Better Than I Would


felix4_icon.gif ziadie_icon.gif

Scene Title Better Than I Would
Synopsis Discussions in the aftermath of what might be termed an intervention.
Date March 3, 2011

Hamilton Heights: Felix's Apartment

Late Thursday afternoon finds Nocturne Ziadie at the dining room table, with paperwork in front of him, an empty bowl from soup, a cup of tea, and a cup of water. Perhaps amazingly, the former cop hasn't touched alcohol of any sort since the end of Griffin's 'intervention' the night before.

In the living room, books that were knocked down have now all been put carefully into boxes, and the slightly ruined part of the bookshelf has been … neatened, as much as Ziadie could. There's an occasional glance down the hall to Felix's bedroom, without much expectation in it. The end of the fourth day in a row without alcohol has Ziadie rather grumpy, but quiet, and generally withdrawn.

Fel's helped clean up. But he's mostly been lurking wearily in his room. Physical injuries not so bad, but the mental aftershocks were a lot rougher. To the point that Fel resorted to the nearly expired anti-anxiety meds in the medicine cabinet. So he's decidedly zombish as he comes shuffling out in robe and pajamas and slippers.

Ziadie raises his head from looking down at the paperwork, a mumbled bit of a greeting without actual words to it, setting the glass of water down carefully, rather than end up dropping it like he's done so many times before. He leans back in the chair a little, hands still on the table, to hide the fact that they're shaking. Or attempt to hide the fact. The older man's being stoic and silent about things being difficult for him, pretty much.

"Hey," says Fel, gently. Not angry or accusing, but staggery tired. "I think I'm just gonna order us Chinese. What do you think?"

"Sure." There's a pause from Ziadie. "Just make sure t' get something mild." There's a tired frown on the older man's face. "I barely been able to manage soup, s' far."

Fel eyes him, worriedly. "Oh?" he says, promptingly.

Ziadie shakes his head, though not very much. When he lifts one hand off of the table, it's shaking, more than the slight occasional tremor that the older man has long learned to be used to. After a moment, Ziadie shrugs. That, at least, he can do without increasing the pounding headache. "Need a drink," he says, not quite to Felix, "but I … won't."

He sighs, quietly. "You're doing better than I would, in your situation."

There's a half a snort. Ziadie rolls his eyes in a slight amount of amusement. "Not really," he says. "Walked down t' the store earlier and got a bag of bottles shattered on the ground in front of me by invisible force-things." Griffin had been making good on his promise, apparently. After which Ziadie promptly walked back, slightly herded by the mainly out of sight telekinetic, showered, and changed, and for the moment, gave up.

Felix's lips thin out into that severe, strained expression. But there's nothing to say to it, now. His throat works, once, hard, and he gets up to pour himself a glass of water.

Ziadie watches, before blinking a few times, and waiting for Felix to answer. "But food sounds good," he eventually admits, quietly. "Could do with eating." And what Ziadie's features show is that he really can't do with another period of three days without managing to eat. Two times in as many weeks hasn't been particularly kind to him.

"I think Italian soup," Fel says, musingly. "I could do with something simple that won't be hard on our stomachs." He pauses, shakes his head. "I need to get you a genuine healer."

What the older man thinks of the thing about a healer, he's not quite sure, but his jaw tenses. "Soup sounds nice." He looks at Felix, silent, before a weary smile manages onto his face. How the older man manages to stay cheerful a little, he's not even sure he knows. It's better than the alternative, or such.

He's safe, at least for now. Fel may be an undemonstrative bitch, but he doesn't bother Ziadie, not really. "Good," he says. "I need to go grocery shopping tomorrow." He pulls a face, wry, but his eyes are sad, distant.

Ziadie leans back in his chair a little. "I'm going to stay home a few more days, I think," he admits. "Aside from one errand tomorrow." He grimaces. "I still feel like hell, a bit."

"That's fine," Fel says, gently. "You want me to get a movie or something tomorrow, on the way home from work?"

Ziadie pauses, and eventually nods. "That could … yeah. Low key and all that." There's a bit of a chuckle and he picks up his glass of water. "I'm thinking of going and seeing about starting … starting work, we'll see. If I sit around too long, I'll just screw up again." There's a bit of self-deprecating tone, wistful, where Ziadie says 'screw up'. And it's clear from that he doesn't wince, that he believes what he's saying.

"Well, you gotta strike while the iron is hot," Fel opines. "What job is this?" He's up and scuffling about, making dinner.

"Cardinal offered me a job," Ziadie explains. "I think I'd mentioned it." Said job that was the whole reason that Ziadie went and got bloody damn drunk to begin with, but.

"I didn't know you'd taken it," the Russian says, not looking up from the pantry. He doesn't bother to open the cookbook. He knows this one by heart.

There's a nod, though not one that's visible. Ziadie nods several times, actually. "There's a … little more I need to do, but I think I will." That drug test that might have been mentioned to Felix, at some point while Ziadie was too drunk for anything to really matter.

"He's a good man. You'll do well. But ….I hope it isn't something dangerous," Fel says, almost tentatively. There's the clink of jars opening.

Ziadie shakes his head once more, and offers a smile. "No," Ziadie says, "just enough to keep me busy and out of trouble." There's another chuckle, and for the rest of the evening, the older man is quiet. Before Ziadie retreats to his room for the night, there's one last thing said, though, after it's been determined that soup is something Ziadie can actually keep down, after the dishes have been cleared. "Thanks."

For not judging. For being there. For giving him a second chance. What he's thanking the younger man for isn't said, nor is there a chance given for further discussion.

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