The Least Awesome Christmas Ever
Roleplaying Log: The Least Awesome Christmas Ever
IC Details

Roy runs into Eddie on a rooftop in New York.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: December 25, 2018
IC Location: New York City
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 03 Jan 2019 06:29
Rating & Warnings: R for language
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

The city is decked out for Christmas is blinding flashes of red and green, silver and gold. Store fronts are all decorated in fantastic tableaus meant to entice the buyer into maxing out their credit cards in order to cling to some sort of ideal that the more you spend the more Christmas cheer you'll have. The tree at Rockefeller center is lit up in all its glory, shining for the occasional person scurrying to or from their holiday celebrations.

None of that extends up to the rooftops, as if the holly and the jolly can't reach this high. The quiet cold suits Eddie just fine. She had to escape the Triskelion tonight, because those that weren't home with their family or loved ones tried to rope her into egg nog and Christmas carols. That just wasn't happening. Now that she's finished her detox and has a few NA meetings under her belt, she's been cleared by medical and thus can leave the compound of her own accord. It couldn't have come sooner. She felt like she couldn't breathe within the compound walls any more.

Now she has a half a pint of something cheap and strong warming her stomach, and her form is hunched over a skylight, attempting to jimmy it open. The screwdriver in Eddie's gloved hand slips, screeching loudly across the metal frame, drawing out an uttered, "Mother tit fucker."

Roy Harper spent several hours trolling bars around 30 Rock, making the most of an overnight babysitter. Sadly, he struck out, and so now he's looking to blow off a little steam. That means up to the rooftops himself, with his dark red hood, padded leather pants, domino mask, and bow. The rooftops may be unfamiliar, but the sound of metal on metal and the cursing from a crouched form, those are definitely familiar, even with a night full of drinks in him.

Crouching on the edge of the roof with his bow in his left hand, forearms on his knees, Roy cocks his head over to one side, studying the cursing woman. "That's a pretty damned dirty mouth you've got there." His words have a liquid, alcohol-soaked quality to them, for all that he's trying to put a harsh 'vigilante voice.' "So let me guess, some asshole stole your key, and you're just trying to get home in time to check on your cats."

Eddie's form freezes when the voice rises up, like a child that sternly believes lack of movement will make them invisible. You can't seeeee meeeee.

Slowly, the woman's head turns towards where the voice comes from. Her shape is a bit obscured by the layers of sweats and poofy jacket, the latter too large for her frame, so it's difficult to say if she's armed beyond the screw driver she now flips to hold defensively in her fist. "And you're some jerkwad who's too far from Nottingham with nothing better to do than harass innocent women who are just trying to get Fluffy and Mr. Pickles their dinner." She uncurls herself from her crouch to stand and face him fully, but the toe of her boot hits the bottle of Wild Turkey and sends it skittering. Blissfully it's plastic but she still lurches after it in desperation, totally ruining that whole bravado thing she had going on.

"Robin Hood never had it so good," Roy claims, shifting the bow to show the high-tech recurves and the laser sight attached. "I also don't wear a feathered cap, 'cause that would be stupid." He doesn't seem concerned by her screwdriver or her rise to her feet, smiling beneath the domino mask, "And I'm pretty sure — " exactly what he's pretty sure about is cut off by her sudden surge after the bottle, and he tries to pirouette neatly on the low wall around the roof, but his equilibrium is a little off, and it turns into a slower-motion, wobbling turn, one leg hanging out over the empty expanse behind him and then the other. After a moment he squares up again, the arrow that flailed about in his hand in the midst of drawing it from his quiver nocked with exaggerated care. And then he tries again, "I'm pretty sure that that screwdriver isn't a key. Plus, Mr. Pickles is a horrible name for a cat."

"Yeah well. Your name is stupid." Never mind he never gave it, it's dumb, and it's the reasoning of a likewise inebriated woman.

The lurch for the bottle has left her on her knees, the screwdriver ditched in favor of saving her alcohol. Getting up again seems like too much work, so she just flops onto her ass on the tar-papered roof. "And your bow is stupid. And your face is stupid." So take that. Eddie unscrews the cap to the brown liquor, tipping the bottle towards her mouth to splash in the liquid without the plastic ever quite touching her lips. A hiss of air follows the burn down her throat which has her next words a little fiery, "If you fall, I'm not calling an ambulance for your ass. Homeless Pete down there peeing on your broken body will be the best Christmas present ever."

"I.M. WithStupid," he confirms in regards to his name. Roy has claimed to be quick-thinking plenty of times, but never deep-thinking. He measures her as she drains off a swig of the bourbon, and then waits until she rights the bottle. That's when he turns side-on, drawing the heavy pull of the bow smoothly and easily despite the alcohol coursing through his veins. A red dot blinks into being on the top of the bottle, just below the neck, and then he fires off the bodkin arrow, aiming to snatch it out of her hand and pinion the bottle against the wood bracing of a TV antenna behind her. It's amazing what you can do by pure instinct, impulse, and bad decision making, even when you're drunk. "And that'd be real embarrassing, I probably shouldn't do that." Fall off the roof, that is.

"Bwha—HEY." Eddie's reflexes are a tiny bit sluggish so she's slow to follow the direction of the arrow that was loosed, that now has her booze neatly pinned into the slab of wood. "I was drinking that, asshole. That's your new name. Asshole. AssHOLE." She rolls up onto all fours, and drags one foot and then the other underneath her so she can go retrieve it. Again. Muttering, the entire time. "Can't even come over here and fight my booze like a man, gotta take the Turkey out from afar. COWARDLY ASSHOLE." The fact that she shouldn't be antagonizing the masked man with the pointy projectile slinging weapon never occurs to her. Of if it does, she just doesn't care. "I just wanted one little teeny tiny taste to hold me over, but noooooo. And now I lost my screwdriver." With a hand wrapped around the shaft of the arrow protruding past the bottle, she dislodges it with a grunt.

By Roy's shocked-face, that was supposed to be charming. He hops off the edge of the wall, staggers a step before he catches himself, and then starts for the pinned bottle — but she still gets there first. "I just wanted a drink myself. I woulda used a claw arrow, but…" he tries to come up with a good way to say 'I didn't think of it,' and settles triumphantly on, "it might've spilled when I pulled it back." He does manage to give the lost screwdriver a little kick, and he looks down, eyes lighting, then scoops it up and straightens again, tossing the tool over in his hand to catch it again after a full revolution. "Trade you. Screwdriver for my arrow and a drink."

"Like you deserve either after that little stunt." Eddie waggles the arrow/bottle combo at him like an admonishing schoolmarm.

She eyes the screwdriver in his hand, her eyes then casting past him towards the skylight with a certain kind of longing. Finally, her shoulders droop and with another unladylike sound, she holds out the arrow at a full extension of her arm for him to take. "Keep the screwdriver. Though I'll probably have to fill out some long ass form about missing equipment because fucking bureaucracy." A sigh, followed by a crestfallen admission. "If anything you probably stopped me from making a stupid mistake. So here. Drink up, Asshole." At least this time when she invokes his new name, it comes with less brimstone coating her tongue.

Roy spreads his arms at his sides in a boyish, impudent sort of 'who me' gesture. It's ruined a bit by the mask and weapons in his hands. He collapses the bow with a couple of quick motions, and slips it alongside the quiver before he reaches out to take the arrow from her, "Ugh. Bureaucracy." It doesn't occur to him then to question what sort of bureaucrat might be jimmying open a skylight. With the arrow still in one hand and the screwdriver in the other, he finally gets a look at her face in the ambient glow of downtown, "Hey, you're pretty hot for a thief." Not Roy Harper's finest moment. The arrow is slipped back into his quiver, and then he reaches out with both hands, to return the screwdriver and take the bottle. "To being stopped from making stupid mistakes by handsome strangers." Definitely not his finest moment.

Eddie's eyes narrow a being called 'hot' as her back hits a brick chimney behind her and she sort of sliiiides down it into a seated position again. The less than graceful move scrapes up the hood of her jacket and she raises up her hands to tug it the rest of the way to shadow her face. "I bet that little arrow maneuver has most women creaming their jeans and panting at the first flash of an impish smile." Morales says dryly, pointedly not commenting on his toast as she looks up at him from beneath the rim of her hood. The screwdriver being returned just has her shoving the implement into the pocket of her coat, hoping that if it's out of sight it will be out of her mind. And whatever lies beneath that skylight will hopefully be out of mind as well.

Roy lifts up the bottle, careful with the pair of neat holes in the sides, and pours a splash of Wild Turkey into his mouth. Then he offers it back out to her at full extension, two fingers clasping the neck of the bottle. "Not most." He considers a moment, then flashes said impish grin, "But yeah, some." He leans against the air conditioning unit alongside him, a very liquid, loose-limbed lean that confirms that that last drink was far from his first of the night. "Somehow I'm thinking that's not you though. Unless you hide it real well." Tilting his head aside slightly, he tries to peek down into the skylight, but the angle is bad, and all he can see is a little bit of a far wall. Looking back, he inquires, "Do you hide it real well?"

The room below is just an empty apartment, so whatever she wanted so badly down there must be hidden.

"I am the Queen of Obfuscation. Why do you think I had to sit down? My knees were going all a-quiver." Eddie snorts with sudden amusement as she reaches up for the bottle. "A-QUIVER. Get it? HA!" Okay, so she might only be amusing herself but she doesn't really care. Her next pull from the bottle isn't as neat as his, unable to navigate the holes bore into it quiet as well. She ends up dribbling Wild Turkey down her chin and the front of her coat that she haphazardly wipes at with her glove. "This is what you do on High Holy Holidays? Prowl around rooftops for women just trying to feed their cats?"

Drunk enough to miss the pun at first, Roy is too busy grinning at her response. And then she emphasizes the pun, and he groans, "Only I get to do archery puns. Okay then, hot, but bad with the puns." His hands go palm-up at his sides, lifting and dropping as he weighs the two data points. The spill of the bourbon causes him to chuckle, but then the question is met with a casual, "No, usually I pick up a woman or two and go back to my place. I decided to check the rooftops this time. Christmas was like… a pagan fertility festival or something anyhow, right?" Or, you know, Easter was.

"Ooh, you have a place and not like…a fucking treehouse." Because clearly that's where Robin Hood lives.

"All I know is you shove a tree up the ass of an angel doll, wrap shit in bows, and pretend to tolerate people. So if your version is a little mischief under the mistletoe, who am I to judge?" Something occurs to Eddie then, like his hand gesture took as long to catch up to her as her pun did to him. "And stop fucking weighing my virtues. The only way I'm one of those two women you may or may not pick up, is if you drag me home in a body bag. So if you find necrophilia sexy, I guess then I'm your girl." Morales holds out the bottle for him again, so she must not find him completely intolerable.

"That sounds like a pretty good date," Roy comments on her description of Christmas, that boyishly drunk smirk back on his lips. "Sorry, that is not one of my kinks." The offer of the bottle is inviting enough, however, for him to roll his shoulder off the air conditioning unit and lurch forward the two steps to take it back from her. He's a little less precise with his slosh toward his mouth from an inch away, some of the bourbon trickling down from one corner of his mouth. He doesn't have any issues with the two holes in the bottle, however. Maybe it really is a go-to trick that he has practice with. "Call me old fashioned, but I like to get a response. So your idea of Christmas is breaking into an ex's place and stealing his undies?" Thoughtful-drunk pause, "or her undies."

Eddie watches him drink in much the same manner as she does, without letting the bottle touch his mouth. Even though she has her reasons, she looks a little offended that he's a germaphobe when it comes to a random woman he just met. But then again, this is drunken reasoning which is to say it lacks much reason at all.

Arms fold across her chest, gloved hands thrusting into her armpits as she curls in tighter to keep warm. Even though she's out of the wind, it's still a chilly winter night. "How chivalrous of you, to make sure the girl is still able to flail." Eddie's nose wrinkles up with an indignant sniff. "Like I'd waste a breath on an ex. I actually had the bright idea to celebrate by getting high, as my stupid ass promised to get clean right before the holidays. It wasn't my brightest idea ever, and I'm clearly rethinking this decision. Where does a junkie weigh in on that little scale of yours?" Maybe if she shocks him enough, he'll go away. But then again, he still has her bottle. So. Conflicted.

"Flail, sigh, moan, writhe… you know." That sounded better in Roy's head. Glancing down at the bottle in his hand, he tries to do the Tom Cruise Cocktail bottle-flip, and while he gets up enough speed to not spill any of the bourbon, he bobbles the catch, bouncing the plastic between two hands before he catches it in both, holding tight for a moment before gesturing out with both hands and declaring in proper umpire fashion, "Safe." The bottle is offered out once more, and then he can't distract himself any longer, and his eyes go toward the half-jimmied skylight. There could be a high in there. The muscle of one cheek tics, and he presses his lips together, "You know someone's holding in there? Oxy? Coke? H?" Finally, he drags his eyes back over toward Eddie, and he shifts his quiver and folded-up bow over slightly so he can drop down alongside her, leaning back against the chimney, "Or were you planning on fencing for cash for a hit?"

Eddie's bottom lip disappears into her mouth, given an ample bite of her teeth that whitens the skin of her chin. That's not really the response she was expecting. As he sits down next to her, her frame tightens up and she hugs herself in to a smaller ball even going so far as to wiggle over a little to prevent any accidental shoulder bumping during the process. Eyes cast down, finding more interest in the tip of her boots suddenly. "Horse. I know the dealer that moves product out of there. So you want to cap your night off of playing hero of the city by dragging in a jonesing thief, be my guest. SHIELD will have me sprung before Santa makes it back to the North Pole."

Looking over at the cringing woman, Roy shakes his head, "Look, I'm not gonna hurt you." He reaches over to set the bottle down between her boots, then straightens up — and slumps a little in the other direction. "You're not hurting anyone. And the NYPD has their panties in a bunch about vigilantes. More trouble than it's worth." And then the rest of her statement gets into his brain, "I didn't know SHIELD employed junkies. I should get some of that sweet, sweet government money." He gives a rather tremendous yawn, covering it with the back of one hand, then shakes his head, "Christmas sucks." Especially when you spend a bunch of the 'daughter's gift money' on getting high the week before, and have to scrounge, metaphorical hat in metaphorical hand, at a local charity.

"What if I'm afraid of hurting you?" Eddie replies dryly, but there is a note of truth to it that gives the words a little more weight than she meant to. The best way to cover it, of course, is to drink more and so she's reaching for the bottle whose level is starting to get lower by the moment. "SHIELD doesn't. Hence the vague attempt to get clean." She takes another pull off the bottle, pinching her fingers over the holes this time so she doesn't waste not so she'll want not. "You too, huh?" Maybe it's a comment about the possibility of him being a junkie too, or just the sentiment about Christmas. Either seems fitting right now. After a moment of sitting next to him, she starts to relax slightly enough to gravitate towards the warmth of his nearness.

Roy scoffs at the warning, "Yeah, you're bad. Peepin' in windows trying to score a hit. Don't worry, you've made it real clear that you aren't interested." In response to her technique of drinking from the pierced bottle, he gestures languidly, "Twist it around so the holes are on the sides. Don't tip all the way back. You gotta go slow, but you still get what you want." That probably wasn't an intentional double entendre, based on how he laughs at the joke when he gets it himself. Leaning his hooded head back against the bricks behind him, Roy looks up at the washed-out stars above, not seeming to notice how Eddie is leaning closer. "Yeah. We all got our own crosses to bear. Some of us more than others." Despite the sleepy slowness to his words, he makes a beckoning gesture for the bottle.

"I got it, I got it." Eddie protests, but still subtly turns the bottle to do as he suggested as she pours in another mouthful, slower this time and without too much dribbling. She's sucking an errant drop off of her lip as she passes it back over, still careful to hold it in such a way as they won't risk touching fingers, even if there is a cloth barrier between them. "You mean normal people don't clip masks to their faces and go traipsing around roof tops looking for ne'er do wells? Yeah, you sound like a whole Dr. Phil episode waiting to happen. Daddy beat me when I was young, so now I wear the mask of justice!" She snickers, "Sorry. Sorry."

Roy takes the bottle, snorting aloud and gesticulating with it expansively enough to slosh the remaining liquor around in the base, "Sure we do. Normal people do all sorts of crazy shit." He pauses a moment, "And bullshit you're sorry, even if the daddy remark was way off base." Well, at least as far as beating goes. The daddy issues in general? Well, that's a given, isn't it? "And I think jumpin' rooftops is at least as normal as trying to get into SHIELD while you're on horse, even though you just said that they don't take addicts." Finally, he takes his swig and passes the bottle back, the tension in his broad, bow-muscled shoulders draining slowly away as the alcohol continues to assail his system.

"Oh, I never claimed to be normal. I'm faaaar from normer." Eddie draws the one word out a little too long, the end of her sentence sort of falling off in a mumble of words that don't quite want to form correctly on her tongue. "Norbal. Normill. Whatever." A shiver hits her as a tendril of wind creeps into her hood and tickles her spine, causing her to hunker down close to him. "S'cold. And late." She points out, but seems to have no intention of actually moving. "I'm getting clean. I gotta. Lot riding on getting back into the Company. Hold still." She doesn't tell him, she warns him, as she moves her hood to make sure it cushions her cheek and then she lays her head on the stranger's shoulder.

"Normbril," Roy corrects incorrectly. He kicks his boots out, one on top of the other — the top one promptly slips off, leaving his ankles crossed at full extension. "Getting clean? Then I'm pretty sure it's my thingie — Duty — to make sure you don't steal that horse." He holds relatively still, although he draws back his head to look at her as she nestles in at his shoulder, "So stay right. There." Which is pretty much exactly what she just told him to do. So at least that's good. The back of his head thumps lightly against the brick behind it, and he shivers too despite the layers of armored cloth and leather protecting him. He shifts a moment, half-turning to provide the front of his shoulder instead of the top of it to her. It's just because it's warmer, alright? And because he struck out at three straight bars and he's got the babysitter for the whole night. His head slips slowly over, his hood between his cheek and the top of her head as he slumps into her as well.

All the Wild Turkey is catching up to Eddie, the cold making her even more tired so she doesn't complain when he turns his shoulder for her and she rolls onto her side to curl up along his. It's fine. This'll be fine. She's bundled head to toe, so what harm can be done? "You know." She says with a yawn splitting her mouth wide and pausing her sentiment. "You're not s'bad, for an Asshole." The last is muttered just as her eyes drift shut, giving into the comforting darkness of being black out drunk.

Roy rolls obligingly, and after a moment of very, very uncomfortable twisting of his neck, he shoves an arm under her neck and curls it back so that his hand is under his own head, bracing them both up. "I'm great," he mumbles. There's a pause, and he digs up the line, "And we're all Assholes here, sir." It's hard to understand, being so slurred and her being passed out. He's not far behind himself.

Hours later, the noise of the beginning of rush hour and the first light of the winter sun impinges on the demonic parade celebrating in Roy's head and stomach. He groans, fighting the urge to vomit until there's nothing left in any part of his digestive system. But hey, at least he's not cold. That, of course, is because somewhere in the night, he wrapped an arm around Eddie's midsection, tucking his hand with its fingerless glove between her and the roof. His face is tucked into the back of her hood, and at least his front is pleasantly warm. His ass is frozen, as are his feet, but that's the perils of sleeping on top of a roof in the middle of winter.

There is an echoing noise of protest from the woman virtually curled on top of him, Eddie nestling down further into the shared warmth and fighting against the grip of consciousness that's threatening to pluck her from the sweet embrace of the abyss. Just five more minutes, that's all. If only her pillow would stay still. Wait.

It's not the first time she's passed out in questionable circumstances, but this?

Eddie jerks up with a start as she realizes there is a rise and fall of a chest beneath her cushioned cheek, immediately regretting the sudden movement as her brain rattles around in her dehydrated shell of a skull. A fist is balled to her forehead, like she's trying to keep the contents from oozing out of her eyeballs as she questions in scratchy indignation. "What the actual fuck." Her boot heels dig into the rooftop, pedaling away from the …red suited man that is most definitely not Santa Claus.

The jerk of Eddie's head nearly causes a collision between their faces, and Roy jerks his own head back to predictably similar results — including a banging of the back of his head into the roof, "Ow shit." There's a moment's pause, and he looks down over himself as Eddie backpedals away, considering, and then opining, "Nope. Pretty sure no actual fuck." Words are not good, however, and he rolls over onto his side, swallowing hard to keep from puking. That's going to be a constant struggle for a while. "God damn it."

Of course not, because had there actually been canoodling, they'd have been ice cubes this morning, instead of just slightly frosted flakes.

That swallow from Roy has the familiar sickly sweet taste forming in the back of her mouth that has her stomach lurching in sympathy. Maybe empathy. Definitely empathy. Her gloved hands clamp over her mouth until she can fight it back down, but the sight of the empty bottle on its side makes that process all the more difficult. That fucking. Empty. Bottle.

It's enough to stir some vague glimmers of memories from last night, but there is one sure fire way to fill in the blanks. Steeling herself, Eddie starts to peel off one of her gloves, still eyeing Roy to make sure he's virtually incapacitated by his own nausea to keep him far away from what she's about to do. Bare fingers twiddle in anxious anticipation as she reaches for the bottle, curling a grasp around it and …oh. Shit. The images she's bullied by are enough to get at least an idea about what occurred last night. From climbing up here to try and get a fix, to the bow and arrow wielding vigilante saving her from that huge mistake by happenstance. And then the drinking. So much drinking.

Unfortunately those images are enough to send her right over the edge from sour stomach to 'there she blows!' and Eddie skitters away to lurch over the side of the building and loose all the cookies she should have left for the Jolly Man from the North.

Bar food and a greasy burger may be great after-drinking food, but it's not great to be sloshing around with all that alcohol. Roy eventually hauls himself up to a sitting position, holding his head between his hands as he tries not to spew vomit all over his boots. He's quite distracted from her serruptitious memory aid, breathing slowly and steadily and wishing humans came with either plugs or drains.

His control is not, however, iron enough to resist the wet sound of her own alcohol expulsion, and his rush to the edge of the roof starts with his shoulder glancing off the air conditioning unit with a hollow bang, and ends with him leaning over the low wall alongside her, purging himself of sweet, sweet imbibed poison.

After several heaves, he spits once, twice, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then looks over and does his bed Joey impression, "How you doin'?"


Eddie stays splayed on her stomach over raised edge of the roof, arms dangling limply down into the ether, her chin resting on the exterior brick. "If I had an ounce of energy left in my bones, I would stab you." That's how she's doing. Never mind that was the most disgusting group activity she's ever taken part of. Spewing with strangers can now be officially crossed off her nonexistent bucket list.

"I don't know who you are, but I'm clearly blaming you for this." She finally lifts a lead filled arm and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket before screwing her body around and plopping down with a long groan against the low wall. "What do they call you anyways? Red Arrow? Red Robin…wait, I think there already is one of those. Some asshat is already probably calling himself Robin Hood, and that's a more green motif." Talking is keeping her from thinking about the pounding in her head and the vicious ache in her bones. "Scarlet Pumpernickle."

"Good thing for me that you feel as shitty as I do," Roy groans. He doesn't push himself up either, kneeling on the grit at the base of the retaining wall. "Hey, that was your bottle." Beat pause, "At least the last one was." The thought of how much he drank the night before causes Roy's stomach to squish again, contracting but not quite enough to trigger further ejecta. "Yeah. Already a Red Robin. And I'm not a bird." Finally pushing himself back from the wall — but keeping both hands on it to steady himself — he notes quite proudly, "Arsenal.' And at a closer look, there is actually a pistol holstered at his right hip, a heavy knife or short sword at the back of his waist, and a couple more blades strapped to his legs and arms. Apparently he just likes the bow and arrow. He pauses again, frowning as he tries to drag his booze-scattered thoughts together, "Isn't that last one a Daffy Duck character? So you're like… Agent Training Wheels or something?"

"Aw, Arsenal. That's cute." And by the way Eddie states that, it's not particularly a compliment. She works on putting her glove back on, working it into the webbing of each finger before flexing the hand into a fist. The fit isn't quite right, judging by the way she frowns down at the garment, but it'll have to do. "Actually I thought: what better thing to do in my thirties than join the steno-pod. Someplace I can really put my typing skills to use. I mean, some people buy flashy cars for their mid-life crisis, but I decided on the boring old life of government employee. You know. Regular banker's hours, holidays off, solid dental plan. Yup, that's me. Say, this has been fun, let's not do it again some time." She puts a hand to the ground to try to hoist herself up, but then the world starts spinning with the hemispheres going in separate directions. Okay. Maybe five more minutes. With a whimper, her forehead drops to her knees.

'Cute' is clearly not what Roy was going for by the scowl under his domino mask. He barks a quiet laugh at the mid-life-crisis commentary, then presses one hand to his temple, steadying himself with the other hand on the low wall around the roof. "Don't make me puke — again. That sounds like enough to drive a person to drink. Or something stronger." Closing his eyes for a moment, he does his best to steady himself on the retaining wall again, then opens them again and offers out his hand in its fingerless gloves to help hoist Eddie up again, "I'm thinking walking down the fire escape is gonna suck, but it beats the alternative." His stomach gives a lurch at the idea of swinging from an arrow-line, and he goes a little greener under the mask.

Eddie eyes the offered hand dubiously, "Don't say drink." She likewise protests about not wanting to throw up again, and reminders about how they got into this precarious situation certain count. Instead of letting him help her to her feet, Morales tries again of her own accord. "How do you keep that mask on, anyways? What, like you're out on the street, see a crime and are like 'hold on guys! I have to glue this piece of plastic to my face!'" She paws behind her for a handhold, managing to hoist herself up. "What's the alternative?" She asks grumpily, starting to head in that direction. "Falling? Shit, don't tell me you can fly because that'd just be too rich."

Roy shakes his head, "Oh hell no. Hair of the dog…" and then he considers that option, "…might not be a bad idea. But no." And then she's on to other questions, and he's trying to catch up, "Need to know. I'm sure SHIELD'll tell you how it works if you get cleared for a secret identity." His hand stays out until she gets vertical, and then he lets it drop back to his side. "The alternative is an industry secret." There's a pause, and then he adds, "Noooope. No flying. Arrow-line. It's not even all that hard once you get the hang of it."

Eddie snorts about getting cleared for a secret identity. "You don't need one of those in the steno-pool." Just how much did she tell him last night anyways? The particulars are still a blur, and as it's bad enough that he knows about SHIELD, she'll just keep up the sarcastic ruse. That's got to be working, right? "So much for industry secret." The comment comes as he quickly blabs. "You so wouldn't be cut out for the whole spy game. Your secret identity is probably already blown all over VigiWatch, isn't it?" At the edge of the roof where the fire escape is, she leans partially over the side and sighs at the metal ladder that leads down to the top landing. "It's a wonder we didn't both break our necks last night…"

"Then you don't get to learn how to keep a mask on." Roy proclaims that fact proudly. "And identities are way more important than how you get up and down from rooftops." He turns slowly around and leans gingerly back against the wall of the roof. "And no. I'm way not cut out for the spy game. Undercover makes everything way more complicated." He stops then, frowning as he runs back over what he just said. Nope, still safe. "Haven't done it yet. I'm sure it'll be totally fine. Now, drunk and high, that's a bad combination for vigil —" he's not exactly drunk anymore, but he's still not thinking all that well, "vigil-anting."

"I don't need a mask, you don't know who the hell I am." Eddie's pretty sure about that fact as she slings a leg over to find the first rung. "Well consider your vigilanting complete for the holidays. You saved a poor woman from feeding her cats, Tinkerbell and Mr. Peabody." And, you know, from keeping her from getting high and busting her probationary period with SHIELD, but whatever. It's not like she's actually going to voice that gratitude.

She might be hungover, but traversing a ladder isn't too difficult. Morales merely puts the instep of her boots on each side and slides down like they're on a submarine and were just dispatched to duty stations. Landing with a solid clang, she looks up and gives the man a sloppy salute. "See you around, Arseenal."

"But I know where to find you." Dramatic pause, Roy, dramatic pause. Hands on hips — sway unsteadily a moment — head back, chest out, "Wherever there is horse looking to be ridden." Very dramatic. Now grab onto the wall again. The corruption of his name causes him to snort, shaking his head in actual laughter, "Thanks for keepin' me warm, Training Wheels. We'll have to do it again some time." And now he's stuck, because he's not going to climb down the fire escape right behind her, and he's definitely still not in any shape to go swinging through town.

"I doubt you'll ever have the need!" Eddie's voice echoes back up as she rounds to the first set of steps, hurrying now to put as much distance between her and him and the very weird Christmas Night. Bah-humbug.

Roy snorts and shakes his head at Eddie's echoing words, and then he leans back from the retaining wall, working his mouth and then spitting out the taste of vomit, groaning as he does. How long do you wait for an unintentional cuddle-partner to get down the fire escape before you go down yourself? At least five minutes, right? Damn, it's cold when you're not feeling the booze. Or, you know, the body heat of another human. He checks his watch then and grimaces. Fuck. He's got about ten minutes to get on the way back to Gotham if he's going to make it before the babysitter has to go. What a Christmas.

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