Joe insisted they check into a hotel. They were in a part of the country where a car on the road late at night was unusual enough to cause comment. Maybe even to attract the attention of police who were looking for things that were out of the ordinary.
They all shared a room, too. Joe would have insisted on that, had it been necessary. He didn't want Amy to be alone, and he didn't want to leave Methos alone either. The man had been acting strangely. He seemed very jumpy, and he kept vanishing for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. But in the end they all shared a room because that was how much cash they could spare considering they needed dinner, toiletries, and train fare in the morning.
Although Joe was reluctant to separate from either of his companions, he and Amy left Methos singing karaoke in the bar. Joe's warning that it was not exactly a low-profile activity went unheeded. Methos was in high spirits. Joe was glad to go to the room, and not just because of the terror-induced exhaustion that dragged at him. "Don't Get Stopped in Beverly Hills", indeed.
But he couldn't sleep. He kept playing the day's events in his mind. Amy slept fitfully in the other king-sized bed. Joe wished he could see her - to watch her sleep. If Walker had ..., if Methos hadn't ..., if Amy hadn't ..., if he had ... where the hell was Methos?
There he was. Sitting by the window, reading a paperback by the light from the street. Joe must have dozed. He blinked, to make sure the man wasn't an apparition. Then he studied him. Still as a statue, ancient face unlined by age or care, looking ghostlike in the bluish light that filtered through the drapes. Then he turned a page.
"Benjamin!" Joe whispered, a hint of irony in his use of the name. Methos looked up. Joe wasn't sure what he wanted to say; he just knew he wanted the immortal near him. Oh yeah, he did know what he wanted to say.
He couldn't join Methos at the window - his prostheses were off. He pushed himself to a sitting position and gestured. Methos put down the book and moved a footstool over by Joe. It put his head about even with Joe's shoulder. Joe arranged his pillows behind his back.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" Joe asked, feeling oddly paternal from his height advantage.
"Why aren't you?" Methos replied. His face was in shadow now, but Joe could hear his smile.
"I can't. I'm too upset. What's the matter with you, anyway? You've been hyper all evening."
As he said the words, Joe realized that he knew the answer.
"Sorry," Methos avoided the direct reply. "I had trouble even sitting still in the car. Had to keep going for little jogs. I'll sleep on the train."
Joe nodded. More to himself than to the other man, who probably couldn't see him very well anyway. There were some things you could only learn about immortals by knowing them, he reflected. Sacred or salacious, Joe hadn't determined, but quickenings were a slightly taboo subject with his immortal acquaintances. A fact unrecorded in any Chronicle.
"How is Amy, do you think?" Methos asked.
"I don't know, really," Joe sighed. "You know her about as well as I do."
"What's she mad at you for?"
The man was too perceptive. "I don't know."
He didn't. She couldn't really be angry that Joe had never shown up on her doorstep with 'By the way, I'm your real father', could she? Maybe she was just mad at Joe because he was handy. "Look, uh, Benjamin, thanks for ... for. . . aw hell, you know."
Methos was silent, so Joe went on. Geez, this was hard.
"What I said before. . I'm sorry. You went for the Chronicles because your life was at stake. I should have understood."
Methos still said nothing. Joe tried to see his face. Methos turned slightly on the footstool and leaned his temple against the pillows Joe had propped behind his back. It seemed a strange gesture to Joe - almost affectionate. Or maybe just tired. The two men listened to Amy's regular breathing in the next bed. Joe really wished Methos would say something.
"Adam?" Joe dropped his whisper to the barest breath of the audible. Even so, and with Amy surely sleeping soundly, Joe was still unwilling to use the immortal's real name. But "Benjamin" felt so contrived.
"Um hmm?" Methos responded. Joe didn't know what else to say. But then, with a piercing pain, he remembered.
"Also, ... I can't believe I ... hell, I even thought about ... giving you up to that son-of-a-bitch." Joe's whisper betrayed how upset he was. "And you knew the whole time."
At this, Methos shifted on the footstool and sat up.
"Joe," he whispered back, "if I thought, for even one moment, that you might actually set me up, I wouldn't have gone. Trust me. Would I take that risk? I never worried. Not for one minute, Joe."
"Why not? I did it to Galati."
Methos's reassurance was a comforting balm to Joe's conscience, but a well of self-loathing had been tapped and Jakob Galati bubbled forth. Joe was as surprised by it as, he assumed, Methos was.
Methos didn't respond for a moment. Joe could feel the other man trying to study him.
They had never discussed Galati. Joe and MacLeod had slowly healed from the effects of those dark days, but Methos had just vanished. His last angry words to Joe had accused Joe of deluding himself that he was unaware of Shapiro's murderous plan for Galati.
A just accusation, Joe hated to admit, but also one lacking in compassion. Now, if the immortal gave him a wisecrack for an answer, Joe would know to let the subject drop.
Methos returned to his position leaning against Joe's pillows - almost against Joe's shoulder. It had the advantage that the two of them were not trying to see each other. They both regarded the shadows on the opposite wall.
"Galati wasn't your friend and I haven't been murdering Watchers," Methos answered, "At least not recently.".
Well. Compassion and a wisecrack. What did that mean?
Then Joe winced. "And I'm sorry about that, too. I mean it."
Methos sat up again and turned away. "It's all right, Joe."
The weariness in his voice hurt, and Joe found he was weary too.
Methos stood and returned to the window. He could probably see the street through the slight gap in the drapes.
"So, did I cover everything?" Joe asked, a little too loudly.
Both men turned to study the indeterminate lump which was Amy. Her breathing didn't change. Joe looked back at Methos - Methos looked back out the window. He made a dismissive gesture with hand and shoulder.
Joe leaned back. He hated this. He also hated the distance between the two of them.
"Are you going to be able to sleep?" he inquired, more softly now.
Methos shrugged, the gesture clear against the blue-lit drapes. He also rubbed his eyes.
"C'mere," Joe said.
Methos came, but kept the height advantage for himself, this time.
"Is there anything I can do?" Joe asked.
Methos snorted and sank back down on the footstool. He leaned forward until his forehead rested on the edge of the bed. He shook with some emotion.
Confused, Joe rested a hand on his shoulder.
Methos looked up. "No, but thanks," he said, smiling.