Participants:
| Scene Title | Not an Answer |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | It's a blunt question, but perhaps necessary. |
| Date | February 1, 2011 |
Hamilton Heights: Felix's Apartment
He got off work early today. He was trying to read on his bed. But the fact of the matter is, if you put a Felix on its back and leave it alone, it falls asleep. Which is precisely what has happened with this one - he's dozing, a copy of some novel in Russian spread on his chest where it fell when he nodded off.
Ziadie pauses, looking at the clock. Evening. He came back from an errand (albeit an errand to the liquor store), to find that Fel was there, and asleep, and on principle let Felix nap for quite a while. But he figures now it's about time that someone should be starting dinner, and he's also quite sure that Felix wouldn't want him to actually try and cook. So he's leaning on the doorframe, watching a moment, before knocking a few times. Try the nice ways of waking someone up first, after all.
The Russian comes awake with startling speed and intensity. No blinking, no yawning or rolling over. It's as if Ziadie flipped a switch - Fel's sitting up and peering at Ziadie with owlish intensity. But there's no alarm in the older man's posture, so Fel swings his feet to the floor, rests one hand on the edge of the bed, and scratches vigorously at his scalp with the other. "Mnnh?" he says, intelligently.
That's one of those too-fast things that does unnerve Ziadie, but he shakes his head a bit. "You've been 'sleep for over an hour," Ziadie says. "Dunno, you were 'sleep when I go' back." And since he definitely wasn't there when Felix fell asleep, that would make sense. He glances at the watch that hangs on his wrist. "Figured I ought wake you."
The Russian glances at the rather old-fashioned alarm clock that ticks by his bed, and nods. He's in jeans and t-shirt and bare feet - he rises to stuff said feet into slippers, and scuffs into the kitchen, still squinting.
Ziadie follows, slowly. The older man doesn't tend to use his cane around the apartment much, leaving it by the door. "Plus, your cooking is better than mine," he says. "I try, it's inedible." He eases himself into one of the chairs at the table. He's ditched the sling that he got for when he goes out, and simply rests his left arm on the table to keep it from moving, with the accompanying cursing that seems to be requisite, then smiles. Sorta. "Got offered a job th' other day," he says. "Been thinkin' bout it."
Felix is surprised, that's clear. When he's not wearing that cop's mask, his face is almost childishly mobile. "Oh?" he says, moderating his tone to something more gentle. "Like what?"
"Man by th' name of …" Ziadie pauses, searching his memory. The water he's drinking hasn't done as much as he wants it to to clear the fog of the harder drinks the older man likely had earlier in the day, it seems. Tomorrow'll be another hangover, per usual. "Cardinal, I think. Richard." Ziadie's fingers drum on the table. "An' 'e told me t' ask y' about it." There's that same bemused expression on the older man's face that there is whenever else the situation ends up being 'Ivanov knows everyone'.
Ivanov does know everyone. It's very weird, considering. "What does he want you to do?" Fel's face has gone somber, a little wary, but he's not unenthused.
Ziadie watches Felix, fingers drumming on the table in what almost manages to be something remotely resembling a rhythm. Maybe. Almost. Come to think of it, Cardinal didn't say that much in terms of specifics. "Said they're allus lookin' for folk who as know what they're doin' …" Ziadie pauses. "Investigative, what have you. Didn't say much more." Ziadie drains the glass of water, and whatever sigh is pushed back, though not so well that it's still not visible.
"He's a good man. And yes, he can always use an investigator, I imagine," Fel says, quietly, as he scuffs into the kitchen and sticks his head into the pantry with a thoughtful air. "Do you have any particular craving for something?" he asks. "Because me, I think I just wanna order Chinese."
Ziadie nods. He does seem to be reassured by Felix's statement, though, tilting his head to one side and giving both the statement and the question that followed it thought. "Chinese sounds good." A pause. "I think. Yeah." Another pause. "… think m' body stopped try … stage a revolt." The last statement isn't meant for Felix to hear, but it's said aloud nonetheless, half the words unintelligible. The older man has been perpetually slightly grumpy since his encounter with the robots about the … limitations that it has put on his drinking.
It's all to the good, to Fel's mind. "I'll really start looking into getting you some suppressant, if you want it," he says, even as he rummages through the little file of takeout menus in a kitchen drawer. He pauses, eyes Ziadie narrowly. "How do you feel?"
There's a small nod from Ziadie, and he shrugs. "Been worse." It's that little half-hedge of an answer that Ziadie can usually manage to give. Not a lie, but not a positive answer either.
"That's not an answer," Felix observes, simply, having produced the required menu. He proffers it to the older man. "Are you going to be fit for any kind of work?" It's a blunt question, but perhaps necessary.
Ziadie sets the menu on the table in front of him, and frowns, looking over at Felix. "Been …" There's a pause, and the older man simply shrugs. "Hell if I know, Ivanov," he finally says. "Havin' work, something to do. That allus made it better, somewhat." His eyes flick over the menu. "Szechuan beef?" The suggestion of what he wants is stuck in the middle. "But this time … hell if I know." Ziadie bites his lower lip somewhat. "Somehow." Half a shrug.
Felix considers him quietly for a long moment, gaze gauging. It's not friendly, not sympathetic, but nor is it unkind. He nods, finally, and holds out his hand for the menu.
