Once Richie was released from the hospital, he and Duncan mad a quick stop off at his apartment so that he could gather a few necessities. The prescription provided enough penicillin for ten days, and Duncan was determined to ensure that the infection had fully cleared before turning the teen loose, so he informed him to pack enough for a two-week stay. Richie's lack of clean laundry made packing a challenge, but at least he remembered essentials like his toothbrush.

When they returned to the loft, Duncan gave Richie the grand tour. He was mightily impressed with the size of the kitchen and how it opened into the equally spacious dining area and living room, complete with the most expensive-looking entertainment system Richie had ever seen in private homes. Suddenly spending two weeks on MacLeod's couch didn't sound so bad.

He was also greatly impressed with the open shower in the middle of the room.

"Interesting place for a shower," he quipped, surveying the mostly transparent glass tiles with impure thoughts. "Not very private though."

Duncan could only grin. "Since it's usually just Tessa and I, the issue of privacy doesn't come up too often," he said, only the twinkle in his eye betraying his matter-of-fact tone. After all, it was rather difficult to think of that shower as just a functional devise. "We have a full, private bath back here," he added, leading the teen down the hallway.

The bathroom was at the end of the hall across from the master bedroom. Richie eyed the expensive-looking bathroom fixtures with a mixture of awe and envy, letting his eyes linger on the luxurious whirlpool tub.

When they exited the bathroom, Richie naturally poked his head into the master bedroom. It was open and spacious, surprisingly clean, and the queen-sized canopy bed reminded Richie of the kind one sees on display at department and furniture stores.

"Wow…" He breathed distractedly.

Again Duncan could only grin at him. "That's our room," he said through that smile.

"I know, I know. Off limits, right?" If ever there existed a sincere form of sarcasm, Richie was the one to find it. Duncan regarded him curiously for a moment in surprise, trying to make sense of the words in the statement and match them to the tone of voice.

"Just knock before you enter," he answered at last.

Now Richie blinked in surprise. "You mean you aren't going to lecture me about staying out of there when you guys aren't there to supervise, and about how I really have no business going in your bedroom anyway?"

"Do I need to?" Duncan asked earnestly. This only served to confuse Richie all the more. At his expression Duncan added: "we've moved you into the spare bedroom, and while you're healing from your wound and infection I don't want you anywhere but in that bed or on the couch in front of the TV unless it's to use the bathroom. If you have a problem in the middle of the night, don't be afraid to knock. In fact, I insist on it. I'm a light sleeper; I'll here you. Other than that there's no earthly reason for you to be interested in the master bedroom, so I figured it was pointless to warn you to stay out of it."

Richie nodded slowly, processing what Duncan had said. Somehow it all made sense, but the teen wasn't exactly sure how.

"But, I'm a thief. Aren't you worried that I'll sneak in and steal something while your back is turned?"

Duncan bit his tongue against the first response that came to mind. He took a brief pause, choosing his next words carefully.

"Correction: you were a thief. Now you're an employee, and more importantly, a guest in our home. That makes me your host as well as your employer. Therefore I'll treat you with all the respect that these roles demand, and I only expect you to reciprocate that respect." Duncan paused to see if Richie was following him, which he was in his own convoluted way of looking at things. Logic was definitely the key to building a relationship with the boy. If things make logical sense then there's no way to argue effectively against them. Thusly Duncan continued,

"If our roles were reversed, would you appreciate me rifling through your things while your back was turned?"

Richie haphazardly opened his mouth to reply but Duncan cut him off by answering his own question.

"Of course not. It's inappropriate behavior for a guest. I simply expect you to respect the nature of our arrangement." After the longwinded explanation Duncan finally sighed. He regarded the teen with aged, compassionate eyes. "I had hoped you wouldn't need such a redundant lecture. Was I wrong?"
The question caught Richie by surprise. He had been both reassured and belittled by what MacLeod had just said. The man spoke in plain terms about things like respect, propriety, and expectations. The first two were relatively foreign concepts to the teen, but the third he knew all too well. He was expecting Duncan to be expecting him to screw up (again) some how, and was therefore expecting a warning against it.

However, in place of a warning, MacLeod chose instead to inform Richie of his expectations of the teen. Aside from involving 'respect' and 'propriety', things that Richie had never encountered in their pure and honest forms, Richie also saw standards. He wasn't expected to steal, or misbehave in any way, or to otherwise screw up somehow. He was instead expected to display and act on mutual respect within the bounds of what is honestly considered 'proper.' He wasn't threatened that he had to comply, nor was he told that he was expected to do these things as a warning against the expectancy of failure. Instead, he was expected to not screw up, and in such a way that MacLeod felt that it went without saying. He only explained it in response to Richie's initial question.

Not screwing up was the highest bar ever set for Richie by those in authority. He was delighted and reassured to hear MacLeod set such high expectations of him, but also the fact that MacLeod had to explain the nature of it to him in such simple terms brought on feelings of shame. No one had ever expected him to not screw up before, and having MacLeod see (how could he miss it!) that the experience was entirely new to him was one that Richie had hoped in hindsight to avoid along with any other aspect of his past that might be called into question.

"N-no, you weren't wrong, Mr. MacLeod," Richie managed to answer at last. Once again he reminded Duncan of a young boy more so than a legal adult. Perhaps there's truth to the saying, 'those without childhoods never truly grow up?'

"It's just, well, everybody else would have," Richie added, trying to save face.

Duncan frowned. "I think perhaps you should stop comparing me to everybody else. I am an individual, you know." Duncan said this mildly, but Richie's slight flinch wasn't unnoticed. Duncan regretted his phrasing, sensing that the teen took the remark as a rebuke (the fact that it was a good-natured rebuke notwithstanding).

"You certainly are unique," Richie answered through a forced grin to hide his shame at MacLeod's continuing ability to point out what should be obvious to him yet remains somehow elusive. Duncan forced himself to smile back.

Richie was then shown the walk-in linen closet that housed the washer-dryer. This room was next to the master bedroom. The spare room was across from the closet and the final stop on the tour.

"You'll be staying in this room," Duncan announced as he flicked the light switch, causing the lamps on the nightstand and dresser to turn on. Duncan deposited Richie's overnight bag on the bed, which jutted out from the wall opposite the door. The nightstand, lamp, and requisite digital alarm clock stood neatly on the left side of bed as it faces the door. Richie's sweeping gaze, clockwise from the door, fell on the closet on the inside wall, the bed and nightstand on the far wall, the windows and desk on the outside wall, and finally the dresser and lamp on the near wall by the door. The room was moderately sized, but Richie delighted in how spacious it felt despite all the heavy furniture.

Richie also noted that, unlike every other 'spare room' he's inhabited over the years, this one appears to have been done up with care, consideration, and taste. The bed—a double, was covered with ample pillows that were both functional and decorative. The down comforter and sheets matched the curtains and the lampshades in a color scheme of neutral greens that somehow weren't too dark for the off-white carpeting. Richie sat on the bed and jounced it a few times. The mattress felt brand new. He couldn't help but smile up at MacLeod, who smiled readily back from the position he had retreated to in the doorway.

Richie stood again to continue his inspections of the room. His slight jostling of the bed revealed a blanket beneath the comforter containing intricate and beautiful tribal designs. Richie threw back the comforter part way to get a better look.

"That blanket is over a hundred years old," Duncan explained when Richie began to more closely admire it. "It was made by the Lakota Sioux, most likely by a young squaw as a wedding present to her new husband." Duncan wondered if Richie caught the slight hitch in his voice as he explained about the blanket that once served to cover himself and Little Deer. It indeed had been her gift to her then late husband at their wedding, as he had explained. He also marveled at how now, more than a hundred years on, even while living happily with Tessa, he was still pricked by the pain of those memories.

"Very cool," was all Richie managed to say as he replaced the comforter.

"I'll leave you to get settled," Duncan announced. He waited for Richie to acknowledge him, but surprised them both when he failed to make eye contact when Richie turned back around. Instead he caught Richie's slight nod through his peripheral vision and then turned to leave, suddenly not trusting his emotions around any company. This sudden departure struck Richie as slightly odd, but then MacLeod was quite the odd person, as he was discovering. With a shrug, Richie returned to investigating his new accommodations.

Aside from the bed frame and curtain rods, which were polished brass, the rest of the furniture was solid oak, stained the color of sweetened honey. The nightstand was a decent size, solid with two drawers. Richie found nothing in the drawers except for a flashlight and extra batteries. Probably for when the power goes out, he mused, overcoming his mild shock at not finding a copy of Gideon's Bible. The lamp atop it was of an antique brass trumpet design for the stand, complete with a sixty-watt reading bulb. Its twin sat on the dresser, although its wattage was slightly higher at seventy-five.

Richie then progressed to the dresser. It was the same style as the nightstand except that it was waist high and maybe six feet long, containing two columns of three drawers each. These drawers were empty save for a few bars of soap to preserve the fresh scent.

Leaving the dresser Richie headed to the windows. The Venetian blinds were open letting in the failing daylight of yet another overcast day, but such is the weather of a Seacouver fall. The view wasn't much to look at, just the alley between the loft and the next building. It was old, narrow, and paved with cobblestone. Richie didn't notice any streetlights or other illumination for it, but then he also didn't notice any garbage, drug paraphernalia, or vagrants hanging about. Quite a change from the old neighborhood.

One last look into the ever-diminishing light and Richie turned his back on the window in favor of studying the desk. It was a decent sized desk, complete with matching chair in the same designs as the dresser and bed. It was just wide enough to fit in the wall space between the two windows and was of rudimentary design, three empty drawers running down the right side, and a long, shallow drawer right below the writing surface that contained stationary and writing supplies.

The desktop was bare, but the back of it rose into a three-tier bookshelf in two-columnar design. These shelves contained antique volumes of the great British and American Romantic and Victorian age authors, as well as the greater works of the lost generation: Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, and the like. Intermingled with these volumes were selected other works: Aesop's Fables, Aristotle's Poetics, essays by the likes of Emerson, Thoreau, and Wilde. One shelf in the left column was reserved for well-worn antique copies of the works of authors like Dumas, Hugo, and Voltaire, all in their native French, as well as an even older, leather-bound copy of the collected Brothers Grimm's Faerie Tales, in German.

The presence of this mini-library was rather intimidating to say the least. With an impressed whistle he withdrew his finger from the spines of these volumes and headed over to inspect the closet.

There was nothing exciting in the closet: heavier winter coats and what appeared to be a few of Tessa's 'spares,' winter boots, hiking boots, extra umbrellas, and an extra blanket for the bed, although in a more modern (and blander) design. With a sigh Richie shut the closet door and began unpacking his bag, moving his clothes into the dresser and hanging his jacket in the closet (which he remembered to grab a the last minute in the hopes that Tessa has sewing supplies somewhere in the loft). After a brief debate he decided to put his toiletry items in the nightstand, not being so presumptuous as to move them into the bathroom. Once finished unpacking, Richie slid the bag under the bad.

All in all Richie was pleased with his new accommodations. The room was decidedly neutral, not overly masculine or feminine, and wasn't made up of second-rate, thrift shop, bargain-leftover ratty furniture and adornments. It was Spartan without being cheap and its neatness was born from lack of clutter. Even the pictures and paintings on the wall (even though of people and places Richie didn't recognize) weren't overpowering in their presence. The room was comfortable, and comfortable was how Richie felt being in it.

His initial response to this feeling was to be pleased by its discovery, yet that feeling was soon made hollow. He'd feel comfortable, but not at home. So what if it had a class he could only dream about possessing? It wasn't his. He would be borrowing it for two weeks, but it wouldn't be home. Home was smaller, colder, messier, tackier, leaking, included roaches, and in general couldn't hold a candle to this room, let alone to the entire loft. Still, that dingy little apartment was home. He'd almost finished patching where the roof leaked, and he'd kept the place clean as best he could to keep the vermin at bay. It was his, legally and legitimately, for as long as he could afford the rent.

Frankly, Richie was damn proud of his cramped, cheap little apartment in a worse part of town, and he would do anything to keep it: steal, borrow from Romeo, negotiate with his landlord, take jobs from Good Samaritans…

Now fate conspired to arrange for him to spend two weeks in this room, in the lap of luxury it seemed, with two people he just couldn't seem to figure out. From that apartment to this loft…

Richie nearly choked on the bitter taste in his mouth.

These depressing thoughts were interrupted by a strange whistling sound. When Richie left his room to investigate he discovered Duncan making tea in the kitchen. Richie stood by the dining room table watching as MacLeod fumbled around in the cabinets for teabags and mugs. The kettle had been removed from the hot burner so the whistling that had brought Richie hither had ceased.

"Tea?" Duncan asked, having removed one mug and left his hand hovering over another.

"Sure," Richie agreed. Duncan grabbed the second mug and set it on the counter.

"What kind?"

"Um… Hot?"

Duncan stifled a laugh. "Regular, herbal, decaffeinated, flavored...?" He offered, showing Richie examples of the various kinds of teabags he had in an earthenware jar.

Richie shook his head with a slight smile. "Just tea I guess."

Duncan plopped a regular teabag in the empty mug and then grabbed the kettle off the stove. He poured hot water in the mugs and replaced the kettle, then carried the mugs over to the dining room table. He set one in front of Richie and then sat down at the chair opposite.

"Sugar's on the counter and milk and cream are in the fridge," he directed, bobbing his teabag in the water to diffuse it. "Help yourself to whatever you want. There's honey in the cupboard somewhere, but I think we're out of lemons."

Richie remained standing for a moment, once again feeling overwhelmed. Then abruptly he sat down, as if startled out of a contemplative trance. He peered into the steaming, darkening water in his mug and imitated Duncan by bobbing the teabag slightly to speed up the process. Absently he regarded the mug: a panoramic view of the Paris skyline at night was wrapped completely around it, the handle was the same midnight blue speckled with painted stars. Duncan simply sipped his tea, comfortable in the silence.

When Richie's tea stopped steaming prolifically he deemed it cool enough to drink. Tentatively he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip. He wasn't expecting it to be as bitter as it was and so made a face and put the mug down. Duncan regarded him over the rim of his own mug.

"Don't like it?" He asked.

"It wasn't what I was expecting," Richie answered truthfully.

"It is tea," said Duncan, confused.

"I know that!" Richie snapped. Then he paused, cutting off the rest of his retort, deciding that this wasn't a good time for an extended slip of the tongue. It was a painstaking process, but he removed all biting sarcasm from his thoughts so that he could voice them properly.

"I've had iced tea before," he began. "You know, the kind you buy in packets and mix with water? I figured that this would taste like that, only hotter."

Duncan smiled but tried to hide it. "Those mixes are full of sugar. If you want your hot tea to taste like that then you have to add the sugar yourself."

"That's ok," Richie said, half shrugging. He bobbed his teabag a few more times.

Silence returned, but was not quite as comfortable as before. Duncan paid no heed to the tension, however. He just sat calmly, sipping his tea, apparently lost in his own thoughts. Richie also nursed his tea, but at a slower pace and with shallower sips. He discovered that he didn't much care for tea, but his pride wouldn't let him get up and search the cupboards for remedies. At least, he was telling himself that it was his pride.

"You have a real nice place," Richie said at last, tired of waiting for MacLeod to start the conversation again.

"Thanks," Duncan answered sincerely. His smile was there but seemed slightly off in a way that Richie couldn't place. Of course he had no way of knowing that the four hundred year old Highlander in front of him was still dwelling on another life.

For some reason Richie just didn't want to go back to silence just yet. Maybe it was because he barely spoke to anyone whilst in the hospital. Maybe it was because he so rarely ever spoke to anyone at all.

"How long you had it?"

"Let's see now," said Duncan, returning to the present to do some quick mental calculations. "We've had the store here for nine years, so that means we've lived here for seven."

"We? You mean you and Ms. Noel?"

"That's right."

"Wow," Richie breathed, salivating at the thought of living under the same roof with the same person for seven whole years.

"Were you together before that?" Richie meant the question in all innocence, but at the change in MacLeod's expression he suddenly realized his error. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. That's personal, I shouldn't've asked," he stammered quickly.

"That's ok, Richie," said Duncan, smiling to put the teen at ease. "I bought the store when Tess and I moved here from Paris. We had an apartment up town a little further then, but as soon as the loft above the store became available we bought out the landlord. We own the building now, and we remodeled it and moved in... God, seven years ago last July."

Richie was speechless for a moment; imagine, having a stable, loving relationship for over nine years! "Nine years," he echoed enviously, shaking his head. Then: "Wait a sec, you guys moved here from Paris?"

"Sure did," Duncan answered, smiling at the memories. "Paris is great, but I don't like staying in big cities for too long." He had to stop himself from laughing at the difference between the mortal and immortal definitions of a 'long time.'

Richie used the silence to interject. "What do you call Seacouver?"

"Rich, this city is peanuts compared to Paris."

The teen just shook his head. He had been to ball games in Seattle a couple of times with various foster families, but that's about it.

"You just decided to up and leave, go half way around the world, just to get out of the city?" Richie asked, leaving the tangent lie.

"Well I've moved around a lot," Duncan answered truthfully. "It wasn't that big a deal for me. Tessa on the other hand…"

"I'll bet it was harder for her, leaving all her friends and family behind."

Duncan masked a scrutinizing gaze by taking another draught from his teacup. He wondered if the teen was aware of how much he gave away to those who know how to look.

"We'd been together three years. When I decided to leave Paris, I asked her to go with me." Duncan saw no point in hiding these facts from Richie and decided to meet his questions as truthfully as possible. Meanwhile, two separate things struck Richie about that statement, and he didn't know which one to give voice to first.

"Twelve years. You've been together for twelve years..." Somewhere in his subconscious the decision was made for him.

"It never seems like it's been that long," Duncan reasoned, retreating momentarily into memory. It was after Tessa had agreed to the move to Seacouver that Duncan had chosen to reveal his secret to her. He needed to leave Paris—too many immortals were lurking about and he wanted to avoid the game. He also was hopelessly, madly, passionately, in love with Tessa and wanted (needed?) her to go with him. It was only when she had agreed that he revealed his secret in such dramatic fashion. He couldn't drag her half way around the world and still keep such a secret from her. Also, for some reason, she was the first mortal woman he had ever felt that he trusted enough to tell. He was glad that he'd been right.

"If she couldn't go, would you have left her?" Richie's question came completely out of left field and caught Duncan totally by surprise.

"What?"

"If she couldn't go with you, would you have left her?" Richie was regarding MacLeod with wide, uncertain eyes. They were the only signal that some greater thought or plan was churning itself in the teen's eyes. His face and voice were perfectly neutral and devoid of emotion. Duncan knew immediately that he had to answer carefully.

"The only thing keeping Tessa in Paris was Tessa. It came down to if she was willing to come with me or not, and she decided that she was."

Richie nodded, accepting this. "And if she'd decided she wasn't willing, would you have still left?"

Just one look at Richie's face and all Duncan's answers left him.

"What?" He managed to ask, stalling for time. It was very, very important that he say the right thing.

"If she had chosen her family over you, would you have chosen Seacouver over her?"

Richie's pointed rephrasing cut Duncan like a knife and he found that he didn't have an answer. Would he have stayed with her, knowing that it wouldn't be long before he was dragged back into the game? He desperately wanted peace from the gathering, which many immortals were realizing was on the threshold of beginning, but did he want that more than he loved Tessa? Nine years ago… Duncan honestly didn't have an answer.

"That was nine years ago, Rich. One shouldn't dwell on the past too much, not when there's the present to live in."

Richie nodded after considerable pause. What MacLeod said sounded like wisdom, but was not an answer to his question. Then suddenly he blinked, hard, as if to dispel the thoughts and associations he knew were threatening to show on his face. It was none of his business anyway.

"You should really learn when to tell me to shut up, MacLeod," Richie told him dismissively, his defense mechanisms clamping down like vices. "I got no right to put you on the spot like that."

"'S'alright, Richie," Duncan said, relieved. "If I didn't want to answer the questions I would have told you so." A lie. He would answer with something else as he had just proven. Richie picked up on this as well, but said nothing.

Silence threatened once again, but this time it was Duncan wanted to avoid it.

"Look, Tessa should be back soon. Why don't you have a seat on the couch and watch TV until she gets here? Then we can see about your medicine."

"Sounds like a plan," Richie acquiesced, equally as relieved for the end of the conversation and the offering of pleasant distractions. He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp, making a horrific face. Duncan stifled a laugh rather unsuccessfully.

"It tastes worse cold!" Richie exclaimed, smacking his tongue in his mouth against the aftertaste.

Duncan reached out and took the now empty mug from Richie and headed over to the sink. Meanwhile the teen made in the direction of the couch. Richie had just gotten situated on the couch, remote control in hand and smothered by the large afghan, when Duncan appeared from the kitchen. Richie swung his feet up onto the coffee table.

"Take your shoes off first if you're going to sit like that," Duncan reproached.

"Oh man, sorry," Richie apologized. He quickly slid his feet out of his well-traveled sneakers. The teen didn't return his feet to the coffee table, however. Instead he curled them up underneath the afghan on the couch. He then looked back at MacLeod, who forced a smile. Richie forced one in return and then flicked on the television. He flipped a few channels but then settled on a program. When he hunkered down into his covers to watch the show Duncan left him to his own devices and headed back towards the kitchen.

Not long after that Tessa returned from the drug store. Duncan heard her open the door into the loft from the staircase and met her at the threshold.

"Did you get it?" He asked, taking her jacket from her.

"Yes," she answered. "It's in my purse." Tessa went fishing for the prescription bottle while Duncan hung her coat in the closet. "Here it is."

Duncan took the bottle from her and read the label. Then Tessa handed him a printout containing further directions from the pharmacist, which he also read.

"He needs to take this twice a day for the first three days, but he can't have anything in his stomach for eight hours before he takes it."

"How's he going to manage that?" Tessa asked, curious.

Duncan's brow furrowed in thought. "Well he'll have to take it first thing in the morning. Hopefully it won't bother his stomach too much. Then he can eat lunch, but he'll have to skip dinner so he can take the next pill."

Tessa nodded. "Maybe the pills will take away his appetite? I would hate to be forced to deny him food when he's hungry."

"Me too," Duncan agreed. "We'll see." Duncan refolded the printout and headed for the kitchen with it and the prescription, Tessa close on his heels.

"Where is—" She was in the process of asking where Richie was, but Duncan silenced her with a raise of his hand. He then indicated towards the bundle on the couch, which upon closer inspection was revealed to be Richie, curled up so that his head was half buried in the folds of the afghan, fast asleep and snoring ever so softly.

Tessa couldn't help but smile down on him. "The more I see him like this," she whispered, "the easier it is for me to forget exactly who and what he is."

Duncan nodded. "Whatever else he may be, right now he's our guest, and our responsibility."

"Oui," Tessa agreed, absently slipping into French. "Le pauvre." She brushed a few stray curls out of his face with her hand.

"We should probably move him to his bed," Duncan said at length.

"But he looks so comfortable," said Tessa. "I'd hate to move him."

"I know," Duncan agreed. Then with a collective sigh the two of them carefully detangled the sleeping teen from the afghan.

Richie barely stirred when Duncan scooped him into his arms and carried him down the hall into the spare bedroom. Tessa hurried ahead of them and turned the bed down. Duncan eased Richie onto the sheet carefully, holding him in a semi-sitting position as he instructed Tessa to remove the button-down shirt he had leant the teen for the trip to the hospital. Once that task was done Duncan eased the still-slumbering teen down onto the bed. Tessa then gently drew the covers over him while Duncan turned the slats closed on the Venetian blinds. Then they stood together in the doorway, silently watching as Richie shifted slightly into a more comfortable position. He didn't fully waken and was soon snoring softly again.

"He's just a boy, Duncan," Tessa said, mirroring what she had said to him the first time she'd seen him in the store, quite near the business end of her lover's katana.

"I know," Duncan agreed solemnly. He knew that Tessa was drifting off into her own fantasies, envisioning having a child to look after the way they had just tended to Richie, himself wondering what it would be like to have a son of her very own to raise. For Duncan that thought was bittersweet. He'd had a son before: Kahani. And there was Richie, sleeping beneath the blanket that had once belonged to Little Deer. Duncan had to shut his eyes; the salt of unexpected tears was suddenly pricking them.

"Duncan?" Tessa sensed the slight alteration in her lover's mood.

Duncan forced the memories out of the forefront of his mind with a sudden, quick shove. "I love you," he said, turning to Tessa and quirking that slight half smile he seemed to don whenever he was trying to be serious with her.

Tessa reached up and touched his face, regarding him with loving wonder and an almost resigned understanding, believing that he too was wondering what it would be like to have a son to call his own and knowing that nothing in the universe can change the fact that he never will.

"I love you too," she said from the heart. They held the moment for another breath and then Duncan brought his hand up to meet hers, bringing her delicate fingers to his mouth and kissing them. Instantly they broke into smiles and headed for their own bedroom.

Duncan awoke before dawn, or more precisely, nearly ten hours after he and Richie had shared the tea. After donning his terrycloth robe he went into the kitchen. He opened Richie's prescription bottle (after a brief but intense battle with the adult-proof seal) and removed one of the ominously large pills. With unusually warm thoughts towards his own immortality he filled two large glasses of water and headed for the spare room.

He found Richie sleeping on his side hunkered down in the bedcovers with barely his head sticking out. Once again Duncan was loath to wake the teen, but sadly it must be done. Placing the pill and water on the nightstand, Duncan leaned over the bed. He hesitated a moment longer before placing a hand on what he guessed was Richie's hidden shoulder.

"Richie?" He said tentatively, shaking the shoulder slightly.

Richie practically jumped out of bed, instantly fully awake.

"Easy," Duncan reassured, quickly pulling his hand away and backing up.

Richie quickly turned, half sitting up, to regard the highlander more fully in the low light that poured in through the open door and shone brightly in his eyes. That combined with the cool bluish light barely filtering in from outside via the closed Venetian blinds served to give Richie's face an almost haunted look as his gaze questioned his employer's sudden presence at his bedside with a mix of uneasy surprise and slight fear.

"Mr. MacLeod?" He asked tentatively, instinctively crossing his legs beneath the covers and hoping that MacLeod didn't notice.

He did notice, but to his credit said nothing. "It's time for your medicine," Duncan said, indicating the pill and water glasses on the nightstand.

Richie's gaze followed obediently and he relaxed a fraction at the sight that greeted him. This too was noticed, and after Duncan would have the time and mental energy to contemplate it he would curse up and down the occurrences that would make someone 'relax' at the prospect of taking oral penicillin at four forty-nine a.m.

"It's not even five," Richie said questioningly, slightly protesting, having also noticed the clock on the nightstand.

"I know," said Duncan. "You need to have had an empty stomach for at least eight hours in order to take penicillin like this. It'll probably upset your stomach and has to be taken with water or else it'll bother your kidneys too. Since your kidneys have been bothered enough recently I brought you an extra glass." Duncan paused in his explanation to be sure that Richie was following him.

Richie nodded to indicate that he was and used the pause to interject. "So you wanted to catch me before breakfast?"

Duncan forced a tired smile. "Yes," he admitted. "And if you're going to be feeling ill for a while because of the pill, if you take it now then hopefully you'll be feeling up to eating something for lunch."

"Sounds like fun," Richie mused, allowing his tense muscles to relax even further as he assessed that MacLeod was telling truthful reasons for this early morning intrusion.

"There's more," Duncan said heavily. Richie returned his gaze to the highlander. "You'll need to take one before you go to bed as well. That means you can't eat anything for the eight hours before that."

Richie sighed. "So that makes lunch kinda important then, doesn't it," he said, his sarcasm lacking all energy if not intention.

Duncan nodded.

After a brief pause to collect himself and steel his resolve against what would probably be an unpleasant experience from here on out, Richie sat up straight and made to reach for the pill and a glass of water. Duncan beat him to it and handed the items to him.

"Bottoms up," he said with a slight shrug. He then popped the pill into his mouth and quickly took a long draught of the water, throwing his head back to make swallowing the giant object easier. He made a face as the pill slid uncomfortably down his throat and quickly finished off the rest of the glass of water. "Christ those things are fucking huge!" Richie cursed, handing Duncan the empty glass.

"We can break them in half next time if you like," Duncan offered instead of choosing to reproach the sudden use of profanity. He then handed Richie the other glass, from which the teen took a greedy gulp.

"You mean I'd only have to take half of it?" He asked hopefully.

"I mean you'd first take one half and then the other, to make swallowing it easier."

"Do you think we could? I really hate taking pills, especially big ones. They always get caught in my throat," Richie said, his throat muscles contracting in memory.

Duncan nodded. "Sure, tough guy."

They both laughed slightly and Richie finished off the second glass of water.

"Get some rest," Duncan directed, collecting the empty glasses. "Hopefully you'll just sleep through the rest."

"And if I don't?" Richie asked, trying desperately to not let his fear show.

"Then expect nausea and some cramps."

"You're right, I hope I sleep through it." Duncan noted that the words seemed out of place with the relief showing on his face at that moment.

"I'm opening the store this morning, but Tessa will be here if you need anything." Richie nodded.

"Thanks Mr. MacLeod."

"You're welcome."

The Highlander departed for his own bedroom, carrying the items for the detour into the kitchen, and Richie was back asleep soon after that. Time and circumstance had made it easy for him to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, practically on command. It was one of those skills for which he hoped that one day he would forget the reasons behind the necessity.

He awoke again around seven to answer nature's call, but the predicted wave of nausea hit like a truck as soon as he stood up. Richie wavered slightly on his feet and sat down hard on the side of the bed again.

"Not good," he said into the darkness. He gripped the comforter tightly in both fists as he tried to wrestle his stomach into submission. After a few agonizing moments Richie felt that he once again had control over his body, and tested the theory by attempting to stand again. He wobbled again, but this time managed to remain standing. He then managed to stumble heavy-footed into the bathroom, his stomach picking up the directional cues from his mind and increasing the threat of emptying itself with ever step that he took. Richie would have none of that, however. He wasn't about to make a bigger spectacle of himself for these people than he already was, and he remembered all too well the way sick guests were treated in people's homes.

Richie decided that before exiting the bathroom he should splash some cold water on his face. Biting his lip against the dry heaves that threatened to overwhelm him, Richie maintained a death-grip on the porcelain of the vanity for several minutes. Finally his exhaustion and protesting stomach won out and he began to see stars. Sensing that he was about to black out, Richie quickly swung around and sat down hard on the commode. His head rolled back as pain and dizziness momentarily ruled his body. A few deep breaths and a litany of mental curses later and Richie was once again held faculty of his senses. He was no longer dizzy, but the leaden feeling still remained in his arms and legs. He moved his hand heavily through his hair, feeling along the scar of a long ago injury and cursed his body once again for continuously proving to be its own worst enemy.

The brief respite was over all too soon as Richie suddenly lost his tentative control of his stomach. He quickly slid off the commode and flipped the seat cover up as dry heaves wracked his body. By now the water he'd taken the pill with had long since been absorbed and his heaving wasn't fruitful. All he got for his rather painful efforts was a sore midsection resulting from the discomforted pressure of leaning against the unyielding porcelain of the commode while heaving, along with the pains that particular act entailed, and the sickly taste of bile and stomach acid that lingered deep in his throat and burned slightly.

Richie moaned as he tried to gather enough of the offensive substances into the front of his mouth to spit them out. He managed this but it did nothing to make him feel better. He still felt his stomach threatening him as he rested his head against the cool porcelain of the seat. Richie had just shut his eyes against another wave of nausea when he was disturbed by a knock on the door.

"Petit?"

It was Tessa.

"Richie, are you alright in there?"

Richie tired to answer her, ruing the fact that the bathroom door had no locking mechanism, but all that managed to escape his lips was another pitiful moan. Tessa took that as an invitation to enter. Richie looked up at her in pain, shame, and defeat, but held eye contact only briefly before he was forced to redirect himself towards the commode as another round of dry heaves shook his body.

Tessa quickly bent down and wrapped her arms around Richie's torso. His body immediately shifted to allow her to support all of his weight as he continued to heave up violent nothingness from his stomach. Eventually he was able to spit a few times, Tessa's support making his efforts more productive. When he was finally finished, Richie collapsed back into her. He wound up sitting on his heels cradled in Tessa's arms as she smoothed out his hair and whispered soothing things to him in a language he didn't understand and assumed to be French.

"Oh, God." Richie moaned, his cheeks flushed from the recent efforts and now with added humiliation.

"It's the pills," Tessa said softly, still stroking his hair out of his face. Richie managed a nod and refused to meet her eyes. "Did you get anything up?"

"What could I get up on an empty stomach?" Richie asked with harsh sarcasm exacerbated by the scratchiness of his throat. He regretted his tone as soon as the question fell, but excused his guilt with his pain and humiliation. Then he felt Tessa nod.

"I'll be right back," she said softly, unaffected by Richie's tone. Tessa then slid herself out from beneath the teen and he draped his arms around the commode for support. He seemed shaky and Tessa hesitated, but when it appeared that he wasn't about to topple over she left him there and headed for the kitchen only to return a brief moment later with a glass of water. "Here," she said, bending down to him. "Drink this."

Richie eyed the glass with suspicion. His stomach was cooperating for the moment but still felt dreadfully uneasy. He doubted that he'd be able to keep even water down. When he took the glass he used the first sips to gargle and rinse the taste and acid burn from his mouth.

"Drink it," Tessa instructed. "Your stomach is looking for something to throw up. If you give it what it wants you'll feel better."

After a brief pause Richie remembered that throwing up actual substances usually made his stomach feel better so he decided to trust that the Noel woman knew what she was talking about. He greedily gulped the water, not heeding her next instructions to take it easy. Suddenly the violent churning sensations returned and Richie heaved again, but this time a stream of bile and acid-colored water ejected itself from his stomach. Another breath and more followed. At some point he realized that Tessa was supporting him again.

After round three Richie's stomach seemed to quiet down. Once again he reclined back into Tessa's embrace. She reached over to the toilet paper and unraveled a few sheets, which she then tore off and handed to the teen. Richie wiped his mouth and dabbed the wad on his tongue to help eliminate the taste. When he threw the wad away Tessa asked,

"Do you feel better, petit?"

Richie nodded, once again feeling guilty about his earlier outburst.

"Yeah," he managed to say. His voice sounded tired and hoarse.

Tessa took the empty glass and stretched up to reach the sink. Richie shifted off of her and sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor. Tessa refilled the glass with water and handed it to the teen.

"If don't think you're going to throw up you can drink this, only take small sips this time," she instructed as he took the glass. "Otherwise just rinse your mouth."

Richie decided that he didn't want to tempt fate and so chose to gargle and rinse again. He did this until he ran out of water in the glass. All the while Tessa sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking on but saying nothing.

"What time is it?" Richie asked at last. He had finished rinsing and was now leaning back against the wall next to the commode, staring up at Tessa, whom he noticed was wearing a simple light pink silk robe with embroidered flowers. She was also barefoot, hair undone, and without makeup. Her face was drawn and tired, but still as lovely as he had remembered from that first moment he'd seen her in the store that night. Somehow this made his humiliation both better and worse.

"I'm guessing it's around seven thirty," she answered.

Richie nodded and reclined his head against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. Briefly his exhaustion warred with his taste buds as he tried to decide how badly he wanted to brush his teeth. Eventually exhaustion won out, aided by the fact that he would have to ask Tessa to fetch his toothbrush from the nightstand.

"How do you feel?" She asked when he rolled his head forward again and looked up at her.

He sighed heavily. "Better," Richie answered truthfully. For the moment he and his stomach had entered into an uneasy truce.

"What do you feel like doing?"

"Sleeping!" He said enthusiastically.

This brokered a grin from Tessa. "Come on then," she said, standing and offering him a hand up. Richie hesitated a moment before accepting, but to his surprise she hefted him to his feet with relative ease. This Noel woman is stronger than she looks!

Tessa guided him back to the spare room, one hand at the small of his back. However, he wasn't surprised when she excused herself and disappeared as soon as his body made contact with that mattress. What did surprise him was that she returned a moment later carrying a large saucepan.

"Keep this by your bed in case you feel that you can't make it to the bathroom," she instructed as she handed it to him. Richie regarded the pan quizzically in his hands for a moment before putting it down on the other side of the mattress.

"Thanks," he muttered.

Tessa only smiled at him. "Get some sleep, petit. I'll check on you later."

Richie nodded and proceeded to make himself comfortable once again. Tessa turned to go but Richie's voice stopped her just as she reached the door.

"Where's Mr. MacLeod?" He asked, worried that his employer might have been privy to what just transpired.

"Don't worry," Tessa said when she turned around. "He's still out on his morning run."

Richie sighed with obvious relief at this last chance to save face with his employer.

"You won't—"

"Don't worry, Richie," she said with a smile, knowing exactly what Richie was thinking. "Your secret is safe with me."

Richie smiled broadly back at her, eternally grateful. Then Tessa exited the room, shutting the door most of the way on her way out.

Richie tossed and turned a few times, trying to get comfortable while not placing any undue pressure on his abdomen. On top of the exhaustion of his stomach muscles from their recent ordeal his stitches started hurting him from the strain as well. He recognized the dull ache and groaned, knowing that the tension in his abdomen had pulled at the stitches. When he ran his fingers down their length he discovered all stitches still in tact. Examining those fingers revealed that the wound wasn't leaking around the stitches. While fervently wishing that he could have those infernal things removed from his body Richie decided that he could just ignore the pain along with the rest of it and get some much-needed sleep. The last thing he was aware of when unconsciousness claimed him was the sound of running water.