(no subject)
Of course he knows he shouldn't have done it.
His shoulders slump as he drags himself into the lift, vaguely pushing at buttons, not really care where he ends up. The alcohol has long since filtered in and out of his consciousness, but he stumbles and wanders with an air of intoxication nonetheless. His shirt is conspicuously unbuttoned at the top, and his short hair is looking distinctly dishevelled. There are a few bright red marks along his neck, one just about obscured by the collar of his shirt. For anyone else in the world, perhaps these things combined would equal a good night, but for Ollie, it means pretty much nothing. The satisfaction of picking up some leggy, expensive looking French lady in some fancy but otherwise nondescript wore off quickly; he couldn't have slipped out of her door sooner. Getting back to the hotel at quarter to two in the morning was another matter entirely. Finding a taxi had him wandering very questionable Parisian streets - he has no intentions of telling Jen about his night-time wanderings through France, but he's aware that he's going to get a provisional bollocking anyway for "whatever it was you were doing wherever and the ways in which you were potentially endangering yourself for doing it" in the morning.
There's a distinctly cheap feeling crawling all over his skin, and he desperately wants a shower, but he knows that he isn't going to show any remorse about it later. He'll take Jen's yelling, he'll take her disappointment and her outrage that he's wantonly throwing himself around all over again, because he knows that Jen'll shout it out and then in three days she'll forget all about it by next week. His remarks will be lacklustre, his tennis even more so - and every answer will be the same.
"I hate the French Open."
He says it quite soberly, muttered under his breath as he swans out onto the fifth floor. He wonders for a moment why he can't remember his own room number when he can remember Barney's. An individual of more emotional awareness might note this as vaguely significant, but since it's Ollie, the only flicker of a thought that occurs in his mind is that Barney will probably be able to tell him where he might find his room. And possibly his keycard.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks to himself that there are better ways of dealing with his anger and his disappointment and his dejection. Ones that are perhaps comparatively healthy or leave a lasting impression. But the back of his mind is far, far away. He doesn't tend to listen to it often.
When he reaches Barney's door, he contemplates finding a quiet stairwell to bunk down in for the night instead of bothering his physio. By then he reckons he'll be able to remember where his room is, but then the need to have a shower and the promise of a comfy bed and air conditioning propel him forwards - literally. He sort of collapses against Barney's door, roughly, leaning all his weight against it and wincing vaguely. Pressing his forehead against it, he raises a hand to knock, at first limply, before twice loudly, his knuckles smarting from the sudden force of his knocking-conviction.
He hopes Barney doesn't sleep too deeply.
His shoulders slump as he drags himself into the lift, vaguely pushing at buttons, not really care where he ends up. The alcohol has long since filtered in and out of his consciousness, but he stumbles and wanders with an air of intoxication nonetheless. His shirt is conspicuously unbuttoned at the top, and his short hair is looking distinctly dishevelled. There are a few bright red marks along his neck, one just about obscured by the collar of his shirt. For anyone else in the world, perhaps these things combined would equal a good night, but for Ollie, it means pretty much nothing. The satisfaction of picking up some leggy, expensive looking French lady in some fancy but otherwise nondescript wore off quickly; he couldn't have slipped out of her door sooner. Getting back to the hotel at quarter to two in the morning was another matter entirely. Finding a taxi had him wandering very questionable Parisian streets - he has no intentions of telling Jen about his night-time wanderings through France, but he's aware that he's going to get a provisional bollocking anyway for "whatever it was you were doing wherever and the ways in which you were potentially endangering yourself for doing it" in the morning.
There's a distinctly cheap feeling crawling all over his skin, and he desperately wants a shower, but he knows that he isn't going to show any remorse about it later. He'll take Jen's yelling, he'll take her disappointment and her outrage that he's wantonly throwing himself around all over again, because he knows that Jen'll shout it out and then in three days she'll forget all about it by next week. His remarks will be lacklustre, his tennis even more so - and every answer will be the same.
"I hate the French Open."
He says it quite soberly, muttered under his breath as he swans out onto the fifth floor. He wonders for a moment why he can't remember his own room number when he can remember Barney's. An individual of more emotional awareness might note this as vaguely significant, but since it's Ollie, the only flicker of a thought that occurs in his mind is that Barney will probably be able to tell him where he might find his room. And possibly his keycard.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks to himself that there are better ways of dealing with his anger and his disappointment and his dejection. Ones that are perhaps comparatively healthy or leave a lasting impression. But the back of his mind is far, far away. He doesn't tend to listen to it often.
When he reaches Barney's door, he contemplates finding a quiet stairwell to bunk down in for the night instead of bothering his physio. By then he reckons he'll be able to remember where his room is, but then the need to have a shower and the promise of a comfy bed and air conditioning propel him forwards - literally. He sort of collapses against Barney's door, roughly, leaning all his weight against it and wincing vaguely. Pressing his forehead against it, he raises a hand to knock, at first limply, before twice loudly, his knuckles smarting from the sudden force of his knocking-conviction.
He hopes Barney doesn't sleep too deeply.