So Long
ten.
Claire wants to spend the night at her brother’s to help Deirdre out with taking care of Tim and Minnie, but she knows she is already risking catching whatever bug they have. So as soon as she finishes washing and putting away the dishes, she reluctantly leaves and heads back to her apartment.
Chuck lets out a raucous cheer when she steps through the door, and Claire stops instantly in place, staring around at the unfamiliar people milling about in the flat. The walls vibrate with the force of the bass that comes through the speakers, and the air is thick with smoke and the odour of beer and whisky. It is barely even seven in the evening, and everyone is already drunk and-or stoned. She sighs heavily, pushes through and steps over the party-goers. Thankfully, her bedroom is empty, and she shuts the door, locking it quickly behind her.
Within the hour, her head is pounding in time to the music, and Claire is on the verge of throwing up from the pressure in her skull. She tugs her pillow over her head to block out the orange glow coming through the windows from the street-lamps, but it does nothing to help. The intensity and rapid onset of the migraine warns her that she is going to be in for a rough night, that this one is going to be worse than any she has ever had before. A sharp spike of pain rips through her at the bright light of her phone screen, and she grits her teeth as she types out a quick text message with her eyes half-closed.
<< I normally woulntd do tus but dou mind if ibcome over nd stay there fro tongit?
>> Are you drunk ?? I don’t think you should drive if you’ve been drinking . . .
<< Nt drink
<< You dont have to say yes if yiu don’t want me there
>> It’s okay . I’ll leave the door unlocked.
Claire gasps quietly as the agony in her brain swells, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, and it takes far too much effort to clamber to her feet. She stumbles to the dresser, fumbles for her purse and work bag, then rests her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. The world spins wildly around her, causing her stomach to give a violent jerk. Her vision blurs, and she has to try for the doorknob five times before her hand wraps securely around it, twisting it and yanking the door open.
Normally, Claire would have a problem with leaving her room unlocked while she isn’t there, but between the migraine and nausea, she can’t find it in her to give a damn right now. Besides, Matt can be trusted to keep people out of there - as long as she tells him she’s leaving before he gets too inebriated. His eyes are thankfully clear when she catches his attention, and he extricates himself from the middle of the group on the couch. His brows pull tightly together as he stares at her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, I got called into work, so I won’t be here tonight. Please make sure no one goes in my room?”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Are you sure you’re all right, Claire? You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I am.”
She nearly trips over her own feet in her rush to the kitchen, and Matt gags behind her but dutifully holds back her hair while she vomits into the sink. He shouts something to someone in the other room, and by the time Claire no longer feels like her intestines are trying to escape through her mouth, her bottle of mouthwash sits on the counter. She spits out the remnants of bile and spit in her mouth then untwists the cap. Her head pounds in time with her heartbeat, her skin tight and clammy; she sniffs back the tears that have formed in her eyes from the force of her throwing up, wipes the back of her hand over her mouth.
“You can’t drive like this,” Matt says softly, his hand rubbing circles into her shoulders, and she shrugs him off.
“I’m gonna call an Uber. Can you wait with me?”
“Hell yeah.”
Matt waits for her to push her feet into her flats then hooks an arm around her shoulders, steering her out of the apartment. He doesn’t appear bothered by the straps of a messenger bag and Claire’s purse hanging from his shoulder. The bass can be heard clearly even on the landing for the floor below them. She rolls her eyes and instantly regrets it when it exacerbates the pain in her head. His grip tightens on her, and he tugs her upright as she misses a step.
Once out on the front stoop, Matt helps her to sit. She sighs heavily, closing her eyes, and he takes her phone from her, grabs her hand to press her thumb to the sensor, and pulls her into his side as they sit there. His hand is cool when he places it over her eyes, blocking out the glare from the streetlights. Claire makes a mental note to thank Matt for being so wonderful - they were friendly enough towards each other in high school but not the best of friends, and they still aren’t now, and it means the world to her that he’s taking the time away from his party to make sure she’s safe. She’s never doubted that he’s a genuinely good person, his love for being in the state of perpetually high aside, but it still causes a pleasant warmth to bloom in her chest.
He guides her to the car, passes over her bags, and ducks down to meet her eye after she’s buckled in. “Let me know when you make it, okay?”
Claire nods and waits for him to shut the door before leaning her head against the window. The driver gives her an apprehensive look but pulls away from the curb. Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she peels her eyes open enough to read the text asking if she’s on her way. She sends back a thumbs-up and locks the screen, sighs blissfully at the lack of light shining in her face.
True to his word, Niall’s front door is unlocked by the time Claire makes her way shakily up the walk; the television goes silent as the door clicks shut behind her. She toes off her flats, leaning against the door, and slides until she’s sat on the floor; her eyes close of their own accord. Footsteps near, but she doesn’t bother opening her eyes. The scent that fills her nose is familiar enough that she doesn’t need to look to know that Niall is crouched in front of her. A soft laugh and an Irish accent saying sorry meets her ears when she startles, not expecting the fingers that push her hair from her face. He flashes her an apologetic look once she meets his gaze.
“Are you okay?”
“Migraine,” she manages to whisper, all of the sudden feeling foolish for intruding; she should have just stayed home and tried to sleep it off. “I’m… I’m sorry for coming. I just…”
“Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s get you off the floor.”
He helps her to her feet, his movements slow and careful, but it doesn’t help: her balance is nonexistent, and she nearly collapses back to the cold wood flooring. His arms are the only reason she stays even halfway on her feet. She whimpers as he calls out for Mully, the sound loud in her ears, and he murmurs out an apology, pulls her against his chest. She presses her face into his shoulder and stifles the sob that rises in her chest. His voice rumbles deep in his chest, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of her head. Tears slip from her eyes at the comfort; the embarrassment fades abruptly, leaving her feeling nothing but the security he offers.
Somehow, they manage to get up the stairs without any issues, Mully trailing after them just in case. Niall keeps hold of her as she sits down on the guest bedroom, and Claire can’t help but wonder why he’s being so damn kind to her. She doesn’t voice the question, though, just takes the glass of water and ibuprofen he hands her. She knows the medicine most likely won’t work - it never does - but the thought is appreciated nonetheless. He helps her to lie down once she’s swallowed down the pills; her breath comes out in a shaky exhale as he tucks her into the bed.
The silence of the house is a blissful, soothing thing, and Claire finds herself relaxing almost instantly. The pain is there, the persistent stabbing behind her eyes and the vice-like pressure, but it’s easier to breathe now. She watches Niall through her lashes, confused when he perches on the edge of the bed. His lips quirk unabashedly into a smile after he catches her staring.
“Just want to make sure you’re all right,” he whispers before hesitating, patting her arm gently. “Get some rest, love.”
Chuck lets out a raucous cheer when she steps through the door, and Claire stops instantly in place, staring around at the unfamiliar people milling about in the flat. The walls vibrate with the force of the bass that comes through the speakers, and the air is thick with smoke and the odour of beer and whisky. It is barely even seven in the evening, and everyone is already drunk and-or stoned. She sighs heavily, pushes through and steps over the party-goers. Thankfully, her bedroom is empty, and she shuts the door, locking it quickly behind her.
Within the hour, her head is pounding in time to the music, and Claire is on the verge of throwing up from the pressure in her skull. She tugs her pillow over her head to block out the orange glow coming through the windows from the street-lamps, but it does nothing to help. The intensity and rapid onset of the migraine warns her that she is going to be in for a rough night, that this one is going to be worse than any she has ever had before. A sharp spike of pain rips through her at the bright light of her phone screen, and she grits her teeth as she types out a quick text message with her eyes half-closed.
<< I normally woulntd do tus but dou mind if ibcome over nd stay there fro tongit?
>> Are you drunk ?? I don’t think you should drive if you’ve been drinking . . .
<< Nt drink
<< You dont have to say yes if yiu don’t want me there
>> It’s okay . I’ll leave the door unlocked.
Claire gasps quietly as the agony in her brain swells, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, and it takes far too much effort to clamber to her feet. She stumbles to the dresser, fumbles for her purse and work bag, then rests her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. The world spins wildly around her, causing her stomach to give a violent jerk. Her vision blurs, and she has to try for the doorknob five times before her hand wraps securely around it, twisting it and yanking the door open.
Normally, Claire would have a problem with leaving her room unlocked while she isn’t there, but between the migraine and nausea, she can’t find it in her to give a damn right now. Besides, Matt can be trusted to keep people out of there - as long as she tells him she’s leaving before he gets too inebriated. His eyes are thankfully clear when she catches his attention, and he extricates himself from the middle of the group on the couch. His brows pull tightly together as he stares at her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m, uh, I got called into work, so I won’t be here tonight. Please make sure no one goes in my room?”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Are you sure you’re all right, Claire? You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I am.”
She nearly trips over her own feet in her rush to the kitchen, and Matt gags behind her but dutifully holds back her hair while she vomits into the sink. He shouts something to someone in the other room, and by the time Claire no longer feels like her intestines are trying to escape through her mouth, her bottle of mouthwash sits on the counter. She spits out the remnants of bile and spit in her mouth then untwists the cap. Her head pounds in time with her heartbeat, her skin tight and clammy; she sniffs back the tears that have formed in her eyes from the force of her throwing up, wipes the back of her hand over her mouth.
“You can’t drive like this,” Matt says softly, his hand rubbing circles into her shoulders, and she shrugs him off.
“I’m gonna call an Uber. Can you wait with me?”
“Hell yeah.”
Matt waits for her to push her feet into her flats then hooks an arm around her shoulders, steering her out of the apartment. He doesn’t appear bothered by the straps of a messenger bag and Claire’s purse hanging from his shoulder. The bass can be heard clearly even on the landing for the floor below them. She rolls her eyes and instantly regrets it when it exacerbates the pain in her head. His grip tightens on her, and he tugs her upright as she misses a step.
Once out on the front stoop, Matt helps her to sit. She sighs heavily, closing her eyes, and he takes her phone from her, grabs her hand to press her thumb to the sensor, and pulls her into his side as they sit there. His hand is cool when he places it over her eyes, blocking out the glare from the streetlights. Claire makes a mental note to thank Matt for being so wonderful - they were friendly enough towards each other in high school but not the best of friends, and they still aren’t now, and it means the world to her that he’s taking the time away from his party to make sure she’s safe. She’s never doubted that he’s a genuinely good person, his love for being in the state of perpetually high aside, but it still causes a pleasant warmth to bloom in her chest.
He guides her to the car, passes over her bags, and ducks down to meet her eye after she’s buckled in. “Let me know when you make it, okay?”
Claire nods and waits for him to shut the door before leaning her head against the window. The driver gives her an apprehensive look but pulls away from the curb. Her phone vibrates in her hand, and she peels her eyes open enough to read the text asking if she’s on her way. She sends back a thumbs-up and locks the screen, sighs blissfully at the lack of light shining in her face.
True to his word, Niall’s front door is unlocked by the time Claire makes her way shakily up the walk; the television goes silent as the door clicks shut behind her. She toes off her flats, leaning against the door, and slides until she’s sat on the floor; her eyes close of their own accord. Footsteps near, but she doesn’t bother opening her eyes. The scent that fills her nose is familiar enough that she doesn’t need to look to know that Niall is crouched in front of her. A soft laugh and an Irish accent saying sorry meets her ears when she startles, not expecting the fingers that push her hair from her face. He flashes her an apologetic look once she meets his gaze.
“Are you okay?”
“Migraine,” she manages to whisper, all of the sudden feeling foolish for intruding; she should have just stayed home and tried to sleep it off. “I’m… I’m sorry for coming. I just…”
“Don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s get you off the floor.”
He helps her to her feet, his movements slow and careful, but it doesn’t help: her balance is nonexistent, and she nearly collapses back to the cold wood flooring. His arms are the only reason she stays even halfway on her feet. She whimpers as he calls out for Mully, the sound loud in her ears, and he murmurs out an apology, pulls her against his chest. She presses her face into his shoulder and stifles the sob that rises in her chest. His voice rumbles deep in his chest, and his hand comes up to rest on the back of her head. Tears slip from her eyes at the comfort; the embarrassment fades abruptly, leaving her feeling nothing but the security he offers.
Somehow, they manage to get up the stairs without any issues, Mully trailing after them just in case. Niall keeps hold of her as she sits down on the guest bedroom, and Claire can’t help but wonder why he’s being so damn kind to her. She doesn’t voice the question, though, just takes the glass of water and ibuprofen he hands her. She knows the medicine most likely won’t work - it never does - but the thought is appreciated nonetheless. He helps her to lie down once she’s swallowed down the pills; her breath comes out in a shaky exhale as he tucks her into the bed.
The silence of the house is a blissful, soothing thing, and Claire finds herself relaxing almost instantly. The pain is there, the persistent stabbing behind her eyes and the vice-like pressure, but it’s easier to breathe now. She watches Niall through her lashes, confused when he perches on the edge of the bed. His lips quirk unabashedly into a smile after he catches her staring.
“Just want to make sure you’re all right,” he whispers before hesitating, patting her arm gently. “Get some rest, love.”