Disclaimer: LO:CI and all its characters belong to Dick Wolf and USA Network. I claim no credit for their creation and receive no profit other than reviews.
"It was three times, Logan, three—the final one he rigged it up to be buried onstage—"
The bar was blazing with the press of crowded bodies and the dancing neon lights that lit up hues of orange and red and yellow in the scarred wooden table and the upturned faces and bare arms. Wheeler took a gulp of her third mostly-rum-with-a-little-Coke and the ice clicked against her teeth like a little note in counterpoint to the way the alcohol was making her blood spin and sing.
"Yeah, Freckles, and then he died. A little hard to do your "Buried Alive" stunt when you're—"
She slammed down the glass, gesturing wildly. "No no no, the whole reason they buried him in the copper casket was—"
"Because he had terrible taste?"
"No, he—"
"Because copper was cheap?"
"Shut—"
"Because Houdini—"
"Because he'd already been buried in it! Because it had significance!" One of Megan's waving arms knocked her rum and the rest of Logan's Scotch into the plate of nachos, and they both burst out laughing. Through his guffaws, Mike gestured at the waitress to bring them another round.
Eames was laughing too, her margarita sloshing slightly over the edge as she set it down too hard, her face bright and warm and open as she shook her head, tossed her golden hair back out of her face. "Am I going to have to call a time-out?"
"Not as long as certain people accept that—Logan!" Megan shrieked (oh God, she'd shrieked, she'd never live that down) as he dropped an ice cube down the back of her shirt. "Ah ah ah ah—" She wriggled frantically, trying to fish it out.
"Well, that's one way to win an argument," Eames said, arching her brows, voice dry enough to serve up as a martini. Smirking so wicked you'd think they were going to outlaw it tomorrow…
And Megan should probably stop staring at her lips even if that smirk was ridiculously sexy because she was drunk, very drunk, very drunk and very engaged to a very handsome and loving man and also there was this ice cube that was getting really damn uncomfortable because—
"Aaah, aaah, this is fucking cold, you bastard—"
"Here, let me." Eames got up, switching places with Logan so that the two women were in the same booth. She scooted right up next to Megan, whose face began to burn as their thighs bumped and then pressed against each other.
Eames pushed Megan's shoulders forward and slid her right hand down the younger woman's back, palm warm even through the shirt. Ice cube? What ice cube?
"My brothers used to do that with ice all the time," Alex murmured, a warm puff of air against Megan's neck. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem, trailing lightly upwards over bare skin.
Tracing the outline of her bra.
She smelled like strawberries and tequila and a little sweat, and detergent from the white tank top that was so nicely fitting all over and…
Megan could feel a fire starting in her chest, rushing up her neck towards her face to meet the blush that was already there. Oh God don't blush she doesn't mean anything, oh god don't blush she doesn't mean anything, oh god don't—
Her fingers cool with the condensation from her glass and tracing, little tingles in her wake, and tracing, and tracing, and trac—
"Got it!" Eames' hand slid out of her shirt and she scooted away, but didn't switch back to her side of the table. "Almost slipped into one of the cups."
Wheeler, who had just taken a gulp of what was left of her drink to steady her nerves and to distract from her face's lobster-red hue, choked.
Eames didn't seem to notice, but Logan did.
xxxxx
"Do you think they were sleeping together?" Wheeler'd asked Logan, not long after the Goren Incident. She'd only been curious. It was a valid question.
He'd just given her a look. Eyebrows raised. Eyes faintly amused but also guarded. Appraising.
"Don't go there, Freckles."
xxxxx
He was doing it again now. That look. That look that said, Wouldn't think about that if I were you, Wheeler.
I'm not thinking about anything!
Uh-huh. Sure.
The blush was just getting worse.
The waitress arrived with their drinks, and Wheeler downed the rest of hers before grabbing the new one. Took a long swallow to avoid looking anyone in the eye.
"I think you should cede to Wheeler," Alex—Eames—told Logan, her smile in her voice. "Who knows what a magician like her might pull for revenge?"
And just like The Look was gone, and he was grinning his signature cat-ate-the-canary grin. "I'm not the one she tried to saw in half."
"Exactly. You're due."
"Fine." He heaved a long-suffering sigh, still grinning, and raised his fresh Scotch in the air. "You're right, Wheeler. A toast to the Girl Wonder!"
Eames raised her bourbon—when had she asked the waitress to switch to bourbon?—blinding Wheeler with a smile and saying something about Wheeler's experience and old magic buddy connections helping them nail Dean Holiday, but they were words, words words a wave washing over her, and a wave washed away by that smile.
And if was wonderful to be the cause of that smile.
To feel it sunlight-beaming at you and see her eyes dancing, to feel it wrap you up warm and tight like a blanket fresh and crisp-hot out of the dryer, a wool blanket because it crackled with electricity against your skin and you felt the spotlight-heat seep down to your very bones…
xxxxx
They had decided out loud that they would only ask her if she needed anything once, and then treat her as if everything was normal. In reality, Logan mumbled something indistinguishable and gave her an awkward too-hard shoulder clasp, while Wheeler stared down at her reports and tried not to giggle from sheer panic. After a day of watching Eames' face frozen in a marble mask of professionalism, acting normal somehow changed into an unspoken agreement to try to clown a smile out of her, to take turns playing the fool for her benefit.
It didn't work. There was a gap, always, where they didn't say…you know.
"We should go that deli on seventh. Hey, Eames, is that place any good? You and…you used to go there a lot."
"Jesus, Wheeler, enough with the encyclopedia. You're starting to sound like—uh. A real nerd."
"Do you know anybody who might know anything about mental…never mind, I'll, um, look it up."
"You've had so much coffee you're twitching like…"
He was always there in his absence.
xxxxx
It was good to see Eames smile again.
Good that she could still smile.
And she did it at me! Wheeler's drunk mental voice crowed.
And you are drunk, the annoying part of her that was still rational reminded her. And you are engaged. And you love Colin and he loves you, and OH GOD IS SHE NOT WEARING A BRA?
"I—um, I have to—bathroom," Wheeler said, standing abruptly. She beat a hasty retreat to the ladies room at the back of the bar. It was empty, thank God. She sagged against the wall, her dizziness only partly due to the rum.
Colin. She should think about Colin. Yes, because she was just drunk, and lonely with him being overseas, and that was the only reason she was slobbering over Eames like a lovesick puppy, and God that was a terrible metaphor. Colin, he would ground her back in reality. Colin…how they'd met, him hitting on her when she was sitting in a coffee shop waiting for a sting to go down. Their first kiss, the way she had been intoxicated by the taste of his lips and the catch of his stubble, the smoky smell of his cologne mixing with the lilac outside the window. His habit of tickling her awake and then they'd make love and he'd feed her caramel-drenched bananas on French toast. How good he looked shirtless, or with a white dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal his muscular chest, that light dusting of golden brown curls and freckles; white was a good color for both him and Alex, as was light blue, though Alex could pull off red so much better—
"Fuck!" Her fingers scrambled through her purse for her cell, fumbling to hit Colin's contact listing. If she could just talk to him, she could square this all up right. If she could just—
Ring…ring…ring…come on, honey, pick up, pick up…ring…ring…another fucking riiiiiiing…ring…ring…ring…rin—"Hello?" He sounded winded.
"Hi, sweetie. Just thinking about you!" Oh God, she sounded too chirrupy. Shit.
"What…Meggie, it's fucking four in the morning."
"Well, you're going to have to get used to me waking you up for…all sorts of reasons." She bit back a nervous giggle. Why was she nervous? It was Colin, she loved—
"Are you drunk?"
"No. A little. Maybe. I was just thinking about you, and missing you, and I thought I should give you a call."
A sigh. "Honey…"
"We solved the case," she interrupted. "Remember that penny trick I showed you? Well, I—"
A murmur in the background, high-pitched—feminine?—and Colin's voice moved away from the receiver and said, "Nothing, nothing…"
"Who's with you?"
"Just a friend, sweetheart—"
The door swung open and Eames came in. Of course it was Eames. Fucking perfect. Nevertheless, Megan plowed on. "What are you doing up with a friend at four in the morning?"
"Nothing, we're just—" He gave another sigh. She could hear giggling in the background. "Look, I'll call you tomorrow when you're sober and we'll talk then, okay?"
"Dammit, Colin—"
He had already hung up. Megan slammed the phone shut and stuffed it back in her purse.
"Didn't go well, huh?" Something in Alex' voice sounded sad, but when Megan looked up the older woman's face held nothing more than the obligatory amount of woman-to-woman sympathy.
"It's nothing," she said, looking away. She needed to stop looking at Eames. She needed to stop looking at Eames and feeling…things. "I need a drink." She started back out into the bar, pausing as Eames made to follow her. "Don't you have to…"
"Nah. Logan just wanted me to check up on you."
"I already have a big sister," Wheeler muttered.
"Well, I have lots of practice." Eames slung her arm around Megan's shoulders, guiding her back to the table.
" I meant Logan," she muttered, trying to distract herself from the feel of Alex's skin against her own, the firm muscles…Alex laughed, which made her hips bump into Megan's and oh God, she was doomed. Well, fuck it. She slid her own arm around Alex's waist, and the other woman didn't pull away.
Logan didn't raise his eyebrows at the way they were hanging off each other, but it was a very pointed not-raising. He studied them through inscrutable eyes as they sat back down in the same booth, Alex pulling back her arm to reach for a fresh drink. Megan felt its absence like a gust of bitter cold wind.
"You know, I think I'm going to settle up and hit the road," Logan announced. He set down his half-full Scotch. "Make sure Freckles gets home okay, Eames. I still think she's using a fake ID."
What is he…is he actually…
"Knew you'd be a lightweight," Eames teased.
"I know when to hang up my hat and let things take their course." His voice was completely neutral, but his eyes never left Wheeler's face. "I'm sure you'll take care of my partner."
Is he…trying to give us "time alone?"
"You take care too, Logan," Eames said
"Sure thing. Have fun, Wheeler." The edge of his mouth twisted up on the word 'fun' before he tamped it back down.
Oh God. He is.
She took another gulp of liquor.
xxxxx
If she had been drunk before, in the next hour Wheeler got completely shit-faced.
She knew it was a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. In the kingdom of bad ideas, this one ruled with an iron fist that it kept punching itself in the face with, it was that bad.
It was also infinitely preferable to the panic she knew she'd be feeling if she had to spend time alone with this gorgeous, gorgeous, amazingly smart and funny and not-dating-her-or-ever-likely-to woman with really soft skin (buzzed Eames got quite touchy-feely) in anything approaching a state of sobriety.
It was a mostly blurry hour. There was crying at some point, Wheeler knew, because Eames got her to talk about the phone call with Colin and reassured her that Colin was probably not cheating on her, and hugged her and told her he was a bastard if he had—or something to that effect, it was really hard to concentrate on words when you were also concentrating on not licking the ear of the really luscious Alex Eames all pressed up to your front with her Amazon arms tight around you.
Really, really hard.
At some point Wheeler was also pretty sure she had tried to teach Eames the coin trick, but she kept messing it up because she got so clumsy and awkward when she was drunk, and Eames tried to steady her hand, and then her arm, and then their fingers got interlaced and Wheeler didn't want to let go so she squeezed tight and made the refusing into a game, and Eames laughed and laughed and laughed, tilting back her head to expose her pale throat to the bar's neon glow.
It was blur, but it was wonderful.
Unfortunately, the last five minutes were crystal clear.
xxxxx
"Come on, Freckles, your cab's just around the corner."
"Sorry." Wheeler leaned into Eames, trying to negotiate beer-can-and-Happy-meal-strewn street without stumbling again. "Shouldn'ta…shouldna had the rest of Logan's Scotch. Or your marga…margara…ya know."
"You were putting it away pretty hard in general," Eames said, tousling her hair. "Kids today."
"'m not that much younger 'n you. I mean, it wouldn' be, like, a…a really weird age diff'rence or anything if we dated. Not that we should date, or anything. I'm pretty sure you're straight, but if you weren' it wouldn' be like…weird. The age."
Eames was smiling. "You're rambling, Megan."
"Plus I'm engaged."
"I know."
They weren't moving anymore. They were alone on the street. There was nothing in the world but Alex and her smile and the way she was supporting Megan's weight so easily, holding her up from collapsing into the stinking trash.
"You're really beautiful. Like…really."
"Thank you."
"No, I mean, you really are, like…you're so…" The words were foggy and swimming in loopy circles, and so Megan gave up on trying to find them, and kissed Eames instead.
She knew it was a mistake even as she did it, but she kissed Eames' soft lips still cold from the margarita ice, heard the slight intake of breath and tasted the sweetness of the moment.
She knew it was a mistake, but she didn't know how much of one until she pulled away.
There was rejection in the stance of Eames' body, but no disgust or fear in her eyes. There was only kindness, and somehow that was even more terrible.
Her eyes were kind as she shook her head slowly, and her voice was kind as she reminded Megan that Megan was drunk and engaged, and her hands were gentle and kind as she bundled Megan into the cab and paid the fare and showed the cabbie her badge to keep him from ripping Megan off, and her words overflowed understanding and sympathy as she told Megan not to feel embarrassed, and that she would see her on Monday, and that everything would be fine.
And Megan wanted to curl up in a ball and die.
They pulled away from the curb and into the night. "Good to see people looking out for each other," said the cabbie. "Nice friend ya got there."
It's okay, Megan, it's okay…you've just had a bit too much, I know you don't mean anything…don't worry about it…
"Yeah," she said. "Nice friend."