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 7
I haven't seen Dara for three weeks. We talk on the phone every day or at least every other day, but we don't see each other much anymore. It's sad fact, but it often happens between friends when one or both settle into a relationship with a guy. Dara met a guy two months ago and it seems to be working out well. I'm happy for her, but we hardly ever get together, now, and I miss her company.
Part of it's my fault - time spent with her means time away from Duncan, and I can never get enough time with him. I tell myself this obsession with him will wear off eventually, and I'll settle into a stream of normalcy, but there is nothing normal about my relationship with Duncan MacLeod. Nothing even close to resembling it.
"Mike's company has a big function at the end of the month," Dara told me the other day when we spoke on the phone. "Help me pick out a dress?"
Ah ... a day at the mall. It's what friends do. It's what Dara and I used to do quite frequently. I can't remember the last time we did, though.
I shift the pile of dresses she's already chosen from one arm to the other as she holds up yet another possibility. It's a classy little number - black crepe with sequins edging the high neck and very low cut back, but I like the blue one in her left hand better. Dara looks great in blue. I tell her, and she shrugs off the complement as I know she will, but I notice the pleased smile she hides by turning her head. At last, armed with the maximum allowable number of garments, we head for the dressing room.
All during lunch, I was able to push thoughts of Duncan to the back of my mind. Well, not all my thoughts, but the worries and concerns anyway. Dara and I quickly fell into old patterns. She chattered on about Mike, and I let her. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too much to say and nowhere to begin. Because I had no way to describe the deeply disturbing events of the last few days. Dara's my best friend, I should be able to tell her these things - but I can not, because I know I will sound insane.
I couldn't even tell her about something as nearly insignificant as the Band-Aid incident. How could I possibly describe the expression on Duncan's face when he returned home after the alleged mugging? How could I explain his sudden appearance at my door the other night with the same gleam of passion and triumph shining in his eyes?
I cling to the normalcy, to the safe reality of watching Dara wriggle out of her jeans and into a pale green dress, but my mind keeps returning to the other night.
It was long after midnight. I should have been asleep, but I couldn't sleep - something that's been happening with a distressing frequency lately. When I'm with Duncan, sated from an evening of love-making, then I can sleep. I feel safe in his arms, but when I'm alone, my thoughts torture me, battering my brain until I'm exhausted, but far too tense to sleep.
I gave up the battle, poured myself a glass of sherry, and tore into the thick romance novel I've been reading - like I need more swashbuckling heroes with dark brooding looks in my life. The doorbell buzzed just as the hero was about to ravish the heroine.
Figuring it was probably one of my neighbors who forgot their key, I was tempted to ignore it. Let them try someone else. But then again, maybe it wasn't a neighbor.
During dinner, Duncan had seemed strangely reticent - even for him. We went to a great little Italian place we discovered downtown last month, and he barely ate a forkful of his pasta. Mostly he just moved his food around on the plate.
"I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought," he had said with a grin when I pointed this out.
"What's wrong?" I'd asked, reaching out for his hand. He held my fingers for a moment, brought them to his lips for a kiss, then he set my hand back on the table.
"Nothing," he said, but he didn't look at me.
"Duncan," I said to let him know he couldn't fool me. I knew something was troubling him.
Still not meeting my gaze, he lifted the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. He held the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and his forefinger as he turned it around near the edge of his full plate. He seemed intensely interested in the pattern of light the small candle cast on the dark red Chianti that filled the glass.
"Just some business," he said with a slight shrug. "Nothing worth worrying about."
Then why are you worrying, I thought, but I didn't ask. I knew by now he wouldn't tell me, so there was no point in badgering him. I've given up fretting about the fact that he can't seem to bring himself to trust me. I guess I was just born with the patience of a cat waiting at a mouse hole. I know that mouse is in there somewhere. I can smell him. I can hear him rustling around behind the wall. He's got to come out someday, and if I leave, I'll never catch him. It's an intrigue thing, now. I've waited this long - I'm not leaving until the finale. Besides, I'm in love with him ... I couldn't leave now if I wanted to.
I've only recently admitted that to myself - that I love him. I haven't told him. I can't - not yet. Still I wonder if that's what he is waiting for. Perhaps love is the key that will unlock his door. Perhaps love is the bait that will lure the mouse out of the hole. But telling him I love him is too much of a giant leap at this point. I've already gone beyond my safety net with him, and I need more time to take this last step. Time or a sure sign from him that he feels the same way. I sense he does, but I can't be sure.
All this runs through my head, as I swing my feet over the bed. The doorbell buzzes again, and I think maybe it is Duncan. He knows I'm home ... where else would I be at this hour on a week night?
I'm not exactly dressed to receive visitors, so I grab a pair of leggings to drag on under the t-shirt I'm wearing just in case it's not him. I think about how preoccupied he seemed at dinner, and about the business he said he had to take care of when he dropped me off and didn't come up. It's not like him to turn down an invitation to come up, and usually I don't have to ask - he just follows me.
Like a dark cloud sliding past the sun on a mostly clear day, a chilling tingle passes over my heart as I consider the other possibilities. It could be the police ... or one of his friends who've come to tell me he's been hurt ... or worse. I try to shake off the flurry of fear, but my hand trembles as I press my finger on the intercom button.
"Yes," I say. The single syllable comes out like the croak of a frog with laryngitis.
"Kate?"
It is Duncan, and his voice sounds as shaky as mine. Still I grin like a fool and my knees quake under the ton of relief.
"Yes, Kate," I answer, leaning against the wall for support. "Who else did you expect would answer my bell at this hour? Do you have any idea what time it is?"
Until that moment, I didn't realize the size of the hobgoblin herd my imagination had spawned. They scamper off, now that I know he's safe, but one or two linger at the edge of my mind, ready to pounce at the tiniest opportunity.
"Did I wake you? I'm sorry ... I just thought--" He leaves the end of the last sentence dangling like a worm on a hook.
I take the bait. "No, I couldn't sleep. Come on up," I tell him, then I press the button to open the lobby door.
I toss the leggings on the bed, retrieve my wine glass, then make a quick assessment of my appearance in the mirror - a reflex action that makes me smile. He's seen what I look like when I go to bed ... and worse, what I look like when I wake up. Lucky for me, the man doesn't scare easily. I take a moment to drag my hair into place with my fingers, anyway - as I steel myself to face the unknown, I need something that feels ordinary. Some commonplace action to grasp.
Following hunch, I grab a glass and a bottle of his favorite single malt whiskey and set them on the table in front of the sofa along with my wine glass. Why I think he will need a drink, I have no idea, but his voice sounded like a cord of tension had snaked around his throat. His knock at the door is soft, tentative - a sound I wouldn't have heard if I wasn't standing a few feet away.
Three steps take me to the door, I open it slowly. I can't help it - the sight of him still leaves me as breathless as the first time I saw him. I assumed the reaction would fade with time and familiarity, but it hasn't. If anything it has intensified because now I know what responses he can draw from me when we make love, and my body remembers them well.
"Lose your key?" I ask, stepping back to let him in.
He shrugs as though he has forgotten I gave him a key. His dark eyes glisten with a wild, almost feral light, and if I didn't know him better, I would think he was high on some kind of drug.
"I shouldn't have come," he says with a smile.
"But you did, and I'm awake, so come inside before you wake my neighbors."
Hesitating, he glances around the empty hall for a moment. He's still wearing the clothes he wore at dinner, but his hair is loose, pale dirt smudges mar his long dark coat, and his blue silk shirt bears splotches of moisture. He looks like he's just finished a workout. I want to ask if he's had another run in with his teenage muggers, but I didn't believe that story then, I'm certainly not going to believe it now.
"Are you coming in or not?" I ask again.
He flashes me a smile - a real smile - and I catch the strong male scent of him as he brushes past me and into the living room. He has been working out, or indulging in some kind of physical activity - in boots, dress pants and a silk shirt. Is it him or me? One of us is insane.
My nose also picks up another scent - a very faint trace of ozone. It follows close on his heels like a stray dog. Ozone - like it lingers in the air after an electrical storm. Ozone? On a starry, cloudless night? How very odd. My imagination must be putting in some overtime again.
He stands in the middle of the room as though he has forgotten why he came. As though he doesn't know what to do next. I'd offer to take his coat, but I've learned that he reacts strangely to that common gesture of courtesy. It's one of those weird quirks he has. Offering to take his coat makes him very skittish, and I've learned to let it alone. I frequently remember the incident with the sword, and I wonder if he really does carry it around with him under the coat, but the notion is simply too absurd.
"Are you going to sit down, or are you waiting for the bus?" I ask as I shut the door and move to stand beside him. I glance at my watch. "If you are, you're in trouble, the last one passed by an hour ago. I don't think there's another 'til morning."
Shaking his head as though to clear his ears, he blinks at me. "What did you say?" he asks.
"It isn't worth repeating," I answer, laughing. "Do you want a drink? Or I could make some coffee."
"Um ... a drink would be great," he says, looking around as if he has been suddenly transported to another world - and not one he expected to find himself in either.
Now, I am really starting to worry about him. I rub my hand in a circle on his back and press a kiss into his shoulder. "Duncan, are you all right?"
He smiles ... a weak smile. He is not all right. I don't care what that smile says. "I'm fine," he answers.
There's that word again - fine. He is far from fine. "Well, you look frazzled."
He glances down at his clothes. "I'm just tired, I guess."
I pour a healthy measure of Scotch into the glass, then hand it to him. His fingers tremble slightly when they touch mine, and he stares into the glass for a long moment as though it contains some important message, then he drains it in one swallow. Bending over, he sets the glass back on the table.
"Didn't the business you had to take care of work out the way you planned?" I ask, wondering again what kind of business he could have been conducting at such a late hour.
He straightens slowly, like his equilibrium isn't functioning on all six cylinders. "Business?" he asks. Either he's forgotten or he's not paying attention ... or maybe there wasn't any business in the sense I understand the word, at all.
"At dinner, you said you had some business to take care of. Isn't that where you went after you dropped me off?"
He stares at me with a glazed look. He's not seeing me, I can tell. He shakes his head again as though he is gathering his wits in the wake of an emotional trauma, then tips it down to massage his forehead just above the bridge of his nose. When he lifts it again, his expression has nearly returned to the one I'm used to seeing.
"Oh, that," he says smiling. "Yeah, it went well."
The transformation astounds me. This is not the same man, I opened the door to just minutes before. This is my Duncan, the one I've been falling in love with ... still something I read about multiple-personality disorder flies in to roost at the edge of my consciousness. It's a vague memory, and I don't want to think about it ... not tonight - I'm too delighted to have my Duncan back.
I circle his waist with my arms and rest my head on his shoulder. He holds me close. I can feel his heart beat quicken against my chest. He moves his lips through my hair, leaving a trail of kisses behind as he slips his hands under my t-shirt.
His hands melt into warm continuous motion as they glide over my back, drawing me into him. He claims my mouth with his and drains me like he drained the liquor from the glass, leaving only molten need. I want him now ... here in the living room ... I can not make the long journey to the bedroom - my knees will never hold.
Peeling away the layers of his clothes, we sink to the floor. As he drops his coat behind us, a faint metallic clunk disturbs the haze of passion that holds me firmly in its grasp. And I remember the sword ... but the memory evaporates quickly in the heat of desire, and I do not pursue it.
