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shadowknight2008-03-02 03:08 am
sl_walker) wrote in shadowknight2008-03-02 03:08 am
Entry tags:
Fic - 100 Proof
Title: 100 Proof
Rating: PG
Universe: Home
Timeline: January 12th, 2006
Written: January 12th, 2006
Summary: After Rick chases him down to the Days Inn, in Georgia, and a subsequent in-play fight, Mike turns to a bottle. Just this once.
Midwestern males were funny creatures. Males in general had quirks, but Midwestern males tended to have a disproportionate number of them. It was one part upbringing, one part culture, and some genetics as well. Naturally, not all males born in the Midwest fit the bill, but a whole lot of them did.
The archetypal Midwestern male was hard-working and relatively selfless. He was generally content in complaining about little things, like the weather or the price of gasoline, and taking the big things in absolute stoicism. He stubs his toe, and curses; he loses a couple of fingers in the thresher and calmly calls the wife to get a towel.
He doesn't have a lot of big, fancy dreams. If anything, he doesn't have many dreams at all. A perfect future would be one where the budget was balanced in the household, and he might be able to take the wife to the city for a few days and stay in a four-star hotel. His kids will grow up and become productive and independent members of society, and he'll someday get to bounce grandbabies on his knee.
He doesn't spend any time lamenting about the lack of great and fancy dreams. Great and fancy dreams are a quick way to the poorhouse, and you'll probably be happier where you are anyway.
He loves deeply, but doesn't often say it. There's little need to say it when you show it; you work hard, and support your family, and remain a constant, stable force that anyone can rely upon. Men respect you, women admire you, children like you and all because you have the relatively unassuming aire that comes naturally. There are no false pretenses to the Midwestern male; what you see is generally what you get.
He tends to enjoy a good joke, good weather and sitting in the bar with friends. The Midwestern male does not naturally talk about philosophy; his idea of philosophy is that generally, life is what you make of it, God loves you and there is no need to question anything deeper. His idea of friendship is even more simple; his friend's roof is damaged in a storm, and he shows up with the tools and shingles to fix it without a word being spoken. And when the job is finished, he lets his friend buy the beer, kicks back and the grateful silence permeates the air. The message goes both ways and is simple, and never spoken: "I'm here for you. Thank you for allowing me to be."
Saying such things would break an unspoken rule. Baring your soul is considered taboo, though you could get away with doing so to your wife under duress. But there are very strict codes about such things.
Midwestern males, for the most part, are wonderfully straightforward and at the same time, incomprehensible to someone who had been raised without any exposure to them.
Mike was a lot of things, but he wasn't the archetypal Midwestern male. The core elements were the same; the selflessness, the powerful sense of love and devotion to ones friends and family, the innate lack of fancy dreams when simple ones worked so well. He enjoyed a good joke, good weather and sitting with friends and a beer. He was, as Kitty had once said, a good mix between chatterbox and hermit -- some things he complained about openly, some things he took stoically.
In the end, though, he had one thing that most kept hidden... fire. And lacked the one thing that would probably be enough to balance that... stability.
He had been fairly stable before the SOL; admittedly, there wasn't much to be unstable about. He had been a young Midwestern male, the image of his father... any outside quirks he mostly kept to himself. He didn't have fancy dreams or any kind of need for philosophy in his life (aside what he found in the love of poetry and literature), and he just lived by day and paycheck.
The SOL had been the big change, but that was old news. He went nuts. Slowly, sure, but by the time it was over, he was basically crazy. An unstable element. All of the fire, but none of that stability he'd left with. No balancing force. Nothing to keep him grounded. He had to go crazy -- it was the only way to survive it, really.
Then he was thrown into a world of superheroes and supervillians. Thrown into a place where the highs and lows were so dramatically different and sudden that any chance at finding steadiness was to be grabbed onto. God knows, he did that. First with sitting on the dock, and fishing, even though there were no fish. With hanging out with Kitty while it was quiet. Joking around with Scott and Remy. Letting the 'bots sleep at the foot of his bed. And then going to get Joel.
All the instability was still there, but it was balanced out now. He could be something closer to normal again. The best part was, though...
They knew. And understood.
It was okay. They knew his strengths and weaknesses and knew how to keep him okay. They didn't ever make any assumptions, didn't ever let him feel too silly when things got to be too much for him. They protected him; he was allowed to be vulnerable sometimes, and they would protect him. It made him less vulnerable overall in the end; just knowing that they were there was usually enough to keep on going, keep fighting through whatever bad things happened.
They protected him, and he tried to pay it back by protecting them. Tried to be there when they needed someone to talk to, to tell a joke. Tried to be there when they wanted someone to sleep next to. He was the first on the battlefield and the last off of it; he was willing to bleed so that they wouldn't have to. He could take it... he couldn't take seeing them hurt.
Exodus, Sabretooth... scores of FoH members wounded. He deplored killing, that was why they switched to the trank guns. But he would kill; did kill. He regretted Exodus sometimes, because he hadn't meant to actually kill him, just... stop him. Throw him off. And he regretted sometimes wounding the FoH people, though less than Exodus, because he meant to hurt them, stop them. He would never regret Sabretooth, though. Never.
He tried to kill the demons, both in the real world and inside his head and inside everyone's heads. Joel, Clay... both who let their pasts chew at them. He tried to help Rick, but he wasn't always sure he was having much luck. He didn't let his own past chew at him. It had taken a long time to banish the last monster in the dark; always running, never away from that final battle, but to it.
It was okay when they were all together. It was right. It was more right than anything else in the universe; a balance, a family, a stable place in a world of desperate instability. A chance to make a difference, make an impact, make the world better.
It was okay, because they kept him stable enough to lead, and be strong, and certain. Any claim he could ever give to being heroic, or strong, he owed almost entirely to his team.
This kind of feeling was new. He hated it. Hated himself, a little, too... for being so helpless. For letting it bother him in the first place. It was that messed up Midwestern guilt again; a perpetual loop. You feel guilty for being vulnerable because it's your responsibility not to be (which you gave up), which just makes you even more vulnerable to the guilt. Now, on top of that, three (and maybe five) members of his team thought he was a coward, he let down the ones that were missing by being kinda pathetic, and he had decked Rick. Which would piss off Nance, and probably ruin Rick's view of him for awhile, even though he had tried really hard to keep away from fighting, but Rick wouldn't let him retreat, so he was in a corner and desperate, but that didn't matter, because he'd hit a friend.
Mike broke another Midwestern code and settled on a couple of bottles of 100 proof. Midwestern males universally preferred beer, and he was no different, but he wanted to get drunk and not waste too terribly much time to do it. Naturally, it was another pathetic thing to do, but...
Ugh.
He had to do something. This had to stop. He'd tried being strong, and then he tried just letting shock and numbness keep him from losing it, and then he tried going with the others and being open, and failed, and then he had tried leaving and letting the road be a balm, and that failed too. He couldn't screw up much worse, so getting drunk seemed like a fair enough idea. Get a little brain-dead and lose the angst. He hated angst. Hated feeling vulnerable. Hated the fact he'd hit Rick. Hated the fact that three (and maybe five) members of his team have probably lost faith in him, and the others might too. Brain-dead sounded really good. Couldn't do any more damage.
So he took a walk, and picked up two bottles of Southern Comfort (couldn't stand the stuff, but it was in the right price range), then went back to the Days Inn and went about the serious task of getting blitzed.
Rick was still asleep, and Mike wasn't going to wake him up. He'd even slept on the floor the night before, in a roundabout way to apologize, even though Rick ended up staying with KITT all night anyway.
So he sat at the little table and got somewhat liquored up in a short period of time. He wasn't aiming for 'passed out drunk', so he tried to keep it in moderation. But reasonably blown out of his head was good. That way, all your problems are still there, but you're just too messed up to worry that much about them.
It didn't take much. Despite his size, he only allowed himself to get truly pickled once a year now and even that was on beer and not on whiskey. Just to provide some background noise, he turned the television on and watched it... well, tried to watch it. Even daytime TV was kinda funny when your BAC was something over %0.15.
Besides, he hadn't gotten to get drunk on New Years, so he was due a chance.
Maybe it wouldn't make the problems go away, but it'd give him a little break from them.
Rating: PG
Universe: Home
Timeline: January 12th, 2006
Written: January 12th, 2006
Summary: After Rick chases him down to the Days Inn, in Georgia, and a subsequent in-play fight, Mike turns to a bottle. Just this once.
Midwestern males were funny creatures. Males in general had quirks, but Midwestern males tended to have a disproportionate number of them. It was one part upbringing, one part culture, and some genetics as well. Naturally, not all males born in the Midwest fit the bill, but a whole lot of them did.
The archetypal Midwestern male was hard-working and relatively selfless. He was generally content in complaining about little things, like the weather or the price of gasoline, and taking the big things in absolute stoicism. He stubs his toe, and curses; he loses a couple of fingers in the thresher and calmly calls the wife to get a towel.
He doesn't have a lot of big, fancy dreams. If anything, he doesn't have many dreams at all. A perfect future would be one where the budget was balanced in the household, and he might be able to take the wife to the city for a few days and stay in a four-star hotel. His kids will grow up and become productive and independent members of society, and he'll someday get to bounce grandbabies on his knee.
He doesn't spend any time lamenting about the lack of great and fancy dreams. Great and fancy dreams are a quick way to the poorhouse, and you'll probably be happier where you are anyway.
He loves deeply, but doesn't often say it. There's little need to say it when you show it; you work hard, and support your family, and remain a constant, stable force that anyone can rely upon. Men respect you, women admire you, children like you and all because you have the relatively unassuming aire that comes naturally. There are no false pretenses to the Midwestern male; what you see is generally what you get.
He tends to enjoy a good joke, good weather and sitting in the bar with friends. The Midwestern male does not naturally talk about philosophy; his idea of philosophy is that generally, life is what you make of it, God loves you and there is no need to question anything deeper. His idea of friendship is even more simple; his friend's roof is damaged in a storm, and he shows up with the tools and shingles to fix it without a word being spoken. And when the job is finished, he lets his friend buy the beer, kicks back and the grateful silence permeates the air. The message goes both ways and is simple, and never spoken: "I'm here for you. Thank you for allowing me to be."
Saying such things would break an unspoken rule. Baring your soul is considered taboo, though you could get away with doing so to your wife under duress. But there are very strict codes about such things.
Midwestern males, for the most part, are wonderfully straightforward and at the same time, incomprehensible to someone who had been raised without any exposure to them.
Mike was a lot of things, but he wasn't the archetypal Midwestern male. The core elements were the same; the selflessness, the powerful sense of love and devotion to ones friends and family, the innate lack of fancy dreams when simple ones worked so well. He enjoyed a good joke, good weather and sitting with friends and a beer. He was, as Kitty had once said, a good mix between chatterbox and hermit -- some things he complained about openly, some things he took stoically.
In the end, though, he had one thing that most kept hidden... fire. And lacked the one thing that would probably be enough to balance that... stability.
He had been fairly stable before the SOL; admittedly, there wasn't much to be unstable about. He had been a young Midwestern male, the image of his father... any outside quirks he mostly kept to himself. He didn't have fancy dreams or any kind of need for philosophy in his life (aside what he found in the love of poetry and literature), and he just lived by day and paycheck.
The SOL had been the big change, but that was old news. He went nuts. Slowly, sure, but by the time it was over, he was basically crazy. An unstable element. All of the fire, but none of that stability he'd left with. No balancing force. Nothing to keep him grounded. He had to go crazy -- it was the only way to survive it, really.
Then he was thrown into a world of superheroes and supervillians. Thrown into a place where the highs and lows were so dramatically different and sudden that any chance at finding steadiness was to be grabbed onto. God knows, he did that. First with sitting on the dock, and fishing, even though there were no fish. With hanging out with Kitty while it was quiet. Joking around with Scott and Remy. Letting the 'bots sleep at the foot of his bed. And then going to get Joel.
All the instability was still there, but it was balanced out now. He could be something closer to normal again. The best part was, though...
They knew. And understood.
It was okay. They knew his strengths and weaknesses and knew how to keep him okay. They didn't ever make any assumptions, didn't ever let him feel too silly when things got to be too much for him. They protected him; he was allowed to be vulnerable sometimes, and they would protect him. It made him less vulnerable overall in the end; just knowing that they were there was usually enough to keep on going, keep fighting through whatever bad things happened.
They protected him, and he tried to pay it back by protecting them. Tried to be there when they needed someone to talk to, to tell a joke. Tried to be there when they wanted someone to sleep next to. He was the first on the battlefield and the last off of it; he was willing to bleed so that they wouldn't have to. He could take it... he couldn't take seeing them hurt.
Exodus, Sabretooth... scores of FoH members wounded. He deplored killing, that was why they switched to the trank guns. But he would kill; did kill. He regretted Exodus sometimes, because he hadn't meant to actually kill him, just... stop him. Throw him off. And he regretted sometimes wounding the FoH people, though less than Exodus, because he meant to hurt them, stop them. He would never regret Sabretooth, though. Never.
He tried to kill the demons, both in the real world and inside his head and inside everyone's heads. Joel, Clay... both who let their pasts chew at them. He tried to help Rick, but he wasn't always sure he was having much luck. He didn't let his own past chew at him. It had taken a long time to banish the last monster in the dark; always running, never away from that final battle, but to it.
It was okay when they were all together. It was right. It was more right than anything else in the universe; a balance, a family, a stable place in a world of desperate instability. A chance to make a difference, make an impact, make the world better.
It was okay, because they kept him stable enough to lead, and be strong, and certain. Any claim he could ever give to being heroic, or strong, he owed almost entirely to his team.
This kind of feeling was new. He hated it. Hated himself, a little, too... for being so helpless. For letting it bother him in the first place. It was that messed up Midwestern guilt again; a perpetual loop. You feel guilty for being vulnerable because it's your responsibility not to be (which you gave up), which just makes you even more vulnerable to the guilt. Now, on top of that, three (and maybe five) members of his team thought he was a coward, he let down the ones that were missing by being kinda pathetic, and he had decked Rick. Which would piss off Nance, and probably ruin Rick's view of him for awhile, even though he had tried really hard to keep away from fighting, but Rick wouldn't let him retreat, so he was in a corner and desperate, but that didn't matter, because he'd hit a friend.
Mike broke another Midwestern code and settled on a couple of bottles of 100 proof. Midwestern males universally preferred beer, and he was no different, but he wanted to get drunk and not waste too terribly much time to do it. Naturally, it was another pathetic thing to do, but...
Ugh.
He had to do something. This had to stop. He'd tried being strong, and then he tried just letting shock and numbness keep him from losing it, and then he tried going with the others and being open, and failed, and then he had tried leaving and letting the road be a balm, and that failed too. He couldn't screw up much worse, so getting drunk seemed like a fair enough idea. Get a little brain-dead and lose the angst. He hated angst. Hated feeling vulnerable. Hated the fact he'd hit Rick. Hated the fact that three (and maybe five) members of his team have probably lost faith in him, and the others might too. Brain-dead sounded really good. Couldn't do any more damage.
So he took a walk, and picked up two bottles of Southern Comfort (couldn't stand the stuff, but it was in the right price range), then went back to the Days Inn and went about the serious task of getting blitzed.
Rick was still asleep, and Mike wasn't going to wake him up. He'd even slept on the floor the night before, in a roundabout way to apologize, even though Rick ended up staying with KITT all night anyway.
So he sat at the little table and got somewhat liquored up in a short period of time. He wasn't aiming for 'passed out drunk', so he tried to keep it in moderation. But reasonably blown out of his head was good. That way, all your problems are still there, but you're just too messed up to worry that much about them.
It didn't take much. Despite his size, he only allowed himself to get truly pickled once a year now and even that was on beer and not on whiskey. Just to provide some background noise, he turned the television on and watched it... well, tried to watch it. Even daytime TV was kinda funny when your BAC was something over %0.15.
Besides, he hadn't gotten to get drunk on New Years, so he was due a chance.
Maybe it wouldn't make the problems go away, but it'd give him a little break from them.