[RL with Zechs | Backdated to 22nd]

[bare_my_fangs]

Michael was royally pissed. It had just been one thing after another for the past week - "Oh, by the way? We decided not to chip you." - and then to top it all off, this goddamn virus had to happen. He was in a bad mood already when some idiot thought they could pretend to be his brother, so this whole thing with Zechs was the last fucking straw that broke the camel's back.

The journey there had been made in silence - and he still couldn't believe he was stuck using that rat bastard for a worldhop - as he was fuming over the fact that he had to have a chaperone, because he wasn't trustworthy and-- Michael cut that thought off before he destroyed something else.

He was extremely grateful when Nena offered to wait outside Zechs' apartment, happy that, when it came to her, he really didn't need to explain himself.

Scowling to himself - Zechs had better be in his apartment - he picked the locks (fuck, Zechs was one paranoid bastard) and let himself inside.

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[thricedeadwind.livejournal.com]

The apartment was quiet, at least in the entrance hall. When Michael first walked in, maybe it would seem as if the place was empty all together. The place was enveloped in darkness; there weren't lights appearing under the doorways off the hall, nor was there a light on in the living room at the end. The only source of illumination was some scant early afternoon light from the picture window in the living room, peeking through the closed, large venetian blinds.

Then, there was a sudden crash from the bedroom.

Zechs was furious. Unfortunately for him, after being told repeatedly of his 'idiocy' and how 'suicidal' finding his husband was, he also was halfway to becoming completely drunk off his ass. In the far corner of the bedroom was a broken computer chair, and nearby were the remains of a glass. Now he had sent a lamp careening after it. He stood, shoulders heaving with breath as his mind raced. Tyki. Helpless. The Earl. Exorcists. Tyki. Helpless. Useless.

Useless.

The bottle of bourbon was in one hand. His suit jacket was slung on his bed, but he still wore the rest of the uniform, gun holster included. Zechs ran a hand through his hair, tearing away strands. On one level, he knew they were right about one thing - IF he did die, IF Tyki killed him, then Tyki would never forgive himself for it.

It was the only thing preventing him from leaving - but it didn't douse his anger. On the contrary. Knowing there was nothing he could do at all? Zechs took another pull from the bottle, and took a hold of a spare coffee mug, filled with Tyki's cigarettes. It made him wrinkle his nose and feel full of that irrational anger again.

Helpless.

He prepared to throw the mug.