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onewassilver[ A bottle of rum and a large glass are set before him, his shoulders are in a strong line and he's swirling the amber liquor in it's glass, his eyes trained on it while his glasses were set to the side. It's night time and he's not... sad, per-say, simply... thinking, thinking hard on things. Perhaps remembering too, always remembering.
Slowly, he lifts the glass to his lip and sucks back a small amount, letting it hit the back of his throat and allowing him to breathe for a few seconds, before he sets it down and runs a hand through his hair and follows through to lean the elbow on the table, palm up against his forehead as he gently laughs.
Next to his drink there's an open book. It's Rogers own log, everything told from his perspective. He didn't even know this existed until he visited the Oro'Jackson's resting place, went into that cabin and sad on the dusty bed and went for the comforting -- barely there smell of a man long since dead. He had reached up and knocked a panel of the headboard out and there this lovely little black and silver book rolled out, smelling like everything that was meant to be preserved in this life.
Which, lead him to coming back to Shakkey's bar, promptly sitting down in his usual spot and drinking in each word until Shakkey herself had left (far after the rest of the patrons had stumbled away). The page he's stopped on is obviously the day where the man had asked him the become his 'wife'. Every sloppy letter speaking volumes of things that just made Ray want to forget about the anger he held towards him and just cherish this little thing that reminded him that maybe, despite what he felt sometimes, he never had been second place -- a consolation prize.
That's why he's not depressed, in fact he's just. Affectionate, a little sad, but he's still satisfied..
That's why when he feels the hand on his shoulder he doesn't react, he knows who it is by the grip and he can feel the blank look focused on the back of his head, so when he chuckles again and gives a rasp of; ] Phoenix. [ it's no surprise that he's just drained. ]
Slowly, he lifts the glass to his lip and sucks back a small amount, letting it hit the back of his throat and allowing him to breathe for a few seconds, before he sets it down and runs a hand through his hair and follows through to lean the elbow on the table, palm up against his forehead as he gently laughs.
Next to his drink there's an open book. It's Rogers own log, everything told from his perspective. He didn't even know this existed until he visited the Oro'Jackson's resting place, went into that cabin and sad on the dusty bed and went for the comforting -- barely there smell of a man long since dead. He had reached up and knocked a panel of the headboard out and there this lovely little black and silver book rolled out, smelling like everything that was meant to be preserved in this life.
Which, lead him to coming back to Shakkey's bar, promptly sitting down in his usual spot and drinking in each word until Shakkey herself had left (far after the rest of the patrons had stumbled away). The page he's stopped on is obviously the day where the man had asked him the become his 'wife'. Every sloppy letter speaking volumes of things that just made Ray want to forget about the anger he held towards him and just cherish this little thing that reminded him that maybe, despite what he felt sometimes, he never had been second place -- a consolation prize.
That's why he's not depressed, in fact he's just. Affectionate, a little sad, but he's still satisfied..
That's why when he feels the hand on his shoulder he doesn't react, he knows who it is by the grip and he can feel the blank look focused on the back of his head, so when he chuckles again and gives a rasp of; ] Phoenix. [ it's no surprise that he's just drained. ]
