singillatim | green peppers; ota

Entry tags:

green peppers; ota

Who: Holland March + anyone
What: March is not handling things very well and being a nuisance
When: Early arrival, throughout the day and also 2am
Where: Milton (town house, outside, the general 'all of it.')

Content Warnings: standard alcoholism warning for march

i. exploring;

[ This place sucks. It's a shit hole even without the added shittiness of it being a frozen wasteland in Canada, and that's a very strong opinion and the hill he wants to die on. March never shies away from telling people exactly what he thinks, oftentimes to the point of annoyance, and anyone who's talked to him for more than 20 seconds knows that he, like most people in this godforsaken tundra, would rather literally be anywhere else.

March's problem is that as much as he kicks up a stink and complains he's got that insatiable curiosity pumping through his veins. It's the whole PI thing, the whole detective business: you can't not be a little insane and want to check things out. Sure, there's a survival aspect but what wins March over in terms of going to explore is absolutely pure nosiness.

He's bundled himself up at least and can easily be found rifling around abandoned houses trying his best to ignore the important things like 'corpses' and 'the crushing and highly depressing feeling of being put in an insanely specific survival scenarios with absolutely no self preservation instincts whatsoever.' It's fairly easy to guess where he is: as he's rooting (looting) buildings, he's singing very loudly to the song in his head, only he can't remember the actual words. It's keeping him sane, even if it might be driving others up the wall. ]

ii. hot mess express;

[ There's no way this bottle of scotch isn't his. It's literally the same one he bought to congratulate himself, complete with the bag proudly displaying that it was purchased at Dale's Food Mart, EST 1955 and a price sticker. It's also right next to a framed school photo of his daughter; one of the few things that the fire spared.

So yeah, it's his bottle, so yeah, he's going to drink it, 'cause that photo is a little bit of a fuck you to him on cosmic level. It's been a tough day. Tough night, tough everything, and between the whole 'we're going to freeze to death' and general bone deep concern for everything and everyone he's met so far it doesn't take him long to finish off half the bottle. Probably he should save it. Probably. But he's treating the booze like the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his pocket: like it's normal, like he can continue to chain smoke and toss back his limited supplies. If anyone exploring comes across the little cabin he's found it in, be prepared for a very drunk and raucous welcome from where he's sitting on the floor, arms wide in delight like an old friend has just walked in for the first time in years, absolutely delighted and grinning a mile wide. ]

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey!

iii. hot mess express (2am version);

[ The problem is that sometime between one am and two am that bottle is nearly empty and Holland March has consumed almost all of it. That's when he gets it: the best idea in the universe.

If he goes outside, he'll find more. It's probably not even that cold out anymore anyway, 'cause he's feeling warm. It's that nice little tickle in his chest that comes with a lot of booze and forgetting just how fucked they all are. March is smart, not stupid, obviously, so of course he brings a jacket. It's his suit jacket from home, all light linen, and his dress shirt is completely open exposing his tank top because yeah it's snowing or whatever but he's still, like, warm and shit.

He doesn't get very far in his mission to find more, but that's okay. One hand holding his flask from home, the other the almost empty bottle of scotch sans paper bag, March gasps loudly at the night sky. ]

I gotta show Healy this. The moon.

[ With absolutely no regard to any sensible people trying to sleep, March begins to shout as loudly as he possibly can, voice cracking and sounding rather girlish. ]

HEY HEALY! Healy! Healy!

[ He'll simmer down after no response or if no one stops him. Unfortunately, he still has that song in his head. Fellow interlopers: there is a very drunk, extremely loud man in the middle of the town square singing--slurring, more accurately--the words to an old 70s funk tune. ]

iv. hangover;

[ How he's managed to somehow wake after the previous nights events is beyond even his comprehension, but he's here. Alert isn't accurate, but March is technically awake and alive, staring miserably at the wall in the Town Hall, a cigarette dangling between his lips that hasn't been lit despite the gold lighter literally in his hand.

Possibly, he may be dying. Or just incredibly hungover. could go either way. ]

v. wildcard;

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[ Column a, column b. The girl is still talking to him, though when March groans it’s not because of her voice, it’s because he’s decided to move his head a little too fast to see her properly. He snaps the lighter shut and sets it back on the table. ]

Do you really want to have this conversation?

[ He can’t tell if this girl is mad or offering help, and either she’s genuinely asking or giving him shit. Maybe it’s a bit of both. March is, surprisingly, not that irritated. Probably because that requires effort he simply does not have at the moment. He continues–-hey, he warned her: ]

If I even think about eating a saltine right now it is not going to look pretty.

[ Look, it's her job to look after people. She's used to having a ship of over 400 souls depending on her to protect them, so adding one more isn't that much of a burden. (Hopefully. That might actually depend on how much alcohol this place has stashed away...) ]

Fine, then I'll get you some coffee. It'll serve you better than this. [ She reaches for the cigarette, moving quickly in the hopes of grabbing it from him to put out. It's a nasty habit, and she doubts the town has enough cigarettes tucked away to support such an addiction, so it's best he start weening himself off them now. ]

[ March flinches--tries to lean out of the way, even, spine looking almost boneless--but he's hungover, and moving makes him nauseous, and this girl is deceptively fast, and what is with everyone taking away his cigarettes? This is an outrage. He feels infantilized. ]

I'm getting a lot of mixed messages. You get me coffee but take away the thing that goes with it, it's very confusing.

[ No way in hell he's complaining about the coffee, though. March slouches a little forward, head still spinning from the sudden jerk he'd committed to while trying to keep his cig. ]

[ Rolling her eyes, La'an leans over to stub the cigarette out on the floor, making sure it's firmly out before she adds it to the garbage. Sorry, village drunk, this one isn't being salvaged. ]

How do you expect to even taste the coffee with this poison coating your senses...

[ She mutters mostly to herself before walking away, disposing of the toxin-laden stick before finding a mug to fill with the steaming nectar known as coffee. Is it the best coffee she's ever had? Far from it, but it's coffee and that's what matters. Filling a mug for herself as well, she adds sugar and powdered creamer to one before returning to the midnight musician.

Setting both on the table beside him, she gestures and says in her usual no-nonsense tone that doesn't betray how much she cares and worries about others: ] I don't know how you take it, so pick one and I'll drink the other.

[ March watches with numb fascination, mostly because if he moves much he's going to upchuck and that would be embarrassing. Also prove her point, too. He exhales and can't save much of his dignity when he whimpers at the smoke being unceremoniously ground and thrown out.

But coffee.

March sighs and reaches for the cup of black, pulling it closer not by the handle but by putting the palm of his hand on the top and slowly sliding it towards him. ]

See? This is what I mean. Confusing. You're a very complicated women.

[ Complicated is a bit of an understatement, though she can be described as such for a myriad of reasons he has no concept of. No one here does, and not for the first time, she feels indescribably lonely because of it. When she'd been in Toronto, she'd at least had James with her, but here... ]

You're not the first to say so. [ She sits and picks up her own mug to take a sip, grateful she hadn't made the coffee overly sweet. There's no indication she plans to leave again anytime soon. ]

Not gonna be the last. [ A beat as March both considers what he'd said and takes a sip of his coffee, sighing a little with happiness as he does so. Coffee helps. ]

Probably with more curse words if you try to steal someone else's smokes. We've got a very limited supply, and I get very cranky if I can't light one and think. Even if this makes up for it. [ A lift of the cup. ]

Thanks, Miss...?

[ She takes no offense at the comment. He's not wrong, he won't be the to see her as complicated or worse. And while there are certain views people have of her that get under her skin, this thankfully isn't one of them. ]

La'an. [ She answers simply, knowing her name is a bit more unusual for most of the people trapped in this frozen town. Another sip, then she points the conversation toward him. ] So what year are you from where people still liberally smoke tobacco?

[ If the facial hair is anything to go by, it's not the early 21st century. ]

La'an. [ He repeats it because it is unusual, and contrary to popular belief he does pay attention and want to get things right. Mostly. Sometimes. With pretty girls, at least. The when comment makes him wince. ]

Can you--come on. 'Where are you from, Holland?' 'Oh thanks so much for asking, Los Angeles, and you?' That's a normal conversation, why are you throwing a when in there?

[ He's still vastly uncomfortable with time shenanigans, but despite his complaint he's answering: despite his words he's not actually upset, he's just a fan of complaining. ] It's 1977.

Edited 2023-11-02 16:47 (UTC)

[ The sigh that escapes La'an is heavy. 1977. That's certainly a good deal earlier than when she'd been in Toronto. Nearly 50 years earlier, during which so very much happened. She doesn't recall all the details of that period of history, but she remembers the broad strokes of the major events that shaped the development and downfall of society. In just a few decades, humanity would be close to destroying itself...

If they were from the same timeline, that is. Or universe. She's not entirely certain of the correct terminology there. Not that it matters — he's so hung over, he likely wouldn't remember if she told him she was from over two centuries into his future. ]

I've never been to Los Angeles. [ If he wants a 'normal' conversation, then they'll have a normal conversation. ] I was in Toronto, Canada, before I was brought here. It was cold there too, but nothing like this.

You'd love LA. [ He has no idea if she'd love LA. That's not the point. The point? ] It's warm. Palm trees, no snow.

...When are you from? [ He's not going to let this go after all. ]

[ Warm does sound pretty good right now. She could take or leave the palm trees, but she misses feeling warm without having to worry about keeping a fire going. Thinking of it brings up the memory of James, and she is so blindsided by the wave of grief that she falters at the new question. ]

20— [ Her voice breaks and she clears her throat, trying to make it seem much more natural than it is. She tries again and chases the lie with a gulp of coffee. ] 2023.

[ 2023. March leans back as much as he can given his situation, decides to hold the mug of coffee with both hands for warmth. There's a small moment of silence. ]

Okay.

[ Hey, he literally asked for it. ]

You guys got birds still?

[ Some small part of her that would love to play practical jokes on people wonders just what his reaction would have been if she had told him the truth of when she was from. But she can't, so she'll just have to keep wondering.

He actually manages to get a laugh out of her with his question, though it's probably not what he intended with it. ]

Yes, we still have birds. [ Frowning, she asks a question in return. ] Was that in doubt in 1977?

Woah, woah.

[ Forget the bird comment. March looks up at La'an, brows climbing as high as they can without him feeling like the room is spinning. ]

Was that a laugh?

[ It's frustrating as hell, but she smiles again, though she tries her best to suppress it. Shaking her head, she sips at her coffee. ]

It does happen on occasion. [ She points at him with her mug-holding hand. ] Don't let it go to your head.

[ There's something about this man that she can't quite put her finger on. He'd annoyed her to no end with his midnight serenade, and he certainly seems a bit of a disaster in the daylight, but he's also... charming. Which is annoying in a very different way. ]

[ March nods in understanding simply because lying seems better than letting La'an know it absolutely will get to his head, but he has enough hungover reserve to give her a thumbs up in assurance. ]

Friend of mine was worried. The birds--to answer your question. Buncha protests about smog goin' on.

Ah.

[ She stalls her next words with more coffee, quickly working her way to the bottom of her cup. If only she could tell him... anything. That the smog would get worse, and humanity would cause the extinction of so very many species before finally learning to be better. That Earth is a paradise now.

Suddenly, she feels incredibly lonely despite the people all around her. There's no hiding the shift in her mood, though she does try. ]

The smog is still around, but so are the birds.

[ March watches the other carefully--as carefully as he can given his state, although the coffee is helping--and his shoulders bunch up in the closest equivalent of a shrug as he's capable of. ]

If by some miracle we actually come back, I'll be sure to let 'im know.

[ Something's happened. Some little switch has been turned on or off, a button pressed, the woman's demeanour shifts. March looks at her, brows raised in curiousity. ]

[ By some miracle. Get a crew to believe in miracles and they might just give you one. She can't help but hear Chris's voice at the back of her mind, reminding her of something that is so important for people to keep hold of in the darkest times: hope. Her expression grows serious as she properly faces her charming but ridiculous companion. ]

We're going to find a way back. No matter what it takes, we're all going home.

[ She says it like she believes it because she does. With her whole heart. ]

[ And just like that, La'ans demanour shifts again. March's brows raise higher. ]

Yeah.

[ There's something in the way that she says it. He's seen a bunch of bravado, tons of guys on the force before he got kicked that used to swing their arms around and play the hero. March always thought it was stupid--and still does. But La'an seems to believe it, and that's sort of making March believe it, too. ]

Yeah. Maybe we will.

[ He sniffs a little, winces at the state of his head, and half slumps into the table with a groan. He needs to sleep it off but the mere thought of going outside is making him want to die. ]

...Thanks for the coffee, La'an.

[ La'an believes it because the alternative isn't an option. There is no possible way she's going to be trapped in this place forever, and she refuses to leave any of these people behind when she finds a way out. She'll help as many of them survive as possible, and then she'll get them all home. ]

You're welcome. [ Watching him slump, she finishes her cup of coffee and then stands. With a hand on her hip, she sighs softly, cursing herself for the question she's about to ask. ] Do you need help getting somewhere?

You're cute when you care.

[ He says it without really thinking--mostly because if he spends time thinking he'll break his brain with its' sorry state--and he looks back up, wincing at the lights. Yeah, he definitely needs to sleep this off. ]

I've been staying in a cabin nearby, but if I get up I think I'm gonna hurl.

[ She's going to choose to ignore the cute comment, for his sake more than hers. Glancing around the room and to the door, she's quiet for a moment and then shrugs. ]

Might be better to just get it over with if you're that bad off.

[ The people around them likely wouldn't appreciate it, but it wouldn't be the first time La'an's stood with someone while they're throwing up in the throes of a hangover. ]

[ There's a tiny flicker of a smile that moves across March's face, blue eyes scanning La'ans for something. Whatever he finds seems to also be a little bit amusing, and he can't help himself. ]

That'd look great, wouldn't it? Upchucking right at a table by the fire. Everyone would love me.

green peppers; ota

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