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tampered2007-04-08 05:16 am
kittyjones.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-04-08 05:16 am
Log; Complete
When; April 3rd, Egg Hunt Day, Evening (backdated)
Rating; R (language, drugs, alcohol, mild nudity)
Characters; Kitty (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kittyjones) & Faye (glock30)
Summary; Some people are bad winners, some people are bad losers. But when these two draw, they're just... drunk.
Log;
Forgetfulness. Often a side effect of drunkenness - and for Kitty's part, she couldn't remember how it had all started. Well, she could remember what had happened at the very start, of course. A curse, a bet, alcohol privileges for a week on the line... resulting in running around, chasing after Easter eggs all day. Somehow it had ended up a draw. Would have been just like Faye Valentine to do that on purpose.
Anyway, that memory was clear. What was distinctly murky was how they had gone from deciding a draw meant tequila all around, to their current situation. Which was sprawled in Faye's apartment, staring at the ceiling, bottles all over the place and a pack of cards scattered across the floor. And eggs. Lots of eggs.
Jones and Valentine, living the high life, as ever.
"See, what I don't get is, who came up with the idea?"
It was Kitty who broke the hazy silence, speaking from her lethargic slump on the couch. As there was no immediate response she took another drink from... whatever it was she was drinking. "Because, I mean. Eggs. Chocolate. Chocolate eggs. Who'd have thought it?"
Yes, it was deep, soul-searching questions such as these that made a drinking night with Kitty and Faye so very special.
---
If there was one thing that Faye Valentine did without complaint or loss of energy and/or effort, it was drink. There was little skill involved—unless you counted holding your breakfast, lunch, and dinner a valuable skill—and even less inclination to quit. You didn’t have to move to start it, and you didn’t have to move to stop it. Maybe someone with a little more motivation would have made something out of it, maybe gone somewhere or done something, but Faye was content with things as they were, which, mainly, was trying to decide if she was sprawled across the floor or across the ceiling.
She figured that it was the former, since she knew a thing or two about gravity and since Kitty’s voice floated somewhere above her when the other woman managed to peel her tongue off the roof of her mouth and speak. Of course, this offered up another challenge: deciding for herself what it was that Kitty had said.
Faye was nothing if she wasn’t attentive—on a nice day—but there was something to be said for trying to pay attention when tequila was jogging through your system like a racing pony, and Faye knew a thing or two about racing ponies. But that had nothing to do with whatever it was that Kitty had said, and Faye was sure that she had said something about begs. No, legs. That was it. Legs. Faye had great legs. Maybe that was what Kitty was talking about.
Either way it was a concept Faye couldn’t or wouldn’t wrap her diluted brain around, so she somehow managed to—quite literally—crawl her way up into a sitting position. One eyebrow tried to quirk up and got lost in a sloppy, slurred, “Don’t know how you go from crucifixication and rolling stones to colored eggs and-and… all this stuff we’ve got here.”
Okay. So. Apparently she had heard Kitty after all.
---
The ceiling was really quite beautiful. Kitty had decided this after much careful deliberation. The way it was so... flat. And the paper crinkled up yellow in the corners just like that, and it was... yeah. Beautiful. Never seen anything like it. She felt tears coming on. Funny how you could only appreciate the true magnificence of things when the rest of your senses were dulled. Ceilings and corners and crinkling and... crucifixication? Was that even a word?
Ah. It was something Faye had said. That explained the confusion.
"Wasn't that a band?" Kitty sat up, and immediately regretted it, and wished the ceiling she'd been looking at so longingly would come crashing down on her head. Usually moving fast was what kept you alive, but she realised that if she moved her head that quickly again it was likely to implode. Or explode. What-the-fuck-ever.
Grimacing she massaged her temples, the now empty bottle dropping to the floor with a soft clunk. She waited to hear if it hit Faye. No sound. Either she missed, or the girl was too out of it to respond. Oh well. "Not all this stuff. That other thing you said. Stones... a band? Band with boys. Not a boy band."
---
Now sitting, she was absolutely positive it was much better than lying on the floor. For one thing, she could stare at her kneecaps and the way the light reflected off her stockings, giving a little shimmer. Faye thought she was like that. A little shimmer. Faye “A Little Shimmer” Valentine. That had a nice ring to it, didn’t it? According to some people, names didn’t have a nice little ring to them unless they started with a J and ended with a complicated something-or-other than she couldn’t pronounce right now if she tired.
But who was counting on some people. Faye’s people was Kitty-type People, at least right now, and Her People was asking her a question. Something about a band. Probably from before Faye’s time, since Kitty was such an old hag and all.
She thought that was funny but refrained from laughing when Kitty’s bottle thudded into her lap. Bottles were far more interesting than laughs.
Empty. Go figure. Folic alcoucking. Fuck-ing al-co-holic. That was it. Right on the nose. She tapped said appendage for emphasis.
“Sounds familiar,” she chimed in, petting her shimmer-tights. “The band part, not the boy part. Something about stones and good music. But I know boys, too. Lots of boys. Lived with boys. Always stinking up the place.” She waved her hand dismissively, looking like she might be trying to swat at a fly, and started looking around for a full bottle, wondering if tequila came out of shimmer.
---
Trying to think on something like that might have been ceilings, Kitty curled her lip. Faye seemed to be doing an impression of a beetle flipped over on its back, legs kicked into the air and wiggling to-and-fro as her head darted around looking for something. "Stop with the shimmer," she muttered.
Always with the bloody shimmer. Everyone and their second-cousin twice-removed's postman's window-cleaner's dog's brother's vet's wife knew Faye Valentine wore her garters like Holmes wore his deerstalker. Human and nylon had never been closer. The boundaries between flesh and fabric had never been more faint. The—
Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty noticed Faye was still wriggling on the floor, and jabbed at her with one toe, making a noise resembling stopitfey. Either the movement or the terrible pronunciation caused her to topple unceremoniously to the floor. Ah, that wonderful piece of carpeting work, currently giving off the aroma of spilt alcohol and cigarette smoke, and the smoke of whatever else it was they'd be trying.
Pulling herself up somewhat, she gingerly scratched her cheek. "You're living with a boy, aren't you? Big... hair." She made some kind of fleeting hand gesture that presumably represented big hair. It looked like she was trying to conduct a marching band.
Bands and music and boys. It all came full circle. She laughed at this, and nudged Faye with her knee as she crawled into a cross-legged position. "You li-i-i-ke him."
---
Somehow managing to get herself righted, although she came up to the coffee table sans-tequila bottle, Faye paused to give Kitty a look of downright devil-glee. Because, obviously, glee was something that devils experienced quite frequently. Faye knew this, and she smirked because of it, leaning back to cross one long leg over the other. “You’re just jealous cause you’ve got hams for legs,” she drawled, slurred, slopped all over the place.
Moving this way and that, she let her hair fall back because, dayum, she was hot. And not the kind of hot that men so often referred to her as, though she was probably still that as well—smudged mascara and smeared red gloss being all the rage these days. No, it was because, she was positive, the living room was Mercury.
And whose fault was that? Kitty’s. Duh. Kitty, who had just jabbed her with her big, clunking toe—probably bruised the skin Faye worked so hard to maintain. Kitty, who was saying something to her in a language that was foreign to her—not that she knew many other languages, but Drunk was one she liked to trade English for. Kitty, who was...
On the floor next to her, belly down, flopping around like a fish. If Faye squinted hard enough, she could replace Kitty with a fish, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t have been able to do so without the assistance of her good friends Lucas and Jose Cuervo, or whatever it was burning in the ashtray and staining the Berber. But, as per usual, Kitty had to do something stupid and change the subject from what it was they had been talking about before she fell to… what it was they had been talking about before she fell?
Faye did a very good impression of a scowl when she was drunk. She did an even better impression when she was drunk and Current Roommate Related Topics came up. “Don’t,” she said back, upholding herself with all the dignity of a ten-year-old boy. “He’s a big, a big… a big hairball is what he is. Faye “Shim-shimmererery-shim-dee-do” Valentine doesn’t like people with hair out to here.”
At this point she began making gestures similar to the ones Kitty had made, though she might have looked like she was imitating some sort of windmill with rubber for the turning parts had anyone looked through the window.
---
Something wasn't right. She was getting that singular feeling. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't put her finger on what it was. What... oh. Right. Faye was disagreeing with her. Not, as they say, on.
"Shimma-shimmer-da-di-do-dah-who?" Such was the first articulate retort she was able to form. Yes, indeed, Kitty Jones had more innate wit and verbal capacity than you could shake a dictionary at. The string of nonsensical syllables made her tongue feel heavy, and she rotated her jaw to try and speak normally again.
"You love hair out to there, don't be an idiot. And not just out to there. Out to here." That was coupled with another of the duo's wonderful trademark hand gestures. They should go on stage. Ballet would never be the same. "And you do."
---
Faye watched Kitty crack her jaw like a Neanderthal, thinking that the physical characteristics really were strikingly similar. It was impossible to verbalize this, however, among other things. So, in a burst of maturity that really showed off just how old twenty-three really was, Faye stuck her tongue out and put her hands on her hips and honest-to-god pouted.
She was even better pouting drunk than she was pouting sober. “Says who?” she replied, leaning forward to kneel on the floor, stuck between the couch and the coffee table. She watched Kitty make nonsensical hand motions, wondering if she was indicating that she’d like to do something odd with a duck from the pantomime and her expression.
Somehow she managed to get the words and the motions together and thought that she might at least meet Kitty halfway on this. “I we’ll--WILL admit,” she began, pausing for dramatic effect with a raised index finger, “that I have certeian—curtain—fuck it. I do like hair out to… somewhere. Hair out to there. Of the fuzzy, green kind. But notty--NOT out to HERE.”
“But SHH,” Faye went on, nearly sticking her finger in her eye while she motioned for quiet. “Walls, ya know, have these years—EARS.”
---
Looking Faye up and down, Kitty struggled to put it all together. Pouting and attempted-eye-putting-out and furniture (was that the coffee table behind her?) and rampant denial. It all made up what was unmistakably Faye, and that was what confused her. She didn't remember Faye being so stupid.
"You're stupid," she commented, "I don't re-mem-ber you being this stupid. Denial. You like like what rhymes with like."
Well, you know how the stories about drunks go. They say what they think, and don't think about what they say.
---
She crossed her arms over her chest, thinking that being drunk six ways from Sunday wasn’t enough to deal with Kitty Jones. It was clearly going to have to be twenty-eight ways from Wednesday and no take-backs. Faye started looking for those bottles of tequila with haste.
“You’re stupider,” she threw back over her shoulder, though she managed to have a feeling—a drunken one—that the effect was spoiled by the color of her face, which, Faye knew, was due to the heat, but which Kitty, Faye knew, was bound to think was due to embarrassment. Faye, embarrassed? Break her off a piece of that Mars Bar, for Christ’s sake. “I don’t know an-e-one named Mike or Ike or… you know, Bike. No denial. So HA.”
“And at least I don’t regularly fuck people with cotton balls for brains,” she said, thinking that a great word usage. Cotton balls. She was so brilliant sometimes.
---
"No, I'm not!" Kitty struggled to sit up straight, and caught sight of Faye's vastly reddened cheeks. These could either be taken as proof that Miss Valentine was a drag-queen in too-heavy rouge, or that she was very very embarrassed. Kitty briefly considered the first option, then switched to the second, then back to the first again for quite a while (she took a good long look at the garters) but finally decided on the second. She verbalised this by pointing dramatically at the other woman's face.
"And I don't! He doesn't have the... those... brains and balls..." Kitty briefly stumbled off whatever train of thought she'd been on. "That's a cheap pun! Cheap! You're cheap!"
---
It occurred to Faye that Kitty was staring at her. Really staring at her. She didn’t know why, but she knew it had something to do with her stockings. So she folded her legs underneath her, still groping around for some alcohol, and said, “Ease up, Jonesy. It’s not a curse day anymore.” Her smirk practically oozed off of her face like melting candy. When Faye licked her lips she could taste it.
There was suddenly a finger in her face, very pointy and potentially dangerous to her eyeballs. She was saying something about brains and balls, and Faye all but laughed outright. “Cotton balls all around?” she sputtered, falling backward among eggs and bottles. “Come on, you walkled—WALKED—damn it--walked right into tha’ one. Don’t get all bitter.”
And speaking of bitter—“Ah HA!” she cried, locating a bottle and swinging it above her head like a flag.
---
Fuming would be an accurate word to describe Kitty right about now. The reason why she was getting worked up so fast probably had to do with fumes of a different kind, but that was beside the point. "You're the bitter one. And you've got cotton... things. You're a bitter ball of cotton."
It was at this point Kitty realised perhaps her banter was not up to par at the moment. Carefully, she weighed up her options, and decided on the best and most mature course of action.
...She moved to snatch the bottle out of Faye's hand.
"Mine."
---
Faye cocked an eyebrow. Her’s? No goddamn, merry-fucking-way! “My apartment,” she started up, yanking the bottle back, “MY alcohol!”
---
"No!" Another yank, returning the bottle to what Kitty would call its rightful owner. "You're a drunk," she said, drunkenly, "YOU don't need anymore of this!
---
“’Scuse you,” she replied, tugging it back onto the proper side of things. “You aren’t even legal! Baby. I can’t legally let you have ANY of this!”
---
"Baby? Oh, that's rich, coming from someone who pouts all the time. Pouter," she spat the word out, obviously the most heinous of insults, as she welcomed the bottle back into her loving arms. "And I'll be legal next week! And I'm already legal in England! And—And at least I'm legal in maturity, unlike YOU."
---
“At least ‘m not a WHINER,” shouted Faye, and she was sure the neighbors had heard them at this point. “Whine, whine, whinity-whine-whine. That’s all you do. Someone who cries and boo-hoo’s all the time shouldn’t be allowed to turn 21! Time is gonna stop YOU from being older. Now, give. It. Back.” She tugged the bottle sharply in her direction, not counting on stupid things like momentum and inertia. What were those anyway?
---
"Better a WHINER than a WINO," the comeback blared out at equal volume, but Kitty didn't even bother to think about the people in the nearby flats. Everyone in the building must know she and Faye did this at least once a week.
This time when Faye tried to yank it back, Kitty held fast, and it was caught between the two of them. "You're. Not. Getting. It! You can't even drink properly!"
---
“Says WHO?” Faye bellowed, flaring up like a bird, like a hawk, a vulture. She shrieked like one, too, even with words slurring. “Says YOU? Right, cause your opin—opin—O-PIN-ION matters so much in the end.”
“I can’t drink properly?!” Faye roared. Clearly Kitty had just insulted her beyond redemption. Faye Valentine, not a skilled drinker? Girl was out of her mind. And in her shock, Faye let go of the bottle just as Kitty tugged on it.
---
The instinct to cover her ears to block out the racket was a strong one, but Kitty resisted. Stiff upper lip and all that, even in the face of noise that sounded like a constipated seagull. "My IPINEONS—say it right—matter a lot, because I can—"
But whatever Kitty could do was lost as she suddenly found herself falling backwards. To the ground. Hard. With a thud, and an unladylike groan, and an even more unladylike stream of profanity.
That out of her system, she looked up with a cool glare. "That's it, Valentine. You're DEAD!"
---
Faye had a comeback waiting. Really, she did. And, oh, god, was it a good one. Such good comebacks had never been known to the world before this comeback that was just on the tip of her tongue. But, curses, the sight of Kitty going backward and the sound of a string of rather creative insults—she didn’t know that you could do that to a floor—foiled all her best efforts as she clapped her hands to her mouth and downright died.
It could have been the alcohol, it could have been the pot, but Faye liked to think that there was nothing funnier in any world than Kitty Jones looking like a surly pigeon with its feathers all ruffled. Most of Faye’s speech, after that, went something like, “You—AHAHAHAHHA—look like---HAHAHAAH—someone just—HHAHAHAHHAHAAH—“And then—“DEAD?”
That sobered her up, which was annoying. Even through layers of alcohol and eggs and shimmer-stockings, Faye sensed a challenge. “I don’t think so, Jones.”
---
As Kitty picked herself up, she realised with certainty that Faye was the reincarnation of a Harpy. Or an actual Harpy. One of the two. She was cackling and convulsing, and seemed to be having trouble breathing, face contorted in some weird semi-grin that looked like she was trying to win a competition to model tooth-whitening-toothpaste. Faye, that is, not Kitty. Kitty conducted herself with the utmost decorum and composure.
...As long as one defines decorum and composure with falling over again twice before she managed to stand up.
...But stand up she did! "I think so." One foot came down hard on the nearest egg. It was an accident - Kitty had no desire to have caramel-coated shoes - but she hoped it added to the effect.
The two of them looked at each other like cowboys about to draw (wasn't that Faye's kink?), and Kitty's eye's narrowed as though she were looking straight into some Western-movie sunset. "Choose your weapon."
---
Faye laughed and laughed—when was the last time she had laughed this hard?—until Kitty’s big man foot came crashing down on an egg, which splattered caramel and chocolate all over both the carpet and Faye’s boots. She liked those boots. You didn’t just find boots like those anywhere! She could spend hours lecturing on the delicate swish-and-sway shimmer that her boots made, but Kitty was standing.
Well, Kitty was swaying. Or Faye was swaying. Someone was swaying—maybe the walls—and Faye was wiping caramel off of her boots without looking. Either way this was clearly a fight to the death, high noon, high tide. She was high.
Kitty looked like a baboon, standing all hunched over like she had back problems, so Faye chose to do the polite thing and save her. There were still shot glasses turned upside-down on the coffee table. “You sure you can handle it?” she asked, tipping the glasses over.
Or barrelling into them with her forearm like a truck driving through a stack of toothpicks.
---
It was hard not to laugh herself as she watched the meticulous care Faye was taking over the boots. Yes, they were nice boots, and yes, Kitty might have borrowed them once or twice, and yes most of those times had been without asking, but Faye was cleaning them like she was wiping the sweat off the brow of her long-lost love, collapsed head-in-her-lap after a duel for her heart. At this (for some top-secret, never-to-be-revealed reason) Kitty had the sudden mental image of Faye with a lap full of large, green hair, which amused her to no end.
But enough of Mike. Bike. Whatever. The coffee table was back in the game, which meant one of two things - either this was another curse day, or it was time for a new and fabulous round of "Who Can Come Up with the Stupidest Drinking Game?" Currently Faye was winning, of course.
"When do I not handle it?" Kitty knelt down by the table, steadying a couple of glasses that had looked ready to shatter under Faye's vigour. "But what can we bet with, huh? Haven't got anything on us."
---
Faye didn’t waste any time, even though the livelihood of her precious white boots were on the line. When games and bets and winning and losing were all involved, sometimes in that order and sometimes in a mix-n-match order, she was full of businesslike attitude. Kitty just had no handle on subjects like this, judging by the expression on her face. Not that Kitty ever made any other expression except for Blissfully Unaware, but business was business was something like business.
At Kitty’s question, Faye paused, chewing on the inside of her mouth while she went through her vast knowledge of stored drinking games. She knew how to play “Everybody on the Count of Three” and she was practically a pro at “Open Your Throat and Swallow,” despite any and all wise-ass remarks that one might receive. Other than that her well was pretty much dry.
Thankfully, Kitty was always so resourceful, even if being resourceful meant thinking of things and situations that were likely to embarrass her. But that was Kitty for you: blissfully unaware, sometimes thick as a brick. Faye’s People were good People. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Faye said, sniggering and stretching.
---
Recently Kitty had been using Blissfully Unaware so often it was a wonder she hadn't registered it as a trademark. It seemed to be the perfect look for most dealings in the City. Made it easy to avoid certain things, and to get certain other things. However in this is case, the look was genuine. She genuinely had no idea what Faye was thinking about.
...Although she guessed it probably involved 'throats' and 'swallowing'.
Even when the other woman spoke and stretched out languidly like a cat, Kitty still remained in the dark. Faye was looking remarkably happy. But Kitty had been right, they hadn't got anything with them to bet with. No chips, no money, nothing except...
"Oh, you can't be serious."
One look at Faye's face spoke of the contrary.
"You really want us to play for..."
At this point, Kitty went through something a little liek the seven stages of grief. Firstly disbelief. That spoke for itself. She blinked several times over, and her eyebrows were raised so high it looked like they were trying to leap off of her forehead. Then denial. Even Faye wouldn't be that daring. Bargaining? Well, she could offer to clean Faye's boots instead? Guilt was connected with those boots, because the caramel on the soles of that white leather was her fault, and would it ever be the same again? Anger was then directed via a glare at the remaining eggs in the room.
Depression began to sink in when she realised she'd just directed an extensive mental monologue at herself, and moreover she was thinking about eggs.
Finally... acceptance. Slowly, Kitty's mouth began to form her own, opposite smirk.
"You're serious, aren't you."
---
Really, Faye was a lot of things. Loud, boisterous, greedy, very probably out of her mind at times, but, above all else, she was a gambler. She liked the stakes, she liked the risk, and although she didn’t like taking her clothes off in front of other people—despite her what her wardrobe usually suggested—she wasn’t about to back down from something like this when she could both beat and humiliate Kitty Jones, and she was sure she could beat her.
Unfortunately for Faye, and she was loathe to admit this even to herself, Kitty’s style of dress gave her a little bit of an advantage here, at least in the department of Things That Go Under Clothes Down South. However, Faye wasn’t about to lose. Not to Kitty, not when Kitty had suddenly gone the color of chalk and looked like some sort of genetic mutation between a frog and a bush baby, eyes wide and mouth pulled thin and tight.
She set her face and said, “As a heart attack.” With that she began fumbling around on the floor for more shot glasses. She was sure she kept them someplace sensible like underneath the couch and in the pot of that fern next to the armchair.
“Unless,” Faye tossed casually over her shoulder, “you’re embarrassed. Or, worse, scared. I know it’s a big girls’ game, and ‘m not sure you’ve got the goods.” Faye knew Kitty didn’t have any sort of goods—she had seen them—but, really, if Kitty needed anything it was a good telling-off. To Faye’s alcohol-smoke-chocolate-determined mind that meant winning the game and playing it, too.
---
Kitty knew Faye had an over-abundance of goods—she had seen them—but, really, if Faye needed anything, it was proof that size didn't matter. "I'm not embarrassed or scared," she spoke matter-of-factly (yet still drunkenly). "Unless you tell me the last time you changed your underwear was more than a week ago."
Although really, she wasn't exactly a fan of public nudity.
As Faye rooted around for god-knows-what in the most random of locations, Kitty calmly reached under the table and pulled out the rest of the shot glasses, wondering what on earth the other woman was doing. "Two by two? Or first to choke?"
---
Kitty’s little declaration of faith there might have been more convincing had she not sounded like the words were just falling out of her mouth and out of her control. Faye snorted, turning around when she heard Kitty start setting the glasses on the (new) coffee table. Well, she would have turned around smoothly, had she not tripped over… something. Something that most certainly wasn’t her own two hands or feet or any other appendage.
She was reunited briefly with that lovely, lovely, acrid-smelling carpet before she scrambled to her feet, managing to mutter out, dusting herself off, “At least I wear underwear.”
“First to choke,” Faye replied, thinking that her lifetime dream of getting to see Kitty turn blue and puffy was about to come true.
---
Trying to avoid thinking of just what condition her current underwear was in, Kitty filled the glasses to the brim with vodka. They overflowed a little here and there, but nobody would notice. Faye would probably end up licking it off later. Or Ed would do it, or that dog Faye seemed to like so much, and they'd spend the next hour drunk out of their minds. And picturing Faye trying to cope with that was not entirely un-amusing.
The first shot was swallowed without so much as a blink. And the second. And the third. Fourth should have been no trouble, she was still in the lightweight section, but either it went down the wrong way, or Faye had slipped poison in the glass. Kitty wouldn't put it past her. Whatever it was, it meant number five went down, but not without a little cough. But one look at Faye told Kitty that it would have to be counted as a choke.
"Five," she spoke, glaring across the table.
---
For the first time in a very, very long time, Faye found that she had absolutely nothing to say. She’d been doing her merry little thing, an easy system to pros like her, and then she’d heard IT.
Faye had heard plenty of It noises in her life—all three years of it. She’d heard It noises of fatal bounty mistakes. She’d heard It noises of the turning point in an argument. Point blank, there were noises. Faye had heard them, yaddy yadda, on and on until the end of time or something. Kitty had just made an It noise and that It noise was a choking sound, which made Faye paused halfway through her sixth shot of vodka, a taste like the inside of a tire burning a hole in her tongue.
She met Kitty’s glare with a mean little smirk and set her shot glass down like she was about to start adjusting the halo she could feel glowing on her head. Only winners were angels. “Wasitgonbe, Jones?” she said(?), leaning forward, her elbow sliding through a puddle of spilled alcohol and her head bumping against the table.
Meant to do that, of course.
---
It was obvious Faye hadn't meant to do that, but she was going to try and cover it up with her natural grace. The only small flaw in her plan was that she had no natural grace. Kitty chuckled quietly to herself at this, before she realised that she'd lost the first round, and that could only mean one thing. Laughter instantly stopped, replaced by what she liked to call a "buggering-sodding-wanking-hell" feeling.
Slowly, she fumbled around with the zip on her leather jacket, eventually managing to shrug it off without getting tangled in the sleeves. A thin vest was now all that was keeping Faye's annoying gleeful eyes from her upper-underwear. Bloody April weather. Why couldn't it have snowed for a little longer? That way she could have taken off the layers one glove at a time.
"Again?" The important thing was not to let it get to you. Otherwise the next thing she knew, Faye would be taking nude pictures of her for any number of lewd purposes.
---
Faye didn’t look. She didn’t,. She got the shot glasses all gathered up and starting wondering, in the only way a drunk person can wonder, which is badly, about what might happen if she lost next. She wasn’t exactly known far and wide for her extensive wardrobe: more like being known far and wide for her lack thereof. And the thought of being so far ahead already, when she hadn’t even lost one round, didn’t exactly sit too far on the Fair Scale with her.
She toyed with the idea of trying to explain this to Kitty while the other girl took off her jacket, but Faye could barely say her own name let alone try to convince Kitty that the odds were uneven, even if Kitty was trashed.
So Faye poured more vodka into the empty glasses, blinking that special blink reserved only for people who feel like their eyelids are made of brick and their eyeballs made of sandpaper. Every time she tried to concentrate on the shot glass, it started dancing. “Ag’in,” she mumbled, shaking her head. Up was down and no was definitely yes. Everything was more or less normal as far as Faye was concerned, even if Kitty was down a jacket and Faye was down half of her brain cells.
---
Time to step up the game. Kitty felt she should do something dramatic to drive that resolution home, but a vigorous clapping of hands (let alone letting out a joyous whoop) seemed rather beyond her at the moment. And it didn't help that Faye was looking pointedly at her chest. Honestly.
So she just nodded when they started at it again, and eventually managed to take hold of the first glass (it took a while). It tasted worse than everything else so far. And the glasses got steadily worse as she downed more of them, not just harder to drink, but the vodka became seemingly poorer quality. At first it hadn't tasted so bad, now it was like it had been made by blind, drugged-up monkeys, in a back alley behind a manure factory. Her eyes stung and burnt, and everything was spinning. Finally she choked, and managed to mumble out a number. "N-Nine."
She'd better have won this one. Otherwise she'd be pissed. Pun unintended.
---
Faye was fine. Faye was dandy. Faye was drunk. She could barely get the glass to her mouth. Swallowing was an entirely different story. Her tongue felt like a piece of lead and her throat was obviously made of out socks. Smelly socks. Spike’s socks. Those probably smelled. And tasted like someone had just poured lighter fluid down her throat and tossed a match down after it.
Her eyes watered, and her face felt hot. And it happened. She gagged. On her ninth swallow, the vodka going down her throat came back up and out her mouth and nose. Retching, she tasted bile and Spike sock and Kitty victory and her stockings going far, far away to the land of Goodbye Stockings. Pressing a hand to her chest, she coughed, sure that she was bound spit up glass from that one and—
--and looked across the table at Kitty, whose expression she couldn’t read—mainly because her eyes had crossed and that little habit called vision was turning into a little habit called passing out—but whose body language knew and understood that she had won.
Without even thinking, Faye grumbled something that sounded like, “Mud in the rabbit,” and pulled off her stockings, tossing them aimlessly and knocking over the bottle while she was at it.
---
Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to try smoking whatever Faye had offered her before this had begun. Naturally a more rational person would say this drinking game was the problem, but rationality wasn't top of the list of what she was feeling right now. What was top was the need to throw up, closely followed by just plain passing out. Then there was a craving for peanuts. Really salty peanuts. And then back to the puking.
...Suffice to say, she didn't last long this time. Only three shots before she started choking and spluttering like a cat pushed in water - except worse, because this was Kitty with vodka. "Ducking ducks in dell," was all she could be heard to mutter as she grabbed her jeans at the hips, and tried to wriggle out of them. It took a fairly long while, but eventually they were in a crumpled heap on the floor.
---
Kitty was making all sorts of noises—drowning noises, choking noises, pants-hitting-the-floor noises---but Faye could barely pay attention to anything outside of her own pulse, which was rushing in her ears as she banged her forehead against the coffee table and stayed that way until the boat they were obviously on stopped rocking. She couldn’t remember rowing out to sea, but they were there.
“Can cats swim?” she asked Kitty, cracking open an eye, except that it sort of came out like, “Canctsim?” And that was a language that neither of them could speak, drunk or sober. The universal truth held strong, though, and that was the truth that, no matter how drunk you were, you always knew when someone else was going to throw up, and you always knew how to communicate to the other that you were going to throw up.
That was the truth, but Faye was past the truth. Mainly because Faye was past puking and into the stage that included passing out, and when Kitty sat back down, Faye fell sideways, clunking her arm on the table and wondering when and how she had been sucked up into a black hole or a Gate jump or a swirling, twirling vortex of drunken misery.
“Haaaate you,” she mumbled. Really, the only natural thing to do was blame Kitty. She knew she was going to make it out alive when she could still deduce that much.
---
"Your idea," was the accusation she made in return. Except it probably didn't sound like she thought it sounded, and it was certainly more of a whimper than a bang. But Faye was apparently talking gibberish, and Kitty took this as a good sign. She could still win this. Of course, right about now she was considering that being totally nude and able to pass out would be a blessing compared to remaining conscious and clothed.
"A-A-Again." It wasn't so much she was stuttering as she was simply unable to speak. Her whole mouth felt slow, as though pushing words out was just too heavy and hard, hot, lead. Thank goodness there were still some shot glasses left full, because she knew she'd have hard time trying to fill them herself.
She managed to get three down again, matching her previous record, and hoped Faye wouldn't be able to do the same. After all, as Kitty knew, the girl never had much stamina.
---
The only thing Faye saw and heard was Kitty rummaging through the shot glasses, and that either meant that Kitty was cheating or Kitty was cheating. Both options were big deciding factors in Faye’s brain, even if only a quarter of it was coherent enough to remember that she actually had other body functions besides sit, stay, lay down. Not to mention other limbs to make them work.
She dismissed Kitty’s words because she couldn’t understand them. Faye had a feeling that she wouldn’t have been able to understand My First Picture Book if she tired her hardest right now. The only sorts of thoughts she was being allowed were the sort of thoughts that went something like this: drink.
So Faye drank. Faye drank until the vodka tasted like water and her insides felt like Ramen noodles swimming around. Faye drank until she choked, and, truth be told, that didn’t take very long. Three shots and she was down like a tranquilized giraffe. It would have been, well… embarrassingly pathetic if she hadn’t been so drunk already—not to mention high on whatever that shit was—but she was past the point of caring.
Not even sure what she was wiggling out of—though she was pretty sure it was something from her chest-al region, she tossed the losing piece of clothing somewhere (lampshades, clearly, would never be the same again) and flopped backward until her chin was pressed against her collarbone, back braced on the front of the couch. “I win!” she exclaimed weakly, waving her fist. “Woo, woo…”
---
Faye won? Faye won?! What?! Kitty had been steadily slumping further and further towards the table, getting more and more horizontal when the shocking words snapped her out of her reverie. Faye couldn't have won! She wasn't naked yet! ...Was she?
Kitty's eyes darted around the room, looking for Naked Faye (a rather unmistakable sight). But there was no sign of her. There was a plant, and the coffee table (of course), and Clothed Faye by the sofa, and some bottles, and some eggs, and some bottles and eggs, but no Naked Faye.
Clothed Faye must be lying. Urg. That bitch.
Trouble was, it might not be a lie for longer. Kitty couldn't even get one shot past her mouth now before she started choking uncontrollably, forcing the bile back down again. That meant her shirt-vest-thing-whatever it was had to come off. It was only after she removed it (a task which wasn't as easy as she remembered) that she realised she was now sitting in only her underwear.
"Bye, vest." Such was the tragic farewell she bequeathed to the final item that could go before she started getting seriously cold and even more seriously mortified for all eternity.
---
By that point in time, Faye had no idea what she was even supposed to be doing anymore. Something about begs? Legs? Maybe eggs? She didn’t want to think about eggs right then. Right then all she wanted to do was lay down on this little bed of eggs that she’d found underneath her and sleep for the rest of her life. She could get used to this sleeping-all-the-time thing, she thought. Especially on a bed like this: eggs and bottles and extinguished cigarettes made for the best furniture.
Faye looked through the legs of the coffee table, wondering why she could see a lot of Kitty’s legs and a lot of Kitty’s jeans in a lot of two different places. Things like that were supposed to come attached, weren’t they? And she realized she was supposed to have a top on. Because Faye Valentine didn’t just walk around in her bra. No sir. No ma’am. Nu uh.
Some part of her was still listening to Kitty, unfortunately, and it was picking up something about a vest. Best rhymed with vest. “Best,” she said, stabbing herself in the chest with her finger. “Am best. Am best vest, better’n all the rest. Put’r… stuff to’a test.” Faye started climbing up the mountain next to her. Mount Sofa. She was dizzy by the time she scrambled to the peak and looked over at Kitty, saying, “You-er sooooo drunk.”
---
"You're not the best," Kitty craned to look at Faye with a glower. "You're an id-eee-ot." And, with that said, she nudged the precariously balanced Miss Valentine with her elbow.
...Which, looking back on it, was a pretty idiotic thing to do.
---
Not by any means graceful at all, Faye rolled unceremoniously off the couch and landed half-on, half-off of Kitty with a bang that made a few of the glasses on the table tip over. She didn’t mind, after all, she had some cushioning to lessen the blow, even if Kitty was a lot of awkward bone and made for great cushioning the same way a bed of needles might make for great cushioning.
But, hey, Faye would take what she could get, and if she had to cuddle up to a bed of bone-nails then she would do it. And Faye was good at snuggling up like any absolute bed-hog was good at snuggling up.
---
"Ooof."
One minute Kitty was lying quite content in her about-to-pass-out state, and the next thing she knew she had some sort of heavy weight lying across her lap. The weight seemed to be burrowing into her. The weight was possibly a giant rabbit. Except... not furry.
"Mmmf." With a combination of wriggling and rolling, she managed to relocate Faye into a slightly more graceful position beside her. But making her give up using Kitty's torso as a pillow was another thing.
"Let's stop with the drinking now," she murmured blearily, the room dancing wildly all around her.
---
For some reason Faye’s pillow was talking. She didn’t have any experience with talking pillows or pillows that were distinctly ribcage-shaped but she thought that she could make the best out of a bad situation. And this was most likely a bad situation, considering that she had lost track of Kitty somewhere in her apartment. Who knew what she was doing?
“Quiet, pillah,” she said into the crook of her own arm, hoping and praying that she wouldn’t up-chuck all over this new pillow. She was far too drunk and lazy and tired but mostly too drunk to get off her ass and get a new one if she somehow managed to lose her non-lunch.
When she closed her eyes the spinning was bad, but it was a lot better than opening her eyes, since they happened to have those bricks from earlier taped to them. “Nmredrinkinin,” mumbled Faye into the pillow.
---
"Mmmf," was once again pretty much all Kitty could say to that. Was she a pillah? What was a pillah? A pillar? Was Faye calling her a pillar? A tower of strength?
"Ncevyootsay," she tried to mutter in thanks, but it didn't really work out. Eyes struggling to keep open, she fumbled behind her to pull the blanket off of the sofa and try and drag it over them. Warm. Sleep. No spinning. Pillars. Good things.
---
Faye’s thoughts, now, were the sort of thoughts that involved sleep. Because sleep meant not throwing up, and sleep meant continuing to think that this was just a pillow, and sleep meant the end of a Very Bad Idea.
Through all of her drunken stupor and sock-mouth and brick-eyelids, Faye still had a handle. Some sort of a handle. She felt the blanket, though it was very heavy and far too hot, and she heard her pillow start talking again, stupid thing. She needed to fluff it. It was flat and stiff.
At least that was the excuse she gave herself when she kneed Kitty violently in the side and said, “IsedQUIET.”
Honestly, the nerve of some pillows.
---
It wasn't that bad you know, being a pillar. Pillow. Thing. It was all right, just to lie there, and feel the cigarette-stained carpet on your back, and a nice, comfortable, warm sort of weight on your front, and not have to worry about anymore vodka, and not wearing many clothes, and—
"OUCH."
It was a wonder Kitty didn't vomit. Instead she just yelped at Faye's attack, and then almost seemed to growl in frustration. Grasping out blindly with her hand she grabbed the blanket and pulled it up close to her chin. "Always stealin' the bl—teblaa—the blankets..."
As she drifted off to sleep, Kitty was sure she had forgotten something important. Something crucial, even. Almost a matter of life or death. But once again, she unfortunately accepted that she was never going to remember it in her current state.
...It was only in the morning, when she woke up to find the other woman still sprawled across her chest, that she remembered Faye snored like a broken steam-engine.
Rating; R (language, drugs, alcohol, mild nudity)
Characters; Kitty (
kittyjones) & Faye (glock30)Summary; Some people are bad winners, some people are bad losers. But when these two draw, they're just... drunk.
Log;
Forgetfulness. Often a side effect of drunkenness - and for Kitty's part, she couldn't remember how it had all started. Well, she could remember what had happened at the very start, of course. A curse, a bet, alcohol privileges for a week on the line... resulting in running around, chasing after Easter eggs all day. Somehow it had ended up a draw. Would have been just like Faye Valentine to do that on purpose.
Anyway, that memory was clear. What was distinctly murky was how they had gone from deciding a draw meant tequila all around, to their current situation. Which was sprawled in Faye's apartment, staring at the ceiling, bottles all over the place and a pack of cards scattered across the floor. And eggs. Lots of eggs.
Jones and Valentine, living the high life, as ever.
"See, what I don't get is, who came up with the idea?"
It was Kitty who broke the hazy silence, speaking from her lethargic slump on the couch. As there was no immediate response she took another drink from... whatever it was she was drinking. "Because, I mean. Eggs. Chocolate. Chocolate eggs. Who'd have thought it?"
Yes, it was deep, soul-searching questions such as these that made a drinking night with Kitty and Faye so very special.
---
If there was one thing that Faye Valentine did without complaint or loss of energy and/or effort, it was drink. There was little skill involved—unless you counted holding your breakfast, lunch, and dinner a valuable skill—and even less inclination to quit. You didn’t have to move to start it, and you didn’t have to move to stop it. Maybe someone with a little more motivation would have made something out of it, maybe gone somewhere or done something, but Faye was content with things as they were, which, mainly, was trying to decide if she was sprawled across the floor or across the ceiling.
She figured that it was the former, since she knew a thing or two about gravity and since Kitty’s voice floated somewhere above her when the other woman managed to peel her tongue off the roof of her mouth and speak. Of course, this offered up another challenge: deciding for herself what it was that Kitty had said.
Faye was nothing if she wasn’t attentive—on a nice day—but there was something to be said for trying to pay attention when tequila was jogging through your system like a racing pony, and Faye knew a thing or two about racing ponies. But that had nothing to do with whatever it was that Kitty had said, and Faye was sure that she had said something about begs. No, legs. That was it. Legs. Faye had great legs. Maybe that was what Kitty was talking about.
Either way it was a concept Faye couldn’t or wouldn’t wrap her diluted brain around, so she somehow managed to—quite literally—crawl her way up into a sitting position. One eyebrow tried to quirk up and got lost in a sloppy, slurred, “Don’t know how you go from crucifixication and rolling stones to colored eggs and-and… all this stuff we’ve got here.”
Okay. So. Apparently she had heard Kitty after all.
---
The ceiling was really quite beautiful. Kitty had decided this after much careful deliberation. The way it was so... flat. And the paper crinkled up yellow in the corners just like that, and it was... yeah. Beautiful. Never seen anything like it. She felt tears coming on. Funny how you could only appreciate the true magnificence of things when the rest of your senses were dulled. Ceilings and corners and crinkling and... crucifixication? Was that even a word?
Ah. It was something Faye had said. That explained the confusion.
"Wasn't that a band?" Kitty sat up, and immediately regretted it, and wished the ceiling she'd been looking at so longingly would come crashing down on her head. Usually moving fast was what kept you alive, but she realised that if she moved her head that quickly again it was likely to implode. Or explode. What-the-fuck-ever.
Grimacing she massaged her temples, the now empty bottle dropping to the floor with a soft clunk. She waited to hear if it hit Faye. No sound. Either she missed, or the girl was too out of it to respond. Oh well. "Not all this stuff. That other thing you said. Stones... a band? Band with boys. Not a boy band."
---
Now sitting, she was absolutely positive it was much better than lying on the floor. For one thing, she could stare at her kneecaps and the way the light reflected off her stockings, giving a little shimmer. Faye thought she was like that. A little shimmer. Faye “A Little Shimmer” Valentine. That had a nice ring to it, didn’t it? According to some people, names didn’t have a nice little ring to them unless they started with a J and ended with a complicated something-or-other than she couldn’t pronounce right now if she tired.
But who was counting on some people. Faye’s people was Kitty-type People, at least right now, and Her People was asking her a question. Something about a band. Probably from before Faye’s time, since Kitty was such an old hag and all.
She thought that was funny but refrained from laughing when Kitty’s bottle thudded into her lap. Bottles were far more interesting than laughs.
Empty. Go figure. Folic alcoucking. Fuck-ing al-co-holic. That was it. Right on the nose. She tapped said appendage for emphasis.
“Sounds familiar,” she chimed in, petting her shimmer-tights. “The band part, not the boy part. Something about stones and good music. But I know boys, too. Lots of boys. Lived with boys. Always stinking up the place.” She waved her hand dismissively, looking like she might be trying to swat at a fly, and started looking around for a full bottle, wondering if tequila came out of shimmer.
---
Trying to think on something like that might have been ceilings, Kitty curled her lip. Faye seemed to be doing an impression of a beetle flipped over on its back, legs kicked into the air and wiggling to-and-fro as her head darted around looking for something. "Stop with the shimmer," she muttered.
Always with the bloody shimmer. Everyone and their second-cousin twice-removed's postman's window-cleaner's dog's brother's vet's wife knew Faye Valentine wore her garters like Holmes wore his deerstalker. Human and nylon had never been closer. The boundaries between flesh and fabric had never been more faint. The—
Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty noticed Faye was still wriggling on the floor, and jabbed at her with one toe, making a noise resembling stopitfey. Either the movement or the terrible pronunciation caused her to topple unceremoniously to the floor. Ah, that wonderful piece of carpeting work, currently giving off the aroma of spilt alcohol and cigarette smoke, and the smoke of whatever else it was they'd be trying.
Pulling herself up somewhat, she gingerly scratched her cheek. "You're living with a boy, aren't you? Big... hair." She made some kind of fleeting hand gesture that presumably represented big hair. It looked like she was trying to conduct a marching band.
Bands and music and boys. It all came full circle. She laughed at this, and nudged Faye with her knee as she crawled into a cross-legged position. "You li-i-i-ke him."
---
Somehow managing to get herself righted, although she came up to the coffee table sans-tequila bottle, Faye paused to give Kitty a look of downright devil-glee. Because, obviously, glee was something that devils experienced quite frequently. Faye knew this, and she smirked because of it, leaning back to cross one long leg over the other. “You’re just jealous cause you’ve got hams for legs,” she drawled, slurred, slopped all over the place.
Moving this way and that, she let her hair fall back because, dayum, she was hot. And not the kind of hot that men so often referred to her as, though she was probably still that as well—smudged mascara and smeared red gloss being all the rage these days. No, it was because, she was positive, the living room was Mercury.
And whose fault was that? Kitty’s. Duh. Kitty, who had just jabbed her with her big, clunking toe—probably bruised the skin Faye worked so hard to maintain. Kitty, who was saying something to her in a language that was foreign to her—not that she knew many other languages, but Drunk was one she liked to trade English for. Kitty, who was...
On the floor next to her, belly down, flopping around like a fish. If Faye squinted hard enough, she could replace Kitty with a fish, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t have been able to do so without the assistance of her good friends Lucas and Jose Cuervo, or whatever it was burning in the ashtray and staining the Berber. But, as per usual, Kitty had to do something stupid and change the subject from what it was they had been talking about before she fell to… what it was they had been talking about before she fell?
Faye did a very good impression of a scowl when she was drunk. She did an even better impression when she was drunk and Current Roommate Related Topics came up. “Don’t,” she said back, upholding herself with all the dignity of a ten-year-old boy. “He’s a big, a big… a big hairball is what he is. Faye “Shim-shimmererery-shim-dee-do” Valentine doesn’t like people with hair out to here.”
At this point she began making gestures similar to the ones Kitty had made, though she might have looked like she was imitating some sort of windmill with rubber for the turning parts had anyone looked through the window.
---
Something wasn't right. She was getting that singular feeling. Something wasn't right, and she couldn't put her finger on what it was. What... oh. Right. Faye was disagreeing with her. Not, as they say, on.
"Shimma-shimmer-da-di-do-dah-who?" Such was the first articulate retort she was able to form. Yes, indeed, Kitty Jones had more innate wit and verbal capacity than you could shake a dictionary at. The string of nonsensical syllables made her tongue feel heavy, and she rotated her jaw to try and speak normally again.
"You love hair out to there, don't be an idiot. And not just out to there. Out to here." That was coupled with another of the duo's wonderful trademark hand gestures. They should go on stage. Ballet would never be the same. "And you do."
---
Faye watched Kitty crack her jaw like a Neanderthal, thinking that the physical characteristics really were strikingly similar. It was impossible to verbalize this, however, among other things. So, in a burst of maturity that really showed off just how old twenty-three really was, Faye stuck her tongue out and put her hands on her hips and honest-to-god pouted.
She was even better pouting drunk than she was pouting sober. “Says who?” she replied, leaning forward to kneel on the floor, stuck between the couch and the coffee table. She watched Kitty make nonsensical hand motions, wondering if she was indicating that she’d like to do something odd with a duck from the pantomime and her expression.
Somehow she managed to get the words and the motions together and thought that she might at least meet Kitty halfway on this. “I we’ll--WILL admit,” she began, pausing for dramatic effect with a raised index finger, “that I have certeian—curtain—fuck it. I do like hair out to… somewhere. Hair out to there. Of the fuzzy, green kind. But notty--NOT out to HERE.”
“But SHH,” Faye went on, nearly sticking her finger in her eye while she motioned for quiet. “Walls, ya know, have these years—EARS.”
---
Looking Faye up and down, Kitty struggled to put it all together. Pouting and attempted-eye-putting-out and furniture (was that the coffee table behind her?) and rampant denial. It all made up what was unmistakably Faye, and that was what confused her. She didn't remember Faye being so stupid.
"You're stupid," she commented, "I don't re-mem-ber you being this stupid. Denial. You like like what rhymes with like."
Well, you know how the stories about drunks go. They say what they think, and don't think about what they say.
---
She crossed her arms over her chest, thinking that being drunk six ways from Sunday wasn’t enough to deal with Kitty Jones. It was clearly going to have to be twenty-eight ways from Wednesday and no take-backs. Faye started looking for those bottles of tequila with haste.
“You’re stupider,” she threw back over her shoulder, though she managed to have a feeling—a drunken one—that the effect was spoiled by the color of her face, which, Faye knew, was due to the heat, but which Kitty, Faye knew, was bound to think was due to embarrassment. Faye, embarrassed? Break her off a piece of that Mars Bar, for Christ’s sake. “I don’t know an-e-one named Mike or Ike or… you know, Bike. No denial. So HA.”
“And at least I don’t regularly fuck people with cotton balls for brains,” she said, thinking that a great word usage. Cotton balls. She was so brilliant sometimes.
---
"No, I'm not!" Kitty struggled to sit up straight, and caught sight of Faye's vastly reddened cheeks. These could either be taken as proof that Miss Valentine was a drag-queen in too-heavy rouge, or that she was very very embarrassed. Kitty briefly considered the first option, then switched to the second, then back to the first again for quite a while (she took a good long look at the garters) but finally decided on the second. She verbalised this by pointing dramatically at the other woman's face.
"And I don't! He doesn't have the... those... brains and balls..." Kitty briefly stumbled off whatever train of thought she'd been on. "That's a cheap pun! Cheap! You're cheap!"
---
It occurred to Faye that Kitty was staring at her. Really staring at her. She didn’t know why, but she knew it had something to do with her stockings. So she folded her legs underneath her, still groping around for some alcohol, and said, “Ease up, Jonesy. It’s not a curse day anymore.” Her smirk practically oozed off of her face like melting candy. When Faye licked her lips she could taste it.
There was suddenly a finger in her face, very pointy and potentially dangerous to her eyeballs. She was saying something about brains and balls, and Faye all but laughed outright. “Cotton balls all around?” she sputtered, falling backward among eggs and bottles. “Come on, you walkled—WALKED—damn it--walked right into tha’ one. Don’t get all bitter.”
And speaking of bitter—“Ah HA!” she cried, locating a bottle and swinging it above her head like a flag.
---
Fuming would be an accurate word to describe Kitty right about now. The reason why she was getting worked up so fast probably had to do with fumes of a different kind, but that was beside the point. "You're the bitter one. And you've got cotton... things. You're a bitter ball of cotton."
It was at this point Kitty realised perhaps her banter was not up to par at the moment. Carefully, she weighed up her options, and decided on the best and most mature course of action.
...She moved to snatch the bottle out of Faye's hand.
"Mine."
---
Faye cocked an eyebrow. Her’s? No goddamn, merry-fucking-way! “My apartment,” she started up, yanking the bottle back, “MY alcohol!”
---
"No!" Another yank, returning the bottle to what Kitty would call its rightful owner. "You're a drunk," she said, drunkenly, "YOU don't need anymore of this!
---
“’Scuse you,” she replied, tugging it back onto the proper side of things. “You aren’t even legal! Baby. I can’t legally let you have ANY of this!”
---
"Baby? Oh, that's rich, coming from someone who pouts all the time. Pouter," she spat the word out, obviously the most heinous of insults, as she welcomed the bottle back into her loving arms. "And I'll be legal next week! And I'm already legal in England! And—And at least I'm legal in maturity, unlike YOU."
---
“At least ‘m not a WHINER,” shouted Faye, and she was sure the neighbors had heard them at this point. “Whine, whine, whinity-whine-whine. That’s all you do. Someone who cries and boo-hoo’s all the time shouldn’t be allowed to turn 21! Time is gonna stop YOU from being older. Now, give. It. Back.” She tugged the bottle sharply in her direction, not counting on stupid things like momentum and inertia. What were those anyway?
---
"Better a WHINER than a WINO," the comeback blared out at equal volume, but Kitty didn't even bother to think about the people in the nearby flats. Everyone in the building must know she and Faye did this at least once a week.
This time when Faye tried to yank it back, Kitty held fast, and it was caught between the two of them. "You're. Not. Getting. It! You can't even drink properly!"
---
“Says WHO?” Faye bellowed, flaring up like a bird, like a hawk, a vulture. She shrieked like one, too, even with words slurring. “Says YOU? Right, cause your opin—opin—O-PIN-ION matters so much in the end.”
“I can’t drink properly?!” Faye roared. Clearly Kitty had just insulted her beyond redemption. Faye Valentine, not a skilled drinker? Girl was out of her mind. And in her shock, Faye let go of the bottle just as Kitty tugged on it.
---
The instinct to cover her ears to block out the racket was a strong one, but Kitty resisted. Stiff upper lip and all that, even in the face of noise that sounded like a constipated seagull. "My IPINEONS—say it right—matter a lot, because I can—"
But whatever Kitty could do was lost as she suddenly found herself falling backwards. To the ground. Hard. With a thud, and an unladylike groan, and an even more unladylike stream of profanity.
That out of her system, she looked up with a cool glare. "That's it, Valentine. You're DEAD!"
---
Faye had a comeback waiting. Really, she did. And, oh, god, was it a good one. Such good comebacks had never been known to the world before this comeback that was just on the tip of her tongue. But, curses, the sight of Kitty going backward and the sound of a string of rather creative insults—she didn’t know that you could do that to a floor—foiled all her best efforts as she clapped her hands to her mouth and downright died.
It could have been the alcohol, it could have been the pot, but Faye liked to think that there was nothing funnier in any world than Kitty Jones looking like a surly pigeon with its feathers all ruffled. Most of Faye’s speech, after that, went something like, “You—AHAHAHAHHA—look like---HAHAHAAH—someone just—HHAHAHAHHAHAAH—“And then—“DEAD?”
That sobered her up, which was annoying. Even through layers of alcohol and eggs and shimmer-stockings, Faye sensed a challenge. “I don’t think so, Jones.”
---
As Kitty picked herself up, she realised with certainty that Faye was the reincarnation of a Harpy. Or an actual Harpy. One of the two. She was cackling and convulsing, and seemed to be having trouble breathing, face contorted in some weird semi-grin that looked like she was trying to win a competition to model tooth-whitening-toothpaste. Faye, that is, not Kitty. Kitty conducted herself with the utmost decorum and composure.
...As long as one defines decorum and composure with falling over again twice before she managed to stand up.
...But stand up she did! "I think so." One foot came down hard on the nearest egg. It was an accident - Kitty had no desire to have caramel-coated shoes - but she hoped it added to the effect.
The two of them looked at each other like cowboys about to draw (wasn't that Faye's kink?), and Kitty's eye's narrowed as though she were looking straight into some Western-movie sunset. "Choose your weapon."
---
Faye laughed and laughed—when was the last time she had laughed this hard?—until Kitty’s big man foot came crashing down on an egg, which splattered caramel and chocolate all over both the carpet and Faye’s boots. She liked those boots. You didn’t just find boots like those anywhere! She could spend hours lecturing on the delicate swish-and-sway shimmer that her boots made, but Kitty was standing.
Well, Kitty was swaying. Or Faye was swaying. Someone was swaying—maybe the walls—and Faye was wiping caramel off of her boots without looking. Either way this was clearly a fight to the death, high noon, high tide. She was high.
Kitty looked like a baboon, standing all hunched over like she had back problems, so Faye chose to do the polite thing and save her. There were still shot glasses turned upside-down on the coffee table. “You sure you can handle it?” she asked, tipping the glasses over.
Or barrelling into them with her forearm like a truck driving through a stack of toothpicks.
---
It was hard not to laugh herself as she watched the meticulous care Faye was taking over the boots. Yes, they were nice boots, and yes, Kitty might have borrowed them once or twice, and yes most of those times had been without asking, but Faye was cleaning them like she was wiping the sweat off the brow of her long-lost love, collapsed head-in-her-lap after a duel for her heart. At this (for some top-secret, never-to-be-revealed reason) Kitty had the sudden mental image of Faye with a lap full of large, green hair, which amused her to no end.
But enough of Mike. Bike. Whatever. The coffee table was back in the game, which meant one of two things - either this was another curse day, or it was time for a new and fabulous round of "Who Can Come Up with the Stupidest Drinking Game?" Currently Faye was winning, of course.
"When do I not handle it?" Kitty knelt down by the table, steadying a couple of glasses that had looked ready to shatter under Faye's vigour. "But what can we bet with, huh? Haven't got anything on us."
---
Faye didn’t waste any time, even though the livelihood of her precious white boots were on the line. When games and bets and winning and losing were all involved, sometimes in that order and sometimes in a mix-n-match order, she was full of businesslike attitude. Kitty just had no handle on subjects like this, judging by the expression on her face. Not that Kitty ever made any other expression except for Blissfully Unaware, but business was business was something like business.
At Kitty’s question, Faye paused, chewing on the inside of her mouth while she went through her vast knowledge of stored drinking games. She knew how to play “Everybody on the Count of Three” and she was practically a pro at “Open Your Throat and Swallow,” despite any and all wise-ass remarks that one might receive. Other than that her well was pretty much dry.
Thankfully, Kitty was always so resourceful, even if being resourceful meant thinking of things and situations that were likely to embarrass her. But that was Kitty for you: blissfully unaware, sometimes thick as a brick. Faye’s People were good People. “I wouldn’t go that far,” Faye said, sniggering and stretching.
---
Recently Kitty had been using Blissfully Unaware so often it was a wonder she hadn't registered it as a trademark. It seemed to be the perfect look for most dealings in the City. Made it easy to avoid certain things, and to get certain other things. However in this is case, the look was genuine. She genuinely had no idea what Faye was thinking about.
...Although she guessed it probably involved 'throats' and 'swallowing'.
Even when the other woman spoke and stretched out languidly like a cat, Kitty still remained in the dark. Faye was looking remarkably happy. But Kitty had been right, they hadn't got anything with them to bet with. No chips, no money, nothing except...
"Oh, you can't be serious."
One look at Faye's face spoke of the contrary.
"You really want us to play for..."
At this point, Kitty went through something a little liek the seven stages of grief. Firstly disbelief. That spoke for itself. She blinked several times over, and her eyebrows were raised so high it looked like they were trying to leap off of her forehead. Then denial. Even Faye wouldn't be that daring. Bargaining? Well, she could offer to clean Faye's boots instead? Guilt was connected with those boots, because the caramel on the soles of that white leather was her fault, and would it ever be the same again? Anger was then directed via a glare at the remaining eggs in the room.
Depression began to sink in when she realised she'd just directed an extensive mental monologue at herself, and moreover she was thinking about eggs.
Finally... acceptance. Slowly, Kitty's mouth began to form her own, opposite smirk.
"You're serious, aren't you."
---
Really, Faye was a lot of things. Loud, boisterous, greedy, very probably out of her mind at times, but, above all else, she was a gambler. She liked the stakes, she liked the risk, and although she didn’t like taking her clothes off in front of other people—despite her what her wardrobe usually suggested—she wasn’t about to back down from something like this when she could both beat and humiliate Kitty Jones, and she was sure she could beat her.
Unfortunately for Faye, and she was loathe to admit this even to herself, Kitty’s style of dress gave her a little bit of an advantage here, at least in the department of Things That Go Under Clothes Down South. However, Faye wasn’t about to lose. Not to Kitty, not when Kitty had suddenly gone the color of chalk and looked like some sort of genetic mutation between a frog and a bush baby, eyes wide and mouth pulled thin and tight.
She set her face and said, “As a heart attack.” With that she began fumbling around on the floor for more shot glasses. She was sure she kept them someplace sensible like underneath the couch and in the pot of that fern next to the armchair.
“Unless,” Faye tossed casually over her shoulder, “you’re embarrassed. Or, worse, scared. I know it’s a big girls’ game, and ‘m not sure you’ve got the goods.” Faye knew Kitty didn’t have any sort of goods—she had seen them—but, really, if Kitty needed anything it was a good telling-off. To Faye’s alcohol-smoke-chocolate-determined mind that meant winning the game and playing it, too.
---
Kitty knew Faye had an over-abundance of goods—she had seen them—but, really, if Faye needed anything, it was proof that size didn't matter. "I'm not embarrassed or scared," she spoke matter-of-factly (yet still drunkenly). "Unless you tell me the last time you changed your underwear was more than a week ago."
Although really, she wasn't exactly a fan of public nudity.
As Faye rooted around for god-knows-what in the most random of locations, Kitty calmly reached under the table and pulled out the rest of the shot glasses, wondering what on earth the other woman was doing. "Two by two? Or first to choke?"
---
Kitty’s little declaration of faith there might have been more convincing had she not sounded like the words were just falling out of her mouth and out of her control. Faye snorted, turning around when she heard Kitty start setting the glasses on the (new) coffee table. Well, she would have turned around smoothly, had she not tripped over… something. Something that most certainly wasn’t her own two hands or feet or any other appendage.
She was reunited briefly with that lovely, lovely, acrid-smelling carpet before she scrambled to her feet, managing to mutter out, dusting herself off, “At least I wear underwear.”
“First to choke,” Faye replied, thinking that her lifetime dream of getting to see Kitty turn blue and puffy was about to come true.
---
Trying to avoid thinking of just what condition her current underwear was in, Kitty filled the glasses to the brim with vodka. They overflowed a little here and there, but nobody would notice. Faye would probably end up licking it off later. Or Ed would do it, or that dog Faye seemed to like so much, and they'd spend the next hour drunk out of their minds. And picturing Faye trying to cope with that was not entirely un-amusing.
The first shot was swallowed without so much as a blink. And the second. And the third. Fourth should have been no trouble, she was still in the lightweight section, but either it went down the wrong way, or Faye had slipped poison in the glass. Kitty wouldn't put it past her. Whatever it was, it meant number five went down, but not without a little cough. But one look at Faye told Kitty that it would have to be counted as a choke.
"Five," she spoke, glaring across the table.
---
For the first time in a very, very long time, Faye found that she had absolutely nothing to say. She’d been doing her merry little thing, an easy system to pros like her, and then she’d heard IT.
Faye had heard plenty of It noises in her life—all three years of it. She’d heard It noises of fatal bounty mistakes. She’d heard It noises of the turning point in an argument. Point blank, there were noises. Faye had heard them, yaddy yadda, on and on until the end of time or something. Kitty had just made an It noise and that It noise was a choking sound, which made Faye paused halfway through her sixth shot of vodka, a taste like the inside of a tire burning a hole in her tongue.
She met Kitty’s glare with a mean little smirk and set her shot glass down like she was about to start adjusting the halo she could feel glowing on her head. Only winners were angels. “Wasitgonbe, Jones?” she said(?), leaning forward, her elbow sliding through a puddle of spilled alcohol and her head bumping against the table.
Meant to do that, of course.
---
It was obvious Faye hadn't meant to do that, but she was going to try and cover it up with her natural grace. The only small flaw in her plan was that she had no natural grace. Kitty chuckled quietly to herself at this, before she realised that she'd lost the first round, and that could only mean one thing. Laughter instantly stopped, replaced by what she liked to call a "buggering-sodding-wanking-hell" feeling.
Slowly, she fumbled around with the zip on her leather jacket, eventually managing to shrug it off without getting tangled in the sleeves. A thin vest was now all that was keeping Faye's annoying gleeful eyes from her upper-underwear. Bloody April weather. Why couldn't it have snowed for a little longer? That way she could have taken off the layers one glove at a time.
"Again?" The important thing was not to let it get to you. Otherwise the next thing she knew, Faye would be taking nude pictures of her for any number of lewd purposes.
---
Faye didn’t look. She didn’t,. She got the shot glasses all gathered up and starting wondering, in the only way a drunk person can wonder, which is badly, about what might happen if she lost next. She wasn’t exactly known far and wide for her extensive wardrobe: more like being known far and wide for her lack thereof. And the thought of being so far ahead already, when she hadn’t even lost one round, didn’t exactly sit too far on the Fair Scale with her.
She toyed with the idea of trying to explain this to Kitty while the other girl took off her jacket, but Faye could barely say her own name let alone try to convince Kitty that the odds were uneven, even if Kitty was trashed.
So Faye poured more vodka into the empty glasses, blinking that special blink reserved only for people who feel like their eyelids are made of brick and their eyeballs made of sandpaper. Every time she tried to concentrate on the shot glass, it started dancing. “Ag’in,” she mumbled, shaking her head. Up was down and no was definitely yes. Everything was more or less normal as far as Faye was concerned, even if Kitty was down a jacket and Faye was down half of her brain cells.
---
Time to step up the game. Kitty felt she should do something dramatic to drive that resolution home, but a vigorous clapping of hands (let alone letting out a joyous whoop) seemed rather beyond her at the moment. And it didn't help that Faye was looking pointedly at her chest. Honestly.
So she just nodded when they started at it again, and eventually managed to take hold of the first glass (it took a while). It tasted worse than everything else so far. And the glasses got steadily worse as she downed more of them, not just harder to drink, but the vodka became seemingly poorer quality. At first it hadn't tasted so bad, now it was like it had been made by blind, drugged-up monkeys, in a back alley behind a manure factory. Her eyes stung and burnt, and everything was spinning. Finally she choked, and managed to mumble out a number. "N-Nine."
She'd better have won this one. Otherwise she'd be pissed. Pun unintended.
---
Faye was fine. Faye was dandy. Faye was drunk. She could barely get the glass to her mouth. Swallowing was an entirely different story. Her tongue felt like a piece of lead and her throat was obviously made of out socks. Smelly socks. Spike’s socks. Those probably smelled. And tasted like someone had just poured lighter fluid down her throat and tossed a match down after it.
Her eyes watered, and her face felt hot. And it happened. She gagged. On her ninth swallow, the vodka going down her throat came back up and out her mouth and nose. Retching, she tasted bile and Spike sock and Kitty victory and her stockings going far, far away to the land of Goodbye Stockings. Pressing a hand to her chest, she coughed, sure that she was bound spit up glass from that one and—
--and looked across the table at Kitty, whose expression she couldn’t read—mainly because her eyes had crossed and that little habit called vision was turning into a little habit called passing out—but whose body language knew and understood that she had won.
Without even thinking, Faye grumbled something that sounded like, “Mud in the rabbit,” and pulled off her stockings, tossing them aimlessly and knocking over the bottle while she was at it.
---
Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to try smoking whatever Faye had offered her before this had begun. Naturally a more rational person would say this drinking game was the problem, but rationality wasn't top of the list of what she was feeling right now. What was top was the need to throw up, closely followed by just plain passing out. Then there was a craving for peanuts. Really salty peanuts. And then back to the puking.
...Suffice to say, she didn't last long this time. Only three shots before she started choking and spluttering like a cat pushed in water - except worse, because this was Kitty with vodka. "Ducking ducks in dell," was all she could be heard to mutter as she grabbed her jeans at the hips, and tried to wriggle out of them. It took a fairly long while, but eventually they were in a crumpled heap on the floor.
---
Kitty was making all sorts of noises—drowning noises, choking noises, pants-hitting-the-floor noises---but Faye could barely pay attention to anything outside of her own pulse, which was rushing in her ears as she banged her forehead against the coffee table and stayed that way until the boat they were obviously on stopped rocking. She couldn’t remember rowing out to sea, but they were there.
“Can cats swim?” she asked Kitty, cracking open an eye, except that it sort of came out like, “Canctsim?” And that was a language that neither of them could speak, drunk or sober. The universal truth held strong, though, and that was the truth that, no matter how drunk you were, you always knew when someone else was going to throw up, and you always knew how to communicate to the other that you were going to throw up.
That was the truth, but Faye was past the truth. Mainly because Faye was past puking and into the stage that included passing out, and when Kitty sat back down, Faye fell sideways, clunking her arm on the table and wondering when and how she had been sucked up into a black hole or a Gate jump or a swirling, twirling vortex of drunken misery.
“Haaaate you,” she mumbled. Really, the only natural thing to do was blame Kitty. She knew she was going to make it out alive when she could still deduce that much.
---
"Your idea," was the accusation she made in return. Except it probably didn't sound like she thought it sounded, and it was certainly more of a whimper than a bang. But Faye was apparently talking gibberish, and Kitty took this as a good sign. She could still win this. Of course, right about now she was considering that being totally nude and able to pass out would be a blessing compared to remaining conscious and clothed.
"A-A-Again." It wasn't so much she was stuttering as she was simply unable to speak. Her whole mouth felt slow, as though pushing words out was just too heavy and hard, hot, lead. Thank goodness there were still some shot glasses left full, because she knew she'd have hard time trying to fill them herself.
She managed to get three down again, matching her previous record, and hoped Faye wouldn't be able to do the same. After all, as Kitty knew, the girl never had much stamina.
---
The only thing Faye saw and heard was Kitty rummaging through the shot glasses, and that either meant that Kitty was cheating or Kitty was cheating. Both options were big deciding factors in Faye’s brain, even if only a quarter of it was coherent enough to remember that she actually had other body functions besides sit, stay, lay down. Not to mention other limbs to make them work.
She dismissed Kitty’s words because she couldn’t understand them. Faye had a feeling that she wouldn’t have been able to understand My First Picture Book if she tired her hardest right now. The only sorts of thoughts she was being allowed were the sort of thoughts that went something like this: drink.
So Faye drank. Faye drank until the vodka tasted like water and her insides felt like Ramen noodles swimming around. Faye drank until she choked, and, truth be told, that didn’t take very long. Three shots and she was down like a tranquilized giraffe. It would have been, well… embarrassingly pathetic if she hadn’t been so drunk already—not to mention high on whatever that shit was—but she was past the point of caring.
Not even sure what she was wiggling out of—though she was pretty sure it was something from her chest-al region, she tossed the losing piece of clothing somewhere (lampshades, clearly, would never be the same again) and flopped backward until her chin was pressed against her collarbone, back braced on the front of the couch. “I win!” she exclaimed weakly, waving her fist. “Woo, woo…”
---
Faye won? Faye won?! What?! Kitty had been steadily slumping further and further towards the table, getting more and more horizontal when the shocking words snapped her out of her reverie. Faye couldn't have won! She wasn't naked yet! ...Was she?
Kitty's eyes darted around the room, looking for Naked Faye (a rather unmistakable sight). But there was no sign of her. There was a plant, and the coffee table (of course), and Clothed Faye by the sofa, and some bottles, and some eggs, and some bottles and eggs, but no Naked Faye.
Clothed Faye must be lying. Urg. That bitch.
Trouble was, it might not be a lie for longer. Kitty couldn't even get one shot past her mouth now before she started choking uncontrollably, forcing the bile back down again. That meant her shirt-vest-thing-whatever it was had to come off. It was only after she removed it (a task which wasn't as easy as she remembered) that she realised she was now sitting in only her underwear.
"Bye, vest." Such was the tragic farewell she bequeathed to the final item that could go before she started getting seriously cold and even more seriously mortified for all eternity.
---
By that point in time, Faye had no idea what she was even supposed to be doing anymore. Something about begs? Legs? Maybe eggs? She didn’t want to think about eggs right then. Right then all she wanted to do was lay down on this little bed of eggs that she’d found underneath her and sleep for the rest of her life. She could get used to this sleeping-all-the-time thing, she thought. Especially on a bed like this: eggs and bottles and extinguished cigarettes made for the best furniture.
Faye looked through the legs of the coffee table, wondering why she could see a lot of Kitty’s legs and a lot of Kitty’s jeans in a lot of two different places. Things like that were supposed to come attached, weren’t they? And she realized she was supposed to have a top on. Because Faye Valentine didn’t just walk around in her bra. No sir. No ma’am. Nu uh.
Some part of her was still listening to Kitty, unfortunately, and it was picking up something about a vest. Best rhymed with vest. “Best,” she said, stabbing herself in the chest with her finger. “Am best. Am best vest, better’n all the rest. Put’r… stuff to’a test.” Faye started climbing up the mountain next to her. Mount Sofa. She was dizzy by the time she scrambled to the peak and looked over at Kitty, saying, “You-er sooooo drunk.”
---
"You're not the best," Kitty craned to look at Faye with a glower. "You're an id-eee-ot." And, with that said, she nudged the precariously balanced Miss Valentine with her elbow.
...Which, looking back on it, was a pretty idiotic thing to do.
---
Not by any means graceful at all, Faye rolled unceremoniously off the couch and landed half-on, half-off of Kitty with a bang that made a few of the glasses on the table tip over. She didn’t mind, after all, she had some cushioning to lessen the blow, even if Kitty was a lot of awkward bone and made for great cushioning the same way a bed of needles might make for great cushioning.
But, hey, Faye would take what she could get, and if she had to cuddle up to a bed of bone-nails then she would do it. And Faye was good at snuggling up like any absolute bed-hog was good at snuggling up.
---
"Ooof."
One minute Kitty was lying quite content in her about-to-pass-out state, and the next thing she knew she had some sort of heavy weight lying across her lap. The weight seemed to be burrowing into her. The weight was possibly a giant rabbit. Except... not furry.
"Mmmf." With a combination of wriggling and rolling, she managed to relocate Faye into a slightly more graceful position beside her. But making her give up using Kitty's torso as a pillow was another thing.
"Let's stop with the drinking now," she murmured blearily, the room dancing wildly all around her.
---
For some reason Faye’s pillow was talking. She didn’t have any experience with talking pillows or pillows that were distinctly ribcage-shaped but she thought that she could make the best out of a bad situation. And this was most likely a bad situation, considering that she had lost track of Kitty somewhere in her apartment. Who knew what she was doing?
“Quiet, pillah,” she said into the crook of her own arm, hoping and praying that she wouldn’t up-chuck all over this new pillow. She was far too drunk and lazy and tired but mostly too drunk to get off her ass and get a new one if she somehow managed to lose her non-lunch.
When she closed her eyes the spinning was bad, but it was a lot better than opening her eyes, since they happened to have those bricks from earlier taped to them. “Nmredrinkinin,” mumbled Faye into the pillow.
---
"Mmmf," was once again pretty much all Kitty could say to that. Was she a pillah? What was a pillah? A pillar? Was Faye calling her a pillar? A tower of strength?
"Ncevyootsay," she tried to mutter in thanks, but it didn't really work out. Eyes struggling to keep open, she fumbled behind her to pull the blanket off of the sofa and try and drag it over them. Warm. Sleep. No spinning. Pillars. Good things.
---
Faye’s thoughts, now, were the sort of thoughts that involved sleep. Because sleep meant not throwing up, and sleep meant continuing to think that this was just a pillow, and sleep meant the end of a Very Bad Idea.
Through all of her drunken stupor and sock-mouth and brick-eyelids, Faye still had a handle. Some sort of a handle. She felt the blanket, though it was very heavy and far too hot, and she heard her pillow start talking again, stupid thing. She needed to fluff it. It was flat and stiff.
At least that was the excuse she gave herself when she kneed Kitty violently in the side and said, “IsedQUIET.”
Honestly, the nerve of some pillows.
---
It wasn't that bad you know, being a pillar. Pillow. Thing. It was all right, just to lie there, and feel the cigarette-stained carpet on your back, and a nice, comfortable, warm sort of weight on your front, and not have to worry about anymore vodka, and not wearing many clothes, and—
"OUCH."
It was a wonder Kitty didn't vomit. Instead she just yelped at Faye's attack, and then almost seemed to growl in frustration. Grasping out blindly with her hand she grabbed the blanket and pulled it up close to her chin. "Always stealin' the bl—teblaa—the blankets..."
As she drifted off to sleep, Kitty was sure she had forgotten something important. Something crucial, even. Almost a matter of life or death. But once again, she unfortunately accepted that she was never going to remember it in her current state.
...It was only in the morning, when she woke up to find the other woman still sprawled across her chest, that she remembered Faye snored like a broken steam-engine.
no subject
OH MY, COMMENT SPAM.
OOC FOR ACID?
FOR GREAT JUSTICE!
FOR SPARTA?
FOR THAT DINNER IN HELL?
FOR FEW STANDING AGAINST MANY!
FOR... PUPPIES?
NOT KITTENS?
FINE. THEM TOO.
DRUGS FOR KITTENS?
She likes that table! HOR.
CATNIP!
...dognip?
...Had to take it too far, didn't you?
I like going too far!
*sigh*
xDDDDD
O.o
DD:
...<3
Re: ...<3
I AM SO GLAD THIS HAPPENED.