Mɪᴛᴄʜᴇʟʟ Hᴜɴᴅʀᴇᴅ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
viced) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2014-03-20 11:45 pm
viced) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-03-20 11:45 pm
But take the spade from my hands
WHO: MITCHELL HUNDRED and RICK BRADBURY
WHERE: a r o u n d
WHEN: March 21st
WHAT: Friends having dinner
WARNINGS: stupidest fucking friends
There were only certain times that a one Mitchell Hundred agreed to do something normal. Like having dinner with a friend. Mitchell didn't do normal things, more content to stuff whatever was free and accessible into his mouth along with another three or four cups of coffee, in the middle of reviewing papers, work, or proposals. Now that he wasn't the Mayor of the City, though, he was finding he had more time. Oh, he was still busy. He was still damn good at being busy, but the two jobs he had were not really enough to keep him occupied like City Hall had. He could only review his designs so much, still rusty from too long not designing buildings, the last thing he'd put together before this had been --
Jesus, he didn't need to think about that. Not here.
This was stupid, anyway, saying alright to dinner with a friend was one thing, but he did it so rarely that he intimately understood that people would think it weird. Then again, people meaning imports, here. He wasn't a public figure anymore. He didn't have an office, or media appearances, or people watching his every move like a hawk. There was something...invigorating about that, even though he itched to be back and doing something important, it was nice to...fade for even just a short time. Nice to be out of the public eye and someplace were he could satisfy his vices and needs without having to worry about who was watching, who was there with the camera he had to subtly shut off, and who was just waiting to see if he'd slip up. He didn't, of course, he was meticulous and careful, for that reason alone.
But here he was, tapping a finger against his arm while he sucked down a cigarette, stupidly having agreed to actually taking his former bodyguard out for his birthday. Thankfully, by now, his arm had (mostly) healed, although it still ached from Ace's attack, animal wounds and bites a familiar pain in his (proverbial) ass.
WHERE: a r o u n d
WHEN: March 21st
WHAT: Friends having dinner
WARNINGS: stupidest fucking friends
There were only certain times that a one Mitchell Hundred agreed to do something normal. Like having dinner with a friend. Mitchell didn't do normal things, more content to stuff whatever was free and accessible into his mouth along with another three or four cups of coffee, in the middle of reviewing papers, work, or proposals. Now that he wasn't the Mayor of the City, though, he was finding he had more time. Oh, he was still busy. He was still damn good at being busy, but the two jobs he had were not really enough to keep him occupied like City Hall had. He could only review his designs so much, still rusty from too long not designing buildings, the last thing he'd put together before this had been --
Jesus, he didn't need to think about that. Not here.
This was stupid, anyway, saying alright to dinner with a friend was one thing, but he did it so rarely that he intimately understood that people would think it weird. Then again, people meaning imports, here. He wasn't a public figure anymore. He didn't have an office, or media appearances, or people watching his every move like a hawk. There was something...invigorating about that, even though he itched to be back and doing something important, it was nice to...fade for even just a short time. Nice to be out of the public eye and someplace were he could satisfy his vices and needs without having to worry about who was watching, who was there with the camera he had to subtly shut off, and who was just waiting to see if he'd slip up. He didn't, of course, he was meticulous and careful, for that reason alone.
But here he was, tapping a finger against his arm while he sucked down a cigarette, stupidly having agreed to actually taking his former bodyguard out for his birthday. Thankfully, by now, his arm had (mostly) healed, although it still ached from Ace's attack, animal wounds and bites a familiar pain in his (proverbial) ass.
no subject
Which wouldn't have particularly endeared him to his former boss, he was sure. So. Dinner was postponed, then postponed again, and before he knew it, it was his birthday and Mitch was taking him out to dinner.
Though the strict accuracy of that statement might have been a matter of perspective, since Bradbury was the one picking him up. They'd agreed to meet after work, though for Mitch that always meant later than everyone else except the suckers on night shift, but Bradbury was expecting that anyway. The distinct sound of a hoverbike's pretty audible to anyone standing outside Mitch's office building before the actual vehicle came in sight.
It's not exactly what you'd call a hog, though it's not a scooter, either -- the handlebars definitely have that vintage look to them, and the exhaust pipe setup looks decidedly more complicated. Though that could have more to do with the engine busily running the mechanisms that keep the thing afloat, though Bradbury brings it in to land as softly as a feather despite the racket.
(Of course, for Mitch, it might not be the sound so much as the sound that might be the problem, the machine singing to itself in a quiet, happy voice. It's still new, still full of power. It hasn't had time to learn what it's like to be broken.)
"Hey, stranger. Need a ride?" Bradbury waggles his brows, somehow visible even with the visor in the way, and turns around to pick up a helmet off the passenger seat and toss it to Mitch. He scoots forward on the bike to give Mitch room to swing on -- it's not made for two grown men, but they'll make it work.
no subject
They just knew, and it sung, even while Bradbury tossed a helmet at him, and he caught it automatically, reflexes not that badly off, even though he wasn't a superhero anymore. Some things just seemed to linger, some ways of thinking and ways of reacting would never really change.
Even the way he put the helmet on, reminiscent of how he slipped it on when he and Bradbury had been living on almost nothing -- two parts of a whole team that made the Great Machine. The last part long gone and dead -- at least for Mitch. Something he'd never share with his former bodyguard.
"Shit, I kind of miss the car," he said, in lieu of anything else he could have said. How anything else would have probably allowed Bradbury to think phrases like that were alright, that saying things like that was okay, and it wasn't. The way his mouth turned down familiar, just a look of wry consternation, something that was inherently Mitch -- when anything too familiar drifted in earshot.
He slid on the bike, right behind him, but there wasn't much place to sit, so he shifted, but it was still a tight fit, no matter what they did. He gripped the side of the bike, confident that he'd know if something happened, and he'd have to grip elsewhere.
He was good with bikes, after all.
"So where the fuck are we going, anyway?"
no subject
"Oof, are you sure they're feeding you the same stuff as the rest of us, boss?" There was easy affection in there, somewhere, the title that wasn't really what Mitch was to him anymore making it come out like a nickname. "Pretty sure the bike just went down a couple inches." He was already kicking them off, though, not giving Mitch a chance to answer, honestly reveling in the way his body felt too heavy for just a moment, gravity trying to keep them down, before the engines roared and they broke free.
He'd never really understood what the big deal was about flying, why anyone would ever want to take their feet off good, steady earth and trust the air to hold you up, but like this? With the bike purring up a storm as he ascended and slid them into traffic, and wasn't that a trip? Having to work out driving in three dimensions instead of just two?
It also meant it was louder, and he was glad he didn't have any hair to mess up as he raised his voice to be heard over the wind whipping at them, making his jacket fan out.
"We're going to a bar. Hope you weren't expecting anything fancy."
no subject
He had to call up, over the wind, too, which meant he was practically shouting.
"Shit, good. I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly rolling in cash right now," he admitted.
Despite the fact that he had two jobs, and Mitchell Hundred was a frugal man, of course. He could afford to do whatever Bradbury wanted, even now, already. He was the sort that held onto his funds with a death grip, although now...look where it had gotten them?
What had the money he'd been hoarding so dearly done for them?
He tried not to think about it, but instead piped up again from behind him. "Feel like we need those fucking radios again!"
no subject
He might have complained about the traffic in New York all the time, but he'd always managed to find ways to get Mitch where he needed to be on time. That much hadn't changed.
The bar he eventually guided the bike down to wasn't particularly remarkable, though it was only one in a street full of them -- late enough, on a Friday night, to attract more than its fair share of early drinkers. Flicking the engine off, Bradbury twisted around on his seat to eye Mitch critically, then felt his lip twist as he reached forward to flick a finger at Mitch's tie.
"Loosen up a little, would you? It's just me." Getting off the bike, he jammed his keys into his pocket and strode off, holding the door open for Mitch with expectantly raised eyebrow before waving him inside.
no subject
Hell, he showed the signs of a man who was listless, without purpose. Of course, he had his plans, he had purpose, but it was a matter of time, before he would find that purpose realized.
It was difficult, for the man who had been mayor, to find his temporary place in a world that didn't give him the position he'd fought so hard to hold onto. Now he had to do it again, and again, and again. This time, however, he was better at campaigning, thanks to his time with McCain.
"Shit, Pal, maybe that's the problem?" it was all in jest, thankfully. Even Mitchell's words didn't really stink of that usual hot and cold, and he did try to loosen his tie, slightly, before stepping past Bradbury and into the bar.
no subject
If he missed New York, though, Mitch had to have it worse, because he was practically married to it.
"I'm gonna let you get away with that because you're treating me," he answered mildly, shouldering the door open and holding it for Mitch to step in after him. Some habits still died hard, and holding doors for his former boss was definitely one of them. "See if I do anything nice for your birthday."
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There was just a place that he loved, desperately, and being away like this certainly wasn't familiar. Hell, even when he'd become Vice President, he'd gone to New York more often than he was now. Wasn't that ironic?
"Yeah, yeah. I always tell you not to do anything, so maybe this year you'll actually fucking do it?" he asked, but his voice said he didn't expect Bradbury to hold out on the threat. He even led them to one of those shitty booths, but it was in one of the more private areas of the bar. His smile was strained, at times, but it was still present, at least.
"Come on, I'm getting worse by the minute, last year you had someone actually throwing you a birthday party, remember? I can't compete with that."
no subject
"As I remember, that someone was you," he pointed out, flagging the bartender down for a couple of shots, leaning his weight against the edge of the bar. "So you're really only competing against yourself." And despite Mitch discouraging the idea, he was pretty sure he'd finally lighted on the one gift Mitch would actually enjoy, not that he was going to give it away.
Besides, he didn't add, anything would be better than what he'd gotten Mitch last year. He wasn't going to bring it up, part of that whole no thinking thing, but... he waved at the shots on the bar, nodding at him.
"Come on. Do a shot with me."
no subject
He stepped up to the bar, leaning against it with his arms folded over his chest, tipping his head to give Bradbury a look, like he was just ordering him silently not to give away that fact. "Yeah, but last time we had money, and employees, so I think I'll pretend it was someone else." It was easier that way.
"But fine, I'll do a shot. One shot." It was practically becoming a birthday tradition.
no subject
And once he did, Bradbury was sure he'd be climbing up right after him.
"To me, for being the best friend in the universe." He raised the shot glass, clinking it against Mitchell's, knocking it back in one gulp and feeling the smooth burn of it warming him all the way down -- reminding him he hadn't had dinner yet, but he wasn't too worried. It wasn't like they were going to get hammered tonight. Once the alcohol cleared his throat and settled, he let the glass click against the bar and sighed.
"So how's everything? You still living in government housing, getting along with the roommates? Who'd they bunk you with anyway?"
no subject
He winced, before shaking his head. "They're alright, it's ah --" He shook his head.
"Well, it's a mixed bag. Lil Crawley, some guy who's never around," he paused, and shook his head. After all, he wasn't about to talk about the goddamn punisher. "Fucking Harvey Dent, and a hell of an oddball."
Mitchell didn't know how to actually handle other people in his space. He shifted, wincing. "They aren't so bad. How's the, ah, your roommates? The dog?"
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"Ace is fine," he said, pointedly. "Terry and April are about what you'd expect." He shrugged, taking a sip of water and cracking his knuckles to ease some of the strain. "Did I tell you I'm pretty sure we've got the kid from the Sixth Sense living with us?"
Who saw ghosts in their house, apparently. That was strange to think about, and a detail he was probably better off omitting. As if Ace wasn't enough of a deterrent for future visits.
"Sometimes I wonder if this is what single dads feel like."
no subject
He finished the last of his, grimacing, his eyes squeezed shut from the burn. It was alright stuff, to his expert tongue, but it was sharp, a touch acrid. He was used to several-hundred dollar bottles of liquor when he indulged these days, not shit that you bought at a bar.
"Does it feel the same when you see the girls?" he asked, bludgeoning through to insensitivity in about twenty seconds. Mitchell always was pretty bad at this...casual talk thing. Even with Bradbury.
Especially with Bradbury.
"I mean, a bunch of kids seems like it would be about the same either way."
boomerangs casually no regrets
"Spoken like someone who's never had a kid," he murmured, nudging Mitch in the side even as he gestured for the bartender to bring over another round of shots. He'd need it, if Mitch was going to keep this up all night.
"Let's put it this way: back in the city, did it feel the same when you see New York?" He'd considered, for a moment, putting it in terms of people, but maybe it said something that he doubted Mitch would understand that. "There's always gonna be something different. But that's not exactly a bad thing."
He exhaled, knocking the alcohol back before he continued. "Sometimes, you shouldn't try to replace things."
SCREECHES
And then there was New York here, he'd checked, a mild, morbid curiosity, and it was almost like a pang that he couldn't quite explain hit him on thinking about it. At least his city wasn't scarred, here. He knew it was odd, to be so attached to a city, but New York was... well, it was home, no matter which way you looked at it. It was where he belonged, really.
Or had belonged. He had to remind himself. Almost on instinct, he took the other drink, and hit it back. Special occasion, and all.
"Christ, I guess you're right. Same, but not really the same. I don't think any New York, even this New York can replace the one waiting for me at home. She's something special."
Someday, maybe, he could be done, and go home, and just be home among the towers, and the brick and mortar that he loved, but that wasn't meant to be anytime soon, if ever. He didn't know if he deserved it, to go home and make it feel like home, at this point.
no subject
"See, now you get it." There was a touch of wistfulness in Bradbury's voice too, gaze a little distant. For once being the one to space out the way Mitch so often did. Oh, Bradbury wasn't anywhere near in love with New York as Mitch was, but the city was in his bones, too. He'd been to all kinds of places, but nothing else compared.
"See, you don't compare 'em because there isn't a comparison. Maybe they look like the same thing to other people, but they're not even in the same box in your head." He tapped the side of his forehead mock-knowingly, shoulders rolling with an audible pop.
"You'll always know." A pause, and then with genuine curiosity: "What do you miss most about it?" Home is a topic they rarely discuss, for obvious reasons, but he figures a discussion about the place is neutral enough.
no subject
Things would always be different, but it was his City, and there were some things that would always pump through his veins as surely as the blood that suffused everything in him. Just like he could be counted on to speak with machines, he could be counted on to love New York City more than he loved most people. New York showed his love, in their world, one tower that still stood, like a testament that someone would give everything he had to make sure that she wasn't scarred for long.
Hell, he'd brought them right back, made sure to recreate her the way she was meant to be -- a mark she healed from, while Mitchell would always hold the scars she gave him. "Shit, I guess the people -- the shit that they pull and made me deal with," being the mayor had been...well, a unique, and prized experience for a one Mitchell Hundred.
"That, and the history. You?"