Agent Washington (completelysane) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2015-08-16 06:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, agent washington, gale hawthorne |
Who: Wash and Gale
What: The fight that happens after this exchange
When: 8/15/15, evening
Where: Bar in Seal Beach
Ratings/Warnings: Medium to high(?) - Violence, past abuse and related PTSD
Status: Complete!
Gale was, shall we say, not in the best of moods. He was no stranger to the way anger uncannily mixed in with his other less positive emotions - lots of dream bullshit seeping in, an invisible poison and a silent killer, lots of war-related PTSD he’d never dealt with, and things of that nature. But now? Even Leliana was getting on his nerves and that was usually never the case. Not to the point where he had to step away and get some air - though as a couple, as they’d evolved to that point, they’d had their share of arguments. She was usually good at weathering the storms though, at calming his notorious fire and rage, but lately she’d been adding to it.
Something was wrong with Wash too, but with so much engulfing and spinning, whirling, and dizzying his mind - slow down, Aladdin, this whole new world really sucked - he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Equilibrium was off, but whatever. He also couldn’t really remember why he’d come down to the bar besides to grab a drink, and he sat at one lone corner glaring at everyone who came in (very few - it wasn’t crowded at all, and the bartender kept wiping down the same few glasses, obviously bored) and nursing a beer.
He’d have to tell Wash he was sorry for lashing out, because like hell he really had a reason for it.
It wasn’t as though Wash had never been angry before, but he’d never been angry like this. He was more than angry. He was enraged. He was so far lost in a red haze that he couldn’t remember what Gale had said that had set him off in the first place, or why he had brought the skateboard deck with him. It still had its use, even without wheels. It’d make a great weapon. However, just for shits, he had his sidearm holstered at his hip.
The bar came into view. Somewhere through the seething anger and borderline insanity he recognized it as the same bar he had met Gale at the first time, when Gale had given him his first lessons about what the Network and Orange County were really all about. Where they had become friends.
Friends! Ha! The heat in Wash’s head intensified at a throbbing pace. He had told Katou earlier on the net that he understood that it was all just one huge practical joke and everyone was in on it except for him. All he could think about as he approached the bar were the years he’d spent trying to make people happy. How he had always been the nice guy, the good son, the a loyal marine and how much wasted time and energy it had been.
South had always bullied him, had taken every chance she got to belittle him, but at least she had been open about it. York, Carolina even North had all at one time or another had gotten their digs in on him. Hiding their insults behind smiles and playful slaps on the back, playing it off that they were only teasing. That’s how he’d known they were friends, if they truly disliked him they wouldn’t waste their time. Right? He would have died for them, for any one of them and he thought they would do the same. He understood now what a load that was.
All the hurt and abandonment he’d felt after he’d woken up from the coma to find his unit and his squad had all been reassigned fueled him.
As did wounds he had thought had healed long ago. He could so plainly remember every slap, every punch, every whipping his stepfather had given him. Every time the man had slammed his face against something. Every time the fat drunken slob had ever raised a hand against him. And every time his mother had stood there and watched.
Wash’s eyes narrowed.
All his fear and guilt, everything that he tried so hard to keep hidden away for so long to protect those he cared about raced around his skull at a dizzying pace and only served to make him madder.
And now, now just as he was letting people get close to him again, just as he was thinking it was ok to maybe let his guard down around people and make some friends this asshole had to go and remind him what a fucking moron he was.
Wash didn’t know who he was more angry with, Gale or himself.
He had no idea he’d even entered the bar until he heard the bartender yell at him that he couldn’t bring a gun into his bar. He ignored the man as his eyes searched the place. He wasn’t looking for exits or places someone could get the drop on him, he had only one target in mind.
And there he was, seated by himself at a table in the corner. Just seeing him caused a surge in Wash making his heart race and his head absolutely spin.
He was going to show the world that he wasn’t going to let it push him around anymore. Gunnery Sergeant David Barrow had had enough. He squared his shoulders and shouted at the man in the corner, someone just yesterday he had called a friend.
“Gale Hawthorne!”
Well, with an entrance like that, it was a little hard to miss. Gale turned, and those timberwolf eyes narrowed suspiciously - his first instinct was to be royally pissed that some dickhead tried to threaten him (with a skateboard, really?) but despite all that, past the haze with which he viewed the patrons in the bar, and the silhouette of a friend, he knew that something was very wrong.
“What the fuck is your problem?!” he snapped, draining his beer before standing up and, okay, this was a reputable establishment. Sort of. Hence why the owner was going to get involved, and reach for his baseball bat as a just in case.
“You two behave or I’m calling the cops,” threatened the bartender.
“You! Zip it,” Gale shushed him, and then headed toward his friend in what felt like some Western-style showdown. “Seriously, Wash, you’re acting weird.”
Wash gripped the skateboard deck tighter as Gale approached him. Gale’s mouth was moving, but all Wash heard was his stepfather’s voice. That smarmy condescending voice that called him useless and stupid, weak and pathetic. C’mere, boy, I’ll teach you how to toughen up.
Wash took a step back, shaking his head. No, it was Gale. Just Gale. Just Gale fucking Hawthorne calling him weird.
Wash narrowed his grey eyes into small dangerous slits. He knew he should be horrified by his own murderous thoughts, but honestly didn’t care that he wasn’t. Logic and reason had packed their bags and had taken the last train out of dodge. All that was left was rage. It was odd how calming it could be now that it occupied his brain space all by its lonesome. Like an old friend he didn’t even knew he had.
Wash said nothing to Gale in response. He watched him approach slowly, carefully. Watching him approach as though he was scared gave him a perverse little thrill. When the other man was within striking distance, Wash jerked the skate deck up, letting go of it just for a moment to twist his hands around to grasp it by the end and swing it at Gale.
Full-scale pandemonium. That’s when it erupted.
Granted, the few patrons were mostly keen to watch (and make smart-ass comments about the kid and ‘was that a fucking skateboard?!’) but Gale wasn’t about to just stand there. He was tall, and broad-shouldered, but reflexes were up to par and then some so he dodged the swing just in time, fist going for a punch to the gut on the crazed sk8tr boi and also a tackle into the tables and chairs that caused a crash, bang, and the sensibilities of everyone in the joint to go out the window.
It was the trigger to get a really good fight going - and you only needed the blink of an eye, right? “Stop,” he hissed, attempting to put as little space between him and Wash as possible, and to wrestle the blunt object away, so he wouldn’t have room to swing it like a maniac.
Wash wasn’t a close-combat expert, but he’d been trained. He managed to twist out of the way of Gale’s fist, but he couldn’t help but to catch the taller man around his middle and go crashing backwards into the tables behind him. His air was knocked out of his lungs with a whoosh and then he had Gale in his face, those wolf-like eyes boring into the storm in Wash’s. No! he tried to utter back, but his lungs were still recovering from being rattled around in his torso and all he could make was a strained sort of gasping noise. No big deal. The time for talk, if there had been a time, was over.
He fought to keep his hands on the skate deck. His gift. If Gale got his hands on it, Wash was certain he’d beat the ever loving piss out of him. That’s what people did. He shoved the board back into Gale’s chest and lifted his booted foot up aiming to kick in one of Gale’s knees.
Their fighting had triggered others - there was the bartender, of course, who had his baseball bat and was warding off drunk assholes who were itching to get their hits in too. Really, it didn’t matter who was hitting who at this point, just that pandemonium had exploded in what felt like a fiery inferno and they probably didn’t have much time before the cops did actually arrive.
Being whacked in the chest with something distinctly hard didn’t exactly feel great, nor did a kick to the knees - generally, grappling on the ground wasn’t really his idea of a good time but he knew Wash had a gun and he didn’t trust the guy with it right now. Maybe he’d end up bruised and aching from a barfight but that didn’t matter, it was the least of his worries. Whatever was going on, Wash would feel guilty if he shot someone - and sure, Gale had heard stories of fellow soldiers and their PTSD becoming too much for them. They lost control of themselves, they got their hands on firearms when they shouldn’t and they and hurt others, hurt themselves. He didn’t want a friend to become a sad statistic.
“Drop it, Wash,” he snarled, grip tightening, one hand going for the guy’s throat to get a grip on it. Choking him out wasn’t an option but getting the gun away was. “Come on, you don’t want to do this.”
The bar had dissolved into chaos and Wash had been the catalyst. A detached piece of him was aware of this. It was aware of the other bar patrons were fighting amongst themselves or trying to come and fight him and getting knocked back by the bartender and his baseball bat. However, all of his attention was on Gale. He didn’t care about the others or what they were doing, if any of them managed to get through and hit him. His attention was on Gale and Gale alone.
He felt the other soldier’s hand close around his throat and his eyes widened. Gale was going to kill him! The bar suddenly ceased to exist. The fighting barflies ceased to exist. An alarmingly familiar feeling of panic settled into Wash’s chest. The need to survive. Gale stopped being Gale and to Wash he was everything and everyone who had ever threatened him.
Wash’s eyes narrowed. It was his life or his enemy’s. He let go of the skate deck and thrust it against the man gripping his throat in an attempt to get him off. At the same time he drew his gun.
This crazy SOB was going to fucking shoot him, wasn’t he? Gale definitely registered that fact, as barstools went flying, glasses shattered, wood splintered - all were familiar sounds to your typical Saturday night pub brawl, but he really didn’t want to add gunshots to the occasion. He’d have even used a stool too, but he wasn’t close enough to one. Instead he gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain of being rammed with a hard, heavy object - he’d suffered worse, and what would really take the cake would be having to pry a bullet out of him. If he even survived, but at this close of a range? Getting shot would not be in his best interest.
He finally got room to make a move when something smashed the window - the sound of more breaking glass, and angry shouts, were enough to be a distraction he hoped. But he only needed a second and he took it, reaching the gun before Wash did. He wrenched it free and didn’t shoot it, no, he wasn’t angry enough to do that.
Instead he just pistol-whipped Wash, using the gun as a club to knock him unconscious. For the best, really.
“Sorry,” he apologized to the rest of the bar, but it was madness anyway. So he just hoisted the limp body up, to fireman’s carry Wash out of here and get him someplace safe before he began to hear the telltale whir of sirens. What the fuck.