Work Text:
Your hand rests in your head, the lights in the bar glaring down at you. The whisky stumbles back and forth in your glass as you shift it in your hand. The ache of your head is palpable. The conversations in the bar combine into a blaring static. Your coworker is on the stool beside you, rambling on.
“I mean, he’s my kid, but he’s a little shit. He acts so fucking entitled ever since I let him be on the show, you gotta’ve noticed, Red. ‘S not bad that I’m rough with him, he can take it. ‘M sure he’ll thank me when he’s older.”
You remember the way the man’s hand grips his son’s wrist whenever he makes a mistake, and the fear in the boy’s eyes when the man enters the room. Your grip tightens on your glass and you feel vomit build up in the back of your throat.