Pete Wisdom is saving the world...from itself. (mister_wisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-10 17:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino), pete wisdom |
"Would you willingly give yourself a sucking chest wound?"
Who: Pete Wisdom, Ms. Thurman (Domino)
What: Drinky, diatribes, metaphorical past stuff, and sucking chest wounds.
When: Friday night. Belatedness!
Where: Dom's gun shop, pub.
Rating: R for pervy gestures, language, Pete eww, and some past stuff gets mentioned.
Status: Complete! Part 1 of 2.
The counters were all polished, the guns had all been inventoried, and the shop had been open at least a half an hour past closing. Dom looked around the place and tried to fathom the idea that she was actually running out of things to keep her busy in her own gun shop.
She headed into her office to check on her computer, wondering how late Wisdom was going to be. Still no message from him, she paced a bit and counted to 10, then headed back out into the main storefront.
"This meeting had better be with the director of the fucking FBI or some shit."
As if on cue, there could be heard the faint squee of burning rubber, a distant crash, brakes being applied, brakes locking up, and a louder crash just outside in the parking lot. Then all was quiet for approximately one full minute, until the quietude was shattered with a grouchily yelled out, "SOD OFF, IT'S PARKED! CARRY ON THEN, STOP GAWKING, MOVE YOUR ARSE!"
Wisdom walked to the door and knocked on it with his knuckles, loudly, obnoxiously, then coughed on the glass while he was pointing down at the handle. It was the classic Is this thing locked? gesture.
If anyone had ever been involved with Pete Wisdom in the past, even as a friend, but especially as a co-worker, they'd know the sounds of Pete's Arrival just by the crash in the parking lot. She put a hand to her face as she heard the screeching continue, and prayed that it wasn't her own car he'd just 'parked' next to.
When he came to the door she stared at him humorlessly, making funny hand gestures at him in return. She KNEW, of course, that he was making the universal Pete Hand Gesture for 'is this locked', but she didn't really care. If you can't fuck with your friends, who CAN you fuck with?
He stood there with that hand raised, waiting, index and middle fingers held up to her, palm facing himself and the rest of his fingers curled in. The blank look on his face and one last indignant cough said it all.
Also, he hadn't parked into her car! He had ran the front axle over the curb instead of those little driveway bits that are flush with the roadway. And then maybe scraped into a streetlight post. Or stopped against the corner of the other building next door. That only left a dent in the bumper, so he was vaguely disappointed it hadn't taken it clean off.
There he went, wriggling his fingers at her. Right before he brought them slowly up to his face the more she was fucking with him, and then stuck his tongue out between them and rolled his eyes up while flickering his tongue up and down and all around in the V fingers.
Because Pete has very few 'friends' and if you can't fuck with the one or two 'friends' you have? Then what's the use of having them around while they're alive. Not if you can't make them disgusted with you.
It was ridiculously easy to be disgusted with Pete, but for some reason the level of Dom's disgust for him never rose as high as her mutual respect for him. Mostly his mannerisms and the way he kept himself made her skin crawl, and it was entirely possible that she regularly blocked out any memory of it to save herself from the trauma.
Her lips, at the moment, had thinned into a little line, and she stopped making hand gestures at him at all for a moment, before flipping him the bird. Slowly she reached her arm under the counter, and ever so slowly reached it back up to reveal... a bottle of windex, and a roll of paper towels.
She walked over to the door at that point, flipped the lock, and opened it for him, "You're an angry and disgusting little man, and I don't know why I tolerate your presence in my life. Get away from the door, you're drooling all over the glass."
Her tone was a mixture of fondness and scolding.
He stood aside, coughing raspily a few times before cheerfully snarkily saying, "But Dommy? You didn't say anything about my expert pussy eating skills. I'm offended that I just showed them to you, and all you could do was grab glass cleanser. Tart. I'm leaving now."
He stood there, not going anywhere. Both hands were instantly shoved into his pockets and there was a scarf around his neck, doubled around, so his chin couldn't be seen. He looked ready for the middle of winter, instead of residing in California.
"Well you know where the door is, you're biblically acquainted with it now." Dom snorted, and started attacking the smudge spots on the door with her windex and towels. It made her smirk a bit, though, and she glanced at him in his utterly ridiculous outfit, "It's going to be so pissed at me when you don't call back or write. Poor, sad door."
It took her a full 2 minutes to finish her meticulous cleaning of the front door before she took a step back and decided it was finished. She spent most of the time glancing at him and making faces, because it was always funny to see if he managed to make a face back that wasn't squinty-eyed and suspicious.
As if it was in his nature, he gave her a squint and a half smirk, as if wondering why she even brought it up, not why she kept staring at him like that. Why would he call? He’s going to tell her why he won’t bother calling her door!
"They never phone me back, anyway. If they did, then I might drop dead faster than I already am. From shock. Speaking of going into shock...ahem...ugh...may I interest you in a lung?"
He proceeded to cough, but at least he had the semi-decency to turn toward the street and bend forward at the waist while doing so, in case a lung popped out. Because you simply don't lose a lung on your friends. You do that to acquaintances, enemies, and people you met for the first time, three seconds ago.
No luck. A glob of phlegm but no internal organs. Pete made a little noise that vaguely resembled a 'aww.' He spat that glob out into the middle of the street and drew in as deep a breath as he could get into his lungs.
"Tasted like salty peanuts," he quipped, sniffling a little. He also looked to be getting a good look at her. "You look well."
While his back was turned, Dom's face wrenched up into an expression that could obviously be read as disgust with a side order of fear. She hated germs, and he should have had the decency to tell her he was sick with something so that she could tell him to fuck off until he wasn't some kind of incubator. NOW she'd have to go out pubbing with him anyway, and probably die.
When he turned back in her direction, however, the expression had died down to only vague disgust, and she arched a brow at him, "I'm doing better than you seem to be. And no, I don't really want any lung that's been inside of you, but you know, thanks for thinking of me. Let me grab my jacket and lock up."
That was part of the 'fun' and 'adventure'! Pete's doing his part to make sure she doesn't end up living in a giant hamster ball bubble thing, like a well armed semi-goth girl.
"I know, I'm so thoughtful. Offering to share pieces of myself with you. I'll wait out here, don't want to get the inside of your shop sticky." He knew better, though he did lean around her to look in. "I'll pop in soon though. Looks shiny. I need more ammo, too. In case of zombies."
He sounded serious. He also vaguely resembled a zombie.
"No smoking in my shop," Dom warned him, as she headed inside. She was well aware that her warning would go completely unheeded and that he'd just ignore any signs she put up, but she enjoyed teasing him on the matter.
That, and cigarettes fucked her guns up. She kept telling him that about his own guns, but fuck it if he ever listened to her about that. One of these days he was going to be in a shooting match and his gun wasn't going to fire. She was vaguely looking forward to that day, since she'd get to tell him she was right, probably while saving his ass.
Unless she wasn't there, then she'd be right from afar. Maybe she could write that on his tombstone. 'Died from poor gun maintenance, Domino tried to warn him'. She laughed at herself as she stowed away her windex and towels, cut off all the lights, grabbed her jacket and keys, and headed out to lock up.
Lit cigarette in his mouth, he had already leaned in the shop door, looking very much like a poor excuse for a bouncer. She was right about the guns, but he tried to clean them pretty often. It was the only thing he liked cleaning. Be proud, Domino!
"Oi! I'm driving, luv. You can leave your ride here unless you want t'follow," he was saying while puff puff puffing away, his head right next to a no smoking sign. "Wot is it with birds ne'er being ready t'go, even when we bastards show up late as feck?"
"Because for one thing we aren't birds. If we really were birds all we'd have to do is fly out of our nests, do a bit of preening, and be on our way. But mainly, we're never ready to go because we don't like getting ready to go until it's TIME to go. And I didn't know when it would be time to go." Dom scrunched her nose up as she passed him, waving away the smoke that was getting blown into her face.
She reached an arm out to grab his sleeve as she passed him and walked out the door, tugging his leaning frame into a more upright position and ignoring any exclamations he made at her in the process. She locked the door, then turned and nodded in the direction of his wreck of car, "That thing still drives?"
"If you were a real bird, you'd shite on someone's car or shoulder, and you know it," he joked, with an amused sniffle at her explanation and at her nose wrinkling. He let himself be tugged out with only a 'oi fecker let go' grumbled under his breath, then kept an eye out while she was locking up.
But when she said something about that thing, he almost looked offended.
Almost.
It was still a black banged up four door sedan, with a missing rear bumper, several scrapes, some steam faintly coming out of the front grill, the front bumper lodged into the corner of the neighboring building, and one tire looking flatter than the others.
"It's me piece of shite. Can't you let it die with dignity. On all four of its wheels? Really." He began walking toward it, the smoke billowing over his head in puffs of smoke, resembling a choo choo train stack. "Only thing missing is the bumper." Pete turned and started slowly walking backwards to smirk at her. "Be sure to brush the seat off before you plant your bum down on it. Broken window."
Okay, so it wasn't a thing. It was a banged up scraped up car with missing parts and messed up bumpers, and Dom stared at it dubiously, even while Pete spoke in its defense. She didn't want to let it die with dignity, she was pretty sure that the car didn't have any dignity left, but she ended up shrugging at him. There were some battles you didn't pick with Pete Wisdom, and the one where he's going to be driving his banged up car? That was one of them.
She pulled her sleeve up over her hand and brushed the broken glass off onto the floor of the car, then buckled up and shut the door, "Take me to the beer, for I have been sober for 12 entire hours now and if I go sober for another I may actually shoot myself."
"Bugger, you're not serious. That's eleven and a half hours too long," he said, sliding in behind the wheel and starting the car. He didn't use the turn signal. He didn't look in the mirrors, what was left of them. He didn't even look over his shoulder. He simply put it in reverse and stomped his foot down on the gas pedal, so the car shot almost all the way back across the street. A crank of the wheel, while he popped it in drive, and the car swerved in place for a second with smoke rising from the tires. Then it shot off in the direction of the pub.
Pete looked like he was driving to the library to pick up a nice book about gardening or some shit, such was the mundane expression he had on his face. It was his idea of a leisurely sunday drive. At least he wasn't driving off another bridge. Again. For the third time. Come to think of it, the first time had been with Kitty riding shotgun and she hadn't been happy, but it was a low scenic bridge. Nothing at all like that second time where it had been a much bigger bridge, and he had to roll down the windows as it filled with water after the impact and the air bags. But that was a whole other story.
"How long have you been here anyway? Please tell me you haven't settled down, and intend on staying here. That's horrible. Just horrible." He lit another cigarette, the other had been snuffed out in the ash tray. "If you're on a job, then that's understandable. I simply hope you're not trying to soften the blow of my finding you here, by making it seem like you are on one...because you're thinking of retiring in this festering armpit."
She was entirely serious. Selling guns and shooting guns was one of those jobs you just really couldn't do under the influence of alcohol, unless you were Pete Wisdom and alcohol was a legitimate part of your normal blood stream's operation.
"Wisdom, you think everywhere is a festering armpit, so I'm not sure where you'd rather I be retiring to," she snorted and searched around her pockets for a pack of cigarettes. She'd been trying to quit the damn things for 3 years now, but being in a car with Wisdom gave her nicotine fits like one would not even believe. Or maybe they would.
He wasn't the kind of guy who took backseat or passenger seat driving very well, which was a shame, because Dom was legendary for that kind of thing. She'd long ago come to the conclusion that no one in any country in existence knew how to drive a car the right way but her. And she didn't mind telling most people that. With Wisdom, it was all part of his charms.
She found her smokes and lit one up, then shook her head, "I AM on a job though. I've been here about a month now. When did YOU get here?"
"I was officially assigned. A week or so ago," he said with a nose wrinkle, like he was being subjected to smelling a stinky armpit. That wasn't his own. What? It was different when one had their nose shoved into someone else's smelly, sweaty underarm. Sod off! "You know how it is. Hush hush. Pain in the arse, money laundering and the usual illegal bollocks."
He took a corner with the rear tires skidding sideways, gunned it more to get some forward propulsion, and and steadied it out with the wheel, all the while, squinting straight ahead through leisurely exhaled smoke. He was coughing lightly too, the whole time.
"I know better than to ask. Circumstances are probably different than the last times we worked together. Assignments an' warrants aren't the same. That's fine though. Safer that way, also." He scowled and turned the wheel sharply while applying the brakes, to get the car into the parking lot.
Look! A convenient cinderblock wall! Right behind that empty parking space in the lot! Pete aimed for it, brakes squealing the entire way, and the front bumper tapped the wall with a slight crunching sound as the car came to a fitful stop.
Pete took the keys out of the ignition, twirling them around a fingertip. His head was turned and he was smirking around the nub of a cigarette, right at her. It was the 'Your chariot got you here m'lady, do I get a spanking as payment? smirk.
He wasn't budging. He was just waiting. Like a total asshat.
"Wisdom, are you implying that your own assignment is so dangerous that you don't want me on it with you? Because if you are, that's just so sweet of you."
She puffed on her own cigarette and waited for her knuckles to relax themselves into a normal position. They had previously grabbed onto anything nearby and clenched up until they'd turned white, because parking the car with Pete was always an adventure! And sometimes you just needed to brace for impact.
She turned and smirked at him around her cigarette, then blew smoke in his face. The expression on is face was priceless, and she lifted up a hand to pat him on his cheek, "You're my chariot riding hero, you are. Cheers."
Then she exited the vehicle.
"Oh cheers. I got you to breathe heavily on me. And touch me without wearing rubber gloves, this time," he said with a teeny trace of snarky jubilation in his raspy voice. He got out of the car and slammed the door, not bothering to lock anything, since the window was already busted out on the driver's side. The remains of his cigarette were flicked away, so that it bounced joyfully off the nearby roof of a car. Pity it didn't have a gas leak. That would have made the night sparkly and fun.
Pete, being the horrible lazy bastard he was, didn't make it to the door first. So she was going to have to open it herself. As well as listen to him grumble 'Thought that counts' behind her. Like he would've gotten the door for a lady? He's the rudest Brit in existence. Even his mum thought so. It was to be expected from someone who simply kicked at a door and yelled obscenities, until the occupant let him inside.
Dom walked to the bar door at a leisurely pace, while trying to deal with the fact that she'd put her hand on Wisdom's face. THE GERMS. He'd been coughing the entire time they'd been driving, too, and now she was definitely going to have to wash her hand when she got in there, and use some sanitizer on it, then maybe wash it again. Twice. Because being extra thorough was a good thing.
She still managed to get to the door before him, which was probably a good thing, since it was one of those ones that opened out-ways instead of in-ways, and he'd likely have kicked his foot through it. Which would have been funny, what with the hopping around and cursing, but probably would have gotten them banned.
She wanted liquor more than she wanted Pete's foot through a door. So in she went!
Pete would've shot the door after putting his foot through it, for good measure. So his displeasure could be known by everyone. But he too wanted...no, he needed a drink, so in he went!
It was standard procedure. Find the one spot in the whole place where you had a clear view of every exit, the kitchen area, the bar, all the other patrons, and the windows facing the main roadway, and at least one side of the building. Which was a chore because no one worth their salt wanted to sit too much toward the middle or under broader light, unless they wanted to be seen immediately. And he knew damn well that neither of them wanted to be seen.
He nodded toward a back corner booth, conveniently close to the restrooms and the bar, that seemed to meet the criteria. It also didn't take much for him to fall over into it, into a semi-sitting position. It would have happened if he'd been blown over by a puppy sneezing, that's all it would take.
"Oi, two pints of lager an' chips!" he called out. To be a thoroughly cranky asshole, he was certain to add, "If you give me chips in a packet, I'll bloody well scream. Don't make me scream! And cough." He turned his head and rolled his eyes up while coughing into his sleeve, to keep anything from landing on Domino. "FRIES! You bastards."
One of the best parts about going out anywhere with Wisdom was that he was one of the few people she knew or associated with that understood the importance of Choosing The Right Place to Sit. Because it wasn't just any old where, and there had been countless occasions where she'd stood there trying to quickly select a location while the idiot she'd gone out with had already selected a table BY THE WINDOW or some other damn stupid thing.
She nodded approvingly to the seat selection and the screaming for pints and FRIES god damn it, then beelined for the bathroom. There was a window wide enough to make an escape from just in case, she observed, which she was certain she could pry open easily if she had to.
She grabbed out a bunch of extra wet towels when she was done, and brought them out to the table to wipe everything down with. Because the noises that Pete had made when he'd flopped into the booth sounded sticky. And Dom hated sticking to her chair.
By the time she got out there, two full pints of beer were waiting for them and Pete had dumped half a bottle of malt vinegar on his half of the fries. He'd made them get two plates so he could scrape his half off with a spoon onto his plate, and drown them like they were supposed to be drowned. In stinky sour stuff.
"It's pneumonia, Thurman. Not something you can catch. I'm on over four days worth of meds, and I've had four needles in me bum cheek already, full of antibiotics. I doubt I'm contagious at this point," he sounded like he was trying to reassure her. Pete trying to reassure anyone of anything past 'I will bloody well shoot you in your god damn mother fucking kneecaps and step on your throat until your eyes pop out' was probably a hard sell. "It's not like if you catch it, you'll die or summat."
He probably said that before she sat down, too.
"Thank you for the PSA, Wisdom," she muttered, as she plunked down into her seat. She didn't sound as reassured as she looked, but at least she did LOOK somewhat reassured. The smell of the vinegar on Pete's chips was actually not a bad one, in her book. It made her hungry, and she absently wondered when the last time was she ate as she scooped fries onto her own plate.
"I'm sure that if I caught it and died, I'd haunt you forever, though. So I sincerely hope you're right, for your sake. No one wants me haunting them!"
She said all that cheerfully, while sprinkling her fries with salt and a tiny bit of vinegar, herself. Then she picked up her pint, toasted in his direction with it, and gulped it down to half. Because it wasn't very lady like, and she didn't care, and she really fucking needed to be drunk right now.
"Depends on if you're one of those rapey ghosts or not. Then I'm sure a few people would volunteer. I don't think you would haunt me though. You'd never be able to tolerate me rat holes, even in ghost form."
Impressed, Pete watched her with a mouth shoved full of vinegar drenched chips, chewing with his mouth mostly closed, as she downed that beer. He did much the same as soon as he was finished chewing on fries like a starving jackal, downing almost half the beer, and saying the hell with it, if it wasn't good to mix with the antibiotics.
"Good bloody gods, that's the stuff," he said, looking like he had the beginnings of booze back in his bloodstream again, so the blood to alcohol ratio could once again fall into balance. "You really did have a buggered day, didn't you. Filled with sobriety. And cleaning products. You need to dirty yourself up, sometimes. Does one some good."
Dom carefully wiped her mouth after setting the glass back down on the table, and let out a very classy belch. While he was busy restoring the balance to the force his bloodstream, she picked up a few fries and munched on them. She was starving, but she'd probably never become as messy an eater as Wisdom was, unless it was a life or death situation.
"It was a fucking awful day," Dom agreed, though she wrinkled her nose at the thought of getting dirty, and outright ignored his comments about rape ghosts and volunteers, "People are idiots. If I could deny gun sales to most of them, I would. Because idiots! And then you get these men who come in and yell at you for getting their hands all cut up because they thought that real gangstas actually shoot their guns from the side like that."
The guy had wanted to sue her for not telling him all the facts, but she didn't think there was a way to get across the fact that he was a fucking dumbass, sadly.
"And I do dirty myself up. I get gun oil all over myself all the time."
"Thurman. That's not the sort of dirty that...right, nevermind...that's probably a turn on to someone. Cheers." He downed the remains of his beer and let out a belch of massive proportions, that for the sheer depth, length, and volume of it, sounded like he might vomit right there on the table top. One last cough and Pete tapped the bottom of the glass down, leaning out, "Need 'nother two pints, if you'd be so bleedin' kind."
He pointed a finger across the table at her, like that. Yes, that, whatever that was, was something he agreed with. It was probably the guns. He'd better clarify, but his head was still spinning from the belch aftermath.
"It's their own fecking fault. They can't go about, popping caps in everyone's arses like that, it's sloppy. Learn to shoot straight. You can aim for the arse better that way. Slobbering idiots. They probably wanted to blow grandmum's brains out and steal her jewelry she's hidden in her knicker drawer. Did you punch them in their quibbling face to knock some sense into them?"
Dom was in the middle of draining her pint to its dregs when he made the comment about 'popping caps in everyone's arses', and nearly snorted beer out of her nose with laughter. And she didn't really CARE if gun oil was a turn on for anyone. It'd been good enough for the few people she'd ever bothered to get involved with, anyway.
She pointed at him with a finger, the rest of them still firmly clamped around her glass, "I absolutely didn't punch the guy, but I really, really wanted to. Instead I kicked him out of my shop and told him to try buying his next gun at Lorenzo's Guns, Liquor, and Baby Needs. Because that store actually exists... somewhere, I swear I saw it, but it's scary and no one wants to go in there."
Probably because it was run by a drug cartel.
She set her glass down and munched on some more fries, then wrinkled her brow, "And what do you care about turn ons and if I get a little dirty, anyway? Fuck, Wisdom, some men find a nice clean woman attractive, you know. And the ones that don't can happily stare at the ass that they will never kiss in a million fucking years."
The minute she said 'baby needs' it ruined Pete's dream bubble of firearms and liquor. Popped it entirely. He looked like he'd been force fed a dirty baby diaper, that was was how nasty a face he made just then. Do not want! He did not!
To show how much he did not want, while she was talking about that, he turned in the booth while nodding to let her know he was listening, acted like he was cooing at an infant he was holding out at arm's length, then pantomimed letting it go, and punting it with one foot. He held one hand over his eyes, like he was shielding them from the sun, to see how far it had flew.
"I didn't say I cared. Wot're you on about? PINTS NOW! I'm dying of thirst! Do you want me t'die? In your establishment? I will. I'll foam at the bloody mouth and..." He stopped talking and glared at the pints that were placed down in front of them. "...right, nevermind then. Sod it. So you're saying I can't kiss your arse, and only get to stare at it? I'm wounded. Through and through."
He coughed, through and through, but did so in a napkin. He was pretty sure that at some point, Domino would pull out some hidden lysol spray and mace him with it, which would just cause a huge yelling fight in the middle of the pub. Or they'd shoot each other. Something. He refrained, at any rate.
"Even if I was clean as a whistle and stood a half a chance with the likes of you...I think I've had it up to me eyeballs with women. Since the ex, even. Whom I ran into. Or rather, she kicked me bloody door in. And then had the nerve to start shite on the internet, instead of minding her own bloody business. You can imagine how that went o'er. I had to verbally put me foot up her arse in a cease and desist."
He angrily rubbed one hand over his eyes and said 'feck it all' under his breath, before he started drinking again.
The pantomime was hysterically funny, though Dom wondered why it was he had to pantomime that sort of thing in her direction at the mere mention of the word. It wasn't as if she was asking him for one, especially since his pantomime easily summed up her own feelings on the issue.
She munched casually on french fries while he bellowed about the status of their ale, and snerked when he mentioned he was wounded. The truth is she'd probably go for him if he didn't keep shooting the idea down so well in every conversation they'd ever had that even remotely started heading in that direction. It didn't seem to matter though, because she was done with men, and from the sounds of it, he really was done with women, too.
"Christ, this really is the armpit of the universe then, isn't it? What was SHE doing kicking YOUR door in? Why didn't you shoot her? I would have shot her. I would have shot her, and then punted her out my door while telling her to kiss the whitest part of my ass."
She wrinkled her nose and grabbed for the nearest pint, "I missed that part, and I think I'm glad. I'm sorry though. That's bullshit."
No, definitely not. He simply wanted to show what he'd do to any infant in his immediate vicinity, if he didn't yell at it first to stop crying, because it was giving him a headache when he had a hangover or something.
As far as he knew, also, he had always had zero chance since day one, when he met her and - being a true smart ass - had asked, 'We'll be working together, then. Is there room in your knickers for me or are you not wearing any?' It wasn't being rude. It was simply asking a question that he thought could be very informative. It's not his fault she looked like she was probably going to leave bullets bouncing around in his skull for asking a simple question. Besides and beyond that, there was the spectre of Kitty Pryde hanging over everything, and it was hard to beat through that. Even with landmines, napalm, an armada of navy ships, the entire airforce, unlimited ammo, and probably tear gas, or the Pope with an endless supply of holy water. It still wouldn't clear it out.
Of course, he was kind of wondering that himself, about why he didn't shoot first. He must have really been off his game to have not drawn and fired as a cursory 'Welcome to casa de Wisdom', as soon as he so much as heard the door being touched by someone's foot.
"Huh, I dunno. I should've. You're right." He even looked as though he was mulling it over, while downing half the pint and the rest of his chips. "Mmmhphh." Pete wrinkled his nose up like the thought was a bad one. "Doesn't matter. She can't find me again. I left. She wouldn't want to, anyway. You know how girls get when they're giving you the 'its not you, its me' talk? And you know it's you, that's why they ran off like you'd threatened to light them on fire. Fat load of cack. I even confessed what I thought and that was tantamount to a kick in the balls. I could tell, she couldn't wait to get out of there, fast enough. But I said it. So when I die, clearer conscience at least. Nothing wrong with that.
"She's into carpeting rather than plumbing now. She'd probably fancy you," Pete finished, with a toast of the remaining beer in his glass. "If you didn't put a bullet in her, for busting in like a complete prat like that."
Dom drank down the first part of her glass while she listened to him talk. There was a mixture of thoughts on the entire matter, though most of them erred on the side of his ex-girlfriend being a complete and utter prat. She'd never met Kitty personally, only heard his stories about her, and from what she'd heard she was actually kind of insulted when he got to the part where she liked carpeting now and might find her attractive. She pushed down the part of her that wanted to point out that any girl would have run away from his apartment screaming, once they'd seen what the insides looked like. That part wasn't going to be received very well, and she knew it.
"Which I would, especially now," Dom grumbled, and drank down the rest of her glass. She set it down, and shook her head, "It's never them when they say it's them, well. It's never just them, when they say it is. It's always some bad combination of both, or all entirely you, or some stupid ass undercover shit that you don't know about, or ... you know what, relationships suck."
"They do. They're shite. I don't know why people bother. And, oh it's me, no doubt of that. That's what I get for trying to clean meself up for someone, and not being able to talk about cases with her, so of course she was probably thinking I didn't want t'talk at her or summat." He threw up both hands and shrugged. "I bloody well said I didn't want t'talk about it, at least once. Or that it was nothing. Nothing that I couldn't handle."
Of course, things he could handle well were of the sort where you went to work, looked through case files which included young people's body parts being found all over the countryside, or you were on the clock and you ended up wearing your assigned partner's brains on your face and picking a piece of their skull shrapnel out of your cheek. Not exactly 'how was your day at work honey?' dinner conversation, there. He'd been wanting to bounce his face off a wall, as it was.
"Regardless," Pete pointed out, while pointing at her with a drooping french fry, for some sort of emphasis, "I think it's bollocks. She says it's over. Fine, wotever then. It's because she was the one who decided to be judge, jury, and executioner there. Cold as a witch's tit, which makes me gag thinkin' of me sis...ugh...anyway, she runs off, leaves me there. You don't bail on your partner like that. When that happens, it's usually cos they get shot and die and then that's the end of it.
"You don't get another partner after that. B'cos you realize anyone else's going to get shot in the feckin' head also. And with Kitty, there were no answers until recently, and even those were flimsy. She wanted someone or something else? She should've said so, back then. You know wot else? ENGAGEMENTS. Can go t'Hell. Never doing that again. Even if we did mend things, which won't happen at any rate...she doesn't want that...I still wouldn't let it come up. Ever. Again. Someone else would be wearing my brain."
Into his mouth went the french fry. Pete angrily chewed on it, like he was just drunk enough to have a Wisdom rant. It had been a long time coming. It'll probably come up again. Because he's him. And he has stuff from his childhood he still has latched onto him, like several steel traps into a large, pissed off dying animal.
Wisdom was in rant mode and Dom knew better than to butt in to the middle of that. She watched him rant and nodded her head a few times, especially in agreement that engagements were utter shite and the stuff about the partner which she wasn't sure was actually a part of the Kitty rant. She made a mental note to ask him about that in a few minutes when he'd calmed down some.
Which was less 'calmed down' and more 'ran out of energy to keep ranting about that particular thing', because Wisdom was never really all that calm, anyway. And he had a legitimate amount of things to be incredibly ranty over. When he'd finally run out of steam enough to eat his french fry, she twisted her lips around a bit like she was thinking everything he'd said through.
Then, she put a hand on the table, like she'd decided something very important, "This calls for Whiskey. To hell with ale."
She motioned a waiter over for WHISKEY, DAMN IT and another fresh order of fries in a big old basket, then leaned back in her booth a bit, "I don't even know where to start. Engagements DO suck. To hell with that happily ever after bullshit. It never works out in our line of work anyway. Just... She's a bitch, and she's probably so cold that we could freeze things on her ass. Are you sure you don't want me to shoot her? Maybe slash her tires or something?"
"No, no shooting her. Pity's sake, Thurman," he said while scrunching his face up ever so slightly and helped himself to more things to eat. "I know you like letting bullets fly but...that'd land us both in a whole fat lot of trouble. It's not worth it. She's off being happily ever after, which is what she wanted, but she didn't ever want it with me. But here's the real point about the entire relationship partnership situation...."
He pointed at her with a fry that wasn't drowned yet, took a big swig of whiskey, and questioned very snippily, "Would you willingly give yourself a sucking chest wound? If someone walked up t'you and asked, would you say oh, of course, that sounds delightful, please, right here and point at the spot you'd like that in?"
"HELLS no. Those things suck. Literally AND figuratively." Dom snerked, and shook her head, amazed that he'd even bother to ask her that question. Except probably that he was trying to make a point by asking it, which she was sure he'd get to in a second. She used that time to take a gulp of her whiskey.
It was a real shame about the lack of being able to shoot people, though. She had this new pistol she wanted to test the ballistics on, and threatening snarky prat girlfriends seemed like it'd be fun. Completely illegal, yes, and really kind of a dick thing to do even. But from Dom's end of things, Pete was hurt, and Pete didn't get hurt often, and offering to shoot people was her way of being protective.
Well, Pete was hurt, that was true. But Pete further hid a mountain of hurt like the tip of an iceburg, that showed up oh so tiny up above the surface of the water, but was really a super-massive island underneath. If anyone that got too close, it was like a boat sinking and everyone on board died after mass chaos.
Besides, his normal brand of hurt came across as verbal bullets and diatribes. With a side of yelling.
As for his point, he got to it, the second he had downed the rest of his glass of whiskey and turned his head to cough the burn out.
"...that's what people who get themselves into those things, are willingly doing. Giving themselves the equivalent of a sucking bloody chest wound. If you don't want that, you're smart enough to avoid it at all costs. Cos you're not a fucking idiot. And because those friends and lovers are liabilities. You don't count. I know you can take care of yourself. I don't have to worry about you, but you'd just as soon grime yourself up by touching me, with a stick, held at arm's length. I like being the king of me filthy man castle."
"Hey, it's not like I haven't had willing sucking chest wounds, before. It's just that I don't really tend to talk about them, because I'm me, and the me that is me doesn't have feelings," She waved a hand in the air, a bit directionless, like that's where the feelings ended up. Out there in the magical ether of ... airspace or something.
"They get in the way and they're really fucking annoying. Like when you go on missions to extract people that you discover later you're married to, only they were never really great about sending you a memo about it. Or dumbass men with gigantic guns who go missing in the desert and tell you they'll be fine. Bullshit. That man couldn't find his way out of a bathtub without a map. But they're dead and ... why the hell am I telling you this shit."
She made a face at him and downed the rest of her whiskey, then whacked her chest and coughed, "I don't even know what the hell with the stick and the you-grime and the...things. If WE fucked it wouldn't be sucking chest wounds. Is that what you're implying? Or are you implying that we never would, again, because I hate germs and they worship you as king?"
"IF we did that, it COULD turn into sucking chest wounds. We're both too bloody smart for that, smart arse," he pointed out, while pointing at her, with his finger this time. To his credit though, now Pete was the one staring at her like he was wondering where that all came from, because she hadn't told him that before. It was brilliant she had said it, because he had always been of the opinion her...those things...that people have inside of them that cause sucking chest wounds...right, those things...were stuff she shrugged off and kicked away from her. Those were things that were best kept at a safe distance and all that.
"Wait, you were married? Wait, was it that one bastard, gun bigger than he was and...oh bugger. Well now we need two bottles o'er here, pronto! And I'm smoking! Lots! Ya don't like it? File a complaint overseas, I could care less. There's no one else in at this hour, on this night, as it is. No, not one bottle, TWO," he corrected when the bartender had only grabbed one. "We'll call for a cabbie. Wot's yer problem? Sod off, two bottles...that's right, you bring those over..."
He focused back on her again, warily this time, like he wasn't sure why she brought up the fucking bit there. He'd always assumed she wanted to run him through a car wash a couple hundred times, before even thinking about anything of the sort. Let it be known, he wasn't keen on being put through the carwash even once. He'd probably shoot everything.
After twisting in the booth and scooting his butt back, Pete settled his back against the wall and stretched his legs out over the length of the seat. There was some wrestling around with his trenchcoat to make sure his legs were covered up enough that he wasn't about to get the teeth chatters again for the thousandth time that day.
"Germs keep people away," was Pete's angrily grumbled confession, "precisely the way I like it. I'm implying that it's not good to let people in that close, when there's incredibly bad shite that can happen to them. Why subject one's self to that. I thought you were waging a war on dirt, regardless."
That last bit said, Pete unceremoniously lit a cigarette and glared at the bartender like he dared them to try to make him put it out. He'd put it out, by grabbing their jaw, forcing their mouth open, and grinding it out on their tongue.
Well he wasn't wrong at all, because most of the time - and even sometimes during the two 'relationships' she'd mentioned by way of somehow tipsily spewing out of her mouth - she DID, in fact, kick those things they call feelings away. Far away. Or shrugged them off, or let them roll right down her back like so many little rain drops instead of sinking in further than the skin layer.
It wasn't that hard to figure out why, they were both the kind of people who understood that jobs that needed doing like the jobs they ended up doing weren't really for the faint of heart. Or for people who got sad looking at pictures of dead things, or the type of people who cried over crap on the internet like that one girl he'd had a blow-out with earlier. Honestly they weren't really for anyone at all who wanted to stay human or act like normal human beings. Pete had his way of dealing with things, and Dom had her own.
"I love it when you do that," she quipped, as he yelled at the bartender about the fact that they were smoking now and he could sod off. She got out her own pack as the bottles of whiskey were delivered, and made herself a bit more comfortable in the booth as well as she lit up.
"It was a guy before the big gun guy. THAT guy was a jackass and good fucking riddance to him AND his big gun." She snorted and flicked her cigarette ash in the general direction of him and his big fucking gun, for emphasis, then poured herself some more whiskey, "Scientist guy. It doesn't matter, he's gone. And I AM waging a war on dirt, but I never said I was waging a war on sex. Fuck, nevermind. You confuse the hell out of me sometimes and I don't want to fuck up our friendship."
He listened to her and was watchful, only interrupting when he had to stifle a cough under a hand, or grunt when he had to shift around to get comfortable. That caused him to lose his warm spot he'd made, so it was back to fighting off a chill, while he pondered over what she was saying. As much as he could ponder right now, because the whole planet had started to go fuzzy around the edges.
"Well I love it that you love that, and you can sod off also," Pete quipped right back at her, with a sloppy smirk, folding his arms over himself. "I don't want to feck it o'er either, luv. That's why after you looked like you were going t'leave a bullet rattling around in me skull for asking if you were wearin' knickers or not, I didn't push the issue. Cos I liked your work ethic. Someone had to clean up after me mess, while we were working on that operation. I didn't know I was confusing you, ya arse. Why didn't you say any of this, b'fore. That's rotten of you. You're rotten. I told you things and you didn't tell me anything, not even if you were going commando or not."
Expecting to have something thrown at him with great accuracy, Pete leaned in against the back of the booth so more of his shoulder was showing to her, his head turned just enough that he could smoke his cigarette, and still keep an eye on her. Because, that way, he'd see what was flying at him, and know to cringe.
The nearby napkins she'd used to scrub the salt and vinegar off of her fingers with were picked up, and tossed half-heartedly in his direction. They were followed by a french fry, for emphasis, and then another one, because tossing the first one had been fun. She picked up a third, and almost tossed that as well, but instead put it in her mouth.
Another entire glass of whiskey followed the french fry, while Dom mulled over the crap that they'd been saying to each other. Her tone was a bit plaintive when she finally spoke, "I have a damn good work ethic. My work ethic is impeccable and shiny. That's why they hire me to do the shiny jobs that require all the cleanup and no fingerprints and ... because I'm clean and impeccable."
The world was getting nice and fuzzy, and taking his comment about her lack of sharing to heart, she smirked in his direction and blew some smoke, "I do, you know. Go Commando. A lot of the time."
"One thing was enough, already!" he was saying as he was under fire, and nearly squeezed his eye closed again until he spied her putting it in her mouth. Why was she telling him these things? Now? When it wouldn't be some meaningless throw away thing and friendship would get ruined and...why was he opening his mouth to drunkenly mumble, "Ya must wear really tight trousers so you don't have to pick them out o' the crack of yer arse, all of the time."
Why oh why did he say that. Oh well, why oh why did he say a LOT of things? He wasn't taking it back. He wants answers. Fess up!
"Well they can't be TOO tight, you know, or things just start to chafe." She smirked a bit sloppily at him, then poured herself another drink and toasted him with it before downing most of it.
It wasn't a throw-away to her, they were having drunken sharing times, and now was as good a time as any to go sharing things about her personal life. Like her underwear-wearing habits, or lack thereof. Because that's what good buddies did, they shared wierd shit about themselves while drinking.
"The trick is to find a pair of pants that just fits perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight, just... you know. Perfect. I get a lot of mine from the same store so I know what type to buy." This was important news, and her tone was the tone of serious business, "It's important to buy the right trousers, Wisdom."
As he listened to her, coughing intermittently, Pete sat back in the booth, back against the walls and legs stretched out again, watching her through a thick haze of smoke. He was already lighting another, and not caring anymore one whit if it would cause his lungs to explode.
After all, he was sort of celebrating tonight. Harper would be snuffed out, and he could die a happy but burned out Interpol Agent! Everyone would rest a little easier then, including himself, in the pitch black nothingness that he got to go to, while his carcass rotted.
"Boxers, with amusing prints on them," he confessed, and then there was a barely detectable note in his voice, that spoke plainly of missing some places, or things. "As for trousers? I always bought trousers from the same shop in London," he confessed, in the sort of way that spoke plainly about missing the place, desperately. It was home, or as close to home someone like him could have, considering he moved so often. "This country wouldn't know a good tailor if it jabbed it's bloody sewing needles in everyone's eyes."
"I know better than to even argue that point," Dom laughed and lit up another cigarette. At the pace she was drinking through that bottle of whiskey the bartender had brought over, she'd probably need someone to DRAG her ass out of there later. She didn't even care. She did file away in her head the information that Pete missed home and liked a certain shop. Hopefully when she sobered up later that information would still be there.
She shifted a bit to lean back against the wall better, then leaned into the table and leered at him a bit as the first part of what he'd said registered, "What kind of amusing prints, eh?"
"Uhhh...hmm...bulldog faces with bones in their mouths. Skull an' crossbones. I 'ad some with pentagrams an' goat heads on them, but some bitch nicked those. Sheep leeping o'er fence posts. The Last Supper. Fairies fucking. Muppets. Ducks with umbrellas. Those sorts of things," he was saying, in a drunkenly conversational manner. The spent cigarette was dropped into a pint glass so that it could sputter out in the trace of beer left in it.
He did miss London. But in that loner way that someone gets used to the sounds or particular sights around them, and it wasn't associated with any persons, or certain places or thing in particular. So any wistfulness was generalized and paved over with layers of asphalt as quick as it showed up.
In fact, his entire expression was drunkenly aloof, with a slight bobble to his head, like it had somehow grown heavier the drunker he was getting. One hand shot out suddenly, grabbed a bottle and skipped the pouring portion of drinking entirely. He was going to hug onto it in the crook of one arm, and drink directly from it. While smoking. He'd inevitably have another and wake up with a mouth that tasted vaguely of an overflowing ashtray with liquor poured into it.
"I think...I think," he repeated, "we're sharing t'much intel, luv. Ya sure that's safe?"
(continued....)