The concept of the Highlander universe and the character of Duncan MacLeod were created by someone else. They belong to someone else. Actually, they belong to a bunch of people - Gregory Widen, Peter Davis, William Panzer, the folks at Gaumont, and those at Rysher Entertainment, as well. They do not belong to me, and I'm borrowing them without permission. Because Highlander-The Series is my favorite TV show, and because this story has been written out of love with no hope of monetary gain - I hope they'll forgive the transgression.
Move over Mary Sue - Chapter 3
I sip warm fragrant tea and let the soothing murmur of conversation flow around me. The occasional clink of a glass tapping a plate punctuates the lyrical rhythm of spoken Chinese. The waiter's head bobs like a float on a wave, and he scribbles frantically on an oil-stained pad as Duncan gives him our order - in Chinese.
When the waiter scuttles back to the kitchen, I smile in amazement. "Where did you learn to speak Chinese?" I ask.
"In China," he answers with a mischievous grin.
"Ask a silly question ... get a silly answer," I say. His grin is infectious, I can't help grinning back. Besides I feel a little foolish and definitely overwhelmed by his charm. I've been grinning like an idiot ever since he picked me up at the office an hour ago in a classic T-bird. "Do you speak the language well, or was that just restaurant Chinese?"
He laughs softly as he unwraps a set of chopsticks. "I guess we'll find that out when he brings the food - won't we?"
I shudder. "I hope you didn't order anything with eels in it by mistake."
"You have something against eels?" he asks. His dark eyes reflect the light from a candle that flickers in a gold glass globe between us, and they gleam with a hint of mystery.
"Not if they stay far away from my plate," I reply.
He laughs again. It's such a delightful sound, I want to make him laugh all night. We stare into each other's eyes for a few delicious moments, then I break the spell. "What were you doing in China?" I ask.
He looks away and taps his chopstick on the table like a drumstick as he shifts his position on the padded bench seat. He shrugs. "The usual ... a little business ... a little sightseeing," he answers.
Long enough to learn Chinese? Interesting. "I always wanted to go to China," I say waiting for him to look at me again. He doesn't.
His glance brushes by me - not long enough to make eye contact. He smiles - an acceptable substitute. "Maybe you will someday. More tea?" he asks, holding up a stubby white ceramic pot brushed with pale blue splashes.
"Maybe," I answer, nodding assent to his question about the tea. What can I say that will draw him out? I sense a warm intelligent man behind those eyes, but his thoughts are shut up tight behind them. Does he have secrets to hide or is he just one of those very private people? My senses tell me the answer lies somewhere in between.
"So what kind of business brings a man to China?" I ask.
He's not looking at me again. He shifts his position and he sweeps a glance around the small dining ro
om. He watches the other diners for a moment, then he watches his hands as he fumbles with the chopsticks. "I'm in antiques," he says softly.Okay, that could explain a trip to China, but I remember reading somewhere that the Chinese are very strict about what leaves their country. I suppose he may have been selling something rather than buying, but I'm not knowledgeable enough about either to judge whether his answer could be the truth. For the moment, I accept it as such. I have no real reason to suspect he would lie, but something is making him uncomfortable. He could be as jittery about first dates as I am, but I think there's more to it than that.
"That sounds more interesting than being a customer service manager," I say. He looks at me again, and he smiles. I savor the warm glow.
"If you don't like what you do, why don't you do something else?" he asks. Having shifted the conversational spotlight to me, he seems much more comfortable.
"It's not that I dislike it. It's okay most of the time. Quite frequently it's even rewarding when you solve a thorny problem or defuse a tense situation, but it's also frustrating. Some customers are not happy no matter what you do."
"That's true," he says, nodding.
We hit the conversational pause button as the waiter approaches. Keeping his hands tucked into the loose sleeves of his black silk jacket, except when he points out an error, the waiter directs his two minions as they place steaming plates before us. Duncan watches the dance of plates and hands carefully, commenting now and then in Chinese. The waiter bobs his head and laughs as one of Duncan's comments strikes him funny, then like a summer squall, the waiter and his assistants vanish as quickly as they arrived.
Silence settles over us as the enticing aroma of garlic, onions and exotic peppers mingles with the comforting scent of warm rice and reminds me how hungry I am. I remove the wrapper from my chopsticks, and whisper a small prayer that I will be able to manage them without dropping food in my lap. I can handle chopsticks. I've eaten with them before, but a quick glance at Duncan tells me that he's more comfortable with them than I am with a knife and fork. In fact, he looks as though he's been eating with them most of his life. More questions rise up to hammer at my brain, but I know I won't get the answers without digging, so I dig into my food instead.
"I didn't plan to be a customer service manager," I muse, breaking the silence.
He pauses for a sip of tea, and watches me over the rim of the white porcelain cup. One dark shaggy eyebrow lifts in a question, but he doesn't ask it. He waits for me to continue.
"I wanted to be an interior designer," I say.He picks up his chopsticks and deftly pinches up a piece of shrimp. "What stopped you?"
"Lack of talent," I say. "Well, that's not completely true. I had a flair for it, but most of my classmates at NYSID were so much better I knew I couldn't compete."
"NYSID?" he asks, apparently puzzled by the acronym.
I always take it for granted that other people immediately know what I know, and for some odd reason I'm surprised when I find out they don't.
"New York School of Interior Design," I explain. "I went there for a year before I discovered I wasn't going to be the next David Hicks. After that startling revelation, I realized that I would end up spending my entire career trying to fit Aunt Sophie's ratty old sofa into my brilliant design, or trying to convince the client it had to go. I figured that would get old fast, so I transferred to Rutgers and majored in business administration. It wasn't as exciting, but it was definitely a better fit."
"Maybe you shouldn't have given up so easily," he says.
I consider this for a moment. "I never thought of it as giving up," I say. "I think I just recognized my limitations. Of course, they had to jump up and whack me on the head, first."
He grins, and it gives me the impetus to continue. "At that point I accepted the reality that you can't always do what you want to do. I also wanted to be a ballerina and rock star ... and look where that got me."
The grin evolves into a soft laugh, and I realize I could talk to this man all night. As I tell him how Dara and I decided we needed a bit of adventure after graduation, and I regale him with tales of our cross-country trip in an ancient VW microbus, I also realize that is precisely what I'm doing. Beyond smiles, nods and the occasional chuckle, he hasn't contributed much to the conversation.
I've learned through experience that most men like to talk about themselves. Give them the slightest bit of encouragement and they will endeavor to impress you with stories of their exciting - in their opinion, anyway - escapades. I knew, from the first moment, that Duncan MacLeod was unlike any other man, I've met before, but this reluctance to talk about himself has me wondering whether he has something to hide. A nefarious past, perhaps? Painful memories? Dastardly deeds? I'm both intrigued by the possibilities, and alarmed at the same time.
He seems so caring and kind, yet I know appearances can be deceiving. I've read that psychopathic killers can be utterly charming, and I wonder what I'm getting myself into. Sirens go off in my head, and red lights flash. They warn me to walk away before I get in too deep, but I can't. Aside from his outstanding physical attributes, Duncan MacLeod is a puzzle to be solved. A mystery I can't walk away from - I have to stick around and let the story unfold so I can learn the answers.
"The city opera company is doing Carmen, Saturday night," he says, tearing me away from my musing. "I know someone who can get tickets. Would you like to go?"
It takes a few minutes for his question to penetrate to the thinking part of my brain. While I rambled through my reverie, I was mesmerized by the dusting of tiny black hairs visible in the gap his open shirt collar left below his throat. Opera? He said opera. I hate opera.
Even sitting next to Duncan, I don't think I could make it through two or three hours of Carmen unless I stuffed cotton in my ears. I'm not exactly sure how long an opera lasts, but even 10 minutes would be too long. I could mention that I know someone who can get us tickets to the Metallica concert at City Centre, but I suspect his reaction to that would be the same as mine is to opera. Maybe we could compromise and go to see the Seacouver Storm skate it out against the Las Vegas Thunder in the first round of the Turner Cup finals.
"Um, opera," I say smiling as I glance down at a small tangle of noodles and shrimp on my plate. I push them around with my chopsticks. "Opera is not high on my list of fun things to do." I smile to soften the blow. "I'd say it falls a little higher than having a cavity filled."
He rewards me with a soft chuckle. "I take it that means you don't like opera," he says.
"You got it," I say, hoping that liking opera is not a required qualification for a relationship with him.
"What kind of music do you like?" he asks.
It's my turn to grin. "Heavy metal rock," I answer, just to tease him.
He groans and rolls his eyes.
"Actually, my taste in music is rather eclectic." I say. "I enjoy all kinds - except opera and that whiny kind of country and western, though the footstomping kind is okay in small doses."
He smiles. "How about classical music?" he asks. "I think they're doing Hayden at Symphony Hall this weekend."
"Hayden is good ... Fireworks music is one of my favorite pieces. Actually I have quite a few classical CDs in my collection, and I've also got some jazz ... a little New Age for a change of pace. I've even got a couple of Big Band CD's."
He lifts an eyebrow in surprise at that confession, but he makes no comment. I'm on a ramble now and there's no stopping me. He doesn't try.
"But mostly, I listen to rock," I continue. "And not just heavy metal. I like classic rock, southern rock, fusion, blues. If it's got a good beat and you can dance to it, I give it a five."
My mother grew up watching American Bandstand, and that's the way she rates every song she hears. She's got me doing the same thing.
"You like to dance?" he asks, ignoring the Bandstand reference.
"I live to dance," I answer. "Dancing falls much higher on my list of fun things to do, than opera does - that's for sure. Dancing's definitely in the top ten."
"Maybe we could go dancing some time, " he says.
The shock of finding a man who actually suggests dancing as a possible activity mingles with the realization that he's planning future dates. I can't stand it. I have this terrible urge to bounce up and down in my seat. I want to clap my hands and shout for joy, but the phrase, what's wrong with this picture, echoes in my mind.
Okay, he likes opera, so he's not perfect, but he's pretty damn close. So why don't I believe it? Why do I feel like I'm sitting under the sword of Damocles, and the damned thing looks like it's going to drop from the ceiling any minute? Either I'll find out the reality is not what I'm hoping for or I'll wake up from this lovely dream. One lesson I've learned well, is - if something seems too good to be true, it usually is. But for right now, I'm enjoying the trip, so I'll drift along and hope for the best.
The evening passes way too quickly from my point of view. After dinner, Duncan asks if I'd like to go to Joe's for a nightcap. Sounds like a good idea ... anything to prolong our time together. Of course, I'll regret it when I have to get up for work in the morning, but what the hell, this guy is worth working through a day with mush for brains.
I get to meet Joe. He's a nice, personable kind of guy who plays a mean blues guitar. He has a decided limp and he uses a cane, but neither he nor Duncan supply an explanation, and it would be exceedingly rude to ask, so I don't. He also has an odd tattoo on his wrist - some sort of strange symbol, but I don't ask about that either. We chat for a bit about nothing in particular ... music in general, for the most part. Music seems to be the topic of the night.
The late hour and the exertion of holding my wits together in Duncan's staggering presence finally takes it's toll. I try not to yawn, but the urge is too powerful. Duncan smiles and apologizes for keeping me up so late on a week night. I protest, but it's a weak attempt, and we call it a night.
During the short drive back to my office, we drift into a companionable silence. Since I tend to chatter ceaselessly when I'm nervous, I always take it as a good sign, when I don't feel the need to fill every moment with conversation. Duncan seems comfortable with the silence as well.
He stops the T-bird behind my car, then gets out to walk me to it. I press the button on the remote and the alarm chirps in response. He reaches around me to open the door, and I stand with my back against the frame. Resting his arm along the top of the open door, he stares at his hand for a moment, then his chest rises as he inhales deeply.
"So are we on for Saturday night?" he asks.
"As long as we're not going to the opera," I answer, with a smile so as not to discourage him.
He laughs softly. "We can skip the opera. How about dinner and a movie?"
"That's sounds good," I answer.
He leans over, slips his fingers into my hair, then he kisses me. A soft tender unthreatening kiss. One filled with promise and tasting faintly of Scotch whiskey. Like the evening it's over much sooner than I want it to be.
As our lips part, he drags his fingers along my cheek, and I realize that my hand has found a home on his chest. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin silk of his shirt, and I want to stand here connected like this forever.
He covers my hand with his, then he lifts both to his mouth and he presses the pads of my fingers to his lips briefly while he gazes into my eyes. I'm drifting, floating in a warm sweet mist. If you were to ask me where I am, I'd have no clue.
"Good night," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
He steps back to let me climb into the car. I do so reluctantly. "Be careful driving home," he cautions.
"I will," I say. "I had a nice time tonight, Duncan ... thanks."
He smiles and tips his head as he lifts his shoulders in a quick shrug. "I'll call you about Saturday," he says.
I nod, then he shuts the door. He taps on the window and points to the door lock button. I push it, he nods, waves, then turns to walk back to his car. I watch him in the mirror as I turn the key in the ignition, and I have an odd sensation that I've stepped over a threshold and into a new world. And I wonder just what I've gotten myself into.
