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Response for: @romeebcss
Generator: “Nate and Romee go to a bar. Romee gets too drunk and Nate has to take them home.“
Romee isn’t just drunk, Nate realizes, she’s plastered. Like, hold her hair back while she throws up in an alley while a homeless man sleeps peacefully one garbage can down, toss her over your shoulder after so that she doesn’t run directly into the street, and get into the cab with her to go home because she cannot possibly make it up the four stories to her apartment by herself, kind of plastered. Nate doesn’t mind taking care of her. He’s been there, more times than he can count, but he is also well-practiced in the art of wasted girl. He has Serena to thank for that.
Romee’s palms are pressed against the window. It’s hot in the cab so her fingers leave sweaty marks. Nate asks the driver to roll the windows down before she vomits from the heat, but honestly, he’s sweating through his suit. Romme demands to know where on Earth he’s taking her at least four times, and Nate explains patiently the first three times that he’s taking her home. The fourth time he tells that if she asks again he’s dropping her off at Rockefeller Center. The tourist trap is every New Yorker’s nightmare so the mere mention of it shuts her up.
When the cab stops Nate slips him cash with a generous tip because he doesn’t have time to stick around for change before Romee is up and out of the cab and barrelling down the street, her arms spread wide like she’s a bird that’s finally been freed. Nate sighs, gives her a moment to relish in said freedom, and then once again crushes her wasted girl dreams. He herds her into the building and up the stairs and waits while she digs around in her purse for around 7-8 minutes for her keys. “Do you need some help?” He asks because he knows she does. “I got it!” She snaps because she thinks she doesn’t. She gives up eventually, shoving her purse at Nate without a word; just rage.
Nate finds the keys and pops open the door wordlessly, and Romee starts kicking her shoes off and throwing her coat to the side before she’s even fully inside. She leaves the door open, so he assumes it’s okay for him to come in. She walks directly into the bathroom and slams the door. He assumes she wants privacy for her wretching, and he busies himself with finding a glass and filling it with water for after. He leaves it on her nightstand, and by the time he’s picked her shoes up (so that she doesn’t trip over them in the middle of the night) and hangs her coat up, Romee is sprawled across her bed. And because he can’t leave without knowing that she’s okay and breathing and won’t choke on her own vomit tonight, he walks to her warily.
“How are you feeling?” He asks, sitting on the edge of the bed. She turns to him and her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, either from vomiting or crying, he’s not sure. “I didn’t do it.” She chokes on the words, and he knows its true because he never thought she did, but its nice to hear. “I know,” he responds simply, because what else can you say? He reaches over her and silently hands her the glass of water. “Drink,” he commands. “We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
