Perry had a similar view on drinking in the Common Room -- or really, drinking in public at all -- but his reasons were a bit different. The fact was that the idea of sitting around getting drunk in a room full of either people he probably disliked or total strangers was pretty unappealing even at the best of times. Even when he was in a good mood, he preferred drinking alone or with what few friends he had. These days, being at the bar was unbearable, especially with the added fear that he might run into Lily there.
The problem was, after holing up in his room for five days straight, he had drunk himself dry. There wasn't so much as a Nyquil bottle left in there, and he was starting to sober up again. That was dangerous.
For a while, he was at a loss, but then it hit him in that way things tended to when one was drunk and tired and desperate: if they had a bar in, like, the middle of nowhere out here, then they must have had someplace to keep the booze. And just like that, he was on a mission -- find the storeroom or the wine
( ... )
Hearing herself hailed, Cersei whirled about, green eyes wide. She had not known there was anyone behind her. "A memo?" she asked, and the way she pronounced the word -- gingerly -- suggested its unfamiliarity. "What I am missing is the wine cellar."
Oh, geez. Perry was still kind of drunk, he was lonely, and the Santa was hot. That made for a dangerous combination, right there. Raising his eyebrows, he grinned wolfishly. "Uh, nevermind. I~t is de-hefinately still Christmas." Even if Cersei didn't understand his words, the tone in his voice was probably pretty obvious. He liked what he saw.
It could be. Cersei had heard someone singing a song about how the Christmas feast had twelve days. Between that and the obvious approval in the man's tone, Cersei had no inkling any commentary on her attire had been intended.
"If it is still Christmas," she said, "we should celebrate. Would you happen to know the location of the wine cellar, then?" A one-track mind has our Cersei.
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The problem was, after holing up in his room for five days straight, he had drunk himself dry. There wasn't so much as a Nyquil bottle left in there, and he was starting to sober up again. That was dangerous.
For a while, he was at a loss, but then it hit him in that way things tended to when one was drunk and tired and desperate: if they had a bar in, like, the middle of nowhere out here, then they must have had someplace to keep the booze. And just like that, he was on a mission -- find the storeroom or the wine ( ... )
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"If it is still Christmas," she said, "we should celebrate. Would you happen to know the location of the wine cellar, then?" A one-track mind has our Cersei.
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