changehistory: ([Angela] [Peter] Hallelujah)
[ooc note: Based on RP in [ profile] hearts_andminds. Peter referred to is [ profile] dreamtof_flying. Angela is [ 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: ([Peter] Love the way I lie)
Peter, the world at his feet ready to be reshaped in his image, his son beside him, Angela behind the throne, Sylar at his right hand, the child Elle carried, and no consequences: gods deserved it all, and Adam intended to have it.
changehistory: (Upset/looking down)
It was for the best all around, and he knew that, but that knowledge didn't lessen the pang of loss or whisper of disappointment and grief for the life that might have been.
changehistory: ([Angela] BW)
Sometimes when the night stretched out long before him, he thought of her in that big house, all alone, and what might have been, had fortune and fate smiled on them, and wondered if she ever sat and dreamed about him, too.
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: (Contemplative)
I'm a pretty damn good pianist. Most people seem shocked when they find that out. I like playing down at the local bar, wouldn't mind a more regular gig. I sing well, too, and am actually really fond of music. I don't know why people end up being surprised by it--you live as long as I have, and you have time to get good at things, time to practice until you're more than proficient, even if you hadn't a great deal of natural talent.

Of course, music was mostly forbidden when I was growing up, which is probably why it always fascinated me. If it was supposedly of the devil, I was pretty determined to be a part of it. I'm contrary that way--that shouldn't surprise anyone, actually. But then I found that I loved music for itself. It has an inherent order to it, it grows on itself, it changes through the years, but a real understanding of music theory, of the past, allows you to create the new things of beauty that will last. I enjoy watching the trends change, and I love watching the instruments change, and yet the passion that drives musicians has been the same through the years.

Some things can only be expressed through song, through the poetry of mathematical progression of notes. It's an escape and an expression of the truest things about you. I can lose myself in a piece, and when I connects me to the men I've been before, and the man I could be at the same time, past, present and future all united. It's some of the only time I truly feel like myself--no masks, no expectations, just me and the music.

Maybe that's why I'm good at it, and why it surprises so many. No one expects to see that side of me. Most don't think it exists, and if it does, why would I show any such vulnerability.

...Maybe that's why I don't tell most people when my gigs are.
changehistory: (Kensei - Waiting with sword)
I used to be fond of sake. Like really, really fond. The sort of fond that isn't really all that healthy, because you end up missing half your life in a haze and the other in a hangover and none of it is at all productive. But more than that--I loved the taste of it, the burn of it. Oh, don't get me wrong, I loved the black veil it drew over memory and blame just as much or more, I was fond of the stuff itself. After a youth of cheap ale and gin, sake was truly the godsend I thought I found in Japan.

I can't get drunk anymore. How funny--it was a set condition of becoming a hero, for me to stop drinking, but little did we know then that it was about to not matter anymore. My ability manifested fully. I woke from the dead. And, believe you me, promise or not, I worked desperately hard to get drunk that night, but to no avail. The sake burned out of my body the way it used to burn away regret, and left me face to face with the reality of what I was becoming.

Still, I drink for pleasure, now, for the taste and the loose-knit memory of a kinder oblivion than any I've found in ages, but it isn't sake. God, no. I won't touch the stuff unless forced to by politeness or custom, and only then if I'm in a mood to be conciliatory, not offensive. For the sake of a business deal I need or a connection I want to keep, I'll force the stuff down, but I don't enjoy it anymore.

It's laced with too many memories, too much lost hope, too many disappointments, too much failure. Every sip brings back something I'd rather forget, instead of driving an errant memory away, and when I cannot lose myself in any pleasant escape even, then I find it far more wise to avoid it when possible. If I'm going to drink, let it be a wine that brings to mind the halls of Versailles, or a beer that reminds me of afternoons with mates in a pub, or a solid whiskey sipped by a fire, imbued with memories of conversations and dreams that never quite died. But not sake, not anymore. That love, like so many others, is dead, and I'm fine with it staying a ghost of a past I won't repeat.
changehistory: ([Hiro] --More than a friend)
"Your worst enemy could be your best friend, and your best friend your worst enemy." - Bob Marley

Three hundred and fortyish years was a very long time to carry something--a grudge, a hurt, a remorse, a hope. It didn't matter what, really, except that it lay there inside of him, fine for a decade or so, and then flaring up with a flash of pain so searing that it was clear time was not taking the edge off of anything. Everything had gone so wrong. For the first time in his life, he'd known what it meant to be someone to someone else, to be admired, to be a friend, to have a mission--a purpose. He'd belonged, even as an outsider in a country that was never going to be his, when he could no longer bring himself to return to his own. Had he overreacted? Undoubtedly, if it were about the girl, but gods. It was never about the girl, not truly.

"We did make a good team, you and I. You showed me how to be to a hero, how to love... and then you took it all away."

He would never have looked at Yaeko, much, save for Hiro's insistence it was his destiny. If he were truly, desperately, honest--he hadn't been looking much at Yaeko, anyway. The strange young man from the future drew him, with his stories of Kensei and the man he was supposed to be. He didn't have words for what he wanted, not really, not then, or for what he was feeling, but he'd have done--had done--just about anything for him, to get him to smile.

And then he'd taken it all away, ripped off the mask and proven the lie beneath and God, but after so long that shouldn't still sting. Adam wasn't sure he was even angry anymore (though each time he tried to convince himself he wasn't, he felt the words tumbling around like all the other lies in his head). But he wasn't angry about Yaeko. He was angry about...he didn't have the words for it, not really, not until the moment he watched Hiro marry Claire, and felt that snapping line in his head that slipped around and hit with a sting that hurt more than it should have after so long, after so many loves in between, after finding someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life--what an amazing concept, that--with.

He hadn't been good enough, he thought. And for nearly three and a half centuries, the lack of it, the hurt of it, the rejection of it had festered, echoing in each repetition, each betrayal, each loss until it was magnified beyond all measure, and he didn't know how to extricate it anymore. It wasn't all Hiro's fault, not by a long shot. Adam had made his choices, and others' had made theirs, never even knowing of the strange young man yet to be born in some distant future Adam only dreamed about. But somehow, every time he looked at him, it all came crashing back, like some overwhelming sense of failure, of not enough, of all he had to fight back against to be someone, to make something of himself, to prove them all wrong.

The friend had become an enemy, and the enemy had become a symbol, and try as he might Adam didn't know how to turn the symbol back into a friend.
changehistory: ([Elle] -- Believe)
He talks to her when Elle is asleep. He'd feel pretty silly talking to her when Elle could hear. Truth be told, he feels rather silly doing it anyway, but there's something magical in the news that she can hear him, that she's learning his voice, to get to know him that way. That she doesn't understand a word he says, he's pretty certain. She has no images to relate the sounds to, no experiences. She cannot see the world around her yet, the towering buildings that rise up around them as he and Elle stroll through the town, and so cannot begin to understand or imagine how he reshapes them for her with his words in the dark of the night, bringing to life another, earlier time, when he walked these streets and the world was different.

While Elle sleeps, he lets himself tell the stories of his life to their daughter, arms settled around his wife, cheek to her stomach as he murmurs softly to the child growing inside of her. He tells her things he's never told anyone. Not the bad things, never those, but the good he's buried just as deeply. The boy he was is not the man he became, but the unborn child has no need to know that, not yet. It is something they can share, in his mind: the wonder of London as children. She'll walk the same streets he did, dance in the shadow of the same buildings that cast their shades over him. For the first time in a long time, he has a sense that he's come home.

Other images rise with it, though, because he cannot tell her the stories of his childhood without remembering that little boy. Calling him to mind with vivid recollection for her seems to raise his ghost from the grave Adam tossed him in centuries ago alone with all of those he loved. What he's become, that boy couldn't have imagined. Not just the wealth, the education, the ability, but so much more, and less. He swallows, pressing a kiss to the rise of Elle's stomach, fingers lightly stroking, wondering if the child can feel his touch. The darkness that has enveloped him for so many years now...the boy couldn't have grasped it, not even with the horrors he saw. Will it touch her, too? Will his own innocence lost so long ago live again in her? Or will his lack of it touch her, taint her? Will she stare at him with the horror he fancies the ghost of his forgotten self does?

He wants the world to be safe for her, to be the hero, for her, to be all a father should be. But every time he conjures the wonders of the past in the soft cadence of the storyteller's voice, he sees the betrayed eyes of the child he was, and wonders if he'll let her down as well.
changehistory: (BW Manipulation)
1. "Hallelujah" - Leonard Cohen
2. "Hallelujah" - Jeff Buckley
3. "Hallelujah" - Jon Bon Jovi
4. "Hallelujah" - K's Choice
5. "Hallelujah" - Hilary Scott
6. "Hallelujah" - Alexandra Burke
7. "Hallelujah" - Willie Nelson
8. "Hallelujah" - Bono
9. "Hallelujah" - Gavin DeGraw
10. "Hallelujah" - Justin Timberlake
changehistory: (Just listen to teacher)
[ooc: Follows and is companion piece to this. BB!Angela is [ profile] seemynightmares and Martha is [ profile] notquiteadoctor and both are mine to use. Jack referred to is [ profile] onlysayinghello. Other Torchwood muses do not yet refer to any specific muses, though we're in negotiations as we set up verse fully. ;-)]

"Time is a brisk wind, for each hour it brings something new... but who can understand and measure its sharp breath, its mystery and its design?" - Paraclesus

Santa Clara, California, 1961

The earthquake came unexpectedly, as earthquakes often do. Daniel's eyes widened, and he immediately moved toward safety. Adam's eyes shot toward the shop Angela had disappeared into, and he sprinted that way, getting back up when the rolling earth knocked him off his feet. There were more than a few advantages to rapid healing. The door to the shop flew open and Angela emerged with a dark haired woman clasping her arm, just as dust seemed to explode from inside, only to be sucked back in just as sharply. For a moment, the strange phenomenon caught his eye, but his attention snapped back to the scared girl in front on him quickly.

"Are you all right?" he asked, as the earth seemed to right itself.

Angela gave him a shaky nod, reaching for him as the woman let go of her arm. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. It was just...there was so much stuff falling..."

Adam wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, then gave the woman a look. "Thank you."

Something dark flashed in the woman's eyes as she turned back from looking at her shop, but she nodded, a smile turning her lips up that he thought looked forced. "Of course." Glancing at Angela, her eyes dropped to the necklace. "You can keep it if you want. Maybe it will help with your dreams."

Angela and Adam both looked at her sharply. "What?" Adam asked.

The woman just smiled, and the look in her eyes disturbed him even more this time.

"Give her the necklace, Angela," he ordered quietly, and Angela unhooked it with shaky fingers, turning it back over. A flash of displeasure went through the woman's eyes, but she took it with a nod.

"I'm glad no one was harmed."

"Yes," Adam replied, pulling Angela a little closer. "So am I."

The woman gave him another half smile, and moved back to her shop. He thought about warning her about instability possible in the building, but then shut his mouth. Something about her was off, but he couldn't put a finger on what.

"Let's go find the boys and go home," he suggested softly to the girl in his arms, and she looked up at him, clearly troubled by something, but then nodded.

* * *

Cardiff, Present Day

Everyone else was gone for the night except Martha. Getting Jack to head home had been a monumental task, but Adam had finally managed it by sheer dint of bribery. The other man had his own tendency of running himself too ragged, and while neither of them needed as much sleep as others, Adam insisted that some was necessary. Martha's trouble getting Owen to leave had been more in line with him not trusting her alone with his instruments, still convinced she was after his job, but Tosh had gotten him to leave, finally. Gwen was on her honeymoon and Ianto was...Adam had no idea where Ianto was and cared even less. It wasn't like they were besties. Probably Adam coming in and sweeping Jack away had something to do with that, but he wasn't apologizing. Nearly four hundred years and no, he hadn't learned to share. Look where it had gotten him last time?

He winced slightly as Martha slipped the needle in his arm, drawing his blood out smoothly. )
changehistory: (You have GOT to be kidding me)
Really? Do we really want to go there? Fine. That would have been...January 2000, yes?

Shall I tell you the pleasant lie? Say I was sitting in a cell on Level 2 of the Company's cells, bored out of my mind with the atrocious books Bob dropped off now and again, twiddling my thumbs while I stared at the four walls that had been all I'd known for 22 years? Let's see...Elle was, what? 16, still in January, yes? So, I was watching her, waiting for her to turn 18, of course, but she was lovely, and I had been shut up in there for 22 years without any view of the outside world, so I think I can be excused for looking. It was dull, it was boring, but it had been for a long time. There was nothing really special about it.

Or would you rather the truth? What do you know of the Company? What do you know of what they did to those in their charge? Do you think they had me sit there, in their clutches, for 30 years without seeing just what the limits were to my ability? And do you really think that, having found them, Bob patted me on the head and let me be after? Oh no. There were agents to train, after all, and I made a very good training tool. There were new scientists to show what was possible, and I made a very good demonstrative aid. So, yes. There were stretches of boredom broken only by books and visits by the, let me tell you, not so innocent Elle, and before you get all righteous at me, I'm pointing out that I can hardly be expected to know that the age of consent had been raised to 17.* It used to be 16. And I was in a cell already, anyway. Stripped of privacy, stripped of possessions, stripped of self for longer than I'd ever been before. I distracted myself with plotting my revenge, but I'd no idea how to even begin to effect it. All I wanted was out, and them dead for what they'd done to me. You cannot even begin to imagine.

So what was I doing ten years ago? Living in Hell, with occasional visits by my own personal dark angel. And I'd rather not say anything more about it.

*My personal canon, not binding on any Elles who don't want it to be and want to stick to 18 instead of 16.
changehistory: (A man in the shadows)
[ooc: Peter is [ profile] hadtobeahero, Sylar is [ profile] heroslayer and both are used with love and permission. Melissa is [ profile] capturedworlds and mine to use as I please. Companion piece to this.]

"We should go to Baltimore," Adam announced, not looking up from where he was stretched across the bed on his stomach, looking at the laptop.

"Um, why?" Peter asked, blinking as he looked over at him from where he'd been putting the laundry away. "What with it being right next to D.C. and have some sort of plan?" There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes along with wariness. Adam's plans weren't exactly something to immediately get excited about, after all, but if it got Nathan and Danko off their backs, or, better yet, talked some sense into Nathan...

"What?" Adam glanced up, a frown on his face for a moment, then shook his head. "Oh, no. Nothing like this. We should go for this." He spun the computer around so Peter could see it.

After coming over to read the webpage, Peter glanced up at Adam incredulously. "FaerieCon? You want to go to Baltimore in order to spend a weekend with people running around dressed up like fairies, going to seminars about fairies and shopping for...fairy stuff?"

"There are two masquerade balls, too," Adam pointed out helpfully, giving him an angelic smile.

Peter just stared at him.

Adam's smile faltered. "What?"

"Have you lost your mind?"

Adam scowled, spinning the laptop back around to himself. "No."


"I've never been to a convention of any sort besides a business one."

"Okay," Peter said cautiously, clearly still trying to work out what was going on. "They can be fun, I guess, but, um...I'm not sure now is really the time?"

"Then when?" Adam asked.

"We have eternity, you keep pointing out."

"But I want to go now."


"I'm bored."

Peter paused at that. If he'd learned anything, it was to take those two words very, very seriously when Adam uttered them. Bored Adam tended to be dangerous Adam who came up with plans to drastically change things in which people stood a good chance of getting hurt.

"I know we haven't seen a lot of action lately..."

"No, we haven't," Adam said, with a bit of a scowl.

Peter sighed. "Why this?"

"Because I've never done it. Do you know how few things I can say that about?" Adam glanced back up at him.

Peter looked like he wasn't sure he trusted the guilelessness in those blue eyes in the least. "Baltimore's really not the best place for us, Adam..."

"We'll be fine. Besides, the people hosting the Con did the art design and goblins for Labyrinth," Adam said, as if that concluded the discussion.

"So?" Peter asked.

"...It was a really good movie."

"You barely paid any attention to the movie. You just liked David Bowie's tights."

"Peter, anyone with any sense in the world appreciated David Bowie's tights in that movie." Adam gave him a look, arching an eyebrow.

Peter looked like he was contemplating banging his head on something. )
changehistory: ([Angela] [Peter] Hallelujah)
[ooc: No particular Peter-muse implied. Adam just insisted on this being written. If your Peter would like to be involved in a "where does this go from here" or spinning AU from here, let me know. Angela is [ profile] oncewasadreamer and mine to use for purposes of this. Also, please to be excusing any mistakes in the Italian, as I've relied on phrase books and Babelfish...>.>]

"Life is a series of experiences, each one of which makes us bigger, even though it is hard to realize this. For the world was built to develop character, and we must learn that the setbacks and griefs which we endure help us in our marching onward."

For all intents and purposes, Adam Monroe had died, like Takezo Kensei and Richard Sanders and so many other aliases the man sipping a glass of wine in a small tavern in Portoferraio had borne before him. He preferred it that way. After nearly fifty years and disaster after disaster, it was time. Time to move on, time to disappear, time to be someone else, time to come up with some new plan. What had started as a dream, had grown into an idea through the fall of 1960 and the spring of 1961, and matured into a plan through the rest of the 60s...he had to finally acknowledge it had failed. The Company, his disciples, his grand new world order. Perhaps he'd moved too quickly, should have bided his time, let them come to him more slowly, guided the previous generation in the raising of this one. If he'd had a hand in it, in the rearing of a generation of specials from birth, maybe things would have gone differently. Then again, he thought he'd caught this one young enough, vulnerable enough to shape them, and he had in some ways, but not enough.

Whatever the reasons, whatever might have been done better, he let it go now. It was done. He let Adam die, let them all believe it, and walked away. A new name, a new home, a new life. He'd done it so many times before, it was routine, though he didn't like the way it tugged at him, like ripping off a skin he wasn't ready to shed. Still, the island was beautiful, and he settled into its rhythm easily enough, adopting an Irish accent, buying a small house, getting himself a job helping out on one of the fishing boats when the owner's son went off to college. He didn't need the money, but it gave him an entrance into the community that being a rich expatriate wouldn't have, and the simple work let him be out on the water again, in the sun and warm air, working so he didn't have to spend his time thinking. There was even a girl, not one of them, but just a girl, sweet and sassy and with a smile on her lips who kept him from thinking at night when he was most prone to brood.

He probably should have gone somewhere other than Italy, but there was some element of masochism he couldn't break.

The masochistic impulse made him keep one tie, one contact who sent him news. He knew when Pinehurst burned, knew about the body found inside. He almost sent flowers to the twice-widow, but stifled the impulse, reminding himself he was dead. He watched the news, saw Senator Petrelli take his place in politics, rising up. He heard his words with a chill down his spine, the echo in them ringing out across time to quell any sense of pride he might otherwise allowed himself to indulge in.

He knew when Peter went on the wanted list. Knew Angela was safe, and when she wasn't, and almost reached out again, to tell her to get herself and her younger son out, to offer her sanctuary, but Peter wouldn't run, and she wouldn't leave Nathan. He knew that without asking, and best, still, if they thought him dead. Best not to go back. What could he do, anyway, but end up back in a cell, and he'd spent too long in those these last three decades.

He knew when things went back to normal, though not how, and he let himself breathe a sigh of relief, hoping now he could truly let them go, and for a while he was able to. Able to bury himself in his new life and let them get on with theirs however they were.

Cut for spoilers for 4x13 & 4x14 )
changehistory: ([Angela] [Peter] Hallelujah)
This is potentially the most ridiculous question ever asked. My partner's family...god. My partner's family, you see, turns out to be my family. Or, no, not turns out to be, because...I knew it was a possibility when I started falling in love with him. I knew there was a chance...

And, no, before anyone asks, he and I are not related. There's no blood or DNA we share.

But the situation is...complicated, and it always will be complicated, and I cannot change that. I cannot change what I am, that I am a man who does not age, who moves through time without having it touch me, that I have loved before, and that I loved...that once upon a time I loved his mother. That maybe there is a substantial part of me that still does. I'm not someone who stops loving when I have fallen. We had a child, she and I--his half brother. We have grandchildren--his nieces and nephews. The secrets are out, now, and everyone knows. He has to live with the fact that he's dating his mother's ex, and his brother's father, and "complicated" is actually a very mild word.

Add in the fact that his mother and I haven't exactly had the most...stellar of records for honesty in the past, and that there are more wounds there, and some days I have no idea what the fucking hell he's doing with me. Shall we review, in brief, how I get along with his family? See if it counts as "good terms"?

His mother: We were lovers for near on 14 years. I count her, still, as one of the loves of my life. We plotted to destroy the world together, for purposes we still believe were good ones, though we may have come to disagree on the level of destruction necessary to achieve our purposes. I may have tried to kill her with my pet telepath. She may have told our son how to kill me and that he should do so. I still love her. I'm fairly certain part of her still loves me. I chose him. She accepts that fact. We're speaking. We all got along well for the holidays. On the other hand, I bought her a necklace that cost more than a small house, so I say that might have been a bit over the top, but...all right, all in all, on good terms?

His elder brother: Hated me for ages for using Peter. Threw a few punches. Exchanged more than a few insults. Found out I was his father. Wasn't overly pleased at that at first. Seems to be coming around to the idea, though, and wanting to spend time with me, and lets me see his children and be in their lives, so...I think we're getting there?

His twin: My BFF. Probably feels as uncomfortable as a new member of the family structure as I do, as we were both cast out of it for decades, but, we're coming to terms with it, and though he was royally pissed at me lately for certain...actions I took that weren't all that advisable, we seem to have made up.

His niece: My granddaughter. My protege. She's never really had a problem with me, despite everyone trying to turn her against me for a while. She was the first to realize what we were to each other, to accept me as part of the family, and we've been close for a while, bonded by our mutual ability, one no one else fully grasps, even the others who have acquired them. There's something to it, when it's just yours, when it is what you were born with, and it bonds us.

His nephews: Monty seems to adore me. Ninja swords and pirate stories work well for that. Simon, I'm less certain of, but I don't think he dislikes me...

His nephew-in-law and one of his best friends: Oh dear god, don't get me started. My first love who married my granddaughter; who betrayed me for another; who built me up into believing I was something special to him, then took it away; who buried me alive and left me there to go mad...Honestly, I have no idea what terms we are on from day to day. I have...forgiven as best I am able, and I believe he has, as well, and sometimes I see the glimmer of the friends we once were, but then he married Claire, and now...I do not know again. I can't think about it.

So. It's complicated, but honestly, it isn't so much his family I worry nearly as much about as it is him. How he will take my entanglement in his family's life, the more he thinks about it. If he ever realizes how much his mother meant, and still means, to me. I gave her up, I chose him, and I've no regret there. She and I hurt each other too deeply to ever go back to what we were, before, but what we were...I don't think he knows, and I worry if he ever understands, ever grasps it, ever fully understands it. He's taken so much from me, put up with so much, forgiven so much...

Sometimes I wonder when enough will be enough, and what will be the final straw.
changehistory: (BW Manipulation)
It wasn't at Easter with its focus on sin and redemption that Adam missed his lost faith most, but at Christmas with its message of a hope he was no longer sure he believed in.
changehistory: (Adorable modern smile)
Somehow it didn't matter that he'd seen a thousand snowfalls, or cursed it more than once on a cold campaign, the first flake he saw drift down from the gray sky always made Adam smile.
changehistory: (...Oh?)
Adam adhered to nearly every Christmas tradition, from mistletoe to caroling to tons of greenery and lights strewn around his house and yard, but however much he adored his family and friends, the tediousness of sitting down and addressing envelopes and putting stamps on them all always kept him from getting into the habit of sending cards.
changehistory: (Adorable modern smile)
Once the snow stopped falling, Adam was out the door, gathering up the boys and finding the nearest park to spend the day building snow forts with snowmen to guard them and staging snowball wars of epic proportions.
changehistory: (Amused smirk)
Candy canes are, Adam decides, the most ridiculous decorations to hang on Christmas trees considering that every time he passes the tree he snags one and now, halfway through the month, most of the edible decorations are gone.


changehistory: (Default)
Adam Monroe

February 2014

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