The first order of business the next morning was to get the T-bird out of the impound lot. That task proved to be a bit more difficult than Duncan would have hoped as the authorities gave him a hard time about leaving the car running in tow-away zone and asked probing questions about the copious amounts of blood in both the front and back seats, to which Duncan had to explain several times how that was the direct result of the reason he left his car running in the ambulance-only zone in the first place.
Once the impound lot released the T-bird, Duncan drove it straight to the body shop to see about the bloodstains in the upholstery. Tessa had to first drive him to the impound and then follow him to the body shop, the agreement being that she would then drive them to the hospital to check on the boy. However, from the body shop Duncan insisted that she drive them straight back to the loft. Tessa was still feeling the effects of her flu bug and Duncan didn't want her hanging around a hospital with a weakened immune system. After much arguing, reasoning, and downright pleading, he convinced her to stay at the loft rather than accompany him to the hospital. Leaving Tessa to bed rest, Duncan then took the Mercedes back to the hospital.
Once at the hospital, Duncan learned that the boy's condition hadn't changed. He hadn't begun producing fluids and he was still unconscious in the ICU.
"Excuse me," he addressed one of the ICU nurses.
"May I help you?" the nurse asked without looking up from the chart she was examining.
"I'm here to see Richard Ryan."
"Are you family?"
"Of course," Duncan lied.
The nurse looked up and eyed him skeptically. He flashed his most charming smile and her resolve melted. "Third door on the left," she said, indicating the rest of the hallway behind him. Duncan thanked her and made his way to the boy's room.
The first two rooms he passed were adorned with cards and get-well gifts, which made the sight of Richie's bare room that much harder to see. There weren't any personal touches anywhere.
Duncan noticed the room before he noticed Richie. The boy was lying on the bed, slightly reclined. He had an IV in his left hand and another in his right elbow. The sheet was covering the lower half of his body, but the bandage of the knife wound was exposed. There were no bloodstains on it, which was a blessing. In the background, the electronic socks whirred to life.
Richie looked so small, lying in the bed like that. With the boy finally lying still and without much covering his lanky frame, Duncan noticed that what he previously assumed to be simply a scrawny figure really looked downright fragile. His skin was ashen and his cheeks were slightly sunken in. Duncan wondered about the last time he had a decent meal. Without the bandana, his strawberry blond curls were like an unruly jungle growing atop his head, which looked smaller than it should between the weight of the hair, the position he was resting in, and the nasal cannula affixed to his nose. Duncan could hardly believe this boy was an eighteen-year-old petty criminal. Right now he looked more like a lost twelve-year-old, innocent to time and the world around him. Duncan's heart went out to the boy. He had almost died and nobody would have noticed or cared, and none would have mourned his passing.
"Not such a tough guy now, are we?" Duncan asked sadly as he brushed an errant curl out of the boy's face. He sat down in a chair next to the bed to wait for him to awaken, meanwhile trying to decide what he was going to say when Richie saw him there. After all, the boy had witnessed a swordfight, a beheading, a quickening, and Connor coming back from the dead. Duncan was at a loss as to how to explain that all away believably, especially to a kid who had no reason to trust him anyway. The thought of telling the truth crossed his mind; after all, Richie was pre-immortal...
However, telling him the truth would come with a price. Giving a pre-immortal knowledge of the immortal world was dangerous in and of itself. Many immortals were known to hunt the pre-immortals, savoring their underdeveloped quickenings like so much veal. Throwing a pre-immortal in with the 'grown-ups' was like bringing a lamb into the lions' den. The boy would constantly be a target, especially if he was to be seen hanging around Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who wasn't exactly a low profile immortal to spite his best efforts to remain out of the game.
The other thing to consider was that the boy would be another liability. He hated having to worry about what an immortal could do to Tessa in the process of coming after him, but Slan Quince had forced that thought into the forefront of his nightmares. The boy could be used the same way, and probably more often given his pre-immortality. The last thing Duncan wanted was for Richie to enter the game so young, still underdeveloped both physically and mentally, and as a direct result of his interference. Another ten years and Duncan would be willing to entertain the possibility that he was ready. If, he thought dryly, an immortal was ever ready.
However, what would happen to the boy if Duncan didn't tell him the truth? He'd learn about immortals eventually, the hard way. What would be the price of lying to him now? That possessive protectiveness he felt towards the boy made Duncan want to ensure that when the time came he'd be Richie's teacher, and he couldn't possibly do that if the boy didn't trust him. He couldn't explain what it was about the boy that set off his paternal instincts. He hadn't had a student in over two hundred years, and nor did he fancy himself ever wanting one again. There was just something about this Ryan kid…
Eventually Duncan decided that he couldn't lie to the boy. When he regained consciousness he was bound to ask uncomfortable questions. There would be no avoiding that. The only remotely clean way out of this horribly messy situation that Duncan could find was be to tell the boy the truth: that he was a four hundred-year-old immortal and what transpired on the bridge was the game playing itself out. If the boy knew about immortals then he'd be better prepared for what's to come. At the very least he'd know to seek out holy ground, just in case. The only thing necessary to keep from him was the fact that he too was destined to become immortal. That type of knowledge would be devastatingly dangerous in the hands of a kid who, probably like most teenagers, already believed himself to be invincible. After all, the object was to keep the kid out of the game for as long as possible.
There was one problem, however. As much as Duncan wanted to trust the boy with his secret, as a rule he hasn't been one to trust that secret to many. Tessa was the first mortal lover he ever confided in, and he could count on one hand his mortal friends down through the years that knew the truth about him (and had lived). His instincts told him that he could trust the boy, but then again his instincts were up against some pretty hard evidence to the contrary. As much as Duncan had to gain the boy's trust if he was ever to become his teacher, he also knew that the boy had to gain his trust in return if he was going to reveal his secret to him. And building that kind of trust takes time.
With these decisions made Duncan began to formulate a plan of action. First he would reassure the kid that he meant him no harm. Then he would try and figure out why those boys were chasing him and see what he could do to help the present situation (whatever that may be). Accomplishing those tasks was the first step in building that highly coveted mutual trust. The next step would need to be discussed with Tessa: Duncan wanted to have the boy work off what he owed them in the antique store. It would be the best way for Richie to prove his character and for Duncan to see if they each could earn the other's trust. It would also provide the boy with a legitimate source of income, taking him off the streets and subsequently out of (as much) danger (as possible).
Duncan had everything he was about to say and do all planned out. The only thing needed now was for the boy to wake up. Unfortunately, he failed to do so before a nurse caught Duncan overstaying his visitation rights for the ICU. That, coupled with the revelation that he wasn't actually related to Richard Ryan (as his chart listed no family), gave Duncan a hard choice: leave now peacefully or be escorted off the premises by security. Not wanting to cause a scene, the Highlander went with the first option, vowing to return as soon as Richie was moved from the ICU and placed in a regular room, where by law the hospital had no legal grounds for restricting his visitation. He just hoped that the boy wouldn't wake up in the hospital alone.
Duncan left for the hospital early the next morning so as to avoid rehashing the argument with Tessa. Although she had been feeling better, he still didn't want her subjecting herself to the myriad of germs floating around a hospital. Also, confronting the boy upon his awakening would be difficult enough one on one. Having Tessa there as a (rather intimidating) distraction wouldn't help matters any. Thus he decided to leave before she awoke that morning, preferring the argument to take place after the fact. Better to seek forgiveness than beg permission.
Once at the hospital Duncan learned that, while no one knew for certain if Richie had regained consciousness or not because no one had been with him if and when he had, his condition had stabilized to the point where they could move him to a normal room. Duncan waved to the security personnel with a smile as he boarded the elevator.
It was more depressing than surprising that the new room was just as bare as the old one. This time he only had the one IV in his hand and the cannula to contend with. There were fewer monitors and gadgets around, and the room let in more light. The boy's color had improved from death warmed over to life on a very bad day. He still looked twelve, and hadn't quite escaped the 'little boy lost' quality that he'd assumed in the ICU, but there was definitely a marked improvement in him. Once again Duncan occupied the seat by the bed, busying himself with one of the many out-of-date magazines from the waiting room, and renewed his vigil.
Fortunately he did not have to wait long.
Duncan noticed immediately when the boy began to stir. He stood, abandoning the magazine and, deciding after a brief but brutal debate that the boy's waking up to see 'the vampire' staring down at him wouldn't be the wisest choice, he moved to stand by the window some feet away from the side of the bed.
The boy shifted, squirming as one does when seeking a more comfortable resting position. However, comfort was hard to find when one had tubes sticking in and out of their skin in various locations, and thus his eyes blinked groggily awake. He was trying to discern where the hell he was.
"Welcome back, tough guy," Duncan greeted, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible so as not to frighten the boy.
"You…" Richie's voice sounded tired and horse.
"Me." Duncan flashed a grin.
The boy was more confused than frightened, and it showed in his voice and on his expression. "What the hell are you doing here? What happened?"
Duncan shrugged. "I brought you here. As for what happened, all I know is that you were stabbed in the gut. I was kinda hoping that you'd fill in the rest."
The boy regarded him quizzically for a moment before realization struck. "I'm in the hospital, aren't I." It wasn't a question.
Duncan merely nodded.
Richie paused a moment to take closer stock of his surroundings. He noticed the IV running from his hand up to the bags of saline and antibiotics, noted the electronic equipment that measured his vital signs, his non-vital statistics, and just about everything in between, and — to his chagrin — the bedpan and catheter.
"How long?"
"Since the day before yesterday."
"Three days?" Richie sort of squeaked; he sounded very young.
Duncan nodded again, and watched as Richie ifted his covers to inspect the rather large bandage covering much of his abdomen.
"You were stabbed," Duncan reminded him. "Do you remember?"
Richie turned sharply to regard the Highlander. It was an atavistic response to remember that the man standing by the window carried a very sharp sword. Duncan's jaw clenched under the scrutiny, but he forced all emotion to remain hidden. Then suddenly the boy's expression changed, as though the correct gears were turning.
"Romeo. I had that fight with Romeo…" Richie shuddered involuntarily at the memory.
"Then what happened?" Duncan prodded gently.
Richie was silent a moment, collecting and then sorting out the tumult of memory into an order that made logical sense. "Somehow I got away. I ran. Romeo chased after me. Then the rest of them found me. I... remember I outran them, down through the alley. Then you showed up in the convertible."
Duncan waited patiently as Richie sorted his scattered recollections. "And?" Well, almost patiently.
The boy's face contorted, reminding Duncan of a frightened child. He shimmied over on the bed as far away from the Highlander as he possibly could. "What do you want with me? How did you find me?" he babbled, feeling trapped by the rails on the bed and by the instruments tethering him there.
"Well I found you when you darted out in front of my car, when you crossed Seabrook to get to the alley." Duncan explained, doing his best to appear as non-intimidating as possible.
"And you followed me?" Richie's voice skirted up half an octave in fearful disbelief.
Duncan shrugged. "You were being chased. Five-to-one odds isn't something one just allows, even to those who break into one's place of business."
Richie swallowed hard. Duncan couldn't help but pity him.
"You recognized me," he said, again a statement more so than a question.
Duncan grinned. "I have an excellent memory."
The boy just nodded. "Why?" he asked in a very small voice. Duncan almost didn't hear him.
"Why what?"
"The only way you could have gotten ahead of me like that was if you meant to."
"Well, I did mean to," Duncan admitted, not sure what the boy was getting at. "A car makes for a faster getaway."
"But why?" the boy persisted, turning bright and honest eyes up at his rescuer. "Why'd you go out of your way for me like that?" The honest disbelief conveyed in that question made Duncan inwardly flinch.
"Because you looked like you needed the help," he answered simply, honestly.
"But I'm a thief. I broke into your store!" For all that he'd practically shouted that — impressive, given the dry rasp still clinging to his words for want of something to drink — Duncan saw that the boy was more confused right now than anything else.
"And you think that because of that I would leave you to the mercy of the gang?" Duncan asked him, incredulous and not just a little bit insulted at the insinuation.
Richie suddenly became very interested in picking at the knitting of the blanket, and Duncan was left with the distinct impression that the boy sincerely didn't know why he'd saved him. The wonder went deeper than just why this particular man had saved him, however. Richie honestly couldn't fathom why anyone would spend the time and effort to save him. Duncan saw that in his eyes and read it in his voice, and felt something in his own chest constrict painfully for the thought.
"You wouldn't be the first," he mumbled finally, and though it took Duncan a moment to decipher what exactly was said, he was still ready with the perfect comeback.
"Well Richard, I'm not like everyone else."
The kid blinked. "You know my name?"
"Yeah," Duncan admitted, amused, but at Richie's nonplussed expression he clarified: "it's written on your chart, and there on your hospital bracelet." He indicated those items as he spoke. "And besides, I told you — I have an excellent memory."
Richie nodded slowly, accepting this. "So, you know me. But who — what — are you?"
While he was still afraid, it wasn't that atavistic, reactionary fear it was before. After all, the man had saved his life. Granted this man carried a sword, threatened to chop his head off, and then made good on that threat with another guy on Soldier's Bridge — but none of the evidence added up. He was a sword-wielding antique shop owner with a gorgeous wife (Richie just assumed they were married) who committed cold-blooded murder but then stopped to save a thief's worthless life. The fear was still present, but it was accompanied by a genuine, nagging curiosity.
Duncan was glad for this for his own reasons.
"My name is Duncan MacLeod," he said, "and I hope you don't still think I'm going to drink your blood." This he said with a joking tone, but his eyes were serious. After all, was being immortal any more or less believable than being a vampire? Just ask Nicholas Ward…
Thankfully Richie blushed slightly at the memory. "Yeah I kinda figured that part out, what with the you not bursting into flames and all," he admitted sheepishly.
Duncan nodded, grateful, but the rest of their conversation was cut short by the arrival of a nurse. Since Duncan wasn't family he was shooed out of the room so that she could change Richie's sheets, bandages, and check his fluid output.
"I'll check back on you later," he said as he exited the room, the nurse giving him dirty looks as he went.
Duncan knew that after the nurse was through with him the doctors would have their turn, and then after that, the cops. It was lunchtime now. Duncan decided that he would return to the loft and tell Tessa that the boy had regained consciousness. He would return to the hospital in the evening (preferably without Tessa) to finish the discussion. Besides, he needed to confer with her on having Richie work off his debt to them in the store (or at least that's what he'd be telling Tessa the boy would be doing).
Duncan returned to the loft to find the store closed. His hopes that Tessa was in bed resting were dashed when he heard the blowtorch roar to life in Tessa's workshop.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" he asked her from the doorway.
"It's Wednesday," she reminded him without stopping her assault on the metal slab in front of her. "On Wednesdays you open the store and I spend business hours on my art." With that she silenced the blowtorch. "Or have you forgotten that after all these years?" Tessa removed the visor and turned to regard her lover. She was covered in sweat, and Duncan wasn't sure that it was just from the heat of her work.
"I haven't forgotten," he said softly as he entered the workshop from the doorway.
For a moment it looked as though Tessa was planning on pressing the issue, but for whatever reason she abandoned the thought. Instead her expression softened. "You were at the hospital, weren't you?" she asked, inflection indicating that she already knew the answer.
Duncan merely nodded. He didn't want to fight with her over this, and Tessa's French temper was formidable even when she wasn't irritable from illness.
"How's the boy?"
"Well he's regained consciousness," Duncan answered, trying to sound cheerful. "I think he's still afraid of me."
"Well the last time you saw him outside of a police station you threatened him."
Duncan winced. He never told her that Richie had followed Connor to Soldier's Bridge that night. Feeling suicidal, he did so now. With his current plans for the boy, it was best to be as honest with Tessa as the unique circumstances would allow.
Not that Tessa was happy about it.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, her temper flaring.
"It didn't seem important at the time," he admitted.
"Oh yes, that's right," Tessa drawled, sarcastic and dismissive. "At the time you were too busy leaving me."
Whatever retort Duncan was about to make died in his throat as Tessa practically spat the last part at him. He hastily regained his composure after a moment of tense silence. "I had much more important things on my mind," he admitted at last, half-shrugging.
Tessa shook her head slightly. "You went the hospital without me." Her voice had lost the heat of anger, but Duncan wasn't exactly sure what new emotions underscored the softer tone.
"I thought you should stay in bed. You've got the flu, you know," he said, keeping his voice soft. "And besides, I thought it would be easier on the boy. He knows me."
"Sure," Tessa blithely agreed, mocking his casualness, "he knows you carry a big sword and chop people's heads off."
Duncan winced. "Tessa—"
"You didn't even ask me how I was feeling."
Duncan sighed and hung his head in defeat. There was nothing he could say to that.
"Duncan, you lie to me, keep me away from you, sneak off on me without so much as leaving a note, and you don't even ask me my opinions on any of it."
Duncan found the courage to look into her face. There was nothing he could really say to that, either, but at least he was man enough to admit it — and to grovel shamelessly, if need be.
"Twelve years, Duncan. I would have thought I deserved better from you, especially now."
"You do!" Duncan protested earnestly as he went to put his arms around her. She caught his arms backed away, holding his hands down in front of her.
"I'm sorry Duncan. I know I forced myself on you at the cabin. I think you need to decide if you truly want me in your life, because right now your actions speak otherwise."
Again whatever the Highlander was about to say died in his throat. Tessa released his hands and walked away out of her workshop without looking back. Now it was Duncan's turn to adopt the look of a lost little boy. There was nothing he could say to her. She was right. He kept the gathering a secret from her, kept Richie a secret from her, and had abandoned her when he went to the hospital. Suddenly all of his reasons seemed selfish and unimportant. He wanted to run after her, to apologize for everything and to tell her that he desperately wanted her to remain a part of his life.
He wanted to, but he couldn't do it. He didn't have the right words to say to her, not after what she'd just said to him. He didn't even know if she even wanted him to say anything. He might go back into the loft and find her packing her suitcase and he knew he couldn't handle walking in on that. Powerless against his own emotions, Duncan walked out the back way through the workshop and into the alley behind the store.
It was a long walk to the body shop that was working on the T-bird, but Duncan didn't mind it. He needed that time to think about how he could make things right with Tessa.
He reached the body shop nearly two hours later, having been in no real hurry to get there. Upon arriving he had assurances that the T-bird would be ready within the hour, so he sat to wait it out. As it turned out it took more than an hour, but again Duncan didn't mind the extra time. He was in no real hurry.
It was going on four o'clock when Duncan pulled out of the body shop in the T-bird. He had two choices: go back to the loft and deal with Tessa, or head over to the hospital to deal with Richie. After driving around aimlessly for a time he finally decided to head to the hospital. Dealing with Richie would be a lot easier if he could pretend that Tessa was still home waiting for him.
It was just after four thirty when he entered Richie's room at the hospital. The boy was sitting up in bed staring at the tray of hospital food in front of him with a look of disgust.
"You just missed the cops," he said as he skewered his meat-like product with his fork. It dripped a gravy-like ooze back onto his plate.
"Good." The relief in Duncan's tone surprised Richie, who put down his fork to give all his attention to the Highlander.
"They tell me you saved my life," he said, his voice devoid of any traces of emotion. "That I nearly bled to death."
"I was just in the right place at the right time."
Richie shook his head slightly, trying to make sense of it all. "The nurses say that you've been here every day. That once they had to have security show you out." The boy sounded more confused than anything else, and it made him appear very young.
"Hey they only threatened to have security show me out," Duncan clarified with a grin. Richie half-heartedly returned the gesture, but neither smile made it to their eyes.
"You didn't have to, you know," Richie said to his dinner. "Keep an eye on me, I mean. I wasn't gonna reveal your secret."
Duncan flinched but masked the reaction by walking over to the chair and sitting down. Richie followed him with his peripheral vision, but didn't make eye contact.
"I wasn't afraid that you would," Duncan told him seriously.
This caused Richie to look up at last. He searched the Highlander's face for truth to that statement, but judging by his facial expression he didn't exactly know what to do with that truth when he found it. "Then why'd you stay?"
Duncan suppressed a sigh and bit his tongue. It wasn't the boy's fault that the thought of someone actually caring about what happened to him hadn't even entered his mind. Instead he forced a shrug. "I wanted to make sure you were ok."
Richie looked away again, uncomfortable at the honesty. "Well, you know I'm ok now. So why are you still here?" he asked, his numerous emotional defense mechanisms belatedly snapping into place.
Duncan shrugged. In for a penny... "I didn't want you to be alone."
"Why should you care if I'm alone?" Richie snapped. "It's not like I've never—" but he cut himself off, eyes momentarily flying wide at how he'd very nearly let his mouth run away with him. Regardless though Duncan was able to fill in the blanks, and forced himself not to flinch as he did so.
"No one should be alone in the hospital." He tried to sound as non-committed and unassuming as possible.
Richie turned away. "It never mattered before," he mumbled, only to belatedly realize he'd spoken aloud when he caught sight of the look on the Highlander's face.
"You've been here before?" Duncan's voice was as steady as it was intent.
Richie shrugged. "Sure," he admitted, trying to pretend it was nothing when they both knew that it wasn't. "What teenage boy today hasn't slipped on the stairs, gotten into fights with his brothers, or fallen off the monkey bars at the playground?"
Duncan's jaw clenched involuntarily as he surmised those to be the official stories, but then forced himself to relax. "Well I didn't know you then," he said, trying for the same casual tone that Richie found.
"And what if you did?" Richie challenged. He was mouthing off in classic fashion — at least it meant that he was feeling better.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Did the monkey bars have a name?"
Richie suddenly dropped his gaze, abandoning the pretext as easily as he abandoned eye contact. He looked away sharply, suddenly remembering that the man sitting next to him also carried a large, very sharp sword and had cut someone's head off.
"It doesn't matter now," he said smugly, regaining his composure. "I'm eighteen. No one can touch those records now; not you, not the cops, and sure as hell not the monkey bars."
"You turned eighteen?" Duncan asked, latching onto the chance to change the subject even though he already knew the answer. After all, the last time he encountered the boy he had still been a minor.
"Four days ago," Richie bragged.
Duncan grinned. "Well happy birthday." If he was intending to throw the boy off guard, well it surely worked.
"Thanks," Richie muttered after a brief pause. He really didn't know what to make of the murdering, life saving antique dealer sitting not a foot from his bed with a coat long enough to conceal that sword he'd already gotten too close a look at.
Duncan sighed. He knew that the boy was still at least partially afraid of him, and that he still had many unanswered questions. Richie was scared and confused, and was masking those emotions with anger and a devil-may-care attitude. Duncan knew that earning the boy's trust would not be an easy task. "You don't need to be afraid of me, you know," he said at length.
Richie saw in the Highlander's face the honesty he had heard in his voice. "Yeah, well, I figured that if you were gonna lop off my head you would have done it already," he said dismissively, effectively masking the relief he felt at that statement. He didn't know if he could take the man at his word.
"I'm not gonna lop your head off," Duncan assured again, using the boy's terminology and making sure that Richie knew that he was serious.
"Well that's good to know," Richie said with a confidence Duncan was almost certain the boy didn't truly possess.
The Highlander sighed again. Now was as good a time as any. "Look, Richard, about the man on the bridge—"
"It's Richie," he interrupted hastily, as the subject was obvious an uncomfortable one for him. "And I figure, if you did it, well you musta had your reasons." His voice returned to his earlier resignation that was trying its hardest to be apathy.
For a moment Duncan didn't know whether or not to continue. Then he decided to make the first move as far as trust was concerned. "Yes I did, but I figured I owed you an explanation."
Richie balked. "Why would you owe me anything?"
"Because your keeping secret what you witnessed makes you an accessory."
It was Richie's turn to sigh. The man was right about that part. "So talk."
Duncan took a moment to formulate his explanation. "The man on the bridge was Slan Quince. He came to the store that night to kill me. I knew he was coming, only I hadn't actually met him yet. That's why I pulled my sword on you — I mistook you for him."
Richie nodded. That made sense. "And Sir Lancelot?"
It took Duncan a moment to realize he was referring to Connor. "That," he said with a grin, "was Connor MacLeod."
"Relative of yours?" Richie asked, now looking up.
"Cousin. Somehow he found out Slan was after me and had come to warn me."
Richie nodded again. At least Duncan's explanation fit with what happened at the store that night. It didn't explain why they were all carrying swords, or what that strange light show was, or how this Connor MacLeod seemed to come back from the dead. Actually, the explanation left as many questions as it answered. "Boy did I pick the wrong night for petty theft," Richie grumbled for lack of anything else to say to fill the silence.
Duncan laughed. "You could say that again."
Then the silence returned.
"I saw you and Lancelot fighting in the warehouse," Richie admitted at last.
Duncan started in surprise. "You followed me?" Richie must have been too far away at the time for his pre-immortal presence to register. Either that or he and Connor were too distracted at the time to notice the faint buzz for what it was.
"Hey, I was curious. And you weren't exactly forthcoming with information before," Richie protested in his defense.
Duncan sighed. Now wasn't the time to argue the point. "We weren't fighting, we were sparring. You know — practicing?"
"Yeah I figured that," said Richie, annoyed that the man underestimated his intelligence. "I was referring to the fact that you were both using swords, and I didn't see either of you wearing any equipment either."
"Well, Connor and I figure we're good enough to not have to wear protective equipment," Duncan said at last, at a loss as to how to explain it without giving away the secret of his immortality.
"And I figured that I was good enough at hockey to not wear a facemask until I caught a puck in the eye. Accidents can happen, you know," Richie said with mock-seriousness.
"Ok, so maybe we were being reckless," Duncan admitted.
"Grown-ups aren't supposed to be reckless," Richie said, pouting slightly in a manner that reminded Duncan briefly of Amanda. That didn't hide the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
"But Connor and I have been practicing with swords for longer than you've been alive. We're allowed to think we're experts."
"What? Are you guys part of the SCA or something?" Richie asked, looking up to regard the Highlander again.
The Society for Creative Anachronism! Duncan hadn't even considered that as a possible explanation. "Something like that," he admitted, grateful for the out.
Richie seemed to be accepting of this explanation. It explained why they all had swords they knew how to use. "And this Slan guy?"
Duncan shrugged. "I guess he took the game too far." He had to bite his tongue to keep from smirking at the irony.
"But, why did he want to kill you?"
"Do psychotic killers need a reason?" Duncan shrugged. "I guess he figured that I'd be an easy target."
"I bet he wasn't counting on your cousin showing up," said Richie, smiling earnestly for the first time.
"Indeed he was not," Duncan agreed. He figured that Richie was buying at least this part. That was progress, right?
"So, if this Psycho Slan guy was after you, why'd your cousin fight him on the bridge?"
Duncan's brief and irrational hope that he would leave the issue was very short lived. "Slan sent me an ultimatum," he said, resigned to having to explain the rest of it. "Connor didn't want me to face him, so he knocked me out and went there in my place."
"Knocked you out?" Richie sounded dubious.
"One punch," Duncan admitted, still slightly ashamed of the ease at which Connor waylaid him.
"Damn." Richie sounded impressed. "So why?"
It took Duncan a moment to figure out what Richie was referring to. "Well, because he's my older cousin he still feels that it's his job to protect me," Duncan explained, smiling in spite of himself at the thought.
Richie nodded, understanding the logic if not the sentiment. There was an uneasy silence for a time, Richie not sure of how to ask the next question and Duncan not sure of how to answer it when it inevitably came.
"But, I saw your cousin die," Richie said at last. "That guy shot him and he fell off the bridge."
"He didn't shoot him, exactly," Duncan clarified. "Slan kept a dagger mounted on a spring in the hilt of his sword. When he realized he was losing he released the spring and launched the dagger at Connor. It hit him in the shoulder and knocked him off the bridge."
"So it didn't kill him then?"
"Well, you saw me help him out of the water alive," said Duncan with a slight smile. He wasn't lying.
"That's true," Richie admitted. Duncan could tell that he was satisfied with the explanation so far. Now all that was left was the part where he explained away the beheading and the quickening. Right. Piece of cake.
After a pause Richie continued: "So, when you got to the bridge you thought he'd killed your cousin. And you knew that he wanted to kill you, too."
"Uh huh. That's about right."
"So in a way it was self defense, then."
"In a way," Duncan reflected. It was all just part of the game.
"But, if this guy was after you why didn't you go to the police? When I gave my statement to the cops why did you tell them I made it up and then make me promise not to tell anyone else about it?" With this series of questions the lost little boy had returned with a vengeance.
"If our roles were reversed would you have gone to the police?" Duncan asked, taking a gamble.
"No," Richie admitted at length. "But then again, I'm biased."
"Well, so am I." It was the truth, and Richie picked up on it — and smiled. They had something in common.
"I still won't tell anyone," Richie promised, feeling the need to reassure the point.
"I believe you," Duncan responded readily. "After all, we have an agreement."
Richie laughed. "Yeah. And you have seven years before the statute of limitations denies you the luxury of changing your mind."
"Well I'm not going to change my mind so long as you decide not to change yours," Duncan replied matter-of-factly. Actually, he knew that he would never change his mind. Something about Richie made him believe that, for all his bravado and ease in lying, he would keep his word when he promised something. He wasn't a completely disrespectable youth, yet.
Richie nodded, reaffirming their agreement. "Do you have an explanation for the lightning show, too?" he asked at length.
All of a sudden Duncan was aware that the boy wasn't taking his explanations at face value. While he was accepting them as truth, he knew that they certainly weren't the whole truth. Duncan silently cursed. There was no getting out of explaining it to him fully.
"I do," he said. "But you're not ready to hear it." Now was just not the time nor place to explain it.
Much to Duncan's surprise, Richie just nodded again, accepting this without a fight. Duncan finally saw that the boy was tired; all this talking was taking its toll on him.
"You should get some rest," he said, standing up and heading for the door.
"You try resting with all these things sticking out of you," Richie protested, indicating his IV.
"Good night, tough guy," Duncan said with a grin as he exited the room. He headed back down to the T-bird, knowing that he shouldn't postpone going back to the loft. The conversation with Richie had been as much a success as Duncan could have hoped for. He only hoped his luck would hold through the night.