Adam Monroe

He shouldn't let such a commonplace thing--a thing millions of people do around the world every day--affect his mood quite so much, but the thought of her carrying his child has Adam breaking into a smile at the most random moments for a week.

Title: Girlfriend
Pairings: Adam/Angela, Adam/Elle
Summary: When you're nearly 400 years old, you'd think that you'd learn to handle women, but Adam's discovering that even after 30 years out of the field, navigating the dating waters can be a scary thing when his old flame is still interested, and his new one won't back down.

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[OOC: SPOILERS FOR SPN FINALE behind cut. Elle referred to is idontdig_graves, used with permission, and this prompt ties in, ending wise with hers, found here. There will likely be RP to follow somewhere.]

Before he'd known, truly realized all of the implications, he'd wanted to fight just to fight. Inertia had been his companion for too long, and even with his still new-tasting freedom, from both cell and grave, it clung. The loss of a tightly held goal of decades left him with the realization that he had no Plan B, as it were, and coming up with one would require time and acclimation to the changed world. Computers alone had taken over far more than he could have imagined, and just catching up with thirty years of technology occupied his time for a while. Learning the social changes, the nuances of the political climate of the world, the new problems that had cropped up--many of which he had been predicting for a century--and the solutions proposed took up even more of his time, and he still didn't feel as if he'd grasped it all. Even with the history and the adaptability he was capable of, the world had simply changed too much to be fully comprehended the way he had thirty years ago in a mere five months. But the not comprehending it all was maddening, and he had no outlet. Then the opportunity presented itself. A fight, a war, a battle that needed waging, and one that, really, he could justify quite easily to those he cared for who were, nevertheless, keeping what he assumed was a close eye on his activities.

When he learned of Elle's involvement, it had become more personal. Whatever had been between them or not, she had been the one thing he could count on in some way the last years in captivity. A fellow prisoner, in her own way, an ally of a sorts, even a companion in their own dysfunctional patterns. She'd gotten out, she'd formed a new life, and now that life was threatened, and something in him couldn't allow that to happen while he sat by and did nothing. As soon as he let the one personal bit in, he found the whole idea catching hold in much the way Hiro's tales of the hero he was supposed to be had nearly four hundred years before. It was a chance, an opportunity, a way to be more than just another person walking in the world. He could be a warrior for good, fighting a fight against the very minions of Hell itself. So, he'd prepared, working with his blade daily, making sure Peter was prepared to be anti-possession back up in New York if the sharpie-drawn pentagram should wear off. He filled syringes with his blood, keeping some near the battlefield, and passing out others to any who wanted one, explaining the healing properties. If they were wounded, just a bit would heal them completely, and that had to give them all an edge.

( And then the battle was met. )

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.]