Warnings: All-human, AU.
A/N: I kind of wanted this to have another chapter, but I'm thinking this is best as is. In my head, I have an idea of how things turn out, but I couldn't find a way to fit it in very well. I'm pretty happy with this final cut, and I hope you will be as well.
Song is "Makin' It Through the Night" by Sons of Bill. This Emmett and this Esme are each based on characters owned by Stephenie Meyer. I own nothing except for a lot of DVDs and a pretty sweet car.
Enjoy. :)
"From the smoke-filled mesh between us, and with that neon moon above,
A lonely heart and cheap liquor sometimes is the closet thing you have to love."
The various signs buzzed, and shined their light amongst the bar, creating a grotesque neon rainbow of alcohol advertisements and flashing 'OPEN' signs. The door jangled, just another sound lost amid the cacophony of jukebox music and drunken chatter, and Emmett Winnfield slapped a fifty dollar bill on the shiny, alcohol-stained stickiness of the chipped wooden bar as he slid onto a wobbly, vinyl-upholstered stool.
"I'll have as many glasses of Jack Daniels as that can get me," he sighed, gesturing to the money in front of him.
"All at once?" asked the gruff man keeping bar.
"No, I think I'll take my time tonight."
"That bad, huh?" the bartender asked. Pretending he actually cared about yet another nameless patron's lonesome troubles, he slid a glass full of whiskey towards the young man, who looked desperate for some liquid liberation from his thoughts.
Emmett simply scoffed, and then nodded a quick thank you to the bartender, though his heart literally ached as he thought of-
Nope. Not going there tonight. That's what I came here to forget all about, he thought, as he lifted his glass to his lips. The whiskey burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, strangely quelling the queasiness that had taken up residence there earlier that day. Emmett sighed in mild relief, loving the way his muscles seemed to start untangling themselves with just the first sip of his choice poison.
As Emmett steadily consoled his liquor, the bartender moved on to his next patron, a woman who'd gracelessly plopped down on a stool near Emmett. Despite the fact that her mascara had begun to drip messily from around her bloodshot brown eyes, the woman was absolutely gorgeous. She was petite, brunette, and her clothing choices were simple, yet still elegant. Understated. She didn't carry an aura of confidence or attitude, but instead, one of defeat; she seemed more world-weary than world-dominating. In other words: she was the complete opposite of Emmett's girlfriend.
Ex-girlfriend, he corrected himself. Then, he took a gulp of his drink to drown the feelings the correction stirred up within him.
"And for you, young lady?" Emmett couldn't help but overhear the bartender's booming voice; it was coming from a mere three feet away.
"Whatever's strong and cheap," the woman said. It was clear that she was trying her damnedest to keep her voice steady, but still, her words wavered ever so slightly. Emmett dared a glance at the woman, trying to somehow discern if her troubles were as crippling as his, and he thought that they might possibly be as he took in the woman's disheveled appearance. Clearly, the woman was out of her element; her coming to the bar was an act of desperation. She was hunched forward, her elbows on the bar, her face resting in her hands. Her skin was pale, more so than it probably should have been in the late June weather. Most of her face was covered by her hands, but Emmett could see mascara-stained tears leaking around and between her long, graceful fingers. Her eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, were closed, though fresh tears were seeping out. Her thick, beautiful, chestnut-colored hair was in a mess; it looked as though she'd been trapped in a wind tunnel and then tried unsuccessfully to smooth the resulting disaster with her bare hands. All-in-all, she appeared to be a complete wreck. But Emmett wasn't really one to judge. He drained his first glass of whiskey, and then reached for his second, which he'd kept waiting for too long.
"What's your name?" Emmett asked the woman gently. She didn't appear to hear him at first. Just as Emmett had decided to turn back around and mind his own troubles, he heard a reply.
"Esme," she said, face still buried in her hands. "Esme Wallace. What's yours?"
"Emmett. Emmett Winnfield."
"Nice to meet you," she managed. Then, she sat up, wiped defiantly at her eyes, and went to work on a gallon of vodka. Well, it wasn't actually a gallon, but by Emmett's estimation, she would consume at least that much before the night was over.
They'd been talking for an hour. At first, the conversation had been stilted, awkward. Neither Emmett nor Esme had really wanted a drinking buddy, and therefore neither of them was eager for more than the rare shared commentary on something happening in the bar, or on life in general. Now, though, the liquor had more than kicked in. Both Esme and Emmett were far down the yellow-bricked road to blissful drunken oblivion.
Emmett sighed. He'd moved closer to Esme gradually, and now he was perched on the stool directly beside the one upon which she sat.
"So, why are you even here? You're too pretty to be in a bar by yourself."
"I'm not by myself; I'm talking to you."
"I don't count. Answer the question."
"I tell you why I'm here; you tell me why you're here. Deal?"
"Fine. Deal. Shoot."
"Well, my husband and I separated a few months ago. Trial separation or whatever. He said he didn't want a divorce, not yet, but that he needed some time to think about things. We were both starting to feel trapped…. Well, he was, and then he kind of talked me into thinking the same thing, I think. Huh…. Anyway, I honestly don't remember feeling anything, much less trapped. But, anyway, I thought he'd get the separation out of his system, and then we'd be back like we were: happy. I mean, I loved him so much when we got married. Hell, I still do. So, I went to his building today to surprise him- it's his birthday- and I went straight up to his office….Where I found him screwing his secretary, AKA the woman formerly known as my best friend," Esme finished. Her voice broke with the last sentence.
"Wow. Shit. I'm sorry. Please don't start crying again," Emmett said, gently attempting to console the woman.
"I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute. Tell me your story," she gulped the last of her drink and, for the first time that night, she didn't order another.
"Don't apologize. I'd be crying, too, if I were you."
"Well, thank God you're not."
"Yeah," he almost laughed. "Uh, anyway. I've been seeing this girl, Rosalie, for a couple of years now. We live together, etcetera. We share everything but a last name, you know what I mean? Anyway, I found out this morning that she…. She had an abortion last week," Emmett looked down at the bar and began wringing his hands around his glass. He took a long swig of his drink and then continued, "And she didn't tell me until now. I didn't even know she was pregnant. She just…. She killed our child, and she didn't even feel the need to divulge that bit of information."
Esme's hand covered her mouth, and more tears threatened to spill over; tears of sympathy this time, rather than tears of well-deserved self-pity.
"Oh, no. I can't even imagine…."
"Yeah." Emmett sighed, drained his glass, and then cleared his throat. He looked around the bar once and then reached for his jacket. As he started to put it on, readying himself to leave, Esme reached out and place one small hand on his forearm. He stared at her for a moment before she met his eyes.
"What do you say to spending the night at my place? I don't want to be by myself tonight," she nearly whispered. This wasn't something she'd done before; not something she should even be doing now.
Rosalie's face flashed briefly into Emmett's mind. A one-night stand would not solve any of Emmett's problems, but at least it would help him pass the night.
"I say that sounds like an entirely regrettable idea. But I don't think I know how to give a damn anymore," Emmett smiled, but there wasn't a trace of anything even remotely happy about it.
Esme nodded in sad agreement. After taking a long glance at the tan lines around the part of her finger where her wedding ring usually resided, she slid on her jacket and led Emmett out of the bar.
Esme's home was a two-bedroom apartment within walking distance of the bar. It was nothing special and was decorated in warm, earthy tones that seemed to breathe life into the otherwise dreary city building. The space wasn't large, but since it had always housed just Esme and her husband, Carlisle, the area was more than adequate.
Esme, shaky from both the alcohol to which she wasn't really accustomed and her unsettled nerves, unlocked the door, managing to drop the keys only once. The door opened easily as the lock gave way, and Esme stood aside, gesturing for Emmett to enter before her. Nervously, she looked up and down the hallway, as if expecting to see her husband watching her every move. Determining that no one, much less Carlisle, had an eye on her, she walked into her apartment and shut the door behind her. She locked it reflexively while laying her jacket and purse on the couch. Emmett did the same with his own jacket and then followed Esme to her bedroom. Esme turned to lock the door, a force of habit, and when she turned back around to face Emmett, she found his lips crushing hers and his hands ripping at her clothing. She gave as good as she got, pausing only once when an image of Carlisle snuck into her brain, completely unbidden. Even that picture, though, soon faded as she let her body do the thinking. Her head was spinning too much to be useful, anyway.
In the morning, she'd regret what she was doing, but in that moment, she was doing her very best to enjoy it.
"We'll both hold each other thinking, head spinning from the drinking,
That this ain't no way to live this life, but the hardest part of living,
Yeah, the hardest part of living is makin' it through the night."