Envy You That


griffin_icon.gif ziadie_icon.gif

Scene Title Envy You That
Synopsis It's what you do with the second chances that matters.
Date March 9, 2011


Almost ten days. That's pretty much more than enough, for Ziadie. The former cop has gone nearly stir crazy, not leaving the apartment except for one outing to the precinct for paperwork, the resulting visit to Joanna, and stopping by Redbird once.

Unfortunately, it's had the opposite effect of what he was trying for, and at this point, the only thing on the man's mind is getting a goddamn drink. So he's taken a walk, leather jacket hanging open on his shoulders, and now he's walking out of the liquor store. His purchases? Safely in the inside pocket of his jacket, as he sets first one foot and then the other in front of him, headed back in the direction of the apartment. He walks slowly, leaning heavily on his cane, and it's possible that this morning, he even needs to.

The Mardi Gras King decided to take a nice trip to visit his dear friend Ziadie. Whose room mate he injured when they accidentally met up. Oops! But, things have changed in the last week or so. Griffin was out all night last night, drinking and having fun and generally enjoying his one night of drunken freaking out. It's probably the last time he'll get to do this before he gets to quit the bottle.

Currently, Griffin is hiding in the bushes. He followed Ziadie here, knows the fellow has alcohol on him. And even if Griffin is still feeling the effects of his binge drinking last night, he's still got a word to keep. And hey, he can drink a little bit more. Nadira never said anything about a drunk-fest. He'll be sober by the time he pays his pregnant fiancee a visit once more.

Ziadie will feel his jacket opening, and the bottles of liquor promptly liberate themselves from him. Thankfully, they don't pour themselves out on him, this time. This time, they float over toward Griffin and his hiding place.

"Fucker." That's Ziadie's immediate reaction as his eyes follow the path of the alcohol, and he takes several steps towards the alcohol. "You…do…NOT…touch…my…jacket." The words are slow, and forceful.

It's … sort of a sore spot for the old man, a holdover from the time he spent homeless, despite that he's no longer such. The jacket is one of those things that he's managed to maintain as a constant in his life, and well. Other people touching it, at all. Bothers the old man. In fact, this is more of raising his voice than Ziadie ever did in the days he was sobering up under Griffin's watch.

Once he reaches the hiding spot, Ziadie will find Griffin, still wearing his Mardi Gras cape and crown, as well as holding a scepter under his arm. The man is settled into a seated position on the ground, and has cracked open the bottles of liquor. He's currently enjoying the liquor very much, still fairly drunk from his time at the party. And there's more where that came from!

As Ziadie voices his protests, Griffin waves a hand in dismissal. "Oh, you'll live. I ain't gonna hurt your precious jacket. Jus' keepin' up my end of the deal." Isn't it a bit early for him to be slurring like that.

And now, Ziadie glares. Unfortunately for Griffin, Ziadie is sober. Which means that he uses his cane to tip the bottle of liquor in the other man's hand over, spilling it into his lap. "What the fuck are you doing, hm?" He's not in a particularly kind mood, it would seem.

Too bad that he's trying to use turnabout on a telekinetic. An invisible hand gently takes hold of Ziadie's cane, forcing it back down to the ground as Griffin raises the bottle to his lips, drinking down a few gulps. "Keepin' my end of th'deal an' drinkin' your damn alcohol, what's it look like?" Griffin offers a snort, shaking his head. "This's th'last I'll be able t'do this, anyhow."

He pauses, looking at the bottle of hard liquor. "M'fiancee's pregnant."

There's a fair amount of a frown on Ziadie's face, that drops into a bit of a shocked expression when Griffin states the last question. And there's pain behind that, though Ziadie's doing his best to hide it. "Congratulations, now stop fucking drinking, or at least let me have some." He leans on his cane.

"I finished the drug test for m' job, the least y' could do is let me have a drink." It isn't even like he bought alcohol in quantity. It's just one bottle of scotch, a small bottle of gin, and a four pack of beer. Not nearly enough for a bender.

"You're doing good. Got one up on me. You should stay off the liquor, s'better for ya." Griffin mumbles this from around that bottle of scotch. His scotch. None for Ziadie. A beer is handed over. That's all you get, says the expression on his face. "I'm havin' my drunken bender, then m'going to quit. Needed one night." And one day, apparently, considering how drunk the Mardi Gras King was already. It's a wonder he hasn't passed out in a gutter somewhere.

A pocketknife is drawn out of an outer pocket of Ziadie's jacket. A knife with a bottle opener tool, apparently, because the cap from the bottle of beer is popped off, summarily let drop to the ground. It's only after the old man has taken a long swallow that he speaks. "You're drunk enough, don't you think?" he says, leaning on part of the bushes. "An' I'd be better if I didn't feel like absolute hell run over. Drink'll help that, though."

"Not nearly." Griffin slurps down a bit more of the scotch, leaning back against a nearby tree in his purple, green and gold cape and crown. "This's th'last chance I got t'binge drink." He mutters this out. "We were talking about having one…jus' not expectin' one so soon, y'know? We're happy, but…wow. Two kids."

There's a nod from Ziadie, and he takes another drink of the beer, before he ends up turning a silver ring on his ring finger around, thoughtful. There's no real attempt to hide the sadness in his eyes at this point. "This ain' a world as is good for kids, but …" he pauses. "I'm sure you'll do th' best you can." Another sip of the beer, though it's clear that Ziadie is trying to make it last a bit.

Griffin certainly isn't making that scotch he stole from Ziadie last. He's drinking. A lot. And he's enjoying the hell out of it, in his king cape, with black makeup around his eyes from the mask he wore earlier, which is now perched atop his head in the general area of the crown he wears. "I have a son already. Eleven. Haven't told 'im." He slurs this out. "My life is fucked up…"

Ziadie frowns. The half-empty beer bottle sits in his hand, and he levels a stare at the Mardi Gras King. "C'mon, you're going to get up, and we're going to walk over back t' the store. I am going to buy another bottle of scotch, some food, and some water, and then you can tell me about it. There's a park near here we can go sit at." He looks at Griffin. "An' in return, you're going to let me have another one of those beers."

Griffin lifts his hand, pushing the mask back over his face. It does a nice job, with a big nose that's perfect for covering his big nose. Doesn't look like him at all, really. Slowly, without assistance, he raises to his feet, rubbing his hand over one shoulder, before slurping down a bit more of that scotch. "Y'r doin' good. Y've not drank since I left, right? Y'shouldn't start up again."

"And I feel like hell," Ziadie retorts. "One more beer won' hurt, settle the worst of the …" The older man can't manage to say withdrawal, though, and he turns, taking a few steps towards the liquor store he'd come out of, before pausing to hand the half-empty bottle of beer to Griffin. "You're too drunk, you're not comin' into the store with me."

Griffin tips his head toward Ziadie. "How 'bout I give you these beers and y'don't go back in there?" He gestures toward the park, offering forth that pack of beers. "Th'n y'don't hafta spend more money." Not waiting for an answer the Mardi Gras King begins to wander toward the park, not caring that he's drawing stares in his strange ensemble.

Ziadie gives half a shrug, as if to whatever higher power might or might not be watching, and begins walking after Griffin. "I s'pose. Half th' point of th' store was to get some food," he says, "because you need it." On the other hand, Ziadie isn't going to argue, and he adjusts his grip on his cane as he walks. He catches up with Griffin as they near the park. "Really, money wasn' th' issue." There's another sip taken from his beer, emptying it.

Griffin doesn't seem to care that people are staring. "Don't need food. Already ate at th'hotel." He mumbles this out, swaying as he walks. Definitely already drunk enough, but he doesn't seem to think so. Once they near a bench, the man flops down, and the glow disappears from his eyes. Apparently, he was only walking straight because of his vectors. "I just need…to figure out my fucked up life."

"You need food," Ziadie says, leaving Griffin at the bench as he spies a hot-dog vendor on the other side of the park, over closer to the playground. He's not letting the drunk man have room to argue over this. "I'll be back." It takes ten minutes, but the older man returns with a hot dog for himself, one for Griffin, and several empty hot dog buns, along with a small bag with the assorted condiments. "You can tell me about things, provided that you eat. Start with bread." He sits down on the bench, sets the food down next to him carefully, and hands Griffin one of the hot dog buns.

While Ziadie is getting the hot dogs and buns, Griffin is quietly finishing off that bottle of scotch. By the time Ziadie returns, it's empty, sitting next to the bench. "Y'know, food doesn't actually stop y'from bein' drunk. It jus' distracts y'from drinkin'." He mumbles this out as Ziadie returns. When one of the buns is handed over, Griffin stares at it for a moment, before beginning to eat, chewing slowly.

Once that bite is done, the drunk man begins talking. "I dunno what th'fuck t'do. I can hardly manage t'keep up with my one son, who I'm keepin' in hidin'." Another bite of hot dog bun is shoved into his mouth, and while still chewing, he continues. Apparently, manners don't matter to Griffin when he's drunk. "Now I got another baby on th'way…what th'fuck m'I s'pposed t'do now?"

He rubs at his forehead. "Th'last person who needs t'be havin' kids is a wanted terrorist." This is said in a low tone, audible only to Ziadie.

Ziadie reaches over to the four pack of beer, taking out the pocketknife to open another one. "It also gives your stomach something to help it not get destroyed by the alcohol." The older man's voice is level. "You're supposed to be supportive of your fianceé, make sure she's safe as well as you can."

The older man frowns, once more turning about the ring that lives on his ring finger. He's not sure what to say here, and doesn't want to add to the younger man's troubles with his past hurt, but the pain, long ignored and repressed, is evident on the older man's face as he raises the bottle of beer to his lips. "There's a bottle of gin in the bag y' took from me." Because he'll sit here with Griffin if the telekine is determined to get even more drunk.

"I am," Griffin mumbles, "I am makin' sure she's safe. An' I got s'm people t'talk to…get 'er a doctor 'n such." He rubs at his forehead, before pulling the gin out of the bag and popping it open. Yeah, some gin would be good to wash down the scotch. "She'll be okay. She don't have th'rep I got. I jus'…don't know if I c'n say 's much for m'self."

The man tips the bottle of clear liquor up, washing down that bread that he intermittently munches on. "I don't d'serve her. I don't d'serve this. A happy fam'ly."

"Sure you do," Ziadie responds, stubbornly. "You love your son, that much is clear. You love your fianceé. Everyone deserves a chance t' be happy." And then there's a slight, self-deprecating laugh. "I was married once. We were going t' have a son. Nineteen-seventy." There's pain and grief in Ziadie's voice, brought clearer and closer to the surface of the former cop's emotions by the alcohol.

A sour smile forms on Griffin's face, the man leaning back in the bench and taking a long draught of the gin. He's so drunk by now that he hardly notices the burn that comes along with the harsh alcohol. "I was married once, too. That's where m'son came. I murdered his mother." Normally, he doesn't put that so bluntly, but he's working through a lot of problems right now! "M'ability manifested. Killed her."

The man closes his eyes, drinking more. "She was beautiful, m'Cindy. M'high school sweetheart. Still love 'er." He lets his head droop slightly for a moment, before he reaches for that hot dog. A hot dog sounds tasty. Granted, it'll probably come back up later, but he doesn't particularly care about that. "And m'sister. She was killed, 'cause of me."

The hotdog is offered, wordlessly. "Not your fault," Ziadie says, quietly. "Neither 'f them." He doesn't know what much else to say, and just reaches to pat Griffin on the shoulder. "You're doing the right thing for your son now, though. Y've got th' chance to do right, and yer making th' best of it."

The man shrugs slowly. "I try, but…nothin' I do seems t'work. Still got the government on m'trail." He mutters this, draining the last of the small gin bottle. Then, he's done. No more liquor. He'll already be puking his guts out later. "My son…I don't know how he'll take this. My sister…he called her mom. She raised 'im when I was gone." He frowns. "Dunno how he'll take havin' a new brother or sister on th'way, when he only jus' recently met me."

Once again, Ziadie shrugs, just letting Griffin talk for the moment. He sets his beer on the bench next to him, and picks up his hotdog, carefully opening first a packet of mustard and then one of ketchup, and then taking a small bite of the hotdog, before raising one hand to rub his forehead.

Griffin falls into silence, then, quietly devouring his hot dog. It remains like this for a while, until the hot dog is gone. "I can't believe…'m gonna be a dad. Again." He shakes his head. "I feel bad f'r my little girl or boy…havin' to grow up in times like these. Jus' like…I wish it wasn't that way for m'son."

There's a nod. "I know, but you do with the cards the world deals," Ziadie says, quietly. And then he's offering the second hotdog bun to Griffin. "Eat this one slowly." And then Ziadie looks at the half empty beer next to him, and at the other two, with this 'but I really shouldn't' look on his face.

The hotdog bun is taken, eaten much more slowly as directed. "It jus'…" His head droops slightly. "I wish I could do better for my family." Griffin closes his eyes, letting out a small sigh. "S'rry, f'r talkin' yer ear off like this.

Awkwardly once more, Ziadie pats th' younger man on th' shoulder. "You have a family," Ziadie says, picking up the beer, his second. He won't go for another one, and he won't take the remaining two back home with him, but he will finish the one that's open. "I envy you that much."

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