========================================================================= Date: Sun, 21 Apr 1996 22:33:21 -0400 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: You Break It . . .2/7 Part Two Richie told him the whole story. Methos listened. He listened intently, with every inch of his attention, to both the words said and unsaid, the thoughts left unvoiced. "Everything everyone's ever said about killing on Holy Ground," Richie said from where he was now sprawled on a sofa, "is wrong. Everything everyone ever feared - that the Quickening wouldn't work, or wouldn't take, or would kill the killer - is just a lie." "But you know that," Methos said, in a chair across from the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Duncan and I told you that decades ago. The injunction against killing on Holy Ground is a matter of honor, not an inviolate rule of Immortality." Richie stared at the ceiling and responded as if he hadn't even heard Methos' words. "A lot of Immortals I've met think it's a supreme law or something. They've heard horror stories passed from century to century about what happens to Immortals who dare to fight on Holy Ground." "It's a useful rumor that keeps many Immortals in line," Methos agreed. Again, he insisted, "But you know better." "I know." Richie lowered his gaze to Methos. The older Immortal almost drew back at the guilt and sorrow he saw in Richie's red- rimmed eyes. "I know," Richie agreed softly, "and that makes it worse, doesn't it?" "Why worse?" "Because it is a matter of honor," Richie said. "And I broke it." "Satoshi broke it by forcing you to fight on Holy Ground." "Just because he broke it first didn't mean I had to." Methos asked, "And what exactly would you have done differently?" Richie didn't answer. He had no answer. No matter how often he replayed the awful scene at the temple over and over in his head, he reached the same horrible conclusion. Unless he'd allowed himself to be killed instead, or sacrificed Andrea. No matter how tired and sick at heart he was, those were not options he would have taken. Methos came to the sofa. He took the empty glass of Scotch from Richie's hand and put it on the table. Then he fetched a pillow from an armchair and put it at the end of the sofa cushions. "What are you doing?" Richie asked. "It's what you're doing," Methos said. "Going to sleep. Now. You'll think much more clearly about it after about eighteen hours of rest." "I can't sleep," Richie protested, even as Methos pushed him face- down and pulled his ankles up. Fingers unlaced his sneakers, pulled them from his feet. Muffled in the pillow, he said, "Sleep's too hard." "It's not hard at all," came the measured British accent. "Just close your eyes." A weight straddled him. Richie felt Methos' hands on his back, firm and strong, and the hands began to massage away at the rigid tightness. Initial resistance gave way to sighs of relief. Whatever skills Methos had managed to acquire in five thousand years, this was one of his best. A warm, comforting glow spread across Richie's shoulders and down his spine as Methos loosened the locked muscles with practiced deftness and patience. He drifted off with a newfound peace, drifted off towards sleep in a room filled with sun and the spring breeze, with the twittering of birds, with the momentos of his youth spread across the walls and floor of the early-American-Richie game room, all designed to remind him of when the days when the world was more simple and clear than it was now. He went to the darkness with an odd, pleasant sense of security, allowing himself the luxury of thinking Methos would protect him, would shelter him from harm. But nightmares of Satoshi woke him only a few hours later, with the sounds of battle ringing in his ears and the memory of Andrea's face piercing through his chest like a sword. *** Joe Dawson, rapidly approaching his eightieth birthday, had found that while some things diminished with age, other things were well worth the effort. "Well," his wife Janet said breathlessly, laughing with genuine pleasure as he rolled off her and to the side of their brass bed, "that's something new. Where did you learn that?" Joe grinned, waiting for his breathing and heartbeat to steady again. He wove his fingers around hers and kissed her hand. "From Seinfield reruns on the Oldies Channel." "You should watch Seinfield more often," Janet said, rolling over and curling next to him. Joe kissed the top of her gray head. Old. They were both old. But there was no woman more beautiful in the world than his wife, Janet Witherall Dawson, and when he told her that now her eyes misted up. "You're just being sentimental," she said, but kissed him for it. And when Joe had recovered from their recent exertion, they tried Seinfield's suggestions again. Afterwards, in the room shaded by the late morning sun, Joe slept in a haze of pleasant contentment. He was seventy eight years, to be exact, and if he wasn't as energetic as he'd been at twenty eight, he made up for it with inventiveness and finesse. He was vaguely aware of Janet climbing out of bed and padding down the stairs of their house, but didn't follow her. Instead he opened his eyes and let his sleep gaze fall on the row of holograms lined up neatly on the dresser. Their daughters Andrea, Colleen and Molly grinned at him from a variety of poses and ages. His sons Joe Junior and Kevin flanked them, their faces remarkably like his own. He had a good family. He'd had a good life. He'd married late in life, just when he'd thought love would pass him by. He'd lost his prostate to cancer years ago, and remembered Duncan MacLeod sitting with wet eyes by his bed when he woke from surgery. So many unexpected things had happened to Joe, making his life full of surprises and joys and tragedies, but he couldn't think of a single moment he truly regretted. Andrea stood alone in one hologram, her college diploma gripped in one hand, her face beaming with a smile that would light up a night-time sky. She'd arrived last night from Macau, upset but tight-lipped, and was crashing in the downstairs bedroom. She hadn't mentioned a single word about Richie, but Joe already knew the basic outline of the situation. Well, what had Andrea expected? Her decisions to join the Watchers and then fall in love with Richie were ones that had always promised to demand payment. Although he couldn't be sure that falling in love with someone was a decision, really. The first day he'd set eyes on Janet, in a restaurant by the park, he'd felt as if he'd plunged off the jagged cliff of a lush tropical island into a warm, aquamarine bay of pounding surf and brilliant sunshine. And there had been no going back. Beyond holograms of his own family were others, of family and friends, including Duncan and Rachel MacLeod and their children. Mac never aged, of course. Richie never aged. And here Joe was, seventy four, looking every inch of it, and if he was a little envious that was only to be expected. Janet's voice came from the doorway. "Get up, sleepyhead. Your daughter's waiting to talk to you." "Which one?" Joe asked hopefully. He wasn't sure if he was up to Andrea at the moment. She was too much like her mother, and like Rachel MacLeod as well - stubborn, feisty, full of fire. "And breakfast is ready," Janet continued, ignoring his question, and heading back downstairs. Breakfast was an idea he was much more receptive to. Joe dragged himself out of bed, balancing easily on his bionic legs, and took a quick shower before joining his wife and daughter in the sunny kitchen nook. Andrea, sitting in a cashmere sweater and long navy blue skirt, had pulled her hair back with a thick black velvet band. She had her arms folded across her chest as she sat at the table, and her face was full of consternation. "Dad, I need to talk to you." "Good morning to you too," Joe said, reaching for the plate Janet had set out for him. "Can I have a bagel first? Your mother has me all depleted of energy." Janet pinched his arm. "You have more energy than an army of men." "An entire army?" Joe asked with a satisfied grin. "I like that." "Eat your breakfast," Andrea said morosely. "The end of the world can wait." "End of the world, huh?" Joe asked, unimpressed by her melancholy. "What happened with Richie?" Andrea's expression darkened. "I made a mistake. You were right. I should have resigned from the Watchers last year, when this all started." Janet put one hand on Andrea's shoulder and another on Joe's. "Lydia is due here any minute, for our morning yoga. You two better take this into the library." Andrea trailed Joe to the small room near the staircase. Joe settled behind his desk and watched her cross to the windows, where she stood and appeared to study the backyard. "He did something that I'm bound to report as his Watcher. But if I do, it goes into his record, and may set him up for further trouble." "The Quickening on Holy Ground," Joe said calmly, finishing off one half of his bagel. Andrea turned in surprise. "How do you know?" "He told me. He called me two days ago." Andrea visibly fought over her next words. "What did he . . . how did he sound?" "He sounded tired." Joe didn't add that Methos, in a separate call, had expressed concern over Richie's state of mind. The younger Immortal wasn't sleeping well since Satoshi's death, seemed deeply depressed, and wouldn't talk about Andrea. "Why don't you want it in his record?" Andrea sighed. "You know why. Once it goes in there, and becomes common knowledge to the rest of the Watchers, it's bound to eventually get back to the Immortals. You're the one who told me that ever since the Watchers' first beginnings there have been leaks in our information nets. Once Richie is set up as someone who doesn't respect the rules, who dared to take a head on Holy Ground, he loses his honor and reputation and integrity." Joe bit into the other half of his bagel. Onion, with a hint of garlic butter. Delicious. "That's Richie's problem. He took the head. He isn't the first Immortal to take a head on Holy Ground, and he won't be the last. But he made the decision, and he's willing to face the consequences." Andrea's mouth tightened. "I don't have to report it." Joe gazed at his daughter. For a moment she had truly surprised him. She took her Watcher oaths more seriously than most of the other Watchers he'd ever known. Then again, so had he, once, before friendship overruled them. "You're too late," Joe said. "Fletcher already put in into the network." Andrea cursed. "You didn't think he would?" Joe asked. "He was Satoshi's Watcher." Andrea shook her head. "I tried to reach him, left him several messages. I wanted him to hold the report. I was crazy, not thinking straight. All I wanted to do was protect Richie's reputation." "That's against your rules, Andrea. Your job, and your duty." "I know!" She flung up her hands in exasperation. "I'm too close to Richie to be objective anymore! And you knew it was going to happen. Are you happy?" "No," Joe said, putting down the bagel and crossing to take his daughter in his arms. "It gives me no pleasure to know that I was right. From the moment you fell in love with Richie, you said you could be objective. You overcame his and my every objection to staying on as his Watcher. You went with him despite my worry, your mother's concern, his fears. Now you know better. But it's not the end of the world. Ask for a reassignment, or resign from the Watchers." She leaned her head on his shoulder. He stroked her long copper- colored curls, felt her body shake slightly with beginning tears. "It's not about what Richie did," Joe said softly, "it's about what you did." "What I didn't do," Andrea said, her voice muffled. "Tell me," he said. "I was so afraid," she said haltingly. "Richie had disappeared the day before. When I finally caught up with him at the temple beneath Barra Hill, he and Satoshi were already fighting. Every part of my heart and head told me to stop them somehow, but my legs wouldn't move. All I could do was watch them try and kill each other." "It wasn't your job to interfere, sweetie. It never has been." Andrea broke away from angrily. "How can you say that? How many times did you help Duncan MacLeod? You gave him information about other Immortals, you rescued him from the underground cell, you even shot him - you broke every rule there was!" "And paid the price," he said softly. Andrea turned away to the window again. Her head shook vigorously. "I should have helped him. Not because I'm his Watcher. Because I love him.. And love is a duty that supersedes my Watcher oaths." "Do you think Richie wanted your help? I'm not talking about macho pride here, Andrea. Do you really think he wanted you to risk your mortal life in the middle of a swordfight with an eight- hundred year old Immortal who would have sliced you in half with the flick of his sword?" She didn't answer. Joe put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Richie took Satoshi's Quickening. Then what happened?" Her face twisted with guilt. "You know what happened." "Tell me," he said. "The Quickening was very bad, Dad. He screamed during it like I've never seen him . . . " Andrea pushed past that specific memory and took a deep breath. "For a moment I was tempted to believe all those old wives' tales about what taking a Quickening on Holy Ground could do to an Immortal. But then he recovered. He dragged himself to his knees and knelt shivering in Satoshi's blood, and then he saw me. All I could think was that he'd killed another Immortal on Holy Ground, violated the most sacred rule of Immortals, and I had to put it in my report. I had to rat him out." "Since when has your job been about ratting Richie or anyone else out?" Joe asked. Andrea didn't answer, so he tried another tactic. "So you were staring at him. And then what?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Then I walked away." Richie had left out this part. Joe tried to imagine how the young Immortal had felt after slaughtering his mentor on Holy Ground, then seeing the woman he loved turn her back on him. "Because?" he prompted gently. "I don't know," Andrea said. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes. "Because I couldn't deal with his anguish on top of my own. Because I couldn't figure out how I was going to report on him and protect him at the same time." In a small voice she added, "I know he hates me." "Andrea! He didn't hate you. He doesn't hate you now. You left him at the temple, he left you in Macau - you've both got to stop running. You can deal with this. He survived Satoshi kidnapping him, he survived the fight, he'll survive this - " Andrea stared at him. "What?" Joe's worst hunch was confirmed. "You didn't know, did you?" he asked. "Richie disappeared in Macau because Satoshi kidnapped him." "Satoshi wouldn't do that!" she protested automatically. "Well, he did. Shot Richie in the back, dragged him to the temple, forced him to fight. Fletcher saw most of it." She stared at him in disbelief. "Oh, my God," she whispered. "I didn't know. I thought . . . they were just fighting. I didn't know any of it. Dad, how is Richie going to ever forgive me?" "He can't," Joe said flatly. Her green eyes widened in shock and renewed pain. "He can't," Joe repeated. "Not until you forgive yourself first." Tears spilled down her face. Joe pulled her to his chest and held her tightly. The young, he thought to himself, felt the pain of broken hearts more vividly than anyone else. Andrea was twenty seven, Richie nearly fifty. But they were still young, the mortal and Immortal both, and he wondered to himself if they had it in themselves or their love to truly move past this breach. "Andrea," he asked softly, still holding her, "how did you know where to find Richie and Satoshi?" Her voice was small but steady. "I knew the temple was a place they both liked to visit. I just tried there, and got lucky." She was lying. And Joe, who'd once pulled a favor to have her name removed from an Immortal's record, knew it. END OF PART TWO "The guy is back," said Sam the bartender, as Joe scrolled through a screen full of figures on his computer screen. Richie had owned the bar through T.G. Enterprises for decades, freeing Joe for his music and family and light managerial duties. Sometimes, though, he liked to take a look at the electronic books. "Which guy?" Joe asked, glancing up. "The one who keeps asking about Richie Ryan," Sam said. She had never met Richie Ryan, who was fifty years old or so and lived overseas. She'd met his kid, Richie Junior, who dropped by occasionally and was dating Dawson's daughter. Sam snapped her gum. "He's come in maybe four or five times these past two weeks. You want me to tell him to leave?" "He'll just come back again," Joe predicted. "I'll be out in a minute." Part of his job as an employee of T.G. Enterprises was reporting and dealing with any general inquiries about the owner. His long time friendship with Richie would have demanded that anyway. Joe went out to the bar and slid behind the old, polished wood to pour himself a tall glass of water. The place was half-full, beginning to thicken with the lunch crowd of business types looking for a little atmosphere with their lunches. The man that Sam indicated with a nod of her head was sitting on a stool, his thick bare arms on the wood, his blue cotton shirt stretched tight over corded muscles. Blond, with curly hair not unlike Richie's, he was about thirty years old, with dark eyes and a dark expression. He had a half-drained glass of beer in front of him - the cheap stuff. His nails were dirty from mechanical work. "Are you the manager?" he asked, sounding edgy, no warmth at all in his expression. . "That would be me," Joe acknowledged. "I'm looking for the owner, but no one will tell me where to find him." "The owner is a busy man," Joe said mildly. "I resolve problems for him. Joe Dawson's my name. What can I help you with?" "Jeremy Greven," the man answered. "And you can't help with this. It's personal. For Richie Ryan only." "What kind of personal?" Joe asked. A lifetime's worth of experience with Immortals told him this man wasn't one of them. The scrapes and cuts on his hands from long hours of manual labor said that much. On the other hand, he could be working for an Immortal. Or he could be someone from Richie's murky past, although Richie's street pals from his days in the welfare and juvenile justice system would all be older than Jeremy. "You going to give me his phone number?" Jeremy asked. "I might take yours," Joe allowed, "if you've got a good story." Jeremy leveled a stare at him. For a moment he seemed undecided, but then he said, "I've got a good story. He's my father." Joe took a sip of his water. "Richie Ryan is a wealthy man," he said. "People claim to be old friends or cousins or kids every day." Jeremy stood up with a flush in his face. The stool scraped on the wooden floor, threatening to topple. "You think I'm lying?" "Calm down," Joe ordered. He didn't have the strength to toss the man out, but he still had the tone of a man who'd worked in a bar for a long, long time. "This isn't the place to cause a scene, mister. There's no need for trouble." Jeremy's face grew even more red. "Maybe it is, pal. Maybe then I could get Richie Ryan's attention. The man is my father, damn it, whether he likes it or not." "He's not your father," a voice said firmly from off to the side, and Joe realized Richie and Methos had come in during the last minute or so and overheard the end of the conversation. Richie gazed flatly at the man as Jeremy swung to him. "Richie Ryan only has one kid, and that's me." Jeremy's face twisted into a scowl. "You're Richie Ryan, Junior?" "Yes," Richie said calmly. Methos, beside him, said nothing. Looking at them, Joe realized, it was impossible to tell that one Immortal was only fifty years old, the other fifty centuries. Some of Jeremy's anger drained as he took in what he must have assumed was his half-brother. "I want to talk to your dad." "He's out of the country," Richie said. "Then you call him," Jeremy said. "My mother - his ex-girlfriend - needs him." "Who's your mother?" Richie asked. "Donna Greven. Her last name was Cole when he knew her. He got her pregnant and then left her when they were eighteen years old." Joe watched the expression on Richie's face soften unexpectedly. "Oh," Richie said. "You know about her?" Jeremy demanded. "So you know it's true." "It's not true," Richie said. As he came closer, Joe could see that Methos' concern was not unwarranted. The young Immortal seemed tired, from the circles under his eyes to the way he was standing as if he'd been beaten. But his voice was strong and steady as he said, "My dad knew Donna Cole. She told him she wanted her little boy Jeremy to be his, but she wasn't sure who the father was." Jeremy lunged for Richie with a curse. It was Methos who stepped in between them and with a practiced twist and application of pressure dropped Jeremy to the floor, his arm pinned behind his back. "It's not nice to fight," Methos said into the larger man's ear. "Didn't anyone ever teach you that?" "Let him go," Richie said. Methos released his hold. Jeremy climbed to his feet rubbing his shoulder, expression murderous, but sufficiently warned. Joe had been surprised that it was Methos who stepped in - Richie was certainly capable of defending himself - but it was good to be reminded sometimes of how dangerous Methos himself could be, and how protective of his friends. "I'm sorry if you took that as an insult," Richie said. "It wasn't. My dad loved your mom, but not the way you think. And they might have slept together, but he wasn't your father. She knows that." "That's not what she's saying," Jeremy growled. "It's the truth," Richie said. "I'm sorry." Richie took a seat at the bar. Methos stared down Jeremy until the mortal left, slamming the door behind him. "What's the lunch special?" Richie asked as Sam handed him the menu. "Veggie burgers or veggie salad," she said. "The world was much more interesting when there was meat in it," Methos sighed. Joe shook his head at Richie. "You didn't have to do that. Tell him about yourself, I mean." Richie shrugged. "It's not a big deal." "Did your father really know his mother?" Methos asked curiously, keeping up the charade for Sam's sake and anyone else who might be eavesdropping. He slid onto a stool beside Richie. Joe automatically poured a draft for the oldest living Immortal. Some things never changed. Richie nodded. "Everything I said was true." To Sam he said, "Veggie burger. Zucchini fries, please." "You think he'll be back?" Methos asked Joe. "Looks like he might be the type," Joe said. "But we'll handle him. What are you two up to today?" "Shopping for the belated birthday gift I owe Richie," Methos announced. "A 1995 Star Trek pinball machine." Sam returned with a plate of zucchini fries. "Another year older, huh, kid?" she asked Richie. "What are you? Twenty? Twenty one?" "Older than you think," Richie said, with a flash of pain in his eyes that Joe didn't miss. It was ironic, the mortal thought, that while that very morning he'd been regretting his old looks, Richie Ryan was regretting his young ones. He sent Sam away to check on the kitchen, then settled on his own stool behind the bar to talk with Methos and Richie. The prospect of acquiring a Star Trek pinball machine did seem to brighten Richie's mood, but as the conversation moved through mutual friends, world news, sports and blues music, they were all careful to not mention Jeremy Greven or Donna Cole. And Richie didn't mention the most important thing until last. "How's Andrea?" he finally asked. "She's okay," Joe allowed truthfully. "She wants to talk to you." Richie looked down at his plate. He hadn't finished half of the burger, and more than a few fries were left. Methos watched the young Immortal but didn't prod him. "I don't know why," Richie said. "Of course you do," Joe answered. "You both have things you need to say to each other." Richie stood and pulled out his wallet, determined to pay even if he was the owner. "It's not that easy, Joe," he said as he pulled out a debit card. He wouldn't meet the older man's gaze. "Believe me." Joe cocked his head quizzically. "So who said it was ever going to be easy? Believe *me.* She's a lot like her mother." Richie almost smiled. He'd been one of Joe's ushers, loved Janet as if she were his mother, and had bounced Andrea and her siblings on his knees as babies. He'd stayed away from the children for a few decades to establish himself as Richie Ryan Junior, and falling in love with Andrea had been entirely unexpected. Joe had told him once that falling in love was like diving off a cliff. "That's a compliment to Janet," Richie said. "It's a compliment to them both," Joe returned. "Call her, will you?" Richie slid his debit card into the bar, then retrieved it. He didn't answer as he headed for the door. Methos shrugged and said, "Whatever happens, happens. I'll talk to you later, Joe." "Yeah," Joe said. Then, using Methos' preferred identity, he said, "Adam?" "Yes?" "Take care of him." "And you take care of her," Methos said, of Andrea. Joe smiled. "That's my job." *** Richie dove into the bright blue water, wincing slightly as its coldness drove the breath from his chest, and swam half the length of the pool before he surfaced for air. He did ten laps, swimming strongly and methodically, and when he finally stopped he found David watching him from a deck chair. "What did you find out?" the Immortal asked as he hauled himself out of the water. David handed him a towel. "Donna Greven is listed as an indigent patient at South General Hospital. No insurance. She's fifty years old, suffering from late stage AIRIS, and the prognosis is for only a few more months at best." Richie eased down into a deck chair. David was wearing a hat, as most mortals did these days. The ozone depletion problem had led to soaring rates of skin cancer. As an Immortal Richie could sit outside unprotected as much as he wanted to. He stretched his legs out now, glad for the sunshine on his cold skin. "What about her husband?" "Skipped out awhile ago. Greven was actually husband number two. Husband one died in a gun accident, probably a suicide. Number three is the current one, but hasn't been seen in years." Donna never had made good decisions when it came to men, Richie thought ruefully. "And Jeremy?" "Jeremy Greven is a wanted felon."