Methos is on his way to breakfast when he discovers two boys huddled in a black behemoth of a car. They're shivering, wide-eyed, and trying desperately to hide it as they peer out the back windows. He really should pass them by. Just keep walking. But they look with such earnest eyes, searching for someone who, judging by the early-morning condensation on the windshield, is probably not coming back. The least Methos can do is make sure they have a hot meal.

They flinch away when they notice Methos' eyes, ducking beneath the windows in a habit learned young. He can't see me if I can't see him. It's too late, though. Methos walks up to the car, affixing an open, trustworthy smile onto his face. His current identity is good for this approach – convincing, a bit naive, unthreatening. Children can pick up on such things.

He knocks lightly on the window, watching the sharp twitch of blankets in the backseat foot well out of the corner of his eyes. "Excuse me," he calls. "Hello?" He makes sure to keep the tapping light, quick-fingered; not a heavy intimidating crash that would frighten them more.

Eventually one of the boys – the older, if Methos had seen correctly – pops his head out. His hair is ruffled, and he does a good approximation of just-woke-up bleariness. He looks at Methos with enough suspicion to make most adults shuffle away, but Methos just ratchets up the friendly concern in his smile and waves through the window. "Hi," he mouths through the glass.

The boy rolls his eyes, uncharacteristically young for the thought Methos can see running through his head: Great. Another clueless do-gooder who doesn't know when to leave well enough alone. Having felt the same way numerous times himself, it's a fairly easy expression to recognize. The boy has also apparently been in this situation enough times to realize there's only one way to deal with a Good Samaritan like Methos is pretending to be. The second boy – and yes, the younger of the pair – pops his head out as his older brother clambers into the front seat, cranks down the old-fashioned window and says, "Can I help you, Mister?"

"Hi," Methos says a third time. The repetition helps him appear naïve, like he's trying to do the right thing but feeling awkward. The foreign accent, softer than the cadences around these parts, helps too. "I was walking down the street and I couldn't help but notice you in the car here, and from the dew on the windows it looked like you've been waiting a long time. Do you need any help?" He makes sure to keep his phrases somewhat disjointed, like the socially inept researcher he currently is.

The boy blinks at him disingenuously, widening his eyes to appear more innocent and truthful. It's a wonderful flair to any lie, except Methos has used it too many times to be fooled. "No sir," the boy says. He's from a family with military history, the way the honorific rolls off his tongue so easily. "I'm just waiting for my dad. He's running some errands really quick before we leave town."

Methos makes his shoulders relax a tad from their hunched position, as if he bought the boy's story and felt relieved. But he shuffles back and forth, glancing at the relatively empty streets and the little diner just across the street and a few doors down, then back at the boy, broadcasting obvious discomfort of leaving two minors alone. In the back seat, the younger boy watches him with an innocent look to match his brother's.

It's a very convincing act, especially together. Except there's the strained pinch around their faces; the crinkled worn-out hang of their clothes; the tight clench of the elder's hands on the window crank; the way all their body language seems to culminate in a silent cry of, leave us alone, look away, don't notice.

But there's also hope there, belief in their father's return despite the fast food wrappers on the floor from yesterday's dinner and dew on the windows from an all-night parking. The boys seem to be intelligent. Perhaps their hope is founded. Maybe Methos is reading the situation wrong; maybe their father really is coming back. Either way, Methos is loath to leave them alone in that stuffy car any longer than they have to be, and he's learned to give in to the occasional do-gooder impulses that result from prolonged contact with MacLeod. "Look," Methos says slowly. "Why don't I buy you two breakfast? You can warm up in the diner while you eat, and you'll be able to see your dad coming back through the window, so he won't worry."

The older boy licks his lips; the younger makes an aborted gesture to rub his stomach. It's an obvious flaw in their story. If their dad had been with them, they would have had breakfast before setting out on the road. "Pancakes?" pipes the younger boy from the back seat.

Methos smiles, a real one, for the first time. "Of course."

"Bacon?" asks the older one.

"Sure," Methos says. It seems that food continues to be a sign of peace and goodwill in this century. "If they have it on the menu, it's on me."

The younger one starts wriggling towards the door from his cocoon of blankets even before his brother sighs and says, "Okay." Methos steps away from the door so they can open it up, and watches as the two tumble out with all the alacrity of a kid pent up in a car for hours. "I want milk too," the younger brother says.

They walk towards the diner as Methos tells them, "My name is Ethan."

The brothers slow down to look at Methos, judging whether or not he's trustworthy enough to reciprocate. Methos has been smiling a lot already, so instead of trying another grin, he blinks at them expectantly, mirroring their innocent façades from the car. The older one gestures to himself: "I'm Dean." He points to his brother: "That's Sammy." Then he gestures back to the car. "That's the Impala."

It's easy to know what to say next, given that opening: "It's a very nice car," Methos compliments. "Sixty-seven model, if I'm not mistaken?" He was following the Rolling Stones on tour, around then, and he remembers a '67 Impala being one of the smoothest rides in their conglomeration of vehicles.

Dean puffs up in pride. "My dad's car, but it's gonna be mine one day." He's obviously assured that anyone who knows cars – knows 67 Impalas – must be a good guy, and has opened up accordingly.

"Take good care of her, Dean," Methos says gravely. "She looks like a good car."

Dean nods. "Yessir." His dad has undoubtedly already told him that.

Sammy tugs the sleeve of his brother. "Can we eat now?"

The boys grab menus but only give them a cursory glance before confidently ordering: pancakes, bacon on the side, and a glass of orange juice each. They're obviously comfortable in greasy spoon restaurants, so Methos trusts their judgment and orders a third plate for himself.

The waitress smiles kindly and walks away with their menus. Without those to occupy their attention, Methos shifts appropriately awkwardly and asks, "Been in town long?"

Dean shrugs, carefully nonchalant. "A little bit."

"So where are you headed after this?"

Dean skewers him with a look that means, nice try. Suspicious bugger.

"Where's your accent from?" Sammy asks. Whether Sammy is more devious than he looks, or whether the interruption was an innocent redirection, Methos isn't sure.

"Wales. Do you know where that is?"

Dean looks out the window, to where he can keep an eye on the car, but Sammy gnaws his lip in concentration. "England?"

"Close," Methos says. "England is next to Wales, and both are part of the United Kingdom."

"When did you leave?"

"Oh, about three years now."

"Why?"

"A friend needed help, and then I never really left."

"Do you miss it?"

Dean continues to face the window, but his eyes flick sidelong to watch Methos' reflection in the glass. Sammy is staring at him earnestly. Methos thinks of the well-worn interior leather and the dusty sides of the Impala. How long have these boys been on the road? He decides to answer honestly.

"I do, sometimes. There are days when I'd give anything to go back to the way I used to live, to see the people and places again. But they only exist in my memory."

"So how do you deal with it?" Dean asks. He's staring at Methos straight-on, arms locked underneath the table.

"I keep living. I deal with the present, and every time the past gets just a little bit further away." Methos smiles. "Sometimes I wander through a strange city and offer breakfast to strangers."

Sammy reciprocates the grin. "Want to know the best breakfast places we've been to?" He chatters at Methos while Dean looks out the window pensively, describing this and that diner scattered throughout every region of the country. He describes the strange décor they've encountered and the best locations for all the breakfast foods they've tried over the years.

Eventually Dean starts adding to the conversation, correcting cities and dates and arguing with Sammy over whether the best egg breakfast sandwich place was in Kentucky or Idaho. Methos listens and thinks of taking a road trip himself – especially to the Indiana diner where they serve ice cream on the best giant waffles either boy has had.

Talking about food gets them all salivating. When their food finally arrives the boys enthusiastically fall upon their breakfasts after politely thanking the waitress, for which she coos at them. "Are they yours?" she asks Methos when it's obvious they're too busy ravaging pancakes to pay her any attention.

Methos shakes his head with an easygoing smile. "No, I'm just looking after them for a bit." Dean glances up and gives him an odd look, like he's unused to strangers acting selflessly but respects the gesture as the kindness it's meant to be. Something like warm approval – a look far too old for a kid as young as he is – follows soon after, and his frantic feeding slows down the slowest bit. Sammy is quick to catch on to his brother's mood in a way only years of constant contact can develop, and he gifts Methos with his own warm smile.

The waitress, of course, is ignorant to this byplay. She assumes the smiles are aimed at a close family friend and grins happily in response. "Aw, isn't that nice? I'm sure the parents appreciate having a quiet morning."

Dean's eyes flicker between the two adults as his fork stalls in front of his mouth, waiting to see what Methos does. More specifically and perhaps not quite consciously, waiting to see how Methos lies so Dean can identify it later if Methos lies to him.

Methos smiles blandly at the waitress and says noncommittally "Oh, I'm sure." Lying by omission, not outright fallacy. Dean watches and takes note.

Methos picks up his fork and knife, and the waitress obligingly leaves so he can dig in. "How are the pancakes?" he asks as he slices off a syrup-soaked bite. Dean shrugs and Sammy demonstratively goes, "Gmmmmph" around the large chunk he wedged in his mouth, which is presumably a positive review.

"Well, then," Methos says, "bon appetit."

The pancakes are good, the bacon is greasy, and the orange juice is fresh; all in all it's a solid breakfast. Conversation flows easily. The boys are happy to volunteer places Methos should visit if he goes on a road trip. In return Methos tells them about places he's visited in Europe, and the different foods they have over there.

Methos chews his last few bits of food slowly as he wonders what to do next. It's been an hour and a half, and the father is still nowhere to be found. He might be able to drag out breakfast for another hour by ordering coffee and talking some more, but what about after that? Should he leave the boys in the car? Take them to child services? Bring them to MacLeod?

Methos represses his smile at the idea of walking into MacLeod's home with two boys in tow. Duncan could hardly accept that Methos could take care of himself; he would have a fit at the thought of Methos trying to take care of two impressionable children. It wouldn't matter to him that Methos has raised children before; he would be constantly frowning at Methos' drinking habits and trying to stuff them with every vegetable in sight.

Methos is refocusing his thoughts on finding realistic alternatives to abandoning the brothers to an absent father when Dean straightens abruptly, face towards the window. "Dad!" He bolts the last bit of bacon on his plate and Sammy drains his third glass of juice.

Methos half-turns in his seat to see a broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket limping down the street. "Is that your father?" He asks just to be certain. Dean nods and nudges Sammy out of the booth, who pauses long enough to grab the last rasher of bacon. Dean turns to the door, then hesitates and looks at Methos uncertainly. The confusion on his face clearly says he doesn't know what to say to Methos.

With a strange sentimental pang, Methos smiles at them. "Go on, I've got the bill." Then, although he's not exactly sure why it feels right to say, he adds, "Remember, Dean: live, grow stronger, fight another day."

Dean nods, and Sammy waves goodbye before they hurry out of the diner. They run up to the man and stand on either side of him, arms outstretched to support him. The father wraps one arm around each with a wince of pain, and walks carefully to the car.

Sammy opens the back door they'd left unlocked and crawls in to open the other doors while Dean carefully watches their father. His mouth moves, then Dean's; then he gives the exterior of the diner a once-over. Sam swings open the door, Dean carefully guides their father into the driver's side then runs around to the passenger seat. The engine rumbles to life and the car rolls slowly down the street. It turns right at the end of the block.

Methos watches it all from his booth, safe from spying eyes by the glare of sunlight on the window. Neither Sammy nor Dean ever looked back, but Methos didn't expect them to. They've been on the road too long for that – and if he saw the claw mark he thought he saw on their father's jacket as he turned to examine the diner? Well, that just means they're even less likely to waste time looking back.

He orders a coffee – "So their dad picked up the little guys, huh?" – and takes out his cellphone.

"Hey, Joe. It's me. Yeah, I made it in last night. Listen, whoever's taking heads – he's gone. We probably just missed him. Sorry, Joe, I don't know what to say. Well, if he's this high-profile I'm sure the Watchers will get a bead on him eventually. I'm curious too, but sometimes they just get away from you. Yeah, well you can remember that next time you ask me for a favor. Bye, Joe."

Methos sips his coffee and watches the sun inch higher into the sky as he thinks about old muscle cars and nightmare tales.