AN – Well here's the next instalment. Thanks as ever for the reviews, hum, I'm gonna have to keep my counsel this time as I don't wanna spoil the plot, but I'm glad you are all enjoying – but Sarai, I'd really like to know which story you wanted me to update???

A word of warning – please be aware, Richie gets rather more upset than usual and uses the F-word. Please blink when you get to that part if this offends.

!!!

Richie Ryan gave a weary sigh as he put his key into the door that led up to the apartment. Such was his world that it had rained, of course, so, now he was cold and wet and tired to the bone and, to make matters worse, that unhappy state of affairs was the very least of his troubles. Damn, Damn, Damn. He couldn't help but let his eyes slide over towards the alley. The T-Bird was parked next to Tessa's Merc. So, Mac had been here all along, he realised, as he trudged up the stairs. Not on a sudden mercy mission to fly vital medicines to some foreign Orphanage, or any other legitimate, explanation. He almost dreaded hearing whatever excuse his employer would come up with for the no show.

Odds were, he'd heard it countless times already.

It was just .. he'd thought .. this time. It was different.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Richie Ryan felt his jaw drop. OK, so this was different.

He wasn't sure how he had thought Duncan would act. Apologetic, maybe. Embarrassed, perhaps. The irate Scot, hands on hips, eyes flashing, that greeted him, was a total surprise. So, he said the only thing that occurred to him.

"What?"

"You heard me," The Immortal loomed over him. "Where. The. Hell. Have. You. Been?"

Richie swallowed hard. This was not the genial Antique Store owner he had become accustomed to goofing around with these last few weeks. This was the warrior who had cut off Slan Quince's head, without a second thought on Soldier's Bridge .. and not so very long ago.

"I.. I was .. the race ..." Richie took a step back.

"That was over three hours ago," The Immortal dismissed that, as he circled around him, making Richie feel uncomfortably like prey caught in a trap.  "You could have walked home by now."

"Maybe, I did," Richie retorted, snapping his head around, as he tried to keep eye contact. "You ever think of that?"

"All the way from the Stadium? You'll have to do better than that."

"Excuse me?"

"I already covered the route from the Stadium. Then I called all the local Hospitals, and the Police Stations, I was about to start on the morgues!" The Immortal's voice rose.

"I kinda took a detour .." Richie began.

"A detour?" Duncan scoffed. "Blonde, Brunette, or Redhead?"

"All three actually," Richie shot back. "I guess they were triplets, or something."

"Damn it, Richie," Duncan clenched his fists, his jaw hard and tight, as he struggled to keep his temper in check. "Don't you dare get smart with me. Do you have any idea what I've been going through?"

"What you've been going through?" Richie echoed stupefied.

"I didn't know where you were. I don't have the telephone numbers of any of your friends. I have no idea where they live. What was I supposed to do? Drive aimlessly around your old neighbourhood, just in case I bumped into you? If you are going to be late. If you are not going to be where you are supposed to be. You make a call. Is that understood?"

"Fuck you, Macleod!"

Duncan stopped dead. He was under no illusions about the .. extent .. of Richie's vocabulary, but the lad was surprisingly respectful about the language he used in their home. Something definitely wasn't right. Duncan paused and took his first really good look at the teen since he walked through the door.

"You're drenched."

"You think?" Richie backed up a few steps, putting some distance between himself and the Immortal, but keeping his angry blue eyes locked on the now confused brown ones. "I have it on real good authority that its been raining."

"But ." Duncan floundered. "What happened to your ride?"

"Left me high and dry."

"What?" Duncan growled. "I thought you said this Marco was responsible."

"Hey, none of this was Marco's fault," Richie snapped. "It wasn't his fault his girlfriend went into labour early. It wasn't his fault I told him I had another ride and it sure as hell wasn't his fault that you didn't turn up!"

"Me?" Duncan realised. "You were waiting for me?"

"You said you were gonna come," Richie protested. "You promised."

"I know I did, and I'm sorry," Duncan gave an awkward shrug, he really didn't want to get into that right now, what with the lad dripping onto the hardwood floors and looking half frozen. "But Rich, that was hours ago. You must have realised .."

"You said you wee gonna come," Richie insisted, doggedly. "So, I told Marco I was cool and I told Freddie I didn't need a ride and I knew I didn't have enough money for a cab, but that was OK, because a Macleod never breaks his word."

Duncan regarded him steadily for several moments. He opened his mouth. Then frowned.

"You don't have any shoes."

"Sure I do," Richie wriggled his wet, dirty, stocking feet. "I have lots of shoes. I'm just not wearing any, right now."

"Look," Duncan scrubbed at his face. "You go grab a shower, I'll make us both something hot to eat and then we'll talk. Alright?"

"Is that a promise?" Richie scoffed.

"No," Duncan figured he deserved that. "It's a .. suggestion."

"Whatever," Richie sighed. He was cold and wet and sore and a warm shower and a hot meal was about all he could deal with right now. Maybe, afterwards, things would seem easier or clearer or whatever. Maybe.

He stalked into the bathroom and started stripping off his wet jacket. He carefully peeled off his T-Shirt, which stuck to his skin where the water had run across his chest, under his armpits and down his neck and the blood had spotted across his ribs.

"Shit, that hurts." He hissed, as his battered body protested even that light movement. He looked down at his jeans in dismay. The tight, wet, fabric would be, he knew, almost impossible to remove with a good deal of bending and wriggling. Still, he wasn't about to cut the fabric away. He'd only bought these last week. He undid his belt and slid it through the loops. Closing the toilet lid, he eased himself down onto the wooden seat and reached down to pull the filthy, wet, socks, off his feet.

OK, that really hurt.

"I can do this, I can." He vowed, through gritted teeth. "Just a little further."

The pain came without warning, robbing him of speech, of breath, of all except, blinding, over whelming, pain. He wasn't even aware that he had screamed, or moved, but he must have done, because the next thing he was aware of, he was lying on the floor with Duncan's hands bracing him gently against his chest, his warm breath against his ear as he coached Richie through the agonising waves.

"Easy, that's it, breathe in and out, slow it down. That's right."

"Oh man," Richie gasped weakly.

"Shh, just hold still a minute," Duncan's cool palm rested lightly on his forehead, gently holding him in place. "Let me check you out here."

Something flickered at the edge of Richie's consciousness, something really important that he needed to remember, as the Immortal carefully started to run his hands up and down his body, talking constantly as he worked.

"Guess you zigged when you should zagged, huh, Tough Guy?" Duncan kept on talking, in a calming, soothing, tone as he worked. "We better not let Tessa know that you took a tumble on the track though, she already thinks motorcycles are too dangerous. It'll just have to be our secret. Still, it can't be that bad if you managed to walk home, hey? You probably just .."

Suddenly, the hands stilled.

"Richie," Duncan's voice sounded  .. odd. "Why do you have a bloody great boot print on your back?"