milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The door opens, and Tommy steps through -- haltingly, hesitant, when he finds the bar instead of the firehouse kitchen. In a moment of panic he considers turning back. But with a defiant set of his jaw he quickly stalks across the room toward the back door, straight past the bar, not giving it another glance.

Because he can't look at it. He can't look at it without feeling the urge to drink, the nagging tug of the liquor in those shiny glass bottles. His hold on sobriety has gotten shaky over the past couple of weeks. And even though he knows Bar herself wouldn't serve him any alcohol if he asked for some, he'd only get angry. And nobody needs that.

He really shouldn't be here.

Outside, it's evening. The sun's gone down and the sky's a murky shade of indigo, just dark enough to reveal the galaxies beyond.

Enough to make you feel like an insignificant little speck of shit.

With a heavy, bitter sigh, Tommy sits down on the porch steps, takes a cigarette out of a pack, and lights it up. He might as well take a smoke break before he goes back to work.

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And then there's this asshole.

Tommy hasn't seen him in a while. He's taking five on a nearby patio chair, boonie hat draped across his face as he half-dozes off.

What identifies him are his gun, polo, and tattoos.

How do you feel about this, Tommy?

Tommy DGAF.

He would've wanted the back porch all to himself, but as long as he can smoke in peace and not talk to anybody, he'll let Voodoo sleep.

And so they sit in silence for a while.

Except.

(Dun-dun-duuuuuun.)

Voodoo bolts upright after a while, the boonie hat flopping around on his face. He bats it away, squinting at the night sky.

Then he grunts, reseating the hat on his head. "Dammit."

Tommy startles at Voodoo's sudden awakening, and he shoots him a look, shaking his head.

"Morning, sunshine," he mutters as he takes a drag off his cigarette.

He grunts in response, shifting in his seat. "Yeah, yeah."

He looks to Tommy. "What's got you out here all mopey? Dye that hair black, stick a My Chemical Romance record in your hands, and you'd be a teenage girl on the rag."

"Ha ha, very funny. Also? Fuck you."

Another tense drag off his cig as he glares off into the darkness. Forgive him if he's not jumping for joy at seeing you again, Voodoo. Nothing personal.

"Sorry, I start at a grand."

He crosses his arms over his chest.

"No, seriously, don't be a little bitch. What's up?"

Edited 2013-08-20 17:38 (UTC)

He rolls his eyes, clenching his jaw, his teeth clamping down on the end of his cigarette. After a few moments of seething silence, he finally exhales a sigh.

"You ever tried to quit drinking? And I mean seriously give it up, cold turkey. Not just for a day, or a week, or two weeks, or a month, but with the intention of never touching the stuff ever again. Think you could do that?"

"My dad could."

Then he shrugs.

"Me? Maybe. Probably not."

A beat, as he looks over to Tommy.

"Lemme guess. You're tryin' to cut yourself off and it ain't workin' out so well."

He hisses a mirthless chuckle.

"Cut myself off? Man, for all this time you've known me, have you ever seen me drink anything stronger than black coffee? I've been sober for almost a year now-- and I've hated every goddamn day of it. So, no, it ain't workin' out so well."

"Huh."

Well.

Voodoo's not quite sure how to respond to this! He's been around the block enough to guess there's a pretty good reason to why Tommy drinks, so he's not going to go with any of the four Ws - that's just stupid.

So instead, he simply shrugs.

"Wish I knew how to help, man."

Tommy sighs and shrugs as well, shaking his head. Milliways can't be his emergency A.A. meeting. He doesn't expect everyone to understand how difficult it is, and he doesn't have it in him right now to even attempt to explain what it's like.

"Don't matter anyways." He massages his temple, trying to rub the tension away.

"What's up with you, man? How've you been?"

Voodoo gives an easy, two-shouldered shrug in response. "Same shit, different day. Team's back at full strength again, so we'll probably get deployed real soon. Don't know where, but we will when we need to. Might call on Korra for help if she's willing."

He turns his head to look at him, an eyebrow slightly cocked.

"Korra? The girl? You'd take her on a mission?"

"Shit yeah. You kiddin'? Have you seen what she can do with a little water? Took her along to a helo crash site once - she didn't bring more'n two bottles of water, but she stabilized the wounded guys like that," he says, snapping his fingers for emphasis. "Saved two fucking platoons a'dyin' guys."

He leans forward. "That ain't touchin' on earthbending or firebending, neither," he says, pointing at Tommy. "She can make cover outta nothin', breach goddamn near anything, mitigate environmental hazards like they ain't shit."

"So, yeah," he says, leaning back in his chair, "I'd take her on a mission. Wouldn't force her, but I'd take her."

Tommy just...stares at him for a bit, incredulous.

"Yeah, I've seen it, it's awesome, and I bet she can do awesome things with it. I just hope you told 'er beforehand what to expect, the kind of shit she was gonna see, 'cause really, a teenage girl, a girl not that much older than my own daughter, from a completely different world than yours, going into what sounds like a goddamn combat zone? I mean, Jeezus Christ..."

He turns away, rubbing his forehead.

"But hey, if she can handle it, she can handle it."

Voodoo sighs. "For Chrissake, Tommy. In my world - probably yours, too! - we got boys just a year older'n her signing up to be grunts. At her age, she could volunteer if she got a waiver from her folks."

He turns to Tommy. "How old were you when you joined the department, huh? How old're the kids coming in now? Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?"

A half-beat, as he shakes his head.

"So yeah, I told her, and yeah she knew what to expect. And yeah, she handled it pretty goddamn well. Probably better than I would've, at her age."

He leans back further in his seat.

"Everyone's just an asset when it comes to the job. Ain't no room for accommodations. Thought you of all people woulda known that."

He exhales a stiff sigh and a jet of cigarette smoke.

Okay, fine. Voodoo has a point.

He's not a parent, though. He's never had to hear his son say that he wanted to be a fireman, too. Or his nephew say that he wanted to follow in his dead father's footsteps. To feel the same searing heat, to smell the same charred flesh, to grab onto a life only to have it slip through your fingers. To not be able to unsee what you've seen or forget the shit you've survived.

All of this has been heavy on Tommy's mind lately. He wouldn't wish this burden upon anyone, much less someone half his age. But there you are.

"Yeah, you're right."

He continues to smoke, staring out into the darkness.

"You know, you want some joe to go with that, all you gotta do's ask. I'll pay."

Glancing up at him, he then shakes his head.

"Nah. I'll get some on my way out later. I'll be fine, I just-- need to get my head on straight."

Voodoo shrugs. "Hey, suit yourself."

"How much sleep you been gettin' lately, man?"

"Less than usual."

He takes a drag.

"I ain't exactly a heavy sleeper to begin with and I rarely make it through most nights, so I just stay up watching TV. Incidentally, y'know what cures insomnia? Booze. Blacking out was the only way I could get a decent night's rest."

Voodoo processes this information silently, absently running his fingers along his jaw.

Then he hops to his feet. "C'mon," he says, clapping Tommy on the shoulder. "PT time. You 'n me. Let's go. It'll help."

"Excuse me?"

"Did I stutter?"