In the smile the girl across the hall pulls when he stalks past, blaring in the headlines of papers, on the bloody telly, fucking everywhere. The same titles, same stories, same utterances between strangers about the mutant in space. Kitty Pryde, up with the stars! His own personal g h o s t. Saviour of humanity stopping that bloody bullet going straight through the middle of the damn planet. Bollocks. The salty Englishman had nay but a thing to say about that. Perhaps it was the fact he’d taken advantage of things? The fact that time had been on his side, that leaving it one more day until he gained the guts to actually pick up the phone and finish the dial tone before smacking it back against the receiver in a drunken rage was alright.
He couldn’t quite pick it, however, a certain sadness that lingered on his face, in his chest. What’s running through your veins, Peter Paul Wisdom? What’s causing you pain when you walked away? Another shot. Another glass of whiskey burning down his throat with a cigarette in hand oh so tactfully ignoring for as long as he could before finally withdrawing his gaze from the soiled wood that had so effortlessly caught his gaze.
“— Gon’ be an Astronaut, Brian!”
He is greeted with all but a heavy sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if they’d had this conversation countless times already in the mere span of a month as day by day, hope had evidently dwindled.
“’m gonna find ‘er! None ‘v you bloody twats ‘ar gonn’ do it.” Another exhale, much more vehement than the first as any attempts at silencing the drunk male went unheard
“She ain’ far. ‘can feel it. Go’ a righ’ good bond me an’ that yankee stru’el we does.”
He would do it. He bloody had to. There was no way she was gone he’d bet every damn teabag in England she wasn’t.
“I still go’ things I go’a say t’ ‘er— Go’a tell ‘er ”
Cut off rather quickly the bartender was gestured over, blatant exhaustion setting in for the blonde as he shook his head “I will tip you if you cut him off.” It was late, and drunk Pete was not a socially acceptable person you wanted to be seen in public with. Thank the goddess the stranger obliged for long enough for Brian to drag him up and out, back towards his shabby little apartment with a brief shake of his head
“…Go home Pete.
go to sleep.”
Reassurances were running thin at this point, thanking the goddess that bloody idiot went inside.
“’m gonna bring ‘er home, Brian. Bloo’y watch me.”
Gonna bring you home, Luv.
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