Who: Anton and Reina What: Anton drunk dialed, Reina came over. There was tequila Where: Anton's place in Aubade When:after this Warnings: Surprisingly mild. Everyone stays dressed. I think they deserve an award.
After freshening up quickly, Reina slipped her feet into flip-flops, grabbed a bathrobe to wear over her pajamas, and left her apartment. She made her way to the elevator, taking it to the first floor, fidgeting nervously the whole way down. Though the trip wasn’t exactly long, she was nervous anyway, wondering if she had made a mistake. Anton was drunk. She was going to get drunk. Getting drunk with one’s boss didn’t seem particularly prudent, especially if television was to be believed, and she didn’t want to push any of Preston’s buttons. She didn’t think he’d be thrilled to learn about this little party.
And there was always that other person who loved Anton to consider. Not that she was going to sleep with her boss. Or do anything else with him.
She stopped in front of his door, tucking her cellphone, keys, and a tube of lip gloss into her pocket. Then she knocked, putting a pleasant smile on her face and stuffing her inhibitions as far down as they would go.
Anton hadn’t been lying, he had been drinking heavily. He didn’t know what possessed him to call Reina, but he didn’t give much thought to it. He rarely gave much thought to anything. He was pretty sure this was all going to end badly, but c’est la vie.
He was dressed in something she’d likely never seen him in, which was a pair of jeans and a white undershirt, but there it was. He was relaxing. He heard the knock and strode over to the door, he was confident as he smiled at her. He didn’t even bother to hide the fact that he was checking her out. “I see you wore your bad decision jammies. No that I don’t approve, but I do feel over dressed. Get in here.” He said standing aside so she could walk in.
She glanced down at herself and then grinned. “I don’t know if I’d call them that. They’re what I always wear.” She entered his apartment with a little bounce in her step, and then glanced back at him, waggling her fingers. “Drinks?” she asked. “Tequila?”
He watched her as she walked into his apartment before he closed the door. Really watched her, because he was definitely enjoying the view. “Bossy,” he said walking by her and brushing just a little too close to be appropriate. He motioned for her to follow him and he moved over to his bar area.
The bar was fancy, and on it was a silver tray with a bottle of expensive tequila, two shot glasses a sliced lemon and a salt shaker. “Class tells us that tequila is actually for sipping, like Brandy. I say screw that lets do some shots,” he said as he poured two shot glasses full and handed her one before he licked his hand and sprinkled the salt on it. “I’m ready when you are.”
She stuck her tongue out at his back, figuring they were off the job and at his place. She could be relaxed. This environment didn’t require as much formality. She hoped. Brushing that thought aside, she followed after him, listening to him explain how one was supposed to drink tequila. She felt a little bad, because her plan was to do shots. Lots of shots. And by lots of shots, she figured two or three before hitting the floor.
“I like shots,” she lied, taking the shot glass. With a frown, she licked her hand and held it out for salting, too. Once she was salted, she looked up at him. “How do we do this? Drink then salt?”
He raised his eyebrows, she’d never taken shots of tequila. This was going to be the best day ever. He smiled, it was innocent but there was definitely something mischievous behind it, it was mostly in the way his eyes twinkled like a little boy about to steal some candy. “Salt, drink, suck on the lemon.” He held his shot glass up and tapped her with it. “Salut.” He licked the salt off, threw the shot back and picked up the lemon and sucked the juice out.
With a delighted grin, Reina followed suit. Salt - sharp and pungent - then tequila - pretty much revolting by itself, she preferred it in something - and then the lemon. Citrus exploded on her tongue, and she swallowed, laughing. “I don’t think I’ve ever done tequila shots.” Totally a lie, but she kept on smiling. “Fruity shots. Jolly rancher shots. Things like that.”
Leaning across the counter, the neckline of her shirt bowing, she held out her shot cup. “More, please.”
He smirked, “Well welcome to the big kid world of taking shots. I don’t know what a jolly rancher shot is, but if it’s anything like a jello shot, I think you might be more trouble than I anticipated,” he said grinning.
She asked for more! Who was he to say no? He poured her another shot, and himself as well. “Bottoms up, Reina.”
She poured the salt onto her wrist - perhaps a bit too much, but that was fine - and downed the second shot. The alcohol was already warming her, little tendrils of heat spreading through her body, and she stifled a giggle. There was no need to let him think she didn’t do this all the time. She totally did. No, wait. He just needed to think that. Right. She could keep the story straight in her head. She knew she could.
“I,” she told him succinctly, “am hardly trouble. I am very easy to please, and it would please me to have another shot.” Because, clearly, this was a good idea, and she had no idea what the big deal about alcohol was. It made her toasty, but it wasn’t loosening her inhibitions. She was perfectly in control. Absolutely. Yes. This was good. She dangled the glass in front of him.
He watched her carefully, he was good and tipsy before Reina had showed up, and now he was well on his way to good and drunk. Or bad and drunk, he didn’t really know the difference, and it was easier for him to go through life not trying to figure it out. He poured himself another shot but didn’t seem too interested in giving her one quite yet. Even if she had demanded almost politely.
He took her free hand and licked her wrist gently with his tongue and poured a little salt on it and repeated the motion, his mouth lingering a bit longer that time before he threw the shot back quickly and picked up a lemon slice and sucked the juice out of it once more. “I suppose since you asked so nicely,” he said smirking at her and finally took her glass from her and poured her another one.
Her eyes widened. She imagined they were the size of dinner plates, but she had no way to check and had no real interest. In an instant, her body went from sluggishly warm to alive and burning. She felt almost like she had stuck a fork in an electrical socket, and she had to stop herself from putting her free hand to her hair to make sure it hadn’t turned into a fro.
Shaking herself when he released her, she put a scowl on her face. “Shot,” she commanded, and when he poured her one, she took his wrist. “Fair’s fair,” she muttered, almost as if it was necessary in order to reassure her that she was behaving in an acceptable way. For a second, she hesitated. Then she licked his wrist and added the salt, and she lingered a bit longer the second time, just as he had. Releasing him, she threw back the shot, choked a bit, grabbed the lemon, and choked a lot. Around her cough, she laughed, grinning at him. “So.” She paused. “This is nice. And I’m not even intoxicated at all.” And that was the proof - if she could say “intoxicated,” which was a very big word, clearly she wasn’t.
He was rather pleased when she didn’t kick his ass royally (he was pretty sure she could take him) for his impromptu body shot. And even more pleased when she followed suit. She was trouble. He didn’t care what she said to the contrary, she was trouble. He was a fan of trouble.
He laughed as she coughed and patted her back gently. “No not at all, me either,” he said pouring another shot for the both of them. “No more choking.” He said as if reminding her to wear a raincoat.
In the back of her mind, she thought she should probably stop taking so many shots. But she was enjoying herself far too much. Going from cold and sober to toasty warm and a little tipsy - she wasn’t drunk, she was sure of it - was nice. She felt like she could take on the world. Or fly.
Giving him a grateful smile for the pat on the back, she swallowed her next shot quickly. Leaning back, she looked at the ceiling. “I bet I could fly,” she told him. “Like, if I jumped off the side of a building. But not too high. Just a little high.” She turned her head to him. “Maybe that’s my power - flying. Do you have one?”
He watched her as she spoke and leaned back and he laughed when she said she could fly, “I don’t think we ought to test that theory this evening. We’ll see if you can still fly once the tequila’s run it’s course,” he said still laughing.
She asked if he had a power and he sighed and nodded, “Something like that,” he knew she’d seen him changing shirts in the office at least once, and he was looking for someone to trust. He didn’t know what it was really, but he took her hand in one of his and lifted his shirt up with the other and put her hand on top of the arc converter that was in his chest. “That’s what this is for.” Then he grinned at her, “Cool huh?”
She had seen the thing in his chest once before, but only for half a second, and while sober. Sober Reina didn’t stare at men who were shirtless. Sober Reina didn’t touch shiny objects embedded in her boss’s chest. This was not sober Reina. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she was drunk, well on her way to wasted, and so when he put her hand on his chest, she didn’t pull back.
Her brain was impressed by how warm the metal was, heated obviously by his skin. Obviously. But she supposed she could be wrong. And she was attracted to how smooth it was. Like brushed steel. The tips of her fingers turned a faint shade of blue, and she let out a soft “Oooh.” She drew her finger around the outside circumference of it, brushing his skin because she was beyond fine motor control. “It’s lovely,” she said, and she looked up at him with a smile. “And people say you have no heart.”
He watched as she checked the converter out and couldn’t help but smile just a bit. She wasn’t the first person to see it, it was hard to have a life like he did and not raise questions from women he brought home. But this was different somehow.
He wasn’t sure what to make of her last comment but he chuckled his way through it and attempted to look offended, “Now who would say something like that? I’m a gem.”
She made a strange sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, that turned into a full-bodied laugh once she had registered it. Pouring herself another shot of tequila, this one taken without salt or lemon, she smiled. “You’re a brat,” she said, and she downed the shot all at once before setting the cup down. “But that’s okay, because you’re not a bad brat. You’re just the kind of person who has a lot of money and doesn’t know what to spend it on. And that’s okay. You just need to figure it out, and then you’ll be less bratty.”
With a frown, she fell silent. Carefully, she reworked her words and realized that by the end, she had started speaking French instead of English. “Languages are hard,” she said, as if that would excuse everything. And she wrinkled her nose. “I am very intoxicated.” Her gaze swung to his. “Are you?”
Anton looked aghast for a moment a brat?! Him?! Never. “Oh I think I know what to spend it on, I think the problem is too many people deciding what I ought to be spending my money on instead.” He said sounding sure of this fact.
He watched carefully as she worked herself out. He wasn’t a stranger to other languages, he knew enough french and spanish to get by. You had to in the business world. But he was drunk, and increasingly amused by everything that she did. “Yes, and I’m told English the hardest. So lucky us.” She asked if he was drunk and he nodded. “I was drunk when you got here, you only helped speed the process along. Lets go sit, no more tequila for you.” He took her arm then and led her over to his sitting room and sat down on the couch pulling her with him.
“Did I?” she asked as he led her to the couch. She dropped onto it after him and immediately curled up against his side, her feet tucked under her body. She missed her cousin’s presence in the apartment for this reason. She liked to cuddle on someone, and cuddling something like a pillow just wasn’t the same. “Well, then I should get a prize. For helping.” Reina looped a finger in one of her curls and pursed her lips as she looked at him. “More tequila. I like it. It’s yummy. What do you do when drunk in a house instead of at a club, because there I could dance, but there’s no dancing here.”
“What kind of prize do you want?” he asked mostly surprised that she was cuddling up next to him. That was new. He new women liked to cuddle, but usually that was after sex. And he was half and half on it, but he didn’t mind this too much. He put his arm around her and laughed as she went on about how tequila was ‘yummy.’ She was hilarious. “I usually pass out until Preston shows up yelling at me,” he said finding that absolutely hilarious. He reached over and grabbed a very high tech looking remote control and pushed one button. That one button caused very loud music to turn and a strobe light in the ceiling. “Dance all you like.” He said clearly pleased with himself.
She didn’t understand why he’d want to pass out. She felt like she could do anything, like the world was at her fingertips, and all she needed to do was move. Passing out meant not moving, which meant not succeeding, which meant- Well, she wasn’t sure what that meant. Failure, probably, though failure didn’t particularly bother her. At least not at the moment.
Though she didn’t recognize the song, she slid from the couch, sliding out of the bathrobe and kicking off her flip-flops as she went. She found the beat of the song and started swaying toward it, and while she was usually coordinated enough to look mildly competent on the dance floor, she wasn’t now. But it wasn’t about being sexy or pretty. She just wanted to move, and so she moved with energy if not grace, with uncompromising vivacity that, if ever caught on tape, would mortify her.
Anton watched. And laughed. He was pleased that she seemed to be enjoying herself. He knew that he wasn’t always the most pleasant drunk to be around, but this seemed a bit different. For a change.
He clapped his hands, “Very nice Ms. Ignace. Very very nice, I think you’re in the wrong profession. I’m going to make some phone calls and get you on Dancing with the Stars.”
Laughing gleefully, she spun to face him. In the process, her foot slipping on the carpet, and she stumbled, only to catch herself on the coffee table inches from her nose. She stared at it, wondering how it had walked so close, and then she looked up at him, still smiling, her expression still full of laughter. “I am not a dancer,” she replied succinctly. “I have three left feet. But you should do it.” She shuffled carefully across the floor and leaned into his personal space, because, clearly, there was no need to have distance between people. “Everyone would vote for you, and you’d be the best because you can’t possibly be anything else. You’re very wonderful, you know.”
He was about to jump up and attempt to catch her because really, she easily could have been knocked out. “Careful!” he said shaking his head. She was leaning over him then and his hands moved to her hips, and not because he told them to, but because that’s what they felt like doing.
He smiled when she called him wonderful, and while he appreciated it he was certain that it was the booze talking. “That’s what I keep telling people,” he said easily. It was much easier to be a cocky arrogant bastard than anything else because he’d been that for so long. It was who he was, but the past few weeks had been a mess.
His hands grounded her. It was weird. She felt like she was floating, but his hands made her stay on the ground. She wasn’t sure she entirely liked that. No, she didn’t think she liked it at all, but his hands were also warm. She liked warm, so she didn’t tell him off for it.
“You don’t believe me,” she said with a slight scowl. It wasn’t any observation on her part, giving her clarity to the situation, she was just being whiny and petulant because his response wasn’t the proper response. “See, I think you’re amazing. You gave me a job I didn’t deserve, and you’re funny, and you have a space cat. That’s amazing.” Lifting her head, Reina scanned the immediate area. “But you’re kind of an ass for not giving me more tequila. Can I have whiskey instead?”
“Sure I do,” he said flippantly and pulled her back to the couch. “All those things definitely make me amazing, and honestly you do exactly what I tell you, you tell me off constantly, and it works out. So obviously you deserved the job. And the space cat, well...He’s from space and thus cooler than all of us,” he wasn’t feeling too light, but he was trying to keep the situation light lest the alcohol turn this into some kind of Anton Sparke confessional and that was the last thing he damn well wanted. So he chuckled when she asked for more booze.
“Nope. There’s a terrible thing that happens when you drink too much and it involves emptying the contents of your stomach all over this carpet that I’m told is expensive.”
Pouting, she dropped onto the couch beside him. She had an ugly pout, not the kind that she could turn on a person and get anything with. It wasn’t cute or attractive, and she rarely pulled the expression because she knew it wouldn’t get her anything. “Well, I want more,” she told him, stretching her arms above her head. She yawned, looking toward him. She sat there, still for a minute, just studying his face. Then she gave him a small smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s too bad you’re so stuck up. I’d like you more if you weren’t.”
Wiggling, Reina scooted her lower body down the couch until she could drop her head on his thigh, using him as a pillow. “You’re comfy,” was the last intelligible thing she said before dropping off to sleep.