#drunkmuttshipping

You take a moment to do so, alcohol still working its languid way through your bloodstream though it’s been ten minutes since the last bottle’s contents were emptied. You’re sitting in bed with the aforementioned bottle on your lap, Bec is asleep next to you, and… well, a little nostalgia every once in a while certainly wasn’t a bad thing (though perhaps nostalgia wasn’t the right word, because while the past was great the present seems pretty damn cool too).

It wasn’t all that long ago that the two of you first met. 

Well, alright, it was kind of long in Dualscar years, which were significantly longer than Bec years or Doc years or anybody else years, which may have been the copious amounts of booze pumped into your system. No matter. By standard time it had been three hundred and sixty-five days - give or take an hour or two - since the two of you first stumbled into each other.

==> Dualscar: Be the old man. Have the flashback.

the old man…. HASS the flashback.

Or some kind of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff reference, if that actually is one. You think it is. Not that you frequent the comic, because you don’t! You are a distinguished older gentleman with distinguished older tastes and oh my fucking god who are you kidding just have the goddamn flashback already everyone knows you keep a tab open with it on your computer et cetera et cetera.

When you had first moved into the apartment complex, it certainly wasn’t for love, or… really for any reasons that could be discussed among good company, namely a lack of money and a girlfriend with a kid or two that happened to look suspiciously like you. Back then, rooming with your beloved son-nephew had seemed a splendid idea because he, oops, paid the rent, and that was pretty much where the benefits had ended. (Finding your younger brother in the same country nearly outweighed the free housing costs, for instance.)

And then you found him, or, rather, bashed into him in a narrow stairwell one afternoon when you were trying to head out for a drink. The alcohol content currently coursing through your bloodstream was negligible at best - it was an excuse to get out of the apartment while Eridan was… taking care of some business… at any rate. Walking in on that twice was already six times too many, if you asked him!

Which nobody did. Sigh.

But that’s a story for another day. Back to the flashback at hand: you remember vaguely thinking about how to tell your nephew that you’d just walked in on him again when—

“WHAT THE FUCK D’YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” You found yourself sprawled on the ground amidst a pile of groceries and a very pissed-off… guy. (No, you were not going to comment on his eyes, or hair, or the way his eyebrows furrowed when he was angry in the really hot way.