notes: dorian + reader (reader is Not home owner), alcohol/heavy drinking, vomit mention, post-realization spoilers. no romance in this because reader is Very Drunk and dorian is doing his job. i just like the idea of him looking out for others during work hours, as he should :)
dorian can't remember you coming into the club with your friends. there are so many faces passing by on a given night, after all. it's impossible to remember. it's only a good thing that he has no clue who you are; he only remembers the troublesome ones. just another clubgoer who didn't try to push their way ahead in line or, god forbid, tried to commit identity fraud with some fake or borrowed id.
but he certainly remembers you leaving. you'd been stumbling on your legs without any sense of direction, slumped against the nearest wall and sank to the floor. only to promptly stop moving. dorian's seen it all before. there are countless reasons for someone to get as sloshed as you are right now, but none of those matter more than actually getting you the help you need.
(maybe you're not usually a drinker, and had overindulged in one too many mixes or cocktails, the alcohol content of which are always hard to gauge. or you've been going through a tough time and had one too many. or meds that mess with the way alcohol affects your functioning. endless reasons, really.
but you'd stumbled into the bathroom, sat down to pee, only to have the world swirling and dancing around you as soon as you'd gotten up again, discordant giggles bursting from your mouth. fuck, i've had way too much, you'd thought before pushing through crowds and heading to the door. you'd seemed fine before.)
dorian exchanges a glance with the other fellow at the door and inclines his head in your direction. "i'll get that one." the night is coming to a close and leaving one person at the door is fine.
if someone rings the alarm at the bar, he's close enough to be able to come running over regardless. dorian squats down in front of you, keeping his hands to himself. your eyes are just barely cracked open.
"hello. are you alright?" he asks. the shake of your head you give him, lilting up and down as your skull moves side to side, says more than enough. "you've had one too many, yeah? who are you with?"
your shoulders hunch up, close to your ears, face scrunching up. "i lost them. my friends. they... they left... i think? i dunno- there's a lot of people inside, and..." you simply trail off, eyes hazy, sentence left unfinished.
"if they really left, they're an awful lot. those are not friends." he tells you firmly. you're clearly left in no state to be on your own, much less in the middle of town around this time of night, when the streets will soon crowd with hordes of drunk folk heading on home.
"i think i'm going to throw up." is all you say in response, chest heaving as if to support your words.
"alright, alright. none of that just now. you think you can stand?" rather than wait for a coherent answer, he's putting his hands under your armpits and tugging you in a standing position with ease. you practically collapse against him, though it doesn't make him flinch whatsoever. all it does is make him let out a soft grunt, before he's supporting you further, looping an arm around you to steady you.
(a lesser doorman would've sent you on their way, told you that you're too drunk to get back in, and secretly thought to himself: as long as they're out of the club and not my problem, they can fall over and throw up in a ditch, for all i care. but dorian takes his job incredibly seriously and always goes the extra mile, always insistent on protecting any unfortunate clubgoer.
...among customers and colleagues, he's also infamous for completely refusing bribes and getting upset with anyone who does accept them. a trait dorian rather prides himself on, but no on else.)
"we've got some chairs in the back. a bucket, too." dorian stands still for a few moments to allow you to catch your breath. "there we go. it's not all that far."
"why do you have... a bunch of, of doors on your arms...?" you slur as he takes you through a hallway in the club, off-limits to visitors.
"i like doors," he responds simply, a response so dry and utterly confounding, especially to your alcohol-addled mind, that it has you laughing so hard that tears are streaming down your face and dorian has to practically drag you over the floor.
he huffs out a breath through his nose, but smiles. he's always glad to see his untapped comedy potential being appreciated.
in the end, he orders you a taxi home or, if all else fails due to the busy nature of closing hours, he'll drive and stop by your place at the tailend of his shift himself. ...you probably won't remember much of the gesture the next morning, given the state you're in. but dorian feels like he's done a fine job.
