[Mad] November 2.1.2 - Henry Ford Quote
Jan. 5th, 2010 12:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changehistory[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 ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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.
But then the news came, even in the small tavern in the city on the island that once held another man who would have been king of the world. The wine turned to ash in his mouth, and though he was a man who had lived through loss after loss through far too many years, he felt shock and sickness roil through him as he stared at the screen.
"Cosa c'è, innamorato?" Warm lips brushed his ear and did nothing to ease the chill creeping through him.
"Devo andare." The man he'd become fell away, and he slipped back into the shell he'd discarded, let die, as if he'd never thrown him off. A breath, two, and it was Adam Monroe who stood and pushed back from the table.
"Perché?" Her brown eyes looked so confused, a little hurt, and he stared down at her for a moment with a tingle of regret, but it was another pair of eyes, the ones he'd tried to banish with hers, that were calling. His fingers brushed lightly down her cheek and he nodded at the television, still explaining about the young American senator who had died in a tragic plane crash and his family.
"Ho conosciuto quell'uomo," he said softly. He didn't add the words that were pressing, the acknowledgment never made in life that hurt more than he could bear at the moment to ignore.
She stared at the television, then back at him. "Quando rinvierete?"
Adam gave her a sad sort of smile and leaned down to kiss her lightly. "I won't be."
She knew enough English to understand.
* * *
He watched the funeral from a distance, careful not to be seen. This wasn't the time. It wasn't about him. He was close enough, barely, to hear Peter's words, and his heart ached for him, wanting more than anything to cross the distance, but he held firm. He was so very cold, but his eyes were dry until the flyover. When the single plane split off for the missing man formation, his vision blurred and he was grateful for the sunglasses he was hiding behind.
Before the final prayer, he faded away, deeper into the cemetery to kneel by another grave, just a random person in the background visiting a loved one. No one paid him any mind.
There were flowers at the house, though he'd no intention of attending the wake, either. When he did show up, he didn't want to take her by surprise enough to land a bullet in his brain. Of course, too much warning and she might do that anyway, but he was hoping the day would have her in a forgiving enough mood not to shoot on sight. The note was simple:
I wish I'd had a chance to know him, the way we dreamers hoped once upon a time. I'm so very sorry for your loss.
- A.M.
He figured Peter wouldn't grasp it, not fully. He wasn't sure how to approach him, but he knew...he couldn't listen to the boy go on about his brother so much for so many months not to realize what this would do. Whether he was the person Peter would want to see, would let help, he didn't know, but he had to try.
Tonight, though, he had somewhere else he needed to be, a grief to share that Peter need never know about. He let himself into the house after the last guest left, moving silently down the hall to the study. She was there, as he'd known she would be, slumped in a chair, a glass of whiskey in her hand, her perfect posture gone for a moment under the weight of too many losses--a weight they shared. Stepping on the board he knew would cause it, he let the floor creak under his feet. She didn't lift her head.
"I wondered when you'd show up."
"I didn't want to cause a scene."
"I thought you were dead."
"I thought it was best that way."
"It wasn't."
"I'm sorry."
She looked up at him, then, gaze unfathomable, as always. "Are you?"
He returned the look, just as unreadable, but nodded. "I thought I could disappear, walk away. I couldn't."
"That's new."
"Things change."
"That's new, too. I thought the world never changed."
Adam shrugged slightly, acknowledging the hit. "Maybe I was wrong."
"Huh."
He moved across the floor and lowered himself to sit next to her, reaching for her hand. After a moment, she settled her hand in his, and after another moment, she leaned to rest her head on his shoulder.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," she murmured.
"No, it wasn't," he acknowledged softly. "But it is."
"How do you do it?"
"Life goes on. You have to go on with it."
"He was special."
"They're all special, Angela."
She pulled back to glare up at him. "How can you say that? He was yours."
Adam flinched, but held her gaze. "And because of that, I came back."
"You came back for Peter," she accused with a narrow gaze.
Adam shifted back on the sofa and pulled her back against him, reaching for her whiskey and taking a long drink of it himself. "Maybe. But I'm here now with you. For him. For you. For...all we were and could have been, and everything we lost. He was all that was left of that." He wondered if he sounded as tired and old as he felt.
For a moment, she resisted, but then she nearly collapsed against him, letting the weakness show, and he saw a glimpse of the girl he'd known, the one he'd watched for months before she ever saw him. Her tears soaked his shirt while he held her, and tried not to think too hard about where Peter might be and what he'd done in stepping back into all of this heartache and disaster again.
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.
But then the news came, even in the small tavern in the city on the island that once held another man who would have been king of the world. The wine turned to ash in his mouth, and though he was a man who had lived through loss after loss through far too many years, he felt shock and sickness roil through him as he stared at the screen.
"Cosa c'è, innamorato?" Warm lips brushed his ear and did nothing to ease the chill creeping through him.
"Devo andare." The man he'd become fell away, and he slipped back into the shell he'd discarded, let die, as if he'd never thrown him off. A breath, two, and it was Adam Monroe who stood and pushed back from the table.
"Perché?" Her brown eyes looked so confused, a little hurt, and he stared down at her for a moment with a tingle of regret, but it was another pair of eyes, the ones he'd tried to banish with hers, that were calling. His fingers brushed lightly down her cheek and he nodded at the television, still explaining about the young American senator who had died in a tragic plane crash and his family.
"Ho conosciuto quell'uomo," he said softly. He didn't add the words that were pressing, the acknowledgment never made in life that hurt more than he could bear at the moment to ignore.
She stared at the television, then back at him. "Quando rinvierete?"
Adam gave her a sad sort of smile and leaned down to kiss her lightly. "I won't be."
She knew enough English to understand.
* * *
He watched the funeral from a distance, careful not to be seen. This wasn't the time. It wasn't about him. He was close enough, barely, to hear Peter's words, and his heart ached for him, wanting more than anything to cross the distance, but he held firm. He was so very cold, but his eyes were dry until the flyover. When the single plane split off for the missing man formation, his vision blurred and he was grateful for the sunglasses he was hiding behind.
Before the final prayer, he faded away, deeper into the cemetery to kneel by another grave, just a random person in the background visiting a loved one. No one paid him any mind.
There were flowers at the house, though he'd no intention of attending the wake, either. When he did show up, he didn't want to take her by surprise enough to land a bullet in his brain. Of course, too much warning and she might do that anyway, but he was hoping the day would have her in a forgiving enough mood not to shoot on sight. The note was simple:
- A.M.
He figured Peter wouldn't grasp it, not fully. He wasn't sure how to approach him, but he knew...he couldn't listen to the boy go on about his brother so much for so many months not to realize what this would do. Whether he was the person Peter would want to see, would let help, he didn't know, but he had to try.
Tonight, though, he had somewhere else he needed to be, a grief to share that Peter need never know about. He let himself into the house after the last guest left, moving silently down the hall to the study. She was there, as he'd known she would be, slumped in a chair, a glass of whiskey in her hand, her perfect posture gone for a moment under the weight of too many losses--a weight they shared. Stepping on the board he knew would cause it, he let the floor creak under his feet. She didn't lift her head.
"I wondered when you'd show up."
"I didn't want to cause a scene."
"I thought you were dead."
"I thought it was best that way."
"It wasn't."
"I'm sorry."
She looked up at him, then, gaze unfathomable, as always. "Are you?"
He returned the look, just as unreadable, but nodded. "I thought I could disappear, walk away. I couldn't."
"That's new."
"Things change."
"That's new, too. I thought the world never changed."
Adam shrugged slightly, acknowledging the hit. "Maybe I was wrong."
"Huh."
He moved across the floor and lowered himself to sit next to her, reaching for her hand. After a moment, she settled her hand in his, and after another moment, she leaned to rest her head on his shoulder.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," she murmured.
"No, it wasn't," he acknowledged softly. "But it is."
"How do you do it?"
"Life goes on. You have to go on with it."
"He was special."
"They're all special, Angela."
She pulled back to glare up at him. "How can you say that? He was yours."
Adam flinched, but held her gaze. "And because of that, I came back."
"You came back for Peter," she accused with a narrow gaze.
Adam shifted back on the sofa and pulled her back against him, reaching for her whiskey and taking a long drink of it himself. "Maybe. But I'm here now with you. For him. For you. For...all we were and could have been, and everything we lost. He was all that was left of that." He wondered if he sounded as tired and old as he felt.
For a moment, she resisted, but then she nearly collapsed against him, letting the weakness show, and he saw a glimpse of the girl he'd known, the one he'd watched for months before she ever saw him. Her tears soaked his shirt while he held her, and tried not to think too hard about where Peter might be and what he'd done in stepping back into all of this heartache and disaster again.
