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Highlander:
La Femme Nikita
Pretender
He watched as she swam in the lake. So precious, he thought. Her robes had been discarded before she dived into the water and for a second he thought of hiding them. Childish nonsense, he chided himself. She was beautiful under the moonlight, he still couldn't understand how she could not have a line of suitors at her feet. Maybe that stupid Potter and his faithful sidekick kept them away. He wouldn't fall under such a weak threat. Her skin shone as she stood at the edge of the water. He gasped. It was the birth of Aphrodite all over again. Only this girl didn't need a god to build her, nor splendid shells to make an stunning apparition. Nature alone had made everything about her perfect. She finally caught him staring at her. "Malfoy! What do you think you're doing?" He smirked, she could be the owner of his attention but he still wouldn't let her know it. "Come on, Weasley, there's nothing I haven't seen before." His eyes raked insolently along her figure, unconsciously he licked his lips but in her fury Ginny didn't notice it. "Get out!" she shrieked. Draco didn't say a word, just turned around and began walking towards the castle, not even once giving into the temptation of looking back. The time for us is near, he thought. The next morning he decided that it would have been a good idea to snatch her clothes after all. It would have been fun to see her trek to the castle only in her undergarments.
Twelve years ago he tasted revenge and was disappointed when it wasn't as sweet as he had always hoped. How could it be sweet when it had been mixed with the euphoria of being free, when hope had inundated his every cell clouding his tongue from the taste he so deserved. Twelve years ago his chains had been broken, his former Master disappearing in the night. If the only scar left marked him as an outcast, he had never cared. His relief that nobody could order him, nobody could make him hurt with a single thought had overwhelmed it all. But then Potter came back. A minuscule version of his tormentor, all clothes and bone and bravery and those big green eyes that made him remember lost chances at a better life. Potter came back and his arm burned randomly night in and night out. For twelve years the taste of revenge had stayed unfinished in his memory but tonight... ...Snape looked into Black's mad eyes... Tonight it'd be sweet at last.
And those who follow the path of the righteous/Shall have their reward He remembers Duncan McLeod. It's difficult, several generations have passed since that man was part of his life. But some nights, when the river is calm and the sky is clear, he likes to lay on the deck and remember. Duncan McLeod was a man of honour, that's a given. He also believed in God and followed His precepts, was kind to the poor and the fallen. And one day he died. McLeod surely expected to be welcomed in Heaven, but what he got was an eternity in the mortal world. Mortals often think it is a blessing. It is not. Not only does he have to lose friendships and loves to the jaws of Death. Not only does he have to beware of his own kind for the rest of his life. No, he also has to escape from one city to the next. Ten years, maybe fifteen if he's careful, is the time he can stay in one place. And each trip has taught him something, many have changed his life forever. So much that sometimes, in clear nights such as this, Duncan knows that in the end only on thing will remain from that man of the Scottish Highlands. His name.
He was right, of course. Her dark eyes were blazing in righteous fury from the moment she stepped through the door. Bravely, Broots told himself that he'd had worse and that he wouldn't be intimidated this time. As the hurricane neared his position he reminded himself of his purpose. He'd remain firm. He would. "DAD!" Broots looked at his adolescent daughter. Oh yes, Debbie was angry. "How could you?" His face automatically shifted into the 'Daddy Knows Better' mode. "David Steelman wasn't good for you." Broots thought his opinion had been clearly stated as he threatened the boy out of his baby girl's life. Of course, the fact that he'd done so at the P&T meeting, right in front of other teachers, parents and students had upset Debbie. "Don't you trust me to make my own decisions?" Broots sighed. Sydney had actually warned him of this stage, but even with the older man's advise he was still at a loss. "Of course I do, dear, but I don't have to trust *him*, do I?" he said reasonably. Obviously it wasn't as reasonable for Debbie because the next thing he heard was her bedroom door being slammed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The joys of parenthood... Maybe he should get one of those books Sydney kept rambling about. And bring Miss Parker while he got one of those, she was the only one who could make Debbie see reason nowadays. As the volume got louder, Broots took a decision. He'd definitely beg Miss Parker to come for dinner tonight.
Finally she stops, talks to her men and Jarod watches in fascination as they seem stuck into place. Deadly Medusa, he thinks, men will turn into stone before you. Of course, Medusa had been a woman once, so beautiful that Hera had sent her into exile and marked her with snakes and scales forever. Perseus had hesitated before decapitating her, in the mirror of his shield he'd seen the fine lines of the monster's face, he'd seen how the sleeping snakes looked more like fine, exotic hair than a mortal weapon. But he had had no option, it'd been either the Gorgon or himself. Either... or... Jarod fists his hand. He won't let that happen to them. feedback A fugitive running/Fallen from grace
So begin his dreams in those night he hasn't tired himself enough to enjoy the darkness of sleep without images of the past assaulting him. Her voice is never soft, never whispered as he had always desired it would be. Its sharpness hurts him, creates new wounds her gun would never hope to inflict. But he still loves it, loves the way her lips move forming the words, loves the way they are laced with true anger and true venom. He's the only who can make her feel so much. Then the dream turns into a nightmare, it never is less than what he expects. Running through dark corridors, so bare and sterile that he can feel the cold in his bones. He runs and runs without stopping, a labyrinth not even Theseus would have escaped from. Sometimes he hears the click-click of high heels behind him. Is she hunting him? Following him? Or simply echoing his steps because that's the only game they've played in adulthood? He needs her to be the Ariadne to his hero, he needs her to know the way to salvation and light. But that cannot be, she is also lost in the maze of lies and betrayals. Betrayal. He would never betray her. Because he's not Theseus and she is not Ariadne. He doesn't only want her to show him the light and then abandon her to her luck. No. Of course not. He wants her to enjoy happiness and freedom at his side. And he will always want her to say... "...and I chase." Then he wakes up.
She is crying, he can almost hear her. What wouldn't he do to be able to cry with her? But it can't happen, they are destined to look into each other's lives but never touch. Not even death can reunite them. Not even mourning for a parent can be common ground for them. It was a foolish accident. Some drunk driver who is now in a coma. His crying wife wouldn't let Jarod extract some vengeance. Sometimes he wishes he had disconnected the machines anyway. "I know you're there," she says. He isn't startled. Of course she knew. He wishes to go to her and take her in his arms. Console each other? Foolish dreams. "You are not alone," he tells her before retreating into the dark.
The first time he had the idea he'd been a clerk handing out cheerful postcards to excited tourists. "Why do you send photos of people you don't know?" he'd asked. As usual, the couple had just stared oddly and rolled their eyes a bit. They'd shrugged and happily kept on purchasing their souvenirs. But the idea was there already. A smiling man walking alone down the beach. Jarod wanted to know what made him smile so much. He felt the setting sun on his back, the darkening sky with barely there stars ahead of him. He heard the soothing waves at his right in the middle of the silence. He finally picked up his shoes, left on the beach so he could run bare-footed. With a smirk he threw them to the water and some seconds later set off after them. This was water, air, night and Jarod. Freedom in its purest form. The sand pickled at his feet as he walked to the nearest road but it was worth it. Now he knew why strange men smiled in postcards.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, trying hard not to look at the headstone in front of him. Of all of them Walter was the only one to get a second burial. He always had to be the unique one. "He didn't hurt. One minute he was there, the next..." He put a comforting hand on hers and twined their fingers. She only held him tighter. It had been too long. "What about Adam?" she finally asked when the tears didn't threat the moment. "Safe." Nikita nodded. He may love and trust her, but old habits die hard, evasive answers would always be his to share. "You need to rest." She almost smiled. "Let's go home, Michael." Home would be only today, a sad home after Walter's burial. But then, home had always
been only with him. At whatever time they may have together. feedback
Nikita found the mistletoe at Walter's workplace. A trap for every cute female passing by. She had just laughed and pecked his lips when Walter'd pointed at it. The next day Nikita had stolen it and hung it from Michael's office doorway instead. A harmless practical joke. That man really needed to unwind a bit. At least for the holidays. Days passed and Nikita had completely forgotten about the mistletoe. Training was much more important and really, had she thought Michael wouldn't order the mistletoe removed? In her next session with Madeleine the older woman insisted for Michael's presence. Nikita was sent to bring him as soon as possible. But Michael had apparently been informed already. She bumped into him just under the doorway. Nikita was about to tell him of Madeleine's orders when he kissed her lightly. "Merry Christmas," he murmured against her lips. She stared at his back all the way to Madeleine's abode.
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That he has no soul is their preferred rumour, that he ripped it out and buried it in Simone's empty casket. They are wrong. Michael has a soul. He covers it in black wax, murders and nightmares oozing over it. Soft grey feathers, his lethal charm, complete his presence. The wings extend wide in this underground, where the wax cannot melt. Michael flies high in Section One, not because he's their favourite but because he's earned the right. His soul is safe, deep beneath the black and the soft. What he doesn't know is that the sun is coming. And Michael will melt under her sunshine.
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