tampered | [ONGOING LOOOGGY]

[ONGOING LOOOGGY]

When; Just after midnight from the Great Marley's Ghost curse, honestly.
Rating; PG-PG-13...ish
Characters; Fran (

e_meritus) and Balthier (

venivici)
Summary; After having to deal with his father during this last curse, Balthier has decided to go independent binge drinking (IBD), only to be caught skulking by his ~~bunny girl~~ cohort, Fran.
Log;

After about the fifth round, the bite had gone away. After the seventh, so had the foolish lad of a challenger that caused Balthier to take the bet. He'd won two yellows and an orange (whatever that meant as currency) as a result, and they were quickly put away in one of his pouches on his sides before he charmed himself another round out of the cute little bartender. Even as he was, he still managed to get what he needed (or wanted) with the opposite gender. For the most part. She seemed to be catching on slowly but surely.

Which was fine. Balthier bristled, but it was hardly at the young woman cleaning glasses and taking orders from casual attendees and drunkards alike. It was at the recollection of the earlier curse, where he found himself in the presence of that ridiculous monster of a man. Not even a week in, and he was confronted by one of those 'curses'. Followed, stalked even, by the empiric doctor, who spent his time mocking the younger man and spouting his almost religiously maniacal insanity regardless of where Balthier went. He'd even stopped him from an attempt to head to the lavatory. Balthier was surprised that he hadn't bruised the bridge of his nose from all the pinching and annoyed tapping.

But at the stroke of midnight, as Fran said, the image dissipated to nothingness and left Balthier alone once more. After that, he'd decided a drink would do to loosen him from the stress. And an hour and a half later, there he found himself, not admitting that the only thing keeping him in that stool happened to be his elbows hooked around the metal bar on the drinking counter to keep glasses from rolling to the floor. In his loosely clenched right hand, a beer bottle swung. It was so out of character for the elaborately dressed sky pirate, but he made it look a bit better by having clumsily pulled the label off and balling it together to flick at one of the drunken patrons. They were far too gone to realize.

"God, I do so love family," he snarked to his reflection in the bottle bitterly, before taking another swig.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She had given him nearly two hours--by her mark more time than necessary to deal, recover, and cope with the stinging after-effects of one of the City's stints. Fran held with the favor that it was best to leave sleeping dogs lie as far as Balthier was concerned, and so she had allowed him--not allowed, rather overlooked the unfortunate state of affairs come morning. After all, he had not (necessarily) pried upon their journey through Golmore and the subsequent events within. She would bestow him the same courtesy, regardless of his instruction.

Two hours after midnight, however, was more than enough time. The hour was late, she herself was fatigued, though she would no sooner show it than allow Balthier the luxury of seeing her so flustered, and she was beginning to grow impatient. Neither troubled nor fearful described her mood--which was mostly irritable with a dash of concern, a favorite brew of this place--yet she found herself, eyes sharp and nose sharper, searching for him. Not even a week in, and she was confronted by this need. It was not that she did not trust him, far from it, but rather that she did not trust the City. Now that he was here, she was to take no chances in misplacing him.

It was a relatively small surprise, then, when she found him, though the same could not be said for the state of his person. She was no stranger to drink, neither of them were, but she questioned whether this would be the good sort--the sort that often left Balthier with more interesting manners and dialogue--or the sort that he was loathe to recall the next day. Considering the state of the curse, Fran was wont to believe it would be the latter; however, Balthier had surprised her before. Not frequently, but it had happened.

She caught his mumbling, ears pricking of their own accord, and strode across to meet him. Standing taller than most of the men in the room gave her a distinct advantage, and it was scarcely long at all before she came to rest next to him, saying, "Bottles are poor choices for company if it is conversation you wish for."

Balthier swayed away from her slightly, having not expected her approach at all. Granted, he should have, but after everything he'd put into his system, he simply hadn't thought of it; of the possibility of her showing up after him. Strangers to drinking they weren't, but most often they kept it to themselves. Public displays of such were oft acts to rile targets and appease those targeting them. Such was the life of a pirate with class such as the duo then sitting at that rather well-kept, dark bar.

He swayed, though, and glanced with a slight curl to the corner of his mouth, before swinging back to his hunch of before, taking another swig of the bottle. "Yes," he said through his swallowing the alcohol, "'tis true, but I'm afraid I've had enough company for a while."

It wasn't a shot at Fran, and Balthier did little to assure her of it. She'd know. He spoke in generalities, but never to include her, and he knew she knew it. He started to speak again, the wors slurred, only to stop and run his fingers into his hair and latching to his own locks for an idle tug as his eyes watched the bar.

Fran knew better than to think such a jab was pointed at her. Though the force behind his comment alarmed her the slightest bit, its intended meaning and receiver remained quite clear, even if the physical manifestation of him did not. She was of the personal opinion that Balthier was never at his most efficient at these points in time, but she held her tongue and watched him tug his hair into disarray.

The urge to stop him looking like a man stricken with paranoia was great, but that could also be taken care of by removing him from the establishment: a better alternative for all those who were involved. Especially Balthier, should he choose to employ proper use of his legs again that night, which Fran hoped for, considering she was not of the mood to carry him.

"Perhaps then," she began, tone filled more with suggestion than reprimand, "you would do better among solitude rather than the tavern crowd. Your choice is your own, of course; however, should you continue down such a road, you might find tomorrow that you regret it." She made to reach for his bottle as she spoke, again not authoritative, but more along the lines of encouraging the proper course of action.

He did make a half-hearted attempt to keep the bottle from her grasp, but it was exactly that: half-hearted, and then he simply let her take it from him. Balthier could be both light-hearted if the mood was right, or extremely aggravated, even stooping into purposely antagonizing for the sake of being able to fight.

But never against Fran. Any anger, any rude comments, even in such a delirious state, were never pushed against her. He'd display it in front of her, but Balthier simply never had the need or want to ever cast an angered behavior at her.

So, he allowed her to claim her bottle, knowing even as he was that she did mean what she was saying: to get him out of the bar and alone if he decided to get a temper. So, obediently, he started to attempt to get to his feet. "Only if you should be so kind as to allow us a stop at a liq--"

He didn't finish it as his knees went out just enough to let the tall man fall and crack his chin right on the bar railing. It was accompanied with a clack of teeth, a grasp of hands, and a groan. "Too long a day," he said bitterly and slurred.

She had not anticipated it. If she had, it would have been easy to act quickly, reflexively. As it was, she would only watch in mild and concern (and mild amusement, though she would never let on or say as such) as Balthier cracked the underside of his jaw against the bar runner.

Fran managed to let go the bottle and seize his arm a breath too late, mindful of her nails, his skin, and, most importantly, the fabric of his shirtsleeve. The last thing she wanted was a severely intoxicated Balthier with a rip in his sleeve. It was never good for business.

Careful in this manner, she managed to get a quick look at his face. At the outset there was no blood, but he'd only opened his mouth momentarily--to slur something incomprehensible at that--and Fran was worried, at this rate, she would have to wait until he began heaving to see if teeth were among the list of casualties--right next to his dinner.

Carefully, playfully, she chided, "The liquor stores have all closed their doors, lest you run them dry." With that, she swung one of his arms loosely about her shoulders, the option for him to attempt to make it on his own made quite clear by the small amount of pressure she held him with. "The curse has ended, Balthier," she went on, more gently this time. "The only demons you must face are those of a hangover."

He simply agreed with her touches and her tugs physically, all though he did cast one more longing look back at the bar. Fare thee well, fine liquor. Balthier would meet with you again one day.

And then he was straightening on his own knees as a ring adorned finger was pushed into his mouth to test his teeth in all the sore parts of his mouth. One after the other, and a couple were, in fact, loose. A run of the tongue detected no blood, which fit him just as well.

All's well that ends well. He insisted this as he cracked just the tiniest of grins and swayed against her as he stepped forward on his own, intentional in the very least for as small as it was. "Curse? What curse?" His words bled together and he stifled a small burp with a turn of his head from her. How unbecoming of him. "'twas but a family reunion, Fran. And this a glorious celebration." The word was emphasized in a stage-whisper, his body swaying against hers again since his leaning to perform the whisper shook at his equilibrium just so.

She refused to ask after his crude test of whether or not said teeth were intact, and she refrained completely from helping him to walk once more. Despite the fact that his swagger was more pronounced--nearly all pirate now--Fran had little fear that he could do much more damage to himself. Worst of all possibilities, he might wander off.

Luckily for him, she had always been faster, and there was little else in the world more (frustrating) endearing than Balthier seven sails to the wind. She made to cross her arms only to be forced to drop them as he swayed into her. She had visions of walking and stumbling, but she parted with them as she indulged him, attempting, though it was mostly in vain, not to crinkle her nose at the wash of his breath.

"What did Cid have to say, then, that made it so glorious?" asked Fran, kindly as she could, not bothering to correct his lean but doing nothing to placate it either. She kept her hands to herself, for the time being, though she did not deny that it was nice.

Despite the burp.

The faint smile fell from his face, and Balthier didn't respond. Instead, he pulled from her side entirely, his strides quickening for the door. His head was swimming, his brain betraying him into replaying the conversations had with the spectre that had been his father. Or an allusion thereof. And he just simply had no gumption to discuss it.

So, he strode for the wide doorway that led out to the street. Bar security (bouncers, to be awfully crude) were in sight but not in the way, and really, it should have been enough for even the most slovenly of drunkards and winos to pass through without trouble. Perhaps it was made for that specific purpose? Balthier hardly knew.

All he knew was that in a split moment's time, the left frame was colliding into his body in a vicious assault. It caused him to grunt out as his head, this time, cracking against the frame. His hand slapped against it as his vision turned white, and the ornate pirate pushed from it, stumbling, pointing, and looking to the large bouncer. "I must say, violent architecture be not the way to superior customer service," he snapped with a bruise plainly spreading over his eye and nose.

It was to a never mind that it was he who had tripped over himself and collided with the frame a good two feet away from his escape path of the bar. Fran obviously saw that the frame jumped right out in front of him, and she would vouch for him absolutely. He knew it.

She was torn.

On the one hand, his attitude was finally befitting of both the day's events and the situation, and Fran supposed she was to be made glad of it. However, Fran knew that, by all rights, her face should remain passive, calm, stoic, as was her wont. After all it decidedly was one of those fine times in which Balthier was so wonderfully drunk, and she was not unused to it. However, she had never--and if she had, she certainly could not recall it--seen Balthier move, swagger, and smash his head into a door frame with all the elegance of a blind chocobo.

She was torn. Not because she knew she should not laugh, but because the proper course of action was... completely foreign to her. For once. She moved forward after him, previous topic and conversation forgotten, as she came up sharply, too confused to even do so much as help him.

One of the burly men at the door was giving them both a strange look. Fran found herself unable to blame him: a viera (strange enough) and a hume with a stripe of a bruise forming over a good portion of his face (stranger still). It would be best to leave before anymore unwanted attention was delivered--unlike Balthier, she rarely cared for it.

Fran started out of the bar without him, only pausing in the doorway he had just made acquaintance with to give him somewhat of a stern look--though she had a feeling there was a grin fighting for dominance there--and to say, "Your tendencies incur the wrath of the oddest of patrons."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ONGOING LOOOGGY]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject