thelongdormantcop | Recent Entries

If there's one thing Jerry has learned about the future, it's that inflation is a bitch. Almost a year and a half after showing up here, and he still keeps getting stuck on that. Some of the rest of this future he was unexpectedly transported to continues to make little sense to him, but at least he's gotten used to most of the technology, even finds it fairly useful. Prices having skyrocketed, though — there's nothing practical about that at all. And while he knows that it might all come out the same in the long run, when God knows his paychecks are a lot more sizable than they were back in the '40s, but that doesn't make it any less jarring, having to pay more for what's supposed to be cheap takeout than he did for a nice dinner back in his own time.

Much as he might struggle with it, though, it hasn't changed his habits any. Neither has the fact that, apparently, smoking is supposed to be bad for you now, when it's certainly never given him any trouble. So, reluctant as he is to pay through the goddamn nose for it, he ducks into a convenience store on his way back from work for a pack of cigarettes. In line to get them, he isn't expecting the guy ahead of him, when he turns around, to look just like him.

There are obvious differences, of course. The hair, for one, and the tattoos; he only has one of his own, on the inside of his forearm, from his days in the Navy. But the resemblance is unmistakable, and though he's heard of this happening, it still throws him for a loop. "Jesus fucking Christ."

After almost a year, Jerry thinks, however staggering it is to consider having been away from L.A. for that long, he probably ought to be doing a little better for himself. Then again, before the squad, he had connections, but not as much in the way of actual friends. He'd been alright with that, too. Finding the bottom of a bottle was, more often than not, all he really needed. Here, he has the added bonus of being a step — or several decades — removed from everyone else. He deals with that a lot better than he used to, has at least started to see the benefits of some of the technological advances he missed out on, but mostly, he feels like an outsider, and wonders if he should mind that more than he does. It hardly seems to matter when he has what really matters, his girl and a steady income.

Still, he has to admit, it's nice to have a couple people for whom that isn't the case, who aren't just other guys he's chatted with at the station or knows in passing from having seen in his building. And while he might not drink like he used to, he definitely isn't going to object to spending a little time in a bar. He raises his glass once the bartender's set it down in front of him, offering Sean a crooked smile. "Cheers."

They wake up like this most mornings now, curled together, in one or the other's bed. Though it's been months now since they both got here, Jerry still finds that he has trouble getting used to it, despite the fact that he's pretty sure they've had just about as long, if not longer, in Darrow than they did sneaking around behind Cohen's back. He just never thought for a second, back then, that they'd get to have this. Hell, he wasn't even sure if she'd want it, no matter how logical it might have been. (It wouldn't have made sense, after all, for her to go to all that trouble and take all those risks if it were just about getting laid.) Now, even if they haven't exactly clarified what this is or what they're doing, it's at least a lot clearer now, when it couldn't have been before. That's what really matters to him.

It just makes it all the more breathtaking to wake up beside her, knowing that neither of them really has to rush off anywhere. Even on days when he has to get to the station, or when she's had work to get to, neither of them is as pressed to get out the door as she used to be, or even as he was when the squad started requiring so much of his time. They can have this now, no more hurrying to someone else or pretending like they don't wish things could be different. Strange as living in this city is, as much as there are aspects of it that he finds unsettling, even unlikable, what they've gotten in return is more than worth it. He worries more than he'd care to admit about what would have happened back in Los Angeles, but he isn't sure he'd trade this freedom for anything. They both did more than their share of fighting. They deserve the break they've gotten from that, he thinks.

Whatever else has changed, he still gets up early, too used to it not to, the sun slanting through the blinds drawn over his window. At his side, Grace is still asleep, or she looks like it, and he considers for a moment waking her, but he doesn't have the heart to. She looks too peaceful like this, too beautiful. Though he wouldn't know how to tell her so, he's long since thought that she looked best this way, without makeup, her hair a little mussed, not pretending in the slightest. Now is no exception. It keeps him from looking away from her as he starts to carefully draw himself away, not wanting to stir her, but figuring he might as well start breakfast or something. He doesn't get very far before he can't help reaching over, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, chest tight as he does. "I love you," he says, soft. It's been true for a long damn time now, he thinks, and maybe he wouldn't know how to tell her directly, but there's still something almost relieving in saying so, proof in itself that it's more than true. He's goddamn crazy about her, and he can't pretend otherwise.

For a long time, Jerry has considered himself lucky. It isn't like his life has been as easy as all that — if anything, it's the exact opposite — but that, he thinks, is all the more reason to. He's made it through shit a lot of people haven't, before and during and after the war, a childhood spent barely knowing if there'd even be enough to eat and time overseas marked by too many close calls to count, things he tries to bury as much as possible. Even then, he's a lot better off than others. He knows too many guys who got killed over there, even more still who came home and ate their guns, or who went looking for trouble just so somebody else would end it, or who spent even more time looking for answers at the bottom of bottles than he did, drinking to try to forget it all instead of just to cope. Besides, it isn't just the war that set him off; it was what he came back to. Too many others never came back at all, either physically or mentally.

Showing up here has given him a good deal of distance from all of that, anyway. At least, that's what he thought, that he'd never be rid of it but that it was farther away, not just the past but history. Besides, he's learned to deal with it. Maybe his way of doing so involves a hell of a lot of not dealing, but it beats most of the other alternatives. The same goes for the other war, the one he'd walked away from fighting the night he showed up here. Though aspects of it are always present, it's easier to keep all of that pushed aside, to focus on the fact that, from here, he won. He's safe and so is Grace, and there's no one here who would do him any harm. If that means not letting himself think about Keeler or Jack or Connie O'Mara or all the innocent lives lost when they got something wrong, everything that went to hell that last night, then he's alright with that. There's enough else here that needs his attention anyway. Dwelling on the past would accomplish nothing.

That is, maybe, all the more reason why, when he walks right into it, it catches him by surprise. Heading through the park on his way back to his apartment, wrapped in a heavy coat to combat the snow, he hears it first, the faint sound of explosions making him more uneasy than he cares to admit to. There could be any number of reasons for it, but it could be trouble, too, which is, maybe, why he heads in that direction, aware of his gun in his holster, though he doesn't reach for it. He isn't on duty, but shit like this is why he stays armed anyway, so he'll be ready if he needs to be.

It isn't any sort of trouble he finds, though, but a festival of some sort, booths crowded with people who look plenty happy to be there. He doesn't really see them, though. His gaze fixes instead on the red paper lanterns strung overhead, a too-familiar sight even with the snow coating the ground, and with the sound of firecrackers ringing in his ears, he finds that it makes his head spin, his chest tighten. It's all he can do not to pull his gun out after all, though he knows there's nothing happening here. He can still see it, the bodies littering the ground because they walked into a setup, because he wasn't there in time to stop it, because they failed.

He doesn't know how long it takes to get back to his apartment; he doesn't really remember walking there at all until he's by his door, fumbling for a key so he can get the door unlocked, letting it slam shut again behind him. There's nothing happening and none of that's followed him here, but he feels like he's still back in Chinatown anyway, hands shaking as he lights himself a cigarette. It doesn't calm his nerves like he wishes it would, making him no less unsteady when he goes to the kitchen to pour himself a much-needed drink. They're the only ways he's got to battle this, an old habit founded mostly in the days when he first got back from the Pacific, more fucked in the head than he wanted to tell anyone, something that's just as true now. He just needs to remember how to breathe again and he'll be just fine, even if just a couple sips of scotch leave him doubled over his kitchen sink, thinking he's about to be sick. At least he isn't, though, the one thing this has over the last war he was left with memories of being in. It isn't much of a reassurance.

If he's honest, Jerry doesn't have the first idea what he thinks he's doing. That isn't much of a surprise, though. Whatever seems like it should be self-explanatory with Grace, he doesn't really know what they're doing, either, none of that having been clarified since she showed up. He just hasn't been in a hurry to change that. The last time he asked what they were doing, everything went to hell pretty quickly, and what he does know is that this isn't what it was before. He isn't just some secret she's keeping this time; as far as he's aware, there isn't anyone else, either, though he isn't just going to assume that will stay the case. There's still plenty he can't give her.

Right now, it's just the former that matters most. He hasn't been checking his mail very often, since there isn't really anyone here who would be sending him anything, but he thought to on a whim today and wound up glad for it, finding an invitation there for some kind of party. The names on it aren't ones he recognizes, but given that he's received an invitation in spite of that, he has a feeling it doesn't matter, that the pair arranging the event probably invited everyone, which means there's no reason not to go. What's more, there's no reason he can't go with Grace, which is more than enough to make him want to. He's been in public with her since she got here, and that in itself is something he's still grateful for, but he hasn't really gotten to take her out yet. This is as good an excuse as any to change that. Though it's difficult to gauge from an invitation, it seems more like their style than a lot of what's in this city, anyway.

He'd meant to stop by anyway, so at least it isn't like he's gone out of his way just to ask her out. This, he feels considerably more sure about, too. He might not know much about Grace, but he knows pretty well what she's like, and he saw how many shopping bags she had at the mall the first day she went out. It seems incredibly unlikely that she would even have thought to prioritize something like groceries. Of the two of them, he's the one who's employed, waiting on his first paycheck, and he's needed a lot less in the way of clothes and accessories than she has. Besides, though he spent a lot of it on the hotel room, there's still a little money left over from everything he sold after his own arrival, so it's nothing to pick up a few things for her while buying food for himself, just some basics to make sure her shelves stay stocked. Though he can't and never will be able to take her out to expensive restaurants like Mickey could, he can at least make sure she has enough to eat.

A paper bag held in one arm, two plastic ones in his other hand, he knocks on her door as well as he can manage. "Grace?" he calls, considering a moment later that she might not be in and hoping she is. "It's me."

Leave phone messages of any kind for Jerry Wooters here.

Leave mail for Jerry Wooters here. He will, eventually, also be reachable at sgtwooters@dmail.com, once he learns what email even is and how to work it.