Methos wasn't, by any stretch, waiting up. Just restlessness that kept him roaming the halls, circling the library, the kitchen, finding nothing in either that appealed. He picked up a magazine: one of Mac's, Architectural something-or-other, a restored Victorian on the cover. He flipped the pages, put it down. The coffee he'd poured earlier was cold on the kitchen counter, untasted. He picked up the mail he'd been neglecting and settled on a stool, sifting through it. Not waiting.
The buzz swelled over him, familiar, sweet. The tight thing in his chest let go; he closed his eyes, and breathed.