Fist Talking {Stephen/Open}

[Josef Muller]

This had been a really, really, bad idea. It had masqueraded as a good idea at first, but several drinks in, the “good” idea began to show its repercussions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t ended well. He seemed to remember being convinced by some guy or another that it was a good idea to climb some statue. And the time before that had been in college. He didn’t actually remember what had happened, but he did remember waking up with one hell of a headache in someone else’s dorm. And after those two experiences, he’d sworn that moderation was the key to survival.

Well, rules were meant to be broken. And he hoped he was being more careful this time. No car. He’d made sure he had a number for a cab. Limited amounts of funds in his wallet, and he hadn’t interacted with many people in the hopes that no one would convince him to break any laws. He was being a good boy. If one didn’t count the large quantity of alcohol he’d consumed. And he’d decided not to count that for tonight. Later he’d regret it. Later he’d curl up with some absolutely nasty hangover and bemoan his stupidity. But right now, he wanted enough alcohol to temporarily forget…everything. Maybe even sleep through the night, and if that was only gained by drinking a hell of a lot of…

He didn’t even know. That was a bad sign. His lips twitched into a wry smile, and he ordered another drink—just a shot of brandy—and noticed that the man next to him (a younger fellow who wasn’t hard on the eyes) had ordered the same thing. His brows raised, but he shrugged it off and looked about.

It hadn’t been a bad day, but it hadn’t been a good one, either. Josef was well-known for getting restless no matter what he was doing. He needed things to do, items to accomplish. And yeah, he had them, but…he just felt frustrated. Like something itched under the skin: something he couldn’t fix. He’d gotten the clinic going, he’d found a temporary place to live…and yet, somehow, it still didn’t feel right. But just on some days. So in an attempt to solve the problem of those days, he’d decided to try drinking.

He heard the thud of the glass being placed on the bar, and turned his attention back ahead, only to realize that his drink had been taken by the man next to him. His lips twisted into a slight frown, and he shook his head off and turned his attention to the younger man.

“Excuse me.” Mm. Words were a little more slurred than he would have liked. “I think that’s mine.”

So articulate, Josef. Well done.

[Stephen Gage]

There are times in life when you should truly share your feelings. Communication is the key to a healthy relationship, and if you take issue with something, let it be known. Honesty and openness should always be one's first and best choice.

But when that fails or if you just don't bloody feel like it, drink. As we can find Stephen doing now, lacking the testicular fortitude to simply share that which has placed him in this bar. It had begun with a single drink, of course. It always begins with a single drink: something to calm his nerves, give him a dose of good ol' liquid courage. But as the "courage" seeped into his blood and mind, Stephen could realize only that the reaches of his situation extended far below the surface. So there'd been a second drink. And a third. And a fourth. What had it been? An hour? Two? The barstool beneath him had held his weight patiently, and the notion entered Stephen's mind that he should probably thank it for being so abiding.

No, wait, that was an awful idea. Stephen shook his head, somewhat appalled at his own sudden stupidity. He sighed, rested his elbows on the bar and bringing one hand up to his forehead. This was a bad idea. A bad idea, apparently, in a sequence of bad ideas that possibly began with his own reticence. Stephen's amiable nature was far from a secret, but every person needs something to hide; his just happened to be rather notable. How do you tell your boyfriend that, if you wanted to, you could control his entire body? Make him jump up and down, do push-ups, run four miles, smack his own face into a brick wall? Such things are not the stuff of a good conversation, and Stephen had a difficult enough time explaining his ability to people he'd never see again, much less to someone who he woke up to almost every morning these days.

Riley had to know. Maybe not what Stephen could actually do, but that he could do something. And the big ol' bear had even had the balls to share his own trick with Stephen. To which the recruiter had simply laughed, accepted it, and ended the conversation with astounding speed. Maybe that was why Riley seemed distant lately. Never in his words, of course. It was all in his body language, something Stephen had become reluctantly good at detecting. Awkward postures, tighter hands, straighter spine, firmer jaw. And that face when Stephen called him "babe."

Yep. Time for another drink.

Stephen placed his order, vaguely noting that somebody else had called for the same. Whatever. Hardly important. Stephen rubbed his eyes, attempting to figure his way out of his problem while swimming in a cloud of inebriation. It went as well as could be expected: not at all. A light thud brought his attention back to the real world, and Stephen slid a fiver toward the bartender and took his drink, lifting it to his lips. He'd almost been fortunate enough to indulge in it before somebody apparently wanted his attention.

"Excuse me, I think that's mine."

Stephen paused, the glass at his mouth. If the man's words were slurred, Stephen's own drunkenness prevented him from noticing. He put the glass down upon the wooden bar, holding it firmly in his grasp as he turned somewhat and fixed the man with a firm eye. "I just paid for this. Get your own. Sounds like you had enough anyway." Foundless, hypocritical rudeness from a drunken gay man.

This bodes well.

[Josef Muller]

Josef was not the kind of man who had a temper. Hard to be in his line of work. When he’d been a recruiter, he’d known that. Patience was the key. They didn’t know what they were doing, so it wasn’t really their fault, no matter how much of a pain in his backside they were being. They didn’t know any better. That had begun his lesson in holding his temper. Then there had been William. And hadn’t that been an exercise in biding time, biting tongues, and waiting. Oh, yes, with all the waiting he’d done on William, he could have done so many things. Formed a dozen new relationships, gotten twenty new hobbies…

But it was all water under the bridge now. The point was that he didn’t react easily to bad things happening to him.

When he was sober. Drunk…now that was an entirely different story. Any other time he would have rolled his eyes and gotten another, or better yet, paid and walked out. But for some reason, right then at that moment, the fact that this guy had stolen his drink really, really bothered him.

It had probably been all of the mystery drinks. Later, he’d admit that it had been a bad idea. Because when he’d been younger, he’d known what that strange “itch” that he kept feeling, that desire to do something, had been. He was a physical fellow, and for all he tried to be even tempered, controlled, and relaxed, sometimes it did win out. It was something he was proud of, and something that he kept locked down as best as he could. But that didn’t mean that it didn’t happen. And the first thing drinking did was lower all those inhibitions that he’d kept up so high. That one included.

So therefore, instead of being nice or just ignoring it, Josef was going to be mean about it.

“I just paid for that. You can wait your turn.” Still not articulate, but that wasn’t the part that mattered. What was important was that he ended up leaning over to snatch it from the man, and ended up half-shoving him off the stool in an over exaggerated motion that was more due to the drinking than any real malicious intent. Still, Josef was a pretty strong man, so no matter how….unintentionally-violent his intentions had been, it probably would have hurt. What was more was, instead of apologizing immediately or trying to help the man up, he just shook his head and turned his attention back to the bartender, fully intending to order another drink.

This acquaintanceship seemed to be doomed from the start.

[Stephen Gage]

Stephen was not made happy by the man's continued presence. What part of "I paid for this" escaped him? Just take the loss, take the truth, and move on. He returned his gaze to the back of the bar, his own reflection in the mirror running the length of the wall. Were he not drunk, he might've cared enough to look at the man again when he spoke. Instead, Stephen just kept sipping his drink, doing his best to ignore what was becoming an increasingly irritating bar partner. His best wasn't very good, admittedly. His brow furrowed as the man told him to wait his turn for a drink he was already drinking, a mixture of confusion and annoyance playing out across his face. He turned to stare at the man in incredulity at the same time the bastard reached out to take his drink.

Most of the brandy landed on the bar, the rest of it seemingly hovering in the air as the glass clattered to the bar. The brandy fell as Stephen did, splashing down upon the front of the recruiter's shit and filling his nose with the stench of alcohol. The ground felt especially solid, his drunkenness dulling what would later probably become a very sore pain on his backside from falling to the ground. He was stunned, not from pain, but from the sheer unexpectedness of it. "What the hell was that for?" he shouted. And he was ignored. The guy seemed far more focused on getting a drink than the man he'd just toppled.

How long had it been since Stephen had gotten into a bar fight?

Not long enough for him to forget how, apparently. Stephen was in no mood to be trifled with, and stared up at his assailant in pure disbelief for a few moments. He rose to his feet as quickly as his state allowed, completely oblivious to the growing number of eyes focused on him. Stephen had no formal combat training, but he was drunk and bothered and angry. And in his addled mind, that combination somehow added up to a victory. He did the first thing that came to mind, and kicked the stool he'd just been sitting on at what was now his enemy, hoping for a nut-shot. After that... well, he hadn't planned that far ahead.

Riley would not be pleased.

[Josef Muller]

Josef had indeed ignored Stephen’s shouted comment. He hadn’t seen any real reason to pay attention. Yes, he’d knocked the other man over, but that didn’t mean anything to him in this particular state. It just meant that “problem” had been checked off his list. He noted out of the corner of his eye that the man had gotten up, although he didn’t seem to see why this mattered to him until the barstool came coming toward him. A sober Josef would have probably laughed at the thought of that actually being a threat. A barstool? Easily avoided or stopped, and while it would hurt if it actually hit him…the chances of it doing so were slim to none.

Then again, sober Josef wouldn’t have been doing this at all.

But even drunk Josef had reflexes of some nature, which was why he managed to stumble out of the way of the stool. The leg of it smashed into his calf, which smarted like hell but didn’t distract him from his goal—in fact, it only served to make him angrier. What had been irritation at a drink stolen now became outright anger for an attempt on him. Admittedly a failed one, but Josef wasn’t exactly thinking about that.

“You want to play it like that?” he demanded instead, still swaying. “Fine. Then let’s play that game.” Like Stephen, he was confident that he could win. Part of it was alcohol fueled bravado.

Okay, a lot of it was. But Josef had also had formal training. It was debatable whether that would help in his current state, but he was sure willing to give it a try. Which was why he ended up leaping/tripping forward to swing a punch at the other man’s stomach. The good news for Stephen was the alcohol hadn’t lent itself to accuracy. He’d probably miss anything important, like the solar plexus, by several inches at least. Unfortunately, this same inaccuracy led to Josef not really pulling his punch. So on the one hand, Stephen could get out of the way. On the other, if he didn’t, it was going to hurt.

Josef hadn’t thought about that part. Later, he’d probably curse himself for his stupidity. Much later.

[Stephen Gage]

Well shit. That hadn't gone as planned. The crotch-shot for which Stephen had been so dearly hoping hadn't occurred; the pushy bastard was still standing, not doubled over and protecting his important bits. Truth be told, the recruiter hadn't really planned out what he was going to do in the event his intricate plan fell through. Nor had he sketched out his strategy following a successful attack on Josef's balls, for that matter. He'd expected that to pretty much be it to the fight, a fair indicator of just how many brawls the man had ever been in throughout his life. But Josef was standing tall, looking far more pissed off than wounded.

Even drunk, much of Stephen's confidence fled him. So when a fist came barreling towards his midsection, he did what any sensible, frightened drunk man would do: get the hell out of the way. It was by no means a graceful dodge, comprised of a fairly clumsy step backwards that was cut short by the presence of another bar stool weighed down by the man sitting upon it. Stephen's balance interrupted by the impolite presence of a stool and a man trying quite impressively to mind his own damn business, Josef's punch connected with half the force it would have otherwise, but to fair success. Stephen went down, one leg caught on the stool while his other tried in vain to regain his balance. He found himself staring at the ceiling, one hand seeking for a firm grip he might use to stand up once more.

The man on the bar stool jumped over the fallen recruiter, eagerly seeking escape from the brawl. As his eyes got a lovely view of the wooden roof, Stephen could see the eyes of other patrons on him. But he no longer cared. He was aching, now. Two falls onto a hard ground will do that to a man. They were dull pains, though ones he'd certainly feel more of in the morning. But before even the pain came his concern with the location of his assailant. Not a single part of him wanted to receive another punch.

His courage long since vanished, Stephen'd addled brain was scrambling about for solutions as his eyes locked on, admittedly hazily, to the form of Josef. Problem: Josef hurt. Solution: None. None that he could think of, anyway. And in his frightened, stricken vision, Stephen could have sworn he saw Josef lunging for him. And so Stephen stuck his hand out, an open palm facing towards his attacker in the universal sign for "STOP." And since Josef probably wouldn't stop on his own, Stephen would make him. The part of the recruiter that hated his ability was submerged beneath alcohol and fright as Stephen exerted his influence over Josef's body. He had no thoughts regarding what the other patrons might think of a man immobilized in the middle of the bar. Nor did he care. Stephen's ability hadn't been used in such a very long time. Part of him regretted that, the same part that was beginning to enjoy the opportunity to use it again.

[Josef Muller]

As Stephen went down, Josef ended up stumbling as well. He’d overbalanced and had ended up nearly falling over as the inertia of his fist ended up carrying him forward. He barely managed to catch himself before he ended up toppling on top of Stephen. Instead, he managed to sway upright and rubbed his head, rage draining just like that. It had been rather stupid, and he’d never had much of a fuse even when drunk. He really had no reason to get angry at Stephen. The whole drink thing was kind of silly.

Okay, kind of? Perhaps downright stupid. He blinked fuzzily, trying to regain his thoughts as the man from the barstool leapt away, and the other patrons were staring at them. He suddenly felt horribly self-conscious and aware. That certainly was the alcohol. Because although Josef wouldn’t have normally started the fight, had he gotten involved, he wouldn’t have been so shame-faced about it. He would have stared at the patrons until they looked away and then would have left as if he’d done nothing wrong at all, and dealt with the embarrassment of the situation later on his own time. But this…this was flustering, and in a drunk, but semi-well-meaning attempt to make it better, he did indeed step forward toward Stephen. It was NOT to attack him as the man thought: but to offer to buy him a drink and apologize and hopefully patch the whole thing up by bonding like manly-men over yet another strong drink that neither of them needed.

Which was why it came to a surprise to him when Stephen stuck his hand out to stop him. And then Josef froze. It was not out of any conscious effort. He just did, and nothing he did could make him start moving again. The rational part of Josef’s mind, the one that had been trained in health at the university, reminded him that it was not actually possible to sober up in a second. The alcohol stayed in your system. Adrenaline and caffeine had some effect, but there was no quick way to stop being drunk.

But that was the reasonable part. The fact was that Josef suddenly felt really sober when he realized that he couldn’t move. It was terrifying. His body and physical strength was pretty much all he had. Sad? Oh, yes. Especially for a man rapidly reaching the age where that wasn’t going to be an option. However, he ignored his suddenly rapidly-beating heart and instead focused on connecting the dots.

Pilot Ridge had an unusually high meta population.

This included teachers and recruiters and trainers.

The last two usually had powers that controlled another person out of sheer necessity.

What was a meta ability that could freeze another’s body?

Could the man have it?

The answer was yes. And that meant that he’d have to tread pretty lightly. Josef cleared his suddenly dry throat, and forced himself—well, as much as he could with little control over his own body—to relax and to call up the very old lessons from his training in recruitment. Slow. That was the key. Go glacially slow.

“Look, man—”

Nope. That was a bad start. He stopped himself and took a moment before keeping going.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Okay, that was a complete lie. He HAD meant to, but he sincerely regretted it, even though some part of him, the one who hated this treatment, wanted to scream and swear at the other man. Thankfully, he realized how utterly stupid that would be.

At least his mouth still worked.

“Can I be let go now? I won't...touch you. I swear.”