AN:This is a sickly sweet piece but I'm a grossly affectionate person when I'm drunk (my friends will be told I love them roughly 500 times), so I decided to basically make Jean me.
9:13PM
Atticus Finch was working late again. Owing to preparing for one of the biggest cases of his career to date, he had been working late everyday for just over a week and a half. He had lost count of the number of meetings he had had in the past few days with the young man he had been appointed to defend; a rough looking twenty-two year old accused of brutally beating his fiancée last September. He was denying it, of course, but when Atticus informed him that the prosecution were trying to also include a charge of rape, he got a little glimpse of the anger that wouldn't make it difficult to believe he was guilty as sin.
He hadn't wanted to take the case in the first place, trying to stay away completely from anything concerning criminal law, but Judge Taylor had named Atticus as the man for the job, so he was stuck. It meant that he was spending more time at the office and less time at home.
Less time with Jean.
Just thinking about Jean made him feel extraordinarily guilty. His wife of just over two months had been spending more time on her own than she rightfully should have. He knew she was perfectly capable of looking after herself, but he hated thinking of her spending close to all day in the house alone. Jean, of course, said it didn't bother her in the slightest, saying that he couldn't be worrying about her when he had an office to run. The world didn't stop just because two people got married.
"And besides, how else are you gonna be able to buy me all those pretty things I want?" She had teased him the first evening he had arrived home late.
He knew that Jean didn't care, knew that she wasn't holding it against him, but he still felt guilty. She was his wife, his new wife, and he wanted to be spending as much time as humanely possible with her. She didn't deserve silently eating supper alone and sitting in an empty house to all hours waiting on her husband. She deserved him there with her, and truth be told, he missed her when he was working these late nights. As he packed his things up for the evening, he told her photo on his desk that he was on his way, and quickly locked up his office.
Maycomb sat quiet and still as Atticus made his way through the town, the only sounds being that of crickets in nearby bushes. He enjoyed the quiet as he strolled home, enjoyed the non-existent threat of some nosy resident popping up in front of him and asking how the case was progressing. Owing to the young man being popular within the town and the nature of what he was being accused of, people were just itching to know the ins and outs of the case. He didn't know why people were so obsessed with knowing the particulars of his more heavy cases, maybe it was seeing the despicable situations that others were in that made them feel better about their own lives, but it irritated him to no end. He wondered how they would feel if the shoe was on the other foot.
He shook those thoughts from his head the further he got to home, thinking more about his Jean as he turned up their street. In the space of two months, he had gone from coming home to an empty and cold house, to coming home to the sound of infectious laughter, the smell of perfume mixed with whatever Jean was cooking, and the warm, loving embrace of the woman he loved more than anything. Even on these nights where he usually wasn't home before eight, Jean was still sitting waiting for him with that wonderful smile that was uniquely hers. No matter how late he arrived home, that smile never dimmed, and she always looked at him as though she were just seeing him for the first time. Jean never failed to brighten his day.
When he reached his house, he couldn't help but to pause and listen to the sounds coming from inside, finding it impossible to discern what on earth it could be. Was something wailing in there? Had Jean gotten a cat while he was at the office? Wincing slightly, he creaked open the door and expected to see Jean chasing after a new addition to the household.
But he didn't.
What he did see was his wife dancing around the living room and singing along loudly to the radio, a near three quarters empty bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table. Staring amusedly at the scene before him, he removed his hat and his jacket, and leaned against the living room arch to wait for her to notice him. She continued to dance with her back to him, still singing loudly and obnoxiously, but eventually she caught sight of him.
"Atticus Finch!" Jean exclaimed, her cheeks flushed as she threw open her arms and grinned at him. "What in the world." She paused for a second to take a breath. "Are you doin' here?" She asked, almost as though he hadn't just walked in through the door of his own home.
"I live here, honey," Atticus answered, trying hard to keep his face straight.
Jean began laughing as though he had just told her the worlds funniest joke. "You live here," she repeated, as though the statement was the funniest thing she had ever heard. "That's what they all say."
"You wouldn't happen to be drunk, would you, Jeannie?" Atticus asked, watching her drop unceremoniously in front of the radio and struggle with the dial to change the station.
Once she had successfully managed that, she was trying to walk straight at him, though she bumped into the coffee table and nearly tripped on the rocker on her way over. She slapped her hands down heavily on his shoulders, then moved them up so she was grasping both sides of his face and kissed him square on.
"I am not drunk, Atticus," she said firmly. "I only had one glass." She held up two fingers, looked at them for a minute and put one down.
"Really?" Atticus smiled at her. "You know the bottle doesn't count as one glass?" He teased her.
"Shhhhhh!" She giggled at him, placing a finger on her lips. "C'mere." She was taking both his hands, walking backwards into the living room and still grinning at him.
"Jeannie, what are you doing," Atticus asked, unable to stop himself smiling back at her.
Jean let go of his hands and placed them on the sides of his face again. "This is my favourite song." She said, giving him another kiss. "And my husband is gonna dance with me to it," she said very matter of fact.
"Honey, you know Jack is the dancer in the family, not me. You danced with him more than me at our wedding," Atticus reminded her, but Jean was having none of it.
"Am gonna teach you, then," she said simply.
Knowing his wife as he did, he knew she wasn't going to relent, and it did his heart good seeing her so happy, so he stayed put. Jean laughed as she set him up right in front of her, she laughed when she had to show him where he had to put his hands, and she laughed harder than ever when he messed up the steps, though he may have been doing it on purpose just for that reason.
"No, honey!" She stopped suddenly in the middle of the living room. "This leg moves!" She said, hitting the side of his left thigh. "And your hand stays here." She moved his hand up to her lower back. "Not where you had it. I know what you're thinkin'." She said slowly, wagging her index finger in front of his face.
"You caught me, my love, I'm sorry," he apologised, trying to contain his laughter again.
Jean tried to look annoyed at him, but erupted into laughter once again and rested her head against his chest, allowing him to keep turning them both around the living room.
"I may be drunk," Jean murmured out. "But I still think you're an awful, awful man," she teased him.
Atticus wasn't complaining about his current situation at all. His arms were locked so tightly around her that he could feel her body move as she breathed, though he was very aware that she was depending completely on him to keep her upright. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo and perfume, mixing together to form something citrusy sweet, and a scent he was coming to recognise as being solely Jean. He gently kissed her hair as they turned, thinking of how things had changed for him in a short space of time. Three years ago he definitely wouldn't have believed that he'd be slow dancing with his drunk wife in their living room, or that he would have a wife at all. He wouldn't have believed that he'd be as utterly happy as he was with his life right now and he wouldn't change a thing.
When the song on the radio changed to one they both recognised as being played at their wedding, Jean attempted to bury her head even deeper into his chest, letting out a contented sigh as she did so.
"This was played at our weddin'," she mumbled, her words starting to slur, though with drunkenness or tiredness he wasn't sure.
"Mhmm. It was." Atticus replied, placing another kiss into her hair.
"Atticus, can I tell you somethin'?" Jean said, sounding as though she was about to tell him some long kept secret.
"Depends on what it is," Atticus teased her.
"I love you."
Atticus grinned, thankful she wasn't looking at him. "Is this somethin' you're just realising?" He teased her again.
Against his chest, he felt her try and shake her head. "No. I've known it for a while," she said very seriously. "If I had to choose between you...you and that bottle of wine, I'd choose you," she mumbled, her voice starting to sound heavy with sleep.
Atticus laughed and pulled her closer to him. "Well, honey, I am very happy to hear that. Thank you for putting my fears to rest," he teased her.
"Mmm," she mumbled. "I really, really love you, Atticus." She was then saying, looking up and placing both of her hands on the side of his face again. "Really," she repeated as though he hadn't believed her. "We've been married for...for," she stopped to think for a second. "Two months, and they've been the happiest two months of my life."
Atticus leaned in to kiss her. "Can I tell you somethin', too?" He whispered at her, smiling when her eyes lit up.
"What?"
"I love you, too."
Jean beamed and buried her head in his chest again. "Of course you do. Only a fool wouldn't," she said, making him laugh.
For a little while longer, he allowed himself to hold his wife close to him, turning her slowly around the room before tiredness overtook her. When he felt her go near completely heavy in his arms, and felt like he was practically dragging her around the living room rather than dancing, he was gathering her up and carrying her across the hall to their room.
"Atticus," she mumbled sleepily. "I wasn't finished teaching you how to dance," she protested, her head already falling against his shoulder.
"You can teach me more tomorrow. You've tired yourself out trying to teach me tonight. I'm an awful student," Atticus said humouring her.
She mumbled something incoherent against his shoulder, already falling asleep when he set her down to pull back the covers and help her in the bed. She was out cold as soon as her head hit the pillow, her loud and obnoxious snoring telling him she would have no memory of their dance practice the following morning. He slowly shook his head as her snoring continued to get louder, but he was happy, so very happy.