lostcarnival | if you ain't getting drunk, get the fuck out the trailer

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if you ain't getting drunk, get the fuck out the trailer

WHO: Strange & Lambert
WHEN: Day 77, after Moss and Shimmer's talk
WHERE: Lambert's trailer
WHAT: booze. and probably eventual talking of plot and maybe Strange'll actually tell Lambert about the deal with Ignatius. but mostly booze
WARNINGS: booooooze

Considering that Strange had already gotten sloppy drunk with Shimmer, he probably shouldn't be getting sloppy drunk with Lambert. But fuck it. The Ignatius thing had been weighing on his mind to the point where even after recovering from a hangover, Strange decided he wanted another drink. He should tell someone. But part of Strange doesn't want to tell anyone about it until Eden proper, just so the Ringmaster and himself can be spared a bit of yelling and spared people trying to persuade him otherwise.

Add in all that about the Huntsman...and yeah, Strange wants some booze. It'd be even better if he had the booze with Lambert. It's been far too long since the two of them just got drunk.

In true Strange fashion, he doesn't use the door to get into Lambert's trailer. This time he enters as smoke, slipping into the trailer through a crack underneath the doorjam. Strange resolidifies: even though they're off of camping time, he's still wearing a variation on his camping outfit of light cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, khaki trousers.

"I hope you summon your soul at some point during the evening," Strange calls out, as he starts to make his way to Lambert's kitchen area, walking in here like he owns the place. "I'm overdue a conversation with Celandine."

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"So take us to your trailer. Isn't that what magic's for?" Lambert rolls his eyes. Childermass takes him around all the time! It turns out magic's great when you have a magician for a boyfriend.

He reaches out to prod Strange in the shoulder, fully intending to give him further shit about it, but then he starts actually undressing and--

"The fuck?" Lambert enunciates, slowly. And then, in the true spirit of drunken bad ideas, he's going to reach over and poke a finger right into the reflection on Strange's chest.

Congrats Lambert: you have successfully poked Strange on the chest. His finger hits solid mirror before Strange looks over and gives Lambert a grin.

"I've got to open up the reflections myself. It'd be stupid if anything could just fall in there." Strange murmurs a few words under his breath before reaching into the mirrors on his chest and pulling out the wife gem.

"There," Strange grins, "go poke my chest again." If Lambert does so, then his fingers will slip right through the mirror into a bizarre, cold-feeling void.

Lambert eyes Strange's chest warily, then reaches out to touch him again -- and when the material gives way under his fingers, his eyes widen.

So clearly, the next course of action is to shove his whole hand in, up to the wrist.

"This is weird," he says, decisively. He wiggles his fingers absently, just to make sure he can still feels them, then proceeds to keep pushing his hand in, groping around inside Strange's chest to see if he can feel anything.

"Can you even feel this?" he asks, distractedly.

There's a few limits to Lambert shoving his hand in Strange's chest. He's limited by the boundaries of the reflection: Lambert can't move his hand or his fingers past the border of where the large, jagged mirrored scar on Strange's chest is. However, he can shove his hand in as deep as he wants. There's no trace of pain in Strange's expression, just a wide grin that plainly states he thinks this shit is cool as hell.

"I don't," Strange responds, obviously about to go on a big ol'nerdy tear. "You're not shoving your hand inside my chest, you're shoving your hand inside the reflection. I can't really feel the reflection, not normally, but I know when something's there due to the magic."

There's a pause before Strange continues, with a grin, "Stick your sword in there. Point first! It'll actually fit that way."

Why yes, Strange figured that out by shoving daggers in his chest and pencils in his eye, what made you guess that?

Guess who's got two thumbs and is only half-listening to the explanation as he keeps wiggling around in there? Lambert is.

"No way," he says, definitively. "You know how hard it is to find a decent silver sword around here? I don't want to lose another one."

"Have you tried putting food in there?" Celandine chimes in, her own words slurry. "Does it go bad after a while, or does it just stay the same? Oooh, maybe you should start keeping wine in there! Is it cold, Lambert?"

Edited ( ) 2018-08-25 00:51 (UTC)

"No, you can't lose it," Strange tries to explain, despite the fact that they're both drunk and Lambert isn't paying attention. "It's in the reflection. The only way you'd lose it is if the reflection was broken."

So if someone somehow managed to shatter the mirrors in his chest. Strange awkwardly sways slightly, thanks to all the alcohol before he turns his attention to Celandine.

"I've figured out how to store living things in reflections as well." RIP a few animals on the campground, who tragically gave their lives while Strange was being the magical equivalent of a mad scientist. As he's talking, he's staring at Celandine, mad grin on his face. It is entirely obvious that Strange kind of wants to shove Lambert's soul into his chest. "Of course, I haven't stored anything that can tell me how it feels. Reflections large enough for people were scarce on the campgrounds and most animals don't talk back."

Most animals. Still kind of creepily staring at Celandine over here.

Celandine is about as drunk as Lambert is, so she doesn't notice him looking at her all too creepily, even as Lambert withdraws his hand and frowns at Strange as an all too practical concern comes to mind.

"How's it supposed to get fixed if it's broken?" He demands, drunkenly. "I don't think West can stitch up a mirror."

"It'll fix itself," Strange slurs, as he very carefully leans forward towards Celandine. He knows that touching one's daemon has odd results, so he doesn't reach out to grab her or anything like that.

"If I pick at one, it grows back, like a scab over an open wound." Says the person who has undoubtedly tried to pick or peel the mirrored scars off of his wrists and failed miserably each time. "Celandine, hop on my lap and stick your head in there."

As one, Celandine and Lambert look at Strange as if he’s a bit of (a lot of) an idiot.

And then, shaking herself in something that might be a shrug, Celandine moves to hop onto Strange’s lap as directed anyway. “This is a terrible idea,” she informs him, a little slurred, but little paws get put up against Strange’s chest and she peers in anyway.

"This is a wonderful idea," Strange corrects Celandine. As she sticks her tiny little polecat head in there, Celandine will see that there doesn't seem to be an end to the depth of the reflection. There are defined sides that match the sides of his scar, but there doesn't seem to be a bottom. The sides are mirrored, reflecting multiple Celandines back at her. Since she's sentient, she's able to move around in there though it's a: real fuckin cold and b: limited by the borders of Strange's scar. She's able to view the outside world if she looks up through what Strange and Lambert see as the top of Strange's scar.

Strange keeps the reflection open as long as Celandine's half in the reflection, half out of it. He doesn't know what would happen if he closed it on her but he imagines it won't be pretty.

"You can climb in there fully, if you want."

“There’s nothing wonderful about crawling into your chest hole, Strange,” Celandine says, primly, her voice a little echoey from being inside his chest, which probably sounds very odd.

But is she still doing it? Yeah, unfortunately, curiosity is getting the better of her, little paws scrabbling up the front of Strange’s shirt as she goes. “It’s cold in here,” she complains, “And the edges of your scar scrape.”

Lambert is just watching this all with a vaguely interested air, then something occurs to him and he snorts, leaning back in his seat. “You’re never allowed to say I don’t trust you again,” he informs the other man, somewhat randomly. “If letting my soul crawl around your damn chest isn’t proof enough for you, I don’t know what is.”

Strange knows that Lambert trusting him with his soul is still different than Lambert trusting him with secrets or trusting him as a nightrunner. Still, he appreciates Lambert saying that and can't help but smile.

"All that tells me is that you trust me with certain things." Strange's voice gets a little dazed. Having someone's soul inside of him is such a unique, fuzzy feeling that he's not entirely sure how to describe it. "You trust me with you. Not with others."

Without really thinking, Strange closes his reflection, keeping Celandine in there. If she were any other animal, she'd be alive and well. Unfortunately, she's a soul animal and everything starts to go fucky.

Lambert’s in the middle of laughing when Strange closes off the reflection in his chest, and the effect is more or less immediate: he stiffens, eyes rolling up in his head, and falls right off the couch and onto th floor with a loud thump.

Oh. Fuck.

Thankfully, Strange manages to figure out what went wrong fairly quickly. He opens up the reflection again and awkwardly sticks his hand in there as something for Celandine to grab onto.

Strange sticks his hand in his chest in an attempt to grab for Celandine, but he won't find a paw reaching back, or even fur -- the daemon is gone, like she was never there, the fuzzy warm feeling that climbing into Strange's chest came with gone like summer mist.

Lambert, in the meantime, is still on the floor. Reassuringly(?) he seems to be breathing.

Who has two thumbs and doesn't know any first aid? THIS GUY.

Veery carefully, Strange bends down and lightly prods Lambert in the shoulder. "Lambert?" he says, in a tone of voice that implies Strange is well aware of his fuck-up. "Are you alright?"

It'll take a bit more prodding than that, but eventually, Strange will get a gurgle out of Lambert, the witcher's hand reaching up to smack his hand away.

"Th'fuck?" he manages to get out blearily. Having your soul suddenly snap back into you involuntarily is a bit disorienting.

"Thank God," Strange murmurs, as he slumps down on the floor next to Lambert. He reaches over for the closest bottle of something alcoholic and then just straight up chugs part of the bottle. Once that's done, he moves to hand Lambert the bottle.

"Drink this. You'll feel better."

Or at least get more drunk but hey, that counts!

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