milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

weak

Words filter in through to his brain.

pathetic

you will let them down

Voodoo lets him go and he scrambles to his feet to face him, breathless with anger, eyes still burning.

You're wrong (you're right)
You don't know what the fuck you're talking about (you got me)

Tommy should be stronger than this, and he has been, as far as he's concerned, however reluctantly. He hasn't had a drop of liquor in close to a year, no matter how badly his demons got to him, no matter how painful the grief and guilt became. This is just a temporary setback. That's all it is. That's all he'll let it be. But if he fails at sobriety tonight, because of this bullshit, he'll only have himself to blame.

Failure.

He knows that if he goes through with Voodoo's stupid PT routine, he'll fail. At this point, he can't deal with failing at something -- again. He could at least try to prove him wrong, but something else besides overblown pride runs deep in Tommy's psyche: spite. It kicks in whenever anyone shows him the truth about himself.

"I don't need to prove myself to you, so don't ever tell me what to do," he growls. "You don't know me. So fuck off."

Voodoo shrugs, his hands in his pockets. "Okay. I don't know you. Fair 'nough."

He leans against the railing. "But here's what I do know. I know the door to the Bar's right there," he says, nodding to it. "I know if you want, you can be outta here in ten seconds flat, back in your world."

He scratches at his beard. "I also know that there ain't no Security guys out here to stop you if you wanna take a swing at me. What happens next is completely up to you. Always has been. Always will be."

Edited 2013-08-28 08:48 (UTC)

if you wanna take a swing at me

The rest of what Voodoo says goes mostly unheard because Tommy is already crossing the space between them, and he lashes out with his right fist, aimed at his face, wanting nothing more than to just shut him the fuck up.

The counter is instantaneous. Tommy's untrained, a sloppy fighter, and Voodoo sees the right coming from a mile away.

Two things happen simultaneously - Voodoo deflects the punch and rams a knee hard into Tommy's crotch. The offending arm is wrenched behind Tommy's back, and Voodoo sweeps his feet out from underneath him, bringing him to the ground.

One knee pins Tommy's legs, the other his lower back. Voodoo's free hand seeks out the pressure points at the intersection of Tommy's jawbone and ears and presses down on them.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

The flash of searing pain in his groin doubles him over, driving an animalistic groan of agony from his throat-- add to that a strained cry at the twisting jerk of his arm behind his back. He then suddenly drops hard to his knees, and then he's face down, tasting wooden floorboards, before a blindingly sharp sensation at the back of his neck nearly makes him go limp.

Eyes squeezed shut, he chokes out another groan, teeth grit against the excruciating combination of different kinds of pain, some of them new, some of them familiar. Experiencing them all together is an experience in and of itself.

When the time is right, Voodoo releases Tommy from his grasp and moves off to the side.

He offers no words. Only a hand to help Tommy up.

Finally, the weight eases off of him, and the pressure on his neck and back disappear, but the throbbing all-over aches remain. At least he can move his arm again, and his legs, and he opens his eyes.

Picking his head up as far as the lingering pain in his neck will allow him, he catches sight of Voodoo's offered hand. He only offers him a glare and a snarl in return, refusing to take it.

Slowly and laboriously, he raises himself onto his hands and knees, fighting back a visible wince as that hit to the crotch is going to smart for a little while. But he'll get to his feet on his own. And when he does, he stands as straight as he can, only grabbing his right shoulder and rolling it, jaw clenched in a grimace. He can't tell where the pain is coming from right now-- pretty much everywhere.

But maybe physical pain is what he needed. He handles it far better than the mental kind.

Breathing hard, he continues to glare at Voodoo.

"You fuckin' asshole."

He shrugs, once. "Heard a whole lot worse from a whole lot scarier."

He leans back against the railing, arms snaking across each other until they are akimbo.

"Smarter, too."

Edited 2013-08-29 02:05 (UTC)

He narrows his eyes at him, exhaling a short, sharp breath meant to be a mirthless laugh.

(The effort makes him want to curl up with an ice pack.)

"The fuck d'you mean by that?"

"I mean you don't know your fuckin' limits."

"Fuck limits," he snaps, even taking a few steps toward Voodoo, ever tenacious.

"You think I got where I am now by knowing my limits? I sure as hell wouldn't still be in your goddamn face if I did, would I? Limits. That's bullshit comin' from you. You with your elite training and your PT and your fancy-ass moves-- take all that shit away and you'd be just another Southie bar brawler. So don't talk to me about limits, kid, 'cause one: for good or for bad, I don't back down. And two: nobody tells me what to do. I do what I want, when I want, and how I want. The moment I stop when I reach my limit is the day I fuckin' die, asshole. You wanna get your rocks off beating the shit outta me just to show me that you can? Then here's a newsflash: you don't have a goddamn clue what my limits are."

"It's training you don't got, Gavin. You wouldn't stick your arm in a shark's mouth and expect it to come out intact. You think throwin' a punch at me would end any better?"

He takes a step forward as well - Tommy's got an inch on him in height, but Voodoo's stockier.

"Words 'n actions are two different things, Gavin. What you're doin' right now? Chest-beatin'. Ain't no more."

Tommy takes yet another step forward until there's less than an arm's length of space between them.

"Go 'head, put me in the infirmary. Medical bills will be on you. Take me outta action. Sure, my crew will be down a man, but I can stay here to recuperate and they won't miss a thing, unless you end up doing some real damage and somehow I can't do my job anymore, which shouldn't make a difference anyways since I'm so goddamned weak and pathetic. And remember this, asshole-- you put your hands on me first. So, what was that about limits?"

And he shoves Voodoo back.

The shove takes Voodoo two steps back before he halts himself.

He takes those two steps forward again. It's defiance, and he knows it.

"I ain't puttin' you in no infirmary, Gavin. But if you're expecting an apology, you ain't gettin' one. I made my point. Guys like you? Guys who won't PT? They're weak links. You gotta ask yourself, why won't you PT? Do you just not give a shit about what all this fuckin' apathy might cost you, might cost someone else, down the line? Are you that fucking self-centered?"

A half-beat.

"If you don't take it upon yourself to get stronger, to get faster- whatever happens 'cause of that weakness is on you.

Edited 2013-08-29 07:13 (UTC)

"Oh, Jeezus fuckin' Christ, spare me the Bionic Man bullshit. I told you already, I don't gotta prove a goddamn thing to you. I know what I'm capable of."

(It could be more.)

"And no, I don't need an apology, and most of all I don't need you to lecture me about how I do my job."

(It's called a reality check.)

"And you really wanna know why I don't PT? Are you so interested? Well it bores the goddamned shit outta me, that's why. Okay? Is that self-centered enough for you? So you made your point. Great. Now do me a favor and go fuck yourself with it."

"Man, I don't know how you got out of the Academy thinkin' like that."

He shakes his head.

"But yeah. You made your point. You're a firefighter who doesn't give a fuck if the people on his calls live or die. You want a medal or a chest to pin it on?"

Edited 2013-08-30 05:01 (UTC)

"That was sarcasm, dumbass," he sneers, scowling at Voodoo's remarks.

"And you wanna talk about medals? Lemme tell you, the only reason why you don't see any medals on my chest is 'cause I don't accept 'em. You need solid proof of just how much of a fuck I do give about people on my calls, check my records, see how many commendations I've gotten in twenty years of service. I lost track."

Tommy's been called undisciplined. Too gung-ho. Even dangerous to work with. The problem child of the department. But for all his bad behavior, he still manages to get the job done out of sheer rebelliousness -- against what's demanded of him, what's expected of him, the kind of man he's supposed to be. Because who gives a shit about everybody else's expectations. He'll do things his own way. Anybody who hasn't pushed their own luck to the point of self-destructiveness wouldn't understand.

Tommy snorts and waves a dismissive hand, turning away toward the door.

"Tired of this bullshit. Think whatever you want, sailor boy. I'm going back to work."

Voodoo scoffs and shakes his head. "I don’t fuckin’ believe it. Three hundred forty-three smoke-eaters, thirty-seven port cops, twenty-three city cops, and eight EMTs, all dead on nine-eleven. Twenty-four guys KIA in Afghanistan so far."

He bites his lip.

"One’a them my swim buddy."

The bite is gone, replaced with a snarl.

"And you’re still suckin’ air."

Edited 2013-08-31 02:01 (UTC)

That was absolutely the wrong thing to say in Tommy's mental state.

In a half-blink of an eye, he turns on Voodoo, grabbing his stupid polo shirt, shoving him back hard against the railing and getting in his face.

"I was there, asshole."

If he could exhale fire and smoke and ash right now, he would.

"You want goddamn numbers? Huh? I knew sixty men outta those three hundred-forty-three. Four of 'em were on my crew. One of 'em was my cousin. And you don't believe I'm still alive? You? How the fuck do you think I've felt for the past five fuckin' years? I should be dead, but I ain't, so hey! I guess we've both just gotta fuckin' deal with it."

"Yeah, I guess we fuckin' do."

His hands are on Tommy's wrists, his grip solid.

"So what do you wanna fuckin' do in the meantime, compare trauma conga lines? See who has it harder? Whip our shit out already, get it over with?"

He cracks his neck, leaning in to narrow his eyes. "Or maybe you wanna settle this like men. Make your goddamn move, Gavin."

He tries to wrench his wrists free but Voodoo's grip is too strong.

settle this like men

It sets Tommy's teeth on edge.

The self-hate, the guilt, the shame, the anger--

"Goddammit, I ain't drunk enough for this," he growls, giving his arms a few weak, halfhearted tugs, which Voodoo might find amusing.

Right up until the point where Tommy suddenly jerks him forward and rams his cranium into the target between Voodoo's eyebrows.

Oh, Tommy will be seeing a few stars, but the crack of bone on bone is worth it.

As much as he'd like to think he is, Voodoo isn't superhuman.

So when Tommy cracks him across the nose, he grunts in pain and lets his grip slip as he covers his nose.

He breaths come steady for a few moments. The smell of blood is what finally brings his hands away from his face. His hands are drenched with the red liquid. It oozes down from the busted bridge of his nose, trailing down his cheeks to his lips and chin.

He looks at Tommy and nods, once.

"Good hit."

His own is faster, more precise - a hard elbow strike to Tommy's solar plexus.

Once free from his grip, Tommy tensely steps back-- at least he's still on his feet-- and it isn't until he sees the blood gushing from Voodoo's face that he realizes he's gotten into something (again) that he can't back out of.

The words barely register, when the blow comes.

And he drops (again), choking and wracked with coughs.

So much for staying on his feet.

Voodoo braces himself on a nearby table, wiping the blood off his face with the back of his arm. His breaths come slower now, more ragged.

(They were best friends, once. How it came to this...

...is something he'll think about later. Much later. When his blood dies down.)

He looks down at Tommy, writhing on the deck in pain. He knows exactly how much it hurts. How long it'll take before Tommy's diaphragm stops seizing up. How long before he's able to breathe again.

"Come on. Get up."

He takes a deep breath, advancing toward Tommy. A light rainstorm has moved in, washing the blood down his face, drenching the deck.

"Get. Up."

Edited 2013-08-31 07:07 (UTC)

It's not the same as getting ash or smoke in his lungs, where it only hurts to breathe. It feels like an actual squeezing of them, making breathing nearly impossible at all.

get up

It's not just Voodoo's voice that rattles around in his head.

There's an echo of every voice of every person who's ever seen him go down.

Including his own.

get. up.

Moving solely on the dregs of his adrenaline, he forces himself onto his hands and knees. Just working through the pain, like he always does. Because that's what you fucking do.

Eventually he staggers to his feet, one hand grabbing at his chest as he's seized by another wave of coughs, the other hand sweeping his hair back out of his eyes. Wheezing and panting, he fixes Voodoo with a cold blue stare.