[ roy's three-quarters into a bottle of whiskey when he spots the boxed shoulders and infuriating stick-up-the-ass composure that all company men have.
three-quarters into his second bottle of whiskey, but that's not important.
he nearly sloshes the remainder over himself when he reaches down to pull at the controls for his wheelchair - of course, there's probably mud and gunk and someone's day-old phlegm rusting the mechanics up, so he doesn't get more than a half-step forward before he's grinding to a stop.
gotta do it the old fashioned way, then.
he wheels himself forward, open bottle clutched between his thighs. when he careens to a stop, he's already got the bottle in hand, tossing back another swig. ]
Well, if it isn't one of our guardian angels, sent from a-fucking-above. We should share a drink to commemorate the occasion.
[ and he holds his bottle up for the taking.
he's surprisingly coherent for someone two bottles in, but that's roy walker for you. drink down a whole damn distillery and all he'll get is a bout of halitosis and an urge to pee. ]
[ the only thing more challenging than dealing with someone with potent whiskey breath is dealing with someone with whiskey breath in a wheelchair. which is probably the sort of condescending bullshit that people in wheelchairs have to deal with on a daily basis, but maybe roy can appreciate the fact that said condescending bullshit is the reason why hanzo doesn't look quite as affronted by the casual approach as he might have for anyone else in this not-quite-reputable establishment.
the surprise is there, though. followed by the inevitable up-and-down eyewipe in appraisal, then that characteristic twist of the mouth. searching for words. trying to think of how best not to sound like a Total Fucking Asshole.
the same old song and dance, probably. hanzo is pretty sure his awkward moment of silence has already said it all. ]
'Commemorate'.
[ he finally decides on a harmless repetition of the last word spoken to him, because that can't possibly offend— it can, however, sound like an admonishment, which might be something hanzo is going for.
he lifts the bottle from roy's hand, because he's pretty sure the guy has had enough. ]
As good an excuse as any to continue drinking, on your part. [ note that hanzo makes no motion to put his mouth on something this drunk guy already slobbered over, thank you very much. ] I commend you on your originality, if nothing else.
[ educate yourself, roy: no one actually celebrates hanzo being anywhere. ]
Edited (how many typos can i make in one tag) 2017-02-04 03:29 (UTC)
[ roy bursts into laughter - sloppy, clumsy, laughter, like rain water sloshing over the gutter. he ends, elegantly, with a burp.
the thing is - when there's no one else around, it's easy to blame the guy who looks like he took a shower earlier than last fucking month. ]
Commemoration - [ he definitely slips over the syllables - too many ms in that damn word - but he carries on anyway, seemingly unaffected ] - wouldn't be commemoration if we're not both stinking drunk. Come on.
[ an awkward cant forward, momentum stopped by a playful slap to hanzo's shoulder. ]
It's the good stuff. Cross my heart.
[ meaning that it smells like a gutter and tastes even worse, but - that's what passes for the good stuff when half the town's dead or dying or in the process of fucking off to richer worlds. ]
[ there are times when a man just wants to go to a bar after work and brood about the poor life choices that he made in the solitude of his own misery. there are just days when you want to hate yourself in peace. there are nights when you just want a bowl of peanuts and a good glass of shochu to think about how much you suck and how the people around you might have been people your dead brother used to hang out with.
protip: life is never that easy. hanzo suddenly looks as tired as he feels, but the expression comes and goes. ]
It smells [ he says, with a sniff ] like bilgewater.
[ but he lets the slap contact and reverberate around the room (it feels like hitting a wall, incidentally). it's the only gesture of camaraderie hanzo's seen in weeks.
so he pulls up a chair. ]
There are enough bodies in the ground as it is. I am not eager to join them.
[ maybe he'd feel guilty, if he were anyone other than himself. this guy - whoever he is - doesn't boast the way most company officials do. with their big words and clean hands and fucking strutting-rooster attitudes.
this one - well, he kind of looks like roy himself. the kind of guy that turns around and sees ghosts. ]
Bilgewater probably smells better.
[ another burbling spill of laughter, roy dropping his elbows onto his thighs. he'd come to mock, not to befriend.
but the lack of military dismissal - the inattention to his wheelchair - well, maybe roy'd judged him wrong. ]
Careful - you hang around here long enough, you'll start forgetting there's anything sweeter out there.
[ hanzo is a dragon, and dragons never toggle the authority on and off: they live it. it's beneath him, to blow fire in people's faces without provocation— his father always told him that true aristocracy does not demand fear, because fear pilfered instead of earned is cheap.
a longwinded way for hanzo to justify his stupidity in humoring this stranger, but. he's done stupider.
he calls for two glasses from the bartender, slides an empty cup along to roy, and—
—curiously enough, also gets him a glass of water. ]
Hm. No admonishment about my failure to understand how the other half lives.
Surprising.
[ quite the contrary: roy offers him a warning. how refreshing. ]
[ roy stares down into the glass of water, watching his reflection ripple upon its surface. it looks like little more than a smear of dirt. ]
I used to be up there with the lot of you, y'know.
[ ignoring the glass, he folds his arms over the table, resting his forehead against his wrists. the blood-red undersides of his eyelids. someone coughing in the background. a whining dog. ]
I was - [ he turns his head, one dark eye opening to fix itself on the sorry guy who'd stooped to show him kindness. ] an actor. Maybe you even saw me up there on the silver screen. Took your lady for a night out and - [ a grin, showing all of his teeth. ]
[ roy has an open-book face, the kind that's sprawled open with the best pages on display and all the rest glued shut. he says he's an actor and there's a strange comfort in knowing that. it allows hanzo to tell himself that anything positive he derives from this interaction is a matter of benevolent roleplay.
hanzo doesn't smile in return. his teeth have grown too sharp to. ]
A likely story.
[ the whiskey floods, amber-brown into his empty glass. the poor lighting in the bar gives the drink a semblance of viscosity, a warning that hanzo will be scraping the alcohol from his throat for days to come.
instead of tipping the glass to his lips, he keeps his eyes locked on roy and lets the shadow it casts play along the tattoo on his forearm.
(he almost asks roy if his abundance of love cost him his legs. projecting.) ]
But your hubris drove her back to me.
[ a hypothetical woman that doesn't exist. they are so profoundly lonely for having this conversation at all. ]
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no subject
three-quarters into his second bottle of whiskey, but that's not important.
he nearly sloshes the remainder over himself when he reaches down to pull at the controls for his wheelchair - of course, there's probably mud and gunk and someone's day-old phlegm rusting the mechanics up, so he doesn't get more than a half-step forward before he's grinding to a stop.
gotta do it the old fashioned way, then.
he wheels himself forward, open bottle clutched between his thighs. when he careens to a stop, he's already got the bottle in hand, tossing back another swig. ]
Well, if it isn't one of our guardian angels, sent from a-fucking-above. We should share a drink to commemorate the occasion.
[ and he holds his bottle up for the taking.
he's surprisingly coherent for someone two bottles in, but that's roy walker for you. drink down a whole damn distillery and all he'll get is a bout of halitosis and an urge to pee. ]
no subject
the surprise is there, though. followed by the inevitable up-and-down eyewipe in appraisal, then that characteristic twist of the mouth. searching for words. trying to think of how best not to sound like a Total Fucking Asshole.
the same old song and dance, probably. hanzo is pretty sure his awkward moment of silence has already said it all. ]
'Commemorate'.
[ he finally decides on a harmless repetition of the last word spoken to him, because that can't possibly offend— it can, however, sound like an admonishment, which might be something hanzo is going for.
he lifts the bottle from roy's hand, because he's pretty sure the guy has had enough. ]
As good an excuse as any to continue drinking, on your part. [ note that hanzo makes no motion to put his mouth on something this drunk guy already slobbered over, thank you very much. ] I commend you on your originality, if nothing else.
[ educate yourself, roy: no one actually celebrates hanzo being anywhere. ]
no subject
the thing is - when there's no one else around, it's easy to blame the guy who looks like he took a shower earlier than last fucking month. ]
Commemoration - [ he definitely slips over the syllables - too many ms in that damn word - but he carries on anyway, seemingly unaffected ] - wouldn't be commemoration if we're not both stinking drunk. Come on.
[ an awkward cant forward, momentum stopped by a playful slap to hanzo's shoulder. ]
It's the good stuff. Cross my heart.
[ meaning that it smells like a gutter and tastes even worse, but - that's what passes for the good stuff when half the town's dead or dying or in the process of fucking off to richer worlds. ]
no subject
protip: life is never that easy. hanzo suddenly looks as tired as he feels, but the expression comes and goes. ]
It smells [ he says, with a sniff ] like bilgewater.
[ but he lets the slap contact and reverberate around the room (it feels like hitting a wall, incidentally). it's the only gesture of camaraderie hanzo's seen in weeks.
so he pulls up a chair. ]
There are enough bodies in the ground as it is. I am not eager to join them.
no subject
this one - well, he kind of looks like roy himself. the kind of guy that turns around and sees ghosts. ]
Bilgewater probably smells better.
[ another burbling spill of laughter, roy dropping his elbows onto his thighs. he'd come to mock, not to befriend.
but the lack of military dismissal - the inattention to his wheelchair - well, maybe roy'd judged him wrong. ]
Careful - you hang around here long enough, you'll start forgetting there's anything sweeter out there.
no subject
a longwinded way for hanzo to justify his stupidity in humoring this stranger, but. he's done stupider.
he calls for two glasses from the bartender, slides an empty cup along to roy, and—
—curiously enough, also gets him a glass of water. ]
Hm. No admonishment about my failure to understand how the other half lives.
Surprising.
[ quite the contrary: roy offers him a warning. how refreshing. ]
no subject
I used to be up there with the lot of you, y'know.
[ ignoring the glass, he folds his arms over the table, resting his forehead against his wrists. the blood-red undersides of his eyelids. someone coughing in the background. a whining dog. ]
I was - [ he turns his head, one dark eye opening to fix itself on the sorry guy who'd stooped to show him kindness. ] an actor. Maybe you even saw me up there on the silver screen. Took your lady for a night out and - [ a grin, showing all of his teeth. ]
Maybe she fell in love with my face before yours.
no subject
hanzo doesn't smile in return. his teeth have grown too sharp to. ]
A likely story.
[ the whiskey floods, amber-brown into his empty glass. the poor lighting in the bar gives the drink a semblance of viscosity, a warning that hanzo will be scraping the alcohol from his throat for days to come.
instead of tipping the glass to his lips, he keeps his eyes locked on roy and lets the shadow it casts play along the tattoo on his forearm.
(he almost asks roy if his abundance of love cost him his legs. projecting.) ]
But your hubris drove her back to me.
[ a hypothetical woman that doesn't exist. they are so profoundly lonely for having this conversation at all. ]