the morning after
He wakes up dry-mouthed, an alcohol-induced pounding in his head. He doesn't remember making it to the bed, or the apartment, for that matter. Neither does he recall tucking himself so neatly beneath the blanket.
He only recalls the cheering crowd, loud music as the solemn ceremony gave way to rowdy celebration. Applauses and handshakes. And obligatory toasts. One obligatory toast too many.
Bleary-eyed, Rufus sits up with a groan, hand immediately going to his head. The taste of wine is still on his tongue, in his breath, and he feels disgusting—and a great degree of rue as he wonders of his conduct after blacking out last night. Wonders if he'd rather ask someone about it or let the incidents (if any) slide into oblivion.
It just so happens he actually has the choice this time, seeing as the one person who never would've allowed him to live an embarrassment down is no longer around.
Some way or another, he won the fight with the bed sheets and finds himself beneath the showerhead. As the glass panels fog over, warm water blesses his rigid muscles, seeping into grease-matted hair and wrinkled dress shirt and slacks. There are a few missing buttons toward his collar, but it just means he can be rid of it that much faster.
"'til death," he promised.
The same promise returned. Eyes deep as the wine he swirled, that the smile didn't quite reach.
Head rested against the tiled wall, he attempts to organize his thoughts. Seems it's going to be a while longer to get the alcohol completely out of his system.
He discards his soaked clothes into the wicker, noting the towel already inside. The bedroom doesn't seem like it's been disturbed. Things remain where he's left them, save for the jacket and vest he doesn't recall taking off draped over the back of the chair. He finishes securing the towel around himself and goes to get dressed.
Out in the living area is sunlit. He notices immediately the existence of things on what would usually be an empty kitchen counter. It's not a complete outrage, just different. His eyes follow the path of displacement and sure enough finds the culprit with knees drawn to her chest on the floor, staring out the window and down at the city streets below.
"Good morning." She doesn't look at him as she sets down a can of beer with a small clink, next to what he assumes are similarly empty ones beside her.
"That doesn't seem to be the case for us both."
"I asked Balto to bring hangover medicine. It's on the counter."
If nothing else, that explains the beer cans. Rufus can only question what Katana was thinking when he deemed it fit to deliver the medicine together with more alcoholic beverages.
He gives the small bottle perching on the edge of the counter an evaluating look. Not that he has enough (or any) prior experience with consuming this branch of products to judge. It looks to be the type that one drinks. Even with all his reservations, the idea of liquid intake is very tempting right now.
"It's very effective and not poison."
He looks back to her with a brow raised. Her back is still to him, her hair a dark stream, falling past her waist and pooling all around her. Something in the way the sunlight frames her outline makes for a lonely sight, more so when imposed upon the vibrant morning outside. He blames the residual alcohol in his system.
"I'd like to apologize for any untoward behaviour last night," he says carefully.
She might have shrugged at that. Might've not.
He grabs the medicine and twists open the cap, taking a large swig of the content. Fruity. He settles down next to her on the floor, careful not to knock over any of the cans in case there's still any left inside.
She gives him a side-long glance but says nothing still. There's a glaze to her stare that lets him know she's not all there. But there enough.
"I hope this doesn't become a habit." She stops playing with the rim of a beer can to look at him again. "I do need you vigilant."
"It's just beer." At his look she turns away, burying her face into her arms. "Just this one time."
He can hear the ticking of the clock as he studies her, chin in his palm. The pair of black shorts she has on leaves her long legs exposed. He can't remember the last time he's seen so much of her skin. She seems more a girl than a woman right now, curling into herself, matted hair caught in the little knots and tangles she hasn't bothered undoing.
"Cloud gave us his blessings."
He nods even though she wouldn't see it. "How unexpected." And unwelcomed. In his murky memory there is a scene of her and him together. His last few moments of clarity before more wine was shoved his direction.
"I haven't seen him in months." She lifts her head slightly to stare at him. "He looked relieved."
"I see."
She begins to play with the beer can again.
"Miss Lockhart—" Her hand flies up with a snap, smacking him audibly as it closes over his mouth. Beer cans clattering noisily by his knee. Her red eyes beseeching. He can smell the bitterness of beer on her fingertips as he continues. "You should go dry your hair."
She laughs breathily and drops her hand to the floor, returning her gaze to the city below. He rights the fallen cans, frowning at the dark specks on his trousers.
"I didn't want to wake you with the hairdryer."
"I don't imagine that's a problem now?"
"Never thought you'd be one to fuss."
He picks up a dark lock, testing the dampness between his fingers. "You have beautiful hair. It would be regretful if rumours were to spread that I couldn't even attend to my wife's basic grooming."
She meets his eyes for a length, the blankness of her expression betraying little more than some semblance of curiosity. "How's your head?"
He considers the dull throbbing in his skull and downs the rest of the medicine. "Better." He places the bottle down beside the empty cans. "My gratitude."
"Only when it takes effect do I get the thank you." When he smiles, thick dark lashes narrow around her eyes. She runs a hand through her hair and flicks the long locks over her shoulder and out of his grasp. His gaze follows her as she makes to stands, dusting off the back of her shorts.
"What a boorish husband."
She stalks into the bedroom and it's not long before he can hear the howl of the hairdryer. He sits there studying the way the sunlight dances on the aluminium, wondering if she meant to make him clean as reparation for whatever she sees him guilty of.
A lot has changed – with him, with her. Between them. But that just now was just different, and he's tempted to chalk it all up to the alcohol.
He thinks about the clothes hung neatly on the back of his chair. His undisturbed room and sleep. The taste on his tongue (orange?), the blanket that was smothering him when he first woke.
And he starts gathering the trash.