Cigarettes, Brandy, and Peace of Mind
"Just one more drink. Promise."
Promises meant nothing to Schuldig as he downed another vodka shot while Crawford watched, newspaper in front of him opened to the Finance section. Especially since Schuldig had said, "Just one more drink and I'm done," every few minutes for the past three hours he had been drinking.
Three hours. It had been three hours since Crawford had some peace and quiet from Schuldig.
Schuldig wasn't the type to make promises he could keep. For him, it was simply a turn of phrase, a reassurance. It meant that he would stop drinking eventually, but neither he nor Crawford knew when that would be. Crawford often mused that his telepathic companion wouldn't stop until he was passed out at the table, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other.
If that happened, he wouldn't be the one dragging his ass to bed. He would simply leave him there to sleep in his own drool. He had done it before—he wouldn't hesitate to do it again.
"Why do you do this?" Hazel eyes looked on with an expression of tiredness as Schuldig poured himself another shot of vodka. Schuldig swirled his drink a little before lifting it to his lips, threw his head back, and downed the entire thing. The glass hit the table top with a clunk that jarred Crawford's nerves.
"Because," began Schuldig, as he got up from his seat and stumbled over to the fridge in their small kitchen. He opened his mouth as if to say something further, but he forgot what he wanted to say. He focused hard on the contents of the fridge and used the door to balance.
"That's not an answer," Crawford argued. He heard the clinking of bottles as Schuldig rummaged through them. The red head emerged with a half-full bottle of brandy (that would probably be empty by the time Schuldig was done with it, Crawford mused) and he kicked the fridge closed, almost falling over in the process.
"Sure it's an answer." He staggered back to the kitchen table and almost knocked into the single bulb dangling from the ceiling.
Stupid low ceilings. Damn being 5'10".
"You asked a question and I gave a reply." He poured himself a glass of brandy and patted down his pockets in search of his cigarettes and his lighter. He pulled out a fag, put it in his mouth, and lit it before sitting down once more. He took a drag on it and put his feet up on the chair across from him; Crawford wrinkled his nose at the smell.
"Give me an actual answer." His tone made it an order, and if it was one thing Schuldig didn't like, it was being ordered around. Especially when he could barely see straight.
Schuldig held his cigarette between his index and middle fingers and grabbed for his glass. He exhaled the smoke, some of it blowing in Crawford's face, not like the red head cared. His favourite game was Annoy the Shit Out of Crawford, after all.
"I do it because I can hear myself think for once. For a few hours—" he gestured to his head with the hand holding the cigarette, "—there's nothing but my voice in my head. And it feels so good." He tossed another drink back and went to pour himself another when Crawford grabbed hold of Schuldig's wrist.
"You've had enough."
Schuldig scoffed. "I can have at least three more before I'm in danger of being shit-faced."
Crawford gave him a look. "You're already shit-faced."
Schuldig shrugged. "Okay. I can have at least three more before I'm in danger of being really shit-faced."
"Schuldig."
"All right, all right." He wasn't in the mood for Angry Crawford tonight. He smirked. "But I'll probably just end up in the local pub anyway when you're sleeping." He shook Crawford's hand off.
"Not if I have anything to say about it."
Schuldig laughed into his newly poured drink. "Crawford, Crawford, Crawford. Don't you know you can't tell me what to do? You're not my father, brother, or uncle. Even if you were, I'm twenty-two years old, not a sixteen year old who just discovered your badly placed liquor cabinet."
Another drink, another drag. Crawford was tired of this. He massaged the bridge of his nose and sighed.
"You're not going out," Crawford insisted. "I know for a fact you won't."
Schuldig smirked as he got up, leaving Crawford at the table. He almost jumped up when Schuldig reassured him with, "Don't worry, I won't kill myself going up the stairs."
Crawford shook his head, the bottle of alcohol and the glass abandoned as Schuldig walked unsteadily towards the stairs.
"Don't get cigarette ash all over the floor, Schuldig!"
There was no answer and Crawford didn't expect one.