kore_logs | I don't feel like calming down, no I don't

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I don't feel like calming down, no I don't

Who: Charlie Luciano and Ned
What: Fine scotch is the perfect apology for accidental kidnapping, right?
When: Day 67
Where: Ned's place again (man he needs to get a guard dog all these gangsters are finding him)
Warnings: Really really terrible attempts at apologies. Also booze!

To be perfectly fair to Charlie, he had been planning on coming to see Ned himself. So all the nagging he'd got from Meyer about it was completely unnecessary. He'd been aware of Meyer paying his own visit the other day, and figured he just had to bite the bullet and go for it. With the two of them trying to set up their game in town, it would be damn stupid to leave yourself with any potential enemies when the problem could be cleared up with a little dialogue.

Not that dialogue was Charlie's forte. Which is why he brought a peace offering.

He'd found the bottle of scotch under the floorboards in the closet of his room. And yes, he'd looked under the floorboards. It had been a very long week stuck indoors and it had made him feel marginally better to at least pretend he was hunting for treasure.

Which is why Charlie is holding a bottle of rather nice scotch with him as he rings the doorbell. He's dressed down from his usual suit, as they finally decided to make an attempt to blend in a little more. And the knees of his suit pants were wearing through. He's in jeans and a modern-looking jacket, with his hair curly and sticking up everywhere without the usual pomade.

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Charlie is still just largely confused about what got Ned so worked up. Okay, you saved up? Have a cookie? Besides, he's got enough of the worrying about the state of their business from Meyer. And he'll admit to being pretty fucking nervous about it sometimes, too. After all, they fall behind on their payments they're getting a bullet in the brain. If they're lucky.

But worrying doesn't do any god. So he doesn't, most of the time. It's been a very effective system for him.

"Nice to have a purpose for your life and all that shit."

"What about you?"

Ned is squinting at the whiskey bottle. Have they really had that much, already? He hadn't been paying attention. But he feels drunk now - properly, undeniably drunk.

And really, what good does it do to have a purpose, to know his purpose, and be kept from it? Not just the shop -that was a means to an end. But making people happy. Supporting himself. Making pies. Living quietly. Staying under the radar.

"You have a purpose?"

It's cute. Ned is a fun drunk, when he isn't getting all angry. And kind of then, too.

"Yeah. Make enough I ain't living in a shithole in the east end no more, and sos we don't owe nothing to no one."

"That's a good purpose."

Ned puts a great store in not relying on anyone, not owing any favors. It's not surprising, perhaps, given he hasn't had anyone to rely on but himself since he was nine. That kind of situation breeds independence of an almost pathological variety. Then, without even realizing he's going to ask it, he blurts, "You have a family?"

Was Charlie trying to improve things for them? Get away from them? Or maybe he's like Ned, and there's no one.

"Yeah. My ma's still around, then there's three younger than me. They're good kids. Older brother fucked off somewhere soon as we moved to New York, don't see him 'til he runs outta money. Pa had the same idea." He sends money to his mother when he can, not that he'll say that. I the circles he's used to traveling, there are some things you don't admit to.

Ned can only nod to all that, leaning forward to pour himself more of the whiskey. It is strange, the way he can be more honest with himself, when he's drunk. The way he can acknowledge that the feeling gripping him then is an envy that cuts so deep it's nearly hatred. Charlie's family doesn't sound perfect, with his older brother and his dad as a burden, but it's a family. A real, living, breathing family. Ned had wanted a little brother or sister, when he was young. He wonders how different his life would've been if he'd had one.

And his family must still be in New York. Missing him. Wondering where he is, and if he's alright. And of course Charlie must be missing them, as well - anything else is inconceivable, to Ned.

He takes another slow sip of the whiskey in silence.

Well, it's not like Charlie's lived there in a while. It's have to be a few months before they got worried. And in that case they'd probably just assume the worst. After all, Charlie's already been to jail once.

But like he wants to think about that and ruin his buzz. Ned's face seems intent on doing that all on its own.

"Who the fuck walked over your grave, pal?"

Ned looks over quickly, surprised, realizes he must be letting that bitter jealousy show, in some way. He's never been the best at keeping his expression neutral, even at the soberest of times. But he doesn't exactly appreciate Charlie pointing that out to him.

He says, defiantly, "What? It's just my face." Can't you tell he means it, Charlie, from the way he manages to even make drinking look stiffly angry? But he can play this off. Charlie isn't the one he should be mad at, he knows.

"I just thinking... they don't care." He jerks his head in the direction of the camera, "About any of that. Whether the people here've got families going crazy wondering where they went back home. Some of the people here are just kids, y'know?"

"The thing I don't get with it all. I mean, other than every fucking thing about hows we got here. I wonder why they ain't showing their faces, you know? You'd think they'd sure be into gloating." That's how must kidnapping has worked in his experience, anyway.

Charlie has a point, Ned thinks. He isn't as experienced with kidnappers (present company aside), but wasn't that the cliche? The mad scientist or evil wizard or criminal mastermind always showed up in person for a good gloat, to monologue and say cutting things that cut deep at the hero's vulnerabilities but ultimately revealed some crucial detail that led to their downfall.

That isn't happening, here. The men behind the curtain are staying there. And it makes them all the more ominous - the facelessness, the absence.

"Gloating would be better," he says, darkly. "At least then we'd know for sure who we were dealing with."

"Yeah. And I'd have a clear fucking shot to their head." This is getting grim again, time for more pie. It makes everything better.

Ned might not be a mobster himself but he's been through enough in this place that he isn't exactly going to disagree that a clear shot might be a very good thing to have, when it comes to their captors. Whether or not he'd be as blase with it in the moment, while sober, is another question entirely.

But it doesn't escape him that this is the second time that Charlie's mentioned someone shooting someone else as a likelihood - though the first time had been referring to Meyer. He doesn't think too much of it though. New York in the 20s was doubtless a violent place. Some of that is bound to sink in.

"You know what else I don't get-" Ned says, warmly. There is the faintest hint of a slur just beginning to touch the edges of his pronunciation. "I get them wanting me. I get them wanting River and... and some other people. We're freaks. But you and Meyer, you're normal. Why'd they take you?"

Wow, rude. But then again, he does have a point. Not for a first time, Charlie wishes he had a damn cigarette, if only to fill the time deciding how to answer that particular question. Instead he'll just go with taking another bite of pie. Less dramatic, but just as effective as a stalling tactic.

"Those powers and whatever you people got. They must reckon that ain't everything." After all, him and Meyer have plenty of skills of their own. (Well, mostly Meyer. He won't kid himself that he's the more effective one on their partnership.)

If there is a certain degree of petulance or defensiveness in that answer, it is lost on Ned, who thinks that he just now passed the border between tipsy and well and truly drunk. It's not a question of merit; it's a question of why they were brought here. It can't be just to do experiments on people who are different in the way that Ned is different - not if there are people like Jesse and Kenzi (thinking that gives him a pain of sadness) and Charlie and Meyer mixed in with all the rest.

"Didn't even think other people with powers existed before I got here."

"Can't say it were ever something I ever thought of as being possible." His life is complicated enough with people raising the dead all over the place.

"It's a brave new world," Ned says, raising the glass as if to take a drink. He pauses before it reaches his lips. Some scrap of sense floats to the surface of his mind and tells him that he really ought to slow down. Or, you know, stop. His head is swimming already, everything around him tipping gently from side to side.

Charlie notices the pause and the way Ned's hand is shaking. This strikes him as ridiculously funny right about now, and he gives Ned another playful shoves.

"You fucking losing it, pal?"

Charlie really does love those playful shoves, doesn't he? But it's not quite the same as a touch, and Ned doesn't mind it, so much. Even if this particular one sends him reeling much further than it ought, because his inner ear is struggling enough as it is. He rests his forehead in his hand, but there's a small smile on his mouth.

"Don't usually drink this much," he admits, then adds, "Or... at all."

Perhaps surprising, given the gusto with which he had attacked the whisky, and the amount that he had consumed. He was clearly no stranger to its taste, either.

"Glad to be your bad fucking influence for the night, huh?" He decides to get up to put the pie plates away, and stumbles when he does. This he also finds ridiculously funny and has to fall back onto the couch to laugh.

Charlie's laughing is enough to get Ned laughing, though he isn't sure exactly what sparks it - the stumble, or the defeated return to the couch after it. And it feels good, to just let go and laugh. He tries to keep quiet, claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, but his shoulders still shake with mirth.

"I think I like your bad influence," he admits, in a moment of unusual candor. Because the earlier anger has faded and now everything seems swimming and perfect and it doesn't hurt so much, thinking about Kenzi and Bruce and Laura and Jesse dying and all the things that happened to him. Even what Charlie had done.

Ned has a nice laugh, he should do it more often. A drunk Charlie is also a ridiculously fidgety one, which is why he's bouncing and shifting on the sofa as much as he is. Besides, he still can't get over wearing a suit all the time and the range of motions now available to him. He stretches his arms over his head just because he can before collapsing back again.

"It's a specialty of mine, sos I've heard."

Wow, he really is very wiggly, isn't he? Ned, on the other hand, is an unenergetic drunk. He is lazy and uncareful with where his limbs go, but he isn't moving all that much. In fact, he can feel the encroachment of exhaustion in the back of his mind and decides that, perhaps, it's time for Charlie to head home. But he doesn't want to be rude, doesn't want to just kick him out of the house. So, instead, he gets to his feet and, in a fit of friendliness, offers his hand to help Charlie up.

"C'mon, lemme walk you back to your house before I fall asleep like a terrible host."

He'd be offended by being kicked out, but he really does want to check up on Meyer...

So he takes Ned's hand without argument and lets himself get hauled up.

"Yous and me, we should dos this more often, you know?"

That suggestion prompts a bright, genuine smile from Ned, who ducks his head a little to hide it. It's one thing to just come by to apologize, to talk with him as they drank, but wanting to spend time with him again is an entirely different matter. He's flattered by it, and agrees readily, "We should."

After all, why stay sober in a place like this? Of course, if he were more sober right now he could probably think of many reasons, but at the moment, he can't imagine any. Isn't it better to drown it all? To be happy in whatever way he can, in whatever amount he can, while he can?

He trips a little on the steps down from the front porch, laughing as he catches himself on the banister. Are his legs always this long? How on earth does he manage them, most of the time?

Charlie's there to stop with with a strong hand firm around his bicep when he stumbles. This, of course, is also insanely funny.

"Careful. Fall over and kill yourself and I'll feel like I wasted a bottle of good whiskey."

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