HIATUS.

I don’t, sorry bby. I can recommend far better gif makers who do though. 

HOW CAN YOU BLAME ME FOR THIS MESS YOU CREATED– I LITERALLY SENT YOU THE HAPPIEST OF PROMPTS.

meme

💕 your muse telling my muse that they will always be friends.

She’s ten and flying through the streets, the summer sun beating it’s scorching path on the cement, showing no sign of letting up despite the rapidly approaching autumn months. Golden brown tresses fall in messy plaits upon tanned shoulders, knotted from a day of being a pirate, then a ships captain, an adventurer, always a female. Females were born to be the hero, the adventurer, she’d argue stubbornly. She was fearless, jade eyes determined as she rounds the corner fast, faster then the boys on her street but not as fast as the boy she’s determined to beat, her brother speeding on ahead, dark eyes narrowed as he focuses on trying to ditch his stubborn little sister. 

She snorted at his impression of a New Yorker. “Yes, clearly the world is going to end if you don’t get there right now. It’s nice to talk to another outsider, it reaffirms that this behavior isn’t normal,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Oh me, I’m from Santa Monica– right outside of LA. So pretty much the exact direct opposite coast of here. And yes, I know what you’re thinking,” she continued before he could. “Yes I am a California girl who ordered a California turkey panini– what can I say I am a walking stereotype.” As if to punctuate her admittance, Doll held up her hands in an open-palmed shrug. 

As she listened to his answer about how he came about commissions, Doll was struck by the feeling that she hadn’t really learned anything new from him that she hadn’t already known. His answer was vague and didn’t really answer her questions, but she figured it wasn’t wasn’t worth pressing. It wasn’t her career so it wasn’t anything she really needed to worry about; besides the question had only been small talk anyway. He could keep the nitty gritty details to himself if he wanted to. 

When he continued, however, mentioning that he had to bring his next commission in person, she made a face. “Sounds like the snooty art type. They probably want it to be hand delivered to ensure no middle man gets any dirt on it.” Doll rolled her eyes. “You know the help can be so unreliable these days,” she continued conspiratorially, adopting a WASPy New England accent. Dropping back to normal, she shook her head again. “Museum curators can be so pretentious, like clearly if this is your job you know what you’re doing,” she offered in a mater-of-fact tone. “Which piece is it?” she added, trying to remember all the ones she’d seen while they had been there. Granted she’d been a little distracted…

The waitress came back with their drinks and Doll thanked her automatically before picking up her beer. “Well, cheers. To art, and making new friends,” she toasted jokingly, before tipping the bottle back and taking a sip.

He chuckled a little as he rest his elbows lightly on the table, shaking his head. “No, Chicago is similar but cleaner, less claustrophobic, not as hostile.” he quipped with a smirk, though she didn’t need to know he’d grown up in a slightly rougher part of the neighbourhood, not far from where Sloan and the Andretti Family were roaming around and causing mayhem. He often wondered if he’d moved to a different part, if his family had been able to afford a different borough would his life have turned out differently? Yes, without a doubt. It was something that grated on his nerves a lot, but he couldn’t change the past he supposed, but he was honestly trying to let go and change the future as much as he could, as long as he stayed away from Sloan. Something he was struggling to do given he could at that moment feel his phone vibrating lightly in his pocket, another call no doubt from Sloan that he was glad to ignore. 

He grinned as she adopted a different accent, recognising it immediately as she began to imitate some of his genuine clients to perfection and he couldn’t help the laugh that parted his lips as he nodded. “Well, ma’am, that’s why Oliver Hudson produces not only the finest work in the wonderful country that is the US of A, But service, with a smile.” with that he spread his arms open wide in a gesture as if to bow and plastered a wide, obviously fake, smile on his lips that was painful after all of two seconds before he laughed and dropped his arms back down to the table as he heard Doll’s next question. Shit. His features remained completely neutral as he knew he had to come up with something he could remember, “A Remington.” he replied nonchalantly, truth. “Just a simple touch up to have back in place by the end of the week.” partially true, he was three quarters of the way through a near perfect replica and by the end  of the week when the ‘restoration’ (done in all of one day - but the museum didn’t need to know that) he would have a fully replicated, near impossible to tell, copy of the art work for Sloan. Then the cycle would start all over again.

However, he couldn’t have been more grateful for the arrival of the waitress with their drinks and he sipped at his beer quickly before he heard the toast. Friends. Hmm. He didn’t comment on that, the mere fact that he wanted to be more then friends stuck in his head. Heck he’d made that obvious, he hoped. “So, what classes are you taking at the moment?”

from this 

❛ You say it’s the last time every time. ❜

To him, it was. Every time someone convinced him to put down the bottle, it was the last time to him. He’d be so detirmined to follow through, go to the AA Meetings that Viv had looked up for him as part of the custody arrangement so that he could see Alexandra. He would spend time with Charles and the family he’d made for himself and wonder how his friend had managed to get his shit together, whilst Garrett was still barely scraping by. He’d watch on the outside looking in as his daughter was raised without a father, or see his friends move on without him, giving up on him like he knew deep down they always would. 

Yet, every damn time he’d find himself struggling too damn much and he’d pick up the bottle, and another, and another, until he could barely stand and eventually he would pass out. Sometimes he’d made it to the toilet before he did, other times he wasn’t so quick and he’d pass out in a pool of his own vomit for the housekeeper to find the next day. The vicious cycle continued, with a different person coming to pull him out of the dark pit he’d drunk himself into each time. Kira, Charles, Viv, if he didn’t know better he’d swear that they did rock, paper scissors to find out whose turn it was next. 

This time, they went a week before they began to seek him out. He’d stopped returning calls, nothing new. He’d not answered the door when Charles knocked, again nothing new. It was when he hadn’t shown up to a visit with Alexandra, something he’d rarely done, that alarm bells began to ring. It was Kira who turned up, immaculate shoes treading through smashed glass and empty bottles, dancing neatly around the vomit as she looked down at Garrett unconscious on the floor with a sigh before she pulled out her cell phone to call for help. 

Hours later he was showered, somewhat conscious and laying on top of his bed when he opened his bleary gaze up towards Kira. “It’s the last time, Kir...” he murmured softly, voice rough from lack of use and what he’d been doing, scratchy and distant as he brought his eyes up to Kira’s. “I promise.” but even as he said it he knew the words were weak, that they held no promise or weight. He’d be back at the bottle in no time, and one day he’d go to far and they’d have to deal with a body. He could see she didn’t, couldn’t, believe him, and what really scared him most of all was where he once would’ve had a long speech about how he was throwing his life away and the effect he was having on those around him, the normally feisty Kira merely shook her head in response. 

“You say it’s the last time every time.”