Title: The Hunt
Author: Kiristeen ke Alaya
codes: R/M, mild angst
Rated: PG-15 slash
Series: Follows "An Impasse" in the Power of Love series
Feedback: Kiristeen@aol.com or onlist
Archive: 7-dimension, Richie-Methos list archives, okay. Anywhere else please ask.
Sexual content = mild suggestiveness and kissing.

Warnings: This story contains slash m/m relationship content. If the idea of two men in love squicks you, please don't read.

Disclaimer: Richie, Methos and all things Highlander, including this particular concept of Immortality belong to Panzer, Davis, and Rysher Entertainment, possibly others that I'm unaware of. They certainly do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended with this story, and no money will be made. It is purely a fan based work for entertainment value only.



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Part One
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Vincent very carefully did not slam the door shut behind him, sighing in relief as he leaned back against it. Only now, inside his home, did he feel truly safe. Shaking his head at the rampant paranoia he was feeling, he pushed himself away from the door and headed directly for the kitchen. The first order of business tonight was a beer. Everything else could wait.

Taking only the time to open the ice cold bottle and down a healthy swig before sinking onto the plush cushions of his *very* comfortable couch, Vincent tried to ignore the insistent feeling in his gut that it was time to cut and run. He was the first to admit that packing up and leaving was often the best thing to do, but he hadn't even sensed an Immortal.

Paranoia may have kept him alive this long, which was why he didn't normally ignore his gut feelings, but this time even he had to admit that sometimes paranoia was just that -- paranoia. He'd been working too hard. That was it.

Vincent Perdue needed to get sick, call in, just lay back and relax for a week or so. Decision made, he glanced around his living room. He was definitely going to hole up for a couple of weeks. Better to be safe than sorry, that was his motto -- well, one of them, anyway. If this 'feeling' was more than just his imagination, maybe whoever was 'haunting' him would get bored and go away.

Snorting, Vincent instantly vetoed that thought. *If* someone was following him, staying put might at least give him a chance to figure out who it was. Maybe it would even draw them out of their secrecy. Frowning with concentration, he turned his mind to his current dilemma. Well, possible dilemma.

He'd spent the last two weeks with every instinct he had telling him he was being followed, being watched. In fact, his entire being vibrated with it, leaving him feeling like a tightly drawn bow string. Each time he stepped outside his office, each time he turned a corner, each time he stopped to surreptitiously glance around him...something teased his senses.

It wasn't an Immortal, or if it was, they stayed *just* outside of sensing range. It wasn't a Watcher either, of that Vincent was absolutely certain. He'd been one often enough to know what signs to look for. Unfortunately, knowing who it wasn't, was not helping. He was being driven half crazy not being able to figure out who it *was*. The tension inside him had grown steadily as he tried, and failed, to figure out just who, or what, was setting off his mental alarms.

Now, he was nearly ready to bolt. His comfortable existence here simply wasn't comfortable anymore.

//If it ever really was,// sniped the irritatingly honest voice inside him. //You're running scared, and *you* know it.//

"Bloody hell!" he muttered, impatiently shrugging out of his coat as anger at his own frustration launched him off the couch and into agitated pacing. He really didn't want to leave. He liked the home he'd made here. Normally, he had very simple tastes, a hot bath, a couple of beers -- okay several beers -- a few good books, and he was a contented man. He had that here, and then some. His home, while purposely nothing to look at on the outside, was designed to his precise specifications on the inside. It was designed to cater to all his moods, both the simple ones *and* the not so simple ones -- the more hedonistic ones.

//Only one thing missing eh, Old Man?//

Ruthlessly squashing that incessant voice, Vincent moved quickly and quietly through his home, rummaging through cupboards and drawers, easily navigating from room to room. By the time he got to the kitchen, a lazy, amused smile formed. He had almost everything he needed, and a quick trip to the store would take care of that single shortage. Thankfully, they even stocked his favorite brand.

Moments later, keys in hand, he grabbed his coat off the couch, and headed for the door. Immortal presence swept over him, freezing his hand mere inches from the knob.

**What now?** he groaned mentally.

Backing quickly away, his free hand automatically drawing his sword, he tossed his coat out of the way, and waited quietly. Who was it? Were they here *because* they were Immortal, or was that mere happenstance?

Vincent snorted derisively. **Not bloody likely.** Thoughts chased each other through Vincent's mind in the silent seconds that followed. *Had* it been an Immortal following him, someone who had managed to stay out of range *and* hidden?

A light knock on the door startled him out of his circular questions. **A polite Immortal? A friend?**

"Who is it?" he asked warily.

"Message for Vincent Perdue," replied an oddly accented voice.

Vincent frowned. He *knew* that voice. The question was, from where? He couldn't quite place it.

"What's the message?" he asked, listening intently. He knew if he just concentrated hard enough, he knew he'd be able to place a face with the voice.

"It's a written message, sir. You'll have to sign for it."

**Of course I will,** Vincent thought, his eyes rolling. **Why, I'll just open the door and sign for that right now.**

"Who's it from?"

A long silence followed and Vincent leaned toward the door, straining to hear anything at all.

"Joseph Dawson."

**Damn!** Vincent debated with himself. Opening the door was sheer lunacy. He knew that. Unfortunately, the message *could* be legitimate.

//Yeah, right!//

On the other hand, while he still couldn't place the hauntingly familiar voice, he could eliminate several Immortals right off -- ones he *didn't* want to see...ever.

"Sir?"

**The blasted bugger isn't going to just go away,** Vincent thought in irritation. **No, that would be too easy.**

"Step back from the door," he demanded firmly. If he was going to do this, he wanted as much space between them as possible.

A deep, warm chuckle sounded from the other side of the door, and Vincent's heart clenched in his chest.

**Richie?**

He stepped forward, and as his left hand reached for the door of its own volition, some small part of him noted with surprise that it was shaking.

*****

Chortling, Richie eyed the door. He already *was* a couple of steps back. He seriously doubted surprising Methos at close range was a smart thing to do, even he could figure that out. It was probably a good way to lose your head. Oh, yeah, the old man *might* regret it afterward, but it would kinda be too late for that.

Leaning casually against the porch railing, Richie waited as patiently as he could for any sign that Methos was actually going to open the door. He tensed slightly as it cracked open, then swung the rest of the way. His breath caught in his throat as Methos' lean frame came into view.

**Damn! He looks good!**

"Hi," he said brightly, completely ignoring both the nervous jitters in his gut, and the sour expression on the older Immortal's face. Then, fighting another grin as Methos stepped back, gesturing vaguely toward the interior of his home with the tip of his sword, Richie straightened and swept inside, neatly sidestepping the naked blade.

Forcing himself to completely ignore his reluctant host, Richie glanced around. It was, and yet it wasn't, what he'd expected to find. Hearing the door shut behind him, he let out a quiet sigh, and almost shook his head. Completely aware he'd been wearing a goofy grin far too often since he'd discovered Methos' whereabouts, he forced a friendly, but neutral, expression.

"Nice place," he said without turning, distracting himself from Methos' tempting nearness with the surprising richness around him. He'd never pictured Methos in this type of surroundings.

"It's home," Methos replied nonchalantly, and Richie could almost hear the shrug in the older man's voice.

Still not looking at Methos, Richie strolled around the cozy room, covering the silence, and his own uncertainty, with curiosity. As soon as Methos had opened the door, Richie had known his original plan wasn't going to work. He should have realized it earlier, of course. He knew that now. Surprising the truth out of Methos would be akin to surprising a frown out of the Mona Lisa. Which, of course, left him unsure how to begin. He was here. He wanted to know why Methos had run. He wanted to know if it was-- Richie cut off those thoughts. The only thing he was still certain of, was that he would have to do this carefully.

Methos was cagey, and as he'd shown after Richie had knocked, very wary.

He'd done his research before leaving Seacouver, as much as he could, anyway, with his two prime information sources staying as tight-lipped as priests after confession. He hadn't been able to find out much, except that he and Methos were far more alike than he'd ever suspected. Who'd have thought a 5,000 year old Immortal would have insecurities, that Methos just might be afraid of being hurt?

After he'd thought about it, of course he could see it. He just wished he'd been able to see it earlier. What he really, really wanted right this minute, was a pipeline into the old man's head. Something had happened just before he'd left, it had to have.

**What made you run, Methos? What had you so afraid?** Richie thought. **What made you chase me away?** Whatever it was had *also* driven Methos out of town. Of course, these weren't question he hadn't already asked himself, and he wasn't any closer to answering them now, than when he first thought of them. Mentally shrugging, he pushed away the unanswerable, and concentrated on what he was going to do now.

Continuing lack of insight forcing Richie to rely on external clues, he continued his perusal of the room, trying to find something, anything, that would give him added insight. He allowed his fingers to trail along the numerous bookshelves loaded not only with books, but an odd assortment of curios, as well. Some of them appeared, to Richie's unpracticed eye, to be very old.

**Memories?**

"So, What brings you to Cordoba?" Methos finally asked behind him.

Richie schooled his expression once more before turning around, only to find Methos faced away from him, headed for the kitchen.

"I thought it was time I saw more of the world than just France and the US," Richie replied, shrugging. "Figured I'd drop by while I was in the area," he continued, blithely ignoring the stark disbelief radiating from the set of Methos' shoulders. So it wasn't the *best* line he could have come up with.
Richie sighed. He wouldn't have believed it either. He did wish Methos would at least look at him, though.

"Want a beer?" Methos asked, still facing away.

"Sure," Richie replied, watching the older Immortal's retreat before continuing. "Joe was worried about you, ya know."

Methos slowly turned from the fridge. "Really?" he asked with surprised skepticism. "Why?"

Richie could feel the heat rising in his face, and scrambled for a response. "As incredible as it may sound, I think Joe actually misses you," he retorted, wanting to take the words back even before they'd finished leaving his mouth.

**God! How lame can you get, Ryan? 'Joe misses you.' Like that wasn't *totally* transparent!**

"I suppose I'll have to let him know I'm doing all right, then," Methos replied slowly, handing Richie an ice cold beer.

"Yeah," Richie agreed, turning away, his thoughts desperately trying to catch up to his mouth, "friends do that now and then," he continued, wincing at the accusatory tone his voice had taken. The long silence behind him almost made him turn around, almost made him find *anything* to fill the awkwardness his rash words had caused.

"You're right," Methos finally replied quietly, "they do."

Was that guilt he heard? **Nah, can't be,** Richie thought as he dropped onto the couch.

"Mac, on the other hand, seems pissed as all hell. What happened anyway? You two have a fight, or something?"

"Something like that," Methos responded sourly.

"Oh, so you're pissed too."

"No," Methos snapped sharply, then continued breezily. "Of course not. Don't be silly."

"Okay," Richie said, raising his hands as if in surrender, "I get it. Closed subject."

**How the hell am I supposed to hold a simple, casual conversation if I can't even quit tripping over taboo subjects?** Richie lamented to himself as he stared at the still untouched beer he held. Then a mischievous smirk formed as inspiration struck. He purposely downed half the beer, set it down on the glass coffee table, then rose and headed toward the door.

"I'm going to be in town for another week," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Have you found any good places to eat?"

Methos opened his mouth, then frowned. *Another* week? "How long have you been here?" he demanded, stalking forward.

Richie reared back, surprised by Methos sudden change in demeanor. "A couple of weeks, why?"

"It was *you*!" Methos accused, his right fist connecting with Richie's face before the younger Immortal saw it coming.

"What the hell was *that* for," Richie gasped, holding his nose against the sudden rush of blood.

" *That's*for nearly giving me an ulcer!" Methos snapped. "What did you expect, Rich? Trail a guy for a couple of weeks, never letting him know who the hell it is, and he just might be a *wee* bit pissed!"

"Oh, shit! I thought I stayed out of range." Waving one hand awkwardly, Richie took one step forward. "I never sensed you once. Honestly, if I'd thought you'd know I was there, I'd have let you know it was me. I swear!" Richie knew he was babbling, but couldn't seem to prevent it.

Methos' angry expression softened after several tense moments, and Richie heaved a sigh of relief.

"Yeah, well, now you know better."

Richie nodded, then smiled crookedly, tentatively pulling his hand away from his nose. "I'm surprised you're still here." To Richie's surprise, Methos visibly hesitated before replying.

"I didn't actually sense you, Richie," he said, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. "It was more like a feeling of being watched, an itch I just couldn't quite scratch."

"Oh."

Methos shrugged, stepping back. "The bathroom's through there," he offered, pointing toward the open archway, "in case you want to clean up."

"That would be nice," Richie replied drily. "I don't think blood is exactly a fashion statement."

Methos' snort followed Richie as he headed out of the room

"First door on the left," Methos called out.

*****
**Okay, get a grip, Ryan. You're screwing this up -- royally! Just...chill.** Richie took a deep, calming breath, and met his own gaze squarely. Three breaths later, a gleam entered his eyes as his plan began to fully form. He already knew casual was the way to go. Just these few minutes in Methos' company had proven *that*...forcefully. He just had to get there.

**In other words, I can't spaz out anymore,** Richie thought at his reflection. No tension, no expectations, nothing beyond two guys hanging out. That's what *he'd* need if he was the one who'd run.

//But what if he left simply to avoid hurting your feelings? What if he doesn't want you at all?//

Richie shook his head, and spun away from his reflection, denying the words his subconscious spouted. The shift had been too abrupt. Something had happened, and he wasn't going to let his own insecurities undermine what his instincts told him was right.

**Nice tub!** he thought suddenly. **That's big enough to qualify as a small pool!** Richie froze those thoughts. **Wrong track, Ryan! *Those* images won't help. Not right now, anyway.**

He could do this. He could control his thoughts *and* himself. He could go back to projecting that air of innocence everyone usually saw.

//Yeah, but Methos knows better.//

Richie groaned. "Don't remind me!" he muttered at himself.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode out of the oh-so-tempting bathroom, and back into the living room.

"So," he asked, stopping in the middle of the room, "where do you suggest the best place is for getting dinner?"



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Part Two
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Methos watched Richie sitting across the table from him. As hard as he'd tried this last week, he couldn't figure out what Richie really wanted. Among other reasons, Methos had left Seacouver behind to get the young Immortal out of his mind. Keeping Richie safe was paramount -- second only to surviving. Having decided that; leaving had been his only choice.

When Rich had shown up here, out of the blue, having tracked him gods knew how, Methos had been certain he was in for the usual recriminations for having left so precipitously. He was the first to admit he deserved them. But no, Richie hadn't done any of that. There had been no questions at all, no questions about why he'd left, no questions about what happened between them, no 'how could you' type questions -- or even looks. In fact, barring that first evening, Richie hadn't said *anything* that even hinted that he even remembered what had happened that night, let alone wanted a repeat of it. It was almost enough to make Methos *want* to tell him, which was a decidedly odd feeling.

Absently stirring the food on his plate, Methos tried to sort through what was happening, both with Richie and inside his own mind. It certainly wasn't helping his peace of mind that Richie wasn't acting the way Methos expected him to. Methos was glad Richie was acting this way, really he was. It was just...different than he expected. This last six days had been like 'old buddies' week, when he'd expected interrogation.

Every night, Richie had met him outside his workplace, and they'd enjoyed their evenings together, usually starting with dinner. If he had not had proof to the contrary, he'd swear Richie was wining and dining him. The problem was, Richie hadn't let a single true hint out, not even one sexual innuendo. It was...unnerving.

Oh yeah, the attraction was still there. It showed in subtle ways, but it was a very secondary thing, something unimportant, almost. They'd even checked out the local 'scenery' together. He hadn't done that with anyone in...well, he'd *never* done that with anyone. Unless, of course, you counted the obligatory bragging about the 'houses of ill-repute', but that wasn't the same thing.

Several times, he thought Richie would bring up what had happened, but the boy hadn't, and it had almost been enough to get *him* to bring it up. He kept reminding himself, however, that *this* is what he'd wanted, and that bringing it up, when Richie clearly wasn't going to, would be counter productive. A relationship between Immortals put both Immortals at too much risk. **Bloody hell,** he thought sourly. If Richie had just brought it up, they could have had this conversation and been done with it -- gotten it out in the open and out of the way. Then Methos could quit thinking about it as well.

But, *no*, Richie had to act completely contrary to everything Methos expected. He had to go and be an *adult* about it. **Damn the kid!**

There was just one problem with this whole thing, and it was that problem that kept Methos going back and forth with himself about whether or not he should say anything. Richie's body language was the one thing that betrayed his supposed disinterest. It was often at odds with his words. Several times Methos would have sworn Richie was leaning toward him, ready to kiss him, but then the young man would pull back -- crack a joke and each of the moments passed.

Then, every once in a while, when Richie didn't realize Methos was watching him, a look would pass through those blue eyes of his -- a look that called to the place deep inside Methos where he kept all his hurts and lonely moments.

"A penny for them?" Rich asked him suddenly, startling him out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"You looked like you were thinking deep thoughts. I offered a penny for them."

"Is that all they're worth?" Methos protested with a smirk. "I'd have thought, what with inflation and all, they'd be worth more than that -- a nickel...at least."

Richie shrugged. "Can't blame a guy for trying to get off cheaply," he replied softly. "I can't afford what you're worth."

Watching as Richie's eyes widened briefly after his surprising comeback before quickly ducking his head; Methos sat stunned, ridiculously warm, giddy feelings flashing through him. **He picks *now* to do this, just when I'd almost convinced myself he wanted nothing more to do with *that*?**

"What?" Richie asked bringing his head back up, his saucy grin back in place. "I've left you speechless? Now this has to be a red letter day."

Methos snorted inelegantly, shaking his head. "It happens occasionally. You...surprised me. That's all."

"Oh, come on. You were there that night, same as I was. Putting everything else that happened aside, surely it isn't surprising to you that I enjoyed myself." Richie grinned then, mischief radiating from his eyes. "In point of fact, I enjoyed myself enough that I might actually like another taste."

"Another taste?" Methos asked hoarsely, heat shooting through him at the mental image created by Richie's words.

"Oh yeah," Richie breathed, leaning minutely forward, his eyes growing dark with banked fire. Then, as suddenly as the mood had descended, it ended with him jerking backward ever so slightly. "I mean, who wouldn't," he continued casually, relaxing against the back of his chair.

"Oh, I can think of a few people," Methos replied drily.

"Forget 'em," Richie responded firmly. "They don't have the sense they were born with."

**Damn, Kid, when you turn it on, you turn it on!** Part of Methos was enjoying himself thoroughly, his body traitorous to his mind's plan. It was nice being on the receiving end of a seduction once in a while, surprising though it was, but they were now heading back into dangerous territory -- territory it would be far better to avoid. Kronos' arrival in Seacouver had forcibly reminded him of that. And Kronos wasn't the only...tantrum in his past. "Richie," he began reluctantly.

Richie laughed heartily, startling Methos. "Oh, relax, Methos. don't act like I'm gonna jump you." Richie rose, snatching the bill. "See you tomorrow?" he asked. "Same time, same place?"

"Yeah," Methos replied, rising slowly to follow, circumspectly adjusting himself. **That was a bloody quick change of mood!** he thought sourly. ""I just wish I could be as quick.**

*****

Controlling his impulse to stride away as quickly as he could, Richie strolled casually out of the restaurant.

~~I can't afford what you're worth.~~

**How corny!**

~~Forget 'em. They don't have the sense they were born with.~~

**Could I *get* any more mushy?** Richie barely kept himself from rolling his eyes and swearing at his own idiocy. **What happened to keeping it cool, Ryan? Anyone listening would have thought I was ready to set up housekeeping -- or something equally as sappy!**

Swinging a leg over his rented bike, Richie called out, "See you tomorrow," over his shoulder, before kick starting the bike. "You should know better, Ryan!" he muttered to himself. **Think* before you speak. You were doing so good, that is, until you forgot you were supposed to be doing the 'buddy thing'. Saying the first thing that pops into your mind *always* gets you into trouble.**

Surreptitiously watching Methos heading toward his car, Richie felt his chest tighten painfully. Had he screwed everything up with his big mouth? Had he moved too quickly, or did he have time to fix this before his self-imposed time limit ran out? Would he have to wait until some undefined time in the future for another chance? Would he ever *get* another chance?

The unanswerable question whirled through his mind, refusing to be silenced. A long, fast, ride was what he needed. It would be just the thing to clear his mind and help him to think clearly. First in his thoughts, though, was one question; should he have even come here?

He was just pulling out when the slow, sick sound of a car engine trying to turn over, but failing to start, caught his attention. He automatically slowed, and began searching the parking lot for the poor schmuck whose car wouldn't start.

**No way!** Richie shook his head, dismounting as soon as he'd stopped completely. As he headed toward Methos, and his non-working car, Richie wondered if he should be rethinking his disbelief in fate.

"Problems?" he asked, leaning on the car door, a wicked smirk curling the corners of his mouth.

"No," Methos retorted, directing a withering glare toward Richie, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm purposely trying to drain my battery."

Laughing, Richie took a step backward, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, sorry I asked."

Methos rolled his eyes, then tried once more to start the car. He gave up in defeat when it revved even more slowly.

"Look," Richie suggested, "It's too late, and dark, to check it out tonight. What say I give you a ride home, and we can come back and check it out tomorrow."

"No, Rich, that's all right," Methos said, picking up his mobile phone. "I'll just call a tow truck and have it taken to a shop."

"Suit yourself," Richie shrugged, grateful when his voice was steady and casual. Methos' refusal to accept even a ride, hurt -- and hurt badly, but he would be damned if he was going to show it. He spun away and headed back toward his bike, but Methos' sudden curse stopped him.

"Bloody hell!"

Richie turned back around, waiting expectantly.

"The phone's dead."

Frowning, Richie took a couple of steps forward. "Must be something in the electrical system."

"I already figured that much out."

Richie delivered an exaggerated bow. "Your chariot awaits," he offered, flourishing his hand toward the motorcycle, all the while wondering why he was bothering to offer again. One kick in the teeth per day was plenty.

When Methos visibly hesitated, Richie blew out an exasperated breath. "Have it you way, *Vincent*," he snapped. "If you want a ride, come on. If not, well, see ya 'round, Old Timer."
With that parting shot, Richie spun back around and strode toward his bike. It would be a cold day *way* south before he'd offer again. Getting a third rejection of such a simple offer was something he could really do without.

Even the sound of a car door opening then slamming shut behind him did nothing to improve his mood.



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Part Three
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Talking while riding, at least trying to hold a meaningful conversation, was out of the question, and right now, Richie was glad of that. The lump in his throat would have given away just how he was feeling at the first strangled word. That was the last thing he needed. He didn't want Methos feeling guilty just because he was feeling hurt. He didn't even know all he really felt, not beyond the fact that the thought of walking away was tearing a hole in his chest. The problem was, this...depth of chaotic feeling felt so damn sudden.

At first, he'd just wanted to know why Methos had taken off. He'd wondered if it had been something he'd done, and he hadn't wanted to be responsible for that. Then, the longer Methos had been gone, the more personal it had felt. But, even after 6 months of worrying and wondering, it had taken less than a week actually back in Methos' company for him to realize that the old man was coming to mean a lot to him. Sure, he'd known from almost the beginning that he cared about Methos. Whether he had wanted to deny it to himself or not, the older Immortal's kidnapping had brought that home rather forcefully. He just hadn't known, until tonight, exactly how much he cared.

**You're an idiot, Ryan!** he thought to himself. Now, it was too late. Methos obviously didn't want anything to do with him. Even with how the man felt about motorbikes, Methos was barely touching him. He was sitting as far away as was humanly possible and still be *on* the bike.

He just had to keep it together for a little while longer. Keeping his eyes on the road, Richie tilted his head to the side and shouted to be heard. "If you keep sitting that far back, you're gonna fall off!"

Several long moments passed with no sound or movement from behind him, and Richie blinked rapidly. He would *not* get all weepy about this. So this wasn't going anywhere, so what? He didn't need Methos. He didn't need anyone. He'd get along. He always did.

The cat that ran out into the street startled Richie completely out of his thoughts. His well honed instincts took over instantly, however, and he managed to avoid hitting both the cat and the cars that lined the sides of the narrow street. As soon as his heart stopped racing, however, he almost laughed at the death grip now around his chest -- almost.

"I hate motorcycles. I hate motorcycles," Methos muttered behind him, and despite everything, Richie couldn't stop the chuckle that exploded out of him.

"You're enjoying this *far* too much, Brat!"

"Brat?" Richie shouted over his shoulder. "Brat? I can show you brat, you know."

"You wouldn't dare!"

Richie slowly inched the accelerator forward, gradually increasing their speed. Something inside him thrilled when Methos' grip tightened even more and buried his face against Richie's back. Being able to send Methos so far out of his normal reserve, made him feel so...in control.

He gasped, and immediately let off the accelerator. Guilt from his childish outburst making him flush, Richie was very grateful Methos couldn't see his face, and the slight easing of Methos' grip around him, compelled Richie to speak.

"I'm sorry."

"What?"

Richie sighed, the repeated loudly, "I'm sorry."

Methos didn't reply, but Richie felt his nod. It was good enough. It had to be.

Neither spoke for the rest of the ride, and when they pulled in front of Methos' house, Richie slowed to a stop, not bothering to cut the engine. Keeping his gaze straight ahead, Richie waited until Methos swung himself off.

"Well, bye," he said shortly, and, ignoring the fact that Methos had opened his mouth to respond, roared off with more speed than was absolutely necessary, sending gravel flying behind him.

*****

Snapping his mouth shut in consternation, Methos stood there, watching Richie speed away. "So I don't bloody like motorcycles!" he snapped, irritation shooting through him. "You don't have to get pissy about it."

Shaking his head, he headed inside. There was always tomorrow.

Easing the door shut behind him, an uneasy sense of expectation slowed Methos' progress into the room. He shook his head again, denying that anything was going to happen. He had nothing to be expectant of. Richie had been upset, that much was certain, but when all was said and done, the kid was sensible. He knew how to stay out of trouble. As the evening progressed, however, he couldn't shake the impending sense of loss that seemed to permeate every fiber of his soul.

Stretching out, beer and book in hand, Methos tried to force himself to relax. But, after several attempts at reading the same few lines, he gave up. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he set the book down, just managing not to slam it, and drained his beer.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with me?**

Casting his mind back over the evening, he could think of nothing that had happened that even *might* have caused such a feeling of... wrongness. Sure, he had really wanted to take Richie up on his offers, both the subtle and the not so subtle. Just thinking about it made him shift, his pants tightening uncomfortably.

**Mind *off* that!**

They'd traded jokes, Richie going as far as teasing him about his non-functioning car, even *after* he'd drenched the boy in sarcasm.

Methos cocked his head tot he side, reviewing the ride home -- again. It really wasn't like Richie to take off like he had. The kid was usually polite to a fault. Frowning, he made his way back toward the fridge. *Had* Richie been *that* angry? **No,** Methos thought instantly. That wasn't right. It hadn't had that feel to it, now that he really thought about it. He froze, his new beer half-way to his mouth. Hurt, perhaps?

Methos turned slowly. **Bloody hell!** He hadn't wanted to hurt the kid.

//Kid? Who are you trying to fool?//

Setting down the now forgotten beer onto the counter, Methos closed his eyes in indecision. A very large part of him wanted to leave right this minute, wanted to go directly to Richie, wanted to explain everything. He knew, however, if he did that, he was lost. All of his good intentions would be out the window. If he went to see Richie now, he *would* tell him everything. The only problem, well maybe not the *only* problem, was that he wasn't sure exactly what *everything* entailed.

Spinning away from the counter he paced into the living room, pausing long enough to stare at the door and fight the temptation it represented. **No,** he thought. He had to think this through. His reasons for leaving had been valid. Richie had told him point blank that he would put himself in danger for him, would basically give his life for him. Shuddering, Methos refused to think about how he would feel should Richie come to permanent...harm because of him.

Sure, Love was grand. It made you feel giddy and happy inside, ready to take on the world and whatever obstacles in threw at you. But Richie was an Immortal. Methos groaned. He'd never been in love with an Immortal before. He'd always left before it got that far.

Methos paled as he realized where his thoughts were taking him. Surely he wasn't actually *in love* with the brat. He took a deep, shuddering breath as he realized that's exactly what had happened. He didn't know quite when, or how, but he was in love with another Immortal, worse yet, another male Immortal.

**Gods! It was a disaster waiting to happen.**

"I'm old enough to know better than this," Methos muttered dejectedly. His heart, however, didn't agree, and didn't listen. It tightened anxiously and fluttered rapidly, sending a warm flush radiating through his body as it protectively gathered and cherished the newfound discovery.

He was sunk, and he knew it; he just didn't want to admit it. It meant a whole new set of problems -- problems he wasn't ready to deal with.

"Damn it all to cockroach ridden hell," Methos burst out, stomping over to sweep up his coat, sword, and keys.

The door slammed shut behind him before he remembered. He didn't have a car.



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Part Four
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Methos sat silently in the backseat of the taxi, staring over at the door to Richie's motel room. His original impetus had gotten him to the store and here, but now he was losing his nerve. Surely he was just over-reacting. Richie was supposed to be in town for two more days, after all. They could talk about this tomorrow.

Methos stiffened in his seat as the door opened and Richie emerged carrying a duffle bag. He sat frozen for a few precious moments, but Richie hefting the bag onto the back of his bike broke Methos' paralysis, and he launched himself out of the car, only just remembering to grab the sack on the seat beside him and toss money at the driver.

By the time Richie straightened and began searching for the source of the Immortal presence he felt, Methos had slowed to a casual stroll.

"What are you doing here?" Richie asked, returning to the task of tying down his bag.

Methos stopped next to the bike, laying his hand in the way of the straps. "Can we talk?" he asked.

Richie shrugged. "What's there to talk about?"

"Rich, please."

Richie stared at him, not moving, and Methos began to wonder if he was going relent. "I brought refreshments," he offered, waving the bag.

Richie laughed, but to Methos' ears it didn't contain much true amusement. He sighed, and grabbed his bag back off the bike. "Come on then."

Methos followed behind, not saying anything until after Richie closed the motel room door behind them.

Richie leaned back against the door, crossing his arms across his chest. "You wanted to talk, so talk," he said.

"You got glasses?" Methos asked instead, pulling one of the bottles of rum out of the paper bag.

Richie rolled his eyes, but straightened and strode into the bathroom. He reemerged carrying two of the plastic cups that could be found in any motel, and wordlessly handed them both to Methos.

"Sorry about earlier," Richie said as Methos poured.

"Sorry about what?"

Richie shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I have to head back to the States, or lose my job," he admitted. "I was thinking about blowing it off. But it was worrying me. Then everything seemed to go badly tonight, no matter what I said it was the wrong thing, and I lost it."

"So that's all that was upsetting you tonight?" Methos asked, shoving aside the disappointment he felt. When had he gotten so bad at figuring out what was going on around him?

"Yep, that was it," Richie replied, downing half the glass of whiskey, then set it down.

Methos frowned, not liking the...off sound of Richie's reply. Following Richie's lead, however, he drank, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. **No,** he thought, **it's that first night all over again. Richie is backing off.** Turning away, Methos stared out the window, seeing his own reflection more than what was outside, and gave in to the urge he'd been having since Richie first showed up and hadn't demanded answers.

"Just before I was kidnapped," he began quietly, knowing he'd made the right decision when he heard Richie's gasp behind him, "my past showed up."

"Your Immortal past?"

Methos nodded. "I," he paused. **Why was this so bloody difficult to say?** He cleared his throat and began again. "I wasn't always a very nice person," he said lamely.

Richie laughed, startling Methos into spinning around.

Richie was sucking his lips between his teeth to stifle his laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, it's just that, I figured *that* out a long time ago."

Methos blinked. "You did?"

Nodding, Richie rose and crossed to him. "Give me *some* credit. After Mac first coerced you into telling me who you *really* were, I thought a lot about you."

"Really? I didn't think you would have. You certainly didn't *seem* very impressed."

Richie laughed again. "I wasn't," he said plainly. "I couldn't understand how someone could live as long as you have a still be..."

"Just a guy?"

"Exactly. Oh, you're wiser than you like people to think. And don't try and deny it!" Richie snapped as Methos opened his mouth to object.

Methos smirked.

"But even with all that, one of a couple things really stands out. Even in today's society, when the world judges people by the both the good and the bad they do, and even people who care for nothing but money are expected to at least *look* like they give a rats ass for the unlucky ones, for the people less fortunate than themselves, you were content to say unequivocally, that *you* were the most important person in your life. That your survival was more important than any code. I don't know if you realize it, but that says a lot about how you would have acted in more....violent times -- how you would have acted in times where justice was measured by who had the greatest strength, or the better sword arm."

The kid was more perceptive than he'd given him credit for.

"After you left, I wanted to understand you better. I didn't know much about where you'd lived, or who you'd been, but between little things you, Mac, and Joe had let drop, I knew a little. I started studying ancient cultures. At first it was ones I was pretty sure you'd been involved in, but after I exhausted what little I knew how to find on those, I moved on to studying how other cultures were then, and even further back. Back to when I didn't know anything at all about you."

Methos sank down, listening to the lengths Richie had gone to.

"I've gotta say, Old Man, you've lived through some pretty barbaric times."

Methos snorted. "That's putting it mildly."

"Well, I may be slow sometimes, but when history after history repeated itself with so many of the same attitudes, it kinda sunk in. You lived back then. You survived back then--during times when slavery was not only present, but the normal course of life. It's mind boggling, and I don't understand the attitude, but it still got through. Unless you were a complete hermit for the first couple of thousand years, you had slaves, or were a slave, or hell, maybe even both at different points."

Methos nodded, not sure at all he like where this was headed. He *really* didn't want to talk about the times Richie was referring to. Although there were good memories too, he didn't like who he'd been then.

"Slaves weren't always treated very well. Well, by today's standards, anyway."

"You're right, Richie. Slaves were property. Many times in history slaves had less value than the animals in the field, mainly because the were so much more easily replaced."

"Yeah, that's what I mean," Richie looked at him, locking gazes. "Since I cannot, under any circumstances, see you being a slave for longer than absolutely necessary, at some point you worked yourself into a position where you had them."

Again Methos nodded, swallowing hard.

"And even if you treated them the best the times called for," Richie paused and finally looked away, "I still wouldn't have wanted to be your slave then."

"No, Richie," Methos replied hoarsely, "you wouldn't have." **Gods, as much as Richie understood, he was still painting such a bloody hopeful picture.** It hurt.

"Richie--"

"No, I'm not quite done yet."

Methos nodded, reluctantly forcing himself to be silent.

"I took me a while, mainly because I was just as busy trying to figure out why you'd taken off, and where you'd gone, but I finally added all those things together. Until tonight, I wasn't sure I was right, of course, but the answer I came up with was someone who was a total bastard."

"That about sums it up," Methos replied. "Which brings us to what I was saying earlier."

"Yes, something about your past, just before the kidnapping..."

Methos' voice dropped into a monotone whisper as he related the events following Kronos' return with as little emotion, or detail, as possible, and when his voice, hoarse from use, finally trailed off Richie handed him a refill. He started in surprise. He hadn't even realized Richie had moved. "Thank you," he said quietly, downing the drink quickly.

Richie watched him silently, and Methos wondered what was going through the younger Immortal's mind. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

"I can't imagine," Richie said finally, "carrying a grudge like that for decades, let alone hundreds or thousands of years."

Whatever he'd expected Richie to say, it hadn't been that. "Her grievances are valid," Methos replied softly.

Richie snorted. "Maybe," he granted. "But tell me something. You basically admitted that at one point or another you'd been a slave."

Methos nodded with a grimace.

"If you met the person you'd been a slave to, would you still see them with that kind of unreasoning hatred? Would you try to kill them?"

That was a scenario that had played through his mind more than once. Over the years the endings had changed, but he'd never been able to convince himself any of them were what would really happen. "I don't know, Richie. I suppose that would depend."

"On what? Whether they were the same type of person? Whether they'd changed? Or would all be based on that initial rush of...whatever...you felt when you first saw them?"

Methos drew in a swift breath. He really didn't like talking about those times. It was pointless. They were gone and done with. That, and he simply didn't know. "I just don't know, Richie. I can't tell you any more than that. It's not like I haven't thought about it. Not all my...owners were mortal. Some of them could still," Methos paused, then admitted wryly, " *are* still around. I've made sure I don't run into them."

"Why?"

"Damn it, Richie! I DON'T know. Does it really matter?"

"No, it doesn't. I was just trying to explain my reaction, I guess."

"So," Methos asked, hope and dread filling him with equal measure, "do *you* hate me now?"

"No," Richie replied immediately, then added, "part of it is probably that it doesn't seem real, ya know?"

Methos nodded.

"But, even if it did, I don't think I *could* hate you."

Sighing in relief, Methos stood and crossed to Richie. "Still friends then?"

"No," Richie answered bluntly.

Methos gasped, his heart twisting.

"Well, yes, I don't see that changing, ever. But I want more than that, Methos. *Can* it be more than that?" he asked, turning away.

Now was the moment, Methos thought. What he said now would decide what would, or wouldn't, happen between them. His better sense kept telling him to say no. "Yes," he said quietly.

He trembled as Richie turned, incredibly vulnerable blue eyes staring at him in hope, and gods help him, love.

"Richie, I've lived a long time," he began, ignoring Richie's snort of laughter, "and in that time I've loved a lot of people, didn't always trust them, but the heart doesn't always care about that. Some of those people have been Immortal, but until now, I've never before been *in* love with one."

"Until now?" Richie repeated questioningly, reaching out to lay shaking fingers on Methos' shoulder, his voice so quiet the older Immortal had to strain to hear him.

Forcing himself to let go of the mask he normally wore, Methos allowed what he felt to show -- all that he felt. "I love you, Richie Ryan. I am *in* love with you," he said, forcing the words out past a rapidly closing throat, his mind telling him to shut up before he said too much. "I don't trust Immortals, Richie, I never have."

"Trust isn't a survival trait," Richie quoted, giving him a crooked smile.

Methos placed a finger on Richie's lips, shushing him. "That wasn't a warning, Rich. There is a reason I mentioned something you *obviously* know so well." Drawing in deep breath, he continued. "I . trust . you. It terrifies me, but it's true. I trust you with my heart. I trust you with my past. And, may the fickle fates protect me, I trust you with my life."

"God, Methos!" Richie gasped, leaning forward to whisper in Methos ear. "I think my flight just got cancelled."

Letting out a shaky bark of laughter, Methos cupped Richie's face, pulling the younger Immortal toward him. "I know so," he muttered just before capturing Richie's lips with his.



The End -- for now


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