Carp. Carp. Oh, holy, fucking carp. Neville's head felt like it was going to explode, his face felt bloated, his eyes stung and blurred as he opened them. The light entering the room through an evil little crack in the curtains told Neville is was a) not time to get up and b) the sun was evil. He lifted his head, which was a bad idea and immediately swore loudly. Never drinking again, even if he had been pleasantly devoid of feeling for the night. Not remembering it equated numb in Neville's mind. He sat up after a few more minutes, though he kept his eyes closed while he adjusted. He could tell he was on the couch and only assumed he'd been unable to make it to bed. He'd have to thank Smith for getting him home.
Hold on a tic- Neville ran his hands over the couch. His couch was scratchier than this and Neville cracked an eye and looked down. Oh, yes, he couch wasn't nearly this nice. So, unless Smith has gotten him a new couch in the hours Neville didn't remember, he was definitely not at home. Maybe he was dreaming? Neville reached a hand over his head and felt the mistletoe. Nope. Solidly awake. He could only hope he was at Smith's. It made the most sense, but what made more sense than all of that was coffee, hangover potion and more sleep. Hell, he couldn't believe he was up at all (not that he knew what time it was anyway.)