(WC: 1667)
Robert Banks felt like s**t.
He knew he would, it was inevitable. Do stupid s**t, get stupid drunk, wake up feeling stupid.
His head felt as if it were trying to rip itself in two. His throat was on fire, his body throbbed along to the pounding in his skull and when he cracked open one bloodshot eye to peer out into the world, the sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains nearly blinded him.
God, he was a mess and there was no one to blame but himself.
It took a good thirty minutes before he gathered what energy he could to crawl his way out of bed and drag his feet onto the carpet. A soggy patch of fabric under one bare foot was all it took to remind him of his shameful transgressions.
Not that his head alone couldn’t do that, christ.
Eyes looked over to the nightstand for his phone, a second-nature habit ingrained ever since he’d synced the damn thing with his email account. There was no sign of the device, dead or alive, but only the blaringly red numbers of the digital clock that angrily announced that he’d slept in well past noon.
Christ.
The journey downstairs was about as harrowing as expected. The darkness of the stairwell was tolerable - welcomed, even - but the bright sunlight streaming through the windows of the living area and kitchen may as well have shown up for the sheer purpose of blinding his otherwise bleary hazel beauties. One hand moved up to shield away the glare as he offered a defeated groan.
Was this what his life had become?
Blind hunting finally led to the coffee machine, which took a painful amount of time to prepare. Everything felt as if it required extra effort, including adding something as simple as water to a machine. He knew he should have invested in one of those damn automatic ones. Steele had been pestering for one for the office, maybe he’d look into it once he got back to work.
Hell - was he going back to work?
As the machine whirred to life and took its time leaking the beginnings of his morning ambrosia into the pot, hands found the edge of the counter and he supported his weight against the siding. He needed some time off. Time to get his s**t together, collect what little dignity he had left and muster up the courage to figure out a plan. One, preferably, that didn’t end in either his car or at the bottom of countless bottles of alcohol. God only knew he couldn't afford the expense for the latter, not at the rate of how he was drinking it. Kavinsky hadn't sugarcoated that he had a problem --
--- christ, the kid. The texts. His phone, where was it?
He at least waited until the coffee was ready and poured before beginning the hunt for his cell phone. Lodged between the cushions of the couch he’d occupied late the night before, it took a good twenty minutes to locate it before he was able to flick on the screen to see what damage had been caused in his inebriated state.
The hot burn of the coffee sliding down his throat only aided in the wince he expressed at noting the text messages he’d sent the night before. Misspelled and jumbled, the words came back to haunt him and he was quick to file away the need to send a proper apology to Kavinsky for his….
Well. For his whatever they would call it. Epiphany? Breakdown? Tantrum?
Shaking his head, he banished away the thoughts for the time being. They’d have to be sorted out another day, when his brain wasn’t addled with the feeling of a stampede currently running through it. Sipping at his mug, he moved onward through his short list of contacts to pull up his partner’s contact information.
A brief text was sent in his direction, unfair in length compared to the sizable number of messages he’d been left by his bleach blonde business partner. No, he wasn’t interested in learning how to raid or whatever they called it and sorry, he’d be taking off for the next week or so. He’d remote in from home, would explain later.
At least, he’d come up with a plausible excuse by then.
A low hiss in the corner of his room caught his attention, nearly jolting the coffee from his hand. A fat, furry orange blob of a beast stared back at him, green eyes not taking kindly to his current state. The cat, wretched thing that he was, was standing by the empty bowl that was intended to substitute the use of an actual food dish - something Rob simply never had gotten around to purchasing for the blasted creature.
“Meow.”
“You don’t touch the s**t anyways.”
One paw dunked itself into the empty container, as if to spitefully prove that it was indeed as empty as he claimed it to be. Rob rolled his eyes and tossed his phone to the other side of the couch - hopefully to recover later - once he found himself in a better state of mind.
“Meow.”
“I’ll ******** fill it later, you little p***k.”
“Meow.”
Tilting the mug back, he swallowed a hearty amount of coffee before discarding the cup onto the coffee table and rising from the couch. Curses were muttered as he went to the pantry in search of the cat food bag. As often as Bob managed to raid his belongings and cabinets, it was a wonder why the fuzzball hadn’t figured out how to feed himself by then.
The bag was nearly empty - of course it was - so he brought the remainder over to the cat, bare feet pounding in tandem to the headache still pulsing in his skull. The kibble was poured into the bowl, emerald eyes watching every move, until the bag was pulled back and tossed towards the front door - a reminder to take it out to the bin, later. The Maine Coon stared at the bowl, then back towards his master. With a long yawn, he proceeded to rise from his acquired position and pad his way over towards the staircase before ascending it towards (no doubt) the bed up above.
“Are you freaking kidding me… I don’t need this right now, Bob.”
Of course. Of course.
Growling aloud, he childishly offered the departing cat his thoughts in the form of a pointed finger. It didn’t matter, but at least it made him feel better… right? Right?
Christ alive, he was fighting with his damn cat, of all things.
Sighing to himself, he moved to collect his mug again when the glint of sunlight against glass caught his eye. In his far-more-sober state, Kavinsky had appeared to have collected and tossed out the various empty bottles that had decorated the otherwise sparse coffee table but it seems he had failed to miss one that had tumbled over onto the carpet. No doubt knocked off its perch by a less-than-sober Robert, the lawyer leaned down to pick it up, discovering a fair amount of vodka left swirling around the base of the translucent container.
Hm.
Hair of the dog didn’t sound completely terrible right about now. A little to the coffee would surely help the headache, if not the rest of the aches and pains his body was currently experiencing. Just a little and no one would ever know…
As the bottle’s neck nestled itself against the rim of his mug, the thirty-three year old froze where he stood.
What was he doing?
Bile began to climb its way back up his throat, tainted with a bitter, coffee tinge as he recollected the conversation he’d had only the night prior. s**t. Was he really this dependent?
Had he really said the crap he’d said… and to a kid who couldn’t have cared less?
s**t.
Ugh. <********>
The distance between den to kitchen was made in record time, the glass bottle unceremoniously dropped into the sink with a loud crash. The coffee mug failed to meet the same fate, poised on the countertop as the man turned to the sink and watched the remains of the clear alcohol spiral its way round and round the drain until it was washed away with the water that whisked it.
Shards were everywhere in the sink and for a brief moment, hazel eyes landed on a rather sharp, cruel looking edge and rested for far too long. One hand idly began to toy with the other, twisting around the empty space where a ring used to sit. Old habits die hard, it seemed.
“Too messy.”
The words were mumbled as he stared, dark thoughts returning their way into the shadows of his mind. One hand was en route to reach out for the piece, maybe to toy with it, maybe to get a better look at it. Whatever the reason, he just needed to---
“Meow.”
Thoughts returned to him as the sudden presence of the orange feline had made itself known to him once more. The heavyset beast was working figure-eights through his legs, insistently pushing and brushing against him. Upon receiving a glance that said go away, it appeared that Bob, in whatever way a simple-minded animal managed to convey, had no intentions of doing just that.
Sighing, the faucet was turned off and the large cat was collected in his arms, along with the groan that came with it. The coffee was slowly working its way into his system, the caffeine barely making a dent in the pain the hangover had left him with. Still, as the mangy thing began to nuzzle its head against his chin, Rob could only sigh and quietly agree to himself that things had to change. They simply had to. For better or worse.
Either way, he’d stick around for another day.
Hell, might as well see what it brought with it, right?
