Author's Note: Had the flu once. Hated it! Duncan and Richie needed some quality time together, and I wanted to do a story with less than 8 parts. Standard disclaimers apply (not mine, no money, sorry about that copyright stuff!) Comments et al to me. One day I'm going to have to go back to work and get off this computer . .:-)

"You couldn't have built this cabin just a little bit closer to civilization?" Richie complained, examining his hands. "I've got blisters on my blisters."

Duncan took a break from his slow, steady paddling to glance backwards at the teenager. The autumn day had turned out absolutely gorgeous, with a deep blue sky and bright sun and a hint of chill on the wind. The canoe continued to glide across the calm, mirrored surface of the inlet. "You're the one who wanted to come here."

"I did. I do," Richie insisted as he pulled his jacket tighter. "You didn't tell me it was eighty light-years from the city. What's at the other end of this? A covered wagon? Mule train? Wagons ho?"

True enough, they'd had a three hour drive up from Seattle, an hour's hike through the woods, and this hour-long canoe trip, but Duncan only grinned. "What did you think? It would be on the interstate? Near the Piggly Wiggly and the Exxon station?"

"Piggly Wiggly?" Richie mimicked with a Scottish accent, and broke into a laugh. "All right, I give. No more complaining. I wanted it, I get it."

For Richie's eighteenth birthday, Duncan and Tessa promised him dinner at the establishment of his choice. He'd threatened them with the priciest French restaurant in town, but then opted for an ordeal called Chuck E. Cheese's. Tessa had held her own under an onslaught of screaming children and clowns, while Duncan had developed an Immortal headache.

"When I turned twelve, I had the best birthday of my life here," Richie said, his mouth full of a cheeseburger and French fries. He drained half of his diet soda. Tessa had to look away. "Even got into a food fight," he boasted.

"Don't you dare," Duncan warned.

Richie just grinned.

They'd given him a new bike helmet, a new leather jacket, and a stereo for his room. Tessa had been a little reluctant about the stereo, but after Duncan pointed out it might mask certain noises Richie had been alluding to lately, she'd picked out the best model in the showroom.

They'd asked him later, by the fire, if there was anything else he wanted for his birthday. Richie had hemmed and hawed, obviously not comfortable with asking for anything. The "help reflex" he'd mentioned once before wasn't the only thing he needed to work on.

"Well," he finally said, after some more persuasion, "I'd like to see this cabin you guys keep talking about."

They'd planned a trip the next week, which got delayed when Duncan had to square off against an Immortal warrior from South Africa. Then Tessa had to go on a business trip, and an important shipment of antiques from Italy went missing and had to be tracked down. Just when it seemed they'd finally get to the cabin, Tessa had taken a nasty fall on the stairs and sprained her ankle. She had no intentions of making the hike to the cabin on crutches and resisted every objection they had to going on without her.

"Besides," she said, eyes aglint as she peered over the edge of a magazine, her ankle propped up on the coffee table, "maybe this is my opportunity to have all the girls over. We'll rent dirty movies and eat chocolate cake and talk about men. Play poker. Smoke cigars."

Richie grinned. "Maybe we should stay."

Duncan said, "Maybe she's joking."

"You'll never know," Tessa teased.

That had been yesterday. Duncan had no real qualms about leaving her behind, and actually was looking forward to teaching Richie a little about outdoor survival. The kid needed to get away from concrete and highways, garbage and sirens. He was going to be Immortal someday. Cities might fall. The future might demand extraordinary skills. The least he could do was learn how to build a fire without matches or follow a trail.

They reached the opposite shore an hour later and unloaded their backpacks and a box of perishables. Richie took one look at the cabin in the trees and let out a whistle.

"I thought we were talking about a log cabin with a tin roof and a falling-in porch," he said. "What is this? A time-share resort?"

Duncan grinned. "Not quite. But at least Tessa made me put in some indoor plumbing five years ago."

"I'm surprised it took that long," Richie said. Inside the cabin, he made a great show of inspecting the solid log walls, the thick bear rugs, the Indian decorations and solid wooden furniture. He marveled at the arched ceiling, the two bedrooms, and the window that looked out over the water. "And you built this yourself?"

"I had a few years to spare," Duncan said. "You like it?"

"Man, I could never do anything like this. How do you - I mean, like, all by yourself?"

"I've built lots of things," Duncan said, secretly pleased with the praise. "You can learn, too."

"Not me," Richie said. He went off and found the bathroom, then wandered back to help put away the bread, milk, fresh vegetables and diet soda. They checked the plumbing, started up the electrical generator, aired out the sheets, swept off the porch, and checked for leaks in the roof. When they were through Duncan suggested a hike through the woods.

Richie stretched out on the sofa, with other ideas obviously in mind. He kicked off his sneakers.

"How about a nap?" he suggested instead. "All this fresh air is tiring."

Duncan didn't argue. If Richie wanted to sleep away a few hours of beautiful weather it was his decision. Duncan changed into sweatpants and a shirt, left the teen snoring on the sofa, and went outside to workout. He finished two hours later, satisfied with the ache in his arms and legs and soaked with sweat. Taking in deep breaths of the pine-scented air he perched in his favorite spot and spent an hour in a calming trance of peaceful mediation.

Richie was still sleeping when Duncan went in to shower, but was shivering and wrapped in a blanket, poking in the cabinets, when Duncan came out in a thick robe and wet towel. Late afternoon sun slanted red and gold through the windows.

"Did you bring real food?" he asked.

"You mean, Twinkies and Ring Dings and Doritos?" Duncan said with a smirk. "No."

"Nothing with sugar? Mac, I'll go into withdrawal!"

"There might be some granola bars over the sink," Duncan said, and went into his bedroom to change. Pulling on his jeans he called out, "We're going to have to rough it for dinner. Soup and sandwiches. We'll go fishing in the morning and stock up for the weekend. It may not be Chuck E. Cheese, but it'll do just fine."

Richie made a face and crossed to the bedroom doorway. "Hey, Mac?"

"Yes?"

"I fibbed a little. About Chuck E. Cheese." Duncan appeared, toweling off his hair. "What fib?" he asked curiously.

"I didn't spend my twelfth birthday there," the teenager confessed. "I don't even think I had one."

Duncan studied him carefully. "So why lie?"

Richie shrugged. "Some habits are just hard to break. But well - you know. So is it too late for that hike?"

"Not if you change into something warm. It's getting cold out."

Duncan watched Richie go to his own room. The fib was nothing. That Richie had felt the need to apologize for something he'd never be called on was a sign of progress. Half an hour later he led Richie up through the western ridge and spectacular sunset sliding down below the inlet to the other side of the earth.

"They don't have this in the inner city," Duncan commented.

"Not on the east side," Richie agreed. He still looked half-asleep. "Yeah, it's okay. But too quiet."

"That's the sound of nature."

"That's the sound that needs a really big speaker system to fill it," Richie shot back. "Some Alice in Chains or something."

On the way back to the cabin they argued about whether or not Alice in Chains was a real music group because Duncan didn't believe Richie's word. At the cabin, Duncan made dinner and left the fire-making in the massive stone hearth to Richie. Richie had a roaring blaze going much faster than Duncan would have believed.

"It's my training as an junior arsonist," Richie sat, sitting back with a satisfied smile. "Our scout troop gave out badges for fires, car thefts, and shoplifting."

"Did you earn all those badges?" Duncan asked.

Richie shrugged uncomfortably. The firelight played on his pale features. "You saw my juvenile record."

"No I didn't. Why do you think I did?"

"I kinda thought it was public knowledge." This time there was bitterness in his voice, and Richie took a deep breath to dispel it. He pushed at half the sandwich on his supper tray. "I practically had entire social service agencies devoted to my cause."

Duncan didn't say anything. It was very rare for Richie to talk about his days before the antique store. Duncan knew he'd lived with a few families that hadn't worked out, been arrested for petty theft and fighting, and spent time in shelters and halfway homes. When he'd broken into the store, he'd been living in an abandoned warehouse on the east side with two other runaways and a homeless Vietnam vet.

Richie looked up from his sandwich. "But that was then, and this is now, and I'm real tired. You don't care if I turn in early, do you?"

"This is your week. You call the shots."

"How early are we getting up?"

"It'll be a reasonable hour."

"Reasonable for who?" Richie asked warily. He put half his sandwich in the refrigerator, emptied his soup into the sink, and started running the hot water.

"Leave the dishes," Duncan called over his shoulder.

"I must really be on vacation," Richie said.

"You won't say that at four thirty a.m.," Duncan said, and smiled at the groan that came back in response.

It was actually closer to five by the time they left the cabin the next morning, still dark, still cold enough that their breath frosted in the air. Richie was morose and uncommunicative, and made a face when Duncan offered him the thermos of coffee.

"I didn't bring the soda," Duncan apologized.

"Humph," was all Richie said.

They were knee-deep in galoshes in the nearby freshwater stream by the time the sun came up. Five trout were on ice in the cooler by mid-morning, all from Duncan's line.

"Maybe they smell city boy," Richie offered, once he'd woken up. He dropped to the bank to rest. "Maybe I have a black thumb for fishing."

"You said you'd gone fishing before," Duncan said as he tied more bait onto his hook.

"Yeah, but I didn't say what I've caught. Spare tires, shoes, condoms . . . " The smile was only half-hearted, and Richie rubbed at the back of his head.

"You okay?"

"Headache. Comes with getting up too early in the morning."

"Do you want to go back?" Duncan offered. "We may have exceeded our quota."

Richie shrugged. "Nah. It's okay. Unless you want to."

"Maybe we should," Duncan said. Now that he looked closely, he noticed Richie was paler than normal, and not quite alert. They hiked twenty minutes back to the cabin and once inside Richie went straight to bed. It was mid-afternoon before Duncan knocked softly on the door and inched inside. Richie lay on the bed, shivering under a down comforter, spots of fever in his cheeks. He lifted his head and blinked disorientedly as Duncan came to the bedside.

"You're sick," Duncan said.

Richie shook his head, despite the sickening slosh of a leaden wave that went from one side of his skull to the other. His tongue felt like a wool blanket, and his stomach spasmed in hollow, aching protest.

"No I'm not," he said. "I don't get sick."

Duncan put a hand on Richie's forehead. "Well, Mr. Don't-Get- Sick, you have a fever. Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?"

"I don't get sick," Richie groaned. "Just leave me alone."

Duncan went to go see what medicines Tessa had stocked up in the bathroom. He came back with aspirin. Richie swallowed some down, nearly choking on the ache in his throat, and miserably buried himself under the covers again. A hand woke him sometime later, and for a moment he nearly panicked.

"What?" he gasped, trying to jerk upright, but someone restrained him. The bedroom was dark, and every bone in his body ached as if he'd been stretched out on some medieval torture rack.

"It's all right," Duncan's voice said calmly. The bedside light came on, bright and glaring. Richie squeezed his eyes shut as his brain threatened to burst out his ears. The Highlander's voice said, "Take some of these pills."

"What are they?" Richie demanded. Shakily he sat up against the headboard and fumbled at the two white pills Duncan was forcing into his hand along with a glass of water.

"More aspirin. Best thing for the flu."

"I don't have the flu," Richie insisted. The words rang sickeningly in his own ears. "I don't get sick."

"Swallow," Duncan said, sounding irritated, and Richie did as told. He blinked at the numbers on the wind-up clock beside the bed. "How come it's dark at eleven o'clock in the morning?"

"It's eleven at night. You've been sleeping all day. Come on and get something to eat."

"I'm not eating," Richie said, wrapping the comforter around him as he pulled himself wearily to his feet. He followed Duncan into the main room and then dropped to the comfort of the sofa. The fire felt good. He was very cold, but sweating. "Mac, I'm not sick."

"Then you're doing a good impression," Duncan said from the sink. He poured some soup into a mug, brought it to Richie, made him sit upright, and forced it into his hands. He wished Tessa was there. He hadn't been sick since his mortal death in the sixteen century. And he'd never been a very good nurse. It was bad enough when Tessa caught cold, coughing and sneezing and leaving dirty tissue all over the sofa. He had no idea what to do with a teenage boy in denial.

"Why don't you get sick?" Duncan asked as Richie morosely studied the soup. "Are you a Christian Scientist?"

"Huh?" Richie asked.

"Never mind. Drink it."

Richie made a face. He pulled his knees up under the comforter and managed a few sips. "Are we going fishing in the morning?"

"I don't think so."

"I'll be fine."

"We'll see."

"Why don't you sleep on the sofa? The fire will keep you warm."

"I'm too warm now," Richie said, pushing aside the comforter even as he fought down some shivers. "It's hot in here." He put the soup down. "That's awful."

"Would you like something else?"

Richie scowled at him and tipped sideways to lay out on the sofa. "Don't try and mother me, Mac. I'm not sick."

"I know," Duncan said, pushing down on his own irritation. "And trust me, I don't want to be your mother. Just go to sleep."

Richie slept most of the following day, waking up for aspirin or the bathroom, feverish but reasonably coherent, and gray in the face. Duncan kept the cabin toasty warm, read two books he hadn't read since 1910, and toyed with the idea of hauling Richie's butt back to Seacouver. The only advantage would be that he could turn Richie over to Tessa, but the trip wouldn't be worth the effort. Richie wasn't a bad patient by any means, and seemed determined not to be any trouble. If there was real trouble, Duncan had a ham radio he could use to contact the outside world. He'd hauled it up years ago, in case Tessa ever had an accident.

By the next evening Richie seemed a little better, and spent a few hours awake and watching the fire. Duncan made him drink down glasses of juice and more soup, and tried to cheer him up.

"Could be worse," he said. "Bubonic Plague is worse."

Richie perked up a little. "You saw the Bubonic Plague?"

"And other plagues as well."

"And you never had to worry," Richie said.

"Not about myself. About people I loved."

Richie pulled the blankets tighter. At some point he'd changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, although he was fuzzy on exactly when. "What were the symptoms of Bubonic Plague?"

Duncan made a face. "I don't remember exactly. Headache, nausea, vomiting . . . aches and pains . . .fever and shivering . . . and then buboes."

"Buboes?" Richie asked. "That's not a real word."

"Sure it is. That's why it's called Bubonic. They're enlarged lymph nodes."

Richie remained suspicious. "How enlarged?"

"Big," Duncan said. "Like chicken eggs. Huge."

"What other kinds of eggs are there?"

"Ostrich eggs. Alligator eggs. . . it doesn't matter. Huge lumps under the victims' skin - " He trailed off as it occurred to him that Tessa, had she been around, might not consider talk of fatal plagues to be comforting to someone already suffering from the flu. Richie, as usual, had gone off on a tangent anyway.

"'Chicken Eggs and Ham is the name of a Dr. Seuss book."

"I doubt it."

"No, that's the title."

"It's something like that, but it's not," Duncan said.

Richie raised his head and said, "What, Dr. Seuss was an Immortal? You know this stuff?"

"No, Dr. Seuss was not an Immortal, but I know the title of the book isn't that. It's Scrambled Eggs. Or something."

"You read it?"

"I don't remember."

Richie wouldn't give up. "I bet you don't even know his real name."

"Theodor something," Duncan said.

"Theodor Geisel. And the title of the book?"

"Not 'Chicken Eggs and Ham,' Richie. You're delirious. Go back to sleep."

Richie pouted. "Don't tell me what it was. I had a foster mother who read that book to me all the time."

Duncan said, "If you'd read it yourself you'd know the real title."

A swift look of hurt cross the teenager's face. "Yeah, well, maybe I didn't read real well when I was a kid."

Duncan mentally kicked himself. It was bad enough arguing with a sick person. "I'm sorry."

Richie didn't look at him. "Not your problem."

They were quiet for awhile, listening to the sizzle of the fire in the hearth and the rattle of the wind against the windows. "I don't get sick," Richie finally said, in a small voice, "because I had one family that sent me back to the orphanage because I got sick too much. Sixth grade. It wasn't a good year."

Duncan rolled his wine glass between his fingers. "That must have been hard."

Richie eased up on one elbow and asked, intently, "In four hundred years, do you forget a lot?"

"Some," Duncan allowed. "Not everything, obviously."

"I can't forget everything I want to," Richie said wistfully, and buried his head half in the pillow. "Maybe I can do some self hypnosis or something."

"Maybe you should go to sleep," Duncan suggested.

"Don't tell Tessa," Richie mumbled.

"Tell Tessa what?"

"That I couldn't read," Richie yawned. His eyes were sliding closed. "I'd be embarrassed."

"I won't tell anyone," Duncan promised. But someday, Richie might trust Tessa enough to tell her himself. He picked up the dirty glasses and plates from the coffee table and went to the sink to wash them, taking a moment to stare out the window into the dark night and wonder at the vagaries of fate.

On the couch Richie, who'd only been pretending to go to sleep, stared at the fire and down a long tunnel of memories he'd rather forget.

And Duncan, who hadn't been fooled in the least, did the dishes and gave him the privacy he needed. When he came back to the fire Richie's eyes were wide open.

"Maybe you're right," Richie admitted. "Maybe it's 'Green Eggs and Ham.'"

Duncan sat down. "Maybe not." He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. "Four hundred years, I forget a lot."

Richie only smiled.

"But I still don't believe in Alice in Chains," Duncan said.

THE END

Author's Notes: Thanks to Rachel Shelton for beta reading this one! It *is* Green Eggs and Ham, and Alice in Chains really is a group...