Meanwhile, Tommy is sprawled in the armchair, one leg having slid off the ottoman, one arm draped loosely around a throw pillow. It had been a fitful night, with his occasionally getting up to check on Kate, and occasionally taking another painkiller or two.
Not exactly the kind of night he'd expected to have, what with Dug's Momentous Arrival and all.
But it isn't the approaching daylight that wakes Tommy; it's the crick in his neck. With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snap open at the jab of pain. Then, blinking blearily, he eases himself out of the chair, feeling as if a truck had just run him over. Glancing over at the bed, he sees that Kate and Dug are still sound asleep. He shuffles quietly around the room, closing the curtains so that the impending sunlight won't wake them, and won't cause Kate blinding agony when she opens her eyes.
Being a former blackout drunk has been very useful!
He pauses at the table in the corner. And he picks up the bottle of whiskey that had been sitting there all night, staring at him as intently as one of Kate's cats. His throat goes dry again. His fingers itch to uncap the bottle.
After a moment or two, he sets the bottle back down.
Stepping into the washroom, he softly shuts the door. He splashes some cold water onto his face and runs his wet hands through his hair to rouse himself. He'll stay for however long it takes for Kate to wake up, but he might as well remain awake because there's no way he's getting any more sleep right now. He figures he'll stop by Lou's room afterwards and crash on his couch for a few hours to properly recharge before going home.
Standing there for a moment, hunched over the sink, he thinks: What the fuck happened last night?
He's sober. Of course he remembers exactly what happened. He just doesn't quite understand how it started out with intense bourbon-flavored kisses and ended up with a talking dog biting him on the ass.
Speaking of which...
Tommy unbuckles his belt, undoes the button on his jeans, and unzips his fly. Now, he hadn't felt himself actually bleeding, but his right ass cheek is definitely still sore. Pushing his jeans down around his thighs, he gingerly peels down the waistband of his black boxer briefs -- and then with oh so very awkward and kind of painful twists and turns of his upper body, he tries to peer around and over his own shoulder to see just how bad the bite is.
"Goddammit."
When that doesn't work, there's the mirror above the vanity. With a variety of more unsuccessful contortions, he manages to catch a glimpse of some red marks on his skin but the ache in his neck and back aren't helping much with the twisting and the turning.
"Shit!"
Then, grasping his pants, he rummages through the drawers again. He could've sworn he saw a handheld mirror in there somewhere. Yes! He holds the mirror up to his right ass cheek, tilting it this way and that until he can see the very pink and raw teeth marks in perfect dental formation. He grimaces. It doesn't look like the skin's been punctured, but it's definitely going to bruise later on.
As he does this, his backside is facing toward the door. Which he hasn't bothered to lock.
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Not exactly the kind of night he'd expected to have, what with Dug's Momentous Arrival and all.
But it isn't the approaching daylight that wakes Tommy; it's the crick in his neck. With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes snap open at the jab of pain. Then, blinking blearily, he eases himself out of the chair, feeling as if a truck had just run him over. Glancing over at the bed, he sees that Kate and Dug are still sound asleep. He shuffles quietly around the room, closing the curtains so that the impending sunlight won't wake them, and won't cause Kate blinding agony when she opens her eyes.
Being a former blackout drunk has been very useful!
He pauses at the table in the corner. And he picks up the bottle of whiskey that had been sitting there all night, staring at him as intently as one of Kate's cats. His throat goes dry again. His fingers itch to uncap the bottle.
After a moment or two, he sets the bottle back down.
Stepping into the washroom, he softly shuts the door. He splashes some cold water onto his face and runs his wet hands through his hair to rouse himself. He'll stay for however long it takes for Kate to wake up, but he might as well remain awake because there's no way he's getting any more sleep right now. He figures he'll stop by Lou's room afterwards and crash on his couch for a few hours to properly recharge before going home.
Standing there for a moment, hunched over the sink, he thinks: What the fuck happened last night?
He's sober. Of course he remembers exactly what happened. He just doesn't quite understand how it started out with intense bourbon-flavored kisses and ended up with a talking dog biting him on the ass.
Speaking of which...
Tommy unbuckles his belt, undoes the button on his jeans, and unzips his fly. Now, he hadn't felt himself actually bleeding, but his right ass cheek is definitely still sore. Pushing his jeans down around his thighs, he gingerly peels down the waistband of his black boxer briefs -- and then with oh so very awkward and kind of painful twists and turns of his upper body, he tries to peer around and over his own shoulder to see just how bad the bite is.
"Goddammit."
When that doesn't work, there's the mirror above the vanity. With a variety of more unsuccessful contortions, he manages to catch a glimpse of some red marks on his skin but the ache in his neck and back aren't helping much with the twisting and the turning.
"Shit!"
Then, grasping his pants, he rummages through the drawers again. He could've sworn he saw a handheld mirror in there somewhere. Yes! He holds the mirror up to his right ass cheek, tilting it this way and that until he can see the very pink and raw teeth marks in perfect dental formation. He grimaces. It doesn't look like the skin's been punctured, but it's definitely going to bruise later on.
As he does this, his backside is facing toward the door. Which he hasn't bothered to lock.