Root and Shaw get drunk
Root’s not a big drinker, but she knows the good stuff when she sees it. So when she sees fit to confiscate some top-shelf single-malt from a relevant number’s swanky apartment as an impromptu bonus, no one’s complaining.
Cork’s out before she can shrug off her jacket.
“You gonna want some of this?”
“If you can see fit to put some in a glass first.”
Two hours and half a bottle later, she’s lying flat on her back on top of the bedsheets, her finger tracing lazy circles around the rim of her empty glass.
“Need a top off?”
Root raises her glass dramatically, as if making a toast, and accepts another two fingers. Then she tilts the glass against her lips, takes a careful slow sip, and licks the edge before lowering her hand back to the bed.
“Tastes like band-aids,” she muses. “But… in a good way.”
The room is–not swimming, exactly, but a little soft around the edges. And Root’s mouth looks wet and very tempting. She closes her eyes.
“How old were you, the first time you got drunk?”
“I dunno. Sixteen or seventeen, I guess.”
“Did you like it?”
“Well enough to do it again. How about you?”
“Nineteen. I had… an older friend. She was very generous with a lot of things. Including her good bourbon.” She rolls onto her side, shakes her hair over her back, and twirls the scotch around the sides of the glass. “I didn’t know it was good at the time. Not until I tasted the bad stuff.”
“And did you like it?”
“I liked feeling free.” She smiles, a sleepy soft smile. The fingers of her free hand walk deliberately over the sheets–a lazy march–until they meet bare skin, and she hums as she slides her hand over a thigh. It feels nice, soft–not urgent, just playful.
“Do you feel free now?” Her hair feels impossibly soft, smooth to card through, with only a couple of knots that are easy to tease apart with a finger and thumb. Root laughs like she’s thinking of a private joke.