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Carry! || Accepting || @foxlich
Gabriella was not drunk. Well—okay, maybe a little drunk. She swayed slightly on her feet, blinking up at the neon sign above the late-night taco place. “Okay,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “I can do this. One burrito. No casualties.” The problem was, she'd insisted—insisted—on wearing her new heels tonight. The ones with the cute little moon charms on the straps that jingled when she walked. They were magical, truly, in both aesthetic and agony. Her feet were plotting a mutiny, and her balance had taken early retirement.
“Who designed sidewalks with edges?” the witch mumbled under her breath, squinting down at the curb like it had personally offended her. She lifted one foot with exaggerated focus, wobbled, and then very gracefully—very gracefully—caught herself by grabbing a nearby lamppost like it was her long-lost lover. “I’m fine,” she declared to no one in particular. “Dancers have excellent balance. Historically. It's in the… lore.” She nodded, proud of the excuse, then winced when her scarf slipped from her shoulder again. It had been a long night. The kind that started with “let’s just get one drink” and ended three margaritas later with her doing a cursed little dance to a jukebox version of Fleetwood Mac. The witch blamed Spencer. Entirely. Not because they encouraged it (they absolutely didn’t), but because they witnessed it. And now, here she was. Hungry. Slightly disoriented. Feet killing her. Pride hanging on by a thread.
But she was not going to ask for help. Gabriella was a strong, capable, witch who had survived monsters, ghosts, and worse—and she was not going to be carried like a sack of potatoes because of a little tequila and bad footwear. “I’m fine,” she repeated, waving a hand vaguely as she stepped forward, fully intending to conquer this treacherous concrete— —and immediately tripped over absolutely nothing. She let out a squeak, flailed like a startled bat, and flopped unceremoniously into a crouch she totally meant to do. “See?” she said weakly, flashing a peace sign from her awkward squat. “Combat roll.” A moment later, she felt the unmistakable sensation of arms around her waist, the world tilting as her feet left the ground.
“Wait—no—no no no no!” The witch squirmed, her laughter bubbling up between tiny shrieks. “I said I’m fine! Spencer—Spencer put me down!” Her scarf flopped over her face as she dangled upside-down over a shoulder, legs kicking weakly as she sputtered into the fabric. “This is abuse!” she called out dramatically, her voice muffled. “I have rights! I’m filing a complaint!” She was still giggling as they walked, mortified but also a little relieved. Because maybe—just maybe—being carried wasn’t that bad.
