Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing. Originally published in Our Favorite Things #23 from Elan Press. A FanQ nominee for Best Crossover.
Father's Day
Touched by an Angel/The Master
Susan M. M.
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
"Burke and Hare were a terrible pair. Their deeds were beyond belief.
They worked underground in Edinburgh Town, the cruelest kind of thief."
Max turned his head to the music. "Hey, I know this one." He led the way toward the song, and McAllister followed. "It's a really cool song about graverobbers and murderers."
"Since when do murderers and graverobbers rate cool songs?" McAllister asked.
"In the old days, bards ranked second only to clan chiefs," Max told him. "Scots will make up songs about anything."
"William Burke dangled and jerked as the hangman ended his life,
And the final twist, the town anatomist cut him up with his surgeon's knife."
Max and McAllister found a group of ten people, sitting in a circle on the ground. A cardboard sign reading Ceildh Corner was tied to a tree. Everyone in the group joined in on the chorus.
The woman playing the guitar looked up. "Welcome to the Ceildh Corner." She pronounced it 'kay-lee'. "Care to join us?"
"Whatcha doing?" Max asked.
"Singing. Celebrating the Celtic spirit. Come on in, the water's fine."
"Ooh, that gives me an idea," a teenager said. He began singing Stan Rogers' 'Giant': "Cold wind in the harbor and rain on the road, wet promise of winter ….."
McAllister found himself reminded a karaoke, a new fad in Japan. The voices weren't professional, just ordinary people singing for the fun of it instead of listening to the performers on stage.
"My father's making Mary Mack marry me;
Mary Mack's father's making me marry Mary Mack.
I'm gonna marry Mary to get married and take care of me.
We'll all be making merry when I marry Mary Mack."
Monica quietly slipped in and found a place in the circle. She sang along merrily.
"Your turn," the guitarist told McAllister.
"My turn?"
"Pick, pass, or perform," she informed him. "You can pick a song for the group to sing, or ask someone to sing something, or you can pass, or you can perform."
"How about something by Burns?" McAllister asked.
The guitarist thought a minute. She smiled. "John Anderson, my jo, John," she sang, "when we were first acquent, your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent. But now your head is bald, John, your locks are like the snow, but blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo."
Max chuckled, considering the song appropriate.
When she finished, she turned to Max. "Your turn, now."
"Can I borrow your guitar?" he asked.
"Sure." She passed it over to him.
Max strummed a few chords, then began to sing. "She was in a flow'ry garden, when first she caught my eye, and I just a marching soldier. She smiled as I went by."
McAllister smiled as he listened. Max had neither the trained voice nor the ambition necessary for a professional singer, but his voice was good enough that Max had earned gas money once or twice by singing in coffeehouses.
"Let the time be short till I return to my home in the north of Skye,
And the loving girl who stole my heart with these words as I passed by:
Last night we spoke of love. Now we're forced to part.
You leave to the sound of a marching drum and the beat of a lover's heart."
Teri walked past the circle. She waved at Monica as she went by, but the angel was too busy listening to Max and singing along with the chorus to notice her.
"I leave to the sound of the marching drum and the beat of a broken heart."
Max handed the guitar back to its owner.
" 'Skye Boat Song'," the next fellow in the circle announced. The singers leafed through songbooks to find the right page.
"Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing. Onward, the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that is born to be king, over the seas to Skye."
McAllister glanced pointedly at his watch, then at Max. The younger man nodded, and they got up as quietly as possibly, so as not to disturb the song.
"Many's the lad fought on that day, well the claymore could wield,
When the night came, silently lay dead on Culloden's field.
"If you want to try that dance lesson, we need to be moving along," McAllister reminded him quietly.
"Burned are our homes, exile and death scatter the loyal men.
Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath, Charlie shall come again."
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
"Can I sing anything?" Monica asked when the choice came round to her.
"Your turn. Anything you like," the harper assured her.
"Ar-nAthair a tha air néamh, gu naomhaichear d'ainm.
Thigeadh do ríochachd. Déanar do thoil air an talamh, mar a níthear air néamh.
Tabhair dhuinn an-diugh ar n-aran láitheil.
Agus maith dhuinn ar fiachan, amhail a mhaitheas sinne dar luchd-fiach.
Agus na leig ann am buaireadh sinn; ach saor o olc;
Oir is leatsa an ríoghachd, agus an cumhachd, agus a' ghloir, gu síorraidh." The angel's eyes glowed as she sang. When she finished, the entire circle sat in awed silence.
"That's lovely," someone said. "I know it was Gaelic, but what was it?"
"The Lord's Prayer," Monica replied.
Near the edge of the circle, Tess caught Monica's eye. The dark-haired angel rose and joined her supervisor.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" Tess asked.
"Max joined in the singing. I was hoping if Teri saw me, she'd join me, and then we'd get her and her father together," Monica explained.
"That'd be a nice plan … if it weren't for the fact that Max and John left two songs ago," Tess pointed out with unheavenly sharpness. "The music is very pretty, but we're not here just so you can have a good time, my girl."
"Even angels need a break sometime," Monica countered. "The way one zigs whilst the other zags, this has been one of our more frustrating assignments. If I were human, I'd be ready to tear my hair out."
"Honey, I'm about ready to toss myhalo on the ground," Tess agreed. " Never had so much trouble with getting two people together."
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
"You sure you don't want to try country dancing?" Max asked.
McAllister shook his head.
"Don't you even want to come watch me make a fool of myself?" Max asked.
McAllister smiled. "I can do that any time. How often can I get a free Gaelic lesson? I'll meet up with you afterwards by the vendors' tents. Maybe we can buy some souvenirs."
Max nodded his acquiescence, then headed off for the dance stage.
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
A middle-aged man sitting at the front of the Heritage Tent glanced at his watch. Then he glanced at the audience, apparently deciding he'd gotten as many people as he was going to get. He stood.
"Feasgar math. Ciamar a tha sibh? Is mise Peadair Mac Dómhnull." He spread his fingers in a Vulcan salute. "Saoghal fada is soirbheas."
His audience merely looked at him blankly.
"That's Gaelic for: Good afternoon. How are you? I'm Peter McDonald. Live long and prosper," he translated. "And if you're not here for Introduction to Gaelic, then you're in the wrong place."
"Could you repeat 'live long and prosper'?" asked a young woman. "Slowly?"
Peter McDonald smiled. "Saoghal fada is soirbheas. SOO-ull FAH-tuh iss SOR-uhv-us. Let's start with how to introduce ourselves." He touched his chest. "Is mise Peadair Mac Dómhnull." He pointed to McAllister. "Dé an t-ainm a tha oirbh?" Correctly guessing that the question meant 'what is your name?', he replied slowly "Is mise John McAllister."
"Glé mhath. Very good. But in Gaelic, your name would be Iain Mac Alasdair." Peter turned to the woman next to McAllister. "Dé an t-ainm a tha oirbh?"
"Is mise Heather MacPherson."
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
Max smiled a greeting at his partner. She was a brunette, perhaps five to ten years older than he was. She looked familiar, like he ought to know her, but he couldn't place her.
"Ladies, curtsy to your partners. Gentlemen, bow," the instructor said. She was a middle-aged woman wearing a kilted skirt in the yellow and black "loud McLeod" tartan.
Awkwardly, the volunteers obeyed.
"Take your partner's hand – right hand in right. Four steps forward, then kick with your outside foot. That's the right foot for the ladies, the left for the men," the instructor explained. "Now four steps back, and kick again. Four steps out, kick and clap your hands. Four steps in. Don't actually kick your partner – no violence – but bring your toes together."
The dancers followed her directions.
"All right, here's the part the courting couples like best. Take your partner's waist, sashay right two steps, now sashay left two steps. Polka in a circle. You all know how to polka, don't you?" the instructor asked as an afterthought.
The volunteers half-walked, half-danced their way through the practice session.
"Glé mhath!" the instructor complimented them in Gaelic. "Well done. Now let's do it properly." She turned on the tape recorder.
Slowly at first, the dancers worked their way through the steps. Then they began to relax, loosen up, and dance a bit more quickly. They only made a few missteps. When the dance ended, the gentlemen bowed, awkwardly, self-consciously, and the ladies dropped little half curtsies.
"Thank you for the dance." Max smiled at her. "My name's Max."
"Teri," she replied. "Teri Foster."
Max stared at her. Her hair was different, and she looked older than she did in her picture. Stress and strain had left her haggard and wan. "Is your maiden name McAllister?"
Teri turned white. She stepped away, ready to run. Max grabbed her arm and led her discreetly to the side of the stage. The last thing he wanted to do was attract attention. "I'm with your father. We've been looking for you for months."
Teri took a deep breath. "My father?"
"You are the woman who contacted John Peter McAllister in Japan, aren't you?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
Max reached out to take her hand, then thought better of the action and dropped his arm to his side. Teri was skittish; he didn't want to risk frightening her. "This way." He walked slowly, though he wanted to run, constantly glancing back to make sure she was following.
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
Tess watched invisibly as McAllister browsed through a vendor's tent. He slowly spun the rack. Having the ties in alphabetical order made it easier, but with all the Macs and Mcs, there were a lot of Ms to go through. He had just found the red McAlister tie when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw Max waving at him in the distance. McAllister nodded to let Max know he'd seen him.
Max was grinning widely. A woman was beside him, a brunette in blue jeans and a pink blouse. McAllister smiled wryly. Leave it to Max to find a new girlfriend within hours of arriving at the Games. His student had a knack for finding two things: trouble and pretty women. All too often he managed to find both in the same package. Then he gave the woman a second look. There was something familiar about her.
The art of ninjitsu consists of many disciplines: unarmed combat, exotic weaponry, acrobatics, stealth, disguise, etc. In his training, McAllister had learned not only how to disguise himself, but how to penetrate the disguises of others, seeing the true appearance beneath the façade. He stared at the woman as she and Max came closer.
His hand slipped off the tie, letting it fall back on the spinning rack as he stepped forward for a closer look. Despite his age, his vision was still excellent. The hair was a different shade of brown than in the photograph he had, but the cheekbones, the nose … those were the same. And the look on Max's face was neither infatuation nor lust. Triumphant was the only word to describe it – pure delighted triumph.
McAllister stepped out of the vendor's tent. He looked at Max and the woman, not wanting to hope, not daring to hope. But the closer they got, the better he could see her, and the doubts faded away.
"It's a miracle," he said softly as he walked forward to meet them.
"I was beginning to think it would take a miracle to get the two of you together," Tess muttered. She followed him, still invisible to mortal eyes.
When Max and Teri saw McAllister coming toward them, they picked up their pace. It took only a minute for the three of them to meet.
"I found her," Max announced. There was no need to explain who 'her' was.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Max waited impatiently. He looked from one to the other. "Well, somebody say something," he urged.
McAllister had thought about this moment since he'd learned he had a daughter. All the words he'd planned slipped out of his mind. All he could do was gaze into her face. After a moment, he said, "You have your mother's eyes."
"Are you my father?" she asked, her voice quavering nervously.
McAllister took a deep breath. "If you're Laura Kennedy's daughter – and your eyes say you are – then I'm your father."
"Thank God," Teri breathed the words, more than speaking them aloud.
"Amen," Tess responded.
"Do you two want some privacy?" Max asked quietly. McAllister nodded. "I'll go hang out at the clan tent for a while. You can catch up with me there later."
McAllister smiled at him. "I have to. You have the car keys."
Once Max was out of earshot, Teri asked, "Is he my brother?"
"Not genetically, no." McAllister shook his head. "But he's like a son to me. He's been helping me look for you." He took a deep breath. "I've been looking for you since I got your letter. If I'd known about you, I would've looked years earlier." He reached out and took her hand. "I did try to find Laura after I escaped from the POW camp, but she'd disappeared completely. I couldn't find her, and no one knew where she'd gone."
"That was when I was on the way," Teri explained, blushing slightly. "Things were different then – there was more social stigma against unwed mothers back then. She moved to a town where no one knew her, bought a ring at a pawnshop, and passed herself off as a war widow."
McAllister nodded. Reluctantly, he released her hand. He wanted to hug her, but forced himself to wait for her to make the first move for an embrace. Her body language reminded him of a frightened wild animal, one that had been hurt and now dared not trust anyone.
"She found out about fifteen years ago that you were still alive, but at that point -" Teri shrugged. "She thought about trying to contact you, but it seemed better to let sleeping dogs lie. Dad and I – my stepfather," she corrected herself, "were having the usual teenage troubles at the time. Mom thought adding a 'real father' to the mix would just confuse the situation, and afterwards, well, the time never seemed right. Not until this mess with Roger."
McAllister saw she was close to tears. Glancing around, he saw an empty picnic table. He led her to it. Once they were seated, he said gently, "Your letter said you were in trouble. Tell me about it. How can I help?"
"It's Roger, my old manager. Roger Cunningham. He – he – I found out about something he was doing."
"Something he didn't want you to know about?" McAllister prompted. "Maybe something he didn't want the police to know about?"
Teri nodded. "I'm a model. At least, I was. Sometimes the other girls and I partied a little wild. Sometimes we – we needed something extra to keep us going."
"Drugs," McAllister guessed.
Teri nodded again. "Roger had connections. He could always get anyone anything they wanted. When I decided to go straight, get clean, he tried to talk me out of it. He told me I couldn't compete with the others if I didn't have that something extra."
McAllister snorted. "A pusher doesn't want to lose a customer."
"I thought that was all it was. But then – then –"
"Yes?"
"I found out he wasn't just supplying the girls. He was smuggling drugs, using overseas photo shoots as cover. Selling them wholesale when he got back to the States." She forced herself to take a deep breath. "As long as I was snorting cocaine, he didn't worry about the possibility of me finding out; he knew I wouldn't dare say anything. But after I went cold turkey –"
"You became a risk to him," McAllister finished her sentence for her.
"We were friends once, or at least I thought we were, but he tried to kill me." Teri's brown eyes were wide. Even after months on the run, it was still hard for her to believe it. She repeated softly, "He tried to kill me."
"I'm here now. I'll protect you," McAllister promised.
"How?" Teri looked at him and saw an old man: tall, still spry, but slender and white-haired. He didn't look like any sort of a threat, especially not against the likes of Roger Cunningham and his mob connections.
McAllister's cobalt blue eyes gleamed maliciously. "I'll keep you safe, even if I have to kill Roger myself."
Teri shuddered a second, somehow realizing he wasn't kidding.
"But I don't think it'll come to that," McAllister assured her. "Max's father is a lawyer; he'll help us if we ask him. And I learned a few tricks in Japan. I'll be able to handle Roger."
Teri took another deep breath. She tried to force herself to stay calm. "What did you do in Japan? All Mom could tell me was that you were a fighter pilot in WWII and Korea, and you lived in Japan."
"I stayed in Japan after the war. I like the country; I like the people and their way of life." He touched the ivory pendent he wore around his neck – a caged butterfly. "Some friends of mine gave this to me. They said it symbolized a Japanese soul trapped in an American body."
He looked at her carefully. He could see his nose, Laura's eyes, and cheekbones that reminded him slightly of his mother. He could also see how thin and pale she looked, and wondered when she'd last had a good meal. "All this talking is making me thirsty. Can I buy you a drink, maybe a snack?"
"Okay."
After he'd bought meat pies and 7Ups for both of them, McAllister continued, "After the war, I supported myself by teaching English while I studied the language, the culture, martial arts. Eventually, I taught martial arts. Just retired recently." It wasn't the whole truth, but it would do for now. "And you?"
Teri smiled shyly and gave a half-shrug. "It's a shame I'm not a writer. I've had the sort of mismatched jobs that writers always list in the back of the book as things they did before they quit their day jobs and started writing full time. File clerk, pastry chef, grocery store clerk, crop duster pilot. I'm working as a beautician at the moment. Modeling pays well, but it's not steady, and with Roger after me –" She exhaled. "I daren't go back to it."
"If it's what you want to do, don't let him stop you." McAllister reached out and took her hand.
She shook her head. "The glamour wore off a long time ago. Modeling was a good way to pay for airplane fuel. Flying is an expensive hobby. I could leave it behind without any tears." She shrugged. "Thirty years old, and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up."
"Max is trying to 'find himself', too," McAllister told her. "I'll be happy to help you both look. But I think any future job for you should involve planes. Maybe you want to go back to crop dusting?" he suggested.
"Why?"
"Because when you talk about flying, you lose that frightened doe look." He smiled at her. "How's your mo- "
"What about –" Teri started to say at the same time. "Sorry."
"You first," McAllister invited. Although he wanted to hear about Laura, right now it was more important to get to know his daughter.
"What about your friend Max?" You said he was trying to find himself."
McAllister nodded. "He's a drifter. Until we teamed up, he'd get a job for a few weeks, earn gas money, then quit and move on."
"And now?" Teri asked.
"Now I pay for the gas." McAllister gave her a wry smile. "We made a trade. He helps me look for you – I'd say he more than held up his end of the deal. In return, I've been teaching him. He thinks I've been teaching him martial arts, but that's just the means to an end. I'm actually teaching him discipline."
"Does he need discipline so badly?" Teri raised one thin brown eyebrow.
"He did." McAllister chuckled. "When he leaves a bar now, he walks out the front door."
"So?"
"His standard way of leaving a bar used to be getting thrown out the window."
Teri suppressed a giggle. "You're kidding."
"I wish I were. But don't underestimate him. He plays two musical instruments, races motorcycles professionally, and is a sucker for damsels in distress." He glanced at her empty cup. "You ready to move on?" When she nodded, he continued, "Why don't we forget about Roger for a few hours and just enjoy the Games for a bit? I've never taken my daughter shopping before. I can't afford to make up for thirty missed birthdays at once, but we could at least go window shopping, maybe buy a souvenir or two."
"Okay."
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
They found Max at the Clan Campbell tent, drinking a Pepsi.
"We're going window shopping. Want to come with us?" McAllister invited.
"I don't need any windows," Max joked. "You sure I won't be in the way? I mean, two's company …."
McAllister lowered his voice. "We're both feeling so nervous and awkward, maybe a chaperone would be a good idea. Especially one as gregarious as you."
"Gregarious?" Max repeated, grinning. "I can't even spell the word."
"There's a lot of words you can't spell," McAllister teased. "C'mon."
They wandered from the Glen of the Clans past the main stage over to the vendors' area. T-shirts and tea towels, books and baubles, whisky flasks and Welsh love spoons, Teddy bears in kilt and sporran, music tapes, shortbread and sgian dhus. From fifty cent buttons that declared 'Kiss me – I'm Irish' to two hundred dollar kilts made of eight yards of pleated wool, there was something for every budget and every taste. Max kept the conversation going as they wandered from one tent to the next, keeping the talk light and neutral.
TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM *** TbaA/TM ***
Sarducci hurried up to Cunningham. "I found her."
"Where?" Cunningham demanded. His eyes were wide and bright.
"She's over by the tents selling stuff. Come on, I'll take you there." Sarducci eyed the redhead suspiciously, and wondered if he'd been snorting some of his own merchandise for 'Dutch courage.' Or in this case, Columbian courage. Papa Salvatore had ordered Sarducci to keep an eye on Cunningham, and make sure he didn't become a loose end himself.