========================================================================= Date: Sun, 21 Apr 1996 22:33:29 -0400 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: You Break It, You Pay For It 1/7 Author's Notes: Hi everyone! I'm back for a little while at least. The title of this story comes from a very surprising source (surprising for me) and I'm not going to say exactly where until the end, in case you hate John Tesh and decide not to read any further. Donna and baby Jeremy were in the episode "Line of Fire." Comments, criticism, feedback, mistakes, all to me please. The same disclaimers you've read before still apply. You Break It, You Pay For It by Sandra McDonald sandra1012@aol.com Richie Ryan spent most of the three hour trip from Macau to Seacouver staring at his hands. Like Lady MacBeth, he was haunted by blood that would not wash off. He felt exhausted, his body hollow and weak, his mind and chest numb. Sleep came only a few seconds at a time, and even then it brought twisting, churning visions of the one sword fight he would never forget for the rest of his life. He rubbed his hands against his pants. Satoshi's blood would not come off. Beside him, an Asian executive laughed at the movie playing directly into her retina. Richie turned his attention to the window and tried to see the ocean below, but it was too far away. He usually preferred his own airpod for travel, but circumstances had dictated he leave the New Republic of China in a hurry. Leave Satoshi's head, severed from his body. Leave Andrea. Richie leaned his forehead against the window and banged it lightly. His eyes, full of grit, began to sting. When, he wondered miserably, had the world turned into such a complicated place? Well, that was easy to answer. The night he'd first died. He hadn't thought of Tessa in a long time, but the vision of her laying lifelessly in MacLeod's arms cut across his mind like a spasm of Quickening. Some things he never expected to forget. The first spastic heave of breath into his body after returning from death. The dawning realization he was Immortal. The sense of everything sharper and clearer in a world tinged red with Tessa's blood and awash with Mac's tears. Richie wiped at his own eyes now. He was fifty years old now, far too old to be weeping in public over a beautiful, precious woman long dead. The problem, he acknowledged silently, was that he hadn't had any valuable sleep in the last twenty four hours. He needed rest. He needed to blot out the awful memory of Satoshi's death. He needed Andrea, but he'd left her back in Macau. He squeezed his eyes shut. So tired, so tired. Satoshi, on his knees as Richie's blade sliced through the perfectly still twilight air. Andrea, the last time they'd laid together, her long copper curls entwining them both, her hands caressing his chest. Richie leaned back into the body-molding seat and activated the private sleep cone. In blessed darkness and quiet he took a deep breath in through his nose, let it out through his mouth. Deliberately he relaxed the tenseness in his shoulders and the clench in his jaw. MacLeod and Satoshi both had taught him meditative techniques, but he couldn't bear to use anything his masters had given him. He drifted, in the ocean of darkness, aware of his body growing lax and heavy. Satoshi's black eyes. Andrea's slim fingers, her palm against his heart, her lips kissing his eyelids as he lay in her arms, half-asleep, the room drenched with the warmth and light of the afternoon sun. A distant clanging sound came to him, and he felt his muscles tense again in recognition of the clash of swords. Satoshi, grinning at him easily, effortlessly parlaying thrusts and blocks across the courtyard. The sky above was tinged with the purple and rose of sunset, and the South China Sea behind them rolled with soft, dark waves. Tin Hau herself gazed down upon them from a stone face and the costume of a Chinese bride. Satoshi's expression - awed, resolute, proud - the second before Richie cut off his head. Hot, sticky wetness gushed over Richie's hands. He jerked awake and out of the sleep cone, convinced the flight attendant had spilled something on him. The cone automatically retreated, leaving him blinking in the harsh light, his heart hammering wildly, his palms and back damp with sweat. The attendant was down the aisle, serving drinks. For a disoriented moment he thought she was Andrea. Andrea, the woman he loved more than he had loved anyone in fifty years. His Watcher. Joe Dawson's daughter. Richie rubbed his hands against his pants, but the blood remained. *** David Kelley met him at the airport. Sixty five years old, with a slim, short build and neatly cropped gray hair, he was one of the most intelligent, organized and diplomatic people Richie knew. He and his hand-picked staff managed T.G. Enterprises' restaurants, bars, antique stores, car dealerships, and extensive investments. David knew all about Immortals - he had been a Watcher once, in his youth, and had been trained by Joe himself. He met Richie after customs, took his carry-on bag and carefully packed sword, and said, "You look tired." "Long flight," Richie returned. He could barely stand straight, and a strong breeze would probably flatten him. He was grateful that David had met him on such short notice from the airpod's phone, but that was never really in question. David's first priority was always Richie, no matter what time day or night, no matter where in the world the Immortal might be. "You said Miss Andrea's not joining us?" David asked. "Maybe later," Richie said. Or maybe not at all, he thought to himself, but didn't dare speak that thought aloud. David steered him towards the parking lot. "If you have her flight number, I'll arrange for her transportation." "She'll manage," Richie said. David pressed no further. In the electric car as they headed north to the estate, Richie sat in exhausted silence and stared at the scenery without seeing it. David let twenty miles of silence pass, then turned on the autopilot and swirled around in his seat. "The month-end figures are in your mailbox," he offered. Richie didn't even glance at the computer keyboard set in his armrest. The world outside was too bright, too full of spring's life and hope, but he didn't have the energy to darken the windows. He did rouse himself enough to ask, for David's sake, "How's it look?" "Better than last quarter. You're a very rich young man." "I'm not young," Richie offered. "Younger than me." Richie allowed himself a trace of bitterness. "And nineteen forever." David let a few more miles pass without comment. Then, in a quiet voice that spoke of twenty years of affection and teamwork, he asked, "Is it something I can help with?" Richie turned his gaze to the mortal, suddenly ashamed of his own conduct. He could wallow in guilt and pity all he wanted, but it wasn't fair to take it out on a man who'd been not just a good employee but a good friend, and a mentor in his own right as much as Mac and Satoshi had been. "Thank you," Richie said sincerely, "but no. It's not something you can help with." David's frown deepened. "Maybe MacLeod?" It had been a long time since Richie needed to run to MacLeod everything he got in over his head. He couldn't deny that he wanted to talk to Mac, maybe even needed it, but the Highlander was in Scotland with his wife Rachel and Richie had no right to bother him with this. So he shook his head at the suggestion, and turned his attention back to the scenery until David switched back to the steering controls. They passed through the estate's old stone gates a short time later, and as the car slid up the long, graceful slope of the driveway to the Tudor-style mansion Richie knew they were being monitored by security cameras and sensors. He hadn't been in Seacouver for nearly seven months, but the house and grounds appeared as meticulously maintained as the day he and Andrea left. Dismissing the household staff as soon as they appeared, he headed through the large marble foyer with its crystal chandeliers and double winding staircase, past the sumptuously decorated library of paneled oak, leather and gold bound books, and Persian rugs, and directly to the game room in the back of the house. The game room had been decorated in what Andrea called early- American-Richie-style, with large sofas and battered armchairs, mounted basketball hoops, a wall-sized television, wet bar and refrigerator, movie and sports posters, an indoor whirlpool, and a row of antique arcade machines. The French doors lay wide open to the descending terraces that led to the swimming pools and lake. The blue sky looked flawless, and the only sounds were birds twittering in the distant trees. He started for the bar, suddenly determined to sedate himself with large doses of alcohol, but the warning buzz of another Immortal made him spin towards the terrace, his hand automatically reaching for the nearest sword on the wall. A figure moved into the doorway, backlit by the sun, features momentarily indistinguishable. "Welcome back," a British voice said cheerfully. "Nice place you've got here." Richie let out a sigh. "Glad you like it, Methos," he said, more sharply than he intended, and raised an eyebrow at David, who had followed him from the car. "You wanted an open-door policy for your friends," David reminded him. "He's been here a few months now." "Working on a new thesis," Methos said agreeably, coming in the room. He looked exactly as he always did - mild and thoughtful, casually dressed, with a trace of sun in his features. Richie could easily imagine him sitting for hours by the pool, drinking beer and charming the maids. The older Immortal's face registered a genuine frown. "If I'm an intrusion, I'll leave." The words only further irritated Richie. "Of course you're not an intrusion," he snapped. Methos - whom he'd once only known as Adam Pierson - was one of the few Immortals Richie counted as a true friend. He poured himself a large glass of Scotch, downed it in two gulps, and realized Methos and David were both staring at him. "I'm thirsty," he said when he put the glass down. "I see that," David said mildly. "Are you hungry? It's almost lunchtime here." Richie shook his head. "No. I'll eat later." David glanced at Methos. Methos shrugged ever-so-slightly. David bowed out of the room, and Richie poured himself another Scotch. "How did things go in Macau?" Methos asked. "Who told you I was there?" "I didn't think it was a secret," Methos said. "No, it wasn't," Richie said. The Scotch went down even better than the first glass. He closed his eyes momentarily, waiting for relief, but he could still see Satoshi's eyes. The world wavered briefly beneath him. "Everything I do is a matter of public record and debate, didn't you know?" He felt strong, sturdy hands on his shoulders. "Sit down before you fall down," the other Immortal ordered. Richie obediently sank down onto a stool. He opened his eyes and squinted at Methos. "Long flight," he offered. "I'm sure," Methos said. "What happened?" "Just your normal slice-em-up, dice-em-up," Richie said. "You know, kill someone you've known for twenty years, take off his head, just chop it right off - " "Who?" The warm glow of the alcohol deserted Richie. He felt older and wearier than he ever had in his entire life. He hated the sunlight coming through the doors. "Satoshi," he murmured, and saw Methos' face tighten to grimness. "It had to be done," he said. "By me?" Richie protested. "It had to be done by me? The man was my teacher. My mentor." "I know." Methos' voice was surprisingly grave. "But you didn't challenge him on a whim, did you?" "I didn't challenge him at all. He kidnapped me," Richie said softly. It was the truth. It was cold, and hurtful, but it was the truth. Suddenly he forced a crooked smile. "You know how much I hate it when people do that. Makes me feel nothing more than Mac's expendable sidekick all over again." Methos didn't smile back. "Whatever happened, you killed him. You did what you had to. You can't let it consume you with guilt." "You don't know what happened," Richie said. "I can imagine." "Then imagine this," Richie said, reaching for the Scotch again. His hand didn't shake, but his voice did. "I killed him on Holy Ground."