Kim Kitsuragi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aceslow) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
jigokulogs2022-08-30 12:11 am
aceslow) wrote in jigokulogs2022-08-30 12:11 am
[ CLOSED ] playing with prodigal sons
Who ⬤ Kim & Andromache
What ⬤ A late-night chat.
When ⬤ Mid-August.
Where ⬤ Out in the city
Content Warnings ⬤ Frank discussions about alcoholism and addiction.
[ There is nothing like watching someone you care for flush themselves down the drain.
Kim has watched it again and again, right from his youth to where he is now, far too old to still be dealing with this sort of thing, and yet here he is again. While most shifts he's able to simply ignore the fact that he is aiding and abetting in many addictions, he's been finding it more and more difficult to ignore. The same faces come in day in and day out. It seems perfectly innocent at first. Kim had been young once too, had spent his time buying packs of cigarettes and six-packs of beers for him and his friends to sit on the curb and down, shotgutting cans and spluttering and choking as they laughed at each other's failures. But by now, he's realized that it's the same people coming in every day, and they're not buying six-packs for them and their buddies. They're the customers that keep business afloat. They're the ones that need it, every single day.
And every single day, Kim gives it to them. It had been easy to compartmentalize at first, but it has begun to get underneath his skin, clawing and scratching at it, the acknowledgment that he is helping someone - someone with people who love them - slowly kill themselves, drop by drop. It's after a particularly bad shift that he finds himself in the company of Andromache for the evening smoke that they often share, Andromache just getting off duty in her work as a police officer, Kim still in his horrific red polyester uniform.
Tonight, he's moodier than usual, sucking down his cigarette like he's got a personal grudge against it. It helps that at this hour, in this part of the city, they're sitting in absolute isolation, the tips of their cigarettes burning a dark red in the absence of a functional streetlight, the only sounds that greet them the raucous noise from a bar a block or so away. He twists his neck to one side with a resounding crack, then finally speaks, more mutter than anything else. ]
I've got to get another job.
What ⬤ A late-night chat.
When ⬤ Mid-August.
Where ⬤ Out in the city
Content Warnings ⬤ Frank discussions about alcoholism and addiction.
[ There is nothing like watching someone you care for flush themselves down the drain.
Kim has watched it again and again, right from his youth to where he is now, far too old to still be dealing with this sort of thing, and yet here he is again. While most shifts he's able to simply ignore the fact that he is aiding and abetting in many addictions, he's been finding it more and more difficult to ignore. The same faces come in day in and day out. It seems perfectly innocent at first. Kim had been young once too, had spent his time buying packs of cigarettes and six-packs of beers for him and his friends to sit on the curb and down, shotgutting cans and spluttering and choking as they laughed at each other's failures. But by now, he's realized that it's the same people coming in every day, and they're not buying six-packs for them and their buddies. They're the customers that keep business afloat. They're the ones that need it, every single day.
And every single day, Kim gives it to them. It had been easy to compartmentalize at first, but it has begun to get underneath his skin, clawing and scratching at it, the acknowledgment that he is helping someone - someone with people who love them - slowly kill themselves, drop by drop. It's after a particularly bad shift that he finds himself in the company of Andromache for the evening smoke that they often share, Andromache just getting off duty in her work as a police officer, Kim still in his horrific red polyester uniform.
Tonight, he's moodier than usual, sucking down his cigarette like he's got a personal grudge against it. It helps that at this hour, in this part of the city, they're sitting in absolute isolation, the tips of their cigarettes burning a dark red in the absence of a functional streetlight, the only sounds that greet them the raucous noise from a bar a block or so away. He twists his neck to one side with a resounding crack, then finally speaks, more mutter than anything else. ]
I've got to get another job.
no subject
Maybe someone else would have used the last several thousand years to become something novel, to grow and learn — but she didn't choose that, did she? So many lessons she chose not to learn. So many mistakes repeated. She still carries her mother's old axe. The same labrys that the queen wielded in battle over six millennia ago. ]
...I'd probably build a farm somewhere. Somewhere far away, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Raise some animals. Plant some crops. [ She hadn't expected to be so honest, but that always seems to happen with Kim, doesn't it? After all they've been through — all he's seen of her — it seems beside the point to lie. ] What about you? [ Wryly then: ] You miss being a cop?