Passed out? Nope. He had managed to take to take his armor off, but each piece was scattered across the room, begging to be tripped over. Not that it looked much different than his normal state of affairs for his quarters; he wasn't the neatest member of the Sim Troops. But, then again, at least he wasn't Grif.
Tucker hadn't honestly thought Wash would be back; the talk with Carolina would be difficult, draining for anyone, but for a fellow Freelancer, it carried a new weight. He had turned on music in the meantime, flopped down and just drank from his bottle, leaving the one Wash had untouched. He didn't finish his own, mostly because he liked having a liver, not dying tomorrow, and because he couldn't, but the dent he had put in it was sizable.
He existed in the space beyond the place of pleasant buzzing, and instead had steamrolled into drunk. His body was a weightless machine, and even on the bed with just a pair of teal and black plaid sleep pants, he felt light. Buzzing. Numb. It was a contradictory experience, but he didn't care about that, either. For the moment, the things he had seen, the things he had dealt with, the hole that now existed was lessened. It felt surmountable. It felt less real.
Tucker sang with Queen as it blared through the speakers, an almost bitterness that came with "We are the champions," that made his voice crack. He didn't hear the door; the knocks were too quiet. Now, his neighbors who had pounded on the wall to get him to turn down the music, he had heard that. Told them to fuck off and turned it up louder.
They had shut up after that. Or maybe after he had carved douchecanoe into their door with his sword.
But for as loud and victorious as Freddie Mercury sounded, Tucker didn't share in the feeling, even if they had won.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-06-11 05:47 am (UTC)Tucker hadn't honestly thought Wash would be back; the talk with Carolina would be difficult, draining for anyone, but for a fellow Freelancer, it carried a new weight. He had turned on music in the meantime, flopped down and just drank from his bottle, leaving the one Wash had untouched. He didn't finish his own, mostly because he liked having a liver, not dying tomorrow, and because he couldn't, but the dent he had put in it was sizable.
He existed in the space beyond the place of pleasant buzzing, and instead had steamrolled into drunk. His body was a weightless machine, and even on the bed with just a pair of teal and black plaid sleep pants, he felt light. Buzzing. Numb. It was a contradictory experience, but he didn't care about that, either. For the moment, the things he had seen, the things he had dealt with, the hole that now existed was lessened. It felt surmountable. It felt less real.
Tucker sang with Queen as it blared through the speakers, an almost bitterness that came with "We are the champions," that made his voice crack. He didn't hear the door; the knocks were too quiet. Now, his neighbors who had pounded on the wall to get him to turn down the music, he had heard that. Told them to fuck off and turned it up louder.
They had shut up after that. Or maybe after he had carved douchecanoe into their door with his sword.
But for as loud and victorious as Freddie Mercury sounded, Tucker didn't share in the feeling, even if they had won.