Author's Note: raises eyebrow, nods, continues with story.
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April 12, 2005, 10 AM, Le Blues Bar
Duncan had recovered enough to finish stocking the alcohol. There was still time before they officially opened to the public, and Darcy had disappeared into the kitchen to prep the day's menu. Richie wandered in, sprawled in the stool Methos usually claimed, and stated Asher had booted him.
"Women do seem to have the higher power in the relationship," noted Duncan.
Richie cocked his head. "Speaking from experience, Mac?"
"Partly. Don't suppose I could get you to wipe the tables?"
"Nope. Who was the guy who just left?"
"Friend of Mike's."
"Wish he had stayed. He could have amused Richie further perhaps," teased Asher, coming from the office, and ducking behind the counter to pour herself a glass of water, which she quickly swallowed. "Kept him from my hair."
"Hey. I resent that," huffed Richie, but Duncan only offered a small smile. This had become normal in the weeks and months since Asher had relaxed and had opened herself to the possibility life and love offered. Bemused, Asher leaned across the counter to steal a kiss.
"He have a name, Mac? Most people do usually," she asked.
"Most, yes. Clarke, I think he said. Sam Clarke, maybe."
"Say where he was from?" prodded Richie, but Asher only paled. He saw the color drain from her cheeks, and took her hand into his. It felt clammy to his touch. "Asher?"
"Sam Clarke? Aloof? Dark hair, flat gray eyes?"
"Sounds about right. You know him, Asher?" Duncan responded.
Asher swore once, twice, thrice, quad times. It was the same word repeated: first in Italian, followed in German, and in French, and only for finality did she then utter it in English. "He asked for Mike?"
"He did."
"Asher. Tell me something, anything," pleaded Richie, for she was now white, pale, and all the laughter she had held in her eyes only moments before, gone.
"You know him?" added Duncan.
"Yeah. I know him. From before," she hesitated, and squeezed Richie's hand tighter, "from before I died."
April 12, 2005, 10 AM, Le Blues Bar
Duncan had recovered enough to finish stocking the alcohol. There was still time before they officially opened to the public, and Darcy had disappeared into the kitchen to prep the day's menu. Richie wandered in, sprawled in the stool Methos usually claimed, and stated Asher had booted him.
"Women do seem to have the higher power in the relationship," noted Duncan.
Richie cocked his head. "Speaking from experience, Mac?"
"Partly. Don't suppose I could get you to wipe the tables?"
"Nope. Who was the guy who just left?"
"Friend of Mike's."
"Wish he had stayed. He could have amused Richie further perhaps," teased Asher, coming from the office, and ducking behind the counter to pour herself a glass of water, which she quickly swallowed. "Kept him from my hair."
"Hey. I resent that," huffed Richie, but Duncan only offered a small smile. This had become normal in the weeks and months since Asher had relaxed and had opened herself to the possibility life and love offered. Bemused, Asher leaned across the counter to steal a kiss.
"He have a name, Mac? Most people do usually," she asked.
"Most, yes. Clarke, I think he said. Sam Clarke, maybe."
"Say where he was from?" prodded Richie, but Asher only paled. He saw the color drain from her cheeks, and took her hand into his. It felt clammy to his touch. "Asher?"
"Sam Clarke? Aloof? Dark hair, flat gray eyes?"
"Sounds about right. You know him, Asher?" Duncan responded.
Asher swore once, twice, thrice, quad times. It was the same word repeated: first in Italian, followed in German, and in French, and only for finality did she then utter it in English. "He asked for Mike?"
"He did."
"Asher. Tell me something, anything," pleaded Richie, for she was now white, pale, and all the laughter she had held in her eyes only moments before, gone.
"You know him?" added Duncan.
"Yeah. I know him. From before," she hesitated, and squeezed Richie's hand tighter, "from before I died."