========================================================================= Date: Sun, 17 Mar 1996 00:35:50 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Choices After Evil 6/6 Holland rode with MacLeod in silence, her fingers pulling at her sweater convulsively. MacLeod knew he need to explain several things to her, but felt too tired to even try. Back at the loft, they carried Richie in the blanket to the bed. The wounds in his chest had healed, but his skull had broken in the fall and was still in pieces beneath MacLeod's probing fingers. "Is he going to stay dead?" Holland asked in awe. "No," MacLeod said. "Not for long. None of us will, as long as we still have our heads." "That stuff before - it wasn't lies." "It was all the truth." "My God," she breathed. She wondered around the dark loft, her face lit with horror and awe. "This is impossible." MacLeod climbed onto the bed and slumped against the headboard. "It's very possible," he said. "There's a great deal you need to know, Mrs. Greer." "Don't you think you could call me Holland by now?" she turned to say. "You never told me to call you Holland," he protested weakly. "Of course I did." She wandered some more, her hands around her neck. "People are going to really want to behead me?" "Yes." "Why?" "Because there can be only one," MacLeod said. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but can we do this in the morning?" She came to him, her eyes shining. "It won't be real in the morning. It's like a dream." "Sometimes it's like a nightmare," MacLeod said. But she persisted in her questions, and MacLeod answered in the calm, measured way he had with Richie and others before him. He was bone tired, it was true, but he was also worried about Felicia going against Giovanni. He didn't expect her to win. Telling Richie would be very hard. Something else nagged at MacLeod, but he had no idea what. He closed his eyes for just a moment to rest, then woke with Holland shaking his shoulder. "I hear that noise again - " she said. MacLeod sat up instantly. "It's okay," he said, and turned to watch Richie's chest give a spastic heave. Richie breathed, let out a hoarse gasp, bolted upright in confusion. MacLeod expected that. He made no attempt to touch him. "Richie!" he snapped. "You're all right! You're safe!" Richie jumped out of the bed and into an defensive pose. Covered with blood and dirt, reeking of gasoline, dressed only in the burned jeans, he seemed wild and unpredictable. "It's okay," MacLeod said, rising slowly. "You're home." For a moment, MacLeod didn't think Richie was going to believe him. Then slowly, carefully, Richie lowered his hands and took a look around. Recognition seeped slowly across his face. "Mac," he breathed. "Yeah," MacLeod answered. "Welcome back." Richie wrapped his arms around his chest, shivering. He stared at Holland for a long moment, then back to MacLeod. By the look in his eyes, he was remembering very clearly what had happened. "Where is he?" he asked, voice shaking. "Fighting Felicia." "We have to save her," Richie said immediately. "Mac, the guy's a bastard, he'll take her down, we can't let her just go alone against him - " MacLeod moved to him and put his hands on his shoulders. "It was Felicia's choice, Richie." "He'll do to her what he did to - " Richie blurted, then stopped with an embarrassed look at Holland. MacLeod understood. Healing the physical injuries Giovanni had inflicted was a job for Richie's Immortal body. Healing the other injuries would take a little bit more time. "Richie, she wanted to do it. She wanted you to be safe, and then she'd take care of Giovanni." MacLeod couldn't tell if his words were getting through. Holland's presence wasn't helping. "Come on," he said, and steered Richie to the bathroom. "You need a hot shower and some new clothes." Twenty minutes later Richie was sitting on the sofa in a pair of borrowed sweat pants and sweatshirt, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, eyes dark with remembered pain. "My bike's trashed," he said, looking at no one in particular. "He rigged it with some kind of bomb." "You can get a new one," MacLeod soothed from beside him. Holland sat quietly in another chair, her knees drawn to her chest, watching them in rapt silence. Richie shook his head. "Not the same." That was still trauma talking. MacLeod said nothing, but put his hand out and rubbed Richie's back for a few seconds. "The thing is," Richie said, "he never even cared about me. I mean, I was just a thing. For knife practice. For . . . playing with. He told me so." MacLeod could have gladly cut out Giovanni's heart. Richie closed his eyes as he remembered aloud, "It got really bad, and I shot off my mouth. I asked him if he was doing it because I'd slept with Felicia, and he hadn't. And he said, 'That's as good a reason as any.'" He looked at MacLeod, stricken. MacLeod remembered with a sinking lead weight in his stomach how he'd said those very same words before he nearly chopped Richie's head off. "It's never over," Richie said, with clear and absolute conviction. "Your Dark Quickening, him, Danny Dieppa. The evil doesn't go away, it just changes shapes. We can't do anything about it." "We can choose to fight it," MacLeod said. "We can choose not to run." Richie studied his coffee cup. "That sounds like something Felicia would say." It was nearly midnight, and she hadn't returned. MacLeod easily guessed what that meant. Despite his weariness, he stayed up with Richie through the night, keeping vigil, as Holland slept in her chair. Richie talked a little about what Giovanni had done to him, a little more about things Felicia had said or done, but sat for long stretches staring at nothing MacLeod could see. He finally dozed off near dawn, out of sheer exhaustion. MacLeod didn't remember falling asleep, but Holland woke him up when the sun was streaming through the windows. "That noise, again," she insisted. Richie came awake on the couch beside MacLeod. MacLeod sat up, working a kink out of his neck, and followed the buzz of an approaching Immortal to his door. He opened it with sword in hand. "Well, that's a fine welcome," Felicia groused. Her skin was bloody, her face filthy, her clothes beyond salvage. She had two large paper bags from McDonald's in her hands and a devilish grin on her face. "Breakfast, anyone?" *** Halfway through a rather unhealthy sausage McMuffin, MacLeod suddenly realized what it was he'd forgotten. "Shit," was his exact word, as he scrambled from his chair. "What is it?" Richie asked, alarmed. "Joe," MacLeod said, and left Felicia and Holland behind to explain Dawson's predicament. Forty five minutes later MacLeod was at the police station, waiting impatiently and somewhat nervously. No one appeared to connect him with whatever ramblings Dawson might have unwisely made during the night, and he considered that a very good omen. Dawson was brought out looking hungover, grungy, and extremely withdrawn. He mumbled something to MacLeod as he signed for his personal possessions. "What?" "I said," Dawson repeated, "let's get the hell out of here." "We're not going anywhere," MacLeod said resolutely. Dawson grimaced. "Is this another Duncan MacLeod speech I hear coming on? Because you can just spare me now." MacLeod bristled. "No, you get to sit through the whole thing. That's the price you pay for me putting up your bail." "I've paid enough of a price!" Dawson shot back, drawing attention from the officers on duty and the station personnel arriving for work. MacLeod waited until Dawson was seated beside him in the Thunderbird before he put the key in the ignition and let it sit there. "Just so you know," MacLeod said, staring straight ahead, "Richie was kidnapped yesterday, tortured, nearly killed. Felicia and I were nearly killed. Holland Greer died her mortal death and is sitting in my loft wondering what to make of it all. And in the middle of all that, you're in jail on a drunk driving charge. So you fell to the bottom of the list of things to do, Dawson." "As I expected," Dawson replied sarcastically. "Immortals are always your highest priority. The rest of us can just die and go the ground while you march through eternity." "What the hell is wrong with you? When did you turn into this giant pit of self pity?" "When you weren't here, MacLeod." "Is that it? You're mad because I stayed in France?" Dawson turned to him and said, "I don't care where you stayed. I don't care what you do. I used to, but they took that job away from me because I got too goddamned involved." "So that's your problem? You regret getting involved? Well, don't. Because if you hadn't gotten involved, Richie would be dead. No, I take that back, Richie wouldn't have even been in danger of me cutting off his head, because I'd still be imprisoned underground in a cell where no one was ever going to find me. Or the Hunters would have taken both our heads, months ago, like they took Darius." Dawson's jaw was set in stubborn denial. "That's not the point. The point is that I was a Watcher, and I was very good at it. You didn't notice me for a dozen years. And now I'm nothing." MacLeod gazed at him in astonishment. "You're nothing? Since when was Watching your only role in life? Since when did you stop being a musician, a businessman, a scholar? They took that one thing away from you, and now you're nothing?" Dawson's face twisted in helplessness. "Of course not. But it . . .feels that way." MacLeod let that lay out in the open for a few seconds. "Joseph," he said slowly, shaking his head, "you astound me. You don't need alcohol for this. You don't need to ignore it, or bury it, or make it go away. This is a major change in your life. It's going to hurt. But you have friends to help you. Friends like me." "You have your own problems," Dawson grumbled. "That's nothing new. It doesn't change the fact you can come to me for help." "I don't want help," Dawson said defiantly, although his eyes told a different story. "I just want it to be fixed. I just want. . . .to be a part of it again. I know I'm never going to be Immortal, and if I could I don't know that I even would - but don't you know why people become Watchers, MacLeod?" "Not really. No. Why?" "Because every Immortal carries the seed of something great. Call it a Quickening, call it whatever, but you all have it and we don't. You carry with you the history of our race, but nobody knows to where. You're the biggest mystery on earth. And every Watcher dreams of being the one to solve it, to finally figure out what it all means. You're like celebrities, and everyone wants a part of you. You're like . . . gods." "We're not gods," MacLeod said swiftly and darkly. "We're too cruel and too fallible." Dawson shrugged. His anger and bitterness had fled, leaving behind a haggard face in need of a shave and tired eyes that needed sleep. Softly he said, "Maybe gods are supposed to be cruel and fallible." "I'll never believe that," MacLeod answered. "I might," Dawson said. He yawned and glanced over with sheepishness and affection. "So, can I go home now? Is the speech over?" "I don't know. You going to keep doing stupid stuff?" "Not intentionally." MacLeod turned the ignition switch. "That's all I ask," he said. *** A week later, having sorted out details and arrangements and promises, Holland and Felicia were ready to go. They stood in the parking lot above Felicia's rented houseboat, Felicia's truck packed with the belongings they were taking with them. Felicia had it in her mind to head towards Phoenix, where she had more amends to make. Holland was going with her to learn how to survive. "I could teach you sword work here," MacLeod told her. Holland grinned. "It's sort of like learning to drive with your dad in the car. Not a good idea." "I'm not your father," MacLeod said. "Good thing," she answered, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, "old man." "I'll miss you," Dawson told her, as he received his own kiss. "I'll miss what you did with the dojo. Now that you're going, MacLeod's probably going to decorate the entire place in brown again." "Since when did you become an interior decorator?" MacLeod asked. "It's my new career field," Dawson said, with a gleam in his eyes. "You should see the plans I've got for your loft." "No plans at all," MacLeod retorted. "You're not going near it." Richie was sitting on the hood of Felicia's truck. He looked healthy and well in the spring sunshine, although it had been a very rough week. MacLeod was proud of the way he was dealing with both his experience at Giovanni's hands and Felicia's impending departure, although he'd made sure Richie knew that it was okay to not cope well, too. No one was perfect. Whatever goodbye Richie and Felicia had made between them lingered in the way he wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. "Be good, you," he said gently. "Be good, you too," Felicia returned, and kissed him. The kiss drew out for a few seconds, enough for MacLeod to become acutely aware of Holland standing next to him with a bright look on her face. He cleared his throat. "See you, MacLeod," Felicia said, turning to him, her cheeks pink. "Watch out for Junior, here." "Take care, Felicia," he said. She studied him closely, as if she couldn't decide whether or not to say what she was thinking. "About the other thing . . . about making amends. . . " "I know," he said. Dominique's face flashed across his vision. "I'm going to try." The women drove off with waves and honks of the horn. "Well," Richie said philosophically, his hands in his pockets, "they're not exactly Thelma and Louise, and if they go over a cliff they'll live anyway, so I guess things will be fine." Dawson smiled but MacLeod didn't make the connection. "Is this another television show we're talking about?" "Not a television show, a movie," Richie said The three men started to stroll along the waterfront, the air fresh and clean in their faces, the day open with possibilities. "I told you, MacLeod," Dawson said, "you just don't keep up with popular culture these days." "With friends like you two," MacLeod said. "I don't need to." He was quiet for a moment. "So who are Thelma and Louise?" THE END *************************************************** Author's Notes: I was never a big fan of Felicia Martins from "Free Fall" but I thought she'd be a great person to try and redeem. Although the story started out to be just about Duncan's "choices after evil,' I soon realized everyone involved with ED had to make choices about how they would let it affect them. As for Joe, I don't truly believe he would make the mistake of drinking and driving, but he's in a lot of hidden pain about the Watchers that Duncan hasn't noticed. The twelve step meetings Felicia goes to are Incest Survivor groups. Those interested in joining Immortals Anonymous should know that the meetings are held every fifty years, in church halls, and you have to check your sword at the door. And because Felicia nearly sounded like this once or twice: (Yelling after Robin Hood) "I'm going to cut your heart out with a spoon!" "Why a spoon, cousin?" "Because it will hurt more, you twit!"