Agent Washington (completelysane) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2015-08-17 16:36:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, agent washington |
Who: Wash
What: Returning home after the bar fight
When: Saturday night thru Sunday evening
Where: Wash's apartment
Ratings/Warnings: Medium - unpleasant thoughts; Wash is a dick
Status: Complete!
The last thing Wash had been aware of was Gale in his face as the bar around them dissolved into utter chaos. The next thing he knew he was in the hospital ER with someone shining a penlight in his eyes and asking him if he knew his name. Wash had thought the question odd. Of course he knew his name and he gave it to the young doctor hovering over him.
What Wash didn’t know was what he was doing in the ER or how he had gotten there. The good doctor was able to fill him in once he was done with the penlight. He’d been in a nasty fight that night (duh, Wash could remember that), had gotten knocked out and his friend had been nice enough to haul his ass to the emergency room.
Wash had been perfectly fine – if a little head poundy and nauseous – until the doctor had mentioned his “friend” had brought him in.
Gale.
Without warning all that rage came back like a flash flood of emotion. He didn’t have an outlet for his rage in the ER since Gale was no where to be seen now. Wash wasn’t about to attack the doctor, the only thing the man had done was flash a light in his eyes. Annoying as that was, it hardly warranted physical violence. Wash was used to this song and dance. Besides, he didn’t have much interest in spending any time in the county lock-up. He was lucky enough to have avoided the cops as it was. Let’s not make a bad night worse.
So he remained still and fumed silently as the Doctor – one Doctor Trafalgar according to the pin on his white lab coat – ran his tests and finally handed down his diagnosis.
Congratulations, Mr. Barrow, it’s a mild concussion.
Wash was admitted to the hospital where they could keep an eye on him the rest of the night and most of the next day. At about 17:00 Sunday evening he was sent home with a bottle of pain pills and anti-nausea medication. The after-care instruction sheet told him to come back immediately if he started to feel worse.
By the time Wash entered his blissfully dark apartment all the anger and madness he’d succumbed to the day before was gone leaving him both physically and mentally exhausted. Sleep was probably a bad idea since he didn’t have anyone to wake him up every so often to ask inane questions like what his name was or where he lived or other things to be sure he hadn’t suffered an actual brain injury this time. He thought about calling Kyu, but he wasn’t sure if he could deal with her high energy and touchy-feely hands. Just thinking about it sent an uncomfortable jolt down his spine.
This…this wasn’t right…
But Wash found himself not exactly caring as he sank into his sofa with a groan. His ribs were sore, maybe even bruised thanks to the tables he’d landed on. He looked towards the counter in his kitchen where the fresh new bottle of pain pills was. Just ibuprofen this time. His bottle of Vicodin was in the drawer to his bedside table, which may as well have been miles away as far as his body was concerned. So Wash elected to remain on his couch. In a minute, he told himself, he’d get up and take the ibuprofen. He just wanted to sit there. Just for a minute.
A minute turned into an hour. Shadows outside his windows had grown quite long and his apartment even darker when he raised his eyes again towards the kitchen counter. His body wasn’t getting any less sore and neither was his head. He took a deep breath and lumbered up off the couch. He started to make his way towards the kitchen. He only stopped when he suddenly and abruptly realized that he’d left the skate deck at the bar. Or maybe Gale had it. And his sidearm, that had also been conspicuously absent while he’d been at the hospital. Gale probably had that too. Victory trophies.
Rage started bubbling up from under the dark cobwebs of an otherwise exhausted mind. Wash yanked his phone out of his pocket with every intention of calling up Gale and verbally tearing him a new asshole after demanding his stuff back. Then he thought better of it. He’d already had his ass handed to him once in the past 24 hours and he wasn’t particularly keen on making it two. This time Gale may not be a lone, either. Leliana may decide she wanted to take a crack at him too. Break his fingers like she threatened. A monster lay beneath that cool satin voice and pretty face. A monster that Wash, as he was now, is in no condition to take on. He gripped his phone tightly for a moment before finally tossing it on the couch.
Screw it. Let them keep the deck and his gun. What did he care?
What did he care? He scowled at his phone where it had landed on his couch. These feelings...they weren't normal for him. His thoughts: wanting to actually kill Gale, or even Leliana if she decided to jump in, kill them with his own hands simply because of a few flippant remarks. These thoughts should have been frightening, they should have been horrifying. He'd never felt this kind of anger before, not even when he'd been under threat on the front. Whatever he'd felt there had been due to survival for himself and for his unit. This....this was madness.
Wash felt as though he should have cared more about loosing his mind, but instead he felt strangely blase about it.
He looked up from the couch and around his apartment, his eyes settling on the picture of him and his squad. It had been taken just after they'd gotten back from their - his last tour abroad. There were still in their desert cameo and standing in front of one of many of the armored vehicles that had trucked them across the desert.
He approached the picture slowly. Why did he have this thing framed and up on the wall? He didn't have anything else hanging. No other pictures or posters or anything. This picture used to make him smile once, used to make him feel better. Now all it did was remind him of what he'd been once. What he still could've been. It was as if the people in the photo, the photo itself, was mocking him.
The glass shattered when Wash slammed his fist hard into the center of the frame. The frame fell off its nail onto the table with a thud and more breaking glass and fell over. Wash barely spared it another look before he was headed down the hall towards his bedroom.
Screw the ibuprofen. He'd much rather have the Vicodin.