[CLOSED, IN PROGRESS]
Who: John "Big Boss" Hayter, Ocelot
Where: Big Boss's office/room
When: Late night; the day before the current event starts.
Week: Nineteen
Rating: PG-13, low R at worst, I should assume. Possibly disturbing imagery/language.
Summary: John's been gone. Ocelot's been panicking.
The Story:
Home.
Home was one of those undefinable concepts, one of those things that may have been obvious for some but seemed to constantly worm their way out of John's grasp. Home could've been the US at some point, or maybe even Russia, and now it should've been Canada...
But some things weren't so clearly cut.
He'd gone to visit her grave again - with the knowledge that an empty coffin (both literally and metaphorically) lay under the dirt. Somehow, it didn't help any. He hadn't stayed too long - only to place the freshly obtained bouquet down, offering one more salute to the grave of a living comrade before leaving.
He'd done his best to return promptly from his unexcused absence. In all honesty, the events of the previous few days had created more than their share of stress; a temporary escape was all but necessary by this point.
And now he was back. Back home, if you could call it that.
Snorting lightly with some form of laughter, John pulled out the whiskey from the locked compartment in his desk, along with two glasses. Whether or not this was "home" didn't matter; there was a patient who needed therapy. An old friend who needed consolation
Alcohol seemed like a good way to accomplish both those needs at once, even if it probably was against hospital regulations. Pouring even measures into both glasses and dropping three ice cubes in, John slumped back in his desk. Honestly, he needed the help as much as Adamska did. Maybe they'd drink their problems away.
Where: Big Boss's office/room
When: Late night; the day before the current event starts.
Week: Nineteen
Rating: PG-13, low R at worst, I should assume. Possibly disturbing imagery/language.
Summary: John's been gone. Ocelot's been panicking.
The Story:
Home.
Home was one of those undefinable concepts, one of those things that may have been obvious for some but seemed to constantly worm their way out of John's grasp. Home could've been the US at some point, or maybe even Russia, and now it should've been Canada...
But some things weren't so clearly cut.
He'd gone to visit her grave again - with the knowledge that an empty coffin (both literally and metaphorically) lay under the dirt. Somehow, it didn't help any. He hadn't stayed too long - only to place the freshly obtained bouquet down, offering one more salute to the grave of a living comrade before leaving.
He'd done his best to return promptly from his unexcused absence. In all honesty, the events of the previous few days had created more than their share of stress; a temporary escape was all but necessary by this point.
And now he was back. Back home, if you could call it that.
Snorting lightly with some form of laughter, John pulled out the whiskey from the locked compartment in his desk, along with two glasses. Whether or not this was "home" didn't matter; there was a patient who needed therapy. An old friend who needed consolation
Alcohol seemed like a good way to accomplish both those needs at once, even if it probably was against hospital regulations. Pouring even measures into both glasses and dropping three ice cubes in, John slumped back in his desk. Honestly, he needed the help as much as Adamska did. Maybe they'd drink their problems away.