;;catharsis
What are you mourning, Adam?
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.
“It was one hell of an ending, huh?”