Perfect Stranger (SevenxBathos)

[Bathos]

Michael’s face swiveled to follow the path of Csardas’ finger, but his eyes remained fixed upon his face. The screaming had stopped, plunging the room into an ominous quiet. Michael stared intently at the side of Csardas’ face while he tried to get his head around the situation. His head, unfortunately, was hazy and weak with liquor and drugs and was refusing to get fully invested.

After a long internal struggle, Michael looked at the photo.

“She’s a peach,” he said, getting gingerly to his feet. His vision swam and he braced his good arm against the desk. “I’m sure she’ll fetch many cows or--” he gestured with his other hand like he might find a fitting expression hanging just overhead “--whatever it is your people use to determine nuptial compatibility. Say, could you point me in Nick’s direction?”

 

[sevenpercentsolution]

Csardas was watching Mikey with the careful, clinical eye of one who has spent most of his life dealing with people of questionable sobriety, and it was very clear that he hadn't passed the test because he put one big, rough hand onto Mikey's good shoulder and urged him backwards,

"I think it's better if I point you in direction of a place to sit. Nicky, he is not here; he tells me to take care of you, I take care of you - he will be back soon, and you need rest, yes?" Csardas rumbled, though his tone made it clear that he wasn't truly asking a question, that the lilt in his voice was only a formality; he began to take slow, gentle steps towards Michael in the politest effort to force him back to where he had been, his enormous, broad frame acting as a wall between Mikey and the door.

"You sit, you relax, you wait for Nicky to get back, and everything is fine, okay?" Csardas added, "Here, I get you another drink yes?"

Again, it wasn't really a question; he was already pouring Michael a generous whiskey, but he was thankfully spared from being force-fed it when the door to the office opened again and Nick stood in the doorway, his features and body language arranged into calm, quiet concern,

"Hey Mikey," Nick said, exchanging brief eye contact with Csardas, a glance that flicked briefly from the photos on the desk, to the glass of whiskey, and back again; the look had lasted for all of two seconds, but Csardas was setting the glass aside as though he had just been lectured for even holding it.

"Come on buddy, let's get you home and into bed." Nick added, his eyes pinned to his best friend now - his best friend who looked like he had been hit by a freight train, not that he could exactly blame him for his current physical state; the man had been fed weed, MDMA, and copious amounts of alcohol while dealing with major blood loss - and Nick had no doubts that he was in agony as well.

He made a mental note to get his hands on antibiotics; the last thing they needed was for Mikey to get an infection, because Burke would have to pay for that too.