Vanya smiled at the mental picture. "You think he's overreacting? You don't think your disappearing for hours at a time - supposedly while asleep - and returning in torn, bloody clothing isn't something to be concerned about?" "Well, when you put it like that," Richie retorted with a wry grin, then shrugged. "Whatever it is, it'll probably work itself out, sooner or later." "You think so?" Her only answer was another shrug of the redhead's shoulders. She made a mental note of that, and moved on. "You called Duncan - Mac - a mother hen. Is that a new experience for you? Being mothered?" "I don't have to tell you that Immortals don't have parents. Not real ones, anyway, but there was a woman when I was little...Emily Ryan. I thought she was my mother for a while." "And where is she now?" "She...she died when I was about four." "And there's been no one since then?" "Lots of foster mothers, but nobody special...except Tessa." "Tessa?" "Yeah, she was Mac's...she and Mac were an item for a long time. A long time by my clock, anyway. She acted like my mother sometimes, even though she wasn't old enough. I think she wanted kids pretty bad. She would've been a great mom," he finished, just above a whisper. "And where is Tessa now?" "She's...dead." There was just the barest hesitation in his answer as he shifted restlessly in his chair, eyes sliding away to survey the room. His gaze drifted to the display case on the wall beside him and he sprang to his feet without warning. "This is really old, isn't it?" he asked, finger following the lines of the short-bladed, gold-hilted scimitar encased within the glass receptacle. "Yes, it is - circa 1300 A.D. How did she die?" "Die?" Richie repeated, his attention centered on the blade. "Tessa. How did she die?" "She was shot." "How long ago?" "Two years," he said, eyes vacant as he stared straight ahead. He gave himself a mental shake and turned to face her. "They were going to get married, did you know that?" "No, I didn't. How did you feel about that?" "I thought it was great. I was gonna be best man." He wore a brilliant smile for all of thirty seconds, then it faded away to be replaced by that guarded expression once more. "Yeah, well...that was a long time ago." "Two years," Vanya reminded him. "Yeah," he droned, missing the irony. "Didn't Sean tell me that you had your first death two years ago?" "That's right." "Rough year," Vanya observed. Richie gave a short, humorless laugh. "Rough day." "I don't understand." Sighing tiredly, the redhead moved away from the weapon. "Tessa and I were shot to death by the same guy," he explained. Korsikov carefully schooled her features to hide her surprise. "I see. That must have been very difficult for you, losing your mother-figure and your mortality at the same time." Richie shrugged yet again, making the petite Immortal long to shake a response out of him, though outwardly she remained calm as she watched him move to the couch and flop down upon it. "Like I said, it was a long time ago." "But you thought quite a lot of her," Vanya persisted. "Everybody loved Tessa," he reflected softly, staring at the clenched fists resting in his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and turned his gaze to her. "Look, no offense or anything, but what does all this have to do with me sleepwalking?" "Maybe nothing. Why? Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about what happened?" "Talking about it won't change anything. Tessa'll still be gone." "She'll still be gone, yes, but sometimes talking can help a great deal," Vanya contradicted him. "You might be surprised." The look Richie shot her was clearly skeptical. "Surprises aren't one of my favorite things. They usually involve death or sword- wielding Immortals, or both," he informed her. "You're much too young to be so cynical," Vanya scolded mildly, feeling a sudden protectiveness for the relatively new-born Immortal. "Hey, I resemble that remark," he quipped, throwing her a cocky grin that was extremely short-lived. "Vanya...nice name. Where are you from originally?" "Russia. A small village outside Stalingrad. You wouldn't recognize the name - it doesn't exist now. The Cossacks ravaged it in one of the Czar's pogroms." Her tone was pensive with just a touch of anger. "I'm sorry." "Thank you - but as you said - it was a long time ago. Besides, we're here to talk about you," she reminded him with a knowing smile. "Not much to talk about," Richie hedged. "Oh, I wouldn't say that. Why don't we jump to these nightly walks of yours? You have no recollection of them at all?" "It's like I told Mac. I remember going to bed, but it's like I'm drugged or someone's taking over my body, cuz, next thing I know, I'm outside somewhere struggling for air, and I look like I've been through a meat grinder." "And what makes you think this is a case of sleepwalking?" Vanya asked, making a quick entry on her workpad. Richie squirmed in his seat, uncomfortable with the subject matter. "Mac and Joe followed me last night," he admitted. "I walked right by them up to the roof of my building and jumped off. I guess I was really out of it." "You don't think there's a possibility that you were drugged?" "I don't see how. I didn't eat or drink the same things every night. A few times I didn't eat dinner at all - too tired. One night earlier this week I crashed at a friend's house while he was away, just to be sure it wasn't something in my apartment, but it happened there, too." "Well, it does sound as if you've given it a lot of thought." Richie rolled his eyes at that. "Oh, yeah, I think about it all right. Seems like it's all I think about anymore. I thought maybe I was losing it until Mac came up with the sleepwalking idea," he confessed. "That hadn't occurred to you?" Vanya asked. "Not really. I mean, I never did it before. Why start now?" he reasoned. She smiled, trying to project encouragement. "Good question. That's what we're here to find out." "Yeah." A huge yawn broke across Richie's face and he squelched it in embarrassment. "Sorry, I haven't gotten much sleep lately." "No I don't suppose you have." She set her pad and pen aside. "I'll tell you what, I think we could use a break. I cleared the rest of my appointments for the day when Sean called, so that's not a worry. Why don't you stretch out for a while and see if you can't take a little nap while I go talk to your friends?" "A nap, huh?" he repeated, grinning in spite of himself. "I hate to admit it, but that sounds pretty good about now." "It's decided, then." She rose to her feet and moved to stand before him. "What would you like me to tell Duncan and Mr. Dawson, if anything? Everything you've told me is completely confidential, of course, unless you say otherwise." "Mac and Joe already know about all the stuff we talked about, so it doesn't make much difference. I mean, it's no big deal." "All right. As long as I have your permission," she affirmed, turning toward the door. "Sure, why not?" Richie murmured drowsily, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the couch, a throw pillow under his head. "Doesn't matter," he added softly, eyes drifting shut. Vanya turned back to the couch for a moment, taking in the young face relaxed in sleep, her own brow furrowed in concern. Having died at twenty-nine she had only ten mortal years on him, but the one-hundred and fifty some odd years she'd lived since that first death had given her an undeniable edge on the new ones. And this one was *so* young...so *painfully* young to just be starting out. He would need all the help he could get. She would give him all she could for as long as he needed, her promise to Sean aside. This promise she made to herself as she crossed the foyer to join Richie's companions. She stopped at the reception desk long enough to tell Peggy, her assistant, to take the rest of the day off, then moved across the room to the others. "Is everything all right? Where's Richie?" Joe asked rapid-fire, openly concerned at Vanya appearing without a certain redhead in tow. She smiled her reassurance as they rose to meet her, gazing up into first one worried face, then the other. "He's fine. He's sleeping, and it seemed a good time to discuss a few things with you both." "Is that kosher...talking about him, I mean?" Joe inquired. "Doctor-patient confidentiality? Don't worry, I have Richie's blessing to discuss his case with you, but I would prefer it didn't go any further." "It won't," Joe stated, glancing briefly at the stone-faced Scot at his side for confirmation. "Good," Vanya said with a nod. She took a seat in the nearby circular conversation area and waited while both men did the same before continuing. "Your young friend is quite adept at hiding his emotions when he wants to. I also get the impression he would like to use his not inconsiderable charm to get around my questions." The Watcher snorted his agreement of that. "He does have a talent for misdirection, doesn't he? As for the charm, you wouldn't be the first woman to lose her train of thought when he flashed his pearly whites." "The smile and big blue eyes I can handle, but I am concerned with the almost desperate need he has to downplay his feelings." "Richie?" Joe exclaimed in surprise. "I'd call the kid more on the spontaneous side. Most of the time, anyway. 'Course if you're asking him questions about his past, that's something else. Kid's pretty tight-lipped about that stuff." "He does show a tendency to try to shrug off the more painful events. That's not uncommon, but it's not very healthy. Sooner or later those emotions are going to bubble over." "Yeah, I saw a lot of that after Nam. Some of those guys just snapped years later. Held everything in too long." Duncan spoke up for the first time at that. "Are you saying that Richie could snap emotionally?" "No, not at all," Vanya assured him. "I'm just saying that if you bury the pain too long and too well, it can manifest itself in other ways. Sleepwalking is just one of those ways." "I don't like the sound of that," Joe murmured. "Neither do I," Duncan concurred darkly. "What can we do to get through to him?" "I do have an idea, if he'll agree to it." Joe leaned back in his seat and tapped his cane on the floor. "That could be a big 'if'. Richie wasn't thrilled about seeing a psychiatrist in the first place." Duncan brushed that off with a wave of his hand, as if Richie's complying were a forgone conclusion. "What's your idea?" "I'd like to hypnotize him. Hear me out," she counseled, one hand raised to halt the objection she sensed was coming. "It's perfectly safe, you can even be in the room if Richie agrees. I simply put him in a relaxed state where he's free to answer my questions without his conscious mind putting up obstacles. No drugs, nothing against his will," she explained. "I'm a great believer in first impressions and, to me, he appears to be a very forthright young man. Hiding his feelings as he obviously is must be quite a strain on him...and both of you." "Hypnotism?" Joe repeated, one eyebrow raised. "No offense, Doc, but I always thought that was more of a parlor game." Korsikov smiled tolerantly. "That's a common misconception. I've been using the technique for over eighty years and it can be very helpful with stubborn patients." "Like Richie," Duncan supplied. "Well, normally I would recommend continued visits twice a week while we delved into what was behind these episodes of his." "We don't have that kind of time," the Scot reminded her, rising from his seat to pace the confines of their area. "In this case I don't believe we do, no," Vanya continued. "From what you've witnessed, Richie's already to the point of self-mutilation. I really don't want to draw out this process any longer than necessary. He may be immortal, but these continued suicides could be causing a great deal of psychological damage, and that won't heal overnight." //His eyes opened abruptly, deepest blue, unblinking as he sat up and scanned his surroundings, searching...finding. He moved unerringly across the room, breathing evenly, limbs relaxed as his goal came within reach. A lock - an obstacle to overcome. He drew back his fist and lashed out, striking the glass forcefully, shards tearing skin, bones snapping under the pressure. A simple thing now to reach in, pull it free, feel its weight, know its purpose. It fit his hands perfectly, the blade glinting in the lamplight as the sharp edge was turned inward. Left hand on the hilt, right wrapped around the point, pain only a phantom as the edge bit into the flesh of the palm and fingers, blood running freely down the raised arm as he brought the blade above shoulder height, holding it horizontal, neck extended, vulnerable, ready. It would end here.// Duncan nodded thoughtfully at Korsikov's words, relieved that she had the experience Richie needed and the willingness to use it to his benefit. "If that's true, then we need to move on this right away." "I agree," Vanya said. "As soon as we have Richie's blessing we--" The sound of glass shattering swung all three around to face the closed door to Korsikov's office. Duncan moved first, striding swiftly across the foyer and throwing the door wide, Vanya close behind as he burst across the threshold. The sight that greeted them froze the Scot in place for the space of a heartbeat, then he lunged across the few feet separating him from Richie and tried to wrestle the blade away from the young Immortal's hands. "Careful, Duncan! Careful!" Vanya cried at his elbow, her small hands wrapped about one of Richie's arms, tugging fruitlessly against his greater strength. Surprised at the redhead's vigor, Duncan steeled himself, releasing his grip on the sword's hilt with his right hand and rabbit-punching Richie with all the force he could muster. The young man's head snapped back at the force of the blow and he dropped like a rock, the carpeted floor cushioning his fall only marginally. Duncan wasted no time in placing the scimitar behind him, well out of reach. He moved to Richie's head then and, kneeling, pulled the young Immortal up from his prone position, resting his protege's upper torso against his and wrapping an arm around his chest to hold him in place. With his free hand he checked for injuries, frowning at what he found. There were several deep cuts across the palms of both of the young man's hands, several going right to the bone, but it was the nasty-looking slashes across his throat that drew the group's attention. "Will they heal?" Vanya asked, voicing everyone's concerns as she knelt beside them, her hands moving to staunch the flow of blood from the wounds even as a barely discernible blue light flickered across them, doing the job for her. "Thank goodness," she sighed, closing her eyes briefly, giving a short, silent prayer to a higher power. Richie cradled in his lap, Duncan looked up at Joe - his own face mirroring the Watcher's distress - and a silent message passed between them. They turned to Vanya as one. "When can you do it?" "Hypnotize him? I would say today, but he needs to be receptive to it and I think after this we'll need to give him time to decompress...and ourselves, as well." "Tomorrow, then," Duncan intoned resolutely. "Tomorrow," she vowed with equal resolve.