Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay. A combination of no internet
access, writer's block, and classes starting again. Hopefully, updates
will be slightly more frequent now.
Alexandra the Half-Wolf: thanks! Shamelessly plugging my own stories, but I have some companion stories up here too. if you have only read the main four.
More shameless plugging: read "Flowers in Skulls". You know you want to.
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September 26, 2006, 130 PM, Paris, France
"No!" Richie yelled. It had been several moments since either had spoke. Havyn had still not re-emerged with the alcohol, and truthfully, Richie had forgot she was there. He had forgot Methos was there; had forgot where he was. That one word kept running through his mind, 'Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.' Maybe if he repeated it enough times, the word's magic would repeat the process, and Duncan would walk through the door, looking for his lover, looking to spend time with friends.
"Are you sure?" he asked, and only after several moments had passed. His voice was quiet, strained. His hands shook, and he gripped the edge of the counter for support. "Couldn't you be mistaken?"
"No, Richie," Methos spoke slowly. "Don't you think I've wondered the same thing myself?"
"But, how?"
"In a fight, I assume. He left early this morning. To accept a challenge." Methos paused, and he took a long gulp of the beer. "He never came back. Authorities informed him. I identified his body."
"He was found?" Richie's eyes opened wide. From the start, Duncan had taught him how to dispose of the body, of how to clean the opponent's sword to dispose of it as well; that sloppiness, any sloppiness, could result in someone or something finding out about them. "By who?"
"I don't know. The officer didn't say, and that was one question I would rather not know the answer to."
"He's dead," Richie repeated. It was not a question; it was a statement. It was an acceptance of the fact. "He's dead," he repeated again, and he gave life to the mind's echo he heard only moments before. "He's dead."
"Yes."
"I can't. . . I can't. . . ."
Methos raised an eyebrow. "How in bloody hell do you think I feel? Like dancing? Oh, gods," his head fell into palms. "First Alexa, then Joe, and now Duncan. Fuck," he whispered.
Richie didn't know how to respond, so, he didn't. Instead, he took the rag into his hands again, and he cleaned. And, he cleaned.
---------------------------------
An hour, maybe two, (or a day later for Richie all knew or cared), Asher Jacobs walked into the apartment. Neither Richie nor Methos flinched at the presence of third Immortal. She was on the phone, talking in what Richie assumed must be rapid German; it was only last month that he had finally convinced her to buy a cell phone. He sighed; she smiled, misunderstanding the noise, the gesture. "Hello, sweetheart," she smiled. She stepped behind the counter to kiss him. Still slightly distracted, he responded. "Hello, Adam."
"Humph," the oldest Immortal answered.
"Someone die?" she asked. She meant it to be a joke, and for a brief second, Richie was reminded how long, how far she had come, but then Methos looked up, and she saw the emotion, the heartbreak in his eyes, and she knew, she knew. For she knew that look. Every time she looked in a mirror, she saw the same expression in her reflection. "Who?" she asked quietly.
"Mac." It was Richie, who answered.
She swore lightly under her breath. "September, Monday, the twenty-sixth," she muttered, and she swore lightly again.
Methos' head jerked up. "It's Sunday."
"It's a Monday." She cocked her head. "How else do you think I had classes this morning?"
Methos swore again. He quickly finished the beer, added the glass to the several already before him, and he left. Didn't say good-bye, didn't give an explanation, he just left. Leaving Asher and Richie alone.
Richie cleared his throat, and he took a deep breath. "Do you want to call the remaining club members? Or did you want to call the not-so-blissful Immortals? Because heaven knows, he won't."
Asher shook her head. She looked to Richie, and he remembered, he remembered everything; he remembered what it felt like, to be going through this, from when Joe died, and from when Tessa died, from when he thought he had almost lost Asher. And, he knew. He cursed, and he took Asher in her arms, and they held to one another, afraid to let go.
Neither noticed Havyn re-emerge with the alcohol bottles. She simply took in the seat, and let the two be.
Alexandra the Half-Wolf: thanks! Shamelessly plugging my own stories, but I have some companion stories up here too. if you have only read the main four.
More shameless plugging: read "Flowers in Skulls". You know you want to.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------------------------------
September 26, 2006, 130 PM, Paris, France
"No!" Richie yelled. It had been several moments since either had spoke. Havyn had still not re-emerged with the alcohol, and truthfully, Richie had forgot she was there. He had forgot Methos was there; had forgot where he was. That one word kept running through his mind, 'Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.' Maybe if he repeated it enough times, the word's magic would repeat the process, and Duncan would walk through the door, looking for his lover, looking to spend time with friends.
"Are you sure?" he asked, and only after several moments had passed. His voice was quiet, strained. His hands shook, and he gripped the edge of the counter for support. "Couldn't you be mistaken?"
"No, Richie," Methos spoke slowly. "Don't you think I've wondered the same thing myself?"
"But, how?"
"In a fight, I assume. He left early this morning. To accept a challenge." Methos paused, and he took a long gulp of the beer. "He never came back. Authorities informed him. I identified his body."
"He was found?" Richie's eyes opened wide. From the start, Duncan had taught him how to dispose of the body, of how to clean the opponent's sword to dispose of it as well; that sloppiness, any sloppiness, could result in someone or something finding out about them. "By who?"
"I don't know. The officer didn't say, and that was one question I would rather not know the answer to."
"He's dead," Richie repeated. It was not a question; it was a statement. It was an acceptance of the fact. "He's dead," he repeated again, and he gave life to the mind's echo he heard only moments before. "He's dead."
"Yes."
"I can't. . . I can't. . . ."
Methos raised an eyebrow. "How in bloody hell do you think I feel? Like dancing? Oh, gods," his head fell into palms. "First Alexa, then Joe, and now Duncan. Fuck," he whispered.
Richie didn't know how to respond, so, he didn't. Instead, he took the rag into his hands again, and he cleaned. And, he cleaned.
---------------------------------
An hour, maybe two, (or a day later for Richie all knew or cared), Asher Jacobs walked into the apartment. Neither Richie nor Methos flinched at the presence of third Immortal. She was on the phone, talking in what Richie assumed must be rapid German; it was only last month that he had finally convinced her to buy a cell phone. He sighed; she smiled, misunderstanding the noise, the gesture. "Hello, sweetheart," she smiled. She stepped behind the counter to kiss him. Still slightly distracted, he responded. "Hello, Adam."
"Humph," the oldest Immortal answered.
"Someone die?" she asked. She meant it to be a joke, and for a brief second, Richie was reminded how long, how far she had come, but then Methos looked up, and she saw the emotion, the heartbreak in his eyes, and she knew, she knew. For she knew that look. Every time she looked in a mirror, she saw the same expression in her reflection. "Who?" she asked quietly.
"Mac." It was Richie, who answered.
She swore lightly under her breath. "September, Monday, the twenty-sixth," she muttered, and she swore lightly again.
Methos' head jerked up. "It's Sunday."
"It's a Monday." She cocked her head. "How else do you think I had classes this morning?"
Methos swore again. He quickly finished the beer, added the glass to the several already before him, and he left. Didn't say good-bye, didn't give an explanation, he just left. Leaving Asher and Richie alone.
Richie cleared his throat, and he took a deep breath. "Do you want to call the remaining club members? Or did you want to call the not-so-blissful Immortals? Because heaven knows, he won't."
Asher shook her head. She looked to Richie, and he remembered, he remembered everything; he remembered what it felt like, to be going through this, from when Joe died, and from when Tessa died, from when he thought he had almost lost Asher. And, he knew. He cursed, and he took Asher in her arms, and they held to one another, afraid to let go.
Neither noticed Havyn re-emerge with the alcohol bottles. She simply took in the seat, and let the two be.