Recuperation By T.L. Odell Part 2/3 See Part 0 for disclaimers *** Duncan opened his eyes to the daylight and promptly shut them again. A carousel came to mind. The room was going up and down and spinning in circles at the same time. He had vague recollections of whisky, lots of whisky. There was a relentless pounding in his head. His hand throbbed painfully, and he slowly opened his eyes again, trying to look at it without moving any part of his body. It was wrapped in a thick covering of gauze splotched with rust colored stains. He remembered a falling whisky bottle. But nothing after that. He closed his eyes again. "Good morning," came a familiar voice from across the loft. Duncan tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. His mouth tasted like … he didn't want to think about what it tasted like. Something very unpleasant, that was for certain. He forced his eyelids apart once again, and saw Methos standing above him with a glass of what he hoped was water. He was also holding a large yellow plastic bowl. "Drink this. It'll help." Duncan took a sip of the water and swirled it around in his mouth. "What's the bowl for?" he asked once he was able to talk, then greedily gulped down the rest of the cool liquid. "I'm not sure you'll make it to the bathroom after you finish the water. The first glass is a killer, but once you throw up, you should feel a bit better." Sure enough, the old Immortal was right. The nausea overcame him almost without warning, and he leaned over the basin, emptying his stomach. "Looks like you've got an old fashioned mortal hangover. How's the head?" "Shut up," he groaned. "And what are you doing here?" Duncan pulled himself to a sitting position, then quickly lowered his head to his knees. The room stopped spinning. Now, if it would just stop that annoying up and down motion. "You called me. You don't remember?" "No… I don't remember anything after dropping the bottle. What did I say?" "Actually, nothing. Your name came up on caller id, but you didn't speak. I was afraid you'd had an encounter with another Immortal. I came over and found you passed out on the floor next to an empty whisky bottle, bleeding rather profusely from your hand." "I guess I'm glad you came over. It seems I owe you yet another 'thanks.'" Duncan spoke softly, not looking up to meet his friend's eyes. "It would appear that at least you're willing to call for help, even if you have to be blind drunk to do it. I will accept that as a small step in the right direction." Duncan raised his head, willing his stomach to stop churning. He had embarrassed himself enough in front of Methos. If he vomited again, it would be in private. "Speaking from someone who's been in your condition, and more than once, I might add, I would suggest you move very slowly, and try to re-hydrate as much as possible. I've mixed up some orange juice. Do you think you're ready for some?" "God, no!" whispered Duncan as he lurched for the bathroom. Rising from his knees in front of the toilet, Duncan leaned on the sink and looked into the mirror. What had happened to him since yesterday morning? Yesterday he felt well on the road to recovery. This morning he saw matted hair, pasty face, red- rimmed bloodshot eyes with blue-black circles beneath them. He brushed his teeth and started running the water for a hot shower. The water was running cold when Duncan finally stepped out of the shower. He dried off, pulled the sodden bandage from his hand, and wrapped a towel around the freshly bleeding cuts. Emerging from the bathroom, he saw Methos going through his closet and dresser drawers, stuffing clothing into a duffel bag. "What are you doing?" "Something I should have done last week. By the way, the orange juice is on the counter. You really should drink some. Let me re-bandage your hand." The ancient Immortal's tone was calm and matter-of-fact, and for that, Duncan was grateful. He couldn't handle another lecture. Duncan sat down on the bed and offered his hand to Methos. "I don't want your damn orange juice. I asked you a question." "It's obvious that you're still vulnerable," said Methos as he spread antibiotic ointment on the cuts and re-wrapped the hand with sterile pads and gauze. "We're getting you out of here. I've got your clothes; anything else you need, you pack." Duncan reflexively reached for the Clancy. "Where are we going, or is that some deep dark secret?" "No secret. The roads are finally open; we're going to your cabin." "But…" "No buts, no backtalk. Grab what you need and we're going." "At least let me make sure that the dojo's covered." "Done that. And Dawson will keep an eye on the loft." Duncan threw his duffel bag into the trunk of Methos' car and climbed into the passenger seat. He slouched down and tried to keep his features as neutral as possible, camouflaging the maelstrom of emotions surging through him: anger, frustration and embarrassment all took turns rising to the surface. Methos stopped at his house for a few minutes and came out with a large tote, which Duncan assumed held clothing, and probably a supply of beer as well. "How are the food supplies at the cabin? Do we need to stop for food?" "There are canned goods, basic pantry items, but nothing fresh. It probably wouldn't hurt to make a stop at the store for a few vegetables, some frozen food and the like." "What about the first aid kit?" "Fully stocked. Anne and I used to go out there from time to time; she upgraded it considerably." "Good. One stop at the supermarket coming up." The rest of the drive was a blur for Duncan. His hand throbbed, his head still pounded, albeit not as loudly, and he still felt a little shaky. He dozed off and on; Methos selected a jazz station on the radio and kept the volume low. When they reached the water, Duncan tried to help paddle the canoe despite his injured hand. "Mac, just put the paddle down and let me do the work. I have done this before, you know. All you're doing is pulling us off course. And if you're going to get sick again, try to do it over the side without falling in. The water's cold and I'm not going in after you." "I'll be careful, Methos," said Duncan as he stowed the paddle beneath his seat. "Then sit back and enjoy the ride. You want me to recite some poetry? 'There was a young lady named Myrtle…'" "Shut up, Methos!" The day was cloudy, but not raining. The breeze raised ripples on the water, but for the most part, it was a smooth ride. Here and there a trout jumped, and Duncan enjoyed the sight of a bald eagle swooping down to the water and rising with a fish clutched in its talons, automatically rotating it so that it faced front to back and created the least wind resistance. He wished his own instincts were as strong as the eagle's. Following his gut just seemed to make him miserable. Arriving at the cabin, Duncan helped carry the totes from the canoe. He was pleased to see that the recent storms had caused no more disruption than the occasional felled tree. The cabin was intact. He started removing dust covers from the furniture and putting away their provisions while Methos fired up the generator. Methos uncovered the woodpile outside the cabin and brought in enough logs for a roaring fire. It was early afternoon, but there was a chill in the air. "Today," he said to Duncan, pointing at the couch in front of the fireplace, "you rest. Tomorrow the work begins." Duncan didn't need any more explanation. Here, they were on holy ground. There would be no challenges, no swordfights unless he and Methos sparred for practice. Of course, he could always cut off his foot with the axe while chopping wood … but he wasn't going to think of things like that. He remembered the time he had brought Richie out here to help him train, after he realized he was not going to be able to stay out of the Game any longer. He groaned inwardly as he remembered the aching muscles. They would be even worse now. But Methos was right, again, as usual. This was the perfect place to finish his recuperation. The two Immortals spent ten days on the island. Methos surprised Duncan by helping him clear fallen trees and other debris left by the storms, and then joining him on runs through the woods. He surprised him even more by not drinking any beer. After the second day, he stopped noticing the surreptitious looks of assessment that Methos gave him regularly, and he stopped trying to prove that he was fit. Instead, he devoted himself to getting fit, and his mental outlook improved along with his physical strength. By day three, his hand was completely healed, lifting his spirits even higher. Their days were spent in rigorous training, with breaks for fishing - an activity at which Methos proved to be quite skilled - meditating, or just taking long solitary walks in the woods. On one of these, Duncan recalled his previous trips to the cabin with Richie. One trip in particular came to mind, one where Richie had come down with the flu. Duncan shook his head as he remembered how reluctant Richie had been to admit he was sick, and how Duncan had actually felt almost sorry for himself having to deal with the unfamiliar role of caregiver. *If I had that one to do over, I'd be a lot more sympathetic, my friend. I miss you.* Evenings were spent reading, playing chess, in quiet fireside conversations, reflections, and reminiscences, with Methos frequently directing the topic to the women in their lives. Most of Duncan's stories revolved around the times he spent with Amanda; Methos' showed a lot more variety. By unspoken agreement, they discussed neither Tessa nor Alexa, nor did they talk about the side effects of Duncan's illness. *** On day five, Methos suggested sword work for the first time. He had observed that Duncan was no longer bruising after sparring, and the Highlander needed to regain his confidence. Methos watched as Duncan picked up his katana, testing the weight of his blade against the strength of his arms. His expression was that of one meeting an old friend after a lengthy absence. There was also a look of resolution in his eyes. "All right, Methos. Let's get this over with." He moved to the center of the clearing; Methos picked up his own weapon and followed him. Methos had practiced with Duncan on many occasions. The Highlander's style was hesitant today. He was keeping his distance, being overly defensive. With the grace and speed developed over centuries of practice, Methos feinted, then quickly turned and disarmed his partner, sending Duncan's katana flying across the clearing. The ancient Immortal stepped back, lowering his sword. What he saw in Duncan's face was first embarrassment at having been so easily separated from his sword, then frustration, and finally, anger. "Let's do that again," he said as he walked over to pick up his katana. This time, Duncan fought with more confidence, moving forward instead of backward, attacking with impunity, recklessness, overcompensating for his earlier errors. Methos suddenly changed the pace of his blows, and carefully nicked Duncan's left arm. The younger man stopped and pulled away, grabbing his arm. His eyes showed apprehension as he looked at the wound, and then relief as both men watched it heal. Duncan looked skyward and smiled broadly. Methos raised his sword once again, and the two men resumed their sparring. This time, Methos recognized his opponent as his old and familiar friend. The two men fought back and forth, panting for breath, sweat dripping from every uncovered portion of their bodies. Both men drew blood, but neither slowed his pace. After about half an hour, Methos stepped back and lowered his sword. There was no need to determine a victor; the match itself was the victory. The ancient Immortal watched as Duncan strode back to the cabin, smiling at the lightness of his steps; had he been a child, he would have been skipping for joy. "Welcome back, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he whispered. That night over dinner, Methos had his first beer, and offered one to Duncan. The bottles clinked together in a wordless toast. The two men finished eating in silence, then moved out to the porch and sat under the stars, listening to the sounds of the night. End of Part 2