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.
Warnings: This story contains m/m sexual situations and a theme of domination/submission. It is adult in nature. If you aren't an adult yet, I'll have to ask you to come back when you are. 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.)
CAUGHT
By
Kiristeen ke Alaya
Part One
Methos sat curled on the bed, his arms wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees. He stared at his sleeping companion. Shock at who it was, still thrummed in the back of his mind. It played an odd counter melody to his confused thoughts.
Several times he stopped himself from reaching out to touch the sleeping immortal, just to reassure himself this wasn't simply another dream of his own making. He didn't have to touch, not really. Even he didn't have *that* vivid an imagination. He could still feel Richie's hands touching him, his arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.
Methos closed his eyes and tried to clear the images out of his mind and the sensations from his skin. It helped...a little. The problem was, he didn't understand any of it. Well, he amended, stifling a rueful laugh; he understand most of it. What he didn't understand was why it had affected him quite so profoundly.
He hadn't 'decided' to do this, he'd been unable to decide *not* to. That...bothered him. No matter his likes and dislikes, he wasn't one to throw caution to the wind like he had. He stayed away from getting involved with immortals, even in the short term. And this particular immortal...Methos castigated himself thoroughly. This was just plain dumb. This would open *so* many cans of worms that he shuddered to think of them all.
So, why had he done it? His buttons weren't that easy to push. He knew what they were and guarded against just such a thing assiduously. Why had he let a *mere* child...Child? No, despite his relatively young age, Richie was no child. But the question was still valid. Why had he let Richie affect him like that?
Others had tried. Most of them had been far more experienced, more polished, at it than Richie, no matter how good he was at it. So why had he let Richie get to him? What was different this time? True, he'd surprised him, shocked him, more like, kept him off balance. Was that it? He certainly hoped not. It didn't bode well for his future responses to surprise.
No, he decided, after staring off into the darkened room for several minutes. The last several months had seen him off center, off balance, and just plain terrified several times over. And those times, he'd still thought rationally...well, mostly rationally.
Richie stirred in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible, jerking Methos' attention back to the sleeping figure. He reached out and gently lay a hand on Richie's bare shoulder, then sighed deeply as the young man settled back into a calmer sleep. He wasn't ready to face him just yet.
Not removing his hand, he leaned down onto his side, resting his head not more than six inches away from Richie's. For long silent moments, inside his mind and out, he simply watched, memorizing the shadowed face that lay so close.
There were depths to this young immortal, Methos thought suddenly, depths that even he, who was constantly on guard for such things as hidden layers, hadn't seen. Now, looking at the sleeping face, he could see subtle signs, or rather; he could see the absence of the signs that, in light of his new knowledge, when the young man was awake, were glaringly obvious.
Methos shook his head. That hadn't made a lot of sense, but he knew what he meant. He'd missed the signs of the young man's pain and loneliness. The boy hid so much of himself from others, and he was good at it too, but he, Methos, was the expert at doing that. He should have recognized a kindred spirit.
He frowned suddenly and only just barely controlled the urge to shoot up out of the bed. *Kindred Spirit*? What was he thinking? Was he some kind of idiot? You didn't go thinking those kinds of thoughts about other immortals. It was careless. It was dangerous.
"It's suicidal," Methos whispered fiercely. Carefully, slowly, so as not to disturb Richie, he removed his hand and backed out of the bed. 'I'm sorry, Richie,' he thought, as he crept from the room. Heart pounding, he moved as silently as possible, collecting his clothes from where they had fallen.
Dressed, and feeling decidedly less vulnerable, he moved to the kitchen, confident he could gather his things and be long gone before Richie managed to tear himself from dreamland. He frowned moments after passing through the entry. His coat was nowhere to be seen. Only the one entrance though, Methos thought, so it *had* to be in here somewhere. Carefully easing open the cupboards one by one, he tried to find where the brat had put it.
Frustration rising, he almost slammed the last door shut, denying a nearly irresistible urge to stamp his foot. That wouldn't get him anywhere, and just might wake up the brat. Taking a deep breath, he thought over the beginning of the evening moment by moment, and came to the conclusion that he'd been right to start with. It *had* to be in here. The question was, where.
Frowning, he began again, then froze. No, he wouldn't have. Would he? He swiftly crossed the kitchen in three paces and opened the fridge. There it was. Richie had put it in the fridge. Well, he had to give him points for originality, he thought with a chuckle, as he grabbed it out.
That little shit! Methos sent his hands into the various pockets secreted around the inside of the coat and confirmed what he had already known by the weight. They were *all* gone. Okay, two could play that game. However, he still came up against the same problem. They had to be in this room, but he'd already searched everywhere that was large enough to hold a sword.
Putting that aside for the moment, he began pulling open the drawers looking for his daggers and gun. Several ancient curses flew through his mind as he closed the last drawer. Nothing, Nada.
He began considering delightfully vile curses to rain down upon a certain red head as he migrated to the living room, wondering if perhaps Richie had gotten up during the night and moved them. Twenty minutes later, and still without *any* of his weapons, he'd searched the room twice. That left only the bedroom or the bathroom. Maybe he should risk going home without them. He could always get them later.
'Yeah, right,' his mind voice mocked, '*you*, travel *outside* in the middle of the night, weaponless...And just when did pigs start to fly?'
"Not looking for this, by any chance?"
Methos froze, his heart somersaulting into his throat. He turned slowly, trying to get his skin to settle back where it belonged, instead of feeling like it was heading six different directions at once.
Richie leaned against the door frame, the very sword Methos had been frantically searching for held loosely in his hand with the blade resting negligently on his shoulder.
"As a matter of fact, yes. It is what I was looking for."
Richie's amused smile grew. "Really?"
"I'm glad you find this so amusing, brat, but I'd like my sword back now."
"Why," Richie asked as he straightened.
"My other weapons as well, if you don't mind. Well, even if you do mind, actually," Methos replied, ignoring the question. Then he frowned. "Where was it, anyway?"
"The kitchen."
"I already looked there."
"Well," Richie drawled, stepping forward, "there's a very good reason I chose this particular apartment, despite the neighborhood it's in."
"Oh?" Methos asked. Hidden catchall of some sort, he thought.
"That would be giving it away, now wouldn't it. A man's got to have *some* secrets after all."
Methos snorted. He knew all about secrets. Okay, he thought, more of a bolt hole rather than merely a catchall. It was definitely well hidden. Next time he...he cut off that line of thinking, he wasn't going to be coming back here. His curiosity would just have to remain unsatisfied this time. He held out his hand.
Richie stalked forward slowly, leisurely pulling the sword down from his shoulder.
Methos' eyes narrowed and he tensed slightly, ready for whatever stunt he was sure Richie was about to pull. When Richie did nothing but hold it out toward him, hilt first, he relaxed, *slightly*. He reached for it, never breaking eye contact.
Flinching backwards, he found himself up against the wall, his own sword at his throat, his mind voice railing at him, for falling for this stunt. Although, he had to admit, it had been flawlessly executed.
"Just how long did you practice that move, brat?" Methos retorted, his voice coming out a harsh whisper. Damn it! 'He was *not* afraid of this boy'
"Months, Old man, months," Richie crooned softly, moving closer, allowing the blade slide along side Methos' neck, never *quite* cutting the skin. "Hours on end of repeating this one move, over and over and over."
Methos swallowed carefully, arching his neck away from the bared blade. 'He was *not* aroused by this!' he sternly commanded his body. "This isn't funny, Richie."
"It isn't meant to be."
"And if I were to take this more seriously than I'm *assuming* you mean it to be? Do you really think that simply because I don't have external weapons that I'm helpless?"
Richie's smile turned sly and he moved closer, until they were practically nose to nose. "Far from it, Methos. Even *I'm* not helpless just because I'm weaponless."
Methos moved.
He flinched when the blade bit a little deeper into his neck than he would have liked, but didn't let that stop him, or slow him down. He'd show the brat. They landed, blade halfway across the room from them, with Methos firmly astride Richie.
There, he thought with great satisfaction. He'd proven his point.
Richie reached up and pressed his hand against the slowly healing wound on Methos' neck. "And just what does this prove?" He asked languidly.
Methos frowned. "I'd have thought *that* was obvious."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
"Okay."
Now, why didn't that sudden capitulation reassure him? "Okay, what?"
"Okay it's obvious," Richie replied, his tone resounding of 'Duh!'. But before Methos could respond, the man beneath him bucked and twisted neatly and he found himself on the bottom again.
Richie leaned forward pressing his bare chest to Methos fully clothed one.
"Look, Richie, I really should be going."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Methos repeated, suddenly feeling like the two of them were about 12 years old and taunting each other with dares. First one then the other egging each of them to go that one step further, to push the line and maybe, just maybe, do something that actually *crossed* that invisible line.
Richie suddenly tightened his grip on his upper arms and splayed his knees to the side, lowering his center of balance. Methos knew it would be that much more difficult to remove him now. He settled in for a *very* interesting power struggle.
And somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind was a voice that was frantically trying to get his attention. It murmured about leaving, about being safe, about simply getting the hell away from a certain red headed siren with the ability to bewitch him. He ignored it.
Part Two
Richie lowered his head suddenly, delivering a quick, nearly chaste, kiss on Methos' mouth, then stood. Crossing the room toward the exit, he used his foot to gently shove the sword across the floor toward Methos.
"You know where the door is," he said, knowing the lightness in his voice sounded forced. He turned away. He may not be able to keep all the hurt out of his tone, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let the man *see* how badly he didn't want him to leave, as well. "Seriously though, you didn't have to sneak out, you know."
He paused, risking a look back. Methos had sat up and held the hilt of his sword, but had yet to rise from the floor.
"But, I'd rather you stayed." With the slightest of hesitations, Richie forced himself to stride from the room and down the hallway. God, why did it always have to hurt so much? He swayed on his feet slightly, suddenly grateful for the cloaking of the wall between them. "If you decide to stay," he called, deliberating keeping his voice nonchalant, "you know where I am."
Making it to the safety of his room, he fell onto the bed and lay still, listening. He was only half tempted to pull up the covers to ward off the growing chill of night, but didn't. He strained to hear any sounds of movement, instead.
It seemed to Richie that he lay there an eternity without hearing a single sound. What did that mean? Did it mean Methos had left, and he'd simply been so quiet that Richie hadn't heard him? Or was he still in the living room?
He waited.
Damn! What the hell was the old man thinking? What was he going to do? Richie glanced at the clock beside his bed. Five minutes?! He rolled his eyes. Nothing like time *crawling* when you're having oh so much fun, he thought, directing sarcasm at himself for being such an idiot.
He just wouldn't think about it. Yeah, that was the ticket. All he had to do was go back to sleep and it would all be over when he woke up, one way or the other. Movement catching the corner of his attention, almost made him snap his head toward the door. Instead he made himself turn his head slowly and watch the other immortals progress around the foot of the bed.
He said nothing, neither did Methos. He simply watched as Methos removed his clothing and then climbed into bed next to him, laying down with his back facing him. He smiled under the cover of the dark room and pulled Methos toward him, spooning up behind him.
They lay quietly for several moments, before the temptation of the older immortal's neck proved too much for Richie and he began a slow, gentle, sensual assault of lips, teeth and tongue.
Methos pulled in a sharp breath and bowed his head forward, giving Richie better access. Richie smiled through his explorations and expanded them. Running his hand lightly down the elder's arm, he shifted his mouth to the man's exposed shoulder.
"Richie," Methos whispered in question.
"Yeah?" He responded, slowing his attentions even more.
"Why did you hide my sword?"
Richie rolled onto his back and really thought about it, keeping one hand in contact with the other's skin. "I hadn't planned to," he answered finally. "The inspiration came when I was taking your coat off. I knew how I would feel if I didn't know where mine was, and it seemed to me, considering what we were doing, that it was simply...the right thing for the moment."
Richie curled back onto his side, once again pressing against the warmth of Methos' back, noting how the man in front of him seemed to glow from the hint of light from the approaching dawn. "And no," he continued, his grin crystal clear in his voice, "I'm not going to tell you where...yet."
Methos chuckled. "Yeah, I know, 'A man's got to have some secrets, after all.' "
"Exactly," Richie exclaimed, triumphant. Methos didn't relax, and he wondered just what was still going through his mind. "You've still got questions."
"Just one, actually."
"Well?" Richie encouraged softly.
"That...scene in the living room..."
"Yes?"
"Well, I was expecting it to end quite a bit differently, from the way it started. What was that all about?"
Richie sighed, burying his head at the side of Methos' neck before answering. "I hadn't planned *that* either," he admitted in a near whisper, stalling.
"No? Then why?"
"You expected it."
Methos froze in his arms and before Richie knew what hit him, he was flat on his back and the ancient was straddling him, holding his wrists firmly in his sword calloused hands. He leaned toward him and Richie's tongue darted out to lick suddenly dry lips.
But Methos stopped mere inches from Richie's mouth. He had turn restrain himself from lifting up his head to meet those tempting lips, so close to his own. The nearly feral look in the man's eyes, helped... a lot.
"You *never* have to 'perform' for me Richard Ryan, NEVER."
Richie's eyes widened, surprised at the intensity in the immortal's words. His heart ached with it. "I-"
"No, Richie," Methos, countered, placing too fingers across his lips then replacing them with his mouth for two short, sweet kisses. "Don't apologize for being you. Who you are, warts and all, is what I-"
Richie could see Methos pale considerably, even in the dim light. His eyes widening in...horror?
"Oh, bloody hell!" Methos cursed and launched himself up off the bed. Quickly gathering his clothes and putting them on, he was out of the room much quicker than he'd entered.
"Methos?" Richie asked in concern and confusion.
"I'm sorry, Richie, I've...I've just got to go."
And before Richie could process the sudden change of mood and catch up, the front door was closing behind the escaping immortal. Richie slumped against the bedroom door frame, the sweet ache of earlier turning to the leaden pain of abandonment...again.
"You've done it again, Ryan!" Richie muttered at himself, angrily. "You got all *needy* and he took off." He should know better by now, he thought ruthlessly as he closed his eyes and sank bonelessly down the door frame until he landed with a soft thump on the floor.
Pulling his legs tightly to his chest, he buried his face behind his knees and held on tight. If he let go, he was going to do the unforgivable, he just knew it. He held onto his pain, gripped it with every ounce of his will, keeping it at bay, keeping it wound in a tight little ball that could be controlled, and ultimately, ignored.
A single sob, worked its way out of his chest.
No! He was *not* going to cry. He flung his head back, connecting with the door frame behind him. Yes, he thought, when the pain that shot through his head subsided to a bearable level. Physical pain was so much easier to deal with.
A second sob, bypassed his control.
He didn't have to 'perform' for him, Methos had said. 'Well,' Richie thought, 'sure I don't. The moment I let my guard down and let you see any of my l-' No! He wasn't going there. That would hurt even more. Then came the silent tears he was unable to stop, his shoulders shaking with the effort to restrain them.
He *hated* this! He was just a needy, weak-willed... He should have simply kept up the- His circular, incomplete thoughts froze, a phrase uttered in the heat and fun of the moment came back to tease his senses.
'I'd really hate to have to chase you down.'
Richie grinned suddenly, the pain dissolving under a new plan. If Methos didn't want the gentler emotions, he could handle that. He'd give him exactly what he wanted.
He was dressed and out the door, kick starting his bike less than three minutes later.
The end
Notes: Thank you Nikki, for your comments and questions after I posted part one. Which in large part led directly to what happened in part two. Hey, it actually gained a plot. LOL
Continue to sequel -- The Power of Love
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