Holby was a hotbed of vice and drunkenness and one particularly badly lit room was the devil's armpit. The dignified Ric Griffin was lopsided and wine sodden, his cohorts were equally pissed off their faces and the latest empty bottle swung between them like the pendulum of mortification.
Spin the bottle was an everlasting one-upmanship of broken wishes and regrets through the ages. To all those teenage idiots and middle-aged losers, the game was all the same. It made fools out of all of them.
Ric spun; got Serena, an applause rang out for their long overdue snog (accessorised with slight pent up aggression).
Raf spun; got Bernie, a very awkward peck on the lips (nervous and rapid, everyone booed). She awkwardly turned away and hid behind her fringe. It was her turn. She hesitantly spun; looked up as it stopped on the one person she was hoping to avoid doing this with. Playing this absurd game was bad enough with this lot but she could deal with the others and pass it off as being drunk. This one she couldn't blame being drunk on. It was the leopard print lady herself, looking at her with that familiar teasing glance. Waiting for her to make the first move. Bernie looked at the ceiling in horror, knowing that this was the only chance she would have but she could only take it in public. Her worst nightmare.
All of that Shiraz had gone to Serena's head and the usually alert surgeon was oblivious to the panic in Bernie's eyes. She leaned forward playfully, inviting a peek down her blouse to the cheers and hoots of the remaining conscious staff. Bernie's peripheral vision definitely saw lace, so that question was answered satisfactorily.
Bernie locked eyes with her and saw innocence. Serena had no idea what she was thinking and had been thinking for a while now. The woman flirted with everyone, it was just her way and with any luck, she'd think nothing of it. The prudent part of Bernie hoped so but the treacherous part that hissed in her ear like a rattlesnake was telling her to do it, just do it and finally Serena would get the message. The fear of rejection was like a knife in the heart, the biggest reason to why Bernie had made no advances. Could this be considered an advance?
'So what's a big macho army medic to do?'
Bernie wasn't sure if she was drunk and her inner voice had whispered to her or that Serena really had whispered that. Her head felt like it was filled with fog and she saw no way out except to lean over a little too quickly, bring her hand up to that cheek to anchor herself and meet those lips halfway.
She heard a faint gasp from her victim as she relaxed into it, responding in a way that made them both tingle in a way they hadn't done in a while. Coming to their senses, they broke apart slowly to the rushing sound of their heartbeat mingling with the wine coursing through their blood. All around them was distraction and noise but they couldn't stop staring at each other, even when sitting back to join the circle. Bernie now knew that those earlier words weren't her inner voice as she had suspected. Serena's grin, confusion with a touch of delight, confirmed that.
Both were stunned to realise that when the morning came, neither of them regretted it. In fact, it had thrown up a rather fascinating dynamic, they thought as each other kept up the lingering glances all through the rest of the week. One they were inching closer to exploring.