At last Methos seemed to relax. He slouched bonelessly, releasing Joe's fingers at last so that he could scrub his face with both hands. Joe gave him a moment to collect himself before breaking the silence.

"Methos?"

"What do you want me to say, Joe?" Methos asked, exhausted, resigned, but perhaps a bit farther back from the edge than he had been. "Yes, I killed Silas. Lopped off his head to save MacLeod's precious witch."

"You killed him for Cassandra?" Joe blurted before he could help himself.

Methos sighed heavily. "What difference does it make? He's just as dead."

"Well it must make some difference, or else you wouldn't be avoiding the question."

"I see where you're trying to take this, Joe." Annoyance crept into Methos's voice as he closed himself off. "Am I supposed to admit that I killed him to prove to Cassandra, to MacLeod, and even to myself that I have changed? To prove that I am not like that anymore? Am I'm supposed to reason that it was because, since I had condemned Kronos to die, Silas would have killed me for my treachery and thus I preempted him in self-defense? Perhaps I just didn't want Cassandra to die, and killing Silas was the only way I knew of to prevent it from happening? Believe me, Joseph. I have spent more time than is probably healthy trying to come up with my reasons."

Joe snorted ruefully. "And you're telling me you don't brood?"

Methos shrugged, granted Joe the thinnest of smiles. "Well, maybe I do. A little. Comes from hanging around MacLeod I guess."

"So, what were your reasons?" Joe probed again, because he'd figured it out. He had to keep Methos talking. It was safer; the words defeated the demons, gave them names and stripped them of their power. To define a thing is to give it borders, give it shape, pull the infinity right out from under its feet. Confine it and it loses its power over you, the same way checking under the bed reduces monsters into sneakers and dirty clothes. Joe just needed to keep fishing and Methos just might keep right on biting, just might be able to save himself, back farther away from the abyss.

Or he just decide it wasn't worth it, and pitch you over the ledge instead.

"If I asked you right now why you shot James, what would you tell me?"

It didn't even occur to Joe that he could lie. "I guess I'd say that he needed to be stopped, and I was there, and I had a gun, so I stopped him."

There was absolutely no humor in Methos's smile. "Now, replace the word 'gun' with 'sword,' and there you go."

Joe blinked, stunned. "But, didn't we just prove that it can't be that simple?"

"It never is."

"But--"

"Look Joseph," Methos interrupted, his voice steeped in exhaustion. "I know what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it, I really do. But you can't help me with this."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not the same."

"You just said it was."

Methos sighed, exasperated. "The circumstances were similar, nothing more."

"I fail to see the difference." Joe was being difficult and he knew it, but he was also confused and more than a little angry at having his understanding belittled and his empathy dismissed.

"Do you play chess?"

"Excuse me?" And just like that, the anger derailed completely into curiosity. What the hell?

"The pieces sat in the same positions, nothing more. The players and the games were different. Pawn takes rook. Every player would have made the same choice, in that position. No matter what the rest of the game looked like."

Joe nodded slowly, thoughtful at Methos's analogy. He understood a bit better now, but he was still irritated at the immortal's arrogance. "While that's fascinating," he said at length, "I fail to see why you think that means I can't help you."

"Then let me make it simple for you," and there was new venom in Methos's voice. "Just because you shot and failed to kill Horton, which, by the way, you are still gaining new insights on, that does not mean that we have anything in common, nor does it give you the right to hold my hand and help me deal with it."

Joe sat back slightly, stung, but then anger burned the sting away and he sat up straighter, shoved some iron down his spine and infused his voice with steel. "Hey, for better or worse I helped MacLeod kill my brother-in-law, and you know what? We condemned him for crimes that I myself have committed--crimes that I was condemned for, too, and it's only by the grace of God that Mac got there at the exact right time and I made it out alive. You want another one? How about, despite it all I actually mourn his loss, and I spend a helluva lot of time looking back, Monday morning quarterbacking, trying to figure out where the fuck it all went wrong, because it wasn't always like that and how the hell did I miss how bad it'd gotten? Oh, and I'm fully aware of exactly how much sympathy Mac would offer me if I ever told him I felt this way about the deranged, psychopathic son of a bitch who killed Darius, but that son of a bitch just happened to be my brother--not by birth, but through marriage and the watchers. I said before that you could talk all you wanted about me and James by pretending it was you and Kronos, and you said that I was right. What's changed between now and then, hmm? I'm curious. But please, limit your responses to English this time."

When Joe wound down he found Methos gaping at him like he was the one prone to mouth off in foreign languages. He was instantly reminded of the last time he got carried away at the immortal's expense and, suddenly both guilty and annoyed at that guilt, he sought a way to defuse some of his words. "Well, I suppose you could try French, but only if you speak it slowly."

That blindsided Methos into a laugh, though it sounded a bit unhinged, probably from the whiplash. Soon enough he reined it in, and Joe could almost hear the pieces snapping back into place in its wake. The immortal was starting to look more like himself, the armor realigning. He'd been suffering though rough patch jobs for far too long; those walls needed to collapse completely before he could rebuild in earnest, and once Joe realized it he pushed Methos into it and then pulled him out again on the other side. Now that the dust was settling he knew that Methos was better for it.

"You asked what's changed?" And Methos's voice was almost back to normal.

The watcher nodded.

"The stars," he said, and damned if he didn't realize the absurdity of it. "The stars have come out again." He sidestepped Joe's inevitable question by pointing to the window.

Confused as hell but willing to play along, the watcher glanced over through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The first thing he noticed--obviously--was that it had finally stopped snowing. Then, at Methos's silent prompting his gaze drifted up, and he saw that the clouds were rolling away, revealing a sky that was filled with countless twinkling lights. The storm had dampened the city lights enough for the lights of the heavens to make themselves known much brighter tonight than they normally would be. Joe allowed himself to be dazzled for a moment before backtracking.

"Can you see if they've plowed yet?"

Methos laughed as he got up to check. "The plow's at the other end of the street," he answered after a moment of peering out into the blackness.

"Finally," Joe signed in relief. Never in his life would he be so happy to leave the bar. "Now would you mind telling me what a change in the weather has to do with our conversation?"

Methos still stood before the window, his back to Joe. For all the watcher fell like a dirty old man for taking advantage of Methos's former shirtless state to gauge the immortal's moods, as the silence stretched between then he suddenly found himself missing the insights. He had no idea what thoughts were swimming in the old man's mind, but he could tell Methos was thinking, working out his answer to what should have been a simple question.

"Look, Joe, I didn't really help you. You already knew those things; you just needed to realize you knew them."

"And that's where you came in?" Joe had no problems delivering incredulous sarcasm to Methos's back. At least it got the immortal to turn around.

"Of course," and here he flashed a fallen cherubim smile. "Because I already realized I knew them, and could therefore talk to you about you and James all I wanted by pretending it was me and Kronos."

Joe blinked, opened his mouth to retort, shut it again. "You still haven't told me what any of this has to do with the weather," he protested weakly. After all, the old man was right. As usual.

Methos's response was to turn back around and yank the cord on the Venetian blinds, sending them skyward and revealing the window. The office wasn't very well lit, and the starlight streaming in washed them all in muted silver. "You can never see the stars from the cities anymore," Methos lamented. "It gets too bright at night."

Joe shrugged. "The price of the electric light."

Methos dipped his head slightly, conceding the point. "Though I think, if given a choice, I would rather have the stars."

That little admission brought Joe up short and sent both eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. "You could always live someplace a little less crowded."

Methos smiled, soft and warm and maybe just a little bit sad. "Where do you think I go when I disappear?"

Joe barked a startled laugh. "Well, I never would have guessed stargazing, that's for sure." And a comfortable silence fell between them, until Methos broke it.

"Were you ever a sailor, Joe?" He sounded like he already knew the answer.

"I've been on cruises, and Army transport ships in 'Nam. Even been deep sea fishing a few times. But other than that…" Joe left the words hanging, punctuated by a shrug and a negative headshake.

"You ever notice that the stars get brightest the farther you get from shore? It's almost like your sailing towards the heavens themselves."

Joe sighed silently and bit the inside of his lip, pondering his response. "Well, you're sailing farther and farther away from any other light sources," he offered at last. "It would make sense for the stars to seem brighter then."

Methos shook his head slightly, laughing to himself, before he abruptly yanked the cord again, shutting the blind. Once again Joe was taken completely by surprise, but he bit back his questions and simply waited. Methos had his back to him again, and once again Joe found himself wishing for some hint as to what the immortal was thinking.

"When I was younger," he said at last, a sigh effected in his voice. "Back when the world was flat, but before it was possible to fall off by sailing to far, before the deeps were filled with monsters--and even after that--we would build great ships and sail away, watching the stars grow brighter, hoping that on some far distant shore... we'd finally reach heaven."

All of Joe's instincts screamed at him to tread softly. "But I thought you said you hated the water?" It sounded lame even to his own ears, but at least it sounded safe.

Methos turned around then. He half-shrugged, defeated, and their eyes met. The weariness was back tenfold it seemed, and his eyes weren't gold or even green, but in the dim office light, backlit by a shunned sky of immutable stars, they appeared a murky midnight color so foreign-looking on Methos that Joe blinked hard to clear his vision.

When Joe opened his eyes, Methos had moved. He was now leaning back up against the window, rumpling the blinds. He had a slight smile on his face, but it seemed… sad almost. And the top of his face was concealed in shadow. Joe could no longer see his eyes.

But it didn't matter.

"Do you know what some ancient cultures used to say of snow?"

Methos's voice snapped Joe out of his reverie. "What?"

"They say it was a curse from the gods, sent to punish them because they held the stars too high in esteem."

"Oh that makes sense," Joe snarked before he could stop himself, and Methos laughed.

"Think about it," he said, glitteringly green-eyed Adam Pierson stepping forward to begin his lecture. "Snowflakes are shaped like stars, and they fall from the heavens. When they fall, you can't see the sun in the morning, or the stars at night. And, they can be deadly."

Joe did think about it, but after several moments he just shook his head. "Well after tonight, I think I'm beginning to agree with them about snow being a curse."

"Yeah, well, the Vikings would agree with you." At Joe's blank stare he elaborated, admonishing, "didn't you hear me? I said that at night, snowfall obscures the stars."

"Yeah, I heard you, but I don't follow."

"That's because you can't recall a time before the compass, when sailors navigated by the stars and lots of luck."

Joe's brow furrowed in thought before he finally caught on. "Oh, so they would get lost in snowstorms."

"Horribly lost," Methos verified. "Unable to navigate, blown miles off course, their ships most likely damaged…"

"Sound like fun." Then Joe was struck by a sudden thought: "were you ever a Viking?"

"Me?" Methos laughed, indicating himself in a gesture of innocence. "Never. But… I have been known to get horribly lost in snowstorms," he admitted ruefully.

"Oh?" Joe could tell that there must be some juicy stories lurking behind that comment.

Methos sighed tiredly. "It's not exactly a pleasant experience. Being out in the elements like that, you never feel prepared or protected enough. And it gets quiet, so quiet. Have you ever noticed the eerie quiet of a snowstorm—when you've stopped noticing the wind, I mean? Your own thoughts are loud by comparison. And it gets so cold, passed the point where you can't feel it anymore. You think to yourself that you have to keep moving, but after a while, you're so numb, and everything is so white, that you aren't even sure if you are anymore. And you're lost, Joe. Hopelessly lost, because when you look up, the lights of heaven have been replaced with falling stars. Million and billions of falling stars... " Methos's voice trailed off into silence, his eyes slipping shut as he shook with a faint shiver.

Joe could practically taste the subtext in the air, and he was positive there was more to that little tale than just a blizzard. "I'll, ah, take your word on that," Joe finally said, the words suddenly less important than the need to speak, to pull Methos back from wherever his memories had taken him. The immortal blinked, returning to himself at last, and the ghost of a smile danced across his lips in tacit reassurance..

A comfortable silence descended as once again Joe attempted to process all of the clues Methos had given him over the course of the evening. They all added up to something, or most likely, to many different yet related things. Joe was determined to somehow sort them out. After all, Methos was still being remarkably forthcoming with information tonight, and the more Joe knew about the old man, the more he would be able to help Methos to help himself, just as the immortal had sought to do for him.

Then the stillness was pierced by a siren, feint at first, but steadily growing louder. Methos heard it first, and turned to peer through the blinds again. "It's about bloody time," he murmured before turning around.

"What?" Joe asked, bewildered. Then he heard it too

"Put your coat on, Joe," Methos directed with a wide grin. "Your chariot approaches." With that, he strode purposely from the office, walked across the bar to the front door, and stepped outside into the cold. Joe's bewilderment instantly skipped across embarrassment and then settled into anger when he realized the implications.

A very short time later Methos reentered, leading two paramedics wheeling a gurney between them.

"I should have suspected when you mentioned checking the phone lines," Joe grumbled as the paramedics took positions at his right and left, shining penlights in his eyes and taking his vital signs. He met their questions with grunted, monosyllabic answers whilst shooting evil glares at Methos, who all the while stood in the office doorway, leaning against the door jam with an infuriatingly smug look on his face.

"You're probably right about the concussion," said one of the paramedics, addressing Methos for the first time. "They'll run a CT scan, just to be on the safe side."

"Of course," Methos agreed, nodding and sounding entirely too professional.

Joe abandoned his efforts to glare the immortal into submission. He darted an entreating glance between the paramedics. "You know, if one of you would just hand me my legs over there, I could just walk out of here."

"I'm sorry, sir. You might have damaged them when you fell."

"Well I didn't," Joe snapped. "And I should know!"

"Legally they can't let you Joe," Methos informed him, his smile only growing. "If they are damaged, you could hurt yourself, and then sue the hospital for their letting you."

"Oh for Christ's sake! I've had that pair for over ten years now. I think I can tell when they're working or not!" Joe was practically sitting up on the gurney now, despite the paramedics' attempts to get him to lie back down.

"But you hit your head," Methos pointed out, ever so smugly. "You might not be thinking straight, and as paramedics, they should be suspecting as much, and not let you."

Joe sighed in exasperation and collapsed back against the gurney. "You're finding far too much enjoyment in this," he groused to the ceiling.

"Oh, you know me," said Methos, his words saccharine sweet, "I love laughing at the pathetic weakness of mere mortals."

Joe found himself hastily biting his tongue against the perfect retort when he remembered their audience, who for their part were trying to bury their amusement in staunch professionalism as they began wheeling him out of the office and across the bar.

"Some of us 'mere mortals' would gladly have your head for comments like that," Joe drawled as they wheeled him passed Methos, who was busy holding the outside door open.

Methos just grinned innocently as Joe passed him by. "I'd like to see them try."

Joe arched an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Just then the paramedics lofted the gurney and slid it into the back of the ambulance. Joe's body jounced slightly, exposing his Watcher tattoo, and Methos sobered at the sight. It took Joe a moment's puzzlement to realize that his hands were in plain view, and he casually hid them beneath the thin blanket the paramedics draped over him. Methos shook his head and forced a smile.

"Hey, Adam?" Joe called out just as they were shutting the doors on him.

Methos none-too-gently forced his way into the back of the ambulance, leaving one leg hanging out of course, so that they couldn't shut him in as well. "Something else I can do for you?" His serious tone was belied by the merriment lingering in his bright green eyes.

"The best way to avoid getting lost alone in a blizzard is to avoid venturing out into them alone."

Methos blinked, startled to hear Joe reference their earlier conversation out here, now, in the cold aftermath of a storm.

Well, maybe not all that surprised. "I'll try to keep that in mind." The smile returned, a genuine one this time, and Joe returned it.

"You coming or not?" came the shout from the driver's seat.

Methos sighed dramatically, but something warm shone through his expression. He dropped a heavy hand onto Joe's shoulder, squeezed once before grinning again and jumping back out of the ambulance. He shut the doors and smacked them twice, signaling that the patient was ready for transport. The other paramedic met his eyes as he turned to leave, after he checked to make sure the doors were secure. Methos pinned him with a glare.

"Take good care of him.".

"It's what we do," the paramedic reassured with a tired smile. With this storm, they must have been busy all night.

Methos watched as he climbed in on the passenger's side, and stayed watching even as the ambulance pulled out onto the deserted street, lights flashing but no siren. Eventually it turned the corner, disappearing from view.

After a lingering pause, Methos returned to the bar for his jacket and his sword. After locking up, he decided to leave Joe's van where it was. After all, he hadn't asked permission to borrow it. He briefly debated calling a cab, but then decided against it. He wasn't in the mood to wait again.

He made sure his sword was firmly stored in its pocket, and drew his coat more tightly about his person. The garment was still damp, but he didn't much care. It had stopped snowing, and the faintest of breezes now pushed the high wispy clouds around the upper atmosphere, at times chancing to reveal a limitless sky riddled with numberless stars. The effect wouldn't last for long, of course. Slowly but surely--but then not slowly enough--the city would dig itself out from this surprise snowstorm and move on. But for now…

It wasn't such a long walk back to his apartment, he reasoned. He could manage it in an hour's time. Less than that if he hurried. But Methos wasn't in the mood to hurry. Not when he had the stars overhead once more, guiding him, protecting him. And there, in the western sky, dimmer than he remembered but still twinkling merrily sat the Mariner's Star, beacon for the lost to help guide their way home. The North Star had supplanted it in this day and age as the star of fortune, but Methos still remembered. He smiled as he pondered this, perhaps for the first time in a long while, and allowed that star to finally lead him home.

-fin-