They were in it as a team--and he knew what had changed. She had no interest in trying to love him, that much was clear. But then the troubling words hit him, and he whispered, wondering if she were still awake to hear his question, "You know what you have to do?"
She stirred, placing a soft kiss in his hair.
"It has to end, and that means what it always means--more killing. I have to remind myself, sometimes. Part of me just wants to believe I have a choice. Part of me just wants it over and done with, but without the blood. And then...it just isn't fair. Me taking any of them on."
"I know...they think you're...older, more experienced. It isn't fair...but life never is about being fair. You aren't a child, Genevieve."
She stroked one restless hand down his back, and replied, "You do know that isn't what I meant. It isn't fair, because...I still...I'm still...sh*t, I should be proud of this. I shouldn't be ashamed, but I'm still here. Damn it all. I am still here. How the hell did it happen?"
He lifted his head from her chest and took a look. Tears. He remembered there was a time when they had no importance to him--and then experience made him shed a few of his own. And what she was asking was a question he'd even asked himself--how? How does one survive? And the answer was always the same--because one did and one could. One either had the skills, or the opportunity, or the advantage of less ethics...and lived. Without those...any of those...
One ended up dead. Was that what she was objecting to--killing? Or was it the surviving itself--continuing to live when others didn't? There were moments when either became objectionable--but it was a feeling never meant to last.
"You're simply good, that's all. You've..." He searched for the words. "You were better." He touched her face. She pressed her cheek into his hand and closed her eyes.
"I was lucky. Lucky in ways I can't explain. Lucky to know you. Lucky to have...just....the advantages I do. And I just have to hope it'll continue...my lucky streak. But I...can't depend on it. Tell me..." she began then, raising herself up on one elbow. "Do you think I've got a choice? That anyone does?"
"Choice? About..." Thoughts of others streamed into his mind--thoughts of people who had made choices. Darius, taking up a life on Holy Ground. Kronos, removing himself in ways from a normal human existence, becoming more inhuman just to remind himself that he was a killer. And then there was the woman who had tried both Holy Ground and the life of an outlaw, and still gave up her life to end making those choices. He shook his head.
"It's always a choice. You always can..." he started. She kissed him, then.
"Maybe after a while, I'll learn that one. But I think...I think I know that there are times, when the choice you have is hard, but you just...have to do it anyway. It's like no choice at all."
"That can happen, too," he allowed. "Sleep on it," he added. She laid back, smiling.
"Just make sure I don't...I mean, I almost bled all over the rug in here already, so I don't want to...you know... The fireplace incident."
"I'll stay." He rose, and took an adjacent chair.
No him and her...sure. And he hadn't convinced himself into loving other people time and time again, depending on them...caring for them. Like MacLeod. Like Joe. Like he almost convinced himself he cared for Cassandra, no matter how he'd used her. There was always that possibility of loss...of pain. And yet, he never could commit himself to being alone.
The old man leaned back and wondered if five thousand wasn't a terribly stupid age to be feeling his maturity.
Posted on Oct 21, 2000, 7:49 PM from IP address 172.129.45.234