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The Fatted Calf

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category: slash, fandom: highlander, ficfest: mmom, fictype: short fic, genre: creature fic, genre: werewolf, pairing: hl - richie/methos, rating: r to nc17, type: fiction

Hollywood and horror writers had a lot to answer for in the obscuring of the realities of some situations; not that Richie really minded, because it made his life easier. There was only one thing that could kill a werewolf and that was silver, nothing more, nothing less. A silver bullet in the heart or the brain and it was all over for a normal werewolf, anything else, including decapitation and dismemberment was not fatal and not permanent.

Richie knew this because he had been decapitated and that was supposedly the only way he could die. He'd woken up three weeks later, as far as he had managed to work out afterwards, buried in a Paris grave and everything with Ahriman had been over. He remembered being killed, which was very, very creepy even now, so many years later, because he'd felt his Quickening start to leave his body before his mind had shut down in self-defence only to reawaken once he was no longer in two pieces.

He'd still been Immortal, he'd healed several small injuries while digging himself out of the ground, and he'd honestly had no idea what had happened to him. About all he had really known at the time was that he had had it with MacLeod; he'd been bitten one too many times and so he'd gone as far in the opposite direction to anywhere he knew the Highlander frequented as possible and stayed there. The werewolf thing he'd figured out after his first full moon, which was less, slathering beasts out to kill innocents and more just being stuck in animal form for a day a month.

Not that werewolves were cuddly critters you'd want to pet; some were nice, some weren't, just like most of the human race and some lived in packs and some were lone wolves, like him. There were also lovely people who wanted to rid the world of werewolves; that was how Richie had found out silver bullets didn't kill him. He'd been unfortunate to run into a group of hunters after another werewolf for killing a woman; they hadn't seemed to care he wasn't the right one. When he'd come back from that death he'd dealt out some of his own with his sword.

These days he was working under the impression that the only thing that might be able to kill him was a silver plated sword; not that he was going to test it or looked for trouble. Silver hurt like a bitch, so he avoided that as much as he could anyway.

The thing was, he'd become a wanderer, going from place to place, never setting down any roots, and he'd enjoyed it for a while, but then something had shifted inside him. He wasn't sure what had caused it, but he'd begun to have dreams of his old life, the one before he died to everyone who had known him. He had found himself thinking about the past and it had dawned on him that he couldn't face the future without looking back anymore.

He'd started by tracking down the woman he had been pretty sure had infected him with werewolf venom. It had been a hook up in a bar and she had bitten him during the height of passion, somehow infecting him, because it really wasn't supposed to be that easy. She'd been older, wiser and very surprised to see him as well as incredibly shocked when he'd thanked her for her gift. All werewolves tended to be a little primal at heart and they'd had fabulous thank you sex all that weekend, including her boyfriend, who was one of the wolves from the local pack. Full moon had only been four days away and that usually made werewolves very frisky, so once they had established that Richie was just there for a bit of fun, that's what they'd had.

Now, having dragged himself back to his main reason for being in Paris, Richie was standing on the bank of the Seine looking at the barge. One thing he had learned was caution, so he had been watching it since early in the morning and it was now coming on to noon. So far he had seen no one come and go and he was beginning to think that MacLeod wasn't in residence. He had stayed far enough away so that his presence would not be felt; he wanted this meeting to be on his own terms, not the Highlander's. However, when he saw a familiar figure on the doc, it was not MacLeod; the Immortal was still tall and dark, but it was Methos, and he didn't look overly happy.

Werewolf senses were very sharp, something Richie had discovered after his first full moon, and Methos was not being quiet about his displeasure.

"Damn ungrateful bastard," was what Methos was saying as he stormed across the dock and onto the barge; "I'll show him, sorry something came up when I just flew halfway around the bloody world."

That made Richie grin; it looked like Methos had been stood up.

He had meant to start with MacLeod, but, on reflection, Methos was probably safer; he didn't want to spend another three weeks unconscious while his body put itself back together. Methos was more the type to ask questions first rather than come in swinging. Not that Richie thought MacLeod could take him; he was a damn sight stronger and faster than he had been thanks to his years as a wolf and he was pretty sure he could face the Highlander and at least draw, if not win. MacLeod was kind of lucky he had dropped the grudge he had been carrying around a few years back.

Standing up from his hidden vantage point, he jumped down onto the dock and then, pulling himself up to his full height, he walked towards the barge. The familiar tingle of an Immortal filled his head and he quickened his step, walking onto the ramp and up on deck.

"Who's there?" Methos called out from inside, as cautious as ever.

"You wouldn't believe me," Richie replied, stopping just outside the entrance, quite enjoying himself.

There was silence from the interior; clearly Methos was trying to puzzle out what was going on. He had no doubt the old man would have recognised his voice; by all accounts Methos had the memory of an elephant, but of course him being who he was should have been impossible.

"I know who you sound like," came the eventual response, and made him grin, "but let's not play silly games; who are you?"

Richie laughed; this really was more fun than he had thought. Wrong footing Methos was something he had seen very few people do.

"If you promise not to run me through I'll come inside," he replied, beginning to really enjoy himself; "then you can see for yourself."

"How about I promise not to run you through straight away?" was the cagey response.

It was as good as he was going to get, so Richie climbed down and walked through the door, hands in the familiar position of peace. His sword was strapped to his back, but he was pretty sure he wasn't going to need it.

"Hello, Methos," he said, looking the man in the eye, "it's been a while."

Methos was standing the other side of where MacLeod now had a couch, sword in hand, but the weapon was not raised.

"You cannot be who you look like," Methos said and sounded very sure of himself.

"Surprised me too," Richie replied with an easy grin, "waking up after being beheaded by my best friend."

So maybe he was still a little bitter about that.

"You are not Richie Ryan," Methos stated firmly.

"Oh, but I am," Richie said and leapt up onto the back of the couch in one easy bound, standing there, partially bent over and perfectly poised; "I'm also a werewolf."

He had decided along the way that the only possible method of convincing anyone he was who he said he was, was to tell them the truth. It might shake a few world views, but these were people who ran about chopping other people's heads off, or watching them do it; he didn't feel overly guilty.

"That's impossible," Methos said without missing a beat; "Immortals are immune to werewolf venom."

The fact Methos knew about werewolves shouldn't really have been a surprise, after all Methos was thousands of years old, but that didn't stop him being wrong.

"I'd put it to you that your sample set was too small," he replied, hopping off his perch and landing softly in front of Methos; "how many Immortals have you known who have been bitten by werewolves?"

"Three," Methos replied, looking him up and down.

Richie grinned.

"Point made, I think," he replied and then reached up and pulled the bandana he habitually wore around his neck out of the way; "see."

He might have successfully healed from being decapitated, but there was a faint scar.

"Then where have you been?" Methos all but demanded, still holding his sword at his side.

"Anywhere MacLeod wasn't," Richie replied, looking the other immortal in the eye; "I didn't fancy trying for third time lucky. Call me old fashioned, but being nearly killed by our Highlander twice, I was a little touchy about it."

That seemed to be the right thing to say, because he saw Methos relax a little. However, clearly Methos was still testing him, because Methos moved very suddenly, grabbing something from the coffee table and throwing it at him.

"Catch," was the definitive command.

Richie had very good reflexes and he didn't really need to be told; his hand shot out and captured the small object before it could fly past his left shoulder. It took about three seconds before he dropped it again.

"Fuck," he said loudly, "you bastard, that's silver."

"Show me your hand," was all Methos said.

He caught on and held out his burned palm just before it sparked and returned to normal.

"Bloody hell," was what Methos said as he saw the truth; "you are a werewolf."

"Told you," Richie replied, kicking what appeared to be a silver paper weight back at Methos.

"Remind me to stock up on silver bullets," was Methos' comeback to that.

"Oh thanks," he replied and rolled his eyes; he wasn't about to mention they didn't work either.

"I like to be prepared," Methos replied with a syrupy smile; "werewolves are dangerous you know."

Richie laughed at that.

"Only if you really piss us off," he replied and put his hands on his hips. "If you start talking like one of those insane werewolf hunters I'm leaving and telling the local pack where to find you."

That made Methos grin properly for a while at least.

"I suppose humans are more civilised these days, so werewolves might be the same way," the ancient man acquiesced while giving him a critical once over.

He thought the old man deserved that much, so he just stood there.

"Like what you see?" he finally asked, because he was getting bored.

"You're too young for me," was the instant response.

Richie lifted an eyebrow and then wiggled both of them.

"I'm a werewolf," he said with a grin, "haven't you heard about us?"

He finally managed to make Methos laugh and the sword was put away.

"You're still too young for me," Methos said with a genuine smile.

"Well how about we break open a bottle of Mac's really old, really expensive scotch, because we both know there is a bottle around here somewhere," he suggested and languidly stretched himself onto the couch, "and you can tell me what's been going on around here since I died."

Methos seemed to consider this for a moment and then nodded.

"I think the Highlander owes us both that much," the ancient Immortal replied and headed over to where there was a chest in the corner.

He came back with an old looking bottle and two glasses.

"I don't know why he bothers to hide it," Methos said conversationally as he poured them both very generous measures; "he's so predictable it makes no difference."

Richie laughed and accepted the glass passed to him before saluting Methos with it.

"To the finer things in life," he said and took a swig.

It really was good stuff, sliding down smoothly as it burned.

In the end it took them a little under three hours to polish off the whole bottle while they talked about everything that had been going on for Richie and around the Highlander. Methos was a cagey as ever about himself, but Richie could understand that since he had picked up a few habits along the way and Methos had had many more years to develop them. He was feeling warm and relaxed by the time they had finally drained the bottle.

"Damn," he said when he went back for more and there wasn't any; "we're out of the good stuff."

"There's probably another one hidden around here somewhere," Methos said, looking around, "I only looked in the most obvious place."

"That would be cruel," Richie replied, feeling very mellow and kind of horny.

"He tried to behead you one time and succeeded another," Methos pointed out.

"Oh yeah," he said with a grin, "I almost forgot, where shall we look?"

"I'm betting over there," Methos said, waving his hand in the general direction of a pile of books sitting on a couple of old boxes.

Since Methos had found the last bottle, Richie felt it was his duty to find the next one, so he stood up and walked over to where Methos was pointing, bending double to get at one of the boxes. There was nothing in the first one and he stood up and turned.

"Are you ..." he stopped as he realised what Methos was doing. "Are you staring at my ass?" he asked, since Methos did seem to be a little disappointed he had straightened up.

"Maybe," was the much more interested reply than earlier.

"What happened to 'I'm too young for you'?" he asked, not wanting to rain on the possible parade, but ever curious.

"I've had half a bottle of Scotch," Methos replied with a big, shit-eating grin.

It was a fair point.

"Cool," Richie replied, abandoning his search, "how about we start with, what I've been told, is a mind bending blow job, then we can find more Scotch and then we can mess up Mac's bed?"

"You think very highly of yourself," Methos said with one raised eyebrow.

Richie grinned.

"I'm a werewolf," he said since it did explain a great deal about him; "around full moon we like sex, more than you can possibly imagine; I've had a lot of practice."

At that Methos looked genuinely intrigued.

"Well, I suppose in the interest of posterity I should find out if all the things I've heard about werewolves are true," Methos said and popped open his button and zipper in a very lazy fashion.

His expression simply said come get me, so Richie took the invitation for what it was.

Not all werewolves were bisexual, some were straight and others were gay or lesbian, but, as Richie had found out shortly after he first turned, the joys of the full moon tended to make a person less picky. Never in his short life had Richie ever considered men as a viable option for sex before his change, but he had realised pretty quickly after it that he just hadn't been exploring all his options. Richie liked cock, in fact he liked it almost more than anything a woman had to offer, and he was man enough to admit it.

Sliding to his knees, he reached out without any coyness what so ever and was delighted to find that Methos was not a believer in underwear.

"Old habits or still pretending to be a grad student who hasn't done his laundry?" he asked with a grin, not that he was complaining at the easy access.

He didn't have any trouble at all pulling Methos free from his clothes. It wasn't going to be hard to get the ancient Immortal's cock interested in proceeding it seemed; Methos was already half hard and perking up more by the second.

"Bit of both," Methos replied, watching him very closely. "No biting."

Richie licked his lips in response to that.

"Don't you trust me, Old man?" he asked with a wry smile.

"I haven't decided yet," was the very smooth response.

Richie looked down at the cock in his hand.

"Are you sure," he asked, grinning, "because I think your cock says you do, either that or I'm more irresistible than I thought I was."

At that Methos made a face at him and opened his mouth to say something, but Richie decided he didn't want to hear any witty comebacks and leant forward, intent on his prize. Being a werewolf, his taste buds and sense of smell were much more sensitive than a normal human's and his wolf nature used such memories to identify those around him. Almost before he had his lips around the head of Methos' cock he was cataloguing the man and committing him to memory. The salty, earthy taste and the musky smell were as individual as facial features to his wilder mind and he enjoyed taking in the new information while he made Methos gasp quietly.

He was almost positive that Methos was one of those people who prided themselves on their self-control, which Richie took as a challenge. When he had told Methos his would be a mind bending blow job, he hadn't just been boasting; he did know what he was doing and, being able to pick up on subtleties humans often missed, he could usually reduce his subject to a whimpering heap. Given who he was dealing with, however, he'd be happy to just see Methos loosen up a bit, so he set to work.

There were no hard and fast rules to a blow job; that was another thing Richie had learned and so he went slowly at first, finding out what Methos liked. As it turned out, the ancient man seemed to have picked up a liking for a little teeth somewhere along the line; not a lot, but just a scraping here or there, because that was how Richie got the first moan out of him. With that small victory under his belt, Richie really went to town, pushing Methos' legs a little further apart and holding him down at the hips so he had no way to move at all. Given how strong he was, Methos was totally pinned and Richie picked up signs of even greater arousal at that; he would have smiled if he hadn't had his mouth full.

When they made it to the bed, it might be fun to explore that particular kink a little more. Richie was a great believer in kinks these days; they made everything that much more interesting. However, he was right in the middle of blowing Methos' mind and planning how it might be fun to take the whole thing to the next level when his machinations were interrupted. Just as he deep throated Methos' firm cock, he felt the buzz of another Immortal at the base of his skull and he flicked his eyes up at his companion. The ancient man was glancing at the door, almost as if he had been a second or so ahead of Richie, and then looked back at him and it seemed they were of one accord; Richie just kept going. In fact he knew just how long it should take to get from the dock to the door and so he did his best to time what he was doing perfectly. He ramped it up a little by using his tongue on some very sensitive parts of Methos' cock and then, just as the door opened, he sucked hard. Methos came with a cry, shooting come right down his throat and Richie swallowed greedily.

The look on the Highlander's face was priceless as Richie pulled off Methos' cock with a soft slurp and sat back, feeling very pleased with himself.

"Do you think he's more surprised I'm alive or I'm sucking you off?" he asked in a nonchalant tone.

"Hard to tell," was Methos' relaxed and content response.

The End