[ a calm, lazy answer — but a true one. she doesn't know what time it is. rolling onto her side, a motion that exposes the full line of her bare back, means she can reach for her phone, grabbing it from where it lay face down on the nightstand. ]
Two-thirty.
[ that's inconveniently late, probably. not that she has anywhere to go on whatever day of the week it happens to be. or that she wants to go anywhere, considering the mild pounding in her head. she's happy to just lay here for a while with... whoever that is.
maybe she should roll over and find out. maybe she'll just close her eyes again, instead, because avoidance techniques are great ways to make someone else deal with problems. ]
[ oh no. that is... very very late. did he have plans today? if he did, it doesn't really matter, because he'd have to cancel them due to feeling like death warmed over. ]
We should probably get up, then.
[ is he wearing clothes? he has to force himself to be aware enough to take stock of the clothes situation... and that's a no. well, he's going to make the best of her not looking at him by rolling over the edge of his side of the bed to grab his underwear. ]
My head is killing me.
[ he's still trying to figure out how to ask "uhhh do you know what we did last night because i sure don't remember" without sounding like a fool. ]
[ should is accurate, but that doesn't mean daisy wants to do it. the bed is comfortable, the sheets cool against her legs, the pillows full and plush beneath her head. getting up is sure to be less enjoyable.
but the longer she lays here, the more her memory begins to slot together the puzzle pieces of how and when and why she's in this bed to begin with. like the realization of who is on the other side of the bed, the memory of how she wound up in this hotel in the first place... right. cool.
no wonder his head was killing him. he'd been real drunk. ]
Yeah, I bet. [ she finally drags herself upright, if not out of bed completely; the sheets pool at her waist, but daisy doesn't bother to cover herself. he's seen it now, hasn't he? what's the point? ] I could go for hashbrowns, to be honest.
[ he's fumbling around his side of the bed, grabbing for his glasses to assist in finding his clothes... but also maybe if he uses them, he'll see that it's not daisy after all? maybe there's an au of his life where he didn't get wasted and bone a student.
nope. still her. ]
Breakfast'd be good.
[ he replies, but it sounds distracted. it's then that he's actually looking at her, glasses charmingly askew, to ask ]
[ she has clothes. they are pooled somewhere in this room, probably on the floor — her shirt, she realizes as she squints, is tossed over the back of a chair. none of the clothes she has are really breakfast appropriate.
they're more appropriate for a hired girl to come in and do a striptease, if she's honest, which is also exactly what she was doing. diners might be understanding, but even daisy's not that risque. ]
Not diner clothes, no. [ a beat. ] Do you want me to wear your shirt?
[ she's not a prostitute. he's not paying her for this. but if he wants her to wear something appropriate, that's about as close as it's going to get. ]
[ what happened last night is coming back to him in the slowest rolling waves possible. the “this was in no way appropriate”ness of it all.
lucky for daisy, will is a man of layers. a very unfashionable man of layers. look out, he’s got his favorite ugly light gray sweater and a flannel underneath it. clothing for everyone. ]
Yeah, sure. You can pick which one. [ meanwhile, he’s getting his pants on. putting on clothes when you feel like you’re dying is quite the accomplishment; everyone applaud him. ]
[ it's a look, alright. she's not much for flannels, so that means she's going to have to commandeer his sweater — which, considering how much smaller she is, means it hangs more like a very short dress on her frame. good thing she doesn't fuckin care. ]
Better?
[ than her being naked? uh. jury's probably out on that. she can at least rewear her shorts, even if they are a sorry scrap of denim fabric. it's something. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ a calm, lazy answer — but a true one. she doesn't know what time it is. rolling onto her side, a motion that exposes the full line of her bare back, means she can reach for her phone, grabbing it from where it lay face down on the nightstand. ]
Two-thirty.
[ that's inconveniently late, probably. not that she has anywhere to go on whatever day of the week it happens to be. or that she wants to go anywhere, considering the mild pounding in her head. she's happy to just lay here for a while with... whoever that is.
maybe she should roll over and find out. maybe she'll just close her eyes again, instead, because avoidance techniques are great ways to make someone else deal with problems. ]
no subject
We should probably get up, then.
[ is he wearing clothes? he has to force himself to be aware enough to take stock of the clothes situation... and that's a no. well, he's going to make the best of her not looking at him by rolling over the edge of his side of the bed to grab his underwear. ]
My head is killing me.
[ he's still trying to figure out how to ask "uhhh do you know what we did last night because i sure don't remember" without sounding like a fool. ]
no subject
but the longer she lays here, the more her memory begins to slot together the puzzle pieces of how and when and why she's in this bed to begin with. like the realization of who is on the other side of the bed, the memory of how she wound up in this hotel in the first place... right. cool.
no wonder his head was killing him. he'd been real drunk. ]
Yeah, I bet. [ she finally drags herself upright, if not out of bed completely; the sheets pool at her waist, but daisy doesn't bother to cover herself. he's seen it now, hasn't he? what's the point? ] I could go for hashbrowns, to be honest.
[ the perfect hangover cure-all. ]
no subject
nope. still her. ]
Breakfast'd be good.
[ he replies, but it sounds distracted. it's then that he's actually looking at her, glasses charmingly askew, to ask ]
You have clothes, right? Do you need them...?
[ william??? u ok there buddy??? ]
no subject
they're more appropriate for a hired girl to come in and do a striptease, if she's honest, which is also exactly what she was doing. diners might be understanding, but even daisy's not that risque. ]
Not diner clothes, no. [ a beat. ] Do you want me to wear your shirt?
[ she's not a prostitute. he's not paying her for this. but if he wants her to wear something appropriate, that's about as close as it's going to get. ]
no subject
lucky for daisy, will is a man of layers. a very unfashionable man of layers. look out, he’s got his favorite ugly light gray sweater and a flannel underneath it. clothing for everyone. ]
Yeah, sure. You can pick which one. [ meanwhile, he’s getting his pants on. putting on clothes when you feel like you’re dying is quite the accomplishment; everyone applaud him. ]
no subject
Better?
[ than her being naked? uh. jury's probably out on that. she can at least rewear her shorts, even if they are a sorry scrap of denim fabric. it's something. ]