Author's Notes: You guys are seriously the nicest reviewers ever. All your comments are so sweet – it makes me super happy! I promise I'll get back on responding to your reviews soon! And I'm really sorry about the time I took finishing this chapter. It's just . . . I'm so sorry. D:

(Also, you know, don't ever hesitate to drop a critique in my review box. That would be equally wonderful.)


The setting sun slants light through his blinds, and he squints his eye against the uneven glare. He's thrown sideways over his bed, an opened copy of Julius Caesar beside him, his pen scratching fruitlessly at a half-filled page of English notes.

He's never been very good at English. It's too subjective, too open to interpretation. He prefers the even, strict guidelines that govern math and science. There's only one real answer, only one way to be marked or graded (barring some theoretical physics and the determination of the formation of RNA chains, but to digress). And here he is, attempting to make sense of a play written before he was born, and relating it to whatever the theme is that's scrawled at the top of his assignment sheet.

He hasn't seen the team in a while. Not altogether, not really. Conner's taken to staying with him, sometimes, now that he and Raquel have both walked. He doesn't think it'll last, not really, because he knows they won't be able to stay away. They crave the structure, the teamwork, the feeling of purpose and trust and being a part of something bigger than themselves. He can remember, vaguely, when he used to feel like that too.

The doorbell rings, and he rolls over onto his side, squinting at the clock in the rapidly darkening room. 5:30.

It feels later, for some reason, and he rolls up towards the door, speeding a little bit (for convenience sake), towards the front hall. When he's finally staring into the evening air, the face that peers back at him, silhouetted by the flickering streetlights, isn't one he'd been expecting.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, with genuine surprise.

"Nice to see you too," his friend responds, gently pushing his way through the entryway and towards the kitchen. He watches him glide smoothly into shadow in the windowless hall, and doesn't bother attempting to apologize. "Don't you guys have some sort of . . . group thing going on tonight? Or at least a . . . something else thing, with Zatanna?"

"Where are your parents?" The flicker of the kitchen lights illuminate a crown of glossy black. He's taller now.

He shrugs, used to the way his questions are tossed aside. "They went skating with some friends."

"And they just left you here alone tonight?" He's already at home, leaning, casual, against the countertop, as one hand rummages through his glass cupboard. The extra inches are disconcerting – he used to be able to rest his elbow on his friend's shoulder (mood-permitting, of course) – but now they're almost the same height. As the hand emerges from the depths of the cabinet, he remembers the way they used to hop on the countertop to grab their cups.

Maybe he's gotten taller too.

"I told them I had plans with some friends tonight. What are you looking for?" He groans when one hand opens, triumphant, with the little golden opener nestled smugly in his palm. "How did you even know where that was? My dad moved it after that incident last Easter."

"Figured he would." The explanation is more than he expects to get, so he shakes his head and seats himself at the table, opening a wrinkled paper bag covered in pictures of half-naked men from Hollister. "Is there something you want to tell me Rob?" His friend makes a non-committal noise as he deftly plucks a glass from the forefront of a long line of tall-stemmed drinking receptacles. "I won't judge, I promise."

"His name is Zachary."

He nearly sweeps the bag onto the floor with a surprised brush of his arm.

"Are you serious?" He shuffles, a little awkwardly, as his raven-haired friend turns towards him, eyebrow arched over the dense black obscuring his eyes. "I thought you said you wouldn't judge?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, it's totally cool, I just . . . what about Zatanna?"

He nods absentmindedly, glass in hand. "He's her cousin."

"Dude! Her cousin?"

"Getting a little heavy there, Judge Judy."

He brushes aside the comment, incredulous. "And she's okay with this?"

The smirk on his face is far too smug when he responds, "She insisted on it."

He scratches at his hair, the frustration and confusion and slight awkward uncertainty turning his cheeks a very similar shade. "Wow, uh, okay. I just. Uhh," He stutters, unsure how to respond.

"Yeah, I was kind of surprised too. But it's actually pretty sweet. He stays over –"

"Okay." The freckles have disappeared beneath the splotchy red his face has adopted; blended directly with his hair. "That is great and I am So Happy for you and everything, but too much info dude. I mean, okay, yeah."

The cackle that follows is slightly confusing, and he decides he doesn't care enough to pursue its meaning.

"You're not even drunk yet, and you're already red in the face."

He mumbles incoherently, and reaches for the Hollister bag, desperate for a distraction. When his calloused fingers close around the smooth neck, his attention is immediately diverted. He whistles as he pulls a bottle of Schramsberg champagne out of the bag. "What's the occasion?"

The shades slip, low on his friend's nose, as he peers over the lenses in an appropriately derisive fashion. "Do you even know what day today is?"

"Saturday. How'd you get this out of the Bat-fortress?"

"You doubt the ninja magic that I possess?" He walks over, small wine glass cupped delicately in nimble fingers.

"What, I don't get any?"

"Cups? No."

"So we're just going to guzzle expensive wine?"

He snorts. "Please. Like I'd bring you the expensive stuff – you'd never be able to appreciate it. This is barely hundred dollar drink Wall-man. And correction; you are the one who's going to be guzzling. I'm having, maybe, two glasses."

"Can't handle the alcohol?" He laughs.

"Nope." His eyebrows quirk as he pops the cork, the wine spilling perfectly into the glass. "Just wanted to bring the both of us up to the same buzz."

He smiles, and downs half the bottle in one go, wiping the dripping moisture with the back of his hand. "So you came to visit me? Keep me up to date, I guess?"

"Yeah." He takes a deep swig from his glass. "I guess."

He grabs the bottle, sloshing it sloppily. "So how's the team?"

"Good, mostly. I haven't actually talked to a few of them in a while, but I've heard they're holding up pretty well. They've really starting to get their footing and they're thinking about adding some new recruits –"

"What do you mean you haven't talked to them in a while? Bats keeping you busy?"

His friend shrugs. "Not really. I mean, Bats and I have sort of . . . fallen out."

He waves a hand around airily. "So what's been keeping you out of the loop?"

"I've sort of gone the solo route."

He nearly chokes on the mouth of the bottle. "What? Are you serious? So you're off the team?" He shakes his head fervently. "But the team needs a Robin! Who's going to fill the quote for magical ninja kid?"

"Who's filling the quota for super speed ginger?" His eyes drop, and he speeds through. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm not Robin anymore."

The bottle drops to the floor and his friend barely noses it upwards back into his hand before it shatters. "That's impossible. I . . . overheard the Flash talking to the Justice League about Batman and Robin's recent revelation with the Casings jobs."

"'Overheard?'"

"The uhh . . . 'police-scanner' that we built a couple of years ago."

A dark eyebrow is arched over the frames. "It still works? And Batman hasn't cut you off?"

The smile jostles his freckles, as he shrugs mischievously. "I may or may not be piggy-backing on the signal of a friend of mine."

"The frequency changes every week."

"So it does."

He stares, hard, at the thick black plastic and strains to see something besides his own face as the silence becomes strained. "It's kind of rude to wear your shades at the table dude. Besides being stupid, I mean."

Thin fingers reach up for the frames, flitting at the legs as if forgetting that they're there.

Wally isn't sure whether or not he knows, whether he can see, or whether he's just letting him, but he grabs the sunglasses and tosses them on the counter. "Spill."

Blue eyes meet his, steady and defiant. "I can't exist still tied to that leash. I mean, he's still Batman. He's still amazing and impossible. But he's a little bit too . . . not on the same wavelength anymore." Wally nods, remembering the brief looks, the stiff postures and gestures and touches. The arguments he wasn't supposed to hear (and probably wouldn't have if he hadn't figured out some new 'tricks' with that scanner). "And after a while, it got a little bit too tiring to keep having the same 'conversations'."

He shakes his head, raven hair glossy in the light. "So I walked out. Too, I guess." He turns to his friend and the corner of his mouth lifts, slightly. "How's Conner doing?"

"Fine, I guess. He hasn't stayed the last couple of days though, so you might have to get more up-to-date information elsewhere." The empty bottle spins on the table, briefly, when he swats it with the back of his hand, landing on the empty seat beside him. He picks it up and tosses it in the recycling.

"Well, how are you feeling?"

He shakes his head. "Okay, I guess." He actually means it, a little bit, and bright red brows furrow in confusion and wonder. "Yeah. Okay. I mean, ever –"

"Great. Just needed to get the buzz going." His chair tilts on its hind legs and he springs out of the seat, graceful, and tosses Wally's own jacket to him.

"Wait, what is this?" Freckle-dusted knuckles grip the heavy fabric, fingers hooking clumsily into button holes.

Another eyebrow arch over frames he never saw him pick up. "It's your jacket, genius. I thought you told your parents you had plans with some friends tonight?"

"Yeah, well, I was lying."

He smirks. "Well not anymore. Aren't you lucky you have me?" He claps him on the shoulder. "Get your stuff on and let's go."

He almost dawdles, but decides against it. Mostly because it's dangerous to keep Dick bored and annoyed and with too much free time, but in small part because he wants to go. After all, Dick's never let him down before.

Black gloved hands throw open the doors and a small tornado of fresh snow whirls around their feet, instantly soaking the hems of their pants. He wonders if it's the alcohol when he realizes he's shivering, and he turns to the brunet, kicking haphazardly through the drifts at his feet. "Why couldn't we have indoor plans?"


He can hear the pounding beats through the thick soles of his boots – can see, almost, the mass of warm, happy, intoxicated bodies pressed into the small space, heavy and thick with comfort and alcohol and heat. The door Dick walks towards is small and unmarked, but the entire building is spotless, stark white, almost leaking into the ground, pooling at his feet in the high piles of snow. There isn't any doorknob, and it looks almost impossible to open anyway, now that the snow is roughly knee-high; pushed right against the door. His friend reaches a covered hand towards the wall directly beside it, and he thinks for a moment doorbell, of course, but he presses a small nick in one of the bricks in the wall, and the door sinks into the ground, snow and all.

He glances surreptitiously around, wondering whether or not this suspicious building isn't in fact some trap, and he isn't sure if the fact that there's literally no one on the streets (outside the alleyway, anyway), is worrying."Come on." He doesn't turn around, immediately expecting him to follow, and he's a little bit affronted at the implicit expectation of obedience (following anyway), finding himself somewhere the sounds of the outside world have been completely wiped away.

The inside hall is bright and clean and pulsing with the sort of happy music that he's used to hearing at the Cave around the holidays. His parents try, too, to take part in the spirit of things, but their music is classical and slow and soft and (just a little bit) boring; not that he'd ever have the heart to tell them as much. He follows, hands brushing the sides of the narrow walls.

"Wally!"

The voice is bright and clear and reminiscent of days flying through the sky in a smooth alien vessel, chasing the sun.

"Zatanna?" He spins clumsily on a heavily booted foot, nearly knocking into her as she bounds weightlessly over on slender heels. Her hair spins behind her, bouncing in and out of soft, curling waves, obscuring his vision as she circles her arms around his neck for a quick hug.

"Come in! It's been ages since we've talked! How are you?" A hand grabs, quick, at his, pulling him stumbling behind her into a wide, circular room. The stark blankness of the walls almost blinds him, and he closes his eyes, squinting into the space.

"Hey." The voice is deep and gruff, and he turns, surprised at the sound. "So this is where you've been holing up lately?"

Conner smiles, sort of, and gestures to the large white animal at his feet. "Figured I needed someplace for Wolf to hang out too."

He scratches at the back of his head, fingers tangling in strands slick with ice-cold water. "Sorry man. I wouldn't have minded, but there was no way my parents were –"

He stops him with a hand. "Don't worry about it. It's better this way anyway – get a chance to actually keep on top of things out here."

Ginger brows furrow petulantly. "Hey. I was on top of things."

"But you were barely talking to us Wally." When he turns, her mouth is lifted in a mischievous smile, the trail of hair falling from the ends of her fingertips as she releases it.

"I was talking to you guys. As if you'd ever give me a choice."

"Sweet as that is, two or three words does not a conversation make." He turns, betrayed, at the sound of the acrobat's voice. "What? I was definitely having proper conversations with you guys. Kept you up to date, took an interest in your lives, the whole deal!"

He scoffs. "'What's up?' is not taking an interest."

"And you weren't exactly keeping us up to date." She cocks a hip and raises an immaculate brow. 'I. Am. Fine?" He smirks, lashes lowered as he bends to kiss her hand. "Took the words right out of my mouth, angel."

The acrobat and the magician take the transition in stride, welcoming the oddly natural return their speedster has made to his original trade; flirt and all around man-about-town. Sunglasses catch his eyes as they flash in front of the open surprise on Superboy's face, nearly stepping into his line of vision quickly enough for him to miss it.

"My boys are back!"

He's lifted without warning, limbs floating awkwardly in the energy as both he and Conner are lifted unceremoniously from the restraints of gravity, and crushed together in a smothering embrace, with the excited girl propelling towards them.

The soft jangling of her earrings as she moves makes him laugh.

"Raquel! What's up – I mean, how have you been doing? I am deeply interested in the events that have been occurring in your life."

She smiles, bemused, as she lowers them gently onto the plush white carpet.

"Five out of ten for effort!" A laughing voice calls, perched on the couch, sunglasses dangling from one hand, the other outstretch in the direction of the blinded acrobat.

"A solid two. The sarcasm was a little too thick, I think, for this performance."

"That was a solid eight at least, guys!" A pillow is propelled towards a stiff back, and he's flipped over it, eyes still casually shut. It hits her in the face, and she drops the glasses. They're over his eyes again before they hit the floor, and he's composed enough to throw out a casual question. "So, where's Zachy, Zee?"

"I've been good, THANK YOU VERY MUCH." Raquel's voice is projected, claiming attention and attempting to block out the giggling emanating from the other side of the room. "Been going back to doing what I was pretty much doing before I even met you guys."

"Been catching baddies left and right, huh?" The words are half wistful, half excited, but she notices the way his eyes grow flat in his face. "Yeah. Same old, same old. Anyway, what have you guys been up to since last I got you off your lazy asses?"

Conner snorts. "My ass and I were doing perfectly fine on the couch, thank you."

"Just school, stuff, you know." Wally interjects, shoulders shrugging in the universal gesture of 'nothing much'. She laughs. "It's hardly 'nothing much', Wally. You're on your first year of University."

He groans, head dropping into his arms. "Don't remind me. After the general degree, I'm not even sure what program I really want to be going into."

Dick turns, the bright white reflection on his lenses blanking out half his face, making him appear, disconcertingly, as nothing but a nose and mouth. "You've got plenty of time dude."

"Not as much time as you though, junior."

He laughs and turns to Zatanna, including her in this new conversation. "So what do you guys feel like doing tonight? We could stay in here if you want, this room is pretty outtense if you're looking to spend the night in style."

"I'm getting blinded just sitting in here. And I'm pretty sure I tried to sit on Wolf at least three times." Raquel quirks an eyebrow at the animal, slumbering peaceful and still against Superboy, who's already leaning back against a fuzzy white beanbag chair, the lines between the two indistinct.

"Just check this out guys, we can get a livestream of the square in here." He walks to a hinge on one side of the wall, flipping it open to reveal a full circuit board complete with toggle switches and an unnecessary number of blinking lights. The room dims, and the walls and ceiling are projected with the images of Times Square, already crowded with people and streamers and the blinking of obnoxiously festive lights. The roar of the crowd is muted, subdued; like incomprehensible lyrics put to a background of slow Christmas ballads. It's surprisingly cozy.

"Sorry guys, I can't. M'gann's waiting for me down there." Conner's already standing, hands brushing white strands of fur (from the carpet or the chair or Wolf, no one can guess). "I promised we'd spend the night watching the ball go up or whatever it is."

"That's fine." Zatanna's hair is flipped over her shoulder as she moves, too. "Zachary is waiting for us. He said he'd meet us before the countdown. And he said he'd bring us those really good Christmas dogs from that one street vendor we like."

Wally perks up, the promise of food already too tempting to resist. "What exactly qualifies them as 'Christmas' dogs?"

"We're eating them over the holidays?" She tries.

"But Christmas is already over." She slaps his arm playfully. "I'm eating yours if you're going to be like that."

"Or you could give it to me, this sounds like some quality epicurean adventure right here." She laughs, a soft chime. "I'll tell him to buy out the cart then."

Raquel stretches her arms over her head, muscles straining against the tight white stitches of her reindeer Christmas sweater. "Well, looks like things have been decided. Wally, since all these other lovebirds are all pairing off, you're my designated wingman tonight."

He snorts. "How much game are you expecting to score tonight? You know it's just going to be couples."

"Then you're my date for tonight if all else fails," she smiles, winking.

His laugh is full bodied and warm. "Great. You sure know how to make a man feel like second best."

"Well, first choice would have been one of those solid chocolate Santas," she starts, trailing off, eyes faraway. He nods sagely, bumping a fist against her casually wound hands. "Mine too."


The square is filled beyond any reasonable capacity, the woolen fibres of scarves and mittens and coat linings occupying every square inch of breathable air. He's inhaling nothing but yarn and down feathers and his own warm breath, still fragrant from the twenty or so Christmas dogs he's already downed (and that have certainly live up to the hype). It's not a bad sensation though; even the awkward tangle of limbs pressed flush against him, jostling him and generally getting into places he'd normally never allow is different somehow. Better. It's like the electric excitement and happiness and shared warmth has somehow changed the boundaries and definition of comfort and enjoyment, just for tonight.

10

Raquel's gloved hand worms its way into his, and without turning, he knows her eyes are shining, upturned, towards the giant glittering ball. It's this last bit of knowledge, of the idea of how well and intimately he knows them, that makes his heart stutter. He knows Conner and M'gann are huddled nearly smack dab in the centre of the crowd, able to get a better vantage point but eschewing it in favour of the authentic experience. He's sure that Dick and the Zataras are somewhere along the edges, just close enough to the crowd to barely be considered a part of it, both drawn into the commotion and still managing to be a separate entity unto themselves. And he's happy, he knows. Happy that he's here with them (even if they're all spread a little thin, just for the moment), and guilty that he hasn't made more of an effort to connect with them. More often.

9

He's been busy of course, but then, they have been too, and he remembers what it was like, trying to juggle so many vastly different aspects of one life. And maybe it isn't fair that he's been placing the burden of their friendship solely on their shoulders. He squeezes her hand, just briefly, and the smile she flashes at him is sweet and happy and more than a momentary glance. It's warm and joyful and so unguarded, so unconscious, and he realizes that it's been ages since he's seen such a natural expression on his friend's faces. He wonders just how long they've had to tiptoe around him, and he thinks that probably isn't fair either. How much has he missed, being so unfocused, so closed?

8

The crowd is swelling around him, surging upwards with baited breath as they huddle together, eyes watching the descent of the shining ball and grasping tightly to loved ones. It's a community feeling that's swirling in the air, floating like the glittering snowflakes that are settling on the ends of his eyelashes. Love and warmth and happiness. And being together.

7

The fingers that aren't clasped with Raquel's are starting to vibrate, keeping the temperature warm and toasty. He can feel the hum, too, that's starting in his boots, shivering as the movement spreads up his legs. It takes him more than a moment to realize that the shaking is in part a result of his excitement, too. It's a feeling that he remembers.

6

The excitement is mounting and he can feel it, almost tangible. He's shouting too now, counting along with the others, his cheeks flushed with the cold, his freckles nearly disappearing. It's nice to lose himself in the moment, he realizes. And then the thoughts stop, and he's being carried on tides of euphoria and breathlessness and anticipation.

5

His shoes tap on the ground, beating out an erratic rhythm, and Raquel is laughing openly beside him, only barely managing to gather enough breath to count the next seconds.

4

The lights of the square flicker as the timer gets closer to zero, and they cast the lights of his friend in a strobe of rainbow light.

3

The year is so close to being over.

2

She squeezes his hand once before she releases it, and his fingers are fumbling briefly in the cold.

1

Hugs and warmth and beautiful lights.

0

And he closes his eyes as the ball pops, sending giant clouds of buffeted confetti towards the revelers, screwing his lids so tightly together that the world explodes in white, and he can see the image of the new year painted over his eyes. A blank, empty, space.

Potential. Possibility.

Hope.


"Be honest," he starts, and his voice is soft and casual, floating over on tides of champagne. "What would you have done if I'd refused to go out with you guys tonight?"

His friend eyes him through his perma-stuck shades, not even squinting in the dim light of the bar. "What would you have done if you'd refused to come?"

He tips the glass in his hands without a single drop of the sparkling liquid spilling onto the polished mirror of the tabletop. "Good point."

The muffled sounds of inebriated celebration and dancing become a full-blown assault on the ears as the velvet curtain is pushed aside, and a glossy curtain of raven hair swings into their field of vision. The flushed magician stumbles gracefully onto Dick's lap, and reaches up with a delicate hand for enough leverage to kiss him. Wally watches, realizing belatedly that he's staring in a way that is none too polite.

"Enjoying the show?" he teases, without looking up.

"We'll be here all week, ladies and gentleman," she declares, as she comes up for air, doffing an imaginary top hat.

"What? But you guys," he stutters. A hand reaches up as he massages one side of his head. "Damn. Give me a couple seconds, I think I've actually overdone it on the alcohol a little."

His friend finally turns, taking a quick inventory of the assorted bottles assembled on the desk. There are nearly a dozen. "It's called being drunk, buddy."

Zatanna's brow furrows, her eyes clearing enough to look concerned. "He's not going to get alcohol poisoning or something, is he?" A quick kiss on the cheek doesn't stop her from starting to look slightly anxious, and he sighs, the breath catching just under her ear. "It's fine. He won't get alcohol poisoning for another dozen bottles." He shifts slightly on the black leather seat, though, and plucks the glass from his friends' humming fingers. "So I guess this is where I cut you off. You should probably head to the washroom. Alcohol runs fast, even in mere mortals such as myself."

He nods, head buzzing. "Right. Thanks. Got it." He's staggering to the curtain, when his head pops up, and he whirls over. "Wait. Wait." An accusing finger is pointed directly at the two brunettes, entwined in each other. "What about this? What about Zachary?"

She watches him, blankly. "He's at the bar. I told the bartender to cut him off though, so there really isn't anything to worry about." She reaches a hand up to ruffle the hair of her warm, human seat. "You won't have to worry about too much clean up in the morning."

"What is going on?"

His friend is far too amused, glancing back and forth between the uncomprehending expression on the faces of both of his friends. He lets it drag on for a moment before granting them the reprieve of an explanation. "Zachary is my new roommate. I was telling you about it before we left, remember?"

He shakes his head. "What? No. Vaguely?"

Zatanna clucks disapprovingly. "Really Wally, you should listen until the end when people are trying to talk to you."

"Listen to my girlfriend, man. She's schooling you in the art of proper etiquette."

He pushes out, groaning. "You guys suck."

The music in the club is loud, but he's sloshed enough for it to be slightly filtered; just a pulsing blend of low bass beats and gyrating bodies. He ambles between couples and friends, trying to carve out the straightest path to the men's washroom. It isn't until he's come up behind M'gann and Conner does he realize that his strategy is flawed.

"Wally!" The words are shouted to be heard, and it takes him a moment to appreciate the fact that it's also echoed in his mind, as though through a thick cotton filter. He turns, eyes squinting through the distracting light show that cuts through the darkness in a series of aggressive, frenzied attacks.

"Megan!" His bladder is throbbing, but he stops to wave in what he assumes is her general direction. It really has been a while since they've spoken to one another.

A hand comes up, resting solidly on his shoulder, and whirls him around. The movement isn't quite conducive for his current predicament.

"Conner! Hey have you seen –" he's cut off by the appearance of the plucky freckled girl behind him, her hair swept up in a messy bun, her customary sweater-skirt ensemble replaced by thick black wool stockings and a bright sweater dress. "Wally!" she tries again, but this time it's quieter and clearer, the smile that's stretched across her face never moving.

"It is you!" He exclaims, and she laughs and claps and throws her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"It's good to see you! I'm sorry I couldn't say hello earlier, but when Conner came to get me you'd all already wandered off!" She looks genuinely contrite for something that really isn't even her fault, and he attempts a soothing pat on the arm, hoping that his current lack of coordination doesn't turn it into something less than friendly. "Don't worry about it, we just all got kind of sidetracked. Sorry though, we should have at least said hi."

She brightens. "Well, you're saying it now!" She almost jumps a little bit, in her excitement, and it's quite frankly adorable. He can't remember when the last time was that he saw her smile so much.

Her eyes turn towards the flashing lights of the dance floor, and she turns to him hopefully. "Dance with me!"

He holds up a hand, smiling and turning to her boyfriend in an appeal for help. "Sure, Megs. Just give me a minute. I was headed to the restrooms and –"

"Come on, M'gann," the low voice cuts in, and she turns to him before the anticipation has even begun to drop from her expression. "I'll dance with you."

Her eyes light up brightly enough to rival the spotlights in the crowd, and he can see her making a conscious effort not to float away with him. He gives Conner a grateful smile, but he isn't looking at him anymore; his world has suddenly shrunk to the slight girl beside him.

He turns away almost a little too quickly, and this time on his single-minded trek, he tries for the path with the least interference.


He swings idly on the stool, legs kicking against the Formica tiles of the bar, one hand wrapped firmly around the handle of a beer mug, the froth of his root beer sloshing slowly over his fingers. His eyes stare, unseeing, at the reflection in the bar mirror, half obscured by dirty glasses. He can see a sludge stain on one, and he hopes the one he's holding was cleaned better than that.

He drops his forehead to the cool tabletop, trying not to moan through the pounding in his brain, and seriously regrets not listening to his friends in the booth the other night after they'd told him to give the alcohol a rest. He can barely string a coherent thought together.

A soft creaking and the squeaky sound of creased vinyl sound from his right, and he turns his head just enough to aim a bleary, bloodshot eye in that direction. A slender figure and light yellow hair are barely visible through his scraggly orange fringe, and he sits up so fast he nearly falls backwards off the seat.

The girl whips around as his arms begin to flail, just ducking successfully as he makes a wide swipe in the general vicinity of her head. "What are you doing?"

Her voice is light and clear and sweet, and it reminds him for a moment of a girl he'd once known in his middle school choir. He'd fawned after her for nearly two years, the entire embarrassing infatuation finally culminating in his being too nervous to wish her a happy birthday one day when he'd been charged with presenting her with the birthday cake. She'd refused to speak to him after that, although from what he'd heard about it, the ordeal of combing frosting out of waist length hair might have made him a bit sour towards someone too.

He raises his head as slowly and stiffly as humanly possible, and bobs apologetically. "I'm sorry. Just – lost my balance."

She smiles knowingly, and shifts so that she's facing him. "Really now?" she laughs. "There are easier ways, you know, to catch someone's attention."

He groans, and deposits his head back onto the tabletop, jerking upwards irritably as she raps her knuckles smartly beside his ear. "Root beer's never really been my go-to hangover quick-fix, but then, you look like you're an expert, so who am I to judge?"

He swats at her still rapping knuckles, his hand clamping down on hers to stop the noise. "I know, I know, it's just. Let me finish this first."

She grabs at his mug, and it's a sign of how bad he is that he isn't fast enough to stop her. "I think you've had quite enough Mr. –?"

"Mwrest," he mumbles.

"Alright then." She pushes the mug to the waitress, and stands, clapping her hands together. "I would direct you to the nearest coffee house, but it doesn't look like you'll be going anywhere on your own." She holds out a hand, and then pushes gently beneath his arm, finally gripping it firmly when he doesn't make any moves. His head lolls wildly about his shoulders.

"Oh my god, are you asleep?"