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

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.

It's in the way Tommy moves. The way he picks himself up off the cold wet deck.

He understands. Voodoo can tell.

But he does not acknowledge this.

Thunder claps in the distance. Voodoo clenches his fist.

"Your move."

It's one part understanding that you don't give up.

It's another part not knowing when to stay down.

Tommy's entire ribcage aches; his back aches; his head is throbbing. He should be out for the count, pack it in, tuck his tail between his legs, go home. But his glare is unflinching. He's never accepted defeat gracefully, and he's not about to start now.

Most of the fights he's been in throughout his life were borne out of anger, or drunkenness, or drunken anger. There is no precision. There is no calculation. Only force.

And it's with one last surge that Tommy suddenly lunges straight at Voodoo-- Voodoo's fists or elbows or knees be damned-- driving a shoulder into him in a dirty hockey move and knocking him off balance.

Balance is a fickle thing on a slick wooden deck.

Hands grab haphazardly, weight is thrown around, and the both of them go sprawling into the patio furniture, overturning the chairs and tables. All Tommy knows is that he's got a fist in Voodoo's shirt, holding him at arm's length while trying to get a clear shot at bashing his nose further into his face.

What was that about limits?

Voodoo grunts, squirming in Tommy's grip as the rain continues to pour down on them. He's too slow, and his head snaps back as Tommy's punch connects, then again as another one lands. The world around him's swimming, but third time's the charm - as Tommy rears back for another punch, he blocks, grappling with the older firefighter until they flip, Voodoo straddling him, a forearm pressed into his throat.

"Fuckin' cocksuckin' motherfucker-"

Voodoo's eye and cheekbone will be looking worse for wear, but so will Tommy's knuckles.

"You goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch--"

It's short of chaos when they struggle for the advantage, before Tommy finds himself hurled onto his back and pinned to the floor. He kicks out in a rage, sending a wayward chair clattering down the porch steps.

"Fuck you, you piece of shit--"

The words come out in a gurgled growl as Voodoo presses down on his throat, but he grasps him under his jaw and shoves his head backwards, punching him repeatedly in the ribs.

Voodoo grunts as punch after punch connects, but gravity is on his side are on his side - he is, quite simply, one heavy motherfucker. Tommy lands a particularly nasty one just to the side of his sternum, and Voodoo feels like he's going to puke for a second, shaking his head and coughing as he tries to fight off the blows.

He coughs up some phlegm, spits it out onto the deck, and bears down harder on Tommy. "You first, dickwringer."

Voodoo grabs ahold of Tommy's crotch and twists, quickly following it up with an elbow to the fireman's gut, then another and another and another and-

Edited 2013-09-03 12:05 (UTC)

"Perkele!"

Shephard was looking forward to a nice quiet day up a tree observing the Milliways deer population today. Had his tree stand near the edge of the woods all prepped and everything. Couldn't've asked for finer weather not to get noticed in. AND NOW THIS SHIT.

Thing is, they're both grown men and they really ought to be able to get this kind of thing out of their systems. So he's basically been sitting up his tree in his camo, watching and wondering when the hell they're going to finish. At least until just now, when he's realized that's not going to happen.

God fucking paskainen paskapää, if a dog back in Rowlesburg used to get in this kind of fight the way Voodoo seems to, they'd take the damn thing to the vet and get its balls chopped off.

Since that's not gonna happen Shephard takes it upon himself to swing over the side of the tree stand, hang for a moment, then drop to the ground. Not like they're gonna notice until he's right on top of them, the way they're going at it. He's not stupid enough to think he can knock the SEAL out a second time the way he did in Virginia, so he's not even going to try. What he does instead is a whole lot simpler: since Voodoo's too focused on what's going on in front of him to notice anyone coming up from behind, Shephard's just gonna grab hold of the back of his collar with the metal hand and pull. Like, maximum-tension-the-fabric-can-bear, dig-into-the-windpipe kind of pulling.

"Shit's gone on long enough, you two."

There's that animalistic bellow again when Voodoo goes for his junk a second time (and who exactly is the dickwringer again?), until the rain of elbows to the gut becomes too much to withstand--

And then suddenly everything just sort of-- stops.

Aware that a third person has come onto the scene, Tommy takes this opportunity to kick away from Voodoo, instantly curling up on his side with an arm braced against his middle. Breathing hard through clenched teeth, there's a vague taste of blood and bile in his mouth.