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...

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Joe, meanwhile, kept up checking the equipment; as it turned out, there were a few more things that needed replacing, and he ended up just texting the list to Methos; easier than calling each time he found one.

Methos' Starkphone made a pleasant little plinking sound as he got the text, about halfway between the bar and the shop. He pulled it out and checked it, because that's what anyone would do, nodded to himself, and then put it back in his pocket.

For the past five minutes, he had been increasingly certain that he was being followed, and not by a Watcher. He hadn't seen anyone of course, which is what made him sure of that last part, at least. If it was another Immortal, they had been staying either carefully out of sensing range, or had been inside his range long enough to remain unnoticed; either was a bad sign.

Still, he hadn't changed his behavior at all; hadn't actively looked for anyone, except when glancing back and forth before crossing the street. But he just couldn't shake that feeling, and after five thousand years, he tended to listen to his instincts; they'd saved his head more than once over the centuries.

He waited until the man was in an alleyway, out of the light and out of the view of everyone on the street, before he took the shot.

Straight through the stomach once, then again, a faint crack easily mistakable through the bustle of a Parisian street.

Well, that was one way to have your suspicions confirmed. Methos staggered into the wall of the alley, one hand coming up to support himself, the other clutching his stomach, and incidentally palming a small knife. Not that it would keep him alive or anything, but he could definitely ruin the day of whoever had the sadistic poor taste to shoot him in the gut. Twice!

Talk about abysmal manners.

More importantly, it put him in a terrible position to notice the gentleman who leaped down and aimed his metal fist at Methos's head to knock him out.

Too bad for his assailant, five thousand years of living, dying, and keen paranoia means that Methos isn't quite as bad off as he seems; gut shots are awful, but so is having an axe stuck in your skull, for instance.

He won't be able to dodge, but turn and get his knife in the bastard's kidney? Hell. Yes.

And then the blackness of unconsciousness overcomes him, and he just hopes that he actually wakes up. This would be the stupidest way to die forever.

The Winter Soldier was no stranger to pain or to sneaky targets, which was why he wore body armor. That didn't stop the blade from entering his gut, but it did help it from going deep enough to cause him any real trouble. Nothing he couldn't handle in the course of his mission.

He grunted and knocked the target with his metal fist another time for good measure. Asshole.

Then he was dragged him off towards a roof he'd already scouted for an interrogation.

Neither death nor unconsciousness keep Methos under for long anymore, and he feels a-- wall, probably-- hitting his back, as he comes back. Not that he gives any sign of being anything other than unconscious; he's very good at playing dead, and since he's not dead-dead, it should give him a chance to gather a little more information.

He has been tied around he hands, around the ankles, and further tied around a sturdy (and large) round brick chimney with several individual ties of extremely hardy black rope.

Sitting a across from him on the roof is a man with long brown hair, a tactical suit, a five o'clock shadow, and a knife. There is a sniper rifle on the roof beside him but he seems done with it for the moment.

Also, his left arm appears to be made of metal.

He's watching Methos with a singular focus before growling out, in French: "I know you're awake."

Edited 2014-09-03 20:43 (UTC)

Wonderful. A smart one. Damn it. Methos lets out a long, put-upon sigh.

"I don't suppose you at least had the decency to get stabbed in the kidney."

Metal arm. Sniper rifle. Something about that rings a bell, but he can't quite put his finger on it. Methos sets his subconscious to working on it, and instead takes stock of his situation, which, well. He's alive, but it doesn't look good, otherwise.

The man ignores the snark and continues to stare at him for a moment before holding up a knife.

"What are your intentions towards or regarding Steve Rogers?"

"I don't see why that's any of your business."

So that's what this was about? Great. Just great. He should have stayed away, like all the other, smarter idiots who'd encountered the man.

"Steve Rogers is always my business," he said gruffly.

"I will ask you again: what is your business with Steve Rogers? Failing to answer my questions will result in the removal of your head."

"Removal of my head will result in an end to any possibility of getting your questions answered," Methos countered. "But fine, have it your way: I'm teaching him all about cynicism, and where to find a good beer in Paris."

The man listened to him and seemed to consider Methos for a moment. Then he took off the glove on his flesh hand and slid the knife along the palm. The crackle of energy that closed it might look familiar.

"Harm him and you won't wake up the next time."

Which was when he walked over, undid the ropes, and picked up Methos from his personal bindings. The he walked to the edge of the building and sawed the rope a little and stuck the knife Methos had used in his back pocket.

Then he dropped him.

Oh fuck me, Methos thought, right before he hit the ground.

A short while later, he woke up, and cursing under his breath in a dozen different languages, stomped back to Joe's bar without bothering to stop for cords.

"Adam! We were just starting to wonder--"

Ignoring Joe, Methos carried right on to Steve.

"Your friends. Are bloody insane."

Steve blinked for a moment before taking in the giant bloodstain on Methos's shirt, the bullet holes, the healed head wound, and then blinked again.

"I'm sorry," he started, slow and careful, "but... what happened? Who did that?"

He couldn't imagine any of his friends--

All right, maybe Natasha but she was in DC.

"'Bout yea tall-" he held up his hand "-built like a wall, sniper rifle, metal arm, badly in need of a haircut, walks around in body armour thick enough to take a knife-- Any of this ring a bell?"

Steve went white and his eyes went wide.

"Bucky! You saw--he's here?! That's--"

The joy that had started coming through the shock instantly dropped away.

"Oh god, I am so sorry. And I'm... Glad he didn't do anything permanent. I didn't know he was here. We've been looking for him, like I said. But he's... Not entirely Bucky. They--" he swallowed, "they did things to him. Made him a weapon. The arm--"

"So he's justifiably insane, wonderful. He still shot me, tied me up, and threatened to kill me."

"I am... so sorry. I had no idea he was here. Or that he would do something like that. And yes, he's-"

He breathed out slowly.

"The last time I saw him, his mission was to kill me. Then he saved my life. He's coming out of his programming," he glanced at Adam, "but I'm assuming he's not quite out of it yet."

Methos growled, and grumbled, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Well, great. Oh, and your guess was right: he's as Immortal as you and I, so I recommend killing him a couple of times. Clears the head like you wouldn't believe. Still got a change in the back for me, Joe?"

"Yeah, go on," Joe said with a nod. "And don't worry about the cords; I texted Mac to pick some up while he's out with Amanda."

"Great. Wonderful. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"We doing the equipment that was used on him," Steve said quietly, "and it involved high voltage run through his brain. I don't know what they put him through."

"HYDRA?" Joe asked, as Methos headed for the back room, and his change of clothes.

He nodded.

"They recovered him from the mountain and tortured him until he was what they wanted: a perfect killer."

And the guilt of allowing it to happen, as far as he was concerned, haunted his eyes.

"Well... I don't know if it'll help, but people can come back from that kind of thing," Joe said. "Especially Immortals; partially because of the Quickening, and partially because you just have so damned long."

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