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[RM] 1.83.1c -- To Byron
Nov. 20th, 2007 09:46 amOOC: Brought to you by the crack inside my head. And a serious love issue with crossovers. And a Methos who keeps following Adam around my brain like a puppy. Boy has no sense when it comes to pretty bad guys. Mayhap he thinks he's found himself a new Kronos. I don't know. Byron and Wes are not pleased. ;-)
1860, American West
"Surprise. You're not dead." Curious green eyes, laced with amusement, stared down into Adam's own. It had the tone of a pronouncement, something said before, but then that flew away as the man's face split into a puzzled grin. "Though you should be."
Adam struggled to sit up, wincing as the last of the bullet wounds healed. He started to say something, anything, impressive enough to talk his way away from the two men, but something familiar nagged at him, staring into that face. It didn't click, though, until his eyes shifted to the other. His hair was longer, and his clothes far more dusty than Adam had ever seen him before, but the face was far too well known to pass by. Sometimes it worked best to launch an attack instead of sliding to the defensive, so he nodded at the other man, his eyes sliding back to the one addressing him. "So should he, and if I'm not mistaken, you as well. Doctor...Adams, am I correct?" He pulled the name from a memory he had worked on honing for two hundred years.
The eyebrows went up, and those remarkable green eyes flew to his companion for a moment. Adam pushed himself to his feet and gave a bow that did not quite fit in with the rough homespun attire he was in. "Lord Byron, I believe."
The poet looked at him, shocked for a long moment, then started laughing so hard he fell off the rock he was perched on.
"Byron..." Doctor Adams did not sound nearly so amused. He shifted his glare to Adam. "How do you know who he is?"
Interesting that he was more concerned for the poet's anonymity than his own. Adam brushed his jacket off casually, though removing dust did little for the ingrained dirt of the blood. You'd think the federal marshals would have more to do with the war about to break out than hunt down bank robbers.
"I fought in the army he raised in Greece," Adam said, keeping his voice casual, trying to suppress a bit of a shiver of excitement at finding someone else like him, after all this time. "And before that, I saw both of you in Venice several times. We even spoke once or twice, English exiles, wandering hundreds of miles from home."
The good doctor's eyes narrowed, sliding over him. "How are you alive, and unaged?"
Adam's eyebrows went up. "I could ask you the same question."
( Byron sat up, his fit of laughter over, but his interest seemed fully caught. )
1860, American West
"Surprise. You're not dead." Curious green eyes, laced with amusement, stared down into Adam's own. It had the tone of a pronouncement, something said before, but then that flew away as the man's face split into a puzzled grin. "Though you should be."
Adam struggled to sit up, wincing as the last of the bullet wounds healed. He started to say something, anything, impressive enough to talk his way away from the two men, but something familiar nagged at him, staring into that face. It didn't click, though, until his eyes shifted to the other. His hair was longer, and his clothes far more dusty than Adam had ever seen him before, but the face was far too well known to pass by. Sometimes it worked best to launch an attack instead of sliding to the defensive, so he nodded at the other man, his eyes sliding back to the one addressing him. "So should he, and if I'm not mistaken, you as well. Doctor...Adams, am I correct?" He pulled the name from a memory he had worked on honing for two hundred years.
The eyebrows went up, and those remarkable green eyes flew to his companion for a moment. Adam pushed himself to his feet and gave a bow that did not quite fit in with the rough homespun attire he was in. "Lord Byron, I believe."
The poet looked at him, shocked for a long moment, then started laughing so hard he fell off the rock he was perched on.
"Byron..." Doctor Adams did not sound nearly so amused. He shifted his glare to Adam. "How do you know who he is?"
Interesting that he was more concerned for the poet's anonymity than his own. Adam brushed his jacket off casually, though removing dust did little for the ingrained dirt of the blood. You'd think the federal marshals would have more to do with the war about to break out than hunt down bank robbers.
"I fought in the army he raised in Greece," Adam said, keeping his voice casual, trying to suppress a bit of a shiver of excitement at finding someone else like him, after all this time. "And before that, I saw both of you in Venice several times. We even spoke once or twice, English exiles, wandering hundreds of miles from home."
The good doctor's eyes narrowed, sliding over him. "How are you alive, and unaged?"
Adam's eyebrows went up. "I could ask you the same question."
( Byron sat up, his fit of laughter over, but his interest seemed fully caught. )
