January Meme Day 9
Seb gave me "stumbling."
This is about half a story. I'll post the whole thing to RF when I'm done with it.
Jack got home at two in the morning, long past his curfew again, reeking of alcohol and moving in a loose way that told Christopher he hadn't just had a beer spilled on him. Isobel must have noticed it too, because she burst immediately into rapid Spanish, too fast for him to follow, but obviously both furious and frightened.
Jack batted ineffectually at his mother and staggered to the left, repeating, "Si, si," until he saw Christopher and beamed. "Dad! Tell Mama I'm fine."
"You're not fine," he told Jack, but laid a hand on Isobel's shoulder. "He won't understand anything until he sobers up."
She whirled on him, eyes narrow. "So I should let him come in drunk and late?" she demanded, her accent much more pronounced than usual. "I should allow my son to behave this way?"
"No," Christopher said, "you should yell at him when he's hungover so it sticks more. He won't remember, querida." He shot a glance at their son, who had collapsed on a chair in the hallway and was beaming distantly at nothing in particular. "At least he's a happy drunk."
"I am going to kill him," Isobel hissed, and stalked upstairs.
Christopher watched her go, then turned to Jack with a sigh. "Go to bed," he said. "Don't leave the house tomorrow without talking to us."
"Si, Papa," Jack said, vaguely. He folded to the side, then slumped onto the floor with a faint exhale.
Christopher left him there.
This entry is crossposted at http://bookblather.dreamwidth.org/418700.html. Please comment over there if possible.
This is about half a story. I'll post the whole thing to RF when I'm done with it.
Jack got home at two in the morning, long past his curfew again, reeking of alcohol and moving in a loose way that told Christopher he hadn't just had a beer spilled on him. Isobel must have noticed it too, because she burst immediately into rapid Spanish, too fast for him to follow, but obviously both furious and frightened.
Jack batted ineffectually at his mother and staggered to the left, repeating, "Si, si," until he saw Christopher and beamed. "Dad! Tell Mama I'm fine."
"You're not fine," he told Jack, but laid a hand on Isobel's shoulder. "He won't understand anything until he sobers up."
She whirled on him, eyes narrow. "So I should let him come in drunk and late?" she demanded, her accent much more pronounced than usual. "I should allow my son to behave this way?"
"No," Christopher said, "you should yell at him when he's hungover so it sticks more. He won't remember, querida." He shot a glance at their son, who had collapsed on a chair in the hallway and was beaming distantly at nothing in particular. "At least he's a happy drunk."
"I am going to kill him," Isobel hissed, and stalked upstairs.
Christopher watched her go, then turned to Jack with a sigh. "Go to bed," he said. "Don't leave the house tomorrow without talking to us."
"Si, Papa," Jack said, vaguely. He folded to the side, then slumped onto the floor with a faint exhale.
Christopher left him there.
This entry is crossposted at http://bookblather.dreamwidth.org/418700.html. Please comment over there if possible.