November 19, 2004, 900 AM, Duncan MacLeod's Barge/the Apartment of Richie
Ryan, Paris, France
Grumbling in a still half-sleep induced state, Richie glanced at his watch. Barely nine. He buried his head into the pillow again; trying to remember what time he had finally fallen asleep. Had to have been about three, maybe a little earlier. And, from the crink in his neck, he remembered suddenly that he was at Duncan's, and that he had fallen asleep on Duncan's couch. Sitting, to massage the sore muscles, he regretted having given Duncan permission to turn his old bedroom into something not his old bedroom.
He was awake for the day. Squinting in the half-darkness of the barge, he could feel the familiar presence of Duncan still asleep in his bedroom. Coffee, he needed coffee. Stumbling across the floor, he found the discarded pot from last night, exchanging the old grounds for fresh, setting the maker to make half a pot. He found some cereal in the pantry, and poured himself a bowl while he waited. He was just pouring himself a mug of the black, hot coffee, when Duncan stumbled from his room.
"Morning, Mac. Coffee?"
"I thought I just had coffee," he mumbled, but nonetheless, he poured himself a mug, and took a long, grateful sip. "You leave any milk?"
"Still a few drops left."
Duncan reached into the refrigerator, coming up with an empty milk carton. "What have I told you about returning empty milk cartons to the fridge?"
"I don't know," shrugged Richie, slurping cereal and milk into his mouth. "You can't tell me anymore."
Duncan sighed, mentally adding milk to his shopping list. "So, you figure out you are going to do?"
"I think so." Richie's voice was uncertain. "I mean, I know what I need to say, I just don't know how to say it. I love her. I've never been in love before, not like this," his thoughts trailed.
"Angie?" Duncan guessed as to the direction.
"Yeah. Don't suppose I could reach her in Japan?"
"She never left a number?"
"No. I kind of wish Tessa was here. She would know what to do."
"I know, I know." He squeezed Richie's shoulder.
Sighing, Richie finished his cereal and coffee, taking careful note to fill both with water to soak, until of simply leaving them in the sink. He bid Duncan farewell, thanking him again for last night, and made his long walk back to his apartment.
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He found Asher in the bedroom, stuffing her clothes and belongings into her bag. He noted with sad amusement that it was the same oversized duffel bag she had used when she had first come to Paris. He saw her guitar, already in its case, propped up against the dresser.
"Leaving, Asher?" he asked quietly, standing in the bedroom doorway.
"Yeah. I had hoped to be gone before you returned. I'll be gone soon, don't worry."
"I don't want you to leave."
Asher stopped her hurried packing long enough to meet his solemn gaze. She sighed, and threw another undergarment into the bag. "Love isn't something you can organize, clean up or make rational conclusions about, Richie. It is more. . . complicated."
"Uh-huh. And you leaving is rational?"
"Richie," she breathed, the puff of air blowing back her bangs, "this is not a matter of want. This is matter of need. I need to leave."
"Where are you going to go?"
She shrugged, zipping her bag closed, sweeping the room to make sure she had forgot nothing. "I don't know. Southern Hemisphere, maybe. It's spring there."
She swung her bag over her shoulder, picked-up her guitar case. Richie did not want to recognize that she was wearing the same shirt, the same black sweater-coat she had worn the first day they had met. He stepped aside to let her pass. "Just answer one question for me, Asher," he begged before she could close the door behind her. She nodded. "Why?"
It was a long time before she answered, and she refused to look at Richie when she finally did. "Because two broken halves do not make a whole, Richie."
She was gone. The door closing echoed throughout the apartment. She was gone, and this time she had taken all of her stuff. He walked again into the bedroom. The room seemed empty. The apartment seemed empty. He had grown used to having her around, having her there. Maybe that was it; maybe he had begun to take her for granted.
He sighed, again, and raked a hand through his hair. His gaze fell on the nightstand, and he inhaled sharply. There was the tiny pewter model of the Eiffel Tower he had given her for her birthday two months earlier. Sitting, just as she had always left it.
He crossed the room, took the model into his hands, fingering it. It was a few seconds more before he noticed the folded notebook paper on the nightstand, under where the model had stood. He dropped the model on the bed, unfolded the note, and read: One special moment, one special moment/When you choose to stand tall/And you know you are not alone/And though the surface may still crack/You break new paths/Into a new world, into a new world.
He recognized the words. It was from the song Asher had sung two months before in Le Blues Bar, when he had first given her both the model, and he had also first given her his whole heart. Quickly, he pocketed both the note and the pewter model, and raced out of the apartment.
He only hoped he would not be too late.
Grumbling in a still half-sleep induced state, Richie glanced at his watch. Barely nine. He buried his head into the pillow again; trying to remember what time he had finally fallen asleep. Had to have been about three, maybe a little earlier. And, from the crink in his neck, he remembered suddenly that he was at Duncan's, and that he had fallen asleep on Duncan's couch. Sitting, to massage the sore muscles, he regretted having given Duncan permission to turn his old bedroom into something not his old bedroom.
He was awake for the day. Squinting in the half-darkness of the barge, he could feel the familiar presence of Duncan still asleep in his bedroom. Coffee, he needed coffee. Stumbling across the floor, he found the discarded pot from last night, exchanging the old grounds for fresh, setting the maker to make half a pot. He found some cereal in the pantry, and poured himself a bowl while he waited. He was just pouring himself a mug of the black, hot coffee, when Duncan stumbled from his room.
"Morning, Mac. Coffee?"
"I thought I just had coffee," he mumbled, but nonetheless, he poured himself a mug, and took a long, grateful sip. "You leave any milk?"
"Still a few drops left."
Duncan reached into the refrigerator, coming up with an empty milk carton. "What have I told you about returning empty milk cartons to the fridge?"
"I don't know," shrugged Richie, slurping cereal and milk into his mouth. "You can't tell me anymore."
Duncan sighed, mentally adding milk to his shopping list. "So, you figure out you are going to do?"
"I think so." Richie's voice was uncertain. "I mean, I know what I need to say, I just don't know how to say it. I love her. I've never been in love before, not like this," his thoughts trailed.
"Angie?" Duncan guessed as to the direction.
"Yeah. Don't suppose I could reach her in Japan?"
"She never left a number?"
"No. I kind of wish Tessa was here. She would know what to do."
"I know, I know." He squeezed Richie's shoulder.
Sighing, Richie finished his cereal and coffee, taking careful note to fill both with water to soak, until of simply leaving them in the sink. He bid Duncan farewell, thanking him again for last night, and made his long walk back to his apartment.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------
He found Asher in the bedroom, stuffing her clothes and belongings into her bag. He noted with sad amusement that it was the same oversized duffel bag she had used when she had first come to Paris. He saw her guitar, already in its case, propped up against the dresser.
"Leaving, Asher?" he asked quietly, standing in the bedroom doorway.
"Yeah. I had hoped to be gone before you returned. I'll be gone soon, don't worry."
"I don't want you to leave."
Asher stopped her hurried packing long enough to meet his solemn gaze. She sighed, and threw another undergarment into the bag. "Love isn't something you can organize, clean up or make rational conclusions about, Richie. It is more. . . complicated."
"Uh-huh. And you leaving is rational?"
"Richie," she breathed, the puff of air blowing back her bangs, "this is not a matter of want. This is matter of need. I need to leave."
"Where are you going to go?"
She shrugged, zipping her bag closed, sweeping the room to make sure she had forgot nothing. "I don't know. Southern Hemisphere, maybe. It's spring there."
She swung her bag over her shoulder, picked-up her guitar case. Richie did not want to recognize that she was wearing the same shirt, the same black sweater-coat she had worn the first day they had met. He stepped aside to let her pass. "Just answer one question for me, Asher," he begged before she could close the door behind her. She nodded. "Why?"
It was a long time before she answered, and she refused to look at Richie when she finally did. "Because two broken halves do not make a whole, Richie."
She was gone. The door closing echoed throughout the apartment. She was gone, and this time she had taken all of her stuff. He walked again into the bedroom. The room seemed empty. The apartment seemed empty. He had grown used to having her around, having her there. Maybe that was it; maybe he had begun to take her for granted.
He sighed, again, and raked a hand through his hair. His gaze fell on the nightstand, and he inhaled sharply. There was the tiny pewter model of the Eiffel Tower he had given her for her birthday two months earlier. Sitting, just as she had always left it.
He crossed the room, took the model into his hands, fingering it. It was a few seconds more before he noticed the folded notebook paper on the nightstand, under where the model had stood. He dropped the model on the bed, unfolded the note, and read: One special moment, one special moment/When you choose to stand tall/And you know you are not alone/And though the surface may still crack/You break new paths/Into a new world, into a new world.
He recognized the words. It was from the song Asher had sung two months before in Le Blues Bar, when he had first given her both the model, and he had also first given her his whole heart. Quickly, he pocketed both the note and the pewter model, and raced out of the apartment.
He only hoped he would not be too late.