"So are we going to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?" Lindy's on her third beer, and added to the two drinks she had at Donovan's she has a pretty good buzz going. She peers at Tommy, eyes slanted. She knows what he's talking about, but it's a topic she wants to avoid.
"I'll take that as a no." He rolls his eyes at her, finishing the last of his own drink.
"There's not really anything to say." She reminds him. It's true. They can relive the night if he wants to, she certainly doesn't, but it won't accomplish anything. Ben's sister will still hate her, Ben will still be dead, and Lindy will still have eight stitches in her head.
"There is if you're walking around blaming yourself for Ben's death."
She groans.
"Tommy. I don't want to talk about this anymore. You promised to get me drunk and this does not seem to be going in that direction."
"Fine."
They drink in silence for a few minutes, and as the quiet stretches on they seem to settle into one another, Lindy throwing her legs over his, leaning back. He reaches over to prop a few pillows under her head, which is still sore. She turned down the painkillers in favour of alcohol, and she's starting to regret it.
"So, Melinda." He says. A pillow goes sailing by his head, missing by barely an inch. His face turns serious. "Did you mean what you said?" Clearly he isn't going to let this go.
"Tommy-"
"Not about Ben. About me." She frowns.
"Which part?"
"About not knowing me. About me being the killer." He's not looking at her, and something inside her, that wall that she's been trying so hard to put up all night, crumbles.
"I don't think you're the killer, if that's what you're asking. Unless you're confessing." She quirks an eyebrow. He doesn't smile. "I mean, I don't know you. Not really." He looks thoughtful. His hand reaches down, grabbing them both a new beer from the cooler beside the couch. He throws her one.
"What do you want to know?" He asks. She pauses.
"I… what's your middle name?" He smirks.
"James. Thomas James Calligan." He can tell she was hoping for something embarrassing.
"When's your birthday?"
Tommy takes a swig of his beer, shakes his head.
"Mmm, no. My turn. Favourite food."
"Pizza. Favourite colour?"
"Blue. First album you ever bought?"
"Blink-182. I like blue on you." She says. It's a slip, one she'll later blame on the alcohol. He grins. She knows he thinks she isn't really here, that he's just a temporary place to land for her. She also knows that's her fault. That line about not being friends, it was a lie. But all tonight has done is remind her that everyone who gets close to her ends up hurt, and the closer she gets to Tommy the more afraid for him she becomes. He's all she really has left. If keeping him at arms-length would keep him safe she had been willing to try that. Until now. She thought she could do it, thought she could ignore the hurt in his eyes every time she downplayed how much he meant to her. She was wrong.
He's smiling now, mirth where sorrow had been moments before. She's weak, she knows, but he's happy and that will have to do for now.
"Best scar story?" She prompts, and just like that there's no going back. She's sticking with him now, for better or for worse.
The entire case of beer and half a bottle of whiskey later, they're both completely hammered.
"It's late." She hiccups. He snickers.
"It's Saturday."
"Oh." She ponders this. "What…. Wait. Whose turn is it?" Her words slur together, but he seems to catch most of it.
"I think," He squints. "Mine." Lindy narrows her eyes, she's pretty sure he's lying, he just doesn't want to answer any more questions, but she lets it slide.
"So go." She pokes his chest. As the night has progressed they slowly moved in closer, and they're now just a tangle of limbs and flushed cheeks.
"Okay. What?" He cranes his neck to look down at her. She snorts.
"You're drunk."
"We're both drunk." He corrects. Without warning, he stands, sweeping her into his arms. She makes a face at the swaying movement as he walks.
"Oh. I don't like this." Her stomach rolls traitorously as they round the corner, calming a little when he sets her down on the guest bed.
"Better?" He asks, she nods. He turns to go, and her hand snakes out, almost automatically.
"Wait." Even with all the liquor running through her veins she knows she should let him go. She pictures him like Ben, head down, throat cut, everything that made him Tommy dripping dully onto the pavement. She tells herself she needs to protect him. But her fingers stay clasped firmly around his wrist.
"Yeah?" He asks, waiting. He wouldn't expect her to ask him to stay, not even now, not like this.
"Stay."
He doesn't hesitate, even for a second. His hand fumbles against the wall, the lights flicking off after a minute, and then he's beside her. She pulls off her shoes, hears him do the same. She tugs off her jeans without a second thought, diving under the covers with a sigh. After a few seconds he slides in beside her, backs touching as they nestle under the covers. More than anything, Lindy wants to roll over and throw her arms around his chest, pressing her face into his back. But she doesn't. She's already being selfish enough.
"Night." She whispers, trying to press a few of the memories from tonight into a place she gets to keep them. It feels like most of this will turn to white noise in the morning, and she suddenly wishes she hadn't drank so much.
"Night." He mutters. She's painfully aware of him there, her skin tingling every time he shifts against her. Somehow she manages to fall asleep anyways, her breathing evening out to mirror his. He brings a peace with him that she's never really felt before, and despite the throbbing in her head she drifts off with a smile on her face.
Tommy doesn't get hungover. It's a special talent he discovered in college, prompting some rude remarks and a lot of morning McDonald's runs from his less fortunate party buddies. As he gets older the morning-afters have gotten a little tougher, but even now he wakes with little more than a headache and the vague sensation of sand in his mouth. He's comfortable, almost a little too comfortable, and when he yawns into a full head of hair it suddenly becomes clear as to why. He's pressed up against Lindy, her back flush against his torso, their legs tangled together in a knot of soft skin and heat. One of his arms is curled possessively around her stomach, which is bare, the other is trapped under her pillow. He takes a moment to enjoy it, the way she feels there, the way she fits. He can't imagine that she won't regret this, they both had too much to drink last night and she's always so careful to keep a safe distance. But there doesn't seem to be any way to detangle himself without waking her up. He carefully tries to tug his hand free, but the pillow jerks along with it, and she startles awake with a gasp.
He freezes, waiting for the regret, waiting for her to crawl awkwardly out of bed, waiting for the this never happened. It doesn't come. Instead, she groans, a painful noise that tells him clearly she's feeling every bit of the hangover he doesn't have. She wrenches the blanket over her eyes, elbowing him in the stomach.
"Close the curtains." Her voice is rough with sleep, but carries no trace of remorse. He does as he's told, hesitating at the window after pulling the curtains shut. A quick glance at the bed tells him Lindy's already fallen back asleep, and he resists the urge to crawl back in beside her, turning towards the bathroom instead.
The shower clears away any residual drunkenness, but he can't wash off the feeling of Lindy's skin against his. It lingers on his fingers, his thighs, his chest. A ghost of her remains in every place he touched her, and he knows it will be days before they go away.
He towels off and heads for his room, glad to finally have a little privacy when it takes him a few minutes to distract his body enough to be able to comfortably put his jeans on. Boris wakes up from his spot on Tommy's bed, following him out into the kitchen. It seems like a good morning for French Toast, it's always been his go-to hangover breakfast at any rate, and he grabs a couple eggs and some milk, glad for something routine to take his mind off the events of the night before. About ten minutes later he hears the shower turn on again. Boris paces around him irritably, and Tommy silently hopes Lindy will be up for another walk, because he can't say he likes the idea of leaving her home alone. At some point they'll have to figure this out, he can't babysit her forever and she would probably kill him if he tried, but there are real concerns under his admittedly excessive protectiveness. The killer seems to come and go from Lindy's apartment whenever they like, and Tommy doesn't have any reason to believe his own place will be any different.
When Lindy finally comes shuffling into the kitchen he has to suppress a laugh. She looks entirely unimpressed, the green tinge to her face and the bandage covering half of her forehead only adding to the effect. Her eyes slide over Tommy, taking in his appearance with a scowl.
"Why do you look like that?" Her voice is low, and he imagines it's due to the pounding in her head. He takes the hint, matching her volume.
"Like what?"
"Like, normal. You're smiling. Why?"
He snorts, grabbing the pan off the stove and shoving a small piece of toast towards her. She gives the plate a hostile look before pushing it away.
"I don't really get hungover. You should eat though, it will help." He pushes the plate back in her direction, holding out a fork with his other hand. She takes it grudgingly, poking mulishly at her food. Tommy reaches into the cupboard, grabbing a glass and a bottle of advil. He grabs the carton of coconut water from his fridge and pours some into the glass, then drops the drink and the pills in front of Lindy. These she takes gratefully, downing two tablets but sipping distastefully at the water.
"This is gross." She makes a face. He shrugs.
"It's better than Gatorade, less sugar. Best thing for a hangover though, so drink up." She does as she's told, but not without some dramatic flair. The face she pulls has him spitting out his own drink, and he coughs as water sprays everywhere.
"Ew." She grabs a handful of napkins and dabs at the now very wet countertop.
"That was your fault." He mutters, patting his shirt with a dishtowel. She sighs. "Are you up for a walk with me and Boris? I'm not even sure he'll go without you at this point." They both glance down at the dog, who's sitting upright with his head resting in Lindy's lap. She smiles.
"Yeah." Her gaze flickers back up to him, and she rubs her temple painfully. "I can't believe you let me drink so much."
He almost spits again, choking down the bite of French toast while shaking his head incredulously.
"Okay." He splutters, knowing better than to let himself get sucked into her argument.
"You're a bad influence." She tells him. He laughs so hard that tears form in his eyes. She narrows hers at him. "What?"
"Lindy, you're an illegal hacker. If anyone is a bad influence here it's you. Besides, I told you to slow down like eight times last night, turns out you don't listen to me when you're drunk either." He grabs her plate, giving her an approving kind of pat on the head when he sees that she finished her breakfast, then tosses the dishes in the dishwasher. She just continues to glare at him, absently scratching the top of Boris' head.
"Well… it was a stressful night." She muses. He softens.
"Yeah." He knows her well enough to know that she doesn't actually want to talk about it. "You should get dressed." He nods toward her bare legs, the silk pajama shorts she's wearing hardly an improvement from her usual pantless state in the mornings. Boris whines as she gets up, and follows her as she turns towards the hallway. Before she rounds the corner, she looks back. Tommy watches her from where he leans against the counter. Those seconds of silence are loaded, and he knows she feels it too.
"I just want you to know, we're good." She tells him. The charge in the air shifts, becomes a little less tense, but doesn't fade completely.
"Okay." He says. She nods, then disappears around the corner. He lets out a long breath, smoothing back his hair with an unsteady hand. He isn't entirely sure where this leaves them, doesn't know exactly what good means at this point, but it's enough for now. Maybe one day good will involve them waking up together every morning, no alcohol required. Maybe it could look like him getting back into bed after closing the curtains, Lindy rolling back into him automatically, the electricity that sparked every time he touched her still there, just a little more familiar. Maybe he wouldn't be alone in whatever this is, this one-sided wanting that makes his chest ache and his pulse jump. A life with Lindy, a real one. For the first time, it doesn't seem so impossible.
A/N: So a little shorter, but also a little fluffier. I think next week we'll return to the plot a bit. Sound good?