awesome_binomial_theorems | [OOM] Oswin, Moriarty and Hangovers.

[OOM] Oswin, Moriarty and Hangovers.

Alcohol is a fiend. A tempting, beguiling fiend.

Moriarty blinks awake at roughly dawn with an impressive headache, a dry mouth and an ache in his side. The latter he was expecting - he'll deny it until the end of time (which, in the bar, gives him considerable flexibility on the duration of his denial), but sleeping on a tough leather sofa is not the best idea when you're injured.

Rubbing his forehead, he shrugs on a dressing gown without bothering to do it up and stumbles into the kitchen to pour himself some water.

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There's a rather pathetic whimper from the bed at All The Noise. Oswin has decided that it'd really be a better life choice right now if she did die. Seriously. Exterminate, get it over with, her brain might already be leaking out her ears.

She's a little afraid to move, just in case her brain starts oozing around places it ought not.

Water is nice, Moriarty has decided. Soothing. Water doesn't want to hurt him. Not like alcohol.

He does, however, heed the whimper and do his best to quieten down.

Silence is blessed, but the relief is short-lived. Now that she's awake, her brain is determined to stay that way, no matter how comfy she was before wakefulness went and ruined that. Very cautiously she peers at the room and despite the fact it contains a still mostly-nekkid Moriarty, she gives it up as a bad job and shuts her eyes again.

"Who ordered a morning? 'Cause I didn't. Send it away."

"Mornings are pain," Moriarty agrees morosely.

Pause. Glance down at the taps.

"- Want some water?"

"Want a Dalek firing squad." Oswin groans, but she knows, somewhere in the scramble that is her brains right now, that water is good, because someone was an idiot and drank way beyond their usual limit. Carefully she levers herself up into what might roughly be called a sitting position, and considers her next strategic move.

"I'll take that as a yes," Moriarty decides after a moment, and pours another glass.

As he approaches: "What's a Dalek?"

"I.." She manages to not let the second word of that sentence escape a) because it's horrible, horrible oversharing and b) it isn't true. Isn't. "Intelligent evil aliens that are very very good at killing things. A lot."

She makes sad pathetic 'please sir alms for the poor' gestures towards the water.

"Oh. Okay."

Moriarty's brain is far too fuzzy to examine that sentence in more detail at the moment - besides, intelligent evil aliens that are good at killing things seems pretty standard.

He does manage a weak smile as he hands her the water, though.

She gets a good portion of that water down before attempting further conversation - even her eyelids feel sandpapery, which can't be a good sign.

"I will invent a time machine. And the first thing I'll do is go back to last night and slap myself upside the head."

"I had fun last night," Moriarty says absently, closing and tying his dressing gown. "But the rotgut was a mistake, I feel. A painful, blurry, orchestra-of-demons-playing-the-drums-in-my-skull mistake."

"It certainly wasn't the most intelligent move I made all night." She agrees, and for a wonder fails to comment on his sudden move for increased modestly.

Possibly because she's in his room, in his bed, and he's in a dressing gown. And it's possible she's blushing again. She'll just... use the glass as a shield for that, okay?

"Mmhmm," Moriarty grunts agreeably.

A pause. He peers at her. Eventually, curiously: "Are you blushing?"

He'd crow, but crowing is noisy, so he just sips his water instead.

"Oh shutup." She grumbles back, because somehow, it isn't fair - blame limited capacity to hold her usual composure or whatever. "I am never drinking again."

Lies, more lies, and damned lies.

"I am. But not for a while," Moriarty says. This, too, may be a lie. "Unless somebody offers me a drink, maybe."

"What was that stuff, anyway?" She grouses without heat, "Tasted like a good idea at the time."

"It may have been whiskey."

He doesn't sound sure.

"Ugh." She's adding a new line of code to the command structure: Bottles of whiskey = bad, to hopefully keep this from happening again. "Though," The speculative tone of her voice probably doesn't mean good things for that recently written rule holding for very long. "It definitely wasn't a bad night."

Just a moderately horrid morning.

"The night was fine," Moriarty says, with a slightly shy, very goofy grin in Oswin's direction. "It's the ensuing day that needs to go die a most painful demise."

"It is certainly going to have to work hard for redemption." She agrees, before tipping back the rest of her water. That grin... damn. It has very hard not to just sit there and plot ways to get that grin to appear again.
"Right, so. I'm thinking coffee. Coffee as black as space and hot as a fusion reaction. Possibly multiple cups."

Moriarty throws a sloppy salute which is more like smacking himself in the forehead than anything (maybe he wishes to beat the hangover out?). "Aye-aye, ma'am."

With a wordless 'why-won't-this-headache-go-away' grumble, he heads back into the kitchen. It isn't long before the sounds of a kettle boiling start drifting through the door.

She levers herself upright in stages, but it's the promise of coffee that keeps her from surrendering and hiding under the blankets again. She used to watch mad Daleks slam themselves into walls, over and over, for days on end - somehow a few of them have migrated into her skull and are repeating their act with great vigor.

Oswin sighs at the state of her rumpled clothing, decides to re-label it as bedhead-chic, and slowly chases after Moriarty and his promise of coffee. That whistling kettle sounds promising.

When Oswin gets into the kitchen, Moriarty's just pouring the coffee. It's not good coffee necessarily: It's early twenty-first century instant, courtesy of his room's seemingly constantly stocked cupboards.

(It took him off guard, at first, the futuristic kitchen with its buttons and lights and myriad jars of tiny coloured granules, but there's little point being a genius if you can't figure out how to make instant coffee.)

He offers her a smile. "Hello. Here." A mug of coffee is slid down the worktop towards her.

She grins back, wrapping her hands around the warm mug.

"Thanks very much." She dips in what might approximate a quick curtsy (sans voluminous skirts and thus looking a lot silly. Then, armed with caffeine and a whole load of curiosity, she noses about the kitchen.

"Could make a whole load of souffles in here."

"I don't have any fish oil in the cupboards, to my knowledge," Moriarty says, leaning against the worktop and gulping down a good third of his mug's contents. "So they'd be lacking that special something."

Oswin shoots him an arch look over her coffee mug, sipping her drink (but only because it truly is hot, and she doesn't want to add burnt tongue to today's complaints).
"Truly tragic. One wonders how you ever manage." The size of the pantry is greeted with a surprised whistle. "I might have to ask the Bar to set me up with one of these, you could feed an army out of here."

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