Author's Note: here's Chapter 3!

Spencer

It was Saturday, a typical winter's evening, and in honoring their tradition - every Saturday is date night - the couple was content, having just finished a delicious meal accompanied by (only a few!) drinks at the nearby bar.

His hand rested easily in the palm of her own, their fingers intertwined, and every so often he would rub his thumb over hers- an oscillatory gesture that reminded her of a fan on a balmy summer day. 'Around, and around, and around'. If she focused on it, the effect was almost dizzying.

"I think I need to sit down," she remembered herself saying, suddenly feeling very, very drunk as the aftershocks of her excessive imbibing came forth. She wavered a bit on her stiletto heels - those that Hanna had let her borrow, or rather insisted she wear - and veered inadvertently towards the sidewalk. In her haste, she ripped her hand free from his and was immediately sent careening into the cement. The forceful impact caused her nose to bleed and, despite herself - emotions not yet in check - she began to cry. "This is so embarrassing!" she crooned, her woeful cries ricocheting off the midnight sky.

Andrew, well knowing that he shouldn't laugh, smirked at his wallowing girlfriend and extended his hand to her. She glowered as she accepted his help, leading him to believe his face had undoubtedly betrayed the covert laughter that emanated from his lips. "Don't laugh. It's not funny."

"Relax Spence, we've been dating well over a year, I think we've passed that stage. I can't be embarrassed by you no matter your actions," he assured, supporting her weight with his own.

"Even if I'm totally hammered!?" she yelled to the void, a few dog walkers stopping to stare in overt amusement. "Yes, even then," he answered bemusedly, leading her by the arm up their house's carport and unlocking the door, ushering her inside.

As Andrew turned to follow her in, she surprised him by sticking her head out the door, her hair a wild, frizzy, mess, some bobby pins knotted up in the nest. "Goodnight moon!" she trilled, blowing a kiss in its general direction. Andrew chuckled, shaking his head at her antics. "And goodnight Spencer," he whispered in her ear, making her giggle. "Goodnight Spencer!" she hissed, her tone mocking.

He gagged without meaning to, getting a whiff of something strong, the tequila, he decided. "Oh, Spence," he clucked with a slight air of comicality, "when I said 'drink away your pain' I didn't mean your liver baby."

Spencer just sighed dreamily in response. "Troll-lol-lol-lol-lol!" Andrew openly laughed a big hearty guffaw as she began dancing around the room in her inebriated state.

The two were in the living room now and sooner or later she was going to crash, but not before she receives the huge purple bruise that she won't, until her dying day, know the origin of.

Andrew chuckled, somewhat inappropriately, at the image of Spencer on her death bed- begging to know its history, where it came from, even though it wasn't even a taint on her flesh any longer, having seamlessly integrated into the ghost of injuries past.

"Tell me!" she croaked, reaching out a translucent tissue of a hand. "Please!" Her other spindly hand grasped the collar of his shirt in desperation. "I need to know!"
"It's from when you-"

Suddenly, knocking him from his morbid daydream, there was a groan of agony as Spencer tripped on the chair, diving, with the inhabited grace of a swan on a morphine overdose, onto the floor. "Oomph. Spenc-y have a boo boo."

Again, Andrew laughed. "Yes, a boo boo indeed."

Spencer frowned, pulling herself up off the floor finally, after slipping three or four times in the process.

"Don't you laugh. You think this is funny, punk?"

She was looking at him head on now, lips a thin line as she pointed her finger gun at his chest.

Andrew put up his hands in surrender, willing to play along.

Although, now, Spencer had a different idea.

She pulled off her shirt first, then her pants, left now in her matching cashmere bra and panty set.

The glow from the T.V, that had been left on when they went to dinner, cast an eerie shadow along Spencer's prominent cheekbones and making the devious sparkle in her eyes - the physical representation of her drunken indomitability - that much brighter.

"Spencer, please, it's getting late, please put your clothes back on and come to bed."

Her boyfriend's plea for order only prompted her defiance when she took off running. "You can't catch me," she sing-songed, her actions similar to the way her niece fought her own bedtime.

By the time Andrew caught up to her, winded and sweaty, she was curled up in a ball atop the covers, the duvet on the floor in a heap and the sheets tangled around her like a grapevine of silk. Sound asleep, finally.

Author's Note: Drunk Spencer? Yes, No, maybe? :)