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.
Oh, thank God. As obvious and jackassy a comment as it had been in the first place, Perry was relieved that she hadn't turned him down or, worse, smacked him. He wasn't really in the mood to be rejected by another woman at the moment.
At the mention of the wine cellar, he blinked, surprised. "Well, I... actually was just looking for that. I think maybe it's this way." He pointed down the corridor, in the direction they'd both been taking. He actually didn't have the slightest idea where the place was, but he wasn't about to tell her that. She was hot and she wanted him to get her drunk -- he would find a way.
"I thank you, ser," said Cersei sweetly. "Might you be so kind as to show me the way?" When she smiled, you could almost forget the Santa hat above the smile. Almost. Then again, there was also the bosom under the drooping neckline of the baggy Santa tunic to help that forgetting process along.
This had to be a dream, seriously. One sick, twisted, depression-fueled dream. But, hell with it, he needed the distraction and he was damn sure going to run with it until he woke up or hurt himself. He needed to get the hell out of himself for a while.
So he probably should have said no, or walked away, or something; but instead he bit back the disbelieving laugh that was rising in his throat, gave her his best, brightest grin, and reached for her hand. "I think I can handle that."
She took his hand. He should have offered his arm instead. No, they were not in Westeros, people here did things differently. Her outfit was a good example of this, was it not?
"Then I count myself very lucky to have come across you indeed, ser." That's right. Cersei was getting lucky.
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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At the mention of the wine cellar, he blinked, surprised. "Well, I... actually was just looking for that. I think maybe it's this way." He pointed down the corridor, in the direction they'd both been taking. He actually didn't have the slightest idea where the place was, but he wasn't about to tell her that. She was hot and she wanted him to get her drunk -- he would find a way.
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So he probably should have said no, or walked away, or something; but instead he bit back the disbelieving laugh that was rising in his throat, gave her his best, brightest grin, and reached for her hand. "I think I can handle that."
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"Then I count myself very lucky to have come across you indeed, ser." That's right. Cersei was getting lucky.
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