Methos lets out a frustrated sigh and palms his wet hair out of his face, glaring up at the bits of cloudy sky that are visible through the heavy canopy of leaves overhead. The sudden shower has brought a premature end to an afternoon he'd planned to spend doing research for his next doctorate. The stone in front of him will have to wait a few more days to be translated, but both he and it are old enough that it won't matter. He'd been in Rome when the carvings were made, playing at politics for the last time
( ... )
Thank you, both for the prompt and the feedback! I regret that I've never seen a Due South ep, and thus can't play with the other prompt as much as I would like. I think it would include Joe on a front porch, though, playing guitar. Fraser would stop to listen, and Joe would look up and wonder if maybe he were an Immortal, because his eyes were too old for his face and his shoulders were braced against a heavy weight of memory.
"Ow! Bloody hell!" Spike reaches back and tugs the -- ice pick? what the fuck? -- out of the back of his neck before turning around.
"That was not smart," he snarls, and when the human -- all desperate green eyes and hard, dangerous edges -- pulls out a gun, he rolls his eyes. "That's not gonna do you much good either," he says.
Curiosity tugs at him then; he tilts his head to the side, letting his features slide back into humanity. There's something about this one that reminds him of Dru in her more lucid moments, burnt up by a mission that no one else understands. There might be something interesting here, and if Spike gets bored he can always stake the bugger later.
The blow he delivers is carefully calculated to stun; there will be all sorts of time for questions later, after Green Eyes wakes up.
Methos was six thousand four hundred and thirty eight years, two hundred and fifty four days, eight hours, ten minutes, and fifteen seconds old when he was shot through the head for the sixty-second time since the invention of firearms. Headshots always took longer to recover from, even for an Immortal with such accelerated healing powers as Methos possessed, and as a result he was taken away to the county morgue for autopsy
( ... )
The British accent is startling in a Minnesota bookstore. Angel turns; the speaker is a slender young man with dark hair and a decidedly Roman nose, wrapped against the cold in a long overcoat. The iron stove in the middle of the store is doing precious little to ward off the winter's chill.
"Here," he says; "take this one instead."
In one of the young man's elegant hands -- artist's hands, musician's hands, and Angelus whispers in the back of Angel's head about the joy of breaking those long fingers -- is a thin book. For a moment, Angel is uncertain as to what, exactly, is going on; then the young man shoves the book at him. He takes it automatically, glancing down to check the title without thinking -- is 5 -- and when he looks back up, the man is gone
( ... )
Comments 49
Joe Dawson, HL, and Benton Fraser, Due South, in front of Joe's old family place in Chicago. The neighborhood may have changed, some.
Methos, HL, and Jack, Torchwood, at an ogham-covered standing stone in an ancient Welsh wood.
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Spike/Krycek
Krycek sees Spike's game face. Thinks he's an alien.
*bg*
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"That was not smart," he snarls, and when the human -- all desperate green eyes and hard, dangerous edges -- pulls out a gun, he rolls his eyes. "That's not gonna do you much good either," he says.
Curiosity tugs at him then; he tilts his head to the side, letting his features slide back into humanity. There's something about this one that reminds him of Dru in her more lucid moments, burnt up by a mission that no one else understands. There might be something interesting here, and if Spike gets bored he can always stake the bugger later.
The blow he delivers is carefully calculated to stun; there will be all sorts of time for questions later, after Green Eyes wakes up.
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Ooo! I LIKE this! *g*
Anytime you want to continue with this, let me know! =>}
Thanks!
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I think Krycek would make a kick-ass vampire.
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Applecore. from a book I doubt many have read. that I forgot the name of.
Or..
Monk, being questioned on a murder. (O.o that'd really be sorta amusing)
Ooo, pushing daisies guys, about to revive Methos. O..o
(I wonder if ya watched any of these fandoms XD).
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Thanks so much =)
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The British accent is startling in a Minnesota bookstore. Angel turns; the speaker is a slender young man with dark hair and a decidedly Roman nose, wrapped against the cold in a long overcoat. The iron stove in the middle of the store is doing precious little to ward off the winter's chill.
"Here," he says; "take this one instead."
In one of the young man's elegant hands -- artist's hands, musician's hands, and Angelus whispers in the back of Angel's head about the joy of breaking those long fingers -- is a thin book. For a moment, Angel is uncertain as to what, exactly, is going on; then the young man shoves the book at him. He takes it automatically, glancing down to check the title without thinking -- is 5 -- and when he looks back up, the man is gone ( ... )
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