Perhaps it was his rather unnerving stare.
Another four hours later and the whole of Erebor seemed to be fairly drunk. She and Gimli were no different – it was well known that the two of them notoriously got lit when gallivanting together – but she was not as drunk as she normally would’ve been. Something was off about her cousin and best friend.
Ai, perhaps the drink was going to her head. Normally, she wouldn’t have bothered with entertaining such serious thoughts when making merriment. But it would not leave her be. After her umpteenth mug of ale and sixth shot of something much stronger that they’d pulled out of the locker for the celebration, Vrai leaned across the table and slapped her open palm down in front of the half comatose Gimli.
The copper haired dwarf started, automatically grasping for the axe that wasn’t there, then glared at the sodden black haired dwarrowdam that was leering drunkenly at him. At least, he thought it was a leer…
“You got laid, didn’t you?”
“…pardon?” asked Gimli slowly through the drunken fog that was his higher mental functions.
Vrai smirked triumphantly and settled back in her chair, crossing her arms behind her head. “You got laid.”
Gimli schooled his face into impassive neutrality and took a generous sip of his suddenly full mug of ale. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mahal!” swore Vrai. “You’re all but glowing, Gimli!” The dark haired dwarf grinned evilly. “My guess is that you got laid quite often. And that means it was a traveling companion, yes?”
“Vrai,” hissed Gimli in protest. “I did not get laid, by any stretch of your wild and insane imagination.”
But Vrai wasn’t letting it go. She looked thoughtful, or as thoughtful as one can when heinously drunk and in denial of said drunkenness. “Most definitely a traveling companion then,” she mused, stroking the hair upon her chin.
“Vrai,” groaned Gimli. “Please, stop. I am sorely liquored right now and thinking of what you may be thinking makes my head hurt.” A tired hand to his temple punctuated this. “And what makes you think I wasn’t just out wenching?”
“Gimli, I’ve known you for what? Thirty years? You were not out wenching. I _know_ what you’re like after wenching,” Vrai pointed out. “And you are not happily sated. I couldn’t put my finger on it before, but now…I do believe that you are...pining.”
A destructive glare of doom came speeding her way. “Dwarves do not pine, Vrai.”
Vrai waved the other off and kicked her booted feet up over the side of the chair. “Please, Gimli. I _am_ a dwarf, don’t you recall? Besides, what did you call what Ovan was doing when Telr went on that trip to Lake Town for a month? Honestly,” she sighed, raising her mug again to her lips, “you have spent far too much time away from home, if you defend yourself to me, as if I were some—“
It was strange. One moment Vrai was speaking in her normal, cocky and prideful way, mug drawn up to her lips, orange colored eyes half lidded in her drunken state – and the next, said mug was flying behind her and the dwarrowdam had leapt upon the table and grabbed the copper haired dwarf by the collar of his shirt and half hefted him from his seat.
“SWEET MAHAL!” she all but shrieked, staring with wide eyes at her friend. “You’ve been knocking it up with the El—OOF!!“
Her words were cut off by Gimli flipping her off the table and onto the floor and sitting on her. The rest of the party stopped to see what fight had broken out and who the combatants were – a few were annoyed, since they were starting the eighteenth rendition of “Gold Mithril and Orc Heads on Pikes” – but once it had been identified as Gimli and Vrai, everyone went back to their scheduled festivities. The Halls under the mountain were well used to the antics of those two.
“Another word, dwarrowdam and I’ll hammer your lips together!” hissed the heavy dwarf at Vrai. The female dwarf, however, wasn’t saying a word, mouth opening and closing and then a frown. At this Gimli grew worried. Vrai was not one for subtle retaliations and he knew she would get him back sooner or later. And she would demand details of, well, everything, in return for her silence. Gimli was not sure he was ready to tell her _everything_. He’d had a hard enough time telling himself everything.
A strange giggle broke Gimli from his revere. He glared down at his captive. “And what in all of Mordor is so funny?” he growled.
Vrai’s eyes were overly bright. Gimli wasn’t sure if it was the drink or something else entirely.
“Oh, your father is going to kill you!” came the very near insane giggle of glee.
Gimli sighed tiredly. She _had_ to remind him of that.