When Joe suggested that "Benjamin" might want to join Amy and him for breakfast, he received a brief linguistic lesson in what he assumed was obscenity. A lesson delivered from beneath a blanket and pillow. They left before the language became English.
The newspaper carried the story of the two dead men in the warehouse, but there was no mention of Walker.
Amy sipped her coffee while Joe read. "Joe?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell me about him."
Joe put the newspaper down and took a forkful of eggs benedict. "What exactly do you want to know?"
Amy sighed. "Don't you think I'm entitled to know something about the man who saved my life?"
They both cast uneasy glances around the breakfast cafe at the other patrons. Satisfied that no one was in hearing distance, Amy went on. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"It's not about sides, Amy. It's about friends."
"Friends, but not family?"
"Oh Amy, don't do that."
"He's an immortal, Joe. You aren't supposed to be friends with him."
Joe refused to be put on the defensive. "Well, I am. Don't tell me you haven't heard about me and my assignment, Duncan MacLeod."
"I know it's gotten you into a lot of trouble."
"Trouble?" So much for not getting defensive. "Trouble? Trouble doesn't begin to touch it. Tell me, what are they teaching at the Academy these days about all-out war between Watchers and immortals? About sending every Watcher in existence out to kill Duncan MacLeod on sight? Not for anything he'd done; for what Galati did?"
Amy held her melon spoon motionless, watching him. Joe wasn't done. He knew he ought to be, but he wasn't. "What do they tell students about your uncle James? Do they spare the time to mention how he used the Watchers to murder immortals? Do they shed a tear over how he personally murdered Darius, one of the best men who ever lived? Your cousin Lynn doesn't know or understand what her dad was. Do you?"
Amy pressed her lips together.
"Don't decide how I should have made my choices, Amy, until you've been through the war."
Joe applied himself to his eggs benedict. Brilliant. What a way to build bridges. Why did he keep saying things he regretted?
The waiter came and refilled their coffee and juice.
"So," Amy ventured, "what can you tell me about him? Is he married?"
Joe gave her a startled look. Good Lord. What is this about, anyway?
When they returned to the room, Methos was dressed and shaved and sitting on the bed instead of lying in it. He clicked off the TV as they entered.
"Nothing on the news," he reported cheerily.
Joe dropped the newspaper on the bed. "The paper has some of it. Not Walker, though."
Methos regarded the paper with interest, but he regarded with more interest the croissant and fruit cup Joe placed on top of it.
"Thought you might be hungry."
"Joe! You're a saint!"
"Yeah, yeah. Amy insisted. You ready to go?"
Methos assented mutely, his mouth full of croissant.
Amy seated herself gingerly on the bed next to the immortal. "Benjamin," she offered, "thank you for saving my life."
Methos paused in mid-fruit cup and gave her his full attention. Amy blushed. Watching her, Methos finished the fruit and gathered the remains for the wastebasket. Then he licked his fingers and answered her.
"I didn't save you, Amy. Joe did. I'm just the tool he used."
Amy looked dismayed. "You risked your life ..."
"Yes, I did. And I don't like doing that. Which is why I don't do it for strangers. I did it for Joe, not for you."
Amy struggled not to look crushed. It wrung Joe's heart. Damn the man! What a time for honesty!
"Well, thank you anyway," she choked out and stood up. She headed for the door.
"You're welcome anyway," Methos replied.
Joe was thankful that Amy's back was turned so she didn't see the pitying look Methos gave her. Joe scooped up the newspaper and swatted the world's oldest pain in the ass with it. He followed through with his best furious look.
Methos returned him a hurt, innocent look. An utterly false one.
"Get your butt off the bed," Joe growled.
His tone was sufficiently angry that it caught Amy's attention. She looked back from the open door.
Both men abandoned their non-verbal communication. Methos bounced once on the bed, like a child, and let the trampoline effect toss him to his feet. Joe gathered his cane.
They made their way to the train station on back streets. Amy's company made Joe and Methos less of a match for any description which the police might have, but Joe's cane and gait made him potentially conspicuous nevertheless. Joe was concerned that the man who had given them a ride to the gas station might have approached the police about the gun battle which ensued. Particularly once the bodies were found. Self-defense, certainly, but how to explain it in court?
Also, Amy wasn't exactly walking with them. She strode ahead, occasionally pausing when she pulled too far from the slower pair, but staying at least ten feet from them. Well, Joe sighed to himself, she was the one who had been to this town's train station before. She might as well lead. He shared a resigned glance with Methos. Methos looked altogether too amused.
Joe shrugged off his irritation, realizing with some gratitude that "Adam" had always been one of the people who could walk comfortably with him. MacLeod was another, though when MacLeod curbed his pace to match Joe's, the sense of leashed power in the man was sometimes overwhelming. Joe's comfort was that MacLeod gave that impression with almost everyone he walked with. Methos, however, seemed to saunter effortlessly, as if it were his natural gait. Which, actually, it was.
Lost in his thoughts, Joe missed in Methos what he could have spotted while half asleep, in MacLeod.
"Joe," Methos's voice had a quiet, urgent tone to it, "I'll try to meet you at the train station. But don't wait for me." Then he leaped the rail penning a sunken stairwell, and vanished into a basement shop.
"Wha..? Ada .. Ben... Amy!" Amy looked back at Joe, who had stopped in shock at the railing. He looked in her direction and received a second shock as he saw a familiar face. Jutta Klensch, a Watcher acquaintance. What was she doing here? She was a field agent, watching ... oh. Watching the purposeful looking man who was now crossing the street at a trot, heading straight for Joe.
Joe knew a moment of sheer panic. Had he seen Methos? Had he seen Joe with Methos? Then years of practice came to his aid, and Joe continued with his own personal drama as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Well, nothing new, anyway. He had just called to Amy, so...
"Amy, wait up a second!" he headed toward her, trying to seem oblivious to the immortal now reaching the sidewalk just behind him.
Jutta had now seen Joe. She was crossing the street too, but angling slightly toward Amy and Joe, as her immortal assignment prowled the sidewalk briefly, then vanished down the stairway Methos had taken.
Amy was still searching for the suddenly missing Benjamin. She looked puzzled, then slightly startled as the older woman joined her at the same time Joe did.
"Is it MacLeod?" Jutta asked, in German-accented French.
"No," Joe replied. Same language, different accent. He had been fishing in his pocket and was ready with a card. "But call me with the outcome. On the cellular."
Jutta gave him a suspicious look, but took the card. There was no procedural reason for her to report to Joe, but they were in the intelligence gathering business, and no reasonable request was usually denied. She moved away, quickly, her eyes sparkling with the prospect of witnessing a challenge. Of watching Joe's friend die. Joe felt sick. We are all ghouls!
Jutta was experienced. She didn't follow the two immortals into the shop; she circled the outside of the building. They wouldn't fight inside; they'd have to look for an alley or a rooftop. Joe lost sight of her quickly. Very quickly, because he closed his eyes.
He opened them again when he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Joe?" Amy looked concerned. He frowned and started walking.
"Come on," he commanded. She followed, a pace or so behind.
"Aren't you scared?" she asked.
"Now why would I be scared?" he snapped, "That would be getting involved." Who cared what she thought. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. 'Don't wait for me' might well be the last words he would ever hear from the world's oldest man.
"If you didn't get involved, you wouldn't have to feel this way," she said.
Joe gritted his teeth, deeply sorry she was too old to spank.