flyguy | [Recollé] Telenovela Ep1: Tony y Jack

"BAM!" The 6 ball goes in the corner pocket and Tony raises his arms up for his accolades as cheering and applause fill the bar. "That's how you play the game!"

He's wearing a suit, there's a fedora tipped jauntily on his head, expensive silk tie undone around his neck. He looks like a good couple thousand dollars because he's wearing a few k. Practically gold in cloth currency. There's a busty blond bombshell with an increasingly low crop top to his right and a brunette popping out of a vaguely buttoned buttondown to his left. Or at least that's the concept she's pushing. Doesn't matter. He doesn't care. Leaning in he slings an arm around both girls' shoulders. "Who's thirsty? Anyone? Anyone? Show of hands folks. Bar— another round for the room if you will!"

To say the small street corner bar is raucous and packed is an understatement. Hands pat Tony's back, people are shouting to him, congratulations all around. Another award on his book, he's just smashing them out of the park, way to go Tony. Accepting a beer from someone he tips his head back and chugs. As someone puts eurobeat on the jukebox and a soccer player scores a goal on the television. Not fireworks for the seemingly perfect moment, but hey it's close.

"Raucous" and "packed" are about what Jack needs right now - he's back in town and doesn't have a friend in the world, so whoever's having a good time in there can afford to let him soak a little bit of it up, he thinks. He's still got that jacket, even if it's somehow more worn than before, and even if he's managed to patch that bullet hole over, the 1%er patch (the only one he didn't tear off) is still on his shoulder. It gets him in trouble sometimes, but fuck if he can bring himself to throw it away.

When he actually gets inside and sees who's celebrating, he isn't actually all that surprised. He takes up a spot at the bar instead of introducing himself, orders tequila - actually, why don'tcha just leave me the bottle, sweetheart - and takes it in. He's doing good for himself, Tony is, and Jack is... happy for him. He honestly is. Nice duds. Nice party. Nice pair of tits on either side of him, too.

The newest round of cheers goes up, and Jack raises his glass with them. But he's got that jacket, and he's got that scar, and no doubt someone's going to let Tony know that wow, you will not believe this, it's Jack. Over there, look.

Haha Tony having long term friends, let alone ones going back a decade. Funny thing: when you start acting like you're the most important thing in your world, stop answering calls, breaking promises, never being where you say you'll be— people stop coming around. It's a familiar situation. Hell Jack might even recognize it if he cares to think back ten years. And, you know, Tony was in that kind of sharing mood.

No what happens is he shrugs off his choice escorts and makes his way over to the bar. Hard to stumble when there's no room to stumble. Reaching it he pulls several 20s out of his inner jacket pocket and holds them out to the keep. "Heya, Camilla. Long Island and dry. Very dry. You know, like the Sahara or wherever this guy is from. 1940s are over pal— we won the war if you're wondering."

An hand claps down on Jack's shoulder. Yeah. Him. The loser in the beat up leather duds. Until Tony's eyes spy the patch, squint and widen anyway. He has had way too many for this shit. "Is your drink on my tab?"

He turns to the barkeeper. "His drink is on my tab?" Gotta check these things. You know...when...you're... Contemplating murder. It's only for a moment, but damn if he doesn't imagine how good it'd feel to smash Jack's face right into that glass he's holding. Instead Tony takes the Long Island set in front of him and pulls a long sip. "Didn't think they let dogs in places like this. Health code violation or...something. What're you doing here, Jack? Because it sure as hell isn't my birthday."

Edited (Cleans this up phone tagging ughhh) 2017-04-16 03:23 (UTC)

Great, so this is going to be exactly as friendly as Jack thought it would. In what is probably the most obnoxious response possible, Jack just glances over to Tony with a wry smile, doesn't respond otherwise.

"Isn't mine either. Guess that makes you Christmas, darlin'." Jack lifts his shot - yes, he actually drinks his tequila out of glasses, he's cultured, see - in greeting, then downs it. Weird to be the more sober one between the two of them. "Your jokes are better when you're not hammered, Tony."

He pretends Tony isn't touching him and looks back to his setup, pouring himself another leisurely shot. Where a near decade has made Tony look like money, Jack just looks more like a human being and less like a stray - he's filled out, healthier, hair trimmed up and styled properly like he didn't just roll out of bed. No dark-eyed, vaguely strung out look to be found. He's even dressed in a respectable button-down and jeans that may or may not be brand name. And is that cologne?

He's less trashnasty than Tony remembers, is what I'm saying.

"I'm here for business. What about you? Shouldn't a hotshot like you be off on some big book tour?"

Tony does let go at least. No need to touch Jack any longer than... Touching Jack is never necessary. He should look into getting a rabies shot later. "Business? And here I thought the douchebag parade was in town. You certainly fit right in with the rest of them."

Yeah!! You know. Whatever that means. Reaching across the counter he grabs a peanut out of the free nuts bowl, flicks it up to catch it in his open mouth, misses —if they were in any less crowded bar he'd be on the floor by now for real— and forlornly watches it tumble away to be lost in the press of bodies around them. Someone has a peanut now. That someone not being him. Anyway... He turns back to Jack.

"Kids. I'm reading to sick kids at St. Agatha's Hospital tomorrow. You know, the kind of local charity loving and empathetic human beings do for their community. So what's business? Collecting fingers? Drugs?"

His hands roll over eachother in the air and one flattens out palm up towards Jack, indicating it's his turn to speak. How does one write out hand speech for 500 Alex. ANYWHO if Jack was going to take that opening too bad because Tony immediately turns to the barkeeper. "He cleans up pretty nice, doesn't he? Almost kind of well-to-do, middle class. Would you ever guess my friend here used to be in a gang? Mmhm. True facts."

A long...chug...of his glass.

"Aah, yeah. Another, thanks. Actually just give me a shot of gin and vodka and cut out the middleman."

So much fucking class here. So much.

And, completely out of character, Jack actually sits through all of that with a mild enough response - he raises his eyebrows, sips his shot, leans an elbow back onto the bar while Tony does his... Tony thing. He's actually midway through a peanut himself by the time Tony gets his gin and vodkas, making sure that he's finished before glancing to the bartender.

"You know Tony, right? Yeah." He gestures idly between them. "We're friends."

Understatement of the fucking year. The bartender looks uncomfortable, but Jack isn't any more inclined to make this comfortable than Tony is - he turns slightly in his seat, propping his temple up with his knuckles.

"Gonna read one of your hit books? Golly jeez, hope little Timmy's mom doesn't mind him asking what fat, heaving bosoms are." But he doesn't linger either, licking salt off his thumb. "You're embarrassing yourself here, Anthony."

"Tony. You don't get to show back up after dropping off the face of the earth for nearly a decade and call me that." There's a certain hardness to his voice, something that was never there before. Like he's drawing lines and if Jack crosses them— well it's not going to end in an hugfest. Not the same as the Tony who, sure, had a motormouth, but always caved to whatever others asked of him Jack knew.

"And if you read my books you'd know they're nubile and lithe. Don't date me with the heaving bosoms, this isn't the 60s." Picking up one of his shots he downs it in an instant. Burns, but he can barely even register it this inebriated. Same for the taste. Which one was it, the gin or the vodka? Who knows. Turning around, glass still in hand, he leans his back against he counter and watches the rest of the room. Loud, crazy, full of energy and no room to think. He could be out in that right now.

Instead he's leaning here. With Jack. "Still haven't said what this business is. Seriously— what are you doing here."

"Now, I could rise to that bait and tell you 'whatever the fuck I want to', but I'm not." Jack taps his knuckles thoughtfully on the bar, fingers the edge of his shot like he's fidgety. "It's not that easy anymore, champ. The company I work for wants someone to examine the holdings of another company they're discussing a merger with. As their head programmer, that dull crap falls on me."

Head programmer, he says, and there's no doubt he says it with the intention of showing Tony he's actually accomplished something. Doesn't need this guy's approval, and he knows he's not going to get it, but on some level he wants it anyway. College man. Pulling in a decent amount. Cleaned up and alive and on the straight and narrow like no one ever thought he could be, himself included.

"And I wanted to see my girls."

Still even, still calm, but he downs another shot right after he says it.

Reaching back Tony grabs his other shot and it goes the way of the first one. And every other alcoholic drink he's had all night. Head programmer. Legit business. Something something blah blah blah who cares. It's going in his ears, but Tony's brain isn't processing what Jack's saying. It's been a long day. Court. The award presentation. Interviews. Merchandise negotiations. And then there was his lawyer harping on him to get a bodyguard.

"I'm not going to get a bodyguard, Frank. They're my parents."
"Tony, there's plenty of evidence on that police report that they contacted someone about putting an hit on you. And right now it'd be real convenient for them if you disappeared so all charges would be dropped. I'm telling you this as your legal counsel: hire someone."

It's not been good. It hasn't been good for a few months now. Maybe longer than that. Nearly ten years? Forever? He doesn't have the energy or the empathy for Jack's little made good story.

"You still know how to kill the buzz in a room. It's like a party trick. Guess some things never change."

"Well hell, can't expect a guy to give up everything fun." Jack taps the side of his nose, turns halfway in his seat to follow Tony's line of sight. "Looks like you have enough buzz in you anyway, kiddo."

And he says it so sweet, too. Like they're friends. Pals. Besties, even. It's condescending to the max and he's not trying to hide it in the least, capping the tequila and pushing it far enough back that he won't accidentally knock it down with his elbow or something.

Funny. The room is full of booze and warm, inviting bodies, but he doesn't want any of them.

"Hey - wanna go jump off a bridge with me?"

Casually Tony takes Jack's tequila bottle and undoes the cap. It's with a certain perfunctoriness he puts the opening to his mouth and tosses his head back. It's more than clear this isn't just one night of heavy drinking, but an habit, a skill. Finishing he sets it back on he counter, carefree as can be. "Depends. How scenic's the location?"

It's all Jack gets before Tony's hand is gripping the back of Jack's head and slamming his face into the countertop (or trying at least, whichever). He looks up at the bartender who's jumped back at the commotion. Something about it... Her frightened rabbit look maybe or maybe it's the violence itself, the alcohol, who knows, he's feeling good! So he laughs. Loud, a tone shy of a guffaw. Hell, if he had the free hand he'd wipe away a tear. "We're not that good friends, sorry. Say, Camilla. Would you happen to remember which eyecandy I came in with? This is probably going to involve the cops—" He laughs again, louder, even as his fingers tighten in Jack's hair. "—and I never got those digits."

If he's still got that hold on Jack he'll be jerking the other man back with a strength fueled by alcohol and throwing him backwards to the floor. Or, well, into a gaggle of hipsters. Look, it's crowded in here. Watch out for the pins on those messenger bags, Jack.

The impact blacks out his vision for a second, and all he really catches of that is Tony's bark of laughter - and Jack's laughing too, even as he lands in the arms, willing and unwilling, of a group of kids who barely look old enough to be here in the first place. It's hard to keep up with things second by second when his head's still fuzzy from impact, but he's been in enough fights to know to lever onto his feet and lunge; he'll probably hit something, and with any luck, that something will be Tony. Maybe? Who cares. It's been so long since he's been in a fight and he feels young and happy and stupid again, and it's so nice, so nice.

And, y'know, he's pretty happy to finally get a chance to duke it out with Tony [insertlastname]. Namely by grabbing someone's half-empty beer on the nearby bar and swinging it at Tony's face like a bludgeon. People are yelling, someone's probably calling the cops - it's fun, he's having fun.

Jack may be used to it, but Tony can't say he's been in many fights. No, that's wrong. He can count the amount of fights where he's fought back instead of standing there and taking it "like a man" on one hand. That's because it's 0, the number is 0. As such he has no concept of what to do when Jack slams into him, pinning him back against the bar with enough force to wind him. The bottle comes next, breaking over the side of his face in a shower of glass. The only thing that saves his eyes is the glasses he's wearing, but that doesn't do jack for everything else. There's blood and the pain would be insane if it weren't for the alcohol. People are screaming and scrambling back. Hands are pulling out phones, pictures are being taken, calls are placed. Tony just laughs harder. There's blood streaming down his face, glass stuck in it in a few places, beer all over him. Feels annoying. Feels good?

Who the hell cares. He doesn't know what to do, but he's been taking self-defense classes for a while now. As such his hand sloppily. grabs the shoulder of Jack's shirt to hold him in place and his other curls into a fist. The hook he throws into the side of Jack's rib cage is surprisingly brutal, no force held back. It's followed in quick succession by more, quick jabs that get more wild, stronger, turn into a frenzy. If Jack doesn't do something Tony's going to keep going until there's enough room he can knee Jack in the chest and drop him in the sudden open space around them.

But hey, least they both seem to be having a good time. Right? Even if Tony's face is taking on more and more of an animosity that's completely uncharacteristic to him.

Jack cuts himself when he grabs Tony by the face, but he hardly feels it - there's no finesse to this fight, but that's okay, because Tony is waylaying on those ribs he broke all those years back and Jack can hardly breathe for it, and the wash of raw sensation wipes out everything else he's been dealing with for the past decade. The loneliness. The anger. All there is right now is him, and Tony, and the breathless gasp he lets out when he hits the floor.

Feels good, feels fucking great, feels better than he's felt in years and years, and Jack isn't letting go of it now, knotting his hands in Tony's clothes and trying to drag them both to the floor. Tony's face is colored with hate, and Jack is grinning mindlessly, hand dragging up to try and lock around Tony's throat.

It's been a long time since he's gotten to strangle someone.

Tony's knees hit the floor and the rest of him basically follows. Look, sense of balance was out the window hours before he ran into Jack. As such it's not hard for Jack to get a chokehold at all, Tony laid out kind of like a beached fish. His eyes widen as his brain registers the whole breathing isn't happening thing and his hand slaps the floor, blindly searching for Jack.

It's pathetic. It's...not him. This is not him. Does Jack even realize what they're doing? His hand finally finds the other man's face and his nails dig in, dragging at flesh and that old scar as he gasps and sputters trying to breathe. Everything's going dark, starting at the edges and creeping in. He can definitely feel himself slipping off to beddy-bye when strong hands rip Jack's grip from his throat. Someone helps him up and he drunkenly tries to wave them off. Stumbles, falls, gets caught again and held more securely this time. Other hands are rolling Jack over, forcibly pushing his face into the floor as they cuff him. Tonight on COPS...

"Tony. Are you going to let me have a quiet night any week this month?"

Oh. Hey. He knows this voice. Turning blindly towards it he lets his arm be slung around a shoulder clothed in the sensible blue of the Recollé PD. "Officer Jody." Except it's more of a garbled frog voice. He tries again, makes more of an effort. What he gets is a thin rasp. "My favorite Jody on the force."

"I'm the only Jody on the force."

"I know. That's why you're my favorite one." Something, something words. It's kind of all a slur, but he does distinctly feel the cold bite of metal as an handcuff is slapped around his wrist. "I'm glad you feel that way. Because I have eye witness accounts that you threw the first blow this time. You're coming down to the station."

Tony's mouth gaps open like he can't comprehend what's going on. Because, you know, he sort of can't. It takes a moment. Two. He holds up an hand in the international signal for wait. Three. "Okay, just first—"

He turns and hurls on the floor. It's a good thing he's drunk or the excruciating pain of vomiting with a throat someone was minutes ago just trying to collapse would have him screaming. "...Now we can go."

And that's how Jack and Tony end up in two separate cells in the district jail. Wild night.

Edited (Cleans this up) 2017-04-16 21:44 (UTC)

"You're lucky I lied about being here for work."

It's pretty much all Jack says between trying to throttle Tony and ending up in the good ol' PD, scoffing it as they lead the two of them off to their respective cells. It's good they pull him off when they do - it's not that he wants to seriously hurt Tony, it's just that he hits that violent high and doesn't ever want to come down again. Even when Tony grabs him and Jack vaguely registers nails raking down his face, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not his face and not the feeling of it being crushed against the floor, someone digging their knee into his back as they yank his hands into place and cuff them.

Jack, a familiar voice says, and Jack rolls his eyes. Been a while.

"Suck a cock, Shaw."

But he's quiet otherwise, right up until that moment before they both split off to their respective cells. And from then on idk if people can actually talk to each other between cells or what/if we need to timeskip here gomen.

Depends on the station probs, but in my town they look like this. ...I've been on some weird Girl Scout trips. Anyway tl;dr going with yes laughs.

Two things happen when they get out in the cells: Tony throws up in the corner toilet and Tony flops down and splays out on the floor like a drunk. Because. You know. He is drunk. It's pathetic and...just pathetic really.

He's just waiting for his lawyer to show up. At 2am. He's definitely going to be in the shit. So he's content to just lay around and feel —not sorry for himself, he refuses to throw a pity party— emotionally exhausted. So at some point there's a raspy: "...Do you even have a real job?"

The fact this ends on a giggle probably helps nothing. But look. It's right out of the script of a romcom that Jack felt the need to lie to him. For reasons he honestly doesn't even understand; it was settled a long time ago between them which one was better. Since, you know, Sofia obviously.

Edited 2017-04-16 22:43 (UTC)

"Oh, yeah. Didn't lie about any of that. Codemonkey and proud, baby."

Jack, significantly less drunk, is sprawled out on his little cot in a way that says he's really comfortable sitting in jail cells. Hell, he's probably spent a weekend or two in this exact one before. So he's got his arms folded behind his head to make up for the cardboard pillow, watching the lights flicker.

"I actually came back to town to kill myself." He says it casually - could be a ploy for attention, or pity, but this exact tone is leaning more towards a 'Night, Mother type situation. The cop on watch duty looks up, but Jack waves him off. "Slow your roll, Porky, I changed my mind. You put me on watch and I might actually do it out of boredom."

...Drunk Tony is probably not the best guy to say to this. Sober he'd have a lot to say, maybe a straight up lecture like the old days. Except sober Tony is never around anymore. Not these days. There's a pause as if he's taking that in, respecting it. And then he's throwing his hand over his eyes —and it hurts, glass in his face and all, shit— and laughing without restraint. It's genuine, unabashed. This situation could not get more insane even if aliens invaded right now.

"You turn, —what? Straight? Legit?— get a good job, probably have some kind of degree. And you come back into to town to end it all." A pause. "And crash my party."

Why was that on the list, Jack? He wants to know. Really. But aah... Hah. Haha. "They're never going to bury you next to her." He lets his hand slip to the floor with a soft smack, eyes closed behind his glasses. If he leaves a bloody streak on the floor it'll be something for the janitor to remember him by. "Won't see her headstone."

Jack's probably visited her grave before. Tony would assume so. There's something about the way he says it though. Like Jack's going to miss the ice cream truck if he passes the opportunity. ...Then again he's probably one drink away from alcohol poisoning so do you really want to listen to this hot mess Jack.

And Jack takes the laughter serenely, which is probably the clearest sign that he's serious - was serious, whatever, there's no telling with him. He just taps his fingers on his chest in an uneven staccato until Tony says that last bit.

"Yeah, probably not. Bet I get the plywood coffin in a shallow hole treatment." He sounds regretful - inasmuch as he sounds particularly anything right now, anyway, there's not a whole lot of emotion happening on his end right now. "Y'know, I was supposed to have a drink and go kiss a pistol before you decided to show up and shit all over my night, so... thanks, I guess? I dunno."

S h r u g. There's a long moment of quiet before he starts again.

"Why haven't you done it yet, anyway? Honest question. And don't gimme that duuuuh, whatcha mean Jack? treatment either, because I know a hot miserable fucking mess when I see one."

Why hasn't he done it? Ughhhh he lets his head roll to the side, cheek pressing against the cold floor as his mind drifts back twenty years.

"She said I looked like a jackass." Welp. He's remembering now though. Standing on that bridge. It was a long drop with a busy highway below. he'd brought wire cutters and cut through the fencing to prevent exactly that sort of thing idiots standing on the edge was. "Told me it was the uncoolest thing I could ever do."

A pause. "So peer pressure basically." Ayup. That's what he's going with. He raises his voice— "Which shoe do I have to give to get a drink in here? They're Salvatore Ferragamo!"

...He is really not helping his case here.

"Good to know, but I meant lately." Yep, taking that soulful confession and totally ignoring it, this is why they're not friends. Probably. Are they? Jack has no idea, because honestly, he doesn't have a whole lot of experience with having friends. "I mean, Christ, look at you. You're stone cold friggin' wasted, and not in that I'm having a good day way. People happy to be alive don't fight like that."

They don't bounce between smiling and chatting up the bartender and then have that look of rage when they beat someone up, and they don't enjoy hurting and being hurt quite that much. Jack recognizes his own desperate lashing out, but to see it in Tony? It's new.

"I wasn't kidding when I asked if you wanted to go jump off a bridge with me." A beat. "I just don't get why you don't, I guess. What's your secret, T?"

What's his secret? Jack sounds like those talk show hosts who want to know his rags to riches story. He was a man living in a rundown apartment taking care of his landlady's cat just to afford rent. Tell us Tony— how did you get from there to an acceptable member of society? He can practically hear it and takes a moment to say, "Well Joan..." in his head before he answers.

"A little sarsaparilla in the morning. Nails. In my oatmeal. Latin chanting when I take my showers. —Christ. If it was uncool when I was in highschool it won't be any cooler now that I'm in my...thirties."

Dragging himself up he crawls over to the toilet though he doesn't throw up. Just rests his head on it. Probably the most unsanitory pillow in the house, but hell if he doesn't feel like a truck hit him. Followed by several deer and a little old grandma in a Volkswagon.

"If you're looking for a reason to stay alive visit her grave when you get out of here. Or buy a burger. Buy me a burger." Actually that sounds terrible and now he really is throwing up again. Everything is awful. Jailed. Next to Jack. Drunk as a skunk. Pretty sure Coor's Light is becoming one with his face. And this isn't even his rock bottom. Ughhhhh.

Edited (Dw the fuck aren't you showing my icons for) 2017-04-17 01:12 (UTC)

Jack's quiet for a few moments after Tony finishes - well, starts, but finishes talking at least - and sits there, thoughtful. Gives Tony some time to horf his guts out before he tries to fill the silence.

"...Come with me." He sits up, looking over to Tony for the first time. "Visit her with me."

Tony looks over his shoulder in Jack's direction. Jack's clearly feeling something, but Tony— "If you're trying to have a Hallmark Channel moment you sure picked an hell of a time. Why?"

Edited 2017-04-17 01:30 (UTC)

9 years later... Or some shit. Also I'm at work phone icon hunting is too painful

promptly does one of those obnoxious "sits nearby, does nothing" tags

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Jfc this is going to be a rude thread gomen

smh tony you're embarrassing

Shitshow is one of the skills on his resume okok

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Why do I tag you I have like five more things to PM Angel's player now SMH

dammit tony don't tell his daughter abt all his business!!!

Okay fine he won't tell her to send you an Easter peep and guilt you forever. BEC mmk

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