Disclaimer : I don’t own Duncan MacLeod, Tessa, Methos, Joe, Amanda, Conner, Richie or Immortality; Panzer Davis, Rysher, and the Powers that Be got to them before I did. Furthermore, I don’t own "Missing" by Everything But the Girl. If you want to be really picky, I don’t own Paris, rivers, or the concept of dreary contemplation either. However, I do claim some ownership to the unique way in which I combined all these elements, so if you want to archive this somewhere give me an e-mail and I’ll give you my permission as well as a good recommendation for a qualified psychologist since I have some reservations about the quality of this, my first attempt at fan fiction.
Author’s Notes : The lyrics will follow the story. Yes, I know that this is a real downer, but I’m just learning. Maybe my next story will be serene. I’m slowly working my way up to deliriously happy. Any comments can be sent to Blacksquirrel@canada.com
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Empty Spaces
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Duncan MacLeod looked out over the surface of the river as the moonlight’s reflection played with the ripples and the waves. It was late even for the usually lively Parisian night crowd, and the sky loomed large above him, an immense emptiness. It was the kind of clear and cool evening when the crisp sent of leaves and the faint sound of the wind could convince a person that there existed nothing else in the world but themselves, the night sky, and the thick depths of the river below.
Duncan shivered and tightened his coat around him as a particularly chill breeze made it’s way through the tiny gaps in his woolen armor. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he let out a slow, deep breath and began to deconstruct his evening, to figure out what went wrong and to understand his sudden melancholy.
This evening, Duncan had eaten dinner with a beautiful woman. He had looked at her over candle light and rested his gaze on every part of her extraordinary visage. Her cheeks were flushed, the color of fresh cream. Her eyes sparkled with each phrase and her eyelids, crinkling and laughing, warmly pulled him into a reality where each word spoken between them formed a secret language; jokes that were only meant for the two of them to understand danced through the gray orbs. Her nose was strong, it’s smooth outline seemingly designed strictly for the purpose of bringing his wandering gaze from her kindly eyes down to her soft mouth. No, there was no good-night kiss, but he could imagine how those rose-petal pale lips would feel against his own as he watched them intimately caress the tip of a fork, the edge of a glass, and the soft satin napkin. His gaze was finally captured by her hands. Small and delicate, her fingers were never at ease. He watched the elegantly tapered digits as they would seemingly return to rest at the edge of the table or on the thin stem of her glass, only to note that their constant rhythmic agitation, however slight, was never absent.
And so he had watched her, smiling often, laughing occasionally, and feeling . . . nothing. Perhaps nothing was not completely accurate. He had felt comfortable, perhaps contented, but on some fundamental level he also felt alone. Paris had become for him a series of lonely spaces, the most prevalent of which was within his own mind, so despite the comforting presence of his lovely dinner companion, he could not leave the behind the solitude which clung to him, claimed him, and had become a part of him.
As another gust managed to slip beneath his defenses, Duncan turned from his contemplation of the river and headed towards home. When had this city of lights lost it’s luster? Paris is a city of adventure, of thrills, and of romance. ‘Paris is for lovers,’ said a mocking little voice from within the depths of his consciousness. "Tessa . . ." The whisper was at once a scream, a sigh, and nothing at all. The admission was torn from him and the emotions it carried with it pushed him back towards the water’s timeless depths. Why, after all this time did it still come down to that? Why could he never put her memory to rest? Perhaps he was finally ready to let go of the emotional weight that still held him down, pinned to this feeling and this place.
As if entering a confessional he gathered himself together and began to speak. "I was angry with you," he began and his psyche quickly followed with a steady stream of related, half-forgotten memories, sins, and dreams. Why had she left? How could he have let her leave? Their future together, their marriage, and their achingly beautiful love all haunted his thoughts, specters of the past, and the words flowed from his mouth, a quiet cascade of pain and self-doubt. When all the anger, all the hurt, and all the recriminations were spent, he was left with one last enduring truth. "And I miss you. Like the deserts miss the rain. That’s what you left me with. Without the balm of your love, my spirit is nothing but a dry, empty dust. You were my oasis. Without you, the world is too harsh a place to weather alone."
And in a way, it was true. Because he was alone. Methos had told him he wasn’t alone, and how badly he had wanted to believe. How many times had people told him, "Lean on me, you don’t have to do this, to go through this, alone," and yet, how thoroughly alone he had become. Methos, Joe, Amanda, Conner, Richie, and a dozen other names skittered through his thoughts, but when all was said and done, when Duncan MacLeod the reputation, Duncan MacLeod the fighter, Duncan MacLeod the lover, and Duncan MacLeod the image were all put away, as masks must eventually be, who would know what may remain? More to the point, who was interested and invested enough to want to know and, ultimately, who would he allow access to that most intimate knowledge?
That was the true grace of his years with Tessa. She had known him more deeply than anyone else had ever dared, and too, he had known her. That was what he missed above all; to be with a person whose gaze had the power to see his innermost hurts, fears, and joys, past even those images and truths which he may try and present to the world, and whose gaze both possessed and enfolded him, like a physical embrace, in the comfort of that knowledge.
And so it came to be that, bereft of human understanding and filled with a hundred superficially sympathetic glances, the loneliness had come to settle deeply in his bones; they ached with the fullness of it.
************THE END*****************
"Missing" by Everything But the Girl
I step off the train,
I'm walking down your street again,
and past your door,
but you don't live there any more.
It's years since you've been there.
Now you're disappeared somewhere
like outer space,
you've found some better place,
and I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain.
Could you be dead?
You always were two steps ahead
of everyone.
We'd walk behind while you would run.
I look up at your house,
and I can almost hear your shout
down to me
where I always used to be,
and I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain.
Back on the train,
I ask why did I come again?
Can I confess
I've been hanging round your old address?
And the years have proved
to offer nothing since you've moved.
You're long gone
but I can't move on,
and I miss you - like the deserts miss the rain.
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