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GROUP:OOC Account
PRONOUNS:he/him
WRITTEN:2 posts
POINTS:
Post by North on Sept 18, 2024 19:03:34 GMT -5
Some bits and pieces of Ferris' memories
He stands on the beach on a perfectly sunny day, the waves crashing in on high tide kids screaming in delight a snark juxtaposition to the smell of cigarette smoke, the cigarette in one hand and the burning note in the other. He holds it crumpled by the upper left, some of the words still visible:
“...ver said it. I should have. You deserved to know. Somewhere in our mess of bars and games and hospital visits I never told anyone how I felt.
You’ll always be my best friend and even now I don’t know how to say I wish you were m-”
Ferris takes a long drag of smoke. He holds the paper until it burns his fingers.
He sits alone at the bar of the nightclub, the beat of the music making his chest ache. But he only stares at the back wall, unfocused on everything around him. Two shot glasses sit in front of him, but he hasn’t touched either of them. The bartender gives him passing looks of concern, but Ferris hasn’t drunk anything else and already paid with a card.
A hand brushes his shoulder and he twitches, gaze sliding to his right and the sharp featured Asian-American resting his chin on his shoulder. “Hey there, handsome. Never seen you in here before.” Ferris looks down to watch the young man’s fingers trail up the leather bomber jacket sleeve. “You waiting for someone? He stand you up?”
“What?”
“The whiskey, darling.”
He looks back up at those sparkling almond eyes and the flush on the young man’s cheeks. He lifts his chin off his shoulder at the shot glasses. Ferris looks over at them. His hand around one, knuckles white with how tight he holds it. He’s been here so long the glass is warm.
Rain drums on the small ranch house roof, drowned out only by the crack of lightning and roll of thunder. He’s leaning forward, arms resting on the porch railing, a full ashtray balanced on the beam beside him, a freshly lit cigarette in one hand. He smokes it purposefully, like clockwork, waiting. His gaze is directed down the dark street and only moves when he glances down at the watch on his wrist. It’s midnight. Then it’s 0114. Then 0343.
Ferris puts out the newest cigarette and walks inside the house. He steps into the bathroom and stares at the reflection looking back at him. Exhausted, badly in need of a shave, eyes red from anger and tears and frustration. That same bloody leather jacket still on his shoulders. He looks down at the inside label where the initials “GF” are drawn in faded Sharpie.
“Why’d you leave, you piece of shit?” he asks the mirror, not getting an answer. He opens the mirror cabinet and pulls out a prescription bottle with the name “Murphy” scrawled on the side, setting the bottle on the counter and renewing his staring match with the mirror.
He skids to a halt on the ice, skates send up a spray of shavings. Ferris looks over his shoulder at Darcy and moves back in her direction. “So…maybe teaching you to skate after 5 o’clock was a bad idea?” he teases, reaching out to touch her elbow to help steady her.
“Spare me. I’ve got this.”
He pulls his hands back and chuckles. “Yes, ma’am.” Darcy has poise that she can’t quite seem to transition from normal land to ice skating. The faint smell of whiskey on her breath explains some of it. He starts skating lazy circles around her, watching her form and her legs and her ass. And that cute look of concentration on her face that’s only better because he knows she doesn’t know she is making it.
“Next time, let’s go hiking.”
“Sure. I know a good frozen river. Be good practice, eh?”
Darcy fixes him with a dark eyed glare. “I said hiking, smartass.”
Ellis is five years old, laying on the floor and coloring in pictures of dinosaurs. It’s not in the lines, but it’s on the page. “Hey El, what’cha drawing?”
“Ferris! Lookit! I gave them feathers.” Her springy brunette curls whip around as she twists around to show him the book. Sure enough, she’s colored shaggy spikes outside the lines on purpose. Allegedly.
“Pink feathers. What’s that one called?”
“Velcro-rapter.”
He laughs and sits on the floor next to her. “Can I ask you something important? About your mom and me?”
The same bar again, though there’s a tv behind the bar now. The same heavy thump of music fills the air. Someone behind him is DJing and talking to the crowd but once again, Ferris is staring across the bar, unfocused and oblivious. The bartender, a different guy than last time, waves in his face.
“Hey. You okay, mate?”
Ferris blinks. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”
The bartender levels him with a deadpan stare. “So convincing,” he says sarcastically. “If you were gonna pour one out, why not just drink it?”
He looks down at the empty shot glasses. He can taste the burn still in his throat. “He didn’t drink.”
“So why come back to this bar every year?”
Ferris clenches his fists and sighs. “We…I was supposed to…”
In the back alley, Agent Vokes takes a step toward him and he backs up, swatting the other agent’s hand from his arm. “You aren’t going to do anything about that?” He gestures to something to the right.
“Sir, you’re hurt. If you would just come with us, Agent Vokes will-”
“I’m fine,” he says, taking another step back. Grey eyes meet Agent Vokes’ but he’s not panicked, he’s calm and collected. His words are full of the frustrated authority of a man tired that no one is listening to him.
“Let us handle them. You need an ambulance,” the other agent continues.
The final word makes Ferris look down at where his hand is pressed against his side. His jacket is stained dark. It’s a lot of blood. Ferris doesn’t allow it to register. But something else clicks into place. “You know who they are already. You were tracking them,” he says looking back up.
The agent meets his gaze and doesn’t say a word. The red sky above them breaks and raindrops begin to fall.
His gaze flicks between the agents. “They’ve done this before. So why haven’t I heard about it? What agency are you with?”
“The Federal Sector of Investigating Special Occurrences.”
Ferris attempts to put this into an acronym. Anyway he swings it, it doesn’t work. But he gets the picture. “MIB,” he says instead.
“That’s for aliens.”
He rolls his eyes. “So, I’m a detective. Let me help.”
“You’re a problem. Your interference-”
“No, your interference made this happen,” he said. “I was just having a strange chat in the diner,” he said, gesturing behind them. “If there’s a whole agency, there’s more people like that. I’ll find one again. Then what?” He’s shaking, having backed himself up to a metaphorical wall. Every second he feels closer to falling over but he’s terrified. Not about the job. Not about the weirdness or even the danger he’d just seen, or the drive to protect people. But because he refuses to run away from the truth again.
He’s leaning against the outside of the Sector building, looking up the wall at the sky. Off to his right, the voice of Ryan Littlewood can be heard discussing the latest video games he’s been playing.
Ferris offers some vague comments to show he is listening, but his attention is up. It’s a tall building. He looks down at the pavement and while he’s not smoking this time, takes a deep breath of his coworker’s second hand smoke. He turns to Ryan and shakes his head. “Sounds like you need better teammates,” he notes distractedly. He’d relieved the Sector building isn’t that tall.
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