Pete Wisdom is saving the world...from itself. (mister_wisdom) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-06-11 06:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, neena thurman (domino), pete wisdom |
"Shit, do you have a watch?"
Who: Pete, Domino
What: It's the quasi-awkward morning after these fun happy drinky logs
When: See above. ^
Where: Dom's apt.
Rating: PG13. Language, some breezed over nudity.
Status: Complete!
As the sun broke through the blinds and into Domino's bedroom, she was aware of two things. The first one was that it was possible her head had actually exploded while she slept, brains and all, that's how much it hurt. The second one was that there was something warm and comfy next to her. Too hungover to be arsed with the question of who it was that was the bed warmer, she pulled the blankets over her head and curled up against him, her, or it.
Sunlight was the devil incarnate. That's all there was to that. The amplified effects of a hangover when sunlight was introduced into the equation, was pretty much summed up as nuclear.
Of course, Domino hadn't yet realized what she'd let crawl into bed with her. Probably because the person in question was usually a quiet sleeper. Of the utterly silent sort, because his lungs were probably not going to work for too much longer, such was the beating into submission they'd been given. There was the occasional soft weeze now and again, a sniffle, and the sound of someone shifting around and making grumpy 'mph' noises. The filtered sunlight was hitting his eyelids in all sorts of wrong ways.
All he knew was there was something warm next to him and he'd had the shivers and cold sweats all night long. Which was the precise - and he'll probably say only - reason that he moved in closer to the body next to him. One arm went around her waist and there he went into spooning against someone soft, warm, and he was going to make sure it was female. For even in his state of not yet awakefulness, one warm hand went onto some boob. With a pat. Then his hand rested there. Unmovingly.
If he knew, he would've made some caustic quippy remark. But he does not and he is blissfully quiet.
There were a few cases in which the person putting their hand on her breast like that would have gotten a gun or knife in the face, but this wasn't really any of them. For the most part, she felt like shit and really just didn't care, but also she was (gratefully?) not even naked, so there was a nice layer of clothing protecting her and her naked, germ-free skin from his hand. Which was potentially covered in germs.
Not that she cared about germs right now. Because she so very did not.
She grunted at the contact, either way, and snuggled back in a bit more. She'd never admit it to anyone in a million years, but she was definitely a situationally secret cuddle-whore. She wouldn't even admit it to whoever she was cuddling against now, if they made any mention of it.
The worst thing happened, then, to break up this adorably cuddly scene. The alarm went off.
Startled and not really thinking clearly, Dom pulled a pistol out from under her pillow, and shot at it.
Pete was also a closet cuddle whore. He used to snuggle in for a snooze against Kitty, and before her, Sari had to put up with it. It was simply what he did. He was one of those spoon sleepers, one arm thrown around the waist, didn't move too much at all, unless there was a bad dream that startled him awake.
That was not what startled him awake, this time. His hand was instantly off that glorious warm boob, shoved inside his coat as he sat up, and he had gun in hand and was ready to fire. He was trying to aim at whoever had gotten into...wherever he was...while his skull was thundering like several of those shorty hairy bastards from those walker movies with that ring, were pounding on it with smithing hammers. Fuzzy fuckers.
Of course, that had been enough of a jolt to have his adrenaline pumping, he was breathing heavily, and that caused a bad coughing fit to set in.
Even so, no perps, no axe wielding psychopaths, no zombies. Pete sat there, coughing into his scarf and trying to figure out how the hell he ended up in a place so clean. It simply wasn't registering yet.No one is ever staying the night with either of you. The end.
The alarm was dead, Jim. It had a bullet in it and steam was coming out of it, and Domino sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the alarm with eyes that she wished weren't open, because that was letting light into them. Light hurt.
The gunshot hadn't done anything at all to improve her headache, either, and then a man was sitting up on the bed coughing repeatedly. With a gun out. It was almost pointed in her direction, and it was just lucky for the both of them that she realised, Oh god, Pete Wisdom was in her bed. Because otherwise, she might have felt threatened and shot him, too, just in case.
Instead, she got herself out of the line of fire, by flop-rolling off the bed. She hit the floor, and spread out a bit, and made the decision to just lay there for a bit while Pete lost a lung. On her bed.
Pete didn't roll or lose a lung. That was by some miracle or other, because he sure sounded like he was going to. He turned his head, squinting and coughing as she rolled off the bed in the away direction.
How did that happen? There was the pub. Then something about knickers. And a cabbie. Lawnchair. The rest of it was a blur. It was also too bright and too obnoxious during unhappy hangover times, for Pete to bother trying to piece it together further. He only nodded in her direction, made sure he wasn't in danger of shooting her or anything as he put the gun away, and laid back on the bed, fully dressed, with a rattling sigh.
The bed. It was a really nice bed. He almost didn't want to move but it's not like he wanted to...cause any awkward. So he was giving himself a Pete Wisdom Pep Talk to get himself ready to start vacating. Before things got weird.
But, because she was a...one of those people you spend some free time with more than other people? Those things. And since they'd obviously not had their genetalia introduce themselves to eachother in any way? Pete had to make nice by saying something. He couldn't just grumble and walk out, could he? Of course not.
"Feck you sun an' I want to rip me face off," he growled, before pulling the scarf up over his nose and coughing again. Look! He tried to screen it, at least! Go him.
There were similar thought processes going on in Dom's head, along the lines of they couldn't have slept with each other, right, because they still had clothing on. And if that was true, then what was he doing in her bed, then, which she remembered something about being sleepy in a cab and thinking he was too sick to sleep in her shower. Who sleeps in showers, anyway?
At the moment, though, she kind of wished that he HAD slept in her shower, because it was easier to bleach a shower than it was to bleach her entire bed. God, the germs, and he was still laying in it coughing. Than god she zipped the mattress up into one of those allergy-free things. Hopefully she'd only have to burn her sheets.
"Morning to you too," she finally grunted. All joking in her head - or seriousness about his germs - aside, Pete was a friend, and this was awkward. She hated awkward, and didn't want it to get worse.
She crawled up off the floor, glanced at her dead alarm clock, and sighed, "Shit, do you have a watch? My clock is dead."
Once the coughing had subsided, Pete laid there, his eyes rolling up in his head before he closed his eyelids over them. One arm flopped out and as the sleeve of his coat and jacket rode up, a wristwatch could plainly be seen. Black leather band, silver face. It even has a hand to count seconds on it.
She probably would want to burn the sheets. What he had sounded chunky. He also was laying there, apparently no longer worried about awkward or being awkward, like he'd just expired.
In her bed.
Dead.
"....." went Pete without a flare of his nostrils or a twitch or or a rattle or anything.
She can call out the time of death on his wristwatch. If she wants to.
It's probably not necessary. Just a formality.
Dom looked at him squinty-eyed for a few seconds, then crawled up on the bed and over to where he was laying, like he was dead.
"God damn it, Pete Wisdom, if you are dead in my bed I will NEVER forgive you. Ass." She whacked her fist against his chest in the hopes it would rattle the chest gunk around in a way that would open up his fucking airways. Or at least get a rise out of him.
Oh it did. He had been falling back asleep again. Or it seemed like he was, because he could've had a full resperatory arrest too. It was always possible, where he was concerned. So the precise second that her fist met his chest, he let out a horrible wheeze and drew in a deep breath, followed by a ruthless coughing extravaganza.
"...feck...fecking hell....wot's...wrong with you?" he managed to get out, between a few ribcage rattlers. "Least you...could do...was have a knife...in your hand...you're an arse...abusive one, at that."
Well, there. That settled that. Awkward taken care of.
"Oh I'M an ass? YOU'RE the one dying in my bed! You know how I feel about ... that... germs... bed... DYING." She pointed at him and then poked him with each last point.
When she was done poking at him, she felt his forehead with her hand, and swatted away any attempts on his part to remove it, "Fuck's sake, I'm calling a doctor. You can't go on like this."
Was she serious about calling the doctor? She might have been serious about it. In fact, she got up off the bed and went to find her phone, which was also another convenient way to find out what time it was. Here's her, calling a doctor! Dialing some numbers, even.
He had tried to remove her hand and turn his head, giving her a glare that looked like it might combust people upon visual contact. He didn't think she was serious though. They weren't that kind of coworkers...people who...hang out with one another when you didn't have to worry about them being killed. Those things. Where they don't give you another sucking chest wound, to go with all the other ones that never healed up before.
Or whatever it was that made him sound like he had all of them at once. Oh, pneumonia. Right. Well, no bout of lung fuckery was going to stop him. He had things to do and a new flat to obtain, hopefully on a week-to-week rental basis. And where he wouldn't get woken up with a punch to the chest.
Honestly, Pete didn't think she'd call for a doctor. In fact, he simply drew out a pack of cigarettes from inside his coat, hooked a finger into the scarf to pull it down over his chin, and placed the cigarette between his lips, before he began a pat down for a lighter. A lighter which he didn't seem to be able to find right away, thanks to not wanting to open his eyes, and because he had a hangover and too many damn layers of clothes on, to keep warm.
"Dom....Dom....Dommy, I need some 'elp 'ere," he mutter groaned, in that way that all men do when they are ill and most believe they are on the verge of death. Pete wasn't a whiner, by any means, he was a groaner. At least that took some of the annoyance of females having to listen or deal with him when he was sick. Which wasn't often at all, considering he took care of himself.
Bang up job of that he was doing, so far.
"...Dommy...I lost me lighter...do us a favor...give us a light, would you...?"
"Can't help you with that, sorry. Too busy calling a doctor." Her voice was light, like despite the fact that a man was obviously dying in her bedroom, she really couldn't be arsed with caring. Or perhaps she'd come back around to the idea that he wasn't really dying. It was obvious he was sick with some epic lung thing, though, and she wasn't going to be an enabler. Because they were that thing where it's more than co-workers and less than sucking chest wound inflicting people, which she called friends.
Mainly because she wanted him to get better already and stop yammering on about how his lung flu was going to kill him.
Dom didn't actually know any doctors, though, and wasn't about to call an ambulance, so he was mostly safe for now. She took a look at the time and started stripping out of her clothing, because it was almost time for her to open her shop, and she didn't really care if he watched.
Since they were that thing. You know. Without the sucking chest wounds. He was just one of the guys, to her.
When she wasn't going to help him and mentioned doctors, Pete's head had flopped to one side so he could lob the dirtiest, most vicious glare in his arsenal of glares in her direction. He couldn't help it if he thought friends were a liability, and he had a bad habit of losing friends along the way. Mostly because they died. Or were fed up with him and left. And he couldn't blame them, because of assishness.
Of course, the moment she started stripping, he was kind of watching with the sort of stare that just one of the guys doesn't usually reserve for a sometimes co-worker who isn't a danger of giving anyone sucking chest wounds. Eyebrows raised up and everything. Even the cigarette clamped between his grimly set, pale lips was held outward and upward at attention.
The view of her naked - which should put to rest the argument of whether or not she was lying about going commando - was soon replaced by the view of a tanktop getting thrown directly at his head. Dom had good aim, and the only thing blocking the tank top from landing on his head would be if he reached up a hand to catch or block it.
Not bothering to wait and see if he did, and kind of peeved at the whole 'cigarette stands way waaay up' thing, she marched into her closet to find something to wear that wasn't so bright as to offend her eyes and the extreme headache she still had. And probably would have, all day. She didn't have time to shower, even, and her skin was crawling.
The last thing she needed was Pete Wisdom looking at her like that.
"...tart. You bent it," he finally said from underneath the tanktop that smelled of...her. It wasn't unpleasant, that much was true, but he'd rather be smelling a cigarette and dumping copious amounts of coffee down his throat, hoping and praying that it stayed down. No one liked it when stuff backfired up their esophagus.
His hand landed on his face and he scrunched his fingers on the tanktop, wadding it up and throwing it, so it bounced off her ass. It was a very nice ass, too. He thoroughly enjoyed staring at it. Pete simply wished the headache and hangover were leaving him better equipped to memorize it. He'd probably say so he could take the memory of it to his grave or something, but it was really a pure appreciation moment.
"Nice arse," he grumbled, pushing himself up with his elbows and sliding his feet off the side of the bed. He was used to the hint hint get out while the gettin's good, time to go! signals, and they both had jobs to do. No one else was going to do that for them, so it was up and at 'em.
"Are you going t'run in the loo or can I use it first? I promise not to leave anything on your floor, for you t'feckin' step in."
Yum.
He still had the broken and bent cigarette in his mouth, too. That's even more yum. Simply because he might chew on it if he thinks it would make the hangover go away.
"Like I haven't heard that one before," She quipped, while tossing her shirt on. It wasn't clear if she meant that in reply to the first thing he'd said or the 'nice arse' comment, and she didn't clarify.
Pants were harder. They require hand-eye coordination, which was the sort of thing she didn't have as much of when she was this hung over. She missed the leg a few times, and almost fell flat on her face. Pure stubbornness in the face of the fact that Wisdom would watch her do it and then laugh about it for the rest of his life was the only thing that kept her going.
"Go ahead. I'm going to be late for work, no time for the loo." There'd barely be time for coffee and aspirin, and on a day like this, those two things took priority over peeing. She could do that when she got to work anyway.
"Right, well...don't..." He had almost warned her not to fall over, but since they were on a roll anyway and he'd never let her forget this day anyway, Pete stood up. He wavered once, took two or three steps, and almost had to sit back down. But it was by sheer willpower alone that he passed right by her on the way to the bathroom, and one hand went whap right on her butt cheek, followed by a pat pat.
That's when he used the remains of his energy to run for the bathroom and slam the door, before she shot him.
"Groping WANKER!" She shouted after him, but it was more a teasing tone of voice than an angry one. There was a level of affection underneath the grumpyness that just barely made through, and was generally reserved for people that she didn't have to worry about it being taken the wrong way with.
Though things were kind of getting complicated with Wisdom now, if he was comfortable enough to go groping her ass like that.
Determined not to even bother thinking about that longer than the few seconds she'd taken to spawn the thought to begin with, she headed to her kitchen and pulled the aspirin bottle out of her cabinet. She dumped a few into her hand and just tossed the bottle right into her jacket. She'd probably be out of them by the time she closed up tonight.
Then? She brewed coffee. While laying down on her kitchen floor.
After going to the bathroom, Pete applied his face to her bathroom sink, with a whole lot of hot water. It didn't help his fever any but it certainly made his lungs feel a little less heavy and more compliant with that thing known as breathing. One of her towels was roughly scrubbed over his face as he walked out, or staggered out, of the bathroom.
If it was normal circumstances, he would've followed his nose to the smell of coffee. It wasn't normal circumstances, though. He was kicking his bag along, listlessly, toward the front door. At least he had more color in his face, but that was because of the hot water he'd splashed on it, leaving him a bit red and blotchy looking. Well, the effort of kicking all of his belongings into one bag toward a front door hadn't helped, either.
Once Pete turned into the kitchen and found Domino laying there, he twisted the towel up and thwapped her a good one with it, his lips curled into a smirk under the scarf.
Complications? Pffft. She's the one who started it. It was on her. He was adept at finishing the business, not starting it. Even Kitty had to be the instigator, way back when. He was just doing his job. Which was a.) officer/agent and b.) professional bastard.
"Get up. Move your arse," he grumbled, dropping the towel on her and trying to step around her without stumbling or having to hold himself upright on things. "I'll call for a cabbie...after me skull explodes into several microscopic pieces. Ugh."
"Interrupting Nap Time. Arse." Dom grunted, and pretty much just stayed there on the floor, laying like a piece of dead broccoli for a bit. Why did work have to exist and why did she have to go do it. Life sucked. Hangovers sucked. If Pete ever suggested going on a bender again she was going to bitch him out.
And then probably go do it anyway, because let's face it, the both of them were gluttons for punishment. And he started it with the complications, because he's the one that stared at her while she stripped when he should have just kept laying there like a zombie. Damn it.
She finally pulled herself up off the floor, grabbed the towel, and hit him with it. While making a mental note to also burn that towel, since he'd touched it, she got out a gigantic tankard of a to go cup, and one for him as well. "Call for one now, I have to get out of here. And I'm not leaving you in my apartment unsupervised, that'd be about as stupid as leaving a monkey in here to throw shit at the walls."
"Feck off, really. I only throw shite at me enemies," he grumbled, putting another cigarette between his lips and searching through his pockets for his phone. He glanced over at her while dialing. "Need sugar. Lots of sugar. None of that fake packety bugger cack, because it's full of mind control chemicals an' a byproduct of makin' pool cleaners."
Why'd he have to keep living? He could've died happily, right there on her bed, and that would've been a real way to shake his fist in the air at her. Especially after she hit him with that towel and nearly sent him toppling over sideways at the impact.
"...'ullo? Cab. Yes. At...I don't bloody well know where I am. Thurman. Where...? I can't be arsed. Here." He slammed the phone on the counter, because even saying numbers to a street address made him want to find her silverware drawer and use every piece within, to stab himself in the face. Repeatedly. Until he passed out from shock and blood loss. And made a mess all over her kitchen.
"I know numbers are so hard for you," she snerked at him. The hangover was making her feel snarkier than she was, and at this point the snark also served as a great buffer against the awkwardness the morning had been. She knew he appreciated it, especially when he snarked back.
Of course slamming the phone against the counter like that made her want to stab her OWN face with her silverware, but no, she had to pick the phone up and give the cabbie directions, instead. Because Wisdom wasn't leaving her house, otherwise. And right now it was time to leave.
As to the sugar, "What's sugar? I don't have any of that. It's coffee, not cake batter."
"Sugar. Rots your teeth out," he growled. "I need some. Extra boost, you know. Otherwise I'd drink it black like you are. It's not like I asked for flavored cream is it?"
Snark. If she was still on the phone, then he doesn't care. She can talk over him or hit him, while giving the address. Because it'd save any more awkward. Which..he wasn't feeling all that awkward now, really. The hangover and flu symptoms were taking care of overwriting that.
"Bloody, bloody hell. Cup." He grabbed onto whatever she'd poured his coffee into and started guzzling it, which was the only time he's probably going to be quiet and not mister grumble guts. If it was boiling hot, all the better. That maybe it would offer the sensation of warm from inside out, and even out his bodily thermostat.
She almost tossed his phone right INTO the coffee cup, but instead she put it back on the counter for him.
"You know better than to ask me for flavored cream, yeah. I THOUGHT you knew better than to ask me for sugar. This is ME, Wisdom. I stock coffee, eggs, and liquor. Those are the only three things I know how to handle cooking without burning."
She gulped down some of her tankard of coffee, grabbed her jacket, and put her sunglasses on. "Off we go, then. To the outside, where the burning death ball is."
"Well I knew about the EGGS!" he yelled, then winced immediately, keeping one hand pressed against his forehead as he followed after her, tankard of coffee in hand. "I don't want t'go out there. It'll burn me. To a crisp. Those are those things that you lot call chips but they aren't chips, chips are fries, and you Americans make everything so bloody difficult! It's like you do it all on purpose!"
He grabbed the strap of his bag and waited until she opened the door, and then he was going to proceed to simply drag the bag behind him like a pissed off school boy, being made to go catch the bus when he was trying to fake being sick so he could stay home. Only the sick part wasn't faked. Ooops.
"It's too bright. Give me your girly sunglasses. My eyes will fall out." Bitch, moan, complain. "I'll rub the eyeholes all over you, full of goopy eye juice. And listen to you scream."
Dom winced at the yelling, why did there need to be yelling!? What kind of ass yelled when both of the people in the room were that hung over?
She dragged him out of her apartment and locked up, then dragged him down her stairs, listening to him complain about Americans while she did so, then dragged him out to the curb.
But he wasn't having her sunglasses. That was her last pair! She needed those things. He could fuck off with his goopy eye sockets, and she told him so. "No. Fuck off. Mine. You can't have. Rub your goopy eyes wherever you want."
The temperamental sort of ass that Pete Wisdom was, that's who. It might split his head in two, but he'd yell the minute his temper flared, come hell or high water.
Nevertheless, he was easily draggable all the way down to the curb and easily shovable into a taxi cab. That didn't stop the 2.5 seconds of moody sulking that ensued, followed by coughing and complaining. About everything under the sun. Especially the sun. That thing is getting bitched out.
And he would complain the whole way to the gun shop too, about all things American that annoyed him. And how he'd probably look better in those sunglasses than she would. And how, if he could, he would stab the sun in the face.
So that is the way that day started, as Pete Wisdom went off to find a brand spankin' new flat to live in squalor within, and get some work done.