He gives her a smile, appreciating the out, then shrugs. "I appreciate that. But this place has a habit of broadcasting everyone's darkest secrets for all to see at any given time. I'd rather at least get to tell it my way." It wasn't really "controlling the narrative, not here anyway, but something like it.
He briefly detoured to the kitchen for coffee, bringing the mug back to dose it liberally with a generous pour of whiskey. Crimson has made him remember what normal people who aren't functional alcoholics drink, but he's still generous with his own pouring.
With another tilt of his head, he led the way to the living room, settling on the sofa, where Jeremy promptly joined him, while Max had attached herself to Maria--she'd accepted her second daddy was never going to be as liberal with the affection as her main daddy, but he, at least, let her stay in the same room as him, even on the bed, sometimes, though she learned not to jump up after he was asleep and not able to control his well-ingrained fear with rationalizations.
He petted the cat easily, though, accepting the uncomplicated and not-panic inducing affection, as he turned his mind back to her question. "Let's see...the highlights between 25-year-old me and grown-up me?" Yes. 25 now seemed not grown up. Christ, he was getting old.
"He didn't know what loss was; hadn't yet got the harrowing late-night call telling him some drunk had killed his parents and little sisters as they drove home from a movie on Black Friday. He hadn't held his wife as she bled out in his arms because there wasn't any power to run the ultrasound that might have told the also non-existant doctor his daughter had wiggled into the wrong position in her mother's womb, and they could have found a way to deliver her safely instead of him digging two more graves. He still believed in happy endings and other fairytale nonsense." he cleared his throat, realizing he'd gotten too dark. "He believed in his country and the flag he had sworn to uphold, even while that country told him he couldn't serve if anyone asked or he told about the people he liked to sleep with or the fact that he was the stereotypicsl idiot in love with his straight best friend. He thought nothing could break that friendship, couldn't fathom the thought of betrayal, believed fully in the concept od loyalty; it wasn't even in his nightmares that he might wake up one day to a gun pressed to his temple and see that face he'd followed into war, into hell, staring back at him, couldn't imagine the same mouth could say 'I'm nothing without you' and, then, 'You're nothing to me.' He believed in love. In trust. In the idea of a future. He trusted his friend. His squadron. His corps. He believed 'Semper Fi' was something to live by. He couldn't imagine the country he loved would end the damn world, that when he had scrabbled back from the brink of extinction, built a bastion of safety for the people who believed in him, that his erstwhile country would drop a fucking nuke on his City, burning his citizens--theircitizens in ablaze of unholy fire, and then blame him for it. He was so goddamn naive, and innocent. He believed in God and forgiveness, and thought the good guys always won. He thought he deserved to be loved. I know now, he wasn't really quite right in the head--had the same stuff the doc's got me on meds for--but he didn't have multiple levels of PTSD, yet. Didn't have even enemy blood on his hanfs, yet, let alone innocent," he spit that out, a bit, took a drink before going on.
"He liked to party, was in danger of getting written up for possession of weed or even Molly if a rave was coming up, but he didn't need this"--a wave of his glass in the air--"to look at himself in the mirror. He though he deserved to be loved, didn't question the motives of everyone he met, didn't brace himself for betrayal, for the knives in his back everyone he'd trusted, everyone he'd loved had put there. He slept at night without waking up in a cold sweat or screaming from the nightmares of war and apocalypses--apocalypsi? I don't know the plural anymore than Buffy did. He loved without reservation, gave all of himself, believed the best about people. He was a naive, innocent idiot who probably deserved what he got for hoping for so much from life." Another long drink. "And Alex was probably much, much better with him here. I couldn't believe he seemed glad to have me back."
He still couldn't, and knowing Alex still loved Michael just every day ate away a bit more of his belief in hope that the younger man had resurrected. Apparently the past twenty years had taught him nothing. Give him enough mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics and he reverted to a naive idiot, even though he knew better.
He mustered up a wry smile for Maria. "You're probably sorry you asked now, huh?"
no subject
He briefly detoured to the kitchen for coffee, bringing the mug back to dose it liberally with a generous pour of whiskey. Crimson has made him remember what normal people who aren't functional alcoholics drink, but he's still generous with his own pouring.
With another tilt of his head, he led the way to the living room, settling on the sofa, where Jeremy promptly joined him, while Max had attached herself to Maria--she'd accepted her second daddy was never going to be as liberal with the affection as her main daddy, but he, at least, let her stay in the same room as him, even on the bed, sometimes, though she learned not to jump up after he was asleep and not able to control his well-ingrained fear with rationalizations.
He petted the cat easily, though, accepting the uncomplicated and not-panic inducing affection, as he turned his mind back to her question. "Let's see...the highlights between 25-year-old me and grown-up me?" Yes. 25 now seemed not grown up. Christ, he was getting old.
"He didn't know what loss was; hadn't yet got the harrowing late-night call telling him some drunk had killed his parents and little sisters as they drove home from a movie on Black Friday. He hadn't held his wife as she bled out in his arms because there wasn't any power to run the ultrasound that might have told the also non-existant doctor his daughter had wiggled into the wrong position in her mother's womb, and they could have found a way to deliver her safely instead of him digging two more graves. He still believed in happy endings and other fairytale nonsense." he cleared his throat, realizing he'd gotten too dark. "He believed in his country and the flag he had sworn to uphold, even while that country told him he couldn't serve if anyone asked or he told about the people he liked to sleep with or the fact that he was the stereotypicsl idiot in love with his straight best friend. He thought nothing could break that friendship, couldn't fathom the thought of betrayal, believed fully in the concept od loyalty; it wasn't even in his nightmares that he might wake up one day to a gun pressed to his temple and see that face he'd followed into war, into hell, staring back at him, couldn't imagine the same mouth could say 'I'm nothing without you' and, then, 'You're nothing to me.' He believed in love. In trust. In the idea of a future. He trusted his friend. His squadron. His corps. He believed 'Semper Fi' was something to live by. He couldn't imagine the country he loved would end the damn world, that when he had scrabbled back from the brink of extinction, built a bastion of safety for the people who believed in him, that his erstwhile country would drop a fucking nuke on his City, burning his citizens--theircitizens in ablaze of unholy fire, and then blame him for it. He was so goddamn naive, and innocent. He believed in God and forgiveness, and thought the good guys always won. He thought he deserved to be loved. I know now, he wasn't really quite right in the head--had the same stuff the doc's got me on meds for--but he didn't have multiple levels of PTSD, yet. Didn't have even enemy blood on his hanfs, yet, let alone innocent," he spit that out, a bit, took a drink before going on.
"He liked to party, was in danger of getting written up for possession of weed or even Molly if a rave was coming up, but he didn't need this"--a wave of his glass in the air--"to look at himself in the mirror. He though he deserved to be loved, didn't question the motives of everyone he met, didn't brace himself for betrayal, for the knives in his back everyone he'd trusted, everyone he'd loved had put there. He slept at night without waking up in a cold sweat or screaming from the nightmares of war and apocalypses--apocalypsi? I don't know the plural anymore than Buffy did. He loved without reservation, gave all of himself, believed the best about people. He was a naive, innocent idiot who probably deserved what he got for hoping for so much from life." Another long drink. "And Alex was probably much, much better with him here. I couldn't believe he seemed glad to have me back."
He still couldn't, and knowing Alex still loved Michael just every day ate away a bit more of his belief in hope that the younger man had resurrected. Apparently the past twenty years had taught him nothing. Give him enough mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics and he reverted to a naive idiot, even though he knew better.
He mustered up a wry smile for Maria. "You're probably sorry you asked now, huh?"