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[anewlanguage]

[Cain is aware what day it is and, as you probably guessed, he's drunk. Plastered. In the garden, twirling a ripped-off stick deftly between his fingers. He only slips at the end when he's meant to catch it.

He sings, too, as he's wont to do.]

...but I've still got my health, so what do I care?
My best friend, alas, is a glass solitaire,
but I still got my health, so what do I care?

By fashion and foppery, I'm never discussed.
Attending the opry, my box would be a bust....


[ooc: feel free to catch him in the gardens, the halls, wherever. I'm not bothering with much continuity, it's a free for all.]

Comments

[routemistress]

[Some part of Iris is wondering, almost sourly, if Dean chose this week to go home on purpose. And then she second-guesses her first thought, because after that row they had, she's a much better candidate than Dean right now to get between Cain and any really egregious destruction the date might move him to.

Under that, she's silently cursing Terrans and their stupid greeting-card habits and calendars, and wondering if there's a single person on this sodding boat whose day has been improved by this day's mawkish, unnecessary, artificial significance.

Out loud, all she's doing is singing along and trying to smile.]

I never shall have that Park Avenue air,
but I'm in such health, why should I care?

[anewlanguage]

You're a fan?

[His voice is thick with whiskey, but that stick is lethally expert now that he's focused on playing with it. He'd suspected someone had come into the garden, but he's glad it was Iris. He's pretty sure getting shot again by one of his many admirers would have just pissed off the med crew at this point.]

[routemistress]

...'Ave you met me? 'Course I am, you pillock.

[She's not here by chance; but he probably knows that, or would if he were letting himself think. She's here because contrary to popular perception, Iris takes wardening seriously, and part of that is preempting triggers like this one.]

...I'm more in a Dusty mood, meself.

[She doesn't wait, just launches softly into the Dusty number she thinks of as her signature tune. One of her signature tunes.]

Though I'd rather go and journey
Where the diamond crescents, glowing
Run across the valleys
Beneath the sacred mountain

[deadly_ned]

[From his doorway the Piemaker watches, with crossed arms and a suitable tired expression]


Cain, go home. You're drunk.

[halftheman]

You're not the usual mulch.

[ Harv came here, looking for Ivy. He didn't expect to find a drunk assassin stupid enough to be in her gardens. ]

[anewlanguage]

'Course not. I salt and burn the earth. Tradition.

[He hardly looks at Harvey, except with a little sneer of disgust.]

Y'must be glad the Bat went home.

[anewlanguage]

Let's do somethin' upbeat.

[But he can't seem to think of something that fits the bill, and just stops twirling his toy and looks at her.]

You look tense.

[anewlanguage]

[He looks over and laughs. And takes another swig, just because he's not really drunk enough.]

Here, come take a sip.

[routemistress]

[She just gives him a Look back.]

Are you going to make me tell you I'm worried about you? 'Cause I were just goin' to go with pretending nothing was up. But I'm easy, sweetheart.

[anewlanguage]

Nah if it's about me, I'd just as soon go back to thinkin' about Bette. How'd she get around into your world anyway?

[deadly_ned]

I really, really shouldn't.


And you shouldn't either. It's, um. It's getting late, isn't it?

[burnmythoughts]

[The stick trick is sort of mesmerising, or at least that's the excuse Jean's using. She's staring from the bushes, only slightly obscured by the leaves.

She knows who he is. She knows he did something horrible to Cass. She'd promised never to hurt him, to protect him if she had the chance, but that didn't mean she liked it.

But her heart aches for him now all the same. She can hear the grief in his voice. If he's truly sorry, then - that means something, doesn't it?

She doesn't know, so she stares.]

[routemistress]

Get used to it, sunshine.

[She comes down off her bench to sit closer to him.]

...I don't exactly 'ave a world, you know. But I 'ave a spent a lot of time on Earth, one way and another. Nearly all me favourite music's from there.

[halftheman]

You don't know anything about me, saying that. [ He takes his coin out, thumb running over its scars ] Shouldn't you find someplace else to stink up?

[anewlanguage]

[Cain feigns taking that seriously.] Mmmm...nope. You wanna barge in, you can mosey on back out if my company offends you.

[anewlanguage]

[He sets the branch down, staggers a little, and sits beside her.]

Yeah? I didn't know we're that talented. Who's your favorite?

[anewlanguage]

[He's seen her briefly, here and there, but never said a word. He's not sure it's right for him to break the silence now either, but he's speaking before he can consciously decide.]

It's a damn shame the only people around here who play music play rock that comes with a mullet and mudflaps.

[anewlanguage]

Sure! But better to drink late than early, right?

[deadly_ned]

How about you come inside my room and drink in here?

[anewlanguage]

[...Well that does sound nice, actually. And it's a kinder gesture than Cain expected. He trades the branch for his bottle of liquor.

Besides, he's sure Ned could use some company today, too. Father's Day has to suck as much for him as for Cain.]

Where to?

[halftheman]

[ The coin flies; he catches it in a smooth motion, and then looks st his palm. ]

Huh. Finally broke the streak. Gotta admit, I'm glad it's you.

[ He pockets the coin, advancing on Cain with new purpose. ]

[deadly_ned]

[The Piemaker pushes back against the door he's leaning against to show Cain entrance to his room, which looks far more like a tiny cafe than a bedroom. A partition made of a clothesline and a bedsheet separates the "baking" side and the ridiculously large kitchen/dining set with the small cot on the other side. This is clearly a room for pie-making and little else.]

Have a seat.

[burnmythoughts]

[She feels like she shouldn't smile, but her lips quirk all the same.]

Maybe you should educate them. [Except she knows what his idea of education apparently is, and she can't stop the brief grimace.]

[routemistress]

[Iris leans close, because touch; he's clouded with the wrong kind of drunk and the thornbushes are bigger, blacker than on his good days, but he's himself. It's grounding and uplifting at the same time. She isn't trying to influence his mood, she never does, but her own should be more perceptible. If he cares to look.]

Modesty don't suit you, sweetheart. You're magnificent. Humans generally, I mean.

[This with a sly smirk for him.]

...Dusty, probably. Cilla. Emmylou. Kirsty. Janis. Too many to choose just the one.

[anewlanguage]

[He collapses in a seat by the dining table, and blearily watches Ned.]

Guess you hate today as much as I do.