Intermission

Rating? You have got to be kidding. Trust me. Don't worry about it.
Disclaimer: All characters named belong to Rysher: Panzer/Davis or to Chris Carter and 1013. You'll see. No wrong, no right, and I sleep very well at night. No remorse; no solution; no regrets; no retribution. Have fun.

(Due to the length of our regularly scheduled line-war, we would like to announce this brief pause for refreshment. The popcorn stand is now open; drinks are being served in the lobby. The blinking lights will be your five minute warning....)

Intermission

"I'm here for the head of Duncan MacLeod!"

The sardonic amusement on the woman's face was his first clue that this was not going to work at all well. His best clue, however, was the howl of laughter from the office of the dojo, where a young-looking redheaded immortal was clinging to the door frame for dear life against his own merriment.

Rojo Camisa glared at both of them, his dark hair gleaming in the sunlight and his blindingly white cotton shirt clinging to him in the humidity of a Seacouver summer. Light glinted off the pirate cutlass in his hand, twinkled through the lace of his shirt, and at any moment bad orchestral background music seemed imminent. "What is so funny?"

The woman sighed in exaggerated frustration, coiling her dark braid onto the back of her head -- again -- and skewering it with a pencil, hoping this time it would hold. It was simply too hot to have that mass against her back. "You are. How did you miss that point?"

Rich Ryan snickered and braced himself for the next line, grateful that, so far, the author hadn't stuck him in flowery pirate near-drag, or made sunbeams dance on his....

<Don't give me ideas, Rich.>

{Got it, boss. By the way, which boss am I not giving ideas to?}

"He will not escape my point -- the point of my blade!"

Aidan Logan sighed and glanced at Rich. "Are we in a cliché war again?"

"Again? Did I miss the last one? But he's ahead on points." Duncan's one-time student marked one in the air for the Spaniard and grinned when Aidan winced.

"It's hot. I'm sticky. The air conditioner's out -- again. Why do we have to do this?" the Irish woman groaned, trying to blow wisps of hair off her forehead.

"Damn if I know. Rhi's not usually this much of a bitch, and besides she signed that 'minimal angst' contract with us. Do you think she loaned us out to someone?"

"Excuse me!" the would-be villain tried to interrupt. "I am looking for--"

"The X-Files maybe? It would explain the heat. They did move to LA. And Mulder and Krycek have been wandering around on the hard drive."

Aidan shook her head. "You're still here studying with me. Ergo, we have continuity. Therefore it can't be Carter's doing... can it?"

"My name is Rojo Camisa. I am here for the head of Duncan MacLeod!" the Spaniard interrupted them, posturing grandly with his cutlass before settling back into his best dramatic fencing stance.

Blue eyes studied him, then the younger man shook her head. "Your arms aren't long enough. And you sound like a bad rip-off of The Princess Bride."

Aidan, meanwhile, had sagged against the window, laughing herself silly. "Oh, Bright Mother, that would have to be your name, wouldn't it? No, this can't be Rhi's doing. It just can't."

"Aidan? What did I miss? Hey, Rhi's Muse didn't do this either, did she?"

"No one's getting laid, are they? Certainly not this idiot. Ask me later about his name," the Irish immortal sniggered. "After we deal with our paragon of the single entendres, here. Very well, Señor Camisa, because I'm feeling charitable today, it will be my pleasure to tell you where to find Duncan MacLeod."

Rich stared at her in shock. "Aidan? What are you doing? You can't just give out Mac's address. Who's writing this thing?"

{Do I get a date with Kyra if I quit arguing? Say, this Halloween?}

<No, damn it. Look, just cooperate, okay? This'll be fine. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.>

{Oh shit. And I still don't know who you are.... Right. Do I at least get kissed first?}

<I'll work on it. Look, trust Aidan if nothing else.>

{Got it. But I still want that date.}

"Never mind," Rich said hastily, giving the writer a surreptitious thumbs up behind his back. "Give it out. Let's get him out of here so we can close the dojo for the day and hit a Baskin Robbin's."

"You're on," Aidan promptly agreed. "I'm buying. All right, Senor Camisa -- will you quit posing in front of the window, mariposa? This is a dojo, not a fencing school. That is entirely the wrong type of sword to have in here."

"Butterfly? Butterfly?"

Aidan smiled sweetly at him. "Because I'm sure you attempt to land gently on the buds and sip their nectar."

(It's called badfic, dear. Don't worry. It's almost over. I promise.)

<Really?>

(Mmm-hmm. Just let me handle this and you can get back to finishing the line war, all right?)

<Thanks, Aidan.>

(Just make sure it's my pleasure, all right?)

"Now then, Señor. Duncan MacLeod can be found in Paris, France. He's living in a houseboat called the Nobile -- no, that's spelled with an 'e' on the end," she charitably corrected him, watching with horrified amusement as he tucked his cutlass under one arm, slicing the sleeve (which exposed suitably manly, bronzed muscles under the thin white cotton), and wrote in a small day timer produced from a back pocket of the skintight jeans.

"Ready?"

"Si, Señorita. El Nobile, found where?"

"On the Seine, moored across the river from the Cathedral of Our Lady," she told him pleasantly. "If you'll accept a suggestion?"

"Oh, si, suggest, por favor," he begged, dropping to one knee in front of her, dragging his sword tip across the floor (Rich winced thinking of the refinishing) and balancing his day timer on the other knee to write.

"Route your flight through New York City and plan on staying overnight. After all, it's a five hour flight there and another nine hours to Paris. Surely you don't want to do this in one trip?"

"No hardship is too great, bella dama, but I shall take your advice."

Aidan nodded. "You don't want to challenge Duncan MacLeod after fourteen hours on cramped ariplanes, I assure you. The Holiday Inn on Hudson Street is very nice. And if I may further recommend?"

"Si?"

"Rich? What's Mac's annual schedule?"

He controlled his horrified chuckles long enough to say, "Hey, first episodes of the season are in Seacouver; then we go to Paris. It's early in the summer; Mac's not due back until fall."

"Thank you. I got here after season five and it was a little confused after that. Right; Señor, if you'll remember in the future? Fall and early winter, the Highlander's in the States. Late winter and spring, he's in Europe. Summer is anyone's guess. This year he's in Paris."

"Ah, the mademoiselles, no doubt."

"No doubt," Aidan agreed wryly, trying to picture Methos in drag, and controlling her snickers as she flashed on a talent show in Joe's bar.... Oh, assuredly the mademoiselles. Dhonnchaidh, gradhach, you are going to owe me dearly for this!

"Muchas gracias, Señorita. You are most gracious." He tried to bow over her hand, and Rich cracked up again as the Spaniard wrinkled his nose, only then realizing that Aidan had been sparring half the morning. She was covered in canvas dust from the mats, and sweat, and a fine sheen of oil from the leather punching bags had smeared across her wrist.

The Irish immortal gave him no help getting out of it. Her raised eyebrow spoke eloquent volumes on his courtesy until he kissed the air millimeters over filthy skin and fled out the door, day timer in hand and cutlass dangling limply. Only then did she howl with laughter herself, sliding down onto the mat to roll on the floor, leaving sweat stains on the canvas.

"Oh, God, did you really talk him into staying down the street from Connor?" Rich gasped. "Aidan, that's... that's...."

"I told you not to worry about it," she pointed out, gulping for air herself. "Oh, Mothers. Let me call New York, then we can get some ice cream. Oh, this is dreadful. Whose fault do you suppose this is?"

"Not even Carolyn Marsh could come up with this," Rich stated firmly. "And Swords at Sunset is long over. I suppose it could be the Muse's fault."

"How?'

"We're laying, right?"

"Lying, Rich, you've confused your verbs again," Aidan sighed. "And this is short. It can't be Merewyn's fault. No one is getting any in this."

"Huh. Gyrfalcon?"

"I don't think so. Not her style. What about ShrewKate?"

"Nah, don't think so. Not convoluted enough, and no angst. What kind of ice cream?" Rich gave her a hand up.

"Not vanilla," she said firmly, contemplating her cell phone and then dropping it back in her fanny pack. She could call Connor later tonight -- say, when she could discuss this without a giggling fit. "What about Oregon Blackberry? This could be Diana's doing, I suppose."

"No togas; no sex toys; Joe's innocent about this one; and the Old Man's on another continent. Can't be. 'tilla?"

Aidan shut the door behind them, locking it, and dropping the keys in her pocket. "I don't know. She'd love it, I think, but she essentially does Comedia del' Arte. The mariposa crack simply isn't her style."

"By the way, what does that mean?" Rich asked.

"Butterfly, of course," she grinned. "Mind, it usually means they could pose for a three dollar bill, too."

Rich sniggered and dropped a flannel shirt over the hot leather seat of his motorcycle. "Here, sit on this so we don't fry our legs. What was so funny about his name?"

"It means 'Red Shirt'," she laughed. "Come on, let's find some ice cream."

"But Rhi doesn't hang around with Star Trek fans. Hmm, do you think Killa's rubbed off on her?"

"She has been reading Desert Prince....."

The End? We hope?

Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:

No betas were harmed in the writing of this piece. You see, if you just use the little time-release fish feeders....

All references to writers were kindly meant, truly. Gyrfalcon is over at her Tower. ShrewKate's story can be found here. Di's hysterical piece with Methos coaching the would-be beauty queen can be found here, as can her other (vaguely) referenced works. 'Tilla writes better silliness than this with her eyes closed, but I'm taking her name in vain anyway and sending you to the Lunatic Fringe. Killa is part of that hive mind, the Krell, doing Delicious Desert Duncan things here. Brownie points to anyone who recognized the quote in the disclaimer from Don Henley's "The Garden of Allah."

And I know it's currently winter in the line war. I said this was an intermission. Honest. It's not my fault. I'm blaming it all on the ravioli and the coffee.... Who, me? I do not take responsibility for this. (That doesn't mean I didn't write it, only that I'm not taking the rap.) Oh. Last comment: Yes, I changed the background graphics. Purple butterfly wings seemed too appropriate to pass up.

All comments, commentary, and complaints, not to mention Starburst, can be sent to Rhi

tubs of popcorn have been sold since 3/23/99

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