There was a very warped definition of 'morning' when morning struck several hours later. The sun had been properly up for a while, with the dawn quietly passing over a house where several of the people in it had still been awake and hadn't noticed. That was past now, and judging by the angle of the sun in the sky, it was getting dangerously close to lunchtime.
The living room was, all things considered, not in nearly as much of a shambles as it could have been. There was something to be said for getting drunk with two Archangels. Nothing was broken, and very little aside from the furniture was out of place. A couple of glasses had fallen on the floor, and one had rolled under a couch. Ghastly and Tanith were wrapped up in a curtain that had been pulled down from its curtain rod across the window. A few pillows had been tossed around, but none of them managed to hit any full bottles. Nothing was spilled. Nothing was precariously balanced.
The only person who avoided even a drop of alcohol was, miraculously, Valkyrie. She'd still been one of the first to fall asleep, resting her head in Fletcher's lap. Fletcher took up the rest of the sofa, sprawled as far out as he could get, and someone had belatedly tossed a single blanket over them to keep them warm. Tanith and Ghastly were in their curtain-bed behind the couch, but practically everyone else had found a spot within a sort-of fort made using some of the furniture in the room. Corrival was curled up in the armchair he'd began the night with, a large black Labrador snoring in his lap. Anton - who, for the first time since the inception of the Dead Men, allowed himself to get drunk because the angels could hold back his Gist and because Rover shanghaied him into it - took up most of the floor, with Rover lying on top of him. Dexter was close by, rolled up in two whole sheets someone brought downstairs, and close by him were Descry and Saracen. The father-and-son pair hadn't moved more than a few feet away from each other all night.
Erskine, for his part, had grabbed one of the fresh linens and dragged it over to the couch Solomon was on, wrapping both himself and the ex-Necromancer up as best he could, pulling the teddy-bear blanket over the whole ensemble when he was done. Apparently, not drinking was no excuse not to partake in the cuddling.
Skulduggery was asleep in his own armchair, a small black cat curled in his lap. There was a hand on top of the cat, stopped mid-stroke, and even in the cat's sleep a faint purr could be heard.
The only person awake was Solomon. He hadn't moved, in body or soul, since waking up. There was a silver and bell-like amusement outlined in the edges of his soul, making a beautiful counterpoint to the absolute peace and warmth that radiated from the metaphysical in the rest of the room.
A blonde man stood framed in the doorway of the kitchen. A blonde man wearing flannels, jeans, work boots, and - coincidentally - pink and purple socks. He stood surveying the aftermath, and the tenor of the souls, with a beautifully soft smile before his gaze settled on Solomon. "Are you feeling better?"
no subject
The living room was, all things considered, not in nearly as much of a shambles as it could have been. There was something to be said for getting drunk with two Archangels. Nothing was broken, and very little aside from the furniture was out of place. A couple of glasses had fallen on the floor, and one had rolled under a couch. Ghastly and Tanith were wrapped up in a curtain that had been pulled down from its curtain rod across the window. A few pillows had been tossed around, but none of them managed to hit any full bottles. Nothing was spilled. Nothing was precariously balanced.
The only person who avoided even a drop of alcohol was, miraculously, Valkyrie. She'd still been one of the first to fall asleep, resting her head in Fletcher's lap. Fletcher took up the rest of the sofa, sprawled as far out as he could get, and someone had belatedly tossed a single blanket over them to keep them warm. Tanith and Ghastly were in their curtain-bed behind the couch, but practically everyone else had found a spot within a sort-of fort made using some of the furniture in the room. Corrival was curled up in the armchair he'd began the night with, a large black Labrador snoring in his lap. Anton - who, for the first time since the inception of the Dead Men, allowed himself to get drunk because the angels could hold back his Gist and because Rover shanghaied him into it - took up most of the floor, with Rover lying on top of him. Dexter was close by, rolled up in two whole sheets someone brought downstairs, and close by him were Descry and Saracen. The father-and-son pair hadn't moved more than a few feet away from each other all night.
Erskine, for his part, had grabbed one of the fresh linens and dragged it over to the couch Solomon was on, wrapping both himself and the ex-Necromancer up as best he could, pulling the teddy-bear blanket over the whole ensemble when he was done. Apparently, not drinking was no excuse not to partake in the cuddling.
Skulduggery was asleep in his own armchair, a small black cat curled in his lap. There was a hand on top of the cat, stopped mid-stroke, and even in the cat's sleep a faint purr could be heard.
The only person awake was Solomon. He hadn't moved, in body or soul, since waking up. There was a silver and bell-like amusement outlined in the edges of his soul, making a beautiful counterpoint to the absolute peace and warmth that radiated from the metaphysical in the rest of the room.
A blonde man stood framed in the doorway of the kitchen. A blonde man wearing flannels, jeans, work boots, and - coincidentally - pink and purple socks. He stood surveying the aftermath, and the tenor of the souls, with a beautifully soft smile before his gaze settled on Solomon. "Are you feeling better?"