[For Dale, Logan & Neil] - Item Post
When it came down to it, Joe really should have realized a long time ago that things were too comfortable, too fucking level for it to last much longer. Between Dale, not being on the fucking Council anymore, and Logan and Neil getting married, he was feeling pretty damn good about life on the island and the problem with Joe being satisfied with life was that something inevitably happened to make sure he was really fucking unsatisfied. Most of the time it was something of his own doing, it was something he did to fuck himself over or it was something he said to someone else just to hurt them, but he'd been good about that lately.
This time he wasn't the one fucking things up.
He'd left Ozzy in the hut with Dale, the puppy curled up against his back, then headed up toward the Compound, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stifled a yawn. He was wrapped up enough in himself, in the way his life had been going, that he didn't even notice the large bundle of bills lying on the ground in the centre of the Hamlet as he approached. It wasn't until he was practically on top of them that he realized what they were and frowned, crouching down to pick them up.
It was a lot of money. Twenties mostly, a couple tens, a fifty mixed in every so often and Joe knew without counting there would be about twenty thousand dollars there. The thick bundle was oddly familiar, the bills crumpled and bent from being shoved into a box or a jar; donations that had been collected at a punk rock concert for Bucky Haight, bound with an even more familiar shoe lace. During the tour the lace on one of Joe's boots had broken and he'd used it to bind the remaining money he'd had at the time and that was his lace wrapped around the cash, the broken ends frayed against the Queen's face.
"Fuck," Joe breathed softly, rising to his feet, the money held tightly in one of his hands as he slowly flipped through the first few bills. He had to be sure, the shoe lace didn't necessarily mean anything, it could have been anyone's shoe lace and he had to be sure. This didn't have to mean a damn thing.
But there is was, on the fourth bill in, Joe's handwriting scrawled across the osprey with the fucking fish in its talons. A phone number and the name of some bitch he didn't even remember anymore, someone he'd taken a number from at the benefit concert, some chick he'd never intended on calling. His writing, his shoe lace, his money.
Bucky's money.
I live out here 'cause I got sick of being used. I didn't want to see anybody that ever used me ever again. When I heard how you used me... Put it this way, ever back this way, don't drop in. Ever.
"Oh, you fucker," he muttered, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do with it now. "You fucker."
[Separate threads for each, please.]
This time he wasn't the one fucking things up.
He'd left Ozzy in the hut with Dale, the puppy curled up against his back, then headed up toward the Compound, his hands shoved into his pockets as he stifled a yawn. He was wrapped up enough in himself, in the way his life had been going, that he didn't even notice the large bundle of bills lying on the ground in the centre of the Hamlet as he approached. It wasn't until he was practically on top of them that he realized what they were and frowned, crouching down to pick them up.
It was a lot of money. Twenties mostly, a couple tens, a fifty mixed in every so often and Joe knew without counting there would be about twenty thousand dollars there. The thick bundle was oddly familiar, the bills crumpled and bent from being shoved into a box or a jar; donations that had been collected at a punk rock concert for Bucky Haight, bound with an even more familiar shoe lace. During the tour the lace on one of Joe's boots had broken and he'd used it to bind the remaining money he'd had at the time and that was his lace wrapped around the cash, the broken ends frayed against the Queen's face.
"Fuck," Joe breathed softly, rising to his feet, the money held tightly in one of his hands as he slowly flipped through the first few bills. He had to be sure, the shoe lace didn't necessarily mean anything, it could have been anyone's shoe lace and he had to be sure. This didn't have to mean a damn thing.
But there is was, on the fourth bill in, Joe's handwriting scrawled across the osprey with the fucking fish in its talons. A phone number and the name of some bitch he didn't even remember anymore, someone he'd taken a number from at the benefit concert, some chick he'd never intended on calling. His writing, his shoe lace, his money.
Bucky's money.
I live out here 'cause I got sick of being used. I didn't want to see anybody that ever used me ever again. When I heard how you used me... Put it this way, ever back this way, don't drop in. Ever.
"Oh, you fucker," he muttered, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do with it now. "You fucker."
[Separate threads for each, please.]