hamelinic | tfln meme

She laughs, surprised but clearly not at all disapproving.

"Yes. But that's maybe best saved for a night when I'm not holding you up? I'm otherwise not opposed to the idea."

The 'boo' comes off more like a low, tired moan than anything else. Which, unfortunately, just proves her point.

"Next time?"

She lets out a sympathetic hum; how sorry she is, really, to have to dash his hopes like this. What a curse it is sometimes to be so practical.

"Next time," she promises, leaning into him a little to press a kiss to the side of his neck. She stays close, and murmurs: "...can I take you home and offer you something at least as fun for being so understanding? I think that's only fair."

Plan B. (Not that she wouldn't deliver on that suggestion.)

"'s it involve a bath?"

Because being warm would be nice. Being warm and with her and not having to stand up. All the things would be just lovely.

"Yes," she declares, as if that had been the plan all along. Look, it's not at a all a bad one, as these sorts of plans go. "Yes it does. I'll even wash your hair," and that last bit is punctuated by her fingers kneading at his scalp.

"We'll go straight to the bathtub if that's what you want. "

"Perfect."

Perfect enough to sit up for, even. He's got to use her arm for balance, briefly, as he fumbles for the glass of water. A bit more sobriety would be entirely helpful for trying to get home.

She remains near when he sits up, half expecting he'll need support of some kind. When it proves to be a grasp on her arm, she allows it, shifting that arm just a little to get her hand on his elbow to better steady him.

"No rush. " It would be better to get him a little more sober first, get some water into him. "Whenever you're ready."

Further demonstrations of perfection. She's just absolutely made of perfect. He'll tell her in a minute, when he's done gulping carefully at the water.

Or maybe he'll just hum at her. That might be more where he's at.

She can't quite divine the exact meaning of his hum. But the sound is generally happy and/or approving; she'll take it. It's not a protest or a noise of distress. Forward momentum, surely.

Her thumb rubs a little circle near his elbow. She's patient, she'll wait until he's had enough water and enough time since his last drink to be able to walk well enough.

"I am..." and another swallow of water "...going t' preemptively apologize for falling asleep on you."

Possibly while still in the tub.

That was clearly not the anticipated end to that sentence, not the way she lets out a slightly startled (but amused all the same) laugh.

"Do try to make it up the stairs? I'm not sure I could carry you up if you fall asleep at the bottom. Beyond that I can't complain. You put up with me not being able to undo my own coat. And singing terrible songs from movies, or we could even go back to mistaken texts about unsavory subjects. I can hardly protest you falling asleep on me."

What about him making a scene in a quiet little bar? Because he's got his own bark of a laugh to let out, but then he's got to gesture to the whole damn world to share.

"I'm dating a saint."

And everyone needs to know.

"Oh, good grief." That's as much aimed at him as it is the table off in one corner, whose occupants break into a smattering of applause.

"Careful. They'll make weird relics out of my fingers when I die, if you keep telling people that."

Now, see, that table. That table knows what's up. He's got enough coordination to bow in their direction before needing to cling to her again.

"Morbid," he tsks, doing his best to be properly steady on his feet. "'s go home, then."

She hums her agreement as she gets his arm settled around her shoulders, leaning into him a bit to help hold him up. "Totally morbid. My people are good at that." Catholics and their odd rituals.

"But yes, let's get you home. Come on. " As always, those two words are less a direction and more a prompt that they're about to start moving. She steers him slowly toward the door, patient, letting him show her how much holding up he'll need.

"I like home."

He likes the fact that they both say 'home' about the same place, no matter how often he slinks back to the apartment he's still paying rent on to visit his instruments. That's what's actually got him grinning as he smacks a pleased kiss against her cheek.

"I like you."

"Well. That works out nicely, seeing as I like you, too."

And she likes hearing him say home, likes understanding that they are talking about the same place. And the same idea, the two of them there together.

There's a bit of maneuvering to get them both out the door and into the sidewalk. It's not far, just a couple of blocks, and they'll be home.

"I like having you home with me."

At least he's a dancer. It makes him somewhat lighter on his feet than many entirely sluggish drunks.

It also means that getting out the door is absolutely going to turn into a bit of a spin, but that's hardly the worst fate in the world.

"Let's keep it up, then."

He's certainly lighter on his feet than any drunks he's helped up to their front door. She vaguely remember needing to be held up rather firmly as he guided her up the stairs once.

She holds on a little tighter all the same as he spins them, just in case. But he seems all right. She tugs gently, resettling him against her side.

"You've got yourself a deal."

Good. Absolutely good. Absolutely good that they're making this deal--absolutely good that he's getting settled back in against her again where he can press another sloppy kiss against her cheek.

"Holding you to it. Not forgetting."

In the steel trap, in spite of the drunkneness.

"Good, because I'm not forgetting, either."

He may be drunk and they may be out in the middle of the sidewalk just past the neighborhood bar, on their way home, but this is important. Just because it may have started as a tease, in jest, doesn't make it untrue.

"It's your home too." Her arm tightens around him. "Our home. I want you there."

"Our home."

It tastes right on his lips. Yes, he's sloshed into a state of being unable to get himself there properly, but that's only got him in a place where it's easier to admit what's true.

That it's not her apartment. Not really. It's theirs, and that's a good thing.

"Exactly."

For all that it's a lovely feeling to have, it's even better to hear him say it. To know that he understands. For it to sound and feel so right falling from his lips, to both of them.

Though for all that it feels right, there's part of her starting to feel it's less about her apartment, a specific physical place, and more about him simply being there with her. It's enough to make her wonder sometimes if home could wind up being where he is.

For now, though, it's their apartment, and they're approaching the building's front door. She pulls his arm tighter around her shoulders, her other hand fishing around in her coat pocket for her keys. "Can you manage the stairs or do you need a minute?"

Physical places have never particularly stuck for him. People used to, although it had been less and less so, recently. The exceptions were notable.

Rachel had become the most notable exception ages ago, at this point. He had absolutely no regrets about it.

Even less so while intoxicated--although, to be fair, part of that was his regret of other things. Like the swimming in his head. "...give me a beat."

Counting off up the stairs would help him hit each step. Don't question, Rachel.

"...Okay."

The stairs come in sets of eight, and she dutifully counts them off as they ascend. One flight to get to the first floor, then a pair each, with a short landing after the first set of eight, to get to each successive floor. Eleven measures, perhaps, with a breath between, or eleven lines of a song.

"...six, seven, eight," and their door is the one nearest the stairs, a couple of strides and then the jingle of her keys, the metallic snap of the lock turning over. A shove of the door with him in tow, and they're both inside.

"Straight to that bath? Or do you need a minute?"

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