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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.
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.
