========================================================================= Date: Sun, 17 Mar 1996 00:29:37 -0500 Reply-To: Sandra1012@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Sandra McDonald Subject: Choices After Evil 2/6 Walking across the Joe's doorstep brought back a host of memories that helped him focus away from the butterflies in his stomach. Wielding a sword against a bloodthirsty enemy was one thing, but moving past what had happened the last time he saw Dawson was another challenge entirely. The blues bar was empty. The tables, stools, and worn countertop hadn't changed. The bottles on the shelves might have, but not that he noticed. The perpetual smell of cigarettes and alcohol hung in the air, trapped in the wood, and he thought he could almost hear the echo of sad music that never stopped, only changed tunes. "Hey, mister," a teenager called from the stairs overhead. "We're closed." MacLeod said, "I'm looking for Joe Dawson." "Yeah, he's here." "Would you tell him an old friend is here to see him?" "What's your name, old friend?" Ridiculous, to have to justify himself to this snotty kid. MacLeod's gaze narrowed. "Just tell him." The kid snapped his gum and then disappeared. A few seconds later Joe limped out the door. He looked down at MacLeod with an expression that was fond and sad and relieved and maybe just a little apprehensive. "Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he said. MacLeod swallowed an odd lump in his throat. "Hello, Joseph." "You came back," Dawson said, starting carefully down the stairs. "And you're hiring minors." "Jimmy? My neighbor's kid. He needs some cash for school next year. How long you been in town?" "Three days," MacLeod answered. "So you've seen the dojo. Holland did a good job, huh?" "It's not bad." Dawson had reached the bottom of the stairs. They studied each other in the bar's dim light, immortal and mortal, warrior and Watcher. Dawson looked older than MacLeod remembered. He realized it wasn't so much forgiveness that had made him nervous about seeing Dawson, but instead just the acknowledgment of exactly how much of a debt he owed the man. Dawson could have killed him. Should have killed him, to keep others safe. But he'd taken a chance, set him free, and called in Methos. Did Dawson still see evil lurking in him? MacLeod had probed his own psyche for endless hours, searching, but the image of the spring was all that came to him. "It's good to see you," Dawson said, and moved to embrace him. "Joseph," MacLeod murmured, and held the mortal tightly to his chest for a moment. They released each other with smiles. "You drinking?" Dawson asked, moving behind the bar. "Little early," MacLeod said, easing onto a stool. "It's never too early," Dawson returned, and matter-of-factly poured himself a large Scotch. "So tell me what's going on." "No, you tell me. Things have changed." Dawson swallowed half his drink and then shrugged. "The more things change, the more they stay the same. Taxes are high, politicians are crooked, and the nightly news can't think up anything more important to cover than sensationalistic mayhem. And I lost my job, so don't come looking to me for information anymore." MacLeod stared at him. "What?" Dawson appeared unfazed. "I'm no longer your Watcher. Or anybody else's." "What happened?" "Gross violations of Watcher codes. Misconduct. Stuff like that." Dawson finished his drink and poured another. "It's okay, MacLeod. It's not like I needed the money. You should have seen the crowd we had in here Friday night. I've got more time to do the books, and it's frankly a relief to get some regular sleep without worrying who you're out playing with." MacLeod let the information settle in his brain for a moment. "This is for what happened in the dojo, isn't it?" "The Watchers don't exactly condone shooting your Immortal, that's true," Dawson said, with a wistful smile. "But it's not just the dojo. I should have seen it coming. I crossed the line a long time ago, helping you, helping Richie, helping Amanda - I should have been a social worker." "You sure you're okay with it?" MacLeod asked. The second Scotch wavered in mid-air. Dawson said, "I admit, it took some getting used to. I was mad as hell for awhile. But they were right. I went too far. They were my decisions, and I'm accountable for each and every one of them." "I'm sorry." "Not your fault." The second Scotch was now half-empty. Dawson squinted at him. "So tell me how you like Holland Greer." MacLeod gladly moved to more comfortable territory, even if it was about Holland. "She seems to know what she's doing." "But you don't agree." MacLeod allowed himself a sour grimace. "'Ballet for Beginners.' I like ballet, Joe. But not necessarily in my dojo." "Kind of ruins that masculine aura, huh?" "Ballet dancers can be masculine," MacLeod said. Maybe another topic would be more defensible. "It's not the ballet. It's . .. everything." "So you going to fire her?" "I hadn't thought about it much. I wanted to get settled back in first. See you. And see Richie." Dawson started fiddling behind the bar. "Did you see him?" "Holland doesn't know where he is. She says he comes by once in awhile, calls in, but he's getting his mail at a post office box. If she needs him, she calls you." "That's all true." "So what's the deal with the secrecy?" "It's not secrecy, it's privacy," Dawson said. "He decided to cut himself a break for awhile. Comes in here once in awhile, but he's working hard at setting up a life of his own that doesn't revolve around you or the dojo." "He's always had that," MacLeod returned, stung. "Come on, Mac. The kid worships you, was spending half his time managing the dojo, and the other half running from your enemies." MacLeod frowned. "And now?" "Now," Dawson allowed, "he's got other things to keep him busy." "Like what?" "Ask him yourself," Dawson said amiably. "He'll want to see you." "I'm not so sure of that." "I am. Tell me the when and the where, and I'll set it up." "You're not going to even give me his phone number?" MacLeod wheedled. "I will, if he tells me to." MacLeod didn't like it. He was accustomed to knowing everything that was going on, and now he felt like an outsider. Part of the price of staying in France, he knew. Dawson had hinted as much on the phone, months earlier. And Dawson hadn't followed him to France, which should have been another tip-off something was wrong. MacLeod sighed. "Let Richie decide on the when and where." Dawson nodded in approval. "So tell me everything that's been going on," he said conversationally, coming around the bar to fix atop his own stool. "Everything?" Dawson's right eyebrow went up. "I may not be your Watcher, anymore, Duncan MacLeod, but old habits die hard." *** Richie woke to find Felicia quietly caressing his face. Drowsy and content, he lay naked beside her, warmed by the sun through the windows, the linen sheets of her bed, her legs entwined with his. After a morning of rollerblading in the park they'd come back to her houseboat, and made love for first time in three years. Back then she'd been a hurricane, ravaging his youth and inexperience, inflicting pain and pleasure in dark lessons he'd never quite forgotten. This time she'd been a summer storm, capable of great force and exquisite gentleness. He took her hand in his, leaned forward, kissed her soft lips. "Are you happy?" he asked. Felicia's face broke open with a raw vulnerability. "Happier than I ever expected," she confessed, and they settled only inches apart on the pillow, two halves of the shape of a heart. "Are you?" "I'm happy," he assured her. "And I feel . . . " Felicia waited, then asked, "What?" Richie said gently, "I feel safe with you. I didn't think I'd ever feel that." Felicia didn't grow mad at the reply. She didn't instantly apologize. She didn't try and hide behind an inscrutable expression. Pride and love rose in Richie's chest at the thought of how she'd changed herself. "I feel safe with you, too," she said. Then her gaze flickered to the sword hung above the bed and she pushed herself into him, seeking to join all the crevices of their body, skin merging to skin. Richie realized she was trembling and wrapped his arms around her as she said, despairingly, "Oh, Richie, what have we done?" "What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed, holding her as tightly as he could. "There can be only one," she said in his ear. He understood. "Eventually," he said, in a wry tone of voice. "Not today. Anyway, who even knows if that's true. Someone could have made it up once, as a catchy slogan for the Immortal Justice League or something." She quivered against him. With laughter, not fear. "See?" he said, pleased. "Call me young and skeptical. I don't believe everything I read, I never order from infomercials, and I never give out my credit card number to strangers on the phone. Okay, I don't have a credit card, but if I did, I wouldn't give it out." Felicia pulled back and propped herself up on one elbow. She pushed wisps of her dark hair away from her flawless face. She still kept it cut short and easy. Physically she appeared fifteen years older than he did. Her tough brazenness had mellowed in the last three years, although her eyes often shielded her thoughts. She asked, "Are you hungry?" "Not for food," he said. "Unless you're too old and tired for twice the same day." Felicia's eyes narrowed, and with her old toughness said, "We'll see who gets tired, kid." She then proved to him that three hundred years built up a certain endurance. Later, when she was asleep against his chest, Richie stroked her back and half-slept under the canopy of silvery white stars she'd painted across her blue ceiling. She'd told him that in the New Amsterdam of her youth, on an island that would one day be known as Manhattan, she'd spent summers on the roof of her father's barn memorizing the stars. It was a time and place he'd never know. The houseboat was snug and warm, and the sound of the waves and boats and gulls outside lulled him into peacefulness. He could think of no better way to spend an afternoon. A week. A few years, maybe. Or forever. It was never going to happen - he and Felicia both knew that - but fantasizing for a moment couldn't hurt. Her phone rang. Felicia stirred against him and ordered, "You get it." Dawson was at the other end of the line. "Hey, Richie. Thought I'd find you there." "I'm learning lessons from my elders. Ouch," he complained, as Felicia pinched one of his private parts in retaliation. "Never mind, Joe. What's up?" "Mac's back in town." Richie didn't answer. He must have tensed, because Felicia's head rose and she gazed at him sleepily. "He wants to see you," Dawson continued. "How's he doing?" Richie asked, his throat dry. "Looks okay. Didn't try and kill me, if that's what you mean. We're going to have go with Adam on this, you know. If Adam says he's fine, who are we to tell?" Just the ones he'd tried to kill, Richie thought, but kept the bitterness to himself. He wanted very much to get past the bitterness, and helping him had been only one of Felicia's gifts. "What else did he say?" "He wants to see you. Wants to see you badly. He said it's up to you. Pick the time and place." "Let me think about it. I'll call you back." "Okay," Dawson said, and Richie was immensely glad the ex- Watcher didn't try and push him into a decision. He hung up the phone. "What's wrong?" Felicia asked. Richie shook his head. He padded into the bathroom. When he came out in his jeans, pulling on his shirt, Felicia was sitting up in the bed with alarm on her face and the sheet wrapped rather demurely around her body. "Are you running from me?" she asked. Richie was instantly contrite. "Not from you," he said, and sat down on the bed to hold and kiss her. "MacLeod's back in town. He wants to meet. I've got to think." He pulled on his sneakers. Felicia moved behind him and began massaging his back with expert fingers that melted away newly tense muscles. Richie groaned. "Feels good, huh?" she asked wickedly. "Too good," he said. "Don't run, Richie. It doesn't help. It never helped me." Richie sighed and turned to her. "I expected him to come back someday. But this is too soon." Felicia sat back. "How long would have been long enough?" "I don't know. I don't know what to say to him." "Tell him the truth," Felicia answered. "It's what you've always had together." He didn't want to run from her, the houseboat, or MacLeod. So instead he lay back with her on the bed, beneath the silvery white stars, and they listened to the lap of water on wood, the cries of seagulls, each Immortal lost in oceans of private thoughts. *** Holland and a man were arguing in the office. It was nearly nine p.m., and the last aerobic class of the day had ended a short time earlier. MacLeod had come downstairs to use the dojo for a long overdue workout, and either they didn't hear the elevator - an unlikely possibility - or they were too caught up in the heat of their argument to give it any attention. "Why does this have to be about you?" Holland demanded. "Your job takes you away every week. My job is just as important to me." "Your job was supposed to just earn some extra money," the man retorted. "Not become an obsession. The kids need you at home." That surprised MacLeod, because he'd seen no pictures of children on Holland's desk. And as a pre-Immortal, she couldn't have children. She would be sterile. "The kids don't even listen to me, because you don't either, Jay. You always side with Gwen. Anything Gwen does is okay. Anything Gwen decides is okay. Why did you divorce her, if you were going to stay attached at the hip to her?" A slap rang through the still air. MacLeod stepped out of the shadows. "Everything all right?" he asked calmly. Holland shot him an angry glance. Her hand was pressed against her right cheek. Her husband was a tall man, mid-thirties, brown hair, expensive suit. He looked like he would know everything in the world about balancing a business ledger but not the slightest thing about cutting off a head. "I didn't hear you," Holland said frostily. "We're having a private discussion." "You must be Mr. MacLeod," Jay Greer said, turning and offering his hand. MacLeod ignored the hand. "I'm Duncan MacLeod. You two sounded like you were having a problem." Jay Greer withdrew his hand and then straightened an inch taller in silent indignation. "Holland and I were just leaving." "You were just leaving," Holland corrected. "I have work to do." Their gazes locked stonily. Holland didn't flinch away. Jay picked up his briefcase from the floor. "I'll see you at home," he said. His parting shot out the door was, "You can have the couch." Holland turned away. MacLeod watched him cross the room and leave. Then he turned, somewhat awkwardly, to Holland. "Don't say anything," she warned without looking at him. Her shoulders were hunched, and her voice shook with draining anger. It's none of your business." "It's my business if you're in trouble," he said. "Why?" "Because I don't want to see any of my employees get hurt." "You have two employees, MacLeod," she shot back, and turned to straighten the desk. Her hair was down, hiding most of her face. "Me and Billy. Relax the paternal attitude." Billy was Holland's assistant, who took care of the early opening hours for the dojo as well as some of the bookkeeping and general clean-up. MacLeod had met him twice, and was impressed with the old man's good attitude and reliability. "I don't feel paternal," he said, moving to the desk. He risked a joke and a lie. "Billy's old enough to be my father, and I don't like you enough to feel paternal about you." Her mouth turned up in a smile as she stacked a group of invoices. "Is that so?" she asked. "How come you don't like me?" "You clean the place up, revitalize the whole program, introduce new classes, triple membership, and turn a profit," he said gruffly. "Why should I like you?" Holland smiled full-blown now, and gave him a look of appreciation. "I was wondering if you'd noticed. A week ago, you were bouncing me out of your loft." "And I'll bounce you out again." Gazing at her, MacLeod had sudden images of other things he'd like to do with her, to her, her heart-shaped faces soft between his hands, her sleek body next to his. Firmly he dismissed the ideas. She was his employee, she was married, and she had problems. Holland moved away, as if somehow sensing his thoughts. She sat down in the swivel chair behind the manager's desk and twisted a pencil between her fingers. "I'm sorry about Jay and about bringing my personal life here. It won't happen again." MacLeod sat on the edge of the desk. "He doesn't like you working." "He doesn't like women voting," she retorted. Then she sighed. "That's not true. Jay is a very remarkable man. He's been under a great deal of pressure lately. We've been married just over a year. I guess the honeymoon is over, as they say. You ever been married?" "No," he said. "I recommend it, if you find the right person." He'd found the right person. Several times. MacLeod pushed those thoughts out of his head also. "You going to be okay?" he asked. "Don't worry about me." "I will worry about you. Especially since I don't think you got that black eye in boxing class." Holland touched the faded bruise around her eye. "It's my business, Mr. MacLeod." No use in arguing further about it. MacLeod stood and said, "I was going to work out. Are you staying late?" "I wanted to get these invoices done," she said. "It won't be long. You won't disturb me." MacLeod marveled at her cheekiness. "Actually," he said, "I was more worried about you disturbing me, Mrs. Greer." She shot him a smile that could have lit up a pinball machine. "Then I'll try not to disturb you, Mr. MacLeod." Flustered - and it was rare that any woman flustered him, aside from the eternally saucy Amanda - MacLeod retreated to the floor to begin a long series of stretches, warm-ups and kata. He had no desire to let Holland see him practicing with a sword, not yet. She'd have her turn someday at it. He was peripherally aware of her watching from the desk, and then of her leaving by tiptoeing around the edge of the floor. Long after she was gone, when his muscles started to ache in earnest and his breath was coming like red fire from the pit of his stomach, he stopped his kata and used a towel to sop up the sweat on his face and shoulders. He rotated slowly in the dojo, keenly aware of being alone now, and sensing in the shadows the afterimages of those who'd passed through its doors. Richie, Charlie, Amanda. Dawson. Kenny, Anne, Mako. Midori Koto. Michelle. Cullen. Immortals, mortals, the living, the dead. He sensed another Immortal nearby and pivoted in the half- darkness. His katana was upstairs, but two other swords hung on the wall. He edged one out of its sheath and moved to the hallway. The Immortal, whoever he or she was, was nowhere in sight. MacLeod followed his senses downstairs. At the door he heard a motorbike going away in the street. "Richie," he said, but there was no one to answer him. end of part two