Cammie & Jake: Post Party Funtimes
Jul. 15th, 2009 03:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsAfter everything winds down, Cammie bugs Jake for a place to sleep then teases him horribly on top of it.
She had brought booze, a tutu and a flapper dress as promised. Cammie herself was dressed like a reject from the 80s era of punk. Torn sleeves business type shirt, a black tie, all her earrings, her bandages and torn jeans and fishnet adored the girl with her big black boots on someone's table. She didn't know whose table it was, and she didn't care.
Her phone was full of pictures of people she didn't know being stupid and silly and she was coughing, trying to hack up a piece of the sponge felt that they put in sharpie markers. It was stuck in the back of her throat. She could feel it there, bouncing when her throat heaved but not coming out. And not allowing itself to be washed down with vodka either.
"Crashing at your place tonight," she said to the only person she knew who was standing, "Too tired to drive."
Jake peered at her blearily through a face covered in Sharpie. "You can only have the couch if you promise not to poison it. Otherwise, you're sleeping in the spare oven."
"Spare oven?" Cammie asked, finally hacking up the piece of sponge-felt, "FINALLY," she said, throwing it against a wall before continuing, "Why the fuck do you have a spare oven? Luring in unsuspecting German Kids with your Gingerbread House again?" she returned, stretching, "And I promise not to poison your couch. That takes three days, at least."
He frowned. "Why do I have a spare oven? It just showed up. In my living room. With a quiche."
"Huh. They do that often?" Cammie asked, walking over a pile of something, "And Jesus-Buttfucking Christ that was one hell of a party. I don't even know what the occasion was."
"First time." Jake stumbled, caught himself on Cammie's right shoulder, then righted himself. "Spongebob day. Bastille Day. And Jubilee and I breaking the moratorium on Doug and Marie-Ange's fridge day," he grinned happily. "Which is exciting."
"Well, it was one hell of a party," she said, staying as steady as she could until Jake got his footing back, ,"Spongebob blows, the French are fucking nuts and everyone is now immortalized on my phone."
Jake frowned at that, leading the way up the stairs. "That's a bad idea," he mumbled. "We're secret agents. You'd better not put that shit on Facebook."
"Yeah, I'm so going to put it on the facebook page I don't have," Cammie said, "I think of it more like blackmail. You guys had the party," she said brightly. "I'm not going to do anything too horrible with them. Might photoshop devil horns on everyone, you know, shit like that. So where is that scary old skeleton you were talkin' bout?"
"He lives on the first floor," he replied, keeping one hand on Cammie's shoulder to ostensibly keep her from trying to find their holdover tenant but in truth because he was drunk enough to need a steadying hand. "Here." He handed her his keys and slumped against the wall next to his door. "Make it open."
"And he wasn't at the party," Cammie said taking the keys and looking at the lock, "Um... I could, but I'd need my lock picks. Dude, this ain't your door," she said laughing.
Jake's head snapped up. "What?" He looked at Cammie, then looked at the door, then looked past Cammie at the next door down. "Dammit. This is Wanda's." With supreme effort he dragged himself off of the wall and stumbled a few feet further. "Okay. This one. I promise."
"Yeah, I know it is. So, you were lookin' to go in and get some?" she said, unlocking Jake's door for him, "I don't know if I told you this, but three ways are totally not in my contract."
"I--No--What?" he blinked at her, then seemed to find the coherency he'd misplaced. "No. I just...forgot I don't live there anymore." And was trying not to think about Jean-Paul, or Emma, or Wanda, or anyone else, for that matter. He stumbled into his apartment, turned on the lights and intended to pull the blanket off of the couch, then realized that he should leave it there for Cammie to use.
"Take it. I'll be fine, it's broiling tonight," Cammie said, laughing. "You so wanted a three way, you dirty old man."
"Did not," he muttered, punching her lightly on the shoulder as he headed for the bedroom with the blanket. "Jerk."
"You still love me," she called after him, plopping down on the couch, exhausted but in the good way. "And you're makin' breakfast!"
She had brought booze, a tutu and a flapper dress as promised. Cammie herself was dressed like a reject from the 80s era of punk. Torn sleeves business type shirt, a black tie, all her earrings, her bandages and torn jeans and fishnet adored the girl with her big black boots on someone's table. She didn't know whose table it was, and she didn't care.
Her phone was full of pictures of people she didn't know being stupid and silly and she was coughing, trying to hack up a piece of the sponge felt that they put in sharpie markers. It was stuck in the back of her throat. She could feel it there, bouncing when her throat heaved but not coming out. And not allowing itself to be washed down with vodka either.
"Crashing at your place tonight," she said to the only person she knew who was standing, "Too tired to drive."
Jake peered at her blearily through a face covered in Sharpie. "You can only have the couch if you promise not to poison it. Otherwise, you're sleeping in the spare oven."
"Spare oven?" Cammie asked, finally hacking up the piece of sponge-felt, "FINALLY," she said, throwing it against a wall before continuing, "Why the fuck do you have a spare oven? Luring in unsuspecting German Kids with your Gingerbread House again?" she returned, stretching, "And I promise not to poison your couch. That takes three days, at least."
He frowned. "Why do I have a spare oven? It just showed up. In my living room. With a quiche."
"Huh. They do that often?" Cammie asked, walking over a pile of something, "And Jesus-Buttfucking Christ that was one hell of a party. I don't even know what the occasion was."
"First time." Jake stumbled, caught himself on Cammie's right shoulder, then righted himself. "Spongebob day. Bastille Day. And Jubilee and I breaking the moratorium on Doug and Marie-Ange's fridge day," he grinned happily. "Which is exciting."
"Well, it was one hell of a party," she said, staying as steady as she could until Jake got his footing back, ,"Spongebob blows, the French are fucking nuts and everyone is now immortalized on my phone."
Jake frowned at that, leading the way up the stairs. "That's a bad idea," he mumbled. "We're secret agents. You'd better not put that shit on Facebook."
"Yeah, I'm so going to put it on the facebook page I don't have," Cammie said, "I think of it more like blackmail. You guys had the party," she said brightly. "I'm not going to do anything too horrible with them. Might photoshop devil horns on everyone, you know, shit like that. So where is that scary old skeleton you were talkin' bout?"
"He lives on the first floor," he replied, keeping one hand on Cammie's shoulder to ostensibly keep her from trying to find their holdover tenant but in truth because he was drunk enough to need a steadying hand. "Here." He handed her his keys and slumped against the wall next to his door. "Make it open."
"And he wasn't at the party," Cammie said taking the keys and looking at the lock, "Um... I could, but I'd need my lock picks. Dude, this ain't your door," she said laughing.
Jake's head snapped up. "What?" He looked at Cammie, then looked at the door, then looked past Cammie at the next door down. "Dammit. This is Wanda's." With supreme effort he dragged himself off of the wall and stumbled a few feet further. "Okay. This one. I promise."
"Yeah, I know it is. So, you were lookin' to go in and get some?" she said, unlocking Jake's door for him, "I don't know if I told you this, but three ways are totally not in my contract."
"I--No--What?" he blinked at her, then seemed to find the coherency he'd misplaced. "No. I just...forgot I don't live there anymore." And was trying not to think about Jean-Paul, or Emma, or Wanda, or anyone else, for that matter. He stumbled into his apartment, turned on the lights and intended to pull the blanket off of the couch, then realized that he should leave it there for Cammie to use.
"Take it. I'll be fine, it's broiling tonight," Cammie said, laughing. "You so wanted a three way, you dirty old man."
"Did not," he muttered, punching her lightly on the shoulder as he headed for the bedroom with the blanket. "Jerk."
"You still love me," she called after him, plopping down on the couch, exhausted but in the good way. "And you're makin' breakfast!"
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