video. un: p.parker | the morning of september 20th (aka an epilogue to bad choices)

[madeupnames]

[There's a muffled and pained groan, one of a boy who has made terrible mistakes and is suffering horribly for it.

... And also a clear sound of someone sliding out of a bed and thumping on the floor — blankets and all, legs barely hanging onto the lip of the mattress.]


I am so, so sorry.

Comments

[indigobird]

A long hard week and someone making the mistake of saying... I don't even remember exactly what he said, but it was something to do with me making a fine ass of myself. So I stood up, bent over and said, "No, this is a fine ass." And well... everyone saw my fine ass.

[madeupnames]

[He rubs a hand over his eyes, feeling some good ol' second-hand embarrassment.]

Miss Hawke, that's terrible.

[indigobird]

[...he's never gonna drop the "Miss", is he?]

Mr. Parker, [Because she's a shit heel] if you haven't figured it out already, let me spell this out for you: I'm generally kind of terrible.

[madeupnames]

[Even with his headache, he can't help but smile a little bit, eyebrows furrowed and expression rather fond.]

I don't think you're terrible at all.

In fact, you're pretty awesome.

[indigobird]

Peter, please. My ego hardly needs more inflating, as much as I enjoy the compliment. [But she's smiling. Not her usual little smirk or amused grin, but an honest smile. He's a good kid, and it's a relief to know that her ridiculousness hasn't made him shy away from her.]

Knock back those pills and pass out for awhile. Your poor head will thank you for it.

[madeupnames]

[Hey now, he's got a lot of ridiculous friends here in Riverview; you're among good company.

Fidgeting with the pills, he says:]

I'd hate to make you come all this way just for me to konk out, though...

[Even though his head feels like it's splitting in half, like in a scary movie.]

[indigobird]

[True, she's in good company in the quarantine.]

That's what I was expecting to happen. I knew I wasn't going to sit down and have a long chat. You're sick. Self-inflicted, granted, but still sick.

[madeupnames]

[He shrinks miserably, his eyes peeking out from over the blanket.]

Good point... Um.

Thank you, Miss Hawke.

[indigobird]

It's fine. Get some rest, ye of the terribly hungover. We'll chat again when your brain and stomach stop rebelling.

[She gives him a friendly wink before turning and strolling out. Have fun being miserably sick for the rest of the day, Peter.]