Grumbled as he gets out of the car and slams the door, and it's such a fucking joke, right? It just be, just like the rest of his miserable damn life. "I'll just be waiting with bated breath for that, so you can tell me how to live my life."
Like everyone else on this glorified sandbar keeps doing. Telling him to relax. Telling him he'd like the beaches here, because everyone likes the beaches here, they're the best in the world. Telling him to get out more. Telling him to drop the attitude and just calm down, because it's so damn easy to look in the shuttered and barred windows of his life and find the ways to fix it, right?
Well, they can go to hell, because his life is a joke, just like the numbers on his wrist that mean he's destined to land face first in a steaming pile of bullshit. It was bad enough they went off when a gun got shoved in his face and his crime scene was taken away; bad enough they blinked into zeros for someone he already, unequivocally, entirely, hates, like he hates Nazis and sunburn and never getting to see another Yankees game from the stadium seating, but now? They're partners.
Which means, even if by some insane chance he hits his head or has a stroke and forgets he hates Steve, or Steve gets a complete personality makeover and starts acting like he enjoys human company, nothing can happen.
So it's just a joke. The way his left hand closes briefly, like a cuff, over his right wrist and those hilarious, laughable numbers, before he swings them apart and heads for the restaurant door.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-02-16 03:56 pm (UTC)"Yeah, you let me know."
Grumbled as he gets out of the car and slams the door, and it's such a fucking joke, right? It just be, just like the rest of his miserable damn life. "I'll just be waiting with bated breath for that, so you can tell me how to live my life."
Like everyone else on this glorified sandbar keeps doing. Telling him to relax. Telling him he'd like the beaches here, because everyone likes the beaches here, they're the best in the world. Telling him to get out more. Telling him to drop the attitude and just calm down, because it's so damn easy to look in the shuttered and barred windows of his life and find the ways to fix it, right?
Well, they can go to hell, because his life is a joke, just like the numbers on his wrist that mean he's destined to land face first in a steaming pile of bullshit. It was bad enough they went off when a gun got shoved in his face and his crime scene was taken away; bad enough they blinked into zeros for someone he already, unequivocally, entirely, hates, like he hates Nazis and sunburn and never getting to see another Yankees game from the stadium seating, but now? They're partners.
Which means, even if by some insane chance he hits his head or has a stroke and forgets he hates Steve, or Steve gets a complete personality makeover and starts acting like he enjoys human company, nothing can happen.
So it's just a joke. The way his left hand closes briefly, like a cuff, over his right wrist and those hilarious, laughable numbers, before he swings them apart and heads for the restaurant door.