vodka soda / PETER

[Peter Hawthorne]

Peter simply gave her an incredulous look, which was a reaction, in fact, to a combination of things – her response that he didn’t laugh, the way she laughed and patted his elbow, and her statement that a lot of girls at school fancied him but she didn’t. It was all very strange to be hearing, especially from a student who happened to be drunk. It was surreal, almost, and he thought that maybe he would get lucky and wake up to realize that it had all been some freaky dream and that his life was in order and he still possessed his teaching job. “Thank you?” he said slowly, though it was more of a question. He really couldn’t care less about whether she thought he had nice eyes, but he supposed she might get irrationally cross with him if he just didn’t respond to her statements at all.

“Would they, now?” he added, deciding to humour her for a brief moment, “I wouldn’t trust your judgment even if you were sober, so how about you just keep them with you for now? I can go barefoot, it’s fine.” He resorted to his default unimpressed gaze as she reached down to pick up her shoes which were now quite important to her, but happened to be the exact same ones that she’d wanted desperately to get off not all of five minutes earlier. Her suggestion to go back to the party was also no source of amusement for him, because as the seconds ticked by, it was becoming more and more apparent that she wasn’t in any state to walk too far, let alone walk to a destination that she wasn’t even sure of.

He sighed deeply, not making any effort to seem pleased by her idea of going back to the party, because in all honesty, he wasn’t. He couldn’t see it working out in any way, considering he knew quite well the street she’d so unsurely pointed towards and didn’t think there were many chances that there’d be a party going on in that general direction. “Yeah, that doesn’t really make sense,” he deadpanned, “because there’s nothing but more shops down that road. Unless it’s further down, but I don’t think you walked over twenty minutes from the party to get here to the gutter. You wouldn’t have made it if it was that far,” he told her, not caring if she listened, but just wanting to get his thoughts out in the open so he didn’t end up going crazy with them all in his head.

He almost kept going, words formulating easily enough as he gathered his trains of thought together, noticing only at the last second that she was continuing to stumble. Though she grabbed the railing just in time, he still found himself taking a step forward and reaching out his arm again, putting his hand on hers to steady her somewhat. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, using his free hand to cover up his face in another fit of exasperation, “you’re going to have to try to walk with me,” he went on, this time directing his words at her, “just – take my arm for support if you need to, okay? But I don’t think you’ll be able to go back to the party.”

[Michelle Beckett]

"Yes," Shelly said in a tone of agreement, although she had since moved on from the topic of his lovely eyes and was faced with the dilemma of how massive his shoes were on her dainty feet. Shelly's feet were tiny in comparison to the vast majority of her friends', usually rendering her incapable of borrowing from other people's collection of shoes, and even in her intoxicated state it was plain as day that walking in her Professor's shoes would be something of a struggle. Still gripping onto the railing with a certain amount of ferocity, she lifted one foot cautiously, and the shoe dangled off of it for a moment before falling back onto the ground. She smothered a giggle, tucking her foot back into the shoe. Realising that the Professor might get cross if she started laughing, she pressed one finger against her lip as though to remind her mouth not to emit any offensive sounds.

"If you insist, sir," Shelly slurred, and in a movement impressively swift for such a drunk girl, she managed to link arms with the Professor, finally letting go of the railing and practically collapsing on the poor man. "Oops! Sorry - would you mind holding these - thank you so much -" the pair of silver heels were passed along to Professor Hawthorne, whom she was using as a sort of crutch, without allowing him time to refuse them. Squinting along down the street, and ignoring his very relevant point that the only thing down along that way were shops, she tugged at his arm, dragging them both a couple of uneasy steps forward and almost toppling out of his shoes. "But it was right down there, I know it, sir...I swear -" determined to make him believe that she was telling the truth, she lurched another couple of steps forward. "I have to go back to the party!" She protested, startled that he even suggested such a thing, turning to look at him and almost over-balancing all over again. Clutching at his shoulder to give her better support without even realising it, fist clenched around the material of his jacket, she continued, voice louder than absolutely necessary, eyes widening, "I'm fine, sir - really - it was such a fabulous party..."

[Peter Hawthorne]

Fifteen minutes later.

“Alright, Miss Beckett,” Peter announced to the girl standing beside him at the front door of his flat, fumbling around in his jacket to find his keys or wand, and wondering, rather overdramatically for someone of his nature who, on most days, was very practical and down to earth, why all the worst things in the world had to happen to him. It seemed that he’d left his flat earlier that night in a rather absent mindset, because he couldn’t place his wand, and had to resort to using his keys, which thankfully he’d brought with him and found in the depths of his trouser pockets. He took a deep breath before going on, being sure to maintain his most serious tone, though it was tough when considering that the girl standing to his right found almost everything he said to be funny. Again, he wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong to have this type of dilemma all but land on his doorstep, but it was taking quite a bit of his effort to stay focused on not letting her amusement at the entire situation get to him in any way.

“Alright,” he repeated, finding that he was reassuring himself more than anything by saying this out loud, managing to unlink his arm from Shelly’s and praying to some unknown god that she could keep herself steady on her feet for three seconds as he put the key through the lock of his door. It had taken more effort than he could describe to persuade her that going back to the party she’d abandoned was not one of her best ideas, and since she had refused to give up her home address, he’d seen no other option than to let her crash at his own place, which was only a few blocks down the street. He hadn’t taken the risk of side-along apparating her there, since there was a good chance she’d get splinched in her current state, so he’d resorting to walking there barefoot, his shoes on her feet and her high heels held in one of his free hands.

When the door opened, he sighed, gesturing for Shelly to enter his home, and then he did himself, quietly closing the door behind him. “This is what’s going to happen,” he began, surprisingly casually for someone who, on the inside, felt as if he’d lost any and all control of his life and the outcome of the current events unfolding in front of him could only be negative in the end. “You’re going to sleep in my room, or try to, and when you wake up in the morning and are somewhat sober, you can tell me where you live and I'll get you there. Deal?” He set her shoes down on the coffee table in the middle of the room, proceeding to hang his jacket up in the hallway closet before making his way over to the sofa in the living room area, hoping that she’d at least partially understood his instructions.

[Michelle Beckett]

The trek to Professor Hawthorne's apartment had not been the most pleasant; Shelly had shuffled alongside him, arm linked with his, putting all of her weight on him, chattering gaily and slurring constantly as the world spun around her. She'd liked the feeling of being propelled along by Professor Hawthorne, who was delightfully tall and strong, she liked the heat of his body against hers - not in a particularly sexual manner, but because she felt as though someone was taking care of her, someone was carrying her through a storm. He seemed so wonderfully solid, Professor Hawthorne, which Shelly noticed even in her drunken state. She'd attempted to compliment him on his wonderful solidness and explain how much she enjoyed him carrying her along, but her words had been jumbled, rushing to get out of her mouth and therefore sliding into one another. Eventually, they made it to his flat, and her Professor immediately began fumbling around for something in his pocket, although Shelly was barely paying attention to him whatsoever.

She did notice, however, when he let go of her to unlock the door to his flat, disappointment rushing through her body. She didn't want him to let go of her; it wasn't as though she fancied him, but he'd felt like a father, or an older brother, or simply a very good friend for a moment, someone who would carry her home simply because they cared enough and not because they had to because everyone thought she was loopy or because they wanted something from her. Obviously in her current state of mind she couldn't figure all of that out, only knowing that she hadn't wanted him to let go of her, and she felt far more vulnerable without his support, which she would have recognised as ridiculous had she been thinking straight, as she'd never really paid much attention to Professor Hawthorn before. She swayed a little when he let her go, resting her hand on the wall in order to steady herself. "Whoops," she sang, in her high little voice, looking down at her feet and feeling terribly, dizzyingly sick. That was the problem when you liked the world spinning; eventually it ended up spinning too fast.

When the door was opened, she stumbled into his house, feeling warm and safe for a split second, heading uneasily towards the sofa and giggling feebly under her breath. She didn't quite make it to the sofa, instead collapsing heavily on the coffee table which he had set her shoes on, dress riding up her thighs again in a totally inappropriate manner, shoulders slumping ungracefully. In the light of his apartment, she looked even worse, make-up streaked across her face, her foundation orange and eyeliner blue. Her hair was simply all over the place, sticking out oddly, back-combed fiercely. A sinking feeling had appeared in her stomach. Head hanging, eyes trained on her feet once again, she began uneasily, and very softly, "Sir, I really don't want to sleep with you." She had misinterpreted his words entirely, mind automatically assuming that the only reason her Professor would bring her to his house was that he wanted something from her, what he was saying about her sleeping in his room getting totally muddled in her head.

All that she knew was that she didn't want to sleep with him, even drunk, although she knew that if he wanted to have sex with her she simply wouldn't be able to stop him. She hadn't even liked sex, that much - the first time had hurt and she'd felt dirty and wrong afterwards and the second time had sort of hurt as well, and it had all felt out of sync and like something she wasn't supposed to do, and both of those times were with teenagers, and the thought of having sex with a fully grown man filled her with horror, especially one she would have to see everyday. Her stomach was writhing as well, and it worsened at the thought of having to have sex with him. She thought that she'd probably have to at some point, perhaps the next morning when she'd sobered up, if that was what he wanted, because he was bigger and stronger than her and her getting home was sort of in his hands, but she couldn't that night, she'd puke or cry or collapse. The fact that he was, in fact, being terribly decent and lovely had gotten totally confused in Shelly's mind, and she had instead come to the conclusion that his being nice to her had had an ulterior motive.

[Peter Hawthorne]

Peter turned around to check on whether the girl crashing his apartment was even aware of what he’d just told her to do, and to his slight annoyance, he saw her to be laying ungraciously across the span of his prized coffee table in the middle of the room. Sighing once again, he made his way over to her, abandoning any and all thoughts of brewing up a pot of coffee to distract himself. It appeared that he wouldn’t be able to have a moment’s time to himself until he sorted out this girl’s issues, and so he leaned down next to her, one elbow resting on the table and the other hand running through his hair frustratedly. Her words sent a course of complete and utter unexpected shock through him. Opening his mouth immediately to retort, the rational part of his mind realized that he shouldn’t, not to mention that her claims were, after all, rather valid in the eyes of society. It went without saying, he suddenly comprehended, that if a professor took an intoxicated student home with them, then there really was no alternative but that the professor would abuse their power and take advantage of the student. All he could feel in that moment was disgust, not at the girl herself for suggesting such a thing, but at the fact that she lived in a world that had taught her to be suspicious of anyone and everyone, that there was no shred of decency left in the minds of people who always assumed the worst.

“Miss Beckett,” he said rigidly, though there was no hint of bitterness or fury behind his tone, just an edge of determinedness that was fueled by his need for him to get her to believe that he was telling the absolute truth, “I really do not want to sleep with you, either. That’s not what you’re here for. Do you understand that?” he paused briefly, waving his hand in front of his face to make sure she was still awake and listening to his every word, “Please nod or say something if you understand.” He felt a growing sense of irritation at the girl, which wasn’t completely unwarranted – she had ultimately ruined his entire night and forced him to make a decision that might be frowned upon by most of his colleagues, and yet he knew that letting out this anger would help neither of them in their current situation.

It hit him, then, as he stared down at her collapsed on his favorite coffee table, that she was far more vulnerable than he’d previously believed her to be. At first glance, she was just another wild teenager, desperate to get as high as possible on life, both metaphorically and literally, in the form of parties and drugs and alcohol and sex. That much had been apparent to him when he’d first found her nearly falling into the gutter and unable to even stand up straight. It wasn’t until now, though, that he had a second to scrutinize her in more detail, but not in a sexual manner by any means. No, by this time he wasn’t even looking at her, instead focusing his attention on the opposite wall of his flat and thinking, quite critically, that there must have been a particular reason why she’d gotten so over the top drunk to begin with, and there must have been a particular reason why she’d been so intent on not giving up her parents’ address. Shelly Beckett must have, as he was quickly figuring out, a complicated story that he was now incredibly curious about.

Attempting to retain all his attention on the matter at hand, he allowed his eyes to come back to her face, hesitating greatly before finally deciding on putting a hand on her shoulder, albeit on the part of it that was covered by the thin material of her dress instead of on her bare skin, just so he wouldn’t give her any more terrible ideas about his intentions. “Miss Beckett,” he repeated, hoping that she wouldn’t fall asleep in the middle of the living room, “Can you still hear me? I don’t want to have sex with you,” he went on, trying to be as clear as he could about what would happen in the next several hours, “Not now, not ever. Do you understand that? You’re going to sleep in my bedroom by yourself, because you need the rest and you’ll only get that in a bed, not on a coffee table or a sofa or the floor. If you don’t believe me,” he continued, removing his hand from her shoulder now and standing up, offering her a hand to help her up, “I can show you the room. It has a lock on it, and you can lock yourself in there if that makes you feel safer. I promise I won’t bother you at all.” It escaped his mind, of course, that he had a key to the room anyways because it was his flat, but he was pretty sure that she was too drunk to decode this on her own.

[Michelle Beckett]

It took Shelly a while to process what Peter was saying, as very suddenly she'd forgotten the wonderful solidness of him and the fact that he had given her his shoes and carried her to his home and had become very scared of him indeed, creating him into a sinister character in her incoherent state. With all of the alcohol in her system it was very difficult for Shelly to truly be on defence-mode but in the blur of drunkeness she knew that she had to be, that she had to reason with him and make him see that having sex with her tonight would be terribly pointless and could he not wait until tomorrow? She thought she could probably stomach it tomorrow, although her stomach churned in protest, head still spinning.

He was, however, asking her to nod if she understood, and she lifted her head slightly, piecing his words together. That's not what you're here for, he'd said, which sent a couple of alarm bells ringing but also relaxed her quite a lot, because she thought that if she didn't have to sleep with him, that if he wouldn't touch her in that way, that if she didn't have to be even more loathsome than she already found herself, that she could do anything else. Positively anything. And so she managed a nod, although the sickness didn't leave her body. The nod was a tad unsure but it was a definite nod, nobody could deny that it was a nod, and it was all that Shelly had in her.

The next thing she knew his hand had landed on her shoulder and she jumped wildly to the conclusion that he was going to force her into something, he really was, but instead of doing anything he was saying things, and it took quite a lot of concentration to listen to these things, but the fact that he was speaking so clearly and certainly surely helped. He explained that he didn't want to sleep with her, and she caught snatches of the rest of what he was saying, something about a bedroom and that she could lock herself into the room if she wanted to, and she started to catch the gist, nodding vehemently and saying, rather eagerly, "Yes, sir, yes, perfect - you're so - " but she was cut off as her stomach lurched again, and she just managed to turn her head to the side before she vomited over the side of the table, tears immediately springing to her eyes as she always did while vomiting. Her stomach lurched another couple of times as she vomited, clutching onto the edge of the table, before it stopped, and she found herself with vomit in her hair and on her hands and particularly on Professor Hawthorne's carpet, which she found overwhelmingly horrific. Tears ran down her cheeks, but not out of sadness - it was rather a reaction to the vomiting. "Sorry," she whispered miserably, apologising for his carpet and the terrible smell and his shoes and her dress and the party and absolutely everything else.