A/N: AU from the episode Archangel, SPOILERS for Archangel. Like most of my stories, this is another one written for a comment-fic prompt: "Highlander, any, Duncan dies instead of Richie."
"He –" Richie's voice breaks as he looks down at the corpse. "I –" His hands are so numb he dropped his sword a long time (how long?) ago and his knees are so weak he's quivering where he stands. "He would've –" Richie chokes out. Methos steps forward to grip the young man's shoulder, and stands firm as Richie shakes apart from grief. "He tried –"
"I know," Methos murmurs. "Hush." Lost and directionless, Richie does as he is told, leaning into Methos' arm even as his eyes remain fixed on the corpse of Duncan MacLeod, seeking out the nearest warm body in an effort to combat the death that lies in front of him.
Methos allows himself only a fleeting glance at the carnage as he slowly begins steering Richie towards an exit. Let Dawson care for the dead; Methos has the living to take care of. Richie tries to resist as Methos finally pulls him out of sight of the body, but it is a token gesture at best. With only a slight tug on his collar he quietly follows Methos back to the car and slips into the backseat without protest.
By the time Methos settles himself into the driver's seat, Richie has curled into a fetal position. The quivering has died, replaced with a grievous lethargy. He stays that way the entire drive back to Methos' flat, and this time requires more persuasion to begin moving again. Together they stumble up three flights of stairs, and Methos doesn't let Richie stop until he's standing underneath a scalding shower, skin reddening and almost-blistering before his Immortal healing smoothes the wounds away. Methos bathes the boy like he would a child, murmuring softly for the sake of comfort and washing the boy's hair for the same reason as he lets the shower run until the water is clear of blood.
Richie's eyes are hooded with exhaustion but dry when Methos dries him off, and he topples over onto Methos' bed with the slightest of shoves. He absently clutches the blankets Methos piles on him and stares off into a middle distance as if unsure of what to do now that he's lying down. There's not much Methos can do about the shock, however; Richie will rouse himself when and only when he is able to. So he flips off the lights, gently shuts the bedroom door, and leaves the boy to his own thoughts.
He adjusts the thermostat to a higher temperature before delving into the back of his liquor cabinet. In another hour, Dawson will most likely finish arranging things for Mac. He'll be dropping by, angry and with nobody else to take it out on but Methos, who ostensibly walked away from the Highlander's without a second thought. After the inevitably rage, the hissed accusations and the tears as Dawson works through the death of his friend, they'll both need a drink.
Methos waits silently, unmoving, for the entirety of that hour. He sits and breathes and thinks. It's habit by now, this mental clean-up, compartmentalizing and dividing and looking over, firmly lodging memories in the could not change category. When Joe finally knocks softly on the door, Methos' hands have finally stopped trembling.
Joe looks like shit. His hair is rumpled, his eyes are swollen half-shut, his five-o-clock shadow is now at quarter-past one in the morning, and his clothes are wrinkled and starting to smell, with a stain on the hem of his coat sleeve. He limps heavily past Methos without a word and collapses on the nearest couch. Methos brings out the prepared booze, and Joe downs his first cup without stopping despite the way it makes him gasp afterwards.
Methos listens to Joe's harsh breathing as he fills the cup again, waits for it to even out into something tightly controlled. He sits down across from Dawson, coffee table safely between them. It'll be coming any second now.
"How's Richie?"
Or not. Methos remembers why he likes this mortal so much: wisdom beyond his age.
Joe looks at Methos' face and seems to recognize the taken-aback stare. He doesn't smile – neither of them at this point probably could if they wanted – but one side of his mouth quirks in forgiveness. He's done this before, dealt with unexpected grief that whaps you upside the head when you're least expecting it, and it's alright if Methos forgot that for a while. Joe might still be angry, but he knows it's misplaced, aimed at a necessary division of labor, and won't air it out tonight.
"Sleeping," Methos eventually replies. Joe nods and sits back. Neither of them have energy for conversation right now. Their minds always circle back to the same scene: the body lying slack, the ooze of blood, the rounded object in the corner neither of them had the inclination to identify. It's enough to sit in the same room, listening to the other's soft breathing as they live through the grief.
They each finish their glasses, and Methos refills them once more. By unspoken agreement they raise them together and shoot them back, gasping at the burn. Joe wipes his eyes afterwards, breathing heavily. Methos looks until Joe, once more in tenuous control, asks, "What next?"
Methos refills his glass again to buy time. He has plans – always has plans. It's easy when you've had enough time to confront similar situations before. So he watches the glass fill and allows himself to shuffle through all the ideas floating through his head until he finds bits and pieces that feel right, associates them loosely into a course of action.
"Richie needs a teacher," he finally says. "And the Council will want him to have a Watcher."
Joe exhales slowly, nodding. "He won't want either."
Yes, that's the problem. But if they start now, insinuate themselves into Richie's life when he's vulnerable, he won't get a choice. It's perhaps not correct by modern standards, but it's the best thing to do. Joe will have to be upfront about his change of assignment, of course. That will be hard for Richie to accept, one more reminder of who he's lost. But Methos can help it along. He'll be the one Richie can rely on, be the boy's strength until he gets his own back. Richie isn't old enough yet to take on the world, still immature in some ways: brash and bold and courageous.
Everything MacLeod taught him to be – which doesn't exactly equal long life.
The word teacherwill never be mentioned. That's another man's title. But Methos will be a guide, tempering those deadly impulses with cunning and sense and self-interest and patience. He'll ensure the closest thing MacLeod had to a son lives on for a very long time, strong and sure and unbroken. He's done it before, for mortals and immortals alike. He can do it again.
In response to Joe's statement, Methos raises his glass. "To tough times but great rewards."
It's the closest he'll go to letting Joe in on the plan, and if the mortal had been in a mood to argue he would have jumped on that non-answer the minute it was out of Methos' mouth. But right now, Joe solemnly raises his own glass in response, trusting that Methos has a plan to get them through this and that it will work without Joe's input. "Amen, brother," he says. They drink. Methos refills their glasses once more.