Happy Holidays, Tessa Rae! (2/2)
Title: Tantalus, (2/2)
Author: lferion aka The Olympic Scribbler
Written for: Tessa Rae/tes_fic
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Duncan, Joe, OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No sex. Pre-slash. Disturbing themes. Original characters advancing the storyline. Do any of these really need to be warned for?
Author's Notes: Tes' request was for Duncan/Methos slash or gen, "First time stories. Action, drama and plot. Hurt/comfort." There's a real element of challenge in plausibly damaging an Immortal. I hope I rose to the occasion.
This story would not have gotten written without the encouragement, brainstorming, hand-holding, commentary and detailed nit-picking of reshcat and auberus. temve provided very useful outside the fandom point of view and caught the rest of the double spaces. Thank you so much, ladies. I could not have done it without you.
Summary: What if escaping is the easy part?
Go to Part One
Tantalus
*** *** ***
"Joe? Joe Dawson? I've got a live one."
Joe took a stronger grip on the handset of the phone. The voice on the other end of the line was not one he knew, though the name on the caller ID - Josh Ivers - was familiar from the Watcher List. "I'm listening." Having a 'live one' was code for 'immortal in a hospital or other medical situation, please advise.' In this young voice it sounded like innocuous slang and not the potential emergency it was.
"This is Josh, Josh Ivers? I'm at the Fraser Canyon Hospital? In Hope, you know? I'm doing my internship and field-study under Dr Jonathan Chambers?"
Joe made an 'I hear you' noise. He might not know Josh, but he certainly knew Jon Chambers. A watcher after his own heart, part-time Watcher, full-time doctor, and good friends with his nominal assignment. Jon and Patrick Thurston (200+ [assumed; birth date unknown], came overland with either Mackenzie or Fraser, birth culture unknown but probable European or Colonial New World, first death unknown, first teacher unknown) played golf together every Wednesday afternoon when Patrick was in town. It made the Tribunal crazy. Joe just laughed.
"Well the district services mobile clinic people brought this guy in from one of the outlying areas. You'd've thought they'd've called for a helicopter, but they came by road, and he's really messed up."
The young man paused for breath, or to gather his thoughts (possibly both - this was not the most concise report Joe had ever heard). Chambers was notorious for disliking the cumbersome official reporting process, though he was scrupulous about making sure his field-trainees learned it. Usually his own reports were cheerful, chatty emails, full of golf scores, greens-conditions and amusing anecdotes of medical diagnosis and the human condition. His intern's reports, however, were models of style and clarity, annotated and footnoted. If Jon was having Josh call the Area Supervisor, there had to be more to the situation than was so far apparent. Joe waited with growing concern for Josh to get to the point and made an encouraging, enquiring noise.
"Oh, nothin' terminal - no 'Night of the Living Dead' or anything exciting like that."
Joe grimaced and forbore sighing. Josh sounded like he was almost disappointed that he had not gotten to see an actual revival-from-the-dead. Jon no doubt had told him of his own recruitment, after having Patrick revive from the dead as he was about to officially declare him so. It was a good story, and Jon told it well. Usually with Patrick laughing and inserting comments and commentary over his shoulder. Most people assumed the joke had been on Jon.
"But I was doing the intake blood-draw on him? And it was exactly like the film they show, only it was kind of in slow-motion. I did the second tube separate, just to make sure, you know? And it happened again, only still really slow. I thought that things like needle-sticks were supposed to heal so fast you never saw it, but maybe he's really new or whatever messed him up is doin' something to him. Anyway, the reason Dr Chambers had me callin' instead of sending through the regular channels is 'cause, well, he's not one of the Known to be in the Area, or on the Known list at all s'far as we can tell? But he looks kinda familiar, like I oughta recognize him. And I think the Doc did, but he wasn't helpful," he grumbled, "just told me it was a 'learning experience' and to "use my ingenuity and initiative.' How'm I supposed to do that if he won't tell me anything? So I figured you'd know if anyone did. An' Doc said go ahead and call. Anyway, this guy, he's got a nose you can't miss, you know? And cheekbones you could about cut yourself on."
Joe had to stop himself from responding to every upward inflection in the young man's speech. He wasn't asking questions, or even waiting for a reply. When Josh did stop, Joe found himself with nothing to say - that artless description produced a image that looked a whole lot like a certain Ancient, Whereabouts Currently Unknown. (In certain circles 'Adam Pierson' was understood to be a new Immortal, but he didn't have a Watcher, and he wasn't on the general lists.) Joe swallowed and made an effort to ask levelly "Do you have a name? Any other information?"
"The intake form has him down as 'Alun Adams'. 'A-L-U-N.' One of the nurses says it's Welsh. Dark hair, pale skin, maybe six-foot. Didn't get an eye-color." The youthful voice hesitated a moment, then went on with a note of uncertainty. "Doc got him put in a single-double, by himself, but it's in the psych-ward, and his chart has a 'substance abuse' flag, even though the tests aren't back yet and what I put in for a diagnosis is 'possible poisoning, substance unknown.' But what do I know, I'm only an intern." Now it was frustration that colored Josh's tone, and Joe realized that while he was unsure as a Watcher, Josh was perfectly confident of his medical skills, justified or otherwise. And Chambers was not known for his patience with fools. No reason to think the boy anything but competent. "Doc signed off on it, I don't know why 'Miss Exalted' had to be going and putting things in the record that'll be a hassle to get rid of."
Josh sighed heavily, and Joe couldn't help smiling at the put-upon note that went with the exasperation. The Old Man - if it was the old man - did have a way of invoking that emotion. Occasionally through no fault of his own.
"But I know it can't be good to have one of our guys in a hospital at all, much less one he can't sign himself out of - the world really ain't ready to hear about folks as live forever, way too like to cause a panic, and then where'd we be? So I thought, if you could look and see if he's listed at all, or if he's really really new, and give me some advice here. The Doc is sayin' I should handle this like I was flyin' solo."
There was another pause and Joe was just about to say something when Josh went on, his voice low and even more tentative, "And, well, Mr Dawson, I know you are on terms with your MacLeod, like the Doc is with Mr Patrick - well, not exactly like, but friendly-like - and Mr Patrick doesn't take students. If Alun Adams really is brand new, he could do a lot worse than MacLeod for a teacher. An' this hospital isn't holy ground. If he isn't new, that's gotta be anxious-making."
Joe agreed wholeheartedly with that last observation, and in theory with the first, though he knew that Duncan was far from recovered from the loss of Richie, despite the amount of time that had passed. He was not about to take on a student, even if Alun Adams proved to be the new immortal Josh thought him. The idea of Methos as Duncan's student was enough to make him laugh if the situation were less serious. "You got that right, kid. New or not it sounds like the man can use our help." The idea of Methos trapped off holy ground, weaponless and somehow damaged, made his blood run cold. "I'll take a look at my records, and send what I have that might be helpful. Which email address do you want me to use?"
"Thank you Mr Dawson. I really appreciate it. The snugharbor address would be best. An' I'll be sure t' keep you updated." Relief was palpable in Josh's voice. "I really wanna make sure he's ok, you know?"
"Call me Joe, Josh. You're doing just fine. This kind of thing is what the Watchers are supposed to be about - having a care for the Immortals we observe. I appreciate you calling, and I'll be in touch."
"Thanks, Joe, I'll look for that email. 'Bye now!"
***
Gently, Joe put down the phone, thinking hard. 'Adam' was one of Methos' jokes, a name he had used in various forms. Adam Pierson had gone to school in Wales (actually, physically attended St Albans and earned a degree there; Methos had gone to a great deal of trouble to set up that identity). But Jon would have recognized Methos as Pierson, wouldn't he? Josh had been recruited some time after Adam Pierson had 'discovered' himself to be Immortal - and hadn't that been a three-ringed circus, and come perilously close to blowing up in all their faces. Jon had had a hand in making it all come out right, though Joe didn't think they'd ever actually met. Although Methos had been wholly and completely 'Adam Pierson, mild-mannered watcher and out-of-his-depth researcher' every moment of that horrible time, there was still the tape. Duncan hadn't been around for that, and just as well.
However, as a direct result of that caper, Joe was Adam Pierson's medical advocate and legal proxy of record, official Power of Attorney and all. Hope wasn't much more than a hundred miles away. He had to know. Methos had been gone too long. Patrick Thurston had never been a headhunter, but the same could not be said of some of the others that found the wide spaces of Canada congenial. And other Immortals were certainly not the only danger, even to as canny a survivor as the Old Man. A few keystrokes and he had a map and directions. A few more and credentials were printing. If Alun Adams wasn't Methos, he was still Joe's responsibility as Area Supervisor, and a man who needed help.
For a moment, Joe considered calling MacLeod, but the disappointment if it were not Methos would be too great. Duncan would feel obliged - or that he ought to be obliged - to take on Adams as a student. Joe just couldn't do that to the man. And if it were Methos, hurt, damaged, dangerous when cornered, then Joe needed know more of the whole situation before he brought Mac in. Mac was all too likely to go off half-cocked if one of his clan was in distress.
No. No point in involving Mac until he had more information. Stiffly, Joe levered himself up from his desk and went to make arrangements with Mike for the bar. He already had a bag packed in the car. He always did.
Hang in there, old man. Hang on 'til I can get there and haul your ass out of the fire. Assuming it is your ass, for it most surely is a fire.
***
Traffic was light and Joe made good time. Having called from the road and left a message for Chambers, Jon met him in the main lobby and led him to his small office. Joe sat gratefully in the chair at the side of the desk while Jon took the one behind it, fiddling with a pen. He had said nothing beyond pleasantries - though those had included the unexpectedly welcome news that Jon had taken the liberty of booking a room at the Heritage Inn for him, just down the road. One less thing for Joe to worry about. When Joe was settled, Chambers gusted a sigh. "I'm glad you came up, Joe. I'll take you to see him in a moment, but there are things I need to tell you privately. We've a situation here, and no mistake. I've got one of the nurses here champing at the bit to call in the authorities."
Joe winced.
"I'm holding her off so far, since there is little physical evidence - and what there is, is extremely ambiguous and should be gone pretty much entirely in the next few hours. I have to say, Joe, that watching that in slow motion is very strange. My only theory is that the chemical cocktail he was being given - I don't think he could have been administering it himself - interferes with the healing mechanism and allowed the other components to operate. I've identified a very strong opiate and the markers of at least one very nasty psychoactive. The poison appears to be breaking down slowly. Indications are that he was receiving large doses on a regular basis for some time, more than a year, possibly as long as two."
In the brief silence, Joe studied his hands, resting on the curve of his cane. He had no trouble hearing what Jon wasn't saying. He'd had his own experiences with narcotics, and Immortals were no more immune to the effects of habituation than mortals. Witness Brian Cullen, and Byron. For that matter, there was Methos' own time as Benjamin Adams. The Chronicles were depressingly full of similar accounts.
After a moment, Chambers went on. "So far our Mr Adams hasn't said much of anything at all, certainly nothing that would require invoking the mandatory reporting statutes. The good folk at Hallowdell who found him had little to say either - apparently he appeared on their porch in the middle of the night, naked as a jaybird, feet cut to the bone from running an unknown distance through the back country forest. His feet are still not entirely healed, and that was two days ago. No names, no accusations. But, this isn't the first time someone's come out of those woods in bad shape. There's something going on, that will need to be rooted out and stopped, and it's quite possible that the 'New Sons of Balor' will come after the one who got away, if they think he's still alive. Patrick's up in Whitehorse, won't be back for a week. He can't ... I can't ask ...." Jon scrubbed a restless hand through his hair. "The lad needs an advocate, someone who can watch out for him. A bodyguard."
The sheer incongruity of the idea of him - Joe Dawson, barkeep and Watcher - as a bodyguard to any immortal surprised a snort out of Joe. "Advocate I can do - assuming it is who you think it is, and not some random unfortunate, and we can finesse the paperwork -" Jon waved the technical difficulty away. Joe gave him a sour look. "But bodyguard is stretching it, you know. Not that the spirit isn't willing."
"I know, Joe. I know." Chambers pushed back his chair, stretched and stood. "What he needs most is the time and space to heal. He needs to know he's safe, and in friendly hands. He needs to have someone he trusts looking out for him, running interference. A familiar face. And I know how stubborn you can be. Not to mention being entirely wise to the ways of nurses."
Joe snorted again, but he was smiling too. "Yeah, well. Long experience will do that." He hauled himself up, careful of his balance. He wasn't used to driving for long stretches, and his body was telling him so.
Jon was at the door. "Come on. Let me take you to him."
***
Joe had known he could pick Duncan out of a crowd with little more to go on than the curve of a jaw and the angle of an elbow. He hadn't realized that he could recognize Methos on less. He knew the shape of that skull, that tilt of shoulder, and there was no question but that that turned back belonged to the 'World's Oldest Man,' no matter that his face was turned away and blankets were pulled up around his ears. When Joe got close enough, he could see that Methos was shivering. He remembered feeling chills that had nothing to do with cold, heat that prickled and buzzed under the skin. Withdrawal was an affliction where Immortal healing was not necessarily an advantage.
Methos was awake; Joe could hear it in the sharp cadence of his breath, see it in the tension in his neck. When he was in pain, it wasn't sympathy he wanted, it was distraction. Something to take his mind off of discomfort and give him something else to focus on.
He cast about for something to say, mind completely blank of opening gambits. Very faintly through the wall came the mutter of a television. There had been a game on several half-glimpsed screens on the walk over from Jon's office. "So, Alun, how about them Seahawks?"
The figure on the bed went completely still for a moment. A hoarse voice said incredulously "Joe?" He turned in the sheets. "You came ... two hundred miles ... to talk about ... football?" It was too long a sentence for a throat raw and dry. The last word dissolved into a cough that shook Methos like a leaf, but did not dim the very real joy in his face. He waved off Joe's instinctive supporting hand, but accepted the proffered water. He took a cautious sip while Joe held the cup.
"It was only a little over a hundred. This is Hope, not Kamloops." Joe put the cup back on the table and groped for the chair, sitting heavily. He hoped that he'd managed to keep the dismay out of his voice. Jon had not overstated the seriousness of Methos' condition. Joe doubted he would be able to lift a sword, much less wield one in his current state.
"That bad, eh?" Methos' tone was wry, his eyes sympathetic.
Joe puffed out a breath, getting a grip on his feelings. "Yup." He should know better than to expect to fool Methos. He did know better. "Jon warned me, but..."
Methos pulled the blankets back up around his shoulders and settled back in the nest of pillows. "Thought so," he said lightly. "But you're the first to actually say so." A somber note entered his voice. He was perfectly aware of the implications. "Fortunately, it is temporary."
Joe nodded. Methos' breath stuttered, and his hands tightened, then eased as the spasm passed. In the small silence Joe asked "'Alun Adams'? I thought you were keeping Pierson around a little longer."
"It just came out. I was ... trying to remember. Alun was ... a long time ago. Iselin put Alun and Adam together." Methos swallowed, looking suddenly disoriented, unfocused. "I don't know who Alun Adams is yet. Not someone I planned."
"Who do you want him to be?" Joe was fascinated by the idea.
A long tremor shuddered through Methos; his face flooded with color as sweat sprang at his temples and throat. His breath was a pant, quick and shallow. His eyes were wide and blind and terrified, seeing some other place.
Joe ventured to repeat the question, hoping to bring Methos back from wherever he was inside his memories. "Who would you like Alun Adams to be?"
"Does it matter? It's not like he's real. None of them are real. Not Adam, not Ben, not Alun or James or Matthew. Names on a page. He told me I was delusional. Tried to make me believe it. That all my lives were an illusion. That I was an illusion. And I believed it. I believed him, Joe!"
There was an edge of despair in his voice that had Joe reaching instinctively to take Methos' hand, to give him an anchor, a point of human contact. He looked lost, sick and bewildered. Joe remembered that psychoactives were among the chemicals Methos had been subjected to. This had to be an echo, a flashback, a lingering artifact.
"Ephemeral figments of a mythical old man. That's all any of them were. Adam the most unreal of all." He'd closed his eyes, curling in on himself. "Never real. Never knew you."
This was a distress on an entirely different order than the physical, a canker that ate at the sense of self. Anger burned hot in Joe's breast that Methos - Methos - should have been brought to this, uncertain of the foundations of his self. Or at any rate his most recent self. That was disturbing enough.
"What if he was right? What if ...."
"Oh, don't give me that. I know you, remember?" Joe interrupted sharply. He wasn't about to let Methos fall into that morass. He gripped Methos' hand tighter. Methos blinked and shuddered again, gasping, struggling to return to the present. He was listening as if Joe's words were a lifeline, dragging him out of the stifling dark, Joe's breath the thread guiding him out of the maze of memory and illusion and pain. Perhaps they were. Joe felt a fierce and sudden tenderness, to be so trusted by this untrusting man, to know that his love and care, words and presence mattered, made a difference to Methos. He took a deep breath and settled his shoulders, gripping the metaphorical rope more tightly and went on.
"Adam was - is - just as real as anyone else you've ever been. Realer than some 'mythical oldest man' certainly." His exaggerated air-quotes with his other hand brought a hint of a smile to Methos' eyes, distraction from the pain that was pinching his face and shortening his breath. Joe went on, voice light but meaning every word. "I knew Adam for fifteen years." Joe looked off in the distance for a moment, remembering the gawky, eager, shy and brilliant grad-student, the dedicated Watcher-researcher, the Watcher-Immortal defending friendship. The man who loved Alexa, who risked everything he was to bring Duncan back out of the darkness. "You re-invent yourself every day. Everyone does, more or less. You just do it with more awareness, and a lot more practice than most. The persona, the name, that doesn't matter. It never mattered. You matter to me. The rest - the legends, the names, the stuff you might or might not have done in the past, that's not what really matters. Oh, it's interesting" - his eyes met Methos' and a smile ghosted between them, playful and acknowledging - "useful, important in its own way. But the chronicles, the stories, the journals matter because they are a part of you, your words and thoughts and feelings, not because they are you. It's you that matters. You know that."
"Wise Joe." Methos was fading, strength receding like the tide. Joe had to lean close to hear, his voice was so low. "You have no idea what that means to me." There was a nakedness in Methos' face, a vulnerability that went beyond the distress of his body. The defenses of movement, misdirection, sleight of hand and tongue and eye were stripped away, exposing the privacies of his spirit - scars and dreams, fear and love, the depths of his loneliness, the roots of his strength, the indomitable will to keep going - to Joe's unjudging gaze. "I love you, too, Joe." Methos said, very simply.
Joe didn't have an answer for that. He let his hands speak for him, a warm clasp of the thin fingers, palm cupping the sharp curve of his shoulder. He knew Methos loved him. Methos had no patience for the idea that gender or age or anything else so trivial should have anything to do with who one loved - love was love, coming in many forms and expressions, of which sarcasm could be one and sex another, the act given weight by the love, not the other way around. It was a gift he had never taken lightly, and returned in full measure. He just didn't quite know how to respond to such undisguised sincerity. So he cleared his throat and squeezed Methos' shoulder again.
Joe could feel him trembling, long combers running through him, see the exhaustion in his face. Methos had expended what little reserve he had. Joe spoke very quietly. "Go to sleep, old friend. I'll be right here."
*** *** ***
Duncan paced. Hospitals always made him uncomfortable, and the mere idea of Methos being in one - needing one! - disturbed him even more. Joe had not been forthcoming, had discouraged him from coming up. It was only the Fraser Valley for pity's sake, not even half a day's drive from Seacouver, even with the new nonsense at the border. (And why had Joe waited until morning to call him, after driving half the night himself? They could have gone up together!) Apparently, Methos had been there (or close to there, Joe had simply shut his mouth when asked for more detail, and all Duncan's cajoling had gotten him nothing at all. Which said something right there, though Duncan wasn't quite sure what) the entire time he'd been gone. Two and a half years. And Duncan had thought him off enjoying someplace warm after the last time Duncan had gotten caught up in some cause and Methos had left him to it.
The waiting room at the end of the corridor was painted in colors that managed to be both cheerful and soothing, but Duncan hardly noticed. Nor did he pay more than passing attention to the art (original) on the walls, the comfortable couches and chairs (industrial standard), or even the wide view of mountains and autumn-turned trees from the window (spectacular). The woman at the desk had been sympathetic but uninformative. "Room 207 is resting comfortably" she had said, "but Dr Chambers as physician of record or Mr Dawson as his medical proxy must approve you as a visitor before I can let you see your friend. I am sorry for the wait, but the patient's well-being must come first. I've paged for Dr Chambers; I'm sure he'll be along soon. There's a coffee machine on the other side of the elevator, if you'd like some." She had smiled at him and gone back to her typing unruffled.
It was both heartening and disturbing that were being so careful; he hoped it meant there was no possibility of another Immortal, or - God forbid! a Hunter - reaching Methos, but it bothered him immensely that he had to wait to be approved.
So he paced, growing more and more anxious at the wait, trying not to imagine dire things. Joe hadn't been at the hotel, so Duncan assumed he was here, and as he wasn't in the waiting room, he was probably with Methos, where Duncan wanted - needed to be. Where Duncan should have already been. Where there should have been no need for either of them to be. His thoughts were spinning, careening about in his head, all questions and recriminations without answers. Fulminating in the back of his mind were angry thoughts, plans of vengeance and retribution on the ones who had dared lay hands on one of his own, dark impulses of rage and fearful images of being too late. Darius and Little Deer, Tessa and Fitz. Richie. All the dead he had failed to save. How could he possibly bear to lose Methos?
As if he owned Methos. The dark places in his soul - the possessive, wordless, unreasoning places that had given root to the dark quickening, Ahriman, the rage and feeling of betrayal that had slammed Methos against the side of the car, grabbed his shoulders and sent Duncan's fingers digging for the nerves, that had given an edge to his words and force to his arm at more than one execution, and was nothing he was proud of - warred with his reasoning intellect, the sturdy, equally rooted belief that people chose relationships, connections, courses of action, that nothing was fated, no end predestined, not even the Game. The thought of anyone actually 'owning' Methos on a fundamental level was ridiculous. But the thought of Methos gone - never to find his angular form draped over his furniture, hear his flexible voice raised in acerbic commentary or enthusiastic delight, never to see that long throat revealed in laughter, that mouth make love to a bottle of beer, those elegant hands make a point; never again to know that somewhere (across the room, across town, the other side of the planet, the other side of the solar system) there lived a man who had seen the darkest places of Duncan's soul and had not turned away - that thought made desperation gibber and howl in Duncan's breast.
Abruptly, Duncan forced himself to stop, to stand at the window and look at the sky, the mountains tipped with snow, the burning-leaved trees. Just as he was finally achieving a hard-won measure of calm, there was a bustle at the doorway guarded by the desk. He turned to see Joe - leaning heavily on his cane, his hair seeming somehow whiter than Duncan remembered (when had he gone from grey to white? What else had Duncan failed to notice?) emerging from the hallway. Following him was a rumpled, red-haired, energetic man who could only be Dr Chambers. The doctor was speaking forcefully with a statuesque woman (she over-topped the doctor by several inches, nearly as tall as Duncan himself) in nurse's scrubs, her expression almost as severe as her tightly pinned bun.
"I think we can agree," the doctor was saying, "that sedatives are useful, even necessary in some cases. That is not the case here. We do not have a complete history, and we cannot know what the interactions might be. As it is, he has suffered a setback. Injections are clearly contraindicated in this case."
Joe was looking quietly furious, but his expression eased when he saw Duncan standing by the window. He began to make his way across the lobby toward Duncan. Dr Chambers steered the nurse toward the desk.
"I was acting on the standing orders for this ward, Doctor. For the good of all the patients," the woman said coldly, her diction very precise. "'All necessary measures will be taken to assure that patients code-flagged 1022, 1023 or 1027 be prevented from disrupting or compromising the care of themselves or others.' Sedatives are the standard and most mild of those measures." Her lips were pursed, but she didn't quite meet his eyes.
"I realize that, Ms Salter, and I respect Dr Naranji's expertise." Chambers gave no ground, his tone almost as chill as hers. "However, that order does not and should never have applied to this patient. I am sure that when he has a more complete understanding of Mr Adams case, Dr Naranji will concur."
Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, and looked over to where Duncan was standing beside Joe. The expression on his face immediately lightened. "Ah, you must be the Duncan MacLeod Mr Dawson spoke of. I'm Jon Chambers. We'll have you in to see young Alun in just a moment."
With that, Chambers stepped over to the counter with a brisk nod, drew himself to his full height, and smiled, a wide, unsettling and somehow faintly mischievous expression.
"And here is where I use my powers for good." Dr Chambers plucked a pen from the pot of pens and markers at the nurse's station and began busily writing. "I am removing this entirely unnecessary and erroneous 'substance abuse alert' 1027 flag from Mr Adam's file."
The nurse opened her mouth to object, but Chambers went on without stopping. "Yes, Ms Salter. I do know that requires a report, just as putting it on does. I have already written it and included it in the file. Which, by the way, does not yet have your report on why you decided, over Dr Ivers diagnosis of poisoning - which was entirely accurate, if understandably not complete - that Mr Adams should be treated as a 'suspicious person.' I expect to see it by the end of shift." He capped the pen and closed the file with something of a flourish. "Prudence is one thing. Prejudice that affects the well being of one of my patients is quite another."
Joe's eyes were savage over his smile. Ms Salter looked momentarily taken aback. (Duncan had never seen the woman before, but already this seemed to be an accomplishment on the doctor's part.) Even the cheerful desk-nurse was a little startled by Chambers' vehemence, though not at all disapproving. If anything, she seemed to be taking notes.
"Visitors will still need to be approved, but that is merely a precaution for his safety. But no restriction is to be placed on Mr Adams own movements. If he wishes to visit the chapel, you will make accommodations. Is that clear?"
Nurse Salter nodded stiffly. "Yes, Doctor. Perfectly."
"Good!" Chambers turned to Duncan, dismissing her from his attention. "Now, Mr MacLeod - may I call you Duncan?" He enquired and went on almost before Duncan could nod, ushering them though the double doors and down the empty hall. "Duncan. Let me explain a little about Alun's condition, so you are not distressed unduly." The pace he set was comfortably slow without being obvious and Duncan's appreciation for the man went up yet another notch. Chambers lowered his voice. "He has been able to give us some of the particulars of his captivity. Not many, but sufficient to guide us in his treatment. Joe can give you more of the details later. Now, what you must understand...." Duncan listened intently to every word.
***
Even though forewarned, Duncan was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes when he rounded the corner and stepped through the door of room 207. Afternoon sunlight warmed the air and with merciless clarity picked out every knob and hollow, every angle and line of the ravaged form on the bed. Pillows supported a head that seemed too heavy for the long, vulnerable neck, crisp white sheets cradled limbs stripped of strength, no thicker than reeds, restless hands unnaturally still. He seemed unreal, an impressionist painting, a figure carved of bone and light, and not a living man at all. Only the song of his quickening - deep and subtle and strong, undamped and undisguised - proclaimed him alive, affirmed his name along every fiber of Duncan's being.
Methos.
His dark head moved on the pillow, turning from the window. Brilliant, ancient eyes unclosed, burning with the spirit that animated that ivory flesh, those stark, enduring bones, and Duncan felt that gaze as a blow to his heart. He stumbled, breath stopped, and reached for the back of the chair set beside the bed to steady himself, keep back the cry that filled the spaces of his chest, the keen that threatened to tear his throat. Duncan's lips formed a single, soundless word, "Methos."
A recognizably sardonic eyebrow lifted and the familiar voice fell on his ear, "Alun, Mac. No mysteries here." Not loud, and a little breathless, but pure Methos. With that, Duncan's vision seemed to shift, the spell broke, and he could see the man in the bed, reduced to human suffering. Duncan blinked. The corners of Methos' mouth curled upward. "It's me, Mac," he said gently. "Just me, all present and accounted for." His smile tilted and he moved a little under the light sheet, spreading the fingers of one hand wide on the blanket. They looked extraordinarily long, pale and fragile. His ragged, close-clipped hair did nothing to disguise the stark bones of his skull. It was all too easy to see a death's head and not the living man. "Well, perhaps a little less of me than usual, but everything important is still attached."
Duncan gulped, a tumult of emotion rising to overwhelm him. "How can you joke about it?" He managed to keep his voice down, but there was nothing he could do about the ragged thrum of desperation, of grief and guilt, worry and fear for his friend. "I should have been here for you, gotten here earlier. I should have known. I didn't even ask where you were going - I just let you leave. I shouldn't have let you. I should...."
Both of Methos' brows rose in pointed commentary - 'And you could have stopped me how?' they said clearly. He gathered in a breath, his throat working stiffly. Moisture gleamed at his temples. "My choice, Mac."
Words burst from Duncan, doing nothing to ease the constriction in his chest, "He could have killed you! He's killing you now! I wasn't ... I didn't ... I...."
Methos broke into the litany, cutting it short. "Not your fault, Highlander. Cut the lamentations. Not dead. Not going to be dead. This," and he indicated the not-very-good shape his too-thin body was in with a movement of his hand "is merely a temporary inconvenience." Whereupon a cramp hit, as if giving the lie to his words by catching him by surprise and doubling him over. Duncan grabbed the hand that had been making the airy gesture, and Methos curled over, rode it out with a grip that would have bruised bone if Duncan were mortal. He hadn't thought Methos had that much strength in him. For a long moment the only sound in the room was Methos' short, hard breaths and the rustle of cloth as his body jerked and shuddered against the sheets. Duncan held on, making himself be still. There was nothing else he could do.
When the worst of the spasm passed, Methos grimaced and started to let go, but Duncan didn't release his hold, instead bringing up his other hand to enclose Methos' icy fingers in a warm clasp. Methos didn't fight him, merely flopped back against the pillows, dragging in deep and difficult breaths. Cold sweat dewed his skin, and he was starting to shiver. His lashes were like smudges of ink on his colorless cheeks. Bruises bloomed and faded on Duncan's hand, tingling faintly.
Duncan's heart twisted and he sat heavily in the plastic chair at the bedside. "I know that ... man... drugged you, kept you drugged. But isn't there something that will help? Can't they at least give you - I don't know - a small dose? Taper you off? Something?" He had so little personal experience with physical pain that lasted more than moments that seeing it in others always made him feel helpless, at a loss. Methos was taking this better than Duncan was, and he was the one suffering.
Methos retrieved his hand and pulled the covers up around his shoulders. Expression grim, he spoke to the ceiling. "Believe me when I say that I would rather die over and over while this shit clears itself from my system than be subjected to one more hit of it, no matter how small. Even if I knew what it was. Which I don't, actually. Beside the opioid transport mechanism. Too many possibilities for the psychoactive component, and not enough for the healing-suppressive." His quiet voice was resolute, but detached. Duncan kept forgetting that Methos had been a doctor, and more than once. Methos went on before Duncan could say anything. "And it won't kill me. Not even temporarily. And if it did, that would only slow down the process." Now he sounded disgusted. "The damned stuff doesn't process out when I'm dead. I just revive more slowly and a lot more painfully than usual. And with all the artifacts still there. I tried that early on." Methos sighed and brought his glance down. Movement caught Duncan's attention; Joe had come in and was settling himself in the other chair, a notebook and pen on the table beside him.
"Hi, Joe." Methos' eyes rested on the journal, and Duncan could almost see the thin fingers twitch.
Joe noticed too, and held up the pen with a lopsided smile, sharp and fond at the same time. "I'm writin' as fast as I can, Alun. Gettin' it all down." A different kind of relief flickered across Methos' face and his hands relaxed. Joe widened his smile to include Duncan. "Mac."
"You keep a journal?"
"I've been keeping one almost since writing began."
It appeared that Joe was keeping the Methos Chronicle updated while Methos couldn't do it himself. Duncan was grateful, if only for the comfort it gave Methos. "Thank you, Joe."
"My pleasure." Joe's presence was undemanding, the quiet scratch of his pen a subtle counterpoint to the tick of the clock and the uneven rasp of Methos' breath. "You go on, don't let me interrupt. I'm here if you need anything."
Methos shifted again with a rustle of sheets, turning back to Duncan. "Where was I? Oh, right." He settled right back into his lecture-explanation mode. "Some of the compounds mimic elements that are supposed to be there, and that's where the problem comes in. One of the problems. They bind to receptor sites."
Duncan put his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand, listening. Talking seemed to help - at any rate, Methos' color was better, even though he still looked unutterably weary, propped limply on hospital pillows. The mustard-yellow blanket only emphasized the shadows and hollows of his face. If Methos wanted to talk, Duncan was more than willing to listen. Especially if it helped.
"There seem to be two things going on: chemical withdrawal and the purging process - a case of too much and not enough all at the same time." Methos' laugh was barely more than a breath, but it threatened to become a bout of painful retching. Duncan held his breath in sympathy for a long moment while Methos struggled to subdue the spasm. When it eased, Joe reached over and handed Duncan the long-necked water-bottle. Duncan helped Methos take a swallow, allowing him to speak again, a hoarse note roughening his words, pointing up the pauses between them.
The afternoon went on like that, evening turned to night, conversation broken by bouts of fever, nausea, cramp and chill. Moments when Methos' breath became a rasp, when his muscles locked and shook, when his long throat worked and no sound emerged, were followed by spaces of time when he lay limp, exhausted, motionless as brisk hands cleaned him, changed soiled sheets, settled fresh pillows under his head. Snatches of sleep, of ludicrous, low-voiced tales interrupted by stifled sobs of pain, patient sips of water to ease the dry mouth, the raw throat, and then a dogged return to the next point in the story.
Sometime during that long slide from evening into night, the bright sky outside the window shading to grey and indigo, Joe had chivvied him from the room, telling him to take a walk, to eat, wash his face, find some coffee, and he had gone to watch the stars appear one by one by one from a balcony overlooking the river. Every evening the stars were new, and yet they were the same stars that had shone since the earth first spun around the sun, the moon first rose. In every star he saw the light in Methos' eyes, the spark of his wit and spirit, the flickering personas and the persistent self that rose anew each day.
When he returned (fed, washed, windblown) it seemed like one of those stars had lodged itself in his breast, burning itself deep into his heart. Methos was asleep, torment for a moment eased, the clever mouth and, weary, young/old, all too-seeing eyes closed, relaxed, not even dream-disturbed. And Duncan realized in a moment of perfect clarity that what this was, was love - not adoration of the ancient, the artifact, the embodiment of history, not conservatorial diligence, painstaking and reverent, nor comradeship, the warrior tie of brotherhood - but simple, ordinary, extraordinary love: love for this difficult, contrary, terribly human man.
Oh.
*** *** ***
Duncan's Presence rang along his nerves, clean and bright. Pwyll to his Arawn, and he would know the touch of that quickening against his own anywhere, anywhen.
Run, run, run toward, friendship thrives despite the sword
He was better this morning, the worst of the narcotic withdrawal endured, and another measure of poison leeched out of his system in sweat and tears and all the other excreta a body was capable of. The night nurse had changed the sheets twice, and Duncan had held basin and bedpan without complaint until Madelaine had politely but inexorably made him leave and take Joe back to the hotel. Her brisk efficiency with a sponge-bath made Methos recall Caroline's gentle competence and Iselin's cheerful appreciation, but he was glad to be clean. Detoxification was a messy process, even for an immortal. The morning nurse - Patricia-call-me-Pat - had looked in on him earlier with a smile at his improvement and a deft hand with needle and syringe. Only one tube this time. He wondered what the results would be, but Alun Adams wasn't a doctor, and it was unlikely that they would tell him much. Joe would get the details, and he would record them. Medical power of attorney was a wonderful thing. He shifted against the pillows, settling his shoulders more comfortably. The plastic band on his wrist itched, and he could feel Duncan coming closer, hear the tap of Joe's cane under a murmur of voices. Chambers was due to make an appearance, and Josh would not be far behind.
Welcome yule and winter's lord; fire warms both hall and board
The late-season sun shone through the window, spilling light in lattices across the floor and the foot of the bed. Today's blanket was a kind of maroon. It reflected fire in Duncan's dark eyes as he held the door open for Joe; Josh and Chambers following after, as predicted. He felt the power of Duncan's quickening spark and rise to a peak against his own, then settle into a kind of heightened awareness, a warmth that traced lines on the tender new skin of his feet, infused heat into the knots in his back. He had forgotten what it was like to simply bask in that generous outpouring of energy. Solstice child indeed. But yesterday had not had much of basking about it. Duncan looked under-slept, though, and the faint air of exasperation under Joe's calm hinted at more Highland angst in the offing.
Curtain-rings rattled as Josh pulled the curtain around the bed; Duncan and Joe were not to be privy to the mysteries of a morning examination. It was wonder enough that they had been allowed in before the conclusion of early rounds. Perhaps it was that the doctor in him wanted the watcher where he could see him.
Answering Chambers' questions and following his requests to sit and turn, cough and breathe deeply reminded him forcibly that while he was better, he certainly was not well. By the time the doctor had finished poking and prodding, listening closely and peering intently (and he was sure that Chambers-the-Watcher was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to get so up-close and personal with an immortal, even as Doctor Chambers was genuinely concerned with the health of Alun Adams, suffering the effects of an unknown substance or substances) he felt chilled and faint, his skin flinched from the touch of gown and sheet as Josh helped him back into the garment and under the covers, his belly threatened to cramp at the thought of swallowing even the simple electrolyte solution Chambers proffered as a reward for his improvement. He steeled himself and drank it, locking his throat and holding his breath until he was sure it was going to stay down. He'd had more than enough of throwing up over the last few days.
As soon as the curtain was pulled back, Duncan was at his side, concern tightening the broad shoulders and carving lines in that expressive face. Chambers was smiling as he peeled the gloves from his fingers. "You've made considerable strides, dear boy, though not out of the woods quite yet, I'm afraid. I'm going to authorize clear liquids and brief periods of sitting up, if you feel up to it."
There was a distinct twinkle in Chambers' blue eyes. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Chambers went on, "And yes, that does mean you may use the loo. Sitting, mind you, not standing, and if you have help to and from. I'm not happy with your strength just yet, but I know you young men well enough to know that you would try it without leave, and I don't want you falling." The doctor's glance turned to Duncan, who very nearly stood at attention. "I'm trusting you to not let him overdo."
"Yes, sir." There was the faintest hint of Scots shading Duncan's voice; more evidence of stirred up feelings.
Chambers nodded and gathered Josh in with a glance. "Now, I'm going to update your Mr Dawson, and we'll see how things look this afternoon after we have the results of your bloodwork. The chart, please, Josh." Chambers gave his shoulder a kindly squeeze. "We'll have you out of here soon enough."
He shivered, and for a moment Chambers' round face and blue eyes were overlain with a bearded lantern jaw and blazing black eyes, but there was no thumb digging into his collar-bone, and the grip was not followed with the thump-prick-scrape of the horse-syringe and the horrid, hot, seductive flood of whatever-the-hell it was that was shoved into him one, two, three times a day. He swallowed and tried not to flinch. The doctor let go with a little pat, eyes warm with sympathy, but said nothing, stepping away as he swallowed again, willing his stomach not to revolt. He breathed deeply, smelling clean-hospital smells and the elusive spice of Duncan's shampoo and aftershave, not damp wood and cheap incense, harsh lye soap imperfectly applied. He shuddered once more and opened his eyes (when had he closed them? Did it matter?) to Duncan hovering, having possessed himself of the chair and pulled it close. The nightmarish vision vanished in the warmth of Duncan's concerned brown gaze. But even Duncan's presence could not entirely allay his near panic at being unable to defend himself - it might be clean and bright and staffed with competent and caring people, Watchers no less, but it was still a hospital, and far from holy ground.
The Watchers would record - the names, the deeds, the victories and defeats, the lives touched and the lives lived, the loved ones lost and found, married and buried, the courage and cowardice and simple going on - but they wouldn't interfere. Their work was to witness, to carry the stories and remember the names. The man of his nightmares was nameless, as monsters were nameless. It was fitting that he be remembered as monster, not man. He let the long shudder disperse under the force of Duncan's concern.
"Are you all right? Can I get you anything? What was that? Is there something I can do?" Duncan was perilously close to babbling, deep voice rich with emotion: music to his ears and balm to his frayed and jumpy nerves.
Life and hope sing in accord: love doth make the strongest ward
"Mac" he said, reaching out his hand, (observing that despite the momentary flashback, his fingers trembled noticeably less than they had yesterday - he really was getting better) and laying his fingers gently against Duncan's lips, damming the flow of words. "Yes, there is something you can do." He knew that Chambers and Josh and even Joe were Watching, but he didn't care. Only Iselin was absent, elsewhere, finding her own road, of the people who had helped (would continue to help) him on this journey out of the dark, but she would certainly approve.
Run, run, run toward! Time will see the light restored.
Methos turned the touch of his fingers into a caress along Duncan's cheek, feeling stubble and warmth, concern and love under his still hypersensitive fingertips, and said simply, "Get me out of here, Duncan. Take me home."
The smile that broke over Duncan's face was answer enough.
END
Author: lferion aka The Olympic Scribbler
Written for: Tessa Rae/tes_fic
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Duncan, Joe, OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: No sex. Pre-slash. Disturbing themes. Original characters advancing the storyline. Do any of these really need to be warned for?
Author's Notes: Tes' request was for Duncan/Methos slash or gen, "First time stories. Action, drama and plot. Hurt/comfort." There's a real element of challenge in plausibly damaging an Immortal. I hope I rose to the occasion.
This story would not have gotten written without the encouragement, brainstorming, hand-holding, commentary and detailed nit-picking of reshcat and auberus. temve provided very useful outside the fandom point of view and caught the rest of the double spaces. Thank you so much, ladies. I could not have done it without you.
Summary: What if escaping is the easy part?
Go to Part One
Tantalus
*** *** ***
"Joe? Joe Dawson? I've got a live one."
Joe took a stronger grip on the handset of the phone. The voice on the other end of the line was not one he knew, though the name on the caller ID - Josh Ivers - was familiar from the Watcher List. "I'm listening." Having a 'live one' was code for 'immortal in a hospital or other medical situation, please advise.' In this young voice it sounded like innocuous slang and not the potential emergency it was.
"This is Josh, Josh Ivers? I'm at the Fraser Canyon Hospital? In Hope, you know? I'm doing my internship and field-study under Dr Jonathan Chambers?"
Joe made an 'I hear you' noise. He might not know Josh, but he certainly knew Jon Chambers. A watcher after his own heart, part-time Watcher, full-time doctor, and good friends with his nominal assignment. Jon and Patrick Thurston (200+ [assumed; birth date unknown], came overland with either Mackenzie or Fraser, birth culture unknown but probable European or Colonial New World, first death unknown, first teacher unknown) played golf together every Wednesday afternoon when Patrick was in town. It made the Tribunal crazy. Joe just laughed.
"Well the district services mobile clinic people brought this guy in from one of the outlying areas. You'd've thought they'd've called for a helicopter, but they came by road, and he's really messed up."
The young man paused for breath, or to gather his thoughts (possibly both - this was not the most concise report Joe had ever heard). Chambers was notorious for disliking the cumbersome official reporting process, though he was scrupulous about making sure his field-trainees learned it. Usually his own reports were cheerful, chatty emails, full of golf scores, greens-conditions and amusing anecdotes of medical diagnosis and the human condition. His intern's reports, however, were models of style and clarity, annotated and footnoted. If Jon was having Josh call the Area Supervisor, there had to be more to the situation than was so far apparent. Joe waited with growing concern for Josh to get to the point and made an encouraging, enquiring noise.
"Oh, nothin' terminal - no 'Night of the Living Dead' or anything exciting like that."
Joe grimaced and forbore sighing. Josh sounded like he was almost disappointed that he had not gotten to see an actual revival-from-the-dead. Jon no doubt had told him of his own recruitment, after having Patrick revive from the dead as he was about to officially declare him so. It was a good story, and Jon told it well. Usually with Patrick laughing and inserting comments and commentary over his shoulder. Most people assumed the joke had been on Jon.
"But I was doing the intake blood-draw on him? And it was exactly like the film they show, only it was kind of in slow-motion. I did the second tube separate, just to make sure, you know? And it happened again, only still really slow. I thought that things like needle-sticks were supposed to heal so fast you never saw it, but maybe he's really new or whatever messed him up is doin' something to him. Anyway, the reason Dr Chambers had me callin' instead of sending through the regular channels is 'cause, well, he's not one of the Known to be in the Area, or on the Known list at all s'far as we can tell? But he looks kinda familiar, like I oughta recognize him. And I think the Doc did, but he wasn't helpful," he grumbled, "just told me it was a 'learning experience' and to "use my ingenuity and initiative.' How'm I supposed to do that if he won't tell me anything? So I figured you'd know if anyone did. An' Doc said go ahead and call. Anyway, this guy, he's got a nose you can't miss, you know? And cheekbones you could about cut yourself on."
Joe had to stop himself from responding to every upward inflection in the young man's speech. He wasn't asking questions, or even waiting for a reply. When Josh did stop, Joe found himself with nothing to say - that artless description produced a image that looked a whole lot like a certain Ancient, Whereabouts Currently Unknown. (In certain circles 'Adam Pierson' was understood to be a new Immortal, but he didn't have a Watcher, and he wasn't on the general lists.) Joe swallowed and made an effort to ask levelly "Do you have a name? Any other information?"
"The intake form has him down as 'Alun Adams'. 'A-L-U-N.' One of the nurses says it's Welsh. Dark hair, pale skin, maybe six-foot. Didn't get an eye-color." The youthful voice hesitated a moment, then went on with a note of uncertainty. "Doc got him put in a single-double, by himself, but it's in the psych-ward, and his chart has a 'substance abuse' flag, even though the tests aren't back yet and what I put in for a diagnosis is 'possible poisoning, substance unknown.' But what do I know, I'm only an intern." Now it was frustration that colored Josh's tone, and Joe realized that while he was unsure as a Watcher, Josh was perfectly confident of his medical skills, justified or otherwise. And Chambers was not known for his patience with fools. No reason to think the boy anything but competent. "Doc signed off on it, I don't know why 'Miss Exalted' had to be going and putting things in the record that'll be a hassle to get rid of."
Josh sighed heavily, and Joe couldn't help smiling at the put-upon note that went with the exasperation. The Old Man - if it was the old man - did have a way of invoking that emotion. Occasionally through no fault of his own.
"But I know it can't be good to have one of our guys in a hospital at all, much less one he can't sign himself out of - the world really ain't ready to hear about folks as live forever, way too like to cause a panic, and then where'd we be? So I thought, if you could look and see if he's listed at all, or if he's really really new, and give me some advice here. The Doc is sayin' I should handle this like I was flyin' solo."
There was another pause and Joe was just about to say something when Josh went on, his voice low and even more tentative, "And, well, Mr Dawson, I know you are on terms with your MacLeod, like the Doc is with Mr Patrick - well, not exactly like, but friendly-like - and Mr Patrick doesn't take students. If Alun Adams really is brand new, he could do a lot worse than MacLeod for a teacher. An' this hospital isn't holy ground. If he isn't new, that's gotta be anxious-making."
Joe agreed wholeheartedly with that last observation, and in theory with the first, though he knew that Duncan was far from recovered from the loss of Richie, despite the amount of time that had passed. He was not about to take on a student, even if Alun Adams proved to be the new immortal Josh thought him. The idea of Methos as Duncan's student was enough to make him laugh if the situation were less serious. "You got that right, kid. New or not it sounds like the man can use our help." The idea of Methos trapped off holy ground, weaponless and somehow damaged, made his blood run cold. "I'll take a look at my records, and send what I have that might be helpful. Which email address do you want me to use?"
"Thank you Mr Dawson. I really appreciate it. The snugharbor address would be best. An' I'll be sure t' keep you updated." Relief was palpable in Josh's voice. "I really wanna make sure he's ok, you know?"
"Call me Joe, Josh. You're doing just fine. This kind of thing is what the Watchers are supposed to be about - having a care for the Immortals we observe. I appreciate you calling, and I'll be in touch."
"Thanks, Joe, I'll look for that email. 'Bye now!"
***
Gently, Joe put down the phone, thinking hard. 'Adam' was one of Methos' jokes, a name he had used in various forms. Adam Pierson had gone to school in Wales (actually, physically attended St Albans and earned a degree there; Methos had gone to a great deal of trouble to set up that identity). But Jon would have recognized Methos as Pierson, wouldn't he? Josh had been recruited some time after Adam Pierson had 'discovered' himself to be Immortal - and hadn't that been a three-ringed circus, and come perilously close to blowing up in all their faces. Jon had had a hand in making it all come out right, though Joe didn't think they'd ever actually met. Although Methos had been wholly and completely 'Adam Pierson, mild-mannered watcher and out-of-his-depth researcher' every moment of that horrible time, there was still the tape. Duncan hadn't been around for that, and just as well.
However, as a direct result of that caper, Joe was Adam Pierson's medical advocate and legal proxy of record, official Power of Attorney and all. Hope wasn't much more than a hundred miles away. He had to know. Methos had been gone too long. Patrick Thurston had never been a headhunter, but the same could not be said of some of the others that found the wide spaces of Canada congenial. And other Immortals were certainly not the only danger, even to as canny a survivor as the Old Man. A few keystrokes and he had a map and directions. A few more and credentials were printing. If Alun Adams wasn't Methos, he was still Joe's responsibility as Area Supervisor, and a man who needed help.
For a moment, Joe considered calling MacLeod, but the disappointment if it were not Methos would be too great. Duncan would feel obliged - or that he ought to be obliged - to take on Adams as a student. Joe just couldn't do that to the man. And if it were Methos, hurt, damaged, dangerous when cornered, then Joe needed know more of the whole situation before he brought Mac in. Mac was all too likely to go off half-cocked if one of his clan was in distress.
No. No point in involving Mac until he had more information. Stiffly, Joe levered himself up from his desk and went to make arrangements with Mike for the bar. He already had a bag packed in the car. He always did.
Hang in there, old man. Hang on 'til I can get there and haul your ass out of the fire. Assuming it is your ass, for it most surely is a fire.
***
Traffic was light and Joe made good time. Having called from the road and left a message for Chambers, Jon met him in the main lobby and led him to his small office. Joe sat gratefully in the chair at the side of the desk while Jon took the one behind it, fiddling with a pen. He had said nothing beyond pleasantries - though those had included the unexpectedly welcome news that Jon had taken the liberty of booking a room at the Heritage Inn for him, just down the road. One less thing for Joe to worry about. When Joe was settled, Chambers gusted a sigh. "I'm glad you came up, Joe. I'll take you to see him in a moment, but there are things I need to tell you privately. We've a situation here, and no mistake. I've got one of the nurses here champing at the bit to call in the authorities."
Joe winced.
"I'm holding her off so far, since there is little physical evidence - and what there is, is extremely ambiguous and should be gone pretty much entirely in the next few hours. I have to say, Joe, that watching that in slow motion is very strange. My only theory is that the chemical cocktail he was being given - I don't think he could have been administering it himself - interferes with the healing mechanism and allowed the other components to operate. I've identified a very strong opiate and the markers of at least one very nasty psychoactive. The poison appears to be breaking down slowly. Indications are that he was receiving large doses on a regular basis for some time, more than a year, possibly as long as two."
In the brief silence, Joe studied his hands, resting on the curve of his cane. He had no trouble hearing what Jon wasn't saying. He'd had his own experiences with narcotics, and Immortals were no more immune to the effects of habituation than mortals. Witness Brian Cullen, and Byron. For that matter, there was Methos' own time as Benjamin Adams. The Chronicles were depressingly full of similar accounts.
After a moment, Chambers went on. "So far our Mr Adams hasn't said much of anything at all, certainly nothing that would require invoking the mandatory reporting statutes. The good folk at Hallowdell who found him had little to say either - apparently he appeared on their porch in the middle of the night, naked as a jaybird, feet cut to the bone from running an unknown distance through the back country forest. His feet are still not entirely healed, and that was two days ago. No names, no accusations. But, this isn't the first time someone's come out of those woods in bad shape. There's something going on, that will need to be rooted out and stopped, and it's quite possible that the 'New Sons of Balor' will come after the one who got away, if they think he's still alive. Patrick's up in Whitehorse, won't be back for a week. He can't ... I can't ask ...." Jon scrubbed a restless hand through his hair. "The lad needs an advocate, someone who can watch out for him. A bodyguard."
The sheer incongruity of the idea of him - Joe Dawson, barkeep and Watcher - as a bodyguard to any immortal surprised a snort out of Joe. "Advocate I can do - assuming it is who you think it is, and not some random unfortunate, and we can finesse the paperwork -" Jon waved the technical difficulty away. Joe gave him a sour look. "But bodyguard is stretching it, you know. Not that the spirit isn't willing."
"I know, Joe. I know." Chambers pushed back his chair, stretched and stood. "What he needs most is the time and space to heal. He needs to know he's safe, and in friendly hands. He needs to have someone he trusts looking out for him, running interference. A familiar face. And I know how stubborn you can be. Not to mention being entirely wise to the ways of nurses."
Joe snorted again, but he was smiling too. "Yeah, well. Long experience will do that." He hauled himself up, careful of his balance. He wasn't used to driving for long stretches, and his body was telling him so.
Jon was at the door. "Come on. Let me take you to him."
***
Joe had known he could pick Duncan out of a crowd with little more to go on than the curve of a jaw and the angle of an elbow. He hadn't realized that he could recognize Methos on less. He knew the shape of that skull, that tilt of shoulder, and there was no question but that that turned back belonged to the 'World's Oldest Man,' no matter that his face was turned away and blankets were pulled up around his ears. When Joe got close enough, he could see that Methos was shivering. He remembered feeling chills that had nothing to do with cold, heat that prickled and buzzed under the skin. Withdrawal was an affliction where Immortal healing was not necessarily an advantage.
Methos was awake; Joe could hear it in the sharp cadence of his breath, see it in the tension in his neck. When he was in pain, it wasn't sympathy he wanted, it was distraction. Something to take his mind off of discomfort and give him something else to focus on.
He cast about for something to say, mind completely blank of opening gambits. Very faintly through the wall came the mutter of a television. There had been a game on several half-glimpsed screens on the walk over from Jon's office. "So, Alun, how about them Seahawks?"
The figure on the bed went completely still for a moment. A hoarse voice said incredulously "Joe?" He turned in the sheets. "You came ... two hundred miles ... to talk about ... football?" It was too long a sentence for a throat raw and dry. The last word dissolved into a cough that shook Methos like a leaf, but did not dim the very real joy in his face. He waved off Joe's instinctive supporting hand, but accepted the proffered water. He took a cautious sip while Joe held the cup.
"It was only a little over a hundred. This is Hope, not Kamloops." Joe put the cup back on the table and groped for the chair, sitting heavily. He hoped that he'd managed to keep the dismay out of his voice. Jon had not overstated the seriousness of Methos' condition. Joe doubted he would be able to lift a sword, much less wield one in his current state.
"That bad, eh?" Methos' tone was wry, his eyes sympathetic.
Joe puffed out a breath, getting a grip on his feelings. "Yup." He should know better than to expect to fool Methos. He did know better. "Jon warned me, but..."
Methos pulled the blankets back up around his shoulders and settled back in the nest of pillows. "Thought so," he said lightly. "But you're the first to actually say so." A somber note entered his voice. He was perfectly aware of the implications. "Fortunately, it is temporary."
Joe nodded. Methos' breath stuttered, and his hands tightened, then eased as the spasm passed. In the small silence Joe asked "'Alun Adams'? I thought you were keeping Pierson around a little longer."
"It just came out. I was ... trying to remember. Alun was ... a long time ago. Iselin put Alun and Adam together." Methos swallowed, looking suddenly disoriented, unfocused. "I don't know who Alun Adams is yet. Not someone I planned."
"Who do you want him to be?" Joe was fascinated by the idea.
A long tremor shuddered through Methos; his face flooded with color as sweat sprang at his temples and throat. His breath was a pant, quick and shallow. His eyes were wide and blind and terrified, seeing some other place.
Joe ventured to repeat the question, hoping to bring Methos back from wherever he was inside his memories. "Who would you like Alun Adams to be?"
"Does it matter? It's not like he's real. None of them are real. Not Adam, not Ben, not Alun or James or Matthew. Names on a page. He told me I was delusional. Tried to make me believe it. That all my lives were an illusion. That I was an illusion. And I believed it. I believed him, Joe!"
There was an edge of despair in his voice that had Joe reaching instinctively to take Methos' hand, to give him an anchor, a point of human contact. He looked lost, sick and bewildered. Joe remembered that psychoactives were among the chemicals Methos had been subjected to. This had to be an echo, a flashback, a lingering artifact.
"Ephemeral figments of a mythical old man. That's all any of them were. Adam the most unreal of all." He'd closed his eyes, curling in on himself. "Never real. Never knew you."
This was a distress on an entirely different order than the physical, a canker that ate at the sense of self. Anger burned hot in Joe's breast that Methos - Methos - should have been brought to this, uncertain of the foundations of his self. Or at any rate his most recent self. That was disturbing enough.
"What if he was right? What if ...."
"Oh, don't give me that. I know you, remember?" Joe interrupted sharply. He wasn't about to let Methos fall into that morass. He gripped Methos' hand tighter. Methos blinked and shuddered again, gasping, struggling to return to the present. He was listening as if Joe's words were a lifeline, dragging him out of the stifling dark, Joe's breath the thread guiding him out of the maze of memory and illusion and pain. Perhaps they were. Joe felt a fierce and sudden tenderness, to be so trusted by this untrusting man, to know that his love and care, words and presence mattered, made a difference to Methos. He took a deep breath and settled his shoulders, gripping the metaphorical rope more tightly and went on.
"Adam was - is - just as real as anyone else you've ever been. Realer than some 'mythical oldest man' certainly." His exaggerated air-quotes with his other hand brought a hint of a smile to Methos' eyes, distraction from the pain that was pinching his face and shortening his breath. Joe went on, voice light but meaning every word. "I knew Adam for fifteen years." Joe looked off in the distance for a moment, remembering the gawky, eager, shy and brilliant grad-student, the dedicated Watcher-researcher, the Watcher-Immortal defending friendship. The man who loved Alexa, who risked everything he was to bring Duncan back out of the darkness. "You re-invent yourself every day. Everyone does, more or less. You just do it with more awareness, and a lot more practice than most. The persona, the name, that doesn't matter. It never mattered. You matter to me. The rest - the legends, the names, the stuff you might or might not have done in the past, that's not what really matters. Oh, it's interesting" - his eyes met Methos' and a smile ghosted between them, playful and acknowledging - "useful, important in its own way. But the chronicles, the stories, the journals matter because they are a part of you, your words and thoughts and feelings, not because they are you. It's you that matters. You know that."
"Wise Joe." Methos was fading, strength receding like the tide. Joe had to lean close to hear, his voice was so low. "You have no idea what that means to me." There was a nakedness in Methos' face, a vulnerability that went beyond the distress of his body. The defenses of movement, misdirection, sleight of hand and tongue and eye were stripped away, exposing the privacies of his spirit - scars and dreams, fear and love, the depths of his loneliness, the roots of his strength, the indomitable will to keep going - to Joe's unjudging gaze. "I love you, too, Joe." Methos said, very simply.
Joe didn't have an answer for that. He let his hands speak for him, a warm clasp of the thin fingers, palm cupping the sharp curve of his shoulder. He knew Methos loved him. Methos had no patience for the idea that gender or age or anything else so trivial should have anything to do with who one loved - love was love, coming in many forms and expressions, of which sarcasm could be one and sex another, the act given weight by the love, not the other way around. It was a gift he had never taken lightly, and returned in full measure. He just didn't quite know how to respond to such undisguised sincerity. So he cleared his throat and squeezed Methos' shoulder again.
Joe could feel him trembling, long combers running through him, see the exhaustion in his face. Methos had expended what little reserve he had. Joe spoke very quietly. "Go to sleep, old friend. I'll be right here."
*** *** ***
Duncan paced. Hospitals always made him uncomfortable, and the mere idea of Methos being in one - needing one! - disturbed him even more. Joe had not been forthcoming, had discouraged him from coming up. It was only the Fraser Valley for pity's sake, not even half a day's drive from Seacouver, even with the new nonsense at the border. (And why had Joe waited until morning to call him, after driving half the night himself? They could have gone up together!) Apparently, Methos had been there (or close to there, Joe had simply shut his mouth when asked for more detail, and all Duncan's cajoling had gotten him nothing at all. Which said something right there, though Duncan wasn't quite sure what) the entire time he'd been gone. Two and a half years. And Duncan had thought him off enjoying someplace warm after the last time Duncan had gotten caught up in some cause and Methos had left him to it.
The waiting room at the end of the corridor was painted in colors that managed to be both cheerful and soothing, but Duncan hardly noticed. Nor did he pay more than passing attention to the art (original) on the walls, the comfortable couches and chairs (industrial standard), or even the wide view of mountains and autumn-turned trees from the window (spectacular). The woman at the desk had been sympathetic but uninformative. "Room 207 is resting comfortably" she had said, "but Dr Chambers as physician of record or Mr Dawson as his medical proxy must approve you as a visitor before I can let you see your friend. I am sorry for the wait, but the patient's well-being must come first. I've paged for Dr Chambers; I'm sure he'll be along soon. There's a coffee machine on the other side of the elevator, if you'd like some." She had smiled at him and gone back to her typing unruffled.
It was both heartening and disturbing that were being so careful; he hoped it meant there was no possibility of another Immortal, or - God forbid! a Hunter - reaching Methos, but it bothered him immensely that he had to wait to be approved.
So he paced, growing more and more anxious at the wait, trying not to imagine dire things. Joe hadn't been at the hotel, so Duncan assumed he was here, and as he wasn't in the waiting room, he was probably with Methos, where Duncan wanted - needed to be. Where Duncan should have already been. Where there should have been no need for either of them to be. His thoughts were spinning, careening about in his head, all questions and recriminations without answers. Fulminating in the back of his mind were angry thoughts, plans of vengeance and retribution on the ones who had dared lay hands on one of his own, dark impulses of rage and fearful images of being too late. Darius and Little Deer, Tessa and Fitz. Richie. All the dead he had failed to save. How could he possibly bear to lose Methos?
As if he owned Methos. The dark places in his soul - the possessive, wordless, unreasoning places that had given root to the dark quickening, Ahriman, the rage and feeling of betrayal that had slammed Methos against the side of the car, grabbed his shoulders and sent Duncan's fingers digging for the nerves, that had given an edge to his words and force to his arm at more than one execution, and was nothing he was proud of - warred with his reasoning intellect, the sturdy, equally rooted belief that people chose relationships, connections, courses of action, that nothing was fated, no end predestined, not even the Game. The thought of anyone actually 'owning' Methos on a fundamental level was ridiculous. But the thought of Methos gone - never to find his angular form draped over his furniture, hear his flexible voice raised in acerbic commentary or enthusiastic delight, never to see that long throat revealed in laughter, that mouth make love to a bottle of beer, those elegant hands make a point; never again to know that somewhere (across the room, across town, the other side of the planet, the other side of the solar system) there lived a man who had seen the darkest places of Duncan's soul and had not turned away - that thought made desperation gibber and howl in Duncan's breast.
Abruptly, Duncan forced himself to stop, to stand at the window and look at the sky, the mountains tipped with snow, the burning-leaved trees. Just as he was finally achieving a hard-won measure of calm, there was a bustle at the doorway guarded by the desk. He turned to see Joe - leaning heavily on his cane, his hair seeming somehow whiter than Duncan remembered (when had he gone from grey to white? What else had Duncan failed to notice?) emerging from the hallway. Following him was a rumpled, red-haired, energetic man who could only be Dr Chambers. The doctor was speaking forcefully with a statuesque woman (she over-topped the doctor by several inches, nearly as tall as Duncan himself) in nurse's scrubs, her expression almost as severe as her tightly pinned bun.
"I think we can agree," the doctor was saying, "that sedatives are useful, even necessary in some cases. That is not the case here. We do not have a complete history, and we cannot know what the interactions might be. As it is, he has suffered a setback. Injections are clearly contraindicated in this case."
Joe was looking quietly furious, but his expression eased when he saw Duncan standing by the window. He began to make his way across the lobby toward Duncan. Dr Chambers steered the nurse toward the desk.
"I was acting on the standing orders for this ward, Doctor. For the good of all the patients," the woman said coldly, her diction very precise. "'All necessary measures will be taken to assure that patients code-flagged 1022, 1023 or 1027 be prevented from disrupting or compromising the care of themselves or others.' Sedatives are the standard and most mild of those measures." Her lips were pursed, but she didn't quite meet his eyes.
"I realize that, Ms Salter, and I respect Dr Naranji's expertise." Chambers gave no ground, his tone almost as chill as hers. "However, that order does not and should never have applied to this patient. I am sure that when he has a more complete understanding of Mr Adams case, Dr Naranji will concur."
Then he seemed to give himself a little shake, and looked over to where Duncan was standing beside Joe. The expression on his face immediately lightened. "Ah, you must be the Duncan MacLeod Mr Dawson spoke of. I'm Jon Chambers. We'll have you in to see young Alun in just a moment."
With that, Chambers stepped over to the counter with a brisk nod, drew himself to his full height, and smiled, a wide, unsettling and somehow faintly mischievous expression.
"And here is where I use my powers for good." Dr Chambers plucked a pen from the pot of pens and markers at the nurse's station and began busily writing. "I am removing this entirely unnecessary and erroneous 'substance abuse alert' 1027 flag from Mr Adam's file."
The nurse opened her mouth to object, but Chambers went on without stopping. "Yes, Ms Salter. I do know that requires a report, just as putting it on does. I have already written it and included it in the file. Which, by the way, does not yet have your report on why you decided, over Dr Ivers diagnosis of poisoning - which was entirely accurate, if understandably not complete - that Mr Adams should be treated as a 'suspicious person.' I expect to see it by the end of shift." He capped the pen and closed the file with something of a flourish. "Prudence is one thing. Prejudice that affects the well being of one of my patients is quite another."
Joe's eyes were savage over his smile. Ms Salter looked momentarily taken aback. (Duncan had never seen the woman before, but already this seemed to be an accomplishment on the doctor's part.) Even the cheerful desk-nurse was a little startled by Chambers' vehemence, though not at all disapproving. If anything, she seemed to be taking notes.
"Visitors will still need to be approved, but that is merely a precaution for his safety. But no restriction is to be placed on Mr Adams own movements. If he wishes to visit the chapel, you will make accommodations. Is that clear?"
Nurse Salter nodded stiffly. "Yes, Doctor. Perfectly."
"Good!" Chambers turned to Duncan, dismissing her from his attention. "Now, Mr MacLeod - may I call you Duncan?" He enquired and went on almost before Duncan could nod, ushering them though the double doors and down the empty hall. "Duncan. Let me explain a little about Alun's condition, so you are not distressed unduly." The pace he set was comfortably slow without being obvious and Duncan's appreciation for the man went up yet another notch. Chambers lowered his voice. "He has been able to give us some of the particulars of his captivity. Not many, but sufficient to guide us in his treatment. Joe can give you more of the details later. Now, what you must understand...." Duncan listened intently to every word.
***
Even though forewarned, Duncan was unprepared for the sight that met his eyes when he rounded the corner and stepped through the door of room 207. Afternoon sunlight warmed the air and with merciless clarity picked out every knob and hollow, every angle and line of the ravaged form on the bed. Pillows supported a head that seemed too heavy for the long, vulnerable neck, crisp white sheets cradled limbs stripped of strength, no thicker than reeds, restless hands unnaturally still. He seemed unreal, an impressionist painting, a figure carved of bone and light, and not a living man at all. Only the song of his quickening - deep and subtle and strong, undamped and undisguised - proclaimed him alive, affirmed his name along every fiber of Duncan's being.
Methos.
His dark head moved on the pillow, turning from the window. Brilliant, ancient eyes unclosed, burning with the spirit that animated that ivory flesh, those stark, enduring bones, and Duncan felt that gaze as a blow to his heart. He stumbled, breath stopped, and reached for the back of the chair set beside the bed to steady himself, keep back the cry that filled the spaces of his chest, the keen that threatened to tear his throat. Duncan's lips formed a single, soundless word, "Methos."
A recognizably sardonic eyebrow lifted and the familiar voice fell on his ear, "Alun, Mac. No mysteries here." Not loud, and a little breathless, but pure Methos. With that, Duncan's vision seemed to shift, the spell broke, and he could see the man in the bed, reduced to human suffering. Duncan blinked. The corners of Methos' mouth curled upward. "It's me, Mac," he said gently. "Just me, all present and accounted for." His smile tilted and he moved a little under the light sheet, spreading the fingers of one hand wide on the blanket. They looked extraordinarily long, pale and fragile. His ragged, close-clipped hair did nothing to disguise the stark bones of his skull. It was all too easy to see a death's head and not the living man. "Well, perhaps a little less of me than usual, but everything important is still attached."
Duncan gulped, a tumult of emotion rising to overwhelm him. "How can you joke about it?" He managed to keep his voice down, but there was nothing he could do about the ragged thrum of desperation, of grief and guilt, worry and fear for his friend. "I should have been here for you, gotten here earlier. I should have known. I didn't even ask where you were going - I just let you leave. I shouldn't have let you. I should...."
Both of Methos' brows rose in pointed commentary - 'And you could have stopped me how?' they said clearly. He gathered in a breath, his throat working stiffly. Moisture gleamed at his temples. "My choice, Mac."
Words burst from Duncan, doing nothing to ease the constriction in his chest, "He could have killed you! He's killing you now! I wasn't ... I didn't ... I...."
Methos broke into the litany, cutting it short. "Not your fault, Highlander. Cut the lamentations. Not dead. Not going to be dead. This," and he indicated the not-very-good shape his too-thin body was in with a movement of his hand "is merely a temporary inconvenience." Whereupon a cramp hit, as if giving the lie to his words by catching him by surprise and doubling him over. Duncan grabbed the hand that had been making the airy gesture, and Methos curled over, rode it out with a grip that would have bruised bone if Duncan were mortal. He hadn't thought Methos had that much strength in him. For a long moment the only sound in the room was Methos' short, hard breaths and the rustle of cloth as his body jerked and shuddered against the sheets. Duncan held on, making himself be still. There was nothing else he could do.
When the worst of the spasm passed, Methos grimaced and started to let go, but Duncan didn't release his hold, instead bringing up his other hand to enclose Methos' icy fingers in a warm clasp. Methos didn't fight him, merely flopped back against the pillows, dragging in deep and difficult breaths. Cold sweat dewed his skin, and he was starting to shiver. His lashes were like smudges of ink on his colorless cheeks. Bruises bloomed and faded on Duncan's hand, tingling faintly.
Duncan's heart twisted and he sat heavily in the plastic chair at the bedside. "I know that ... man... drugged you, kept you drugged. But isn't there something that will help? Can't they at least give you - I don't know - a small dose? Taper you off? Something?" He had so little personal experience with physical pain that lasted more than moments that seeing it in others always made him feel helpless, at a loss. Methos was taking this better than Duncan was, and he was the one suffering.
Methos retrieved his hand and pulled the covers up around his shoulders. Expression grim, he spoke to the ceiling. "Believe me when I say that I would rather die over and over while this shit clears itself from my system than be subjected to one more hit of it, no matter how small. Even if I knew what it was. Which I don't, actually. Beside the opioid transport mechanism. Too many possibilities for the psychoactive component, and not enough for the healing-suppressive." His quiet voice was resolute, but detached. Duncan kept forgetting that Methos had been a doctor, and more than once. Methos went on before Duncan could say anything. "And it won't kill me. Not even temporarily. And if it did, that would only slow down the process." Now he sounded disgusted. "The damned stuff doesn't process out when I'm dead. I just revive more slowly and a lot more painfully than usual. And with all the artifacts still there. I tried that early on." Methos sighed and brought his glance down. Movement caught Duncan's attention; Joe had come in and was settling himself in the other chair, a notebook and pen on the table beside him.
"Hi, Joe." Methos' eyes rested on the journal, and Duncan could almost see the thin fingers twitch.
Joe noticed too, and held up the pen with a lopsided smile, sharp and fond at the same time. "I'm writin' as fast as I can, Alun. Gettin' it all down." A different kind of relief flickered across Methos' face and his hands relaxed. Joe widened his smile to include Duncan. "Mac."
"You keep a journal?"
"I've been keeping one almost since writing began."
It appeared that Joe was keeping the Methos Chronicle updated while Methos couldn't do it himself. Duncan was grateful, if only for the comfort it gave Methos. "Thank you, Joe."
"My pleasure." Joe's presence was undemanding, the quiet scratch of his pen a subtle counterpoint to the tick of the clock and the uneven rasp of Methos' breath. "You go on, don't let me interrupt. I'm here if you need anything."
Methos shifted again with a rustle of sheets, turning back to Duncan. "Where was I? Oh, right." He settled right back into his lecture-explanation mode. "Some of the compounds mimic elements that are supposed to be there, and that's where the problem comes in. One of the problems. They bind to receptor sites."
Duncan put his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand, listening. Talking seemed to help - at any rate, Methos' color was better, even though he still looked unutterably weary, propped limply on hospital pillows. The mustard-yellow blanket only emphasized the shadows and hollows of his face. If Methos wanted to talk, Duncan was more than willing to listen. Especially if it helped.
"There seem to be two things going on: chemical withdrawal and the purging process - a case of too much and not enough all at the same time." Methos' laugh was barely more than a breath, but it threatened to become a bout of painful retching. Duncan held his breath in sympathy for a long moment while Methos struggled to subdue the spasm. When it eased, Joe reached over and handed Duncan the long-necked water-bottle. Duncan helped Methos take a swallow, allowing him to speak again, a hoarse note roughening his words, pointing up the pauses between them.
The afternoon went on like that, evening turned to night, conversation broken by bouts of fever, nausea, cramp and chill. Moments when Methos' breath became a rasp, when his muscles locked and shook, when his long throat worked and no sound emerged, were followed by spaces of time when he lay limp, exhausted, motionless as brisk hands cleaned him, changed soiled sheets, settled fresh pillows under his head. Snatches of sleep, of ludicrous, low-voiced tales interrupted by stifled sobs of pain, patient sips of water to ease the dry mouth, the raw throat, and then a dogged return to the next point in the story.
Sometime during that long slide from evening into night, the bright sky outside the window shading to grey and indigo, Joe had chivvied him from the room, telling him to take a walk, to eat, wash his face, find some coffee, and he had gone to watch the stars appear one by one by one from a balcony overlooking the river. Every evening the stars were new, and yet they were the same stars that had shone since the earth first spun around the sun, the moon first rose. In every star he saw the light in Methos' eyes, the spark of his wit and spirit, the flickering personas and the persistent self that rose anew each day.
When he returned (fed, washed, windblown) it seemed like one of those stars had lodged itself in his breast, burning itself deep into his heart. Methos was asleep, torment for a moment eased, the clever mouth and, weary, young/old, all too-seeing eyes closed, relaxed, not even dream-disturbed. And Duncan realized in a moment of perfect clarity that what this was, was love - not adoration of the ancient, the artifact, the embodiment of history, not conservatorial diligence, painstaking and reverent, nor comradeship, the warrior tie of brotherhood - but simple, ordinary, extraordinary love: love for this difficult, contrary, terribly human man.
Oh.
*** *** ***
Duncan's Presence rang along his nerves, clean and bright. Pwyll to his Arawn, and he would know the touch of that quickening against his own anywhere, anywhen.
Run, run, run toward, friendship thrives despite the sword
He was better this morning, the worst of the narcotic withdrawal endured, and another measure of poison leeched out of his system in sweat and tears and all the other excreta a body was capable of. The night nurse had changed the sheets twice, and Duncan had held basin and bedpan without complaint until Madelaine had politely but inexorably made him leave and take Joe back to the hotel. Her brisk efficiency with a sponge-bath made Methos recall Caroline's gentle competence and Iselin's cheerful appreciation, but he was glad to be clean. Detoxification was a messy process, even for an immortal. The morning nurse - Patricia-call-me-Pat - had looked in on him earlier with a smile at his improvement and a deft hand with needle and syringe. Only one tube this time. He wondered what the results would be, but Alun Adams wasn't a doctor, and it was unlikely that they would tell him much. Joe would get the details, and he would record them. Medical power of attorney was a wonderful thing. He shifted against the pillows, settling his shoulders more comfortably. The plastic band on his wrist itched, and he could feel Duncan coming closer, hear the tap of Joe's cane under a murmur of voices. Chambers was due to make an appearance, and Josh would not be far behind.
Welcome yule and winter's lord; fire warms both hall and board
The late-season sun shone through the window, spilling light in lattices across the floor and the foot of the bed. Today's blanket was a kind of maroon. It reflected fire in Duncan's dark eyes as he held the door open for Joe; Josh and Chambers following after, as predicted. He felt the power of Duncan's quickening spark and rise to a peak against his own, then settle into a kind of heightened awareness, a warmth that traced lines on the tender new skin of his feet, infused heat into the knots in his back. He had forgotten what it was like to simply bask in that generous outpouring of energy. Solstice child indeed. But yesterday had not had much of basking about it. Duncan looked under-slept, though, and the faint air of exasperation under Joe's calm hinted at more Highland angst in the offing.
Curtain-rings rattled as Josh pulled the curtain around the bed; Duncan and Joe were not to be privy to the mysteries of a morning examination. It was wonder enough that they had been allowed in before the conclusion of early rounds. Perhaps it was that the doctor in him wanted the watcher where he could see him.
Answering Chambers' questions and following his requests to sit and turn, cough and breathe deeply reminded him forcibly that while he was better, he certainly was not well. By the time the doctor had finished poking and prodding, listening closely and peering intently (and he was sure that Chambers-the-Watcher was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to get so up-close and personal with an immortal, even as Doctor Chambers was genuinely concerned with the health of Alun Adams, suffering the effects of an unknown substance or substances) he felt chilled and faint, his skin flinched from the touch of gown and sheet as Josh helped him back into the garment and under the covers, his belly threatened to cramp at the thought of swallowing even the simple electrolyte solution Chambers proffered as a reward for his improvement. He steeled himself and drank it, locking his throat and holding his breath until he was sure it was going to stay down. He'd had more than enough of throwing up over the last few days.
As soon as the curtain was pulled back, Duncan was at his side, concern tightening the broad shoulders and carving lines in that expressive face. Chambers was smiling as he peeled the gloves from his fingers. "You've made considerable strides, dear boy, though not out of the woods quite yet, I'm afraid. I'm going to authorize clear liquids and brief periods of sitting up, if you feel up to it."
There was a distinct twinkle in Chambers' blue eyes. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Chambers went on, "And yes, that does mean you may use the loo. Sitting, mind you, not standing, and if you have help to and from. I'm not happy with your strength just yet, but I know you young men well enough to know that you would try it without leave, and I don't want you falling." The doctor's glance turned to Duncan, who very nearly stood at attention. "I'm trusting you to not let him overdo."
"Yes, sir." There was the faintest hint of Scots shading Duncan's voice; more evidence of stirred up feelings.
Chambers nodded and gathered Josh in with a glance. "Now, I'm going to update your Mr Dawson, and we'll see how things look this afternoon after we have the results of your bloodwork. The chart, please, Josh." Chambers gave his shoulder a kindly squeeze. "We'll have you out of here soon enough."
He shivered, and for a moment Chambers' round face and blue eyes were overlain with a bearded lantern jaw and blazing black eyes, but there was no thumb digging into his collar-bone, and the grip was not followed with the thump-prick-scrape of the horse-syringe and the horrid, hot, seductive flood of whatever-the-hell it was that was shoved into him one, two, three times a day. He swallowed and tried not to flinch. The doctor let go with a little pat, eyes warm with sympathy, but said nothing, stepping away as he swallowed again, willing his stomach not to revolt. He breathed deeply, smelling clean-hospital smells and the elusive spice of Duncan's shampoo and aftershave, not damp wood and cheap incense, harsh lye soap imperfectly applied. He shuddered once more and opened his eyes (when had he closed them? Did it matter?) to Duncan hovering, having possessed himself of the chair and pulled it close. The nightmarish vision vanished in the warmth of Duncan's concerned brown gaze. But even Duncan's presence could not entirely allay his near panic at being unable to defend himself - it might be clean and bright and staffed with competent and caring people, Watchers no less, but it was still a hospital, and far from holy ground.
The Watchers would record - the names, the deeds, the victories and defeats, the lives touched and the lives lived, the loved ones lost and found, married and buried, the courage and cowardice and simple going on - but they wouldn't interfere. Their work was to witness, to carry the stories and remember the names. The man of his nightmares was nameless, as monsters were nameless. It was fitting that he be remembered as monster, not man. He let the long shudder disperse under the force of Duncan's concern.
"Are you all right? Can I get you anything? What was that? Is there something I can do?" Duncan was perilously close to babbling, deep voice rich with emotion: music to his ears and balm to his frayed and jumpy nerves.
Life and hope sing in accord: love doth make the strongest ward
"Mac" he said, reaching out his hand, (observing that despite the momentary flashback, his fingers trembled noticeably less than they had yesterday - he really was getting better) and laying his fingers gently against Duncan's lips, damming the flow of words. "Yes, there is something you can do." He knew that Chambers and Josh and even Joe were Watching, but he didn't care. Only Iselin was absent, elsewhere, finding her own road, of the people who had helped (would continue to help) him on this journey out of the dark, but she would certainly approve.
Run, run, run toward! Time will see the light restored.
Methos turned the touch of his fingers into a caress along Duncan's cheek, feeling stubble and warmth, concern and love under his still hypersensitive fingertips, and said simply, "Get me out of here, Duncan. Take me home."
The smile that broke over Duncan's face was answer enough.
END