Note: Takes place between When Will met Grace and A Place to Fit In.
Summary: "I love you," Moira blurts out on one late night –Charles pretends it's early morning so that he can go back to work, but it's a shameless lie.
The Irony of Life
"I love you," Moira blurts out on one late night –Charles pretends it's early morning so that he can go back to work, but it's a shameless lie.
"Oh, Moira," Charles sighs, "you know you're going to remember this when you're sober, right?"
"Don't care now," she hiccups succinctly.
"I know," Charles huffs, maneuvering past a pile of Zola's works to get to the two beds at the back of the room, "you never care for anything when you're drunk."
"Not drunk!" Moira protests sluggishly. "'M tipsy."
"Moira, you hi-fived the mirror in the lobby."
Moira remains silent for a few heartbeats, though because she's falling asleep or concentrating to maintain her fragile equilibrium against the wall while Charles does a light speed version of cleaning, it's unclear. Still, after a while, she gives a nod that threatens to send her face first into Jude the Obscure.
"'Kay," she amends, "a lil' drunk."
"Of course, just a little. Now give me a little help here, Byron may have relinquished the spare bed, but Whitman doesn't look like he's ready to move out of the way just yet."
Moira grunts a little but allows Charles to push-pull-tumble her to the bed his ex-roommate used to sleep in. it's comfortable, despite the faintest smell of dust, and Moira curls up on the comforter with a satisfied sigh.
"Not yet Moira, still have to remove your shoes."
"You're my bestest friend ever, Charles."
"Tylenol is your best friend, I'm just your nurse."
A giggle.
"Why do you have to be so perfect?" Moira sighs as Charles tugs on her left boot. "I'm going to die alone because of you. I'll be a lonely spinster and when I'll die my dozen obese cats are going to eat me."
"You're allergic to cats," Charles observes reasonably, because it's true: he went back to the manor for the Holidays, and Raven had brought a stray cat home from her boarding school. The remnant of fur on Charles' jumpers made Moira sneeze for a full week.
"Not cats then." Moira pauses and fixes the ceiling for so long, Charles checks on her mind to make sure she's not in some sort of ethylic coma. He doesn't stay for long, though, drunken minds are a mess, and he really doesn't want to end up with a hangover of his own. "What else?"
"I don't know," Charles says softly, tugging at the second boot. "Canaries?"
"Right," Moira says firmly, "I'll die alone and get devoured by my canaries."
Charles rolls his eyes and forces Moira to a seated position so he can take her tank top off. He's halfway through the removal of her skirt and thankful that she chose a plain cotton shorty rather than see-through delicate lingerie this time when she sighs heavily.
Will you still be there? She projects –she's gotten really good at projecting, especially for difficult subjects. It's easier for her, Charles supposes. Will you still be there when I'm old and wrinkled and completely wasted and still acting like a lovesick puppy over you? Will you fight the canaries off?
"Of course I'll fight them off," Charles says rather than think, because it's easier to hide his chuckle this way. "I'll be following you around with my cane and dragging my painful knees up the stairs to your student room under the roof with carts and carts of ice chunks and Tylenol. Deal?"
"Deal." Moira slurs as he sets her down on the pillow.
"Unless, of course, you go through a life-changing experience that leaves you, I don't know, stuck in a wheelchair or something and make you finally act like your age, in which case you will be the one bringing me ice chunks and Tylenol for my migraines."
Moira smiles sleepily and sends quick thanks before falling out cold, finally allowing Charles to undress himself and go to bed.
(Years later, after a bullet that was aimed at Moira's guts is accidentally deflected in his spine, Charles will remember this early morning –Moira says it's late night so she can still sing at the top of her lungs, but she's drunk and it doesn't count- and cry at the bitter irony of life.)