Disclaimer:
The character of Duncan MacLeod belongs to DPP. This fan fiction is for entertainment only; there is no profit involved.
It was a horrible day. lahoffy recited the litany from her childhood as she climbed the stairs, groping for her keys in her purse as she said it: �It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.�
Clink, she dropped the keys and had to retrieve them. �Just one more event to add to the mix,� she muttered through clenched teeth. �Work was a pain, my co-workers are cranky and bickering with everyone else over nothing, my photo albums crashed this week and gave me ulcers until they miraculously came back � and I checked the board and MacNair accused me of not being Angelic! I thought she was on MY side!�
Fumble-fumble at the door and lahoffy propped her foot against the frame, swinging her purse around one shoulder and getting ready to block the entrance. This was the standard �door-opening procedure� when she had a few ambitious cats who would try to escape out the door the instant it was open three inches!
No cats.
None.
Nada, zilch, zip.
No cats? WHERE�S my cats!?� her mental demons spoke in alarm.
She peered into the room. No balls of fluff. No yowls of alarm from behind any doors that had inadvertently closed, no piles of fur in her favorite chair. They weren�t even plopped on top of her WebTV keyboard.
She was partway into the room, alarm-bells ringing stridently in her head, panic for her pets descending quickly--when she noticed something amiss.
No, not missing.
Amiss.
No, not a �miss�, either.
Long dark hair that curled slightly around his bare shoulders, a soft cotton tank top and loose white pants. Duncan was sitting curled up, arms around one knee, on the width of the ledge near the window. The frond of one plant rested atop his head and he was so still, that it never even wavered. He was barefoot and the look in his eyes was warm � calm � tranquil.
Definitely not a �miss.� I think my heart skipped a beat.
�I heard you had a bad day, lahoffy, I came to make it better.� The honey voice was shot through with layers of baritone and they simply faded away while she listened to their echo.
�Cats.�
�Cats?�
�Did you let my cats escape?�
He blinked, still unmoving, looking ever so much like a great feline in her window himself. �No, they�re in the kitchen eating a can of tuna.�
�Oh.�
�Are you going to shut the door?�
�Mmmm-mmmm,� lahoffy purred. Maybe today wasn�t so bad after all. And perhaps MacNair had been right all along.
Perhaps.
MacNairCDC
July 18, 2001