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"Greetings, you've reached Ekkehardt Gehring. If you're listening to this, I'm probably busy. Try again later, or leave a message."

EKKEHARDT GEHRING
UN: HEMLOCK

STATUS: Graduate/TA. School nurse assistant.

ACCOLADES: I graduated from this academy 22 years ago. I've been rather boring otherwise.

BIO: I'm here to help treat whatever injuries you children can't just bounce back from. Try not to get into trouble.

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What follows is silence, the longest, loudest silence Avery could ever call forth.

There's a few moments when he opens his mouth and shuts it again, grip on the arm of his office chair loose then white-knuckle tight.

He knows what all that means. He knows very well. Dread wells up in his chest. And something else. His face goes deep purple, all the way to the tips of his pointed ears.

He's not sure what he expected. To have more of a response, maybe; the silence is deafening, almost oppressive, in a way that he rarely feels. But then again, it's understandable; not a yes, not a no, not anything. He probably needs time to think about it.

Still. The filter between what he feels and what shows on his face is all but gone, and that inscrutable expression is mostly just sadness, in the end. It's not pity, though he has too much of an understanding about why this is happening to not feel some pity.

He doesn't know what it is he feels.

He uncurls himself from the chair, leaning on it as he pushes himself up to a standing position.

"Well, there we are," he says, and though the effects of being drunk haven't faded (he's too loose in his movements to not be) he sounds much more like his normal, stiff self. "I'll just see myself out, shall I?"

Something wraps around Ekkehardt's ankle, a bramble reaching up from the shadows, grip loose. If he looks down to inspect it, by the time he looks back up, Avery has shifted positions, his chin in his hand, fingers covering his face, head turned away and his glare fixed somewhere on the far wall.

Oh.

Well, that's...enough of an indicator, he supposes.

He sits back down, though he's too off-balance, even with alcohol in effect, to curl up like he was doing before. He uses the chair normally, though after a moment he finds it strange enough that he pulls one leg up to his chest, folding his arms over his knee and leaning forward a little.

He's silent for a little while, but he feels like he needs to do something to break it, given that Avery isn't.

He huffs, a little, though he can't keep that worry from his expression.

"Am I that terrible to look at?"

It's an easy out, a half-hearted attempt to slip back into bantering as they normally do. Though he doubts anything will feel normal after this, he feels the need to try regardless, to give him a way of escaping. He's always been accommodating, that way.

It takes a moment or two, but finally he manages to drag an answer out of himself. "Just your dumb, drunk face," he grumbles out eloquently.

At least Avery glances his way, only to look away again just as quickly.

(Almost shy?)

He laughs, at that. He can't help it. It's such a ridiculous thing to hear.

"Ah, you're so harsh! It's not as if my face is any different from when I'm sober." The only real indicator is a slight flush, though it's been more pronounced for some time, for some strange reason.

"You're not fooling me by not looking at me, you know," he adds after a moment, leaning forward. "Though I have to say, purple really does suit you far better than I thought."

He is definitely just no-filtering through this entire conversation but he's just...committing to it. Can't back out now.

Avery freezes in place, goes the approximate shade of a plum, and does the only thing he can think to do: pick up the mostly eaten carton of rice from his take out and chuck it at Ekkehardt's head.

"Shut up!"

All these stupid compliments were making his stomach hurt!

Ekkehardt is too off-balance to be in any state to dodge that carton, but it hitting him in the face only causes him to laugh harder than before.

He mercifully manages to grab it before it can spill everywhere, setting it down on the table out of immediate reach, but now he's unbalanced and he looks like he's about to slide off his chair. One good push would probably destabilize him completely.

And push he does, reaching out with a foot to nudge him over completely: the vengeance that Avery deserves to take.

"Jackass."

He doesn't have any wind to get knocked out and his concern for his dignity is nonexistent at this time, or he'd be more distressed about ending up on the ground. As it is, his laughter peters out eventually when he's sent sprawling, but he doesn't seem inclined to fix the problem.

"Every time I give you a compliment, you're even harsher than usual," he says at last, from his position on the floor. His lax tone suggests he's fine with how things are unfolding currently.

"You really are something else, aren't you?"

He sounds vaguely fond. Terrible.

"So are you," he growls back. But for all the annoyance there's almost something else there. Something small. Maybe.

"Let me guess: you want to call this a win?"

He doesn't feel particularly inclined to get back on the chair, so he rests his arms on the seat instead.

That gets another laugh, the mention of a win. His smile is teasing and lazy, what counts as lazy for him.

"Of course. Just because I'm drunk doesn't mean our little contest stops." He traces a pattern on the chair's surface, hand idly roaming. "But if it takes being drunk on my part to get the upper hand, clearly I need to try harder."

He should leave, really. He's said more than he needs to say, though he's said nothing that he didn't want to say. But it's nice. This feels nice in a way he can't articulate and isn't committed to examining right now. He wonders how he never really noticed how comfortable this routine was.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever..." He's drunk. Probably a flirty one. He loves everyone. It's not like he can take all of this seriously or anything.

But that doesn't make Ekkehardt any less likely to get a throw pillow tossed at his head. And then another one just to make sure. It's nothing like the carton from earlier, meant more to be an annoyance than anything else. "Just try not to half-ass it. I don't need to be coddled."

"Oh, you wound me. When have I ever coddled you for anything? I don't even do it when I'm healing you."

He snatches one of the throw pillows out of the air and gets hit by the other one. It doesn't seem to bother him any, given he's hurling it right back with a surprisingly accurate aim for someone intoxicated.

"Besides, you wouldn't find it fun if I didn't give you a hard time."

It hits him, and he's quick to counterattack. "Hey! I will have you know that I've spent a considerable amount of time not in the infirmary, thank you!" And really. Attacking him with his own pillow in his own home!

Nevermind that Avery threw it first. He didn't start this whole mess!

Whose fault it really is sounds like an argument for a lawyer, which he is not. Little questions like 'should i actually have come here, was this a good idea' are just really not bothering him right now.

Is this how Jailbreak feels all the time?

"Do you want a sticker?" Flinging the pillow right back. "Or a medal? Not that I'm unhappy you're not ending up in the infirmary every month, but you'll forgive me for not being too impressed."

Avery grins. "Yes and yes."

....

"You can have a sticker, but I'm not getting you a medal." He picks up the other pillow, the one that hit him, and contemplates it for a moment.

He throws that one, too.

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