Will runs a hand over his eyes in a vain attempt to push away a burgeoning headache. Ever since he'd returned to work, he'd had trouble sleeping in his own bed. Prison beds were flat, uncomfortable things, but he'd become accustomed to them and now his mattress felt like it was swallowing him. Lack of sleep meant lack of focus, and persistent headaches.
Somewhat unprofessionally, he had released his students from class early. One of them had stopped briefly to tell him, "We're all very glad to have you back. The idiot they had teaching was boring as hell." For one of the first times, Will actually looked into the face of a student. Young and eager, still littered with acne spots…yet Will found his words were honest. Had he actually been missed?
Not one to coddle his students, he'd never felt himself to be a particularly good teacher. Weren't good teachers supposed to give inspirational messages and push their students to achieve their greatest potential. In high school, his math teacher had forced them to watchStand and Deliver every year. When he thought of good teachers, the image of Jaime Escalante pervaded his mind, all combover and inspirational quotes: "You only see the turn, you don't see the road ahead." Will wasn't like that. In fact, he avoided direct contact with his students as much as possible.
But he had managed to force out uncomfortably, "Thanks…that's nice of you to say." Now, watching the student retreat out into the hallways behind the others, he feels that he should have been kinder, more grateful. But the headache is getting to him and he just wants to go home and take an Ibuprofen and sleep. Maybe on the floor.
He starts to pack up papers. Muffled steps interrupt the process, and he looks up to see Beverly, dressed casually in jeans and a tattered, blue sweater. "I didn't know Jack allowed us to do casual Fridays."
"It's been quiet, so Jack gave me the afternoon off," Beverly says. "So unless somebody gets themselves murdered, I'm free for the day."
"You have the afternoon off, and you came here?" Will asks, putting folders away in his messenger bag. "I'm flattered."
"Don't be," Beverly says, holding up a cardboard box with a lame, red gift bow taped to it. "I came to drop off a gift. The guys were too afraid to do it. They feel guilty about believing you were a serial killer." She says it like they are discussing cereal brands.
"Not you, though?"
"No," she tells him. "I'm not afraid of you. And I never thought you did it, even if you did."
"Really?" Will says, unbelievingly.
"Really," she says. "Anyways, this is our "sorry for thinking you killed people" gift. I feel like I kind of spoiled it for you, though."
Will takes it from her. It isn't heavy. Beverly looks at him with something akin to amusement.
"What is it?" he asks.
"You're not really familiar with the whole gift concept, are you? Open it and find out."
Will shakes his head, smiling reluctantly. "I never get gifts."
"Never?"
"No, we were poor growing up," he confesses. "The last time I got a gift was a college girlfriend. It felt obligatory."
"Can't imagine you with a college girlfriend," Beverly muses as he tears the tape off the box and sets the red bow down on his desk.
"Neither could her friends," he replies, trying to ignore the slight sting of her words as he pops the cardboard tabs open. Inside is a metal construct about the height of his hands. Little, silver strings connect the parallel bars to tiny, silver-black objects.
"Newton balls?" he laughs, setting it on his desk. "Newton bullets," he corrects.
"Is that what they're called?" Beverly asks.
"What, you haven't actually been calling them "clanging, smacking ball things", have you?" he inquires bemusedly.
"Pretty much," she says. He reaches forward and pulls the leftmost bullet away from the others, then lets go. It clacks against them, and the rightmost one swings out, and then the leftmost again. It doesn't work quite as well as a real set of Newton balls, but the sentiment is there. "Thank you," he says, genuinely.
A little quirk of a smile appears on her lips. "Well, I'm glad you're back."
Will chooses not to comment on her slip, the little differentiation between "I'm glad" and "We're glad". He fumbles with his messenger bag, hoisting the strap onto his shoulder. There is a tense, quiet sort of moment between them, in which she looks at him with her dark eyes inquisitively.
"Are you glad to be back?" she asks him, direct as always.
"Yes," he replies instinctively.
"Why?" she asks. "I didn't think you particularly liked any of us here."
"I like you," he says, defensively.
"Do you?"
"Yes. Why wouldn't I?"
"No reason," Beverly says. There is a hard, steely look in her eyes, and Will wonders if he's said something wrong. No, he knows he's said something wrong. His empathetic mind is practically screaming at him: Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
"Tell you what," he says, scrambling, a little bit desperate to hold onto one of his only friends. Are they friends? Friends do things together. Social things. Yes, he should ask her to do something social. "Let's do something."
"Something."
"You know. Something social."
She looks at him strangely, and then cracks up laughing.
"What?"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, you were serious. Just the way you said that, like you were asking me to walk into a quarantine area or something…"
Will bristles. "I can be sociable. If I want to."
"I know," she says, growing serious.
"I can even enjoy it a little, sometimes."
"No, of course. What would you like to do, Graham?"
"Coffee," he says. It's safe, and its the first thing to come into his head. Coffee is easy. Just talking. He doesn't have to tell her anything important. One conversation, it might not even last that long. An hour. Sixty minutes.
Easy.
Seventy-four minutes in and Beverly is looking at him, scandalized.
"You are a liar, Will Graham!"
"I'm not lying, I swear."
"Never? Not once?" she probes. "Not even, like, a little?"
"No. I have never been drunk. Not even a little."
"Why the hell not?"
"I was advised against it." Will looks at her raised eyebrows. She is leaning forward against the coffee shop table. People they work with could walk by any second, and she's pulling information out of him like he's a vending machine that spits out embarrassing memories instead of candy. His mind backtracks over their conversation, and even retrospectively he can't see a way he could have avoided her questions without seeming like a jerk. She was just so direct.
"Because you're unstable?" she says, more of a statement than a question.
"Yes. The loss of control would be…potentially dangerous, in my case."
"No wonder college sucked for you. Bet you lived in the library."
"That's not fair," he mutters. His coffee's gone cold. He should leave. He doesn't know why he hasn't left already.
"True. At least you didn't have to deal with hangovers."
"Look, Beverly, this was really nice. We should, um, do it again." Why would you say that? Will curses himself internally. We definitely should never, ever do this again.
But Beverly's not going to let him off that easy. "Oh, no. No. There's no way you're leaving now."
"I have to get home. Feed the dogs. It's almost seven."
"Yes, it is," she says, eyes gleaming with something devious. "It's seven o'clock on a Friday night and you are an single adult who is about to go home and feed his dogs and go to bed. Alone."
"Yes. That's a good summary." He doesn't like the shifty look in her eyes.
"Nope," she says. "That's not going to happen. Because you, Will Graham, are going to come get drunk with me."
"No!" Will almost shouts, before he remembers where they are. Then he hisses out, "No, I'm not going to get….drunk…with you."
"You are," she says, convincingly. "Look, you don't even have to go out. We'll grab a bottle of vodka, head to my place-"
"Hell no," he says desperately, "Beverly I am not getting drunk, and I'm certainly not going to risk being drunk and alone with you." The second the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.
"Why?" she asks. If a woman could be cocky, she was the embodiment of it at that moment. She leans conspiratorially across the table, speaking in a mocking, quasi-seductive tone. "What are you afraid you're going to do, Graham?"
"I'm not afraid that I'll sleep with you," he says, trying to make the words sound mean. Maybe if he offends her she'll leave him alone. "I'm afraid I'll lose control and…hurt…someone." You. The unspoken word hovers in the air between them. "I'm not getting drunk alone with you," he repeats, relieved to hear that the words are solid.
"You couldn't hurt anyone, Graham," Beverly says simply.
"I'm not going to let you be the one to take that risk." His throat feels strangely tight, he feels heat at the back of his eyes. She's being unfair, she doesn't understand that if he ever hurts anyone again, it will tear him apart. Especially if it's because he was stupid and reckless. She's looking at him strangely, but he knows she's not going to give up. He shouldn't have told her anything. Not about his parents. Not about his sister. And certainly not about how he's never been wasted.
"Fine, we won't be alone. I know a great club. Lots of people, minimal risk of you hurting someone without the bartender smashing a bottle to your head first. But you'll never get in wearing that."
"I like my clothes." Will is grasping for anything to prevent her plan from unfolding.
"Yeah," she says offhandedly. "So does my dad."
"I don't own anything else," he says.
"I'm sure we'll find something."
She digs through his closet with determination. Will sits on his bed, trying to ignore the sound of his hangers scraping against the metal rung that supports them. He's anxious, more anxious than he's been in a long time. He hates rooms with lots of people, hates parties, hates anything where he could say the wrong thing.
"You weren't kidding," Beverly laughs. His closet is a mass of plaid shirts, plain jackets, and GAP sweaters. Affordable. Practical. Some dress slacks and collared shirts, just in case.
Somewhere in the mess, she finds a pair of dark wash jeans that his sister bought for him ages ago. Back when they were still talking regularly. Now she is somewhere else, too busy for Will. The jeans still have the tag on them.
"Why haven't you ever worn these?"
Will looks at them skeptically. "Didn't like the fit."
She chucks them at him. "Try those on," she commands.
He slips into the bathroom, and she rolls her eyes, calling out, "Won't peek, I swear."
"I don't trust you, Katz." He shuts the door and locks it. He hears the continual scrape of the hangers. His heart is drumming against his ribcage. He runs some cold water, splashes it on his face. Tries to stay in control. He'd been doing so well, mentally, but now...
"I don't hear the rustling of jeans," Beverly yells.
He groans, towels off his face. He looks down at the offending pair of jeans. Dark wash. Expensive. He slips out of his khakis, standing there in his boxer shorts for a moment before yanking the jeans on over them.
"I look ridiculous," he tells Beverly through the door, even though his bathroom mirror is not full length and he has no way of knowing. They feel too tight.
"Come out." No negotiation.
He does. She looks at him over her shoulder. "Turn around." He clenches his hands at his sides, rotating.
"Holy crap, Graham."
"Shut up." He doesn't need her to tell him he looks like an idiot.
"No seriously. Oh my god. You actually have an body underneath all that."
"Stop that."
"Will Graham has a butt," she mock-whispers, immaturely, like they are still in fifth grade.
"Stop it."
"Have you been working out?" she asks him simply, all traces of the little girl suddenly gone from her tone. He clenches his jaw. "I mean while you were in prison. Because seriously, Graham-"
"Yes," he says, just to shut her up. "I worked out. It was something to pass the time."
She looks at him appreciatively, and Will tries to work out what that means. He comes up empty. She chucks one of his white shirts at him.
"I can't wear this alone. It's an undershirt."
"Of course not. You wear it with a blazer."
"I have a blazer?" he asks blankly.
"Yes." She points to the offending article of clothing: a black, almost casual blazer.
He considers taking off his sweater and plaid button down right there in front of her, but doesn't have the confidence. He grabs the blazer and the shirt and retreats into the bathroom. He can see how he looks in the mirror. He feels uncomfortable. The black fabric is structured, framing the lines of his shoulders in a way that he's not entirely comfortable with. He considers locking himself in the bathroom until Beverly goes away, but as he stares at himself in the mirror he has a change of heart.
It's not that bad, he tells himself. There's something nice about it, as if he's actually seeing himself for the first time in a long time. His hair is a mess, and he coaxes it into something presentable with his fingers and water, pushing it out of his eyes and face.
A sharp rap on the door. "Shave. If you even own a razor."
"Of course I-" Will starts to say, but he hears her soft laugh through the door.
So he shaves, if for no other reason than to prove to Beverly that he can. Close, until the stubble disappears and he looks five years younger. He runs a hand over his smooth jawline. He feels like he's taken off a mask, and he's not sure he likes the person underneath.
"I don't think I've ever seen you properly shaved," Beverly muses, staring at his face out of the corner of her eye. She's driving. It takes a less than fifteen minute stop at her apartment before she re-emerges, looking sleek and dangerous in a black, clinging dress and heels that looked like they could be murder weapons.
I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress, Will wants to reply. But he doesn't. Instead, he takes the boring route. "I used to. I was actually very compulsive about it," he tells her.
"When did you stop?"
"I'm not sure I can remember back that far," he mutters. "After I quit as a cop, I think. When I got stabbed, I was in the hospital for a while. Didn't have anyone to shave for, I guess, and I just got used to it."
She pulls the car over and parks it on the side of the road.
"We're here?" Will asks, looking for signs of a club.
"No, around the corner. But the parking's free here." He must look tense again, because when he steps out of the car she asks, "Ever been to a club before, Graham?"
"Once." He decides not to lie. Why should he? She never does. She doesn't even edit before she talks. "I didn't like it."
"You'll like this one."
"What makes you say that?"
"I'll be there."
Will doesn't say anything. Just listens to the soft clicks of her murder-heels on the sidewalk. "Do you go to clubs a lot?"
"Well I don't sit around doing nothing."
"I don't do nothing."
"I didn't say you did," Beverly replies evenly.
They turn the corner. There's a line outside the club, about forty or so people long. "There's a line," Will states obviously. "Maybe we should just-"
"Oh, come on, Graham." She walks directly to the front of the line, pulling Will by the sleeve of his blazer. Will feels strange, realizing suddenly that Beverly is attractive and that of course she'll get into clubs without a problem. The bouncer eyes her up, and then his gaze travels to Will. There's a bit of confusion in his eyes, and Will feels a sudden sense of inadequacy.
"He's with me," she says.
"Go on in," the man says grudgingly to Beverly.
And to Will, by association.
It's not as bad as he expects. After the third drink, everything gets a little brighter and he watches from the far edge of the bar as Beverly chats up an attractive man in an expensive leather jacket. She pulls him along to the dance floor, and Will loses sight of her and her blood-red heels amidst the mass of bodies. He can't see Beverly, but he trusts that she's keeping watch over him. He's feeling comfortable, dazed, just on the edge of something good. He's never had more than a single drink, always made his excuses, left early.
He feels a sudden burst of jealousy towards all of the men in the room, and a sharp, irrational anger towards his own mental illness. He could have been like them. Careless. Reckless. Instead he lives with precaution, always afraid that a loss of control will let out the demons on lockdown in his head. Afraid to let himself be unstable because of his instability.
But that feeling dissipates as soon as it enters his head. With alcohol coursing through his system, he finds that he can't hold on to dark thoughts easily. He feels strangely content, verging on the borderline of confident.
"Buy me a drink?" a voice filters through his thoughts. He turns, expecting a stranger, but it's Beverly.
"If you buy mine," he responds. "What happened to Leather Jacket?"
"Dull as a brick," she tells him, rolling her eyes. "I think he was intimidated by me." She signals to the bartender to refill Will's empty glass, and her own.
"You're an intimidating person, Beverly," Will says. The lights on the floor pulse, sending a red and blue haze over everything, casting her face in color and shadow. He wonders how he looks to her, but finds that the alcohol makes empathy difficult.
"Do you think you can keep up?" she asks.
Will recognizes that she's offering to dance with him. "Oh, I don't dance," he protests.
"It's not dancing, Will," she tells him. Which is true. There's no realm in which what Beverly was doing with Leather Jacket could be considered dancing. "Drink that."
He does as he's told.
"How are you feeling?" she half-shouts when the music abruptly changes to something louder. It's not to his taste, but it doesn't matter. The beat is resonating in his chest, keeping time when he can't.
"Nice," Will responds truthfully. "Very accommodating."
She leans in closer. "You're not feeling nice enough if you're still using words like 'accommodating'."
"Happy, then."
"You're happy?"
He considers. "I'm very happy."
"Good. I've got someone I want you to meet." She takes his drink and presses it into his hand. Then she takes him by his sleeve- it's becoming a familiar gesture, her hand brushing against his wrist- and pulls him around the edge of the floor. There's seating towards the back, little alcoves, havens for conversation. She sits him down in one that's already occupied, and slides in next to him.
"Andrea, this is Will," she says. "Will, this is Andrea."
He finds that he doesn't have to force himself to make eye contact with the petite, blonde girl. She has a pretty, angular face and he finds that her eyes are inviting rather than distracting. "Hi."
"Andrea works as a CEO. She started her own business." Will realizes that Beverly has picked out a girl so normal, so removed from their world, that she could never even begin to imagine the horrors he's seen and the things he's done. He feels a sudden rush of warmth that could only be described as gratefulness towards Beverly. "Will owns a private investigation firm," Beverly says, lying without effort. Will almost laughs, but bites his tongue.
"I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about." Then Beverly's off with a new guy, Metallica T-Shirt, and Will finishes his fourth drink without noticing.
"Where's Andrea?"
"Not interested," Will responds simply.
"Are you serious? What does it take to impress you, Graham?" Beverly huffs.
"I though I told you you were impressive."
"You told me I was intimidating," she responds coolly.
"They're the same thing to men," he says. "You can't intimidate a man if you haven't impressed him first."
She tilts her head, considering him. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," Will responds. "Andrea wasn't that intimidating."
"She liked you."
"Did she?"
"She came up to me, asked me about you. Wanted to meet you. Thought you were hot."
"Oh God," laughs Will, shaking his head. "She said that?"
"She was right." It's a statement. Will is slightly taken aback. "I mean, you look good tonight."
"As opposed to other nights, when I look bad." It comes out more dryly than he'd wanted.
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?" Will asks, but he can't really be angry with her, not with music in his head and vibration in his chest.
"I just…like you like this," Beverly says, making a vague gesture with her hand.
"Like what?" Will asks, confused.
"Just like this," Beverly says, looking at him. Her eyes are searching his face, and not for the first time this night Will wonders what he looks like to her. To other people.
It's a little too intense for him, the way she is looking at him like she's discovered something secret he's tried to keep hidden. The alcohol is hitting him hard now. A man walks up behind Beverly, Metallica T-Shirt again, whispers something in her ear, never looking at Will.
"I'll just be right back," he tells Beverly.
He stumbles into the bathroom, staring at his unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. He can't tell if he looks like himself or not. His eyes are dilated, dark, yet wide and full of expression. His cheekbones cast shadows down his face, his lips pink in the strange light of the bathroom. His blazer is undone, yet it manages to stretch across his shoulders. The unworn, expensive jeans that he hated six months ago feel natural on him now.
Prison had sharpened his mind. Given him focus. Made him confident, unyielding. The alcohol had made him unexpectedly carefree, more like himself and less like the criminals whose minds he inhabits.
It made him attractive, Will realizes, looking at himself in the mirror.
"Not good," he mumbles under his breath, splashing water on his face and thinking that the right thing to do would be to go home, to chalk this all up as a failed experiment and never talk about it again. Whoever this creature in the mirror is, it isn't him.
Except it is.
Beverly is slightly disheveled. It's a little after midnight, and Will's lost track of how much he's had to drink. "Do you want to dance?" he asks her. His mind feels clear, even though he knows he has to be drunk.
"Do you want to dance?" she responds.
He feels bold. "I want to dance with you," he says lowly. He sees something change in her eyes.
"How drunk are you?"
"Pretty drunk. Does it matter? Should I be scared that you'll take advantage?" He's not sure who is moving his lips.
He sees her shallow breathing, her ribcage expanding and collapsing, the small circumference of her waist. He wants to put his hand there.
"I-I don't know," she says. It's the first time he's heard her fumble for words. He laughs, a real laugh. "Scared I'll take advantage, Bev?"
She considers him. "No. No, of course I'm not. Come on."
She's more graceful than he is, and Will realizes that she is an actual dancer. That she must have taken classes when she was younger. It's slightly shocking, the control she has over her body.
And the control her body has over him.
Will had never considered himself a good dancer, in much the same way that he'd never considered himself a good teacher. But with the combination of Beverly and inebriation, he finds that he falls easily into her rhythm. He notices that with Metallica T-Shirt and Leather Jacket, Beverly had danced provocatively, her back to their chests.
With him, she moves in close, face-to-face. Her arm winds around his shoulder, body brushing his- not provocatively. Not yet. She is testing him, this is a trial. He meets her eyes, and is distracted because he can't see enough in them. She is confusing him on purpose. Or maybe it's that he is too drunk to see properly.
Surprisingly, she lets him lead her, his arm wrapped around her waist, exactly where he'd wanted it. He is pleased when her eyes widen imperceptibly. He draws her closer, pressing his forehead to hers…an almost-kiss as they move together. Her hand is at the back of his neck, in his hair, clutching his shoulder for support…and it reminds him of another moment, standing in a shooting range with her hands manipulating his body in ways he didn't know he needed….he pushes that memory away. He's not going to kiss her. Not here, mostly drunk on a crowded dance floor.
As if seeing this decision reflected somewhere in his eyes, Beverly draws away from him. "You're not wasted."
"I'm almost there," he says.
She looks at him…desire and concern and respect coiled into one expression. "Do you want to be there?"
Will realizes she's giving him an out, if he wants it. If he wants to stay in control. "Yeah. Yeah I want to be there," he admits. She draws him back to the bar, orders him two shots of something he's never heard of before.
By the time the second shot hits the back of his throat, he's so far gone he wonders if he'll even remember what he does next. The taste is strong on his tongue, and he feels powerful. He knows what he wants.
But not here, or now. He knows enough to know that. So instead of kissing Beverly Katz, he pulls her with him onto the dance floor, and this time he pulls her back to him, letting his hands move where they want and feeling the sound of music he normally never listens to echo in his ears.
My old aches become new again…
She presses back into him, the small of her back arching imperceptibly. He can smell her hair, the perfume on her neck. He wants something foreign and something familiar, all at once, and Beverly is giving him that.
My old friends become exes again.
He would have to walk into work on Monday. See her standing there in a professional lab coat and knowing what she looks like in a tight, black dress and murder heels. He should end it here before he gets too close, but she takes his hand- properly this time, fingers entwined, not brushing his wrist the way she had all night- and leads him between bodies out of the club.
Whoa, where did the party go?
He kisses her, presses her back against some unidentified wall twenty feet from the club, the nearest place he can find where no one will see, stumbling on the sidewalk, desperately reconnecting their mouths. His palms seek purchase against the rough surface, and hers sneak under his blazer, cool hands pressing against his back.
We're ending it on the phone.
The club shuts down at 2 a.m., and Will is still kissing her with bruising force in that dark corner of the world. He doesn't want it to end, doesn't ever want to stop kissing her, and his clouded mind can't keep track of time or place or- She laughs against his lips when one of the club patrons whistles at them on his way out. He hesitates, embarrassed enough to blush a little, but not enough to stop.
I'm not gonna go home alone.
He thought that he would be dangerous like this, out of control. He is out of control, but all he feels is elation, and he wants her with him. She taps the steering wheel as she drives impatiently. His lips are on her neck, his hand on the inside of her thigh. She lets out a shaky breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine."
Oh, where did the party go?
"You're happy when you're drunk," she muses, and he laughs near her ear, kicking off his shoes on the porch and kissing her against the door. The dogs bark, and he hisses a tssst at them before pulling her back to him.
"I'm happy when I'm with you," he mumbles, kissing her again, twisting the doorknob and stepping back with her to let it open.
"God, Graham, you are so wasted," she says as she draws away. The doorframe is overhead, and they're half-in, half-out of his house. He gets serious, realizing that he's about to take Beverly Katz into his house, and sobers a little.
"I'm sorry. No, you're right, I'm really sorry." He looks like a kicked puppy for a moment, a puppy that knows its done something wrong. His eyes get really big, like he's just realized something. Then he giggles, and the sound is such a relief that it makes him laugh all over again.
And it's infectious, so Beverly starts to laugh with him, the amused laugh of someone who is only laughing because someone else is. "What's so funny?" she asks him.
"I am," he says. "I'm really, really…" He slams his head back against the doorframe, and his whole body shakes with the force of the laughter that comes out like a bark. "Really, really drunk. And sorry. But mostly drunk."
"How drunk?"
"Really drunk."
"That's not what I'm asking."
"Oh. I'm not that drunk."
"Good," she says, and kicks off her murder heels.
The first thing he sees when he wakes up is the dark wash jeans on the floor. Then he doesn't see anything at all, because he has a headache that is blinding. He shuts his eyes tightly, and feels delicate fingers brush against his forehead.
"You okay, Graham?"
"I told you not to call me that."
"When?"
"Last night?"
"You remember that?"
He opens his eyes. She's looking at him, and wearing one of his plaid shirts. "I remember. I remember telling you to call me Will." He pushes her hand away to dig his palms into his eyes, and she sits up, chin on her knees. He reaches one hand up, settling against her back, feeling the slow rhythm of her breathing. "God. This headache is bad. And I've had encephalitis headaches, so that's saying something."
"Worth it?"
"Still deciding." Then he remembers other things from last night, the sound of her black dress hitting the floor. Her low, willing gasps in his ear, the taste of her skin on his tongue...his name- Will- on her lips.
"You with me, Will?" she drags him out of that pleasant place into another, albeit different, one.
"It was worth it," he manages to choke out.
She smiles, her skin is golden in the morning light. She leans down to kiss him, a slow, deep kiss. He wants her all over again, and he's not inebriated. He feels compelled to ask, "Was this just a drunk thing or…?"
"You were drunk. I wasn't. I knew exactly what I was doing." She runs a hand through her long, dark hair, getting the tangles out. "Besides, I had to drive, didn't I?"
She says it like she says everything else, blunt, open. He finds that he likes that. He doesn't have to play the empathy card because she's already told him what she's thinking.
"That's not what I meant."
"What do you mean?"
He feels a sudden tightness in his jaw, a sickness in his stomach. "I mean…I'm not going to start wearing those jeans every day. I'm not going to get drunk, I'm not going to shave. I'm going to get up and go to work and feed my dogs, and I know you think that's boring and-"
"Will, I don't think that's boring," she says quietly, looking away from him. "Actually, I kind of like it. The way you can get away from it all. That you don't mind being alone."
"I mind," Will says. "It's…the worst thing in the world. To think the way I do, and be alone."
She gets quiet. "I don't want you to be alone, Will." It's as close to an admission of attachment that she's going to give him today, so he takes it.
"How long have you not wanted me to be alone?" he asks her. His eyes trail over her face. She's as stunning like this as she was the night before.
"Since the second I saw you," she admits. "You didn't even notice me when I walked in, so I just watched you. And when I did say something…your eyes fluttered open, and I couldn't help myself...
...And again, in the shooting range. Touching you was horrible, Will, because you were so in love with Alana-"
"Alana," he laughs, running his hands over his face. "I thought I was in love with Alana."
"Weren't you?"
"No," he groans, but it comes out half laugh. He can't stop laughing, now that he's started. "Not even close."
She looks at his face, committing to memory the lines around his eyes when he smiles. "And you, Will? Was this just a drunk thing for you?"
The smile fades, his lips still slightly parted. His eyes are dark, and when he speaks it is with perfect clarity. "Do you even understand the risk I took with you last night? What I had to overcome to do any of that with you? To let myself lose control like that wasn't just a drunk thing, Beverly. I trusted you."
"Sorry," she whispers. "Stupid question. I wasn't thinking."
He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He's content to just stay here with her. But his head and stomach are pounding, and he realizes they never ate last night.
"Stay with me for breakfast," he asks her, but it doesn't feel like asking. It feels natural, like he knows what her answer will be before she even agrees.
"Yeah. What's your hangover food?" she asks.
"Don't know yet," Will says, amused.
She smiles, threading her fingers through the hair on the back of his head, and kisses him. "Let's find out, then."
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Lyrics from Fall Out Boy Where Did the Party Go?