abraxaslogs | ᴀʟʟ I ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ ɪs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʟɪғᴇ's ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ (open.)

( This, he's starting to realize, is a sensation he's going to have to start getting used to — seeing familiar faces, feeling a knee-jerk association in his chest that doesn't necessarily belong. Dean is not a man who forms attachments easily but, once they exist, he refuses with every scrap of himself to let them go.

That reality, that history he shared with the rest of the summoned, was like a shotgun blast of connection. Now that it's over, it's disorienting to separate his head and his heart.

She looks different now than she did toward the end of it all, but she still feels like her. She still carries the echo of quiet conversations, of his hand on her shoulder, the understanding of losing something and finding oneself in the process. The memories are blurry, but the impressions linger.

Whatever they had might not have been reality, but doesn't it at least merit looking a little closer? In case it could be?

So, after a beat of hesitation spent studying her, he breaks the tension with a nod and a knowing snap of his fingers. )

Think I got just the thing. Pop a squat.

( And then he goes about snatching up a bottle, a couple of shot glasses — and a lime. )

You ever learn the right way to shoot tequila?

[ Nebula tries not to think about the what ifs. She's not the person in those memories, she can't be. That person had become more whole, had forgotten all the shit that had torn her apart and threw her back together. The actions that couldn't be forgiven. Had healed in a way Nebula herself cannot - hasn't even dreamed of, even if the possibility now presents itself as an itch under her skin. ]

[ She hasn't forgotten, though, and some part of her doesn't want to. Even if her nose wrinkles in distaste as she mumbles: ]

Hell kind of phrase is 'pop a squat?'

[ Stupid Terrans. She might complain, but she does obey as she moves to sit resettling elbows on bar. Brows hiking up as she considers: ]

Haven't had a Terran drink do much for me that the right or wrong way hasn't mattered.

( Ah yeah, this tracks. He went and adopted another alien that doesn't get pop culture references. Girlstiel over here has him shaking his head, though there's something wry and faintly fond in the shape of his lips, the corners of his eyes. )

Is that right?

( He asks, pausing with his hand on the tequila bottle. If that's the case, he's gonna have to break out the big guns. )

On second thought--

( Away goes one lime wedge. Away goes one shot glass. Instead, he pulls out a dark, unlabeled jug from deep beneath the counter. A healthy portion is glug, glug, glugged into a thick, frosted mug. It's the stuff Geralt brings by when he actually wants to feel something. Don't ask him what it's called, he can't remember. If it works for Witchers, maybe it'll work for her. One way to find out. )

Here you go, sister. Fair warning, it's got a kick.

It's not boasting.

[ She retorts to the way he intones that. Hell if she'd want a skill that was being able to drink someone under the table, what good would it do her? ] Humans have weak constitutions.

[ Plain fact. They're weak in a lot of other ways she thinks, too, but doesn't say. Once, she might have looked down on them - seen them as worthless. Certainly, she thought that of Quill the first time she saw him. Now, it's just a fact. ]

[ She stiffens some, between the change of course and the phrase he gives. 'Sister,' from his mouth feels way more personal than it should. She doesn't like it. Scoffs. ]

Don't make promises you can't keep.

[ She takes the drink and for a brief blink and you'd miss it moment, stares at skeptically. (Could she trust it? Would it eve nbe worth it?) Discarded quickly and she takes a long drink. Unfortunately, the world says what works for Geralt, does not work so well on her. ] You serve this to people?

( Boy, he sure does know how to pick 'em, doesn't he? He's gonna have to get her and Cas in the same room together sometime so they can have a frank conversation about weak human constitutions, or whatever. He looks, if anything, more amused than offended.

— and he definitely refuses to think about the fact that he's not so sure he's entirely human anymore these days, even before the eight hundred years of crazy godly bullshit. Better to just let that thought slip away back into the spooky void it came from. )

Nope.

( He responds pleasantly, pouring himself a nice, normal shot of tequila. Personally, he can manage all of about a glass and a half of the stuff Geralt drinks before he's black-out smashed off his friggin' ass, and that's with his own superior S-tier alcohol tolerance. Liquor's practically vitamins to him and that crap still rocks his world. His most sincere condolences about her booze immunity, he'd have jumped off a bridge years ago without his functional alcoholism crutch. )

I serve that to people who have stupidly high fun-sucking constitutions. ( Big Shrug. ) Figured it was worth a shot. If that ain't cutting it, I can make you a girly-fru-fru appletini instead. I'm sure I got tiny umbrellas around here somewhere.

( At least it'd taste better, if it's all the same amount of useless. )

[ Is anyone entirely human, really? You know, barring the actual alien in the room. ]

[ She takes another drink of the thing as if trying to get a gauge on the taste before answering: ]

Good. It's disgusting.

[ The universe really has decided her frankness would be contempt of the drink... Which you would think means she wouldn't finish it, but despite her apparent decision of its taste she continues to drink it all the same. As if wasting a glass of anything goes against some rigid moral code she's established. ]

It's only fun-sucking if drinking is where you find that. Anyone who's entire view is a bottle is already a waste. [ She frowns skeptically at the thought. For once, she doesn't mean it as critically as she does - if anything there's a certain lacing of concern. Like part of her can't help but think about Quill and how many times this was how he had "fun" while... failing to cope with the loss of her sister. ]

[ Someone who was more perspective to their own feelings may come to the conclusion that it's why she doesn't have a taste for it. She'd seen Quill wasted and no more the better for it. More times than she can count. Instead, she focuses solely on the last part as she asks deliberately: ]

Why the hell would a drink need an umbrella?

( Mad respect that she keeps drinking it anyway. That's the kind of waste-not-want-not attitude he likes to see in this bar.

Dean "Functional Alcholic" Winchester is going to have to agree to disagree about the reest of that statement, though. His view is a bottle quite often, and much as he might hate himself, he thinks he's saved enough people to not classify as a waste. Rather than argue the point, he simply ducks under the counter, plucks up a fancy tiki umbrella, opens it with a flair, and pops it on her drink.

Jazz hands. )

For the pizzazz.

[ Her mouth twitches at the offending umbrella - gaze on it as if judging its worth. Certainly unnecessary she decides and dismisses, but doesn't pluck it out and throw it on the counter. Or at him. Which is a plus in itself, but rolls her eyes. ]

Ugh.

[ The sound is breathed out through her nose. It's quick to encompass all her thoughts: this is stupid, you're making words up, I don't even know what pizzaz means. It doesn't matter and she lets the cup land back on the counter with a ka-thunk. ]

All the places you can do around here and you make a bar - not even one you're drinking from?

( He could deflect, or downplay, but... between the recent loss, and the echoes of memories and associations he harbors for the person across from him, he decides not to. He can give away something real here out of optimism, or hope, or misguided loyalty.

So, after a beat, he casts his eyes down toward the wood grain of the bar. A smile graces his lips, but it's small, and sad, and barely there. )

It's not just a bar. ( He says, after a quiet beat. There's an earnestness in his voice, in his posture, in his expression. ) This, uh... this place belonged to somebody I cared a lot about, and it burned down maybe... fifteen years back.

( It wasn't home, but it could have been. )

[ Nebula wasn't stupid. She may not have the best grasp at expressing or understanding her own emotions, but she's not blind to others. Especially others who you had a kind-of-sort-of important relationship, at least in some other lifetime. She'd known since she'd arrived there was some sort of sobriety here, it seems she adds fuel to a fiew she didn't mean to. ]

[ She inclines her head at the statement, it's not just a bar. Doesn't say anything as she takes a drink - pauses. Flicks the umbrella for want of something to do. ]

[ Swallows down the fact she doesn't have the same kind of fondness for something. At least that far back, she can't even remember her childhood home. Anything after was just a prison. ] I see.

[ She does, kind of. ] And you left it as it was?

[ She says without meaning to: Don't you think they'd want you to move on? ]

( It's only now, finally, that he finally sees fit to do that shot of tequila he'd poured himself at the start of this conversation. It doesn't do much for him, he's got a tolerance that would alarm modern medicine, considering how human his organs are.

After he swallows, he busies himself with cleaning out the glass, cleaning up the lime. Cleaning. Something to do with his hands. Always cleaning up. )

I did. She, uh- the daughter of the owner, I guess this was more her bar than mine... She was here, too. Right up until we got back from- you know. The whole... mass hallucination, alternate reality... whatever it was.

( Jo appreciated it, he thinks. All the little details he missed, she filled in for him. They're all still here, even though she isn't anymore. )

Alternate reality.

[ She supplies helpfully, cutting through any other possibility. Perhaps, because she refuses to believe it's anything else. A hallucination seems a hell of a lot worse. ]

[ The drink becomes abandoned - perhaps only drank enough to be polite. Perhaps so she can stew on the response for a while longer. Attention drawn to the counter rather than him as she breathes out, offers half a shrug: ]

So all of this is for her then.

[ A statement, not a question. ]

( It only takes him a second of considering the question before he shakes his head. )

No, no, uh- not... not really.

( It feels a little vulnerable, exposing this the way he is. Talking about it. Kind of a Hallmark moment that he wouldn't normally have with a stranger, except she doesn't feel like a stranger, and he's... older, now. Older than he'd been when he thought this kind of honesty was uncomfortable. It's easier to give something away now.

So he settles on his stool across the bar from her, thumbs at his glass, and explains. )

The way I was raised... me and my brother, we didn't exactly have a normal upbringing. We didn't really have a home. We were always on the road, always moving from one fight to the next, and this place... Well, this place wasn't home either, but for a while it felt like it could have been.

( He laughs softly at himself, and murmurs: ) Probably doesn't make any sense.

[ The woman cocks her head in consideration. To her merit, she listens, even if she holds back a huff of a laugh. "Didn't exactly have a normal upbringing," is common fare around here. She doesn't say it, even if part of her still believes that no one was raised like she was. ]

[ She offers half a nod, mouth mirthful: ] Makes enough sense to me.

[ Matched with a shrug, she adds. ]

Hell if I knew what a home was. [ Was, she thinks she knows a little more now. ]

( They have something in common, then. A key point of relatability, outside of just being warriors. He remembers that about her, remembers that she was a figher, remember that she struggled with some of the same things he struggled with, but he doesn't remember much about her history. About her story. About her past.

And so, gently, he probes: )

You never did tell me much about it. Where you're from.

[ There's a pause, the empty sound of someone deciding if they wanted to say anything at all. She's not exactly been one to steer clear of her trauma if asked - or if not asked. She's a little better now, but that doesn't stop her from a lengthy breath: ]

Not much to tell.

[ Plantiffly: ] My home world and its people were destroyed when I was a child. I was too young to remember much about it.

( He stares for a pregnant, incredulous moment — and then promptly breaks the silence with an emphatic: )

Not much to tell?! Are you kidding me, that's like- that's huge much to tell. That's- everything to tell. Your home world was destroyed? By- what- a Death Star?

( Wrong franchise, Dean.

Still. That's a Big Freakin Deal. That's a whole ass traumatic backstory. Come on. )

Don't be stupid there's no such thing as a Death Star.

[ Immediate, clipped, clearly the focus of her thoughts for the moment. Her mouth a thin line. ]

You asked about my home, I didn't have one. The man who raised me was the same one who helped slaughter them. And his idea of a home wasn't one.

[ Clearly. ]

( Dean, having met Obi Wan Kenobi in this very bar nigh on a year ago, only offers a noncommittal mmmm at the insistence Death Stars aren't real. Look, he played the Cantina Song for a week straight to celebrate the occasion. Death Stars are as real as anything.

But that's not the point right now, and he refuses to let himself be sidetracked from the Lore Drop unfolding here.

The man who raised me-

His brow knits in a deep furrow. )

Wait, hang on, so- this guy... blows up your planet and your people, and then adopts you? That's-

( A lot, and it's a struggle not to say something insensitive as hell. )

[ Her mouth twitches wordlessly, like she stays her tongue in a way she might not once have. She takes a long drink, not for the taste of it or the effect but for the want of something to do. ]

He wasn't a good one, if that's what you mean.

[ Father. She hisses out low and solid, ] I was nothing more than a tool and he'd tell you I wasn't a good one. That he tried perfecting me for my benefit.

[ There is no mirth in her think bladed smile. ]
It was nothing more than torture.

( She takes a long drink, and nearily drains the contents — so he makes her a fresh drink while she talks. Something that might taste good, since the alcohol content itself doesn't seem to do much for her. Some tequila, some orange juice, some grenadine — a very pretty color gradient that ought to taste sweet, with just a little bit of bite. He garnishes it with an orange slice, and a fresh red drink umbrella. For pizzazz.

His love language is acts of service, shut up. )

I, uh... I get what you mean. Believe it or not. For a long time, that's- that's all I was. Daddy's blunt instrument.

( Those last three words he rattles off dryly, just a little toneless — it's clear he's quoting somebody else.

The smile he offers is small, and sad, and slightly pained. )

It's hard. Figuring out you get to be more than that. Realizing you get to choose who you are.

[ ~~You can't keep giving her drinks maybe she was drinking it to be polite and make a swift escape!!~~ Which is to say, she doesn't appear particularly eager to go for that other drink even if she watched him with a careful eye- acknowledges it even with a grunt. ]

[ There was a time where her immediate response would be a snarl: No one can get what she mean. Not even Gamora. Some part of her still feels it, though the anger no longer tinges everything the pain still does. The awareness of how little of her is left if she glimpses in a mirror. ]

[ No, people rarely knew the extent of it - understood it - unless she said. The closest one would be Rocket. That thought makes the lump in her throat hard and maybe she does need another drink. But she nods, a simple and short understanding thing. ]

[ The more evolved side of her says it doesn't matter; Declaring hers was worse is childish and lacks something... She knows all too well now the world is full of cruelty. Besides, she feels the desire to answer in another direction, low and deliberate: ]

I know who I am. [ Now, she means. ] If I'm to be a knife or a guardian, I will always choose being a guardian.

[ She does not go for the drink. Even if some part of her wants to take its contents now too - what was she? The Guardian of the Reassembled - something in the title of a life unlived makes her feel bitter. ]

Edited 2024-06-15 04:25 (UTC)

( Objectively, distantly, he knows he has no right to feel proud of her. She's not really his little sister, they don't really have that dynamic — no matter how much those blurry impressions linger, no matter how much some weird, animal part of his hind-brain is half-convinced she is.

They're strangers. He's not entitled to feel anything in particular.

But he does, and he can't quite bite back the wide, approving smile that blooms over his features. )

Good. That's- that's good. That's great, actually. I'll drink to that.

( He raises his glass in a toast, and does exactly that - knocking back the contents, and then putting away the glass. One and done, and the right thing to spend it on, he thinks.

Choosing to be a shield instead of a blade is always, always the right call. )

[ It's not a life-changing statement. It's not an affirmation she hadn't felt in her heart for a while - she has. Even if her destination when she returns to her own galaxy is different (and she will return home, to all those children). Making a home for those who didn't have one was something etched in her heart now, a determination she wouldn't give up. ]

[ She drinks quietly before asking: ]

And what about you?

( Dean, never quite accustomed to being under the spotlight or the center of anyone's attention, shifts awkwardly at the question. Takes to wiping out glasses as a mild form of redirection, just for something to do. )

What about me?

(no subject)

furibund - 2024-06-30 06:28 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

righteously - 2024-06-30 14:34 (UTC) - Expand