Participants:
| Scene Title | Bad Off |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Felix comes home in the evening to find that Ziadie really isn't okay. |
| Date | February 15, 2011 |
Hamilton Heights: Felix's Apartment
It's a pleasant, airy apartment, with pale hardwood floors and high ceilings. The front door leads into a little entryway with a coat closet on the right and the door to the minuscule kitchen on the left. It then opens out into a living room crammed with bookshelves - there's barely enough room for a plain entertainment center and a dark green couch. Beyond that a short hall leads to the bathroom and two bedrooms, the second of which is more an office and spare room, judging by the desk and the weight bench stored there.
Overall, the decor is spartan at best, with little by way of personal touches. The only decoration in the kitchen is an antique icon shelved high in a corner, where the Mother of God smiles benignly at the infant on her lap. A blue glass vigil lamp burns before it. Over the doorway to the back hall is hung an officer's sabre; no mere trophy, it bears the mark of long and constant wear. There are a handful of posters and prints - mostly landscape, though a few are fencing-related.
It's early in the evening. Far, far too early for the fact that Ziadie's partially slumped on the couch. The older man's spent most of his days out, coming back in the afternoon, reading or doing crossword puzzles or otherwise being quiet, and has been a generally quiet houseguest. Not one for conversation, much, ducking the occasional question as well as he could
And though Ziadie had been drinking, this, the empty bottle of gin that's on the floor next to the couch, that's not usual.
Fel's dog tired when he comes in. It's written in every line of his body. And it's not the pleasant kind of tired he gets from having spent an evening with Teo. He hangs up his overcoat, unholsters his gun, generally goes through the whole deadly Mr. Rogers routine without a word spoken. The lines around his eyes deepen when he notes Ziadie's general state.
Ziadie shifts, a bit, pulling the blanket that's next to him slightly closer. Looks up. The gaze is vacant, though. It's likely that the only reason the older man's stopped drinking is because he'd not make it back up to the guest room where his small stash of alcohol is. "'ey." The only possibly good thing about the greeting is that it means that Ziadie actually sees Felix is there. It's not coherent, not well articulated, or anything.
Felix's lips thin out into a severe line. It's reminiscent of his old bitchy expression, back when he was twenty eight and roundly hated. "Do you need help getting to bed?" he asks, bluntly, not bothering to make his tone at all pleasant.
Ziadie blinks a few times, shakes his head. And then he immediately winces, the by-now telltale wince that something he's said is untrue. The verbal response is incomprehensible, cut off by when Ziadie shudders slightly.
Felix's expression has gone unpleasantly pinched. But the hand he offers is gentle enough. "C'mon," he says, amused. "Even without what you can do, I was an FBI Agent, don't bother to try and lie."
"Can't e'r way," Ziadie responds, wrenching himself slowly to be sitting up, which is a bit of progress. "I…" The older man is stubborn about anything, but despite his efforts, he just ends up slightly less slumped against the arm of the couch.
This is unfortunate. Fel's in a suit, for once, as if he were back to being a detective or an agent. He slips his shoulder under Ziadie's arm, one of those army style carries.
Whatever protest Ziadie manages is only a few incoherent sounds, and he does manage to take his cane with his free hand, and support a small amount of his own weight. "Wh' time's it?" The words are stumbling, but Ziadie's strung them in something resembling the right order.
"Six fifteen," he says, with that obnoxiously anal retentive precision.
"Ffffff." If the older man wasn't aware of the sorry state he's in, he is now. His step is shuffling, slow. And his head is spinning, amongst everything else. "It…" Ziadie's tone is apologetic, even with that one word.
"You're bad off," Fel's tone is not critical, for all of that, and his hand is gentle, as he slowly moves the older man to the guest room he's come to occupy.
There's not even an argument at that. It's a departure from Ziadie's usual insistence that he's okay, or will be okay. "I… tried." It's possibly what he'd been trying to say the past several times he'd spoken.
"I know," Fel says. And his voice is just tired, but he's content to grant absolution, apparently. Even as he maneuvers Ziadie into his bed.
The older man shudders again slightly, an involuntary groan of protest to movement that lessens as he sits. There's a bit of a slump, but he's making an effort not to immediately lay down, possibly that he knows it'd be unwise. His gaze slowly focuses on the remaining bottles of alcohol, though they're well out of his reach and well away from whether he'd be able to get them.
Fel pauses, makes a face. "Do you need to go to the bathroom, instead?" he asks. This should be his ninety year old grandfather, eh?
"Nnn." At least, that's the response. Ziadie lets the cane slide down next to him, putting both hands flat on the bed as if it will help him stay sitting up. Maybe it might. "Water, m'be?"
"Right," Fel returns after a moment with a glass of ice water. And an extra trashcan. No doubt in case of accidents.
Ziadie reaches, carefully taking the water, taking a bit of a sip, before holding it back out. He doesn't trust himself to hold onto it for long without dropping it, or such. "I tried." His words are quiet, uncertain. The older man looks down at his knees, rather than looking at Felix.
"I know," Felix says. "Do you want to see a healer? An Evolved healer? Have you ever?" His English is gone funny and pebbly, the Russian trying to protrude.
There's a half a shrug. The question is possibly something that ought to be asked again later, later when Ziadie isn't quite so out of it. His words have gone back towards incoherence, the barest hint of something about not being a burden intelligible.
And of course Fel realizes it, just a bit too late. His lips thin out again, and he hauls in the room's spare chair. As if he intended to keep watch for a while.
Ziadie lays down, slowly, with as much carefulness as he can manage, and looks at Felix. "'m sorry y'…" the words trail off. Have to see this. Have to deal with this. But none of it is said.
The Russian's expression is just pained, and sad. He's a superhero. He's supposed to be able to fix things. Even things like this. He pats the older man's hand gently, but doesn't speak.
Ziadie sits up, half enough to be able to pull the trashcan to where he can lean over the side of the bed. It was going to be necessary after all. There's a grimace, as the older man takes a shallow breath. After laying down this time, it isn't long before he's passed out, leaving Felix to sit watch in relative silence.
