Author's Note: raises eyebrow, nods had, moves on.
to blackblade: in fifteen words or less, Sam Clarke is power-hungry, manipulative, bitter, revengeful. The luncheon meeting between him and Adam Pierson was not all that it seemed. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------------
April 12, 2005, 600PM, Le Blues Bar/the Paris Library
Mike Ross arrived in time for the impending dinner hour. He removed his sunglasses, only to perch them atop his head, and he slipped behind the bar counter, to stuff his jacket into a cubbyhole. He had his apology already planned. He had had a dentist appointment in the morning, and having stopped in a coffee shop afterwards, he had met with a young American, who claimed to have known Duncan MacLeod. They had chatted briefly, of this and that, when the American finally left for a lunch date with an old friend.
The bar was empty. From the backroom, he could hear the familiar sounds of Asher scolding the computer, and he softly pushed open the door. Darcy sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine, and Mike sighed. Since they had slept together last winter, the air between them had been tenser than before. "Where's everyone today, Asher?"
"Out, I suppose," she shrugged, and turned swiveled the chair to face Mike. "You just getting in?"
"Yeah, I had some things to take care of today. Mac upset?"
"Miffed, I think would be the better description."
Mike cocked his head to the left. "Everything ok?"
Asher shrugged again. She had prided herself in hiding her emotions, and she knew Mike could not read her below the surface. He would not know she had cried in the shower, or that when she emerged fully-dressed, the glass had been swept and disposed of, or that Richie had disappeared, leaving no note. She had hoped he had come here, but he had not, only Darcy and Duncan manned the bar, and Duncan had left soon after she had arrived to run errands. "Ok should cover today. We've had strange guests."
"Anyone I know?"
"Somehow, Mike, I doubt it. Although, he claims to know you."
"Oh? What's this guy's name?"
Asher turned back to the monitor, and clicked a few keys, commanding the computer to store a particular file in a particular folder. "There. Done."
"XP3 downloaded?" asked Darcy, not lifting her gaze from the magazine.
"Uploaded, actually. It was only an upgrade, I did, but yes, it is all set. Mac should not have any problems. For a while, at least."
"Asher. What was his name?" repeated Mike.
Asher sighed, and fumbled to shut down the computer. She rose from the chair, and faced Mike. She knew the sadness in her expression showed clearly. "Clarke. His name was Samuel Clarke. He's a lawyer. Claimed to be yours."
Once the door had shut behind her, Darcy marked her place in the magazine, and caught Mike's gaze. "Nice going, ace. You put your mouth into it this time."
"I think you mean my foot, Darce," he responded, and sighed, following the gentle motions of the door closing. "How was I supposed to know it was a sore subject?"
"Next time," bit Darcy, standing, and tossing the magazine onto the couch (having already memorized the page number), "do us all a favor, and don't ask. You and talking was always a bad idea." She stood next to him now, and Mike could see the flash in her eyes, but whether it anger, regret or sadness, he could not tell. "And, you just proved it again, Mike."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------
He had spent the past three and half hours in the library. He had searched every American phone book, every American reference book he could find, and had now turned to the Internet. Having forked over his keys in exchange for thirty minutes of interrupted Internet use, he had searched every search engine he could. And, still, he had found nothing.
Richie sighed, disconnected, and reclaimed his keys. He had to face Asher sometime before the night ended, and he could use a good, stiff drink. Climbing into his convertible, he clicked the radio on, to ease the silence, and wished Methos was in Paris. Somehow, the old man always had an answer.
to blackblade: in fifteen words or less, Sam Clarke is power-hungry, manipulative, bitter, revengeful. The luncheon meeting between him and Adam Pierson was not all that it seemed. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------------
April 12, 2005, 600PM, Le Blues Bar/the Paris Library
Mike Ross arrived in time for the impending dinner hour. He removed his sunglasses, only to perch them atop his head, and he slipped behind the bar counter, to stuff his jacket into a cubbyhole. He had his apology already planned. He had had a dentist appointment in the morning, and having stopped in a coffee shop afterwards, he had met with a young American, who claimed to have known Duncan MacLeod. They had chatted briefly, of this and that, when the American finally left for a lunch date with an old friend.
The bar was empty. From the backroom, he could hear the familiar sounds of Asher scolding the computer, and he softly pushed open the door. Darcy sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine, and Mike sighed. Since they had slept together last winter, the air between them had been tenser than before. "Where's everyone today, Asher?"
"Out, I suppose," she shrugged, and turned swiveled the chair to face Mike. "You just getting in?"
"Yeah, I had some things to take care of today. Mac upset?"
"Miffed, I think would be the better description."
Mike cocked his head to the left. "Everything ok?"
Asher shrugged again. She had prided herself in hiding her emotions, and she knew Mike could not read her below the surface. He would not know she had cried in the shower, or that when she emerged fully-dressed, the glass had been swept and disposed of, or that Richie had disappeared, leaving no note. She had hoped he had come here, but he had not, only Darcy and Duncan manned the bar, and Duncan had left soon after she had arrived to run errands. "Ok should cover today. We've had strange guests."
"Anyone I know?"
"Somehow, Mike, I doubt it. Although, he claims to know you."
"Oh? What's this guy's name?"
Asher turned back to the monitor, and clicked a few keys, commanding the computer to store a particular file in a particular folder. "There. Done."
"XP3 downloaded?" asked Darcy, not lifting her gaze from the magazine.
"Uploaded, actually. It was only an upgrade, I did, but yes, it is all set. Mac should not have any problems. For a while, at least."
"Asher. What was his name?" repeated Mike.
Asher sighed, and fumbled to shut down the computer. She rose from the chair, and faced Mike. She knew the sadness in her expression showed clearly. "Clarke. His name was Samuel Clarke. He's a lawyer. Claimed to be yours."
Once the door had shut behind her, Darcy marked her place in the magazine, and caught Mike's gaze. "Nice going, ace. You put your mouth into it this time."
"I think you mean my foot, Darce," he responded, and sighed, following the gentle motions of the door closing. "How was I supposed to know it was a sore subject?"
"Next time," bit Darcy, standing, and tossing the magazine onto the couch (having already memorized the page number), "do us all a favor, and don't ask. You and talking was always a bad idea." She stood next to him now, and Mike could see the flash in her eyes, but whether it anger, regret or sadness, he could not tell. "And, you just proved it again, Mike."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------
He had spent the past three and half hours in the library. He had searched every American phone book, every American reference book he could find, and had now turned to the Internet. Having forked over his keys in exchange for thirty minutes of interrupted Internet use, he had searched every search engine he could. And, still, he had found nothing.
Richie sighed, disconnected, and reclaimed his keys. He had to face Asher sometime before the night ended, and he could use a good, stiff drink. Climbing into his convertible, he clicked the radio on, to ease the silence, and wished Methos was in Paris. Somehow, the old man always had an answer.