Date:         Tue, 13 Jun 1995 22:32:56 -0400
Reply-To:     mikester@BIX.COM
Sender:       Highlander TV show stories <HLFIC-L@PSUVM.PSU.EDU>
From:         Mike Breen <mikester@BIX.COM>
Subject:      HOMECOMING - Part 1

     Note: This story takes place concurrently with "Finale" though I've
taken the liberty to expand the timeframe of the TV episode over several
weeks instead of (what seemed like) a few days.  It contains MAJOR spoilers
for both "Finale" and "HL:TFD" or "HL:Sorcerer" (depending on which
continent you're on 8).  I also took one tiny liberty with the Watcher
database, by adding Immortals living in North America to it, and a BIG
liberty with one aspect of Connor MacLeod's Watcher info (but you'll just
have to read on to see what it is, 'cause _I'm_ not gonna tell you).

BOSTON, MASS, UNITED STATES, JUNE, 1995

     "Paris is lovely in the springtime," they say.  And while that was
certainly true, Patrick O'Brien thought, the all-present "they" could just
as easily say, "Boston is lovely in the springtime."  For it _was_.  The
Common and Public Garden were finally in full bloom after the late arrival
of spring, the buildings shined brightly with the brilliant reflection of
the springtime sun, and the Red Sox were back in Fenway Park.  All was
right in the world. Everyone took on an air of friendliness that, while it
was out of character with the "typical" Bostonian personality, was
completely honest.  Bostonians, after the long winter, became friendly.
     For about two weeks.
     Then, once the tourists descended upon the city, the good citizens of
the Hub of the Universe would once again take on their "aloof rudeness."
After having studied the evolution of the Bostonian personality for over
two hundred years, Patrick was convinced that it was all, right down to the
J-walking, an act for the tourists.  Of course, he himself was currently
J-walking across State Street towards his accountant's office, and the
tourist season had not even really started.

     "Come in, Patrick," said his accountant, Thomas McCarthy.  "Sit down."
     Patrick sat in the desk opposite McCarthy and straightened his tie.
     "Can I get you anything?" McCarthy said.  "Water?  Coffee?"
     "Coffee will be fine," Patrick said.
     McCarthy pressed a button on his intercom and said, "Stacey, when you
bring those financial statements in, bring two coffees.  One my usual and
the other..."
     "Dark, half a sugar," Patrick said.
     "Dark, half a sugar."
     "Right away, Mr. McCarthy," came his secretary's voice.
     "So," McCarthy said, "what have you been up to, Pat?"  He was a big
man with a full head of iron-grey hair.  Though his build showed a
paunchiness associated with late middle age, it was obvious that he had
been quite an athlete in his day.
     "Been taking some time off from teaching.  My ward..."
     "Yes, I heard about that.  I never knew you had a ward.  You should
have _told_ me you had a ward.  You could have taken her as a dependent."
     "Tom, Nancy's been on her own since _I_ got custody of her at age 15,"
Patrick lied.  "She only came here because she's going to BC next fall."
That, at least, was partly the truth.  Through what he called his "expert
hacking," Patrick was able to alter Nancy's SAT records and transcripts.
Now, she would be starting as a second semester Sophomore at Boston
College, transferring from Penn State, since she couldn't very well finish
her last year of Harvard because her roommate had seen her die.  She had
been accepted to BC and most of her "grades" transferred over.  Although
she would have to repeat a year, Nancy _really_ didn't mind.  Much.
     "We _can_ file amended returns..."
     "Tom, I know you mean well, but the savings is going to be so pitiful
compared to what I pay the damn IRS every year that..."
     At that moment, McCarthy's secretary entered the room with three files
and two coffees.  She handed the files and once coffee to McCarthy, and the
other coffee to Patrick.  As she exited, Patrick finished, "Besides, my
uncle Sean left me _very_ well off, Tom, you know that."
     "I know.  And I liked your uncle, even though we did business over the
phone for the last ten years of his life.  Anyway, Patrick, the reason I
called you here today is because of your uncle's legacy.  The O'Brien
Corporation seems to be suffering from mis-management."
     "What?"
     McCarthy nodded and said, "The people we hired don't seem to be doing
their jobs.  Patrick, I know you said _I_ was in charge of the O'Brien
Corporation when you inherited it, but I just don't have the time.  Your
uncle... I would hate to see him disappointed that his legacy was dieing."
     "Dieing?  What do you mean dieing?"
     McCarthy tossed one of the files over to Patrick.  "Don't pretend you
can't read these, because I know you can.  Look at the comparative profit
and loss statement.  Now you're not broke, by any means, and you still have
plenty of money to live on until a ripe old age, but the Corporation is
barely making a profit most years, and the rest are all showing losses.
Part of this is due to the economy, and part of it is due to poor
management.  To put it bluntly, the Patrick O'Brien Corporation has been a
headless beast since your uncle's death in 1975."
     Patrick thought on this.  Of course, Thomas McCarthy had no idea that
he was speaking to "Sean O'Brien" himself.  He just assumed that his nephew
bared a striking resemblance to him.  Patrick had set up the Corporation in
the early 1960's when his monetary holdings had become so vast (and were
spread out over three continents) because of eight centuries of (mostly)
wise investments (along with some monies acquired by more creative means
back in the "good old days" of the 1400's, as Rebecca once put it), that
they had become nearly impossible to manage.  At that point, he had become
"Sean O'Brien," and had set up the Corporation in memory of his "father"
Patrick, who had been "killed" at Normandy in World War Two.  The
Corporation sponsored several arts commissions, gave out scholarships, and
gave generously to Boston's public television station, making several
programs possible. But most importantly, it invested, and invested, and
invested.  The Corporation had made more money just _being_ than Patrick
had made in the last two centuries.
     Patrick enjoyed the life of a philanthropist who was also a shrewd
businessman.  He became partners in several high-profile ventures.  He
invested in several small businesses that would have otherwise not have had
the capital to become successful.
     Eventually, though, he became tired with that life.  He had to isolate
himself from most of his employees, least they notice that their boss never
aged.  He staged his death in Europe in 1975.  He had taken an "extended
vacation" (in actuality, he had grown tired of Boston and was attempting to
visit mainland China, but could not get a visa), and had crashed his car on
the Autobahn.  His "nephew," Patrick, an Irish citizen, had been contacted
(apparently attending college in London), as he was the only one mentioned
in the will, and inherited everything.  Once the new management of the
Corporation had been set up, Patrick decided to remain in Boston, moved
back into the Townhouse, was accepted at Harvard, and began his present
life in earnest.
     He looked at his accountant, who he had known for nearly 40 years and
said, "What do you expect me to do about it?"
     "Take it on.  I _know_ there's a shrewd business sense in there."
     "One who neglects to tell his accountant about his ward, though."
     McCarthy laughed at that and said, "Yeah.  Right.  Still, though,
you've got a head for it."
     "I'm a _professor_, Tom.  _Not_ a businessman."
     "Come on, Patrick.  Give it a shot.  For your uncle.  _He'd_ never
turn down a challenge like this."
     Patrick sighed and said, "I can't."
     "Why?"
     "I have... it's just not a good time."
     Now it was McCarthy's turn to sigh.  He said, "Part-time."
     "No.  If we have to shut it down, Tom, we will.  I'll put the money
somewhere else."
     "You know we can't do that.  It's too big, Patrick.  besides,
dismantling it would kill _so_ many _good_ causes.  Scholarships, cancer
research, scientific advancement..."
     "Ok, OK!  I'll _think_ about it.  That's as far as I can go."
     "That's all I ask."

     "Afternoon, Bernard," Patrick said.
     "Patrick!" Bernard said, looking like he'd just seen a dead man.
"Where's Rebecca and Nancy?"
     "Shopping, I think," Patrick said.  "Something wrong?"
     Though Patrick couldn't see behind the street musician's sunglasses,
Bernard closed his eyes.  He opened them again and said, "You've gotta get
out of here.  Out of Boston, out of the country."
     "Why?"
     Bernard was frantically packing his saxophone in his case.  He said,
"You have a computer, right?"
     "Yeah..."
     "Good.  Let's go.  We don't have much time."

     Bernard placed the CD-ROM in Patrick's drive.  "I showed Rebecca our
mainframe when we tried to get information about Nabbis for you last month.
 But this... this arrived this morning in the FedEx pouch.  I didn't know
we even had it."
     "Bernard, what is it?"
     On the screen the Watcher symbol flashed, along with the caption
"WATCHER DATABASE - EUROPE/NORTH AMERICA, 1995."  "It's much more elaborate
than the mainframe _ever_ was," he said as he punched in a few keystrokes.
The screen then displayed a graphic photo of Connor MacLeod, along with the
information:

     NAME
     Connor MacLeod, aka Russell Nash
     DATE
     January 24, 1995
     LOCATION
     New York, New York
     OCCUPATION
     Antiques Dealer
     WATCHER
     Brian Donaldson

     "Yeah," Patrick said.  "I figured you guys had computers.  What of it?"
     But Bernard shook his head and said, "You don't understand.  Not yet.
Don't say _anything_ until I show you everything."  He punched a few more
keystrokes and a graphic photo of Patrick, dressed in his trenchcoat and
sweatshirt appeared:

     NAME
     Patrick O'Brien
     DATE
     March 18, 1995
     LOCATION
     Boston, Massachusetts
     OCCUPATION
     History Professor, Harvard University (on sabbatical)
     WATCHER
     Bernard Willis

     Well, Patrick thought, I finally know his last name.  Bernard's
fingers moved across the keyboard some more, and the picture changed.  This
time the computer showed a picture of Rebecca:

     NAME
     Rebecca DeJeniere
     DATE
     March 18, 1995
     LOCATION
     Boston, Massachusetts
     OCCUPATION
     Artist
     WATCHER
     Timothy Fisher

     Then a picture of Nancy:

     NAME
     Nancy Peters
     DATE
     March 18, 1995
     LOCATION
     Boston, Massachusetts
     OCCUPATION
     College Student
     WATCHER
     Bernard Willis (temporary assignment)

     "Yesterday," Bernard said, "A copy of this disk was stolen.  By the
widow of a Watcher in Paris.  She is going to take it to the Paris
Tribune."
     "Why?!" Patrick said, now realizing the full implications of what he
had just seen.
     Bernard told him, then.  Told him the whole sad story of Duncan
MacLeod and Kalas.  How MacLeod had driven Kalas away from his monastery,
then centuries later, how he had cut his throat, forever damaging his vocal
chords and ending his operatic career.  How Kalas returned for revenge by
killing or attempting to destroy everyone close to MacLeod.  How Kalas had
stumbled across the Watchers while attempting to find the oldest, most
powerful Immortal, Methos.  How he had killed this widow's husband.  How
she now vowed revenge on what she perceived as evil, _both_ Immortals and
Watchers, by taking the disk that he had just seen to the papers.
     "It's the end," Patrick said.  "The end of everything."
     Bernard merely nodded.
     Then Patrick grew angry.  "How the _hell_ did this happen, Bernard?!
You people have been keeping our secret for _hundreds_ of years!"
     "Thousands, actually."
     "How?"
     "A fellow Watcher named Adam Peirson thought it was time _all_ our
data was combined into one easy to access database."
     "Yeah, it's ghods damn easy to access, allright!"
     "Patrick... I'm in as much deep shit as you.  My name and biography
are all _over_ that disk.  I'm a dead man too.  We'll all have to leave."
     Patrick nodded and said, "There's one place where they'll never find
Rebecca, Nancy, or I.  Do you have someplace to go?"
     Bernard nodded and said, "New Orleans.  You?"
     "Bernard, believe me.  I'd tell you if it weren't so dangerous.  But..."
     "I understand."
     "Call here and leave a message if _anything_ changes," Patrick said.
"I'll be calling in for messages."

     "Leave?!" Nancy said at the dinner table that night.  "Why?"
     "Because the CIA, FBI, the army... we'll be hunted down," Patrick
said.  "We've survived witch hunts before, but not with this level of
technology, _or_ this much information about us out in the open."
     "Should the three of us separate?" Rebecca said.  "Harder to get us all."
     "No," Patrick said.  "No.  If they find one of us, they'll eventually
find us all.  I'd rather we stuck together.  Strength in numbers."
     "If you're talking about strength in numbers," Nancy said, "maybe you
should call some of your Immortal friends."
     Patrick nodded and said, "Good idea.  When we get there, I'll try to
locate Connor, first off."
     "What about this Duncan MacLeod?" Nancy said.
     "I don't know him that well.  I've only met him once or twice.  Seems
like a good man, but I'm sure he's got his hands full just now.  Anyway,
get packed.  We leave tonight.  I managed to get three tickets, and fake
passports.  I'm Jonathan Cochrine, Rebecca is my wife Shiela, and you're my
sister Elizabeth.  They'll get us out of the country."
     "Where are we going?" Nancy said.
     "Someplace where they'll never even _think_ to look for us."

IRELAND, COUNTY CORK, JUNE 1995

     The sun blazed across the rolling hills of the Irish countryside.
Patrick, Rebecca, and Nancy drove the rental car on the twisting roads
until they came to a small cottage on a cliff.  Patrick parked the car and
got out.
     "Perfect," he said.  Then he turned to Nancy and Rebecca and said, "I
haven't been here for over a century.  This is where the village I was born
once stood. It's good to be home."
     "How'd you get this place?" Rebecca said.
     "Through a realtor here.  I did everything over the phone yesterday
afternoon.  I now own this place."
     "But," Nancy said, "if you did it over the phone... can't they trace
the calls from our phone bills?"
     "Not from where I did all my business from.  I... er... took a lesson
from Rebecca."
     "He broke into someone's office someplace and used their phone,"
Rebecca said.
     Nancy laughed.  But Patrick just walked towards one of the cliffs, as
if hypnotized.  "Patrick?" Nancy said.
     "Leave him alone for now," Rebecca said.
     Patrick stood on the cliff, looking out towards the sea.  He lifted
his arms above his head and shouted, "Gwenna!  Aoife!  Ramirez!  I'm
home!!"

     "It's not the townhouse," Patrick said as they unpacked, "but it'll
do.  There's three bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and den.  There _is_
electricity and running water, along with gas and heat."
     "No, it's fine," Rebecca said.
     At that moment, all three Immortals felt the presence of another
Immortal outside.  They looked up.
     "Expecting someone?" Rebecca said.
     "No," Patrick said as he grabbed his katana from the shelf he had
placed it.  He walked over to the door and opened it.  There was no one at
the door, but he still felt the Immortal nearby.  He walked around the
corner of the house and saw a glint of steel.  He raised his sword just in
time to block the blow.  He swept his opponent's blade aside and took the
offensive, forcing the other Immortal out of the shadow of the house.  He
saw his face then, short brown hair, hazel eyes, pointed nose...
     "MacLeod!" Patrick said.  "What the hell are you doing?  And what the
hell are you doing _here_?"
     "Keeping you on your toes, first of all," Connor MacLeod said, "and
hoping you'd hide us second of all.  I suppose you've heard the phrase
'strength in numbers?'  We were in the Highlands when I heard the
information about what's happening in Paris."
     The two Immortals embraced and Patrick said, "Of course.  What do you
mean 'we?'"
     As they walked back to the house, Connor signaled towards the car that
was parked beside Patrick's rental car.  A tall blond woman and a boy of
about ten exited.  "Patrick," Connor said, "I'd like you to meet two people
who have changed my life."  He indicated the woman and said, "this is Alex.
 Alex, this is Patrick O'Brien who I've known for..."
     "Seems like centuries," Patrick said, not knowing how much Alex knew.
     "Who are you kidding, it's _been_ centuries."
     "Pleased to meet you," Alex said.  "I've wanted to meet another of
your kind besides Kane."
     Patrick smiled and kissed Alex's hand.  "The pleasure is mine.  You
may have more than you bargain for by coming here."
     "And this," Connor said, indicating the boy, "is my son John."
     Patrick raised an eyebrow but bent down to take the boy's hand.
"Pleased to meet you, John MacLeod."

     Patrick helped Connor with their bags while Nancy and Rebecca waited
inside for the "fight" to end.  Patrick said, "Does John know?"
     "That he's adopted or that I'm Immortal?"
     "Both."
     "Yes.  He knew he was adopted before he could spell it.  He knew I was
Immortal before he could _say_ it.  'Eye-bort-ell' he used to say.  The
Game's a fact of life for him.  Just as it was a fact of Rachel's life."
     They were near the house now, and Patrick was about to usher Connor's
'family' inside when Connor felt the tug from both Nancy and Rebecca.
     "You have _two_ of us?  Last I saw you, you had just taken in Nancy.
No... don't tell me..."
     "Yup."
     Connor smiled as Patrick opened the door.  "Rebecca!" Connor said and
ran over to her.  Rebecca smiled and held her arms out.  He picked her up
and spun her around.  "It's been... ghod it's been..."
     "Too long, Connie."
     He put her down and said, "You _know_ how much I _hate_ that."
     "That's why I do it."
     Introductions were given all around.  Rebecca remarked on how crowded
it would be, but if Connor, Alex, and John could squeeze into one room,
that'd be fine.
     Connor turned towards Nancy and was about to ask how she was doing
when he looked at her in astonishment.  He turned to Patrick and said,
"What are you doing, Irelander?"
     "Outside," Patrick said.

     The two Immortals stood at the foot of the cliff, so similar to the
one in the Scottish Highlands that Patrick once wanted to hurl himself into
oblivion from over seven hundred and eighty years ago.  Patrick waited for
Connor to go first, even though it seemed his friend was determined to do
the same.  Connor finally broke the silence and said, "Have you no regard
for the Rules?"
     "Of course I do," Patrick said, "but you don't know the whole story."
     "I don't _have_ to know the whole story.  She took a head!  When did
this happen?"
     The wind whipped up and Patrick buttoned his jacket.  Connor, however
seemed immune to the cold and kept his coat open.  Patrick said, "About a
month ago.  Maybe a bit more."
     "And she's _still_ with you?  What are you, crazy?"
     "Maybe.  Connor, do you remember my old Student, Sam Leonard?"
     "Yeah.  Troubled kid.  Started life as a street urchin."
     "_He_ took his first head far before he was ready, but Rebecca and I
sent him away anyway.  We both knew we shouldn't, we _knew_ he wasn't
ready, but the Rules are the Rules."
     "The rules are there for a _reason_, Patrick?"
     "Are they?  Sam came to Boston earlier this year.  He was killing
Watchers.  He was capturing them and presenting them to his Immortal
friends to kill.  When they wouldn't kill their Watcher, Sam would take
their head and kill the Watcher himself.  He tried that on me.  I had no
choice.  I took his head."  A single tear fell off of Patrick's cheek.
     "Nancy is _not_ ready to be on her own, Connor," Patrick continued.
Not even close.  It wasn't even a real _fight_.  The Immortal she faced
taunted both of us until he nearly killed me, short of taking my head, and
then told Nancy she didn't have the guts to kill him.  He even placed her
sword on his stomach for her.  She stabbed him, and then took his head.  It
was him or us.  I have no doubt that he would have taken _both_ our heads
if Nancy hadn't moved first.  She's _not_ ready, Connor, and I _won't_ have
another Sam on my conscious.  She has to learn to live before she _can_
live.  I think you know that."
     "When did you find her, again?"
     "January."
     Connor sighed and said, "I'd better _not_ regret doing this, Patrick.
I'll ignore the fact that she's taken a head.  But you owe me one."
     At that Patrick laughed and said, "We've been one-upping eachother in
the 'favors owed' department ever since I _didn't_ take your head for
thinking you had killed Ramirez."
     Connor laughed again, then turned thoughtful.  He said, "Why don't you
marry her, Patrick?"
     Patrick shrugged, immediately picking up the change of subject and
said, "I don't know.  We've been together..."
     "More or less eight centuries, just not all at once, is the phrase I
think you use.  Why _don't_ you marry her?"
     "Ramirez.  He told me not to.  He said that pledging your life to
someone for eternity is one thing if you're mortal.  Quite a different
thing when you're literally talking about eternity.  Then there's the
Gathering..."
     "Bull.  Didn't you two pledge to eachother to _never_ take the other's
head?"
     Patrick nodded and said, "Back in 1500 or so."
     "_If_ you are the last two, then what better way to end Immortal
history but with the two of you together forever?  What better Prize is
there than that?"
     "But if we're not..."
     "Then you're not.  You've buried how many wives?"
     "Four."
     "And I've buried _my_ share of wives too.  Death of a spouse is,
unfortunately, nothing new to _either_ of you.  To _any_ of us.  I wished
so _many_ times that Heather or Brenda or Alex were Immortal.  Then I
wouldn't loose them.  I wish there _were_ an Immortal I loved that much.
You _do_ love her, don't you?"
     "Of course.  I have since I first laid eyes on her."
     "You've _posed_ as eachother's spouses enough.  What's stopping you
from making it official?"
     "Eternal life is, Connor.  We've gotten tired of eachother before."
     "And what do you do?"
     "Separate for a few decades or so."
     "Patrick, there's plenty of mortal marriages that do the same thing.
Many of them are saved because of that.  Personally, I think you're just
being afraid.  And stubborn."
     Patrick laughed and said, "_Afraid_?"
     Connor said, "Absolutely.  You're afraid _not_ of your death or her's,
or the Gathering, or any of that.  You're afraid of commitment.  Of taking
that _last_ step.  Sure, you say Ramirez told you not to marry her, but
when have _either_ of us followed his advice regarding love?  He was
bittered by the death of Shikiko."
     "Probably Aoife's death too," Patrick said.  "He _said_ he didn't love
her..."
     "He did," Connor said.  "Make no mistake about that.  If he could have
gotten her off of Holy Ground, they'd have traveled together.  He was
bittered by her death, and perhaps that's part of why he told you what he
did."
     Patrick was silent, contemplating all the Connor had just said.  He
_had_ been thinking much the same thing ever since Rebecca arrived in
Boston back in late January.  Connor had just vocalized his thoughts for
him.
     And he was absolutely right.

     Patrick stared at Rebecca long and hard after the night's lovemaking.
So many things were changing.  Immortals could become exposed, witch hunts
would begin... and here he was contemplating the future when there may not
_be_ any.
     Why not?
     What was stopping him?
     "What are you _staring_ at, O'Brien?" Rebecca said.  "Do I have a
piece of food in my teeth?"
     "Why don't we get married?" Patrick said.
     Rebecca laughed and said, "You _can't_ be serious!"  Then she looked
at him again and said, "You _are_ serious."
     Patrick propped himself up on one elbow and said, "What's _really_
stopping us, Rebecca?  How many times have we constructed lives _together_,
and how many times have we _posed_ as husband and wife?"
     "I don't know... what if we get tired of eachother again?"
     "Then we do what we always do.  Rebecca, don't you think it's _way_
past time we made it official?"
     "Are you _actually_ suggesting marriage _seriously_?  Or because our
world's about to end?"
     "I've been thinking about this a _long_ time.  Most recently since
January when you came back to Boston.  This... crisis, and being back home,
plus some things that Connor said have all pushed me towards this.  But I'd
have asked you eventually."
     Now it was Rebecca's turn to stare at him.  The man she had loved
since she first saw him, a scruffy, smelly, long-haired, kilted Irelander.
The man she had spent probably over half of her eight centuries with.  The
man she _continued_ to come back to.  And she found herself saying, "Yes."
     Patrick smiled and looked for all the world like the proverbial cat
that ate the canary.  Then he said, "When?"
     "As soon as possible.  Tomorrow.  If our world's going to end, I want
to be your wife before it does."

<<<to be continued>>>

(c) 1995 Mabnesswords

As usual, e-mail mikester@bix.com or mikeb@usa1.com with comments!
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