So, I am very excited because the first two graphic novels from The Losers arrived today, and I got to read them! They were great, and I learned a bunch.
For example, Pooch's wife? Yeah, her name is Jolene—the more you know! He also has two daughters in the comics, not a son so… two daughters and a son for fanfictions? I think so! And… y'know, Roque is white. But I already knew that, and I like the movie Roque better. Comic Roque reminds me of a weasel. Or a snake. *shudders*
So yes, I am a very happy Losers fan right now, so I decided to write up a… whatever you call this. It's my first time writing for Clay or Aisha, so I'm not sure on the quality…
It was getting hard to stand, which was really saying something—he'd never been one that couldn't handle his alcohol. Even leaning against the bar, with his head against the wall Clay could tell that the room was swirling behind his eyelids. He was starting to seriously question his decision to drink himself into a stupor, but as soon as he got close to forgetting, the images came back with shocking clarity.
The room is hazy yellow from the smoke and bad lighting, but he couldn't see any of it. Because contrary to popular belief, he did care about his team—Roque included. And although he hated the bastard for betraying him, he was still an old friend, and he'd still been largely responsible for his death. So even though it didn't make sense, he regretted what he did as much as he was proud that he'd done it.
And the emotions conflicted.
So he drank.
Clay fingered his half-full glass, willing himself to clear his mind as best as possible, and then chased the memories away with the remainder of the glass. It was warm, tasted disgusting, and did absolutely nothing—the effect of the alcohol had stopped working hours ago. He ordered another glass, closed his eyes, and went back to pretending that he hadn't had way too much to drink.
The door opened, characterized by a breath of fresh air, and Clay was inclined to ignore it. That is, until it came to sit next to him, and he realized who, exactly, it was.
"Aisha."
"You look like shit." She said offhandedly, intercepting the drink that he'd ordered to down the glass. Clay shrugged and watched her finish the glass. She traced the rim of the glass with a finger, staring at him pensively. After a long moment of her staring, she finally nodded toward the door. "Let's go."
"I'm not done here." Clay muttered. Aisha reached over the bar to grab the nearest unopened bottle, ignoring the bartenders protests.
"Sure you are." She handed him the bottle, and helped him stand. "But taking some for the road can't hurt."