New Year's Eve is the most fun when you are wasted, his friends told him.

The most fun, my ass; when your plans were ruined and you had to babysit a drunk, then no, thank you very much, grumbled one Commander Johnson, all while glancing at his table companion. He hadn't even gotten remotely tipsy, yet she was already starting to get intoxicated.

In contrast to how she'd usually carry herself with dignity, at that moment Prince of Wales didn't look dignified at all. Her once pristine, neatly done hair had become tousled, and she looked out of it as she rambled about things he did not want nor need to hear—especially the bit about cucumbers and the itch she could not quite scratch.

For all her constant complaining of having to suffer Prinz Eugen's drunken antics, Wales turned out to be just as bad as her friend—a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you will.

With that in mind, Johnson vowed never to take her out drinking again, no matter how lonely he was and how much she begged.

"Hey, are you listening? A lady's talking, and you…you are ignoring her? No wonder you got stood up."

Wales's rebuke brought Johnson's full attention back to her; he heard her loud and clear despite its slurred delivery.

Johnson coughed before answering, all while ignoring the twitching on his forehead. She just had to remind him of that, didn't she? But he was a reasonably patient man and could afford to keep himself from getting mad over that. And besides, she was drunk. Most people would become fools when drunk, no matter how much they'd try to deny it.

"Oh no, you are simply too charming to ignore, madam," he said, surprised the words did not come out as sarcastic as he intended. Either way, they proved to be pleasing for Wales because she broke into a smile—a rather big one, which she would certainly never show without the influence of alcohol.

"Hmph; bloody Americans…" she muttered as she rocked her nearly empty glass back and forth. Her smile didn't seem like it would be gone anytime soon; in fact, she looked as though she was about to laugh.

"Look, Wales, don't you think you have been drinking enough whiskey? How about some…less intoxicating alternative?" Seeing that she was in a good mood, Johnson figured he would attempt to steer the conversation back into something less embarrassing for them. And for that, he would first have to keep her from getting even drunker.

"Nonsense. For a Brit, New Year's Eve is all about getting legless," Wales promptly shot down the suggestion and slammed her glass on the table as if to punctuate her point. Johnson wasn't entirely surprised she did, as her stubborn streak was known to everyone in the base, him included.

"Okay, you are already dangerously close to it," he countered, but Wales was still unwilling to easily give up her drinking privilege.

"Are you insinuating that I, Prince of Wales, cannot hold my liquor well, Mr. Johnson? That I am weak?" She hissed; Johnson could see her half-lidded ruby eyes narrowing even more.

"I'm not saying you are, Wales," he replied, trying to sound appeasing instead of frustrated. "But you are…ah damn it; listen, I'm just concerned, okay? If you keep this up, you might get in trouble."

The smile that was gone before returned to Wales's face along with a deep rosy blush which neither can tell if it was induced by alcohol or something else.

"Your concern is unfounded. Waiter, another bottle! And make it Macallan!" she called out.

"What a way to welcome the New Year," Johnson griped as he planted his face into the table. He had little doubt that the place would not have anything beyond Macallan 12 Years Old, but even that one bottle would cost him more than he was willing to spend, even if he could afford it.

"Don't act like a killjoy. It's on me."

Looking up, Johnson saw Wales beaming at him, and he wondered if, somehow, she had read his mind. Before he could think of an answer, an eager-looking waiter returned to their table with a bottle, which, as he had guessed, was indeed a Macallan 12 Years Old.

He could not help but scoff a bit at that—of course, they would always be quick when serving something expensive.

Wales wasted no time pouring herself a glass, but instead of drinking it, she offered it to a stunned Johnson, who immediately noticed the glass was his, taken without him knowing.

"Drink up, old chap, and be merry."

It was supposed to be easy—just a friend offering a drink. All he had to do was to take it, and that's it.

Yet, somehow it felt like he was taking advantage of her.

But damn it, she looked so sincere.

As Johnson hesitated, Wales decided to be more assertive, to the point she nearly shoved the glass against his chest. He soon realized he had only one choice—to receive the offering.

Satisfied that Johnson gave in, Wales poured another shot into her own glass. Seeing Johnson hadn't downed his, she raised it.

"Cheers."

Johnson saw Wales still looked just as sincere as she spoke. His glass soon met hers in a quiet toast.

"Cheers."

Wales had enough sense to appreciate a good quality drink for someone not entirely sober, choosing to sniff gently before sipping the liquid. She seemed peaceful—at least until she let out the moan that sent Johnson shivering and forgetting he was supposed to do the same.

To distract himself, he decided to down his glass in a single gulp with a trembling hand. It didn't go unnoticed.

"Well, impatient, aren't we? Guess you need the drink more than you'd dare to admit…"

She was smirking, and Johnson could guess what she was about to say next. Still, he hoped she wouldn't.

Don't say it. Please don't say it.

"So…what happened? Who is she, anyway?"

Damn it.

"…Nobody important," he finally replied after a long silence, sounding way more bitter than he'd like. Truth be told, he usually wouldn't dare to call a daughter of his superior 'nobody important,' but he felt like being spiteful.

Hearing that, Wales looked like she was holding back a cuss. But she left whatever she was thinking unsaid, placing her glass back on the table and turning to Johnson instead.

"If I kiss you, maybe you would feel better."

The place, with all its noise and the chatter around them, suddenly went silent that very moment the remark left her mouth as though time itself had stopped.

Prince of Wales offering someone—him, of all people—a kiss was too surreal.

"Wales… don't tell me you have completely lost it," Johnson met the offer with an incredulous stare—she stared back with an expression he didn't quite expect.

It was one of melancholy.

Johnson looked away, finding the sight too painful to look at, knowing that he had just hurt her feelings.

He had thought of apologizing, but before he could do so, Wales had already reached forward, touching his cheek and turning his head towards her before bringing their face closer—the myriad of emotions came back crashing all at once as it happened.

Despite circumstances, when their lips met, it was surprisingly chaste; it came and went like fleeting snow, not lingering—though he could still feel the taste of the Macallan mixed with the cheap bourbon they had sipped earlier.

Johnson wasn't sure if he was already drunk without realizing it because he didn't resist. He didn't push her away, even though nearly half the bar was catcalling and whistling at the sight.

What he was sure of, he didn't regret it. He didn't even question why. Wales was genuine in her intentions, and that was enough.

And looking at her right now—flushing with lively red and occasionally bursting into brief laughs—he was sure she didn't regret it either.

Johnson felt a little guilty for not giving Wales enough credit. She might be intoxicated, but she was aware enough of her limits. After they were done with that one bottle, she surprised him by declaring she would call it a night. She paid for the drink as she had promised—much to his embarrassment and her amusement—and gladly took his offer to walk her back to her apartment in the Lower East Side, where she'd usually spend her nights off-duty.

Still, the way she walked, wobbling left and right like a ship battered by waves, served as a telltale sign she had not sobered yet.

But he could see that she had been able to keep herself pretty much steady all on her own, despite that. She was in no danger of falling, but he decided to keep an eye on her regardless, if only out of a sense of responsibility as the less intoxicated one—he wouldn't want her to end up in the drunk tank.

As Johnson watched Wales going about, breezy and carefree, his mind wandered back to the kiss; only now did he start wondering just what was behind it. He was almost sure it wasn't a mere drunken whim on her part. If it was a friendly one, were they really that close, to begin with, despite him having known her longer than anyone?

Then again, it was a more plausible explanation than the other reason, which he dared not think any further. There's no way that one could be possible.

Wales spinning around—remarkably without slipping—and calling out to him brought Johnson's thoughts to an abrupt end. She was still flushed, still sporting the winning smile as if she were on top of the world.

"Here I thought…you are walking me home," she said, and Johnson realized he was trailing behind her, too lost in his thoughts to notice.

"Must I take your hand to make sure you stay by my side…and not get lost?"

Johnson was about to retort about how she's the one more likely to get lost, but she wouldn't allow it—she promptly took hold of his hand, putting him under her mercy.

Her laugh as she did was soft but self-assured—soon, what he'd wanted to say was left forgotten.

Trying to keep up with Wales proved quite challenging, but Johnson took it in stride. Probably because he had never seen that side of her; she was smiling along the way.

He had to admit—he now wished she would show that uninhibited side more often and not under the influence. People had been talking about how stern she usually was, even for a member of the Royal Navy delegation. He wouldn't deny it, but the longer he knew her, the more he could see there was something else beyond that. Nevertheless, he had never tried to pursue the subject further, even when she'd let the mask slip time and again.

Now, though, it's getting painfully challenging to overlook.

Her abrupt pause brought an equally abrupt halt to the thought.

"Wales…?"

"Ah, a block party. It's been a while…"

Johnson looked around in a daze. Sure enough, Stanton Street was crowded, even with children who were usually not allowed to stay up late. But then again, it was New Year's Eve. The crowd was of lesser magnitude compared to those coming to see the Ball Drop at Times Square, but still, it was nothing to joke about.

"'Any Way You Want It?' Is that even a song you normally play during New Year's Eve?" Johnson frowned but then chuckled as a band started playing their number.

"Who cares?" Wales shrugged and let go of his hand, only to circle her right arm around his afterward and make a beeline towards the gathering around the stage; Johnson could only pray he wouldn't slip and fall onto her.

Amongst the crowd, Wales was just like everyone else, without putting up appearances—her tone-deaf attempt to sing along could attest to that, as did her near-slip as she grooved along to the tune, nearly taking him with her. She recovered and laughed it off, along with the others.

"Here's to another year, Mr. Johnson," she beamed as Johnson tried to steady his feet—and his heart. Around him, people had begun chanting the countdown.

Wales had removed herself from him, and he suddenly realized that things would soon go back to the usual, filling him with an odd feeling—like he had lost something.

"What's wrong?" She inquired, noticing the lack of an immediate answer on Johnson's part.

Johnson was sure she would forget what he was about to say by tomorrow, what with all that hangover; thus, he figured he might as well tell her now, even though it might be pointless.

"...You know, Wales, I'm happy you get to be like this...like you've no burden at all. That you could lighten up. They say that you will do whatever you do on New Year for the entire year to come. I hope it's true; that you could be like that for the rest of this year too."

As Wales stood dumbfounded, the rosy tinge that had left the sides of her face long ago returned; she brought a palm up and gave her right cheek a gentle caress.

"...So that's your wish, is it?" She murmured, actually sounding completely clear-headed.

"...Well, I would be, ah, lying if I denied that."

"As long as you promise to stay by my side, Johnson, I could give you that."

"Wales…?"

"What? Think I'm still drunk? You don't really think I'm that weak, do you? I meant it."

Before Johnson could think of something—or anything, for that matter—Wales had closed the distance between them and again drew his face closer to hers amidst the thunderous welcome for the new year.

Unlike before, it lasted significantly longer. They were lost in it, not noticing the disapproving look of some mothers—who had to frantically cover the eyes of their cheering children—or the amusement of others.

He still didn't resist—only this time he had already realized why; a feeling made more potent when she whispered into his ears. Those were the words he would never expect to hear from her—before or in the future. But she truly meant it; he could tell.

And that's why he swore to let that growing, heady feeling be instead of denying it anymore.

When they eventually parted—something he regretted—Wales smiled gently, the color of her cheeks now matching that of her eyes.

The door opened, and Wales stepped into her apartment. But unlike what Johnson had expected, she didn't say goodbye, and the door remained open.

"Come on in."

"Huh?"

"You know, there's this British tradition of the first foot. The first person to enter someone's house on New Year's Day will bring good luck for the coming year."

Though puzzled, a nonplussed Johnson did as he was told anyway, and Wales nodded in approval.

"Shouldn't I bring a gift?"

Wales closed the door behind them and locked it.

"You're enough."