Douglas Cornfoot (reliably) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-01-21 00:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | douglas cornfoot, michael dawlish |
rp log: douglas cornfoot & michael dawlish!
Who: Douglas Cornfoot & Michael Dawlish
When: BACKDATED to 16 January 1980, late evening
Where: Atlantis. WOO.
What: Michael orders a bottle of tequila. What do you THINK happened? (But seriously, it's mostly just them drinking and joking around.)
Rating: PG-13 for drinking and language?
"You know what I like most about this?" Douglas asked suddenly, his words slurring slightly as he peered across the table at his brother-in-law. "After the fact that it's underwater and the whisky's still good even though it's not Scottish and that strange drink with seaweed and whatever else was in it." He paused for effect, though not long enough for Michael to give him much of a response. "No dirty nappies. Couple years after having a child old enough to use the loo on her own and you forget all about the other shit that you didn't like about having a baby." Though he loved his family dearly, everyone needed a break once and a while, and when there was a one-month-old in the house... well, Douglas had forgotten how it felt to be truly sleep-deprived and at the end of his rope. He might not return home with a full night's sleep under his belt, but at least he was having some fun that didn't involve playing dress-up with a four year old. That, honestly, was worth more than any material gift anyone could give him. "I promised not to talk about my kids, didn't I? I think I did. Don't tell Doc and Benj that." "Tell them what? That you promised or you broke that promise? Or that you meant to promise? Or about the nappies, full stop?" Michael dropped his hitherto arched eyebrow and looked away as he took another pull from his bottle of beer. "Either way, yeah, think I can keep that one under my hat." Then he went back to slouching. He knew he was slouching, but between the drinking he'd been doing that evening and the fact that this was supposed to be a bloody vacation (of sorts), the man had decided he would damn well slouch if he damned well chose, proper posture be thrice damned. Michael leaned against the velvety cushioned padding the of booth at his back, squinted for several moments at a school of fish swimming their way past a nearby window, then reached for his beer again. "Anyway, talk about them all you want. It'll keep you honest and me sober," which was possibly at odds with his taking another drink. Douglas wrinkled his nose as he thought it over. "All of the above." A thought occurred to him suddenly and he sat up straighter, a sharp contrast to Michael and his slouching. He looked around them, eyes sweeping the crowd nearby just in case the two aforementioned men were lurking. When they weren't, he relaxed again, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he leaned back against the booth. "No, no," he insisted, shaking his head fervently as he reached for his glass to take a drink. No, the whole point was to to give them all a break from normalcy. "We're here to talk about other things. Why would I drag you all the way here only to talk about the same things I always do? And why would we want to keep you sober? Might be cheaper, but not nearly as interesting." Maybe, just maybe, Douglas had a point. Escapism was what they were after, and there was no place better for it than somewhere so eye-searingly glitzy and far removed from the dull, greyness of their lives back home. Or rather, his life back home, since Michael supposed his brother-in-law had a few more points of light in his own. "Alright then," he began after his most recent swallow. Within a moment his brow had flattened, and beneath it Michael's solemn gaze was pinned precisely on the other man. "Cheerier topics it is. How much money did you lose tonight? Could. I. ... have purchased a boat with it?" "Good God." Both of Douglas's eyebrows shot up, his eyes wide. Sarah would likely have an aneurysm if she knew just what he was spending, even though they weren't hurting for money at all. "How much does a boat go for these days? Ten galleons would do it, right?" Which was definitely a low estimate of his losses -- low enough that he hoped Michael would know he wasn't serious. He continued after another sip of his drink. "And what sort of boat are we talking about? A yacht? A cruise liner? A row boat? A canoe? One of those sail boats with three masts?" "With three ma-- ... you're making things up -- focus," an order issued as Michael leaned forward, arms crossing against the table (and hitting the top of it a bit too heavily). He was drunk enough to finally believe he was drunk, and was therefore attempting to act as sober as possible -- as if that was fooling anybody. He gave his heavily stubbled mouth and jaw a rough rub, as if mulling over what he was about to say, then sighed. "Douglas. If you've gambled away Lizzie's unicorn fund..." "I'm not making anything up!" Douglas insisted, rather loudly, garnering the attention of the next table over. "You know, one of those... it's like a big bloody pirate ship. Something like that. Big sails. I'm -- look, I'll ask." Because all of a sudden, it was important (to the inebriated Douglas, at least) that he be believed. So he caught the attention of the nearest waitress, and after ordering another round of drinks, confirmed that such sail boats really did exist. "See?" he said as he sat back with a proud smirk. The smirk remained on his face for a beat longer, and then his brow furrowed. "Did you say something about unicorns?" "She would've said three-sailed dogs existed. You're drunk, you're dressed like a poof -- she knows she's getting a good tip." And as the voice of authority on that matter, Michael sealed his words with one final pull from his bottle before setting it -- empty (and loudly) -- on the table between them. The question about unicorns was, alas, left tragically unanswered. "How long's it been since we did this?" Michael's brow furrowed, his eyes once more inspecting Douglas (or at least looking for all the world like they were -- things were rather blurry and insubstantial). "And before you start, not this, not bloody Atlantis, just... we've not had a proper drink in awhile." Douglas rolled his eyes, a wide grin plastered on his face. "You're just jealous that I look better than you do." The last part -- about the tip -- was true, in his opinion. As was the first part, for that matter. He really ought to stop for a while, Douglas thought as he picked up a wisely placed glass of water instead, but that sounded incredibly dull. "I'm not sure," Douglas replied, cocking his head to the side as he thought Michael's question over. The last time he remembered having a proper drink with Michael, or with any of his close mates, was... after his son was born, but they probably only consumed half then as much as they had so far in Atlantis. Drinking because they'd lost John didn't really count in his mind. "Too long, I think. Far too long. Should make a habit of doing it more often. Sometimes we can even stay in and have a proper drink or twelve." Slapping the water out of Douglas' grip would probably create too much of a mess (even if it was his immediate impulse upon seeing him lift it). Rather Michael fixed his brother-in-law with a flat, unimpressed look, clearly communicating -- he felt -- his complete and utter disappointment in him. "Why wait? We're here now -- love!" Shouted at the now semi-distant waitress, and paired with a lift of his hand. Who knew when the next time they'd have a drink or twelve would be? Merlin, who knew if England would still bloody be there when they got back? If there was any cause for drinking themselves into oblivion, it was that. "Bottle of tequila. Two glasses." "A bottle? Are you trying to kill us both?" Douglas asked with a laugh, faintly wondering where their other friends were because there was no way in hell the bottle would be finished between himself and Michael alone. He thought about canceling the other drinks he ordered, but... they might need something to chase down the tequila. "I hope this bottle is on you, old man," he told Michael when the waitress returned with bottle, two glasses and slices of lime all on a tray. "And I really hope we don't regret this come morning." But they probably would. Douglas didn't really mind. The waitress poured two glasses before walking away, and Douglas quickly snatched his up. "So, cheers to...?" He semi-recalled the ritual of tequila shots from some long ago trip -- the lick of salt, the sting of the drink, the bite of the lime -- but decided against following through with the whole shebang this go-round. It seemed like something one did when there were girls around, and there were clearly none of those in the area (well, aside from the waitress, and half the reason behind ordering an entire bottle at once was so that she'd clear out for awhile). With a loud clearing of his throat now, Michael lifted his own glass. He paused. There were a dozen things to toast to, but none of them were anything he wanted to think about at that second. Instead he set about merely clinking the rim of his drink against Douglas' and muttering, "Toasts are for weddings and wakes," before knocking back his first shot. And immediately, of course, reaching for a slice of lime afterward. "If you say so," Douglas pointed out before downing his own shot. "Because," he continued after he'd recovered from the shock of his first tequila shot in a long, long while, "I'm fairly certain that whatever I come up with would be some sort of combination of touching and uncomfortable, and I'd rather not finish this bottle on a depressing note." What he really wanted to do was thank Michael (and Benjy and Doc) for their friendship and for going along with his ideas of a grand adventure, for putting up with him and for being there over the past few months. Instead, he poured out two more shots. "Here's to tequila, at least. Can we toast to that?" "No -- Morgan Le Fuck, do you listen to anything I bloody say? Just drink, you twat." Words only slightly hampered by the fact that Michael was still gnawing on a slice of lime as he spoke them. The rind was tossed away carelessly and exchanged for his glass in short order. He lifted it, gingerly knocked its rim against Douglas' once more ... and paused to gain his bearings before drinking again. "Okay... alright, we can toast to..." A deep breath. "You... actually leaving the house for once. Congratulations on having your balls back." And then he took the next shot. Though most of him wanted to protest, the part that wanted to laugh won out, so before Douglas was able to take his second shot, he had to stop laughing. "That sounds like something I'd tell you," he pointed out between chuckles, and once he'd finally started breathing normally again, he knocked back his second, wincing only a little. "I'm the one who goes in to the Ministry every bloody day." Whereas Michael... well, he stayed in with his dog. Douglas didn't want to push his point any further, however, lest he wind up annoying Michael by teasing him. He couldn't really blame his brother-in-law for not getting out more. 1979 had been utter shit for the man. Douglas did worry, however. He worried a lot more than he let on. He poured himself a third shot, telling himself that he'd have to stop for a bit after that if he wanted to not wind up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning. "I'm going to counter that last one with this toast, to me, for always having my balls, and whose children are the prime example of that. Ask Sarah if you don't believe me." Douglas beamed at Michael. He might not have wanted to point out just how often Michael stayed in, but he had no trouble reminding the man (yet again) of Sarah's sex life. "So here's to that." And down went number three. How -- how -- was Douglas outpacing him with drinking? Michael had been ready to take a break, had been about to voice something to that effect (something that allowed him to keep his masculinity intact of course), but as soon as the other man downed the next shot he too picked up his glass. "Before I drink this..." He began, eyebrow furrowing. "I just want to make it clear -- I am not toasting to your balls. And if you talk like that about my sister again I'm tossing you out the window and drowning you. I'm drowning you, Douglas." Right then, he'd given himself enough of a buffer with that little speech. Michael tipped the shot back swiftly, grimacing (and perhaps giving a strained curse or two) before setting the glass back down. Loudly. The next few moments were given over to containing that sickly burn in his throat, but after a brief cough and a short shake of his head, he seemed good as new. ... or, well. As close as he came to it these days. "Anyway. Good on you. They're perfect children. Spares me from having my own." Douglas half-coughed, half-laughed, at Michael's statement. That was precisely the reaction he expected, and he couldn't blame Michael for the sentiment at all. Merlin knew he'd react the same if someone was talking about Iona that way. "Fair enough. I'd deserve it." He leaned back, eyes narrowing at his brother-in-law across the table. A faint smile crossed his features at the mention of his children, but it faded quickly as he remembered his promise not to gush like he always did. "You say that now, but you just haven't met the right woman," Douglas pointed out with a sharp nod of his head, trying to assume some semblance of authority on the matter. He was going on eight years of marriage, after all. "But," he continued, "we're not here to find her. Now go talk to that woman over there," Douglas nodded his head towards the bar, "because she's been staring at you for the last half-hour, Merlin knows why." Michael drew another deep breath to keep himself steady (his system still wasn't used to such swift kicks of liquor), and turned his head a little to follow Douglas's nod. The woman was distant, and the light was dark, making it difficult to discern her features aside from the feathered wings of blonde hair framing her face. He supposed in the end it didn't matter if she were drop dead gorgeous or not. He wasn't interested. And to display this, he reached for the bottle again. "Because she hasn't seen me standing up," he said flatly. Ah. That again. Douglas obviously had no idea what it was like to be in Michael's position -- nor did he want to know -- but sometimes he wondered if Michael would ever come to terms with it. Then he'd remember that it had barely been half a year, and certainly Michael deserved more time than that. However, he couldn't allow the man to let that get in the way of everything. "She might not care," Douglas pointed out, eye brows lifted. Of course, she might find, but there was also a chance that she'd find it alluring. "And you don't have to stand up. She could easily come here." The glass was filled, but not lifted. Michael set the bottle back down and nudged it away from himself, grateful for the brief distraction pouring the drink had provided. Now, of course, he was back at being at a loss. So he rubbed his bleary eyes once again, then dropped his hand heavily as he leaned back against the booth's cushion. The woman at the bar was spared another glance, though even considering Douglas's suggestion caused Michael to feel a sting of embarrassment. And while sober this would have been enough to send him straight into a cutting comment or some other dull turn at pessimism, tonight it actually made him break out into a laugh. A helpless, mildly incredulous laugh, but a laugh all the same. "Fuck off," he grinned as he finally looked back at Douglas. Even though Michael wasn't getting up and going to talk to the woman as requested, and even though he hadn't given his consent to invite the woman to join them, Douglas considered it a win. That he'd gotten his brother-in-law to laugh, whatever the reason, was definitely a win. "With pleasure," Douglas replied, a broad grin on his own face. He made no move to actually leave, however. "But you know that if I leave, she'd have an easy opening to come ask you if she could join you. As long as I stay, you're relatively safe. So I'd better stay. For your own good. Who knows what sort of trouble you'd get up to if I weren't here to stop you." His laughter died out slowly, leaving Michael with a a residual grin that continued even as he leaned forward to fill up Douglas' glass again as well. With any luck the other fellows would turn up and save them from going into bloody comas by partaking in their share of the bottle, but in the meantime... "Alright, then this time I'm toasting." Another clearing of his throat, and he lifted his drink. His arm only swayed slightly. "To Douglas. The best sister... sorry, I mean the best --- actually no, that was right, the best sister I've got, after Sarah." Douglas lifted his glass and waited, expecting another biting comment from Michael. When it came, all Douglas could do was laugh and spill a bit of the tequila over his hand as his resolve crumbled and he lost the ability to keep his hand steady. If he hadn't been on his third -- or fourth? No, it was definitely the fourth. If he hadn't been on his fourth shot of tequila in the span of a few minutes, he might have attempted to come up with a retort. Something about how he wasn't a girl and to ask Sarah about that. Instead, all he said was, "and you're the best sister I've got, after Iona," after he managed to finish the rest of the shot. His eyesight blurred for a moment, and Douglas blinked furiously a few times to bring it back to normal. Or relatively normal, at least. "You know what we should do. We should find Doc and Benjy so we can share this," he waved a hand at the bottle, "like proper mates. C'mon." Douglas pushed himself away from the booth and started to stand up when he felt the world start to spin. "On second thought, let's just wait here. Waiting's good too." |