Highlander

"Little Immortals"

Summary:Richie has a 'little' accident. Can Duncan cope raising a seven year old Immortal...especially one as reckless, impulsive, and smart-assed as Richard H. Ryan?

Methos has a 'little' mishap and Connor is enlisted to help out with him. Can he handle a sarcastic, rude, and generally bratty 5,000 teenager?

Author's Note: This takes place any time after season 3.

Warning:SPANKING!!!!! DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I just wrote this story for fun.

Chapter 2: Breakfast Table Melee

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and Mac awoke hoping (and praying) that last night's events had been nothing more than a very bad dream.

Sadly, looking over at the still slumbering, cherub-looking seven year old with now very messy blonde curls and drool dribbling down his chin, he knew it was anything but.

He sighed. Getting up carefully, so as not to wake the slumbering youth, he put on his jeans and made his way over to the sofa.

Sure enough, laying half on/half off of it with one leg thrown over the back of it was Methos—looking every bit of fifteen instead of his usual thirty years—and snoring so loudly that he was surprised the roof had not started lifting off its base.

He sighed, again. Shaking his head, he made his way over to the kitchen and started making coffee.

It had just finished brewing when Joe hobbled out of the spare bedroom and made his way over to one of the bar stools and sat down, staring at the coffee expectantly.

"Sleep well?" he asked his old friend and Watcher, as he poured him a steaming cup of the strong black beverage.

Joe shrugged. "So, so," he said, taking a sip. "That really hits the spot, Mac. Thanks."

Mac smirked, taking a sip from his own coffee mug. "You're welcome."

Joe twisted around, staring at the two youthful occupants of his sofa and his bed.

"I had hoped it was all a dream," he said, sighing.

Mac nodded. "Me, too," he told him, "but I think we'll have to face facts..."

Joe nodded. "Have you ever heard of anything like this, Mac?" he asked, curious. "In four hundred years?"

Mac shook his head. "'Fraid not," he admitted, honestly, "but Conner may have. I'll give him a call."

Joe nodded. "I'll start making some phone calls too," he said, "I still have a few old friends in the archives. Maybe they can dig something up on the Stones..."

Mac nodded. "Maybe," he said, quietly, "but in the mean time..."

Joe chuckled. "In the meantime, my friend," he told him, grinning, "you've got your hands full!"

Mac snorted, rolling his eyes. "Tell me about it," he huffed. "Richie is one thing...but Methos and Richie together...!?"

"You could always call in reinforcements," Joe suggested, smirking. "How about Amanda?"

Mac gave him a withering look. "Are you kidding?" he asked. "She'd only make things worse...no, I'll look after them on my own for now. If I need help, I'll call someone I can count on not to act like a kid herself..."

Joe nodded. "Good point," he said, draining the last of his coffee out of his mug. "Well, I guess I'd better be going. Get started on those phone calls..."

He sat his mug on the counter and hopped up. "You need me, just holler," he told MacLeod seriously.

"I will," Mac promised, smirking.

Joe took one final look at the slumbering boys and then headed for the stairs. He would have used the lift, but the noise might have awakened them prematurely and he figured Mac would need a little while longer to ready his battle plan.

Mac finished his coffee, rinsed out both his and Joe's mugs, and then went to get some clean underwear.

He normally would have gone for a run first thing in the morning, but didn't think leaving Richie and Methos alone together, in their current states, would be such a good idea so he simply headed into the bathroom for a shower.

Coming back out ten minutes later, he found the boys were still snoozing deeply so he decided to put some clothes and started breakfast.

When the smell of eggs and back began wafting throughout the loft; that was when the occupants of the bed and sofa began to stir.

Richie was the first to fully awaking. Sitting up in bed, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked as his wide blue eyes fell upon MacLeod.

"Mac?" he asked, still a little dazed.

MacLeod looked up from where he was dishing eggs onto three plates, and smiled.

"Morning, Tough Guy," he greeted, gently. "How are you feeling this morning?"

The boy shrugged. "I'm fine, Mac," he told him, yawning, "but you'll never guess the wild dream I had last night..."

Mac stilled. Raising an eyebrow, he asked hesitantly, "Oh, what was it about?"

Richie scratched his head. "It was weird," he said, shrugging. "Something about this crystal and lightening, and then me and the Old Timer—and you're gonna love this, Mac!—we got turned into kids! I mean, real kids, Mac, like..."

His voice trailed off as he got out of bed and looked down at his feet, and the rest of him. He looked up at Mac with wide eyes.

Mac winced. "Sorry, Tough Guy," he said, sympathetically, "but I'm afraid it wasn't a dream."

"Wha—?" a groan from the sofa had them looking in that direction as Methos opened his eyes and sat up.

He blinked at them. "Tell me I was bloody well dreamin'?" he begged, standing up. "Last night really didn't happenin', did it?"

Mac grimaced. "Sorry," he said, shrugging.

"Sorry? That's all you can say, MacLeod!?" 5,000 year old teenager growled at him. "Sorry!"

"What else should I say, Methos?" Mac asked him, bringing the three plates over to the table. "Now, how about you come over here and eat some breakfast..."

"Breakfast!" Methos grumbled. "I don't want bloody breakfast! I want to fix this! Now!"

"Well, we can't," Mac told him, "and you still need to eat, so..."

Richie started for the table, but Methos levelled a pointed a finger at him. "This is all your fault, you little wart!" he growled and lunged at the younger looking boy.

Richie, who had always been fast on his feet, dodged easily and began running around the room. "Mac! A little help here! He's gonna kill me!"

"Oh, I'm gonna do more than that," Methos growled, chasing the younger boy. "First I'm gonna stuff your head down the toilet, then I'm gonna cut off all your fingers and toes, and then I'm gonna fillet them, and then I'm gonna rip out all your bones, and then and only then will I cut off your miserable head. So, hold still!"

Again, he lunged for him and again he [Richie] dodged, causing him to collide with one of MacLeod's shelves nearly knocking off a priceless antique.

"All right, that's enough," Mac growled, annoyed. "Both of you come sit down and eat. Right now!"

Methos snorted. "I'll sit when I'm good and ready, MacLeod," he growled at him, "and not 'til I've dealt with this little worm!"

Richie again dodged him grabbing him, squealing, "Macccccc!"

Mac scooped him up under one arm and then grabbed a charging Methos by the front of his shirt.

"I said that was enough," he growled, annoyed. "We are going to sit down and eat, and that's final!"

He headed for the table, taking his two hostages with him. Plopping Richie down into a chair, he dragged Methos to the other side of the table and held out a chair.

"Sit," he ordered, firmly.

Methos jerked out of his hold. "Appearances to the contrary, MacLeod," he growled, "I'm not a child and I won't be treated as one..."

"Methos," Mac levelled him with a stern look, "What supposedly grown man in his right mind would chase a little boy around a room so he could then proceed to and I quote 'stuff his head down the toilet'—among other things?"

Methos glared at him. He crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

The teenager gave in first. "Fine," he huffed, plopping down into the chair with all of the belligerence of a disgruntled adolescent.

Richie smirked. "Guess Mac told you, huh?" he gloated, earning a scathing glare from the older looking boy.

Mac narrowed his eyes at him. "Richie," he warned, sternly. "Shut up and eat your breakfast."

Breakfast, needless to say, was a silent affair. None of them spoke, everybody glared, and many swear words were mouthed.

Finally, it was over and Mac had ordered, "Methos, make yourself useful. Wash the dishes."

"Me!?" the teenager exclaimed, indignant. "They're your bloody dishes, MacLeod, you damn well wash them yourself!"

Mac sighed. "Methos, I'll give you a choice," he told him, holding onto his patience with an effort, "it's either you wash the dishes or you scrub the bathroom floor with your tongue..."

The world's oldest immortal had the sourest expression on his face for all of about five seconds before he grumbled, "Fine. I'll wash the stinkin' dishes."

Getting up, he started gathering up the plates and glasses—and none too gently, either.

Mac scowled. "You break 'em and I break you," he growled.

Methos glared. Richie smirked. MacLeod frowned.

"Rich, give 'im a hand," he ordered. "He'll wash and you'll dry. At least I can count on you not to drop them deliberately."

That wiped the smugness off the younger looking boy's face. "But, Mac—" he started to protest.

"Now, Richard!" the Highlander growled, sternly, causing the kid to jump.

"All right, all right," he stammered, hopping up, and quickly scooping up the silverware to take to the sink, "I'm going!"

Mac sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

It was going to be a long day.

TBC...

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