InsaneJournal

Who comes not so carefully upon this hour
WHO: Geoffrey Tennant and Meg Thatcher
WHAT: Geoffrey wakes up in agony somewhere entirely not New Burbage
WHERE: A pub in Luton
WARNINGS: None necessary, unless you call 'hungover and pottymouthed' a warning.



Somewhere in Luton, twenty yards from the The Moon And Sixpence pub on Ashcroft Road, there is a somewhat disheveled-looking man sleeping on a bench.


Or he might be unconscious. It's difficult to tell.

It's quite possible that he's a homeless drunk passed out after yet another night of heavy drinking, given the state of his unkempt dark hair, the long black coat and the wrinkled shirt with its unbuttoned cuffs and untidy collar, and the three-day-old, somewhat patchy stubble that gives a distinctly older hint to his somewhat boyishly handsome looks, sprawled as he is on his back, one arm over his head, the other lying across his chest.

It's the car horn bellowing from the street that registers somewhere in Geoffrey Tennant's reticent mind, forcing his consciousness to surface with some great measure of reluctance. It was a long night last night. A very long night, for reasons he doesn't even want to remember, but will likely be etched into his brain forever, regardless.

He grunts, shifting on the bench as his body realises that it's been lying on an old, wooden surface not ever meant for lounging, and certainly not for any decent (or for that matter, indecent) length of time.

Another horn blares, and a bus roars past on the street, bringing with it the attendant stench of smoke, gasoline and exhaust fumes, and Geoffrey is suddenly sitting bolt upright on the bench, looking around himself with eyes wide open in surprise before his features resolve into a bewildered kind of frown. Where the hell is he?

Good God, was he really that drunk last night?

Well, it's possible.

It's right about then that his hangover, which has been waiting-- or rather lurking-- in the wings for his return to the waking world, makes its presence well and truly felt, and he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to block the light as his head begins to reel with a surge of pain, and if anyone were within hearing range, they would hear him mumbling, "Oh, fuck."

He slowly pulls his legs off the bench and leans forward to bury his head in his hands. Minutes pass, and with them comes the slow but essential awareness that he needs to do something. Something other than sit here. Well, he could stay here, but oh God, the noise. It's too much for his throbbing head. Childish petulance is overridden by physical necessity, and he slowly lowers his hands and, wincing at the intrusion once more of daylight, he pushes himself up off the bench and to his feet, turning around uncertainly to get an assessment of his surroundings.

This is no part of New Burbage he has ever been familiar with. Or Toronto, for that matter. It's a detail that doesn't seem terribly important at present, given that his first priority is to get the hell out of this bright, godforsaken daylight, find a bathroom, painkillers, and have a drink. Not necessarily in that order. And Geoffrey's plans have a habit of changing at a second's notice.

He wanders shabbily toward the pub, getting a few odd, wary looks from people passing by, and pushes, or rather leans heavily, on the door to head inside.