[Closed] Do You Hold a Heavy Heart

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Charlie Ewing’s voice was very much the last thing Chrysanthe had expected to hear at this particular moment, and yet somehow she was not in the least surprised. The witch pulled away and offered a rather rude hand gesture in his direction, and Chrysanthe laughed, resting her head back against the wall of the alley for a moment.

Gita grinned at her, apologetically. “They’ll never let me hear th’ end ‘f it,” she said, her voice soft. “Come ‘round again sometime, oes?” There was the crush of soft lips against hers.

“Maybe leave Charlie behind,” Gita winked and then she was pulled back into the Ugly Duckling.

Chrysanthe took a deep breath, still sort of against the wall, even though there was really no reason to be anymore, and it was rather cold. She was perhaps equal parts disappointed and relieved; she didn’t quite know what to make of either.

Chrysanthe scowled at Charlie when he came closer. She wobbled - really for no reason at all - coming away from the wall, and began to sort herself. There was a whole mess of hair tumbling down from her braid; she brushed at it ineffectually with her hand, and then began to weave it into a braid all its own. Her hands were not quite steady, but she had been braiding her own hair for well over a decade and a half, and she knew how to do it quite well.

“That’s two dates!” Chrysanthe told Charlie, but she couldn’t find the scolding tone she’d meant, and she was afraid he couldn’t have missed the laughter in her voice. “Sort of. You’re in - incorri - incorrigible.” She ran the braided strand around the other braid and clipped it competently into place. Only then did she realize her shirt had come untucked; she turned away from Charlie just a bit, and eased it back into the waistband of her skirt, patting it down beneath her jacket. Which was unbuttoned! Dreadful. Chrysanthe frowned down at the buttons and decided they would need to remain thus; there was really nothing that could be done about it just now. It was all right; the shirt beneath was nice enough, if maybe a bit wrinkled. She would have tugged at it, but she wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t pull it out again.

“I think,” Chrysanthe said, easing a few more wisps of hair off her face and frowning as best as she could down at Charlie, “you do owe me another beer. But I’m not entirely certain I ought to. I think I got drunk.” She wobbled slightly, and set a hand against the wall. “Or the ground’s gone slanted.” Chrysanthe squinted down at it, and then looked back up at Charlie, raising her eyebrows, as if expecting him to tell her which.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Late Evening
Outside the Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Ms. Palmifer scowled at him as he got closer to her. Well she could scowl all she liked! He had every intention of going back into the bar after that comment. It wasn't his fault the witch had left her in the lurch. Mostly. He snorted when she accused him of ruining two dates.

"Why thank you for noticing, Ms. Palmifer--yes, yes I am." She was laughing, properly laughing, so she couldn't be too upset. Good, because he didn't think he could apologize a second time. Once had been difficult enough; twice might send him into some sort of fit. It was taxing on the health.

But Alioe if she wasn't a clocking proper mess. Her hair had come only partially undone, her shirt untucked--he looked away when she went to tuck it back in. Even he had limits, and watching women tuck their shirts back into their waistbands was certainly one of them. And her jacket unbuttoned! She left it that way, which seemed to him the surest sign of all that coming here had been a good idea. It was healthy to loosen up every once in a while, after all. Or every... most nights.

Charlie snorted again, this time letting it transform into a chuckle towards the end. "You, darling, are not drunk--you are absolutely clocking guttered." He grinned up at her, amused. Bits of her hair had come loose, although she'd swatted at a few of them. They framed her face and really highlighted the whole "wobbling" thing. "It would be irresponsible of me to buy you another beer, Ms. Palmifer. Absolutely irresponsible." Also, he would have to pay for it, and if she was too drunk for another one... well. That worked out, didn't it? Win/win. Or something along those lines.

The hand on the wall was troubling though. She probably should, in fact, leave the bar. He wasn't her nursemaid, but he would feel the tiniest bit bad if he brought her out here and she got herself stabbed in some filthy alleyway because she'd been too drunk to get home on her own. Even though she was an adult, who had made her choice--still. That would put rather a damper on things, he thought.

"Come on, you lush--where are you staying? I'll walk you back, because I'm such a gentleman and shit. And if you fell into a ditch and died, I'm the last person who was seen with you."

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

You are not in the least responsible,” Chrysanthe said, rather loftily. She had meant to cross her arms over her chest, but it was a bit more difficult than she remembered. One hand wandered towards the other bicep, then she gave up, separated her arms, and put them squarely on her hips. This had occupied rather a lot of her attention, so it was a few moments before she could look back down at Charlie.

“But yes,” Chrysanthe said, smiling rather unexpectedly. “I suppose I am.”

Surely she’d gotten – guttered – since Brunnhold. Not that she had spent so many nights guttered in school either, although she had, once or twice, gotten drunk enough to be sick. It was consistently rather miserable, and the next day even worse. She hadn’t liked it much, then; it had made her afraid.

In Gior, she must have – a handful of times. But she’d been there to study, mostly. It was one thing to sip something fermented and sour or some dirty chan or whiskey and to loosen up a little; it was another entirely to become drunk enough to find it enjoyable to make out with a witch in an alleyway.

It had, Chrysanthe thought guiltily, been enjoyable. Very enjoyable. She frowned, just a little.

Charlie called her a lush, and Chrysanthe giggeed, which seemed to her the surest sign her of her own dissolution. “I’m staying the – ah – ” Chrysanthe frowned for a moment, thoughtful, “the Mossy Elepha,” she said, triumphantly, looking at Charlie.

He did not seem to know it.

“It’s,” Chrysanthe glanced around the alleyway, as if directions might appear somewhere nearby. “It’s just…” she turned towards the back of the alleyway, then out at the street. She looked back at Charlie. “Sort of – up?” Chrysanthe distinctly remembered coming down a hill on her way to meet Adelaide by the wharf – but then, finding the wharf from anywhere in the Rose was rather easy. One just went towards the water, and eventually it was there.

Chrysanthe squinted in what she thought was the direction away from the wharf, which naturally must have been where the guest house was. She was not entirely sure she had it right; she turned and looked in the other direction instead. As both were simply walls, neither really told her very much.

“I know how to find it from the glass factory,” Chrysanthe added. She took another step away from the wall, wobbled a bit, and leaned back against it, looking at Charlie. She wasn’t exactly sure what she expected him to do; the air all smelled like the sea and also a bit like stale vomit. It was not, Chrysanthe had to admit, the most romantic of atmospheres. Nonetheless she felt rather fondly towards it, like a kind of yoffel.

“But I’m not sure how to get to the glass factory from here,” Chrysanthe attempted to turn in a circle, as if the glass factory might also appear; she was not particularly successful. She looked hopefully at Charlie once more, thinking – perhaps he would know how to reach the glass factory. It seemed very reasonable, put that way. She thought it might be a bit far, though; she wasn’t sure, though, really, but she thought the way she’d gone to the glass factory and the way she’d gone to the wharf were rather different, so it seemed to make sense.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Late Evening
Outside the Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Oh she was just plum shitfaced! Never in his wildest dreams had he thought the night would end up this way. At most he had thought she might have a good time, dance a little perhaps. And then go back to where she was staying, mostly sober. This was unexpected, and far more entertaining. He would remember this evening, he thought. Commit every detail to memory, so that if he ever encountered Ms. Palmifer again, he could repeat it all back to her with perfect clarity.

She had giggled at being called a lush--he would have said "laughed", but it was assuredly a giggle. A drunken giggle, at that. The kinds of drunks that some people turned out to be was a rich area of fascinating variety. He watched her with eyebrows raised as she searched around in her memory for the name of the guesthouse. Then she looked at him when she said it, like he had any clocking idea where that was.

"I have no clocking idea where that is," he said. He was a little drunk himself, but the night air had sobered him up enough to go from "tilting" to "pleasantly buzzed".

She looked around the alleyway. Down it, back to the street. Back to him. "Up," he repeated, his voice flat. Clocking up. Charlie had the sinking feeling that she didn't know where the guesthouse was at all. Ms. Palmifer seemed rather more drunk than he'd expected. She had only had--what? Three drinks? Four? Two of them were beers, which hardly even counted. Shit, was she a lightweight? Charlie hadn't counted on that. Charlie never counted on that.

"Shit," he hissed as she pulled away from the wall and wobbled enough that she felt the need to return to it. This was still very funny--really it was--but it was also rapidly looking like it was becoming a problem. She knew how to get to it--from the glass factory. Charlie knew where the glass factory was. He also knew where they were, presently. The two things were extremely far apart. Looking at Ms. Palmifer now, he didn't think she would make it to the factory, let alone to her guesthouse afterwards. More importantly, that seemed like an awful lot of walking for him to do, and he would have to do all of it if he were to walk her back. An offer he could retract, of course, but he became more certain the longer he looked at her that if he left her to her own devices, Ms. Palmifer would tumble into the sea and drown.

Alioe, she was looking at him with this clocking hopeful expression--like he could move the two things closer together, or transport them there with a snap of his very lovely fingers. Charlie groaned and scrubbed at his face. This was a bit of a crimp in his plans. Charlie looked to the sky, and then back to Ms. Palmifer. Yes. She was absolutely, tits-over-erse shitfaced. Godsdamnit. Godsdamnit.

"We are not walking all the way to the factory. I suspect you wouldn't survive the journey. We can--" Ugh, he hated himself for saying this, even as the words were leaving his own mouth. "--I don't live far away. Let's, ugh. Let's take you back there. But if anyone asks, I did no such thing." This was the problem, he mourned, with realizing he liked anyone--he also thought it would be mildly regretful if she fell into a ditch and was stabbed by ruffians in the night. It was his generosity of spirit that was his undoing, as always.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Streets of King's Court

Chrysanthe peered at Ewing, wobbling against the wall a bit. He looked, she thought, very serious. It did not suit him. She thought she had better tell him so.

“You look very serious,” Chrysanthe informed him. She squinted once more. “Perhaps it does suit you,” she said, uncertainly. It had seemed clearer before.

After a moment, Chrysanthe gathered herself. She came off the wall, slightly, wobbling. Good lady, but she did not remember the ground spinning so much before. “Thank you,” Chrysanthe added, politely, looking at Ewing. “I’ll just – just rest a bit there, and then – be out of your hair.” She touched her own, and grinned. “Not that you really have enough to be in,” she said. “Well – perhaps.”

She wasn’t sure that going to Charlie Ewing’s apartment was a very good idea. But she didn’t have any better ones either; she was pretty sure she couldn’t stay here, she didn’t really want to go back into the bar just now, and she didn’t know where the Mossy Elepha was. Going back to Adelaide’s was also not an option, Chrysanthe decided; she felt that very strongly.

They walked.

It was very cold, although Chrysanthe couldn’t feel it quite as much as she had earlier. She had to concentrate quite a bit of energy on walking, one foot in front of the other. Somehow walking seemed to make her stomach feel most unpleasant; there was sort of a churning inside it. She did not wish to yield to the sensation; she had a very good idea of what might happen if she did, and she utterly refused to be sick in front of Charlie Ewing, of all people. But it was rather a challenge.

“I do drink,” Chrysanthe objected to what she wasn’t entirely sure had been a question – it had had the sound of more like a statement, and she also wasn’t entirely sure if she’d been meant to hear it. But she had, and she felt rather called to defend herself. “I drink a beer or maybe some gin. Once a week or once every other, at least. I think. I mean, usually, anyway.”

“But it isn’t as if I don’t have fun,” Chrysanthe went on, after a moment to steady herself physically as well as mentally. “I see friends for tea or a walk; I go to meetings. I read. I have – that is – you know. I keep busy. I work a lot, I guess. It’s seemed very important for a long time to work a lot.” Chrysanthe stopped there, in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at Charlie.

The street was dark around them, but for a soft pool of phosphor light; Chrysanthe felt it glowing over her. Golden phosphor, this time; she looked down at it, at the color of it against her shirt, her jacket, her hands and hair. “It’s seemed very important for a long time,” she said, slowly, looking back up at Charlie out of the edge of the circle, “to do everything right.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Late Evening
En Route to Charlie's Flat, Old Rose Harbor

"Everything suits me, Ms. Palmifer." Charlie protested without much rancor. She sounded a little bit like she was arguing with herself, not him. Alioe, why did he feel responsible for this? She babbled something about his hair, and he rolled his eyes. She wasn't going anywhere before morning, he felt fairly certain. Great. Just delightful.

Charlie thought of offering Ms. Palmifer a shoulder or arm or... shit, anything. She wobbled all over the place like some kind of child's toy, but she stayed upright. He was shorter than her anyway, and he had the distinct feeling that in her current state if she did lean on him the results would be less than dignified. Charlie didn't have much of that, but he did have some.

She managed to put one foot in front of the other, anyway, so that was all well and good. Charlie kept an eye on her--in case she decided she needed to be sick. There was the distinct possibility that she would choose to do so in his direction, and he didn't want to allow it.

"The fact that you think that counts means you don't," he snorted at her protest. He had been muttering to himself, and thought her too drunk to hear him. Evidently not so. Still. Once a week! A single beer! That was practically nothing at all. Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd gone a whole week without more than one beer. Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd only had one beer and stopped there, period.

"Meetings. Oh yes, that does sound thrilling--my mistake, Ms. Palmifer, for ever thinking so." Charlie walked a few steps ahead of her before he realized that Ms. Palmifer had stopped dead in her tracks. He turned back with a long-suffering sigh. The problem with being sober (or sober-ish) with a drunk person: it reminded you how very annoying drunk people could be. He cocked his head to the side and waited for her to say whatever it is she wanted to; she was looking at him rather intently, for a lush.

Oh, gods. How had he not seen this coming? How had he, Charlie Ewing, wise far beyond his years, neglect to account for what should have been wildly obvious to him from the start? Ms. Palmifer was a maudlin drunk. Because of course she was: the prim ones always were. So uptight in their day-to-day, but get them a little liquored up? Bam! It was all feelings and emotions and reminiscing about days past. If she started to cry, Charlie would push her into a ditch with his own two hands.

"I'm sure it did, Ms. Palmifer. And? Does it now?" Charlie wasn't sure why he asked--the last thing he wanted was an answer. There was a twinge--just a twinge!--of irritation in his voice. But he couldn't keep walking until she did, and he had a feeling that she would stand there until she said whatever moony thing it was her alcohol-soaked brain thought needed saying, right now at this moment.

He should have left her to get stabbed in an alley, he thought. Likable or not.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
En Route to Charlie's Flat

Chrysanthe blinked at him. Charlie had stopped a few steps in front of her, turned back and looked at her, his head titled slightly to the side. Does it now? He asked.

Chrysanthe blinked again. It was terribly hard to make out the look on his face from within the circle of phosphor light, all gold-soft. Bastly, she always thought of it; a bastly sort of light. The whole of the Reedlyn house had been lit with golden phosphor. Until her father’s time, they had been replaced when they started to lose the richness of their glow. Chrysanthe remembered, as a girl, watching the slow progression of their dimming in the upstairs hallway, until it was all soft golden edges rather than sharp bright light.

“I’m not sure,” Chrysanthe said, practically. She shrugged, and shrugged off the strange mood with it; she came forward again, a little more steadily, and came out of the pool of light, catching Charlie in a few brisk steps. If they were not precisely upright, they were close enough, and she did not feel in danger of falling down.

They kept on.

Chrysanthe felt her walking was improving, at least, over time. It required still just as much focus, but there was a knack to putting one foot before the other, and she was steadily remembering how to do it. If occasionally the world tilted and pitched, Chrysanthe managed to keep her balance through it. Like walking through the halls of a small airship, she thought, except they were on the ground, it was rather cold, and this journey was entirely inappropriate.

At some point, of course, it had dawned on Chrysanthe that she was accompanying a man she scarcely knew to his flat. It was not something she thought she had ever done, and it was something she had never done for excellent reason. She knew very little about Charlie Ewing, other than that he was chiefly out for his own amusement, terrible at apologizing, a surprisingly competent mechanic, and not in the least fond of Adelaide Thureau-Dangin. That he had called her a friend twice Chrysanthe counted as exactly that – he had said the words. She did not think he had meant them, and she put very little stock in them besides.

It seemed a bad choice, and yet she could not think of a better one. If she had, naturally, she should have made it. That Ewing had not wanted her to come to his apartment was, at least, a point in his favor; Chrysanthe found that rather comforting. She hoped it wasn’t much further; she really did want to sit down, and it seemed like a terribly bad idea to sit on the street curb – uncomfortable, difficult to rise from, and terribly undignified. The only advantage would be that if she were sitting, she would not have to be walking and that did, indeed, sound very pleasant.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Late Evening
Charlie's Flat, Old Rose Harbor

Charlie waited patiently--as patiently as he could, anyway. He asked her his question, and she took what felt like an eternity to answer. Likely it had only been a few moments, really; but it was cold, and he was tired suddenly, and they were very nearly there. Ms. Palmifer blinked at him, and he stared back. A hand didn't come to his hip, but he wanted it to.

The phosphor light was gold here--a nice part of town; gold was expensive. Ms. Palmifer was gold too, in the circle of it. It glinted off her hair and the tops of her cheekbones. Looking at her made Charlie feel a little more tired. Fuck the godsdamn Circle. Maybe being a maudlin drunk was contagious.

"Good chat then," he snorted when she shrugged and came forward. He waited until she had caught up to him, and then he started forward again. She seemed a little steadier than she had, at least. Less likely to be sick all over him, or burst into tears. (He would rather the sick, if given a choice.)

Charlie knew the way from the Duckling to his little flat so well he could walk it drunk and in the dark--in fact, he usually did. Somehow he always made it back in one piece, despite the odds. Just further evidence of his natural grace and talent, he thought, shining through. For a moment he thought he saw Ms. Palmifer looking longingly at the curb; if she sat down, he was not going to drag her. He would just leave her there.

"C'mon, we're almost there. A few more blocks." He had thought to sound a little encouraging, but it was rather a lot of walking when he'd already come from the Kaleidoscope to the Duckling, and a few other places besides. His feet hurt, and the charm of the beers was starting to wear off and leave just the irritable Charlie behind. The one she had met first, he supposed. So nothing would surprise her, at least.

Eventually they did make it to his building. Charlie fumbled with his keys, swearing--of all the times to live on the fourth floor. There was never a good time to live on the fourth floor, of course, but this was not his favorite. He did not hold the door for Ms. Palmifer, but he did wait for her to come inside. He ascended the stairs first, partially to show her the way and partially because if she fell down them he didn't want to be taken down with her. At the top of the fourth flight, there it was: his flat. Charlie opened the door with something of a flourish, gesturing widely that Ms. Palmifer should enter.

It was not a large room, but it had a distinct kitchen and bathroom area with hot and cold running water. The whole place had a kind of aura of shabby bachelorhood. Perhaps it was the hideous faded floral wallpaper, trying optimistically to brighten the room. Perhaps it was the six months of mail piled on the counter that divided the kitchen area from the rest of the room. Maybe it was even the heavy workbench that dominated what floor space wasn't devoted to couch or bed. All of these things likely contributed.

Charlie entered and busied himself with lighting the oil sconces on the walls. Once they were lit, it would become extremely clear that Charlie spent most of his nights sleeping on his sofa. The bed was made quite sharply, and undisturbed. By contrast, the sofa was a nest of pillows and blankets of various sizes. Little bits of scrap metal were littered all over the floor, and in one corner there was a large birdcage with a white whice in it.

"You may take the--hmm." Charlie had thought to offer her the bed, because he so rarely used it anyway, but then he remembered why "The couch, I supposed." He frowned. He could take the bed--he just didn't remember the last time he'd washed any of the linens on it. Oh well.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
Charlie's Flat

Chrysanthe was not usually very aware of her feet. She was not, of course, an assembly line worker, but she was on her feet most of the day. It had been a struggle at first, but after having purchased some better quality boots, she had found it quite tolerable.

Tonight, of course, she had worn the nicest shoes she had; they had the slightest lift, a heel being considered somewhat inelegant in a woman of her height, and pointed toes. They pinched, rather; that was the problem.

By the time Chrysanthe had followed Ewing up all four flights, her feet hurt, her stomach churned, her head ached, and she wanted very badly to sit down, and had begun to think longingly of the curb outside. This was the attitude with which she greeted Charlie’s room, and it was perhaps the only reason why she did not promptly turn about and go back out.

The worst part, Chrysanthe decided, was that the bed was so neatly made. That alone was proof that Charlie knew better, and had decided nonetheless to live on this manner.

Chrysanthe had had a friend in school with a pet hingle, named Mr. Silkums. Her friend had indulged Mr. Silkums terribly, and he had created a pile of ripped cushions and torn linens in the corner of her dorm room, and nestled in it as comfortable as a king. Charlie’s couch reminded Chrysanthe of nothing so much as Mr. Silkums’s corner.

Chrysanthe surveyed this from just inside the doorway, along with the metal scraps, the unopened mail, and what looked to be an unexpectedly well cared for whice. Then, somewhat in doubt of her own sanity, she came inside.

“Thank you,” Chrysanthe said, just a little uncertainly. She took a few more steps inside, and wobbled once more. Her stomach lurched, rather awfully, and she closed her eyes, swaying for just a moment. No, Chrysanthe decided, she would not be sick.

Thus determined, she took the last few steps to the couch. She looked down at it; it would not, Chrysanthe decided, become any easier for the waiting. She picked up a blanket, and tucked it to the side; there was another blanket underneath, and a sort of shabby looking pillow. Chrysanthe contemplated them, and then shifted the pillow to the side, and sat down in the midst of it all.

Nothing happened; she hadn’t expected it to, really. Ewing had not transformed into some awful caricature of a man from the warning sort of girl’s book just by the fact of Chrysanthe stepping inside his apartment. No chorus of Everine had appeared to lecture her about her lack of virtue.

It was terribly strange to think about the practicalities of such affairs. She supposed she would simply sleep in her clothes; it was, Chrysanthe had realized, entirely too late to go out on her own barring truly desperate circumstances. She doubted Ewing owned anything she could wear, and she doubted whether she would do so, given the opportunity. It was all right; the silk smelt already of smoke, and would need to be washed and pressed. The couch was a bit frightening, but Chrysanthe supposed no permanent damage could possibly be done.

Chrysanthe ran a hand over the wisps of hair on her forehead. She looked up at Ewing once more. “I did have fun,” Chrysanthe said, after a moment. Credit where credit was due, she felt, was only fair. “Thank you.” She smoothed her hands over the skirt on her lap, looking down at them, and then back up at Ewing.

“You can call me Chrysanthe if you like,” She offered, a moment later, a bit tentative. “Instead of Ms. Palmifer.”

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Very Late
Charlie's Flat

If Charlie thought about the potential for Ms. Palmifer to judge his standard of living, it was only very briefly. She was, after all, welcome to sleep on the street if she wanted. He had done his due diligence by bringing her here; whether or not she stayed was entirely her choice. Besides, it was his flat, not hers.

Charlie peered at her as she stepped inside and wobbled. "If you are going to be sick," he warned, "I do not advise the sink. There's a bathroom just there. Or a bucket. Somewhere around here." Charlie gestured to one of two interior doors; the other was just a closet, and he had filled it mostly with more scrap metal, broken machines, and tools he rarely used and thus did not earn a place on his workbench. The bucket was not immediately apparent, but he knew it was in here--somewhere.

While Ms. Palmifer eyed the couch, Charlie started shuffling around the room, ostensibly to find the bucket. Just in case. He took of his shoes, while he was at it, and left them in the middle of the floor. He did the same for his socks, and had thought about his shirt when he remembered he had company over. Charlie couldn't remember the last time he'd actually had someone in his flat. Company of a female variety, which was even more rare again--that, he thought, had never happened, except for his landlord's wife who didn't truly count and rarely made it past the threshold.

Charlie plucked at the front of his shirt and frowned down at it. It wasn't that he never slept in his clothing, it was just that usually it was an accident. He looked over at Ms. Palmifer, who had by now taken a seat. He did not think she would take kindly to him asking her to turn away for him to put on pajamas; he wasn't even sure he owned any. He thought he did, but he usually slept in his underclothes so couldn't be sure. He would at least take off the vest, he resolved; this he tossed carelessly over the baseboard of his bed.

Aha! There it was: the bucket. Hiding in a corner, behind what had once been most of an engine and was now a sort of impromptu side table. There was a mug on it containing what he thought might have been tea, at some point. He resolved not to look inside it, as he always did. This sort of thing was much easier to avoid when he lived at home, and his parents paid other people to worry about it for him.

"What? Oh. Of course you did. You're. Hmm. You're welcome." Charlie blinked at Ms. Palmifer, surprised to hear her admit it. He'd rather thought she would insist it had all been very dreadful. Possibly accuse him of luring her back here, which would be ridiculous. As he thought he had made clear to her, more than once. She not only didn't do that; she had thanked him. He nearly dropped the bucket when she asked him to call her Chrysanthe.

Charlie couldn't have said he remembered her first name, truthfully. Which was part of why he'd insisted on calling her Ms. Palmifer. But he wasn't so drunk or tired as to admit that, at least. It was a little strange, to have her ask him to call her by her given name. He had called her his friend twice now today, but he had been at least a little facetious and expecting her to deny it. First-name basis seemed. Strange. Charlie realized sourly he was slightly flustered.

"...Sure. If you want. Ms--hmm. Chrysanthe. You can... call me Charlie, I suppose?" He frowned down at her on his couch, not sure what to make of the offer. Belatedly, he realized the bucket was still in his hand.

"Oh and--and take this. Just in case." He set it gingerly on the floor nearest to the pillow, for easy access. Although he really, really hoped she didn't need it.