Richie ran back to his room, desperate to escape the situation. He fell back into the familiar habit of hiding from the big bad world beneath the bedcovers. There, curled into the tightest possible ball with not so much as a hair visible to the outside world, Richie contemplated his predicament.
He replayed the events over again in his mind. He had seen MacLeod with the sword. Ever since his employment began, and even still after taking up temporary residence in the loft, that sword has never been far from his mind. It was basis of all his nightmares since that first night when he broke into the antique store. The sword was sharp, malicious, an extension of MacLeod's arm almost, in the way the man wielded it. It danced like flame almost, about his wrist.
It was sharp. It was heavy. It was a murder weapon.
Richie wondered what on earth was going through his mind when he requested to hold the thing. He should have known better. He's looked down that blade from the business end, bartering for his very life as MacLeod threatened to cut off his head. He knew that it could have been used to kill him and seriously questioned just how close he came to death that night.
And he knew that MacLeod had it in him to kill. He'd witnessed it himself, how death can come by the blade of that beautiful dragonhead katana. MacLeod had very plausible explanations about the whys and wherefores of that night. Richie understood the logic well enough: kill or be killed, fight to protect what is yours, justifiable homicide in the name of self defense.
In the store that night was self defense. Sir Lancelot on the bridge with the masked man was a duel by Richie's reckoning. They had called each other out and MacLeod's cousin went over the railing.
Then MacLeod himself showed up and Richie saw the blade in action. He saw it kill. He saw his employer—his savior, kill in cold blood. He heard the explanations: self defense, revenge, and other heavy words were used.
There was still an unsolved murder on the bridge, with an unidentified victim, no suspects, and no leads. Richie was familiar with the code of the streets and he would keep his mouth shut, for his part.
Now he was living under the same roof as a murderer. Richie saw the fatal blow. He remembered the pause after MacLeod had defeated the masked man. Taunts were thrown back and forth that Richie couldn't hear. Then came the killing blow, and it wasn't in the heat of battle. It happened after the fact. It was deliberate, and calculated. And the swing was practiced.
Some of it was self defense, and some of it was revenge. But that last part was murder, pure and simple. There was no cause to behead the man that Richie could believe, try as he might to understand, or even to forget the entire issue. MacLeod was a cold-blooded killer.
Richie may have fractured a law or two, but he was never a violent criminal. Well, maybe once or twice, but he would never attack unless provoked, and he would never kill. He decided long ago that he didn't have it in him to take a life, not even for revenge.
Bile rose in his throat at the memories that flooded his brain unbidden and he wrung his hands involuntarily. It was getting stuffy under there but Richie refused to poke his head out, even for a breath of air. He was living under the same roof as a man who murdered in cold blood, and he was keeping his mouth shut about it because to do so was mutually beneficial. Any thoughts that life was looking up fell from his mind with the tears that stained his cheeks. He hated what he had become, hated what he was a part of, and what he was resorting to in order to improve his own situation. Through those tears, full of self loathing and the horrid acceptance of apathy, Richie finally let sleep claim him.
He didn't know how long he had slept, but when he awoke the sun was shining brightly through the Venetian blinds. He discovered himself with his head out from under the covers, but that was to be expected. He had moved involuntarily in his sleep in the quest for fresh air.
Richie closed his eyes, processing the memories that continued to swarm. They were of another time and another place, and the business with MacLeod had only served to bring them to the surface. Once again he felt the sting of tears in his eyes, but he forced them back.
Finally he sat up in bed, listening for sounds from the loft. He didn't hear anything, and soon the quiet became eerie. It carried a loneliness to it that Richie wasn't expecting. He drew his knees up as close to his chin as his stitches would permit and continued to contemplate his situation.
MacLeod was a murderer, and he kept his murder weapon close at hand. In a bout of mental lapse Richie had asked to hold the thing, and surprisingly MacLeod had agreed. Then Richie blundered in his handling of it and came with in less than an inch of killing the man. The surprising thing was that that brief instance had scared him half to death. He had discovered that somehow he had grown fond of MacLeod and that his concern was genuine. How could he have so easily forgotten what MacLeod was?
That answer was simple enough: the man had saved his life on numerous occasions without regard for the personal or financial inconveniences of it. He seemed bound and determined to do right by Richie even though it was never a condition of their original agreement. More than that, the man was just easy to be around. Somehow he seemed more up front than just about anyone Richie had met. His concern was always genuine and he was more than generous with money, home, and information. It was always straight with him, and that was a rare thing in Richie's dealings with people. It was as though he knew exactly where MacLeod stood, somehow believing in spite of himself and his memories that the man was one of the good guys.
It was so easy to forget that he was a murderer.
That duality made Richie's head spin. How could someone like MacLeod be a murderer? How could the man who seemed hell-bent on helping him in any way necessary be the same man who lopped a man's head off after a fight was decided? It didn't make sense to Richie. He was too used to the world being black and white. The concept of gray was as foreign to him as those pictures on MacLeod's wall.
And yet here gray dwelt, lots of it; and Richie was contemplating the matter from its guest room.
Richie had understanding now. It took a lot for him to reach this point, but at least all the facts were reconciled. Now all he had to do was accept them, but that of course was the hardest part. Could he accept that the man who had saved him… was still saving him… was a murderer? Could MacLeod be both savior and killer? Could Richie's mind accept the duality?
But then it wasn't the duality that was the problem, not really. Richie had a hand in the murder. He was there every step of the way. Could he accept his own involvement? He had made the deal and he couldn't get out of it now, even if he wanted to. And that deal kept his mouth shut when a murder was committed. He was an accomplice, like it or not. Nothing would keep him from going to jail, even if his sentence was reduced because of his aiding the authorities. He didn't want prison. He'd seen what happened to people he knew when they made it back to the outside. No, he definitely couldn't endure prison.
Could he accept that he was covering up a murder by a man who could save lives as easily as take them because he benefited from the arrangement just as much as the murderer? The tears began again as he had already known the answer when he'd asked the question. He hated that his life had forced him into stealing and he hated that he chose that night to rob the antique store. He hated himself for following Lancelot and he hated how necessity bade him go along with the plans of a murderer. He hated how he felt like he was being used, and he hated how he knew in his heart that that wasn't true. He hated owing so much to MacLeod and he hated how he had no choice but to accept his help. But most of all he hated himself for how so readily he had accepted the murderer into his life, and how, when it came down to it, that found himself not minding the murder at all.
Richie didn't try to stop the flow of tears, feeling quite safe that no one would discover him. His life was no longer his to control, it was in the hands of MacLeod, his employer. A murderer. And he was content to let it be, because MacLeod was one of the good guys. Richie discovered that he could forgive the murder, that somehow it didn't count for much in the grand scheme of things. How could murder, murder, not count for much! But it wasn't for himself that he asked that question, and he shoved that pain behind its proper door and locked it away again. Such memories wouldn't serve him here.
Finally the tears had spent themselves. When Richie was confident that he had fully regained his composure he climbed out of bed and headed for the door. After opening it a crack and listening, he heard no one in the loft and snuck down the hall to the bathroom. Once he made himself look presentable he went back to the guest room. The clock said that it was just past eleven a.m. Deciding that it was close enough to lunch time Richie made his way into the kitchen in search of nourishment.
Richie made it to the kitchen at the same time that Tessa did. She had just come from her workshop and her attire attested to the fact.
"Good morning, Richie," she greeted warmly. Duncan had neglected to mention to her what had transpired earlier.
"Good morning Mrs. Noel," Richie answered, unsure of himself.
Tessa made a face. "I though you were going to call me Tessa," she reproached with humor.
"I'm sorry," Richie mumbled, his eyes downcast. Tessa had a sinking suspicion that something was wrong, but she hadn't the faintest clue as to what. They just stood there for a moment, the pause growing in awkwardness as the seconds ticked by.
"Can I get you anything?" Tessa asked at last.
"Um," Richie mumbled, still not making eye contact. "Can I eat yet?"
Tessa glanced quickly at the clock. "Not yet," she answered mournfully. "You need to wait another hour." If possible, Richie's head hung even lower. "Why don't you go watch television?" She offered, trying to rescue the situation. "I'll let you know when you can have lunch."
"Ok," he agreed submissively before stumbling off in the direction of the couch. Tessa decided that she needed to have a serious chat with Duncan because something had obviously changed with the boy since yesterday. She vexed herself trying to think of what it might be while she headed for a hot shower.
When she finally emerged, Tessa discovered Richie on the couch, rolled up in the afghan watching a rerun of some eighties sitcom she didn't recognize.
"What are you watching?" She asked, coming to stand behind the couch and gazing at the television over his shoulder.
"Nuthin'," Richie answered without taking his eyes off the screen.
"It sure looks like something to me," she said, leaning down and bracing her weight against the back of the couch.
Richie shifted slightly so that he was even farther away from her. "It's nuthin'," he insisted. Then he flipped the channel as though he had to prove the point. The next station was a talk show and Richie flipped passed it in disgust. The station after that was showing the weather forecast and Richie flipped again with an audible groan. Soon he had surfed through all the channels and wound up back on the sitcom.
"Not much on?" Tessa asked when he was done. She had stood up straight again by now, noticing how uncomfortable Richie seemed to be in her presence. Richie's answer was to turn off the television and cast the remote aside. "Have you decided what you want for lunch?" She asked, changing tactics.
"Something more than toast," Richie answered, smiling in spite of himself.
"I could put some soup on, if you think your stomach could handle it," Tessa suggested.
Richie turned around and looked up into her face for the first time. To Tessa he seemed like a puppy only slightly afraid to beg.
"I'd like to try it," he said hesitantly, "if it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all," said Tessa with a wide, victorious smile.
Richie smiled back at her and nodded his head. Tessa's expression suddenly shifted and Richie involuntarily tensed at the change. Fortunately her words weren't what he was expecting.
"It will take about fifteen minutes to cook, so I think I'll wait fifteen and then by the time it's done you'll have waited your eight hours."
"If you say so," said Richie with a shrug, relaxing again.
"Why don't you watch your sitcom and I'll call you when it's ready," she suggested.
Richie nodded and turned back around to face the TV. He shifted back into the afghan and reached for the remote, but his thoughts weren't on the program.
He was so certain he'd had Tessa pegged, and to a certain extent he was correct, but there was so much more to her than he'd originally given her credit for. She was genuine and kind, almost childlike in her ability to not let people bother her the way they often intend to do. She was the type of woman he'd feel guilty lying to, and Richie Ryan could lie convincingly to just about anyone. She was beautiful and sweet, honest, and genuinely caring. He could easily see himself with that kind of woman, loving that kind of woman.
It was never a real consideration, however. Just another shining example of how good some people have it and how good his own life will never be. He knew he would never find a woman like Tessa, much less be able to hang on to her for, what did MacLeod say? Twelve years! He envied MacLeod his love life; that was for certain.
But MacLeod was a murderer! That automatically made him a far worse criminal than Richie ever was. Tessa was too smart to not know what her lover was up to. Therefore she had to know everything, and yet she still stayed with him. MacLeod, a murderer, had the ultimate trophy girlfriend who loved him enough to stay with him despite the extra curricular activities. Tessa had to be one special woman in order to stay in such a relationship; Richie could figure that part out easily enough. But what of MacLeod? It had to say something about his character that even though he was a murderer a woman like her could still love him.
Finally Richie's conscience settled on it: these were good people, extenuating circumstances aside. Richie knew that it wouldn't bother him so much that he was helping them by keeping his secret, and that was the part that he would have to reconcile with himself. These people had practically adopted him, given him break after break, and had been nothing but nice to him. Richie could work with that. Richie could build on that. He could work for MacLeod. For better or worse, this was the path his life was on. He would just have to find some way to deal with it.
He learned over lunch that Duncan was minding the store until Tessa relieves him. She said that he had errands to run but wouldn't say more about it. In a way Richie was rather grateful for this brief respite from the Highlander's presence. He knew that awkwardness would remain for quite a while, at least for him. Learning to trust a murderer is not an easy thing to do, especially for one who never made a habit of trust.
After lunch, Tessa sent Richie to the couch for more TV. She went downstairs to the store to cover for Duncan. To his dismay, but not surprise, Richie discovered that there was absolutely nothing to watch. He briefly debated fishing out another movie but then decided that he didn't really want to watch anything anyway. He went back to the kitchen for some water and wound up deciding to do the dishes. It was just the pot, bowls, and utensils left over from his shared lunch with Tessa, which wasn't so bad for a ready-made soup and seemed to be staying in his stomach well enough. Nonetheless, Richie decided to do his part and wash what was there. It took some rummaging but he eventually found where the bowls and utensils went in the various cupboards. He left the pot to dry on the drying rack.
This chore completed, Richie filled a glass with water and drank deeply, hoping that lots of water would make him less hungry. That being done, he went back to the couch and the television, but as luck would have it, there was still nothing on worth watching.
Richie was bored. There was no way around it. He couldn't watch TV and he wouldn't watch a movie without Tessa's supervision out of fear of the entertainment center alone. The dishes were done, and his employers kept a clean house so there were no other obvious chores for him to occupy himself with. With a heavy sigh he decided to head down to the antique store and offer his assistance to Tessa. Besides, he owed her for his standoffishness from earlier.
He found Tessa standing behind the counter reading a magazine. At first he was loath to interrupt her, but then his heavy footfalls gave him away. Tessa looked up from her article and smile at him, but her smile quickly faded.
"What are you doing down here, Richie?" She asked, but there was no rebuke in her tone. "Are you feeling alright?"
Richie blushed slightly at her concern. "I'm fine."
Her expression softened at his reassurance. "Then what can I do for you?" She asked, her smile returning.
Richie dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly very interested in his socks. "Actually, um…" he began, not sure quite how to word his question. "Well actually, Ms. Noel, I got kinda bored upstairs, and…" he stammered.
"Bored?" She asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Yeah," he answered. "There's nothing on TV, and I really don't feel like watching a movie."
"I see," said Tessa, not sure where this was going.
"And since I work here," Richie continued, gathering courage. "I was wondering if you had any work for me to do."
Tessa barely contained her laughter and for a moment Richie's face fell, misinterpreting the meaning.
"Oh, I'm sorry Richie," said Tessa, apologizing but not quite done with the laughter. "It's just that that's the last thing I would have expected you to ask."
"Oh," Richie answered, his face and voice perfectly neutral. His eyes couldn't quite hide the hurt, however.
"No, I don't think I'll ever understand American youth," said Tessa, shaking her head. Richie made no signs. Then: "Are you sure you feel up to working?"
"Yes, mam," Richie answered readily. "If you have anything for me to do."
Tessa paused for a moment in consideration. She was amused and encouraged by his offer to work and she saw no reason to deny him the right, but she also wanted him to be mindful of his still-healing injuries and not overexert himself.
"Well, there is that bag of coins…" Said Tessa, fully aware of the implications.
Richie groaned and laughed in spite of himself. "I guess I never did finish rolling them, did I," he said, shaking his head.
"I believe they're still right where you left them," said Tessa. "In the storeroom."
Richie nodded. "Right." He headed back through the workshop and had every intent of sitting down at the crates and resuming his chore from right where he left off.
Then he heard Tessa's voice calling after him. "Why don't you bring the bag back out here? I don't see why you have to sit back in that dusty storeroom and do it."
Richie smiled brightly at her words. He hurried to the storeroom and grabbed that bag of coins and rollers and practically jogged back into the antique store with them.
"Where should I sit?" Richie asked, reappearing in the doorway.
"Oh, I'm sure Duncan won't mind if you used the office," she answered.
Richie smiled, recognizing the gesture for what it was, and went into the office to roll some coins.
Richie finished with that chore around three and headed back into that store to inform Tessa. Then, being far from tired and not really in the mood to watch television, Richie begged to be allowed to do something else. Tessa decided to show him everything there was to know about the cash register and explained the policies for cash, check, and credit card purchases. She showed him how to ring up purchases and told him each and every store policy, from the procedure for appraisals to what to do when someone wanted to buy something astronomically expensive.
After that he still wasn't tired so reluctantly Tessa directed him to her workroom and the Windex and paper towels. The windows and display cases were rarely ever so clean.
When closing time finally came and Tessa locked up, Richie headed upstairs to take a much-needed shower. He figured that he put in a decent five hours of work and fully expected to be paid for it. Now that his life was conforming to something that he could call 'normal' he was anxious to get back to his 'normal' pursuits. He still had rent to pay, and laundry to do, and shopping, and then his jacket needed washing and repairing. And there was still Romeo to consider.
After his shower, Richie finally decided to watch some more TV. Much to his relief one of the networks was broadcasting Raiders of the Lost Arc. He was highly offended to discover that Tessa had never seen it and so convinced her to watch the rest of it with him. When it was over it was time for Richie to take his final pill for the night.
"I really hate these things," he said mournfully as Tessa handed him the two halves of his pill.
"I know, petit," she said sympathetically. Richie swallowed one after the other, making all the requisite faces.
"But on the plus side at least I get these stitches out tomorrow!" He said with a grin, absently running his finger over the length of them through his shirt. Then: "Do you know how that's going to work?"
"Duncan is taking you to the hospital around lunchtime tomorrow," Tessa answered.
Richie nodded. He knew he couldn't avoid MacLeod forever, and his trips to the hospital with the man were becoming some sort of perverted male-bonding ritual. Tessa then begged off to go work on her art so Richie sat back down on the couch to try to find something else to watch. He finally went to sleep just after ten.
Duncan didn't get home until midnight. He found Tessa waiting for him in the loft. She had brewed coffee and was already on her second cup.
"Duncan!" She called with relief and excitement as soon as she saw him standing in the doorway. She sprinted over to him and wrapped her arms about his neck. Slowly he returned the embrace. He was tired, but no worse for wear it seemed.
"Tess," he said on a pitiful exhale. She backed him up to arms length to regard his appearance.
"So what happened?" She asked once her spot inspection was over.
"We tracked the sun-of-a-bitch down and Lawrence killed him," Duncan answered, anger still resonating in his exhausted voice.
Tessa nodded, relieved. "I still don't see why he had to call you," she said, slightly reproachful, especially of Duncan for even going at all.
Duncan sighed. "Edward was Lawrence's student, but I've been friends with both of them for over two hundred years," he explained.
"But you told me that all fights have to be one on one."
"It was," Duncan assured. "This was Lawrence's fight, and Lawrence's victory."
"Then why did you have to go?"
Duncan sighed and hung his head. He doubted if Tessa would ever understand. She wasn't born in the right century.
"Don'che know, lass," he said with a grin, intentionally slipping into his brogue. "Scots ne'er let each other stand aloone."
Tessa just smiled and shook her head, renewing her embrace. Lawrence Stuart had called Duncan and arranged to meet him on holy ground. It turned out to be the grave of Edward Silver, a good friend and Lawrence's student. Lawrence was intent on headhunting and asked Duncan to serve as his second, which the Highlander agreed to without question. It turned out to be a desperate hunt and then an even more desperate fight for Lawrence, but in the end the Scot proved the victor. Edward had been avenged as the game permits. Duncan had driven his friend back to his hotel after the fight and then came straight home himself.
"I know that Lawrence is lucky to have you as a friend," she said at last, looking intently into her lover's face.
Duncan smiled, grateful that, understanding or not, she had accepted what he had deemed necessary. Exhausted though he was he still found the energy to kiss her passionately before heading off to shower.
Richie was awakened near six for his morning pill. Duncan crept into his room like before and placed the pills on the nightstand with the water. However, this time he was afraid to lay a hand on the teen to wake him up. He opted instead to turn on the light.
Richie flinched the instant Duncan flipped the switch. He swiveled around under the covers and drew his head farther down into their depths. However, Duncan could tell from the movement that he was now facing forward.
"Richie?" Duncan called out tentatively.
An aggravated groan was his only reply. Then suddenly the voice cut through the rest of the cobwebs. Richie's head shot out from under the covers to regard his employer, shielding his eyes with his hand so as to get a closer view.
"It's time for your pill," said Duncan, indicating the nightstand.
Richie's eyes followed Duncan's hand. "You're late," he said, too tired to affect amusement in his voice when he noticed the clock.
"Are you objecting?" Duncan asked, not too tired to be amused. This question took Richie by surprise so he decided not to answer it, opting instead to swallow the pills.
"Are we going to the hospital today?" Richie asked, trying to decide whether or not that was a good thing or a bad thing.
"I'm supposed to bring you in around lunchtime. I figured that if all goes well we could get lunch afterwards—if you think your stomach can stand it."
"Yeah, sure," Richie stammered, nodding. "Sounds good."
Duncan nodded. He knew that hoping that there would be no ill effects from the other day was futile, so instead he planned to try and talk to Richie about what happened.
"I'm going back to bed," he said at last, and then turned and left without another word.
Tried as he might, Richie couldn't fall back asleep. His mind kept skipping from one thought to another and his emotions could barely keep up. He was looking forward to getting his stitches out, but not looking forward to another trip to the hospital. He was looking forward to real food, as MacLeod had promised to take him to lunch. But of course all these things carried a price: enforced time with his employer. Hours, maybe, from which he couldn't escape. He knew that Duncan was still thinking about what happened. How could he not be, the guy could have died!
He was an antique dealer who kept swords around, that was understandable enough. He just happened to have one that he liked to keep sharp, and polished as he had said. To Richie, 'polished' meant making sure there were no traces of blood left. After all, it was a murder weapon.
Somewhere, deep down in places Richie didn't like talking about, he felt as though he knew MacLeod would take care of him. Both MacLeod and Tessa both. He had to admit that he didn't feel unsafe around MacLeod. The man has caught him off guard often enough. Richie couldn't believe what was happening to him. He wanted to trust these people. He was a part of their lives, and now he almost dared to feel like a part of their home. Sure it was the home of a murderer, but Richie hoped that sooner or later he would stop thinking of it like that. Or at the very least, for those thoughts to leave him alone long enough to allow him to work for the man.
Richie stayed in his room until Duncan knocked on the door around ten thirty. He informed the teen that he had an hour to get ready because he wanted to be at the hospital around noon. Deciding that for once he wanted to look presentable when entering the hospital, Richie headed for the shower.
Duncan was ready and waiting for Richie in the antique store with Tessa, who was covering the counter.
"Do you think he'll get his stitches out?" Tessa asked, sounding hopeful.
"Probably," was her lover's short reply. He seemed distracted by something.
"Then what?"
"Then we make sure he keeps taking the pills and that he doesn't re-injure himself."
Tessa nodded. "He'll continue to stay here then?"
Duncan sighed, misinterpreting her meaning. "I really do think it's for the best, Tess," he said, not relishing arguing about the arrangement now. "Just until he off the medication."
Tessa smiled. "Me too."
Not expecting this response, Duncan couldn't help but laugh. He then pulled Tessa into his arms. "Have I ever told you that you are the single most wonderful woman I have ever met?"
"You may have mentioned something like that before," was Tessa's coy reply.
Duncan shook his head, rubbing their noses together. Then he kissed her playfully.
"Well then I'm telling you again," he said, and she laughed with delight. "You are the single most wonderful woman I have ever known."
"Duncan MacLeod," she said, entwining her fingers in his ponytail. "Flattery will get you everywhere." They kissed again and stayed that way until Duncan felt the twinge of a pre-immortal presence. They hastily broke apart when Richie appeared on the landing by the doorway.
"You ready?" Duncan called up to him as though nothing had just happened.
"To get these out?" Richie asked. "You bet!"
Duncan laughed and sloppily motioned for Richie to come down and follow him. He grabbed his duster from the office, sword hidden neatly in its inner pocket, and headed for the door with Richie following closely behind. It was a warm day so neither wore a jacket (not that Richie had one to wear). Duncan tossed his duster into the backseat and the two of them headed off to the hospital.
By the end of the day, Richie couldn't decide which was worse: getting the stitches out or the lunch he'd shared with MacLeod.
It had started seemingly innocent enough. Small talk reigned on the drive to the hospital, mostly focusing on the lovely change of weather and how they were able to be outside without jackets. Richie of course noticed that MacLeod had brought his jacket anyway and without even thinking had asked his employer why he did so. MacLeod said that it was for just incase the weather changes, and Richie might have bought it if the man didn't then change the subject to sports. Richie was no fool and had lots of practice telling when people were either lying or hiding things from him. He suspected that there was another reason for the coat… the long coat that easily hung down to his employer's knees… the coat that could easily conceal a sword.
The conversation turned monosyllabic for Richie after that until Duncan got the hint and the rest of the drive to the hospital took place in awkward silence. However, it didn't improve once they were inside, either. Richie watched the television in the waiting room with intent, even though it was CNN. The news cycled four times before he was admitted, but he wouldn't take his eyes away for fear of having to converse with his employer.
Duncan sensed this, and it worried him.
After being admitted, Richie had to sit, shirt off, in a cold and cramped examination room. As much as he wanted to tell the Highlander to wait outside, he knew that the man would be better able to answer the doctor's questions when he arrived since, while Richie had indeed been present for the extent of his injuries and hospital visits, MacLeod was the only one of them to remain conscious throughout. And so Richie endured an equally awkward wait in the exam room, reading a months-old edition of Time Magazine. Duncan picked up some nature magazine and the two read to cover the awkwardness.
Finally the doctor arrived, and sure enough the interrogation began. Richie was correct in assuming that MacLeod would be asked the questions, and he put up with the doctor's cold and calloused fingers prodding him while he and Duncan spoke like the teen wasn't even in the room. This aggravated Richie to no end, but he was used to it, and seeing that he was minutes away from having those annoying stitches remove, he grit his teeth and put up with it.
Eventually the talking was over, and the doctor reached over to an instrument tray and removed an item that Richie thought would have better suited an oral hygienist. The doctor explained to Richie how it was going to work and that it might 'sting just a bit' while the thread was being removed. Richie nodded, knowing that he had no choice. He gripped the front ledge of the exam bench he was sitting on fiercely enough to make his knuckles go white. The doctor gave a warning and Richie shut his eyes tight and grit his teeth together.
Richie was surprised at how painful the experience was. It was all he could do to keep from crying out, but it was over as soon as it began. Richie relaxed his grip and took deep calming breaths.
Then the doctor said the impossible.
"Half way there."
Richie groaned before he could stop himself and MacLeod stepped towards him in the hopes of offering some sort of comfort. Richie tactfully ignored him as he renewed his grip and once again hunkered down to prepare for the pain.
However, the doctor lied. They were less than halfway there and round two was infinitely longer than the last. He could stop the hissing half-whines that escaped his lips, but eventually it was over. While he sat catching his breath and the doctor was babbling on about how to take care of the wound now that the stitches were out, Richie chanced a glance at his employer. MacLeod's expression was unreadable, but Richie clearly say the sympathy—almost pity, in his eyes.
Richie did NOT want the pity of a murderer.
He renewed his brave face while the doctor slathered a foul smelling, stinging ointment over his wound and then applied the bandage. That being done he gave a list of instructions to Duncan about how to continue to care for his son's injury. Richie's head snapped around at that. He noticed Duncan's grimace, but he didn't correct the doctor.
Richie was cranky for having been put through such an ordeal, but he was also happy to finally have the stitches out. While walking back to the car he engaged in a few twisting stretches to test his newfound range of motion. Duncan reproached him, telling him that his wound was still healing and that he shouldn't do anything to aggravate it. Not accustomed to mothering and basically hating it on principle, Richie chose to glower at the man.
All awkwardness aside, Duncan was true to his word and took Richie out for lunch. He even allowed Richie to convince him to take him to his favorite burger joint in his old neighborhood. In hindsight, of course, Richie saw the ultimate stupidity of the choice.
Things seemed to be looking up from their earlier awkwardness. Richie had ironed out a work schedule for the duration of his stay at the loft and Duncan had reassured him that his strong work ethic was much appreciated. Duncan was placating him with embarrassing (but tame) stories of Tessa when they entered the restaurant.
Duncan immediately didn't like what he saw. The place was clean and respectable enough, but the clientele were another matter. Two different groups of teenagers were seated at opposite ends of the dining area, talking loudly and with a fair share of objectionable phrases, and trading lewd and dirty stares at each other. They didn't need to be wearing colors for Duncan to sense that they were rival gangs.
Worse, kids from both groups waved cheerfully at Richie when they noticed him. Richie felt uncomfortable at this, but he had already assured MacLeod that he never ran with a gang and was now hoping that the man believed him.
They ordered their meals and sat down, Duncan choosing a booth on the other side of the dining room from the gangs and also right by the emergency exit. Richie wasn't oblivious to this choice, nor to the looks that Duncan kept giving the gangs, or to how his eyes would dart instantly to the source of the slightest sound.
This time it was Richie who attempted the conversation, but it was Duncan who was giving the monosyllabic answers this time. Richie knew that the man was on his guard simply from the tension that irradiated from his entire body. His eyes were cold and piercing and his right hand seemed to unconsciously clench itself into fists. To Richie, his employer seemed like a caged animal in this environment and the tension made him very uneasy.
Nothing happened of course, but Richie was just as glad to get out of the situation as Duncan was. His employer's mood seemed to improve as they drove away, so Richie foolishly made the mistake of explaining to his employer the nature of the restaurant. The gangs use it as refuge because they like the food and can get it for cheap, not to mention that they can always get employment there whenever they needed 'community service' to satisfy probation. Nothing ever happens in their demilitarized zone of sorts.
MacLeod didn't react to the news that the restaurant was a gang sanctuary well at all and the awkwardness returned full force. Duncan wanted to lecture the teen until he was blue in the face about associating himself anywhere near where gangs hang out, but decided against it.
When they finally returned to the loft, Richie lied and said that he was tired and headed for the sanctuary of his temporary bedroom. Tessa watched the teen retreat with interest.
"So how did it go?" She asked Duncan, who collapsed himself down on the couch with a heavy sigh. Tessa sat next to him and he pulled her into his lap.
"Well the stitches are out," Duncan explained. "He still needs to keep it clean, dry, and bandaged for a while, and to finish off the pills they gave him. They gave me a prescription for a cream to help minimize scarring, too."
"Well that's good news," said Tessa. and Duncan nodded. "So what's troubling you?"
Duncan sighed. He really couldn't keep anything from her, try as he might. Not seeing the point in lying to her, Duncan told Tessa about the restaurant, and about what Richie told him regarding its clientele.
"I didn't think Richie was part of a gang," she said when he was finished, both shocked and worried.
"He swore to me up and down that he isn't," said Duncan. His tone told Tessa that he believed the teen's claim, so she just nodded.
"But if he's not, then why would he want to go there?"
"Well, he was right about the food," Duncan defended weakly. He knew that, most likely, Richie wasn't aware of how dangerous the situation was. Or rather, he was very aware of it but so used to it that he wouldn't even bat an eyelash. That doesn't mean that he should go deliberately seeking trouble, however.
Meanwhile, back in his room, Richie lay flat on his back staring blankly at the ceiling. He had such high hopes for today, but sadly it turned out just as he had feared. He and MacLeod were still awkward with each other. On top of that, Richie had good reason to believe that his employer was disappointed in him for what happened with lunch. This puzzled him because normally he would scoff when authority figures were disappointed in him. It had become almost a game with him: seeing how long it would take for him to let a person down based solely on their expectations of him and not on anything relevant to his behavior or choices. So why did he feel this way about disappointing MacLeod? Was it regret? Shame? Fear?
Richie allowed himself to stay in his room for an hour or so, just long enough for MacLeod to cool off, if indeed he had upset the man. However, when he exited his room, he found the loft to be curiously empty. He didn't call out, but rather searched each room, finding no traces of his employers.
Unsure of what he would find, Richie descended the stairs into the antique store, but alas that too was empty. Apparently it was closed, which surprised the teen. Unsure of what to do next, Richie was startled by a strange sound coming from Tessa's workshop. Richie hesitantly sought out the source of the sound and relaxed when he saw Tessa attacking a piece of metal with a powerful looking sander. He stood watching her for a moment, certain she was unaware of his presence due to the noise and the limited peripheral vision that facemask was probably affording her.
Not long after he arrived, Tessa ceased her assault on the block of metal and raised her visor. It was then that she noticed Richie standing there.
"Can I help you, Richie?" She asked, not pausing in what she was doing. Richie fidgeted for a moment, trying to come up with a viable excuse for bothering her.
"Why is the store closed?" He asked finally.
"I need to work on my art and Duncan has errands to run."
Richie nodded. Eventually it appeared like Tessa was done for the moment, because she finally stood up, stilled her movements, and focused her undivided attentions on the teen.
"Is there something you want?" She asked, more curious than cold. "Are you feeling alright?"
Once again Richie fidgeted. "Uh…I was going to ask if you had any more work for me to do, but the store's closed…"
Tessa smiled. "I'm sorry, Richie," she said. "You'll just have to be lazy today."
Richie fumbled and fidgeted again. He didn't want to watch TV, or a movie, or take a nap. He was tired of lounging around and needed to do something to keep himself occupied or else he'd go stir crazy. Then suddenly a thought struck him.
"Do you have any needles and thread?"
Tessa's brow furrowed in confusion. "What would you want with a needle and thread?" She asked.
"There's a tear in my jacket I wanna sew up."
"I could take care of that tonight with my sewing machine," Tessa offered.
Richie shook his head. "No-no," he said a little too quickly. He didn't want Tessa to see the blood on his jacket. "Um, I mean, it'll give me something to do," he finished.
Tessa once again smiled at him, shaking her head.
"All right, Richie," she acquiesced. "Give me a minute and then I'll go find some for you."
Richie grinned a thank you and ran back up the stairs. He was waiting patiently in the kitchen when Tessa came up from the antique store. He waited patiently while she washed her hands and even more patiently as she went into the walk in linen closet to find what they were looking for.
"What color thread?" He heard her ask.
"Do you have black?" He heard more sounds of rummaging and then Tessa reappeared from the closet.
"Do you know how to thread the needle?" She asked. She had a spool of black thread in her hand with a needle sticking through it, and a pair of small sewing scissors.
"Of course," Richie lied.
She handed the items over with a smile. "I'll be in my workshop if you need any help."
"Thanks Tess," he answered with a grin before turning to head for his room. Once there he shut the door and grabbed his coat from the closet. He threw the item on the bed and plopped himself down. The blood had long since dried and gone crusty. The stain would probably never come out of the inner lining. With a slight groan in mourning of his favorite garment, Richie took the thread, needle, and scissors and began to teach himself how to sew.
Sadly the chore took him longer than he thought. After nearly an hour of fighting with the needle and thread he finally figured out the correct way of threading. That task accomplished, he set off to teach himself how to do the actual sewing. Not wanting to look at the bloodstains, Richie began sewing up the outer canvas of his jacket. He made the stitches very small, modeling after the seams he saw elsewhere. However, he realized with chagrin that his thread was too short. This was also when he realized that one needs to leave room at the end to tie off the thread. With another audible groan Richie backtracked his stitching and tied off the first batch. As he unraveled more thread from the spool, the imagery of him sewing up the slice in his jacket in the same spot where he needed the slice in his very flesh patched up was not lost on him. That plus the sight of the blood made him shiver.
Another hour and a half spent itself slowly as Richie stitched up the gash in the outer canvas of his jacket. That task being done Richie held up his handiwork to the light. Indeed, he was proud of himself. His jacket was now weatherproof. Of course, he was only half finished. He still needed to stitch up the inside part. Groaning again, almost out of habit, Richie once again reached for the needle and thread.
He had become quite adept at threading the needle and was back at work quickly. However, he discovered that his efforts to see clearly and stitch up the slice evenly were hampered by the dried blood that was thickly caked around the gash. The process was slow going.
Meticulously, working by rote, Richie had stitched up more than half of the slice in the inner lining when he heard a knock at his door. This knock startled him and he practically jumped. His next move was to check the clock. Much to his surprise he discovered that it was dinnertime. That thought was immediately followed by the realization that he no longer had to take pills at night and could therefore join his employers for dinner. This thought made his stomach rumble in anticipation. However, he was distracted from this tumble of thoughts when the knocking returned, even louder this time. Richie shook himself from his apparent daze.
"Who is it?" He asked, making ready to stash his jacket.
"Duncan."
Richie sighed. It wasn't Tessa. If it had been he would have immediately closed the jacket so she couldn't see the bloodstains in the part he was currently sewing. Duncan, however…
"Come in," he found himself calling. He didn't bother to stop what he was doing. Instead he didn't even look up as the highlander entered.
"Feel up to eating some dinner?" He asked.
Richie made a few more stitches before pausing and looking up. "Sure," he said, his tone unreadable, before returning his attentions to his jacket.
"May I?" Duncan asked, indicating that he wanted to inspect Richie's handiwork. Richie paused briefly before wordlessly handing the jacket up to his employer. "Not bad," Duncan appraised, inspecting the stitching closely. "Though you may want to wash the blood out of it."
"You can't wash it while it's torn," said Richie. "The machine will only rip it more."
Duncan laughed. "I didn't say to put it in the washing machine."
"You mean, wash it by hand?" Richie asked in disbelief.
"It would have gotten some of the blood out at least," Duncan answered, handing the jacket back to Richie. "Made it easier to sew."
Richie nodded. "Oh well. I'm almost done now." Richie went back to sewing, but MacLeod just stood there, not exactly watching him, but not leaving either. They stayed in silence for the ten minutes it took Richie to finish. "There!" He said as he finished tying off the last end of the thread.
Duncan looked down on the jacket and smiled approvingly. "We'll throw it in the wash after dinner," he said, taking the jacket from Richie without protest and hanging it in the closet. Now it was time to head to dinner, but strangely neither of them moved. Duncan stood, Richie sat, and both stared intently at each other.
"Do you think we could…" Richie asked tentatively, "not let Tessa see?"
It took a moment for Richie's words to sink in.
"We can wash it ourselves if you like," Duncan offered.
Richie nodded gratefully, but the uncomforting feeling remained.
"It was a big stain," he Richie at last. "Lots of blood."
Duncan nodded. "The wound was serious," he said gravely. "You could have died."
"I know."
Richie turned to stare at his employer with wide, innocent eyes. In this moment Duncan sensed that he should say something, but he was at a loss as to what. It didn't matter though because Richie beat him to it.
"Did I ever thank you? For saving my life I mean."
The question took Duncan by surprise. "I'm sure you did," he lied. Honestly he couldn't remember. "But you don't need to thank me."
"Well I am anyway," said Richie. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Duncan answered, a warm smile crossing his lips. Again it felt like they should move, but again neither made any efforts to. Duncan sensed that there was a lot more going on than Richie's need to apologize.
"What was his name?" Richie asked at length, but his voice was emotionless. The teen had made his decisions, but he needed to vocalize them or else none of it would seem real to him.
"What was whose name?" Duncan asked, confused.
"The masked man, on the bridge," Richie clarified. "What was his name?"
Duncan silenced his gasp, startled at Richie's question and not knowing where it was heading or why it was asked.
"Slan," he said cautiously, pretty sure he'd said something before, in the hospital. "His name was Slan."
Richie nodded as though he had just remembered. "And the others?" His voice was emotionless and his eyes held something that Duncan couldn't quite place. However that might have had something to do with how thrown he was by the question.
Duncan was almost fearful of what Richie was insinuating."Others?"
"The others," Richie repeated. "What were their names?"
"What others?" Duncan asked, although he was fairly certain by now what Richie was referring to. "I don't know what you mean."
Richie sighed, trying to come up with the best way to say what he was thinking.
"One of my foster fathers was a vet," he began. "Vietnam. Every so often he'd get… weird… about the littlest things. Like the way my sneakers would squeak on the kitchen floor. Whenever he got like that… he would go outside and chop wood." Richie paused to see if Duncan was following the story. "I was eight at the time. I wanted to help him, but he told me I was too little. So I would watch him… for hours… splitting wood with a fireman's axe."
When Richie looked to Duncan again, the man appeared as stoic as ever. However, the highlander was very tense, almost afraid to find out where this was going.
"Each time he dropped the axe… the stroke was the same. When I asked him he said it came with lots of practice… That night on the bridge," Richie paused, also afraid to bring his anecdote to its rightful conclusion. "You used the same stroke to cut off Slan's head."
Duncan hissed out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. "Richie…" He began, not knowing quite what to say.
"Practice," said Richie, acting as though he hadn't heard Duncan try to interject. "Lot's of practice."
Once again he turned wide, innocent, and unreadable eyes up at the Highlander. There was a tension filled pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity before Richie spoke again.
"Did the others have names too?" He asked at last. "Or were they just pieces of wood?"
Duncan closed his eyes and looked away, unable to withstand Richie's gaze any longer. The double meaning of his last question seemed to cut straight into his very soul. Indeed, Duncan had taken many heads, and he'd be damned if he could remember every name.
His reaction didn't matter much to Richie, though. It was exactly what he was expecting. It told him all the truth he needed to hear.
"But that Slan guy—"
Duncan flinched when Richie spoke again. He didn't think he had the strength to endure much more of this. He longed to tell the teen about his immortality. At least then he wouldn't be thought of as a murderer.
"My deal with you made me an accomplice in his—"
Don't say it, please don't say it—
"Death."
Thank you!
"I could go to jail for a lot worse than petty theft."
Somewhere, somehow, Duncan found his voice again. "Richie…"
"But I don't care." Only to have Richie cut him off.
Duncan summoned the strength to look at Richie once again. He found the teen standing, not three feet away from him. He hadn't even heard him move.
"You saved my life, gave me a break when you didn't need to. I owe you." Richie's expression was still unreadable, but his eyes were soft, almost pleading, yet filled with a grim determination. Duncan knew that this was very hard for him to say.
"What are you saying?" He asked, once again afraid of the answer but needing to know.
Richie responded by holding out his hand. "I'll keep your secrets," he said. "For you."
Duncan finally saw the end of this conversation, and what it really meant. It was determination he was reading from Richie, and gratitude… and acceptance. He took Richie's hand and shook it firmly, knowing that Richie would keep his word on it out of gratitude and duty. Duncan sensed that Richie knew that Slan wasn't the first and nor would be the last, but that the teen didn't care. He made his choice, and that was to stick by his employer.
It began with this handshake. Richie accepted Duncan MacLeod, the man, the murderer, the savior of the undeserving. It began with a choice to follow a sense of duty learned through the code of the streets and born of gratitude greater than the events he didn't fully understand could shake with his conscience. This was the cornerstone. From gratitude and acceptance and duty, trust and loyalty could arise, and from there, the strongest conceivable bonds of friendship could be forged.
Their hands separated, and a wordless exchange was given, followed by tension-releasing smiles and light laughter. Then Richie followed MacLeod out into the dining area where Tessa was waiting with dinner.