Date:         Wed, 17 Aug 1994 20:50:49 EDT
Reply-To:     Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         "(Nancy Cleveland)" <NancySSCH@AOL.COM>
Subject:      Aloha Chapter 2 (p 55-60)

Would he have to stun her, then skulk away? Or did he have an ally here, a
friend?

"I see....You can't tell me anything. I just have to trust you." She looked
away, balancing some inner equation, then looked back at him, serene. " Well,
I guess my life is worth some trust. Thank you for saving it. Saving me." She
paused.

"I don't remember everything that happened, I must have hit my head or
something ....but the driver...is he....did he...." She was having trouble
getting out the word.

"I think he's dead, yes." <A high price to pay, for careless smoking. For
being a jerk> But the man's whole life seemed headed that way. Towards self
destruction. Towards an early death.

<I had a choice. I couldn't save them both. I'm not God. I can't see into a
person's soul. I did the best I could. I can only hope... and trust I did it
right. >

The whisper was there, haunting him. <If you'd left the man alone, ignored it
all, run. Maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe no one would be dead.
Maybe.

< And maybe she'd be dead, and that bastard would be alive. Yes, but how many
other lives did you trade, for hers? How many were on that plane?>  He didn't
want to know. Didn't want to think about it. He knew he would have to. Just
not right now.

"You could only reach one of us, I guess. " She looked away again. "I'm glad
you picked me.  I owe you, for that, and for before. What can I do, now? To
help? I get the feeling you don't want to just walk out there and have me
tell everyone you're the only reason I'm alive, hmm?" Humor glinted in her
eyes, now.

"That would be...awkward. No, thanks." So the possibility is there. Let's see
if she really means it.

"You could help, actually. I need to leave, quietly. Get out of the airport,
into town. Without being seen. If you could, I'd appreciate it." <If she
doesn't do it willingly, she won't do it at all. >

"Fine." She spoke briskly, her decision made. "I'll help you. I don't know
what else I can do here, right now. My ankle has swollen up like a pineapple.
It must be sprained. Come with me, I'll lean on you, and I'll get us both
some new coveralls. I'm Andrea, Andy, by the way. " She stuck out her hand,
to shake.

"I'm....<what the hell, how could it hurt to tell her the truth>...Jonathan."
Their palms clasped. That warmth, again. Stronger. Distinct. A tingle that
went all the way up his arm , to his heart. Could that empty hole be healing?
A start. Did she feel it , too?

She stood, the flickering light from the fire and the red flashing of the
emergency vehicles merging and  playing over her hair, her face. <An spirit,
daring the fires of the underworld. Or a succubus.....I'm raving...>
 Jonathan stood and followed her, gingerly, waiting for the new wave of
nausea to subside before stepping out of the piled debris. He gave her his
shoulder, and they leaned on each other as she led him to an open service
door around the near corner of the terminal. Firefighters and rescue crew ran
past them, ignoring them as they limped by. Anyone standing was not in bad
shape.  Not in need of their services. Not in this inferno of fire and death.

The coveralls fit just fine. Andy limped into the women's locker room and put
on a fresh pair, herself. Maintenance staff were everywhere, helping police
to control the crowds of frightened travelers, directing people to their
cabs, to alternate flights, away from the burning wreckage, away from the
entire north terminal. Jonathan blended with the surging mass of people,
invisible as an individual, because he was visible as a category, a member of
the anonymous staff.

< Find a uniform, and no one looks at your face.>  One of the first lessons
he'd learned, at the Agency.  The focus of the authorities was on keeping
people out, not keeping them in. No one spared a second glance at a pair of
soot covered, greasy, dust and foam splattered ground crew, walking with
slumped shoulders towards the employee parking lot.

Andy had offered him a ride into the District. She had disappeared briefly
while he was changing, told Jonathan that she had checked in with her shift
supervisor, let him know she was alive, how the fire started, why she was
only now reporting in  (all without mentioning him, she'd assured him)  and
that she would file a full report in the morning. She had been ordered to get
her ankle taken care of, and to go home. Blame could be assigned later, right
now the focus was on containing the damage.

Very professional, mused Jonathan, remembering at least a few botched
operations he'd been on, where more energy had gone into pinning the
responsibility for the failure on someone, than to dealing with the
repercussions of the incident, or solving the problem itself. Another reason
he'd left the Agency. The closer he came to Washington, the more he
remembered, the easier it was to see, and feel, and relive, so much of what
had been his life and entire existence, his surrogate family, for so long.

Andy had returned with some tape and an elastic bandage. She sat on the bench
and pulled up the cuff of her jeans, exclaiming in surprise at the sight of
her ankle, mottled and purple, swollen like a balloon. She wound the tape
around and around the injured area, then yanked the wrapping tight, holding
out the butterfly clips to Jonathan to fasten for her.  He knelt and gently
cradled her ankle in his hands, feeling her body's warmth through the
swaddling cloth. He fastened the clips, lightly testing them for secure fit.
Andy flinched a bit. Jonathan looked up at her, concerned, and caught her
staring at him. She met his glance, her lips slightly parted, heat smoldering
in her eyes as she locked her gaze with his. They sat, frozen, for a moment.
For an eternity.

<She's married. One vow I will not break.> Jonathan dropped his hands from
her ankle and looked away, deliberately. Drawing a breath, slowly, he willed
his pulse to still, his body to relax. He stood, and offered her his hand. <I
am the elder brother. This is the younger sister. I will guard, cherish and
protect. Nothing more.>

She was still limping, and he helped her across the lot, resolutely ignoring
the soft feel of her breast brushing his side, her ribs and hips alternately
molding with his and parting, leaving a cold aching void that yearned to be
filled. Ignoring the firm warmth of her arm draped over his shoulder.
Ignoring the tantalizing scent of her, soot mixed with perfume. Ignoring the
way her hair glistened in the light, and brushed across his face and arms, in
the cool breeze.  <I am the elder brother. The brother. She is the younger
sister.>

He did not need to lean on her this time. Jonathan had experienced the still
(to him) amazing recuperative powers of being Immortal.  Even the pounding
headache was gone, receding into the general background of nervous tension
and adrenaline that had kept him going these past two days. < How long has it
been since I've slept?>

He turned his mind away from the woman at his side. Considered the past. Two
nights ago was the flight from his burning home, last night the red eye
special from the west coast..he wondered how long he could keep on without
sleep. MacLeod hadn't mentioned anything about not needing that.

<MacLeod. Where was he now? How was he?>  A pang of guilt seized Jonathan. <
All those around me, I keep letting them down, letting them die, put them in
danger, again, and again. I really screwed up, with MacLeod. He didn't
deserve to be pulled in like this. He saved my ass, and I burned his. >

He wondered just how close he would have to get to the man, to sense his
presence. And could he tell one Immortal from another, or were they all just
the same general buzz...he should have asked more questions, during those
precious hours on the plane. <I didn't realize, he really did have more to
teach me. I hardly gave him a chance.  If...when I find him again, I won't be
so quick to spurn his help, his advice.>

At Andy's car, his plans changed a bit. Andy found she could not drive, her
right ankle would not flex at all, and the unwieldy bandage made it
impossible for her to drive with her left foot instead. She looked at him,
biting her lip. "I know I'm asking a lot, but would you mind driving me home?
You can catch a cab from my building. It's right in DuPont Circle. If you
can't, I do understand,  I'll just call one from here."

<How can I say no? I saved her life. I am responsible for her, now.> The old
superstition took on new meaning for Jonathan, as he debated for a moment
internally, then gave in. <I want to be responsible. I want her in my debt.>
Sanity took hold for a moment. < I need to leave her, soon, before I do
something I regret.>

Traffic was a snarled mess. The smell of car exhaust mingled with the stench
from the burning plane and tanker, making Jonathan's eyes sting and burn.
Andy had a headache too,  judging by the way she sat, her hands covering her
eyes, rubbing small circles in the skin above her temples with her fingers.
Tiny black ashes floated through the air, dropping in a soft sooty rain on
the windshield, smearing when Jonathan tried to wipe them off.

They'd been inching forward for what felt like hours, but was probably just a
few minutes, trying to get out of the parking lot. Finally, an opening.
Jonathan took it, and  pulled out of the drive fronting the airport, the
police sergeant at the roadblock waving them through without stopping,
without even making eye contact, as he recognized the uniform, the I.D.
sticker on her car.

<I need a new profile, a new uniform I can hide inside of. This is a city of
uniforms...a military city...maybe a military identity. > Jonathan had
watched the Pentagon staffers swarming across the airport, on his way through
the corridors. They were everywhere. But then, so were the lobbyists, and the
lawyers. <Maybe a $500 suit and a black leather briefcase would do as well.>
He looked at Andy.She seemed oblivious to their surroundings, staring fixedly
out the window at the passing traffic.

"Well, where to?" The question jerked her out of her reverie. They were
approaching the Mall, and had a fast choice of into the heart of the city, or
into the suburbs. <I must rest, just for a few hours. But does MacLeod have a
few hours? I need to know where they've taken him. I need to contact some old
friends. Time to call in all the favors Raven is owed, for my final flight.>

"Left, then take Constitution to 14th."

Jonathan turned, heading for the Mall, swinging past the Tidal Pool and the
Jefferson Monument. He glimpsed it,  all white and pure, the  marble glowing
faintly in the pale morning sun.

Washington had always seemed like a city built on a fantasy, to him, The
monuments, marble, white, neoclassical tributes to the glory of *demos,*  of
some idealized vision of democracy, defined the town's character. Built on
ideals.

But he had seen the reality, and knew the ideals were all too often empty
platitudes, perverted for someone's transient convenience, for someone's
temporary truth. < But the ideal, the quest, the attempt to do and be better.
That does matter. It does. It must. Otherwise, what was the point? Of
anything? Of life? >

The rush hour was in full swing, and traffic was heavy, the incoming
commuters agitated by the airport closure and related snarls in their morning
run. Tempers were short and horns blared, Jonathan swearing under his breath
more than once as he evaded a fender bender, avoided a bicyclist, and braked
abruptly as another car ran a red light, barreling through the intersection
he had been about to cross.

Andy beat on the dashboard in exasperation, then smiled. "I just love rush
hour. It keeps you on your toes, ready for anything. Like bump a cars, but
more expensive. Seriously, I appreciate this a lot. Just go right at the next
corner. We're almost there."

 Jonathan glanced out the back again. No discernible tail, but with some of
the more experienced agents, it was hard to tell on such a crowded road.
Especially at rush hour. He debated taking a few evasive turns. <If they
tailed me to the car, they know who she is already. Where she lives. They
could be meeting us at the door. They don't even need to follow. >

"Here. Just pull up in front." Andy indicated a semi-circular drive, lush
with spring flowers and evergreen shrubs. Jonathan pulled in, and up to an
ornately carved and gilded entryway. He parked in one of the few remaining
spots near the door, then stepped out to help Andy from the car. The noise
from the street was muted, the tall shrubbery blocking the sound and sight
and smell of the city, replacing it with the sharp sweet scent of boxwood and
cedar. It was a medium rise building, maybe 7 stories, and not new, judging
by the faded gilt in the ornate rococo facade, the leaded glass windows.

"Oh, damn. I forgot, the doorman is off today." Andy stood at the side of the
car, having refused Jonathan's offer of help getting out, but now she seemed
uncertain, her face alternately flushed, then pale and perspiring. Jonathan
stared at her sharply. "Look at me. Can you see clearly?" <Did she have a
concussion too? I should have dropped her at a hospital, not taken her here.>
 He peered at her, concerned. Her pupils looked normal, both the same size.
<Good.> He relaxed, a bit.

She smiled, and held her arm out to him for his support. "Now you sound just
like my dad. He was a pediatrician. Every time I came in from some childhood
scrape, he'd always ask me that. No, I don't think I have a concussion." She
stumbled on the entry stairs, and leaned on Jonathan more heavily for a
moment. "Well, not a bad one, at any rate."

He shifted more of her weight to his shoulders, subtly, tightening his clasp
around her waist, offering all the support she needed, and more, if she
wished. Her body pressed against his, and he thrilled at the feel, the firm,
soft warmth, the fire creeping through his blood.

She fumbled for a key, and unlocked the foyer door. Inside, a plush gray and
rose patterned rug absorbed their footsteps, the  soft lighting illuminating
the gilded mirrors on the walls with what looked to his casual inspection
like original oil paintings hung between them, in ornate gold frames. A large
bouquet of live flowers drooped prettily in a Ming vase,  welcoming them from
its pedestal on a gleaming rosewood table. <Very impressive. She must have
married a doctor, as well.>

They stood in front of an elevator, one of two,  the burnished brass
highlights gleaming on the doors, the walls, the floor indicator arrow moving
slowly downwards. <This is where I leave.> Jonathan eased away from her,
shifting her weight back to her own feet.  She turned and looked at him, a
smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Please, come up with me. You can
use the phone, if you like. Freshen up a bit." She looked him up and down,
critically. " I may even have some clothes that fit you."

"Are you sure? I don't want to impose...." Jonathan made it a question, but
he already knew the answer. Knew it from the heat he felt rising in his body,
from the answering  fire in her eyes. <This is a mistake. She's married.
She's just had a brush with death. I'm taking advantage.....> He knew with a
flash of prescience just how the scene in the apartment would play out. He
could almost feel the velvet touch of her skin, her body, on his own. He
wanted her. And she....

The elevator arrived, the door creaking open, the empty compartment waiting,
silently. Andy hobbled in, leaning on the door, on the wall, for support.
Jonathan hesitated, standing in the lobby, torn inside, unwilling to make the
commitment, fighting himself.
Andy reached her hand out to him, palm up, open, inviting. "Are you coming?"

Jonathan stood, tongue tied. <I can still leave. I'm just going upstairs with
her. To her door. That's all. That's all.> He rationalized, repeated it to
himself, firmly, then took a breath and stepped into the elevator. The door
slid slowly closed and it rose, creaking and groaning as it went.

Andy laughed, a touch of nervousness in her voice. "It always sounds like
this. Everything in this building is original. It's lovely, but inconvenient
sometimes."

Jonathan stood with his back to her, watching the floor indicator crawl
upwards. <Not even one floor yet. We could be in here a month at this rate.
What floor is she on, anyway?> He could feel her behind him, like a fire
burning in the dark. She stirred, and he felt her hand rest lightly on his
shoulder.

"Jonathan...." She paused. He turned to look at her, as her hand slid from
his shoulder to his cheek, lingering there, her fingers brushing lightly
across his skin, tracing his cheekbone, his jaw line, his lips. He leaned
towards her, drawn in like a helpless fly, sinking into her web. "That is
your real name, isn't it?"

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, her fingers leaving tiny parallel
trails of tingling warmth across his skin. He felt his groin throbbing, felt
his control melting away. She looked at him, looked through him, looked at
nothing, or something from long ago, her eyes unfocused and blank for a
 moment, then intent on him, on his, again. "I knew a man like you, once. I
was married to him, even."

Jonathan stiffened, startled. He took half a step back, shaking her hand away
from his face, shaking loose from her touch, from her spell. <Right. Like
it's her fault I'm here. Sure.> "I can see you're wearing a wedding band. I
respect that. Don't you?" He choked out the words, angry, brutal, short.
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