ALL THE  GOOD  WOMEN

NOTE: All the Good Women is the sequel to my story Wild Mountain Thyme.  Both stories take place in the HL3 universe, so the events of HL2 and Endgame didn't happen here.
 

Part 1 Coming Home

Part 2 Family Ties

Part 3 Memories

Part 4 Ghosts

Part 5 Demons

Part 6 Homecoming

NOTES

Part 1 COMING HOME

Falling in love, Connor thought, but he didn't get a chance to answer his friend.

"I just put John on a flight in Marrakesh," Jack was saying.  "He gets into Newark tomorrow afternoon, as planned."

Connor's fingers clamped down on the phone as his guts tightened in fear.  Nothing had been planned.  He hadn't spoken to Jack in nearly a month, when Connor had left John in Jack's care.

"Something wrong with your memory?" Jack inquired caustically.

"No problem, Jack," Connor said, even though his mind was screaming "Kane!" in rage, and every muscle in his body was clenched in dread.  "I'll pick him up.

"I have to leave," Connor told Alex when he got back to their table in the main room of the pub. Her mouth opened in surprise.  "You coming?" Connor demanded.

"What—?"

"Yes or no?"

"Yes," she said, standing up.  He hauled her out the door and into his car.  "But, my clothes …," she protested, when he took the road to Glasgow.  "They're still at the hotel."

"Have them mailed," Connor told her, barely holding the car to the road as it careened on the very edge of the curve.

"What's wrong?" Alex asked, simple and straightforward, no complaining, no hysterics.

Connor appreciated that, especially now.  "Kane's going after my son."

When they reached a straight-away, he pressed the accelerator to the floor.  Alex reached over and touched him lightly on the hand in sympathy, and then she let him drive.  No explanation was needed; Alex had met Kane before.

After they finally got on the airplane, she held Connor's hand and listened if he talked, but she didn't pester him with questions, and when he yawned, she offered her lap as a pillow and pulled a blanket over him.  Connor slept fitfully.  When he woke from a nightmare, Alex's fingers were gently stroking his hair.  Connor kept his eyes closed, savoring her touch and his memories of the afternoon before.

"What do you want?" Alex had asked him, as they stood holding hands in the ruins of his broken-down forge, surrounded by the crumbled remains of his first life, his life with Heather in the Highlands, so very long ago, when he had been Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and he had always been able to look up and see the stars.

Nobody had asked him that in a very long time, and Connor didn't want to have to hide, not anymore, not from her.  "I've always wanted a family," he admitted and watched as her blue eyes darkened with desire, then shifted nervously away.

"Things are going kind of fast," she pointed out, because they'd met only last month and spent a week together so far.  The chill winter breeze of the Highlands stirred the golden strands of her hair.

"For both of us," he agreed, though he ached to feel the softness of her hair beneath his hand, to feel the brush of it against his skin.  "But I need what's between us to be more than …"

"Swordplay?" she suggested, smiling, because they'd had a flirtatious and suggestive conversation about that very thing, when she'd asked if she could hold his sword a few days before.  Connor grinned in return.  "I need more than that, too," she told him, "and I'd like the chance to find out how much more."

"Good," Connor said, also eager to take that chance, and maybe, perhaps, to risk his heart with her.  When she kissed him, it was with all the sweetness and promise of springtime, and Connor had lived in winter too long.  They walked together down the hill, and in a castle-turned-hotel with a grand view of Loch Leven, they ignored the scenery outside the windows and went straight to their room.

Her hair was silk beneath his hands.

Connor had wanted to spend another few days with her, or maybe even a week.  She was like springtime in the Highlands, sweet and wild and lovely, with the promise of summer heat to come.  But they'd had only that one afternoon and dinner together in the pub, and then the phone call had come.

Connor shifted on the airplane seats and tried to go to sleep again, to give his body the rest it would need for the battle ahead.  Sleep came, and with it the dreams, yet always he felt the touch of Alex's hand.

When they landed at Newark airport, Connor knew Kane was there.  "I can feel him," Connor hissed to Alex, and he cut to the front of the line, but still he wasn't fast enough.  Kane took John, and Connor abandoned his place with the customs agent and went tearing across luggage carousels and through barricades, trying to rescue his son.

Then the cops came.  "FREEZE!" they yelled, with feet apart and arms braced, the better to point their guns right at Connor's head.

Connor kept right on going, so they tackled him, rough hands grabbing at his arms and coat, a punch or two thrown on both sides.  "Let me go!" Connor shouted, still struggling to get past them and out the airport doors, trying desperately to rescue John from that immortal bastard, Kane.

The cops hung on, and more punches were exchanged.  Connor couldn't win against them all.  They slammed him up against a wall, handcuffed him, and shoved him in the back of a cop car.  No one spoke to him on the ride to the police station, and then they sat him in a chair in front of a gray metal table in a cell of a room, with what seemed to be a mirror on the wall behind him.  It was also, Connor knew, a one-way window.  He'd been in rooms like this before.

He stood and started pacing, only enough room for three steps, back and forth and back and forth.  Time could crawl, and time could race; Connor knew that better than most.  He was immortal, and he'd seen nearly five hundred years go by.  Even so, he didn't remember time doing both at once, yet now the minutes crept by with dreadful speed.

Five agonizingly slow minutes for him of waiting helpless in this room, and that meant forty-five minutes had flown since Kane had first stolen John away.  Forty-five minutes.  Connor didn't want to imagine—couldn't help but imagine—what Kane might do to a ten-year-old boy.

Might be doing, right now.

Back and forth and back and forth, from the one-way mirror to the blank and dirty wall.  Ten more minutes, and that meant fifty-five for John.  Nearly an hour.  Nearly twenty-three hours since Connor had gotten the phone call from Jack, the phone call that told Connor that Kane was bringing the Game back into Connor's life—and straight to Connor's son.

Connor paused in his pacing of the interrogation room to look at his watch again.  Fifteen minutes since they'd dumped him here, and still no cops had appeared.  "Jesus!" Connor exploded and slammed his fist into the wall.

They'd probably been waiting for something just like that.  A minute later, the door opened, and two cops strolled in.  "Have a seat, Nash," the dark-haired cop said, using one of Connor's other names, a name Connor really needed to lose.  Russell Nash had been a suspect in that string of beheadings nearly nine years ago, and when a headless body had been discovered in a hospital last month, Lt. John Stenn had quickly narrowed his search to that same man.  Stenn was completely justified in his suspicions, but the cops didn't have a shred of evidence, and Connor wanted to keep it that way.

The older, fatter cop pulled out a chair for Connor to sit in.  Connor debated disabling them both and making a run for it, but decided he'd never make it out of the building alive.  Reviving and escaping from the morgue might take even more time.  Connor did as he'd been told.  The cops sat down on either side of him, and then the questions began.  "He's got my son," Connor kept repeating, desperately hoping they would let him go, so he could separate yet another body from its head.

"What son, Nash?" the cops demanded.  "Your records don't show any son.  Guess we'll have to wait for the files.  And tell us again, Nash.  What were you doing in Scotland?  How long were you out of the country?  Why?"

"Jesus," Connor both swore and prayed, as the minutes and the hours ticked by.  Around nine in the evening, Lt. John Stenn walked in, and Connor felt like putting his own head down on the table and banging away.

"So, Nash," Stenn said in his god-awful nasal twang, stinking of cigarettes and, as always, in need of a shave.  "Talk to me.  We got plenty of time."

There was no time at all.  "He's got my son," Connor repeated, hoping it was still true, hoping John wasn't already dead.

Eventually, at four in the morning, after over twelve hours, twelve fucking hours of the same fucking questions, over and over again, first from this cop, then from that cop, and always—always!—from that persistent son of a bitch Stenn, the cops let Connor go.  He shoved back the chair and headed for the door, and then Stenn called his name—again.

Connor turned slowly, forcing himself not to slam that asshole headfirst into a wall, not to haul off and slug the fat cop who was blocking his way.  They'd arrest him for assaulting a policeman, lock him up, and let him rot in jail while the paperwork got delayed.

"One day you'll make a mistake, Nash," Stenn warned, wagging a finger at him from across the interrogation room, the inevitable cigarette in his hand.  "And when you do, I'll nail you."

Connor laughed at him, that annoying little man.  "I've heard that before."

Stenn's watery blue eyes narrowed in hatred as he reluctantly told the fat one: "Let the fucker go."

Connor walked out the door.  Alex was waiting for him downstairs.  "I picked up our 'luggage' at the airport," she told him as they hurried through the halls.  "I stored it in a locker in the bus station down the street."

"Good," Connor said, opening the door for her and then stepping out into the cold, gray dawn. Taking a murder weapon into a police station was not a great idea.  At the bus station, they retrieved the duffel bag he had bought at the Glasgow airport, and in it, his sword.  "You knew just what I needed," Connor told Alex with a kiss, and he flagged down a cab.

Connnor and Alex went home to his loft, located above Russell Nash's antique store.  The red light on the answering machine was blinking like a malevolent eye.  Connor had to step over the shattered remains of the Fabergé egg to get to his desk, and he knew right then that Kane had been in his house, at this desk, looking at his things—including the picture of John.

Oh, Jesus Christ!  How could he have been so stupid as to leave that sitting there?  He'd already made that mistake Stenn had warned him about, and Kane had nailed him to the wall.  And maybe nailed John, too.  God!

Connor punched the button on the answering machine, and Kane's amused voice slithered forth. "MacLeod, or Highlander, or whatever you're going by these days … it's your boy."

In the distance, John cried out, "Dad!"

"I hope I wasn't too hard on him," Kane said, laughing softly, and Connor had to consciously unclench each finger to relax his right hand, so tight it was in rage.  "I'm at the old mission, Route One, Jersey City," Kane went on and added a sultry—and completely unnecessary—invitation: "Do come."

Connor went to Alex and took her hand in his, but there wasn't anything he needed to say.  She knew.  She knew of the Game, of the swords, of the killing and the blood, and she had accepted him just the same, earlier in the Highlands, all night at the police station, and here this morning by his side.  Connor removed the ring from his little finger, the ring his lover Sarah had given to him before he had left her, and he placed it in Alex's hand.  Her fingers closed over it slowly, but she didn't say anything.  No warnings of "Be careful," no pleas of "Come back to me," because she knew he was going to, if he could.

He kissed her, softly, gently, tasting again that chance of new life.  But it was still winter, with snow on the ground, and he might never see the spring.  She was crying, silent single tears, and he brushed one away, her skin flower-soft under his hand.  There was no whispered "I love you" between them, because they hadn't gotten that far.  They hadn't had time.  He wanted that time, and—oh, God damn this bloody damned Game!—he wanted it with her.  He started to say that, he wanted her to know, but he had to turn and walk out the door, before it got too hard to leave.

Alex stood staring at the door until the tracks of her tears on her cheeks went from warm to cold and then dried completely, but the door didn't open, and Connor didn't reappear.  Not that he could come back, she understood that, not until he'd rescued his son.  Not until he'd killed Kane.  Not until he'd chopped Kane's head off with a sword.  Alex understood that, too.

She opened her hand slowly and looked at the antique silver ring that lay on her palm, a wide band supporting a small circle which was emblazoned with a crescent moon behind a star.  A present from Sarah, Connor had explained yesterday, given over two hundred years ago.  And now a gift to her, a hope for the future, but not a promise of forever, not yet.  The right hand, Alex decided, not the left.  She and Connor weren't engaged.  It would also balance nicely with the ring her father had given to her four and a half years ago, on her graduation day.

"Hey, Dr. Johnson," Dad had called to her while she was still in her cap and gown, and her new title sounded very weird.  "Congratulations!  I knew you'd be stubborn enough to get that dissertation done, no matter how much you complained."  He had taken a box from his pocket and opened it to show her a large oval of silver filigree mounted on a ring.  "This was my mother's," he'd said, sliding it onto Alex's finger.  Then he had frowned.  "It's a little loose.  You should get it resized."

"I don't want to change it at all," Alex had said, and she'd moved it to the forefinger of her left hand. "There.  Perfect."  And it was.

Connor had worn Sarah's ring on his little finger, a woman's ring on a man's hand, but when Alex slid the circle over the knuckle of her fourth finger, Sarah's ring fit perfectly, too.  "Well," Alex said, looking around, but her voice became instantly lost in the vastness of the room, swallowed by this place of high ceilings and soaring windows, a home that seemed empty now that Connor was gone.  Except Connor wasn't "gone," she told herself fiercely, scrubbing her hands across her cheeks.  He was just not home right now.  But he would be coming home soon.  With John.  And they would be fine.  Both of them.

"Well," she said again, more strongly this time, and the word didn't just disappear.  "What next, Johnson?" she asked herself, looking around.  Connor and John deserved a warm homecoming, and the loft was freezing.  Connor must have turned down the heat before he'd left for Scotland three weeks ago.  Alex walked by the rack of swords that stood at the base of the metal staircase, past the gleaming grand piano, and straight to the thermostat on the wall near the door.  She turned the heat up then started looking for a broom to take care of the broken glass in front of Connor's desk.  The broom was in a kitchen closet, and that small task didn't take her very long, so Alex got busy with other chores.  She had a lot to do before Connor and John came home.

~~~~~

Connor found Kane at the mission in Jersey City, as promised.  They moved off Holy Ground to a nearby power plant to fight.  The battle was brutal and ugly, even more so than most, but Connor survived.  The lightning from Kane's Quickening ripped him open and flayed him alive, then dropped him face down and gasping on a cold metal gangway, high above the concrete floor.  Behind him, Connor heard John's hesitant footsteps on the stairs.  Connor dragged himself to his knees and turned to face his son—alive, thank God, both of them alive.  "Oh, John," Connor whispered, holding him close, feeling the wiry strength of the young boy in his arms, which only hinted at the power of the young man to come.  "I love you, John."

John's voice was muffled against Connor's shoulder.  "Is he … is he …?"

"He's dead, John," Connor told him, turning John away from the shadows where the head and the body lay.  "You're safe.  I'm here.  I'm going to take you home."

But home for John wasn't the loft on Hudson Street; it was their house in Marrakesh, where Connor and John had lived for the past seven years, ever since Connor's wife Brenda had died.  John had seen the loft and liked to play in it, but they always stayed with Rachel when they visited New York.  But Rachel was visiting her daughter and son-in-law in Florida, because last month Connor had told Rachel to get the hell out of town, far away from Kane.

Besides, Alex was waiting, and Connor wanted to go home.  He told John a little about Alex on the way back to the city, but John didn't say anything, and he made no move to get out of the car when Connor parked in the garage.  Connor carried him across the snowy street and up the stairs, the boy's arms clinging around his neck, the soft black curls tickling the underneath of his chin.

"Alex, this is John," Connor told her, and her eyes widened slightly as she took in Connor's torn and bloody clothing, and John's slightly glassy stare.

But all she said was, "Welcome home, John.  Are you hungry?  Want some macaroni and cheese?  Chicken noodle soup?  Hot bread?  There are cookies for dessert."  Connor could smell the food from the kitchen, and he gave her a grateful smile, because he knew how hard that was, to prepare a meal and keep it warm for people who might never return.

"Yeah, I guess," John said, the first sign of life Connor had seen so far.  Connor sat next to John on the red sofa in front of the TV and put his arm around him.  John leaned against his side.

Connor's hands were trembling, and he breathed deeply and slowly, trying to control the tremors that came from a Quickening, from that unique mixture of hunger, energy and fatigue.  Alex brought over a tray and set it on the low table in front of them.  Connor devoured three bowls of soup and plenty of bread, all the while trying not to notice the way her long black skirt revealed the supple line of her thighs as she moved about his loft, trying not to envision what he knew was underneath that thin gray sweater, trying not to remember the feel of her breasts in his hands, the taste of her, the touch of her, the little gasp she made when he—

Connor took another deep breath then reached for a cookie.  He stared determinedly at his plate as he nibbled at the slightly burnt edge.  It wouldn't be fair to Alex to use her in that way, and besides, John needed him now.  Connor could deal with it.  He'd done it before.

John ate two helpings of pasta and four chocolate chip cookies before he yawned and rubbed his eyes.  "I made up the bed in the small room upstairs," Alex said to Connor.  "Does he usually sleep in there?"

That had been Rachel's room, years ago, but Connor didn't want to explain just now.  "That's fine.  And thanks for cooking," he said, putting all he could into his smile, when he wanted to give Alex so much more.  "It was great."

Alex smiled back but gave a half-embarrassed shrug.  "I had to do something."

"Yeah," Connor said, understanding very well.  He stared at her with hungry eyes until John yawned again, loudly this time.  Connor walked with John up the stairs to the bedroom and tucked him right into bed.  Teeth-brushing be damned.  That could wait.

"Dad?" John called out, when Connor moved to pull down the shades.  It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and the sun shone brightly on the snowy streets outside.

"I'm here," Connor said instantly and lay down next to his son on the bed.  "I'm here.  You're safe; you can sleep now."  But that was more of a hope than a promise, because John was crying now, helpless tears of fear and shame.

"He said … he said he was going to kill me, Dad," John said, and the words were gulped out between the sobs.  "He drove the car … he looked like you.  I didn't know … I wouldn't have gone …"

"I know, John," Connor said, holding him tight through the shuddering sobs, and wishing he could behead that bastard Kane all over again. "It wasn't your fault, John.  You couldn't have known."

"He drove so fast, Dad; I was so scared.  He was going … he said he would … he said …"

"It's OK," Connor whispered, rocking back and forth and grimly holding on, because that was all he could do in the face of such terror.  He knew; he had done this before.  "It's OK, you can cry."

"Die Soldaten, die Soldaten!" Rachel used to cry out in the night, when she had first come to share his home, fifty years ago.  "Everybody's dead!" she would wail.  "The SS shot them all.  Mama, Papa!  Mama!"

"It's all right, mein Liebes," Connor would whisper to her, her still frail and undernourished body rigid with fear.  "Not here.  Not anymore.  You're safe; I'm here."  Slowly, she would relax in his arms and go back to sleep, and slowly, over the months and years, the nightmares went away.  He had stayed by her side that entire first year, night and day.

And now another child of his was weeping in fear, and this time it was all his fault.  Stupid, so fucking *stupid* of him to have been out of touch so long, to have let this happen, not to warn Jack somehow.  Connor had thought John would be safe in Morocco, hidden away, but Kane had found him and used him …

Used him.

Oh God, Connor thought, feeling sick with helpless rage.  Not that.  Not to a ten-year-old boy.  Not that, too.  "John," he asked softly, his eyes closed and his cheek against his son's hair.  "Did he hurt you?  Did he … do anything to you?"

John's voice was muffled against his chest.  "He kept driving into things; he almost pushed me out of the car.  He told me we were going to die.  But then he said that only I would die, because he couldn't die. He'd just keep coming back!"  John pulled his head back to look up at Connor, his face tear-streaked, his dark brown eyes almost black, the pupils were so large.  "He won't come back, will he, Dad?"

"No," Connor said firmly.  "He can't come back.  He's really dead."

"But he said—"

"I saw the body," Connor broke in.  "It didn't have a head.  He's dead."  He spoke with the compelling conviction of the truth—some of it, anyway, the rest could wait—and John nodded and gulped air, believing him.  But Connor couldn't stop here.  "John, what else did he do besides drive fast and scare you?"

John's nose wrinkled, a sure sign of thought.  "He talked mean, all the time, and he laughed at me a lot, whenever I—"

Whenever John cried, Connor finished silently.  John had always hated to cry.

"… he hit me a couple of times …"

Connor forced himself to sit there and listen, instead of getting up and slamming his fist through a wall.  He should have gutted that goddamned, filthy bastard and watched him strangle in his own intestines before he did him the courtesy of chopping off his head.

"… and he didn't give me anything to eat!" John finished, full of fury at this last offense.  "Not even when I told him I was hungry!"

Connor bit back half-relieved and half-hysterical laughter, and instead nodded gravely.  "You still hungry?"

"No," John said thoughtfully.  "Those cookies were good, but I'm tired."

"Then let's go to sleep," Connor said, stretching out on the bed, one arm around his son.  "I'm tired, too."  John snuggled closer and shut his eyes, but Connor kept looking at his son, the dark lashes against dusky skin, the way his hair curled around his ears, the mole on his right jaw, the tiny scars above his lip—three straight lines in a row, from the seam on a baseball that had popped up and caught him right in the mouth.  His mouth was slightly open now, white teeth showing as he breathed softly and slowly, asleep.  "I love you, John," Connor told him again, and he bent his head to touch his son's.

Connor had always hated to cry.

~~~~~

Alex put away the leftovers, washed the dishes, swept the kitchen floor, and wiped the counter, but when she found herself scrubbing the sink, she set down the sponge and forced herself to sit on the lounge chair in front of the TV.  Connor was home.  John was safe.  She didn't need to busy herself with compulsive, mindless cleaning anymore. They were fine.

Which meant that Kane was dead.  Beheaded.  Chopped into two very dissimilar pieces.

Alex got up from the chair and went back to scrubbing the sink.  When that was clean, she dusted the items on the lower shelf in front of the window: a glass bowl, a silver vase with handles, a small statue of a horse.  Then she stopped herself again and put water on for tea.

Connor was alive and John was safe, and that was good.  Alex poured the boiling water over the tea bag and watched as tendrils of darkness curled through the cup.  Kane was dead, and that was also good.  Very good.

Alex tossed the tea bag in the trash bin under the sink, then sipped from the cup as she wandered about the loft and looked anew at Connor's home.  Three columns of angular steel stretched high to the ceiling, marching alongside the metal staircase that bisected the room.  Soft, filtered light poured through the skylights above and the immense windows on three of the four walls.  The modern curves of a recliner chair and a bright red couch mingled casually with formal antiques from Europe.  Oriental rugs offered islands of color on the polished wooden floor, and art in many forms adorned the walls: statues, paintings, porcelain, glass.  There were curios from Africa, from India, from Japan.

When she'd changed the sheets in the bedrooms upstairs, she'd seen the same sparse, eclectic style in Connor's room: a huge antique wardrobe for his clothes (all precisely folded or neatly hung), one entire wall devoted to thousands of books, a king-sized bed of modern design with a Japanese kimono above it, and a large Impressionistic seascape on the fourth wall.  Not a Manet, as Alex had originally assumed, but a Morisot—an original and no doubt very valuable piece of art.  She'd seen another Morisot in the dining room, a painting of a languid brunette reclining by a stream.

The loft was a place of cold steel and extravagant beauty, a mingling of modern and ancient, the very air a constantly shifting battle between light and dark, the walls painted with the moving shadows of bars—a home that echoed the man.

And the pictures of Connor himself, all neatly arranged on a wall … Alex stood next to his desk and looked at them again, now that she knew who and what he was, as she hadn't known when she had first entered his loft three weeks ago.  Connor in Civil War garb, standing near a tree with comrades in arms.  Connor in turn-of-the-century clothes, seated at a table with several other men, gambling perhaps, or making a deal.  Connor throughout the years, different hair, different clothes, but always looking exactly the same age.

She went to a window on the eastern wall and looked down at the side street three stories below.  A delivery truck beeped as it moved backwards, narrowly missing a silver garbage can.  The first floor of the building was the antique shop, she knew, and Connor had told her that the second floor had a storage room, an office, and an apartment which had been built for Rachel nearly forty years ago.  It stood vacant now.  The basement held various odds and ends and the heating system, plus Connor's exercise room.

On the north wall, past the elevator shaft, was a pair of double doors, strongly built of a mottled wood she couldn't name. Connor hadn't mentioned that room, and when Alex tested the handles of the double doors, neither of them moved.

Alex nodded, well-pleased.  She was an archeologist, and it was her job to discover buried treasures and bring to light hidden things.  She had a feeling that Connor was going to be a very complex and demanding project, and that was very good indeed.  Alex drank what was left of her tea, rinsed out the cup and set it in the dishwasher, then went quietly up the stairs.  No sound came from the small bedroom, and Alex peeked around the half-closed door … and froze, caught by a tableau that brought sudden tears to her eyes.  Connor and John were both sound asleep, with John curled close against his father's side, and Connor's arm around his son.  Their heads touched slightly, dark curls next to fair hair.  Alex drew a trembling breath and closed her eyes in thanksgiving.  It was good to have them home.

She went back downstairs and chose a different place to sit this time: the couch in the sunken living area, in front of the magnificent windows that stretched from ceiling to floor.  Books were stacked on a shelf behind the couch, and Alex examined her choices then settled down to read, and to wait.

~~~~~

When Connor woke, John was still sleeping, so Connor eased himself silently from the room and went downstairs.  Alex was sitting on the sofa in the corner near the piano, with a blanket tucked around her feet and legs.  One of his books was in her hand.  The Wasteland, by T. S. Eliot—Connor read the title from over her shoulder.  She looked good sitting there, comfortable … comforting.  Sunlight streamed in from the wall of windows, lightening her hair to white gold.  The ring he'd given her was on the fourth finger of her right hand, and Connor found himself surprised.  Sarah had worn the ring above the knuckle on her middle finger, and for some reason he'd expected Alex to do the same.  Different fashions, he reminded himself, different times.  Different women.

Another ring was on Alex's left forefinger, a large oval of antique silver filigree.  "It was my grandmother's," she'd explained when he'd asked her about it last week, as they stood in the shadow of a ruined castle and the wind flirted with her hair.  "My father gave it to me the day I got my doctorate.  And this one you wear?" she'd asked, with the briefest of touches and the barest grazing of hand upon hand, a searing bolt of warmth that had made Connor suck in air.

"A gift," Connor had replied, but he hadn't told Alex anything more, not that day.  The explanations had come later, after he'd gone back to her, and after she'd told him she knew his name.  Connor flexed his right hand experimentally.  His finger still felt bare.

"Hey," Alex said now, looking up behind her.  She took off her reading glasses and set down the book then moved over to make room for him on the sofa.

"Hey," he said in return and smiled at her, but he didn't sit down.  He'd driven from the Highlands to Glasgow, flown across an ocean, spent the night in a police station, fought a battle to the death, taken a Quickening, and fallen asleep without brushing his teeth.  Even he didn't want be close to him.  "I'm going to take a shower.  I'll be right back."

"Want company?" she offered.

"Alex," he began, but she was already off the sofa and standing in front of him, close enough to touch.  Close enough for him to catch her scent, and she smelled great: violets and baked bread.  The tremors started again, but only lust and energy now.  He hadn't taken a Quickening in years, and Kane's was a strong one.  He hadn't been with a woman in years, either, except for that afternoon with Alex two days ago.  His wife Brenda had died seven years ago, and since then he'd been living in Morocco with John, and there wasn't … except for that once … he hadn't …

"Alex," he said again, swallowing in a dry throat and tasting the onions from the soup again.  "That's not a good idea.  I'm not—"

"I'll scrub your back," she interrupted and went up the stairs.  Connor stood at the bottom of the staircase, gripping the railing and beating his head against the cold metal frame, slowly and methodically, hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to make a lot of noise.  Water started running through the pipes.

Alex appeared on the walkway overhead.  "It's warm," she called down.  "Do you need help getting undressed?"

"No!" he called back immediately, because as soon as she touched him—  Alex nodded and went into his bedroom again.  Connor slammed his head against the railing one more time.  When he got to the bathroom (more of a bathing suite, actually, with separate areas for the sinks and the tub), she wasn't in sight, which was good.  He peeled off his filthy clothes and dropped them on the floor, then stepped under the warm spray of water.  Connor scrubbed off the first layer of grime and washed his hair.  He still needed a shave, but Alex had thoughtfully placed a toothbrush in the shower, and he scraped the fuzz off his teeth.

"Do you want help now?" she asked, low and husky right behind him, and the sound of her voice shot straight down to the base of his spine.  Then she was in the shower, naked, her hands touching his chest and down his sides and to the small of his back, and then he was in her, that fast, with the water sluicing over them, running over his back and chest and thighs; and her back against the wall, with her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist; and his hands on her thighs, holding her there, holding her close, and with the heat from without and the heat from within, and—oh, God!—he was alive and she was here and—God, oh God!—he was alive!

He was alive.

Connor closed his eyes and let the water run, down over his back and shoulders, leaning his head against a wall this time, taking in deep breaths of air.  "Mmm," Alex murmured, trying to lower one leg, and Connor carefully eased her down so that her feet could touch the floor.  "Mmm-mm," she said this time, more comfortable now, leaning on him with her breasts pressed warm against his chest and her arms heavy and relaxed around his neck.  "Talk about anaerobic exercise," she said, and Connor's snort was half amusement and half shame.

"Sorry," he muttered.  "I'm not always a ten-second sprinter."

"Oh, I know," she said, sounding only amused, and she kissed him on the nose.  "I remember a certain marathon event the other day."  She kissed him on the mouth then, and Connor took his time about that.  "Mmm," she murmured in pleasure, and a few moments later came an "Mmm?" of surprise.

"I'm an Immortal," he explained with a grin.  "We recuperate fast."

Her eyebrows lifted, disappearing under darkened strands of wet hair.  "I'll say."

Connor wanted her—needed her—now, but not if she didn't … if she …  "Alex?" he asked, trying to control himself, trying to …

But—  "Yes, Connor," she said, giving him everything.  "Yes."

Connor didn't ask twice.  "Turn around."

Alex shivered, but not because she was cold.  The steamy heat from the shower kept the bathroom plenty warm, and Connor's hoarse command had just ignited a flame deep inside.  Alex knew of the danger here, of the brute strength in him that could erupt into violence, of the raw domination that could so easily overwhelm.  Yet she thrilled to that dark energy, and the fire inside her burned with both excitement and fear, because she also knew that Connor would balance himself—and her—on the knife-edge of a force that neither of them could control.

Alex looked once into those hooded, hungry eyes, and then she turned around.

Again, there was no foreplay, no finesse—only a relentless surge of elemental power that caught and immediately carried her to the crest of a towering wave.  She leaned forward and braced her hands on the wall in front of her, the tile smooth and slippery under her palms.  Connor's hands gripped her hard on the hips, his fingers deep enough to leave bruises.  No ten-second sprinter now, the savage pounding drove her forward again and again, and his breathing sounded harsh and ragged above her breathless gasps for air.  Finally, the wave crested and broke, and Alex cried out as it came crashing down and Connor slammed against her, driving deep.  The power slowly drained away, leaving them both panting in a gentle rolling swell, with the soft pattering of rain from the shower running down her back and legs, and Connor's hands still holding her firm.

"God," Alex breathed, opening her eyes and trying to focus on the serpentine patterns of the aqua-blue and white tiles on the shower floor.  "What a ride."

Connor chuckled as his hands slowly started to move, sliding forward on her hips until his fingertips met in front, then caressing the soft skin between the navel and the mons.  "Your turn."

Alex straightened and started to turn around.  "Connor—"

"Don't move," he commanded, and when she twisted her head to look at him, he immediately sank his teeth into the side of her neck, like a stallion with a mare, and his left hand shot up to take her by the throat.  Alex froze, her pulse leaping high under his palm, that flame of fear licking along every vein, though there was no pain, no breaking of the skin, just a relentless grip that immediately turned gentle, the bite becoming a nibble and then a kiss, the hand relaxing into fingertips that dipped into the hollow of her throat and flowed on.

"I said: 'Don't move,'" he told her, and the words were a growl, a shudder of desire that racked her to the bones.  His thumb and forefinger traced the veins on either side of her neck, barely touching, then sliding closer to take her by the throat again—firm yet gentle, strong yet soothing, dangerous and quite possibly deadly, this grip of a man who had killed only a few hours before, and now held her in his grip as well.

"But—"

"Trust me," he demanded, his hand pressing, urging, stroking, and she did, arching her neck against his hand like a cat in an ecstasy of submission, a surrendering that defied logic and pride and the feminist movement, because Alex didn't give a damn about feminism or femininity right now.  She was a woman with a man, and she wanted everything he had.

"Good," he growled, and oh God, he was right, it was.  Alex closed her eyes and leaned her head back against his shoulder, shuddering again when his right hand urged her legs apart, and she gave him that as well.  Everything.  She was his, and he was hers, and she wanted it all.

"Don't move," Connor reminded her, and Alex did her best to stand still as his hand moved in slow circles, the heel of his palm at her navel, his splayed fingers pointing down, moving lower, grazing the soft curls … lower, spreading the folded layers … lower still.

"Connor!" she gasped, surging against him, and instantly his teeth were back in her neck, harder this time, a nip of pain that flooded her completely, followed by another burst as his fingers savagely squeezed instead of gently explored.

"You bastard!" she swore, when she could summon breath enough to speak.

Connor's teeth nibbled upward and his tongue traced a path to the back of her ear, as his right hand slowly relaxed and massaged.  "And you like it."

And she did.  "Damn you," she said weakly, and Connor only laughed, his left hand moving once again on her throat, a steady stroking up and down, now matching the movement of his right.  "Oh, God," Alex said helplessly, when he started going faster, giving her exactly what she craved.  A slow spiral of heat started to build, shaking all her limbs.  "Connor," she pleaded, "I can't stand up."

"Lean on me," came the husky command, close to her ear, and Alex relaxed into the strength of him, the lean firmness of his thighs bracing hers, his left arm now curled around her, just underneath her breasts, while his right hand continued to drive her mad.  The shower pattered  behind them, and she was slick with the water that flowed between them and over them, adding to her torture with warm rivulets over heated skin.

"Connor, please," she whimpered.  "I have to … I can't …"

"You will," he ordered, and so she did, surrendering completely to him, to the rhythm of his touch and to the sharp nips and flowering bursts of pain that came whenever she moved—because she simply had to move—and to the ever-widening ripples of pleasure that followed every time.

"Oh God," she said again, as the ripples slowly built to waves, and she could no longer tell the pleasure from the pain.  "Oh, Connor."

"I like my name better," he told her, dark and low.  "Say it again."

"Connor," she said again, moving again, desperately needing what she had sworn at him for doing only a few minutes ago.  "Oh, Connor, please, Connor please, Connor, Connor, Connor," over and over, until his name became a mantra of desire, until he finally told her, "Yes," and his hand surged upward and the tidal wave crested, sweeping her irresistibly onward, the pleasure flooding any pain, an endless ebb and flow that left her floating boneless in Connor's arms, completely unable to move.

"Oh, God," she finally breathed, and Connor laughed softly and kissed the back of her neck beneath her hair.  She turned in his arms and looked into the dark gray eyes under water-darkened hair, the eyes of a man who could kill and make love on the same day, the eyes of the man she loved.

"You're a bastard," she told him, and Connor only laughed again, and Alex laughed, too.  Then she pulled him closer to kiss him, because she wanted the tenderness between them again.  Connor gave her tenderness, with sweetness added in, just as he had earlier this morning, when he had had to leave to go fight Kane.  "I'm glad you're home," she said.

"So am I," came his heartfelt response, and Alex kissed him again.

"Turn around," she ordered next, and Connor raised an eyebrow.  "I did say I'd wash your back," she reminded him, "and the hot water isn't going to last forever."

"I like it cold."

"So do I," Alex answered, and so after she'd soaped and scrubbed his back thoroughly and then let her hands wander to the front and told *him* not to move, until he couldn't not move anymore, she turned the water to full cold.  They stood there under the frigid spray, skin goose-bumped and tingling, mouths open to catch a drink, hair dripping and blood racing and the both of them completely and totally alive.

John was safe, and Connor was home, and Alex couldn't think of anything better at all.

"I'm getting out," she announced.

"Too cold?" he challenged.

"No.  My fingers are getting wrinkled."  Alex was out of the shower and toweling off before it occurred to her to wonder if Immortals could get wrinkled fingers.  When Connor emerged a moment later, she checked.  Yes, Immortals got wrinkled fingers.  Goosebumps, too, she remembered.  And their hair-growth cycles seemed to be like mortals'; Connor was getting ready to shave.  But their sexual response time was decidedly unusual.  Alex decided more research was in order, taking into account a variety of conditions and factors … definitely a long-term project.

Alex toweled her hair dry and watched Connor lather the shaving cream on his face as he stood in front of the mirror, a white towel wrapped around his slim waist.  He used a straight edge, not a safety razor, but, of course, Connor was used to sharp blades.  He caught her watching and winked at her reflection without turning around.  "Thought you'd appreciate it," he said.

"The razor?" she asked, confused.

Connor shook his head then carefully shaved along his right jaw.  "Me shaving."  His gaze went back to hers in the mirror.  "Considering what I have in mind for you next—in bed."

~~~~~

Later, after Connor had shown her what he had in mind and Alex had chanted his name again, they lay quietly together under the warmth of the covers in his king-size bed, toes curled against toes, legs intertwined with legs, torsos pressed together, heads touching, one set of hands clasped while the other set explored in wondering caresses—a contented merging of two bodies into one.

"Is it always so … intense for you?" Alex asked, as she trailed a finger over the muscles on his chest, following the subtle curves with fascination.  "After?"  Connor drew in a breath as he looked down and away, then his eyebrows lifted and descended slowly as he let out a quiet gust of air.  So, he didn't want to answer, but the answer was yes.  Alex knew he needed to talk, and she also wanted to know.  "You certainly made it intense for me," she said, sultry and slow, hoping to encourage him.

Connor cleared his throat.  "Good?"

"Good?" she repeated, lifting her head to look at him.  "I wouldn't have said that," she teased and knew immediately it had been exactly the wrong thing to say.  Connor's fingers had abruptly stopped combing the still slightly damp strands of her hair, and his eyes were watching her warily, even defensively, with more than a touch of embarrassment … or shame.

"More than good, Connor," she hurried to reassure him, and she couldn't help but smile as she remembered the thrill of that ride.  "Exhilarating, mind-blowing, incredible, overwhelming—a lot more than good."  Connor nodded and smiled back, and his hand started to move again.  Alex let go a silent sigh of relief, because she already knew that Connor was incredibly brave—and also incredibly shy.  He'd run from her before, and she'd had to wait for him to come back.  She wasn't going to lose him now.

"I won't … use you, Alex," he said, his hand stopping again, his eyes uncertain once more.  "If you don't want—"

"I do want," she interrupted.  "And I did want.  Very much."

"You sure?"

She kissed him, sweet and tender and certain.  "I'm sure."  She tried to explain.  "To know that you wanted me that much … it made me want you.  And also, just looking at you, the way you were, I wanted you.  You were so …"

"Impatient?" he offered.

"Pure," she replied, with a reproving thump on his chest.  "Pure power, pure desire, but still held in control.  You were so totally and completely a *man.*"  Not just a man, Alex realized, but a victorious warrior, a hero—that mythical figure from thousands of fairy tales and thousands of women's dreams—Alex's dreams, too, in a "you Tarzan, me Jane" purely primal and primitive way.  "I've never seen that kind of beauty before."

Now she'd embarrassed him again—but not unpleasantly so.  "Beauty and the beast," he said wryly.

"I like your animal side, too," Alex said as she pressed even more closely against him, adding a suggestive wiggle and a wicked smile.  "And what you did after …"  That smile came again, and with it a remembered thrill of pleasure, uncoiling inside.  "God," she breathed, ducking her head against his shoulder in her own not-unpleasant embarrassment, then looking up to ask, "How did you know?"

"About your animal side?" he asked.  Alex nodded, and Connor's left hand slid from the hair at the back of her neck and curled around her throat.  Alex closed her eyes and almost purred.  Connor chuckled.  "I've often found that horses prefer a firm and guiding hand, and a rider who's in control."

"Are you implying," she asked, opening her eyes, "that I'm a horse?"

"A fine filly," he agreed, and Alex didn't mind.  She'd thought of Connor as a stallion many times.  "A palomino with creamy skin and golden mane," Connor said, stroking her hair again.  "Easy gait, long-legged, beautiful lines."  His hand slid down her back, caressing as it went, and Alex was smiling until he added, "Strong hindquarters," and smacked her on the rear, hard enough to sting.  She twisted her head sharply and sank her teeth into his right hand, and she didn't let go.

"Good for riding bareback, if a bit high-spirited," Connor continued blithely, and Alex bit down.  Connor smacked her again, even harder, and Alex let out of yip of pain.  She changed her bite to a kiss, then swirled her tongue around the tip of his forefinger before she pulled his finger farther in.  She nipped at it gently with her teeth then started a steady rhythmic motion with her lips and tongue.

"And a velvet mouth," Connor concluded, staring into her eyes.  His own were molten metal gray.

Alex smiled in triumph and slowly—ever so slowly—let go.

His right hand reached over to gently trace the lines of her throat, and Alex tilted her head back and purred.  Then his hand stopped, and Alex stopped, too.  "Tell me," he said suddenly, an order, not a request, "if I do something you don't like, or go too far, or if there's something you'd like to try, or if you're just not in the mood, or—"

"Well, of course," she agreed in some surprise.  Who'd put up with that, especially in bed?

"Promise me," he insisted.  "No lies between us—ever."

Alex knew then that somebody, sometime, somewhere, had indeed "put up with that," or lied to Connor somehow.  What a bitch! she thought, and Alex kissed Connor once more.  "I promise," she agreed.  "No lies."  She didn't feel the need to ask Connor to promise her the same; he wasn't the type to lie.  But he also wasn't the type to talk, not without encouragement, so Alex went back to her original question.  "Is it intense because of … the Quickening?" she asked, the word still unfamiliar and strange.  "Or just the fighting?"

He shrugged one shoulder, his hand gilding up and down the inside of her arm.  "Both.  Fighting will do that to anyone, mortal or immortal, but the Quickenings … it's …"  He gave up on that and let out another long and quiet gust of air.  "You're *alive,*" he told her, and Alex propped her head up on her hand so she could look into his eyes, deep gray with splinters of gold, massed storm clouds shot through with bolts of lightning.  "You feel each blade of grass under your hands," Connor said, staring into nothing.  "You know the shape and size and temperature of each droplet of blood touching your skin.  You can taste the pollen in the air, or the coming snow.  You hear everything: your heartbeat, the sap rising in the trees, the water deep underground, the pulse of the earth.  It's as if your skin is peeled off, and fire is all around."  He blinked and focused on her, then added half of a crooked smile and another half shrug.  "It's a high, and it's hard coming down."

"I've noticed," she said then let her hand wander from his chest to follow the trail of fine hairs that led down the silk-smooth tautness of muscle, and finally to a lower set of curls.  Connor sucked in air.  "Looks like it's hard going up, too," she observed.

"It is," he assured her, but Alex decided a more detailed evaluation was called for, so she lowered her head to look—and to show him just how velvet her mouth could be.

~~~~~

Connor and Alex were asleep in his bed when the screaming began.  Connor was out the door before Alex even sat up all the way.  He opened the door to the small bedroom and took his son in his arms.  "Shh, John, shh.  I'm here," Connor said, over and over again, and the screaming slowly changed to sobs and then to whimpers, and then to gulping hiccups for air.

"I saw him, Dad.  I saw him, in my dream. He's coming back for me, he's coming, he's not really dead—"

"He's dead, John," Connor interrupted.  "Kane is dead."

John sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.  "Was that his name?"

"Yeah."

John blinked, his lashes black and spiky with tears.  "He said he was your friend."

"God, no!"  Connor swallowed hard.  "No, John."

"But … you know his name, and he said you were like him.  He said you couldn't die."

Shit!  This was *not* something Connor wanted to deal with right now.  He'd been planning on telling John later, maybe in a year or two.  Or three.  Shit.  "Kane *is* dead," Connor insisted.  "And he and I were never friends.  OK?"

John blinked again and sniffled.  "OK."  He sat up and looked around.  "Dad, you don't have any clothes on."

"I took a shower," Connor explained, and that was certainly true.  "You want a shower?" Connor suggested.  "Or a bath?"

"A bath, I guess.  But no hair-washing, OK?"

Connor laughed and ruffled his son's hair.  "OK.  Not tonight."  John had always hated that.

John peered at the gray twilight around the window shades.  "Is it night already?"

"Almost five o'clock.  Should we send out for Chinese?"

"Yeah, I'm starving!" John agreed, and he hopped out of bed and went to the bathroom connected to his room, only to pause at the door.  "Would you … would you stay here?  Until I'm done?"

"I wanted to put some clothes on, John," Connor said, half-laughing, but then he saw John's eyes, the fear there, and the shame at being afraid.  "Come on," Connor said casually, holding out his hand.  "The big bathroom's more fun anyway.  It's got water jets in the tub."

"Cool!" John said and came with him down the walkway.

Connor was going to tap on the semi-closed door of his bedroom, because for John to see a naked woman in Connor's bed was bound to raise some questions, and Connor already had enough to explain.  But Alex was downstairs, fully dressed and on the sofa reading, as if she'd been calmly sitting there all afternoon, and she didn't look up at the sound of their footsteps.  Connor went into his bedroom so he could get dressed while John bathed.

The Chinese food was on the table and John was busy practicing with the wooden chopsticks when Alex joined Connor in the kitchen, where he was putting water on to boil for tea.  "John should probably be seen by a doctor," she suggested quietly.

"Yeah," Connor agreed, turning on the burner.  Rachel might know a good one.  He needed to call her anyway, to tell her Kane was dead and she could come back to New York.  At least Rachel had been safe through this mess.  He'd done something right.

"And a therapist," Alex said.

"Hmm."  Connor wasn't so sure about that.  He got out a Japanese teapot and cups.

But two days later, when Rachel got back from Florida and stopped by the loft for lunch and to say hello (and, Connor knew, to check out the new girlfriend), she said the same thing.  "John needs counseling," Rachel told Connor, who was once again making tea in the kitchen, but for an afternoon snack this time, not for Chinese.

"You didn't get counseling," Connor pointed out, rummaging in the cupboard next to the refrigerator.

"I had you," she said simply, her voice still carrying the cultured tones of the British boarding school where she'd spent her early years, even after nearly four decades of living in New York.

Connor set the mugs on the counter with a decided thump.  "So does John."

Rachel turned from the kitchen counter to look toward the sitting area, where Alex putting a puzzle together with John's infrequent help.  Connor watched his son, not liking what he saw.  John was too quiet, too restrained.  Connor hadn't even had to order him not to climb on the underneath of the stairs, or to suggest that rappelling off the overheard walkway might not be such a good idea, at least until they cleared the furniture out of the way.  The nightmares hadn't gotten any better, and for the last two days John had mostly sat and watched TV or stared out the windows, looking around every few minutes to see where Connor was.  Good thing the loft had no walls downstairs.

"I had all of you," Rachel said, turning back.  "John's sharing you with Alex."

Connor ripped open the tea bags, pulling the tag of one completely off.  "Alex is good with him."  Alex had been the one to suggest John work on the puzzle with her.  Putting pieces together didn't require conversation, and Alex knew how to be comfortably quiet.  John seemed to like her; he listened when she read to him, and he'd even thanked for the cookies she'd made.

"Yes, she is," Rachel agreed immediately, and she gently took the tea bag from him then folded his hands in her own.  "And she's good with you, and good for you.  You've been alone too long."

"Not by choice."  Not this time.

"I miss Brenda, too," Rachel said softly.  "I think she'd like Alex."

"You do?" Connor said dubiously.

"Well, approve, anyway," Rachel amended.  "Perhaps they wouldn't have been great friends.  Alex seems very … quiet.  Not that Brenda was loud," Rachel added quickly, "but—"

"I know," Connor said with a grin, and Rachel grinned, too.  Brenda had never been shy about making her opinions known.

Rachel gave his hands a quick squeeze of affection, then appropriated Connor's task of making the tea.  Her mothering instinct was rising to the fore, and Connor knew better than to get in the way.  He leaned one hip against the kitchen counter and watched the deft movements of her beautifully manicured hands as she set the tea bags in the mugs, added sugar, and laid spoons neatly on a tray.  Her trim figure was nicely displayed in black wool trousers and a dark-honey cashmere sweater, and her silvering blonde hair was newly styled in short and sassy curls.  She looked, as always, demurely elegant and serene.  "I have to," she'd told him twenty-five years ago, when Connor had sported a ponytail and been trendily attired in ripped jeans and a tie-dyed shirt.  "Look at you."

"It's comfortable," Connor had protested, hiding his smile.

"You look like a slob," she'd sniffed, smoothing a wrinkle in her polyester mini-skirt of navy blue and lime green.  "Customers in our antique store expect more.  At least you're not wearing love beads."

He'd gone out and bought some that very afternoon, a set for himself and a set for her.

Rachel picked up the tea kettle from the stove.  "I do like Alex, Connor."

"Good," Connor said.  "So do I."

"I know," Rachel said, smiling now, her sherry-brown eyes amused and wise.

"You always know," Connor told her.  Sometimes before he knew himself.

"Of course I do," Rachel agreed then immediately returned to the topic of John.  Alex wouldn't be the only stubborn woman in Connor's life—if she decided to stay.  "But Alex is still a stranger to John, Connor," Rachel was saying as she poured the boiling water, "and immortality is new to him, too.  He has to keep it all a secret.  I didn't have professional counseling, that's true, but everyone knew about World War II; I didn't have to hide everything.  Who can John talk to?"

"Me.  You.  Alex.  Duncan, even.  He'd fly back from Paris."

"He's in Paris again?" Rachel asked in surprise.  "I talked to him last week, and he said he and Charlie were planning on fixing up the dojo this month."

"Unexpected business," Connor explained, which of course meant immortal business. Duncan had called earlier that day, right before he'd left Seacouver, with a hurried tale of machine-gun toting thugs who were working for the irritatingly urbane Immortal Xavier St. Cloud.  Duncan had been shot (and killed), Charlie was in the hospital (in serious condition, but expected to recover), and the dojo was full of bullet holes (it would need a lot more fixing up now).  "Watch your back," Duncan had warned.  "St. Cloud's not playing by the rules."  Connor had nodded grimly and told Duncan to do the same.

Rachel didn't press Connor for details, and Connor didn't volunteer.  It was easier that way.  They'd worked that out long ago.  She set the tea kettle back on the stove.  "Maybe John could talk to that nice psychiatrist Sean Burns," she said, ignoring all of Connor's earlier suggestions, which of course meant she'd had an answer of her own all along.  "Brenda said he was a great help, afterwards.  For both of you."

Connor could translate the "afterwards" easily enough.  After the Kurgan had kidnapped Brenda.  After the terrifying ride in the Kurgan's car.  After the rape.  After the battle to the death that had very nearly gone the wrong way, and after the Quickening that had left Connor fighting yet another battle, that one for his soul.  The Kurgan hadn't gone down easy, either time.  Kane wasn't giving Connor any problems like that, but maybe seeing Sean wasn't such a bad idea.

"Why don't you call him now?" Rachel said, picking up the tray with the tea.  "You'd be able to visit with Duncan, too, since he and Sean are both in France."

Rachel went to sit with Alex and John, and Connor went upstairs to use the phone on the walkway.  Sean was at home, delighted to hear from Connor, and eager to see John right away, the sooner the better.  "And you, too," Sean added, and Connor was also looking forward to seeing his old friend.

He went downstairs and nodded in response to Rachel's unasked question, then sat next to John to help with the puzzle: a photograph of Niagara Falls.  They didn't make much progress—the damn thing was near impossible, all spray and water and sky—and around four Rachel stood to leave.  "Mitzi's probably making dinner now," Rachel said.  "I told her I'd be home by five."  Connor helped Rachel on with her coat, and she kissed his cheek and took both his hands.  "I'm glad you've come home," she told him, and Connor knew she wasn't talking only about being back in New York.

"So am I."

"I know," she replied then turned to give John a hug.  "Come visit me and Mitzi soon, all right?  We'll make a cake."

John only nodded, instead of immediately asking what kind or requesting a pie.  Rachel and Alex were right; the boy needed help.  And he'd be getting it soon, Connor reminded himself.  John would be all right.

"I'll call you," Rachel said to Alex, buttoning up her coat as she stood near the door.  "We'll have lunch."  She smiled at Connor and then gave Alex a grin.  "And we'll talk."

"I'd love that," Alex answered, grinning back, and Connor very carefully did not roll his eyes or—God forbid—make a snort of any kind.  Those two women weren't just stubborn; they were damn inquisitive, too.

Connor wouldn't want it any other way.

"Want to come to France with John and me for a month or so?" Connor asked Alex a little later that night in the kitchen, with his arms around her waist as he stood behind her and nibbled at one ear.  She was much tastier than the salad she was making for dinner.  Washed greens lay on the counter, and carrots were in the sink.  John was practicing the piano on the other side of the loft, within sight but too far away to hear them.  "We can stay long enough to see Paris in the spring," Connor suggested.

She turned in the circle of his arms and kissed him before she said no.  "John needs you, Connor.  All of you.  He shouldn't have to share, not now," and Connor nodded in understanding and appreciation.  His son came first.

"Besides," Alex went on, "I've been away from my job for almost three weeks, and I don't have any leave left.  And … and I've also been thinking that you and I should spend some time apart."

"Hunh," Connor replied, inelegantly mystified, incoherently hurt.  The first two reasons made sense.  That last one …  He let go of her and stepped back with a shrug, already feeling the walls inside him slamming down, those walls that kept him safe—and alone.  He'd heard this "breaking up gently" routine before, even done it himself a few times, more than a few times.  So much for having "come home."

"If that's what you want," he told her.

"It's too fast, Connor.  Too much."

And yet another wall slammed down.  The old "too much commitment" excuse.  Connor nodded once and headed for his desk, already planning the trip in his mind.  Tickets, passports, luggage, hotels …  John would want to see a castle, maybe Mont-Saint-Michel.  They'd say goodbye to Rachel before they left, then go back to Marrakesh when Sean said the therapy was done.  There was nothing to keep them in New York.

Alex caught up to him before he got past the dining room table.  "Connor!" she said and grabbed him by the shoulder to turn him around.  He stood rock-still.  "Hey!" she said, moving to stand in front of him, her eyes narrowed with anger.  "Don't you do that to me!"

Connor narrowed his own eyes and demanded: "Do what?" in return.

"Give up," she accused.  "Just walk away.  Like it's nothing.  Like you don't care at all."

"You said you wanted to go."  He shrugged.  "So go."

"I said," she enunciated, each word carefully spaced, "that I thought you and I needed some time apart, not that I wanted to leave."

"You also said it was 'too much,'" Connor accused in turn.  "'Too fast.'"

"I'm not exactly accustomed to Immortality, wild rides across the Highlands of Scotland, kidnappings, arrests, fights to the death, beheadings, and the aftermath of a Quickening, Mr. MacLeod," she retorted, with that ironic twist to his name she'd used a few times before, back when she hadn't known for sure who—or what—he was.  "And even without all of that …"  She laid one hand on his chest in a gentle plea.  "Connor … you overwhelm me.  I don't think straight around you."  She smiled then, and her eyes went smoky-blue.  "And when you touch me, I don't think at all."

"I know what you mean," Connor admitted with a smile. He laid his hand on top of hers, caressing the slim fingers with his thumb.

Alex drew in a sharp breath at his touch, but she didn't pull away and she didn't tell him to stop.  "I need that chance to think," she explained. "To make sure of what I want."

"And what do you want?" he asked her now, as once she had asked him.

"Love," she answered simply, using "that word" with a casual confidence and ease that left him helpless and stunned.  "Enough love for a lifetime.  I don't want half a marriage, Connor," she went on, and there was the other word, so casual, so right.  "I want it all, and I'm pretty sure I want it with you.  But I need to know, and that means more time, and a little breathing space for a while."

"Love for a lifetime," he repeated, seizing that hope.  "I want that, too."  He watched the way her eyes darkened further with desire, then shifted away with the realization of what his immortality meant.

"My lifetime," she said, staring at the floor.

Connor put his hand under her chin and gently lifted her face to his.  "And mine," he promised her.  "However long."  Or however short.  Not all Immortals lived forever.  "Till the end of my days."

"Talk about a big commitment," she joked nervously, and he smiled with her.  She was right.  It was.  He'd made that commitment to Heather and to Brenda, and he'd kept it, every day.  He was ready to make that commitment to Alex, too, but he knew he had to wait for her.

"You know I'm already half in love with you, Connor."

He hadn't known that, but he was damned glad to hear it.  He smiled again and said,  "Then we're both halfway there."

"Are we?" she said, smiling in surprise and delight, and her eyes searched his face once more.  "I want to learn how to love you the rest of the way, Connor, and I want the time to do it right."

"Might take a while," he warned her.  "A lifetime even."

"Good," she said and kissed him, sweet and hard.  "Write to me while you're in France, Connor, and I'll write to you.  When you and John come back, we'll see how much farther we have to go."

Back in the city, Alex picked up three weeks worth of mail and shoved it all into her bag, then headed for the grocery store, slogging through piles of black encrusted slush.  Snow never stayed white very long in New York.

Her apartment smelt stale and felt empty, even though the small room was crowded with a couch, a TV, a coffee table, a filing cabinet, an eating table and two folding chairs, and hundreds of books.  Alex left the groceries on the floor in front of the sink—it was almost as cold in the room as it was in the refrigerator—then turned up the heat and microwaved a cup of water for tea.  She leaned back against the round pillows on the couch and pulled her grandmother's flower garden quilt over her, then started flipping through the mail, tossing it into three separate piles in front of her: bills, junk, and real mail.

Underneath a bright yellow envelope which promised "Amazing Spiritual Odysseys!" and "Free Gifts!" was a real, honest-to-God personal letter, addressed to her in handwriting she had never seen before, but recognized right away.  Small and precise, with no extra flourishes or flounces—she didn't need to flip the envelope over to find the return address; the letter had to be from Connor MacLeod.  It was postmarked two days ago.

Alex shook her head even as she smiled.  He'd beaten her this time.
 

Alex was putting away her groceries when the knock sounded on her door.  "Flowers for you," the delivery woman announced, and Alex accepted the bouquet of deep purple lilacs with a bemused thank you and a generous tip.  She hadn't been sent flowers in ages.  She hadn't fallen in love in years.  The blossoms carried the scent of springtime, and the card read: "Welcome home."

~~~~~

Tommy pounced on Alex as soon as she walked through the service door of the museum on Wednesday morning.  He'd probably been sitting there and waiting for her to show up.  "So, did you find Connor MacLeod?" he asked immediately, his blue eyes bright with curiosity.

"Mm-hmm," Alex said, taking the tortuous path between the crates of artifacts and boxes of papers to reach the elevator.

Tommy's long, blue jean-clad legs kept up with her easily.  "Does he know anything about Nakano?"

Alex punched the Up button on the elevator a little too hard.  Then she looked straight at Tommy, and she lied.  "No."

Tommy nodded in disappointment.  "A dead end, huh?"

Alex watched the lights above the door move from 4 through 1 to L and onto B.  "Yeah."  The doors opened with a hiss.

"So, what's the next lead?" Tommy asked, as they walked inside the small rectangle of a room. "Do we go after that writing scratched into the rock in the cave?  'There can be only one'?"

"It probably doesn't mean anything," Alex said, lying again, because Connor's secret was her secret now.  She smiled at Tommy.  "I think it's time to move on, get back to the Austrian find."

"Move on?" he repeated, his hand stopping halfway to the control panel and his head turning so he could stare at her.  "Hunh," he said as he punched the button for the sixth floor.  "I've never seen you give up before."

Alex shrugged one shoulder.  "These last three weeks away made me realize I'll never have time enough to discover everything.  I need to focus."

"Yeah," Tommy agreed.  "Even if we could live forever, we'd probably never finish."  He grinned.  "Way too much dirt to dig."

Alex smiled back.  "Way too much."  The doors opened with another hiss, revealing an immense and shadowy room, dotted here and there with desks and work cubicles, cluttered with boxed crates of uncatalogued artifacts.  Tommy headed for his desk in the center of the room; Alex followed more slowly, breathing in the well-remembered scents of freshly-brewed coffee and ancient dust.  Each artifact in the room held age-old secrets, whispers of time in cracked shards and crumbling cloth, desiccated bone and hanks of hair.  Alex had loved the excitement of discovery, the thrill of peering at those opaque windows and glimpsing the past.  But her hands had touched a living, breathing man who had been born nearly five centuries ago, a man who had whispered words of love and passion to her while she had held him in her arms.  Dust and pottery shards couldn't begin to hold a candle to Connor MacLeod.

Alex sat at her desk and dropped her bag into the lower right-hand drawer, then selected a blue mechanical pencil from the collection of writing implements in her coffee cup next to her computer.  She ought to check her mail.  She ought to start sorting through her in-basket.  She ought to get to work.

She doodled on the edge of her desk calendar, drawing simple loops over and over, tiny connected featureless heads all in a row.

Way too much.

~~~~~

When she got home, another letter was waiting for her.  Connor must have mailed it before he'd gotten on the airplane the day before.  Alex sat right down and wrote to him again.  The next week, she got another bouquet (daffodils this time) and the first of the airmail letters, this one from the airport in France.
 

Two days later came the letter with the answer to her question about favorite colors.  "Sapphire," he'd written in a postscript. "The color of your eyes.  What's yours?"  Then came his question: "P.P.S. Cats?  Or dogs?"

That wasn't hard to answer.

"P. S.  Amethyst, like the lilacs you sent."
"P. P. S.  Horses: I love to ride.  Remember?  Then cats.  Then dogs.  You?"

~~~~~

"So, what do you two write about?" Rachel asked when they met for lunch at an Italian restaurant on a day in early March, when the snow had all melted and the rains had started to come, that gray and dreary time just before the spring.  "If you don't mind my asking."

"Oh no, not at all," Alex replied, because the more information she shared with Rachel, the more  Rachel shared with her.  "I tend to go on about books I've read or what happened at work, stuff about my family, where I grew up, that sort of thing.  Getting to know each other better."  The waiter brought their salads, leafy greens and bright tomatoes and carrots in glistening white plates.  Alex waited until he was gone before she continued, "Connor's written about his past, too, but they're more stories.  As if they had happened to someone else."

Rachel picked up a breadstick from the napkin-covered basket between them.  "He's being careful.  As always."

"Always," Alex agreed, and she sipped at her wine.  Always, ever after, forever … they meant something different now.  She set her glass down and moved on.  "Connor said he and John spent a couple of days with Duncan on his barge on the Seine."

"Duncan's love boat," Rachel said with a smile.

"So, tell me more about Duncan," Alex asked, interlacing her fingers and resting her chin on her hands, because there was quite a story here, she was sure.

"Ah, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," Rachel said, lifting her wine glass in a toast.  "He was Connor's first student, and he's about seventy-five years younger."  She smiled again and drank.  "They're quite a pair."

"A matched pair?"

"Yes.  And no."  Alex lifted an eyebrow at that, and Rachel went on to explain.  "They're both MacLeods.  They're clansmen, brothers.  In a way, Duncan is like Connor's son.  They'd die for each other.  They have.  Physically, Duncan's a bit taller and broader, darker, too.  But only in coloration.  Connor can be more grim.  And Duncan's quite the ladies' man."  Her voice dropped to a sultry tone.  "He's gorgeous."

Both eyebrows went up.  "That good?"

Rachel nodded.  "Women swoon.  I've got pictures of him at home, but just wait until you meet him."

"Does he come to New York often?"

"Oh, he used to, every few years for the shows.  Then about seven years ago, he and his lady-love, Tessa, started an antique store in Seacouver, and so I saw him and Tessa on buying trips and auctions almost twice a year.  By then, Connor was in Marrakesh with John, and I don't think Connor even met Tessa until a year and a half ago when he went to Seacouver on 'business.'"

"Business," Alex repeated, because it didn't sound as if Rachel were talking about antiques.

"Immortal business," Rachel explained.

Which meant Connor had probably been trying to chop off somebody's head.  Alex suddenly had no appetite for the pair of cherry tomatoes on her salad plate.

"I don't ask," Rachel said.  "And Connor almost never volunteers. He thinks it's easier for me, not to know."

"And is it?"

"In a way," she said slowly.  "If I don't know their names, they're not real to me.  So if Connor takes a head, it doesn't seem real, either.  But I also think he doesn't talk because it's easier for him.  He's very reserved, maybe too much so."

"Do tell," Alex murmured and speared a piece of green pepper.  "So, do you expect Tessa and Duncan on a buying trip to New York soon?"

"Oh, no," Rachel said immediately, the glass in her hand stopping in midair.  "I'm sorry, Alex, I didn't—"  She carefully placed her glass next to her plate.  "Alex … Tessa was shot and killed in a mugging, six months ago."

And what do you say to that?  "Oh," Alex managed.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't …  So, both Connor and Duncan."

"Yes," Rachel said.  "And neither Brenda nor Tessa's death had anything to do with immortality.  I can't decide if it's ironically tragic, or tragically ironic.  We forget there are other dangers beyond the Game."  She lifted her wine glass but only stared at it, until Alex lifted her own.

"To Tessa and to Brenda," Alex proposed.  "For making the men we love happy, in their own time."

"And to Heather," Rachel added.

"And to Sarah," Alex chimed in.  "And to you, Rachel.  You've made Connor happy, I know."

"And to you," Rachel said in return.  "He's doing much better now."  She grinned.  "And to a few others."

"Only a few?"

"More than a few," Rachel agreed, her smile showing dimples now.  "But good women all."

"To all the good women," Alex said, clinking her glass against that of her new-found friend.

"To them all!" Rachel echoed and they shared a long drink of wine.  "So," Rachel said, deliberately upbeat again, "what else has Connor been up to in France?"

"Sightseeing, and taking John to see Sean.  It's early yet—they've only met with Sean twice—but Connor says John's eating more, and he actually asked to go look at a castle the other day.  Connor was afraid he'd been dragging him to too many museums."

"John likes museums."

"Good," Alex said cheerfully.  "He can come visit me at work when he gets back.  I'm looking forward to seeing him when he's happier."

"Watch out," Rachel warned with a smile.  "He's a handful.  A sweet boy, but lots of energy."

"Sounds just like my brother's kids," Alex said.  "Elaine's eleven, and Jimmy's eight."

"Do they live in Pennsylvania, near your mom?"

"No, Pete met Lara while he was in college in Vermont, and they settled there."  Alex nibbled on a breadstick of her own.  "How did you and Mitzi meet?"

"We were college roommates," Rachel answered.  "A long time ago.  My husband, David, was her brother's best friend."

"But isn't Ellenstein your maiden name?" Alex asked, because Connor had told her the story of how he'd found a five-year-old Rachel Ellenstein fifty years ago.

"Yes," Rachel said.  "But David has a brother and two uncles, so there are other people to carry on their name.  I'm the last of my family.  I went back to my maiden name in '72, after the Munich Olympics."

"And the 'Miss' part of it?"

Rachel's smile showed her dimples.  "I got more dates that way."  She leaned back in her chair as the waiter refilled their water glasses, then continued with her tale.  "I moved in with my in-laws while David was in Vietnam, and after he was killed in '67, I stayed.  Danielle was born three months later.  David's parents died in the late '70s, and the house was too big for just me and Danielle.  Mitzi had just divorced her third husband, and she needed a place to stay, so she took the upstairs apartment, and we've been together ever since."

"I'd like to meet her," Alex said.  "Connor says she's a striking woman."

Rachel laughed.  "Oh, Mitzi knows how to make an impression, that's certain.  Why don't you come over for dinner next Tuesday?  I can show you the pictures of Duncan, and some of John and Connor, too."

"Oh, yes," Alex replied.  "Thank you, that would be lovely."  Alex rearranged the lettuce leaves on her plate with one tine of her fork, because as pleasant and interesting—and normal—as all this family chit-chat was, it wasn't what she really needed to know.  "What do you do, Rachel, when Connor's out fighting?"

"The same thing I did when David was in Vietnam," the older woman answered.  "Try to keep busy … and pray.  What did you do?"

"I cooked, and then I cleaned," Alex admitted with a half-embarrassed laugh.  "But he was only gone about four hours, so I didn't have time to dust everything in the loft."

"That would take a while," Rachel agreed.  "The cleaning company spends an entire day."

"Does it happen often?" Alex asked next, and she wasn't talking about the cleaning schedule.

Rachel pushed her lettuce around, too.  "It depends.  Sometimes none for years, sometimes three or four in a few months' time."

"Does he … I mean …"  Alex wasn't used to hunting for her words, but discussing Connor's sex life with his daughter was not an easy task, especially when the daughter a year older than Alex's own mom.  "What's he usually like?" Alex finally ended up with.  "After?"

"Tired," Rachel said.  "He sleeps a lot for the next few days.  He can also be very moody, very tense.  I usually try to stay out of his way for a week or so."

Alex nodded and reached for her glass.

"Brenda said he was really horny," Rachel supplied next, and Alex nearly choked on her wine.

"Um, yeah," she managed after a moment and looked up to meet Rachel's twinkling eyes.  Rachel handed her a napkin, and Alex patted at her mouth.  "He, um, said it was the fighting and the Quickening, both."

Rachel nodded, looking not at all surprised.  "He never had a girlfriend while I was with him—except for Brenda, of course—but I know he kept mistresses."

"Kept?" Alex repeated, because the phrase sounded rather quaint.

"Kept," Rachel replied succinctly.  "Set them up in an apartment, gave them money, visited them for companionship—and sex.  They'd usually last a few years, then he'd give them a tidy sum of money and find someone new.  It was more convenient than cruising the streets for prostitutes, though I know he's done that, too."

"Oh."  Alex tried to stab a crouton in her salad and ended up crushing it to bits.

Rachel reached across the table and stopped her hand.  "Connor is a very lonely man, Alex," Rachel told her.  "And he is a man."

"And they have needs," Alex replied caustically.  She'd heard that line before.

"We all do," Rachel answered.  "Could you be celibate for twenty years?  Fifty?  A hundred?"

"I'd rather not," Alex admitted with a wry smile.  "These last three seemed plenty long enough."

"You?  Three years?  The men in New York can't be that blind."

Alex shrugged uncomfortably.  "Oh, they ask, but I won't date people I work with, and I don't meet people except at work.  I don't get out much.  I met my last boyfriend at a company softball game—he was on the other team—so that was through work, too."  Alex shrugged again.  "He's long-gone, and good riddance."  She'd come back from a five-month dig in Mexico only to be informed that Gary had found himself another girl.  Not that Gary had bothered to tell her; Alex had heard it from the new girlfriend, who'd called to warn Alex off her almost-fiancé.  After that, Alex had kept herself too busy with work to bother about men … until she'd met one Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and he'd started out as a research project, too.

"I went five years after David was gone," Rachel said, "and you're right, it seemed longer.  Alex, I'm telling you this about Connor so you can understand him better.  He's been so careful, all these years, not to fall in love."

Alex knew why.  "It hurts too much," Connor had told her.  "To love—and see them die."  As he had seen Heather die, breathing her last in his arms over four centuries ago.  As he had seen Brenda die, scraped off a highway in Scotland seven years before.  As Rachel would die, and John would die, and Alex herself would die, someday.  Yet still, Connor loved.

"He kept his life separated into pieces," Rachel was saying, "and he wouldn't let anyone love him—until Brenda."

"And you," Alex pointed out.  "You were first."

"Heather was first," Rachel corrected gently.  "And she will always be first.  You need to understand that, Alex, if you're going to love him."

"I do love him," Alex said, because that had started in Scotland a month ago, when she hadn't even been sure of who he was, and she was helpless to stop it now, even though she'd been so careful, all these years, not to fall in love again.  Another matched pair, she thought wryly.  "I know there have been others," Alex said to Rachel.  "I know I have to share."

"Only the memories, Alex," Rachel reassured her.  "That's all.  Connor will be completely and utterly faithful, and he will expect the same of you."

She could do that.  She would.  But there had been somebody who hadn't.  "Who hurt him?" Alex asked suddenly.  "Who made him so unsure?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I told him I thought it would be good for us to spend some time apart, Connor simply shut down.  As if I'd said I never wanted to see him again.  That fast.  He didn't even ask, he just gave up and walked away."

Rachel was shaking her head.  "I don't know, Alex.  Getting dumped or cheated on isn't uncommon, even for us mortals.  Connor's so old; no doubt it's happened to him any number of times.  He was probably just …"

"Being careful," Alex finished for her.  "As always."

"As always."  Rachel finally took a bite of her salad, then went back to her original question.  "So, anything else in those letters?  Or is it just family history and tour guide information?"

"Oh well, we do get a little more romantic.  He sends me flowers every few days, and I've been sending them cookies.  He says he misses me, and I miss him.  Oh, and his poems are sweet."

Rachel paused with a forkful of lettuce in the air.  "Poems?"

Alex nodded.  "He said he was teaching John about haiku and metric feet and iambic pentameter and all that sort of thing.  Connor sent me one he'd written about Mont-Saint-Michel—the sunset and the waves and the sand."

"I'd love to have a copy," Rachel said.

"Of course."  Alex picked up her fork to take her first bite of salad, just as the waiter appeared with their food.  She needed more time.

~~~~~

Connor and John returned in the middle of April, and the second homecoming was even better than the first.  John was doing much better, Connor was home, spring was here, and Alex was in love.  She told Connor that, the third day after he'd come home, while they were walking hand in hand in the park and John was running on ahead to get to a tree.  "I love you, Connor," she said suddenly, out of the blue, because she needed him to know, and the words had been beating inside her for far too long.

Connor stopped walking and swung her around by the hand.  "I love you, too, Alex," he said, that easy, that fast, as if he'd merely been waiting to hear the words first from her.  That night, he unlocked the double doors to the mysterious room, and he let Alex in.

A shrine, was her first thought, as she stood in the doorway and evaluated the site: a circular space about seven meters across, a sunken floor in the center with a walkway all around, no windows, a skylight in the dome high above.  It reminded her of the Pantheon in Rome.  A museum was her next assessment; artifacts from the last four and a half centuries covered the walls.  Both guesses were right.

"It's beautiful," she told him, looking at but not daring to touch a scabbard and sword, then moving on to stand before a vase of peacock feathers.  Near it lay a leather canteen, a scrap of a canvas—perhaps a ship's sail?—and a burned cylinder of wood, just large enough to fit within a fist.  She automatically started to catalog all that she saw: the battle standards on the wall, more swords, daggers, paintings, books, porcelain from China, snowshoes, flags, carved ivory tusks, dried flowers, clothes … and the scrap of tartan from the cave of Nakano, which she had given to Connor two months before.

Connor was still standing by the doors.  "Some of it's beautiful," he said.  "Some of it's barbaric."

Alex turned to face him across the width of the room.  "Like you."

A silent snort and a quirk of a smile was his first response, followed by a slight inclination of the head and the barest hint of a bow.

John appeared in the doorway.  "Great, you opened it!"  He looked up to his father.  "Can I go in now, Dad?"

Connor put an arm around his son.  "Yeah, John.  Let's go in."  Alex met them halfway across the room.  John took down one item after another down from the wall, and late into the evening, Connor told them stories of times long ago, of battles and pirates, of travels and adventures, of swords and jewels and gold.  John fell asleep around eleven, and Connor carried him upstairs.  Alex stood in the center of the room and wondered what, if anything, Connor would choose to help him remember her.

~~~~~

After tucking John into bed, Connor stopped by his bedroom to pick up the earrings he had bought in Paris for Alex.  As he came down the stairs, he could see her standing in the center of his room, still looking.  She turned when he reached the door then came to stand before him, not touching, only her eyes gazing into his.  "I love you," she said.

"I love you, too," he replied then pulled her by the hand to sit next to him on the couch.  He took the small, square box out of his shirt pocket and offered it to her.

Alex looked at it cautiously.  "For me?"

Connor nodded, amused.

"It's not my birthday," she said, taking the velvet-covered square and holding it gingerly by the tips of her fingers.

"That's in December," Connor said, to prove that he remembered.  "The fourth."

Alex smiled and turned the box around.  She still didn't open it.  "And it's not Christmas."

"I need a reason to give you a present?"

"Yes," she said, a smiling challenge in the word and in the tilt of her head.  "What happened on this day?"

Occasionally, with mortals who knew of Immortality, Connor felt like the answer-man on a game show.  But Alex was an archeologist, after all, and history was her passion … one of her passions. He was the other one, and so he didn't mind answering her questions.  "Today," he announced, "is the one hundred nineteenth anniversary of the invention of snooker."

"Snooker.  The English game that's like pool."

"Yes.  Sir Neville Chamberlain invented it on a rainy day in India."

"And where you there, on that rainy day in India, when Sir Neville Chamberlain invented the game of snooker?"

"No, I was in San Francisco.  I didn't even hear about snooker until the 1920s, when I went back to London."

"Hmm," she said, looking him over, and Connor could tell she was adding more items to his personal timeline.  He wondered if she'd started keeping records on him, maybe with 3x5 cards, color coded and filed neatly away.

"Well, the anniversary of snooker is certainly worth celebrating," Alex said and went back to looking at the box in her hands.

Hadn't anybody ever given her a present before?  "It's not a mouse trap, Alex.  It won't bite."

"Sometimes they do," she said.  "I've been snapped at by these things."

"Here," he said, taking it back and holding it in an easy, practiced grip.  Not that he gave women jewelry all that often, but a lot of jewelry boxes made their way in and out of the antique store.  He opened the box for her and tilted it so she that could see.  As he did so, Connor watched her eyes.  They widened and blinked in surprise, the thick dark lashes sweeping over the dusky blue.  Her lips parted, and he saw more than heard the nearly soundless intake of air that Connor had long ago labeled "the breath of awe."  Once a customer made that gasp, only lack of money stopped the sale.

"They're lovely," she said, still not touching, only looking.  "How old—?"

"You are such an archeologist," he told her fondly.

Alex looked up at him and smiled.  "And you are the most exciting find of my life."

"And are you done with your excavation?"

She shook her head.  "Pickaxes are too hasty."

"I'll say," Connor muttered.

"I may need to use the small, delicate paintbrushes to uncover everything—in certain areas."

"In certain areas," Connor repeated.  Paintbrushes sounded a lot better than pickaxes, especially small, delicate brushes, especially in certain areas.  What other tools did archeologists use?  Flowing water?  Blowers?  Or just a simple puff of air from between pursed lips?

"So how old?" she asked again, and when Connor looked at her blankly, still thinking of various tools of discovery, she motioned to the jewelry box in his hand.  "How old are the earrings?"

"Uh, Edwardian," he said.  "Less than a century.  The stones are black opals from Australia."

"They look green to me."  She finally touched his gift to her, taking an earring from the box and holding it up to the light.  Rainbows shimmered inside the facets of the teardrop-shaped stone.  "And there's blue and red and yellow in them, too," she said and lifted the other to compare.

"For opals, black just means something darker than white," he told her.  "The rainbows are brighter, too, not pastels.  Those are diamonds at the top of the gold setting."

"They're lovely," she said again, and she laid one back in the box.

"Put them on," he urged.

Her laugh was soft with embarrassment.  "I don't usually wear jewelry."

"You should," he said seriously.

Alex glanced up, startled and shy.  "I don't …"  She picked up the earring again, her teeth worrying her lower lip.  "Connor … I don't know what to wear.  Jewelry or clothes.  I buy all my clothes out of a catalog, because it's easier.  I never know what to pick."

"I do," he said firmly.  He'd spent a lot of time imagining Alex in clothes beyond what was apparently trendy among the archeologist set, which seemed to be mostly mud-brown or stone-gray pants, with baggy sweaters or flannel shirts.  That made sense for working in the field or handling dusty objects, but Alex seemed to be conservative in her choice of colors and styles, even in her other clothes.  Connor wanted to see her shine.  "I'll buy your clothes."

"You will?"

"Sure.  I'll go shopping with you, too."

If his earlier statement had surprised her, this one left her speechless.  "You'll go shopping with me?" she managed.

"I like watching you get undressed," Connor said.  "And if you need help, I'll be glad to oblige."  His fingers traveled along her arm to the buttons on her cuff, and then to other buttons in other places.

"But what about the earrings?" Alex asked, when all the buttons were undone.

"After everything else comes off," Connor said, and he was true to his word.

"I love you," she told him later when they lay curled side by side upstairs in bed.  "And I love the earrings.  Thank you.  They're beautiful."

"When I saw them in that shop in Paris, I thought of you," Connor told her.

Alex smiled but ducked her head at the compliment and then changed the subject.  "Have you lived in Paris?"

Connor grimaced.  "I lived in the Bastille during the French Revolution.  A happier stay after the American Civil War."

Alex nodded toward the painting on the far wall.  "Is that when you got the seascape by Berthe Morisot?"

"Mmm."

Alex lifted her head and propped her cheek on her hand, looking at him from very close range.  "Did you know her?"

Connor managed not to smile.  Another file card was obviously being planned.  "Mmm-hmm."  Alex waited.  Connor relented.  "Her match-making relatives introduced us, hoping to get the girl settled in a 'proper married life.'  I bought her seascape instead."

Alex studied him a moment more then rolled over and leaned back on both elbows, now gazing at the picture across the room.  "There's another one by her in the dining room," Alex said.  "The one of a woman by a stream."

"Amanda modeled for that," Connor said, smiling as he remembered how Amanda had helped Berthe foil all the matchmakers' plans.

Alex was back to studying him, lying on her side again.  "Was Amanda someone else you 'loved very much'?  Like Sarah in the painting by your desk downstairs?"

"No," he said immediately, kicking himself for introducing Amanda to Alex in that way.  "No, Amanda's a friend.  She knew I liked Morisot's work, so she posed for the painting and then gave it to me."

"Is?" Alex repeated, catching that tiny word.  "She's an Immortal?"

Connor nodded.  "She's with Duncan, off and on.  You might meet her someday."  Alex went silent, and Connor didn't like the sound.  He rolled onto his side to face her across the pillow.

"Do you have an Immortal lover?" she asked.  "Off and on?"

Damn.  And yet another awkward thing to say.  "No," he said, understanding exactly why she had asked.  Ghosts of former wives and lovers were enough to contend with.  "There's no one but you."

"Now," she said bluntly, for the specters of future wives and lovers haunted them, too.

"That's all the time any of us has, Alex.  We live now.  We love now."  Connor reached for her hand, hoping "now" would last longer than it had with Brenda, and that it wouldn't end the same way.  Or any of a hundred other ways that Connor would rather not imagine.  If Alex was going to be living with the Game, she would need lessons in fighting—and soon.

But not tonight.  Connor brought her hand to his cheek and held it there, closing his eyes before he placed a kiss at the base of her palm.  Alex's fingers stroked the side of his face.  "I love you," he told her again, delighting in the freedom of those words.

Alex kissed him and nestled close.  "I love you, too, Connor."  They spoke then, of little things, of the commonplaces of their days, an easy sharing of their lives.  The "goodnight, my love"s came easily, too. They fell asleep in each other's arms, and they woke the same way.

~~~~~

Alex had just sat down with her second cup of morning coffee when Connor informed her, "You need to know how to protect yourself.  There are other Immortals besides Kane."

"I just completed a self-defense class," Alex informed him in turn.  "While you and John were gone."  She'd gone back to the Westside shooting range, too, and started using her gun again.  Alex smiled to herself at the flicker of surprise in his eyes, and the even more gratifying flash of admiration.

But all Connor said was: "Good.  Then you can start practicing with me."

Connor's idea of practicing included sharp and deadly objects and all-out war.  "Don't hold back," he told her in the brick-walled exercise room in his basement, a depressing dungeon of a place, for all its white paint and bright lights and gleaming silver weights along the wall.  "You can't hurt me."

"I don't want to hurt you," Alex told him, the wooden staff he had given to her feeling awkward and heavy in her hands.

"Pretend it's not me," Connor said, and when he came at her, eyes cold and face unreadable, he didn't seem anything like the man she loved and thought she knew.  Alex backed up, swallowing hard.  "Retreat is a good tactic," he told her, "but not always.  You need to know how to attack, too."  He circled to her right, crouching slightly, his hands held out a little in front of him, his eyes still cold.  "So, attack!"

She didn't.

Connor straightened, looked at her for a moment, then walked over to the wall and picked up a staff of his own.  "Let's try this," he suggested.  "You hit my staff, I hit yours."

That wasn't so bad.  Alex actually had a good time, smacking away.  When they had finished the workout, they made good use of the exercise mats on the floor.  "How about the sit-up board?" Alex suggested next, and Connor grinned.  That turned out even better.

Two days later, John joined them in the dojo.  Connor handed each of them a baseball bat.  John started taking wildly enthusiastic swings; Alex dangled her bat dubiously between finger and thumb.  "Connor—"

He shrugged.  "Use whatever comes to hand."

So, over the few weeks, they did.  Bats, staffs, wire cables, two-by-fours, a brick, her shoulder bag, his belt—the weapons collection looked more like a trash heap, but she learned a lot.  John did, too, though he thought of it purely as fun, and wanted to do more.

"Hey look, Alex!" John said one day, as Alex arrived at the loft after work.  He leapt into the air and twirled, his sparkling white and carefully ironed karate uniform swirling with him.  John landed and kicked out with one foot, his hands chopping at the air.  "Isn't this great?"

"Very snazzy," Alex agreed, setting her bag on the top shelf of the Japanese stepped chest which was tucked underneath the stairs.

"Dad signed me up for karate classes!"

"Great!"

Connor joined her near the door and gave her a kiss.  "You interested in taking karate, Alex?"

"Sure," Alex said, after only a moment's reflection.  She'd been watching Connor practice his katas for nearly a month now, and it looked like a challenging sport.  Plus, it would give her and John a chance to spend more time together.  She started taking off her coat.

"Then let's eat," Connor advised.  "We leave in an hour."

Alex stopped unbuttoning her coat.  "You signed me up, too."  Connor shrugged his right shoulder and tilted his head in the same direction, while his eyebrows were busy zooming up and back down.  Which meant: Yes, I did, but I don't want to admit it, not in so many words.  "Don't you ever ask first?" she demanded.

Connor's gaze went past her and up to his bedroom door—and to the shower therein.  Then he looked at her with a lazy smile and laser-hot eyes.  "On occasion."

Alex suddenly felt very warm indeed.  That coat definitely needed to come off.

~~~~~

Karate turned out to be even more challenging than Alex had imagined, and it was also a lot of fun.  She and John were in a contest to see who would get a green belt first.  They practiced on each other in the exercise room in the basement, under Connor's watchful eye.

"Nice form," Connor said to her after she'd gone through the first kata required for the test.  John was in the corner kicking the punching bag.

Alex shook her head, dissatisfied with herself.  "I keep mixing up which way to turn after the kick."

Connor shook his head, too, and his eyes glowed as he looked her up and down.  "I wasn't talking about the kata."

Alex tightened the knot on her belt with a determined tug, knowing full well the action would help to emphasize her curves under the loosely fitting karate gi.  The stiff white cotton jacket and baggy trousers weren't her idea of sexy—not on a woman, anyway, though Connor in his white gi and black belt was a sight to behold—but if her wearing a gi worked for Connor, who was she to complain?  "Is that any way for a teacher to talk to a student?" she teased.

"I'm not your sensei, Alex."

"No," she agreed, drawling out the word.  "Then I'd have to bow to you."  She looked him over then, starting at his bare feet, pausing at the narrow waist so elegantly emphasized with black, pausing again at the open V of his collar, where smooth skin over taut muscles gleamed slightly with sweat, then watching the steady pulse in the hollow of his throat.  She finally reached his eyes.  "Though that could be interesting—on occasion."

Connor cleared his throat and started to speak, but just then, John called from across the room. "Hey, Dad!  Can you show me that back kick again?"

"We'll, um, finish this later?" Connor suggested.

Alex nodded and bowed to Connor, a deep and formal bow.  Connor bowed back in the same way, adding a quick eyebrow shrug and an even quicker grin before he went across the room to help his son.

Later that evening, while John was upstairs taking a shower and Alex and Connor were sharing a bottle of wine, she asked, "How far are we going with this training?  I'm not likely to win a fight against an Immortal."

"I don't want you to even try," Connor replied.  "But if someone comes after you, he won't be expecting you to attack.  So you hit hard, you hit fast, and if you can, aim to kill.  Then run like hell."

"But what if he's not an Immortal?"

Connor drained what was left in his glass.  "Then you only have to kill him once."

~~~~~

"Who's the dude?" Tommy asked at work on a Monday morning near the end of May, after Connor had dropped Alex off in front of the museum and driven away in his silver Porsche.

"A friend."

"Uh-huh."  Tommy hoisted his bike in one hand and followed her up the wide granite steps and into the elevator.  His neon orange T-shirt was patched damp with sweat from his morning ride and the heat of the day, and his jeans shone white at the knees.  But he wasn't a kid, not anymore.  Alex realized that as he stared at her with bright blue eyes.

"He the reason you don't work late anymore?"

Alex tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  "You're the one who kept telling me I should get out more."  She punched the button for the sixth floor.

"Yeah," he admitted grudgingly.

It wasn't jealousy, Alex was sure.  Tommy Maclure had been her first student-intern, a bright college kid with a mop of curly brown hair, a passion for historical re-enacting, and a storehouse of horrible puns.  After he'd graduated, she'd asked for him by name.  They worked together all day and played racquetball at dinner time, then went back to the job, sharing pizzas and Chinese food at their desks.  A good friend, she would say, probably the best friend she had, her younger brother in a way.

Her very protective younger brother.  "What's his name?"

A reasonable question, a fair question.  A simple question that should have a simple answer.  But for Immortals, that wasn't always true.  "Connor," Alex finally answered, figuring it was easier to explain later as a middle name or something if Tommy ever met Connor under one of his other names.

Tommy hadn't missed her hesitation.  "Uh-huh."  The elevators doors opened, and they stepped out into the echoing space.  Tommy stopped halfway to their desks.  "Hey, not the Connor MacLeod you were looking for about that Nakano legend?"

"Actually, yes," Alex replied and she kept on walking.  "That Connor MacLeod."

"Huh."  Tommy leaned his bike against the side of his desk then sat down and leaned back in his chair, twirling a little from side to side and watching her.  "Back in February you said he was a dead end."

Alex managed a shrug and a smile.  "Only about Nakano," she lied, then switched on her computer and turned her back to Tommy, not wanting to get in any deeper than she already was.

Tommy's suspicions only increased after Alex invited Tommy to have lunch with her and Connor on Thursday at a Chinese restaurant.  Connor was on his best behavior, charming and friendly, but Tommy kept asking questions, and he didn't like the answers.

"So, where're you from?" Tommy started with, polite enough, reasonable enough.  The waitress poured water into their glasses, brought them tea, and left them alone.

"My family's Scottish.  I've lived in New York for a while."

"You don't sound like you're from New York.  Or from Scotland."

Connor shrugged and reached for the menu.  "Foreign schools."

"Really?  What country?"  Tommy leaned forward a little across the table.  "Or would that be countries?"

"I've traveled a lot," Connor agreed.  "How about you?"

"Only Mexico one winter, for work.  Alex and I went together.  We shared a tent."  Tommy smiled at her, cheerful and challenging.

Alex smiled back as she reached for Connor's hand.  "The facilities were primitive in the jungle," she explained.  Connor nodded, not at all perturbed.  His thumb caressed the back of her hand.

Tommy's eyes narrowed as he watched Connor's fingers wander over Sarah's ring.  Tommy went back to the interrogation.  "So, what'd you study in school?  Did you get a degree?"

"Yes, in Classics," Connor answered.  "I own an antique business, and I'm interested in history.  I hear you are, too?"

"Well, yeah.  That's why I'm an archeologist," Tommy replied, as if he were explaining how to subtract one from two.  "Where'd you go to school?"

Alex hid behind a menu and studied her choices from Column A and Column B.  It was going to be a long lunch.

It was.  Connor left as soon as the fortune cookies showed up, with a respectful nod to Tommy, and a kiss and wry shrug for her.  "He's hiding something," Tommy said darkly as they watched Connor walk away.

And, of course, he was, but—  "Not from me," Alex replied.  She had decided to trust him, and so she did.

"A marriage needs trust," her mother had often said.  "Don't be blind and don't be stupid, but pick a good man to start with, and then trust him all you can."

But Tommy didn't think Connor was a good man.  "I don't like it, Alex.  He shows up out of nowhere, sweeps you off your feet … just because he's rich and drives a fancy car—"

"It's not the money!"

"What is it then?  You've known him … what?  Two months?"

"Four."

Tommy wasn't impressed.  "There's something creepy about that guy.  I mean, he could be a con-man or a mass-murderer or something."

He was all three.  A con-man, a murderer, and something.  Immortals had to be.

"Don't be stupid, Alex," Tommy pleaded.  "Please."

"I love him," Alex declared.

"Shit," Tommy said in disgust, and he wouldn't talk to her anymore.

Her mom, thankfully, thought Connor was great.  Alex and Connor and John went to Pennsylvania for Memorial Day weekend, and Connor and Mom hit it off right away, especially when Connor kept opening doors for the ladies.  "What a sweetie!" Mom said to Alex as they sat in rocking chairs on the wide porch of the 1850s farmhouse and watched Connor and John play catch in the front yard.  "Your dad would have approved," Mom said next, and that was exactly what Alex had been hoping to hear.

Maybe, Alex thought, she should introduce Tommy to John or Rachel, so that Tommy could see how good a man Connor really was.  Or maybe Connor's charm worked better on women.  Maybe she should just keep Connor and Tommy apart for now.  Or maybe—

"How old is Connor?" Mom asked, and all of a sudden Alex had another set of worries.

Alex readjusted her ponytail.  "Um … my age.  His birthday is the first of January," Alex added, hoping the solid truth of the second statement would help to hide the flat-out lie of the first.

"Really?"  Mom took another long look.  "He, um, looks a little younger than that."

"Well, you know," Alex said, which was really saying nothing at all.

Mom rocked in silence for a moment more, sipping at her lemonade and watching as John threw the ball about eight feet outside Connor's reach.  Connor trotted past one of the two enormous black walnut trees to retrieve the ball.  "John must take after his mother," Mom observed.  "He's so dark, and Connor's so fair.  Brenda—wasn't that Connor's wife's name?"

"Um, actually, John's adopted," Alex said.  Connor threw the ball from where he stood, a long and beautiful throw, right to John's outstretched glove.  The baseball hit with the sweet, solid thwack that Alex remembered so well from her days on her high school softball team.  Alex didn't want to hide anything else.  "Connor can't have children, Mom.  He's sterile."

Mom paused in her rocking to look at Alex, then resumed with a steady, silent motion of her foot.  "And how do you feel about that?"

"Well, I …"  Alex shrugged.  "We've only been dating a couple of months, Mom, I mean—"

"Hmph!" her mother sniffed, high and amused through the nose.  "That man's totally in love with you, Alex, and you with him.  You think I don't know, the way you watch each other?  Besides, you haven't brought a boyfriend home since you moved to the city eight years ago."

Alex sniffed right back.  "I only had two."

"And neither one of them was right for you," Mom said firmly.

Of course not.  That was why Alex had picked them.  She could see that now.  Russ had been older and comfortably set in his ways; Gary had been nice enough, but a bit of a bore—and a jerk at the end.  They'd been reliable, predictable … safe.  She'd never been in any danger of losing her heart, and she'd always been the one in control.  Maybe she'd needed that after what'd happened, for a while anyway, but Connor was anything but boring or predictable.  Reliable, yes, she trusted him completely, but he certainly wasn't "safe," and Alex liked him that way.  He made her feel alive again.

"But this one …"  Mom nodded to herself then stopped rocking and asked right out, "Do you want children, Alex?"

Alex opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, and finally gave up with a sigh.  "I haven't thought about it much, Mom."

John threw the ball again, too high this time, and Connor leapt into the air to make an absolutely spectacular catch, revealing an impressively muscled torso in the process.  Mom lifted an eyebrow and hmmed to herself then started rocking again.  "Well, you'd better.  Soon."

"I will," Alex promised.

"There's always adoption, of course," Mom said, watching John now.  "And these days, artificial insemination.  You can make it work, if that's what you want."

"I'm going to," Alex said.  "But right now," she said, putting on her baseball cap, "I'm going to go play."  She slid her glove onto her hand and jumped off the porch.  "Thanks, Mom!" she called and went to join Connor and John in the game.

~~~~~

On Tuesday, it was back to the city and back to work.  Alex went to Connor's place that evening for dinner.  After John had finished eating and gone to watch TV, Connor asked Alex, "Any more lunch dates with Tommy I should put on my calendar?"

"I don't think so," Alex answered, not lifting her eyes from the newspaper crossword puzzle.  "He's really busy with the Viking ship these days."

"Uh-huh."  Connor's grunt was just as disbelieving as Tommy's had been when Alex had described Connor as "a friend."

Alex sighed and took off her reading glasses, then stuck her pen behind her ear.  Connor was already leaning back in the dining room chair, waiting.  "He doesn't trust you, Connor," Alex admitted.  "He says you're hiding something."

"Smart kid."

"He is."  She folded the arms of her glasses back and forth.  "You don't suppose I could tell—"

Connor's chair thumped to the floor.  "No."

Alex pulled out the corner of her shirt and cleaned one lens on the flannel plaid then blew the lint from the glass.  "No," she quietly agreed.

"Alex," Connor reminded her, "the police suspect me of murder, and with good reason.  A few words from Tommy—"

"I know," Alex said, and she did.  She had thought about that a lot.

"Are you going to tell your mother?" Rachel had asked over a month ago.  "Perhaps just the 'not growing old' part?"  During this past weekend at home, Alex had considered it, decided against it, decided for it, and then considered it again.  And then decided against it, at least for now.  It was bad enough that Tommy didn't like Connor; Alex didn't want to have to go against her mother, too.

"How many people have you told?" Alex asked.  "Who?"

"Heather knew," Connor said briefly, almost abruptly, the first wife mentioned only if he had no choice.  "A comrade on a battlefield, a sailor on my ship.  Rachel.  Brenda, John, and you."

"Not Sarah?" Alex asked in surprise.

"No time," came the blunt response from a man who lived forever.  "The French Revolution got in the way."

Alex nodded, remembering the tale.  Sarah had believed Connor dead, beheaded by the guillotine.  When he'd found her in England five years later, she'd married someone else, had children, created a happy home.  Connor had watched her from a distance for a few moments, and then he'd walked away.

"How have you—all of you—managed to keep it secret for so long?" Alex asked Connor.  "The lightning, the swords, the bodies?  The heads?" she added, trying to keep her voice from rising on that last word.

"Decapitation wasn't all that unusual until the last hundred years or so.  Neither were swords."

"And the lightning?"

Connor shrugged.  "An act of God or an act of witchcraft.  Nowadays, we can even blame aliens from outer space."

"And nobody's figured it out," Alex said, still unbelieving.

"Not yet."  Connor stirred his iced tea then laid his spoon down on his plate.  "Not publicly."

Alex heard the rest of that, even though Connor hadn't said it and wouldn't say it, not without encouragement—or outright prodding.  So, she offered encouragement.  "And privately?"

Connor rearranged his fork and his knife.  "There's a group of mortals; they call themselves the Watchers.  Duncan told me about them almost a year ago.  They know about Immortals and the Prize, but they keep it secret."

Time for a prod.  "And what else do they do?"

"They watch.  They watch our fights, then keep records of who wins and or who loses.  But to keep complete records, they have to watch all of us, all the time."  Connor looked up from his apparent fascination with the grain of the wood in the table.  "Which means they watch our families."

Alex nodded slowly and set her neatly-folded eyeglasses next to her plate.  "Which means they're watching me."  She pushed her chair back and stood, then wandered over to the soaring windows in the living area and stared blindly at the skyline of Manhattan, the tall, narrow buildings casting long, narrow shadows in the late evening sun.  She didn't want Watchers following her.  She didn't want Immortals stalking her.  She didn't want to have to worry about being attacked or kidnapped or killed.  She didn't want the swords or the Game or the Prize in her life.  All she wanted was Connor.

But Connor came as a package deal, and if she wanted him, she'd have to put up with the rest of it, too.  Alex turned around to see Connor still sitting at the table, watching her, waiting for her to make up her mind.  She walked back over to him and took both of his hands in her own.  "I love you, Connor."

"I love you, too, Alex," he replied steadily.  "But is that going to be enough?"

"It's everything," she whispered, and she leaned forward to kiss him.

Connor held her off by raising his hands—and hers with them—in front of his chest.  "It's not easy, Alex, living with the Game.  Not for me, and not for you."

"I know."

He shook his head, even as his fingers tightened on hers.  "No, you don't."

"So, show me," she challenged him.  Air hissed between his teeth as he shook his head again.  "I need to know," she insisted.  "Don't you like to have all available information before you make a decision?"

Connor nodded slowly, his thumb caressing the ring he'd given her to wear.  "You sure?" he asked, looking up to meet her eyes.

"Yes."

"Saturday, then," he agreed with a nod, but he didn't look happy about it.

Alex leaned forward to kiss him again, and this time Connor welcomed her into his arms. She ended up on his lap, and Connor plucked the pen from behind her ear.  "Going to finish the crossword puzzle?" Alex asked.

He set the pen on the table and traced the side of her cheek with his fingertips.  "Don't you ever think about anything but crossword puzzles?

Alex had heard this line before, and she knew her response as well.  "Do you have something better to offer?"

Connor's fingers slid up into her hair and then to the back of her neck, urging her closer.  "Yeah.  I do."

The kiss left Alex breathless, as all of Connor's kisses did, breathless and wanting more.  But—  "John's still awake," she said.  She could hear the TV from the other part of the room.

Connor shrugged.  "We'll shut the door."

"Connor …"

"I can be quiet."  He grinned, a tempting—and dangerous—challenge.  "Can you?"

She grinned back, equally tempting, and, she hoped, equally dangerous.  "I don't want to have to be quiet.  And neither do you."

"So, it's either later," Connor said equably, but then he pulled her closer and kissed her again, "or downstairs in the apartment now."

"Downstairs," she decided, getting off his lap and standing, but not letting go of his hand.  "Now."

That Saturday, Rachel took John to a baseball game.  Connor took Alex to the exercise room in the basement.  Then he handed her a knife.  "You can't really hurt me," he told her, as he had told her many times before.  "Don't be afraid to use it."  But she couldn't, not even when he attacked her from behind and then knocked her to the ground.  He kept her there, too, pinned flat and helpless, his hands like iron bands on her wrists, looking down at her with eyes of gunmetal gray.  "You'd be dead now," he told her, and his searing gaze raked over her in a way that made her feel unclean.  "Or maybe wishing you were."

Alex struggled beneath him, a sudden swerve to the right, a shove to the left, a jab with her heel.  Connor countered her every move, and she was left out of breath and as helpless as before—and angry, too.  "I am not an Immortal, Connor," she said, each word measured and precise.  "I've never chopped off anybody's head.  I've never had to stab anyone before."

"Which is why we're practicing."

"What?" she demanded.  "You want me to kill you?"

He let go of her and stood, wiping his hands on his shirt.  "You want to survive?"

Alex scrambled to her feet to face him.  "I'm not used to this," she explained.  "And I don't like it.  This fighting and killing and—"

"You think I do?" he demanded, and Alex stepped backwards, her mouth suddenly dry.  "I don't have a choice," he snarled at her.  "And if you want to be a part of my life, neither do you."

"Connor—," she began, but he was already out the door.

~~~~~

Connor swore viciously all the way up the three flights of stairs—at the Game for existing, at Alex for not taking it seriously, at Ramirez for telling him about it, and at the rules which kept him from just picking up an assault rifle and blowing away every Immortal who might ever hurt someone he loved.  Connor swore at Immortality in general, and at all the Immortals still alive, every goddamned one of them.  He swore at the dead ones, too, starting with recent kills like Kane and St. Cloud and going back through the years until he reached the early ones of Nerissa and Sinclair.

Connor swore at the heat of the day and the peeling paint on the ceiling that needed to be taken care of immediately, or pretty soon the whole damn building would be falling down around his ears … and he swore at himself most of all.

"Stupid, MacLeod," he muttered to himself as he slammed open the door to his loft then went straight to the window and stared at the alley below.  Yellowing newspapers huddled in a corner, swirled there by yesterday's winds.  A man in ragged pants and dirty shirt sat slumped against the stairs of the building across the street.  Connor turned away.  "Goddamn fucking stupid."

He poured himself a shot and downed it at one go, then poured himself another and walked to the window again.  The whisky was only half gone when Alex showed up; he heard her pause at the door and then her footsteps coming near.

"You should go," he told her, without turning around.

Alex stopped about four paces away, not too far from the base of the stairs.  "We should talk," she began.

It was already over.  It should never have even started.  He should have known.  Alex came closer, and Connor turned before she could touch him.  "You should go," he said again, keeping the words gentle, calm … dead.

"Look, Connor, I know you're upset, and I know I wasn't …"  Her hands were twisting at her rings.  "I didn't mean that I thought you liked it, either, I was just …"  She ran down into silence, and her hands went quiet, too.  "Connor?"

He'd never wanted to hear his name from her that way: uncertain, even scared.  He'd never wanted it to happen this way.  He didn't have a choice.  "This isn't going to work, Alex."

"Like you said, I need more practice. We can try aga—"

"No," Connor broke in.  "Not again.  Not anymore.  You need to leave."

"Leave," she repeated, disbelieving.

"For good."  Her good.  Her safety.  He couldn't keep her safe—he knew that, knew it all too well—and he didn't dare make her learn what she needed to know.  Because Alex wasn't an Immortal.  If he accidentally went too far or lost his temper, Alex wouldn't heal.  And—God damn it!—he didn't *want* to do this to her.  She wasn't his immortal student; she was his woman, his to protect and to cherish, not to attack and terrorize because of some fucking Game.  She deserved better.  She deserved the chance to live in peace.  "We shouldn't see each other anymore," Connor told her bluntly.

"Is that what you want?" she asked, still incredulous.

What he wanted didn't matter.  "It's best this way."

She stepped towards him, hands out, eyes pleading … beautiful and loving and warm.  "Connor, I love you."

That wouldn't matter, either, not if she were dead, and he wanted her to stay alive.  Alive and well, not turned into a killing machine such as he'd had to become.  "Leave," he ordered, and when she didn't, he went to the door and opened it for her, held it wide to give her the chance to get out of the hell that was the Game … the hell that was his life.  "Go."

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

Because I love you, Connor couldn't say.  "Get out.  Now."

She walked toward him slowly, eyes locked onto his.  The pleading was gone, replaced by anger and pride.  She stopped right in front of him, right next to that open door.  "You can tell me to leave, Connor, but you can't make me stop loving you."

Connor showed her the smile he wore when he killed—cold, vicious, and consciously cruel.  She flinched from him, this woman who was a match for him in both stubbornness and strength.  Connor hated to see that pride replaced by fear, but he had to finish what he'd begun.  "Yes, I can," he warned her.  He knew exactly how to make her hate him; he'd seen it done before—and he was doing a damningly thorough job of it now.  One more push.  "And I know I can make myself stop loving you."

The hate he'd been trolling for crept into her eyes, and a part of Connor died.  He felt nothing—now.

"You son of a bitch," she swore, softer still, and she started to take off Sarah's ring.

"Keep it," Connor said hoarsely.

Alex ignored him, just as he'd been ignoring her.  She twisted the ring off her finger and set it on the table next to the door.  "I don't need anything to remind me of you.  And I want you to remember me, Mr. Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

Then she was gone.  Connor waited until the last echoes of her footsteps had disappeared completely, leaving only silence, before he shut the door.

~~~~~

After Alex's tears of bewildered pain had given way to tears of rage, then cold fury followed by  complete numbness, and then tears of pain again, Alex went to Rachel's house.  John was still there, sitting on a kitchen stool and making criss-crosses in peanut butter cookies with a fork.  "Alex!" he said in surprise when she came into the kitchen.  "Aunt Rachel said you and Dad were going out tonight, so I got to sleep over here."

"Did he tell you that?" Alex demanded of Rachel, who was standing near the sink with a dishtowel in her hands.

"Well, no, when he asked me to keep John, I just assumed …"  Rachel gave her one swift look and set the dishtowel down.  "John, those look fine.  Would you put them in the oven now?  Why don't you play in the attic while they cook?  I'll take them out when they're ready."

"OK, sure!"  John hopped off the stool and slid the cookie tray into the oven, but then he stopped at the door, his eyes suddenly huge in a worried face.  "Is Dad OK?" he asked Alex.  "Is he … is he going to fight somebody tonight?"

"No, John," Alex said swiftly.  "No, he's not fighting with anybody."  Except with her.  "Your dad's fine."  Except for being an absolutely arrogant idiot and a cold-hearted swine.

John grinned in relief and started up the stairs, then stuck his head around the wall to look back into the kitchen.  "We're still going on Monday, right?  To the museum?"

"Yes," Alex said firmly.  She wasn't going to yank John around just because his dad was a jerk.

"Great!" John said then went running up the stairs.

Rachel wasn't so easily fooled into thinking everything was fine.  "Let's sit outside," she said, opening the door to the small garden behind her turn-of-the-century brownstone house.

Alex sat on one of the dark green wire chairs and stared at the ivy on the far wall.  "Where's Mitzi?" she asked as Rachel sat down.

"Mitzi's a wedding coordinator, and it's a Saturday night in Manhattan," Rachel reminded her.  "She always works weekends."  She leaned forward, her eyes dark with concern.  "Tell me," she urged, and Alex did.

"I wouldn't have left just because he told me to go," Alex finished, "but … he frightened me."  She shivered a little in the shade.  "He was so cold."

"He's had to be."

"I know.  But somehow, I never thought he'd be that way with me."  In the far corner, the yellowing leaves of daffodils sprawled limp and untidy on the ground.  A withered brown clump on one stalk marked where a bright yellow blossom had been.  Spring was over.  "He's pushed me away before, right at the beginning, but I thought we were past that.  I thought—"  Alex fumbled in her shoulder bag for her handkerchief as the tears welled up again.  "That son of a bitch."

"Tact is not always his strongest suit," Rachel observed wryly.

"He's an arrogant, overbearing, sexist pig," Alex declared, and Rachel didn't dispute it.  "Why didn't he want John home tonight?" Alex asked.

"Because he's probably getting exceedingly drunk right now," Rachel answered.  "After what he forced himself to do to you."

Serves him right, Alex thought.  She hoped Immortals got hangovers.  "Did he teach Brenda how to fight?" Alex asked, twisting the scrap of cloth between her hands.  "Or you?"

"Some for me, yes, but I was out of his house by the time I was twenty.  Brenda asked Connor to teach her, but I don't know how far the training went."

Alex shivered again and hugged her arms to herself.  "What do you think he's going to do to John?"

"Oh, Alex," Rachel began, but then the timer on the oven went off, and Rachel went inside.

Alex followed her; it was too cold outside.  She took John's stool at the counter and watched as Rachel set the tray of hot cookies on top of the gleaming black stove.  Alex had watched her own mother this way, many times, except Mom's kitchen was homey with a beaten-up wooden trestle table, lace-covered jelly jars, and decorated with flowers of yellow and blue.  Rachel and Mitzi's kitchen was shining and modern: white paint, black appliances, and accents of deep purple and silver chrome.  But cookies always smelled good, no matter the décor.  "What about John?" Alex asked again.  "Connor can't expect him to—"

"To what?" Rachel asked, picking up a spatula.  "Fight back?  Hit him?  Of course he can, and John won't mind.  Haven't you seen the two of them spar?"

"Yes, but—"

"Alex," Rachel said, deftly sliding the cookies off the tray and onto the counter, "Connor's your lover, not your father.  It's different."

"But Connor is your father," Alex said.  "Could you hurt him?"

Rachel set down the empty pan and the spatula, then cocked her head slightly to one side.  "Don't you want to hurt him, right now?"

She did, but …  "I don't know if I can."  She'd never killed anything (except for ticks and mosquitoes and the occasional bug), and when she'd accidentally run over a rabbit with her car, she'd felt bad about it for days.  "Not seriously.  Him, or anybody.  I mean, I think I might be able to, but …"

"Then it seems Connor was right," Rachel said, stripping the oven mitts off her hands.  "You don't belong in his life, not when he has to worry about the Game."

"Have you ever had to kill anyone, Rachel?" Alex demanded.  "Or fight off an attack?"

"This is New York City, Alex.  I had to smack a mugger about twenty years ago, and there have been many times that I was glad Connor had taught me what to do, even if I didn't have to use it.  Mostly, though, I've been lucky, and many Immortals are honorable in their own way.  They don't usually go after families."

"But sometimes …"

"Sometimes," Rachel agreed.  "If Connor's worried about that, I leave town, like my last trip to Florida.  But remember, Alex, I haven't lived with him in over thirty years.  I'm on the edge of the danger zone, not the center.  That's where you'll be, if you decide to stay with him.  Can you live like that?"

Alex reached for a cookie and cautiously nibbled on an edge, almost burning her tongue.  It still tasted good.  "I don't know," she said slowly.  "But I do know I want the chance to make the decision on my own—not have him decide it for me."

Rachel pulled up a chair.  "Then let's figure out how."

~~~~

Connor woke on Sunday morning where he'd passed out the night before—lying on the floor in front of the sofa in the living room.  The sunlight was brutal, and Connor gingerly rolled over and buried his head underneath a pillow.  He should invest in blackout curtains.  Too many damn windows in the place.  The bottle next to his hand was only half-empty, and Connor quite deliberately got drunk all over again.  It didn't help.

Late in the afternoon, he went to pick up John.  One glance at Rachel told Connor that she'd already heard and she wasn't happy about it, but he knew she wouldn't interfere.  Well, not much, anyway.

"Alex was here last night," Rachel announced as they stood in the sun-flooded living room (more goddamn sunshine) and waited for John to find his shoes and come downstairs.  "She left you this letter."  Connor tucked the plain white envelope into the back pocket of his jeans without a glance.  "You are going to read it, aren't you?" Rachel asked.

Eventually.  Probably.  Connor shrugged.

"Read it," Rachel ordered, blocking the door.  "Now.  You owe her that, at least."

Connor could have easily gotten her out of his way with one hand, but he couldn't lift a finger against her, and Rachel knew it.  He turned his back on her and pulled the letter from his pocket.  No name was on the envelope, and there was no salutation inside, either.  Not that he'd been expecting a "Dear Connor," but Alex hadn't even written his name.  No "Hello," no "Hi."  Just the message, terse and clear.
 

She hadn't signed the letter, either.  Connor folded it neatly and put it back in his pocket then turned around.  Rachel was waiting.  Connor shrugged again.  "She promised John she'd give him a tour of her museum," he explained.  "Tomorrow afternoon."  He cleared his throat.  "Would you take—"

"No," Rachel said and walked out of the room.

No interference at all.

~~~~~

On Monday, Alex was at the information desk at 1:45, just in case John and Connor were early.  She chatted with Matt, the security guard, for a while, then wandered over to the enormous brass-studded front doors.  John pushed one open a moment later, waved to her, then turned around and waved to his dad.  Through the open doorway Alex caught a glimpse of Connor waving back and then walking away.  "Coward," she whispered silently, but it didn't help.

"Hey, Alex!" John said cheerfully.  His black curls stuck out all around from under his baseball cap (worn backwards), and he was dressed in a bright red T-shirt and faded blue jeans.  Dirty sneakers completed the basic look of an All-American boy.  He was bright, enthusiastic, and inquisitive, with a whacky sense of humor and a passion for collecting rocks, and Alex had to stop herself from gathering him into her arms for a tearful—and horribly embarrassing for him—hug.

"Hey, slugger!" she greeted him, contenting herself with a pat on his shoulder that lingered into a momentary caress.  "Ready to go look at some skulls?"

"Cool!"

After seeing skulls, they looked at fire-blackened bricks from a colonial kiln, broken pottery from a Navaho site, and a few fragile wooden shards from a long-submerged pirate ship which had recently been found at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.  They visited the Viking ship next, and Tommy was great with John, letting him look at the daggers and help sort the coins.  "How'd you meet him?" Tommy asked her while John was carefully examining a silver piece with a magnifying glass.

"He's Connor's son," Alex told him.

Tommy rocked back on his feet in surprise then offered, "He's a nice kid."

Alex didn't feel up to extolling Connor's virtues just now.  "Yeah," she agreed, watching the boy she had started to think of as her son, too.  "He is."

Around four-thirty, John announced that he was hungry, so Alex bought them hotdogs from the vendor just outside the front doors.  "Doesn't the museum have a restaurant?" he asked, spreading the ketchup all the way across the bun.

Alex shuddered as she added sauerkraut to her hotdog.  "Never eat in a museum restaurant, John. They're awful."

They picked a shady spot in front of the building and ate in companionable silence, sitting on one of the stone walls that bracketed the granite stairs.  John kicked his heels against the wall.  He had finished his hotdog and was folding his shiny silver wrapping paper into a boat when he asked, "Are you staying for dinner tonight, Alex?"

"No, I—"  Alex had no idea what Connor had told John.  Apparently nothing, as of yet.  Coward, she thought again, viciously this time.  Did he honestly expect her to break the news to his son?  "I can't, John."

John nodded, carefully making a crease down the center of the paper with the back of his thumbnail.  "But we'll see you at karate tomorrow."

"Yes," Alex said.  Unless Connor had decided to switch John to another class just to hide from her.

The paper boat was finished, and John set it on the top of the stone wall, then leaned down and blew on the sail to make it move.  It danced its way across the stones, stopping only when it hit Alex in the thigh.  "My turn!" Alex said, and leaned over to blow it back.  Then John blew it back to her, and so they went, until John suggested they have a race.  He showed Alex how to fold her hot dog wrapper into a boat, then they had races all along the wall, sometimes laughing too hard to blow on the sails, sometimes colliding with each other or blowing their boats right off the wall.

"Time to go, John," she said finally, and she carefully folded the white and silver boat and placed it in her bag.

"Already?" John asked.  "I had a great time."

Alex allowed herself to give him that tearful hug now.  "So did I."

When they got to the antique shop on Hudson Street, Alex didn't just drop John off and leave.  She went with him inside.  Rachel was still at the front desk, going over the accounts.  "Connor's upstairs," she told them, and John scampered over to the elevator and opened the sliding screen door.

"Want me to give you a ride, Alex?" he asked.  "Even if you can't stay?"

John would happily ride the elevator all afternoon.  "Sure," Alex said.  "There's something I need to say to your dad."  Rachel lifted her eyebrows, and Alex gave her a nod.  Connor wasn't going to get the last word.

John ushered her into the elevator and gravely asked her which floor.  "To the top," she answered, and John pushed the button marked with the number three.

When the elevator delivered them to the walkway of the loft, John dashed out and half-ran, half-jumped down the stairs.  "Hey, Dad!" he called then stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked around.  "Are we playing today?"

"No, John," came the tired words from the couch.  "Not today."

"Oh," he said, sounding disappointed.  "OK."  John went straight to the kitchen for some food.  From her vantage point above Alex saw Connor slowly lift his head from the cushions.  Then he caught sight of her.  He stood, and Alex advanced on him, along the walkway, down the stairs, across the polished wooden floor, to the living area … never once taking her gaze from his.  Connor never moved.

She stopped about two paces away.  He looked lousy: eyes bloodshot, feet bare, shirt untucked, hair uncombed.  He smelled of whisky, and he hadn't shaved in two days.  She, at least, had had to go to work this morning, and she was glad that she had dressed with care: white slacks and a sleeveless blue shirt that was tailored to her curves.  Her hair was brushed, too.  She waited, and after a moment Connor cleared his throat.  She waited some more.  From the kitchen came the rattle of ice cubes in a glass.

"John have a good time?" Connor finally asked.

"Why don't you talk to him?"

Connor glanced down before he nodded, in that way of his that Alex had previously found endearingly shy.  Now it was just annoying.  "I'm going to," he said.  "Tonight.  I thought he'd have more fun today if— "

"If he didn't know you'd thrown me out?" Alex interrupted.  "If he didn't know he'd never see me again?"

This time, Connor looked straight at her before he nodded.  "Yeah.  We're going back to Morocco on Friday."

Alex absorbed that with a silent intake of air.  When she could speak, she asked, "Were you planning on allowing me to tell him goodbye?"

"If he wanted.  At Rachel's.  Or downstairs."

"Coward," she whispered again, but this time she said it aloud.

Connor's jaw tightened, but his words stayed calm.  "I told you: we shouldn't see each other anymore."

"Are you protecting me?" she challenged.  "Or yourself?"

Connor didn't answer that.  "It's best this way," he said again.  "You'll be safer.  You'll live."

"And what about John?" she asked, keeping her words quietly controlled.  "When are you going to throw him out of your life, so that he can be safe and stay alive?"

Connor's gaze flicked from her face to the kitchen.  "Not here," he said, the words more mouthed than spoken.  "John!" he called. "Alex and I going downstairs for a while."

"OK, Dad," came the muffled response from half-inside a cupboard.

Alex didn't wait for Connor to open the door for her this time.  She walked out on her own.  Connor quietly shut the door and paused on the landing, leaning his aching head on the wall and closing his eyes as he listened to her determined, steady footsteps on the stairs.  She deserved a better explanation; he owed her that, at least.  And he was not a coward.  Connor straightened and followed her down.  Not to the apartment or the storeroom or the office on the second floor.  Not to the antique shop on the ground floor, where Rachel was.  No, Alex led him down three flights of stairs and right to the exercise room—where this whole damn mess had begun.

Except it had begun long before that.  It had begun centuries before Alex had been born, and Connor couldn't make it go away.  He paused again at the doorway, letting her choose her ground.  Alex marched to the middle of the white-painted room, then turned to face him.  Damn, but she looked good when she was mad—and Connor had never seen her look so mad.  He breathed out slowly, releasing tension and reminding himself to stay focused and calm, remote and unfeeling … numb.  A drink would have helped, but he'd left the bottle upstairs.  Connor took another slow breath then walked partway into the room and waited.  He didn't have to wait long.

"So when?" Alex demanded again.  "When are you going to throw John out of your life?"

Connor shook his head.  "He's my son.  I can't abandon—"

"And Rachel is your daughter," Alex cut in.  "You knew the dangers when you decided to bring them into your life.  Why them, and not me?"

"It's different.  I couldn't leave; they needed me."

"So do I!"

And Connor needed her.  But he could survive alone, and then so would she.  It was best this way.  "You have a family," he explained patiently.  "They were alone.  You're an adult; they were children.  You can find someone else, build a life, be—"

"I was building a life," she told him, quiet and proud.

An immortal life was built on blood; its house was built on sand.  The wise man built on rock, and a wise woman would, too.  "You don't understand what it's like."

"I know that," Alex bit out.  "That's exactly why I asked you to show me."

And that was exactly what Connor did not want—did not dare—to do.

"I suppose you're going to tell me that Brenda understood better than I ever can?" Alex asked, and her words were clipped with rage.

"Yes," Connor retorted sharply.  "She did.  But *I* didn't have to teach her, because—"  He stopped there, cursing himself for losing control, but Alex was already nodding.

"Because someone else already had," she finished for him, and Connor turned away.  "Who?" Alex asked, her voice sounding closer than it had a moment before.

The ten-pound barbell on the weight-rack was crooked, and Connor straightened it so that it lined up with the others in the row.  "An Immortal."  Connor wiped the dust off the shining silver with the flat of his hand.  "The Kurgan."

"Are a lot of you named after tribes or after the countries you were born in?" Alex asked, more curious now than angry.

Connor almost smiled.  The inquisitive mind of an archeologist—always at work.  "Maybe half," he replied, wiping clean the twenty-pound weight and then going on to the twenty-five.  "Names change."  Eventually, of course, countries and tribes did, too, melting away as had the clans.  Scotland wasn't the Scotland he had known, and Scots were different, too.

But then, so was he.

"What happened?" Alex asked softly.

Her voice was gentle, yet even so, Connor closed his eyes and let go a silent breath of remembered, helpless rage.  But Alex had a right to know; he had to explain.  "He took her," Connor said finally, "and I wasn't there."

Alex's fingers were suddenly warm on the back of his hand, a touch meant to comfort and soothe.  "It wasn't your fault, Connor."

Connor pulled away.  "He took Heather, too," he told Alex, turning on her.  "Because of me.  Because I'm an Immortal."  The word had seldom been so bitter on his tongue.

"That's not your fault, either," Alex pointed out.

"But it's what I am," Connor nearly snarled.  "I don't have a choice.  And so—"

"And so neither do I," Alex interrupted, calm acceptance in every word.  "Because I want to be a part of your life."

"No," Connor said immediately.

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes!"

They stared at each other until Connor asked, "Anybody ever tell you that you're stubborn?"

"My father, all the time," she said, proud and almost amused.  Her ghost of a smile flickered away, and they stared at each other again, silent, immobile, stubborn as rocks.  Alex broke the silence first, with a defiant toss of her head that set her hair aswirl.  "Rachel said Brenda asked you to teach her to fight, and you taught her."

"Brenda wanted to learn how to kill," Connor said bluntly.  "You don't."

"Right now I do," Alex informed him icily, while her eyes blazed electric blue.  "You're not even giving me a chance.  How many times did Ramirez have to explain it to you?  How long until you understood what it meant to live with immortality?"

A lifetime, Connor thought, but it had really been two—Heather's first, then his.  Her death had taught him the anguish of loneliness, and after he'd left his home and his first life in the Highlands, he'd learned what it was to live to kill.

"I met you five and a half months ago," Alex continued, relentless.  "I need more time, Connor, and I need to practice.  Is that so much to ask?"

Time, he could give her, and she was right about Rachel and John being in danger, too.  That wouldn't be anything new, and living with Alex might actually work, if they got away from New York and went somewhere remote and hidden, Marrakesh maybe, or even the Highlands.  He could live there again, have his family by his side, a farm, some horses, a dog.  Except—  Connor shook himself free from that dream.

"I won't teach you," he said flatly.  He'd gone that route before, as both teacher and student, and it was brutal either way.

Alex nodded.  "Because you know you can't be tough enough on me."

She didn't understand at all.  "No," Connor told her, forcing out the word, because she needed to know this, too.  "Because I know I can."

~~~~~

Alex caught up to Connor at the door to the loft.  She'd been standing in the exercise room, trying to make sense of that last charming bit of information when Connor had abruptly announced he was going to check on John and then headed for the stairs.  Alex had followed, because she wasn't about to let Connor get away now.  A note from Rachel was waiting on the door.
 

Connor muttered something which sounded suspiciously like "damn business" as he pulled the note down and crumpled it in his hand.  Alex silently cheered her partner on, then prepared herself for another round.  She wasn't done yet.

She walked right past Connor and let herself into the loft.  She wasn't going to let him throw her out this time.  "Iced tea?" she asked, heading for the kitchen as confidently as if it were her own home.  It practically had been for these last two and a half months.

Connor's voice was halfway between a growl and a sigh.  "Alex—"

"One sugar, I know," she said cheerfully and got down the tall, frosted blue glasses from the cupboard near the sink.  She liked her iced tea plain.  She fixed the drinks, carried them into the sunken living area, and set his on the coffee table.  Then she planted herself on the couch, with her feet propped up on the table and her drink in her hand, ready to sit there the rest of the evening—and all night, too.

Three minutes later, Connor sat down, but not next to her, not even on the same couch.  Connor chose to sit on the set of two stairs at the entry to the living area, and he didn't touch his glass of iced tea.  They sat in silence, watching.

"Don't use tears," Rachel had advised two days before.  "He'll take that as a weakness, and you need to show him that you're strong."

Strong and stubborn—and patient, too.  Alex waited until her tea was nearly half gone.  "So, Connor," she asked casually, "what if I find someone else to teach me—or if you find someone else to teach me?  Would that work?"

"Maybe," he grudgingly allowed.

"How about Duncan?"

"No," Connor said with a quick shake of his head.  His thumb repeatedly flattened a crease in his jeans near the knee.  "He and Richie just left Paris for a grand tour of Europe."

"Do you know someone in New York who could teach me how to fight?"

Connor shrugged one shoulder.  "Maybe Ben, at the karate center.  Or Mark.  They're both good."

"So, you'll set that up?" Alex prodded, and at Connor's slow nod, Alex relaxed against the couch and went back to studying her man.  That had been an easy, logical solution to a problem that had made Connor toss her out the door.  Too easy.  Something else was going on here.

"You should learn how to use a gun," Connor told her next, before she could start digging for the truth.

"I know how to use a gun, Connor.  I grew up in deer-hunting country.  My dad took me and Pete with him every fall since we were ten."

"When was the last time you used one?"

"Yesterday," she informed him, with more than a trace of smugness.  She'd gone to the shooting range and given in to her overwhelming urge to blow things away.  Not that she'd managed to score very well, or even hit the target at first; she'd been too angry to see straight, let alone shoot straight.  But she wasn't so angry now.  "He loves you so much that he's trying to protect you, even if it means ripping out his own heart," Rachel had said, and that had eased Alex's mind.  "That's why he pushed you away so hard; he knew he could never bear to do it twice.  Once you get into his loft, you're more than halfway there."  Alex had gotten into his loft easily enough, but the rest of the course was still uphill.

"You ever kill anything?" he asked pointedly.

"No," she said, remembering the cold dampness of those hunting trips, the gray dawns that flowed into gray autumn days, and the long numbing hours of waiting made worthwhile by the sharp and sudden sight of a deer, stepping high-hoofed and lordly on faded fallen leaves.  Dad had always brought home a single deer, for the meat and to keep down the herd, he'd explained.  After Pete had killed a buck in his junior year, he hadn't wanted to go hunting again.  Alex had never even pointed her gun; the stags were too beautiful to kill, and they meant her no harm.  "We had no need."

"And if there were need?"

She set down her glass; her fingers were going numb from the chill.  "I don't know—yet.  That's what I'm supposed to find out."  Alex challenged him with a determined stare.  "Right?"

"Right," he agreed, but his hand was still trying to smooth out the wrinkles, and his eyes hadn't been able to linger on hers.

Time for approach number two.  Alex rose from the couch and went to him, sitting down on the stairs by his side, but not touching, not yet.  "Don't take him to bed until you've gotten all the talking done," Rachel had cautioned, sounding just like a mother warning her child:  No dessert unless you've eaten all your vegetables first.

Onto the Brussels sprouts.  "Who were you trying to protect the other day, Connor?"  Alex asked.  "Me?  Or yourself?"  He didn't answer, so Alex zeroed in on what he'd said downstairs.  "Or are you protecting me from you?"  His fingers went still abruptly, and Alex knew she'd found the truth.  Those other Immortals weren't his only concern, maybe not even his main one.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, staring at his hands.

"Too late," she tossed back at him and reminded herself fiercely: no tears.  But that went both ways.  Connor had hunched into himself at her words, head down and face averted, almost like a small embarrassed child awaiting punishment, and Alex knew she had to stop right here.  "Connor will face any kind of physical danger or pain," Rachel had counseled, "but he's not exactly open about sharing his feelings, and he doesn't find it easy to admit he's wrong.  Don't press him too hard; he'll just shut down."  Alex hadn't come this far with him to indulge in guilt-bashing, no matter how deserved it was.

She'd get to that part later.  First, she needed to reassure him before he shut her out again.  Alex reached for his hand, and this time, Connor let her take it.  Their fingers intertwined, a strong and desperate grip.  He rubbed his thumb over Alex's palm, along her fingers, then turned her hand over within his own.  The skin on her fourth finger showed a pale, indented circle where Sarah's ring had been, and Connor traced the line with his thumb, then kissed it, an unspoken apology that made Alex blink away tears again and lean against his side.  Connor put his arm around her shoulders, and they sat in silence for a time.

"It could have been a lot worse, Alex," Connor said, holding tight to her hand.  He looked up, finally meeting her eyes.  "It still might be."

"If you don't want to hurt me," she answered, "then don't."

A half-snort, half-smile was his first response.  "That simple, eh?"

"It can be."

He turned his head and stared out the window, but Alex knew he wasn't seeing the skyline of New York.  He was looking back in time.  "I hated Ramirez, you know.  And Duncan hated me."  The half-smile reappeared as he turned at her.  "And I'm sure Richie's hated Duncan.  The lessons are hard, so the teachers have to be hard, too."  He went back to staring at the floor and caressing her hand.  "I don't want that between us."

Neither did she.  "I'm not an Immortal, Connor," she reminded him.  "I'm not your student, and I don't want you as my teacher."  She moved to kneel in front of him then lifted his hand and kissed the back of his first finger, just above the knuckle, all the while looking into his eyes.  "I want you as my friend."  She kissed the next finger.  "As my partner."  Another kiss, another finger.  "As my lover."  She kissed his little finger, where Sarah's ring had been.  "And, I think, as my husband someday," she finished, and in the late slanting sunlight, Connor's eyes gleamed with gold.  "When both of us are sure."

"God, Alex," he said, the words almost a groan, and he leaned forward to kiss her.

Alex kissed him back, but she didn't let it get very far.  His hair was too short to get a good grip on, so she took hold of both his ears.  "Hey, MacLeod," she said firmly, "listen good."

That got her another one of Connor's snorts mixed with a grin.  "Do I have a choice?"

"Not if you want me to stay," Alex answered without a hint of a smile, and Connor sobered instantly.  "You can sign me up for karate classes without asking," she told him.  "You can take the driver's seat every time we get in a car.  I'll even let you order for me at restaurants.  But you do *not* decide when I should leave you, and you are to *talk* to me when something is wrong, not shut me out.  Promise?"

He glanced down and then up, endearingly shy.  "I promise."

Alex tightened her grip on his ears.  "No lies between us, Connor," she reminded him.  "And don't you ever—" and she gave his head a shake, taking savage delight in his minute wince of pain "—do that to me again.  Got it?"

"Got it," he agreed, and Alex let go.  This time when Connor leaned forward to kiss her, she didn't stop him or hold anything back.  A few minutes later, he stood up.  "Where are you going?" she asked in surprise.

Connor scooped her up in his arms.  "I'm taking you to bed," he said and started walking.  He stopped halfway to the stairs.  "If, that is, you don't mind?"

"Not at all," Alex said, winding her arms around his neck.

"Good," Connor said, walking again.  He climbed the stairs steadily, if a bit more slowly than he did with John; Alex outweighed the boy by at least fifty pounds.  She was a good armful in several different ways.  Connor paused at the doorway to his bedroom, but not to catch his breath.  "I love you, Alex," he told her at this threshold of his life.

"I love you, too, Connor," she answered, and he carried her to his bed … their bed now.  He would make it so.

"I love you," Connor told her again when he lowered her to the blankets, before he kissed her, as he undressed her, while he caressed her, using words and touch and everything he had to convince her of that truth, in spite of what he'd done.  "I love you," he said, poised above her, waiting for her to be sure.

"Oh, Connor," Alex whispered.  "Come to me, my love," she said, pulling him closer.  "Come home."

~~~~~

"I love you," he said again later, when they woke to a darkness spangled with thousands of distant city lights.

She lifted her head from his shoulder and kissed the tip of his nose.  "I love you, too, Connor."

Connor once again silently thanked God for this chance to try again, and he blessed Alex for not giving up on him.  Connor tightened one arm around her, while the other hand slowly traced the curve of her side, first with his palm, with his fingers splayed and then together again, with the back of his hand, with his fingertips, and then only with his thumb, feeling the firm edge of rib bone under silken skin, the resilient muscles at her waist, the softness of hip further down.  He used all his senses to memorize the shape and the scent and the warmth of her, savoring this moment, hoping to save it forever in his mind.

"I want this to work between us, you know," she said, lifting her head again, this time to look at him.  Her eyes looked black in the dimness, her golden hair was a soft halo of white.  "I want to be with you.  I want to make you happy."

Connor closed his eyes at her voice, so hopeful, so young.  "You already do, Alex."  Connor took her with him as he rolled, and he tangled both his hands in her hair before he kissed her, tasting the sweetness there.  "And I want this to work, too."

"As long as you give us a chance," she warned.

"I will," he promised.  "I want you to be my wife, you know that, but if—"

"Connor, I—"

He silenced her with another kiss.  "If you decide the Game is more than you can handle," he said, "I'll understand."

"And if *you* decide the Game is more than I can handle?  Or if it's too hard for you to have to worry about me?"

"Alex—"

This time she silenced him, pulling his head down to hers for another kiss.  "We both have to agree for this to work.  Right?"

Connor smoothed the hair back from her forehead.  "Right."  He combed the silky arches of her eyebrows with his thumbs, hunting for the words.  "I will protect you," he vowed.  "With my body, with my life.  No matter what.  That part of worrying about you I can handle.  I do it with John and Rachel every day.  But the Game's not easy, and if you find you resent living with it, and then start to resent—or to hate—me …"  He'd seen love turn into hate before.  "I can't bear that.  I'd rather ask you to leave."

She nodded.  "I understand.  And I like that 'Ask, don't tell' part."

Connor chuckled.  "I thought you might."  He reached for and found her hand then held it tightly within his own.  His fingers touched the bareness where the ring had been, and he cursed himself again for being such a fool.  He could have found another way to explain it and not hurt her so badly.  He should taken more time, tried to—

Face it, MacLeod, he told himself savagely.  You panicked and flailed about like a drowning man.  But, damn it, he hadn't want to hurt her, and he'd been so close to losing his temper in the exercise room downstairs.  He'd had to get away, and he'd had to get her away, too.

Even so …  "I'm sorry, Alex."

"I know.  I can tell," she said, and even in the dimness he could see her gentle smile.  "But thank you for saying it, Connor.  It means a lot to me."

It meant a lot to him, to be able to say it.  "Thanks for listening."

"Any time," she said seriously.  "I think maybe you've been silent for too long."

That was for damn sure.  "The Game's not easy to live with," he warned Alex again.  "And neither am I."

Her smile reappeared.  "You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."  Connor reached down to straighten the sheet where it had twisted around their feet, and they got comfortable again, Connor on his back and Alex close against his side, holding hands.  "Brenda and I … we got married kind of fast," Connor explained, trying not to be so silent anymore.  "Three months later, we were vacationing in Spain and met an Immortal.  She … I wasn't …  Well, afterwards Brenda and I talked about getting a divorce."  Alex said nothing, but her hand tightened on his.  Connor hurried to finish.  "We talked it out and instead, she asked me to teach her how to fight.  But …"

"I know," Alex said.  "She was motivated, in a way I'm not.  Look, Connor, I wouldn't try to run a marathon without doing any training for it, and it takes dedication; I know."

"You run marathons?"  He'd started running NYC marathons back in the early 1970s, when the entry fee had been a whole dollar, and fewer than a hundred people had shown up to run.  He hadn't run one in the last decade, though, even when he'd been back in New York—too crowded.

Her nose wrinkled in distaste.  "I ran one.  It was enough; I prefer 5Ks.  But the marathon I'm talking about running with you lasts a lifetime, Connor, not half a day, so I need training, and I need …"

"… to be sure," he finished for her.

"Yes."

Once again, Connor's fingers were searching in vain for the ring on Alex's right hand.  "Alex …" He leaned over the side of the bed and fished his jeans up off the floor, then searched the front pocket for the ring—not Sarah's ring any longer, but Alex's now, at least he hoped it would be.  "I'm sure I want this to work for us," he told her, sitting up in bed and offering the ring to her on the palm of his hand.  "Would you wear this again?  Please?"

"Oh, Connor," she said, biting her lip and looking as if she were about to cry.  "I'm sure of you," she said.  "It's just the Game that I …"

"I know."

Her eyes searched his, but for only a moment, and then she held out her hand.  "Yes."

Connor slid the ring onto her finger, then kissed each knuckle, one by one.  "I love you, Alex."

"And I love you," she answered, and Connor hoped to God that love would be enough, because these next months were going to be hell.

Part 4 GHOSTS

Alex left for work early the next morning, and since Rachel had decided to take that unscheduled vacation with John, Connor spent his day working in the antique store.  In the morning, he finished the end-of-the-month bookkeeping and sorted a new delivery of silver.  At lunchtime, he made a nicely profitable sale.  The middle-aged couple had planned to buy dining room furniture, and after Connor had helped them select the mahogany table, chairs, and sideboard, he took up the challenge of convincing them they also needed an Empire divan to complete the room.  As usual, one was persuaded before the other, and then Connor stepped back to let the pair work it out between themselves.

"I don't know, Bret," the taller of the two said, shaking his head.

"Feel this, Greg," the blond one replied, running his palm along the stripes of champagne and forest green.

"Silk," Connor put in, but said nothing more.  Greg was already fingering the fringe of tassels on the cylindrical pillow.

"It would be perfect in front of the window," Bret said.

Greg slowly let go then stepped back to look at the divan again.  "We'd need new drapes."

"Of course," Bret agreed.

Greg walked around the piece, his hand following the asymmetric curve of the back.  "Let's do it," he said, and with that, the deal was done.  Connor arranged for the delivery that afternoon.

Alex called twenty minutes after Greg and Bret had left.  "Dinner?" she suggested. "My place, a quarter to six?"

"You cooking?" Connor asked in surprise. Except for that first meal back in January and frequent batches of cookies, Alex had been content to leave all the cooking to him.

"Not unless you want microwaved hotdogs and curly noodles in a Styrofoam cup," Alex said.

"I don't think so."

"Me, either.  Karate's tonight, so I was going to pick up some food on the way home.  Since my place is closer to the karate center, and John's away ..."

"Yeah, good idea," Connor agreed.  Alex hadn't spent much time at her place these last couple of months; her entire apartment could easily have been tucked into a corner of his loft, and John was happier when he had room to run—or climb.  A change of location might be good.

"Thai food OK?" Alex asked.

"Great," Connor said, smiling.  "I like it hot."

"I know," she said, the words husky and low.  "So do I."

"I know," Connor replied, in just the same way.  "Five forty-five."

"Just for dinner," she reminded him, a teasing note to her words.  "We have to be at karate by seven-thirty."

"We'll be done by nine.  After that …"

"After that, I like it hot—and cold," she said, an invitation to the imagination that kept Connor pleasantly daydreaming for the rest of the afternoon.

~~~~~

Alex got home at 5:27.  She set the bag on the kitchen counter and then transferred the food from its plastic and cardboard containers into real serving dishes.  If she was going to invite her boyfriend over for dinner and not even cook, she might as well make it look good.  Which meant …

Alex turned around and surveyed her kitchen-living-dining room.  Damn.  Not enough time to dust, but at least light oak furniture didn't show the dust as badly as dark cherry or walnut would have.  She'd vacuumed this weekend, and she hadn't been home enough lately to leave things *too* cluttered or to mess up the kitchen.  The Thai food went into the oven to keep it warm; then she swept all the papers and magazines off the coffee table and into a grocery bag and hid the bag in her bedroom closet.  Damn.  Her bedroom.  All the clothes lying about went into the closet, too.  She yanked the sheets and coverlet straight on her bed then tossed the pillows toward the wooden bars of the headboard.

The alarm clock on her dresser shone a bright red 5:41.  Four minutes until the knock on the door—Connor was never late.  Damn!  The bathroom.  Two minutes later, the towels were neatly hanging, the sink and toilet were at least not disgusting, and Alex had another bag to hide in her closet.  She set a folded blanket over the whole jumbled mess on the floor of her closet and leaned on the door until the latch clicked tight.

One minute until Connor was due to arrive.  Alex ran a brush through her hair, straightened her shirt, and strolled to the kitchen area to make dinner.  Water on the stove for the tea, a quick stirring of the food for even heating—now to set out the dishes.  The coffee table instead of the kitchen table, she decided, with her Japanese dishes for an oriental touch.  Cushions on top of the pale blue rug to sit on, then for the table: rice bowls and square plates, soup spoons and chopsticks, tea cups and water glasses—large ones with plenty of ice.  She and Connor were going to need them.

Speaking of Connor …  Alex suddenly realized it was 5:51, and Connor hadn't shown up.  She walked over to the window on the wall opposite the kitchen and looked down to the street four stories below.  He wasn't in sight.  "Don't be silly," Alex chided herself.  Just because Connor had never been late before …  This was New York City, anything could happen: gridlock, a marching band, a traffic accident …

A beheading.

"Don't be silly," she told herself again, turning away from the view.  She straightened the books on the pair of tall, wooden bookshelves that flanked the narrow window.  The tea kettle whistled, and Alex poured the water into the tea pot.  She picked up a rag and started to dust while the clock ticked away the three minutes for the brewing of the tea.  She had finished dusting the TV cabinet and two of the four bookshelves behind the couch when the knock finally came, two minutes before six o'clock.

"Busy streets," Connor explained with an apologetic grin and lightning flash of eyebrows when she opened the door.

"That's New York," Alex replied lightly, and she didn't clutch or cling to him when they kissed.  From behind his back he produced a colorful bouquet of mixed flowers. "They're beautiful," she said, admiring the white fluff of Queen Anne's Lace and the blue flags of chicory, the bright yellow daisies and the purple cone flowers.

"Like you," he said and kissed her again.  Alex went to fill a vase with water while Connor wandered over to the table.  "Looks good," he said and sniffed the air appreciatively.  "Smells good, too."

"We should get started," Alex said, setting the flowers on the kitchen table that looked more like a shelf, folded as flat as it could be and pushed up against the wall.  Connor's loft held a banquet table that could easily seat sixteen, and he had real chairs, not folding ones that stacked behind the door.  She could get used to living that way.  But for now …  "Help me bring over the food?" she said.

"I thought you were making *me* dinner," Connor objected.

Alex threw a pair of potholders at his head, then got a pair of her own and carried the hot dish of rice over to the table.  Connor, potholders in hand, followed with the appetizer and the soup, and Alex brought over the curry dish.  "Where are Duncan and Richie off to?" she asked, ladling chicken and coconut cream soup into her bowl.

Connor shrugged and loaded up his plate with rice and curry.  "Whither the wind.  I told Duncan to send John postcards for his collection; I got one this morning from Marseilles.  Apparently Richie really liked the Count of Monte Cristo's tunnel in the Chateau d'If."

"They actually put a tunnel in?  Because of the book?"

Connor lifted an eyebrow.  "For tourists?  Anything."

"Well, that's a victory of imagination over dull reality."  Alex reached for a prawn cracker and watched Connor's face as he took a bite of his food.  He blinked twice and his nostrils flared.  The tips of his ears turned pink, and he cautiously inhaled air through clenched teeth.  "Good?" she asked innocently.

He nodded and ate a chopstick-full of rice before slurping an ice cube out of his water glass.  "What is it?" he asked, the words garbled around the ice.

"It's called jungle curry: vegetables and chicken, extra hot."  She put a large helping on her own plate and took a bite.  Her eyes watered and the inside of her nose burned.  Alex fetched a box of tissues from the bathroom.  She sat down and tried another bite then hastily ate plain rice.

"Try the soup next," Connor suggested.  His own bowl was nearly half empty.

The creamy coconut helped a lot, and with that rhythm—curry, rice, soup—she and Connor started to work their way through the meal.  "Do you think Duncan and Richie will come back to the States soon?" Alex asked.

"Probably in a couple of months.  He still has the dojo in Seacouver, and he has other ties to the Northwest.  And I bet Richie'll be homesick for burgers and fries before too long."

"I'd like to meet them."

"Good," Connor said.  "I'll invite them here."

"Maybe later we can visit Duncan in Paris?" she suggested with a hopeful smile.  "Next spring?"

Connor took her hand in his.  "I'd love to take you there, and I will, but Duncan sold the barge last week."

"He did?" Alex blurted in surprise and some disappointment.  John had described the "love boat" in glowing terms, and she'd been looking forward to the visit.  "Why?"

"He wanted out of Paris."

Alex twined her fingers between Connor's.  "Too many memories," she said softly.  "That's where Duncan and Tessa met, isn't it?"

"Yes," Connor said then added sourly, "but Paris also had some Watchers turned Hunters.  Last year a Watcher named Horton decided to eradicate Immortals from the face of the Earth.  He showed up in Paris again last month.  Duncan took care of him, but—"

Duncan killed him, Alex translated.

"—but after that, he wanted to move on," Connor finished.

"Hunters," Alex repeated slowly.  "But mortals can't—"

"All you need is a gun, and then a sword," Connor told her then added pointedly, "and the will to use them both."

Alex thought about that, pulling her hand away from Connor's to stab at her rice with the end of one chopstick.  "Did Heather or Brenda ever have to …"

"No, and it's not likely you would either, but—"

"—but I might," Alex put in.

Connor nodded, never taking his gaze from hers.  "You might."

Alex tried to imagine chopping off a head with a sword.  First, kill or immobilize the Immortal.  Right.  Simple enough.  Better to go for the kill, she decided.  A living, perhaps talking target … no.  Second, make sure the Immortal stayed dead while you're off finding a sword.  Of course, Immortals carried swords, so all she would have to do is search the dead-and-soon-to-be-reviving corpse.  Lovely.  Third, decapitate the body.  At least a sword would be sharp enough to do the job with one blow, maybe two.  Sawing through a neck with her nail file would take hours.  Fourth and finally, throw up.

Oh yes, great fun.  "What about the rules?" she asked.

"Fuck the rules," Connor said.  "You're not in the Game.  If an Immortal goes after mortals, he deserves whatever he gets."

"What about the Quickening?"

Connor shook his head.  "If there's no other Immortal around, there is no Quickening.  If I'm around …"  He smiled, a wolfish baring of teeth that sent a shudder down Alex's spine.  "If I'm around, you won't have to worry about any of it."

Except for worrying if the other Immortal might take *Connor's* head.  Oh yes, nothing to worry about at all.

"Brenda worked for police forensics," Connor was saying, "and Heather had wrung the necks of chickens and butchered animals since she was a girl.  They weren't squeamish."

And she was supposed to measure up to that, and to them.  "I dissected a frog in high school," Alex offered with another hopeful smile.  But the frog had had no blood, just formaldehyde, and most of the bodies she'd worked with had been dead for hundreds or even thousands of years.  "Not the same, is it?"

The response was immediate and very blunt.  "No."

Maybe she should start visiting slaughterhouses and accident sites to become inured to severed limbs and squirting blood.  "Practice," Alex said grimly, stabbing at her chicken this time, because they were back to that once again, and sure enough, Connor hadn't forgotten the lessons.

"Ben says he can teach you on Wednesday nights at eight and on Saturday mornings at seven."

Alex suppressed a groan.  "And regular karate is Tuesday and Thursday nights at seven-thirty and Saturday mornings at ten."

"And shooting practice will be Monday nights," Connor said.  "John needs to learn how to use a gun."

While Alex needed the practice.  She knew.  "Doesn't leave much time for my needlepoint or my bridge club or my flower arranging class," she quipped.

"We still have Friday night for dancing," Connor pointed out.

Alex shook her head.  "I'll have to get up at five-thirty on Saturday mornings."

"Saturday night, then."

"We'll see," she said dubiously, thinking of the schedule.  "Sleep might be better."

Connor nodded sagely.  "Bed is always good."

"I said sleep, not bed," she corrected.

"How about naps on Saturday afternoons?" he suggested.  "You can go to sleep in between."

Alex set down her chopsticks.  "Two classes of martial arts in the morning, two sessions in bed with you in the afternoon, and after all of that, you expect me to go dancing?  I'll be lucky if I can walk."

"OK," Connor agreed equably.  He spooned up the last of his soup.  "We'll just stay in bed until Sunday."

Alex considered that.  "As long as you let me sleep in."

"Don't I usually?"

"Never," she declared, and Connor laughed.

"I grew up before clocks.  When the sun gets up, so do I."

"I've noticed," she said and leaned over to kiss him, tasting the spices of the meal on his lips.  "I like it hot," she murmured.

"So do I."  Connor leaned back with a satisfied sigh and surveyed the remains of the meal.  "What was that?" he asked, pointing to the scraps of the appetizer left in the bowl.

"Nua thip," she said and translated: "Rump steak in spicy sauce."

"Spicy rump, is it?" Connor said with a leer.  He leaned over and scooped all that was left in the bowl onto his plate then polished it off in a few quick bites.

Alex decided to wait until morning to tell him nua thip had a reputation as an aphrodisiac.  She didn't want to bias the experiment, after all.  "We should be going," she said.  "Karate starts soon."

~~~~~

After karate, they took the bus back to Alex's apartment. "You have to get to work tomorrow morning," she reminded him.

"I'm the boss; I can be late," Connor said.  "Your place is closer, and I'm ready for bed now."

"So am I," Alex said.  When they got to her apartment, she disappeared into the bathroom, and Connor waited for her in the living room.  He stretched out both arms and relaxed on the sofa, the fabric of a brightly patterned quilt soft under his hands.  Except for the mosaic of colors on the backs of hundreds of books, the quilt lying on the back of the sofa provided most of the color in the room.  Alex had furnished the place in whites and pale blues.  "To make it look bigger," she had told him, and it helped.  The clean lines and light-colored oak of the mission style furniture helped, too, but the apartment was still small, and Alex had had to be creative to find storage opportunities.  Pots and pans hung from the ceiling above the sink, and a pair of skis perched above the bedroom door opposite him.  Bookshelves lined almost every available wall, holding various things besides books.  "Not enough room to swing a cat," she'd commented ruefully when Connor and John had first come to her apartment two months ago.  "No way could I ever keep a horse."

They could have horses in the Highlands.  Cats, too.  A garden, a large home … and the skiing was good.  Alex would like living there; Connor was pretty sure.

The bedroom door opened, and Connor sat up straighter as Alex emerged, barefoot and dressed in a Japanese robe of turquoise flowers on black silk.  "Nice," he commented enthusiastically, noting for future reference that the knot on her sash had been tied the same way as the belt on a karate gi.

"A souvenir from my last visit to Japan."  Alex joined him on the sofa.

Actions, Connor had always firmly believed, spoke louder than words.  They were also a hell of a lot easier.  So, he kissed her.  Eventually, his fingers loosened the knot on her belt then moved on.  "What about going to the bed?" Alex asked some time later, when the robe lay abandoned on the sofa and she and Connor were on the floor.

"Not yet."  He stood and headed to the kitchen area.

Alex half sat up in surprise.  "Where are you going?"

"To get the ice cubes," he said.  "You said you liked it hot—and cold."

~~~~~

The next day was Wednesday, and at precisely eight p.m. in the small training room on the ground floor of the karate center, Connor introduced Alex to Ben.  He was a stocky fellow, about her age and height, dressed in bright-red running shorts and an olive-green T-shirt, with curly black hair, dusky skin, and oriental eyes.  "Nice to meet you, Alex," he said, bowing in the Japanese-style, and Alex bowed back the same way.

Ben turned to Connor and jerked his thumb toward the door.  "Get lost," Ben said amiably.  Connor glanced toward her, and Ben said, "I don't need an assistant, and I sure as hell don't want an advisor.  We both know you won't be able to keep your mouth shut and just sit there."  Ben grinned at Alex with a quick flash of very white teeth.  "And I bet the lady doesn't want an audience, either."

Alex grinned back at him, because he was absolutely right.

"Go on, Mac," Ben said.  "Go get a newspaper or watch a movie or something.  She'll be ready to go at ten-thirty."

Connor nodded to Ben, kissed Alex on the cheek, and headed for the door.  Alex turned back to her new sensei and tried to look cool and composed.  At least she wasn't wearing her gi, and she didn't have to worry about the knot in her belt being tied straight.  She ended up tugging at the bottom of her T-shirt instead.  Ben placed his palms on the edge of the brown folding table that stood near the door, lifted himself with his arms, and sat down.  "So," he said, swinging one sneakered foot back and forth, "why are you here?"

Alex tilted her head and gave him her shyly quizzical smile.  "I, um, thought you and Connor had talked about that."

The smile didn't work this time.  "He told me what he wanted," Ben replied.  "What do you want?"

Alex found herself staring at a streak of dust on the polished wooden floor.  "To learn how to defend myself," she answered, looking up to meet his eyes.

"Bzzzt.  Wrong answer."  Ben hopped off the table and headed for the door.

"What's the right answer?" Alex asked, moving to stand in his way.  Ben sidestepped her, and Alex moved with him.  "Well?" she demanded.

"Defense never won no football games," Ben told her, just as Connor had told her, "Attack!"

Do what it takes, whatever it takes … Alex took a deep breath and said firmly, "I want to learn how to survive."

Ben grinned, another flash of brilliant white.  "That's better," he said, but Alex wasn't so sure.

Two hours later, soaking her aches and soon-to-be bruises in the whirlpool, she was sure of two things—this was not going to be easy, and it was not going to be fun.  Ben had black belts in three different martial arts, but he also had extensive knowledge of street-fighting and dirty tricks, and that was what he was teaching her.  "Go for the eyes," he'd told her.  "Throw sand, dirt, your soda, whatever.  The heel on a stiletto is a spike; that's why it's named after a dagger.  The shoe itself can be used like a hammer.  Pound the heel into the eye a couple of times and you can even reach the brain.  Or if you're in close, use your fingernails.  If you dig in good," he'd said cheerfully, "you can feel the eyeball pop."

There'd been a variety of other rather repulsive ways to dismember, maim, and kill, and he expected Alex to remember them all.  "Practice on Mac," Ben had suggested with one of his lightning grins.  "So you don't forget before our next class."

But Connor wouldn't fight with Alex anymore.  That was why she was learning from Ben.  She and Connor had done kata side by side, and the straightforward punch and block sequences—but Connor hadn't asked her to spar with him since last Saturday, and Alex wasn't about to suggest they try again.  She ducked her head under the water, then emerged dripping and only a little stiff.  When she left the dressing room, Connor was waiting for her at the door.  She kissed him before she said, "Let's go home," and Connor picked up her bag for her and carried it to the bus stop.  Alex didn't protest this display of antique chivalry.  Her arms hurt, and so did her hands.

"How'd it go?" Connor asked, after they had seated themselves on the bus.

"Good," Alex said, determinedly cheerful.  "Ben's a nice guy."  He'd caught her staring at him curiously during a break and said simply, "Half and half."

"What?"

"Me," he'd said, jerking a thumb to his chest.  "Half Japanese, half black.  Half and half."

"Oh," Alex had said, abashed to be so obvious.  "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Ben had shrugged.  "My dad was a dark-green Marine, and he met my mom on Okinawa thirty years ago.  He retired from the Corps a couple of years ago. Me, I only did two hitches, got out in January."

Alex had nodded.  That explained the "don't take no shit" attitude, and the red shorts and olive-drab shirt, USMC all the way.  "Break's over," Ben had announced, moving to the center of the floor, and Alex had gone to learn another way to "neutralize the enemy."  Oo-rah.

The bus chugged into motion, and Connor repeated, "A nice guy?  I'll tell him you said that."

"Don't," Alex said.  No man wanted to be "a nice guy."  She leaned against Connor and closed her eyes, exhausted from the workout and from the night before.  She wasn't sure if she should attribute it to the power of the nua thip or to the use of ice cubes, but she and Connor hadn't gotten much sleep at all.  She fell asleep on the way back to her apartment.

~~~~~

The next morning after breakfast, Connor and Alex kissed goodbye and headed off to work, just like millions of other couples all across the land.  Connor had planned on taking the downtown nine train to go back to the antique store, but halfway down the block he remembered a Georgian bedroom set he had wanted to look at in a shop on the Upper East Side, so he turned around and headed for the Eighth Avenue line.  Alex took that train uptown to the museum.  Connor walked rapidly through the crowds on the street, hoping to catch up to her.  He finally spotted her standing at a street corner with twenty other people, waiting for the light to change.  He stood at the edge of the group and called her name, but she didn't hear him, and not just because of the noise of passing cars.  Her face bore that familiar, far-off "thinking about antiquities" stare, and Connor could tell that she wasn't really watching the traffic, or any of the people around her.

Connor stopped trying to get her attention and started watching her instead.  She did come back to earth when it was time to cross the street, but she never once looked behind her, and so she never noticed that he was following her: down the street, to the station, through the turnstiles, and onto the very same car, albeit through a different door.  She didn't notice him during the seven minutes of the ride, either.  She didn't see him when they both got off the train at 81st Street, her to walk to the museum, him to catch a bus across town.

Connor swore to himself in a rapid succession of languages as he waited for the bus to arrive.  Duncan's lover Tessa had been just as oblivious, just as vulnerable.  Two years ago in Seacouver, Connor had watched her walk down a street on a summer afternoon, golden hair gleaming, long legs graceful and sexy under a very short skirt.  She had been beautiful, alluring—and utterly unaware that both Connor and Slan were watching her every move.  "I told Tessa some of it, but not all," Duncan had told Connor, but Tessa had known *nothing* of the war zone she was living in, every day.

"How could you not tell her?" Connor had demanded in an empty warehouse, while Duncan had stood mulishly silent with his arms folded and his back against a wall.  "How could you put her in such danger, and then not give her the tools she needs to survive?"

"We've been together twelve years."

Duncan had thought that a defense, but Connor had used it to go in for the kill.  "And you still don't trust her."

"Damn it, Connor," Duncan had growled, as he always growled when Connor forced him to face the blunt and ugly truth.

"What is she to you?  A toy?  A pet?"

"She's the woman I love," Duncan had declared, looking ready to kill.

"Then treat her that way," Connor had ordered.  "Give her the facts and let her make up her own mind, and if she stays with you—though God knows I wouldn't blame her if she dumped you today—then teach her what she needs to know.  Don't keep her helpless and dependent on you. You can't protect her, not all of the time."  He'd stepped closer and taken Duncan by the arm, the anger in both of them burned down to bitter knowledge of other times.  "We both know that," Connor had added softly.  They'd both had more than one chance to learn.

"Even if I do teach her," Duncan had said, his eyes darkened with the shadows from Little Deer's funeral pyre, "it may not be enough."

"It may not," Connor had agreed, for he had buried loved ones, too.  "But, by God, Duncan, we owe them that fighting chance."

Connor didn't know what, if any, training Duncan had given Tessa, but sometimes not even a fighting chance was chance enough, and eventually, no matter what, death always came.  Connor and Duncan had had to learn that, too.

The bus pulled up, and Connor took a seat near the back door.  Sparring with Ben was a good start, but Alex needed to learn to be careful, too.  Connor called her as soon as he got back to the antique store around noon.  "Dinner tonight?"

"Love to.  We have karate at seven-thirty, Thai food again?"

He chuckled.  "I'm an Immortal, and my tongue is still healing from two days ago."

"You should suck more ice cubes," she said, all innocence and innuendo, and the words were anything but cold.

"I should," Connor agreed, smiling, then added more fuel to the fire.  "And so should you."

"I'll remember that."

"I'll look forward to it."  The doorbell chimed and two well-dressed matrons came in the shop.  Connor reluctantly went back to dinner arrangements.  "Italian?" he asked Alex.

"Sure.  How about Sardo's, near my place?  I'll make the reservations for five forty-five."

"Sounds good.  I'll meet you there."

"See you then!" Alex said cheerfully, and they said their goodbyes.

Connor set down the phone, wishing once again that he wasn't an Immortal, and that there was no Game.  Wishing for the millionth time that he had a choice.  "If wishes were fishes," he muttered, but when fish were caught, they ended up gutted and beheaded, laid out in a row and glistening in the sun.  Connor put a smile on his face and went to charm the customers into buying something they didn't know they wanted and certainly didn't need.

That evening, while he and Alex were waiting for their salads in the restaurant, Connor brought up the topic of being careful.  "Surveillance," she repeated slowly.  "As in spies and James Bond.  As in the Watchers."

Connor shrugged one shoulder.  "They're not usually a threat."

"Usually."  She toyed with her knife, passing it back and forth between her hands.  "But Immortals are."

"Sometimes," he admitted.

"Sometimes.  Like Kane taking John."

"Yes."

"Like the Kurgan taking Brenda."

"Yes."  Connor bit out the word.

"And taking Heather."

Connor swallowed hard then gave a short and savage nod.

"Any other Immortals like that I should know about?"

Maybe dozens of them, maybe more.  Mortals were dangerous, too.  Connor knew damn well he couldn't protect Alex all of the time.  "We need to be careful," he repeated simply.  "Always."

Alex nodded slowly, her lips pressed together in a thin line.  "So."  She set down her knife.  "What do you recommend?" she asked, the words light, the smile forcefully cheerful.  "I join the CIA and go to spy school?"

"Nah, the CIA's in Virginia," Connor said, responding gratefully to her humor.  "The commute would suck.  How about we try it here?"

She leaned back in her chair, her smile gone.  "With you."

"No fighting between us," he promised her, because no way in hell could he go there.  "No attacks to fend off.  Just … try to spot me.  That's all."

Alex glanced up as the waiter arrived and set their salads on the table.  She took her time arranging her napkin and pouring the dressing on the greens.  Connor said nothing, giving her time to think.  "When do we start this 'surveillance game'?" she finally asked, when their salads had been eaten and the plates taken away.

"The sooner the better."

"Tomorrow, then," Alex declared then smiled as she reached across the table to hold his hand.  "I'm not letting you out of my sight tonight."

"Sounds good to me," he replied.  They spoke no more about surveillance that night.

~~~~~

The next morning, Alex remained in bed as long as she could, reluctant to leave Connor's side.  Not just for the usual reasons, though.  "Tomorrow," she'd told Connor last night, determined to be brave about this "surveillance game," but Alex did not want to play, and Connor couldn't follow her around if she were holding him in her arms.

But eventually, they had to get out of bed and go to work.  No use in putting it off, she told herself in the shower, lathering up the shampoo in her hands.  No backing out now, she'd come this far.  Besides, this wouldn't be like twelve years ago, she tried to convince herself, scrubbing her scalp extra hard.  This was Connor, and he was only going to follow her around from a distance, nothing more.  She could handle this.  It had been years ago, and she was over it—mostly.  And the parts she wasn't over …  Well, this would give her the chance to confront her fears and put them to rest forever.  Alex started rinsing her hair.  She could do this.  She would.

Alex finished her shower and got ready for work, skipping breakfast to make up for lost time.  She kissed Connor goodbye and set out, right on schedule.  She looked behind her every few minutes and got to work on time, pleased with herself and certain she hadn't been followed.  Maybe this wouldn't be so hard.

Around two in the afternoon, Connor phoned and asked her how she'd liked the Lebanese restaurant where she'd had lunch.  Alex sat speechless at her desk, a pencil held forgotten in her hand, because she hadn't seen him.  Worse than that, she hadn't even bothered to look.  Damn.  "It was great," she finally answered.  "Why don't we have lunch there next week?"

"Sure," he said, and she could swear she heard him smile.

Bastard.  "Look, um, I'm real busy here, Connor.  I'll see you tonight at the loft?"

"I'd like that," he said.  "Rachel's bringing John home today."

"Good," Alex said, setting aside her irritation.  "I've missed him.  And I love you."

"I love you, too," Connor said, and this time Alex didn't mind the smile in his words.  "Alex," he said, catching her as she was about to hang up the phone.

"Yes?"

"You know why."

"I know," she said steadily.

"I wouldn't do this if I didn't think it necessary."

"I know," she said again.  "And I wouldn't put up with it if I didn't want you.  And I do."

After a moment he said hoarsely, "I'm glad."

"Me, too," she replied.  "I'll see you tonight, sweetheart."

"Tonight," Connor repeated, and it was a promise, not just a time.

Alex hung up her phone then sat tapping her pencil slowly on her desk, smiling as she imagined tonight.

~~~~

"Well done," Rachel quietly congratulated her that evening in the loft.

"With your help."  Alex impulsively gave Rachel a hug.  "Thank you."  She looked over at Connor in the kitchen, where he was busy chopping broccoli with John.  "He's a hard nut to crack."

"But sweet inside," Rachel said.

"Very," Alex agreed.

At dinner, John was full of tales of boat rides to the bottom of Niagara Falls, and amusement park rides with names like the Yo-Yo and the Jack Rabbit.  "The Jack Rabbit was always your favorite, too," Connor said to Rachel with a smile.  "That and the carousel."

There'd been a black-and-white photograph in Rachel's album, Alex remembered, a pig-tailed  girl of ten with cotton candy in her hand, sitting on the arm of a wooden rocking chair.  Behind her, carved horses had pranced on by.

"How many times did you go on it this trip?" Connor asked.

"None," Rachel said.  "It burned to the ground in March."

"Damn," Connor swore softly.  "Not many carousels left, and that was an old one."

"Eighty years," Rachel said.  "But they're rebuilding it.  They've already started carving new horses.  I mailed them a donation today."

"Can all four of us go back when they're done, Dad?" John put in eagerly.  "Next year?  They're building a new roller coaster; it's going to be called the Quantum Loop, and it'll turn you upside down."

"Sure.  Sounds like fun."  Connor turned to Alex.  "You like roller coasters?"

"Oh, yes," Alex answered.  "I like all kinds of rides."  She smiled at Connor across the table.  "Especially ones that turn me over—or around."

Rachel hastily reached for her water, her lips twitching.  Connor cleared his throat as his eyebrows jumped in amusement, while John, oblivious to it all, said, "Me, too!"

Rachel went home after dinner, and John and Alex and Connor watched a video.  They were all in bed by nine-thirty, but Connor and Alex didn't go to sleep right away.  Early the next morning, Alex went to the karate center for her second lesson with Ben.  "So, you learn anything new?" Connor asked when he showed up for the ten o'clock karate class with John.

"Mm-hmm," Alex said.  Today's lesson had focused on the male groin.  She smiled sweetly at Connor and went to get in line with the other white-belts.  Testing for green belt was in two weeks, and Alex wanted to make sure she had it all down cold.

Sunday was a lovely and relaxing day of rest with no martial arts practice or surveillance techniques of any kind.  Sunday night was even better.  But on Monday, it was back to work and back to the training.  Alex kept an eye out all day, but she didn't see any trace of Connor, except for a scrap of paper tucked under her door mat, a joke from him about alligators and avocados.  The next morning the joke was tucked in her mail box in the entryway, and Alex spotted him on her way to work.  She was smug until that night at karate, when Connor asked her about the apples from the fruit stand where she'd stopped on her way home.  Again, she hadn't been looking; she'd thought he'd only follow her one time in a day.  Alex gritted her teeth as she forced a smile.  "A little sour for my taste," she informed him.  "Maybe I'll make a pie."

"I like pie," he told her.

This time Alex both heard and saw his smile.  Bastard.  She'd like to give him a pie—wouldn't she though?  But that was unfair, she told herself.  She was being unfair.  She needed to pay attention all the time, and Connor was just making sure she had that down cold, too.  She could do it.  She would.

In the following days, Alex started seeing things she'd never bothered to look at before.  "S.A.," Ben called it, situational awareness, that knowledge of her surroundings which could save—or cost her—her life.  "Be *aware,*" Ben often said.

Connor pushed that, too.  "How many ways out of this restaurant?" he would ask, and Alex would glance around to count windows and doors, something Connor had done the instant he'd walked in the room.  More jokes arrived, hidden in different places every time, and more questions came at her, night and day.  "What's the color of the car we just walked past?  How many people at the table behind you?  Was the woman who stood next to you at the shooting range yesterday right or left-handed?"

Alex tried to match John's enthusiasm for this game of Endless Questions.  She had always prided herself on being painstakingly and carefully observant, but the artifacts she'd spent her life studying were stationary, and she'd had all the time in the world.  Now, she needed to look at everything all the time—and it changed.  "Look for patterns when you watch people," Ben advised.  "That'll make it easier to notice when something's gone awry.  And don't forget to use your eyes and ears and nose."

So Alex looked and listened and *saw*: the woman with the poodle on the red leash who left the apartment building between six and six-fifteen every morning, the corner apartment across the street with the blinds pulled exactly half-way down at exactly seven a.m., the smell of garlic almost every night from upstairs, the clank and rattle of garbage trucks above the shouts and chatter of high school students in the morning, the old couple who always kissed goodbye at the bus stop below her window, and the young couple who never did.

"Other people look for patterns, too," Ben warned her.  "Don't have any of your own."

Alex started taking different routes to and from work and karate, and if she walked anywhere she was always glancing in the side mirrors of parked cars and at reflections in the windows of stores.  "I think I found your Watcher," she told Connor one day, as pleased as she could be.  "An Asian woman, thirtyish, glasses, short hair?"

"Could be," Connor agreed.  "Thanks, I'll look."

"You don't know?"

"I got a new one when I moved here.  My Watcher in Morocco worked in my stables. Easier to pick out one person in a small community than in a city of seven million plus."

Alex knew that already.  Spotting Connor in a crowd wasn't easy, and what with the training from Ben, she'd gotten jumpy lately—almost paranoid.  Last night, Connor had silently come up behind her in the kitchen in the loft and traced a finger down the back of her neck.  Alex had whirled, her left hand up for defense, her right hand already swinging the soapy saucepan at his head.

"Whoa," Connor had said immediately, blocking the pan with a lifted arm.  "No training here, Alex."

Alex had slowly lowered the pan, breathing carefully while soapy water dripped on her foot.  "Ben says be ready anytime.  Anywhere."

"Good advice.  But I won't try anything on you here," Connor had promised.  "Never at home."

"Like Holy Ground?"

"Inside the doors, it's Holy Ground for us," he'd agreed.  "The loft and your apartment, both."

A sanctuary, a place to relax, a place to feel safe.  She needed that.  Everywhere else, though, was hunting ground.  "What's up, Alex?" Tommy said one afternoon, when she jerked her head up as they walked through the second floor of the museum.  "You see a ghost?"

No ghost.  Just a man who wouldn't die.  Connor nodded to her from his vantage point near the Third Dynasty jewelry case.  Alex gave him a barely perceptible nod and turned away.  "I'm fine," she said to Tommy, because she absolutely did not want Tommy to know about this little "surveillance game" Connor had induced her to play.

At least Connor had never again taunted her with where or how he'd been following her; after those first two times, if she didn't spot him, he never brought it up.  But she asked him for details, every night.  When had he started following her?  Where?  How did he hide?  What techniques did he use to stay so far behind?  What should she look for?  How could she shake him?

Eventually, the constant practice and her paranoia paid off.  She spotted him three days in a row,  sometimes close and sometimes far.  Coming back from lunch one afternoon, she caught sight of Connor thirty feet behind her on a crowded street.  He smiled and held up both hands in mock surrender, and Alex grinned to herself and went running up the front steps of the museum. The game was starting to make more sense, and Alex had always liked to win.  Now, to change the rules a little …

The next day she went to work as usual, then slipped out at nine-thirty and started following him. "We learn by doing," her dad had always said, and Alex had a lot to learn.  When Connor finally turned around and spotted her, he laughed aloud and walked over to her.  "Are you following me, Miss Johnson?" he asked, as he had asked her months before, the first time they had met.

"Why, yes," she answered, but not the least bit embarrassed now.  She didn't stand still and let him circle her this time, either, but turned to keep her eyes on him the whole time.  "Mr. Nash," she named him, secure in knowing who he really was.

Connor grinned and offered her his arm.  "Lunch?" he invited, and Alex smiled back as she laid her hand on his arm and claimed her prize.

But that evening, as she was juggling a bag of groceries with one arm and unlocking her apartment door, a heavy hand landed on her shoulder and an ominous chuckle sounded in her ear.  Alex jumped and whirled, dropping her bag.  Eggs oozed at her feet and oranges went rolling down the hall as she stood staring into familiar gray eyes.  "Damn it, Connor!" she swore, her breath coming fast and her heart slamming against her ribs.  Adrenaline shock, the fight or flight reflex, and right now she wasn't sure which sounded more attractive.  "Damn it," she said again, trying to calm down.  "This is my home," she protested, a desperate attempt to keep something normal, something safe.  Except she wasn't inside the door yet, was she?  She was still fair game.  Returning to her apartment was just about the most predictable thing she could ever do, yet she'd dropped her guard as soon as she'd walked into the stairwell.  Brilliant, Johnson, she thought in disgust.  Just brilliant.

Connor's mouth was a thin, tight line.  "The Kurgan smashed through Brenda's door, then dragged her screaming down the stairs.  Heather was at home, too."

Alex had been at home, twelve years before.  Other people didn't play by Connor's rules.  She knew that already.  Alex swallowed hard, still tasting the metallic acid of fear.  "Connor, I—"

"Anytime," he interrupted.  "Anywhere."  He walked off, leaving Alex alone in a hallway of scattered oranges and broken eggs.

"Rachel?" Alex said later that night, clutching the phone.

"Alex!" came the warm response.  "How are you?"

It was a little hard to describe.  "Well … I …"

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked, serious now.

That, Alex could answer.  She'd spent the last hour huddled on the floor in her bedroom, wedged between her dresser and her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at nothing and trying not to cry.  "No."

"Is Connor …?"

"He's fine," Alex said swiftly, because she'd heard the controlled edge of panic in the older woman's voice, and Rachel shouldn't have to worry.  "It's just me," Alex said, hearing and yet helpless to stop that self-pitying whine.

"I'll be right there," Rachel said, and Alex didn't offer even a token protest.  Thirty-four minutes later, Rachel announced her presence with a firm knock on the door.  Alex looked through the peephole before she slid back the bolt, and then she locked the door again as soon as Rachel got in the room.  "Tell me," Rachel said, taking her hands as they sat on the couch in the main room, surrounded by the softness and the colors of the pillows and quilts Alex's grandmother had made.

Alex stared at the patterns of carefully chosen fabrics, the tiny even stitches, all lovingly sewn by hand.  That was what a family was, Alex thought.  That was what hands were for, hands like Rachel's hands, wrinkled and worn and strong.  Hands that were busy in creating, helping, healing … not fighting or killing.  She couldn't do this anymore.  Alex pulled her hands away from Rachel and wrapped her arms around her knees again.

"Did you and Connor have another fight?" Rachel asked.

"No," Alex said with a shake of her head.  "No.  We, um, we haven't done any sparring since that last time; what's it been?  Three weeks now?"  It felt like forever.  "No, we didn't fight, not with words, either.  He's been teaching me surveillance techniques: showing up unexpectedly, following me, leaving notes in different places."

"Oh, yes," Rachel said, with a long and drawn out "oh."

"He did it to you, too?"

Rachel nodded.  "'Hide and seek' we called it.  We started when I was quite young, six or seven.  It was a game.  I'd keep an eye out for him everywhere I went: at school, at the skating rink, at a friend's house.  I'd always be listening or looking around.  If I saw him, I'd run to him for a hug and he'd pick me up and swing me around."

That sounded a lot better than barely noticeable nods, Alex thought ruefully.  Maybe she should have been demanding a kiss as a reward every time she spotted him.

"He used to hide pieces of candy or nickels in the loft," Rachel was saying.

Of course.  The jokes.

"He'd move something or change something so I would know where to search," Rachel went on.  "Every day when I got home, I looked to see what was different."

Just as Alex had started checking her desk at work and the area around her apartment building.  "He hasn't left *me* any candy," Alex complained.  Then she remembered the day she'd brought John home from the museum.  The first thing he'd done was examine the room and ask if they were going to play.  "But he does for John.  Doesn't he?"

"Oh, I'm sure.  Connor can't look out for us all the time, and he knows that—even if he hates to admit it," Rachel added with a grin.  "So, he teaches us to look out for ourselves.  Only when I was older did I realize why he did it, and how serious that training was."

"I think I realized that tonight," Alex said ruefully.

"Hmmm," Rachel said with an encouraging nod, sounding just like Mom.

She looked like Mom, too, Alex realized, or she would if Mom lost twenty pounds and had her hair done and got new clothes.  Rachel and Mom were both women who'd been very pretty in their twenties—stunning actually, Alex had seen the photos—and were now comfortably beautiful, like mellowed stone.  No sharp edges of youth, no glitter to bedazzle and beguile, but a beauty of restfulness, peace and calm.  It was the eyes that looked most alike, Alex decided, even though Mom's eyes were blue and Rachel's were light brown.  Wise eyes, understanding eyes—maybe that came just from having been a mom, or from having seen a lot and survived.

As Alex was trying to survive, but in a different kind of world.  "It's been like a game," Alex explained.  "Kind of scary, but thrilling, too, even fun."

"Hide and seek," Rachel said again.  "But you're not having fun anymore."

Alex shook her head.  "When I got home from work, he was here.  He caught me at the door.  He—"  She took a deep breath and went on.  "He got real close, and he scared me, and he's never done that before."  But she'd upped the stakes herself, hadn't she?  She'd changed the rules, and so Connor had, too.  She'd been treating it like a game, but there was only one Game, and it was played for keeps.  Connor knew that, and he wanted her to understand, too.  But this part she already did understand, only she couldn't tell him, because she needed to be strong so that he would accept her, and if he knew how terrified she'd felt tonight she knew he wouldn't do this to her anymore, but he also wouldn't let her be a part of his life, and she only needed some more time, but …  "God," she said, with half a sob, looking upwards to keep the tears from rolling down.  "Rachel, I can't—"

"Shhh," Rachel said and gathered Alex into her arms, rocking slightly as she made more of those little shushing noises and patted her back, just like Mom.

Alex finally pulled back and sniffled.  "I hate to cry."

Rachel handed her a tissue.  "When I was about to start college," Rachel said, settling the box of tissues between them and settling herself on the couch, "Connor fixed up the apartment for me on the second floor.  I loved having a place of my own, but I wasn't always careful about locking the windows and the door.  Connor had reminded me, several times, but I was eighteen, and I was invincible and immortal and I knew everything.  Remember those days?" she asked wryly, and Alex nodded and wiped her nose.

"One evening," Rachel continued, "I came back from class, took a bath, and went to the kitchen to make dinner.  Connor was waiting for me in the shadows.  He came up behind me and scared me half to death.  When I told him that—yelled at him, actually, because I was quite angry—he simply said, 'Some people wouldn't stop at half.'  Then he went upstairs."  She straightened the box of tissues then looked Alex in the eye.  "I locked the door behind him, and since that night I have never once forgotten to lock all the doors and windows in my home."

Alex would never forget to look around her hallway again, either.  "Fear is a good teacher."

"Fear is a terrible teacher," Rachel corrected.  "But it is a very good motivator."

"So is anger," Alex said wryly, realizing now why Connor had taunted her those first few days.

"As long as they don't go too far," Rachel said.  "Connor knows when and how to push those buttons."

"Does he ever," Alex muttered.  He'd been playing her like a harp.

Rachel was eyeing her speculatively.  "He also usually knows when to stop."

Alex started to pleat the tissue into precise and tiny folds.  "I overreacted tonight."

Rachel leaned back on the couch with a sigh.  "Alex, why are you putting yourself through this?"

Alex looked up from her handwork.  "I love him."

"Why?"

"Why?" Alex repeated in confusion.  "I just—  I do."

"But why?" Rachel asked.  "What is it about Connor MacLeod that makes you willing to do all this?" and she waved her hand abruptly through the air.

"He's … a challenge," Alex answered.  "A mystery.  I need a man who won't bore me, and I could spend the rest of my life learning about Connor and about what he knows.  He's a treasure trove, layer upon layer, and for an archeologist, there is no greater prize."

"So, you find him intellectually stimulating," Rachel summarized.

"Yes."

"Physically attractive?"

"Oh, yes," Alex said, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Emotionally challenging?"

"Oh God, yes," Alex said, and this time she couldn't help but laugh.  "He's strong and gentle, sometimes charming and sometimes obnoxious, protective and yet dangerous.  Stubborn, shy, fierce, sweet, exciting, romantic, thoughtful—he's everything I could dream of in a man.  He's a good father to John, and to you, and I know he's been a good husband.  He's *really* good in bed, and he's fun and funny, and he's rich—not that the money's important, but still …"

Rachel nodded.  "It makes things easier, I know."

Alex continued her litany of love.  "And the way he looks at me …"  She shivered a little at the memory of his eyes.  "I know he loves me, and so I love him.  And he needs me.  I want to make him happy, Rachel.  He's been so lonely."

"I know.  And so have you."

"Me?"

"You, Alex.  You've been hiding, too."  The words were gentle and inescapable, the eyes understanding and wise.

"I—"  Alex snapped her mouth shut.  She stood and wandered over to her bookshelves near the window, staring at the countless volumes she had accumulated over the last dozen years, years which she had spent hiding in her rooms, in her work, in her own safe little tomb.  She'd unearthed artifacts and buried herself.

Why?  Because of Michael, that college romance gone bad?  Because of that one night twelve years ago, when he'd finally tracked her down across three states and raped her, refusing to believe that she didn't love him anymore?  Had she really let him frighten her into staying alone all these years?

Not him, Alex realized.  Her *memories* of him.  Her own memories.  Herself.  She hadn't even heard from Michael since that night.  She'd hidden herself, all by herself, and she'd convinced herself she was just fine.  Alex's lips twisted in an unamused smile.  Looked like she should have gone back to the therapist, after all, just as Mom had said.

Alex turned back to Rachel and managed another smile, ironic but not bitter.  "Yes, I've been lonely, and you're right, I've been hiding.  And I need Connor, maybe as much as he needs me."

Rachel rose from the couch and came over to her.  "Have you told him that?"

"No," Alex said softly.  "I wanted him to think that I was strong, that I could handle the Game, so then he would let me stay."

"Alex, you can't—," Rachel began, but just then the telephone rang.

"That's Connor," Alex said, with a swift glance at the clock.  It was seven thirty-five.  "Wondering why I'm not at karate."

"I'll talk to him, if you like," Rachel offered.

Alex shook her head.  "Thank you, Rachel, but I need to do this."  She walked to the kitchen area to get the phone.  "Hello?"

"Alex?"  It was Connor, just as she'd thought.  "Are you all right?" he asked in concern.

"I'm fine," she said, and it was almost true.  "I just needed a break."

"Tonight, earlier … I should have stayed.  I didn't—"

"No," she broke in, sitting on the edge of the couch and leaning her head on one hand, tired now.  "You were right to go.  I needed some time alone.  To think."

There was silence on the other side of the phone.  Then— "I love you, Alex," he said urgently.  "Don't doubt that.  Ever."

"I don't," she said.  "And I love you, too."  She just wasn't so sure anymore that it was going to be enough.

"I'll come over," he offered.  "John can spend the night at his friend Jake's house.  You and I can talk."

"No," she whispered, the word strong for all its quietness.  "Not tonight, Connor."

"Alex …"

"I need some time, Connor.  Away."

Another silence followed, longer this time.  "How about dinner tomorrow?" he suggested, an edge of desperation darkening the lightness of his tone.  "I'll take you dancing afterwards."

"Dinner," she agreed immediately, as eager as he to get back to the fun part of being in love.  "But not dancing.  I have class with Ben at seven on Saturday morning, remember?"

"Yeah," he said, and she heard his smile loud and clear.  "I remember.  I signed you up."

"I wouldn't put up with this if I didn't want you," she reminded him.  "And I do."

"Good."

"It is," she agreed, but it was terrible, too.  "I love you," she said again, pushing everything else aside.  "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll pick you up at six," Connor said and then, "I love you," again.

"Goodnight, love," Alex said and clicked off the phone, because somehow saying goodbye could drag on for a very long time.

Rachel was watching her from across the room.  "So, you're going to go on."

"Yes."

"Are you going to tell him how much this surveillance game bothers you?"

"No," Alex said, rising to her feet.  "Because then Connor would stop."  She wouldn't tell him about the rape, either, she decided.  It didn't bother her anymore, and it was too much like what the Kurgan had done to Heather and Brenda.  Connor didn't need to deal with that again, especially not now, and Alex was over it.  Falling in love with Connor had helped.

The surveillance, though …  Michael had stalked her for nearly a year: following her around the campus, going to her parents' house, bothering her friends, and finally tracking her down after she'd transferred to another college.  She still had nightmares about that time.  But she needed to face her fears, and not just because she wanted to be with Connor.  She was tired of being afraid.  She didn't like Connor following her, and she had hated Connor sneaking up on her, but now that she had learned how to spot trackers, she actually didn't feel so completely powerless anymore.  Plus, with the training she was getting from Ben, she wasn't completely helpless anymore, either.  This would all be good for her—eventually.

Rachel was still looking at her.  "How's the training with Ben going?"

"Good," Alex said.  "Easier.  Connor expected me to go all out, but Ben's not an Immortal, so I can't possibly hit him that hard.  I still have a lot to learn, but the idea of killing someone doesn't seem so strange now.  I think I could do it, if I had to.  And now I know how," she added slowly, realizing that sometime within the last few weeks she'd graduated from "Defending with intent to flee" to "Hitting with intent to maim" and onto "Attacking with intent to kill."  The advanced course of "Slicing with intent to decapitate" still remained, and if that ever happened, it wouldn't be for a grade.

"Connor's just giving me what I asked for," Alex said.  "I told him I needed to know what it was to live with the Game, before I could decide if I could live with him."

Rachel nodded.  "Yes, that will help, in the long run.  In the short run …"

"In the short run," Alex said ruefully, "it's ruining my summer."

Rachel gave a half snort, half smile at that, sounding so much like Connor that Alex had to smile, too.  "There are many kinds of strength, Alex," Rachel said, "and nobody can be strong all the time, in all ways.  Connor understands that.  Tell him when you need a break, and also, tell him that you need him—and why.  Give him the chance to be strong for you.  That's what he needs."

"I will," Alex promised.  "And I'm going to stop trying to be strong all the time."

"Smart girl," Rachel said with an approving smile.  "Call me," she said, gathering Alex in her arms for another hug.  "Whenever you need to.  He's not easy to live with.  Believe me, I know."

Alex laughed aloud.  "So does he."  After Rachel had left, Alex leaned her back against the door and murmured, "And so do I."

Connor had hoped, what with the flowers he'd bought and the romantic dinner he'd planned, that Alex would get over her reluctance of last night and come back to the loft with him.  Not so much for sex, (though if she suggested it he certainly wouldn't say no), but he didn't want that wall of anger and fear between them anymore.  And after Alex told him at dinner how much she loved him, depended on him, needed him … after that, Connor was certain she would come home.

But during their after-dinner stroll through the park in the midsummer twilight, Alex had something else on her mind.  "I need to practice, Connor."

"What are you talking about?"

She stopped walking and looked up at him, her face shadowed by the dusty green leaves of an oak tree, her fingers tightening on his.  "I need you to sneak up on me again."

"Jesus, Alex," Connor softly swore.  "You hated that."  He'd hated it, too.  And if he did that to her again, she would start to hate him.

"That's exactly why I need to do it," she answered steadily.  "I need to know that I can face that kind of fear and not lose control."

Connor was already shaking his head.  "No."

"Yes."

"Damn it, no!  I won't do that to you."  He'd only done it that one time to make her wake up to the deadly reality of the Game, and he'd felt like a complete and rotten bastard at the time.

"And when someone else does?" she asked, implacable.  "When they sneak up on me, and I'm too afraid or too surprised to do anything besides jump up in the air and scream or fall quivering in a heap?  What then, Connor?  What happens then?"

"What part should I cut off first?"  Those had been the Kurgan's words, spoken nine years ago.

Connor could still hear that rasp of a voice on his answering machine, while Brenda had sobbed in terror in the background and helpless fury had flooded Connor's veins.  "I can entertain myself for quite a while," the Kurgan had purred, and he had done just that before he had called. "Your friend's a real screamer."

Connor had relived that nightmare just four months ago, when Kane had captured John: "MacLeod … it's your boy," and then John crying out, "Dad!"  The same nightmare had repeated over and over again throughout the years.  Afterwards—if there were an afterwards—Connor's loved ones had wept in his arms, traumatized, terrified, bruised, often bloody, sometimes dying, and all because of *him.*

And so many times, he hadn't even been there to hold them at all.

Alex knew that, too.  She took his face in her hands and kissed him lightly; her fingertips stroking the sides of his face.  "Connor, you can't possibly protect me—and Rachel and John—all of the time.  It's not your fault if things happen."

Connor caught her by the wrists and moved her hands away.  "No," he agreed, because he simply could not carry that weight of guilt.  Not anymore.  "But it's my responsibility."

"It's your responsibility to teach me what you can," Alex said.  "You've been doing that.  Very thoroughly," she added with a wry smile.  She twisted her wrists so that they held hands as they stood facing each other; then her smile disappeared.  "But I need you to do more.  I need to practice being surprised.  I need to face this fear, and I can't do it alone."

"Do you realize what you're asking me to do?" he demanded.

Alex swallowed, looking pale, but answered, "I'm asking you to help me learn to survive, so that I can love you without being completely terrified, and you can love me without having to worry all the time."

"Jesus," Connor muttered and pulled away, leaning one-handed against the rough bark of the tree, but he knew she was right.  All the fighting techniques in the world were of no use if you were too panicked to think or to fight.

"It's desensitization, Connor," her voice said from behind.  "Like they do with soldiers or police horses.  A little bit more stress, a little bit at a time, in a controlled environment, and eventually, they get used to loud noises, explosions, all kinds of things."

"A controlled environment," he repeated, turning around.

Alex was standing about two paces away, her sleeveless summer dress of white cotton making her resemble a school girl, innocent and shy.  "I'll know it's you, and I know you won't hurt me," she said.  "I won't be *too* scared."

"Let's take a break on this, Alex," Connor suggested.  "Let's—"

"To start again next week?" she interrupted.  "Or next month?"  She shook her head.  "If it were done, when 'tis done …"

"… then 'twere well if it were done quickly," Connor said, reluctantly finishing the quote from Shakespeare's play *Macbeth.*

"I always rip Band-Aids off at one go," Alex said with a brave smile.  "I want to get this over with.  John'll be at his last week of baseball camp, and Rachel is at the store, so you don't have anything on your schedule, right?"

"Right."

"So let's do it.  As soon as I learn how to handle this fear, I'll be ready to decide."

To decide whether or not she would leave him.  "Alex, I don't want—"

"Neither do I," she cut in.  "But we don't have a choice."

It seemed like he'd heard that once or twice before.  Connor would have smiled if he hadn't been so fed up with the whole fucking thing.  "Let's go home," he said, reaching for her hand.  "Let's just go home."

She didn't move.  "Connor …"

Connor's hand sank to his side.  "What?"

"I can't," she almost whispered.  "Not while we're doing this.  I'm having a hard time separating what happens at night from what happens during the day.  I'm … not 'in the mood.'"  Her tentative smile mingled apology and resolve.

Well, he'd asked her to tell him that, hadn't he?  He'd made her promise she wouldn't pretend.  "We can just sleep, Alex," he said, the tightness of the words matching the tightness in his chest.  Just to hold her and listen to her breathe, just to have her in her arms.  "Nothing more."

"I don't—"

"I'll sleep on the sofa," he offered, grabbing at that one last chance.  "Downstairs."

"No," she said, the word so soft it almost couldn't be heard.  "I can't—  Connor," she pleaded, reaching out to catch him by the sleeve, because he'd already started to move away.  Connor let her hold him there, her gentle fingers an anchor in this storm.  She moved to face him then used his own words from the night before.  "Connor, I love you.  Never doubt that.  It's just hard right now."

It was hell, just as he'd known it was going to be.  Push too much and lose her, because the anger and fear would destroy the love.  Don't push enough and lose her, because she wouldn't know enough to survive the Game.  Love me, hate me, love me, hate me … damn, damn, damn.  But what the hell did he expect?  He was *stalking* her, for God's sake, teaching her things she didn't want to know, making her into someone she didn't want to be.  Ramirez had done the same to him, and for weeks on end Connor had desperately wanted to pound him into the dirt.  Alex couldn't just shut all that off, like a faucet.  "Alex, I don't—"

"Shh," she said then kissed him, silencing him in another, better way, and Connor clung to her and let himself drown.

"Come home," he asked her one last time, with his forehead touching hers and his eyes closed, still holding her in his arms.  "Come home with me tonight.  Please."

"Oh, Connor," she said softly then waited until he opened his eyes.  "Trust me?" she asked, and Connor had to nod.  "I love you," she told him.  "I will come back to you.  I promise.  But I need to learn this, and that means I need some time alone."

So there it was.  End of discussion, and no more pushing allowed.  He'd seen her in this mood before.  Connor sighed.  "You're a stubborn woman, Alexandra Johnson."

A challenging smile curved her lips, and a proud tilt of her head tossed back her hair.  "And you like it."

That he did.  He wouldn't want her any other way.  And if this was the only way he could have her … well, best to make the best of it, as his mother always used to say.  "Your carriage awaits, m'lady," Connor said with a smile and a gallant bow.

"My carriage?"

"The subway.  I'll see you home."

After he'd seen her safely to her door, Connor stood outside looking up at Alex's lighted window, the final lines from Macbeth's speech running through his mind.

  We but teach
  Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
  To plague the inventor.  This evenhanded justice
  Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice
  To our own lips.

Connor waited until her light went off before he went home.

~~~~~

After karate class on Saturday morning, Connor took John and Alex out to lunch to celebrate their passing the test for green-belt, but Alex went back to her apartment in the early afternoon.  "I'll be staying home the rest of the day," she told him, and Connor gratefully stayed home, too.  But on Sunday afternoon, John went to play with Jake, so Connor gritted his teeth and went to surprise Alex on her afternoon run through the park.  It took him a while to find her—she'd started taking different routes—but after an hour of searching, he saw her rounding the pond.  He positioned himself behind a tree and waited, then swung out in front of her when she was about ten feet away.

Alex skidded to a halt and just stared at him, mouth open and chest heaving, eyes wide in fear.  Her skin had gone pasty white under the flush and sweat of exercise.  "Good job," she said finally then turned and ran for home.

He called her as soon as he got back to the loft.  "You OK?"

"Yeah," she said, but she didn't sound like she meant it.  "It wasn't too bad," she added, with an attempt at a laugh.  "My heartbeat was already up, and I had my running shoes on."

"That's a good start," Connor agreed, trying to match her lightness of tone.  He rose from his desk chair and started to pace.  "Alex, are you sure you want to keep doing this?"

"I have to," she said, quiet and determined.  "And so do you."

Fuck.

"But I can't keep up with this schedule," she told him.  "I'm not going to the shooting gallery on Mondays, and I'm going to drop the Thursday night karate class, too.  I'm too tired to be careful, and I don't want to get an injury."

"Good thinking," he said, winding the phone cord around his hand.  She could practice shooting later, and two classes of regular karate a week were enough for now.  "Hey, uh, take the same route every day, OK?  It's hard to find you."

"That's good, right?"

"Real good," he agreed.  "But if you want to get this over with, you'll have to make it easier on me."

"I'll try," she said, with that touch of amusement he'd been hoping to hear.

"Still going to Ben for the classes?"

"Yes."

If it were done, 'twere well done.  Connor smiled, reassured by Alex's familiar stubborn drive for excellence.  "You're one tough lady," he told her, because she deserved to know how proud and impressed he was.

"Hmmph," was her only response, and he knew she wasn't feeling very tough right now.

"I mean it," he said, and this time her hmmph was less skeptical and more pleased.  "Wish you were here," he said, now winding the phone cord in the other direction.  "The loft is too quiet."

"John must not be there," she said, sounding amused again.  "I wish I were with you, too, Connor, but we'll still see each other on Tuesday night and Saturday morning at karate."

As if katas were what he wanted to do.  "How about dancing on Saturday night?"

She paused.  "I don't think so."

Connor tried once more.  "Dinner?"

"Not this week, Connor."

"Lunch?"

The hesitation stretched into silence.  "No," she said finally but offered, "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," Connor said.  "I love you, Alex."

And yet another trembling quiet.  "I love you, too, Connor," she said and hung up the phone.

He was losing her.  Losing her because of this damned stupid Game, because no woman in her right mind would put up with this kind of crap.  Connor unwrapped the cord from his hand, flexing his fingers to get the blood moving again, then started to pace, walking mindlessly between the window and the wall.  No wonder Duncan hadn't told Tessa.  No wonder Duncan had tried to hide from the Game.  Connor would have tried hiding, too, but he knew damn well there *was* no place to hide.  There *was* no way he could keep his family safe, not completely.

Which was exactly why he was doing this to her, and lately Alex seemed to understand that better than he.  "Get a grip, MacLeod," he told himself.  They'd come this far; they'd get through this. They had to.

~~~~~

The week dragged by, hot and steamy with early summer.  In the mornings Connor dropped John off at baseball camp, then set about the grim business of stalking the woman he loved.  Her apartment building was an obvious place to find her, but Connor didn't try anything in those halls; it was too close to home.  He hid at the subway station, inside the museum, in the park, at her favorite grocery store.  Every time, she jumped in fear.  Every time he asked her if she wanted to continue, and every time she said yes.  "It's getting better," she said.  "I'm learning what it feels like to be scared, and since I know what to expect, that makes it easier to think.  Keep going."

So Connor did, hating it more and more each day.  "You always step out in front of me," she observed one afternoon, and it was true; Connor didn't want to scare her the way he had next to her apartment door.  "Make it real," she ordered, grimly determined, and Connor swore but complied, coming at her from the sides, and then finally, from behind.

He had left John with Rachel then hidden in the shadows near the back of the museum, waiting for Alex to leave work.  She emerged from the door near the loading dock around eight-thirty.  Connor waited for her to pass by his hiding place then followed, silent and closing near.  When he almost an arm's reach away, she stepped to the side and whirled, her hands raised to defend … or to attack.

They stood there, both breathing hard and staring at each other, until Connor grinned and Alex smiled in return.  He was about to tell her what a great job she'd done when running footsteps slapped closer, echoing against the concrete walls.

He and Alex both turned to the sound.  A beefy security guard in a blue uniform was heading for them, his gun in his hand.  Alex immediately called out, "Matt!"

Matt stopped ten feet away, his eyes suspicious and his gun aimed right at Connor.  "You OK, Dr. Johnson?" he asked, not taking his gaze from Connor.

"I'm fine."

Matt's gun didn't waver, and Connor was careful not to move.  "Harry called me on the radio and told me you were coming down," Matt said.  "So I took a look, and then I saw this guy from the window."

"I'm fine," Alex repeated.  She stepped closer to Connor and smiled at the guard.  "This is my boyfriend.  He just surprised me, that's all."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."  Alex laid her hand on Connor's forearm.  "Matt, this is Connor MacLeod.  Connor, Matt Lindy.  He and Harry are the best guards we have."

"They do good work," Connor said, meaning every word.  "Pleased to meet you."

Matt slowly put away his gun and nodded in return.  "Sorry about that."

"Not at all."

Connor offered his hand, and Matt shook it heartily before turning to Alex.  "Didn't mean to doubt you, Dr. Johnson, but Mr. Maclure asked all us security guards special to keep an eye on you, and so—"

"Tommy said that?" Alex interrupted.  "When?"

Matt scratched his head, tilting his cap to the left.  "A month or so.  Right after Memorial Day, I guess."

Right after Tommy had met Connor at lunch.  Connor tried not to grin, because Alex was tapping her foot and looking deadly. Tommy had better be careful tomorrow at work.

"I got to get back to my rounds," Matt said.

"Thanks, Matt," Alex called after him, and once he was gone, she moved straight into Connor's arms.

A hug had seldom felt so good.  Connor held her tight, resting his cheek on her hair, before he pulled back to say, "You did great, Alex.  Wonderful.  How do you feel?"

"Shaky," she admitted and held out a trembling hand for him to see.  "But … OK, I think."  She moved away.  "I'll call you tomorrow and let you know."

He knew better than to push.  Connor spent the entire night in his circular room, staring at reminders of his past and wondering what his future would bring, wishing this goddamned training were over, wanting her by his side.

He wasn't the only one to miss her.  "How come Alex doesn't come over anymore?" John wanted to know in the morning.

"She's been busy this week, John," Connor said, which was true.  "Her apartment is closer to her work."

"Well, yeah, but if she lived here, she wouldn't have to waste time going back to her apartment to get her clothes," John pointed out with the irrefutably simple logic of a ten-year-old.  He scooped his third helping of scrambled eggs onto his plate.  "Why don't you ask her to marry you, so she can stay here all the time?"

"I have asked her, John."

"Great!  When's the wedding?"

Connor had no reply to the utter—and utterly unwarranted—confidence of his son.

John stopped squeezing the ketchup bottle and looked up with frightened eyes.  "She didn't say no?  Did she?"

"We decided we needed to think about it.  So, we've been thinking."

"Well, how long does that take?" John demanded.

Connor had to laugh at John's outraged tone.  "I'm not sure, John.  Not too much longer, I hope.  Hey, finish eating and then go get your bat and glove; it's almost time to leave."

John was still upstairs getting his gear when Alex called.  "Dinner and dancing tonight?" she suggested, and Connor immediately said yes.  He was smiling as he hung up the phone, and he was whistling as he and John trotted down the stairs to the car.

But by noon, Connor wasn't whistling or smiling anymore.  "She does good," Ben told him when Connor stopped by the karate center for his morning workout.  "Great memory, getting stronger, pays attention, doesn't get frustrated … she's easy to teach."

That wasn't what Connor needed to hear.  "But."

"But she's nice.  Maybe too nice."  Ben shrugged.  "I don't know, Mac.  I think she could be more aggressive if she's really threatened, but if she hesitates or holds back on the streets the way she does on me in class, she's toast."

The way she had held back on him last night.  Connor swore to himself in dismay, wishing he'd found an obnoxious asshole to teach her.  "She likes you," Connor offered as an excuse.

"I like her, too," Ben said with a grin.  "If you hadn't seen her first …"

But Connor had, and now Alex was his.  His woman, and his responsibility.  If she were incapable of attacking or killing when the need came—and the need would come, Connor was sure—then she might very well be dead within five years.  Keeping her in his life would be tantamount to negligent homicide.  But he knew she could do it, and he hadn't gotten this far only to give up now.  All she needed was the proper push.

Jake's mom picked up John at six-thirty, and at a quarter to seven, Connor walked to the sushi bar off Bleecker Street.  Brightly colored paper carp and paper lanterns hung from the ceiling, and every table in the long, narrow room was taken.  Alex was sitting at the counter on a stool, watching the white-coated and white-hatted chef spread rice on a large wafer of thin black seaweed, but she noticed Connor as soon as he walked in the door. Her smile glowed with welcome, and he hadn't seen her look this happy in weeks.  She was wearing the opal earrings he had given her, and the outfit he had bought to match—a black silk blouse shot through with threads of gold and green and blue, with a skirt of deep aquamarine—all dressed up for dancing and a night on the town, and looking ready to spend the rest of the night in bed.

Which meant this was the perfect time to tell her no.  Connor permitted himself one silent and exceedingly foul obscenity before he threaded his way between black plastic chairs and white plastic tables to join her at the counter.  "You look fantastic," he said and brought her hand to his lips for a tender kiss.  He kept her hand in his own.  "I've missed you."

Her fingers squeezed his.  "And I've missed you."

She was looking up at him, lips slightly parted, expectant and waiting, and Connor closed his eyes as he savored the sweetness of her kiss.  Please, God, let it not be the last.  "You did great this week," he said, sliding onto the stool next to hers, and also sliding into the detached and controlled state he assumed before a battle was joined.

"I thought so, too."  She smiled again, confident and pleased, and after the waitress had brought them each a Kirin beer, Alex said to him, "I'm done."

"Done?" Connor repeated, employing overtones of disbelief and surprise.

"Done."  Alex's surprise included impatience—and irritation.  "I know I have more to learn with Ben, but I can do what's necessary.  And I know I need to learn more about tracking, but I feel OK about being surprised now.  I can handle it."

Connor let his eyebrows and his eyes do the talking: a quick flash upward of the brows, followed by a looking away.

"What?" she demanded.

He kept his words gentle and calm.  "I don't think so, Alex."

She swiveled on the stool to face him straight-on.  "You said it was my decision."

"And you said we both needed to agree."  Connor lifted his beer, drank, and set it down, a deliberate show of perfect control.  "I don't think you're taking this seriously enough."

Her irritation was fast turning into rage.  "Don't you?"

"No.  And neither does Ben."

"Do tell."

Connor obliged.  "He said that you hold back, that you hesitate." He added the final damning line.  "He said that you were 'nice.'"  Alex absorbed that with narrowed eyes, and with a flash of satisfied glee, Connor suspected that Ben would change that opinion during the first five minutes of the next lesson.  Maybe the first three.

"What exactly do you want from me, MacLeod?" she asked.  "I've been hunted by Kane, seen you after a Quickening—"

"I want you to keep your voice down," Connor interrupted, his own voice a quiet yet forceful command.  "We're not alone."

"Then we'll leave."  Alex pushed herself off the stool and walked away.  Connor dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter to pay for their drinks and followed, catching up to her at the door.  She half-turned to let a heavy-set man in a red shirt go by, and in doing so stumbled a bit,  clutching at Connor for balance, her hands on his arms, her breasts brushing his chest.  Connor was enjoying the fortuitous contact until the heel of her shoe spiked downwards, nailing his foot in the unprotected skin just above the tongue of his shoe.

Alex waited until he had finished whooshing out air and blinking at the pain before she informed him, "A lesson I learned from Ben.  One of the nicer ones."

She walked away again, and Connor limped after her through the door, smiling to himself in spite of his foot.  This was going very well.  By the time he caught up to her outside on the sidewalk, his foot had healed.  Connor didn't try to speak to her until they halted at the street corner, joining seven other people waiting for the light to change.  "Alex—"

"We're not alone," she cut in.  The light changed, and she set a good pace across the street, even wearing those spiked heels.  Connor walked by her side and didn't bother to try to talk to her again.  When they reached the baseball field not far from his shop, she finally stopped walking and faced him, her back against a chain-link fence.  Behind her, pairs of boys played catch in the outfield, loosening up for a game.  "So, MacLeod," she started, "exactly what do you want from me?"

"I need—" and Connor lay emphasis on that word "—to know that you understand what it's like to live with the Game.  You need to understand, too."

"I do understand," she bit out.  "Kane came after me, and you came *to* me after you cut off his head.  I've been questioned by the police.  They told to stay away from you because you are—get this—a 'dangerous man.'  I followed you to Scotland, helped you smuggle a murder weapon back into this country, and then stood back and said nothing while you chopped off Kane's head.  I've been talking to Rachel about living with you, and I've been learning how to kill people from Ben.  I have also been letting you follow me around and drive me crazy for the last three weeks, and I have taken *that* very seriously indeed."

"Yes," he agreed, giving her that.  "You've learned to pay attention to what's going on around you, and you've done a great job.  I thought it would take you longer, but you learned fast, and you learned well."  That soothed her, a little, and she was starting to listen now.  Connor shifted to a more persuasive tone.  "But what will you do if someone catches you, Alex?  Or attacks with no warning at all?"

"I can handle it."

"Really?" he asked with total disbelief.  "You didn't even try to hit me last night."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"I'm an Immortal," Connor reminded her.  "You can't hurt me."

"Really?" she asked, repeating his word with just the same tone.  "How's your foot?"

"Now?  Fine."

She was glaring at him again, and Connor went for the instinct that would turn a five-pound feline into a ferocious warrior: the urge to protect one's young.  "If you won't take care of yourself, how can I trust you to take care of John?"

Alex opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came.  She looked off to one side, half smiling and half looking as if she were about to cry.  Connor waited, because he'd pushed all the buttons he could for right now.  After a few moments, Alex tossed her hair back from her face and looked up at him.  "I love you.  I don't want to hurt you," she repeated.

Connor borrowed her words from their fight of last month.  "Then don't."

"But that means I can't prove it to directly to you, and you're taking Ben's word over mine."

"He has more experience than you do."  The logic of that silenced her, as Connor had known it would.  Alex prided herself on being logical.

After a moment she said, "If I convince Ben that I'm not 'nice,' then will you agree that I'm done?"

"If you convince Ben," Connor agreed, "you've convinced me."

"OK," she said, and Connor breathed a silent sigh of relief.  "I won't see him tomorrow," Alex said.  "He's out of town for the Fourth of July, but on Wednesday, I'll show him what I can do."  She smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile at all.

"Sounds good," Connor agreed, smiling back and already planning on how he could convince Ben to let him attend that lesson.  Connor was looking forward to seeing Alex send Ben to his knees.

Alex began walking alongside the outfield fence, and Connor joined her, walking in silence for a time.  "You and John ready for the trip to my mom's tomorrow?" Alex asked as they reached the backstop of the ball field.

"All packed," Connor said, looking forward to four days in the country.  A real vacation—no karate, no following around, very little chance of the Game—just ice cream and baseball and fireworks.  And maybe, Connor hoped, fireworks of another kind, too.  Four days away ought to put Alex in a better mood.  Or maybe even tonight …  "Want to go get something to eat?  Or go to the loft?  It's right around the corner."

"I don't think so, Connor.  I have to finish packing."

"I could come over to your place and help," he offered with a grin, then realized too late that his eagerness had overcome his brains.  He'd pushed this button too fast and too hard, and sure enough, Alex stopped walking and turned to stare at him again.

"I am really not 'in the mood' to be around you right now," she said, blunt to the point of bludgeoning.  "This evening didn't exactly turn out the way I had planned."

"Alex, I'm sorry—"

"I know," she interrupted.  "And I understand why you felt you had to do that.  It helps, but not enough."

Connor pulled out his ace in the hole.  "I love you," he said, staring directly into her eyes, putting everything he had into the words.

"You damn well better," she replied, not at all impressed.

Connor knew better than to laugh.  He held up both hands in surrender, at the same time preparing to back up if she tried another one of Ben's tricks on him.

Alex glared but simply said, "After what I've put up with, it's the least you can do."

"It's all I want to do," he told her, just as seriously as before.  "I want us to get married, take John and go somewhere, be a family … that's what I want, Alex."

Alex closed her eyes and just stood there for a count of ten.  "I know," she finally whispered and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.  "That's what I want, too."  They stood for a moment, his head bent to hers.

Alex took his hand, squeezing it too hard at first, then shaking it from side to side, rather like a cat killing a mole.  Connor knew she wanted to hit him, and he couldn't blame her.  In fact, he was pleased.  "Never fight when you're angry," his teachers had often told him, but sometimes, a person needed to be angry in order to fight, especially a beginner, especially a woman.  They needed a push, or sometimes a shove.

Alex dropped his hand and started walking again.  Connor caught up to her in two quick steps.  "I'll be in a better mood tomorrow when we go to my mom's," she said at the edge of the park, "but right now, I need to be by myself."

Connor wasn't going to compound his stupidity by arguing.  "Would you like me to see you home?"  But that was yet another bad move.

"I've lived in New York for eight years, Connor," Alex informed him.  "I know how to take a bus.  Or do you think I can't handle that, either?"

Quit fast if you're ahead, and quit even faster if you're losing.  Connor opted for silence and simply shook his head.  Alex gave him a final glare before she stalked to the bus stop, and Connor walked home to spend another night alone.

~~~~~

Alex stared out the window of the bus during the ride to her apartment, seething.  Arrogant, high-handed, stubborn, manipulative …  She'd seen what he was doing.  She could tell he'd been "plucking her strings," trying to make her angry, trying to push her to do more, to prove herself to him.  As if she already hadn't done enough.  As if she hadn't worked hard enough, given up enough, sworn and sweated and cried enough, just to be with that selfish, patronizing—

Alex stopped herself right there, infuriated with herself just as much as him.  Because even though she knew that he'd deliberately provoked her, his tactics still worked.  She *was* angry.  She wanted to grind Connor and Ben into the floor.  She wanted to prove to both of those insufferable, smirking, arrogant men that she could handle it, and handle them.

The bus clattered to a halt at a corner, and Alex looked up to inspect and evaluate the new passengers coming on, a habit of caution she'd picked up during these last few weeks.  An older woman with a shopping bag, a younger woman with three kids in tow, and a middle-aged man in a business suit who mistook her gaze for a more personal interest and paused as if to sit in her seat.  Alex nailed him with a glare that could have perforated titanium, and he gulped and moved on.

The bus pulled back into the erratic flow of traffic, and Alex went back to staring out the window.  Connor wanted her to get in touch with her "inner bitch"?  Fine.  She would do just that, and then he would see.

~~~~~

The holiday traffic out of the city on Saturday morning was horrific, but Connor soon decided the trip was worth it.  Alex seemed more relaxed by the time they crossed the Pennsylvania border, and as he drove her Ford Explorer along the shady road by the narrow river, she even reached over and held his hand.

When they arrived at the farmhouse, Alex's mom kissed him on the cheek.  "Connor, how good to see you again."

"It's good to see you too, Margaret," Connor replied.  The epitome of a gray-haired and comfortably plump grandmother, Alex's mom always reminded him of Mrs. Hanson, who'd sometimes taken care of Rachel forty years ago.  But Rachel was fifty-four now, and Margaret was fifty-three.  Mrs. Hanson had died in 1975.

"This is my son, Pete," Margaret was saying, and Connor shook hands with Alex's older brother, a strongly-built man in his mid-thirties with blond hair and a clipped brown beard.  "His wife, Lara," Margaret went on, and Connor shook Lara's hand, too.  "And their children, Elaine and Jimmy."  The kids watched him warily, eyes dark brown like their mother's, until Connor winked at them.  Elaine winked back, and Jimmy tried, but managed only to blink.

"This is my son, John," Connor said, and the three kids exchanged nods.

"Want to go play?" Elaine asked John and got another nod in return.  The social niceties disposed of, all three grabbed some cookies and ran off to play in the barn.

"Lara and I were going to take the kids canoeing on the lake this afternoon," Pete said as the adults sat on the porch with tall glasses of homemade lemonade.  "We can rent another canoe for the three of you."

"A big canoe will hold five; why don't you take John with you?" Alex suggested.  "I wanted to show Connor some of the farm."

Pete grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the beard.  "The old swimming hole?"

"Won't need any swimming suits for that!" Lara put in, nudging her husband in the ribs and winking at Alex.  Margaret pretended not to see or hear.

Connor turned inquisitive eyes to Alex and got a smile of quiet promise in return.  He stretched out his legs and grinned.  This weekend in the country had been a great idea.

They set out after lunch.  Margaret had elected to stay home.  "I don't do water," she stated.  "Unless it's frozen into snow."  On his last visit, Connor had counted Margaret's skiing trophies: eleven first places, four seconds, the earliest dated 1956, the latest 1992.  Pete and Alex's trophies stood on the shelf below; Margaret had taught Alex and Pete to ski when they had turned three.

Pete and Lara and the kids loaded up in the minivan, and John waved from the window as they drove away.  Connor and Alex waved back then headed past the barn and through the pasture.  The afternoon sun beat down on their heads and shoulders, and grasshoppers leapt away from their oncoming feet with whirrs and rustles in the dry grass.  The air wasn't dry, though; Connor's shirt was already clinging to the middle of his back, and he felt as if he were slogging through a swamp.

Alex wiped the sweat off her forehead then shifted her backpack.  "I'll carry that," Connor offered, for his own pack held only a canteen and a sword.

"Thanks, but I'm fine, and we're almost to the trees."

The shade from the towering oaks and maples was a welcome relief, though the air felt even more humid under the trees.  Scampering chipmunks replaced the leaping grasshoppers, and the tall, dry grass gave way to gray rocks and dead leaves. The path was narrow but clear.  Alex led the way, over a ridge and then down, following the curve of a silent trickle of water.  They stepped or sometimes jumped across the rivulets that joined the trickle and slowly widened it to a respectable stream.  Alex said nothing, and Connor felt no need for words.  The day was gift enough.

The path leveled out but stayed on the side of the hill, keeping to the high ground just above the flood plain of the creek.  The flat land was dry now, this late in the summer, but Connor knew in spring and fall it would be a muddy bog.  The water kept pace with them, sometimes foaming white and chattering over boulders, sometimes flowing clear and quiet over pebbles and sand.

A sudden twist in the path snaked between a group of enormous boulders splotched with yellow lichen, then Alex stopped.  Connor moved to stand beside her.  He looked down to see a pool of water, green-black in the leafy shade, rimmed about with tumbled boulders twice as tall as a man.

"Not deep enough for diving," she said then added with a grin, "but plenty deep enough for dunking."  She shrugged off her backpack and set it on the ground then picked her way to the water's edge.  Connor followed her example.  "Pete and I used to come here almost every day in the summer when we were kids," Alex said, kneeling to trail her fingers in the water.  "Did you have a place like this?"

"Oh, yeah," Connor said.  "My cousin Dhugal and I near drowned each other all the time." He bent and touched the water.  "It was colder than this, though, fed by melting snow.  We thought we'd freeze our cockles off."

Alex laughed and flicked her fingers at him, scattering cool droplets on his face and hair.  "We don't want that."  She stood, only an arm's length away from him, sun-dappled in the shadows.  "Do we?"

"No," Connor said softly, staring into her eyes, aching to touch the softness of her hair.  Alex looked away.  Connor exhaled as he turned back to the water, reminding himself to let her make the first move.  But he could offer some encouragement.  Connor leaned against one of the boulders and took off his shoes and socks, then started to unbutton his shirt.  "Aren't you coming in?" he asked, because Alex hadn't made a move to get undressed.

"I'm admiring the view," she said, looking straight at him.

More encouragement was obviously being called for, and Connor was happy to oblige. He took his time on the buttons, pulled one arm free, and then the other.  He stretched, hands high over his head, then out to the sides, then down to the snaps on his jeans.  He took his time taking his blue jeans off, too.

When he turned around, Alex was still watching, her lips slightly parted, her eyes gone smoky blue.  "I, um, left the towels in my backpack," she said.  "I'll bring them down and be right with you."

Connor watched her climb the rocks back to the path, taking his turn to admire the view.  The graceful movements under her sweat-dampened T-shirt and snug black shorts were worth watching.  She knelt to unzip the pack, and Connor set his folded clothes on a boulder then turned back to the pool.  His feet explored the water's edge—cold at first, then swirling cool around his ankles, the pebbles slippery underfoot.

"Hey, MacLeod!" Alex called from behind him, and Connor turned with a smile … until he saw the pistol in her hand.  She shot him once in the chest.  The world went silent for one quivering second, then exploded into a haze of red spiked with black.

He should have known, Connor realized dimly, as he lay on his side on the pebbled bank near the pool, and pulled in a single, shallow, agonizing breath of air.  She never called him by his last name unless she was serious about something.  One of his arms lay in the water, and his fingers on both hands were icy cold.  He tried to roll over, to move, but he couldn't feel his legs at all.  They had crumpled beneath him, useless and immovable.  His spine.  The bullet must have severed his spine.  Which meant his bowels and bladder had cut loose, he knew.  Shit.  And piss, he corrected himself, but his hysterical laugh was a strangled gurgle, and Connor couldn't get a decent breath.  It was like drowning in air.  Except he was drowning in blood.  He was covered in blood.  Oh God, the blood.  It pumped out, flowed out, streamed out, and he was dying, bleeding to death and dying, naked and paralyzed and lying helpless in blood and piss and shit, with Alex watching it all.

Her feet appeared in front of him, dirty white shoelaces wavering above dark blue shoes. Anytime, Connor reminded himself.  Anywhere.  His chest felt splintered, bright shards of pain stabbing him with every faltering beat of his heart.  It shouldn't hurt this much to die.  The water murmured nearby, trickling over stones.  He sucked for air again but this time got nothing, panicked and flailed his arms, lifted his head and tried to breathe … and got nothing.  Collapsed lungs.  Bleed to death or suffocate to death, flip a coin to see which would kill him first.  Bleeding, he hoped.  At least it would make him pass out soon.  He hated not being able to breathe, like a gutted fish.

God, but he was cold.  The colors faded to gray; the sounds became a distant roar of wind.

Anyone.

Alex watched Connor die.  It seemed to take a long time.  She'd been aiming for the heart, but she couldn't see exactly where the bullet had gone in; there was too much blood.  She could see where the bullet had come out, though.  He'd crumpled onto his side, and through the oozing stream of blood on his back she caught a glimpse of ripped flesh and, deeper in, white lumpy things that had to be bones.  She could fit her fist in that hole.

She had been glad when the noises had stopped, those thin whistlings and wheezings over the curdled strangling chokes for air, and even gladder when he had passed out, so that his fingers quit their scrabbling on the stones and he finally closed his eyes.  She didn't like looking at the panic there.  She'd never seen him frightened before.  She'd never seen his face twisted in agony, either.

"You can't hurt me," Connor had said, but he had lied.

The blood was dark red, darker than she had ever dreamed, more than she had ever imagined, a dribble of blood on his cheek, a shower of blood on his chest and back, dripping into the spreading pool beneath him, coating the small rounded stones with slick gleaming red.

She wasn't sure exactly when he died.  The skin of his throat and between his ribs finally stopped that obscene pulsing, but the blood continued to flow.  He didn't relax with a sigh, because he'd already passed out.  He didn't stop breathing, because after the first fifteen seconds or so, he hadn't been able to breathe.  The quivers and the twitches got farther and farther apart until, eventually, he just looked … dead.  Empty.  A broken sack on bloody stones.

So.  She had killed a man.  Alex shifted her feet and looked away.  Behind her, a bird started to sing, shrill in the silence, a tentative che-cher-cheep.  They'd all gone quiet after she'd shot the gun.  Shot the *man,* she corrected herself, forcing herself to look at the body.  No, not "the body."  Not "the man," either.  Not an unknown, nameless thing.  That was Connor MacLeod's body lying there, shattered, bloody, and empty, and she had killed the man she loved.

Or thought she loved, anyway.  She could remember loving him, but she couldn't feel anything now.  Not anger and satisfaction—not anymore—not fear or revulsion, not pity or regret … nothing.  Perhaps, she reasoned carefully, it was because he wasn't really dead.  Or, that is, he *was* really dead, but she knew he wouldn't stay that way for long.

Or maybe he would.  Alex had seen Connor heal, he'd cut his palm once to show her the electric blue sparks that danced across his skin, but he hadn't told her how long it took him to revive.  Five minutes?  Ten?  An hour or more?

Or maybe never.  What if it didn't work this time?  What if he never came back?

Don't be stupid, Alex told herself firmly.  He'd died dozens of times; why should this time be any different?  Just be patient. Just wait.  Just stand here, she ordered herself, while her legs trembled with the desire to run and mounting panic gibbered at the back of her mind.  Don't be a coward.  Stand here and *look* at what you've done.  Look at the blood and the broken, crumpled mess you've made.

But her eyes skittered, showing her only splotches of color, tiny pieces of the scene.  A green tinted shadow wavered next to a silver coin of sunlight; a curving line of brown pointed to a rivulet of red on snow.  Her eyes refused to focus, but Alex knew what was there: sunshine and shadow on a sprawled thigh, a lank strand of hair, blood on too-white skin.

He had been so beautiful, standing unclothed at the pool's edge, with his head thrown back and arms outstretched, as if he were greeting the sun in some ancient pagan rite.  Then she had shot him and watched him die.

Except Connor wasn't "dead."  He was just not alive right now.  He would be reviving soon, and then he would be fine.  He had to be.  Alex stood there with her gun in her hand, looking at Connor's body and refusing to let herself think or wonder or, worst of all, to feel.

It had taken him maybe a minute or two to die; it took him nearly ten times that to revive.  She jerked back with a shudder when the body finally moved.  His eyes snapped open as he woke with a great gasp for air, a drowning man desperate to breathe, only to choke on blood again.  He groaned as he rolled over, dragging himself to his hands and knees, then choked on blood again, more of those horrid gurgling sounds.  He spit out stringy gobbets, bright red globules glistening on the stony beach, blood staining his hands, dribbling down his chin.  He scooped up handfuls of water, rinsed his mouth, and spat and spat again.  The water swirled pink, then red.

He coughed finally, a normal clearing of the throat, then twisted his head to look up at her.  The torn flesh had healed, closing the bullet holes, but his chest and back still dripped red.  His buttocks and the insides of his thighs were streaked with muddy brown.  "Not pretty, is it?" he asked.

Alex shook her head.

Connor turned back to the water, this time swallowing it instead of rinsing with it, using both hands to scoop and almost frantically sucking the water down.  Blood loss, Alex realized.  He must have lost quarts.  She unscrewed the lid to her canteen and offered it to him.  He took the canteen without looking, knelt back on his heels, upended the canteen and poured the water down his throat.

When it was empty, he got unsteadily to his feet and faced her, his expression unreadable, not angry, not amused, just watchful.  Or perhaps "wary" was a better word.  His gaze went to the gun she still held in her hand.  "Got something else to prove, Alex?  To yourself?  Or to me?"

Alex shrugged.  "Q.E.D."  Quod erat demonstrandum. That which was to be demonstrated, had now been proved beyond a doubt.  She could kill.  She could lure a lover to his death with false smiles and soft words, then shoot an unarmed man and watch him die.  She was not "nice."

"Why?"

Still no anger from him, no irritation, not even surprise.  Just a request for information.  Mr. Spock would have been proud.  Alex shrugged again and gave Connor the easy reason; the other reasons were unspeakably hard.  "I knew Ben's word would never be enough for you.  You should be from Missouri, Connor; you're such a 'show me' kind of guy."

Connor half-smiled at that, looking up to the branches above.  "When did you decide?"

"At the baseball field."  At Connor's muttered oath, Alex added, "I worked out how on the bus ride home."  She glanced around at the secluded pool, which had been her childhood haven and later a lovers' tryst, and was now her killing ground.  "I couldn't let John see."

"Good point," Connor said with grim appreciation.  "The strip tease?"

She nodded to his shirt and jeans, still neatly folded on the rock.  "I didn't want to ruin your clothes."

Connor waved one hand toward the pool.  "And I can even wash.  How considerate.  How … thoughtful."

"Yes," she admitted without any hint of shame, without any trace of the nausea she was starting to feel.  "I planned it all."

He nodded, his eyes narrowed, his attention focused completely on her, like a teacher evaluating a pupil.  She'd wanted his attention once, even followed him across an ocean to get it.  Now she had it.  He was all hers.  "All right," he said finally.  "You're done."

Alex nodded in return, then started on the path toward home, her gun heavy in her hand.  Oh, yes.  She was done.  She was almost to the grassy meadow when the nausea overcame her, driving her to her knees in retching disgust and shame.

~~~~~

After twenty minutes of bathing and swimming, Connor climbed out of the pool.  Alex had left the towels and her backpack behind.  Being considerate again?  Or just forgetful?  Connor wouldn't want to bet on her either way, not anymore.

He scrubbed himself dry then stretched out naked on a boulder, lying on his back with his hands behind his head, his legs bent at the knees and his feet dangling down one side of the stone.  Overhead, slivers of blue sky danced between green leaves.  Birds sang and water chattered, the air was warm, the rock was cool, and Connor could smell rich loam and growing things all around.  There would be a thunderstorm later today; he could sense it in the still and muggy air.  A perfect summer day.

Except for getting killed.

Connor closed his eyes and tried to figure out just where he'd gone so wrong.  Had it been when he'd asked her how he could trust to her take care of John?  Or had it been that line about Ben being more experienced than she?  What better way to get experience in killing than to kill?  Yet Connor had never dreamed she'd actually try it on him.  "I don't want to hurt you," she'd said many times, but he'd obviously either seriously misjudged her ruthlessness or pushed her buttons way too hard.  Probably both.  He hadn't realized how much she'd changed.

  We but teach
  Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
  To plague the inventor.

A poisonous justice indeed.  But what else did he expect?

What else did he deserve?

~~~~~

Connor looked for Alex as he walked back to the farmhouse but saw only Margaret, sitting on the screened-in back porch and shelling peas.  Connor joined her there, and they worked without speaking for a time, the silence broken by the metallic ping of peas against the side of the silver bowl and the soft rustles and cracks of the pods.

"You've good hands for the work," she said, when the bowl was half-full.

Connor reached for another pod and split it open, then popped the peas out with a sliding motion of his thumb. "My mother kept a garden."

"And your father?"

"Kept sheep."

Margaret patted at the dampness on her neck with a corner of her yellow calico apron.  "And did you keep the family farm?"

Connor popped out the last pea in the pod then slowly pulled the green sleeves apart.  He shook his head as he dropped the empty shell in the paper bag between them.  "I had to leave."

Margaret nodded, looking out across the pasture.  "I'll be leaving this one soon.  Too much snow to shovel in the winter."

"We can have someone come out and do that for you," Connor offered immediately.  No woman should be forced to leave her home.  "Cut the grass in the summer, rake the leaves, whatever you need."

Margaret turned to him, her light blue eyes startled behind her glasses. "Oh, thank you, Connor, I didn't mean … No," she said, reaching over to pat him on the hand.  "This house is too big for just me.  It needs children running down the stairs, horses in the barn, a family.  I've been thinking that all this last year—it's been so quiet ever since Neil passed away—but this weekend with everyone here made me sure of it.  I'll be moving into my mother's house in town.  She's getting older and could use the help, plus I'll be closer to my job at the hospital.  My friends and my church are there."  She picked up another pea pod and popped it open.  "It'll be a good move.  It's time for a change."

Maybe more than one.  Connor went back to shelling peas.  When the last was done, he stood and picked up the paper bag full of empty pods.  "I'll take this to the compost heap."

Margaret nodded as she picked up the bowl.  "Thank you.  After that, try the barn."

Connor stopped halfway out the screen door.  "What?"

"The barn," Margaret repeated.  "Alex would always go there to think."

Connor smiled to himself; Margaret and Rachel were like peas in a pod—they always knew what was going on.  "Thanks," Connor said.

"Are you and Alex all right, Connor?"

"I hope so," Connor said.  "I'm going to go find out."

"Good."  Margaret paused, the silver bowl balanced against one hip, her other hand on the handle of the kitchen door.  "Alex is stubborn, you know," Margaret warned.

Connor grinned.  "I've noticed.  She suits me."

"And you suit her," Margaret replied then added one more piece of advice.  "Sometimes, Alex needs to be alone to figure things out."

"I've noticed that, too."

"I'm sure you have.  Good luck, Connor."

Margaret went inside the house, and Connor headed past the garden and for the barn.  It was an old one—the bottom of the walls made of field stone, the upper level made of wooden planks and painted the traditional red.  One of the huge sliding doors on the front of the barn was open, wide enough for a car, but Connor walked down the slope at the side of the barn to the horse stalls at the back.  The door was open there, too.

The musty scents of old wood and old leather mingled with the earthy coolness of the cellar, but there was no whiff of hay or manure.  The last horse had been sold two years ago, soon after Alex's father had died.  The six stalls were empty, save for Alex standing in the second-farthest from the door.  She was wearing blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt; she must have changed when she got home.  Her hair was tightly pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore no make-up, reminding Connor of a freshly-scrubbed fourteen-year-old.  Alex looked up as he came in.

"Hey," Connor said softly, stopping near the tiny window so encrusted with cobwebs that any light that managed to filter through was gray.

"Hey."  Alex looked away.

Connor walked to the stall next to hers and leaned his folded arms on the door in the same way, her looking out, him looking in.  A feed trough was nailed to the far wall. They both took their time contemplating the cracks in the concrete floor.

"This was Theseus's stall," Alex said finally, her words quick, her voice too high.  "Dad let me stay home from school the day he came to us, when I was twelve.  I brushed him and brushed him, brought him water and apples, rubbed him down and rearranged his blanket a dozen times.  I slept out here that night.  Mom didn't want to let me, but Dad said I could."  Her fingernails picked at a loose sliver of wood on the door.  "I miss him."

"Alex—"

"Theseus was so beautiful," she interrupted.  "Chestnut.  White blaze, white socks, brown mane and tail.  I miss him, too."  She turned on Connor, the words accusing, the eyes hostile.  "I guess you've had a lot of horses, haven't you?"

Connor nodded, letting her anger dash against him like waves on a rock, hoping it would soon drain away.  He understood this basic rule of human behavior all too well: if you feel guilty, blame someone else.  He was an easy target … in a couple of different ways.  "The barn's in good shape," he observed, sticking to trivial things for now.

"We had a new roof put on right before I started high school, eighteen years ago."  The anger returned, a monster wave.  "Where were you in '76, Connor?"

The Bicentennial Year.  That set it apart from the blur of time; Connor could remember the odd coins and the red, white, and blue bunting everywhere, fireworks and speeches and godawful ads on TV.  "In New York," he said.  "With Rachel at the store."

"Were you a keeping a mistress that year, Connor?  Did you take many heads?"

Connor made no answer, because that wasn't what Alex was really asking.  Her words skimmed the surface; the dangerous reefs lay below:  "How alien are you?  In your centuries of living, how many women have you fucked?  How many men have you killed?"  Connor didn't know.  He'd lost count, somewhere in the years, and there were days he'd wondered if he were even human anymore.

"Do you enjoy it?" she asked next, steering straight for one of those buried rocks.  "Do you like to kill?"

"Yes," he said, smashing all pretense and giving her what she'd been asking for: the brutal and ugly truth.  "Part of me does."  He walked over to her and faced her across the stall door.  "How about you?"

"Yes," she whispered, fierce and frantic.  "Part of me liked killing you."  She turned away, biting into her lip and blinking back tears.  "Oh God, I can't—"  She slammed her hands, palms flat and fingers open, against the wooden boards of the stall.

Connor opened the stall door and came inside, but stayed a few paces away.  "I understand, Alex."

"Of course, you do!" she spat out, swinging back around, the tears shifting back to rage.  "You've killed so many."  Her voice dropped to a whisper.  "And they couldn't come back."  She dashed her tears away with the back of her hand.  "This is what you wanted all along, isn't it?  To make me into a killer.  Like you."

"You're a murderer," Brenda had breathed in horror, that night in Spain when Connor had come back to her after taking a head, wanting nothing more than to lose himself in Brenda's arms.  But she had backed away.  "I knew, with the Kurgan, but … he deserved it. Hell, I would have killed him myself, if I'd known how.  But this time … a woman … she was only twenty-nine, only two years older than me … what had Taryk ever done to you?"

Plenty, Connor had realized as the conversation with Brenda had gone on.  Taryk (who'd chopped at least five centuries off her age) had befriended Brenda earlier that day, when Connor had gone for a run.  Taryk had played the part of a new and frightened Immortal to perfection, primarily to get information from Brenda about him, but Taryk's smooth lies had left Connor with another battle to fight when he got home.

It had taken Brenda and Connor two days, a broken dish, five arguments, and three quieter discussions to thrash that one out and decide to stay married.  Connor hoped it would go easier this time.

"No, Alex," Connor said.  "I never wanted you to become a killer, and I sure as hell never expected you to kill me."  He gave her a rueful grin at that, and when she half-smiled back at him, he dared to reach for her hand.  She let him take it then squeezed his hand hard, a painful grip that didn't relax until Connor brought her hand to his lips for a kiss, all the while looking into her eyes.  "I'm sorry, Alex."

Her laugh was half-hysteria, half-disbelief.  "I'm the one who pulled the trigger."

"Because I pushed you too hard," he said, still holding on to her hand, hoping to God he could hold on to her.  "Alex, I never *wanted* any of this, for either of us.  I don't want to be an Immortal.  I don't want to have to play the Game.  I didn't want to make you learn … what you had to learn in order to be with me.  But I don't—

"—have a choice," she finished for him.  She slowly pulled her hand from his and folded her arms across her chest, a defensive pose.  "But I did have a choice.  And I chose to kill you."

"Why?" he asked again, as he had asked at the pool, but he knew Alex was ready to talk now.

"That night at the sushi bar, I'd thought you would be proud of me, and that we would pick a date to get married.  Instead, you told me I wasn't good enough for you."

Shit.  "God, Alex, that's not what I meant.  I just said you weren't done, not that you couldn't do it at all."

"But that's how I felt when you said I hadn't done enough.  I was hurt, furious … and ready to kill.  And then I thought, 'Why not?  He's Immortal; he'll come back.  And it'll show him that I really can handle it.'"  She shook her head slightly, looking confused.  "I didn't think much about 'why' after that, just 'how.'"

Connor almost grinned.  "Focused, as always."

"You  told me I couldn't hurt you," she said in bewildered accusation.  "But I did."  She was crying again, and this time when Connor reached for her, she came into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder; her body shuddering with sobs.  "Oh God, Connor, I never wanted to hurt you like that.  On TV, people just die.  I didn't know how horrible it would be."

Connor tightened his arms around her.  "I'm fine."

Alex pushed back from him.  "But I'm not."  She stepped even farther away.  "I knew it would be hard living with the Game, and hard living with you."  She wiped at her face with her hand again, drying some of her tears, but more came.

"I just never realized," she said slowly, "how hard it would be to live with myself."

~~~~~

The canoeing party returned in the late afternoon, and Alex forced herself to emerge from her bedroom and join everyone downstairs.  Thankfully, dinner wasn't too far away, and soon Alex was able to retreat to the kitchen to shuck corn and wash greens while Mom and Lara chattered away and fixed the rest of the food.  Pete and Connor went in the side yard with the kids to play Frisbee.  Alex sat at the kitchen table so she wouldn't have to look outside.  "I'll do the peas," Alex offered when the salad was made.

Mom shook her head as she set the huge dark green pot they always used for corn on the stove.  "Connor and I took care of them this afternoon.  Why don't you set the table on the back porch?  We'll have a breeze back there."

"You know, Margaret, we could help you put in air conditioners for the rest of the house this weekend, instead of just in the one bedroom upstairs," Lara said, a butcher knife flecked with watermelon seeds in her hand.  "Pete could go into town with the minivan and buy some window units this afternoon."

"It's easy to see you're from New England, Lara," Mom replied with a laugh.  "Thinking this is hot.  Why, it's barely ninety."

"And humid enough for frogs," Lara put in.

"That's why we'll be eating outside, where there's a breeze.  Besides, it's cooling down now from the heat of the day, and we can turn the fans on, too."

Alex smiled as she counted out the silverware; she'd heard this argument every summer for the last thirteen years, and it always ended the same way: with Mom saying no.  She hated the smell of air-conditioned air, and she spent hours in it every day at the hospital.

"Oh, Alex, you might have to wash some plates," Mom said, getting down the glasses.  "I'm not sure we have eight clean ones left."

Alex stayed busy, grateful to have something to occupy her hands—and her mind.  When dinnertime came, Alex hesitated, uncertain where to sit, because she couldn't sit next to Connor and she didn't want to look at him, either.  Mom—God bless her—swooped in and took command, seating John between Connor and Alex on one side of the table, and putting Lara, flanked by Elaine and Jimmy, on the bench on the other side.  Pete was sent to the foot of the table, and Mom seated herself at the head.  The blessing was said, and Alex kept an interested smile pasted on her face as the chatter resumed and the platters of food went around.

"Aren't you hungry, Alex?" Lara asked, halfway through the meal.

"Not very," Alex admitted.

"It must be the heat.  I hope to goodness there's a thunderstorm soon; that should clear the air.  You should try some of the steak," she suggested, obviously still firmly in her mothering cut-up-the-meat mode, even though her children were eleven and eight.  "I think Connor's had three pieces already.  You like it rare, too, don't you, Alex?"

Alex clamped her teeth shut and hastily looked away from the bloody slabs of meat on the serving plate.  "No, thank you."

"How about the corn on the cob?"  Lara pushed the platter closer to Alex.  "We bought it from the stand two miles up the road on the way back from the lake. We had a great time canoeing, didn't we, kids?"

Elaine and Jimmy responded with enthusiastic nods then devoted themselves to spitting watermelon seeds on their plates.  "Maybe we can go tomorrow, Dad," John said.   "They have lots of canoes."

"Sounds like a good idea," Connor agreed, and the sound of his voice sent shivers down Alex's spine.  She kept her gaze on the corn, steadfastly counting to see how many kernels were in a row.

"So, how was the swimming hole?" Lara asked, and Alex didn't need to look up to see her grin.  "You two have fun?"

"A beautiful spot," Connor said immediately, answering Lara's first question and completely ignoring the second.  He turned to John to say: "Let's go there in the morning," and Alex nearly panicked as she remembered the blood by the pool.  John would see, and he mustn't see, mustn't ever know—

"Why not tonight?" John was asking.

"It's going to rain."

~~~~~

Rain it did, a thunderstorm right after dinner that split open the sky and rattled the house, and then a steady downpour that lasted well after dark, more than enough rain to wash the blood from the stones.  Alex pleaded a headache and left everyone in the living room playing charades to go upstairs to her bedroom and lie down.

Her mom showed up twenty minutes later. "You ready to talk yet?" Mom asked, and Alex sat up on her bed.  Mom sat at the foot and said nothing.

Alex pulled her pillow into her lap and wrapped her arms around it, remembering the many other conversations she and Mom had had in this room: talks about good manners and theology, about teachers and grades, about hair and fingernail polish and what to wear for the prom.  Her school books and her stuffed animals were long gone, but the walls were still the same apple green color she'd picked out in eighth grade, and the white-painted furniture hadn't been moved at all.  It was good to come home.

There'd been no conversations with Dad in this room; Alex had always talked to Dad downstairs in the study, which she'd always thought of as "his" study, even though Mom's painting projects had taken up half the room.  More than half, now, since Dad was gone.  Which meant Alex had to talk to Mom, a secondary source instead of the primary one.  But Mom was easy to talk to, and she was sitting right there waiting; this shouldn't be too hard.

Right.  Compared to this, talking about birth control at the age of sixteen had been a piece of cake.  But it had to be done; Alex needed to know.  She tested the ground.  "Did Dad ever talk much about his time in Vietnam?"

Mom lifted her eyebrows in surprise at the topic, but answered simply enough: "No, but that's not unusual.  Most veterans don't.  My dad never talked about World War II to us kids, except to tell stories about the horrible food."

Just as Connor had tried to hide his immortality from John.  But wives weren't the same as children, and maybe Mom know more.  Alex marked out her site.  "Do you know if Dad ever killed anybody?"

"Yes.  He did.  At least once, that he told me of.  I suspect there were more."

Time to dig.  "How did he feel about it?"

"In some ways regretful, I think, but also proud.  He saved a friend's life.  The other times … well, he never talked about those.  I don't know."

Alex nodded, disappointed but not really surprised.  She hadn't expected Mom to know.

"He volunteered for the war, you know," Mom said.  "He was in recon, scouting ahead.  I think that's part of why he went deer hunting every year.  But also ... one autumn—oh, '66 or '67, I think; Pete hadn't started going with him yet and you weren't even in school—I said to your dad: 'We don't really need the meat.'  He said: 'But I need to hunt.'  He enjoyed it, all of it."

And that was what Alex had needed to learn.  But she'd known that about him all along, hadn't she?  Just as she'd known about Connor.  Killing offered a sense of satisfaction and pride … and a thrill.

"Connor's been a soldier, hasn't he?" Mom asked.  "He has that look."

"Oh, yeah," Alex murmured.  Connor had that look.

"Things happen in war, Alex.  It's not the whole measure of a man."

Or of a woman, Alex reminded herself.  If she could accept it in them, why not in herself?  Or did she think herself too "good" to be a killer?  Did she think herself "better" than Connor?  Than Dad?

"The rain's stopped," Mom said, standing up.  "Connor said he and John were going to sleep outside tonight."

"I'm staying in," Alex said, and Mom nodded and kissed her on the forehead before saying goodnight.

~~~~~

Alex rose at five the next morning, but she wasn't the first one up.  Mom was in the kitchen making coffee, and Alex found Connor sitting on the steps of the front porch, dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, barefoot and unshaven.  He was watching the beginnings of the dawn, streaks of pink and orange in the eastern sky.  John was still asleep, curled up on a blanket thirty feet away, between the garden and the driveway. "The view's better on the hill down the road," she said to Connor.  "Mom can keep an eye on John.  Want to go for a walk?"

Connor stood immediately.  "Sure."  He went inside to get his shoes, and Alex went inside to get Mom.

"I need to leave for church by seven-fifteen," Mom reminded her as she settled herself on the front porch with her morning coffee and newspaper.

"We'll be back before seven," Alex promised then added in a sudden decision that felt absolutely right, "I want to go, too."  Connor came out the front door, and Alex waved to Mom then set off with Connor down the gravel driveway.  "How'd you sleep?" Alex asked when the house had disappeared behind the line of windbreak pines.

"Great.  I saw the stars come out this morning, after the clouds cleared away."  They turned left and walked on the asphalt road, alongside the ditch filled with water from last night's rain.  "I miss the stars," Connor said.

"So do I.  That's one reason I like coming back home. You can't see them in the city."

"You can't see them anywhere, not the way you used to before electricity, except in the desert or on the high seas.  Thousands of stars, and beyond them thousands more, into the deep and endless, diamond dust spread across the sky."

Connor's words and voice held beauty, a poetry that Alex seldom heard from him and so treasured all the more, but she couldn't hear it now.  Unbidden, her mind had dredged up another poet's lines:

     Let us go then, you and I,
     When the evening is spread across the sky
     Like a patient etherized upon a table.

She'd always hated that image of T. S. Eliot's, the patient lying helpless and flaccid, the naked flesh waiting for the thin hot cut of a surgeon's blade.  And anyway, it was morning now, and she and Connor were going to see the sunrise, not an evening of yellow fog.  "Right here," she said, and they turned off the road to climb the knoll that overlooked the Hogeweides' corn fields.  The tall grasses and wildflowers swished at their passing as they climbed.  "Here we are," she said brightly to Connor at the top of the knoll, but he didn't turn to look at the sunrise; he stood looking at her.  His gray eyes gleamed dark with shadows beneath his uncombed hair, waiting.

    There will be time, there will be time
    To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
    There will be time to murder—

Time to murder *and* create, she finished fiercely and pushed all thoughts of J. Alfred Prufrock's love song from her mind.  No preparing faces anymore, no trying to hide—for either of them.  "Is it easy for you?" she asked, daring to speak of her own unspeakable fear for herself.  "To kill?"

"Every time it gets easier … and harder."  Alex shook her head in confusion, and Connor explained: "With practice, the act of killing becomes easier."

"Desensitization."

"Right.  I make up my mind to the need for it, and I do it.  No hesitations."

"No regrets?"

"Sometimes."  His eyes darkened further, the gray going almost to black.  "But not for the Kurgan or Kane."

"No," she murmured.  Those deaths brought only relief, at least to her.  Connor, she was sure, took satisfaction, even pleasure, in those victories.

"The hard part," Connor continued, "is to keep killing from becoming too easy."

"Because you like it."

"Killing is power, Alex.  The Quickenings add even more."

She nodded, understanding that—and so understanding Connor—better now.  She'd gotten a taste of that power yesterday.  "I pushed you too hard," Connor had said, but he hadn't been alone in the forces driving her.  Her memories of Michael had added a vicious twist to the lessons, and Alex knew now that most of her rage and cold determination had been for him.  Twelve years ago, she'd felt helpless and terrified, desperate to stop him but with no idea how.  So, yesterday at the pool, it had felt good—savagely and soul-satisfyingly *good*—to blow that ghost of a memory away.

But it hadn't been Michael.  It hadn't been a ghost.  It had been Connor, a living, breathing man—*her* man—and she'd realized that as soon as she had walked over to watch him die.  That part hadn't felt good at all.

Which was, she reflected, a very good thing for her peace of mind.  Enjoying that flash of power which came from not-really-killing an imagined enemy was one thing, enjoying watching someone in pain was something else again.  "I'm sorry, Connor," she whispered, feeling the tears come again, as they had come all through the night.

Connor took her in his arms with murmured hushing sounds, and Alex closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder, ready now to accept all the comfort he could offer.  "I'm sorry, too," he said, and she could hear the rumblings of his voice against her ear.

"I love you," she said, pulling back to look at him.

His smile chased the shadows away, lightening his eyes to nearly blue.  "I love you, too, Alex."

They kissed then, more comfort and reassurance than passion, a kiss that reaffirmed their love.   "Good morning," she said finally, a wonderfully normal way to start the day.

"That it is," Connor agreed.  "The sun's coming up."

Alex turned to see, leaning back against him and wrapped tightly in his arms, where she belonged.  No longer would she measure out her life with coffee spoons, careful and cautious and safe.  She would dare to eat a peach, and it would be worth it.  She would be with Connor, wherever and however that might be, and sometimes they would go to see the sun rise, as it was rising now, liquid gold above green leaves.

~~~~~

"Do you think Alex and her mom are back from church yet, Dad?" John asked later that morning as he and Connor walked back from their exuberant visit to "the old swimming hole."

"Probably.  It's almost ten."  Connor had never known Alex to go to church before, but he wasn't surprised.  Yesterday had certainly given her enough reason to feel a need for prayer.

They came to one of the rivulets that fed the stream, almost a stream in its own right this morning, what with last night's rain.  John jumped and landed spectacularly--and deliberately--in the deepest, muddiest part he could find.  Connor shook his head and grinned.  After swimming for an hour, John was going to need a bath.

"When are the fireworks going to be?" John asked, pulling one foot free with a squoosh.

"Tomorrow night, on the Fourth," Connor said, watching as John's other foot came loose with a plop.  "Tonight we're going to the firemen's carnival at the fairgrounds."

"Cool!" John said.  "I've never been to one before.  Have you?"

"Not in a long while," Connor said.  "Alex said we'd all have fun."

And they all did.  "Oooh, great throw!" Lara squealed that evening as Pete hit the target on the far wall.  "Only one more to go for the prize!"  Pete carefully selected another softball from the selection on the tray of the wooden carnival booth, his boots scuffling the muddy straw underfoot.

"Why couldn't he throw like that earlier today?" Connor muttered to Alex from their spot near the exit for the Tilt-a-Whirl ride, on which John and Jimmy were shouting in glee.

She laughed and scraped more salt off the enormous chewy pretzel in her hand.  "Don't tell me you're still mad because the girls beat the boys in softball this afternoon?"

Connor was quick to defend the honor of his team.  "Only by two runs."

"A win's a win," Alex said smugly, pulling off a strand of bread and taking a bite.  Three teenage boys ran past behind her, all wearing glow-in-the-dark antennas atop their heads.

Connor regarded her through narrowed eyes.  "You told me you'd played first base, but you never told me your high school softball team was state champion three years in a row."  Alex merely smiled and offered him a bite of her pretzel.  Connor took a huge chunk and turned to watch Pete throw.

"You did it!" Lara was jumping up and down.

The gray-haired man in the sagging work pants and faded, sleeveless T-shirt who was running the carnival game was less impressed.  "You want the pink bunny or the green cat?" he asked, mangling the words around the cigarette that dangled from the left corner of his mouth.

"I want the big purple crocodile," Elaine said.  "Or the elephant."

"You have to hit the bull's-eye to win those," her mother explained, and Elaine chose the rabbit to carry under her arm.  John and Jimmy climbed off the Tilt-A-Whirl then started jumping over the black electric cables that snaked on the ground between the rides.

"Time for the fun house!" Alex announced, when the boys had finally hopped their way over to them, and the seven of them set off, pink bunny in tow.

They split up into smaller groups as the evening went on, and Connor finally found himself alone with Alex, or alone as they could be in a crowd of several thousand people and two dozen noisy carnival rides.  Alone and having fun.  "There," he announced, making the final adjustment on the antenna headband he had won for her.  "It's straight now."

"Hold the crocodile," Alex said, and Connor clutched the purple monstrosity while she reached up and straightened his antennas, too.  She tilted her head to one side and looked at him with a critical eye.  "They suit you," she said, nodding and making her antennas bobble back and forth.

"Even when I do this?" Connor asked, and swiveled his head so that the each antenna ball went round in a circle like a pair of bees.

"Especially when you do that," Alex answered with a grin.  She kissed him, taking her time about it, so that Connor was severely tempted to drop her crocodile in the mud.  "Hey, MacLeod," she said softly.

"What?"

"I love you."

Connor reached up with his free hand and twanged her left antenna ball.  "I love you, too."

"Then here," she said suddenly and pressed a ring into his hand.  Sarah's ring.  Connor blinked against the glare of the midway lights and clutched it tightly, the silver circle cutting into his palm.  "I thought you'd like to put it on," Alex was saying as she held out her hand.  Her left hand.

Her engagement hand.  "Alex?" Connor questioned, not quite daring to believe.

"Yes."

"You mean—"

"I mean yes," she said, her blue eyes dancing under those ridiculous waving antenna balls.  "As in 'Yes, I will marry you, Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod.'"

Connor stood silent in front of the woman he loved, the two of them engulfed by tacky Americana in a sea of muddy straw, their only witness a stuffed, purple crocodile.  "Not here," he announced.  He slid the ring onto his little finger for safekeeping, then took Alex by the hand and pulled her through the crowd, antennas bobbling all the way.  There was a line for the ride, of course, but Connor cut right to the front.

"Hey," protested the bald man who was standing there.

"Hold the croc," Connor said to Alex then reached for his wallet and said to the man, "I'll give you twenty bucks if you let us go first."

"But, Daddy!" his pigtailed daughter whined.

"Fifty," Connor said, taking out the bill.

The bald man looked at the money, looked at his daughter, then reached out an eager hand. "Go ahead."  He turned to his little girl and explained, "We can buy you a lot of popcorn with this."  She sniffled but said no more.

"What about me?" said the teenager behind the bald man.  "You're cutting in front of me and my boyfriend, too."  She was joined by another kid farther back.

Connor checked his wallet then counted the people in line.  "Twenty bucks for each of you," he announced.  "That's all I have.  OK?"

There were mumbled nods up and down the line.  "Connor!" Alex protested, but Connor was already handing out bills.

He rejoined her—and the croc—at the head of the line.  "Got tickets for this one?" he asked, and Alex pulled out the roll of tickets that she had bought earlier that night.  "Good," Connor said cheerfully.  "I'm about out of dough."

"You just gave away over four hundred dollars," she said.

"Four hundred thirty," Connor said.  "But who's counting.  Hey look, here's our ride!"  Connor handed the operator his last remaining fifty with a whispered instruction, then helped Alex clamber into the swaying seat.  The crocodile had to be content with sitting on the edge, because Connor didn't want anything to come between him and Alex now.  He put his arm around her and kissed her again.  As the Ferris wheel slowly lifted them, the lights of the midway slid below them, a fairyland of make-believe.  Connor tilted his head back to look straight up to see the real stars.  He was just barely able to make out the pinpricks of light in the glare, but he knew the stars were there.  They always were.

Alex watched the world drop away, knowing she was starting on the ride of her life, with Connor at her side.  "Wherever and however" this certainly was.  She'd never imagined this.  Their seat reached the apex … and stopped.   "Effective bribe," she observed.

"Capitalistic incentive," Connor corrected.  "But it's only good for a minute."

Alex feigned disappointment.  "That's all?"

"Don't worry," he said with a grin.  "I'm good for a lot more."  He turned to her and took both her hands in his, his eyes serious now.  "Marry me, Alex."

Alex smiled, because that had definitely not been a question, yet it was not quite a command.  Pure Connor, all the way.  Arrogant, sweet, overbearing, outrageous … the man of her dreams.

He kissed the inside of her wrist, and Alex added sexy and intriguing to the list of his endearing qualities.  "I love you, Alex," he said.  "I want you to be my wife."

"Yes," she said.  Of course, she said yes.  She'd worked hard for this to be.  "I love you, too, Connor."

Connor took off Sarah's ring—no, her ring now, Alex thought.  He slid the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, an engagement ring now, a promise instead of a chance.  "My love, for a lifetime," he pledged.

"Till the end of my days," she agreed.  It wouldn't be as much for her as it would for him, but it was all she had.  They were still kissing when the Ferris wheel started down, and they stayed in each other's arms for the rest of the ride.

After they had disembarked, to the applause of the people in line, Alex suggested, "How about fireworks tonight?"

"But they're tomorrow."

"I meant some of our own."

Connor grinned.  "Would that be with the antennas off? Or on?"

"Either," Alex replied, "as long as the purple crocodile isn't in the room.  Come on," she said, pulling him by the hand, "let's go find a ride that will take us upside down!"
 
 

Seabreeze Amusement Park is listed as the fourth oldest amusement park in the United States.
 

Many thanks to:

Christopher Lambert (Connor MacLeod)
Deborah Unger (Alexandra Johnson)
Sheila Gish (Rachel Ellenstein)
Gabriel Kakon (John)
Paul Hopkins (Tommy)
Martin Neufeld (Lt. John Stenn)

Robin who listened to me talk about this story for over two years and offered detailed tips on exsanguination, and information on how to get from here to there in Manhattan, doing her patient and level best to explain a mass transit system that is only slightly less complicated than quantum mechanics.

Bridget who encouraged and cajoled and did her usual excellent job of betaing.

Vi who pointed out that a twenty-page flashback deserved its own story, and so prompted me to start this 100+ page one.

Listen-r  who saw the things I didn't want, and so alerted me to their insidious presence.

Dana for suggesting Berthe Morisot and the matchmaking mama.

Cathy  for the skiing trophies

Shelley for wondering what Alex was interested in besides peeling potatoes, many moons ago, and so got me started writing the Connor/Alex stories.

and (last but most definitely not least) MacNair, without whom this story would probably never have been completed. Thanks for sending your ConnorMuse and your DuncanMuse to my house for a visit, and many thanks for all your encouragement. Thanks also for all the pingponging, the twanging, and the twinging.  And, of course, the late-night bobblings, batons, bowties, and the thongs. Hail!