A/N: Written for the Highlander Shortcuts Secret Santa Exchange for idontlikegravy. Thanks to htbthomas for the cheerleading, beta reading, and, in the end, the flat out rewriting of the bits I could do myself. Not a lot of people are willing to learn a whole new canon just to encourage a crossover. Any remaining mistakes, yadda yadda. As always, comments, critique, and squee are welcomed.

This story is a Denial AU. Richie lives. Connor lives. Forever wasn't canceled. Proceed as you will.

Something Called Living

by LadySilver

Richie's twenty year streak of not waking up from the dead in the morgue ended with a bang.

He awoke with the sudden thump of a heart that had lain dormant for too long and the gasp of air filling quiescent lungs. His whole body seized at the surge of life, then collapsed back onto the metal table, exhausted. In the silence that followed—while his body relearned how to circulate blood and his nerves how to send and receive signals—he heard a second gasp and the clang of a metal tool hitting the floor.

Oh, god. He wasn't alone. He fought back a groan and instead tried to pull together any plausible explanation for why the tag he felt pinching his toe might have been put there in error. Catalepsy? Mistaken identity? Overworked coroner?

"Henry?" he heard someone call. A man, and not the same person who was in the room with him.

"One moment, Lucas," his occupant answered, in one phrase identifying himself both as Henry and as someone who wasn't prone to screaming as a first reaction to dead people returning to life. Throwing another surprise at him, Henry hissed, "Don't move," at Richie before slipping from the room.

Though it was technically moving, Richie allowed his eyes to open; he had to get his bearings if he was going to get out of here with minimal fuss. The bright lights assaulted his vision at the same time as the astringent chemical scent assaulted his nose and a chill shook his warming body. He was definitely in the morgue. Naked. He in the morgue, naked, lying on the autopsy table. A quick slap down of his chest revealed that he'd probably awakened just in time to avoid being killed again through dissection. He'd never had to experience that particular horror, and he hoped to keep it that way.

Distantly, he heard Henry and the other guy, Lucas, talking, though he couldn't make out the words. For all he knew, Henry was telling him that one of their corpses was no longer dead. Richie had to get out there, but Henry's command stayed him. Without his clothes, he wouldn't be getting very far and there was no way he'd be able to scrounge up something to wear before Henry returned.

Time was, Richie would've taken any direct order and immediately defied it. He'd matured a little since then.

Mostly.

With a start, he recalled the last few minutes before his most recent death. He'd come downstairs early, planning to take some time before the dojo officially opened for the day to get his own workout in, when he'd caught sight of someone standing just to the right of the window, staring in through the bars. Had Richie been a little less attuned to the fact that someone was always Watching him, had he been a little less paranoid about people trying to kill him, had he been standing in a slightly different place on the mat, he'd never have noticed. The dojo was a new project, a page torn out of the Book of MacLeod because the storefront had been available, the rent as reasonable as New York City rents ever were, and Richie had seen enough of the neighborhood on his way through to know that the kids could use a place to hang out.

Though in a different city on the opposite coast, Richie felt a kinship to the neighborhood born of familiarity. He'd been missing Seacouver a lot lately. Since he was still decades away from being to safely return there, he decided almost on a whim to set up shop here.

He was surreptitiously studying the stranger, trying to assess the level of threat—a potential customer would come into the building; a potential mugger might try to lure him outside; a random martial arts enthusiast would probably not be hiding in the corner, unless he was shy—when he heard the frantic thumping of feet descending the stairs. His own storefront was separated by a hallway and staircase from an identical one that was currently doing time as thrift store. The floors above were apartments, one of which was Richie's. All of which someone was trying to hastily evacuate.

"Get out!" he heard the runner yell in a voice laden with the fear of someone who knows that whatever they're doing, it won't be enough. "Get out! Everyone out!"

It was a command he would have heeded if he'd been mortal. Maybe. Knowing that there were two more floors of offices upstairs and then the three floors of apartments above that, Richie dropped his jump rope, slammed through the hallway door, and raced upstairs to find anyone the caller's yell hadn't reached. At least a few of the residents had heard, and chosen to listen, because he had to push past a dozen or so neighbors whom he hadn't even been living amongst long enough to recognize on sight. The stairs creaked under the impact of all those feet, and for one moment at the top of the second landing, Richie feared that the whole staircase was going to collapse.

Then it didn't matter anymore. With a wash of heat as his only warning, the building blew up. A concussive force threw him back down the stairs. He was alive just long enough to see the flame rush at him, long enough to throw his arm over his eyes.

The door opened and Henry came back in, swiping his hands together with a satisfied air. He was a clean-shaven man, dark hair, in his late-30s. No Immortal signature marked him as a fellow player in the Game, nor could Richie get a clear look at either of the man's wrists to determine if he knew about the Game. "There, that should keep Lucas occupied for a few minutes. I do hope he doesn't catch on to to the fool's errand too quickly." Crossing to a cabinet, he pulled out a bundle of cloth and tossed it to Richie while keeping his eyes carefully averted.

Richie accepted the sheet gratefully. He'd have preferred his own clothes or scrubs—Who was he kidding? He'd have preferred to not be in this situation at all.—but covering up wasn't really his biggest concern now, was it? "You don't seem very surprised." His naked legs were stained black from the fire. Only a few unmarked streaks showed where he'd been burned badly enough that his skin had regenerated. Reaching down, he pulled off the tag that dangled from his toe and crumpled it.

"I assure you, I am very surprised," Henry stated. "However, I'm not unaccustomed to encountering situations that have no easy explanation." His lips creased in a private smile that quickly gave way to professional curiosity. "What interests me is that you don't appear surprised."

"I'm not," Richie answered, simply. He pushed to his feet, pulling the sheet even more tightly around himself, and began prowling around the morgue. There were two other tables with covered bodies on them, waiting their turn, but no sign of any of his things. "My shoes didn't survive the explosion, did they? My jacket?" Henry shook his head and Richie scowled. At least he hadn't been carrying his sword; he left that in the office when he was at work—his office...that had been in the building that..."Shit! I'm going to have to leave town." He scrubbed a hand over his face, felt the grime. "What time is it?" He couldn't see a clock anywhere.

Henry pulled out a pocket watch—an old one, if Richie's time working in the antique store had taught him anything—and answered, confirming Richie's hope that he'd only been dead a few hours. He heaved a grateful sigh; there were worse fates than waking up in the morgue, and he had to remember that if he was going to get through the next few hours. Any more time dead and he might have ended up getting buried. Thinking about how close he might have come sent a shudder through him; he'd never had to learn how to escape from a grave, and there were no other Immortals in New York City who knew about him since Connor had moved back to Europe a few years ago, and thus no one who'd know to come dig him up.

Richie loved New York City, and as much as he knew he'd have to leave someday, he hadn't expected that someday to come so soon after arriving. Being a permanent adolescent in a city of over eight million people was easier than anywhere else he'd ever lived. Maybe he could just move to a different borough to start over. It wasn't like he had much to take with him. Anymore. He could sneak back to his old building tonight and see if his sword had survived the explosion. The lockbox with his money and backup paperwork should also be OK. His bike would be a loss, as would all his clothes, unless the fire department had gotten the fire under control quickly.

"Do you have any clothes I could borrow?" Richie turned toward Henry so fast that the man stepped back. "And maybe a few bucks for a cab? Unless my wallet is around here somewhere?" As soon as he said it, he groaned. His wallet was in his desk. He'd been in the sweats and tank top he wore for working out, which left no place to put a wallet, nor any reason to carry one. "Never mind. I didn't have a wallet on me." He raked a hand over his head; he'd been growing his hair out in hopes of sneaking another year or two onto the identity by starting younger, and the water and soot stiffened curls felt so much like they had the last time he'd died in public that for a moment he forgot where he was.

"Your clothes are in evidence," Henry answered. "I'm sure I can come up with some others, though I can't guarantee that they'll fit. I'd also suggest a shower. But I'm afraid that I can't let you leave."

"Why not?" It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how Henry planned to keep Richie from leaving. He bit the question back, not wanting to turn the situation antagonistic.

Henry's head was tilted and he was watching Richie, studying him in a way that made Richie feel a lot more self-conscious than being naked in front of this stranger had. "For starters, you're a material witness in a crime. The only witness, I might add." He gestured at the other bodies. "No one else that we know of survived the explosion."

Richie let his eyes drop closed for a moment in silent acknowledgment of the life lost. He didn't know who else had been in the building, but he knew that the toll was a lot higher than two. The other bodies were probably in the drawers or in cold storage somewhere. If the signs of damage to his own body was any indication, some of the other victims might even become permanent residents here because there wasn't enough left to identify.

"No one else escaped?" he asked, thinking of the person who'd sounded the warning and the others he'd seen on his way up the stairs. Some of them had to have been close enough to the door when the building blew up to have made it out.

Henry sighed the sigh of someone who knew that what he was about to say had no good interpretation. "We presume that everyone who made it outside before the explosion also managed to disappear into the woodwork. People in that part of town aren't fond of talking to the police."

Richie nodded, well aware of both the attitude and the causes that spurned it. "Can you blame them? Half the people who live there have probably been arrested at some point. Or have reason to think they're going to be." He certainly did. At least his own juvie record hadn't followed him to this life. But that didn't put him in the clear. The fact that he could easily get caught killing someone was never far from his mind after the way Martin Hyde had set him up all those years ago.

"Of course not." Henry rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow. The gesture bared his wrist and revealed only unmarked skin. "Having their testimonies would make the investigation easier. Without them, we're limited to what we can learn from those who didn't survive." He shot a knowing look at Richie. It was a look that carried a lot of weight.

"What if I told you that I didn't see anything?" Richie asked, grasping for the one out left to him.

"Did you?"

"No," Richie said, then hoping to change the subject: "How long until that Lucas guy comes back? You said a few minutes..."

Henry gave a little start as if he'd forgotten that they could be interrupted any second. "Right. Yes, we can't have him seeing you looking...so alive." He took in the empty exam table that Richie had been on. "And I'd better move one of these other patient people to the head of the line. Lucas will wonder how I finished with you so quickly, otherwise."

"Yeah, not unless you're planning to tell him that the corpse got up and walked out." Such a confession was always a possibility.

The private smile flashed across Henry's face again. "Your secret's safe with me. There's a locker room down the hall with showers. If you're careful, you should be able to make it without anyone else seeing you. Locker ten holds the Lost and Found. Anything of use you find in there, you can take. I'd recommend that you not go through the personal lockers—"

"I'm not a thief," Richie interjected. Right now. He had been one before and he'd probably be one again—live long enough and all manner of skills had their uses. And their needs.

"My apologies," Henry offered with a tip of his head. "I hope you'll come back after you make yourself presentable. I would dearly love to talk to you about what happened."

"For the police report, right?" Richie asked, knowing full well that that wasn't what Henry meant.

Henry's response was only a lifting of his brows.

"Yeah, right." Richie sighed. Without making any promises, he added: "Maybe."

centerhr width="20%"/center

The shower gave Richie time to think. He watched the ash, soot, and blood run down the drain in gray and pink eddies and felt himself become more human by the second. No matter what else happened, he had to go recover his sword. A city the size of New York wasn't a safe place for an Immortal to walk around without his weapon, no matter what kind of legacy Connor had left behind. After that, he needed to find something to eat and a place to crash for the night. Reviving always left him starving and exhausted.

In the morning, he could try to scrounge up some cash. He cast his mind around, trying to remember where his other Immortal friends were living these days, and what names they were going under. He came up blank. He'd only been in the City a few weeks, himself, not even long enough to get used to his new name.

Then he had to worry about this Henry guy. The man was too smart, too observant. If Richie went back to talk to him, Henry would ask all the questions that Richie really didn't want to answer. Immortals worked hard to keep knowledge of themselves out of the regular world.

On the other hand, broke, homeless, and stranded in a new city, Richie really could use an ally.

The water was running clear now, so Richie accepted its offering of heat into his beleaguered muscles a few moments longer, then shut it off. He used the sheet as a towel, doing his best to avoid rubbing the dirtiest parts over his newly cleaned skin, then went to see what he could find in locker ten.

What he found was a pair of gray sweatpants that were so old and ratty that they had to have been "lost" on purpose. He also found a neon green muscle shirt and a pair of flip-flops that almost fit. He eyed the selection for a moment, then grabbed a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Thank god it wasn't winter yet, and that no one he knew would see him dressed like this.

Despite Henry's admonition and his own rejection of the label, Richie also riffled through the handful of personal lockers that didn't have locks on them. Tucked in the corner of one woman's jean's pocket, he found a folded ten dollar bill and took it. He wasn't a thief, but he needed the money right now if he was going to get across town. Making note of the locker number, he vowed to pay her back as soon as he could.

Now that he was clean and...not wearing a sheet...he moved to address his other needs. A survey of the floor yielded the employee lounge, in which he found a box with a couple stale donuts left over from the morning and a Keurig. This, he justified to himself, wasn't thieving because they were here for anyone to eat, so he did, wolfing down the donuts so fast that he nearly choked himself on inhaled crumbs.

He was still doubled over, coughing, trying to clear his lungs when a pair of sneakers appeared in his field of vision.

"Um, hello?" their owner said.

Richie waved, both to fend off any would-be help and to acknowledge that he'd heard the speaker and was unable to answer.

"Not that I'm not digging your personal style, but I'm pretty sure it's not casual Friday. Who are you?"

Through streaming eyes, Richie took in the speaker. Light brown hair, narrow face, tall, in blue scrubs over a black shirt. Not Henry, and certainly not bearing the quiet confidence that Henry had. "Ignore me," he gasped out. "Just swallowed wrong."

"Are you sure?," the man asked. He took a couple steps closer, hovering anxiously. He pointed to the coffee cup. "Is that the Jet Fuel brand? Better watch out. I swear I had acid for a week after one cup." His face lit up, a little overeager. "I don't think I've seen you around before. You new here?"

Richie coughed the last of the crumbs into his hand, glanced at the now unappealing bite of donut that remained, and pitched it all into the garbage. "Oh. Yeah. I'm, uh..." He cast about for an excuse, and his eyes settled on the cup of coffee that had just finished brewing. "I just came down to get some coffee for the, uh, boss. I'm the intern."

"An intern? Don't you guys have your own machine upstairs?"

"Yeah. The boss… really likes that Jet Fuel stuff." Richie cringed at the lack of finesse to his lies. He was usually a lot suaver than this. Straightening up, he grabbed the coffee and a handful of creamer and sugar packets. "I'd better get this upstairs before the boss flips out."

"Hey, I totally get it. My boss gets crazy, too, all, 'no Lucas, I will not drink tea made in a machine.'" He mimicked spitting something out, face scrunched up.

Ah, so this was the Lucas from before. "Yeah, haha," Richie said. "Bosses." Keep it vague; let the listener hear what he wanted to hear; get out of the situation as quickly as possible. He'd learned all this shuttling through the foster care system, and yet it was still tempting to embellish the details. He started for the door and had almost made it when Lucas spoke again.

"Hey, but seriously, why are you dressed like that? Some prank on the new guy?"

Lucas really wasn't going to let it go, was he? Richie glanced down at his outfit-of-discards that were too mismatched to even pass off as a dress down day. He looked like a college student who'd just rolled out of bed five minutes before the start of his key final exam, not an intern in a city office. He opened his mouth to snap off a witty comeback, and his brain mutinously refused to supply one. "Look," he managed, "I really have to go before the boss notices I'm gone and, yeah." He lurched toward the door and its promise of escape.

"Hey!" Lucas stepped in front of him, and Richie dodged to the right, grateful for his trained reflexes. At least they still worked.

His plastic-clad feet slipped on the Linoleum floor as he scrambled past, a quickly thrown out hand all that kept him from careening into a wall. The sugar packets flew from his grip. He didn't stop to pick them up.

"You forgot your coffee," Lucas called after him.