1 – Caretaker
It's been awhile since Doc Worth has actually taken care of himself, but that's what he has Lamont for, he supposes.
It's nearing that time where it could be too late or too early, depending on how you looked at it or how fast you turned off the lights while opening the blinds, but Worth doesn't really want to think about that kind of deep bullshit right now. He's more concerned about the fact that he can't remember how much he's had to drink tonight and also the fact that he can't remember the last time he couldn't remember how much he had to drink.
It was kind of like inception; A dream seems real only until you realize something's strange about it, you know? And that's how it was, when something clatters to the floor off of the top of one of those rickety and not-quite-a-filing-cabinets in the corner of the shady hack's office.
Worth could've sworn on his mother's grave (speaking of the witch, he didn't even know if she was still alive anymore) that he had been leaning back in his ancient rolling chair, feet propped up on the desk, but now that he was staring at a thick and dusty encyclopedia laying spine-up on the floor, inches from his face, his right palm slick and bloody from where the rusted edge of the filing cabinet had nicked him, and he was doubled over with his left leg sticking straight out behind him for some sort of balance, he wasn't quite sure what was going on anymore.
His world was spinning somewhere near forty-five miles per hour and the whole thing seemed to be on a permanent ninety degree angle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Worth dredged up the fact that someone was laughing. He couldn't be too sure if it was him or not, though it seemed to be, since when he went to take a drag from his bent cigarette, the chuckles stopped and he realized the cancer stick was smoldering on the ground.
"Fuck me, 'Monty. I thin' I jus' teleported." Except, his words were all slurred and he couldn't even decipher his own Australian accent. There was only silence and that freaked Worth out a bit, so he launched himself off the edge of the cabinet and slammed his boney shoulder into the wall, turning so he could see the room. Lamont was just staring at him from his perch on the ratty couch, an amused smile on his face.
"'M serious, 'Monty," but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what he was supposed to be serious about. So instead, he lurched forward again and somehow found himself draped across the Franco-Italian's knees. "'Ey, Mutt. How m'ny dogs c'n'ya fit inna bottle?" Lamont glanced down at him, and before he could ask his friend if that was supposed to be a racist joke, the Aussie broke out into a fit of laughter that was just...so un-Worth-y.
"Alright, Luce. I think that's about enough." And thank god that Lamont was more sober than he should've been, because the night easily could've turned fatally disastrous if it had not been for the larger man's rather solid grip on reality, and, as Worth registered (a few minutes late), the chain smoker's waist. Worth then decided that he didn't really like being tossed over Lamont's shoulder like the bag of bones he was.
But before he could retaliate in a number of violently physical ways (he may be boney, but that came in handy when he wanted to jab a particularly cruel knee or elbow into somebody's side), he was being lowered down and -in a surprisingly gentle fashion, with a meaty, tan palm cushioning his head from hitting the mattress too hard- tucked into his own bed like a small child.
The would-be doctor had to snort at this thought, because, even as a child, he hadn't been small or treated with such care. Somewhere along the lines, his mangy, fur lined lab coat had been discarded, along with his shoes and belt, and by the time Worth was beginning to give in to the blackness around his consciousness, an empty bucket was placed on the floor near his head and the light was being flicked off.
Worth heard the hinges of his bedroom door begin to creak as it swung shut, and that sent him into another panic. With a surge of energy he still didn't know the origins of, he sat up, calling out the only thing that ever really made sense to him. "Lamont!"
The creaking stopped, and the door was pushed open again. The man in question stood in the doorway, a half-formed question dying on his lips. Worth beat him to it. "Git in m'bed." That was more of the hack's attitude. Never would he admit to not wanting to be alone, and he wouldn't just outright ask his friend of god-knows-how-long to stick around, but demands, they seemed to work just fine.
Lamont hesitated in the threshold for a bit, and that's when Worth got pushy. Really, the Franco-Italian should've been used to the Aussie's mood swings when the man was really, really drunk, but he could never get a handle on how unpredictable Worth could be. That was really shown when, in something akin to anger or frustration that Lamont wasn't moving further into the room fast enough, Worth let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a sob. Definitely unpredictable.
Finally, Lamont sighed. "Christ, Luce. Fine. I'll stay, stop being such a chick." As the larger man fell onto his knees on the mattress beside Worth, he mentally grumbled to himself that he was only staying because Worth would re-break his nose tomorrow if he didn't. And as he settled onto his side and curled an arm around his friend's thin waist, he ignored the happy sound that Worth made and chalked the cuddling up to not wanting the Australian to choke on his own vomit in the middle of the night.
It's been awhile since Worth has actually gotten this drunk and needed some supervision, but that's what Lamont stuck around for, he supposes.