Vodquila

The excessive amounts of alcohol that Edward had been drinking finally caught up with him. His judgement impaired, he blurted out the first question that came to mind.

"Why are you on the run?"

It was only afterwards that he realized how insensitive the question could be considered, but the question had been asked. There was no turning back now - at least, that was what his drunken self tentatively decided.

James stared over at Edward with glassy eyes. On the run. Yeah. He couldn't recall when he ever said he was on the run, or if it was just made obvious somehow. He blinked.

"Treashon," he said. "F***ing uh, wanted for treason 'gainst th' Moonlight Kingdom. F***ed sh** up. Pissed off the king."

Damascus pressed his lips together and his eyebrows furrowed at James' blunt and simple account of being a runaway. He waved an arm, as if trying to pat James, who was a few seats away, and patted Boris' head clumsily instead. "Oh. Hi Borish."

With a few blinks, he refocused on James, intent on getting what he wanted to say out.

"Jamesh! Jamesh... I- I understahnd yew. We're run-away buddehss. Brothehs. Buddehhs."

I didn't really know how to comment upon James' situation, beyond an impressed "Huh."

I'd done plenty to piss off individuals, and sociopolitical factions, if one was to be generous, but a monarch?
Now that was ambition.

"Oh, hello, Damshcush." I muttered fondly.

Engel blinked. "Wowsh. Goodsh job, Jamesh," he said, patting him on the shoulder. It wasn't at all sarcastic.

"Runaw -" James tripped over the word as Engel's congratulations hit his ear. His shoulders tensed and expression hardened as he looked down at the floor, which was moving slowly like a wave. It'd been moving for a while, but now it seemed like it would swallow him if he didn't stay still. He gripped the sides of his chair.

"No. No good job," he retorted weakly, feeling almost like a child. "No."

"Ja, good job. You may have not shuc...shuc...shuccheedeshd in yoursh intishal goalsh butsh you schtood up! Zat is goodsh. Honorable."

"No," James said again, but louder. He felt like he was sinking into his seat. He gripped the arms tighter. "F*** instent if I can't do sh**."

"Nein," he said, shaking his head. "Nein, nein, nein. Zat'sh vhere you're very v...v...vrong. Very vrong. Intent...zat...zat'sh everyzingsh. You can't help vhat you can and can't do. You can only do ze besht...besht you can. Sho, if you try, and you fail, and you still did your besht with pureshts intent...intent shins, zen you can't blame yourshelf becaushe you did all you've cansh."

James set his feet on the wobbly floor and dared to lean in towards Engel, looking him in the eyes with a growing intensity. With a trembling finger, unsure of how steady everything was, he pointed at Engel. He couldn't blame himself?

"Oh y-yeahs? F***ing watch me."

"Jamesh, you're a bloody idiot. I love you, but you are. You've gotsh to learnsh to forgivesh yourshelf. You zink I don't get it? My own shon shot me today becaushe I fought againsht ze Führer and wash doomed to loshe. And you know what? It shucksh. Of courshe it does. But you can at leasht make an effort to take sholash...s...s...ach, take comfort in ze fact you did vhat you zought wash right at ze time," Kratzer said.

Damascus' face darkened slightly, and he stared James down blurrily as best as he could.

"Yeash! Whaa Engehl saied. Jamesh, yeh need tah stahp. Blammin yehself getsh nowheh. I noh thish- I blamed myshelf fuh... fuh... I can' think of thah numbah. It didn' help."

I opened my eyes, and lowered the glass of water onto the nearest surface, more heavily than was necessary.
Not out of any irritation, just sheer weariness.

"Jamesh, I can't shtop you from blamin' yershelf... hell, maybe yer right to. I don't know. Bit I want ye to rememer, y' can't shtop ush from thinkin' yer a lovely son of a b*tch. So le'shall agree to dishagree, here.

I like you, y' got a problem with it, fight me." I told him, blankly.

Oh. Was that confrontational? Damn. Oh, well.
He'd forget, eventually.

Edward and Schadel listened to the answer and conversation that followed, each trying to figure out what to say and when they should say it. Schadel had a higher tolerance when it came to alcohol than Edward did; her form automatically got rid of what it (rightfully) perceived to be a toxin, and she had to really focus if she wanted to get so drunk that her words slurred and judgement became impaired.

Edward, on the other hand, decided to just keep blurting stuff out.

(Schadel wasn't going to lie to herself - it was definitely a bit embarrassing being around him while he was drunk and she was sober.)

"At least you're not dead," Edward wisely said, taking another swig of his drink. "If you were dead, Jaaames, then you couldn't do anything about it. Not ghost dead, either - dead dead. Ghost dead you can still do things, just not as easily."

Schadel looked over at her assistant. That was a surprisingly inspirational comment-

Annnd then Edward ruined the moment by burping rather loudly.

Schadel sighed, then looked over in Engel's direction. She wasn't sure if now was the best time to change the topic, but his comment was just as important as the one that James had made. "You got shot by your son?" she asked, incredulous.

James slouched lower in his seat as the slur of admonishments were hurled at him. Were he not so weighed down by a burden of shame, he might've grinned bitterly, but instead his mouth curved down into a grimace.

They were all saying things he had heard before. Things he had told himself to keep himself going, to give him hope when he had none. But as much as he knew in his mind that those things were true, or at least, he desperately wanted them to be - his heart didn't believe it. But he couldn't argue with things he knew were wholly reasonable and even right. Things he might've said, if he were in their shoes, though with more tact. And sober.

He'd almost forgotten why he started drinking in the first place, but as the memory reared its head he was drawn back by Schadel. She changed the subject. She turned it back on Kratzer. The drunk, slurring terribly, well-intentioned Kratzer.

The weight lifted off his heart ever so slightly as relief flooded in, and he sunk just a little lower in his chair, still gripping the arms tightly.

He was thankful he didn't have to respond.