“No amount of Marvin Gaye will make me less cross with you.”

deepdarkwaters:

“No amount of Marvin Gaye will make me less cross with you.”

Hamish is far too drunk for any more words than absolutely necessary and just waves a flippant hand vaguely in Harry’s direction to signify how much he believes that statement. He turns the stereo volume dial another several notches to the right, excruciatingly loud for almost four in the morning, and begins an awful lurching sort of boogie-walk across the living room towards Harry like some horrible uncle at a wedding trying to get from the bar to the dance floor when Come On Eileen starts playing.

“Let’s get it on,” Hamish croons along, mouthing wetly at Harry’s neck in a way that might be kissing if he’d had several fewer pints and absolutely failing to make any impression on the knot in Harry’s dressing gown belt because he seems to have forgotten how his fingers work.

“Eggsy,” Harry says crossly into his phone, and gets some kind of barely-comprehensible drunken bellowed greeting in his ear, “next time you take this fool out drinking, please have some consideration for those of us who need our beauty sleep and return him before dawn.”

Hamish interrupts, helping himself to two handfuls of arse and lustily singing, “GIVING YOURSELF TO ME COULD NEVER BE WRONG!” in unison with Eggsy on the the other end of the line until Harry stabs the end call button, picks up Hamish – the small dog version, not the drunken husband – and goes back to bed in a sulk.