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 11

"Park in the alley," Duncan says in a solid, steady voice as we approach the dojo.

I'm still waiting for him to pass out from loss of blood and shock, but as he keeps insisting - he's fine. Maybe, I'm the one who's in shock. Maybe, I'm hallucinating. Maybe, this is all some bizarre nightmare. Wake up, I order myself as I turn into the alley and stop the car.

I don't park it - I stop it - just hit the brake and turn the ignition off. If this is just a dream - why go through the bother of parking correctly. Duncan glances over at me with a flicker of concern in his eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

I smile at him. "I'm fine," I say. Hey - why not? It works for him

"No, you're not," he says, then he opens the door. He gets out and walks around to the driver's side, then he opens my door and holds his hand out to me. "Come on, let's get you inside."

I put my hand in his, and get out of the car. His hand is warm - mine is cold and still bears traces of blood. His blood. He leans in to take the keys from the ignition, then he slips his arm around my waist as he closes the door.

My knees quiver as we mount the stairs to the loft, yet he walks tall and his steps are sure - this man who was lying on a sidewalk in a pool of his own blood less than fifteen minutes ago. He seems fine, but my legs have the strength of overcooked spaghetti.

Inside the loft, he takes my coat off. Holding both my hands in one of his, he smoothes the hair back from my face. "Your hands are like ice," he says smiling at me. He rubs them between his for a moment, then he presses a kiss on my fingers. Towing me, he crosses the room to the couch. It doesn't take much effort on his part to get me to sit. A little gentle pressure on my shoulders does the trick.

"I'll get you a drink to warm you up," he says.

I'd rather you warm me up, I think as I watch him cross to the cabinet where he keeps the liquor. Now that's a comforting thought - my mind may be gone, but at least my libido still works.

I smile as he hands me a glass half-filled with amber liquid - but no ice. Actually, I'm probably grinning like an idiot, because he is looking at me with a strange light in his eyes. He probably thinks I've gone mad - I sure do.

"Drink that," he says. "You'll feel better."

Staring down into the glass, I nod. I'm just going to let this play out. I've been assaulted by a hoodlum. Watched the man I love get shot. Narrowly missed getting shot myself. Then I watched a mortally-wounded man get up and walk around as though nothing has happened. I have no idea, if I'm dreaming ... or awake and insane. I think maybe I'd rather not know.

"It will just take me a minute to change and clean up a bit," he says, crouching down in front of me. "Will you be all right?"

Again, I nod. What can I say? I don't think I'm qualified to judge whether I'm all right or not. But as he stands up, I can see the blood stain on his shirt. How odd - it seems almost dry as though he's no longer bleeding. But how can that be?

"I'll be right back ... I promise," he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze as he heads for the bathroom.

He will be back. I know he will. Duncan MacLeod is a man of his word.

I take a mouthful of old, very smooth, unblended whiskey and savor the rich peaty taste before I close my eyes and let the fire of it warm me. The sensation is way too realistic for a dream. After a time I hear Duncan moving around behind me, opening and closing drawers. I don't know how long I've sat here drinking, but the glass is empty.

Barefoot, dressed in clean jeans and a white cotton shirt, he sets a small basin on the table, then he takes the empty glass from my hand and sets it on the table as well. I feel like all this is happening on a stage and I'm watching from the last row of the balcony. He takes a wet washcloth from the basin. With it he swabs the blood from my hands and face with a gentle touch.

"Your sweater is a mess," he says, as he hands me one of his shirts. "You might want to change into this."

I look down at my sweater. He's right. It was periwinkle blue. Now it's periwinkle blue with dark rust-colored splotches arranged in an abstract pattern that vaguely resembles an ink blot test - not at all attractive. I pull it off over my head, then slip my arms into the shirt while Duncan pours more whiskey into two glasses. The cotton shirt is soft and warm, and smells like him. It provides a safe cocoon of comfort.

I hold the sweater in my hands and run my thumb over the blood stains. They're still damp in some spots with dry crusty edges - tangible proof of what I think I saw. I don't really believe I'm dreaming, and I hope I haven't gone insane, but I can find no logical explanation for what happened after I returned from calling 911.

Duncan trades me a glass of whiskey for the sweater. I surrender it willingly. Sitting down next to me on the couch, he takes a long swallow of his whiskey. He stares down at the glass, which he holds in both hands while his forearms rest on his knees.

"I really missed you while I was away," he says, in a quiet voice while he rotates the glass between his hands. "I decided that maybe you were right ... maybe I should tell you all you need to know about me. And I planned to do it tonight."

He turns his head to smile at me. "It's a bit difficult to explain," he says. "And I thought you might need a demonstration, but this isn't exactly what I had in mind."

A demonstration? What is he talking about? What demonstration? I search his eyes for clues, but can find none. I glance down at the glass in my hand. It doesn't share any secrets either. I lift the glass to my mouth, but the thought of drinking any more whiskey - especially without ice - makes me queasy. "I don't think I want this," I say handing him the glass.

He takes it, then he sets both my glass and his on the table. Sliding his left leg up onto the couch, he turns to sit facing me. As he does, his unbuttoned shirt falls open to reveal his chest. I can't help staring - nothing unusual - every inch of his lean-muscled body is stare bait - but this is different.

The area just over his heart - the area where I know I saw an ugly gunshot wound - is unmarred. Unscarred. As perfect as it was the last time we made love. My hand trembles as I reach out to touch him, and I suspect he left the shirt open for just this purpose.

He stretches one arm out along the back of the couch, rests his hand on my shoulder and twirls his fingers through my hair. Watching me with a cloaked expression, he sits still as I run my hand down his chest, searching for some sign of injury.

The muscles are firm under my hand. The skin is smooth, unbroken and the mat of hair tickles my palm. The warmth of his body and the silken texture of his chest hair under my hand sends hot pulses of desire racing deep within me. At the same time it sends chills sluicing down my spine. I think perhaps my body hasn't gotten the message that I've lost my mind.

"Duncan ... I saw ... how--" I can't seem to complete a sentence.

He takes my hand, presses a kiss into my palm, then he holds it against his chest. "You didn't imagine it - you saw, what you saw."

"But you were--"

He closes his eyes for a moment as he nods. "Dead ... yes."

"Duncan, I don't understand ... how can you--"

His chest rises under my hand as he takes a deep breath. "I'm Immortal," he says releasing the words with the breath.

He says it, flatly - like he's telling me he's Irish or Italian, or left-handed or color blind. It's not an explanation - it's a statement of fact. I've never had anyone tell me they were immortal before. I don't think I've ever met anyone who thought they might be. I don't know how to react.

"I-immortal?" I stammer, as the dictionary definition flashes through what's left of my mind. Exempt from death - or something like that, as I recall. Perhaps, I misunderstood him.

"I can not die," he says, "not the way you, or other mortals can." His thumb makes soothing circles on the back of my hand.

"But Duncan, I saw the wound and the blood ... you were--"

"Dead. Yes, but for us, that kind of death is only temporary."

"Us?"

"I'm not alone," he says. "There are others ... other Immortals."

"O-others? But what are ..."

I can't finish the question. I can't ask the man I love what kind of strange creature he may be. My mind refuses to accept that he can be anything other than my Duncan. In a flash of clarity, I realize it doesn't matter - I love him and nothing can change that.

"I'm human, like you," he says, answering the question without my having to ask it. "But I was born in the Highlands of Scotland over four hundred years ago. I was killed for the first time in a battle, but I came back to life - like I did tonight. The people of my clan ... my friends ... my family - they thought I was a demon in league with the devil. They cast me out. I didn't know what to think, but I knew they were wrong. I believed it was a miracle of some sort until I met Connor. He told me what I am, and he taught me how to survive as an Immortal."

I search his eyes as he is telling me this and I see a man who has accepted his fate - accepted it long ago. Yet at the same time I can sense the gnawing anguish he must have felt. He hides it well, but the pain is still with him, buried deep - it shimmers around him like an aura as he relives the moment.

There's uncertainty in his eyes as well. It's even clearer than the pain. He's waiting for me to shrink away in horror. He expects me to reject him. But I couldn't even if I wanted to - my heart aches for him, and my eyes fill with tears. I free my hand so I can touch his cheek. "Oh Duncan," is all I can think of to say.

I can not grasp this Immortality of his. I can not grasp that he is over 400 years old. I still can not grasp watching him return from death before my eyes. All I know is that I want to help him forget the pain, then suddenly the realization hits me like a hundred car freight train flying down the express track - he's alive! Somehow I lost this important fact among all the emotional upheaval I've been through tonight. I thought he was dead, but now he's sitting here in front of me ... living ... breathing ... holding my hand. And he's alive!

A balloon of hot excitement builds within me until I think I will burst in a blinding flash. Uncontainable joy spins and spirals through me - red, blue, gold and silver pyrotechnic pinwheels of joy. My tears flow free, then the excitement explodes into irrepressible giggles.

I press both hands against my mouth to hold them in, but it's a futile effort. "Oh god, Duncan ... you're alive," I shout, pounding my fists into his shoulders before I pounce on him.

His eyes widen with a flash of alarm, then surprise as I jump into his lap. I plant rows of tiny kisses all over his face. And I guess laughter really is contagious, because his grin quickly dissolves into a flurry of laughter as well.

Holding his face in my hands, I gaze into his deep brown eyes. "You're alive, you son of a bitch," I say, still laughing. "I thought you were involved in some kind of weird covert operation. I thought you were going to leave me. I thought you were dead. But you're not ... you're alive ... and you're not going to leave me." Suddenly, I'm not so sure of that. "You're not going to leave me - right?"

"I'm not going to leave you," he says, smiling, running his hands in gentle circles over my back. "Not as long, as you still want me."

Not want him? How could I not want him? I lean back to study his face. "Duncan, I love you ... why would you think I don't want you?"

His smile fades, and he stops rubbing my back. He takes my hands in his and he stares at them a moment before answering. "I haven't told you all of it. There's more you need to know about me ... about Immortals. We-"

I slip my hand out of his grasp and place my fingers on his mouth. I don't want to hear it - not now. "Not tonight, Duncan. Save it ... tell me tomorrow. My brain is already overloaded, and I can't think anymore. I just want to feel. I want to hold you, I want you to hold me. I need to feel your arms around me ... to know you're really here. To know I'm not dreaming, that I'm not insane."

"I'm here, and you're not dreaming," he says.

Pulling me into a tight embrace, he pushes the shirt off my shoulder as he trails kisses along my collar bone and up my throat. He rubs his nose against mine, then circles my mouth with tender kisses. I close my eyes and just revel in the sensations his very real hands and his very real lips are stirring within me.

"And you're not insane, either," he whispers, then he tugs the hair at my nape.

I open my eyes and watch him smile. He touches the tip of my nose with his finger.

"You're a little crazy, if you want to get involved with an Immortal," he says, "but not insane."

"Duncan, I'm way too involved to back out, now ... besides, I love you." I push his shirt off his shoulders and lean in to claim his mouth for a kiss. "Maybe, you'd like me to prove it."

In a flash of movement, he scoops me up into his arms and stands. "I love you too," he says, kissing me as he carries me over to the bed. "Why don't we prove it together?"