Methos dozed lightly in a chair by the Commodore's bedside. His patient, or rather Dr Adams' patient, had finally dropped into a calm sleep, the fever gone down enough not to wrack the man with nightmares. And what nightmares! Methos hadn't seen men dream of the walking dead since Haiti, and of fighting them since Marcus Antinius had reported his encounters in the Rhinelands back in 120AD.

From the tone of the dreams, this man's battle against them had gone about as well as that poor Roman's. He shuddered. He hated zombies. A mockery of everything immortal. An ugly facsimile.

Something moved inside the house, bringing his head up and his hand to the sword beside the Commodore's bed. Not his sword, of course, but he was sure the man wouldn't mind him borrowing it. Methos tilted his head, listening closely. No presence to mark an Immortal, but something... there was something in this house that he recognised.

Moving slowly, quietly, he slipped into the hall, sword in hand, moving towards the source of the disturbance. Downstairs, along the hall to the kitchens... beyond that. In the pantry? Yes. He could see the man, and thankfully it was a man, arms full of bottles and what looked like half a ham... He caught sight of the face, one dark, kohl-rimmed eye narrowed in greedy appreciation, and grinned.

Jack Sparrow froze as the sword touch him lightly on the shoulder. "Well, well. What have we here?" The man moved to turn, hands out to his side in a gesture of harmlessness, but Methos stopped him with one pointed motion of the sword. He sensed more than saw Jack's disarming grin.

"Hey now, is that any way to greet an ole mate of the Commodore's?" Jack murmured, his fingers fluttering innocently, and Methos bit his lip against the grin.

"And since when," he purred softly, letting danger fill every word just to see the studied nonchalance of the response, "has the Commodore been making friends with pirates? Captain Sparrow?" Jack tried to turn his head again at that, and Methos tapped his ear with the tip of the blade, having too much fun to spoil the game yet.

"Ah. Ye recognise me, then?" Jack murmured, preening a little. Methos shook his head with a smile. "Well, I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr...?"

Methos smiled darkly, leaning in to the pirate's ear. "Come now," he whispered, low and seductive, and curled his free hand around Jack's chest, grinning as the man jumped. "You mean to tell me you don't recognise your old friend, Jack?" And at his name, in that particular tone of voice, the pirate stiffened, for the barest of seconds, then ignored the sword at his back to turn and catch Methos up in a hug, grinning ear to ear.

"Ben, you old bastard!" he crowed, deceptively strong as he swept the skinnier Methos off his feet, giving him a sloppy kiss before setting him back on the ground. Methos swayed slightly, gasping at the man's breath. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same," he coughed, getting his balance back. "Last I heard, you and the Commodore were not exactly best friends..."

Jack shrugged, flapping a dismissive hand as he grinned. "Ah, Jamie'll forgive me yet, you'll see. He's a good sort, you know, under that wig."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Jack grinned. "Yeah. Really." Then he sort of shuffled, looking oddly embarrassed for the fabled man without shame, Jack Sparrow. "I, ah... heard the ole bastard got hurt, taking down Marsters and his crew out towards Isla del Santo. So I came to... see if he's alright, you know?"

Now Methos really was surprised, and not just feigning. "Did you, now?" Jack glared at him a bit.

"Yeah, I did. Like I said. He's a good sort." He looked up, as if he could see through the ceilings to where the man lay. Maybe he could. Methos had never fully figured out how much of Jack's pantomime was real and how much show. Then Jack met his eyes again, and there was a soft concern and a plea there that was definitely not just for show. "You been lookin' after 'im, then, Doc?"

Methos nodded. "I have," he said quietly. And at the pirate's prompting look, continued. "He's got a nasty slash in his stomach, shallow but long, and infection set in before they got him here, but he'll be fine, Jack. Nothing he hasn't suffered before and lived through, and I am the best doctor this side of the Atlantic." He ought to be, with the amount of time he'd been practising.

Jack sighed, slumping a little in genuine relief, and Methos frowned faintly. Jack was prone to caring for the oddest of people, he knew that, but the look in those eyes, for the man upstairs, the man who should be his sworn enemy... he shook his head sadly. He'd liked Jack. He really had. The man was a survivor of the first water, exactly Methos' kind of man, but if there was one thing that doomed men like them, it was falling in love with the wrong person. And by the evidence, Jack had fallen for just about the worst possible candidate.

"Jack..." he started, and stopped as the pirate looked up at him with those dark, knowing eyes, and that same madcap grin on his face. Methos stared at him, and shook his head. There was no point in arguing, he could see that. So he went for his favourite other solution. "Find any beer in there?"

Jack grinned, shaking his head. "Nah! Not here. Ole Norrington keeps all the best stuff upstairs. Here, I'll show you. No beer, though. And no rum, either. Blasted man. I'd give him some, but all mine's gone..."

Methos shook his head, following the pirate upstairs, and smiled softly. "Yes, Jack. If I remember correctly, your rum is always gone. Can't think why..."