Date: Mon, 31 Oct 1994 01:39:34 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "Kevin H. Robnett" Subject: ALL THAT'S LEFT, Part 1 of 3 Forward---------------- Samhain. Hallow's Eve. Legend has it that on this night where witches dance and spirits walk the earth, the devil appears, wearing a kilt and playing a ghostly tune on his bagpipes. To some, it isn't the devil, or witches. To those, the ghosts of the past return to haunt them this night, wailing at whatever keeps the spirits chained to this realm. For one Immortal, the pipes call to what was lost, never to be regained. ALL THAT'S LEFT by Kevin H. Robnett For Claire... Duncan MacLeod eyed the plastic-wrapped package of meat, exhibiting skills that showed he was using an eye that had raised beef, butchered it, and eaten it in many shapes and forms. After four centuries of practice, all it took was a glance, and all the imperfections, the packer's tricks were laid bare. You might think such a useful talent would be helpful. Instead, it took what little fun shopping was and destroyed it. Nothing passed inspection. Nothing in the last forty years. With a sigh of exasperation, he tossed the meat back on the pile, closing his eyes. With a grim smile, he reached in, picking one at random. Not even looking at it, he tossed it in the basket, quickly looking around to see if anyone was watching. Not a soul. Disappointing. When he and Tessa would go shopping together, now that was excitement. He'd settle for pushing the basket, letting the French woman take all his attention. Watching her move, examine the shelves, pick something unimportant for his approval. He'd always smile, approving the selector, not selection. She'd grin back, her lips promising something more exotic than Cool Whip. After supper, with Richie safely tucked away. But not anymore. It took a trip to the supermarket with Richie, after Tessa's . . . {Death. Say it, MacLeod. She's dead.} ...after her death, to realize what he'd been missing. Storming the aisles with Mr. Hormone had revealed the little game played unnoticed all around him. The young Immortal had the art of shopping as mating ritual down to a science. Chasing short skirts through the dairy coolers, accidentally bumping single women's carts. And the more Duncan watched, the more he encountered the looks he received from other shoppers. The shy one smiling over the pile of watermelon, the bold one brushing his basket with her hips. He had never thought that Little Debbie could be so . . . enticing. Later that night, after Richie had left, Duncan toyed with what he learned at the grocery store. It was a fact Tessa was gone, never more to share his life. He was alone. It was also a fact he loved the attention, the flirting. The hunger of a woman who wanted him. Oh, that it could still be her. But he knew it had to be someone, soon, before he went mad from the ache in his chest. The ache to be loved and wanted. It was that ache that drove him to this place, so unimportant before. It was the pain that made him spend so much time getting ready, from what to wear, to being clean and alluring. Tantalizing. It only took two trips for Richie to decide not to accompany Duncan to the store anymore. For Duncan was now an avid player in this little game. This was why he was here, this Saturday afternoon. Amanda had left him . . . {Hungry.} His usual weekend dinner invitation to Richie had been readily accepted. Duncan was in the mood for something fancy this week. To celebrate, and reward his friend for his help with Amanda's problem. {Stroganoff,} Duncan thought, remembering how much the youngster loved it when Tessa had made it. {And French bread. I've got a '42 and . . . *cheesecake*.} He reached out and grabbed the frozen box of ready-to-eat dessert, tossing it on top of the pile in the cart. The memory of the heavenly taste drove all thoughts of the woman with the spotted dress in aisle seven out of his brain. Executing a sharp one-eighty turn, missing the end display by inches, and off to the checkout lane he sped. He was trapped in lane two, idly thumbing through a tabloid, when a horn outside drew his attention. Looking up, leaning around the young girl in front of him, he focused on a gold corvette speeding past the supermarket windows, the flash of the driver's face . . . < < < < < < < < < < < < < < < ...appearing behind one of the rocks. "Come on, Duncan," the boy of twelve cried, turning and climbing higher in the ruins. Duncan huffed, grabbing hold with his almost man-sized hands, following. His heart beat at the nervousness he felt, climbing the haunted tower. Crumbling to dust it was, lone and foreboding in the grassy valley. They came here often, wanting to get away from the village. They came and fought, talked, sometimes explored the other ruins around the rocks. But never ventured so close. Duncan stopped as the other boy reached the pinnacle, then with a surge of effort, swiftly finished the climb. Panting, he looked around, admiring the view. "Finley spoke the truth, you can see forever up here," the boy exclaimed, turning to face Duncan, grinning. "Aye, Ian. But wha' if we ge' caught?" Duncan asked, grinning back. "We're no' supposed to be here." That fact Angus, Duncan's father, had made painfully clear. The pair couldn't sit for days after the 'lesson'. The older absently felt his rear, trying to decide if it was worth it. The younger could care less. The two were twins, the villagers swore, if not in body then certainly in spirit. Same dark hair, same mischievous grins, matching builds and matching temperament. Always together. They shared everything, including trouble. Duncan was the elder by two years, striving hard to grow into his father's expectations. Ian had no impetus, other than matching Duncan. Together, they were the best at everything. It had been a long time since the lanky youth had wandered into the village during a summer squall. No one knew where he had come from, only that he was hungry and frightened. Old Mary, the washer woman, had taken him in, and for the task of looking out for him, Angus assigned Duncan. Perturbed, the Scottish youth let the pest follow him around. They had never truly been apart since. Ian spun around on the precarious ledge, laughing, his arms spread wide. Duncan quickly followed suit. They were princes of all they surveyed. Until startled from the voice below. "Ian. Duncan. Is tha' you, laddies?" > > > > > > > > > > > > > > > "Sir," the cashier spoke again. Duncan blinked, finally focused on the old woman behind the register. "That comes to thirty-seven dollars and twelve cents," she continued, holding her wrinkled hand out as Duncan fished his wallet out of his back pocket. He still seemed distracted as he walked out into the parking lot, bag in hand, taking a minute to scan the cars, looking for the corvette. Feeling foolish, he adjusted his shades before walking to his car. The ghosts of his past never had been quiet. ---------------------------- The Highlander walked into the dojo, pleased with the bustle. Not only because the money it brought, but for Charlie's attitude. There was still a little jealousy on that front, the black man hurting at having to sell. But it was hard for anyone to stay mad at Duncan for long, especially when business was so good. He stood in the nook of the stairs, a clear view of Charlie and Richie working out near the office door. The new Immortal was terrorizing the punching bag, never letting up. Even from behind, Duncan could feel the concentration the young man possessed, the buzz heralding his proximity ignored as the redhead jabbed and weaved. Charlie noticed his boss, however, and started putting Richie through his paces, pressing the redhead harder. Like a fine race horse, Richie rose to the challenge, performing for his mentor. Duncan had to smile as he walked over, still clutching the grocery bag. "I see you're working up an appetite. I hope I bought enough food," he commented, interrupting Richie's workout. The redhead turned and grinned, breathing hard. Sweat poured off his forehead, running down his face until he wiped it off on his arm. "You know me, Mac. I'll still be hungry," Richard Ryan replied. The phone rang, sending Charlie into the office, leaving the two alone. "I hope Amanda got off all right," the redhead huffed. "Took her to the airport yesterday." Duncan looked around for a place to set the grocery bag, but nothing was handy. Resigned, he started for the freight elevator, turning back after a few steps. "Hour and a half?" he asked. Richie grinned, already salivating. "Sure. Do I need to bring anything?" "Just yourself," Duncan said, lifting the gate with his free hand. "And maybe some deodorant." ------------------ The pasta was ready to boil, the meat and sauce simmering. He was surprised how excited he was that Richie was coming up. Since Duncan had bought the building, they had eaten together at least once a week. It was strange living alone again, for the first time in thirteen years. Not having someone to come home to, having to make an effort to spend time with Richie, not seeing the redhead for days. {But that's how it needs to be. Someday, he won't come back. Like . . . } < < < < < < < < < < "Ian!" the old crone admonished, "How many times have I told ye no' to come up here. And you, Duncan MacLeod, should know better!" The boys just stood, looking foolish at the ground, the tower ruins rising oppressively behind them. Old Mary sighed, picking up the wet clothing she had set down, handing it to Ian. "Run these to the village, lad. And be hangin' them up, now. You can help him, Master Duncan." "Bu' . . . " Duncan began, only to quiet at Mary's glare. "You be helpin' your friend, and I'll see Angus hears no' of this," Mary said, leveling the angry gaze with the hint of a smile. "Or I could pu' a hex on ye . . . " A shooing motion of her hands, and the two boys were off, running as fast as they could to the village. "And I better no' catch ye around here again, me laddies!" she yelled after them, following at her hobbling pace. The two reached Mary's hut, out of breath. Without speaking, they began hanging the wet clothes on the lines, too fearful for conversation. When they had finished, Mary was just appearing up the meadow. Duncan gulped, rushing to Ian. "Tomorrow?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he took flight, glad he wasn't the one living with the old woman. The young Highlander ran across the way, barreling through his own door as his mother called him. "Duncan . . . Duncan Mac . . . " > > > > > > > > > > > > > > "...Mac?" Richie asked again. Duncan looked up sharply, startled. The sudden movement shifted his center of gravity, his hand reaching to check his fall. It landed against the pot of boiling water, the sudden pain as he burned his hand making him jerk it away. He stuck it in his mouth automatically, sucking on the wound as the flesh began to blister and bubble. Richie looked on in concern, the whole episode lasting less than a second. "Dmmnm" mumbled Duncan as he turned away, circling until he settled on the refrigerator. He started across the kitchen toward it as Richie came around the sink island, a sympathetic comment already started. Opening the door, reaching for the ice, Duncan got a good look at the hand. A nasty burn. He vainly searched for an excuse as he grabbed some ice. "I seem to be distracted lately . . . " Richie turned to the food, taking over the chores of cooking. "Why the ice? Your hand should heal in a couple of seconds." Without flourish, the redhead dumped the pasta in the water, reaching for a wooden spoon to stir. Duncan weakly smiled. "Because it still hurts . . . as you keep pointing out." Taking a moment to examine his student, he was surprised at how he had dressed. Nice shirt, new jeans. Ironed, even. Almost a copy of Duncan himself. "Got a date tonight?" he asked, taking a glimpse at his healing hand. Richie smiled. "Why, yes," he replied. "With a very old friend." He briefly glanced up, looking at Duncan before returning to his stirring. *DING* The bell of the timer was startling in the quiet atmosphere. "Anyone I know?" Duncan gingerly drew out silverware as Richie drained the pasta into the sink. "Mac . . . " Richie implored, dishing the noodles onto the two plates. "You're the oldest friend I have. Besides, it was time I upgraded my wardrobe." He ran his hand down the front of his shirt, straightening the few wrinkles. It took a moment for the realization that Richie dressed up for tonight to sink into Duncan's brain. It also set off a very small alarm bell. Duncan just stared as Richie poured the meat and sauce over the pasta. "Well . . . " the Highlander finally said. "It does suit you. Living on your own seems to be doing some good." He pointed to the oven, Richie walking over and pulling out the French bread. With little gasps, the youngster juggled the piping hot bread to the plates, a sigh of relief escaping once he was through. A quick washing of hands in the sink, and the cooking was done. Richie grabbed the plates as Duncan grabbed the wine and glasses. "Yeah, just remember that fact when you get the bill," the redhead said as they moved to the sitting area. He opted for the sofa while Duncan sat Japanese style on the floor next to the square coffee table. Richie spent a lot of time staring at his food, playing with it, giving Duncan an opportunity to examine his friend. There was very little conversation, a fact setting off another bell. {He wants to ask me something,} Duncan thought. {I hope it's nothing drastic. Like wanting to leave. Things really haven't been too swift between us lately. It's kind of funny, the way he gets when he's nervous. Reminds me of Ian . . . } =========================================================================