System Reboot || DC

Chapter Thirteen

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Hang Over Confessions

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---------- Jocelyn POV ------------

There is a pleasantness to sleeping in Waking up on your own terms and allowing the body to be as lazy as possible. On some occasions, it is a gross example of procrastination by wasting time that could have been better spent being productive. To sleep until one's limbs become numb and, instead of feeling rested, you feel groggy and gross.

But I was hungover and, to be honest, I could give less of a shit.

I scrunched the blankets between my legs and repositioned my head on the pillow. A throbbing tugged at my skull, settling behind my eyes and reminding me how fucking stupid I was the day before.

After accepting my fate, Tim and I ventured around town. Revisiting old hangout spots, talking—though it was more me talking and him avoiding discussing the others—reminiscing in each other's presence. It was at his urging that I took him back to the apartment, him knowing the way without needing my direction. I didn't comment on this fact, as I already knew his bad habit of internet stalking.

He was unashamed of it too.

Introducing Ronan and Tim was awkward, to say the least. They interrogated each other before I had the chance to say a word. Fangs bared and eyes wide with scrutiny. They all but accused each other of ulterior motives, comparing me to being "too naive and trusting."

I think they neglect to remember that I was once a formidable soldier. Just because I now struggle to walk upstairs and open a pickle jar doesn't mean shit. I am simply adapting to my new role as a normal human. You can't judge me for that... right?

They went back and forth for what felt like hours. Ronan accused Tim of being a pervert, asking the boy why his aura was so weird and bloody, assuming that sweet Tim was some kind of gangster. Alternatively, Tim wanted to know why Ronan still wanted to live with me despite knowing I wasn't his niece.

While they stood and pointed like JoJo characters, I went to the kitchen and collected some bottles from the fridge. Home-made syrups, cordials, soda, vodka, mixed berries. I remember clearly feeling the need for a drink, something fruity and nothing too strong. Just to take the edge off the turbulent day of emotions.

A raspberry cosmopolitan settled down my throat smoothly, snacking on the tarty pulp as I watched the heated discussion. It was more of a snarky, passive-aggressive spat than an argument. Back and forth, poking at each other's appearance, attitude, and personality. Stupid things just to spite.

I didn't understand why they needed to have a cock-and-ball fight to size up each other. To deem them worthy of sharing territory. Pathetic considering I welcome Romans many lovers without complaint. Yet there he stood, like a hissing cat that's cornered.

There was more drinking on my side and some arm-wrestling on the boy's side. Then I had enough, took a spray bottle of water (used for Blueberry), and sprayed them in the face until they stopped glaring and settled down. It took several shrieks, half a bottle of water, and almost all of my patience. Once the atmosphere was no longer suffocating, I offered some drinks and we ordered pizza as a form of peace.

But a couple of drinks turned into, what Amber Turd would call, a mega pint of vibrant sunshine. Then, eventually, a jug of chardonnay slushie. To my bank account's dismay, the simple order of pizza evolved into five boxes of Korean fried chicken and a case of beer.