2007-03-16: How to Comfort a Drunk

Starring:

Lachlan_icon.gif Seamus_icon.gif

Summary: Seamus follows Lachlan out of Lucky Joe's Diner. Lachlan emos about his dogs. Tragic.

Date It Happened: March 16, 2007

How to Comfort a Drunk


Lower East Side

Being drunk, Lachlan has not gone far from Lucky Joe's Diner after his little mishap in there. The Scotsman is weaving his way down the street in a less-than-friendly mood, scowling and eyes reddened from holding back tears of drunken woe. Someone mentioned dogs — /his/ dogs — while scotch had made the wounds of his loss a bit rawer than usual. He's not equipped to handle this in anything that could be /considered/ a rational manner.

Seamus, unfortunately, has no idea what "this" is. So only moments after Lach's outburst and exodus from the diner, the Irishman, too, bursts out from the doorway, confused and unhappy frown upon his lips. He certainly didn't intend his offhand — offhand! — comment to do any harm, so as he pulls his torn and finger-free gloves back onto his hands, his head turns left and right, searching out the other pseudo-Brit. Drunk as he is, Lachlan isn't difficult to spot, and Seamus wastes no time in dashing after him. "Oi!" Fuck, what was his name again? "…Lach! Oi! Slow down, will you?" Get back here!

Someone is chasing him. Lachlan is in no mood to be chased or talked to, /especially/ by the one who pissed him off. Without giving it much thought or reason, the Scotsman spins around and cocks back a fist to aim a sloppy punch for the Irishman's face. It's very sloppy. In fact, it's so sloppy and wild that there's no possible way it's going to hit, and so Lachlan winds up stumbling toward Seamus rather than striking him.

OHSHI THE DRUNK IS GOING TO PUNCH HI— or. Not. Rather than bringing his arms up to attempt to /block/ a fist to his face, Seamus ends up sort of… /catching/ Lachlan's arm, and blinks at the other man, his brows knitting in together. "Oi, oi, Lach, calm th' fuck down, alrigh'?" The redhead makes attempts to right the other man, holding him up if necessary. "Wha' th' fuck did I say? 'M sorry. I didn' mean ta piss you off." The tears will not be mentioned. Even if they are MAN tears, damnit, they don't need to be brought up.

There are no tears! Yet. There is the /promise/ of tears, even more so when Lachlan finds out he's missed and his righteous fury has no outlet. He's grabbed by Seamus momentarily, remains stunned a moment, then struggles valiantly to be released. "Get the /fuck/ offa me!" he snaps angrily, his watery eyes threatening to spill over in a mixture of drunken rage and despair. "Lea'me 'lone! Bugger off!" This is added with a series of elaborate and violent hand gestures that threaten to tip the Scotsman over backwards.

/Almost/-tears, then. If your eyes are watery, it's because of unspilled tears, okay. Seamus lets go when Lachlan struggles, but soon reaches out to catch him again as he nearly flails himself over. "Oi. /Oi/. Wha' th' /fuck/. Lach, shi', 'm sorry, alrigh'? /Calm down/." Seamus hates hates HATES seriously upsetting other people — especially when there was absolutely /no/ intention to even tease. What the hell. Lachlan is one who seems like a fairly decent guy, too. …At least, Seamus thinks so.

Not when he's drunk. When he's caught once again, Lachlan makes no attempts to pull away because, well, Seamus is the only thing that isn't wobbling. Much. And the Irishman keeps him upright. After a few moments of weaving, the Scotsman raises an arm to shake a finger /threateningly/ in Seamus' face, glaring all the while. "Ye dunna talk 'bout m'dogs, ye weasel-faced cocksucker!" he snaps, sending a load of scotch-soaked breath in the other man's direction. "They were good dogs an' 'll no' let ye talk 'bout 'em like tha'!" Like what? Nobody knows. Seamus didn't actually say anything wrong, except for his touching on the subject of Padfoot. Nobody said Lachlan was a rational drunk.

B— /what/. Seamus's brows draw in a little further, but he keeps his hold on Lachlan, even if his nose does wrinkle slightly at the scotch-breath. He can't really /blame/ Lachlan, though. The Irishman has his mean-drunk moments, too. So he just listens as Lachlan rants, wondering if there's anything lucid to be gleaned from the ranting. "I didn'— look, I didn' mean ta ba'mouth your dog —" Wait. "'Were'?" …Fuck. "/Shi'/, Lach." Now? /Now/ Seamus feels like an ass.

And now Lachlan is in Full Rant Mode. He jerks his arms away from Seamus again, wavers, but manages to remain on his feet. His lips contort into an angry snarl. "Ye think yer real bloody /cute/, don' ye? Thinkin' yer a funny guy with yer talkin' 'bout things like tha' an' yer … yer /funny/. Yer /no'/ funny, ye bastard! Yer a fuckin' /arse/, s'wha' ye are!" It's like watching a very angry child. A very /big/ angry child. With facial hair. His voice starts to crack again, which only serves to piss him off /more/.

Shit. "Lach…" But Seamus has nothing to say. He shuts up, letting his arms hang down by his sides, and taking Lachlan's ranting. Not because he deserves it, but… okay well, maybe he does. A little. But it's more for Lach's sake, really. The Scot looks, and sounds, like he needs to rant. His last comment, though, earns a wince. "I wasn' tryin' ta be funny." And yeah. Yeah, maybe he is an arse. At the moment, Seamus is looking like — cue irony — a kicked puppy. His stomach twists, but he doesn't say anything else.

Poor Seamus. It's not /really/ his fault and he really /shouldn't/ feel like an ass. He didn't know. However, Lachlan is going to find anyone and anything to blame. He's not quite had a rant about the deaths of his dogs, as it's less-than-manly to flail about and bawl around Cass or anyone else he knows. Random strangers on the street are /much/ better targets. "Yeah, 'll bloody /bet/ ye weren'!" he barks at the Irishman. "Piss off!" And with that, he whirls around again and starts to stagger off. Time to really go home now, break out the guitar, and cry until the scotch takes over and he passes out. Right. Sounds like a genius plan.

No. No, that is /not/ a good plan. And Seamus /does/ feel like an ass — an arse — /both at once/ — regardless of whether he should. He will /not/, however, piss off. "Lach, fer fuck's sake, wai'…" The Irishman follows, reaching to catch Lachlan by the shoulder if he can. "C'n'I a' leas' walk you 'ome or somethin'? You look a mess." And he's walking about as straight as a coiled snake.

Weave, weave, weave, bobble. Lachlan is at least moving in the right /direction/ — all of them! He doesn't resist when his shoulder's grabbed as his mind has inevitably turned elsewhere (such as home and a guitar) and he merely grunts something incomprehensible to Seamus' offer. It doesn't sound like a "no". It's probably better in the long run of Lachlan /does/ have someone walk him home, otherwise he'll wind up in an alley somewhere sleeping under a pile of stray dogs.

"Righ'. I'll getcha there." Seamus gives the caught shoulder a light squeeze, then snags that arm to sling over his own shoulders. It's done gently, and his own arm soon slips up around Lach's shoulders, his hand resting on the opposite one. This way, he can both support the Scotsman and keep him walking straight. Straight/er/, at least. "…'M sorry," he says again, after only a few steps. No, Seamus doesn't like dogs. But he knows pets, of any kind, are like family, and he knows Lach's gotta be hurting even more than he's letting on. "I'll getcha home, alrigh'? Jus' keep walkin'."

Slump! Lean! Lachlan is using Seamus' support quite readily, oh yes. And after the angry raging Scotsman comes weepy depressed Scotsman. That's why he's leaning so heavily on his compatriot now. "They were good dogs, yanno," he informs Seamus with a quavering voice. "Great dogs. Couldna have asked fer better dogs." Pause. "Wha' kinda sick fuck shoots a dog anyway?" he demands in a thick voice.

…Jesus /fuck/. Seamus stiffens slightly at that last question, almost missing his next step. He has no trouble with being leaned on — other than an occasional stumble and a readjustment of his grip to make sure he keeps Lachlan properly upright — no issue with listening to the sadness or the ranting, but… /fuck/. "Jesus, Lach." The redhead goes so far as to give the other man a gentle /squeeze/ about the shoulders. "I've no idea. You'd 'aveta be some kinda soulless bastard ta pull /tha'/ trigger." Unless, you know. It was going to eat your /face/ if you didn't. That part, however, is probably much better left unsaid.

Especially since the dogs in question /were/ going to rip off the faces of the people who shot them. Minor details. Lachlan's drunk. "Yer bloody righ' ye would. An' they were, too. Soulless fuckin' bastards, both o' 'em. F-fuckers." He swallows a fast-building lump in his throat and manages to take a little of his weight off Seamus, making it easier for the Irisman to support him. "Hell, y'know, Paddy an' Barg were the nicest bloody dogs ye'd ever wanna meet. An' they were funny buggers too. An' they were nice." He's quite sure they were nice. This is Important to know.

"'M sure they were, Lach." Seamus is mostly just being Supportive right now, but hey. If that's what Lachlan needs, right? No one ought to be moping this much, or have reason to. And losing family… sucks. A lot. Even pseudo-family. Let's face it; sometimes pseudo-family is closer than the real kind. Seamus sighs softly through his nose, readjusting his grip again as he helps the other along. Here's hoping Lach lives at least relatively nearby.

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