Date: Wed, 17 Aug 1994 20:50:49 EDT Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "(Nancy Cleveland)" 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 he....did he...." She was having trouble getting out the word. "I think he's dead, yes." But the man's whole life seemed headed that way. Towards self destruction. Towards an early death. The whisper was there, haunting him. 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." "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.......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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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." The old superstition took on new meaning for Jonathan, as he debated for a moment internally, then gave in. 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. 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. 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. "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. "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?" He peered at her, concerned. Her pupils looked normal, both the same size. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. "I can see you're wearing a wedding band. I respect that. Don't you?" He choked out the words, angry, brutal, short. =========================================================================