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shark-indisguise · 2 years

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Long Story. Not Short. (Johnson (Reprisal))

Word count: 2k+

Warnings: none. This is my headcanon for how Johnson joined the brawlers because we were robbed of not knowing his backstory at all. At the end there's mention toward my OC Emile.

The large room was wrapped in darkness. Dimly lit hanging bulbs from the ceiling provided the only light, the ever present cloud of smoke dancing in swirls under the lamps. The room was about half full of patrons spread about on the cement floor, scattered in tables with an ash tray centered on each. The lack of windows and deep red walls only added to the dark interior. Despite the grunge look, the people at the tables seemed to be enjoying themselves, a few talking with others, the most noise coming from a table at the center where four men were playing an odd variation of poker. A radio situated on a small shelf played a melody barely heard through the chatter.

Joel stepped in first, holding the door behind him for the others to follow. No one looked up from their place. Bash appeared next to him, turning his head and examining the lounge.

"You know what he looks like?" he asked, focusing his attention on the table of card players.

"Got an idea," Joel moved to the side unconsciously, letting their last accompaniment stand in the middle.

Burt exhaled smoke through his nose, "We're trusting your judgement on this one, Joel. Lead the way."

The brawler took another long look around the room, landing on the back left corner. A half-moon bar with brown lacquer finish curved around the corner, in front of a glass wall of shelves each lined with liquor. Leaning on this wall was a tall man, head bowed over a book. He was dressed nicely, a maroon vest over a white striped dress shirt, with suspenders clipped onto pinstripe pants. His shirt was buttoned to the collar despite not wearing a tie. The corner of the bar was darker than the rest of the room, his face illuminated only by the glowing bud of the cigarette in his mouth, languidly breathing smoke out the corner of his lips as he read. He was the only one in the room who was alone.

Joel felt confident with his assessment and made his way to the bar. He pulled out a stool and sat down. The bartender didn't look up, but if he did, Joel probably couldn't tell. Black curly hair swooped over his forehead and hid his eyes from where Joel was seated. Bash lingered off to the side of the bar, and Burt took an empty chair across the room. From what Joel heard, and what he told Burt and Bash, this guy was worth the trouble. He had a whole lot of history with a whole lot of people, multiple talents under his belt and a reputation that proceeded him. Joel's confidence wavered at the notion that the tall, silent person in front of him might not be who he's looking for. But his source told him he had a "unique hairstyle, and the guy's tall as a tree, can't miss him. Real quiet, too."

Joel cleared his throat to catch his attention. Finally his head tipped up, half-lidded dark eyes meeting Joel's. His expression was blank. His eyes, presumably a dark brown, looked large and pitch black in the low light. Like a dog, or some other creature used to such nocturnal places. His gaze flicked briefly to Bash, and then back to Joel in an instant. He was wary now, Joel knew that much. He'd have to approach this carefully.

"You're a pretty tough one to find." Joel started, easy enough. The bartender's head tipped up a little more and he removed the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers flicking the ash into a small dish to his left. His eyes didn't leave Joel. His lack of response made Bash tilt his head back to look at them. If he was a threat, Bash wasn't sure the three of them could take the entire bar in a fight. Joel, however, was determined.

"Move around a lot. Handful of people are wondering where you are, some of 'em fond of you, some not so much."

The book in his hand lowered and he placed it on the counter to his left next to the ashtray. He returned the cigarette to his mouth, crossing his arms across his torso. Bash slid across the bar next to Joel,

"You didn't hear anything about him being mute did you?" he whispered.

Joel opened his mouth to respond, but was cut short quick

"not mute. who sent you for me."

The two over the counter looked back at the bartender. A stream of smoke left his slightly open mouth lazily before he removed the cigarette once again, this time putting it out in the tray with a slight sizzle. He stood up straight, standing over even Bash by an inch. His hands dug into his pockets as he waited for a response.

"Up in Illinois, a Michael Kovac. Said you'd be good for us." Joel replied. He noticed a slight twitch in the bartender's expression, and his head lowered a little more. Narrowing. Bash took a seat next to Joel now, earning another glance from him.

The bartender remained silent an extra second before nodding, "mm. who's us? I assume that one's with you two." he pointed to Burt, who was seated in the upper corner and had been watching the whole time.

Joel leaned on his arms, ready to give another introduction speech, "We're an organization of individuals, who believe in something bigger than ourselves. Togetherness, belonging. Many of us consider it a family."

He listened, not quite intently, but focused, while rocking on his heels a little. His head fell back as he surveyed the two in front of him, and the jackets they wore. Bash in the light denim jacket, with the same matching back patch as Burt, and Joel's black velvet blazer.

"We're the banished brawlers, and we're looking for someone with your long list of talents to join us."

The bartender then picked up his book and leaned back against the wall, flipping to his page.

"ask someone else."

Bash sighed and stood up, rolling his eyes. He motioned for Burt to get moving too, and Joel took one last look at the bartender before following behind. He felt the bartender's eyes on the back of his head as the door closed behind them.

Normally he'd give up. Joel was never one for pursuing lost causes, especially if they flat out said no. But he had a gut feeling about this, the same feeling Burt described to him when he was found. This guy just needed a bigger shove. Michael, the man who told them about this guy, was their first go-to. But Michael said he was content where he was, and had a different candidate for them. Someone who needed stability more than he did.

Joel returned the next night. He found things exactly as they were, and a sense of deja vu as he scanned the same few patrons, playing the same card game listening to the same station on the radio. The only thing missing; the bartender.

Joel stepped into the bar and looked around, hoping to catch him at a table. No sign. He let out a gruff sigh and turned to leave.

"J's out back." a voice from the main table caused Joel to come back around. The voice belonged to the man on the right of the table, breathing thick clouds of smoke into the air from a heavy cigar. Joel nodded and walked to the back door, placing his hand on the steel bar to push it open, before he was interrupted again by the man at the table.

"Gotta warn you, J says no- he says no. Don't go pushin' a man who can't be moved."

Joel noticed the ironic words, (karma, probably) and opened the door into the cool night air, now absolutely sure he'd succeed. His feet hit the gravel of the alley behind the bar and the door closed with a metallic screech. Far to his right was the street, a glimpse of the black cadillac visible in the streetlamp she was parked under. To his left was a black dumpster for the establishment, and in front of him was a heavy shadow cast by the building next door.

A familiar smooth voice droned out from the shadow, "no company this time. decide to ditch the intimidation tactic I see."

Joel recognized his voice, of course. His eyes adjusted to the dark and was able to make out the tall silhouette of the bartender, leaning on what looked to be a motorcycle.

Joel reached into his pocket and pulled out his box of cigarettes, "I thought this was best a conversation between the two of us." he put one in his mouth, about to offer one to the other but a thin line of smoke out of the shadows answered his question. He already had one.

"some conversation. what kind of job you even need me for?"

"Not quite a job." Joel patted his sides for his lighter. Upon not finding it, the bartender clicked his tongue twice to get Joel's attention, and tossed him a silver lighter. Joel caught it and lit his cigarette, handing it back with a thanks. "More of a place with us. Work, sure, everyone has a task, but it's more permanent. Like I said- many compare it to a family. Place to belong. Everyone has everyone else's back, always."

There was another long silence as a response.

"I know people like you," Joel stared into the dark, facing the silhouette which he felt staring back, "people who've shifted and moved around so much they don't even have a home. Gets lonely. You've been drug around too much, you could use a place to settle into."

The bartender took a drag off his cigarette, the glowing end briefly lighting up his dark brown eyes, still locked on Joel and eerily unblinking. There was a stern, almost angry look to them, as he was looking up from his head tilted down. He tossed the cigarette to the ground and put it out with the heel of his boot, standing up and out of the shadow.

"Mike really push you out here for me?"

Joel tilted his head to the side and took a drag of his own cigarette, "Yep. He's damn convincing."

There was another pause.

"can't tell you how long I'll be there. am I allowed to leave or this one of those gangs that kills you for runnin' off?"

"You can leave." Joel had to look up a just little to meet him, "but I can't say you'd be welcomed back should the notion arise."

The bartender breathed deep and sighed, seemingly thinking it over, his head turning to the side absently looking at the street to the left. Wandering into previous years and the time he'd spent entirely alone. Joel offered his hand,

"the guys in there, called you J. That what we'll be calling you?"

He looked back at Joel with a slight scoff, "I keep tellin' em not to call me that." after another delayed second, he shook Joel's hand, "Johnson."

"Alright, Johnson." Joel nodded his head, "first up- let's get you a jacket. You'll look nice in black."

Johnson became the second out of three River Phoenixes, the third being another man who was shorter than Joel but older by a few years. Johnson fit in well. Right away he was acknowledged with head nods and some introductions, but the brawlers quickly learned he wasn't one for conversation. Johnson was seen only with the other phoenixes, and when he wasn't, no one knew where he'd run off to. The most he'd talk was a few one-off sentences in piece with another conversation. Other than that- head nods, whistles, hand gestures or even clicking was his form of communicating. He just wasn't very talkative, but he earned his reputation due to his long sullen silences and the ability to stare anyone down to compliance. Headstrong young brawlers, those who look for fights wherever and whenever possible, quickly found out Johnson was a fight no one wanted to even get involved with. He was quick, hit hard and fought to get it over with instead of making a point. The whole time Joel knew him, Johnson never lost a fight. A few times, Joel was baited by others to get into the pit with Johnson, and see who won. Joel the Mover up agaisnt the tallest, scariest Phoenix the brawlers would ever have. Joel refused out of respect for his friend. Maybe a twinge of intimidation, but that would never surface.

All his time there, and Johnson never told anyone where he came from. No one knew and no one would ask. He was perfectly content sitting alone with a drink and a cigarette, and everyone else was perfectly fine with leaving him be. Johnson didn't put a time limit on his stay, but he figured he'd leave eventually. He always did. It wasn't until he met Emile, and later on Matty, that he changed his mind.

Even as the years went on and he started to think of it as indeed, more of a home, there were still things he never shared. Emile knew not to pry. She'd seen the long scars on his back, she'd sat up with him late at night when he can't sleep, she'd talked one-sided conversations with him when he didn't want to speak at all. Emile recognized these signs of his as well as she knew her own. Johnson had been through something that affected him deeply, just like she had. Together they shared silences and kept their own secrets hidden far away from the other.

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