(I love these two together. Slashfic fanfic of fanfic anyone?)
Emma whimpered at the wave of nauseated pain nudging her out of sleep. She snuggled closer to the warm bundle next to her, hoping to snag the few minutes between blackness and memory. Forget waking the boys, she needed sleep. It was the logic of the effort that brought her back to reality.
Against her will, she found her eyes open, and she winced. A soft groan was all she could manage, as the fantastic extent of her hangover overwhelmed her. It was well past dawn, probably closer to midday, and the sun was clawing at the blood vessels behind her eyes. The silence in the room scrapped against the thin lining of her eardrums. Her stomach was dancing a strange, roiling jig. 'Emma…" even her inner voice was listing, "this…is why we don't…uhg…don't drink…"
There was some difficulty in the decision that lay before her. She warred with two, equally hazardous options. She could get up and go to the bathroom, a movement she knew would turn her stomach and screw with her vision, or she could stay right where she was, but she would be sick all over herself.
Always on cue, the bundle beside her opened its eyes, dramatically. Candide raised a cynical eyebrow. "I had no idea you were such a snuggle-bunny, why didn't you—"
She stopped talking, a horrified look on her face. "Oh, you will not throw up on me, Emaline!"
About to respond, Emma choked, swallowed, and snapped her mouth shut. She glared at Candide.
Card night had run late, even by newsgirl standards. In the course of the night, Emma had been prodded into telling the whole story. Not only that, but Candide had gotten her sinfully drunk, and she was fairly sure that Ashers had stolen her spare cigar. It'd been an intense night, as other stories had been unleashed, and rumors had spiced everyone's cheep beer.
She was an exceptionally entertaining drunk, this she knew from Spot, but the morning after was rarely worth the effort. Unable to recall the amount of liquor she'd had, it must have been a lot. The last thing Emma remembered, though she was sure the fun had gone on long past that, were Swan's gentle hands lifting her from the unusually comfortable floor. How Candide got into her bed…well, she suspected someone had gotten creative with their bets. She hated when the girls got creative with their bets.
Candide must have had some residual guilt for the result of her beer-toting handiwork on Emma's intolerant stomach, because she hauled her up out of the bed and helped her into the bathroom. She even held back her hair.
"You owe me another lunch." Emma glowered, hoarsly, after last night's dinner had been expelled from her unhappy belly. Candide rolled her eyes. "And possibly a man!" She accused, more vehemently. Candide's smile was conspiratorial, and Emma found her anger dispelled by the girl's good nature. She returned the smile, shakily, with half a mind tuned to the meeting she was so late for.
"Come on, Candie, I'll call it even if you'll help me get out of here…and re-learn how to walk…"
After pulling on a set of clothes, Emma allowed her friend to tie back her curls, while she scrubbed her teeth with a finger and checked her skirt for remaining cigars. They were all gone. Candide's fingers were gentle, and Emma, finished with her half-hearted preening, studied the dark features behind her in the small mirror.
Candide tucked the last pin into Emma's hair, giving it a sisterly tap, and turning the girl around to face her. There was an honest look of communication passed between them, before Emma sighed, shaking her head, and hugged her friend.
Candid returned the affection for a moment before she shoo'd Emma from the dorm room.
(Reviewit, dammit, Janet!)