Penumbra, part 1:
Once back at her flat, Alisaunne seemed to relax a bit. She carefully hung her coat in the closet, brushing away the drops of rain, and offered him a drink or coffee.
Duncan lay his coat on the back of the divan. "Coffee would be nice."
She excused herself into the kitchen… from which he suddenly heard a gasp and then water running. Glancing in, he watched her wash the tea things from earlier with a desperate air… as if something was out of place and had to be dealt with before she could move on.
He picked up a towel to help dry things… momentarily breaking into her obsessive behavior. "Let me help," he said with a smile.
Her hands trembled slightly… but she nodded… as if fighting the instinct to finish the job alone. Once things were dried, she put them away, carefully positioning everything in a set manner. Only once the dishes were put away, the towel carefully folded and re-hung, and the kitchen neat, did she begin to make coffee.
"Aren't you getting a bit obsessive-compulsive?" he finally asked as she stood watching the coffee drip into the carafe.
She glanced up sharply and then shrugged. "I have to stay in control. If I lose control… I have black-outs."
"Black-outs?" Duncan asked with concern.
"Oh… nothing major. I just lose track of time. Sometimes I wake up and things are moved. This way I can tell if it's happened… this making certain things are where I left them."
Duncan lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I don't like the sound of this."
The coffee had finished dripping. Alisaunne lifted the carafe and poured them each a cup, "It's de-caf," she said handing him one cup." She motioned toward the sugar and creamer. "As I recall… you take it black… but I have…"
Duncan set his cup down and clasped her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "The coffee is unimportant. The cleanup is unimportant. What is important is you… and your well-being. I'm here for you. Whatever you need… let me help."
Unlike the restaurant, Alisaunne did not pull away. She regarded him with tears brimming in her eyes. "I'm so tired sometimes," she whispered. "It's so hard to remain in control."
"Then let me help," he repeated.
As if a dam had broken, The tears fell and she stepped closer, crying into his chest. He dropped her hand to hug her shaking shoulders, murmuring softly that it was fine… he was here… he would help. At some point… she looked up and met his gaze… then her lips touched his. For a moment… Duncan responded… as he had at other times… feeling the presence of a beautiful and willing woman in his arms. Then conscience reared its head.
"We can't," he murmured as he tried to pull away. Her lips found his again and her desperate kiss melted his resolve. With a groan… his hands clutched her tighter and he began to bend her backward… All that was important in this moment… was having her.
Duncan whirled her around to the table… sweeping one hand over it to clear it so that he could take her here and now. The sound of crashing condiments did not deter him. If anything… it made him more eager. There was something primal about this. He lifted her to the table… still kissing her. He felt her hands slip under his sweater… her fingers dig into his skin with desperation. She moaned and kissed him ever more urgently. Her legs clasped his hips as he bent her down. He broke the kiss to nuzzle her neck and felt her hands pull eagerly at his belt.
At that point… Joe's words about the condition of the beheaded immortals came back to him. They'd been found with their pants down about their ankles… as if they'd had no choice… as if something else had drawn them into an assignation which had cost them their heads… and their lives.
Breathing harshly… he stopped and stared at her closed eyes… and the look of need on her face as her open mouth worked up and down in gasps. He clutched her fingers with his right hand and pulled them away from his now loosened belt. She fought to free them… to grasp his zipper. "No," he said. "Not like this… not this way."
Alisaunne opened her eyes, staring at him curiously. She lifted her head to kiss him again… as if that would bring him back. He grabbed her by her upper arms… even as they flowed around his neck to pull him down again. He pushed her down… stared at her lying there… and then backed away. He turned and re-buckled his belt as she wept behind him.
Wiping his mouth, and still tasting her… wanting her… he stumbled into the main room to put some distance between them. She called to the darkness that was still in his soul… the darkness of the dark quickening… the part of him that had wanted Ian dead so that he could have her. But Duncan was determined to subdue that part of him once more. He was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Over him… the shadows of darkness held no sway. He leaned on the back of the small divan while he calmed his breathing and cleared his thoughts… gradually re-gaining control.
"I thought you wanted to help," she said from behind him. "I'm alone… and I need someone. What's wrong with it being you?"
"I'm with Amanda," Duncan said.
"So? I'm not asking you to leave her… only to fill the emptiness in my arms for a single night. I miss him Duncan. I loved him so much and no matter what I did… I couldn't save him." She closed in on him… but stopped a few feet away. "I'm lonely."
"This isn't the way, Ali. I'm your friend and your teacher. That's enough."
"You want it too. I felt it in your kiss. We're alike… you and I; we've both been touched by darkness. Together we can… we can banish it."
"Together we give into it. I…" he paused dramatically. "… will not give in." Duncan gestured for emphasis. But whether he was trying to convince himself or her… he was no longer certain. Shaking his head he grabbed his coat. "I better leave. If you change your mind about Waterloo… call me tomorrow."
"I won't."
"Good night then." He pulled the coat on, feeling its dampness as surely as if it had been a cold shower. He felt calmer… more in control. Resolutely he stepped to the door, turned the knob, opened and left. Later on the street… Duncan lifted his face to the rain and felt the cold drops flow over him… cooling him down. He ducked into his car and started it… letting it warm up while blew on his hands and breathed evenly. He'd call Methos when he returned to his hotel room. The old man needed to know what was happening with his daughter… and Duncan's suspicions about her recent activities.
Alisaunne watched Duncan's car drive off in the pouring rain. Curling on the divan, she pulled a throw over her as she stared at the small pool of light the lamp put off. She could see the picture of Ian and her from here… but even if she hadn't… she could close her eyes and see it. Moreover… she could remember ever detail of the day it had been taken.
It had been early fall… Autumn… late September. She'd met Ian on the steps of the history building and kissed him. He'd blushed. The tips of ears beneath the shock of his white hair were scarlet and he'd shuffled his feet nervously. She could smell leaves burning in the snap of cold air.
She'd run a run hand into the crook of his elbow.
"Honestly… silly. Why don't you dress for the weather?" she'd teased. He was wearing only a lightweight jacket against the sudden cold.
"I don't feel the cold like you do, beautiful." He'd shrugged and she'd kissed the tip of his nose… cold and red in the raw wind.
Celeste and Roger had waved and joined them, Celeste with camera in hand. "Let me take your photo."
Alisaunne had posed, her books in her arms… laughing as Celeste pretended to be a fashion photographer. "Come on… work it… work it," she'd laughed.
Alisaunne had grabbed Ian and pulled him into the shot. She'd made a face at the camera moments after the shutter clicked.
It had been a good day… years before immortality had found her. Years even, before Ian had begun pulling away from her. They hadn't even been lovers that day… just good friends… and the promise of a future together had lain on them both.
"I like it cold," Ian had once said. "It let's me know I'm alive."
So she shivered beneath the throw and whispered, "I'm alive… I'm alive." But she didn't feel alive… she felt cold and dead. And the sound of the rain sounded like ocean waves roaring in her ears.
During the night… the rain finally dissipated. By morning, the world look fresh and clean as only it can after an all-day rain. Colors seemed brighter, as a warm breeze drifted over a Paris that seemed eager for the daylight.
And by mid-morning, Duncan was eager to leave. He'd listened to Joe's concerns; he'd checked up on Alisaunne; he'd called Methos and filled him in on his suspicions. There was nothing else to keep him here. He was ready to go.
And yet he dawdled over a late brunch. He forked his omelet and pushed parts of it around on the plate. He lifted his coffee to his lips and then set it down. He stared at the pedestrians who passed by the open-air café. And he worried.
No matter what… Ali was his student… his responsibility. If she were the one hunting the night in such a manner and with no regard for the Watchers… then he had to stop her. If her values were skewed… it was likely his fault. He'd encouraged her to be the best she could be. He'd taken her out hunting that first time. He'd taught her to kill swiftly and without mercy… to use every advantage she had… and then been taken aback when she'd been excited by it rather than chagrined. He'd wanted to comfort her… he'd looked forward to it. But it was Ian she had always turned to. Had he wished the young man dead? Duncan shook his head… surely not… and yet he had to admit that he'd watched the two of them with jealous eyes. Even after he'd located Amanda… there had still been something unsaid… undone between himself and Alisaunne. She called to the darkness in him as no other woman ever had.
Even sitting here in the sunlight, thinking of her… he was drawn to her and physically responded to her and her overt invitation. If he closed his eyes… he could still feel her and taste her… somewhere on the fringes of his consciousness.
"Pardon monsieur."
He opened his eyes and nodded to the waiter to take the remnants of his meal. He sat forward, his elbows on the table as he covered his face and tried to think.
At the feel of a passing immortal… he glanced up and around… momentarily startled. He noted a man on the far side of the street looking around… his gaze fell on Duncan and he paused, licking his lips. Duncan rose, peeled off some Euros and left the cafe, straight for the man. Once he reached his side, he gave him his name.
"I've heard of you monsieur. I am Claude Duroché. People say you are a man of honor."
Duncan smirked, still feeling the remnants of the darkness cling to him. "What do they say of you?"
"Ah… certainment. They say I am an artiste."
Duncan laughed. "How come I've never heard of you?"
"I am not a very good artiste," Duroché shrugged. He was a small man, stoop-shouldered, and looked to be in his early fifties. But appearances, as Duncan knew well… could be deceiving. He glanced about and located the man's Watcher easily. She was across the street and staring far too intently into a shop window whose display did not merit the attention she gave it. Likely Duroché did not know of Watchers… not all of them did… only those whose lives had been impacted by them two years before.
"Let's talk," Duncan suggested and walked off. Duroché followed.
"I tell you they just vanished," Lydia Campbell complained as she checked in. "It was Duncan MacLeod who made off with him!"
Joe sighed. The only reason he was talking to her was because she claimed it was MacLeod. Duroché was a relatively new immortal. He'd been in his early fifties when he'd first died a few years ago, and was not a main player. Lydia was on her first assignment. Why would Mac have vanished with Duroché? Was he working on the Black Widow case by interviewing the man? Joe's head pounded with questions and doubts. What the hell was going on?
"Look Lydia, MacLeod's a good guy. He doesn't like us following him too closely. He likely just wanted to talk to Duroché and see if he knew anything about this killer hunting in Paris. Instead of spinning your wheels trying to find him… check out the places he haunts… or his apartment."
He finally got her to calm down and she seemed re-assured as she rang off. Joe pulled up both MacLeod's file and Duroché's attempting to see if there was any reason for them to talk. He was still deep in his research when the phone rang again.
"Dawson!" he snapped. Then he paled and sat back in his chair. Claude Duroché had been found… minus his head. A recovery team was cleaning up the mess.
Surely it couldn't have been MacLeod! Joe swiftly ended the phone conversation and pulled open a desk drawer to retrieve his bottle of bourbon. After he'd downed some liquid courage… he called MacLeod, only to get his voice mail. "Damn it Mac!" Joe seethed. "Where are you?"
