(no subject)

There's absolutely no question over the fact that Scripps is immediately regretting drinking with Dakin into the wee hours of the morning. It's ridiculous, truly, and he ought to be above that. And yet, here he is, lying in bed with a headache to rival those in the world with the most terrible of headaches and he feels awful and off. He vaguely recalls passing out next to Dakin in a drunken stupor of laziness, but now the heat off his body is putting Scripps in an awful mood.

"Would you get off?" Scripps complains, wrinkling his nose when his shirt catches against his elbow, like it's too big or something. "You're hot as anything, arse," he grumbles.