Title: Solstice
Author: tarotgal
Fandom: Highlander
Rating: G
Parings: none
Spoilers: none, really, but it would help to have at least
gotten through seasons 2 & 3 in order to know two of the characters... and
there are hints about things that happen in 'Deliverance' and 'Forgive Us Our Tresspasses' but nothing is really spoiled
Disclaimer: Highlander is not mine, sadly. It's the work of a ton of people, primarily Davis/Panzer, and I get no money for this simple borrowing of their genius
Summary: A very short fic in which
Solstice 's
chest rose and fell as he took in deep, silent gasps. There was a brief pause,
during which his eyes rolled back and he stiffened. Then, with reflexes worthy
of the best Dishtowel crammed into a large glass with his fist, Joe rubbed it around and dried it out before plopping it down in front of mild-mannered Methos. "He been sneezing like that all night?" Methos asked, leaning forward on his barstool to try and get a better look at the Highlander. One hand, resting in between his legs, gripped the vinyl seat of the stool. "Yup. Won't admit he's sick, but it's pretty damn obvious if you ask me," Joe said, pausing in filling the mug with beer until the head died down a little. Methos didn't like to get cheated, even if he wouldn't do much but complain about it. "Well it can't be an allergy. It's rare for immortals to have colds, but I've heard it's happened." Methos picked up the glass and took a few gulps of beer. He gave it an odd look, and set it down. It wasn't anything like the damn cheep crap he kept in his fridge at home, but he'd told Joe a million times he liked the damn cheep crap. Joe cross his arms on the counter and leaned into it, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Are you telling me that in over five thousand years you've never once come down with a cold?" Methos shrugged. "I'm naturally healthy, what can I say?" "hah-YEHchooo! YIHKshooo!" "What about
him?" Methos asked, shaking a thumb towards Joe took no
time at all to recall the fact. Ask him what beer was on tap, and he could tell
you, it would just take a few seconds and a peek over at the taps to double
check. Ask him how old he was and he took a handful of seconds. But ask him
about his job, his target, his friend, ask him about Duncan MacLeod and he
could tell you anything in an instant. "1917, "Sean Burns?" Methos asked, swirling the beer around in the mug to watch it foam. "No wonder he doesn't want to admit he's sick. Must bring back memories." "hah-YIHKhoo! YEHShoooo! yih-HIHChhooo!" "Well, he should go home and go to bed whether he wants to admit it or not. He's gonna scare my customers out sneezing like that." Methos shrugged. "Well, you're the owner. Kick him out." "Whoa no!" Joe held up his hands. "I'm not telling a sick and grumpy Duncan MacLeod to do anything. I know him much too well." Methos drained his glass and clunked it down on the counter, indicating a refill. Joe didn't move, simply stared at the old immortal, who didn't look a day over thirty-five. "Well don't look at me!" Methos exclaimed, laughing. "I'm the last person to risk a katana to my neck." Joe continued to stare, and he cocked his head to the side with a slight smile. "Hey, no, Joe. Come on. I said I wouldn't." Joe's slight smile turned into a full grin. He took the empty mug and set it on the stack to go back into the back room for the dishwasher. Methos shook his head and looked down at the floor, smiling as well. He pointed at Joe. "All right. But you owe me for this." Joe's grin was contagious, and he knew it. He shook his head with rugged charm. "Consider this not added to your tab." Methos
rolled his eyes. "Yeah... that's a start." In jeans and an over-sized sweatshirt,
Methos headed towards the end of the bar. "You all right?" "You mind your own... buis... heh-buisness-heh-YEHShooo! yihSHOO!" He pulled a half-used napkin out of his pocket and used the other half. Cocking his head, "I believe you tried to tell me that once before." "You
didn't listen then, either," "Tonight,
my friend, you are my business." He grasped "I'm not
sick," "Of course not," Methos agreed, grabbing the man's arm again. "But you're going home to bed anyway." The loft was dark when they entered, but Methos bumped the switch on the wall between the entry hall and the kitchen. He was half supporting Duncan, who didn't much seem to care where he was going so long as it meant going somewhere to rest. Back in the more familiar surroundings of his apartment, he found his way to his bed out of habit, collapsing upon it in a fit of coughs. Methos
cringed and shook off his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. "You got
anything you can take for a cold?" he asked, opening up the fridge. There was
beer, and some wine, some cheese, some milk, a couple eggs and veggies, but
that was it. His cupboards showed a similar array of boring foods, but nothing
of much use. He looked over at the bed, with Methos
sighed. "Right." He headed to the bathroom and
returned with a roll of toilet paper, which he forced into "Got a cold?" the freckled kid behind the counter asked as Methos began unloading the contents of his basket on the drug store counter. Orange juice, two cartons. Soup, four cans. Pain killers, three bottles. Cold tablets, two boxes. Tissues, four boxes. "No," Methos snapped quickly. "It's for a friend." "Course it is," the kid said, winking at him. Methos
rolled his eyes. It was no use fighting him. He forked over a fifty, grabbed
his change and bags and headed back against the cold winter night air as
quickly as possible. Settling on the bed, Methos crossed his legs and set the bags down. "All right, Highlander. I got taunted and frozen to my toes for these. You'd better wake up and humor me, now." With a
groan, Methos had
to work very hard not to laugh. Having seen him blown up, shot repeatedly, set
on fire, stabbed, sliced, beaten to a bloody pulp... and nearly decapitated a
number of times... and here he was practically out of commission because of a
little cold in his head. Of course, he couldn't really imagine what having a
cold might feel like, so he didn't want to make much of it and get yelled at
for it. He set out a box of tissues, pulling back the cardboard tab to open it.
"Thanks," Methos narrowed his eyes. "And what if an immortal comes to town? You're in no condition to fight him." A shrug. "Wouldn't be the first time I'd tried," he answered with honesty, fingering his sword where it was strapped carefully into his own coat. "You're too important to lose. To an immortal, or to a cold. Besides, I was a doctor once. I know what to do." "Yeah, but
that was nearly a century ago," "Yes, just
about the last time you came down with something like this." That just slipped
out, and Methos knew at once he shouldn't have said something. The reminder of
being at the hospital and having Sean Burns attend to him was clearly quite
painful. But it was enough to make "What?" "No, it's just... I've never had an immortal as a patient before. Didn't realize you'd run so high a fever. You're not having cold sweats or anything, are you?" he asked curiously. A flash of
shock struck Methos' eyes. Joe had failed to mention that to him. "All right,"
he said, patting "Can't you
just kill me and I'll wake up feeling all well and healed?" "Come to think of it, neither have I. But it can't be too difficult. Mortals do it all the time, don't they?" "Get some
sleep. You'll feel better." Hesitantly he reached out and patted Methos
reached over and pulled back the dark hair from his face, tucking it behind his
ears. "Really, you will feel better
after some sleep." Understanding, Methos started talking. "Did you know a good remedy for the common cold used to be to eat an entire clove of garlic?" Eyes
closed, "Better than getting drunk at Joe's. And really Mac, do you have something against me all of a sudden?" Methos laughed and ran a finger over the hilt of his sword again, not needing to touch the blade to know it was well-sharpened. "Sleep well, Highlander." "Live, sniff, grow stronger, sniff, fight another day?" Methos grinned. "Absolutely." "You can
put away the sword, then, Doctor," |