MHA #8, Sunday Morning

Last night had been a good night. Perhaps a little too good. Stark had certainly overindulged while visiting 21 bars (not that he could remember there had been 21, at some point it had become a blur) but he'd had fun, he'd gotten nothing more than a few odd looks directed at his mask, and he'd spent the majority of one stop with his date perched in his lap kissing him to keep him from talking too much. Maybe he ought to attend more birthdays.

They had managed to stumble home eventually (thanks, Liam!) after Faye had gifted Summer some of her spoils from the evening. Getting in to the apartment had proved more difficult than expected but they'd managed. Eventually. Locks were difficult sometimes. Stark might not be entirely corporeal but that mean he couldn't get drunk. And he had been.

In fact, Stark was still not sobered up. If he had been sober he might have remembered that he'd been thrown out of his own bed the last time he tried to cuddle his current companion and he might have gone to the kitchen to fix something for breakfast.

Instead, when he awoke to find Faye still in his bed he'd rolled on to his side to see her better. Having only one eye was inconvenient at times, like right now when she was on his right side and he couldn't see her without moving. And as long as he was already moving he might as well throw his arm over her. That only made sense. She was right there. He should hold her. Why else was she right there?


[For last night's daaaaate who claims she doesn't like cuddles, the liar.]