[network] @jwatson; text; Bite the Bullet [Night 250]

[jumpthegun]

[This is an incredibly embarrassing post to have to make, especially after the one he'd put out a few days earlier. Reading through those replies makes him want to curl up and hide from the world for people seeing what he'd been like straight out of the Army. The messages to his friends are a particular humiliation. But it is what it is and he has to deal with this now. Man up, Watson.]

I'd like to apologize to everyone for my attitude and behavior the last several days. My death price has ended and my memories have returned. I can't take back the things I said to any of you, but I'm really very sorry. I was in a bit of a bad place where I was set at.

For anyone who was asking me, I'm in the Entrance area with America, England, and Ginger.

I'm also sorry to report that the cause for Clint Barton's death was the Joker. He mortally wounded Clint, but I'm pretty sure Clint was able to escape the situation along with Harley Quinn. Clint was able to mortally wound the Joker, as well. I'm not sure where the Joker is right now, but please be on your absolute guard. He is well-armed and he'll have been healed up after his revival, even if he might still have severe MN Poisoning.


Action for Team Blonde
[Prior to sending out the message, John is rummaging around the new building they'd made it to for the night. He thinks he's getting the hang of this and he's relaxed a little more around his companions since they've not attacked him suddenly or stolen from him for several consecutive days.

He opens a cabinet in the kitchen and discovers a bottle of white wine, which is surprising, but not unwelcome when everything returns to him in a flash. It's like someone turning on the lights, full power when he's been completely in dark. It hurts.

John squeezes his eyes shut as the swirl of memories pours in, mixing, jumbling, resorting into the proper order and finally stopping when everything is settled. He's clutching his head, breathing hard. One memory in particular sticks out, though, the last one he'd had before dying...]

Fuck!

[Hope the rest of the house doesn't mind swearing.]

Comments

[keepscalm]

[They'd have a lot more material than that in England's case. He has to suppress a noise that bubbles up in his chest at the realisation.

He is still far too sober for this, and he's not even entirely sober. He's grateful for the support of the counter as he leans back like a Victorian girl with her corset laced too tightly.] Maybe-- maybe they're originally from Norfinbury. Some of us here have got, you know, movies about us, right? Maybe we're all like that on this Earth.

[This is still less horrifying to England than the idea of Eve or Robert Miller writing porn of them.]

[jumpthegun]

[That's a rather horrifying thought to John, and he's not sure if that's worse than the constant surveillance.]

And the stories are... what? Expy fanfiction like that... Mm. They colors book. Shades of Grey. Yeah, that one. The sexy bondage thing they got off that vampire series.

[Things are settling into a comforting haze.]

[keepscalm]

Yeah. Maybe. [England decides it would be best to sit down too, but he can't just sit on the floor, and he can't be arsed to go fetch a chair. So he makes peace with the rudeness of it and hops up onto the counter next to John. He takes a gulp of the wine and then sets it down on the counter space between them.] I don't know. Perhaps that's worse. But I've got-- there are things-- [His loosened tongue lets those slip, but what's left of his brain catches it.

He discontinues the sentence with a sigh.] It feels more insulting if it's someone who knows we're living people going through hell, I suppose.

[jumpthegun]

[John doesn't particularly mind the proximity, especially not right at this moment when he'd like a little physical comfort, if he's being honest. He picks up the bottle of wine and leans toward England enough to give him a gentle shoulder bump. Then it's another swig. There are maybe two or three more of those left.]

People are arseholes sometimes. [Wisdom of the ages right here.] God knows I've run into enough of them. Lived with one of them. Helped Sherlock catch plenty of them. [John gestures vaguely as he returns the bottle to its place.]

You, though. Yeah, you've got America. Me'n Mary... can't really have a go at it right now. Just... I dunno? Every time I look at her, it's that night in the aquarium again. Blood. Should've done something more. Didn't do anything. Could barely think. Didn't even lie her down and put pressure on it.

[A pause as John blinks and then clears his throat.] Sorry, that's... S'not important here. You and America, right? That's a good thing, even if Eve and Miller make it a weird thing.

[keepscalm]

[There are a lot of words that John just said and some of them seemed awfully important. Like "that night" and "blood" and "put pressure on it," those are all pretty key. England doesn't want to just gloss over that, even if it seems like John does. He tries to organise it all in his mind and set it down somewhere to revisit in the near future, preferably in the next few moments.

He glances down at his own shoulder, lingering on the imprint of camaraderie.] ...it was a weird thing long before Eve and Miller. Long before this town. We — nations, I mean — we can date all we like, but. [He reaches for the wine bottle.] But...

[Distantly, England hears rain and the sound of a musket falling to the ground as he stares down into the nearly empty bottle.] Our people have to come first. Always. If I had to hurt him to protect my own people, I couldn't hesitate. And the same goes for him. We can't ever have what humans can have.

[He has had too much alcohol, but also not nearly enough.]

[jumpthegun]

[John's brows furrow and he looks down at the bottle of wine, as well.]

But you're not human. Is it okay, what you do have? Are you okay with it?

[keepscalm]

Sometimes. [England takes a long pull of the wine, though he makes sure to leave John's share. He gingerly sets the bottle back on the counter.] But sometimes whenever our citizens get into a row here — sometimes when I think about Winter and Andromeda — I wonder what it must be like. To be able to choose something else.

[Would he want to? Not exactly. It goes against his very nature. That's why he has to wonder; he can't even begin to imagine.]

[jumpthegun]

Mm...

[John polishes off the bottle before setting it to one side.]

At least you can have something like it here, right? I know it's hard for you, for the both of you, being separated from your citizens. You can usually feel us, right? Without that... does it help? Between you two, I mean.

[keepscalm]

I don't think I'd call it help. A nation who would turn their back on their people— there's something wrong with them. Something... [Russia's eerie smile comes to mind. England frowns.] ...deeply wrong.

[That can't happen to him. He can't make the mistakes that Russia has.

But he's afraid that this town is getting to him.]

[jumpthegun]

Hey, I don't think you're gonna do that.

[John leans into the other man again, tipping a little farther than he means to and ending up half-slumped against England before he can pull himself back.]

I'm the most paranoid bloke in town short of Bucky, and I trust you. I was even starting to trust you there without my memories.

[keepscalm]

[England lets out a breath that's almost a laugh as John leans into him.] Yeah. Didn't figure it would help to act like we were best mates. You seemed pretty cross with everyone else.

[Maybe not the most tactful observation, but England breezes past it with the aid of the wine.] I was surprised that you let us help you.

[jumpthegun]

I was cross. [It's as simple as that.] I was cross with everything back then.

Didn't have much choice about trusting you, either. [John rubs a hand along his right thigh.] Psychosomatic limp. When America said I couldn't just store some of the extra supplies I had... I dunno. It was either that or waste resources in a survival situation. Seemed safer to just take my chances with you lot. I was ready to attack you and America when you turned up at the firehouse.

Wouldn't've got far, but... would've tried, y'know? If you'd been evil or something.

[keepscalm]

[The motion of John's hand draws England's eyes to his leg. He'd wondered about the sudden limp, but that definitely wasn't something he thought appropriate to ask about in that situation.]

Good thing we weren't. Ginger might have fainted if you'd attacked us. [Probably not — she's seen worse by now — but humour is the easiest way to respond to that at the moment.] All of that was before you met Sherlock, right?

[jumpthegun]

Yeah. It was after I'd finished up physical therapy for my shoulder, all the complications sorted with the infection after. I'd been discharged, couldn't find a job, couldn't find a place in London I could afford. There were just... a lot of things weren't going well. And then Sherlock turned up looking for a flatmate and he was amazing. Wrote about him in my blog and all my mates asked if I'd fallen in love or something. He's just the sort of bloke you can't help saying something about, right?

[keepscalm]

That's one way to describe him, yeah. [England didn't entirely mean to say that out loud, but given that Sherlock is his citizen too, at least it's obvious that he doesn't mean any harm by it...

He tilts his head a bit in curiosity, though the alcohol renders the motion a little bit exaggerated.] What was it about him? Why'd you stay with him? He doesn't seem like an easy man to impress. [Definitely an understatement.]

[jumpthegun]

[It's many, many years ago now. And it's only a few years. And it's all come crashing in on him like new, all at once. John has to think about it for a moment.]

He made me feel alive again, like I could actually do something. Wasn't just a useless cripple. And he trusted me to just... follow him. Follow his lead. We'd barely known each other a day and he brought me in on a case, let me come with him to a crime scene, go on a stakeout. Most fun I'd had in months, the most alive. I never thought I'd get that back, y'know? Not after Afghanistan.

His brother, Mycroft, said I missed the battlefield and I saw it when I ran with Sherlock. Don't think he was wrong. Sherlock, he was like one of my commanders. Always felt better having a commander.

[Which is probably more about himself than John really wants to disclose, but here they are.]

[keepscalm]

[Some of these feelings are utterly alien to England. England is used to following orders and having commanders in all kinds of situations, but he's not the kind of man to long for that. He lives for the times when he gets to call the shots.

But some of what John is saying is familiar, too. He repeats it back for clarity and understanding, make sure he heard right through all the wine.] Missed the battlefield?

[jumpthegun]

Mm... [John nods and glance over at the other man. Normally, he'd be backing off and going quiet at this point, maybe changing the subject.] Not, like... I don't want people dying. S'not that. More like... the adrenaline rush, knowing you're a step off from death, protecting other people from that, making a difference every day.

I went into trauma surgery for the same reason, right? It was good for a while, but I wanted something more. I wanted to be in the action, stopping the injuries before people got them. Protect them, then save them when you can't... this place was hell for the first couple of months. Didn't seem like I could protect anyone. They just kept dying and I was alive.

[keepscalm]

[For a long moment, England is silent, his gaze fuzzy but contemplative. He runs the words through his head, forward and back to make sure he hasn't missed anything.

Eventually he speaks again.] Yeah. Yeah, I know about— all of that. [A beat.] Most of it. I usually didn't have to worry about dying. [Usually. Now, though...

England sighs and flicks at the wine bottle, resulting in a glassy clink as his fingernail meets it.] Feels better than sitting behind a bloody desk all day.

cw: mentions of character death/suicide

[jumpthegun]

Sitting behind a desks the worst. [John casts a sympathetic look his way.] I mean, now and again. It's good to have the break, but we moved out aways after Mary and I got married. House of our own, room for the baby, peace and quiet... Nearly went up the wall after a month. This place. I hate it, but... when I first got here, it was after I thought Sherlock had- after he died. I felt alive here again.

[He pauses and frowns.]

Sorry, that's weird. Sorry. What's it like being immortal?

[keepscalm]

[There he goes again, just barreling past those weird things before England gets a chance to ask him what the hell. How is England supposed to keep up?

His brow furrows as he regards John with some scrutiny. This time he comments on it rather than going along with the question.] You're changing the subject again.

[jumpthegun]

Have we got a subject? [He can fake dumb while drunk, right?]

[keepscalm]

Fair enough. I guess not. [They've gone from pornography to love to war in a rather short span of time. Still, England leans enough to bump his shoulder against John's.] You don't have to be sorry you said it.

[jumpthegun]

[John's not a physically demonstrative man in the main; although, he gets to be more-so when he's drunk. That comes out in leaning into the bump and pressing against England a little longer than he might otherwise.]

'S not normal. My therapists never thought it was healthy. [And now he's apparently telling England he's had therapists. Well, all right.] Tried talking to Haurchefant once. He just said it was normal for him, his people... the elves. [There's a vague wave of John's hand.]

[keepscalm]

[England is similar, as repressed as he is. But it's nice not to think about all that Victorian bollocks for a moment.

He gives a small hum of acknowledgement.] Normal. Used to be normal for women to squeeze their waists in until it deformed their organs. [Whoops, he's got Victorians on the brain now.] Humans spend a lot of time worrying about being normal. It's a bit of a waste. You're a good man; that's the important thing.

[Incidentally, this is an example of what it's like to be immortal.]