It isn't what it once was
Who: The Primes, Sentinel and Optimus Oliver Price
What: Even terrorists need drinks
When: Shortly after Blackarachnia visits Optimus via astral projection
Warnings: Takes place in a Brooklyn bar. Is Optimus and Sentinel, who haven't seen each other for ten years and parted on a pretty bad note. Will contain more than the average amount of angst and baw.
Working at The Cellar wasn't exactly boring. There was at least one incident a night, and after five years of standing on his feet for eight hours at a time and nightly incidents, he was used to it.
Ollie, get me another Bud. Ollie, Johnson puked in the bathroom. Ollie, someone's drawing dicks on the bathroom wall again. Ollie, haul that jackass out, he didn't pay his tab last night. Ollie, kick the hobo out.
The loud, fast rock and cigarette smoke and dim lights had long since stopped giving him headaches. He'd become impervious to it.
And so tonight was like any night... almost. Sure, the routine was shaken up by a crowd of college students in "retro" gear - ugly minidresses with the Union Jack, pigtails, and boys in basketball jerseys and backwards hats - but that was normal for a Saturday. And for all appearances, Ollie was the same old Ollie that had been behind that bar since 2014.
But Ollie's mind was elsewhere. Blonde hair and bright blue eyes set in dark skin wouldn't leave his mind. He hadn't seen her for years and years, and without warning she'd just shown up. she'd told him that she was trapped. That she couldn't leave, and that it was probably good-bye forever.
Every part of him wanted her to be wrong. And every part of him knew that he really should start realizing some time soon that he never got what he wanted.
Ollie (but she'd called him Optimus, the first time anyone had in ten years) mixed up five Sex on the Beaches - what WAS it with college girls, the way they ordered that with lowered eyelids and the subtle push of their chests - and mulled over what he couldn't have.
It was a practiced habit, after all. He'd been doing it for a thousand years.
What: Even terrorists need drinks
When: Shortly after Blackarachnia visits Optimus via astral projection
Warnings: Takes place in a Brooklyn bar. Is Optimus and Sentinel, who haven't seen each other for ten years and parted on a pretty bad note. Will contain more than the average amount of angst and baw.
Working at The Cellar wasn't exactly boring. There was at least one incident a night, and after five years of standing on his feet for eight hours at a time and nightly incidents, he was used to it.
Ollie, get me another Bud. Ollie, Johnson puked in the bathroom. Ollie, someone's drawing dicks on the bathroom wall again. Ollie, haul that jackass out, he didn't pay his tab last night. Ollie, kick the hobo out.
The loud, fast rock and cigarette smoke and dim lights had long since stopped giving him headaches. He'd become impervious to it.
And so tonight was like any night... almost. Sure, the routine was shaken up by a crowd of college students in "retro" gear - ugly minidresses with the Union Jack, pigtails, and boys in basketball jerseys and backwards hats - but that was normal for a Saturday. And for all appearances, Ollie was the same old Ollie that had been behind that bar since 2014.
But Ollie's mind was elsewhere. Blonde hair and bright blue eyes set in dark skin wouldn't leave his mind. He hadn't seen her for years and years, and without warning she'd just shown up. she'd told him that she was trapped. That she couldn't leave, and that it was probably good-bye forever.
Every part of him wanted her to be wrong. And every part of him knew that he really should start realizing some time soon that he never got what he wanted.
Ollie (but she'd called him Optimus, the first time anyone had in ten years) mixed up five Sex on the Beaches - what WAS it with college girls, the way they ordered that with lowered eyelids and the subtle push of their chests - and mulled over what he couldn't have.
It was a practiced habit, after all. He'd been doing it for a thousand years.