This is a response to Skaramooshy's shuffle challenge. I do, in fact, realise that in this drabble Meat is anything but sober, but the idea came to me, and it still deals with drink, so...
Thanks to Werepuppy Black for saying, "Meat's way of grieving would involve going out and getting smashed."
Two pitiful green eyes met the bottom of the shot glass. They blinked slowly, and the owner of the eyes raised her head. She glared at the bartender, who clicked his tongue with an expression that could have been interpreted as either sorrow or pity.
"I'm surprised you're still conscious."
Glare.
"I really shouldn't serve you any more alcohol."
Blink. Glare.
Pop sighed. "Love, drinking yourself into oblivion every night's not going to bring him back." He studied her for a minute. The girl opened her mouth, seemingly about to say something, but she shook her head wordlessly. "It's really not doing you any favours either."
" 'm not here to be lectured." It was a slurred mumble that only one with years of experience of inebriated ramblings could have deciphered. Pop, being one of those, rolled his eyes, and took the shot glass from her.
"Y'know, stops hurtin' after a bit." It was unclear whether she was addressing him or the table. He nodded absently. "Hmm?"
"Yeah." Meat's eyes closed slowly, and a relaxed smile crept across her face. "When I'm asleep. So, maybe … I can just…"
The hollow thunk of her head colliding with the table finished the sentence. Pop shook his head, and smoothed her hair away from her face.
"Sweet dreams, love."