The Dragon and His Wrath

Part 5 of 5

Disclaimers in part 1

"He should be on an IV, to start with, in a hospital," Anne said.

"He's an immortal; I can't take him to a hospital."

"I know. Listen, Duncan, calm down. He's immortal. This can't kill him."

"That doesn't mean I want him to suffer!" he yelled. "Anne, I've got to help him!"

"Okay, okay, sorry." She did sound a bit contrite, too. "Has he got any family?"

"Family? He's an immortal."

"What about a wife or a lover? Anyone who cares about him? Loves him."

"No! What's that got to do with it?"

"I'm looking for a better nursemaid than you," she said, drily. "But if it has to be you, you have got to take care of yourself. You need to calm down. I want you to eat, Duncan. Eat as much as you can. You need to be in good shape for him. And get some rest. You hear me?"

"I haven't done anything but eat in front of him," MacLeod said. "Yeah, I hear you. But Anne, how do I get anything in him to stay down?"

"Okay, hang on." She was gone for a while, and MacLeod fidgeted. He looked at the emaciated man on his bed, and his heart squeezed so hard he could barely breathe.

"Duncan? Here's what you do. I want you to follow my instructions to the letter, all right? Including the first part, where you take care of yourself, and the second part where you do exactly what I tell you, no arguing."

Five minutes later, MacLeod was at the stove preparing a can of beans for himself and a pot of broth for Methos. He was also mulling over Anne's other instructions. It hadn't been so long ago that he had considered Methos only barely entitled to live – the blood of his ancient victims calling to MacLeod for the justice they never received. He was now so far from being able to feel that way that it seemed he must have dreamed the whole thing. He might be able to do as Anne instructed, strange and … uncomfortable as it would be. Yes, he would do what she said.

He took the beans and the broth to the bed on a standing tray, and sat opposite the tray, eating the beans and staring at Methos's strained face. It was the best he could do right now in the area of taking care of himself. He couldn't possibly rest until Methos had eaten something, but he did try a few calming meditation techniques. Mindful of her caution that Methos's wasted condition would actually make him too weak to eat much, despite his great need, MacLeod did not wake him.

He didn't need to. Methos's eyes opened and fastened on the bowls on the tray. He looked hopefully at MacLeod.

"Methos," MacLeod said in as reassuring a tone as he could manage, "we're going to get plenty of food inside you, starting with broth. But you have to let me feed you, so you don't get too tired to eat."

Methos nodded, his eyes bright. Overly bright, MacLeod thought. He tried to remember if malnutrition did anything strange to the eyes.

MacLeod sat on the bed, pulled the tray to within easy arm's reach, and then lifted Methos's diminished weight to where he was practically sitting on MacLeod's lap. It was so much harder to do than it should have been. MacLeod was again made uneasy by his own weakness.

Methos protested faintly, and, embarrassed, MacLeod almost said "Doctor's orders," until he remembered Anne's admonition not to say that. "You won't get as tired this way," he said.

Methos subsided, his gaze on the broth.

"I'm going to feed you the broth one spoonful at a time, with at least 30 seconds in between. You concentrate on keeping it down – don't think about the next spoonful."

Leaning against MacLeod's shoulder, Methos squirmed but didn't argue. His gaze remained fixed on the bowl, his breathing fast and shallow. MacLeod thought he could feel the other man's craving in the weak tension in his frame.

Methos coughed up the first spoonful, and MacLeod insisted on waiting, exhorting the other man to relax before they tried again. Eyes closed, Methos swallowed the broth and breathed deeply. MacLeod counted to 30 then brought forward another spoonful. Methos gulped it eagerly but then had to struggle to keep it down. He won the struggle and looked at MacLeod triumphantly. MacLeod smiled and brought him the spoon again.

In that manner they finished the bowl of broth, after which Methos's strength failed. MacLeod felt exhausted beyond belief, too, but enormously relieved to have some nourishment inside Methos. MacLeod finished the beans, cleaned up, tended to some ordinary maintenance of the barge, and then fell asleep beside Methos on the bed.

He woke when Methos prodded him.

"Duncan," Methos said. "More food."

Groggy, MacLeod rose, wondering how long they'd slept. Methos still looked pale and haggard, his eyes bright and desperate. MacLeod gnawed on the contents of a package of bread sticks as he prepared Methos some more broth.

"Broth?" Methos complained.

"If this goes well, we'll try something more solid."

MacLeod slid beside Methos, again cradling him in one arm. He was careful not to look at him so he wouldn't see any expression of disgust. Anne had ordered this posture so the patient did not have to exert himself in any way other than in imbibing nourishment, but MacLeod suspected a psychological benefit to the comforting gesture beyond the physical support.

"This doctor friend of yours …" Methos said, "she told you to do this?"

"Yeah." MacLeod brought the first spoonful, which Methos gulped.

"Do we have to wait 30 seconds?" he asked plaintively.

"That's what she said. We're making sure it stays down."

Methos squirmed against MacLeod's chest. "She's a sadist," he complained.

MacLeod was hungry, himself. Suddenly he was ravenous, and he saw the wait between spoonfuls for the torment it must be to Methos. He couldn't stand it.

"We'll do ten seconds," he said, bringing the next spoonful to Methos's hungry mouth.

Methos only coughed up the broth once, and he still had some strength when the bowl was finished.

Anne had called for carbohydrates next, so MacLeod slid off the bed intending to cook some pasta. Methos stirred and grabbed MacLeod's wrist.

"Duncan!"

"What?"

"Don't leave."

MacLeod frowned, studying the panic on Methos's face. He sat back down. "What is it?" he asked.

Methos's face reclaimed a vestige of sensibility, but he said nothing.

"What are you afraid of?" MacLeod asked. He felt like he was leaving the bedroom of a child who was afraid of the dark.

"Kreegan," Methos whispered.

MacLeod felt cold. "Kreegan's dead."

"I know," Methos said, and closed his eyes. He let MacLeod's wrist go.

MacLeod stared at the pinched face, remembering Methos's screams, and the long hours wondering when Kreegan would return to continue his tortures. Feeling like he was moving under water, MacLeod leaned back on the bed and put his arm around Methos, again. "You tell me when you want me to go," he said. "I was going to cook you some linguini," he added as incentive.

To his surprise, Methos ignored the bribe and stayed still against MacLeod's chest.

MacLeod's stomach rumbled.

"Okay, you can go," Methos said.

MacLeod smiled, a motion which felt alien, and went to cook the pasta.

Methos was asleep when he returned, so he ate the linguini himself and prepared some more so it would be ready when Methos woke. In another lifetime he would have considered cold, unsauced pasta a crime, but now it was medicine. And his own stomach seemed happy to have it.

Since Methos stayed asleep, MacLeod took the opportunity to shower, shave, and put on his own clothes. He wanted to call the hospital to inquire after Joe, but the hour was too late to talk to him, and he knew the hospital wouldn't tell him anything.

As he exited the shower, he saw Methos on his feet, tottering from the bed.

"Methos! Where are you going?"

"Holy ground," Methos said.

MacLeod crossed the barge and grasped the other man by the arms.

"You can't go anywhere! You're not in condition to make it, and there's no food …"

"Duncan, we have to get to holy ground!" Methos cried, his eyes wild. "They'll find us here! We can't defend ourselves!"

"Who?"

"Anyone! Let me go!"

"Methos! Stay here where I can take care of you! I promise nothing will happen."

"You promise," Methos said skeptically. "I didn't get to be my age by assuming I was safe. MacLeod …" Methos began to sag, and MacLeod caught him.

MacLeod steered Methos back into bed. "Right now you live and grow stronger. You can go to holy ground another day."

Methos consented to be put to bed, but MacLeod could tell he wasn't happy about it. And his attempt at flight had used up his brief spurt of strength, so MacLeod had to eat the pasta again. Methos woke soon, though, and MacLeod resumed his position as prop and feeder with yet another bunch of linguini. Methos had difficulty with the pasta, and when he was finally exhausted, more linguini was on the bedclothes than was in Methos.

His weariness wore on MacLeod's temper, and he took a little too much pleasure in banishing Methos to the couch so he could wash the blankets and linens. After taking some time with the laundry, he found Methos alert again, so he brought him a large mug of water. Methos turned up his good-sized nose at it.

"Beer," he said.

"Water," MacLeod replied. "Beer will dehydrate you."

"I want a beer," Methos insisted. "Please," he added, as a calculated afterthought.

"I don't have any beer," MacLeod said, truthfully. "But if you'll drink all that water, I'll have some delivered."

"Extortion. I know this trick."

MacLeod shrugged. "No beer unless you drink the water. And then you have to drink more water after."

"I want a beer. I don't want a mother."

MacLeod's temper flared. "You'll get what I give you and be grateful for it! You drink that water if you know what's good for you!"

Methos stared at him.

MacLeod stilled, startled.

"Who was that?" Methos asked. "Your doctor girlfriend?"

MacLeod sank wearily down on the couch beside Methos. "I think it was my mother," he said.

Methos smiled. It was good to see him smile.

"Have you eaten, Duncan?" he asked.

"Yeah, I have."

"Not enough, I bet. Tell you what. I'll drink all the water you want if you order a huge delivery meal and eat it all."

"I can't eat in front of you. I just can't."

"Take it up on deck. The sun's up, I see. Nice to see the sun, I think."

"Methos, what was this Hidden Dragon unit? Were they really a special forces killing squad?"

MacLeod couldn't have said where the question came from. It seemed to have been waiting there for days, weeks.

Methos looked genuinely startled, then his expression shut down. MacLeod cursed inwardly.

"I'm just asking."

"There were atrocities on both sides, MacLeod," he said with some bitterness. "It was a war."

In for a penny, in for a pound. If he let it go now, he might never get another chance.

"It's one thing to be drafted into the rank and file," he pointed out, "and another thing to volunteer for elite service as a killer."

"And I am tired of explaining myself to you. I'd leave now if I could, but I can't, so I have to ask you to leave me alone."

The appeal to MacLeod's innate chivalry was effective. MacLeod recognized the manipulation even as he rose. "All right. Drink your water."

MacLeod placed two phone calls and soon was hailed from the quay by a delivery man. Chinese was one of the few meals you could have delivered at 8:00 in the morning in Paris, and booze would be delivered anytime. MacLeod handed Methos a beer and took his food on deck.

The food and the sunrise broke his broody mood before it got properly started. Methos was right; it was more than wonderful to see the sun, and MacLeod hadn't really tasted any of the food he'd eaten since leaving Kreegan's place. This meal was the best he could remember in ages.

When he returned below deck, a freshly shaved and washed Methos was making his unsteady way back to the couch from the head, wearing MacLeod's sweats. MacLeod was surprised, but he had not seen immortal physiology recover from starvation before. This was blessedly quick.

Methos did not look at him.

MacLeod sighed and fetched two more beers. He put one in front of Methos as a peace offering. "It's just that you never do explain anything," he said softly. "I'd like to know."

Methos scowled at the beer and drank the water instead. "I think I'm ready to try the pasta again," he said without looking at MacLeod.

MacLeod waited for a moment, then got up and boiled the last of the linguini in silence. He knew a market that delivered. He'd call them later when they were open.

He put the bowl of pasta in front of Methos by the untouched beer.

"Aren't you going to feed me?" asked Methos, a glint in his eye.

MacLeod refused to be baited. "Do you want me to?" he asked.

"No," Methos replied, and applied himself to the pasta, eating with total concentration, but with a cautious pace. Though there were times when he paused, eyes closed, he kept it all down. He then leaned back and studied MacLeod from under half-closed eyelids. "I lost my family, too," he said.

Duncan blinked.

"I was trying to have a normal life. Sort of an experiment after …"

Methos sat forward and reached for the beer. "Anyway, I went back to what I knew best. What I was good at."

MacLeod nodded and finished his own beer. He stood up. "That will do," he said. He pulled out the clean linens and began making up the bed.

"That will do?" Methos asked, watching him.

"That's what I wanted," MacLeod told him. "Now let's get you back to bed, and we'll think about protein for your next meal."

Methos rose carefully, and made it to the bed. He watched MacLeod in some amazement as he plumped the pillows and tucked him in.

"A little later, I'm calling Dawson," MacLeod went on. "When you and he are both recovered – when we're all recovered, I'm taking us out for the biggest banquet in Paris. And if you're still doing well by tomorrow, we can find some way to move to holy ground."

Methos pulled the covers up. "Holy ground with a tattoo parlor," he specified.

"What?"

"I have something I want removed."

MacLeod smiled. It felt good.

THE END