has known all along. . .All this time. . ."

"But why?" Joe tried to rationalize.  "Why would he
keep something like that a secret from you?  From me!
Why would he take Richie to London and not tell anyone
Rich was alive?"

"Because they were lovers," Duncan revealed, his tone
softening somewhat.  "He and Richie were lovers
before. . .before we thought Rich had died."

"Did Richie tell you that?" Joe asked.

"No, I saw them together once.  And Methos admitted
it to me when I asked him.  They were lovers for
awhile.  But then Richie got involved with Marina
LeMartin.  Methos still wanted him though," Duncan
spat.  "I could see it every time the Old Bastard
looked at Richie.  He wanted his boy toy back and he
found an opportunity and he took him."

"We don't know anything for sure," Dawson reminded.
"Maybe. . .maybe he had some other reason."

"You're right," Duncan agreed, his tone suddenly
changing as he turned to Billy.  "We really don't know
anything for sure.  But there's one way to find out.
You!  Billy, right?  Go get me a shovel and a
sledgehammer."

"What for?"

"I'm gone to make sure," Duncan proclaimed as he
stormed from the room.

"I'm coming with you," Joe shouted after him,
reaching for his cane and following his friend.
 

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Seven
<><><><><><><><><>

Richie gasped as life returned to his battered body.
He ached everywhere and he was colder than he'd ever
been in his life.  He drew another breath and then
threw up, rolling over onto the muddy bank as he
emptied his stomach and lungs of muddy and bitter
water.  He vaguely recalled being caught by a branch
in the swift river and having drowned several times
trying to get free of it.  And then someone had pulled
him out of the water.

He was aware of the presence of another Immortal then
and he whirled around, making out the outline of a man
standing over him and he suspected it was Christopher
Welk.  The steady rainfall blurred his vision and he
wiped his hand across his eyes to clear his vision.
His gaze focused on the man and he gasped in surprise.

"Methos?" he whispered in disbelief, his voice raspy
and hoarse.

"Feel better?" the Old Man inquired as he knelt
beside the other.

"What. . .?  Where. . .?" Richie stammered as he
tried to sit up.

"You must be freezing," Methos realized, reaching for
the coat he'd discarded before taking his own plunge
into the cold water to fish out his lover.  He wrapped
it around Rich's shivering shoulders, bringing their
bodies into close contact.

"You're wet, too," Richie realized, his mind swirling
with a thousand thoughts.  Methos was here.  With him.
 Was this some kind of sick dream he was having?  Had
Welk really killed him and this was Heaven?  Or Hell?

"You're hypothermic," Methos was saying as he began
gently rubbing the other man's hands between his own.
"The good news is, it won't last.  The bad news is,
it'll hurt like hell when you start getting the
feeling back."

"What are you doing here?" Richie blurted out.  "I
mean, how did you find me and. . .?"

"I saw the fight on the bridge," Methos explained,
blinking as the drops of rain fell into his eyes.  "I
tried to get to you when you first landed in the
water, but the current was so swift it carried you
away.  I've been following the river for miles, hoping
you'd wash onto the bank at some point."

"You came looking for me," Richie realized, suddenly
very much aware of the warm hands that still held his.
 His Immortal body was starting to recover and the
feeling had returned to his hands.  Of their own
accord, his fingers laced themselves with Methos' and
the Old Man lightly squeezed his hand.  "Why?"

Methos' felt his breath catch at the loaded question.
 Richie wanted to know why he'd tailed the kid to
Paris.  This was his opportunity, he knew.  This was
his chance to tell Richie the entire truth.  To say he
loved the damn brat with his whole heart and soul.
And he wanted to say that, but the words refused to
form.  Instead, he dropped his lips to Richie's
freezing cold ones and kissed him.

Richie sighed under the tender kiss and leaned in for
more, letting his tongue play across Methos' bottom
lip.  The Old Man shuddered and opened his mouth to
accept the deepening kiss.  He wasn't certain how long
he kissed the beautiful young man before they finally
pulled apart, both of them breathless and shaking from
more than just the cold.

"That's why," Methos gruffly replied, meeting
Richie's eyes and instantly regretting the decision.
Awe, wonderment, surprise, happiness, and disbelief
were all reflected in those incredible blue depths.
And something else, too.  Something Methos normally
would have labeled love, but he refused to do that
now.  Not when he knew that love would soon change to
hate.  It ripped at his heart to have Richie look at
him with this adoration and trust when he knew that he
would soon shatter that.

"You're not pissed at me over the Horton thing,"
Richie realized in stunned disbelief.  Could it be?
Did he dare even hope?

No, he quickly forced those thoughts aside, his
happiness fading when he saw the emotions in Methos'
face.  The Old Man wasn't nearly as happy about this
reunion as he was.  Methos looked almost sick at
heart, pain and sadness reflected in his green eyes.

"Let's get out of here before the cops make it this
far downstream," Methos suddenly announced, standing
and pulling Richie up with him.  A muddy riverbank in
the ice-cold rain with the police breathing down their
necks wasn't the place to disillusion the kid for
life.  "Can you walk back to my car?"

"I think so," Richie nodded, stomping his numb legs
as some of the feeling started to course back through
them.  "Where's my sword?"

"Lost by now, Kid," Methos sighed, glancing at the
water.  "Come on, it's a long walk back."

"I don't want to leave without finding it," Richie
insisted.

"You're not going to find it, Rich.  It's ten miles
downstream by now or at the bottom of the river," he
irritably snapped.  "Don't worry, though.  You'll be
safe with me until we can get you another.  Now let's
go."

"Where to?" Richie grudgingly complied as he fell
into step beside Methos.  They moved towards the
woods, choosing to walk back through the forest so not
to encounter any police along the way.

"We're going to MacLeod's," Methos replied after a
lengthy pause.  "It's a visit that's long overdue."

"Yeah, it is," Richie agreed with a weary sigh.  They
lapsed into silence as he followed Methos' lead.
Belatedly, Richie realized that Methos still held his
hand and he considered pulling it away, but then
decided against it.  Instead, he gave Methos' hand a
slight squeeze, prompting the other man to turn his
head slightly and smile.

Taking that as all the encouragement he needed,
Richie leaned over for another kiss.  Richie pulled
away first, lightly brushing his nose against Methos'
as he parted from him.  The Old Man tugged on his
hand, pulling him closer as the sounds of police
searching the riverbank flowed through the trees to
greet them.

Richie nearly released a cynical bark of laughter at
the thought of how much time they would waste tonight
looking for him.  He'd been dead, but now he wasn't.
He could get shot a thousand times and still survive.
His life would never hold even a semblance of
normalcy, yet with Methos by his side, none of that
seemed to matter, because just being with Methos felt
perfectly normal.

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Eight
<><><><><><><><><>

"Hold the light higher, Joe," MacLeod ordered,
raising his voice to be heard over the pouring rain
and thunder that crackled above.

Dawson complied, raising the flashlight to offer the
Highlander a better view.  The rain poured down
without mercy around them and Joe had to squint to
make out Duncan's movements.  He saw MacLeod raised
the sledgehammer--

"Wait!" Joe shouted, surprising them both.

"What?" Mac demanded, lowering the heavy tool.

"What. . .what if we're wrong?" Joe hesitantly asked.
 Duncan looked away from him and he realized that the
Highlander shared those exact same fears and
uncertainties.

"Then we're wrong," MacLeod muttered softly.  "But we
have to know.  If we are wrong, I'll make it up to
him.  I'll bury him by Tessa this time."

Dawson nodded, watching as MacLeod raised the
sledgehammer and brought it crashing down into the
marble that covered the grave of Richie Ryan.  He
flinched and looked away as the beautiful, shiny stone
that had cost him a fortune to have placed here
crumbled under the brutal swings.

Joe watched quietly as Duncan broke apart the grave's
covering before reaching for the shovel.  He worked
like a man possessed and Dawson did not interrupt him
as he dug into the wet ground.

Duncan cleared enough of the dirt to reach the upper
portion of the casket that had been buried for over a
year.  Joe moved to stand over the open earth and he
shined the light down into the gaping hole.  Duncan
traded a long glance with him, both of their hopes and
fears mirrored into that moment before MacLeod turned
back to the task at hand.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong," he whispered, breaking the
seal on the casket and flinging open the upper portion
before he lost his nerve.

Joe aimed the flashlight's beam into the open lid to
reveal an empty casket.  From below him, he thought he
heard a strangled sob exit Duncan's mouth.  In a state
of numb shock, Joe watched as MacLeod closed the lid
and climbed back above ground.

"It's empty.  He's alive," Duncan whispered, falling
to his knees in the mud.  He wept for the first time
then, allowing the tears of relief and joy to flow
down his face.  "Richie's alive."

"H-How?" Joe stammered.  "I. . .I buried him. . .I
know I did. . .I would have known. . ."

"Ahriman.  Ahriman did it.  He made us both
hallucinate at the racetrack," the Highlander
rationalized.

"I don't know--"

"Oh, come on, Joe!  He made you think you had legs
again," Duncan snapped.  "He made Richie think Horton
had kidnapped you.  He made me see Tessa and Richie at
the barge.  He made a dead girl think she was still
alive!  Why is it so far-fetched that he could make
the living think someone was dead!"

"But. . .why would Richie not contact us?"

"Methos knows the answer to that," Duncan spat.  "And
he's going to tell me to my face."

"We have to find him first," Joe reminded, a broad
grin suddenly spreading across his face.  "And if we
find him, we find Richie."

"Sounds too good to be true," Duncan laughed and wept
at the same time, stepping forward to embrace his
friend.

Joe returned the fierce hug, laughing as well as he
pushed the Immortal back and ordered, "Go home.  Get
cleaned up.  I'm going back to the headquarters to see
if my people have anything on either Richie or Methos
yet."

"I'm coming with you," Duncan started to argue.

"No.  I'll call you if I hear anything.  Now go back
to the barge in case Richie calls you or comes by."

MacLeod nearly laughed aloud at the suggestion.
Richie dropping in on him.  How that sounded like old
times!

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Nine
<><><><><><><><><>

"I think we need to call the cops," Richie declared
as his muddy steps carried him through the barge that
belonged to Duncan MacLeod.  He turned around several
times, his eyes scanning the empty surroundings.
"Someone ripped off MacLeod.  And this time it wasn't
me."

"No, this is just his new life style," Methos
replied, glancing around at the sparse furnishings.
"Back to the basics, I guess."

"He's not here," Richie sighed, unable to feel the
presence of the other Immortal anywhere.  It'd taken
he and Methos several hours to hike back through the
woods, avoiding the cops in the process, and get back
to Methos' car.  Methos had driven them straight here,
but had told him to stay in the car while he went in
and talked to MacLeod.  He'd waited impatiently for
only a few minutes before the Old Man had returned to
the vehicle and told Richie to come in with him.

"You need to get cleaned up," Methos changed the
subject then, running a critical eye over the man
before him.  Richie's clothes were in shambles from
the fight and his swim in the river.  Bloodstains were
hidden under caked on mud and river filth.

"Yeah," Richie agreed.  "I guess I could bum some of
Mac's clothes.  Assuming this new lifestyle of his
calls for him to wear clothes."

Methos smirked at that, tempted to reply that the
Highlander's new wardrobe mostly looked like pajamas
to him, but then his conscience chose that moment to
remind him that *he* was the one responsible for those
changes in Duncan's personality.  He turned his full
attention to Richie then, easily detecting how
exhausted the kid was.  Dark smudges were under his
eyes from lack of sleep and he looked ready to pass
out from of exhaustion at any point.

"Hit the shower.  I'll find you something to wear and
then you should rest," Methos ordered, pushing his
young lover towards the bathroom.

Richie entered the bathroom and took a moment to
unlace and kick off his muddy boots before searching
the linen closet for clean towels.  He glanced up when
Methos strolled through the door, a pair of tan pants
and a thick sweater in hand.  "I'm sure MacLeod won't
mind," he stated as he lay them down beside the
towels.

Richie eyed the attire with visual disapproval before
asking, "Mac got a makeover in my absence?  I guess I
got a lot to catch up on, huh?"

Methos ignored the question as he closed the short
distance in between himself and the other man.  "Come
on, let's get you into the shower," he grunted,
reaching for the tail of Richie's tattered shirt and
pulling it over the kid's head, tossing it in the
trashcan.  His hands sought out the button of Rich's
jeans, his fingers brushing against strained denim
fabric and causing Rich to gasp.  Belatedly, Methos
realized that he was turning the kid on.  Even after
the fatigue and exhaustion of the night, Richie could
still want him.

Methos' mouth went dry at the thought and he had to
swallow several times as many torrid fantasies played
out through his mind.  How badly he wanted to push
these jeans down, lead Richie into the shower, and
give the kid what they both wanted, but that would
solve nothing.  It would only complicate the matter
instead.

Richie grunted again when Methos' hand began working
the buttons of his jeans in a business-like manner.
He leaned closer to his lover, brushing a kiss against
Methos' jaw line as he suggested, "Join me?  We could
make this the best damn shower scene since 'Psycho'."

"And it would end like that scene if MacLeod found
us, too," Methos barked roughly.  "Or, even worse,
we'd recreate the Bobby Ewing return from the dead on
'Dallas'."  Richie raised an eyebrow in question then
and Methos replied, "I watch TV, Kid.  Kick those
jeans off."

Richie reluctantly did as ordered, tugging the jeans
down his legs and kicking them aside.  "Actually, I
don't get the comparison there.  The return from the
dead thing, that is."

"It's pretty simple, actually," Methos stated
matter-of-factly as he reached into the shower and
turned the water on.  "MacLeod thinks you're dead.
You know, like Pam thought Bobby was dead until she
found him in the shower and realized--"

"Whoa!" Richie interrupted the babble, his eyes
flashing disbelief.  "Mac. . .Mac thinks that. . ."

"Yes, he thinks you're dead," Methos sighed, avoiding
the other's eyes.  "So does Joe.  And I let them think
it for over a year."

He finally raised his eyes to Richie's face then and
quickly regretted the decision.  The young man had
paled, his mouth slightly ajar in stunned silence and
his eyes filled with disbelief.

"I don't understand," Richie quietly whispered.
"Why?  I mean, how?"

"Take your shower," Methos ordered, pulling his
weapon from his overcoat and leaning it against the
wall.  "I want to check in with the Watcher database
and see what has became of this Welk guy you were
fighting.  And I'm going to Joe's to look for MacLeod.
 I'll explain everything when I get back with him.
Just keep my sword close until then.  Welk probably
won't look for you here, but don't take any chances."

"Methos," Richie stated in a quiet but demanding
voice.

"Later," the Old Man insisted, impulsively leaning in
to kiss those luscious lips for what might be the last
time.  Once he told Richie the truth, the kid might
never allow Methos to touch him again.  Not like this.
 So he would savor this final kiss instead.  He let
his hands drift to the band of Richie's boxer shorts
and pushed them down, letting them slide down long
legs and to the floor as he pulled his Immortal lover
closer.  Richie eagerly returned the kiss, grunting in
dismay when he was abruptly released and pushed back
into the shower.

Richie cursed loudly as the ice cold water jarred him
back to his senses and ended his state of arousal.  He
fumbled with the knobs, turning the hot water on as he
silently cursed the Old Man for the dirty trick.  He
could no longer feel the presence of the other
Immortal and he knew his lover had left the barge.

A thousand thoughts swirled around in his mind as he
let the now warm water beat down on his skin, soothing
some of the tension in his battered body.  Why had
MacLeod thought him dead?  Had something happened
during that battle with Ahriman that left his teacher
with that assumption?  Was that why Methos had
followed him to Paris?  Not because he wanted to be
with Richie again, but because he wanted to smooth
things out with Duncan?

The thought didn't sit well with Richie.  In fact, he
hated it.  But it made perfect sense now.  Methos
wasn't here for him, but here to stop him from giving
MacLeod the shock of Mac's life.

Richie put the thoughts out of his head, reaching for
the soap and scrubbing the mud and dirt from his body.
 He had to wash his hair twice to get all the river's
filth from it.  Then he took a moment to just stand
under the hot spray of water, wishing it could wash
the troubles from his life as easily as it did the
grime from his body.  When the water started to get
cold, he grudgingly turned it off and stepped from the
shower.  He dried off with a fluffy white towel and
squeezed the water from his long hair before tugging
on MacLeod's too large clothing.

The presence of another Immortal washed over him then
and he reached for the weapon that Methos had left.
He tested the weight of the sword in his hand,
silently wishing for his own weapon instead.  He
wasn't accustomed to this one.  He stepped from the
bathroom then, unsure who was waiting for him in the
barge.  Methos.  Welk.  Or--

"Mac!"

Duncan MacLeod whirled around at the sound of his
name, the katana in his hand lowered and then slipping
free and falling to the floor.  The Highlander stood
rooted in place, his face pale and his eyes fixed on
the young man who stood only feet from him.

He'd known Richie was alive.  He'd known it since
earlier this evening.  But actually seeing the other
Immortal stand before him, so very much alive, was
nearly his undoing.

Richie took a hesitant step in the direction of his
teacher, his bare feet whispering silently over the
floor.  He lay Methos' weapon aside then, beginning,
"I guess this is kind of a surprise, huh?  I wish
you'd had a little forewarning but--"

"Richie," Duncan whispered, tears filling his eyes as
he closed the distance between them and grabbed the
young man in a bear hug.

"It's okay, Mac," Richie began, returning the embrace
and hesitantly rubbing the other's back in a gesture
of comfort.  He wasn't accustomed to comforting
MacLeod, but he'd never seen his friend and teacher
this upset.  Not even when Tessa had died.  "It's
okay."

"It is now," MacLeod groaned, burying his nose in the
long curls and inhaling deeply.  For a moment he'd
feared the possibility that he was hallucinating and
Richie would vanish into thin air when he reached out
to touch him, but that hadn't happened.  Instead he'd
embraced flesh and bone, a living man.  He placed a
fatherly kiss in the center of Richie's forehead,
laughing, "You're alive.  Thank God, you're alive."

The words sent a rush of guilt through Richie.  He'd
caused this pain by his long and lengthy silence.  His
decision to drag Methos off to London instead of
staying and helping his friend had caused this hurt
and misunderstanding.

"Mac, I'm sorry," he whispered remorsefully.  "I'm
sorry for this.  I--"

"This isn't your fault," MacLeod interrupted, his
tone hardening.  "Methos did this."

"No.  No, *I* did this.  I made some bad choices,
Mac.  I should've gotten in touch with you or Joe
months ago.  I would've, too, except I didn't have a
clue where you were."

"Where I was?!  Where were you?!" MacLeod demanded,
tightly gripping the other's upper arms.

"London.  It's a long story," Richie muttered.  "Mac,
you look like hell.  Let me pour you a drink.  Or just
sit down or something."

Duncan nodded, taking a seat on his couch and
watching as Richie moved to the kitchen and searched
the cabinets, finding a half bottle of brandy that Joe
had brought over weeks before.  Richie returned with
two glasses, pouring them both a glass and  claiming a
seat beside his mentor.

Richie downed half the glass in a single gulp,
beginning, "Ahriman lured me into the racetrack that
night by making me think that Horton was alive and
going after Joe.  I don't. . .I don't know what
happened to me there, just that I sort of zoned out
for awhile.  When I checked back into reality, Methos
was with me.  He was pretty freaked out about
something.  He told me that you and Joe were okay, but
you had left the city.  I knew you'd gone off to fight
Ahriman.  I don't think Methos believed it, though.
But I, well, Mac, I was worried about him, so when he
said we had to leave Paris, I agreed and went with
him."

"Son of a bitch!" Duncan snapped, causing his friend
to flinch.

"Don't blame him.  I played off his fear of renegade
Watchers to make him come with me because. . ." Richie
let his voice trail off, shifting uncomfortably as he
searched for the right words.  He'd never told Mac or
Tessa about his attraction to men, and he was fairly
certain MacLeod wasn't going to take his attraction to
a certain *Old Man* very well.  "You see, me and
Methos had met once before.  The first time I came to
Paris with you, I met him at a party and we sort of. .
.hooked up, you know."

"I know," Duncan nodded.

"You do?" his friend asked in surprise.

"I saw you and him together once.  In the ally behind
my dojo after the encounter with the Methos imposter,"
the Highlander explained.

"Oh," Richie nodded, feeling himself flush with
embarrassment at the thought of Mac seeing him and his
lover in an intimate embrace.  "You, uh, you never
said anything about that."

"You never did, either," MacLeod reminded.  "I
figured you would broach the subject when you felt the
time was right."

"Then I guess you can understand on some levels why I
left Paris with Methos," he sighed, running a hand
through his long hair.  "I care about him.  I was
afraid the demon--Ahriman--whatever he was, might hurt
Methos.  So don't blame him because this was my
doing."

"Like hell it was," Duncan argued.  "The bastard
never even told you, did he?"

"Told me what?" Richie asked, perplexed by the anger
in his friend.

"Richie, I thought you were dead," MacLeod whispered,
his eyes brimming with emotions.  "So did Joe.  Hell,
everyone thought you were dead!"

"Methos mentioned something about that earlier," the
younger Immortal mentioned.  "He didn't go into
details, though."

"I'll give you details," Duncan volunteered.  "After
your phone call that night, I went to the racetrack
and Methos and Joe followed behind me.  I got there
first, though, and encountered Ahriman.  He was
playing with my mind.  He kept changing forms to look
like you, then Horton, Kronos, and then you.  He made
me hallucinate that *I* had killed you."

"What?" Richie gasped, seeing the devastation in his
friend's face at the memories.

"You heard me.  This evil made me think I'd taken
your head.  It must have been during the time that it
made you black out.  I thought you were dead by my
hand.  Then Joe and Methos arrived and I was upset and
left.  Methos promised Joe that he would handle the
arrangements for you and made Joe leave the racetrack.
 That's when he must've found you there.  He let you
go to London with him, knowing that your friends
thought the worst!"

"But that doesn't make any sense," Richie argued.
"He thought Horton was after us.  And he promised to
let me know the minute the Watchers tracked you down."

"He's known for months that I was in Paris.  Hell,
Richie, he visited me a while back!  He sat in this
very room and made small talk the whole time knowing
you were alive and letting me think I'd killed you!"

"Why would he do something like that?" Richie asked
in confusion, shaking his head.

"Because he's Methos and he does what he wants.  If
he sees something he wants, he takes it."

"How do you know that?" Richie rose to the defense of
his lover.

"Because he's done it in the past!" the Highlander
assured.  Duncan saw Richie's defiance in the face of
that accusation and sighed, realizing he had to be
completely honest with his friend.  He relayed the
story of the Four Horsemen to Richie then, telling him
all of it this time.  In the past, he'd only told
Richie a condensed version of a fight with a man named
Kronos that had brought him to Paris.  He'd never
given all the details of it, though.  He hadn't
included Methos' part in the Horsemen's destruction
until now.

Richie sat in stoic silence, listening to the tale
and allowing it to slowly sink in.  A part of him
wanted to rebel against it and refuse to accept what
MacLeod was saying, but why would Mac lie to him?
Especially about this.  And Mac wouldn't involved Joe
or Cassandra's name if they hadn't been involved.

Cassandra.  Richie rubbed his weary eyes at the
thought of the woman.  He'd met her briefly in
passing.  He hadn't known much about her, just that
she was one of Mac's friends.  Now he knew she had
been one of Methos' past lovers.  No, his slave.  A
slave that he had abused and raped and killed
repeatedly.

Yet none of what Mac was saying fit his memories of
Methos.  The barbarian Duncan spoke of in no way
resembled the man Richie knew and loved and had lived
with for over a year.  Methos' touch had always been
gentle for him, not forceful or cruel.  It was
impossible to believe that the man who had rubbed his
shoulders after a workout, laughed with him over the
dinner table, washed his back in the shower, and made
love to him until he thought he would die from the
pleasure could also be the type of individual Duncan
had just described.

Or had he just been unable to see that?  Five
thousand years was a long time for a man to live. . .

Richie shuddered as a memory suddenly rose from his
mind to taunt him.  The night of Ahriman's treachery,
when Methos had found him at the racetrack, he'd seen
something in the Old Man's eyes that had scared him
that night.  His eyes had been cold and hard when he'd
first thought Richie to be some type of an imposter.
Those had been the eyes of Death.

How he'd underestimated the Old Man over the years,
Richie realized, almost releasing a bitter laugh.
He'd feared for Methos' safety in the Game.  He'd
worried his lover might not have the fire needed to
survive the Gathering and the headhunters that came
with it, but obviously Methos was far more talented
with a weapon than he gave the Old Man credit for.

And perhaps he was also more wise and devious minded
than Riche wanted to acknowledge.  Obviously Methos
knew there was no Horton.  He knew Richie had lied
about that.  Methos knew Joe and MacLeod thought
Richie was dead, yet the Ancient One had kept that a
secret from him all this time.

Why?  Why had Methos not told him?  Why had the Old
Man taken him to London and played out the charade?
Boredom, perhaps.  Amusement over giving the stupid
kid enough rope and watching him hang himself.  And a
little sex thrown in sweetened the deal.

"Damn it," Richie quietly swore.  How badly he wanted
to be angry with Methos and hate him.  Yet he couldn't
because most of his pain was his own doing.  He'd made
bad choices, too, and he'd romanticized in his mind
the time he spent with Methos.  He knew the Old Man
didn't love him, but he'd thought Methos cared on some
levels.  Now he suspected he was just an amusing way
for the Old Man to pass his time.

What was eighteen months to a man who had lived five
thousand years?  A mere drop in the bucket.  In
another hundred years or so, Methos probably won't
even remember their time in London.  But Richie knew
he would.  He would never forget it because of a
simple fact--He was in love with Methos.  He had been
since their first few encounters, and he still was.
Nothing could change that, not even a betrayal that
cut as deep as this did.

"I'm sorry, Rich," MacLeod sympathized, resting a
hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezing it.  "I
know this is hard to hear."

"I need to talk to him," Richie sighed.

"If he has any sense, he will be half way to Egypt by
now.  Or some place I won't likely find him," Duncan
spat.

"Don't fight him," Richie ordered rather than
requested.  "Because, if you do, you have to fight me,
too.  I'm as much to blame for this as he is.  And
whatever he did, is between him and me right now."

"You're not to blame," Duncan began, only to be cut
off.

"Aren't I?  I left the city, Mac.  *Me*.  I made that
choice.  And I made the choice not to call or contact
Joe.  Granted, if I'd known you thought I was dead, I
would've beaten a path back here to straighten things
out, but I didn't know because I chose to remain
silent all this time."

"That doesn't change the fact that Methos kept a huge
secret from you!"

"And I'll deal with that when I see him again--"
Richie broke off as the presence of another Immortal
touched them both.  "I'll deal with it now.  That's
him."

"How do you know for sure?" Duncan asked, rising from
the couch to retrieve the weapon he'd let go of
earlier.

Richie opened his mouth to reply, but wasn't sure
exactly how to explain it to Duncan.  Would Mac
understand that he knew what the mere presence of
Methos' Immortality felt like?  That Methos was so
deep within his heart and soul that he just *knew*
whenever his lover was close?

He had no time to explain for the barge door swung
open and Joe Dawson entered.  Richie found himself
gripped tightly in a huge bear hug.  He returned Joe's
fierce embrace, comforting his emotional friend and
answering Dawson's endless questions as best he could,
but he found his attention more drawn to the silent
Immortal who stood in the doorway.  His eyes locked
briefly with Methos' for a moment before Joe shifted
his weight and obstructed Richie's view.

"It's so good to see you," Joe repeated, resting a
hand against the eternally young face.

"Joe, you're bleeding!" Richie exclaimed, noticing
for the first time the scrapes on Dawson's knuckles.

"Yeah, well, I punched something earlier," Dawson
snapped, glancing over his shoulder at Methos.  "By
the way, you can leave now."

"I'd like a moment to speak with Richie," Methos
stated, his tone hard but the eyes that bore into
Richie held a sincere and almost pleading look.

"Don't even think--" MacLeod began.

"Outside," Richie interrupted, giving Joe a
reassuring pat on the back before stepping around the
Watcher and moving towards the door.  Methos turned
and walked outside and Richie followed him.

They stood on the deck of the barge, in total silence
for what seemed like an eternity before Methos
offered, "You can hit me, too, if you'd like.  You
certainly have the right."

"I'm not going to hit you," Richie sighed.  "I just
want you to tell me why."

Methos nearly snorted at that.  *Why?*  Richie made
it sound like such a simple thing to do.  Just say
why.

"Maybe for the same reasons you lied to me about
Horton being alive," Methos suggested.  "Because you
knew MacLeod was going up against something dark and
dangerous and that neither one of us could help him,
but we might both get killed if we tried.  That's why
you used Horton as an excuse to get me to leave France
with you, isn't it?"

"Do not turn this around and make it about me!"
Richie shouted, pointing a long finger in his lover's
direction.

"It is about you!" Methos shot back at him.
"Everything I did was about *you*.  I was trying to
keep you safe.  Damn it!  Don't you even understand
what happened that night?  I thought you were dead.  I
thought MacLeod had killed you!  And that isn't such a
far stretch, you know!  How many times has he raised
his sword to you in the past?!  When I realized you
were alive, I wasn't about to let you stick around and
let him have another swing at your head!"

"So instead you chose to let my friends think I was
dead and not even tell me?"

"You could've told them yourself," Methos reminded.
"You could've said, 'No, Methos, I won't go to London
with you'.  You could've picked up a phone and called
Joe at any point.  Why didn't you do that?"

"Because I thought I was protecting you from
Ahriman," Richie muttered.  "I was afraid he had the
power to kill you."

"Well, there you have it, Kid," Methos drawled.  "The
road to Hell is paved with good intentions, both mine
and yours.  Neither one of us is completely innocent
in this mess, but I admit to being more guilty than
you.  I should've told you the truth a long time ago."

"Is that why you followed me to Paris?" Richie asked,
needing to know the answer to this question, even if
it hurt.  "Was it about your guilt and because you
wanted to set things straight with me and Mac?"

"Yes, I wanted to do that," Methos nodded.  "I owed
you both that much."

Richie turned his face away then, the muscle in his
jaw twitching as he gritted his teeth against the pain
of hearing that.  It was about responsibility.  Methos
felt guilty and wanted to make amends.  Nothing more.
He felt his face flush with embarrassment then as he
recalled the letter he had written the Old Man before
leaving London and the things he'd said.  He'd spilled
his guts, basically.  And now he had to stand here,
this close to Methos, knowing that he'd been a mere
passing fling for the Old Man, something to occupy his
time for a few years while in between careers.

With any luck, Methos wouldn't bring any of that up,
though.  The man could at least spare him that much
embarrassment.

Methos had said he "owed" both of them.  He owed
MacLeod, and Richie imagined he knew why.  Methos was
still trying to make up for the things he'd done
during his days as a Horseman and his brief reunion
with them that had caused so many problems for Mac.
That was what he wanted to make up to MacLeod.

"But there are some other things about me that you
need to know, too, Richie," Methos began, searching
for the words to say what the kid had came to mean to
him.  Even if he was rejected, he wanted Richie to
know *all* the reasons he had kept the kid with him in
London.

"I already know," Richie sighed.

"You do?"

"Mac told me most of it.  The stuff about the
Horsemen, anyhow."

"Wow," Methos whispered, feeling as if he'd just been
kicked in the stomach.  That was a part of his life he
had never wanted Richie to know about, mainly because
he feared Richie would never understand or forgive
that.  It tore at him to know that his lover had
learned about his past now, when he had been so close
to admitting his feelings.  "I see MacLeod has been
very busy boy since I left."

"Then it's true?"

"Yes, it's true," he whispered softly.  "But making
amends for my past isn't why I came after you.  There
was something else I wanted, too."

"What?" Richie asked.

"I wanted to ask for your forgiveness, Rich," he
sighed, letting his eyes wander over his lover's
beautiful face.  A face he might never be able to
touch or kiss or wake up to again if Richie couldn't
forgive.  "We had a good thing in London.  It doesn't
have to be over.  If you could find a way to forgive
me, it won't be over."

Richie gasped, stunned by that request.  He refused
to let himself believe it meant more than what Methos
was saying.  A good thing.  They had good sex, in
other words.  Methos had a sure thing with a young
body that would do anything for him.  Was that what he
wanted, though?

No, it wasn't, Richie knew.  He wanted more from
Methos, but the Old Man might never offer him more.
And it was hardly like the offer wasn't tempting.  He
loved Methos enough to take whatever the man offered,
even if it was just a few good nights under the
sheets.

"Richie?" the voice of Duncan MacLeod interrupted
then and both men turned to see MacLeod step onto the
deck.  "You should come back in.  Joe wants to talk
with you."

Methos quietly cursed the interruption, but knew it
might be for the best.  He'd intended to profess his
love tonight, but maybe that would be too much for
Richie to hear after all the other shocks of the
night.  And the kid might need time to process all the
information that'd been dropped on him and to think
about Methos' request that they stay together.

"Go back inside," the Old Man nodded, allowing his
eyes to wander from Richie's wet hair to his bare
feet.  "You're probably freezing anyhow."

"Methos, wait--"

"No," the eldest of them shook his head.  "Take some
time and think about what I said.  We'll talk later."

"Where are you going for the night?"

"I've. . .I've got a place I'm staying," Methos
admitted, an almost sad, wistfulness in his voice.  "A
rather special place.  I'll be fine."

"Would you do me a favor?" Richie asked.

"Anything."

"I was staying on Holy Ground with a priest.  He's
probably worried about what happened to me."

"Liam Riley," Methos finished with a nod.  "I know
the place.  You want me to let him know you're safe?"

"I'd appreciate it," Richie nodded, feeling oddly
awkward in the presence of his lover.  It was the
first time in over a year that they'd parted with such
tension between them.  With such uncertainty.

"I'll speak to him," Methos promised, letting his
eyes wander over Richie again.  How badly he wanted to
kiss him good-bye.  How badly he wanted to take the
kid with him when he left, but he was aware of MacLeod
who still stood in the shadows and he knew either of
those options would only cause more tension.  Instead,
he forced himself to step onto the plank and call
back, "I'll see you later."

"Later," Richie echoed the promise, watching at the
lithe figure descended the plank and disappeared into
the night.  With a sigh, he turned back to MacLeod and
stepped into the barge.  He knew he was surrounded by
the warmth and love of two dear friends, yet he'd
never felt so alone in his life.
 
 

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Ten
<><><><><><><><><>

"You want another slice of pie?" Duncan offered,
holding out the plate with the half-eaten apple pie on
it.

"No," Richie waved off the offer, taking a sip of his
coffee.  "I've had plenty."

"You didn't eat much," Joe Dawson stated in worry.
He'd barely taken his eyes off Richie since last
night, and it wasn't hard to miss the dark smudges
under Rich's eyes this morning.  "Trouble sleeping
last night?"

"Strange bed," Richie replied, trying to make light
of his restlessness the night before.  After Methos
had left, he'd came back into the barge and spent most
of the night talking with Mac and Joe.  To his
delighted surprise, Joe and Mac had even returned his
sword to him.  The Watchers had found it, Dawson had
explained.  Richie had been relieved and grateful to
have it back.  His exhaustion had gotten the better of
him, though, and he'd made an attempt to leave and go
back to his room at the parish.  MacLeod had refused
to let him go, insisting Richie stay at the barge.
Too tired to argue, he'd given in and ended up
crashing in Mac's bed.  He'd volunteered to take the
spare room or the couch, but Duncan had insisted he'd
rest better in the bed.  Mac had ended up on the couch
and Joe had spent the night in the chair, refusing to
leave.

Richie knew his friends cared deeply about him and it
made him feel worse that they'd spent a year thinking
him dead, but Joe had waved off all his attempts to
apologize for that, insisting it was okay because
Richie was "home now".

Home. . .That word had a hallow ring to it because it
wasn't Paris or Seacouver or the barge that came to
mind when he thought of "home".  It was an estate in
London and a 5000-year-old man that Richie thought of
as home.

He'd spent most of his night tossing and turning in
MacLeod's bed, missing the feeling of Methos' warm
body near him.  When he had dozed off, he'd
unconsciously reached for his lover, but had found the
spot across from him to be empty.  He'd eventually
gone to sleep just before dawn and his friends had let
him rest until almost noon before the smell of food
had wakened him.  They'd insisted he join them and
he'd agreed, although he wasn't very hungry.

"We can order some pizza," Joe volunteered then.  "We
can get your favorite, and maybe you'll eat more of it
than you did your lunch."

"Don't you two have jobs to go to?" Richie laughed,
embarrassed by all the fussing over him.

"We're taking the day off," Duncan smiled.  "To stay
at home and be with you."

"I don't need a baby-sitter," Richie assured.

"Well, then, do it to humor us," Joe requested.  "As
long as I can see you, I know you're real and not
going to vanish on me again."

Richie reached a hand out and rested it on Joe's
forearm, assuring, "I'm not going to vanish again,
Joe.  But I would like a smoke, and I know how Mac
feels about smoking inside, so I'm going to step
outside."

"I'll come with you," Duncan volunteered.  "I'd like
some fresh air myself."

"Me, too," Dawson agreed.

Richie forced a strained smile, wishing he could tell
them that what he really wanted was some time alone to
think.  "Actually, what I should've said was I need to
walk to the store and buy myself a smoke."

"No, you don't," Joe disagreed, reaching for the
jacket he'd laid across the back of the chair and
fishing out a pack of the long cigars Richie favored.
"Methos gave them to me last night.  Said you'd
probably need a smoke before the night was out."

Richie eyed the pack, a smile playing across his
face.  Leave it to the Old Man to think of his bad
habits at a time like this.  Methos had never been
found of his smoking, either, but he'd never hassled
Richie to quit.  Methos just seemed to understand that
it eased his tension when something was on his mind.
Or relaxed him after sex.  A few times they'd even
shared one of the cigars after a few hours of heavy
passion.

  Richie felt a hint of a blush touch his face as his
thoughts turned to the afternoon that Methos had came
home early from work and told Richie he had a present
for him.  Richie had taken the pack of long cigars
from his lover with a question in his eyes, but then
Methos had answered by leading him to the bedroom and
giving him a reason to smoke the whole damn pack in
one night.

He was awed by the amount of good memories he'd
collected in his brief time with Methos, and the
memories he wanted to make in the future.

Richie forced himself back to reality then and took
the pack from Joe with a nod of thanks.  MacLeod and
Dawson followed him outside where he claimed a seat on
the patio furniture that was on the barge's deck.  He
struck a match and light the cigar in his mouth,
taking a deep pull from it and exhaling slowly.  The
smoke rose up in front of his eyes, hazing his view of
MacLeod's face as he declared, "I need to find Methos.
 We have some things to work out."

"The hell you do," Duncan disagreed, his voice low
and dangerous.  "Not after everything he's done."

"And what about what I've done?" Richie calmly
reminded.  "What about what you've done?  Hell, even
Joe has screwed up more than a few times, right, Joe?"

"Hey, don't drag me into this one, kid," Dawson
backed off, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Look, Mac, I don't know what I have with him.  I
don't know what he wants us to have.  But if I don't
find out what is between us, then I will regret it for
the rest of my life.  And seeing as how that could be
rather long, I don't want those type of regrets
hanging over me.  I don't expect you to agree with it
or like it, but it's my decision, so you'll have to
accept it."

Duncan was about to argue, but stopped when he saw
the car coming towards his barge.  Seconds later he
felt the presence of another Immortal.  Richie felt
it, too, and stood to his full height.  He ground out
the cigar a car rolled to a stop a few feet from them
and two men stepped out.

He walked down the plank of the barge and moved to
greet the newcomers.  Without thinking, he
automatically gave Methos a chaste kiss on the lips in
greeting and a muttered hello.

"Hello, yourself," the Old Man stated, pleasantly
surprise.

Richie gave him a smile before turning his attention
to the other Immortal, demanding, "Father, what are
you doing here?"

"I insisted that your friend bring me to see you so I
could know for myself that you were okay," Liam Riley
answered, briefly hugging Richie.  "I was worried
about you when you never came back last night.  I
thought you might've. . ."

"Found Welk," Richie finished.  "More like he found
me.  I didn't finish him, though.  And speaking of
which, you shouldn't be off Holy Ground right now.
He's still out there somewhere."

"And you should consider moving to Holy Ground,"
Duncan MacLeod declared as he and Dawson joined the
others.  His hard glare and angry words left no doubt
as to whom he was speaking to.

Methos evenly met his stare, replying, "I rather like
where I am living right now."

Duncan's reply was cut off when Joe grabbed his arm
and pushed him backwards and away from the others.
"What the hell are you doing, MacLeod?" he snapped in
a low voice.  "Didn't you hear a word Richie just said
to you?  You start fighting with Methos now and you
lose Richie again.  He just came back into your life!
Are you so ready to watch him walk out again?"

"Don't you dare tell me you are going to defend
Methos!" MacLeod hissed.  "Not after everything he's
done."

"Hell, no, I'm not defending him!  I'd like another
swing at him, in fact.  But Richie doesn't see things
that way.  He's not a kid.  He can decide what he
wants for himself, and we have to let him.  Otherwise
you could permanently alienate him."

"So I should sit back and pretend like I'm happy over
this little fling with Methos?" the Highlander
demanded.  "I'm not."

"But it's not *your* life," Joe rationalized.  "It's
his.  He gets to make this decision whether we like it
or not."

"Well, I don't like it--" Duncan began, but broke off
when the presence of another Immortal touched him.  He
turned to see a man he didn't know walking towards
them, sword drawn and a dark smirk on his face.

Richie cursed and automatically stepped in between
the stranger and Father Liam.  "Get out of here,
Welk," he ordered.

"He's not on Holy Ground anymore," Welk pointed out,
glaring at Liam.

"But you have to get through me first," Richie
assured.

"You've already tried to kill me twice and have yet
to succeed," Welk reminded.

"Third time's a charm," Richie muttered, reaching
inside his coat and retrieving his sword.

"No," Liam intervened, turning dark and pleading eyes
to Richie.  "Don't do this.  You could die."

"He's right, boy," Welk taunted.  "You could die this
time.  And you wouldn't even know what you were
fighting about, would you?"

"I know exactly what it's about," Richie assured.
"The Father explained it all to me.  It's about a
mistake he made that you can't forgive.  Leave him
alone, Welk.  Just walk away right now and we all
live."

"What about my wife?" Welk demanded.  "She doesn't
get to live.  She doesn't live because of *him*!  He
killed her."

"And killing him won't bring her back.  Killing won't
change anything, it'll just make things worse," Richie
stated, glancing at both Methos and MacLeod and hoping
his point had been made.  "Let it go."

"No," Welk defiantly shook his head.  "And just
because I'm sick of your interference, boy, I think
I'll kill you today.  Take a moment to let the good
priest give you your Last Rites and then meet me under
the bridge."

"I'll be right there," Richie assured, watching as
the man walked away before turning to Liam.  "Don't
ask me not to."

"Then I'll ask you," Duncan butted in, his face
filled with worry.  "Rich. . .you just came back.  I
just got you back, I can't lose you again."

"Hey, have some faith," Richie insisted with false
bravado.  Nodding to Joe, he insisted, "I'll catch you
later."

"Be careful," Dawson forced past the lump of worry in
his throat.

Richie turned his attention to Methos then, resting a
hand on his lover's arm and ushering him out of
earshot of the others.

"Richie," Methos began, an uncertainty in his voice
that Richie had never heard before.  And neither had
Richie seen such raw fear in his lover's eyes as he
did at that moment.  "Don't do this.  It isn't your
fight to begin with and--"

Richie silenced him with a kiss.  His lips brushed
lightly, almost reverently over the Old Man's, and he
savored the moment, knowing he might never live to do
this again.  He started to pull away, but Methos
stopped him by gripping the back of his neck almost
painfully and holding his head still.  The older
Immortal rested his forehead against Richie's as he
suggested, "Let me take the challenge."

"No.  You can't fight my battles.  That's what got us
into this mess anyhow, remember?  Trying to protect
each other instead of just being honest.  Methos, I
want you to know that I forgi--"

"No," the Old Man interrupted, knowing Richie was
about to say that he'd forgiven Methos for the
dishonesty this past year.  He didn't want this type
of forgiveness, though.  It was too much like a "death
bed confession".  He didn't want Richie saying the
words just to ease his conscience in the event that
the kid didn't come back alive from this.  If Richie
said them, he wanted it to be because the kid meant
it.  "Save those words.  If you still feel the same
way after this fight, tell me then."

"Where will you be staying?" Richie asked.

The Old Man merely smiled in reply, stating, "If you
really want to find me, then you'll know where to
look."

He released Richie then, placing a light kiss in the
center of his forehead for good luck.

"Later," Richie promised as he stepped out of his
lover's arms and followed Welk's path.

"Later," Methos echoed the word, silently praying
there was a later.

Duncan MacLeod moved to stand behind him, his eyes
focused on the departing back of Richie as he
requested, "Don't do this to him, Methos.  Our lives
are hard enough as they are.  Don't complicate his by
using him."

"Do you really think I'm using him?" Methos
incredulously demanded.

"Aren't you?  I can understand if that is the case.
He's young.  He's full of life.  There's so much he
hasn't seen or done yet.  His enthusiasm is almost
like a child's.  It's contagious.  It makes you feel
young again.  I know.  I've been around him.  I know
how he is.  I can see how you might want to live
vicariously though that, even if you don't realize
that that is what you're doing."

"It's not," he hissed.  "You think it's about me
being old and wanting that type of youth and naiveté
again.  But you're wrong.  Yes, I'm old and I've done
and seen everything.  Twice, to be exact.  I didn't
fall in love with him because of his youth, I did it
in spite of his youth.  He has a surprising amount of
wisdom for a mere kid.  Strength, too.  He has this
incredible capacity to give of himself and be selfless
in it.  He isn't naive, though.  He's just. . .He's
just Richie.  I don't know how else to explain it.
Anyone who knows him--I mean, *really* knows him--has
seen that side of him.  I know that you and I will
never agree on anything when it comes to him, but at
least tell me that you see a man when you look at him
and not a boy who still needs your protection."

"I know he's not a child," MacLeod insisted, "but
don't fault me for wanting him to be away from someone
who can destroy him."

"I'll never destroy him.  At least not
intentionally," Methos assured the Highlander.  "You
may not wish to believe this, but you and I do have
one very important thing in common when it comes to
Richie--We are the two people who love him the most in
this world.  I'm willing to accept whatever he chooses
for me and him.  Are you willing to do the same?"

When MacLeod made no answer, Methos muttered under
his breath, "That's what I thought.  I'll see you
later, Dawson."

"Sure," Joe nodded, watching as the lithe man walked
back to his car where the priest still stood.  "I'm
going to head back to the Watcher's Headquarters,
MacLeod.  A report should be coming in from Welk's
Watcher about this."

"Sure," Duncan nodded, only half-aware of Joe leaving
and Methos' rental car as it drove off, too.  He
started in surprise when a hand rested on his shoulder
and he turned to see that Father Liam Riley had not
left.

"I think you are in need of an ear to listen," Liam
declared.  "Or maybe I'm in need of one.  Let's go
inside and talk about this Richie, shall we?"

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Eleven
<><><><><><><><><>

Duncan wiped the counter of his bar for the fifth
time in the past hour.  The bar was spotless as it
was, but he felt he would go insane if he didn't do
something.

Father Liam Riley had left some time before.  They'd
had an enlightening talk, but eventually the priest
had been forced to return to his parish for evening
mass, leaving Duncan alone with his thoughts and
worries.

He knew Joe would call the minute the report on
Richie and Welk's fight came through to him, but Mac
knew it was already over.  He'd seen the dark clouds
billowing earlier in the distance that foretold of a
Quickening.  The longer he waited for news, though,
the more worried he became.

He sensed another Immortal then and nearly sank to
his knees in relief when the barge door open and
Richie nonchalantly strolled through.  "Hey, Mac," he
greeted.

"Hey, Rich," the Highlander nodded, taking in his
friend's rumpled appearance.  "You okay?"

"Fine," Richie assured, although his voice didn't
sound it.  "I. . .I wanted to come by and let you know
I was okay.  So you wouldn't worry."

"Thanks," Duncan smiled.  "I saw the Quickening
earlier. . ."

"I gave him a final chance," Richie admitted with a
heavy sigh.  "When he was on his knees with my sword
to his throat, I gave him the chance to walk away and
let it be over.  He wouldn't, though.  His hate was
too strong.  It cost him everything because he just
couldn't forgive."

"And your point is, the same could happen to me if I
don't try to accept you and Methos?" Duncan
translated.

"You're my friend and my teacher.  I owe you so much,
but not my happiness.  I want us to still be friends,
like before, but only if you're willing to accept
where I stand with Methos," Richie stated simply,
leaving no room for debate or argument.

"Funny, your friend the priest basically said the
same thing to be earlier," Mac stated.  "I told him I
would do whatever it took not to lose my friend
again."

A perfect, stunning smile flashed across Richie's
face then and he sincerely stated, "Thanks, Mac.  I
appreciate that.  I'm gonna run now."

"So soon?  At least rest.  You have to be exhausted."

"I'm going to head over to the parish and talk to
Liam about Welk.  Let him know what happened.  Then
I'm going to shower and change and meet Methos,"
Richie explained.

"Do you know where he's staying?" MacLeod asked.

"I have a pretty good idea where he is," Richie said
with a smile, his eyes distant with memories.  "He's
waiting on his date at the bar."
 

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Twelve
<><><><><><><><><>

Richie entered the hotel lobby of the fancy French
hotel a few minutes before nine, glancing around the
extravagant interior.  The hotel had changed little
since the first and only time he'd been inside it.
He'd been eighteen years old and in Paris for the
first time.  He'd accompanied his date, a singer named
Jenny Harris, to a party here, but he hadn't left with
her.  No, instead they had broken up that night and
he'd met and spent the night with a mysterious man
he'd encountered at the bar.  "Benji" had been waiting
on his date a friend was fixing him up with.  He'd
gotten "Richard" instead.  And so it had begun, their
torrid and secret love affair that had spanned so many
years and hurt so many along the way, including
themselves.  But maybe it was time for all that to
end.

Richie felt the other Immortal's presence and knew it
was his lover.  He moved towards the bar then, letting
his eyes caress the outline of Methos body.  He sat
down on the barstool beside his lover then, and Methos
turned in his direction, his face a carefully schooled
mask to hide what he was feeling.

After a brief and awkward silence, Methos whispered
on a raw and relieved voice, "Glad you're here."

"Me, too," Richie replied, glancing up when the
bartender approached and asked if he wanted a drink.

"Whiskey," Methos answered before Richie could,
letting his gaze wander seductively over Richie.  The
kid smelled of soap and shampoo, his blue denim shirt
making his eyes stand out all the more.  Rich had
pulled his long hair back into a ponytail and Methos
yearned to remove the band and run his fingers through
the gold curls.  He just wanted to bury himself in
Richie and get lost in the feel of him.

"Whiskey it is," the bartender announced.

Richie accepted the drink then, taking a sip and
letting his eyes lock with his lover's.  The sheer
lust he saw in Methos' sultry stare nearly made him
blush.  He could feel his blood starting to stir, as
well as other parts of his body.  He knew what that
look meant.  He lived for that look.

Methos took a sip from his cold beer before moving
suddenly.  Richie started in surprise when he felt
Methos lips on his neck as the Old Man made a great
pretense of leaning over him to reach for a napkin.
"Finish your whiskey, kid.  I want to dance with you."

The husky whisper sent a shiver down his spine as
well as a sense of deja vu.  He had lived this moment
before, with this man.  He recalled with crystal
clarity their first meeting.  Methos at the bar, with
his beer, calling Richie a "kid".  He'd been drinking
whiskey that night.  Methos had made a pass at him
while pretending to reach for a napkin and then asked
for a dance.

His lover was recreating their first night, Richie
realized.  Their first time.  *His* first time with
another man.

Richie knew the smile that stretched across his face
might look silly to others, but he didn't care.  All
he cared about was this moment, with this man.  The
man he loved.

"Dance with me," Methos repeated.  "Like the first
time."

"The ballroom is empty," Richie reminded even as
Methos stood and took his hand and pulled him from the
barstool.  "There isn't even any music."

"Yes there is," Methos disagreed, leading the younger
man towards the empty ballroom and pulling Richie into
his arms.  "There's always music when we're together."

Richie sighed and settled easily into Methos' arms.
He knew they where receiving odd looks from others who
passed by.  Two men dancing in a dark and empty
ballroom to no music must have looked odd, but he
didn't care about perception.

Methos couldn't help but smile at how close the other
Immortal pressed against him.  This dance was much
different than the first one they'd shared on this
floor.  Richie had been young and awkward and hesitant
that night, yet seducing that innocent kid had been
far easier than what he would do tonight.  The first
time had been about his lust for a gorgeous young
body.  Tonight it was about his love for the man who
had captured his heart.

Dawson had called him on his cell phone earlier to
say that Richie had been the victor of the fight with
Welk.  Methos had been relieved to hear that.  Richie
was alive, but, he had reminded himself, that didn't
mean that Richie was coming back to him.  So he'd
forced himself to wait patiently in the hope that Rich
would seek him out.  And the kid had.  Richie had made
his choice.  There was no turning back now.

Methos buried his nose into Richie's soft hair,
inhaling the sweet scent of shampoo as he pulled the
other Immortal closer.  Richie pressed against him
without hesitation or shyness, drawing a response from
his already aroused body.  "Can you stay for awhile
tonight?" Methos whispered into his ear.  "You don't
have to rush off and meet MacLeod do you?"

Richie forced himself to concentrate on the question
and not on the swelling bulge in the front of his
pants.  "I saw him earlier," he absently answered.

"And he didn't protest you coming to see me?" Methos
asked in surprise.

"He's not happy about it, but he'll accept it, I
think," the other man insisted.  "Why?  Did he say
something to you about me?"

"MacLeod thinks I'm too old for you," Methos smirked
with amusement.

"You are," Richie couldn't help but laugh.  "But I
imagine it would be tough for you to find someone your
own age.  Speaking of which, do you have any friends
your own age?"

"I did once," Methos acknowledged.  "But MacLeod
killed him."

"He seems to do alot of that," Richie muttered.

"Yeah, well, this one rather deserved it," the
Ancient One admitted, drawing to mind the face of
Kronos.  There were so many things he wanted Richie to
understand about him and how he'd changed.  "Rich," he
hesitantly began, pulling back enough to look his
lover in the eye.  "About the Horsemen. . ."

"Don't say it," Richie shook his head to stop the
admission or apology or whatever the Old Man had been
about to express.  "It's over, Methos.  It was over
hundreds, hell, maybe even thousands of years ago.  I
know you're not the man that Mac described."

"But I was him once," Methos felt the need to state.

"And I was a petty thief and a con man once," Richie
reminded.  "I grew up on the streets, Old Man.  I
stole anything that wasn't nailed down.  I lied.  I
cheated.  I conned old ladies out of their money.  I
went on a headhunting spree once and killed other
Immortals just because I could.  I hardly have the
right to judge someone else.  The same for MacLeod.
He was a warrior who would kill a guy just because he
was from another Clan than his.  Joe was a soldier
during Vietnam who admits to seeing women and children
being killed during battles.  We've all got things in
our past people could judge us for.  But. . .look at
how much you've changed.  The things you've done.
You've been a doctor and lawyer and God only know what
else.  You've healed people and saved lives.  You're a
scholar, a historian now.  You preserve history.
Literally.  Compared to me. . .There is no comparison.
 I'm just the kid from the streets who--"

"You're incredible," Methos interrupted, his mouth
crashing down on Richie's in a rough kiss.

Richie groaned under the assault, returning the
passionate kiss.  He opened his mouth and deepened the
kiss.  Their embrace was filled with hunger and
passion as each kissed the other with rough and
growing desire.

Methos ripped his lips away, his body nearly
trembling as he decreed, "Let's go to my room."

"Thought you'd never ask," Richie rasped, sliding an
arm around Methos waist as they moved towards the
elevators.

The elevator door opened and they stepped onto it
together, Methos pressing the button for the fourth
floor.  He waited until the doors closed behind them
before pulling Richie into his arms for another kiss,
this one gentler and slower than the kiss they'd
shared on the dance floor.  Richie sighed in pleasure,
forcing himself to remain patient and allow Methos to
control the kiss.  He felt as if he were drowning in
desire as the Old Man leisurely explored his mouth.

Richie wasn't aware of the elevator stopping or the
door opening until he heard the sound of a loud voice
being cleared.  He broke off the kiss, licking his wet
and tender lips and savoring the taste of Methos.  He
glanced past the Old Man and flushed in embarrassment
at the sight of four middle-aged businesswomen waiting
to get on the elevator.

Methos took his hand and pulled him past the open
doors.  "Sorry," he apologized to the ladies on his
way past.

"Don't apologize to me," one insisted with a broad
grin.  "Best floorshow we've seen all night."

"Yeah, nice to know at least someone is going to have
fun tonight," a second echoed, making Richie laugh and
blush at the same time.

He buried his nose in the back of Methos' neck as he
was lead down the hall.  "I'm sure they appreciated us
making out on the elevator," he laughed as they came
to a stop in front of a door.

"I certainly appreciated it," Methos declared as he
fished a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocked
the door.  He pushed it open and stepped into the
room, flipping on the lights.

Richie followed him inside, pushing the door shut.
The click of it behind him sounded like a gunshot
going off in the silent room and Richie was surprised
to realize how nervous he was.  All the walls were
down, he realized.  All his defenses were gone.  All
the secrets had been aired.  Methos knew everything
there was to know, and yet he still didn't have a clue
where he really stood with the Old Man.

And it was especially nerve-wracking to be back
*here*.  Where it had all began.  Literally in this
spot.

He glanced around the familiar room, not surprised to
find the bed already turned back.  Champagne and
chocolate-covered strawberries sat on the nightstand,
just like there had been the first time.

"Expecting to get lucky tonight?" Richie teased to
hide his nervousness, beginning a similar conversation
to the one they'd had the first time they were alone
in this room together.

"I'm an optimist," Methos replied, picking up one of
the strawberries.  He moved to stand in front of
Richie and rested the sweet fruit against full lips.

Rich's heart skipped a beat at that small gesture.
Methos remembered everything about that first time, he
realized, just like he still recalled it in vivid
detail.  He bit into the fruit as he had once before,
expecting his lover to kiss him in a recreation of
that first time.  When Methos didn't, he raised an
eyebrow in question.

"You recognize this place, right?" Methos inquired, a
hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"Of course I do," Richie assured, giving his lover a
heart-stopping smile.  "This is the hotel room we made
love in for the first time.  You requested this room,
didn't you?"

"And I had to bribe the previous resident, a Chinese
businessman, a  fortune to swap rooms with me," Methos
stated, resting a hand against Richie's cheek and then
letting it slowly glide down his neck, his shoulder,
and then to the buttons on his shirt.  "I was hoping
you might come back here when you left London."

"If I'd known you were here and wanted to see me,
this would've been my first stop," Richie assured his
lover, his eyes glued to the sight of the Old Man's
long fingers as they worked the buttons of his denim
shirt.  "B-But I, uh, I thought you'd never want to
see me again, especially after the letter and all the
lies."

Methos let his eyes wander up and down the
still-clothed body, smirking when he saw the bulge in
the front of Richie's pants.  He decide to slow down
then and make Richie pay in passion for his "Dear
John" note.  "Yes, we need to talk about that little
letter of yours."

Methos felt the sudden change in the younger man.
Richie stiffened in his arms and then took a hesitant
step backwards.  "I figured you'd get around to
mentioning that eventually," the other Immortal
sighed.

"And I'm going to make you pay for it, too," he
promised.  In surprise, he realized that the playful
banter was only making his lover more uncomfortable.
"What is it, Rich?"

"You tell me," Richie invited.  "I thought you'd say
something one way or the other to my 'P.S.' notation."

"What 'P.S.'?" Methos asked.

"You didn't read the entire letter?" Richie asked,
feeling as if Methos had just dealt him a heavy blow.
 

"I only got as far as the you were leaving me part,"
Methos admitted, interrupting his lover's thoughts.
"I wanted to get to you before you got to MacLeod."

"I see," Richie realized, a sick feeling racing
through his stomach.  He'd thought Methos had came
back to him after hearing all that he'd had to say.
But if he hadn't then. . .

"No," Methos protested when his lover started to
distance himself both emotionally and physically.  He
caught the front of Richie's shirt and pulled him
close again, insisting, "We need to agree right now to
no more secrets or lies or things left unsaid.  Say
it, baby.  What did you put at the end of the letter?"

"I told you that I loved you," Richie whispered
softly, avoiding his lover's gaze for fear of
rejection.  And that fear intensified when the Old Man
stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

"W-What did you say?" Methos demanded, afraid he had
heard wrong.

"I love you," Richie repeated.  "Look, I know you
don't feel the same, so don't pretend like you do just
to spare my feelings.  I get that you only came after
me because of the mess we started and--"

"Shut up," Methos growled a scant second before he
silenced the rest of the statement with a kiss.  He
roughly tangled his hand in Richie's hair, breaking
the rubber band that held his ponytail in place.
Methos gripped the gold-blonde curls, holding the
other's head still as he assaulted Rich's mouth with a
passionate kiss.

He backed Richie towards the bed, pushing him down on
the mattress and instantly covering the other's body
with his own.  He reached for the blue denim shirt and
ripped it open, sending buttons flying across the bed.
 He lowered his mouth to a waiting nipple, flicking
his tongue across it and making Richie's breath catch.
 He lavished the flesh with attention, drawing it into
his mouth and sucking hard.  He racked his teeth over
it until his lover gasped in pain, and then soothed
the hurt with his tongue until the kid moaned his
name.  Richie reached for him and tried to pull his
shirt from the waistband of his pants, but Methos
stopped him by catching his wrists and pinning them
back against the mattress.  Richie stared up at him
with wide, questioning blue eyes.  Eyes that reflected
so much and clearly spoke everything he was feeling.
Happiness.  Hesitancy.  Fear.  Passion.  And love.
Richie loved him.

"Say it again," he roughly demanded, instinctively
knowing the kid would know what he wanted to hear.

"I love you," Richie whispered, the hesitancy evident
in his voice because he didn't know how the other
would respond.

Methos knew the best way to erase those doubts was to
tell the truth.  He kept Richie's hands pinned as he
lowered his lips to the curve of Richie's neck and
kissed a path upward to his ear.

"I love you," Methos whispered in between kisses.  "I
love you. . .I love you. . .I need you. . .I want you.
. ."

Richie shuddered at the words, unable to believe how
sweet they sounded.  Not even his fantasies of this
moment had prepared him for the rush of emotion he
felt in that instant.  Methos loved him.  It was
almost unbelievable.  Why did Methos love him of all
people?

Richie wasn't aware he'd asked the question out loud
until Methos suddenly stopped kissing him.  The Old
Man raised his face to Richie's, looking him in the
eye.  He lightly rested a hand against the smooth
cheek, rubbing his thumb across Richie's bottom lip as
he replied, "Because you make it so easy.  How could
anyone not love you?"

"I don't want anyone.  Just you," Richie admitted,
knowing he bared his heart and soul then.

"I'm yours," the Old Man breathlessly assured before
dropping his mouth to full and waiting lips.  He
kissed Richie with rough passion until both were
gasping for breath.  Methos released the kid's lips to
trail kisses down a solid, muscular chest.  He
lavished attention on both of the young Immortal's
nipples before moving onto the planes of his stomach
and dipping a tongue until Richie's navel.

Richie gasped as the knowing tongue teased him in all
the right spots while the other's hands worked the
belt, buttons, and then zipper of his pants and tugged
them down.  Methos undressed him in record time, his
mouth finding the sensitive spot on the inside of
Richie's left knee and kissing it before his tongue
trailed upwards.

Richie sighed, letting his legs fall open in
surrender, eagerly anticipating the other's touch.
And Methos did not disappoint.  The Old Man's
calloused hand was gentle as it cupped Richie's balls,
lightly squeezing them as his tongue found the base of
the other's erection.

Richie's held breath expelled itself in a moan as a
very talented tongue worked its way up his hard flesh.
 A hot mouth engulfed his tip and slowly traveled
downwards until his entire length was taken into
Methos' mouth.  The Old Man moved his mouth up and
down Richie's cock, sometimes allowing the hard flesh
to slip from his mouth long enough to run the tip of
his tongue across Rich's slit and taste the pre-cum
that was seeping from it.

Richie groaned under the torment, his hands gripping
the sheets until his knuckles turned white.  Methos
saw the effort it was taking his lover to keep himself
in check and set about to try and make Rich lose
control.  He let his hands explore the other's body
while he sucked him, touching and stroking every spot
that drove Richie wild.  His lover came quickly,
proving to be no match against Methos' expertise.

"Damn," Richie breathed raggedly.  "I wanted. . .to
last longer. . ."

Methos slowly crawled up his lover's body, smiling at
the flush on the skin and how glazed over those blue
eyes looked.  That look only appeared when Rich had
came hard.  "I wanted you to come," Methos admitted.
"I wanted to taste your pleasure and know I'd done
that to you.  But don't worry.  I'll let you last
longer the next time."

"Hmm," Richie sighed.  "And when is the next time?"

"Right now," Methos declared, kissing the seductive
curve of the neck he so loved.  "I'm going to do you
really slow for the rest of the night, until neither
of us can take anymore."

Richie shuddered as the words washed over him,
knowing his lover was more than capable of keeping
that promise.  With hands that trembled slightly, he
began helping Methos tug off the Old Man's clothes.
Once naked, Methos fumbled in a dresser drawer for a
tube of lube.  He produced it with a triumphant smile
and took his time preparing Richie, smirking every
time the kid moaned when he slid a lubed finger inside
of him.

When the temptation became too much to resist, he
positioned himself and thrust into the beautiful body,
causing them both to gasp.  He stilled for a moment to
let Richie adjust to the feel of him before he began
to move.  Methos grunted in surprise when Richie
pulled him down for a rough kiss.  The lips he so
adored left his own and began kissing a path from his
jaw line to the tender spot just below his ear and
knowing hands stroked and caressed him lovingly.
Methos knew he'd found all of Richie's sensitive
spots, but the kid had also found his and was quickly
becoming a master at manipulating them.

Methos thrust harder into Richie as the kid's teasing
nearly sent him over the edge.  He captured the
tormenting hands and pinned them above Richie's head,
bringing their mouths mere inches apart.

"I love you," Richie gasped, his blue eyes searing
into Methos' hazel ones.

Methos could only groan in reply, and then silenced
them both with a kiss.

<><><><><><><><><>
Chapter Thirteen
<><><><><><><><><>

Methos quietly slipped from the bathroom just before
dawn, being careful not to make too much noise as he
moved back to the bed and slipped under the covers.
The warmth of the blanket and the body near him made
his naked body shiver.  He snuggled closer to Richie
and smiled when his sleeping lover instinctively
pressed against him.

They'd made love for most of the night before
allowing their exhausted bodies to rest.  Methos had
held Richie close while they'd talked and sort out
their misunderstandings.  Methos had gotten a hearty
laugh from learning that Richie thought he'd been in
Paris having an affair with Amy Thomas, and Richie had
been thoroughly shocked to learn Amy was the daughter
Joe had never told him about.  They hadn't talked of
their feelings for one another, however.  Methos
supposed there had been no need to.  Their bodies had
said all that needed to be said between them.

There was one thing that hadn't been mentioned, but
would have to be eventually--Where did they go from
here?  What did they do next?

He'd sensed those questions were on Richie's mind.
He'd wanted to bring it up, but hadn't.  He knew the
kid was exhausted, so he'd suggested Richie get some
rest, and the kid had complied.  Sleep had eluded him,
though.  Perhaps because the "What's next?" question
weighed so heavily on him.  He didn't know the answer
to that.  All he did know was that he wanted Richie
and he would do whatever it took to keep his lover.
If they stayed here or went back to London or moved to
the ends of the Earth, he wouldn't care as long as
they took the next step together.

Richie stirred in his arms and Methos placed a light
kiss on the side of his face.  Richie muttered
something he couldn't understand and snuggled closer,
bringing a smile to Methos' face.  Gods, how he loved
the other man who slept in his arms.  No one, least of
all one of his own kind, had ever slept so peacefully
with him or trusted him like Richie did.

The kid loved him, he knew.  Despite all the
obstacles and challenges they'd faced, the kid still
wanted to be with him.

Methos buried his nose in the other's soft curls and
tried to swallow past the emotion that welled up in
his chest.  They'd came back to each other, this time
to stay for good.  And he had to appreciate the irony
that their first confessions of love had been spoken
in this room were they had first come together.

First, he thought with a tender smile.  He'd been
Richie's first.  Right in this very bed not so many
years ago.

But sometimes he thought Richie had been his first,
too.  The first one to touch his heart completely.
The first one to get past all his defenses.  The first
one to really know and understand him and still love
him.  The first person to be everywhere inside of him.
 To be everything to him.

"Why so serious?" a sleepy voice interrupted his
thoughts, and Methos turned his face to Richie's to
see his lover had awakened.

"Just thinking," he replied.  "Remembering."

"The last time we were here," Richie stated, knowing
his lover's thoughts.  "Seems like a lifetime ago."

"I promised you a someday," Methos recalled.  "It's
time for me to make good on that promise."

Richie rested a hand against the other's cheek,
pulling his face down for kiss.  Their mouths met,
their lips mating and sealing their unspoken deal.  A
vow of forever.

The End

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