Timothy “Anders” Anderson (cowboymedic) wrote in helladjacent, @ 2017-06-02 13:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | character: doc holliday, character: timothy anderson |
Who: Doc, Anders
What: Meeting in the Bar
When: Tuesday morning!
Where: The lounge/Bar
Warnings: Possibly talk of war/death
Status: In progress!
It had been a treat to see Diana the day before. After she'd left, Anders had been in a good, if still tired mood. He'd eaten his meal and drank the rest of his first bottle, unwilling and unable to move from his booth.
He'd fallen asleep smiling after Diana's kiss and finding his favorite page of the book; the chart of the human organs and bone structure.
When he'd woken, stiffly, he finished off the last gulp of whiskey and slowly gotten up, letting out a loud groan as his battered body was moved for the first time in hours. He found the nearest bathroom to relieve himself, then returned as quickly as possible, not wanting to leave his possessions unattended for too long. Especially not the book or the framed photograph still sitting against the wall of the booth.
Limping over to the bar he wasn't able to reach the top shelf supply, but it hardly mattered. All of the drink here was high quality compared to what he was used to.
Still, the shrapnel-filled leg protested severely as he attempted to reach his favorite mid-range whiskey. After a moment of reaching Anders let out a low curse in Mandarin, blinking when the word fell off his lips wrong. ....He must be too sober.
Gritting his teeth he boosted himself up off the counter, letting out a harsh, wordless snarl as his arm tore open slightly, but still managing to snag the bottle he'd wanted. He turned abruptly, just in time for his rear to land on the counter, and took a deep breath as he quickly unscrewed the lid off the bottle. Before he inhaled again he was taking a long, long drink, finally letting the bottle down to take a deep breath, then let out a sigh.
He sagged and leaned backwards against the wall, clinking the low-range bottles softly as his shoulders hit the shelves. His head tilted back as his eyes closed, legs dangling over the side of the bar and slightly trembling hands clutching the bottle tightly. His shirt, still bearing the dried blood he hadn't been able to was yesterday, stained with a small amount of fresh blood at the sleeve, but he didn't even notice.