Recovery 2/5

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Recovery
Part 2/5
By T.L. Odell
Disclaimers in part 0

Methos put the top down on the convertible as they drove off
into the fall afternoon.  The sun was shining, and the trees
still showed their fall colors.  Somehow, Duncan thought the day
was much too cheerful; he wanted dark clouds, maybe even some
thunder, to be in keeping with his mood.  Duncan looked over at
his friend, the old Immortal's hawk-like features exaggerated in
profile.  "Now, tell me the truth, Methos," he demanded.  "Did
you know I was in the house?"

"No," his friend replied quietly.  "I was surprised when you
came walking into the room.  What about you?"

"Nothing.  Not a damned thing."

"Look on the bright side.  If you're not sending, nobody's going
to single you out in a crowd and challenge you."

"But what if someone is just carrying a grudge?  I won't know
they're coming for me, and I could be dead before I know it."

"Why would someone want to take your head in your condition?
There'd be no Quickening."

"Do you know that for sure?  Better yet, would they know that?"

"Point taken.  But, perhaps you've got an inflated picture of
your importance in the Game.  Or is there someone looking for
you that I don't know about?"

"I don't know, Methos.  I just don't know."

The drive back to Seacouver continued as Duncan weighed his
companion's words.  Methos had a point.  Unless he was
recognized by sight, no one would know what he was.  But  that
doubt, which led to that tightening in the pit of his stomach
just wouldn't go away.  Again he tried to ignore it.  It wasn't
getting any easier.  He forced himself to watch the scenery, to
listen to the radio, to stay awake.  He wasn't going to doze off
and display his nightmares in front of Methos.  He attempted
some conversation, and Methos chattered back, telling stories of
some of his past escapades, mostly about being caught in
delicate situations with attractive young women.  Duncan noted
that battles with other Immortals were never mentioned.

At the dojo, the ancient Immortal accompanied his younger friend
upstairs to his apartment.  "Go home," Duncan said adamantly.
"I don't need a baby sitter."

"I agree.  But until Joe gets here, I'm without wheels.  Got any
beer?"

"I'm sure there's some in the fridge.  Help yourself."

Methos was already on his way into the kitchen.  He opened the
refrigerator and started pulling things out and throwing them
into the trash.  "Looks like a junior high science fair in here.
Thank goodness the beer's still intact," he said as he grabbed a
bottle.  Popping the top, he sauntered to the couch and flopped
down, putting his feet on the coffee table.

Duncan looked at him, but said nothing.  The drive had tired
him, and he wasn't feeling any less vulnerable.

"Sit down.  Go to bed.  Do something.  Don't just stand there,"
said Methos.  "I know of what I speak."

The sounds of the elevator startled Duncan, and he started to
reach for his sword.

"It's nobody," remarked his friend, still drinking his beer.
"Probably Dawson with some food."

Duncan released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding,
and went to help Joe with the bags of groceries.

"You, sit," Joe commanded.  "Methos, get off your skinny ass and
give me a hand."

With an exaggerated grimace, Methos uncoiled his lanky frame
from the couch and started taking things out of the bags and
putting them away.

"At least let me do some of that," said Duncan as he went to the
kitchen.  "Otherwise I won't be able to find anything."

As the last bag was emptied, Joe spoke.  "You know, you really
should rest, Mac.  Go sit down, and I'll heat up some soup."

"You don't need to bother."

"Oh, yes I do.  I promised Anne that I wouldn't leave until I
saw you eat something.  And I'm not going to go against her
orders, you can count on that."

Duncan admitted to himself that he was both tired and hungry,
and he chided himself for not being able to be honest with his
friends.  They knew each other's feelings, probably better than
each understood his own.  He ran his hands through his hair and
sat down at the table.  "That does sound good, Joe.  Thanks."

Joe gave Duncan a look that conveyed compassion and concern as
he placed the bowl of soup in front of him.  "If you're all
right, I've got to get back to the bar."

Duncan smiled at his friends.  "Thanks again for everything.  I
promise, I will finish my soup, brush my teeth and climb into
bed for a nap, okay?"

The phone rang, and Joe reached it before Duncan could respond.
"MacLeod residence," he said into the mouthpiece.  "Hi, Anne.
Yes, he's here, safe and sound and eating soup. Chicken with
rice."

As Joe handed Duncan the phone, he headed for the door where
Methos was waiting.

"Bye, Mac," said Methos.  "Don't do anything stupid."

Duncan waved them away and repeated his oath of good behavior to
Anne.

***

And now it was two days later, and he still hadn't shaken the
fear.  Joe, Anne, or Methos - sometimes all three - called
regularly to see how he was doing.  He told them he was
improving:  no fever, he was keeping food down, he was beginning
to exercise.  He couldn't bring himself to tell them about the
underlying current of panic, illogical as it might be, that
would not leave.  *I'm afraid to go to sleep.  Some Immortal
could come for me, and I wouldn't sense him in time to defend
myself, never mind that I'm still barely strong enough to swing
my sword.*

Duncan looked at the clock.  6:30.  He must have dozed off.  He
returned to Tom Clancy.

***

Joe Dawson looked out the window of his bar.  The rain was still
coming down.  Normal for Seacouver this time of year, but
nonetheless gloomy.  Even more so after the recent Indian summer
weather.  The lunch crowd, sparse because of the storm, had
departed.  Things would probably be quiet until the Wednesday
night regulars showed up.  He would have a few hours to try to
catch up on paperwork.

He heard the door open and looked over.  Mac had just walked in,
bearing only a fleeting resemblance to the Highlander Joe knew
so well.  Shoulders drooping, face pale and drawn, he looked
worse than he had when they had dropped him off at the dojo
three days ago.  "You look like shit.  What's wrong?"

"And a pleasant good afternoon to you, too.  Beer, please.
Don't give me that look.  I'm a grown man, and I want a beer."
His voice resounded with irritation, and his face showed
exhaustion as he took a seat and positioned himself so he could
see the door.

Joe pulled a beer and set it in front of the Highlander.  "Take
off that coat; you're dripping all over my bar."

"Can't do that, Joe."

"You really think someone's going to come in here and challenge
you while I'm around?  You'll be able to get to your sword if
you really need it."

Duncan shrugged out of his coat, but draped it over the barstool
next to him instead of hanging it on the coat rack in the corner
by the door.  He took a sip of his beer and sat there.

"So, is this where I say, 'What the hell's the matter with you?'
or are you going to volunteer the information by yourself?
When's the last time you slept?"

Duncan exhaled slowly.  His voice was husky but defiant when he
finally spoke.  "Last night.  I just don't sleep for very long."

Joe walked over to the door and turned the sign indicating that
the bar was now closed.  He wouldn't miss many, if any,
customers at three in the afternoon on a rainy Wednesday.  "Come
into the back."

Duncan picked up his coat and his beer, and followed Joe into
his office.  "I can call Methos," the bartender said quietly.

"No.  Please.  I just had to get out.  I'd rather not talk to
Methos about this.  He already thinks I'm crazy.  No need to
reinforce it."

"Go on."

"Did Methos tell you that I didn't know he was at Anne's the
other day?"

"No, he didn't mention that little tidbit.  You mean your radar
wasn't working?"

"Nothing.  He wasn't reading me, either."

"Let me guess.  You've been afraid to sleep.  You're sure
someone's going to come for you."

Duncan's eyes showed surprise and relief that Joe understood as
he nodded his head in agreement.

"Why didn't you call?  You have friends.  We're here for you.
Damn your Highlander pride and stubbornness!"

"I guess I thought it would pass if I waited just a little
longer."

"Well, you're lucky you haven't had a relapse.  Or have you?
What else are you too proud to talk about?"

Duncan looked back down into his beer.  "Nothing.  Really.  No
fever, I'm eating, and I've even started working out.  It's just
a mental thing.  I've been meditating, but I can't shake it."

Knowing that this was as close to 'Help me, please' that he was
going to get from his friend, the bartender moved toward the
phone.  "Stay right where you are and enjoy your beer.  I'll set
something up."

"I don't want a babysitter.  I told you that.  I just needed to
get out."

"What you need is some uninterrupted sleep.  And a friend."

Joe made the call to Methos.  He was sure Mac had known he would
do it when he came over.  Why he couldn't just have called
Methos himself was beyond him.  The obstinate Highlander would
do just about anything to help just about anyone, putting
himself at risk in the process.  The only thing he seemed
incapable of doing was asking for help.

"Finished your beer?"

Duncan swallowed the last mouthful, wiped the foam from his
mouth and set his glass down on Joe's desk.

"Good.  Now go home.  Go directly home.  Do not pass Go.  Do not
collect two hundred dollars.  If it makes you feel better, take
your sword and lock yourself in your bathroom, but go home and
wait for Methos.  He should be there shortly after you get home,
if he doesn't beat you there."

Joe heard Duncan mumble something unintelligible.  "What did you
say?"

"I said, 'Yes, Father.'" He added, "But I'll get there first,
because I'm sure Methos will have to pick up some beer before he
comes over.  I think he finished mine the last time he was
there."

"Great.  Now get out of here so I can open my bar back up.  Who
knows how much money you've cost me?"

"Right."  Duncan paused and looked as if he were about to speak.
Joe waited, but Duncan merely picked up his coat and headed for
the exit.

"You're welcome," Joe whispered.  *Damned stubborn Highlander,*
he thought again.

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