Author's Note: this chapter and the previous chapter overlap slightly in
timeframe. The events of last chapter span roughly forty-five minutes, from
about 8-845, where as this chapter spans roughly two hours from roughly 810-
1030. (All times are AM) sorry for any confusion.
As always, I only lay ownership rights to Asher Jacobs. I also own Samuel Clarke, however manipulative he may be. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------
April 13, 2005, 810AM, Le Blues Bar
Duncan found himself coming into an empty bar. When he had returned last night, having to have run some errands, Asher was nowhere to be seen, and his bartender and Irish waitress were in a front booth, conducting a staring contest, just short it seemed, of forgetting the friendly competition aspect, and slitting one another's throats. Not the best way to die, he had mused, watching them.
Now, early morning once again, he let himself into the bar, devoid of everyone, employees and customers, everyone but himself. For one moment, one brief moment, he almost wished he could keep the bar like that. Empty. Quiet. Maybe then, Methos would not have left. Disgusted with the very thought, he shook it from his head, and turned to ready the bar for customers.
Had Amanda been there with him, she would have scolded, her voice making it sound more like an agitated purr. In the months since Methos' hasty departure, she had seen him at both his best and his worst. This past December, when they had all spent the Christmas holidays at the New Hampshire cabin again, he had insisted on taking the room he had shared with Methos the year before. It had been Amanda, who found him wrapped in the linens, sobbing into the pillow, hoping it would muffle his tears. Amanda had sat with him, rubbing his back, whispering soothing words well into the night, telling him he should cry, should think fondly of Methos.
He doubted that thought had been a fond one. It had been harsh on only himself, as Methos had said he blamed the bar for his departure. Or maybe, Duncan had come to believe that in the months alone. For despite his friends' good intentions, trying to set him up with both females and males, Duncan refused to become involved. To preserve the memory, he supposed, and to be alone in his own brooding and pain.
Suddenly wary of the quiet, he flipped the radio on, grimacing at the American punk rock, which blared from the speakers. No doubt Richie's choice from when he had helped out last week. He changed the station to one of his liking: celtic operatic rock.
Focusing on the music, he cleaned the counter, the tables, and without thinking, the chairs as well. He moved about the small corner stage, running a cloth over the microphone stand, and the wood of the stage floor, wishing Joe Dawson was there to play again. Duncan sighed, and stepped hesitantly off the stage.
He finished the cleaning of the main floor, and moved to the bathrooms, scrubbing the toilets, the sinks, and checking to make sure the soap and towel dispensers were full. They were. Finished, he moved again behind the bar, and checked to make sure the alcohol and other drinks were well in stock. He was good.
Satisfied, he poured himself some ice water, and took a long slow drink. The glass was empty when he had finally brought it again to the counter. Still no one had arrived, but he was not surprised. Yesterday's early arrivals by his two waitresses had been a fluke, he was sure.
Having skipped breakfast, he found some cereal he stored in the small kitchen, and poured himself a bowl, adding the right amount of milk. He sat at the bar, having poured himself another glass, this time of orange juice, and ate the cereal. He added some more, to finish the remaining milk.
Silently, he washed the bowl and glass, and left them next to the sink to dry. He shot his head around, having felt the tell-tale buzz of not one, but two Immortals. He cursed in Gaelic. Assuring himself he had his sword ready, he tiptoed from the kitchen, and sighed in relief. It was only Richie and Asher.
"Bonjour," he greeted, letting them in. He discreetly glanced at his watch. Almost ten. He had been there almost two hours. Richie and Asher were only slightly early, but not too early. Normal, in other terms. "What can I do for you?"
"Um, I work here, Mac? Have for seven months now?" teased Asher.
"So does he. For years," he retorted, referring to Richie. "However, it is till too early for either of you to begin work. Seeing, as my computer is all set."
Asher and Richie briefly caught one another's eye, and Duncan was aware of both an understanding and a tension, which caught between them. "Guys? You need something? Want something?"
"Not exactly, no," Richie finally said, having found his voice. "More, we have some information you might appreciate."
"Oh?" he crossed his arms in interest.
"It's about our visitor from yesterday."
"Oh."
"He is collecting information on someone for someone," blurted Asher.
"On someone for someone?" repeated Duncan. "Any idea who these someones might be?"
Richie shook his head, but Asher paused. "I think I might," she whispered, and both men turned to face her. "In the second year Sam Clarke and I dated," she nearly choked on the word 'dated', "Sam mentioned having met the acquaintance of a tall, dark-haired man, who spoke with a British-esque accent. Said something about owing the man a favor. Seems they had a run in while Sam was still in law school. Guest professor, or the like, I think he said."
"So, why would he owe this guy a favor then?" prodded Richie.
"I don't know," Asher responded. "But I think that acquaintance may have been Adam Pierson."
"I thought you had said you had never met Adam before you first arrived," questioned Duncan.
"I haven't. And, I just now made the connection. Sam will only do these missions of his for high prices, but if he owes someone a favor, he will lower his price his considerably. He does some integrity left in him. You didn't know who he was, Mac, when he was here yesterday, and as he is definitely not Mike's lawyer, Adam is the only left to fit the bill."
Asher's connection dawned on Duncan. "So, I must be the other someone."
"Precisely," she agreed.
"So, Adam must be back in Paris?"
Asher glanced to the floor. "He is."
Duncan frowned. "Something tells me it is not my business to know just how you know that. This does change things, though?" "How so?" asked Richie.
Duncan paused briefly, trying to find the right words. "The dynamics of these relationships we hold dear," he finally decided on, speaking the words in a voice barely above a whisper. Richie and Asher shared another mixed glance, quickly looking away. "Well, since you're both here," he added after a moment, "you can set the napkins and silverwares on the tables. Do an old man the favor?"
"Man, you are not *that* old," stressed Richie, and Duncan chuckled.
"Get to work, kid," he sputtered between the chuckles. Otherwise now silent, Asher, too, allowed herself a small smile.
As always, I only lay ownership rights to Asher Jacobs. I also own Samuel Clarke, however manipulative he may be. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------
April 13, 2005, 810AM, Le Blues Bar
Duncan found himself coming into an empty bar. When he had returned last night, having to have run some errands, Asher was nowhere to be seen, and his bartender and Irish waitress were in a front booth, conducting a staring contest, just short it seemed, of forgetting the friendly competition aspect, and slitting one another's throats. Not the best way to die, he had mused, watching them.
Now, early morning once again, he let himself into the bar, devoid of everyone, employees and customers, everyone but himself. For one moment, one brief moment, he almost wished he could keep the bar like that. Empty. Quiet. Maybe then, Methos would not have left. Disgusted with the very thought, he shook it from his head, and turned to ready the bar for customers.
Had Amanda been there with him, she would have scolded, her voice making it sound more like an agitated purr. In the months since Methos' hasty departure, she had seen him at both his best and his worst. This past December, when they had all spent the Christmas holidays at the New Hampshire cabin again, he had insisted on taking the room he had shared with Methos the year before. It had been Amanda, who found him wrapped in the linens, sobbing into the pillow, hoping it would muffle his tears. Amanda had sat with him, rubbing his back, whispering soothing words well into the night, telling him he should cry, should think fondly of Methos.
He doubted that thought had been a fond one. It had been harsh on only himself, as Methos had said he blamed the bar for his departure. Or maybe, Duncan had come to believe that in the months alone. For despite his friends' good intentions, trying to set him up with both females and males, Duncan refused to become involved. To preserve the memory, he supposed, and to be alone in his own brooding and pain.
Suddenly wary of the quiet, he flipped the radio on, grimacing at the American punk rock, which blared from the speakers. No doubt Richie's choice from when he had helped out last week. He changed the station to one of his liking: celtic operatic rock.
Focusing on the music, he cleaned the counter, the tables, and without thinking, the chairs as well. He moved about the small corner stage, running a cloth over the microphone stand, and the wood of the stage floor, wishing Joe Dawson was there to play again. Duncan sighed, and stepped hesitantly off the stage.
He finished the cleaning of the main floor, and moved to the bathrooms, scrubbing the toilets, the sinks, and checking to make sure the soap and towel dispensers were full. They were. Finished, he moved again behind the bar, and checked to make sure the alcohol and other drinks were well in stock. He was good.
Satisfied, he poured himself some ice water, and took a long slow drink. The glass was empty when he had finally brought it again to the counter. Still no one had arrived, but he was not surprised. Yesterday's early arrivals by his two waitresses had been a fluke, he was sure.
Having skipped breakfast, he found some cereal he stored in the small kitchen, and poured himself a bowl, adding the right amount of milk. He sat at the bar, having poured himself another glass, this time of orange juice, and ate the cereal. He added some more, to finish the remaining milk.
Silently, he washed the bowl and glass, and left them next to the sink to dry. He shot his head around, having felt the tell-tale buzz of not one, but two Immortals. He cursed in Gaelic. Assuring himself he had his sword ready, he tiptoed from the kitchen, and sighed in relief. It was only Richie and Asher.
"Bonjour," he greeted, letting them in. He discreetly glanced at his watch. Almost ten. He had been there almost two hours. Richie and Asher were only slightly early, but not too early. Normal, in other terms. "What can I do for you?"
"Um, I work here, Mac? Have for seven months now?" teased Asher.
"So does he. For years," he retorted, referring to Richie. "However, it is till too early for either of you to begin work. Seeing, as my computer is all set."
Asher and Richie briefly caught one another's eye, and Duncan was aware of both an understanding and a tension, which caught between them. "Guys? You need something? Want something?"
"Not exactly, no," Richie finally said, having found his voice. "More, we have some information you might appreciate."
"Oh?" he crossed his arms in interest.
"It's about our visitor from yesterday."
"Oh."
"He is collecting information on someone for someone," blurted Asher.
"On someone for someone?" repeated Duncan. "Any idea who these someones might be?"
Richie shook his head, but Asher paused. "I think I might," she whispered, and both men turned to face her. "In the second year Sam Clarke and I dated," she nearly choked on the word 'dated', "Sam mentioned having met the acquaintance of a tall, dark-haired man, who spoke with a British-esque accent. Said something about owing the man a favor. Seems they had a run in while Sam was still in law school. Guest professor, or the like, I think he said."
"So, why would he owe this guy a favor then?" prodded Richie.
"I don't know," Asher responded. "But I think that acquaintance may have been Adam Pierson."
"I thought you had said you had never met Adam before you first arrived," questioned Duncan.
"I haven't. And, I just now made the connection. Sam will only do these missions of his for high prices, but if he owes someone a favor, he will lower his price his considerably. He does some integrity left in him. You didn't know who he was, Mac, when he was here yesterday, and as he is definitely not Mike's lawyer, Adam is the only left to fit the bill."
Asher's connection dawned on Duncan. "So, I must be the other someone."
"Precisely," she agreed.
"So, Adam must be back in Paris?"
Asher glanced to the floor. "He is."
Duncan frowned. "Something tells me it is not my business to know just how you know that. This does change things, though?" "How so?" asked Richie.
Duncan paused briefly, trying to find the right words. "The dynamics of these relationships we hold dear," he finally decided on, speaking the words in a voice barely above a whisper. Richie and Asher shared another mixed glance, quickly looking away. "Well, since you're both here," he added after a moment, "you can set the napkins and silverwares on the tables. Do an old man the favor?"
"Man, you are not *that* old," stressed Richie, and Duncan chuckled.
"Get to work, kid," he sputtered between the chuckles. Otherwise now silent, Asher, too, allowed herself a small smile.