Recovery 3/5

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Recovery
by T.L. Odell
Part 3/5
Disclaimers, etc. in Part 0

***

At five o'clock, the doorbell rang in the dojo, followed by an
identifying shout from Methos, and Duncan sent the elevator
down.  When the door opened into the loft, the old Immortal
looked questioningly at his younger friend.  Duncan shook his
head.

"Same here."

As expected, Methos had a large bag filled with beer, and a
smaller one, which Duncan assumed contained some personal
effects.  Leave it to Methos and his priorities.  He almost
smiled.

"Joe was right.  You look terrible.  Want to talk first or sleep
first?"

"Think it'll stop raining soon?"

"Okay, talking's done.  Go to bed.  Or would you like a beer?
No, wait.  This is *my* beer.  You get this," as he pulled a
bottle of Glenmorangie from his bag.  Without waiting for a
response, he found a glass, poured two fingers of the amber
liquid into it and handed it to his friend.  "Drink it here, or
drink it in bed.  Nobody will bother you.  And I'm not leaving
until we feel each other coming a mile away.  That's final."

Duncan stood there, unable to move for a moment.  As he absorbed
the meaning behind his friend's flippant words, the tension left
his body.  The vise in his stomach released, and the control he
had been forcing over his fears snapped.  He felt the tears
begin to run down his face, and he felt no shame.  Methos
carefully extracted the whisky glass from his hand, set it on
the table, and put his arms around him until he was finished.

Methos led him to the bed and helped pull off his boots.  The
relief at knowing he was safe was enough to send Duncan into a
sound dreamless sleep.

***

After carefully pouring Duncan's untouched whisky back into the
bottle, Methos finished a second beer and pulled a 'Queen' CD
from his bag.  *If nothing else, I've learned to bring my own
tunes when I visit,* he thought, starting the player with the
volume turned low.  He hoped the stubborn Highlander would throw
off the virus's effects soon.  Methos tried to remember what it
had been like to be mortal.  Five thousand years was such a very
long time ago; he really had no clear memories of what his life
had been like before he met his first death.  To know that
people wanted to take your head was a burden to live with.  But
not to know who they were, or if they were nearby would send
anybody over the deep end.

Perhaps the best thing for Duncan would be to get him away from
Seacouver, somewhere where no other Immortal might come looking
for him.  If he could be somewhere he felt safe, maybe he'd be
his old stubborn Boy Scout self once again.  It certainly hadn't
worked out at the dojo.  What about his island getaway?  That
was holy ground; he would be safe there as long as he needed to
be.  Of course, he was in no condition to get there himself, and
Methos didn't really relish the idea of living the primitive
lifestyle of the cabin, but it shouldn't be for too long, should
it?  So far, all the information he'd been able to uncover about
this epidemic indicated that two weeks was about as long as the
virus should last.  Even given Duncan's propensity for
aggravating his condition, he shouldn't be infected for more
than another week.  Then, a little time for training, and all
should be well.

The CD had finished.  Methos turned off the machine and listened
to his friend's gentle snoring.  He went back to the living room
and stretched out on the couch, sword on the floor beside him.
*No one will get by me, Highlander.  Sleep.*

***

Duncan awoke and looked at the bedside clock. 11:30.  He'd slept
about six hours.  No wonder he felt refreshed.  That was more
sleep than he'd managed at one stretch in the last three days.
He heard Methos in the kitchen, and smelled coffee brewing.  The
old man must be planning to stay awake all night.  Duncan got up
to use the bathroom and noticed that it was still raining, but
it was definitely daylight.  Amazed that he had slept almost
around the clock, he went out and found Methos rummaging around
in the refrigerator.

"Ah, you decided to get up after all.  I take it you slept
okay?"

"I guess I needed it.  Thanks."

"Don't mention it.  Hungry? I make an amazing French toast, if I
do say so myself.  Learned it from a delightful French woman in
Paris in..."

"Stop," interrupted Duncan, helping himself to a cup of coffee.
"I would love some, but no stories until I've finished my
coffee, please.  Besides, French toast isn't really French."

Methos mixed, dipped and fried, and Duncan realized that he was
truly hungry.  He grabbed a plate and reached for the frying
pan.

"Nothing like nineteen hours of sleep to make a new man out of
you," Methos was saying.  "Careful!  That handle is hot!"

"Shit!" exclaimed Duncan, dropping the pan back onto the stove.

"Let me see your hand."

"I'm fine."

"Anne warned me you'd say that for everything.  Now let me see
your hand.  I used to be a doctor, remember?"

Duncan displayed the palm of his hand.  Methos pulled him to the
sink and began running cold water over the obvious burn.  "Bet
that smarts."

"I've had worse."

Both Immortals watched the scalded skin.  The injury showed no
signs of diminishing.  Duncan went over and picked up an aloe
plant overgrowing its pot on the windowsill.

"Didn't figure you for the Martha Stewart type," commented
Methos."

"Actually, it's left over from when Anne stayed here.  She
burned herself all the time. That plant just won't die."

Methos broke one of the succulent's fat green leaves and applied
its slimy gel to Duncan's palm.  "That should make it feel
better.  You should cover it; it's the air that causes the
stinging. Not to mention that the aloe is sticky"

"I think I can handle it."

"Your call, but no need to be a hero.  It'll be fine by
tomorrow; shouldn't even blister.  Just hurt like hell for a
while."

Duncan manipulated a piece of French toast onto his plate,
poured on some syrup and tried to ignore the throbbing in his
hand.  "Very good."  He ate three pieces, enjoying the taste of
food for the first time in over a week.

"I'll do the dishes.  Why don't you go get cleaned up?"

Duncan left the room, peeling off the sweats he had been wearing
for the last two days as he walked toward the bathroom.  He
stood in the shower, letting the hot water run over him, hoping
it would wash away the tension.  His attempts to keep his
injured hand away from the water met with little success, and
served as a constant reminder that he was not himself.  He told
himself again that he would get over this.  He had to.  He
dressed slowly, straightened the comforter on his bed and tried
to meditate for a while.  After about an hour, he returned to
the living room and Methos.

"I have to say you look and smell a lot better," said Methos.
"Hand okay?"

He nodded.  It hurt, but wasn't unbearable.  Duncan had replaced
the old sweats with a clean set, and sat down on the chair
across from his friend.  Methos brought the chess set over and
began setting up the pieces, a beer conveniently located nearby.
"Game?"

"Fine."

After two hours of quiet chess, Methos spoke softly without
looking up from the board.  "What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Your life between your first death and finding out about the
Game?"

"I thought you had all that information in the Watcher records."

"I've read bits of the paper version.  There's very little about
that part of your life.  Besides, they're just words.  What did
you *feel*?"

Duncan paused and looked across the board at his friend.  Methos
looked up and stared into his eyes, his piercing gaze insisting
on an answer.  The Highlander stood and walked to the bar,
pouring himself a Glenmorangie.  Returning to his seat, he held
the glass and stared into its golden depths, as if it were a
Magic 8 Ball that would give him an easy answer, before taking
that first sip.  Warmed by the 'water of life', he tried to
respond to the question.

"I was desperate.  Terrified.  Confused.  Also cold and hungry
most of the time.  And helpless."

"How did you survive?"

"By refusing to die, I guess.  I didn't know I was Immortal.
I'm sure I did die, probably more than once, but I didn't
understand what was happening."

"How did you fight the loneliness?"

Another breath, another sip of whisky.  "Not all that well.  I
was sure I was going mad on more than one occasion.  There was
an old woman, also banished, who had a cottage not too far from
where I was hiding.  She began to tolerate my presence.  I
brought her game when I caught it, and she started to trade with
me.  But neither of us would admit we were in need of the
other."

"Why do you think that?"

"You know, you're starting to sound a lot like Sean Burns."

"He was a good man; I'll take that as a compliment."

"That he was."  Duncan fought off guilt as recollections of
taking Sean's Quickening started to surface.

Methos broke into Duncan's thoughts.  "Don't change the subject.
I asked you why you couldn't admit needing help."

"Methos, I don't know.  I just don't know.  Maybe it's the way
my father raised me.  Maybe I have some crooked gene.  Maybe I
was just trying to prove to my Clan that I could make it on my
own, and accepting help felt like cheating."  Duncan's voice was
growing louder, and he couldn't disguise the waves of anger
and frustration this discussion was causing.

"But you survived.  And you accepted help from the old woman.
At some level, you knew you needed her."

"I must have.  I found excuses to end up outside her cottage,
just to see another human being.  I was living in a cave, for
God's sake."

"And while you were sick at Anne's?"

"What do you mean?"

"What was it like?  Most folks enjoy lying back and having
someone see to their every need."

"It wasn't like that.  I couldn't feed myself, couldn't stand by
myself.  I could barely sit.  She fed me, she cleaned up after
me -- damn it, I needed her help to piss."

"You don't like being helpless, do you?  Reminds you of those
early years."

Duncan thought about that for a moment.  "You're probably
right," he said softly.

"So, as I see it, you have a conflict here.  You can't stand
feeling helpless, but you can't accept help from anyone.
Instead, you withdraw into your own private hell.  You have
people who care about you, but you shut them out.  You hide from
them.  How can that help you?"

Duncan had no answer.  He refilled his glass and returned to the
chess game as Methos moved his knight.  "Check."

Moving his bishop to block, Duncan tried to concentrate on the
game.  He didn't beat Methos often, but he wasn't going to give
up without a fight, either.  Sometimes the best offense really
was a good defense.  Why couldn't he accept that his friends
seemed to know better here?  That he had to give in to his
illness, to his weakness, to his fear, before he could get
strong enough to defeat it.

"You sure you want to move there?"  Methos' voice brought him
back to the game.

"I'm sorry.  I'm not much competition today."

"I think you're making progress, though."

"You're not talking about the chess game, are you?"

Methos looked once again into Duncan's eyes, finished the last
of his beer and went to the kitchen without saying a word.
Duncan picked up his glass and followed him.  "Talk to me."

"Nothing I can say will change the way you feel.  That's up to
you.  Stir fry okay for dinner?"

"Fine."

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