Nah, you're all fucked up too. I'm a big boy. I can walk. Thanks, though.
[ Fabian's a real one. And it's not as though he doesn't appreciate the easy offer - there have been people who say that it's not normal to catch a ride on their homie's shoulder, but he'd like to counter those people with the very real, very effective argument that it's both convenient and fun - but he doesn't want Fabian making himself any worse. ]
I'm gonna steal one of your shirts. My suit's all kinds of fucked up.
[ He does manage to crawl out of bed, blinking away the last haze of a full night's sleep, and bracing himself against the wall as he sheds the rest of his suit, grimacing at the pile of crusty, bloodied, wrinkled clothes landing in a heap on the ground before shimmying his way into one of Fabian's shirts. It's not quite as good as one of Gorgug's (Gorgug's can go practically down to his shins if he's wearing a baggy enough shirt), but he's at least more comfortable this way.
(He makes a brief mental note to ask his Dad how he deals with entering combat situations in a suit next time they talk, because there's gotta be a better way than a prodigious amount of bleach and perfectly good clothes tossed in the garbage. His Dad probably knows. He's got spy tips.)
He exhales, then turns to Fabian with a small smile. ] See? All good. C'mon, let's go. [ As he hobbles out of the bedroom and peers down the staircase to where Gorgug's waiting, he calls out: ] Hey, Gorgug! Thanks for getting this stuff all set up!
[ He doesn't feel so hot -- but he sounds perfectly fine. He can at least cover that much up. ]
no subject
[ Fabian's a real one. And it's not as though he doesn't appreciate the easy offer - there have been people who say that it's not normal to catch a ride on their homie's shoulder, but he'd like to counter those people with the very real, very effective argument that it's both convenient and fun - but he doesn't want Fabian making himself any worse. ]
I'm gonna steal one of your shirts. My suit's all kinds of fucked up.
[ He does manage to crawl out of bed, blinking away the last haze of a full night's sleep, and bracing himself against the wall as he sheds the rest of his suit, grimacing at the pile of crusty, bloodied, wrinkled clothes landing in a heap on the ground before shimmying his way into one of Fabian's shirts. It's not quite as good as one of Gorgug's (Gorgug's can go practically down to his shins if he's wearing a baggy enough shirt), but he's at least more comfortable this way.
(He makes a brief mental note to ask his Dad how he deals with entering combat situations in a suit next time they talk, because there's gotta be a better way than a prodigious amount of bleach and perfectly good clothes tossed in the garbage. His Dad probably knows. He's got spy tips.)
He exhales, then turns to Fabian with a small smile. ] See? All good. C'mon, let's go. [ As he hobbles out of the bedroom and peers down the staircase to where Gorgug's waiting, he calls out: ] Hey, Gorgug! Thanks for getting this stuff all set up!
[ He doesn't feel so hot -- but he sounds perfectly fine. He can at least cover that much up. ]