Deacon Clayborne was a simple man in a not-so-simple situation. Sunlight streamed through his window, casting rays on Bucky, who was asleep, only half-clothed, on his bedroom floor. How could this have happened?

Bucky was Rayna's manager and, at this point, probably her best friend. Deacon could only imagine what Rayna thought of him by now, and after this? Well, he was pretty much screwed. And depending on the parts of last night that he couldn't remember, that might or might not have been literal.

Bucky stirred, his bright eyes just a bit hazy, squinting as though trying to figure out if he was awake or just dreaming.

Those eyes. Deacon could remember the first time seeing Bucky's stunning bluish-grey eyes. They were both much younger men back then; Deacon was just a kid with a guitar trying to make his dreams come true, and Bucky was the next up-and-coming manager for anybody who wanted to be somebody, and if Deacon had played his cards right that night, he might have been Bucky's somebody instead of Rayna's nobody special. But that was the past, this was the present, and this was Bucky on his bedroom floor.

"G'morning." Deacon drawled faux-carelessly as his friend finally had the energy to sit up. "Do you have any idea what the hell happened last night? I remember talking about Rayna's new record, and you trying to get me to come back, and opening up a bottle of Jack, and then...I got nothing."

Bucky nodded, standing. "Then nothin's what I got too," he replied emphatically.

Deacon's eyebrows shot up. He knew that tone. "That don't sound like nothin', Bucky."

"Look, Deacon...I got a wife, I got kids...I got a lot of things that I can't go messin' up just because..." his voice trailed off. He gave Deacon a pained look. "Nothin' happened because nothin' can happen."

"I understand." Not that he wasn't disappointed. "But someday—"

"Don't. It hurts too much." Bucky pulled on his shirt and gathered his things. He couldn't help but kiss Deacon one last time before he left. He didn't do it for Deacon, though. He did it for himself.

Deacon watched him as he walked to his car, looking shiftily to each side as though anyone would see him or care if they did. He'll be back, he thought to himself. They always come back.

...

"Do you realize what time it is?"

Bucky took a deep breath and sat down at the kitchen table. "It's 9AM, Rhoda. I know, I shoulda called when I knew it was gonna be a late night—"

"What was I suppos'ta tell the boys when you weren't here before they went to school?" Rhoda busied herself with wiping the already-spotless white countertop with a dishrag. "I told them you were at work, but you don't smell like you been workin' much—"

"Alright now, settle down." He allowed his mind to briefly flicker back to the night before. He remembered everything, right down to the last shot of whiskey and every last word that came out of Deacon's mouth. Shut up!, his brain screamed at him. "I had a long night in the studio. We had some drinks when we finished recording, and then I fell asleep on the couch. I'm sorry, hon'. I didn't mean to worry you."

He gave his wife that pitiful look that he knew melted her every time. She still didn't look happy, but she relaxed a little bit. He was home free. "Come on over here. You didn't even kiss me good morning when I got here."

Rhoda smiled sheepishly. "I was mad as hell and you stink to high heavens of booze." She kissed his forehead. "You need a shower."

"Amen." Bucky made his way upstairs to his bathroom and shut the door behind him. He leaned forward against the sink to study himself in the mirror. Two knocks on the door jolted him.

"I put some extra towels in the closet." His wife called through the door. "Don't you think you're getting too old for this kinda thing? Drinkin' all night with musicians and passing out on couches? You look like you been rode hard and put up wet."

Honey, you have no idea.