Daryl Dixon (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} littledixon) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} makebelievelog,@ 2013-06-20 01:06:00 |
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What: Daryl is shitfaced drunk after going drinking with Rick. Carol finds him trying to find his way back to their room.
When: Thursday, June 20, sometime after midnight.
Where: Starting in the East Wing on the Second Floor and ending in Daryl's room.
Rating/Warnings: Daryl's dirty mouth. Drunkenness. More to be added as they come.
Status: COMPLETE/Closed.
Daryl wasn't sure when he lost Rick. Well, okay, he didn't lose him. Not the way you'd lose a pen or a ball or some other shit that you'd lose. But he had been pretty sure that Rick was next to him one moment and then the next -- vanished. Actually, now that Daryl thought about it, and it was kind of hard to think through the alcoholic haze he was trying to break through with said thinking, he was pretty sure Rick had muttered something about going to bed or g'night or something before he disappeared into one of the doors. But was that two minutes ago? Or twenty? Shit, which door had it been? Which one was his?
He'd drunk too damn much.
But it had felt good. Good, like not worrying every damn minute about his place amongst his people. Good, like being safe and feeling needed and part of a family that actually gave a shit. Good, like having a brother back, even if it wasn't his brother by blood. So, even though he was stuck leaning against a wall, top of his scalp against the wallpaper as he tried to get the world around him to stop tipping dangerously to the left or right, he felt good. Dizzy, too. Fuck, he was dizzy. Who the hell had put him in a damn Tilt-A-Whirl anyway? He hadn't asked for this. Not that it was wiping the smile off of his face. It just made him hold onto the wall with one of his hands as he tried to wait for the ride to end so that he could get off and find his damn room.
The hallway was dark with the night, and that wasn't helping a damn thing. He was sweaty thanks to the alcohol raising his temperature a few degrees, not that he noticed, and he reeked of the booze he had been drinking all night. In his other hand, the one not trying to desperately hold onto the wall, he held a mostly empty beer bottle. American shit. Tasted like piss, but he didn't mind. It was what he was used to, and it did the trick. Tomorrow, after nursing a monster hangover, he'd start picking up the pieces of all of the shit he had left behind. But tonight, he just wanted to revel in his drunken state. And find his bed. Yeah, that was a good plan. Too fucking bad every damn door looked the same.