Chapter 3
Intoxicated

by TeeJay

Author's Note:
Oh wow, what a nice little surprise. You write this one story, it's more like a private thing for you because you think it's way too dark and depressing to post it publicly. Then you send it to your two closest Adam/Joan shipper-y friends, and one of them actually writes a second chapter without being asked. Amazing.

Okay, so of course I had to take the bait and continue this now, seeing how Deb did such a wonderful job at expanding this particular Joaniverse into more than it was destined to be. Because, you see, it wasn't originally meant to be more than one chapter. It's turning into much more now. So here's the next part, and you can already rejoice: it won't be the last.

Synopsis:
Joan takes care of Adam after his father's wake and remembers how things used to be...

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer:
These characters and settings are not ours. Nor are we claiming they are. They are property of CBS, Barbara Hall Productions, Sony or whoever else they might belong to. We're not making any money out of this, although that would be really cool.

"Come on, I wanna show you somethin'." Adam smiled a smile that looked too goofy for his usually subdued reticence. Joan knew he had had a few whiskeys too many, but could she blame him?

She sighed as Adam went around back to the shed after she had just driven him home from the Irish Pub where they had held his father's wake. Wearily, she followed him, watching him fumble with the keys, not quite managing to put the key in the lock.

"Here, let me help you," she offered, but, much too loud for the late hour and quietness of the night, he said, "Nah, I've got it."

It took him a few more awkward seconds to indeed fit the key into the hole before he could open the shed door. He almost lost his balance as he tripped over something that stood on the floor to the side while he was trying to find the light switch. "Oops," he laughed.

He finally found the switch and the sudden, too bright light from the bare light bulb above assaulted her tired eyes. She had to blink a few times before she adjusted to the sudden change in brightness. Not quite sure what he was after, she watched him walk over to the back of the shed, rummaging around in the corner.

"Dammit, where is it?" he muttered.

She shifted her weight as she looked on. It was late. They were both exhausted. "Adam, do we have to do this now? It's 2:30, can't this wait until tomorrow?"

But he didn't reply, instead he produced a portfolio binder, which he placed on the table and opened. Different drawings and paintings were stacked above each other. He leafed through them. When he found the one he was after, he withdrew it from the pile and studied it for a moment before he placed it on top so that Joan could see it as well.

"It's great," she said. "Great... colors."

His fingertips carefully touched the painting's surface to feel the cragginess of it. "Dad really liked this one. Just the other day he said to me, 'Adam, do you remember that painting, the watercolor with the blue and yellow blotches? I loved that one, I think we should put it up.'"

He looked at her and she couldn't quite read if he was trying to suppress any hint of emotion or if the effect of the too strong alcoholic drinks he had ingested not too long ago were taking care of that. "I wanna hang it in the living room. You know, above the sideboard? Now, I just gotta find a frame to go with it."

Joan stepped closer and wearily but firmly told him, "Adam, it's the middle of the night. Come on, let's get you to bed. We'll go to the art store tomorrow and buy a matching frame."

He looked at her, his face scrunched into a confused expression, as if he couldn't quite process what Joan was saying.

She walked over to him and placed her hands on his upper arms. Softly, she urged him again, "Come on, let's go to the house, okay?"

His eyes met hers and after a moment, he replied, "Okay."

Kids were easier to get into bed than a drunken Adam. Joan had to tell him to undress, had to help him out of his shoes. When he was comfortable, he flopped onto the bed, lying on his back, his head turned so that his gaze could follow her every movement. She helped him untangle the duvet and tucked him in.

Almost automatically, she picked up the clothes he had stripped out of and carelessly dropped on the floor and folded them. As she put them on the armchair in the corner, she couldn't help but quickly take in this room and how much it had changed since she had last set foot in here—now years ago. It wasn't the chaotic, youthful room of a teenager anymore, it now looked like the tastefully decorated room of a young man. More mature, more sophisticated. Joan liked it.

She turned back around and walked over to linger by the bed for a moment. Adam's eyes never left her. His speech was a little slurred, both from sleep deprivation and intoxication. "Jane, you're so beautiful. You're like an angel. You're everything I ever wanted."

She took a step back. He didn't mean that. Not anymore. "Adam, you're drunk."

He smiled at her. "Yeah, and tomorrow I'll be sober again but you'll still be beautiful."

"You'll also have a head that'll feel twice its size."

His attentive gaze on her never wavered, even though his eyelids were drooping now. "No, seriously. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known."

She sighed. "We're not going there. Not when you're not thinking clearly." Her voice grew softer. He had just been through this huge ordeal, she had no business being impatient with him, drunk or not. "Get some sleep. I'll come by tomorrow after work, okay?"

He turned into a fetal position on his side, wrapping himself in the duvet she had draped over him. "Okay," he sleepily acknowledged.

Joan switched off the light before she quietly left the room and went into the kitchen. She rummaged around in her purse for the bottle of aspirin she kept for those work stress headaches she sometimes battled. When she found it, she took two of them out and placed them on the table next to an empty glass she had gotten from one of the cupboards. Ripping a note from the notepad on the counter, she quickly scribbled down a message for Adam:

Hey sleepyhead,
Just a precautionary measure. Call
me if you need anything or want to
talk. Work is 555-2131, or my cell
is 555-3722.

Jane
xxx

She laid the painkillers on top of the note and she wrote (aspirin) in brackets, so that he knew what he was being offered. He would need them. She hated thinking of him having to drag himself through the next day with his head close to exploding. His day would be hard enough as it was.

Her heart went out to him once more; she could feel the all too familiar clenching knot forming in her stomach when she thought about how she would be busying herself with work the next day. But Adam would have to face all of the depressing emptiness of the house and the overwhelmingly sad memories on his own.

She made a mental note to give him a call on her lunch break, maybe even before that. She hoped he wouldn't have too bad a hang-over and that he would be able to catch some much needed sleep as she quietly left the house to return to her own apartment.

"Hello?" a tired voice greeted Joan at the other end of the phone line.

"Hey, it's me," she said in a soft voice.

"Jane, hey," Adam said in acknowledgement of the caller, his voice strained and sounding sluggish.

"Hangover that bad?" she carefully asked. As if she couldn't tell...

"Worse," he moaned.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," she said jokingly.

"Yeah, well, it'll teach me not to try that again any time soon. Thanks for the aspirin, those came in handy."

"So," her voice was sympathetic as she asked the question had prompted her to call in the first place. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm doing okay," he replied, his answer anything but convincing.

"I'll come by after work, maybe we can grab a bite to eat," she suggested.

"Uh... I'm not so sure about that."

"Oh," she had to smile knowingly to herself. "Tender stomach, huh?"

"Yeah," he just replied.

"Do you want me to come by anyway?" She wasn't sure if he maybe wanted some time to himself. The last few days he had almost completely spent in the company of someone or other. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing, the distraction might have done him good.

"Sure," he said.

"Okay. I get off at five. I can be there, say, around half past five? That all right with you?"

"Yeah, sounds good," he agreed.

"Hang in there," she told him, making her voice as compassionate as was possible over the phone.

"I'll try," came his meek reply.

"Okay." That was all she could ask for.

They quickly said their goodbyes before they hung up.

Adam pushed the 'disconnect' button of his phone and let the hand with the phone still in it sink to the tabletop of the kitchen table.

The skull-splitting headache he had woken up with had reduced itself to a dull throbbing, thanks to the aspirin he had taken earlier. He looked out the window; the weather outside perfectly mirrored his mood. A steady drizzle had set in a while ago and it didn't look as if it was about to stop raining any time soon. There was no happiness or hope in the bleak gray clouds that hung over Arcadia like a fire blanket that would quell any flicker of light or warmth. Nothing could describe better what he had felt like before Joan called.

But, at just having heard her voice—that soft but still vibrant voice, a portion of gratitude welled up through the desolation. Had he told her how thankful he was for her support, for her resolute denial to leave his side through the whole nightmarish affair if she could help it? He should make it a point to tell her, he owed her that much.

He could vaguely remember that Joan had taken him home last night, but anything beyond that was a blur. He hadn't done or said anything inappropriate, had he? He didn't think so, if only for the fact that she had just sounded normal on the phone, her concerned, caring self. He couldn't help but wonder—and he didn't like unpleasant surprises.

He looked up, his gaze grazing the pin board that had all sorts of bills and unattended mail pinned to it. A sigh escaped his lips. There was so much to do, to take care of. Where would he start?

Walking past the strange-looking sculptures and wind chimes in the front garden, Joan didn't even notice them anymore. They had just always been there and she had started taking them for granted. Not that she had been here, at the Rove's house, that often recently. Priorities tend to change as life moves on, she mused. That certainly applied to her relationship with Adam. With both her and Adam now working full-time jobs, they did keep in touch, but they weren't a big part of each other's lives anymore.

When she rang the doorbell, she was surprised that it was not Adam but Grace opening the door for her. She didn't need to ask what Grace was doing here. She and Adam had always been friends. Joan only got to know him in high school; Grace knew him since kindergarten. Some bonds were never severed. Grace would sure be concerned about him, having seen up-front what his mother's suicide had done to him.

"Girardi," Grace greeted Joan in her usual way to address her friends by their last names. It was what she did, it was just Grace.

"Hey Grace," Joan greeted back as she stepped inside when Grace took a step back. "I called Adam earlier, telling him I'd come by after work."

"Yeah, he mentioned something," Grace told her.

Joan took off her coat, wet from the rain outside, and hung it on the coat rack in the hall, following Grace into the kitchen. She asked her friend, "How's he holding up?"

"He's putting on a good show." Her voice was subdued, more so than Joan was used to from her. "He passed out on the couch a while ago. Pretty bad hangover, I guess, after all those shots he downed last night."

"Yeah," Joan said with a sigh. "When did you get here?"

"Oh, I don't know. An hour ago? I've been doing a little bit of this and that since then." She pointed at the stack of clean dishes that were now standing in the drying rack next to the sink.

Joan stood near the counter. "So, what can I do?"

"Take care of dinner?" Grace suggested. "You know how well I cook."

"Oh yeah," Joan said knowingly, remembering much too vividly a roast beef gone wrong. Grace had taken to ordering take-out ever since then when they were to meet for anything that involved food as accompaniment. "I think we need to go for something that's suitable for tender stomachs," remembering Adam's comment from their previous phone conversation. "Chicken soup?"

Grace shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

"Then it's settled," Joan acknowledged and started checking the refrigerator and cupboards. She hoped she could throw something together with what was available, otherwise she'd have to improvise. And that, she had always been good at.

Three quarters of an hour later, a make-shift chicken soup was simmering on the stove, the smell pleasantly filling the room. Grace and Joan were sitting at the kitchen table, each cradling a mug with coffee, engrossed in conversation.

"Something smells good," came Adam's voice from the doorway and both looked up to see him approaching.

"Hey, someone's awake," Grace dryly commented as he walked over to the stove. He lifted the lid of the pot to take a look inside.

Before he could ask, Joan explained. "Chicken soup. Suitable for hangovers and upset stomachs."

The three of them had dinner together. The soup was delicious, they ended up with three empty soup bowls in front of them. Joan could indeed improvise.

During dinner, Grace and Joan exchanged meaningless banter, sharing stories from work and home. It had been as much a ruse to keep Adam's mind off the heavy stuff for a while as it had been to entertain themselves. They both were of the impression that it had worked on him, too.

Grace now got up from the table, placing her bowl and coffee mug in the sink. "Guys, as much as I hate to say it, I gotta go. There's a ton of laundry with my name on it and Caesar's waiting to be fed and walked." Grace was alluding to her Irish Setter that she had more or less voluntarily come to own.

"Sure. Knock yourself out over your laundry, sounds like fun," Adam said with an ironic smile. He still couldn't really picture Grace as a homemaker.

She shot him a punishing look. "Oh, you have no idea." Then her expression softened somewhat. "Look, if there's anything I can help with, you have my number, right?"

He gave her a grateful look. "Yeah, I do." Grace had never been one for the big words or elaborate speeches of gratitude. She'd just tell him to cut it if he were to start with anything like it. But that didn't mean he couldn't count on her, because he knew that he could.

Grace said goodbye to Joan, and as Adam saw Grace to the door, Joan started washing the dirty dishes and other utensils that she had used earlier in preparation of the chicken soup.

When Adam came back into the kitchen, he saw Joan standing by the sink. Wordlessly, he took a towel and started drying the items Joan had just cleaned.

After a few moments of silence, she asked him, "So, how's the headache?"

"It's fine. Almost gone after that nap."

He stopped drying the glass he was holding and put it on the counter. Turning to her, he asked unsurely, "Jane, last night, I... I didn't do anything inappropriate, did I?"

She also stopped her dishwashing activities, giving him somewhat of an amused smirk. "You don't remember? All the kinky games and the mind-blowing sex?"

His eyes widened for a second. She couldn't be serious. "You're kidding, right?"

She laughed a quick laugh. "Yeah, I'm kidding. Don't worry, nothing happened. You were... a bit ebullient with the compliments, though."

He rubbed one eyebrow—a gesture she had observed often when he was nervous or insecure.

"What did I say?

"Oh, let me see. You said I was an angel and that I was the most beautiful woman you've ever known. There was more along those lines."

He looked her in the eyes for a second, then looked down. "It's not like that's not true," he simply stated in his gentle voice.

"Adam..." she said wearily.

But before she could say anything else, he interrupted, "I know. We shouldn't be going there." He met her gaze again. "I want to thank you, though."

"For what?" she asked.

"For everything. For being there, for helping out."

"Adam, that's... that's what friends are for, right? You don't have to thank me."

He studied the foam on her hands from the dishwashing liquid, suddenly remembering the faint nacre-like surface of her clear nail polish he had secretly studied during dinner. "Yes, I do. I mean, I wanted to."

"No, really," she verbally shrugged him off, her voice softer now. "It's the least I could do."

She looked at him and their eyes met. He wanted to drown in them. He wanted to lean in and kiss her, wanted to feel her hands damp with water and foam on his skin, wanted to taste her strawberry flavored lip-gloss on his lips.

Stop it! he mentally chided himself. Stop it before you do something you'll later regret. He tore his gaze away from her face, but not before he saw that flicker in her eyes, the one that told him she wanted it too.

He picked up another glass and started drying it in silent deliberation, if only to keep his hands from touching her. The crackle of ... something explosive in the air slowly died down. Every breath he took felt like he was breathing through a gas mask, loud and labored. He desperately tried to come up with a topic, any topic, to defuse the electricity between them.

Joan beat him to it. "So, are you gonna keep the house?"

"The house," Adam repeated. "Yeah. I mean, I'd like to. I was raised in this house. It's just ... I started going through all the financial stuff and..." His hand combed through his hair wearily, drawing in a long breath before releasing it through his nose. "I didn't really realize how complicated this all is. Dad had two mortgages. When he started getting sick, he borrowed against the house. He still owes quite a lot. I mean, I have the life insurance, but even with that, it's gonna be tough. Quite frankly, I don't know if I can afford it."

Her heart ached for all the additional financial problems that were now being dumped on him on top of everything else. She knew her own parents started to struggle for a while when she was in high school, with having to refit the house in Arcadia to accommodate Kevin's needs while still saving money for their children's academic careers and tuitions.

But her parents had always tried to shield their children from all of the financial burdens. And she never had the feeling that she was being deprived of anything because they couldn't afford it. She knew that for Adam it had never quite been like that. Even as a teenager, he had taken a job to afford the pain medication his father needed for his back condition.

In an honestly sympathetic voice, she said, "You know, if you need any help with the money, I can—"

He interrupted her. Not forcefully, but gently. "No. No, that's okay. I'll manage. I'm gonna check out options. It'll work out somehow."

Joan only nodded. He had his pride, she knew that. She hoped he knew that it wasn't pitying charity she was offering. She let the subject go for now.

After rinsing the last soup bowl, she handed it to him before she pulled the plug from the sink. Drying her hands on a towel that hung on the wall, she watched him put away the last few cleaned items. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked him.

He closed the overhead cupboard door. "No, you've helped more than enough already." Without sounding reproachful, he told her, "Go home, Jane. You must be exhausted."

It was true, she was. Not much more than four hours of sleep the previous night and a full stressful day at work had seen to that. She hadn't even fully realized how tired she actually was until now. But she was more worried about Adam than herself. "Will you be all right?"

He looked at her with an intensity that she had not expected. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," she relented.

He accompanied her to the door. She drew him into a hug before she said goodbye. And she couldn't help but feel at home in his arms, even for those few seconds.

"Promise me you'll call when you need anything," she said to him as they separated from their embrace.

"I promise."

As she left, walking through the front garden again, she noticed from the corners of her eyes how the wet metal sculptures glittered with reflections from the street lights in the rain that was still steadily beating down in soft drops. And she wondered why the words I love you suddenly popped into her head, seemingly out of nowhere. How long had it been since she had said that to anyone? And hadn't she given up on the words love and Adam belonging in the same sentence a long time ago? Hadn't they agreed to be just friends?

She pushed the thought aside and sighed. What she needed more than anything was passing out on the couch with a hot mug of tea and the latest episode of her favorite TV show before falling into bed like a rock.