Work Text:
Despite what many believe, dates hold heavy significance and for some they carry a burden. Moze was feeling that burden as she sat in her room, hands methodically breaking down, cleaning, and reassembling Vladof guns.
A stock snapped back into place and she froze. Her gaze moved from the middle distance, a time passed, to her present grease-stained fingers. She checked her watch. Twelve hours. Twelve hours until she dealt with the ghosts of Darazan Bay and twelve hours since she and Amara had last spoke. Their argument should have hurt more. She should have cried at the very least. Instead, she felt hollow. Felt the guilt bearing down on her shoulders.
Moze set the assault rifle on her work table. Her grease stained fingers passed over her face before tangling in her short hair. Her jaw trembled. She couldn’t help but think of her squad.
Mei-Lan, who joined solely so she would have enough money to pay for her wedding-- her bride to be had been waiting at home for her. How her nutmeg brown eyes used to light up when she spoke of her fiancee and the rest of the squad would tease her.
There was Yousef. He had only just finished basic. He joined to pay for college-- he wanted to be the first in his family with a degree. He wanted to be a medic.
Natya, the silent greenhorn who only seemed interested in maintaining her Iron Bear.
The rest of the squad, their names, their faces were all a blur. She couldn’t remember much of them. Yousef, Mei-Lan, and Natya were the only dog tags she could salvage from the mud. She wanted to remember the others, but they were gone. The only things she had were mere scraps, hunks of Iron Bears long since rusted.
Moze straightened, heaving a heavy sigh. Her gaze flicked back to her Vladof dress greys hung up on the wall. The uniform had been perfectly pressed, the medals carefully aligned across the left breast.
Decorated soldier my ass. All I did was lead us into a damn massacre. I got those kids killed because I’m a sucker. I know I was being manipulated, but I kept at it. Funny to think that they think I’m dead with the others too.
Another long sigh.
I wish I was dead.
Moze wiped her hands on an old rag, grumbling softly to herself. She stumbled over to her bed and dropped face first into the soft pillows. She needed to rest, but she knew sleep would evade her.
--
She caught a few curious looks as she walked through Sanctuary’s halls. Why wouldn’t she? Most people had bever seen the stark grey dress uniform of Vladof soldiers. Her beret was cocked jauntily on her head; under her arm she carried her helmet, filled with what little she had left of the Darazan Bay squad.
Moxxi’s was surprisingly quiet-- could have been due to the off-hour or simply people had seen her coming and bailed.
She caught Moxxi’s eye before she headed to her booth in the back corner. At least she knew she could count on Moxxi to run interference.
Moxxi spared her the usual flirty banter and smile and simply sat a bottle of Vladof vodka on the table in front of her. A single shot glass was set beside the bottle. Moxxi did spare her a single soft pat on the shoulder; from the looks of it she had done more than her own share of mourning in the past.
Moze slowly pulled out the contents of her helmet, carefully laying each piece on the table, setting it up as though she had the squad sitting there in the booth with her. Her fingertips grazed the surface of the relics. She removed her beret and dropped it into her helmet.
The bottle of vodka opened easily enough. It smelled potent as paint thinner and tasted about the same, but it was about the memory. The vodka had been part of their weekly rations. “Keep ‘em drunk and keep ‘em loyal” was the motto of one of her COs. She smirked at the thought as she poured herself the first shot.
She choked down the shot, the liquor burning her throat and chest as it went down. She fought back her urge to gag. She did that every time she drank the stuff even after years of service. She longed for Moxxi’s moonshine that at least provided a nice warm buzz.
Moze eased herself back in the booth, trying to let the first shot sink in. It was easy enough to pretend that it was a normal day and she was just enjoying a drink after a hard mission completed. She closed her eyes, trying to avoid thinking of the carnage of her final Vladof mission. It worked until she opened her eyes.
Moze shut her eyes, squeezing them as tightly as she dared. For a moment she swore she had seen specters of her squad mates fixing her with cold, dead eyes. Her heart lurched. She risked a peek and found the booth empty save for the scraps and pieces of salvage. She poured herself another shot.
It continued that way for the rest of the night until the images had become too vivid, too real. The memories came crashing back, making her eyes sting with unshed tears. Anger and pain tightened her jaw, the alcohol tried to loosen it back up. Halfway through the bottle she was seeing double and hearing the munitions explode around her.
At some point she passed out, either from the drink or from being overwhelmed. She woke to Moxxi gently pulling her from the booth. The bartender’s arms were surprisingly strong, but her grip was gentle. She was hoisted to her feet, her bottle and helmet stuff with her grim souvenirs were tucked under her arm.
Moze was led deeper into the bar and down a corridor behind the bar itself.
“I should’ve cut you off sooner, sugar, but a brawl broke out and I had to put a stop to that nonsense. Let me get you settled and I’ll get you a med hypo to get you through the worst of it.”
Moze made a noise she assumed was speech, but from the look on Moxxi’s face she hadn’t managed much more than a groan. The bed she was set on was firm and unyielding but it felt good to be lounged back. A trash can was placed beside the bed, at head level. She didn’t have to look at Moxxi to know what the bartender was implying.
Her head did a spinny little dance as she lay in a bed that felt like it was bobbing on the sea. Her stomach twinged, but the moment passed. The specters were still there, their haunting eyes lingering on her drunk form.
“The hell you lookin’ at? I tried to get us outta there in one piece.” She slurred.
She rolled over to try and shield herself from the phantoms. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
“I tried to save you.”
Moxxi returned with a med hypo. When Moze risked a glance up at her, she found a pitying look on her painted face. Moxxi sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to her.
“I’m not getting fresh with you, sugar, but I’m gonna need to take off that coat of yours. I’d rather not put a hole in it if I can help it.”
Moze struggled with the thick buttons the size of quarters. Moxxi ended up doing most of the work. The heavy wool coat was neatly draped over the back of a chair. Moze didn’t even bother asking where she was. Her head lolled on Moxxi’s bare shoulder. The bartender didn’t seem to mind in the least.
Her gaze went to the far wall, where the specters still lingered. She shut her eyes, pretending to flinch away from the med hypo. Moxxi was gentle as she slid the needle under her skin. Sobriety washed over her like an ice cold wave. She sighed.
“I know, it’s hard, isn’t it? Did my share of mourning-- a few husbands, a kid, friends. It never gets easier.”
“Yeah, but were you the reason they died?”
“I doubt it was your doing, hun. Those corporations like throwing around blame like a jabber likes throwing shit. Don’t beat yourself up too much.”
“I saw them. I still do, in nightmares.”
Moxxi’s arm snaked around her shoulders. There was nothing intimate about the touch. Moze leaned against her, thankful for the support.
“I’ve heard it happens. But you’ve got a pretty good head on your shoulders, Moserah. I’m sure you doing your best to remember them is good enough, ‘cause I can bet Vladof doesn’t.”
Moze lifted her head from Moxxi’s shoulder. She passed her hands over her face, huffing out a sigh.
“Yeah, but not I’ve got a real mess on my hands.”
“Amara?”
“Yeah.”
“We all grieve differently. If she doesn’t come back around, tell you what, I’ll set you up with someone nice or I’ll give you a round on the house.”
“Eh, booze just gets me into more trouble.”
Moxxi’s laugh was rich and warm. At any other time it would have done interesting things with Moze’s stomach, but she was far too tired to react.
“You can crash here for the night if you’d like. I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything.”
Moxxi rose and started for the door, her high heels clicking rhythmically on the metal floor.
“Moxxi?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. I owe you.”’
“Think nothing of it, sugar.”
Moze watched as the door clicked shut behind her hostess. She exhaled slowly as she stripped out of her pants and boots. She carefully set the vodka bottle in the trash can and laid her helmet on the nightstand. She risked one last look at her helmet’s contents. It was time to put them away again, time to let the ghosts rest.