A journal. Of all the things I could be doing with me time. (Shut up, Wade. I know ye have a few hundred suggestions.) I suppose 'tis better than always having to find a meeting when I'm longing to have a wee jar or three
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"It'd probably also would've meant you'd be much less driven to drink in the first place. It would've meant you'd be nice and cozy in the Land of X-Geekia and wouldn't have to have gotten a case of the worries for a down-on-his-luck slob that never ceases to disappoint."
"Sure managed to do it in Iowa, though, huh? Knockin' your steroidal Injun Joe around... should've known promises to shitbags like me are only valid as long as you ain't got nothin' better to do... or no ONE better to do..."
"What? I didn't--" She looks puzzled at first, then her expression clears, and is replaced by shock and horror. "Oooohhh, I'm the amaid here. Idjit bloody shitehawk of a woman. And ye still took the bottle from me?"
"Wade." She reaches out to touch his chin, careful to move slowly, to not do anything that even hints that she's trying to take off his mask. "I'm no angel. I've told ye that before. Do ye forgive me?"
Her hand moves from his chin as he moves away, and she settles for resting it on his shoulder. "Ye've been more than headaches and aggravation. Or the--the nooky-askin', which ye shouldn't keep doin'. I'm not fit to be with anyone right now. I have too much on me mind to share me heart."
It's a long time before she answers. "The times I've failed. Sometimes, they all crowd around me, like ghosts beggin' for judgment. Sometimes it feels like I'm always walkin' through a graveyard, and all the stones carry the names of those I've lost."
His eyes roll. "Red, you're talking to the biggest, ugliest ball of catastrophic failure ever set foot on thes mudball we call Jersey, and here I am, still anglin' to see your fine freckled friends under your top there."
There's a dark smirk on his face. "Besides, graveyards can be hot, if you're in the right state o' mind. I tell ya, goth chicks are usually a drag, but get 'em in a cemetary and things get a little crazy-go-nuts."
"Oh, God in heaven." She rolls away from him, every line of her back rigid with her disapproval. "I start to tell ye what drove me to stare a bottle in the face, and ye brush it aside. And they're not freckled."
"Of course they're freckled. You don't get to be the Irish red-head without the complexion to boot. I bet they're really cute."
"And bottles don't have faces. It's just a hunk of glass with some poison in it. I'm living the sterling example of how you don't need to try to kill yourself when life's gotcha down. I've tried it. It doesn't take."
"They're not--they'd only be freckled if I took the sun, which I do not, as I'd burn. Not that ye'll be seein' them in any case. And bottles do have faces. They leer in me nightmares."
"It'd probably also would've meant you'd be much less driven to drink in the first place. It would've meant you'd be nice and cozy in the Land of X-Geekia and wouldn't have to have gotten a case of the worries for a down-on-his-luck slob that never ceases to disappoint."
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"Sure managed to do it in Iowa, though, huh? Knockin' your steroidal Injun Joe around... should've known promises to shitbags like me are only valid as long as you ain't got nothin' better to do... or no ONE better to do..."
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Doesn't help that he never piped up about it before, for fear of losing her entirely. He might have to eat a gun if she...
Not that it'd do anything anyway. Brained himself enough times by now to know... she's even watched him do it once, with that baby Cable crap.
Can't even look at her right now.
"You're still a better soul than me, Theresa."
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"Terry, I'm a thug and a bastard and I've been nothing but headaches and aggravation to you."
Her touch is... really nice, though.
"There's nothing to forgive, all right?"
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His hand gently reaches up and covers hers on his shoulder, though, turning his face back toward her.
"What's so big and fat and obnoxious on your mind that it's hoggin' up all the room?"
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His eyes roll. "Red, you're talking to the biggest, ugliest ball of catastrophic failure ever set foot on thes mudball we call Jersey, and here I am, still anglin' to see your fine freckled friends under your top there."
There's a dark smirk on his face. "Besides, graveyards can be hot, if you're in the right state o' mind. I tell ya, goth chicks are usually a drag, but get 'em in a cemetary and things get a little crazy-go-nuts."
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"And bottles don't have faces. It's just a hunk of glass with some poison in it. I'm living the sterling example of how you don't need to try to kill yourself when life's gotcha down. I've tried it. It doesn't take."
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He's watching her now, though. Making sure she doesn't try to steal a swig.
"What started this whole mess, Red?"
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