*raises eyebrows, nods head, moves on* (the Matthews family mentioned in
passing is in reference to the show "Boy Meets World." Do not own that
show or characters either). -----------------------------------------------
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September 11, 2004, 130 AM, Le Blues Bar/Richie's apartment
Richie was ready to call it a night. The band had left an hour ago, and now only the occasional drunken patron would claim the stage on unsteady feet to belt out a tune. Words and lyrics slurred to the point of being undistinguishable. Of course, Darcy failed to help, as she cheered them on and brought them more beers.
"You trying to kill people tonight?" screeched Mac, though his voice held a hint of sarcasm. Adam only smirked, which earned him a burned look from the Highlander.
"Irish hospitality, Mac. Don't they have it in those highland bonnies of yours?"
"Nah. Failed to reach us,' but he grinned, and Darcy winked, taking the glasses Mike had filled.
Usually, Richie joined their battles. A few laughs, some teasing between friends, some drinks, but tonight, tonight his mind lay elsewhere. Calling night to the ones he called his friends, he quietly grabbed his jacket, and slipped from the bar.
He drove slower than he normally would. He knew the alcohol would have little effect on his reflexes, but he still wanted to be careful. He had had more drinks than he normally would have, and he remembered all too well, it had been a drunk driver, which had killed Joe. He had sworn he never would put any family through the pain that he, Mac, Methos, Amanda, and Nick had suffered through. It had only been for one another, that they had made it through first the funeral, and then the subsequent grieving process. (It was in the aftermath of the grief, that Mac and Methos had first come together).
The lights of his apartment were unlit, and even the nosy old woman of the first floor was asleep. He sighed, and checked his mail. Mostly bills, and an invitation for some party of sorts from a friend of his in the states. In other words, he thought dejectedly, nothing too great. Sighing, he stepped to unlock the door, and nearly tripped over a slumped form.
Gaining his balance, he sighed, and knelt next to the form, to investigate. He could feel the Immortal aura, and automatically, his hand fluttered to the hilt of his hidden sword. He reached to touch a sweatered arm, and smiled. It was only Asher.
Gently, he tapped her arm, and her eyes fluttered open, and a shy smile flashed across her face. "Richie, hey. I missed my train."
He made note of the exhaustion and hurt in her voice, but wisely, he said nothing. He extended a hand to help her to stand, and gratefully, she took it. "Need a place to stay?" he asked, voice in hushed tones, and unlocked the apartment door.
"No. Yes."
An amused smile flashed across Richie's face, which he quickly hid should Asher notice it. "Well, which?" "I do. But," she paused, and averted her gaze to her shoes. "I need companionship more. If only, just for tonight."
Tenderly, Richie took her chin between fingers, and raised her face, so eyes looked into eyes. He kissed her only once, and that too, held infinite tenderness. "What secrets do you carry, Asher Jacobs?"
"You said you were thirty, no?" she whispered, and Richie (even as he stood face-to-face with her) had to strain to hear.
"I did. I lied. My birthday is not until the twentieth."
A shy smile crossed her face. "Mine is the eighteenth. I shall be twenty-two. I died the week before my nineteenth birthday."
Three facts filtered and settled in his mind. They had both experienced their first death at roughly the same age, and their birthdays parted only in two days. And, she had died in the September eleventh place crashes. "No wonder you need companionship tonight," he whispered.
She frowned, nodded, and her face barely moved, as Richie still held her chin lightly in hand. "I was due to fly west, with my mother. My father, brother and sister had flown the week before."
Exchanging her chin for hand, he laced his fingers through hers, and led her to the couch. "Why did you stay?"
She paused, swallowed, and breathed deep. "I had taken the semester off from college. Mom was a lawyer, and needed to wrap her last case. I wanted to say good-bye to Sam Clarke."
"A boyfriend?"
Asher nodded, and took another breath. "We booked a flight the following week. We were to move to Orange County. I attended UCLA. Double major. Sociology and Computer Science."
She paused, again, and some recognition dawned for Richie. When first in the bar, he understood now when asked if she was American, she had answered technically. She had lived in the states for only a short time.
"I remember the drive to their airport. I fell asleep before the plane left the ground. Hadn't slept well the night before. Nerves, I suppose. I never liked planes." More pause. "I woke to commotion. A man yelled, "let's roll," and next I knew, I was on the ground, the plan was nothing more than twisted metal, and dead bodies everywhere. There was no way I should have survived."
"You did die, Asher," Richie reminded gently. His voice shook, and he did his best to hide the shakiness, but failed. Miserably.
"I know now, but not then. You asked after my scars. I slit my wrists. To the bone. With a knife I had found off some man. I was determined to die. I know now I did, but still did not stay dead." "Asher," he breathed her name, emotion rolling from his tongue. " I am sorry."
"I managed to find a main road, and hitchhiked to Philadelphia. Worked there. Nanny. For the Matthews Family. Come January, I returned to school. Took the train. Have not been on a plane since."
"No wonder," mumbled Richie. "You carry no sword."
Asher side-glanced him, and followed her gaze to their hands, still laced together. "I carry no sword. On return to school, an English professor of mine became my mentor. He had died in the concentration camps. Night before I was due to graduate, he tried to kill me. Instead, I killed him. Too disturbed, I took my diploma, and ran. Left my sword behind. Never bought another."
"You do need a sword. Eventually."
"Ironic, I suppose. I fenced since I could walk, and it never bothered me."
"Not as much as you think," this time, he paused, and took the deep breath. "Immortality is never easy, Asher. We all leave something unfinished."
"I know, but the anniversaries are always the hardest."
"So they are," agreed Richie. "It is late. We best get some sleep."
"Not alone," she pleaded. "Please. Don't have me sleep alone."
Richie swallowed, but nodded. "You will not be alone, Asher. I promise," and he sealed the vow with a kiss.
September 11, 2004, 130 AM, Le Blues Bar/Richie's apartment
Richie was ready to call it a night. The band had left an hour ago, and now only the occasional drunken patron would claim the stage on unsteady feet to belt out a tune. Words and lyrics slurred to the point of being undistinguishable. Of course, Darcy failed to help, as she cheered them on and brought them more beers.
"You trying to kill people tonight?" screeched Mac, though his voice held a hint of sarcasm. Adam only smirked, which earned him a burned look from the Highlander.
"Irish hospitality, Mac. Don't they have it in those highland bonnies of yours?"
"Nah. Failed to reach us,' but he grinned, and Darcy winked, taking the glasses Mike had filled.
Usually, Richie joined their battles. A few laughs, some teasing between friends, some drinks, but tonight, tonight his mind lay elsewhere. Calling night to the ones he called his friends, he quietly grabbed his jacket, and slipped from the bar.
He drove slower than he normally would. He knew the alcohol would have little effect on his reflexes, but he still wanted to be careful. He had had more drinks than he normally would have, and he remembered all too well, it had been a drunk driver, which had killed Joe. He had sworn he never would put any family through the pain that he, Mac, Methos, Amanda, and Nick had suffered through. It had only been for one another, that they had made it through first the funeral, and then the subsequent grieving process. (It was in the aftermath of the grief, that Mac and Methos had first come together).
The lights of his apartment were unlit, and even the nosy old woman of the first floor was asleep. He sighed, and checked his mail. Mostly bills, and an invitation for some party of sorts from a friend of his in the states. In other words, he thought dejectedly, nothing too great. Sighing, he stepped to unlock the door, and nearly tripped over a slumped form.
Gaining his balance, he sighed, and knelt next to the form, to investigate. He could feel the Immortal aura, and automatically, his hand fluttered to the hilt of his hidden sword. He reached to touch a sweatered arm, and smiled. It was only Asher.
Gently, he tapped her arm, and her eyes fluttered open, and a shy smile flashed across her face. "Richie, hey. I missed my train."
He made note of the exhaustion and hurt in her voice, but wisely, he said nothing. He extended a hand to help her to stand, and gratefully, she took it. "Need a place to stay?" he asked, voice in hushed tones, and unlocked the apartment door.
"No. Yes."
An amused smile flashed across Richie's face, which he quickly hid should Asher notice it. "Well, which?" "I do. But," she paused, and averted her gaze to her shoes. "I need companionship more. If only, just for tonight."
Tenderly, Richie took her chin between fingers, and raised her face, so eyes looked into eyes. He kissed her only once, and that too, held infinite tenderness. "What secrets do you carry, Asher Jacobs?"
"You said you were thirty, no?" she whispered, and Richie (even as he stood face-to-face with her) had to strain to hear.
"I did. I lied. My birthday is not until the twentieth."
A shy smile crossed her face. "Mine is the eighteenth. I shall be twenty-two. I died the week before my nineteenth birthday."
Three facts filtered and settled in his mind. They had both experienced their first death at roughly the same age, and their birthdays parted only in two days. And, she had died in the September eleventh place crashes. "No wonder you need companionship tonight," he whispered.
She frowned, nodded, and her face barely moved, as Richie still held her chin lightly in hand. "I was due to fly west, with my mother. My father, brother and sister had flown the week before."
Exchanging her chin for hand, he laced his fingers through hers, and led her to the couch. "Why did you stay?"
She paused, swallowed, and breathed deep. "I had taken the semester off from college. Mom was a lawyer, and needed to wrap her last case. I wanted to say good-bye to Sam Clarke."
"A boyfriend?"
Asher nodded, and took another breath. "We booked a flight the following week. We were to move to Orange County. I attended UCLA. Double major. Sociology and Computer Science."
She paused, again, and some recognition dawned for Richie. When first in the bar, he understood now when asked if she was American, she had answered technically. She had lived in the states for only a short time.
"I remember the drive to their airport. I fell asleep before the plane left the ground. Hadn't slept well the night before. Nerves, I suppose. I never liked planes." More pause. "I woke to commotion. A man yelled, "let's roll," and next I knew, I was on the ground, the plan was nothing more than twisted metal, and dead bodies everywhere. There was no way I should have survived."
"You did die, Asher," Richie reminded gently. His voice shook, and he did his best to hide the shakiness, but failed. Miserably.
"I know now, but not then. You asked after my scars. I slit my wrists. To the bone. With a knife I had found off some man. I was determined to die. I know now I did, but still did not stay dead." "Asher," he breathed her name, emotion rolling from his tongue. " I am sorry."
"I managed to find a main road, and hitchhiked to Philadelphia. Worked there. Nanny. For the Matthews Family. Come January, I returned to school. Took the train. Have not been on a plane since."
"No wonder," mumbled Richie. "You carry no sword."
Asher side-glanced him, and followed her gaze to their hands, still laced together. "I carry no sword. On return to school, an English professor of mine became my mentor. He had died in the concentration camps. Night before I was due to graduate, he tried to kill me. Instead, I killed him. Too disturbed, I took my diploma, and ran. Left my sword behind. Never bought another."
"You do need a sword. Eventually."
"Ironic, I suppose. I fenced since I could walk, and it never bothered me."
"Not as much as you think," this time, he paused, and took the deep breath. "Immortality is never easy, Asher. We all leave something unfinished."
"I know, but the anniversaries are always the hardest."
"So they are," agreed Richie. "It is late. We best get some sleep."
"Not alone," she pleaded. "Please. Don't have me sleep alone."
Richie swallowed, but nodded. "You will not be alone, Asher. I promise," and he sealed the vow with a kiss.