Recuperation 1/3

• Messages sorted by: [ date ][ thread ][ subject ][ author ]
• Next message: Terry Odell: "Recuperation 0/3"
• Previous message: Terry Odell: "Recuperation 3/3"

Recuperation
By T.L. Odell
Part 1/3
See Part 0 for disclaimers

"Damn!" Duncan swore, snatching his hand out of the sink of soapy
water, watching as the bubbles took on a pinkish hue.  Carefully
groping through the suds for the offending knife, he swore again.
And again.  Removing the chef's knife from the sink and placing
it carefully on the counter with the rest of the clean dinner
dishes, he looked to assess the damage to his finger.  A small
cut, about an inch long, and maybe all of an eighth of an inch
deep.  Just bleeding like crazy, and stinging from the soap.
Under normal circumstances, it would already be beginning to
heal.  Now, it simply served as another reminder that he still
had a way to go to get back to full Immortality.  Just like all
the black and blue bruises, and the purple ones, and the ones
turning yellow, that adorned his body.  He had half a mind to
give them names.  That one was from running his shin into the
coffee table; that one was his encounter with the edge of the
kitchen counter; and how could he forget the one on his hip where
Methos had gotten past his guard with a quarterstaff?

Darkness had blanketed the rest of the loft while he was doing
the dishes.  He turned on lights as he crossed into the bathroom
for a band-aid.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd needed a
band-aid for himself.  As he opened the cabinet, his frustration
suddenly overpowered him and he threw the box of plastic strips
across the room.  The small cardboard box barely made a sound as
it skidded across the floor towards the bed, giving him no
satisfaction at all.  Taking a deep breath, Duncan MacLeod of the
Clan MacLeod centered himself and walked resolutely over to the
box of bandages.  Removing a strip from its protective wrapper,
he carefully covered his wound.

*You're overreacting again.  Relax.  You're already healing
faster than you were two days ago.  This will pass, and you'll be
back to normal,* he thought to himself.  For about the hundredth
time.  His radar was working at what seemed to be full strength.
The last remaining vestige of his bout with the 'immortal flu'
was this very mortal healing rate.  At least now he could take
some solace in the fact that some of his Immortal acquaintances
had suffered from the same misery he had.  Joe Dawson and Methos
had uncovered reports of almost a hundred cases, and Duncan took
some guilty pleasure in knowing that some Immortals not so very
near and dear to him had suffered as much as he had.

In fact, the epidemic was serving almost as a 'Dispersal' rather
than a 'Gathering' of Immortals.  As word of the flu traveled,
Immortals began keeping their distance from one another rather
than take the chance of being subjected to its effects.  Amanda,
for one, was in Bali, and probably would not return until no
traces of the flu had been reported for months.  The supporting
evidence that the healing would come back had helped to allay his
fear that he would have to live out the rest of his life as a
mortal while avoiding other Immortals intent on taking his head.
Meanwhile, he was riding it out as patiently as he could.

Duncan fixed himself a cup of herb tea and tried to pay attention
to the news on television.  He turned it off halfway through when
he realized he hadn't processed anything the local newscaster had
said.  Methos had left two days ago at Duncan's insistence; he
was confident any approaching Buzz would awaken him.  The
nightmares had lessened both in intensity and frequency, and
although he was not yet sleeping through an entire night, at
least he was able to get back to sleep without much difficulty.
He got into bed and picked up the Clancy novel.  As usual, he was
asleep before he read ten pages.

Saturday dawned crisp and clear, one of those rare fall days that
was an unexpected gift from whatever power thought Seacover was
better served by a constant drizzle.  It was too good an
opportunity to pass up, so he pulled on his running gear and
headed over to the park.

The Canada geese raised their long black necks, their white cheek
patches glistening in the sunlight as he passed the pond by the
marina, but otherwise ignored him.  The squirrels, fattened for
the coming winter, chattered and scampered out of his way, but
quickly returned to their foraging.  As he headed into the woods,
the sunlight filtered through the pines, dappling the trail with
sparkling points of light.  His brain was cleared of all but the
dull thudding of his footsteps and the even rhythm of his
breathing.  There was no flu, no Anne leaving with Jared, no Game
- just the trail through the woods.

His workout route normally covered five miles.  Today, in
deference to his recent illness, he stopped running after about
three, and walked the rest of the way back to his car, allowing
his heart rate gradually to return to normal.  He felt good.  He
smiled at the geese as he got back into his car, put the top
down, and returned to the dojo.  He caught up on some of the
accumulated paperwork, then went upstairs for lunch, and once
again picked up the Clancy novel.  Only two hundred pages to go,
and he just might finish it this weekend.

***

Later that evening, Duncan decided to treat himself to dinner
out.  He drove to the outskirts of town, to Mario's, his favorite
trattoria, and enjoyed some genuine Italian cooking.  He chatted
with Mario, lingered over his after dinner coffee and watched
young couples enjoying their romantic evenings out.  It wasn't
until then that he remembered all the evenings he and Tessa had
spent here.  Fighting the knot that was starting to form in his
gut, trying to remember only the pleasant times, he paid the
check and drove back home.  When he got to the loft, the
moonlight streaming in through the window provided enough
illumination so that he didn't bother turning on the lights as he
went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink.  He had
driven home with the top down, and the first sip of the fiery
liquid took away some of the night's chill.

He finished that glass and was halfway through another before
something snapped, and he didn't care that it had been a
wonderful day.  He hated that he wasn't himself.  He hated that
Tessa had died.  He hated Anne for leaving and taking Mary.  He
hated himself for not being able to be happy for Anne and Jared.
He ripped the bandage from his finger and hated that the cut bled
again.  He finished the drink in one swallow and began drinking
straight from the bottle.

*Who is this person in my body?* he thought.  *Am I that self-
centered?*  He rose on unsteady legs and headed toward the bed.
The nearly empty whisky bottle slipped from his fingers, knocking
the unused glass from the table.  He watched as it fell, as if it
were happening in slow motion.  At the last second, he grabbed
for it, but the alcohol had slowed his reflexes.  His hand
connected with the glass just as it broke, sending shards of
glass into his palm.

End of Part 1

• Next message: Terry Odell: "Recuperation 0/3"
• Previous message: Terry Odell: "Recuperation 3/3"