Captain Jackson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
st_illfleshandblood) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
strangetrip2019-05-14 03:57 pm
st_illfleshandblood) wrote in strangetrip2019-05-14 03:57 pm
Entry tags:
OTA: First, I'm gonna drink this, and then I'm gonna throw up.
CW: severe alcoholism.
Jackson had not, for lack of a more colorful expression, been doing well lately. Not since his stint as an android. At first he'd turned to sex, and Corbie. It was about reconnecting, he had told himself. About feeling again. Being returned to his original self was a goddamn gift, no two ways about it.
But maybe it wasn't all good and rosy, because he kept reaching for knowledge that his mind could no longer hold onto, and his frustration was growing with each passing day. So of course, he'd started drinking even harder than he usually did. Drunken hazes anesthetized his brain, smoothed everything over until nothing mattered but the next swill of liquor down his throat. And there was only one way to get through his increasingly terrible hangovers, and it wasn't Reid's god-awful concoction. Good old hair of the dog, of course.
By the time Jackson found himself suturing his own temple with trembling hands, after passing out and knocking his head against a table corner, he had to admit that he might have taken this too far.
So he'd gone the only stupid way he could: cold turkey. Treated himself through the shakes, and now he was finally on the other side of that. His mind was clearer than it had been in a while, but it still wasn't enough to be half the man he'd been when he had been changed. Perhaps not man, exactly - definitely not man, exactly. Doctor, absolutely. He had managed to retain it all, all the knowledge in all of his books, and it had all made sense. He had been able to apply it. To help. Clarity, precision, efficiency. The speed of his thoughts, the acuteness of his senses.
Now he was left floundering again, caught between what he had learned in his lifetime and what he was trying to make sense of from his books. He refused to think that he was too old or too stupid to learn as much as he needed, now matter how sluggishly he thought, how fuzzy the world seemed. He was too stubborn, by far, and his obstinacy would see him through.
That was how Jackson ended up taking a rather radical route to understanding and memorization. Some markers, the clinic walls, and his books. Drawing anatomical schemes, outlining the steps in one surgery after another, listing drugs and their posology. Laying that information out, actively rephrasing and rearranging it in a way that would hopefully help it all stick with him.
He fully expected the Inn to do its thing and wipe the clinic walls clean during the night, but that wasn't an issue, on the contrary. It meant that he could start over in the morning. But for now, the clinic looked an awful lot like a madman's den, with Jackson ready to play the part, his hair mussed up, his clothes rumpled, and exhaustion darkening circles under his eyes. The smell of tobacco lingered in the air, and the ashtray on Jackson's desk overflowed with cigarette butts, when he was usually so good about stepping outside for a smoke. He hadn't wanted to step away today, and they so rarely got patients anyway.
Jackson had not, for lack of a more colorful expression, been doing well lately. Not since his stint as an android. At first he'd turned to sex, and Corbie. It was about reconnecting, he had told himself. About feeling again. Being returned to his original self was a goddamn gift, no two ways about it.
But maybe it wasn't all good and rosy, because he kept reaching for knowledge that his mind could no longer hold onto, and his frustration was growing with each passing day. So of course, he'd started drinking even harder than he usually did. Drunken hazes anesthetized his brain, smoothed everything over until nothing mattered but the next swill of liquor down his throat. And there was only one way to get through his increasingly terrible hangovers, and it wasn't Reid's god-awful concoction. Good old hair of the dog, of course.
By the time Jackson found himself suturing his own temple with trembling hands, after passing out and knocking his head against a table corner, he had to admit that he might have taken this too far.
So he'd gone the only stupid way he could: cold turkey. Treated himself through the shakes, and now he was finally on the other side of that. His mind was clearer than it had been in a while, but it still wasn't enough to be half the man he'd been when he had been changed. Perhaps not man, exactly - definitely not man, exactly. Doctor, absolutely. He had managed to retain it all, all the knowledge in all of his books, and it had all made sense. He had been able to apply it. To help. Clarity, precision, efficiency. The speed of his thoughts, the acuteness of his senses.
Now he was left floundering again, caught between what he had learned in his lifetime and what he was trying to make sense of from his books. He refused to think that he was too old or too stupid to learn as much as he needed, now matter how sluggishly he thought, how fuzzy the world seemed. He was too stubborn, by far, and his obstinacy would see him through.
That was how Jackson ended up taking a rather radical route to understanding and memorization. Some markers, the clinic walls, and his books. Drawing anatomical schemes, outlining the steps in one surgery after another, listing drugs and their posology. Laying that information out, actively rephrasing and rearranging it in a way that would hopefully help it all stick with him.
He fully expected the Inn to do its thing and wipe the clinic walls clean during the night, but that wasn't an issue, on the contrary. It meant that he could start over in the morning. But for now, the clinic looked an awful lot like a madman's den, with Jackson ready to play the part, his hair mussed up, his clothes rumpled, and exhaustion darkening circles under his eyes. The smell of tobacco lingered in the air, and the ashtray on Jackson's desk overflowed with cigarette butts, when he was usually so good about stepping outside for a smoke. He hadn't wanted to step away today, and they so rarely got patients anyway.
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
"Hey, watch what you're callin' graffiti," Jackson retorted. This was a damn sight better than graffiti. He stepped closer, and held the hand out for the drawing Connor held. "Come on. Out with it." Whatever Connor wasn't saying yet.
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel
Re: Jackson/Connor: The Sequel