08-18-2013, 10:40 AM
With a case of vodka between them and a bag of limes, Jaxen could care less where they went. The cab certainly took him to a familiar area, though. Riverside, south. In the distance the glittering buildings of Moscow City arose, sparkling in the eastern-born sun. At this angle he couldn't make out the topper of his own building, but neither was Jaxen particularly ready to run home. Besides, what better way to get to know a guy than by getting stone-cold drunk together? The true test of men's character.
He hefted the half-case of bottles, liter and a half sized, the same as what was pinched by the LA operation not too many weeks ago. Counterfeit counter-measures raised the price per bottle like some insane sin-tax, but thankfully, Jaxen's Wallet was undamaged in all the antics of the last day.
The interior of Michael's home went relatively unnoticed by Jaxen. It was a slight upgrade from the roach motel he'd been staying in, but the bloke strewn out on the couch was definitely a downgrade from the District's usual entertainment. And a lot hairier. Like werewolf meets boardwalk. Without manners. "I look like a fucking priest?"
Jaxen said plainly, checking out the quality of bottles strewn about the guy's feet. Any decent Moscow-born man should be able to hold his liquor. A slobbering drunk was hard to respect. A depressed, slobbering drunk was pretty much scraping the bottom of the man-barrel in Jaxen's view. He shook his head, disapproving, but before he could head toward the kitchen, wherever it was, Michael stopped him, Aussie accent kept low.
Having been in a charitable mood before, what with dropping nearly five grand on decent vodka to split with the house, Michael's threat, dropped casually like some after-thought he'd only now remembered to mention, was met with a surprised look. He looked Michael up and down. The guy went from offering to save his life to snatching it away abruptly. Moody bitch, wasn't he?
"Fine,"
Jaxen leveled. His house, his rules, but mostly, Jaxen couldn't give a flying fuck about Earless. In fact, he preferred to erase the memory of her very existence all together. "Kitchen that way?"
He pointed across the main living room, where some old arch cut into the side of the wall seemed to show off a change in flooring reminiscent of kitchen life. Michael nodded and Jaxen took off.
The vodka went into a freezer for a rapid chill. As also did he flip on the ice-maker so to make sure it kept up production. Then he found his way to a shower somewhere upstairs. Not that he stripped down and hopped right in. Its not like he had a change of clothes handy, or that he had a vagina. Instead, a few splashes of water cleared his eyes of fatigue and smoothed his hair back from his face. The dark stubble across his throat itched, but second-hand razors and aerosolized foam were hardly tempting enough to make him want to shave.
He did take the time to strip off the coat and t-shirt though, hanging both on a peg in the meantime, to wash the blood stains from his forearms. The gashes around his wrists looked like he'd tried to kill himself and didn't know to slice up and down his arms rather than across, but a few minutes later the sink was stained pink and he was feeling better. At least cleaner.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a while, expression hard as his head replayed everything. From spontaneous combustion to midair levitation; White showing up out of thin air and cannibals gnawing on earlobes; vomiting until he nearly passed out and the stunt with the Ring Race? The Sickness? He was going to die? Right. He shook his head dismissively and grabbed his stuff. Goddamn he needed a fucking drink.
He danced down the stairs in a darker mood than when he went up it. Not too interested in chatting, he bypassed blondie on the couch, chucked his coat and Wallet to a chair and headed straight to the kitchen. He spent a few minutes slicing the limes, throwing green slivers one at a time in a bowl. Then pulled the cold bottles from the freezer and put them back in the main fridge to stay chilled.
He rummaged around for whatever glasses there were, pulling one only for himself. It was soon filled with ice-cubes which were poured over with the amber colored liquid, that smelled like heaven in a bottle, until the glass was filled to the very rim with straight vodka. A squeeze of lime over the top and Jaxen wandered back to the living room, bottle tucked under one arm until he collapsed on some old club chair. The bottle he deposited on a table within easy reach alongside and he drank half the glass in a few fast gulps.
He paid for the shit, but he wasn't the guys' fucking waitress. If they were expecting something, they could get their own. "So,"
Jax relayed to them, "I hear I'm going to die a horrible death?"
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 18 2013, 10:42 AM.
He hefted the half-case of bottles, liter and a half sized, the same as what was pinched by the LA operation not too many weeks ago. Counterfeit counter-measures raised the price per bottle like some insane sin-tax, but thankfully, Jaxen's Wallet was undamaged in all the antics of the last day.
The interior of Michael's home went relatively unnoticed by Jaxen. It was a slight upgrade from the roach motel he'd been staying in, but the bloke strewn out on the couch was definitely a downgrade from the District's usual entertainment. And a lot hairier. Like werewolf meets boardwalk. Without manners. "I look like a fucking priest?"
Jaxen said plainly, checking out the quality of bottles strewn about the guy's feet. Any decent Moscow-born man should be able to hold his liquor. A slobbering drunk was hard to respect. A depressed, slobbering drunk was pretty much scraping the bottom of the man-barrel in Jaxen's view. He shook his head, disapproving, but before he could head toward the kitchen, wherever it was, Michael stopped him, Aussie accent kept low.
Having been in a charitable mood before, what with dropping nearly five grand on decent vodka to split with the house, Michael's threat, dropped casually like some after-thought he'd only now remembered to mention, was met with a surprised look. He looked Michael up and down. The guy went from offering to save his life to snatching it away abruptly. Moody bitch, wasn't he?
"Fine,"
Jaxen leveled. His house, his rules, but mostly, Jaxen couldn't give a flying fuck about Earless. In fact, he preferred to erase the memory of her very existence all together. "Kitchen that way?"
He pointed across the main living room, where some old arch cut into the side of the wall seemed to show off a change in flooring reminiscent of kitchen life. Michael nodded and Jaxen took off.
The vodka went into a freezer for a rapid chill. As also did he flip on the ice-maker so to make sure it kept up production. Then he found his way to a shower somewhere upstairs. Not that he stripped down and hopped right in. Its not like he had a change of clothes handy, or that he had a vagina. Instead, a few splashes of water cleared his eyes of fatigue and smoothed his hair back from his face. The dark stubble across his throat itched, but second-hand razors and aerosolized foam were hardly tempting enough to make him want to shave.
He did take the time to strip off the coat and t-shirt though, hanging both on a peg in the meantime, to wash the blood stains from his forearms. The gashes around his wrists looked like he'd tried to kill himself and didn't know to slice up and down his arms rather than across, but a few minutes later the sink was stained pink and he was feeling better. At least cleaner.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a while, expression hard as his head replayed everything. From spontaneous combustion to midair levitation; White showing up out of thin air and cannibals gnawing on earlobes; vomiting until he nearly passed out and the stunt with the Ring Race? The Sickness? He was going to die? Right. He shook his head dismissively and grabbed his stuff. Goddamn he needed a fucking drink.
He danced down the stairs in a darker mood than when he went up it. Not too interested in chatting, he bypassed blondie on the couch, chucked his coat and Wallet to a chair and headed straight to the kitchen. He spent a few minutes slicing the limes, throwing green slivers one at a time in a bowl. Then pulled the cold bottles from the freezer and put them back in the main fridge to stay chilled.
He rummaged around for whatever glasses there were, pulling one only for himself. It was soon filled with ice-cubes which were poured over with the amber colored liquid, that smelled like heaven in a bottle, until the glass was filled to the very rim with straight vodka. A squeeze of lime over the top and Jaxen wandered back to the living room, bottle tucked under one arm until he collapsed on some old club chair. The bottle he deposited on a table within easy reach alongside and he drank half the glass in a few fast gulps.
He paid for the shit, but he wasn't the guys' fucking waitress. If they were expecting something, they could get their own. "So,"
Jax relayed to them, "I hear I'm going to die a horrible death?"
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 18 2013, 10:42 AM.