Disclaimer: ... AS IF.
Fucker.
At this point Diskant can't tell whether the slow, sickening burn in his guts is hate, misery, the vodka, or a combination of the three. Fortunately he's about ninety seconds from passing out on his sofa (Again. Fucker.), so it's not like he's going to suffer much more tonight. On the other hand there is no way his therapist is going to refrain from commenting on his obvious hangover tomorrow, so the entire circle of the fucked-up mess that has become his life is going round and round quite nicely. At least his throat hasn't given him any trouble for the last two days, but considering how he kept it well-coated with high spirits Ludlow could probably punch him right into the esophagus and he wouldn't feel a thing.
Fucker.
Funny how everything always comes back to Ludlow. Like his throat being more in his thoughts than his own dick these days, seeing how he almost fucking lost it six months ago, almost fucking died because of that asshole Ludlow and his stupid one man crusade. How it didn't even take five minutes for the man to get under his skin and stay there, itching and burning right underneath, making Diskant want to claw his nails into his hide to get rid of that feeling. How he lost all sense of self-preservation and just ran after the man like a lost puppy, right into getting shot in the fucking throat.
His phone lights up, buzzing around in a sweet little circle on the floor. Diskant scoffs at it and then pretends to ignore it, taking another swig. There's only one person texting him these days.
Doesn't call, never calls.
He doesn't even remember passing out in that hellhole back then. One moment his neck is on fire, Ludlow over him holding his fucking hand jesus christ, the next there's the beeping of monitors and his father is crying in a chair. Diskant could have gone though his life without that particular picture, thank you so very much.
Fucker.
He's lucky, of course he's lucky, everyone tells him he's lucky. Ludlow's fucking girlfriend tells him he's lucky, looking after him every day and he's not even one of hers. He likes her, actually. He just hates her a lot, too. And he strongly suspects she deserves better than whatever it is that's going on. Emma, sweet Emma, was a bit brighter. After trying her best for four months, bless her little cotton socks, she finally threw the ring at him and flounced off. He mailed the ring to her with a heartfelt Hallmark card. He'd bought it for her, she should get to keep it. Sell it. Whatever. It's not like like he'll ever have anyone else to give it to.
There's someone at the door.
Okay, so not someone. And fuck only knows why he's even bothering to knock, Diskant knows Ludlow stole one of his spare keys. So, about now would be a good time to pass out. To not bother with a pissed off Rottweiler who confuses flirting and fighting and fucking with a frankly confounding regularity and has a terrifying track record of doing completely creepy-ass things like petting Diskant's hair when he's lying in a hospital bed unable to speak and then ignoring him for two months before turning up late at night at Diskant's shitty little apartment and fucking him into the mattress without uttering a word. At least the whole gay sex aww-hell-I-like-psychopaths-holding-me-down revelation is keeping his therapist entertained. Diskant himself is getting more frustrated by the day, even though he is getting off more spectacularly than ever before. The fact that he now gets half-hard whenever he hears the word princess does not help. How is this his life? Seriously. He used to be a good boy, with a good life. Now he has PTSD to snuggle up to and a mad kamikaze cop as his literal pain in the ass.
A mad kamikaze cop who is walking into his living room right now, looking like the angel of fury and death and revenge and what have you. Seriously. All he needs is a flaming sword.
Well. This is going to be interesting.