Highlander 1. A Haven Destroyed

Author's Note: This story is a sequel to two earlier stores: Avitaphobia and Isolophobia. It is highly recommended you read those two stories first. This story opens roughly eight months after Isolophobia ended (meaning, both Asher and Richie have celebrated another birthday).  
  
As always, I do not own Richie Ryan, Duncan MacLeod, Methos/Adam Pierson, Nick Wolfe or Amanda. I own only the idea of Mike [Ross], but not the concept or the actual character. I do, however, fully own Asher Jacobs, Darcy Gallagher-Ross, Samuel Clarke, and Havyn Parker.  
  
The song that Asher Jacobs sings/writes in this chapter belongs to the very talented and personal favorite of mine, 'the Goo Goo Dolls' and is called Think About Me. It can be found on their album, 'Gutterflower.'  
  
[Question: I am thinking of writing two companion stories to this series. One would center on the mentioned Halloween Party/Wedding, while the other would focus on the travels of Duncan MacLeod and Methos/Adam Pierson. Would anyone be interested?]  
  
Also, to SouthernChickie: Richie Ryan did, in fact, "inherit" the bar. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------------  
  
December 21, 2005, 300 PM, the Apartment of Richie Ryan/Le Blues Bar, Paris, France  
  
For the moment, Asher Jacobs had the apartment to herself. Taking advantage of the quiet, she had spent the past three hours cross-legged and barefoot on the couch, guitar in hands.  
  
"You take a lot of chances with your feelings/No one really knows what you feel/And fiction is only way you're dealing/You turn your pretty head if it gets real."  
  
She paused momentarily, trading the guitar strings for a pen, jotting some notes on the paper before her.  
  
"I got head don't let me sleep/You got your secret I can't keep/You see a little stranger in your mirror/The girl you never know is what you fear/You take it so slowly/And your eyes look so lonely/But it's only when you think about me."  
  
Asher paused again to make more notes. She was only half-startled when she heard someone clapping, for she had sensed Richie outside the apartment, but had not heard the door open or close. (And, if it had not been Richie, she was not too worried, as she had her sword on the couch with her). She smiled sheepishly. "How much did you hear?"  
  
"Only what I assume to be the second verse," responded Richie, leaning over the coffee table and expanse of papers for a kiss. "We still have any of that pizza left over?" he added, straightening.  
  
"Is food all you think about?" She followed him into the kitchen, having first rested her guitar next to her sword, nestled against the couch cushions. Richie already had the pizza box out, biting into his first slice. "I still don't have the chorus," she added, biting into a slice of her own.  
  
"It will come to you," he assured. "And, I do love my food, yes." He grinned wickedly, reaching for a second slice. "Had a letter from the world-travelers today."  
  
"Anything interesting?"  
  
"Eh, the usual," shrugged Richie. "'Having a great time, don't know when we be home, trust the bar is still standing, blah, blah, blah.'"  
  
"Any chance they would be home for the holidays?"  
  
"Doubtful. So, how did your final go this morning?"  
  
"Ah, great, I think. In either case, I finished one more semester of the glories of law school."  
  
Richie tasted the sarcasm in which Asher spoke, idly reaching for more pizza. He knew Asher was remembering last year's Christmas, when they had all met during in some remote New Hampshire cabin. Aware Asher refused to fly, Duncan had arranged for two cruises to cross the Atlantic, one there, and one back. And, with the exception of Methos' disappearance, all five Immortals had enjoyed themselves.  
  
"Cheery thoughts, Asher? For me?" He quickly swallowed the last of his pizza, gathering Asher in his arms, trailing kisses across her bare neck, shoulders, and face. "Because I was thinking, it might be fun. To have a holiday to ourselves."  
  
"Ri-chie!" laughed Asher. "I am eating here."  
  
"Hmmm, good point," quipped Richie. And he tossed her half-eaten crust back into the box, scooped her into his arms, moving them both into the bedroom.  
  
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When Richie returned to the bar later that same afternoon, he found the barely twenty-one year old bartender in the stool Methos normally claimed, reading a worn copy of 'Gone With the Wind.'  
  
"Have a nice lunch, boss?" she asked, having looked up at the sound of the door opening.  
  
"Oh, same old, same old." Richie forced his voice to keep light, hoping Havyn Parker would not notice the smirk he wore. "Any calls while I was out?"  
  
"Just one. From your friend, Nick Wolfe."  
  
"Say why?"  
  
"Dammed if I know," answered Havyn, already back to her book. Frowning, Richie retreated to the back office. "Oh, Richie!" called Havyn, and the reddish-head Immortal poked his head out. "Some guy came by looking for you, maybe an hour ago. Left again quickly, but dropped off a package. On the desk."  
  
"Thanks," grumbled Richie, retreating again into the back office. He spied the thickly-stuffed manila envelope (most likely with some padding, he noted). He suspected it had been Samuel Clarke, who had dropped off the package. Since the Watcher had permanently moved to Paris this past June, he had struck an uneasy friendship with Richie, and moved back into tentative good graces with Asher. While Richie did admit it was nice to have an active Watcher around again, he did not wholly trust Samuel Clarke.  
  
He sighed, removed his focus from the package, and instead dialed a certain New York apartment number.  
  
"Helloo," purred a feminine voice.  
  
"Amanda, jewel of my heart, you Nicky called me. He there still?"  
  
"Richard, so nice of you to call. He is. Hold on."  
  
"Nick Wolfe here," came a reply after a brief scuffle and muted voices.  
  
"Nick, it's Richie. You called?"  
  
"I did. That your new bartender I got?"  
  
"Havyn Parker, yeah. You know, I never realized just how much Mike helped to run this place until he left." He paused. "Hells, I even miss Darcy."  
  
"Speaking of, how are they? You just saw them recently?"  
  
"In October, yep. For a double Halloween party-wedding. And, Colin's nearly four months now." His voice bursted with pride at the mention of Mike's and Darcy's son, his and Asher's godson. But hidden just underneath the pride was the shudder at the certain other memories of that Halloween night.  
  
"Well, send my regards next time you talk."  
  
"Will do, Nick. So, what's up? Something tells me, this was not a simple social call."  
  
"Not entirely, no. Seems Amanda and I may get to Paris after all. Fly in on the twenty-seventh. What do you say? Spend New Year's together?"  
  
"Maybe, should we be in the city."  
  
"Very sly." There was a pause, and another brief scuffle. When Nick returned to the phone, he was breathing heavier. "Err, must go, Rich. Woman seducing me. Have a good one."  
  
"Yeah, you too. Give my love to Amanda," but already the dial tone echoed in his ear. Running a hand through his hair, he traded the office for the main barroom. "Havyn, go home."  
  
Stricken, she looked up from her book. "Is this about me reading? I swear, I served every customer who came in here. I'm not fired, am I?"  
  
"No, you're not fired. I'm closing shop early today. You're done for the day."  
  
"The psuedo-wife, huh?"  
  
"Go!"  
  
When Richie returned home again, he found Asher as before: barefoot, on the couch playing her guitar. He knelt silently before her, taking her hands into his. "Come away with me, Asher, please. I cannot take much more of this, any of this, anymore."  
  
"Ok," she agreed slowly. There was the hint of an expression in Richie's eyes, an expression she did not quite trust. 


	2. What the Package Contained

The Matthews Family is mentioned in reference to the show 'Boy Meets World.' Do not own that show either.  
  
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December 21, 2005, 1130 PM, the Apartment of Richie Ryan, Paris, France  
  
It was only after the evening meal, that while Richie and Asher were readying for bed, did Asher notice the flat package on the right bedside table. Richie was still in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, to rid the leftover garlic scent from the pasta sauce of dinner, and Asher, sitting cross-legged on the bed, turned the package over in her hands. She recognized the handwriting on the front. No doubt. It had been Samuel Clarke, who had left it. At the bar, she noted, glancing at the address.  
  
"Package came?" she asked, once Richie exited the bathroom, coming to crawl underneath the sheets.  
  
"I guess," he shrugged. Apparently, Clarke stopped by while I was here, over lunch. Had left before I returned, but left that."  
  
"Not remotely curious as to what it might contain?" Richie only shrugged again. "Well, I am," she exclaimed, her voice only slightly louder than she meant it to be. She ripped the envelope open with a clean stroke, shaking the contents onto the bed. A small silver object bounced on the folds of the red woolen blanket before it came to a rest. Richie did not recognize the curseword, which escaped from Asher's lips, but from the sound of it, thought it to be German.  
  
"Everything ok, Asher?" he asked, sitting in the bed, with the blanket still wrapped around his legs and knees. He wore only blue and white striped pajama bottoms, with his chest and arms bare. But Asher said nothing, as she was reading the enclosed letter. "Asher?" he repeated.  
  
Asher shushed him, more of a hand gesture than a word. " 'I know it is silly of me to write you in this fashion, my little one, but Ashley, no matter the boundaries, which separate us, I am still your father, and I like the comfort writing you brings to me. I am growing old, my little one, older since I lost you and your mother, and it comforts me to think maybe you read these words I burn to the page.  
  
'Samuel Clarke has been a dear friend to both me, and to Lauren and Zachary these past years. Twice now, he has passed through, leaving with objects I had hoped one day I could give to you myself. I do not know what to think of these actions of his. Is he more delusional than I, or does he know something I do not?  
  
'I had set this aside for you just after we returned to the States. Your mother had thought after all your rebellion and behavior, I should not give this to you, but I always knew I would. You loved that house more than Lauren and Zachary did, more than your mother and I did. It was your house in a way it was never ours, my little one. I had hoped one day to see my grandchildren in that house, and while I do have grandchildren now, never will they see the house we left behind. Like and with so many memories.  
  
'Take care, my little one. Wherever you may now be, either alive or dead. I know what Sam has taken with him, and I can only hope that if and when he gives it to you, he gives you my letter too. Know that I am thinking of you, Ashley. I love you. Papa.' "  
  
"Who is Ashley?" Richie asked, once Asher folded the letter, dropping it into her lap. He had read the words over her shoulder, and was confused.  
  
"Me," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was given the name Ashley Violet Jacobson. After, I died, working first for the Matthews family, then returning to school, I knew to keep hidden in the woodwork, I would need to change my name. So I did. To Asher V. Jacobs."  
  
"No wonder you despise nicknames," laughed Richie, but he cut the laughter short. "You already changed your name once."  
  
"Several Immortals do. Maybe not you nor Mac, but I suspect Adam must have changed his name at least a half dozen times."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"I am not stupid, Richie Ryan. Adam is Immortal, whether he or anyone else admits to it."  
  
"Weren't you worried of who would recognize you? I had got the impression you had not transferred schools after your first death."  
  
"Because I did not transfer schools. UCLA was large. I was able to avoid those I knew before. I had always been somewhat of a loner, I just became more of one after."  
  
Richie leaned to place a kiss of comfort softly on her lips. "Does anyone know?"  
  
"You. Sam knows too. I had written him while still in Philadelphia."  
  
Richie frowned, but it did make sense. When Sam had been in Paris last April, he had never once hesitated calling a certain strawberry-blonde haired, blue-eyed girl 'Asher Jacobs' in conversation, whether directly with her or with someone else. He sighed, only to kiss her again. "So, what of this other gift your father sent through Sam Clarke?"  
  
"A key," she answered softly. "To the house we own in Switzerland. It is the house I grew up in, the house I rebelled for when we moved to the States." She turned to Richie, her eyes bright. "Oh, let us visit it, Richie, please. Just for a few days?" she pleaded.  
  
"But if others saw you?"  
  
"No. We only had one main key. Lauren and Zachary, my older brother and sister, promised to never step foot in the house again. Neither will my mother, though for different reasons, as will my father."  
  
"I had planned to take you to Italy," protested Richie. "To show you Rome, Venice, Florence."  
  
"We could still go. Just call this an extended rest stop," she grinned suddenly. "Besides, I could teach you some of the language. You make speak flawless French, Spanish and English, but your Italian does leave something to be desired."  
  
"Just as," his voice low, "you speak flawless French, German, Italian and English, but your Spanish leaves something to desire?"  
  
"Kind of, yes," she responded, returning the grin. "Please? This will be good for me, Richie." Her voice was soft and serious again.  
  
"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Yeah. Allow me to lay my final ghosts to rest."  
  
Richie sighed, leaning back against the bed headboard. He glanced again to the letter Asher held in her hands, to the key still nestled among the blanket folds, lit in the half-light of lamp. He could not help but think there was some sort of trap to this. He trusted Asher's judgment, and he trusted the intentions of her still-grieving father, but he did not trust the judgment nor the intentions of Samuel Clarke. He sighed again, casting his glance now to Asher. She looked so hopeful.  
  
"All right, all right," he finally spoke, "we can visit Switzerland, but if anything out of the ordinary presents itself, we leave immediately."  
  
"Deal," agreed Asher, smiling broadly, leaning over to seal her words with a kiss.  
  
"Hey, Ash," he asked, after she too had snuggled under the covers and between the crook of his arm and chest, thankful he could not see the death stare he was probably receiving for having called her a nickname. The light was off, the key and letter tucked safely inside the bedside table drawer. "Could I call you Ashley?"  
  
"Only if you have displaced the value of your head," she answered. "Ashley Jacobson *is* dead. I am no longer she."  
  
Richie chuckled softly in the dark from her first comment, but then, he drew her closer to him, kissed the top of her head, soon both falling asleep. 


	3. Train Ride to Geneva

Author's Note: I do not know the time length to travel by train from Paris to Geneva. I do know it takes roughly fourteen hours to travel from Paris to Rome, however. I am basing my time on that. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------  
  
December 22, 2005, 430 AM, a train en route to Geneva, Switzerland  
  
Richie and Asher awoke before dawn the following morning. Stumbling through the motions of shower, dress, and breakfast, it was only an hour before they stumbled through the door. It had been agreed they would take a taxicab to the train station.  
  
"Tell me again, just why we are up before the sun?" mumbled Richie, once they had given the driver the address of their destination.  
  
"Long ride." Asher's voice, also, was still thick with sleep.  
  
Arriving at the train station, having had to stand in a short line to buy their tickets, they now had a half-hour before the train left. "I'm going to find some coffee," Richie announced. "Want anything?" To which, Asher shook her head.  
  
When the train finally pulled into the station, the two young Immortal lovebirds stumbled aboard, and found an empty compartment, with two benches, (changing into beds for the overnight rides), and a small table in the middle. Mumbling something incoherent under her breath, Asher curled in the corner of the left bench, and fell into sleep. "You always sleep in the corners, don't you?" murmured Richie.  
  
The train pulled away from the station, and Richie sat on the bench, a hand resting over Asher's hair. She sighed under the touch, shifting her weight, so her head now rested in his lap. He smiled, rested his own head against the back of the bench, falling into his own sleep.  
  
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Some time later, (not sure of mere minutes or hours had passed), Richie awoke to the sound of the door opening. "Oh, my humble apologies," came a male voice. "I had hoped this compartment would have been empty. Train's full, you know."  
  
"You could join us."  
  
"Bless you, young man." And the man, whom Richie could see now was well into his seventies, settled himself in the empty bench. "The name's Frank Reilly. Traveling to Geneva for a business trip."  
  
"Richie Ryan. Same destination, different purpose."  
  
"Honeymoon?" winked Frank knowingly. "How long have you and Miss Sleeping Beauty been married?"  
  
"Oh, we're no-" Richie quickly changed his tactic. "Six months. We're off to spend Christmas with her folks. They're to meet us at the station. Slightly-overexcited, as we have not seen them since the wedding."  
  
"I know all about in-laws, Richie. I've been married twice myself. And God rest both their souls, but I always had foul luck with the parents. First set always out to prove I had a criminal record, and the second set always out to prove I had too much money. Suppose only the second set was right, but every cent was honestly earned." He paused, smiled again. "So, how did you meet? Me, my first wife was my high school sweetheart, and my second I met on a plane en route to Las Vegas."  
  
"We just sort of ran into one another one day. She walked into the bar I work at."  
  
"A romantic setting. If I may give you some advice, Richie?"  
  
"I am all ears."  
  
"Keep hold to her for as long as you can. Forever is never as long as we would like it to be."  
  
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When, eleven hours later, Richie, and a now more awake Asher, disembarked the train, with plans to rent a car, to take them to the house they sought, neither noticed an elderly man escape into the shadows, where he made a phone call from a cell phone. 


	4. Welcome Home

December 22, 2005, 8 PM, Asher's Childhood Home  
  
The house was built from weathered gray stone. In its original life, when first built in the 1750s, the stone gleamed white, but the centuries and the natural effects had taken their toll, turning the stones to gray, allowing the house to appear its age. But still it stood. And, as the small two door rental car pulled into the long winding driveway, from the driver's seat, Asher beamed, face giddy with smiles, eyes slits of happiness Richie had never before seen in her, at least not so deep.  
  
"So, this is home for you?" he asked. He leaned against the hood of the car, arms crossed thoughtfully against his chest. The expression he wore was equally thoughtful.  
  
"This is home," she responded. She stood next to him, her hip touching his thigh. "I lived here for nine years. It was here I first learned to ride a bike; it was here I first learned to swordfight, to turn a kata to dance, to dance. It was here, I learned to live."  
  
"You miss it."  
  
"Mostly in dreams. I would say Paris is as much as home to me now as here was. But Paris is my home now, this was where I first met my childhood dreams. You never forget your childhood dreams, Richie."  
  
"No, I don't suppose you do."  
  
Each had brought two suitcases, and they carried them in now, pausing on the front porch, while Asher unlocked the door, stepping inside, only to be greeted by the smell of mustiness, of a house not lived in for years.  
  
"How long since you were last here?" asked Richie.  
  
Mentally, Asher calculated the time in her head. "Nine years. We left when I was fourteen. We both know what happened as a result."  
  
"So, we do," commented Richie dryly, placing a kiss on her forehead. She had fallen into a life of rebellion, of trouble, only to lose it all, when she had finally gained everything back. "I say, we find our bedroom, only to unpack later, and to cook, and eat, some dinner now."  
  
"The groceries we bought in town are still in the car. You do the luggage, and I'll retrieve the food."  
  
It was a question, to which Richie nodded his answer. She smiled then, a softer smile then he normally saw on her, and he wondered, if this was the smile a little girl living here had once flashed. He returned the smile, chose two suitcases, found the stairs. In the far reaches of his hearing, he heard the front door close, heard Asher hum under her breath. It was not a tune he recognized. 


	5. Trading of Pasts

December 22, 2005, 930 PM, Asher's childhood home  
  
Dinner was pasta, with chicken, broccoli, asparagus, and alfredo sauce. It was Richie, who insisted on adding the asparagus, and it was Asher who wanted the alfredo sauce. They had bought a bottle of white wine in town, toasting now to the holidays, to love, to childhood dreams. Dinner, itself, was a quiet affair. Richie had found some old, slightly dusty, records in a box in one of the upstairs bedrooms, to which Asher presented a record player (which could have been an antique by the looks of it), and the classical music drifted throughout the house, wafting into human senses, enveloping the mood.  
  
It was only after, when Asher asked to leave the dishes until morning, and the leftovers were refrigerated, did she pour them each another glass of wine, and holding Richie's hand into hers, did she lead him outside. "I learned to swordfight on that hill," she whispered, pointing to the hillcrest on far edge of the back land. "My fencing instructor was this tiny woman, maybe thirty years to her. She did house calls, and was hired to teach my brother, but I loved to watch. One day, I had asked her if I could just hold the sword, she agreed, teaching me a few basic techniques. I asked my parents to learn, after several discussions, they agreed. I have been fencing/sword fighting since."  
  
"When was your favorite time to practice?"  
  
"Sunrise. How the colors always seemed to just touch the hilltop, like a lover's gentle kiss. I pretended to fight the colors, to save my first love, that hill."  
  
Richie sipped at his wine. There was a small cluster of rocks, just to the left of the back door, and it was here they sat, he in a flannel shirt thrown over his tee, and Asher wearing one of his sweaters, the sleeves cuffed to her wrists, held with safety pins. "I am almost envy of you, Asher."  
  
"Envious? Why?"  
  
"Living here, you seemingly had the perfect childhood. Loving parents, roof over your head, brother and sister who adored you, fencing lessons, dance lessons, martial arts lessons, intelligence. And, I was passed to one foster home to the next, always trying to run away to escape. Figured street life had to be than some of those adults were. Spent more time in juvie than anywhere else. Probably the one good thing in my childhood was Angie."  
  
"You've mentioned her before." Asher's voice was quiet, thoughtful.  
  
"Yeah, we met when I was eight, and she was seven. We were in a foster home together. We protected each other, in both the foster homes, and on the streets. She was like my little sister and my best friend all rolled into one. When I was sixteen and she was fourteen, I landed a year in juvie; she found herself a good home. We kind of lost one another. Didn't see one another again until I was already living with Mac and Tessa. Two years, almost three years later. She helped me fight some Asian Immortal's student. Of course, she didn't know about Immortality then. She still doesn't. We dated. For a while. Six, seven months. Not long after Tessa died, she left for college, on a scholarship to NYU to major in Asian studies. We wrote one another for awhile, but when she left to do her graduate work in Japan, she never left a forwarding address."  
  
"You miss her."  
  
"Yeah, I do. For so many years, she was my sanity, you know." Richie shrugged, sipped some more of his wine, and over the rocks, reached out to take Asher's hand. He laced her fingers with hers. "I loved her."  
  
"So, maybe she was your childhood dream."  
  
"Maybe. Hey, Asher?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Why did you change your name?"  
  
It was several moments before she spoke again, and when she did, Richie heard the uncertainty in her voice. "To protect my father. To protect him from knowing I was alive when my mother was not. To stop his heart from breaking, but in the process, I broke mine."  
  
Gently, he squeezed her hand. With his other hand, he cautiously balanced the wine glass on a jutted rock, and held Asher's chin between his forefinger and thumb, seeing again just how blue her eyes were. His voice was soft. "I love you, Asher Jacobs, Ashley Jacobson. Whoever you are, I love you. Forever."  
  
She smiled, bent her forehead to his. "I love you, Richie Ryan."  
  
It was several more moments before they finally stood to go inside again. Hands still loosely laced together, no words said between them, it was only when snuggling into bed, in the darkness of one of the upstairs bedrooms, did Asher whisper into the darkness: "Asher, my name is Asher." 


	6. Findings of the Morning

Author's Note: Once again, the song Asher Jacobs sings/writes in this chapter belongs to the very talented (and personal favorite of mine) the GooGooDolls. It can be found on their album, Gutterflower. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------  
  
December 23, 2005, 915 AM, Asher's Childhood Home  
  
Richie awoke to an empty bed. He was only slightly disappointed. From somewhere within the house, he could Asher playing her guitar. He followed the music, finding her in what she had referred to as the front parlor (the house had two parlors, the front parlor and the back parlor), surrounded by cardboard boxes, sitting cross-legged, bent over her instrument.  
  
"You take a lot of chances with your feelings/No one really knows what you feel/And fiction is the only way you're dealing/You turn your pretty head if it gets real /// You take it so slowly/And your eyes look so lonely/And it's only when you think about me/Oh yeah/ When you think about me/You think about me. . ."  
  
When Asher paused in her singing to make some notes in her notebook, Richie took the opportunity to kiss the top of her head. "Morning," he greeted sleepily. "How long you been up?"  
  
"Couple hours," she shrugged. "Coffee should be done. In the kitchen."  
  
Richie disappeared, only to return again with a mug of the steaming brown- black liquid in his hands. "Did you want some?"  
  
"I had some tea earlier. I've been working on the chorus."  
  
"Sounds good. What's with all these boxes?" He swallowed the welcome relief of the coffee.  
  
"Christmas decorations. I found them in the upstairs bedrooms. I thought maybe we could find a tree today, and do some decorating?"  
  
She looked so hopeful, that Richie had to smile. He had the impression that last year's Christmas had been somewhat of a disappointment to her. She still hadn't felt completely comfortable around everyone, and had spoken very little. Not to mention, Duncan had spent most of the holiday sulking, and Amanda and Nick had spent most of the holiday wound around one another. They had had a tree -freshly cut -but little on the decoration side. No tinsel, no lights, no glass balls. Just some old candles and holly berries, left over from the dark ages, no doubt.  
  
"Sounds like fun. Shall we cut our own?"  
  
"We have no choice in that," laughed Asher. "No tree market within a hundred miles from us. If we troop to the hill from last night though, we should find one of perfection."  
  
"You'll allow a tree to be cut down from your precious first love, Asher?" Richie stumbled backwards in mock surprise, sipping some more of his coffee.  
  
"Shut up, Ryan." But she was still laughing. "Just do me a favor, first. Take a shower. You smell."  
  
"Would you join me?"  
  
Asher raised her eyebrow suggestively, before Richie burst into laughter. When he offered his hand to her, she pretended to consider the offer, before lovingly placing her guitar off to the side, and placing her hand into his. They practically ran up the stairs to the bathroom. 


	7. Second Arrival in Geneva

Author's Note: Again, I don not know the exact distance of flight between Paris and Geneva. I am basing my flight time on that it take about three hours to fly to Rome from Paris. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------------  
  
December 23, 925 AM, Geneva, Switzerland  
  
Sam Clarke paced the length of the floor. He had only arrived about 430 AM this morning, having flown in from Paris late last night. Once, he had received the phone call from the Swiss train station, he had booked the reservations, having found a flight leaving at two in the morning. The flight attendant had sworn all earlier flights had been full. He had deemed argument would have found him nowhere, so he had taken what he could.  
  
It had been arranged that he would meet Frank Reilley in the airport lobby near the baggage claim. But here he was, nearly six hours later, suitcase already collected, and Frank Reilley was nowhere to be found. And, while he had tried calling the older man, he had had no luck. Either the old man's cell phone was turned off, or he was simply not answering. Sam decided not to worry. In the meantime, he bought himself a large paper cup of coffee, a cranberry nut muffin and a Swiss newspaper, and managed to pass the time with the reading and people watching. He thought it to be such a shame that most the other tourists and natives had no idea were not more well informed to the world politics.  
  
Perhaps Don Salzer's widow had made a mistake when she had not revealed the secret of the Immortal race. But then again, Sam did also feel James Horton was a good leader, and right in his quest to behead all Immortals. So, perhaps he was not one to talk.  
  
"Sorry, Sam," finally came a familiar voice to Sam's left. "Traffic is more congested than normal. Everyone's leaving for the Christmas holiday."  
  
"Fine. But you have the car secured? I want no delays for when I prepare to set my plan forward." Sam turned, something akin to a smile on his face. He was going to make nice, as he had long ago determined that angering the contacts was not something he wanted. Especially when it came to contacts like Frank Reilley.  
  
"It is waiting about five miles from here. You have it for a week. Hotel reservations are booked here in Geneva. Thought you might want to get some sleep before you drive anywhere. And, the hotel closer to your destination is booked as well, starting for tomorrow night."  
  
"Perfect. Thank you, Reilley."  
  
------------------------------------  
  
He slept for a total of five hours. And after feeding his body too, he started the drive to where he wanted to be. He was alone, just he and the open road. He would hopefully be there in time for dinner. 


	8. A Perfect Afternoon

December 23, 2005, 1145 AM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland  
  
Freshly scrubbed (with the bathtub and shower stall now bearing the mark of their love) and warmly dressed, it was almost lunchtime when Asher and Richie had finally trekked to the hilltop. There, as Asher had predicted, they found a tree of perfection. Now, safe again in the back parlor (for it was there they decided to erect the tree), to the soft sounds of another discovered record, they decorated the tree.  
  
There was an art to tree-decorating. Richie had learned this from Tessa, when he had celebrated his first Christmas with her and Duncan. Joe had joined them. As had Angie. It had been the first Christmas he had been sorry for when it ended. But Asher it seemed, had always had beautiful Christmases, and had learned the knack of tree-decorating from childhood. Before she could walk, most likely.  
  
Richie took a step back from the tree to admire the work. In the boxes, they had found antique ornament keepsakes, glass balls of every shape, size and color, strings and strings of lights, silver tinsel, some half-burned candles, and a star, for the top.  
  
"Guess he never threw anything away after we died," Asher had commented bitterly when they had first opened the boxes. Richie did not need to ask who 'he' was, but only reached over the box to squeeze her hand. Her mood had brightened in the decorating.  
  
It took close to two hours for them to decorate the tree. Asher had dragged a small ladder from some hidden corner so they could reach the top. Asher smiled when Richie stepped down from the ladder again, having placed the star on top.  
  
"It is perfect," she breathed.  
  
"You are perfect." He leaned over to kiss her, the first touch of his lips soft, but the kiss quickly deepening into something more passionate. It was several moments before they finally drew apart, with Richie's hand having slipped underneath Asher's sweater, and Asher hands having unzipped his fly. "Floor or couch?" he whispered, his voice and breath ragged.  
  
"Couch," she whispered, to which Richie nodded. They stumbled the few feet to the couch, lips already locked again.  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
Having fixed their clothes again, and Asher having run her fingers through her now slightly tangled hair; they were now in the kitchen. It was late afternoon, and Richie stood over the stove, cooking the soup they had bought at the store, while warming the bread left over from last night in the oven. Asher had decided to mull the cider they had bought.  
  
"Must be the air," Richie commented.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, just, twice last night in bed, this morning in the shower, just now on the couch. Must be something in the air."  
  
"Could be you." She smiled devilishly, to which Richie groaned. "Must be," she added, but Richie only groaned again. "Try this. Need more cinnamon, or no?"  
  
"No." He licked the spoon clean.  
  
Asher nodded, removing the pot from the stove. "Should be cool to have some with the soup. I'll change the record. Any requests?"  
  
"Whatever you find. I haven't heard of most of these people."  
  
"That's because you had no culture until Mac, and he had too many years to account for," she teased. Richie playfully swatted her arm as she walked out.  
  
It was five minutes later, when a new record began to waft through the downstairs of the house, when Richie removed the clam chowder from the stove and the bread from the oven, when someone knocked on the front door. Richie looked to Asher, and Asher looked to Richie.  
  
"You expecting someone, Asher?"  
  
"No, are you?"  
  
"No. Do you we still need to answer it?"  
  
"Unfortunately. You want to get it?"  
  
"Sure," Richie sighed regretfully. He kissed Asher's mouth. "Set the table then?" To which Asher nodded.  
  
The knock came again. "I'm coming, I'm coming," yelled Richie. He unlocked the door, opened it, a surprised expression crossing his face. He quickly masked it. "Clarke," he acknowledged. "Why are you here?"  
  
"Ryan. Good to see you too. I have business here. With Asher." He smiled, nose delicately smelling the air. "Something smells good. Seems I made it in time for dinner."  
  
He pushed his way past Richie, arms buried in the pockets of his coat, stepping silently into the kitchen. "Hello, Asher," he spoke. Richie stood helplessly behind him, loss to what he should do. 


	9. Sam Clarke Comes to Dinner

Author's Note: 'caramia' is Italian for 'my beloved.'  
  
It took me a long time to write this chapter, and I don't know if it says everything I wanted it to, but it does say what needs to be said. Thanks to southernchickie for the advice when I asked. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
December 23, 2005, 545 PM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland  
  
"Hello, Sam," greeted Asher after several moments. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, and Sam had to strain to hear it. "This is a pleasant surprise."  
  
"I'd say unpleasant, judging from Ryan's reaction." Sam's laughter sounded hollow. "But no matter. I come on unfinished business."  
  
"Good. So finish it, then leave."  
  
"Richie," breathed Asher. "Please." She turned now to Sam, voice more normal pitch, but colder. "What do you want?"  
  
"Privacy, for one."  
  
"Richie stays."  
  
"If you insist. After all, he is the reason I knew you were here." Asher offered no response, but instead flicked her wrist in a gesture meant to say, 'please continue.' As she brought her hand to her side again, Richie (who had moved away from the doorway) took her hand, and laced his fingers through hers.  
  
"While you played at your favorite fairy tale," continued Sam, "Ryan here chatted with a certain elderly gentleman. One who works for me. When your train arrived in Geneva, I was informed. I knew you would come here when I returned that key, I just didn't know when." Sam paused, grinning, a gesture both leering and cruel. "Actually, I believe you know my contact. Does the name Frank Reilley ring a bell?"  
  
Asher didn't respond, but seeing the shock written on her face was all the answer Sam needed. He threw his head back, and he laughed. "Do you remember the day we met, Asher?" He paused again, still smiling cruelly. "Or, should I say, Ashley?"  
  
"Asher will do fine, Sam. And, I remember that day well, but what does it have to do with this?"  
  
"Everything. It has to do with everything." He paused, pacing the kitchen several times before he spoke again. "That day in court, when you were declared innocent, why did you kiss me?"  
  
"I was grateful to you," she shrugged.  
  
"Grateful, my arse. I damn near choked on your tongue."  
  
"Why did you employ Reilley, Sam?"  
  
"Oh, yes, change the subject. Save your boyfriend from knowing your past."  
  
"I know of her past, Clarke," Richie growled.  
  
"I'm sure you do. Ten to one, she never mentioned me until I showed up that day in the bar. Speaking of, how are Adam and Duncan?"  
  
"Now, who's changing the subject?" Richie raised an eyebrow. "And, she did mention you."  
  
"Careful, Ryan," warned Sam. "Now, Frank Reilley. . . a delightful old chap, no?"  
  
"Why did you employ him, Sam?"  
  
"Because I knew he would get to you. Because I knew alone, I could not." He gingerly stepped toward Asher, a sad, a feeling smile on his lips. "Because whatever we were to one another, caramia, whatever we are to one another, I am sorry."  
  
"What do you take me for, Sam? A fool? You want me dead." A small smile crossed her face in seeing his shock. "I learned some things from you, Sam, in the four years we dated. After you returned my sword, I conducted my own research."  
  
"Then why did you come, Ash? If you knew this to be a trap," his voice trailed.  
  
"Because I hoped to be wrong."  
  
Sam nodded, mumbling something of dinner. It was only when he was gone, did Richie spat, "Next time, I kill him."  
  
"Don't go sadistic on me, ok?" Lightly, she touched her palm to his cheek. "I almost lost you once, Richie. I'm not losing you again."  
  
"You won't," he promised, lightly kissing her, smiling tenderly against her lips. "So, who is Frank Reilley?"  
  
Asher smiled sadly. She glanced out the window, noticing somewhere in the argument, it had started to snow. Silently, she reached a hand to the windowpane, almost to touch a snowflake, pulling back, when her hand touched only glass. She shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around her waist, still watching the snow. "My mother's father. I knew he was a Watcher, even before I knew who the Watchers were, I just never thought, never knew. . ."  
  
"Oh, god, Asher," whispered Richie, burying his head in her hair, wrapping his arms around his waist. "I am sorry."  
  
"Don't be," she shook her head. "I need to face him sometime. Lay the last of my demons to rest. That's why I came here. I am only sorry I dragged you into this."  
  
"You didn't drag me into anything. I came willingly. Trust me, after years of living with Mac, I know the difference." He felt, rather than saw, the small smile cross Asher's lips. "I love you, Asher, and I am never letting you go."  
  
She shook her head again. "I'm broken, Richie. You need someone whole to love."  
  
"No, I need you. To match my own cracks."  
  
Sighing, she turned in his arms, touched her hand to his cheek again. Smiled against his lips. Taking his face between her hands, knotting her fingers through his hair. "Next time Sam visits, you'll need to. . . "  
  
"I promise. I will. I mean, deal." He grinned, bending to kiss her again. "So, how about that dinner now? I'm famished." 


	10. Finding Whole Moments

December 24, 2005, 345 AM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland  
  
Asher pulled the covers tighter around her, snuggling deeper into the crook of Richie's arm and chest. She was cold, but not just cold. It was not the temperature she felt, for under the blankets and next to Richie, she felt warm, but the sickening feeling she had felt since Sam Had visited, still lingered, sweeping a chill throughout her body.  
  
Richie barely moved: he only tightened his hold around her waist. Curious, she propped herself up slightly, noting Richie was asleep. She smiled lightly, and placed a kiss to his forehead. She was still cold, but sleep would not come, so carefully, she slipped out of Richie's grasp, out of the bed they shared, and pulled on a sweatshirt. It was hooded, a gray University sweatshirt that belonged to Richie, that he had owned since before they had met. The blue and white striped pajama pants she wore were hers.  
  
Silently, she crept from the bedroom, down the wide staircase, and into the kitchen. It was colder there, but still she found a saucepan, pouring some milk into it, and set it on the stove, to slowly bring to a boil.  
  
She remembered living in this house before, watching her mother simmer the milk like this, in preparation to make peppermint milk, to give to her children when they could not sleep. Asher found a mug, found the peppermint extract, some nutmeg, and some cinnamon in the pantry, adding the three ingrideints to the milk, while it still remained on the stove.  
  
Finally, having poured the milk into her mug, she took a sip, nodding her head in her own satisfaction. Mug still in hand, she moved to the back parlor, sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her, sipping her milk, while gazing at the tree. She smiled sadly.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----  
  
Richie found her there when he stumbled downstairs. He had been worried when he had woken to find himself alone in the bed, but he still had felt her presence in the house, so he knew she was still alive. He found her on the couch, an empty mug on the floor, one arm underneath her head, like a pillow, the other hanging off the edge of the couch. She was curled into a ball. He ached for her, knowing from past experiences, that sleeping on the couch did not leave for a pleasant morning.  
  
He knelt next to the couch, shaking her gently, whispering in her ear, "Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. It's Christmas."  
  
"No, it's not," she mumbled, stirring slightly. "Tomorrow is Christmas."  
  
"Well, sure, technically. But living with Mac and Tessa, we always opened presents on Christmas Eve. Which is tonight."  
  
"You're just trying to cheer me up." She was still only half-awake.  
  
"Maybe, is it working?"  
  
"No." She paused, opening her eyes. "Yes. What time is it?"  
  
"A little after ten. I missed you last night."  
  
"I couldn't sleep." She sat up, simultaneously stretching her legs, arms, and wiping the sleep from her eyes. "Correction," she muttered, "I slept uncomfortably."  
  
"Sore muscles?" Richie guessed. She nodded. "Here."  
  
He climbed on the couch, pushing her aside slightly, to sit behind her, massaging her neck and shoulder muscles.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
For several moments, they did not speak. Only when Richie dropped his hands, and Asher leaned back into him, he wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the top of her head, did she ask, "Want to visit town today?"  
  
"Need to buy gifts?" he teased.  
  
"I wish," she whispered. Louder, she added, "No. I wanted to try to find Frank Reilley, to talk to him. To discover Sam's plan."  
  
"I'll go," he confirmed. They lasped into silence again, only finally moving, when both stomachs growled. Richie shifted his weight, when Asher had stood. He caught her arm before she could leave the room. "Hey, Asher?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"About what I said last night, about how you match my cracks, I meant it. You do. And, maybe with us, two halves do make a whole."  
  
A slow smile spread across her face. "Thank you," she whispered, and she bent down to kiss him.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
It was already almost one o'clock, when they were finally dressed, and on the road towards town. Asher drove, and Richie sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio, trying to find a radio station he could understand. So, far he found several German stations, one, maybe two Italian news stations, and one French station. He could understand the French station, but he had not liked the music that had been playing.  
  
"You won't find an English station, Richie. We're too far from the city. The French would be your best bet."  
  
"They were playing Korn, badly dubbed Korn," he argued, but still he flipped back to it, and leaned dejectedly into his chair. Asher smiled, and he stuck his tongue out. For a moment, they were able to pretend it was any normal day, and they were any normal couple.  
  
Instead, both were Immortal, and both looked forever nineteen, even if in real life, Richie was thirty-one, and Asher was twenty-three. Instead, of driving into the closest town, both knowing someone might be dead before the day ended.  
  
But for that one moment, they were able to forget. Over the gearshift, Richie reached across and squeezed Asher's hand. She smiled, shifted into third gear, shifting again into fourth a few seconds later.  
  
She parked in the food store parking lot when they arrived into town. "If I remember correctly, this town only has one hotel."  
  
"He wouldn't be staying in Geneva?"  
  
"Too far. You remember the drive here. No, Sam would remain in the closest town to where I am, and Reilley would stay close to him." Richie looked puzzled. "What?" Asher added.  
  
"Nothing, just you call Sam by his first name, but you call your grandfather by his last name."  
  
"Opposed to Grandfather?" Asher shrugged. "Growing up, I never had the fondest memories of him. He never approved of my father. He often refused to see us, should our father have been the accompanying adult."  
  
"Oh. Sounds like he and Sam would get along very well."  
  
Asher grinned. "You have no idea." She offered her hand. "Come on, the hotel's this way." 


	11. A Lunch Date

December 24, 2005, 315 PM, Switzerland  
  
Frank Reilley breathed deeply. Stepping off the elevator, he stopped at the front desk, where a young woman asked in German, "May I help you?"  
  
"Yes, I hope so. I need an updated train schedule of all trains leaving Geneva."  
  
"Of course, sir. Did you need a taxi too?"  
  
"No, not yet. I will not be leaving for a few days more."  
  
"But, of course, sir. One moment please."  
  
While she searched for a train schedule, Frank Reilley scanned the hotel lobby. He saw Asher and Richie before they saw him. They made a cute couple, holding hands, looking around the hotel lobby. Both wore jeans, but Richie wore a leather jacket, while Asher wore a black sweater-coat. He knew from experience, years of research, and have covering his own Immortals, that both hid swords. He shuddered once, to think his youngest granddaughter carried a weapon.  
  
"Here you are, sir," spoke the young woman again. "Did you want me to call ahead to book your tickets?"  
  
"No, no thank you," he responded politely, but his voice was still distracted, and he did not look at the young woman when he spoke. He jogged lightly to where the two young Immortals stood, and noticed Asher acknowledged him little surprise. "Hello, Ashley. It's been a long time. Your father had told you had died, with your mother."  
  
"My father was misinformed." Her voice betrayed no emotion. "You remember Richie? I understand you met on the train here."  
  
"Yes, we did." He stepped slightly forward to shake Richie's hand. He noted the young man had a strong grip. "How's the honeymoon, Richie?"  
  
"Not quite what I expected," he answered truthfully, allowing himself a small smile. "You do know we are not really married?"  
  
"I knew. I'll forgive you this time, young man, for living with my granddaughter in sin, but I expect to see a ring soon, understand?"  
  
"Yes sir," Richie grinned.  
  
"Good." He smiled; turning to face Asher again, the smile disappearing at the emotionless mask Asher still wore. "Are you not a little happy to see your old grandfather, Ashley?"  
  
"My name is Asher," she informed briskly, pausing to let the statement sink, "and, I didn't come here to stage a reunion and play at happy families. I came to talk to you. About Sam."  
  
"Ah, yes, Sam. That's the million dollar question." Frank Reilley paused again, to scan the hotel lobby, but he saw his boss nowhere in sight. "I'll buy you lunch. There's a nice little restaurant about half a minute walk from here. We can talk there. I always find I think better with food in my stomach."  
  
Nodding, Asher agreed, and Richie exclaimed, "Let's go! I'm starving!" Despite herself, Asher chuckled, and Frank Reilley hid a relieved sigh to know she still did feel something.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Frank Reilley lingered over his coffee. The waitress had already cleared the lunch plates, and had promised to be out momentarily with the check. He assured her they were in no hurry. "So, Ashl-Asher," he corrected himself, stumbling over the un-familiar name, "Asher, what did you want to know?"  
  
"Why did he come?"  
  
"To Switzerland, you mean?"  
  
"In part, yes."  
  
Frank Reilley sighed, and sipped some more of his coffee. "When you first left for California, to attend your first semester at UCLA, Sam joined the academy. I trained him. He graduated in the top of his class, and for a long time served as a researcher. A man by the name of Nick Wolfe was his first field assignment." At the surprised sound Richie made, Frank Reilley paused to ask, "You know Nick Wolfe?"  
  
"He's a good friend of mine."  
  
"Ah, yes, a fascinating man. After you visited Sam in Paris, little one, last December ago, Sam conducted his own research again on the side. When he returned from Paris the following April, he told me of how he had seen you, of how you were alive, well, and happy, that you were studying law. Are you studying law?"  
  
"Yes. My term just ended. I start again come mid-January."  
  
"I'm glad. You're doing what you always wanted to do. Keep your dream close, my dear," he sighed, sipped more of his coffee. "Sam became somewhat obsessed with the idea of you. Said he had returned your," he lowered his voice to a whisper for this word, "sword. He convinced the board to send him permanently to Paris, to watch you. He returned that summer. From what I understand, something of an uneasy friendship has sprung again?"  
  
Richie scowled, and Frank Reilly threw his head back to laugh. "I share your sentiment, my boy. I love Samuel Clarke like I love my own grandson, but he is very hard to digest at times." He sobered, finishing the last of his coffee. "He manipulated your father into sending you that key, Ashl- Asher. He appealed to your father's very heart and hope that maybe you were still alive. They had found your mother's body, but not yours. I know I have never exactly accepted your father, and I am sorry for that much. He is truly a good man, and he loved your mother, and he loved his children. Sam used that to his advantage. The boy was born to be a lawyer."  
  
"So, what does he want? If he truly wanted me dead, why send me a key to my childhood dreams? Why not kill me in Paris?"  
  
Frank Reilley blinked back his surprise. "I never said he wanted you dead, Asher. If anything, he wants you, alive. I do believe he misses you."  
  
It was then that the waitress returned with the check, and despite Asher's protests, Frank Reilley insisted he pay the bill. Finally, she backed down, but asked if she could at least leave the tip then. He nodded, mumbled of how she was like her mother in her stubbornness and agreed.  
  
Walking out of the restaurant, Frank Reilley blinked against the late afternoon sun. "Do you remember what I said on the train, Richie?" he asked.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Keep her close, my boy. Forever is never as long you would like it to be."  
  
Richie nodded, once again shaking the older man's hand, and in a moment of spontaneity, Asher hugged her grandfather tightly, whispering in his ear, "We never were very good at playing happy families." She paused, then added, "Merry Christmas."  
  
Frank Reilley laughed again, but when Asher pulled away, he noticed a few stray tears in her eyes, and felt the hot salt streaks of his own on his cheeks. "Go," he whispered. "You take care, you hear?"  
  
But Asher and Richie were already out of hearing distance.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --  
  
When Frank Reilly returned to the hotel not long after, Sam Clarke waited for him at the hotel bar, sipping a scotch and water on the rocks. "All go well?" he asked.  
  
Frank Reilly slipped onto the stool next to him, signaling the bartender to pour him a drink, a beer, and he slid a few dollar bills across the counter. "I bought them lunch."  
  
"Perfect. I'll visit them again. By tomorrow, this will all be over."  
  
"I hate you, Samuel Clarke," the older man spat, fingers clutching the beer mug tightly, his knuckles fading to white around the edges.  
  
Sam only laughed. "All in a day's work, my friend. All in a day's work." 


	12. Following a Lead

Author's Note: Is it the Christmas Eve or Christmas day dinner that is made such a huge deal?  
  
December 24, 2005, 615 PM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland  
  
On the drive home again, Asher and Richie stopped in the food store to buy some pastries for Christmas morning breakfast, and also some last minute pick-ups for the dinner. Asher seemed significantly lighter than she had on the drive there: she now knew how to prepare for Sam (should she need to), and she also had had something of reconciliation with her grandfather. He had cried, she never remembered seeing her grandfather cry before.  
  
Once back at the house, and the groceries away in the kitchen, Asher slipped outside, telling Richie she would be gone for a while. When he peeked out nearly half hour later, she was still out there, practice sword fighting atop her beloved hill. As much as he wanted to practice too, as much as he needed the practice, he knew he should give her some more time alone. Not for the first time since Duncan and Adam had left for their world tour last May, he wished Duncan was hear so he could talk.  
  
Instead, he called New York. Nick answered on the third ring. "Hello, Nick Wolfe speaking."  
  
"Nick, it's Richie. How are you?"  
  
"Hiding from Amanda," he laughed. "Think anymore of that offer about meeting for New Years?"  
  
"I don't know. Why hiding from Amanda?"  
  
"She's taking this Christmas thing a little too far. We're having some friends over for dinner tomorrow night, and she's obsessed with making everything perfect."  
  
"Definitely sounds like Amanda," agreed Richie, laughing as well. "Everything else good then?"  
  
"Everything else is great. How about with you? How's Switzerland?"  
  
"Beautiful. We're about two hours outside of Geneva. Reminds me a little of Glen Finnan, Scotland."  
  
"That's where Mac's from, right?"  
  
"Yeah. Listen, Nick, does the name Sam Clarke ring a bell?"  
  
"Sounds vaguely familiar, why?"  
  
"Just asking." Richie should his head, and sighed. He looked outside again. Still, Asher practiced. Her sword was raised over her head, and she turned to the left, slashing the sword against her imaginary opponent's chest. She looked beautiful. "He mentioned he knew you. He was your Watcher for a while."  
  
"No kidding," commented Nick wryly. "But, I need to go. Amanda's very close to destroying our kitchen. Don't get me wrong, she's a great cook, but she should never cook under such pressure. Talk to you soon, Rich?"  
  
"Of course. Merry Christmas, Nick."  
  
"Merry Christmas, Rich."  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------  
  
Two hours later, a glass of white wine and a turkey sandwich later and a newspaper reading later, Asher still was outside practicing. Bored, and in his own hands aching to hold his sword, he walked to the hill, standing for a few minutes to watch her.  
  
When she noticed him, she smiled, lowering her sword slightly. "Hey. I left you too long?"  
  
"Yeah, kind of. Want to spar?"  
  
"Sure," she smiled. "Call home?"  
  
"Sort of. Called Nick. Asked him if he knew Sam."  
  
"Did he?"  
  
"Not really," he shrugged. He bowed slightly, and Asher echoed the move. "You are so going down, Asher Jacobs."  
  
Asher laughed, and lunged towards him. 


	13. Unexpected Death

December 24, 2005, 645 PM, Switzerland  
  
In a gesture more timid, Frank Reilley knocked hesitantly on the hotel room door. From within, he heard the response "Enter," heard someone pad lightly across the door, heard someone turn the door handle under a hand, heard the door creak open only slightly. He stopped it with his foot before it slammed closed again. Hesitantly, he stepped inside the room, letting the door fall closed behind him, and leaned against the wood.  
  
He breathed deep, inhaling once, exhaling the air. He repeated the cycle twice, finally calling, "Boss?"  
  
"Yes?" Sam's voice held no surprise, and it held no malice. Frank Reilley noted Sam sounded almost. . . human, a first since he had started working directly for the younger man, and a long time coming since he had known the younger man.  
  
"Please don't do this," he pleaded.  
  
Sam did not respond for several moments, and then he spoke, only to ask, "Mind stepping further into the room, Frank? I like to see the people I am talking to."  
  
Frank Reilley nodded, realizing belatedly Sam could not see the gesture. He gingerly pushed himself off the door, walking further into the hotel room, cautiously sitting on the edge of an armchair. Sam sat on the bed, hair ruffled, still wet from an earlier shower; he sat cross-legged, dressed in gray slacks and a white dress shirt, untucked, hanging over the pants waist. A laptop was before him, and the younger man typed quickly, a half-scowl directed to the screen.  
  
"Sir?" asked Frank Reilley, a gentle reminder of his presence.  
  
"Frank, yes, give me just a minute. I'm recording some recent observations of my charge."  
  
Frank nodded, and he turned to the open window. Sam had drawn open the drapes, and in the far distance, the very far distance, he could just barely see a mountain range. From the sky's look, it would be a white Christmas morning.  
  
Sam's charge, he remembered, Sam's charge was Asher Jacobs.  
  
"Now," Sam's voice pulled him from his reverie, and the older man turned quickly from the window view to face his superior. "Now," Sam repeated, "what is this about not doing this?"  
  
"Don't go to see Asher tonight," he responded quietly, but his voice was firm.  
  
"You already told me you hated me, Reilley."  
  
"Yes, but I-"  
  
"And, I told you that it was all in day's work. Surely, you did not think I would strive to change your opinion now?"  
  
"No, just-"  
  
"So, what is this about, old man? I have given you clear instructions. You were to meet Asher and her precious little boyfriend, and you were to take them somewhere, learn her motives, her plans, and re-gain some semblance of her trust, which you did. Very well, I might add. So, why turn away now?"  
  
"She is my granddaughter, Clarke."  
  
"No," Sam shook his head, and a clump of wet hair fell across his forehead, "No. She is not your granddaughter. She is an Immortal. She is a foundling. She is not your blood."  
  
"I know the physics. I, too, am a Watcher, but in heart, in soul, in family law, she is my granddaughter."  
  
"Touching. But I've lost faith in such love soft spots. So, tell me, old man. You going to protect her from me?"  
  
"Yes." Again, his voice was quiet, but firm.  
  
"How perfectly quaint." Sam rose from the bed, arching his back in a stretch, and Frank Reilley noticed how cat-like the gesture was, knowing the younger man to be graceful as one, but also as equally dangerous. "In retrospect, I am truly sorry for your loss then."  
  
"If you harm one-"  
  
Sam bent over suitcase, straightening again several moments later. A slow, sardonic smile spread across his face. "Not her loss, Reilly. Your loss." And, he fired the shotgun. Frank Reilley slumped over the arm of the chair, an expression of mixed horror, threat, and apologism frozen on his face.  
  
Sam Clarke tossed the gun onto the bed, where it bounced once across the spread, before it came to a calm halt. He turned to the window, stretching again. "Such a pity," he mumbled to himself, and then he repeated: "It ends tonight." 


	14. Happy Occasions

Author's Note: Mostly short filler material. Not too much more to go. Meantime, go read my other story "Flowers in Skulls." Richie makes some guest appearances.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
December 24, 2005, 815 PM, Asher's Childhood Home, Switzerland  
  
Having finally deemed it too cold to practice longer, Asher and Richie stumbled inside, arms wrapped around one another, shivering from the darkness and the cold. The light from the Christmas tree glowed softly, and Asher snuggled closer into the crook of Richie's arm and side, smiling up at him, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his lips lightly.  
  
He blinked in surprise. "What was that for?"  
  
"No reason," she shrugged. She squirmed from his grasp, and into the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?"  
  
"Dinner too?" he asked hopefully.  
  
"Dinner too?" she laughed. "But you are cooking."  
  
Richie nodded, briefly wrapping an arm around her waist, dropping a kiss on her neck. Asher smiled tenderly in the reflection of the window. It still snowed, and it was Christmas Eve. "Richie?" she called hesitantly.  
  
"Merple?" he called from inside the pantry. "What?" he asked again, stepping out, shutting the door behind him, pasta in one hand, and sauce in the other. "Spaghetti, ok?"  
  
"I like spaghetti. Just, put it down for one moment, please?"  
  
"Something wrong?" Concern flashed across his face.  
  
"No, nothing is wrong. Just. . . come here. . . please?"  
  
He set the food on the kitchen table, stepping towards her, reaching out to her with his hands. "What is it then?"  
  
"Mistletoe?" she whispered.  
  
Again, Richie blinked, before he again laughed, leaning forward to kiss her. "Think you would mind terribly if I gave you one gift now?"  
  
"No. . ." still she whispered.  
  
From his back pocket, he reached in, his hands re-emerging holding a small black box. Asher drew in a sharp intake of breath. "Go on," he whispered. "Open it."  
  
"Is this. . .?"  
  
"Open it," he repeated.  
  
"Oh, Richie," she breathed, tears blinking behind her eyes.  
  
"Will you, Asher?"  
  
"Yes!" she shouted, jumping fully into her arms, and Richie kissed her, reveling in the sounds of her laughter, spinning her around, the food and the hot chocolate forgotten.  
  
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Sam Clarke drove the old, familiar streets. Before having left the hotel, he had deposited of the dead body, wrapping it in scrounged garbage bags he requested that morning from the hotel cleaning staff, heaving the bag down the back staircase -away from prying eyes -to leave in the hotel dumpster. He had insured that he would not be caught.  
  
Pausing only slightly, he flipped on the radio, turning to a French news a\station, cursing only once at the static. He knew it was due to the incoming snowstorm. A blizzard, the concierge had informed him, when he had checked out that evening. Stopping only once between leaving the hotel and finding his way to the main roads, and only then, it was to buy more ammunition for his gun. He had used his last bullet for Frank Reilley. It was a shot he considered to have been wasted, even if it had hit its mark perfectly.  
  
Through the heart.  
  
He sighed, turned the radio off, and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. He had his mother's eyes.  
  
Sharply, he turned to the left. He had not much further to go. He was almost there. It would end tonight. 


	15. Oneirophobia

Author's Note: This is the concluding chapter of "Oneirophobia". Look for a sequel in the next few weeks. Meantime, go read my other story, "Flowers in Skulls". ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------  
  
December 24, 2005, 900 PM, Asher's childhood home, Switzerland  
  
He silenced the engine. Up ahead, Samuel Clarke could see the Christmas tree through the window, lights twinkling against the night sky, and he knew somewhere within the house were Asher and Richie. He would end this tonight-he had to end this tonight.  
  
One way, or another.  
  
He had learned long ago not to be picky.  
  
Securing his gun beneath his coat, Samuel Clarke exited the car, with his hands stuffed in the pockets; he shuffled along the front walk, lifting his hand to knock on the door. Richie answered the door, his face still flushed, and his eyes still bright.  
  
"Oh, it's you," he grimaced. "Merry Christmas, I suppose."  
  
"Merry Christmas. Is Asher home?"  
  
Samuel Clarke saw Richie sweep his hand back, saw his eyebrows race and the two cautious steps he took backwards. Samuel Clarke pushed his way inside, knowing Richie knew. He sighed. "I promise when this is all over, Ryan, you will still be standing. My fight is with Asher."  
  
"Your fight is with yourself, Clarke." Richie sighed, his eyes suddenly less brighter. "Asher is in the kitchen."  
  
Samuel knew Richie followed his steps, but he knew it did not matter. Asher stood at the window, a wide smile on her face, and a slow grin spread across Samuel Clarke's own face. "Merry Christmas, Asher," he greeted, and he laughed, when Asher whirled around, shock written on her face.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Sam." She paused. "Why are you here?"  
  
"I've come to offer my condolences on your loss, Ashley. I regret to inform you that your grandfather passed away earlier today."  
  
"Your doing?" she asked quietly, and Sam was only slightly surprised that her voice betrayed no emotion.  
  
"How could you think such--?"  
  
"You swore long ago, Sam. You would kill anyone to get to me. I never wanted to believe you."  
  
"You do now?"  
  
Asher frowned. "What other choice do I have?"  
  
"Several, actually." He was all too aware that Richie had pushed his away in, looking threateningly in his direction, daring him to make the first move. He allowed a single mocking smile to grace his lips. "You could marry me, or you could kill me. Or, I could kill you."  
  
"That was three, Sam. Several is more than four. Besides," she paused, gathering her breath, "I am already engaged. Richie asked me, and I said yes. I don't love you, Sam. Not anymore."  
  
"I suppose that leaves us to the other two. Someone will die tonight, Ashley, and I assure you, it will not be me."  
  
"Your assurances always were off."  
  
Sam swore he saw regret in her eyes. But he barely blinked, only reached inside his coat, and pulled the gun, confident of the metal in his hand. He pointed the gun's mouth towards Richie. "I give you one more chance, Ashley. Come with me now, or he dies. Either way, this will end tonight."  
  
"At least we agree there, Sam."  
  
Weeks later, when a lawyer would ask Samuel Clarke exactly what happened, he would not say, for he did not know exactly. He remembered hearing the gun go off; he remembered seeing Richie clutching his chest, and he remembered him slinking to the ground, his blood marring the lower cabinets; he remembered Asher kneeling beside him, crying him; he remembered Asher turning to him with only anger in his eyes; and he remembered the sound and the feel and the pain of a bullet tearing through his own muscles, tissue and sinew. But he did not remember who shot what bullet, and he did not remember if Richie died, or if he did.  
  
But it did not matter, for he was on the floor, pain exploding through his shoulder and left arm, and he heard Asher on the phone, explaining to the police that someone had tried to break inside her home and that he was hurt. He heard Asher answer the police questions, politely decline riding to the hospital, giving a phone number to be reached, should they have more questions. Richie stood next to her, his shirt still bloody, assuring the medical personal that the blood was not his.  
  
But, of course, it was. Samuel Clarke said nothing of this, only lifted his head, in the seconds before he was lifted into the ambulance, and he caught Asher's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.  
  
Asher shook her head, although her expression was less hard. "Bullshit," she whispered back, and the ambulance's door closed. Richie closed an arm around her waist, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. "I love you," she whispered to him.  
  
"I love you too," responded Richie, kissing her temple, leading her inside.  
  
A hot shower and clean clothes later, Richie and Asher sat, curled around one another, on the couch, watching a fire burn low, watching the tree light twinkle. Dinner still lay forgotten. "Asher?" asked Richie tentively.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why did you do it?"  
  
It was a long time before Asher answered, and Richie began to wonder if she had heard the question. "Do you know the word oneirophobia, Richie?"  
  
"No."  
  
"It means a fear of dreams. I told you this house represented my childhood memories, my childhood dreams, and my childhood fears. Well, so did Sam."  
  
Richie nodded. He did not understand fully, but he understood enough. And, he had a lifetime to understand the rest. He sighed, smiled against her hair. "Asher?" he whispered.  
  
But no answer came. He looked down to her, seeing her asleep. He smiled. He and she had a lifetime. He would ask her in the morning if she had finished her song. 


End file.

Highlander, Drama, Romance