[ —and then he doesn't laugh, not the way Kate's laughing, but he does grin and make a few huffy noises and put one of his freakishly long arms around Sirius Jehosephat Black's shoulders (or thereabouts) to skritch at his arm (or, again, thereabouts) as unthinkingly as if it were covered in fur. (Does Kate know about the fur?) He thought it was a nice story. Very well-narrated. Not laughable at all.
That's more than he can say for the pep talk. Or: it's a very sweet pep talk, especially the parts he's actually able to pay attention to after recovering, emotionally and physically and logically and every -ally, from the fact that Kate is sitting on his lap. But it's a little too sweet, for his current levels of inebriated, and he's struggling to keep a straight face. Not because he isn't touched. He is. If Kate can look past his desperate attempts not to start snorting with offensive and unattractive laughter, she might be able to see the touched bits, deep down. Deep and throbbing touchedness. ]
You're drunk, Captain Bishop. Or not drunk enough. [ He tosses his free hand out toward the bar. ] Accio whisky. [ But, like I said: free hand. His wandless magic is 40/60. This is one of the 60. The bottle in question does move, but only enough to fall off the bar and shatter on the floor, and then he does laugh. ] Fuck.
[ He'll clean it up later, probably. If he remembers. For now he gives up, because his wand is somewhere—the floor, maybe—that he can't reach with Kate on his lap and Sirius against his side. ]
I'm not a bloody blushing virgin. [ He pinches Sirius' arm. ] Tell her I'm not. I'm a virile cabin boy.
no subject
Jehosephat.
[ —and then he doesn't laugh, not the way Kate's laughing, but he does grin and make a few huffy noises and put one of his freakishly long arms around Sirius Jehosephat Black's shoulders (or thereabouts) to skritch at his arm (or, again, thereabouts) as unthinkingly as if it were covered in fur. (Does Kate know about the fur?) He thought it was a nice story. Very well-narrated. Not laughable at all.
That's more than he can say for the pep talk. Or: it's a very sweet pep talk, especially the parts he's actually able to pay attention to after recovering, emotionally and physically and logically and every -ally, from the fact that Kate is sitting on his lap. But it's a little too sweet, for his current levels of inebriated, and he's struggling to keep a straight face. Not because he isn't touched. He is. If Kate can look past his desperate attempts not to start snorting with offensive and unattractive laughter, she might be able to see the touched bits, deep down. Deep and throbbing touchedness. ]
You're drunk, Captain Bishop. Or not drunk enough. [ He tosses his free hand out toward the bar. ] Accio whisky. [ But, like I said: free hand. His wandless magic is 40/60. This is one of the 60. The bottle in question does move, but only enough to fall off the bar and shatter on the floor, and then he does laugh. ] Fuck.
[ He'll clean it up later, probably. If he remembers. For now he gives up, because his wand is somewhere—the floor, maybe—that he can't reach with Kate on his lap and Sirius against his side. ]
I'm not a bloody blushing virgin. [ He pinches Sirius' arm. ] Tell her I'm not. I'm a virile cabin boy.