Archive of Our Own ^beta

The last bag of trash clangs against the edge of the dumpster, hesitates, then falls in atop the others with a rattle of glass. Ordinarily Methos would have thrown the bottles in the recycling bin, but it's full of glass already, and it's well past four in the morning. Too damn late to care, as far as he's concerned.

He stretches and glances upward; there are no stars, weren't any at midnight when he let Duncan across the threshold for first footing. Methos shrugs and walks back in. It's not actually going to rain before morning, not that it matters. The wind's cold and wet and went straight through him; he can only guess how badly it's making Joe's bones ache. Enough that Joe didn't even try to argue when Methos pulled out the push broom after the last customer staggered away from the New Year's Eve party.

MacLeod didn't bother to ask either, just went to the kitchen to load glasses in the sanitizer while the short order cook finished clearing away the food. Even Amanda pitched in, cleaning tables as if she'd done it all her long life. The clack of her high heels and sway of her tight skirt kept Joe beautifully distracted while he waited for his meds to kick in.

That was two hours ago, though. The confetti's off the floor now, and the sticky remains of spilled food and drink have been mopped away. Every chair is up on a table, the stage lights are off, the tinsel and garlands have been hauled down. Mistletoe is still hanging here and there -- anywhere they'd have had to pull out the ladder to get it down. By unspoken agreement, it's going to wait until tomorrow.

Methos grins as he passes the upended barstool where Joe had been watching them work. Every time Amanda went by, Joe ended up getting a kiss -- on the cheek, the nose, over each eye, on each palm and every individual finger... she'd decided he needed distracting. The kitchen's dark, though; the cook headed home half an hour ago.

The downstairs is utterly, echoingly empty. If Joe went upstairs to his apartment, that's no surprise. Duncan and Amanda aren't down here, though, which means they've either left Methos here without transportation... or Joe's hurting enough that he accepted help getting into bed. Methos winces and makes the rounds.

He tugs on each door in turn -- front, side, delivery, stage -- and turns off the lights on his way to the stairs. There's an elevator, but it creaks and clanks. If Joe is asleep, Methos isn't about to wake him. He walks up the stairs slowly by the light of the emergency exit light and the dim glow of his cell phone. Upstairs, the door to the apartment stands open a few inches, and lamplight paints a gold line across the floor.

Methos slips in and immediately wishes he'd paid for the more expensive camera phone.

Joe's asleep in the middle of the bed, face finally relaxed enough that Methos can see the fine lines around his eyes and mouth. Laugh lines, mostly, although pain, too -- that's inevitable. His hair's pure silver now, his hands starting to show traces of arthritis, but his color's good and he finally looks warm and comfortable. He should.

Amanda's tucked against his back. She's under the covers with him, one cashmere-covered arm out of the covers and wrapped over Joe's waist. Her nose is tucked against his nape and she'll deny it later, but she's snoring. Quietly, and it's as much a purr as a snore, but Methos won't let that stand in the way of a good story tomorrow.

Joe's arm is wrapped over Mac's ribs, his forehead against Mac's shoulder. The Scot's under the blankets too. Joe must have been cold; he'd normally tease the other two about their lack of modesty, or protest that one bullet wound is plenty, or find some way to fend off a situation like this. Too tired, or too cold? Too something. Maybe it's just the holidays. Methos looks them over, sees the way Amanda's tucked her feet between Duncan's legs, the way Duncan's arm is over Joe and Amanda both.

Methos sighs and checks to make sure Joe's prosthetics are where he can find them in the morning, that there's a water bottle next to the pill case on the bedside table... and finds himself standing there, yawning 'til his jaw nearly dislocates and staring wistfully at the bed.

"Oh, what the hell." He closes the apartment door, locks it, and slips his broadsword under the bed where he can grab it if he has to roll out in a hurry. Shoes, pants (belt, cell phone, wallet and all), and sweater hit the floor in succession. Methos toes out of his socks, too, but leaves the t-shirt and boxers on. He pushes MacLeod onto his side with a practiced hand, ignores the muttered complaint in Gaelic while making a mental note to snark at the man tomorrow about who, exactly, chases sheep... and crawls under the covers into the warm spot.

Amanda murmurs and turns over onto her other side, cuddling into the pillow; her purring snore stops. Joe makes a sleepy complaint and follows her, tucked against her back and arm curled protectively over her ribs. Duncan sighs, shifts, pulls the blankets up more securely over them all, mutters something about, "What kept you?" and goes back to sleep.

Methos growls and tucks cold feet against his legs in revenge. The sun will come up in a couple hours. If MacLeod wants to rise with it... it'll leave more bed for the rest of them.