Trouble With a Capital T and That Rhymes With G and That Stands For Gun

by Foxtail

This snippet is based on the storyline set up in "All Our Yesterdays".
That story and others can be found on my web page:

This story has never been posted.

"Have you seen Richie? Lunch is almost ready," Tessa Noel MacLeod called over one shoulder, placing a platter of ham and cheese sandwiches in the center of the table, then turning back for a pitcher of milk.

"I think he's out back. I'll get him," Duncan offered, already heading in that direction. He nearly tripped over a baseball mitt on his way out and made a mental note to reiterate the rule on 'putting away your things' for what would no doubt be the umpteenth time.

The Scot pulled open the reinforced metal door leading to the alley behind the apartment and blinked in the bright sunlight for several moments, trying to accustom his eyes to it and locate a certain thirteen-year-old bundle of energy.

A headful of red curls caught his attention and he turned his attention toward the dumpster at the side of the parking area, noticing almost absently that something metallic was being tossed playfully from one small hand to the other. "Richie..."

The boy turned in surprise and Duncan had a clear view of the item in his hands. A small handgun - a Baretta by the looks of it - in excellent condition.

"Richie...put that down," he said, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. He vaguely registered the fact that Tessa had come up beside him and was staring in horror at their son.

"It's okay, Dad. I've got the safety on," the boy told him airily, blithely taking aim at the dumpster and pulling on the trigger.

A bullet fled its chamber, striking the corner of the metal dumpster and ricocheting off. Duncan was in motion a split second before the trigger was pulled, pushing Tessa back inside and throwing his body protectively around Richie. He grunted in pain as the bullet entered his shoulder, and stumbled forward, his other arm still wrapped around the boy.

"Dad!" Richie cried, trying to support his father as Tessa ran from the building to join them, adding her cries to his.

"I'm all right," he assured them both, clenching his teeth as the wound healed -- blue light playing across it. A moment later he stood straight again, the only evidence of the accident a small bloody hole in his shirt.

Duncan looked down at Richie then and took the gun from the boy's numb fingers, clicking the safety into place and ejecting the magazine. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, his expression grim.

"I...I found the dumpster," Richie stammered.

His father took a deep breath and turned to Tessa. "I'll call the police. They can come and pick it up."

"Dad, I..." the words froze in Richie's throat as he saw the look his father levelled at him, and he swallowed uneasily. His mind raced for a way out of his current predicament, but his ability to think on his feet had apparently fled in the face of one very large Scot standing over him - anger rolling off of him in waves. A part of him was aware that his legs were shaking and he clamped his hands down at his sides, trying to still the movements.

"I want you to go to your room," Duncan ordered, fighting for a calm he didn't feel. "I'll be in as soon as we've explained all of this to the authorities."

Richie cast a nervous glance at his mother and she reached out and brushed a stray curl out of his face. "Your father's right, Richie. Go inside, Petit."

Richie waited in his room, sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. The last time he'd seen his dad that angry had been more than a year ago, during a sword fight, when he'd disobeyed a direct order and gotten in the middle of the action, endangering them both. He hadn't known Duncan MacLeod was an Immortal then - didn't even know they existed until a few months ago - but knowing his father couldn't die from a bullet wound didn't make it any easier to know he was responsible for his getting shot.

He'd gotten a spanking the last time he put himself in danger, and no one had even gotten hurt then. He had no illusions that he was in for it this time, which made the waiting that much worse.

He heard the police come and go, heard his parents talking in their room next to his, and knew when his mother headed back toward the store, her light footsteps stopping momentarily outside his closed door before moving on.

When his dad finally stood in the doorway looking down at him, it was almost anti-climactic...almost. His heartrate sped up and he swallowed around the lump in his throat as the Highlander stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

MacLeod gazed down at his son. His very young, pre-Immortal son. The thought of that bullet entering Richie's body filled him with dread. The very real possibility that it might have ended the boy's mortal life and started him down the road of Immortality at the age of thirteen - never to age beyond that, never to have the strength to fight with a sword against grown Immortals out for his head - that thought scared Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod as nothing else could.

"I'm in big trouble, aren't I?" Richie asked anxiously.

Duncan sighed heavily in answer and sat down on the side of the bed, rubbing a hand across his eyes wearily. He looked over at the boy then. "What am I gonna do with you?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"I thought the safety was on. I didn't mean to shoot it," Richie rattled off.

"That's not the point, is it?"

"No, but--"

"You know better than to touch a gun. You've been told over and over that any type of weapon is off limits. You've seen for yourself what kind of damage a gun can do and you still picked that thing up and treated it like it was a harmless toy." Duncan's voice had risen with each point. "Do you know what could have happened out there?"

"Yes," Richie replied in a small voice.

"Do you, Richie?" he asked again, holding his son's attention.

"I could'a shot Mom," the boy said just above a whisper, his chin sinking to his chest.

"Or yourself," Duncan added firmly. "We had a deal, didn't we? You don't put yourself in a dangerous situation, you don't disobey me or question orders when your safety or your mother's safety is in question, and you *don't* touch weapons without either your mother or myself present...*ever*."

"But it was just lying there and I was gonna bring it to you," Richie rationalized, then fell silent as his father's face darkened at his words.

"You should have left it where it was and come and found either your mother or me. You didn't do that," he scolded. "Did you?"


"No," Duncan repeated. "Instead you twirled it around and fired it blindly."

"But I thought--"

"Richie!" Duncan snapped, then took a calming breath. "I know, you thought the safety was on. It wasn't. And even if it had been, you and I would still be sitting here right now, having this same discussion.

Richie bobbed his head slightly in response before looking up at his father. "Don't spank me, Dad," he pleaded, voice breaking.

Duncan sighed again at the look on the boy's face. "I don't want to spank you, Richie. You know that. But you haven't left me much choice." Another sigh, then, "Do you want this to wait until after lunch?"

" I couldn't eat," Richie mumbled, chewing on his lower lip.

Duncan nodded. "All right. Stand up, Son." His tone was firm.

Richie did, slowly, and his father's large hand closed around his upper arm, leading him around to stand at his right side. "Unfasten your jeans."

Richie's head jerked up and he prayed that he'd heard wrong, but his father was staring holes in him.

"Do you need help?"

He shook his head violently, eyes wide, then reached down and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants with fingers that shook slightly.

The last time he'd gotten an honest to goodness over-the-knee spanking - rather than a swat or two - it had been over his jeans...and that had hurt plenty. The idea of taking those same forceful smacks with nothing but his thin cotton briefs for protection scared the bejeesus out of him.

Duncan pulled Richie facedown over his lap and tugged his jeans down to just above his knees. A second later Richie felt his father's fingers take hold of the waistband of his underpants and they quickly joined his jeans. Too quickly, to Richie's way of thinking. His dad had never bared his bottom for a spanking - okay, so he'd only had one other - but if he was angry enough to do so now, Richie knew this spanking was likely to be pretty bad. His stomach clenched in dread as the cool air played across the exposed skin and he acted reflexively.

"Dad, no!" he protested, reaching his hand back to cover his small, vulnerable, and now very bare, bottom.

Duncan simply pulled the hand out of the way and landed a firm smack across the crown of both of the boy's round bottom cheeks, eliciting a hearty yelp from the kid, followed by pleas for amnesty.

"Dad...I'm sorry...I'm really...really sorry...owwww!"

Duncan didn't respond to the cries, but continued spanking him methodically, landing hard, snapping smacks across the entire surface of the boy's reddening bottom and upper thighs, determined to teach his son a long-lasting lesson regardless of the pain it caused them both.

Richie found himself struggling against tears very early on. "Stop...please...I'll be good...I'll be really...really good," he gasped out between swats and once more threw first one, then both hands back to cover his burning bottom.

His father seemed to hesitate, then grabbed both of Richie's wrists in his left hand and held them securely at his waist, blazing a very hard stinging spank to the boy's 'sit spot.'

"OOWWwww! Daaaad!"

"Richie, this is what happens when you disobey me and risk your life," Duncan scolded, continuing his assault on the tender cheeks. "Do you understand? You *never* pick up a gun. You *never* pick up *any* weapon without permission." He continued the lecture right along with the spanking. Landing particular strong smacks as he emphasized each word.

Richie started to sob as he hung helplessly across his father's lap, his arms trapped behind him, his legs kicking uselessly in the air, his small bottom on fire. The spanking felt like it would never end.

"I...I'm sorry, Dad...pleeeeaassse st...stop...I'll...nev...never be bad...again!"

Duncan actually smiled wryly at that. An impossible promise for a child to keep, and one he would never hold him to. He continued blazing loud snapping spanks to the boy's backside until Richie was wailing, incapable of doing anything but sob as his bottom was turned a deep crimson. After one last stinging smack, Duncan stopped, surveying his son's bright red bottom with an inscrutable expression.

"All right, Son, it's over. We're done," he soothed, releasing his hold on the boy's wrists and rubbing Richie's back while the boy hiccupped and sobbed.

Richie reached a tentative hand back to touch his bottom, half expecting it to be blistered. It wasn't, but it was hot and he thought he could actually feel it throbbing underneath his palm.

"It burns, Dad," he whined, sounding very young.

Duncan wrapped his left arm around the boy's waist and lifted him, placing his head and upper body on the bed, and walked purposely into the bathroom. He returned with a small tube of Aloe Vera gel and reseated himself, lifting Richie easily back across his knees despite the boy's groans of protest.

"No, Son, I'm not going to spank you again. Just lie still," Duncan instructed.

He removed the cap on the tube and squeezed a liberal amount of the gel into the palm of his right hand and started gently massaging the green coolness into the boy's heated bottom.

Richie hissed through his teeth, then sighed as the cool gel started to draw the fire from the abused area. He lay draped over his father's knees as the Aloe did its job, hiccupping occasionally as his tears subsided.

"Better?" Duncan asked, rubbing his left hand across the boy's back again as he settled down.

"Mmm, hmmm," Richie murmured into the bed covers.

"Good." Duncan slid Richie's underwear back up his legs and over his aching bottom, eliciting another hiss from the boy. He pulled the jeans up carefully, as well, then lifted Richie to his feet.

The boy scrubbed at his face with both fists and turned tear-filled eyes to his father. Duncan's gruff demeanor crumbled bit by bit; he found it impossible to hold onto with Richie looking at him with that pitiful expression.

He lowered his son onto his left knee, making certain that the boy's tender bottom didn't make contact, and was rewarded by Richie lowering his head onto his shoulder and wrapping his arms around his neck, crying quietly into the collar of his shirt. Duncan wrapped his own arms around the boy and made soothing noises until Richie sat up on his own, sniffling loudly.

He pulled Richie back to his feet, then stood himself. "You stay in your room until you're ready to come out. I'll have your mom hold lunch until then." He tousled the boy's wild curls, cupped the side of his face for a moment, then left the room, closing the door behind him.

Richie ambled into the bathroom, still snuffling, and washed his tear-streaked face. He couldn't resist the impulse to look at his bottom and was shocked to see the deep red color. He would have sworn it could light up a room, but then Richie had a very vivid imagination. He blew his nose loudly and headed for the bedroom door. After a deep breath, he pulled it open and walked to the kitchen. His jeans rubbed uncomfortably against his sore bottom and upper legs and he grabbed a throw pillow from the couch in the sitting room as he passed.

Tessa was in the kitchen when he arrived, looking for all the world as if she had been crying too. Which was silly, of course; what did she have to cry about?

"Hi, Mom," he greeted uncertainly.

Tessa came to him on swift feet and wrapped her comforting arms around him. "Hello, Sweet." She sniffled softly and Richie looked up at her curiously.

"I'm sorry," he offered, hugging her back.

"I know," she replied. "Your father knows that, too." She pulled back a little and brushed the hair back out of his eyes, letting it run through her fingers. "It grows so fast," she bemoaned with a small wistful smile. She shook the thought off and ushered him to his chair, noticing the pillow in his hand for the first time. "I suppose you could eat from the center island. You wouldn't have to sit that way."

He grinned ruefully at that. "No, it's okay, Mom." He dropped the pillow onto his chair and lowered himself carefully onto it, wincing despite his best efforts. "See?" he said, trying to reassure her for some reason.

"Yes, I see," she answered, cupping his chin in her hand and kissing his forehead. She moved to the refrigerator and retrieved the platter of sandwiches, placing it on the table for the second time that afternoon, then took her place at the table. "Your father will be here in a minute."

Richie eyed her thoughtfully for a moment in silence and fidgeted in his seat, trying to find a part of his bottom that didn't hurt like fury. Catching her sympathetic look he grinned again, earning one in return. "Dad won't ever have to do that again, Mom," he promised faithfully.

"I'm very glad to hear that, Petit," she admitted, smiling over at him fondly.

"So am I." Duncan stood in the doorway regarding his son for a full minute, then closed the distance between them, stopping beside his chair. "How are you feeling, Toughguy?"

Richie shrugged. "I'm okay," he mumbled. "Well, mostly," he added, shifting uncomfortably on the pillow and wincing noticeably.

Duncan tried not to smile at that. "That's understandable," he granted.

"Yeah." Richie gazed at both of his parents shyly. "You guys still mad at me?"

Duncan and Tessa exchanged looks before answering.

"You planning on picking up any more guns, loaded or otherwise?" Duncan posed.

"No, sir. No more guns, not ever again," he vowed quickly, shaking his head emphatically.

The adults shared a smile between them. "Then, no, we're not mad."

Richie smiled then, not his patented killer smile, but a winning smile none-the-less.

"Isn't anyone hungry?" Tessa asked, relieved to change the subject.

"I'm starving to death," Richie announced dramatically.

"Then you'd better have *two* sandwiches," she retorted.

"Two!" he repeated in alarm.


"Yeah, three," Richie said, smiling widely.

Duncan snorted and ruffled the boy's hair ruthlessly before joining them at the table and watching his son wolf down three ham and cheese sandwiches and half a gallon of milk while talking a mile a minute.

Calamities would come and go, but it was comfort of sorts to know that Richie would always be Richie.


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