Evan McCartney | 4 of Clubs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bluntforces) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
houseofcards_rp2014-01-08 07:23 am
bluntforces) wrote in houseofcards_rp2014-01-08 07:23 am
[ota] you're gonna go far, kid
There are very few people, particularly in the Deck, who wouldn't describe Evan McCartney as 'an annoyingly happy camper.'
And he is happy. He's happy to be getting his degree sorted out. He's happy to be looking at jobs which will allow him to be productive--to actually use what bit of a brain he has properly, the way it's meant to be used. He's happy to be in love and waking up every morning next to the woman he's in love with. He's happy to run with the dogs and spend afternoons with his parents and run errands for his sister. He's even happy to get into fights with cousins who look down their noses and young idiots who need to get their heads out of a generation far too outdated to still be crafting culture.
He's happy. He's Evan McCartney.
But he's quiet these days. He's not entirely certain why. He's been singing less. Shouting less. Simply moderating his voice far better than he ever has, as if the concept of 'an indoor voice' has sunk in more than twenty years after being introduced. It sits funny in his shoulders.
So he does what he can. He gets up early to study; makes Riley breakfast and takes the dogs on a run. He goes to throw punches at bags until it's time to ice his shoulder and suck on his lip so the bleeding will stop. And he goes, ultimately, to lie on his back in the snowed-upon Green, because he's not entirely certain where to go when a body feels pensive.
Someone should teach him how to do 'pensive.'
And he is happy. He's happy to be getting his degree sorted out. He's happy to be looking at jobs which will allow him to be productive--to actually use what bit of a brain he has properly, the way it's meant to be used. He's happy to be in love and waking up every morning next to the woman he's in love with. He's happy to run with the dogs and spend afternoons with his parents and run errands for his sister. He's even happy to get into fights with cousins who look down their noses and young idiots who need to get their heads out of a generation far too outdated to still be crafting culture.
He's happy. He's Evan McCartney.
But he's quiet these days. He's not entirely certain why. He's been singing less. Shouting less. Simply moderating his voice far better than he ever has, as if the concept of 'an indoor voice' has sunk in more than twenty years after being introduced. It sits funny in his shoulders.
So he does what he can. He gets up early to study; makes Riley breakfast and takes the dogs on a run. He goes to throw punches at bags until it's time to ice his shoulder and suck on his lip so the bleeding will stop. And he goes, ultimately, to lie on his back in the snowed-upon Green, because he's not entirely certain where to go when a body feels pensive.
Someone should teach him how to do 'pensive.'
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Not immediately after they had a child. Not like how her father and Uncle Max had left either.
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And he knows it's something she knows. It still feels, somehow, in this moment, like something he needs to make certain she's heard.
"Ain't even leavin' for a day if you need me here, okay?"
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And that was a good thing. That was something to build toward--to briefly put wandering aside for.
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"Hey. Ri."
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McJames would have been adorable. He'd argue about it later. It was so much more important now to just kiss her thoroughly.
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Can't beat 'em, right?