"You look like it too."
She barks a laugh, genuine, surprised, then immediately clutches her head. "Ow. No laughing. Laughing is cancelled. You're not allowed to be funny."
"I wasn't being funny."
"That makes it worse." She navigates to the coffee maker like it's a complex military operation. Stares at it. "Why is there already coffee?"
"I made it. At five."
"Five in the MORNING?" She spins to face me, horrified. "That's not a real time. That's a myth. Five AM is what happens when you stay up too late, not when you wake up."
"It's real. You slept through it."
She pours coffee with shaking hands, drinks it black, makes a face like it personally betrayed her. "This is punishment coffee. This coffee hates me."
"It's military coffee."
"Of course it is. Even your coffee is angry and joyless." She takes another sip anyway, a masochist with a mug. "Wait. Did you carry me to bed?"
I keep my face neutral, take another bite of eggs.
Her eyes narrow. "I remember the couch. I definitely passed out on the couch. Now I woke up in my bed. EXPLAIN."
"You were in a suboptimal sleeping position."
"You CARRIED me? To my ROOM? The room that's OFF-LIMITS?"
"You were unconscious. The restriction didn't seem to apply."
"It ALWAYS applies! That's what off-limits means!" But she's flushing pink under the disaster of her makeup, and there's something in her voice that isn't quite anger. "You just… picked me up and… like a…"
"Like an asset that needed to be relocated to a more suitable position."
"AN ASSET." She sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "I'm an ASSET now."
"You've always been an asset. That's why I'm here."
"I'm a PERSON, you ridiculous…" She waves her hands, searching for an insult that won't come. "You… you TACTICAL BANANA."
I blink. Process. "Tactical banana?"
"I'm HUNGOVER. My insults aren't working right. But you know what I mean!" She grabs a croissant from a bag on the counter. "You can't just carry people without their consent. There are RULES."
"You made rules. Your bedroom was off-limits. You didn't specify anything about unconscious relocation protocols."
"UNCONSCIOUS RELOCATION PROTOCOLS." She throws her hands up, scattering croissant crumbs like confetti. "I can't believe this is my life now. I have a Tactical Banana in my kitchen talking about unconscious relocation protocols at…" She checks the microwave clock. "ELEVEN IN THE MORNING, which is also too early, for the record."
"Noted."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No."
"Your face is doing something. It's VERY SUBTLE, but it's doing something."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're enjoying this. You're enjoying watching me suffer." She points at me with what's left of the croissant. "You're a sadist. A joyless, coffee-making, unconscious-relocating sadist."
