"Well... ... ..." Wedge pauses, evidently having utterly lost his train of thought. "Oh!" He brightens. "Riiight. If you're sure. You're my wingman, so I trust you."
There's a long pause while Wedge tries to figure out why, exactly, Tycho stopped. Then, evidently, it doesn't matter, and Wedge starts singing again.
Tycho still possesses enough of his faculties to realize that that? Was damn funny. And so, in short order, there is a colonel sliding to the floor against the wall at the top of the stairs, laughing helplessly. (Thankfully, he doesn't try to lean against the wall just a little farther to one side; if he had, he would have undone all the hard work that getting up the stairs took.)
Wedge blinks at him with solemn dignity... that is to say, owlishly, and very drunk.
"I c'mand that y'stop laughin'. S'an order." He slurs, frowning in concentration. He can't remember commanding being this hard. Possibly it is the trip up the stairs, wearing him out.
"What c'n I say," gasps Tycho through his laughter, "-- 've always been a turncoat." He lets his knees straighten, as he cracks up all over again, so that his calves hit the floor, and there's a wince (though he doesn't stop laughing) as a particularly nasty bruise connects hard with the floorboards.
"No y'not." Wedge argues vehemently, deciding that sitting down is much better than kneeling. Luckily there's enough landing behind him that he lands on solid floorboards rather than empty air. Force knows he doesn't need any more bruises.
"They said y's a traitor." He corrects, sternly. "T A... no. T... R..." This could take a while, folks.
"Y'drunk." Wedge observes, accurately. "I beat you. Beatcha butt inta th'ground." He snickers, terribly amused with the mental image that brings up. "Y'buttless!"
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There's a long pause while Wedge tries to figure out why, exactly, Tycho stopped. Then, evidently, it doesn't matter, and Wedge starts singing again.
"YOUR WAILIN' WILL MAKE SUCH A DIN..."
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Beat.
"Kr'ff."
Whether or not Wedge remembers the next word, Tycho does not.
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"Y'NEVER HAD A VIIIIC'TRY IN YOUR LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE!" It is triumphant. And inspiring.
Also, very loud.
As is the thud when he trips over his own feet and falls to his knees on the landing.
"Tycho! I found the end of the stairs!" Wedge is clearly focusing on seeing the positives in life.
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"I c'mand that y'stop laughin'. S'an order." He slurs, frowning in concentration. He can't remember commanding being this hard. Possibly it is the trip up the stairs, wearing him out.
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"They said y's a traitor." He corrects, sternly. "T A... no. T... R..." This could take a while, folks.
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For all of sixteen seconds.
He interrupts the painstaking spelling, waving Wedge off. "Nah, nah, same diff'rence." Beat. " 'S an E, not a -- whatever y'just said."
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There's a long silence while he figures out what to say next.
"DREADNAUGHTS! DREADNAUGHTS! DREADNAUGHTS! SO BOLD AN' PROUD AN' BRAAAAAAAVE..." Evidently, singing another fight song is the order of the day.
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"Don'be sad. Shouldn't be... sad. 'Cause y'my friend. S'best friend. I love you, man." He asserts, frowning in his awesome seriousness.
Yes, we've progressed to this portion of tonight's entertainment.
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Not on purpose!
He leans across the hall, still chuckling at nothing in particular, to clap Wedge on the boot. "L'love y'too. Best frien'."
A pause, and now that he's leaning forward, leaning back against the wall again is going to be problematic.
"Def'nitely beat y'at smashball, th'."
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