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Post by jess1z1 on Sept 21, 2011 9:17:24 GMT 10
Delegating could be a beautiful thing. It allowed you to take care of what was really important or apply your skills where they were actually needed. Sometimes, though, you just had to do things yourself if you wanted them done right, whatever those things might be. That evening Luke didn’t feel like doing the latter. Normally, it always left him a bit uneasy if he wasn’t completely aware of his post-ops, especially those who wound up in the ICU, but this time there were none of those and the surgeries he’d performed that day had been relatively easy. There really was no reason why any resident couldn’t take care of those charts for him. His shift was over, after all, and the night was relatively calm.
Luke scribbled down his signature at the bottom of the chart before unceremoniously dropping it down on the desk, pointedly ignoring the nurse’s stern look in his direction, and headed straight to the locker room to get ready to leave. It was good to see the sky on occasion, even if it usually was at night. No longer wearing scrubs and a white coat, and throwing his backpack over his shoulder, Luke made his way through the pit and out the double doors at the back, through which the paramedics had brought in a delicate patient just hours earlier to keep him busy.
He stepped out into the early evening. It was pouring. Luke growled. The weather has been spitefully bright all week, but on the one day he had decided to leave the car at home, it rained. He leaned back against the wall, remaining under the concrete roof, and dropped his backpack on the floor. He would have to wait for the rain to ease up before heading out. Hopefully, the unexpected precipitation wouldn’t cause anything bad enough to happen, which could mean for Luke to be paged back during the night.
His boss, and old friend and teacher, had been pressing Luke to go to grief counseling since before he was even officially back in the United States. The man apparently did not deem Mozambique therapeutic enough in that sense and insisted Luke attended one of those group meetings. Not really his thing, though. Luke neither felt like sharing his story nor listening to other people about their own loss. Especially not at the moment. Not after the week he’d had, trying to adjust back to western civilization and the hospital environment and settling into an apartment and seeing his ex wife again and passing by the street where they’d lived, where they’d had a short-lived stability and been a family. No, what he wanted that night was a drink.
With his closest colleagues either on call or in surgery, Luke would be heading to the bar on his own. Quite honestly, he didn’t mind. And finally deciding that getting soaked would be better than waiting, Luke eventually stepped out from under his relatively dry shelter and hurried on toward the closest bar, the one where he’d spent many an evening during his residency blowing off steam with his friends, his teachers; also courting her, making out with her.
It was warm inside; or at least warmer; and warmer it would get as soon as he got some bourbon into his system. Luke sat on a stool by the bar. The place was mostly empty, although not as it should have been for a Wednesday. Someone new had taken over service for Gene, the old bartender, at some point during the past two years. They weren’t as friendly, but they had still had exactly what Luke ordered.
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Post by wesley on Sept 23, 2011 0:42:10 GMT 10
 Day three. Capside was still a new experience for Wesley, and at the moment, he had no one showing him around. Sure, asking his aunt wasn’t out of the question, but it seemed like every time he looked that way she would want to fuss over him. He wasn’t some baby chick that needed to be prodded and cared for like that—he was just fine on his own. Of course, that was before he was standing on a street corner in the pouring rain, more lost than a rat in a maze. The only problem that made the entire situation worse is that he wasn’t even sure where he wanted to go. If it was home he wanted, that would likely be the easiest. Just head towards water… Good plan, right? But he wasn’t quite convinced that home was the best place for him right now. As if to answer his thoughts, however, as he wandered down the sidewalk, he noticed the sign for Pat’s Bar. Seeing as how it was only his third day in Capeside and he was already thinking about his second trip to the bar, he was beginning to reevaluate his ideas of whether or not he could call himself an alcoholic. Sure, he was no stranger to having a drink or two now or then… hardly meant he needed help. If nothing else, he could just use the excuse that he’d lost his brother and he was in pain… it gave him an excuse to drink without people getting on his case about it. Could he help it if he liked the taste of alcohol?
Sliding his hands quickly into his pockets, he tried to keep whatever warmth was left and shook his head a bit to try and get rid of some of the rain. It didn’t help. Then again, logic was working against him. Trying to dry off while standing in a downpour doesn’t usually work… or, perhaps, never works. Wesley didn’t have anything against the rain; sometimes it was even refreshing. But he would’ve traded for a hot, humid day in a heartbeat. Not just because it was what he was used to, but it also made the idea of a cold beer sound even more welcoming.
Pulling open the front door to the bar, he stepped in and felt immediately at home; a home that didn’t mind if you were dripping on the counter. Running a hand through his hair, he did his best to wring out whatever water he could in his clothes, but realized rather quickly that it was a lost cause. Not only were they too soaked to really be affected by it, but trying to twist and move that much only emphasized how stiff and sore he still felt. No use crying over spilt milk and the like; might as well just drink. He found it to be a good outlook on life. Things aren’t going your way? Drink! Things are going your way? Drink and celebrate! Not sure? Drinking might help you figure it out. Smiling just a bit as he approached the counter, he reminded himself to look up if there were any AA meetings in town and maybe check it out. Not that he planned on giving up liquor… but one could hope.
Leaning forward as he got to the counter, he placed his right arm across the surface for some support. He’d wait a minute or two to sit, at least, as standing was still the desired position. Ordering a glass of whiskey, he let his gaze wander through the building. It was mostly empty; though, he wasn’t really surprised given the fact that it was a Wednesday evening. The only people in on these nights were those with weird work schedules and the true alcohol lovers, like himself. Or, hell, maybe everyone in there was a tourist. Either way, he didn’t mind; he was sure that at least one of them would be willing to talk to him, so he’d just bother them all until he found one he liked. They would all be drunk soon enough, then there could be singing karaoke and dancing on tables. Not that Pat’s Bar seemed like that type of place… but with the right people, it had potential.
Once he was served, he finally decided to find a seat. Seeing as how it was only him and one other gentleman at the counter, he thought that a nice place to start with his socializing. Nothing like an out-going stranger that’s soaked, right? Though, from the looks of it, the other guy had gotten a little wet himself. Moving that way, he motioned a bit to the stool next to him. “Mind if I sit?” Not waiting for a reply, he took a seat and nodded a greeting. “Evenin’. Sorry for the intrusion—always thought drinking alone looked pathetic… when you’re sitting by someone else at least it looks a little better.” Wesley smiled as he joked, taking a small drink of the liquor in his glass and already feeling a bit warmer because of it. Even if this guy didn’t feel like being friendly, he was pretty sure he was already feeling better than he had the last few days.
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Post by jess1z1 on Sept 26, 2011 11:36:46 GMT 10
Maybe people in the West Coast were jaded, Luke wouldn’t dare tell you they didn’t suck, and when someone ever asked him why he hadn’t instead just moved down to Los Angeles from his California suburb, he liked replying that getting a tan, a problem and an agent wasn’t his thing. And it wasn’t. Still, Capeside had been quite the change; one Luke had grown quite fond of after so many years, even if it had taken him the better part of his residency to take a shine to. Capeside was alright and he did not see himself going back California any time soon despite everything that that happened; he was not a plastic surgeon and he was not looking forward to treating nothing but sexually transmitted diseases. As far as small towns went, Luke liked his.
There was, however, one thing about Capeside, about any similar town he supposed, that Luke had never quite managed to get used to and that was the complete lack of respect people seemed to have for the one-seat rule. Whether it was in movie theatres or public restrooms (the one-urinal rule being even more relevant), nobody ever seemed to mind sitting right next to a complete stranger; nobody found it awkward; nobody minded how many other spots were available around them. Luke had found himself more than once in a fight to the death for the armrest with some entitled old woman who had also dared sneak her lunch into the theatre… with extra onions.
“Mind if I sit?”
That’s why, upon hearing that question and lifting his head to see one of said strangers taking the stool next to his at the counter, Luke decided to empty what was left of his drink and nod at the bartender for a refill. He registered an accent. Hurry up, mister bartender. Not answering right away, Luke took a moment to ignore the greeting at least until his glass was back on the wooden surface in front of him full of amber. Then he took a large gulp before finally turning to the newcomer. Definitely not from around here. And definitely not from any place resembling California either considering the man’s total and utter disregard of the one-seat rule complete with a greeting and the start of an actual conversation. Nope. Just a big tall glass of Southern hospitality. And not like the one he was drinking from. Oh joy.
“Yeah, no, it’s like you just scrubbed twenty per cent of the pathetic off my soul. I’m… grateful, Sundance Kid. Now, at the risk of going back to a full percentage, I’m gonna turn back to the candid conversation Mr Jim Beam and myself were having just now. He gets jealous and you… are wearing boots...” finished Luke, his eyes traveling down to the floor.
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Post by wesley on Oct 1, 2011 18:46:39 GMT 10
The way he saw it, Wesley had about a one in five chance of finding a person willing to talk to him. He wasn’t big into gambling, but he thought the odds were alright; they could’ve been a lot worse, all things considered. It just so happened that he had one of the four-fifths sitting right next to him. Really, though, he couldn’t blame the guy. If some random stranger say next to him and started a conversation in the same way, he’d probably try and get him to leave, too. That, or actually respond with somewhat of a nice attitude. That was always an option, of course. But, hell, he knew nothing about this man’s day. Maybe his truck got stolen, his girlfriend cheated on him, and his dog died. Living life like some clichéd country song.
Regardless, Wesley found himself smiling a bit at the man’s reply. He would give him one thing; even though he didn’t seem like socializing, he sure was witty in his antisocial comment. More precisely, he thought him witty until right around the end of his comment, when he so eloquently put it that Wesley was ‘wearing boots’. Raising an eyebrow and following the man’s gaze to his feet, it was sufficient to say that he was a bit confused. Did people from where he was from not wear shoes often? Unless, of course, he simply meant the fact that they were actually boots rather than something like tennishoes, which really didn’t clear up the matter for Wesley. Had the man not seen a pair of boots before? Clearing his throat a bit, he turned his gaze back to the man with his eyebrow still raised. “Yes… Yes, I am wearing boots. I find they work a bit better than runnin’ around without shoes on; especially in the rain, helps keep the feet warm and dry, you know?”
Maybe the man was crazy. That was an option, to be sure. Though, Wesley was fairly certain the man was just not used to seeing cowboy boots on a person. Shame, really. Not so much a shame that the man wasn’t insane—Wesley had no desire to strike up a conversation with the clinically insane—but more so that something so practical as a nice pair of boots was cause for alarm.
Pausing a moment to take a drink from the glass in front of him and also to reassess the man he was currently talking to for any outward signs of mental illness, he tiled his head to the side and let his smile come back. As far as he could tell, the man had likely just had one too many. Unless, when sober, he really did walk around commenting on people’s shoe choices. Sure, that was a perfectly logical thing to do—couldn’t be anything abnormal about that. Dropping his gaze a bit, he glanced towards the man’s feet before looking back up to him. “And you’re wearing shoes. Should we call the National Guard, or you think it’s okay?”
(Bahhhh. I couldn't remember what I had before. D8 Sorry it sucks.)
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Post by jess1z1 on Oct 7, 2011 9:48:26 GMT 10
A comedian. Down another glass. Nod for another refill.
Sundance Kid probably thought going about spreading charm was one of those universally appreciated and admired traits. Well, Luke knew how to be charming as well.
“Of course. My apologies. I don’t know why I didn’t think of wearing boots to work today, but between branding the cattle and saddling up my Quarter, I guess my mind was elsewhere this morning. Must have misplaced them.”
While Luke wasn’t trying to pick a fight, more than once in the past he’d brewed a sick mix of alcohol, a dark mood and strangers, and the result had almost always been more than a little unpleasant. At least the day after, when he was able to feel his body again. He didn’t know why he got himself into situations like these so effortlessly, but it was like a talent. There were just times he didn’t care who he pissed off. And if he poked them on purpose, well, it was merely subconscious. Too bad he was allergic to therapy, a self diagnosis he’d reached at age twelve after the school counselor had recommended it to his parents. Luckily, they hadn’t pushed. The only other time he’d gotten remotely close to anything of the sort had been about two years ago when in a desperate attempt to fix things, everything else having failed, Luke had practically dragged his ex wife to counseling. One session. That’s commitment.
At the moment he was getting up there in intoxication and probably would only become more impertinent as the evening progressed. Whether his self appointed drinking buddy would continue to act like Melanie Wilkes or turn into Scarlett O’Hara because of it, well, Luke would be finding out.
Since this guy was not only seemingly and completely unaware of the one-seat rule, but also taking neither hint nor offense, Luke surrendered. In fact, he took the bait, his previously nonexistent curiosity evolving to a state of mild interest.
“Long way away from home, aren’t you?”
If that had come out sounding like an invitation to leave town, it had been unintentional. The Wild Bunch reference was probably affecting Luke’s increasingly drunken thought process.
btw, lol
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Post by wesley on Oct 8, 2011 14:15:23 GMT 10
These two were definitely going to be best friends. Wesley was already starting to like the guy. And, by like, he obviously meant that he found the man to be completely annoying. Why he’d continued the conversation, he really wasn’t too sure. Maybe it was simply because it was still something to do. It offered him a distraction, if nothing else… and, besides, Wesley hated walking away. He would admit, however, that he could come up with wise cracks of his own. Wesley wasn’t necessarily trying to be an asshole to the guy—maybe it just came naturally—but the other man seemed to reply in kind. So it was a win-win, right? Something along those lines. Since he wasn’t getting his highs every week from riding bulls, he needed to do something. A challenge was always accepted by Wesley, almost regardless of the stakes, but the chance to see how long it would take before one of them was throwing a punch was a challenge he was willing to accept.
Hell, he didn’t even have anything against the guy. He was sure that, underneath it all, he was pleasant and respectable. But, at the moment, it seemed a lot easier to push him towards anger than it did towards friendship. And who didn’t enjoy messing with someone every now and then? Besides, he was starting to feel more confident in his assumption that the man was not crazy. That just meant he could safely poke and prod without fear of getting stabbed to death. “What a shame, too. Probably left them behind with your charm, too. Should probably learn to pay closer attention when you’re heading out the door.”
Smiling slightly to the other man, he took a drink from his bottle and let his gaze fall on Luke’s glass. Hell, at the rate he was going, he’d have to get carried out of the building. Hopefully he had a cab nearby to take him home. That, or was going to walk—wherever it was that he was going, at least. Not like Wesley would be any help in that area. He hardly knew how to get himself home, let alone someone else.
When the other man mentioned something about home, Wesley looked back up and rose an eyebrow, though his smile never wavered. “Wonder what gave you that impression… but yeah, yeah I am.” He paused, his smile widening. “So what was it that gave it away? My amazing personality that just doesn’t seem right for someone in a town like this? Familiar with all the faces in town but this one?” He gestured towards his face for emphasis. “Wait—I got it—It’s the accent, isn’t it? Just can’t turn the damn thing off.”
role reversal, gaiz. Seriously now.
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Post by jess1z1 on Oct 9, 2011 19:05:03 GMT 10
“What a shame, too. Probably left them behind with your charm, too. Should probably learn to pay closer attention when you’re heading out the door.”
Smiling slightly to the other man, he took a drink from his bottle and let his gaze fall on Luke’s glass.
He downed another glass. Bartender should have anticipated this and been at his side already. Some people caught on slower. As he waited, Luke crossed his arms on the wooden counter and turned to look at his new acquaintance.
“Yeah well, you don’t ooze much of an Irish Mob vibe, so that pretty much ruled out Boston.”
After a new glass was set in front him, once more it was gone in an instant. Luke put it down and glanced sideways at the outsider. He just looked so at ease and pleasant sipping from his bottle. More collected too. Luke disliked people who appeared to have their shit together, because he knew it was always a big fat lie. They were just as fucked up as the rest of them. Take his ex wife, for example. A perfectly organized drawer was not a sign of stability. It was completely abnormal. She was messed up when they first met (something he fell absolutely in love with) and, of course, she was even more messed up now. Might have been the alcohol, but he was getting the urge to pay her a visit. No. That would be bad. Better keep distracting himself. That’s why he had decided to go out with Mimi. That’s why he had chosen to come to this bar tonight instead of going home after work. So he would be distracted. Wes was not only a distraction, but also an enigma. What was with his jolly attitude?
“What the hell are you so giddy about?” Luke burst out. Seriously. What was there to smile about? Certainly not the economy. It was pouring out. They were drinking alone (or at least that had been the intention) on a week day, which meant there must have been no one waiting at home for either of them. And the bartender was taking too long refilling Luke’s newly empty glass. He knew he shouldn’t be so whiny after all he’d been confronted with abroad in the past two years, but he had more important things to feel guilty about. And he was not in a contrite mood that evening.
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Post by wesley on Oct 10, 2011 5:28:58 GMT 10
Keeping his gaze evenly on the man beside him, Wesley finished off his bottle and set it down on the counter, pushing it away from his a bit to signify that he was done. Really, he was having too much fun with this. It was probably cruel or something, to mess with the man that was obviously not in the best of moods. But, hell, Wesley wasn’t feeling on top of the world either—didn’t mean he would walk around pissing on everyone’s parade. Whatever was rubbing the man the wrong way wasn’t Wesley’s problem. While he’d, on any other day, likely ask the guy what was bothering him or maybe pat him on the back and tell him to suck it up, today, he didn’t give a shit. In fact, he found it more enjoyable to just keep pushing at him. He wasn’t necessarily the sadistic type, but it helped him focus on something other than his own problems.
“Maybe I’m just that good at hiding my accent.” As he spoke, the southern drawl stuck to his words… making the comment seem like an oxymoron. Unless, of course, he was faking his southern accent in place of an Irish one. Then, of course, it’d make sense. “But, oh well. Never been a fan of Boston, so no harm, no foul.” He shrugged, flagging the bartender over.
“I’ll take another corona, and a refill for my friend here.” See? He could be nice. He was even buying his friend a round. Though, as he did it, he almost assumed that it would just bug the man more. As he nearly snapped at Wesley, asking what he was so happy about, he seemed confident in his assumption.
Grabbing hold of the new bottle in front of him after it was set down; he smiled again and readjusted his position. “Giddy? Why the hell not, that’s what I think.” His pleasant smile returned to his face, his gaze remaining on Luke as he slowly took a drink from his beer. He wasn’t sure which was more satisfying; the cold beer or the way the man was responding. Both of them were serving to distract him from other thoughts. As wrong as it sounded, it really did help to think about other people’s problems and, sometimes, poke at them for it rather than focus on your own. Why did he have to think about his brother? He didn’t—he could just annoy the hell out of someone else that let their emotions show a little more plainly than he did. The way he saw it, it was a good alternative. “Besides, I just made a new friend and I’ve got alcohol. Seems nice enough to me. I think the real question is: How long has that stick been up your ass... or were you just born that way?”
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Post by jess1z1 on Oct 11, 2011 9:27:10 GMT 10
“I ain’t your friend… partner,” replied Luke stiffly.
Alright, maybe he was in reality looking for a fight. It wouldn’t come as that much of a shock to those who knew him. He usually spoke from the heart and his heart wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy at the moment. This normally led to Luke having to raise his fists to defend himself, rather than doing the honors; but every once in a while, when he was in a particularly obscure place, he would be known to turn especially reckless and rude. A special brand of asshole. Sundance Kid looked like he could put up a hell of a fight and, given the level of inebriation Luke was currently in, more than a little likely win it too without much trouble. Maybe things were taking their toll on Luke, all piling up since he settled back into town, but losing a fight didn’t seem like it would hurt that much according to his substance altered logic. He ignored the liquor handed to him. In fact, the cowboy had better start hitting the whiskey and ditch the beer, because Luke was pretty sure he would like him a lot better when he was passed out.
Slowly, Luke got up from his stool before gently pushing it back a little with his heel. He stood in front of Wesley.
“How about I give you something to smile about?”
With that, he did it. Luke, staring directly into Wesley’s eyes, touched him. It was no big deal, physically; it was merely a shove. Right at the level of his right shoulder. With the tips of his fingers. Not too hard. Nothing that would pretend to mess with the guy’s balance. But not too soft either. Not gentle. A good, old shove.
And then he continued, because now he just felt like poking back. He wouldn’t poke with a smile and an offer to become best friends forever, like his new drinking partner here, though; Luke found the classic douchebag act worked wonders for him.
“I bet you think the Confederate flag is the flag of the United States.”
Ok, so maybe he was too drunk to think of anything actually good at that point. But it’s the thought that counts. And his intention dripped from every word.
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Post by wesley on Oct 12, 2011 4:37:35 GMT 10
Now he’d struck a nerve. That was his intention, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if he really meant for this guy to be his new best friend—he was simply doing it to piss the intoxicated man off. Why he was doing it was another matter entirely. It wasn’t just for the thrill of it all… he wasn’t exactly sure, to be honest. Pent up rage? The desire to just hit something. It wasn’t like that was an entirely uncommon feeling; hitting things tended to make other problems seem easier. Letting off steam and the like. And, really, this man was making it too easy. Of course, Wesley didn’t think he was going to get up so soon. He half expected him to just walk away, but as Luke’s foot pushed the chair away it became clear that the intention was exactly the opposite.
There’s a certain look that one has when they’re challenged—when they’re confronted. If it’s not flight, it’s fight. Judging by Luke’s expression, he was ready for it. And he was ready to start it. “How about I give you something to smile about?” Had he been given a moment to reply, Wesley would’ve laughed a bit and asked if that was the best he could come up with, but Luke didn’t seem keen on waiting. Just a shove. Nothing overly offense, but definitely enough to get Wesley to his feet instantly and responding with a shove of his own. At the moment, he was simply glad that Luke had gone for his right shoulder instead of his left. While he was fully committed to winning a fight, regardless of how his injuries felt.
“And, actually, I do like the confederate flag. That a problem?” Narrowing his eyes, he’d forgotten his drink and stared evenly back at the man in front of him. Slowly, a sarcastic smile slid onto his face. “And, if it is a problem… what’re you gonna do about it, boy?” Wesley wasn’t sure if this man was older or younger than him, but he was assuming they were close in age. At the moment, he didn’t care. The taunt was just meant to piss him off more. His fists were itching to be used and this man was offering him lots of opportunities to use them.
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Post by jess1z1 on Oct 12, 2011 9:35:06 GMT 10
His stance wasn’t exactly firm; Luke was swaying ever so slightly on his feet while trying not to notice how the action of actually getting up from that stool had revealed to him just how drunk he really was already. All in all, he thought he was doing a pretty good job of remaining still. Even after he was shoved back in response to his own move just now. Luke’s reaction wasn’t immediate. The truth was, he wasn’t able to focus that well anymore; only feel. And he was feeling both annoyed and suddenly dry. He was at that point in the evening where he couldn’t just let his buzz abandon him (his sole companion in the current confrontation). He was also feeling an urge to respond to his contender, but not without recharging fuel first. He turned to look at the spot where the other guy had touched him, his eyes lingering on there for a second before flying slowly back up at him. Then he reached over to the counter and grabbed the glass of whiskey which had been set down for him a moment earlier. He downed that one as well and immediately set the glass down a little enthusiastically, unfortunately earning them a look from the bartender despite Luke not being able to deduce at the time that it would probably cause them some problems if they continued with their attitude. By now, Luke had finally given up on talking. It was mostly due to how difficult he was suddenly finding it to put words together in his head, let alone insults. His speech would have probably turned slowly into a slur anyway, so it was just as well. Words got in the way of what he really wanted to do, though.
Turning to look at Wesley again, this time Luke used both hands and this time he threw his upper body into it. Both of his palms made violent contact with Wesley’s chest as he shoved him back. Hard. This guy was about a quarter of an inch taller than Luke, which wasn’t much; however, he was sober … another fact that Luke simply forgot to ponder on before pushing the guy as if he’d personally insulted his mother. He felt like a tough guy, but still had to put one step back as he returned to his original stance just to keep from stumbling sideways. Feeling rather pleased himself, nevertheless, Luke turned to face the counter and placed both hands on the wooden surface as he began to summon the huffing bartender to get him another shot of whiskey.
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Post by wesley on Oct 12, 2011 22:03:34 GMT 10
For a drunk man, Luke hit hard. Honestly, it was harder than Wesley was expecting. He was expecting the guy to through a punch, honestly, but as both of his hands were shoved into Wesley’s chest and he was shoved back, he thought he wasn’t going to be able to breathe. Stumbling back rather gracelessly, he collided with one of the chairs behind him. It was one of the one reasons he didn’t call over. Grabbing onto the counter for support, he paused long enough to wince and catch his breath. While it certainly wasn’t anything like a bull landing on top of you, with his ribs already healing and sore and his shoulder not doing much better, it could’ve been a damn freight train for all he cared. It hurt like hell. Slowly bringing his right hand up to his left shoulder, he lightly ran his palm over it and set his jaw. If Luke was too much of a kitty to throw the actually first punch, apparently Wesley would do the honor.
Despite still being in pain, he found it easiest to use his left hand. It’d already been curled into a fist as he closed the few steps of space between Luke and himself. Seeing as how Luke was now paying attention to the bartender, the only good shot seemed like right to the side of his jaw. So that’s where he hit. He wasn’t positive, but he was pretty sure the hit caused just as much pain to him as it did to Luke. Why the hell had he used his left arm? Moron.
Stepping back quickly, he couldn’t stop another wince. He was pretty sure he was going to dislocate it or something again if he kept that up, making a mental note to use his dominant hand from now on. Placing his right hand on his shoulder again, he narrowed his eyes and looked to Luke. His move now—and he’d be a gentleman and let him take it. “Gonna have to do better than that, boy.” Though, a little taunting was always helpful, right? Seeing as Luke looked close to falling all on his own, Wesley wasn’t too concerned about the entire thing. It wasn’t like he thought he was going to be the one to lose the fight. The question was simply how easily he could win the fight without causing any more lasting damage to himself. The last thing he needed was an ER visit to get something else done. If anything, he wanted to stay out of hospitals for the rest of his life.
Jail. Now, that was a different matter entirely if this fight kept up.
( Hot damn. Maybe they should get arrested. xD And since Mimi is the only person Wesley knows in Capeside, he might call her. Or since Luke is drunk, he might call her. THEN SHE CAN PICK THEM UP AND MAKE FUN OF THEM. )
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Post by jess1z1 on Oct 13, 2011 3:09:41 GMT 10
One second he was talking to the man across the counter (who Luke failed to notice was striding over clearly without any intentions to service him, but rather to yell something at his face), suddenly he was not at all graciously flying sideways and hitting the very stool her had moved back just a minute earlier, which wasn’t much of a fall breaker. If anything, Luke was certain the wooden stool had already bruised the side of his torso probably just as much as this guy had bruised the side of his face. It wasn’t until he was already down that he realized that had been what landed him there in the first place. For better or worse, he couldn’t exactly feel his face anymore. At the moment, it would help. Luke got up as quickly as he could without toppling down again, not allowing his legs to desert him.
Adrenaline surged through his body and that served to keep them in check, but it wasn’t enough to undo the full effect of the amount of alcohol he’d gotten into his system at a record speed that evening. But up he was rather promptly for a stumbling man and this time there was no preamble, no quip and no ritual involving a shot of whiskey. Luke launched himself at Wesley making full contact with the upper part of his body and sending them both flying against the several lined up empty stools behind Wesley, which as Luke already knew, didn’t create a good mattress as they all fell to the floor under the weight of both men. He would have been thankful for not being able to feel his knees as they hit the hard surface or his fist as it made contact with the other guy’s face, but he was more than anything relieved that he’d actually managed to coordinate enough to make the contact.
The buzz prevented him from hearing the commands being shouted at them or from noticing how the bartender had ran out to the streets probably in search of an authority figure who could beat the living daylights out of these two with a stick just to get them off each other. Because at that point, Luke had grabbed on to his partner’s shirt and was raising his fist for a second punch. The floor was still somewhat slipper, somewhat muddy from the rain they’d both brought in earlier and the mess of chairs around them kept anybody who might have had the guts to step in to actually get to them in time to stop them making any more marks in each other’s faces.
(can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to that, lol)
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Post by wesley on Oct 14, 2011 15:14:28 GMT 10
Contrary to the belief that Hollywood portrayed through movies, most furniture did not simply break if you blew on it too hard. Quite the opposite—most furniture is built sturdy. It’s made not to break, or else it’d be pointless. So, as Wesley muttered under his breath a bit and rubbed his shoulder after getting a solid hit in on Luke’s jaw, he wasn’t really expecting to be tackled. Maybe another punch; or getting creative with a head butt, but not being tackled. Compared to that, the shove was child’s play. Trying to respond quickly enough to get his arms pushing the guy away, he wasn’t quite quick enough. Stumbling from the sudden impact, he was soon toppling backwards into the chairs with Luke right on top of him.
The stools behind them did not break. Coincidentally, they also didn’t help to break Wesley’s fall. By now, adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and just about the only thing keeping him from wanting to go straight to the ER. But the pain was irrelevant right now. He could suck it up, be a man, and win the damned fight. He didn’t get this involved with plans of giving up after a bad hit or two. Unable to react quick enough to stop the man from throwing another punch once they were down, Wesley finally regained enough sense to fight back.
Using his legs against the floor and force from his right arm, he did his best to roll the both of them so he’d be on top and more equipped to throw a few punches. Had the other man not been gripping his shirt, he would’ve sat up to have the best possible position. Though, when you were that close together, it wasn’t necessarily about strategies; it was about getting the other guy to give up first… whether by admission or unconsciousness. The excitement from the actual fight was enough to make Wesley oblivious to any of the outside noise. He was too busy trying to land an actual hit to pay attention to the chatter around them. Besides, what did he care what people thought? It wasn’t like he actually had to live in this town indefinitely. They could think he was a lunatic or a violent drunk… whatever it was that everyone actually thought at the moment, and it wouldn’t matter. Because, at the end of the day, he was just passing through. Besides, releasing stress was supposed to be good for you, right? That was exactly what he was doing. Releasing a hell of a lot of pent of stress.
Sure, maybe it wasn’t the most constructive way, but who really gave a shit? What he was wishing he could change, however, was the fact that the brace on his left shoulder was inhibiting his movement and making it a lot harder to keep Luke pinned down and his own face safe.
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Post by jess1z1 on Oct 16, 2011 16:22:53 GMT 10
As If everything hadn’t been spinning enough, Luke found himself with his back to the muddy, wet floor without warning, obviously too slow to anticipate Wesley’s move and prevent him taking the upper hand. Taken by surprise, he did a receive a good few blows to the face without being able to respond, the back of his head making repeated contact with the cold surface beneath. They were enough to make his swimming head consider just laying there and blissfully pass out. He couldn’t quite force his arms to do something about it even though the will was there. The taste of blood in his mouth, however, was a really good incentive. He managed to lift his right hand to Wesley’s face and violently grabbed him by the jaw and pushed him away, serving more than anything as a distraction so he could take a break from being the receiving end of the blows and squeeze in a punch of his own. As soon as he could, Luke prepared to jump up from underneath the other guy and continue inflicting some pain on him. As he aimed for the torso, however, Luke suddenly felt himself being detained and, with a bit of struggle, pulled back by at least two pairs of arms. He was thrown back and then a body was in front of him, holding him back.
Stumbling as he somehow managed to get on his feet, Luke finally realized others were trying to break up the fight and, as obligatory, he resisted. Plunging himself toward Wesley again, Luke was met by the opposition of two other strangers and this time he really felt himself running out of both strength and coordination to not fall down to the floor again. Except, before he even began to topple, a man in uniform he hadn’t noticed was pushing him stomach first into the wooden counter and immediately pulling his hands behind his body. There was the feel of cold metal around his wrists and a click he knew so very well from his adolescent days in California. Upon recognizing the particulars of being arrested, Luke rolled his eyes and groaned. Wow. It had been a while. It wasn’t exactly appropriate for a respectable doctor who cured people in third world countries. Or whose regular patients were cops. But it was happening, Luke having brought it all upon himself by not keeping his mouth shut and merely nodding a greeting at a stranger.
He finally resigned himself to the situation; Luke didn’t put up a fight or complain, except for another groan related to physical discomfort as he was tore away from the counter. The cops must have underestimated his level of intoxication because Luke was neither fit to walk by himself in a straight line nor to be pushed by someone else while his hands were behind his back. He was completely unintentionally making his arrest difficult as they tried to steer him out of the bar, but he was already in trouble, too drunk to connect with the severity of it all.
Luke had began doing the pathetic solo drinking on random days of the week thing about two years ago, when his life had turned into a carnival of shit. In the beginning he would stay out all night and come home drunk just to see if he could get his wife to yell at him, just so she would actually talk to him. Eventually he simply found a very unhealthy form of comfort in numbing himself out only to wallow in a world of physical pain the following day. Both of those were very effective ways of momentarily avoiding that other kind of pain. All in all, this had been a very productive evening in a weird way so far.
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