[ WP ] You get into a drunken argument with the bouncer on Friday night , and he *literally* hits you so hard you wake up in the middle of last week . Once you realize what happened , you keep annoying him so you can travel further back in time to correct a mistake .

Gibson staggers, bleeding, one eye swollen shut, back down the familiar road to Midnight, its cold blue letters shining neon in the night. Their bouncer hits hard, corded muscles tensing in his neck, the oh-so-familiar ridge and knurl and valley of his fist, and it takes longer than a week for a black eye, a split lip, to heal. Gibson loves him now, loves the furrow of his brow, the cording muscles in his neck, the looming bald boulder of his head. Gibson would kiss those knuckles, he welcomes them, closes his eyes and throws his head back and opens himself up to the punch. Maybe this time it catches the edge of a cheekbone, maybe this time he hears his nose crunch again, just so long as it connects, just so long as his vision goes black and he goes spinning back in time again, to awake on dull pavement a week earlier than when he started. Just so long as time turns itself backwards. Just so long as he still has a chance. 
 
 There are little gasps and whispers from the people still in line, fingers pointing, a woman raising her hand to her mouth, as Gibson stalks past the velvet rope and heads straight to the bouncer. `` You faggot.'' The words come slipping out of his mouth automatically, well worn and practiced, the frayed edge of urgency substituting for anger. `` C'mon you faggot, let me in, move aside.'' Gibson's fingers shove against solid muscle, impudently digging into flesh. `` I said move!'' 
 
 The bouncer startles, his brow furrowing, and a hand comes up and lays itself on Gibson's shoulder. Gibson shrugs it off, thrusts his chest into him, gritting his teeth, but the punch does n't come. The bouncer's staring at him stunned, faintly horrified. `` Jesus Christ,'' he says. `` What the hell happened to you?'' 
 
 `` You faggot,'' Gibson repeats, the word dulled, losing its edge. He's talking through swollen lips, slurring his words. It's worked every time, every time up till now. `` You think I - you think I care what a fag like you has to say?'' He puts all his force into a shove and pushes the big man back. There are shouts from behind him, shrieks. Someone grabs him from behind. Gibson breaks free and takes a swing, tips over. God, his head hurts. His knees scrape the pavement. There's the blood clotted up in him, free-floating inside of his skull, his sinuses, all the hollow parts. He breathes in and tastes it, tries to focus on the bouncer's legs. `` C'mon! Hit me, you faggot! Hit me!'' 
 
 `` Hey! Get away from him!'' he hears the bouncer say, and Gibson manages to grab onto a pants leg, trying to pull the man down to his level. It's like trying to tear down a mountain. With a sudden upset of blood in his head, he pulls himself to his feet, fighting the vertigo. `` You been in an accident?'' the bouncer says, his wide, concerned face blurring in and out of focus. `` Hey! Somebody call an ambulance! Something bad happened to this guy!'' 
 
 Fuck. Hospitals. Hospital stays. Maybe a week or more of progress wiped out. Just one hit, Gibson thinks, just one precious hit, and swings with all the force he can. The bouncer stumbles back, and Gibson catches him in the shoulder. `` You shit!'' Gibson shrieks. `` You fucking queer! What're you scared of, huh, huh?! Hit me!'' he screams, thrashing as two big hands close onto his wrists. He tries to wrench himself free and the guy's got him in a bear hug, bringing him back down to the ground. 
 
 `` Take it easy, man,'' the bouncer's saying, hot breath hissing in Gibson's ear. `` Take it easy, you crazy motherfucker. Just sit down, huh? Let's just both of us sit down.'' And Gibson's looking down at those precious massive hands, clutching on to him instead of knotted into fists, and he's gasping and he's bleeding and there are tears running down his cheeks. 
 
 `` Hit me,'' he begs, collapsing to his knees. Something's worked its way loose in his nose and there's hot salty blood running into his mouth. `` Please. For god's sake. Hit me. Hit me. Hit me.'' The man's a wall, all solid muscle, coiling around him. Gibson's breathing in hot, wet gasps. `` Just once. Just once more. I'm almost there. For god's sake, I'm almost there.'' 
 
 `` I ai n't doing anything,'' the man says, loosening his hold, testing to see if Gibson struggles. `` I do n't know what happened to you, man, but you're fucking nuts. Just take it easy, okay? I'm letting you go. I ai n't going to hit you. A doctor's coming, okay? We'll get you looked at.'' 
 
 `` Please,'' Gibson says, and his fingers scrabble over the bouncer's gnarled hands, tracing over the veins and bone. The bouncer releases him by inches, slowly stands, moves away, as Gibson tries to keep a hold. The bouncer pulls his hands away decisively, leaving Gibson sprawled out on the sidewalk, the crowd forming a perimeter around him. `` Please,'' he says, and looks up, hands splayed out on the pavement, the bouncer towering above him. He is standing in the shadow of his destiny. His second chance. `` Hit me,'' he begs. `` I could have been a better person. I could -'' His voice cracks and he is pleading his case to an impassive god. `` I can make up for it! I can change! This was my chance to change! Just hit me! For god's sake! For god's sake! Hit me!'' 
 
 The bouncer looks down upon him and unfurls his fists into open palms, taking a step backwards. `` Hey man,'' he says. `` Whatever it is, it's your problem.'' Everything is going black with the slow steady motion of tides, as the bouncer's figure blurs into something vast and unbloody, all hard edges gone. `` Nothing to do with me.''
