Chapter 7
“Your drink, milady.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
William sank in the cushion next to Buffy and after a moment of silence, she took a deep breath. “So, this, it isn’t bourbon.”
“No, or at least I don’t believe so. Is it that all bourbon is whiskey, but not all whiskey is bourbon, or is it the other way around?”
“You think I know? This stuff, it’s roofie-free, right?”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“Ha, ha,” she grinned, speaking into her glass. “A stupid question deserves a stupid answer, hmmm?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I don’t care what it is or what it has in it. All I know is a day like this requires much alcohol.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Um, William…”
“You don’t even need to ask. I brought the bottle.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said, smiling sheepishly as he refilled her drink to the rim. “I feel like I’m hogging all the booze, aren’t you going to drink more?”
“Just one glass’ll suit me. One of us has to be the designated driver.”
“Designated driver? Are we going on a drive?”
“No,” he laughed, taking a sip from his glass and grimacing as the liquid burned its way down his throat. “We both can’t get smashed. Something might happen, and if we were both out of it…it’s just not a good idea, you know?”
Finding it difficult not to grin, she covered her mouth with her hand, hoping that he wouldn’t notice her smile. “I gotcha.”
“Buffy.”
“What?”
“You were quick, sweetheart,” he said, lightly holding her wrist, moving her hand to rest on her thigh, “but not quick enough. Tell me why you’re making that face.”
“What face?”
“Don’t play dumb. It won’t work, not with me.”
“I—you’re just such a dad.”
“Well, pet, sorry if you find that so amusing, but it is what I am.”
“You’re so different from the William that I know. It’s unbelievable, because—no offense, but he’s a jerk. He swears too much, drinks too much, and the smoking—wait, do you not smoke anymore?”
“So, I was a jerk?”
“I said no offense, and calling you a jerk is putting it lightly. You pride yourself on being a bad, rude man. You enjoy it.”
“Yeah, guess I did,” he chuckled, pillowing his head against the back of the couch. “But I do remember trying very hard not to be a jerk when you were around.”
“Did you really?”
“I should of tried harder, I’ll admit that, but then everything worked out in the end. I got the girl and a nifty family to boot.”
“Did you really stop smoking? You?”
“I was developing this cough and—do you know what secondhand smoking does to a fresh set of lungs? Because my wife certainly did and she helped me quit.”
“Good for her.”
“Yeah, you won’t hear me singing “Cigarettes and Alcohol” from the bloody rooftops anymore. I hum the theme to sodding Sesame Street. No more “I did it my way,” I do it Buffy’s way. It’s entirely your fault. You’ve turned me into the spiting image of Mister-fucking-Brady.”
“Well, with language like that… Oh, but on the bright side, at least you still have the hair.”
Smiling, he smoothed back his bleached roots. “Had to draw the line somewhere. But really, to be honest, you’ve never balked about my hair.”
“That’s because I like it,” she said, downing the rest of her drink. “I find the whole thing very sexy: the bleached-blonde hair, leather jacket, British accent, how you’re shallow, but in a totally hot way—oh, good God, I need a refill. Can I get a refill?”
“Hot and sexy?”
He flashed her a boyish grin and she glared in response. “Well, I did marry you, William.”
“So, you’re saying that I must be somewhat attractive or you wouldn’t be able to stomach waking up to my ugly mug on a daily basis?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she grumbled. “I’d like more to drink. Now please. In fact, just give me the bottle.”
“The whole bottle?”
“Yes, the whole bottle.”
“Suit yourself, but you’re going to pay for it in the morning.”
“Having a hangover is the last thing that I’m worried about when it comes to tomorrow morning.”
William nodded and they sat in another silence as Buffy took long gulps from the bottle.
“Should I go, Buffy?” he asked after minutes crawled by. “If you want to be alone, I’ll happily leave you to your bottle.”
“It’s empty,” she said putting the bottle on the floor, propped against the sofa.
“Still, if you want some privacy--.”
“Don’t go.”
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Just a little dizzy. Sorry, but I’ve never been an exciting drunk person.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
An arm wrapped around her shoulder and Buffy melted against his side, nose buried in his shirt. “Why not? It’s true. Damn, you smell nice. It’s not like I dance on bars or sing karaoke. I don’t get overly affectionate or violent.”
“About that second to the last one, pet…”
“Okay, so maybe I get a teeny bit more friendly, but I don’t jump into bed with the first guy that I see.” William snorted, but she moved on, ignoring it. “You’ve just always been extra nice to look at through my booze-colored glasses…and to touch and to taste and to,” she trailed off, her mind suddenly blank. “God, you smell nice.”
“So, I’ve been told,” he chuckled, squeezing her tight. “Is there anything else that you’re finding nice right about now, my sweet?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“You do that.”
“Will, um, William?”
“Mmmm?” he hummed, lips against her forehead. “Yes, baby?”
“I’m feeling sleepy.”
“Feel free to rest your eyes. I don’t mind if you take a nap.”
“I just…I don’t want to sleep on the couch tonight.”
“You won’t, we already decided that you were getting the bed--.”
“My…my legs feel mushy.”
“Oh, is that what you’re worried about?” he laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you. I wouldn’t have you tumbling down the stairs on my watch, cutie.”
“But I don’t want to…the sheets…”
“What about ‘em?” he asked, eyes narrowed into triangles. “Oh, do you mean… Well, we can change the sheets.”
“No, that wouldn’t help.”
“It wouldn’t help? Buffy, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Why are you—hey, don’t yell at me!”
“I’m not yelling at you,” he said through clenched teeth and a forced smile. “I just don’t have a sodding clue of what you’re talking about. Why are you so worried about a set of fucking sheets?”
She looked up, giving him a dirty look. “I want you to sleep with me. God, William, could I spell it out any more?”
“You want me to—what?”
“I want you,” she said slowly, pushing a finger into his chest, “to sleep with me. I’d rather sleep with you than be in your bedroom, in a bed with sheets that smell like you while you’re on this sofa. Do you get me now?”
“No, not really,” he admitted softly. “This, it doesn’t sound like a good idea, Buffy.”
“Why not?”
“Well…because!”
“Don’t yell at me,” she whined, snuggling deeper into his body. “Do you not want to sleep with me?”
“Oh, God, yes I want to, but--.”
“What is there to have buts about? I just want a good night’s sleep and you’re so warm… I don’t like it when you’re not with me. I can’t explain it—I don’t understand it, but I feel less scared with you here and--.”
William cursed, draping Buffy’s legs across his lap. “You always get your way, bloody amnesia or not.”
“What—what are you doing?”
“Taking you to bed,” he mumbled, getting ready to carry her to their bedroom.
***
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I got 20 reviews, that's close enough to 25 for me. Thank you everyone! Here's the next chapter...the second part of their night will be here for you to read on Monday.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!