Richie "Bitch Baby Tears" Tozier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
summertimeblues) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nysalogs2018-03-25 03:56 pm
summertimeblues) wrote in nysalogs2018-03-25 03:56 pm
(Open) Don't you dare say his name...
Who: Richie Tozier (summertimeblues) & you lucky guys
What: Dealing very poorly with torture, dying, and coming back to life. He didn't sign up to be Jesus
When: Mar. 25th-27th
Where: Olympia, Thesa Station, Flona Cove
Warning(s): Drug and alcohol use and abuse, mentions of gore/death/suicide, sad pod crying, icky feelings.
I: Thesa Station
[There's a relative quiet among the sleeping. It is, in effect, a graveyard. People are here to show their respects, to mourn and to yearn. Today though, wherever you might be, there's a serenade rattling the air between the glass chambers. A guitar thrum mimicked through slaps on the metal to support the rollicking vocals of Elvis Presley. Back from the dead and ready to slide and shake in those blue suede shoes.]
Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang
Let's rock! Everybody let's rock!
[If you round the right corner, you won't find the King. But you'll find Richie Tozier, seated between in a row of about five pods: there's a handsome man in cowboy boots, a black man cut and battered and bandaged to bits, a thin mousy type with a jerry-rigged cast on his arm and rounded specs, a stunning woman whose red hair spills around her in a halo of curls, and a balding man who, even while sleeping, belies a unquantifiable charm and steadiness. He's having the time of his life with a half-finished gin bottle in one hand as the other busies itself playing drums and beats. He's pale, poorly slept if the purple punch bags under his eyes are any indication, and there's a still smoking cigarette butt laying its ash on the floor next to him. But he's seemingly in good spirits, high on the music.]
Everybody in the whole cell block
Was dancin' to the Jailhouse Ro—hey! Hey you! You know this next part, get in on it!
II: Friends in Low Places.
[The bars are that sweet shade of not-too-busy-not-too-slow. Richie slips in and out of the crowds with no difficulty and no recognition. He avoids Shades Darker (hasn't gone back to work yet), avoids places he knows. Sticking clean to the unfamiliar. This place wasn't home and even months later it was failing to pick up any kind of coziness to wilt back on.
But as determined as he is to stay solo and shrug into shadows, he can't help that rising sense of panic. Of emptiness. If he shuts his eyes too long he can hear those howling voices again. He's no man of god but those three days suspended in some ghastly in-between place have left him with doubts. There doesn't have to be a god for there to be a hell.
He doesn't want to keep marinating on it. Desperate and suddenly shaking in the hands, he moves to take a seat at the bar. Someone's just settled in and made an order. Richie slips coins on the counter.]
Make it two. Put 'em both on my tab.
III: Take out your trash
[It would have done to exercise a touch of caution. Sadly he's long since parted ways with the word for the evening. Still frightened, still angry, still too squeamish to go see the people he used to know, Richie's spent the night skipping from bar to bar. To back hall. To alley. He's had a hell of a lot to drink. Smoked something he didn't know the name of, took a couple pills that were offered with glitzy promises for whatever coin he could spare. He'd had a fair bit to spare and lord, it all flew out of his hands like your Auntie's cockatiel making a break for the open window. And he got his party, his fun and his romp and his blissful cloud of forgetfulness. For a few hours, he wasn't Richie Tozier at all. He'd drifted and wandered and basked in the blank beauty of a world he didn't comprehend.
And the journey ended with him folded up in a cobblestone alley. His head lies knocked back against the building's side, legs crooked to the side as he sleeps deep. It's frigid cold, he has the coat and gloves and boots, but passing out sometime around four am with no hurry for shelter leaves him as cold and stiff as a statue. A nasty shock for anyone taking a nighttime stroll or hustling about in the break of dawn.]
IV: Flona Cove- wildcard-ish
[Eventually, even the city itself seems to press in around him like a vice. He'd made the trip out to the Cove a few times, once with the herd for that festival and again with the two girls to check on those dead birds. The train ride over makes him smile, thinking of the way Ann and Haru had gossiped and giggled. The spark is fleeting. He exits the train in the same silent stupor he'd boarded it with.
He'll spend the day exploring. At the beach, he might take out a boat just for kicks, pretend it's January in California and he's got to hit the water before he forgets which coast he's living on. He might check out the tourist traps. Wind up in a gambling hall for shits and giggles. Or he might drift to that little cave with the cool pool, just to sit and think and fill the air with swilling smoke as he works through yet another pack for the day.]
V: Homecoming - closed to previous cr
[It takes a lot longer than he'd be proud to admit. Richie wasn't brave by nature, particularly not when it came to making the big breaks and mends. He was better at playing shit off like nothing mattered and all he cared for was getting his chucks in before meeting his Maker.
Well he went to do it didn't he? And that fucker hadn't showed. Now he's back on soil, and he's wasted a lot of time skirting the small issue of his miraculous return.
Eventually, he figures he ought to make a few rounds. House calls, then.
The knock at the door only comes after two minutes of fussing and a near abandoment of the whole plan. He'd slinked about five steps away before the guilt got the better of him and he finally could raise knuckles to the wood of that door. When it opens, he stands in the frame of it stiffly. His smile is wan and his hands stick doggedly to his pockets. He can't even use his own voice to say hello, coward that he is.]
Howdy partner.
summertimeblues) & you lucky guysWhat: Dealing very poorly with torture, dying, and coming back to life. He didn't sign up to be Jesus
When: Mar. 25th-27th
Where: Olympia, Thesa Station, Flona Cove
Warning(s): Drug and alcohol use and abuse, mentions of gore/death/suicide, sad pod crying, icky feelings.
I: Thesa Station
[There's a relative quiet among the sleeping. It is, in effect, a graveyard. People are here to show their respects, to mourn and to yearn. Today though, wherever you might be, there's a serenade rattling the air between the glass chambers. A guitar thrum mimicked through slaps on the metal to support the rollicking vocals of Elvis Presley. Back from the dead and ready to slide and shake in those blue suede shoes.]
Spider Murphy played the tenor saxophone
Little Joe was blowin' on the slide trombone
The drummer boy from Illinois went crash, boom, bang
The whole rhythm section was the Purple Gang
Let's rock! Everybody let's rock!
[If you round the right corner, you won't find the King. But you'll find Richie Tozier, seated between in a row of about five pods: there's a handsome man in cowboy boots, a black man cut and battered and bandaged to bits, a thin mousy type with a jerry-rigged cast on his arm and rounded specs, a stunning woman whose red hair spills around her in a halo of curls, and a balding man who, even while sleeping, belies a unquantifiable charm and steadiness. He's having the time of his life with a half-finished gin bottle in one hand as the other busies itself playing drums and beats. He's pale, poorly slept if the purple punch bags under his eyes are any indication, and there's a still smoking cigarette butt laying its ash on the floor next to him. But he's seemingly in good spirits, high on the music.]
Everybody in the whole cell block
Was dancin' to the Jailhouse Ro—hey! Hey you! You know this next part, get in on it!
II: Friends in Low Places.
[The bars are that sweet shade of not-too-busy-not-too-slow. Richie slips in and out of the crowds with no difficulty and no recognition. He avoids Shades Darker (hasn't gone back to work yet), avoids places he knows. Sticking clean to the unfamiliar. This place wasn't home and even months later it was failing to pick up any kind of coziness to wilt back on.
But as determined as he is to stay solo and shrug into shadows, he can't help that rising sense of panic. Of emptiness. If he shuts his eyes too long he can hear those howling voices again. He's no man of god but those three days suspended in some ghastly in-between place have left him with doubts. There doesn't have to be a god for there to be a hell.
He doesn't want to keep marinating on it. Desperate and suddenly shaking in the hands, he moves to take a seat at the bar. Someone's just settled in and made an order. Richie slips coins on the counter.]
Make it two. Put 'em both on my tab.
III: Take out your trash
[It would have done to exercise a touch of caution. Sadly he's long since parted ways with the word for the evening. Still frightened, still angry, still too squeamish to go see the people he used to know, Richie's spent the night skipping from bar to bar. To back hall. To alley. He's had a hell of a lot to drink. Smoked something he didn't know the name of, took a couple pills that were offered with glitzy promises for whatever coin he could spare. He'd had a fair bit to spare and lord, it all flew out of his hands like your Auntie's cockatiel making a break for the open window. And he got his party, his fun and his romp and his blissful cloud of forgetfulness. For a few hours, he wasn't Richie Tozier at all. He'd drifted and wandered and basked in the blank beauty of a world he didn't comprehend.
And the journey ended with him folded up in a cobblestone alley. His head lies knocked back against the building's side, legs crooked to the side as he sleeps deep. It's frigid cold, he has the coat and gloves and boots, but passing out sometime around four am with no hurry for shelter leaves him as cold and stiff as a statue. A nasty shock for anyone taking a nighttime stroll or hustling about in the break of dawn.]
IV: Flona Cove- wildcard-ish
[Eventually, even the city itself seems to press in around him like a vice. He'd made the trip out to the Cove a few times, once with the herd for that festival and again with the two girls to check on those dead birds. The train ride over makes him smile, thinking of the way Ann and Haru had gossiped and giggled. The spark is fleeting. He exits the train in the same silent stupor he'd boarded it with.
He'll spend the day exploring. At the beach, he might take out a boat just for kicks, pretend it's January in California and he's got to hit the water before he forgets which coast he's living on. He might check out the tourist traps. Wind up in a gambling hall for shits and giggles. Or he might drift to that little cave with the cool pool, just to sit and think and fill the air with swilling smoke as he works through yet another pack for the day.]
V: Homecoming - closed to previous cr
[It takes a lot longer than he'd be proud to admit. Richie wasn't brave by nature, particularly not when it came to making the big breaks and mends. He was better at playing shit off like nothing mattered and all he cared for was getting his chucks in before meeting his Maker.
Well he went to do it didn't he? And that fucker hadn't showed. Now he's back on soil, and he's wasted a lot of time skirting the small issue of his miraculous return.
Eventually, he figures he ought to make a few rounds. House calls, then.
The knock at the door only comes after two minutes of fussing and a near abandoment of the whole plan. He'd slinked about five steps away before the guilt got the better of him and he finally could raise knuckles to the wood of that door. When it opens, he stands in the frame of it stiffly. His smile is wan and his hands stick doggedly to his pockets. He can't even use his own voice to say hello, coward that he is.]
Howdy partner.
no subject
But she doesn't shut the door on him. Doesn't raise a boot, either. Instead it's a helping hand she gives, though his heart sinks at the taut lines of her expression. Not forgiven, then. Not yet.
Richie takes her hand. Pulls himself upright and goes into his home-away-from-home, away-from-home.
He's spent less time here than he did their old apartment. He misses when they were next door, but it isn't until now that it hits him how much. Their familiar belongings sit in an unfamiliar space. And then there's Red. Diminuitive, crackling with life. Silent, but undeniable. He spots some strange construct in the living room and realizes they must be building Sandra another little cat-castle.
Oh, fuck. His eyes are starting to water. He turns, back to Red with one hand on his hip and the other pressing into his new bruise, pretending to take a survey of the place as he reins himself in. Running mouth helps, even if it might not endear him to her. He just has to, he has to.]
It's looking nice. Cute. The walls are a little bare, doesn't smell half so smokey enough. I'm back to fix that, don't you worry. I'm ready to ruin every couch cushion you have with the stink of Marlboros whenever you want it, Red. I'm at your beck and call once more. What's this now? [He moves to the kitchen, pretending to admire some stupid trinket they've gotten. A knife block. How notable.] You guys are really setting the place up good. Maybe its for the best the other pad went poof.
no subject
Technically, they've even died once.
She's still angry. Less for their last conversation, and more because of circumstances outside of his control; she's aware of her own irrationality, but that doesn't hinder her in any way. Some spiteful part of her wants to call him out on exactly what he's doing, because she's seen it so many times. It takes a surprising amount of restraint not to follow up on it.
So, she compromises. Keeps the conversation on the correct trajectory, but her intent is to poke and prod. No one's ever applauded for her altruism, for her ability to play nice. She types her response while he casually mentions their old home. She glances up at him, and tenses her jaws.
Eventually, she taps him on the shoulder, the screen already turned for him to read. ]
It's a little late for a housewarming party. [ Just saying. ]
no subject
Guilty! Guilty as charged. You've warmed it all up without me.
[And the words come easy, but the meaning behind them doesn't sit so well. The shame slaps onto his face the instant he says it. Richie looks to the ground, leaning against the counter.]
I wouldn't have...what do you want me to say, Red? Because I am sorry. [Something cuts loose. A lock springs, a door flings open and a boulder of hurt wedges in his throat. He feels small. Worthless, somehow. What was this miracle? Why waste it on a raggedy pile of bones like his? Why put any of them through this?
Why was he here in the first place? They've known each other for plain old months, and Red consistently fails to pony up anything meaningful about herself. They might as well be strangers, they ought to be. Why was he here polluting their air? Can't they just keep on keeping on in peace?
His voice comes out withered. As insignificant as he feels. But he's looking her in the eye now. He's being honest. He needs an understanding, if not from the universe then at least from her.] I don't know much more about this than you do. I don't know what to think. And I am sorry. I would never put this on you or any of the...any of you, really. I don't know what to do.
no subject
And maybe that's the problem — for the way that her temper flares up, her inclination to jump to anger before anything else, she's not heartless. Distant, perhaps. Spiteful, cold, when she needs to be. Refusing to lose an inch when it counts.
Then Richie apologizes. For &dmash; dying? Showing back up again? For doing something that Boxer wasn't able to do, isn't able to do. She's not really sure. The point is that she's not... of all the things that she could have expected ( which doesn't mean much, really, not when Richie's come back from the dead ), she's not sure if an apology was one of them. Her eyes widen — the narrow, all the while keeping their gazes on each other.
A moment passes, then a second; a third, while she thumbs the bottom of her phone in an attempt to search for something to say. Eventually, she sighs. Finally looks down to type something at her phone, much more certain that she thinks she feels at the moment. But faking's always been half of it. ]
That's not something to apologize for. [ People don't apologize for coming back from the dead. Showing up to their friends ( and she hopes, despite all of this, that they're still that. Friends ). Whatever it is. One of the few things she's learned in her time is that the gods choose to work in vague ways, and even more vague statements — that's not something for him to apologize, either.
So that's that. She types up a second set of messages for him to read. ] Take a seat in the living room. I'll bring some water.
no subject
Her name is Red, and not for the first time he wonders if rather than the hair, she's named for her fire.
Richie's lips turn to one white line, pulled tight to his teeth. He nods and turns from her. Quaking still, glad for the chance to sit and pull himself together. Maybe she could see he needs it.
When she comes back he's on the couch, bent over his knees with his hands threaded over his nose and mouth. His eyes roll to her but otherwise he stays put. Keeps the cage of his fingers over his yap. She can see the sorrowful smile in the way his eyes crinkle.]
If we're talking honest here, Red my dear, I'm just glad you opened the door. That's worth coming back for.