Disclaimer: Rysher and Davis et al own the characters of the highlander series and this particular incarnation of immortality, not me. I intend no copyright infringement and will make no money from this story. Mark Richards and the storyline belong to me, however. If you'd like to link to or archive this story anywhere, please ask first.
Warnings: This story contains m/m sexual situations and a theme of domination/submission, as well as some violence. It is adult in nature. If you aren't an adult yet, I'll have to ask you to come back when you are. If the idea of two men together squicks you, or just isn't your cup a tea, I've got lots of Het stories that might interest you. (link to my main page at the bottom.)
THE POWER OF LOVE
By
Kiristeen ke Alaya
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Part One
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Frustrated that the shower hadn't eased any of the tension running rampantly through him, Methos didn't even bother to turn off the water before stalking toward the kitchen. He needed a beer. Actually, he needed something stronger than beer, but since he was planning on leaving, he hadn't bothered to pick up supplies. He paced restlessly back to his half-packed duffle bag, his still-wet hair dripping a single trail of cooling water between his shoulder blades. Irritated when the sensations reminded him sharply of a tongue that had, so recently tasted that same path; he shook his head, sending small droplets flinging out.
He did *not* want to go there. What had he been thinking? To allow himself to fall this far for another *immortal* was, at best, a foolish fancy. A slow, deep breath later, he managed to clear his thinking. He knew just how fragile an emotion love really was, especially when a relationship could span centuries, instead of mere decades. It was the height of stupidity to feel that way, to feel love for another immortal. He knew that, but, suddenly and with every fiber of his being, he *wanted* it. He wanted it more than he could readily recall wanting anything.
Methos groaned in disgust at himself. Richie wasn't even here, and still, he managed to cry out to Methos to surrender to it, to lose himself in Richie. Gods, Methos thought with a cynical twist of his lips, love! No, it wouldn't work. One of them would end up killing the other. And all false modesty aside, he knew exactly who would end up walking away from *that* encounter. Less than a quarter century, no matter how skilled, couldn't stand up against 5000 years of survival.
Of course, that wasn't to say he'd survive for very long afterward either. He didn't think even MacLeod, renowned for his sense of fairplay, would let him recover from the quickening before striking, let alone give him time to come to grips with the soul-deep grief he would be feeling in the aftermath. No, it was better this way, better for him and for Richie.
Spinning on one heel, he strode toward his duffel bag, and pulling out a pair of boxers, yanked them on, grimacing when they stuck to his wet skin. He blanked his mind long enough to actually dry off and finish dressing, then turned his attention back to packing.
However, the utter routine nature of what he was doing, didn't prevent his mind from returning to it's previous sujbect. His thoughts taunted him. Besides, just because he'd fallen for the boy, didn't mean the boy had fallen for him. To assume Richie had, was a huge presumption on his part. He argued with himself, laughing humorlessly.
Methos had seen how the kid acted when he thought he was in love. The kid bloody *glowed*. When he'd fallen for Kristen, he'd practically been beside himself. He, definitely, wasn't acting that way this time. This was *very* one sided. He just had to get a grip, before he lost it completely. Yanking the top closed he snapped the metal clasp with a decisive flick of fingers and he was ready to hie off to parts unknown.
He'd get away for a couple of months, or maybe even a year. By then, Richie would have forgotten about this and he... Well, he would have gotten over this particularly stupid fantasy too. He was too big a risk to the boy, and the boy too big a risk to him.
Bag in hand, he reached for his coat and headed for the door, his back-up weapons already within its folds. He froze less than an inch away from the dead bolt, Immortal presence sweeping over him.
That it was Richie, was his first thought, but he abandoned that idea almost instantly. He really didn't think Richie would come after him, at least not this soon. If he was wrong, well, he could always apologize later, assuming he stuck around for a 'later'. At this point, that wasn't his plan.
He quickly backed away from the front exit and headed for his escape route. He knew, if this particular immortal were here for him, he had only a matter of seconds before they were at his door. He didn't currently know many Immortals. Well, Adam Pierson didn't, and he wasn't going to take any chances. To do this right, however, he had to be quick. As soon as their presence faded from his senses, his would fade from theirs. He certainly wasn't going to depend on the chance that this person was too slow to figure out he went out the back.
But then, he smiled cynically, that's why he had his escape route thoroughly mapped out. He even tested it out on a regular basis. He laughed nervously as his thoughts shot back at him. 'Like a fire drill.'
The presence faded as he yanked open the window leading out to the fire escape. A resurgence and a violent kick to the front door followed less than a second later. Fortunately, his locks and hinges held, if only barely. Definitely not a small person, Methos noted, as he scrambled out onto the ancient metal of the fire stairs and froze in shock. It had been stable yesterday!
When the metal began to shriek in protest, he prayed it held long enough for him to get close to the ground. After that, he didn't care if it held. In fact, he'd be delighted should it tear loose from its moorings. It would make it all that more difficult for the unknown immortal to follow him.
An eerily familiar sounding pfft, caused him to jerk his head to look at the yard below. He noted the grinning mortal at the same moment he felt the blossoming pain in his chest. Looking down at his swiftly darkening shirt, a detached part of his mind noted the shooter had only just missed his heart, while the larger part was gibbering at him about forgetting the most important rule of survival; act, don't react.
Even as he sank to his knees, struggling against the enfolding darkness, he couldn't stop arguing with himself. Half of him ranted that it wasn't fair. He'd lived over 5000 freakin years only to be taken down by a cheater who used mortals. Half of him laughed snidely that it served him right, since he'd obviously forgotten that life *wasn't* fair.
Even so, he hoped this bastard moved him before taking his head -- the single mother with her 3 month old daughter in flat 14 were always home this time of day. And to the sound of his carefully reinforced door crashing open, one last thought fluttered through his consciousness. Gods, he *had* gone soft. He was going to die, and he was worried about of couple of mortals he didn't even really know.
Death claimed the old immortal, never having seen the triumphant sneer that suddenly hovered over his still body.
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Part Two
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Richie flawlessly guided his bike into the tight parking space available in front of Adam's building. Grinning in anticipation, he swung his leg over and carelessly dropped his helmet, leaving it to dangle from the handle bars. He'd had a lot of time to think, cruising the streets, trying to figure out where Adam as Methos, or vice versa, might go. And, despite realizing he really didn't know the answer to that, he *had* managed to come to some more coherent thoughts. Well, he had *after* the anger caused by his hurt had lessened, anyway.
Over and over, the events of the previous night, and early this morning, had replayed in his mind. He could find nothing that would cause the old man to pin him to the bed one minute, and have him running out the door the next. However, something had scared him, but good. He was sure of only one thing. Despite his own insecurities, and contrary to his earlier belief, Richie did not believe it was anything he'd done. No, it was something else entirely.
As he entered the stairwell, he figured he'd have to play this very carefully in order to get past the barriers Methos had thrown up this morning, and find out what the *real* problem was. It didn't take him long to reach the second landing. Upon reaching it, however, Richie frowned in consternation. This was the floor Methos' apartment was on, but he couldn't feel the other immortal. Disappointment coursed through him, he'd so hoped to find Methos here.
Giving it only the most cursory consideration, he decided to wait. Laying in wait in Methos' home territory, held a certain amount of appeal; an ambush, as it were.
Richie hastily forced those thoughts from his mind, and tried to make his body forget them, as well. Nothing was going to interfere in his quest to reveal the layers that were Methos. And if he had to set aside any youthful lust to do it, he would. That decided, he reached for the door, then stepped through into the hallway.
Now he just had to figure out how he was going to do accomplish the impossible, understanding Methos. Methos wasn't exactly easy to understand, at least, not to understand well.
"What the hell?" At seeing the door to Methos' apartment wide open, he quickened his stride, the panic welling in his gut spurring him faster. Breaking into a run, just before he reached the door, he grabbed the door jamb, spinning himself fully into the room, dreading what he would find.
A body, half buried under a long dark coat, blocked the entrance. Unable to stop himself quickly enough, he stumbled over it, landing in a tangle, on the floor. He forced himself to reach out, but even before he touched it, he realized it was far too big to be Methos. Whoever he had been, he was *huge*. Momentary relief threatened to buckle the arm he was supporting himself with, as he reached out to check for a pulse. There was none.
He took a shaky breath as he pivoted away from the corpse, seeing nothing but an ordinary room. As long as he discounted the splintered door, nothing was out of place. No scorch marks or broken glass scarred the interior. As quickly as that relief flickered inside him, it sputtered back out. Methos was still gone.
Maybe Methos hadn't been home. Right, Richie thought, and just what were the odds of something actually going right? He shook himself, once again eyeing the room. This time, however, he looked more closely. The window was open!
Scrambling across the hardwood floor, he fairly flung himself toward it. A fire escape! That meant he got out! At least, Richie *hoped* that's what it meant. His heart soared with that meager hope, and he quickly ducked through the opening. Frantically searching for any signs of the Immortal's passage, he swung his leg over. He grabbed the window sill reflexively when, as soon as he put his foot down on the fire escape, the damn thing shivered under his weight.
From the, relative, safety of his perch, half inside and half outside, he scanned. Nothing! There was not a damn thing! Bravely hoping the rickety metal would hold all his weight, Richie stepped onto, and toward the edge of, the metal surface. One step across and his foot slipped out from under him.
He landed with painful clatter as the metal contraption shook from the force of his impact. The instant he landed, he noticed several things all at once. His ass hurt, it was suddenly wet, a shiver of distaste rippled through him, and two men looking back his direction. They rapidly turned back toward their car, and appeared to be loading a body into the trunk.
He shook his head, and rose slowly. Trying to ignore his own body's discomfort, and, at the same time, trying *not* to upset the precarious attachment of the fire escape to the brick wall, he leaned over the railing, staring hard at the two men's suspicious activity. Excitement flooded him and he crowed silently. It *had* to be Methos. It couldn't be anyone else. If it were someone else...Well, it just didn't bear thinking about. A third body would be just *too* much.
One of them glanced back as the other slammed the lid. Both hurried toward the front of the vehicle.
His excitement deflated suddenly as he realized that if he didn't move quickly he was going to lose them. He moved toward the ladder, at least, he started to, but with the warning screech of ripping metal, he changed direction, and leapt toward the window instead. His fingers caught the lip, just as the escape fell from beneath his feet. Heart pounding, he gripped the tiny ledge with more willpower, than actual physical strength.
He couldn't fall now. As far as he could see, he was Methos' only hope. The fall would injure him, at the very least, slowing him down far too much. He spared a glance down. Good chance it would actually kill him, he acknowledged silently.
Damn, but, he didn't have time for that. "Never mind the fact that it would hurt like hell," Richie muttered sarcastically, as he gazed longingly at the open window, such a short distance above him.
Mentally cursing the tendency of people to ignore what they didn't want to get involved in, he took a deep breath and held it, trying to dig the toes of shoes into the mortar between the bricks. Three times he'd thought he'd made it, only to have his feet lose their purchase at the last second. Each failed attempt wrenched his shoulders, nearly pulling from their sockets and left him feeling just a little weaker.
Steely determination, and an, admittedly, stubborn pride, refused to let him fail. He *could* do this. One more time he tried, scraping the toes of his shoes against the wall in a desperate attempt to find a deeper crevice. He just needed his toes to take his weight long enough for him to hook his elbow over the window sill; that's *all*.
There! He had to force himself to keep it slow. Pushing up too fast would simply put him right back where he started, and this time he was sure either his fingers or his shoulders wouldn't take the punishment. 'Almost!' he thought, nearly making it a one word prayer.
Suddenly, he was there. With nearly the last of his strength he heaved himself up, and managed to get one arm latched around the wooden ledge. Using his new leverage, he spider-climbed his feet up high enough that he was able to swing a leg through, his sword clanging noisily against the edge, as he worked himself into a safer position. Gasping for breath as he lay straddling his uncomfortable perch, he turned his head ever so slightly, and gazed back outside.
The car was just beginning to move. He was too late! "XLQ 059," he said hoarsely. Then, slipping into Adam's living room, he repeated it twice more for good measure. He was not *about* to forget that license plate number. It was his only lead.
His resolve undaunted by his near mishap, he allowed his anger to ignite, restoring some of his spent strength. He strode toward the door, swiping at his behind. Wet jeans; he hated that. They were becoming most uncom- He stared at his blood covered hand, shock momentarily freezing him in place.
"Oh God," Richie whispered dispairingly. How bad had they hurt Methos? Had they- No! There'd been absolutely no sign of that, and until he saw absolute proof, he was *not* going to believe it. He was utterly convinced that if Methos ever lost his head, the minimum property damage would be an entire city block. An Immortal did *not* live for 5000 years and not take a fucking lot of heads, not even ones that preferred not to fight anymore.
That settled to his relief, if not satisfaction, he started forward again, only to stop and groan in frustration, as immortal presence announced itself. Seconds later, there was an echoing groan from what he'd thought was a mortal corpse.
"Fuck!" Could anything else *possibly* go wrong?
Richie backed up, pulled out his sword, and waited. He really didn't need this right now, but didn't figure stepping over a reviving immortal was such a good idea. If he didn't make it out of Adam's apartment alive, he certainly couldn't find, let alone help, Methos.
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Part Three
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Richie tensed as 'the body' sat up with a sudden start, moaning weakly. The man reached instantly for the coat that still lay half-on, half-off him, its inner lining face up. Instead of reaching inside, however, he pulled it up to his shoulders, as if it would offer some sort of protection.
"You don't live here," he said defensively, looking directly at Richie, eyes wide. "Who are you?"
Surprise at the fear he heard in the other's voice, halted Richie's own identification demand and his sword started to dip downward. He stopped its movement before letting it drop all the way out of a defensive position, however. His eyes narrowed, and he stared at the man blocking his path. His thoughts running in circles, Richie couldn't quite figure out what, if anything, this immortal had to do with Methos' abduction. Before he could come to any conclusion or voice his concerns, though, the big man spoke again, his gaze dipping to the open blade in Richie's hand.
"You're an immortal, aren't you?"
Richie blinked twice at the...awe?...he heard in the man's voice. Of course he was, was the first thing that occurred to Richie. He opened his mouth to answer, several smartass comments leaping instantly to mind. It suddenly occurred to him, however, that this strange immortal just might be brand new. Consequently, he decided it might be best if he kept them to himself. He *did*, however, have several questions.
"I was told I would be," the man continued, ignoring the lack of response on Richie's part. "But I didn't believe it, I mean, who would? It's like *so* unreal, like it's fantasy stuff, not reality, this can't be real, you know?" He shook his head. "Of course you know, I mean, you'd have to know, you've already been through it." The man paused to actually take a breath and, for a moment, Richie thought he might be able to get a word in. He had to admit, the man sure could talk.
"How old are you?" The man blurted before Richie could take advantage of the slight lull.
"Not much older than I look, actually," Richie answered, before he thought about it. He knew it certainly wasn't the smartest answer he'd ever given. He just hoped that he could get his erratic thoughts under control, when he really needed them. He wouldn't be any help to Methos as mixed up as he was now.
Richie knew the coat the other was huddling behind, did *not* conceal a sword. That would have been a dead, pardon the pun, giveaway that the supposed corpse just might come back, but none of that was any kind of true insurance of anything. The stranger could simply be biding his time until Richie's back was turned. If their positions were reversed, that's what he would do.
"I don't want to fight you," Richie said, testing the waters carefully. He did not put his sword up, but did allow it to dip down a little lower. "I am actually in something of a hurry, so if you don't mind," he said, indicating with a slight movement of his sword that the other should move away from the door.
"Oh, well, that's good," the now recovered immortal responded, standing. "But if that's true, why haven't you put that sword away?"
"Because, I'm not stupid." Richie responded, smirking. "Richard Ryan, by the way."
The other man cocked his head and stared. It was as if he was trying to figure Richie out. Then he shook his head, as if he was still puzzled, but would set it aside because, not understanding people was a common occurrence. "Mark Richards," he responded finally, moving well away from the door.
Richie raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but let the answer pass. After all, it *was* possible. Not everyone lied as a matter of course. This man could actually be exactly what he seemed, despite the coincidence in names.
Torn between two responsibilities, Richie hesitated. Methos versus a newbie. Mac might not approve, but in his opinion Methos won that contest hands down. Newbie or not, this guy had some questions to answer.
"Just how did you end up dead, in Adam's apartment?"
Mark bit his lip, glancing down at the blood stained floor where he had lain dead just minutes before. "I'm not really sure. I know I was attacked from behind, but after that things go fuzzy." Mark shook his head, as if clearing it of unpleasant visions or memories. "Twice in one day," he whispered hoarsely, a visible shudder running through him before he turned his gaze back to Richie. "It's a little...strange."
Richie swallowed convulsively, forcing back memories of his own first death. Strange, yeah, that was a good description. However, he didn't have time to babysit. "Look," he said, as gently as growing fear would allow. "I've got to go now . Do you know the Cafe Moreena, down on Maple Ave?"
Mark nodded.
"Meet me there tomorrow. I, or someone I know, will explain all this. In the meantime, stay in public places, or in a church. You'll be safe there."
"Safe? Why wouldn't I be safe? If I'm immortal..."
"I don't have time to go into detail," Richie explained hurriedly. "A friend is in trouble, but there is a way for you to die, permanently. Just do as I say, and you'll be fine until tomorrow."
"The guy that lives here, Adam? Is he the one in trouble?"
"Yes," Richie growled, his patience running out completely.
"No way! That poor guy couldn't hurt a fly. Who would want-"
Richie's snort of laughter was completely involuntary. "Wait!" Richie said, interrupting Mark *and* his own renewed attempt to leave. "You know him? No, don't answer that, yet." He held up a hand to keep Mark quiet, and strode to the phone. The fact that he hadn't thought of this before now, burned in Richie's gut sourly, but then, asking for help had never been his first response to any problem.
Savagely grabbing the cordless phone off of the desk, he punched well known numbers in quickly. Then, he waited, his foot tapping his impatience. "Come on, be home," he muttered, an edge of desperation entering his voice. He couldn't do it all alone, but with every second that passed, Methos was being taken farther out of reach.
When the receiver at the other end was picked up, Richie took two steps forward, as if he could deliver the message quicker that way. "Mac! They got Adam!"
"Who got him?" Mac hissed. Richie shivered. He could practically feel the phone vibrate with the venomous undercurrents in Mac's voice. He'd been on the receiving end of that voice, once. He was glad it wasn't directed at him this time, as he hastened to reassure the older immortal.
"No, no, no, sorry! I didn't mean it like that." Richie sent off a fast prayer of thanks that it wasn't like that. He knew he wouldn't be worth two plug nickels if *that* was the case. No, he'd be a mess. "He's been kidnapped."
"An Immortal?"
"No," Richie responded. "At least, I don't think so. Actually, I can't be sure. I was too far away to feel if they were."
"Then how- Never mind, that's not important. Anything else you can tell me?"
"Yeah, I got the license plate."
Mac groaned. "Why didn't you say so already? What is it?"
Richie passed it along, then listened impatiently while Mac spoke to someone on his end. He couldn't tell who it was, but considering it sounded like Mac was repeating the plate number, he thought it might be Joe.
"Listen, Mac...Mac!"
"Yes, Richie?" Mac responded finally, abruptly.
"And Mac? Speaking of new ones-"
"What? We weren't-"
"I've got what *seems* to be a new one," Richie continued blithely, as if Mac hadn't interrupted him.
"Oh?" Mac replied, suspiciously.
"My sentiments exactly," Richie responded carefully, still watching Mark out of the corner of his eye. "Seems genuine," he continued, careful not to give the subject matter away to Mark. "But, I don't like coincidences."
"Me either," Mac agreed. "Bring him, or her, by the Dojo. We can start to figure it out here."
"You sure Mac? What if-"
"Yes, Richie, I'm sure," Mac responded drily. "If this person's a threat, I want them where I can see them, if not, they need help."
"Gotcha, Mac. Will do." Richie started to hang up.
"Oh, and Richie?"
"Yeah, Mac?"
"Be careful. Don't go anywhere alone with this guy."
Richie rolled his eyes impatiently. Relieved enough to have Mac helping on this, despite his continuing worry, he wasn't as irritated by Mac's protectiveness as he could have been. "Yes, Mother. And I won't talk to strangers either."
"Richie," Mac replied, warning tinged with affectionate exasperation coloring his tone.
"I know, Mac. Once a teacher, always a teacher."
A knowing silence followed, then the two men wrapped up the phone call quickly, both anxious to get moving. Richie hung up, turning toward Mark. He could feel his mind beginning to clear, the panic receding just a little. "Let's go."
"Go? Go where?"
"To a friend," Richie replied shortly, heading toward the door. He gave a passing worry to Adam's belongings, what with the door busted wide open, but dismissed them as secondary. "He's gonna help Adam, and he can help you too." Finally, with no small reluctance, he hooked his sword under his jacket. He just hoped he could get it back out again, quickly enough, should he need it. Was he paranoid? Sure he was, he admitted ruefully, but that didn't mean it wasn't a justified paranoia.
He gestured for Mark to precede him, an extra caution that he couldn't have denied, even if he'd wanted to.
"Shit!" Richie exclaimed.
"What?" Mark yelped, spinning around to face Richie.
"Oh, sorry," Richie answered, a touch sheepishly. He hadn't meant to startle the poor guy. "I just forgot something. My bike's out front. I'll meet you there."
With that, 'I'll never understand some people,' look back on his face, Mark nodded once, then complied.
Richie darted back into the apartment. Where would Methos keep his journal? He couldn't leave it for just anyone to find.
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Part Four
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Richie's mood was sour, and becoming even more so by the minute. It had taken a heated argument, and the final threat of leaving him behind, to get Mark to agree to wear a helmet. Just because they wouldn't stay dead if they had an accident, was no excuse for not wearing a helmet. Getting pulled over by the police for not wearing it, wasn't Richie's idea of a fun time. Especially considering both he and Mark had a great deal of blood on their clothing. That would definitely be difficult to explain and would serve only to call unwanted attention to them, as well as, possibly get them arrested.
It certainly didn't help Richie's mood, that he hadn't entirely cleared Mark of having a part in the foul play done to Methos, didn't help. Neither did the fact that Mark had managed to hide that he had never actually *been* on a motorcycle before, until they were actually moving, and Richie had felt two ox-like arms lock around him. At the first stoplight, Richie had tried to calm him, but it hadn't seemed to penetrate. If anything, when they started back up, those arms had tightened even more.
Richie was beginning to find it difficult to breathe within the growing constriction, so it was with an infinite sense of relief that he pulled the bike to a stop in front of Mac's building. Even so, it took him a couple of minutes to get loose from Mark's, tight as bear-trap, arms. Barely managing to keep himself from snapping at the man, he plastered a bright smile on his face, which he truly hoped hid his decreasing patience, and gestured for Mark to follow.
Silently reminding himself that not everyone's concerns revolved around his fear for Methos' safety, and that Mark had probably just had his world turned upside down, Richie *really* tried to be sympathetic. He'd been there, after all -- not that long ago, in fact. The problem was, to him, as real and important as Mark's fears were, they were simply not high on his list of priorities right now. Consequently, reassuring the man that everything *would* be okay was trying, at best.
He glanced over at Mark, who'd moved up to walk beside him, and felt a twinge of guilt. He'd snapped at him twice during the ride over. Who wouldn't have, when breathing had become something of a chore. "I'm sorry, Mark," he said finally, meaning it this time.
Mark shrugged, but didn't lose the downcast expression. "S'okay. I expect I'm being a pain in the ass."
Richie's shoulders slumped. He recognized *that* tone, all too well. "No, actually, if anyone fits that description, it's me. I really am sorry. I know how intimidating all of this can be."
"Yeah," Mark admitted as his expression brightened. They stepped inside and moved toward the elevator, the young man relaxing perceptibly.
Richie's mind, on the other hand, temporarily released from its concerns regarding Mark, began racing with horrifying visions of Methos. Methos' headless corpse laying in a ditch or dumpster somewhere; Methos tied up and helpless with a sword swinging toward his unprotected neck; Methos calling out to him, asking Richie why he wasn't helping him.
**
Methos gasped, his body arching, as the first breath of life flooded his lungs, and immediately began coughing up blood. Reflexively curling into a tight ball, he winced at the sharp, stinging pains that each wracking cough shot through his chest. His lips twisting in disgust, he spat out the foul, mucousy liquid, and began taking quick, shallow breaths. Hoping it would be enough to prevent another coughing fit, he waited. His lung needed time to finish healing.
When he was finally able to take a full, refreshing breath, Methos uncurled, luxuriating in the surprise he felt at being alive, loving it, despite the fact that the stone floor was amazingly cold against his bare skin. The fact that his clothing had been removed, having escaped his attention previously, now came thundering to awareness.
Since he had fully expected never to see consciousness again, however, the fact that he was imprisoned, nude, and still might lose his head, didn't diminish his relief completely. As long as he was alive, he had a chance, however slim, to escape.
His self assessment, and healing, completed, he turned and took stock of his surroundings, and felt a renewed surge of surprise. The cell he was contained in was barren, for the most part, with bars all along the opening on one side and a small window high up on the opposite side. It was also blocked by bars.
Sighing, he rose slowly. Ignoring, for now, the furnishings which were at such odds with the dismal cell, he crossed to the long iron bars. His bare feet slapped against the stone floor, sending echoes into the silence around him.
Testing the bars, he pulled and twisted each one, utilizing all his strength. About halfway through, he gave up, having to admit they were quite solid. He hadn't found any signs of rust, loosening, or weakness of any kind. Blowing out a frustrated breath, and wanting very much to kick someone's ass, Methos turned his attention to the interior of his prison. A small wooden table with matching chair, a bed, a chamber pot and himself, were the only occupants.
He grimaced. He hadn't liked chamber pots back when they were far better than freezing important parts of his anatomy by running to an outhouse on a cold winter night. Now, when there was so much better available, he found them tedious, and little short of revolting.
He stared at the rest of the furniture with some confusion. It wasn't so much what the cell was furnished with that seemed strange. Those general pieces of furniture, were entirely appropriate. What he didn't understand, was the craftsmanship of the pieces.
The table was of quite high quality and when he ran his hand over it, he discovered it was smoothly finished and sturdy. The chair was of like quality and even sported a cushion. The bed, not cot, was easily wide enough for one person to sprawl a bit, and looked quite comfortable. It almost seemed as if this cold, stone cell was trying to masquerade as a gilded cage, but couldn't quite manage to cover all its scars. All in all, he couldn't adjust the two images in his mind, and that didn't sit well with him. He didn't like inconsistencies.
Setting aside what he didn't understand, yet, Methos resumed his perusal. Attempting to find *anything* that might lead to, or assist in, his escape, he inspected the walls, inch by meticulous inch, stopping only when he stood beneath the window, beside the bed. Climbing up on it, he rose up onto his toes and stretched toward the window. It wouldn't work; he couldn't reach it.
Warily glancing from the bed under his feet to the chair across the cell, he debated the wisdom of combining the two. He realized the softness of the mattress would provide a shaky base, at best. Hopping off the bed and quickly crossing to the chair, before he could change his mind, he brought it back and settled it on top of the bed, its back against the wall. Then, not without a certain amount of trepidation, he climbed his makeshift pyramid, having to make several attempts before he could maintain anything resembling balance while standing on the seat of the chair.
Shifting minutely, his hands braced against the wall, he lifted one foot to the back of the chair. His heart flipped when the chair wobbled, threatening to send him spilling to the floor, and he instantly brought his foot back down. Undaunted, mostly, he tried again, this time managing to grip the top of the chair back, with his long tapered toes. Pausing a moment, to ensure that the chair was going to stay in place this time, he then pushed off the ball of his other foot, launching himself up until he stood precariously on the narrow bar of wood.
Plastered against the wall, arms straight out to each side, he used his feet and the strength of his legs to tilt the chair away from the wall slightly. Then, ever so slowly, he reached toward the elusive window. Cursing breathlessly each time the chair threatened to tip out from under him, he stretched as far as he could, his fingertips *just* grazing the base of the window sill.
"Bloody hell!" he whispered fiercely, bring his arm back down. It was as if the room had been specifically designed for him. "Sure, Pierson, start having delusions of grandeur, why don't you?" he muttered facetiously, temporarily giving up on this avenue of escape as well.
The slamming of a door behind Methos, just as he was about to hop down onto the bed, snagged his attention and he twisted around.
"Damn!" He exclaimed, letting out a surprised yelp as, too late, he realized his error of judgment. As Methos fell to the stone surface of the floor, his hip impacted solidly against the edge of the bed, the wooden frame connecting with an ominous crack. He landed hard, forcing the air out of his lungs and ramming his head against the floor.
As the world began a spiraling descent into blackness, he heard a taunting voice float toward him.
"Tsk, tsk, Mr. Pierson. You've been a naughty boy."
***************
Part Five
***************
"I'm sorry, Richie," Joe said quietly. "Adam's Watcher hasn't reported in yet."
Richie groaned, dropping his head back against the top of the couch. "Damn! I was hoping he could tell you something," Richie groused, then slammed his fist down beside him. "What good is the fact that Adam was discovered to be an immortal, if it doesn't do us any good?"
"All that means, Richie, is that he probably followed them wherever they took Adam," Joe responded reassuringly. "It is actually good news."
"Yeah, and if it's far enough, there's no chance in hell we'll be able to get there in time to be of any help," Richie muttered angrily. "Why couldn't they have just been stupid enough to use their own car? Why'd they have to use a stolen one?"
"It wasn't stolen, necessarily, Richie. The plates didn't even belong to the car you saw. Besides, this isn't a movie. The clues don't always just line up your way," Mac corrected gently.
"Damn it, Mac!" Richie shouted, exploding up from his place on the couch to stand inches from his mentor. "Don't you think I KNOW that? Don't you think I know we don't have a snowball's chance of finding him unless that Watcher reports in time?"
When Mac's eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed, without a sound coming out, Richie realized he might have just given away far more information than he really wanted to. The anger, having caught him unawares, hung in the air like a thick mist. It taunted him with self-knowledge that, until now, even *he* hadn't realized. He was in deeper than he wanted to be.
Now, it looked as if everyone was going to figure it out, at virtually the same time he did. "Nobody messes with my friends, and gets away with it," he added, backpedalling quickly. Forcing himself to calm down, he took two steps back. "Sorry, Mac. I just can't stand sitting around not doing anything, you know?"
Richie watched Mac and Joe for signs that what he'd said sounded as lame to them as it had to himself. Joe didn't seem to be reacting much to it, other than the obvious sympathy shining in his eyes. Of course, Joe had probably see Methos and him leave the bar last night, giving him the inside track and a little time to get used to the idea.
Richie started to relax. Mac would never figure it out. He was too straight to put that kind of spin on Richie's outburst. Then he saw Mac direct a slightly puzzled look at Joe, and wilted a little inside. Steeling himself, he headed back toward the couch. If Mac figured it out, well, he figured it out. Richie's feelings really wasn't any of his business, anyway. And if the man couldn't handle it, then Richie would simply remind him of that fact. Yes, that's what he would do.
Mark, who'd remained unobtrusively out of the way until now, broke the tension that had begun to build between the two immortals. "You really care about him -- Adam, I mean," he said softly, wonderingly.
Both Mac and Richie turned to him in surprise. Somehow, in the building concern over Methos, they'd both forgotten Mark was here.
Richie glanced down, a slight blush coloring his face and several curses running through his mind. Trust Mark, a virtual stranger to the group dynamics, not to recognize the fact that Richie'd rather have kept *that* little tidbit to himself. Then after casting a quick, uneasy glance at Mac, he turned his attention back to the new immortal. "Yeah, I guess I do," he admitted softly, hoping Mac would be okay with that, despite his intention to 'stand his ground'.
Mark nodded once, his expression hardening as he met Richie's gaze squarely. "Treat him right," he admonished, surprising everyone. "He's a good man. He's helped me through a lot."
Richie, never once considering the fact that, as a reasonably seasoned immortal, he was relatively safe from Mark, answered the implied threat, giving it the respect he knew it deserved. "You don't have to worry about that, Mark," he said seriously. "I know what he is, and what he deserves."
Mark held his gaze for several moments longer, assessing his sincerity, then a grin broke out across his face. "I believe you do," he said slowly, then resumed his seat, turning his attention back to the room at large.
Satisfied that Mark had been reassured, Richie turned to face Mac, dreading what he would find. MacLeod surprised him, however. On his face wasn't the expression of disgust or disappointment Richie had expected to see. Instead he looked...puzzled, and perhaps worried.
"He's not an easy man to care about," he said softly, again surprising Richie.
Richie swallowed past a sudden lump in his throat. "No, he's not," he replied. "He's all thorns and prickles."
Joe laughed heartily. "You've got that pegged right, Richie."
Richie laughed and mentally shook his head. Just when he thought he had everyone figured out, they threw him a curve ball, leaving him off balance. He wasn't sure he liked that. It left him too vulnerable to the insecurities he was trying to bury. However, with those two, short sentences, one from each of the men he regarded as family, Richie knew that whatever else happened, and whatever problems they may have, these men were his friends and could accept this part of him. It relieved a growing weight on his soul that he hadn't been fully aware even existed.
Duncan shook his head, opened his mouth, then closed it abruptly, his eyes giving away the fact that he'd changed his mind about what he was going to say. "We'll find him, Richie," he said finally, his voice full of subtle menace.
"One way or the other?" Richie asked bitterly.
Mac winced slightly, but nodded firmly. "One way or the other, and if it's other--"
"If it's 'other'," Richie interrupted, "the bastard's mine!"
Mac took a startled half-step back, then started to object. He ceded the field, the puzzled look back, as Richie's face hardened further. "And we'll be right behind you, to make sure they play fair," he said, despite his apparent confusion.
"Damn straight!" Joe confirmed venomously.
***************
Part Six
***************
Methos glared at the tall, gangly man who stood outside his cell. When the man simply laughed at him, he had to acknowledge the fact that his nudity probably took something away from the aura of menace he was trying to project. He'd be damned, however, before he'd let on that it bothered him at all. He strode purposely toward the bars, stopping mere inches from them.
"You," he said flatly, "are dead."
"Now, now, Adam," the man admonished, as if speaking to a child, "none of that. I've been paid *far* too much money to be intimidated by the likes of you. Besides, threats issued from behind bars are never very effective."
A chill shot through Methos, but he refused to let the other man see it. "Oh, that wasn't a threat," he responded icily. "It was a statement of fact. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," he continued, his voice taking on a nearly gleeful vindictiveness. If that voice could work on the Highlander, surely it would have an effect on this pissant. "You have *no idea* who I am."
"I did my research before 'getting involved', as you put it," the man replied, grinning. "When someone offers a bounty of $500,000, I want to know why. I know all about Adam Pierson, recent graduate, researcher for the National Historical Society, so you can quit trying to act like you're something scary. I deal with 'scary' on a daily basis, and you are not it."
Methos railed inwardly, and for the first time he cursed the choice he'd made to appear innocuous. A shy, but cynical, twenty-something researcher, just didn't have the threatening impact of some of his previous incarnations. Even without clothing to disguise his peak physical fitness, the all-too-effective guise he'd built around his current life, defeated his attempt at intimidation.
"At first, I could see absolutely no reason for that kind of money being laid out for you."
'Of course not. You don't know how to look below the surface.'
The man took a half-step forward, looking Methos up and down curiously. "However, it's come to my attention that you're obviously more than you appear. The fact that you're standing here, spouting inane threats, instead of laying on that bed in agony, is proof of that."
'Spouting inane threats! I'll show you inane!' Methos ranted silently.
"I do admit that it came as quite a...surprise."
'Quite a surprise, like hell!' Methos thought, with a snort. 'The man probably shit his pants.' Picturing the irritating man's initial reaction, he almost smirked. But, five hundred thousand dollars? That worried him. Who? And the big question, why? Did he, or she, know who Adam Pierson really was, and if they didn't, why that sum of money?
"But if you had 'powers' other than that miraculous healing of yours, you'd have used them to get out of there by now. Of that, I have absolutely no doubt."
'You can bet on it, asshole!' Methos thought viciously.
As Methos glared daggers, his tormentor cocked his head to the side. "You know, it's almost tempting, no; it *is* tempting to keep you, just to see just how well that healing of yours works."
Methos' eyes narrowed.
"But, the thought of that money, and the fact that my client would, most certainly, be pissed off, keeps me from thinking too much about that fascinating option." He grinned, and turned to leave, then cocked his head to gaze speculatively at Methos. "Of course, I *am* wondering if any of your friends are like you -- that young redhead I saw at your apartment, for one."
'Shit!' Methos ground his teeth, silently watching the man stroll away. As much as it galled him to admit it, anything he said would only make matters worse. He knew the kind of man the other was, knew, all to intimately. If the bloody bastard was given even a remote hint that 'the redhead' meant *anything* to him, it would be used against him. It could possibly be used against Richie, as well.
'Damn it all to hell and back,' Methos thought angrily, beginning to pace as soon as he was alone again.
Had that been Richie at his apartment? Had he 'run' from Richie straight into this mess? Had they killed Richie, leaving him defenseless against any passing immortal? Was that why no help had arrived here? He was almost certain that if Richie had survived he'd have gone straight to Mac, and, as much as Methos chided Mac for his heroic tendencies, those tendencies would come in very handy right about now.
Methos stopped pacing a moment to glare through the bars. He hated, with every fiber of his soul, feeling this helpless. Muttering angrily, he chastised himself, knowing that he should have handled things a lot differently. As soon as he'd realized the fire escape had been tampered with, he should have climbed back into his apartment. He'd had a gun, he could have shot the unknown immortal. That would certainly have been better than getting himself shot.
The worst part was, because he'd reacted instinctively, Richie was in danger, and, right now, there was not a damn thing he could do about it. He took a deep breath. Richie could take care of himself.
'Yeah, right, just like you could.'
"DAMN IT!" Methos shouted, barely restraining the urge to strike out at something, anything. Unfortunately the nearest object was the wall. He stopped moving again, and closed his eyes. Then, dropping his head back, he attempted to center himself. He had to come up with a plan, a plan that would, not only get him out of here, but protect Richie as well.
Coiling his anger into a seething ball inside his chest, he controlled it, turned it into something he could use. He would let it continue to grow within its tight confines until it was a white hot rage burning inside him. Then, when the time was right, he would release it slowly, and allow it to fuel his vengeance.
***************
Part Seven
***************
Richie stood tensely beside Joe, listening to one side of a heated exchange. Hands fisted at his sides, he tried to stay calm, but it wasn't working very well. The only time he'd ever heard Joe sound like that was if someone had fucked up -- bad. It wasn't giving Richie much hope.
Joe slammed down the phone, turning slowly toward Richie.
"You don't have to say it, Joe. He doesn't know where Methos is."
"No," Joe snapped angrily, "*she* doesn't."
Richie spun on one foot, and, ignoring the surprised looks around him, strode toward the stairs. He was too stressed to wait in the elevator.
"Richie!" Duncan demanded. "Where are you going?"
"Somewhere I should have gone as soon as this started!" he hissed.
"What? Where?" Duncan demanded. "On second thought, never mind, I'm coming with you."
Richie stopped, the door half open. "No, Mac. There's a reason I didn't think of this before now. I cut ties with these people just after you took me in, but it looks like they're the ones I need to go see. If you come along, *no one* will talk to me. You're too..." Richie stalled a moment, unable to come up with the term he wanted. "...You look too 'law abiding'."
"Richie--"
"No, you'll have to trust me on this one. Please, Mac, for once, trust me to do this right."
Put that way, Richie knew, Duncan had no choice but to back off. If he didn't, it was as good as saying he didn't think Richie could handle himself. Richie waited, then sighed in relief as a clearly frustrated, Duncan MacLeod backed off.
"You can help by having deep pockets."
Duncan snorted, the corners of mouth twitching upward, despite the seriousness of the situation. He nodded once. "You got it."
"And Joe, do me a favor?" Richie asked, looking toward the man. "Call off my Watcher. If I have to lose him first, it'll take time we can't afford."
Joe winced, and then rolled his eyes, but slowly nodded. "I'll...figure something out."
Mac turned to Mark. "Come on Mark, we're going to distract a Watcher."
"How?" Mark asked, rising quickly. "And what, exactly, is a watcher?"
"I'll explain it, later," Mac replied, then grinned, evilly. "How angry can you pretend to be?"
Mark frowned. "Pretty pissed off, why?"
"Mac," Joe spoke up warningly, "this isn't a good idea. Someone could get hurt."
Mac's, "it's a great idea, Joe," was the last thing Richie heard as he raced down the stairs. He grinned. It was a fantastic idea. Mac could take care of himself, even if Mark wasn't as new as he said he was. The best part was, it kept Joe from crossing that fine line between friendship and interference.
***
Richie pulled his bike to a stop, and with graceful ease, he set the kick-stand and swung off. Striding down the broken sidewalk, he passed graffiti marked walls, and pulled from his memory every ounce of streetwise body language he could, translating it into his movements. Drawing also, on the attitude he'd gained during his head hunting days, following Mac's dark quickening, he fairly radiated danger.
Those he stalked past avoided his gaze, as his eyes swept uncaring over them. They weren't the ones he was looking for. He moved on, never letting his gaze settle in any one place for long. The part of his mind Richie had temporarily buried, flinched at the fear he saw in some of them, but even that part of him knew, if he wanted to get what he needed down here, he had to act the part.
Richie had considered several alternatives, on the drive over, most of which he'd immediately discarded. This had to be done carefully. He didn't want it spread around he was looking for someone. While he was reasonably sure an immortal was behind Methos' kidnapping, that didn't mean they weren't 'connected'. He also had to consider the fact that not *everything* that happened to immortals was because of other immortals.
So, in the end, he'd decided there was only one person he could 'trust' with this. He'd heard about him, back before he'd met Mac, and had seen him around. However, it wasn't until after Duncan had tried to kill him, the second time, that he'd actually met the man. In fact, Richie had saved his life, which was a rather large point in his favor. He just had to find him. It *had* been a long time.
Richie clamped down on the surge of elation he felt when he found the building, just as Frank had described it so long ago, and allowed only a small grin to surface. He cut across the street, heading straight for it, looking for all the world to be completely ignoring everything else around him. He did notice, however, the furtive movements of a man ducking behind the very building he was headed for. He 'ignored' it.
Presenting every appearance of belonging, he opened the heavy door and strode inside, not pausing as he casually took in the interior. It didn't look like much, just a seedy dump in a bad part of town. He swallowed quickly, as every man in the room rose to their feet, but didn't let that stop his forward momentum.
'They can't kill me -- permanently,' he thought, 'they don't know how.' He repeated it several times until his shaky legs almost believed him. Less than a third of the way across the large, open room, a huge man, dressed, entirely inappropriately, in a business suit, stepped in front of him. He had to either stop or swerve around the hulking man to avoid running into him. He chose to stop. Then he had to look up to meet the man's eyes.
"What do you want, boy?"
Richie's eyes narrowed. He *really* hated being called that. "I'm here to see Mr. Finelli," he said flatly, refusing to be outwardly cowed by the giant in front of him.
"He ain't seein' nobody."
"He'll see me," Richie bluffed, not really sure Frank would even remember him. "Tell him, Richard Ryan is here."
'And I hope, to God, he remembers me,' Richie prayed fervently, as he watched the indecision cross the other man's eyes and the edgy motions of the others.
"Wait here."
Richie watched him lumber away, and tried not to pay too much attention to the other, obviously, nervous men spread out around the room. But the number here told him a lot. Frank had obviously 'moved up', in the family business since they'd last seen each other. Which, despite the dangers, he was glad to see. It meant Frank was that much more likely to be able to help. Of course, it also meant he might not be willing to.
"Richie!"
Richie jumped, not expecting the loud exclamation, then rolled his eyes. Still the same Frank he remembered, if, perhaps, even larger. Loud, and big enough to make his bodyguard look small in comparison, the man was barreling across the room toward Richie. Wearing a garishly bright, yellow shirt, and a face splitting smile, he waved off his watchdogs.
"Frankie!" Richie bellowed back, dropping into the persona he'd fallen into during their brief friendship. He'd had to be loud, or Frank Finelli would never have heard a word he said, not when the man had rarely stopped talking.
Richie gasped as he was pulled into bear hug, wondering if the man planned to kill him by asphyxiation. Fortunately, Frank released him before he felt the need to struggle.
"What are you doing here, Man?" he asked, pounding Richie's back with nearly bruising strength.
Richie's smile faded immediately. "I need your help. Could we speak privately?" he asked, lowering his voice. His jaw almost dropped to his chest at the startling transformation that took place in front of his eyes.
The jolly, loudmouthed, somewhat boorish man who had erupted into the room, disappeared between one breath and the next. In his place, stood a somber, shrewd-eyed, confident man, who seemed to be able to see into Richie's soul. It was unnerving as all hell! If Richie had needed any convincing as to the power of body language, he wouldn't have needed it now.
"Marston, Jacks! See to the door," Frank ordered, already heading back the way he'd come. "No one, and I mean *no one* interrupts us. Keith, get Mr. Ryan and myself some dinner. A drink?" he asked, half-turning back toward Richie.
Richie followed, and started to shake his head, but an offhand comment made by Frank, one night when they'd been drinking, floated to the surface of his memory.
<<I don't trust a man that won't drink with me.>>
"Yes," Richie said. "A beer, if you have it."
***************
Part Eight
***************
Frank refused to talk about Richie's need for help until the food arrived, and he could be assured there would be no further interruptions. The two of them talked, instead, of inconsequential things, with Richie chafing at the time lost and trying not to show it -- too much.
Two loud, perfunctory knocks brought a momentary silence. Keith entered before the echo of the second knock had completely died away, carrying a large, covered tray. Setting it on the desk, he handed Richie a beer, pulled from an ice bucket that contained at least three others.
"Thank you," Richie responded quietly, respecting the odd silence that had descended. Keith nodded and continued setting the meal on the table between the two seated men. Richie used the time to attempt to sort out the puzzle that Frank had suddenly become. He couldn't, quite, mesh the loud Frank with the one that sat in front of him.
"Graciousness in all things," Frank said finally, as the door closed behind Keith.
Richie fought *not* to spew beer out through his nose. It might be taken the wrong way. But...gracious? That was one of the few words he would never have put in the same sentence with the name Frank Finelli.
Pouring himself a glass a wine, Frank continued. "It's what separates us from the animals, *and* the lower classes."
Richie nodded, not knowing quite how to respond to that comment. He didn't want to insult the man, nor did he, particularly, want to bring up his own humble beginnings. Frank must have seen something in his expression, because he laughed. Surprisingly, it wasn't the deep belly laugh Richie was used to.
"Ah, I see you think I'm referring to the artificial class structures society has placed on the manner of one's birth."
Richie gaped, mentally that is, grateful that he'd managed to spare himself the embarrassment of doing it openly. "Frankie, please don't take this the wrong way," he began cautiously, "but you've changed! You seem almost -- hell, there's no almost about it. You seem like two different people."
"I am."
Richie started to respond, then snapped his mouth shut.
Frank dismissed the need to reply with an airy wave. "As literally as is possible, without crossing into the psychotic, I am two different people, Richie." He paused, taking a sip of his wine. "One is *me*, the person I am when I relax. He's loud, garish, sometimes overbearing, and frequently obnoxious. I'm fully aware of his character flaws. The other is, well I call him, 'the working me'. He's quieter, refined, sometimes demanding and always in control. He has his own set of flaws. Anyway, it's how I stay sane in this insane business.
Richie smiled a soft, bittersweet smile. He could understand that. There were so many *mes* inside him, that sometimes it seemed as if he *had* crossed the line into psychotic. "I hear you," was all he said.
"Now, back to what we were discussing. What I was referring to is far more basic, yet more subtle, than the standing your family has. I was speaking of the ability to do things in their own time, with style and grace, regardless of the circumstances."
'What about life and death situations in regard to men who'd lived through 5000 plus years of history?' Richie thought impatiently, but realizing that some kind of response was required, raised his beer in a toast. "To graciousness," he said.
"Exactly so," Frank murmured, raising his glass in return, and downing the remainder in one swallow. "Case in point. The best place to discuss helping out friends is over a well-made meal. Eat," he commanded, "and tell me of this private problem of yours."
Richie managed to swallow one forkful before he launched into a description of the problem, leaving out only two, tiny little details -- 'Adam's' real name, and the fact of his immortality.
That he didn't really know Frank at all was forcefully brought home several more times during the intense interrogation that followed. The questions he put to Richie, in quick succession, were expert at slicing away irrelevancy and drawing out minute details that Richie hadn't realized he'd noticed, let alone remembered.
Richie was bemused by the time Frank rose and moved toward the door, far more swiftly than a man of his bulk should be able to, but he realized, with startling clarity, that he liked 'both' Franks. This one, however, he respected, and if he was completely honest, could fear. This Frank was a man no one crossed -- at least, not and lived to tell about it.
He listened to the rapid-fire orders Frank gave through the half-opened door, and finally felt able to eat the meal that, thankfully, was made up of foods best served cold.
"Well, that's that," Frank offered. Moving back toward the table, he grabbed a beer as he passed the desk. He handed it to Richie as he sat back down. "If this isn't just a random, independent snatching, we should have *some* information within a few hours."
Richie's eyebrows raised. "You're, uh, very connected, then?"
Frank grinned sardonically. "You could say that."
Richie toyed with the full bottle of beer in his hands before looking at the man across from him. "So, how much?"
Frank didn't even try to pretend not to understand him, for which Richie was grateful. "At a guess, I'd say twenty-thousand."
One corner of Richie's mouth twitched upward. "I believe I'll assume that 'guess' of yours to be more along the lines of a quote, but -- not that I'm complaining mind you -- it seems...light. I know damn well, someone in your position charges more than that for his services alone."
Frank pulled himself up straight, squaring his shoulders. "I owe you a life debt, Richard Ryan. That is a debt of honor. It rises above all else except family. I'll not charge you for my services in this matter."
'Shit!' Richie thought instantly. He'd hoped saving Frank's life would have gotten him in to see the man. He'd never, in his wildest dreams, expected this. He wasn't even sure he liked the idea of being owed a life debt by someone in *The Family*. Handy, he supposed, but didn't think that kind of individual attention would be a good thing for an immortal to have. He just hoped this served to balance the scales between them.
By the time he rode away, Richie had considered, and discarded, talking Frank out of feeling like he owed Richie. If he'd learned anything from Mac, it was that men who believed in things like debts of honor, took them seriously. Trying to talk Frank out of it would have been insulting, at best, and would have done a disservice to the friendship they were beginning to renew.
Now, the waiting game began...again.
No, it wouldn't. With a quick look for traffic, Richie executed a textbook 180, and was going the opposite direction before he even realized he'd made the decision.
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