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Agent Washington (completelysane) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2017-06-03 10:55:00

Who: Agent Washington and Pete Wisdom
What: Pete has a gift of coffee!
When: Yesterday
Where: The Agency Building
Rating/Warnings Lowish; talk of addiction
Status: Complete!



Conveniently, the best Vietnamese coffee in the county was found at a brewery with legs - alright, a mobile brewery, rather, and Wisdom had been making it a tradition to stop by for a morning cup of fuel before heading to the rather bland and nondescript government building that was known as ‘the Agency.’ He couldn’t help it though, it was the perfect amount of flavour - with cream, some sweetness, but not to the point where you couldn’t taste the coffee or felt like you were drinking a metric tonne of sugar. Pete didn’t like his coffee black (it was fine in a pinch, sure, just somewhat disappointing), but he didn’t like fancy shit like mochachocolatte’s either. Really, whatever provided the caffeine jolt - that was fine with him.

He needed it, since his job tended to go in waves. Working in the specific department that wasn’t even meant to be mentioned or acknowledged (Black Ops sort of was like that, it was simply the way of things) meant that he kept a low profile more often than not. Sometimes there was complete OC madness to handle, sometimes there wasn’t. Right now, this seemed to be a slow stretch.

Besides people randomly bursting into song. Of all the fucking things - could someone bloody well shoot him? Please?

Anyway, he was feeling generous today so he brought his co-worker a coffee in the morning (which was really him going to check on the fellow he’d sort of mentored regarding bounty hunting). All baby birds must leave the nest someday, but still. Wisdom did care. In his own acidic sort of way.

“Knock, knock,” he tracked Washington down in an office. “If you’re feeling sluggish, drink this. It’ll perk you right up. You’ll be wired in no time.”

Coffee in any form was something Wash needed. He believed he was a far cry from the hole he’d dug for himself late last year. He believed he knew when enough was enough. The hangover he currently had wasn’t that big of a deal, even if it was making him sluggish. It was actually a good sign, he thought. Last year he would have had to drink more than twice what he had the night before in order to feel any kind of ramification the morning after. Still, he hadn’t told anyone else he was having a few beers in the evening. He told himself it wasn’t anyone else’s business.

Somehow Wash managed to find himself in two departments within the Agency. He was a member of Field Response Team 2 and he was a part of Clandestine Ops. Both offered what he had missed once he’d been discharged from the Marines and he’d thrived in both during times of Orange County madness.

Madness that could be physically dealt with, anyway. People randomly bursting into song? Not exactly a crises. Annoying maybe, especially with Wash’s current headache. He looked up from what he was doing (paperwork, the bane of any field agent’s existence), eyes a little bloodshot, complexion slightly pallid. He glanced at the cup, then up at Pete. “What is it?” He asked.

“Coffee.” Wisdom quirked an eyebrow, a flicker of concern flashing in those deep blue eyes of his as he offered the to-go cup. Because, not to be rude or anything, but Washington currently resembled shit warmed in the microwave. “Vietnamese coffee specifically, from the mobile brewery just up a block or so. I usually stop by before getting here.” Both he and Lina did (since his wife surely did love a cup of the dark brew as well), after dropping Amelia off with the grandparents, all three of them - Harold especially was retired and content to play nanny for his granddaughter during the work day. Not like he had much else to do, after moving to the States to be closer to his family.

The firestarter and his wife worked in different Agency departments, however, so they were often separated until perhaps reuniting for lunch depending on what nonsense they had on their plates. For Wisdom, it looked to be a relatively slow start to the morning. “Forgive my bluntness, but it looks like you’re nursing quite the hangover.”

Of course Pete Wisdom could pick up the signs of a hangover. He’d been a functioning alcoholic for years, after all.

Wash frowned slightly. “I’ve had worse,” he stated and then decided that statement didn’t help him. He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He wasn’t running through his hangovers in the morning, at least – running until he puked just to get over it faster. This was just a little headache and some lethargy after one or two (or three? Four?) beers the night before. He hadn’t had any hair of the dog that morning just ibuprofen and a ton of water. See, he wasn’t falling into the same habits as before.

He took the offered coffee anyway. “I can still use this, though,” he said, “thanks, Pete.” A sip from the cup made grey eyes widen. Wash was the farthest thing from a coffee expert as one could get (he didn’t even really like the stuff, but certain habits were impossible to break), but even he had to say that this wasn’t bad. It was kind of good actually, and Wash didn’t feel the need to add any flavored creamers or anything.

Yes, this coffee was magic - it might not immediately fix the symptoms of a hangover, but it certainly tasted like it would. “Of course,” Wisdom nodded at the thanks, moving to lean against the doorframe casually. “Did something happen?” he wanted to know. Something that would contribute to a relapse - he knew Wash was an alcoholic (it never really went away, but you sort of learned to deal with the temptations and realise that there was ‘social drinking that’s harmless’ and then the category of ‘what I’m doing is sort of going to kill me’) but he’d gotten treatment for it, was working to give the middle finger to those demons, and seemed to be on an incline.

“I thought things were going well with your sister, your girlfriend.” You know. The people who cared about him and probably didn’t know he’d started drinking again?

Though it took some skill to hide it from a sister you lived with, that was for sure. Especially one who was a sharp Marine - he knew of Carolina, naturally, since she was employed by the Agency as well.

Wash eyed Wisdom carefully over the top of his coffee cup. His alcoholism wasn’t common knowledge around the office, but some people knew. Pete for instance. Pete had been a kind of mentor a few years ago when Wash had started taking on his bounties. And, of course, Pete had been there himself not so long ago. Somehow that made things worse.

“Happen?” Wash shrugged. “Oh you know, I was in a coma for three weeks because of a Dream bleed over and now the marines decided to recall Carolina literally hours before she would have been permanently discharged. So, business as fucking usual.”

Ok, that wasn’t fair. All Wisdom had done was asked him what happened. He didn’t need Sarcastic Wash, especially after he’d been nice enough to bring him coffee. Wash set the cardboard cup down on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Pete, I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Yeah, things are fine between me and Anna. Carolina…” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “she’s a big girl and can take care of herself.”

He didn’t take offence, Wash needn’t worry. “No need to apologise,” he assured, since he had a thick skin anyway - besides, he employed sarcasm on a regular basis. It was like a second language to him.

But the point was, the fact that the drinking had started up again was now abundantly clear. Wisdom wasn’t going to lecture though; that wasn’t really his style. “It’s normal to have a relapse, you know,” he offered instead of something utterly rude and unhelpful. “It’s common and it can be a part of your recovery.”

Looking to the future was key - Pete believed that Wash could still pick himself up again and move past this. And the sooner he did it, the better.

“I know you didn’t ask for my opinion, but consider it payback for Americans trying to tell everyone else how to live their lives,” he smirked - come on, the Yanks did that all the time. It was partly why the rest of the world sighed in exasperation at them. “You shouldn’t hide it from your sister, or Anna. They can help.”

“I don’t tell anyone how to live their life,” Wash deadpanned, reaching for his cup again. “But I’ll take your opinion as payback for American movies casting brits as the bad guys in every thriller ever.” He took a healthy draught of coffee. It may have been psychosomatic, but Wash would have sworn it was already doing the trick.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” He asked next, “relapsing?” Wash didn’t like the term “relapse”. Relapse was used for things like cancer or other illnesses when they came back. One thing Wash was sure he was not, and that was sick. He also wasn’t so sure about the term “recovery” either. One recovered from getting cracked in the back of the skull. Recovery was something you did after an accident, not after something you did to yourself.

“I’m not hiding anything,” he said, perhaps a bit more defensively than he intended. He hadn’t told Anna or Carolina that he’d been going to the bar, but again, he didn’t really think they needed to know. Anna would ask a whole bunch of questions Wash didn’t really want to answer and Carolina? She’d give him that patented Carolina Frown, the one that just screamed disapproval and disappointment without her having to say a damn thing. Not that she was around currently to frown at anything. “I don’t even know where the hell my sister even is, anyway.”

The comment about Brits as bad guys made Wisdom chuckle (personally, he both looked and sounded like a villain, he thought - dark and swarthy and generally wearing an invisible ‘fuck off’ sign on his forehead that was meant to be heeded regardless). “Fair enough,” he noted. “And yes, recover, relapse - fuck if I know the proper terms, I’m not great at this sort of talk. But I’m sure you get the point, you’re an intelligent bloke.” Pete had a feeling that Wash didn’t tell his loved ones because he didn’t want to disappoint them, but that was the thing - they wouldn’t be. Alcoholism was a disease, to some - the theory was either disease or addiction, and everyone had their opinions. Either way, it was something that you needed time to recover from.

Plus, they didn’t want to lose someone important. His sister just had him, surely their parents were fucking deadbeats - Pete knew what that was like. He’d gone most of his existence with only Romany to look out for him.

“I don’t tell people how to live their life either - but just think about what I said. I don’t want you to fucking die on me, Washington.” And he would, if he kept spiraling downward. “It would be a right shame. You’re young, talented, and you’ll probably marry that girlfriend of yours and have a white picket fence someday.” But throwing it all away? No, Pete didn’t want to see that happen.

Neither Nora Jenkins or Dr. Leonard Church were in the running for Parent of the Year. Wash’s mother was neglectful at best, abusive along with her husband, Wash’s stepfather, at worst. And Dr. Church? Wash had never met his father (and likely never would) and Carolina spoke very little of him. But from what Carolina had said, it seemed more like Dr. Church didn’t set out to be a deadbeat dad, he just didn’t know what to do with a daughter on his own, much less a son with a woman he’d bumped uglies with once. He had attempted to pay for Wash’s education. Too bad he didn’t pay enough attention to realize that Nora Jenkins had taken him for a ride and essentially robbed Dr. Church and her son of thousands of dollars.

Someone out in the hall singing “These Boots Are Made For Walking” made Wash glance around Wisdom through the door. Really, Orange County? This was what life was going to be like for the next few days? Wash shook his head. There wasn’t any need for him or Pete if annoying show tunes were as bad as it was going to get.

“I’m not relapsing,” Wash said, turning his attention back up at the Brit. He didn’t feel young, not with the memories of three lifetimes scrambled in his head. Talented? Yeah, sure, he’d been a find marine. A good marine. He was damn good with a gun. “I don’t see myself with a white picket fence, but I get what you mean. And yeah, I’ll think about what you said.”

Someone else passed by the door, this time singing “Be Our Guest”. Wash rolled his eyes and looked back up at Wisdom, “But I can’t make any promises if this is what we have to listen to for the next week.”

“Oh, Christ, I can’t make any promises if this is what it will be like - I can’t promise I won’t blow everything up,” Pete replied, scrubbing a hand over his face. How could anyone not want to spike their morning coffee with cyanide (whiskey was probably too tame) when it came to the likes of this?

Musicals. He bloody well hated musicals. It was probably fair to call him a joyless crank because of that, but come on. Give him a serious drama of a play any day.

Well, anyway. As long as Wash was going to think about what he said. He hoped that the fellow really would. Pete wasn’t the type to beat a dead horse though (especially when it came to giving up vices), so, he’d just have to put a little trust in his former ‘mentee.’ “I can search for a few more contracts to give you less time in the office, if you’d like. I’ll pass along whatever I come across.”

Wash didn’t have an opinion on musicals one way or the other. Of course, dating a literal Disney Princess had meant he’d had taken a crash course on the Disney aspect of them. He hadn’t grown up with any of those classics, but he didn’t have a problem with them. However, that didn’t stop him from wadding up a piece of scratch paper on his desk and hurling it out the door at the person singing ”Suddenly Seymour” in the hall, eliciting an indignant “Hey!” in response.

Innocently, Wash picked up his coffee and took a stip, grey eyes once again looking up at Wisdom. “Mmm,” he shrugged casually, “a couple of extra bounties sound good. Anything to get me outta here.” There was a small smirk behind that coffee cup, “thanks, Pete.”

“Sure thing.” He had to laugh roughly, just a bit, when someone belting a tune got a projectile lobbed at them. It was tamer than what Wisdom wanted to throw (which was a grenade, alas).

He toasted Wash with his coffee cup and pushed off the doorframe, moving to head back to his own office - all the while muttering about this bloody county and how he needed a holiday. As soon as fucking possible, thank you kindly.