Who Spiked the Eggnog? (Sloane)

[Malcom Black]

Most people got over the urge to go to parties to get drunk by the time they got to twenty-five. Malcom wasn’t sure if his lack of getting over that urge was a sign of immaturity or due to never getting to experience the party scene due to being in the army.

He blamed it on the latter.

But in any case, after the Bash it was Malcom who stumbled out of the building, looking around. It had proved to be more than he could handle after all. All the people, all crowded together—lots of voices, lots of noises, lots of clinking of glass…well, it took Malcom a lot of alcohol to be able to hold up to that, and so he’d HAD a lot of alcohol.

And now he was pretty happy. It was amazing how that worked.

He had, however, lost the cab number. And so fumbling through his phone, he managed to call up one of the numbers in his favorites that didn’t belong to any potentially-lecturing family members, dialed it, and held the device up to his ear with great care.

“Helloooooo? Sloane! I need a ride.”

She was used to it. So she said yes and said she’d be over. Malcom blinked at the phone for a while in an attempt to hang up, then gave up, turned the thing off, and sat by a bench in the parking lot to wait. It was cold. Maybe that would help sober him up.

[Sloane Deveraux]

Sloane had been aware of the bash but had decided not to go, simply because she didn't need to show how inebriated she could be. And because she knew somebody would call her to be their designated driver.

And she was right. Unsurprisingly answering a phone call from Malcom Black, Sloane drove over to where the bash was held and found him on the bench. Rolling her eyes and shaking her head in amusement, she walked towards him and patted his head, like she usually did. "At least you didn't try to drive this time." She chuckled. "It would be very awkward for me to arrest a war veteran. Again." Sloane teased. "Come on."

[Malcom Black]

Malcom blinked up at her and tried to remember what she’d meant by that. And then his mind brought him back to that time. “I’d hardly made it out of the parking lot,” he protested. “So that doesn’t count. And then I called you, remember?” After he’d hit someone, if he could remember correctly. But it had been a fender-bender, and at the time he’d been flush enough to pay it off without bumping up his insurance fees. He took the head-patting with his usual grace—AKA, ignored it—then pushed himself up to his feet with great care.

“Thanks for coming,” he added as an afterthought. “You’re too nice. It’s a shame you weren’t there, though. I could’ve danced with you. Maybe not gotten so drunk. Then again, if you were there…it could’ve gone the other way…” He trailed off, realized he was rambling, and cleared his throat to offer her a sunny smile. “Where’s the car?”

[Sloane Deveraux]

"You still tried to drive drunk, Malcom. It counts." Sloane continued to tease Malcom, chuckling as she did so. "Yeah I remember. Didn't you sob on the phone?" She asked, knowing full well he didn't but it was still fun to get under his skin. There weren't a lot of people she was comfortable enough doing so without insulting them.

"I am not..." she started to argue but was cut off by Malcom's absurd suggestion. "I do not dance, Malcom. We've gone over this a million times. You're the one who flails like a chicken and I stay well away from you. Probably laughing my ass off at your flailing. No wait...definitely laughing my ass off at your flailing." She laughed.

His ending statement made her roll her eyes and his question prompted her to guide him to her car. "I'm not gonna send you home though. You don't want a hangover. I know you well enough to know you're going to get a massive one and probably call me to whine for an aspirin. So we're gonna sober you up." She waited for him to get in the passenger's seat.

[Malcom Black]

Did he? He couldn’t remember that. “Army men don’t cry,” he informed her with great dignity. “That’s the air force. Bunch of babies.” He didn’t mean that. Some of his best friends were from the air force. And it was the navy they had a grudge against. But that wasn’t the point anyways. He put an arm around her shoulders and flopped his head onto her shoulder. “So of course I didn’t cry. Stupid suggestion.”

“You do dance and you would dance with me,” he told her. “I’ve been to three weddings in the past year. Three. If anyone knows how to dance, it’s me. That’s why I don’t flail. Like a chicken. That’s you. Let’s get this right.”

Her logic made a fuzzy kind of sense to his tired and drunken brain. But he wasn’t going to admit that. He blinked owlishly at her instead and said, “Don’t need an aspirin. Edward gave me the God pills. Never need aspirin again. But I don’t argue with a cop. Bad plan.” It took him a couple of tries to remove his arm from her shoulder—he couldn’t figure out where it ended—and to slip into the passenger’s seat. At least the managed to figure out the seatbelt. It took him a bit of fumbling, but he managed it.

[Sloane Deveraux]

"Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that." She rolled her eyes, still trying to go for convincing. Drunk Malcom would believe everything sober Sloane said, wouldn't he? Sloane made a face when the man slung his arm around her. She did not do public touching. She was a believer of personal bubbles but because she knew he would fall were she to shove him, Sloane pushed down her inhibitions just a tad and let the man rest.

"Oh wow, professional dancer are you?" Sloane chuckled. Malcom's statement made her laugh. "You wouldn't know, Malcom. You really wouldn't. I would never dance with you if my life depended on it." She clutched on to his arm to stop them from tipping over.

Narrowing her eyes at the mention of an Edward and God pills, Sloane said nothing to that. "Yeah, arguing with cops is how you go to jail." She replied in a matter of fact tone, despite not actually meaning it. Unless, of course, that argument was over a parking ticket. Sloane hated arguers. Like that wasn't apparent.

Once Malcom was in the car, Sloane walked over to the driver's seat and started the car. "How much did you have to drink anyway?" She asked, relieved to nont have the weight of Malcom on her shoulders anymore. Not only had it been uncomfortable, Malcom was also a deadweight when he was drunk. "And no estimates."

[Malcom Black]

That was a weird thing for Sloane to say. What if he didn’t want to keep telling himself that? His brow furrowed, but then decided that it clearly meant Sloane believed him and offered a broad grin. “Thanks! I will.”

He hardly seemed to notice the tipping, but then, he wasn’t really aware of things. And his whole world was kind of spinning, so what did one more change make a difference? But he did nod fervently to her statement on cops. He’d managed to avoid being arrested…much. But he didn’t like the experience anyways.

He slid a sideways look at her as she asked the question, then looked thoughtful. “Once I got handed an AA brochure,” he said. “Said that you can only remember two drinks—the first one, and the last one.” He scratched his head. “I still don’t get it. But I think I had…” He slid her a cautious look. “A lot. But less than you think. See! I even buckled myself in.” And he pointed to it proudly, as evidence that he was indeed somewhat sober. Sorry, Malcom. It’ll take more effort than that.

[Sloane Deveraux]

Sloane raised an eyebrow in amusement when Malcom responded to her teasing. She didn't really get to ponder too well over it, chalking it up to his inebriated state, as she was too busy getting both of them upright again.

The French woman looked to her companion in the corner of her eyes and grinned sideways. It was sort of hilarious how unaware he was of his drunkenness. "Bravo, Malcom Black. You win a gold star." She said dryly.

The drive over to the lake was filled with nonsensical chatter as Sloane continued to tease Malcom about his drunken state. She purposely parked the car far away from the lake so Malcom could sober up on the walk.

"Damn it..." Sloane patted her pocket for her wallet and sighed when she realised she hadn't brought anything but her keys with her. "There goes my own plan to get drunk." She joked. Not that she got drunk easily.

"Come on, Sergeant. Let's start walking."

[Malcom Black]

“Don’t need more gold stars,” Malcom protested, still too fuzzy to recognize sarcasm in any form. “I’ve got them in a nice box in my room. Why would I need more?”

The drive over, however, was fun. Sloane was unusually chatty. But that was good to see, and he told her so, mumbling something—but not very loudly and not very clearly, because he wasn’t that stupid—about finally loosening up.

He did not, however, seem happy about the whole walking thing. In the cold. And he said so.

“Sloane, I’m in a suit. They aren’t made for walking in. Especially not in the snow. I’m gonna freeze.”

But he started walking anyways, and, after a moment, offered, “If you can find anyplace that’s open, I’ll pay. That’ll be fun. Then you can be drunk and I’ll be the sober…ish…one.”

That sentence had gotten away from him somewhere. Oh well.

[Sloane Deveraux]

Realising Malcom was not all there paying attention to Sloane, the cop dropped her ruse and concentrated on driving, giving Malcom no response to his rhetorical question.

Sloane also ignored his comment about her talking, shrugging it off as something he would probably not remember the next day.

"Oh my God you big baby." Sloane rolled her eyes, looking down at her own fitted coat and jeans ensemble.

She laughed when Malcom offered to pay and his reasoning behind it had her nudging him on the arm. "You're not making sense, Malcom. But no...I have to drive you home later." The French woman shook her head sombrely, meaning to be steadfast in her occupational obligations.

"I heard thunder." Sloane looked up to the night sky, frowning at it as though it was at fault. "Did you hear it?"

[Malcom Black]

“I’m not a baby,” he protested. “I’m a free man. Except…no. I think I bungled that line somewhere. That was the Prisoner…” He wrinkled his nose. “Man, Sloane, I’m old. You know people are already married when they’re my age? With kids? Isn’t that weird?”

He’d forgotten about the driving thing, too, and nodded, seeming subdued now. He wasn’t going to have someone else to be drunk with? That really spoiled the fun. At the mention of thunder, his head jerked up, and then around, and then doubtfully at his stomach. “I dunno. Might’ve been me. I didn’t hear anything. But if there is thunder, doesn’t that mean there’ll be rain?” He looked hopeful. “And we could go back to the car? Where it’s warm?” He kind of liked this idea. Maybe he should try to convince her.

[Sloane Deveraux]

"Yes, Malcom. At your age, you should have great grandchildren. It's so weird you don't!" Sloane shook her head in mock seriousness.

Her eyes travelled downwards as Malcom looked to his stomach. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Never mind. I...I'm hearing things. Anyway no. No rain. And no getting back to the car. You need the fresh air. And you're slacking off, not realising you're growing an old man gut so this walk would do you good."

Sloane was positive Malcom would eventually turn all this around. In fact, he would probably think walking was his idea at some point. And she would go along with it. Sure, it was cold, but it wasn't deathly.

But she did feel like drinking. Quite badly in fact.

[Malcom Black]

Malcom seemed to have to pause to consider that. His lips turned down to a frown. “But I’d have to be really, really young to have grandchildren by now. This kind of bothers me. Sloane, I don’t geeeet it.”

Seeming to sense that Sloane might have reached the end of her patience, he tried walking on his own. He stumbled a bit, but with some focus, managed to continue to walk, occasionally wavering off the line he was focused on, making him feel rather like a bumper car with Sloane trying to hit him. But he decided not to say that. She’d probably laugh at him.

“I don’t have a gut,” he pointed out. “I work out a lot. For tele…tele…telekineticeses.” That word had also gotten away from him. He wrinkled his nose, then looked over at Sloane. “Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Pretty please? Don’t make me beg.”

[Sloane Deveraux]

Sloane closed her eyes and raised the tips of her fingers up to her forehead, shaking her head a little before waving her hand in dismissal. He was drunk. That was what was happening right then. He wasn't getting it because his brain cells weren't connecting to each other properly.

She did snort when Malcom tried to convince her that he didn't have a gut. Suppressing a loud giggle at the word fumble, Sloane covered her mouth with one hand and nodded, trying hard to keep a straight face. "Yeah...of course you do!" She reached one hand out to pat Malcom's cheek before resuming their walk.

Slipping her hands into her jeans pockets, she turned sideways and pursed her lips at his insistence. After awhile of that, Sloane rolled her eyes and went behind Malcom and slapped her hands up on both his shoulders and pushed him in the direction of a bar nearby. "You are not to touch another glass for the night, do you hear me? If you do, you will walk back home, I swear."

Guiding him to the bar, Sloane kept him talking about silly every day stuff. Choosing a booth near the back, Sloane ordered a drink for herself and looked over the table at Malcom. "Feel like passing out yet?"

[Malcom Black]

“No other glasses.” Malcom’s head bobbed up and down until he realized that it was making him dizzy and promptly stopped. He accepted the guidance without any indication that it was bad. “Gotcha. Yes police officer ma’am.”

That was even more fun to call her when he was drunk, although usually when he was sober he tried not to draw attention to the fact that Sloane was in the police. It wasn’t that he did anything illegal, per se, but that he didn’t really want to think about that one of his best friends could, in fact, get him into a lot of trouble. He settled into the booth with a soft “thud” and frowned at the question.

“Haven’t passed out since I was twenty-five,” he informed her. “Don’t be daft.” And then he giggled—although he’d deny it later—at his word choice. And when the waitress came back with Sloane’s drink, he asked for water in a plastic cup.

“’Cause she says I can’t have glass,” he informed her, very seriously. Then he slid a glance at Sloane. “So why are you babysittin’ me instead of being out with a date? That’s no fun.”