Eat Your Goddamned Soup


felix4_icon.gif ziadie_icon.gif

Scene Title Eat Your Goddamned Soup
Synopsis There are no easy apologies today. But there is soup.
Date February 19, 2011

Hamilton Heights: Felix's Apartment

Ziadie spent all of Wednesday and Thursday passed out.

He did the same most of Friday, and quite possibly the first half of Saturday. But he's roused himself, cleaned himself up a little, late in the afternoon towards the evening, and sits at the kitchen table, with a glass of water, a piece of toast, and the last newspaper that had been brought into the house.

It's like….turn about is fair play. And Fel wasn't even drunk. He's like one of those frenetic dogs who races around for hours and then flops over and conks out. While saving the city of New York from itself isn't a 9 to 5 job, he still gets days off. Sometimes, those days are even an actual weekend. He came home Friday afternoon, ate something, and put himself to bed. ANd he's been lurking in his bedroom ever since, in that way he has - only occasionally coming out to use the bathroom or eat. He may not be manic depressive anymore, but he still has his days. He comes shuffling out in his bathrobe, nap of hair in disarray, looking exhausted.

Ziadie looks up, and a weak bit of a smile crosses the older man's face. The first attempt to speak is met with a emphatic frown, as Ziadie picks up the water to take a sip. Except that his grip gives out, and the cup, thankfully made of plastic, clatters to the floor, much to Ziadie's dismay. "Shit…"

Felix eyes him, painedly. "You okay?" he wonders. Well, obviously no. But there's a world of difference between 'mostly drunk' and 'maybe just had a stroke'.

"Yes." The answer is hoarse, and there's an immediate wince from Ziadie, but it at least means that his answer is closer to the former than the later as he stares at the empty cup, and the spilled water on the floor. The chair he's sitting in is pushed back a little. "Could you maybe…" The older man stares down at the floor a moment, the request halting, hesitating.

Fel cleans it up, without even a hint of exasperation. There's a certain irony to it - his father and grandfather are those rarest of creatures, sober male Russians. And yet, he has to take care of an aging drunk, nonetheless.

Ziadie's lips purse, and he leans on the table slightly. Which could in and of itself be seen as a good sign, as it's his left, dominant, arm he leans on. The shoulder that had been bothering him. "Thanks." The wince of his false answer has been replaced by a general grimace as the former cop turns his attention to taking several bites of the toast that had been sitting, neglected, on the table.

"Do you want soup?" Fel wonders, as he sits down at the table, as well.

The question takes a moment or two to process, before Ziadie nods to Felix. "Yeah, guess." There's a pause, and the older man adds on. "Sorry… about Tuesday." He turns, looking down at the table, silent.

"What about it?" Fel wonders. His tone is flat, as he ladles soup out of the pot in the fridge.

Ziadie stares at the table some more. It's not clear if he's going to answer, at first. "About…" he rubs his forehead, slowly. "Didn't mean for you to see me like that." It's not quite what he's trying to say, and his next few words trail into silence. "About the…"

It's not cruel. But Fel's expression is just puzzled, as he looks over his shoulder at Ziadie, expectantly. He doesn't get it.

The older man just doesn't know how to say what he's trying to say. Ziadie doesn't actually meet Felix's gaze, at least not right now. "Shouldn't have gotten drunk." The statement is under his breath. "Not…not like that."

This time he is not making the apology easy. He just continues to eye Ziadie, waiting for a translation.

Ziadie's lips thin as he bites down on his lower lip, slightly. There's not that much more of an explanation to offer, not yet. Not until the older man can figure it out himself. "I tried not to. But then, just." There's a small shrug. "I don't know if I can."

"You haven't yet," Fel points out, gently. "We need more help."

A small nod. "I know. I … should be able to." Ziadie still doesn't look up. "I should be able to."

"It's not a 'should'. It's not a moral failing. You have a sickness, one that isn't cured by willpower, anymore than I can unmutate myself by wishing on a star," the Russian's started scratching his scalp.

The older man nods again, and the smile that finds its way onto his face is weary, tired, as he watches Felix. The older man is quiet, shifting in his seat. "I suppose." Felix's words do make sense.

Felix sighs. "I used to know healers. That's why I'm still alive. But….the ones I knew. Well, it's complicated. But we'll find one."

Ziadie nods. There's a grimace as he tentatively moves a little more, still sitting. "Stiff as hell," he mutters, partially talking to himself. Then he looks over to Felix. "It's Friday, right?" The older man seems to have lost a day, somewhere in there.

"Saturday evening," Fel corrects. There's that funny slant to his lips.

Carefully, Ziadie lifts his right hand, rubbing at his face a bit. "Oh."

Felix just lifts his brows, looks wry. "Exactly."

There's a bit of a chuckle. Even Ziadie can see the humour in losing a day in the manner that he did, and he scrunches up his face for a minute. "Saturday. Right." There's a pause. "No wonder I'm hungry."

And that, of course, is when the microwave beeps. Fel turns to pull out the bowl. Enough for both of them to share - it smells pleasantly of ginger, oddly enough.

Ziadie shifts his sitting position once more, so that he's not so far from the table as he'd been. There's a soft sigh from the man. "Thanks, Ivanov." The two words are nearly inaudible, but they're sincere.

"You're welcome," Felix says, quietly. "I ….I don't know what to say, truly."

Ziadie just shakes his head, the bit of a weary smile returning, and he shrugs. "Don't. No …" there's a pause, brief clearing of his throat. "No need." There's not much to say, and Nocturne Ziadie is running close to empty on his short supply of words for the evening.

"Actually, I do," says Felix, straightening. "Eat your goddamned soup," He punctuates this order with an immense grin, though. One big enough to disappear behind, cheshire-cat-style.

There's a mute nod, and Ziadie wastes little time in picking up his spoon. "Yes, mother." He eats slowly, but the soup is good, and the fact that it's food is another step against how otherwise horrid the older man is feeling.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License