changehistory: (Upset/looking down)
Another day in this carnival of souls
Another night's sands end as quickly as it goes
The memories are shadows, ink on the page
And I can't seem to find my way home

And it's almost like your heaven's trying everything
Your heaven's trying everything to keep me out

All the places I've been and things I've seen
A million stories that made up a million shattered dreams
The faces of people I'll never see again
And I can't seem to find my way home

'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to break me down
'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to keep me out

'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to break me down
'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything
Your heaven's trying everything to break me down
To break me down, to break me down

Your heaven's trying everything
Your heaven's trying everything to break me down

~ Five Finger Death Punch - "Far From Home"
changehistory: (Adorable modern smile)
[livejournal.com profile] lifetimedreamer: Return of the Jedi film cell
Star Wars USB drive
Yoda slippers
Okay, yes. After being all romantic for Peter's birthday, he's being a bit of a dork...

[livejournal.com profile] hadtobeahero: (s3 Fixed) Travel journal - something to start keeping track of things. It's a good idea for forever.
(For s3Fixed & Lord what fools) Platinum poesy promise ring inscribed with vous el nul autre "You and none other"

[livejournal.com profile] not_myfirstday Handpainted rainbow scarf.
A spa day to pamper herself after having to go through all the ups and downs of first trimester. No water immersion treatments, obviously.
Cute black boots, sans heel, so she can still feel fashionable while not causing her back to ache any more than shifting center of gravity is already doing.
And maybe, okay, possibly, if it's important to her, they can go bail the idiots in America out of their latest mess.

[livejournal.com profile] snarky_blonde Hand painted floral batik scarf.

Merry Christmas, loves.
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: ([Peter] Out by car)
Hot Air Balloon Ride over the Hudson Valley for Two - I know it might seem a bit mundane after flying, but how often did you really just get to float and look at the world? I thought you could use a chance to really relax and enjoy the experience, especially after the last year.

Happy Birthday.

Love,
Adam
changehistory: (Fallen hero)
He'd come through betrayal, imprisonment, torture, defeat, even the grave, and was still here, watching in grim satisfaction as one by one the rest of them fell.
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: (Fallen hero)
For all that he is technically still alive, knowing that each heartbeat, each breath, brings him that much closer to death leaves Adam a shadow of his former self, paralyzed with fear and incapable of living whatever time he has left.
changehistory: ([Peter] Out by car)
He could rule the world if he set his mind to it again, formulate a new plan and tie freshly made puppets to strings he works with a master's skill until they're pleased to dance to his tune, but he stays his hand for the sake of a smile and wonders when he developed such an easily exploitable weakness.
changehistory: (Upset/looking down)
[ooc: Peter referred to is [livejournal.com profile] hadtobeahero]

The air felt different in his lungs. Every breath he pulled in held death in it--disease, carcinogens, the time it took to draw and release it that was a moment he could not get back, a moment that pushed him closer to the inevitable. He was aware of them in the heaviness that settled somewhere in his chest, frightened of each cough that exploded out of sitting someone close to him on the subway, aware of the smoke that curled through the air in the bars he used to frequent with such delight. His fingers curled around the heavy glass that held the amber elixir that he once counted on to wash away the agony of life, and stared into it and only saw potential ends--liver cells dying off, inattention on the streets making him prey for a mugger, a sharp curve in the road he wasn't alert enough to maneuver.

For 337 years he had lived without fear. Nothing could touch him; nothing could harm him; nothing could stop him. Now he jumped at shadows, waiting for his past to catch up with him. A bullet, a knife in the back, a betrayal with a kiss as the cord tightened enough to strangle off air and shut off the light forever. He was alive, yes, but the refrain reverberated in his brain, For now. It was a cruel irony that he had learned to cherish the moments he had with the mortals in his life, so aware of the fleeting nature of their lives, but now that his own joined them, that fleetingness haunted him to the point that cherishing seemed near impossible.

There was so little time left to do anything, to see anything. So little time left to love, to build a life. He'd dreamt of showing him the world, of watching the future unfold in all its glorious manifestation under their careful guidance. The world they could create together, the one he could bring into being with him by his side...it fluttered there just out of grasp in his dreams, then dissipated with the dawn of another day closer to the end. Not just his end, either. Anything could happen at anytime to either of them. His golden boy was no longer a god, no more than he was, and the formula that had given him at least a measure of his strength back was out of reach to restore Adam to any sense of power. It was a fluttering hope he clung to in moments when he dragged himself up from despair. Maybe, somewhere, somehow, some vial existed, but then the light flickered out on that. Suresh wouldn't recreate it, not to help him, and the catalyst was gone anyway with the bullet in Arthur's brain.

He was a dead man. It might take another fifty or sixty years--if he was lucky--but Arthur would have his revenge, and Adam would die. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. Life moved by in shadows. They said the terminal found a new appreciation in life, that food tasted sweeter and the people they loved seemed dearer, but he couldn't find the will in the devastation. He wanted to. He didn't want to waste these moments, didn't want to waste this chance. Because if he was dead, at least he wasn't dying alone. That was something to cling to, but if he couldn't pull himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, he might, mightn't he? Peter might go, and then his one bright spot would be gone.

But the air felt different in his lungs, and every shadow held menace, and for the first time in centuries he was afraid. He hated it, and sometimes, in his darker moods, he thought Arthur had gotten the better, fairer, end.
changehistory: (Fallen hero)
[ooc: This was my, "WTF, the writers are being illogical, and that wouldn't happen" moment, of how, if they were going to insist on 3x06 "Dying of the Light" that this is how it should've gone instead. Because the way it happened made no logical sense. So, there, writers! Uh, possibly spoilery for that ep except AU ending?]

The man in the bed hooked up to the machines that were keeping him alive, though barely, was possibly the last person Adam Monroe expected to see. He stared, shock spreading across his face.

"I heard you were dead..." Glancing back at the doctor and then at the young man who'd brought him here, then back at Arthur, Adam still tried to piece it together. It wasn't hard to guess what Arthur wanted, looking at him there. His blood, obviously, to cure him from whatever had done this to him, to get him up off the bed and then...he must be the one behind the stealing of the formula. Whatever. Adam hardly cared, but it was interesting to consider that Arthur and Angela were pitted against each other.

Then Arthur's thoughts were in his head, dark and twisting inside of him, and for the first time in centuries, Adam knew real fear. "No..." He tried to back away, but the young man, impossibly strong, stopped him, dragging him forward and forcing him to kneel as Arthur reached for him. "Don't do this...!"

But he was doing it, his cold hands tight on Adam's, and he could feel energy pulling out of him, painful almost as it slid along his nerves and filled the man across from him. He struggled, but there was nothing he could do, no escape, and then, just as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. The young man released him, and he slumped slightly, staring up in horror as Arthur pulled the tube from his throat and sat up in the bed, casting a slight smirk at Adam.

"Ah, it feels good to breathe again."

"What have you done?"

"You know exactly what I've done..."

"But why...? I would have given you whatever blood you needed..."

"Very accommodating of you, Adam, but I'd rather be in charge of my own survival this time. But, thank you. For the thought. And the immortality. Knox will show you out. I'm sure you're eager to get a taste of freedom after all these years...consider it my thank you gift."

Adam pushed to his feet, staring at Arthur, trying not to let the horror he felt, the bits of himself that he felt were missing overwhelm him. "How could you do this to me?"

"It's nothing personal. You just had something I wanted." Arthur turned to go, then paused at the door, to glance back over his shoulder. "Oh, Adam...if you see Angela, do tell her I send my love, would you?"

He was gone, and Adam sagged slightly, leaning against the bedpost. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, and drawing breath was nigh unto impossible, but Knox's fingers curled around his arm, pulling him back toward the door.

"I can take you back where I found you, if you want," he offered, with an air of indifference.

Numbness was spreading--was it shock, he wondered?--as Adam forced his feet to move, following him. Rage would follow, he was sure. And then a need for vengeance, to right this. But right now, he couldn't feel anything at all, but fear.

"It doesn't matter," he said. For the first time in three centuries, mortality was staring him in the face. "I'm a dead man anyway."

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Adam Monroe

February 2014

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