#ronmanmob

starter for @ronmanmob

Neon lights easy against the bar top. Dances in the dark liquor in his glass. Blue that tracks every movement. The underlying thrum of music from hidden speakers. It's one of the reason he'd stayed instead of walking in and right back out. Its not so loud here. Not packed to the walls like so many other places. Not a writhing drone that rattles things not flesh and bone. Its a design flaw--he's working out the kinks. Fingers that are still of his original make wrap around the glass. Bring it to his lips, knock it back. A head coming to rest in make believe hand.

He's tired.

He should go home, but that space feels empty. Has for years. It's just somewhere to sleep. Busy as he entirely keeping his head above water. The one people come to when they need things made. Things that maybe not everyone has the knowledge to make down here in Down Town. But that came with the territory of what he used to do. Tactical Engineer for Weyland-Yutani. Living the dream. Only it hadn't really been that. Not unless he forgot somewhere along the way the dream had been to get fucking blown up. He still had a few years left him after though, but not many. Kicked to the curb because why pay to maintain someone when you can just replace them?

The bar keep refills his glass, as he rolls out a glitch in his shoulder. Something kept catching. He's going to have to look at that when he gets home. In the meantime he still has a few drinks to get through before he's buzzing enough to stumble home. So he gets back to work--or was about to when...

Come on---playing all night---

GETCHA FUCKIN' 'ANDS OFF ME!!

Rule number 3 : never hit a woman, even if she hits you. incapacitating however is allowed.

Three second bursts. That's how memory works. Three second bursts that your subconscious fills the gaps in between with logic later. But in the moment? Its just flashes of movement. Standing up from the stool he's been occupying for less than half an hour. Heavy booted feet that eat the fifteen feet of space between him and---a hand not made of flesh and bone finds its mark. Cutting off the man's ability to breath properly let alone keep speaking. And his voice sounds every bit of how he looks. Like wet gravel being grated between rusty cogs.

"She fuckin' said no."

The guy's taller but that's nothing new for Baz. A lot of people were. And maybe that makes the scene just now a _little_ funny. The half doubled over way Bastian's grip is forcing the asshole to be. And its a fraction of a second in reality but it beats weird in his not quite all flesh and bone leg. And time moves forward again, like nothing had occurred at all.

"Chips for the drinks, asshole. Bar top. Now."

Its done in between the sputtering garbles and flailing movements the man makes. Baz easying up just little bit on his grip. But not enough to make it hard for him to force the man to look the lady in the eye.

"Apologize."

I-mmm so---sorry.

Whether the guy actually means it or just doesn't want to die--it doesn't really matter. And Baz is moving again. Hauling the man backward until his feet come right out from under him, Bastian dragging him the rest of the way. The door opened and the jerk tossed right out of it. Where he crashes in a bit of a tumbled roll onto the side walk. Another rolling reset between flesh and not flesh, as he turns around. The door allowed to fall closed again his in wake. Baz more concerned with the hitch seeming to have moved to his fingers. God damn it what was causing that?

@ronmanmob

@ronmanmob sent: [ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ?

The first time Ron reached to cup the back of his head, Tony flinched. He did his best to recover from the pinched look on his face as he braced himself for a pain that never came. The only thing that happened was Ron's fingers, gentle in his hair, not the harsh strike he was prepared for.

Tony insisted to himself and Beth that he was fine, that Gibbs hadn't left a lasting impression. Beth had never believed him, always offering an ear if he needed to talk, but Tony learned to hold in the things that bothered him at his mother's feet. He didn't need to talk to anyone. He was fine. He had to be.

Then Ron reached for him and Tony knew there was no pretending that he hadn't reacted. He had to have an explanation for his flinch, for the look on his face, for the way his heart was beating like he'd just run a mile.

Ron deserved to know.

"Sorry," he said, straightening out of the hunch he'd put himself in. "Last person who did that smacked me. I guess it stuck with me."

No mention of how many times Gibbs smacked him. Ron didn't need to know that it was a daily thing, often more than once. Ron didn't need to deal with Tony's moping, the way he felt sorry for himself when he thought about how Gibbs had treated him, how hard he'd tried to win the man's approval. Ron didn't need that kind of baggage dumped on him.

Closed Starter for @ronmanmob.

~~*~~

Greetings,

 My name is Jayden Morgan. I am a student starting my second semester in university. I understand this is an oddity, but I was hoping that his letter reaches the reader with a string of hope that you have not been forgotten. 

I know that it is hard to believe that a program exists like this. I had a difficult time wrapping the idea around myself. Yet I have hope that this is the start of something positive. Or at least give you, the reader, something to help ease the days. I know this is terribly informal, but how do I expect anyone to be willing to open up if I don’t take that first step. 

I have already written to the Administration of the Prison to gain permission to exchange these letters and a single photo which is, or at least hopefully, still in the envelope as well.The pup is my dog, Jenna. Though she will have outgrown the ball of fluff she looks like by the time this reaches you. The woman with her is myself. 

I want to thank you for reaching out should you choose to. As well as thank you for the opportunity this will give me going forward on my path. I am studying to be a psychologist, and while this seems like an unusual extra credit, I like to look at it as a chance to prove to both you and myself that this is a challenging start to a long process. You don’t have to feel like you need to tell me everything or even anything. I cannot get you into trouble as I am not looking into the past but rather the future. 

Sincerely,

     Jayden

True to the written word the only other thing in the off white envelope is a picture. One taken in the snow packed park of a young woman with dark brown hair, bundled up against the chill of the wind. She held the pose most women would be seen in with a baby asleep in their arms. In her arms a Belgian Tervuren Puppy, one black ear folded inside out. The small face was half covered in snow and four little legs caught mid-flail. 

His inattentive gaze seems to have taken very little note of the admirable qualities of the room which they have acquired, given the hour. He is not certain whether it's the cold which is making him shiver, or the fear for the inevitable consequence of the daring decision he had made, all in the dead of night; to turn his back on everything he has ever known, in order to leave with the man whom he loves. Even during the ride down to the inn, when he had clasped Ronnie's hand in his nearly the entire way in the solace of the black shadows which filled the taxi's interior, and even now, as he searches the corners of his troubled mind, he fails to find an alternative to his choice. He simply cannot imagine a world in which he wouldn't choose Ronnie over his father's prejudices.