Johnny Depp Imagines {COMPLETED}

Mort Rainey #8

Imagine you taking care of a drunk Mort Rainey.

*Requested by ramadina006*

You were on your way home from New York City after spending the weekend at a conference meeting with your publisher for publicizing your upcoming hit novel and planning for future projects for it, such as turning it into a movie. The weekend was long and sort of boring, but at least it went by fast where you can finally go home and see your fiancé, Mort Rainey. You didn't like leaving Mort alone during the weekend, but it was only for a short time and you thought it was best if Mort had some time on his own since he's been suffering from a writer's block as he's trying to come up with a new novel for the past few weeks.

After you pulled up in front of the secluded cabin in Tashmore Lake, you grabbed your suitcase and your other belongings and walked up the steps to the front door. You unlocked the door and walked inside. "Mort? Baby, I'm home." You called out. But there wasn't any response. "Mort?" You called out again, as you set all of your stuff down and closed the door. But, then, you heard mumbling from upstairs. You sighed and shook your head as you thinking that Mort fell asleep at his writing desk while trying write his novel on his laptop.

As you were walking up the stairs, you heard Mort mumbling for a second until you heard him say, "No. I didn't steal it. Go away." You furrowed your eyebrows, in confusion, on why he said that. But you thought he was dreaming. But as you were getting closer to the top, you, suddenly, heard Mort shout out, "You liar! I didn't steal your story! Leave me alone!" "Mort?" You exclaimed, as you ran to the top of the stairs.

When you got to the top, you saw Mort passed out, with his head down on his writing desk and his left hand on a bottle of Jack Daniels with barely a drop left in it. That's when you realized that he was drunk as you heard him mumbling repeatedly in his sleep about not stealing a story, while he slurred some of his words. "Mort?" You called out, while rubbing his back for a moment, as you were trying to wake him up. But he still had his eyes closed and mumbled something inaudible. "Mort, wake up." You tried again.

Mort, then, opened his eyes and looked up, with squinty eyes, and adjusted his glasses as he was trying to concentrate on you, in a drunken state. "Um—(y/n)? Isss that youuu?" He asked, slurring a bit. "Yes. It's me, Mort." You answered. "Oh. Thank goodness. F-For a second there, I thought I was ssseeing Shooter in a female formmm." Mort said, slurring his words again, as he placed his hand on his hand and he let out a groan. "Shooter?" You questioned, with furrowed eyebrows. But Mort didn't answer. "Oh, it'sss so good to see you again, (y/n). You have no idea how much I've missed you. I can't believe you've been gone for monthsss." He said. "Mort, I was gone for the weekend." You corrected him, which made Mort had a look of realization. "Oh. But it felt like it was forever." He said, in a drunk way.

"Mort, what have you been doing while I was gone?" You asked. "Sleeping." Mort simply answered. "Then, how do you explain this?" You asked, while you pointed to the Jack Daniels bottle. Mort looked at the bottle, with a puzzled look on his face, until he rubbed his face with both of his hands and said, "Oh, yeah. I took a drink of that stuff." "A drink? You drank the whole bottle, Mort. You're drunk." You told him. "Hm. Strange. I don't remember drinking the whole bottle. I guess being so stressed made me forget about it." Mort said. "What were you stressed about, Mort? Was it another writer's block when you tried to write something?" You questioned. Mort looked side-to-side, trying to remember, but his eyebrows perked up as if it clicked him. "Not just that, but it was probably after I talked with Shooter." He said.

You noticed Mort's head was wobbling a bit, so you took his arm and put it around your neck. "Come on, Mort. Let me take you to the bedroom." You said, as you helped him stand up and walked him to your shared bedroom. "Mm, nice. Soft, warm bed with my girl." Mort said, drunkly, while he tipped over a bit, but you kept your balance in place so you wouldn't fall. "Here, sit down." You instructed him, as you helped him sit down before you sat down next to him. "There. This is more comfortable for you than at the writing desk." You said. "Mm. It got more comfortable because you're here." Mort said, with a drunk smirk on his face, and you chuckled.

Then, you cleared your throat and asked, "So, Mort, who is this Shooter you've mentioned?" "Um, Shooter. Oh, yeah. This dairy farmer named Jeff—Joe—no, John Shooter that stopped by here yesterday and accused me of stealing a story that he claims to be his, but it a story that I wrote myself." Mort explained. "That's ridiculous, Mort. You would never do that." You stood up for him. "I didn't steal it. I know I didn't steal it. It's my story and I don't like being accused of plagiarism." Mort started talking to himself, while staring at the wall. "Mort." You simply said, trying to get his attention. Mort, then, snapped his head back to you. "Oh. Hi, (y/n)." He said, drunkly.

"After this John Shooter guy confronted you, did you call Sheriff Newsome?" You asked. Mort looked up for a moment and shook his head. "What's a sheriff with arthritis gonna do about it?" He said. "Then, what did you do?" "My head started hurting from talking to myself about not stealing the story, so I took a drink of that big bottle and it helped calm me down." Mort answered. "Mort, you drank the whole Jack Daniels bottle and look what it did to you." You said. Mort giggled and said, "(y/n), you're so funny. You know I don't drink a whole bottle of Jack Daniels. But I still love about you and your sense humor." You rolled your (e/c) eyes at his drunk nonsense.

"So, what did he look like?" "Hm. He was tall, like a tower. From Mississippi. Had a southern accent. And he wore a black hat." Mort briefly described the mysterious man. "Interesting." You commented. Mort, then, placed his hand on his head as he began to groan in pain. "I really wish you didn't leave me, (y/n). I've been a through a weekend of hell and now...now the room is starting to spin. I'll get back at Shooter for putting me through this. Stealing his story. I wrote that story. I wrote that—" But before he could finished, you noticed that he was getting nauseous and you knew immediately what that meant. "Mort, come with me to the bathroom." You said, as you helped him stand up and walk him to the bathroom as quick as you could, while you took his glasses off his face.

Once you both got to the bathroom, Mort immediately went to the toilet and vomited. You closed your eyes, while you held up his blonde hair. When Mort was done, you flushed the toilet and, then, you took a washcloth and wiped his mouth before you helped him stand up. You walked him over to the bed and you put a fresh shirt on him and you helped lay him down on the bed. "(y/n), will you stay with me?" Mort asked, groggily. "Of course I'll stay with you, Mort. I'm gonna go put on my night clothes and I'll be right there." You said, and, then, you grabbed your night clothes and changed in the bathroom.

After you changed into a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, you walked out of the bathroom and you climbed into the bed with Mort, where he turned over on his side and wrapped his arms around you and held you close to him. "(y/n), if Shooter ever comes back, I'll protect you from him if he dares tries to harm you." He said, sounding like he was on the verge of falling asleep. "Well, that's very sweet and thoughtful of you, Mort." You said, sweetly towards him. "He lays a hand on you...I'll hit him with my shovel. I know it's him...when I...see him and his...fancy black...hat." Mort said, and, then, he passed out.

You wrapped your arms around him and embraced him in a hug. As you were doing that, you looked around the room and your eyes landed on an object that you saw in the closet. A black open crown hat; the same that Mort had bought from a flea market two months ago. You immediately remembered that Mort once tried on the hat that same day and pretended that he was a dairy farmer from Mississippi.

Thinking about that day and what was described about the mysterious man that supposedly confronted Mort the other day was fitting the pieces into the puzzle. John Shooter was possibly a figment of Mort's imagination. You suspected that Mort must've been so stressed with his writing lately, he must've drank that bottle of Jack Daniels, without realizing he drank so much where he got drunk and he, all of a sudden, sees a Mississippi dairy farmer named John Shooter one day.

You held Mort close to you and you whispered by his ear, "Don't worry, babe. I know you're a good man and I know you'll protect me from any harm...even if he doesn't exist." Even though he was drunk and his story about John Shooter was possibly made up, you still supported and comforted him with the state that he's in and the stress that he's been through during the weekend while you were gone. "I love you, Mort." You whispered, and, then, you snuggled against him and fell asleep.