Richie knew he was getting worse. It was more difficult to swallow, as his throat swelled up, or to move, as his joints protested every little shift in position. Even, just lying there was far from comfortable as tender blisters appeared in places he didn't even know he had. And then there was the nausea ..

Oh hell, why did he even have to think about that?

He tensed slightly as he felt a twinge in his gut.

"Try to relax."

Methos's voice came out of the shadows beside him, even as the Immortal's cool hand rubbed gently on his abdomen. Richie closed his eyes, trying to keep his breathing slow and easy, seeking that place of inner calm that came with meditation. Except, his body had other ideas and suddenly he was heaving, his stomach contracting in painful spasms as he gave gasping breaths as the ancient Immortal patiently braced his pain wracked body.

"Oh man." Richie sank back down onto the pallet.

"Here," Methos slipped his hand behind Richie's head, elevating it slightly, as he brought a flask of water to the kid's dry lips. "Take small sips."

"Easy for you to say." Richie croaked out over his swollen throat.

"Just try."

Richie took a couple of large swallows, wincing painfully as his throat protested. "You know, you'd look great in a nurses outfit."

"I do have the legs for it." Methos agreed.

"Where's Mac?"

"Fussing over some concoction or other he thinks is going to make you feel better."

"Chicken soup? He always used to make me Chicken soup when I was sick. And not that canned stuff. With actual chicken."

"Now I know you're delirious," Methos mocked. "Where is he going to find a chicken out here?"

Richie sighed. "You might as well say it. You know you want to."

"Say what?" Methos looked innocent.

"What an idiot I was .. coming out here and expecting a few colds and the odd bout of chicken pox and measles and stuff to give me an immunity against the plague."

"If you already know it, I don't need to say it, then do I?" Methos argued.

"Doesn't usually stop you." Richie muttered, hunkering down in the blankets and feeling somehow unreasonably cheated.

"I'm trying to be caring," Methos huffed. "You are sick, after all."

Richie scowled at the Ancient Immortal, sitting on his heels in the dust. "Rub it in, why don't you?"

"Richie you are quite old enough to make your own decisions," Methos shrugged. "If you want to come out here away from all reasonable comforts to play at being sick and dying, then who am I to stop you?"

"Hey, no one chooses to get sick!" Richie protested.

"Didn't you?" Duncan's voice cut in softly from the doorway.

Richie turned his head away. He knew his friends had been worrying about him recently. Hell, he was worried about him too. He was tired of fighting, the constant struggle to stay alive and for what? To see your mortal friends wither and die? To watch your Immortal friends as they were picked off one by one? All the while, knowing that all you are doing is postponing the inevitable?

"Richie, most of us had a chance to adjust to being Immortal," Duncan continued. "Centuries to taste its pleasures, as well as its pains. Spend a few lifetimes on Holy Ground. You were born into the height of the Gathering. Do you remember how many I killed in my first century as an Immortal?"

Richie did, Mac had told him once. His fever fogged brain couldn't remember what the figure was, but he knew his clear bark of laughter had echoed off the walls. He had killed more Immortals than that in his first decade. It seemed like no matter how many challenges he faced, they just kept coming.

"I still have my head."

"For as long as you choose to keep it." Methos spoke up.

Richie flushed with guilt, which was rapidly chased away by resentment. "The Watchers should mind their own business."

"You are their business. Just like you are ours. Garrett almost took you. You had him there at the point of your blade and you hesitated. You gave an ancient Immortal, with centuries more experience than you, a bloody great window of opportunity. You need to live, Richie and to live you need to damn well fight."

"They all have centuries more experience than me, remember?" He pointed out sourly. "I'm the new kid on the block."

Not for the first time, Methos wished that Richie had never found out that particular piece of information. Knowing you were the youngest surviving Immortal. That kind of thing was likely to give even the most robust of students something of a complex.

"Rich, you're missing the point," Duncan reached out and gave his hand a gentle, comforting, squeeze. "The Game isn't supposed to be about the killing, iti s about the living and what you do with that life. Do you even remember why you wanted to become a Doctor?"

!!!

The Past 1999.

As soon as Duncan entered Joe's Bar he felt the wash of an Immortal. However, he had seen Richie's bike outside and knew he sword would not be needed. He noted approvingly as the lad glanced up, from underneath the bar, wary and ready. He sent him the flash of a grin in return. The lad, gave a nod and a smile before turning his attention back to the blocked pump that he was apparently trying to fix for Joe. He was just about to head over and see if he could offer help, when Joe bustled out of his office.

"Mac," His face fell. "Um, the usual?"

"You look disappointed," Duncan observed, as the barkeep hurried to serve him. "Expecting someone else?"

"Actually, yeah," Joe positively beamed. "I only got the phone call a few minutes ago, but you'll never guess who is back in town."

Just then door opened and a man in a dark, well cut suit, stepped forward to allow a small women with red hair and green eyes, to enter the bar. Duncan straightened slightly. Even with his limited knowledge of popular music he knew who this was. Her emerald eyes and impish grin had stared out from any number of tapes and then CD's that Richie had left littered around his home, his car, his life.

"Derrick," Joe came forward to greet the suit with a hearty smile and a warm handshake. "Its good to see you again. My, last time I saw you with your Dad, you must have been what .. eight .. nine?."

"About that," Derrick smiled warmly. "You look well, Mr Dawson."

"Hey, you'll make me feel like an old man. Call me Joe."

"Joe," Derrick nodded as he made the introductions. "This is Cassidy Graham, Cassie this is one of the best blues players you'll ever meet, Joe Dawson."

"Pleased to meet you." Cassie smiled warmly.

The bartender laughed. "I can't believe you're here in my bar. Has anyone welcomed you home to Seacouver yet? Talk about local girl makes good. Well, let me be the first." He beamed. Then suddenly remembering the Immortal, he turned to Macleod, "Hey Mac, you know who this is? This is Cassie Graham. Grammy award winning Cassie Graham."

"Congratulations." Duncan offered his hand, which engulfed her small, pale one, easily.

"It was just the once." Cassie blushed awkwardly.

"Richie .." Joe beckoned the kid over. Richie wiped his hands on a rag and came over, looking straight at the barkeep without as much as glancing at his guests. "You want the good news or the bad news? The bad news is the pump is toast. The good news is I know a man who can get you a new part at cost."

"This is legit, right?" Joe frowned.

"Joe," Richie spread his hands, looking wounded. "Would I ever steer you wrong?"

"Richie?" Cassie had gone quite pale.

"Hey, Cass," Richie flashed her a quick, insincere grin, that had every parental instinct that Duncan had sitting up and taking notice. "So, Joe, the pump?"

"You two know each other?" Joe asked.

"Yes," Cassie spoke up. "Richie, is .."

"A friend from the old neighbourhood," Richie cut in. Duncan frowned, whatever Richie was, it wasn't that. Even as he watched the lad was offering his hand to the promoter. "Nice to meet you."

"Well then," Derrick smiled warmly. "We'll have to find you some tickets to the show tomorrow night, best in the house ..."

"Sorry, no can do," Richie cut him off. "I have to work, .. right Mac?"

Duncan paused. Anyone else might have missed the subtle tension in his protég's shoulders. Judging from the glare he sent him Joe certainly had. But he wasn't about to let the lad down.

"Fraid so." He agreed.

"C'mon Mac, the kid works hard, you can give him some time off." Joe argued.

"Sorry, we're short handed as it is," Duncan shrugged, weathering Joe's scathing look for Richie's sake. The lad gave him a quick, grateful glance.

"Well then," Joe patted Richie's shoulder like a consoling Uncle, still frowning at Duncan. "Look, why don't we all sit down, you'll have a beer, right, Rich?"

"Thanks but no thanks, Joe," Richie shook his head. "I .. um .. have a date. Look, I'll tie that pump off for now and you can let me know what you want, OK?"

As the rest of them settled at one of the small tables, Derrick and Joe fell into conversation about past promotions and venues. Duncan wondered if Cassie realised that she was watching every ripple of Richie's chest as he tied off the pump. Every tilt of his hips as he made his way over, his helmet hanging from one hand..

"OK, I'm done," Richie announced, looking steadfastly anywhere but at the singer. "I'll let you know what I get that part, Joe."

"Thanks, Rich." Joe said, with a scowl at Macleod, clearly hinting he should reconsider his draconian employment regime.

"Is that your bike outside?" Cassie asked suddenly. "The Harley?"

"Yeah," Richie switched his gaze to the floor. "It was a present from .. a friend."

Connor actually, as Duncan remembered. A year or so back when Richie had been feeling low, worn down by the necessity of the killing, of the Game, he had taken a road trip. Connor had stumbled across him in an Art Gallery in New York, in front of one of Tessa's best works, looking in need of a friend, and taken him home like a lost puppy for a month or six and taught him a few things Duncan hadn't got around to yet. In gratitude, Richie had restored the vintage Harley he had found in the basement. On Richie's next birthday, a large crate had appeared in the Dojo. A token of Connor's respect for his student's dedication. Richie had initially wanted to return it, but Duncan hadn't had to do much fast talking to convince the lad, his mentor was sincere.

"Moze wize to?" Cassie asked softly. Can I see it?

Duncan blinked. Polish? Where had that come from?

"Sorry," Richie shook his head, looking sharply at the floor. "I gotta go."

Cassidy sucked in her cheeks and bit her lip hard, as she watched Richie walk out into the sunshine.

"Go after him," Duncan said softly. Cassie shot him a quick, surprised, glance. But rose up and followed the young man out the door. She was only gone for a few minutes before she burst back through the door muttering and swearing .. "Not a good idea, for who, I'd like to know .. of all the arrogant, selfish inconsiderate, ."

Duncan wondered how she would feel if she knew he spoke Polish.

"Cassie?" Derrick looked up with a frown, attracted by her tone of voice. "Is something wrong?"

"What?" Cassie switched to English, as she spun round to look at him, flustered, as if she had forgotten he was there. "No, not at all. I just .. " Her eyes fell on the sweater she had left on her seat and she rushed on in a burst of inspiration. "I just couldn't find my sweater."

Arriving back at the Dojo, Duncan stood in the doorway and watched, not without a certain amount of pride, as Richie executed a flawless Kata. It contained some difficult moves, that only a few short months ago the lad would have been unable to master. He was working hard. Doing well.

"Before you say anything, I know its you." Richie spoke without breaking his flow.

"I obviously need to change my Cologne."

That got him a response. Richie turned his head and looked at him over his shoulder. Really looked, and Duncan saw the raw pain in his eyes. He picked a towel off the weight bench and threw it at his student, Richie caught it easily in his free hand.

"Take a shower, I'll make lunch."

"I need to finish this," Richie stalled. "Aren't you always saying I need to finish stuff I started?"

"How old were you?"

Richie shrugged. There was no point in lying. And he didn't really want to. "Fourteen."

"Oh," Duncan pushed himself off the door jamb as his eyes softened with new understanding. Many years ago Richie had confided that he was only fourteen the first time he had slept with a girl. He saw the lad blush, as if he had forgotten that the Immortal knew that particular bit of his history.

"Look, Mac, its no big deal." He half turned away. "Forget it."

Duncan was there in two long strides, gripping his forearm hard, so that Richie turned to look at him, his eyes bright. Duncan reached out and put one finger under his chin. "Richie she was your first .. of course it was a big deal."

"The hell it was," Richie protested. "This wasn't dinner at Franco's and back to a four poster strewn with rose petals. It was up on the roof of the apartment block, cold and hungry, but too damn scared to go back inside until he had passed out."

"She was your foster sister?"

Duncan sucked in his breath. The whole world knew that Cassidy Graham had been taken into care at the age of thirteen. Ripped away from a Grandmother who adored her by Child Services who thought the woman too old to care for a teenager, only to be placed in an abusive foster home, where her drunken foster father had tried to rape her. She now used her celebrity to campaign on every talk show across America for children's rights.

"Not her," Richie shook his head slightly bitterly. "Just a girl who looked like her."

"Just because she's famous now, that doesn't make her a different person, Rich."

"She was the one who walked away, Mac. She made her choice. Long time ago."

!!!

Present

"I never expected her to see her again," Richie said quietly. "Not after, I already blew her off like that."

"She still loved you," Duncan confirmed. "She always loved you."

"Yeah," Richie exhaled. "I never knew. That night at the Hospital after he .. well, you know all about that .. was the last time I saw her. She got adopted by the nice couple who saw all the fuss on the news and I got sent back to the Orphanage, again."

"She wrote to you," Duncan reminded him quietly.

"And my Social Worker decided it was in my best interests to make a new start and she never passed 'em along." Richie picked at his blanket. "All those years, I thought she'd moved on ..."

"It didn't take you long to make up for lost time." Methos observed.

"Are you ever gonna let me forget that?" Richie blushed.

"Not any time this millennium. You felt the buzz, you should have been paying more attention … and you got chocolate chip ice-cream on my white rug."

"Hey, I was paying plenty of attention," Richie coughed slightly. "And white is not a practical colour."

"You need to rest." Duncan put in.

"In a minute," Richie shook his head. "Man, do you remember Joe's face when we told him she was gonna fake her own death and go out at the height of her fame so we could stay together? I thought he was gonna have a heart attack."

"It was a great marketing strategy," Methos shrugged. "All the best artists are dead."

Too late, he realised the tactlessness of that observation as Duncan gave him a sharp, angry glare and Richie's face twisted, at the painful reminder of Tessa.

"Rich?" Duncan looked down in concern. This illness was breaking through all Richie's defences. He seemed less like the capable warrior and trusted second he had become and more like the frightened, isolated teenager, he had been at first. Reaching over he brushed a single tear from the fevered cheek with his thumb.

"I tried, Mac. I really really tried, to be a normal guy, have a normal life with the girl I loved. But it was all a load of croak. Man, I thought telling her I was Immortal would be the worse thing we had to get over, who knew she had a secret of her own?"

"Everybody dies Richie. No matter how much you love them, no matter how much you need them, they still die." Methos tone was unusually gentle and Richie remembered what a support he had been in those dark days when Cassidy had quickly got sicker and sicker before his very eyes and he had been powerless to stop it.

It had taken him over fifty years, but at least no-one else would have to go through what he had. Not that young. Not that suddenly. Not from that illness.

"The thing is, I never thought .." Richie's eyes widened and he bit his lip hard.

"You never thought what ..?" Methos frowned at him, a horrible suspicion dawning in his mind.

"Nothing," Richie turned his head away. "I really am tired, now."

"Richie," Duncan sat back on his heels and stared down at him. "Is this about Sforza? Is that what this is?"

"He was going to kill you, Mac," Richie's tone was ragged. "I mean, no matter who else died .. I never thought anyone could take you .. if that bridge hadn't collapsed .. and he's still out there .. he's not gonna give up .. he's gonna come and find you .. and I can't .. I can't do this without you."