It had been barely an hour since Methos decided to lie down in the office. For lack of anything else to do, Joe had gone back to the stage and was fingering through a few tunes on his guitar, some new and some old. He had just finished the last few chords of Jack of Diamonds

when he suddenly saw Methos standing in the doorway from the office.

"Please, don't stop on my account," the immortal said with a grin. Joe noticed that his jeans were practically dry, as was his hair. He still looked haggard but some of the weariness had faded from his face. He looked worlds better even though the nap was brief. Of course, considering the state he was previously in, that wasn't saying much.

"I didn't expect to see you up for a while yet," was Joe's response, putting the guitar back on its stand. Joe pushed himself off the stool and grabbed his cane, then headed for the bar. Methos joined him there and sat down on the only available stool. "Beer?"

An amused grin twisted Methos's lips."Do you have to ask?"

"No, but it's polite." Joe returned the grin as he handed over another draft of beer.

Methos took a long draught, finishing half the glass. His eyes closed as though he were savoring it. "Has it stopped snowing?" he asked at length, sounding hopeful.

Joe couldn't help his amusement. "Nope. In fact, I think it's snowing harder."

Methos's face fell. "You're kidding."

"Take a look for yourself."

Methos did just that, sliding off the stool and heading for the window. The lights in the bar were greater than the lights outside so all one could see was their reflection. Methos pressed his face to the glass like a child peering into a candy store and framed his gaze with his hands. After a few brief seconds he pulled himself away muttering things that Joe couldn't quite hear.

"Cable's still out," Joe added as soon as Methos opened his mouth. The immortal shut it again, the watcher having answered his question before it could be voiced.

"Great," Methos grumped once he regained his seat. He finished off his beer in another long draught, seeking its comforts. "Just great."

"Well, it could be worse," Joe offered as he made a show of refilling the tall glass.

"We're snowed in with no transportation or hope of an end in sight, and I'm sitting here half naked," Methos scoffed. "How could it possibly be worse?"

"We could be out of beer," Joe pointed out over an unrepentant grin as he slid Methos the refill.

Methos looked from beer to bartender and couldn't stop himself from laughing.

"Just trying to keep it in perspective."

"Indeed." As if to prove the point, Methos chugged this one until nothing was left but stray foam in the bottom of the glass.

With an exaggerated sigh Joe refilled the glass again, saying, "besides, it's better to have a warm place to stay tonight, instead of being out there broken down on the side of the road," with forced casualness.

Methos turned glittering gold eyes upon the watcher, as though struck by a sudden revelation. "It is indeed," he said with a genuine smile. Joe returned the smile heartily. It appeared as though they had truly made amends.

Methos drank his beer while Joe poured himself a glass of something stronger. The two took in their preferred alcohol in silence for a time, just glad to be able to be in each other's company.

"So what are an immortal and a watcher to do when snowed in?" Joe asked at length, thinking that they should find something to alleviate the inevitable boredom.

"Get drunk!" was Methos's enthusiastic reply.

Joe couldn't help the laugh. "That doesn't sound too exciting. Besides, I've seen you drink everyone under the table. You never get drunk, old man."

"Oh, never say never, Joseph. I just haven't tried hard enough yet."

"C'mon, Methos. How many people can keep up with a 5000 year old alcohol tolerance?" said Joe, exasperated.

"Not many," Methos admitted. Then he had a sudden though: "We could turn it into a game!"

Joe's face was a study in amused disbelief. "You can't seriously want to play a drinking game?"

"Why not? Richie's taught me quite a few good ones."

"And I'll bet MacLeod would be thrilled to hear that," said Joe sarcastically.

Methos sighed. "First of all, Richie is legal, at least in the eyes of immortals and watchers, and second," he flashed the watcher a wolfish grin, "MacLeod isn't here."

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this…" Joe hung his head in defeat and Methos practically let out a squeal of delight.

"Do you have any ping-pong balls?"

"Do you see any ping-pong tables?"

"Right..." Methos's eyes were darting all around the bar, ostensibly searching for inspiration. "Do you still keep your poker deck here?"

"Yeah," Joe answered. "But you can't play any of the card games with just two people."

Methos frowned in agreement. Then: "I know! Open the till, I know you have quarters!"

Joe practically sputtered. "You cannot be seriously asking me to play quarters!"

Methos blinked. "Why not?"

"It's a silly frat game."

"And Adam Pierson is a silly grad student. Why can't he play quarters?"

Joe shook his head, incredulous. "There is no conceivable way I'm going to play quarters in my own bar."

Methos sighed heavily, his enthusiasm deflated. "All right then," he said dejectedly. "I don't suppose you have any better ideas?"

Joe smothered a wince. He hadn't meant to take the wind out of the immortal's sails. "I don't suppose you play an instrument?" he offered at last, fully expecting a negative answer.

Methos arched an eyebrow. "Feel like stroking your guitar again?"

Joe shrugged. "It's all I can think of. Though, I don't know how much you want to listen."

Methos treated the watcher's self-deprecation as a personal affront. "As I recall, I told you not to stop on my account."

A smile stole it's way across Joe's face. "So you did."

With a laugh and a slight shake of his head, Joe left the bar and made his way back over to the stage. He sat back down on his stool and picked up his guitar, absently fingering it and plucking out some nameless tune as he made minute adjustments. In his concentration he hadn't noticed that Methos had followed him. He didn't notice until he heard a few chords suddenly chime out on the electric keyboard.

"What are you doing?" he asked, amusement and disbelief vying for control of his voice.

"What does it look like?" Methos responded dryly as his fingers continued their explorations.

"I didn't know you played."

"Five thousand years, Joe. You don't think that in all that time I never studied music?"

Joe's watcher-sense was tingling. "You've studied music?"

Another one of Methos's half-shrugs. "Well… not as such. But I did take piano lessons once upon a time." As if to emphasize this point he suddenly struck the opening chords to Beethoven's fifth symphony.

Joe knew that he was being bated, with the chords and the sly smile, and chose to ignore it. "Fair enough," he said instead. "What shall we play?"

Methos shrugged and stilled his fingers. "Oh, I don't know. Why don't you start something, and I'll join in."

"Sounds good."

Joe began to aimlessly pluck out a few chords on his guitar, trying to decide what to play, while Methos looked on patiently. Eventually the immortal picked up on something in the mindless acoustic notes and entered in with the corresponding piano chords. Joe looked over sharply, but then suddenly realized what his fingers were up to. Then the duo began to play Bohemian Rhapsody in earnest, Joe singing and Methos content to let him.

"You know," said Joe when the song was finished. "I sensed that something was distinctly lacking in our performance."

"Yeah," Methos agreed. "We could have really used a drummer." When Joe laughed he amended, "or perhaps a bassist?"

"I was referring to the absence of backup vocals," Joe said pointedly. Methos had remained silent throughout the song.

"Were you now." The question was rhetoric, the sarcasm in Methos's tone undercut by the amusement shining in his eyes. Suddenly Joe laughed.

Methos blinked. "What's so funny?"

"Stood on the same stage as Julius Caesar and the Rolling Stones," he said, quoting.

Methos paused, confused, until it dawned on him: that's what he'd told MacLeod when they'd first met. Methos shrugged half-heartedly. "What can I say? I get around."

"Were you Keith Richards's body guard, too?" Joe was only partially joking.

"Of course not," Methos scoffed. "Do I look buff enough for that? They hired big, beefy types who look intimidating in trench coats and brass knuckles."

"Then what did you do for them?" Joe asked. "Don't tell me you actually played…"

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Methos sounded sincerely hurt.

"I would have figured it was too public a lifestyle for the world's oldest immortal," Joe recovered quickly, and Methos laughed.

"Indeed. No Joseph, I didn't play, though it was tempting to see if my skills were worthy."

"Then what were you?"

"Just a humble roadie. Summer of '72."

Joe whistled. "That must have been great."

"Sure," Methos agreed. "If you think hauling heavy equipment, living out of a suitcase, sleeping a few hours a night on a tour bus, and getting paid next to nothing for an extremely thankless task, then yeah, it was a scream." The sarcasm overshadowed the amusement that time.

"It can't have been that bad," Joe protested.

Methos's dour expression was suddenly lit by a sly grin. "Well, not it you consider the P.O. box I have in London that still gets Christmas cards from Mick Jagger."

"You're shitting me."

"I've got proof," was Methos's glib reply.

"I'll bet you do," Joe dismissed, not wanting to argue.

Methos just shrugged and returned his attentions to the keys. After a while it became apparent that he had returned to their earlier game. Joe had to concentrate hard in order to pick out the song, then laughed at Methos's choice. With a shrug he followed in with the guitar part for Pinball Wizard, which quickly progressed into a medley from the entire musical. Joe was fairly amazed at how natural Methos was at the keys. At some point, with some form of wordless, sightless communication, they both agreed to be done and the music stopped. A sweet silence filled the air, which was suddenly interrupted by Methos's lighthearted laugher.

"What's so funny?" Joe asked.

"I was just thinking," said the immortal. "Have you ever noticed how Roger Daltry bears an almost uncanny resemblance to the late Hugh Fitzcairn?"

Joe paused a moment in thought before suddenly laughing himself. "You know, I'd never thought about it, but you're absolutely right. How 'bout that."

"Except Fitz didn't have a single musical bone in his entire body," said Methos with a laugh.

Joe couldn't just let that one pass by. "You knew Fitz?"

For a moment Methos's face darkened and Joe was worried that the subject would be suddenly dropped. "Not well," the immortal admitted at length. "I knew his teacher."

Joe screwed up his face in thought. "The name escapes me," he said at last.

"You really should study more," was Methos's serious response.

"C'mon, old man. What's the harm in telling me his name?"

"What makes you think it's a he?" There went that eyebrow again.

"Because Fitz was too chauvinistic to ever respect a woman enough to let one teach him to fight."

"He respected Rebecca well enough."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Everyone respected Rebecca. But I know for a fact that Fitz was definitely not one of her students."

Methos smiled slightly and then nodded. "You're right about that. We all respected her."

That one was unexpected and too good to ignore. "Wait a sec--you knew Rebecca, too?"

"She was…" Methos paused suddenly, as though he realized to late that he was about to say something he shouldn't have, and the words trailed off into silence. He corralled his thoughts after a moment. "One of the last of the old ones. No one over two thousand didn't not know Rebecca."

"You old farts have some sort of elitist club or something?" Joe was fishing and he knew it.

Methos's grin was enigmatic. "Or something."

The immortal seemed content to just let the conversation die there, but Joe was struck by a sudden thought. "Who's the second oldest?"

Methos's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing into a sharp, calculating gaze. "Excuse me?"

"You're the oldest living immortal, but who's next? Who's number two?" Joe expected a quick evasion to the question, but surprisingly (or maybe not all that surprisingly), Methos only laughed.

"Cassandra is the oldest immortal on file," he said evasively.

"Obviously," said Joe impatiently. "But from what we gather, she's only 3300 or so."

"Give or take," Methos interjected lightly.

"Give or take," Joe returned. "But that still 1700 years younger than you. That's a big gap, even for immortals." Methos nodded solemnly. "So who comes in between?"

"Rebecca did," he said, his voice soft and sad, but the admission came willingly.

"How old was she when she died?" Joe blurted, spurred on by the fact that Methos relented so readily. The watchers had no first death information on Rebecca, but her chronicle was one of the oldest they had.

Methos paused for a moment, thoughtful. "Fourth among us," he surmised at last.

Joe's jaw dropped slightly. "I had no idea," he said softly to himself.

"Not even Amanda knew how old she really was. It's habit with us… old farts," he began, using Joe's words with the slightest bit of emphasis, "to keep such things secret."

"So I've been told," said Joe with a dismissive laugh. Then: "What was she like?"

"You've watched MacLeod for nigh on twenty years now. I'm sure you have some inkling of her."

"Glimpses at a distance, my friend," said Joe rather wistfully.

Methos sighed, a distant look slowly claiming his features. "She was light," the immortal said at last. "Being in her presence was like…" His voice trailed off and Joe grew impatient.

"Like what, old man?"

"It's not something one can easily describe, Joe," he confessed. "She was a lot like Darius, but not."

"Alike but not," said Joe sarcastically. "That makes a lot of sense."

Methos shrugged again, defeated. "She wasn't touched by the same darkness that he was. Her responsibilities were… different."

"Responsibilities?" Joe asked, confused, but Methos was silent, lost in his own thoughts.

"I think it's time for another beer," he said at last, shaking off whatever memories he had been momentarily lost in. "You want anything?"

"No, I think I'm gonna stay right here and work on a few things," said the watcher, once again returning his attentions to his guitar. He knew better than to push Methos for more information. Indeed, the glimpses gained tonight were rare admissions by the immortal. Idly he wondered if these were because he was simply too fatigued to make up stories (if indeed he was telling the truth in the first place, but Joe had the sinking suspicion that he was). That only added to the watcher's worry. After all, his admission about Caesar and Rome came willingly, and that was before--

Before you mouthed off, Joe chided himself. Whatever was eating at Methos, he certainly hadn't made things better. Indeed, he even wondered as to how easily the old man appeared to have forgiven him. 'Sticks and stones,' as Methos would say, but really Joe wondered if he was forgiven simply because Methos lacked the mental stamina to be angry, and therefore when Joe offered his apology…

Something was definitely off about Methos tonight. Joe didn't know what it was, if it was bad enough to lower Methos's defenses enough that a verbal bashing could chase him from the bar, make him admit to hard truths, speak complete sentences in unrecognizable languages, and volunteer information, all because he didn't have the energy to, well, be Methos, then it definitely warranted addressing. The only question, was how.