AN: I'm betting that I'm stepping on a few toes with one particular
relationship established in this chapter.
Also, please note, that while Duncan and Richie do know Joe Dawson in this fic, they met him under different circumstances, and that neither Immortal knows that Joe is a Watcher. They don't even know that the Watchers exist. Just how they did meet Joe Dawson will be revealed in this chapter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------
February 14 and 15, 1999, Seacouver, Washington
In the months immediate following Tessa's death, Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan's relationship rivaled any father-son relation either had had previously. For those first months, they existed solely for the purpose of the other. Duncan trained Richie, and he showed the younger Immortal no mercy, but Richie found distraction in the sweat, and the swords, and the work. And, when he finally upped Duncan in a fight, he found a certain pleasure. The two men wiped away tears, and they studied photographs and memories; they passed several silences, doing nothing more than passing bottles of wine or of whiskey between them, swigging the alcohol, straight from the bottle. They often spoke without saying a word. And, they slept in the same bed.
Sometimes, they slept in Richie's bed, but more often, they slept in Duncan's. But that first night they had done so, they had slept in Richie's. The younger Immortal had cried out in his sleep, and Duncan had padded in his room, to see what was the matter, and Richie had begged him to stay. They awakened the next morning to find their hands about waists not theirs, and their legs intertwined, and found a comfort in each other they never had before. They had been in Seacouver for five weeks.
But before the night Duncan slept in Richie's bed, the two men first kissed. Three weeks after they had returned to Seacouver (already almost three months after Tessa's death), they had been looking through a photograph album, and drinking whiskey from the bottle, when Richie began to cry from the memories. It was a gulping crying, a crying which limited his ability to breathe, and Duncan could do nothing but hold Richie, and let the younger Immortal's tears soak through his shirt, while he rubbed Richie's back, and whispered Gaelic soothements in Richie's ears. He would not admit it to Richie that night, but he too cried. When Richie was finally able to breathe again, and he pulled away from Duncan's grasp, he found he missed the closeness, and the emotion, and something in him didn't want to go. So, he did what he would have done any other time, in any other situation, he hesitantly, and very quickly, he pressed his lips onto Duncan's, before he pulled away, and watched for Duncan's reaction. Duncan blinked, but only once, before he wrapped his arm around the back of Richie's neck and brought Richie's lips to his own again. And, in that kiss, everything seemed to make sense. Two weeks later, they slept in the same bed.
In public, every gesture of theirs whispered of affection: hands lingered slightly on shoulders or arms; the words spoken carefully chosen between them, if for nothing else, for their possible double meaning. Alone, they were the same, and occasionally they sneaked in kisses. They told Connor first, at a dinner at the older MacLeod's house, and Duncan told Sean and FitzCairn, while Richie told Angie. Only later, long after everything happened, did they tell their newly acquainted friend Joe Dawson. Neither knew that Joe already suspected. They only knew that no one turned away from them for what they had found.
--------------------------------------------------------
On the evening of February fourteenth, around the time of four-thirty in the afternoon, Richie sprawled atop Duncan MacLeod's bed, while the shirtless Duncan padded about the apartment they shared. They lived over the abandoned theatre, the theatre itself empty since the 1970s, when the cinema multi-plex had been built across town. It had only one bedroom, which Duncan insisted Richie have, while his bedroom was in the living room, separated from the main area by screens. But even while Duncan wore his jeans, the top button was unsnapped. Richie's eyes followed him, from living room to kitchen, back to living room, to his bedroom. "Her name's Lindsey?" asked Richie lazily.
"Yes. Lindsey Morrow."
"She's the one you met at the bank?"
"Correct," Duncan stated. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his arms crossed over his bare chest. "You don't have a problem with me going out tonight, do you?"
"No. Not like I really can, right?" Richie rolled over to his back, and he stared somewhat distractedly towards the ceiling. "It's just... well, I mean, we promised, Mac."
Duncan crossed the floor, and he sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you want me to stay?"
"No." Richie shook his head. "That wouldn't be fair. For either of us."
Duncan leaned over, and he placed one arm on either side of Richie's body, his hands about level at Richie's chest. The younger Immortal too was shirtless. "No, it wouldn't be," Duncan agreed. His voice was husky, and his face hovered only centimeters above Richie's.
"Yes," Richie whispered, and he wrapped his hand around the nape of Duncan's neck, and brought Duncan's lips firmly to his own. The fire, which seared between them, ignited both their limbs. Richie's fingers knotted themselves in Duncan's newly cut hair, and Duncan's hands inched them behind Richie's tracing patters against skin and bedsheets.
It was several seconds before they pulled away, and even then, they didn't let go for several more seconds.
Richie's mouth teetered on the edge of a grin, and Duncan blinked, carefully avoiding the full watch of Richie's eyes. Richie opened his mouth to swallow the sharp of intake of air, and his lips erupted into a full smile. "In that case, don't suppose I could borrow your car?"
Duncan returned the grin, but he shook his head no, before he leaned in to kiss Richie again.
It was an hour later that the two men emerged from the apartment both fully- dressed. Richie had his hands shoved into his pockets, and he stared into the sky. "Looks like rain," he commented.
"Maybe," Duncan shrugged. "You going to be home late?"
"Don't know. You?"
"Probably not before breakfast."
"Guess I'll cook then."
"Guess so," Duncan agreed.
Neither made reference to the apparent forcefulness of their words, and even when the two men quickly pecked lips before Duncan climbed inside his car, and Richie mounted his motorcycle, the two men did not look one another in the eyes.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
When Richie had called Mira de Ghent earlier that day, she had told him that it was about fifteen minutes from his apartment to hers. But it took him almost thirty minutes. When he finally did find the place, and he parked his motorcycle in an empty spot, he noticed the architecture of the building channeled the Renaissance. He whistled impressively under his breath, and he began to climb the stairs to her seventh floor apartment. The building had nine floors, and no elevators. He counted fifty-two steps.
Mira de Ghent was on the phone when she answered the door. She smiled broadly at Richie, and she awkwardly hugged him one handedly. "Richie, hey!" she greeted. "Come in. Hold on?" Richie nodded, and he stepped inside the apartment. "Dylan, I'll call you tomorrow," continued Mira on the phone, "...Because my date just arrived... Fine, talk to you then. Ciao." She clamped her cell phone shut, and she tossed Richie another bright grin. "Sorry. My brother. You find here ok?"
"Sure. I only got lost once."
"You're lucky. Most get lost at least twice." She set the phone on the kitchen counter. "Do you mind waiting a few more minutes? Dylan's call interrupted me, and I'm still not quite ready."
"No, no, not at all."
"Good. Have a seat," she gestured towards the couch, "I'll be right out," she added before she disappeared into the bedroom.
Richie perched himself on the couch's edge, and his eyes traveled around the apartment. Two bedrooms, though he knew that Mira had turned one into her study and office, with a large common space encompassing the living room and dining room, with the kitchen on the dining room's other end. He also knew that the bedroom and office opened onto a patio.
Everything about the apartment was subtle, and tasteful, much like the girl who lived here.
Richie had met Mira in the town library. He had gone to pay the fee for four late books, and she had checked out books. She had been several spaces ahead of him in line, and had already been at her car when he finally chased her down in the parking lot. He had breathlessly asked her for her name, and invited her to coffee. She agreed, and they had spent an afternoon discussing art, music, history, and themselves. Duncan, Richie knew, would have been proud.
He asked her out again, and again, and again. And, here it was, nine days after their first meeting, and they had seen one another ever day since. Richie genuinely liked her for her compassion, and for her astute observations, and for the sarcastic streak and for her keen sense of humor. He found her to be both passionate and understanding.
He also found her beautiful.
Mira de Ghent stood at about five feet and six inches, and was very deceptively slim. Her body could be described as wiry, yet strong, and she hid that strength well behind her one hundred thirty pounds. She had blue- black hair, which fell in thick waves to her lower back, an olive complexion, and silver-blue eyes. It had been her eyes, and her voice, which had captivated Richie first. But while her accent was definitely European, it had elements of French, English and Belgian mixed in, for as Mira had explained to him first meeting, she had spent her childhood divided in those three countries.
"Ready?" she asked, and she returned again from the bedroom.
Ready," answered Richie, and he quickly jumped to his feet. He turned to Mira, and he smiled. "You look lovely," he told her. His eyes took in her mid-thigh length denim skirt, and the swatch of black fishnets visible between the skirt hem and the tops of the knee-high lace-up back boots, the black tank top and cardigan, and the black overcoat she wore. He knew from the way the coat fell, that she did not carry a sword, but then, Mira de Ghent was not Immortal.
"Thank you. So do you."
"I'm a guy. Guys don't look lovely."
"Fine. Handsome. You look handsome."
"Much better," he nodded. He cleared his throat. "I, ummm.... I kinda drove my motorcycle here. And, that's not exactly built for two people."
"We could walk," she suggested. "It's probably only a couple miles from here, and it's not raining. Yet."
"Sure," Richie agreed, and he offered her his arm.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
When they had first planned this date, Mira had suggested they get tickets to see So Weird, a relatively new band, at least to the mainstream, which was on the last legs of its first United States tour, and happened to be playing in the Seacouver Pavilion, not far from where the new cinema multi- plex was. But unlike the multi-plex, the Pavilion was not exactly new.
They had third row tickets, and true to Mira's word, the Pavilion was two, maybe three miles from her apartment building, and it only took them about forty minutes walk there, and even then, because they walked on the slower side.
Both enjoyed the conversation, and Mira sang along to some of the songs. She simply shrugged and smiled when Richie asked her if she had heard them before, for he hadn't. And, afterwards, they milled around the lobby, and they met lead singer and guitarist, and the drummer, and keyboardist. Richie bought copies of the three albums for sale, and he got two autographed, while Mira bought a t-shirt, and they stuffed them into one bag, and laughed the entire way to the dinner. It was already past midnight, nearly one, and the only place they could find open was the tiny Blue bar in the center of town. By then, they didn't know how far they had walked.
"Hey, Joe," Richie flipped in greeting. He and Mira dropped into two stools at the bar, and he grinned both innocently and mischievously at the bartender, and his friend. "How you doin'?"
Joe raised an eyebrow. "Does MacLeod know you're out this late?"
"Mac is on his own date." He grinned, but something of the mischeviousness disappeared. "Joe, this is Mira. Mira, Joe."
The two shook hands, and mumbled greetings, and Richie and Mira placed their orders, and Joe gave Richie a long look before he turned to pour. But Richie ignored that.
He had met Joe while he, Duncan and Tessa still lived in Paris, and long before he and Duncan had fell into the complicated pattern they now lived. Joe had worked part-time in the Shakespeare and Company bookstore there, and had helped Richie to find a wedding present for Duncan and Tessa. Several weeks later, Richie had introduced Duncan and Tessa to Joe, and while they were friends, they had never purposely made plans, but Richie had frequented the bookstore. Joe had left Paris six months before they did, and had already opened the bar when he and Duncan had arrived, and when Duncan had visited Connor that night last year, Richie had sat in Joe's bar, swallowing beer after beer after beer, refusing to register the strange looks that Joe kept shooting in his direction, or the strange looks Joe still shooted in his direction. He was used to them.
Richie and Mira had four drinks between them, and they shared a basket of fish and chips before they wished Joe a good night, and started the long walk back to Mira's apartment. Richie spent the night, and it was past eight in the morning when he finally kissed Mira good-bye, and he hopped back onto his motorcycle to head home, his CDs in his leather jacket pocket. Mira watched him from the doorway before she went back inside to call her brother.
Richie beat Duncan home. Quickly, he showered and he changed his clothes, and he cooked breakfast to the music of Louis Armstrong. When Duncan finally walked in, looking slightly disheveled, and more exhausted than Richie felt, they only had to look at one another's faces to know. Duncan showered, and the two men, and friends, ate breakfast in silence.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----
Additional AN: In terms of Duncan and Richie, they're not sleeping together. They sleep in the same bed (when both are home, and they don't have anyone else there), but they don't sleep together. But I'm still betting I stepped on a few toes.
Also, please note, that while Duncan and Richie do know Joe Dawson in this fic, they met him under different circumstances, and that neither Immortal knows that Joe is a Watcher. They don't even know that the Watchers exist. Just how they did meet Joe Dawson will be revealed in this chapter. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------
February 14 and 15, 1999, Seacouver, Washington
In the months immediate following Tessa's death, Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan's relationship rivaled any father-son relation either had had previously. For those first months, they existed solely for the purpose of the other. Duncan trained Richie, and he showed the younger Immortal no mercy, but Richie found distraction in the sweat, and the swords, and the work. And, when he finally upped Duncan in a fight, he found a certain pleasure. The two men wiped away tears, and they studied photographs and memories; they passed several silences, doing nothing more than passing bottles of wine or of whiskey between them, swigging the alcohol, straight from the bottle. They often spoke without saying a word. And, they slept in the same bed.
Sometimes, they slept in Richie's bed, but more often, they slept in Duncan's. But that first night they had done so, they had slept in Richie's. The younger Immortal had cried out in his sleep, and Duncan had padded in his room, to see what was the matter, and Richie had begged him to stay. They awakened the next morning to find their hands about waists not theirs, and their legs intertwined, and found a comfort in each other they never had before. They had been in Seacouver for five weeks.
But before the night Duncan slept in Richie's bed, the two men first kissed. Three weeks after they had returned to Seacouver (already almost three months after Tessa's death), they had been looking through a photograph album, and drinking whiskey from the bottle, when Richie began to cry from the memories. It was a gulping crying, a crying which limited his ability to breathe, and Duncan could do nothing but hold Richie, and let the younger Immortal's tears soak through his shirt, while he rubbed Richie's back, and whispered Gaelic soothements in Richie's ears. He would not admit it to Richie that night, but he too cried. When Richie was finally able to breathe again, and he pulled away from Duncan's grasp, he found he missed the closeness, and the emotion, and something in him didn't want to go. So, he did what he would have done any other time, in any other situation, he hesitantly, and very quickly, he pressed his lips onto Duncan's, before he pulled away, and watched for Duncan's reaction. Duncan blinked, but only once, before he wrapped his arm around the back of Richie's neck and brought Richie's lips to his own again. And, in that kiss, everything seemed to make sense. Two weeks later, they slept in the same bed.
In public, every gesture of theirs whispered of affection: hands lingered slightly on shoulders or arms; the words spoken carefully chosen between them, if for nothing else, for their possible double meaning. Alone, they were the same, and occasionally they sneaked in kisses. They told Connor first, at a dinner at the older MacLeod's house, and Duncan told Sean and FitzCairn, while Richie told Angie. Only later, long after everything happened, did they tell their newly acquainted friend Joe Dawson. Neither knew that Joe already suspected. They only knew that no one turned away from them for what they had found.
--------------------------------------------------------
On the evening of February fourteenth, around the time of four-thirty in the afternoon, Richie sprawled atop Duncan MacLeod's bed, while the shirtless Duncan padded about the apartment they shared. They lived over the abandoned theatre, the theatre itself empty since the 1970s, when the cinema multi-plex had been built across town. It had only one bedroom, which Duncan insisted Richie have, while his bedroom was in the living room, separated from the main area by screens. But even while Duncan wore his jeans, the top button was unsnapped. Richie's eyes followed him, from living room to kitchen, back to living room, to his bedroom. "Her name's Lindsey?" asked Richie lazily.
"Yes. Lindsey Morrow."
"She's the one you met at the bank?"
"Correct," Duncan stated. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his arms crossed over his bare chest. "You don't have a problem with me going out tonight, do you?"
"No. Not like I really can, right?" Richie rolled over to his back, and he stared somewhat distractedly towards the ceiling. "It's just... well, I mean, we promised, Mac."
Duncan crossed the floor, and he sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you want me to stay?"
"No." Richie shook his head. "That wouldn't be fair. For either of us."
Duncan leaned over, and he placed one arm on either side of Richie's body, his hands about level at Richie's chest. The younger Immortal too was shirtless. "No, it wouldn't be," Duncan agreed. His voice was husky, and his face hovered only centimeters above Richie's.
"Yes," Richie whispered, and he wrapped his hand around the nape of Duncan's neck, and brought Duncan's lips firmly to his own. The fire, which seared between them, ignited both their limbs. Richie's fingers knotted themselves in Duncan's newly cut hair, and Duncan's hands inched them behind Richie's tracing patters against skin and bedsheets.
It was several seconds before they pulled away, and even then, they didn't let go for several more seconds.
Richie's mouth teetered on the edge of a grin, and Duncan blinked, carefully avoiding the full watch of Richie's eyes. Richie opened his mouth to swallow the sharp of intake of air, and his lips erupted into a full smile. "In that case, don't suppose I could borrow your car?"
Duncan returned the grin, but he shook his head no, before he leaned in to kiss Richie again.
It was an hour later that the two men emerged from the apartment both fully- dressed. Richie had his hands shoved into his pockets, and he stared into the sky. "Looks like rain," he commented.
"Maybe," Duncan shrugged. "You going to be home late?"
"Don't know. You?"
"Probably not before breakfast."
"Guess I'll cook then."
"Guess so," Duncan agreed.
Neither made reference to the apparent forcefulness of their words, and even when the two men quickly pecked lips before Duncan climbed inside his car, and Richie mounted his motorcycle, the two men did not look one another in the eyes.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --
When Richie had called Mira de Ghent earlier that day, she had told him that it was about fifteen minutes from his apartment to hers. But it took him almost thirty minutes. When he finally did find the place, and he parked his motorcycle in an empty spot, he noticed the architecture of the building channeled the Renaissance. He whistled impressively under his breath, and he began to climb the stairs to her seventh floor apartment. The building had nine floors, and no elevators. He counted fifty-two steps.
Mira de Ghent was on the phone when she answered the door. She smiled broadly at Richie, and she awkwardly hugged him one handedly. "Richie, hey!" she greeted. "Come in. Hold on?" Richie nodded, and he stepped inside the apartment. "Dylan, I'll call you tomorrow," continued Mira on the phone, "...Because my date just arrived... Fine, talk to you then. Ciao." She clamped her cell phone shut, and she tossed Richie another bright grin. "Sorry. My brother. You find here ok?"
"Sure. I only got lost once."
"You're lucky. Most get lost at least twice." She set the phone on the kitchen counter. "Do you mind waiting a few more minutes? Dylan's call interrupted me, and I'm still not quite ready."
"No, no, not at all."
"Good. Have a seat," she gestured towards the couch, "I'll be right out," she added before she disappeared into the bedroom.
Richie perched himself on the couch's edge, and his eyes traveled around the apartment. Two bedrooms, though he knew that Mira had turned one into her study and office, with a large common space encompassing the living room and dining room, with the kitchen on the dining room's other end. He also knew that the bedroom and office opened onto a patio.
Everything about the apartment was subtle, and tasteful, much like the girl who lived here.
Richie had met Mira in the town library. He had gone to pay the fee for four late books, and she had checked out books. She had been several spaces ahead of him in line, and had already been at her car when he finally chased her down in the parking lot. He had breathlessly asked her for her name, and invited her to coffee. She agreed, and they had spent an afternoon discussing art, music, history, and themselves. Duncan, Richie knew, would have been proud.
He asked her out again, and again, and again. And, here it was, nine days after their first meeting, and they had seen one another ever day since. Richie genuinely liked her for her compassion, and for her astute observations, and for the sarcastic streak and for her keen sense of humor. He found her to be both passionate and understanding.
He also found her beautiful.
Mira de Ghent stood at about five feet and six inches, and was very deceptively slim. Her body could be described as wiry, yet strong, and she hid that strength well behind her one hundred thirty pounds. She had blue- black hair, which fell in thick waves to her lower back, an olive complexion, and silver-blue eyes. It had been her eyes, and her voice, which had captivated Richie first. But while her accent was definitely European, it had elements of French, English and Belgian mixed in, for as Mira had explained to him first meeting, she had spent her childhood divided in those three countries.
"Ready?" she asked, and she returned again from the bedroom.
Ready," answered Richie, and he quickly jumped to his feet. He turned to Mira, and he smiled. "You look lovely," he told her. His eyes took in her mid-thigh length denim skirt, and the swatch of black fishnets visible between the skirt hem and the tops of the knee-high lace-up back boots, the black tank top and cardigan, and the black overcoat she wore. He knew from the way the coat fell, that she did not carry a sword, but then, Mira de Ghent was not Immortal.
"Thank you. So do you."
"I'm a guy. Guys don't look lovely."
"Fine. Handsome. You look handsome."
"Much better," he nodded. He cleared his throat. "I, ummm.... I kinda drove my motorcycle here. And, that's not exactly built for two people."
"We could walk," she suggested. "It's probably only a couple miles from here, and it's not raining. Yet."
"Sure," Richie agreed, and he offered her his arm.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
When they had first planned this date, Mira had suggested they get tickets to see So Weird, a relatively new band, at least to the mainstream, which was on the last legs of its first United States tour, and happened to be playing in the Seacouver Pavilion, not far from where the new cinema multi- plex was. But unlike the multi-plex, the Pavilion was not exactly new.
They had third row tickets, and true to Mira's word, the Pavilion was two, maybe three miles from her apartment building, and it only took them about forty minutes walk there, and even then, because they walked on the slower side.
Both enjoyed the conversation, and Mira sang along to some of the songs. She simply shrugged and smiled when Richie asked her if she had heard them before, for he hadn't. And, afterwards, they milled around the lobby, and they met lead singer and guitarist, and the drummer, and keyboardist. Richie bought copies of the three albums for sale, and he got two autographed, while Mira bought a t-shirt, and they stuffed them into one bag, and laughed the entire way to the dinner. It was already past midnight, nearly one, and the only place they could find open was the tiny Blue bar in the center of town. By then, they didn't know how far they had walked.
"Hey, Joe," Richie flipped in greeting. He and Mira dropped into two stools at the bar, and he grinned both innocently and mischievously at the bartender, and his friend. "How you doin'?"
Joe raised an eyebrow. "Does MacLeod know you're out this late?"
"Mac is on his own date." He grinned, but something of the mischeviousness disappeared. "Joe, this is Mira. Mira, Joe."
The two shook hands, and mumbled greetings, and Richie and Mira placed their orders, and Joe gave Richie a long look before he turned to pour. But Richie ignored that.
He had met Joe while he, Duncan and Tessa still lived in Paris, and long before he and Duncan had fell into the complicated pattern they now lived. Joe had worked part-time in the Shakespeare and Company bookstore there, and had helped Richie to find a wedding present for Duncan and Tessa. Several weeks later, Richie had introduced Duncan and Tessa to Joe, and while they were friends, they had never purposely made plans, but Richie had frequented the bookstore. Joe had left Paris six months before they did, and had already opened the bar when he and Duncan had arrived, and when Duncan had visited Connor that night last year, Richie had sat in Joe's bar, swallowing beer after beer after beer, refusing to register the strange looks that Joe kept shooting in his direction, or the strange looks Joe still shooted in his direction. He was used to them.
Richie and Mira had four drinks between them, and they shared a basket of fish and chips before they wished Joe a good night, and started the long walk back to Mira's apartment. Richie spent the night, and it was past eight in the morning when he finally kissed Mira good-bye, and he hopped back onto his motorcycle to head home, his CDs in his leather jacket pocket. Mira watched him from the doorway before she went back inside to call her brother.
Richie beat Duncan home. Quickly, he showered and he changed his clothes, and he cooked breakfast to the music of Louis Armstrong. When Duncan finally walked in, looking slightly disheveled, and more exhausted than Richie felt, they only had to look at one another's faces to know. Duncan showered, and the two men, and friends, ate breakfast in silence.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----
Additional AN: In terms of Duncan and Richie, they're not sleeping together. They sleep in the same bed (when both are home, and they don't have anyone else there), but they don't sleep together. But I'm still betting I stepped on a few toes.