She couldn’t help herself-- she laughed. A sharp bark of it that wrinkled her nose and devolved into shoulder-shaking giggles, despite the solemnity of the situation. It was in the deadpan delivery, and the way Isaac just seemed to fall into her category of humor. It was a weakness, this camaraderie, one she would continue to exploit to her own benefit.

He made her happy.

She clicked the play button and slumped back against the pillows, goosebumps rising along the span of her shoulders and forearms at the gentle swipe of his thumb over her hand.

I trust you.

“Okay, deal,” she said, reaching over him to grab the bottle. She squeezes it between her thighs to hold it still and snapped the seal with a crack, spinning the top off. The smell of strawberries wafts into the cool of her room. “The rules are you drink when anyone says ‘Bob’ or when you see a burger-- like a fully crafted one, which happens less than you might expect. You also drink when Tina groans, Gene talks about eating or farting, or when Louise yells. If you haven’t seen, you’ll figure out who’s who pretty quick.”

She took an experimental pull, trying out the taste. It was entirely too sweet and only just tasted like alcohol-- a sanguine, strawberry kick.

“Ohhhh, yes. Had a lot of crazy nights with this baby. Anyway, don’t feel like you need to partake.” She grins. “We can’t all have a horse liver like I do.”

It's genetic.

⚰︎ emotional! damage!

Isaac Merlo

“No, it’s okay, I swear,” she insisted, feeling for all the world like a teenager at a sleepover, smile threatening to break her cheeks, until she felt Isaac scoot a little closer to her and hold her hand tighter.

“Hey, you’re okay,” she said, brushing the bridge of her nose against the side of his head in the world’s softest nuzzle. “You’re safe here. I know it’s hard because we kneejerk humor in self defense.” We. As in, they together. Disaster Pal happenstance.

She took the bottle from him and compensated for his little drink with a full swallow. On her exhale, she said, “No. No ‘fuck it’. Just do what you feel comfortable doing. If you want me to get you water I’ll get you water. Or, I think I have lemonade, or something.”

She held the bottle between them as the seconds ticked on without having to drink. After a full minute-- mostly during a song-- she looked at him and said, “See? It’s not that bad.”

⚰︎ emotional! damage!

Isaac Merlo

She was resting her cheek on the top of his head so she didn’t see him blush. And, despite all the proclamations to the opposite, Cyg was starting to feel it, too. It was evident in the way her foot tapping to the beat of the songs turned into a slight bounce of her foot-- but controlled, so she didn’t kick the laptop off the bed.

“Yes. Popcorn, alcohol, and snuggles,” she snickered, reaching for the bottle, “you’re a cheap royal.” Easy to please with low standards, just how Cyg liked them. She snorted at the joke in her head. “Listen, this should be nobody’s speed. It just means I drink too much.”

As she went to take the bottle from him, instead of passing it off fully, she wrapped her hand around his where it gripped the neck of the bottle and guided it to her lips for her drink.

“It’s the nice kind of lemonade, too,” she said, after pressing her mouth to the back of her hand to dry it, as though nothing had happened. “The kind in the fancy jug.” She usually used it as chase. Or a mixer. Damn, did she have a drinking problem?

Don't answer that.

⚰︎ emotional! damage!

Isaac Merlo

“Yeah, it’s… small,” she agreed, letting her head fall back against the pillow, buoyed by the comfort of alcohol and the feeling of Isaac warm and wreathed against her. “But it’s so much nicer than my apartment was.” Anything was better than that sterile, beige, cookie-cutter deathtrap of pressboard and plaster.

She did see him blush, this time, but that was because she was looking at him. Watched the color trail from the tip of his ear across the span of his cheeks, spotting down under the curve of his jaw. He reddened all the way down his neck and, she imagined, beyond, where her eyes could not currently go.

Okay, cold shower time, she thought, and almost let him go, just for the break in the assault on her senses, currently bombarded by the heat of his body. But then she remembered--

“No,” she said, a bit louder and sharper than she meant to, and then, by means of explanation, “you’re hurt. You stay here.” With effort, she managed to disentangle their limbs and head off to the kitchen, where she set the empty bottle on the countertop and opened the fridge, blinking into the pale fluorescent light that flashed on.

She found the lemonade quickly enough and even sprung for two glasses-- the cheap, clear plastic kind that are heavy in your hands to imitate the feeling of real glass. She kicked the door shut and returned to the bedroom, setting everything down on the bedside table with a clink.

“We should probably sleep at some point tonight,” she told him, stifling a yawn just at the mention of it, “and we should also look at your ankle before we do that. If it’s infected you’ll need to go to a doctor.”

She wasn’t drunk enough to impede her motor skills or clarity. Just enough to make the weight tugging her towards sleep a bit heavier.

⚰︎ emotional! damage!

Isaac Merlo

She raised one eyebrow in an astounding display of slightly inebriated facial control.

“If I’d wanted you on the couch,” she said, pointedly, “I’d have put you on the couch.”

She was not subtle. Never had been. She was also not shy, bashful, or easy to shame. It was a double-edged sword. Isaac was hurting, in more ways than one, and Cyg would never, ever take advantage of anyone like that, let alone a friend. But she was also very bad at playing the quote-unquote romance game, if that’s what this was… becoming.

She hoped her point was obvious.

Watching with cautious eyes, ready to jump in if it seemed like he was in pain, she hovered as he undressed his injured limb. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, kneeling on the bed to get a closer look.

Dog bites, from a purely authorial point of view, are different than anyone imagines. Yes, the teeth are sharp. But it’s the crush of the jaws that actually does the most damage. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve gotten well and truly bit. Soon the skin will start to mottle and bruise.

“We should keep it uncovered for the night,” Cyg said, unable to keep the frown off her face or out of her voice. “Sometimes punctures collect bacteria and if they can’t drain or air out they become infected.”

Also from the author: never put thick ointments on animal bites. That’s how you get infections.

“What--,” she started, then pressed her lips together, humming a consternated note. She wanted to grill him about what the fuck he’d been up to, but maybe this was not the time. She exhaled sharply through her nose, returning to her original spot.

“Call me, next time,” she finally said, as she adjusted to let him curl up next to her, “if you’re going to do something dangerous. You don’t have to tell me what. Just so that-- I know.”

Because what if he hadn’t made it through? That was a terrifying thought.

Not nearly as sobering as the one that immediately followed, which was that she’d be devastated if anything happened to him.

Oh no.

Oh, no.

⚰︎ emotional! damage!

Isaac Merlo

“Yeah, you will,” Cyg snorted, and it came out more brusque than she’d intended. Or maybe not. Maybe she had intended it like that. Maybe it was time to cultivate some realness so that Isaac could see what he was getting himself into. She was… pretty terrifying, at least in her own mind’s eye, and he just seemed so… whimsical, and free.

This was a lot. This was a lot bordering on too much.

“Good.” He had listened to her. That was surprising. Immediately, she was filled with fear, backpedaling through all her first aid knowledge and making sure she hadn’t steered him wrong. No, no, she felt pretty certain she was, at least, slightly right. One night shouldn’t make things worse, anyhow.

The movie was coming to an end-- the action was rising.

“Good,” she repeated, more forcefully this time, squeezing his hand back. And she meant it. “If you get yourself killed on the job I will hunt down your ghost and bind it to the most embarrassing object I can find. Like a vibrator. A big sparkly one.”

She scoffed in mock insult. “My disaster sense is always pinging, because you’re always a disaster. The ‘Isaac’s in Danger’ ping is the same as the ‘Isaac tripped over his own two feet and fell on his face’ ping.” She huffed. “It’s a work in progress.”

⚰︎ emotional! damage!

Isaac Merlo