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.
His head bobs dutifully along. His feet don't stumble more than a little, the automaticity of dance training keeping him moving without much need for the assistance of his bleary mind.
The real swaying comes when they reach the right landing--when he's got to wait for the door to be opened, when he's being dragged along into the apartment. There's much less of a rhythm to that. It throws his balance.
And it means he'll be clinging tightly to her for a moment in an attempt to reorient once they're in. Purely for rebalancing. "...yes."
Because that yes, she decides, when coupled with the way he stops and clings to her, means he needs a moment. She draws him close, circling his waist with her arms and letting him lean into her. One hand starts rubbing soothing little circles on his back.
"There's no rush. Let me know when you're okay to move again."
He's never been certain why his manager has long called him an overgrown cat. Rachel might be able to explain it to him, from the way he nuzzles contentedly against her neck, half purring as his arms pull tighter around her. It's not at all unlike a lion flopping up onto its trainer's shoulders for a brief cuddle.
Thankfully, nipping at her neck is just with the nibbling flat teeth of a drunk human being, not the rough latching jaws of a savanna predator.
"For anyone else? Completely. See what you've done."
No, she knows what he meant, that he's the one being spoiled right now. She doesn't need to tell him she understands, and that she further doesn't mind doing it, not when he can clearly tell he's being indulged.
She lets out a pleased little hum at his teeth in her neck. She doesn't move, not wanting to upset his efforts to re-orient. She's been there, she knows how little it takes to set the room spinning and your head straight into misery.
"I'm not asking because I'm going to judge or disapprove of the answer." More circles low on his back, her hand warm over the fabric of his shirt. "I only want to know so I have a better idea about recovery time. How much did you have to drink?"
...noon. And she didn't leave work terribly early, it wasn't all that much before five. Dear, oh dear. Lots of water, then, when he's ready. A bath and sleep, definitely sleep.
But first they can stand here as long as he needs to. They'll get nowhere if she goes steering him around the apartment and he gets dizzy.
"You were really that bored while I was at work?" She shifts a little closer, careful not to jar him, coaxing his head down to her shoulder.
She lets him shift away, keeping her arms around him and looking up to watch. He doesn't seem dangerously wobbly so she takes a step back, gently pulling away.
"So is the problem no work at all, or no work that's fulfilling?"
"I can only imagine." Maybe it's a lot like rattling off two column inches about funding cuts to the fire department and no more rescued kittens from trees. But this is not about her, even if the idea of the exercise of passion and talent for something one can tell is clearly beneath one's capabilities is more or less the same.
"But I do know it's not what you want to be doing. It's not what feeds your soul."
She's had more or less the same thought, that working on something that means something to him would be a better use of his energy than his commissions.
"Yes. Let's get you in there, come on."
She gently steers him into the bathroom, having him perch on the edge of the tub. She settles beside him, leaning in to start the water running to heat up.
"Your agent can't help you find better things to do besides the pop stuff you don't like?"
Her hand moves to his knee without hesitating; it's instinct, reaching out to steady him. She hums, a sort of oh, I see without actually using those words.
"If I were a cynical kind of person I guess I'd point out there's money for him too, there. But I'm not. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to feed you himself."
She holds her other hand out, letting the water flow over it as it starts to get hotter. "So what if..." She pauses. Shrugs slightly. "What if you made a little less money, and spent more time on something that actually was meaningful to you? Like your own work?"
Shoes off, thanks in part to the steadying hand on his knee. Shirt next, although that comes with much more of a fuss.
"My own work?"
And for a moment, he's clearly confused about it. For a moment, there's enough alcohol addling his brain that he can't both get off his shirt and remember his opera.
That earns him a kiss, a soft, heartfelt press of her lips before she reaches to adjust the taps and plug the drain.
"You've got a girlfriend who's got a job of her own. Who doesn't need much. And who very much wants to see you happy." She straightens up, taking one of his hands, damp fingers curling around his.
"I'm not saying quit entirely. But. Maybe pass on or two of those godawful pop commissions here and there, and take the time to work on your opera instead."
His girlfriend does have her own job. She does seem to not need much more than a dance and a kiss, and she does have a weird predilection for seeing him smile. It's lovely.
His fingers curl around hers contentedly, body swaying just a little as he squeezes.
"Not in the least, Cynric." She takes his hand in both of her own, earnest, entirely serious about this. "You need to do this. I'll be here for whatever you need, so you can. Now, stand up for a second?"
She pulls gently as she rises, carefully getting him to his feet, because there's still the matter of his pants. "Unless you were going to wear these in the bath," she teases, her fingers moving to unfasten them.
{ooc; In case we didn't have enough threads, silliness is ensuing.}
He won't remember the whole night. Or the whole day. He'll just remember bits and pieces. He'll remember the cheering in the bar. He'll remember the happiness in her voice at it being their home.
And he'll remember this quiet moment of clinging to her hands in the bathroom, deciding he was going to sit down in the morning to start penning out his opera.
Standing up is an unsteady thing. The laugh that bubbles up to his lips is also, somehow, slurred as he bumps his forehead to hers. "'course not. Ridiculous, Lois. Next you'll be asking 'f I'm Superman."
He's just going to cling if she's got his pants under control.
[ooc: ...no help that's one of my favorite memes. I'll be there shortly for yours and to pile some people in. :|a]
His pants are totally under control, nothing to worry about. She can finish undressing him and hold him up at the same time. "Well, if you are," she laughs, pushing what's left of his clothing down past his hips, "your secret is safe with me. And can apparently be hidden by a pair of really ugly glasses, disguises are an easy thing, I guess."
She lets him rest against her for a few long moments, before she steps back slightly, reaching for his hands. "Here. Step out of those and then we can get you in the tub."
"It's difficult, all the double life and bad prescriptions."
Woe to Supes. Woe to all the poor superheroes with their masks or their glasses or their names which clearly implied who they were.
Kicking off the pants around his legs certainly requires leaning against her. Getting into the tub absolutely requires her assistance. But then she'll join him, yes? Yes.
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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.
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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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The real swaying comes when they reach the right landing--when he's got to wait for the door to be opened, when he's being dragged along into the apartment. There's much less of a rhythm to that. It throws his balance.
And it means he'll be clinging tightly to her for a moment in an attempt to reorient once they're in. Purely for rebalancing. "...yes."
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Because that yes, she decides, when coupled with the way he stops and clings to her, means he needs a moment. She draws him close, circling his waist with her arms and letting him lean into her. One hand starts rubbing soothing little circles on his back.
"There's no rush. Let me know when you're okay to move again."
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Thankfully, nipping at her neck is just with the nibbling flat teeth of a drunk human being, not the rough latching jaws of a savanna predator.
"Spoiled."
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No, she knows what he meant, that he's the one being spoiled right now. She doesn't need to tell him she understands, and that she further doesn't mind doing it, not when he can clearly tell he's being indulged.
She lets out a pleased little hum at his teeth in her neck. She doesn't move, not wanting to upset his efforts to re-orient. She's been there, she knows how little it takes to set the room spinning and your head straight into misery.
"I'm not asking because I'm going to judge or disapprove of the answer." More circles low on his back, her hand warm over the fabric of his shirt. "I only want to know so I have a better idea about recovery time. How much did you have to drink?"
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He's also fairly certain that the best way to answer her question is honestly and with complete candor. "Yes."
...no, wait. That's not right. That's not right at all.
"Noon?"
Better.
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But first they can stand here as long as he needs to. They'll get nowhere if she goes steering him around the apartment and he gets dizzy.
"You were really that bored while I was at work?" She shifts a little closer, careful not to jar him, coaxing his head down to her shoulder.
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"...I need work."
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She lets him shift away, keeping her arms around him and looking up to watch. He doesn't seem dangerously wobbly so she takes a step back, gently pulling away.
"So is the problem no work at all, or no work that's fulfilling?"
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She knows him far too well, clearly, to hit the right question straight off the bat. He finds he doesn't overly mind, somehow.
"D'you know how little it takes t' rattle off pop nonsense?"
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"But I do know it's not what you want to be doing. It's not what feeds your soul."
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Maybe he ought to be working on the opera with his free time. Maybe that would be better than drinking himself into a stupor.
Maybe. "Bath?"
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"Yes. Let's get you in there, come on."
She gently steers him into the bathroom, having him perch on the edge of the tub. She settles beside him, leaning in to start the water running to heat up.
"Your agent can't help you find better things to do besides the pop stuff you don't like?"
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"He's got... this completely ridiculous idea that I like making money."
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"If I were a cynical kind of person I guess I'd point out there's money for him too, there. But I'm not. Maybe he just doesn't want to have to feed you himself."
She holds her other hand out, letting the water flow over it as it starts to get hotter. "So what if..." She pauses. Shrugs slightly. "What if you made a little less money, and spent more time on something that actually was meaningful to you? Like your own work?"
Like his opera.
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"My own work?"
And for a moment, he's clearly confused about it. For a moment, there's enough alcohol addling his brain that he can't both get off his shirt and remember his opera.
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She takes his shirt, setting it out of the way. He has been drinking for hours, maybe it really hasn't occurred to him.
"Your opera, Cynric. What if you devoted some more of your time to that instead of all this other stuff that obviously doesn't make you happy?"
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He sways thoughtfully for a moment, finding his balance again while marshaling his mind.
"...I need money. 've got a girlfriend."
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"You've got a girlfriend who's got a job of her own. Who doesn't need much. And who very much wants to see you happy." She straightens up, taking one of his hands, damp fingers curling around his.
"I'm not saying quit entirely. But. Maybe pass on or two of those godawful pop commissions here and there, and take the time to work on your opera instead."
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His fingers curl around hers contentedly, body swaying just a little as he squeezes.
"...you wouldn't mind?"
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She pulls gently as she rises, carefully getting him to his feet, because there's still the matter of his pants. "Unless you were going to wear these in the bath," she teases, her fingers moving to unfasten them.
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He won't remember the whole night. Or the whole day. He'll just remember bits and pieces. He'll remember the cheering in the bar. He'll remember the happiness in her voice at it being their home.
And he'll remember this quiet moment of clinging to her hands in the bathroom, deciding he was going to sit down in the morning to start penning out his opera.
Standing up is an unsteady thing. The laugh that bubbles up to his lips is also, somehow, slurred as he bumps his forehead to hers. "'course not. Ridiculous, Lois. Next you'll be asking 'f I'm Superman."
He's just going to cling if she's got his pants under control.
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His pants are totally under control, nothing to worry about. She can finish undressing him and hold him up at the same time. "Well, if you are," she laughs, pushing what's left of his clothing down past his hips, "your secret is safe with me. And can apparently be hidden by a pair of really ugly glasses, disguises are an easy thing, I guess."
She lets him rest against her for a few long moments, before she steps back slightly, reaching for his hands. "Here. Step out of those and then we can get you in the tub."
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"It's difficult, all the double life and bad prescriptions."
Woe to Supes. Woe to all the poor superheroes with their masks or their glasses or their names which clearly implied who they were.
Kicking off the pants around his legs certainly requires leaning against her. Getting into the tub absolutely requires her assistance. But then she'll join him, yes? Yes.
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