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 6

The old lift grumbles and groans as it clambers up to the loft. When it stops all is quiet. A light on the desk casts a weak glow over the glossy wood floor, then drifts toward the Oriental rug, but it doesn't reach beyond the bound edge. Outside the circle of pale yellow light, the rest of the loft lies cloaked in shadows. Duncan is not here.

Though he has given me a key, I feel like an intruder as I lift the gate. The rubber sole of my sneaker squeals on the floor and the sudden sound startles me. "Duncan," I call out, knowing he won't answer, but the attempt at contact makes me feel less intrusive.

I pause a few steps into the room, unsure of what I should do next. He was supposed to meet me at Joe's two hours ago, but he never showed. That's not like him at all. One thing I have learned about him over the last months - almost a year now - is that when Duncan MacLeod says he will do something, he does it.

The cold clammy breath of unknown terror brushes across my neck and shoulders. His absence can be explained in any one of dozen logical and perfectly innocent ways, but my gut tells me something is radically wrong. No reason for it, just an instinct that holds my heart in a death grip. The bitter taste of panic presses at the base of my throat and I have no solid answer for why it's there. It just is and it won't go away.

The sound of a door slamming shut echoes through the loft from downstairs and muffled sounds drift up, carried by the elevator shaft. Before I can add the clues together, the lift motor grinds to life. A rush of adrenaline pushes my heart into overdrive, and a unreasonable pulse of fear tingles as it rushes along my spine. Your imagination's working overtime, I scold myself, wondering why I have such a tenuous hold on reality all of a sudden.

I probably caught this mood from Joe. It's all his fault. I told him Duncan said he would meet me, and he kept asking if I heard from him ... like something was wrong. Like he knew what business had kept Duncan away. Joe knew something all right ... knew and wouldn't tell me. I asked, but he laughed.

"Mac will be fine," he said without explanation. Such an odd thing to say about someone who is merely late for a date. Such an odd thing to say about someone unless you know there is a possibility that they won't be fine at all.

The lift rises into view. The low watt bulb bathes Duncan's slumped shoulders and bowed head with an eerie light as he leans against the side wall.

A rush of relief chases my fear and I take a step toward the lift cage. The sound of my sneakers catches him by surprise. His head snaps up, and he quickly masks the flicker of alarm that shines briefly in his eyes.

"Hi," he says, smiling crookedly as he pushes the gate out of the way. He does not allow his gaze to meet mine.

I can't stop the audible gasp as the reason for his reluctance penetrates my brain. He looks like he just escaped from a demon paper shredder. His hair has been pulled loose from the tie at his nape and it drifts around his face in wild disarray. Strands lie plastered by sweat across his forehead. His thin sweater bears two straight-edged slashes crusted in what appears to be blood - one across his chest, one across his right sleeve. His left leg bears a similar scar through the fabric of his jeans. Those slashes were made by something sharp - a knife ... or a sword. I wonder what prompts that left field speculation.

His dark eyes shine with a wild light, yet he appears unhurt. In fact he seems surrounded by a strange glow ... a glow best described as an aura of triumph.

"What the hell happened to you?" I ask, paralyzed momentarily by this apparition I know to be Duncan.

He glances down at his shredded clothes, then grins as he looks up again. "You should see the other guy," he says.

I rush to his side, and wrap my arms around his waist. For that brief second, I don't care what happened. He is safe, whole. He is here with me. "But you're hurt." I say, knowing he must be.

With gentle, yet firm pressure on my arms, he pushes me away from him, then brushes past me. "I'm fine," he says. The very same words Joe Dawson used.

I shake my head to dispel the surrealistic miasma that sucked me into its slimy depths the moment I saw him - saw him before he realized he was not alone. Something is radically wrong here, yet it eludes me like the faint smell of smoke from a distant fire drifting on a night breeze. One minute it's clear and pungent and the next moment it's merely a faded memory.

"Duncan," I shout.

He stops, turns his head. A deep inhalation lifts his shoulders. He waits for me to move to his side. I lift my hand to touch one of the gaps in his sweater. He flinches, but he doesn't step away. Underneath his skin is unmarred, taut over the muscles of his chest. I can't believe what my eyes tell me is true. He takes my hand, raises it to his mouth, then he kisses my fingers. He slips his other hand into my hair and pulls me close for a deep kiss. His lips are warm, like fresh picked raspberries against my own as he draws me under his spell.

"I'm okay," he says, releasing me from his embrace, but not the spell. "I'm going to wash up, why don't you fix us a drink." Another quick kiss and he's gone.

"Fix us a drink," he said. Us? I need the whole bottle - there won't be any left for him. He's icy calm; he doesn't need a drink.

My movements seem sluggish as though I'm walking under ten feet of water. I cross the room to the kitchen area next to the elevator. I take two glasses, drop a few ice cubes in one. Duncan drinks his whiskey straight, but I've got to have ice. I try to think, but my brain's gone AWOL. Hiding out somewhere in the bushes, perhaps. I have no clue ... no inkling ... no trace of thought about what is going on. I work through the task with the calm motions of a robot to keep my shaken sanity from crumbling all together. Something is totally out of plumb here - like the tilted room in a fun house - and my sense of balance is all out of whack.

As I sink into the cushions of the sofa, I can hear water running in the bathroom. Such a nice, normal, familiar sound. I sip the whiskey - old unblended Scotch whiskey. Its smooth fire calms my frazzled nerves somewhat. There's a logical explanation, I reassure myself. He'll come out. He'll explain. We'll make love, wake up tomorrow morning and all will be as it was before.

Uh-uh ... a voice whispers in my head. Welcome to the Twilight Zone ... where nothing is as it seems.

"Shut up," I tell the voice.

"Who are you talking to?" Duncan's voice comes from mere inches away.

He swings his legs over the couch, then slides down next to me. He reaches for the glass, I left on the table for him, drains the liquor in one long swallow, then he pours another.

Totally lost in this bizarre situation, I run my hand along his back. He has put on a sweatshirt, so I can't see the evidence of his injuries ... or the lack of it.

"Duncan ... what--"

He turns and kisses me again ... to keep me from asking the question. Now I'm getting annoyed. I push him way. "That won't work," I tell him.

He edges away. Tucking one leg under him, he turns his body to face me. He stretches one arm out along the back of the couch, and he circles one finger on my shoulder. The grin he hides by tipping his chin down has a sheepish angle to it. "It's over," he says. "Don't worry about it. It was nothing ... just a couple of kids ... they tried to hold me up."

I'm not buying this story and he knows it. "And," I say when he shows no sign of elaborating.

He shrugs. He still doesn't make eye contact, and the lie that stands between us is growing fangs and long stringy hair. He takes a deep breath. "And ... nothing. I fought them ... they ran away."

Which is probably what I should be doing. If I was smart, I'd leave or demand an explanation. But I'm not smart - not anymore. I'm in love ... in love with a man who asks me to believe he came back from a mugging and a fight without a scratch. I don't know what to believe. I want him to hold me and make all this go away. Kiss it and make it better like my mother used to do when I fell and scraped a knee.

"What happened to your clothes," I ask. I'm driven to ask because I don't know what else to do.

He shifts his foot to the floor again, and he holds his drink in both hands, as he stares down at it. "One of them had a knife," he says. The undertone in his voice says, Don't ask any more questions.

That kid must have been very skilled to cut your sweater, but leave the flesh underneath untouched, I think, but I don't say that aloud. Duncan is even more skilled at parrying my questions.

"Did you call the police?" I ask - one more question ... the last one.

He shakes his head - a negative movement. "It was dark, and I didn't see them clearly enough to identify them."

I can't deal with this. "You obviously don't want me here ... I'm leaving," I say. I wonder if my knees will keep my legs from buckling as I stand.

He bolts from the couch before I can take two steps. He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me back into him. "That's not true," he mumbles into my hair, then he marches kisses down my neck. "Don't go," he says, "please, don't go."

"Give me a reason to stay."

He turns me around to face him, tugging my t-shirt free of the waistband of my jeans as he does, then he slips his hands underneath. He dips his head to kiss me. I intercept his mouth with my hand. "That's not what I mean," I tell him.

I'm trying my best to sound stern, but he has put on his best, puppy dog look. Big brown eyes - sad eyes. Curled lower lip. My will is crumbling ... my resolve fading fast. I should not have turned around. To keep a safe distance, I rest my hands on his chest. But that's not safe enough or far enough.

"You don't trust me, Duncan," I say. "I need you to trust me."

He sighs, and lifts his head as he glances up at the ceiling. He doesn't answer. He just pulls me closer. Holding me, he rests his cheek against mine. His heart beats a strong pulse, vibrating against my chest. His breath stirs the hair over my ear. His hands circle slowly over my back. We don't move. We just stand there absorbing the essence of each other for a long moment.

He pulls away slightly, then burrows his fingers in my hair. His thumbs leave tingling trails as they caress my jaw. He searches my face with those intense dark eyes and our gazes lock. He wants to trust me, I can see it shining their depths ... but he can't. Something holds him back. "I need time," he whispers.

I take a deep breath, and let it out with a sigh. How can I deny such a simple request? He has won - he knows it. I know it. He has won ... for now. But for how much longer ... I can not say.