What Good May Come: Chapter 3, Reunion
Title: What Good May Come: Chapter 3, Reunion
Authors: cdiar & flyingrat42
Rating: PG-13 for language and content
Characters: Adrian Veidt, Dan Dreiberg (Sam Hollis), Jonathan Sinclair, & other OCs
Word count: 3500+
Summary: It's 1993 and Adrian has contracted a fatal illness. Dan and Adrian reunite after years apart.
Prequel: Boundaries
Chapter 1: Nightmares Await
Chapter 2: Overcast
Chapter 3: Reunion
Chapter 4: Vicissitude
Chapter 5: Routine
Playlist
It's about another forty-five minutes and soon the fast, little jet is making a smooth touchdown at a small airfield, another similarly unremarkable car waiting on the tarmac. They glide along back roads, finally turning into a long driveway and passing through a gate which slides open at the car's approach. As they pull into a gravel space in front of a Tudor-style house, there is no one else visible as they get out of the car, a few traces of morning fog still dissipating across the lawn in the cool air.
Sinclair looks over at Sam. "Would you prefer to take a rest first or go on in to see him straight away? Either way, I need to check on how he's doing."
Sam follows Sinclair to the door, the driver following close behind with his bag. "If I can get myself a cup of coffee, I'll be set."
"Fair enough," Sinclair responds, as the door opens and they're ushered into a well-appointed entryway by someone who looks as exactly nondescript as a top-rated bodyguard should.
Sam follows along, silently appraising the house and the few people he has seen in it thus far, especially the security. "You do have this place locked down pretty well," he remarks quietly, following along behind Sinclair.
"There's a room prepared for you should you choose to use it but we'll show you that later, if you don't mind.” Sam nods; he isn't entirely sure whether or not he will stay for any particular amount of time. A part of him just wants to see what his old friend has gotten himself into, perhaps give them some closure if things do indeed take a turn for the worse. There is also a deeper, darker part of him that wants to know, first hand, if Adrian is suffering. That, in itself, may very well be the sort of closure that he longs for.
“Here we are.“ They've come out into a strikingly modern kitchen at the back of the house, where a young woman in dreads, humming to herself and chopping vegetables, looks up at their arrival. “Good morning, Andi. Mr. Hollis, this is Andi Williams. Andi, this is Sam Hollis. Could we trouble you for some coffee?"
Sam hangs back some as they enter the kitchen, only stepping forward to shake Andi's hand and tell her how he likes his coffee. Andi flashes him a smile and in no time at all (showing the same startling efficiency that seems to be a given among Veidt's employees) she has Sam seated at the kitchen island with a mug of very intense coffee and a plate of small pastries in front of him.
“Now, if you don't mind, I'll leave you in her capable hands for a few minutes.“ And Sinclair is off to check on his patient.
Sam sips his coffee slowly, watching the young cook go about her business, feeling no need to strike up any friendly conversation or otherwise-- she seems nice enough, all of them do. But, well, he can't very well hold it against them for working for Adrian, can he? They wouldn't know…
So he tries. "You must be quite the cook to be on Adrian's staff." He tries.
Andi, peering into the refrigerator, looks up and laughs, musically. "Don't know about that. You want to know a secret? He's really easy to cook for. It's some of the other prima donnas around here that are really demanding." She grins, conspiratorially, voice dropping to a loud whisper. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, though."
Sam can't help himself, a smile cracking at the sound of her laugh and again at her words, her attitude. "Mm, I wouldn’t have thought. Adrian's a vegetarian if I remember correctly." He finds it frustrating to discover that he still knows that.
Andi nods, returning to her prep work. "So am I, though, so I know what works and what doesn't. Too many chefs don't get it." The carrots are swept into a bowl and she stops to pull down a notebook. "No, he's clear about his preferences and very polite." She sighs. "Not much appetite now, though. It's a real shame, all of this."
Sam puffs a forced sigh and looks down. "Yes, it's unfortunate," he says, masking any coldness in his voice. "It's good that there are people around to take care of him." He has another drink of his coffee and slumps tiredly against the table, relaxing and finally fully letting his guard down for the first time since he received that phone call.
Andi smiles at him but either she picks up on his reticence or has been instructed like everyone not to pry. She tops up his coffee and flips through her recipes, making notes as they sit together and the first rays of the morning sun start to show themselves through the kitchen window.
Sinclair returns a handful of moments later, brushing one hand through his hair, saying very little as he enters the room. "Mr. Hollis? Now's as good a time as any."
Sam looks up as the doctor enters the room, standing up from the table. "All right," he says, his voice low. He moves to follow the doctor, absently thanking Andi for the coffee as he prepares himself for what comes next.
"He's in the study," Sinclair tells him, voice just as low as they walk down another short corridor. "I'd ask you not to upset him but given what we've discussed… Well, what happens, happens."
"We were friends once," Sam tells Sinclair quietly, looking him in the eye. "I'm not here to antagonize him." He pats the young man on the shoulder as they pause by an open door.
The doctor nods and then knocks twice on the frame before glancing into the room. "Adrian? It's Jonathan," he calls.
The room is, indeed, a study, added onto the back of the house, the long wall to the right covered with a drapery of some kind. The furnishings are classic, rich without being fussy and there are many windows that open out onto a just-barely blossoming garden. There's a desk against the far wall, along with a side table-- featuring a neat stack of papers and a water glass-- and an armchair beside that, facing the garden, its back to the doorway.
A familiar man is seated within the armchair, his tall frame slumped to one side, head propped on his hand. "Oh? Welcome back." The voice is unmistakably Adrian's, cordial but hollow, tinged with a distinct weariness. "I trust your undisclosed errand went well."
"I'm not quite sure about that yet, to be honest. How are you feeling?" Sinclair steps into the room, turning to look at Sam in passing.
Sam follows the doctor inside with uncertain steps. It's surreal, standing here, because the room is too bright for how cold and dead it feels within it. He feels his heart jump into his throat and he feels his heart race with anxiety. "Ad-Adrian?" he calls to him gently, his feet rooting him to where he stands near the door.
There's a sharp intake of breath and a convulsive movement from the man in the chair. A moment's pause and then he turns, pushing himself slowly upright, moving with great deliberation. Sam finds that he is holding his breath as well as he watches Adrian stand from his seat. His stomach flops as the two men stand facing each other for the first time in years. And everything is so different now.
To say that Adrian looks different from when Sam last saw him would be an understatement. The same calm, erect posture is there but everything else is frayed around the edges. It's obvious that he's been ill from the weight he's lost alone, his sweater hanging too-loosely from his frame, but his hair, while neatly arranged, is dull instead of shining with its normal luster and has begun to gray at the roots. And it is in his face that the greatest contrast lies; the lines around his eyes and mouth are sharply defined, as with pain, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The eyes, themselves, are hooded and, at the moment, absolutely unreadable.
While Adrian appears to have shrunken in on himself, Sam is perhaps in the best shape that he has been in in twenty years, finally healthy, happy, and whole for the first time in his life. Seeing Adrian this way makes him feel heavy, weighed down, and for a moment he can't quite bring himself to hate the man.
Those eyes of Adrian’s rest on Sam and don't move. "Sam Hollis," Adrian says softly. "What an-- unexpected surprise." His glance flicks to the doctor. "You have been busy, Jonathan." The rest of his body is as still as a statue, frozen in place with a hand still on his chair.
"Hey," Sam says quietly, wincing when Adrian uses his false name, having hated it out of that mouth each of the few times he's seen it uttered. He licks his lips and glances at Sinclair, then back to the man before him. "He told me that you're not feeling well. Asked me to come."
"Did he, now," Adrian murmurs, looking at the doctor once again. "You have an interesting approach to treatment, Doctor."
Sinclair looks back at his patient quietly and unapologetically. "Since you won't listen to me, I thought I would find someone else you might listen to," he replies, his voice tinged once again with that note of care.
"I see." Adrian nods, once and his mouth tightens and relaxes.
Sam snorts at Sinclair's prescription, shaking his head. "I don't think he'll be listening to me, Doc."
Adrian cuts in, not acknowledging Sam's words at all. "We can talk about it later. In the meantime, I think it would be best if Sam and I had some privacy."
Sinclair nods and exits, closing the door behind him. Sam can feel his palms sweat in his pockets as he watches the doctor leave, slowly turning to look at Adrian once more. They're alone and no silence has ever been so suffocating.
Adrian doesn't move, doesn't say a word, only looks at Sam with that same empty expression. The hand on the chair trembles, visibly. "How are you, Dan," he murmurs quietly.
Sam doesn't breathe again until Adrian speaks, using his proper name, the first time he's been called that in years. He watches that hand shake and takes a step to the side. "Pleased as punch to be here," he says, sparing no pleasantries, nerves on high alert.
The shaking doesn't stop and all at once Adrian folds up, sitting back down in the chair and balling the offending hand into a fist. His eyes close and he heaves deep, ragged breaths. Finally he blinks and looks up at Sam from his seat. "Why did you come?" he whispers, in bewilderment.
Sam lets out a deep sigh. "I don't know," he replies honestly. "I’m still asking myself that."
"I didn't ask for you. If he or anyone has threatened you for this, I swear that they'll--" His breath seems to run out and he stops speaking, looking down as his hand clenches and unclenches spasmodically.
"No. No, nobody threatened me. Relax." Sam takes a step forward, the instinct to reach out to help overwhelming him. But he pulls it together and moves instead to stand in front of the window before Adrian's chair. He stares at him closely, almost unable to believe that this man sitting before him was once the great Ozymandias, the man who used to fight beside him, who destroyed the world, and been the one soul to ever deserve his hatred. This poor, shriveled, ill man. Sam averts his eyes, too torn to bear looking at him. He's not certain what to say.
Adrian's mouth sets in a firm line as he visibly struggles with himself, and finally he uncurls and his breathing stills. He looks across at his old colleague, nemesis, some unnameable relationship, and clears his throat. "Good," he says only, voice back to that eerily calm tone. "I'm glad of that."
Sam sits quietly against the window sill and finally brings himself to look at Adrian watching him. He shuffles his feet. "You don't trust your own staff? They seem to be taking good care of you. Doctor Sinclair has been very obliging. He even offered to let me go home and forget this ever happened."
Adrian's empty laugh rings sharply in the quiet room. "They mean well, yes, but there's always a risk of... Misinterpretation. Besides, Dan, can you really ever picture me placing absolute trust in anyone other than myself?" He straightens in the chair, letting his hands drop to his knees. "Not that I have that, anymore..."
Guess I don't need to ask how you're feeling, Sam thinks with a frown, wringing his hands. He's never witnessed Adrian being so negative before. "‘Misinterpretations‘. Did Sinclair misinterpret what you wanted when you wrote my name down in those documents?" He raises his brows, a question in his eyes as he leans back against the cold window.
"The fact that Jonathan Sinclair believes that list has come into effect says a great deal." Adrian looks into the distance, into the bare branches and cool sunlight.
"Well, I don't know if you've seen yourself, Adrian, but... You aren't looking too great."
"I know." Adrian leans back in the chair after the plain acknowledgment.
"But however much I've violated the crystal-clear instructions you issued to me last time we met, I had very good reason for including your name on that list."
Sam looks directly at him, staring Adrian down as his arms cross tightly over his chest, hands curling around his arms. "If this comes down to involving my family, you can guarantee I'll keep my word." It's a calm, mild threat, but the fact of the matter is that it doesn't apply at the moment.
"The question that remains, then: Why did you list my name?"
"The list... It's a simple thing, really," Adrian says conversationally, as if explaining one of his theories or scientific projects, but that same hollowness is still in his voice. "In the event of my incapacitation, if choices have to be made about my care or even my survival, there needs to be one party equipped with all the facts. To take everything into account, you see, and make the most appropriate decision." He looks at Sam with a faint smile. "In that sense, you are one of the people I most trust."
Sam's brows furrow and he unfolds his arms, gripping the window sill. "Are you saying that you want me to take on this responsibility?" He sounds none too pleased with this assertion.
Adrian closes his eyes. "I thought you might welcome it, should the circumstance arise." His voice falters, though, tinged with uncertainty.
Sam stares at him with a perfectly baffled look on his face. Then he laughs, joylessly, and looks down, shaking his head in disbelief. "Let me get this straight." He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. "You thought that I would want the responsibility of taking care of you? Of deciding your life or death? You?"
"If it gave you a chance to balance the scale finally, then yes." Adrian's left hand has recommenced its trembling, but he ignores it, frozen by the fury building in Sam's eyes. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn't actually met Nite Owl until this moment, that the feelings of the helpless rodent before the swooping talons are far, far nearer than he ever before realized. Then again, this is what he has asked for.
Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?" he mutters and stands, scowling down at Adrian, wanting nothing to do with him.
He takes a few steps toward the door, then marches right back, incensed. "You know, when I heard the news, I had thought that you..." He takes pause, staring down at the broken man before him. He can't bring himself to finish what he was about to say. He's above that, telling Adrian what he had really thought, even hoped. "Forget it."
"It would have been easier, yes, for both of us." Adrian's voice floats out of the depths of the chair, from where his head has fallen against the backrest. He strives for calm but, to his shame, he can feel the moisture beginning to leak from his eyes-- curse this body and this mind, betraying him at the worst times when there's so much left to be done-- and he grits his teeth in fury as he turns his face away, willing Sam to just leave. "I'll have your name taken off the list and you won't be troubled further." As if Sam has the right to call him selfish.
Sam can feel his heart pound in his fingertips as he curls his hands into fists. "See that you do," he grumbles, and then he makes for the door, the image of this once great man falling apart forever burned into his memory.
Adrian doesn't respond or acknowledge Sam's existence as he hears his steps retreating across the carpet, only closes his eyes more tightly as he feels something within him dissolve into nothingness. He should have known better.
As Sam steps into the hall, he lets out a heavy sigh as the door clicks shut behind him. Sinclair steps around the corner, a question in his eyes, and when Sam sees him, he merely shakes his head. "I'm sorry." But he's not. Not really.
The doctor slumps and sighs. "Damn." He shakes his head. "If you have any other suggestions, I'm all ears. Otherwise…”
Sam looks down at his shoes. "I don't know. I don't think I can..." He takes pause for a moment and thinks, trying to find the words but they don't come. He shakes his head. "I just don't know, Doctor. I don't think there's anything that I can do to actually help the situation. I've never seen him this way." Sam can't help his own emotions around him, his anger and resentment, much less try to help Adrian in any way.
“Well, then… Thank you for trying, at least and I'm sorry for the trouble. If you'll wait a few minutes, I can make the arrangements. But for now, I hope you'll excuse me?" Sinclair is already moving, opening the study door and slipping through.
Sam goes to open his mouth again but Sinclair is already in motion. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do with himself, moving to the staircase nearby and sitting himself down, his head dropping into his hands. This was all a mistake.
The doctor slips through the door. Hearing no sound or movement, he steps around in front of Veidt's chair and, after only a second, crouches down until he's at eye level with his patient. Adrian's face is oddly serene, even given the tracks of tears down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Jonathan whispers, at a loss for what else to say.
"You meant well," Adrian responds, that same unearthly calm in his voice, and opens his eyes. "The mistake was mine, in involving Mr. Hollis to begin with. It's best for everyone if you don't trouble him further, with anything." His eyes drift back shut.
"And now, Jon, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone."
The doctor hesitates before reaching out and resting a hand atop Adrian's, limp on the arm of the chair. "Not for too long. I'll be back soon."
Back out in the hall, he sees Sam sitting on the stairs, head pillowed in his hands but his focus is already elsewhere. "I won't be flying back with you, Mr. Hollis. I'm needed here. I did enjoy meeting you, though, for what it's worth."
Sam stands when he hears the doctor address him again, nodding calmly, even a bit sadly (feeling strangely disappointed) and he holds his hand out to Sinclair. "Yeah, of course." He struggles to follow through with the pleasantries, finding that 'nice meeting you too' is entirely too much of a lie for him to manage, so he forces a tight smile to his face and shakes the other man's hand.
"Look, uhm…" His mouth falls open and he looks around briefly as if he's forgotten where he is, can't believe what he's about to say, unable to tamp down that nobler part of him, telling him not to be a total, useless lump. "Is there any way I can reach you if I do come up with something that might help?"
Sinclair blinks in surprise and fishes in his pocket. "Here's my card and," he digs out a pen and writes something on the back, "this is my direct line, if you should need it." Doubt and hopefulness war in his voice.
Sam watches as he writes his number and nods as Sinclair hands it over, looking at it briefly before he takes out his wallet to tuck it inside. "Thanks." And then, he gives him a smile, something much more like the warm, smooth smiles that usually grace his features. "Look, don't give up. Adrian Veidt is a resilient little shit. Always has been."
The doctor's eyes widen at the phrase and the corner of his mouth twitches in shocked amusement, but he shakes his head. "If only. This time around, whatever's eating him up goes a lot deeper than this illness and getting him to share it..." Another head-shake. "Time to start thinking ahead, then.
“Goodbye, Mr. Hollis."
Sam's features darken quickly and his mouth falls open at the doctor's words but he can't find his voice. Before he knows it, a staffer arrives with his bag and he's out the door, back into the car, and on the plane in short order.
The plane ride goes by rather quickly, so lost in thought is he. Thinking about today, about Adrian shaking and crying in his chair. Thinking about how wrong it had been to go there. Nevermind, however. He has only lost about two hours and the time zones they fly over quickly make up for that.
When he comes home again to his empty, stuffy house, he checks the answering machine. "S-3-6-24," Sandra's voice sounds on the answering machine. So, Sam gets in his car and drives south to the third town he comes to. He stops at a gas station and gets directions to the sixth hotel listed in the phone book, finding himself knocking on room 24 just after lunch time. Sandra greets him with a sigh of relief and a kiss and he feels all of it drain out of him as he picks up Mason and hugs him close, finally content once more.
Authors: cdiar & flyingrat42
Rating: PG-13 for language and content
Characters: Adrian Veidt, Dan Dreiberg (Sam Hollis), Jonathan Sinclair, & other OCs
Word count: 3500+
Summary: It's 1993 and Adrian has contracted a fatal illness. Dan and Adrian reunite after years apart.
Prequel: Boundaries
Chapter 1: Nightmares Await
Chapter 2: Overcast
Chapter 3: Reunion
Chapter 4: Vicissitude
Chapter 5: Routine
Playlist
It's about another forty-five minutes and soon the fast, little jet is making a smooth touchdown at a small airfield, another similarly unremarkable car waiting on the tarmac. They glide along back roads, finally turning into a long driveway and passing through a gate which slides open at the car's approach. As they pull into a gravel space in front of a Tudor-style house, there is no one else visible as they get out of the car, a few traces of morning fog still dissipating across the lawn in the cool air.
Sinclair looks over at Sam. "Would you prefer to take a rest first or go on in to see him straight away? Either way, I need to check on how he's doing."
Sam follows Sinclair to the door, the driver following close behind with his bag. "If I can get myself a cup of coffee, I'll be set."
"Fair enough," Sinclair responds, as the door opens and they're ushered into a well-appointed entryway by someone who looks as exactly nondescript as a top-rated bodyguard should.
Sam follows along, silently appraising the house and the few people he has seen in it thus far, especially the security. "You do have this place locked down pretty well," he remarks quietly, following along behind Sinclair.
"There's a room prepared for you should you choose to use it but we'll show you that later, if you don't mind.” Sam nods; he isn't entirely sure whether or not he will stay for any particular amount of time. A part of him just wants to see what his old friend has gotten himself into, perhaps give them some closure if things do indeed take a turn for the worse. There is also a deeper, darker part of him that wants to know, first hand, if Adrian is suffering. That, in itself, may very well be the sort of closure that he longs for.
“Here we are.“ They've come out into a strikingly modern kitchen at the back of the house, where a young woman in dreads, humming to herself and chopping vegetables, looks up at their arrival. “Good morning, Andi. Mr. Hollis, this is Andi Williams. Andi, this is Sam Hollis. Could we trouble you for some coffee?"
Sam hangs back some as they enter the kitchen, only stepping forward to shake Andi's hand and tell her how he likes his coffee. Andi flashes him a smile and in no time at all (showing the same startling efficiency that seems to be a given among Veidt's employees) she has Sam seated at the kitchen island with a mug of very intense coffee and a plate of small pastries in front of him.
“Now, if you don't mind, I'll leave you in her capable hands for a few minutes.“ And Sinclair is off to check on his patient.
Sam sips his coffee slowly, watching the young cook go about her business, feeling no need to strike up any friendly conversation or otherwise-- she seems nice enough, all of them do. But, well, he can't very well hold it against them for working for Adrian, can he? They wouldn't know…
So he tries. "You must be quite the cook to be on Adrian's staff." He tries.
Andi, peering into the refrigerator, looks up and laughs, musically. "Don't know about that. You want to know a secret? He's really easy to cook for. It's some of the other prima donnas around here that are really demanding." She grins, conspiratorially, voice dropping to a loud whisper. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, though."
Sam can't help himself, a smile cracking at the sound of her laugh and again at her words, her attitude. "Mm, I wouldn’t have thought. Adrian's a vegetarian if I remember correctly." He finds it frustrating to discover that he still knows that.
Andi nods, returning to her prep work. "So am I, though, so I know what works and what doesn't. Too many chefs don't get it." The carrots are swept into a bowl and she stops to pull down a notebook. "No, he's clear about his preferences and very polite." She sighs. "Not much appetite now, though. It's a real shame, all of this."
Sam puffs a forced sigh and looks down. "Yes, it's unfortunate," he says, masking any coldness in his voice. "It's good that there are people around to take care of him." He has another drink of his coffee and slumps tiredly against the table, relaxing and finally fully letting his guard down for the first time since he received that phone call.
Andi smiles at him but either she picks up on his reticence or has been instructed like everyone not to pry. She tops up his coffee and flips through her recipes, making notes as they sit together and the first rays of the morning sun start to show themselves through the kitchen window.
Sinclair returns a handful of moments later, brushing one hand through his hair, saying very little as he enters the room. "Mr. Hollis? Now's as good a time as any."
Sam looks up as the doctor enters the room, standing up from the table. "All right," he says, his voice low. He moves to follow the doctor, absently thanking Andi for the coffee as he prepares himself for what comes next.
"He's in the study," Sinclair tells him, voice just as low as they walk down another short corridor. "I'd ask you not to upset him but given what we've discussed… Well, what happens, happens."
"We were friends once," Sam tells Sinclair quietly, looking him in the eye. "I'm not here to antagonize him." He pats the young man on the shoulder as they pause by an open door.
The doctor nods and then knocks twice on the frame before glancing into the room. "Adrian? It's Jonathan," he calls.
The room is, indeed, a study, added onto the back of the house, the long wall to the right covered with a drapery of some kind. The furnishings are classic, rich without being fussy and there are many windows that open out onto a just-barely blossoming garden. There's a desk against the far wall, along with a side table-- featuring a neat stack of papers and a water glass-- and an armchair beside that, facing the garden, its back to the doorway.
A familiar man is seated within the armchair, his tall frame slumped to one side, head propped on his hand. "Oh? Welcome back." The voice is unmistakably Adrian's, cordial but hollow, tinged with a distinct weariness. "I trust your undisclosed errand went well."
"I'm not quite sure about that yet, to be honest. How are you feeling?" Sinclair steps into the room, turning to look at Sam in passing.
Sam follows the doctor inside with uncertain steps. It's surreal, standing here, because the room is too bright for how cold and dead it feels within it. He feels his heart jump into his throat and he feels his heart race with anxiety. "Ad-Adrian?" he calls to him gently, his feet rooting him to where he stands near the door.
There's a sharp intake of breath and a convulsive movement from the man in the chair. A moment's pause and then he turns, pushing himself slowly upright, moving with great deliberation. Sam finds that he is holding his breath as well as he watches Adrian stand from his seat. His stomach flops as the two men stand facing each other for the first time in years. And everything is so different now.
To say that Adrian looks different from when Sam last saw him would be an understatement. The same calm, erect posture is there but everything else is frayed around the edges. It's obvious that he's been ill from the weight he's lost alone, his sweater hanging too-loosely from his frame, but his hair, while neatly arranged, is dull instead of shining with its normal luster and has begun to gray at the roots. And it is in his face that the greatest contrast lies; the lines around his eyes and mouth are sharply defined, as with pain, and there are dark circles under his eyes. The eyes, themselves, are hooded and, at the moment, absolutely unreadable.
While Adrian appears to have shrunken in on himself, Sam is perhaps in the best shape that he has been in in twenty years, finally healthy, happy, and whole for the first time in his life. Seeing Adrian this way makes him feel heavy, weighed down, and for a moment he can't quite bring himself to hate the man.
Those eyes of Adrian’s rest on Sam and don't move. "Sam Hollis," Adrian says softly. "What an-- unexpected surprise." His glance flicks to the doctor. "You have been busy, Jonathan." The rest of his body is as still as a statue, frozen in place with a hand still on his chair.
"Hey," Sam says quietly, wincing when Adrian uses his false name, having hated it out of that mouth each of the few times he's seen it uttered. He licks his lips and glances at Sinclair, then back to the man before him. "He told me that you're not feeling well. Asked me to come."
"Did he, now," Adrian murmurs, looking at the doctor once again. "You have an interesting approach to treatment, Doctor."
Sinclair looks back at his patient quietly and unapologetically. "Since you won't listen to me, I thought I would find someone else you might listen to," he replies, his voice tinged once again with that note of care.
"I see." Adrian nods, once and his mouth tightens and relaxes.
Sam snorts at Sinclair's prescription, shaking his head. "I don't think he'll be listening to me, Doc."
Adrian cuts in, not acknowledging Sam's words at all. "We can talk about it later. In the meantime, I think it would be best if Sam and I had some privacy."
Sinclair nods and exits, closing the door behind him. Sam can feel his palms sweat in his pockets as he watches the doctor leave, slowly turning to look at Adrian once more. They're alone and no silence has ever been so suffocating.
Adrian doesn't move, doesn't say a word, only looks at Sam with that same empty expression. The hand on the chair trembles, visibly. "How are you, Dan," he murmurs quietly.
Sam doesn't breathe again until Adrian speaks, using his proper name, the first time he's been called that in years. He watches that hand shake and takes a step to the side. "Pleased as punch to be here," he says, sparing no pleasantries, nerves on high alert.
The shaking doesn't stop and all at once Adrian folds up, sitting back down in the chair and balling the offending hand into a fist. His eyes close and he heaves deep, ragged breaths. Finally he blinks and looks up at Sam from his seat. "Why did you come?" he whispers, in bewilderment.
Sam lets out a deep sigh. "I don't know," he replies honestly. "I’m still asking myself that."
"I didn't ask for you. If he or anyone has threatened you for this, I swear that they'll--" His breath seems to run out and he stops speaking, looking down as his hand clenches and unclenches spasmodically.
"No. No, nobody threatened me. Relax." Sam takes a step forward, the instinct to reach out to help overwhelming him. But he pulls it together and moves instead to stand in front of the window before Adrian's chair. He stares at him closely, almost unable to believe that this man sitting before him was once the great Ozymandias, the man who used to fight beside him, who destroyed the world, and been the one soul to ever deserve his hatred. This poor, shriveled, ill man. Sam averts his eyes, too torn to bear looking at him. He's not certain what to say.
Adrian's mouth sets in a firm line as he visibly struggles with himself, and finally he uncurls and his breathing stills. He looks across at his old colleague, nemesis, some unnameable relationship, and clears his throat. "Good," he says only, voice back to that eerily calm tone. "I'm glad of that."
Sam sits quietly against the window sill and finally brings himself to look at Adrian watching him. He shuffles his feet. "You don't trust your own staff? They seem to be taking good care of you. Doctor Sinclair has been very obliging. He even offered to let me go home and forget this ever happened."
Adrian's empty laugh rings sharply in the quiet room. "They mean well, yes, but there's always a risk of... Misinterpretation. Besides, Dan, can you really ever picture me placing absolute trust in anyone other than myself?" He straightens in the chair, letting his hands drop to his knees. "Not that I have that, anymore..."
Guess I don't need to ask how you're feeling, Sam thinks with a frown, wringing his hands. He's never witnessed Adrian being so negative before. "‘Misinterpretations‘. Did Sinclair misinterpret what you wanted when you wrote my name down in those documents?" He raises his brows, a question in his eyes as he leans back against the cold window.
"The fact that Jonathan Sinclair believes that list has come into effect says a great deal." Adrian looks into the distance, into the bare branches and cool sunlight.
"Well, I don't know if you've seen yourself, Adrian, but... You aren't looking too great."
"I know." Adrian leans back in the chair after the plain acknowledgment.
"But however much I've violated the crystal-clear instructions you issued to me last time we met, I had very good reason for including your name on that list."
Sam looks directly at him, staring Adrian down as his arms cross tightly over his chest, hands curling around his arms. "If this comes down to involving my family, you can guarantee I'll keep my word." It's a calm, mild threat, but the fact of the matter is that it doesn't apply at the moment.
"The question that remains, then: Why did you list my name?"
"The list... It's a simple thing, really," Adrian says conversationally, as if explaining one of his theories or scientific projects, but that same hollowness is still in his voice. "In the event of my incapacitation, if choices have to be made about my care or even my survival, there needs to be one party equipped with all the facts. To take everything into account, you see, and make the most appropriate decision." He looks at Sam with a faint smile. "In that sense, you are one of the people I most trust."
Sam's brows furrow and he unfolds his arms, gripping the window sill. "Are you saying that you want me to take on this responsibility?" He sounds none too pleased with this assertion.
Adrian closes his eyes. "I thought you might welcome it, should the circumstance arise." His voice falters, though, tinged with uncertainty.
Sam stares at him with a perfectly baffled look on his face. Then he laughs, joylessly, and looks down, shaking his head in disbelief. "Let me get this straight." He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. "You thought that I would want the responsibility of taking care of you? Of deciding your life or death? You?"
"If it gave you a chance to balance the scale finally, then yes." Adrian's left hand has recommenced its trembling, but he ignores it, frozen by the fury building in Sam's eyes. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn't actually met Nite Owl until this moment, that the feelings of the helpless rodent before the swooping talons are far, far nearer than he ever before realized. Then again, this is what he has asked for.
Sam shakes his head in disbelief. "You're a selfish son of a bitch, you know that?" he mutters and stands, scowling down at Adrian, wanting nothing to do with him.
He takes a few steps toward the door, then marches right back, incensed. "You know, when I heard the news, I had thought that you..." He takes pause, staring down at the broken man before him. He can't bring himself to finish what he was about to say. He's above that, telling Adrian what he had really thought, even hoped. "Forget it."
"It would have been easier, yes, for both of us." Adrian's voice floats out of the depths of the chair, from where his head has fallen against the backrest. He strives for calm but, to his shame, he can feel the moisture beginning to leak from his eyes-- curse this body and this mind, betraying him at the worst times when there's so much left to be done-- and he grits his teeth in fury as he turns his face away, willing Sam to just leave. "I'll have your name taken off the list and you won't be troubled further." As if Sam has the right to call him selfish.
Sam can feel his heart pound in his fingertips as he curls his hands into fists. "See that you do," he grumbles, and then he makes for the door, the image of this once great man falling apart forever burned into his memory.
Adrian doesn't respond or acknowledge Sam's existence as he hears his steps retreating across the carpet, only closes his eyes more tightly as he feels something within him dissolve into nothingness. He should have known better.
As Sam steps into the hall, he lets out a heavy sigh as the door clicks shut behind him. Sinclair steps around the corner, a question in his eyes, and when Sam sees him, he merely shakes his head. "I'm sorry." But he's not. Not really.
The doctor slumps and sighs. "Damn." He shakes his head. "If you have any other suggestions, I'm all ears. Otherwise…”
Sam looks down at his shoes. "I don't know. I don't think I can..." He takes pause for a moment and thinks, trying to find the words but they don't come. He shakes his head. "I just don't know, Doctor. I don't think there's anything that I can do to actually help the situation. I've never seen him this way." Sam can't help his own emotions around him, his anger and resentment, much less try to help Adrian in any way.
“Well, then… Thank you for trying, at least and I'm sorry for the trouble. If you'll wait a few minutes, I can make the arrangements. But for now, I hope you'll excuse me?" Sinclair is already moving, opening the study door and slipping through.
Sam goes to open his mouth again but Sinclair is already in motion. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do with himself, moving to the staircase nearby and sitting himself down, his head dropping into his hands. This was all a mistake.
The doctor slips through the door. Hearing no sound or movement, he steps around in front of Veidt's chair and, after only a second, crouches down until he's at eye level with his patient. Adrian's face is oddly serene, even given the tracks of tears down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Jonathan whispers, at a loss for what else to say.
"You meant well," Adrian responds, that same unearthly calm in his voice, and opens his eyes. "The mistake was mine, in involving Mr. Hollis to begin with. It's best for everyone if you don't trouble him further, with anything." His eyes drift back shut.
"And now, Jon, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone."
The doctor hesitates before reaching out and resting a hand atop Adrian's, limp on the arm of the chair. "Not for too long. I'll be back soon."
Back out in the hall, he sees Sam sitting on the stairs, head pillowed in his hands but his focus is already elsewhere. "I won't be flying back with you, Mr. Hollis. I'm needed here. I did enjoy meeting you, though, for what it's worth."
Sam stands when he hears the doctor address him again, nodding calmly, even a bit sadly (feeling strangely disappointed) and he holds his hand out to Sinclair. "Yeah, of course." He struggles to follow through with the pleasantries, finding that 'nice meeting you too' is entirely too much of a lie for him to manage, so he forces a tight smile to his face and shakes the other man's hand.
"Look, uhm…" His mouth falls open and he looks around briefly as if he's forgotten where he is, can't believe what he's about to say, unable to tamp down that nobler part of him, telling him not to be a total, useless lump. "Is there any way I can reach you if I do come up with something that might help?"
Sinclair blinks in surprise and fishes in his pocket. "Here's my card and," he digs out a pen and writes something on the back, "this is my direct line, if you should need it." Doubt and hopefulness war in his voice.
Sam watches as he writes his number and nods as Sinclair hands it over, looking at it briefly before he takes out his wallet to tuck it inside. "Thanks." And then, he gives him a smile, something much more like the warm, smooth smiles that usually grace his features. "Look, don't give up. Adrian Veidt is a resilient little shit. Always has been."
The doctor's eyes widen at the phrase and the corner of his mouth twitches in shocked amusement, but he shakes his head. "If only. This time around, whatever's eating him up goes a lot deeper than this illness and getting him to share it..." Another head-shake. "Time to start thinking ahead, then.
“Goodbye, Mr. Hollis."
Sam's features darken quickly and his mouth falls open at the doctor's words but he can't find his voice. Before he knows it, a staffer arrives with his bag and he's out the door, back into the car, and on the plane in short order.
The plane ride goes by rather quickly, so lost in thought is he. Thinking about today, about Adrian shaking and crying in his chair. Thinking about how wrong it had been to go there. Nevermind, however. He has only lost about two hours and the time zones they fly over quickly make up for that.
When he comes home again to his empty, stuffy house, he checks the answering machine. "S-3-6-24," Sandra's voice sounds on the answering machine. So, Sam gets in his car and drives south to the third town he comes to. He stops at a gas station and gets directions to the sixth hotel listed in the phone book, finding himself knocking on room 24 just after lunch time. Sandra greets him with a sigh of relief and a kiss and he feels all of it drain out of him as he picks up Mason and hugs him close, finally content once more.