#patrict

a slow exhale silently hisses past his lips .     the stench of alcohol lingering .     there remains a glass of ale , half full .     for the past thirty minutes arthur has been using his beer as a chaser .     the shots having stopped , for now .     eyes angle to the shoulder he feels the other approaching .     ‘     i ain’t . . . drunk enough----     ‘     he hiccups , holding a finger up for a moment in the event a second follows .     ‘     t’talk about my proprieties .     ‘     his large hand envelopes his mug of ale .     there was something fun about being drunk , even more fun about a good ol fashioned bar fight .     to which he’s certain is unlikely to happen now .

@ marble hire me and katie to rewrite literally all of ur canon

“...See, this is all...all a problem with, uh, uh...perception.” He attempts to explain. “Ya probably see this an’ think-- hey, maybe this guy’s a criminal or somethin’. Well, I, Doyle Ulysses Donnelly, can downright guarantee that I am on the up an’ up. On the straight an’ narrow. On a righteous path and, uh, nothin’ hinky is goin’ on ‘round here, nuh uh.”

‘     temporarily .     ‘     arthur is still well within his sober stages to know that the whisky elixir he sips will give him a fleeting sensation of liberation .     temporarily shutting off memories that plague him , the sickness inside far less the culprit .     behind the stone cold expression were sad eyes .     but they never came with a reason .     the stories are blotched in black ink , nestled within pages of an old journal .     pages that only see the light of day when the elixir begins to wear and the pain surfaces like a scab one picks to make it bleed all over again .‘     wanna try it ?     ‘     he raises two fingers , calling over a couple more rounds , same poison .     and he slides a glass near the open seat beside him .

        she sighs  DRAMATICALLY  when she realizes the corny green mug with the worn out paint is empty  ––  it’s a long trip from the couch where she’s grading papers to the kitchen,  and june drags a reassuring hand across rick’s arm as she passes by.      ‘  let me know if i can help,  yeah  ?  ’             /         @patrict

        “ Alright,” he chuckles, “ that’s fair. Maybe you don’t need any kinda reason or advantage to go for it. But some, I think...well, sometimes all it is --- is curiosity, you know? Something intriguing, but it ain’t nothing but that. Just words with no real means to back it up. And some like a challenge, but...only if the reward is obtainable. Which, in my case ----ain’t always. Not everyone goes after it just for the hell of it, Flag. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against impossible odds myself. Just speakin’ from their perspective, I guess. But I like where you’re coming from, if I’m being entirely honest.” 

There weren’t many things that could throw Steve off his balance. He’d learned how to disassociate from and swallow down literally everything. He’d learned how to hide his emotion. It’s why most people didn’t think that Captain America just might suffer through PTSD. He’d identified most of his triggers and learned how to cope, but when you were as short as he was, there was just one that was hard to over come: being too crowded. Especially in a non-combat situation. Being crowded made him think he was in a combat situation and his mind began to sink into fight or flight. There is a light gasp and a small jump when the other speaks up and he looks up at Rick before quietly taking his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you...” he mutter quietly to the other and sticks close.