Killing the Cat
Maygra de Rhema
1997THIS IS NC-17 RATED: Lovingly Graphic Male/Male Sex.
As always, The Highlander characters: Duncan, Methos, Richie, Joe, et al, are the property of Rysher: Panzer/Davis and I am ruthlessly exploiting their characters for no monetary gain and for my own (and now your) enjoyment but I will return them unharmed and no worse for the wear. This material may not be copied or distributed without my permission--I don't want R:P/D hunting me down--I have enough problems. Do not link, publish or post this material without permission. Much thanks to my editor's: Melina, elynross, Katherine, Rache and Dail whoever else had to suffer throughthe endless rewires. Send comments to Maygra c/o maygra@bellsouth.net
(Originally published in Futres Without End I)
Killing the Cat
Sneaking up on an Immortal was tricky, sneaking up on two was nigh on impossible-especially when you were Immortal yourself. MacLeod not turning around didn't surprise Methos. Since the shared Quickening in Bordeaux, they could spot each other's signatures a continent apart. However, the fact that Richie Ryan had not even glanced at the door to acknowledge another Immortal's sudden presence made Methos frown and tweaked that anxiety button he would never admit existed-to anyone except himself.
It was too easy to make excuses for the youngster. He was fully involved in his spar with MacLeod: mentally, physically, emotionally, painfully, Methos thought, wincing as Ryan went down hard, yelping at the agony from a deep slice across his thigh. And MacLeod, damn him, stopped the spar and knelt beside him as if he were a mortal, checking the injury; apology and some anger were written all over his face.
"I know, I know. It'll heal," Richie said with disgust, pressing both hands over the wound and rocking slightly to counteract the pain.
"Aye, it will," Mac said, hand still on Richie's thigh until the young man rolled to his knees and got to his feet, accepting Mac's hand up.
"Not if your opponent takes your head while you are contemplating how much you hurt," Methos said coolly. Both men turned to look at him, Richie with shock.
"I didn't see you..." he began.
"I noticed," Methos said, vaguely surprised to find himself angry. He glanced at MacLeod, pulling back, for a moment, from the fact the man was his lover. As a swordsman, Duncan was one of the best Methos had ever seen, but he was having serious doubts about MacLeod's ability as a teacher. The mechanics and the self-defense he could teach. He had also managed to imbue Richie with a healthy dose of self confidence-sometimes the hardest task of all-but was he really preparing the young man to survive the insanity they called the Game?
It was none of his business. Ryan was MacLeod's student, not his.
Too late.
"What is that supposed to mean?" MacLeod asked.
Was it Methos' imagination, or was his lover a trifle edgier than usual? In for a penny, in for a pound. "It means it's not enough to fight well," Methos said.
Mac glared at him, and Methos kept his silence, although he met the dark eyes. It took a second for him to get it-to understand the subtext below the hostility. Something was bothering MacLeod, something serious, and he was blaming himself for Richie's injury-for not paying enough attention to the lesson.
"You are familiar with Devereaux's defense?" Mac shot at his lover.
"Passingly," Methos said, adopting a neutral attitude until he could reassess the situation, then jerked as MacLeod tossed the sword at him. Not the katana but a broad-hilted bastard twin to Richie's broadsword.
"Good. You teach it to him," Mac said. He stalked off, leaving Methos and Richie alone in a rare and perfect moment of completely synchronous bafflement.
"He's been wired like a bad stereo all day," Richie said softly. He rubbed his leg idly, the wound having healed.
"But he hasn't said anything?" Methos asked, not really expecting that MacLeod would.
"Nada," Richie said, wiping his blade on a clean patch of denim before grabbing up a towel, only to find Methos swinging at him with a completely unreadable expression on his face.
"Shit!" Richie squeaked, barely countering and jumping back. "What the hell's wrong with you?" he demanded as Methos continued to press.
"Your teacher didn't say the lesson was over," Methos said and came at him again. Much to his approval, Richie didn't bother with any more questions but returned the parries. It didn't take telepathy for Methos to know that the younger Immortal was still distracted by the attack and completely uncertain as to how serious Methos was about the spar. Good. An improvement, certainly, and Methos pressed hard, wanting Ryan to wonder, wanting him to be a little afraid and off balance. He engaged close and twisted, bringing Ryan's sword arm down in a numbing crack across his knee that snapped his wrist, nearly breaking it. The maneuver made him lose his sword, and Methos could smell the fear on the younger man as his blade came under Richie's throat and paused.
"This could end very badly," Methos whispered in his ear coldly, pressing the blade against the flushed skin. Peripherally, he felt MacLeod returning and twisted to face the elevator as Richie sensed MacLeod as well. "You feel this?" he asked, resting his other hand on Richie's diaphragm, feeling the muscles flutter under his hand. "You feel that knot, that sick feeling? It's called fear, Ryan. Learn to listen to it. Learn to use it. In some ways it is a better weapon than any piece of steel. Swords only let you fight-the fear may keep you alive."
"Let him go." MacLeod's voice was hard and flat, his face impassive.
"Lesson's not over," Methos said evenly, all too aware that the level of tension in the room had gone up about ten notches. MacLeod said nothing, just waited. They were at a stalemate, and Methos regrouped. There was some battle going on here he didn't understand. Very slowly he pulled his blade from Ryan's throat and dropped his hand. He might have smiled at Ryan's rather obvious reaction to his close brush with death-the boy needed to wear a jockstrap. He gave Ryan only a cursory glance, however, his eyes still meeting Duncan's.
But not for long. MacLeod's mouth tightened, and he gave a barely perceptible nod. "I'll see you tomorrow, Rich. Same time," he said less coldly.
"S-sure, Mac," Richie said, heading awkwardly for the showers and eyeing the two older Immortals warily.
Methos glanced down at his sword, trying to keep his own anger under control. "Are you going to explain this to me, or am I supposed to guess?" he asked quietly. "Did you or did you not ask me to show him Devereaux's defense?"
"I did. I don't think Claude Devereaux ever quite defended himself like that, though," Mac fairly spat out.
"Like what?" Methos asked, completely bewildered.
"Seduction as a defense is kind of extreme, don't you think?"
Methos blinked, then again. For a brief moment his temper flared, and then the humor came at him sideways. "Whatever works," he said. "Christ, Mac! Don't tell me you never get hard after a close encounter! Richie's reaction was as natural as pissing."
"And you did nothing to encourage it," MacLeod said.
The chuckle building in Methos' chest was choked off. Was this jealousy? No, it went deeper than that. This was...suspicion.
Very carefully he lay the sword down on the bench. "I see. No. I did nothing to encourage it. Are we done now?" he asked icily, and at MacLeod's nod, Methos moved, not looking at his lover as he stalked toward the elevator. After a moment, Mac followed him, and they rode up in silence. Once the lift stopped and the grate was raised, Methos completely ignored his companion as he moved around the open room gathering up odds and ends and shoving them into a duffel.
"If it was nothing, why are you running away?" MacLeod asked, watching him. He kept the kitchen island between himself and his companion as if distance, or the barrier, could somehow resolve their conflict.
"Oh, I don't know, MacLeod. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that my lover just accused me of trying to fuck his student-or wanting to. Is it just me, or don't you think that might require a little breathing room? Just to keep me from giving my asshole of a lover a lesson that goes a little deeper than Devereaux's defense?" Methos snapped out with harsh fury.
MacLeod had the grace to look slightly abashed, dropping his gaze momentarily.
"Or maybe it's the fact that you may have taught the boy how to fight but not how to win, or how to retreat if winning is impossible. You plan on being there every time he gets something bigger than a paper cut?"
"It was a spar. He shouldn't have gotten even a paper cut!" Mac shot back.
"But he did, and you treated him like a child. You want him to be your student, or you want him to survive the Game, MacLeod?" Methos demanded, shoving his boots into the pack.
The question hung in the silence like a water droplet waiting to fall from the edge of an iceberg. Methos relented first, watching the play of emotions across MacLeod's handsome face. Something other than the minor incident in the dojo had set his lover off.
"Are you really worried about Richie's virtue, Mac, or is it my potential infidelity that is making you such an ass?" His voice was low and quiet, and he moved not at all from the center of the room.
The red flush that rose in the tan cheeks answered Methos as words could not. "I see," he said, and finished packing his rucksack. "Maybe all of this has happened too fast, for both of us. I am going to see if I can stay with Joe for a few days, or I'll find somewhere. Maybe we need to put a little distance between us," Methos said, half-praying Duncan would tell him what had happened, but Duncan seemed to be adhering to his heritage. It was a stoic Scot that watched him gather his coat, and MacLeod's unendurably rigid and admirable pride that kept him silent.
"Methos," it was soft and strained as the older Immortal reached for the handle on the outside door. Methos waited, not turning around. "We have...you'll meet me for our regular spar tomorrow?"
Not enough. "Call me," Methos grated out and opened the door, slamming it behind him before he changed his mind and lost every ounce of his own pride.
Joe Dawson had handled a lot of drunks in his time. Hundreds of them. A little sympathy, a little reasoning, a little persuasion. Unfortunately, Methos had five thousand years of built-in resistance to kindly bartenders.
The oldest Immortal had shown up at midday, before the lunch crowd entered. He exchanged some chit-chat with Joe, flirted half-heartedly with Karen, Joe's new waitress, and then settled into a booth with a book and a beer. By happy hour the beers had been replaced by straight bourbon, and the relative number of the pages before and after the one he was reading had neither increased nor decreased.
Joe had seen Methos drink. He had never seen Methos drunk. It was a pretty pitiful picture. Attempts at conversation were rebuked less and less politely, but since the man wasn't making a nuisance of himself nor barfing the contents of Joe's liquor stock onto the floor, he let him be. He called MacLeod and got the answering machine. A call to the dojo revealed that no one knew where the owner had disappeared to either.
And therefore it was with somewhat surprised relief that Joe greeted Richie Ryan just before the first set of the evening. Methos did not even look up upon the younger Immortal's entrance.
"He been here all day?" Richie asked quietly. Tuesdays were not big business nights: just the regulars who came for the relative privacy and true blues fan appreciation for the Tuesday night jam session, during which Joe and the band tried out new music.
"Pretty much. You seen Mac?" he asked.
Richie nodded, and there was far more concern on the youthful face than usually resided there. "He-he looks about the same, but he's passed out on his sofa after downing a good bottle-and- a-half of Scotch or more. I checked before I left to see if he wanted to come with me. Something very weird happened today."
Richie needed to talk and Joe needed to listen. "Were you scared?" Joe asked softly, his concern evident, when Richie finished relating the incident.
"To death," the young Immortal answered. "But it was...it was like Methos said. I don't think I was really scared he was going to take my head-not with Mac upstairs. But not knowing, realizing I wasn't entirely sure-that about scared me shitless," Richie said, and ducked his head to sip at his beer so Joe couldn't see the blush coloring his fair skin. Luckily enough, Joe seemed more intent on studying the man slumped over in the corner booth.
It wasn't the first time Richie had gotten a hard-on after a spar. There was something rather darkly erotic about sparring with Mac, about watching him, grappling with him. Outside of sparring Richie could look at his teacher and neither see nor feel anything but his friend, their friendship. He had tried to bring those feelings to the front of his brain, wondering if he were queer, wondering even more after Mac and Methos became lovers. The information had surprised Richie, but hadn't really bothered him. The streets he grew up on viewed homosexuality as just another facet of life-sometimes a lucrative one-but mostly just what was done to get by, to pay for the next meal or the next fix. Richie wasn't naive enough to believe prostitution was anything more than a way to earn a living, and the young whores he had known, male or female, treated it as such. Soul-killing to be sure, reason enough for most of them to turn to drugs to get a little relief from the day-to-day sameness of their lives. And there had been times when Richie had been tempted, when he was cold or hungry or just wanted to pretend someone gave a damn for a bit. At seventeen he had known that his options were growing slim, that what looked like a choice might become a necessity. Another year and the slack cut him by the juvenile justice system would have become unwelcomingly harsh.
Then MacLeod had stepped into his life. Providence, fortune, fate: Richie didn't question it. For awhile he had thought he had a family, one he'd wanted and who had wanted him. He and Mac and Tessa. A nice little fairy tale fantasy.
Tessa's death had been devastatingly realistic. Life wasn't fair, it wasn't always pretty, and watching MacLeod become more and more withdrawn and angry had been like a double blow. His over-protectiveness became both reassuring and suffocating. Until a hazel-eyed, smirking, ancient Immortal with an attitude had appeared and gradually the shadows lifted, little by little. By that time, Richie was willing to cheer on anything that would make Mac smile or argue or laugh.
Or love again.
He had been a little surprised it had been another man, but it made sense in a weird kind of way. Short of a challenge he might lose, Methos showed every intention of being around for a long, long time, and Richie could even admit to seeing what might be the basis for a physical attraction-much as he might admire a piece of fine art, or a well-constructed and finely tuned motorcycle.
So, what, then, had happened? Joe had asked, but Richie could do nothing except relate the actual events. Mac had been tense when they started their spar, distracted in a way he usually wasn't. It had increased when Methos appeared, but Richie was unaware of any prior tension between the two. Their relationship wasn't the smoothest Richie had ever seen, but they were both incredibly strong personalities, their own opinions defended with both fervor and humor.
So what had set Mac off? Following Joe's gaze, Richie studied Methos. The eldest Immortal had always seemed so careful to control his expressions, never quite letting anyone see anything except what he wanted them to see. At the moment it seemed those careful masks had been abandoned. Methos looked nothing short of miserable.
"You think I should take him home?" Richie asked Joe.
"I don't know...both of them drunk off their asses," Joe thought about it then reached for the keys to his car. "Yeah. Maybe if they both wake up with hangovers it will be some common ground to start with. Just...see if you can hide their swords," Joe added, only half-joking.
Riche tucked the keys in his back pocket and left his helmet with Joe before approaching Methos.
"Hey, Adam." Richie was rewarded with an unfocused glare in return. "Let's get you home."
"Home is where the heart is..." Methos muttered as he reached for his empty glass, frowning at it. "I try to keep it with me so I will never be homeless."
"Yeah, whatever," Richie said, feeling vastly uncomfortable. "Come on, Adam. You need to sleep this off," he said, reaching out gently to pull the man to his feet. He was surprised, although he probably shouldn't have been, when Methos shoved him, moving more quickly than his intoxicated state should have allowed. Richie backed off, aware that Joe was watching them anxiously from behind the bar.
"If Joe wants me to clear out, I can oblige him without any help," Methos said, and Richie almost snapped off a smart comment off without thinking.
"Actually, I think he's more worried about you than annoyed," Richie said soothingly. "Look, how about you and I just step out and get a breath of air?"
"Feeling lucky, young Ryan?" Methos said with a sneer, but he gathered up his coat. "I can walk by myself-I have been doing it for quite awhile."
Again, Richie backed off. Methos shrugged into his coat and headed for the door, more or less steadily-at least he didn't knock anything or anyone over. With a wave at Joe, Richie followed, feeling an uncomfortable sense of responsibility for the eldest Immortal. Whatever had happened between Mac and Methos was ripping at them both, and Richie was in no way happy to be a spectator.
Methos had not gone far, standing in the middle of the parking lot with his head tilted back, eyes closed. "I don't need a baby-sitter, Ryan," he commented, sounding somewhat more sober and slightly less caustic.
"How about a friend?" Richie asked, surprised by his own presumption.
A faint smile appeared on the pale face, angles and shadows deepened by the harsh light of the street lamps. "'Hoard them like wisdom, scatter them like flower seed,'" Methos misquoted. "Should I apologize to Joe?"
"Naw. He's just worried. Adam, you don't have to tell me, but what the hell happened?"
Methos studied Ryan's face. Had he been any closer to sober, he might not have answered. His brain was beginning to feel less like mush, but the pain in his heart and soul, which he had so liberally numbed with alcohol, was returning all too quickly.
"I missed a sign somewhere," he said. "Crossed a line."
"How so?"
The urge to explain it was strong-to see if his anger with MacLeod had any validity beyond his own perceptions-but it wasn't Ryan's problem, it wasn't Joe's, and in all honesty, it wasn't his. It was Duncan's. Unfortunately, if Methos cared at all about the Highlander, it became his by default. But it did not become Ryan's.
"Don't worry it, kid. We'll sort it out."
"Was it because of how you treated me...taught me?" Richie asked, wondering at his own contribution to the conflict.
"Don't take on guilt that isn't yours, Richie," Methos said tiredly and with an edge. "Of all the things you need to learn from MacLeod, that is not one of them."
"Let me take you home," Richie offered again. When Methos looked as though he was about to protest, the young man tried a different tack. "Methos, when I checked on him he was drunker than you. If this is making you both miserable, don't you think it's worth talking about?"
"From baby Immortal to relationship counselor? You are far more ambitious than I thought, Ryan," Methos said sarcastically. "Thank you for your concern. Leave it alone."
"Friends help," Richie persisted, suddenly aware that he was doing this as much for himself as for MacLeod or Joe...or even Methos.
"Then I suggest you go and help your friends," Methos said as he turned away, fishing his keys out of his pocket.
Richie had no more arguments, and suddenly he didn't need them. Methos went stiff, far more alert than even a moment ago; in a few heartbeats, Richie felt it as well, turning to scan the area opposite Methos.
Richie had his sword out quickly, wondering why Methos had not drawn his, but a glance showed the older Immortal had relaxed again, opening the door as MacLeod's Thunderbird suddenly pulled into the parking lot.
"Methos!" MacLeod said, getting out quickly. He reeked of Scotch as he passed by Richie.
"Don't make a scene, MacLeod. Go sleep it off," Methos said irritably as the Highlander grabbed his arm.
"I will make a scene unless you listen. Three words. I am sorry," Mac said urgently, not releasing his grip on the other man's arm.
"Not good enough," Methos snapped, jerking away.
"I will explain, if you'll let me," Mac tried more contritely.
"I don't think so," Methos murmured. "Not now."
"Yes, now," Mac said, his own temper rising.
"Uh, guys, this didn't work earlier today. Aren't you supposed to learn from your mistakes as you get older?" Richie asked and then put his hands up under the twin glares he received. "Got it. I'm going to get a beer." He retreated into the bar, shaking his head.
"I was an ass," MacLeod said.
"Was? You may have had a shift in perception, MacLeod but I haven't!" Methos said hotly, jerking the door open. MacLeod reached around him and slammed it closed, pressing Methos against the truck.
"What do you want? What can I say?" MacLeod said urgently.
"I think you said it," Methos muttered.
"I was wrong."
"That's not the point," Methos grated out.
"Then what is the point? Just hear me out...please," the last was said softly, MacLeod's body becoming less tense, not quite moving away but no longer trapping Methos against the truck.
Methos remained silent.
"I met someone..."
"Congratulations...a simple, 'it's over, Methos,' would have done," Methos snapped out, twisting away before Mac could see the hurt in his eyes.
"Not that!! Christ! Could you please take a deep breath and listen? I met an Immortal who didn't quite challenge me. He was looking for you, and he knew way too much about me and Richie...and you. Or so he said."
Methos turned, eyes narrowing. "Name?"
"Called himself Bernard Levitts. Looked about Richie's age, young-looking, dark hair, blue eyes...your size. He said..." MacLeod pulled back a bit. "He said you had been his teacher...that you...the long and the short of it was that you seduced him...that you did so with all your students."
"And you believed him..." Methos' voice went quiet.
"No!...I just...damn it, he knew too much about you!"
"Odd, since I don't know him..." Methos' voice took on an icy, sarcastic quality.
"Like you didn't know Cassandra?" It slipped out before MacLeod could stop it.
"Simple is better, MacLeod. It's over." Methos straightened up, his gaze hard and remote.
"I believe you..." Mac said desperately.
"Good for you. Now, get the fuck out of my way, MacLeod, or I will run you down like road trash," Methos said and jerked the car door open again. His expression was resolute and MacLeod looked like his world had dropped out from beneath him. He stepped back and watched as Methos slammed the door and pulled away with a squeal of tires.
"I'm not his Watcher, Mac," Joe said for perhaps the twentieth time. "As far as I know he's still around, but he hasn't done anything but call me once. Just to let me know he had left some stuff at your place and to ask if I would pick it up and leave it on my porch."
MacLeod dropped his head, studying the mug of coffee between his hands. He knew that. Knew Richie had gathered the things and put them together two days after Methos left him standing like a fool in Joe's parking lot. Mac had caught him, angry at first, but having already given his temper rein enough to drive Methos away, he managed not to do the same thing with Richie. He did, however, remain a fool.
"You seen anything more of Levitts?" Joe asked. He had run the check and found no trace of the man.
"He's around..." MacLeod said cryptically. Watching me. It was making him crazy. He dared not try to find Methos on his own with Levitts hovering close like some shadow. Any attempt on MacLeod's part to challenge the man had resulted only in laughter, and during the two forced confrontations, Levitts had slipped away rather than fight. Two weeks of feeling trapped by both circumstance and stupidity left MacLeod feeling less than in control of the situation.
He finished his coffee. "Joe, if you hear from him...tell him...tell him I'm sorry and I was wrong," he added softly. "He already knows both, but maybe if he hears it often enough, he'll believe it."
"You ever screwed up a relationship this badly before, Mac?" Joe asked, his quirky smile letting MacLeod know the question was a sympathetic one.
He chuckled. "Once or twice. Maybe the fact that Methos and I are both Immortal means I might have time enough to fix this one."
"What if he doesn't want it fixed?"
"Then my answer to your original question would be, 'No, I have never fucked up quite so completely in my life,'" Mac said with a faint smile. "I need to meet Richie. I'm going out of town for a couple of weeks...business in New York. He'll be checking on the dojo, maybe staying...although his Watcher will probably let you know that. Take care, Joe."
"You too. Watch your head. Hey!" MacLeod turned. "You think Levitts will follow you?"
"He might...I am assuming you have someone on him now if you didn't before."
Joe said nothing, and Mac nodded. "Better I don't know," he added and left the bar. Joe waited, listening intently for the sounds indicating that the T-bird had pulled away. Upon hearing the noise of the engine fade, he picked up the phone and dialed.
"I really hate lying to MacLeod," he began the conversation without preamble.
Methos hung up the phone, rising to pace the small efficiency apartment. It was plain, dull, and all he needed. For the moment.
His first instinct had been to grab a plane and head for parts unknown. He actually had his call placed to the travel agency when something MacLeod had said registered.
He knew too much about you!
More, or apparently more than MacLeod himself knew. And what MacLeod knew would and had confused even so perceptive a psychiatrist as Sean Burns.
I could use your advice now, my friend. An idle prayer but a fervent one. Duncan had overcome a great many things to accept Methos as a friend again. Far harsher a challenge than Methos had needed to overcome when their relationship slipped from friendship to something deeper...something more precious.
That MacLeod had prejudices took no huge leap of logic-one of them was having anything but a platonic relationship with a student. That Methos didn't share the prejudice was only one thing MacLeod didn't know about his erstwhile lover.
Which was the crux of the problem between them, not MacLeod's wild but annoyingly accurate accusations.
Guilty dog barks first. He sighed and reached into the tiny refrigerator for a beer, popping the cap into the pot containing the room's lovely, if completely fake, ficus tree. He hadn't realized MacLeod's opinion had come to mean so much to him. He had certainly never meant to get into a relationship that would...hurt so damn much when it broke apart. MacLeod was beautiful and passionate, a generous lover and the kind of friend Methos had lacked for most of his long life.
Somehow, somewhere, Methos had managed to delude himself into believing that what he and MacLeod had was no more than a compatible sex life. The friendship had been there from the start. More fool him for believing his own lies. Not until faced with the Scot's disapproval had he realized he had committed himself far more deeply to the Highlander than he had ever intended.
You never, never learn, do you?
He shifted his thoughts. Levitts was still dogging Mac, for what reason Methos could not even begin to understand. Neither the name nor the description Mac had given rang any bells whatsoever, and Methos could count his students on both hands. Granted, the hair could be dyed, the eye color altered by contact lenses, but Methos, for all intents and purposes, was a myth. Who the hell was this guy?
And do I want to avoid him, or do I want to kill him?
You cannot fight my battles for me. But MacLeod had, was...even if he wasn't fighting yet.
He wasn't ready to face MacLeod. He was not entirely sure he was ready to face Levitts, either. But with MacLeod leaving town and possibly Levitts as well, now was as good a time as any to prepare to face both. If Mac doesn't take Levitts first, he thought, and a part of him cringed at the cowardly thought that he almost hoped the Highlander would.
First, however, he needed to find a partner to spar with that didn't distract him with every flex of muscle or make his desire to end up on the floor under his opponent's body stronger than his desire to win the fight.
You have it bad, old man. He had to laugh at himself, at the irony. Reconciliation with MacLeod was not in doubt; it was just a matter of when. And that wouldn't be until he had the courage to let MacLeod know a lot more about himself...possibly more than the Highlander wanted to know.
Definitely more than he wanted to remember.
"Christ, MacLeod," he said to the view from the apartment's small window. "Why couldn't you just be an asshole like the rest of us?"
Because if he were, you wouldn't have fallen in love, his own conscience mocked him.
"Let me get this straight...you want to spar with me? Like, on your own. Like without Mac knowing?" Richie asked, caught completely off guard by Methos' request. Methos was a little caught off guard by his request. It had taken him three days to make it.
"Well, I'd ask Joe, but he's rustier than I am. I don't need a teacher, Ryan. Just a partner. I promise not to take your head," Methos offered.
"I am so not reassured. Why?"
"Because...." Methos hesitated. He could flatter and convince, or he could be honest. He shook his head-he needed to practice that as well. "Because you are here. Because you at least know some of the more modern styles, because you are the only Immortal I know in town who is not...at the moment...after my head."
"You really need to work on your flattery." Ryan tossed the towel from around his neck into the bin and glanced around the dojo. Empty. One or two people in the showers. He was reluctant. His last encounter with Methos was still fresh in his mind, and he had lost none of the fear.
And he agreed, because the fear had prompted something even more potent-curiosity.
Richie was panting harshly underneath Methos' implacable grip. "Distractions can get you killed, Ryan. Pain, surprise, words, lust." He released his grip for a bare moment and flipped the younger Immortal onto his back, straddling his hips, legs crossed over Ryan's upper thighs, hands gripping the young man's wrists tightly over his head. "You should have learned that lesson with Kristin."
"I did!" Richie snapped, annoyed at having been brought down so easily. Methos was right; Mac had not taught him nearly enough.
"Oh yes?" Methos said, leaning down and grinding his pelvis into Richie's, grinning evilly when he felt the young man's body respond.
The blue eyes flashed, anger supplanting his frustration.
"Let me ask you right now, Ryan. If I let you up you think you can walk with this?" Again the pressure on his groin, and Richie gasped as a sensation far different than anger flooded through him. He flushed, embarrassed by his body's easy reaction. Methos' face was close to his own, both their swords were on the floor somewhere beyond his feet, and he was having a hard time concentrating.
"Get past your body, Rich," Methos murmured and shifted his weight, legs uncrossing to lever Richie's legs apart. The movement brought unbearable tension to his cock. Richie began trembling, staring at Methos like he was a madman.
And he realized that Methos was every bit as hard and aroused as he was, except the man could still think. All Richie could think about was the need to find release.
As suddenly as Methos had put him down, he let him up, rolling back like an acrobat to end up on one knee, his sword ready once more. He picked up Richie's as well, holding it out hilt first. Richie rolled to his side, one hand automatically going to his crotch to ease the pressure there.
"Take it!" Methos snapped. "Or so help me God, you'll find out what dying in the middle of an orgasm feels like."
"Back off!" Richie snarled in return, but took the sword, climbing to his feet. "It's a spar, for God's sake!"
"Not anymore," Methos said and lunged.
That fast and Richie was suddenly certain he was fighting for his life. The erection, the anger, the distraction, all faded under sheer terror as Methos' blade cut into his arm. The older Immortal backed him up, driving him toward the wall. Not wanting to be pinned, Richie ducked and rolled, using a move Mac had taught him to rake his blade across Methos' belly... almost. Quick as a cat, Methos twisted, the edge of the blade tearing his sweater and leaving a gash in his side, but it hardly fazed the man at all.
Terror faded under technique, rage under rhythm. It was no less deadly, but Richie felt himself slide into an almost trance-like state, his concentration so acute thinking about it was almost a distraction in itself. He was aware of the mat coming up behind him, accommodating his footing so he wouldn't trip. The parallel bars loomed close from the corner of his eye, and he ducked underneath, using them as a foil for Methos' blade. Methos gave ground, and Richie followed, aware the other man was sweating, but barely breathing hard.
"Ryan," Methos' voice moved past his trance, and Richie found himself almost nose to nose with the oldest Immortal, their blades locked low, trapped together with no way to break unless both agreed.
"Is there a way out of this without losing my head?" Richie asked, his eyes never leaving the hazel ones locked with his own.
The corners of the eyes crinkled, and the hazel became more of a sparkling gold. "Always!" Methos said, lunging his head forward. Richie almost squeaked as Methos' mouth fastened on his, tongue tangling with Richie's before he thought to resist-and then he didn't want to. His body was throbbing. The erection he'd had earlier had not subsided at all, he had just put it out of his mind. He was as startled as Methos when he released his sword to place both hands on either side of Methos' face, holding him and deepening the kiss.
His brain didn't even register any questions about his sexuality or his curiosity. All he knew was the exhilaration from the fight, the aching need burning through him and reminding him he was alive, and a certain giddy attraction for the slender man who willingly surrendered control of the kiss to Richie's more dominant nature.
Oxygen, or the need for it, suddenly registered, and Richie pulled back, his brain engaging as he realized what he had just done. Coming to his senses he found an indulgent smile gracing the now swollen lips of his sparring partner.
"Shit!" He backed away, face flushing in embarrassment.
"Ryan...don't let it get to you..." Methos said, not quite laughing at him. "It means nothing. No more than the fight bringing you to such a physical..." the hazel eyes dropped to his crotch. "Peak."
"I never...Mac and I have fought before...if I'd..." Anger resurged. "You did that on purpose!" he accused.
Methos quirked a grin and inclined his head.
"Why?"
"Because you needed to learn to fight past your distractions, and I needed to remember it as well. Take a cold shower...now you know you can work past it."
"You son of a bitch."
"Wouldn't know. Never met her," Methos said airily as he headed for the showers, stripping off his bloodied shirt.
It took only a moment for Richie to realize the humor in the situation. Embarrassing and intriguing, but funny. And he had hit...the Groove. He could still feel it...that perfect state of awareness...knowing even as his body tried once more to gain his attention that he could find that place again.
MacLeod would be...
Pleased? Impressed? He had talked to Richie about it, worked with him on meditation, but in the years Richie had known and trained with his mentor, Mac had never been able to get him to that place-practice and time, the Highlander had told him, his anxiety obvious, his patience unending.
Mac found it through discipline, but it was not the same for everyone. His trigger, it would seem, was fear-once he got past that he was...free.
And what was Methos' trigger? Not fear, or not that Richie had seen. Wiping off his blade and grabbing towels, he headed for the shower as well, still puzzling the answer. He decided a cold shower was not the solution to his immediate problem, but a hot one with the judicious application of his own hand would suffice.
The shower was already on; Methos' clothes lay at the end of the dressing bench, although his sword was nowhere in evidence. Richie stripped and moved along to the second set of showerheads, wanting privacy-or as much as he could get in the wide shower room. Steam wafted over Richie, and he moved, seeing Methos leaning under the hot spray, arms braced against the tiles as the water coursed down his back.
He is so...lean... It came unbidden to Richie's mind even as he realized he was staring. He'd been using communal showers most of his life; this was no different, but for the first time Richie was all too intimately aware of another man's presence. That, coupled with the memory of the kiss, the feel of the hard body against his own, and his unrelieved need, pushed him forward, more boldly than he expected of himself. He went to the spigot next to Methos and turned it on, noting the other man's sword was within reach as he leaned his own against the wall.
Obsession or curiosity? he wondered as he applied soap to his skin, washing away the blood and the sweat. Methos had not moved, his body as hard and unrelieved as Richie's.
How can he stand it? His body trembled as he slicked soap over his own cock, almost gasping as the flesh leapt under his touch. Suddenly shy, he glanced over, reconsidering his choice of bathing spaces as he noticed Methos watching him.
His erection lost some of its force under the direct gaze. Methos' eyes flicked down then up again. "Sorry," he murmured, turning away, an unreadable expression in his eyes.
"Methos," Richie hesitated...what exactly was he asking here?
"Your curiosity comes in at the damnedest times, Ryan," Methos said. "You do know that's what this is?"
"I'm not sure," Richie said honestly.
"Be sure. If you are sure in a week and are still curious, come find me," Methos said quietly, grabbing up towel and sword, wrapping the first around his hips and laying the second across his shoulders. "Or someone else," he added as he passed by.
Richie stared after him then leaned back against the wall, letting the water sluice over his chest. After a moment he started laughing and looked down. Well, it might still be curiosity but the impetus was definitely gone. With a sigh and several deep breaths, he finished bathing.
By the time he was clean and dry and dressed, Methos was gone.
The loft was oddly empty, lifeless without the presence of its owner...but it was as familiar to Methos as his own face-more familiar and comfortable than his small apartment.
It also had a better shower. Richie was looking after the loft, and signs of his presence were scattered here and there, but they only added to the general feel of the loft being held in stasis -the extra motorcycle helmet, the extra sword kit, a dirty T-shirt-the items added nothing to the place, but only highlighted the fact they didn't belong here.
The water was hotter, too, Methos recalled, stripping off the already wet towel and rolling his shoulders under the spray to wet his back and then his hair. Mac's shampoo roused a different reaction, and the hard-on he'd been so carefully ignoring downstairs suddenly decided on a second bid for attention.
Smell is the most acute of senses...and as lifeless as the rest of the living space was, here, at least, Duncan MacLeod could still be found, in the warm steam, the shampoo, the lingering smell of the after-shave Mac most frequently used. All of it assaulted the eldest Immortal, and he gave in to the reminders, hand reaching for the aching length of flesh at his groin.
Duncan's hands were bigger, he thought, his own fingers closing around his cock to stroke it. Strong, perfect...Methos groaned as he stroked, leaning his other hand and forehead against the tiles as he set the same rhythm to his flesh his lover would have used.
They had been here, the night before their fight, some dinner or something, both in a rush and taking their shower together. "You wash my back I'll wash yours," MacLeod had growled in his ears as they laid out clothes. The washing part of it had been blissfully short, and the rest of it had made them more than fashionably late to dinner.
Fingers at his groin, teasing his balls, caressing the length of him firmly...and then the press of that body against his back, Mac's other hand between his buttocks, slick and demanding.
The thought of it, of Mac being pressed deep inside him, the strong body going weak as MacLeod pressed his desire into Methos' skin, spoke it in his ear...breathed it in his soul, caused Methos' arousal to reach its peak dizzyingly fast.
Methos gripped the showerhead as he came, body trembling as the harsh, hot waves sought an exit from his body to spatter on the black tiles before sliding down to be washed away. He leaned both arms against the tiles and tried not to fall. And the reality is so much better than the fantasy. He would be here, then, when Mac returned home...take his apologies, make his own. It would be so easy to screw this up...a million points of failure, most of them his own. He knew MacLeod-knew what pushed his buttons; Mac had as yet to find many to push in return.
Only one, Mac, and I'll be damned if I am going to let your approval rule my life! he thought harshly, turning the water off, all the while knowing it already did.
Richie Ryan showed more maturity than Methos would have given him credit for. He showed up the next night-on time. Ready. Which was more than Methos was.
He explained it all away by telling himself Ryan needed his confidence built up and accommodated that need by ending up on his ass three out of five times.
Richie was also smarter than Methos gave him credit for. Instead of offering his hand to pull his partner to his feet, he flopped down on the mat next to him. "You are way too distracted, man," he said.
"And you have as yet to try for a real attempt at my head," Methos snapped back, peevishly.
"Killer instinct. I am not a trained Doberman."
"Too bad. You can learn from them," Methos said and got to his feet.
"It's not me you're mad at."
Methos said nothing but grabbed a towel to wipe at his face, then stretched against the vault. Richie was still sitting, watching him.
"No." Methos craned his neck to work out the kinks. "No, I'm not," he said more softly. "Again?"
Richie nodded and stood.
The rest of the spar went better. Actual learning, instead of mere venting, was happening. Methos gained the upper hand once he was concentrating. Another thirty minutes, and he had Ryan pinned, sword at his throat.
He almost grinned at the inevitable reaction.
"You are loving this," Richie said sourly, letting his head fall back against the mat, his face flushed with embarrassment.
"Nice to be appreciated." Methos let him up then stumbled backward as Richie surged upward, propelling him back against the vault. The younger man pressed him, not for an attack but for a kiss, knee between his thighs, tongue stabbing toward his tonsils.
A moment later, he returned the kiss, relaxing, only to have Richie pull away, an angry, tight look on his face as he stalked away toward the showers.
Methos was halfway up the elevator to the loft when he identified the uneasy feeling in his gut.
Shame.
"I am too fucking old for this," he murmured to the control panel. He came out of the elevator in a tight, angry fury and stopped when he saw the answering machine light blinking.
MacLeod. Checking on Richie...and him. "I've tried Adam's flat...give him the number if you see him. Thanks, Rich."
Methos wrote the number down and picked up the phone only to set it down again. It wasn't exactly pride...or guilt...that wouldn't let him call MacLeod. Not quite. He stared at the phone for a long moment, and then he swore, whipping the towel from his neck and slamming it toward the wall. It flopped unsatisfyingly to the floor with nary a sound.
You trash his loft, and you'll have to do more than apologize. He could be in New York in less than six hours. He could be halfway to fucking anywhere in less than six hours and still be as close to Duncan as he was now. The Highlander was under his skin, in his mind, his heart, his soul.
He needed a drink. Without thinking any further, he gathered up his coat and his sword and his keys and headed out. Contrary to Duncan's amused speculations, Methos hated to drink alone. He would do it, but he hated it.
Almost as much as he hated paying for his own booze.
"Why don't you just buy into the bar and save us both a lot of worry?" Joe asked him an hour and three beers later.
"I'm not worried, Joe. Should I be?" Methos asked him, carefully keeping his expression innocent. "What are you worried about?"
"Only if I'm going to turn a profit each month," Joe said sourly. He gave Methos the evil eye, which the older Immortal blithely ignored, but Joe grinned when Methos wasn't looking. He had his own suspicions about why the till was off occasionally. Always to the good.
Sometimes he wondered if Methos forgot to pay his bar tab just so he could stay in debt to Joe -another reason to keep the connection open. None so persistent as those who dun you for money.
Not so pleasant a thought, on second glance. Joe watched the Immortal who was watching the guest artist on the stage, nice blues pianist-a little jazz, a little honky-tonk. Surely Methos knew there was more to their friendship than a bar tab?
Knew it but didn't want to acknowledge it. Graceful, easy excuse. When it was time to move on, pay the tab, and don't look back. He decided the bar tab at Mac's must be enormous.
He stiffened as Methos did, and truth be told, he doubted anyone else would have noticed. Methos had not really moved, sitting on a stool with his back to the bar, arms outstretched as he listened, but Joe caught the subtle tensing in the muscular shoulders, the way more condensation from the beer bottle hit the bar top as Methos gripped it tightly. For one fleeting moment Joe thought it might be Richie-or Mac or even Amanda, as unlikely as it seemed.
None of those, he saw as the door opened, and the newcomer paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim interior.
He was almost too pretty to be a man-not quite the way MacLeod was beautiful, but delicate looking, china doll fragile with skin that was barely sun-kissed, dark hair the color of midnight framing a face that looked no more than eighteen. Long and slim, a dancer maybe. Until you looked at his eyes, the set of his face. Nope, Joe decided with the confidence of a man used to assessing people, mortal or Immortal, and being right the majority of the time. This man had seen the back side of eighteen a long, long time ago. Standard Immortal dress with the long duster of the same midnight blue as his eyes, tight shirt, tight jeans-he could be a high-class escort.
Those eyes raked the bar just as Methos turned to ask Joe for another beer and to shift his coat. "Incoming," Joe murmured, pulling a bottle from the cooler, opening it and setting it on the bar. He glanced at Methos' face, but could see no flicker of recognition-as if he would if the older Immortal didn't want him to see anything.
Then he looked just as stupidly at the three one-dollar bills Methos left on the bar as he gathered up his beer and his coat to move away just as the newcomer approached. Their eyes met and held for a brief moment before Methos moved to a table closer to the stage to listen to the band.
"A brandy," the younger looking Immortal said in a soft voice and Joe nodded in response.
"Need some I.D.," he said even as he reached for the bottle. No hesitation as the man pulled out his wallet to show a driver's license. As if Joe didn't know, glancing at it. Bernard Levitts. The brandy was passed over and money handed back before his guest leaned against the bar, not unlike Methos had done earlier.
Levitts sipped at his drink, eyes traveling to where Methos sat with his back to him. After a moment he strolled forward to stand next to the other Immortal, watching the pianist. If they exchanged words, Joe couldn't tell. A few moments later, Levitts finished his drink and set the empty glass on Methos' table, then left.
Joe half-expected Methos to follow. He remembered to breathe when the older Immortal rose, only to return to his post at the bar.
"Mr. Levitts, I presume?" Methos said slowly, in just that voice, a smile quirking his mouth.
"He didn't say? And you-" Joe stared at the money Levitts had left.
Methos' smile changed, became a little more wry. A little sadder, Joe thought with a flash of guilt. "Don't know him," Methos murmured. "I really did not spend ten years memorizing the faces of all Immortals. See you later. Keep the change."
He pushed off, settling his coat over his shoulders.
Tab paid.
"Damn," Joe said softly, watching him leave.
Levitts wasn't waiting for him, for which Methos was profoundly grateful. No Immortal signature nearby at all as he made his way back to his truck. Relieved and anxious-the man had moved with the same grace MacLeod had. It was natural, and even if he had somehow managed to change his looks entirely, Methos would have remembered the way the other man moved. Only he didn't-no recognition at all, and most definitely not an old student of his.
So, who the hell was he?
He sat in his car for a long time outside the loft, thinking about it and wishing he hadn't been so angry with Mac. Nothing specific about knowing Methos that Mac had imparted during their very brief discussion. He could call MacLeod, of course, but...
If Mac didn't already know Levitts was no longer dogging him, the call would tell him, and he would be on the next plane back no matter what Methos said to stop him.
And it would be so easy to let him do just that. To let MacLeod come home, be there when and if Levitts made his move or realized his mistake. So easy...
He sighed and opened the door. He had apparently gained a measure of MacLeod's pride by osmosis as well.
He made his way up the outside stairs, only realizing he was grinning when he reached for his keys...a grin that faded as he opened the door.
An Immortal. In the loft. "MacLeod?" he called, his sword already drawn before he reached the end of the entranceway. His query received no answer, and he reached carefully for the light switch, flicking it upward at the same time he heard a snore. Then a snort and a small yelp.
Then a thump. Methos started laughing as the light revealed Richie Ryan in a tangle of bedclothes and sofa cushions with his sword up, blinking sleepily and warily. His blade dropped. "Oh, man," Richie breathed. "Do you just love scaring the shit out of me or what?"
Methos' laughter had diminished to chuckles by the time he closed the door. "It is a rather entertaining pastime," he said, sheathing his sword and then shedding his coat. "Didn't expect you to be here," he said, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator.
"Yeah, well...Matt called and asked if I could open the dojo in the morning. Easier from here," Ryan said, disentangling himself from the sheets and blankets and trying to get the sofa back together. "I left you the bed."
"Nice of you." Methos put the beer on the counter and leaned against it, stretching like a cat.
"I figured you would dump me on my ass if you found me there," Richie said with a grin.
Methos toasted him with his beer. "Very likely. Will the light bother you-by the bed?"
Richie stared at him blankly.
"I'm going to read," Methos explained.
A flush dusted Richie's cheeks. "Uh, no. No," he said and turned back to make up his own bed.
Methos studied him for a moment and then moved toward the bath, taking his beer with him. Now what had brought that on?
Richie stayed busy until Methos disappeared into the bathroom, then let his head fall against the sofa cushions.
Okay, so Methos had woken him from a sound sleep. From a great dream...from an incredibly, painfully erotic dream. He shifted the sheets off his lap and fell back onto the cushions, pulling the blanket over him to hide the remnants of that dream.
A very...very erotic dream that, once Richie had gotten over his surprise at being awakened, had come back full force in memory oh, about the time Methos stretched against the counter...in almost the exact same position he had occupied in Richie's dream.
Only he had been naked. And sweaty and...
Richie groaned softly then burrowed under the sheets when he heard Methos returning. The lights were switched off save the single lamp by the bed. For a long while Richie lay there listening to Methos turn pages, listening to him move, breathe...
It was going to be a really long night.
They did not see each other again until it was time for their spar, after the dojo had closed. It went well, Richie showing real concentration, but his good-byes were swift, his manner restrained.
It was the same the next night and the next.
On the fourth night Richie didn't show up. After an hour Methos started to worry and called his apartment. Then Joe's...then...he waited. Like a broody hen. Like a mother.
Like a mentor.
He fidgeted for another half hour before grabbing his coat and heading out, not exactly sure what he was doing. Chances were Richie had found some lovely thing with large eyes and was even now finding an exercise more to his liking than getting bruised on the hardwood floors of the dojo-mats or no mats.
He was missing a bit of that exercise himself. He shoved that thought down. MacLeod would be back in a week, and several gods long dead knew he had endured longer periods without the comfort of a warm body.
What surprised him more was the realization that he really didn't want to find a substitute.
He bypassed his truck. Richie's current abode of choice was only a few blocks away, and the evening was pleasantly cool enough. He was halfway there when he felt another's presence. He kept walking, eyes down but casting side to side, easing his hand under the edge of his coat as if his hands were cold.
"Lovely evening for a stroll." It was a soft tone in a slightly accented tenor voice. Methos had seen the way the man had paced him.
"So it is," Methos returned, lifting his head to stare ahead. "Following me, or was this just a chance meeting?" He turned to look at his companion.
Levitts was a lovely man, caught just as the burnished softness of youth was about to give way to manhood. Not unlike Ryan. Like Byron.
"A bit of both. Your...companion-MacLeod?-seems to think me a threat of sorts. I'm not, I assure you. I am only looking for someone." Blue eyes met Methos' gaze.
"Ah, yes. The Myth that is Methos," Methos replied.
"He's no myth, I assure you," Levitts said with a laugh that was nothing but a pleasure to listen to. "He's very real. So, do you not know him, or are you carefully hiding his location? You needn't. We're...friends, he and I."
"Or more than, according to MacLeod," Methos said.
"Once," Levitts agreed. "But he contacted me...not long ago. Said he was in this area. Spoke of the other Immortals he had met here. MacLeod and a youngster named Ryan. He was quite taken with Ryan." Levitts said, but the cadence of his tone altered subtly. "He didn't mention you."
"An oversight-Adam Pierson," Methos said, stopping under a streetlight near a busy intersection. Levitts stopped as well, nodding. "So, if you know him-what's Methos like?"
Levitts chuckled. "Hard to describe in a few words. He is...has overcome a great deal of darkness in his past, learned much. When he speaks, you...want to listen, to hear his history-know what he knows. He is a very quiet man, reclusive though. Thinks what he has to teach would be best learned on your own. He has a very distinctive face and a voice-you would know if you met him. You can hear the ages in his voice, see it in his eyes."
"Which are?" Methos quietly interrupted Levitts' poetry. No use in jarring the man out of his self-induced trance.
If I am ever so foolishly prosy in love, Mac, shoot me, he thought, but waited for Levitts' answer.
"Blue...blue as the Aegean."
Which was mostly mousy green, Methos recalled, but he nodded politely. "Sounds like someone to know. But I don't." The lie slid easily off his lips-or half lie. He had a pretty good idea who Levitts was looking for, and it wasn't him. Not like you to get suckered by the same impostor twice, Mac. Or was it-blinded by what? The threat to Methos-to his lover? The idea, he thought with some chagrin, that others knew MacLeod's lover better than he did.
But his suspicions produced a whole array of other problems-not necessarily for himself but for Richie Ryan, of all people. "Why'd you follow MacLeod to New York?" he asked. Worst he could get was a non-answer.
Another laugh. Levitts was being incredibly amiable. "Is that what he thought? No wonder he challenges me every time I turn around. Not following. Live there-have a business to run. But he does know Methos...as does his protégé." The blue eyes narrowed slightly. "I doubt if Methos had wanted to avoid me he would have called to tell me of the new people he'd met."
"I would think if he wanted you to find him, he'd have told you more specifically where to look," Methos said with an easy smile. The tightening of Levitts' mouth confirmed the second of Methos' suspicions. No use in seeking out Ryan now-better if he didn't.
Levitts was not going to be happy when he discovered his ex-lover and perennial infatuation had been beheaded over six months ago. "If I run into him, I'll let him know you are looking for him," Methos said shrugging deeper into his coat. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I was on an errand."
Levitts let him go, and Methos continued on, still half-expecting a challenge.
He made the rounds, picking up a paper and some food, small packages; ever alert for Levitts' recurring presence before heading back to the loft. His purchases were forgotten as he reached for the phone and saw the message lights. He ignored them for a moment and called MacLeod's hotel.
He was out, and more reluctantly than he had expected, Methos left a message for him to call.
He checked the other messages-including one from Ryan. Bike trouble...he'd had to walk a ways with his motorcycle to find a phone.
All accounted for if not present.
It was close to midnight when Mac returned his call. Greetings were brief and uncertain on both sides.
"I called your apartment first," Mac said by way of explanation for the lateness of the call.
Methos found himself wincing at that. The rift was deeper than he thought. "I'm...staying at the loft again," he said. "I should have told you."
"I'm glad," Mac said in that soft voice that had the ability to make Methos feel like the biggest shit on the planet. He leaned against the kitchen island, resting his forehead in one hand. And the worst part of it was that it was not a manipulation on MacLeod's part-he was honestly and truly glad Methos had returned home.
Home. Home as in a place you were welcome; where you felt in control or at least secure. That you hated to leave. All of those things communicated by Mac's response.
"I called because I met Levitts," Methos said, redirecting the conversation without even questioning why. "He's back. According to him, he wasn't following you-just coincidence."
The change of subject had not gone unnoticed. "And you believe him?"
MacLeod was seriously asking his opinion. Oh God, he was in deep kim-chee. "I think I do. He's not looking for me, Mac. He is...I think...looking for my dearly departed doppelganger-he of the message of peace and brotherhood."
The silence was almost a relief as Methos tried to get his fragmented mental processes back in line, until he realized the reason for the silence was MacLeod re-examining what he had heard, what Levitts had said, the conclusions drawn and the accusations made, spoken or unspoken.
The voice, when it spoke, was rich with the accents of the Highlander's homeland and deep enough for Methos to fall into forever. "I'm sorry," his lover said, and Methos almost winced under the apology. This apology, as he had not surrendered to MacLeod's other attempts to make amends.
"It's all right, Duncan," Methos said, wishing he could rewind the last few moments. "When are you coming home?"
"In a few days," Mac said with some effort.
"We'll talk then. I miss you," Methos said, which was as close as he could get to saying the other without completely losing any sense of himself.
There was a dry chuckle at the other end. "I've missed you as well. A few days then," he said as if sensing anything more would have to wait until they were face to face.
"Yes. Keep your head, Duncan," Methos said with some warmth and smiled at the returned, "You, too."
He hung up first, knowing that unless he did so, they would be hanging on the line for long minutes like infatuated adolescents.
Richie came back at the parry, hard, driving Methos back and not wavering at all under the feral smile occupying his partner's face. Two handed, Methos defended, twisted, and nearly wrenched Richie's sword from him, only to have the younger Immortal come back with a shove and an elbow-which Methos barely avoided. The blow caught him on the shoulder rather than the jaw, and he dropped, sweeping Richie's legs out from under him.
Richie fell and snapped out a curse but was already rolling, coming up on one knee to meet the thrust and parry, letting the momentum bring him to his feet again.
Then it was back to style and expertise, both of them covered in sweat and moving to a rhythm only they could hear, along with the flash and clash of steel against steel.
Richie faltered in fatigue first, but Methos was only a harsh breath behind. Still, he made it good, driving the younger man back until Richie hit the brick wall.
The younger Immortal kept up his guard, although he was panting harshly with effort. Two more maneuvers and his sword was locked by his teacher's body. Methos' blade ghosted across his neck, leaving a thin red line.
"Blood."
"Yield," Richie gasped out and waited, blue eyes locked with hazel for several long moments until the blade slid back, and Methos with it.
Swords at rest, and Methos nodded; he was pleased with Richie, pleased with himself, and feeling exhilarated. He stepped in closer to use the edge of his hand to wipe the thin trail of blood away.
"You went all out?" Richie asked as his breath came back under his control.
"Short of killing you, yes," Methos said seriously.
"No concessions for your student?"
Methos frowned. "I don't make concessions for my students, Ryan. I never have. But then, you aren't my student."
"What am I then?"
This whole conversation was going in an uncertain direction, and Methos looked at Ryan oddly. "A young Immortal who needed a different lesson...perspective," Methos said. "I'm not taking MacLeod's place here, Rich. He can still teach you things I can't."
"So can you," Richie said solemnly, then flushed a bit from Methos' uncomprehending expression. "It's been a week."
Methos still stared at him blankly until Richie pushed off from the wall. Two steps had his body in front of Methos and his sword on the bench. He licked his lips nervously and then looked down.
In a flash, Methos understood-and he didn't have to look, all he had to do was feel. He was hard, his body thrumming with adrenaline, with excitement from a hard and very gratifying spar. A quick shower and...
And he had offered. "Spar's over, Rich," he said with a faint smile, eyes narrowing in humor. "But not the lesson. Still curious?"
Red rewarmed the young face. "And then some, but I don't...uhm...you aren't my type...I mean outside of sparring I don't see-shit," he finished, exasperated. He gasped slightly as Methos reached out to touch the semi-hard bulge at the younger man's groin and then grinned at him with some humor.
"I'm not looking for romance, Ryan. Neither are you," Methos said, and Richie backed up a bit. Not from fear, but because he had drawn a deep breath at the touch of Methos' hand on his crotch, and when he let it out again he was dizzy. "All you want to know is what it's like, and I want to know...if you learn everything as quickly as you do sword work."
The wolfish grin that followed had the effect of both raising a spot of anger and easing Richie's mind that this was not going to turn into something serious. Somehow he didn't think Mac would take kindly to the competition. But then again... "Mac-"
"Mac is not here. He is my lover, not my keeper, and somehow I think you might have a problem asking him about this particular lesson. But, if you prefer, I am sure we can find someone anonymous for you to satisfy your curiosity with."
An out-it was what Methos was offering him, and he was half-tempted to take him up on it. But the elder Immortal seemed blissfully undisturbed by the proposal-or would that be proposition? He licked his lips and shook his head slightly. "No. This is...somewhere, I heard it's better with a...friend?" Richie said, feeling like a total moron.
"I might debate that," Methos chuckled. "There is something very wonderfully noncommittal about anonymous sex." He was actually enjoying the younger man's discomfiture. And he was uncomfortable about the realization. Christ, MacLeod. You're not even here but you are. Well, not entirely, Methos amended and leaned forward just a bit, watching Ryan's face. The blue eyes grew wider but he did not pull back.
"Only whores don't kiss, Ryan," Methos said softly. He said it partly to watch Richie blush and partly to put some perspective on this for himself. It was cruel and not entirely true. There was the concern in his subconscious mind-he had offered this to remove the mystery, not convert the younger man. And to remind himself...
Shock or courage drove Richie forward, a hand coming up to touch the face close to his. What Methos said had barely registered. It did now.
The skin under his hand was near smooth, barely any beard growth from the day, unlike Richie. Methos' skin was warm, almost hot from the exercise, from...
If his skin was hot, the mouth that opened under Richie's was scalding. With no frame of reference save the women he had known, Richie took the lead and soon found himself following-or falling. Stumbling, at the very least, as his back hit the wall again. Why did he think this would be so different? The lips were soft, the tongue skilled and sweet, the enthusiasm unfeigned.
He gasped as the strong fingers closed over his erection again, stroking him through the jersey fabric, sending a shudder through his body. Skilled fingers, perfect... Kristin, and no matter the outcome his mind slid there, repositioning his hand to pull the inviting mouth back to his own, encountering short silky hair and the press of a hard-muscled chest against his own.
The feel of unyielding muscle was alien and totally different. His nipples hardened at the contact, his cock twitching. "Oh, man, I am fucked," he said, squeezing his eyes shut as unfamiliar stimuli caused familiar reactions to wash through him.
"Not unless you want to be," Methos chuckled against his throat. "What did you expect, Rich?" he asked, lifting his head slightly so he could see his companion's face. "Trust me-your body doesn't care what gender you choose to entertain it with, and your cock doesn't care where you put it-only your mind makes the distinctions." The words were rough, blatant, but the tone was not; the voice was deep and soothing, almost mesmerizing, as were the bright hazel eyes that searched his face. Methos moved his other hand to touch the younger man's face, thumb trailing along his jaw, then his throat where the blood had dried. "Close your eyes...your mind will believe whatever you tell it."
It sounded like good advice, and Richie, for once, followed it. It was not the idea of having sex with a man that had held him back in his past-only the circumstances had seemed uninviting. And Methos was right-his body was giving him every indication that any further debate would end messily-and quickly.
He stilled the steady caress across his cock, and Methos let him, smiling again as he kissed Richie once more, slowly and deeply, bodies pressed close as the younger man's hand slid to his back, exploring, testing the muscles there, coming to rest at the base of his spine.
"Lower," Methos growled, and Richie obliged, feeling more muscle rather than giving roundness. The warm flesh was firm and hard, and he tested that as well, Methos pressing willingly against him.
Richie groaned as he felt his partner's hard cock against his groin and hip. Cloth-covered flesh rubbed and slid against his own, and he reciprocated. His fingers rode up again, feeling flesh as slick as his own with sweat.
It was easy to forget that it was a man under his hands as he let his fingers trace upward under Methos' shirt, feeling muscles flex as Methos guided his hands. Richie took the lead in the kiss, and Methos yielded under his demands. His groin was throbbing in time to his own quickened heartbeat, the latter speeding up as he let his hands rove low again, along smooth skin, under fabric to clutch at the muscled buttocks. Richie came up for air.
He almost fell when Methos stepped back, unaware of how much the other man had been supporting him. He needed it when Methos reached to pull his own shirt off and drop the sweats, stepping out of them with an unconscious grace and lack of modesty that Richie might have envied above all else-had he been thinking anywhere but below the belt. For his own self respect, his brain did engage briefly, the urgency of his erection fading slightly. It was only a momentary lapse. Momentary, because Methos gave him little time to think and only the briefest opportunity to admire.
Warm hands slid over his chest, pulling his shirt up. "Last chance..." Methos said, meeting the blue eyes steadily. "It's not that different..."
He wasn't a virgin. Methos certainly wasn't and-aside from the fact that his own hands at this point would be a severe letdown, though serviceable-he really was more than simply curious. He had seen Methos naked before, but not for him, not in circumstances other than accidental.
Masculine comparisons sprang to mind as Richie pulled his shirt off. They were of a height. He was bigger, more broadly chested, and felt entirely awkward. And nervous.
He needn't have. Whatever reasons Methos had for doing this, offering this, his partner's relative inexperience was not a factor. Fingers stroked through the hairs on his chest, but the drive was too immediate. A touch and Richie was hard again; the press of Methos' mouth against his chest, and he was past thinking.
Later, he could not remember who pulled his sweats off, only that a hand closed over his bared cock to stroke it with nearly the exact rhythm he would have applied to himself-echoed by his own hand on another cock, different in feel and size but just as exciting as the flesh twitched and leapt under his touch, fluid slicking the skin. They shifted, moved, almost danced, and Richie groaned as the touch was withdrawn, leaning his cheek against a sweat-slicked back, and the touch came again, guiding him, thighs and buttocks parting for him.
He heard a grunt, felt muscle flex and tighten under his cheek, beneath his hands, and then he was groaning, hissing at the sharp burn of friction as his cock pushed into Methos' ass. The pain passed quickly, and Richie groaned as his flesh was pressed and squeezed, resistance adding to the need to thrust. Then his hardness slid into the tightest, softest grasp he had ever felt outside his own hand. "Oh Christ," he hissed and jerked, pressing a fist against the wall outside of Methos' shoulder for leverage. "There is a huge difference," he said through tight lips and heard a breathless chuckle in response, a lessening of the grip around his cock from the other man's body. He couldn't move. He felt like he would explode but he had to...had to...
As with the fighting, he was suddenly there, in a rhythm, faltering at first but steadying under the feel, the need and desire, the encouragement spoken but not understood.
It was rushed and overwhelming and every bone in his body turned to liquid as he shuddered and jerked and released his semen into the tight channel, slicking him, his partner...and he leaned heavily against Methos' back, gasping as spasms continued to lance through him for long moments. Beneath him, Methos was still, drawing deep breaths. Richie should have fallen over in exhaustion, but the slim body beneath his was still tense, trembling under his own unrelieved erection.
Methos made no move to ease his hardness even as he straightened up, stretching muscles pulled during Richie's short, if enthusiastic, introduction to sex with another man. Gingerly, he turned to face his student...lover...of the moment.
And found himself pressed back, a warm and demanding mouth on his own. Whatever else Richard Ryan was, an inconsiderate lover was not on the list. Richie's hand closed over his cock again, stroking it, pumping the swollen flesh, alternating gentle strokes with firm ones until Methos felt the spasm begin in his groin, swelling outward, sensation burning through his belly and back. Richie held him as he came, one arm braced against the wall, the other around Methos' waist as the older man clung to his shoulders.
Only when his own breathing matched that of his lover did Methos open his eyes again. "Well, you certainly don't need any lesson in satisfying a partner," Methos murmured, leaning back, half-closed eyes the only indication of his level of satisfaction. Like a cat...a long, sleek, secretive cat.
Richie grinned at him, for once able to ignore the blush staining his cheeks. "Seemed only...fair...although not quite equal."
With surprising tenderness, Methos cupped his cheek and made Ryan look at him. "There will be other opportunities, Rich. If you look for them."
"But not with you," Richie returned with untainted certainty.
Methos dropped his hand to the younger man's shoulder. "No. No, probably not," he said, as certain as Richie was. "At least not in the near future."
"This is what you and Mac were fighting about." Richie moved away, two short steps to where the towels waited on a rack. He pulled one for himself and one for Methos, wiping at his stomach where Methos' cum still glistened in the golden hairs.
"Not exactly. Catalyst. Not cause."
"But you did it anyway? Why?" Richie wanted to know. He wasn't hurt, just curious. Again. He finished wiping himself down and pulled his sweat pants on.
Methos was silent for a long moment, trying not to let his irritation show at how these last few minutes of intimacy had somehow communicated the message to Ryan that his companion's life was suddenly open for discussion. "Because I can," Methos said shortly, squatting down to retrieve his own clothes. "Because...being...with someone doesn't mean you have to give up everything."
"But you do have to give up some things," Richie said. "Right?"
He got no answer, and even had one been forthcoming, it would have been interrupted. Methos' head shot up first, and he came to his feet already moving to where their swords lay on the bench. He relaxed even before they heard the keys in the door.
Realization hit Richie a moment later, and he spun madly, gathering up clothes and towels, eyes big as saucers.
Methos only smiled faintly and pulled his own sweat pants on. He was actually more nervous than he dared let Richie see, but he would never show it to MacLeod. Nor any hint of guilt.
The smile on MacLeod's face didn't fade until he was halfway across the floor and saw the panic on Richie's face, his lover's impassive expression, and finally noticed the very prevalent scent of sex in the dojo's enclosed space.
"Mac, it was...we were sparring-" Richie began, as the smile faded and the look on his mentor's face darkened.
"Shut up, Richie," Methos said softly, watching the emotions play across MacLeod's face. "I wasn't expecting you for another couple of days."
"Apparently," MacLeod said, putting his bags down with studied care.
Methos tossed the soiled towel into the hamper. When he turned back he was not expecting the fist his face encountered.
Richie lunged forward to grab MacLeod's arm. The blow had staggered the older Immortal but he was still on his feet. Blood trailed down his lip to his chin. His expression changed not at all.
"A little sexually charged sparring?" Mac said flatly, shaking off Richie's arm. "So, was he any good? Levitts isn't after you, therefore any student is fair game?"
"When you've finished being an ass, let me know," Methos said evenly, wiping his mouth. "I'm having a hard time telling the difference anymore."
"Why?" MacLeod demanded, some of his anger bleeding off.
Methos' explanation to Richie was on the tip of his tongue, and he bit it back. To see how far I could push it, he thought bitterly to himself, turning away. I guess I know. There was no triumph in the knowledge.
He reached for his shirt and his sword. He had things upstairs. It wouldn't take long to pack.
MacLeod surprised him again. The katana slammed down across his blade. "Let's see how much of a charge you can get out of this," Mac hissed and flipped the blade up.
Eyes narrowed, Methos recovered. Tension slithered into his muscles and locked there as he took a step back. "Fighting for Richie's honor or your own, MacLeod?" he said in a low voice.
"This has nothing to do with honor," Mac said, and attacked.
Richie stepped back. Judging by the looks on their faces, being a non-combatant was no guarantee of safety.
Nothing showed on Methos' face, and MacLeod's only showed the intense concentration he always gave to a fight. They had moved away from the benches into the center of the dojo. The only sounds were those of steel to steel again, the soft pad of Methos' bare feet on the wood and the slide of MacLeod's hard-soled boots as he shifted and spun to counter a furious flurry of blows.
He took no time to recover, whirling, driving Methos back, almost over the bench, but the older Immortal wasn't blindly lost to emotion, not falling for such a trick. In fact, he might as well have been feeling nothing for all that it showed on his face. He put the bench between them, swaying slightly, like a cobra waiting to strike. MacLeod was still, eyes flickering over his opponent, fixing on the pulse at his throat, watching his shoulders. Methos feinted left, and MacLeod was there to meet him, driving his blade down and trapping it. For a brief moment they were nose to nose, MacLeod's larger bulk enough to keep his opponent still, waiting for Methos to yield.
A twist and shove from the wiry body and MacLeod was stumbling back, blood across Methos' thigh from a deep wound where they had disengaged blades. Mac gave him room, staring at the gash. Methos gave nothing and rushed him.
"Guys, enough!" Richie yelled, backing away as they came toward him. Neither man seemed to hear him. The expressionless mask on Methos' face had changed. Anger was there now, a set to his jaw that had nothing to do with pain even though he was limping. MacLeod had gone from offense to defense, a faint look of surprise on his face as Methos drove him back.
A blow fell that Mac barely managed to parry-did not, if Richie saw it right-Methos' blade turned at the last moment to keep from drawing blood; but then the older Immortal was quickly on the attack again, fast, slick, sword moving so fast it was only an arc of silvery light. Another close call and Mac stepped into it, eyes narrowed when, instead of taking the cut, Methos once more turned his blade back and stumbled to regain his equilibrium.
An attack by MacLeod, one that Methos, with his skill, should have been able to avoid, but more blood stained the old wood floor. Then he was on the defensive again, the dance growing more intricate as MacLeod pushed harder, probed for and found the perfect opening but didn't take it. Dark eyes met hazel in a different kind of challenge, one that was almost, almost understanding.
Methos gave ground, panting slightly, watching MacLeod warily. His lip had stopped bleeding, healed as had his thigh and his side, but there was still blood on his chin, on his throat. The wound along his belly was still healing as the blood soaked into the light grey jersey material of his sweats.
The question MacLeod had asked hung between the two men like a third sword, but Methos refused to answer, lifting his chin slightly.
Even if he won this fight, he would lose. May have already lost. And yet he could not tell Mac why. Not now. Not when Duncan demanded it of him. Not when the answer would strip him of everything he was.
MacLeod saw both the defiance and the defeat in his lover's face and understood neither. He didn't understand any of it. Without a word he relaxed his defensive posture. The katana vanished into his coat, and he picked up his bags, heading for the elevator.
Splitting his gaze between Methos and MacLeod, Richie finally chose anger over comfort and followed MacLeod. The anger he could vent. The comfort would most likely be shunned.
Methos watched them, waited until he heard the motor grind as the lift moved, and finally let the tension bleed away again, seeking a bench to sit on and then lay back on. He was a fool. He was a coward. And now, thanks to both, he was alone.
Throughout the fight, Richie had argued with himself. Should he interfere, come between them? He decided against it, not from any lack of courage, but because such a move was as dangerous to the opponents as to himself. Not that any accidental death would be permanent, but it would still hurt.
And what the hell did Mac think he was doing, anyway?
There was no way for him to immediately absolve himself of guilt. No matter what Methos said, he had stepped into forbidden territory-into MacLeod's territory-and he had done it willfully.
No, it had nothing at all to do with honor. It had to do with betrayal. Or did it? If it did-why was Mac going after his lover and not Richie as well? Why not walk away and wash his hands of them both?
Because Richie was his student. Because it was easier- had always been easier- for Mac to think of Methos, rather than Richie, as the one with no code. After all, he had given Richie his own code, hadn't he? Guilt gave way to anger. Not that he was foolish enough to want to take MacLeod on in his present mood, but he was not even considered worthy of notice.
It pissed him off and not just for himself, but for Methos as well...and MacLeod.
The fight was just that-a fight. Not a challenge. MacLeod wanted to beat Methos, not kill him. Methos was equally determined not to be beaten. It was dangerous and deadly. There would be no beheading, but that didn't mean no one would die.
It wound down: Methos blooded; MacLeod, resolute, for all the younger Immortal could see. He gave only a glance at Methos as he followed MacLeod into the elevator, watching the older man sit, then lay back before the lift shaft blocked his view.
MacLeod said nothing as they rose nor when the elevator stopped. He lifted the gate, and with less than his usual caution, he tossed his bags to the floor, stripped off his coat, and dug a beer out of the refrigerator. He offered nothing to Richie as he stood in the middle of the loft, surveying his domain.
Methos had cleaned. His books lay neatly stacked on the coffee table. More on the island. A few steps showed the bedroom just as neat. Clothes folded on the trunk at the foot of the bed, laundry ready to be put away. The refrigerator had been stocked, not just with beer, but with food: fresh produce, homemade pasta, the things MacLeod liked best. Things that would keep for a couple of days. A bottle of very fine white wine was in the rack-not one that MacLeod had purchased.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why.
"Why aren't you mad at me?" Richie asked. No, demanded. He had his own things. Methos had folded them as well. With his bag. The linens from his makeshift bed on the sofa had been long since put away.
"What makes you think I'm not?" MacLeod said flatly.
"You didn't pull a sword on me!" Richie snapped at him and thought he saw MacLeod wince. Yes, he had. In the past, once before. "It was my idea," he said with less force and volume but no less anger.
"I thought it might be," Mac said and set the half empty beer down on the counter, well aware that his student was staring at him with something akin to shock.
"Then why?" Richie asked.
"He could have said no."
"He did the first time," Richie said harshly, and MacLeod looked up at him, mouth open to speak. He closed it. "It's not exactly something I could ask you to show me, now is it?" Richie said and got his own beer.
MacLeod shook his head then dropped it, hand coming back to pull the clasp from his hair and sort through the sweat-dampened thickness. "No. No, I suppose not, but he could have..."
"Could have what?" Richie snarled, feeling a righteous anger well in him for the man downstairs.
"Pointed you in the right direction rather than shown you the way," Mac said flatly, dark eyes glinting dangerously.
"He offered that as well. I wanted to...I wanted more than a hustler or some bar pickup," Richie said, guilt resurfacing. "I wanted...whores don't kiss," he said, almost mumbling, but Mac heard him and his gaze went a little unfocused.
"What?"
"Methos said it."
Whores don't kiss. They don't clean your home. They don't prepare a meal as an apology. They don't show young men more than the mechanics of a sexual relationship.
But they will tell you they love you for an extra twenty.
Richie had wanted to know why as well. Why his heretofore seriously straight mentor had chosen to take up a relationship with another man. Why Methos could look at the student and see a man when MacLeod could only look at the student and see...a responsibility.
"Go home, Richie," he said. "It's over and done."
"What are you going to do?"
"Well, I'm not going to kill him," Mac said with a trace of irritation. "Or you. But if you get a few more bruises next time we spar, you'll know why."
"That easy. You can forgive me that easy. Christ, Mac. He didn't force himself on me! He didn't trick me into it!" Richie's face was twisted up in a combination of anger and confusion.
"Don't you look to me for punishment, too!" MacLeod snapped at him and then went rigid. "Fuck," he hissed. "Go home, Rich," he said again, heading for the elevator.
He told himself he was giving MacLeod time to cool off; that he and Richie needed to talk. That he was angry and couldn't hold a coherent conversation that wouldn't degenerate into another battle, only this time with words. That he was tired and needed to rest, to let his wounds heal, and to allow both his body and his temper to cool down.
It was all true. It was also much more comfortable to lay back and think of all the reasons he and Duncan should not talk at the moment than pay heed to the voice telling him they had put it off long enough.
He was just arrogant enough to think he might be able to salvage something out of this. Drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly, Methos sat back up again, then stood. A glance down convinced him he needed a shower first. He did not want to give Mac any reminders of their duel.
As a stalling tactic it was marvelously effective, but he didn't linger any longer than necessary to wash the sweat and blood from his skin. Nor had he any choice but to put back on the bloodied sweats. He did make the attempt at getting some of the blood out, blotting at it with a towel.
The Immortal presence impinging on his senses was not MacLeod. Richie then. He had enough in him for one discussion, not two. Sighing softly he pulled the damp sweats on and headed into the gym for his shirt.
And stopped, barely realizing he had been caught totally and completely off guard.
"Mr. Pierson. Why am I not surprised?" Levitts said, meeting Methos' shocked stare with far less friendliness than he had on their last meeting.
"I've no idea," Methos murmured, recovering slightly and continuing to move. His sword was held loosely. "I certainly am," he said more strongly, cutting a glance at the open door. MacLeod had not relocked it when he returned. "We're closed."
"So I gathered," Levitts said moving easily into the room. "Where is he?"
"I've no idea," Methos said.
"He hasn't left yet. I've been watching."
"Who hasn't left yet?" Methos asked, caught off guard a second time. He was having a really bad evening.
Levitts casually took off his long coat and draped it over the bench near the office. "Ryan," he said flatly and glared at Methos. "I've a challenge for him."
"Over what?" Methos asked, watching the other man warily.
"Protecting MacLeod's student? Your own?" Levitts snapped.
"I take it you found your friend," Methos said, most of the story clicking into place-just not the details.
"I found out he is no more," Levitts hissed. "That young bastard won't live to enjoy his betrayal." He paced the room, checking the elevator only to find out it needed a combination to use.
"Not that I need to explain this to you, but it's the Game. And Ryan didn't kill your friend," Methos said, keeping his voice calm.
"He was more than a friend!" Levitts said harshly. "I never came to hunt him-I came to find him. I thought you-they-were being loyal, to protect him from a stranger. He was so trusting-he needed protection. Old as he was, he was so naive, to trust so easily-to believe so fully that others could be as peaceful as he was. All he wanted was for the Game to end!"
He wasn't the naive one, Methos thought, but did not say out loud, and as for being more than a friend-would the revelations never end? he thought ironically. "But not all you wanted," he said gently, knowing it was a risk, but Levitts was wired for a fight. Methos had no intention of giving him one-or giving Levitts a shot at Ryan, if he could help it. Not now and not over a misunderstanding.
You'll fight for Richard Ryan but not for MacLeod...now where's the sense in that? he thought, but his eyes never left Levitts, who was pacing now, pouring out his failure to his more or less captive father-confessor.
"He wanted me to stay, but I...there was so much to see. We lived in such exciting times...while he taught me. The courts of France, the suppresser being overthrown.... There was such passion around us and he preached peace...sought quiet...I wanted..."
"Your freedom," Methos murmured, and Levitts only heard him enough to nod. And now Levitts wanted the peace he had abandoned. Had thought to recapture it under his old mentor's aegis. Methos had seen that. For all his misguided planning, the impostor had been at peace, with himself, his Immortality...enough to want it to extend forever, and the only way to ensure that was...
Two ways...either stop the fighting, or make sure you were the best. When had his double realized he would never be the best? That the passion his young lover, his student, had so envied was needed to live the life they had to...to survive it with any desire to continue?
Had the man not been so agitated, Methos might almost have sympathized. Nor was he ignorant of the fact that his namesake's life had paralleled his in more than one way. Or perhaps it was Levitts that seemed so familiar-seeking out passion, excitement...the fire that gave life meaning.
As Methos had sought out MacLeod. And it had worked. Passion was contagious. Living was more so.
"She said...he was the last to see him. Then he was gone," Levitts was still talking, had managed to get closer and Methos backed up a step, sword coming up, but not to attack.
"Ryan didn't kill him. He had laid down his sword, ready to join him in his search for peace among us," Methos said, meeting the dark eyes.
"She saw it-the housekeeper. The Quickening. The Storm." Levitts' eyes narrowed. He had been on his quest too long-too long to give it up in defeat, to surrender to the fact that it was over. "Lying to save your student, your lover, perhaps. I can understand. He never lied for me."
No, only to you. "You'll have to wait, then," Methos said and took a more defiant stance. Not much, just enough to let Levitts know that if he wanted the satisfaction of Ryan's head, he wouldn't find it tonight. Not here.
He could not for the life of him understand why he was willing to fight Ryan's battles for him.
Except that there was no battle, not really. It was as senseless as any death in the Game.
"Then perhaps there is justice in this after all," Levitts said. "One for one-what he took was precious to me. How precious are you to him?"
Not this precious, Methos thought, blocking the swing without thinking about it. No matter what he told Levitts-that Culbraith rather than Ryan had taken the head of Levitts' lover-this was not about justice or revenge. It was about longing, about injustice, about missed opportunities and regrets.
About a passion that had faltered centuries ago but never disappeared.
It drove the man, and Levitts was no part-time warrior. He was fluid and graceful, echoing styles Methos had thought long since banished from the ranks of swordsmen. His match at the very least. Perhaps MacLeod's match as well, and fueled by his own impotence, by his frustration and anger at having come too late to his choice.
It was more than testing, but that was there, too. Blades locked more than once as Methos' attempts to bring this to a quick conclusion failed within the first few moments. Levitts was that good, and all the passion in the world couldn't beat sheer skill.
Methos had found the passion as well, and that separate battle within himself was working against him here. That and the spar he and Richie had finished, the sated weariness of passion's expression.
And his own blood on the floor as he slipped.
Levitts moved as he went down, Methos barely able to block the blow. He was sprawled not with elegance or casual disarray, but painfully. He might be called an athlete by some, but gymnastics were not his specialty, and the tearing of muscle along his thigh and groin was enough to rend a yell of pain from him even as he moved himself out of the split to counter Levitts.
It took both hands and most of his body weight to push the man off, and getting to his feet was pure agony. Levitts wasn't inclined to give him a gentleman's indulgence. Methos rolled to get clear, feeling the sing of another Immortal presence along his nerves.
There was only the merest moment to see MacLeod's face as he came down the elevator before Levitts was behind him, a kick numbing his left side from hip to shoulder. He fell forward, barely catching himself on one arm, his sword on the floor before him.
You will not see me die! Not when there was so much unsaid. Or maybe too much had already been said. Levitts jerked his head back, and Methos could see the horror in MacLeod's face, the "No!" of protest on his lips.
He shoved back, knocking Levitts off his stance. Methos had his sword once more in his hands, however awkwardly. He twisted and cut, reversing his grip on the blade as he rolled. Thigh muscles screamed protest again, as did Levitts, as Methos' sword found sheath in his body.
He pulled it free, his back to MacLeod. There was no thought of compassion for Levitts, only one brief moment of perfect understanding.
Levitts felt robbed of something that gave his life meaning. Methos' meaning stood behind him, and he might have lost him as well.
"Not in this lifetime," he hissed at the unfulfilled theft and into his opponent's stunned face as Levitts dropped to his knees.
The swing itself pushed Methos off balance, falling backward to barely catch himself on his hands as the body fell.
MacLeod had to move as the office windows blew out, diving to the floor to escape the glass as it shattered and exploded outward. Even so he kept his eyes on Methos, watching his lover as the effects of the Quickening drove him to the floor.
He could endure this to enjoy the rest, Methos told himself over and over as fire raced along his spine, forced itself through his bones, as what was left of Levitts' personality wound its way around his mind.
MacLeod's touch, when it came, was as agonizingly painful as it was welcome, and Methos found himself clinging to muscular arms without realizing he had done so. Another Immortal and Methos almost groaned at the overload on his perceptions.
"It will pass. It will pass," MacLeod said softly, but he might as well have been shouting.
"Get me out of here," Methos managed, struggling to regain some control over his body and senses. Ryan remained in the background, hesitant to approach, which showed remarkably good sense. Methos might have taken his head for sheer aggravation.
If he could ever manage to lift his sword again. Or walk, he thought, as he drew his legs up. Muscles screamed, and he tried very hard not to think about what damage he had done to those muscles, splayed out as he had been when the Quickening took him.
MacLeod's arms around him were both agony and comfort, the natural and annoyingly erotic responses Methos had tried to teach Ryan could be controlled taking precedence.
Richie said something to them as they passed; MacLeod responded, but Methos paid no attention. 'Out of here' meant the loft, apparently, and he was in no condition to argue. The scent of blood and sex and sweat and fear was almost overwhelming and he tried to identify them as Mac keyed the lock with the combination. The blood was his own and Levitts', the sex belonged to he and Ryan, the sweat to he and MacLeod, and the fear...
The fear was Mac's, almost exclusively. Not as sharp or cloying as the coppery Bloodscent nor the musk of spilled passion...it was subtle and acrid, like old leather and oil.
MacLeod's arms remained around him even when the lift stopped, and he was guided out. "I had a shower," he said stupidly, as MacLeod led him toward the bathroom.
"You need another," came calmly, but there was a tremor beneath the words.
They would, no doubt, get to why, eventually. Why fight? Why the games? The deceptions? The distance...
Warm water eased the aches some...the ones in his body. Broad hands added further relief as his skin was cleansed with all the detachment of a four decades nurse. The toweling was sheer bliss and the clothes warm and dry as Methos tried to gather his scattered wits. But the fear-scent was still there. Mac had not washed it off yet, not shed it.
"Richie will take care of downstairs," Mac said when they emerged, pulling beers from the refrigerator when Methos appeared able to move on his own and not simply to stand or sway on his feet from exhaustion.
"Richie is a very capable young man," Methos agreed, even though no opposing opinion had been offered. The beer bottle went to his forehead first as he leaned against the counter, stretching and wincing at muscles which were being remarkably stubborn about healing.
MacLeod fell silent, but his eyes never left Methos' face, even though his lover would not look at him. Finally, Methos moved, as much to rest more comfortably as because he did not want to be the one to start this conversation. Unless he had to. He walked carefully toward the couch, usual sprawl abandoned as he gave some care to the aches still distracting him, not all of them having to do with the tortured muscles of his thigh and hip.
He needn't have worried. MacLeod, apparently, thought it long past time they talked as well.
"You fucked him," MacLeod said, torn between anger and relief. No comment about Levitts at all. No judgment or opinion. That would be the relief part, then. Relief that Methos had not lost his head foolishly-or at all. That was a good start.
"Technically, Ryan fucked me, but yeah. We had Mutually Consensual Sex, MacLeod," Methos said wearily. He was fairly certain MacLeod would not go for his head or for any other such blatant target for that transgression. He might still walk away for Methos' lack of judgment. Of course, there was nothing to stop him from trying to make Methos feel guilty. Not that he would have to try very hard.
Mac sat down on the coffee table in front of him, and wonder of wonders, his face reflected confusion more than any other emotion. With deliberate care he lifted Methos' left leg onto his lap, the one that still ached from the