#schmoopy stuff

It was storming too hard for Eliza to consider going home to House Caprice after dinner. Her boots and jacket wouldn't hold up against much more than a spring shower, and she was happy for the excuse to wedge herself next to Marcy on the loveseat and listen to the Salt Boxers as they filtered in from the kitchen. Jim and Clive were giving each other grief about something while Daniel and Alisoun argued over who would do the dishes. Dale, with a practiced "I am staying the hell out of that" expression, slipped out of the kitchen, his hands full of beer bottles. He passed two to Marcy and Eliza before stretching out on the floor in front of the loveseat.

Peter came down the stairs, guitar in hand, just in time to catch Dale claiming his traditional spot, and Eliza ignored Marcy's elbow digging into her side when Peter's face creased into a frown. She swallowed a mouthful of beer and very carefully lifted her eyes to meet Peter's. He raised an eyebrow and she shrugged. What can you do? He made a silent little laugh, half-smiled at her, and stepped over one of the cats to sit on the couch.

Marcy's elbow was back, digging in hard enough to leave a bruise, and she leaned in close to stage-whisper before Eliza shoved her back. March spilled half her beer down her shirt, and her pissed-off sqwak drew Daniel out of the kitchen. Marcy shot Eliza an annoyed look and waved Daniel away, asking for a towel, but Eliza just laughed and drank her beer. She couldn't remember when she'd felt so warm, so included. It was more than having somewhere to go that wasn't her narrow room at House Caprice, it was being here, at the Salt Box, surrounded by people she called friends.

Friends. She'd never had friends before, not really -- not ones she wasn't afraid to annoy sometimes. And wasn't that the point of friends? To care about people enough to let yourself get pissed at them, and still know you'd rather be on a shitty old loveseat with them, than anywhere else?

She was new to the whole friendship thing, but she still knew to lean over and nudge Marcy, who glared at her.

"Sorry, Marcy. Here, take the rest of mine." She held out her beer and grinned when Marcy took the bottle.

"You're still a jerk," she muttered around the mouth of the bottle, but she dropped her head on Eliza's shoulder with a sigh.

Eventually Daniel gave in and did the dishes, and shortly after that Jim and Clive abandoned their argument. The living room filled up slowly, everyone squeezing closer together when the wind rattled against the walls. Daniel and Jim went around the house with a spell to keep the cold out while Clive built a fire. Someone went into the kitchen for mulled wine, and when the steaming mugs came out, Alisoun peeled herself out of her chair and sat down at the piano. Just like that --just like magic, Eliza thought, smiling foolishly into her second mug, and feeling pleasantly drunk -- and because the Lanterns could never resist playing for an audience, even though their audience was just Marcy and Eliza -- it was a show.

Eliza was jealous of Alisoun and Peter playing together, but it was hard to stay that way when his eyes kept sliding back to her, even if they cut away whenever she looked at him. She was flushed, and not just from the alcohol -- she felt it creeping down her neck and over her chest. A little glamour was all she'd need to hide it. She felt like she was glowing, and it wasn't like she needed to make herself more obvious, but it was easier to drink more wine and sink deeper into the loveseat while Alisoun sang. Clive joined in on some song about sailors and the sweet girls they left behind. And it was so pleasurable -- something she'd never anticipated -- to have the chance to use magic, and to decide not to. Her magic wasn't going anywhere. She'd known that intellectually for a while, but now she believed it. She didn't secretly think each spell could be the last one. The confidence, the belief, they were luxurious things, just right for the sleepy warmth of the room and the happy golden feeling in her belly.

She laughed softly. Marcy, who'd been asleep since Clive started the fire, stirred muzzily and burrowed into her shoulder.

"You're drunk, Eliza," she murmured, stretching the "E" into a whole word by itself. "Such a lightweight. Can't take you anywhere." Jim snickered at their feet and Eliza kicked him, grinning at how easy it all was: magic, friendship, being happy. She glanced into her mug, which was empty, and with a few shoves, she managed to push Marcy off and stand up.

She tried to pick her way delicately to the kitchen, but she tripped over one of Daniel's feet and nearly fell over.

"Like I said. Lightweight," said Marcy, and Eliza sent her a glare that would have been much more effective if her head would stay straight. She stepped into the kitchen, blinking in the bright lights, and decided on water rather than more wine. She rinsed her mug and filled it from the tap, and was turning to the fridge for ice when someone came into the kitchen. She had to squint to see who it was, but she couldn't be all that surprised when she saw it was Peter. He leaned against the doorframe, all loose arms and easy grin.

"I came to check on you," he said, almost shyly, and pushed away from the doorframe to step toward her."

She frowned. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not a lightweight. I have been drunk before." Is it finally going to happen? she wondered. Are we finally going to --? She felt herself flushing and didn't finish the thought. To give herself an excuse to look away, she drank her water, the whole mug.

Peter made a little huff of sound that was the closest he got to a real laugh. Behind them, Alisoun and Daniel starting playing "Learning the Game", with Alisoun singing in her whisper-sweet voice.

"Good song," said Eliza, and Peter swallowed. She watched his throat move, and opened her mouth again to say some other utterly insipid thing, but Peter crossed the kitchen and laid his arms over her shoulders. He pressed his forehead to hers and sighed her name, his voice rough enough to make her close her eyes.

He'd been this close before, when he carried her away from the fire, wrapped in his coat, but that had been a rescue and this was --

She had no idea what this was. She kept her eyes closed and breathed deeply, smelling Peter's sweat and the beer on his breath. If she tilted her head up slightly, she could touch her lips to his and this dance around each other would end. That was about the only move she could make; Peter held her so her hands were trapped against his chest. She clutched his shirt with her fingers and counted his heartbeats.

"Learning the Game" ended, and in the pause after it, Eliza worried that someone would come out and see them, and they'd have to step away from each other, because if not, then people would know.

Oh god, they already know, they've been waiting. I've been waiting.

She was tired of waiting.

She took a step back, just to see Peter's eyes and to decide her next move by what she saw there. Her feet tangled, she stumbled, and the mug fell from her loose hand. Peter snaked a hand from her shoulder and caught it. Something in his face changed; hazy expectation turned to disappointment, to something responsible. Eliza thought he looked like a train conductor, and had to bite down hard on a giggle. His lips thinned and he put the mug on the counter, not meeting her eyes. When he faced her again, he touched a strand of her hair and smiled, but didn't close the distance between them.

"I think," he said, like he was convincing himself and not just her, "you should go to bed."

"Peter --" Just one goddamn kiss. She knew what he was thinking, but she wasn't too drunk for one kiss.

"It's late," he said, his voice a little unsteady. "I'm tired."

She could have killed him. She wasn't too drunk for one kiss, and she certainly wasn't too drunk to call down lightning on his head. She was almost drunk enough to ignore the fact that she was pouting like a five-year-old refused candy, but Peter drew her back against his chest and kissed the top of her head.

"Come on. I'll tuck you in." If that sentence got her hopes up, and if the way he took her hand to lead her up the back stairs made her grin and blush, she was disappointed by how businesslike he was when he got to his room and led her inside. He sat her down on the bed and pulled off her boots when it became obvious she wasn't up to dealing with the laces. When he was done, he pulled a t-shirt and pajama pants out of a drawer and shoved them at her. She pouted again and pushed the clothes to the side. Peter just sighed and tried not to look at her.

"I'm going to shower. Climb in, I'll be back." He was out the door before she could say anything, much less complain, and a moment later she heard the shower running.

She was beaten, and she let herself feel sad and thwarted for a few minutes before she realized she was in Peter's room, in Peter's bed, and he'd be back soon. If he came back and thought he was sleeping on the floor, well, she'd deal with it.

The pajama pants were loose and she was swimming in the t-shirt, but they were warm. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and had to smile. If Peter was trying to dress her so she wasn't attractive, he'd hit it out of the park.

She still hoped he'd climb in next to her and she could sleep wrapped up in his arms. She'd take that over kisses; she was warm and tired, still a little drunk, but content to sleep. She slid under the covers -- how many quilts did he have? Jesus -- and nestled pointedly against the far wall. The bed was narrow, but if she lay on her side, there was plenty of room for Peter. She half-dozed, breathing in Peter's smell over and over.

Slow footsteps came up both sets of stairs. She heard quiet good-nights and doors closing. The shower shut off, and after a few minutes, she made out Peter and Daniel talking outside the door, their voices low. Then the door opened and Peter stepped inside, his hair wet and skin shower-soft. She whispered his name. He started.

"Still awake?"

"Waited for you," she murmured. He was back. Her magic wasn't leaving and neither was Peter. Warm contentment filled her as she yawned, and she fell asleep as his weight settled next to her on the bed.

*******

Eliza woke up to music.

The lamp on the bedtable was lit, but pushed away so it shone on the opposite wall. Peter was sitting up in bed, back against the headboard. His guitar was on his lap and she felt a little sad that he'd left her long enough to go get it. A book of sheet music was open in front of his crossed legs, and he made a note in it, jotted down a few words before glancing back at her. He bit his lip when he saw her looking back at him, like she'd caught him doing something mildly embarrassing, and smiled an apology.

"Sorry -- had to get this down. Did I wake you?"