That was going to leave a mark. Or several. Jess hit the little table near the door, scattering message pad and pen (for the phone on the wall; answering machines? Please) and earning what would inevitably be a nasty mark along her upper arm in the morning. "Ow. What. OW. Fuck. Shit. Hi," she said again, and once the monosyllabic tirade was over, "Rose got milk. Maybe. Rose. Rose."
She had, of course, not at all heard anyone's remarks besides 'where's the milk.' It was just as well, as Bradley's mutterings, Rose's less than subtle insinuations, and Napoleon's awkwardness might have made this situation particularly less enjoyable. Or as enjoyable as being an emotionally unstable drunken mess could possibly make it. She sat up much too quickly, fell half-backward again, and then propelled herself forward to put her head in between her knees. "I can't get up."
Which meant, naturally, that she would try. Jess was not a large woman by any means, or even average-sized: alcohol did not sit with her well. As such, she latched the un-bruised arm onto whatever part of Charlie's coat she could grab, and began to haul herself bodily from the floor. It was a process. There was flailing. Lots of flailing. And then, a questioning, bleary-eyed look at...some point near Charlie's ear, as if she'd missed something. "What?"
Charlie expression had warmed as he helped Jess up-or rather, stood still as she climbed up the arm his coat-but then darkened as he heard Rose’s commentary. (Luckily, Brad’s less-than-flattering imitation of his cousin had gone unheard.) With his hands chastely positioned in the middle of Jess’ back for support, he gave the loudmouth in question a reprimanding look, but said nothing in response.
“That’s a good idea. I brought milk,” he answered, once again glancing over his shoulder to the man who looked as uncomfortable as Charlie felt. He gestured to the bags...just in time to see Rose bend over to retrieve them, and for a moment wondered if he was going to choke on his own vomit. There was nothing in his fairytale about being visually assaulted by a former dwarf with anger management issues.
Thankfully, however, there was no blowing of chunks on Charlie’s behalf-although he did have to suppress a violent shudder, lowering his eyes.
“In the bags,” he managed. By now, our favorite private investigator had paled considerably. He swallowed hard, trying to pull his composure back together. “Brad, share the pizza with Rose.”
After all, she’d have a significantly harder time with her mouth full of pizza. Then again, Charlie thought with a grimace, she spends a lot of her time with her mouth full.
Ugh.
“Jess-are you okay now?” he asked with a reassuring smile. “Let me help you over to the couch, okay?”
That was going to leave a mark. Or several. Jess hit the little table near the door, scattering message pad and pen (for the phone on the wall; answering machines? Please) and earning what would inevitably be a nasty mark along her upper arm in the morning. "Ow. What. OW. Fuck. Shit. Hi," she said again, and once the monosyllabic tirade was over, "Rose got milk. Maybe. Rose. Rose."
She had, of course, not at all heard anyone's remarks besides 'where's the milk.' It was just as well, as Bradley's mutterings, Rose's less than subtle insinuations, and Napoleon's awkwardness might have made this situation particularly less enjoyable. Or as enjoyable as being an emotionally unstable drunken mess could possibly make it. She sat up much too quickly, fell half-backward again, and then propelled herself forward to put her head in between her knees. "I can't get up."
Which meant, naturally, that she would try. Jess was not a large woman by any means, or even average-sized: alcohol did not sit with her well. As such, she latched the un-bruised arm onto whatever part of Charlie's coat she could grab, and began to haul herself bodily from the floor. It was a process. There was flailing. Lots of flailing. And then, a questioning, bleary-eyed look at...some point near Charlie's ear, as if she'd missed something. "What?"
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Charlie expression had warmed as he helped Jess up-or rather, stood still as she climbed up the arm his coat-but then darkened as he heard Rose’s commentary. (Luckily, Brad’s less-than-flattering imitation of his cousin had gone unheard.) With his hands chastely positioned in the middle of Jess’ back for support, he gave the loudmouth in question a reprimanding look, but said nothing in response.
“That’s a good idea. I brought milk,” he answered, once again glancing over his shoulder to the man who looked as uncomfortable as Charlie felt. He gestured to the bags...just in time to see Rose bend over to retrieve them, and for a moment wondered if he was going to choke on his own vomit. There was nothing in his fairytale about being visually assaulted by a former dwarf with anger management issues.
Thankfully, however, there was no blowing of chunks on Charlie’s behalf-although he did have to suppress a violent shudder, lowering his eyes.
“In the bags,” he managed. By now, our favorite private investigator had paled considerably. He swallowed hard, trying to pull his composure back together. “Brad, share the pizza with Rose.”
After all, she’d have a significantly harder time with her mouth full of pizza. Then again, Charlie thought with a grimace, she spends a lot of her time with her mouth full.
Ugh.
“Jess-are you okay now?” he asked with a reassuring smile. “Let me help you over to the couch, okay?”
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