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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on May 18, 2012 17:18:05 GMT -5
Peter didn’t expect Lestrade to agree with him. It was a long drive to Montana, after all. Maybe he hadn’t been clear that home was somewhere he couldn’t go again. But still, the other man kissed his hair and sat him up, hand bracing him so he wouldn’t face plant without the support of his shoulder.
"Alright, let's go."
Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to go with Lestrade, but he didn’t want to sit there in the dark, looking at all the things his boss thought were treasures. So he nodded and started using the table to pull himself towards the edge of the booth. Why he thought a booth was a good idea...
"My house is closer than yours, I think. Yeah? Sound good?"
Peter just nodded, ignoring the sad little smile on the other man’s face. He was bringing Lestrade down with him. Another good reason why he didn’t drink. He really was no fun. Right now, he felt like that drunk girl at the party that someone always had to take home because she was too far gone to get there safely. As it was, his apartment was only a block or two away, but seeing as how the first floor was a crime scene, he wasn't too keen to tell Lestrade that.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Peter finally managed, sliding to the edge of the booth. His legs were shaky and he knew he was going to be making the drunk walk of shame out of the bar. “Cab fare to Montana is a bit expensive.”
He snickered at his own joke, swaying dangerously as he finally stood up. Oh, he was really gone.
“Baze,” he called, hearing the dog’s tags jingle as he trotted out from behind the counter. “We’re going to Greg’s house.”
Baze huffed, like he didn't like the idea, but he leaned against Peter's leg supportively, like he knew he needed it. Peter held tight to the scruff of his neck, glad to have something there. This is why the dog was his best friend.
"Lead the way, Greg."
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 18, 2012 22:23:27 GMT -5
"Yeah, it’s fine,” Peter said after a long moment. Lestrade wondered just how drunk a person could get with just three glasses. “Cab fare to Montana is a bit expensive," Peter stumbled against Lestrade drunkenly, laughing at his own joke. Lestrade hadn't thought it was very funny. “Baze, we’re going to Greg’s house!"
Lestrade observed as the big, good dog lugged his way across the floor to lean against Peter much as Peter leaned on Lestrade, grudgingly following them out the door.
"Lead the way, Greg," Peter slurred, and Lestrade huffed, fully intending to. In occurred to him that the last time he'd been in this situation was months ago, when Elliot screamed at him and told him he was a selfish bastard. This was decidedly less loud, but it irked Lestrade just the same. Sometimes he was sure that he worried too much. Being a police officer and a regular associate with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade was easily able to pick Peter's keys out of the younger man's pocket and slightly less easily lock the door to the bar one handed. He hoped Peter's boss didn't mind the minor mess that they'd left inside.
Lestrade, who happened to be a master at hailing cabs today (or, most people weren't out at this early-ish hour looking for cabs from bars), flagged down a cab after only about a minute in the rain, and made his way into the little taxi, pushing Peter onto the seat next to him.
"I don't take drunks, man," the driver called back, sounding annoyed.
"He's not drunk, he's ill," Lestrade lied. He hoped Peter wouldn't take offense.
"Just don't make a mess, yeah?" The man practically snapped back. "Where to?"
Lestrade gave his address, decidedly not liking their driver, and leaned forward to buckle Peter into the car. Obviously, the danger of them getting into a car crash was statistically small, but still, the long time fear of vehicles in general refused to leave him alone even in situations he should have left alone like this.
"Peter, don't go to sleep," Lestrade said to his companion a second later, as the car started into motion. "I don't want to carry you in." He paused and, simply to avoid making an awkward silence, continued:
"Did I ever tell you I'm usually called Gregory? I mean, it's fine if you call me Greg, really it is, but Greg is usually for my family back home, and, well, Elliot back in LA. I mean... You know, I can't believe you got drunk that fast. Me mam and dad took a drink with dinner every night and didn't have a sign about them, you know. Do they not have drinks in Montana?" It was a weak joke, alluding to his earlier, 'Do they not have rain over there,' but Lestrade truly didn't exactly fancy carrying Peter into his house, and neither did he want Peter to think he was a burden. Talking meant they were good, didn't it? He didn't want Peter to think they weren't good anymore.
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Post by DETECTIVE PETER ARAMIS on May 19, 2012 2:21:33 GMT -5
Lestrade was nice enough to help him out of the bar, and between him and the dog, he managed. He even swayed enough to punch the right button on his way out that would arm the alarm system. Heaven forbid if anything happened to all precious crap at O’Bannon’s...
Next thing he knew, he was sliding into a cab, Baze tightly curled on his feet with a chuffed grumble, but it was him that the cabbie had issues with.
"I don't take drunks, man.”
"He's not drunk, he's ill," Lestrade shot back.
Rolling his eyes a bit, Peter arched his hips and pointed at the shield on his hip, knowing he wouldn’t get it off in his state. The Cabbie just snorted and told him he’d better not make a mess, asking for the address. Yeah, everyone loved the NYPD...
Lestrade gave the address, buckling him into a freaking cab like he was a kid. Still, he didn’t bother to do anything about it, figuring it was easier to just go along with it. He was sure they wouldn’t get into a crash. Cabbies were amazing drivers. As long as the cab stopped swaying, he was sure it would be fine.
He relaxed back into the seat, trying not to think about all the other people who did that on a daily basis.
"Peter, don't go to sleep. I don't want to carry you in."
He was not five. He was not going to fall asleep. He was going to rest his eyes until the world stopped spinning around him...
"Did I ever tell you I'm usually called Gregory? I mean, it's fine if you call me Greg, really it is, but Greg is usually for my family back home, and, well, Elliot back in LA. I mean... You know, I can't believe you got drunk that fast. Me mam and dad took a drink with dinner every night and didn't have a sign about them, you know. Do they not have drinks in Montana?"
“They do. Mother used to drink wine with dinner, and Dad could sip whisky with the best of them,” he mumbled back. “It’s me an’ Angelique who can’t hold our liquor, Greg’ry.”
It was true. Through the long line of Aramis men and women, he and his sister were the only ones who were cheap drunks. Even his Grandmere could drink a bottle of cooking sherry and still hit you with the bottle at thirty paces.
“You have to give me my phone so I can call her,” he yawned a bit, letting his western accent sink through. “Need ta talk to her ‘bout...stuff. ‘Bout Montana and you gettin’ me drunk...She’s not gonna like that, Pard.”
He sighed a bit, letting his head rest against the window. He wasn’t going to go to sleep. He had to feed Baze and walk in so Lestrade wouldn’t carry him. He had to call Angelique for some reason and write letters to a murderer. It was all so very complicated...
He’d just rest his eyes. Only for a minute. And maybe then the world would quit spinning.
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Post by GREGORY LESTRADE on May 20, 2012 23:04:00 GMT -5
“They do. Mother used to drink wine with dinner, and Dad could sip whisky with the best of them,” Peter said, clumsily pronouncing words. Lestrade forced himself to bite back a teasing comment at the fact that Peter had said 'Mother,' all formal. “It’s me an’ Angelique who can’t hold our liquor, Greg’ry.”
Lestrade had no idea who Angelique was, probably a relative based on the fact that they were talking about Peter's family, but he snorted anyway. "Obviously," he acknowledged the obvious, rolling his eyes before looking at Peter somewhat critically. God, this probably hadn't been a very good idea, because now there was a mumbling kid sitting next to him making him want to drink ten times the amount he'd seen go through Peter's system.
“You have to give me my phone so I can call her,” Peter yawned, and Lestrade wondered why Peter didn't just get it himself, because it was in all likelihood just in the younger man's pocket. He didn't move. He did try not to laugh at Peter's suddenly cowboy-ish voice, though. “Need ta talk to her ‘bout...stuff. ‘Bout Montana and you gettin’ me drunk...She’s not gonna like that, Pard," Peter finished and propped his head against the window.
It took Lestrade half a second to figure out that 'Pard' meant 'part.' At least, he was pretty sure it did and that it didn't mean 'pa.' Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. He silently copied Peter and leaned against his own car door, not caring that the cabbie now had evidence to throw them out of his cab. Peter wasn't a bad drunk, not really, but he wasn't exactly a fun one. Lestrade's flip-flopping brain, which had gone from 'I'll drink one,' to 'No drinks' to 'I need a lot of drinks' was now back to 'Never drink in front of Peter, ever.'
Drunk him definitely would not like drunk Peter. Or, he'd really, really like drunk Peter. Too much; self-restraint was an issue with him when it came to alcohol.
Baze whined at their feet. Lestrade absently scratched behind his ears. The poor dog was damp and shivering a little. Lestrade wasn't giving him his - Peter's - jacket, but he felt a little bad. Then remembered it was a dog and scolded himself.
"You're making me go soft, Aramis," Lestrade clucked. There was no answer, and Lestrade knew Peter was probably asleep. Of course he couldn't listen to Lestrade.
"You moron," Lestrade huffed good-naturedly as the cab pulled to a stop in front of his house. He paid the driver and walked around side to get Peter out of the car. Unbuckling the seatbelt, he tried, "Come on, Peter, wake up," but it was a useless effort that Lestrade hasn't expected to work. The kid was well and truly out. Lestrade grunted with annoyance and the fact that he was now tasked with basically carrying the deadweight man into his thankfully one-floor house.
He managed to unlock the door one handedly (he was good at that today), and Baze trotted in like he owned the place. Lestrade hoped he didn't shed very much as the dog plopped his damp self on the couch. "Off!" Lestrade snapped, dropping his bag on the little table next to the door and flicking on the lights. "Shoes off," Lestrade tutted, knowing Peter couldn't hear him, and took his own off without undoing the laces with his toes. He managed to lean down without completely dropping Peter and pull the other man's shoes off too and dropping both their coats in a pile near the door. It was hard to resist the urge to hang them up properly as he walk-carried Peter to the (useless) guest room he was lucky enough have.
Lestrade flopped Peter onto the mattress, the covers still underneath Peter's damp stomach (it was highly unlikely but the last thing he needed was a dead NYPD officer who choked on his own vomit the next morning). He dragged the trash bin next to the bed in case of Peter waking up and being too drunk to remember it was rude to throw up on people's beds. "You're a trip, kid," Lestrade chuckled, and patted the sleeping man's shoulder affectionately before walking back out of the room to tidy up the mess they'd left in the hall and make himself some dinner. Baze was still on the couch and Lestrade didn't bother moving him, though he did try another useless, "Off." Truthfully, he was a bit proud of himself. After all, there was still two golden bottles behind his bed post tonight, and he'd sort of helped a friend, right? He forced himself not to worry that he might have lost a friend, too. The fact that the whole kissing event could even get him a free ticket to a world of shame decidedly did not concern Lestrade as he poured a glass of milk to go with his warmed up leftovers.
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