AN- Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! Once again, FF.net is claiming that I have 2 more reviews than what's actually showing up. Hrm… Do you think that I should email the mods or something?
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Richie parked his bike behind the loft in its usual spot. He was tired and achy from the long walk and pushing his bike, and he was tired and achy from what he deemed 'the cold from hell' that made his head spin and his chest hurt when he breathed.
But that didn't matter now. He was back at the loft—where Tessa would baby him, feed him chicken soup, and make sure he had enough blankets, and where Mac would bathe his forehead in cool cloths and tell him funny and exciting stories from his four hundred year history. The loft: a place he was always welcomed, especially when he was hurt; the place where Mac and Tessa made sure that he was safe—from immortals, from his past, from his memories and from his nightmares.
The loft: a refuge, but not a home. Not for Richie. Not since he'd tasted Paris, and what home and family could really be.
But when you're sick, and tired, and achy, and feverish, the refuge will do just fine.
Richie had made it halfway up the stairs into the loft when he remembered his fight with Mac and Tessa. He sighed heavily, tiredly, and seriously debated heading back out the door. But then he remembered that his bike was out of gas, so he had no choice but to remain. It was only after he cursed his bad luck rather vehemently that he remembered—again—that he could always go to the loft if he needed help. Mac and Tessa have never turned him away. Especially even when he was sick or injured. Even if they weren't on good terms…
Another sigh followed the realization, and tears pricked in his eyes again but he deftly wiped them away. He couldn't deny the shame he felt for his behavior, nor the guilt. Mac and Tessa didn't deserve his harsh words. They were only trying to look out for him, because they care. They're the only ones who have ever cared. Richie had no clue as to why his thoughts kept running away from him, and why his couldn't restrain his oft too-smart mouth, but it was starting to (or rather, continuing to) get on his nerves. It was as though he was regressing somehow, unlearning what he had learned ever since coming to live with Mac and Tessa. He tried to blame it on the fever, but that was a lame excuse. And he tried to blame it on being back in Seacouver, but really, what did that have anything to do with it?
This is the loft, he thought to himself, or forced himself to remember. He had called it home for five months before Paris. It's where he came to know Mac and Tessa, where he learned that not all people are either apathetic or against him, where he learned that indeed there are people worth trusting, and friendships worth keeping. This is where Richie Ryan began, where he started to make his own choices, and to learn to live with the consequences of his decisions. This is where he met the only two people on earth, aside from perhaps Emily Ryan, who by being dead does not count, that he would ever consider calling family, and meaning it. This is where he allowed himself to be saved.
So then why, why could he not stand being here anymore? What made him want to run far, far away from this place? What made him suddenly start treating Mac and Tessa like any other run-of-the-mill foster family? What made him suddenly start thinking of them as a foster family?
As he trudged up the stairs, almost afraid to find out who—if either of them—had waited up for him, he couldn't wrap his fevered mind around the answers. Richie didn't know if he'd ever felt so lost before, and truth be told, this lost feeling coupled with the strange desire to flee far, far away from the loft, was starting to scare the ever-living crap out of him.
Richie made his way inside the loft, acutely feeling the change in temperature. Duncan was sitting on the living room couch, pretending to read a book (not that Richie could know that). He'd felt Richie's pre-immortal buzz the moment he stepped into the store. It was then that he decided to quit wearing a hole in the floor and take a seat. The book was for effect.
"You're back," said Duncan, putting the book aside and standing up. Only the reading lamp was on, so he didn't get a good look at the teen until he stepped within the sphere of light. "You look like hell." Richie tried for a shrug and a smile, but neither seemed to work. He dropped his glance toward his shoes and saw the highlander's slippered feet come to stand barely a foot away from him a moment later.
"What happened?" Duncan asked softly. Richie looked up, and the blood blister he'd gotten just off from his left eye looked a disgusting purplish-black in the soft light. It made Richie's face look that much paler. Richie opened his mouth as if to respond, but words seemed to fail him when suddenly his throat constricted against all sound. He dropped his gaze again and stubbornly refused to let the tears fall. Then he felt Duncan's hand light on his shoulder. "Come on, tough guy. Let's get you cleaned up."
Richie allowed Duncan to steer him over towards the couch. He plopped down tiredly onto the cushions, grateful to be sitting down.
"Where's Tessa?" He asked, almost not wanting to know the answer.
"In bed, pretending to sleep," Duncan answered. She had decided to let Duncan handle Richie's return since apparently she was the one that he had the biggest problem with. Richie just nodded dumbly and didn't say a word when Duncan disappeared into the kitchen. The highlander returned a moment latter, carrying a bag of ice cubes wrapped up in a paper towel.
"Would you get a little closer to the light for me?" He asked gently, and Richie obliged him. The teen just stared past him as the immortal inspected the blood blister that had formed where knuckles had impacted on bone. A bruise had formed around the area, but was still mostly pale yellow and green. It would be a horrendous black and blue by morning, however. Satisfied that the bone framing Richie's eye socket wasn't chipped in any way and that there was no overt damage to the eye itself, Duncan ceased his inspection. He then placed his hand lightly over Richie's other eye, obscuring his vision. Richie flinched back slightly at the touch.
"Easy, tough guy," Duncan soothed. "Now, how well can you see?" Richie blinked his slightly swollen eye a few times.
"Edges are kinda fuzzy," he answered after taking a few moments to think about it. Duncan nodded. Then he brought his other hand into Richie's line of sight.
"Follow my finger?" He directed. Richie's eye tracked Duncan's movements flawlessly. The highlander nodded again and removed his other hand from Richie's good eye. The teen blinked both eyes rapidly, readjusting his vision. "Your vision's off a bit because of the swelling," Duncan informed him. "Here, put this on it." The highlander held the wrapped ice bag up to Richie's eye, covering the blood blister, bruising, and swelling. He held it there for a fraction longer than he thought to because it took Richie that much longer to realize that he was supposed to hold it himself. It was when Richie brought up his hand to hold the ice in place that Duncan noticed the bruising there. Richie felt Duncan's gaze on his hand and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"What happened?" Duncan asked, keeping his voice gentle although he already knew the answer.
"Got in a fight," Richie replied matter-of-factly.
"With who?" Richie snorted a laugh.
"Better to ask who I didn't fight," said Richie, sadness coloring his sarcasm as he averted his gaze. Then he felt Duncan take his other hand and bring it into the light. It was his left hand, which he didn't throw as many punches with, so the red welts and bruising were less pronounced. He still hissed in pain when Duncan put slight pressure on his knuckles.
"Stay here, I'll be right back." Duncan got up and headed for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. While he grabbed some foul-smelling cream that supposedly had vitamin E and aloe in it to soothe pain and promote healing, as well as the roll of gauze, he tried to banish from his mind images of what Richie might have gone through after he left the loft. The teen was right handed, and hand-dominant people throw punches with their strong hand and keep their guard with their week hand (if they haven't studied the martial arts of course). He had seen Richie fight so he knew this to be true for the teen. Richie would only throw punches with both hands if he were desperate, or trying to attack multiple targets at once. Neither scenario sat well with the highlander.
He returned from the bathroom, requisite items in hand, a few moments later. Richie hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. Duncan opened the jar and scooped a small amount of the foul-smelling goo onto his fingertips. Then he picked up Richie's left hand again and proceeded to massage the salve over the abrasions. Richie winced at first, but then relaxed again. When Duncan was done with the salve he picked up the gauze and proceeded to bind Richie's knuckles.
"Do you want to tell me who you tried to pummel into pancakes?" He asked Richie as he wound the gauze. Richie sighed.
"A bunch of goons tried to steal my bike," he explained. "I had to talk them out of it."
"What constitutes 'a bunch'?" Duncan asked, doing his best to sound more curious than concerned.
"Four," said Richie as though the number was inconsequential. Duncan silenced a sigh. Well, that explains it.
"Can I have your other hand?" Richie brought his left hand up to replace his right at the task of icing his black eye. He held it awkwardly for the bandaging. Duncan took Richie's right hand and brought it over to the light, repeating the process of treating and bandaging it. Since this was Richie's dominant hand, the red welts were larger and angrier looking, and he'd actually split the skin on the knuckle of his middle finger. "This one's going to sting a bit," he cautioned the teen before bringing the salve into contact with the broken skin. Richie hissed sharply and his face contorted in pain, but he said nothing.
As Duncan bandaged his hand, Richie tried very hard not to think about the earlier argument he had with his family before storming out of the loft in an angry huff.
Of course it didn't work.
He had been treating both Mac and Tessa like spit, and he knew it, too. And yet he didn't seem able to stop himself. And then he left. Stormed out when all they tried to do was help him. As much as he hated to even think it, he was still Richie Ryan: punk kid who mouths off to cops and gets in street fights with gangs; Richie Ryan: delinquent from the wrong side of town, his 'old neighborhood', where nothing was the same as when he'd left it and even the streets were different. He was Richie Ryan, who left and came back again, and yet even he barely recognized the places where he grew up and the streets he once called home.
And now here he sat, in the only refuge he had left in this entire city, having his hurts tended to by a man who he'd snapped at earlier, who he stormed away from in anger, and who he kept up waiting and worrying half the night while he tried to pin down why exactly he couldn't stand to be in the man's presence any longer. Richie knew that he'd been down right insufferable as of late, and he felt guilty and ashamed for it in the same breath that he felt like he didn't owe MacLeod nor Tessa any explanations.
He felt what he felt, that he was certain of. He just couldn't for the life of him figure out why that was.
As Duncan finished wrapping his right hand, Richie was more certain than ever that he didn't deserve these people caring so much about him. He didn't deserve to be a part of their lives and their family. How could he, when he treated them no better than his last foster family?
"There," said Duncan as he finished with Richie's hands. Richie mumbled a thank you as he transferred the ice back into his left hand. "Do you want to talk about it?" Richie shook his head 'no', but made no move to get up. Duncan, who had been kneeling in front of Richie as the teen sat on the couch, now sat Indian-style on the floor in front of him, regarding the teen intently.
"I went over there," said Richie after a while, "but it was gone."
"What was gone, Richie?" Duncan asked, his voice soft and calm despite his overwhelming curiosity and concern.
"The shelter," said Richie. "The one where Angie worked." Duncan's brow furrowed.
"What do you mean, gone?"
"They closed," Richie explained sadly. "Not enough funding."
"That's too bad," said Duncan, for lack of something more encouraging to say. Then: "Did you go looking for Angie?" Richie nodded.
"I thought that someone there could tell me when she was working next, so that I could meet up with her."
"You could have just called her," Duncan pointed out with a slight smile, trying to lighten the mood.
"Don't have her number anymore," Richie explained sadly. Duncan nodded sympathetically.
"I'm sure we can find it," he encouraged. Richie just nodded. The conversation lapsed into silence for a brief while; Duncan waiting for Richie to either stand or say something more, and Richie not knowing what else to say. Finally he lowered the ice bag and looked down at MacLeod with both eyes.
"Mac," he began.
"Hrm?" The highlander sat up straighter, sensing that the conversation was about to turn serious.
"I'm sorry," Richie apologized, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. "For earlier." Duncan saw the sincerity in Richie's eyes, and the same quiet insecurity that he hadn't seen in months and had hoped was over. He also saw the fever wreaking havoc in his body, but Duncan had felt the heat from that radiating off the teen from the moment he began inspecting his injuries.
"Don't worry about it," Duncan dismissed, but matched Richie's sincerity. He smiled, and Richie smiled back, but Duncan saw how it didn't reach his eyes. "You should probably go to bed," he directed, standing up himself. "You're sick." Richie opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He sighed and hung his head.
"How'd you know?" He asked, defeated.
"I'm your friend, it's my job to know," said Duncan with a smile as he offered Richie both hands to help him up. Richie put the ice bag down skeptically and returned the gesture. However, instead of taking Richie by his injured hands, Duncan grabbed his forearms and used those to hoist the teen to his feet.
It took several seconds for Richie to regain his sense of balance as fireflies danced in his vision from the sudden movement. Duncan kept a steadying hand on his left arm, and the spell passed.
"I don't feel so hot," Richie whined sarcastically (a feat that only he could do).
"I'm not surprised," Duncan returned. Richie offered that same weak smile that nearly broke the highlander's heart. When will you tell me what's really wrong? Duncan sighed. "Come on, let's get you to bed." Richie just nodded and allowed himself to be lead down the hallway.
When they reached his room, Richie stumbled across to his bead, nearly falling with forward momentum until he eventually gave up and collapsed down onto the bed. During this, he'd lost track of Duncan, but he needn't have worried because the highlander had followed close on his heals as he stumbled, just in case he needed to break a fall. Duncan was now standing by the bed, gazing down on Richie with a mixture of concern, sympathy, and an almost urgent curiosity.
"Who moved the floor?" Richie moaned in embarrassment as he crawled under the covers. Duncan laughed slightly.
"I think you did that yourself," he said. Once Richie was under the covers he shamelessly removed his sweatpants and threw them across the room. He then proceeded to burrow down until barely the tops of his curls were showing.
"Night, Mac," Richie called out sleepily from beneath his blankets.
"Good night, Richie," said Duncan. He lingered only a moment before making his way back out of Richie's room and across the hall towards his own. He knew that Richie was hurting, but he couldn't figure out why. What had changed these past few weeks (aside from the glaringly obvious)? This whole thing began seemingly when the affair with Horton and the Watchers had ended. Duncan was at a loss as to explain it, as was Tessa. One thing was certain though: whatever it was, Richie had made himself sick over it. Duncan just hoped that he would find some answers before Richie stressed himself further into illness.
"How is he?" Tessa asked when Duncan entered their room. She wasn't sleeping and sat up expectantly when the bedroom door opened.
"Sick," Duncan answered, being that it was the first thing that came to mind.
"I already knew that," Tessa said impatiently. "I meant, how is he?" Duncan sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I really don't know, Tess," he admitted, letting his frustration show. Tessa edged closer to him. "He's hurting, that much I can tell. But why…?" Duncan trailed off, shrugging in defeat. Tessa put her hand on his shoulder and he turned to face her.
"Duncan, he's never been very good at coming to us when something's wrong," Tessa reminded him softly.
"But he was never this closed off from us, either," Duncan pointed out. Tessa's expression changed and she was suddenly thoughtful.
"We aren't his parents, Duncan, no matter how much we may want to be." Duncan turned in surprise to face her fully.
"Parents or no, he still used to confide in us."
"Or no matter how much he wants us to be," Tessa continued as though Duncan hadn't spoken.
"Tessa have you seen him lately?" Duncan asked in disbelief. "He's pulling farther and farther away from us. Something serious is bothering him, and for some reason he doesn't want us to know what it is."
"Are you sure?" Tessa asked. Now Duncan was the one to become suddenly thoughtful.
"Well if he wants our help, he has a funny way of asking for it," he pointed out matter-of-factly. His mind poured over the past week and a half or so, from when he first noticed the change in Richie. The teen had gone from his usual self to a quiet and contemplative soul who sought solitude more and more often, and that development has morphed into the individual Duncan just put to bed. Richie wasn't eating, slept more often than he was awake (or at least pretended to), avoided human contact like the plague, and would staunchly deny that there was anything wrong. Duncan had hoped that he would get better once he started riding his bike, but apparently things had only gotten worse. Now Richie was getting into fights…
"I don't know, Tess," Duncan continued. "I've never seen him so withdrawn, so… resigned." Tessa nodded in acceptance, but her thoughts were far away, remembering the withdrawn, resigned individual with whom she shared a flight to Paris with all those months ago. And she remembered the conversation they had during that flight. Tessa hoped that those memories would help her to shed light on Richie's current problems. When she turned back to face her lover, she sighed, also resigned, hoping simultaneously that she was both correct and incorrect in her assumptions.
"I have."