i don't mind compassion
He came here to forget. To get away. To leave it behind. And yet, all he’s done is remember. The first drink does nothing beyond burning as he chugs it down. The second, well at least he feels a tingle. It’s something but does little to quell the pain stuck in his chest. All he ever wanted was everything besides what he got. He’s torn between wanting to burn it all down and start over or trying to make things work. He’s got Maeve, right? And in the long run, they want the same thing. Except he doesn’t. He doesn’t have her and she doesn’t have him. Hell. He doesn’t have anyone.
Not since Alex got on that boat anyway. He’s constantly reminded of her. He thinks they wanted to come here, when they were little. Hiding in his little cove, trading whispers as they looked for shells. The third drink burns almost as badly as the hate that bubbles up in his gut. He’s been good. Training, playing nice. He grins and makes cookies and cakes for the other soldiers. It doesn’t make him feel better. This kind of shit used to make him feel better but now it’s like he’s putting on a show. Locke likes to think he’s good at playing pretend but he’s far from perfect. He knows they see the little falters, the breaks in his character. He feels it. That doesn’t stop him from trying though.
The fourth drink chases the third in quick succession and he finds himself biting down the way the room is starting to spin. He’ll be the barkeep’s bitch in the morning. Or maybe later. Whatever, he wants a fifth. He thinks it burns, maybe? He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten what his body feels like. He slumps down in the corner of the little booth he is in, waiting for the memories to stop.
He contemplates a sixth drink but his limbs already feel heavy. He pushes himself up out of the booth, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Once the floor is roughly horizontal again, he makes his way to the door, mutter something to the barkeep as he passes. It's dark out and the streets are wet but the rain has stopped. The mix of wet stone and petrichor fills his senses. He can't tell if he likes it or it makes him sick. That's kind of how everything lately feels. He keeps one hand against the cold stone, making his way down the street.
He thinks he can find the barracks..
Not since Alex got on that boat anyway. He’s constantly reminded of her. He thinks they wanted to come here, when they were little. Hiding in his little cove, trading whispers as they looked for shells. The third drink burns almost as badly as the hate that bubbles up in his gut. He’s been good. Training, playing nice. He grins and makes cookies and cakes for the other soldiers. It doesn’t make him feel better. This kind of shit used to make him feel better but now it’s like he’s putting on a show. Locke likes to think he’s good at playing pretend but he’s far from perfect. He knows they see the little falters, the breaks in his character. He feels it. That doesn’t stop him from trying though.
The fourth drink chases the third in quick succession and he finds himself biting down the way the room is starting to spin. He’ll be the barkeep’s bitch in the morning. Or maybe later. Whatever, he wants a fifth. He thinks it burns, maybe? He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten what his body feels like. He slumps down in the corner of the little booth he is in, waiting for the memories to stop.
He contemplates a sixth drink but his limbs already feel heavy. He pushes himself up out of the booth, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Once the floor is roughly horizontal again, he makes his way to the door, mutter something to the barkeep as he passes. It's dark out and the streets are wet but the rain has stopped. The mix of wet stone and petrichor fills his senses. He can't tell if he likes it or it makes him sick. That's kind of how everything lately feels. He keeps one hand against the cold stone, making his way down the street.
He thinks he can find the barracks..
just not on my dime
LOCKE
