There's a pressure on Bernie. That pressure is Collin. Curled up with her on the couch underneath a blanket that they snuggled under later into their binge-drinking session, he appears quite, ahem, relaxed on her. That is to say, her breasts are making an excellent pillow. A very soft and comfy one and he's snuggled rather firmly on her, getting as much warmth as possible.

Mmmm, cozy warmth. Well-conducive to sleep, which is what Bernie seems to be doing, thus far. Her own pillow is of the more traditional variety, one of the bright yellow ones that live on the couch, and everything's so warm and snug... she teeters just on the edge of waking, as her body balances idle curiosity about the unusual weight with the fact that it strongly suspects serious headachy pain once it emerges from the fog of unconsciousness.

Ugh. Headachey pain are bad. Collin really doesn't seem in a hurry to wake up himself. In fact, he curls down a little more, shifting a bit. That might be the first hint that there's something a little wrong. The weight on top of her is stirring a bit every now and then.

That's a definite tilt in the balance. Movement. Blankets don't usually move. Movement is a bit strange. Bernie's mind begins the pre-awakening checklist, fighting with itself to stay asleep as the brain-throbbing gets more prominent the closer to 'awake' she gets. In that halfway state, her eyelids pry themselves fractionally apart. Oh. That's all right then. Just Collin. She actually snuggles down a little, eyes shut again, and moves her arm partially about him before the thought makes it into the part of her brain where it registers, and her eyes fly all the way open, suddenly, and her body tries to sit up -- making it an inch or three off the cushions. Eyes staying wide, she squeaks. And regrets it. Head...

At the squeak, Collin's eyes flutter open, tensing immediately. Talk about your reflexes. Then it looks like he regrets it too, almost immediately. "Ahh, christ." He pauses for a moment. Stops. Stares. "Er." Dry lips sort of press together into a thin line as he tries to figure out something to say: After all, his head is pillowed by her breasts.

"...um," Bernie agrees, eyes partially closing again, but this time just to keep out as much of the evil, evil light as possible. "Um. G'morning?" she suggests uncertainly, still trying to get her brain into working order. 0 to 60 in three seconds, sure, but not when she's driving drunk. Or hungover.

"Good morning," Collin mumbles. He looks, well, embarrassed. Go figure. He swallows, dryly, then says, "I should get up, huh."

Bernie has developed a definite pinkness herself. "Um. Yes. Prolly good. Gettin' up. Yes." She glances over at the coffee table, still holding some of the previous night's beverages, and considers them a few moments.

"I think," Collin shifts awkwardly, and given his position this is only probably reason to blush more, "that we can safely blame the alcohol for this." Well, at least he's still clothed. For the first time ever, he's even flushed a bit.

Bernie nods, turning pinker. "Yes. Def'nitely. I'd say that. Um." A quick glance assures her that yes, there is at least an appropriate amount of clothing on both sides. Good. All right. She scootches back a tad as he shifts, trying to get where she can properly sit up, despite her head's disapproval of the idea.

He sits back, putting a hand to his face, groaning. He's now seated on Bernie's legs. "Uh.There. That's better." He's squinting really hard.

"We should," Bernie breaks off, as she finishes sitting up, and winces a bit. "...prolly not drink so much," she finishes, weakly. "'cause, you know. Bad." A hand moves to her face as well, rubbing at her temples. Ow.

"Ow." agrees Collin. "That could've been a lot worse, too." he admits.

Bernie thinks about that for a little, and blanches. Which takes her briefly down to about her normal skin colour, given the blush. "S'pose so."

Nodding, Collin rubs his hands against his face. "A helluva lot worse. Geeze. Well, hey. Uhm. I think we need water." He stands up, promptly, and goes to get water. It'll give him a second to, hopefully, not let her see certain aspects of his current condition.

Bernie nods. Carefully. "Water sounds good. 's dehydration, right? Or so they said in Health class anyhow..." She turns to sit properly, feet on the floor, and stretches slightly. "Ow."

"Uh huh." Casually, Collin heads into the kitchen and gets water. And adjusts himself. But we don't really need to go into gross detail about that. He comes back out with a glass of water and offers it over. "Or we could just shift and take care of some of the pain real fast. Ah, the joys of being Garou."

Bernie accepts it, and blinks. "Dude," she remarks, in a rare moment of sounding stereotypically like the Californian she is, "that works? Never thought t' try. I mean, not like there's been a whole lotta times t' think of it, but." She takes a sip of the water, and then a larger gulp as the sip shows her how dry her mouth and throat are. "...thanks."

"Of course it does. When you're in a non-breed form, your metabolism is faster. Never try to drink a Lupis under the table. Trust me. It doesn't work." He shakes his head at this.

Bernie cracks a smile, and runs a hand through her curls. "...noted for future ref'rence..." She takes another good drink of the water, and sighs, leaning forward to set it down on the coffee table, among the accusing remnants.

Collin sits down on the couch next to her. His, ahem, morning wood is fading due to the lack of further stimulation at the moment. He takes a few more careful sips of his water. "It's a good idea. Then you don't get yelled at by the Warder and made to do groundskeeping duties for a few weeks because the Lupus pukes."

Bernie giggles, wincing. "...speak from personal 'sperience?" she asks, leaning back into the cushions and rubbing at her temples again.

"Unfortunately," Collin says dryly. "I was on the Bawn with a couple friends and then out of the blue six billion Garou show up and all take turns yelling at me for getting drunk because the Wyrm, of course, could attack at any minute."

Bernie giggles again, softly. "'cause of course th' Wyrm's jus' waitin' for us t' get wasted... guess you could really mess 'em up by stockin' th' bawn with a buncha drunken master types..."

"And, of course, getting drunk also leads to situations like we were just in," Collin points out, "Which isn't good on the bawn, to say the least. Ahem."

Bernie, who had been recovering nicely, turns rather pink again, and glances sidelong at the other Ragabash. "Um. Yeah, I c'n see that gettin' interpreted th', um. Wrong way."

"The wrong way would've been with my legs where my face was." Collin points out. "But let's not go there this early in the morning." He snickers a little at her flush. A definite knockout blow as far as he's concerned.

Bernie winces again, and her gaze drifts over toward the closed bedroom door. That was just what one needs a Philodox seeing, right? "...yeah, that'd be... harder t' see as innocent," she agrees, "an' I'm all for not goin' =anywhere= avoidable this mornin'."

"Damn straight." Collin agrees, firmly. "Let's just not do *shit* for a while. This is a good idea as far as I'm concerned, in fact."

Bernie nods once, emphatically, and is reminded about that shifting idea. "Right," she agrees, picking up the glass of water again and draining what remains.

More water. Collin finishes the rest of his as well and then just sort of slumps back. "Aaah. That should help. Of course, we're both going to have pee like crazy soon."

"Bathroom's over there," Bernie points out, with a vague gesture over her shoulder as she sets the glass back down and flops back into the cushions herself. Her brow furrows a bit as she gets a thoughtful look.

"Yeah, I'll get to that in a bit." Collin pauses, then asks, "What's on your mind?" Another pause, then picks up a couch pillow and puts it over his face.

Bernie's forehead wrinkles a bit more, not that it's visible through the pillow. "...just... nah, nothin'. Tryin' t' r'member what we were talkin' about or whatever, last night."

"Doesn't matter. We got drunk." Collin laughs, shaking his head. "I think it was something about stupid wyrmylings and sewers and, uh, gutter talk."

Bernie laughs once, softly. "Guess gutters go with sewers anyhow. Nnph. Gotta go down there again an' see what happened t' Big Ugly in th' blast. But not, I think, now..." She pushes gingerly up to her feet, hands out a bit to balance.

"No, now is bad. We're tired now. And hung over. Tired and hung over." And hung. Yeah, baby!

"An' hung over an' tired," Bernie confirms, wandering vaguely bathroomward. "Now is bad."

"Very bad." agrees Collin, yawning. He covers his mouth with some semblance of etiquette.

The bathroom door shuts. All is rather quiet for a little bit, followed by a flush and another pause before the door eases open and Bernie emerges again, rather shorter and hairier than she went in. And four-legged. She pads back over toward the couch.

"Feeling better?" Collin inquires of the now-lupine Bernie, hands folding behind his head. He stretches a bit, in fact, getting his first good look at her like this.

Stomps-The-Wyrm sits back on her haunches beside the sofa, and grins a doggy grin, tail wagging lazily. Yes. Surprisingly so. Good idea, thank you.

"Told you." Collin hmphs. "See? Have faith in God and your faith will be rewarded." He reaches down to apply scritching to her. Right on the snout, in fact, between the eyes.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The tail-wagging doesn't seem to get much faster, but it definitely increases in vehemence. Stomps lifts her muzzle into the scritching appreciatively.

"This is the other advantage. You get scritching." Collin nods, solemnly. "I never realized why dogs like it so much until I got scritched when I was in my lupus form."

Stomps-The-Wyrm lightly rests her chin on a handy knee, and half-closes her eyes, tail still going happily. Isn't it a lucky thing she doesn't drool? Yes. Another surprisingly good thing, scritching.

"Mmn. Scritches." Collin says, contentedly, down to the wolf. "You can change back at any time, by the way. Of course, with me scritching you, you may not want to. Just be glad I'm not scratching you on that spot right above the tail."

The tail continues to thump happily. Stomps tilts her head a bit, guiding the scritches behind her ear, and chuffs softly. There is, indeed, no apparent desire to change back just yet. The comment gets a response, though: Why?

"It's *the* scritching spot." Collin explains, solemnly.

Stomps-The-Wyrm leans in. Oh. Why? Slightly less eloquent in lupus, she is.

"It just is." Collin shakes his head. "There's no logical reason for it." But he reaches down and starts scratching. Right above he tail, in fact, where it connects to the body and the like. "Right.. there,."

Stomps-The-Wyrm involuntarily lifts up to standing, tail wagging faster. Ooh. I see. She leans into the side of the couch a bit.

"Hah. Gotcha!" Collin seems quite proud of this, scratching furiously. Well, as furiously as his half hung over, tired, semi conscious state truthfully allows for.

Stomps-The-Wyrm is a rather large canid in this form, and the couch actually shakes a little as her tail whaps into it. At least her leaning on it isn't pushing it across the floor. Oh dear, she manages to convey with some difficulty. It's hard to be ironic in lupus. Especially while being scritched.

"You're doomed now. Doomed." Collin would exclaim this, but it's too early in the morning for such things. Finally, though, he relents and begins to head to the bathroom. It's his turn to pee.

When Collin returns, Bernie is back in her accustomed form, curled in one corner of the sofa, and wearing a different shirt. The reason for the latter is evident as the one she'd been wearing is in the bathroom, neatly draped on a towel-rack. Must not be dedicated.

Too bad he didn't come out quicker. Collin looks vaguely disappointed in this. He curls back up on the sofa and grabs the blanket to pull it up over him.

Bernie snags part of the blanket herself, but this time makes sure there is suitable platonic space between them beneath it. "So didja shift in there, or are you just plannin' t' deal with th' whole hangover thing in th' masochistic manner?"

"I shifted. But it only takes a few seconds for it to really help, so there you go, you know?" Collin shakes his head at that and then stretches out again. His back pops, then he takes a moment to pop his neck too.

Bernie nods. "I noticed," she replies, stifling a yawn. "Still tired, though. Too bad, really."

"Well, shifting doesn't change the tired bit too much, though it does tend to make it harder *to* get tired." Collin replies, leaning his head back on the sofa cushion. He's not looked at her too much yet.

Bernie nods. "Noticed that, too. 's a long walk t' th' Farmhouse, after all..." She stretches, and stifles another yawn. "Mrmph. Breakfast?"

"Breakfast," he says cheerfully, "is a good idea. Very good. But what do we have access to? I don't want to go out and I'm not quite feeling like rooting through the cupboards right now," he admits.

"We have vast arrays of various foods," Bernie replies gravely. "Cereal, eggs, bacon, sausage, leftover whatever we ate last night, and et cet'ra. So. Anythin' in partic'lar you want?"

"Mmn. Artery hardening goodness." Collin rubs his stomach, idly, then crosses his legs. "I could go for some artery hardening goodness, couldn't you? Good thing are arteries are extra resistant to hardening."

Bernie flips the blanket back off of her, and pushes up to her feet. "Totally," she agrees, heading over to the fridge and getting out some eggs and bacon. The cooking commences.

"Healing factor. Mmmn, good. It's god approved." Collin stands up as well, finally, to wander into the kitchen to help. Surprisingly, he actually knows his way around in there. A little.

"Glad t' hear it. I'd hate t' be sinnin' ev'ry time I di'n' curl up an' die from somethin'," Bernie remarks, bustling about. This is apparently something she has practise with.

"Well, of course not. I wouldn't declare you a sinner for something that I made intrinsic to our species." Collin declares, pounding his chest once. "Besides, I couldn't keep doing that and not get a bruise if I'd made it any other way." He winces a little, rubbing his chest where he pounded it.

Bernie snickers quietly, scrambling the eggs. "A wise an' benevolent deity indeed," she replies solemnly. "Plates are in that cupboard over there."

"I am, of course. Except when I don't feel like it." The plates clink together lightly as he withdraws a pair from the indicated cupboard. "I mean, there's not really a reason, these days, to be anything *but* a wise and benevolent deity. All the other gods realized they sucked. So I'm the only one. Sort of like Tigger, except minus the annoying song."