InsaneJournal

log!
WHO: Mitchell Wright (Green Arrow) & Anne Gardner (Black Canary).
WHAT: Anne comes over to make sure Mitch doesn't pass out in a drunken stupor. Emotional failboatness ensues.
WHERE: Mitch's apartment.
WHEN: The night of December 26! After this post.
STATUS/RATING: Complete / PG-13? I am terrible at rating things. :|

Mitch: He had told Anne that he’d had seven drinks, but really, he had lost count. Seven? Eight? Seventyeleven? There’d been two shots of the tequila, and God knows how many shots of the half depleted bottle of Absolut that was sitting on the coffee table in front of him. Mitch was currently sprawled out on the leather couch, torn between doing another shot and getting something that wasn't alcoholic. Anne would be arriving soon; her scolding was the last thing he wanted to hear at the moment. He'd have to venture into the kitchen to get a bottle of water.

If he could make to his fridge, that is. He was hit with a wave of dizziness as soon as he sat up, to the point that he wanted to do nothing else but crash face first back into the couch. It took half a minute of blinking and squeezing his eyes shut for the spell to pass, and his first step towards the kitchen was not particularly graceful. He was drunk. He didn't even know why he was drunk. He hated drinking alone. It was boring. Depressing. Distressing enough that he thought it would be a good idea to get on the network and publicly antagonize Anne. Boy, that sure was a great idea. He stumbled into the kitchen, and -- after fumbling with the refrigerator door for way too long -- got a bottle of Dasani. Great success. As he shuffled back into the living room, he caught his reflection in a mirror. Christ, he looked terrible. A very small part of him -- Ollie, no doubt -- thought he should make attempt to clean himself up for Anne. Maybe he did have time to brush his hair.

... Well, that was before someone strolled into his living room. Had he left his door open? He'd only meant to unlock it. Mitch looked up from his reflection like a kid who'd just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Miss Anne Canary, here to save the day." His words weren't necessarily slurred, but he did sound as if he was speaking in slow motion. He really ought to be sitting down. Whoops.

Anne: The things you did for reincarnated husbands. Anne had not come unprepared: with a sack of gatorade, easily digestable carbs, and other assorted items acquired through hospital contacts, she had hopped a cab, swearing under her breath the entire ride to Mitchell's. Who did he think he was, drinking himself near to death? Was this some sort of idiotic liberal fuck-the-world statement? She had seen more than enough of those in her work at the center, and didn't relish having to deal with a grown man exhibiting the same tactics as homeless 14-year-olds with abuse problems and drug issues.

Then again, this was the most ridiculous man part of her knew in the body of the most ridiculous man the other part of her knew. There wasn't much room for sanity, here.

But then the front door was open -- not unlocked, but open -- and Anne nearly dropped the bag. It took an effort not to get Asher on the phone (his "errands" be damned) and turn whatever sharp thing she had on her into a makeshift shiv. She slipped the bag down and twisted the handle around her palm, swinging it gently to gain momentum as she creeped into the apartment. Everything looked in tact and untouched, but that didn't mean someone wasn't skulking around. Who wasn't her, anyway. Then again, Mitchell didn't look like an easy target. He was probably --

Just fine. She dropped the bag unceremoniously at his greeting, and almost swore. "For God's sake, Mitchell. You could close your door, like a civilized person."

Mitch: Mitch raised an eyebrow. "How the hell are the two of those even related? Christ, why don’t you ever make any sense?" This was such a typical Anne move, he thought. Come over with promises of helping him through his inebriated state, but use it as an opportunity to lecture, nag, or condescend. But his irritation was quickly over -- thank you, alcohol -- and he made his way back over to the couch, all the while pointing Anne in the direction of the loveseat that sat opposite of the coffee table.

He hadn't missed the hilarity of the situation. His effort to avoid the weirdness that would be a Mitch and Anne drinking session had resulted in the two of them being together anyway. Of course, only one of them was drunk. He'd already done a few things he'd kick himself over in the morning -- hitting on Anne on a public forum, for one thing -- but at least the night wouldn't end in something both of them would end up regretting (or so he imagined). That was somewhat comforting.

He practically collapsed on the couch, with an all too familiar smirk on his face. One that was a little more like Ollie Queen than Mitchell Wright. Maybe it was because he was drunk, maybe it was because he was around Anne. It was hard balancing the two out when he wasn't drunk; Ollie seemed to hold much more sway over his actions when he had a little liquor in him. "So, what's in the bag, Pretty Bird?" he asked. Oh yeah, he was going there. "Please tell me it's a bottle of cheap liquor and some fishnets for you to wear."

Anne: Oh, Lord. This was going to be interesting. Anne set the bag down next to Mitch on the couch where he could look in, but stayed away from the loveseat. "I'm afraid not. Gatorade and bagels, among other things. You will eat them without complaint, darling." Why yes, Anne was a 50-year-old at heart. Never mind that she had seen more than enough of Mitch embarrassing himself (and more importantly, herself) on the journals this evening; even had he not been a complete and utter jackass about everything in general, she would have seen to it that he got some proper fluids in him and didn't wake up feeling entirely like death. Halfway like death -- that she and Dinah could stomach.

It occurred to her, vaguely, that Mitch may have had it harder: Dinah was always coming and going and hard to pin down, Anne knew. Ollie was -- well, he was a man. He was determined (if not faithful), and hardheaded. Dinah compromised with her new host, allowed her to do her own thing without Oliver around, for the most part. But Oliver -- Mitch -- were not the compromising sort.

Then again, Anne wasn't entirely sure she cared. Ollie, while a shit, wasn't an asshole; and she, while harboring the Canary in her head, was not Dinah.

She unceremoniously latched onto Mitch's chin to take a look at his face. Perhaps a little rougher than necessary, but what can you do. "You look all right, for being utterly wasted." She dropped his chin and stalked back over to the door, shut and locked it, then stalked right back to the couch. And there, she loomed. Yes, loomed -- how a woman of her height and size could loom wasn't too terribly difficult to believe, when the loom-ee was inebriated and Anne was in a rapidly towering fury. "Honestly, you're as bad as some of the fifteen-year-olds I deal with."

Mitch: Although he'd only been active in the community for a little less than ten months, he wasn't new at this. He'd had the good fortune of being graced with Oliver Queen's obnoxiously large mouth back in 2004. It wouldn't have been so bad if Ollie wasn't interested in every single thing Mitch would prefer not to think about: poverty, vigilantism (the urge to go pick up a bow and fashion himself some trick arrows was always there), and Dinah Lance. The Emerald Archer never stopped thinking about these things either, so when Anne touched him, Ollie was all but lighting up a flashing neon sign in Mitch's head with Black Canary's face on it. Hello, number one reason Mitch went out of his way to avoid offline interaction with Anne, how are you today?

The more practical part of him told him that he should just tell Anne that he was alright and that she could leave. Maybe Ollie would shut the fuck up if she was gone.

Of course, he couldn't actually bring himself to do it.

Instead, he peered into the bag o' goodies and, after rummaging around for a bit, pulled out the best thing he could find: bagels. "Thanks, mom!" he said sarcastically, ripping open the bag of bagels and stuffing one in his mouth. Was he really about to talk with food in his mouth? All signs pointed to yes. "But you could've brought some better gatorade. Everyone knows that the blue kind is the best." Of course, with his mouth full, everything he said sounded like a bunch of unintelligible noises, with only a few words ("better" and "blue") making it through the chewing. After devouring the bagel in what had to be record time, he leaned back on the couch, practically crushing everything the contents of the bag in the process. "What can I say? I wasn't hugged enough as a child."

Anne: She pursed her lips. "The sociopathic twelve-year-old we keep bouncing between juvenile detention and the shelter wasn't hugged enough as a child, Mitchell," she said archly, hands on her hips. Mother-stances, she can has. Each posture became a little more stern with every movement, Mitchell's cavalier attitude fueling her outrage (rational or no). "You're just deficient."

No specification whether it was mentally or something else, but Anne wasn't really in the mood for specifics just now. Certainly, she'd dealt with drunks before -- there was nothing like an intoxicated thirteen-year-old vomiting into your lap to make sobering up friends old hat -- but handling the semi-lucid ramblings of the reincarnation of her philandering husband wasn't something they prepared you for on the road of life. Especially when he wasn't helping at all. Her hands fell and her shoulders drooped (why, she could not quite say; she was frustrated, with this whole situation, not dejected), but she spoke with the same cool irritation she'd affected since walking in the door. One hand came down and pushed Mitch out of the way with an effort -- he was bigger than her, and drunks weren't easily moved -- tugging the crumpled bag out from beneath him.

"In my experience," she said, struggling with the bag, "everyone likes red" -- tug -- "It isn't my fault if your palate is" -- tug -- "uncultured--" Pop! The bag came out abruptly, and only the never-mentioned vigilante training kept her from toppling back over the table. Instead, she merely fell onto it with a thud, the bag clutched protectively over her stomach, as if waiting for a blow. One of her eyes vaguely twitched. "Thank you for helping."

Mitch: Watching Anne fall on her ass is something Mitch would have enjoyed while sober; inebriated Mitch thought it was the most hilarious thing he'd ever seen. He hadn't made an effort to move when Anne was trying to rescue the poor bag, but now he was doubled over with laughter. The sort of laughter that inevitably led to tears, because it was just that damn funny. He was still chuckling when he spoke, and making poor attempts to wipe the tears from his eyes. "I thought you were supposed to be Miss Independent. The type of girl that doesn't need any help."

He swung his legs around so that he was finally sitting up, but he was still leaning sideways, so now he just looked stupid. "Or maybe," he was starting to laugh again, "you should've taken a leaf from Batman's book." He put on his best -- read: worse -- Christian Bale batvoice. "I tend to expect the unexpected. Why can't you do the same?" And with that, he was laughing again. After all, if there was anything more hilarious than Anne falling down, it was the guttural sounds Bale made as Batman. The two happening within a span of a minute? Well, Mitch was on the verge of tears again.

"Besides, I'm just deficient." Not only had his voice dropped back to it's regular tone, but there was even a tinge of hurt in there. Mitch was a lot of things, but he certainly wasn't deficient.

Anne: Oh, bringing up Batman, was he? Anne actually, physically bristled, the hairs on her arm and the back of her neck standing straight up. "Clearly, if you're still wondering if sex with masks is superior." She set the bag down on the table carefully, pointedly, arranging it and its contents while very obviously not looking at Mitch. Not in shame; but passive aggressive point-making was Anne's forte. "Strange, we never tried that. You weren't afraid you'd be outclassed, were you, darling?"

All right, that one was below the belt, and she knew it. Somewhere between pulling at the bag and falling on her ass, "checking on Mitch" had turned into "one-upping Mitch in how much we can twist the emotional knife." Whoops.

Mitch: Well, that certainly wiped the smile off Mitch's face. If there was one thing Mitch hated about being Ollie (or dealing with him), it was the irrational jealousy. The epic romance with Black Canary wouldn't be so awful if the mere idea of Anne sleeping with whoever didn't make him have a little rage fit. Jealousy was just not Mitch's thing -- he preferred to pretend to be apathetic about whatever/whoever his lady friends were doing, but this was not the case with Ollie. Everytime she casually dropped "oh, and Asher is coming over!" into one of their arguments, Mitch knew she had the upperhand. By that point, all he wanted to do was go punch a wall.

So when Anne decided to bring up her little tryst with Batman (in the rain, on the docks, with masks on, because it was better that way), he replied with the most scathing thing he could think of. "Dunno. Bet I could've tried it with Marianne, though."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. If there was one thing Ollie regretted (okay, there were a lot of things he regretted), it was getting involved with Marianne, love of fairy tales. After all, it had been the straw that officially ended their relationship.

Anne: Anne was up on her feet in half a moment, and before she quite knew what she was doing, had brought her hand smashing down into the side of Mitch's face. She was angry enough not to have balled her fingers into a fist, leaving just an open-palm welt across his cheek -- but it was enough. The smack of skin on skin cracked much louder than seemed physically possible. Anne stopped digging the knife.

He deserved it, of course, bringing up Marianne like that. He knew, he knew, that was no man's land. Just like she knew better than to compare Bruce and Ollie. She opened her mouth to tell him as much -- the first part, at least -- and clamped it shut again. Opened it once more to say something else, she wasn't sure what, but it would certainly be scathing and appropriate; shut it again.

"I'll get some ice," she said instead, and stepped over his feet and her purse to make a beeline for the kitchen.

Mitch: Mitch was frozen for a moment. The wave of guilt that washed over him was far worse than his stinging face, and, before he knew it, was practically running towards the kitchen, at a pace that didn't seem possible for someone who was completely shitfaced. Then again, there was nothing more sobering than a slap to the face. He managed to catch her as she opened the freezer, quickly pushing it shut before she could open it.

All efforts to stay as far away from Anne as possible were out the window. He was way too close, almost leaning on her, really, but there were no thoughts of sexual advances now. He just wanted to prove that he was being sincere. Apologizing was not something Mitch did very often, so he went with what felt familiar -- Ollie's way. And Ollie was a physical person. "Anne, I just--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--it was out of line." He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her a little so that she was facing in his direction. He didn't even know what to say at this point. "I know I'm an idiot. He's an idiot, too. You were trying to do something nice and I fucked up." It was the story of Oliver's life; it wasn't surprising that Mitch would suffer from the same "foot in mouth" syndrome.

He laughed dryly, stepping back a little, but still holding onto her. "It's like I got all of the bad and none of the good."

Anne: Oh, dear. That was not what she had expected to happen. In Anne's (admittedly limited) experience, a woman slapping/hitting/etc. a man, he either hit her back, or didn't respond. The smart ones didn't respond: any man worth his salt knew an angry woman was the single most threatening thing on this earth, closely followed by zombies, and then terrorists. She had figured -- believed -- he'd sit quietly on the couch, she'd bring some ice, maybe get in some extra scolding, and he'd go to bed. That was how these things worked.

She hadn't banked on his -- well. This was strictly Ollie territory. This was how Oliver handled things, and the part of her that was Dinah was gearing up for a response. Tell him off. Shove him away, make some pointed remark, fight some more, fall into bed. Or go stay at her own place, if she really wanted to make a point.

It was a mistake to come over. Dear Lord.

She gave him an awkward, watery smile. Dinah wanted to do something else. Anne compromised. She patted his chest uncomfortably, like trying to touch some feral animal, and coughed. Coughed. This was reaching comically awkward proportions. "You didn't just get all of the bad," she said finally, and her tongue seemed to uncleave itself from the roof of her mouth. She hadn't realized it'd been stuck at all, until she tried to talk. "That isn't how these things work, dear." Another watery smile, and she carefully maneuvered her arms out of his hands. "Go sit, before you fall over."

Mitch: He wasn't even sure what to do any more. So he hovered, awkwardly jamming his hands in his pocket (to resist the ever growing urge to touch her), and returned her smile. This certainly wasn't how the typical Ollie and Dinah argument went. He'd do something stupid, she'd call him out on it, he'd say something else stupid, she'd call him an egotistical jackass, and then there was copious amounts of make up sex. For the moment, Mitch liked this outcome a little better. He may have lapsed into Ollie for a second, but he wasn't interested in playing out a scene from a comic.

"Thanks," he replied, leaning forward again. "For taking care of me." He wanted to say something else, but he wasn't ready for any more heartfelt moments. Besides, sitting down seemed like a great idea right now. Might as well take it. With that, he headed back to the couch, trying hard to ignore the rollercoaster of thoughts going on in his head.

Anne: And that was that. Anne filled a glass with water and threw some ice cubes in a baggie, wrapped it in a dish towel amidst shock Mitch even had dish towels, and made the discomfort equivalent of the walk of shame back to the couch. "Well," she said, once she'd set herself back on the table, handed the glass over and demonstrated how to ice his cheek (not that, knowing the company he kept, he wouldn't already know), "if you're anything like Oliver, which you so clearly are, you're completely incapable of handling it yourself." Backhanded compliments, you can has. Dinah made some sort of noise in the back of her head, and Anne pushed her down; she was getting eerily good at that. Instead, she merely offered up a lopsided smile to soften the blow. Dinah accepted the concession. It was, at the very least, better than nothing.