Rated: R slash
Series: No
Feedback: Kiristeen@aol.com or onlist
Archive: 7-dimension, Richie-Methos list archives, okay. Anywhere else please ask.
Sexual content = kissing
Violence = sword fighting
Language = foul language used by bad guy to describe rape.
Beta: AC--Queen of Denial

Dedication: To Nikki, who, though she *really* didn't want to write the story, pondered this question to me late one night nearly six months ago. "Richie forgave Duncan for trying to kill him twice, would he be as willing if Crazy!Duncan went after someone Richie loved instead?" The rest, as they say, is history. Thank you Nikki!

Warnings: This story contains slash m/m relationship content. If the idea of two men in love squicks you, please don't read. The prologue also contains some explicit foul language. If you're underage in your area, please wait until you're old enough. DEATH of a MAJOR character. --No, it's not either of 'the boys'. If you absolutely need to know who dies before you'll read the story; click here!

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.



The Price of Vengeance
by
Kiristeen ke Alaya



**********
Prologue:
Sunday afternoon, July 25th
**********


With a final swing of her sword, Cassandra sliced through her opponent's neck, cleanly severing his head from his body. Dropping to her knees in sheer exhaustion, she panted, desperately trying to catch her breath. Finishing this was more than just finishing another fight with another Immortal. It was another link in the chain of injustices she was correcting. When a mortal raped, and she found out about it, he found himself in jail, having confessed to his crimes long before the geis of her Voice faded. Immortals, well, they ended up here, like this.

Due to an unspoken promise to an old friend she could no longer seek direct vengeance to right the wrongs done her. This, this second hand righting, was the next best thing. It was working, too. Each time someone paid, a little more of the pain and hatred fell away.

This fight, however, had been far too close for comfort. The bastard had almost beaten her. That would have been the final insult, she thought, beaten by a rapist. The poor girl he'd left for dead was, even now, waiting to hear the results of this fight.

Randolph had known it, too, damn his soul to the lowest plane of the hells. He'd taunted her with it. He'd used it to get under her skin. It was the main reason she'd almost lost the fight -- to a 50 year old *child*.

*******

"Like you *really* care, Witch." Randolph sneered, lunging at her.

Cassandra dodged Randolph's sword, bringing hers up. "I care," she responded.

"Why does it matter to you? She's a mortal slut. She asked for it."

Cassandra held her peace, simmering. He was the same as all rapists. It was *never* their fault. Their victims *always* asked for it.

The two Immortals danced around each other for several silent moments, circling, feinting, looking for any weakness or opening in their opponent's guard. Sword rang out against sword as they drew near and clashed, then drew apart, seeking yet another opening. Both wounded, and slowing, they warily paced themselves.

"Do you want to hear about it, Witch?" Randolph taunted.

"No," Cassandra replied tersely.

"Do you want to hear how she *begged* for it? How she begged me to fuck her?"

She held silent, waiting and watching, keeping on her toes, her sword blocking, swinging, then, cutting under his guard.

He yelped and jumped backward. Laughing, he mockingly bowed to her. "You got me, Witch. But it's the last time," he said, going on the offensive.

Cassandra found herself backing up, just to stay out of reach of his sword, his strength wearing her down.

"Oh, yes," Randolph continued, "she howled when I fucked her up the ass. She loved every minute of it. 'Please,' she said."

Cassandra shivered, the cold anger inside her turning into a white hot rage.

"And I obliged her. How could I not?" he asked rhetorically. "She pleaded so nicely. So, I fucked that hot cunt of hers, too."

Cassandra tried to put his words out of her mind. She knew what he was doing. She knew better than to let it affect her.

"Oh, and one other thing," Randolph asked, "just what *is* her name? I'd ever so love to know, for when I tell her what happened to her gallant defender."

Cassandra blazed. Lunging forward, she swung wildly.

Randolph blocked her blow neatly, bringing his sword back up, and with a circular twist of his wrist cut the sword out of her hand.

Cassandra screamed as her sword went flying. She fell to the ground and grabbed her arm, vainly trying to stem the flow of blood.

"Well, was it worth it, Witch?" Randolph asked as he stepped forward, his sword already swinging toward her.

Cassandra rolled, bringing the dagger out from the folds of her skirt, and with a final, desperate dive, plunged it deep into his belly. As much as she hated him, that was one thing Methos had taught her -- never be without a choice of weapons. Her Voice couldn't always be counted on. Cassandra's mouth dropped open as she suddenly realized that she no longer hated with unreasoning passion. Had she finally relegated what happened so long ago to the past, where it belonged -- back to a time that was as far different from today as to be another world entirely? She didn't know for sure, but she felt oddly free. Free of the heavy chains the past had always weighed her down with. She laughed. It felt good to laugh without any hint of her past making the sadness just a breath away.

Randolph gasped, jerking Cassandra out of her startling self-revelations. When she looked up, he was staring dumbly down at the handle sticking out of his belly, blood pouring out around it. Satisfaction poured through her.

Jumping up, she grabbed her sword, then stepped toward him. "Yes," she hissed fiercely, "oh, yes! It was most definitely worth it."

*******

Cassandra had promised she would make Randolph pay for what he'd done to Stacy, and by the goddess she had. Randolph would never hurt another living soul. She shivered, the sweat drying on her skin suddenly cold and clammy as the mist began to rise from her opponent's lifeless body.

**No, I don't want it.**

She scrambled backward, trying to escape the quickening she wanted no part of. Slipping in the blood coating the ground, she fell to her knees, only to jump back up again. She *had* to get out of here. She had to get away.

The first bolt hit her square in the back and she arched away from it, her sword flying from her fingers. Her body shook with each return stroke, and as the quickening assaulted her from without, it simultaneously assaulted her from within, half-formed memories streaked through her mind, bathing her soul in violence, terror, and rape.

##No, papa, please don't. I'll be good. I promise. No more, please, no more!##

##That make you happy, Bitch? There's more where *that* came from!##

##That feels good, doesn't it? Oh, yeah! What? Don't stop, you say?##

Cassandra felt her body sliced open, and felt her hands slice others open. On and on it went, driving unwanted memories and experiences into her psyche. She fought against it, alternately crying out in terror and unholy joy as scene after scene played itself out inside her.

What seemed like hours later, Cassandra stumbled away from the scene. She had to get away. She grabbed her head, squeezing her eyes tightly closed, all the joy of downing the sadistic rapist gone like it had never been. She couldn't get the horrific sounds and images the quickening had given her out of her mind. They flashed before her mind's eye over and over, repeating with a sickening clarity that once more sent her to her knees.

"No!" she screamed, tears of abject horror streaming down her face. She could feel him inside her, his filthy essence coiling evilly. She abruptly emptied her stomach, heaving until there was nothing left to bring up but vile tasting acid. She didn't want to see this. She didn't want to feel it. She'd lived through it so long ago. She'd lived it in her nightmares for centuries. She knew what it was like, and now, now that she was finally free of it, she *really* didn't need a repeat performance.

Taking a deep calming breath, she rose to her feet, shakily beginning her journey back to the girl that had set her on this path -- back to Stacy, who still needed her.

~~You'll never be rid of me now, Witch.~~

Cassandra froze in horror as she heard and felt Randolph's quickening stir. He was fly, a gnat. He should have settled easily, her 3,000 years to his 50 should have seen to *that*.

Cruel mocking laughter echoed in her mind. ~~Is it *still* worth it, Witch?~~




**********
Part One
Tuesday evening, July 27th
**********


Richie stared at his beer glumly. He needed to get out of town. The only women he met here were either taken or Immortal, and God knew, he'd had his fill of Immortal women. It'd be a cold day in hell, or at least a couple of hundred years, before he got himself hooked up with another Immortal woman. They were just too cold blooded and ruthless--not to mention manipulative.

Richie's expression softened, a small smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. Well, there was Amanda, who was a law unto herself. He had to admit he wouldn't mind a try with her. He sighed. Unfortunately, except for that one *glorious* night, she pretty much only had eyes for Mac.

**Some guys get *all* the luck!**

Immortal presence tingled along Richie's spine and he turned toward the door. In his present mood, he was almost willing for it to be a challenge. At least that would help with some of his excess energy.

~~Yeah, right. Until you had to deal with the post-quickening.~~

Richie groaned. He couldn't win for losing.

The door opened to admit a wary looking Methos.

**Damn! That's *all* I need right now.**

Methos nodded once in acknowledgement. "Rich."

"Adam," he responded, instantly returning his attention to his beer.

**Damn, damn, damn, and double damn! Why'd I have to come here? I should have *known* he'd show up here.** He didn't need Methos here right now. It was Methos fault--all of it. Methos was the reason he was bemoaning his single state.

**I just need to get laid. That's it. That's *all* it is.** Richie nodded to himself. That's the only reason he felt . . . pulled to Methos. He'd figured it out. His eyes wandered of their own accord to watch Methos stroll toward the bar, his gaze travelling the length of Methos' sinewy body. Richie groaned and closed his eyes.

**What the hell am I doing? Checking out a guy's body?!** He swallowed painfully, once again opening his eyes. His breath hitched in his throat as heat shot straight to his groin, hardening him instantly.

**I should just go hire a prostitute. It's not like I can catch anything. And I'd be good to her.** Richie almost snorted. **Yeah, with my luck, I'd pick the one that was an undercover cop.**

On his bar stool, Methos turned to face the floor and Richie immediately riveted his gaze on the nearly empty bottle sitting in front of him.

**Oh, *please* don't let him have seen me. I can handle *anything* but that.** Richie wanted to look up and see, but didn't dare. He was cursed with a fair skin, and he could feel the heat radiating off his face. **Please, please, please, just turn around and talk to Mike, or something.**

"Hey, what's up, Rich?" Methos asked.

Richie jumped. "Uh, hi, Adam," he stammered. "I didn't hear you come over."

Smirking, Methos slid into the seat across from him, relaxing into the chair. "That's obvious. I think you jumped an inch off your seat."

Methos sat there watching him, and Richie forced himself to laugh.

**Oh, God, that sounded *so* not amused.**

Across from him, Methos frowned. "You alright, Rich?"

"Yes," Richie replied instantly. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

**Oh, you don't ask that, idiot! That's a dead giveaway!**

Methos straightened in his seat, leaning forward onto the table. "You know, Rich--"

** *Quit* saying my name like that!**

"--I'm not normally 'Mr. Advice', if you know what I mean," Methos' voice trailed off, then continued as if he hadn't hesitated at all. "But you know, you can talk to me--if you need to. I may not be big on giving advice, but I *can* listen."

**Oh, don't do that. Why can't you just be your normal, asshole self. I can handle that.**

"Oh, yeah, sure, Adam. I know."

A moment of silence followed Richie's awkward answer and he fought not to drop his gaze. Why this was so difficult, Richie couldn't figure out. It wasn't as if Methos knew. He could hold a normal conversation with Methos. There wasn't anything wrong with that. Yeah, he'd sit here and talk, then later he'd go out and get laid. That would be the end of the problem.

"So, Adam, can I ask you something?"

The corner of Methos' mouth twitched further upward, and Richie found himself fascinated by the movement. What would Methos' mouth taste like?

**Oh my GOD! What am I thinking?**

"Sure, I said you could."

"Something personal, real personal?"

Methos' eyebrow shot upward, then he shrugged, reaching for his beer. "I suppose. I can always refuse to answer."

Richie laughed uneasily. "Have you ever..."

Methos paused his movement, his beer halfway to his mouth. "Have I ever...what?" he asked. "There really aren't many 'have I evers' that I haven't," he finished, taking a long swallow.

"Have you ever been involved with a guy?" Richie asked suddenly.

**I can't believe I actually asked that!**

Methos choked, sending beer spewing everywhere, including through his nose. "Damn, that hurts," he yelped, grabbing hold of his nose. It was several moments before he looked back at Richie. "Did you just ask me what I *think* you just asked me?"

Richie nodded, groaning inside. If he judged by how hot his face felt, he was certain he was a beautiful shade of *purple*.

Methos waited, then answered slowly. "Yes, I have," he said. "Now, can I ask *you* a question?"

**Oh shit!**

Richie shrugged. "Sure."

"Are you asking this, because you're considering getting involved with a guy?"

Richie shook his head vigorously. "No, no, nothing like that."

"Ah," Methos replied, leaning back in his chair. "So it was just plain old curiosity."

"Yeah, like you said, just curious."

Methos nodded, then rose. "Just a sec. I'll be right back."

Richie watched Methos walk back toward the bar, curling up inside himself. He was *such* an idiot. When was he going to learn to keep his big yap shut? Shifting in his seat, he resolutely returned his attention back to his *fascinating* beer. Lifting it up, he sighed when he realized it was empty. An empty bottle certainly wasn't going to distract him--not that it had effectively distracted him when it was full, either.

Damn! No way was he going to follow Methos to the bar. He'd just have to do without.

"Here you go," Methos said, setting a fresh beer in front of him.

Richie looked up startled. "I'm surprised you came back."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"No reason," Richie replied, shrugging.

"Look, Rich, I wouldn't have said you could talk to me, if I hadn't meant it. And I assure you, if you ask me something I don't want to answer, I won't answer. Deal?"

Numbly, Richie nodded. "Yeah, deal."

"Good," Methos replied firmly. Retaking his seat, he sprawled back in his chair. "So, fire away, kid. I can see you're burning with questions."

Wondering just what had put Methos, the 5,000 year old cynic, in a good mood, Richie opened his mouth before his mind could engage. "So did you enjoy it?"

Methos blinked in shock. "I didn't expect you to ask that."

"I didn't expect to ask it," Richie retorted, surprised into honesty.

Methos loosely fingered his bottle, before finally answering. "Sometimes I did, Rich. Sometimes I didn't." He sighed and looked over at Richie. "It's really no different, in that regard, than being with a woman. When it works, it's great. When it doesn't, it's hell."

Richie shifted uncomfortably, not believing he was talking to Methos about this. "So," he asked, after debating whether he should just get up leave. "How do you know?"

"How do you know, what?"

"How do you know, whether or not you want to, with a guy, I mean."

Methos laughed, he couldn't help it. "I'm sorry, Rich. I shouldn't have laughed. How do you know when you 'want to' with a girl?"

Richie rolled his eyes.

**Like, Duh!**

"Exactly," Methos replied, startling Richie. "Either you're attracted to someone, or you're not," he shrugged. "It's as simple as that."

Richie worked his lower lip between his teeth as he considered Methos' words. It made sense. But he couldn't quite reconcile that with what he'd been taught.

"Look Rich, if you're attracted to a guy, that's fine. There's nothing wrong with it, but it doesn't mean you *have* to act on that attraction."

Richie looked up sharply.

Methos smiled gently. "Do you act on every attraction you have to a woman?"

"No," Richie replied, shaking his head slowly, "of course not."

"You don't have to answer, if you don't want to, but, *are* you attracted to someone?" Methos asked quietly.

Richie nodded, barely.

"Okay, are you considering, possibly, maybe, acting on that attraction?"

Richie opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

**Am I?**

"I don't know," he said finally.

"Well, that's the big question, isn't it?"

Richie nodded again, hoping it was answer enough, because his voice seemed to have deserted him. He watched as Methos put the dark bottle to his lips, tipping it up and allowing the fluid to flow into his mouth. Richie's eyes darted down as Methos' adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. He began to wonder what it would feel like to--

**Stop that!**

He looked down at his own hands. He was *not* going to stare like an adolescent school boy!

Methos stood. "Why don't I leave you alone with you thoughts," he said, heading away.

"What if I am?" Richie asked suddenly, his throat dry and tight. "Considering it, I mean."

Methos turned back, resuming his seat. "That depends on who it is. Am I allowed to know?"

Richie shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't."

"Okay, do you at least know if he's interested in men?"

Richie nodded.

"Good, that's one concern out of the way. You won't have to worry about whether he'll be insulted or not."

"No, I don't think he'd be insulted. He might laugh."

"Ouch, that might be worse."

Richie nodded his agreement. "Oh, yes. That would be worse."

~~Quit nodding your head like an idiot! You're beginning to look like one of those bobble head car dogs.~~

Richie froze.

"Has he shown *any* interest in you, even the slightest bit?"

"No," Richie replied, holding his head absolutely still, "but then, I haven't shown any interest in him, either." Richie's eyes widened in sudden horror. "At least I don't think I have."

"Relax, Rich. Either you haven't, he's blind, or he's waiting for you to make the first move."

"Oh, God! How do I know which one it is?"

Methos shrugged. "Sorry, kid, that one I can't answer."

"Well, I can pretty much rule out him being blind," Richie answered his own question aloud.

"You think he's perceptive?"

"Oh, yeah. I don't think much escapes him."

"Okay then, let me ask you something else. Has he done anything that might have been meant as *dis*couragement?"

Richie seriously thought about it, casting his mind back over all their interactions. "No, either that, or *I'm* blind."

Methos laughed. "Rich, you're many things, but blind isn't one of them -- a bit naive, perhaps."

"Hey!" Richie exclaimed, then saw the laughter still lurking in Methos' eyes.

"Okay, so it seems we can rule out his being blind to it, and unless you've managed to hide all the signs, we can also rule out his not being interested."

Richie's eyes widened. "You think so?"

Methos sighed. "I'm suffering serious deja vu here," he said suddenly.

"What?" Richie squeaked.

"You sound *exactly* the way I did, when I was talking to MacLeod about Alexa."

Richie laughed nervously. "Oh shit!"

"What? why?"

"I think I'm in trouble."

Methos' smirk bloomed. "Isn't that *always* the case."

"Yeah, I guess so," Richie replied, then looked Methos in the eye, coming to sudden decision. "But this time I think I'm really in trouble."

Methos snorted. "And, beyond the obvious that this is a new experience for you, why should this be more trouble than normal?"

Shoving down a fear that felt like it was going to devour him from the inside out, Richie straightened. "Because it's you."

"Me!?"

Richie nodded. **Oh, shit! Oh, shit! He's gonna freak. He's gonna laugh my ass right out of Joe's bar. Why couldn't I keep my big, fat yap shut?**

"Well," Methos said finally, taking a deep breath. "I guess I'm not as perceptive as you've given me credit for."

Richie sighed in momentary relief. At least Methos wasn't laughing. "Either that, or I hid it well," he quipped back.

"Gods, I hope so," Methos breathed, "or I'm really losing my touch."

Laughing nervously, Richie took a deep breath of his own. "So," he asked, "are you?"

"Am I what?"

**Oh, don't play dense, Methos, *please*. It's taken all the guts I have just to get this far.**

"Are you interested?" Richie asked hoarsely, his heart beating loudly in his throat. He really wasn't so sure he wasn't going to pass out.

"Oh, yes," Methos replied very quietly, after no more than a moments hesitation. "I just don't think it's a good idea."

Richie's heart constricted. "Why not?" he asked.

"Mac."

Richie's mouth fell open. "Oh, God! I didn't know you and Mac. . . ."

"No!" Methos exclaimed, a full-throated belly laugh erupting from him. "Me, and the poster boy for heterosexuality?" He shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Then, how does Mac come into this?" Richie asked, frowning in confusion.

"I'd really rather not have an irate Highlander coming after me because I 'seduced' his male student," Methos replied drily.

Richie's temper rose with that response. "My life is none of Mac's business!" he replied hotly. "*I* decide who I go out with and who I don't!"

"Good, in theory. The problem isn't your perceptions, at least not right now. The problem is his."

"Fine," Richie said, jumping up from the table. "I'll just go and tell him I'm interested in you, and that he'd better stay out of it."

"What?" Methos demanded in shock, jumping up just as quickly. "Just slow down a minute."

Richie allowed Methos to usher him back into his seat. His anger at the imaginary slight of Mac's beginning to cool, he blushed faintly. "Sorry, that was...um..."

"Yeah," Methos agreed, then frowned. "You were serious, though, weren't you?"

Refusing to look up at Methos, he'd made *such* a fool of himself, Richie responded in a hushed voice. "Yeah, I was. I can't believe I was gonna run out of here, and lay into Mac for something he hadn't even done."

"You *do* realize, don't you, that he *could* cause problems?"

Richie swallowed convulsively. "Yeah, he probably won't approve."

"You're right, and you're wrong, Rich."

"Huh?"

"He won't approve, but not for the reason you think. He won't approve not because I'm a man, but because I'm me."

"That doesn't make any sense!" Richie complained. "You two are always together. He considers you a friend, he trusts you."

"Oh, I wouldn't go that far, Rich. Yes, we're together a lot. Yes, we're friends. But, I wouldn't say he really trusts me."

"I would say that," Richie said seriously. "He trusts you. He just doesn't understand you, and because he trusts you despite that, it scares him."

Methos snorted derisively. "And what makes you say that?"

"He told me."

"What?! Why would he do that?"

"Because I asked him."

It was Methos' turn to stare in surprise. "You asked him, and he just told you that not understanding me scared him?"

Richie shook his head. "No, I figured that part out on my own. He just told me about trusting you, but not understanding you." When Methos didn't respond, Richie began nervously playing with the label on his now warm beer. This hadn't gone anything like he'd expected. Maybe he should just get up and leave. Obviously Methos wasn't really interested. He just didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"Well, I think I'm gonna head out," Richie said. "Early morning."

Methos looked up at him as he stood. "How about we meet for dinner Friday night?"




**********
Part Two
Late Tuesday Night, July 27th
**********


Seacouver, Cassandra thought with disgust. How she hated this place. It represented the end to so many things. It represented betrayal and friendship lost. It represented the corruption of those she held dear -- the end of innocence. If it were possible she would never set foot in this blighted city ever again. But *no*--her quarry was here, so here she had to be.

Breezing out of the airport Cassandra smiled. Several people walking next to her edged away, muttering to themselves. She turned her smile on them, then coolly slipped into the first cab that pulled up, closing the door on their voluble protests.

"Where to?" the burly driver asked, smiling at her through the rear view mirror.

"DeSalvo's Gym," Cassandra replied coldly, handing a slip of paper with the address hastily scrawled across it.

"New in town?" he asked, still smiling broadly.

**Lech!** Cassandra thought viciously "No," she replied shortly.

The driver's smile faltered and he dropped his gaze, silently pulling out.

Cassandra was left to her own thoughts, which was exactly what she wanted. She still had planning to do. She'd worked out most of it already, of course. She knew without doubt that she could not take the direct approach. She simply had to be more...subtle this time.

Methos was resistant to her voice, all forms of it. He had been since the very beginning. Duncan, on the other hand; his ability to resist was limited. What he knew she had taught him. The good side of that was that she hadn't taught him everything. No, that was never a good idea. She just needed to make sure nothing would go wrong.

**Nothing *will* go wrong!** she silently vowed. **This is my time.**

~~Right, keep telling herself that, Witch. You might actually begin to believe it.~~

**It will go right!**

~~Get over it, Witch. Everything you touch shrivels and dies.~~

"Shut up!" Cassandra muttered under her breath, glaring at the driver when he cast a startled, uncertain glance over his shoulder.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, just get me to DeSalvo's."

"Whatever you say, Lady," the driver replied with disgusted snort.

Cassandra ignored him. Returning to her thoughts, her lips curled up in a semblance of another smile. It really hadn't been difficult to flush out her Watcher, and the peeping Tom had been remarkably pliant under her Voice. Through him, she'd discovered that Duncan *still* hadn't heeded her warnings. He was still befriending that...viper. He was still held in Methos' thrall.

~~Like you were?~~

**No! This is all *his* fault! If not for *him* I wouldn't be forced to endure *you*. If not for him, you would be nothing.**

~~You're like all the others. You want it. Then when it's over, you deny it. You cry foul!~~

**What part of 'no' don't you understand? And as far as that goes, what part of 'you're dead', don't you understand?**

Randolph laughed. ~~I'm not dead. I'm Immortal. I just switched bodies. What part of *that* don't *you* get?~~

Cassandra whimpered.

~~We're going to be together for a while, you and I. And I'm getting stronger,~~ Randolph taunted. ~~Do you know what I'm going to do when I'm strong enough?~~

**Nothing,** Cassandra snapped wildly, hysteria setting in. She *had* to settle this quickening, and she knew what she had to do to *get* it to settle. She had to destroy the source, not the source in her mind, the original source. **You're just a figment.**

~~Just wait, Cassandra, my dear. Just wait. When I get strong enough, I'm going to take over that beautiful body of yours. It'll be *mine* to do with as I chose.~~

"Never!" ++Just Leave Me Alone!++

~~Nooooo,~~ echoed in her mind as Randolph's presence faded, once again leaving her alone within herself.

"We're here. That'll be $22.75"

Cassandra handed the money to him, and climbed out, never taking her eyes off the brick building in front of her. Cassandra stood perfectly still, a great sadness filling her. She never even noticed when the cab peeled out behind her. Why couldn't her golden boy have stayed untainted? Why could he not see she knew what was best? So be it, she thought suddenly. Those who associate with vipers shall suffer like vipers.

Immortal presence swept over her and she looked frantically around. "Damn!" she hissed. Had she miscalculated? She eased herself into the shadows and waited, but no one appeared despite the fact that the sense of presence didn't fade away. Unable to ignore the unknown Immortal if she wished to remain, Cassandra slowly searched. It was then she heard the sound of flesh striking flesh, quickly followed by the sound of a woman screaming.

Hand on the sword hidden inside her coat, Cassandra hurried toward the sounds. The screaming had stopped, but she could hear the woman crying. When she rounded the corner she came upon a scene older than she was, but one that never failed to anger her. It was another chance to right ancient wrongs.

Some small part of her argued that one had nothing to do with the other, that the hatred that had burned within her for so long had been extinguished. It was a small part, however, one that was easily buried under the new driving need to be alone inside herself.

Allowing herself one shaky breath, Cassandra pulled her sword the same moment as the Immortal standing over the weeping mortal woman. "You may go," she said softly, looking past the Immortal, toward the woman. "He won't hurt you ever again."

The woman snapped her head up. "You don't understand," she warned. "Get out of here, save yourself."

"Shut up!"

Cassandra's expression hardened as she shifted her gaze to glare at the Immortal male. "You will *never* hurt another woman," she said, shifting her balance and readying herself for the coming battle.

"Awfully sure of yourself," he sneered, swinging his sword in lazy circles and stepping toward her.

"Yes," Cassandra replied. "That sword looks awfully heavy."

Laughing, he easily swung the sword, slicing the air in front of Cassandra. "You think so?"

Cassandra nodded with secretive smile. ++Your arm is very tired.++




**********
Part Three
Friday morning, July 30th
**********


Richie dragged himself into the dojo bright and early, although he wasn't feeling so bright. After tossing and turning for half the night, morning had come far too early for him. Half of him wanted to back out of the dinner arrangements he'd made with Methos. The other half was tingling with excitement. Both halves left his stomach churning in knots, and had made sleep almost impossible.

Glancing around the still darkened interior of the dojo, Richie frowned. Mac usually had the place opened up before he got here. With a shrug, he set about setting up for the day. He supposed Mac was entitled to be late once in a while -- even if he *did* just live upstairs.

When Mac still hadn't appeared by the time he'd finished, Richie began to get truly concerned. A little late, yes, but he'd never known his mentor to be this late for *anything*. The first, early morning patrons, few that they were, would be here in less than an hour, but he had time to go up and check. Something might really be wrong.

~~Yeah, but if something's wrong that Mac can't handle, what are *you* going to do about it?~~

Richie shoved the voice aside, and bounded for the elevator. He wasn't helpless.

***

"Mac?" he called out as he stepped into the loft. The fact that Mac hadn't met him as he came up left Richie feeling vaguely uneasy. He knew Mac was here. It was impossible not to with Presence thrumming through him.

Stepping further into the loft, he frowned when he got no answer. He could see Mac was still in bed, and it sent a frisson of unease skittering down his spine. "Mac!" he called louder.

The form on the bed moved. Then, Mac suddenly vaulted up and had his sword in hand before Richie could blink.

Hastily backing away from the wild look in his mentor's eyes, thankful he already had half the room between them, Richie swallowed convulsively. He'd been on the receiving end of that sword one too many times to be completely comfortable with himself being the reason for Mac's 'full battle mode'. "It's just me, Mac," he said quickly.

MacLeod's sword dipped down, and his eyes cleared.

"When you didn't show up downstairs..." Richie's voice trailed off, uncertain what, exactly, to say.

"What time is it?" Mac asked, propping his sword against the bed and heading for the bathroom.

"About 8:30. Are you okay, Mac?"

MacLeod stopped and turned slowly. His eyes widening in surprise, he cast a quick glance at the clock. "Sorry, Richie," he said, resuming his trek to the bathroom. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"Well," Richie muttered to the closed door, "*that* much was obvious." He turned and headed back downstairs. Mac was awake now and Richie knew his mentor would be down shortly. The creeping worry that Mac was suffering yet another 'mysterious' breakdown wound its way through his thoughts causing a shiver to run down his spine, but he shoved it away. He was just being paranoid. The man had *just* overslept. It happened to everyone. Besides, a third time would be just too much.

Richie paced nervously around the main floor of the dojo, moving this piece of equipment, adjusting that sword, wiping the dust off the window sills. He couldn't sit, or even stand, still for more than a couple of seconds at a time.

**What is taking Mac so long?**

He'd expected MacLeod to be down only minutes after he'd left the loft. All of a sudden he felt trapped here, and Richie wanted nothing more than to simply be gone. It wasn't just the odd edgy restlessness he'd been feeling all morning, well, since last night. No, it was more than that. It was the restrictive, suffocating feeling of being buried alive.

**Jesus! Where the hell did *that* come from?** Richie tried to shake off the feeling, but couldn't. Suddenly launching himself across the room, he grabbed his jacket. Feeling the comforting weight of his sword within it, he fished his keys from the pocket. He jumped when he felt Mac's presence.

"Mac," he called out, even before he could see the older Immortal, "look, I gotta run. Sorry to leave you in the lurch and all," he continued already heading for the stairs -- away from the descending elevator.

"Richie?"

Richie didn't answer, just darted out the door and down the stairs taking them several at a time. As soon as the outside air brushed against his face, he relaxed. The constraints that had bound his chest, his breathing, weighed him down, were swept away, and Richie sighed in heartfelt relief.

Two steps further, however, and he frowned in confusion. What had come over him? He turned and stared back at the dojo entrance. His gut instantly twisted into knots, fear making sweat bead on his forehead.

**What the hell?**

Richie swallowed, and started back toward his mentor's home, determined not to let fear rule his actions. But each step was more difficult than the last. He was within reach of the door, the handle mere inches from his hand, when a sudden panic came swooping down on him. He turned and fled, sanity returning only after he was several blocks away.

****

**So young. So innocent,** she thought, a small smile curving her lips. **So easily led away from the dangers. Perhaps he would be the one -- the one that could be led away from being like all the others. He was young, so very young. He had yet to be corrupted.

Casting a lethal glare up at the windows, where she could see the shadows of movement playing through the windows, Cassandra turned and followed the escaping youth. Before she went any further, she had to make sure he was safe. Protecting the young ones, that was her purpose. It held second place only to gaining vengeance against those who had wronged her and those she loved.

All of them, they were like *Randolph*, like...*Methos*. The name hissed through her mind like a curse, raising the hair on the back of her neck and sending shudders through her body. He would die, die because of her, just like Randolph had.

~~Yes,~~ rang fiercely in her mind, ~~Keep thinking that, Witch. Savor your time, because it won't last~~

"Shut up!" Cassandra hissed. "You're dead."

Laughter echoing in her mind, Cassandra felt the purely mental caress that accompanied it. Hating the vile touch she could not avoid, she shuddered, hatred coursing through her.

++Leave Me Alone!++

The loathsome voice within her fell silent, but the touch disappeared far more slowly. Cassandra swallowed the acidic taste from her mouth, thankful that in death he was far more susceptible to the Voice than he had been alive. It never lasted long enough, however, and he seemed to be growing more and more difficult to banish. She feared she may never be free of Randolph. She feared his soul would torment her for however long she lived. Ruthlessly, she shoved aside her fears, her distaste. She had more important things to worry about right now, and she hurried after the red-head.

He was fast, she definitely gave young Ryan credit for that. She had difficulty keeping up without alerting him to her presence. It was too soon for that. Her plan wasn't far enough along. No one could know she was here. The loyal young Immortal would certainly relate her presence to his teacher, and that was as it should be. However, she was fighting dangerous men, and giving them advance warning was simply not in her plans.

She followed him at a safe distance, staying with him until she was sure he'd gone home, until she was certain he was safe. The innocents, that had to be her priority. It had to take precedence even over her burning desire for revenge.




**********
Part Four
Friday afternoon, July 30th
**********


Duncan watched as the last of his morning patrons disappeared through the double doors. He sighed quietly, a mixture of relief and concern escaping with the sound. While he was glad to finally be alone again, and not have to maintain the professional, everything-is-right-with-the-world mask, he was equally uncertain about being completely alone -- allowing his thoughts free reign.

He hadn't lied to Richie about not sleeping well. He hadn't slept well for the last *three* nights -- three nights of intense nightmare images that wouldn't quit. Last night had been no different than the previous two, except that the dream sequences were getting successively more and more graphic and violent. Last night had been spent tossing and turning, jumping from one grotesque image to the next. When he'd been startled awake from staring, frozen, at one more image he could do nothing to change, Richie's voice and presence had sent him lunging for his sword before he was even fully awake.

What he couldn't understand was why these nightmares were coming now. He shuddered, and dropping down onto the wooden bench, wiped the sweat from his forehead. Shouldn't they have come right after he'd discovered who Methos used to be? Why now, when things were settled? Why, in his nightmares, did he see Methos as he used to be? Why did he repeatedly dream of walking in on Methos committing-- Shuddering, he cut off his thoughts. He did not want to even think the word. He wanted nothing to do with what his nightmares had made him witness.

Shaking now, he tried to calm himself, the very act of trying not to think, bringing the images that much clearer to mind. But, more importantly than any other question--what he just couldn't understand, was why he, a 400 year old *adult*, was allowing *nightmares* to affect him so profoundly. They were just bad dreams--vivid, technicolor dreams that seemed all too real.

Duncan gagged, and jumped for the bathroom.

***

Trembling violently, Duncan sat back on his heels. He had to get himself calmed down. He knew that. It was ridiculous to be so thrown by plain old, not real, dreams. He *knew* better. He *trusted* Methos. Surely he could banish these odd nightmares back where they belonged, no matter how real they seemed while he dreamed.

**I most certainly can!**

Duncan rose slowly, using every once of will he possessed to direct his thoughts where he needed them to be. He only had to figure out what had triggered them. When he discovered that, then they would go away.

Nodding, satisfied with his reasoning, he made his way back out to the main floor. For now, he had work to do, and that would keep his mind off things he really didn't want to think about. Thirty minutes later, he gave up his nearly manic efforts at cleaning up as a lost cause.

Without even bothering to change into workout clothes, he stepped to the middle of the hardwood floor and centered his body. Slow, mind-clearing katas followed one after another as 'They're just dreams.' became his mantra.


*****

Adam watched silently as Catherine slipped out the door. He shook his head, wishing all his problems were so easily solved. If he really was who he told everyone he was, they would be. He took a deep calming breath before a self-ridiculing chuckle escaped him.

"If wishes were fishes..." he said quietly. Not even bothering to finish the quote, he turned his attention back to the books spread out in front of him. It took him a total of 15 minutes of rereading the same page, and still not remembering what was written there, before he realized that he wasn't going to get anymore work done. His thesis would have to wait -- again. He sighed deeply, leaning back in the chair.

Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds around him. The muted sounds of other students studying, whispering to each other in the quiet of the library soothed him with its utter normalcy -- so many people with nothing more to concern them than what to write for their next paper, whether or not they were going to pass the next exam, or whether or not so-in-so was actually interested in them.

He knew all the answers to *those* questions, and therein lay the problem, well, part of the problem. He let out a second, frustrated sigh, but couldn't stop the silly grin that spread across his face. He was a sucker. He knew that. He'd *always* known that, well, maybe not *always*, but that didn't change the fact that, right now, he was indeed a sucker. Knowing it, however, didn't stop the giddy feeling that fluttered through him.

Richie was so bloody young, though. He didn't mean the young Immortal's physical age, or even chronological age, although he was young in those ways also. No, it was painfully obvious that this was the young man's first foray into realizing that there was more to sexual relationships than women--at least as they applied to him personally. Methos swallowed, a frisson of fear knotting his stomach. What if this was just curiosity on Richie's part? Or he only wanted a quick tumble?

Nothing wrong with that, Methos thought, rebelliously ignoring the traitorous twist his heart gave. He groaned softly. This was *so* wrong on so many levels it wasn't even funny. He'd built a good life here. He had friends, and for the first time in a very long time they were friends that actually *knew* who he was, who he'd been.

Of course, setting aside the fact that getting involved with Richie could seriously jeopardise those friendships-- His friendship with MacLeod was precarious at best, and perhaps seducing the man's student, male student at that, wasn't the best way to ease them over the bumps. And then there was Joe, the only mortal he'd allowed even a glimpse of what lie behind his masks. He really didn't want to think about what would happen if the mortal reacted badly to this...situation. Unlike what was between him and MacLeod, he didn't have centuries to smooth the rough spots out with Joe. --There was also the fact that Richie was an Immortal, and that was a whole mess of trouble all by itself.

**Bloody hell!** he thought suddenly. Richie was the one who had started it, and the young Immortal was right. It really wasn't anyone's business but their own. Sure, there were risks, but living was all about risk, about knowing when to play it safe, when to run, and especially when not to.

Methos stood, slowly closing and placing all the books in his backpack. He had a dinner date to get ready for. Surprised to find his hand shaking as he swung the backpack onto his back, he shook his head. Was he scared? Hell, yes. But was he going to let that stop him? Never.

*****

Screaming, Cassandra sat bolt upright in bed. Gasping for breath, she snapped her hand to her chest. Her heart, hammering beneath her ribs, felt as though it could beat itself out of her. With a shaky hand she wiped the cold sweat from her forehead and desperately tried to calm herself.

The nightmares that had plagued her off and on for hundreds of years had returned with a vengeance. They'd returned the night she had taken Randolph's head, coming back night after night to haunt what little sleep she could get. They had never been this bad before, not even right after escaping the Horsemen's camp. In the beginning she'd wondered why they were so bad now, but after a week she'd stopped wondering. Now, the only thing that mattered was destroying the cause.

Sliding from bed, Cassandra made her way slowly to the bathroom knowing she would get no more sleep tonight. She may as well take advantage of the extra daylight hours. The sooner this chore was completed, the sooner she would be free.

First, of course, she had to check on the innocent. She would go directly to the pup's apartment building. She really didn't want him around when Duncan finally succumbed. Then, tonight, as last night, Duncan would find no peace in sleep. Everything was working out perfectly. No-one had discovered she was here. Duncan's dreams had been ridiculously easy to invade and twist -- something he didn't even know she was capable of. *Methos* didn't even know she could do that.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as a new idea flittered through her mind. He'd always been a resister, but she'd never tried to direct his dreams. She wondered if, asleep, he'd be as formidable an opponent. No, she thought, better not to risk it. She wasn't certain that she had the self-control to come into that kind of contact with him without giving herself away. No, she would continue with her original plan. By the time she was done, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod would kill Methos. Then she could go on with her life, her past finally dead and buried.




**********
Part Five
Friday Evening, July 30th
**********

Richie paced back and forth across the confines of his small living room. Why did this have to happen today, of all days? He really didn't need this shit. He stopped and stared at the phone again, almost picking it up. He 'almost' called Mac several times. Twice, he'd gotten as far as dialing all but one number before hanging up.

He snorted. What would he have said? 'Hey, Mac, you know any reason why I'd suddenly be afraid to be in the same building as you?'

'Yeah, you're right, I *am* losing my mind. Of course, the fact that you *did* actually try to kill me twice has nothing to do with it.'

No, Richie thought suddenly, it really didn't have anything to do with it. He'd put those incidents behind him. It had taken a while to be completely relaxed again, even knowing why they'd happened, but he'd done it. And while their relationship would never be what it had been, in the beginning, they'd moved on with their lives, put their friendship back together from the ground up. This new fear had come out of nowhere, shocking in its sudden appearance. No, Richie thought again, not completely out of nowhere. Mac had been acting very strangely this morning.

When Mac had jumped out of bed wild-eyed, his sword at the offensive, Richie had been thrust back in time, and for one split second had been sure that this time he was going to die. Had that been enough to reawaken his old fears?

"Third time's the charm," Richie muttered sarcastically, a touch of superstitious fear threading its way through his mind. Standing in the middle of the room, he shifted back and forth nervously biting his lip. He didn't want to hurt Mac's feelings, but he also had no intention of playing pinata if Mac was losing it again. Just how he was going to avoid both scenarios he wasn't quite sure, however.

He shook his head suddenly. "Aren't you just getting a little carried away?" he asked himself, his voice sounding oddly loud in the quiet room. So Mac had an off night and woke up a little grouchy. So what? That doesn't mean he was going to go on another mind bender. Everyone had an off day...right?

He stood right where he was, indecision worrying at him. A little paranoia was healthy, right? But how much was too much? He let out an explosive breath and suddenly strode toward the phone. Jerking the receiver up, he quickly dialed the dojo number, stubbornly refusing to listen to his conscience which was telling him to hang up, that he was making too big a deal out of this. He jumped when Mac answered.

"DeSalvo's"

"Hey, Mac. It's me, Richie."

"Richie!," MacLeod responded, relieved. "Sorry about this morning."

"Hey, no problem, man," Richie replied quickly, the cheer in his voice sounding forced even to his own ear. He just hoped Mac couldn't hear it. If he did, he would ask Richie what was wrong, and that was the last thing Richie wanted. "I hope it's all right, but I need to take some time off."

"Is everything all right, Richie?"

"Oh, yeah, no big," Richie responded. **Let it slide, for once, Mac. Please?** "I just have some things I need to take care of."

"Is there someone after you?" Mac asked suspiciously.

Sighing in relief at Mac's misunderstanding of the situation. "No, no,"

**God, I hope not!**

"It's nothing like that. Look," he continued impatiently, "can I have the time off or what?"

"Yeah, sure," Mac replied, and Richie could almost see the older Immortal's head rear back in surprise. "Actually, it's a good idea. Go ahead and take a week off."

"Thanks, Mac."

Richie hung up, more uneasy than when he'd called. 'A good idea'? Why did Mac think it was a good idea? He heaved a sigh. Now he was really worried. What was going on with Mac? He needed to talk to someone -- someone he trusted. Unfortunately, when he had a problem he usually went to Mac. Under the circumstances, that was out of the question. He certainly didn't want to go to Methos, not now. He didn't want Methos feeling like a...mentor, or like Richie thought he had all the answers. He groaned, hell no, he really didn't want that. He was well aware of the 'chip' that Methos carried around that people expected him to be more than he was, that the oldest Immortal should be wise and have all the answers. Richie wanted nothing less than to set off *that* particular paranoia of the old man's. Besides, one person feeling 'parental' was more than enough as far as he was concerned.

So who was left? Sparing a glance at his watch, Richie grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. Joe might be able to help him. At the minimum, the man might be able to talk him out of this stupid paranoia. Joe was good at reassuring people. He was a bartender after all. Calming people was part of the job description, wasn't it?

Decision made, Richie smiled. He had two hours to kill before he was due to meet Methos, and this was a perfect way to do it. Whistling, assured that Joe would help him sort this out, Richie strode out of his apartment, and practically skipped down the stairs.

Stepping out into the cool night air and letting the door swing shut behind him, he stopped suddenly. Turning slowly in place, he fought against closing his eyes in frustration. With the itching presence of another Immortal scraping against already taut nerves, he quickly scanned the area around him. This was just what he needed now. He was almost certain it wasn't anyone he knew. It couldn't be Mac--he'd just gotten off the phone with him. It wasn't likely to be Methos. They'd agreed to meet later, at the diner. Of course, it could be any number of other Immortals he knew. God knew he'd met enough of them through Mac.

Frowning when he couldn't see anyone before the presence faded, he hurried to his bike. The sooner he put some distance between him and the unknown Immortal the better he'd like it. Of course, whoever it was knew where he lived, and Richie was certain he didn't like that. It would make avoiding them difficult.

*****

Cassandra cursed quietly as she quickly backed off, hiding herself in the shadows of a nearby alley. She hadn't expected him to come storming out his building like that. She didn't think he'd seen her, however, and she thanked whatever power watched over fools for that. Cassandra didn't know how much Richie knew about what had happened between her, Duncan, and Methos, but as sure as time passed, if he'd seen her, he'd tell his teacher about her, even if he *didn't* know the whole story.

Despite the fact that Duncan had tried to kill the child, more than once, he still stood by his teacher, still believed in Duncan.

~~Yes, you know the feeling well, don't you. How many times did Methos kill you?~~

"Shut up!" Cassandra muttered, shivering in distaste, watching as Richie took off on that Motorcycle of his. Yes, Richie was a victim, just like she was -- a victim to protect, to avenge. Duncan would be destroyed, and Methos would be dead. Then the child would be free to live, free to forget his own past, just as she would be free to forget hers.

But right now, she needed to hurry. Her charge was quickly disappearing from sight, and she needed to know where he was going. She needed to make sure he was safe from the fallout, because there was no telling just how quickly Duncan would succumb to the call of the nightmares she was sending him. Duncan was one of the most stubborn people she'd ever met, and he'd decided Methos had *changed*, that he was *good* now -- as if that made up for what he'd done in the past. She also knew that his belief wasn't going to be an easy thing to subvert.

Of course, there were a couple of things she could do to help make sure Richie stayed away, stayed safe, but she had to keep up with him to do them. As she hurried to her rental car, however, her thoughts went a different direction, and began wondering what had sent Richie flying out of his apartment so quickly.




**********
Part Six
later Friday Evening
**********


Richie slid onto a barstool, and watched impatiently while Joe served a customer. He'd managed to work himself back into nervous agitation during the drive over, and now he wasn't sure, exactly, how to approach Joe about his concerns. They seemed so...dumb now. Joe would probably just laugh at him, laugh at him for making mountains out of mole hills.

He shook his head at his own inability to make up his mind. **You'd think I was still that insecure kid Mac took in off the streets a lifetime ago.**

"What's up, Richie?" Joe asked as he approached. "You're not usually in here this early, especially not looking like something the cat dragged in."

Richie laughed humorlessly. "I didn't sleep well last night," he hedged.

"Oh?" Joe asked. "Nightmares?"

"No," Richie denied with a sigh.

"What then? Dating problems?"

Richie's head snapped up, his eyes widening. "What?"

Joe chuckled. "I knew it," he said, shaking his head. "Whenever I'm having problems in that department, I don't sleep well either."

Richie laughed uneasily, having just pictured Joe's reaction to his current 'date'. Damn. He hadn't even thought about how Joe would react before now. Mac, yeah, but not Joe. It was on the tip of his tongue to actually confide in Joe, but he cut himself off, knowing it for the convenient distraction it was. Well, maybe not convenient, but it would certainly distract the older man.

"No, actually, that's not it either, my 'dating troubles' just might actually be clearing up," he said, cursing the fact that he actually blushed when he said it. Would he *ever* stop doing that?

"Really?" Joe exclaimed, smiling widely. "Well, good for you. So, if that's not the problem, what is?"

"Have you talked to Mac lately?"

Joe frowned. "How lately?"

"Since this morning."

"No, I expect he'll be in tonight, though. Why?"

Richie shrugged, playing for nonchalant. "I don't know, he just seemed a little...jumpy earlier."

"Jumpy? You think someone's here for him, maybe?"

Richie's eyes widened. "Hey, I never thought of that." He grinned, relieved, then flashed back to worry just as quickly. "You know of anyone new in town that might be?"

Joe shook his head. "Haven't heard of anyone, but I'll check anyway."

"If there is, I think it's someone who has a history with him," Richie offered, latching on to the first thing that explained Mac's odd behavior.

"Why do you say that?"

Now Richie was back to the beginning, just how much of what had happened this morning did he mention? He *really* didn't want to look like an idiot, and Joe's idea of an Immortal on Duncan's tail *did* seem to fit. He shrugged again. "No reason, really. It's just a hunch."

Joe frowned, clearly not believing that was all there was to it, but when the Watcher's expression relaxed, he knew Joe was going to let it go, and let out a sigh of relief.

"I'll be right back," Joe said, heading off to help another customer.

"No problem," Richie said, watching for a moment before looking down at his hands, and losing himself in his thoughts. He couldn't really make sense of them. Most of them were only half thoughts that didn't even bother to stay on the same subject. They merely chased each other around randomly, not a one of them letting any other fully form. He almost laughed as a sudden picture of a little puppy chasing its tail popped into his mind.

"So, did you just stop by to bend my ear," Joe asked lightly, "or did you want something to drink, too?"

Richie jumped at Joe's sudden appearance, and glanced at his watch before replying. "Yeah, I got time for a beer."

Grinning, Joe grabbed a bottle. "Hot date tonight?"

Nodding, without meeting Joe's eyes, Richie popped open the beer and took a long drink. "Yeah." His head snapped up as Joe chuckled.

"Not gonna tell me about her, are you?"

"Nope," Richie taunted, with a mischievous smirk, not bothering to correct Joe's pronoun.

Joe rolled his eyes. "Will I get to meet this mysterious date, eventually?"

"Maybe," Richie answered elusively, feeling a bit pale. "If things work out, I'd imagine so."

Joe leaned forward and lowered his voice, concern coloring his tone. "You aren't seeing someone you shouldn't, are you?"

Richie choked on his beer, sending the liquid all over the bar and Joe. "What do you mean by 'someone I shouldn't'!?" he demanded hotly.

"Whoa, Richie, I didn't mean it like I was telling who you could date, just worried that it might be someone...oh, you know...someone who's likely to try and kill you?"

"No," Richie replied, putting it as facetiously as he could, "they aren't going to try and kill me."

"So, she's not Immortal, then. Good."

"Well, I didn't say *that*, exactly," Richie hedged.

"Richie! You *do* realize don't you, that you don't have the best track record with Immortal women?"

"Yeah, I do! But guess what?" Richie exclaimed, jumping up. "You're not my father, so I'd appreciate it if you just skipped the lecture!"

Joe pulled back instantly, and began to respond, but Richie held up a hand stalling his words.

"I'm sorry. I lost it. There was no call for yelling at you like that."

Joe nodded, easily accepting his apology. "First date?"

Sighing, Richie sat back down and finished his beer before answering. "Yeah," he said softly.

"So, what's so special about this particular first date? I've never seen you this on edge before."

"This one's different."

"So what's different?"

**More than I'm ready to tell you!** Richie shrugged, but Joe nodded as if he understood, anyway.

"Special, huh?"

"Yeah, real special," Richie said, then suddenly dropped his head onto the bar top. "I know I'm gonna mess it up. I'm gonna say something dumb, or do something stupid. I just *know* it!"

"Richie, relax. Just be yourself, if she really *is* special, that'll be enough."

Richie groaned. "Easy for you to say."

Joe chuckled warmly. "Yeah, it is. And yeah, sometimes it's hard to do, but I've got faith in you Richie. Just...be careful. Okay?"

"Yeah well, once bitten, twice shy, and all that. Don't worry about me."

Joe looked at him sharply. "That's what this is about, isn't it?"

"What? What, what's about?"

"Mac."

Richie looked down for only a moment, before bringing his head back up quickly, tilting his chin a little higher in a show of bravado. "So what if it is?" he asked defensively, then immediately wilted. "I'm being ridiculously paranoid, aren't I?" he continued hopefully.

"I really wish I could say 'yes' with absolute certainty Richie. I *do* know he'd never purposely hurt you. He'd rather hurt himself."

"Yeah, well, fat lot of good that did the last two times," Richie retorted, resentment suddenly seething to the surface.

Both men looked at each other in stunned surprise, but Joe was the first to recover.

"Where did that come from Richie? I thought you two had made your peace."

"We did," Richie responded slowly, confused. "I'm not sure where that came from. I mean, I *know* Mac wasn't himself when he attacked me, either time. It wasn't his fault."

"But it doesn't feel that way sometimes," Joe said quietly. "Does it?"

"No," Richie snapped. "It's a God-damned convenient excuse!" Richie winced at the sudden silence in the bar and hunched in on himself. "Look, I'm sorry Joe--" he continued in a near whisper.

"It's okay, Ri--"

"--but I've gotta get out of here. I took a week off work, so I've got time to sort it out. Check on him, man," Richie urged as he started to back away. "Just be careful when you do, okay. He was pretty out of it this morning." Richie turned abruptly and marched for the door, completely ignoring Joe as the Watcher tried to call him back.

*****

Cassandra smiled, satisfied. That ought to keep young Richie Ryan out of harms way long enough for her to finish her task. The impulsive, quick to anger nature of youth should see him gone for a day or two, then his very loyalty should make him feel guilty enough to keep him away for another few days.

Now, it was time to check on the fourth member of this little game -- the one who'd started it all.




**********
Part Seven
Late Friday night, July 30th
**********

Cassandra seethed. That...*viper* was corrupting the child. Several times during their evening out, she'd tried to scare the boy off, as she'd done at the dojo, but each time she'd tried all she managed to accomplish was...nothing! Methos had effectively countered all her attempts -- without even realizing she was there! **Damn him!**

Her eyes widened in surprise as Methos lay a hand on Richie's back as they exited the diner. It was worse than she thought, she fumed as they climbed into Methos vehicle. They drove away, leaving her standing in the night air, a bitter taste in the back of her mouth. **So be it,** she thought angrily, then blinked when she realized this actually gave her better ammunition to use, and just might save the boy before it was too late. She just hoped it wasn't already too late.

A wicked smile played across her face as she began revising the dreams MacLeod would experience tonight. Yes, tonight she would up the ante. Only *this* time, she suspected, reality would begin to support his night visions, speeding this process along nicely.

She had to hurry, though, and following through on that thought, she ran for her own car. Hopefully, what with MacLeod not sleeping well, he would already be heading for, or in, bed.

*****

MacLeod whimpered as the images began, his psyche already wary of the dreams that came each night.

* * Richie climbed out of Methos' car, laughing. "I had a great time, Old Man," he said.

* * "It doesn't have to end yet," Methos replied, climbing out as well.

* * Surprised, Richie nodded. "Sure, come on up. I've got some beer. We can watch some tv or something."

* * Following behind, Methos smirked. "Yeah, or something."

***

Methos pulled to a stop in front of Richie's apartment. He'd been surprised to find that the younger Immortal had walked to meet him, and had automatically offered to drive him home.

"I had fun tonight, Methos."

Methos laughed. "Don't sound so surprised, Rich."

"I didn't mean it that way," Richie hastily reassured him. "I just meant--"

"I know what you meant, Rich, relax," Methos assured him with a slight smile.

Richie breathed deeply, letting it out slowly, then smiled. "Good night, Methos," he said quietly, hesitating as he reached for the door handle.

"I'll walk you to your door," Methos offered, climbing out before Richie could respond.

Richie was out by the time he rounded the vehicle and they walked toward the building in companionable silence.

***

* * Methos followed Richie into the apartment, shedding his coat before following to the kitchen. Leaning against the door frame, he watched as Richie retrieved two beers.

* * Richie handed one to him, frowning in confusion when he didn't move out of the way. "You want to stand here all night?"

* * Methos shook his head. "Oh, no, I've got better plans than that."

* * "Like what?"

* * "There's no need to be coy, Richie," Methos replied seductively, straightening and stalking toward Richie, trapping the confused youth against the closet door. "We both know where this is headed."

* * Richie tried to push him away. "Knock it off, Methos. This isn't funny."

* * "It isn't meant to be funny, Richie."

* * Richie twisted then, shoving his way out of Methos' grasp. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, Methos, but I want you to leave -- now."

* * "Oh, I don't think so, Richie."

* * Methos jumped forward, knocking Richie to the ground, pinning the younger Immortal beneath him.

* * Richie fought, but couldn't escape the older, more experienced Immortal.

* * Above him, Methos grinned.

***

Stopping as they reached Richie's door, Methos reached out a hand and lay it gently on the younger Immortal's arm. "I had a good time, tonight, Richie. I'm glad you asked me out."

"Me, too," Richie replied, smiling sheepishly. "Before you got there, though, I thought I was gonna be too much of nervous wreck to do *anything* right," he laughed.

"It didn't show."

"Yeah right!" Richie snorted. "Thanks for saying that, though."

Richie half turned toward the door, then turned back, and Methos stepped forward, closing the distance between them. When Richie leaned toward him ever so slightly, Methos reached over and curled his fingers behind the younger Immortal's neck pulling him the rest of the way.

Gently brushing his lips over Richie's, he was prepared to pull away at the first show of resistance. He was surprised when the younger man's lips opened under his and Richie took the initiative in deepening the kiss. Leaning into Richie, Methos opened to him, content to allow Richie the control to set the pace for this new experience.

When Richie pulled back, eyes slightly glazed, he bit off a moan of protest. The younger man had been a better kisser than he'd expected. "Good night, Rich," he said quietly, turning away as the younger man raised two fingertips to touch his own lips with surprise.

*****

MacLeod thrashed restlessly on the bed, desperately trying to block out the images as the scene unfolded, him frozen in place, apparently unnoticed by the two men, crying out in his sleep. "No!" he shouted hoarsely, his single word rebounding off the silent walls of his loft.

* * Methos rose, efficiently arranging his clothing, leaving a bruised Richie laying half nude on the floor. "Well," he said, swatting Richie's ass once. "That was fun. Would have been better in the bed," he shrugged, "but, such is life."

* * "You bastard," Richie ground out. "I'm going to kill you."

* * Methos smirked at the angry youngster. "You don't have the skill to kill me, child."

* * Defiance flared in the blue eyes and Methos leaned closer. "You don't really think I'm going to leave you alive to go running to MacLeod telling tall tales, do you?"

* * Richie started to crawl away, and Methos laughed. "Get your sword, boy, for all the good it will do you," he said, bowing mockingly. "I'll even give you time to put your pants back on."

MacLeod shouted in warning, his words unheard, as Methos swung while Richie's back was toward him. He screamed, and just as metal met flesh, he jolted out of sleep to find himself standing beside his bed, sword in hand, sweaty and shaking with rage.

Panting, his knees gave out under him and he crashed to the floor, his sword falling unnoticed, skittering across the wood floor. "Oh, God!" Mac mumbled. He was finally going insane. That was the only explanation he had for the nightmares. The other ones he could possibly understand...maybe. But this? He drew in a shaky breath, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat.

He had to be one sick and twisted person for his subconscious to come up with something like that...that...perversion of his two friends friendship. What was he supposed to do about it? What could he do? He longed to be able to go to Darius or Sean. Either one of them would be able to help him, and neither would judge him. This was the fourth night in a row his frighteningly real nightmares had taken this unexplainable twist, and it was beginning to affect what he saw while he was awake.

The last two nights at Joe's he'd had to blink away imagined, subtly hidden touches. He'd had to restrain himself each time one or the other of them leaned in and whispered something only they could hear. Each time he saw the little signs of their growing friendship, MacLeod read more into it than could possibly be there, and he had to fight what was fast becoming an all consuming rage. He wanted to lash out at Methos. He wanted to pull out his sword at separate that ancient head from its place on Methos' neck.

Right now, he shook with that need. What the hell was *wrong* with him? Was he destined to continually lose it? He *had* to talk to someone. He knew that now. He couldn't deal with this on his own. Who else did he know that could even come close to understanding? Who would be able to do what needed to be done if he couldn't make things right again.

His head snapped up, and scrambling to his feet, he glanced at the clock. It wasn't even one am yet. Joe would still be at the bar. Mac nodded to himself, remembering the last time he'd been out of it. Joe had shot him. If it came to that, he was certain Joe could do what was necessary again, this time making it permanent.

He dialed quickly, before his nerve failed him. Joe had to know what was going on before it was too late, and maybe, just maybe, together they could figure out what was causing the nightmares. Then, nothing would *need* to be done.

"Joe's, Mike speaking."

"Can I speak to Joe please. It's Duncan."

"Certainly, Mac. Hold on a sec."

Duncan held the phone in a tight grip, counting the seconds until Joe picked up. "What's up, Mac?"

"I need a favor, Joe," Duncan replied quickly, putting false cheer in his voice. "Don't worry, it has absolutely nothing to do with you being a Watcher."

Joe laughed, his voice sounding a little strained. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I'll come down there. It's too much to explain on the phone."

"I'll be here," Joe responded, sounding distracted, then continued his voice taking on a worried tone. "You alright Mac?"

"No, Joe," Duncan replied seriously. "I think I'm going crazy." He hung up before Joe could question him further. He *really* didn't want to get into this on the phone. He wasn't even all that sure he could do it in person. Grabbing coat, sword, and keys, he sprinted down the stairs. It felt good to finally be doing something -- something other than simply trying to ride the nightmares out.




**********
Part Eight
Very early AM August 3rd
**********


Cassandra crowed as MacLeod came barreling out of his home, certain he'd finally lost it. He didn't do anymore than twitch when she accidently came within sensing distance. She quickly backed away, worried for a moment, but he didn't slow, simply jumped into his car and sped away.

She hurried to follow, not wanting to lose him now.

*****

Duncan pulled around the corner down the street from Joe's bar, and brought the car to a screeching halt. He blinked, not believing what he was seeing. Surely he was dreaming again.

Richie was straddling his motorcycle, and Methos was just pulling away from the young Immortal. Had they been kissing? No.

**

Cassandra grinned, she couldn't have timed it better if she'd tried. She reached out with her mind once again, staying far enough back not to alert Duncan as she carefully pulled over to the side of the road,

**

Struggling to control the resurgence of the anger, Duncan gripped the wheel so tightly his fingers were left a bloodless white. He pulled in several quick breaths as Richie gunned his bike and pulled away from in front of the bar. Planning to leave the car right where it was, he opened the door, freezing as he saw the bar door open, revealing Joe.

"Adam," the mortal called out, handing the Immortal something Duncan couldn't quite make out.

As he fumed silently, they continued to speak for several moments, speaking in tones too low for him to hear. He waited impatiently for Joe to return to the confines of the bar, stalking forward as soon as the door closed behind the Watcher.

"Methos," he growled loudly.

"MacLeod!" Methos hissed angrily. "I don't think they heard you across town. Could you say that a bit louder?"

"You bastard!"

"What?!" Methos asked backing away warily. "What in the world is the matter with you?" he demanded, fighting the itch to reach for his sword. This was Duncan--the overly honorable boy scout.

"How could you?" Duncan demanded.

"How could I what?" Methos demanded right back. " *What* have I done, now?"

"You know damn well what you've done, Old Man."

A sudden light lit in his eyes, and he cast a quick look over his shoulder. "Oh! That!"

"Oh that?!" Duncan asked incredulously. "That's *all* you can say?"

Methos stalked forward. "I don't think there's anything else *to* say, Duncan MacLeod. What happens between myself and Richie doesn't happen to be any of your business!" he hissed. He'd known MacLeod wouldn't take this well, but he'd never figured the man for going psycho on them.

"None of my business!" Duncan roared. "You said you'd changed, Methos, but you haven't, you've just gotten sneakier. You've just learned to hide it better," he accused, yanking his sword from beneath his duster.

"What the hell?" Methos yelped. His own sword in hand just in time to clumsily block MacLeod's first blow, it succeeding it scoring a minor hit on his hand, however. He stumbled backwards off balance, switching hands as the blood from the wound made his hold on his sword precarious. He cursed inwardly, kicking himself for not being more prepared when Mac struck again, knocking his sword away before his off hand grip on it could settle. "What's gotten into you, MacLeod! Stop this!"

"Not on your life, Methos," Duncan jeered as he brought up his sword for another blow.

Methos dodged, and grabbing his knife, he lashed out, imbedding the blade in MacLeod's stomach.

MacLeod stumbled, his sword completing its arc awkwardly.

Methos' eyes widened in horror as he saw the flash of metal continue toward him. He lunged backward, hands flying to his throat as he felt the cold steel slicing him. As he fell to his knees, blood gushing through his fingers, Methos' last sight was Richie coming up behind MacLeod, sword out and ready.

*****

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Richie screamed at the man. "I challenge you, you son of bitch!"

"Richie," Duncan croaked. "I know what he did to you."

"Did to me?" Richie asked. "Did to me?! He didn't do anything to me...unlike you!"


"Richie, please," Duncan pleaded, horror and realization dawning in his eyes.

"No, Mac. I forgave you for trying to kill me. Twice I forgave you for that. I'll never forgive you for this. On your feet, you fucking bastard, or so help me, I'll take your head while you're still on your knees."

"Richie!" Joe cried out. "No."

Duncan stumbled to his feet, still gripping his stomach. "I'll not raise my sword to you, Richie," he said.

"Stay out of it, Joe," Richie ordered.

"No interference, remember?" Duncan continued sadly.

Joe stepped back, horror etched in the lines of his face.

"Pick it up," Richie demanded. "Last chance."

"No," Duncan replied, squaring his shoulders. "I'm sorry."

"Not good enough," Richie replied, swinging with all the anger and hurt that was pent up inside him.

Duncan's eyes widened in surprise as he instinctively tried to avoid the blow.

"Didn't think I'd do it, did you?" Richie sneered, closing his eyes. "Didn't think I could, not if you didn't pick up your sword? Well guess what, I'm not sorry to disappoint you!"

Richie opened his eyes just as the mist began to form over Duncan's headless body, his gaze latching onto Duncan's sightless eyes as belated reaction set in. His sword fell to the ground with a grating clatter as he dropped to his knees. His stomach rebelling, he lost everything he'd eaten. He continued retching long after there was nothing left to come up. **Oh my God!** he thought as the first bolt of his teacher's quickening struck with agonizing force. **I've killed him. I killed Duncan MacLeod.**

Richie shook as the bolts of quickening induced lightening struck him again and again. They seemed to go on forever as he repeatedly cried out in pain and ecstasy combined. A new horror dawned, however, as Richie relived the nightmares of MacLeod's last nights. Tears streaming down his face, Richie felt, as if from a great distance, a new presence and heard a woman scream.

"NO! It wasn't supposed to happen this way!"

**Fuck!** he managed to think through the chaos. He was down, and Methos was defenseless. Who the hell was she? Groaning under the continued assault, Richie inched his way forward on his hands and knees. He *had* to get to his sword. He couldn't save Methos by killing his own mentor, only to lose him minutes later to some lucky passerby!

The last bolt struck and the quickening faded away, leaving Richie battered and bruised. He shoved it all to the side, wrapping his reluctant fingers around the hilt of his sword, and used the last of his reserves to claw his way to his feet. Swaying slightly as he stood there, he blinked in shock, not seeing what he expected to see.

Instead of some strange woman standing before him, her sword poised to strike, she was laying on the ground blood staining the front of her shirt. Relief flooded through him, sending him crashing to his knees. "Joe!" he croaked. "Thank you!!"

He felt, more than saw Joe come up beside him. "God knows I had no right to ask you to do what you did." He smiled weakly, managing to look up at his mortal friend. He *hoped* Joe was still a friend, anyway. "Can't have my cake, and eat it too."

"I want you to know, I'm not interfering. I'm just making sure she'll wait until you're recovered."

Richie nodded weakly. "Well, I appreciate it," he said as Joe helped him to his feet. It was then he noticed the tense lines of the older man's face, the angry questions he was forcing himself to hold back. Richie winced.

Joe grabbed tighter as Richie swayed on his feet again. "She screamed about it not 'turning out right'," Joe muttered, some of his anger finally bleeding through into his words. "Know any reason why Cassandra might want you dead, and at Mac's hands--of all people's?"

Richie's world tilted, and he bent double, dry heaving. "That's Cassandra?" he squeaked, then ground out, "It wasn't me she wanted dead." The panic he had felt earlier upon seeing Mac's sword swinging toward Methos' neck returned full force. Knowing his legs weren't up to it, Richie didn't even try to rise. He simply scrambled on all fours for where Methos still lay dead to the world.

His quiet cry of, "Methos!" sounded at the same time as Joe's, "Oh my God!"

Richie pried Methos' hands away from his neck. He had to see how bad the damage was. Tears quickly filled his eyes as he saw the gaping wound. It wasn't healing right, even he could see that. He blinked, turning up to look at Joe helplessly. "He'll recover from this, right?" he pleaded. "Please, Joe, tell me he will."

**Lie to me if you have to!**

"I don't know," Joe replied shakily. "Kalas survived a bad neck wound, but Jesus, Richie!"

"He has to, Joe. He just has to. He's the reason..." Richie's voice trailed off.

Beside him, Joe made a strangled sound. "You mean, Mac...?"

Unable to voice it, Richie simply nodded. Then angrily wiping his tears with the back of his hand, Richie focused on Methos. Hope rose within him. The wound looked a *little* smaller.

"Can you bring your car closer?" he asked. "We've got to get him out of here. Cassandra won't be out long, and I don't think I can carry him very far."

Joe nodded wearily. "Sure, Rich," he replied his voice hoarse with unshed tears. "But, she won't be reviving any time soon. I unloaded the entire clip into her."

Richie tried to respond, but relief and gratitude closed off his throat, so instead he smiled weakly, almost giving in to the sudden urge to laugh. **Is this what it's like to be hysterical?** Richie wondered with a part of himself that was hiding itself from all the horror of the day.

"Just one thing, Rich, am I going to get an explanation?"

"Yeah," he sighed, nodding in defeat, and desperately hoping that he wouldn't lose two more friends today. Richie managed to hold himself together until Joe disappeared from sight. Dropping his head to Methos' blood soaked chest, he burst into heavy, broken sobs. "God, Methos. Mac is dead. I...killed him. I c-can't believe I k-killed him."




**********
Epilogue
**********


Richie blinked wearily. He was still sore and bloody from earlier. He was soaked from getting Methos cleaned up, and downing one more shot of rum, he couldn't care less. Beside him, Joe wasn't much better off, his blood shot eyes, tired and dull.

Richie swallowed, his grief choking him. "I am *so* sorry," he cried. "Damn it! I know that doesn't even begin to cover it."

Joe reached out a lay a shaking hand on Richie's arm. "There was...no way...you could have known," the Watcher choked out. "Cassandra played on everyone's fears."

"He," Joe paused clearing his throat. "He was on his way to see me. He said on the phone that he thought he was going crazy."

"God, Joe. If that...woman ever comes near me, she's dead. I swear it."

Joe nodded. "I figured as much," he responded without much heat, in fact, without much of any life at all.

Richie cringed, then fell out of his chair as Immortal presence coursed over him. "Methos!" he shouted, just as a strangled scream came from the bedroom.

He ran to Methos as fast as his alcohol befuddled body could move. He burst through the door to find Methos leaning exhaustedly against the wall, both hands wrapped weakly around his sword. "Where am I?" he demanded.

"You're--" Richie coughed, attempting to clear his closed off throat. "You're at my place," he replied as gently as his abused voice would allow.

"Your place?" Methos asked, dazed, then rallied. "Where's MacLeod?"

Grief closed over Richie in devastating waves. "He's dead," he replied flatly.

Methos sword clattered to the floor, relief, shock, horror, all vying for supremacy on his face. "You killed him?"

Richie nodded once. "God yes," he said swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I killed him."

"Why?"

Richie looked to Methos in utter dumbfounded shock. "Why did I kill him?"

Methos shook his head, slowly making his way toward Richie. "No, I know why you killed him," he said reaching up and tracing the scar along the base of his throat. "I don't think I've felt that much panic--ever," Methos whispered quietly.

"When I saw you two, his sword headed for you neck," Richie whispered. His voice breaking, he roughly pulled the older Immortal into a breath stealing hug. "It was worse than when he tried to kill me. I lost it, Methos. I completely lost it."

"I understand," Methos said gently, gripping the distraught Immortal just as tightly in return.

"No, you don't," Richie denied, the tears he'd thought he'd banished returning to soak Methos shirt. "You didn't see what I did--what I didn't do."

"You killed him--to protect me. I still ca--"

"I didn't give him a chance. He didn't even have his sword. God, Methos, I didn't even let him--" Richie hiccupped. "--explain."

"Explain!?" Methos gasped in shock, jerking backward.

"Cassandra." Joe said the name flatly, his voice absolutely devoid of expression.

"The nightmares," Richie gasped, then made a quick dash for the bathroom.

Methos started to follow, but Joe stopped him.

"She was sending Mac nightmares, Methos. According to Richie,--who says the memories are all a jumbled mess, more so than normal, even, and of course, they're fading fast,--for the last couple of weeks he's been having strange nightmares. Nightmares he was trying to banish. Nightmares about you. You and the--" Joe paused. "--kind of things you used to do. Apparently he was ignoring them fairly well, until this last week."

"What changed?" Methos asked, a dull rage building inside him.

"They did--the dreams. Instead of him seeing nameless, faceless women, the victims changed to Richie."

Methos paled. "He was seeing me," he stumbled over his words, "doing *that* to Richie?"

Joe nodded.

"Oh, god! And now Richie has those memories."

Again Joe nodded, casting a glance at the closed bathroom door. "They'll fade quickly," he asked, "right?"

"From your mouth to Rich's psyche, Joe."

"You're not sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything right now, Joe!" Methos snapped. "Damn it! I came closer to *dying* today than I *ever* have! And it was at the hands of a man I called friend!" Sighing, Methos stepped toward Joe. "I'm sorry. As to the memories. . . . You know as well as I do that it's different each time, what sticks with us, what doesn't. Only time will tell. But God, I hope it's not those particular dreams. I don't think I could handle it if..." Methos punched the wall in frustration, wishing Cassandra was here right now, just so he could kill her. In the mood he was in, he *might* even do it slowly.

"Was she controlling him at the end?"

"Who? Duncan?"

"No, Rich."

Surprise at the idea making him frown, Joe shook his head. "I don't think so, but unless you plan on asking Cassandra--"

Methos snorted.

"--I don't think we'll ever know for sure."

Methos sank down on the edge of the bed, letting out a shaking breath. "Do you realize how *few* people I've truly called friend over the years?" he asked brokenly. "Do you? You can add to that, that even fewer of them were Immortal. I don't trust Immortals, Joe." Methos broke down then, tears of anger, frustration, and pain, streaming down his face. "It hurts too damn much."

"What about Richie?" Joe asked quietly.

Methos closed his eyes, wishing he could close his ears to Joe's question. "You don't ask easy ones, Joe."

"I'm sorry, Methos," Joe apologized softly, "but I'm going to make it even harder."

"How?!" Methos asked incredulously, his head jerking upward to stare at his mortal friend, instinct driving him to his feet again. "The man just killed his teacher, his friend, the man he considered a father, because of something *my* enemy did. How could anything you say possibly make how I feel harder to deal with, harder to figure out?"

Joe sighed. Methos had to know. He whispered the first words he'd heard Richie say as he'd stepped out of his bar.

(("No, Mac. I forgave you for trying to kill me. Twice I forgave you for that. I'll never forgive you for this. On your feet, you fucking bastard, or so help me, I'll take your head while you're still on your knees."))

Methos' legs crumpled beneath him. He swallowed, then stared up at Joe. "She's dead, Joe."

"Yeah, Richie said the same thing."

"I understand her hatred of me. She has cause. But now she's hurt Richie--and Duncan," Methos added belatedly. "I won't let her hatred of me hurt the people I care about."

Richie chose that moment to stagger out of the bathroom, looking far cleaner than when he'd went in. "She's mine, Methos."

"She'll kill you."

"No, she won't."

"Yes, she will, damn it! She's three thousand years old. She'll use that damnable voice of hers and you'll lay down your sword."

Richie strode forward dropping down in front of Methos. "If, and I repeat, *if* she does that, then you can interfere. But you will give me this chance."

"I go with you," Methos confirmed. "You don't try to face her alone."

Richie nodded his agreement, managing a wan smile. "I may be naive, but I'm definitely not suicidal."

Methos raised a shaking hand and cupped Richie's face. "Good," he replied. "We lost one friend today. Neither one of us needs to lose another."

The two men leaned toward each other, gently touching their lips together. As each drew the other closer, it was with reverent care that they reaquainted themselves. And as they sighed, relaxing into each other's arms, neither noticed the front door close.

*****

It hadn't been difficult, Joe thought. All he'd had to do was call her Watcher. He'd told him where Cassandra was staying. Thankfully, the female Immortal had given the man the slip before Joe's 'small' act of interference. Alex had only caught back up with her after Cassandra had returned to her hotel.

Now, he was trailing Cassandra himself, Alex having gone to bed for the night, figuring his assignment for having been finished for the day. He was running on pure adrenalin, he knew that. He was destroying utterly what was left of his Watcher oath, he knew that, too. But what he knew above all else, was that he was going to see this through.

He wasn't going to lose either Richie or Methos to this woman's scheming. He wasn't going to let them lose each other--though he still hadn't come anywhere *near* wrapping his mind around *that* concept. When they'd touched lips-- He couldn't even really call it a kiss. It was too . . . reverent, too awe-filled to be called a mere kiss. --his world had tilted on its axis.

**Richie and the Old Man?**

It defied Joe's sense of the order of the universe, but hell, the least he could do was make sure they both survived so they could make it make sense.

He stepped forward into Cassandra's sight, just as she reached toward the mail box, wondering what had made her choose such a remote place. This section of town was almost always deserted this time of night--morning. He supposed with less than an hour left until sunrise, he couldn't really call it night any more.

She dropped her hand, turning to face him. One of the letters she'd been set to mail dropped to the ground.

He was surprised to see tears on her face, but not even that would stop him. Before Cassandra could say anything at all, he pulled the trigger, the silenced weapon making little sound as the woman fell to the ground, new blood staining the front of her shirt. Approaching her cautiously, Joe kept his gun trained on her.

Staring at him, barely clinging to life, she did nothing to stop his reach for her sword, and when he raised it high, she closed her eyes and turned her head away. He faltered for only a brief moment before he brought the stolen sword down with all the strength he had left. He felt the sickening crunch as it sliced through her vertebrae, and heard the ear shredding sound of the metal blade scraping against the rocks beneath her.

He scrambled backwards as the first of the mists arose from her body, watching as the quickening tried to find a new host. With none available, it quickly petered out, sending only a few bolts upward, disturbing only the leaves and dirt. Silently watching, knowing that eventually, this act would weigh heavily on his conscience, he dialed.

The wind chose then to pick up, flipping a small white envelope over. He'd forgotten that. Curiosity getting the better of him he bent down and picked it up. He almost dropped it when he saw who it was addressed to.

Joseph Dawson.

He damn near threw it down, unheeded, but absently crumpled it, slipping it inside a pocket as his call was answered.

"Peterson."

"Hey, it's me Joseph Dawson. I found Cassandra. She's dead."

"Did you see the other Immortal?"

"No. There wasn't anyone else here when I found her."

"Damn! Where is she? I'll send out a clean up detail."

Joe obediently rattled off their location, snapping closed the connection as soon as he'd finished. Then smiling grimly, he silently walked away.

"Done," he said into the air, "and with no lies told, even."

He wasn't going to lose any more friends -- not today.


The end -- or is it?




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Duncan MacLeod is the one to die. If you want to find out who killed him, you'll have to read the story. : )


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