Richie worked side by side with MacLeod for the rest of the afternoon going through the contents of the crates in the storeroom. Duncan was opening each crate with a crowbar and then inspecting each piece. Thankfully he remembered what each one was so that he didn't have to hunt for and then decipher the packing slips (most of which were in Chinese). He would inform Richie of the pertinent information, and Richie would write it down on the notepad. Together they finished going through the crates in efficient form, the conversation consisting of small talk ranging from the pros and cons of flavored coffee to the Sonics' playoff chances this season.

They finished around four in the afternoon and Duncan decided to give Richie the rest of the afternoon off. Once again Richie didn't protest the offer for a ride home. He finished the day satisfied that he hadn't said or done anything to increase the awkwardness between he and his employer. In fact, the afternoon threatened to become rather enjoyable as they traded their favorite coffee styles and discussed in detail the statistics for how each NBA team stacked up this season. Richie decided that this MacLeod guy wasn't that bad after all—once you discount his rather violent extra-curricular activities of course. Richie was still intimidated by him, a feeling that was far from eased as he watched Duncan deftly wrench off the crate tops with the crowbar with fluid, easy motions that betrayed his incredibly strong arms and made Richie muse that they would have to be in order for the man to handle a sword the way he did.

By the time they lapsed into routine silence on the drive home, Richie had made up his mind that finding himself in the employ of Duncan MacLeod wasn't a bad thing. In fact, it reaffirmed how uncharacteristically lucky he was feeling about the situation. However, Richie still felt that MacLeod must have some other reason for being so nice to him and the fact that he hadn't pegged it yet was beginning to annoy him in the form of a little nagging voice in the back of his mind. No one saves someone's life twice (Richie counted the getaway and the trip to the hospital as two separate incidents) and then offers them a job without wanting something in return, especially when that person is the thief who robbed your place of business. Sure Richie would be able to get along with his new employer, but the seemingly missing puzzle piece is what would keep him from bridging the gap and actually trusting MacLeod.

Duncan, on the other hand, was quite pleased with the way things were turning out. Richie was shaping up to have the makings of a valuable employee. That meant that he would be able to offer him a real job at the antique store once the matter of the window and alarm system were taken care of. As of Right now he was planning on conducting business under the table, not wanting Richie's employment here to be attached to anyone's records in case it went sour, and also to save Duncan the hassle of dealing with the IRS (which every immortal grows to despise in a hurry). He would pay Richie in cash on Saturday for his week of work and count that as payment on the broken window. The alarm system was considerably more expensive than that, however. Numerically it worked out that Richie would have to work two weeks to cover half the cost of removing the old system (as Richie has proven that it is outdated and ineffective). He would cover the other half of the bill as a courtesy to Richie for 'testing' their alarm system for them. Duncan was hoping that the new system he recently had installed would sever them better than the previous one.

Richie arrived for work on Thursday unsure of what to do. He knew that the storeroom task was completed, but where did that leave him? He was worried that MacLeod was going to tell him to go home and that he had covered his debt to them. As much as Richie Ryan hated to admit it, he was actually looking forward to the prospect of a steady paying legitimate job. He was relieved when Duncan set him to work, even if he wasn't enamored with the task presented him.

Richie spent all day Thursday dusting every single item and display case in the store. That project took him all morning and half the afternoon; with a quick lunch break to eat the peanut butter he was planning on having the previous day. Richie finished off the day Windex-ing the glass cases and sweeping the floors. Once again Duncan gave him a ride home, and once again silence reigned. They had hardly spoken at all today, except in the morning when Duncan explained Richie's daily duties and periodically during the day when he asked him how the task was coming.

However, their lack of communication wasn't awkward so much as just an easy assumption of roles. Neither felt the need for conversation as each busied themselves with their respective tasks. It was a comfortable acceptance of the other's presence and their role within that environment. Neither noticed at the time that this was a subconscious reflection that they no longer perceived the other as a serious threat. Their comfort in each other's company meant that neither felt the need to be totally on his guard. It wasn't trust, but then it wasn't blatant mistrust either.

Friday came and Richie finished what he began the day before. He dusted the track lights and the nooks and crannies of the catwalk. He also dusted the Venetian blinds and the window frames and Windex-ed the windows. Lunch came and Richie feasted on a can of preserved peaches, once again doing his best to hide the meagerness of the meal from his more-attentive-than-one-would-think employers. After lunch Richie mopped the floor and cleaned the fingerprints off glass cases and the front door with yet more Windex. He surmised that he probably smelt of the stuff by the end of the day.

Once again Duncan let Richie go at five instead of six, having run out of work for him to do that day. He gave Richie the customary ride home however this time it wasn't silent.

"Are you planning on coming in tomorrow?" Duncan asked as he wound his way through the streets of Seacouver.

"Tomorrow Saturday?" Richie asked. He would forever be unsure of the date unless there was something remarkable about the day itself.

"Yes."

Richie thought about it for a moment. The last time he held a job, he hated working weekends. However, that's because he was usually assigned the night shift, and the antique store closes at five on Saturdays. Finally he decided that he needed the money and the five hours the store was opened on Saturday wouldn't kill him.

"I could," he said at last. "But the bus only comes every hour or so on the weekends." Duncan briefly considered offering the boy a ride but then decided against it. He didn't want to upset the routine they were developing just as it was starting to get comfortable.

"Well show up sometime between twelve and one, I'll have your pay ready," he said.

The thought of getting paid made Richie visibly brighten. "Sure thing Mr. MacLeod," he agreed with boyish delight.

Duncan pulled the T-bird in front of Richie's apartment and the teen climbed out of the car.

"I'll see you tomorrow then, Mr. MacLeod."

"Tomorrow it is then." Duncan drove away leaving a very happy Riche Ryan staring after his car.

Richie could hardly believe it; he was getting paid! Granted he didn't know how much money he'd receive considering the withholdings MacLeod would be taking to cover his, ahem, 'prior expenses.' However, he surmised that it would be at least enough to afford groceries and a trip to the Laundromat. If he was really lucky there'd be enough left over for him to pick up some black thread for his jacket (since his sewing kit was out of that color) and to cut a new key so he could give his landlord back the spare he had been using. Surprisingly he found himself practically unable to wait for tomorrow and the workday to come.

Richie arrived for work just after twelve, having taken the eleven o'clock bus. He entered the shop and saw Tessa reading a magazine behind the register; however, Duncan was nowhere to be found.

"Good morning, Mrs. Noel," Richie said cheerfully when Tessa looked up at the sound of the door chimes.

"Good afternoon, Richie," said Tessa in an expressionless voice. The enforced happiness on Richie's face fell when she corrected his greeting.

"Uh, is Mr. MacLeod around?" Richie asked, once again surveying the shop for signs of his absent employer.

"He had a few things to do this morning," said Tessa in that same tone. "I don't know when he'll be back."

"Ok then," said Richie, slightly ill at ease by this news. "Did he leave anything, or say anything…?" He stammered, unsure of himself.

"Yes Richie," Tessa answered and couldn't help but smile at the youth. "Wait here."

Tessa went into the office and Richie followed her, waiting in the doorway. She procured a medium sized but rather heavy looking bag, which she handed off to Richie with an ungraceful swing of the strap. Richie wasn't expecting the move and caught the bag with both hands as it impacted the left side of his stomach near his stitches. His face went ghost-white from the sudden searing pain in his gut, but Tessa didn't notice as she had already walked past him.

"You can roll these coins," she informed him as she made her way back to the register. "There should be plenty of rolls in the bag."

Richie let the bag fall from his hands and it hit the floor on its side with an unceremonious clang-thud. Some of the coins and rolls spilled from the bag.

"Of course," Richie said to himself through gritted teeth. He crouched down gingerly for the pain of his injury and began to gather the spilt contents and return them to the bag.

"Not in there," came Tessa's voice from the shop. "The office is off limits to you. Find someplace else."

Richie bit back a choice comment as he finished gathering up the spilt coins. With enormous effort he stood up, carrying the bag in both hands.

"Sorry Mrs. Noel," Richie demurred, opting to apologize rather than explain that he simply dropped the bag. Looking clumsy was probably the worst thing a new employee of an antique store could do. "I'll use one of the crates in the store room," he said on his way to the back door. Tessa didn't say anything for or against the idea so he just kept walking, eventually setting the bag down on a rather large crate. He then pulled over the stepladder to use as a stool.

Once he was seated he lifted his shirts to examine the injury. He could already see some bruising starting to form near the stitches, which were looking red and bothered by the trauma, and the wound was oozing a yellowish puss around the stitches from where the infectious scabs where disturbed. Richie cursed to himself and swore to increase the amount of times he scrubbed the wound with anti-bacterial soap. He didn't have any insurance and simply couldn't afford to blow this paycheck on antibiotics.

Resigned that there was nothing else he could do about it, Richie set to work. He removed the money rolls from the bag and set them aside. Then he dumped out a small portion of the bag onto the crate. With a heavy sigh, Richie picked up a roll for nickels and began counting change.

Duncan returned around three thirty, his stained and tattered clothing telling the tale of his ordeal. Tessa practically sprinted over to him and wrapped her arms around him.

"Thank God, Duncan!" She said into his chest as she held him. Belatedly he returned the embrace.

"Hey, sweetheart," he said tiredly, practically leaning on her to keep from falling over.

"You fought him then?" Tessa asked. "You won?"

"Yeah," Duncan said on the tails of a sigh. "Kory won't be bothering us anymore."

Tessa squeezed him tighter. "Is that how it's going to be?" She asked, looking up intently at him. "Phone calls in the morning, invitations to fight in the afternoon?"

"Kory called to challenge me," Duncan explained. "He said that if I didn't go and meet him then he'd come for me and the people I care about."

"But why?" Tessa asked.

"Because that's the game, Tess. Just be thankful he called instead dropping by in the middle of the night."

"Is that supposed to make it better?"

Duncan couldn't answer that. It made it better for him. Tessa still had to wait for him to come home, knowing that he might not. He couldn't tell her that at least he didn't torment them, or go after her as a way of getting to him. Tessa wouldn't care about those things so long as Duncan still had to face an immortal.

"This is my life, Tessa," he said at last. "It's our life for as long as you want it to be."

Tessa still hadn't shifted her intense gaze, and staring into the face of the man she loved more than life itself she knew that she could never leave him. Of course part of her told her that she was just a liability to him, but love is a funny thing.

"It's our life," she reaffirmed. "For as long as I live."

They kissed briefly but passionately, Duncan still feeling the affects of Kory's quickening. She broke the kiss after a moment to spite Duncan's lingering efforts for more.

"You should go wash up before someone sees you," she said.

Duncan sighed again, this time in resigned frustration. "Yeah," he agreed. "I won't be long," he said as he made his way up the stairs into the loft.

Once he departed Tessa made he way to the office. She shut the door part way so she could still hear the door chimes. Sinking down into the chair she cried out the last of her worry and frustration. She kept her tears as silent as possible, making generous use of the box of tissues on the desk. Once again she was forced to wait for Duncan to come home. This time, however, she was certain that he would indeed be coming back to her. That didn't make the waiting and the worrying any easier to bear, however.

After a good ten minutes to herself and her emotions, Tessa made her way into her workshop and the sink there. She splashed some water on her face to return her coloring to normal. When she approached the storeroom door she heard Richie's monotone voice counting the coins, along with small scraping and clanging sounds. She decided against letting her presence known because she decided that she still looked a wreck.

She went back to the antique store and returned to the office with her purse, which she retrieved from behind the counter. She pulled out her compact and began fixing her hair and re-applying her makeup. She finished this task as Duncan returned down stairs, freshly showered and changed.

"Ah," she said as she made her way over to the bottom of the stairs. "Much better." They kissed playfully for a moment as Duncan decided not to inform her likewise.

"I don't suppose anything interesting happened while I was gone," said Duncan when they parted again.

"No," said Tessa thankfully. "Just a few browsers."

"Where's Richie?"

"Oh, he's sitting on the crates in the storeroom rolling coins."

Duncan's brow furrowed in curiosity. "Why the storeroom?"

"I don't know," Tessa responded. "I guess it seemed as good a place as any to him."

Duncan nodded. Tessa then frowned, suddenly remembering.

"I told him he wasn't to be in the office unsupervised. I didn't know how you felt about that."

Duncan inhaled sharply but silently. It was a step backwards on the road to trust. "That's ok Tess," he said, trying to sound casual.

"Was I wrong?"

"No," Duncan lied. "When he's allowed to be in the office unsupervised I'll let him know."

Duncan knew that this was setting up the makings of good cop-bad cop between himself and Tessa. If anything it would make the boy prefer his company over hers and help their relationship grow. However, it would have the opposite effect on Tessa's relationship with the boy. Duncan had hoped that one day Richie would trust them both, and Tessa just unwittingly dug herself a small hole.

"I'm afraid I may have been a little harsh on him," Tessa admitted regretfully.

Duncan couldn't help but sigh at the next nail in the coffin.

"It's just that I was so worried about you," she continued. "I didn't think."

"It's ok," Duncan reassured her. "I'm sure you weren't that bad."

Tessa shook her head skeptically. "Should I go apologize?"

Duncan was hesitant to answer. "Don't worry about it for now. I'll go talk to him." Tessa was about to protest when Duncan cut her off. "You've had a hard day, Tess. There's no need to add to your stress right now. In fact, why don't you go out for a while? Go shopping, take some time for yourself. Then tonight we can…" Duncan trailed off his sentence, opting instead to kiss her. When they parted Tessa's expression had softened some.

"You're right," she admitted, defeated. "I'll make it up to him on Monday, though."

Duncan kissed her again, knowing full well that she would.

"Go on then," he said between kisses. Eventually they parted for good. Tessa then grabbed her purse from the office and went upstairs to the loft to fetch her jacket. He followed her through the workshop to the back door. They kissed briefly once more and then she departed.

"I'll be back by seven, have dinner ready," she called to him as she started her Mercedes.

Duncan waved her off, making sure the car had disappeared around the corner before shutting the door. He then headed over to the storeroom to check on Richie.

"Hey Rich, how's it going?" He asked as he came to stand in the storeroom doorway.

"Mr. MacLeod," Richie said cheerfully, half over his shoulder. "I'm pretty sure that I'm halfway through with this thing. Give me a sec." Richie quickly shoved the remainder of a pile of pennies into a roll and sealed the end off. Then he stacked it with the others. "There," he said with an air of satisfaction. He turned partially around on his stool to regard his employer.

Duncan's expression changed instantly.

"Are you alright?" He asked, stepping closer to the teen.

Richie's face was pale and drawn, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His skin was given a ghostly sheen by fine molecules of sweat.

"Fine," Richie answered innocently. In truth he was far from it. His insides hurt almost as badly as when he was stabbed, and the storeroom seemed oppressively hot. He had removed his sweatshirt some time ago and was wearing just a white tee shirt.

"Are you sure?" Duncan persisted, entering farther into the storeroom.

"Sure MacLeod," Richie assured, turning fully around to flash his most charming smile.

Whatever follow-up comment he was about to make died on his tongue when he saw Duncan's expression change once again. He looked down instinctively and saw what the highlander saw: several small rust-colored stains on his shirt. Before Richie knew what had happened, Duncan crossed the gap between them and was kneeling in front of him, bringing the two to eye level, and before Richie could protest, Duncan raised the tee shirt up to inspect the wound.

"Jesus Christ, Rich," Duncan exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me it had gotten this bad?"

When Richie looked down he too was surprised at the sight that greeted him. Blood had leeched through the stitching, carrying with it the yellowish hues of infection. It had spread across his lower abdomen and eventually stained his shirt.

"It wasn't that bad this morning," Richie said in quiet voice, transfixed by the sight before him.

"Come on, tough guy," Duncan said softly, encouraging Richie to stand. "Let's go."

Richie stood absently and allowed the Highlander to lead him through the workshop by the arm. His gaze never moved from his wound, his other hand reaching over to prod at it curiously, as though it belonged to someone else.

"No, no," Duncan chided softly, moving his hand away. "You don't want to be doing that." Richie didn't protest when Duncan moved his hand.

Worriedly Duncan put an arm around the teen's shoulders as he guided him through the antique store to the stairs to the loft. Richie made it three steps before stumbling. If it weren't for Duncan's arm around his shoulders he would have surely fallen. Duncan instantly scooped him up and carried him up the stairs, his worry only increasing when Richie didn't offer any protests. Instead he curled in and rested his head against the Highlander's shoulder. Duncan could feel the heat emanating from the teen.

"What am I going to do with you, laddie?" He asked himself in Gaelic.

Duncan carried Richie into the bathroom and sat him on the toilet. Gingerly he removed the tee shirt. Richie's torso was beaded with sweat but had the same ghost-like appearance. Duncan took the thermometer from the medicine cabinet and ran it under the water briefly.

"Put this under your tongue," he instructed Richie, who seemed to at least partially come out of his daze.

"What's this?" He asked, mostly curious and not suspicious.

"A thermometer," Duncan answered plainly.

Richie seemed to accept this and allowed Duncan to place the thermometer under his tongue. He then wet a fresh washcloth with cool water and began cleaning the blood, sweat, and puss away from the wound. Richie moaned slightly at the touch.

"Don't talk," Duncan directed. Richie just nodded.

Beneath the layers of grime Duncan saw deep bruising around the area of the stitches. With careful hands he prodded the area. Richie flinched back, a high-pitched whine emanating from his throat. Duncan could detect the infection lingering beneath the stitches in the hardness he felt in the immediate surrounding area. Where the inflamed redness died away the deep bluish purple of the bruising began and covered a good portion of his left side. Duncan cursed silently in Gaelic. This was definitely not good.

When he finished wiping down the area he removed the thermometer from Richie's mouth: 102.8. He cursed again, aloud this time. This was very, very not good.

"Come on, tough guy," Duncan encouraged softly as he coaxed the teen to stand again. Richie was slightly wobbly on his legs so Duncan once again scooped him up into his strong arms.

"What's going on?" Richie mumbled, but he didn't' struggle against being carried.

"I'm carrying you to the couch," Duncan told him, just as plainly as he described the thermometer.

"Oh."

Duncan deposited Richie on the couch and went into the bedroom. Rather than try to put Richie's tee shirt back on he would clothe him in a button down shirt to make it easier once they got to the hospital.

"Will you put this on for me?" He asked, kneeling in front of Richie and handing him the shirt.

Richie took it from him and inspected it. "What for?" He asked, again mostly curious and confused.

"Because you need to wear a shirt," Duncan explained in the manner one generally reserves for small children.

"But I have a shirt," Richie protested.

"I know," Duncan agreed, "but that one's dirty."

Richie paused for a moment and then nodded. Duncan left him to put on the shirt while he went to leave a message for Tessa. When he returned he found Richie struggling with the shirt buttons.

"Why don't I help you with that," Duncan offered, kneeling down. He fastened the buttons for Richie, who stared at the Highlander's hands with childlike wonder.

"There," Duncan pronounced, standing up. "Let's go." He held out his hands to Richie, who stared at them absently a moment before taking them. Duncan noticed how small the teen's hands were compared to his own as he hoisted him to his feet.

It took Richie a moment to regain his sense of balance, but he didn't appear like he was about to fall over. Duncan eased him forward and then placed both hands on his shoulders from behind and guided him through the loft.

When they got to the stairs, Duncan moved in front of Richie. He kept one hand on the teen's arm and another on the railing as he led them both down the stairs. Richie took one step at a time the way toddlers do, gripping the other railing with his free hand. When they reached the bottom Duncan steered Richie through the antique shop and into Tessa's workshop.

"Where are we going?" Richie asked. He sounded tired and whiny.

"To the hospital," Duncan said expressionlessly.

"Why?"

"Because you're sick."

"No I'm not," Richie protested through a yawn.

Duncan didn't dignify the comment with a reply. Instead he silently steered Richie through the workshop and out the back door to the alley. Once he secured Richie in the passenger seat of the T-bird he climbed in on the driver's side. With worried thoughts Duncan began the drive to the hospital.

Duncan left the top down on the T-bird in hopes that the crisp air would revive the teen. Unfortunately, it worked.

"Where are we going?" Richie asked, suddenly aware that he was riding in the passenger side of the T-bird once again. His voice sounded more normal.

"The hospital," Duncan answered.

"Why are we going to the hospital?" Richie asked, this time his voice thick with suspicion. "And why am I wearing this shirt?"

"You got bloodstains on your other one," Duncan answered seriously.

Richie blinked in surprise. That wasn't the answer he was expecting. "Bloodstains?" He asked, his voice rising. "How the hell did I cut myself? I was rolling coins for Christ's sake!" His gaze shifted to the highlander suspiciously as he suddenly remembered that the man carried a large sword. Then almost involuntarily he stiffened, pinning his body all the way against the car door and as far away from Duncan as possible. From there he regarded his employer with wide, uncertain eyes.

Duncan knew that he had to tread very carefully right now or else he might undermine everything he has worked for so far.

"You're wound's infected," he said, his voice even and emotionless.

"What?"

"That's where the blood came from. You've got a nasty infection and you're running a fever."

Richie regarded the Highlander critically for a moment and then lifted his shirt. He was shocked to discover the bruising pattern around his stitching. "It's not bleeding," he accused. He ran his finger absently down the stitches, wincing slightly at the touch. The skin was hard, red, and hot.

"Not right now, but if you keep touching it, it will," Duncan informed him.

"And how'd I get this bruise?" Richie asked. "Last thing I remember is rolling coins." His voice was dripping with accusation and skepticism. All defense mechanisms had deftly snapped into place.

Duncan sighed. "We discovered your infection when I came to check on your progress with the coins," he explained. "You're running a high fever and you blacked out. I brought you into the loft, cleaned you up, gave you that shirt, and got you into the car. In a few blocks we'll be at the hospital."

Richie nodded after a moment. He was trying desperately to remember what had happened. "I remember I was rolling pennies…" he said to no one. "I was almost done with the roll." Then he turned to Duncan. "You came in, and I remember…" his voice trailed off. "There was a bathroom, and a couch."

"That was in the loft."

"The loft…" Richie shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs, which was a very bad idea because he suddenly got very dizzy. He moaned and grabbed his temples with both hands.

Duncan's worry increased.

"It'll be all right, Richie," he said, sounding more reassured than he felt. "We're here."

They pulled into the parking lot near the emergency ward and were lucky to find a spot up close. Quickly he went around to the passenger side and opened the door for Richie. The teen, however, didn't appear to want to move. Duncan reached over and unbuckled his seatbelt. Then, placing a hand under each arm, he coaxed Richie out of the car. Richie stood leaning against the T-bird and trying to decide if he should clutch at his head or his gut. Duncan shut the car door and wrapped a supportive arm around the teen's shoulders.

"Let's go," he directed gently. "This way."

Duncan led Richie into the emergency room. He found a seat near the windows and gingerly eased Richie into it, hoping the radiant cool from the glass would help his fever.

"I'll be right back," Duncan promised as he made his way over to the reception desk.

"May I help you," the receptionist asked in a disinterested tone.

"Yeah," said Duncan, trying to decide how to proceed. "My friend was in here last week with a stab wound. It's become infected and he's running a fever."

"Name?"

"Richie—Richard, Ryan."

The receptionist tapped away on the computer keyboard. "Ah," she said. "Here it is. Richard Ryan, eighteen, no known address, social security number, or insurance provider." She looked up at MacLeod expectantly.

"His address is 864 Pauling Avenue," Duncan explained patiently.

The receptionist eyed him skeptically for a moment and then filled in the information. "Do you have his social security number?" She asked, once again with monotone disinterest.

"No," Duncan admitted. "But I can ask him."

He made his way back to where Richie was seated. The teen's head was in his hands and he was hunched over.

"Hey, Richie?" Duncan asked, kneeling down in front of him.

Richie moaned in response.

"Rich? Look at me," Duncan instructed gently. After a moment two pain-filled, fever-glazed blue eyes turned up to look at him. "Do you know your social security number?"

Richie stared at him blankly as though he hadn't heard him. When his face finally showed recognition he said: "Tell them to contact Marla Winesboro at the DSS. She'll know."

"Was she your caseworker?"

Richie nodded.

"Ok, tough guy. Hang in there." Duncan placed a reassuring hand on the teen's shoulder before making his way back to the reception desk.

"He says he doesn't know, but if you contact his caseworker at the DSS she'll be able to tell you.

"Her name?"

"Marla Winesboro."

"Spell that?"

Duncan sighed in exasperation. "I don't know—wines and borough. W-I-N-E-S-B-O-R-O-U-G-H."

The receptionist keyed the information in. Several minutes lapsed while she tapped away at the keys. "I'm sorry, sir," she said at last. "The hospital has a list of all DSS contacts for the city. There's no one by that name on the list."

"Well try a variant of the spelling!" Duncan instructed, rapidly losing patience.

The receptionist gave him a dirty look before doing as requested. More precious minutes ticked by. Duncan kept stealing worried glances over at Richie, who hadn't appeared to move since sitting down. He wished that they were in Paris. Then he'd just bring the boy straight to Darius. He'd be forced to drink some god-awful tea and endure a bad-smelling balm rubbed over his stitches three times a day and he'd be right as rain in less than a week.

"Here it is, W-I-N-E-S-B-O-R-O," the receptionist said at last.

"Good," said Duncan rather forcefully. "Can you admit him now?"

"We can't admit non-emergency cases without a social security number or valid passport and proof of insurance," the receptionist informed him.

"The boy's got a serious infection in his abdominal cavity and is running a high-grade fever!" Duncan practically yelled. The security guard gave him a warning look as several others waiting turned to see what the commotion was about. "Isn't that emergency enough for you?" He asked, removing some of the volume but not the urgency in his voice.

"Look mister, I don't make the rules, I just follow them," the receptionist said in a condescending tone.

"Well what does your protocol dictate you do now?" Duncan asked, his voice low and dangerous, the word 'protocol' sounding almost like a curse.

"I call the DSS and speak to his social worker," the receptionist said with a shrug, unaffected by Duncan's tone. For some reason he could never sound as menacing as Connor, and absently he wondered why that was.

After a few more precious minutes ticked by the receptionist hung up the phone.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said apathetically. "The office is closed on the weekends."

"Well did they leave an emergency number?"

"Yeah, 911," the receptionist said with mild amusement.

"So what does this mean?" Duncan asked seriously.

"It means that we have no way of obtaining his social security number until business hours on Monday, and so no way of obtaining proof of insurance. Without one of those things I'm afraid I can't help you. Like I said, this is a non-emergency case—"

"Wait," Duncan interrupted her. "You said one, as in one or the other?"

"That's right, sir."

"Well insurance just guarantees payment, right?"

"That's correct sir."

Duncan smiled triumphantly. He had found a way to beat the system. He pulled his driver's license and a platinum card out of his wallet.

"Then here. Guarantee of payment," he said, sliding the items across the counter to her.

She paused a moment, unsure of what to do next. "One moment please," she said quietly as she took his license and credit card and disappeared into a back room. She returned a minute later, sliding the cards back across the counter to him. "Fill out these forms and we'll see him as soon as we can," she said, handing him a clipboard and pen.

"Thank you," Duncan said tiredly. He made his way over to where Richie was sitting, head in hands. He was rocking slightly.

"How you feeling?" He asked, putting a hand on Richie's knee.

"Hurts," Richie muttered vaguely.

"I know it does, tough guy. Just hang in there." A hand on the back of Richie's neck revealed the fever still raging inside of him. Duncan then picked up the pen and began filling out the required paperwork. A few minutes later, after wrenching some important information from Richie, he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist. She glanced over it quickly and then looked up.

"Have a seat, sir," she said with apathetic disinterest. "A doctor will see to your friend as soon as possible."

Duncan nodded his thanks and then headed to the men's room. He wet some paper towels and came back to Richie, placing the cool cloths on the back of Richie's neck. Richie moaned again at the cool touch.

"Just hang in there, tough guy. It won't be long now."

Duncan repeated the ritual of getting wet paper towels for Richie's neck every ten minutes for the next hour or so, when finally a doctor appeared in the doorway and called his name.

"Richard Ryan?" He asked over the chart in his hands.

"That's us," Duncan said with cheerfulness feigned through exhaustion. It was nearly six p.m.

"This way please," the doctor directed.

Duncan removed the paper towels from Richie's neck and the teen looked up expectantly. He still appeared very much the small, frightened child, but some of the glaze had left his eyes under the regiment of cool cloths. Duncan offered him both hands, which Richie took. In a moment Richie found himself standing on shaky legs. Duncan put a hand out to steady him.

"I can walk, MacLeod," Richie said tiredly, and he fell in pace behind the doctor with Duncan close at his heels, ready to react in case Richie fell. Thankfully he made it to an exam room without toppling over. He used the stool to ease himself up on the table, Duncan offering him a hand up. Once seated, Richie leaned back against the wall, completely exhausted by the effort.

"It says here you were stabbed about a week ago," said the doctor, reading from the chart in his hands.

When Richie didn't respond Duncan stepped in. "That's right. In his lower abdomen on the left side."

The doctor checked his chart again and nodded. He then put it down and lifted Richie's shirt up to inspect the wound for himself. Duncan heard the man gasp.

"It looks like you've got yourself quite an infection," he said professionally.

Again Richie didn't respond, but he winced slightly as the doctor probed the area with cold fingers. Duncan bit back a choice comment about how he had informed them of this over an hour ago.

"Some bruising, too."

"Is he bleeding internally?" Duncan asked worriedly.

"No," said the doctor. "At least not severely anyway."

Duncan nodded. The first good news he's had all day.

"My best guess is it was caused by blunt trauma."

"Blunt trauma?" Duncan asked, his expression changing. Granted it had been seventy years since he'd last been a medic, but he knew what blunt trauma meant. Someone had hit Richie in the stomach.

"It was probably accidental," the doctor explained. "With the infection lurking beneath the surface his blood vessels were severely weakened. It could have been anything, simply lifting something heavy, or falling down could have caused it."

Duncan nodded again, his mind drifting back to try and find any potential causes.

"I had to catch the coins." Richie spoke for the first time since entering the exam room. He was still reclined against the wall, and his eyes remained closed, but he spoke with some coherence nonetheless.

Duncan blinked in confusion. "What?"

"She tossed me the bag of coins," Richie clarified, his voice losing some of its coherence as he returned to sounding like a whiny five year old. "I had to catch it."

Duncan's expression changed as the meaning of what Richie said sunk in.

"That's ok, Richie," he said softly. Then, turning to the doctor, "what can you do for him?"

"Well we'll need to run a few tests to makes sure that that's all it is. Given nothing else turns up we'll start him on a heavy course of antibiotics to clear up the infection."

Duncan nodded in acceptance. Finally something was being done to help Richie. He made a mental note to speak to Tessa about the incident with the coin bag as soon as possible.

"A nurse will be by soon with a hospital gown and a wheelchair." The doctor flashed a tired smile and then left Duncan and Richie alone in the exam room.

In due course the nurse entered and helped Richie change into a hospital gown, after insisting that Duncan wait outside. He was then taken for a blood test, followed by a CT scan of his abdomen. Through each procedure the highlander was right there beside him, ready to offer support and comfort whenever needed. However, Richie remained uncharacteristically stoic throughout each test and accepted the instructions of the nurses and technicians with a quiet resignation and followed through the procedures with the air of one all too familiar with them. The entire affair left Duncan with more than a few questions for this Marla Winesboro for when he finally got to meet the woman.

After the tests Richie was admitted and wheeled into a hospital room on the fourth floor. Several nurses helped him into bed and fitted him with an IV. He was only receiving saline now to help with the dehydration. Once the test results came in he would be started on a rigorous course of antibiotics. A glance at his watch told Duncan that it was just after seven thirty, and that meant Tessa should have returned and gotten the message.

Richie was exhausted from the ordeal of the day. He barely flinched when the IV was inserted into his hand and he was grateful when the nurses finally departed. He scoffed at their promises to return soon, he'd heard such promises before.

"I'm back in the hospital again, aren't I," Richie said with only half-sincere sarcasm.

"So it would seem," said Duncan, once again pulling over a chair to wait it out with the teen.

"This looks familiar," said Richie, the faintest hint of a smile curling on his lips.

"It should, we just did this a week ago," Duncan told him, smiling slightly as well.

"We have to stop meeting like this," said Richie, the smile fully developing in his detached amusement at his predicament. "People will talk."

"Oh, let 'em," Duncan dismissed with a tired wave of his hand.

Richie laughed slightly at that.

"Things were going so good," Richie lamented a moment later, all humor gone from his voice. "And now… Now I'm here again, and I owe you another shirt."

"Don't worry about that, Rich," Duncan said sincerely, "and besides, it looked better on you anyway."

Richie didn't have the energy to laugh this time, but the smile returned to his face.

"I really hate this place," he said in all seriousness through the remains of the smile.

"I don't blame you," Duncan agreed.

"So what happens now?" Richie asked, sounding more casual than Duncan knew the question to be.

"Well," he answered, knowing Richie was asking about more than his immediate future. "For right now, you get some rest. The nurses will be back with some antibiotics for you. Then in a couple days, when you're better, they let you out of here again."

"You think they can stamp my hand or something this time?" Richie asked plainly. "So they can let me back in without any hassles next time?"

Duncan laughed outright. "I'm sure we can ask them." However, his comment fell on unhearing ears.

Richie had fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Duncan just sighed and shook his head, hoping Richie would sleep through the nurse's addition of the antibiotics to his IV and musing that the boy's life didn't seem complete without the addition of many unnecessary complications.