Chapter Text
The man laid out across the bar looked nothing like the one who had walked in just a couple of hours ago.
He had been the vision of grace; floating in on the scent of expensive soaps and lavender, wrapped in white ironed clean and flat. He took his regular seat at the cozy bar Gallagher called home. Ordered the usual. By now, Gallagher could make it with his eyes closed, oftentimes moving to prepare it as soon as he saw the shine of crossed leather shoes in the foyer.
Soda, stellar champagne, and dream jam—he likes it sweet—on ice and in a rocks glass.
The bar was busy, so there was no time for outright conversation, but even so, he seemed unusually quiet.
Customers filed in and out, yet the shining glow of a pointed halo remained constant. Usually, Sunday would order his drink, loiter a bit, and leave—maybe having a few beers if the day had been rough. Tonight, he kept calling for something stronger and stronger. He’d nurse it for about a half hour before calling for another.
Gallagher didn’t take him as someone who could handle his liquor.
…and unfortunately, he would be proven right, when at quarter past one, Sunday wailed nothing quite intelligible into the now empty bar.
His head had been down for awhile now, looking quite pathetic and possibly unconscious, unmoving save for the occasional sip. Gallagher had walked by a few times solely for the purpose of checking if Sunday was even breathing. Having the head of the Oak family die of alcohol poisoning at his establishment would surely put him under—he began to wonder if it was even responsible to keep giving him drinks.
All Sunday’s next orders had the spirit substituted with tap water.
Now, Gallagher leaned on the bar before Sunday, gazing at him with sympathy.
“Y’alright, there?”
Sunday’s head shot up, flushed and all shiny with snot and tears. Sympathy quickly soured into pity.
“Gallagher~!” He whined, trying to wipe his face with his gloves. “What do I do~o…” Seeing the prim and proper man so emotional was certainly out of the ordinary. There weren't a lot of things Sunday ever truly cared about.
The problem was easy to diagnose.
“…Somethin’ happened with Robin?”
Sunday just wailed louder. Gallagher rolled his eyes and sighed.
“She’s all grown up, she, she’s going to do a, a swimwear shoot,” he hiccuped. “You know, skinny bikinis and the like… who knows what her rabid fans will do with that. You understand, right?” Sunday continued without leaving room for response. “But when I told her not to, she yelled at me! oh, Gallie! I’m losing her!”
“She’s a grown lady. She’ll do what she wants, ya’ know.”
“She probably hates me now,” Sunday just fell back down against the bar and continued sobbing.
“I don’t think Miss Robin has it in her to hate anyone, really…”
Sunday just lifted his glass.
“Can I have another round…?”
“Gods no,” Gallagher chuckled. “What you need is to go to sleep.”
Sunday seemed to ponder on this before another sob wracked him.
“Can’t, can’t go outside—can’t go home like this,” a onceover told Gallagher that much. His coat was shrugged off and wrinkled, gloves wet with tears and snot. Nevermind the fact he was drunk off his ass and a wreck. Sunday was much too prideful to show anyone this side of him. (Gallagher didn’t much think on why he was the one trusted with this burden.) He had even yanked off his halo and set it down roughly on the bar. Gallagher cocked a brow.
“Headache,” Sunday groaned, as if that explained anything. Gallagher sighed.
“I have a couch,” He nodded his head at the stairs. He’d rather not have to deal with any family scandals. Just more work for him, having to contain all the paparazzi. He could compromise. Deal with Sunday for a night, less work. A win-win.
“God bless,” Sunday fell off his barstool, shoes having long been discarded on the floor, and padded over to the stairwell in his socks. Gallagher followed, turning off the bar lights on the way. Only to see Sunday, still at the bottom of the stairs, with an expectant smile on when he returned.
“…What?”
“Oh, Gallie!” Sunday burst into a theatrical performance, waving his arms and falling comically into Gallagher’s chest. “Won’t you carry me?”
Gallagher deadpanned.
“You walked over here just fine.”
“Oh, woe!” Sunday dropped more of his weight and began to sway. His shiteating grin betrayed him. “I guess I’ll just fall down the flight and die.”
Gallagher debated slinging the brat over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Unfortunately, he wasn’t confident that the force of it wouldn’t cause Sunday to barf up his nights work all over his back.
“You’re insufferable.”
Sunday cheered when Gallagher reached to tip him into his arms with a grunt.
“Thank you~ Gal,” he giggled, pressing a kiss to the others cheek. It stank like liquor. In fact, Sunday continued pressing stinky, sloppy kisses all up Gallaghers face and neck as he climbed the stairs. Maybe we’ll both fall down the flight and die, Gallagher mused. But he would be lying if he said he didn’t slow his pace just a bit near the top.
Sunday whined as he was finally carted across the room and dropped heavily on Gallagher’s couch, clingy hands having to be shaken off.
“Oh, bed me Gallagher,” Sunday gasped, shrugging off his shirt. “You know you want to—mmph!”
Gallagher shoved him into the pillows by the head with a laugh. He tipped over way too easily.
“You’re drunk as a skunk, Sunny.”
Surprisingly, the man didn’t protest, laying limply on the couch looking smug.
“Wunna these days,” he slurred. Gallagher just huffed and turned to get ready for bed. By the time he was ready to say goodnight, Sunday was already snoring not so softly.
Gallagher walked up to the couch with a smile. His hair was a mess, and he was drooling on his nice pillowcase, but he couldn’t help but think, somehow, Sunday still looked angelic. Maybe it was the wings. Halovians are said to have a certain glow about them.
He reached out to brush a few silver strands from his restful eyes.
“G’night, you idiot.”