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"Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green..." Nick merrily carols, sparkle of fairy lights adorning their decorated Douglas Fir the room's only illumination until he cracks open the icebox in search of some Christmas cheer "...here we come a-wandering, so fair to be seen. Love and joy come to you...Oh, hello! What have we here?"
He'd been intending to grab a bottle of beer, but grins with delight to espy a carton of eggnog. Nick has no clue who might have purchased creamy goodness, but since he's clearly the only creature stirring in the house tonight, he opts to claim sweet stuff for himself. Leaving the refrigerator door open to light his way toward the bar, he selects a crystal goblet to fill with flavorful froth before perusing potent potables, determining dark rum would best transform tasty treat from delicious dessert to decadent nightcap. Adding amount somewhere between a splash and a slug, softly snorting sound suddenly startles.
"Who goes there?" Nick calls into the shadows, but the only reply is another snuffling snore, at which he laughs aloud to recognize as Dave's. Sipping his drink, Nick decides to rouse sleepy stringsmith and tease him about passing out beneath the tree in the wee, small hours of Christmas Morning. "Santa won't come if you're not in bed, bad boy..." he chuckles, creeping closer "...but I bet you're getting coal, anyhow. C'mon, lazybones, wake up and have a knock of nog with me."
Mirth morphs to mortification as it becomes evident that the snoring, supine shape stretched out in glittering gleam is entirely naked. [No, not entirely... What the fuck? Is that shiny, silver ribbon tied around his...? WHY the fuck?]
"Jesus Christ!" Nick blurts, unintentionally invoking the birthday boy while beating a hasty retreat, terrified at the prospect that Dave might have seen him standing there and misconstrue that he'd been enjoying the view. Hurrying, horrorstruck, Nick rounds the corner without looking where he's going, uttering shocked squawk as he collides with solid silhouette in the narrow corridor, cocktail cascading in sticky splash onto bemused bandmate's boots.
"Happy Christmas, jolly old Saint Nick." Roger dryly declares, sarcastic smile in his voice although it's too dark for Nick to tell whether there's one on his face. "I see you found my eggnog. I'd rather drink the stuff than wear it."
"Sorry." Nick mumbles, apologizing for helping himself to Roger's refreshment as well as spilling it all over him. "Do yourself a favor, though, and don't go in there..." he warns "...it's not a pretty sight."
"What the hell happened?" Roger demands, discerning deep distress. "Are you okay?"
Answering the first question with a slight shudder, Nick sighs "I don't know, and I don't WANT to know." Moving on to the second inquiry, he manages ghost of grin. "Well, it's not what I wanted to see on Christmas Day...or EVER...but I'll be all right once I crack open the new Playboy and soothe sore eyes with a healthy dose of Miss December."
"What-" Roger tries again, but Nick cuts him off and sidles around toward the safe haven of his own bedroom, tossing off final words equal parts admonition and entreaty.
"Nope. I'm staying out of this, and I REALLY wish you would, too. PLEASE don't start a fight on Christmas."
"I won't..." [But I'll fucking FINISH one, if push comes to shove.] "...I promise. G'night, Nick."
Nick sounds both aggrieved and relieved as he offers "Merry Christmas, Roger." before shutting himself away.
Briefly entertaining the notion of following Nick's example and leaving...whatever...well enough alone, Roger knows his curiosity will not allow it to go uninvestigated. He can refrain from passing judgement...aloud, at least...but has grave misgivings regarding his ability to keep silent surrounding subject strongly suspected to be the one at issue for very much longer. [All right, you animals, if you're doing it in a common area...on Christmas, no less...I'm DONE acting like it's such a (literally) fucking secret.]
Head cocked, Roger listens intently, standing stock-still in the hallway. No aural affront assaults alertly attuned ears except all-too-familiar sound of swine-like snores, so he assumes precious pups are likely entwined in post-coital cuddle, and that Nick must've fled for fear of being the one to 'catch' them in clearly compromising position.[Won't wake them on purpose, but neither will I tiptoe. I have every right to make myself a drink in my own damn domain, and, if they honestly believe we remain oblivious, I have every right to disabuse them of such stupidity.]
Roger ruminates ruefully while approaching the bar that this is not the first occasion he has sincerely wished that they could be a happier family...like other bands he could mention, although he doesn't dare direct comparison. [We can't go on this way, and I'm the odd man out. They're all afraid of me...even when I try to be kind. Such a shame spurious spite flows freely but the love...what little there is... has to hide.] Resolving to speak gently, he's spared the struggle of composing considerate words of acceptance and absolution as, apparently, Dirty Dave drowses dead to the world and all alone.
[Thank God...not that there's a God. Rick's the light sleeper, and the fearfully fretful soul who'd freak out to be exposed. THIS one could sleep through a fucking air-raid. Even if he DOES wake up, he's so shamelessly vain and greedy as to try charging admission. Hmmm. What's it worth?]
While he doesn't begrudge Nick's appropriation of his own dairy delight, Roger remains mildly irked at the sloppiness of leaving icebox door open and perishable treat sitting out...not to mention the sticky spatters soaked into trouser cuffs and besmirching boots. Nick had said it wasn't pretty, but Roger finds himself grudgingly disagreeing.
[Could've been worse...the spill AND the sight. From the unmistakable upset, expected to walk in on something FAR more obscene, but it isn't anything we haven't seen before. Well, ribald ribbon is a weird wrinkle. What the FUCK is going on THERE? Am I looking at an afterglow, or an invitation?] Pondering that conundrum, Roger knows he could easily determine the answer should he seek such scrutiny to ascertain which set of fingers formed fetching decoration, but realizes that close enough to tell would also be close enough to SMELL.
[Nick has the right of it. "Nope.", indeed. Knowledge is usually power, but in indignant instance I am quite content to remain ignorant.]
After a resigned sigh, Roger takes a deep drink straight from the carton. Banishing bitterness belaboring brain, savoring scrumptious sweetness flooding his tongue, he finds himself wishing Syd were here. [HE'D be okay with talking about this screwy situation...even if what he had to say might not make much sense. Maybe, if I'd tried harder to understand him, I wouldn't feel like a stranger at home right now.]
Turning away in solitary strategic retreat, Roger imagines elusive presence of The Ghost Of Christmas Present as he softly sings while wondering what their future holds.
"Christmas is a-comin' and the egg is in the nog,
Please to let me sit around your old yule log.
If you'd rather I didn't sit around, to stand around'll do,
If you'd rather I didn't stand around, then God damn you."