You wake with a pounding misery where your horns and braincase should be, and moan vaguely at the direction noise is coming from. Jethro calls something or other from outside your cozy pillow den, and when you scoot hopefully towards him you get a face full of damp, spice-smelly pillow. Your bilesac pitches a violent rebellion against your windchute and you hit the ground hard, stumbling blindly for the ablution chamber. To your vague surprise, you actually make it to the gaper before the necessary actions are preformed. Afterwards you wipe your mouth, lean against the bathtub's edge, and try to knead the headache out through your horns. Jethro's hovering over you, fussing, and you want— you want him to just— back off, a bit, give you some breathing room. Your marks pulse with a feverish, restless, sour sort of discomfort and you don't want him to— to hover like that, it's just that you're getting so tired of always being in arm's reach. Of being held on to. Oh— well, there's the last of that vodka bottle Bel lost. You nudge Jethro off to the side and fish it out from behind the gaper, somewhat heartened. That'll be your headache dealt with, at least.