justakidfrombrklyn | The headaches began after he came out of the ice...

The headaches began after he came out of the ice...

To say that a lot of things had changed once he'd come out of the ice wasn't just an understatement; it was practically cruel. The worst part in a lot of ways, though, was the way people treated him: as if the ice had preserved him, kept him exactly as he'd been when he'd sent the plane crash landing into the Atlantic.

It couldn't be further from the truth, though.

He'd died. The water had rushed in, the cold had soaked into his bones, the ice had taken over and he'd died and he'd felt it as he'd died. He'd felt the cold, woken up a dozen times stuck in the ice, unable to move and let it consume him, again and again. He still had nightmares about it, nightmares he didn't share because they were so ridiculous in some ways, debilitating in others.

And then there were the headaches.

He only got them occasionally, a strange buzz beginning behind his eyes and around, his eyes shifting unbidden as if he could find the cause for something that was going on inside his own head. And yet, sometimes it really felt like he could. He'd look around, the feeling exploding inside his skull, and he'd suddenly meet eyes with someone and the feeling would suddenly vanish. Usually, the person in question would blink at him and rush off, which was fair since one of the cardinal rules of walking around a large city was to avoid eye contact unless necessary. He didn't think too much about it until he went back to Europe, back at war again in his search for his lost... friend...

Which was when the buzzing headaches started to get far more frequent.

Sam, the finest companion a man could ask for, had decided to follow a lead in Madrid that Natasha had sent their way (one that would have been set off badly had Captain America's well-known mug shown up) which had left Steve enjoying the sights and snooping around Paris for the time being. Thankfully, there was a lot to see, a lot to investigate, but also... a lot to draw.

Beautiful things to draw.

He was halfway through sketching out a panel of the Arc De Triomph when he felt it there, head lifting from the paper to try and find the 'cause'. This was getting mildly ridiculous...

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In Paris, the sensation of another Immortal in the back of his head wasn't terribly unexpected; there were a lot of his kind haunting the city of lights these days, largely thanks to one Duncan MacLeod. Sometimes friends, sometimes headhunters, and it was a good idea to determine which before taking off in the other direction.

A quick glance about revealed no familiar faces-- Well. One, but this face wasn't from any past encounter, or Watchers' file, no. This was a face that had been seen across video reels and television screens for decades now, and--

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," Methos muttered under his breath.

It took Steve a minute to find the source of it, and when he did, he was faced with someone who quite obviously recognized him. Wincing a little, but wanting to be polite, he gave the other man a little wave and a USO-quality smile.

Well, Methos couldn't help but think. I guess that explains how he survived under the ice all those years. Damn.

He was spotted, but not recognised, and damn it, he knew that look of vaguely pained mild confusion hiding under the USO smile. He'd seen it all too often over the millennia, and damn it, fuck everything. Cursing the Fates, the Norns, and a half-dozen other deities for good measure, he crossed the street, and headed down the block toward, of all people, Captain America.

MacLeod would never believe this. Joe would never believe this.

"Hello, I'm Adam Pierson, and you and I need to have a chat, Captain Rogers."

He had actually started to go back to his drawing, but he looked up as the man approached. Then he looked him up and down.

"I'm... very sorry, Mister Pierson? May I ask what that might be about?"

Regardless, he started to tuck his sketchbook away in his backpack.

Yep, that confirmed it; either Captain America was the world's best liar (not bloody likely), or he was genuinely clueless.

"Adam's fine," he said. "We need to talk about your headaches." Preferably in a nice, quiet chapel, but there was always that cafe built over an old Gaulish holy site. He was just glad that he'd managed to 'accidentally' give his Watcher the slip earlier. It was cute, the way they stuck the newbies on him, but it got annoying sometimes.

The change that came over his expression was short but visible; the open smile shut down and something much more practiced and only slightly more hostile took it's place.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Because there was exactly one team in the country who was cleared to work on his medical issues at this point, stationed at the US Embassy. And even if that wasn't the case, he'd never told anyone about the strange, short, buzzing headaches. Never.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. He should fuck off, call MacLeod, have him deal with this. Instead, he did the right bloody thing, and said:

"Yes you do. And it's very, very important that we have this conversation, before someone less charitably inclined decides to have it at the end of a sword." A little melodramatic, sure, but...

Another shift of expressions, from calm to angry to reserved, obviously considering what the man was saying and the spirit and manner he was saying it in. Then he stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"All right then, since you're... determined," Steve said, keeping his tone even, "let's discuss. Without bringing any swords or shields into it."

"Sounds perfect," Methos says, letting some relief show. "There's a nice, quiet chapel just down the way; Father Jean-Marie won't mind if we use the back."

"Lead the way," he says, though it's clear that he's wary of the man he's following. Watching. But also curious.

"Is there a reason why we're going to a church? I'd rather not involve anyone else, especially not clergy."

The unspoken addition there is 'if things get violent.'

"Because holy ground is a place of peace," Methos replied, as he turned to lead the way. "And nobody will disturb us there."

The chapel wasn't far, and the little garden in the back was currently unoccupied; perfect.

Steve was quiet for a moment even as he followed, obviously digesting that information. The second part made sense, as people were generally left alone in cemeteries to handle their grief. But the first part, he turned over a few times.

"Holy ground. The way you said that leads me to believe that there's something specific you're looking for there."

"Pull up a seat," Methos said, gesturing to one of the wooden benches in the garden. He took the other placed across from it. "And I'll explain everything. Well. First, actually, I have a question: did the headaches start before, or after you crash-landed in the Arctic?"

He moves slowly, deliberately, and takes the seat as he'd been asked, watching the other man carefully as he settles his arms to rest on his legs.

"After the ice. And it's not really a headache. More like... a buzz? Just doesn't feel great."

He considers for a moment.

"Do you get them too? When I get them? The people who look back... do they get them too? Are they causing them? Is that how you knew?"

Edited 2014-08-28 17:10 (UTC)

Methos found himself smiling a little.

"Smart lad," he said. "Yes, that's exactly it. And what 'it' is, is the presence of another Immortal. Which is what you are. And I am. And you've met others, and they never bothered to tell you? Seriously?"

He held up a finger.

"First, I've never actually talked to any of them. Usually, we meet eyes, the feeling goes away, and I've tried to be polite, but they usually run off. Probably wondering why the big guy's staring at them. Or think they're interrupting a mission or something."

Which had never actually happened to this day.

"Second... Immortal? I'm not Immortal. Enhanced, yes, but I can still die."

Though... come to think of it, he'd healed significantly faster since he'd come out of the ice. He'd always assumed his memory had been off, but...

No. He was human. Enhanced but human.

"Nope. Sorry, but you're Immortal. And I am sorry; it's pretty terrible," Methos added candidly. "Lucky for you, your life is already so strange, this one little thing probably won't make much difference. Probably. Now, I don't really know what they did to you back with all-" he gestured at Rogers' impressive physique; he'd been to the Smithsonian, he'd seen the exhibit, and the difference was like night and day "-this, but when you came out of the ice, you came out different. Again. You died in there, Captain. Maybe more than once."

He shuddered a little, not quite able to suppress it; once, just once, he had been trapped under ice for a whole long winter. After that, Methos had been very careful to stay the hell away from lakes, rivers, and other bodies of water that might trap him.

He can't help the shudder at the mention of 'dying' more than once, mostly because it brought back that soul-deep chill, the pain of it, being stuck inside his own body before the feeling overwhelmed him and he blacked out again. Yes, he knew he'd woken up more than once... but the idea that he'd died more than once...

"How do you know that for sure?" because he was not going to stick on that topic any longer than he had to, "How do you know all this? Are you Immortal? And what does that even mean? Do I have to... I mean, I'm not a vampire or anything. I eat like anyone else. More than anyone else, but I did that before I went into the ice."

"Yes, I'm Immortal too," Methos replied. "And you're not the first poor schmuck I've explained this too. But look, I'm going to show you something, all right?" He paused a moment, and then continued, "I'm going to get out a knife; don't freak out, it's not for you."

Steve watched his hands as he shifted to retrieve the knife, careful and cautious but not preventing him from doing so. Steve trusted his gut, and his gut said that as wild as everything the man was saying was, it wasn't as if it was any wilder than what his life had been so far. And as wild stories went, it wasn't one that was setting off the bells inside of him that warned for danger.

He was well aware that the man across from him was a dangerous man, but he'd come to learn the difference between dangerous and dangerous to him. And he didn't think this one was dangerous to him. At least, not yet.

All the same, he kept his hand on his backpack strap; he could pull it up to cover him from a knife easily enough.

Methos held up the knife, and his empty hand, letting his sleeves fall back from his wrists in the ancient gesture of 'no tricks', before he drew the blade - nice and sharp, thank you - across his palm.

As usual, it barely had time to start bleeding, before his Quickening crackled across it, healing it in an instant.

Steve swallowed harshly as he watched the knife get yanked over the man's skin... and then blinked as the lightning crackled across it.

"I've... never seen anything like that. Not that I regularly watch when I take a hit."

"No, you wouldn't, would you? And don't you usually wear body armour?" Methos smiled a little, and flipped the knife around, offering it hilt-first to Rogers.

"Give it a try."

He reached forward slowly to take the blade, careful nonetheless not to cut the other man as he pulled it from him. Then he drew the edge along his hand, hissing slightly; the serum had improved all of his senses, including his sense of touch and by extension, his pain receptors. He'd learned to power through it, but--

A low buzz that almost seemed familiar crackled from the wound as it knit together again, somewhat more slowly than Adam's had.

He blinked. Because.

Well, damn.

"That," Methos said. "Is what we call the Quickening. It's what makes us Immortal; fast to heal, never aging, and if you die, you get right back up again. Though the speed of that depends somewhat on the manner in which you die. I don't, for instance, recommend immolation." His lips quirked up a little, in acknowledgement of dark humour.

"There is," he continued after a moment. "One way that you can die permanently: decapitation."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject