Log:Glitter Strip (Anti)Hero on NYE
| Glitter Strip (Anti)Hero on NYE | |
|---|---|
Did he make it to the toilet? | |
| Participants | 2 January, 2018 It's New Year's Eve at the Plank! Lolly has had an exasperating night, but a slightly buzzed Czcibor comes and does a glittery strip tease just for her! Okay, he does it because he's a sweetheart and she said it would be harder to think he was a fairy monster if she'd seen him strip to his skivvies and sparkle. Except there's a minor problem. He's Polish. After tears and self-recriminations, he admits to using Spring magic once to mind control Lolly! Lolly, rather than kick him out into the bitter cold, demands instead that he drink it. Bitters, that is. An entire bottle of Angostura at 44.7% alcohol by volume, and he's not allowed to rinse the taste away, or magically cure his hangover tomorrow morning. Also, Lolly really needs to learn Polish. Stat. |
| Location
The Plank - Lolly's Private Place | |
| And there's a knock on the office door.
Granted, the glitter doesn't look like it was deliberate... it doesn't exactly match the colours of her sequins. She also has her hair down, and its latest tendency toward bunching up in lovely pseudo-petal curly-tips is all the more obvious with her entire head to see it happening on. "Hey, um. Happy New Year." Lolly steps back to let him in, then closes the door behind him. "I told Margot I was going to be with a guest for a while, so she'll handle the girls. You, um. We could go back to my apartment, um, if you wanted to. I kind of want to hide. There was this jerk out there earlier scaring everyone about taxes, and telling the less popular girls that if they didn't dance better, I'd fire them for a tax break, and I keep having weepy boobs shoved in my face for reassurance."
He looks like he's not sure how he should feel about this, so has some more of the terrible grog. "Either way I'll enable your hiding as much as I possibly can without getting arrested," the ageless Polish man says cheerfully. "And that's a cute dress."
She gets the door open and pads inside. No shoes. Just, no. Can't even. Those are left peeking out from under her desk. The single spacious room is poorly lit, but that seems more due to a lack of light sources with decent bulbs in them than anything deliberate. "It's still kind of a mess," she admits, shamefaced. "I...haven't quite been able to figure out what to do with the mermaids. I, uhm. I know what HE did with them. Most of the Plank's ready cash has been going back into the building, to fix the stuff Uncle Jack had just been letting slide. I don't care if I spend my life running a stupid sleazy strip club, but I'm gosh darned going to run one up to code." And be glum, and mope. Recollecting her duties as a hostess, Lolly asks, "Do you, um, need anything? Real food or water to wash that down without gagging?"
He does toe out of his boots at the door, so he doesn't track the club into Lolly's room.
Her free hand lifts to indicate the bed as she explains, "It's all nailed in, built in place. Nothing bolted. Can't actually -move- the bed at all. I, uhm, installed some storage shelves under there so I'd have room for stuff and not have to go crawling in dust bunnies." She frowns, then lifts a shoulder in a shrug and nudges a rickety chair out from the equally rickety dining table. "It's stronger than it looks. Um. I mean, I guess if I can find someone who doesn't mind doing a bit of carpentry, I wouldn't mind replacing them... and the coat rack. Gosh, the coat rack."
He lets out a slow breath, brow furrowed with fading icepick pain, then shifts his weight to the foot that's actually still his own. "Uh. Anyway. That, yes. I'd definitely recommend me doing that once you've got a legit carpenter lined up, though. And you'll want to stay someplace else in the meantime. I can either fund that or we can pledge for cash and I can figure out the tax shit for money out of nowhere-- but if I can get hold of my brother, he's the actual CPA. And American tax laws are draconian." There's a pause, and he's frowning again, checking his jacket pockets. "I forgot to ask again, by the way, how are you on fruit? And do you want a scarthistle? If you temp-tattoo yourself with it and shove a little magic in it, it helps you be better at people for a month. I need to get someone artistic to put one on me, I'm like... I can draw stick figures. And very fat cats."
On the one hand, the fact that Czcibor can even GET brainfreeze is reassuring. On the other, the fact that he is talking about a magical promise to get money, _while worrying about taxes on it_, and criticising the American tax laws, is... Yeah. Staring. "I...um. I'm sorry, Mr. Ko--Captain," she corrects herself, "Captain Kowal, I think you lost me at magical money and taxes. I'm all out of fruits, and I have never heard of a .. uh, temporary tattoo which actually helps with social skills instead of just looking cheap and silly." She shifts, uncomfortable, and takes a small sip of her own water. "I was, um. I was wondering if turning green was normal, though. Green-er. I...um. I dunno much about other plant people, I guess, but I didn't really change colours before and maybe it's just a fairy thing but it was weird and I just haven't really been hungry and oh gosh I'm sorry, I'm babbling, I'm just kind of nervous about all this." She wrings her hands. Like. Actual handwringing. Who DOES that?
He's smiling, and it's affectionate and warm and self-deprecatingly apologetically amused. "You are the only person who's in charge of you, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I believe in you. You have a bigger cope bucket for real life than most of the people I know. You can handle this weird shit." Unless Lolly grabs him, or unless she's already pulled away, it's at this point that Czci takes a half step back again and pulls things out of his jacket pockets. "Now-- I've only got preserved fruit on me right now, but it's yours if you want it. Blushberry, some of those seed pod things you were trying to get before, and like I said, an extra scarthistle. I've never tried it before, though, so I can hang on to it until I can tell you how it worked out for me. Unless you want to draw on me," he offers cheerfully. And then he takes out the dried blushberries and ertwen, and moves to put them on Lolly's desk. "As far as turning green and not being hungry-- uh, well, Liam-- my ex? Was a snapdragon, and he didn't turn green, but I'm thinking photosynthesis is probably a better idea than cyborg hands. Maybe get some sun lamps?" A beat, and he adds, "And you can call me Czcibor if you want. Or Czcyk. A lot of people say Czci but it sounds... um..."
Lolly closes her eyes, presses her lips together to regain her composure, then opens her eyes and tries to smile. "I don't know," she pretends to muse, "at least if I am calling you daddy, you'll never have to worry about me hitting on you. Also, stripping for me would be -really- weird." There's a slight pause before she shifts her weight, cheeks an odd green-pink which nonetheless is as lovely as a Flowering is always supposed to be, and offers him a shy smile. "Czcyk is least weird, I think."
She's flopped in the chair and teasing him, and he actually looks worried and edging on uncomfortably dismayed until it's clear she's teasing him, and then his hand claps to his chest and he exaggeratedly sighs with relief. "Yes please don't call me daddy, even if I'm probably technically old enough to be. It'd be really weird even if you never hit on me and I never stripped for you," he says, grimacing. And then he moves to lean against the edge of something leanable, loosely crossing his arms and relaxes into looking pleased. "Good. Czcyk is what my friends call me. Unless they call me Captain, which, granted, sometimes they do." Then he looks down and frowns contemplatively. "Are you sure you want me to glitterstrip? One more vodka will do it, and there is always saying 'no god no nevermind put your clothes back on you look much better with them on', but I still think it's a terrible idea and you'll make faces."
Sobering a smidge, she adds a shy, "You could call me Lily, if you want. Nobody does. I mean," she hastens to assure, "it IS my name. My real one. Lolly's just 'cause I liked lollipops when I was little, and it sort of stuck. I...kind of miss the real one. Even if the evil fairy sort of made me match it."
Now he's grinning. "The smaller and cuter one makes a name, you see, the longer it gets. But I could call you Lily if that's what you miss." But then he pushes off his leany edge, lifting a finger and looking terribly amused, and he finds someplace to sit and starts rolling up his left trouser leg. "I said it'd only take another vodka. And it amuses me to say, when people ask-- when they see how much I drink-- if I've got a hollow leg to keep it all in-- 'yes, I do'." Rolled all the way up the prosthetic, and to where it connects to flesh, there. He unclasps some clasps and glances up. "You don't have to look if it's awkward." And then he twists the prosthetic leg, just below the knee, and it unlatches from the implant that's inset to attach it. He reaches in and takes out, yes, a bottle of vodka. "But if you would be so kind as to find me some glitter, then I'll give you an ill-advised New Year's gift," he says, holding the bottle up and leaning the leg against the chair before he uncaps the thing and takes a hell of a swig. He already looks like he's laughing.
Innocent, innocent. She nibbles on her lower lip, ducking her head and tucking a strand of lily white hair behind her ear. When her fingers bump the soft bells of yet another spray of flowers sprouting from her flipping scalp, she flinches, then mutters under her breath in Japanese. "Um." She watches the prosthetic leg's removal with a mildly bewildered, "I didn't even know you -had- one. I just..figured you had a bum leg or something." Still, temptation is strong. She brightens at the prospect, dims and eyes her floors, sighs at them, then shakes her head in mild exasperation. After a moment, she declares a bold, "I'm already infected with microglitter. A little more won't kill me," and turns to dart out of the apartment, closing the door behind her. She's gone for a little while, a good five minutes, and when she returns, she's slightly out of breath and frazzled, though she still smells sweetly of lilies. She also has a Ziploc baggie of glitter which she holds with two fingers, as though it were a nuclear weapon liable to go off at any moment. The glitter, it must be noted, is silver. She is merciful. It will blend in with his normal 'skin' tone well enough. "Sorry! I got grabbed by Bella and Princess. More weeping. Here's the, um. Stuff." She offers it out to him.
Then Czcibor stands again and takes the baggie of glitter, regarding it like it's a live grenade and opening it will be taking the pin out. "Okay," he says, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of the chair. His face is a little pink, and it in all honesty, at this point, is probably actually the grog and the vodka and the whatever else New Year's Eve has brought him in the way of alcohol. He looks up at Lolly and chews on his lower lip. "I have literally never even watched anyone do this. I mean except in passing while coming in here, and I wasn't paying attention. Am I supposed to go behind your screen and get undressed and put the glitter on and then put clothes on again and then come out and get undressed to music? Uhh, sexily?"
The glitter, and his reaction to it, elicit a stifled giggle before she shakes her head and suggests, "Just put it everywhere you could possibly end up touching me with it. That way you can make me suffer, too, if you give me a lap dance." She looks quite certain of herself. "That's what the girls say. For the customers who are mean pinchers, or kind of gross, or the ones they know are cheating on their wives, they cover them in glitter so they have to wash their clothes so hard before they can go home." Revenge of the Stripper: coming to a club near you! As for dancing, the barely-legal young woman considers a moment, then grabs a scarf from the coat rack, wrapping it around herself. Blushing a pretty pink, she explains, "It's in the attitude, and in the torso. The girls, they...um. They think I'm cute, and anyway it was a quiet night so some of them were teaching me stuff backstage for fun." Ahhhh so much blushing. So much. Despite that, she holds up a finger, goes up on her tippy toes to pretend she's in heels, and proceeds to swish her suddenly slinky, confident and hip-swishing way toward him, hands toying with the scarf. She half-turns, sequined dress thereby highlighting the curves of hip, ass, AND fairly modest bust, tossing her hair and keeping an eye on him while undulating her body to an imagined beat and slowly drawing a hand down over her own breast and belly toward the inner join of thigh and pelvis, scarf lightly drawn with it, to pull his eyes lower. The rest of the scarf is lightly looped around a hand for her to circle him with, and it's at about that point that she loses control, wobbling down off of her tiptoes with a thud and giggling herself silly. Pseudo-seduction officially over! "You can't, ha, you have to relax your spine. Have fun with it."
Then she's stifling giggles at him, and he scrunches his face until she explains, aaaand... he still looks sort of mystified. Except the explanation apparently comes with a tutorial, so he's attentive! And studying her methods carefully, and looking more and more puzzled as she pseuduces him. Lolly's giggling again and Czcibor just looks hopelessly embarrassedly lost. Well, sheepishly. It's not like he's mortified or anything. "I think I would squish you if I tried to give you a lap dance. Also does a lap dance even work the same way if a guy is doing it for a girl? I--" He definitely starts for-real blushing there. "I'm not supposed to grope you, am I? I thought I was just stripper dancing--! But even if I'm stripper dancing I don't have the same-- I don't have your--" Czcibor gestures vaguely at Lolly's... assets... and looks anxious. "I mean okay I can try doing it that way... but... I'm also... oh my god let me just get this over with. Also, more alcohol. I will be a moment. Behind your screen. If you have anything especially ridiculous you would like me to dance my way out of wearing, now is the time to drape it over the screen." The screen that he edges behind.
While he is beglittering and boozing himself up, the young club owner considers, then drags a chair out toward the middle of the floor's empty space so he'll have plenty of room to circle her. She pitterpatter darts over to fetch a silk one from a drawer, not exactly seasonal for going outside, but much prettier to dance with, and considers, then adds a kimono style lounging robe made of satiny material. It's white and black with red sakura blossoms. Those draped over the top of the screen, she giggles behind a hand and goes to plop herself onto the seat. And waits.
"Before I get drunk enough to do this and maybe forget to do it," he calls, slipping the provided clothing onto the other side of the screen, "I have something I need to tell you in the interests of honesty, something that I did, which even though it was necessary to keep someone very important from dying, makes me feel like a dick and I'm super guilty about it like a month later. But I'm only going to do it after you have the ability to say I'm your secret glitter stripper superhero or whatever it was." There's muttering and the sound of cloth moving behind there, and some of the muttering is even comprehensible, though some of it is in Polish. The understandable bits are along the lines of 'can't even dance', 'fall on my face', 'can't there be ballroom stripping, i could do that maybe', and 'not even glitter can fix'. "You didn't answer me about the lap dance bit! But it's moot because I'd squish you, right? You're very squishable. Well, less likely to squish you if I'm human me instead of tin soldier me..."
She fails. "I don't know," she protests, struggling for control. "I'm, like, not the best judge of what's sexy and what isn't. If you've got great personality and a graceful wrist when you use chopsticks to dip sashimi, that's good enough for me." The weird secret thing he references prompts a sobering frown, but also confusion, newly green eyes watching the screen in brief silence before she sort-of-questions, sort-of-states, "Okay..?" "Um." Weird man. "You don't have to give me a lap dance. Just... you know. Get your dance on. It'd almost be better if you were creepy metal when you did it, but you seem more comfy without it, so..." The chair creaks as she sways back and forth in demonstrative ambivalence. "For the record, YOUR flowers are pretty cool, and if I have to be a fairy, making flowers sprout all over the place wouldn't be so bad."
Well, okay, first it's All-Star because someone here is a troll. But then it stops amid snickering from behind the paper screen, and something really not much fucking better comes on; it's the Strokes/Christina Aguilera mash-up, 'A Stroke of Genius'. When our dear Captain steps out from behind the screen, he's wearing trousers, for sure, and there's glitter on them because yes that shit gets everywhere. And he's wearing the kimono-thing. And he's wearing the scarf under it like a freaking ascot. And yeah there's glitter everywhere, and he looks dubious. When Christina starts singing over those Strokes chords, he postures, trying hard to look dramatically sexy, but it's not ballroom dancing with the appropriate rules that can be learned, it's improv and it's meant to be sexy and Czcibor's version ends up turning into what looks kind of like Napoleon Dynamite doing interpretive dance in slow motion as Kowal slowly undoes his ascot. If you want to be with me, baby there's a price to pay. I'm a genie in a bottle, gotta rub me the right way... He's also blushing and refusing to make eye contact.
Then there is music. Then he comes out. The babyFairest claps her hands over her mouth to hide delighted laughter, and ends up boggling at him as his improv continues, a blend of appreciation and amusement and some friendly, "You go, guy!" accompanying a steadily deepening blush. Because really. Rub me the right way...? He had to pick THAT song?
This isn't working this isn't working maybe she's blushing but Czcibor feels like an idiot because why the hell did he pick this song? He still tries-- come on, come on, come on set me free NO no no okay no he covers his face (which gets glitter all over it of course) and quicksteps with only one brief corrected stumble back behind the screen and Christina stops and something else comes on. Something that dances, the backing music itself dances, flowing like electric water in cascades of light. He comes back out from behind the curtain, face still red, blushing all the way to his ears, to the back of his neck, but at least the vodka's starting to hit, because his posture's a little looser. He bows his head and closes his eyes and waits. Remember. Remember what it was like when he could actually play soccer, when he was good enough, whole enough, to run and to move fast and fluid. Remember what it was like when he took those ballroom dancing classes in Vienna when he still had both his own legs, before his senses started to back off, before everything was pain and wishes, before everything and nothing hurt. Remember what it was like when Zephirine taught him how to let go and become weightless, become air itself. Leave the past behind, just walk away. The man who looks all of twenty five, despite the scars visible even while he's clothed, begins to slowly lift one arm, face turning away from Lolly while still lowered. When it's over, and the heartbreak-- and his arm comes up over his heart, the other hand holding the scarf at his side, and he starts to slide his fingers down the fold-over front of the kimono between the halves. His face is still turned to the side and down. --and the cracks begin to-- With one swift and graceful movement, his hand comes down the rest of the way and lets the kimono spill open, obi undone in the same motion; at the same time, Kowal's young face turns to meet Lolly's, his eyes landing directly on hers, and there's a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. --show. For a moment he's mostly still, just standing there making eye contact and glittering at Lolly, as the voice echoes on a delay into the silence. Mostly still, because his shoulders are held back and the kimono's allowed to drift down, backwards over them, slowly spilling off of him and revealing exactly how many cracks there are. Glitter aside, his chest is not a pretty thing. It's certainly strong, muscular; it was certainly beautiful, once. That was before he'd been stabbed, impaled, shot, carved into, and hugged a cold iron shrapnel bomb to the chest of a Gentry with his own between it and the people behind him. It's a horrible scarred mess and he shouldn't be alive. Thankfully, the pause doesn't last very long before the airy sparkling full-sound dubstep music kicks in and he's in motion, a good deal of his moves copied from just what Lolly showed him a little while ago (had to be impaled; some of the scars on the front have matches on his back); he circles her as the words repeat but the music is more of an emphasis, and when he stops with it for the breaks he's perfectly still, provocative or close but not both, not at first. As it continues, as it goes from quiet and broken singing with wistful arpeggios behind it to the full synthetic wall of sound and back again, he progresses to slowly sliding the silk scarf over her eyes from behind her, loose and falling, just as a no-touch touch, to distract her from the fact that he's rapidly pulling his pants off. (There's a thump as he hops and almost trips.) But then he's coming back into view and letting the scarf drape around his own neck, and this is where she finds out he wears boxers with the Starfleet logo and the Vulcan salute printed on them, and god he's definitely getting glitter everywhere, and wow yeah those are athlete dude legs except for the half of one that's fake and right now glittery in its own right. (just walk away when it's over) Finally he's slinking toward Lolly; he ends up on his knees in front of her, looking up, and he smells of vodka and aftershave and roses and greenery and ozone, despite his mask being strengthened, and his eyes are pretty and silver drunk and there's longing and grief behind them, but there's also a heady sense of confidence and self-control that's so terribly, terribly strong, and above and beyond it, a willingness to give and give and give. He lifts his glittery hands with the ends of the scarf in them, and one hand reaches up to very very lightly touch the side of Lolly's face, ghost at the idea of cupping it; both hands then come down to place the ends of the scarf in her hands. There's a beautiful smouldering raw heat to him, born of his presence and strength of character and his seriously exfoliant personality -- (and the heartbreak and the cracks begin to show) -- and born of what too much Spring for far too long has done to him. The song is trailing off, and that's where he stops, and all the confidence flees and he looks made of uncertainty, looking up at Lolly anxiously like 'did I do it right?'
Well, even if Czcibor isn't 'owed' it, he gets it. Shock, at first, eyes widening in sympathetic pain at the sheer number of wounds he bears, and shock is followed soon thereafter by more attention given to the dance itself, because holy moly. ...however. One must ask the question. Is a strip dance a 'good' strip dance when it ends up making one's audience cry..? When he finally looks up at her at the end, two lovely tears are rolling down across her creamy green and freckly cheeks, and regardless of the Glitter Danger or, evidently, the fact that he only has one good leg and may not be able to adjust his balance all that easily, Lolly half-slides, half-lunges out of her rickety old chair to wrap her arms around his neck and sniffle. At least she always smells nice? "Beautiful!" All the feels. Thankfully, none of them are the usual response to strippers...
--he just holds that moment fast, just under too long. Just under. There's nothing awful in it, there's just relief and that moment of understanding, and-- and then his breath hitches, and he lets go, and he sits back on his heels and reaches up to scrub at his eyes because his face is wet, and it only tracks more glitter there. And he's still drunk and fuzzy, and maybe that's why the relief is giving way to miserable guilt. "If... I mean... you try to help when you can with everything you've got to help with. And if... you saw someone you were trying to protect from monsters... if you saw them running away because they were panicking, and you saw them running toward something else that was going to kill them... and you had a, a thing, an ability, a bit of magic... something you hated having but once upon a time you thought you needed to have... a piece of magic that would let you save them, would you use it? If they were going to die, and it... it was a magic that let you ch-change their mind-- only for a little while, just long enough to get them out of danger, get them to safety... if you had that magic would you use it? To save their life?" He's looking at her and he's pleading, he's-- "I know... it's a rationalization. That it was necessary. And that it was temporary. And that it prevented people from dying, or-- or worse. All that's true. But it was also a violation. And it's-- even after everything-- it's maybe unforgivable. And it's a horrible thing to tell you now. But it's a thing I wanted to tell you while-- while you could hurt me. In lots of ways. A thing I wanted to tell you while you were-- okay, and while I was vulnerable, and-- and once maybe you saw what's... me. More of me. Of history that's not just story." He's earnest, certainly; all that presence of personality and he is literally on his knees in front of her, nakedly covered in glitter and scars, and miserably raw like faerie monsters just don't get.
She does, however, give him a quizzical look when he pulls away and starts talking about guilt. Arms withdrawing from around his neck, she settles back with her hands in her lap to kneel more comfortably, motions casual and easy. Kneeling is something familiar. Hearing Czcibor talk about using mind control powers...not so familiar, and increasingly uncomfortable, especially once she makes the connection, somewhat belatedly, that he is talking about -her-. Those tears start up again, eyes wide and hurt and, yes, betrayed. She hiccoughs a little in-drawn breath, then springs up to her feet and fetches something from a cabinet near the rickety old table which serves as her 'dining' area, bringing back a bottle of Angostura bitters. 44.7% alcohol by volume, hers are not diluted. No, this is a bottle of extremely concentrated, bitter booze with none of the other ingredients it is normally mixed with in cocktails. For her? Nope. For him. Definitely for him. The younger woman thrusts it out at him, tearful, firm, and demands, "Drink it. All of it. No cheating and making yourself not taste it, either." Assuming he takes it, she sniffles, once, eyes wide and wounded, and tells him, "I'll have your word, too, that you won't use anything to rinse the flavour out of your mouth, or ease the hangover tomorrow, and if you barf up your toenails all over my floor, -you- are cleaning it."
When she doesn't break the bottle over his head, he looks up, slowly un-bracing for the impact that never comes, and his gut's churning because she's crying again and it's his fault again, and worst worst worst, that look of betrayal in her eyes. But he reaches to take the bottle, surprised at her demand. She's going to punish him instead of kicking him out, cutting him out, cutting him off. It's probably gratifying that he gets this look of AUGH on his face when he sees what's in the bottle, followed by vast resignation. "Okay," he says in a small voice. "And... you don't need my word I'll never use it on you again. But you have it anyway, if you want it." He twists off the top, then takes a sip, and holy shit what a face. "...I... I need my pants on to drink the rest," he says, eyes red rimmed, but voice firm. Mostly firm. There's a wobble at the very end. He starts getting really carefully to his feet, having to set the bottle down on the floor so he can balance without spilling it.
No sympathy! ...okay, maybe a little, but she nibbles on her lower lip and firms her jaw, strengthening her resolve when he makes that face. Still, she doesn't do heartless or mean very well, because she totally rushes to admit a sniffly, "I kind of figure if I make you suffer hard enough, it'll be super memorable and remind you why you should be good next time." Also, she hurries toward him to help him get up to his feet, and she doesn't even seem to notice that a bit more of his glitter has stuck to her skin.
He zips up his pants and feels like he has a little bit of dignity, then steps back to pick up the bottle, face screwed up into a look of wretched awful. "This shit is like chewing on kale and burnt coffee mixed with Alanis Morissette songs." He takes a swig and coughs violently, face squinched up almost to pug proportions. And then he slinks behind the paper screen to acquire his shirt and pull it on over all the fucking scars. Glitter everywhere forever. His shirt, for the record, is a Red Hot Chili Peppers tour shirt, and when he comes back out, he does his best to chug as much as he can. Three seconds later, he's gasping and waving his hand in front of his face. "AND A MOXIE CHASER. UGH UGH ugh ugh ghuuuuhhhh..."
Speaking of which, while Czcibor is busy choking on 45 alcoholic awful, Lolly is padding barefoot across the floor toward the fireplace to add another log, a spray of sparks rising into the air from the half-burnt wood already glowing there. That done, she sets the tools away and goes to pull a sleeping bag and a mattress pad out from under her bed, along with some extra blankets, and starts padding a nice comfy spot by the warmth of the fireplace. It is, notably, a modest distance from her bed. She watches him, brows slightly furrowed. "Keep drinking. You're not driving anywhere tonight."
"He's still texting... maybe he can't get a good night's sleep... but he's looking after them, and after our brother who can see and who knows about us both, and if anything happened to any of them I don't know-- I don't know what I would do," oh god he's a sad drunk. Or maybe he was just already sad. He's crying again, for the love of god. And he punishes himself for it by having another swig. He's making good progress on that shit. Cue another full-body shudder. "Lost too many people... too many... ones I loved, ones I liked, ones who never did anything to deserve the shit I couldn't save them from..." He leans forward in the chair, resting his forehead on the heel of his hand, slur-mumbling his woes. "Dunn matter how many I try to... what I give away or, or let people take from me... keep losing them. Some of them did turn into monsters. Stopped trying. Just... just lost themselves, turned into the shit that did this to us..."
"Are they all back in, um." Where did he say he was from again? The differently-flowery Captain flounders briefly, then gives up and concludes, "in Europe?" A quick trip across the room lets her carry the other chair over to plunk it beside his so she can attempt to awkwardly pat his arm in comfort, a sweetly-scented, albeit greenish warmth at his side. "More monsterish than John? He's...pretty scary."
And he takes another hefty swig and almost chokes on it, then spends like ten seconds grimacing after he gets it down. "Poland. They're in Poland. Wroclaw. My fetch got the foo-- the soccer career I was gonna give up to stay home and help my folks after the accident, but he's a good guy-- he's so good-- it's not his fault... and... and he had to retire after the last World Cup anyway... we're too old. Well. He's too old. I'm too... I'm too broken. But he was in-- all the World Cups from 1998 to-- to 2014. And in Slask Wroclaw. Such a good player..."
Ah, fear. It is, thankfully, outweighed by the recent memories of all the places Czcibor has been cut or exploded or stabbed, if the way she drops her eyes to his chest at the reference to 'broken' is any indication. "I, um. I'm horrible at soccer. My parents wanted me to participate in extracurricular sports so I would form a strong moral character and team spirit, but no one really wanted me on their team. Except badminton." Why she is ashamed of playing badminton is unclear, but she's certainly blushing.
And it falls out of his hand at the right angle to bounce instead of shatter, and it bounces and rolls even as he's cringing so hard away from his face like he thinks he can excise his mouth. "Boz moj, to najgorsza rzecz jaka kiedykolwiek wlozylem w ustaaaa..."
She does NOT offer him water. He gets to sleep with THAT taste in his mouth, and wake up even WORSE. She does, however, stand up and cup his face between both smooth hands, leaning down to brush a kiss over his forehead in contented benediction. "I forgive you. Now let's get you up on your feet so you can suffer horizontally and pass out before you forget how to speak English." The younger woman pauses, then adds, "Remind me to ask you to teach me Polish," while turning to get a shoulder under his arm, bumping her chair out of the way with a combination of a foot and a hip so she can urge him up onto his -good- leg for balance purposes.
Tries. The room spins. "...rzygac. Musze wymiotowac-- throw up--" Yes he is steering her away from the bed she made with some urgency. More urgency. Toward the toilet. A lot. Fast. Well, fast-ish, he's stumbling, and might be faster crawling, honestly.
Both of them. Or, rather, a great big room full of the smell of vomit and intoxicatingly lovely lily of the valley...which won't do Lolly nearly as much good as Czcibor's Mantle would do him. Sigh. Lolly hastens to help him once she catches the interjection of actual, you know, intelligible words amidst his Polish. She also, for some reason not trusting him to navigate the screen himself, performs a twist and a careful lift-nudge-slide with one hand to get it out of the splash zone while ensuring he reaches the toilet as quickly as possible. Oh, please, reach the toilet. | |
