April 13, 2005, 8 AM, the apartment of Richie Ryan
For once, Richie awoke first. Asher was still curled into his side, her face hidden behind the curtain of her strawberry-blonde hair. In her sleep, he humbled the tune of a song he was not familiar with, and he could only assume it was one of her own. Exerting delicate cautiousness, he extracted himself from the bed, only having to pry the ghost-soft grasp of Asher's fingers off his arm once. Avoiding to make too much noise, he quickly dressed, and padded barefoot to the kitchen too see about some food. A young man, however old he may be, or however long he may live, could always do with more food.
After observing the contents of his cupboards and refrigerator for several minutes, he decided to cook himself an omelet, and rummaged around to find the necessary ingredients. Eggs, salt, pepper, green and red peppers, onion, and some ham. He hummed to himself, unconsciously echoing the same tune he had heard Asher hum in her sleep, as he added the fillings and flipped the eggs. The coffee was already ready, and he popped two pieces of toast into the toaster, taking a plate from the cupboard for his breakfast, and sipping his coffee for the eggs could cool some.
Finally ready, he retrieved the newspaper from outside the front door, and settled at the table, savoring and swallowing a welcome bite of his breakfast. He washed the eggs down with another swallow of coffee.
He heard the padding of more barefoot feet across the floor, and of the familiar rummaging in the cupboard for some form of cutlery. A few moments later, Asher sat across him, holding her own mug of coffee. She still looked half-asleep, hair still framing her face in soft waves, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and an UCLA sweatshirt about two sizes too big.
"Morning," he drawled. "Hope I didn't wake you."
"You didn't."
"Want an omelet?"
Asher shook her head, sipping some more of the bitter liquid she held. She still did not know to why she had started drinking coffee on a semi-regular basis when she hated it so much. Swallowing some more, she decided it must have to do with her company. Richie, Duncan, Adam, Amanda, and Nick all drank it regularly. Maybe it was an Immortal habit, she decided.
"I met with Sam," she finally offered, more to the air than to Richie.
"Oh?" His hands tensed around the fork handle, and he averted his eyes from the newspaper article he had been reading.
"Atop the Eiffel Tower."
It took all of Richie's control to not drop the fork he held, and he was careful to swallow before he tried to scream, breathe, or talk, he then proceeded to attempt both the first two simultaneously. The small pewter modle of the tower, which he had given her for his birthday, still rested on the nightstand next to their bed, where she had placed it. So, it was the last thing she saw every night, and the first thing she saw every morning, she had often said. But despite so, she had not visited the Eiffel Tower since September, when she had thought she was leaving Paris, and had said good-bye.
"I'm sorry, Asher. It sounded as though you said you had met Sam Clarke atop the Eiffel Tower, but I must have heard wrong. You swore to never visit the tower again."
"You heard me right, Richie," she shrugged, her voice soft. "I needed to mull some thoughts, and I suppose I still favor the Tower for the best mulling ground. Sam happened to be there as well."
"You two talked?"
"We did."
Richie had lost his appetite, and although still more than half the omelet still remained, he pushed the plate aside. "Do I get to hear about what?"
"Mostly what had happened since we last saw one another," she shook her head when she saw Richie's mouth open in protest. "I did not tell him about being an Immortal, Ryan. I am not stupid."
"Never said you were," mumbled Richie, to which Asher raised her eyebrow.
"I asked him why he had come to Paris. He said he had been hired out. As some sort of favor to an old friend," she paused, swallowing some more coffee. "A male friend."
"I thought he was a lawyer?"
"He was, or he is, rather. But, he has always done other jobs, for the high fee, of course." She blushed, and averted her own gaze from Richie's eyes, finding sudden interest in the last dregs of her coffee.
"Asher," was Richie's soft reply, reaching across the table, placing his own hand over hers. "Tell me what you know."
"That is what I know, Richie. I swear. Sam was never one to elaborate on his missions, as he called them."
Richie sighed. "We should tell Mac. He must be wondering just who our strange visitor was yesterday." Asher nodded unenthusiastically. "Everything ok, Asher?"
She remained silent for a long moment. "What made you want to be with me, Richie?"
Richie was taken back, but quickly he regained his composure. "You are a sweet, caring, intelligent, beautiful person. I feel honored to know and love you." He paused, cocked his head slightly, never taking his hand from hers. "Why?"
"No reason," she muttered, shaking her head. "Just a bit of conversation between Sam and me. Or, rather a bit of conversation that neither he nor I did not voice out loud, but should have."
"What?"
Asher stood, pulling her hands from Richie's, and crossed to the sink to rinse the mug. "That despite having been together for four years, despite him being my first, despite everything, we both used one another. He was my last, somewhat safe, stake at reformed teenage rebellion. He thought I was good in bed." She shrugged, and left the mug, full of water, in the already dish-cluttered sink. She made a mental note to wash the dishes later.
"He hurt you," observed Richie quietly, noting the bitterness in his voice.
"It is all past, Richie."
"Is it, Asher?" he asked, own bitterness noted. He stood, and crossed the floor, coming behind her, and spinning her, so he could see her eyes. "Here he is, in Paris, with some hidden agenda. Do you know what it is? Because I certainly don't."
"It has very little to do with me, Richie. I promise you."
"Maybe so, Asher, but it seems to have everything to do with you and me."
Asher was a quiet before slipping from her spot between Richie and the kitchen counter. Putting a few feet distance between them, she sighed. "Maybe we should get dressed. You said yourself we should go talk to Mac."
Richie's only response was a sigh of his own.
For once, Richie awoke first. Asher was still curled into his side, her face hidden behind the curtain of her strawberry-blonde hair. In her sleep, he humbled the tune of a song he was not familiar with, and he could only assume it was one of her own. Exerting delicate cautiousness, he extracted himself from the bed, only having to pry the ghost-soft grasp of Asher's fingers off his arm once. Avoiding to make too much noise, he quickly dressed, and padded barefoot to the kitchen too see about some food. A young man, however old he may be, or however long he may live, could always do with more food.
After observing the contents of his cupboards and refrigerator for several minutes, he decided to cook himself an omelet, and rummaged around to find the necessary ingredients. Eggs, salt, pepper, green and red peppers, onion, and some ham. He hummed to himself, unconsciously echoing the same tune he had heard Asher hum in her sleep, as he added the fillings and flipped the eggs. The coffee was already ready, and he popped two pieces of toast into the toaster, taking a plate from the cupboard for his breakfast, and sipping his coffee for the eggs could cool some.
Finally ready, he retrieved the newspaper from outside the front door, and settled at the table, savoring and swallowing a welcome bite of his breakfast. He washed the eggs down with another swallow of coffee.
He heard the padding of more barefoot feet across the floor, and of the familiar rummaging in the cupboard for some form of cutlery. A few moments later, Asher sat across him, holding her own mug of coffee. She still looked half-asleep, hair still framing her face in soft waves, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and an UCLA sweatshirt about two sizes too big.
"Morning," he drawled. "Hope I didn't wake you."
"You didn't."
"Want an omelet?"
Asher shook her head, sipping some more of the bitter liquid she held. She still did not know to why she had started drinking coffee on a semi-regular basis when she hated it so much. Swallowing some more, she decided it must have to do with her company. Richie, Duncan, Adam, Amanda, and Nick all drank it regularly. Maybe it was an Immortal habit, she decided.
"I met with Sam," she finally offered, more to the air than to Richie.
"Oh?" His hands tensed around the fork handle, and he averted his eyes from the newspaper article he had been reading.
"Atop the Eiffel Tower."
It took all of Richie's control to not drop the fork he held, and he was careful to swallow before he tried to scream, breathe, or talk, he then proceeded to attempt both the first two simultaneously. The small pewter modle of the tower, which he had given her for his birthday, still rested on the nightstand next to their bed, where she had placed it. So, it was the last thing she saw every night, and the first thing she saw every morning, she had often said. But despite so, she had not visited the Eiffel Tower since September, when she had thought she was leaving Paris, and had said good-bye.
"I'm sorry, Asher. It sounded as though you said you had met Sam Clarke atop the Eiffel Tower, but I must have heard wrong. You swore to never visit the tower again."
"You heard me right, Richie," she shrugged, her voice soft. "I needed to mull some thoughts, and I suppose I still favor the Tower for the best mulling ground. Sam happened to be there as well."
"You two talked?"
"We did."
Richie had lost his appetite, and although still more than half the omelet still remained, he pushed the plate aside. "Do I get to hear about what?"
"Mostly what had happened since we last saw one another," she shook her head when she saw Richie's mouth open in protest. "I did not tell him about being an Immortal, Ryan. I am not stupid."
"Never said you were," mumbled Richie, to which Asher raised her eyebrow.
"I asked him why he had come to Paris. He said he had been hired out. As some sort of favor to an old friend," she paused, swallowing some more coffee. "A male friend."
"I thought he was a lawyer?"
"He was, or he is, rather. But, he has always done other jobs, for the high fee, of course." She blushed, and averted her own gaze from Richie's eyes, finding sudden interest in the last dregs of her coffee.
"Asher," was Richie's soft reply, reaching across the table, placing his own hand over hers. "Tell me what you know."
"That is what I know, Richie. I swear. Sam was never one to elaborate on his missions, as he called them."
Richie sighed. "We should tell Mac. He must be wondering just who our strange visitor was yesterday." Asher nodded unenthusiastically. "Everything ok, Asher?"
She remained silent for a long moment. "What made you want to be with me, Richie?"
Richie was taken back, but quickly he regained his composure. "You are a sweet, caring, intelligent, beautiful person. I feel honored to know and love you." He paused, cocked his head slightly, never taking his hand from hers. "Why?"
"No reason," she muttered, shaking her head. "Just a bit of conversation between Sam and me. Or, rather a bit of conversation that neither he nor I did not voice out loud, but should have."
"What?"
Asher stood, pulling her hands from Richie's, and crossed to the sink to rinse the mug. "That despite having been together for four years, despite him being my first, despite everything, we both used one another. He was my last, somewhat safe, stake at reformed teenage rebellion. He thought I was good in bed." She shrugged, and left the mug, full of water, in the already dish-cluttered sink. She made a mental note to wash the dishes later.
"He hurt you," observed Richie quietly, noting the bitterness in his voice.
"It is all past, Richie."
"Is it, Asher?" he asked, own bitterness noted. He stood, and crossed the floor, coming behind her, and spinning her, so he could see her eyes. "Here he is, in Paris, with some hidden agenda. Do you know what it is? Because I certainly don't."
"It has very little to do with me, Richie. I promise you."
"Maybe so, Asher, but it seems to have everything to do with you and me."
Asher was a quiet before slipping from her spot between Richie and the kitchen counter. Putting a few feet distance between them, she sighed. "Maybe we should get dressed. You said yourself we should go talk to Mac."
Richie's only response was a sigh of his own.