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| NYE in NYC | |
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| Participants | Alison, Scott |
| Synopsis | These two are way too drunk for their own good… |
| Location | Times Square, New York City |
| Time | January, 2016 |
| Posted By | Scott |
Scott is drunk! And by that, we don't just mean four or five beers, drained over the course of how many hours hunched over a bar, brooding away in broody darkness. Brood, brood. No, not tonight. It's New Year's Eve — and not even Scott is immune, swept up in whatever nostalgia the city forces upon its inhabitants. To forget the war, to forget Sentinels. And it's almost working. Though what a risk, really. With alcohol and crowds, the threat of mutant-human altercations is thick in the air — but so is NYPD's presence. Not that anyone's bothering Scott. Did we mention the drunkeness? Because it's there. And not even the stumbling, vomitting kind of messy drunk! This is a carefree, go-with-the-flow, bumbling drunk. Complete with genuine, if not sloppy, grins! Scott negotiates the crowded Times Square with arguable ease, bumping around obstacles with slurred apologies. And no one seems to mind! It's amazing. New Year's is amazing.
Also three sheets to the wind? Alison. Not that the girl ever needed an excuse to party, but she's not about to turn this one down either! She's actually made cameos at several parties and a couple of clubs, before staggering towards Times Square. She'd come with a group of brand-new friends she met at that last place, but quickly gets separated by the crowds as they dive right into the revelry. It's hard to tell whether she doesn't care about losing track of her group, or quite possibly just hasn't actually noticed. Instead, she joins right in with 'woo-ing' along with some new strangers, hoisting her hands over her head and then happily taking a plastic glass of very cheap and very bad champagne from this newest bunch of strangers-are-just-friends-you-haven't-met. Sipping on the horrible drink, the crowd begins to shuffle her off again, and she moves with it, woo-ing once more in farewell to her new friends, and lifting the glass in a toast.
Isn't it so perfect, when your desire to drink yourself silly is met with a socially-acceptable reason to do just that? Scott can't believe his luck. If only this happened every day! He cuts a rather dashing figure on the streets of NYC. Even that scruff can't fully diminish the boyish charm, which is more than enough to excuse any lack of coordination — or earn Scott a snog from a strange woman or three. Do they use the word 'snog' in New York? Probably not, no, but it seems so appropriate for drunken, public CPR attempts. But it's all in good fun, celebrating another year without absolute doom or apocalypse! And so the overgrown boy continues through the mess, breathless and already thirsty. Need more! And its in that blind quest that Scott bumps right into a straggling blonde mid-woo. Whoops.
The lights, the music - it's so pretty. Alison is having a very good time, not that she isn't very good at having very good times whenever and wherever she can. This is just an added bonus that she doesn't have to work so hard at convincing herself. She ducks between a few bodies, distracted by looking up at some of the lights strung up, almost half-tempted to do a little trick or two around here. Not like anyone would notice, right? She's just narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, trying to think of what exactly to do, when she's bumped into, causing her to spill nearly half her champagne. Sad. She looks back down, frowning at her half-empty plastic glass before just laughing at the absurdity of it all. She almost doesn't even look at the stranger, just another body in this sea of bodies. But then something about it seems familiar… Her gaze comes back up to his face and she cuts off mid-laugh. More out of surprise than upset though.
Cue another bumbled apology, Scott quite ready to move on without incident. "Whoooa, totally didn't see you! Well. Wait. I saw you — just not you. You know?" The babbling doesn't make much sense. But with the general wash of noise, it may not even reach her ears, anyway. He's now looking at Alison. But she's so blurry! Tall, which Scott likes. Blonde, which Scott likes. But blurry! Scott doesn't like blurry girls. "Hey, are you drunk? I don't know if you can tell, but I — " And then she becomes not-blurry, long enough for a flash of recognition to break that drunken mask. He stares. And then promptly breaks into the goofiest grin imaginable. "Hey, you! I know you. Wait, wait. I know your name. It's.. It's.." But Scott doesn't know her name. Only in this drunkeness, he continues to think he does. "Um. Fuck. Jenny. Is it Jenny? No wait, Jean!"
Of course she's drunk. What kind of question is that. Alison might point this out if there weren't more important matters afoot. Like running into strangers who aren't actually strangers that she keeps running into. She gets pressed in a little closer as the person who had been following in her wake grows impatient with all this stopping and standing. Once he pushes by, she straightens back up and offers Scott a wry grin. Oh yeah, she'll just let him keep trying to guess her name. "Nope. Guess again!" is her rather playful response as she downs the rest of that terrible champagne in a single gulp and then tosses the plastic glass aside. Littering, tsk. But good luck even finding a garbage can around here anyway. Of course, keeping him guessing is part of a not-so-subtle ruse while she tries to remember his name.
It's really worse than a romantic comedy, when you think about it. What are the actual odds? These chance encounters must be one in a million, easily. So many people in New York! A sober Scott might marvel at this phenomenon — that, or think she's a crazy-good stalker. But drunk Scott? Who cares! It's just so good to see a familiar face! Oh, look, she's got champagne — and there it goes, down the hatch. His hopeful expression, the one that thought she might offer up such a tasty-looking beverage, is dashed with comic abruptness. Look how sad Scott is! But she's talking. Jean's not her name? Damn! "Oh, fuck. Really? Okay, okay, I got this," Scott blurts, taking to the game with childlike enthusiasm. He's bumped, too. Which just prompts Scott to reach out, clumsily palming her upper arm for support. "Whoa! Uh. Okay, okay. Charlotte!"
There's no denying that this drunken revelry Scott is more fun than angry dour Scott, not that she had many complaints then either. But Alison enjoys fun. When he looks all sad after the champagne is gone, she can't help but laugh and reach out a hand to offer his cheek a conciliatory pat. She almost feels bad for drinking her own champagne, earned by a lot of hard work woo-ing! Her grin only grows as he keeps up the game, and she surely doesn't seem to mind him grabbing hold of her arm for support. "Nope!" she laughs again. "Jenny, Jean, Charlotte," she ticks off on her fingers. "You have…" She has to actually squint down at her fingers to see how many. "…seven guesses left!" What happens then? She'll make it up when she gets there, of course.
The real question is, what happens when Scott guessing the correct name by accident? Now that would blow minds. But we don't see that happening, since one man can only have so much luck. And running into tall, blonde, and blurry Alison Blaire is the definition of lucky. He doesn't release her in a timely fashion, either, as the ebb and flow of the crowd provoke Scott to stay close. As if she were a buoy or something. And if Scott takes a bumbling step even closer, well so be it. The perks of being in surging Times Square! Personal bubbles be damned. Of course, this means she's sure to enjoy that whiskey breath. But when you're drunk, all booze smells heavenly! "Okay, don't pressure me! I got this. Totally, totally — Sarah!" Not the best guess, no. But by that goofy grin, Scott probably thinks every guess is worthy of Sherlock Holmes. Cue the rapid-fire, in an attempt to overwhelm Alison with possibilities: "Katie, Chelsea, Annabel! Oh, oh, Taylor!"
At least so far, Alison's mind is safe from being blown. And hey, she's not really fighting to get away either. Goin' with the flow. There's a reason that's her main motto in life. She laughs at a rambunctious group going past, woo!-ing back at them, and lifting a hand in three-fingered salute. Which she almost seems to forget why she's got her hand like that as she brings it back down. But then Scott starts guessing again and she remembers, trying to keep up with ticking each name off as he goes. "…six … seven …eight!" she actually counts off aloud, the dear blonde, before looking back up at him with a crooked grin. "Only two left," she warns, waggling the hand with those two digits held down right in his face, in a playful way.
She's allowed those blonde moments, rest assured. Especially in the midst of such a drunken guessing game. It's a wonder they've even managed to stay the course this long, what with infinite distractions everywhere. Look, a dwarf on stilts! Look, two chicks making out! Look, a Peruvian flute band! Even Scott can't keep his focus entirely on Alison. It's the waving fingers that bring Scott back to the game afoot. Two more guesses! Scott's expression again betrays all, the shock and the panic and the excitement. He's almost a puppy now, such is the enthusiasm. "Two! Two, okay. Look, I really do know your name." And now Scott adopts a drunken-solemn look, as if this is grave, grave business. He 'sobers' by visibly making a show of steadying himself, as drunks do when they're pushed to focus. "Kelly. No, kidding, Kidding! I've totally got it. Francesca! It's Francesca, I remember now! I called you Frankie right before you handcuffed me to the bed."
"Did I handcuff you to the bed because you called me Frankie, or…" No wait, that wasn't her at all. It's okay. She's back now. Alison laughs as those last two fingers go up. "Nope and nope. Wow, you really know a lot of girls." And with most girls, that would be said with annoyance or disbelief - heck, even if Alison were a little less 'in it'. But as it is? Pretty much just a comment. Of course, she may reflect back on that once she's a little more sober. There's a pause before she realizes what this means. "I win!" Hands go up into the air in victory. Though she hasn't actually figured out the rules of the game far enough to know what it is she's won. Or even realized that she should demand her prize, whatever it may be. Winning alone is enough for some people!
For a moment there, Scott won. She indulges the final guess with a half-thought, just enough to send Scott's spirits rocketting up in the air. Victory! He just about jumps, there's that much boundless energy shooting through Scott like an intravenous dose of pure adrenaline. "Hey, I — " Lost. "Wait, you're not Frankie?" He's slow to get it. You look just the type to carry handcuffs. And when you realize your victory, in turn, Scott's downfull is just as visual. He's back to sad. But it's that funny kind of sad, almost adorable in its hilarity to anyone else. He can't help a frown, swept along with the rollercoaster emotion that comes from such a near-win. "Damn. You cheated." Technically, she did — allowing Scott to believe she'd ever given out a name. Liar! He brightens so quickly, though. A true sign of drunkeness, not wallowing in that misery. "So what'd you win, huhn?"
"No, though I'd be careful letting her know you don't remember what she looks like," Alison points out with another laugh. "She might do more than just handcuff you to a bed." And then he's being so very sad, and it's awfully endearing, so the laugh that follows is a little softer, and he earns himself another pat on the cheek. She just rolls her shoulders in a shrug at these allegations of cheating. Hey, technically he forgot that he didn't know her name, so it … kinda counts. Anyway, she gets distracted by this talk of a prize. "Ooh, I don't know," she admits, as if this is something decided by some outside force. Oh wait. "Um. I win… a drink! Yeah. You have to get me a drink." Win-win, really.
The true disaster is that, through all that guessing nonsense, Scott remains clueless about the truth. They'll never get a name out of each other! Which is just as well, if these serendipitous run-ins continue. Adds to the whole ridiculousness of the situation. And she's patting his cheek again. Which drunk Scott finds oddly comforting, rather than condescending or annoying. He just stands there dumbly, unable to think of anything clever to say about Frankie and handcuffs. Nope, it's only when she decides upon a DRINK as the prize that Scott's all gung-ho again. He evidently finds this prize fair, blissfully not remembering the whole who-buys-who debate from nights previous. "A drink! Okay, okay. But what if we miss the countdown? Hey, hey. At midnight, I'mma kiss you." Usually it's more romantic if it's spontaneous, but drunk Scott blunders that idea.
And, really, who cares about all those details. Names. Kinky sex. Winning. Losing. There's drinks to be had! Alison considers this dilemma, though she's distracted by his blunder-y romantic gesture. "Okay," she agrees with a solemn nod, going along with this plan. And then back to the dilemma. "But I guess we'd better go quick then. So we can be back for the countdown. Right?" Of course, waiting might also be an option, but she's not going to bring that one up. Because waiting means not having a drink sooner. "There's gotta be somewhere around here." She tries to look around, but all she can see is the sea of bodies. Tall she may be, but not that tall.
Not that Scott stops to think the gesture romantic, mind. Being drunky is such a good cover for, well, everything. And since she agrees, Scott is free to cast another dopey grin. Yay for securing a midnight makeout! But drinks, right. Drinks are the current issue. They must be gotten — but from where? Scott does a comical look-right, look-left. No drinks anywhere! Well, somewhere through this crazy mass of arms and legs. And for a dangerous moment, Scott thinks how easy it would be to part the Red Sea with, well, a blast of Red Doom. So easy, so easy. But then, what if Frankie-Who-Is-Not-Frankie runs away screaming? Then there'd be no one to kiss when the ball drops.. Can't have that. "Um. C'mon, follow me!" To the rescue, always. He grabs Alison's hand, promptly plunging into the crowd. The pair of them are sure to make progress eventually!
It's questionable whether Alison would run away screaming if Scott chose those unusual crowd control tactics, but it's probably just as well he doesn't try. "Okay!" she agrees again, quite agreeable when it comes to any sort of plan that culminates in alcohol. So the hand is easy to grab, and she dives right in after him. At least navigating the crowd is a little easier for her, given that she just has to follow him and duck through the openings before they can close again. It does end her up bumping into him a few times as she has to step quickly, but this kind of fun in and of itself! "They should do this every night!" she remarks as she skips through laughingly.
Scott certainly doesn't object to her brand of clumsiness, cutting so close on his heels. There's something absurd and almost innocent to the whole race through the crowd. Like Aladdin and Abu, or something — though which of the two of them is the monkey, it's anyone's guess. Her laughing remark is somehow caught over the chaos, winning an astonished look back over his shoulder at her. "I was just saying that!" Well, not 'just' — it was a thought dating back to just before she came along. But semantics don't pause Scott. It just amazes him to think she thinks so, too. Even if it's probably the singlemost commonplace thought for every drunk, tonight. "We should talk to the Mayor!" Because surely, the Mayor would agree. Just then, Scott does manage to break the crowd — stumbling over the curb of a sidewalk, just outside a convenient bar. Its doors are flung open, of course, and the tide of people surge in and out with the same disorganization as in Times Square proper. "C'mon!"
And, let's face it, Alison would probably imagine herself more of a Disney Princess than either Aladdin or his monkey. Though she isn't very princess-like in her drunken glory tonight, even if she is still somehow elegantly clumsy in her stumbling along behind him. She nods in agreement with his idea, though is distracted by the sudden freedom from the crowd. "Yeah, I mean, it's gotta be good for tourism, right? Imagine if all these people were here all the time. Everything would be better in no time." How exactly she got from point A to point F there, she doesn't elaborate. Oh hey, a bar. Again, she's hot on his heels in that direction. "Yeah, they should definitely have drinks," she observes, because, see, she knows these things.
So wise, she is. And Scott, not so much — for it's with earnest agreement that Scott nods along with her bright ideas. From tourism to bars-having-drinks. She's just so, so smart! No really. There's a rare absence of any sarcasm, tonight. Which means no dry mockery, no deadpan banter when she states the oh-so-obvious. He just flashes her grin, pulling her into the stuffy interior. He holds up a finger, the universal gesture for 'wait'. And then Scott's turning, no longer holding her hand, wrestling through the crowd to the bar. Sure, it's a risk. With BAC's being so high, she's as likely to get distracted and vanish as she is to be approached by one, if not many, drunk and horny potential suitors. But it's a risk Scott's going to have to run, in order to negotiate a couple of beers from the bar. Shouts, crumpled twenties — Scott pays way too much for two plastic cups of cheap Natty Light. But whatever. Where'd she go?
And Alison is not minding feeling like an effing genius for once, truth be told. Grinning widely, pleased that her master plan to get drinks at a bar has worked out, she follows him into the establishment, stumbling slightly as she forgets to watch where she's going, looking around at the interior instead. Her attention comes back to him in time to catch his 'wait' gesture, and he gets a solemn nod in return. Wait. Okay. She can do this. Just stay focussed and, oooh… By the time he returns, she has grown distracted, it's true. Though it probably shouldn't take him too long to find her, since she's only drifted a few yards off to one side, watching the TV show footage from Times Square, an aerial view of what's going on right outside.
Is there a twinge of panic? Maybe, but too soon Scott finds that mane of cornsilk blonde. And all it takes are a few well-placed elbows and shoulders, before Scott makes the triumphant return. Back from the war — with spoils! He presses up close to the distracted Alison with a familiarity that usually comes with a few months of sleeping together. Tonight, it comes with one too many drinks. He shoves the foamy drink her way, certain that she won't turn down beer. Alcohol is alcohol, right? "Hey," Scott begins, ever the wordsmith. He grins goofily again, making to 'toast'. Although it's sure to slosh both their beers. "They didn't have any scotch!" Whoa, whoa. Could Scott be remembering her now? Must be another uncanny coincidence.
And Alison doesn't actually seem surprised to find Scott returned, so maybe she didn't actually forget he was there, so much as fail to realize she'd actually moved enough to 'get lost' in the crowd. The beer gets a grin, as she clearly respects the 'hooch is hooch' sentiment of the evening. "Hey," she returns in kind, lifting her plastic cup to meet his toast and then laughing as the foam runs down over her fingers. With her clean-ish hand, she holds her hair back and leans into slurp the top of the beer before too much of it can be lost. An eyebrow lifts at the mention of scotch, but she doesn't comment upon that trick of the memory. "This is fine! Thanks!" She takes another sip, so as to reassure him that the choice is just fine. Yes, that's the only reason. "Look. It's crazy out there!" She points to the TV. "Want to go back?" Can't be missing crazy, now can we.
No, no. Crazy needs crazy people. And Scott and Alison certainly qualify, no? He doesn't give the foamy, drippy beer any overdue concern — tonight is an okay night to throw any concern about appearances out the window. The sloppier, the better! He drowns a grin in the head of that cheap beer, more than likely emerging with a foamy mustache. His attention snaps to the TV in question, what with all the hooplah. For a moment, Scott is completely entranced, jaw dropping to stare at the aerial perspective of the crazy. Wow. So many blurry people! "Yeah! C'mon, c'mon!" As if it was Scott's idea, all along, and she's the one dawdling. He pushes back into the foray, throwing that beer cup high into the air to keep from someone bumping it — a rare moment of drunken wisdom. Protect the drink by keeping it up high, yes. He turns to look back for Alison, even as they make some headway into the crowd again. "Hey! How long 'till midnight?"
The King and Queen of Crazy-Land must go mingle with their people. Alison doesn't even complain as Scott suddenly starts hurrying her, she just, of course, laughs. It's no use getting put out over these things, especially when it all comes out the same in the end. So she follows, not having quite the same wisdom to hoist her cup high, least of all because she's trying to drink from it. Which ends up being a little more like taking a bath in it, but oh well. Not like she'd wear the same party outfit twice anyway, so this one can be disposed of later. "Um, I think there was, like, ten minutes when I first started watching. Then I kind of lost track." But probably only a few minutes left, by the time they're wading back through the crowd, to gauge from the mounting excitement.
Besides, doesn't she know just how fashionable girls smelling and tasting of crappy beer are? Not so much this year, but this upcoming year it's going to be all the rage. Scott won't be complaining, anyway. He turns back, having only made it about half the distance they were before the beer run — but not really caring. It's so much work, and Scott just wants to drink. He cups that cup in both hands, a rather childish way to swig Natty Light. But when you're as drunk as Scott, it's probably better for everyone around. Not like it doesn't get everywhere, including the front of his shirt, anyway. But that's to be anticipated by now. "I bet it's not even happening! I bet it's not even New Year's EVE. I think this is all just some conspiracy to keep us from — " And just then, the one-minute countdown begins in earnest, all around. Which shuts Scott up. He's already reeling, trying to keep up with the numbers. "Fifty-three, fifty — forty-nine!" Uh, yeah.
Alison draws her jacket a little more tightly around herself as the damp clothes make her notice the December/January night a little more keenly. Not quite cold, but just chilly. But she knows what'll help with that, and that is alcohol, so she goes ahead and takes another long swig of it as she weaves along behind him, stumbling a bit here and there. When they come to a stop, she probably couldn't even tell him if this is where they were before. In the middle of the crowd, it all sort of looks the same. Her eyebrows go up at the idea of some big New Years Eve conspiracy, and while she's curious what it's supposed to be keeping them from, the thought is soon lost in the descending numbers. She turns about on her heel, craning this way and that. "Hey, where's the… y'know, the … thing? With the lights?" She makes a falling gesture with her cup, which leads to a little more beer on her hand.
Like Scott knows. In fact, it takes Scott more than fifteen seconds to even figure out what the heck she's talking about — thing with lights, thing with lights. "Uh." Oh, the ball! There must be a ball-thing, right? Of course, Scott's no better at finding the right direction to look. It's this damnable crowd, so many people are just chanting numbers or jumping up and down. There's no look-to-the-ball-thing unity. And the growing closeness to zero is making Scott fidgetty. The anxiousness isn't like Scott. But drunk as drunk is, things are different. And in concentrating, forgets all about the ball. He tries to time it right, to make that midnight move grand and sweeping. But again, fail. Somewhere closer to eleven seconds, Scott downs the precious beer and tosses the cup. You can bet she's captured by the waist, spun and drawn into a heavy-handed kiss — whether she's ready for it or not. Nine, eight, seven.. Yeah, early.
"Oh, there- mmph." Alison doesn't get to finish that thought, since, no, not really ready for the midnight kiss on the stroke of 11:59:50. But hey, she's not exactly complaining. Once she figures out what's going on, which doesn't take that long, her free hand wrapped somewhere around his upper arm for stability, while her other arm perches atop his other shoulder, hand still holding onto the beer cup, though it's now nearly empty between the drinking and spilling it everywhere. He's also wet, but still warm, so she's not exactly shy about making darn good use of that body heat while getting in that pre-midnight midnight kiss. Her ears do pick up the mounting excitement in the crowd as they get down to the five-four-three-two… She pulls away, just far enough to give him a somewhat thoughtful, if still characteristically wry look. "Happy new year," she says in a quieter tone, echoing what's being shouted around them. And then, well, she'll take the incentive of moving back in for the post-midnight midnight kiss.
This went well, right? Like, the whole gesture? Not really, but don't tell Scott that. When she responds so favorably, Scott never once stops to think it was a premature or rash decision. There's even a swell of self-satisfied smugness, the kind that often accompanies delusions of success. But can you blame him? She's pressed so close, and she tastes like beer and champange and girlishness. The warm doesn't hurt, either. How she manages to pay any attention to the swirl of activity around, Scott will never know — everything seems to dim, like someone spun the volume knob down. And for a moment, Scott's worry spikes when she pulls away. Uh oh, what's wrong? Oh, it's the new year. He knew that. Another stupid grin cracks, Scott unable to stay characteristically anything right now. "Yeah. Happy New Year." And look, she's going for the better-timed kiss. Scott's not going to prevent that. He tugs Alison still closer, allowing the craziness of everyone else to, again, take a backseat to her.
Well, if there's one sure-fire way to win Alison over, it's letting her be the absolute centre of attention, especially in the midst of so much insanity. While she doesn't even consciously recognize it, it's won Scott some points. She lets herself be drawn in closer, her arm curling around behind him, cup still held aloft, though at a perilous angle that may add some beer to his back if they get jostled too much by the crowd. Oh well. He can take it up with her dry cleaner. As a band somewhere, perhaps near that ball they never did find, starts playing the opening strains to Auld Lang Syne, she just grins a little into the kiss, rising up onto tiptoes to be that little bit closer.
It must be unintentional, such devotion to Alison and only Alison. Blame it on the beer. He certainly will be, when crankiness and disillusionment set in with the sunrise. But for now, none of that matters. Not mutants, not humans, not war. Not even the beer that's sure to slosh from that cup of hers. Yeah, the hell with it — probably not the first spilled beer tonight that Scott's bathed in. She's on tip-toe, and Scott's so reluctant to ever break the kiss. But eventually, they do both need that thing called oxygen. It leaves Scott the breathless one, pulling away just enough to breathe. Close is good. Close with the band playing is even better. "I'm happy I found you." Okay, probably shouldn't be saying that. But it's better than a 'wanna fuck?'.
Her breathing certainly a little quicker than usual as Scott finally pulls away, Alison drops back down to - well, not quite flat feet, but to rest upon her heels, anyway. But that's as far away as she seems willing to go. She considers that sappy comment, canting her head to one side as she offers a crooked grin up at him. They are just such shiny, happy people tonight. "Yeah. Me too," she agrees simply, sincere but not about to make a big gushing deal about it and get him on the defensive. "Maybe this year is going to be better." Not quite as jaded as she might be under other circumstances, anyway.
And it's just as well, yes, keeping things simple and sweet. No need for anyone to gush, as it would likely freak the both of them out. Better to just ride that wave of happy drunkeness, wherever it goes. And if that means optimism for once, then so be it. The two of them could use a few minutes of everything's-awesome. It's healthy! Or something. "Maybe," Scott agrees, just as simply. Though it's becoming increasingly difficult to keep Alison from becoming blurry again, that beer just enough to tip the scales again. His grin goofy, Scott leans in to be conspiratorial in Alison's ear. Though the whisper isn't as soft as it should be. But that's excitement for you. "Let's get out of here."
Maybe the whisper could be quieter, but she enjoys an immunity to loud noise, and it's still a lot subtler than grabbing her ass, so Alison doesn't even pause to think anything might be inappropriate about it. Instead, catching her bottom lip lightly between her teeth, she nods several times in agreement. Hey, they did New Years Eve in Times Square. No reason to drag it out. She takes a second to sort herself out, getting herself extracted enough to bring the remains of her beer back around and chug down that last swallow or two, before the cup joins the litter on the ground and she nods her readiness to depart. Absently, but not without talent, she starts singing along with the last bits of the song: "For Auld Lang Syne, my dear, for auld lang syne…"
