Hey guys!
Probably surprising that I'm uploading a new story when I can't even keep up with my other one, but I've been working on this one-shot between writing for my main story for a while now, and I figured you all deserve to read something after waiting so long for updates on my other one.
I will keep uploading this story with different one-shots, and they will not be connected. Don't expect a great updating schedule though. Everything I write for this story will be a result of writing around the other one.
Anyway, a not-so-little Jix meeting one-shot for you guys. Hope you enjoy :)
Another coke was placed in front of him, a small square napkin laid beneath it for what John could only take to be presentation value. He held the straw out of the way as he took a sip. He had cringed a little the first few times the carbonated drink washed down his throat, but he didn't now, hardly even tasting it on his tongue as he tried to hear his thoughts over the pounding music. It wasn't even alcohol he was drinking, but he found himself forgetting how many drinks he'd already had.
Alcohol, he thought as he felt each bass beat hammer into his skull, might do wonders for my headache. He didn't order one, preferring sobriety over have having to take a cab home later. It was also imaginable that Stanley would not be happy if he found out his designated driver was not-so legal. He turned around in his seat and took another drink of his coke.
It wasn't curiosity that propelled him to peer through the assault of lights to the dance floor, but more so that watching the barkeep doing his job wasn't exactly an entertaining activity. Watching the mass of young adults bounce around to the same beat eventually proved to be equally as uneventful. And then he was stuck in a cycle of boredom. Well, that was until he saw her.
Her was mess of raven hair falling out of ponytail, a pair of jeans and converse sneakers and a large t-shirt. Her appearance certainly was not one of a girl looking for a night on the town, that was for sure. He assumed she had a different goal when she first entered. Maybe she would have a couple drinks and leave, chase any of her problems to the bottom of a glass. Judging by the way her unbalanced legs took her around the dance floor, he was willing to bet that she may have gone a bit farther than anticipated.
John found his eyes fixed to her, and not just because she was beautiful -even though she most certainly was- but more because her face didn't bear the sloppy grins of everyone else on the dance floor. Her sluggish dance moves were the same as the people around her, but her face held a slack composure as bounced around. It was such a contrast that John started to wonder if she was just pretending to be drunk. But then a pair of thick hands grabbed her waist and she turned around, a cliche drunken grin making an appearance as she looped her arms around a man's neck. John's eyebrows furrowed at the guy's greedy smile, and he forgot about the glass in his hand.
John's feet moved on their own, touching the ground and lifting his body from the stool. He hadn't been standing for a while and the new pressure was a welcome comfort. He didn't know why he felt protective over this girl. Hell, the man could be her boyfriend. If that was the case the behaviour would be completely normal. But John didn't want the hands groping this woman's body to be unwanted by her, so he found himself watching. He shook his head. You're like a stalker, he chided himself, feeling foolish. But then the man leaned his head in, and like a cliffhanger ending, a crowd walked in front of the couple, and they were no longer visible.
John put his drink down so quickly even he was alarmed, starting to walk forward. Sweat and alcohol filled his nose as he excused himself through the crowd, trying not to touch anyone at first, but then resorting to pushing his way through. He broke through the mass of people and found the couple connected in a drunken kiss, her hands on his chest. John felt like an idiot. Of course they were together, it only makes sense. But if they were together, her hands would not be pushing at his chest, and that grin wouldn't be replaced by scowl.
"Hey!" John shouted, trying to be heard over the crowd, but it was no use. He pushed through the last few people and yanked the man's shoulder when he got near.
"You want to mind your own business?" The man questioned. John noticed his clear eyes. This was not a hazy-minded kiss for him. This man knew exactly what he was doing.
"She's drunk." John stated, yelling to be heard rather then in anger. But he was definitely feeling the latter. "You can't take advantage of her like that."
The man threw a punch, and John leaned back, his hands up. Maybe the man was a little drunk. But he still knew that going that far with someone who was drunk was not unwarranted of an ass-kicking.
But as John's clear eyes took in the bulk of a man in front of him, he started to think he may not be the man for the job. This man was taller than the blond, and his drunken rage was surely an advantage over the -relatively- peaceful composure his sober opponent was holding. But he felt he needed to do something. His moral compass and sense of justice compelled him to do something, out of respect for this woman he didn't even know. John looked the man up and down. Yeah, he could take him.
A low whistle came from behind him. "Well, would you look who's causing trouble."
The six foot four figure was definitely a better match for this fight, and John was suddenly glad his friend maintained a certain level of consciousness.
"Look, Johnny, I'm not complaining. I just thought you'd have the decency to save me a spot in your bar fights. Honestly, I'm hurt buddy." Stanley grinned at John's side, looking down at the man with a deceivingly warm expression. The guy bolted.
It annoyed John a little that while Stanley was only a couple inches taller than him, he could scare off guys even bigger than both of them. But his irritation quickly turned to concern as he remembered the woman he was seemingly so invested in a minute ago.
"Aw, it was just about to get good." Stanley complained as he watched the man retreat into the crowd. He made no move to go after him though, leading John to conclude that his level of intoxication is higher than he thought. "I would have totally knocked him out though. Did you see-"
"Shut up." John span in a circle, looking for the raven hair that first caught his attention somehow in the dark club.
"Yeah, no problem. Just saved your ass but whatever." Stanley threw up his hands in a clumsy display of offence. "We should go, this place sucks. Have you had a drink? They're watered down to shit."
"Designated driver, Stanley." John reminded him distractedly, finding no results in his search.
"Looking for something?" His friend's bleary eyes glazed over the crowd without knowing what he should be looking for.
Blue eyes blinked against the flashing lights as they scanned the room a final time. Nobody showed up in his search and John's lip pressed together in disappointment. He shook his head.
"No, you're right. Let's get out of here."
John followed Stanley out since he didn't want to loose him in the crowd and have to change plans. The night was cool and bright compared to the inside of the club. There was hardly anybody around. It was still early after all, and nobody liked to leave a party early on a Friday. Well, other then him apparently.
Him and -he noticed- another figure stumbling up the sidewalk, certainly too drunk to have the bright idea to call a cab. But he recognized the shirt and the jeans and what had to be the only ponytail that had been in the entire club.
"Stanley can you just wait here a second? I've got to uh..." John pointed to the woman and trailed off, not feeling like he needed to engage in further explanation. Stanley raised an eyebrow but John began to jog down the sidewalk before he could hear any of his friend's assumptions.
"Hey!" John made sure he was well away from the woman when he called, not wanting to startle her. She didn't even look, continuing her stumbling journey down the city sidewalk with no interruption aside from stopping to reorient herself a couple of times. If there was any question about John letting her go on by herself, this was the end of it. He certainly couldn't have her walking wherever she was going alone in the state she was in.
After a couple more tries of getting her attention verbally, John resorted to stepping in front of the woman to stop her unsteady progress. It still took a hand on her shoulder to steady her before she looked up at the concerned man in front of her, broadcasting a lazy smirk that complimented her glazed, unfocused eyes.
"What's your name?" He cut straight to the chase, asking the question slowly. He had two party animals for friends. He thought he was pretty okay at talking to drunk people.
She opened her mouth to answer but suddenly lurched to the side. Apparently choosing between speech and balance was becoming an issue. She was so far gone that she didn't even giggle when John's hand caught her other shoulder, steadying her once again. Her state seemed to have escalated quickly after leaving the club, like the music was somehow keeping her going.
"Where do you live? I can take you home." He tried to force her to look at him, but her gaze seemed to slide through him, her personal reverie not to be broken. He nodded as the decision on what to do was affirmed in his mind. "Alright, come on."
He helped the girl to where he left his friend, who's smirk and arched brow caused John to hold up his free hand. "Don't say a word." He warned.
Stanley didn't, surprisingly. He only grinned at John in what seemed to be pride. Pride at what? John thought as they worked on getting to his car, which he remembered was parked by the curb further down the street. He couldn't think of anything to do with pride now, because sometime in the last ten minutes, he had decided that if he couldn't get this girl's address, she would be coming home with him. Some people would respect it, but some people would call it kidnaping. The intoxicated woman beside him surely didn't mind any decisions he would make, but he feared she might have different opinions when she's sober and waking up in someone else's bed.
Worry gnawed at him until he got to the car, the weight of almost carrying the girl on his side reminding him how relieved he was that Stanley was conscious enough to get around his own, despite a fair bit of stumbling. After getting the apparent Jane Doe in the backseat and properly buckled up, he got in the drivers seat and did his best to ignore a grinning friend beside him.
"Never took you for that kind of man, Johnny." Stanley said.
"I'm taking her to her house." John corrected, pulling out of the parallel parking space.
"So you know where she lives?"
"No."
Stanley stared at him blankly, and it wasn't really much of a difference from his sober self. John ignored the look and Stanley got distracted by the recliner lever on the seat, pulling it up and roughly sending the back of the seat to its extent.
"Whipped, man." He muttered to seemingly nobody since John opted not to reply. He didn't even know what that sentence had to do with the circumstance at all, but judging by the arm over his friend's eyes and lack of cocky expressions on his face, Stanley wasn't in the state to be explaining anything.
Every once in a while John would look into the backseat as he drove, as if reminding himself that he did indeed put a stranger into the back of his car without their knowing consent. She still hasn't spoken, or barely given any clue to her level of responsiveness other than a semi-functional walking job. John didn't feel good about any of this at all, but he didn't see another option. He knew he'd feel worse about the situation if he just left her on her own, so at least he had that.
Stanley had to be woken up before making the stumbling trek to the door of his house, but John didn't leave right away. He turned around in his seat, pressing his lips together at the sight. Apparently sitting up proved to be a strenuous activity for the nameless girl because she had taken to lying down across the seats. The seatbelt looked like it was stretching uncomfortably over stomach, and the buckle must have been digging into her side, but she didn't seem to mind. John watched her for a moment, debating waking her up.
"Hey." He said anyway, something in the back of his mind telling him that she'd have to wake up eventually. Unsurprisingly, the murmured word wasn't enough to register through any drunken haze. He doubted any words would.
Her arm was hanging down from the seat and John felt a twinge of guilt as he reached back and lightly shook her wrist. He didn't like the idea of touching her in anyway whatsoever without her conscious knowledge. But he also didn't want her conscious knowledge to wake up on the side of the road, so he shook her arm a little harder until her eyebrows furrowed and she moved her arm slightly.
"I want to take you home. Can you tell me where you live?" John said clearly, seeking her eyes, which were still not open. He feared the sentence may be a tad too complicated for her at the moment, so he reverted to his earlier question. "What's your name?"
Her eyes opened, and it might have just been the darkness in the backseat, but he had never seen eyes so grey; captivating. "Six..."
Her voice was raspy, mumbled and quiet all at the same time, and at first he thought he didn't hear her right. Even when it registered, he didn't want to question it. An answer, as unreliable as it may be, was progress.
"What's your address?" He felt that creepiness radiated from the question and he was thankful that she was too drunk to notice, and most likely too drunk to remember.
The woman -who may or may not be named after a number- stared at him blankly, eyes half closed and lips parted. He silently urged her to continue, but after an incoherent mumble, whatever force propelled her to answer the first question must have given up.
"No, don't go back to sleep." John coaxed when he saw her eyes shut. He shook her wrist again. "Come on." No response. "Hey, uh... Six...?" He cringed as he said it because he was almost certain it wasn't her real name, and he was randomly saying a number in the form of a question.
He turned around again and let out a breath as he pressed the heels of his hands into the steering wheel. The logical part of him said that he couldn't bring her to his apartment, because as much as he could try to argue it in respect to the circumstances, kidnaping is a thing.
A wallet poked out of the back pocket of her jeans. He might look inside for an ID if it was in a different location, but that plan was out of the question. He could bring her to a hotel somewhere. But then she'd wake up disoriented and with weird imaginations of where the night took her, and John didn't want that. He could try and search her up on Facebook, but he didn't have anywhere to start his search aside from a not-so-believable first name. What would he even get if he found her on Facebook anyway? Certainly not an address.
Sighing, he pulled the gear shift to drive. Taking her home with him was a bad idea anyway. He knew the charges he could be brought up on, and it wasn't worth it. He hoped he would come up with a plan on the road, because he definitely wouldn't, for sure, not in a million years, take her to his place.
. . .
"Alright, out we come."
John grunted as he lifted "Six" out of the backseat, closing the car door and starting up the walkway to his apartment building. His unstable companion was half asleep and wasn't helping much as he started his journey. The stairs faced him when he got in through the door. They stared at him as though mocking him for his circumstance. He had to go up two stories and judging by his partner's dragging feet and the way he was pretty sure his right arm supported most -if not all- of her weight, she would not be very helpful.
Looking down at her, he let out a conflicted breath through his nose.
"Sorry, Six." He muttered, quickly using his other arm to cradle under her knees. Yes, he was doing this. He was carrying a stranger, bridal style, up the stairs to his one bedroom apartment.
He smiled tightly to a neighbour as they passed, nodding his head. "Evening."
The woman looked at the girl in his arms, but didn't ask questions about it, just like he didn't ask questions about where she was going that required her to leave at one o'clock in the morning.
He tried to be as quiet as possible with laying the girls' feet back down and getting his keys out of his pocket. The lock turned and the door opened, letting the couple in and closing again with the help of the blond's heel. Taking the woman immediately to his bedroom didn't take much thought for John, for as long as he had this plan he had always pictured himself taking the couch. The bed was already made when he opened the door, and he remembered that he should change the sheets. It's not like the bed was dirty or anything, it was just a polite thing to do for a guest.
Said guest was deposited on the couch while he grabbed some fresh sheets from a closet and put them on the bed. He decided he would just use the ones he pulled off the bed to make up his sleeping quarters on the couch. It didn't take him long, and soon enough John was lifting the woman again, this time to the place where she could sleep without any more interruption.
"Where...?" He was surprised to hear her voice again, as quiet and mumbled as it was. He rushed to respond, because this was definitely a question he knew she should know the answer to.
"You're at my apartment." He paused, unable to feel like his words were being absorbed. "I'm John, by the way."
He had hoped the introduction would lead to a similar choice of words from the young woman, but no such luck. She mumbled something as she attempted to move her feet, but only ended up troubling herself more.
"Hey, don't worry about that. I've got you." He said gently as they passed the doorway. He knew his words were falling on deaf ears, but he wanted to assure her anyway.
He sat her down on the bed and she dropped so fast that even she has the sense to bring her hands up to hold onto his shoulders, her grip surprisingly tight. He reached up and took her hands off him, but also making sure she was steady before he let go. She still struggled to sit on her own, and reached another hand out anyway. John chuckled when it fell in the same place.
Looking down, he noticed the sneakers still on her feet. He wasn't sure if he should take them off or not, but they couldn't be comfortable to sleep in, even for a person who's not aware they're even in a bed. He kneeled down and tried to touch only the shoes as he slipped them off her feet. Thankfully they were already loose.
The woman's hand had migrated to the upper part of his back instead of his shoulder when he was crouched down, and he reached a hand up to remove it once again. Holding the shoes in one hand, he looked up to be met with the face of his companion.
He swallowed hard. Yup, her eyes were grey. A vibrant shade against black eyeliner, some of which was smeared around her eyelid, the streaks feathering off like brushstrokes. He already knew she was beautiful, but being this close, it was now impossible to ignore the hair framing her face in perfectly messy strands. He felt bad for staring, but how could he not? Someone could not be so inconceivably drunk and still look that beautiful. But he was wrong, because she did.
His legs straightened abruptly, bringing his body up and forcing the woman out of his vision while he dropped the sneakers on the floor by the foot of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair.
"I'm going to get you a change of clothes." He informed her as if she cared. He turned his back to the swaying girl on his bed, guilt rushing through him as he looked through his drawers. He couldn't find much, but took out the smallest shirt he had along with a pair of jogging pants he was sure would go far beyond her ankles.
Maybe it wasn't too bad, he thought to himself as he closed the drawer, trying to justify his guilt. It's not like I was looking anywhere else but her face anyway.
Then he turned around.
"Shit." He span back around so fast the shirt fell from his hand. He rushed to pick it up while making sure he didn't catch view in that direction again. His hand ran through his hair.
Six had her pants off.
What the hell was he going to do? He wasn't sure why or how she took them off in the first place but he couldn't force her to put on pants.
So he did what any gentleman would do in the situation. He left the room.
Leaving the extra clothes on the foot of the bed, he hurried out the doorway and into the kitchen where he hoped getting her a glass of water would give her enough time to get under the covers. John was worried to head back in but he knew he had to. Hell, when he left her she was still sitting up. As unstable as she is, she could be on the floor by now. And he would be damned if he let a guest sleep on the floor.
To buy himself some extra time, he proceeded to collect a bucket, a tab of sticky notes and a pen, because as far as he was concerned, an explanation would be in order when she woke up.
He only glanced into the room as he entered, but quickly tore his eyes away as he saw her lying face down, the pulled back covers still in the same position as when he left. He creeped in armed with his handful of supplies along with a hand held up to the side of his face to act as a blinder. When he was near, he reached blindly with his free hand for the covers, sighing with relief when his hand caught the edge of the blanket. He pulled it over her, and only at that time did he take his hand down.
He wouldn't look at her again. After two instances of seeing things she didn't consent him to, he felt like an ass, even if it was an accident.
John placed the bucket strategically beside the bed, where he thought her head may be when she woke up and turned her on her side in case the sickness came sooner than the morning. The glass of water was placed on the nightstand and he got out the sticky notes and pen to start writing an explanation. He didn't know where to start. There was too much he wanted to explain that wouldn't fit on a small piece of paper. In the end, he settled with a short synopsis of the night followed by notification of him leaving her a change of clothes, and finally, directions to the bathroom. It would have to do.
He did briefly consider grabbing a few aspirin for her, but he didn't like the way a couple of lone pills would look on the bedside table, so he abandoned the idea.
He glanced at her once more; the sleeping woman who he could only relate to a number, and the stranger in which he put into his bed. Nerves ate him up as he walked back to the living room. But when he thought of everywhere else she could have ended up tonight, he was glad she took his bed.
. . .
She didn't wake up gradually in the hazy throbbing and grossness that usually followed a night of drinking. There was no lead up, no eased consciousness, no gentle lull into a morning of sickness. Instead, her mind was rudely thrust back into the real world and she woke to a hammering in her skull combined with a deep ache throughout her entire body. But aside from it all, she immediately suspected that what seemed to be the sensation of a thousand knives stabbing into her gut was the cause of her rude awakening. Her head filled with nausea, and then she was certain.
She instinctively pulled herself to the edge of the mattress before she threw up, the spinning in her head growing stronger by the moment. She didn't have time to be upset about ruining the floor, because she somehow found the energy to get up to find a bathroom before the train reaction kept coming.
She refused to open her eyes as she felt around for the door, though it somehow felt misplaced when she finally found it. Her muddled brain didn't question it until she ran into a wall on her way to the bathroom. It didn't make sense. Most mornings she walked the halls half-asleep, swaying with her eyes closed, and she never so much as stubbed her toe in her blind treks. Through some miracle, something managed to click in her brain. Is this...?
Opening her eyes the most minuscule amount of distance required for sight, she tried not the puke again as she took in the hall around her. She may have been out of it, but even in her hardly conscious state she was able to comprehend that her walls were beige, not grey. And unless her bathroom door became camouflaged with the magically painted wall overnight, she wasn't on the way to throw up in her toilet.
A small amount of fear instilled in her for a moment before her bathroom search became frantic, the urge to vomit getting more and more apparent with each second she thought about her mysterious whereabouts. She finally found the small, dark room, her knees giving out when she reached the toilet and her stomach expelling it's content in a not-so-pleasant manner. Apparently she went to bed on an empty stomach, because it was nearly all alcohol.
A lot of fucking alcohol.
She wasn't sure how long she kneeled on the floor, she only knew that by the time she got around to flushing the toilet, she felt like absolute shit. She was surprised she never threw up before this, but then, she could always hold her liquor. Her throat was sore and she breathed heavy and shakily, impossibly winded. Still, she hauled herself up with an unsteady effort, one hand braced on the sink counter, the other on the toilet cover. Then she stood looking into a mirror.
Jesus, she was a frightening sight. Her face had all the characteristics of a person who had ten too many drinks; all blotchy and red, and the parts that weren't blotchy were pale. She thought her red rimmed eyes complimented the dark bags underneath rather well, and was even nervous herself about the shade of pink replacing the location where white was supposed to be in her eyes. Her hair was an entirely different story all together. She was almost certain that she had it in a ponytail when she left last night, but she guessed it now somehow came alive and evolved into a new species overnight. Either that or a species was living in her hair. Each option seemed equally as probable.
In her fright, she nearly forgot about the lovely hammering in her head, it came back full force then, and she groaned, caring little for whoever else was in the house to hear her. She noticed the mirror was a medicine cabinet and maneuvered her shaky hands to pull it open, her doubling vision scanning for a painkiller. She wasn't picky in the type at the moment. She finally recognized a bottle of aspirin and shook three capsules out of the bottle, washing them down with some water from the sink. She also used it to clean up her face a bit, but couldn't be bothered to even try with her hair. As far as she was concerned, there was no hope.
It was only as she started dragging her feet back towards the room she came from that she realized something was not quite right. Of course, excluding the fact that she was in someone else's house with the worst hangover of her life. No, it was something other than that, but she couldn't put her finger on it. But then in a miraculous display of pure intelligence, she realized what it was.
She was wearing no pants.
She hadn't a clue why her drunken self felt the need to take off her jeans, but they most definitely were not on her body. She didn't ponder the query for long and made a faster effort to get to the -her?- room, closing the door once inside. She pressed her hands to her eyes as she collapsed onto the bed, barely holding herself in a sitting position.
It was funny really. Who else can tell the story about how they woke up in strange apartment, not remembering how they got in bed or how their clothes came off? Then she almost laughed at her internal question, because the answer was a lot of people. She just never thought she'd fall into the category. But now she's who knows where and having done who knows what with who knows who. She guessed she didn't know herself as well as she thought.
The woman sighed as she remembered her earlier mishap, and took a venture to imagine the mess in the floor. In fact, she was surprised she wasn't stepping in it. A stringy strand of hair interrupted her already limited vision as she peered down to the floor. It had to be a miracle, or the well-thinking owner of this apartment that put the bucket there, exactly where the sickness happened. There was no mess whatsoever, other than what was inside the bucket.
Despite feeling it near impossible to move at the moment, she felt it was her civic duty to wash it out right then and there, thumping back out into the hall and back to the washroom. She still only had her underwear on under her -thankfully- large shirt because what the hell, nobody came around the first time. Maybe the apartment was empty.
By the time she brought the bucket back to the room, her ears rang and pain stabbed her head with each step, her squinted eyes not doing much to block out the brightness of the hall. It was dark in her room though, because somebody had the mind to close the blinds.
This time she collapsed fully on the bed, willing away the ringing in her ears and the ache that was radiating around her entire being. Her head lolled lazily to the side, and that's when the weird assault of colours drew her eyes to the bedside table. Upon a strained lift of her head, she found the coloured things to be sticky notes and behind them was a glass of water alongside a short stack of clothes. She propped herself up on an elbow and blinked as the words blurred together on the paper. She took a gulp of water and tried again, this time righting herself into a sitting position. It seemed to be an explanation spanning across four separate sticky notes. She finally managed to clear her vision enough to read the first one.
Long story short, you were very drunk last night. I couldn't get your address so I brought you to my apartment since you didn't seem alright to be alone.
It was at this point the person writing it seemed to have some conflict. A few words are scratched out and they finally settled with,
Nothing happened between us.
The aching woman didn't know what a relief it would be to find out that fact until she saw it on paper. And even if she didn't know if the stranger behind this note was the most trustworthy character, she decided not to question it for now, instead starting on the second note.
I left a change of clothes for you if you want it. They won't fit well but they're an option. You can also wash your own clothes.
More scratched out words, until...
I don't know where your pants are.
She felt her cheeks flame and she closed her eyes in mortification. Reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose, she let out a groan at herself.
Her eyes moved to the next note.
The bathroom is right across the hall and to the left, you'll see it. There's extra toothbrushes in the third drawer down and feel free to use the toothpaste and mouth wash.
One more note.
There's a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet, and I left some towels by the shower in case you feel up to it. I'll probably be in the living room if you need me.
Hastily added to the bottom of the last note was,
My name is John by the way.
The woman hadn't felt her heart swell with so much gratitude before. The pure level of it was almost too much for her hazy mind to handle. It was simply impossible; somebody being so kind, so selfless as to take a complete stranger into their home, give them a bed, and treat them like a highly esteemed guest. Not mention the state she must have been in. No, she certainly hasn't felt gratitude like this before. She couldn't believe that this guy was acting as though he owed her something. She considered going out to thank him, but she also didn't want to scare the poor guy out of his own house with her appearance.
It was also nice that she now had permission to use his aspirin since that ship was sailed.
She decided to take up the offer of a shower, and as she made her way to the bathroom for the third time in this weird morning, she still didn't have pants on. She couldn't be bothered with the task now, honestly believing that her savour was entitled to see anything he wanted at this point. But she also suspected he wouldn't want to even if he had the chance. Considering his sheepish and conflicted explanation, she felt more secure than she had a right to as she walked this stranger's halls.
Now, only one more mystery remained for her exhausted mind.
How the fuck did the shower work?
. . .
The water from the shower must have blessed her with a miracle. The dampness made her hair miraculously tameable, and the pale-to-red ratio on her face seemed to have merged to create something close to her natural skin tone. Of course, not everything was cured. She still felt like absolute crap and her eyes still squinted like she was staring into the sun, even though she showered in the dark. Every cell in her body pulled toward the prospect of returning to the bed but she refused it. It was bad enough that she was already here. This is not a place where she would spend all day nursing her hangover.
She had already put on the clothes that her saviour had provided her, and the oversized shirt and pants were not doing her body any favours. Putting her actual clothes on was not an option though. She'd rather meet this guy looking sloppy than smelling of alcohol and sweat. Oh well, she no longer looked like something resurrected from the dead, and in her condition, she believed it was all she could hope for.
Armed with a haphazard ponytail and no clue what to say to whoever she would meet beyond the bathroom and the bedroom, she scuffled out of the bathroom to finally meet the guy. John, she reminded herself hastily. His name is John.
It didn't take her too long to find the living room, but he wasn't there. Instead, the kitchen connected to the space, only separated by the change of flooring from wood to tile. A man stood back-on to her, looking down at the counter and looking like he was preparing something there. She noted that he was tall and obviously fit, but she wasn't worried. If nothing happened already, nothing would. Not wanting to startle him by talking, she made her footsteps slightly heavier as she approached, hoping he would notice. She wasn't excited for the whole 'thank you' thing, but it needed to happen, and it was time to get it over with.
He heard her footfalls and turned around, and then she suddenly regretted doing anything to draw attention to herself. Because out of everything that could have come to her mind, she did not expect her first thought to be hot damn. She could feel her squinted eyes widen slightly at the sight of him. Him and his shaggy blond hair. Him and his deep blue eyes. Him and his jaw line. His lips lifted into a shy smile and if the woman wasn't so shocked she might laugh. Oh John, she thought, you have nothing to be shy about.
Even more shocking, she felt shy. Here he was looking like an angel in jogging pants and t-shirt, nothing but handsome. Meanwhile, she needed a twenty minute shower to look anything close to presentable. She didn't know what to say. After all, what could she say to somebody who was the exact definition of saint. She already knew that she was in-debt to him, but somehow it made it worse that he was attractive.
So she stood there for a minute, feeling stupid as she willed words to make an appearance. But God, she felt so awkward. At least she had pants on.
"Maren." She said finally. Her voice sounded a little scratchy, but he didn't seem to mind.
His lips pulled into a more amused smile, like there was a joke behind her introduction that she didn't get. "John." He looked nervous; one hand going to his pocket and the other scratching the back of his neck. She couldn't understand why he would be nervous. She felt like it was judgement day or something. If anything, he should be bursting with arrogance after what he did for her.
"I know." She replied. She cleared her throat, pointing behind her in the direction of her temporary bedroom. "I saw the sticky notes."
"Right." He said quickly, a little too quickly. He opened his mouth, seeming to debate what he wanted to say for moment, reminding Maren of his sticky notes. "I'm sorry."
The woman's eyebrows shot up. She could help it, she laughed. It was short and quiet, like her amusement knew that a loud noise would only cause her head to ache. "For what?"
John was looking at her weird, and for a moment she forgot she was wearing his clothes and probably still looked like something dragged out of the ditch. Of course he was looking her weird. Maren felt thankful that he was managing to hide his expressions as much as he was. Still, he seemed a little less on edge now.
"For uh, kind of bringing you here without your permission." He explained. She opened her mouth but he kept going. "Nothing happened though, I promise. I mean, it probably seems a bit suspicious because your pants were off, but I didn't do that and I tried not to look but I did accidentally turn around when I didn't know it happened. And I should have put some aspirin on the table for your hangover but I thought it would look suspicious, but now I think I should have because- wait, that didn't come out right, I mean -"
"John, shut up." She had to stop his rambling. After all, even with the help of multiple pain killers, her muddled brain could only handle so much at once. She tried to address some of the concerns in his speech, but found herself unable to piece everything together. "You're a saint." She settled on, hoping the comment overshadowed her rudeness from her interruption.
He didn't seem convinced but smiled anyway, even though it didn't reach his eyes. He looked over his shoulder at whatever he was preparing when she walked in. She realized it was toast.
"Do you want some breakfast?" He asked. He sounded eager the break the awkward silence between them.
"No." She said immediately. He looked at her in a way that made her rush to explain. "I mean, I've already taken your bed and your clothes..." Maren glanced down at her attire as she spoke. "And your aspirin." She added hastily.
John nodded, his expression serious. "Yeah, you're right. A piece of toast would obviously be crossing the line." She felt her lips twitch and he smiled, a teasing light in his clear eyes. She was sure her's were foggy in comparison. "Come on." He continued. "Have one piece of toast. I promise, it'll be the best you've ever had."
She raised a sceptical eyebrow, drawing closer to the counter, which had two stools on one side and what she assumed to be storage space on the other. "The best I've ever had, huh?"
John grinned and she knew he took it as an agreement. He gestured to the stools and she she sat while he turned around, taking a couple pieces of bread out of a bag and placing them in a toaster. She didn't tell him she wanted more than one piece, but she was glad he assumed. She was hungry after the events of the morning.
"So," He started, turning around with his own food in hand, "any specific numbers you have an attachment to?"
It struck her as a weird question, and if her head was clearer she might have made an effort to conceal her facial expressions. Considering her mind could hardly find the sense to answer, she assumed her confusion was on full display. Plus, she heard John chuckle.
"Not that I know of." She replied. John nodded and took a bite of his toast. She could see his lips stretch into a badly stifled smile and she sighed, curiosity and premature embarrassment causing her to ask, "Why?"
"You told me your name was Six."
She closed her eyes and sighed at herself. "Of course I did." She muttered, knowing that her drunk self was never one to bother with silly concepts like logic. "Well, it's not." Maren opened her eyes, trying hard not to squint so she could seem at least a little more presentable. John narrowed his own eyes at her.
"See, now it sounds suspicious. How do I know that 'six' isn't some alias?"
"Why would I have an alias?"
"Because you're a secret government assassin, obviously."
She raised her eyebrows with a flat expression and John grinned. The expression made her want to smile more than the joke. "Did I say anything else?" She asked, relieved when he shook his head.
"No, you only said, like, two words the entire time. You basically passed out as soon as I got you in the car." He smiled reassuringly even though Maren was sure her drunken state was less than unpleasant to deal with. "I tried to get your address but-"
"That's probably why I said 'six'." She interrupted, but immediately felt bad for cutting him off. Jesus, this wasn't just anyone she was talking to, it was the stranger she was in debt to. Surely she could find some semblance of politeness inside herself just for this one occasion. "Sorry." She shook her head at herself. "It's just that my house number is six. It's probably where I got it from."
"Ah." He nodded, seemingly running out of things to say. She was too, and she thought about leaving for a moment before remembering the toast he was making for her. She forced herself to scramble together a topic of conversation.
"Could I get a drink?" She asked suddenly, regretting the words immediately. Great, asking for more stuff from him, like he hadn't already given her enough.
"Yeah, for sure." He jumped into action, standing by the fridge quicker than her eyes could even follow his movements. "What do you want?"
"I can get it myself." She said. "If that's okay." She added quickly, not wanting to invite herself into his fridge along with his home.
He smiled, and it was the teasing one again. The kind of smile that blocked out the throbbing in her head for a moment. "I didn't ask you to get it yourself. I asked what you wanted to drink."
She just looked at him for a moment before relenting. "Well, if you're going to be so bossy about it, orange juice." He laughed and nodded, grabbing a carton out of the fridge, along with a glass from a cupboard. She looked around while he poured her drink, finding a familiar looking phone case on the inside corner of the counter. "Is that my phone?" She asked.
John turned around while putting the cap onto the container, eyebrows furrowed until she pointed at the device. "Oh, yeah. I found it on the living room floor after you went to bed." He laid her drink on the counter in front of her. "Sorry, I should have given it to you earlier." He shook his head at what Maren could only assume to be himself, and reached over, grabbing it for her so she wouldn't have to stretch for it.
She gave him a look. "You need to stop apologizing for things you don't need to apologize for." He only smiled and nodded, and she had a feeling he was biting back another apology.
She hit the power button and cringed at the influx of texts from her roommates. She had to scroll down three times before she got to the end of the notifications. She still wasn't sure how many were there, but she saw a lot of capital letters and exclamation marks, along with a threat to get the police involved if the texts were not answered soon. There were also several missed calls.
"Oh boy." John cringed too. "You better go deal with that."
She sighed. "Good idea."
Standing up, she already began opening the phone app as she walked into the living room. She debated taking a seat on the couch, lest she seem too comfortable in a house that she had no right to be, but she admitted defeat quickly after imagining what she'll have to deal with in a few seconds.
She pressed the number of her least worry-driven friend first and listened to the phone ring once... Twice...
"Well look who decided to freaking call!"
"Sorry, I-"
"Do you know how worried we were?"
"I'm starting to get a feeling."
"The last we heard from you, you had just gotten fired! How did we know you weren't going to go jump off a bridge or something?"
"That's extreme-"
"You don't call, you don't text! You could be murdered and left in a ditch with a knife sticking out of your back!"
"That's oddly specific."
"Don't be a smartass, Maren. This is serious."
Maren could tell from her friend's voice that she was calming down, and she hoped they would somehow graduate to a halfway civil conversation. All hope of that vanished as she heard a voice in the background.
"Is that Maren?"
Maren's eyes widened. "Riley, do not put Mar on the phone."
"Put her on speaker."
"Do not put me on speaker."
Riley laughed. "Oh Maren," she said, "you're about the hear how serious this is."
Maren took a breath and held the phone away from her ear as another voice came out of it, very much not in the mood for forgiveness. Maren got it, her friend was a worrier, but it didn't mean she had to listen.
After a minute, she heard Marina sigh and she knew she had gotten all of her nights of worries out. She held the phone back to her ear and her friend's voice was unsurprisingly quieter, though still irritated. "Where are you anyway?"
"Oh, uh..." Maren looked up, caught John's eyes and immediately looked down again. She'd rather sit through more yelling then have to explain this. "I crashed at someone's apartment."
There was silence, and Maren had expected that. After all. She didn't have many other friends- Wait... is that what she considered John now? A friend? She glanced at him again but thankfully he was now turned the other way, pretending to examine something on the fridge. No he's just a good-hearted guy, she concluded, shaking off whatever feeling was nagging at her. Then she chastised herself. Not a guy, a man, she corrected. She looked him up and down. Definitely a man.
"Who is this someone?" Riley asked. The phone must have been on speaker.
"His name is John." Maren tried to be quiet as possible, but he probably didn't care wether she talked about him or not.
"Maren, you didn't-"
"No!" She said it a little too loud and quickly corrected her tone, hoping John was still opting for the pretending-to-ignore-the-conversation option. "No." She repeated, quieter. "He just, like... uh... saw-no that's not right, wait..." She sighed. How could she explain this in a way that didn't make it awkward for him to overhear? "I'm too hungover to explain, I'll tell you later." She finally settled on.
"Okay then." Marina said, not seeming to like that idea. Maren couldn't care less. "You are safe though?"
"Yes." The reply came quick and without a second thought.
"Okay then." Riley repeated Marina's words. "So... is John hot?"
Maren raised an eyebrow at the question because, Jesus, could they really not sense his attractiveness through just a phone call? It was glaringly obvious. She leaned back on the couch, trying to make the reply as casual as possible.
"Uh huh."
"Like on a scale from one to ten."
"Ten." Another quick reply.
"Is he nice?"
"He's making me toast right now."
"And why didn't you have sex with him?"
"I was drunk." She saw him glance over out of the corner of her eye and suddenly realized how strange the responses must have sounded without hearing the conversation. She refused to look at him, feeling like he would find out the embarrassing topic of conversation just by locking eyes. "I can't even remember anything."
"You should get his number."
"Probably."
"And then a marriage license."
"And we're done talking. I'll see you guys later." She hung up the phone, walking back to the kitchen like the conversation was just boring. In reality, she could admit to a small bit of fear at the prospect of John somehow finding out that her friend's may be planning a wedding behind both their backs.
John looked at her as she sat back down, seemingly out of place in his own kitchen. "I take it your friends are mad." He finally said.
"Not mad, just worried."
He nodded. "They do have a right." He agreed. She looked at the counter, feeling that stupid embarrassed feeling settle inside her again. She already knew what she did was idiotic, and she knew that she probably looked like a fool. John just smiled a little. "So, Six," he said. she snorted at the name and John's lips pulled into what could almost be a grin. "What happened yesterday to cause you to go to a bar by yourself?"
She almost turned defensive, about to tell him that lots of adults go get a couple of drinks alone all the time. It's not like she was some anomaly or something. But then, she did have more than a couple drinks. And John did deserve a lot more than an explanation.
"Well, should I start from the beginning?" She asked.
"Hmm..." John clicked his tongue and pretended to think. Maren noticed a crease appear between his eyebrows as they tugged together. "That is where people usually start, isn't it?"
"Oh, and you're funny too. Great." She took a sip of her orange juice, looking at him over the rim of the cup with an unimpressed gaze.
His mouth quirked into a smile and she hated it because damn, she wanted to smile back so bad. "And yet, for some reason you don't seem amused."
"I am, don't worry." She said. "I'm just trying to figure out wether I should file that talent in above or below 'toast maker extraordinaire'."
"Oh yeah, that is a tough one." John nodded with another thoughtful look. If the comment didn't make a smile appear of her face, his expression certainly made her put up a fight. She was pretty sure her lips twitched when she saw the crease between his eyebrows appear again, and she hoped he didn't notice. But then he grinned, and she knew he caught her, but she was too distracted by his gorgeous eyes to care. "Well you know what I'm trying to figure out?" He asked. She raised her eyebrows expectantly and he continued. "Why you're avoiding my question."
"Because it's sad and then you're going to feel sad for me and I don't want you to because it's stupid."
He must have been thrown off guard by the honest answer, but she wasn't. Her hangover mouth was never one to want to hold back. John quickly washed away his surprise and instead shrugged. "Try me."
Maren looked at him seriously. "I don't know if you're ready for how pathetic this is going to be."
"Ready is my middle name."
Another almost-smile. She looked down. "Alright then." She took a breath. "So first, my alarm died and I slept in. Then my car wouldn't start so I had to wake up my neighbour to give me a boost, and he wasn't thrilled about it. I broke down again on my way to work and I couldn't flag anyone down so I walked the rest of the way in the rain, only to find out when I got there that they were planning on firing me anyway. Which was just..." she chuckled, "the absolute highlight of my year. So I went to get a coffee but Tim Hortons made a mistake and gave me a tea instead, and then I tripped up on my way into the bar." She nodded, tracing a finger along the counter top absentmindedly. "Oh, and I got a fly bite, which is probably the worst thing out of it all."
"I agree." John smiled for a moment but quickly sobered up, his mouth slanting. "The rest sounds pretty terrible too. I'm sorry that happened to you."
She looked at his sympathetic face for a second, and while it was nice that, yeah, he actually cared, she hated that look. She hated when anybody looked at her like that, because she didn't need it. Especially not now while enduring her extra-irritable-hangover-extravaganza.
"Don't look at me like that." She ordered, maybe a little too harshly.
John didn't bother playing dumb, vanishing the look from his face in less time than it took him to blink. She narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her cup as she took a sip and he held up his hands. "Sorry, it's sad." He defended. She saw the corner of his lip quirk up. "Also funny..." she glared at him, "but mostly sad."
"And that's why is didn't want to tell you." She pointed her cup at his face. "Because I get the whole 'poor baby' treatment. Trust me, I'm fine and I'm not going to fall into a deep state of depression because I lost my crappy job at McDonalds. So... there." She nodded at her statement and John smirked at her over-exaggerated version of 'fine'.
"Well, I'm honestly more concerned about the fly bite." He played along.
"It's on my ankle."
"Such a tragedy."
He broke into a laugh before she could this time, but her own grin wasn't far behind. God, what was it with this guy? For some reason even her hangover couldn't battle whatever he was making her feel.
He looked at her for a moment before he turned only a tad serious. "I hope this morning is at least a little better than the day you had yesterday."
She smirked and watched as his eyebrows perked up in amusement at the oddly cheerful expression. "It would be, if not for one thing."
"And what would that be, Six?" He asked teasingly.
She let herself smile at the joke. "John." She said. He raised his eyebrows expectantly and she copied the expression. "The toast is burning."
It took him a second to comprehend what she said, but then he did. She tilted her head innocently as the smell of blackened bread caused his eyes to widen, watching behind him as smoke drifted to the ceiling.
"Shit."
Hey guys, thanks for reading. Like I said, I will update this every now and then but it is not my main concern at the moment.
Nevertheless, hope you enjoyed and let me know what you thought :)