SKYFALL, Johnny Kavanagh

No use arguing with a drunk Niamh

Johnny's Point of View

Gibsie was halfway through butchering Hamlet on the front porch when I leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the night spiral further into chaos.

"WHETHER 'TIS NOBBLER – nobber? Nobler? Nobbler, whatever – IN THE MIND TO SUFFER THE SLI—SLINKS—"

"Slings." Claire corrected flatly from the door, arms crossed and unimpressed.

"SLINGS! AND ARROWS! OF... um... OUTRAGEOUS... something."

"Gerard." Claire snapped. "For the love of God, get down before you kill yourself."

Gibsie held up a single, solemn finger. "I must finish my performance."

"Get down."

"Give me two more lines."

"No."

"One?"

Claire shot him a look that would have made a lesser man cry.

Gibsie sighed dramatically and hopped off the railing, landing with a slight stumble before throwing his arms out like he'd just finished a Broadway show. "Thank you, thank you, you've been a wonderful audience."

"Inside." Claire pointed to the door, and when Gibsie grumbled and made his way past her, she called out, "And if you even think about licking something weird again tonight, I will personally see to it that you never experience peace."

"He's going to do something even stupider before the night is over." Feely muttered, taking a sip of his drink.

"Absolutely." Niamh agreed.

The next hour blurred into a mess of laughter, questionable dares, and the kind of ridiculous inside jokes that would make no sense in the morning.

At some point, Hughie reappeared with a tray of snacks, which immediately descended into chaos when Gibsie tried to juggle three bags of crisps and nearly took out a lamp.

"You're not an acrobat." Claire snapped, snatching them away.

"You don't know that." Gibsie shot back. "I could have been."

"But you're not."

"Not with that attitude."

The party had settled into that comfortable middle ground between chaotic and lazy.

A few people had already left, some sprawled out on couches, half-asleep.
The rest were engaged in various debates, mostly fuelled by alcohol and stubbornness.

Someone had taken over the music, swapping whatever Gibsie had put on for something resembling an actual playlist.
Feely was still drinking slowly, making his way through a can of cider while keeping a wary eye on the rest of us like he was expecting another disaster.

Which, to be fair, was a reasonable expectation.

Maeve and I were still planted on the floor near the armchair, both of us quietly observing what could only be described as a cultural bloodbath happening in the middle of the living room.

Niamh had somehow ended up standing with a glass of lemonade in hand, gesturing wildly like she was delivering a TED Talk.

That was the first sign that she wasn't just tipsy – she was absolutely locked in.

A sober Niamh wouldn't have wasted her breath.
A sober Niamh would have shot Gibsie a look of disappointment, calmly ripped apart his argument in three sentences or less, and then returned to her drink without breaking a sweat.