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Why Can't They Be Like We
Were?
by Pun
Notes: I offered to write ficlets to order to celebrate my
new web site. This one is for Celli who wanted Martial arts and Richie.
Thanks go to Rhiannonhero for audiencing.
“Wrong. Do it again.”
“What are you talking about, man? You said forward cut, forward cut,
right middle block, hopping step forward, right uppercut. That’s what I
did!”
“It’s about more than getting the right moves. Let me see you do it
again, and this time focus on the shifts in the flow of energy as you
make each motion.”
“Mac, I am sick of doing this stupid form. It’s a waste of time anyway.”
“Training is never a waste of time,” Mac growled. “Training is the only
thing you’ve got when
you’re up against someone older, stronger and better.” He pronounced
each word distinctly and clearly: “It will save your head.”
“Mac, Mac,” the kid made conciliatory motions with his hands, “I get
it. I wanna train. All I’m saying is I’d rather spend my time on
something more useful. Something I’ll actually be able to use when this
older, better guy you’re talking about is trying to whack me.”
“Kata are a series of attacks and defenses that will help you in
battle, not to mention the importance of the discipline and
concentration you gain by taking the time to learn to do them
correctly. When I studied under Hideo he only let me do forms for the
first four months.”
“Yeah, I know,” Richie rolled his eyes in the timeless gesture of
disrespect for one’s repetitive elders, “doing these forms over and
over worked great for you, but maybe I need something a little more
modern. Adam, back me up here.”
“Oh no. You’re not bringing me into this.” Methos held his hands up and
tried to look annoyed but doubted he was succeeding. There was
something wonderful about watching Mac with his student, brought the
stuffing out of him in a way that Methos hadn’t realized he’d been
waiting and wanting to see. The kid had absolutely zero comprehension
of what it meant to be in the presence of the great Duncan MacLeod of
the Clan MacLeod. He was either unaware or more likely unconcerned by
the fact that MacLeod could take his head with a mere flick of the
wrist. Essentially, Richie treated all of the skill and wisdom Mac
tried to impart to him, treated what Methos saw as the rather desirable
privilege of being the sole focus of this man’s caring and concern, as
an irritating burden. And Mac, for his part,
seemed to take it all in with a frustrated yet amused indulgence and an
unwavering resolve to keep on repeating himself until it penetrated
Ryan’s thick skull.
Methos realized there was a name for that type of relationship. The kid
was Mac’s son.
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