#johnnyutah

“What are the odds this stuff’s basically rat poison?” Ace asks, looking at Ash through an amber-colored bottle of clear liquid—or perhaps a clear-colored bottle of amber liquid. It’s too dusty to really tell. The light from outside shines in rays through the slatted wooden blinds, though the sun is going down, so they can’t expect it to be light for much longer. Like the sun ever really goes down, here. They know what to expect. 

“Everything’s basically rat poison here, right?” Ash sniffs, wiping his hand over the fine layer of dust on the counter. “Like, is there anything here that’s not designed to kill us?”

“Well, I guess.” Ace makes a face, trying in vain to pull the stopper out of the bottle. “I meant more like…I don’t know. You hear that they used to make liquor out of anything.”

“Do you hear that?”

“In Westerns.”

“I guess so,” Ash says contemplatively, pulling up one of the barstools. It feels horrifically loud in the silence, but it’s not like they’ve seen hide nor hair of anyone else since they got here—like a glitch in the system. There aren’t even any generators, so what else should they be doing? “I was never big into Gunsmoke or anything. That’s the kind of shit my dad watched.”

“Are you calling me old?” Ace pouts. It’s intolerable.

“No…eh, you know what? Sure. You are old. Only old people watch Westerns.”

“I mean, it’s not like I watch anything anymore,” he protests, straining against his own meager strength. “Give me a hand, here?”

“Wow. Wow.” Ash shakes his head, tutting even as he holds his hand out for the bottle. “Real fuckin’ classy, Visconti. A hand joke? Really?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that!” Ace hands him the liquor, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to, I could make a better hand joke. That’s amateur hour.”

“It is pretty bad,” Ash admits, lowering the kayfabe to focus on opening the bottle, like a real masculine type of man. “But I get it a lot. People think they’re real funny every time they say it. Eh, it’s not like I’m some snowflake who gets offended by that shit, at least—just wish it was creative, y’know?”

“So you want me to come up with a creative way of insulting your disability?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you do that.” Ash frowns, looking down. “Jesus, this thing is really—”

The bottle explodes in his hands, spraying whisky and shards of glass everywhere, crushed neatly under the force of his strength. Ace yelps, ducking down behind the counter like that might help him, afraid without ever really knowing why. For most of his life, he’d have sneered at the kind of fear and anxiety that grips him now, but hey—things change. Things always change. After the kind of time he’s had here, he can’t exactly wonder why he’s jumpier than he would be otherwise. 

“Fuck!” Ace snaps, peeking over the bar to see if the coast is clear. Alcohol drips down onto the floor, soaking into the dry floorboards like water onto parched soil. “What the hell, man!”

“Shit, sorry,” Ash sighs, rolling his eyes. “Jeez. You’re acting like someone fired a fuckin’ pistol in here.”

“I asked you to open it, not crush the fuckin’ thing! Shit!” Ace sighs, heaving himself up again, acutely conscious of how his joints groan as he stands. “You’re like a gorilla.”

“I take offense to that.”

“Oh, of course you do.”

“Whatever. It’s not a big deal, anyways,” Ash points out, gesturing at the collection of bottles behind them. “There’s a fuckin’ billion of these things.”

“Yeah, but that was the least questionable looking one,” Ace protests. “Mostly clear, little to no sediment. Like a good natural wine.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s natural. Though…”

“Though?”

Ash studies his hand, and Ace studies Ash as he shakes his fingers clear of any class, the faint, mechanical whir inside of him just barely audible. Carefully, but without any real thought behind it, he reaches his hand up to lick the side of his palm, all the way up his thumb, and even though he makes a dumb face as the taste of the alcohol really hits, it’s still the sexiest thing Ace has ever seen. Fuck, he’s fucked. This is so stupid. This absolute ape of a guy can’t be doing this to him.

“Tastes like gasoline,” Ash decides, wiping his hand on his gross shirt like that helps matters. Ace has to formulate a response, though it takes him a moment of stumbling through.

“Right. Um, right. Yeah, that’s about what I expected—but it hopefully won’t kill you, right?”

“Yeah, maybe. Keep me under medical observation to see if I keel over from poisoning.” Ash holds his hand out, snapping his fingers. “Give me another one. One of these has gotta work.”

“Hot coffee—no ice, none of that baby shit,” Ash says, slapping his hand emphatically on the counter. “Black. You know what that means, right? No sugar, sugar.”

“Um,” the coffee shop employee starts, before carefully considering her options. “Okay. What size?”

“I don’t know. Medium size. Regular size for a regular guy.”

“For a what?” Ace asks, equal parts amused and horrified. He would be perfectly content in his schadenfreude if he wasn’t party to this. Maybe, in another life, he would be able to contentedly view this scene from some table on the other side of the store and laugh about what an unlikeable chud this creep is. Unfortunately, in this life, he’s connected to said creep through a mix of extreme shared psychological torment, blackmail, and illegal matrimony. Maybe he’ll have to get an illegal annulment. Better than a legal one.

“For a regular guy.” Ash jerks a thumb at himself, proud.

“You’re not a regular guy.” 

“I am! Look at me.”

“So a grande, sir?” the barista asks, hopeful to get this over with.

“No—fuck do you mean? I said medium.”

“That’s what—”

“What, you think a guy like me doesn’t know my Spanish?” Ash huffs like a displeased dog, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ typical. Stere-o-typical, really. Grande’s big. I said medium.”

“Right, but that’s just—”

“It isn’t called the Medium goddamn River.”

Ash contemplates whether or not he can still get away with pretending he doesn’t know this guy despite standing directly next to him, conversing with him, and grimacing knowingly at everything he says, but the barista, in an attempt to get a glimmer of control back in this conversation, focuses her attention on him instead.

“And for you, sir?”

He didn’t get this far. Fortunately, Ash has him covered.

“He’ll also have a non-baby non-grande black coffee,” Ash says, patting Ace’s shoulder with his prosthetic hand. It’s a nice, comfortable weight, and Ace has a Pavlovian relaxation response to it before it kicks in that he’s not actually all that happy with the situation.

“Actually, I’ll take a caramel latte,” Ace corrects, lazily pointing at the specials sign. It isn’t like he really cares. Mostly, he’s being an asshole. As always, it works.

“What?” Ash blurts out, somehow offended by this turn of events. “Really? Is there even any coffee in that?”

“It’s a—do you not know what a latte is?” Ace asks. Wonders never cease, he thinks.

“Well, it’s some pussy shit,” Ash answers, matter-of-factly.

“Good thing I’m not sharing.” Ace reaches up to flick Ash’s forehead, grinning at the way his nose turns up in irritation. If Ash doesn’t like being annoyed, maybe it’d be in his best interests to stop being cute about it. And to stop being annoying himself, but that’s always going to be an uphill battle.

“What size?” the barista asks, politely ignoring this display.

“Medium.”

She opens her mouth, and then closes it, nodding as she fiddles with her computer.

“The total’s on the till,” she says brightly. “Cash or card?”

“Cash or card?” Ash echoes, glancing over at Ace.