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 Duncan sneezes and Methos reverts back to his days as a doctor

 

 

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 Highland swordsman on this side of Seacouver, snatched one of the square bar napkins and held it to his nose just in time. "heh-YIHChhoo!"

 

     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 Duncan at the end of the bar. "When was the last time he was sick?"

 

     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, France. He was staying with Sean Burns between first aid runs during the war."

 

     "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. Duncan looked up as he felt the buzz and, noticing Methos, shoved the several balled-up napkins into his pocket. "Good evening MacLeod," he said, nodding to him, taking the seat beside him.

 

     Duncan cleared his voice and nodded hello.

 

     "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," Duncan grumbled, reaching around to where he'd been shot in the back, though there was certainly no scar.

 

     "Tonight, my friend, you are my business." He grasped Duncan's arm and pulled him up to his feet. "Let's get you home."

 

     "I'm not sick," Duncan assured him, pulling his arm away. But the act made him lose balance, and he nearly slammed against the bar unsteadily.

 

     "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 Duncan sprawled out on top of the covers, and sighed. "Course you don't. Bet you don't have any tissues, either, do you?" Duncan's head wobbled from side to side, his face smashed against the top blanket.

 

     Methos sighed. "Right." He headed to the bathroom and returned with a roll of toilet paper, which he forced into Duncan's limp hand. "Use this if you need to sneeze until I get back." He tried to help Duncan off with his trench coat, but it wasn't happening, so he gave up quickly. "All right, then. I'm going down to the corner to get you some things. You... I don't know. You just lie here looking dead, I guess. You seem pretty good at that." He grabbed his jacket on the way out/

 

 

     "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. Duncan was exactly where Methos had left him, face-down on the bed. Though it looked like he'd begun working his way through the toilet roll and wasn't asleep so much as having to breathe heavy from the congestion.

 

     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, Duncan pulled himself up on one elbow, then the other, then rolled to his side and sat up, though slouching.

 

     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. Duncan immediately traded a handful of tissues for the toilet paper and blew his nose miserably as Methos continued to unpack. Out came the medicine, and the orange juice. Duncan grabbed a carton, opened it, and gulped half of it down immediately. "Looks like I should have gotten more," Methos commented, slightly in awe.

 

     "Thanks," Duncan said softly, and his accent stood out more than normally thanks to the congestion. "I'll be okay. You can go now."

 

     Methos narrowed his eyes. "And what if an immortal comes to town? You're in no condition to fight him."

 

     Duncan laughed, though didn't smile. "Oh, and you'd fight my battle for me? To  protect me, is that it?"

 

     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," Duncan protested, taking a few more tissues and rubbing at his nose in annoyance of the tickle there.

 

     "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 Duncan shrug off his trench coat and throw it, sword and all, onto the floor beside the bed. Methos felt slightly more comfortable knowing Duncan couldn't easily take his head now, and leaned closer, putting his hand to the man's forehead. "Wow..."

 

     "What?" Duncan coughed and narrowed his eyes.

 

     "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.

 

     Duncan shrugged and groaned. "This would happen now. On my birthday of all times." He dissolved into coughs and snuffles.

 

     A flash of shock struck Methos' eyes. Joe had failed to mention that to him. "All right," he said, patting Duncan's back until he stopped coughing. "I suppose you should get into pajamas and into bed." Duncan obeyed, changing in the bathroom for privacy, and slipping into bed swearing his satin pajama bottoms and nothing else. Methos covered him up, then sprawled alongside him in bed. The bed was big enough for five people to sleep in, let alone two. Methos shook out several pills and handed them over to Duncan with a glass of water.

 

     "Can't you just kill me and I'll wake up feeling all well and healed?" Duncan complained, taking the pills from his hand and tossing them up and down a little against his palm. "I've never swallowed pills before."

 

     "Come to think of it, neither have I. But it can't be too difficult. Mortals do it all the time, don't they?"

 

     Duncan sniffled. "Mortals catch colds all the time, too. Doesn't mean it's enjoyable. Ugh... in fact..." He sat up and pulled a few tissues out of the box. "hah-YECHTchhh! YIHChooo!" He blew his nose one-handed, or tried to at least, then dropped the pills back into Methos' hand and made a better attempt before taking them back. He eyed them a moment, then tossed them all into his mouth and swallowed. He coughed, but the water chasing them down helped. "Definitely not enjoyable."

 

     "Get some sleep. You'll feel better." Hesitantly he reached out and patted Duncan's head, then pulled the covers up to his shoulders. "That's what I always told my patients, anyway." He pulled out his broad sword and ran a finger against the hilt. "Don't worry. I'll stand watch."

 

     Duncan raised an eyebrow but let his head sink into the pillows nonetheless. He was more comfortable beneath the covers, amongst the pillows. But at the same time, not quite ready to sleep yet. "You lying here with a sword in hand is what worries... me..." He sat up and grabbed for the tissue box, pulling a few out quickly. "hehYIHShhh! YIHChooo!"

 

     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." Duncan nodded and closed his fist around a tissue, bringing it close to his face on the pillow. He coughed and snuggled restlessly into the comfort.

 

     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, Duncan nodded and pulled a face. "I wouldn't recommend it." He sniffled and rolled over onto his back. "Some birthday. Sick for the first time in ages and spending it in bed with you."

 

     "Better than getting drunk at Joe's. And really Mac, do you have something against me all of a sudden?"

 

     Duncan rolled his eyes and rolled over, onto his side, his back to Methos. "Let's just say your bedside manner leaves much to be desired, Doctor Benjamin Adams."

 

     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," Duncan said, turning back over with a smile. Methos nodded and obeyed. He leaned back and looked up at the canvas above the bed. He crossed his arms over his chest and settled in for the night, fully clothed, above the covers. He'd wait for Duncan to fall asleep, then grab a beer from the fridge.