Duncan awoke at eight to use the restroom and decided to go in and check on Richie. The young immortal hadn't moved at all, but his color was better and the wounds were reduced to fine red lines, only the most serious ones still leaving traces. Duncan walked back to the living room, relieved that Richie would be awake by the afternoon and the truth would be known at last.

When he got back to couch he saw Connor curled up in the fetal position, and he suddenly realized that Connor was in a dress tee and khakis, proper business attire for the Indian sub-continent but hardly appropriate for a Seacouver fall morning, especially if you don't have any covers. Duncan saw the goose bumps on Connor's arms and cursed. Allowing Connor to insist that he take the floor was one thing, forgetting to offer Connor a change of clothes or even a blanket was entirely another. Duncan bent down by his kinsman and gently scooped him up. Connor didn't stir as Duncan carried him to the couch. His size and stature were proportionate to that of Methos or Richie, his height landing somewhere between the two, but he was still a good two inches shorter than Duncan. He had met his first death young, not much older than Richie was. Years of conditioning had given him considerable muscle mass, but had also conspired to take away almost all his body fat. Speed and agility were his weapons in the game, and being a lot stronger than he looked, but he could not best Duncan if it came down to brute strength.

As Duncan laid his teacher out on the couch and covered him with the afghan, he couldn't help but notice how small he looked, how young. He had gone nearly thirty-three hours without sleep, and in that time had his student, his kin, ripped away from him only to have him miraculously restored. He had worried over Richie to then find him safe, and had cleaned most of the apartment, since Duncan knew that he wouldn't have let Joe tackle anything strenuous or that involved heavy lifting. He looked so innocent lying there, like a lost child that could in no way be Duncan's elder, let alone his teacher. Belatedly Duncan would realize that it was because, for probably the first time since Duncan had known him, he was seeing him with all of his defenses down, stripped away by the ravages of both physical and emotional fatigue, leaving the peaceful image of a the skittish highland boy he once was.

Connor seemed to be swallowed up by the couch and buried by the afghan. Only the top of his face was sticking out. Duncan smoothed his hair out of his face, saying: "I love you too, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," softly in Gaelic.

"Blossom?" Connor called out in his sleep, or at least that's what Duncan guessed it to be. The form of Gaelic Connor used was older than both of them. Duncan just let it lie and Connor shifted slightly before falling back into deeper sleep. Duncan lay down on the carpet, his head on the pillow, and went back to sleep.

Connor awoke near ten, startled slightly by his change of surroundings. He sat up and noticed Duncan was nowhere in sight. He didn't feel the presence of an immortal so he knew he was alone in the apartment (not counting Richie, still dead and therefore buzz-less). Six hours not nearly being enough sleep as far as Connor was concerned, he bounded off the couch with a curse, momentary—if irrational, panic at Duncan's absence setting in.

He had made it to standing when he felt it: the presence of another immortal. Connor picked up Richie's sword from the coffee table. It's probably just Duncan… he thought as he quickly checked the sword's balance again. He moved out from between the couch and coffee table and faced the elevator, sword drawn in readiness.

"Duncan?" he called out hesitantly. Just then the elevator grate swung up and the absent highlander entered, carrying a newspaper and a takeout bag from Dunkin' Donuts.

"You keep greeting people with swords, coz, people are going to start answering you with challenges," said Duncan, his tone light. He put the newspaper on the counter and opened the takeout bag, procuring what looked to be a jelly donut, and extending it to Connor. "Donut?"

"You left…" was all Connor managed to say.

"Just to pick up some breakfast and a newspaper," Duncan explained innocently.

Connor took the jelly donut from him absently. "Thanks," he said weakly and put the sword on the counter.

Duncan began eating his donut. "You know, not having a table is starting to get annoying," he said between bites.

"How's Richie?" Connor asked, ignoring Duncan's statement.

"Most of the wounds are completely healed. It shouldn't be too long now."

Connor nodded, satisfied. "I don't remember deciding to switch sleeping arrangements," he said, his tone light but serious.

"You were shivering," said Duncan matter-of-factly.

"And you couldn't have just given me a blanket?" Connor asked, his voice darkening with exasperation.

"I did," Duncan replied, smiling the first genuine smile that Connor had seen from his kinsman since his miraculous return from the dead. The smile was contagious and Connor was at a loss for words. He decided it was best to eat his donut in silence lest he stick his foot in his mouth. They stayed in that companionable silence until the coffee machine went off.

"Coffee?" Duncan asked as he made his way over, silently grateful that that particular machine had been spared.

"Please," Connor answered, walking over to join him. "Black."

Duncan handed him a cup and they went back to the living room, Duncan sitting in the wing chair and Connor on the couch.

"We've still got quite a bit of cleaning to do," Duncan thought aloud.

"Aye," Connor agreed, sipping his coffee.

"You and Joe didn't do too badly last night though," Duncan offered.

"We did what we could."

Duncan looked at the pile of decorations and appliances on the kitchen counter, the ones that someone had thought could be salvaged. "Looks like I've got my work cut out for me."

"Aye," Connor agreed again. "Why don't you make Richie clean the rest?"

Duncan regarded the devilish grin on his teacher's face. "Trust me, he'll be helping," he assured.

Connor smirked. "Why do I not believe you?" They both laughed then lapsed back into silence.

Duncan took a moment to regard his teacher. He didn't look quite as small as he did last night. The Connor he knew was back, all traces of vulnerability shoved behind protective walls and an expressionless exterior, no traces of the pain he went through earlier showing on his features. Not for the first time, Duncan wondered what it was like for him, flying half way around the world thinking that his student was dead. Connor had lost other students, but he rarely talked about them. As far as Duncan knew he was the only surviving one, and they were clansmen. Receiving that phone call, from someone Duncan knew that Connor would have believed without question… he shuddered to think of what it did to the elder immortal.

Duncan knew Connor quite well, having spent more time with him under the same roof than he had with even Amanda. He knew Connor to be a man of few words, but over time had learned to read through much of the stoicism to get at what his teacher was really thinking. Right now he was simply sipping his coffee, pleasantly enjoying the reassurance of Duncan's company, and not brooding on anything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours.

A half-second later Duncan cursed silently that Connor had woken up while he was gone, not being able to feel the presence that barely hours ago he was convinced he'd never feel again. You left, Connor's words to him when he returned, simple and to the point, yet meaning so much more.

"Connor," Duncan began, breaking the silence.

"Duncan," Connor returned in their usual way, an acknowledgement but not an answer. Duncan didn't say more so Connor looked at him, the softness of Duncan's expression throwing the older immortal.

"I'm sorry," said Duncan with feeling.

"Not your fault, lad," Connor assured dismissively, returning to his coffee.

"I meant for leaving you this morning."

Connor's expression shifted slightly as he wondered how his former student had seen through him so clearly. "S'alright Duncan, don't worry about it," he tried to dismiss again, hoping that the man would drop this line of conversation.

"I was nearly in your shoes last night," Duncan mused, his voice thick.

"But you weren't," Connor reminded him, "so there's no sense in dwelling on it." His voice was soft, offering all the reassurances he could.

"I can't imagine—"

"Then don't," Connor swiftly cut him off. Then he looked away. "Pray you never have to."

Connor's gaze focused on the coffee table and he gripped his coffee mug securely between both hands. Duncan moved to sit beside him on the couch. Connor's expression was startled at first, then questioning. He put down the mug to regard his student more carefully.

"I'm here," was all Duncan said. He looked Connor straight in the eye and uttered two very simple words, yet they seemed to crack through the barriers Connor had already began constructing for himself.

"Damn you," Connor cursed him bitterly, closing his eyes against the sting of tears and wrapping his arms around his student protectively. Duncan returned the embrace and allowed Connor the moment. Then soon he shifted, adjusting his grip on Connor, and encouraged his kinsman to relax into the embrace. Connor stiffly obliged, allowing his head to rest on Duncan's shoulder. He had one arm around Duncan's neck and held the other against Duncan's chest, feeling his heartbeat like it was the most prized possession in the world. Everything had happened so fast that Connor had been denied the chance to appropriately deal with his own emotions. He hadn't grieved for Duncan, nor given himself a moment for comfort and relief after discovering his kinsman was in fact alive. Duncan again marveled at how Connor seemed once again so small to him now, when his earliest memories of his teacher were of a man larger than life.

"Why do you have to be so emotional?" Connor asked at last, his voice tired.

"Sue me," Duncan dismissed, and they both laughed a great, tension-releasing laugh. Then finally they regained their composure and fully disentangled themselves. Now they sat separately on the couch, though close enough that their shoulders were still touching.

"If you ever do that to me again, so help me God Donnchadh I'll kill you myself." Connor's voice was deadly serious, and any other man might have been fooled.

Duncan just smiled. "I'm going to go check on Richie," he said, standing at last. Connor rose with him and followed, but stood in the doorway as Duncan checked the progress of Richie's wounds.

"You did a good job," Connor appraised, admiring how clean Duncan had managed to get the place. "How is he?"

"It looks like the wounds have completely healed," Duncan observed.

Connor nodded in satisfaction. "Good."

"Now we just have to wait for the drugs to clear his system."

"I'm willing to bet that he isn't going to want to touch another drop for a very long time," Connor mused, grinning.

"You're probably right," Duncan agreed, walking over to where Connor stood.

"Look, Duncan," Connor began, his expression suddenly serious. "The kid's had a rough weekend and an even worse night. Perhaps you should make yourself scarce until after he revives."

"I want to be here when he wakes up," Duncan protested.

"I know you do, but Duncan, he thinks your dead. Imagine the shock when he revives to see you staring down at him."

"If it were me what would you do?" Duncan challenged, but the stricken looked it earned from Connor instantly made him regret it. He was about to say something more but Connor beat him to it.

"I would have listened to Ramirez's advice," he said evenly.

Duncan couldn't help the impish grin. "Bullshit."

"Sue me," Connor echoed Duncan's earlier phrase, returning the grin.

At last Duncan sighed. He knew his kinsman was right. "I'm going to take some of the stuff down and try and repair it in the office. Call the dojo the instant he wakes up."

"Of course," Connor agreed. He followed Duncan out to the kitchen. Duncan grabbed the broken lamp and a broken chair and headed to the elevator.

Connor lifted the grate for him. "I'll take care of him," he promised.

Duncan smiled softly. "I know." And he was on his way down.

After the elevator descended Connor went back into the living room to wash out the coffee mugs. That being done he went into Duncan's bedroom. He sat on the other side of the bed, resting up against the headboard, and waited patiently for Richie to revive.

An hour later Connor got his wish.

The immortal presence suddenly thundered to life and preceded Richie's first gasping intake of breath only slightly. With that breath Richie's eyes flew open as he was suddenly aware of the presence of another immortal.

"Relax laddie, it's just me," Connor reassured him softly.

Richie shifted his position quickly, looking up to be able to see who was addressing him. "Connor?" Richie blinked a few times and found himself staring up into the elder immortal's face.

"Aye lad."

Richie visibly relaxed and let out an extended sigh. "How long have you—"

"Since last night."

"Last night?" Richie asked hesitantly, too proud to admit that he hadn't a clue what day it was.

"It's just after eleven a.m. Monday morning," Connor supplied with a sad smile.

"Monday," Richie echoed, nodding. He closed his eyes and sighed again.

"I take it you found Renault," Connor said neutrally, giving nothing away.

Richie nodded in the affirmative. Then he opened his eyes and glanced about the room. "You cleaned," he said.

Connor nodded, smirking slightly. "I had lots of time on my hands."

Richie blushed slightly. "I kinda made a wreck of the place," he admitted, resignation in his voice.

"Yes you did," Connor agreed without judgment.

"I'm sorry," Richie weakly apologized. "I'll clean it up." The defeated tone in his voice was painful to hear.

"It's mostly done now," Connor assured him, not knowing what else to say.

Richie blinked in confusion. "You?"

Connor nodded. "Joe helped."

"Joe…" Richie breathed, his voice catching in his throat. He took a deep breath and forced his emotions under. "Where was he?" The lost quality of his voice was even more unbearable than the defeat.

"Watcher business," Connor explained, still in neutral tones.

Richie nodded again in understanding. "He must be taking this pretty hard," he said, looking fearfully up at Connor.

"He was more worried about you last night," Connor informed him.

The wrong thing to say.

Richie shut his eyes and inhaled sharply, the emotions seeming to cause physical pain. "Is he here," he asked at last.

"He was. He went to go do whatever it is that watchers do. And to make sure that no one else had broken in to his house."

Richie smiled slightly at that. "It was the only thing I could think of," he explained. Then his expression grew hesitant as he looked at Connor again. "Is he mad?"

"Impressed," Connor corrected, finally smiling himself.

Richie relaxed a bit. "I hope he doesn't get in trouble because of me," he said at length.

"He won't," Connor assured him. "You did good laddie."

"Not good enough," Richie countered softly, looking away.

Connor would have none of that. He cupped Richie's chin and forced him to look at him. "You listen to me, laddie," he said seriously. "It's not your fault. It isn't you job to protect Duncan. If anything it was his job to protect you, and he did. You were good enough to beat Renault. You didn't fail him, Richie." Connor was smiling now, though his tone was very serious.

"I know how he beat Mac," Richie said at last, and Connor released his chin. "He cheats. Bad."

"So I read. Duncan was never good with anticipating foul play," Connor reminisced with a grimace, once again telling the honest truth.

"When he saw that I wasn't going to be an easy kill he brought out a taser."

Connor smiled knowingly. "You were ready for it though."

"I remember Mac said that something similar was used to kill Darius. I bought some sort of varnish at the hardware store. The label said it can make even metal non-conductive it the entire thing is covered in it."

"You treated you sword?"

"The hilt. Didn't want to dull the edge."

Connor nodded in approval.

"He modified it though. The dart was sharp—stuck me good. And the wire was made out of something my sword wouldn't cut through."

"Teflon-coated probably," Connor interjected.

Richie nodded once in thoughtful acquiescence before continuing. "Anyway, I read about how he used those glorified cattle prods, so I coated my sword hilt in non-conductive shellac. I was able to wrap the wire around the blade and use the leverage to rip the dart out, and with my hilt protected I wasn't grounded anymore."

"So the electricity had nowhere to go," Connor concluded.

Richie nodded again. "Boy was he mighty surprised when I ripped that thing out of his hands."

"I'll bet he was," Connor agreed, deciding not to ask how long Richie was being shocked before he was able to get his sword up.

"He was pretty pissed then, too," Richie continued, "and he took out his gun."

Connor inhaled sharply. "Kevlar?"

"Too restrictive," Richie lamented. "I was just lucky his shot was off."

"Did he hit you?" Connor asked. He didn't recall seeing any gunshot wounds on Richie's body.

"In the fencing cup," Richie admitted, blushing slightly.

Connor laughed, finally the familiar staccato returning.

"It hurt like a bitch," Richie went on, "but the bullet deflected. I played up how hurt I was, and then knocked the gun out of his hand."

"Oh, he must have loved that," Connor mused with laughing sarcasm.

"Not as much as the part where he realized he had no more tricks left and had to fight me fair and square," Richie informed him, finally the ghost of a genuine smile gracing his haunted features.

"Why didn't you use the gun?" Connor asked, the serious tone returning to his voice.

Richie returned his gaze to Connor innocently, as if the man had just asked him why two plus two equals four. "That's not what Mac would have done," he answered quietly.

In that moment Connor's heart ached to tell Richie that it was all a big mistake and that Duncan was sitting in his office in the dojo this very second waiting for him to go downstairs, but he couldn't yet. He had to give Richie time to adjust and unwind after the emotional ordeal he'd been through, and he wanted to make sure that Richie had fully absorbed Renault's quickening as the headhunter's was the most powerful one he's had to assimilate to date.

"No," Connor admitted sadly. Then he sighed. "Why don't you take a shower, freshen up a bit. Then you can tell me all about how you nailed that son of a bitch."

"Sure," Richie agreed submissively. He climbed out of bed without saying a word about finding himself in his boxers.

"Leave those outside the bathroom, I'll throw them in the wash," Connor directed as Richie inspected how bloody his shorts were. Then he grabbed Duncan's bathrobe from the closet.

"Trash them," he ordered without feeling as he slipped into a robe, his back to Connor, and dropped the boxers to the floor. He stepped out of them without another word and headed to the bathroom.

Connor did as he was told and trashed the boxers. Then he took both sheets out to the washing machine and ran the wash cycle with the things Duncan had already put in the machine. Finally he picked up the phone and called to dojo.

"Connor?" Duncan's voice answered.

"He's awake," Connor informed his kinsman.

"Thank God," Duncan breathed. "I'll be right up."

"He's in the shower now," said Connor, stopping him. "We'll come down to you when he gets out."

Duncan was silent for a moment, weighing the benefits of arguing the point. "Alright," he acquiesced finally.

"Well be there presently," said Connor, and he hung up the phone. Then he went to the kitchen to reheat the coffee and wait for Richie to get out of the shower.

Much to his surprise Richie was done in barely twenty minutes. He emerged into the kitchen still wearing Duncan's bathrobe, which was considerably large on him. His arms were wrapped around his body protectively, his hands hidden by the sleeves. The robe came down to his ankles and the shoulders and collar were bunched up from not resting properly. Richie seemed to be enveloped by the thing, barely clinging to it as if it were a lifeline and without a moment's notice he could be swallowed whole.

"Coffee?" Connor offered, handing Richie a mug.

"Thanks," Richie said meekly as he took it, his fingers barely visible as he held the handle.

Connor led him to the living room. Richie sat on the couch and Connor sat in the chair, and turned to face him.

"A table would be best, but…" Connor's voice trailed as he sat down.

Richie smiled slightly. "Sorry about that. I'll replace it eventually."

"Don't worry about it."

They sat in companionable silence drinking coffee. Connor couldn't help but notice the similarity.

"Mac could-a taken him, if he hadn't cheated," Richie said at last. There was no emotion in his voice; it was as if he were simply stating facts.

"I know," Connor agreed with sad sympathy.

"It's funny," Richie began after considerable pause. "All the other times I've fought someone, it's been… different."

"How so?" Connor asked, not wanting to guess.

"I dunno. It was just… different. I can't describe it. It was like, all those other times, I was either challenged, so it was like, for survival or something, or I was the challenger, so it was for… other reasons." Richie was struggling to form the right words, meanings lost in the void of what he wanted to say.

"And this was different?" Connor prompted.

"Yeah," Richie agreed. "Well, I mean, I was the challenger, but… I dunno. Those other times, I was just reacting. I would remember what Mac taught me and I would do it. Sure there were times when I screwed up. I've taken enough hits to prove that. But then they would do something—a textbook mistake, and it would be just like in training. I'd disarm them and then… I wouldn't even realize it was over 'til after I'd done it." Richie explained all of this to his coffee, as if it would be able to give him the answers.

"Sense memory," Connor offered.

Richie nodded. "But this time was different."

"Oh?"

Richie looked up at Connor now, fear still lingering in his eyes. "It was like I could hear Mac inside my head. We started the fight, and it was like I could hear Mac asking me all these questions. How long was his reach? Where did he carry his weight? What type of sword was he carrying? Where was the weak part of the blade? I would answer each question and then another would form." Richie paused to see if Connor was following him, and the elder immortal nodded for him to continue.

"When we actually began trading strokes, I heard Mac again. Was he being aggressive or cautious? Did he have any discernable pattern or speed? Where were his feet? Did he telegraph with his eyes? It was so easy to fight him then. He was a good opponent—probably the best I've faced, but it was like, with Mac there coaching me, inside my head, I knew that I'd win." His explanation finished, Richie returned his gaze to the coffee.

Connor took his time formulating an appropriate response. "When I was finally able to avenge Ramirez I had a similar experience. I wasn't confident that I'd win, but it was comforting to have Ramirez with me again." It surprised him that he was telling the truth. Maybe it had something to do with the importance of avenging one's teacher?

Richie looked up at him in understanding. "He was your teacher," he said, and Connor nodded. "It was like that the whole fight," Richie continued. "When he pulled out the taser, I heard Mac's voice, 'just like Darius.' During the actual swordfight, I heard him tell me every move. Like he was choreographing it from inside my head. We both landed shots, but it was like Mac wouldn't let me get tired. We fought for a long time. Whoever got tired first would lose their head."

"And he got tired first," Connor finished for him, trying to sound cheerful. The sound seemed almost sacrilegious in the face of Richie's sorrow.

"Yeah," Richie agreed although rather blandly as he returned his attention to his coffee.

Silence fell about them like a shroud. Then just when Connor thought that Richie wasn't going to speak again he continued the tale.

"He came down at an angle on my off side, but it was sloppy. Too tired. I think his sword was too heavy for a long fight. I blocked it easy. I pushed his blade up hard, throwing him off balance. His arms were above his head. I got him with a downward slash across his chest. He grabbed the wound with his weak hand, but couldn't hold his sword in just one after so long. He looked… scared, when it suddenly clanged on the pavement. I cut him again, across the stomach. Deep. He doubled over, clutching at it. He was bent forward. I took his head." Richie finished the tale and sat back into the couch.

Connor tried to hide his impressed smile. "Duncan would be proud," he said softly.

"Yeah," Richie agreed, not doing anything about the silent tears that rolled down his cheeks and splattered onto the coffee table.

Connor couldn't take much more of this. He had to tell him that Duncan was alive. He put his arm around Richie and the lad leaned into the embrace without making a sound, just letting himself be held. Connor was trying to search for the right way to go about telling him the truth when Richie spoke again.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse and barely a whisper.

"For what, lad?" Connor asked, surprised at Richie's sudden confession.

"I know he was your student, your… family," Richie said with difficulty.

"He's your family too," Connor reminded him sincerely.

Richie laughed slightly then, a choked and bitter laugh. "I remember when he went to go fight Martin Hyde. He gave me a bottle of brandy and told me to wait for him on the bridge, and we'd drink it when he got back. I did what he said, but that waiting… The fight took a while I guess. I started to get really worried. I told myself that if he didn't come back, that I would train really hard for a year or so, get really good so that I would stand a chance, and then go hunt the bastard down. I had it all planned out. I would put a marker for him, next to Tessa, and another in the Highlands." Richie's voice broke near the end and Connor held him tighter.

"I'm sure he would like that," he said soothingly.

Richie shuddered slightly before continuing. "And after I'd avenged him, I would change my name. Richard Ryan MacLeod. He was my… the last… I—I just want him to know that." This time Richie couldn't stop the sobs. They came as freely as the tears. Connor just held him and rubbed his back, whispering soothing things to him in Gaelic.

"He knows laddie," he said once Richie had finally calmed down some.

"I know," Richie agreed with a touch of bitterness. Then he tapped his temple. "He's in here."

"Is that why you took the pills?" Connor asked carefully, thinking he'd finally found a way to end the anguish.

Richie nodded. "At first, it was just Renault. On the ride home the others started. I saw flashes mostly—faces I didn't recognize, feelings that weren't mine. Swords. I knew that Mac was in there somewhere, and I… I didn't want to see it."

"I understand," Connor said truthfully. "I felt the same way after killing the Kurgan."

"He doesn't belong in here!" Richie suddenly yelled, his voice full of emotion. It brought on another bought of sobs. Connor simply held him close and let him cry.

"There's nowhere else he'd rather be," he said at last.

"Really?" Richie asked, uncertain.

Connor nodded. "You're family."

Richie was silent for a moment at this, shutting his eyes against the pain. "I just wish I'd a told him…" The despair and hopelessness in his voice now replaced the anguish and pain. "He was the only real family I'd ever had. And I never told him…"

"Maybe not with words lad, but you told him. Believe me you told him." Connor's voice was full of sympathy, but he meant every word he'd said. "And he's not your only family."

Richie looked up questioningly at that.

Connor smiled in sad amusement at his need to clarify for the boy. "If Duncan MacLeod was family to you Richie, what do you think that makes me?"

Richie stared at him blankly for a few moments before realization dawned on him, then he shut his eyes against a shuddering inhale. "Connor MacLeod." He said the word like a benediction and for the first time wrapped his arms around the elder immortal, finally returning the embrace that Connor had offered.

Richie clung to him with all his might as he cried. Connor was the last tether that kept him connected to Duncan. His shoulders were too narrow, and he wasn't the right height. He didn't feel the ponytail against his forearms as he held him. It wasn't Duncan, but it was Connor. A MacLeod. Duncan's teacher. Duncan's kin. It wasn't the same, but for right now, it was enough. Richie had someone tangible again, and was aware, perhaps for the first time since learning of Duncan's death, that he wasn't alone, not in life and certainly not in grief. For as long as Connor lived he would have someone out there who cared, someone he could call family, and for right now, Richie was quite certain that Connor wasn't going anywhere.