changehistory: (Brooding)
It was probably ridiculous, and he certainly didn't feel much like celebrating, but there was something uplifting in it anyway as Adam sat in his cell--bare of so much as a single Christmas candle--and sang carols just to prove to Bob he was still there.
changehistory: ([Angela] Look how far we've come)
Making snow angels was the pastime of children, but Adam reminded himself his angel was little more than a child--and moreover one who'd had too much of her childhood taken from her--and the laughter that lit up her face at seeing him covered in the wretchedly cold stuff more than made up for the mild humiliation.
changehistory: (Kensei - Waiting with sword)
[ooc: Obviously entirely my own backstory as canon gives us nothing about Adam's childhood]

I was the middle child, actually, though the oldest son, which was something that mattered back then and gives your birth order charts a bit of a twist if you're going to start analyzing me based on that. Mary was the oldest by three years, and Stephen was three years younger. There were others in between, I think, but Mother either miscarried or they died in infancy.

Mary was the rebel. She felt she should have been a boy, I think, with ideas in her head that were centuries ahead of her time. Watching Mother's life, she knew she didn't want that for herself, swore even when she was just ten she wasn't going to have it. I don't think she expected it to go the way it did, of course, and given that, I sometimes think she might have preferred the life she disdained, but she never said so. She never lost that arrogant tilt to her chin, that determined look in her eye that looked out at the world and swore that she was going to own it one day and no one was going to hold her back and may God smite anyone who tried.

Stephen, on the other hand, was the dreamer. Even when things went badly, we tried to give him that, to protect him from the harsh realities of life. We'd play make believe and encourage him to think that life was different, because we didn't want him having to face what was out there. Mother said we were setting him up for a fall, and maybe we were, but Mary and I couldn't stand for him to have to know the things we did. He was...special. Delicate, in some ways. He got sick a lot, probably because he was so young when we moved. Mary and I at least got a decent start in life in terms of nutrition and what care there was in those days, but Stephen was only five, and the air and the food and the things down in our new part of town...they weren't good for any of us, but he was so young, so we did what we could to make it better for him however we could.

And then there was me, trying to take care of Stephen and keep Mary from getting herself in the stocks or hung or tied to a stake and convince Mother that it was all right when she knew it wasn't. Is it any wonder I developed a fondness for whiskey?
changehistory: (Caged)
1965

His head hurt. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in a while, so Adam leaned back against the cold cement wall and closed his eyes to savor it for a moment. Just a moment, though, because it was quickly apparent that a throbbing head needed to go back under the list of "not good pains." With his eyes closed, the bench under him seemed to have transformed into a roller coaster, lifting him up and throwing him down, his stomach dropping at the sensation.

"I think," he said, eyes still closed, "That I am drunk."

"I wouldn't doubt it, I know I am," the voice next to him said dryly, and Adam opened one eye to meet Daniel's.

"How much did we drink?"

"I have no idea, though I think you went through at least two bottles."

"Oh..." He hadn't done that in a while. Hadn't felt the need to, until the announcement this morning, the realization that he had pushed too far, gotten what he wanted far too thoroughly--so well done that it wasn't what he'd wanted at all, really. Be careful what you wish for, indeed. Daniel hadn't been much more pleased, really, as he recalled. Thus, their present circumstances.

"My head hurts," he announced.

"Can't you heal it?"

"I'm trying," he huffed, "But I think it's the alcohol wearing off. It used to do this..."

"Quick drunk followed by quicker hangover? Cheater." Daniel sounded disgruntled.

Adam opened his eyes again and studied Daniel's face. "You're going to have a nasty bruise."

"Yes, well, some of us don't walk away from your bad ideas as unscathed as you do."

"It wasn't a bad idea!"

"She had a boyfriend twice your size, who had four friends just as large," Daniel pointed out.

Adam shrugged slightly and closed his eyes again. )
changehistory: (I need you to believe)
1977

Is it getting better?
Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now?
You got someone to blame
You say
One love
One life
When it's one need
In the night
One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it


He pressed his hand against the glass, watching it reflected back off of the blinds that were open. The blonde man sitting on the bed reading looked up, startling blue eyes seeming to pierce through the window and layers of flesh, stripping away the few defenses Charles carried with him and looking to his soul underneath. It was always unnerving, but now he could see the depths of those eyes, could glimpse the flickers of a sort of madness that he had always taken for intense passion, before. It burned almost too hot, the fervor there, before the mask dropped again, and there was nothing but ice gazing back out at him. He nodded at the guard, then moved into the room, the cell, the place where they had locked up their leader, each of them playing Judas in turn, horror in their eyes at what he had almost done, though Charles knew most of them would have backed him if they weren't afraid of the same fate. Their eyes, too, held the fever glimpsed in Adam's.

It was a fervor he had believed in, until it turned dark, and standing in the cold, sterile room, watching as Adam leaned back against the wall of his prison, head tilting, one eyebrow arching in cool curiosity, Charles felt the loss of it with a keen edge that cut through him.

"I thought we were going to save the world."

"That was the plan," Adam said dryly, "Until Kaito interfered."

"You went too far."

"There is no such thing. Just because you cannot see it..." Adam shook his head. "This isn't about that, even. He wanted my position, and now he has it, just like his son before him."

Charles frowned, confused by the latter statement, but let it pass. "You can't blame him, Adam. You have to accept responsibility for your own actions."

Adam's mouth tightened, the only sign of his displeasure, and then his eyes slid back to his book, effectively dismissing Charles, who still stood there for quite a while longer, before he finally turned to go.

1987

Did I disappoint you? )
changehistory: (Half hiding)
"A man who knows the court is master of his gestures, of his eyes and of his face; he is profound, impenetrable; he dissimulates bad offices, smiles at his enemies, controls his irritation, disguises his passions, belies his heart, speaks and acts against his feelings." - Jean de La Bruyere (1645 - 1696)

1782

It was not an easy time, nor easy lessons to learn. For all that he was well over a century old, for all that he had learned to lie with ease about his family, his past, the source of his fortune, none of that had truly prepared him for moving among the court at Versailles. It was almost terrifying, how out of place he felt, and he had to remind himself that he had been a samurai, a leader of men, a commander of a British mercenary fleet, a member of the Queen's Guard, a pirate captain with the open sea his to roam and rule. But these perfumed butterflies, flitting around gilded walls, whispering behind fans, dancing and flirting and frittering away their days baffled him.

The life they led was one he had always imagined he wanted. A child of the streets, bettering himself through each lifetime--to be at the finest, most decadent, most elaborate court in the world, accepted as one of them, was a dream come true. He had reached a pinnacle of experience, and he meant to savor each sensation it brought, drinking it up like a fine wine. And in the meantime, they were going to eat him alive.

He was gauche, bourgeois, rough around the edges with passion and temper both that flared hot. He acted on impulse still, with all the sense of the world owing him for the hand he'd been dealt that he'd hurled at Hiro over a century before. His thoughts chased themselves across his face, always readable, always bare and naked to anyone watching. He floundered, and his darling wife was little help, mostly amused at the boy she'd brought to court with her and his little faux pas.

Then he met the marquis de Castries, and things changed. A Navy man, himself, and a friend of one of Adam's former commanders, despite the sides they fought upon, he took pity on the seemingly younger man. Their lessons were thorough and intricate, and most days he despaired of the nobles, finding himself more in sympathy with the rising tide of revolutionary sentiment, but over the months, he learned, and once he set himself to learn the ways of the court--he learned them well.

When Frederica died, he was happy enough to take his leave of France, returning to the grace and simple beauty of Japan, seeking some balm for his soul and tortured memories of a country he had come to love, before. He did not find it, and continued East, back to the new World and a new life there, but the lessons he learned at court, he carried with him, letting them shape him, change him, mold his reactions. No more did he react in impulse, lashing out without thinking. No more did his heart reflect plaining on his face, his emotions an open book, his thoughts there for all to see. He retreated inside of a pleasant mask, a calculating smile. Eighteen months were all he spent at court, and he made a note never to return to another, but the lessons left him changed forever, and he carried them with him into the future, letting them continue to refine him and mold him into an enigma he delighted in presenting, making it a game to watch them always guessing and never fully grasping the truth of him.
changehistory: (Caged)
All hope abandon, ye who enter in. >> Dante Alighieri

The walls start to close in after the first few days, even. For one who has wandered the Earth unfettered for centuries, a room with only a view of a hallway in hell, itself. But he clings to the hope that it will not be for long. Angela, Arthur, Daniel, Maury...they'll rise up against Kaito and set him free. Even Charles would not condone this, truly. He'll come, surely, disbelieving Kaito, to speak to Adam, to reason with him. Adam can be reasonable.

He paces the room constantly, not sleeping, trying to remember if there is a way out, but nothing comes to mind. After a week, he attacks a guard who brings him dinner, but while they can do no lasting damage, they have weapons enough to subdue him, to leave him chained.

Even so, he hopes. They will come. She will come. She can't allow this, and with her power, surely she can sway the others to her way, his way, of thinking. She will come, and he will be free, and Kaito and those who aided him will pay. He does not need 12, and if Hiro isn't born...well. He hardly cares at this point, caged and shackled, betrayed by his own personal Judas.

But she does not come.

Nor do Daniel or Charles and when Arthur finally makes an appearance, the gloating smile on his face tells Adam more than words that there will be no help from that quarter. It is that look, that smile, that cold triumph that makes his gut twist, and he feels the first frisson of dread.

She is not coming.

No one is coming to set him free.

And for the first time in his life, Adam feels the flicker of hope die.
changehistory: (Kensei -- trying to be a hero)
1747

It was a strange custom, he thought, standing behind his father-in-law-to-be in a cathedral in Milan, halfway expecting God to strike him down for giving in to Popish beliefs. He argued silently in his head with a God he usually swore did not exist, citing Maria's many excellent qualities and her father's intractability about the occasion of their nuptials sans this conversion. He'd learned his catechism, studying diligently, but this custom still stood before him.

Maria's father nodded to him as the door opened and another penitent stepped out, indicating he should move into the small space. He did so, shutting the door behind him and sitting gingerly on the hard bench.

"Perdonami, il Padre perchè ho peccato..." he murmured, lips curling sardonically, though his voice stayed very sincere. Sin was a companion he had embraced, thoroughly, and part of him wondered just what the priest through the screen would say did he truly confess those that lay upon his soul.

Lust. Greed. Wrath. Envy. Pride. The sloth and gluttony he had purged for not serving him, but the others drove him. After a century of life, he was sure they stained him far more deeply than this man with his holy words or blessed sacraments could ever wash clean. Add blasphemy, then, he thought to himself, for not having enough faith to believe that there was anything Christ could not cleanse. There was blood on his hands, murder in his heart, vengeance and bloodlust mingling in his soul and lashing him ever forward through time. He was like unto God himself, and there went the blasphemy and pride again, the little voice murmured sardonically. It ate at him, sending him down deeper into the abyss from which he could no longer remember how to extricate himself.

He doubted. He floundered. He feared. His faith faltered more with each passing year as he asked the heavens what sort of man he was to march through time unchanging and received no answer in reply.

But these were not words he could murmur, even in this sacred place. )
changehistory: (Sad)
1849

He sat by her bedside, holding her hand, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her skin was paper thin, now, creased with age. Most of her friends, the women she had been a girl with, were long dead. Twenty, thirty years. Some of them even longer, lost in childbirth or to illness. Life was hard in the wilderness they were carving into, marking with the path of civilization that had barely arrived on the continent in the two centuries Europeans had been attempting to tame it. At 87, she was near-ancient, outliving all she had loved save the man now seated by her side, holding fast to the fragile hand where he could still feel a tiny pulse of life.

His eyes swept over her, shadowed and a touch lost. He had never known love like this, not been accepted for who he was since the boy he no longer allowed himself to think about. She had known him, accepted him, loved him, been faithful to him, and shown him there was still something good in the world.

And now she was fading from it.

He could still see the girl she had been, shimmering underneath the lines time had etched. )
changehistory: (I need you to believe)
1792

Less than two decades before he had sworn to find disciples, hubris throwing him high in the air as he felt his place was in the heavens with God himself. He was what God had feared, after all, a man who had eaten from the tree of life, at least metaphorically. To prevent this occurrence, Adam and Eve had been cast from the garden, lest they eat from the second tree and truly become like God. If that was what separated them from God, then what barrier was there for him, immortal as he was? Another name, another life, another country. He wandered, the seed of the idea Evan had inadvertently planted inside of him, growing, making him even more restless.

It wasn't enough to survive. It wasn't enough to ghost his way through courts and countries, to smile at kings and queens and change his name to suit his new allegiance or uniform he wore. It wasn't enough to flirt, to let his lips ghost over perfumed skin, then to stare into a face that haunted his dreams and memories--Yaeko, but not. There was a bitter victory in Yumi's love, the way her eyes followed him, adoring, the defiance she showed in marrying a gaijin without knowing that the stories she told him that her great-grandmother had passed down ripped into him and hurt more with each breath, but that victory wasn't enough.

His restlessness struck out, and he found himself in the wilderness of the country he had fought to keep from being free, fleeing further to the lands France still held, running from shadows and ghosts that gnashed their teeth at his heels with the ever present litany of not enough, never enough. Not life, not love, not him.

And then it stopped.  )
changehistory: (Touched)
"Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us without words?" -- Marcel Marceau

1748

He was so small. Tiny and helpless. The midwife placed the bundle in his arms beaming. "You have a son, sir." A son. An heir. Something in this world that was truly his, of him, blood of his blood, for the first time in nearly a century. Helene had borne him no children in their twenty years of marriage. All stillborn or miscarried before they even had form. But this tiny bundle was staring at him with wide eyes, looking like it might scream its fury at being pulled into this world. He couldn't really blame it.

The midwife hovered, clearly not trusting the male with such a precious burden. "Your wife did well, sir, and is resting."

He nodded and moved to the window in the room he'd waited in, listening to her scream, fear slicing through him and horror at the mysteries of the childbirth chamber. Now it was quiet, save for the snuffling sounds. The midwife followed, almost reaching to take the baby back, but he dismissed her with a glance from eyes already too old for his face.

The evening sun filtered through the colored glass of the window in shades of red and orange and green, mottling over the skin of the child. He swallowed, feeling a lump catch in his throat. It felt almost dangerous to hold the babe with one arm, to reach a wondering hand to brush his cheek with a single fingertip. Tiny arms escaped the swaddling, waving in either protest or to catch the finger to bring it closer, without knowing how. He smiled, just a touch, wondering why the child seemed blurry until he realized he was viewing it through a film of tears. He tried to think of something to say, to murmur to the child, to name him, to welcome him, to bless him. Anything at all, but nothing came. Instead he sat down in the window seat, held the small body close to his, and just stared as the sun set and the shadows swept the room.
changehistory: (Caged)
It's not a question of if, he thinks, nor even one of "when." It's not a question at all, not anymore. It might have been, at one point, up for debate. His plans, his thoughts, his questionable tactics. They all had the epithet thrown at him, hurled into his face with horror and derision both by children who knew no better. He would have said, then, that he was the only one of them not mad, the only one with the clarity of vision needed to do what must be done. But from their oh-so-limited viewpoints, that had pushed him into an inhuman insanity that slipped out of the cracks of his psyche until he could no longer truly be like them. That much, at least, was true. Part of them, one of them, yet always set apart solely by that gap of agelessness that clung to his cells, but showed mostly in his eyes. What he had seen, they could not imagine, not truly. It was words on a page to them, distorted by time and the imposed viewpoint of those that shape the past into the vision they wanted it to bed. He was there; he knew. And he knew that most people didn't want the truth.

Trivial, now. Unimportant to the discussion at hand. Perhaps it had always been so. Perhaps the human mind was not meant to hold the things in his, except that if it was not meant, then what was he? An evolution of body that mind had yet to catch up to? But he would have sworn, then, that it was experience that spoke, words sliding from his mouth in a cold, hard sanity that challenged the delusions that fed the others. Now, caught between pain and death that would not come and everlasting boredom, an animal in a cage with a window facing out and cameras that gave him not even the barest privacy for his most intimate needs, talking to those who came and went with less and less hope of a response, he felt the flickers of doubt enter, twisting in his gut like a frozen hand that reached inside and grabbed hold. For the first time the small thought pushed itself into his consciousness, and though some would say that asking it was the first sign that perhaps he wasn't what he feared, he dismissed that direction and felt the fear of the possible grab hold, four little words echoing around and around in his head.

Perhaps they were right.
changehistory: (Kensei:  Angry ronin -- why always me?)
It's the set of her mouth that tells James something is amiss. Normally in motion, expressive, laughing, talking smiling, they're pressed together in a stubborn line that doesn't leave much room for negotiation. He wants to tell her from the wisdom of eight that at eleven years old, she's always going to have to be the one to negotiate, unless its with him and Stephen, who she can boss around as much as she pleases. He thinks about offering that, to placate her--dragging Stephen out into the garden in back and telling him they have to be soldiers guarding the Queen or some other dangerous game sure to get all three of them whipped if their father hears the word "Queen" cross their lips. But he's in the printing press, and so probably wouldn't hear over the machines, anyway.

"Come on," she snaps, before he can offer anything, however. He and Stephen both leap up obediently, but she gives Stephen a look. "You stay, Stephen. You can't come. You're too little."

His lower lip quivers, and James gives her an upset look, that she returns with a flash of growing impatience that he knows bodes ill for both of them if someone doesn't calm her down. "We're going out?" he asks quietly, and she nods curtly.

James kneels down beside the younger boy.  )
changehistory: (Elle -- making out)
You're a wrong turn
a big fat No
you're the fifth drink before a long drive home
you're the thing to avoid
the bars to my cage
you're all I think about everyday
you've got that thing
that my wildest dreams are made of
you set my world on fire


He used to watch her when she walked past his window, all tight skirts and low cut tops, hips swaying because she knew he--and every red blooded male in range--was watching. That spark of a smile, the way her teeth caught her lower lip, the sound of her giggle that could become a pout in a heartbeat, or something darker, more dangerous. She'd lean in his doorway, and he would watch the electricity arc between her fingers, smell the singe of it in the air, like a storm on the horizon, and the small room didn't bother him so much. His body reacted, pure and visceral, and it was a game to make her yield, to twist her around until she'd defy her Daddy.

Then the game became something more, two caged animals, dangerous and deadly, becoming dependent. At least he did. Dependent on that scent in the air that said she was near. Dependent on the flash of it, the sizzle across his skin, that wasn't pure pain, but just enough pleasure to remind him he was alive. Dependent on the gleam in her eyes that echoed the ones he'd seen three decades before. Dependent on the adoration, the willingness to follow where he led. Dependent on the way she blossomed under his approval, moving with more confidence through the halls.

It wasn't smart, he knew. It was desperation, and she wasn't to be trusted, more than the rest of them. As easily as he'd turned her, it was possible they'd turn her back, and when the sound of lightning crackled across the air and hit him, it might not stop until he'd begged, writhed, promised anything just so she turned it off again. He remembered that, too, nights haunted by a child's laugh, a glee that still hid in the depths of blue eyes that never looked truly innocent.

But she was all he had, the only hope, the only comfort, the only pleasure in a world that teetered between boredom and agony, depending on the mood of his captors that day, week, month, year. It was a bad idea, he knew, every time she walked through the door, every time her lips met his, every time his hand slid under her clothes, pulled her to the bed, ignored the cameras. He could taste the danger on her lips, feel it in the fire she sent along his nerves. He shouldn't need her, shouldn't let himself depend on her, not for anything.

He did, anyway.

[ooc: Not RP or 'verse specific, not binding on any Elle muse 'less her mun wants it to be, just back story in my head of his thoughts from his "caved" comment.]
changehistory: (Lips of Adam)
1974

"So am I next?" The voice, which struggled to sound coolly amused, brought Adam's eyes up from where he was studying his wine to meet the other pair of blue ones across the table.

"Pardon?" Wine the color of blood, deep and ruby, caught the candle light in the crystal.

"They're gone," Daniel pointed out with a small curve of his lips. "Off with the boy, and who knows for sure when they'll be back, and here we are with our wine and our fire and your inviting me alone is a heretofore unprecedented event..."

"God, you've been spending far too much time with Arthur if you're actually using 'heretofore unprecedented' in everyday conversation," Adam said, giving him a disbelieving look.

"Which doesn't answer the question."

Adam tilted his head and studied Daniel for a moment, then glanced back at his wine for a long moment before taking a slow sip. "I haven't decided yet."

Absolute silence reigned in the room between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the fireplace. When Adam glanced up again, he found Daniel just staring at him. One eyebrow lifted in inquiry and he held the other man's eyes until Daniel was forced to look away.

"My god, she was right. You are a bastard."

Adam smiled without a trace of humor. "You want to be next."

"I'm not so sure of that..." Daniel set his wine glass down and stood.

"Yes, you are," Adam said, sprawling back more in contrast, tilting his head back to study Daniel. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't. You've been watching me from the start, from the day Arthur brought you to meet me."

"Arthur..." Daniel started.

"Married Angela. Angela married Arthur. They have a beautiful bouncing boy. And here we are, you and I, and you've never stopped watching me, in all these years."

"All you want is to upset Arthur," Daniel said, with a flash of temper.

"That's not all I want," Adam said, voice almost a purr now.

Daniel swallowed. "I should go."

"That's not what you want."

"How would you know?" Daniel finally snapped, and Adam stood, moving around the table to lean against it, not quite in Daniel's space, but near enough.

"I've been watching, too."

Daniel rocked--a step back, and then he moved forward, forcing Adam to shift his legs to make room for him. Hands braced on the table on either side of Adam, Daniel pressed close until the only thing separating them was their clothing.

"What do you want?" he growled, something fierce in his eyes. "To take what's Arthur's, because he took Angela? To hurt her for leaving? To bend each of us until we break, so you can reshape us as you will?"

Adam lifted one hand, slowly, long fingers slowly tracing down Daniel's cheek, and his lips curved slowly, eyes lighting up with something bright that might have been triumph. "Yes." Daniel's eyes widened in something like shock, and Adam kept up his slow caress along bone and flesh, his thumb tracing the curve of Daniel's lips as he met his eyes again. "Yes," he repeated, his voice little more than a breath over the other man's lips as he leaned in until they were a whisper apart. "I want."

Daniel gave.
changehistory: (I need you to believe)
April 1963

He waited, leaning up against his brand new red Plymouth Sport Fury convertible. Boys walked by, eyeing the car with envious eyes. The girls smiled invitingly, and he let his eyes slide down over their legs, revealed in the new mini-skirts that had come into fashion. Sometimes he really did love the twentieth century. He kept his smile respectful though, never resting for too long on any one girl, watching the door of the high school as students poured out, looking for one dark head in particular.

When he saw her, Adam’s eyes lit up. He tracked her movements across the school yard. He knew the instant she saw him. Her smile broke out and she said something to the girl next to her and headed toward him at a rather unladylike pace. He caught her close as she reached him, pulling her tight against him. Then, knowing all her friends were watching, knowing what it meant to be dating the “older boy” with the car and the job and the right jacket, he kissed her, fingers curling around the back of her neck in a possessive grip she didn’t seem to mind in the least.

“Where have you been?” she asked, a little breathless when he lifted his head and pulled away to open the car door for her.

“I had to go to Odessa and check on the company,” he said, as she slid across the seat and climbed in behind the wheel.

“The paper place?” Her nose wrinkled just a bit, and Adam reached out to flick it lightly with his finger.

“The paper place, yes.” Though it was already turning in to so much more. Not his dream, not yet, but the foundation at least as he hired scientists and built labs underneath the structure. Three floors down, it was a labyrinth and only he knew the secrets it already held.

“But you’re back now, at least for a while?” He noticed the slightly cool tone, with an amused quirk of his lips, the little way she adjusted her sunglasses, the way she didn’t quite look at her friends as they pulled away, and yet made sure everyone noticed.

“I’m back for as long as you want me,” he murmured, just for her, in a tone that brought heat to her cheeks. She’d barely turned sixteen, and though she tried to give him a worldly smile, the sheer innocence behind it made him almost laugh.

* * *

December 1964

“You want me to what?” Angela sat up and stared down at Adam where he was stretched out on the rug like he’d grown a second head.

He took a moment to study her, the way her hair curled damply around her face and the flush growing on her skin, heightened by the lights he’d strung on the tree in his apartment. He reached out and traced his fingers over her, almost in wonder, then wound them through her hair and tugged her back down to him, where she belonged.

His lips brushed over hers, tongue light and teasing. “I want you to go out with him.”

Eyes fluttering closed she shifted to slide on top of him. “With Arthur?” she asked with an expert shifting of her hips that made him moan and arch up into her, cutting off what she might have said in a gasp as he filled her. After he’d gotten her past her initial reservations, the first night he’d taken it beyond kisses and clandestine touches, she had proved to be a very apt pupil, following him even into the darker corners of desire with an eagerness to please and be pleased that he had found so rarely.

“With Arthur,” he murmured against her lips, hips rocking again. “Yes.”

“Why?” she asked, pulling away a little before he grabbed her hips and pulled her back down on him, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks. Her eyes fluttered closed again, and he smiled.

“We need him. And he asked,” he reminded her, one hand sliding up her side to cup her breast, thumb teasing over her nipple.

“What about us?” There it was, the youth the vulnerability, the girl he’d found and made his.

“Nothing needs to change. Arthur never needs to know.”

She frowned, just a bit, and he tugged her lips back to his, kissing her, moving inside her, until the questions drifted away.

* * *

June 1965 )

OOC: Angela Petrelli used with permission of her mun as we create backstory for them. :-)
changehistory: (Mercenary)
1. I was born in 1643, in London, England.

2. My father went off to sea when I was 8 and never came home, at least not to us. I heard a rumor he started a new family in Salisbury.

3. I left London after my mother died in the Great Fire, and headed to Japan.

4. I fought for James II. William III won.

5. I fought with the Jacobites in 1715. The English won.

6. I tried again in 1745. The English won again.

7. I decided to give up fighting against my own country and so fought for the English in 1776. The Colonies won.

8. Like many of my countrymen, I was a Commander for the Confederacy during the Civil War. The Union won. Is anyone seeing a pattern here?

9. I finally got it right in the World Wars, fighting for the British each time.

10. I am tired of the constant pattern of war that keeps ripping the world apart.
changehistory: (Brooding)
OOC: 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. )

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Adam Monroe

February 2014

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