Author's Note: Mostly short filler material. Not too much more to go.
Meantime, go read my other story "Flowers in Skulls." Richie makes some
guest appearances.
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December 24, 2005, 815 PM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland
Having finally deemed it too cold to practice longer, Asher and Richie stumbled inside, arms wrapped around one another, shivering from the darkness and the cold. The light from the Christmas tree glowed softly, and Asher snuggled closer into the crook of Richie's arm and side, smiling up at him, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his lips lightly.
He blinked in surprise. "What was that for?"
"No reason," she shrugged. She squirmed from his grasp, and into the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?"
"Dinner too?" he asked hopefully.
"Dinner too?" she laughed. "But you are cooking."
Richie nodded, briefly wrapping an arm around her waist, dropping a kiss on her neck. Asher smiled tenderly in the reflection of the window. It still snowed, and it was Christmas Eve. "Richie?" she called hesitantly.
"Merple?" he called from inside the pantry. "What?" he asked again, stepping out, shutting the door behind him, pasta in one hand, and sauce in the other. "Spaghetti, ok?"
"I like spaghetti. Just, put it down for one moment, please?"
"Something wrong?" Concern flashed across his face.
"No, nothing is wrong. Just. . . come here. . . please?"
He set the food on the kitchen table, stepping towards her, reaching out to her with his hands. "What is it then?"
"Mistletoe?" she whispered.
Again, Richie blinked, before he again laughed, leaning forward to kiss her. "Think you would mind terribly if I gave you one gift now?"
"No. . ." still she whispered.
From his back pocket, he reached in, his hands re-emerging holding a small black box. Asher drew in a sharp intake of breath. "Go on," he whispered. "Open it."
"Is this. . .?"
"Open it," he repeated.
"Oh, Richie," she breathed, tears blinking behind her eyes.
"Will you, Asher?"
"Yes!" she shouted, jumping fully into her arms, and Richie kissed her, reveling in the sounds of her laughter, spinning her around, the food and the hot chocolate forgotten.
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Sam Clarke drove the old, familiar streets. Before having left the hotel, he had deposited of the dead body, wrapping it in scrounged garbage bags he requested that morning from the hotel cleaning staff, heaving the bag down the back staircase -away from prying eyes -to leave in the hotel dumpster. He had insured that he would not be caught.
Pausing only slightly, he flipped on the radio, turning to a French news a\station, cursing only once at the static. He knew it was due to the incoming snowstorm. A blizzard, the concierge had informed him, when he had checked out that evening. Stopping only once between leaving the hotel and finding his way to the main roads, and only then, it was to buy more ammunition for his gun. He had used his last bullet for Frank Reilley. It was a shot he considered to have been wasted, even if it had hit its mark perfectly.
Through the heart.
He sighed, turned the radio off, and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He had his mother's eyes.
Sharply, he turned to the left. He had not much further to go. He was almost there. It would end tonight.
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December 24, 2005, 815 PM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland
Having finally deemed it too cold to practice longer, Asher and Richie stumbled inside, arms wrapped around one another, shivering from the darkness and the cold. The light from the Christmas tree glowed softly, and Asher snuggled closer into the crook of Richie's arm and side, smiling up at him, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his lips lightly.
He blinked in surprise. "What was that for?"
"No reason," she shrugged. She squirmed from his grasp, and into the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?"
"Dinner too?" he asked hopefully.
"Dinner too?" she laughed. "But you are cooking."
Richie nodded, briefly wrapping an arm around her waist, dropping a kiss on her neck. Asher smiled tenderly in the reflection of the window. It still snowed, and it was Christmas Eve. "Richie?" she called hesitantly.
"Merple?" he called from inside the pantry. "What?" he asked again, stepping out, shutting the door behind him, pasta in one hand, and sauce in the other. "Spaghetti, ok?"
"I like spaghetti. Just, put it down for one moment, please?"
"Something wrong?" Concern flashed across his face.
"No, nothing is wrong. Just. . . come here. . . please?"
He set the food on the kitchen table, stepping towards her, reaching out to her with his hands. "What is it then?"
"Mistletoe?" she whispered.
Again, Richie blinked, before he again laughed, leaning forward to kiss her. "Think you would mind terribly if I gave you one gift now?"
"No. . ." still she whispered.
From his back pocket, he reached in, his hands re-emerging holding a small black box. Asher drew in a sharp intake of breath. "Go on," he whispered. "Open it."
"Is this. . .?"
"Open it," he repeated.
"Oh, Richie," she breathed, tears blinking behind her eyes.
"Will you, Asher?"
"Yes!" she shouted, jumping fully into her arms, and Richie kissed her, reveling in the sounds of her laughter, spinning her around, the food and the hot chocolate forgotten.
---------------------------------------------------------
Sam Clarke drove the old, familiar streets. Before having left the hotel, he had deposited of the dead body, wrapping it in scrounged garbage bags he requested that morning from the hotel cleaning staff, heaving the bag down the back staircase -away from prying eyes -to leave in the hotel dumpster. He had insured that he would not be caught.
Pausing only slightly, he flipped on the radio, turning to a French news a\station, cursing only once at the static. He knew it was due to the incoming snowstorm. A blizzard, the concierge had informed him, when he had checked out that evening. Stopping only once between leaving the hotel and finding his way to the main roads, and only then, it was to buy more ammunition for his gun. He had used his last bullet for Frank Reilley. It was a shot he considered to have been wasted, even if it had hit its mark perfectly.
Through the heart.
He sighed, turned the radio off, and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He had his mother's eyes.
Sharply, he turned to the left. He had not much further to go. He was almost there. It would end tonight.