========================================================================= Date: Thu, 21 Mar 1996 21:04:59 -0800 Reply-To: CF Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: CF Subject: Side Effects 1of6 WARNING: NC-17 rating (for strong heterosexuality) Disclaimer: Only three of the characters are mine. The rest are the product of someone else's wonderful imagination and execution which are what got me hooked on Duncan MacLeod in the first place. Comments, suggestions, and/or flames (but please don't flame me for the above-stated content...you were warned) to cfc@goldrush.com Thanks to Fiona Davidson who answered my plea for those 10-15 missing seconds in "Obsession" and ended up with more than she bargained for. She gave me an idea and I ran with it. CF cfc@goldrush.com SIDE EFFECTS Part 1 While the hilt of the katana still reverberated in Duncan MacLeod's hand, the jolt of the Quickening wrapped itself around his body and gave him a mighty lurch. Caught within the throes of extreme pain and unfathomed pleasure, he didn't have the wherewithal to find the thought processes necessary to identify the person whom he'd just beheaded. Everything had happened so fast, his warrior reflexes kicking in before his brain had had a chance to assimilate what was going on. Five seconds after the attack had begun, it had ended tragically and now Duncan was captured within the grips of a Quickening he didn't want. The victim had been barely out of boyhood. In the instant he had to assay his opponent, Duncan had flashed on an image of Richie. Not the young Immortal he knew now, but that brash teenager who had broken into the antique store interrupting his and Tessa's lovemaking. But when the blade of a falchion had glinting off the streetlight and had reflected onto the young face, murder, not larceny, had been the sole intention in those cold eyes. Duncan had responded instinctively and the boy hadn't had the skill to execute a second parry. Once the Quickening was over, Duncan struggled to his feet and made his way to the body. Still chastising himself for reacting so violently, he fished through the dead man's pants pockets, brought out an old, battered leather billfold and angled the driver's license toward the feeble streetlight in order to read it. Henry Bartholomew, aged nineteen, date of birth February 17, 1977...make that *barely* nineteen. Address: 1701 Sycamore Street, Seattle, WA 98103. Must wear corrective lenses. Duncan's eyes clouded over in anger and frustration. As if laying blame would absolve him of slaughtering someone who reminded him too much of Richie. Or belay the worries he always seemed to carry around about any future confrontation they might have. He palmed the wallet and headed back toward the bar. >From inside the crowded bar, Joe had seen the flashing effects of the Quickening. Luckily, Seattle was experiencing typical nighttime weather for March, rain softly washed the city, and the lightning had been ignored by most of the customers. Only Mike and he had exchanged knowing looks. Therefore, when Duncan re-entered the bar and headed straight for him, Joe was not surprised. What did surprise him, though, was the expression on MacLeod's face. "What's the matter?" With silent disgust, Duncan flipped the wallet across the bar top toward the Watcher and waited while Joe opened then perused the contents. Once finished, the grizzly bearded face looked back solemnly. "Who's this?" he asked in a confused tone. "You tell me," Duncan implored somewhat forcefully. "I'd never seen him before." He paused as he replayed the events in his head. His reaction had been the only alternative, otherwise, it would be his head lying in a gutter not seventy-five feet away. "He bushwhacked me on my way to the car. Right on the side street where anyone could see us. I didn't have a choice ..." Joe scrutinized the Immortal's expression again and saw the pain. Immortality should have implied eternal life but those afflicted (and Joe could think of no other word to describe what befell Duncan and others of his kind) saw more death and destruction than any person should have to. No one Joe knew took the gift of life more seriously than Duncan MacLeod, and indiscriminate beheadings just weren't in his nature. He killed only with good reason, to protect himself or those for whom he felt responsible. The Watcher, all too familiar with the Highlander's code of honor, understood the kind of blame Duncan would heap upon himself over this. "Like you said, MacLeod, you had no choice." "That doesn't make it any easier." Warm brown eyes pleaded silently. "Find out who he was, please." "First thing in the morning," Joe promised. Knowing the grim task that awaited, he added softly as Duncan turned to leave, "Mike and I'll take care of everything. Go home, Duncan." A momentary shudder swept across the Highlander's back. A slight shrug of those broad shoulders was the only confirmation that the offer had been heard and accepted. As Joe watched the retreating figure, he wondered if he should call Richie. More than likely, Duncan would resist moral support. After four hundred plus years, he'd obviously learned to live with his actions but having a friend around couldn't hurt. As he reached for the phone, a commotion at the front door caught his attention. A woman rushing through the entrance had collided with Duncan. Losing her balance, she toppled a chair that had been pulled away from a table and was on her way toward impacting with the floor. Duncan's quick reflexes were the only thing that saved her. His big hands wrapped around her flailing arms and, within seconds, her feet were back under her and firmly set on the floor. Kate Bartholomew glanced into the face of her savior but didn't have time for anything other than a clipped, "Thanks." She wiggled out of his grasp and, without a backward glance, continued her dash toward the bar. "Duncan MacLeod?" she frantically tossed toward Joe. "I have to find Duncan MacLeod." There was desperation and worry in her tone. Joe nonchalantly inclined his head toward the now closed door. "You just met him." The woman wheeled around to follow but Joe stopped her with a solid warning. "I wouldn't do that right now." Kate froze. Tears well up in her eyes despite her attempt to quell them. "It's a matter of life or death. I have to talk to him." Her gaze dropped from Joe's face to the billfold laying on the bar-top. "Oh," she exclaimed and reached a tentative hand toward the supple leather. "I'm too late, aren't I?" Joe followed her glance then, without considering that he was a total stranger to this woman, he gently tucked his forefinger under her chin and brought her eyes up to meet his. Between the dim light of the bar and the tears glistening in them, he couldn't tell what color they were but he could clearly see the overwhelming sadness in them. He struggled to find the right words as he watched her full lower lip tremble. With his free hand, he tenderly brushed a lock of dark hair away from her cheek and rubbed his thumb across the stream flowing from her lowered lids. "Duncan MacLeod is a good man. The best I've ever known. No matter what happened tonight, believe me. I know what I'm talking about." Kate picked up the wallet and rubbed the worn leather between her fingers. "I'm Kate Bartholomew and my brother is dead," she whispered to herself then looked up at him acquiescently. "Only this time it's for real." Joe, feigning ignorance, dropped his hands and regarded her quizzically. "Whatever are you talking about?" "It doesn't matter anymore." She placed her purse on the counter, opened it and put the wallet inside. "I need to talk to Mr. MacLeod, now more than ever. Will you tell me where he lives or at least give me his phone number?" "I can't do that." Joe brought out a bottle of Chablis and poured the liquid into a wine glass. Placing it before her, he took her hand that was nervously clutching her purse and dragged it to the glass. "But if you wait awhile, I'll dial the phone for you, then you can talk to him." He glanced down at his watch. "Give him fifteen minutes to get home." The way Kate wrapped her fingers around the bowl of the glass, it seemed as though she was hanging on to it for dear life. After a long pause, she came to some sort of conclusion. She exhaled a shaky breath and scooted onto one of the bar stools. "Mike," Joe started, speaking nonchalantly over his shoulder to the other man behind the bar with him. "Would you please take care of that matter we were talking about earlier while we wait for MacLeod to get home?" "Sure thing," Mike answered without pause. Wiping his hands on a dishtowel, he quickly exited out the back door to deal with the decapitated body. Those fifteen minutes were some of the longest Joe had ever had to endure. Reeling over the possibilities that this early thirty- something woman knew what her brother had become, the Watcher in him kept coming up with more and more questions he wanted to ask. How long ago had it happened? What had been the circumstances of the young man's initial death? How had they learned about Duncan? But he voiced none of them and allowed her to mourn in silence. When the allotted time had past, he led the woman into the privacy of his office. Steeling himself for the difficult phone call, he settled into his chair behind his desk then dialed Duncan's telephone number. "MacLeod." "Mac, there's no easy way to begin this conversation so I'll just do it. Henry Bartholomew's sister is here and wants to talk to you. " "Who?" Joe knew Duncan wouldn't forget that name for a long time. Disbelief had prompted the question. "The woman who plowed into you on your way out is Henry's sister. She came here looking for you, probably to prevent what ended up happening." On the other end of the line Duncan stared at the brick wall and drew in an unsteady breath. Unbelievable guilt pervaded his entire being. It was hard enough accepting responsibility for such a useless death . He didn't think he was capable of dealing with grieving family members who wouldn't even begin to understand why he'd done what he'd had to do. A glimmer of hope sparkled teasingly in the distance. "Does she know?" "Everything. She saw his wallet on the bar." The spark quickly died and he held back a moan of regret. "I'll be right there." He reached for the car keys he had tossed on the coffee table. "Don't let her leave." "I won't." Joe hung up the phone despite the audible gasp coming from the woman's mouth. He met her panic-stricken eyes. "He's coming here, Ms Bartholomew." Kate's head dropped and fixed on her hands as they folded protectively over her purse. echoed in her head. Well, this meeting was what she wanted -- what she needed. A reason. A plausible reason why her brother had had to die. She would soon have answers to all her questions. The drive back to Joe's felt like a trip to eternity and back again. It should have only taken eight minutes but Duncan managed to get caught at every red light, and the railroad crossing that had never seen a train the whole time Joe's had been open was clogged for ten minutes while six locomotives and seventy-two box cars took their own sweet time in passing. By the time he arrived, Duncan was not only tied up in knots by the upcoming confrontation he knew he was about to face but by life in general. Pissed was a more apt description. Life sucks and then you lose your head or however the hell Richie had re-phrased the saying. Yet, the second he laid eyes on Kate Bartholomew all those feelings immediately disappeared and he knew he owed her more than just a brief explanation about what had happened between him and her brother. It wasn't her beauty that swayed him although she possessed more than he'd seen in a very long time. It was her hazel-green eyes and the way they peered at him through a sheen of sorrow, revealing an inner strength that the tears did not dampen. "Mr. MacLeod," she greeted softly and confidently extended her hand toward him. Accepting her offering, Duncan felt awkward when his big hand dwarfed the delicacy of hers. And despite the strength of her grip, he was acutely aware of their differences in size. When she'd slid off the bar stool to stand directly in front of him, the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. "Ms Bartholomew," he choked out. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about your brother..." "You're not to blame," she consoled. "He came here with every intention of killing you. You had no choice but to protect yourself." The Immortal glanced nervously around the bar. Not only were Joe's eyes fixed on them but several of the customers had decided they were going to be the evening's entertainment and, with the direction this conversation was heading, the fewer ears around the better. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee," he asked while sending a silent warning to Joe that this was to be a *private* conversation. "Somewhere else." "I understand your need for secrecy, Mr. MacLeod." "Call me Duncan." She stared at him intently as though weighing whether she should accept the informality. After a pause she amended, "Duncan. Where?" He would have preferred the loft where they could have total privacy but somehow that seemed wrong. There was something about her demeanor that brought out his latent conditioning in matters of propriety. "I know a restaurant that stays open twenty- four hours. We could go there." "That'd be fine." "I could drive then bring you back here to get your car later." "I don't have a car. I took a bus here." The conversation was becoming more stilted as it progressed and Duncan knew the problem rested solely with him. He couldn't seem to get over his feelings of awkwardness. After all, what did one say to the sister of a man you had just killed? So, instead of trying to find the words, he gently placed his right hand on her back and directed her out of the bar. The ride to the restaurant halfway between the loft and Joe's was even more uncomfortable than he expected as they traveled the miles caught within the grips of an uneasy silence. However, once they entered the coffee shop and sat down in a secluded booth, Kate appeared to relax and struck up a conversation. "The Highlander. That's what Henry referred to you as. Are you originally from Scotland?" As she waited for him to answer, Kate used the time to inspect her companion. Benton's description of the man could have been better. Oh, his report about personality seemed accurate enough. Even after spending such a short time together, Kate knew that. Duncan MacLeod was an honest, highly principled type of person but Benton could have warned her about his looks. Tall, long dark hair and well built didn't even come close to the vision of masculine perfection that sat across the table from her. End of part 1 ==================================================