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 12
I did something that next day that I have never done before. Something so out of character that Dara shouted, "way to go," when I told her about it, later. I couldn't fill in all the details, of course, because Duncan asked me to keep his secret, but I did tell her that he shared his secret with me.
I assured her that I wasn't going to get arrested as an accomplice in some heinous crime, but I did not tell her that my life could be in danger - that she wouldn't understand unless I could explain. And as I said, I told her what I did.
Feeling a bit chagrined, I told her that little ole Ms. Responsibility called work to tell them she was sick, so she could spend the day in bed with her lover.
Throughout that rainy Friday, Duncan and I made love, talked for hours, nibbling on fruit and cheese, then we nibbled on each other and made love again. When the fruit and cheese ran out, we called Mei Lin's Chinese take-out - because they deliver - and we ordered the same dishes we had the night of our first date. We fed each other with chopsticks and laughed ourselves silly when we spilled a whole container of rice in his bed, then we shared a shower, changed the sheets and put in some serious snuggle time.
Lying stretched out on the bed with a pile of pillows propped behind him, Duncan held me nestled next to him while he sketched out 400 years of his history. He told me all about the Game, the Gathering and how there can be only one Immortal left in the end. He told me about sword fights, Quickenings and the only way an Immortal can truly die - complete with gory details.
But one question still nagged at me, as it has since that night we talked about the moon and the nature of relationships. I drag my fingers slowly over the intriguing terrain of his bare chest while I work up the courage to broach the subject.
"Duncan," I say, "tell me about Anne."
Immediately, his muscles tense. He stops moving his fingers in my hair. "There's nothing to tell," he says, quietly.
Without looking at his face, I can't decide if he's angry, annoyed or merely disturbed by my request. I should just let it go, but I can't - I need to know why she left him. It simply boggles my mind that a woman who was still breathing could leave Duncan MacLeod once she'd come to love him. I think maybe she didn't love him, yet I wonder how she could not.
I sit up, so I can see his face, study his expression. "I just want to know what happened between you," I say. "And why you're not together anymore."
He stares at me for a moment, sighs, then swings his legs over the bed as if to get up, but he doesn't. He just sits there with his back to me. "What difference does it make?" he asks. "It has nothing to do with us."
Encouraged by the fact that he hasn't left the bed, I kneel behind him. Laying my hands on his shoulders, I lean my cheek against his warm smooth back, then press a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. "I just want to know what went wrong, so I don't make the same mistakes."
"It wasn't about making mistakes. It just didn't work out that's all."
"But you said ... when she found out ... that she decided being with you wasn't what she wanted. Did you mean finding out you're Immortal? Because, now that I know, it hasn't changed how I feel about you. I don't care what happens - I want to be with you."
Shifting his shoulders, he turns to take me back under his arm. He stares into my eyes, while he traces the edge of my face with his fingers, then he rewards me with a tender kiss and settles my head against his shoulder.
"Anne is a doctor," he says, taking my hand, lacing my fingers with his. "She's about saving lives, not taking them. I have to kill to survive, and sometimes I have to kill to save others from being killed. That's the way my life is. I tried to keep her out that part of it, but she saw me take another Immortal's head. I guess it was more than she'd bargained for. And ... she was pregnant - she had her baby to think about."
Pregnant? "But Duncan ... you said, you couldn't--"
He shifts again, but this time he takes his arm away. "The baby wasn't mine," he says, with a tiny break in his voice. He rakes his fingers through his hair, then clasps his hands before him with his forearms resting on his knees and his head bowed.
"Before she got pregnant, she saw me die. I thought it was better to let her think I was dead, so I went to Paris. When a friend of mine convinced me I should tell her, and let her make her own decision, I called her."
"That must have been quite a shock for her," I say, wondering what it must be like to get a call from a dead lover - after you're pregnant with another man's child. I rest my fingertips on his shoulder - a light touch of support ... a gentle reminder that I'm still here. "At least, I got to see you come back ... I think that made it easier to believe."
"I guess," he says, shaking his head slowly, then exhaling deeply he drags his hand down his face.
The only other sound is the rhythmic ticking of the clock on his desk. He turns back to me, then sweeps a pensive glance over my face. "Do you want a drink?" he asks.
"Okay," I answer. I let my fingers slide down his arm as he stands, keeping the physical connection for as long as I can. "Is there any wine left?"
As he walks away, I tuck one leg under me, and lean back on my elbows. I can do nothing else but admire the way his taut muscles ripple over his back, his very cute butt, and down his long legs. I'm beginning to think like Dara, which makes me smile and wonder again how any women in her right mind could leave such a man.
He turns when he reaches the island counter in the kitchen area, then he holds up a dark green bottle for my inspection - my waiter for the evening, standing there in all his natural glory. "Looks like there's about one glassful left, and it's probably warm. Do you still want it?" he asks.
I smile and remind myself that he's talking about the wine. "Yes," I answer, meaning the wine ... and anything else he might offer.
He saunters back across the room, making a stop at the armoire opposite the couch to pour a drink for himself. He's taking his sweet time ... I think maybe he can read my thoughts, and maybe he's teasing me.
Standing next to the bed, he hands me the glass of wine, then he takes a long slow sip of his own drink. He watches me over the rim of his glass, but I have no idea what he's thinking. Sometimes his thoughts shine brightly on the surface of his expressive eyes, but other times - now, for instance - his thoughts lie buried, like treasure beneath deep dark waters.
He sets his glass down on the table beside the bed, then stalking me like a lion, he slinks across the rumpled sheets in one smooth sinuous motion. Bracing his weight on his hands, which he has set one on either side of my shoulders - he kisses my mouth with a quick tender touch, then he tucks a kiss in the hollow of my throat, and another between my breasts.
I sigh with contentment and wonder what I'm going to do with a full glass of wine, but then he stops where he is. He turns his head to rest his cheek on my stomach, and slides his hand up to cup my left breast. There's no passion in his actions - not for the moment anyway. He comes to me as a child will to a mother's lap for the warmth and an affectionate hug.
Sipping my wine, I curl the fingers of my free hand into the strands of his long hair. It's silky soft like a kitten's coat, but the stubble of his day-old beard feels prickly against my skin, and the weight of his head pressing against my diaphragm makes it difficult to breathe. Still, I'm too enraptured by the harmony of the moment to object. Resting my arm across his broad shoulders, I take another sip of wine. I close my eyes and welcome the calm interlude to digest all that has happened in the last 48 hours.
I still can not get my mind to accept that this man, who looks only a few years past thirty, is over 400 years old. Though I saw him come back to life, I still can not grasp that he will only die if someone cuts off his head. That gruesome thought raises cold gooseflesh up and down my bare arms.
I can't get my mind around the concept of this fighting to survive that must end in death - yet I have to understand. I have to find away to accept it - or at least find away to make it fit into a concept that I can understand - survival of the fittest on a grand scale, perhaps.
I don't want to be like Anne. I don't want to promise I will stay with him, and then find I can't live up to that promise. I love him too much to put him through that pain again - pain that fractured his voice when he spoke of the breakup with Anne. Somehow, I need to find the courage to face these situations in a future that includes Duncan MacLeod - for I can no longer imagine a future that doesn't.
He said that other Immortals will come after him, challenge him to fight - like Brock did. While he didn't put the warning into words, I know a strong possibility exists that someday he might not come back to me after one of these ritual meetings. I will have to live with the anxiety of watching him leave time after time. I will have to live with knowing each time may be the last time I'll see him. I sift my fingers in his hair, and decide that what ever the cost, he's worth paying the price.
I have no idea how long we stayed like that - a few seconds, a moment, a lifetime, an eternity. Time has no meaning for us, today.
I drain the last of the wine from my glass, letting the fruity flavor of the Chardonnay roll over my tongue. Now that the glass is empty, I still can't reach the table without disturbing Duncan. His breath brushes the skin of my stomach with slow rhythmic strokes and I wonder if he's fallen asleep.
I'm probably insane, but I feel the pressing need to get rid of the glass ... and more importantly to close the conversation we started before he got up. "Duncan," I say softly, as I scratch my nails on his shoulder with a light touch.
"Mmmm?" He lets the sound escape in one long breath that tickles my stomach.
"Did Tessa ever ... did she ever see you ... take another Immortal's head?"
He rolls onto his back with a low groan, but his eyes are closed and I can't see what he's feeling. "What difference does it make?" he asks. His voice holds a measure of exasperation, but no anger.
"Duncan, I'm trying to understand all this," I say, softly. "Immortality, the Game, the Prize ... beheadings ... it's a bit much to absorb all at once. I'm looking for a reference point."
He opens his eyes, and lets his mouth curve into a smile. He lifts his hand to touch my cheek with a gentle caress. "I guess it is," he says, studying me with questions of his own flickering in the depths of his eyes. "It's easy to forget, when you've lived with it as long as I have. The question is ... can you live with it."
I glance down at the empty wine glass as I consider his question. While I'm not sure how I will live with it ... I know there can be only one answer for me. "Doesn't seem like there's much choice," I say. "This sounds like a package deal. If I want you ... I have to take all the accessories."
I smile as reach over him to set the glass on the table. "And make no mistake, Duncan MacLeod - I want you no matter what comes with the deal."
Reaching over him while making a comment like that is the wrong move. He responds by capturing the peak of my breast in his mouth. He flicks his tongue over my nipple, and I respond with a squeal and a giggle, then promptly drop the glass. It shatters as it hits the floor.
"Now, look what you made me do," I say, laughing.
"Forget it," he says, rolling us both over. Laughing with me, he tucks me under him.
I'm not sure whether he means the glass or the conversation. I manage to free my hand, and I tug his hair gently to get his attention. "Duncan, it's important that I know about Tessa."
He lifts his head and studies me with those soulful brown eyes. They glisten with a sheen of sadness. They shimmer with all the sorrow he's known in his 400 years. My resolve weakens. The last thing I want to do is cause him more pain, yet I know my questions are doing just that - but they need to be asked so I can start building a foundation that will get me through all the difficult moments ahead of me.
I touch a tendril of hair that droops over his brow. I skim my finger along the line on his cheek where stubble meets smooth skin. I trace the sensuous curve of his full lower lip, and I watch my hand, not his eyes.
He closes them as he sighs, then he lowers his head so I can no longer see see the pain in them. "Yes, once," he says, lifting his head again. A puzzled glow has replaced the pain. "Why?"
I pet his hair with soothing strokes. "You'll think I'm crazy ..."
He laughs, and the sound fills me with delight the way it always does. "It's too late," he says, sitting up again. "Knowing what I am, you want to stay with me - you have to be crazy. Your life will never be the same." He watches my face, waits for my reaction.
Craving the intimacy, I sit to bring myself closer to him. "How many times have you told a woman that in 400 years?" I ask with a smile.
He gazes off at a distant spot beyond my head. "More times than I care to remember," he says softly, then he looks back into my eyes again. "You can't tell your friends about me, you know. You'll have to let them go or think of an explanation for why I'm not getting any older."
"I'll tell them you have a portrait in the attic, like Dorian Gray," I say, giving in to an urge to kiss his shoulder right next to the spot where his hair drifts over his bare skin. The smooth glowing skin of a man who is 30-something ... not 400-something.
I lift my head and rub the tip of my nose against his. "You have become my life," I say. "Whatever I life I had before seems like just a distant memory. Duncan, I love you."
"I know," he says. Easing my head onto his shoulder, he holds me close. He sways slightly, rocking us back and forth. "So why will I think you're crazy and what does it have to do with Tessa?"
I shift away from him because now I feel silly. I shouldn't have brought it up. How can I explain? It's my turn to gaze off into the distance and I take a deep breath hoping to find the right words. "Because I've been talking to her," I whisper, then turn my head to look back at him over my shoulder.
He arches his left eyebrow in a gesture that has become so familiar to me - familiar and endearing. He doesn't believe me, and no doubt he's questioning my sanity.
"I can't explain it," I say. "From the first time I saw her picture, I felt this strange, but strong connection with her. And when you're not around to hear me, I talk to her."
"Does she talk back to you?" he asks with a mischievous grin.
"No, she doesn't talk back to me - I'm not that crazy," I answer, wrinkling my nose to make a face in response to his grin. "But I think she wants someone to take care of you, and I've been trying to convince her it should be me."
His grin settles into a warm smile as he pulls me back into the cradle of his arms. "Oh, yeah," he says.
I can't look into his eyes until I finish what I have to say. I run my finger along the ridge of his collar bone to give myself something to concentrate on. "I figure that if I can convince her of that ... maybe she will help me find the courage to cope with all the changes in my life - maybe she'll help me find the strength to be there when you need me ... like she was."
I lift my eyes to meet his, but I still can't read the emotions hiding behind them. He watches me for a moment, then his mouth curls into a smile. "You really are crazy," he says, tapping my nose with his finger. "But I'm beginning to think that I like crazy women."
"I'm so relieved," I say smiling back. I simply can not resist returning his smile.
He pushes me back down onto the bed. Holding his head above mine, he lets the smile slide back into a grin. "Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?" he asks.
Eyeing a spot just above my navel, he lowers his head. "Somewhere around here, I think."
With my questions out of the way, the things he is doing with his hands and his mouth are no longer a distraction ... they are a delight, and I let myself melt into the warm luscious sensations. And I no longer worry about our future. I trust that it will take care of itself.
The End
