Disclaimer: Rysher and Davis et al own the characters of the highlander series and this particular incarnation of immortality, not me. I intend no copyright infringement and will make no money from this story. Mark Richards and the storyline belong to me, however. If you'd like to link to or archive this story anywhere, please ask first.

Warnings: Slash implied. Rated PG If the idea of two men together squicks you, or just isn't your cup a tea, I've got lots of Het stories that might interest you. (link to my main page at the bottom.)

Memories Of Valentine

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  Part One
***************


Methos quietly unlocked the door to his flat and slipped inside. Mechanically shutting the door, he re-locked it without giving his standard paranoia a single thought. He couldn't figure out why this year was hitting him harder than it had in...well, forever, but he couldn't shake a soul-deep weariness that leeched his strength. It had been deepening all week, and resisted every effort he made to banish it. It surrounded and invaded him, touching all that he was and did, leaving nothing untainted, and making everything that much more difficult. Everything he'd done today had seemed to take three times the effort it normally took. In fact, just walking from his vehicle up to his flat had completely drained what energy he had left.

He dropped his coat and satchel carelessly beside the couch as he debated between dropping himself down onto the couch or actually navigating all the way to the kitchen for a much needed beer. However tempting the couch was, the beer won out and Methos made his way to the fridge. With a quick twist, he tossed the cap into the garbage and raised the icy bottle to his mouth.

The phone rang, echoing in the previously silent room. He ignored it, long enough to down half the bottle. Closing his eyes, he savored the cold liquid as it slid down his throat, wanting only to shut out the world -- And that included whoever was rude enough to call.

As he slowly crossed toward the couch, the phone rang again, and again.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Methos muttered when it rang yet a fourth time. Apparently, he'd forgotten to turn on the answering machine. Determined *not* to answer it, however, he dropped onto the couch. Unfortunately, it continued to ring -- over and over again.

"Oh, all right!" Methos snapped, finally not able to ignore the increasingly grating sound any longer. "It better be a matter of immediate life or death, or you're dead -- whoever you are!" he promised, crossing to the phone and wrenching it off the hook. "Who is it?"

"Taking a nap, Methos?"

"For your information, not that it's any of your business, MacLeod, but I didn't particularly want to talk to anyone."

MacLeod's lighthearted laugh grated along Methos' last remaining nerve, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to slam the phone down. "Did you call for some specific reason, MacLeod, or have you taken leave of your senses and just decided to share?"

"No, Methos," Duncan replied, laughter still evident in his voice. "I called to tell you that you're having dinner at the loft tonight."

"Excuse me?" Methos asked, indignation instantly firing along his veins. "TELL me?"

"Yep," Duncan responded, seemingly oblivious to the ire he'd raised.

Of course, the fact that half the city separated them right now, probably gave him a false sense of security, Methos acknowledged silently.

"Joe just got back from his sister's. Richie's in town. And we've decided to get together tonight."

"MacLeod, I'm just not--"

"No, Methos. You're not getting out of it. I'm under orders."

Methos blinked twice while that swirled around in his mind. "Under *who's* orders?" he asked finally, suspiciously.

"Joe's. Evidently, you've been avoiding *him* too."

"I haven't been avoiding anyone!" Methos exclaimed hotly, then continued more calmly as his earlier lassitude reclaimed him. "I just haven't felt like going anywhere."

"I can come get you, that way you don't even have to drive."

"You're not listening, MacLeod. I just said--"

"I heard you, and you're right, I'm not listening. I told you I'm under very strict orders."

"Damn it, Mac."

"I'll pick you up in an hour. No, make that thirty minutes. Be ready."

"I won't--"

A click and the hollow sound of a disconnected phone line halted his protest. Allowing his hand to fall toward the desk, he stared in openmouthed disbelief at the, now useless, receiver. "Of all the bloody, inconsiderate, rude, stubborn..." Methos' invectives trailed off as his mind blanked of the words he wanted. Switching to languages long dead, he continued his diatribe, and slammed the phone down.

By the time he flopped back down onto the couch, his anger had once again given way before the all-to-familiar ennui that had plagued him all week. "Gods above, I'm a bloody yo-yo today." Jerking his beer from the low table in front of him, he took two swallows then threw the bottle. It shattered against the wall with a very satisfying crash, the broken pieces of dark glass scattering across the floor. He stared at the traces of liquid that trickled down the ivory walls, forming odd patterns around tiny imperfections as gravity pulled the fluid inexorably downward.

How was it, he thought morosely, that he kept getting into these fixes? Here he was minding his own business, wallowing in self-imposed isolation and missing someone long, very long, dead, and *now*, somehow, his so-called friends wanted him to party. And to top it all off, the one person he absolutely did not need to see right now was going to be there too.

This was really all he needed. Spending the evening, not only pretending not to be severely depressed, but pretending not to notice a certain young, very young, redheaded immortal, with whom he was severely in lust, was not within his currently capabilities. He knew that beyond the slightest shadow of any doubt.

Normally it wasn't so much of a problem. The kid wasn't difficult to fool. One, he was obviously 100% interested in women, and that made him semi-oblivious to signs and signals he'd probably catch onto real quick, if Methos were equipped just a wee bit differently.

Throw in a little cynicism heavily laced with sarcasm, and viola, no readily apparent interest. Of course, none of that was without a price. No one knew just how much energy he put into his studied air of indifference, and he really didn't think he could do it -- not tonight.

He let his head fall back against the couch, and throwing an arm over his eyes, he closed them. He done some stupid things in the last few years, he admitted to himself, ruefully, most of them since meeting the Highlander. But falling for someone that, despite his natural protestations to the contrary, could only be considered a child, just about topped the cake. He was an idiot. He knew that.

Completely and utterly a child of his times, the younger immortal had absolutely no basis for understanding anything about him. The only people Methos had seen recently who really stood a chance of accomplishing that, were either dead now, or hated him with a passion that crossed the line into obsession.

He sighed deeply, trying to clear his mind of the unattainable. Unfortunately it wasn't working too well. His thoughts stayed stubbornly where he didn't want them, lingering on someone dead for over 1700 years, and someone, while alive, was just as unreachable. Sometimes, he truly hated his life.



***************
  Part Two
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MacLeod pulled up in front of Methos' apartment building, feeling more than just a touch of apprehension. He wasn't at all sure this was such a good idea. Methos was plenty old enough to work through this on his own, or come to one of his friends -- if he felt the need. Unfortunately, Joe wasn't of a like mind.

Even now, he couldn't figure out just how Joe had managed to con him into this. It was just, when he'd tried to talk Joe out of it, the Watcher had just *looked* at him, shaking his head in disappointment. He'd turned to Richie, certain the younger immortal would side with him, only to find the turncoat firmly in Joe's camp. Those expressive blue eyes had held as much reproach as Joe's heartfelt sigh.

He'd felt his shoulders fall in defeat and he'd given in, not gracefully, but he had given in all the same. Now, after listening to the two men plan the assault, he was standing here, on the sidewalk, staring at a glass door, trying to make himself enter the building. He really, really didn't want to do this, he thought as he squared his shoulders, pulled open the front door, and stepped into the cool interior.

****

Methos woke with a start as immortal presence washed over him. He bolted up off the couch, his mind an odd whirl of chaos as he tried to remember where the hell he'd put his sword. His heart pounding against his ribs, he realized with sudden clarity that if he didn't shake himself out of this...funk he'd fallen into, he was going to wind up dead. In direct opposition to what he wanted earlier, he fervently hoped it was MacLeod. No way in hell was he up to a challenge.

The knock at his door reassured him, somewhat. Most immortals with a grudge, or those just out for a head, didn't bother knocking, at least not politely. If they knocked at all it usually more closely related pounding.

"Who is it?"

"It's *me*, Adam."

Methos bristled as he virtually heard the eye roll in MacLeod's voice. What did the man expect him to do, open the door without so much as a single question? "Just a minute," he responded, crossing toward the door, then jerking it open. "Come on in," he continued, his tone exaggerated politeness, slipping into facetious obsequiousness, as he bowed the other immortal in.

He almost managed a true smirk as he noted MacLeod's minute hesitation before crossing the threshold. That is, until he remembered his earlier irritation. Purposely slamming the door, he thoroughly enjoyed the Highlander's tense start at the sudden sound. It was almost worth the intrusion just to find out what had the man so tightly wound. But before he could launch his verbal assault, MacLeod took a deep breath and rounded on him.

"You," Mac said firmly, pointing a single finger at him, "were supposed to be ready to go."

"Forget it, MacLeod, I'm not interested in going *anywhere* tonight," he replied, running a hand through his hair, and heading for the kitchen -- and the fridge. He kept Mac just at the edge of his sight as he got himself a second beer. "Want one?" he asked belatedly, not quite shutting the door.

"No, thanks, Methos. We're leaving shortly, remember?"

"No, *you* are, but I'm not."

Methos watched the other immortal oh-so-casually wander around his living room, and suddenly realized just how little he'd actually accomplished in the last week. Following the other's progress, he shook his head at himself. No sense worrying about it. This would pass, it always did. Not that it happened all that often, he denied to himself.

The Highlander's eyes came to rest on him.

"What?" he asked, his exasperation growing in leaps.

"Come on," Duncan said softly, striding toward him, and, taking hold of his arm, began propelling him toward the door.

"What part of *no* don't you understand?" Methos asked, jerking his arm out of the Highlander's grasp. "Just so there's no further misunderstand, I'm going to say this very slowly. I'm . not . going . anywhere."

Duncan shook his head slowly. "You don't really think I'm going to leave you here, especially not after I've seen for myself what he was talking about?"

Methos' eyes narrowed. What the hell was he talking about? "I have no idea what you're blathering on about, MacLeod, nor do I really care." He sighed and closed his eyes for only a moment, centering himself. Arguing in circles was not getting them anywhere. "Look, I wouldn't be good company tonight. Some other time, okay?"

'Oh, great!' he chided himself Now that he'd let himself plead, the big ox *really* wouldn't give up. He just couldn't seem to keep the anger going, though. Deciding that maybe ignoring the other man might accomplish what nothing else had, he collapsed onto the couch. He studiously sipped his beer, refusing to look up at the man standing over him. Why was he fighting this so hard anyway? It would be easier just to give in, put up with a couple of hours in the middle of their attempts to cheer him up, then he could be home, Scot free -- pun most definitely intended.

"Methos," Mac prompted.

The change in tone warned the older immortal and he snapped his eyes up.

"Are you going to come willingly, or do I have to act the barbarian you always accuse me of being?"

"You wouldn't dare," Methos responded warily. 'Oh shit! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Dare the man why don't ya?' Watching the other man's eyes crystallize with intent, he virtually crawled backwards, heading over the back of the couch. "That was *not* an invitation, MacLeod."

"Sounded like one ta me, Methos," Mac retorted, whipping his hand out and preventing Methos' exodus, his hand an iron grip around Methos' wrist.

And with a single wrench, Methos found himself launched off his precarious perch, half over the back of the couch. "Mac-Leod!" he exclaimed, his voice raising an embarrassing octave. He landed across the Highlander's shoulder with an 'oomph' that momentarily knocked the wind out of him, leaving him unable to breathe.

MacLeod's chuckle vibrated against his chest and the renewed indignation it raised within him, succeeded in allowing him to draw breath. "Put me down, MacLeod," he said succinctly.

"Nope," the infuriating immortal replied.

Methos rolled his eyes, he would have much rather done this with at least *some* of his dignity intact. Landing on his ass after fighting from this nearly upside down position wouldn't allow him much of that. After a moment to allow MacLeod to change his mind, Methos struggled, kicking out to over balance the man holding him and twisting against the arm that kept him in place. Immense satisfaction coursed through him as MacLeod stumbled.

He arched, then twisted sharply, gasping in surprise as he was suddenly released from the Highlander's tight grasp. He tried to twist as he fell, but landed solidly, his ass connecting with the floor with far too much force. Shock momentarily stilled his movements as he stared up at the Highland barbarian standing over him.

"That hurt, MacLeod! I am not a child, that you can sling over shoulder and do what you will with." When that received no response, except for Mac's re-approach, Methos scrambled backwards. His eyes widening in disbelieving shock as he saw a length of steel whip out of the Highlander's coat.

Before he could even half begin to go for his own sword, MacLeod's was at his throat. He swallowed strongly, carefully inching back from the razor sharp edge. *Where the hell *was* his sword anyway?*

"What will the neighbor's think, *Adam*?" MacLeod asked, laughter coating his voice.

"That I'm being kidnapped by a homicidal maniac," Methos retorted angrily, indignation and pique rounding his tone.

MacLeod laughed again, a full-throated joyous sound. "Perhaps," he admitted quietly, meeting Methos' stormy gaze, "but what a *scene* that would cause."

"All right!" Methos hissed. 'That's all I need -- that kind of attention.' "I'll go, but do me a favor, just forget the swords and the strong arm bit. I *do* have a reputation to protect you know.

"What reputation?" MacLeod challenged. A smirk evident in his voice, he urged Methos up to his feet with the tip of his sword. "Besides," he continued, "I don't believe you."

"I'll have you know *Adam* has a fine, upstanding reputation around here," Methos replied indignantly, struggling carefully upward, "as an ordinary guy, who most definitely does not get hauled off over the shoulder of another man, nor at sword-point." On his feet once more, Methos' eyes suddenly narrowed, and he glared at the other immortal. "Wait just a damn minute!" he demanded suddenly, almost stepping forward. "Did you just call me a liar?"

MacLeod's mouth twitched upward. "If the shoe fits..." he said, his voice purposely insulting, trailed off.

"I resent that MacLeod," Methos retorted, circumspectly pulling down the hem of his sweater, still *apparently* ignoring the *very* sharp sword, maintaining a steady, but light pressure against his neck.

Thoughts running circles around his mind, Methos searched for ways out of this utterly ridiculous situation. He knew he was in absolutely no danger of anything permanent from MacLeod's sword, but that didn't mean the other immortal wasn't serious. That katana could do a lot of damage -- temporary damage. At this moment in time, Methos wasn't entirely certain MacLeod *wouldn't* inflict such temporary damage. It really depended on just what Dawson held over him, he supposed. And the real question, was whether it was worth the effort to continue resisting and the risk.

*****

Methos eyed the passenger door speculatively as he crawled across the front seat, MacLeod having escorted him through the driver door, He decided, not for the first time this evening, that it would take far less energy to simply give in -- though it went against the grain to let MacLeod have his way in this matter. He slumped against the passenger seat and with ill concealed petulance fastened his seat belt, crossing his arms across his chest after he finished.



***************
  Part Three
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"Although I won't pretend to know why," MacLeod said quietly, turning the car off, "I *do* know you're not feeling...up to par. Richie and Joe both noticed it, too." Mac looked over at him, something akin to sympathy shining in his eyes. He paused a moment, then continued, just as softly. "It was their idea to arrange this get together."

Methos started in surprise. **How could they know? I haven't been around them.**

MacLeod opened his door, hesitating halfway out. "If you feel the need to cast cynical barbs," he offered, "cast them my way."

With that comment, MacLeod was gone, leaving Methos alone. He watched the Highlander stride toward the dojo, wondering just when life had gotten so out of his control. Also, he wondered just why MacLeod had felt the need to 'draw his fire', as it were. It was as if he thought the other two men were...likely to be hurt by anything he said tonight. They knew him better than that. Methos shivered. Now *there* was a scary thought.

*****

Richie stiffened, nearly imperceptibly, and turned toward the elevator as it lurched into service. **That will be Mac,** he thought nervously. **But will he have Methos with him?** He was under absolutely no illusions about the old man's stubbornness. Of course, Mac was awfully stubborn too.

He stared at the closed gate which protected the elevator shaft, waiting to discover which of the older immortals had exceeded the other in pigheadedness -- this time. He shook his head, a stray thought threatening to spill into laughter. **MacLeod and Methos -- On their own, they could out-stubborn a mule on its worst day. But against each other??**

He cocked his head toward Joe. "Who do you think won?"

Joe shook his head as his mouth quirked upward. "I don't know, Richie. The two of them sometimes remind me of Mohammed and the mountain."

Richie laughed, turning his gaze back toward the elevator, the top of which had just crested the floor of the loft. "You've got a point there," he muttered, half to himself.

His shoulders sagged as Mac came into view. He was alone. **Damn it all to hell and back! How am I supposed to help him, if he won't even show up?** He'd first noticed it three days ago, on one of the rare occasions they'd actually *seen* Methos in the last week. The older immortal had let a prime sarcastic remark go unsaid, when he'd left himself *wide* open for it.

Richie remembered wincing in anticipation as soon as the words had left his mouth, fully expecting to run headlong into the very solid brick wall of Methos' oh-so-*charming* wit.

*****

Climbing out of the car, Methos shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans. How he let himself get talked into these kinds of things was completely beyond his understanding.

'No,' he thought, 'it really isn't all that hard to understand. That bloody Highland child has enough stubbornness to persuade anyone to do just about anything.' Methos started walking slowly toward the glass door of the dojo, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

By the time he'd made is way up to the loft, Methos had managed to relegate (mostly) his memories to his subconscious, and arrange his expression to one that matched something approaching normal. He would get through this night, without anyone being the wiser, even if it killed him.

"I'm here," Methos quipped with false cheer. Heading for Mac's kitchenette for a beer, he glanced over his shoulder at the other three. "So, what's on the agenda tonight?" he asked. 'Aside from interrogation.'

All three men grinned, and he suddenly felt even more certain he did *not* want to be here tonight. He flicked the top off his beer, tossing it up and behind the fridge. He couldn't disappoint the Highlander's expectations -- now could he? Taking a long swallow, he winced. He didn't really want it; it didn't taste right.

*****

The night grew quiet, all four men lost in their own, private thoughts. Methos stood and crossed to the window. Absently taking a sip of his beer, he twisted his mouth in reaction. He *so* hated it when he got like this, when beer didn't even taste right. He stared out into the night, his gaze seeing not the lights of the city, but rather focused on nothing at all.

It hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd pictured when MacLeod had forced him over here. Expecting not so subtle 'reminiscing', designed to draw him out, and then when that inevitably failed, even less subtle direct questions,

*What's wrong, Methos?* *What happened, Methos?* He shuddered slightly.
*Who are you remembering, Methos?*

the simple silliness of the evening had been a relief and had even made him laugh -- a couple of times. 'It feels good to laugh,' he thought. It was then he realized he didn't laugh very much. Oh, he 'snickered', sometimes, condescendingly. He chuckled. And he smiled. But, full, uninhibited laughter -- no, he didn't do that very often. Now that was a *really* depressing thought.

Movement from the corner of his field of vision caught his attention, and he almost turned to face it, but a hand falling lightly on his shoulder, arrested the motion. Richie drew up beside him, not even looking at him. He didn't even say anything for the longest time, just stared out the window beside him.

"Holiday's suck," Richie said quietly.

'Okay, here it comes,' Methos thought, the walls slamming up. 'Damn it! I really don't want to do this. And *why* him?' He waited for more, waited for the supposedly gentle questions. None came. He waited, and waited some more.

He risked a covert glance toward the young immortal standing next to him, but found him still staring out the window, seemingly completely at ease. One side of his mouth quirked up. He recognized what Richie was doing. He'd done it himself a number of times. Unfortunately it was surprisingly effective even when you did know, and before he realized it he'd responded. "Yeah, you could say that."

Richie's eyes flicked to his and he saw a mirroring sadness that really surprised him. Richie had rarely shown him much of anything except derision. He quickly shifted his gaze back to the view, conveniently provided by the window, and silence once again descended.

"So much expectation," Richie said after a moment or two. "It isn't fair. It's just another day, right?"

"Right," Methos repeated softly, "just another day." He sighed, deeply. Just a day that long ago someone he'd known and cared about, someone he'd actually allowed to get close to him, had died on. Actually, the cynic in him admitted, it probably wasn't *this* day precisely. There had been so many calendar changes over the years that it was difficult to keep track. But *this* was the day the world recognized him, practically worshipping his stupid, foolish, idiotic, bravery, while at the same time, completely and utterly forgetting the man behind it. Ask anyone on the street. Three out of four of them will say it's a day for lovers. Ask them about who "St." Valentine was and they'll look at you funny. *He was a real person?*

What he *said* was, "Yeah, just a day that you're supposed to be sending stupid little 'tokens' to someone special."

"To that special *girl* you mean," Richie responded bitingly.

Methos aborted the instinctive urge to snap his head around to stare at Richie, the ever present ache in his chest bursting into nearly stabbing pains. "Yeah, that's what I meant," he said, his tone heavy with, 'whatever'.

"Shit!" Richie burst out. "I am *so* stupid!"

"What?" Methos managed to sputter.

"That came out so *totally* wrong."

"I have no idea what you're babbling about."

"Oh, can it, Old Man. I'm not completely ignorant."

Methos' fingers twitched at the name, but he resisted the desire to wrap his hands around Richie's neck. He supposed it was only fair, considering some of the things he'd called the younger immortal, 'brat' came immediately to mind. Of course, he'd never said that one out loud. "What's *that* supposed to mean?" he snapped, trying to divert his own thoughts.

"Not a thing," Richie replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "However, what I was 'babbling' about, was the fact that I let my feelings about two friends of mine spill over onto you, and that wasn't fair. I'm sorry."

'All right,' Methos thought. 'I'll bite.' "Friends?"

"Yeah, they hate Valentine's Day."

Okay, he had to admit it. The kid had him hooked. Knowing full well, that somehow or another this was going to lead directly to where he really didn't want to go, he *still* had to know. "Why?"

Richie turned to face him, an odd look on his face. "Why?" he asked.

"Yeah -- Why. Everyone has a reason, whether they know what it is or not." A spark flared momentarily in the younger Immortal's eyes. 'Shit! I walked, no ran, straight into that one.' Backing up he tried to head off the inevitable. "I need another beer. How about you?"

Richie nodded.

Methos felt his eyes on his back the entire time he headed for the fridge. It was...disconcerting.

"Anyway, to answer your question. The whole thing is geared toward a guy and a girl. They get left out of so much of the day's activities, they feel left out and alone."

Methos' mind went into overdrive as he reached for two bottles. The implications of what Richie had just said sinking in.

'Richie has "gay" friends?'

/Well, why not?/

'Because it just doesn't fit with what I know of the boy.'

/What you *see* in him, you mean./

'Okay, okay. Yes, the way I see him.'

/Wasn't it you who said, and I quote, "See me as I am."/

Methos frowned, irritated at the inner voice's out-of-context quote.

/It is not!/

'Is too.'

"So," he said, walking slowly back toward the window. "These guys--"

Richie's mouth quirked upward. "Girls."

"Girls," Methos continued. 'Another surprise. Damn, the kid's just full of them tonight.' "They're good friends of yours?"

"Yeah," Richie replied, nodding, then continued, cocking his head to the side. "That surprises you doesn't it?"

"No," Methos lied airily, "not at all."

Richie's expression changed.

"Oh all right! Yes, it does."

Grinning ear to ear, Richie patted Methos' shoulder. "It's okay. It was bound to happen sometime."

"What was?" he asked warily, eyes narrowing at both the gesture *and* the words.

"You've gotten hidebound," Richie retorted, tossing the remark over his shoulder as he headed back toward the couch, his grin, impossibly, growing larger.

Methos sputtered, staring after him. 'Him? The king of, live in the here and now. Forget the past. Go with the times. Was HIDEBOUND?? "You...you...you....BRAT!"

Richie roared with laughter, grabbing his stomach and falling down onto the couch. "You should see yourself," he gasped between gales of laughter. "The *look* on your face is priceless."

"Oh, I'm sure," Methos retorted. He could feel a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. "The Polaroid would sell for thousands on the open market -- Adam Pierson as a gaping fish."

Richie's laughter faded into near giggles, as he gasped and tried to control them.

Methos watched the contortions of the younger man and suddenly realized he was actually enjoying himself. He frowned suddenly as another thing came to his attention. "Where are Mac and Joe?"

"Oh, they left about twenty minutes ago. Something about getting us all something to eat."

With a renewed sense of being set up, Methos continued toward the couch. No sense keeping half the loft between them. Although it did occur to him that now would be a good time to make his escape. It surprised him to discover that he didn't particularly want to.

"I'm a good listener," Richie said softly. "When my mouth isn't getting in the way," he continued, his expression saying -- 'beat you to it.'

Methos chuckled, and he lifted his beer bottle in an acknowledging toast. After taking a quick swig, he looked down and toyed with the label a moment before glancing back at the young Immortal. "What you said earlier, about not being totally ignorant. I never believed you were, Richie."

"No?"

"No."

"Okay," Richie said, leaning forward. "Then can I ask you a question?"

Methos swallowed. 'Here it comes,' he thought. "Why not," he offered. "I can always decline to answer."

"Why do you assume that I can't figure things out. About you, I mean."

Methos almost choked on the beer he'd just drunk. "Well, most people can't," Methos replied, eyeing the other man speculatively. "Do I want to know what it is you think you've 'figured' out -- about me?"

"Up to you, Old Man," he replied with a shrug. "But if it was me, I'd be dying of curiosity."

"And on that note, I object to the name 'Old Man'."

Richie laughed. "You called me Brat!"

"You provoked me!" Methos shot back, enjoying this incredibly childish bickering.

"Did not!" Richie reposted, sticking his tongue out, getting into the spirit.

"Did too!" Methos responded in kind.

Their gazes locked and both, fully grown men, blushed slightly and laughed.

"Well, that was fun," Methos offered. Then, curious despite his better judgment, he continued. "You're right, I am curious."

"It's stating the obvious to say that you've lived in many different cultures."

Methos nodded, the familiar smirk back in place. "Slightly."

"Now, it seems to me, that no matter how much a person were to...hold themselves back -- isolate themselves, they would take *something* from that culture with them."

Again Methos nodded, now *very* curious where this was headed. They were certainly taking a circuitous route in getting to the point. Whatever it was, the kid had certainly spent some time thinking it out. It made him wonder why. Something of his thoughts must have shown through, because Richie hurried assured him.

"I know, I know. Get to the point. And there *is* a point to this."

"Actually, I'm sure there is," Methos replied.

"It's just I started thinking about my future and what it would be like to outlive this culture. Then, naturally, I thought of you..."

"Naturally," Methos responded, not at all certain it was.

"...having lived through it before, many times." Richie stood up suddenly and paced away. "Anyway, one thought led to another, and to make a long story short--"

"Too late."

Richie snorted and tossed a rueful grin over his shoulder. "*Anyway*, it made me realize that, most likely, at some point in your life--"

"Richie," Methos interrupted warningly.

Richie stopped abruptly and turned around. "Sorry," he said and took a deep breath. "It just seems to me that at some point the package wouldn't seem as important as the person anymore."

Methos snorted, trying desperately not to laugh. This had obviously taken Richie a lot to actually say. "Richie, are you asking me if I'm 'BI'?"

"No," Richie denied, giving a quick vigorous shake of his head. "What I'm *trying* to say, is I guess, I've kinda assumed it."

'Assumed it? What the hell was Richie doing, assuming or even thinking, anything about *his* sexuality?' "My turn to ask a question," he said, holding up his hand to forestall Richie's comment. "I know you haven't, *technically*, asked a question."

Richie reluctantly nodded.

"Why were you thinking about it in the first place? I know, you mentioned before, 'one thought led to another.' I mean beyond that."

He watched Richie wrestled with his thoughts. He was silent for long enough that Methos began to wonder if he was going to answer. "Basically, because I'm not blind. A little self-absorbed at times, but not blind."

Methos stood suddenly, his heart leaping into his chest. **Shit!** "Look, I'm sorry Richie. I didn't realize..." Methos' voice trailed off as Richie's jaw dropped slightly, and his eyes filled with disbelief.

"How can you stand to be around me, if you think I'm such an *asshole*?" Richie demanded, standing suddenly.

**Huh? Where the bloody hell had *that* come from?** "What?" **Oh great response, try again smart guy.** "Richie, I'm not sure where that came from, but I don't think that."

"Uh, huh. No, you don't think that, you just think I'd bring this whole damn thing up without-- Oh forget it! I'm outta here."

Methos stood frozen for a fraction of second. Unfortunately, it was long enough for Richie to stride to the elevator. "Richie, wait!" he called, suddenly rushing after the younger man.

"Hey, don't worry about it, Adam," Richie said without turning, raising the gate. "I just made a mistake that's all. It's not the first time."

"Damn it, Richie," Methos exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him back around. The glare Richie directed at him made him snatch his hand back. "Would you just *slow* down! What you don't seem to realize, is that you *don't* have a monopoly on self-absorption."

"What?" Richie asked, confusion momentarily overcoming his embarrassment.

Methos shoved his hands into his pockets, all the better to keep them where they belonged, or rather keep them *from* where they didn't. "You may not have noticed, but I'm pretty self-absorbed, too. Some would say self-centered, even."

Richie's snort of almost laughter heartened Methos.

"Could we just *please* go back and sit down until I review this bloody conversation and figure out what I said wrong?"

Richie visibly hesitated.

"Come on," Methos encouraged. "You don't want to curse me with figuring it out just as I'm falling asleep tonight do you?"

Grinning crookedly, Richie shook his head. "No, I guess not. That's a fate worse than death...almost," he said, then dodged around Methos, heading back toward the couch -- again.

Methos turned on his heel, and headed toward the bar. His thoughts finally slowing enough to review. "You want something to drink?" he asked, pulling out one of Duncan's single malts. At Richie's nod, he poured them both a healthy dose, the younger Immortal's earlier words replaying in his mind.

/"No," Richie denied, giving a quick vigorous shake of his head. "What I'm
*trying* to say, is I guess, I've kinda assumed it."/

Methos handed Richie one of the drinks and took a quick swallow of his own, thankful that Richie seemed to be willing to sit quietly while he thought.

/"Basically, because I'm not blind. A little self-absorbed at times, but not
blind."/

'Okay, he knows I'm interested,' Methos thought with an internal sigh, still not comfortable with that thought. 'So how do we get from there to -- me thinking he's an asshole for bringing it up?'

/"...you just think I'd bring this whole damn thing up without- Oh forget it!
I'm outta here."/

/"...without-"/

**Oh bloody hell! Am I slow on the uptake tonight or what?** He snapped his head up, locking gazes with the younger immortal. "Did I mention I'm self-centered?"

With a tentative grin, Richie nodded. "I think that was mentioned," he admitted. "Of course, I already knew *that*."

Methos chuckled wryly. "Listen, when I reacted earlier. I was doing just that, reacting, not thinking. When it hit me that you had twigged to my...interest, it came crashing into my 'image' of you.

"Image of me?"

Methos sighed, not quite sure how to answer that. "Somehow, in all this, I seemed to have completely missed even the most remote possibility that you could return that interest."

"Oh," Richie responded, understanding dawning.

"And I just couldn't see past that."

"In other words," Richie interrupted, "you freaked."

Methos pulled himself up, affronted, then grinned suddenly. "Yes, I 'freaked'. The thing is--" He broke off abruptly as presence washed over him.

Both men stood, moving toward protection.

"It's probably just Mac and Joe," Richie said.

"Yeah," Methos agreed.

Both men waited as the elevator descended, then began its return trip, swords out and ready. Methos cursed inwardly. Regardless of who it was, their timing was atrocious. Who knew when his and Richie's little 'talk' could be continued. He relaxed when it became obvious that it was Mac and Joe. Replacing his sword inside the lining of his coat, he absently paced back toward 'his' window.

Glancing over at the clock as the two men loaded with the makings of dinner headed straight for the kitchen, Methos sighed. However reluctant he'd been to show up, he was grateful they'd pushed. This had been just what he'd needed to force the memories down. They were still there of, of course. They still pained him, but now they were back where they belonged, back in the haze that was his millennia of memories.

Both good and bad were stored there, to come up when least expected. Scenes of love and loss, trust and betrayal, joy and sorrow resided side by side. Now, however, this particular memory no longer overwhelmed him and he no longer played the scene of wasted potential over and over in his mind. It no longer weighed him down. Now it was simply a shadowy ache that would forever stain his soul.

"A penny," Richie said from his seat on the couch.

Methos turned, watched a moment, then crossed and sat on the opposite end. "I knew him."

"Who?"

"Valentine."

"A friend?"

"Yeah...and he *wasn't* a saint. I can assure of that. He definitely had his faults."

"Right," Mac responded teasingly.

"Mac," Richie retorted sharply, surprising them all. "Shut up!"

"It's all right, Richie," Methos said with a smirk. Mac was just responding the way Methos himself had 'trained' him to respond to statements about his murky past. It was what he usually wanted.

"Was he...?"

Methos grinned, having expected the question. "No," he said, then paused. "But he would have been."

Richie looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "What?"

"What do you know about St. Valentine, Richie?" Joe asked, saving Methos from having to ask.

Duncan turned from his dinner preparations to listen to the younger immortal's response.

Richie shrugged slightly. "Just what everyone knows, I guess. That he was a priest that married people against the wishes of some emperor or another. And that because of that he became a symbol for love."

Methos shook his head. "Actually Richie, 'most people' don't even know that much. Most don't even realize he was *real* and not some mythical figure."

"Ouch."

Methos snorted. "Yeah."

"But, if he was pre-immortal--"

"His first death was by order of the Emperor Claudius. He was beaten to death, then beheaded."

Richie gulped, fingering his own neck.

"I've wondered, at times, whether telling him what he would become, if only he kept his head, would have made any difference to his stubbornness at the end," Methos continued softly, and all three of the others heard the regret that laced his voice.

An uneasy silence fell on the room, all the occupants forcefully reminded of how fragile life really was, and how easily any one of the three immortals might not have realized their immortality.

Dinner conversation began slowly, but picked up as they began debating the merits of telling pre-immortals what they are to become, before it was readily apparent. By the end of the meal the best they could agree on was, 'it depends'.

Methos pushed back his plate, rising slowly. "Well, it's been fun, but I've really got to get home," he said, then glared at MacLeod. "For some unknown reason, however, I don't have a vehicle."

Joe and Mac both started to respond, but Richie replied first. "I'll give you a ride, Adam," he said. Turning toward Mac and Joe, he continued. "I've got to get going anyway."

Methos' body flushed hotly in surprised response, but couldn't think of a legitimate reason to turn Richie down.

Mac grinned. "Well, that settles that," he said, beginning to clear the dishes.

*****

By the time they pulled to a stop in front of his apartment building, Methos had been firmly reminded of a *very* legitimate reason he could have used. He *hated* motorcycles only slightly less than he hated boats. He climbed off and turned to face Richie, no closer to knowing exactly what he was going to say. He certainly didn't want to hurt him, but no matter what either of them felt, getting involved with Immortals was something he simply didn't do.

He started to say as much, when Richie reached and pulled him toward the younger immortal.

"It's Valentine's Day, Adam. I think it's time to make some happy memories," he said softly, and pulled Methos' head down.

Surprised, Methos leaned into the kiss, enjoying the sensations of Richie's lips on his. And before he could gather his wits enough to pull away, Richie released him. "Happy Valentine's, Old Man. Sleep well."

'Bloody hell!" Methos thought, bemused, as he watched Richie pull away. "Happy Valentine's to you too," he said softly, then raised his voice, "BRAT!"

'I must be completely insane,' he thought, shaking his head as he turned and sauntered into his building. 'I'm even starting to like 'Old Man'.'


The End


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