CHAPTER 4
A week later
"Ugh," Amanda groaned. If she had known the requirements, she wouldn't have signed
up for the role. They had been going at it like the Final Gathering was tomorrow for
almost seven days, twelve hours a day. She dumped her gym bag on MacLeod's bed,
releasing a tired sigh. Her short cropped blonde hair was damp with sweat and her legs
were covered with still healing welts. Her arms were sore from wielding her sword all
day long, attacking Shelly or MacLeod, or being attacked by Shelly or MacLeod, all in
the name of education. MacLeod walked past her, headed for his liquor chest, and
grabbed her by the waist. She slapped him good naturedly and kicked off her sneakers,
accidentally hitting him in his well-toned posterior. "I'm taking a shower," she
announced, heading for the bathroom.
Rochelle laughed tiredly as she watched MacLeod glare at the elder Immortal with mock
anger. Depositing her own bags near the door, she collapsed to the floor with a loud
groan. Startled, MacLeod came and stood over her. Her eyes were closed, her legs were
spread wide apart, and her arms were draped ungracefully above her head, her hair
spilling out from her scalp like a tousled sheet. She opened one eye and gazed up at him.
"Honestly, Duncan, you need furniture."
He rolled his eyes, "I have furniture." With his hand, the Highlander gestured over to the
couch.
Rochelle nodded, "This is true. But there's nothing here." She indicated the empty space
between the bed and the near wall. The only response she received was a grunt, and a
hand offering assistance getting up. She shook it away, thanking him, but none the less
saying she'd rather remain here for a while. Like until the next World War. MacLeod
shrugged and poured himself a glass of absinthe, haven taken a liking to it several years
prior, although he still enjoyed a good single malt more than anything else.
She raised her head listlessly, "Absinthe?"
He nodded, "Want some?" She shook her head eagerly, and raised her torso by her hands
and feet into what was known as 'a bridge,' then flipped herself heals over head until she
was standing. The young Immortal strolled over to him, and took a glass from MacLeod,
drinking it slowly, savoring the flavor of the antique liquor. "I thought this stuff was
illegal."
Her teacher raised his brows mischievously, "It is." He watched as his new pupil hoisted
herself up onto the kitchen counter.
"Frank had a whole slew of this stuff in our wine cellar."
"In Alaska?" MacLeod asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her.
Shelly nodded. "It was my reward if I was," she paused. "How did he put it? An
'attentive, obedient student, able to keep her teacher on his toes with her smart-ass
attitude.'" She mimicked her deceased teacher's voice almost perfectly, laughing as she
finished. "We drank this stuff every night."
MacLeod laughed loudly, and then rose to begin supper; she caught his arm and slid off
the counter, "No you don't, Highlander; tonight, I'll cook."
He stared her in the eye, "Your cooking has improved, I hope."
Shelly's face scrunched in distaste. "It was just that one minor incident with the mussels."
"We never let you cook again." MacLeod noted, remembering his and Tessa's first night
in Boston and how adamant Rochelle had been to cook for them. She spent three hours in
the kitchen, and they couldn't figure out why until they began eating the seafood. "How
was I supposed to know that if you could hardly open them they were bad?" she had
asked between episodes of vomiting.
"Don't worry," Rochelle assured him as she began rummaging around his small kitchen.
"I'll stick to something simple; what do you have?" She found some pasta, cream, spices,
and cheeses. Working busily in the confined area, Rochelle looked up through the
porthole occasionally. "Look, a tour boat,' she remarked, spying it move up the Seine,
filled with people.
"That's where we met," Duncan said softly, sadness filling his eyes. Rochelle looked up
in rapt attention. Without being asked, MacLeod began his story.
*Paris, 1979*
Duncan MacLeod ran as fast as his Immortal legs could carry him. Behind him he heard
the screech of police whistles, knowing that even farther behind him, a man was cursing,
cursing the fates, his bad luck, law enforcement, and a certain infamous Immortal named
Duncan MacLeod. Glancing momentarily over his shoulder, MacLeod saw he was still
being followed by a police officer whose car he had moments earlier rolled over. Looking
ahead, he spotted a tour boat moving away from the slip. With a new burst of speed, he
dashed towards it, jumping off the edge, landing with a thud on the upper deck where a
beautiful young tour guide was beginning her shpiel. "What are you doing?" she
exclaimed, horrified.
MacLeod shrugged innocently. "I didn't want to miss the boat," he said simply.
"Another leaves in twenty minutes; you could have been hurt." She looked up and saw
several policemen shouting angrily after the boat, which was moving further and further
up river.
"I wanted this one," MacLeod said, taking a piece of chocolate from the woman seated
beside him.
The guide smiled in exasperation and continued her speech. "As I said before, ladies and
gentlemen, Paris is full of surprises. On your right you will see the Cathedral of Notre
Dame. Construction began in 1339 and was completed in 1445." The man who had made
the spectacular entrance raised his hand. "Yes?" she called on him. "What is it?"
"1442," he said, munching on his candy.
"Excuse me?" she asked, obviously flabbergasted.
"It was completed in 1442, not 1445."
"Forty-five," she argued.
"MacLeod shook his head, "Forty-two."
The tour guide placed her hands on her hips, "And I suppose you were there."
The man shook his head again, "It was a little before my time." He flashed her a genuine
smile and her knees weaken a little. She tried not to let her swooning show. Shaking her
head, the guide continued her speech.
"As I was saying, it was completed in 1440, forty..."
"Two."
"Five," she said, continuing on, now that the boat was far past the famous cathedral. She
was tall, slim, blonde, attractive, and spoke with a French accent. Forty five minutes
later, the tour boat returned to its slip and all the occupants departed, save for one.
MacLeod went up to the guide, who was putting the microphone back. "Duncan
MacLeod," he extended his hand.
She turned around, startled, "Excuse me?"
"My name is Duncan MacLeod." Not knowing what to do, she shook his hand.
"Tessa. Tessa Noel." MacLeod kissed her slim, fair hand and bowed at the waist
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mademoiselle," he said, showing off his fluent knowledge of
the French language He hoped it would charm her. It did. At that moment, they entered
into a relationship that would span over a decade and two continents, and be filled with
love, happiness, joy, sex, pain, and trials which would threaten to tear them apart
forever.
*Paris, 1997*
Rochelle's head was supported by her right hand, while her left hand was absently
stirring the pasta sauce as she listened to his story. Tessa had never told her that story,
although she'd told her many others; about times she and Nicole had spent together,
frivolous young girls intoxicated with the very essence of Paris. MacLeod's head was
bowed reverently, sadly, his dark brown eyes casting a deep pallor across his handsome
face. Shelly could see them filled with an impenetrable darkness-impenetrable until he
permitted. She was beginning to realize just the type of man her new old friend was:
honorable, strong, kind and sensitive, yet still driven by his warrior heart and experiences
learned very young, very long ago. She had heard many stories about this man, this
legend in his own right, from another legend, and she had listened in rapt attention,
wanting to have a connection to her past.
"Taste," Rochelle commanded, offering him a spoon dipped in the Alfredo sauce. He
obeyed.
"Needs salt." The distraction was welcome, and Shelly noticed the darkness ebbing;
perhaps in was not as impenetrable as she had originally thought.
Duncan handed her the spoon, noticing how she was staring at him, covering it
occasionally by focusing on something behind him. He knew she was studying him,
learning about him, drawing her own conclusions, coming up with more questions that
would be asked later. At that point, Amanda emerged form the bathroom, wrapped in a
towel. Duncan walked over and took her in his arms, kissing her gently. Rochelle cleared
her throat loudly. Usually, this had the desired effect, but not this time. She tried
something else. "If you want to eat, you have to try this again, or it will be too bland."
"She's very persistent, that girl," Amanda whispered.
MacLeod nodded. "I might have to talk to her about that," he murmured back.
"You can try, but it will not work," Rochelle called form the other side of the barge. "I
have good ears too." Knowing they weren't going to get any father, MacLeod and
Amanda parted. Amanda re-entered the bathroom with her clothes; Duncan walked over
to the kitchen and sampled Shelly's sauce.
"Done," he announced.
His student smiled mischievously," I know." She dumped the noodles that had been
sitting in a colander in the sink.
MacLeod chuckled, "You little smart ass."
She nodded, "That you; I like compliments where they are due." A memory stirred in
him, and he reached out to tickle her belly. She whipped around and held up her hands
for protection, backing away form the Immortal, "Oh no." He had a devilish grin on his
face and was nodding. He chased her across the barge, trapping her against the wall. He
pinned her to the ground and tickled her until tears streamed down hr face and she
screamed for mercy.
Amanda leaned against the bathroom door frame, smiling at the spectacle. She could see
that MacLeod was thoroughly enjoying himself, and she was happy. He was on the floor,
laughing out loud, his broad chest heaving, his face pinched with joy. Rochelle lay beside
him, wiping her eyes, "I can't believe you did that!"
"Believe it; how could I forget the easiest way to subdue you?" It was a trick Tessa and
Nicole had used when Rochelle had been a baby and toddler when it had been difficult to
catch her. Tessa had used it once in Boston, just for old time's sake. Duncan remembered
how she and Rochelle rolled around the hotel suite, screaming, laughing, crying, just
having fun.
Rochelle laid her head on MacLeod's shoulder, "Just don't tell Sam Genova; I'll be gone
in seconds." Her voice had been filled with happiness and joy, but now it was thick with
utter seriousness. Duncan's smile faded, and Amanda could see the pain filling his eyes.
She clapped her hands, "Are we going to eat, or are you two going to remain there all
night?"
They sat up, brushing themselves off. "Salad?" Rochelle suggested, not exactly
volunteering to go and get some.
Amanda grabbed her purse, "Since I'm the only one decent, I'll go get it." She tossed her
coat about her shoulders and left the barge. Duncan stood and meandered over to the
bathroom.
"I'm going to take a shower." The oak door shut definitively and she was alone in the
barge. Rochelle poured herself another glass of absinthe and set about finishing the meal.
MacLeod stepped beneath the lava jets that were pouring form his shower head. He stood
there, nude, allowing the hot water to wash over his head, stream over his shoulders,
arms, back, flowing over his hips and buttocks, and down his legs. His taut muscles
slowly eased and released a loud groan; it sounded more like an animalistic cry,
something that had become synonymous with getting rid of pent-up stress and energy. As
he lathered his long torso, he tried to reassure himself that Rochelle was ready. Now I
know what Amanda feels like, he thought to himself. Every time he was challenged,
Amanda fussed and worried, one time going so far as to have him arrested to keep him
alive. Although recently, she had been off on escapades of her own; stories had gotten
back to him. It helped having a Watcher for a friend. It was also a hindrance.
One problem at a time, he told himself. He had a tendency to get side tracked, creating
more worries.
The soap washed off his body and he leaned against the ceramic wall. No interference,
his mind told him, sounding somewhat like Methos. He knew the Rules, but MacLeod
still wanted to protect Rochelle. He owed Tessa that much. He could practically hear her,
scolding him for dwelling on her death, telling him to let it go.
"I never will, any of it," he whispered, turning off the water so quickly that the pipes
complained with a bang.
Rochelle set plates out on the counter. She scavenged his cabinets for minutes, finally
finding his plates hidden way in the back. Above her, she heard uneven footsteps as
someone walked across the deck. Mortal, relax, she told herself. A middle-aged man with
salt and pepper hair came down the steps. "May I help you?" Rochelle asked.
The man glanced around the barge, "Mac here?"
She nodded and bellowed, "MacLeod!" Joe Dawson heard his friend yell from behind
the bathroom door.
"What?"
"Company!"
"Hey Mac!" Dawson called.
"Joe! Be right out!" MacLeod sounded surprised.
Rochelle wiped her hands on her pants and extended it to Joe, "Rochelle Picaut."
Joe's eyes shot up in surprise, "Joe Dawson."
Rochelle noticed the blue tattoo on his wrist. She raised a brow and reached out for his
other hand. "Interesting tattoo," she observed, turning his wrist over.
He smiled, "I thought so."
She looked him straight in the eye, "Apparently so do a lot of other people. Tell me; is
the tattoo mandatory when you become a Watcher?"
Joe frowned in confusion, "Excuse me?"
She smiled kindly, "Don't worry. I'm not angry. I just know about your organization."
She shrugged. "Actually, I think it is a good idea that someone else knows about us and
records what we do."
Joe was a bit speechless. Had MacLeod told her about them? Of course, Dawson really
had not right to be angry; after all, Mac hadn't taken the oath. Nor had he broken it
repeatedly. Still, Joe felt uncomfortable with Immortals knowing about their
organization. It was unnerving. You never tell the rats they're actually in a maze. He
looked this Immortal up and down, seeing what had become of her over the years. She'd
cleaned up nicely. She was tall, attractive, not thin, but none the less pretty. He wondered
what had brought her to MacLeod after all this time. It had been over a decade. Of
course, Joe knew their meting would happen sooner or later; he'd heard when she became
Immortal. He had also looked in on her file from time to time. Not recently though.
Joe smiled, "Thanks."
Rochelle returned to the kitchen. She looked up at him and asked "Do you know who I
am?"
He nodded, "I have a pretty good idea." Then he said, "I thought you were in Alaska."
"Moved." she said quietly. "Frank's dead."
"Oh," Joe said, not knowing what else to say. Then the gears kicked in and he began to
remember what he had read in her file. "Oh." He looked in the way of the bathroom door.
"Does MacLeod know?"
She gazed at him uncertainly, "About Frank?"
"No."
Her eyes opened wide. Oh no. "You know?" she blanched.
Dawson nodded silently.
"Are you going to tell him?" her eyes had a sense of desperation in them.
Joe shook his head again, feeling as though it were about to roll off, "Nope. It isn't my
place."
Rochelle visibly relaxed. She changed the subject, "Amanda will be back in a minute. We
were about to have dinner; you are welcome to join us."
Before he could answer, MacLeod emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He
was surprised to see his friend; Joe didn't visit Paris very often. Duncan smiled, "Joe,
what brings you to town?"
Dawson shrugged slowly, "I gotta make a living somehow; you're my meal ticket
buddy."
MacLeod grinned, even though he was still a bit uncomfortable with the thought that
every minute of his Immortal life he had been watched and documented for posterity.
Joe laughed at the look on his friend's face.
MacLeod turned to Rochelle, then back to his Watcher, "I'm sure you've met Rochelle
already."
"We have," Rochelle replied. She whistled at his choice of attire, "Are we trying to start a
new trend, Duncan?"
Joe chuckled and looked at her sideways.
MacLeod cocked his head, thinking the exchange odd. But he dismissed it. Satisfied,
MacLeod retrieved some clothes from a dresser drawer and returned to the bathroom.
Rochelle turned to Dawson, at the same time working the jammed cork of a wine bottle.
"So, are you going to stay or not?"
Dawson nodded, "I never pass up free food."
"A man after my own heart," Rochelle smiled. She stuck the wine bottle in his face,
"Good, then make yourself useful." She then excused herself, saying she had to make a
few phone calls. She went above deck, and figured that while she was up there, she
would keep a look out for Amanda as well.
When MacLeod came out of the bathroom a second time, Joe was still fighting the cork.
"That's Rochelle Picaut?" he asked, having not read anything about her in several years.
His Immortal friend nodded. "Yeah."
"Boston Rochelle; '88?" He cursed as the wine cork remained fixed and rested in the
mouth of the bottle.
MacLeod took it from him. "Yes, that's 'Boston Rochelle.'" The cork popped open; Joe
rolled his eyes and took it from his friend, later placing it on the counter behind him.
"And she's here because...?" Curiosity, not simply business.
MacLeod sighed. Joe, ever persistent, ever trying to keep the line between friendship and
business unobscurred and in view, although it often got blurred. "She came looking for
Tessa."
Joe winced.
"She's being hunted."
Dawson did not make any kind of movement, as though he had already known that.
"Who?"
"Samuel Genova."
Joe Dawson nodded. Sam Genova was one nasty son of a bitch with a score to settle.
According to the Watcher files, he had a beef with one of the few remaining Ancient
Immortals and using the Immortal's friends as bait. The thing was, Sam Genova had been
at it for nearly a century, and the Ancient Immortal was still alive. It was too bad many of
his friends could not have the same said about them.
MacLeod noticed his friend's expression and raised a brow. "How much do you know
about him?"
More than I'd like, Joe thought. Past experiences had made him ever mindful of his oath,
and he repressed the urge to spill all his knowledge to Mac; who the ancient Immortal
was, what his connection to Mac's new pupil was, what his connection to Mac was. But
all Joe said was, "He's one nasty son of a bitch with a score to settle."
MacLeod was about to respond when he felt a disorienting vertigo; another Immortal.
Normally, he would have shrugged it off as Amanda or Methos, and now, even as
Rochelle coming back inside, but something made him reach for his sword. When he
heard tires squeal, and saw Rochelle spin on her heel, dashing back up the stairs, he
grabbed her sword as well and ran up the stairs, followed by his disabled Watcher.
Peering into the cold darkness, he saw Amanda sitting in a pile of bruised vegetables, her
sword and Rochelle at her side; the young Immortal was holding a note in her hands.
"Amanda!" MacLeod ran down the plank, at his lover's side in moments. Amanda's face
was bruised, much like her groceries, but it wasn't pain MacLeod saw on her face, it was
shame. Rochelle quietly took her sword from him.
Amanda gulped, "He jumped me from behind; I was walking back...I wasn't ready..."
Her entire body ached, and she could feel herself being put back together. She found
herself thanking God that Wolfe wasn't around to see this; he'd never let her hear the end
of it.
Duncan placed his fingertips gently on her lips and lifted her into his arms. He walked
past Joe, who was making his way over to Rochelle.
"Sweet Jesus," Dawson gasped when he saw Amanda's bruises. He looked curiously at
the note in Rochelle's hands. It read: "This was just a warning; I'm getting closer. Next
time it will be your head. Sweet dreams."
The young Immortal ripped it to shreds and tossed the paper fragments into the Seine,
now swollen with ice and melted snow. Sensing her anger and fear, and knowing why, if
his files were updated, Joe gently led Rochelle back inside. Amanda was seated on the
bed, wrapped in blankets, clutching a cup of coffee, which Mac had made with awe-
inspiring quickness.
ochelle sat next to her, "God, I'm so sorry." Amanda shook her head and patted her
hand. Joe glanced up at MacLeod, who was obviously furious. Rochelle noticed it to.
"Stay," she commanded. Rising from the bed, she took her teacher aside. "I can tell what
you're thinking and it really will not do any good. He's toying with me, using you all as
game pieces. The Game to him is truly a game; he toys and taunts people until he gets
what he wants, until he'll finally get what he wants. If you go after him, you'll just get
yourself into trouble; possibly killed."
Slightly amused by her commanding tone of voice and the amount of worry displayed on
her face, MacLeod crossed his arms. "You have that little faith in me? In my abilities?"
"I know what his are. You go after him, you will die."
Retaliation. "So will you." He returned to Amanda, and persuaded her to get some rest.
He kissed her forehead and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and drifted off
into Never Never Land. Rochelle opened her flip phone and called the embassy, saying
she wouldn't be back tonight. After he was sure Amanda was asleep, Duncan turned to
Dawson, "Joe, I'd feel better if you stayed here tonight; I'd know you were safe."
Suddenly much too tired to argue, Joe Dawson shrugged. MacLeod pointed out the spare
blankets and pillows were; Rochelle retrieved some for herself and the Watcher. They
argued over who would take the couch, each saying the other should have it. Joe won.
Ten minutes later, the only remaining people were conscious Shelly and MacLeod.
Wordlessly, one warmed the noodles while the other warmed the coffee. They ate in
silence, fuming, worrying, thinking. MacLeod cleared the table, while Shell-Belle
dumped the coffee grounds. Then MacLeod stripped down to his underwear and got in
beside his Immortal lover, holding her in his arms, and fell asleep.
Rochelle found a queer peace in the silence of sleep, deciding then and there her next
course of action. Retrieving a notebook from her gym bag, she proceeded to write a
letter. Finally satisfied with the result, she quietly tore it from the book and scrawled
MacLeod's name on it. Tucking it inside her shirt, she laid her head on a pillow, covered
herself with a blanket, and fell into a deep and troubled sleep.
A week later
"Ugh," Amanda groaned. If she had known the requirements, she wouldn't have signed
up for the role. They had been going at it like the Final Gathering was tomorrow for
almost seven days, twelve hours a day. She dumped her gym bag on MacLeod's bed,
releasing a tired sigh. Her short cropped blonde hair was damp with sweat and her legs
were covered with still healing welts. Her arms were sore from wielding her sword all
day long, attacking Shelly or MacLeod, or being attacked by Shelly or MacLeod, all in
the name of education. MacLeod walked past her, headed for his liquor chest, and
grabbed her by the waist. She slapped him good naturedly and kicked off her sneakers,
accidentally hitting him in his well-toned posterior. "I'm taking a shower," she
announced, heading for the bathroom.
Rochelle laughed tiredly as she watched MacLeod glare at the elder Immortal with mock
anger. Depositing her own bags near the door, she collapsed to the floor with a loud
groan. Startled, MacLeod came and stood over her. Her eyes were closed, her legs were
spread wide apart, and her arms were draped ungracefully above her head, her hair
spilling out from her scalp like a tousled sheet. She opened one eye and gazed up at him.
"Honestly, Duncan, you need furniture."
He rolled his eyes, "I have furniture." With his hand, the Highlander gestured over to the
couch.
Rochelle nodded, "This is true. But there's nothing here." She indicated the empty space
between the bed and the near wall. The only response she received was a grunt, and a
hand offering assistance getting up. She shook it away, thanking him, but none the less
saying she'd rather remain here for a while. Like until the next World War. MacLeod
shrugged and poured himself a glass of absinthe, haven taken a liking to it several years
prior, although he still enjoyed a good single malt more than anything else.
She raised her head listlessly, "Absinthe?"
He nodded, "Want some?" She shook her head eagerly, and raised her torso by her hands
and feet into what was known as 'a bridge,' then flipped herself heals over head until she
was standing. The young Immortal strolled over to him, and took a glass from MacLeod,
drinking it slowly, savoring the flavor of the antique liquor. "I thought this stuff was
illegal."
Her teacher raised his brows mischievously, "It is." He watched as his new pupil hoisted
herself up onto the kitchen counter.
"Frank had a whole slew of this stuff in our wine cellar."
"In Alaska?" MacLeod asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her.
Shelly nodded. "It was my reward if I was," she paused. "How did he put it? An
'attentive, obedient student, able to keep her teacher on his toes with her smart-ass
attitude.'" She mimicked her deceased teacher's voice almost perfectly, laughing as she
finished. "We drank this stuff every night."
MacLeod laughed loudly, and then rose to begin supper; she caught his arm and slid off
the counter, "No you don't, Highlander; tonight, I'll cook."
He stared her in the eye, "Your cooking has improved, I hope."
Shelly's face scrunched in distaste. "It was just that one minor incident with the mussels."
"We never let you cook again." MacLeod noted, remembering his and Tessa's first night
in Boston and how adamant Rochelle had been to cook for them. She spent three hours in
the kitchen, and they couldn't figure out why until they began eating the seafood. "How
was I supposed to know that if you could hardly open them they were bad?" she had
asked between episodes of vomiting.
"Don't worry," Rochelle assured him as she began rummaging around his small kitchen.
"I'll stick to something simple; what do you have?" She found some pasta, cream, spices,
and cheeses. Working busily in the confined area, Rochelle looked up through the
porthole occasionally. "Look, a tour boat,' she remarked, spying it move up the Seine,
filled with people.
"That's where we met," Duncan said softly, sadness filling his eyes. Rochelle looked up
in rapt attention. Without being asked, MacLeod began his story.
*Paris, 1979*
Duncan MacLeod ran as fast as his Immortal legs could carry him. Behind him he heard
the screech of police whistles, knowing that even farther behind him, a man was cursing,
cursing the fates, his bad luck, law enforcement, and a certain infamous Immortal named
Duncan MacLeod. Glancing momentarily over his shoulder, MacLeod saw he was still
being followed by a police officer whose car he had moments earlier rolled over. Looking
ahead, he spotted a tour boat moving away from the slip. With a new burst of speed, he
dashed towards it, jumping off the edge, landing with a thud on the upper deck where a
beautiful young tour guide was beginning her shpiel. "What are you doing?" she
exclaimed, horrified.
MacLeod shrugged innocently. "I didn't want to miss the boat," he said simply.
"Another leaves in twenty minutes; you could have been hurt." She looked up and saw
several policemen shouting angrily after the boat, which was moving further and further
up river.
"I wanted this one," MacLeod said, taking a piece of chocolate from the woman seated
beside him.
The guide smiled in exasperation and continued her speech. "As I said before, ladies and
gentlemen, Paris is full of surprises. On your right you will see the Cathedral of Notre
Dame. Construction began in 1339 and was completed in 1445." The man who had made
the spectacular entrance raised his hand. "Yes?" she called on him. "What is it?"
"1442," he said, munching on his candy.
"Excuse me?" she asked, obviously flabbergasted.
"It was completed in 1442, not 1445."
"Forty-five," she argued.
"MacLeod shook his head, "Forty-two."
The tour guide placed her hands on her hips, "And I suppose you were there."
The man shook his head again, "It was a little before my time." He flashed her a genuine
smile and her knees weaken a little. She tried not to let her swooning show. Shaking her
head, the guide continued her speech.
"As I was saying, it was completed in 1440, forty..."
"Two."
"Five," she said, continuing on, now that the boat was far past the famous cathedral. She
was tall, slim, blonde, attractive, and spoke with a French accent. Forty five minutes
later, the tour boat returned to its slip and all the occupants departed, save for one.
MacLeod went up to the guide, who was putting the microphone back. "Duncan
MacLeod," he extended his hand.
She turned around, startled, "Excuse me?"
"My name is Duncan MacLeod." Not knowing what to do, she shook his hand.
"Tessa. Tessa Noel." MacLeod kissed her slim, fair hand and bowed at the waist
"It's a pleasure to meet you Mademoiselle," he said, showing off his fluent knowledge of
the French language He hoped it would charm her. It did. At that moment, they entered
into a relationship that would span over a decade and two continents, and be filled with
love, happiness, joy, sex, pain, and trials which would threaten to tear them apart
forever.
*Paris, 1997*
Rochelle's head was supported by her right hand, while her left hand was absently
stirring the pasta sauce as she listened to his story. Tessa had never told her that story,
although she'd told her many others; about times she and Nicole had spent together,
frivolous young girls intoxicated with the very essence of Paris. MacLeod's head was
bowed reverently, sadly, his dark brown eyes casting a deep pallor across his handsome
face. Shelly could see them filled with an impenetrable darkness-impenetrable until he
permitted. She was beginning to realize just the type of man her new old friend was:
honorable, strong, kind and sensitive, yet still driven by his warrior heart and experiences
learned very young, very long ago. She had heard many stories about this man, this
legend in his own right, from another legend, and she had listened in rapt attention,
wanting to have a connection to her past.
"Taste," Rochelle commanded, offering him a spoon dipped in the Alfredo sauce. He
obeyed.
"Needs salt." The distraction was welcome, and Shelly noticed the darkness ebbing;
perhaps in was not as impenetrable as she had originally thought.
Duncan handed her the spoon, noticing how she was staring at him, covering it
occasionally by focusing on something behind him. He knew she was studying him,
learning about him, drawing her own conclusions, coming up with more questions that
would be asked later. At that point, Amanda emerged form the bathroom, wrapped in a
towel. Duncan walked over and took her in his arms, kissing her gently. Rochelle cleared
her throat loudly. Usually, this had the desired effect, but not this time. She tried
something else. "If you want to eat, you have to try this again, or it will be too bland."
"She's very persistent, that girl," Amanda whispered.
MacLeod nodded. "I might have to talk to her about that," he murmured back.
"You can try, but it will not work," Rochelle called form the other side of the barge. "I
have good ears too." Knowing they weren't going to get any father, MacLeod and
Amanda parted. Amanda re-entered the bathroom with her clothes; Duncan walked over
to the kitchen and sampled Shelly's sauce.
"Done," he announced.
His student smiled mischievously," I know." She dumped the noodles that had been
sitting in a colander in the sink.
MacLeod chuckled, "You little smart ass."
She nodded, "That you; I like compliments where they are due." A memory stirred in
him, and he reached out to tickle her belly. She whipped around and held up her hands
for protection, backing away form the Immortal, "Oh no." He had a devilish grin on his
face and was nodding. He chased her across the barge, trapping her against the wall. He
pinned her to the ground and tickled her until tears streamed down hr face and she
screamed for mercy.
Amanda leaned against the bathroom door frame, smiling at the spectacle. She could see
that MacLeod was thoroughly enjoying himself, and she was happy. He was on the floor,
laughing out loud, his broad chest heaving, his face pinched with joy. Rochelle lay beside
him, wiping her eyes, "I can't believe you did that!"
"Believe it; how could I forget the easiest way to subdue you?" It was a trick Tessa and
Nicole had used when Rochelle had been a baby and toddler when it had been difficult to
catch her. Tessa had used it once in Boston, just for old time's sake. Duncan remembered
how she and Rochelle rolled around the hotel suite, screaming, laughing, crying, just
having fun.
Rochelle laid her head on MacLeod's shoulder, "Just don't tell Sam Genova; I'll be gone
in seconds." Her voice had been filled with happiness and joy, but now it was thick with
utter seriousness. Duncan's smile faded, and Amanda could see the pain filling his eyes.
She clapped her hands, "Are we going to eat, or are you two going to remain there all
night?"
They sat up, brushing themselves off. "Salad?" Rochelle suggested, not exactly
volunteering to go and get some.
Amanda grabbed her purse, "Since I'm the only one decent, I'll go get it." She tossed her
coat about her shoulders and left the barge. Duncan stood and meandered over to the
bathroom.
"I'm going to take a shower." The oak door shut definitively and she was alone in the
barge. Rochelle poured herself another glass of absinthe and set about finishing the meal.
MacLeod stepped beneath the lava jets that were pouring form his shower head. He stood
there, nude, allowing the hot water to wash over his head, stream over his shoulders,
arms, back, flowing over his hips and buttocks, and down his legs. His taut muscles
slowly eased and released a loud groan; it sounded more like an animalistic cry,
something that had become synonymous with getting rid of pent-up stress and energy. As
he lathered his long torso, he tried to reassure himself that Rochelle was ready. Now I
know what Amanda feels like, he thought to himself. Every time he was challenged,
Amanda fussed and worried, one time going so far as to have him arrested to keep him
alive. Although recently, she had been off on escapades of her own; stories had gotten
back to him. It helped having a Watcher for a friend. It was also a hindrance.
One problem at a time, he told himself. He had a tendency to get side tracked, creating
more worries.
The soap washed off his body and he leaned against the ceramic wall. No interference,
his mind told him, sounding somewhat like Methos. He knew the Rules, but MacLeod
still wanted to protect Rochelle. He owed Tessa that much. He could practically hear her,
scolding him for dwelling on her death, telling him to let it go.
"I never will, any of it," he whispered, turning off the water so quickly that the pipes
complained with a bang.
Rochelle set plates out on the counter. She scavenged his cabinets for minutes, finally
finding his plates hidden way in the back. Above her, she heard uneven footsteps as
someone walked across the deck. Mortal, relax, she told herself. A middle-aged man with
salt and pepper hair came down the steps. "May I help you?" Rochelle asked.
The man glanced around the barge, "Mac here?"
She nodded and bellowed, "MacLeod!" Joe Dawson heard his friend yell from behind
the bathroom door.
"What?"
"Company!"
"Hey Mac!" Dawson called.
"Joe! Be right out!" MacLeod sounded surprised.
Rochelle wiped her hands on her pants and extended it to Joe, "Rochelle Picaut."
Joe's eyes shot up in surprise, "Joe Dawson."
Rochelle noticed the blue tattoo on his wrist. She raised a brow and reached out for his
other hand. "Interesting tattoo," she observed, turning his wrist over.
He smiled, "I thought so."
She looked him straight in the eye, "Apparently so do a lot of other people. Tell me; is
the tattoo mandatory when you become a Watcher?"
Joe frowned in confusion, "Excuse me?"
She smiled kindly, "Don't worry. I'm not angry. I just know about your organization."
She shrugged. "Actually, I think it is a good idea that someone else knows about us and
records what we do."
Joe was a bit speechless. Had MacLeod told her about them? Of course, Dawson really
had not right to be angry; after all, Mac hadn't taken the oath. Nor had he broken it
repeatedly. Still, Joe felt uncomfortable with Immortals knowing about their
organization. It was unnerving. You never tell the rats they're actually in a maze. He
looked this Immortal up and down, seeing what had become of her over the years. She'd
cleaned up nicely. She was tall, attractive, not thin, but none the less pretty. He wondered
what had brought her to MacLeod after all this time. It had been over a decade. Of
course, Joe knew their meting would happen sooner or later; he'd heard when she became
Immortal. He had also looked in on her file from time to time. Not recently though.
Joe smiled, "Thanks."
Rochelle returned to the kitchen. She looked up at him and asked "Do you know who I
am?"
He nodded, "I have a pretty good idea." Then he said, "I thought you were in Alaska."
"Moved." she said quietly. "Frank's dead."
"Oh," Joe said, not knowing what else to say. Then the gears kicked in and he began to
remember what he had read in her file. "Oh." He looked in the way of the bathroom door.
"Does MacLeod know?"
She gazed at him uncertainly, "About Frank?"
"No."
Her eyes opened wide. Oh no. "You know?" she blanched.
Dawson nodded silently.
"Are you going to tell him?" her eyes had a sense of desperation in them.
Joe shook his head again, feeling as though it were about to roll off, "Nope. It isn't my
place."
Rochelle visibly relaxed. She changed the subject, "Amanda will be back in a minute. We
were about to have dinner; you are welcome to join us."
Before he could answer, MacLeod emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He
was surprised to see his friend; Joe didn't visit Paris very often. Duncan smiled, "Joe,
what brings you to town?"
Dawson shrugged slowly, "I gotta make a living somehow; you're my meal ticket
buddy."
MacLeod grinned, even though he was still a bit uncomfortable with the thought that
every minute of his Immortal life he had been watched and documented for posterity.
Joe laughed at the look on his friend's face.
MacLeod turned to Rochelle, then back to his Watcher, "I'm sure you've met Rochelle
already."
"We have," Rochelle replied. She whistled at his choice of attire, "Are we trying to start a
new trend, Duncan?"
Joe chuckled and looked at her sideways.
MacLeod cocked his head, thinking the exchange odd. But he dismissed it. Satisfied,
MacLeod retrieved some clothes from a dresser drawer and returned to the bathroom.
Rochelle turned to Dawson, at the same time working the jammed cork of a wine bottle.
"So, are you going to stay or not?"
Dawson nodded, "I never pass up free food."
"A man after my own heart," Rochelle smiled. She stuck the wine bottle in his face,
"Good, then make yourself useful." She then excused herself, saying she had to make a
few phone calls. She went above deck, and figured that while she was up there, she
would keep a look out for Amanda as well.
When MacLeod came out of the bathroom a second time, Joe was still fighting the cork.
"That's Rochelle Picaut?" he asked, having not read anything about her in several years.
His Immortal friend nodded. "Yeah."
"Boston Rochelle; '88?" He cursed as the wine cork remained fixed and rested in the
mouth of the bottle.
MacLeod took it from him. "Yes, that's 'Boston Rochelle.'" The cork popped open; Joe
rolled his eyes and took it from his friend, later placing it on the counter behind him.
"And she's here because...?" Curiosity, not simply business.
MacLeod sighed. Joe, ever persistent, ever trying to keep the line between friendship and
business unobscurred and in view, although it often got blurred. "She came looking for
Tessa."
Joe winced.
"She's being hunted."
Dawson did not make any kind of movement, as though he had already known that.
"Who?"
"Samuel Genova."
Joe Dawson nodded. Sam Genova was one nasty son of a bitch with a score to settle.
According to the Watcher files, he had a beef with one of the few remaining Ancient
Immortals and using the Immortal's friends as bait. The thing was, Sam Genova had been
at it for nearly a century, and the Ancient Immortal was still alive. It was too bad many of
his friends could not have the same said about them.
MacLeod noticed his friend's expression and raised a brow. "How much do you know
about him?"
More than I'd like, Joe thought. Past experiences had made him ever mindful of his oath,
and he repressed the urge to spill all his knowledge to Mac; who the ancient Immortal
was, what his connection to Mac's new pupil was, what his connection to Mac was. But
all Joe said was, "He's one nasty son of a bitch with a score to settle."
MacLeod was about to respond when he felt a disorienting vertigo; another Immortal.
Normally, he would have shrugged it off as Amanda or Methos, and now, even as
Rochelle coming back inside, but something made him reach for his sword. When he
heard tires squeal, and saw Rochelle spin on her heel, dashing back up the stairs, he
grabbed her sword as well and ran up the stairs, followed by his disabled Watcher.
Peering into the cold darkness, he saw Amanda sitting in a pile of bruised vegetables, her
sword and Rochelle at her side; the young Immortal was holding a note in her hands.
"Amanda!" MacLeod ran down the plank, at his lover's side in moments. Amanda's face
was bruised, much like her groceries, but it wasn't pain MacLeod saw on her face, it was
shame. Rochelle quietly took her sword from him.
Amanda gulped, "He jumped me from behind; I was walking back...I wasn't ready..."
Her entire body ached, and she could feel herself being put back together. She found
herself thanking God that Wolfe wasn't around to see this; he'd never let her hear the end
of it.
Duncan placed his fingertips gently on her lips and lifted her into his arms. He walked
past Joe, who was making his way over to Rochelle.
"Sweet Jesus," Dawson gasped when he saw Amanda's bruises. He looked curiously at
the note in Rochelle's hands. It read: "This was just a warning; I'm getting closer. Next
time it will be your head. Sweet dreams."
The young Immortal ripped it to shreds and tossed the paper fragments into the Seine,
now swollen with ice and melted snow. Sensing her anger and fear, and knowing why, if
his files were updated, Joe gently led Rochelle back inside. Amanda was seated on the
bed, wrapped in blankets, clutching a cup of coffee, which Mac had made with awe-
inspiring quickness.
ochelle sat next to her, "God, I'm so sorry." Amanda shook her head and patted her
hand. Joe glanced up at MacLeod, who was obviously furious. Rochelle noticed it to.
"Stay," she commanded. Rising from the bed, she took her teacher aside. "I can tell what
you're thinking and it really will not do any good. He's toying with me, using you all as
game pieces. The Game to him is truly a game; he toys and taunts people until he gets
what he wants, until he'll finally get what he wants. If you go after him, you'll just get
yourself into trouble; possibly killed."
Slightly amused by her commanding tone of voice and the amount of worry displayed on
her face, MacLeod crossed his arms. "You have that little faith in me? In my abilities?"
"I know what his are. You go after him, you will die."
Retaliation. "So will you." He returned to Amanda, and persuaded her to get some rest.
He kissed her forehead and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and drifted off
into Never Never Land. Rochelle opened her flip phone and called the embassy, saying
she wouldn't be back tonight. After he was sure Amanda was asleep, Duncan turned to
Dawson, "Joe, I'd feel better if you stayed here tonight; I'd know you were safe."
Suddenly much too tired to argue, Joe Dawson shrugged. MacLeod pointed out the spare
blankets and pillows were; Rochelle retrieved some for herself and the Watcher. They
argued over who would take the couch, each saying the other should have it. Joe won.
Ten minutes later, the only remaining people were conscious Shelly and MacLeod.
Wordlessly, one warmed the noodles while the other warmed the coffee. They ate in
silence, fuming, worrying, thinking. MacLeod cleared the table, while Shell-Belle
dumped the coffee grounds. Then MacLeod stripped down to his underwear and got in
beside his Immortal lover, holding her in his arms, and fell asleep.
Rochelle found a queer peace in the silence of sleep, deciding then and there her next
course of action. Retrieving a notebook from her gym bag, she proceeded to write a
letter. Finally satisfied with the result, she quietly tore it from the book and scrawled
MacLeod's name on it. Tucking it inside her shirt, she laid her head on a pillow, covered
herself with a blanket, and fell into a deep and troubled sleep.