TM 271: Talk about a time you were sick.
Carol doesn't frequent bars anymore. Not that she really did before. Not since her days working at the magazine -- editors stop by for a quick drink with co-workers on their way home; SHIELD agents do not. When she lived in DC -- a breeding ground for alcoholism almost as notable as L.A. or Nashville -- before she was straight out of rehab. And when she did go to a bar it was with someone who would stop her if she ordered a drink -- forcibly in some cases, with a disapproving look in others. Sometimes silence speaks far more than speech. The point being Carol hasn't been to a proper bar in a while. But tonight she is meeting a man she hasn't interacted with since her time in the military. He was supposed to be dead but Carol begins to think death is a terribly transient circumstance. Back to the point (again) Carol is in a bar for the first time in several months meeting a man she hasn't seen in several years. Well, until this week, and his choice in venue for the meeting means he doesn't know about her drinking problems. Doesn't know or doesn't care. Or, being who and what he is, it's a test.
Fuck tests.
Rossi is waiting for her in a booth. Not in the back but not exactly out in the open. The bar is crowded but not overly so. He wants the meeting public; she's not sure why but the paranoia of being without anyone at all to trust (or talk to) for a few weeks is probably interfering in her understanding. The other patrons provide enough cover they can talk plainly if not freely.
"How'd it go?" he asks once she's seated. He passes a menu over, a tattered paper under plastic with prices adjusted more than once. She shakes her head at it; her stomach can't take pub food. Carol's eating habits have been worse than usual lately. She can't quite remember if she ate at all today.
"I got it." He nods, replacing the menu as a waitress arrives with his drink. She looks expectantly at Carol. This is the moment she should ask for a club soda, a glass of water, or nothing at all. She wouldn't have to explain. But there is something about the way the waitress is standing, bored; something about the man she can see tending bar out of the corner of her eye; something about Michael waiting politely for her to order a drink. Something about Michael.
"Manhatten," says Carol. Michael nods and the waitress leaves swiftly. Sometimes silence speaks far more than speech.
"Where is it?" He's watching the waitress, now standing bored by the bar. Carol knows he's calculated the threat level of everyone in the bar. So has she. The waitress laughs at something the bartender says. She's very pretty.
"Safe," she answers. She doesn't elaborate. He doesn't expect her to. He nods again and takes a long sip of his drink as the bored and pretty waitress returns with Carol's.
"What are your plans?"
Carol shrugs. "You tell me." She puts both hands around her drink; the glass is cold to her touch.
Michael's expression dims. He's looking only at her now; the bored and pretty waitress is no threat at all. "You know I can't."
Carol folds her lips in over her teeth. She shrugs again and lifts the glass. "Maybe I'll take a vacation."
She sips.
"You should," he agrees. Carol looks away. He reaches a hand across the table to touch hers. "Carol..."
"Don't." She pulls her hand away and takes another, bigger, sip.
Michael sits back. "If I can do anything..." His voice trails off.
Carol nods, still not looking at him. "Yup."
Moments pass. Sometimes silence speaks far more than speech.
"You want to go somewhere? Get some real food."
She makes a noise. It might be a laugh. It might be something else. "I don't think it's a good idea."
He nods and downs his drink. "Take care of yourself, Carol." There is resignation in his voice but also something more. Maybe compassion. Maybe that same something else. He stands, makes a move as if to touch her hand again but he thinks better of it. Drops enough money for both their drinks on the table. "Good night." And he's gone.
Carol blinks. She doesn't know what to do now. She followed the white rabbit as far as he was willing to lead her and now she's lost in Wonderland. Part of her wants to run after him, go on his dinner date and wherever it may lead. Part of her doesn't know why she isn't, doesn't know why she refused in the first place. It has something to do with the drink in her hand. Something to do with him not stopping her. Not knowing or not caring. He was the first and only man she ever said I love you to and then he was gone. He was gone, dead and gone for all those years and now he's back and not knowing or not caring -- it doesn't matter which. It speaks volumes about where she fits into his life. Alone in a bar with no idea where to go now. It speaks volumes about where she fits into anyone's life.
"All set?" The bored and pretty waitress is back. Carol nods and she carries the money and Michael's empty glass away. Carol watches her walk; she really is very pretty. The thought makes no sense to her, maybe the whiskey is hitting her harder than it should. One glass shouldn't really affect her at all and it's not empty anyway. Carol looks at the glass in her hand. Fuck tests. She kicks back her head and empties it, every drop down her throat. It feels like fire. She drops the glass down on the table with finality and instantly feels sick.
There is no decision made to bolt to the bathroom just like there was no decision made to drink in the first place. She's locked herself in a stall before she realises she's stood up; she's sitting on the floor by the toilet before she realises she's fallen down. Not having eaten in at least a day, not having drunk in nearly two years and not having seen Michael Rossi alive in over a decade (until this week) Carol is sicker than any lapsing recovering alcoholic has the right to be.
Moments pass. Other women come in and out of the bathroom but Carol pays them no mind. She is staring at her phone with absolutely no one to call. But she knows in that way people just know -- she can't stand up until she calls someone.
He picks up on the third ring. "Where are you?" he asks without preamble. He's been desperate for this call for weeks. She mumbles the street address quietly. "The Red Dog?" He's lived in DC for the better part of twenty years, of course he knows. She is honestly grateful she doesn't need to explain even realising how disappointed he must be.
"Yeah." Her voice is flat.
"I'm on my way."
Five minutes later she stands up. Ten minutes later she walks back out into the bar. Twenty-seven minutes later she walks out of the bar, Joe's arm around her protectively. The way he used to do when they were kids, when their father used to make her cry. Before she forgot how to cry. Before she knew Michael Rossi or Tony Stark and taught herself how not to.
Fuck tests.
Rossi is waiting for her in a booth. Not in the back but not exactly out in the open. The bar is crowded but not overly so. He wants the meeting public; she's not sure why but the paranoia of being without anyone at all to trust (or talk to) for a few weeks is probably interfering in her understanding. The other patrons provide enough cover they can talk plainly if not freely.
"How'd it go?" he asks once she's seated. He passes a menu over, a tattered paper under plastic with prices adjusted more than once. She shakes her head at it; her stomach can't take pub food. Carol's eating habits have been worse than usual lately. She can't quite remember if she ate at all today.
"I got it." He nods, replacing the menu as a waitress arrives with his drink. She looks expectantly at Carol. This is the moment she should ask for a club soda, a glass of water, or nothing at all. She wouldn't have to explain. But there is something about the way the waitress is standing, bored; something about the man she can see tending bar out of the corner of her eye; something about Michael waiting politely for her to order a drink. Something about Michael.
"Manhatten," says Carol. Michael nods and the waitress leaves swiftly. Sometimes silence speaks far more than speech.
"Where is it?" He's watching the waitress, now standing bored by the bar. Carol knows he's calculated the threat level of everyone in the bar. So has she. The waitress laughs at something the bartender says. She's very pretty.
"Safe," she answers. She doesn't elaborate. He doesn't expect her to. He nods again and takes a long sip of his drink as the bored and pretty waitress returns with Carol's.
"What are your plans?"
Carol shrugs. "You tell me." She puts both hands around her drink; the glass is cold to her touch.
Michael's expression dims. He's looking only at her now; the bored and pretty waitress is no threat at all. "You know I can't."
Carol folds her lips in over her teeth. She shrugs again and lifts the glass. "Maybe I'll take a vacation."
She sips.
"You should," he agrees. Carol looks away. He reaches a hand across the table to touch hers. "Carol..."
"Don't." She pulls her hand away and takes another, bigger, sip.
Michael sits back. "If I can do anything..." His voice trails off.
Carol nods, still not looking at him. "Yup."
Moments pass. Sometimes silence speaks far more than speech.
"You want to go somewhere? Get some real food."
She makes a noise. It might be a laugh. It might be something else. "I don't think it's a good idea."
He nods and downs his drink. "Take care of yourself, Carol." There is resignation in his voice but also something more. Maybe compassion. Maybe that same something else. He stands, makes a move as if to touch her hand again but he thinks better of it. Drops enough money for both their drinks on the table. "Good night." And he's gone.
Carol blinks. She doesn't know what to do now. She followed the white rabbit as far as he was willing to lead her and now she's lost in Wonderland. Part of her wants to run after him, go on his dinner date and wherever it may lead. Part of her doesn't know why she isn't, doesn't know why she refused in the first place. It has something to do with the drink in her hand. Something to do with him not stopping her. Not knowing or not caring. He was the first and only man she ever said I love you to and then he was gone. He was gone, dead and gone for all those years and now he's back and not knowing or not caring -- it doesn't matter which. It speaks volumes about where she fits into his life. Alone in a bar with no idea where to go now. It speaks volumes about where she fits into anyone's life.
"All set?" The bored and pretty waitress is back. Carol nods and she carries the money and Michael's empty glass away. Carol watches her walk; she really is very pretty. The thought makes no sense to her, maybe the whiskey is hitting her harder than it should. One glass shouldn't really affect her at all and it's not empty anyway. Carol looks at the glass in her hand. Fuck tests. She kicks back her head and empties it, every drop down her throat. It feels like fire. She drops the glass down on the table with finality and instantly feels sick.
There is no decision made to bolt to the bathroom just like there was no decision made to drink in the first place. She's locked herself in a stall before she realises she's stood up; she's sitting on the floor by the toilet before she realises she's fallen down. Not having eaten in at least a day, not having drunk in nearly two years and not having seen Michael Rossi alive in over a decade (until this week) Carol is sicker than any lapsing recovering alcoholic has the right to be.
Moments pass. Other women come in and out of the bathroom but Carol pays them no mind. She is staring at her phone with absolutely no one to call. But she knows in that way people just know -- she can't stand up until she calls someone.
He picks up on the third ring. "Where are you?" he asks without preamble. He's been desperate for this call for weeks. She mumbles the street address quietly. "The Red Dog?" He's lived in DC for the better part of twenty years, of course he knows. She is honestly grateful she doesn't need to explain even realising how disappointed he must be.
"Yeah." Her voice is flat.
"I'm on my way."
Five minutes later she stands up. Ten minutes later she walks back out into the bar. Twenty-seven minutes later she walks out of the bar, Joe's arm around her protectively. The way he used to do when they were kids, when their father used to make her cry. Before she forgot how to cry. Before she knew Michael Rossi or Tony Stark and taught herself how not to.