"…their fucking accents and their fucking rain! Hate 'em. All. Whole country. Screw William. Give me Harry… We redheads gotta stick together ya'know."

She was in some bar. That looked barely inhabitable and had some kind of theater in the back.

It was smoky and hot. Or maybe it was just her. She was hot.

Gorgeous actually.

But hot in the sense that her body temperture had risen. It had to be because it couldn't be the Scotch she was drinking. It was weak but it would do. This bar was just too damn hot.

She preferred Balvenie single malt whisky…but beggars couldn't be picky. Or be a bitch to the bartender because he was the one with all the power.

The power to keep serving her drinks.

She turned her head. Slowly. Feeling that if she did it any faster it might fall off.

"Don't see the appeal of London. Princes' and Queen's. Who needs them?" her companion asked quietly.

She focused quite blearily on the pen he was trying to turn about his fingers.

"I love pens. Aurora's. Bexley's. Caran D'Ache makes a fabulous pen. What's that?"

His stare was hard.

His eyes fathomless.

"It's a Bic."

She grinned. Couldn't help it, not when he was looking at her like she was crazy.

"I love it. It's all black and writy…" she trailed off as she took a gulp of her weak Scotch.

"You're drunk," he said and there's wonder in his voice. Head cocked to the side and a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

She stared at him and he stared right back.

Sad. He was so sad.

"Did you just ever fuck a girl, Preston?" The question's blurted out before she realizes it.

Hanging between them.

She saw his eyes flash. With what she's not sure.

"I mean," she continued blithely as if she hadn't called him out. Hadn't brought the discussion back to where it all started, "without the coffee. Without the feelings. Just the need to get off? To expend…energy. Just plain old fucking?"

He hadn't moved an inch since she'd started talking. His eyes were unreadable and she wondered why she'd asked it in the first place.

Preston Burke wasn't the kind of man who fucked.

A man who would pick up a woman in a bar.

Take her home and fall in love with her.

Preston Burke was not her husband.

"Doesn't it get old…" she whispered. "The feelings?"

"You're drunk. I'll put you in a cab and see you home," Preston muttered as he shook his head as if to clear it and rose to his feet.

She watched him, head propped up by her fist and feeling the alcohol. Tasting the smoke and feeling free. Light.

She glanced down at her hand on the table.

Her left one.

The one bare of its usual rings.

She felt free.

Burke took hold of her elbow and helped her to rise.

"I live in a place called Bell Town," she muttered trying not to slur her words.

"I know. At the Warwick."

"You can stay with me. Get drunk with me."

"I have a room already."

"Don't want the company?"

"You're drunk," he repeated as if this was news.

The night was cold and windy and when they stepped out into it she shivered.

"And you're not," she muttered irritated.

A cab was there.

He made sure she got in safely and slid in next to her.

"The Warwick," Preston told the driver.

He glanced at her and she could feel his gaze.

She turned her head so she was looking at him sideways.

"I do. Get tired of…the feelings," he muttered.

Her light feeling was going away.

Drifting…

Fading…

Until she just felt broken.