Hank Anderson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sociallychallenged) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dualislogs2019-07-17 09:47 am
sociallychallenged) wrote in dualislogs2019-07-17 09:47 am
(no subject)
WHO: Hank Anderson | NPCs | Open
WHAT: A hunt for information and a desire for good whiskey. People can also find him at the boardwalk or drinking at the bar.
WHERE: A speakeasy on the boardwalk
WHEN: Towards the end of July
WARNINGS: 🎜🎝 Hank's mouth needs washing out with soap. Suicidal tendencies.
Hank usually tries to tie up his hair while he's at work. He's still not cut it. It's a holdover from years of depression. He didn't fucking feel like cutting his hair so other than some beard maintenance he just let that mane happen, and mentally he's still not found the place to chop it all off. Now he just keeps it in a half-ass high ponytail with half of it hanging out while he's on the job, like a heavyset loose samurai. Now he's just got it down, looking like his usual casually sloppy shaggy dog self in a bold shirt and a well-worn jacket. At least he looks like he belongs in a bar drinking.
The boardwalk is only mildly busy. It's a weeknight, people are off work, the food is cheap but everything isn't lit up like a James Cameron daydream quite yet. Give it a half-hour. There are rows of little restaurants and game booths and a few hole-in-the-wall establishments down little turn off side-streets. The places for grown-ups to go while the kids play.
That's when Hank first finds a bar that he's heard a couple of claims about. Maybe bullshit; a couple of the other bars he's also checked out have been bullshit. But fuck it, another place to get whiskey, right?
Another holdover from three years of depression.
The old detective (former detective, maybe future one) settles himself at a distant side seat on the bar, somewhere where he can see whatever the live stage performance is when it starts while he tends to a neat whiskey.
He draws the attention of a scaled woman next to him as he downs his glass without so much as a flinch and pushes it forward for a refill. No sign of the notorious whiskey face. He's scalded that reaction right out of his throat. He might as well have a fuckin' booze callous the way this nigh on toxic shit doesn't phase him.
WHAT: A hunt for information and a desire for good whiskey. People can also find him at the boardwalk or drinking at the bar.
WHERE: A speakeasy on the boardwalk
WHEN: Towards the end of July
WARNINGS: 🎜🎝 Hank's mouth needs washing out with soap. Suicidal tendencies.
Hank usually tries to tie up his hair while he's at work. He's still not cut it. It's a holdover from years of depression. He didn't fucking feel like cutting his hair so other than some beard maintenance he just let that mane happen, and mentally he's still not found the place to chop it all off. Now he just keeps it in a half-ass high ponytail with half of it hanging out while he's on the job, like a heavyset loose samurai. Now he's just got it down, looking like his usual casually sloppy shaggy dog self in a bold shirt and a well-worn jacket. At least he looks like he belongs in a bar drinking.
The boardwalk is only mildly busy. It's a weeknight, people are off work, the food is cheap but everything isn't lit up like a James Cameron daydream quite yet. Give it a half-hour. There are rows of little restaurants and game booths and a few hole-in-the-wall establishments down little turn off side-streets. The places for grown-ups to go while the kids play.
That's when Hank first finds a bar that he's heard a couple of claims about. Maybe bullshit; a couple of the other bars he's also checked out have been bullshit. But fuck it, another place to get whiskey, right?
Another holdover from three years of depression.
The old detective (former detective, maybe future one) settles himself at a distant side seat on the bar, somewhere where he can see whatever the live stage performance is when it starts while he tends to a neat whiskey.
He draws the attention of a scaled woman next to him as he downs his glass without so much as a flinch and pushes it forward for a refill. No sign of the notorious whiskey face. He's scalded that reaction right out of his throat. He might as well have a fuckin' booze callous the way this nigh on toxic shit doesn't phase him.
no subject
"It's either scary or pisses me off, sometimes both," She prefers to lean into the anger. It's easier to deal with, feels like it has more purpose than the panicked sort of fear that can pervert her thoughts,"I feel like I'm supposed to be excited."
Not wallflowering and clinging to the familiar. Another drink and her glass is almost empty and she really didn't think it'd go so quickly,"Instead, it just makes me want to go home even more."
Better the devil you know, right?
no subject
Seems like the person she needs most isn't around, though. "You just gotta keep lookin' for those people. The good ones..." Feels like those are few and far between, too.
"Good friends are hard to find. I can't tell you how they are. I know the best ones I've had have been real with me, and when I've been hurting showed up to cover for me. Or else make sure I'm meeting my needs."
Even before Connor he had good friends. He just pushed them away during his grief, unable to think of anything but his loss and the empty hole it left.
no subject
As rare as those good people can be, she knows she's met a few, Hank and Aqua sticking out clearly in her mind. For all her doubts, for all her fears, that's one thing she's almost certain of.
"Your idea of good friends sounds like my idea of good family," She tells him. Her definition of family has drifted from the textbook definition, more about choice and love than blood," The people that stick around even if they'd be better off leaving."
Sorry I fucked up there.
"Good friends do that too. Just uh... sometimes it's hard to be a good friend back, you know? That's going to be the hardest thing you gotta practice. Being a good friend without overdoing it. Or just shutting yourself off completely so they can't get in."
The whiskey helps with the advice. It might be too personal otherwise. He does give her a little more, but just a little. That way she doesn't down a whole bunch in one nervous gulp and end up throwing up her guts in the nearest permissable space.
no worries!
"What do you do if you mess up?" Because that's bound to happen. It seems like an impossible pitfall to avoid even with a little forewarning, one he may have fallen into, too.
no subject
"Think about it first. Make sure you fucked it up and it wasn't them fuckin' it up. Then apologize without blaming them, or at least admit you were wrong, without adding the excuses for yourself- the excuses can be there mentally. Just fuckin' shorten it to, yeah, I figured out I was wrong and I fucked up.
"It's not that hard. I'm a hard-headed son of a fuck and even I can admit I'm wrong if I really am. Of course, it's more important to watch whether you're right or wrong when you can arrest people." He makes a little wincing face to that. "But being wrong and realizing you can be wrong are good life skills to have."
Then, grimly, he attaches, "So is forgiving yourself for being wrong. But that one's the hardest to figure out."
no subject
"Of course that one's the hardest," She huffs. It sounds damn nigh impossible to her and one she has doubts she'll learn, or if she even wants to learn it,"How many people can really forgive themselves for hurting the people they care about?"
She can't. She won't,"Plus, some things aren't forgivable, even if they've forgiven you."
She's not arguing his point. To her, that's just as an important life skill to have.
no subject
"Yeah, I know. I know. But I think it's about knowing you'll not make the same mistake again more than it's about saying it's really okay that you did it." He genuinely doesn't understand how it could be okay, sometimes. Maybe in some cases it is. Maybe when it wasn't actually a mistake. But inevitably you hurt someone.
"Know what I mean? Forgiving isn't saying it didn't happen. It's just... fuckin' saying you're not gonna waste being pissed off over it anymore, and decide how to move on from there. That includes being pissed at yourself."
no subject
A forgiveness like the one he describes seems a veritable pipe dream when she considers the grudges—the fury—she still nurses. She frowns in thought, forehead crinkled. It's not as if she's ever really had to practice forgiveness. The minor infractions didn't require it and the major things didn't deserve it, her own actions included (don't mistake that with regret or guilt, though).
"I think I get it. I mean, as much as I can." She shrugs. Heather gets the general concept. She's just got a long, long way to go.
She downs what little is left in her glass and sets it down carelessly with a clink. Her movements have gotten looser and she's clearly feeling more comfortable. She leans forward a little, just a little, almost as if to get a better look at him. Her thoughtful expression becomes veiled as she studies him. It's odd to realize she trusts him more than a great vast majority of people she's met in her life.
"You know I'm going to be coming to you for advice now, right?" This is the cop's chance to opt out.
no subject
Whiskey was just cheaper, and in some ways he felt like he deserved it.
"Luckily that'll probably be easier to think about when someone's just late to pick you up or stands you up on a date than it is when fuckin' dealing with stalker monster cults." He holds his hands as if they're scales, dipping one down and the other higher up.
"There's quite a weight difference in forgiveness for normal everyday shit."
no subject
"I honestly never really thought that kind of shit needed forgiveness." says the girl who has never been stood up. She's quick to brush off most infractions, even if they upset her, just as she isn't inclined to apologize for some of her own. But maybe that weight difference is what stumbles her on the subject. The small, stupid shit is overshadowed significantly.
no subject
Okay, he's a little bit bitter. Just a little. About your average amount of unhappy ex.
"You'll also figure out how few fucks you give about being forgiven because you didn't wanna be there anyway. Should be grateful your ass showed at all." And then he chuckles to himself, an actual real laugh as he pours himself a little more. He's trying to take his time with it.
"Social failures happen sometimes. Now, if you really like someone? You don't show up enough, they start feeling rejected? Gotta go say your sorry about that."