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Thorne wasn't unused to rough days, but rough nights were terrible and new and he operated on the assumption of eight hours of sleep, and he was going to go insane.

The streets of Ashdown crowded around Thorne like an ugly clash of light and shadow, and the alcohol muddling his brain didn't help his jittery, half-remembered steps. It had been a mistake to go for the bottle on an empty stomach, and now every flashing headlight and tire screech made the artist flinch or stumble sideways, groping for somewhere to hide before he remembered he was in a pithy little town on the east coast and nowhere near Iraq.

It didn't make getting home any easier, and his phone blared a siren noise of low battery warnings to him that made him swear out loud. The sailor's curse would have drawn eyes - if he was in a respectable part of town at a respectable part of the morning/day/evening where humans actually wanted to be.

But it was erring on 2:31 AM, and Thorne was lost, tipsy-not-quite-drunk, and just about ready to quit.

Jesus Christ, there was a dog. Two dogs. Jesus christ it was Santa Claus.

Thorne winced at the sudden voice and looked at the man - Santa Claus? Ripped Santa Claus - with suspicion erring on feral wildness. His entire body corded for action - fight or flight?

But the question came together in his head piece by piece. A ride? Where the hell could he go? Thorne laughed at the first part of the question outright. Fine? The alcohol didn't do anything to help the litany of self-deprecating thoughts in his head.

"I - " He said, his voice raw and jagged, "I made a - stupid decision. Jesus Christ, who are you? It's not Christmas." On the edge of tipsy-not-quite-drunk, Thorne's mouth ran, but he flinched again, violent this time, at the next car to roar by.

"I - " Thorne curled his tongue on the words, trying to get them out, his brain addled and mixed between nightmarish memories of his flat and everything he'd dreamed in that bed that night and the streets of Ashdown, crumpled and empty. "I'm not going back - I don't have somewhere to go to."

It was all he could think of to say.

He was, after all, a melodramatic little s**t.

(#sorryborr)

Thorne, wild mongrel that he was, flared a bit indignantly at the insinuation that he should sit anywhere. Or that he should - should be told what to do by this Santa Claus - and realized immediately that he was being childish. After all, Santa Claus didn't ******** exist.

"I'm - what does that even mean," Thorne responded, feeling a lot like he was about to have his a** handed to him. Why was Ashdown the place where he kept ******** up?

"I'm not your charity case," Thorne finally said, his voice a rough husk of sound. But it was the defeated sort. As slippery as he could be, he had no motivation in escaping Santa Claus. Not Santa Claus. He moved backwards to the darkened bar, eyes flicking to Borr with guarded wariness.

"And I really hope," he added, "you aren't about to murder me."

"Neighborly - we aren't neighbors. You can't pull that card."

Whatever. Thorne rumbled and stepped down into the darkened bar, trying very hard to ignore the concept of being in a controlled space with a very tall man that could probably deadlift him when he couldn't even deadlift a rabbit without falling over.

Maybe he was closer to drunk than he'd thought.

His head snapped up when Borr mentioned dogs. Something inside of him hissed awake, violent and remembering even though he couldn't clutch the memory in his hands. He remembered being called mongrel though, dog, b***h. And for a second he wanted to vomit.

But then there were actual dogs, and everything was somehow better, and the violent air simmering around him dissipated underneath the pressure of wet noses and wagging tails.

"Can I just - hi - hi - " Thorne stumbled over the words and stuck his hands down for the dogs to sniff at, giving them both adequate attention and pets when they swarmed him. He fell back against the edge of a seat ungracefully, hissing a small noise of surprise and pleasure.

He still wasn't sure about Santa Claus, but hell, how bad could a guy with dogs be anyways?

"I'm sorry - I'd be sorry - I didn't mean to make you... see this," Thorne said when Borr was in his line of sight again. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

Thorne's throat bubbled with sound at the names of the dogs. He ran his hands over both of their coats, giving them a good dose of scratches. If there was one thing right about this world, it was dogs.

He only reluctantly pulled himself away to drink the offered glass of water. Even bordering drunk, he knew the importance of hydration.

Thorne made a noise in the back of his throat at the mention of figuring things out, a noise that suggested he thought figuring things out was stupid. Or impossible.

"You can't. I can't! Everyone says that. But that doesn't make it - ******** - easier to breathe or live or stop ******** wincing every time a car tire pops or a cat toy comes into my line of sight." <********.

His mouth had opened and he'd ******** spilled.

Thorne dropped his head to the bar counter and groaned. He would have apologized, but he didn't feel capable. s**t.