Never Have I Ever-Round 4
Sometime later, she heard King say, "I think I better make a runner with Abby."
She opened her eyes to glower at him. "I'm fine."
"Welcome back, Whistler. And I was talking to Hedges, not you."
She blinked at him, unable to bring either he or Hedges into focus and settling for squinting at her watch. The long hand was definitely not pointing up at twelve. Two? Three? Three-thirty? Already? She'd only closed her eyes for second, she would have sworn. There had been weird images there, ones her now-conscious brain self-protectively shied away from revealing.
Hedges stared at the ceiling, swaying, a smile tickling his lips. "You think she's gonna be sick or frisky?"
"Sick," King answered, raising himself up out of his seat. She felt him circle behind her, but once he moved a little way out of her sight, she lost him in the shadows clouding her vision. But his breath, heavy with alcohol tinged with lime from the tequila shots, tickled her neck as he leaned over her. "Come on, Abby. We've got to get you outside before you ralph."
"Why outside?" She didn't fight him as he hooked his arms under hers and hauled her up, merely collapsed backwards against his chest. "Why outside?"
"Because the bathroom's busy."
"Why?" She already couldn't remember; all she did know was it was upsetting.
"The plumber's here," King breathed in her ear. "Hedges, clean up duty?"
"Uh-uh," Hedges crossed his arms, throwing a tantrum. "You get the babe, I get the bottles? Hardly seems fair. You started this." Hedges pushed himself away from the table, ready to take a stand against this perceived injustice. Instead, he fell over backwards in his chair. Abby watched as, in slow motion, Hedges toppled; she felt King instinctively start towards him to try and catch him before remembering he had her weight to support.
"Hedges?"
"Okay," came a wheezy little voice somewhere across and under the table. "You get the girl this time."
"Thanks, Hedges," Abby said, feeling as though she owed him, even if she didn't know why.
"You're welcome, Abby. Feel better."
King paused, quietly assessing the situation. "You need a trip to the pier, too, Hedges?"
It took him a while to answer. "Yes."
"You need help?"
"Very possibly."
"Shit," King swore, struggling closer to the table. He swept a few of the bottles out of the way, and Abby followed in his arm, occupying the space he'd cleared. On her back, she lolled her head to the side, watching King walk around the table and reach down. His arm dipped out of sight and reappeared with another attached to it; with much effort on his part, he dragged Hedges up from the floor.
"The King bone's connected to the Hedges' bone," she sang, happily. Somewhere, a voice in her head was berating her and part of her was dying from embarrassment she couldn't feel. Hedges grinned goofily, and King raised that eyebrow again, the one that meant he was laughing at someone- Hedges, probably. He wouldn't dare laugh at her.
Hedges seemed okay on his feet, but the short trip to the hard ground had turned him an ugly shade of green. "Excuse me," he backed away and bolted for the outside door. Abby threw her head in the opposite direction and watched him push through the door and keep running.
"Goddamnit, he's gonna end up in the fucking river," King growled, checking her over, then, having determined she wasn't going anywhere, took off at a fast jog after Hedges. Somewhere at the border between encompassing darkness, she could see two blobs collide, one falling, one upright. She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut tight and counting to thirty, skipping a few of the less important numbers, seven, sixty-five, ones like that. She lost count and started again, whispering numbers at random until she lost the sound of her voice to the buzz in her brain.
When she opened her eyes again, the blobs outside were gone. She lifted her shoulders up, tearing them away from the sticky surface of the table, outstretched arms knocking a few bottles over. Still on the table and alone.
"Sorry," a voice came from the top of her head. She tilted her chin up, arching her back to see who it was. The face-shape was pale, so it wasn't Dex, and the hair was short, so it wasn't Sommer. It had a funny outline, darker on the bottom, dark like on top. Not Hedges.
"King," she held up her arms, fingers reaching towards him, the tips grazing the coarse and prickly hairs of his beard.
"Right here," he leaned over her, large hands cupping her underarms and sliding her backwards along the table.
"How long was I out?"
"About twenty minutes this time. I had to make sure Hedges was through, and you looked like you'd be okay for a while." From this angle, she could see the cleft in his chin beneath his beard, and his necklace hit her on the forehead, swinging as he pulled her up and off the table. He balanced her weight against his chest, and her head fell over his shoulder. "Easy, Whistler," he said, softly, as she sunk into his support. Her limbs felt twitchy and heavy all at once, as if vibrating under pressure. "We need to dunk you, too?"
She snorted. "Hedges fell in?"
"Not quite, but almost."
Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, she shook her head against his shoulder. "Just need some fresh air. Not sick," she tried to communicate. Wasted she might be, with the evening's events and revelations slipping through the stop-gaps of her memory, but she couldn't feel any rising bile or esophageal spasms. Wind in her face, some cold water, a good night's sleep, she'd be fine. King walked them both outside, grabbing his leather jacket from the hanger by the door and draping it around her as they emerged into the cool night air.
"Mmm."
"Better?"
"Yes," she inhaled the spray from the waves, fumes from the city across it, her own scent, riddled with alcohol, King's much the same. She found balance in the way the wind moved, providing her with external clues to direction that she trusted more than she did her eyes. She let them fall to half-mast, keeping them open only a fraction as she felt her way to the end of the pier. King fell into step behind her, wary and certain all at once. She dropped her head back, squinting to look up at the stars; she couldn't see any and pretended this was because they were too close to the city.
"How come you aren't drunk?" She asked the sky.
King answered, "I weigh more than you do."
"Hedges weighs about the same as you. How come he's drunk?"
"Because the last time someone gave him a drink, it was communion wine."
She contemplated life, the universe, and this for an interminable period. King waited on her, silent and cautious; she regretted being so drunk as to be unable to truly appreciate this rare event. A responsible part of her brain howled about this stupid lapse of judgment, on all their parts. What if they were attacked? She ignored it. Plenty of time for it tomorrow. Tonight, there were only silly revelations, melodramatic betrayal and conflict, strange behavior all around- all of it coming back, mostly unwelcome, and minus alcohol-assisted and diminished embarrassment, hers or others. Poor Hedges. Fucking Sommer. Dex fucking Sommer. She tried not to think about it; she wasn't ready yet, still so sleepy and out of sorts. Poor Hedges. Concentrate on that. Poor, poor Hedges.
Speaking of...she rounded on King. "You lied for him."
His eyes were sharp and black in the low light. "What do you mean?" Guarded and innocent.
"Hedges," she hugged herself, grasping the oiled leather sleeves of his coat tightly around her body. "You lied for him."
King shrugged, sticking his hands under his armpits and stamping his feet. "Lied about lying. Double negative. So it's a sort of truth."
"You were nice to him, King," she said, as sure of it as she had been when it happened, that memory, unlike others, crystal in her mind.
"Am I going to be punished for that?"
"For lying or for being nice?"
"Either."
"No," Abby shook her head. "But you broke the rules. Aren't there some consequences for that?"
"Not really," King smirked. "It's just a game. Hedges is a poor loser, I'm a good winner."
"And so modest," she giggled, once. She walked back to him, spontaneously reaching out to take his hand. "Did you learn more about everyone?"
"Too much," King readily agreed. "How about you?"
She screwed up her nose in an expression of distaste. "I seem to remember Sommer and Dex-" King held up one finger, tapping it against her lips. Annoyed, she shook her head, smacking his hand away. "God, I can't believe I didn't know."
"Whistler."
Her blood was up now, a burgeoning hangover not helping matters. "All this time? And you knew, what, within days?"
"Yes, but, Whistler-"
"Damn it, I'm her friend." We have to stick together, Abby, or the boys'll eat us alive, Sommer had said. Too bad she didn't know Sommer meant that literally.
"Whistler," King whisper-shouted, finally shaking her from her self-absorption. "Forget about it. You're preoccupied with the job. If Sommerfield wanted you to know, you would have."
"Why wouldn't she want me to know?" She pouted, hugging herself. It was true what she'd said; Sommer was the closest friend she had among the Nightstalkers, and she hadn't known! Not a word, not a clue, not a raised eyebrow or lascivious comment out of place.
"Woman is a mystery," King shrugged, good naturedly.
She glowered mightily at him "Nice."
"Come on," he tried to guide her back inside, but she shook him off. "Whistler, you're drunk and you don't realize how cold it is out here." She blinked hard and realized her fogged-in vision was just from their hot breath coming in contact with frosty air. He was right - she couldn't feel the cold that must be all around them. Still hurt, confused, and a tad drunk, she let him push her towards the base. The thought of going back in, of sleeping only to wake sober in the knowledge that her best friend hadn't trusted her all this time...it was more than she could stomach, especially with her stomach wrenching about because of alcohol.
"Hey," she called over her shoulder.
"Hey what?"
"Let's have sex." She hadn't known she would say it until she did. Why not? If Sommer could traipse around with Dex, she could screw around with King. That was fair.
King was silent a moment. "You're drunker than I thought, Whistler."
"No, really." She leaned her head back against him as he moved to open the door for them and pressed her hips backwards against his. Her vision might be blurred, but she could hear him swallow thickly as she cupped his ass with both hands. "You want to, I know it, and I'm offering."
"Play nice, Abigail," King grunted, moving her hands away from him. She resisted his efforts to maneuver her indoors, bracing one arm across the doorway.
"Don't deny it." When this didn't stop him, she turned, all allure and seduction falling away as she poked him sharply in the chest. So, it was to be the direct approach. "You want to fuck me, so let's fuck."
"I want you to go to bed so I can go write this all down," he shook his head, smothering a smile. "This is blackmail material for life, Whistler."
"You come with me," she ordered, "I want to get laid."
He met her glare without flinching. "That's a very tempting offer, but I've got other plans for the rest of evening."
She lost her temper. All night, he'd flirted and teased as they'd gone over each other's personal lives with drink-induced indiscretion. Now, she was willing to give him what he wanted, and he was telling her no? She raised a hand to slap him again, this time more solidly and less drunkenly than before, but he caught her wrist before it could make contact with his cheek.
Enraged, she shrieked, "Who the hell do you think you are, King?"
"Abby, shhh," he hissed, glancing around nervously.
"Don't you tell me to shhh! They're asleep!"
"Not in a few minutes they won't be." He made a placating gesture she could only just make out through hot tears welling up in her eyes. God, why was she crying? What was wrong with her? King looked mortified by this development. "Okay, Jesus, I'm sorry, just don't-don't cry, okay?"
"You don't get to tell me what to do!" Huffily, sniffling and rubbing preemptively at her eyes, she walked through the door, burning with fury and shame. What are you doing, Abby? She had no idea. All she knew was she'd just propositioned King, thrown his attraction in his face, all to get back at Sommer who wouldn't know or care if she did. It made no sense. This wasn't her.
"Hey," a voice whispered, close to her ear. She started as King hugged her one-armed around the shoulders from behind. How could he have snuck up on her like that? "Take it easy, tiger. Let's get you some water." Dumbly, she went loose in his arms as he led her to the couch, sat her on it, and left her for the kitchen. She barely registered him as being gone at all when he returned with a bottled water; she hated tap water, and he knew it. Absurdly, this caused her to cry in earnest, taking the water but unable to open it as she sobbed. When she felt the couch sink next to her, she collapsed against him, boneless and shuddering.
"You take this trust thing kinda seriously, huh?"
Through mucousy snorts, she laughed once, humorlessly. "I'm being such a bad drunk."
"Nah," King reassured her. "Now, Hedges, he's a bad drunk. He threw up on my shoes." Abby giggled despite herself, looking down at his dark boots which were covered in splotchy patches. "You're just a sloppy drunk." She felt something warm on her cheek and reached for it, closing her hand over King's where he brushed away her tears. "And a weepy one," he whispered as he hugged her.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, unable to say it louder, too proud to. King, either ignoring or not hearing her, took the water, opened the cap and handed it back. She took a grateful gulp, swishing it around in her mouth to rid herself of beer's lingering acrid bitterness.
"Are you going to need more help, or are you fine until the hangover kicks in?" His hand was on her shoulder, rubbing, soothing. She heard a hum and realized it was coming from her, a contented, pathetic noise.
"I think it may already have," she whimpered, at once frustrated at how helpless she felt and too far gone to care. His body was warm against hers, tempting her into inebriated sleep once more, this time promising to be more comfortable than when she she'd fallen asleep at the table.
"I'll sit up with you a while, then," he offered, generously. He was being nice. Like with Hedges, only now with her. Her face felt thirty degrees too hot as she flushed with shame.
"No." She couldn't look at him. "Go to bed, King." He didn't argue, but he didn't leave. Her frustration flared as she scooted away from him, sullen from too much emotional abuse. "I've rescinded my offer, if that's why you're hanging around."
His tone was harsh, almost curt when he spoke next. "I never seduce drunken women, Whistler."
She laughed at this. "Never have I ever?"
"Mmm-hmm."
She finally risked a glance at his face. His eyes were mischievous but sincere, his lips neutrally pursed, waiting for her next reaction or outburst. It was too cute to be libidinous, and too sexy to be innocent. She had to touch him, to feel whatever was in him that made him look that way - as if his physical solidity would reveal his amorphous whimsy. She nudged him backward against the couch with her head. He took the hint, swinging his legs up onto the couch as she curled up, head on his arm, pressed bodily against his side.
A long few minutes passed, and, while soothed by his presence, she still felt awkward about lying with him like this despite his promise to behave. She had to say something, they couldn't just stay like this, her too strung out to sleep, him waiting on her to be sure she was all right. King wasn't looking at her; he just lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling, thumb stroking her upper arm idly.
"I've never been betrayed," she said softly, glancing up as far as his chin. The hard line of his lips eased into a half-smile; he mimed drinking. Pleased, she did the same.
"You weren't betrayed, Abby. She just didn't think you'd take it well, or something. Looks like she was right." She ignored his attempt to piss her offhe was trying to make her angry again so she'd let him go, so they could be friendly combatants again. So she didn't have to apologize. Well, she wasn't going to let herself off the hook as easily.
"I've never propo-proposicioned-"
"Propositioned?" He filled in, helpfully.
"I never propositioned anyone while drunk." She had to drink, but he, good to his word, did not move. "Never, huh?"
"Standards, Whistler. Look it up when you can spell again."
"I never hurt someone I didn't mean to." They both pretended to drink again. This time, King glanced at her quickly, nodded once to himself, and resumed staring up at the ceiling. Satisfied with this tacit arrangement, Abby nuzzled closer to him, edgy nerves calming, opening up to his soporific rhythms. She lost herself in the muffled noise of his breathing and his strong but muted pulse beating under her ear. He tugged the afghan off the back of the couch, draped it over them and resettled.
"So," he mumbled, the words rumbling in his chest, "tell me about cheating. I hear it's fantastic."
She laughed breathily, still sniffling. "You gotta try it."
"I'm tempted. Care to share?"
"Bases?"
"I'll take whatever you'll give me." Despite his seeming sobriety, he had had enough to drink to loosen his sharp tongue, to get a little sloppy. His words revealed more than he realized, and she was sobering up enough to know it.
"All the way," she whispered. "I wanted him, he wanted me, finally. It just clicked."
"And it didn't matter that you had a boyfriend?"
"No one tells me what I can and can't have," she hissed, fisting a handful of his shirt. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Who's the other man in your life?" When he inhaled sharply, she craned her neck up to look at him. The comfort and peace of lying together shattered in an instant upon seeing his expression. His nostrils flared, his jaw clenched, his eyes seemed lost under a heavy brow. She'd never seen him that angry before. Annoyed, hurt, frustrated, disappointed, maybe, but this? Never. Not even when talking about his tenure with the vampires...Oh.
"It happened at Danica's."
"It did," he said through his teeth, barely audible. Uncomfortable, embarrassed, she didn't know how to soothe away this hurt. Luckily, her silence had its usual effect; King abhorred a vacuum, and his mouth rushed to fill it. "Let's change the subject. What about them Lakers?"
Undeterred, she pushed on. "You can talk to me about this, if you want. Or not, that's okay," she reached across his body to squeeze his hand. "I'm being a real bitch tonight, and I know I'm not always..."
"Compassionate?"
"Something like that," she bristled, trying not to let it annoy her; all the others had said something like that at one time or another. "But I am your friend. I hope." She bit her lower lip, suddenly not so sure that this was the casewere they friends? They worked together, they generally got along, even if they weren't that close. That was still friendship, right?
"Yeah," King sighed, his chest sinking under her as he let out a full breath. "We're friends, Abby." She thought there was some disappointment there, but, given what she'd learned in just the past few seconds, it might have been any of a number of other pieces of psychological baggage. It was what made her worry most that they weren't friendsthey never shared the signposts and secrets of their lives before the Nightstalkers.
Well, that could change. Without the group interest in delving into the prurient, maybe he and she could be honest and interested, free of agenda or motive.
"King."
"Hmm?"
"Tell me a story about your life."
"Once upon a time, a handsome prince was accosted by a beautiful but temperamental princess."
She hit him in the arm. "No. From before. Tell me about what you were like growing up."
"Oh, that's easier," King scratched his chin, considering. "Once upon a time, a handsome prince - ow!" She'd hit him harder this time.
"Be serious, goddamnit." She rearranged herself, sitting up on one elbow to be able to look him in the eye. "Start from the beginning."
"You already know a lot of this. Didn't you guys compile a whole dossier on me?"
"Pretend we didn't. Fill in the gaps."
He didn't say no, though he regarded her skeptically. "Why?"
"Because I said so, and I'm your boss."
"Not gonna fly, Whistler. I need a better reason."
"Because I want to know."
"That's different," he said, his expression changing, becoming at once more and less bemused - more because she'd admitted curiosity about him, less because he intended to be painfully truthful. He took a deep breath, held it, eyes unfocused. After a long minute, he said, "Okay."
He started with his earliest memories which were around the time his sister was born, and, boom, she learned something new about him right away: he liked babies, always had. As he went on, more and more of his typical swagger and self-assuredness returned; that was no surprise - he had always liked talking about himself. Somewhere around his college years, she sank down next to him again, closing her eyes, listening half to his words and half to the synchrony of their breathing.
She didn't hear him finish.
