Disclaimer:
The characters of Connor MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod and other HL characters belong to DPP. Other characters belong to their respective owners. This fan fiction is for entertainment only; there is no profit involved.
Anchor links to individual stories:
Within The Circle
Connor MacLeod didn't mind the mist of light rain that dappled on his skin. He was on the hunt and it was the least of his concerns. Later in the day, he knew the heat would permeate through the overhead foliage and settle hot and stifling against the forest floor. It was cool right now. And early ... early enough that the dew clung to the leaves and the ground, the rocks and the moss. The seed heads of the wild grasses bowed under the weight of water, as if a congregation at prayer.
The squirrels chittered at him in protest. One fawn colored specimen stood on hind legs in the deer path and eyed him. It wisked away, finally, the long tail bristled like an explosion of dandelion blooms. Connor ignored the scamper of small animals around him and the dappled imprints they left ... focused solely on the track of a man's broad sole in the wet terrain.
"There you are," the hunting immortal murmured softly.
He watched the ground as he walked, studying the crush of grass and the telltale footprints through the dew. The overhead trees kept most of the rain from striking this far to the forest floor until the water had massed in the needles. Now and then, a fat wet drop would land atop his head with a splat. His eyelashes were catching mist and he dashed a hand across them now and then to clear the annoyance.
Down along a dry spring bed, across the ravine, up the other side, turn right at the downed pine and straight through the insidious forest ivy -- the footprints went on without a break and without any craftiness. Connor picked up the pace and plunged into the vines after his prey. A woodpecker drummed off to his right. A jay squawked at him, irritated, and flew away. Squirrels heckled him from above. He barely missed stepping on an enormous banana slug stretched six inches across his path.
"Holy cow!" he whispered to himself. The hunt wasn't too dire for him to stop and stare at the brown and yellow creature. "No snakes, please. I'm not in the mood for snakes today."
The trail of his quarry entered an open meadow and Connor halted at the edge to study the terrain. A doe picked her head up and stared from two hundred yards. The Highlander frowned and regarded her. Either the deer are used to humans, and she didn't mind him walking through here, or she's just arrived. He waited for two minutes and then entered the meadow. The doe let him advance a quarter of the distance before relinquishing the area.
Footprint by footprint, Connor strode through the meadow, then halted. Damn! he grumbled mentally. The final track simply ceased right in the middle of the meadow. The immortal circled this last print, searching, but his quarry had not leaped sidelong and taken off in another direction. He backed up and studied the tracks again. Hmmm. What did you do?
He stepped beside one print and then stepped aside to look. I see it now, you shit. Thought you'd lose me this easy? he grumbled. His prey had carefully walked backwards in his own tracks. The still flattened and broken grass told him the tale. It had been stepped on twice and the toe of each mark was twisted as the individual in question looked behind to put his foot precisely into the next print.
Connor headed back at a swift walk, studying each footprint. The foliage took a bit to recover from being stepped on and it looked different near the downed pine. He circled again, picking up the trail twenty yards away. Clever. He walked the length of the tree and then jumped off in the next direction.
Off he went. The drizzle ceased and beams of sunlight came out and slanted down through the surrounding trees. In open patches, the steam rose in a mist and eddied ghostly around in whorls when he passed them. More slugs appeared underfoot, slinking along the damp forest floor. One black snake zipped away. A tree snail or two, with shells the size of quarters, were also creeping through. Connor accidentally stepped on one, with a crunch, and felt a twinge of regret. Killing and living. Living and killing. The whole world is on the same cycle. It's just the immortal's circle that is so tight.
A marsh? The tracks ended at the edge and Connor sighed, looking left and right. He wasn't about to wade it without extra footgear. He circled the bog and had to crawl on hands and knees through brambles and heavy cover to hug the edge of the water. His knees ached and he scratched up his face and hands. It was only seconds in healing, but annoying nonetheless. He startled up a sleeping Mallard on her nest and she chased him in a mindless rage. She managed to get him by the pant leg and Connor shook her off and kept going.
No footprints greeted him the whole circumference of the bog. He stood, puzzled, wiping grime off his hands. Okay. I know he's not out there in the center, hiding. I would have felt him. So? Connor studied the trees around the marsh and found nothing eventful ... except for one gnarled oak that leaned low over the lilly-padded surface. He stared at it, thinking, until a frog leaped in the water underfoot and startled him. John would love it here. I must bring him back to explore after I've taken care of 'business.'
He made his way back to the low tree and found the bark scratched and several branches broken and then "propped" back into place so the white inner flesh would not show. Sneaky son-of-a-bitch, I'm going to enjoy catching you! The sun was hot now, fingering down into his hair through the trees and making the sweat shine on his bare arms.
The hunt went on, through terrain untrod before now. The usual tricks of doubling back, walking down the middle of the creek on rocks, swinging across great sections of ground using a pole -- all were employed to throw the tracker off the trail of his quarry. Connor's brow furrowed. He began to run short on expletives to call his nemesis as he doggedly hunted the other man down. He was all the way back to Gaelic cursing, of the foulest kind, when he finally felt the electric tingle of immortality jangle through his nerves. It jerked him to a halt and the sword was in his hand instantly.
"Come on, come on," he said softly beneath his breath. "Show yourself, you craven hearted--ahh, Christ!" He had been moving so quickly that he was startlingly close to the other immortal and well past the boundary of the initial immortal presence.
There, in a circlet of grass amidst the trees, was Duncan MacLeod. He was in buckskin and bare-chested, his hair clipped back off his sweating shoulders. The sunlight streaked over him and washed him with gold as he stood, motionless, poised ... waiting. "You would have been an easy piece to shoot, Connor," the dark immortal drawled laconically.
"So why didn't you?" demanded the older man, irritably. "Lose your nerve?"
Duncan whipped a pistol up and fired from ten feet away. Connor, catching the shift of muscle before the act, had just the sharp sting of the bullet to contend with as he dropped in place. He filled the air over his head with vexed swearing in several languages ... and heard Duncan chuckle.
"Are you done?" he finally demanded from the ground. The sun was blinding and his skin itched from the leaves and debris beneath him.
"Yes. I'm done. Come over here. Lunch is getting sour because you took so damned long."
Connor rolled back to his feet and eyed the handsome Scot a moment. Duncan hadn't moved. "You know, standing there in that sunlight, looking that way ... if I was a girl, I'd be tempted to pounce on you."
"You can pounce on me if you've a mind to, Connor, but I don't know as it'd be a kiss you'd get!"
Pounce he did and they thrashed in a furious wrestle, knocking the swords loose and the rucksack of food awry. Duncan was slick and hard to get a hold of. Connor twisted within his clothes like a Shar-pei in its baggy skin. Duncan kneed him in the flank and Connor smacked him on the ear hard enough to make everything ring. Duncan tightened his grip, pulling the skirmish into close contact and attempting to throttle the older man down by sheer power. Connor bit him, hard, on the nearest shoulder.
"NO BITING! No biting, you cock-eyed son-of-a--oof!"
A poke in the groin, another wild punch, a stomp on the instep. Duncan decided he should just sit on him and he threw Connor, hard, over his shoulder and slammed him flat on the ground. The stronger man would have followed it with a round of pummeling, but Connor coughed blood and then locked his teeth, his eyes dilated and unfocused above the crimson. The hands that were fists opened spasmodically.
"Whoa," Duncan called, "stand down! I'm standing down, Connor!" He waited for a blink or two of recognition that never came, before reaching for him cautiously. "What? Where? I didn't toss you that hard...."
"Rock." The elder Scot's voice was garbled slightly.
"Damn." Duncan shifted his clansman over and felt the grind of bone. Connor twitched all over, just once, and closed his eyes. "Come on. Come on. Heal a bit faster, will you?" Duncan said inanely to the air. They often injured each other with physical skirmishes, but killing one another was rarely on the bill. The elder Highlander's quicksilver presence faded a bit ... and then gained strength like a steed. "It's about time you arrived," the younger Scot announced, relieved, when the gray eyes opened again.
"You trying to kill me?" querulously demanded Connor.
"You told me to. You told me: 'And if I stumble on you because I'm tracking too fast, then kill me', if I recall. It was you who decided we should end all of this with some hand-to-hand work, dearie."
Connor blinked and grinned. "Dearie? Shucks. You haven't called me dearie, since ... well, ever!"
"You're laying in my lap, you rackscallion!" Duncan quipped in the same humor.
"I've been in softer ones, that's for sure. Now, set me up."
Duncan had to find one moccasin and retie his hair. Connor sat, trying to clench and unclench his fists while he waited for the full healing to finish. Duncan pulled some wet wipes out of the tumbled rucksack and wiped the blood off his arm, then wiped the blood off of his friend's face.
"Will you quit with the guilt, Duncan. You know I hate that," remarked Connor. "I'll get to it as soon as my hands work."
"Fine," the younger immortal retorted. "I'll just kill you next time and eat without you!"
"Eh? You ox! You'll devour your half and my half too!" He glared at him in mock frostiness. "You'd better wait for me, so we're even!"
"Ha, like anyone can plow through food like Connor MacLeod can? Not likely!" He waiting all the same and then they sat, using a log for a table, and feasted on meat and cheese, boiled eggs and raw vegetables. Duncan had managed to bring along a six pack of beer and they guzzled it, warm, and leaned side by side.
"You nearly fooled me at the meadow."
Duncan grinned.
"I got bit by a duck at the marsh."
Duncan leaned on the log and laughed.
"I got shit on by a bird when I was trying to figure out where you'd gone in the creek."
Duncan was howling, wiping his eyes on a napkin.
"I stepped in a hole and sprained my ankle coming down the hill near that rocky bluff."
"Eh, so did I. Probably was the same damn hole."
They sat in silence a moment. A bee buzzed into Duncan's beer can and Connor didn't say a word of warning.
"Bastard," announced Duncan.
"You deserved it. Breaking my back like that? I hope your tongue swells up and you choke."
"Then I'd just talk like you, Connor!" and he was laughing again.
"I'd smack you for the insult, but I'm too tired."
"Me too. That's enough tracking practice for a bit, I think. Next time, I won't go so easy on you."
"Hey? I thought next time it was my turn to lead you around?"
"The beer was warm by the time you found me. You lost. You need more practice." Duncan was already on his feet, rucksack gathered up, and walking back out.
"For all I know, you never had it cold to begin with, you idiot!" harangued Connor, bringing up the rear. "Did you? Well, DID YOU!?"
MacNair
Duncan decided that losing to Connor at poker was an old trick. He was accustomed to losing to the sullen-eyed older immortal -- 'twas past time that he should win. He glared at the cards in his hand for the second time. Or was it the third? He glared at the glass of whisky as if it had abruptly traded the cards in his hand without him knowing it.
A pair of TWOS? he grumbled internally. It doesn't get much worse in poker than a pair of twos, unless you had one of each card and none of them in a row. Or in a suit. Connor's face across the table was a blank slate, as usual. "I'll take three," said Duncan.
"That bad?" inquired the other man. He didn't look up from his fist full of cards.
"Oh, shut up!" muttered Duncan. "The only thing good about this game is the Scotch."
Connor quirked a smile and shot a glance at the clock. "Only the best, Duncan. Only the best." He dealt the three cards and then tossed a few coins into the stack in the center of the table. "I raised a ten."
"Just take the damn thing! Go on -- take it!" stated Duncan. He tossed his cards haphazardly on the table and then tossed back the last of his drink.
Connor chuckled from his position, but left the coins where they lay. He placed his cards face up -- nothing matched and there wasn't even a pair. "You won this one, Duncan."
"I did?"
"I think you've had too much to drink."
"I have?" Duncan looked across the room. When did Connor put up that second Christmas tree? It wasn't there before the poker game... "I think I have." He chuckled, but it came out as more a giggle than anything else. "Good thing I trust you or I wouldn't have my head."
"You're drunk. You DON'T have your head," Connor pointed out dutifully. He shuffled the deck by habit and slipped the cards into their case. Then he rose and strode off into the kitchen.
"Wot you doing?" Duncan called after him. My grammar is going. I've had a wee dram too much. When there wasn't any answer, Duncan rose and went into the other room -- holding onto the wall to keep his course reasonably steady.
Connor MacLeod was pulling out a clean plate and then digging in his refrigerator. He produced a loose bunch of carrots, greenery and all, and put one on the plate. Then he headed for the pantry, going around Duncan as if he was a lamp in the center of the room.
"What are you doing?" Duncan asked again, concentrating on his use of language. The "What are" came out more as a "What'r."
"John's finally asleep. I'm making a plate for Santa," announced the matter-of-fact voice from the pantry.
"Santa?" Duncan steadied his hand on the countertop and tried to focus. "Like in ... Santa Claus?"
"That's the one."
"Santa's on a diet?" Duncan chuckled, eyeing the carrot.
"No. Not exactly." Connor emerged with a package of Oreos and crushed one partially over the plate, cascading crumbs across the white porcelain. He took a bite out of another and put the crescent remnants on the plate. Then he munched down the carrot to the green tips and stopped. It, too, was replaced on the white plate. Connor eyed him, patiently. There was a look of rich indulgence on his face. "You need more practice at this Santa stuff, Duncan."
"Ziss like that Tooth Fairy business?" His brain definitely felt pickled. Am I even going to remember this, to dig Connor about it tomorrow?
"The carrots are for the reindeer, Duncan," the elder Highlander explained patiently.
"Reindeer?"
"Santa's sleigh? Ho ho ho? Flys through the air pulled by reindeer?" Connor had the plate in one hand and Duncan's elbow in the other, pulling him unprotestingly along as he went into the other room. He put the plate down on the low table next to the brightly-lit Christmas tree.
Hey, now there's only one? What'd he do with that other tree so quickly? soliloquized Duncan internally. "But, there is only one."
"You're mixing your metaphors again."
"One carrot," he corrected. He had to hang onto Connor with both hands and he wasn't sure which one he had, since there were TWO Connors now, regarding him with amused eyes. "Would you quit wiggling around? You're starting to multiply."
"Wouldn't THAT be a shock for the world," the elder Scot chuckled. "I think you downed too much eggnog before that Scotch. And there was a whole lot of "nog" in that eggnog."
"The carrot," Duncan persisted. "There's only one carrot."
Connor sighed and pried Duncan's grip loose, turning the younger immortal so he had a better grasp along his arm to steady him. "There are eight reindeer and they share -- but I'm not about to nibble down eight carrots to satisfy one five year old boy! One nub will have to do!" He tugged the slightly wobbly man down the stairs and around the corner to the bedroom.
"I hear bells, Connor? Is that the sleigh?"
"Your head is ringing, mayhaps." He tugged shoes and socks and pants off, pushing his kinsman until Duncan finally had to sit on the side of the bed. The shirt was next, pulled over Duncan's head and making the dark hair pop with static from the soft cashmere. Just a respite from the sorrow, the older man thought. Tomorrow he will remember that Tessa is gone and put up a brave front for people who really just want his truth and can accept his pain. He levered the sleepy immortal sidelong on the bed and covered him with quilts -- lots of quilts. The weight would comfort him; as if there were arms that still held him while he slept. And I will have a small boy full of excitement to tend to tomorrow -- as well as a brother wounded. "Merry Christmas, Duncan," he said aloud. "If I could put one thing under the tree, I know exactly what I would choose."
"Merry Christmas, Tess," murmured the bedding.
"Yes." And Connor wished for the ten-thousandth time that supernatural powers came with immortality. He knew it wouldn't be in his stocking, either. He leaned over and brushed a hand along his kinsman's face and whispered, "Dream about her. It's the best I can do." He left the door ajar, so he could hear Duncan if he fell out of bed or had a nightmare. In passing, he did the same for John's.
Two dark-eyed, dark-haired boys, dreaming. And Connor making the midnight rounds.
MacNairCDC
The windows were foggy and the streetlights glowed three times as large in the reflection of condensation. Traffic was sparse all day and, now that twilight was descending, ceased altogether. It felt like snow, but the sky petulantly refused. The grocery at the corner couldn't resist the next season and had a string of multicolor Christmas lights up already. Their Santa was crooked and the nativity scene was missing one wise man.
Tessa, apron-clad and her blonde hair pulled back, tucked a garnish around the vegetable plate and warned Richie off with a look. The honey-hued turkey rested on the sideboard, steaming victim awaiting the blade. From there, the main dishes and side dishes took up the entire counter and the island held three pies.
Richie pinched a piece of flesh from one leg of the bird and ducked under Duncan's arm to escape the kitchen before Tessa chided him some more. Duncan let him go and aimed a fond look at Tessa's expression.
"This is what it would be like with children," he reminded her.
"Yes, but I would have had a chance to adjust to them being underfoot and getting into the food before they were as tall as I, and could reach everything!" She glanced around the kitchen, which was strewn with every size of pan and pot, ladle and spoon, and a variety of spices. The sink was full of dishes, the stovetop soiled, and two discarded kitchen towels were flung in a corner. "I think I've got it all."
Duncan sipped his wine and smiled. Yes, you do. You always do. "The table is ready."
"The candles lit?"
"Of course."
"Did you find my gravy bowl?"
"I did. It was hidden in with the Chi set."
"The Chi set? How did it get in there?" Tessa rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you found it. My grandmother, Helen, gave me that bowl before she died. She used to make the best turkey gravy and serve it in that thing every holiday. We would vote on who would refill it when it was empty, you know? My sisters vied with me over who would eventually get that gravy bowl. The place of honor was always the person who got to sit right beside the gravy!"
"I know," Duncan said dutifully. He heard this story every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Family; so much a part of Tessa's growing up years--the reunions, the communions, the weddings, the holidays, the quirky little things that made families tick. For the twentieth time, he wished his immortality did not cut him off from such family warmth--and did not cut her off as well. For them, there would be no lively gathering of children and great grandchildren. Tessa would not be that grandmother someday, passing off a gravy bowl that was ugly by looks and beyond beauty with memories.
Beyond beauty, he thought, swirling his wine in the goblet. Just an old bowl, but a treasure that symbolized family and home.
"Are you ready for me to carve?" he said abruptly, discarding regrets from his mind.
"Yes, I think so." She plugged in the electric carving knife and traded it for his glass of wine. "Are you going to teach Richie how to do this?" she asked softly. A tendril of her hair had escaped the bun and dandled down her neck.
"Some day," he said with a smile, curling that blonde tendril in one finger. "But, today, why don't we have some slices that are actually whole and teach him another day?" Tessa smiled and the lights in her eyes mesmerized him. She does have family ... right here. With me and this awkward and sometimes irritating young man that has been dropped in our midst.
Abruptly he frowned and then put the carving knife down.
"What is it? Do you need a bigger platter or--" Tessa began, but then halted, watching his expression. "Oh, no ... not now? Don't they know it's Thanksgiving?"
"Some don't care about the holidays," he said grimly, picking up his sword from the corner of the kitchen. "Others think it's the best time because with family and friends around it makes their target more anxious." He walked purposefully from the kitchen and through the bright dining room. The candles made the tablecloth and linens glow, the china gleam. Richie saw the sword and got up from the table with a scrape of his chair.
"You've got to be kidding, Mac? It's Thanksgiving!"
"Stay with Tessa, Richie."
Seven steps to the door to open it. Three steps to clear the entranceway and have a clear line of sight to the street. The cold air bit at his open collar and around the back of his neck. The runoff through the storm drain gurgled through the grate. The annoying buzz of Dickson's half-dead neon grocery sign hummed erratically in the quiet.
Twenty feet away stood a figure in a long coat with his hands jammed in the pockets. A familiar figure. A surprising figure. Especially the hands in his pockets. Duncan dropped his sword point and walked straight to meet him--right up face to face--and it was telling that the other man did not move. Did not even bring his hands from his pockets.
The guarded eyes of Connor MacLeod looked back at him, gray sentinels in a young face. Duncan suspected there was a gun under one of those hands in a pocket. He didn't ask. The collar of the coat was turned and came up to Connor's ears and the perpetually unkempt hair spilled around the cloth like an angry sea. For a long moment, they stared at one another like ill met strangers.
"I should have called." Connor shrugged diffidently. An awkward, out of place movement given the boldness of letting Duncan stride right up to him. "It's Thanksgiving."
Duncan studied him: the lines around his eyes, the puff of mist from this one sentence escaping as if under pressure. The other immortal didn't fidget on his feet, but neither did he quite hold Duncan's gaze.
"I just thought I'd see you. Just say, 'hey,' and then go."
The perpetually wary eyes looked past Duncan and down the shadows of the street. Cataloguing each one and what made them, even though he surely scouted this whole block on approach.
"It's Thanksgiving," Duncan said quietly. "And when the blessing is said and I think back on everything I'm thankful for, I'm thankful for life. And love, when I have it. Good hands. A strong back. A sharp mind. Wealth to make a difference for people. Friends." Duncan paused. "Young friends and older ones..."
The gray eyes settled from the watchfulness of the street to his.
"And one of them is named Connor MacLeod."
A trace of a smile caught the edge of those cagey wolf eyes, but then skittered away again like something unfamiliar.
"It's the same every Thanksgiving, you know, and I get tired of evoking that name when the man wearing it is never there," continued Duncan in his same quiet tone.
"I can't stay, Duncan." The sky seemingly agreed and a snowflake landed on Connor's coat and melted. "I just wanted to see you..." He looked as if he'd say more, but the thoughts failed in his mouth and he looked away again.
I know he can see them through the windows, fog and all. Richie watches, thinking he's unseen, and Tessa paces. The white of table linen and candle flame bouncing off of china. The glint of silverware. He knows how that table looks and the way it looks in homes all over town tonight.
Duncan nodded agreement with that last statement, but as Connor shifted on his feet, moving to go, he reached out one bare hand and caught his coat--just by a button. One button ... two fingers under it and one on top. Even that slight pull halted the perceptive man hidden inside the wool and lining and shining steel. One button to hold him, yet not enough to mean force. A hint, politely given and easily escaped; yet it held the other man as if he'd stretched a cable around his torso.
"You can't stay if you're going to eat all the pie." Duncan fingered the metal button, warming it with his thumb. "And you can't stay if you don't listen interestedly to Tessa talking about an ugly gravy bowl from her grandmother. Other than that, you can stay."
Connor looked down at his coat, the hand that held him, and then scanned the street again.
Like clockwork. Duncan smiled at the predictability and then the intense eyes were back on his, weighing his words gravely.
"I didn't call."
"I'm not fighting for my life out here. You think she won't be happy to see it's you?"
"Even if I don't talk much and I leave right after I eat?"
"The best kind of guests; the ones who eat everything thankfully and then depart."
Connor's eyes glinted that same trace of humor. "But leave some pie."
"Richie is here. You must leave some pie."
He had him partway down the street before the snow began to fall in earnest. Wide wet Northwest flakes that created soggy lumps instead of bushes and mushroom shaped mailboxes. Connor balked ten feet out and Duncan purposefully nudged into him with a shoulder, breaking his fixed contemplation of the storefront.
Ever since the Kurgan, Duncan silently reminded himself. He'll come right in to beard the lion if there's a fight afoot ... but just try to get him to sit and relax, with no trouble to hold him there, and he's skittish as a wild hare. He told me that it would take a while for him to work it all through ... I never expected it to take him years to get past that brute. He blinked a snowflake off his eyelashes. But we have years. We can see this through.
"You don't need to be uneasy with me, Connor."
"I know. It's not you--it's me. I should go--"
"--After you leave some pie, you can go."
"I didn't call, Duncan..."
"I know Tessa. She'll want you to stay. You saved her from a broken heart, remember? And I want you to stay, because you've saved me from more than just that."
Connor grunted and then sighed, flicked a watchful eye at the street. Even the shadows were being driven out by the brightness of snowfall. Duncan let him study the terrain until he seemed satisfied.
"What about Richie?"
Duncan snorted softly beneath his breath. "He'll be worried about the pies, not much else."
Eight steps. Five steps. Richie at the window, his blue eyes a smear in the condensation, but Connor didn't notice because the storefront door opened. Tessa, hair half down and her eyes luminous, came out the door and it pushed back an arc of wet snow in its wake. She was barefoot and bareheaded, but even so, she recognized Connor and reached for him as she called, "Connor! Oh, I am so glad you are here! You're just in time to help Duncan carve this turkey--and we have pies! Oh, you'll love the pies." And with one circle of her arm and Duncan's circle of his, they drew him inside.
"I should have called," Connor said apologetically just as he cleared the threshold.
Tessa took him in with one look, head to toe. "Family never has to call ahead, Connor MacLeod," she said gently. "You just come and we're thankful. The table is always ready for family." She leaned closer, conspiratorially and Connor instinctively leaned to hear her whisper, "You must not eat all the pie, though!"
"So I've been told," he whispered back. "Can I sit by the gravy bowl?"
Tessa practically beamed.
~MacNair~
"You know he's good. He's got seven hundred years on you and trained under Deubonette and Ra' Chen. He chased me out of India in '32 and I didn't look back on the flight out because I knew he was a better sword than I."
"I know that. You told me about him when we met in Paris."
"And I warned you to stay the hell clear of him, didn't I?"
"You did."
"Did you for one fucking time listen to me?"
"I always listen to you, Connor." His sigh was a grumble that bounced off glass. "I just don't always obey."
The Scot behind him, standing close to the bottle of liquor but not drinking it, snorted. "So, what's he done that twitted your sensibilities into thinking you should go after him?"
"Nothing."
Silence
"Nothing?"
"Not one thing. He got in touch because he heard I was good." Duncan turned from the floor to ceiling window and gazed directly at Connor. His eyes were dark shadows and sunlight streamed around him from outside. "He said he's tired of the two-bit players that come gunning for him--he wants a real fight for a change. I'm--" he paused, checked, groping for the right word, "--entertainment."
Connor looked raw. The crispness of his white shirt amplified the sullen rage that flared in his eyes, now gone black beneath his brows. He didn't clench his fists, Duncan noted. Connor was too old and experienced to let his fury reach any part of his body save his stare.
"When?"
"Tonight. The old Raleigh District. There are two warehouses and a wrecking yard there."
"Three dogs in that wrecking yard and the spotted one is the one to watch," returned Connor.
Duncan only looked mildly surprised. Connor knew his territory and every angle. It was one of the reasons someone brewing a fight in greater New York wasn't much of a threat to him--he had a kinsman who knew every alley and dim streetlight within seventeen blocks. His smile was grim when it came and he nodded at the man mere steps from him. "I'd better go."
The familiar arm clasp that had seen them through centuries. And no goodbyes. Ever. But the rasp of voice halted him near the ascension of the stairway.
"Tell him I'll be looking for him." Why Connor MacLeod would be looking went unsaid.
Duncan paused and turned his head, knowing the flat look had taken residence in his features. He was already gone from here--off to the approaching fight, settling into readiness. He could feel the current in his blood. "Like hell you will," he said quietly. "Because I'm going to kill him. That scotch better be poured when I get back."
And it was.
~finis~
"Talk to me."
"There's nothing to say that hasn't been said before."
Duncan watched the immortal on the floor steadily, gaze unblinking. The illumination was dim and he knew better than to turn the lights up. Connor went 'dark' after bad fights ... and this one was bad. His mentor's fingers were trembling very faintly and Duncan doubted Connor even realized it.
"Why are you here, Duncan."
"You called me."
"Sometimes I call."
Duncan held up a hand and ticked off fingers one by one. "You only call on Birthdays, Christmas, April fool's Day, or if you're planning a trip abroad. This wasn't any of those, which automatically makes me suspicious."
Connor, lying on the floor, did not answer right away. He took a drag from a cigarette and blew the smoke into the dimness. It vanished and Connor stared after it as if seeing a ghostly echo lingering on.
"Being suspicious is my trademark, isn't it?" Connor finally said. "You're kind of late getting started in the paranoid department."
"Talk to me."
"I'm talking to you, dammit. Why the hell are you here?"
"Because you've been in a fight and a bad one. You're not answering any phones, not even your direct line and you know it's me calling that line. You're house is dark and you're smoking those stupid sticks."
"Would you rather have me drunk and at the foot of the stairwell in a heap?" growled the immortal on the floor. "And I answered that fucking phone, remember?"
"To snarl 'let me alone' at me."
Connor turned his head, but his eyes skipped over the top of the other man, looking into the darkness beyond him. His fingers were curled into the neck of his shirt--as if the act would hold something together that was fraying. A second or two later, the tail of ash from the cigarette fell, cinder bright, and then died.
Duncan winced and his fingers tightened where he had them clasped together ... Connor never even felt the burn of ash when it hit him.
"You knew I was alive," Connor said. "I'm alive and that's all that matters."
"It only matters when you want to be alive, now talk to me."
"What. Do. You. Want?" Connor retorted from the floor, and this time his eyes settled, enraged and burning, upon Duncan's. "Did you come here to guilt me to death?"
Duncan shifted, took the light across his face so Connor could see the answering brightness in his own eyes. "You've shut the door and the fight's knocked out of you. You're sleeping on the couch. You won't meet my eyes. You're shell-shocked ...disintegrating. TALK to me and let me help you."
"You can't help me!" Connor snarled, but his voice cracked on 'help' and couldn't find energy after that. "Why do you always find me in the places when I'm coming down? I'm holding on--I can't let go, but I can't keep it all together." The curled fingers dug into his collar, skittered across his skin. Duncan suspected the other man didn't feel any of it. His eyes were far away again, staring. Another spark of ash dropped unheeded.
"I want you to get up and look me in the eye and tell me who this was."
"I can't get up." And that was all.
Duncan frowned, shifted in his seat and then froze when Connor tightened all over. "Just me," he said. "Look at me, Connor. Focus." Connor's eyes flickered, faded, focused again and Duncan moved, quickly while his friend's eyes were on him, and sat on the floor. "Who?" More gently, but without touching him. "Tell me who?"
"Hughes. Margaret Hughes."
That explains everything, thought Duncan. Friends, then a lover, then back to friends again. Loving an immortal woman had serious drawbacks. "Why? She knew she couldn't take you--why did she try?"
"She was tired. She wanted an end, but with someone she knew. We argued about it for a year." Connor's voice was disconnected and distant. "She met me for coffee and shot me. I woke up with steel in my face and my back on fire. I only had one hand responsive enough to hold the sword and she pushed until I had to kill her. She just ... cracked."
Duncan reached very slowly, took Connor's irritable fingers and let them shiver in his grip. "You can feel her, sliding around in your soul a bit before she settles?"
"Yes."
Duncan said nothing--no words could comfort this. The cigarette Connor held went dead. Connor held it all the same.
"I can't watch the sky,' he said. "She loved the sunset from these windows--she loved the violet and orange off the smog. She smoked terrible cigarettes and drank gin, played my piano and stole my warm socks in the winter. She laughed at my old music and learned how to use a computer with me. I can't remember who I am, or what day it's become, but I can remember just the way she tastes."
"It will get better," softly said Duncan. "I've been where you are, Connor. Once she settles a bit, it will get better. It won't come without tears, but you will feel better. You just need some time and some silence in the Game for a while."
"The silence brings no relief."
"Not in times like these. All you can do is hold on."
"I'm tired of holding on."
"I know." Duncan reached and took the dead butt from Connor's fingers. "You can let go. I'm here and I'll stay--you can let go." He leaned enough to look in his friend's face, saw the bewildered hurt there. "You still have that bullet in your back?"
"Yes, but don't dig for it now. I don't want to hurt anymore."
"It'll just hurt working it's way out if I don't help..."
"I don't want you to hurt me. No more pain today." The elder man searched with his free hand. "Where's my smokes?"
"That's not you, that's her. Don't let her smoke." He caught the fumbling hand. "She's got to let go of you, Connor. You won't get yourself back until she does and until then, your world will darken around you. She can't have you--tell her that."
Connor blinked, blinked at him again. "You're right, you know. I hate it when you're right." There was no malice in his voice. "There's no one to trust, except maybe the two of us."
Duncan smiled at him. "Let's get you off the floor and at least into a chair." He braced himself to bodily lift his friend off the floor, but Connor grimaced and drug himself up. He hung off Duncan like a broken wing before finding his balance.
"She should have warned me this was the last time we'd be friends..." he whispered in darkness.
"You would have smelled a trap, you old wolf. She had to bait it just right. She chose you because she trusts your soul, knew you'd be good to stay with. You've got will to burn and friends you trust."
"Still hurts. Hurts like my bones are on fire. And my soul's not a nice place with all the freaks I've had to kill. It's dark in there, always dark."
"Come to the light," replied Duncan, leading. "I know the way ... just follow me. Come to the light."
~finis~
Aug 12, 2005 CDC Par-TAY
He ran every morning or as near to every morning that he could. Especially on mornings after he'd had a nightmare. Sometimes he had them often; sometimes it would be months and months before the same bad dream visited him, but he knew they'd never completely go away.
It always ended badly, just as it did long ago. He should be used to it by now, but he had come awake wild-eyed and sweating and miserable just as he always did.
Today, it was cold with the final grip of Northwest winter and Duncan jogged a slow quarter mile before the stiffness of his muscles let up. Another quarter mile and his feet settled into rhythm with his breaths. The burn in the bottom of his lungs went away. His stride lengthened and the muscles in his shoulders and legs loosened.
The calm of running took him over gradually. The cadence of his tennis shoes and the huff of his breathing formed a familiar tempo that focused his mind. He fixed his eyes on the bouncing horizon and crossed concrete walkways, maneuvered around the hedge of the Jenkins Estate, and headed out into the labyrinth of trails designed for runners just like him.
He was alone on this chilly early morning. Not a single other jogger had crossed his path, coming or going. The fog crept through the trees of the city below, but the chill and mist did not reach as high as the Estate that curled its way around the base of the mountain. He was alone and it was just another day.
There was an old cemetery along the route he took. Filled with the Jenkins ancestors and on their own land, it was closed to outsiders. There hadn't been a Jenkins buried there for over one hundred and fifty years. He sometimes wondered, as he jogged past, if there were any of that old family still alive.
"There's lots of ... MacLeods," he puffed aloud, "in the Highlands." But in his mind, he knew there was none of his father's blood living. His father was an only son and with a barren wife, there were no trueborn kin after him. Duncan counted, but his head knew he really didn't count. There was always a war between his heart and his head; his heart that said he was a Clan leader's son ... his head that never failed to remind him that that Clan leader had denied him. Denied him to his face and before witnesses.
"Not today," he said crossly to himself, and took a steep trail to the right that made his thighs ache by the time he got to the top. He peeled and ate a banana to restore the energy he was spending and glanced out over the mist-swaddled city. "You'd be proud if you saw me today, Father."
Except for the bloodshed over a prize we don't even know is true, his head reminded him.
He went on, counting on the run to silence the old quarrel in his mind. Through rocks and barked trails, skirting soft mud corners at the switchback that led him upwards. He startled up quail and squirrels and one snake, which startled him just as badly. He laughed at his jump to avoid stepping on it.
He didn't laugh a moment later when the frission of immortal presence crossed his own, but he was only one hundred feet from the shrine of the cemetery and moving fast. He quickened his pace and took the steps two at a time to the top.
Catch your breath quickly, said his mind. "It's a good thing I do this every day," he said aloud. He had a spare sword hidden amongst the graveyard crypts and fighting ... fighting was just something he had learned to accept as part of his life long ago. Even before he was immortal, fighting was just something that men did. If it was always as bloody and inhuman as those old clan battles, with all the maimed and dead to remind men of the horror of war, perhaps we'd not have so much war.
He caught his breath and retied his shoes. An immortal on Holy Ground wasn't a threat. Yet. And when he leaned partway over the cement wall, he realized the immortal on Holy Ground wasn't a threat at all.
Connor MacLeod sat below, his hair a little tousled and his hands warmly gloved. He looked up as soon as Duncan looked down. Neither man smiled.
"A little far from New York, aren't you?" eventually said Duncan.
"The weather is exactly the same. Cold and wet and idiots out running in it."
"You're one of those kinds of idiots."
"Sometimes." Connor smiled wryly. "I have to be in order to catch certain friends of mine without leaving a lot of tracks behind."
Duncan came down to the level where Connor sat and stared off at the cemetery. "What name are you using now?"
"I'm between names, so you can just call me Connor." His look was patient. "I'll bet you're still Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
Duncan frowned at him. This was an argument as old as the one his head and heart kept up and he wasn't going to get into it, again, with the man sitting here. He sat on a bench nearby and said nothing.
Nothing until the silence began to grate on him. Plus, his heart rate had dropped back to normal, spoiling the workout of his run.
"What do you want, Connor?"
"Nothing."
"You don't come clear over here to see me for nothing, so what do you want?"
"You told me not to ask you for help anymore after that problem with Foster and Smit. So I'm not asking for anything, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Connor said mockingly.
"Dammit, Connor."
"Why are you such a hornet?" The older Scot looked him over. "Is this run of yours not clearing your head well enough?"
"Did you come all this way just to pick a fight? You spit out my name like it's an oath," said Duncan. "You and I have argued about this for hundreds of years--I'm not changing my name. It's my name and I'm going to use it."
"You are a damn fool, that's what you are. If ever I thought someone was kicked in the head as a child, it's you," retorted Connor. "There was an asshole clear over on Riverside Avenue who gave a little start after he'd picked the fight with me--said he'd been looking for a Duncan MacLeod. I was supposed to be a snack along the way while he tracked you down."
Duncan paused his initial tirade and changed his tactic. Not that it matters with this man. "People are always going to be hunting and fighting with me, Connor. It wouldn't matter what I called myself to them." He put a thumb on his chest for emphasis. "It only matters to me. I was given this name and it's mine and I won't give it up. I give up lovers that die of old age, I give up a peaceful life, I give up lots of things--but this is one thing I will not give up."
"Why?"
The question was too huge. Duncan just stared at the other man.
"Why not? Why is it your name that you've tied yourself up to so tight? It's not a house, or land, or something else that likely will survive longer than this game will let us survive. You've got something tied up into that name that you won't say--"
"--You wouldn't understand," countered Duncan. "I swear to God, you only come around to pick fights with me that we both regret!"
"I can't understand if you don't explain and isn't that always what you're yelling at me about? That I don't explain myself and then we get off on a tear about something?"
The ugly stalemate between his head and his heart raised its head within him and in an overload of emotion and pain, Duncan barked out the truth. "Because part of me doesn't believe I have the right to that name anymore and part of me hangs onto it for dear life. And you, you who should understand best about what that name represents--Clan and Kin and everything the Scots once were--you come around and yell at me about keeping it, too!"
"What--the--fuck?" and Connor stopped after those three incredulous words and simply stared.
"My father said I was no son of his. I was not his son. Do you know what that means? On his deathbed, my mother told me I would always be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod ... but my father was unconscious and he never said a thing." His hands were shaking and he put them beneath his armpits as if to warm them. "My heart says I'm a Clan Chieftain's son, but my mind remembers that he denied me."
"Aye," said Connor and his voice had an odd sound in it that Duncan couldn't identify.
"Every time," Duncan said hoarsely, "every time you come and belabor your point about my name with me, you take the side of my father." He knew he looked as angry as he felt. "I don't ever want to argue about this with you again, Connor. You know how I feel, now leave it lie."
"I'll leave it lie," said Connor, "when I'm good and ready to leave it lie. You are a stupid git for not telling me how you felt all these years and I'm just as stupid for not asking something so obvious." He scrubbed a hand through his already unruly hair. "Come over here and kneel so I can look you clean in the face."
"I will not," returned Duncan.
"Will you just obey me for once in your fucking life and do as I tell you?" Connor snapped back. "Don't quarrel and don't get arrogant--just do what I say! Christ on a bicycle, you're the proudest idiot I've ever known!"
I am not prideful. Duncan came closer to his onetime mentor, but he didn't kneel. He sat astraddle the bench where Connor sat and took a breath to calm himself.
Connor glared at him, but obligingly turned sidelong on the bench as well and took a breath the same way. "Who am I?" he demanded abruptly. "When you see me, who am I?"
Duncan snorted. "You're Connor MacLeod. Used to be my teacher, now you're a friend." He added grudgingly, because he was angry, "and a Clansman from the same Clan."
His answer was lacking, judging by the look of Connor's face.
"You know that Clans will sometimes take in a Clansman who's been thrown out of his Clan for one reason or another," said Connor. "It's rare, but it's done. Especially if there was war brewing ... and there were lots of Clan raids and wars in those years."
"No Clan took me in. Not even just to fight for them."
"No one." Connor said it slowly, thoughtfully.
Duncan eyed him distrustfully. "The Nicolsons and the MacNeils turned me away. Said I was demon spawn and would call God's curse down on them even if I just fought for them. I knew better than to talk to the Campbells."
Connor was silent a moment, studying something in the distance just over Duncan's shoulder. "My Clan banished me, but my father did not renounce me. I was banished, but not denied and they left a bolt of tartan and my father's battle sword on the mountain for me." He looked at Duncan and his gaze hardened. "But your father as Clan Chief both denied and banished you. He stripped you of your name as well as Clan. And your head knows the truth--that no woman of a Clan, be she the Clan Chief's own wife and your mother--no woman has the power to give back what a Clan Chieftain has stripped from you." Connor slowly drew a single line through the crumbling cement dust of the bench they sat on. "You have no right to the name Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
"Do you think I didn't know that?" Duncan grated out. "But it was because I was immortal and they didn't understand."
"A Clan Chieftain's word is always the law until he recants it," barked Connor. "All the justifying you're doing is wrong and you know it--that's why you're tangled up in this!" He leaned and caught a fistful of Duncan's tee shirt strongly enough to halt his rise from the bench. "Who am I, Duncan?"
"What the hell do you want from me? Isn't it enough to remind me of what's happened to me and argue again about my name? Of all the people I call friends, I wouldn't expect you to be the one who doesn't understand this!" Duncan said angrily.
"I'm trying to get you to understand, dammit," Connor shouted practically in his face. "Tell me my name--the whole goddam thing!"
"Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
"And what Clan took you in?"
Duncan blinked and pulled Connor's fingers off his shirt. "I told you. No Clan took me in." He made as if to rise, to pace, perhaps to resume his run, but the older Scot shot a hand out and caught his wrist. "You won't win a physical fight with me, Connor," Duncan growled right into his face.
"I want you to sit down and see what I'm trying to show you. You learn best by discovering it on your own and I'm leaving bread crumbs the size of chickens, but your anger is up and you never think very well when your pride's on the line," slowly said Connor. "Now sit your ass down and quit fighting with me and think."
Duncan sat, but his heart was wounded and his head was shouting and all he heard was his father's voice from long ago, the same voice in his nightmares. Nightmares that never left him, though the years were in the hundreds since his father had yelled his final words at him. His hands were trembling and he made no move to hide them.
But Connor saw, and in an act purely out of the blue, he reached and put his hands across the top of Duncan's. The younger Scot blinked at them. Connor's hands didn't tremble at all; they were nothing but strength through the leather gloves and they anchored him, though his mind refused to clear.
"I can't see it, Connor. I'm too ..." and Duncan stopped, because the loss was too deep and anguishing. I've been lying to myself since the day my father denounced me. It's all been a lie. "I'm not Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod any more and I can't..."
"Stop it," countered Connor. "Stop that churning about and listen. Your Chieftain stripped you of name and Clan and no other Clan took you in," said Connor patiently. "I found you digging for roots down near MacKellen's bog in March of 1625. I took you into the wilds with me because the thaw was on and the game was moving up the mountains."
"Yes." This he remembered, though not all his memories of Connor from that time were pleasant. His heart was pounding like a freight train and he'd been sitting for over thirty minutes. "You trained me as an immortal up there in the rough terrain."
"I took you in." Connor tilted his head speculatively. "And who am I?"
"You're Connor MacLeod of the--" and Duncan stopped, because his axis tilted and he stared into Connor's eyes, seeing him for the first time. He blinked, as if his vision was faulty.
"There you are," softly said the older Scot. "Finally, you see me. All this time you've looked at me and have never really seen me and now you do." He turned Duncan's hands over and gripped his wrists; a warrior's clasp.
"Now let me finish this, once and for all, because you're the kind who seems to need a big hammer." His voice grew stronger, the brogue thicker. "I'm Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and I took you in. I pinned a new tartan on you, my tartan, in late January of that next year. You became Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, though some would quarrel that it'd rightly be Duncan MacLeod of the Connor MacLeod Clan, but that's a mouthful far too wide for any man to stomach."
"Connor," said Duncan, his voice tight with emotion.
"Hist. I'm not done," said Connor. He leaned, his face serious. "I lead this Clan, because it was given to me rightly--with a Clan Chieftain's blessing and through my father who did not deny me. I hold it by right."
"Yes, you do."
"I am the Clan Chieftain." Connor lifted a hand to Duncan's shoulder, studied his stunned expression. "If there are only two of us and I am the Clan Chief--what does that make you?"
Duncan chuckled. One of those partially hysterical giggles birthed out of stress and hardship. "Oh God."
"No, you're not God and you don't get to be God, either." Connor let him chuckle some more. "You are once again, a Clan Chieftain's son. You were born to be one and you remain one. You own your name, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, through me." Connor took his hands off the younger man. "Now," he said evenly. "Who am I?"
"You're Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." Duncan's voice was sure.
"And who are you?"
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." And he closed his eyes, for the truth took hold of him and all the internal arguments fluttered to the ground like ribbon. There would always be a voice that answered his father in his nightmares and it belonged to Connor MacLeod.
"Yes, you are." He slapped Duncan's shoulder. "And though I still think you should give it up and hide a bit more ... it's your right to live the way you want. I can't promise I won't sigh and roll my eyes and yell now and then, but I'll quit fighting with you about it so much."
"You argue because you want me to live," said Duncan.
"Yes, I do. And right now, I think we should run." And he was on his feet and shaking out his arms, preparing to do just that.
"Wait," said Duncan. "Don't you want to talk more?"
"No," said Connor. "You have what you need. I need to run."
"But," and Duncan had to trot to catch up, because Connor was up the steps two at a time. "Why are you here? You never told me why you're here?"
"Wasn't this enough for you?" countered the elder Scot. He turned at the top step and looked down, his breath steaming in cold air.
"Yes," thoughtfully said Duncan. "But I'd still like to know why you came originally."
Connor looked over the hillside, the fog-tucked city, the myriad paths leading away in every direction and shrugged. "I just wanted to run somewhere new."
And Duncan barked one laugh and took after him, following the bounce of the blue shirt and the churning feet. You've always been in the lead, Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod he thought. But aloud he shouted, "I'll catch you, you know. I know all these paths by heart!"
And his heart was good. So was his head.
~finish~
Author scribblings found in the margin of the page:
*9 am start time. The setting is long ago ... or maybe not. Darn muses have no date in their head and aren't making sense. Sorry. Warning: bad language ahead. And equally bad behaving muses.
*1 1/2 hours later, 11:30am: edit #2. This was supposed to be short and neat. Do these boys ever stick to the plan?
* 2 more hours, 1:30pm: edit #3. O my word, this is blowing up in my face! Holy Hannah, tie on your hats!
* 2 more hours, 3:30pm: edit #4. I'm getting tired. Please shut up.
Footnotes:
In reality, the chief of a Clan would ingather any stranger, of whatever family, that possessed suitable skills, maintained his allegiance and, if required, adopted the Clan surname. Source of quote under "Definition of a Clan"
"Talk to him, Connor. See if you can't pick his locks and settle him down around here," said Duncan. He said it halted over a forkful of eggs.
"And what Mickey Mouse whispered that I somehow have a key to tame Wolverine?" returned Connor. His plate was empty and he was working towards the bottom of his second cup of coffee.
"You brought him here. I knew you would gravitate towards keeping him around, like you keep all dangerous things. You jerked all the junk out of the spare room and painted it black, set a new place setting at the table and started buying enough meat to feed another carnivore around here." Duncan stuffed the eggs in his mouth as if that was a point to be made as well. "You call him 'Tin Man' and he calls you 'Sparks' and you both grin at the joke that none of us get."
Connor shrugged and used his thumbnail to scrape some girl's lipstick off the side of his coffee cup. "That doesn't mean I can tame him, or that he's even tamable. When was the last time you came home after a swordfight and didn't brawl it with me an hour before collecting a handful of girls for some sugar? We're all of us an uncivilized bunch."
Duncan frowned over his next forkful at the man across the table and spoke very deliberately. "I've heard of cutting before, but this is getting extreme. When he cuts himself, it's a bloodbath. If he claws the corner of the barn another thirty minutes, we'll be replacing the whole side of it because it'll fall down. Methos spotted him the other day with seven wolves cornered and had to intercede or he would have killed them." He took his bite of eggs and swallowed practically without chewing. "We need the wolves to keep the deer population in check."
"Duncan--."
"Hist, you," interjected Duncan. "You know I'm right. He's a loaded gun--if you don't shoot it, how are we supposed to hold it?"
Connor smiled sardonically over the rim of his cup. "I know what he's itching for, but how likely are you to stand by while I fight with him?"
"He'll beat the living shit out of you, Connor. He's built stronger and brawls like an alley dog just the same as you. If he was big and slow, you'd have a better chance of breaking even--but he's short and fast."
"And mean and ugly when he gets going, yadda, yadda, yadda." Connor put his coffee down and slid the cup away on the table. It read, "IF YOU WAKE UP FEELING LIKE YOU'VE HAD IT--BE GRATEFUL." He couldn't remember who gave it to him, but no one else in the house was allowed to use it. "It's not a slugfest he's after, Duncan. He wants to see who'll win. He'll use claws and I'll use a sword."
The fork stopped in Duncan's hand. "I don't think so."
"That's what he's pickled about; which of us would win. Not which one would survive--he knows if he rips my head off, I'll die--but which of us can fight longer, heal faster, and get the other one down."
"No."
There wasn't any softness to the word falling out of Duncan's mouth and Connor was unsurprised. "Which one of us is better. Why isn't that a surprising thing since every single damn immortal spends his energy trying to test that concept?"
Duncan put his fork down and his eyes turned glitter-hard. "You're wondering the same thing? You brought him here just to wind his energy and your own so you could find out? I haven't had to straighten your bent head for five years, but it looks like you're overdue, Connor."
The elder Scot looked amused. "But you notice I haven't crept away with him out there in the woods and turned it loose? And I've had plenty of time."
"Methos was right," said Duncan levelly. "He was right the first day when that animal arrived. Tonight, we're going to wrestle him down and Methos is going to drive an ice pick through his ear and kill him."
Connor went still. "You'll do no such thing." The thought had crossed his mind. Or perhaps through the eye. The tricky part was being accurate with a struggling man ... they might have to shoot him first. One of the many facets of Methos that could be counted on was his ability to figure out how to kill something.
"Oh, I think we will."
"He'll be gone thirty minutes after I leave this kitchen."
Duncan leaned slightly across the table. "You'll warn him, Connor? You'll save him from us when we're just trying to save you from him? I told you to stay away from him. His people warned him to stay away from immortals. Isn't it just predictable that neither one of you would listen?"
"He's too valuable to them for you to thrown in with the old man and kill him."
"And you're too valuable to us to let him get out of here alive," said Methos. He was leaned casually against the doorframe, but Connor knew full well that if he tried to leave the kitchen to warn Logan, Methos could strike like a coiled snake from that position.
"I suppose you're picking what rib to slide a knife beneath," growled Connor.
"Nope," said Methos. "I picked it out two days ago."
Connor left his hands flat on the tabletop, his anger reflected in their stillness. Duncan reached daringly and put his hand across one of Connor's, found it cold and stiff as death.
"But I brought this up before we acted, Connor MacLeod," said Duncan quietly. "I know your curiosity has led you to a friendship of sorts with him. And there must be something there in him for you, because he hasn't made any quarrels with us since he's been here."
"He's not after either of you," ground out Connor.
"And if he's after you, he hasn't made a move yet either ... and he's had plenty of time," softly said Duncan. "There's a light at each end of this tunnel you're standing in, because you're just as far in as you are out. You've got to turn around. He's got to turn around. Somehow, the two of you have to get out of it before you meet in the middle and force us to act--because we will act."
A beat.
Connor stared at his hands, at Duncan's tanned fingers across his own.
"How long do I have?"
"One day," said Methos.
"One day isn't fucking long enough to explain to him how this has to be," growled Connor.
"One day," repeated the lean man hooked against the doorway. "It's great motivation. He'll notice your tension and know this is serious." Methos grinned, an odd counterpoint for his next words. "Short leashes for wild animals work best."
He failed to add that the leash was on Connor MacLeod as well, but knew the Highlander saw it anyway.
"Remind him not to run," said Duncan. "He'd better not run instead of figure this out or we'll be hunting--and I won't be giving him a second chance if I have to hunt him down."
Connor's smile was more grimace than grin. "You always give second chances before you kill, Duncan. Is your honor finally being bent by the old man?"
Duncan's grin was true, but his eyes glittered, irritated. "He's not immortal. Different beast; different rules. It's why I have no qualms taking Methos with me to take him down."
"Let me go," said Connor, and Duncan lifted his hand.
"Next time think before you bring a stray dog home with you," called Methos after him.
"Shut up or he's liable to stick a blade in your ribs," said Duncan, returning to his cooling eggs. "And he won't even pick a spot beforehand--he'll just let it scrape through any old way and it'll take you ten minutes to get clear of the pain to even curse his mother."
"Ahh, the uncivilized young," said the tall man at the door.
Connor found Wolverine at the freeway ramp twelve miles out astraddle a black Triumph that he had been fiddling with for the past week. The engine snarled instead of purred, compliments of Logan's insatiable need to drag more power out of an engine not designed to give it. Connor expected the cylinders to seize after about a week of this abuse and Logan would dutifully cart it back to whomever he'd lifted it from and leave it dead.
But currently the engine was together and Wolverine screamed up and down the deserted off ramp, pushing speed and his balance to negotiate the turn. Logan spotted him when he drove up--and predictably ignored him.
They always ignored each other. Indifferent alpha dogs that had to live in the same place without fighting.
Yet.
It was the 'yet' that was the problem. Connor picked at the seam of his jeans sullenly. There was no line in his head that sounded like one Logan would buy.
He wondered if some self-preserving instinct had led him to bring this mutant back with him, putting his seeming indestructible nature beneath the scrutiny of an immortal like Methos who would confirm the ways to kill him. Even if Connor was reluctant to put his hand on the blade, knowing how to kill something like Wolverine was valuable.
Only one day to do this.
Connor got out of the car and leaned against the door ... and Logan spotted the urgency in that simple gesture and roared up on the motorcycle. He leaned on a knee and studied Connor silently.
"You trimmed those silly sideburns," observed Connor. He had to speak loudly over the mutter of the engine.
"Less wind whip and you're right, the women like it shorter."
"Glad to hear you're getting a little more petting instead of just being pissy about it."
"It's not petting I'm after, Sparks. I just want more of them willing. Too much damn work to pick up women."
"Buy a whore."
Wolverine frowned. "I shouldn't have to pay a whore since I'm the favor their getting."
"Cocky."
"Yes, though I'm surprised you noticed. I thought you were straight."
Connor snorted, amused. Bickering with Wolverine was becoming as familiar as bickering with Duncan, but with a harder edge. There wasn't any undercurrent of Clan beneath the verbal sparring with Logan. His cryptic smile faded with the thought. Logan noticed instantly.
"You're smoking, Sparks. You never smoke unless you're cranky. You cranky?"
"I'm cranky."
"Cranky with me?"
"Not you, but you all the same, Tin Man."
"Your buddies barking about me hanging on here?"
"You noticed." Connor knew he would.
Logan shrugged. "They don't do friendly talk anymore and their shoulders get tight when I walk in the room. Hawk face never turned his back on me, but now chocolate eyes doesn't either." He looked at Connor. "He didn't used to mistrust me quite so much and I haven't done a single thing to either of them."
"If you've thought about harming either of them then old hawk face heard it. You don't even have to think it and Methos will hear it," said Connor. "They've decided you're dangerous."
Wolverine barked a laugh. "God! They're immortal and it took them that long to decide I was dangerous? How'd they live so long?" He leaned over the handlebars, eyes brilliant with deadliness, watched the same lights come on within Connor's eyes in response. "You figured that out within five minutes of meeting me in the alley."
"Pot. Kettle." Connor shrugged and took another drag off the cigarette, left it hanging from his lip. Car exhaust drifted behind him and winter nip made him shove his hands in his pockets.
Logan twigged to the hands in his pocket instantly, added up everything he was seeing. He turned the key on the Triumph and shut the snarling engine off.
"We in trouble?" he asked.
Connor nodded slowly. "We're sticking around to fight for all the wrong reasons. Duncan has caught on and, just like I told you, he won't stand by. And I won't scrap with you without him standing by."
"You don't trust me."
"Of course not. You don't trust me either." Connor flicked away the spent cigarette. "The old man has figured out a way to kill you."
"You're friends are becoming my enemies," said Logan. "I bet you figured a way to do it, too. What'd you do, bring me home to check your plan?"
"Not consciously."
Wolverine looked away at the cold skyline. "My instincts don't speak right up, either. What was your plan?"
Connor noticed that Logan wasn't interested in their plan, only his. "A pick through the eye or the ear." He watched the other man mull the thought about before adding, "might have to shoot you first so you're still enough to hit the mark."
"Scramble my brain, eh? What makes you think I won't just heal from it?"
Connor shrugged. "Half the fun is the attempt."
"You are a sick son-of-a-bitch and I think I love you." Wolverine's smile was crooked. "Sounds like I need to go."
"You run, they'll hunt you down. You can't walk away from this."
"Wanna bet?" Logan's smile turned feral, but he saw Connor's eyes turn flat and knew to skirt the border of a threat to his kinsman. "Didn't you tell me you damn immortals aren't supposed to travel in packs like this?"
"At least we have rules. You muties just wring people's heads off at a distance. What the hell do you care about honorable combat?"
Wolverine rolled his eyes. "If you didn't tread that line like a close shave, we wouldn't even be talking to one another. What do they want?"
"Our word that we won't fight," Connor said eventually.
"You going to give it?"
Connor considered giving him a smart answer, but then remembered the ticking clock and the time it would take to convince his wary kinsman. "Yes. I need to stay in the fights I'm in, not go picking one with you out of curiosity and getting Duncan and Methos all wound into it. And your people need you, even though they give you the flat of the hand most of the time."
Logan smiled. "You like me because I'm just like you, Sparks."
"Slap my grandmother, what a novel thought," returned Connor.
Wolverine studied the man facing him. "You aren't even fighting with me ... what haven't you told me?"
"We have until sunset to convince them."
"Fuckwit. Why didn't you come right out and tell me?" Logan turned over the motorcycle with a roar. "I'll solve it."
"What's your plan?" called Connor over the engine.
"Got none," laughed Wolverine. "I always take the turns as I meet them."
Wolverine took the bike cross-country and Connor MacLeod cursed when he saw him leave the roadway. He cursed his way through all of Logan's parentage and grandparents and friends before he rolled up before the house in a skid of loose gravel.
"...And stick a thumb in the eye of the last person to tell him not to do things like this, because they didn't tell him forcefully enough and he's mulish like a Highlander and doesn't listen any better than I do," ended Connor as he exited his car. "Remind me to tell you that people who wear their ass on their faces usually are aware of the fact that they wear their ass on their faces."
"Except the few stubborn ones like me?" said Wolverine. There was laughter in his voice, but he never turned his head to look at Connor. He leaned against the motorcycle.
Duncan sat on the top step empty handed. Connor knew the empty hands and his posture was the only allowance against certain violence. Methos leaned in the open doorway, but there was no pretense to his hidden right hand. Logan didn't miss it either.
"Don't let them take me out until I've had a chance to speak, Connor."
Duncan and Methos both noticed the use of Connor's real name and the dark Highlander nodded his assent.
"I won't be scrapping it up with your kinsman. I was just curious, same as he." Logan jerked a head at where Connor leaned against his car. "But I'm not laying it down because you've threatened to kill me. Dying hasn't ever bothered me and you can try it if you'd like--I put the pick in the red toolbox, third shelf."
Methos smiled. "You found where I put it. Smart boy."
"One," interjected Connor abruptly.
Wolverine turned his head slightly, but never took his eyes off the steps. "One? What the hell are you reciting numbers for?"
"Because you're about to argue with the old man and you can't go around with him when you're busy arguing with me. One of us at a time."
"A second smart boy," said Methos. "We've got a crop of them today, Duncan."
"Shut up," said Duncan from below. "I don't want to listen to all three of you snipe at each other."
"You left the pick on the workshop table. I put it away." Logan's voice was baiting. "Go and get it, I'll hold still for you."
"No," said Connor.
"No," echoed Duncan, wary.
"Son of a bitch is being watched," added Methos from above. "By someone who can stop us without even being here..."
Logan said nothing. They didn't need to know that Charles Xavier wouldn't subvert their will in such a manner, for the code of honor and ethics running through him was as strong as that of Duncan MacLeod's.
"Don't let your friends become our enemy," said Connor. "We don't need more foes, especially mutants."
"Yeah, rule breakers all of us. We're a sorry lot," said Wolverine. "And we don't need immortals as foes, because most of us can be killed just like every other person." He turned his head fully, looked directly at Connor. "You could kill me and I'd let you. It'd be bloody hell hard work, but you've the swing of a blacksmith. Don't go through the ear though, even those tiny bones in there have adamantium on them--it's not a clear shot and your pick would break. Try the left eye, they messed up the adamantium infusion on that side and there's more open space to get through."
Connor frowned at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
Wolverine nodded at him. "I had to kill a woman I loved because she went mad. I was the only thing indestructible enough to kill her. Someone has got to be able to kill me if something happens and I go berserk." He nodded at the immortal. "Tag, you're it, Sparks."
Connor crossed the space to Logan, irritated. "Like I need to be responsible for killing you? As if I don't have enough men to kill?"
"Got yourself a list, do you? It's Christmastime ... I guess that fits," chuckled Logan.
"Shut up." Connor glared at him, acutely aware of Duncan and Methos behind them. "I don't want to have to kill you."
"I'll try not to be stupid."
"Start now and shut up."
"You think old hawk face up there wants to kill me just because? How about that clansman of yours?"
"I'm not after you simply because you live, Logan," said Duncan. "I have Connor's back. Anything that threatens him becomes my problem."
"Your clansman is not much fun, Sparks." Logan meant it humorously, but his tone was dry.
"You know too much about how to kill me, Tin Man."
"That's a first," sardonically said Wolverine. "Being accused of knowing too much." He looked at Duncan MacLeod. "I'm not your goddam problem. Don't turn me into one. Think of me as a player in another sport--on my own team, I'm the good guy. Sparks is a good guy on his team, but he's playing football and I'm playing basketball. We thought we'd play some sort of game together, but maybe it'd not be a good contest, so we're nixing it."
"I'm playing basketball," interjected Connor. "I'm better at it than you."
"What--the--?" said Logan, incredulously.
"He is better at basketball. Don't challenge him to one on one, he'll wipe the floor with you," said Methos from above. He bit into an apple, both hands in sight, chewed enough to be heard through it, "are we done here yet? It's cold."
Duncan turned his head with a slight smile. "I think we all understand each other."
"Good. Only idiots stand out in the cold trying to decide who's killing who and why," and he turned into the house.
"Smart people sit in the library by the fire?" inquired Logan.
"Kitchen table. Eating while talking about killing someone seems to go hand-in-hand around here," sourly said Connor, but his face was calm.
"Some people are always hungry and that's the only time you can catch them to talk," said Duncan pointedly. He stood and headed into the house. "Come inside you two. I put a pot of stew on three hours ago."
Logan didn't move. Connor waited, watching him.
"I am watched every time I traipse off with you," said Wolverine. "And there is someone that can stop you ... but he'd never overthrow your will to stop you. He's got a streak of ethics wide as a river. If I'm really crazy, shoot me up beneath the ribcage to do the most damage. Everything else will ricochet off my bones and you'll need to buy yourself time."
"I don't like this," said Connor.
"I wouldn't want to have to kill you either, Sparks," laughed Logan, and he slung an arm around the immortal's shoulder, ignoring Connor's reflexive tightening. "Good thing you've got a kinsman that can do it if you go silly on the world."
"Asshole."
"I've a pretty one, too. I didn't think you noticed such things--does your clansman know this about you?"
Duncan looked out the window at the yelling match and smiled. It sounded much like his own yelling matches with Connor MacLeod and, predictably, Logan was getting the short end of things from the sound of it.
"Arguing again?" said Methos quietly behind him.
"Yes, but Connor's not tight and tense. Things are good."
"You trust that wild man he's brought home with him?"
"Not entirely," replied Duncan. "But Connor chooses friends the way he chooses horses; lots of thought and watching and waiting. I haven't met a single one of his friends that weren't worth his effort to make them his friend--even the grouchy snappy ones." He turned his head to look at the slim immortal standing behind him. "Especially the truly dangerous kind ... they seem to be the only ones you can turn to when the road is straight uphill."
"Pot. Kettle. Introducing skillet," said Methos. His sly smile slipped across his face and was gone again. "Dish the stew. Maybe we'll get our share before they come in and empty the pot."
~finis~
Impromptu based on a photo of Hugh Jackman. This started as a purely silly CDC story and turned into something else in about 1 1/2 pages. The silly gits made me go back and swing out all the CDC references! I fear ConnorMuse and LoganMuse are up to something...I fear they'd like to drag a triple-snarky MagnetoMuse along for the ride.
*hides*
Set after X3, but ignores several key elements of X3 and I'm completely unrepentant.
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