Disclaimer – Not mine. Not cannon either. Richie lives.
AN- I wanted to write a story where Mac and Richie were completely comfortable in their relationship with each other. In order to do that, I have set it in the future around Richie's 100th birthday. The future I portray is designed purely to facilitate that storyline and is not intended as social or political comment, or as a reflection of any specific country.
!!!
It was hot out in the desert. Richie supposed that shouldn't come as much of a surprise. But this dry, acrid, heat, that burnt the back of your throat when you took a breath, and leeched the moisture from your eyeballs, leaving them feeling tight and sore, was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And in his one hundred years he had experienced quite a bit.
"Doctor, Monsieur le Doctor."
A hand tugged at the hem of his robes and Richie looked down to see what was needed.
"Water, please, do you have water?" The old woman, lying on the bare ground, now too weak to rise, looked up at him, her eyes very large in her thin gaunt, face.
"Here you are," He spoke in the local dialect, bending down to allow the woman to drink from the canteen he was carrying. "Feel better, now?"
She nodded, smiling broadly showing a gap, where her two front teeth should be. "Thank you, grandson."
Richie nodded and smiled, but inside his soul contracted a little. The woman was no more than her mid fifties, made old before her time by poor diet and harsh living conditions. She was young enough to be his daughter. And, weak and tired as she was, she would be lucky to survive past the end of the week. Rising up, he surveyed the acres of white tents, that made up this refugee city. A little oasis of food aid, supplies of clean water, and hope in a ravaged landscape.
"You know, this is not how I expected to spend my 100th birthday." He spoke to the man beside him.
"As I recall, this was entirely your idea," Methos replied. "And you won't be 100 for another couple of weeks."
"I'm this close to a century and you want to argue about semantics?"
"Sometimes, its all I have," Methos made a face. "That, and sand in my .. shorts."
"You're not wearing any shorts."
"Well, I should be, then I wouldn't have sand in places it has no business being," Methos grumbled. "I always hated the desert."
"So, why did you come? I could have managed by myself."
"You could have. But you're glad I'm here."
"You think?" Richie raised a brow. "You snore, you know. A person might think that after all this time you could have got that fixed."
"If you weren't lying awake worrying, you wouldn't hear it," Methos chided. "You can't save them all, Rich.."
"I know that," Richie ran a hand through his hair. "Its just, I hate feeling so helpless, you know?"
"You're not helpless. There are people here every day who survive because of you."
"A handful," Richie scoffed. "What good is that to the hundreds who die?"
"You've been spending too much time with Macleod again," Methos sighed. "I had hoped that by now some of my qualities would have rubbed off on you."
That got him the amused look he had been trying for.
"Yeah, well, for someone who prides himself on only looking after number one, you aren't doing too badly in the lifesaving department yourself, old timer."
"You never know when you might need a favour. Do you have any idea how many descendents a grateful patient can produce in 5000 years? Not to mention the occasional nubile daughter or the odd fatted calf. A good physician is never out of work."
"Unless, they decide to burn you at the stake for being league with the devil."
Methos looked askance at the bitter tone. "My, you are full of the joys of spring today, aren't you?"
"Sorry," Richie scrubbed at his face. "Just tired, I guess."
"Why don't you get some sleep? You are no good to anyone if you are dead on your feet."
Richie thought about protesting, but he really was tired and he was starting to get a headache. Must be the heat. Still, a couple of hours sleep and he would be as good as new. After all, he was Immortal, wasn't he?
"Are you sure you can manage by yourself?" he grinned cheekily at his former teacher.
"I don't know," Methos scowled at him. "But as you as so fond of saying, I reckon I can fake it."
!!!
That evening, Methos sat, stirring a small pot over the fire, when Richie emerged from their tent, blinking in the sunlight. Casting a practised eye at the sun as it made its way across the sky, the younger Immortal scowled.
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"Because I thought you needed the rest," Methos countered. "Besides, this isn't quite ready yet."
Richie gave a quick glance into the pot.
"I'll pass thanks."
"You need to eat." Methos kept stirring..
"Yeah but, a guy can only take so much bean mush, before there are .. repercussions." Richie sank down onto the sand beside him.
"You think this is bad. When I was in Rome .." Methos began. Glancing over, he saw that Richie wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to his tale as he sat hunched up, rubbing his temples.
"You feeling alright?" Methos interrupted himself.
"Yeah, sorry," Richie made an effort to sit up a bit straighter. "I'm just a bit achy. Must have slept on a rock, or something. Good job Mac's not here, all these years of taking me camping and I'm still a city boy at heart."
Methos reached out and put a hand on Richie's forehead.
"Do you mind?," Richie swatted his hand away. "I'm not sick."
"You feel warm."
"Of course, I feel warm, its like 120 degrees in the shade." Richie exaggerated. Irritated, he reached for the canteen of water and took a long swallow, wincing as the cool liquid flowed over his parched throat.
"Does your throat hurt?"
"Yes, of course, my throat hurts. Its full of sand."
Surrendering his spoon, Methos gave the younger Immortal his full and undivided attention.
"Raise your arm."
"What is this? Elementary school? I don't need to go to the bathroom, thank you very much."
"Humour me."
Richie sighed. He knew his former teacher well enough to realise that that particular request was anything but. Rolling his eyes he complied, if only to have the pleasure of saying I told you so, when Methos' poking and prodding failed to reveal anything amiss.
"Youch!" Reflexively, Richie pulled his arm back down and glared at the other Immortal. He expected to see his patented smirk at his discomfort. Instead, Methos was glaring at him. His eyes flinty.
"You know," Richie swallowed, wincing. Man, his throat really did hurt. "That is so, not a good look on you."
"You couldn't have mentioned that you were getting sick?"
"I'm not sick. I'm Immortal."
"Richie," Methos took a deep breath and tried to hold onto his patience. "You have a perfectly good medical degree. Now, your joints are aching, you have a fever, your throat is swollen, and you have tenderness under your arms, now unless you want me to check your groin, don't any of those symptoms, seem just the least bit familiar?"
Richie didn't need to answer him. Plague had spread like wildfire among the inhabitants of the camp. In these, hot, overcrowded, conditions, they were forever fighting a losing battle, at the end of one particularly wearing day Richie has asked Methos how it had been halted in the past.
"It wasn't," Methos had shrugged. "That's why they called it the Black Death. People died."
"Yeah, but in the end?"
"In the end, enough people died. As the population fell people spread out. With less overcrowding there was less dirt and less risk of disease."
"That's your solution? We just wait for enough people to die?"
"That's the only solution. Except for a good hard winter. Kills off all the fleas."
"Winter?" Richie had looked around at the shimmering heat. "Out here?"
"I can't be sick," Richie pulled away in denial. "I don't get sick any more. Its in the job description, right up there with being a sword carrying member and lopping people's heads off."
"You can get sick," Methos reminded him. "You just can't die from it. Not permanently, anyway."
"You're not sick.
"After time, you do build up some immunity. I've had the Plague before. Several versions, in fact."
"Oh great, just great. You couldn't have told me this was going to happen?"
"I thought you knew."
"So .." Richie swallowed. tried to sound nonchalant. "What happens now? I get a few boils, a bit of fever, some pus maybe, and then I die?"
"That's pretty much it," Methos nodded. "Eventually."
"Eventually? How, eventually?"
"Well, things may actually move slower because you are Immortal. Your body will be continuously trying to heal you. Only, over time, as you get weaker and weaker will it succeed in killing you. It might take a couple of weeks."
"A couple of weeks?" Richie almost choked on the words.
"Well, We could always try and speed things up a bit."
"How?"
"You don't get any food or water."
"Screw that," Richie shook his head and reached for his sword. "Here. Try not to get blood on my shoes, OK?"
"Richie, I can't just kill you."
"Sure, you can," Richie encouraged. "You've done it in practice, often enough. Just make it a nice clean thrust, OK? No waggling it around for the hell of it."
"I meant, if I kill you now, you'll never build up any immunity to this."
"I also don't die, writhing in agony. Not seeing a problem here."
"Alright, then," Methos agreed reaching for Richie's sword. "I suppose it was time we were leaving anyway. I have a library book I need to return."
He readied the blade
"Whoa, hey," Richie knocked the blade aside. "Who said anything about leaving? There are people here who need our help. I'm not leaving."
Methos simply waited.
Sure enough.
"Oh damn, damn, damn," Richie swore as realisation hit. If he stayed here he would simply fall ill again and again. And there was only so much doctoring you could do when you were dead. If he wanted to help these people he would have to see this thing through to the bitter end.
"I guess, I'm pretty sick, huh?" he apologised.
"You think you're in a bad way," Methos smiled at him. "Wait till Macleod hears I broke you. He'll kill me."
"Yeah, but look on the bright side," Richie croaked. "Not permanently. Least, I don't think so."