"Mismatched Pieces," PG-13, HL/Marvel
Also available at the AO3.
Mismatched Pieces
The latest handlers had cut his hair shorter than last time; apparently, 2012 standards in Edinburgh's financial district were more precise (and predictable) than the 1990s in Silicon Valley. Since his cover papers claimed he was a bonds dealer, he'd also shaved that morning, styled his hair, and applied cologne. Something about the cologne had amused him in an edged way he could almost have sharpened his knives on.
That didn't matter, though. He let some slouch into his spine, let his shoulders curve forward a little as though he spent all his time hunched over a desk (over a computer, not the files and ledgers it had been the last time his target had been economic), slowed his pace a little, and let himself want a drink as badly as his persona might have. Why not? They had decent beer in Scotland, and better whisky. Give it another hour at most and he'd have completed his mission--
The Winter Soldier straightened, his attention locking onto his (old) target -- wrong one, right one, wrong one, face is right, year is wrong, face is right, kill this one, kill this one, fucker got away from me last time. Memories of old pain flashed across him, smearing data that hadn't been programmed in as well as his current handlers thought, as the old techs used to.
He straightened, shoulders going back and down, head coming up, balance shifting forward onto the balls of his feet. Even his spine moved more easily now and a hungry, predatory smile wiped the tired businessman away.
* * *
Matthew McCormick sauntered down the Royal Mile, hands in his pockets, coat flaring behind him in the rising breeze, and shook his head, trying not to laugh. "With a name like MacLeod, I'm to believe you couldn't find anyone else to go distillery hopping with you?"
"By now Adam's ensconced with a book at the Green Lion; they stock some microbrews he likes. And Amanda is off with Cory, which you asked me not to remind you about, and you agreed not to remind me about." Duncan grinned at him and shifted to German to harass him. "Besides. If I take an Englishman drinking with me, that'll be a test run to survive my kinsman."
Matthew glanced at him sidelong, retorts already springing to mind. "And here I thought Scots were supposed to have more tolerance for spirits?"
"Oh, we do," Duncan replied immediately. "But you're almost as sarcastic as Connor."
"Oh, you wanted commentary... I'll keep that in mind. And you left Adam behind thinking my name would embarrass you less on any sign-in sheets?" Matthew asked, grinning despite himself. "Just for that, MacLeod, you're buying." Duncan tried to sputter an insincere protest and Matthew ignored him, pausing to admire the sleek curves and fitted dress on a redheaded woman. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to get the attention of a man whose suit had cost more than her dress.
Her intended target was also graceful, well-balanced and moving quickly and lightly. Matthew stopped to look him over, too, equally appreciative of the dark-haired, dark-eyed man (banker? financial adviser?). What few lines he had around mouth and eyes suggested a wicked sense of humor and unlike MacLeod, who was rather thoroughly busy with Amanda and Adam and their schemes, Matthew might have a chance at him.
Duncan turned back to see what was keeping Matthew and grinned openly at the redhead, who looked Duncan over with a charmingly frank interest in return. "Good eye," Duncan murmured.
Matthew kept looking at the man, his instincts first whispering of danger and then shouting about it. He should know this man, he did know the face, had seen it before, studied it before, but it was a while ago, and he'd been.... "What are you doing in a three piece suit?" Matthew muttered, still trying to place him.
The man's focus shifted to them, possibly alerted by Matthew's stare; Matthew felt his hair try to stand on end and he stepped back without looking, one hand reaching for Duncan's arm.
"There's nothing wrong with his suit." Duncan sounded bewildered, but he was already straightening, too old a fighter to ignore Matthew's reactions.
The knife barely missed him.
* * *
It wasn't just the reprogramming procedures that been neglected. The handlers and technicians had hurried Winter Soldier's time to acclimate, too, and as a result, the updates weren't as thorough as they should have been. Too many things that shouldn't have been a surprise were. Possibly worse, some things that Winter Soldier hadn't been told had nonetheless slotted smoothly into place -- with the aid of old memories. Old memories that he should never have been needed, or been able to access, in the first place.
Winter Soldier hadn't been frozen as competently as usual last time, either. The old technicians had known to watch his EEG and be sure he was completely out. This time, he'd had a chance to file memories into their proper places and patterns before the drugs finally dragged him down into oblivion.
Now he had the right year but the wrong target, and the mismatch of time/place/objective was wreaking chaos among the neatly ordered information, languages and plans he'd been given. So he clung to a memory/plan/goal which punishment and frustration had burned in beyond his handlers' ability to wipe it out afterwards... and went after Duncan MacLeod.
He barely missed with the first strike meant to disable MacLeod's arm (now he'll go left) and sliced along the man's forearm as he pulled back. His knife came out of MacLeod's coat with red smeared across the point. He dodged a foot-stomp and swayed in, blade still partially concealed against his own coat sleeve; he cut the shoulder of the other arm when MacLeod blocked.
Interesting. The man was willing to take the damage to his off-arm to get away, and he brought his knee up fast -- but he aimed at the thigh, not the groin, and didn't come anywhere near the useful nerve points.
Smart, fast, but not a dirty enough fighter. Winter Soldier grinnedand punched with the knife, jabbing the pommel above MacLeod's arm hard enough to finish numbing his hand. He ripped the blade back along his ribs as he went for the blood loss. Both of them were moving faster in their suits than anyone else would have expected, although Winter Soldier couldn't hit his full speed. He cursed the idiots who'd given him a suit which didn't give him enough range of motion, grating out Russian and Czech commentary on their sexual habits.
The tall, quick man who'd been eying him for bed a moment ago hit from his left, jarring Winter Soldier off-balance and making him miss the knife strike at MacLeod's ribs. The stranger cursed in surprisingly filthy French when his hand broke against the metal arm. The newcomer also shifted his attacks as he cursed, throwing a very professional snap kick that the Winter Soldier barely dodged, and raking his heel along the Soldier's calf on the withdrawal.
Now he had two of them to fight, and MacLeod's gashed arms weren't slowing him enough. Trained martial artist or no, the leg sweep that spun into a back kick was too fucking good and now the stranger was working with him. They didn't work together well enough to be long-standing partners but they were definitely more than chance-made acquaintances.
They were also willing to take a blow if that was what it cost to get in a good shot or a chance at taking his knife away.
Interesting, but not really relevant. The Soldier spun, kneed MacLeod in the balls, twisted his torso back to plant his metal elbow in the other man's gut, and stepped away from them both.
This plan, and possibly this identity, had already been blown. So, time to blow a few other things away too.
* * *
Matthew saw the assassin pull out a pistol and knew he'd recognize the make later, but just then he was trying to get back up when he couldn't breathe. If he wasn't immortal, he'd have been worried about ruptured organs; that metal arm had more strength built into it than a mortal one. Not even muscle tone and centuries of practice had been able to keep Matthew from having his wind knocked completely out, which meant he was on his back trying to get air in his lungs and his feet under him when the first bullet hit.
It punched through Duncan's arm and went in under his collarbone. It kept going and hit someone behind him; a woman's scream of pain joined the panicked cries that had started up around them. A second shot cut through Duncan's chest and he staggered, trying to stay up, trying to get to the assassin in banker's clothing. Now a man was screaming too, and Duncan's knees were buckling.
The bastard actually steadied his gun for a third shot.
Matthew waved Duncan down emphatically, unable to get words out but hoping Cory's friend and Connor's student would do as he said just this once....
Duncan closed his eyes and dropped. Matthew hoped desperately that his wounds were closing fast -- they must be hideously clean, those were definitely armor-piercing rounds -- because the assassin turned to face Matthew, eyes narrow and intent. He braced the gun with his metal hand, metal actually showing through the torn glove, and put a bullet through Matthew's heart.
Matthew let his head fall back and gave up on trying to breathe. He focused instead on letting himself heal this small, possibly deadly wound while his heart tried to tear the wound further open. Meanwhile, the world went grey from lack of oxygen.
When he could look up, his mind already racing over ways to start covering their tracks, the assassin was long gone and Duncan was pulling him up. "Good thing we're both in dark clothes," Duncan muttered, steadying Matthew as they stumbled away from the center of the commotion. "What the hell just happened?"
"That was..." Matthew blinked and stumbled as his mind kicked up three sets of memories in rapid succession: the businessman-assassin, the same face and hair over a WWII army uniform, and the same face in three-quarter profile with longer hair in a grainy black and white photo. "Sweet Christ."
Duncan got a shoulder under him, waving away a helper. "I'll just get him to the edge of the crowd for emergency services...." A few steps on, he sped them up, saying, "Come on, stay upright. How badly did he get you? And I don't think Christ had anything to do with that."
"You took worse," Matthew said, but he was still short on oxygen, and knew it; he wasn't thinking clearly enough yet. He catalogued the wounds, hoping he hadn't died and lost time. "I was shot once, broke my hand on his arm, had the wind knocked out of me. If I were your age, I might yet be pissing blood tonight."
Duncan just nodded. "Okay, yeah, I got worse. Sliced a few times, two shots before you waved me down. He was fucking good. You broke your hand on his arm? What was that, armor?"
"He was a professional. Thank God you dropped when you did; he was about to go for a headshot." Matthew added grimly, "And I know who the assassin is. What I'm afraid of is that I might also know who he was, and I have no idea what the hell to do about it."
"Who is he?" Duncan asked, turning them into a darkish alley and leading them in behind the dumpster for the additional cover. "We've bled all over these shirts..."
Matthew stripped his off, too, and pulled his coat back on, buttoning it up. "His arm was solid metal, up to the deltoid at least. And he was using a Russian Spetznaz pistol, one designed to be quiet. I think we just ran into the Winter Soldier, Duncan." He added, "And survived it, which puts us in select company."
Duncan buttoned up his coat, frowning a little, then said, "I've survived him once before." He smiled faintly. "Fitz got in his way, and then the bobbies came.... Fitz was furious I got him killed in England."
"Best we get out of the city and set up alibis in case anyone got pictures," Matthew said, throwing their wadded-up shirts into the dumpster. "Duncan, when was that?"
"Spring of 1951. Why?" Duncan pulled out his phone. "I'll get someone to check us out...."
"Cory's in town by now. I'll get him to do it," Matthew said. "What were you doing when the Soldier came after you?"
"Working for Churchill. It's still classified," Duncan said apologetically. "Who is this Winter Soldier? Other than the guy who just made a good try at killing us."
"A Russian assassin who showed up every few years, made a series of hits, and vanished again." Matthew glanced at Duncan. "Rumor had it that he always looked to be young, early twenties at most, but his reputation runs over sixty-five years, and he's always got that metal arm. Either they're going to the trouble of cutting arms off prime assassins... or he's not aging. I looked into him briefly, but there were no pictures."
"Okay. That's who he is. Who do you think he was?" Duncan used a handkerchief to get the last blood off Matthew's face, then held still while he returned the favor.
"I need to check a few things," Matthew said quietly, "but I'm fairly sure I saw him in a newsreel during World War II, Duncan."
"He's not one of us." Duncan frowned. "He's that old?"
"No," Matthew said quietly. "I don't think he's one of us, either. But he's seen us, and now he's seen you, twice, in sixty years. And tried to kill you each time. I think we have a problem."
Duncan nodded. "I'll try to call Amanda; pass me the phone when you get Cory. I know Scotland better than you do." He groaned and muttered, "Adam is not going to let me hear the end of this...."
* * *
The job was a complete loss; his handlers were going to be furious. From the memories he had of MacLeod, they'd been furious about that one, too. (How long ago was that?)He'd been sent to kill MacLeod and killed the wrong man instead before he'd been driven off by too much attention. And now he met MacLeod again and this time killed him -- but once again, wrong man and too much publicity.
Maybe that just sort of happened around MacLeod.
Winter Soldier was sure of one thing; his head hurt.
He reversed his coat to hide the bloodstains and checked out of his hotel early, explaining that he'd finished his business more quickly than expected. He asked about the fee for the last night; to his surprise they agreed not to charge it. He didn't need the money, really, but not asking about it might be memorable. That done, he caught the last train to London, getting a compartment to himself more by looking desperately ill than looking menacing.
He felt ill, frighteningly enough. The Winter Soldier was used to perfect health, to injuries healing rapidly, to muscles that picked up skills quickly and didn't forget them. He let his head rest against the train window for a moment and it felt cold to his forehead, but equally cold to his hand. No fever, so why did his head hurt like someone had it pinned in a vise while they stabbed hat pins through it? And why did he know what hat pins looked like, and how long they were, and not to annoy pretty brunettes with guns...
His headache spiked at that, spilling rainbows across his vision. He looked up and saw his face shaded yellow-green, saw his hair disarrayed and falling across his forehead, circles under his eyes like bruises, stubble on his face from that morning. He'd always grown a beard quickly, had hated shaving in cold water with-- who were they, the crew of men he remembered joking with and fighting for hot water with because they'd gone to the trouble of heating it 'for coffee, not shaving, and it's not like there's dames out here to impress, are there--'?
He almost heard a name, but the headache spiked again. He cursed the headache, his scattered memories, his dope head, goldbricking, acorn-cracking, Missouri nightingale handlers... and wondered why he'd shifted from Scottish-accented English to American profanity. World War II army profanity of all the fucking things. Placing it correctly, something that was normally part of his job, only made his head throb harder until his vision splintered into kaleidoscopes and the fabric of his clothes hurt his skin--
The Winter Soldier woke with his head on the table, facing the door at least instead of the window. (No one was crazy enough anymore to come down a train and in by the--) He shoved that thought aside as his headache tried to return.
He'd been asleep long enough to have a crease in his cheek from the edge of the table and a crick in his neck from sitting there. He sat up and carefully rotated his neck and shoulders, compensating for the different weight of his metal arm. Something crackled and fell off his upper lip to the table.
He rubbed with his good hand and studied the dried blood.
He hadn't taken any headshots in that short (too short, they were fun) fight.
The Winter Soldier ran his thumb along his upper lip, shedding more clotted blood, and contemplated first his blood, then his reflection in the window.
He didn't look any worse, but he could remember looking like this before. The headache spiked and he ignored it, grabbing for the memory and only coming up with scab-edged bruises on his wrists and someone tall, someone fiercely loved and protected and protecting standing in front of him, while the Winter Soldier stood at his back, attention and gaze flicking lightly across his field of fire, watching for trouble even in a crowd of should-be friends.
This time he rubbed away fresh blood, but he also looked at himself in the mirroring glass. "You finally fucked up," he heard himself saying.
The vicious grin in the mirror only widened when he saw it.
London, huh? There'd been a bar there. He could remember brown uniforms, a black derby hat, a bright red dress and brighter red lipstick, a man's steady eyes and serious face. He knew that face better than his own, should remember the name faster than even his own.... He didn't know that either, did he?
Fuck his handlers -- kill them, quick and thorough, would be more likely if the Winter Soldier saw them.
But fuck 'em. He wasn't falling back to the rendezvous. He wasn't reporting back to them at all, ever.
That thought was worth the fresh nosebleed. There was less pain and blood every time, he noticed, and smiled again. He had no compunctions about pushing at a weak spot.
No. He wasn't going back. He was going looking for a bar, and then he was drinking enough whisky to not notice the headache while he probed at memories that were finally, finally loosening.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, Miscellanea:
For the Marvel fans: Highlander has immortal fighters who can only be killed permanently by beheading; they also stop aging after their first death. (Those are the relevant parts for this fic.) Matthew and Duncan are immortal.
This is set in a vid AU, the "Opportunities" vid that Killa and Lapillus made lo, these many years ago. Things to keep in mind: In this universe, Darius never took a light quickening, so Duncan never met him. He's still very much a partying, wenching, laughing fiend who's teamed up with Amanda and Methos (Adam) as sometime lovers and regular partners in crime. They're master thieves. Matthew met Duncan through Amanda and Cory and likes them despite himself. There will be at least three other stories in this AU, one connected to this story, one for HL_Chronicles.
About the WWII profanity. Acorn cracker: A rustic, a hick. Bayonet: male anatomy. (A bayonet course was treatment for venereal disease.) Dope head: cola-guzzling spreader of misinformation and rumor. Goldbricker: Shirker. Missouri nightingale: army mule. (I've rarely had so much fun as browsing through Paul Dickson's War Slang: American Fighting Words and Phrases from the Civil war to the Gulf War.)
Winter Soldier is from Marvel comics canon and the movie Captain America, where he's known under his first name: Sgt. Bucky Barnes of the Howling Commandoes, Cap's second in command and best friend. The short version involves movie spoilers, so skip this if you haven't seen Captain America yet, okay?
Right: Short version is, Bucky was dosed with a variant of Super-soldier Serum while the 107th was captured by Hydra; he was also sprayed with some kind of biological material right before he fell down a high, rocky gorge to his 'death' in a freezing cold river. Apparently the Russians pulled him out but his left arm didn't make it. They brainwashed him, gave him a new metal arm (upgraded over the years) and relevant skills to blend in and commit assassinations for them, and have been freezing him between missions and thawing him out as needed ever since.
My take is that once the USSR collapsed, so did a lot of funding, and there went a lot of expertise. The miracle is that it took 24 years for this to start breaking loose.
Oh, and the bullets he was using? Teflon-coated, armor-piercing. They'll go through a Kevlar jacket, both sides, with minimal expansion of the exit point. They'll go through people like that, too. No, I don't know why Winter Soldier needed them for that hit yet, but the back of my brain will probably tell me eventually. The gun's a PSS silent pistol (aka, GRAU index 6P28).
Many thanks to Killa and Lapillus for letting me play in the Highlander Opportunities-verse. They had no idea at first that I was going to mix Marvel in, but Killa said go for it, so I did. Thanks are also due to Raine, SamJohnsson, Dragon, and Devo for betaing this. Remaining mistakes are of course mine. Let me know about any and I'll try to fix them.
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Mismatched Pieces
The latest handlers had cut his hair shorter than last time; apparently, 2012 standards in Edinburgh's financial district were more precise (and predictable) than the 1990s in Silicon Valley. Since his cover papers claimed he was a bonds dealer, he'd also shaved that morning, styled his hair, and applied cologne. Something about the cologne had amused him in an edged way he could almost have sharpened his knives on.
That didn't matter, though. He let some slouch into his spine, let his shoulders curve forward a little as though he spent all his time hunched over a desk (over a computer, not the files and ledgers it had been the last time his target had been economic), slowed his pace a little, and let himself want a drink as badly as his persona might have. Why not? They had decent beer in Scotland, and better whisky. Give it another hour at most and he'd have completed his mission--
The Winter Soldier straightened, his attention locking onto his (old) target -- wrong one, right one, wrong one, face is right, year is wrong, face is right, kill this one, kill this one, fucker got away from me last time. Memories of old pain flashed across him, smearing data that hadn't been programmed in as well as his current handlers thought, as the old techs used to.
He straightened, shoulders going back and down, head coming up, balance shifting forward onto the balls of his feet. Even his spine moved more easily now and a hungry, predatory smile wiped the tired businessman away.
* * *
Matthew McCormick sauntered down the Royal Mile, hands in his pockets, coat flaring behind him in the rising breeze, and shook his head, trying not to laugh. "With a name like MacLeod, I'm to believe you couldn't find anyone else to go distillery hopping with you?"
"By now Adam's ensconced with a book at the Green Lion; they stock some microbrews he likes. And Amanda is off with Cory, which you asked me not to remind you about, and you agreed not to remind me about." Duncan grinned at him and shifted to German to harass him. "Besides. If I take an Englishman drinking with me, that'll be a test run to survive my kinsman."
Matthew glanced at him sidelong, retorts already springing to mind. "And here I thought Scots were supposed to have more tolerance for spirits?"
"Oh, we do," Duncan replied immediately. "But you're almost as sarcastic as Connor."
"Oh, you wanted commentary... I'll keep that in mind. And you left Adam behind thinking my name would embarrass you less on any sign-in sheets?" Matthew asked, grinning despite himself. "Just for that, MacLeod, you're buying." Duncan tried to sputter an insincere protest and Matthew ignored him, pausing to admire the sleek curves and fitted dress on a redheaded woman. She was trying, unsuccessfully, to get the attention of a man whose suit had cost more than her dress.
Her intended target was also graceful, well-balanced and moving quickly and lightly. Matthew stopped to look him over, too, equally appreciative of the dark-haired, dark-eyed man (banker? financial adviser?). What few lines he had around mouth and eyes suggested a wicked sense of humor and unlike MacLeod, who was rather thoroughly busy with Amanda and Adam and their schemes, Matthew might have a chance at him.
Duncan turned back to see what was keeping Matthew and grinned openly at the redhead, who looked Duncan over with a charmingly frank interest in return. "Good eye," Duncan murmured.
Matthew kept looking at the man, his instincts first whispering of danger and then shouting about it. He should know this man, he did know the face, had seen it before, studied it before, but it was a while ago, and he'd been.... "What are you doing in a three piece suit?" Matthew muttered, still trying to place him.
The man's focus shifted to them, possibly alerted by Matthew's stare; Matthew felt his hair try to stand on end and he stepped back without looking, one hand reaching for Duncan's arm.
"There's nothing wrong with his suit." Duncan sounded bewildered, but he was already straightening, too old a fighter to ignore Matthew's reactions.
The knife barely missed him.
* * *
It wasn't just the reprogramming procedures that been neglected. The handlers and technicians had hurried Winter Soldier's time to acclimate, too, and as a result, the updates weren't as thorough as they should have been. Too many things that shouldn't have been a surprise were. Possibly worse, some things that Winter Soldier hadn't been told had nonetheless slotted smoothly into place -- with the aid of old memories. Old memories that he should never have been needed, or been able to access, in the first place.
Winter Soldier hadn't been frozen as competently as usual last time, either. The old technicians had known to watch his EEG and be sure he was completely out. This time, he'd had a chance to file memories into their proper places and patterns before the drugs finally dragged him down into oblivion.
Now he had the right year but the wrong target, and the mismatch of time/place/objective was wreaking chaos among the neatly ordered information, languages and plans he'd been given. So he clung to a memory/plan/goal which punishment and frustration had burned in beyond his handlers' ability to wipe it out afterwards... and went after Duncan MacLeod.
He barely missed with the first strike meant to disable MacLeod's arm (now he'll go left) and sliced along the man's forearm as he pulled back. His knife came out of MacLeod's coat with red smeared across the point. He dodged a foot-stomp and swayed in, blade still partially concealed against his own coat sleeve; he cut the shoulder of the other arm when MacLeod blocked.
Interesting. The man was willing to take the damage to his off-arm to get away, and he brought his knee up fast -- but he aimed at the thigh, not the groin, and didn't come anywhere near the useful nerve points.
Smart, fast, but not a dirty enough fighter. Winter Soldier grinnedand punched with the knife, jabbing the pommel above MacLeod's arm hard enough to finish numbing his hand. He ripped the blade back along his ribs as he went for the blood loss. Both of them were moving faster in their suits than anyone else would have expected, although Winter Soldier couldn't hit his full speed. He cursed the idiots who'd given him a suit which didn't give him enough range of motion, grating out Russian and Czech commentary on their sexual habits.
The tall, quick man who'd been eying him for bed a moment ago hit from his left, jarring Winter Soldier off-balance and making him miss the knife strike at MacLeod's ribs. The stranger cursed in surprisingly filthy French when his hand broke against the metal arm. The newcomer also shifted his attacks as he cursed, throwing a very professional snap kick that the Winter Soldier barely dodged, and raking his heel along the Soldier's calf on the withdrawal.
Now he had two of them to fight, and MacLeod's gashed arms weren't slowing him enough. Trained martial artist or no, the leg sweep that spun into a back kick was too fucking good and now the stranger was working with him. They didn't work together well enough to be long-standing partners but they were definitely more than chance-made acquaintances.
They were also willing to take a blow if that was what it cost to get in a good shot or a chance at taking his knife away.
Interesting, but not really relevant. The Soldier spun, kneed MacLeod in the balls, twisted his torso back to plant his metal elbow in the other man's gut, and stepped away from them both.
This plan, and possibly this identity, had already been blown. So, time to blow a few other things away too.
* * *
Matthew saw the assassin pull out a pistol and knew he'd recognize the make later, but just then he was trying to get back up when he couldn't breathe. If he wasn't immortal, he'd have been worried about ruptured organs; that metal arm had more strength built into it than a mortal one. Not even muscle tone and centuries of practice had been able to keep Matthew from having his wind knocked completely out, which meant he was on his back trying to get air in his lungs and his feet under him when the first bullet hit.
It punched through Duncan's arm and went in under his collarbone. It kept going and hit someone behind him; a woman's scream of pain joined the panicked cries that had started up around them. A second shot cut through Duncan's chest and he staggered, trying to stay up, trying to get to the assassin in banker's clothing. Now a man was screaming too, and Duncan's knees were buckling.
The bastard actually steadied his gun for a third shot.
Matthew waved Duncan down emphatically, unable to get words out but hoping Cory's friend and Connor's student would do as he said just this once....
Duncan closed his eyes and dropped. Matthew hoped desperately that his wounds were closing fast -- they must be hideously clean, those were definitely armor-piercing rounds -- because the assassin turned to face Matthew, eyes narrow and intent. He braced the gun with his metal hand, metal actually showing through the torn glove, and put a bullet through Matthew's heart.
Matthew let his head fall back and gave up on trying to breathe. He focused instead on letting himself heal this small, possibly deadly wound while his heart tried to tear the wound further open. Meanwhile, the world went grey from lack of oxygen.
When he could look up, his mind already racing over ways to start covering their tracks, the assassin was long gone and Duncan was pulling him up. "Good thing we're both in dark clothes," Duncan muttered, steadying Matthew as they stumbled away from the center of the commotion. "What the hell just happened?"
"That was..." Matthew blinked and stumbled as his mind kicked up three sets of memories in rapid succession: the businessman-assassin, the same face and hair over a WWII army uniform, and the same face in three-quarter profile with longer hair in a grainy black and white photo. "Sweet Christ."
Duncan got a shoulder under him, waving away a helper. "I'll just get him to the edge of the crowd for emergency services...." A few steps on, he sped them up, saying, "Come on, stay upright. How badly did he get you? And I don't think Christ had anything to do with that."
"You took worse," Matthew said, but he was still short on oxygen, and knew it; he wasn't thinking clearly enough yet. He catalogued the wounds, hoping he hadn't died and lost time. "I was shot once, broke my hand on his arm, had the wind knocked out of me. If I were your age, I might yet be pissing blood tonight."
Duncan just nodded. "Okay, yeah, I got worse. Sliced a few times, two shots before you waved me down. He was fucking good. You broke your hand on his arm? What was that, armor?"
"He was a professional. Thank God you dropped when you did; he was about to go for a headshot." Matthew added grimly, "And I know who the assassin is. What I'm afraid of is that I might also know who he was, and I have no idea what the hell to do about it."
"Who is he?" Duncan asked, turning them into a darkish alley and leading them in behind the dumpster for the additional cover. "We've bled all over these shirts..."
Matthew stripped his off, too, and pulled his coat back on, buttoning it up. "His arm was solid metal, up to the deltoid at least. And he was using a Russian Spetznaz pistol, one designed to be quiet. I think we just ran into the Winter Soldier, Duncan." He added, "And survived it, which puts us in select company."
Duncan buttoned up his coat, frowning a little, then said, "I've survived him once before." He smiled faintly. "Fitz got in his way, and then the bobbies came.... Fitz was furious I got him killed in England."
"Best we get out of the city and set up alibis in case anyone got pictures," Matthew said, throwing their wadded-up shirts into the dumpster. "Duncan, when was that?"
"Spring of 1951. Why?" Duncan pulled out his phone. "I'll get someone to check us out...."
"Cory's in town by now. I'll get him to do it," Matthew said. "What were you doing when the Soldier came after you?"
"Working for Churchill. It's still classified," Duncan said apologetically. "Who is this Winter Soldier? Other than the guy who just made a good try at killing us."
"A Russian assassin who showed up every few years, made a series of hits, and vanished again." Matthew glanced at Duncan. "Rumor had it that he always looked to be young, early twenties at most, but his reputation runs over sixty-five years, and he's always got that metal arm. Either they're going to the trouble of cutting arms off prime assassins... or he's not aging. I looked into him briefly, but there were no pictures."
"Okay. That's who he is. Who do you think he was?" Duncan used a handkerchief to get the last blood off Matthew's face, then held still while he returned the favor.
"I need to check a few things," Matthew said quietly, "but I'm fairly sure I saw him in a newsreel during World War II, Duncan."
"He's not one of us." Duncan frowned. "He's that old?"
"No," Matthew said quietly. "I don't think he's one of us, either. But he's seen us, and now he's seen you, twice, in sixty years. And tried to kill you each time. I think we have a problem."
Duncan nodded. "I'll try to call Amanda; pass me the phone when you get Cory. I know Scotland better than you do." He groaned and muttered, "Adam is not going to let me hear the end of this...."
* * *
The job was a complete loss; his handlers were going to be furious. From the memories he had of MacLeod, they'd been furious about that one, too. (How long ago was that?)He'd been sent to kill MacLeod and killed the wrong man instead before he'd been driven off by too much attention. And now he met MacLeod again and this time killed him -- but once again, wrong man and too much publicity.
Maybe that just sort of happened around MacLeod.
Winter Soldier was sure of one thing; his head hurt.
He reversed his coat to hide the bloodstains and checked out of his hotel early, explaining that he'd finished his business more quickly than expected. He asked about the fee for the last night; to his surprise they agreed not to charge it. He didn't need the money, really, but not asking about it might be memorable. That done, he caught the last train to London, getting a compartment to himself more by looking desperately ill than looking menacing.
He felt ill, frighteningly enough. The Winter Soldier was used to perfect health, to injuries healing rapidly, to muscles that picked up skills quickly and didn't forget them. He let his head rest against the train window for a moment and it felt cold to his forehead, but equally cold to his hand. No fever, so why did his head hurt like someone had it pinned in a vise while they stabbed hat pins through it? And why did he know what hat pins looked like, and how long they were, and not to annoy pretty brunettes with guns...
His headache spiked at that, spilling rainbows across his vision. He looked up and saw his face shaded yellow-green, saw his hair disarrayed and falling across his forehead, circles under his eyes like bruises, stubble on his face from that morning. He'd always grown a beard quickly, had hated shaving in cold water with-- who were they, the crew of men he remembered joking with and fighting for hot water with because they'd gone to the trouble of heating it 'for coffee, not shaving, and it's not like there's dames out here to impress, are there--'?
He almost heard a name, but the headache spiked again. He cursed the headache, his scattered memories, his dope head, goldbricking, acorn-cracking, Missouri nightingale handlers... and wondered why he'd shifted from Scottish-accented English to American profanity. World War II army profanity of all the fucking things. Placing it correctly, something that was normally part of his job, only made his head throb harder until his vision splintered into kaleidoscopes and the fabric of his clothes hurt his skin--
The Winter Soldier woke with his head on the table, facing the door at least instead of the window. (No one was crazy enough anymore to come down a train and in by the--) He shoved that thought aside as his headache tried to return.
He'd been asleep long enough to have a crease in his cheek from the edge of the table and a crick in his neck from sitting there. He sat up and carefully rotated his neck and shoulders, compensating for the different weight of his metal arm. Something crackled and fell off his upper lip to the table.
He rubbed with his good hand and studied the dried blood.
He hadn't taken any headshots in that short (too short, they were fun) fight.
The Winter Soldier ran his thumb along his upper lip, shedding more clotted blood, and contemplated first his blood, then his reflection in the window.
He didn't look any worse, but he could remember looking like this before. The headache spiked and he ignored it, grabbing for the memory and only coming up with scab-edged bruises on his wrists and someone tall, someone fiercely loved and protected and protecting standing in front of him, while the Winter Soldier stood at his back, attention and gaze flicking lightly across his field of fire, watching for trouble even in a crowd of should-be friends.
This time he rubbed away fresh blood, but he also looked at himself in the mirroring glass. "You finally fucked up," he heard himself saying.
The vicious grin in the mirror only widened when he saw it.
London, huh? There'd been a bar there. He could remember brown uniforms, a black derby hat, a bright red dress and brighter red lipstick, a man's steady eyes and serious face. He knew that face better than his own, should remember the name faster than even his own.... He didn't know that either, did he?
Fuck his handlers -- kill them, quick and thorough, would be more likely if the Winter Soldier saw them.
But fuck 'em. He wasn't falling back to the rendezvous. He wasn't reporting back to them at all, ever.
That thought was worth the fresh nosebleed. There was less pain and blood every time, he noticed, and smiled again. He had no compunctions about pushing at a weak spot.
No. He wasn't going back. He was going looking for a bar, and then he was drinking enough whisky to not notice the headache while he probed at memories that were finally, finally loosening.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, Miscellanea:
For the Marvel fans: Highlander has immortal fighters who can only be killed permanently by beheading; they also stop aging after their first death. (Those are the relevant parts for this fic.) Matthew and Duncan are immortal.
This is set in a vid AU, the "Opportunities" vid that Killa and Lapillus made lo, these many years ago. Things to keep in mind: In this universe, Darius never took a light quickening, so Duncan never met him. He's still very much a partying, wenching, laughing fiend who's teamed up with Amanda and Methos (Adam) as sometime lovers and regular partners in crime. They're master thieves. Matthew met Duncan through Amanda and Cory and likes them despite himself. There will be at least three other stories in this AU, one connected to this story, one for HL_Chronicles.
About the WWII profanity. Acorn cracker: A rustic, a hick. Bayonet: male anatomy. (A bayonet course was treatment for venereal disease.) Dope head: cola-guzzling spreader of misinformation and rumor. Goldbricker: Shirker. Missouri nightingale: army mule. (I've rarely had so much fun as browsing through Paul Dickson's War Slang: American Fighting Words and Phrases from the Civil war to the Gulf War.)
Winter Soldier is from Marvel comics canon and the movie Captain America, where he's known under his first name: Sgt. Bucky Barnes of the Howling Commandoes, Cap's second in command and best friend. The short version involves movie spoilers, so skip this if you haven't seen Captain America yet, okay?
Right: Short version is, Bucky was dosed with a variant of Super-soldier Serum while the 107th was captured by Hydra; he was also sprayed with some kind of biological material right before he fell down a high, rocky gorge to his 'death' in a freezing cold river. Apparently the Russians pulled him out but his left arm didn't make it. They brainwashed him, gave him a new metal arm (upgraded over the years) and relevant skills to blend in and commit assassinations for them, and have been freezing him between missions and thawing him out as needed ever since.
My take is that once the USSR collapsed, so did a lot of funding, and there went a lot of expertise. The miracle is that it took 24 years for this to start breaking loose.
Oh, and the bullets he was using? Teflon-coated, armor-piercing. They'll go through a Kevlar jacket, both sides, with minimal expansion of the exit point. They'll go through people like that, too. No, I don't know why Winter Soldier needed them for that hit yet, but the back of my brain will probably tell me eventually. The gun's a PSS silent pistol (aka, GRAU index 6P28).
Many thanks to Killa and Lapillus for letting me play in the Highlander Opportunities-verse. They had no idea at first that I was going to mix Marvel in, but Killa said go for it, so I did. Thanks are also due to Raine, SamJohnsson, Dragon, and Devo for betaing this. Remaining mistakes are of course mine. Let me know about any and I'll try to fix them.
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