Author's Note: Well, they do say third time is the charm. So, hopefully,
I'll keep this story around for a while. As always, I do not own Duncan
MacLeod, Richie Ryan, Adam Pierson/Methos or Joe Dawson. I do, however, own
Asher Jacobs. In terms of the storyline, the story is set in the year 2004.
Richie Ryan was never killed, however, Joe Dawson was killed the previous
year in a car crash.
****************************************************************************
****************
September 09, 2004, 11:30 AM Le Blues Bar, Paris, France
Le Blues Bar had come well-recommended in the hotel guidebook. Asher Jacobs didn't care. She just wanted a warm and dry place to escape from the rain, and enough alcohol to cloud her mind for eternity.
Stepping through the door, the ever annoying tingle surged through her mind. She debated finding another bar, but decided against. She did not want to brave the rain again. If the Immortal(s) wanted to fight, she would gladly give her head and her Quickening. No fight necessary.
She took the stool next a man, tall and almost gangly, and ordered a scotch. Straight. No ice.
"Could I see some ID?"
She silently forked forked over her license.
The bartender handed it back, and grinned. "You're American then?"
"Technically. So?"
"Well, so am I."
"Congratulations. I'd offer you a prize, but I seem to be fresh out."
"Hey, sorry. I was just being friendly."
"If I wanted friendly, I would have ordered some. Now, could I have my drink please, with a side of your silence?"
Asher did not attempt to hide the weariness in her voice, but rather over- laid it with sarcasm. She could tell neither the bartender nor the man sitting next to her were fooled, but at least they kept their silence.
She finished the scotch in one swallow, and she ordered another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
"Hey, slow down. You'll make yourself sick."
"Impossible," but the alcohol had subdued her, and the response was no longer sarcastic. "Even so, could I have a water?"
"It doesn't work, you know," spurted the man next to her.
"Adam," the bartender warned, but Adam chose to pat no attention to the warning.
"Young people today have certain guidelines you follow when drinking. Take aspirin beforehand. Pee lots. And drink a glass of water for every glass of alcohol. However, none prove effective."
"Well, thank you Doctor Adam," she responded, sarcasm once again apparent.
"Just how many beers have you had, Adam?" the bartender asked, as he handed Asher her water and an apologetic grin.
"I'll have you know, Richie, this is only my first."
"Touché," he smirked. Still smiling, he turned to Asher. "Well, since you no longer seem to be biting our heads, what brings you to Paris?"
"Certainly not the weather."
"Yeah, well, it's usually nicer."
"I'm not here as a tourist. It doesn't matter to me."
Her voice held sadness, Richie noted, and he wondered who or what hurt her. It could be anything, he knew. She appeared young, but she was also Immortal, and appearances can be deceiving.
"So anyway, Richie," he turned his attention and gaze to the speaking Adam, "when MacLeod returns, tell him he should meet me tonight. About eleven." Adam smirked. "Think you can handle that?"
"I'll tell him, old man."
"Brat," and he reached across the counter to ruffle Richie's hair before leaving.
"So, umm, who's MacLeod?"
"The owner of the place. Duncan MacLeod. He kind of inherited it last year. More water?"
"Please. Inherited?"
"Yeah. A friend of ours did own it, but he died last year. Car crash. Mac didn't want to see the place die too, so he took over."
"And you work here?"
"On occasion. Mostly I just fill in if Mac has to step out for some reason."
"Like now, you mean?"
"Like now. Richie suddenly broke into another grin. "You know, maybe I should give you more scotch. You're certainly nicer afterwards."
Asher blushed and glanced at her hands. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Guess, I'm in a lousy mood."
Richie shrugged and handed her her water. "We're all allowed bad days."
Absent-mindly, he wiped down the counter, keeping an eye on the young woman. She was pleasant-looking, he decided. She had strawberry-blonde hair cut to her shoulders, and blue-gray eyes. Of course, she would be prettier, if she were not wearing all black. "So," he said after a long moment, "you never did tell me your name."
Asher looked up and for a second, she caught his gaze. "Asher Jacobs."
"A lovely name. Welcome to Paris, Asher."
She offered no response, but only took a sip of her water.
September 09, 2004, 11:30 AM Le Blues Bar, Paris, France
Le Blues Bar had come well-recommended in the hotel guidebook. Asher Jacobs didn't care. She just wanted a warm and dry place to escape from the rain, and enough alcohol to cloud her mind for eternity.
Stepping through the door, the ever annoying tingle surged through her mind. She debated finding another bar, but decided against. She did not want to brave the rain again. If the Immortal(s) wanted to fight, she would gladly give her head and her Quickening. No fight necessary.
She took the stool next a man, tall and almost gangly, and ordered a scotch. Straight. No ice.
"Could I see some ID?"
She silently forked forked over her license.
The bartender handed it back, and grinned. "You're American then?"
"Technically. So?"
"Well, so am I."
"Congratulations. I'd offer you a prize, but I seem to be fresh out."
"Hey, sorry. I was just being friendly."
"If I wanted friendly, I would have ordered some. Now, could I have my drink please, with a side of your silence?"
Asher did not attempt to hide the weariness in her voice, but rather over- laid it with sarcasm. She could tell neither the bartender nor the man sitting next to her were fooled, but at least they kept their silence.
She finished the scotch in one swallow, and she ordered another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
And another.
"Hey, slow down. You'll make yourself sick."
"Impossible," but the alcohol had subdued her, and the response was no longer sarcastic. "Even so, could I have a water?"
"It doesn't work, you know," spurted the man next to her.
"Adam," the bartender warned, but Adam chose to pat no attention to the warning.
"Young people today have certain guidelines you follow when drinking. Take aspirin beforehand. Pee lots. And drink a glass of water for every glass of alcohol. However, none prove effective."
"Well, thank you Doctor Adam," she responded, sarcasm once again apparent.
"Just how many beers have you had, Adam?" the bartender asked, as he handed Asher her water and an apologetic grin.
"I'll have you know, Richie, this is only my first."
"Touché," he smirked. Still smiling, he turned to Asher. "Well, since you no longer seem to be biting our heads, what brings you to Paris?"
"Certainly not the weather."
"Yeah, well, it's usually nicer."
"I'm not here as a tourist. It doesn't matter to me."
Her voice held sadness, Richie noted, and he wondered who or what hurt her. It could be anything, he knew. She appeared young, but she was also Immortal, and appearances can be deceiving.
"So anyway, Richie," he turned his attention and gaze to the speaking Adam, "when MacLeod returns, tell him he should meet me tonight. About eleven." Adam smirked. "Think you can handle that?"
"I'll tell him, old man."
"Brat," and he reached across the counter to ruffle Richie's hair before leaving.
"So, umm, who's MacLeod?"
"The owner of the place. Duncan MacLeod. He kind of inherited it last year. More water?"
"Please. Inherited?"
"Yeah. A friend of ours did own it, but he died last year. Car crash. Mac didn't want to see the place die too, so he took over."
"And you work here?"
"On occasion. Mostly I just fill in if Mac has to step out for some reason."
"Like now, you mean?"
"Like now. Richie suddenly broke into another grin. "You know, maybe I should give you more scotch. You're certainly nicer afterwards."
Asher blushed and glanced at her hands. "Yeah. Sorry about that. Guess, I'm in a lousy mood."
Richie shrugged and handed her her water. "We're all allowed bad days."
Absent-mindly, he wiped down the counter, keeping an eye on the young woman. She was pleasant-looking, he decided. She had strawberry-blonde hair cut to her shoulders, and blue-gray eyes. Of course, she would be prettier, if she were not wearing all black. "So," he said after a long moment, "you never did tell me your name."
Asher looked up and for a second, she caught his gaze. "Asher Jacobs."
"A lovely name. Welcome to Paris, Asher."
She offered no response, but only took a sip of her water.