Sarah Connor is cursed to be ever vigilant (ever_vigilant) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-10 17:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino), pete wisdom |
...we should get them. Right now.
Who: Pete Wisdom, Ms. Thurman
What: More fun times at the pub, and the drive home.
When: Friday Night/Late Morning probably.
Where: Pub, Taxi Cab, Dom's Apartment
Rating: Still R for pervy gestures, language, and some past stuff gets mentioned.
Status: Complete, part 2 of 2.
"I think...I think," he repeated, "we're sharing t'much intel, luv. Ya sure that's safe?"
"S'long as we're not sharing the important intel, I'm not sure I care," Dom giggled. She reached for a french fry and got it about halfway to her mouth before forgetting what it was she was doing with it, then tried to smoke the thing instead of the cigarette that was already dangling out of her mouth. Three sheets to the wind? Domino was at least mostly there. To her credit, there was only 1/4 of a bottle or so left.
Thankfully she realised she'd been confusing the french fry with her cigarette before she ate the cigarette, though if she had, that probably would have been entertaining.
"I used to have a thong with skulls on it," She added after a bit, in a tone that sounded like she was waxing nostalgic over them, "It was a great conversational piece. Purple with little black skulls. I never did find that pair after that one job in Costa Rica."
"Someone," Pete laugh-coughed between drinks from the bottle, because the french fry thing? Hilarious. "Some'un....some...summat has those, now. They're wearin' them. If that thought...doesn't make yer skin crawl...we should get them. Right now. I've got a Interpol passport. Le'ss go get yer knickers. Come along then, luv, knicker extraction...take the bot'les with us."
He wasn't moving. Not even an inch. Not a millimeter. In fact, he took a very, very long drink off the bottle and set it down with drunken determination. There was enough force that everything on the table appeared to jump ever so slightly and come back down on the tabletop with a clatter. Horrible face? Incoming. Incoming. THERE it is.
"I'm dying," he said, somewhere between sounding like it was an ironically good thing, and the sort of dire dreariness that could rival a poem by Poe. The sort that wanna-be goth assholes memorized to seem more gloomy. "Ya goin' t'make it to the funeral then?"
It didn't help when he sounded like a lung was going to come up during that coughing spree, all done while he was trying to light a cigarette.
It would have made her skin crawl if she wasn't drunk, and definitely might make her skin crawl tomorrow when she woke up, "Thas a good idea. I got a passport right... right here in my pocket...somewheres. We can shoot the person's got them and ... against the law, stealing a girl's panties like that, brought them on themselves."
She nodded, like that was also totally that, and patted the pockets on one of her jackets like passports? Totally in one of those pockets, somewhere, though probably not actually in the pocket she was patting at the moment. Because she couldn't remember which one it was in, and fuck, it wasn't like they were really going anywhere.
Then she blinked, because the way he was acting was almost sobering, "What is it... Japanese Lung Flukes?"
"Ya gots the fake one then, Neena?" he was mumble asking, turning so his legs slipped back under the table, and he could lean forward against it for support. He even reached out one hand for her, but it flopped onto the top of the table, before it ever reached her. Already, he was swaying while he shook his head, mouthing the word 'no no nooooooooo' over and over again for a good three minutes, straight. "I dunno yet. But ya know...when ya get that sensation that summat is loomin' o'er you...breathin' down the back of yer neck, waitin' for ya t'make one wrong move?"
He leaned forward. Pete was pasty hued, eyes round and unfocused as he stared at her, out from under a mess of dark, extremely messy hair. Both hands were on the table, fingers splayed out, in that manner that cats do when they're going to dig their claws into the carpeting to keep from being dragged off. He whispered, with a wheezing undertone that didn't help the creepy factor, "I've got that.. I've had it for longer than this. I can tell."
Ignoring the comment that her passports might be fake, Domino quietly watched him slowly get into an upright position and put his hands on the table like that. She eventually crawled herself into an upright position, too, and then planted a hand on the table and leaaaned in, herself.
She waited until she was not even an inch away from Pete's face, her tiny bit of cigarette nearly poking against his lip. It almost looked like she was about to drunkenly kiss him. She stayed right there like that for quite a few seconds, then finally stated, "I think you've had enough to drink, Wisdom."
It's okay. He reached his hands up between their mouths, tilted his head to one side, and rested his fingertips against her lips, right before he plucked that cigarette out of her mouth, and began smoking it. Leisurely like. As though it was his to begin with.
"S'never too much. Fecker," he said, sullenly and drunkenly, almost tipping over the entire way before he held his hands onto the tabletop again, to steady himself. He was in danger of burning his fingers off, just trying to ash. "S'the bloody truuuu...uuths."
"HEY S'MINE" She growled and swatted at him with her hand, trying to swipe her cigarette back, "No smokey, that's... it's against the bro code... something... thing."
What she just said wasn't really registering in any part of her brain that made sense at this point. It sounded funny though, so she plopped back down onto her seat and started laughing hysterically. Somewhere in the middle of that she grabbed her whiskey bottle and held it up like she'd just won it as a trophy in a sporting contest.
"I love whiskey!" She declared, randomly, "You can keep th'smokes, both of them. And puff on them like you're a smoking walrus."
He already had two cigarettes hanging out of his mouth like lopsided vampire teeths. Her nubbin of a smoke had put itself out, when he began smoking filter.
"How're we...mmm...'old on." He put the cigarette stub out, leaving him with one longer ciggie hanging off the right side of his lower lip. It almost looked like it was glued there. "...'ow are we getting home...wait...I moved, twice...in the past three days...did I write down where I was....you know what? I love whiskey also."
From under the table, he kicked her. Right in the shin. Nearly lost his precious cigarette in the process, but he saved it before if landed on his lap with fumbling hands, and waved it around like a little maestro stick for a moment before he was sucking on it like life support, once again.
"Can sleep in my car... maybe... it's comfy back seats," Dom sounded like she was being so very generous, and as drunk as she was at the time, she probably honestly thought that the back seat of her car was a great place to spend the night. Hell, maybe it was.
That generosity faded a bit as he kicked her in the shin, "OW! You!... Ass! ... Whassat for!?"
"I don' want t'be a smoking walrus. Arse. I may be able t'outrun one of those feckers, but...but...wot were we talkin' about? Venezuela?" He was blank faced and thinking, and it was probably better that Dom had taken the booze away, because he really needed to sober up. They were sitting ducks and - even as he reminded himself of the fact it was all right for him to be a sitting duck, it wasn't all right for Dom to be a target due to proximity. But, then again, he doubted anything was going to happen.
It was the fact that he was still ill that was kicking his ass right now. The combination of that and alcohol was working a number on his already worn down system, enough so that he was drunkenly using the table for support, and his teeth started to chatter behind the cigarette in his mouth. Simple clenching of the jaw kept him from losing his precious smoke, and he was winding the scarf up in an effort to keep warm.
"Venezuela. S'warmer there. Let's go. They've prob...pr'bably got...monkeys. An' bananas. An'...jungle trees t'swing on. I think we should go. An' shoot at drug runners crossin' the border from Columbia. Cos that'd be...it'd be...summat, that's for certain."
He toasted with what was left in his glass, needing to drink something to warm him up. Or, he had a better idea....
"COFFEE! Bartender. Coffee. Por favor." He patted one hand down on the table a few times, like he was applauding in a very crowded, noisy pub. "I need some. Stat."
"I don't want any coffee, I want to stay drunk," Dom said, with all of the tone and inflection of a 5 year old who'd just been told it was nap time.
Somewhere deep inside the haze of smoke and drunkenness though, she was starting to get a little worried about Pete. His teeth were chattering and he looked like absolute hell. That had been run over by a truck, and then sent back to hell. And then been rejected by the Devil for looking too much like hell, and sent back to earth.
"You look like hell," She finally added, cheerfully.
"Shut it. It's for me, you bum. Stay away from me coffee, an' stay drunk then. It's freezing in here. Why's it SO bloody COLD?" He asked that way louder than anticipated, and the bartender nearly spilled the coffee on the table. They were coughed on for a tip, for their time and troubles. "I'll take care...of...takin' care of things. Right now. With the...sod it, I don't care, I'm drinking me coffee. An' I feel like it. I told you. Dying. You should've believed me. An' guess what? I don' care anymore."
He cupped his hands around the hot cup and sighed in a contented way, eyes half closed and eyes rolled up. It was that expression like he was having approximately ten seconds of bliss, before everything crumbled and the world shit on his parade again.
"S'cold because you're ... you know .. dying, apparently." Dom pointed at him like yes, him, he was dying. Apparently. There wasn't any proof of it besides how he looked, but he'd said that wasn't going to kill him, so...
Her bottle of Whisky was empty, and she looked down into it like maybe if she peered into the bottle correctly she'd find some more in there. Sadly, that was never going to work, and she eventually plopped the bottle back onto the table and watched him snuggle up to his coffee cup.
"Awwwwwwwww."
"Wot're you awwwwwwwww'ing about," he griped, openly. His lips pouted momentarily around his now lone cigarette, and Pete was looking pale and sweaty...and like he really had made out with a lorry that was moving at high speed. "Of course I'm dyin'. When 'ave I lied t'you before? I may 'ave selectively not an...answered things. But that's not lyin'...that's...'old on."
The cigarette was ruthlessly ground out on the table top. If the bartender was watching? Pete didn't care.
"...where was I? Unlying by...the untelling of things. Right. There. You know wot that's like. Don't you? O'course you do. Cos...b'cos you're you, an' that's a good thing...b'cos...you shoot stuff really, reeeeeeally well."
Both hands brought the coffee cup up to his face and he smushed a cheek against the side of it, careful not to spill it.
"It's like ... Plausa ..." Dom squinted, like the words were in her head somewhere, but all words, generally, were swimming around in a litre of alcohol now and it was impossible to fish for the right ones, "Plausible ... deny... thing. S'not lying, because we're ... thing, it begins with an o."
The coffee smelled good, and she pondered ordering one for herself. She was actually a little worried that if they kept on like this she'd have to dial 911 and then toss Pete into the back of an ambulance while he snarled at her and threatened to kill her, but she hoped it didn't come to that.
"... you really are dying, aren't ... aren't you?"
"Deniability, luv, denia...bill...tees." One eye peeked open at her, then the other, and his eyebrows went all angry for a few seconds, like she either said something wrong, or he was trying to figure something out. "Wot? Probably. Wot's it matter? Have t'go sometime. I'm 'appy with sooner rather than later. I 'ave the plague or summat. That frankenstein doctor who stole me dee-en-ay said some weird things. I don' care. I'm tired of living. It's shite. Other than shooting things, drinkin', smoking, cursing a lot, an'...an' yelling at people who need t'be yelled at."
He paused a moment, rolling his lips over the cup to warm them up, and murmured drowsily, "Wot o word? Orgasm?"
"No, not ... well that's a nice word, but it's not... you know, not the one I was looking for. Omit? Like, fancy word, for not saying things." Dom waved a hand in the air like whatever the word, it wasn't really coming to her. Then she pointed a finger at him that swayed back and forth in the air some.
"That's the point of living, is shooting things, drinkin', smokin', and cursing lots. That's a good life!"
"Ya mean 'omission' or wot?" asked Pete, before taking a very brief sip of coffee. It was spit right back into the cup, as he reached for the second bottle, poured a splash of whiskey into the coffee, and started drinking. There went that stab at sobriety. He pointed back at her while taking a much longer drink of his coffee, that time. Once he was finished, he said, "No it's not. Life is shite. It's tedious. It's okay t'lose a lung now. I'm about ready t'cough up one, very soon. Me chest feels like lead weights. Means I'm doin' a bang up job speeding things along, s'wot that means."
Dom slapped her hand on the table, "THAT'S the word. That there. Omission!"
She pointed at him again, like he was brilliant for remembering words that she'd forgotten, then sighed at him, and flopped onto the bench she'd been sitting on, completely. Head under the table and now resting on the booth, and she was grateful now that she'd cleaned the sticky up off of it before she'd sat down, because her hair would be sticking to it now.
From her position under the table where she couldn't see him at all, she stared up at the ceiling of the bar, "S'not okay to lose a lung you stupid ... idiotic... fatalistic... bastard... man."
Pete had watched her disappearing behind the table, which was the precise reason that as she was calling him a bastard man, he held one hand in a fist under the table, between his legs, and made a jerking off motion with it. All while he sipped at his spiked coffee.
He was hoping she didn't shoot him in the groin. Or, maybe, he was hoping she would. He was pretty sure that sort of wound would bleed out pretty quickly. And what better time than the present, when he was full of liquor and too discombobulated to care!
She wasn't going to shoot him. Instead she watched him make that hand gesture, then moved her hand back above the table and flipped him off with it.
Pete nearly choked on the coffee he was drinking, and his index and middle finger went up, under the table, right back at her.
Down went the now empty cup onto the table, knocking against the surface more than once, as to get her attention.
"Neeeena, I don't want t'sleep in the back of your caaaaaaahhhrrrr...let me sleep in yer showerrr." It seemed like a good idea at the time. So he's going with it.
"Peeeeeeeete, you're gonna puuuuuuuke in it..."
"Would ya rather that I puked on yer floor?" Hey, he thought that was a good point.
That was a very good point, "... fiiine... but ... but... you gotta drag yourself there... can't carry your ass..."
She wasn't even sure she'd be able to find her BED.
"I can walk. Oh. You know wot else? I can drive."
Oh sweet bajeezus.
"... s'like you're tryin' to kill me." Dom snerked. She was still lying on her back on the bench.
"Right. I'm taking you with me." The coffee had at least, hit his system. Small saving grace that was. Only probably maybe possibly not. "Huzzah. Not dyin' alone."
Reaching into his pockets, he took out his phone and some money from his wallet, throwing down some American currency, something from China, and a few European notes. That ought to cover...various costs around part of the globe, at least! Brilliant. He fumbled with the phone and pulled himself up over the table, while shoving his wallet back into a pocket.
He'd poke her and see if she was ready to go, and then call a cabbie. Even he knew that driving right now, was probably not happening. He felt sluggish already. The reaction timing was totally out of whack.
Pete also had a split second of wanting to drunk dial Kitty but he didn't even know her number, and that would've gone over not so well. In fact, he was sure she'd just hang up, and why cause more misery when there was an overabundance of misery there to begin with? Why ruin the buzz.
"Neena...hey, Neena? I'm goin' t'call a cab. We can prop each other up on the way out, all right? All...is that all right?" He began to poke angrily at his phone while talking, his upper body entirely up on the table, while he tried to wrangle with a cellphone that he'd just as soon shoot than figure out the address book or how to look up things on it.
"Hey ... hey Pete... it wouldn't be so bad, you know. Going with you. It's a better way than some of the alternatives," Dom rambled drunkenly to herself, from her cozy little bench bed. She was cuddled up on the thing at this point, and had almost decided she was just going to spend the night right there.
But he was jabbing keys on a cellphone to call a cab, with such fervour that she could almost actually hear him hitting the keys from where she was curled up. So she raised her hand up above the table again, and gave him a thumbs up, "I can totally walk ... just... 5 more minutes."
Drunk dialing Kitty would probably be one of those things that Dom would agree was a mistake, if she was consulted about it. She slooowly started moving into an upright position, then squinted at the various notes on the table and picked up one of the chinese ones. Because it was pretty, and she was helping him to not overpay.
Good thing he doesn't have her number! If he was sober, he wouldn't dream of doing that anyway. Because he knows how fickle a girl she is and her heart is an ice rink.
"...five minutes...right....you...cabbie? We need one," he snapped into the phone, managing to somehow just sound sober enough to say the address. "Now. Right now. I SAID RIGHT NOW? WOT PART OF...I can't wait ten minutes, wot if there's ninjas? Well there could be. You don't know that. You know wot? Send the cabbie, or I'll send ninjas. Yes, after you, who else would I send them to? ...wot? Are you related to Fat Bastard? You sound related. Ohhhh, you're offended now. Well it's not glandular and you're not big boned. How long. HOW. LONG? Five minutes? Fine then."
He all but threw the phone back into his pocket and tried to climb across the table toward her.
"They're on their way," Pete reassured her. "I might piss meself but...that's all right...you can hold me up when that happens."
"M'not sure anyone would know the difference," Dom drunkenly teased him, then patted his arm like it was totally okay right now that he might piss himself,and she had his back and would help hold him up while he did it. Because that's what friends were for. To get drunk with, then hold each other up while peeing their pants.
Precisely! And down he went, almost face first, into the booth, next to her. His legs were even up over the table, but his feet were trying, slowly, like a sloth, to propel him the rest of the way, so he could sit next to her.
"Drag me out, would you...if I can never move again. Leave me by the lane, on the pavement..."
It was probably like sitting next to a space heater.
Because someone shouldn't have been going to meetings, drinking, or smoking. Wonder who that someone is.
Pete thinks it's not him. Sure, Pete. Sure.
It was entirely like sitting next to a space heater.
Dom was really concerned about that. So concerned she flopped against him, because he was nice and warm. That's how she showed concerned, by allowing herself to cuddle up against things carrying germs.
"I'll drag you... all the way to the damn car... because I can. Probably."
"Oh reeaa...oh," Pete managed to say, blinking profusely at the cuddle. That hadn't happened since...that someone he wasn't thinking about, except he sort of was. Even as one arm was slipping around Dom's shoulders and he rested his chin on top of her head. Because, for him, it was in reverse. He was freezing and she was warm, and that was enough for him to stick to her like metaphorical glue.
Or actual glue, because he did have a little fever sweat on his forehead. It might be sticky, so that's factual glue-ishness of a sort.
"I don't think you can. And it's no time t'say that I'll race you," he grumbled, keeping one eye peeked open now and then, to see if the car was there. He didn't seem willing to move. Too comfortable.
Somewhere in the recesses of her drunken mind, Dom decided that Pete could even sleep on her bed if he needed to, and she could just wash all the sheets later. Or more likely, she'd throw him on the bed, if she could, because he'd complain about not being in the shower, but fuck it, he was sick and sweating all over her, and he was sleeping on a bed.
If they moved at all, because she wasn't too keen on the idea of moving, either. The hangover was going to be epic, and people were going to be by her shop tomorrow, too. There went professionalism out the door. She didn't even kiss it goodbye as it left.
"Don't want t'race you anyway... hate losing." She mumbled, when she finally registered that he'd said something.
"Pfft, at least you know you'd lose," he was murmuring drowsily, finding it hard to keep his eyes open, but somehow managing all the same. If worse came to worse, he would try to pry his eyelids open with toothpicks, like A Clockwork Orange. And then he remembered he was going to have to break the comfortableness, which was always all too fleeting in his life anyway. "Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiite. Me bag's in the car. I have t'go get it. Here, you stay here...I'll crawl...uhh...I'll roll o'er you...don't move..."
And there he went, trying to move between her and the table, with one arm around her still, a moving space heater. He wasn't very successful at it.
In fact, Pete nearly headbutted her at one point, then put a hand on her forehead to protect it. What? He's got two hands. They still work, correctly. For the most part. It's providing a buffer.
"... can move out of the way if that'd... be easier, you know, m'not a fucking invalid or... things," Dom mumbled, sleepily. Walking space heater of comfortable warmness was leaving, and she sounded halfway annoyed that it was, but if Pete had to get his bag, then he had to get his bag, and it's not like they were spending the night there on the bar bench. It would have had to have happened at some point.
She decided the best way to handle this was to slip under the table entirely, so as to not be in his way. It was very dark and comfortable down there, despite the fact that it smelled like Pete's feet.
"Jus' tell me when the cab's here."
He was really going to have to change those socks at some point. And maybe, you know, launder them. It wouldn't be surprised if his clothes were white and all the grime and soot and smoke and dirt had rendered them black.
"I'll yell for you." And that was interesting, having her get out of the way like that. Not that he could complain. It was interesting and slidey. Too bad he hadn't had time or the energy to shower that day. She was going to have to burn those sheets.
Out of the booth he went, staggering for the door. Just then the taxi pulled in, and he bellowed, loudly, "CABBIE! HERE! NOW!"
That was followed by a lot of coughing, as he ran almost sideways out the door. Rather, he thought he was running. It was more like a cross between a drunken saunter and exceptionally bad 80's dancing.
"You wait right there! WAIT! You're for us...urchhh..." He sounded like he was spitting out a piece of his lung, right there, by the thoroughly wrecked car he was getting his bag...and foldy lawn chair...out of. Oh hells to the no, drunk Pete dictates that he's not leaving the lawnchair. He'll leave the car there as abandoned though, because he decided - while intoxicated - that it was time for his trade in. He was going to make it as inconvenient as possible.
And also drag himself and his bag and his lawnchair to the taxi. Maybe he can be convinced to leave the lawnchair behind. Maybe.
Pete bellowed, but it sounded more like he was talking in slow motion. Really, really slow motion. From under the bar table, Dom wondered if he really meant now, and decided that maybe he didn't mean now, because right now she was half cat-napping on the floor of a bar.
When she remembered this night, if she remembered this night, she was probably going to scrub herself down with lava soap. And burn her sheets. And shampoo her carpeting, because vacuuming wouldn't really be enough.
After what felt like a few minutes but was probably more likely a few seconds, she slooowly crawled out from under the table. Deciding it was just a better idea for everyone if she didn't try to stand just yet, she continued slowly crawling on all fours towards the door, and oh gods was that sticky 5 year old beer on her hands? This place was disgusting!
But made really good french fries.
She hit the door with her shoulder, then slooowly crawled herself UP the doorframe and held onto it for a second before deciding that walking upright wasn't that hard after all. Then she made her way to the cab, and squinted at Pete and his belongings, "What's with the lawnchair?"
"It's me bed. It's foldy. You unfold it and sleep on it," he explained, like he shouldn't have to explain it, because it made perfect sense. "I'm not going t'move and not take me furnishings with me."
Because he stole it fair and square from the pool. That's why.
And just to make sure, as he was throwing it into the back of the cab and trying to lean-help her inside after it, "You do have a bed, don't you? Or is it a mattress on the floor? B'cos I had one of those. Once. Last year. Before I set it on fire."
"I have the bestest bed," Dom said, while climbing into the cab and rearranging the folding chair so her legs would fit, still, "It's got... it's got springs and padding and more padding and is cuddly and ... warm and soft."
She couldn't extol the virtues of her bed enough. It was the best bed ever, which was ideal since there weren't a lot of other furnishings in the house that could be used as one.
"You should buy a bed, Wisdom and then ... and then not set it on fire."
"Feck it. Too hard t'keep moving and wot's it matter? You can't take it all with you, I'll 'ave you know. This isn't Egypt. You don't get buried with it."
He got into the cab, nearly sitting in her lap, as he closed the door. He squiggled off her leg and turned in toward her, smushed one side of his face against her shoulder and put an arm around her waist. He was too smashed and feeling like crap, to care about arm's length right now. The good thing was, he knew Dom would feel the same way that arm's length was probably better, in the morning.
Hell, by the time they woke up, with him in her shower and her in her bed, they probably would have forgotten about everything they'd said or done.
"You'd better...mmm....tell the bastard the address," he said, while trying not to cough anywhere near her. "I need your shower. And a pillow. An' probably the toilet. Because I might actually puke again."
Why not? He'd done that about three times that week, already. Might as well go for four!
"Nuh uh, got it in my will. Cremating the bed with my ashes, burying with it. Gonna sleep eternally with this bed. 'Cause it's the best bed in the world, and ... I love my bed."
She flopped against him like he was flopped against her, not caring too much right now about personal space, because of drunken reasons. He was completely right about how they'd handle this in the morning, which was yet another of the reasons he was such a great friend.
She mumbled the address to the Cabbie, and then grunted at Pete a few times in acknowledgement of what he was saying, with her eyes mostly shut.
It was after a long moment, with his own eyes closed and trying to ignore the headspins, that Pete asked, "You're not going t'let me sleep in your shower, are you."
It was like he knew, already, that she was going to drag him to her couch or the floor or something better than that, but further away from where things like the toilet were.
"I'm not ... no," came the sleepy reply.
"Damn you." He reached up with one hand, pressed it against the other side of her face, tipped his head up enough to give her a peck on the cheek, and then flopped back down like a fever-heated rag doll, against her. "I 'ope you 'ave extra blankets."
Or better yet, a duvet. Because it's not a comforter or the likes, it's a duvet.
"S'alright, we'll get it sorted when we get there." Cheek-kisses were absolutely fine at this point, "You'll get epic sleep, it'll be fiiine."
One of her hands found one of his knees and patted it gently, then she decided it was probably a good idea if she put an arm around him for support. Because otherwise he was likely to fall all over her. And not because she had feels at all.
Those aren't called feels. Those are called sucking chest wounds. Pete Wisdom doesn't have feels, especially when he is drunk and possibly disorderly. He has several, very horrible, incredibly nasty sucking chest wounds. They aren't treatable. They can also get very messy.
That's probably why he was feeling just miserable enough to wrap both of his arms around her waist, bury his face against the side of her neck, and start leaning against her. Because back seats of cabs and other vehicles are for snuggling in. In secret. Except for the drivers, who get told off if they're looking too long. Or paid to simply turn a corner, get out, and wait for people to finish. But that's a story for another time.
Right now, Professor W has other stories, which are basically drunken mumble talking.
"Oh, you sound so certain of that. I thought I told you that I was dieee---" He swallowed a cough that had his whole body jerk from the effort. "---ing. How's that me bein' fine, then? Bloody liar. Dirty girl. You're goin' t'hell."
Snuggling in, Dom was too tired to argue with him too much about it. She nodded her head at him and then said in a very conciliatory tone, "I'm going to hell, I'm such a mean... mean... horrible person, mocking you when you're dying like that."
If she could see his face, it would have a wide, sloppy smirk smeared across the lower half of it. It wasn't one of those mirthful sorts of smirks either, but more of the shit-eating asshat variety.
"Ohh, I do so like being right," he coo'd in a semi-sarcastic sort of way, "say it some more. If you don't want to say it, simply mock me some more."
"You're so very right, Wisdom... about every damn thing ... even that theory that the public utilities are brainwashing us with chemicals in our bathwater." Dom giggled.
"That's true, though. And fluorides. It causes a gland in your brain t'become calcified, and that's precisely how the government an' Ikea are working in tandem, t'get everyone nice an' complacent. And living in a three foot by three foot box, with a Ikea vase as a piss pot."
The sad fact of that drunken murmured conspiracy theory, is that Pete says it's true and he has documents that back up at least the calcification part. He hasn't been able to get Ikea to stumble yet, but when they do, he's going to be there to witness the fall, if not help be an instrument of their demise.
"Are we there yet...bloody hell, you're warm. Why didn't I use you as a bed warmer b'fore?"
"Because reasons," she replied, in a half-mumble whisper. She was going to fall asleep at this rate, because he was totally a bed warmer, too. And men usually were, even when they weren't feverish. Now he was an uber bed warmer.
Dom never wanted to witness the day that Ikea stumbled. She loved their cheap furniture, which often had very clean lines to it.
It was all designed to fit into smaller and smaller boxes to live in. That's why Pete hated it. Because it was part of the New World Order designed to turn every common citizen into a lemming.
"Feck the reasons...for right now. It might be nice t'sleep in a real bed again." He had to turn his head and cover his mouth with his arm to cough, and laid in angrily, "Are we there yet...or are you takin' the long way 'round? She's just about got a lawn chair shoved up 'er bum, an' you're faffing about. Move yer arse. Or we'll synchronised puke in the back of your cab."
Romance. Smushiness. Tact. These were three things that Pete Wisdom did not have.
The cab eventually pulled into a modest looking complex of apartments, and then pulled up alongside of the building that Dom lived in. He quoted Pete the fare, which was probably exorbitantly high for the amount of time they'd actually been driving.
It was likely that he padded the bill for having to deal with Pete's delightful personality.
Dom reached into her jacket with her spare arm and shuffled her hand around in it until she found some folded 20's, then handed them over, "Yay, pookie bear, we're home."
"Oh, you...dirty, dirty fecker. That's got t'be more...wot is that, London fare? Is that wot that is? I bloody swear, that you will be meeting the business end of me foot against your arse. That's ridiculous. C'mon, luv, do us a favor an' lets exit the vehicle now."
In fact, Pete started moving out of the cab, grabbing his bag with one hand while pointing with the other. Accusingly. At the driver. Like he had an eye on him. Nevermind. Then he was pointing at Dom. Like how could she?
"That's bloody well over-inflated. Arse. Give him thirty at the most, an' he can keep the lawnchair. Leave the chair." Pete was out of the car, holding the door open for her, but he leaned in, and said in a totally shitty but still raspy way to the driver, "You're welcome."
How could she? Because it was funny, is how could she. Or why. Or ... things that made more sense. At Pete's declaration, she snatched back one of the 20's from the cabbie's hand, who was mostly just staring at the two of them like he really wished they never got in his cab again.
As she crawled out of the car, she kicked the lawn chair a bit, then ducked her head back in and said "Merry Christmas!" to the cabbie. Because they were leaving him a magnificent christmas gift in the way of a lawn chair.
After she stumbled onto the curb, she got out her keys and jingled them in the air a bit, for no apparent reason other than the sound of their chiming amused her, and started heading in the direction of her apartment. It was on the second floor, but thankfully the stairs were side and had a very sturdy handrail.
It was one of those nice dual-colored, mostly plastic and some aluminum types. Circa 1989. Blue and white. Though the white was already looking a bit off color thanks to being smoked all over. Enjoy, mister taxi man!
He followed her the whole way, dragging the bag by the strap, and trying to keep a close eye on her. Not to watch her bum or anything, because that would be untoward. He was using her as a focus point, so he could find his way up the stairs without wavering.
Fine. He was using her bum as a focus point to find his way up the stairs without wavering. But no one's going to know. Except her bum. That was right there, practically staring back at him. With no knickers on or anything. Maybe. Though he was also thinking about knickers that had skulls on them and were purple, now being worn by someone in another country. And that made Pete say 'Ha!' outloud, at the mere thought. He quickly covered that up with some coughing, which he made sound like 'ha' as much as possible, all the way to her front door.
Dom had this feeling like Wisdom was finding something to be extremely funny back there, though she wasn't sure if that was just him coughing or not. If she was sober, she'd probably be a little less easy to fool with a trick like that. Right now, though, she just wanted to find whichever damn key it was that opened up her apartment, and get the door open.
Which she finally managed, after the third key try, huzzah! Then she pushed it open and barreled through it, only to stumble a bit into the opening hallway. Thank goodness she didn't have any furniture there to trip over.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," She said, with a drunken flourish, while turning the lights on, "Welcome to my abode. There's a bed in here. Somewhere. I think ... I think it's in the back."
"Oh god, that's brilliant." He dragged the bag in, slide it off to one side, and closed the door behind them, leaning against it to lock it up. "Wot? No alarm? I hate apartments. They're useless."
He took her by the hand and headed back to the bedroom, because passing out (and apparently doing so next to her) were the only things on his mind. And he didn't want to waste time.
Say hello to your overnight bed warmer!
You're welcome.