prince arlo rattray 🔧 prescott (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
halligan) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
stateofdecay2024-11-13 04:37 pm
halligan) wrote in stateofdecay2024-11-13 04:37 pm
(no subject)
WHO: Court Slaughter & Arlo Rattray
WHEN: Friday, November 1, 2013, late (after the bar fight with Red Talon & an SOS)
WHERE: A car leaving Whitney
WHAT: Court moonlights as a post-apocalyptic Uber driver for someone who should know better.
WARNINGS: Fight injuries. Awkwardness.
It's not the first time Court's played Rescue Arlo After a Bar Fight, or even the tenth; they're just usually on better terms.
But that's fine.
Arlo—always the driver, never the passenger princess—climbs in the side door with a groan, too aware of how hard it is to come by relief in this glorious new age of everything being Super Fucked Up. He should say something, right? With his face?
"Thanks."
Court’s trying not to hold tension in every single molecule of her body, but it’s hard with so many things working against her at the moment. There’s driving, then also driving at almost midnight, then driving near midnight to pick up her drunk ex-husband in a zombie fucking apocalypse; what in the actual hell was life.
So here she is, in pyjamas and hiking boots, idling that borrowed vehicle while waiting for– the door opens and a familiar giant presence climbs in. Court’s forcing herself to look forward so she doesn’t immediately hone in on Arlo’s injuries he’d mentioned and start going off; that’s not going to help now, she reminds herself in an attempt to be calmer than past versions of herself.
“Yeah.” The car goes from park to reverse, and she backs out of that space near Whitney’s main entrance. “I mean, you’re welcome.” Her voice is strained, but she’s trying. She’s trying not to turn this into a repeat of so many other arguments over so many other things, reminding herself she’s moved past that part of her life entirely.
A sigh as they turn out of that parking lot onto the way back to Prescott, “Oh, here’s the towel you asked for.” Gesturing to the console between them reveals not only said towel but also a bottle of only slightly expired water.
"Jackpot!" Arlo whispers, already reaching for the supplies. Court's terse words and rigid posture are more than enough for him to know she's not happy. Hell, he could've bet ten merits on that before he even got in the car. He'll either regret asking her for the ride in five minutes or when he slithers out of his loaned cot tomorrow morning and he's not looking forward to either outcome. He wets the towel and steadies himself with a breath before dabbing at the split on his lip; the sharp pain does more to sober him up than any of the other guy's left hooks had done.
He and Court are only a foot apart and yet it feels like the furthest they've been in weeks — the longer the silence stretches on, the more restless he feels (even though it's only been a minute or two). When his eyes drift from dashboard to driver, he tries his hand at interpersonal conflict resolution, casual style: "How's your night?" A beat. "Was your night?"
“I'm tired,” she replies without looking over at him, even though she can feel Arlo’s eyes on her. There's not so much manipulation at play as much as Court trying not to let loose her stream of consciousness, trying not to lose her cool over the fact Arlo got into a fight with Red Talon goons.
“But I couldn't sleep regardless,” her voice is a bit softer now as she admits, “I keep having nightmares about being stalked by that stupid fucking cougar.”
And it just keeps. fucking. up. their. days. His instinct is to offer some way of helping her, the moonshine making his inhibitions all hazy, and it's not until he turns to face her and starts with "If–" that he remembers, yeah.
No.
They're not together anymore.
Right.
He pulls his hand back—it'd already inched too near the gear shift, and thus, Court—and tries to push himself back into the corner by the door, overcorrecting. "I should've blasted its fuckin' head off." He'd tried, but... y'know.
It was only one word, yet Court caught every possibility that Arlo tripped into. She chose that moment to finally look over, catching his hand retreating as if he’d been burnt, and it’s all she can do not to slam her fists on the steering wheel in frustration. He’s too easy to read, even now, and Court feels the awkward timidity that is rather unlike him in every single way.
“You can’t always be the one to save the day single-handedly,” she states almost absently; a point she’s made in conversation surely hundreds of times by now. Tired and mentally drained from this night already, Court shifts some in her seat and focuses only on the darkened road for a long moment.
“I’ll give you a once over when we’re back at the station, but how badly are you hurt? And don’t bullshit me, Arlo.” There’s still enough rage to care, however.
Maybe he can't, but the least he can do is take the shot when it's literally in his face. The cougar was climbing onto the tailgate right in front of Arlo and he was too shocked to do his job well — his own version of the stalking dreams were heavier on the 'eating his face off' and 'eating Jem's face off' and (an especially vibrant one) 'eating Duke's face off.'
"Ain't too bad," he insists with an awkward this-car's-too-small-for-me stretch that nearly knocks off the window's crank handle. "CO yanked him off 'fore we got too far. Whole pack of 'em looked like Calvin Klein models, though, it was like bein' in a movie." He jiggles the handle to tighten it but it tumbles onto the bloody towel in his lap. Uh, he'll fix that tomorrow. "Reckon this lip 'n a black eye'll be the worst of it."
Court sighs and slouches forward some, letting her weariness take over for the time being. It’s evident in her voice when she speaks, and in her overall carriage, as she finally looks over at the lumbering oaf she’s seemingly forever entangled with. To some degree there’s relief in hearing he isn’t too badly hurt, but there’s some part of her that’s annoyed with how flippantly Arlo spoke; neither winning out so much as existing within her in dualitylike two wolves.
She wants to tell him off, but realizes that isn’t going to do any good when they’ll just be stuck in awkward silence the rest of the drive home. It’s with this in mind she lazily slips out, “Was there a fight scene in Zoolander or am I just imagining it? …cuz you said models and fighting and that’s honestly the first thing that came to mind…”
His answer's immediate and confident because his inebriated mind's over the moon about Having Been Given A Job It's Capable Of: "The walk-off. Doubt I'd've come out on top from that 'cause I ain't got the..." Thoughts are hard to latch onto, especially when said inebriated mind keeps thinking it's the good old days and then having to recorrect itself into the post-apocalyptic divorce scenario, all alongside their conversation. "The hips or floppy blond locks. Could probably cut an asshole or two with my cheekbones though."
“Oh yeah, David Bowie officiates.” How ever could she have forgotten that part? Despite herself, despite still being rather ticked off she’s out playing impromptu designated driver so late at night, Court decides once and for all it’s not worth it to try and instigate a fight, as she so easily could. Surely there will be time to bitch at her ex-husband for his - unending - stupidity later, for now focusing on the road and allowing the smirk that came across her face at Arlo’s words.
“Firstly, you’re an idiot and it’s almost endearing. Past that, yeah, half of your expressions are unironically Blue Steel– especially when you’re deep in thought.” A pause before she speaks in a much lower voice than her own, imitating movie announcers with: “Arlo-lo-lo Zoolander, eugoogleist.”
"Eugooglizer," Arlo corrects primly. "And it's super fuckin' endearing."
WHEN: Friday, November 1, 2013, late (after the bar fight with Red Talon & an SOS)
WHERE: A car leaving Whitney
WHAT: Court moonlights as a post-apocalyptic Uber driver for someone who should know better.
WARNINGS: Fight injuries. Awkwardness.
It's not the first time Court's played Rescue Arlo After a Bar Fight, or even the tenth; they're just usually on better terms.
But that's fine.
Arlo—always the driver, never the passenger princess—climbs in the side door with a groan, too aware of how hard it is to come by relief in this glorious new age of everything being Super Fucked Up. He should say something, right? With his face?
"Thanks."
Court’s trying not to hold tension in every single molecule of her body, but it’s hard with so many things working against her at the moment. There’s driving, then also driving at almost midnight, then driving near midnight to pick up her drunk ex-husband in a zombie fucking apocalypse; what in the actual hell was life.
So here she is, in pyjamas and hiking boots, idling that borrowed vehicle while waiting for– the door opens and a familiar giant presence climbs in. Court’s forcing herself to look forward so she doesn’t immediately hone in on Arlo’s injuries he’d mentioned and start going off; that’s not going to help now, she reminds herself in an attempt to be calmer than past versions of herself.
“Yeah.” The car goes from park to reverse, and she backs out of that space near Whitney’s main entrance. “I mean, you’re welcome.” Her voice is strained, but she’s trying. She’s trying not to turn this into a repeat of so many other arguments over so many other things, reminding herself she’s moved past that part of her life entirely.
A sigh as they turn out of that parking lot onto the way back to Prescott, “Oh, here’s the towel you asked for.” Gesturing to the console between them reveals not only said towel but also a bottle of only slightly expired water.
"Jackpot!" Arlo whispers, already reaching for the supplies. Court's terse words and rigid posture are more than enough for him to know she's not happy. Hell, he could've bet ten merits on that before he even got in the car. He'll either regret asking her for the ride in five minutes or when he slithers out of his loaned cot tomorrow morning and he's not looking forward to either outcome. He wets the towel and steadies himself with a breath before dabbing at the split on his lip; the sharp pain does more to sober him up than any of the other guy's left hooks had done.
He and Court are only a foot apart and yet it feels like the furthest they've been in weeks — the longer the silence stretches on, the more restless he feels (even though it's only been a minute or two). When his eyes drift from dashboard to driver, he tries his hand at interpersonal conflict resolution, casual style: "How's your night?" A beat. "Was your night?"
“I'm tired,” she replies without looking over at him, even though she can feel Arlo’s eyes on her. There's not so much manipulation at play as much as Court trying not to let loose her stream of consciousness, trying not to lose her cool over the fact Arlo got into a fight with Red Talon goons.
“But I couldn't sleep regardless,” her voice is a bit softer now as she admits, “I keep having nightmares about being stalked by that stupid fucking cougar.”
And it just keeps. fucking. up. their. days. His instinct is to offer some way of helping her, the moonshine making his inhibitions all hazy, and it's not until he turns to face her and starts with "If–" that he remembers, yeah.
No.
They're not together anymore.
Right.
He pulls his hand back—it'd already inched too near the gear shift, and thus, Court—and tries to push himself back into the corner by the door, overcorrecting. "I should've blasted its fuckin' head off." He'd tried, but... y'know.
It was only one word, yet Court caught every possibility that Arlo tripped into. She chose that moment to finally look over, catching his hand retreating as if he’d been burnt, and it’s all she can do not to slam her fists on the steering wheel in frustration. He’s too easy to read, even now, and Court feels the awkward timidity that is rather unlike him in every single way.
“You can’t always be the one to save the day single-handedly,” she states almost absently; a point she’s made in conversation surely hundreds of times by now. Tired and mentally drained from this night already, Court shifts some in her seat and focuses only on the darkened road for a long moment.
“I’ll give you a once over when we’re back at the station, but how badly are you hurt? And don’t bullshit me, Arlo.” There’s still enough rage to care, however.
Maybe he can't, but the least he can do is take the shot when it's literally in his face. The cougar was climbing onto the tailgate right in front of Arlo and he was too shocked to do his job well — his own version of the stalking dreams were heavier on the 'eating his face off' and 'eating Jem's face off' and (an especially vibrant one) 'eating Duke's face off.'
"Ain't too bad," he insists with an awkward this-car's-too-small-for-me stretch that nearly knocks off the window's crank handle. "CO yanked him off 'fore we got too far. Whole pack of 'em looked like Calvin Klein models, though, it was like bein' in a movie." He jiggles the handle to tighten it but it tumbles onto the bloody towel in his lap. Uh, he'll fix that tomorrow. "Reckon this lip 'n a black eye'll be the worst of it."
Court sighs and slouches forward some, letting her weariness take over for the time being. It’s evident in her voice when she speaks, and in her overall carriage, as she finally looks over at the lumbering oaf she’s seemingly forever entangled with. To some degree there’s relief in hearing he isn’t too badly hurt, but there’s some part of her that’s annoyed with how flippantly Arlo spoke; neither winning out so much as existing within her in duality
She wants to tell him off, but realizes that isn’t going to do any good when they’ll just be stuck in awkward silence the rest of the drive home. It’s with this in mind she lazily slips out, “Was there a fight scene in Zoolander or am I just imagining it? …cuz you said models and fighting and that’s honestly the first thing that came to mind…”
His answer's immediate and confident because his inebriated mind's over the moon about Having Been Given A Job It's Capable Of: "The walk-off. Doubt I'd've come out on top from that 'cause I ain't got the..." Thoughts are hard to latch onto, especially when said inebriated mind keeps thinking it's the good old days and then having to recorrect itself into the post-apocalyptic divorce scenario, all alongside their conversation. "The hips or floppy blond locks. Could probably cut an asshole or two with my cheekbones though."
“Oh yeah, David Bowie officiates.” How ever could she have forgotten that part? Despite herself, despite still being rather ticked off she’s out playing impromptu designated driver so late at night, Court decides once and for all it’s not worth it to try and instigate a fight, as she so easily could. Surely there will be time to bitch at her ex-husband for his - unending - stupidity later, for now focusing on the road and allowing the smirk that came across her face at Arlo’s words.
“Firstly, you’re an idiot and it’s almost endearing. Past that, yeah, half of your expressions are unironically Blue Steel– especially when you’re deep in thought.” A pause before she speaks in a much lower voice than her own, imitating movie announcers with: “Arlo-lo-lo Zoolander, eugoogleist.”
"Eugooglizer," Arlo corrects primly. "And it's super fuckin' endearing."
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