Title: Nightfall Author: Lore Rating: PG15 slash Summary: Tuesday the 11th, Duncan MacLeod's perspective Notes: This fic is me dealing with tuesdays tragedy. I do not mean to upset anyone or to profit from a horrible tragedy. I'm just trying to deal with my feelings about it all. Disclaimer: don't own the guys, wish I would though. Series: none Fandom/Crossover: Highlander Email: demonmother@h... Archive: just ask
"I'll see you in a few days Connor." Duncan giggled a second just as he ended the message in the blasted answering device. "We could meet up on top of the WTC. I think I have someone to introduce to you." He couldn't stop laughing. "Me ... Adam stop it. No!"
The phone ended up on the ground and the connection broke off on the sound of giggling and mumbled halfhearted protests.
The air was a bit damp, though for most of the last few days the sun had been more than clear enough to make it a sunny day. For the two immortals it felt like the perfect beginning to a day.
Duncan finally managed to make Methos let go of him. Kissing his lover before getting out of the bed. It was a late day for both of them, mostly due to Methos successful attempts at keeping him up all through the night. Duncan stretched his neck and moaned as he felt his sore muscles. There were definitely some things that even immortals shouldn't do.
Duncan didn't mind, as far as he was concerned the old man could take the whole thing apart if it made him happy. Just as long as he stayed around. Not that that would stop him from arguing about it when he came back. There was nothing so much fun as a good fight with the old man. Well except maybe the make up sex afterwards.
He stretched his limbs once more, thanking god for the healing ability of an immortal. Even now his muscles were still sore.
"Clean up while I'm gone Methos and stay away from the beer. It's almost finished already and Joe's coming over later."
Methos grumbled softly but otherwise ignored him as an opera made place for something best described as the screams of pigs on fire. Duncan could still hear it a few bridges away.
On his way back MacLeod managed to run past a bakery and a butcher. He was just about heading for a grocery store when he saw a small group of people talking about something in rapid French. He didn't really listen, but he could barely hear the name New York. He ignored it and headed onwards.
Even in the shop people were talking. Something about New York again.
He finally paid the radio some attention. It
chilled him to the bone.
A TV screen hung over the top of the counter and most of the shoppers were staring at the images of a plane hitting the World Trade Center. Duncan shivered, froze up where he stood and stared. There was nothing he could do. He didn't realize when he finally managed to start moving, nor did he retain any other memory of paying for his wares or the long walk home to the barge.
Connor had to be all right. He simply had to be. The Antique store wasn't that close to Manhattan anyway. So his kinsman should be alright. Not unless Connor had been taking breakfast at the WTC again, like he sometimes did.
Hell, Connor might not even be in New York yet. He only stayed there half of the time. Mostly he was with Alex and John in Scotland, so there was no real reason to worry.
But he couldn't help it, he had to hear his kinsman's voice. If only to hear him say he was an idiot. Anything, even if only for a second, he simply had to know if the man was still safe.
Methos was listening to the radio. His laptop was open on the CNN-homepage.
"Connor?"
"Nothing, as of yet."
Duncan grabbed the phone and anxiously dialed Connors number. He had to start over a few times. Even though he knew the number out of his head, the numbness setting in in his heart had spread out to his fingers
There was no response. He couldn't get in. He dialed repeat only a few seconds later.
When he wasn't trying to get Connor on line he was pacing through the barge, or bothering Methos for more information. The radio was on full time, bringing new reports every few seconds.
He called Glen Coe, hoping beyond hope that Connor was still there. Either Scotland or Morocco, anywhere but New York right now.
Nothing.
The number in New York still didn't connect. No response, even that one time that he had managed to get through.
"Damn you Connor! Pick up that damn phone."
He slammed the phone down. Methos was staring at him, staying an inch away from him. Watching from the sidelines.
Richie had called in two hours ago on the cell phone.
Amanda had managed to call from Chicago. It had eased some of his
worries, but most of it was still there in full thrust.
Joe had called in as well. He was watching the news full time. Methos had explained. Some old friend of the Watcher was working in the WTC. Joe was extremely worried about him. Duncan could understand all too well.
"MacLeod?"
Duncan startled up and flinched as he heard the whispered tones of his name.
"Calm down MacLeod. He'll be alright."
"But what if he isn't?"
"You know Connor, he's as tough as steel wiring. Nothing can get through
his skin.
"How can you stay so damn calm. With this ..." Duncan pointed at the screen. "Connor could be dead and I never ... I never told him ... He could be dead and I never told him what he meant for me ..."
Methos came closer and held him close, comforting him.
MacLeods breathing calmed down a slight bit as he sat down next to the phone.
"He's fine Duncan. He has to be."
No response. Dead silence.
The following hours ticked on endlessly. Methos renewed the CNN homepage a few times in between his searches on other sites. Anything to find out the latest news. Four planes. Thousands of people dead.
Duncan couldn't get a grip on the idea of anyone committing a crime like this.
Sure Methos had once told him he'd killed thousands, but even then the number had seemed abstract. It had just sounded like a lot. Even for a thousand year spree ... But this this was horror beyond mention.
He remembered his horror after Culloden, after WW2. Seeing the corpses of friends and loved ones. What if this time it was Connor whom he lost?
That was the worst of it. He wanted to spread his concern, to think of all those others caught up in this monstrosity. But all he could think of was one person.
Now why didn't Connor just call in already.
Either to Alex and John or to him.
There were dozens of numbers Connor could have called. He hadn't used any.
Maybe it was just the disturbances on the line. And Connor was fine.
Duncan knew that soon shock would set in, but for now he was to ruled by concern and horror.
"He taught me so much Methos. What if he's still alive but buried underneath tons of stone. Dying, reviving ...unable to get out."
The worst part of all of it was being unable to do a thing but sit here by the phone and hoping for a liberating call.
He wanted to go do something, anything, fight whomever was responsible. But
this wasn't his fight and he just had to wait here. It stung. He started pacing
again. He couldn't even fly over to New York to volunteer to help, because no
planes were allowed in American airspace.
There would be consequences from this, but those meant nothing compared to the
pain silently forming in his soul.
"There are so many things that I haven't told him yet. How much I love him, how grateful I am to him for everything. I can't loose him. I haven't even been able to tell him about us yet."
That last bit seemed so small, so unessential now that he stated it out loud. But damn it, he'd looked forward to introducing Methos to Connor. He'd wanted to show Connor how happy Methos made him. And now the ancient bastard was just sitting there, drinking a beer while reading the news from the screen.
For a second Duncan regretted not having a TV, at least then he could have looked at faces, checked if Connor was one of the people running away.
Methos was just so calm through all of this. Shouldn't he be as worried and horrified as him and just about anyone else in the world. But then Methos had probably seen and done things ...
He wondered why the idea of Methos past didn't bother him as much as it used to. Had he gotten that used to just accepting it, forgetting it. Methos looked at him, That worried look that told him that the old man did have feelings. That he did care.
It made him feel better, a bit at least.
Then a click, an answer.
"Connor?"
And for one moment the world was right again. It wouldn't last. The horrors for the rest of the world were still out there. But for that one single moment Duncan thanked God for this mercy, for this life, just as night fell
The end