bakerstreet | the best way to deal with a valentine's day alone tbh

THE DRUNK MEME

1. Drinking Games: You're at that special level of drunkenness where previously unimagined things start to sound like a good idea. You know, like another drink. It's cool, I know this great game that will inevitably end with everyone involved being totally wasted. You play until... shit, what were the rules again?

2. Unsolicited Advice: Oh man, you suddenly know the solutions to all of life's mysteries. All it took to figure it all out was half a pint of whiskey! It's time to tell all your friends how to fix the problems with their personal lives, whether they want you to or not.

3. Drunk Texting: Frankly, you can't IMAGINE why anyone wouldn't want to hear about how drunk you are right now. If only you could remember where the vowels are on this tiny keyboard. Drawing inspiration from TFLN is encouraged.

4. Tell Them How You Really Feel: You lost some of your less important inhibitions three or four drinks ago, and it's time to tell it how it is! Hunt down the person you love, or possibly the person you hate, or even just the person you don't literally just met, and bare your heart to them in a way that you'll almost definitely regret tomorrow morning.

5. Karaoke: Shot through the heart, and you're to blame! You give love... a bad... something...

6. Terrible Ideas: This is going to be so awesome, guys. I've got the skateboard, and I'm handcuffed to Steve... is the camera rolling? And who's lighting the fireworks?

7. Flirting: While all that booze may not have enhanced your charm, it certainly did wonders for your ego! Time to find all the hottest dudes and/or chicks in this place and make them swoon before your gin-powered charisma.

8. On the Streets: What better way to follow up a good bar run than by drunkenly wandering the streets in the middle of the night? There may be loud, embarrassing singing. There may be puking in the gutter. You may be completely lost, and not sure why that police officer is speaking Italian.

9. The Next Day: All that you took with you from last night's adventures was a blur of jumbled, confusing memories, a lampshade with googly eyes drawn on it taped to your head, and a brutal hangover. What exactly happened here? And who's that sleeping next to you?

Leave your top level blank or add in some brief starters/preferences for extra fun!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Not Picky!]

[Gotham is known as the stomping grounds of many a villain and criminal. One in particular, on this most disappointing of Valentine's Days, is a bit too blotto to realize that the city's vigilante population is also far from singular.>

HOMEWRECKER! Dork -- Knight -- of Domestic -- Disturbance!

[A disheveled Harley Quinn accentuates her words with a clumsy barrage of miscellanea. An empty liquor bottle. A rubber chicken. A firecracker. Some loose change. Her left pixie boot. It might be safe to say that her bag of tricks is running empty, having lost many of its deadlier contents throughout the night's misdventures. She's not about to let that stop her, though, as she next throws the bag itself.]

Keep your big, pointy -- [She slows down and squints, mimicking bat-ears by holding her two index fingers up to the sides of her head.] ... ears... [Wait, waaaait a minute.] to... [She stops.] Huh.

Edited 2015-02-17 01:10 (UTC)

[He'd been drinking. WHY had he been drinking? He SHOULDN'T drink. He CAN'T drink. He is SUCH a lightweight. 'Go out a grab yourself a spoon, Dick.' Never take dating advice from Speedsters, and what kind of analogy is that anyway?

Pinching the bridge of his nose as thoughts of ice-cream start to churn his stomach, Dick braces himself with one hand against the brick wall of the bar he's just sauntered out of. He's going to be sick, he thinks. At least that'd sober him right up. Man, what he wouldn't give for a cup of Alfred's coffee right now. Ugh, okay, enough with the talk of liquid.

He should hail a cab. Or call Alfred, good ol' reliable Alfred. No. Alfred would tell Bruce, and that's not a conversation he wants to have ever. A cab it is then, and while he'd love to concentrate on doing that someone is yelling. Someone whose voice is exceptionally grating. And jarringly familiar.

Pushing himself up off the wall, Dick turns his head, slowly, but still manages to sway unsteadily on his feet. Him! Unsteady on his feet! Oh, he really needs to sit down.

Following the comedic prop trail of breadcrumbs, Dick scans his eyes slowly upwards.

She's missing a shoe, he thinks.

Harley. Harley Quinn is missing a shoe.

He swallows thickly and turns his head back towards the side of the wall.]

I think I'm going to be sick [he mumbles, hand coming up to his mouth.]

[For a hot second, she thinks she sees a ~~puddy tat~~ bat, but no, that's just some fellow about to vomit on her shoe. Oh. Ew.]

Heeey! Don't ralph on that! If I gotta wear two black ones, I won't match!

[She wastes no time in grabbing hold of her fellow lone drunk and steering him towards the nearest trash can.]

Ready? Aim!

Woah- hey! Why don'cha wat- [He protests, but for all his muscle, he's more than malleable right now. No thanks to Harley's man-handling, he's soon bracing both hands on the cool, metal rim of the trash can, white-knuckling as the oh-so pungent fumes from the hot summer's day garbage does wonders for his already dicky stomach.

Yep, nope, here it comes. He's up-chucking the liquid contents of his stomach (sweetcorn, why is there always sweetcorn?) into the trash can in the middle of Gotham city with Harley Quinn at his side. Oh, if Bruce could see him now...

Spitting the last (God, how he hopes that's the last) chunky mouthful into the bin, he leans down to rest his forehead on the cool of his forearm still circling the bin.]

Off all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world... [He mumbles, wetting salty, beer-yeasty lips.]

Theeere ya go, big boy. [She gives his back several thwacks, oblivious to how hard she's patting him as she distractedly scans the area for... what was it again? Her glove? She checks her hands for a second before her ears perk up.] What's that, Bogey? Lady troubles?

[Because they've obviously never, ever met.]

[Not once, nope, never. Also ow, he's pretty sure she just re-cracked the rib her big dumb hammer cracked the week before.]

You have no idea...

[Okay, standing. Standing would be good. That would be a step in the right direction. Which is...any place that's not currently here.]

[Harley wiggles her toes on the pavement. Boy, her foot is cold. Cold. Cooold. Hey! How'd her shoe get over there? Harley wanders over to shuffle her forgotten footwear back on and returns triumphantly back to Dick, grabbing his arm before he can make any sort of getaway.]

I know what yer problem is! [She motions back at the bar with her free hand.] Bartenders make drinks, not shrinks! An' they never go that extra mile when it comes to romantic problem-solvin', no matter how much ya tip 'em. You tell Harley your troubles. Go on.

[A brief pause.] I'm Harley. Harley's me.

No, no, I really couldn't- [Without rousing too much suspicion, Dick tries to untangle himself from her, but he struggles to find an out and so eventually just resigns himself to her inebriated company.] I wouldn't want- [He raises a hand to his mouth, fearing a repeat performance, but it turns out it's just gas, which he politely covers with the ball of his fist pressed to his lips.] 'scuse me.

Harley. [He steadies himself by bracing both hands on her shoulders, it also helps to bring her into focus.] That's really good of you to offer, but, and believe me when I say this... [He pauses, long sentences are HARD right now. He keeps having to remind himself of what it is he is trying to say.] It's a really bad idea.

[She's just going to count every vomit-free moment as a win right now. Harley nods along with everything he says and continues nodding after he's done speaking for a good minute.]

Right, let's go.

[You tried, Dick.]

Betcha we can find a couch on this block somewhere, Bogey. Y'know, to keep it professional-like. I think I'm not banned from that one Starbucks yet...

[This is the absolute worst. Why is he walking? Why isn't he turning heel and hailing that cab?

Harley WAS a psychiatrist, he thinks as he watches the little yellow taxi-cab sail by. Maybe she could offer some insight into his abominable love-life?

He shakes himself. WHAT, NO .

Harley is in love with The Joker. This is insane. He's gone insane. He casts another glance over his shoulder at the fading tail-lights of the taxi and wonders if he could convince the driver to take him to Arkham.

He digs his heels in a minute, but what he objects to is really not what oughta be his priority right now.]

That's always annoyed me, you know? 'Bogey' [In this instance, Harley, he means it all: Shortpants, Wing-ding, Wing-nut, Boy Blunder] Why can'tcha just call a guy by his name?

[She's a little caught off guard by the question. What's in a name? This is a woman whose boyfriend is filed in Arkham's records as "Joker, The". Her Puddin' by any other name would be just as sweet, she thinks. She tries to spur Dick on.]

It's better than callin' you late for supper, isn't it, -- [Her mouth opens but when his name doesn't come out she gives him a look like she thinks it might be broken. She reaches out in her memory until she realizes there's nothing there to grasp.]

What didja say your name was, again?

the best way to deal with a valentine's day alone tbh

Dick Grayson/Nightwing | DC Comics (Pre New 52)

4/6/8/anything else you want to throw in

OH CHRIST XD I think I love you

<3!

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Sorry this is so late! My dog ate my life or something!

NP!