WHO: Lorne and Spike [yay lack of surnames!] WHERE: The apartments, it's kitchen WHEN: Backdated to earlier in the week (cause I suck). Let's say Wednesday. WHAT: It's Lorne and Spike. I don't think words have been invented yet to describe Rating: TBD, But it is Spike. And I should probably put up a rating for Lorne contemplating getting people drunk. STATUS: closed; incomplete
Lorne putted around the kitchen. A splash here. A lick there. Swish it around. Shake, shake, shake, and he was making himself a drink. And enough for anyone else who might want one. They were going to need it. With all the crazy that was going on around, a strong drink was one of the first remedies that Lorne could think of. He knew some others, but sometime a nice cocktail, or something sweet and fruity just did the soul a world of good.
Then again, that might just be him. Since he couldn't get drunk. However, he felt that a little drunken sleep and the following hangover tended to do humans-and a lot of demons-a world of good. So long as they didn't make it of it. Something about the blinding pain in the glaring, unforgiving sunlight, putting things into perspective. Or so he'd been told.
Not that he thought, for the most part, any of them needed perspective. At least not so far of what he'd seen of Martha and Romana. They seemed to have this entire rodeo running well, despite their initial fear. So did that Doctor fellow. Though Lorne had this distinct feeling that would be one person he didn't want to ask to sing. Ever.
Though there had been some of the others he'd seen milling through the apartments, mindful of the fact that they wouldn't be used to a big green demon in an orange suit, that could use a little loosening up. A nice little hang-over. Lorne wondered if angels or big dumb aliens from Krypton could even get drunk.
He would have to ask around. Dropping an olive into his drink, Lorne gave the kitchen one last sweeping glance. Neater than when he'd arrived.