[It's a very long second. Or maybe it isn't. Lee's worry over being inside what appears to be a very filthy attic is somewhat diffused by her head swirling. And the phone buzzing.
[That sounds reasonable. And fun. Lee is all about waving arms and/or jumping around, it's like exercise and exercise is fun and dear gOD IS HE TRYING TO KILL HER?!
She gets the first line of being a teapot out before she stops because throwing up, while noticeable and slightly loud, isn't how she'd like to get his attention.
No more typing yet. Just holding her stomach with one hand and cuddling the beer with the other.]
[Not trying to kill. Just trying to notice. Because look, there's a familiar arm flailing across the room for him to go rescue from herself.
Poor King of First Time Drunkenness, apparently. His tiny precious lady-flower, whom he will someday train into a drinking machine. Maybe. Attempts would have to be made.]
[If she were drunk, this would certainly be her first time. But she's not drunk, that's silly. The room's just acquired spinning walls and her head has a bright heat to it and her arms are all fuzzy, that doesn't mean anything. But where's Cynric, he said he'd come get hER WOW HE TELEPORTED.]
You're here! [It might be slurred, but there's no mistaking her excitement, no missing that grin. Even if it's pointing at the floor periodically as she forgets her head needs to be held up.
And then she leans in, close. Closer. Too close -- she's possibly knocked their skulls together. Possibly just dented her own forehead on a pointy elbow of his.] Look! [Look where? A few seconds later he remembers to point, pride on her face. She's cuddling two beers up against her chest in one hand.] They're safe!
[Oh snowflake monk angel. Oh sweet honey baby flower. Oh Cynric has so much to teach you about how to appear sober.
But a head-bonk is a small sacrifice to make for getting an arm firm around her. Apparently he is the sober monitor between them. (Ridiculous.) And apparently she brings out intensely protective instincts in him which require him to keep her upright. (R i d i c u l o u s.)]
Well done, dearheart. [So well done. He would just be taking those bottles now, please and thank you.] You'll be awarded a medal.
[The nicknames started strange and got stranger. He should probably try out a few of them aloud, see the reaction that gets. Probably either a fist or laughter fit to bring both of them tumbling to the floor.
The fact of them entanglement is slowly dawning on her. Lee is gradually aware of the fact that they're, clearly, cuddling. So if she then tries to burrow her head in the nearest pocket of space, he surely understands. Why else would they be so close and arm-wrapping?
Protective instincts are the epitome of ridiculous. But if Cynric's hoping she'll forget by morning, well - time will tell.]
I did well. [Sing-song voice as she turns into him for a clumsy hug, pointing her feet in entirely the wrong direction for getting her walking alongside him. But he's praising her freely and did he really expect a different reaction?] Don't care about medals jus' uh. If I did good.
[Actually, 'sweet baby honey flower' is probably a surprisingly fair analysis of her mental state, somehow.]
[His nicknameification is always spot on of something or other--either for being entirely correct, or for being exactly what will get him slapped in the face. Right now? He's going for entirely correct.
Although still largely only in his own mind.
Having her curl into him is a fine, fair thing. It does mean standing still, apparently, but that's not so bad. Gives him more time to entirely extract the bottles and set them down on the nearest stair without throwing off their rickety balance.]
You did very good, Lee. Absolutely. And you're going to do a good job warning me when you want t' hurl, aye?
I don't ever want to hurl! [You idiot, Cynric! She's shaking with laughter at the very notion. Surely he means if she doesn't want to hurl but feels the urge incoming and--
DID SHE DROP THE BEER? IT'S NOT IN HER HANDS oh good look it's on the stairs. More giggling in relief and confusion and confused relief and oh, wow, being not-drunk-in-the-least is shaping up to be potentially exhausting.] You're ridiculous.
[He's got her. He's got her in the immediate physical sense. He's got her in the finding a safe place to fall asleep and guarding her like a vicious watchdog against anyone who dares interrupt her resting.
He's got her and he's got both the beers because he's a goddamn half-drunk magician.] C'mon. One foot in front of the other.
[That sort of protection is something Lee would deny needing. Aggressively. And yet it's also something that she'd enjoy, were it shared, even if she perhaps needs several more weeks/months/years to fully realize it. Protecting and being protected are lovely things to give and receive. It's just hard to learn, sometimes, that there's no shame in the receiving.
But now's not the time for philosophy, although it might accidentally be one of deeply personal moments, because Lee can barely stand on her own and she's clinging to Cynric's jacket to stay up. Thank goodness he saw ahead enough to hook an arm around her.] 'Course I trust you.
[And she'll follow along the half-drunk magician for a few beats, because the trust - sober or drunken - is strong. A few pulses of the warbling heat in her face.]
Cynric-- Cynric? Cyyyyynnnnriiiiiic, can you-- can you, uh--
Can. Can you-- Cynric are you paying attention.
[If she was quiet long enough for him to answer, she'd probably have better results right now. The vibration of her voice feels different now, you'll have to excuse her. (Or not. You probably shouldn't.)]
[Trust is a lovely thing. Trusts feels good around a heart. This will be admitted to her approximately never, of course, but it will be relished just a bit while she's drunk and he's buzzed.
Dragging her around the edge of the party is a slow process. There are a lot of people to nudge out of the way; a lot of missteps to correct quickly so they don't go tumbling down.
Her sudden insistent questioning gets him blinking and swaying, briefly leaning them both against the wall for support.]
--Oh. Good. [Stalling. She's stalling because for a moment she got caught up in the rhythm of her own scrambling for attention and completely missed the point of her own fumbling.
Right. He's stopped to listen. She smiles widely at his chest (because it's level with her head at the moment - at all the moments, how are tall people a thing).
This is the moment where, sober, she'd back off in embarrassment, assuming she'd dragged out his attention for this at all. Good thing she's nowhere close to sobriety.] When we find-- when we find somewhere to sleep, you've gotta tell me a story. [That next noise she makes is probably a giggle.] You're good at stories.
[Such a great friend. Surely she'll be touched to hear of his sacrifice, just moved beyond measure that he's thought of her so selflessly. Why, she may go out of her way to keep him far from the dangerous substance he's pledged himself to, just to help make sure he's safe despite that promise.
Perhaps she'd abstain entirely and ensure he did the same, in a likewise gesture of self-sacrifice. For his health.
Walking again is a sudden thing, but a good thing. Lee likes walking. Lee likes walking on her hands, actually - maybe she'll try that next.] A good one.
[Most helpful, Lee. That'll narrow it down.]
Oh! There's that woman who was sleeping with Alastair! [Apparently they're done already. Or Alastair passed out. In either chain of events, Lee probably shouldn't be pointing so obviously. Thank god she's across a roomful of loitering people. --No, no stop waving, Lee. The chances of recognition in the opposite direction are slim.]
[No hand-walking. Attempts at hand-walking will get her pulled up onto his shoulders and carried along through the remnants of the party. He'd rather not resort to that.
He does have to resort to grabbing her hand and dragging her quickly into the next door they come across, though. Really, Lee, how did you even survive without him before. Really.
Thankfully, the door is into a study which has--by virtue of being full of books, likely--been largely unscathed. A solo cup is kicked out of the way to keep her safe from tripping as he moves to deposit her on the ancient leather sofa.]
Come on. Story time. Down.
(I WAS WORRIED ABOUT REQUESTING A REPLY AND NOW I REGRET NOTHING. EXCEPT I REGRET EVERYTHING.)
[She survived under the natural assumption that anything she said or did ran about a forty-sixty chance of leaving someone offended. For a person who tries to abide well by her own morals, she does a surprisingly great job of stepping on toes and bumbling about as if guided by nothing at all. Thank goodness, really, that she seems to attract just the sort of blend of ruffian-scholars who can help teach her the ropes. The ropes of not screaming out people's sexual histories when you glance them from across a room.
The ropes of how to tell good stories, also. She didn't forget. Especially not with him pushing her. She flops, with a bit of a spin even, down onto the couch. The couch that crinkles and squeaks out protest and sends curious fingers pressing on its edges.]
I'm down! You're upside down. [Well, from her perspective anyway.
Does booze always take a few years off your current age, is that how it works?]
Also important is settling down on the floor beside her, hand light and friendly on her hair. Just keep with the breathing and the not throwing up everywhere, lovely lady flower friend.]
[She's doing well on not throwing up. They're both lucky that, a stern stomach not withstanding, she's very hard to unbalance. Even drunk, even tumbling up the wrong stairs, there's enough confidence in her balance that she's not nauseous. Not while no longer hopping around, at least. As long as there's no more little teapots, they're both probably safe from her stomach contents.
Not safe from her grinning though, or her leaning up until his hand.] Fuzzy.
[Wait, he asked something right? Something about...] Yes. [That should answer well. She's in a good mood, surely a 'yes' is in order.
So is rolling onto her side, then deciding her back is better. The ceiling's not bad to look at, though it could stand to be still longer. She tries to hide her yawn with a hand.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(She has taken up camp behind me and soothes herself by occasionally biting my arm.)
How would you know if you have a baby, sweetness. You're texting like you don't know up from down.
Keep the beer-baby the safest of safe.
(your skin must contain xanax or something...surely a medical miracle for dogs.)
cyrnci
cynric would you believe me if i siad i think i took the rong stairs
i dont see you but th beere is safe
(this seems to be the science. :|a)
Hang on a second. He can't stand up and type at the same time.]
You're a good soldier. Go back down the stairs.no subject
--Oh!]
okay okay i'm back down the strairs now
now what cnric
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Now wave one arm and sing 'I'm A Little Teapot' so I can come rescue you.no subject
She gets the first line of being a teapot out before she stops because throwing up, while noticeable and slightly loud, isn't how she'd like to get his attention.
No more typing yet. Just holding her stomach with one hand and cuddling the beer with the other.]
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Poor King of First Time Drunkenness, apparently. His tiny precious lady-flower, whom he will someday train into a drinking machine. Maybe. Attempts would have to be made.]
--easy, princess.
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You're here! [It might be slurred, but there's no mistaking her excitement, no missing that grin. Even if it's pointing at the floor periodically as she forgets her head needs to be held up.
And then she leans in, close. Closer. Too close -- she's possibly knocked their skulls together. Possibly just dented her own forehead on a pointy elbow of his.] Look! [Look where? A few seconds later he remembers to point, pride on her face. She's cuddling two beers up against her chest in one hand.] They're safe!
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But a head-bonk is a small sacrifice to make for getting an arm firm around her. Apparently he is the sober monitor between them. (Ridiculous.) And apparently she brings out intensely protective instincts in him which require him to keep her upright. (R i d i c u l o u s.)]
Well done, dearheart. [So well done. He would just be taking those bottles now, please and thank you.] You'll be awarded a medal.
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The fact of them entanglement is slowly dawning on her. Lee is gradually aware of the fact that they're, clearly, cuddling. So if she then tries to burrow her head in the nearest pocket of space, he surely understands. Why else would they be so close and arm-wrapping?
Protective instincts are the epitome of ridiculous. But if Cynric's hoping she'll forget by morning, well - time will tell.]
I did well. [Sing-song voice as she turns into him for a clumsy hug, pointing her feet in entirely the wrong direction for getting her walking alongside him. But he's praising her freely and did he really expect a different reaction?] Don't care about medals jus' uh. If I did good.
[Actually, 'sweet baby honey flower' is probably a surprisingly fair analysis of her mental state, somehow.]
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Although still largely only in his own mind.
Having her curl into him is a fine, fair thing. It does mean standing still, apparently, but that's not so bad. Gives him more time to entirely extract the bottles and set them down on the nearest stair without throwing off their rickety balance.]
You did very good, Lee. Absolutely. And you're going to do a good job warning me when you want t' hurl, aye?
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DID SHE DROP THE BEER? IT'S NOT IN HER HANDS oh good look it's on the stairs. More giggling in relief and confusion and confused relief and oh, wow, being not-drunk-in-the-least is shaping up to be potentially exhausting.] You're ridiculous.
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Oh firm kiss on the forehead.]
C'mon. Let's find you a bed. You're going t' wear yourself out.
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But bedtime? Sir. Master Cynric the unflinchingly nonsensical, please.]
But what about the roof? 'M not tired... [So convincing when she yawns at the mere suggestion of being tired.]
...are there beds here? Whose house is this again? [Parties, how do they work.]
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[He's got her. He's got her in the immediate physical sense. He's got her in the finding a safe place to fall asleep and guarding her like a vicious watchdog against anyone who dares interrupt her resting.
He's got her and he's got both the beers because he's a goddamn half-drunk magician.] C'mon. One foot in front of the other.
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But now's not the time for philosophy, although it might accidentally be one of deeply personal moments, because Lee can barely stand on her own and she's clinging to Cynric's jacket to stay up. Thank goodness he saw ahead enough to hook an arm around her.] 'Course I trust you.
[And she'll follow along the half-drunk magician for a few beats, because the trust - sober or drunken - is strong. A few pulses of the warbling heat in her face.]
Cynric-- Cynric? Cyyyyynnnnriiiiiic, can you-- can you, uh--
Can. Can you-- Cynric are you paying attention.
[If she was quiet long enough for him to answer, she'd probably have better results right now. The vibration of her voice feels different now, you'll have to excuse her. (Or not. You probably shouldn't.)]
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Dragging her around the edge of the party is a slow process. There are a lot of people to nudge out of the way; a lot of missteps to correct quickly so they don't go tumbling down.
Her sudden insistent questioning gets him blinking and swaying, briefly leaning them both against the wall for support.]
--yes. Yes, I'm paying attention.
I'm embarrassed for her omg /o\
Right. He's stopped to listen. She smiles widely at his chest (because it's level with her head at the moment - at all the moments, how are tall people a thing).
This is the moment where, sober, she'd back off in embarrassment, assuming she'd dragged out his attention for this at all. Good thing she's nowhere close to sobriety.] When we find-- when we find somewhere to sleep, you've gotta tell me a story. [That next noise she makes is probably a giggle.] You're good at stories.
HE'S KEEPING HER. FIVEEVER. IN EVERY UNIVERSE.
He voted for himself. He would selflessly consume all alcohol in the world on her behalf. What a friend. He'd break the good news when she was sober.
Which she c l e a r l y is not at the moment. Not even a little.] ...right. [Walking again. Keep up, Lee.] Any particular story, dearheart?
5EVR FRIENDS. (a-also http://bakerstreet.dreamwidth.org/1497646.html?thread=850805550#cmt850805550)
Perhaps she'd abstain entirely and ensure he did the same, in a likewise gesture of self-sacrifice. For his health.
Walking again is a sudden thing, but a good thing. Lee likes walking. Lee likes walking on her hands, actually - maybe she'll try that next.] A good one.
[Most helpful, Lee. That'll narrow it down.]
Oh! There's that woman who was sleeping with Alastair! [Apparently they're done already. Or Alastair passed out. In either chain of events, Lee probably shouldn't be pointing so obviously. Thank god she's across a roomful of loitering people. --No, no stop waving, Lee. The chances of recognition in the opposite direction are slim.]
(DO YOU LIVE ONLY TO BREAK MY HEART)
He does have to resort to grabbing her hand and dragging her quickly into the next door they come across, though. Really, Lee, how did you even survive without him before. Really.
Thankfully, the door is into a study which has--by virtue of being full of books, likely--been largely unscathed. A solo cup is kicked out of the way to keep her safe from tripping as he moves to deposit her on the ancient leather sofa.]
Come on. Story time. Down.
(I WAS WORRIED ABOUT REQUESTING A REPLY AND NOW I REGRET NOTHING. EXCEPT I REGRET EVERYTHING.)
The ropes of how to tell good stories, also. She didn't forget. Especially not with him pushing her. She flops, with a bit of a spin even, down onto the couch. The couch that crinkles and squeaks out protest and sends curious fingers pressing on its edges.]
I'm down! You're upside down. [Well, from her perspective anyway.
Does booze always take a few years off your current age, is that how it works?]
(NO REGRETS, NO SURRENDER)
Also important is settling down on the floor beside her, hand light and friendly on her hair. Just keep with the breathing and the not throwing up everywhere, lovely lady flower friend.]
Better?
never regret <3
Not safe from her grinning though, or her leaning up until his hand.] Fuzzy.
[Wait, he asked something right? Something about...] Yes. [That should answer well. She's in a good mood, surely a 'yes' is in order.
So is rolling onto her side, then deciding her back is better. The ceiling's not bad to look at, though it could stand to be still longer. She tries to hide her yawn with a hand.]
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Still need a story?
[Or is now a fading sleepily time?]
You're around so early! \o/ and I'm around so late. The world is topsy turvy.
WOW SO LATE I ALWAYS ASSUME YOU'RE ASLEEP WHEN I GET UP ; ;
usually 9-10 is bedtime, yeah! Late last night bc 'D&D' (we didn't. We were just ludicrous together)
Is D&D -not- just people being ridiculous together?
It is. It certainly is. (--I hope you don't mind Cynrics baby monk having her sudden feels okayokay)
Best. \o/ (I want to squish her face foreverrr.)
I've legit had about 5 real sessions with these guys we're the worst. Which is synonymous with best.
The wooOOOoooOOOOorst.
I need more icons for her where she looks content as opposed to angry...
We all have characters like that.
It's an expected bane.
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Wow okay so just stab me in tHE HEART
I do enjoy it. :3 ...I mean um. \o/?
He's so. Goddamn cute sometimes. >:'[