Teaching the afternoon classes occupied Richie enough that he couldn't give attention to the anxiety bubbling within him. He felt a deep crease etch itself between his eyes, and once or twice he caught his teeth grinding together, but he managed to stay upbeat for the kids, which was more important than pondering how Drake had died. It also let him put some distance between what he'd learned and how he felt about it.

As soon as the last kid left, he threw his laptop and the small amount of cash that had trickled in that day into the safe under his desk, grabbed his sword, and locked the whole dojo down. Still in his gi, he padded up the stairs to his apartment, each step feeling heavier and heavier. How did trouble keep finding him like this? It always did, but he still managed to be unprepared when it did.

At the door, he paused long enough to say "it's me" before letting himself in. It was a useless courtesy. Methos was ensconced on the sofa with his legs crossed, laptop resting on his lap. A faint thumping of some rock beat eked from his earbuds. The open can of beer resting on the arm and the two empties on the floor told Richie that Methos hadn't moved from this position in a while. Whatever he was doing, even the presence of another Immortal wasn't enough to disturb him.

Richie shut the door and started toward his bedroom to put the sword away, and that got a reaction. With the smoothest of movements, Methos reached between the sofa cushions and pulled out a gun. He had it aimed before looking up from his screen long enough to see that the flash of sword he'd caught in his peripheral wasn't a threat.

"Really?" Richie asked. He kept the sword lowered, though the urge to see if he could be fast enough to block a bullet tightened his grip on the hilt.

Methos yanked out the earbuds; the beat grew louder and the tinny lyrics of some Led Zeppelin song that Richie recognized—but couldn't place—trickled out. "You should know better," he warned. "I could've shot you."

"And then you would've had to buy me a new gi," Richie countered. "Dude, I warned you at the door, like always. Try turning your music down." Heedless of the weapon still pointed at him, he continued to his room where he stowed the sword under his bed and quickly changed into the khaki shorts and a t-shirt that he'd started off the day in. That brief transitional time was enough to kick his worry back into gear. He grabbed a comb and ran it through his hair, noting that it was only damp enough to have gone extra curly. Sometimes he showered after class; today, he had more pressing concerns. "Does the name Franklin Drake mean anything to you?"

There was a moment of silence, presumably while Methos again removed his earbuds, then a dismissive, "No. Should it?"

Richie emerged from his bedroom to see that the gun was put away and the laptop set aside. Methos sat on the couch with his legs crossed, his bony knees poking out from under the towel he'd thrown across his lap to keep the heat of the laptop from being too uncomfortable. "I don't suppose you've taken any heads recently?" As soon as he heard the adverb, he knew it was the wrong one.

Cocking his eyebrow, Methos immediately called him on it. "By 'recently' do you mean the last century or the last millennium?"

"Only you would think that either of those qualify," Richie groused. "Let's say the last twenty-four hours."

"Nope." Methos clicked the keyboard and the music cut off entirely. "I'm going to guess that your two questions are related and Franklin Drake is someone who lost his head…yesterday?"

"Yesterday afternoon," Richie supplied.

Methos nodded and straightened up, revealing that the white undershirt he wore was wrinkled like it had been slept in, which meant he probably hadn't moved from that spot since Richie had first headed down to open the dojo that day. What was he so engrossed in? "Since I didn't do and you didn't do it—"

"Hey, what makes you so sure I didn't do it?"

Methos gave Richie a long once-over, then grinned. "Remind me to teach you when you're older."

He'd walked right into that one; not only had Richie confirmed that he hadn't taken Drake's head, now he was going to wonder if there really was some way for an Immortal to sense if another had recently taken a Quickening. Though, he couldn't imagine why that might be useful. With a groan, Richie headed to the kitchen for a glass of water.

"The cops thought I did it," he said. Strangely, that made him feel vindicated. The improvement to his mood only lasted a second; there was no ice in the freezer because someone had replaced the trays without refilling them. Richie took them out and left them on the counter in protest. Warm water was still wet, so he filled a tall glass and drained it.

"The police?" Methos unfolded himself from the couch and carried his laptop over to their small kitchen table, which doubled as the charging station, and plugged it in. "As in one attractive detective who knows more about us than she should?"

"Martinez," Richie said. "Yeah, her."

"So, what did you tell her?"

"That I didn't do it. She didn't believe me." Richie filled the glass a second time, but didn't drink from it. Methos had left the screen on his laptop canted open, so Richie carried his water over to the table and sat down while trying to get a look at what was on it. The pale light of the screen glimmered off the surface of the wooden table. "She's got this idea that I'm, like, some kind of Immortal crime-boss mastermind." He paused a moment to process the incongruity of that. He could barely run his own life and now Jo thought he was responsible for dictating other people's? He should let bring her up to see any conversation with Methos, and then she'd see that Richie wasn't the threat she thought. Why hadn't he thought of that before? A familiar logo on the screen caught his attention; it was for the company that owned his building and a number of others in the area. "Are you apartment hunting?" What little Richie could see on the computer looked like a real estate listing.

Reaching over, Methos closed the lid and the topic with a sharp, "No."

"Yeah, well you might want to think about it before Martinez decides you're the next suspect. I hear Canada's nice." Methos had moved in with the promise that he was only going to stay a little while. As Richie had quickly learned, they had very different definitions of what "a little while" meant.

"You obviously convinced her of your innocence or you'd be in jail right now, so who cares who took out this Drake? Odds are, it was a routine Challenge." Methos crossed to the sofa and began retrieving his used cans. Five steps from kitchen table to living room sofa, Richie counted. The apartment had seemed so much bigger when he was living in it alone.

"Yeah, except that it wasn't."

"So it was a vendetta." Methos stooped down to pick up a can that had started to roll under the sofa and had somehow managed to get wedged behind the leg. "That's even better, as the guy probably won't be interested in further hunting."

Richie sighed, letting his head drop back. The fixture over the table was a glass hemisphere tainted yellow from years of smokers sitting beneath it. He was suddenly tempted to take it down and give it a good bleaching. Instead, he forced himself to give voice to his real fear. "You're not listening. Drake wasn't killed in a Challenge. It was…I think…a mortal killed him." He heard the abrupt cessation of movement as Methos took in what he'd said, then the crunch of aluminum, a sword-strengthened grip crushing a helpless metal can.

"That's not an accusation to make lightly." Methos' voice came from near the floor and sounded like it was about to rear up and strike. Richie had never heard that tone before, had never seen this Methos before. If Jo saw this one, it would become impossible to ever convince her that no one was in charge of the Game.

He scrambled back, seeking to get out of range. Who knew what weapons the man kept under the couch? The kitchen chair rocked back and crashed into the floor as he lunged to keep the water glass from tipping over and spilling its contents all over the keyboard. A few drops splashed on the table and Richie swiped them off before they could get on the computer. "Don't you think I know that?" It took twelve steps to cross to the window, and that included the wide berth he gave the still kneeling Methos. "I was right there when Horton and his followers were taking out the Immortals in Paris. It was a helluva time to find out I was one of the people he wanted to kill." Not that they'd showed any interest in him except as a way to get to Mac.

"I was right there, too," Methos reminded him, coldly. "On the other side of the fence, as it were."

"That's right," Richie said, slapping his forehead. "I forgot about that." While he knew Methos had been working as a Watcher, it hadn't clicked that he had also been right at the center of where the splinter group known as the Hunters had operated—mostly because they didn't meet until two years later on another continent. "They didn't…try to recruit you, did they?"

Finally standing, Methos carried his cans to the recycling bin and dropped them in one by one, giving Richie plenty of time to imagine the clusterfuck of the world's oldest living Immortal masquerading as a Watcher being recruited by the Hunters in order to kill other Immortals whom the Watchers had deemed too dangerous to let live. The veins in his temples throbbed in protest, while a more cynical part of him—one that spoke in Methos' voice, of all things—pointed out what a clean circle it was. Plus it was a handy way to rack up Quickenings, if that's what someone wanted to do. Though, arranging the kill so that none of the other Hunters saw the Quickening could be tricky.

"Suggestions were dropped my direction," Methos responded. "I worked very hard to be too obtuse to get them."

"Yeah, I guess you would've had to." Which meant they both knew too well what could happen when mortals tried to involve themselves in the Game. "So lemme ask you: You think it start up again?"

Methos went quiet for a span of breaths, the silence broken only by the rumble of traffic that filtered up from the street below. "It wasn't the first witch hunt, and it won't be the last." He dropped the last can into the bin and slammed the lid shut. "Let's start with why you think it could be. What was so unusual about Drake's death?"

Closing his eyes, Richie summoned his memory of the crime scene photo. He described the pose Drake had been in, his arm slung across the back of the bench, which is what had kept him upright after he died. The peanuts. The lack of footprints, bloodstains, or other indication of a fight on the ground. The more details he remembered, the harder his heart started to pound. The Game, he could handle. It had identifiable players and established rules. He could choose to fight, or to run. Mortal hunters were infinitely more dangerous because they could be anyone—and they didn't follow the rules. "I'm going to hafta call Emily and cancel," he concluded, aware of both his non sequitur and the fact that he was latching on to the least important problem, though as least canceling their weekend was something he could do. "I don't know what I'm going to tell her. She'll probably never talk to me again."

This was why he didn't date, because girls didn't like to be lied to, and despite all the practice he'd had, he didn't like doing it.

"You are not," Methos countered. "Dropping everything at the first hint of a problem is the fastest way to make yourself a target. Before we do anything at all, let's make sure you're not misreading the situation."

Richie'd been on his own so long that he thought he'd grown past the defensive knee-jerk reaction. Between the way Jo had treated him and this, he discovered otherwise. "Misreading it how? Drake wasn't Challenged." He was whining. He was too old to whine. Bracing his hands on the window ledge, he pressed his forehead against the glass and peered out, searching for some point of familiarity in the always moving, always changing city he'd chosen to live in.

"No, based on what you said, I agree. But he wouldn't be the first Immortal killed by someone he trusted, either." As ominous as hearing it was, Richie knew that Methos only spoke the truth. The possibility existed at the base of every Immortal relationship, no matter whether they were friends, lovers, or student-teacher; no matter how long they'd known each other; no matter how strenuously they swore otherwise. And when it did happen, no one was really surprised. Methos tapped his fingers on the counter, lost in thought for a moment before suggesting, "It could also have been suicide."

Suicide. That almost fit with Drake's behavior at the restaurant, how he hadn't been interested in a fight until he'd learned who Richie was. If he'd thought he would definitely lose, that could have been tempting for someone who wanted to die, yet wasn't willing to simply kneel down.

"Before we do anything else," Methos continued, still sounding thoughtful, "we need to get more information. Do you think the detective would let you borrow those pictures? I want to take a look at them."

Jo? Let him walk off with police evidence? He'd asked her downstairs and been soundly informed that police property had to stay in police custody. Richie snorted. "Not a chance." But Jo wasn't his only way in to this case, was she? "I'll ask Henry."

With a nod, Methos put that topic to rest as well. "Out of curiosity: is there anyone in this city you haven't told about Immortals?"

"They're the only ones I have told. Well, and, Henry's s—roommate Abe. Three people. Emily doesn't even know." Richie turned back, and immediately brought a hand up as to shield his eyes. "Geez, man, put on some clothes." He'd caught that Methos was wearing an undershirt, and missed that he was also sitting—now standing—around in his boxers. When he was Death, Methos might have preferred a pale horse and cowl; as Matt, he seemed to prefer underwear, unless forced to put on more. Richie did not need to subject Emily to that.

"Right," Methos continued, as if Richie hadn't commented on his state of undress, "and Emily is coming to the music festival, and—I'm guessing—is going to be staying here. You were planning to mention this at some point?"

Richie splayed his hands in a silent 'no one's perfect.' Besides, it was his name on the lease. One of his names, anyway. "She only confirmed a couple hours ago. I'd barely ended the call when Jo came in and started throwing accusations at me." He pulled a deep breath, trying not to let himself get riled up again. Too many worlds were colliding. "I thought Emily could stay in my room and I'll sleep on the couch." He nodded toward the relevant furniture. "It's just for the weekend, and we're not…I mean…" His lip curled up in a snarl at himself for all the stumbling. Regardless of what age he looked, he wasn't a kid and he didn't need Methos' approval. "We're still getting to know each other."

Methos regarded him for a second, then idly picked up the ice-cube trays and dropped them in the recycling bin next to his beer cans. "Then I guess we'd better get our stories straight so she doesn't start catching you in lies before she's even in the door." Glancing at the clock, he seemed to finally notice that the evening was well advanced. "I'm going to take a shower. Order a pizza or something?" He started toward his room. At the door, he stopped and looked back. "And when you get to the point with Emily where you need to explain things, let me know; I'll be very happy to shoot you." The door swung shut behind him.

"I'm sure you would be," Richie responded to the plank of wood. He ran a hand over his head. The thick curls of his youth caught his fingers. In another few months, he'd be able to start cutting them back again—only the shorter his hair got, the less time he had in this life—If he had any time at all. Once Jo figured out that Richie hadn't made an idle threat, all the work he'd put into helping her understand the Immortal life was going to be sacrificed, too.

Until then, he needed to: Make sure he lived long enough to get to the barber. Call Henry and get the pictures. Call for dinner. His eyes settled on the crack between the sofa cushions and he sighed. He'd also have to Emily-proof the apartment. If he was going to bring her into his life, he wanted to make it as un-frightening as possible—and that started with hiding the weapons. Another sigh, and he went to retrieve the ice-cube trays before he threw them out by accident.