Jo spent the drive back to Richie's acutely aware that she had a dead body next to her. She tried to pretend he was sleeping, only the small snuffles and snorts, the steady breathing, the twitches and futile attempts to get comfortable in a moving vehicle that a sleeping passenger would make were all absent. Richie jostled along with the bumps in the road—once banging his head on the window hard enough to make Jo wince—and was perfectly silent.

She was also aware of the bloody sword laying in her back seat. A bloody concealed sword.

As a cop, she normally didn't worry about being pulled over. Professional courtesy ran deep. Tonight, she kept her hands locked on the wheel, one eye on the odometer, and the rest of her attention on making sure she didn't look so suspicious that someone would pull her over just to find out what she was hiding. Bad enough she had started lying to Reece. No lie or cover story in the world would get her out of this one.

Her side hurt. She'd strained it further helping Richie get to the car, and now that her adrenaline was wearing off, the wound began to throb hard enough to make her grit her teeth against the pain. In no way did she want immortality—either Henry's version or Richie's—but right now she wouldn't mind a bit of the rapid healing Richie had demonstrated. And shouldn't he have healed by now? How long did this death thing last? Henry's revival seemed to be effectively instantaneous. Kenny's had taken less than twenty minutes.

"Come on," she urged, her voice loud in the stillness of the car. "Come on."

It had already been twenty minutes. Was she supposed to do something to make the revival happen?

She recalled Henry explaining how he and Richie had met, how Richie had been out for hours. What was she supposed to do if he was out for hours now? She couldn't sit with him in her car all night, and she couldn't get him out of the car and up to his apartment all by herself, not with her own injury.

The nearest parking spot to his building was half a block away—which was honestly closer than she'd expected. Cutting the engine, she contemplated the odds of her dragging a corpse down the street without anyone noticing. A quick glance at the number of people who were out-and-about—many sitting on the steps of their buildings enjoying a balmy evening before the descending dark finished driving them indoors—told her that she had no chance at all. She'd grown up in a neighborhood not unlike this one and she knew how much people saw when strangers came into their space.

Liam's offer fell to a distant pleasantry with the realization that she had no choice now but to sit here until Richie revived. Somehow, she'd have to stay as inconspicuous as a person could in an unmarked police car, at night, with a dead passenger.

She found the building that housed Richie's apartment and gambled that she knew the typical interior layouts of this style of building-so like one she'd grown up in-well enough to guess which window belonged to him. A light was on-which could mean nothing except that he'd neglected to shut it off before he left-and the shade was drawn. Craning her head, she sought for a glimpse of anything that could tell her if she was on the right track.

Cars passed in a trickle that started to sputter as the night grew darker. From somewhere, music-gospel, she thought-began, rose in volume until she could almost make out the words, then sank back into quiet. Richie didn't move.

Then a man walked past the window, his form no more than a dark shadow, non-distinctive, until he stopped, turned, and cast a silhouette on the panel that she'd recognize anywhere. The gasp of air she sucked in sent a fresh wave of pain across her ribs. She'd once dropped that profile's owner off in front of this very building, and then had driven away without giving any thought to the name on the martial arts studio that occupied the first floor.

For the second time that night, she found herself digging through a man's pockets. She found the keys and let herself out of the car, hoping that Richie would understand if he woke up before she returned. On impulse, she also grabbed his coat and sword. The less for a casual passerby to see if he glanced in the window, the better.

Too soon, she found herself in front of his door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened for the sounds of someone inside. What would she do if his girlfriend answered? Richie'd made it clear that she didn't know, and this was not the way for her to find out. The apartment sounded empty, but her instincts told her it wasn't. Steeling herself, she knocked. The sound ricocheted through the hallway and she stepped back, hugging the jacket to herself.

She was just raising her hand to knock again when the door swung open. On the other side stood Matt Adamson, dressed in a white undershirt, blue boxers, and nothing else. A pair of earbuds hung looped around his neck. She never thought she'd be so happy to see him again, if not this much of him. All this time, she'd known that he and Richie lived in the same part of town and it never occurred to her that they knew each other.

And here he was. Waiting.

"Detective Martinez." He offered her a smile of bland amusement, which faded and then slipped off his face completely when he saw what she was holding. His jaw set, the hand on the door frame gripping hard enough to splinter the wood. He thought she was there on the one duty every cop hated to perform.

"No," she interrupted before he could ask. "He's downstairs."

Matt swallowed. "Alive?"

How was she supposed to answer that? She reached to brush back her hair and hissed as the movement tugged at her scabbing wound. Keep it simple, she decided. This isn't the time for misunderstandings. "Not… currently. May I come in?" This also wasn't a conversation to be having in the hallway.

He waved her in and closed the door, already looking calmer. "You're hurt," he said.

"Yeah," she agreed, glancing down as if to confirm the injury. Fresh blood had leaked through the hasty bandage she'd put on and was now staining her shirt along her left side. She was probably going to need stitches after all. She blew out a weary sigh. "It's been a busy night." Wasn't that an understatement? "Richie won," she added before he could reach the wrong conclusion again. She handed over the jacket-and-sword. "I … don't know what else to tell you … what you already know … what you need to know…." She trailed off, somewhat confused by her own incoherence.

Matt pulled the sword out, eying the blood on the blade with distaste. "Tell me he died before he had a chance to clean this."

Jo nodded. "In the car, on the way here. I don't know why. I saw the whole fight and it didn't look like he got injured. Not until afterward, anyway, with the lightning and explosions and stuff which I thought were going to kill him. And I guess it did." She looked again toward her own injury. "I can't get him up the stairs by myself."

She waited until Matt set the sword on the counter—until it wasn't in reach anymore—before she said anything further. "I didn't know what else to do. I've never had someone die on me before. Like this, anyway." Henry's death didn't count. Henry's death couldn't count. She wasn't ready to process that yet. Feeling her own exhaustion catching up to her, Jo stumbled over to the sofa and sank down on its arm. "This is temporary, right? He really is immortal?" After everything, it was still a question she needed to ask. Finding out otherwise would be the perfect capstone to a lousy day.

"As long as his head's attached," Matt answered, and Jo grunted her assent that it was. Matt gave her a searching look, then disappeared into one of the bedrooms. "I'm gonna go get him. In your car, you said?"

She pointed in the relevant direction before remembering that Matt couldn't see her. "Yeah. Down the street."

Matt emerged a minute later with jeans on, the earbuds gone, and a leather bag that looked like an old fashioned doctor's kit in his hand, which he set on the table. Sitting down on a kitchen chair, he began to pull on a pair of hiking boots that had been sitting near the front door. "Stay here. I want to take a look at you when I get back. Is it a sword wound?"

"Gunshot."

His eyebrows went up. "And you're here instead of at the ER?"

"It would raise too many questions," she answered. The instant she'd seen Kenny aiming her gun at her, she'd known that whatever happened next would have to be off the books. She'd had no inkling then of how much that would be. "Hospitals are required by law to report all gunshot wounds, and I haven't had a chance to think of a believable cover story for how I got it. Or ... if I can." Idly, she scraped at the textured upholstery of the sofa, for lack of anything more meaningful to do.

With a nod, Methos rose. "Stay here," he repeated, and left.

Jo wasn't going to argue. The idea of dealing with the stairs again this soon was too much. Besides, she really couldn't do anything to help besides point out which car was hers, and she figured that Matt was astute enough to figure that out for himself. The presence of the dead guy in it would be a bit hint. So she waited, at first staring at nothing, then taking in the decor.

The furniture was minimal: a sofa, coffee table, kitchen table, a straight-backed chair, and a pair of bar stools. Everything looked straight out of 1966, down to the cracked vinyl on the seat of the stools and the brown and orange pattern of the upholstery. Richie wasn't old enough to have bought all this first hand, which meant he likely acquired it hand-me-down. More likely, he'd rescued it from a curb. The only items of worth were a new-looking flat screen television that sat on a plank that was, in turn, resting on a pair of concrete blocks, and a tangle of cords and controllers that looked to be the nest for multiple video game consoles. For someone in his forties, he was doing an excellent job putting on the veneer of a barely-scraping-by twenty-something. It was depressing, she decided. Even in his own home, he couldn't let down his guard. Nor would he ever be able to. It was a life she wouldn't wish on anyone, and an insight she didn't know what to do with.

The door flew open and Matt strode in with Richie slung in a fireman's carry over his shoulder. Jo saw him through the dream-like fugue she'd slipped into, his face set in a mask of concentration, his stride sure. The weight of a full-grown man appeared to be no inconvenience to him at all.

Shaking her head, she dragged herself back. "Is he still…"

"As a doornail," Matt answered. He dumped the body on the sofa with no regard for how Richie's limbs fell and went back to shut the door. "You said you were there? That you saw the whole thing?" Jo nodded, feeling once again that she was admitting to something she wasn't supposed to know. "Are you certain he didn't sustain any injuries? The person who shot you…."

"Same person," Jo confirmed. "Not the same time. Or the same place." Already the timeline was getting muddled in her head and she was grateful for the chance to say it all out loud, to confirm that the evening had happened as she remembered. "Richie didn't get involved 'til the end."

"After you called him?"

The question took Jo aback. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her that Richie would have shared that detail with anyone, that Richie had anyone to share that detail with. She glanced around the room, trying to work out why the idea was so difficult - at first seeing nothing, and then realizing that the nothing was the reason. Everything in the apartment that Jo could see was clearly Richie's; there was nothing to indicate the tastes or preferences of a second person. "You were here when I called," she stated, slowly, still working through the issue that had been bothering her since Richie's front door opened from the inside, "and when I knocked. Why were you here? Why were you waiting?"

"Is it really that hard to imagine?" Matt countered. "I live here, just like I told you when you kindly chauffeured me. Really. Now come sit over here where the light's better." He pointed to the kitchen chair, then looked up at the yellow-stained light cover. "Marginally. I'll also need you to take your shirt off so I can see the wound."

"You're Richie's roommate?" Jo asked. In a way it made sense. People often had roommates, sometimes several. Someone living in this kind of apartment with furniture scavenged from the curb undoubtedly needed roommates to help make ends meet. But the idea of Richie and Matt living together seemed like the proverbial straw on the camel of weirdness of her day. "You?"

Matt's mouth quirked in a smile. "It serves both our needs at the moment."

With a nod, Jo accepted that. While she recognized a prevarication when she heard one, a much more important question had made its way up the list. "Are you a doctor?"

"I have been," Matt answered, opening the bag and taking out a suture kit that looked like ones Jo'd seen on display in Abe's antique store.

"In this century?"

Matt raised an eyebrow at her. "You're asking a lot of questions. Considering we're only sixteen years into this century, I don't think the answer is going to tell you much. However: No. Not in this century. Though it has been recently enough that I know about newfangled medical practices like washing my hands before performing surgery, so…" While she carefully unbuttoned her shirt, Matt went over to the sink and put word into deed.

Tilting her head, Jo studied Matt from behind and tried to put together what little she knew about him. He'd been a doctor at some point and wasn't now. He was such a confident fighter that he hadn't been afraid to go up against Kostya unarmed, yet he'd had an arsenal in his coat when he went to the liquor store. He was on good enough terms with Richie to be living with him, and yet Richie had never mentioned him in conversation. The contradictions were more than she wanted to puzzle through right now. "How old are you?" she asked, deciding to go straight for the most basic fact.

Matt shut the water off and grabbed some paper towels to dry his hands on. "A day older than I was yesterday." It might have been the pain pill or the complete clusterfuck of a night, but she thought she heard a hint of darkness in an otherwise flippant response, though it was gone by the time he turned back to her. She'd crossed a line that she had no idea existed. She backed off immediately. "Now let's see about that injury. You are going to need stitches. I hope you're not squeamish."

Jo could only stare, in lieu of having any more fucks to give.

She heard the thunk of a cabinet doors opening and closing and the clink of glass on a hard surface. The harsh scent of whisky pierced her awareness, and her gaze slowly focused on the glass that Matt held in front of her.

"Drink this," he ordered. "It'll help."

She reached for it, craving the numbness and warmth the alcohol promised. How badly she wanted to bury the horrors of the night under a few drinks. Or more than a few. Blackout drunk sounded pretty damn good right now. Hadn't Henry mentioned the role of whisky as a medical analgesic? Matt had only poured a couple fingers worth, not even enough to match the effects of that half pill.

The pill.

Pain killers always came with warnings against combining with alcohol. Shaking her head, she pushed the glass away. "Can't," she explained. "Or, I guess, shouldn't."

Matt held the glass out a few seconds longer as if to give her the chance to change her mind. As much as she wanted to, she didn't dare risk it. After everything she'd already managed to get away with, she couldn't risk blowing it all on an accidental poisoning.

With a shrug, he set the glass aside. "I'll be as gentle as I can," he promised — and it sounded like he meant it. That was nice.

She zoned out again while he helped her take her shirt off and started treating her wound. It was easier than being self-conscious about having her breasts on display in front of a person she barely knew and didn't have much reason to like.

Tomorrow she was going to call her mother-in-law. Jo had always gotten on well-enough with Susan. Their relationship couldn't be described as deep, yet was always pleasant. They talked about simple things: what sales they'd encountered, the state of the roads in the city, gossip about what Sean's extended family was up to. Heaven only knew what they'd discuss in tomorrow's call, but it wouldn't be immortals. They could talk about which of the cousins had gotten in trouble in school, which ones were trying to get pregnant—and which ones were too soon—, and who was searching for a new job, and Jo could make all the required noises of commiseration and scandalization without having to dismantle her own morality first.

She might even mention Henry.

Susan had been encouraging Jo to start dating again. "Sean would want you to move on," she'd said, more than once. "All he ever wanted was for you to be happy." It was trite as hell, well-meant, and true.

It seemed fair to give Susan a nice piece of completely normal gossip to take back to the family.

Soon enough, Matt was taping a fresh piece of gauze into place. "You got lucky. I didn't see any foreign material in the wound and I don't think your ribs suffered any damage that'll cause lasting problems. You'll need to keep this dry..."

"I've dealt with serious injuries before," Jo answered. She poked idly at the new bandage and recoiled when the spot underneath still hurt. From somewhere Matt produced a new shirt for her to wear. It was a men's cut, probably his, and she wouldn't have accepted it had her own not been soaked through with blood. Slowly, she got it on, even managing to get her arm into the sleeve without help. "I'll have Henry look at it when I get home. He's a—"

"Medical examiner," Matt finished. "So I've heard." The touch of amusement that came into his tone was so at odds with the rest of his behavior that Jo gave him a double-take. "Do I need to call you a cab?"

"I can drive," she answered, standing up. A cab would be smarter and safer, only she didn't want to leave her car here. "But I think I should stay until Richie…comes back? Resurrects? What's the right way to say it?" Henry would understand why she didn't come right back. She could leave a message at the rectory so he didn't worry.

"They all work." He too stood up. Rather than cleaning up from the impromptu surgery, as Jo expected, he slipped back into his bedroom. He came back out with a sword. "And you need to leave."

Alarmed, Jo stepped back. "What's that for?" She'd never been run out of someone's home at sword point before—assuming that 'running her out' is what Matt meant to do.

Instead of coming toward her, he pulled one of the bar stools over near the sofa and straddled it, the sword seemingly as much a part of him as any of his limbs. In a flash, Jo realized what he meant to do with it.

"You can't kill him!" Had she been in better shape, she might have tried to wrestle the sword away, to do anything to prevent another death this night. Or maybe that was the drugs talking. "You're supposed to be his friend. Aren't you? Or roommate, anyway. What are you doing?!"

Matt pondered the corpse on the couch in front of him. It was already looking paler, the blood that no longer flowed inside now succumbing to gravity, first from his upright position in the car and now his supine one on the sofa. Soon rigor would set in and the ungainly positions of his arms and legs would freeze him in a truly uncomfortable position. Did it hurt to come back from that, Jo wondered? Did Immortals revive from the dead only to suffer cricks in their back?

"I have no intention of taking Richard's head," he finally answered, once again derailing her thoughts before she could see where they were headed. He settled the sword across his knees like he was preparing for a long wait and turned an expression on her that gave away nothing of what he was thinking. "The prospect of taking a Quickening indoors, in a building as poorly constructed and maintained as this one is not one to be considered lightly. I do like to be prepared, though. If the person who comes back isn't Richie…"

All possible responses fled Jo's brain. The lighting storm. All that energy that had flooded out of Kenny and pounded into Richie. She'd been wrong; she hadn't just asked him to kill another Immortal; she'd asked him to risk his very existence. What had she done?

"Leave now," Matt stated. "You can't do anything more for him."

For a moment, Jo hesitated. She was responsible for Richie's plight; if she left and he died for real, she'd always blame herself for dereliction. Perhaps recognizing the cause of her reluctance, Matt's gaze once again softened, a return to his more caring bedside manner. "He's in my care now. Trust me to do what's best for him, just as I did for you."

A glance down toward her now-patched wound, then over to the ever-paler body on the sofa, and Jo made her decision.

She left.