Ethan let the shirt fall on his chest, making absolutely no effort to catch it. He was too drunk to care about what he was wearing, so he let it rest against his body like a too-small tangled up blanket. "Naw.. naw i'm good. Take my car if you want. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon." If Charlotte was even able to understand him it would be a miracle, but he wasn't really thinking of those things. All he was thinking about was going to sleep, as the effects of the copious amounts of alcohol were beginning to take hold in his belly. "Ooooh i'm going to feel like shit tomorrow..." That sound was a least slightly more comprehensible. If it weren't for the churning in his stomach he may have made an attempt to sit up to at least thank Charlotte properly. But as it was, he was in no state to really move much, other than his arms.<br/><br/>not long after, Ethan finally passed out. His breath became rhythmic and soft, not the loud, boisterous snoring from which many drunkards suffered, but a healthy, easy sound. Despite his bad habit, he was quite healthy. Charlotte may have noted the added weight in his appendages when she changed his shirt, but those were the only artificial parts of his body. There was still quite a bit of him that was biological and original, but time and a government contract had taken much from him.<br/><br/>Near his bed were pictures of, what he called, the good ol’ days, when life was simple and happy. There were pictures of him graduating boot. Pictures of a family. Pictures of him smiling and laughing. But not one of them was visible, save one, a picture of a young boy, no more than five years old, on his nightstand. Everything else was tucked away in drawers or stuffed into dusty old shoeboxes and left in the closet. They may have been happier days, but that didn’t mean he wanted to remember them.