Date: Mon, 26 Feb 1996 20:56:59 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Tough Guy 2/4 Part 2 "Calm down," MacLeod said, and held him until he ceased struggling. "You all right?" The thief had disappeared. Richie pressed his bleeding palms against his pants. "Yeah," he said. "How are your hands?" "Fine," he snapped. "How come you didn't let me go after the guy?" MacLeod bent to the broken remains of one of the stereos. "How come you said this was yours?" "It's mine now." "It's useless now. Who'd you steal from?" "None of your business, MacLeod!" Richie burst out. Hands burning, wetness soaking through his knees, he turned away so the older man wouldn't see his grimace. Too late. MacLeod, it seemed, saw everything. Firmly he grasped Richie's hands and examined them in the light of a streetlamp. "You better come inside and let me put something on these." "They'll be fine," Richie insisted, but he went back inside with MacLeod and let the antique dealer sit him in the apartment's living room. MacLeod disappeared for a few minutes. Richie looked at the apartment's fine furnishings and felt dwarfed, insignificant, and even more poor than he had before. He heard MacLeod and Tessa exchange a few murmured words in another room, and then MacLeod came back with a bowl of warm water, a few small towels, and a first aid kit. Tessa was nowhere to be seen. Richie palms were torn and bruised, embedded with dirt and some gravel. His knees were red, raw patches through his torn jeans. He remained stoic and tight-jawed as MacLeod washed up the wounds as best he could and rinsed them with hydrogen peroxide. "Tell me about the stereos," MacLeod said as he worked. Richie watched the warm water turn pink with his rinsed blood. "Just stereos," he said. "Put them in cars, they'll play music for you." "Take them out of cars, and you're a thief." "You already knew that, MacLeod." "I was hoping you'd turned over a new leaf." "Maybe if I lived in a different forest," Richie snapped. Intense weariness washed over him as he considered what he was going to tell Bruce. "I needed the money." "Get a job." "Doing what? Burgers and fries? Me in a polyester uniform?" "It's an idea, Richie." "Not my style," Richie said. "And this is?" "What are you, my new social worker? Why do you care?" MacLeod sat back. The gaze he settled on Richie was dark and contemplative. "Because you've got a great deal of potential that shouldn't go to waste because you've been kicked around by the system so many years. Because I don't think anyone's ever taken the time to teach you or show you how things can be." The words hit too close for Richie's comfort, and he shot back, "And you're going to be the one, huh?" "If you let me. Come work for me. Starting tomorrow." Richie finally knew what this guy's game was all about. "I get it. I come to work for you. And we take some home movies. Me, a bed, maybe some girls, maybe not - " "Richie!" MacLeod's expression turned incredulous. "This isn't a kiddie porn set-up!" "Yeah?" Richie demanded. "How do I know that?" "Because you do, that's why," MacLeod said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Where do you come up with stuff like that?" Richie let his gaze fall back to the pink water in the bowl. Bitterly he said, "Guess." MacLeod didn't answer. A clock somewhere chimed eleven times. Finally MacLeod started repacking the first aid kit. "I'm not here to force you into anything. If you can't trust that, than there's no way I can help you." Richie watched the man's face. He thought he was a pretty good judge of character, but MacLeod defied pegging. "How much?" he asked. "How much what?" "I come work for you, how much?" MacLeod appeared to give it some thought. "Twenty five dollars a day." "Fifty," Richie returned. "That's like minimum wage for eight hours." "That's more than minimum wage," MacLeod returned. "Thirty." "Forty." "Deal." "And I need the first day upfront," Richie added. MacLeod sighed and pulled out his wallet. He gave Richie two crisp twenty dollar bills. "Thanks," Richie said roughly. "What time do we start?" "Seven thirty." "In the morning?" Richie's normal waking hour was closer to noon, and he gulped at the thought. "In the morning," MacLeod said firmly. "Are you okay to drive home? That was a nasty fall you took." "Fine," Richie said. At the door he said, "MacLeod - just because I need the money, and I'm going to work for you, doesn't mean I believe any of that Immortal crap or anything." MacLeod's eyes lit up with an odd amusement. "I understand. As long as you remember that what I told you was in confidence. You're not to tell anyone else, you understand?" "Deal," Richie said. "Good," MacLeod said, seeing him to the door. "Be here at seven- thirty." "Yeah," Richie said. He caught a glimpse of Tessa listening from the shadows, but didn't acknowledge her presence. He wondered what she thought of MacLeod's new plan to employ him. She probably didn't approve. She probably didn't approve at all. *** "How could you hire him?" Tessa demanded. "He's going to rob us blind!" MacLeod finished loading the dishwasher. "He's not going to rob us blind," he said reasonably. "We'll hide the really good gold and silver under the bed." "This isn't a joke, Duncan." "I'm not trying to be funny. Well, not much. Come on, Tessa, you talked to him. You really think he's a career juvenile delinquent?" Tessa turned off the kitchen lights. "I think that remains to be seen," she said loftily. Richie was actually ten minutes early the next morning. MacLeod was in the middle of a long kata when Richie let himself in through the open front door, and he paused between blows to say, "There's coffee in the kitchen." Richie wandered away and came back with a steaming mug. MacLeod continued to block, punch, retreat, punch again, block, all the time aware of Richie watching his every move. The kid's eyes were still puffy with sleep, and ringed with weariness. MacLeod wondered how late he'd stayed up. "What's that? Judo?" Richie finally asked. "Something like that," MacLeod allowed. "You want to try?" Richie actually laughed. "No, thanks." "Exercise is good for you." "I get my exercise other ways." "Breaking and entering?" "With the ladies," Richie retorted. "Tough guy, huh?" MacLeod smiled. "Good with women?" "I hold my own," Richie allowed. MacLeod went through a series of side kicks and front kicks. "You get here early tomorrow, and we'll do some running." "Running away from who?" Richie asked in perfect bewilderment. MacLeod stopped. He mopped his face and neck with a towel. "Run for about two and half miles, turn around, run back. We'll work you up to five each way." Richie shook his head and wriggled his red boots. "Can't do. No sneakers, see? And my knees still hurt." "Excuses," MacLeod told him. "Anything that works," Richie grinned. MacLeod showered and shaved, with instructions to Richie as to where the bagels were. He came out and found toasted bagels on the plate. The cabinets were open, as if Richie had been searching for food to devour, and he had his hands now in a brand-new bag of potato chips. He was sitting on the counter as if he owned the place. "I'm a growing boy," Richie said. "I need my nutrition." MacLeod took the potato chips away. "Those aren't yours. Ask first. And get off the counter." "Where's Tessa?" Richie said, jumping down. "Sleeping in. So keep it down." "I'm as quiet as a church mouse, remember?" "I remember you took the sword and started doing 'en guarde' to the post," MacLeod pointed out, and Richie became appropriately subdued at the memory. They worked side by side for most of the day, with Tessa dropping in for occasional supervision from her workshop. MacLeod knew she was working on a new sculpture, but she wouldn't let him see it. So instead he directed Richie in the unpacking of several shipments that had arrived while they'd been on the island. The kid learned quick, but wasn't especially cautious until MacLeod pointed out the relative worth of the so-called junk coming out of the crates. "It's not junk, Richie. That painting there is worth about two hundred and seventy five thousand. That Hindu statue comes in at just over seventy five thousand." Richie held up an exquisite pearl-colored vase. "And this? What, a million?" "Not a million," MacLeod allowed, "but about fifteen thousand dollars more than you probably have in your bank account." Richie put the vase down. "I don't have a bank account," he said. "I didn't think so." "What's so hot about this vase, then? I mean, you can buy these at K-Mart or Woolworth's or something." "No, you can't." MacLeod set the vase lovingly on a stand. "It's a very fine example of workmanship crafted over two hundred years ago. It survived the firebombing of Dresden in the second World War, when the first of the city was flattened by Allied forces." "Let me guess," Richie said, a little sourly. "You were there." MacLeod didn't answer. They unpacked the crates slowly, checking items off inventory lists that frustrated Richie because he couldn't read the German, French or Italian that described the antiques. Several times MacLeod had to remind him sharply to keep focused on the job at hand, and not go wandering off. At the end of the day MacLeod paid him in advance for the next day. Richie hadn't asked him for that, but he figured it might obligate the kid into keep coming back. Richie did come back, for the rest of the week and the week after. He started bringing bagels or coffee with him in the morning, but blushed in embarrassment if MacLeod thanked him. Once his morning sleepiness wore off he was animated and enthusiastic, brash and rough. MacLeod taught him how to be nice to the customers. He taught him to answer the phone and accept deliveries, and about the various articles spread through the store. They didn't discuss Immortals at all. When he collected his wages in the afternoon he would become less animated and visibly more tense. MacLeod wondered where exactly Richie was living, and under what circumstances. The kid didn't seem to be spending his money on his clothes, which sometimes smelled of musty cigarette smoke or, one morning, pot. MacLeod told him firmly that he wasn't to bring any drugs to the store. "I don't use!" Richie protested. "I swear. That stuff will mess you up quicker than anything else." MacLeod believed him. He didn't pry into Richie's home life, but he worried about it. He started having Richie stay for dinner more and more often, which didn't make Tessa exactly happy. "You can't possibly be jealous of a seventeen year old kid," MacLeod said to her once, in a heated discussion after lunch one day. Richie had been sent out on a round of errands. "I'm not jealous of him," Tessa said hotly. She'd been metal- working, and her skin gleamed with sweat. "I'm jealous of the time you spend with him. Why did you ask him for dinner tonight? You know we're supposed to go to L'Arabeq." "So he can go with us," MacLeod said. "At two hundred dollars per person? So he can eat French fries and cheeseburgers?" "What's wrong with French fries and cheeseburgers?" "You want to eat French fries and cheeseburgers, you eat with him. Not me," Tessa retorted, and turned to pour herself a glass of lemonade. "Hey, there," Richie said, coming in with two large boxes. Neither Tessa or MacLeod had heard him come in through the store, but he gave no indication of having heard their conversation. He put the boxes on the table gingerly. "These were waiting at the post office. Do you just drop fifteen thousand vases and stuff in parcel post, or what?" "They're not vases," MacLeod said curtly. "I hope." Richie must have sensed the tension in the room, because he looked from MacLeod to Tessa and back again. "What's the matter? "Nothing," MacLeod said. "Richie," Tessa started, her voice calm and level, "Duncan and I have plans to go out tonight. He didn't remember that when he asked you to stay for dinner." Richie shrugged, "Oh. Okay. Doesn't matter much to me. Friday night and all, you probably want to spend some time together." "Yes," Tessa agreed, a little surprised perhaps at his acquiescence. "I'm sorry." "Hey," Richie said, breaking into a smile that wasn't entirely real, "it's cool. If I were you, and I were him, I'd want to spend time with me too. I mean, me as in each other. Except that would make me schizophrenic, I guess." He looked to MacLeod. "Can I take off early today? I was thinking of calling Angie and going to the movies. There's a new Star Trek film out." "Sure," MacLeod said, a little relieved, a little suspicious. "Great," Richie said brightly. "I'll see you on Monday." MacLeod followed him outside. "Forgot to pay you," he said, pulling out his wallet. "It's cool," Richie said, sliding on his bike helmet. "I've got money." "These are your wages, Richie." "So pay me Monday." Richie revved the bike's engines to life. "See you later." MacLeod watched him drive away with mixed emotions. They did not go to L'Arabeq that night. On Monday, when Richie came in early to watch him do kata, MacLeod had a pair of running shorts, an old t-shirt, and new sneakers waiting on a sideboard. "They should be your size," MacLeod said, already sweating easily and ready to go. "Let's go to the park." Richie made a face. "I knew it was going to come to this. Duncan MacLeod's Physical Fitness Regime." Protests aside, Richie didn't do badly for his first time running. They went two miles through the late summer greenery, passing other joggers, retired people feeding ducks, housewives with children. Then Richie stopped for a cramp. MacLeod walked easily beside him. They managed a mile without stopping on the way back. As they walked along the path MacLeod asked Richie if he'd ever gone out for track at his high school. "Yeah, me, the athlete," Richie smirked. "All American Track Star. Lettered in varsity football, basketball, and detention. Wasn't going to happen." "Why not?" Richie took his time answering. "Because you've got to keep up a grade point average." "And you didn't?" "Bora-Morra told you I didn't graduate, MacLeod." "I remember," MacLeod said. "All your teachers say you're smart, but lazy." "He told you that?" "No, you did. At the police station." Richie half-smiled at the memory. "They do. Teachers hate me. They start taking Pepto Bismal and ulcer medication because of me. Two retired last year when they found out I was going to be in their classes. You may have noticed, I don't have a real big attention span." "Maybe you haven't found anything to interest you yet." "Now you sound like Angie." "She your girlfriend?" "Nah." "You went to the movies Friday night?" "Actually, she couldn't go. Had to baby-sit her kid brothers." Richie had spent Friday night at the house, watching rented movies with Pete, Grouch and Scotty, drinking more beer than he'd intended because there was nothing else to do. Grouch had announced he was going off to hook up with a band in San Francisco, and by the time Richie had stumbled bleary-eyed and hangover from his room Saturday morning, the big man with the easy grin and battered guitar had gone. "You overheard what Tessa said, didn't you?" MacLeod asked as he unlocked the Thunderbird. Richie automatically denied it. "Who, me?" "She didn't mean it." "Yes, she did," Richie said, and changed the subject. Back at the store, MacLeod tossed him a set of towels and told him he could use the spare bathroom shower. Richie grabbed his street clothes and headed off. As he turned, MacLeod saw that on the back of both legs, just above his knees, were faint scar lines. Like the kind made by a beating, with either a wire hangar or maybe an electrical cord. They weren't recent, but they weren't ever going away, either. Richie caught his gaze and became acutely self-conscious. "How'd you get those?" MacLeod asked somberly. Richie shrugged. "I'm the French Fry and Cheeseburger Kid," he said flippantly. The next day they went running again, but Richie brought a brand new pair of sweatpants to wear instead of shorts. Wednesday dawn came with a torrent of rain. Richie arrived soaked, and MacLeod wondered why the kid didn't have enough sense to even buy a rain poncho with his wages. Neither Tessa or Richie had said much to each other since Friday, but Richie was surprisingly compliant as she ordered him out of his wet clothes and into a spare bathrobe. She threw his clothes in the dryer and made him a breakfast of hot tea and hot oatmeal. "You'll catch your death of cold that way," she scolded. Richie mumbled something into his cup. MacLeod, eavesdropping from outside the kitchen, frowned. "What?" Tessa asked, more gently. Richie ducked his head. "I said, nobody would care. Besides you two, I guess." It was an opening, however small, however difficult. Tessa sat down at the table. He wouldn't meet her gaze. "Richie," she said, "do you remember what I said the night you broke in?" "There was a lot going on," Richie frowned. "I don't know. You told Mac not to kill me." "That's not exactly what I said." "You said . . . " Richie thought back hard. "You said, 'He's just a boy.'" "I was wrong, wasn't I?" "What do you mean?" "Boys have no experience in the art of love. But you do." Richie didn't say anything. MacLeod wished he could see the teenager's expression. It wouldn't have surprised him to see the sudden bashfulness that crossed Richie's face. "What do you mean?" "Has there been someone special?" Tessa pressed. "Tessa, that's kind of personal, you know? I mean, I don't usually announce stuff like that." Tessa's voice was knowing and calm. "But there was, at least once." "Maybe. Yeah." "You see, Richie, Duncan is that someone special for me. He has been for twelve years. We've shared everything together. We opened this shop together. And it's been hard for me to accept that he now wants to spend time with you, in addition to spending time with me." "That's normal," Richie said, but he didn't sound sure, to himself or anyone else. "It's selfish," Tessa proclaimed. "I've been selfish, Richie. I have been jealous and unkind." MacLeod's chest swelled up with love at what Tessa was doing. Of all the things he admired and loved about her, her ability to give of herself and open to what true love meant was the one that pleasantly surprised him, again and again. "Will you forgive me?" Tessa asked. "You haven't done anything, Tessa," Richie said. "I've been cold and indifferent." Richie actually laughed. "Tessa, that's nothing where I come from. I had a set of foster parents once who didn't speak to each for five solid weeks. You're amateur night compared to them. You could take lessons." "It doesn't make it acceptable." Richie's next words came out tinged with pain. "I'm not someone people apologize to, you know?" "You're someone I apologize to," Tessa said, and MacLeod peeked around the corner in time to see her kiss Richie's forehead. Richie and Tessa worked together for the rest of the day in her shop, leaving MacLeod to mind the store. He heard them talking and even laughing. Richie's mood plummeted, though, when he saw that one of his tires had gone flat. It was nearly five o'clock and still raining in buckets. "The garage will be closed by the time I wheel it there," Richie said morosely. "So we'll take it by in the morning," MacLeod told him. "I'll drive you home." Richie's mood shifted from dismay to caution. "That's okay. I'll get there." "Richie, I'm not letting you walk in this weather. Come on." MacLeod closed up the shop and told Tessa he would be back in a few minutes. "Richie, let's go." Richie couldn't think of any good excuse out of MacLeod's goodwill, but he knew as an absolute certainty that he didn't want MacLeod to see Bruce's house. Sitting in the front seat of the Thunderbird, shivering until the heater kicked in gear, he watched the windshield wipers go back and forth and gave MacLeod the directions to the Mitchell's house. A temporary lull in the stormclouds allowed for the last gray light of day to peek through as they drove up to a one-story house in a crowded neighborhood. Karen Mitchell was just putting out the garbage when MacLeod parked at the curb. She was in her early forties, a small and slight woman with a tired face but bright eyes. Richie dragged himself out of the car, and wanted to shrink into the ground as he realized MacLeod was getting out after him. "Hi, Karen," Richie said. "Richie," she said, wiping her hands on her apron and looking quizzically from him to MacLeod. MacLeod introduced himself and added, "Richie had a flat so I thought I drive him home from work." Karen said slowly, "Why, thank you, Mr. MacLeod. Would you like to come in and have a drink?" "He's got to go," Richie said quickly. MacLeod almost contradicted him, but he sensed then was not the time to push Richie on his foster family. He hadn't said anything about them in the three weeks he'd been at the store, and there had to be a reason. "Richie's right," he said. "I just wanted to meet his foster mother." "Come by anytime," Karen told him. She and Richie watched him drive away. "I'm not staying," Richie said. "Richie, please. At least come inside and tell me what you've been doing." Richie sighed. "Is he here?" "No. He's out at a meeting." As Richie hesitated she took his hand between hers. "Come on. It won't hurt. Say hello to Janine and the kids." He didn't really want to, but he followed Karen inside to the small blue kitchen he remembered from five months of living in the house. Nothing had changed - not the faded rose wallpaper, or the bills piled by the phone, or the dirty fishtank with a dozen guppies swimming endlessly around in circles. Past the kitchen, a TV blared in the dark paneled living room, and he could hear the faint thump of music from Steven's room. "Are you hungry?" Karen asked. "The kids and I ate, but there's some leftover fried chicken." Richie slid into one of the chairs and shrugged. He wasn't good at making decisions in this house. Except for the major one, which had been to leave. Leaving had nothing to do with Karen, whose warm personality and usual good cheer had been like balm to wounds he didn't even know he had. She fixed him a plate of fried chicken and coleslaw with a tall glass of punch, then slid to the chair across from him and fixed her gaze on his face. "Tell me what you've been doing." Richie smiled despite himself. "How can you always do that? Be interested in other people? People you shouldn't even think about anymore?" "I think about you a great deal, Richie. I've been worried. I thought about calling the police to find out if you were all right, but Janine said you were living with Scotty Webster and his brother." "They've got a house," Richie supplied, digging into the chicken. "It's okay." "Did you finish school?" "No," Richie admitted. "But I've got a job. With the guy who drove me home. I work in his antique store." He let himself be drawn into telling her stories about MacLeod, although he steered far away from talk of Immortals. He avoided even thinking about Immortals, because it was such a bizarre idea. Instead he found himself concentrating on MacLeod's good points, and ignored the fact he lived in such an obvious fantasy world where it was not only okay but demanded that people chop off each other's heads with swords. "Richie!" Janine said from the doorway. She was only two years younger than Richie, tall and gangly, glasses, but with a sweet face and quick smile. "Long time no see!" "Hey, squirt." Richie gave her an affectionate hug. "Staying out of trouble?" "So Boy Wonder comes home," Steven said from behind Janine, and with a pointed indifference to Richie he went to the refrigerator and scooped out a can of soda. Steven was fourteen, sullen, obnoxious, and extremely territorial. Richie had once justified all those traits because as the Mitchell's only natural kid, he'd had to put up with a number of foster placements and transient siblings. Then Richie had decided Steven was just a jerk. "I'm glad you're here," Janine said, "you can help me with my homework." "Him?" Steven snorted. Karen made a chiding sound. "Steven, hush." "I see you're still in the running for Most Popular Freshman," Richie said. "Sophomore." "They still pin "Kick Me" signs to your back, and glue your locker shut?" "Why don't you shut up?" Steven challenged. "Why don't you come with me," Janine said, taking Richie's hand and pulling him down the hallway. "Don't listen to Steven," she said once they were out of earshot of the kitchen. "He's just himself. We're saving money for the lobotomy." Her room at the end of the hall hadn't changed from his memory of movie posters, stuffed animals, and paperback books. Her music stand was overflowing with sheet music, and her clarinet lay shining and bright in its velvet case. Janine sat him on her bed and said, "So what have you been doing?" "Just hanging," Richie said. He leaned back against the pillows. They'd spent hours talking and sharing stories in his months with the Mitchells. She'd lived there for three years, and was afraid of being put somewhere else. "How's it been here?" Janine shrugged. "Was the same, for awhile. Then George went to treatment." Richie said, in surprise, "He went where?" "Detox," Janine said, her eyes wide and solemn. "Two weeks in the drunk ward." "How come?" Janine took one of her stuffed bears and began to ply him between her hands. "Passed out with a cigarette, nearly burned down the bedroom. Karen threatened him a with a divorce. Steven and I listened at the door. He went off to the hospital, came back dry as the desert. But he has to go to Alcoholics Anonymous every night. Sixty meetings in sixty days." Richie studied her face. "Is it working?" "So far. Three weeks." "Wow," Richie said. "That's great, I guess." "Are you coming back here to live?" "No. I've got a place, you know that. And a job." "I miss you." "I miss you too, squirt." "Will you come to my recital Saturday night? The whole band is playing, but I get a solo part after intermission." "Sure," Richie smiled, and gave her a hug. "My favorite musician." They talked for awhile longer until Richie realized what time it was. He still had a half hour walk to Bruce's house. As he said goodbye in the kitchen, Karen asked him to stay the night. Richie gave the idea a few seconds' thought, but shook his head. "Can't," he said. "I've got people waiting for me." "Take care of yourself, Richie," she said, giving him a hug, and then they were disturbed by the rattle of a key in the door. George Mitchell looked a dozen years older than Richie remembered him. He was a fairly built guy, balding, eyes that always reminded Richie of a basset hound. "Richie," he said now, surprised. "How are you?" "Okay," Richie said. "I just came by to . . . say hi." "Are you staying?" George asked. "No. Can't. See you, Karen," he said. "Bye, Janine." "See you, Richie," Janine said, sounding wistful and sad. "You're looking good," George told him. "Thanks," Richie returned, then slid past him to the driveway. end of part 2 =========================================================================