The Morning After... (Open, Multiple Threads Welcome)

[bwwooster]

Bertie Wooster penned a mental note to himself, in re: drinking excessively upon discovery that Worcestershire had become a desert, not to do it again in the future.  Then he mentally crumpled the note, tossed it into a mental rubbish bin and went searching for both mental and actual aspirin

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[semper_fi_house]

John was on his way back to his room when he passed the door to the banquet room. He stopped in his tracks, his head tilted thoughtfully. That man seated at the table had looked a lot like -- he shook his head, backed up a few steps and peaked back into the room.

He blinked.

"Greg?"

((Reposted for grammar wtfery. Sorry.))

[bwwooster]

Lost as he was in general malaise and specific hangover, it took Bertie a moment to realize that the older chap that had appeared in the room was speaking at all, let alone addressing him. "Sorry?" he asked in befuddlement raising his head. "Did you say something?"

[semper_fi_house]

John blinked, his mouth falling open slightly. He'd heard from Alice that his son was here, so it wasn't Greg's presence that he found surprising. Rather, it was the... state... Greg was in. Not that hangover -- that was usual enough. It was that Greg somehow seemed to have become much younger. He looked like he had when he'd started as an intern. And then there was the tie -- John couldn't remember Greg having ever worn a tie willingly in his life. And lastly, there was...

"What's with the ridiculous accent, Greg? Don't be cute with me."

[bwwooster]

"Cute?" Bertie echoed, lost. He usually didn't mind the label, at least, not when it was affixed to him by a shapely young bird with lovely eyes. However, he highly doubted that this militant cove meant it in the same spirit.

"I say! Now see here, my good sir!" Bertie said, slightly affronted at the condescending tone. "I do believe that you have me mistaken for someone else."

[instntpleasure]

Inara swept into the hallway, walking past, intent on finding Sam Winchester. There were things she had to discuss, and he seemed as good a person as any to discuss them with.

However, her attention was diverted by a faint whimper from the banquet room off to her left. She turned her head and saw a man who frankly looked in pain. She wondered if he'd been tortured, though she doubted it when she saw the rather elegant suit.

Still, he'd aroused her curiosity. "Are you all right?" Inara asked, skirts swishing as she turned to walk into the room.

[bwwooster]

Bertie raised his head from where it had been pillowed on his arms, squinting at the source of the rather lovely voice. It was apparently attached to a rather lovely woman. The tips of his ears coloring, Bertie cleared a raspy throat and tried to rearrange his thoughts into an orderly fashion (an arduous task when sober, nearly impossible when hungover).

"Ah, um, well, yes!" he finally decided upon. "At least, I shall be. I think." The effort seemed to be too much for the poor young man, and he rubbed his aching brow with a long-fingered hand. "I apologize, I'm not much good for... that is, I've had quite a... won't you sit down?" It was easier to talk to someone when one was not craning one's abused thinker back to look at them.

[instntpleasure]

Inara couldn't help but smile faintly. She did know how to handle most men, though Sam seemed to be an aberration. He had an accent she didn't recognize, but she could still understand him. He was incoherent, but clearly meaning well. And looking like Mal after a few too many Ng-Ka-Pei. Oh, dear.

She sat down across from him, unable to stop a faint grin. "When you've been dipping into the alcohol, lots of water is often the best remedy, from what I'm told." She'd had too much alcohol approximately once in her life, and never would she do it again, Buddha willing.

[bwwooster]

"Actually," Bertie said, sipping his coffee, "I've found that the absolute best remedy for the old hairy dog mornings is this concoction that my man Jeeves cooked up. Jeeves is my valet, you know, most brilliant mind in the Empire, and he mixes up this wonderful stuff that starts you up like a car engine! Gave me one of those the first day I met him, and I hired him on the spot!" The young man gazed mournfully into his cup. "I'll be dashed if I know what went in it, though."

Rubbing bleary eyes, he started suddenly. "Good heavens, where are my blasted manners? Aunt Agatha would have me pureed into jelly if only she knew!" He extended a surprisingly elegant hand. "The name is Wooster, Bertie Wooster. Who are you, if you don't mind my asking? And do you know what happened to Worcestershire?

[loveisenough]

Alice walked into the dining hall to get a cup of tea. She'd just been swimming, and was still dripping faintly despite the white cotton towel around her waist. Upon hearing a faint groan from the corner, she chuckled. Bloke with a hangover. She'd seen them all the time when she waitressed in SoHo.

She went to the line and fixed two cups of tea, one with a sugar for herself, carrying them both over to the figure. She plunked down across from him, scooting the cup over. "Tea's better."

[bwwooster]

Tea! He couldn't make the stuff himself, which made its delivery all the more precious. Raising his head from his hands, he reached out a long-fingered hand... and stopped.

The good, tea-bringing Samaritaness was naked. Or rather, was wearing so few articles of clothing so as to be practically naked.

...Bertie was disconcerted. And bright red from collar to hairline, which went with the general 'disconcerted' theme. "Um," he stammered. "Ah... that is... thank you?"

[loveisenough]

"You're welcome." She laughed a little at the blush. Cherry tomatoes were supposed to be that colour before they were picked, a lustrous red that made her want to kiss him on the forehead.

"You shouldn't drink so much. You're going to do something you'll regret, someday." Alice blew on her tea before taking a sip, taking care not to burn her tongue. "Where are you from?"

[bwwooster]

"Ah, yes, well..." After a few more moments of stammering, and a discrete finger run around his collar, Bertie fiddled with his tea, finding its conents suddenly fascinating. What manner of hotel is this, that ladies run around with no... well, not many clothes on? There aren't any deserts in the south of France, are there?

"You see, therein lies the cause of my excesses," he explained hesitantly. "I hail from London, but I was driving to my aunt's house in Worcestershire, when I found myself... here. Unless here is still Worcestershire, and my aunt had a sudden need to fear for her rose bushes."

He extended a tentative hand, eyes rising quickly to meet her own, dipping no further south. "Terribly sorry, Wooster's the name, Bertie Wooster. And you are?"