capeandcowl2020 | Open Post 002

There's nothing left, I'm telling you. I-I've been completely exhausted. The fire's died. I don't know if I have the strength to light it again.

[ He puts his hands over his face again, peering out between his fingers down at the water. ]

I never wanted movies! Those damn books mean nothing to me, I wanted to help people! A better -- a better -- [ He wobbles a little, and hangs his head. ] Maybe I should get home, I'm babbling... I'm so sorry, Mr. Maskin, I'm not sure what I'm saying anymore.

Yeah, yeah, here, let me help you get home. Which way?

[ Anything to keep the conversation from going in the direction he seemed to want to take it. Mitchell reached out, holding him by the shoulders, trying to pull him away from the bridge.

She'd seen enough tragedy, the bitch didn't need to see anymore, especially if he had anything to say about it. Of course, he had a personal score to settle with the bridge, or at least, to keep other people from going down around here anyway.

He'd prefer for her to stay. Then again, he was biased. ]

Come on, pal. Let's turn you in the right direction, huh?

[ Nelson resists a moment, gripping the railing tighter, before he lets go and allows Maskin to lead him from the bridge, shoulders slumped. He blinks a little quickly to clear his vision from fuzziness and tears, pointing eastward. ]

This way. I'll, um, over here... [ He stumbles forward a little, still pointing. ] Not too far, I took a cab.

Yeah, alright. You want to take a cab back, or just walk it off?

[ He asked the question low, guiding him back along the bridge, intention to leave that. ]

Although I'm thinking a cab might be a bad idea, if you want to keep your last meal down.

All right. We can walk. [ Nelson nods slowly, swallowing and leaning against Maskin for support. ] It's only about twenty minutes away. I think. I've never walked all the way to the bridge from home...

Then I guess we'll both figure out how to get from the Brooklyn Bridge to your place, huh?

[ There was a twist of old sarcasm he couldn't help but inflect, still offering his arm around Nelson's shoulder. It felt weird, odd to be the kind of person who would do this. Help an old friend, co-worker, and nobody knew who he was.

Like he was out on display, and that everyone already knew the secret, he was the only one who thought he was getting by anonymously. ]

[ Nelson laughs a little helplessly, nuzzling closer as he weaves his way forward. ]

I suppose we will. You're too kind, really, I can find my way on my own... if I must... you must have important things to get back to.

[ He looks up at Maskin, still blearily hanging on. ]

[ Maskin tried to tug him a little straighter, entirely too stiff and straight as he tried to lead him on. Come on, buddy, don't pull that again, or he'll have to call Nelson out on it. He didn't want to, at all.

It was uncomfortable. Then again, physical affection in general was something the author was entirely too uncomfortable with. ]

It's no trouble. I can't just leave you like this, you might get into trouble, and that's a burden I can't handle, you know? It's better to make sure you're home safe.

[ He's lonely and too drunk to be all that self-aware, Maskin, sorry. He does straighten up slightly, though, trying to just use Maskin's shoulder for support instead of hanging off him. ]

Trouble. [ He scoffs a little. ] I'm just a stranger to you, you aren't responsible for me, Mr. Maskin. [ Leaning more again. ] When we get back at least come inside for a drink. I'll fix something for you.

Oh no, it's-- It's absolutely no trouble, believe me. [ He was leaning again, but goddamn the poor guy was drunk. He felt kind of bad for him, in the way that a man could feel bad for a former coworker.

When had they all fallen apart so thoroughly. Even Nelson looked like a shell of who he'd been. ]

Look, I don't need any thanks. Think of this as my one good deed for the week.

Edited 2013-03-05 23:06 (UTC)

No, no, no. I insist. Please. [ He wobbles again, patting Maskin's shoulder. ] I'll fix you something, it's the least I can do; you only have to sit there and drink it. I've got plenty, it's completely fine.

Alright, alright. [ He patted his shoulder, reassuring. If it would mean that he'd be satisfied, he'd at least get a drink.

He could use one, at this point.

How many people in the City was he going to find that he knew? ]

Unless you puke on me, then all bets are off. [ He was joking, mostly.]

Just one, it'll take no time at all. It's just good hospitality. I can't let you go without--

[ He shakes his head. It's pretty easy to fall back into social adequacy, even while drunk, now that he's had some time to let his crisis unfurl. He'll take pleasantries where he can get them.

He pats Maskin's chest with his other hand, laughing slightly. ]

Don't you worry, I've got a stronger stomach than all that. [ He grasps a little at his tie as he stumbles again. ] So, what kind of writing do you do? Fiction?

Oh no, nonfiction, actually. Dry, policy shit that nobody really wants to read.

[ He waved a hand. No need for the guy to realize he was a bestseller, or anything. At least not right now, not while he was drunk and stumbling. The poor guy needed a good cup of coffee, some asprin, and something to eat. ]

Tell me about your books? I bet they're better than the adoring public knows. Sometimes the subtext is hard to pick up on.

[ Christ knows his was littered with it that nobody ever picked up on. ]

Nonfiction, hm? Now, now. Don't be so hard on yourself, I find politics quite interesting sometimes... y-you need to at least keep up. Otherwise... well, you know. You write the things.

[ He hiccups and tries to stand straight again, moving away from Maskin enough that again he only uses his shoulder for support. He shakes his head. ]

God, nothing important like that. They're-- [ His expression turns sheepish again, or as much as it can when he's this drunk. ] I don't suppose you've heard of C.M. Guarde, have you?

Oh. [ His eyebrows lifted, his mouth parting into an expression that for the briefest of moments, was very Mitchell Hundred. Wide eyes and curious, before he toned it down, as if he were thinking about it. ]

I think, if I remember right, I heard something about them, yes. I'm afraid I don't do a lot of reading for pleasure these days. I'm often a bit slammed, but I remember them hitting big a while ago. What was it, seven or eight years ago?

[ He didn't do much of anything for pleasure, but he'd at least sell it that it was business, instead of Mitchell just being his usual, boring self. Everything had to have a purpose, after all. Entirely efficient, like a well-oiled machine. ]

[ Nelson's face flushes mildly, deeper than the redness already caused by alcohol. He can't help it, he's not exactly proud of the book series' reputation, though he's relieved that Maskin doesn't seem overly familiar. ]

About that, yes. It was just a whim for a little extra money, honestly, I didn't anticipate anything like -- um... by the way, I don't know what you've heard, but it is just a crime series. Mature, maybe, but nothing like-- [ He clears his throat, and puts his finger to his lips. ] Don't tell anyone. I prefer the, uh... anonymity. I'm sure you understand.

[ A pause. He shakes his head again. ]

Well, I guess not, if you write about politics. You'd want a name, then.

Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. I know how it is, wanting to be a little anonymous.

[ Oh, did he know. He lifted a shoulder. ]

Being famous has its downsides, you know. It's nothing like being a movie star, or anything, but being a well known author means everyone wants to know what you're working on next, and if you're still single...

Well, it's awful, at times, but the payoff's worth it.

[ Or it would be. ]

It isn't just that. I could handle a little interest into my availability, were it not to come at the expense of my dignity and reputation. And, uh, peace, obviously. Such as it is...

[ Nelson shrugs a little, managing to walk slightly more steadily as the fresh air helps sober him up at least that much. He recognizes the area more now; they're close. ]

We're getting close. [ He nods. ] Of course it is nice to have money.

Heck, it's always nice to have a little bit in the bank, huh?

[ He kept leading him on. There was a difference there, but maybe he'd always been the abnormal one. Nelson seemed like he wanted the personal attention. Mitchell, however, never had. He was intensely private, to the point that he forewent most recreation and enjoyment in an effort to keep his privacy just so.

He lets his hand drop, once he seems to have at least some control over his balance. ]

The problem with the press is that they always forget to give you any dignity, really. Once they start smelling blood, they call everyone else to circle around. There's so little balance.

Oh, I know. Believe me, I know just how awful the press can be. I've had -- you know, I've known people who've died b-because of what the press had to say about them. I could never--

[ He shakes his head, breathing slowly. ]

I just can't. I want to be known for the good, not the... shameful. Not that it matters now. The world doesn't recognize the good, the great, or even the decent anymore.

I know it doesn't. I'm, ah, that's the point, by the way, of my books.

To try and remind people that we're all good people. That we can do great things.

[ That imports could do great things, if the world would let them. It just seemed like it kept moving on, leaving the rest of them to fade in to the shadows, or become one with a regime even he couldn't support.

And he'd always relinquished most of his scruples for power. ]

How's that going? [ Nelson chuckles bitterly, leaning against Maskin again. ] No offense. I'm sure your book is very good, but I can't say I've noticed much change.

I know. It's never going to happen fast, especially not by writing a book.

[ He doesn't hold him up this time, or at least not help him outright, but he doesn't step away. No need for the guy to stumble and break his nose on the concrete. ]

But it lays some groundwork.

That's what you hope, at least. [ He looks forward sadly, wiping at his eyes again. He points down the block. ] Sometimes it can't even do that. Not just books, but anything. You try to drum up some hope and some sense, but they just--

That's my house, by the way. Right down there.

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