7th Dimension - okay to archive. This story is set during the fourth season, shortly after Leader of the Pack. It was originally published in Rules of the Game 5. Feedback is always appeciated. The Corners of My Mind by Melanie Joan Riley Mriley99@aol.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Would it never stop raining? He was tired of the never-ending dampness. Tired of wet boots, of the mold that wanted to grow everywhere - making him sneeze first thing in the morning - of bread that went bad almost as soon as you bought it...tired. So tired. Richie pulled his motorcycle into its customary spot beside the stairs to the dojo and attempted to put down the kickstand. It took three tries before it locked in place, allowing him to take the weight of the bike off his legs. He swung his right leg over the 600 pounds of cold steel with an effort, then pulled off his helmet, carrying it under one arm as he ascended the stairs. His feet felt like they were weighted down, the steps that he normally took two at a time a nearly insurmountable obstacle standing between him and the entrance to the building. He made it to the top without stopping, though his deathgrip on the banister played a major role in that little accomplishment. A deep breath to steady himself, and he moved away onto open ground. He pushed ineffectually against the outer door, mentally smacked himself, and pulled it open as he had a hundred times before. "Get a grip, Ryan," he muttered, shaking a few clinging raindrops from his hair and nearly falling before he caught himself, the hallway spinning for long moments. Half a dozen strides and the dojo door loomed before him. He felt Duncan before he saw him, that sensation that was oh-so-familiar to him now, as if it had always been there when, during his first months of immortality, he had wondered if he would ever get used to it. The Scot was having a quiet discussion with one of their Monday morning regulars, but had one eye on the door, letting Richie know his presence had not gone undetected. The dark-haired Immortal shot him a welcoming smile. One that, Richie noted, quickly changed to a frown. He said something else to the man beside him, then moved to intercept the young redhead. "Hey, Mac." "Richie! What happened?" "What happened?" the young Immortal repeated dully. "When?" His eyes followed Duncan's line of vision and he looked down at himself wearily, feeling only mild shock at what he found. Dried blood covered his lower shirtfront and the top of his jeans. The rest of the denim was mud-soaked and there were several tears in the heavy material. Likewise, the left shoulder of his cotton t-shirt was hanging by a few threads. Richie continued to stare at the condition of his clothing, as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh, man, not again." "Not again? What do you mean, 'not again'?" "Nothing. I don't mean anything. Listen, I'm gonna hit the showers and change before I get to work," Richie muttered, already turning away. "Never mind work, Rich. You look like you haven't slept in days. What have you been doing since Friday? Is it another Immortal?" Duncan asked, voice lowered against any eavesdroppers. "No...I don't know. I don't think so, anyway," the redhead answered ambiguously. "You don't *think* so? Richie, come upstairs. I think we need to talk," Duncan said, using his larger frame to block Richie from the view of any curious onlookers. The young Immortal let himself be led to the elevator. He moved away from the other man then, but leaned heavily against the wall of the lift for support. "So what happened?" the Scot asked after they reached the loft, following close behind as Richie made his way to the couch and dropped down upon it. "I guess I had an accident, or something," Richie answered listlessly. "You *guess*? Don't you remember?" "No," the red-haired Immortal admitted. "Maybe I hit my head." Duncan's expressive face was growing darker by the minute. "Richie--" "Look, it's no big deal. I mean, I've still *got* my head, right?" the younger man quipped, trying to lighten the mood. "All I know is my clothes looked fine when I crashed on the couch last night." "Where did you wake up this morning?" "Same place I went to sleep - on the couch." "And?" Duncan prompted when Richie fell silent. "And I spotted the clock, saw that I had overslept, grabbed my keys and ran out. I didn't stop to change. I figured I could grab a change of clothes after I opened the dojo. Sorry I was late." Duncan brushed that off with a brisk wave of his hand. "That's not important, Rich." He noted the dark circles under the young man's eyes with a fierce frown. "I think maybe you'd better take the day off and catch up on some sleep." "No, Mac, come on. I think I'm getting too much sleep or something. Besides, I'll be good as new after a couple quarts of coffee and three or four jelly donuts." His smile was only a shadow of its normal self. "You're sure? You look like twenty miles of bad road to me." The redhead snorted at that. "Thanks, Mac. I love you, too." He rolled his eyes as the Highlander continued to hover over him, seemingly determined to play mother hen. "Yes, I'm sure, okay? Listen, can we just drop this? Those invoices aren't going to pay themselves, you know?" "Okay, go, but use my shower. I don't want to have to explain your appearance to anyone downstairs. Get washed up and into some clean clothes. You know where my razor is." "Yeah. Thanks, Mac." The redhead dragged himself off the couch and plodded heavily towards the bathroom without another word. Duncan watched him out of sight, then turned toward the stairs. If something was bothering Richie, he was sure the young Immortal would talk to him about it sooner or later...he usually did, and there was no reason to think this time would be any different. Two days later he was ready to revise his assessment of the situation. Richie had taken great care to show up at work on time every day, and in clean, if wrinkled, clothing. He chattered incessantly about anything and everything, except why he was nearly asleep on his feet. Any time Duncan tried to broach the subject, he received clipped, evasive replies that told him absolutely nothing, or an overly-chipper "Nothing's wrong, Mac. You worry too much," that made him want to shake his young student till his teeth rattled. If it weren't for the gaunt, haunted look on Richie's face he might have let it go, but that look had started to invade his dreams, and now he was losing sleep, as well. Duncan tried to convince himself that it was that, and not his growing concern for the redhead's welfare, that drove him to show up at Richie's apartment at the crack of dawn that Thursday morning. He didn't bother to knock, opting for the key Richie had given him for emergencies, instead. Not finding the young Immortal inside was an unwelcome surprise and Duncan settled in on the couch to await his return with a expressionless face that belied the anger bubbling just below the surface. If the kid was just out running around every night having a good time, he was going to kill him. It was nearly 5:30 a.m. when he sensed an approaching Immortal, and he braced himself to give the young man hell. The sight that met his eyes, when Richie pushed open the apartment door with sword drawn, stole the words from his mouth. The young redhead locked gazes with him, sighed in obvious relief at seeing a familiar face, and lowered his swordarm. He stumbled into the apartment, heading for the bathroom without questioning the other Immortal's presence. Duncan's anger may have fled but his curiosity had not, and he caught Richie as he passed, swinging him around by one arm. He found his own arms full a moment later as Richie slumped bonelessly against him. Duncan quickly lowered him onto the couch then hurried to the bathroom, returning with a cold compress which he placed on Richie's forehead; he perched on the edge of the cushions beside him. Waiting for the young man to revive, he took the opportunity to inventory his friend's condition. Once again, Richie's jeans were bloody and torn, and smears of dirt and dried blood on his face gave evidence of already-healed scratches there. What startled the Scot most was the fact that the redhead was shirtless and barefoot, his feet only now healing from assorted cuts and bruises. Richie moaned as he drifted back toward consciousness, muttered something indistinguishable, then started violently as he sensed the other man. The larger Immortal grabbed him by the shoulders as he tried to leap up, easing him back with murmured reassurances. "It's okay, Rich. It's Mac. It's all right." Richie blinked owlishly up into his face, then sank back down into the cushions, releasing a harsh breath and closing his eyes once more. Duncan retrieved the washcloth that had been displaced by the young man's sudden move and ran it across Richie's face, wiping away the residue of caked blood, frowning at the dark shadows that framed normally-bright blue eyes. Those eyes regarded him wearily now, one hand reaching for the cloth. "I'll do that," Richie mumbled, relieving him of it, but he did no more than swipe at one cheek before dropping his arm down upon his chest in defeat. "I'll take a shower...later." He seemed to really take notice of the other man for the first time since entering the apartment, and struggled to a sitting position. "What are you doing here, Mac? What time is it?" "Don't you know?" Duncan asked inscrutably, drawing a frown from the younger man. "If I knew I wouldn't ask," he grumbled. "It's nearly six a.m. Where have you been, Richie? Didn't you get any sleep last night at all?" The Highlander didn't sound pleased, that much penetrated the redhead's sleep-deprived brain. "Sure I got some sleep," he said defensively. "I even went to bed early." "Well, you weren't in bed when I got here," Duncan announced. "What happened to you?" Richie looked down at himself and bit back a groan. "If this keeps up I'm not going to have any clothes left," he said, with no trace of humor. "Richie, I want you to tell me what happened," Duncan repeated, his tone brooking no argument. The young Immortal mustered a frown. "I don't know, okay?" "You don't know?" Duncan repeated dully. "I don't remember leaving the apartment," Richie clarified. "I came home, ate a little dinner, drank a few beers and went to bed. Next thing I know, I'm lying on the ground, cold and wet, and I don't know how I got there." "Has that ever happened before?" "Maybe," Richie hedged, causing Duncan's scowl to deepen. "Once or twice in the past week," he added, seeing that the Scot wasn't about to let it go at that. "And each time you didn't remember anything?" "Yeah. Man, I've got the mother of all headaches," Richie groaned, pulling himself into a sitting position. "I need an aspirin the size of New York." "Richie, you can't keep going like this. You're obviously not sleeping and I don't like the fact that you're losing periods of time." "I'm not too crazy about it, either, but, other than trashing my wardrobe, it's no big deal. I'm still in one piece anyway." He tried for a smile, coming up with something that resembled a grimace instead. "I want you to stay at the loft for a while, Richie," Duncan proclaimed, ignoring the younger man's attempt at humor. "No, way. I don't need a babysitter, Mac." The Scot swore under his breath at the mutinous expression on Richie's face and grabbed the young man's left arm, turning it to display a long streak of deep red along the underside. "This is blood, Richie. You've obviously been hurt badly and it's not the first time, or the second...or even third, from what you've said." Richie tried to turn his head away but Duncan grasped his chin and held it firmly. "If you were having trouble with another Immortal, you would tell me, wouldn't you?" "Mac, come on...yes, I'd tell you," he assured him, pulling his face free from the grip. "As far as I know, the last Immortal that was in town was that guy Kanus. You said you took care of him." "I did." "Well, it's hard to make a mistake about a thing like that. Besides, we don't even know that all this is linked to one of us. I could have gotten banged up like this from dumping my bike." "Even if you were crazy enough to go riding without a shirt or shoes - which I don't believe - you didn't do that tonight; I saw your motorcycle outside when I pulled up. And that wouldn't explain the other incidences," Duncan reasoned. Richie shook his head and gave a jaw-cracking yawn. "I'm too tired to work it out now. I've got a couple hours before I have to be at work," he said, glancing at the clock on the far wall. "I think I'll take a hot shower and try to catch a few winks." "That sounds like a good idea, Rich, but you've got more than a couple hours. I can handle the dojo myself until this afternoon." Richie opened his mouth to argue, but Duncan cut him off. "Come in this afternoon, Richie," he said forcefully. "If I see you there before lunch I'll toss you out on your--" "Okay, okay. I'll see you after lunch," Richie cried, hands up in surrender and a wry smile on his otherwise cheerless face. Duncan returned the small smile and stood, offering the younger man a hand up. Richie accepted it gratefully, holding on until he found his legs. "Thanks, Mac. I'll catch ya later," he said simply, and moved slowly toward the bathroom, swaying slightly as he went. Duncan watched him out of sight before turning away. He headed back to his place long enough to grab a quick breakfast and put the 'closed' sign on the door with a small additional note reading 'til noon' tacked on below it. His next stop was Joe's. It was time to find some answers.