Drunk Text

"Ahhhggh! Pu' me down!" I yell, drumming my free hand against Jamie's lower back.

"Sha'nt!"

I kick, and squirm as much as I can - which isn't much. I wail, and swing the bottle I'm holding, bringing it down as hard as I can against his hip - but I have to be careful not to spill it, so it does no good - "You savage! You thug!"

His grip tightens around my knees, "Och, ath-thug es it? I warned ye, I ded - ah saed ef ye didnae c-com' wi' me, I'd th-throo ye ower m'shoolder an'-"

"You Viking ki'napper! Pu' me down!" I squirm frantically again, and pound on his hip with the bottle.

"Hol' shtill wooman! A'fore ah drop ye!"

Suddenly, the world is funny, and I can't stop giggling, "You c-couldn drop me if you pu' mee downnn."

"No' 'ntil. . . ah sae soo. . ." He swings around a corner, continuing to carry me wherever it is we're going. . .

"Help help!" I giggle delightedly, "'M bein 'ducted by a drunk Scot'ish barbarian!"

Whatever it is I'm laughing at must be contagious, because he starts giggling too, "Yee'r 'peatin' yersel', Sasshenack."

"Ih'm no a s'snack!" I squirm again, descending into helpless laughter, "Ih'm a main course!"

He guffaws at me, and gives me a pat on the thigh, "A'c-coorss ye are. 'S'kuse me."

Finally, he dumps me, sprawling, onto a bench in a hallway I vaguely recognize. With one last squirm I wrench myself into sitting upright - not without some considerable support from the wall, but still. . .

There is a loud rattling sound as Jamie does something to the wall a few meters away. Then he grunts, frustrated, and plops down next to me on the bench. I take a swig from my bottle, grimace, and turn to stare at him.

"Wh-why you pik me up annyway? Wuz havin' fun. . ."

He growls, a bit unsteadily, "Ye wh-wher flirtin' wi' Angus. Wheen yee'r doo'n tha', I. . . iken sh'time tae stop aye? Ha-hadtae gi' ye away."

I snort, "I wuz naw flirring - teasin! - s'differn't." I take another long swallow, "S'ides, 'arry tole me if I wanna git rid o'Angus s'all I hav'ta do is p'tend t'be a sheep. 'L turn 'im rite off."

I proceed to make some horrific 'baaah-baaah' sound that to this day I maintain could have turned anyone off, no matter their preferences, gender, or state of arousal.

Jamie shouts with laughter, "A sheep es it? No' a dyin' camel?"

"Shud-dup!" I slap his arm with the bottle, "Thas th'sheep noise. Angus dosno lik the sheep noise. Bu' I hav'ta bee shure issno Rupert, 'caus he does lik it. . ." Harry's exact words melt and blurr in my memory, and suddenly I am slightly unsure of my accuracy, "Or. . . tha. . . tha mi'be other way 'round. . . point is. . ."

"Ahye?"

His sweet blue eyes meet mine, and I forget what I was going to say, "Point is. . . thi' swiskey sucks!" I drink from the bottle again and make a face, "Ugh!"

Jamie sits up, very dignified, "Thaa'. . ." he grabs the bottle from me, "Ess Irn-Bru."

"Don' care if s'Aaron Blue. Stil bad wiskey," I kick the carpeting, petulantly.

"Ess sof' drink, Sasshenack," he shakes his head, emphatically, "Soda pop. No' whisky 'tal."

"Mmmm." I start sliding down the wall towards him. I just need to rest for a bit, and his chest looks mightily comfortable. . . "Yer tall. Reallllly tall."

"Hmmf," he gulps back what's left in the bottle, "Taste s'like girdars." Very precisely and carefully, he puts the empty bottle on a nearby end table.

I make it halfway to his chest before he notices me sliding down the wall. He props me up with one hand for a second, ignoring my groan of frustration, before standing up and lowering my head to the bench's tiny padded armrest. He lifts my legs up onto the bench too, and then slowly kneels down and starts to stretch himself out on the flowery hallway carpeting. I'm too transfixed by how warm his hands are on me, and how nice it is to feel like I'm being taken care of to understand what exactly is going on.

"Whaa t'choo doin?"

"Yer wee dooer ess locked, sae wec'n kip 'ere aye?"

"Whaaa?" I squint at him, confused. My head can't quite translate undiluted Scot at the moment.

He very deliberately points at my knee, and then the carpet, "Y-yee c'n slee p'on th'bench. I'll tak th'floor, dinn farsh."

I start giggling again, and fumble with the ribbon knotted into a bow at my side.

"N-nowh-what yee doin'?"

"Key. Stup-stupied dress ha'no pok'ts. Onlee place t'keep it.

"Oh aye?"

"Aye." Blearily, I remove the key I've threaded into the ribbon, and hand it to him.

"Ri' than."

He takes the key, and slowly stands up, goes over to the door, unlocks it, throws it open, and bows over to me, gesturing through the door, "Yee'r hoom, m'ladie."

I grunt, as elegantly as possible, "T'anks. Bu' cannt gi' up. Sory."

He smiles, strides back over to me, and pushes his arms underneath my body, lifting me into the air. I laugh, and curl against him, feeling like I'm flying.

"Mmm. Yer s'rong. S'rong, warm an' tall. . . s'nice."

He nuzzles into my hair, "Yee'ken thay say ef ye c'n shtand on yer oon twa pins, then yerr'no pished, aye?"

"R'yoo say'n m'drunk?"

"Wi' awl th'good stuff I purd ye, yee'd bettar be." He kicks the outer door closed behind us, and swings me around a bit before he locates the inner door to my bedroom. "Tho' ah'll say, took loonger'n ah thowt t'would. Ye c'n hold yer drink. 'Pressive."

I point grandly at the ceiling, "S'the vodka, y'see. S'good practiss," I cuddle into his neck, "They make good vodka on the Rim."

"Bet thay doo."

"No' enuf whisky tho."

"Ochh, aye?"

"Mm-hm. Wh-wiskey's from Central. So's wine. Vodka on th'Rim. Rum if'yer lucky. Beer in'b'tween."

He sets me in the middle of my bed, and sits down next to me.

"Soonds vile."

"Yeeah. Iss'no pretty."

"Yee'er pretty."

"Y'think so?"

He leans back on his elbows, then lays all the way down, his head resting on my shins.

"Mmhuh. Jus' 'bout th'furst thing I thout 'bout ye. Pretty. Hair awl curl'in an' wild. Glad Mutagh sav'd ye. Had'do sumthin' 'bout yee'r ank'l. Wisht yee'd open yee'r eyes. Jeallus o' Angus. 'Ee go'tae shoot Jack fer ye."

He's rambling, but I love the sound of his voice. My mind is comfortable, rapidly dissolving. . . I'm just about to let myself drift off when he jumps up, exclaiming,

"Agch! Ye need watar!"

He starts shuffling towards the toilet station, but I make a wild, completely ineffectual grab at his forearm, "No, no, don' spen' too much money, J'mie. Stil need food t'morro."

He wrinkles his forehead at me, "Th'food fer t'morrow s'taken care of, Sasshenack."

"It is?"

"Aye."

"Oh." I relax back onto my pillows.

"S'ides, I ha'tae pish."

"'Kay." I mumble, yawning, "Bu' jus' a 'alf-liter. S'too s'pensive."

"Watar. . . ? Oor takin' pish?" he laughs.

I grin, and giggle in return, but don't answer otherwise.

When he comes back, he's holding a tall glass of water in each hand, and has a very strange look on his face.

"Sasshenack, why is'tere a gret bucket o' pish in yer wee tub?"

Bucket. . .

Oh. . . right.

It takes me several long heartbeats to remember the cover story I've made up for why I dislike relieving myself into potable water. . .

"S'periment. 'Bout ch-chem'chal fert'lizer. . ." Wait. . . was that what I had settled on? ". . . oar sum'thin."

He sits on the side of my bed, blinking for a while, "M'kay. Heer."

He hands me one of the glasses, and then holds a round, largish pill in front of my mouth. In the dim light it looks white, or pale pink, stark against his skin.

I rear back a bit and blink at what is obviously some sort of drug. It's been over half my life since I've had anything more than a headache tablet. . . but this is Jamie, so I melt into a soft, chiding smile -

"Ohh, you don' 'avta get me high, J'mie. 'L you 'avta do s'ask niscly."

"S'no'. . ." he starts, then trails off as I wrap my mouth around his fingertips, and deftly remove the pill with my tongue. I then proceed to lick up and down his fingers, and round and round his fingertips, growing more and more suggestive about it until the pill starts to dissolve on my tongue. . . . and fills my mouth with something chalky, metallic, bitter, and thoroughly unpleasant. . .

"Ugh! T'ese drugs suck!" I nearly gag, and quickly gulp back half of the glass of water he gave me.

"S'no' drugs, Sasshenack. Min'ral tablet. Fer han'ower."

"Blegch!" I swish a mouthful of water around, and swallow it back with a grimace. "T'anks. I t'ink."

He takes a tablet of his own, and drains his water, putting the empty glass on the small table beside my bed. "Di'nae men'tin et."

He looks at me sidelong, and even in the low light I can tell he's smirking at me.

Suddenly, we're both laughing, wildly and uncontrollably, until we can't breathe, and I desperately need that bucket he mentioned. . .

"Bee ri' bac," I say, rolling off the far side of my bed.

"M'kay," he mumbles, throwing himself back on my pillows and stretching himself out along my quilt, "M'be heer. Ca'nae moove, an'way."

"Duz tha mean you'r drunk too, then?" I tease.

"Aye. Ah s'a skunk."

I use the toilet station quickly, not bothering to turn on the light, knowing it would only be painful at the moment. I hastily wash my hands and brush my teeth, then drink back another half glass of water, before re-emerging into my room. I grab a nightgown on my way back to bed, and start to clumsily undress.

"Wai'. . . no, I ca'nae watch ye Sasshenack," murmurs Jamie, wide-eyed.

"Then don' look," I say, as I yank up my side of the top blanket on my bed, and throw it over Jamie.

"Oh. Ri'," he says, slightly muffled by the quilt. He hums a bit, and rolls to his side, until he's facing away from me. I quickly change clothes, and scoot under the rest of the covers. He yawns hugely, and resettles onto his back. "G'nigh'."

"'Night," I mumble, "J'mie?"

"Ay'?"

"Wha s'a skunk?"

"Mmm. Wee furry beastee. Black'n white. Stinks."

"Oh. Bu' then, you can' t'be one."

He grunts, sleepily, "O'ay?"

"Mmhm. Yer no wee. An yer hair s'red. An you smell 'mazin."

"'S'jus' ah sayin'. 'Drunk ah s'a skunk'. Rhymes. S'all."

"Oh. M'sleep now."

"Mmmgood. Beds'fer sleepin'."

"Yep. Most o th'time. . ."

My consciousness plunges into deep, blessed, dreamless dark.