Disclaimer: BBC, Kudos; they own it all.

Warnings: *Spoilers for S7 through to S9. Spoilers: 9x08; heading properly into plot spoiler territory now

A/N: Of monsters and men.

Her breakfast was still untouched hours later when the lock on the door buzzed with a swipe card, and John pushed through with two holdall bags, looking like he'd been run ragged, eyes burning bright and hot.

"We have to go," he said curtly, not looking at her.

She did not look at him, likewise, and did not move from where she was curled up in the armchair, still wrapped in the hotel robe, knees to her chest. He moved around cagily, packing away room items and wiping down every conceivable surface with a microfibre cloth.

"Maya?" He said when he was done, looking up in surprise, as if only just realising how distant (deliberately distant) she had been this entire time. John crossed the room and came to kneel beside her. "Maya, we need to go. I've got us on a private plane out; we're nearly there, Maya."

She considered how she would, should, answer. How much she shoud tell him, about her spook and his words - and whom would you trust, between a liar and a liar?

"Where would we go?" She settled on asking, playing along (the damsel and her knight), and was rewarded with a small hopeful smile, and he looked like her John once more.

"Anywhere. We could go anywhere; do anything."

He handed her one of the holdalls; he'd been back to the house, had managed to scrape together what was left of their wardrobe and safe box after the ransacking. "Thought you'd want some fresh clothes."

Inside the Highlander - several blouses and pairs of jeans, her favourite hairbrush, a wad of cash, a passport for Leila Roth.

Play along, she reminded herself. Play along until you find the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

But the gnawing unease only grew as she took her time, showered and changed and readied herself, emerging from the bathroom to see John ready and waiting.

Down the elevator, out into the lobby where they dropped the keys with the happily sweaty concierge. Out to the pavement, where they passed a strikingly familiar lady in a business suit, unsmoked cigarette in her hand, and a hard gaze.

"Lucas trusts you, Maya," she said as they walked by.

John whirled around. Stared. "What?"

"He trusts you to do the right thing." The lady continued. "You cannot walk away now."

John looked close to murderous, even in his confusion, but she pulled him away as he turned to advance on the smaller woman. They held each other's gaze, before the blonde shifted her eyes slowly to John with a small head tilt, then pivoted on a sharp heel and walked away.

It was only in the Audi, seated on the leather that had heated whilst waiting out by the valet, that the memory of her Ford came back to her, along with its smiling new buyer.

The buyer. The lady. The yet-another spook.

('I'm Beth, nice to meet you.")

"John," she said, finally, as they pulled out onto the motorway and merged into traffic, "what did you do?"

"Nothing," he growled, and the guarded look was back again - only now, pinched with a distinct unhappiness.

"This doesn't seem like nothing. "

The car swerved dangerously, and a horn blared from their right. John kept his eyes on the road, but his knuckles were tight around the wheel. Several minutes of silence passed, then he was pulling left, exiting into a merging road that took them out almost immediately into a country lane flanked by high hedges.

"It doesn't matter," he began, "we're leaving this all behind us. Things will be different now."

And that was when she knew that things would never be different, that John could never leave this life behind him, and that, in the end, she never had a choice.

No choice, but only to do the right thing.

The passenger door swung open, and there was a screech of brakes, and a yell.