AN – I'm sorry that this has taken so long but I've recently moved house, started a new job, lost my internet connection, got a new computer, and my puppy had to have an operation. My other excuse is that this is longer than my usual chapters. I hope it was worth waiting for. I would never abandon a story, but it may be that I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.
"Richie, you know I can't promise .." The words died on Duncan's lips as he took in the small dark blisters rising on the lad's chalk white features, which ghosted over with pain as he shifted his swollen joints on the straw pallet. The bright blue eyes now red and bloodshot were blinking painfully as Richie grimaced, desperately trying to swallow over his parched throat.
Lord, he looked dreadful.
"Please, Mac .." he rasped. "I can't do this without you. I need you."
Duncan looked up and met Methos' eyes with pained self-recrimination. In the normal way of things, children out grew their dependence on their parents, became parents themselves. Richie would never have that luxury, and part of him would always be nineteen. And for all his protestations of independent, over time, they had both come to realise that, that part of him needed Duncan as much now as when they first met. If he had lived long enough to move out of the turbulence of adolescence to full adulthood, things might have been different. But he, the sainted Macleod, had failed to give him that chance.
"It happened, Macloed," Methos shrugged. "Deal with it"
Duncan glared at him, preparing to make a sharp retort when Richie gave a hoarse cry of pain. Duncan looked down. The lad's hands were pressed against his eyes as dark blood run down between his splayed fingers.
"Let me see," Methos commanded, gently prising the fingers away. Duncan knew it was bad when Methos swore.
"It feels like my eyeballs exploded."
"That's probably because they did," Methos commented, as he washed out the eyes with cool water. "Try not to blink."
"You're snowing me, right?"
"Well, the capillaries in your eyeballs, rather than the eyeballs themselves," Methos amended "But close enough. There, that's the best I can do for now."
"But I can't see," Richie's voice rose in panic. "Mac? I can't see anything."
"Easy Tough Guy," Duncan moved so he could settle the younger Immortal's head into his lap and gently brushed his hair back. "This is all just temporary, remember?"
Richie blinked sightlessly up at him, his features smoothing out slightly as he relaxed under Duncan's ministrations. "So, all I have to do is die and that will make it all better?" he tried to joke.
"Pretty much." Duncan acknowledged wryly as he ran his thumb across one cheek, noting with a pang how thin and sunken it was, with skin stretched like parchment across increasingly protruding bones. Richie, opened his mouth to speak, only to be wracked by a violent shudder as his body succumbed yet further to the virus. "Hush," Duncan chided. "Just rest. I'll be here. I'm not leaving you. My word on it."
Richie nodded fractionally, his mouth shaping a weak ''Kay' before his head lolled gently to one side and he fell into an exhausted sleep.
"You shouldn't make him promises you can't keep." Methos disapproved.
Duncan met his eyes.
"I never have."
Past 2005
"For Lord's sake, Risteard," Connor put down his coffee cup, as he continued the argument they had been having on and off for the past two weeks. "You live on a ranch now. You need to learn to ride."
Duncan met Methos eyes across the breakfast table. The Ancient Immortal shrugged slightly and returned to reading his newspaper. Duncan carefully cut his French toast into four pieces and waited to see how Richie would worm his way out of it this time.
Sure, enough.
"You want me to," Richie corrected, around a mouthful of sugary cereal. "I don't need to. I can get by just fine without it. Thanks all the same."
"What about that filly of yours? Don't you want to be able to ride her?" Connor played his trump card.
Duncan paused, his teeth locked into a square of toast. He wouldn't have used that argument himself. He waited to see how Richie would react.
"That's not why I bought her," Richie shook his head. "Anyway, maybe she doesn't want to be ridden. How would you like it if someone stuck some bit of metal in your mouth and started kicking your sides?"
Behind his newspaper, Methos laughed out loud. Connor scowled.
"A spirited one like that won't take kindly to cooling her heels in her stall all day or stuffing herself in the pasture."
"Well, I already have all the horsepower I need, its called a Harley." Richie stood up, scooping up the last mouthful of cereal as he did so, turning away to put his dish in the sink, signalling the end of the discussion.
Duncan carefully chewed and swallowed his mouthful of toast, schooling his expression so Connor would not se the glint of pride in his eyes. His teacher was accustomed to getting his own way. It took steel to stand up to him. It gave Duncan no small amount of satisfaction to see Richie hold fast – like a true Macleod.
"Then maybe I should reconsider my gift. If it will force you to abandon this foolishness."
Duncan looked up sharply. Connor looked absolutely serious.
"What? You can't do that," Richie froze, his bowl in one hand and a spoon trailing an arc of milk onto the floor in the other. "Its mine now. You gave it to me."
"It's the way of the Clan," Connor gave him a thin smile that held very little warmth. "That which is in the gift of the Clan Chief can be revoked by the Clan Chief if it is for the betterment of the Clan."
"Just like that?" Richie asked hollowly.
"Rich?" Duncan asked in concern. The lad had gone quite pale.
"He can't do that, can he Mac? Tell me he can't do that." Richie begged.
Duncan hesitated, torn between his loyalty to his teacher and oath to his kinsman and his rising concern at Richie's evident distress. The right of the Clan Chief to revoke any honour was absolute. But Richie looked as if he was about to be physically sick.
In response, Connor walked over to the small wooden rack where the numerous keys needed to run such a large property hung in neat, labelled rows. Deftly he plucked the keys to the Harley and put them in his pocket.
"You can have them back when you can sit a horse to my satisfaction."
Richie's lips thinned into a hard line and his eyes glinted with an angry, light that Duncan hadn't seen in decades, not since a frightened and defensive teenager, determined to trust no-one, had first moved in to live with him and Tessa at the Store.
"You bastard."
Richie spoke the words quietly, but with a vehemence that made all the hairs on Duncan's neck stand on end. In the next instance, he had sent the cereal bowl crashing against the wall, the sound of it shattering into several pieces echoing around the large kitchen, as a thin trail of milk trickled down the wall. The spoon followed, hard and fast enough to take a sizeable chunk out of the plaster.
"Pick it up," Connor's voice, low and deadly, crackled with the authority that had commanded armies under fire.
The stream of expletives indicated that Richie had no intention of obeying. Duncan tensed, ready to intervene if necessary. Across the table, Duncan noticed that Methos had abandoned any pretence at reading the paper and was watching the exchange intently.
"Risteard .." Disturbed by the strength of Richie's reaction, Connor softened his tone. He met Duncan's eyes in a quick, apologetic, glance, acknowledging that perhaps he had gone too far. "Look, just sit down .."
"Like hell," Richie snapped. "I shoulda known better. You're just like all the rest of them .." and with that he turned on his heel and fled.
Knowing from bitter experience, that it was no good to go after him, when he was like this, better to give him some time to cool off first, Duncan fixed his glare on a more convenient target.
"I didn't think he'd take it that hard." Connor looked at his kinsman with genuine bewilderment. Duncan's own anger cooled somewhat when he saw the look of hurt in his teacher's eyes. Connor could be a hard taskmaster, but he was not a cruel man and he cared deeply about the welfare of his 'favourite' nephew.
"He loves that bike," Duncan softened his criticism with a tired smile. "I think he'd sleep with it if he could."
"Oh for God's sake," Methos tossed his paper aside and fixed the two clansmen with an irate look. "How either of you ever lived this long, I have no idea. This isn't about the bloody bike."
Duncan found him, exactly where he knew he would be. Sitting in the loose box with the filly, as she munched contentedly on a net of hay, occasionally snuffling at her master as he sat, white faced and dry eyed, amid the straw, staring blankly at the wall. Duncan's gut twisted. If Richie felt safe enough to cry, things were never so bad. It was this, pale, pinched, look that bitter experience had taught him to dread.
"She's putting on weight." He offered.
Only the slight hitch of his left shoulder indicated that Richie had even heard him. Still, Duncan decided to take that as a good sign and settled himself down in the straw, making sure their knees and shoulders touched. They sat in silence for a while. Then a thin shudder ran through the lad.
"Thanks." He all but whispered.
"For what?" Duncan returned easily.
"For not letting Connor kill me, for a start," Richie laughed hollowly. "For not reaming me out for acting like that. For bothering to come looking. Just for being here, you know?"
Duncan ran a hand through his hair. The insecurity in his tone resonated. This was going to need careful handling. Very careful handling. "Want to tell me what you're really afraid of?"
"Do you even remember a time when you didn't know how to ride?"
Duncan almost smiled at the familiar tactic. Richie was a past master at answering a question with a question. But Duncan had quickly realised that his questions were often more enlightening than his answers. He thought he could see where Richie was going with this. "No, I don't think so. The bairns of the Clan would be set on a pony as soon as they could sit upright. It was just the way it was back then."
"Yeah, that's pretty much what I figured." Richie's tone was flat.
"Richie, we've been through this before," Duncan patted his leg. "I'm over four hundred years old. Almost, anything you do, chances are I've already got there first."
"You ever tried cocaine?" Richie challenged.
"In the seventeenth century it used to be a cure for toothache." Duncan shrugged, ignoring for the moment the implications of Richie's challenge.
"Immortals don't get toothaches."
"They can get curious though."
"You're seriously telling me you went out and scored?" Richie turned his head, scanning Duncan's face for the truth.
"Its not something I'm proud of," Duncan admitted. "I mean, I knew it couldn't kill me and I could well afford it. I didn't have to do anything criminal or illegal to obtain it. But I've since seen the damage that drugs can do and it sickens me that I was ever a part of that, even a small part. If my father was still alive .."
"He'd probably disown you all over again, huh?" Richie cut in.
Duncan paused. He had been imagining the tongue lashings his father had metered out when his adult son had fallen below the, admittedly high, standards, expected of the only son and heir of the Clan Chieftain. True, the occasions he had felt the full weight of his father's disapproval had been few and far between, he'd generally sought to make him proud, but they were all the more memorable for that. He sighed. He hated it when Methos was right.
"Rich, he would never have disowned me for making a simple mistake."
"Oh right, gotta wait for the super sized deluxe mistake, huh?" Richie scoffed. "Tell me, Mac, did that really make any difference to you? That the guy disowned you for the dying and coming back to life thing, rather than any of the other screw ups you'd made in the past? I mean, big deal. Suddenly, it was real convenient to remember that you weren't actually his kid after all."
"Is that what you think?" Duncan fished. "That my love can forgive you only so much?"
"Your Dad loved you, right?" Richie said quietly. "He got to raise you from since you were a baby and everything. But at the end of the day, he still walked when you didn't turn out like he wanted."
"Hey," Duncan gently turned Richie's arm over and traced his finger along the small, dark, scar, on Richie's wrist that marked his adoption into the Clan Macleod. "I told you that this was for life and I meant it."
"Yeah, but you also said, you said you had to get Connor to agree, as Clan Chief, right?" Richie wouldn't look at him. "So, if he can take back the bike, then he can take back this whole Clan Macleod thing, right? I mean, all it would take would be a good enough screw up on my part and a couple of quick slices and I'd heal like the tattoo was never there."
"Over my dead body," Duncan vowed with as much vehemence as Richie had ever heard. At his startled look, Duncan slipped his arm around Richie's shoulder. "Rich, I love Connor. He is my kinsman, my teacher and my friend. He is no less my brother than if he had shared my mother's womb. But you are my son. And nothing. No one. Will ever change that. Not Connor. Not even you. No matter, how badly you screw up I'll never disown you. You have my word."
A younger Richie might have asked him if he was sure. If he really meant what he said. This one knew that he did. He gave a shy smile.
"Well, thanks Mac. That means a lot to me."
"And just for the record, Connor is mortified. He never dreamed that you would assume such a thing. He'll want to make amends."
"He will, huh?" Richie grinned. "Does that mean I don't gotta learn to ride, after all?"
Duncan laughed and ruffled his hair. This lad of his was a piece of work.
"You know, I don't care if you never get within ten feet of a horse. You're already exactly what I wanted in a son."
The following morning, Richie yawned lazily as he stretched and thought about the amount of effort it would take to get out of bed. The autumn sunshine was already streaming in through his open window and in the kitchen below he could hear the others as they gathered in the kitchen.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Connor's voice asked.
"Hope so." Mac's uncertain tone brought Richie fully alert. What did Mac have to be worried about?
"Its not as if the lad has had much reason to put his faith in pieces of paper in the past. How many times has he already been someone else's 'brand new son'? If everything you've done for him over this last decade hasn't convinced him that you'll stand by him, I'll warrant this won't do it." Connor argued.
"He's never been legally adopted before." That was Amanda. When did she get here?
"Exactly," He's been fostered, arraigned, made a ward of the state, but he's never had someone stand up and say, he's mine. And I'm keeping him." Mac sounded determined.
Richie's throat went dry. Adopted? He didn't get adopted, that was for the little kids. By the time he was deemed sufficiently recovered from the trauma of Emily's sudden death to be placed for adoption, he was already, too damaged, too much trouble. And then he was too old and it was much too late.
"For richer for poorer? For better for worse?" Methos voice scoffed. "You couldn't have done this when he was a minor and actually needed a father?"
"He still needs a father," Mac countered. "Its not like you grow out of needing to be loved. And he would never have let me then. He would have said it was 'a load of croak'. But he needs this, he needs to be part of this family in a way he understands."
For some reason, Richie's chest felt really tight and it was really hard to breathe.
"If you are so sure, this is the right thing to do," Methos again. "Why are you such an interesting shade of green?"
"Because," Mac's accent grew deeper, reflecting his anxiety. "I'm still not sure Richie is going to agree."
Hearing the soft knock on his door, Richie turned over, he knew exactly what he was going to do. "Come in."
Duncan came in and stood awkwardly, just inside the door.
"Hey, you're awake."
"Uh huh." Richie sat up. The Scot was hovering like a bashful teenager on a first date. He half expected to be offered a corsage Then Mac frowned slightly.
"Are you alright? You look pale."
Richie's face relaxed into a rueful smile and he shook his head slowly. Of course, Mac would notice. He always noticed. Well, that just made his task that bit easier.
"Um. I kinda heard you," Richie nodded at the open windows. "Downstairs."
"Oh," Duncan looked at the windows and then back at the younger Immortal, searching his face carefully. "And you never felt the need to mention that you could eavesdrop on our conversations before?"
"It didn't seem important before." Richie's face twisted.
Duncan came forward and settled himself on the edge of the bed. "And now?" he asked gently.
In answer, Richie reached out and covered Duncan's hand where it lay on top of the bedclothes. "Look, I know, I haven't said this probably half as often as I should, and I'm sorry, cos well, I wouldn't want you think, cos I do really, I mean .. I don't want that you gotta think that you have to adopt me to prove it, but, well .."
"Rich," Duncan encouraged gently. "Just spit it out."
Richie took a deep breath and gathered his courage. God, he had waited all his life for this moment. Who knew it would be so goddamn scary? But Mac wouldn't laugh at him, and Mac wouldn't let him down.
"I want this. The adoption, I mean. More than anything."
Duncan felt a silly grin spreading across his face, as he reached out and gathered his son in his arms. "Ah, Richie lad, you don't know how happy you've made me."
"About as happy as you've made me," Richie relaxed into his arms. "Mac, you gave me a home and a job when I needed one, but more than that. You took me into your life. Made me a part of your family, introduced me to your friends. Made me feel like I was someone, like I mattered and I'm sorry if I've ever made you doubt any of that.
Duncan shrugged softly. "You've had good reason to be cautious."
"Not with you," Richie looked up at him with earnest blue eyes. "You always keep your promises. I love you, Dad."
Present.
Duncan looked down fondly at his sleeping child, rubbing his thumb gently across his temples. "I'll always be there for him."
"Or what? Die trying?" Methos scoffed. "You think you're protecting him now, but you're just making it harder for him when you do loose."
"Thanks for that vote of confidence."
"I didn't mean it like that. Although, you know as well as I do, all it takes is a patch of ice, a few wet leaves, a better opponent."
"Sforza was good," Duncan admitted. "But he'll not take me. I have too much to live for."
They both tensed as they felt the wash of an approaching Immortal.
"Looks, like you might get to test that theory sooner than you thought." Methos leaned forward and pulled back the tent flap. Scanning the clearing, he saw a man in dark travelling robes, had dismounted and was unwinding the loose bands of silk, designed to keep the dust out of his eyes and nose, from his face, all the while, levelling threats and curses at the local children who swarmed around his legs.
"He must have followed me." Duncan observed, peering around him, so as not to disturb Richie.
"That's who you fought?"
Duncan raised his brows at the odd note in the ancient Immortal's voice. Beside him, Methos looked pale and positively shaken. Duncan couldn't remember him ever looking quite so rattled. "Aye. What's wrong?"
"That's not Sforza."
"But it must be," Duncan insisted. "No one uses a pseudonym, when facing a challenge. Not even you."
"I don't expect he thought you'd live to know the difference." Methos retorted, grim faced, as he pulled out his Ivanhoe.
"What are you doing?"
"You're a little busy right now," Methos nodded at the sleeping Immortal in Duncan's lap. "Unless, you want me to explain why the broke your word within moments of giving it, when he wakes up and finds you gone?"
"Its my fight." Duncan all but growled. He couldn't understand why Methos was being so unreasonable about this. There was no reason at all why he couldn't delay the challenge until Richie woke up. It was a matter of honour. He said as much.
"Oh get over yourself, Macleod," Methos snapped. "This is far more important than your bloody honour. Let me handle it."
Duncan felt a small trickle of dread run down his spine. Something was very, very, wrong.
"Methos, what's going on?"
"I've made a mistake, that's what, a bloody great, big one," Methos ducked out of the tent. "And now I'm going to put it right. Stay with Richie."
"Wait!" Duncan called after him. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to invite him for tea and scones," Methos snapped over his shoulder. "What the hell, do you think I'm going to do?"