1 out of 2, as usual ;)
K. xx
***
The first sip coated her mouth with the smoke, and the oak, and the sharp taste of alcohol - and she swallowed, letting it run down her throat.
He sat on the opposite end of the bed, on the other half, leaning against the footboard, his legs stretched in front of him, his left knee bent. She saw him pour himself a whole glass and down it in one go. He noticed her watching.
"It takes me a lot, don't worry," he said. "But let me know when– if you want me to leave."
She nodded and took another sip. She didn't fancy the taste, but he was right, her mind didn't feel quite normal. Do you ever feel normal, Fiona? She sniffled and wiped tears that had rolled over her eyes.
"How are you holding up, love?" he asked.
She saluted him with her bevvie and finished it. He stretched forward, she lifted her glass, and he poured her another half. Fiona took a bigger sip.
"I just keep thinking how it's supposed to be such a common thing, and it's just so... damaging," she said. "Scary. And unfair."
"What 'it?'" he asked, lifting the second half-full glass to his lips.
"Being slapped," she said. His hand froze. "The violence of it. Of someone thinking it's OK to hurt my body. I mean, you seem to understand. You're treating it like a major trauma. You're being careful around me," she pointed out and looked down at her glass. "You aren't touching me. Asking for my permission for everything. Like I'm fragile. While it's usually almost... disregarded. Men hit women all the time."
"It doesn't make it OK," he said darkly.
"No, of course not," she said and shook her head chasing away the haze. The drink was affecting her already. She once again thought he'd been right, though: it was helping. Some sort of a painful knot in her solar plexus was uncoiling. "It's just that– I feel so naive, you know? I told you yesterday I didn't want you to go with me. I honestly thought he wouldn't do anything. And now– Hadn't you been here, how far would he have gone? I made him very angry, didn't I? I told him he was weak."
"He is weak," he said.
She saw him draw his eyebrows together.
"Yes, he is, but also, it's– sort of understandable. How would he have learnt to be a better man? His Dad was an abusive alcoholic. He beat Nate, he beat his mother. There was no one there to support Nate, to tell him he was valued, that he could be kind and strong."
He toppled the second drink in his throat and poured himself more.
"You're too compassionate, Fiona," he grumbled.
"But I'm not! And there's no such thing as 'too compassionate,'" she said. "You see, you have your family, your brothers and your sister, and they all love you. They're majorly annoying," she said with a weak chuckle. "But it's just because they care. Doesn't mean you can't tell them to naff off. But you see, they'd do anything they could to help you, if anything happened. They are trying, right now. They're just going about it wrong, you know? And Nate had no one. Most people don't." She chewed her bottom lip. "I don't." She shrugged. "And it's scary, and it makes you do all sorts of cruel things. Or silly things. Or hide, like I did. And when you went to war, you came out of it stronger. And kinder. And–" Her voice broke.
"I'm not kind, Fiona. Not always. I wanted to–" He cut himself off and jerked his neck.
"Hurt him? But you didn't," she pointed out. Another sip of whiskey scorched her mouth. It was getting easier to swallow, though. "And I know you think it's because I stopped you, but it's not. You're just a– good man. And your sons will be good men too."
She smiled at a sudden image of small dark haired boys in her head. With his dark, silky curls. And blue eyes. And the curved line of lips. What a wonderful dream it would be. She felt his eyes on her and looked at him. Some emotion splashed in his eyes, but she was getting too lashed to decipher it. She took another sip.
"I feel very sorry for myself," she announced in a pitiful tone. He was drinking slowly, and his eyebrows jumped up, giving him a quizzical look. Fiona snorted. "You're so cute, you know," she drew out. "Oh, I must be much more bladdered than I thought. I just called you 'cute.'"
The room spun around her, and she squeezed her eyes.
"You should lie down, love," he said softly.
Her eyes flew open.
"I don't want to. I'm enjoying this... thing," she said and twirled her finger in the air. "And besides, I suspect you might not want to have sex with me right now. I've just been hit to the face, and you're looking at me with this kind concern. And now I'm also pissed." She giggled. "And you're too much of a gentleman to shag me in this state. So, what's the point of lying down?"
He was silently watching her, and she shrugged and lifted her empty glass. It swayed in the air because she couldn't hold her arm steady.
"Are you sure?" he asked, and she nodded jerkily.
"I've already started my daft giggling, and I'm already super randy, so how much worse can it get?" she asked and watched the amber liquid slosh into her glass.
"There's nothing bad about your giggling or being randy," he pointed out. "I enjoy both."
"You say the nicest things," she said. "That is when you actually say anything. Women always want men to talk to them," she drew out pensively. "I could never suss out why. Wouldn't it make sense to find a man who listens instead? Because I, for example, surely can do the talking myself. And I love these–" She waved her left hand in the air, remembering to keep her drink in her right stable. "These loaded statements of yours. Who needs some colourful compliments, or confessions, or all that rubbish? I'd rather you just tell it to me as it is, you know?"
"I can try to do the complimenting and the confessing, if you need me to," he said.
She squinted at him.
"Your cheekbones are flushed," she said. "Does it mean you're getting drunk too? Is that why you're offering?"
Her tone was suspicious, and he chuckled.
"I'm far from drunk, love. It takes a couple of bottles," he said.
"Ah, so you're just teasing," she said with a nod. "Makes sense. Because that would surely be out of your character, to– compliment, and–" She rubbed her forehead. "What was I talking about? Ah right, confessing. Can I confess?" she asked, suddenly eager. "Or will it make you uncomfortable?" He opened his mouth, but she spoke first, "You see, that's the last thing I'd want - to make you uncomfortable. It's like it hurts me here." She tapped the tips of her fingers to her sternum. "When I think you are– in distress. Like when you threw Nate on the floor, all I could think of was that you just didn't need this. Being angry, being forced to act this way. You can manage it, don't think I don't know it, but–" She once again shook her head, trying to catch her line of thought that was escaping her. "But I just don't want it for you, if I can help it. I don't want to make your life harder. You simply don't deserve it."
"You give me too much credit," he said quietly.
"Maybe," she said with a shrug. "I just really like you, you know? I think I might be in love with you. Is it stupid, to be in love with you after three days?" She exhaled through her rounded lips. "It feels stupid. And it's been less than three days, actually, when I realised–"
She suddenly threw the duvet off herself and crawled to him on all fours. Everything swam in front of her eyes, and it surely wasn't a rational decision - and somehow she was sitting on his lap, straddling him. His hands passively lay on the sheet near his hips.
"Can I please kiss you?"
"You don't have to ask," he said.
"But I'm drunk," she said. "I might be making you uncomfortable."
"Is that why you don't drink?" he asked. "Because you were told you'll make people uncomfortable?"
"Maybe." She studied his nose. "I'm squiffy, and I don't remember. Probably. I don't want to think about... before. And my cheek hurts, which is good. It's like a reminder. That I need to think for myself, and not rely on what I'm told is right or true or proper." She brushed her thumb to his bottom lip. "You have such a sexy mouth. And I keep thinking how everything about you is so beautiful - but I can't possibly keep telling you this, right? So I keep drawing you, and painting, and sketching." Her eyes prickled again, and she frowned in frustration. "I don't like it."
"What 'it?'" he asked. His voice was coarse.
"How– how little control I have over this. It's been three days, and I already–" She didn't let the words slip off her lips. "It's like I already know everything, how I feel, and how it would be if you–" She shook her head frantically. "But I need to be patient, and wait for more time to pass, you see." She stroked his eyebrow and smiled. "I'm whining. Please, ignore it. In truth, I'm so happy with you it's embarrassing. And I can wait. For when you decide what you want."
His palm lay on her jaw, and she tilted her head, pressing her cheek into it. The right one. He's being gentle and careful and caring. He smiled at her - so tenderly - and she leaned in and brushed her lips to his. It was just a light touch, but it was enough. A current ran through her, and she shuddered.
"You're right," he said and softly kissed her cheek. "I am too much of a gentleman."
He cupped the back of her head, and his other hand lay on her shoulder - and he turned her, onto her back, and lowered her on the pillow. She sighed, and stretched, lifting her arms above her head. His eyes ran her body - she caught the glimpse of the familiar hungry glimmer in the blue irises - but then he shook his head.
"You aren't helping, love."
She smiled sleepily, while he covered her with the duvet.
"Am I tempting you?" she asked.
"You have no idea," he said and kissed her forehead.
"Tell me one more nice thing, please," she murmured. Her lids felt heavy. "I hope I remember it when I wake up."
She felt his breath brush at her ear, and then his lips on her cheek. She stirred weakly, hoping to turn and to meet him in a kiss - but she was too sluggish already.
"I do know what I want," he said softly. "And you don't have to wait."
She moaned, but her mouth didn't obey her and she couldn't ask what he wanted - and then he whispered, 'Sleep, Fiona." And a second later she was.