#//i am rotating jarod and ink in my head at fucking mach speeds but i don't have words rn 💔

[bleedingovereden]

By this point in his career, Ink is more than used to customers who, for one reason or another, aren’t capable of making it home themselves. The man before him is nothing particularly unusual or surprising in that respect, and once upon a time, Ink found himself in a very similar position. Point is, even if Ink doesn’t understand what the man is going through, he’s very familiar with the sight before him, and he’s already mentally preparing to make sure the man makes it wherever he has to go safely, or at the very least doesn’t try to drive home intoxicated.

Even if that means the man has to sleep in the parking lot. Ink sincerely hopes it won’t come to that, but he knows very well that Lorelei won’t mind. The only one that would probably mind would be Derek, the building manager, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Ink hates to lie to people, but he wants to ensure that this poor man, as he does with many of the poor men who come into his establishment, has somewhere safe to stay for the night.

As per usual when interacting with customers, Ink doesn’t quite meet the man’s eyes, but when he looks over he can see the exhaustion plain in his expression. Something pangs deep in Ink’s heart at the familiarity of it all--for all that he’s used to these kinds of encounters, it never really gets easier. The man looks like he is on the verge of tears right now, though Ink isn’t going to call attention to that.

Instead, he listens, nodding in understanding as the man speaks. He barely manages a slight half-smile at the confirmation that he wouldn’t understand, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes either. The smile falls a moment later, morphing into something more solemn, as the customer continues to explain.

Ink vaguely remembers hearing about the peak collapse, years and years ago, on the news. He doesn’t quite remember all of the details, considering both his age and lack of proximity to the incident, but he does remember the painful sinking feeling he’d had in his chest, thinking about all the people who died that day. It was a terrible tragedy, and Ink’s expression softens as he listens to the explanation.

He stays quiet as the man continues, not wanting to interrupt, even when he sees the tears start to fall. Ink always feels a bit awkward when customers start crying while he’s talking to them, always worrying about whether or not he’s comforting them the right way, but he never holds that against them. Alcohol really tends to bring sadness out in people, he knows very well by now.

���That’s… that’s terrible,” he says finally, though he’s sure that this man has heard that many times by now, from many different people. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sir. It’s awful anytime a parent has to outlive their child, but especially like that…” For a moment, he doesn’t know what else to say, trailing off into an uncomfortable silence. Part of him wants to try and relate, because on some level he does understand, but the rest of him quickly decides against it. This isn’t the time for comparing grief, and Ink doesn’t feel like sharing his own trauma when the older man clearly is barely shouldering his own.

Despite himself, Ink does jump slightly at the sound when the man brings the glass down hard on the bar, but he recovers quickly enough. A few of the other people scattered around the building glance over curiously, but they all seem to lose interest almost immediately once it’s clear there isn’t an actual problem taking place. Just as well, Ink supposes--he doesn’t think it would help the situation to have anyone else poking their nose in.

Though the customer is glaring him down now, Ink resolutely does not flinch under his gaze. Instead, he nods in understanding, shifting his stance slightly as he continues wiping down the bar. “What was she like?” he asks. A brief pause as he glances up. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me anything, but in my experience, talking about the good times is a good way to remember someone you’ve lost. Much better than reducing a whole person down to just a name on a list.”

A small smile spreads across his face, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Doesn’t make the whole thing any less sad, but it keeps her memory alive.” Christ, he sounds sentimental, doesn’t he? Maybe this conversation is getting to him a bit more than he first thought.

Jarod readily accepts the drink but merely stares into the amber liquid for a moment.  He knows he should cut himself off soon, but he does not feel close enough to sleep yet.  He is tired, sure, but his eyes won’t close, not in a way that feels restful for him, anyway, still all fire behind his eyelids.  He can’t tell if the booze is making it better or worse, but he will keep drinking until he has a definitive answer.

He has no idea how he is getting home tonight.  He parked his taxi around back so that it is out of everybody’s way. Joe always lets him sleep his stupor off in the parking lot, but he doesn’t know how the people take to that around here.  The tender seems nice enough, but there’s no telling how much of that is solely because he earns tips.  He has to keep his bosses happy, too, Jarod supposes, and that includes enforcing whatever parking rules they have in place.  He is just hoping that the man can look the other way for one night and let Jarod sleep restlessly in his own backseat until morning, at which point he’ll drag himself through the workday, trying to massage his hangover with soft jazz music and keeping conversation with passengers to a minimum.

He takes a swig from his glass and sighs—with relief or resignation, he doesn’t know—and then he looks at the bartender with bleary, bloodshot eyes.  He already knows they’re puffy and red without finding a mirror just because of how goddamn warm they are, and he can’t tell if it’s because the alcohol is hitting him hard (but not hard enough) or if he might be on the verge of tears again.  He hopes it isn’t the latter.

When the bartender invites conversation, Jarod decides to take him up on it.  After all, he is already starting off a lot better than most people do.  “Yeah, y’re right, you don’t,” he says, managing some twisted approximation of a smile that doesn’t move the top half of his face at all.  “Nobody does, really.”

His gaze drops back into the liquor in front of him, and he sways a little on his stool, unsure of what direction to go as he debates lying down.  “My daughter...”  His voice is barely above a whisper, and he doesn’t know if the other man can hear him, but he persists, nonetheless.  “You’ve heard about the peak collapse?  The big one—everybody’s heard about it.”  He draws out that last ‘R’ a little longer than he means to.  “Ten-year commen—com—commiseration’s ‘round the corner.”  He does not seem to notice he has used the wrong word for ‘commemoration,’ but if he did, it would have gotten another trenchant smile out of him.

“Not one of ‘em—not one of ‘em could try to help her.”  Now he is sure the heat behind his eyelids is bubbling up and over, leaving molten dribbles on the bar.  “Oh, but they’ll throw her picture up on screen ‘n’ let her name scroll on by with all the others.  And then, it’ll be over for another ten years.  End of somebody’s fucking life”—and now he’s not talking about Lola’s—“’nd it gets treated like some national holiday.”

He shakes his head slowly so as not to make himself too woozy.  “You got no idea.”  Then, he knocks back another good portion of his drink and brings the glass down hard on the bar, a smattering of golden droplets escaping over the rim and splashing onto the back of his dark glove.  He levels a glare at the man behind the bar as if he had something to do with Lola.  “You got no idea.”