changehistory: ([Angela] [Peter] Hallelujah)
[ooc note: Based on RP in [livejournal.com profile] hearts_andminds. Peter referred to is [livejournal.com profile] dreamtof_flying. Angela is [livejournal.com profile] seemynightmares and mine to use.]

When he came in, she was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with an open jar of peanut butter, licking delicately at the spoonful she’d scooped out. A half full glass of whiskey sat next to her, the bottle on the counter, open, with an empty glass next to it. She paused for a moment, then pulled the spoon out of her mouth and held it there, swinging up and down in the air as she watched him across the space between.

The twist of near pure panic in his gut was ridiculous. With her hair twisted up on her head, held in place with a pencil, and a nightshirt on that he thought might have kittens on it, she looked about twelve, no matter if she was right and date of birthday in the village or no, she’d reached her legal majority a couple of months before. It was the look in her eyes, he decided. Kittens and pencil bun aside, that was all Angela, and it had never quite failed to send chills down his spine.

That, of course, was also ridiculous. He could heal from anything, and all she did was dream the future. She didn’t even have an aggressive power. And yet...

She smiled. It didn’t help. It never did when she was in this mood. Dangerous. Somehow, across the hall, when they weren’t watching, she’d grown up a bit more than anyone noticed.

“Found your whiskey. Have a drink?”

Adam let his bag slide off his shoulder. Running wasn’t a good idea. So he told himself to show no weakness, and moved across the room, closing that distance that had felt safe, and reached for the bottle, filling the empty glass.

“You’re still too young for this.”

“So ground me.” The look in her eyes practically dared him to say anything more as she deliberately reached for her glass, taking a sip, and he had to wonder what whiskey and peanut butter tasted like.

“Where’s Peter?”

“At the clinic. He had to work the late shift.” Another lick of peanut butter, another sip of whiskey, her eyes never leaving his face.

He was going to die. She was going to murder him in his sleep. )
changehistory: (OOC - Mr. Monroe is busy)
Posted on Lydia's journal.

Yes, that's where the majority of my more diverse (aka, not just Heroes) muses play, at the moment.
changehistory: (You have GOT to be kidding me)
His own empathy really was enough.



[ooc: ...applies for any 'verse where Peter's picked up Lydia's ability. Or Melissa's, actually, for that matter. LOL]
changehistory: ([Peter] - fear me love me do as I say)
You felt the coldness in my eyes,
It's something I'm not revealing.
Though you got used to my disguise,
You can't shake this awful feeling.

It's the me that I let you know,
Cause' I'll never show,
I have my reasons.
I hate to say that I told you so,
But I told you so.

There's blood on my hands like the blood in you.
Some things can't be treated so,
Don't make me, Don't make me be myself around you.


For long stretches of time, it's easy to hide, to slip into the mask he's crafted for the younger man. Peter makes it easy to smile, after all, to let the lighter side of his personality slip out. His faith, his belief in humanity, even after so many times of seeing darkness, is light a beacon shining in the shadows of Adam's world, and for a time it's easy to cling to that, to use it as a guiding light to steer his way. He laughs, he jokes, he lets the cynicism slide and the centuries slip away as if they aren't dragging him down into some darker abyss of his own creating.

Sometimes he even wants so badly to be that mask, to slip it on permanently, and he wonders if he wears it long enough if it will be truth. Then something happens, some word rubs over his temper or some news article reminds him of too many memories dragging at his consciousness, or he wakes shaking from one of the constant nightmares that lives in his mind, and the shadows rise up again. Dreams of blood, dreams of destruction, dreams of glory, dreams of what should be, dreams of vengeance. He remembers what could and should be, and he wonders why this naive boy cannot see it, cannot see him, and temper flares again, ice cold and cutting in its boundless fury. Sometimes just a moment, sometimes longer, but it has to run its course before he can wrap himself back into the guise of the warm, congenial lover again.

Most times he tries to hide it from Peter, but others...others there's a reckless desire to see just what he'll let him get away with, how much of him he can handle.

He fears the answer is not enough.

Straight from your eyes it's barely me.
Beautifully so disfigured.
This other side that you can't see,
Just praying you won't remember.

Feel the pain that I never show,
And I hope you know,
It's never healing.
I hate to say that I told you so, but I told you so.

There's blood on my hands like the blood in you.
Some things can't be treated so,
Don't make me, Don't make me be myself around you.


How Peter has forgiven him, he already cannot understand. What he did was not something Peter can forgive, he thinks, not really. He seems to have accepted it, though, and Adam wonders if Peter thinks he believes it was wrong, that Adam has seen the errors of his ways, repented, been redeemed. Is it repentance that earns forgiveness, and would that acceptance even be stripped away if the boy knew how he ached for what was loss and the chances that slipped away.

He isn't broken, he protests, but he knows that's not true, and there are pieces of him lost in time that can't ever be put back together. Too much loss, too many betrayals, too many broken dreams, too much anger, too much hate. Not even Peter's light can heal it all, even if it is a soothing balm. If the boy ever realized...ever knew...ever really saw...

Adam is sure he'd lose him, lose all they have, lose the one sanctuary where he thinks, perhaps, he can rest, and at least pretend to be like them. Understanding doesn't come easy, and he doubts it's sincerity in the face of the full truth, so he keeps the carefully crafted mask. He says the right things, expresses the right emotions, tries to be the person Peter believes him to be, needs him to be. Maybe if he keeps it up, one day he'll believe it, as well.

But Peter pokes, pries, tries to make him open up, be more authentic, let him in, let him see the man behind the mask, and Adam is forced to wonder if his memory is just that short-term or if he really doesn't understand just how tragic that would be for the both of them. Because the day Peter really realizes the man he's let into his life and heart is the day Adam's sure will be their last.
changehistory: ([Peter] -- Here we go again)
...It got a little long, and I didn't know if it would fit in the comments, esp repeatedly. >.>

Adam/Peter: Salvation )
changehistory: ([Peter] -- Here we go again)
It might be the Christmas season, but this is one day Adam takes out of his holiday festivities to celebrate the birth of someone he finds far more special than Christ--however sacrilegious that might sound.
changehistory: ([Angela] [Peter] Hallelujah)
It's not something he can ever say aloud for fear of offending them both, and the complexity of the emotion is impossible to capture in words anyway, but part of the draw will forever be the ghost of her he sees reflecting back at him from Peter's eyes.
changehistory: (Seriously?)
Go to Google image search and type in your name. Post an image from the first page of results along with your commentary about that image.



My commentary?

Not me.

Puppy.

Seriously--I google for images of me, and I get the puppy. Whatever is the world coming to?
changehistory: (Broken)
There were times and occasions upon which Adam Monroe wished he could still get drunk. He'd, mostly, accepted his inability to do so centuries ago, but sometimes the sheer lack of an escape from his own thoughts, from himself, was a frustration that made him nearly hate the ability he cherished. In the burn of the whiskey, the slip into a haze, there had been comfort, release, reprieve that was denied him now. Instead he had to look for it in other places--the warmth of another's body, the burn of muscles pushed beyond endurance in a grueling workout, the adrenaline and pain of an instigated fight against someone sure to take him down. It was far more complicated that way, all around, and more interpersonally complicated. The whiskey had been simpler, pushing him toward oblivion he could lose himself in.

He stared at the glass on the table in front of him as if it were personally responsible for its contents being unable to provide a solution to the ache that scraped at his insides, making him feel raw. Didn't it know he wasn't supposed to feel that way? Not anymore, not him, not after everything he'd gone through. He wasn't supposed to have been charmed by three little towheads with their blue eyes and sticky faces and fingers. The possibilities they presented of a life he could have, an intriguing array of what ifs and maybes wherein he had found something like peace, like home, with others like him, not having to hide...And family. A family like he hadn't had since before he left England's shores on a boat bound for Japan, one he didn't have to leave, didn't have to lie to or lie for because of what he was...

They'd been here. Three little imps, far too precocious for their own good and his peace of mind, and each of them his, each of them representing some chance, some fate, some place where he...belonged. Representatives of hope, shining little beacons in their own ways, and he'd just been getting to know them, just had a chance to start to learn their smiles, pick up on their quirks, figure out just how much Stephen needed to eat, and that Eden had inherited his gift for snark and that Piera really needed to be kept away from sharp objects to not keep freaking out the neighbors, but he couldn't help but be proud of her spirit, and then...they were gone.

He'd told himself it didn't matter, not really. They were home with him and their respective mothers, just fine, back in their worlds. It wasn't like he'd lost them or they were hurt or in trouble. They were where they belonged. And he might never see them again, a small voice whispered. Because they couldn't all be just from his future. Maybe one, maybe even two, but at least one of them had to be from a different world, an alternate timeline, and that meant...he'd never see them again. He was left with the knowledge he had a son out there somewhere he would probably never get to know. There was a comfort in the idea that maybe the girls were possible, that he'd hold his daughters one day, but he couldn't be certain of that, either. After all, Elle and Claire had both had children with others as well, and who knew which timeline any of them had come from. He might not see any of them ever again. Telling himself over and over again that it didn't matter worked for a few days, a week or two.

But when he'd walked into the classroom to start his new job teaching at the prep school and seen all those young faces looking back at him...it mattered. It mattered with a visceral pain that he couldn't deny, couldn't talk himself out of. Already a bit nervous at the prospect of teaching for the first time and shaky from the fight over the weekend, all those bright shiny faces had made him nearly freeze up. Somehow he got through it, got through the day, managed to smile and charm and go over the lessons he'd prepared, but he couldn't find the glee with which he'd taken the job. All those young minds to mold, to introduce to the greatness of the likes of Machiavelli, even, and all he could think about were those he wouldn't have the chance to teach, to rear, to raise.

And so he found himself in the bar, because it was ritual from the days gone by so long before that no one else remembered them, staring at a glass filled with an amber liquid that would do nothing for him, even if he downed a bottle of it. It was the simplest programmed response, even after all this time, but it wasn't going to help. A fight or a fuck would've been more productive, but he wasn't sure he had the heart for the former after the weekend and the latter had been in even shorter supply lately, so he sat, and he stared at the glass as if it would magically supply the answers, and he wished to God he could still get drunk.

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Adam Monroe

February 2014

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