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 4

"So what's wrong with him?" Dara asks as she lifts a plump bacon cheeseburger dripping with fried onions and ketchup to her mouth.

Dara's been my best friend since high school, but right now I hate her. She's one of those people who can eat all she wants and she never gains an ounce. I stab my fork into chicken Caesar salad and sigh. It's quite tasty, but I'd rather have the cheeseburger.

"What's wrong with who?" I ask, though I know perfectly well who she's talking about.

"The guy you've abandoned your friends for. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous. That guy you've been mooning over for a month."

"His name is Duncan. And I never moon."

"Whatever," she says waving a pickle for emphasis. "You and I both know that no guy's as perfect as you keep telling us this guy is."

She's right, and I've been asking myself that same question every day since I met him. He's not perfect - I know that - no one is. Little imperfections I expect - I can deal with them. Perfection is boring, and Duncan MacLeod is hardly boring. Still there is something odd about him, something that I can't quite get a handle on. I've known him for a month, yet I know nothing about him at all. I know none of the little details people usually provide to sketch out their backgrounds.

"He doesn't talk about himself," I drop my current thoughts into the conversation.

"A guy who doesn't talk about himself? I don't believe it!"

"It's true. He's very intelligent and he seems to know something about everything. He can go on for hours about art, music, history, philosophy, but he never provides any of the usual details about himself. You know the family tidbits, the schools he went to, where he was born, when he was born - I don't even know how old he is."

Dara looks at me like I've just said something truly stupid. "Duh," she says. "Have you tried asking him?"

"Uh ... yes and no," I answer. It's easier to torture the lemon in my club soda with my straw than it is to meet her gaze at the moment.

Dara's a plow right through it sort of person. If she wants to know something she goes after it with single-minded ferocity. Me - I'm a beat around the bush kind of person. I don't know why pointed questions make me skittish, but they do. I always answer a direct question with another question - why is my usual question of choice. Why do you want to know, I will ask. It's easy for me to sense when another person feels the same way, and Duncan MacLeod definitely fits in this category.

"Asking him questions is a little like trying to pick up mercury," I say.

Dara lifts one dark eyebrow into a quizzical angle. I guess she's never broken a thermometer.

.

"You can't touch mercury with your bare hands, it burns," I explain. "You have to scoop it up with something, but it's very slippery and it always wriggles away from you. If you're not careful, it might break into smaller pieces, and then you're chasing them as well. Duncan does the same thing whenever I ask him any direct question about himself or his background. He changes the subject, or he gives me some silly nonsense answer."

"That's not a good sign," she says.

"Tell me about it."

Dara dips a French fry into a mound of ketchup. She swirls it around as she thinks. My mouth waters - I want that fry. I reach over and filch one from her plate. She grins. "Get your own," she says.

"I'll have to spend another hour at the gym if I eat a whole order of fries," I answer. "And I spend way too much time there as it is."

She shrugs, then she nudges the plate of fries a little closer - like I need the temptation. "The man must have something to hide," she says getting back to the subject.

"That's what I've been thinking and it has me worried, because I really like him."

"What do you think it is?"

I move my soda glass between me and the fries, hoping that out of sight - out of mind really works. "I have no idea," I answer. "Could be any number of things, and it could be that he's just a very private sort of person. That I can deal with ... but those other unknown factors are a bit unnerving."

"It's hard to tell from a first impression, but he didn't strike me as the criminal type," she says. "Maybe he's in the witness protection program."

Dismissing her comment about the witness protection program, because that has crossed my mind as well, I find her other comment encouraging. Dara has always had good instincts - I trust her judgment - especially when it agrees with mine. I shake my head. "I didn't think so either or I wouldn't have gone out with him."

"Yeah, right," she says with a snicker. "I can just see you turning down Mr. Drop Dead Gorgeous. I'd have dragged you off to the nearest shrink and while you were safely locked away - I'd have made a move on him." She leans back and looks at me with a gleam of mischief in her blue eyes. "You know ... that's not a bad idea."

"You know the rules," I say. "I saw him first ... I get first dibs."

She laughs. "Well, be sure to let me know when you're tired of him ... I'm not proud - I'll take a castoff ... especially one who looks like him. But I still want to know what's wrong with him. Maybe he's married."

I shake my head. "I've been to his place. He lives in a loft above a martial arts dojo - which he also owns, by the way - and it's a guy kind of place. There's no woman living there - I'm sure of it."

.

She arches one eyebrow and gives me that leering look. "You've been to his place?" she says. "Do tell Auntie Dara all about it."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," I tell her. "He made dinner, we listened to a little music and played a game of chess." I smile at the memory of that - we didn't actually play chess - Duncan gave me a chess lesson. He's way out of my league in that department - among others.

"He cooked you dinner?" she asks.

"Yeah ... and he's a pretty good cook too."

She looks serious as she shakes her head. "Whatever is wrong with this guy has got to be big ... really big."

An icy chill touches that spot on my spine right between my shoulder blades. My thoughts exactly and I don't really want to know that Dara has come to the same conclusion. "Why do you say that?" I ask, but I don't really want her to answer the question. I already know the answer, but if she says it out loud, I will no longer be able to ignore it.

"Because you know there's always bad to balance out the good," Dara points out the obvious. She's a Libra - she's always thinking about balance. "A guy with this many good points has to have some really big skeletons hanging in his closet. You know that."

She's right - I do. I just prefer to ignore it. I want him to be just who I think he is. I want his imperfections to be the usual kind - like maybe he squeezes the toothpaste tube in the middle, or leaves the cap off the shampoo. I can cope with a little snoring. I can live with him leaving his underwear on the floor. But I certainly couldn't cope with finding out he's a drug dealer or an arms dealer. Or worse yet, a Ted Bundy clone. I cringe when I go to the post office for fear, I'll find his picture hanging on the wall. Yet, he seems to be too honorable and too caring to be a master criminal. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself.

"Think about it," Dara says, as though I haven't been agonizing over it for a month. Using her fingers as markers, she begins to list his attributes - like I need reminding.

"He's outrageously good-looking, and he's got a great bod. He's intelligent. He has a good sense of humor. From what you've told me, it sounds like he has better than a average income. He likes to dance - and you said he's good at it, too. He sends flowers. He can cook ... and he made you dinner at his place ... and he didn't try to have you for dessert--"

"I didn't say that," I interrupt her litany. She may be my best friend, and I tell her a lot ... I didn't tell her everything.

"Whoa ... what did I miss?" she asks, leering at me. "You holding out on me, girl?"

Pretending to search for more chicken, I stare into my salad and move a few pieces of romaine around with my fork. I don't think he actually planned on having me for dessert, but we're both adults ... we were alone in his place ... and it wasn't exactly a Victorian tea party.

"There isn't much to hold out," I say, still searching for chicken. I can't look at her without grinning like a fool, and once the grin starts, the blush won't be far behind. I don't do this sharing of intimate details any better than I play chess.

"We played a little tongue tag," I say. grinning despite my efforts. "He made a few moves, but I told him I wasn't ready to take that step, and he was really sweet - a true gentleman - he backed off with only a small protest."

I take a chance and glance up at her. She's shaking her head and making tsking sounds. "What's wrong with you?" she asks.

"Nothing's wrong with me," I counter, stabbing my fork into the salad.

We've been through this before. Casual sex is one of the few things we disagree on. Don't get me wrong, Dara doesn't hop into bed with every guy she meets, but she's much more spontaneous about it than I am. She has no qualms - moral or otherwise - about sleeping with a guy simply because she feels like it at the time. She figures if she takes ample precautions - what's the harm. Carpe diem is her personal motto. Me - I prefer to hold the day at a distance and analyze it a bit before clasping it to my bosom.

"You let an opportunity slide," she says. "And opportunity is not like the postman ... it doesn't ring twice."

"I'll take my chances."

"Suit yourself," she says, with a shrug, but not a trace of rancor. We've agreed to disagree on this point before.

We eat in silence for a moment, each of us lost in our own thoughts - then I remember something else that disturbed me. "He has a sword," I say.

"Don't they all," she answers with a lecherous grin. No doubt where her mind has been wandering.

"Not that kind of sword," I say, grinning along with her. "A Samurai sword."

She shrugs again. "You said he's an antique dealer ... maybe he collects them."

I remember seeing swords hanging on the wall when we passed through the dojo on our way upstairs, but this one wasn't hanging on the wall. "He does ... at least that's how he explained it, but he had this one with him ... under his coat, I think. He had his back to me, but I saw him put it in the corner when he hung our coats up."

"Maybe, he thinks he's Sir Lancelot," she says with a grin, but I can hear those gears turning in her head.

"I don't think he's that delusional. But it was very odd. Who takes a sword when they go to pick up a date?"

"Did you ask him about it?" she asks. I can tell by her tone, she expects me to say, no.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did. My curiosity got the better of me."

She laughs softly. "Congratulations ... and what did he say?"

.

"He said it was very sharp."

She lifts an eyebrow waiting for me to explain.

"I wasn't sure, I saw, what I saw, so I went to get a closer look. He practically knocked me over racing to get there first, and he grabbed it before I could touch it. He said it was very sharp ... a priceless antique, then he put it away."

"Maybe, he's just one of those guys who doesn't like anyone touching his stuff."

"He didn't seem to mind me touching his rocks," I say, knowing how she will react to that comment.

"His rocks? You touched his rocks?" She snickers.

I give her a minute to get her mind nicely settled in the gutter, then I explain. "Garden variety rocks ... he has several of them decorating his coffee table." I see the disappointment rise in her eyes.

"Rocks ... you meet a man who keeps rocks on his table and you're worried about a sword."

"It's a Zen thing," I say. "He's very into martial arts, eastern philosophy ... all that kind of stuff. And he didn't seem to mind my touching any of the other things he has, and his loft is full of antiques and bits of artwork. He's even got an antique kimono hanging on the wall."

"Maybe it's some kind of macho thing with the sword," she says. "You gonna get desert?"

I want desert, but I'm not giving in to temptation. Dating a guy who looks like Duncan has strengthened my resolve to keep in shape. I've even gone jogging with him a few times - which reminds me of something else that was odd.

"Sometimes he does weird things," I say, pushing my plate away - the chicken's all gone and I can't look at that lettuce any more.

"Like carrying a sword," she says, laughing as she waves at our waitress. I don't think she believes the part about the sword. "Now we're getting somewhere ... all men do weird things - why should he be any different?"

"Because he is different ... that's what I've been trying to tell you."

"You want to think he's different, but - face it - you scratch the surface and they're all alike underneath."

"When did you get to be such a cynic?"

She brushes her bangs back from her face and she grins at me. "I've always been a cynic ... haven't you noticed?"

I think about that as she orders her desert. Perhaps she's right, but I suspect her shell of cynicism hardened after she broke up with Jeff Wagner last year. Jeff was a bastard - a manipulator who loved to play mind games. I had him pegged from the beginning and I tried to warn her, but she was in love and she couldn't see it - not at first. Now I wonder if I'm not falling into the same kind of trap. Why can't people just be what they seem to be? Life would be so much simpler.

"So tell me about the weird stuff ... I'll feel better knowing he's not perfect."

"It's nothing earthshattering really - it just seemed a bit odd. I took a vacation day and we went to the zoo. We were watching two bear cubs chase each other around and all of a sudden he stopped talking about the bears and he looked around like he heard something strange. Then he tells me, 'Stay here ... I'll be right back,' and he kept looking around as he walked away."

"So did he come back?"

"Yeah, about 15 minutes later. But he was edgy all through dinner. When I asked him what was wrong, he said, 'nothing.' After dinner, he took me right home, though we planned to go to Joe's. And he wouldn't come in. He said something came up and he had to leave."

"Maybe he remembered some business and he was looking for a phone. He made his phone call, and had to take care of whatever business it was. Maybe one of his clients needed a Ming vase for some big social bash or something."

She is grasping at straws ... we both know it. "He carries a cell phone ... why would he need a phone booth?"

"Maybe, he wanted a little privacy."

"Then why not just say, 'I gotta make a call,' and be done with it."

She shrugs, but I can tell her mind is working over the information the same way mine did. "You said it, yourself ... he's weird."

He is and he isn't, but that explanation doesn't work. "It doesn't make sense. It's not logical."

Dara laughs as she digs into a large dish of rice pudding topped with a mountain of whipped cream. I can't watch.

"Well, Ms. Spock," she says, licking her spoon clean. I can't help myself - I watched. I'm eating vicariously. "I hate to tell you this," she continues between spoonfuls, "but most people aren't logical. They just do what they do and they don't analyze it to death. You worry too much."

I add a packet of real sugar to my coffee - I hate that artificial stuff. Blue packets or pink ... it all tastes funky. I'll only go so far to keep my waistline trim. I stir the coffee to death. It helps to keep my mind off the rice pudding.

"Well, there's all sorts of little things that don't add up, here, and I can't help trying to figure out what all the clues are telling me. If I don't worry about them now, and I fall in love with him it will be too late."

"You're making a big deal out of nothing," she says. "Maybe he was just looking for the bathroom. Maybe he was too embarrassed to say something. Some people are like that."

I know she's trying, but I've already considered and dismissed these possibilities. "It's hard to explain. You had to be there, but - trust me - he wasn't looking for the bathroom. And he did the same thing when we went to see that traveling Rodin exhibit down at the art museum. Except this time, he didn't walk away. About two minutes after he got that weird expression on his face, some friend of his came up to say hello."

"Maybe he's psychic, and he's having visions."

"Yeah right," I say. "You don't believe that."

She pushes her desert dish to the side and clasps her hands on the table as she leans in. "Why don't you ask him?"

I sigh. We've been through this. "There's no point. He won't answer me. He'll just change the subject. And I hate conducting an inquisition ... maybe it's none of my business."

"And maybe it is your business if you're going to get involved with him."

I have no answer for that ... she's right. But it's so very strange, I don't know what questions to ask - even if I did think he would answer them. There are explanations for all these odd bits, but the explanations don't quite click into place like they should. They're like a key that slides into a lock easily enough, but won't open the door because, though the groves match, the notches don't. Take the Band-Aids, for instance.

I want to tell Dara about the Band-Aids but she's busy scanning the check and calculating a tip. It was such a little thing, insignificant really ... but when you place it next to all the other incidents it becomes such a large question mark.

Duncan MacLeod has nothing in his medicine cabinet, but soap, deodorant and shaving cream. No aspirin, no antacids, no prescription allergy medications, nothing to put on a cut or burn ... no spray for athlete's foot ... no throat lozenges. I know because I looked.

I wasn't being nosy - I cut my finger slicing cucumbers for a salad. We were making dinner in his loft and he started hearing those signals in his head ... or whatever it is that gives him that strange look. "I'll be right back," he said, then he left. Left klutzy me alone with a sharp knife.

You guessed it - the knife slipped and I cut my finger - not a bad cut, but one that definitely begged for a Band-Aid. So I went looking for one, that's how I came to be checking his medicine cabinet ... but let me tell you that cupboard was barer than old Mother Hubbard's. Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

I wrapped a wash cloth around my finger and I was digging in my purse when he came back. "Where do you keep your Band-Aids?" I asked.

He frowned like he had no idea what I was talking about, then he laughed - one of those nervous twittery laughs. "I don't have any," he said.

Well, I knew that, now didn't I?

He made a fuss over the cut, cleaned it off with the wash cloth, then helped me find a Band-Aid in the oversized supply cabinet, I refer to as my purse.

Like I said, it was odd. Jarring. What kind of a man keeps nothing in his medicine cabinet? Perhaps, I'm falling in love with an android.

Dara snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Kate ... you ready to go?"

I nod, but I don't tell her about the Band-Aid incident. It raises more questions than I care to examine at the moment.