Richie felt the last bump no better or worse than the umpteen before it. By now his sore midsection was just one large cacophony of the many different types of pain. As the rest of his body went uncomfortably numb, Richie mused that he could accurately describe about eight distinct breeds of pain the way one catalogues flavors of ice cream.
The bus finally stopped. That had been the longest stretch yet. Richie wondered if he'd even have the strength to stand once the bus hit his stop, which thankfully should be the next one. Checking his watch he noted that it was just past ten thirty. MacLeod said to show up anytime between eight and six, so Richie wasn't worried about it.
As the bus pulled away from the curb to continue on its merry way over the disgustingly dip and pothole-filled roads of Seacouver, Richie once again found himself reviewing in his mind the strange course of events that lead him to be suffering through such torture on his way to his first potential legitimate employment in over two years.
It all started shortly after his foster father died. The rent was due and Richie had no money to pay it. He needed some quick cash or else it was the streets. He'd tried the streets. Just about anything was preferable to the streets. So he needed to lay his hands on three hundred bucks in two days, and he was stuck getting it the old fashioned way: stealing. He would need to rip out nearly twenty car stereos to cover that bill, but the more you bring to a fence, the less that fence will pay you. Supply and demand, or something like that. Richie considered stealing a car, but everyone knows the chop-shop types are considerably hazardous to your health. That left one option: good old fashioned B & E.
After half a day of scouting Richie settled on what should have been the perfect score: MacLeod and Noel Antiques. It was off in the heights, far from his usual thievery stomping grounds. The owners ran the store like clockwork, eight to six Monday through Friday, noon to five Saturdays, and closed Sundays. That meant that Sunday night there should have been no one around. He recognized the warning label sticker on the door and windows as being from the same alarm company as most other more lucrative businesses in Seacouver, which meant that he was an old hand at bypassing it. Show up Sunday night sometime and be in and out in an hour or so. It was the perfect heist despite its last minute planning.
Richie had gone to the store that night confident in his abilities and positive that he would be able to fence whatever he procured for at least the three hundred he owed in rent. New shoes were a must for the rest of the money, as were grocery shopping and laundry. Yes sir, Richie Ryan would have it made for at least two weeks after that night, and that was something to motivate any decent human being towards a life of (mostly non-violent) crime.
But alas, you know what they say about that which seems too good to be true.
Richie bypassed the alarm and entered the store with a practiced ease. Then he committed the first of several mistakes. The first mistake was to spend a good few minutes just browsing, generally admiring the merchandise and swearing the one day he, Richie Ryan, would be able to afford the prices on some of those things. Then he committed his second mistake. The antique jewelry was just too tempting. If he made enough from the fence of the rest of it perhaps he'd keep one or two items. He didn't have a girlfriend at the moment, but who knows? Girls are into jewelry and stuff, right?
Regardless of his intentions with the jewelry he made the mistake of putting the pieces in his pockets. What's rule number one Richie? Never ever, ever stash loot on your person! Then he came to his senses and began loading his bag with the smaller, more portable things. He'd filled his bag with all that would fit and began trying to shift the contents so that he could zip it shut when he made mistake the third. He saw the sword in the display case and just couldn't resist. He'd always been drawn to swashbuckling pirate flicks, and adventure stories like The Three Musketeers with lots of sword fighting. What would the harm be if he decided to play with the sword for a while?
Richie couldn't decide what his biggest mistake was. Was it taking too long in the store thus making him still around when the shit hit the fan? Was it being stupid enough to get caught with jewelry from the store in his pockets? Was it being stupid enough to not avoid the patrol car? Was it deciding to take even more time by playing with the sword?
No, sadly. None of these came close to the ultimate Darwinian mistake: not bothering to check the building tenants to learn whether or not the owners lived upstairs.
Richie surmised that he just wasn't as good a thief as he previously thought, which really didn't come as a big surprise. Richie Ryan was never as good at anything as he liked to think that he was, or rather, as he liked to foolishly hope that he was. According to the world, for all his life, Richie Ryan was never very good at anything.
And so the inevitable happened. He'd committed too many mistakes to not get caught. However, getting caught by a half-dressed man with a pony tale wielding a drawn sword wasn't what he had in mind, and decapitation seemed to be a bit strong of a punishment for petty theft. Of course, this MacLeod character explained to him that he was expecting some psycho to come and try to kill him with a sword, so naturally he sees a punk kid playing with one in his store late at night and it's your classic Twilight-Zone case of mistaken identity. Sure MacLeod had a plausible explanation, but that didn't change what he saw happen that night.
Richie mused that he went from being confronted and threatened with decapitation to being mostly forgotten as that sword-wielding psycho in a mask MacLeod was expecting decided to drop in, literally. Richie should have left then, leave the loot and take off running. Unfortunately, he was too paralyzed with both fear and curiosity to take his eyes away from the scene in front of him. That's how he failed to notice Sir Lancelot enter, probably through the same window. Now there were three guys with swords taunting each other and preparing to fight.
If the foster care system taught Richie anything it was that two's company, three's a crowd, and four's, well, unsanitary. Granted that was for bed-sharing arrangements and not guys playing with swords, but the point's the same. Richie, who'd been mostly forgotten as the other two sword-baring lunatics showed up, finally left the sword and the loot and made a break for it.
Too bad he wasn't good enough to evade the cops. He told them what happened, leaving out the part where he was the first one to break in of course, but no one believed him. Of course not, Ryan. Why would anyone believe you? He was sure he'd be spending the rest of seventeen in juvie until the cops told him that Mr. MacLeod wasn't going to press charges. As curious as Richie was, he wasn't going to question it. He was given a get out of jail free card, and he wasn't about to look the mysterious, sword-wielding gift horse in the mouth.
He had even half-convinced himself that the police were right and that he was making the whole thing up to cover his tracks. That was, of course, until MacLeod came to see him. Richie noticed that the man didn't appear nearly as intimidating with a shirt on and without the sword. He did note that the man was wearing a long coat, capable of concealing such a weapon, but the guy would be crazy to try anything in the middle of the police station.
That's when MacLeod offered him the deal: his silence in exchange for his freedom. Richie did his best to sound confident and un-intimidated, but doubted if it worked. They could always see right through that smooth-taking exterior. He wondered why he kept the front up sometimes, but then, sometimes, it was all he had.
Richie took the deal and walked out of the police station a free man. However, instead of focusing on his incredibly out-of-character good fortune he had another thing to worry about: he still needed to come up with three hundred dollars, and the deadline was tomorrow. He didn't have time to steal enough and meet with his fence. That left him with just one choice, and it was either take that choice or hit the streets again. He had just gotten the apartment livable after his waste of space of a foster father had untimely kicked the bucket, and he was loath to leave the place now. He was finally legally allowed to be on his own (as long as DSS didn't find out yet). He didn't want to go back to living in shelters, warehouses, and other dives, not if he could help it.
So Richie took what was probably the last, desperate measure of a desperate man. He went to see Romeo. At one point Richie contemplated running with the gang, they had provided him with a place to live when he ran away from foster homes. However, he was never there long enough to fully partake of the initiation. He wasn't an actual member, but would be soon enough if Romeo had his way.
The gang was currently holding up in one of the numerous rousted drug-houses. After the junkies are busted and cleared away, the vagrants and gangs move in. The Nickel Bombers had taken over one that was similar to the townhouse Richie and his landlord lived in. Being a gang member meant that you were allowed free reign of the house. Everyone forcibly pooled their resources. Because they didn't use banks, Romeo had on average nearly two thousand dollars stashed in various places inside the house. Richie knew that he could convince Romeo to loan him the three hundred, even though the interest would be astronomical. He'd worry about paying Romeo back later; he had rent to pay by tomorrow.
As expected, convincing Romeo to lend him the money was easy enough. He just had to come up with five hundred by the end of the next month or else there would be 'consequences'. Richie didn't exactly know what those consequences were, but he could guess. At any rate, he got the rent payment to his landlord on time. He also explained to him that he'd been having difficulty keeping a steady income. The landlord was fairly lenient, telling him that if he got at least two hundred of the current month's rent in by the due date then the remaining hundred could be paid over the course of the next month. Along with, of course, the lump sum of two hundred dollars for the current month. Richie could live with that. It meant that he only needed to come up with seven hundred dollars by the end of the next month.
However, the problem with the youth of today is the inherent desire to procrastinate, and Richie wore that label like a badge of honor. He was just hanging out outside the pizza parlor (after bumming money from Angie for a slice) when Sir Lancelot stopped at the light. Being ever-curious, probably too much so for his own good, Richie decided to follow him. Luckily the car hit just about every streetlight as it made its way to its destination, so it wasn't hard for Richie to follow. Fifteen minutes of stop-and-go later and Richie found himself in the warehouse district. Lancelot got out of the car, wearing a potentially sword-concealing trench coat, and went into one of the warehouses. A quick survey of the layout revealed that his car wasn't the only one parked there. It was keeping company with a black T-bird.
Richie stayed hidden for a while, making sure that no one else was going to either arrive or suddenly leave the warehouse and catch him. When he was certain that the coast was clear, he approached the warehouse cautiously, hearing strange sounds emanating from within. One look inside and Richie was both surprised and not surprised at what he found there. Mr. MacLeod was duking it out with Sir Lancelot in a very intense round of swordplay. Richie remembered seeing fencing on TV during the Olympics, and this certainly didn't look like that. This was fast-paced and brutal, only neither of them were wearing protective gear. Only after picking up snatches of friendly banter during the match did Richie realize that they were only sparring as opposed to dueling to the death. Of course MacLeod had an explanation for that, too, but at the time…
Richie then reasoned that the masked lunatic had to be the 'bad guy.' He knew that one of these two were going to face him eventually, and he staked his money on Sir Lancelot, hearing him attest adamantly that the fight should be his. Knowing every step of the way that it was a very bad idea and that his curiosity could probably get him killed, Richie decided to continue to follow Lancelot in the hopes of seeing a showdown with the masked one.
Richie didn't have to wait long before being proven correct. After tracking him back to the antique store, Richie decided to hide in the trunk of his Cadillac. They wound up at Soldier's Bridge. Richie watched as Lancelot defeated the masked one, only to be shot and tumble from the bridge. That was a slap in the face. Richie had seen the guy practice with MacLeod and figured he was pretty good. He also began experiencing what he would later learn the Watcher's call the 'occupational hazard,' wherein you begin to root for the guy you're watching. It bothered him more than he liked to admit that he thought he'd just witnessed Lancelot's death, which was handed to him by sneaky and underhanded means.
However, Richie didn't have time to feel remorse. Almost as soon as Lancelot hit the water MacLeod showed up. He and the masked one went at it, and once again the masked one was defeated. This time he didn't have any tricks up his sleeves, and MacLeod was proven victorious. Richie had expected and even hoped for this outcome, but he wasn't at all prepared for what MacLeod did next. He made good on the threat he had accidentally issued to Richie: he cut off the masked one's head.
Now Richie had seen people shot, seen them stabbed, seen junkies dying of withdraw and DTs; he's seen the results of brutal gang fights and even harsher cases of domestic violence. He'd even been the brunt of some of it himself. Yet never, in all his life, had he seen such a brutal slaying. He'd known that once people had been shot, or stabbed, or beaten, that they were probably dead or dying, but he made it a habit of never sticking around to find out. Even when Lancelot fell, he screamed bloody murder as he went. Richie knew he was probably dead; but that was just it. Probably dead. There was no mistaking it this time, and no way to live in denial of the facts: the masked on was dead, MacLeod chopped off his head.
Seeing two murders back to back like that would affect anyone, even those who preferred that their live to date had desensitized them to anything else it could throw at them. Of course MacLeod has a plausible explanation for it all, and he had seen with his own eyes Lancelot walk away. MacLeod had beheaded the masked one in self-defense, or so he claimed, and for revenge, which Richie believed wholeheartedly. He had never had a cousin, but he surmised that if he did, he'd want to avenge his murder, too. Looking back on it, he briefly felt a twang of longing and regret for that type of family. He didn't have anyone he cared enough about to engage in combat to the death in order to avenge them, nor did he have anyone who cared that much about him. Anyone who might have fit that bill was already dead. Even if he joined Romeo's gang, he still wouldn't have that. It was something he had always wanted, and something he surmised that he would never truly have.
The one thing that MacLeod failed to explain away was the strange lightning storm that blinked into existence once the masked one was beheaded and died shortly thereafter. MacLeod said that there was an explanation, but that he wasn't ready to hear it. Richie tried to keep himself from wondering what it was. Just like the time he walked in on two foster parents having sex, there are some things one is better off not knowing until the proper time.
The other thing Richie wasn't sure of was why he didn't leave after MacLeod spotted him. Right after the lightning died away MacLeod looked directly at him. Richie couldn't remember a time he had ever been so scared (or rather, he refused to remember any previous times when he had been so scared). Thankfully MacLeod said and did nothing, except of course throw himself off the bridge, still carrying his sword. Richie didn't know why he didn't just up and run at that point. For some reason he figured that MacLeod went diving for Lancelot's body, and for some other reason, Richie decided to stay and wait it out. It was fortuitous that he did, because Lancelot later emerged alive.
To this day, and probably for the rest of his life, Richie won't grasp what about those men with swords he found so fascinating. Even later, when he learned that he was drawn to immortals because he himself was one of them, it didn't explain his chance decision to rob the store that night, or the reason he stayed after witnessing the quickening. Richie would eventually chalk it up to fate. Right now he chalked it up to his annoying tendency to be insatiably curious.
However, there's nothing like witnessing a beheading to cure you of your curiosity for a while. He left the bridge after he saw Lancelot alive, and he decided not to follow him again, nor to stake out the store or have anything to do with MacLeod. Instead Richie set to work, doing what he does best. He stuck primarily to car stereos this time, not chancing another B & E attempt after what happened last time. Every once and a while he'd make off with hood ornaments and hubcaps as well. He was on the streets every day, hitting up his fence at least once a week. Barely sparing any money for food, by the end of the month Richie had amassed an even five hundred dollars. He gave two hundred to his landlord for the rent and made his way back to the gang house with the remaining three hundred. Granted it was minus the interest, but he figured that Romeo would be lenient if he presented him with the original three hundred he borrowed with promises of more to come when he can get it.
He figured wrong.
Romeo was less than thrilled when Richie showed up with less than the agreed upon sum of money. They were in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Richie was sitting on the bed while Romeo was pacing the floor. He demanded to know why Richie was shortchanging him, but when he explained about needing the rest of his gains for rent Romeo went off on him. He gave Richie a rather longwinded speech about not needing to pay rent because he could have easily lived with the gang once making it through initiations, after which Richie made the bigger mistake of informing Romeo that he wasn't interested in running with the gang. That's when Romeo brought out the switchblade.
Romeo's mistake was thinking that a measly four-inch blade could intimidate Richie. Actually, it could, but Richie had just come from having three-foot blades wagged in his face, so the tiny switchblade seemed like small potatoes. When Romeo leaned into his face throwing taunts at him in Spanish Richie took the opportunity and sucker-punched him in the nose. Romeo fell back and Richie made a break for it, Romeo's knife catching him in the side as he ran by him.
Richie made it down the stairs and out of the house, picking up tails as Romeo called to his gang members to give chase. Eventually Romeo joined them. Richie was so full of adrenaline that he didn't realize he'd left his wallet (and with it his apartment key) on the bed in the room when he gave Romeo the money, nor did he realize how badly he was injured. In fact, everything from punching Romeo to jumping in the T-bird was an unintelligible blur.
What happened after that, however, he remembered quite clearly.
Another one of those questions that will nag him on and off for the rest of his life is what made him run down Madison in the first place, it was the opposite direction from the neighborhood he knew. He crossed Seabrook and ran into the ally seemingly on instinct, darting out in front of MacLeod in the T-bird. The question that will nag Duncan for the rest of his life is what motivated him to take the shortcut in the first place. He wasn't too fond of that section of the city. It seems to all who know them that it was somehow predestined for the Highlander and the boy to become teacher and student.
Call it fate, fortune, or coincidence, Duncan MacLeod was in the right place at the right time and prevented Richie from entering the game. At this point in his life Richie couldn't for the life of him figure out why the man had saved him. He just didn't know Mac well enough yet. The really strange part is that MacLeod visited him regularly after saving bringing him to the hospital, and seemed genuinely concerned with his welfare. None of Richie's foster families had ever visited him in the hospital save for dropping him off and picking him up. Three of his four hospital visits were caused by members of those particular foster families, however.
Richie was now sitting on a bus headed for the heights to begin a new job at the antique store that he had tried to rob barely a month before. Through an entirely unexplainable sequence of events MacLeod had saved his life and offered him a job. Richie didn't understand it, even if he found himself accepting that, even though MacLeod was withholding information, that he could take the man at his word and trust what he said. However, it took more than just a gut feeling for Richie to trust anyone, but saving his life, volunteering plausible explanations, and offering him a job were definitely steps in the right direction.
He knew that Romeo and his gang were still out there, and probably still wanted him dead. He knew the drill. He was supposed to pay them five hundred dollars, so if he wanted to escape with his life he would now need to cough up one thousand. This job with MacLeod was the easiest way to go about that, not to mention the safe feeling that working legit provided. He could make enough for rent and gradually save up to pay off Romeo (provided he could avoid him for a good while). He'd also make right on the damage to the window and to the alarm, because for another inexplicable reason he felt guilty about them.
For some reason, this sword-wielding, head-taking, unwitting rescuer of his instilled in Richie the want to make restitution, and rekindled the previously thought dormant desire to trust someone. He remembered Nikki screaming at him all the time that he didn't trust her and that all he did was look out for 'numero uno.' The next thing he knew she left him for some other guy that got her pregnant and wound up doing twenty to life for the murder of a convenience store clerk during a robbery gone wrong. Richie still shook his head over that one. What's Melinda? Three now?
The bus whined to a stop and Richie was thankful that the long ride was over. Now he just had to negotiate the three blocks to the antique store, which would be difficult considering every part of his body that wasn't throbbing in pain had gone numb from lack of attention. Once off the bus he sat on the bench in the sheltered bus stop until the pain subsided enough for him to feel in control of his extremities again. After the brief respite Richie began the walk to the antique store, still unsure of the sequence of events that dropped this opportunity practically in his lap. However, it was meaningful, legal employment, and a steady income. It meant he could quit stealing. It meant he could pay rent on a real apartment. It meant he had a chance of paying Romeo off and being done with gangs for good. He was determined not to blow this chance.
With these hopeful thoughts in mind Richie entered the antique shop. Tessa was working the register and looked up from her magazine at the sound of the bell chiming as the door opened. She quickly schooled her expression into abject neutrality; however she wasn't sure if it would have otherwise shown surprise, disappointment, or amusement that Richie had actually shown up for the job.
"I'll go tell Duncan you're here," she said, her voice cool and professional. Richie didn't need her to actually say don't touch anything for the command to come across loud and clear. Tessa went up the stairs to the loft but Duncan met her at the top landing, having sensed Richie's pre-immortal presence as soon as he entered the store.
"Look who's here," said Tessa in that same emotionless tone.
"Morning, Richie," Duncan greeted.
Richie smiled up at him and waved half-heartedly. He felt lost and out of place and didn't know what else to do with himself. Meanwhile Duncan descended from the stairs.
"How are you feeling?" He asked.
"Better enough to be here," Richie answered, deliberately vague. He didn't want to give the man the satisfaction of telling him that he was right about the bus ride. Duncan sensed that he didn't want to discuss the matter further so he just nodded at Richie's reply. Tessa watched all this from the landing with a mixture of ill-ease and curiosity.
"Well," said Duncan, "ready to get to work?"
"Lay on, MacLeod," Richie said, raising his hands in surrender. Duncan smiled, appreciating the reference to Shakespeare's MacBeth. Not only did it show that Richie was more well-read than Duncan would have first given him credit for, it was also the first written work that Duncan learned to read all those years ago in Paul's monastery. He knew the entire play by heart.
"Right," he said. "This way."
Duncan led Richie through Tessa's workshop to one of the back storage closets. It was a spacious closet, a good eight by eight with shelves on three of the walls. Duncan flipped on the light and grabbed the notepad and pen from one of the shelves.
"I need an inventory of this closet. Apparently the computer decided to erase the inventory files for the store and now we have to do the work all over again," he explained, handing Richie the notepad and pen.
"You mean I have to do the work," he said gravely, surveying the shelves of boxes and the crates stacked on the floor.
"Unless you have any objections."
"No—no. It's cool," Richie quickly assured. He didn't want to give the impression that he didn't want to be there.
"Good. There's a stepladder in the back corner there," said Duncan, pointing the ladder out to the teenager. "I'd start with the top shelves since they contain the lightest pieces. Don't want to pull your stitches out."
"Of course not."
"Use the ladder, grab a box, and set it down on one of the crates. Open the box and write down what's inside. Be sure you repack the boxes neatly so that nothing gets damaged and everything fits back inside. Then put the box back on the shelf. The pieces should be tagged, so just write down what the tag says."
"That's sounds easy enough," Richie mused.
"Yeah it's not hard," Duncan agreed. "Tedious maybe, but not hard."
"Fun," Richie declared, restraining his voice at the last possible second so that it conveyed only mild sarcasm.
"There's a radio on the shelf over there," said Duncan, indicating the radio on one of Tessa's art supply shelves. "Oh, and if you come across a piece that isn't tagged, come find me," he added.
"Right," said Richie, nodding again.
With that Duncan left the boy to his work. By the time he reentered the shop and shut the workshop door he heard the offensive sounds of a teenager's preference in music blaring through the small radio. It's a good thing the door leading from the workshop to the antique shop is soundproof. Tessa then confronted him in the antique store.
"What's he doing in there?" She asked worriedly, thinking about her art.
"Inventory," Duncan answered.
"But Duncan, didn't we just do inventory?"
"Yeah, right after the break in."
"Does he know that?"
"Nope."
"Then, why are you—"
"Because it's easy, he can go at his own pace, and it's a show of trust," Duncan answered, cutting her off.
"So you're saying you trust him?" Duncan sighed.
"I'm saying that he'll think we do. If there's anything that doesn't match up we'll deal with it then."
"Ah," said Tessa in realization. "So this is a test."
"Yeah," Duncan admitted. "Something like that."
"And if he fails?" Tessa asked, sounding like she almost said 'when.'
"I don't think he will, Tess," Duncan said seriously. "If he sees that we trust him I think he's going to want to keep it that way. I don't think he wants to screw this up, he's lucky to be given a chance like this."
Tessa nodded, understanding the logic of it. "But Duncan," she said coyly, arching an eyebrow, "if you really trusted him you wouldn't be testing him like this."
"True," he admitted. "But he doesn't have to know that."
Tessa laughed at that.
"The inventory will take him the rest of today and all of tomorrow. If he still shows up, and if the sheets he shows me match what we've already entered into the computer, we'll take it from there."
Tessa nodded in acceptance. "Well," she said, "If you've got him in the closet I'm going to take the rest of the morning off and do some shopping."
"I'm sure his meddling about in the closet won't disturb your work, Tess," Duncan said, slightly chiding her avoidance tactics.
"It's not him that bothers me Duncan," she said. "It's that awful music he's listening to." With that she kissed him briefly and headed back into the loft to grab her coat and car keys.
Back in the closet, Richie was attempting to make sense of the stacks upon stacks of boxes. He grabbed the stepladder and planted it in the corner of the closet. When he climbed it to get at the first box he was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was relatively light. Upon opening it for inventory, however, he discovered that it was filled with small glass figurines. True to Duncan's word, each was tagged. Richie picked up the first one, a rose, and wondered how many little old ladies it would take to buy up a collection of these things. Then he noticed the tag. It had a serial number, piece identification details, and an approximate date. Richie sighed and divided the notepad into four columns, writing across from left to right the six-digit serial number, glass rose figurine, England, 1900. Then he set that one aside and picked up the next, thinking to himself that if each box contained countless small things like that little rose, then he certainly had his work cut out for him.
A half hour later he had finished with the first box and its eighteen figurines. He might have finished sooner if he hadn't paused to inspect each one with a child's fascination. He had never been allowed to touch such things, whether he had seen them in a store or in someone's house. Now touching them was an integral part of his job, and he was subconsciously making sure that he savored every prolonged moment of it.
In similar fashion Richie then progressed through most of the top shelf by the time Tessa interrupted him. She had spent the better part of the late morning-early afternoon shopping. By now it was two thirty, and when Duncan had told her that he hadn't heard a peep from the boy since he began working she decided to check up on him. However, she did have the good graces to disguise her intent by bringing him a sandwich since he didn't stop for lunch.
Richie looked up sharply from the fourth antique wineglass of the set in his current box when he heard his music turn off. However, when he turned to leave the closet he saw Tessa enter carrying a plate and a can of soda.
"Duncan told me you haven't emerged from that closet all day, so I figured that you missed lunch," she said, forcing a smile as she entered. She put the plate and the soda can down on one of the large packing crates in the middle of the room.
Richie checked his watched and was startled by the time. "I guess I did," he admitted, smiling. "Thanks Ms. Noel. I guess I was so caught up I lost track of time." He went over to the crate and popped open the soda.
"I figured that teenagers drink liquid sugar spiced with caffeine," she said, trying to sound casual and conversational.
Richie had heard that tone before in each 'I'm going to pretend to be interested in you' foster parent and social worker, but it didn't matter. She had brought him food without his having to ask. By all rights they could have forgotten that he was there (well, as much as one forgets you've got a thief in your storeroom), but they didn't, and they were feeding him.
"That is the rumor," Richie said once he finished a rather large gulp of it.
Tessa glanced at the top-bound notebook. He was on his fifth page, four previous ones being flipped messily over the top. Richie's handwriting dominated both the front and back of those sheets, rather messy but still very legible. They boy had really been working all this time.
"How's it going?" Tessa asked, slightly warmed by her discovery.
"Well, when Mr. MacLeod said that it was easy but tedious he wasn't kidding," Richie answered. "But it makes the time go by quickly," he added with a smile, doing his best to get on her good graces.
"Well the funny thing about work is that it's work," Tessa said with a slight laugh. In hindsight it could have appeared condescending.
"Yeah, I know," Richie agreed amicably. "It's not the work I mind, though. It's the worrying about breaking something that costs more than my life is worth."
"I'm sure you'll be careful," Tessa told him. "Remember to stop and eat next time." She forced another smile and left the storeroom, not immune to the awkwardness that prevailed during their conversation. Later on she would realize that she was the one making it awkward, her struggle for civility not being lost on the teen, who would interpret it as her mistrust and general dislike of him. Not that the impression wasn't correct, she still didn't trust the boy and wasn't sure of her opinion of him in general. However, had she known how he would interpret her words, tone, and actions, she would have behaved differently.
For starters she would have known not to unknowingly corroborate the boy's belief that their merchandise was worth more than his life, and wouldn't have only belatedly realized that he had remembered her name.
Richie, on the other hand, was thoroughly impressed with what just transpired. He knew that the woman didn't like him, and probably trusted him even less. However, she brought him a sandwich and a soda without his having to ask for it. Granted he didn't like tuna and was mildly allergic to mayonnaise, but she couldn't possibly have known that. He choked it down anyway with much help from the soda, knowing better than to protest an unsought meal. She had brought him food, which meant that she remembered he was there, and more importantly she cared about him enough to feed him when she learned he hadn't eaten. She didn't need to like or even trust him; he didn't care about that. She remembered his existence and treated him like a human being. Sure he could easily read through the forced civility, but the fact that she cared enough to make the effort was a gesture in and of itself that he wasn't used to from strangers (or foster family members). Tessa didn't need to like, respect, or trust him. She didn't even need to care enough about him to ask whether or not he liked tuna or was allergic to mayonnaise. Tessa could maintain a relationship of civil indifference for all he cared, but because of this she was already close to being his favorite human being on the planet.
His spirits lifted, Richie decided not to turn the radio back on, thinking that it was Tessa's way of protesting his music choice rather than a simple way of getting his attention, and he went back to work. He kept working until six that evening when Duncan came to free him from his toils for the day.
"Hey tough guy," Duncan called as he stuck his head in the doorframe. Richie looked up from the box of embroidered scarves he was in the middle of inventorying. "It's six o'clock, quitting time."
Richie smiled broadly at the highlander. "Just let me jot this last bit down," he said, recording that this one, like the two before it, was a product of eighteenth century India. "And with that I am officially done!" Richie exclaimed as he folded the scarf and piled it on top of the previous two. "Should I put these three back in the box or leave them out?" He asked timidly after a moment's pause.
"You can leave them," Duncan answered. "How'd you do?"
"I'm most of the way through the second shelf down," Richie said neutrally. He didn't know it that was a good thing or a bad thing. "But I've filled nearly ten pages of notebook, both sides," he added, sounding like a child explaining about doing his homework. Duncan held out his hand and Richie passed him the notebook. Duncan flipped it back to the beginning and perused through it. "You can read my writing, right?" Richie asked a cross between frightened and defensively.
Duncan looked up at him and smiled. "Not a problem," he reassured.
Richie visibly relaxed at that.
"Good work," Duncan said, tearing off the used sheets and folding them in half. "I'll add these to the computer tonight. What time do you think you'll be able to make it tomorrow?"
Richie paused a moment, considering. "Well the buses run every twenty minutes," he offered with a shrug. "I could show up at the same time, or earlier if you want. It's about a forty minute bus ride."
Now it was Duncan's turn to pause and consider. "Why don't you come back at the same time tomorrow? You're still injured and I don't want you overexerting yourself."
Richie nodded. "Then I guess I'll see you at ten thirty," he said. Then he checked his watch. "If there's nothing else, I can catch the six twenty bus back to my apartment."
"Don't be ridiculous," Duncan said with a light laugh. "I'll drive you."
"You don't have to do that, Mr. MacLeod," Richie protested. "I got here on the bus I can get home the same way."
"I still don't like the thought of you and your fifty three stitches bouncing around on the bus twice a day, especially in the evenings after you've been working all day."
Richie opened his mouth as if to protest again but Duncan cut him off.
"Just humor me ok? If something happens on your commute home I could get sued."
Richie blinked, slightly taken aback. "Sued by who?"
Duncan paused a moment, not sure how to answer. "Well, by you if you wanted to. And even if you didn't, when the insurance agencies find out I let you leave knowing the condition you're in my premiums could go through the roof." Duncan said this with as much seriousness as he could muster but the tone still came out half-mocking.
At any rate it made Richie laugh.
"Ok, Mr. MacLeod, you win," he said, raising his hands in defeat.
Duncan smiled and led the boy through Tessa's workshop and out the back entrance. They both climbed into the T-bird and completed the twenty-minute drive in comfortable silence. Finally Duncan pulled in front of Richie's apartment.
"I could give you a ride in the mornings too, you know," he said as he shifted the car into park.
"That's ok, Mr. MacLeod, I can manage," Richie said as he climbed out of the car and shut the door.
Duncan knew better than to argue the point. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, shifting back into gear.
"Ten thirty," said Richie, once again confirming their agreement.
Then Duncan drove off, leaving Richie standing on the curb watching after him until the T-bird disappeared over the crest of the next hill.
Still trying to sort out the myriad of emotions clogging his though processes, Richie headed into his apartment. He knew that neither of them trusted him, but then he had expected as much. He didn't trust them either. This MacLeod was easy to get along with, and seemed to be prepared to give him the chance to prove himself. Richie had been faced with this scenario many times, and each time he would either fail or the situation itself would change.
Then there was Tessa.
Although she was worse at hiding her true feelings, she cared enough to feign politeness and even went so far as to offer him food without his asking. Richie's never had it so good with two people at the same time like that.
However, Richie was enthusiastically aware that times were different now. He was eighteen, a legal adult. He had his own apartment and the makings of a real, legitimate, day job. If he wanted to keep the apartment he would need to keep that day job. Richie definitely didn't want to go back to a life of crime again. It was too risky and the payoffs, while potentially impressive, were too few and far between for him to afford the lifestyle he was aiming for. Granted he aimed to live from paycheck to paycheck, earning enough for rent and food with the rest being details, but it was a start. More than that, it was an honest start, something he never thought he'd have.
This was the official start to the brand new Richie Ryan, and as much as he wanted to convince himself that he did it all on his own, he knew that he owed it all to MacLeod. As much as he hated being beholden to anyone, he couldn't deny that he would be dead now if it weren't for the curiously persistent Scotsman. Richie didn't know what to make off all that had just happened. He knew that he should be either dead or in jail, but he was neither. Instead he was alive and employed by two people who by right shouldn't give a damn about him. What did he do to deserve such kindness?
Richie's first response to random acts of kindness from people is to automatically question their motives. This quandary would keep Richie occupied for quite a while because for some of these things he just couldn't spot the man's self-serving ulterior motives, and it wasn't for a lack of trying. It definitely left Richie with some things to ponder, given that he was going to try and stick with this new job. He was determined to find out what this MacLeod really wanted, but until then he'd be more than happy to take his money each week.
Yet in spite of all his questions and natural misgivings about the situation, somewhere in the back of Richie's mind lurked the faintest embers of hope. If he could get MacLeod to trust him, at least as far as healthy employer-employee relationships go, then that's a start; and perhaps, just perhaps, he could learn to repay the courtesy.