ooc;; i fucking hate how this guy just hangs around and he always WANTS writing but then never TELLS me and then just looks at me like I should KNOW like come on dude. Ivan screams at me what he wants, he’s so easy to write for. you stand there with your fucking leather jacket and your cigarette and give me that look that we’ve known each other for how many years bitch and you don’t know what I want???
spoiler alert: no well kind of i have general themes it’s a matter of cooperation
anyway i’m not actually being serious it’s just like my weekly check in, reblog, and disappear again for awhile and i like to make fun of Adam Jensen for being an augmented dumpster child that can’t use his words.
This one isn’t about Adam and Francis. It’s self-indulgent bullshit with Nadir and the Adam piloted by @adamxjensen over yonder.
Adam wanted to watch a movie, and in this household, we give Adam what Adam wants because he’s a good boy who deserves nice, soft, peaceful cuddles on the couch.
My Adam is a dirty heathen, you see. He’s big into holding hands. You know, that most sinful of kinks. Holy shit. And Vaclav has some really cool hands. Like wow.
They’re gunna rebel so fuckin’ good and like, Iunno, hold hands in front of some cops or some shit.
That’ll show ‘em. Two Augs just kind of like, being so bold in public.
I love one beardy aug man with a cool coat and one punk rock aug doc, and that’s really just the most important take away from this.
I’m just havin’ a fuckin’ giggle over the absurdity of this tiniest damn rebellion potentially actually ruffling some Prague cop’s feathers.
Adam has coffee of course, and well, okay Vaclav has tea - his tooled finger tapping the cup as he takes a sip. Tea is more punk than coffee, he thinks. Coffee is bean water but tea? man. Those are a variety of leaves pooled together in scalding water to create any type of flavor you could -
He bumps into Adam abruptly and gives a little noise of surprise, glancing up at the agent and following his gaze to a pair of cops that are pretty obviously side eyeing them. Shit, he knows why. His augs. Adam’s augs.
In such -
close proximity.
He pauses and perks up, immediately grabbing Adam’s free hand and lacing their fingers together tightly. The agent glances down immediately and then back up at Koller, who raises his cup of tea at the cops in a type of
huh, taunt maybe?
“Rebellion,” he whispers and squeezes Adam’s hand tighter, looking up at him, “*fuck* the man.”
The brows raise behind the shields and the ghost of smirk perks the corner of his lips, “Fuck the man.”
“Stick it to em!” He yells excitedly as they move to cross the road and out of view of the disgruntled cops, tea sloshing just a little out of the top of the cup, “Fuck yeah!”
A loss of innocence, the wool pulled abruptly from his childish eyes.
Using, of being used. He flexes his augged fingers and feels the pull in his shoulders. This is hard, he thinks. This has been hard. Acceptance is something that has never come easily to him - his father always told him he was s stubborn man.
Adam is now far more inclined to agree to the observation than he used to be.
Words don’t come easily, fumbling in his head through the ghosts of his past and the way he haunts this world - he thinks of Sarif. He thinks of waking up. He thinks of when the barrel had been aimed at his head, the cold pain, and Megan screaming.
Sometimes he has dreams.
Dreams of what?
Of dying again. Of being brought back to life. Of Sarif with his baseball, rolling it between his fingertips and giving him this sad, yet excited look. I’ve made you better, Adam!
Adam is now far more inclined to agree to the observation than he used to be.
Yes, you have, he thinks. Just as Megan has too. He’s tumbled through a tightly woven world of deceit and lies - sure. But he thinks of all the people he’s met along the way. The opposition, the smiles, the disagreements.
Diner runs with Pritchard and Malik, coffee and lunch or four am exhaustion breakfast. No matter the time, they’d tease each other. Malik always sat next to Adam and elbowed him in the ribs as that bullish woman would taunt Pritchard about various things that would, of course, fluster him. Ears red, he’d point at her and open his mouth to respond just as the waitress would come over.
Fighting with Sarif in his office, eating with Sarif in his office to discuss business (or baseball), being agreeable and bringing him coffee on stressful meeting days. Sarif would tell him he was thoughtful, and thank you. Sometimes he would ask how Adam was doing - Adam didn’t know if it was for show or if he meant it.
It didn’t matter anyway.
He mourns moving on from the familiar. Pressed into Prague, mostly alone, with the occasional blip of company. Malik leaves him gifts, Pritchard heckles him over the television, and David gives him the occasional call.
Add Koller to the mix with his acoustic guitar and some take out -
A call rings throughout the house - David Sarif’s name flickers through his vision and he reclines, the leather couch dipping under his lax weight. The man himself springs to life and the lines around his eyes are just a little more tired, a little more genuine.
“Sarif,” Adam greets quietly, “How are you doing?”
David perks up - he thinks he might be genuine this time when he asks in return. A change of pace, something loosening between them.
“Did you see the game yesterday?”
Mourning can wait until silence holds him tenderly once again.
I don't need any help to be breakable, believe me
I know nobody else who can laugh along to any kind of joke
I won't need any help to be lonely when you leave me
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