Richie stayed in his room with the lights out for a week. The only reason Conner knew he there was the missing dinner plate and fresh baked cookies every morning. Every evening Conner tried to get Richie to join him for dinner. Every evening Richie refused the invitation by simply rolling over to put his back to Conner. But every evening, he was facing the door when he came in, which Conner took as a good sign. Richie only came out of his room when he thought Conner was asleep. Every night, Conner would listen until he heard Richie in the kitchen getting the dinner Conner had made to truly go to sleep. Richie always ate everything left for him and cleaned up his plate; the only difference was the plate of cookies left on the counter.

By the time the second week rolled around, Richie added eerily depressing music to his routine. His depression never lifted, not even for a minute. He never spoke to, interacted with, or even looked at Conner. He started loosing weight and getting pale.

By the third week, Conner was seriously worried about Richie and called Duncan.

"What's wrong?" Duncan demanded as soon as Conner identified himself on the phone

"Your lad," Conner told him.

"Is he hurt?"

"Yes."

"What happened to him?"

"You left him. Your boy is seriously depressed. He's making himself sick."

"He's not eating?" Duncan asked, already knowing the answer. He had been through enough hard spots with the boy to know what he did when he was upset.

"Barely. Duncan, I can't reach him. He needs you."

"I can't protect him."

"And I can't protect him if he doesn't trust me," Conner countered. "He sees me as the enemy. The one that helped you with your evil plan. Duncan, at least let me give him the letters."

"How many has she sent?" Duncan asked. He knew Tessa wanted to explain it all the Richie, but he thought a clean break would be easier for him to handle.

"I have a whole stack of them."

"I still don't think that's a good idea, Conner. The less he has to cling to the better."

"He clings to the necklace; he's holding it every time I check on him."

"Conner, I."

"Duncan, listen to me. You've broken that boy's.Richie!" Conner turned and found a pale blonde teen standing not ten feet away from him. "Richie, can I get you."

"Is that Mac?" Richie interrupted.

"I just."

"I want to talk to him," he continued. "Can I have the phone?" Knowing Duncan would not like it, Conner handed the phone over. "Mac?" Richie asked. There was a slight pause; Duncan wasn't sure what to do. "Fine, don't talk to me. I don't care. I wanna talk to Tessa."

"She's not here," Duncan told him, trying to hide the emotion in his voice.

"I know she is," Richie insisted. "I'm not stupid. You might leave me, but you would never leave her."

"She's in Paris, Richie," Duncan said, his sorrow evident.

"Aren't you?" he asked, becoming unsure of his assumptions.

"No," barely came out as a whisper.

"Oh. fine." Richie handed the phone to Conner and went back to his room.

A week and a half later Conner had had enough. One nice and sunny afternoon, he went into Richie's room. "I know where Tessa is," he informed him.

"You do?" Richie asked, instantly perking up.

"I have her number."

"Can I call her?" Richie begged.

"Yes. if."

"If what?"

"You go outside," Conner told him. " If you go out for three hours or longer, explore, get some fresh air, look for things you want to do, and have dinner with me. then you can call her."

"That's not fair," Richie told him.

"How is it not fair? You do something for me, I do something for you."

"You want to get rid of me?" Richie asked.

"No, I need you to pick some stuff up for me," Conner told him. He had come up with a backup reason if Richie challenged the idea. "And I want your help with dinner, too. You're a great cook, but I'm getting sick of cookies."

"It's the only thing I know how to make," he shrugged.

"Then I'll get you a cookbook. Or you can pick one out while you're out. What do you say?"

Richie eyed him suspiciously. "You promise I can call her?"

"For as long as you want."

He sighed. "Fine. I'll go."

After a quick shower, Richie got a list and set of keys from Conner. Then, he set out to explore New York City. He had a short list of things to buy while he was out and three hours to kill. He picked a direction and walked. The more he walked the more things he found. He made a mental list of what he saw so he could tell Tessa before he begged to go live with her. He found David Letterman's studio, the Soup Nazi Kitchen from Seinfeld, a lot of Broadway shows, where they drop the ball on New Years, and he found MTV again. As he wondered around the streets someone shoved a flyer into his hand.

'Shooter's Night Club gives you the rave of the millenium!' he read to himself. 'Free drinks to all that come. Meet the girl of your dreams and make them all come true. Friday January 28 midnight.'

He rolled his eyes and crammed the flyer in his pocket. He used to go to those. too bad he couldn't remember if they were any fun. Richie looked at his watch and discovered that he had only an hour and a half left. He pulled the list out from his pocket and made his way to the various stores. He made his purchases and still had time to look through a bookstore to select a cookbook.

"Back already?" Conner asked, when Richie walked into the apartment.

"Three hours and five minutes, see?" Richie shoved his watch under Conner's nose.

"I see," he smiled. "Did you get everything?"

"Yup." Richie held up the bags. The promise of talking to Tessa had lifted him from his funk.

"Good. Why don't you help me make dinner?" Conner got up and went to the kitchen.

"I can't cook," Richie told him, following him shyly.

"I know. Did you pick out a book?"

"Yeah."

"Then tomorrow morning, you can pick out some stuff you want to try to make and we'll go get the stuff you need. Then I'll really teach you," Conner promised. "For now, you can help."

Conner set Richie to work chopping and stirring and tasting. When dinner was ready, Richie set the table. Together they sat, for the first time, just the two of them, to a dinner of homemade stew and fresh baked bread. Uplifted by what was to come in his very near future, Richie ate everything Conner didn't. He would answer questions but never engaged in conversation. Conner took this as a good sign. Once the dishes were done, Conner picked up the phone and dialed.

"Tessa?" he said after a minute. "It's Conner." Richie stood directly in front of him, ready to grab the phone the first chance he got. "I'm fine, and you?" The polite conversation continued until Richie had started up an impatient 'give me the phone dance,' reaching for the phone, then stepping away, circling the island, stopping in front of Conner tapping his foot then he'd reach for the phone and start all over again. Finally Conner had been amused for long enough. "Somebody here wants to talk to you," he told Tessa giving the phone to Richie.

"Tess?" he nearly screamed.

"Richie?" she answered just as excitedly on the other end. "How are you?"

"I'm okay," he answered automatically. "A little cold," he added.

"Put on a sweater," she told him with a smile in her voice. "Are you having fun?"

"Not really," he admitted. "But hey, I saw where they're running Phantom of the Opera. Isn't that the CD you always like to listen to?"

"Yes. Are you going to see it? I'm sure Conner will take you if you ask."

"I'd rather go with you," he hinted.

"We can't, Richie. Duncan says this is for the best."

"Who cares? He's gone," Richie insisted. "That means you and me don't have to go through with this."

"You and I," Tessa corrected him. "Just give it some time. Once you're used to it, maybe we can visit."

"Tessa, that's not fair!"

"Let's just try it Duncan's way."

"Why does it always have to be his way?" Richie demanded.

"Just at first. Do you really hate it that much?"

"Tessa, I hate it here," Richie said sincerely. "It's not that Conner is bad. he's just not you. This isn't home."

"It is now, Richie. Just give it time; soon it will feel like home."

"I miss you, Tessa," Richie said switching tactics. "Conner wants to teach me to cook. You're supposed to do that."

"You will learn. When you get a really good recipe, you can make me something."

"How am I supposed to do that with you half way around the world with no intentions of ever coming back?" he asked, in pouting mode.

"This isn't for forever, petite," Tessa assured him.

"Yeah, it's just until you can forget," he grumbled.

"Forget what? You? Richie, I will never forget you. And we will see each other again."

"Tessa, Mac is gone, okay?" Richie told her impatiently. "Gone. He left us. Why do you still do what he says?"

"Because he knows what he's talking about. I know you don't understand, but you will. Given time."

"Time? You think I'll be okay given time to accept that my two best friends want nothing to do with me? You think time will make me feel okay about this?"

"Richie, that's not."

"Well, you're wrong," he continued ignoring her. "But, you know what? Fine."

"What?"

"Fine. Go ahead. Leave. Forget. Move on. Have fun."

"Richie!"

"What?!"

"How could you think that's what I meant?"

"How could I not?" he returned, hanging up the phone before she could answer. He stormed past Conner and into his room without a word.

"That went well," Conner mumbled.

. . . . . .

Richie stared up at the ceiling. His depressing music was on again and the lights were off. He rolled onto his side and something crinkled in his pocket. He turned on the bedside lamp and looked at the flyer. An idea began to form in his head. He picked up the remote and turned on the TV across the room. It took some scrolling but he found what he was looking for, the TV Guide channel. According to the TV it was January 28, 11:36 p.m. Resolutely telling himself it was for the best, he picked up his keys and put on his shoes.

"Where are you going?" Conner asked in slight surprise as Richie crossed the living room.

"Out. There's some concert tonight," Richie lied.

"Okay," Conner answered to Richie's surprise. "Don't be out too late."

"I'll be back," Richie assured him. He mused to himself how easy it had been. Conner didn't even look at the clock, just let him walk right out the door.

After some searching, Richie found the Shooter's club. No ID was required to get in. Once inside, Richie realized this was one of those traveling clubs that set up in abandoned buildings. He also realized where it had gotten its name. He went to a keg and filled a glass. He was determined to enjoy himself. He didn't have anyone to answer to anymore. Duncan and Tessa were gone and Conner didn't seem to care much. He quickly found himself a girl and proceeded to escape reality for a while.

. . . . . .

Conner had been slightly surprised when Richie had decided to go out. He had heard the conversation he had had with Tessa and had assumed they were back at square one. On the contrary, Richie became amazingly personable after his all night outing. He slept late the next morning and took a while to wake up after he actually got up, but he was talkative and friendly. By all accounts, he was forcing himself to put Duncan and Tessa behind him. Conner didn't question it; if Duncan was so sure of it and Richie was going along with it, it would work out.

Richie surprised Conner again when he announced he had a date the next night. Conner watched in slight confusion, as Richie seemed to go through all his clothes to pick out the worst things he had. He settled on a pair of torn black jeans and a black T-shirt with a horribly ugly design on it that had to be a left over from his days before Duncan and Tessa. He put on his black and green racing jacket and left with a smile on his face. He repeated the process four more times that week.

Starting the next week, Richie began to change. At first it was little things; a hair cut, new accessories he only wore on dates, leather pants that Conner had yet to figure out how Richie got into to, and a pair of heavy military boots. Since Richie was changing his look, Conner gave him the ATM card to the bank account Duncan had set up for him. He had promised that as long as he lived, he would provide for Richie through the account; he would make regular deposits to make sure Richie always had money.

With the card in hand, Richie went to the phone to call his new girl friend Cleo. All Conner heard was Richie announcing he had found some money and was ready to go shopping. The Richie that left that morning was not the Richie that returned.

The Richie that left had been in jeans, a T-shirt and his new boots. The Richie that came back was completely unrecognizable. His short hair had been died pitch black and had a few streaks of blue among the spikes that took the place of his natural curls. Conner counted five piercings; he had a cuff on his ear, a ring in his eyebrow, a stud just under his lip and a silver chain that hung from his left ear to his left nostril. He had a spiked leather dog collar around his neck with matching cuffs around his wrists. A mesh shirt, another impossibly tight pair of leather pants, and a floor length leather coat made up his new ensemble.

"Richie?" Conner sputtered.

"Sup?" Richie replied dropping the bags he was holding.

"Is that you?"

"Huh? Oh, this," Richie gestured to himself. "What don't you like it?"

"It's a bit of a shock."

Richie gave him an amused grin. "It's cool. Not like I was 'specting you to applaud or nothin'," Richie answered. The nearly undetectable Washington accent was gone replaced by a shockingly realistic Bronx accent instead. "But trust me, man, you'll get used to it." He patted Conner's chest with another amused smile.

"You painted your nails?" Conner asked taking Richie's hand and looking at the black fingernails.

"It seemed to be the right thing to do," he shrugged.

"Look, dinner will be ready in half an hour. Go put your things away and set the table," Conner told him, expecting a confrontation.

"Sure. Need me to do anything else?" Richie asked in all sincerity, picking his bags back up.

"You could tear up a salad."

"Cool."

As Richie walked past, Conner dared a peek into the bags. Everything inside them was black.