Lilah got drunk one night. She didn't mean to, but hadn't counted her drinks from the very beginning, and by the time she remembered, it was a little too late. So, she was drunk. So what? She had a Fyarl on speed-dial, ready to rip off any would-be rapist's head. She had a car standing by - a driver provided, of course - and heels she could do cartwheels in, and a small, discreet gun tucked into her purse.
"You're drunk," Wesley told her, grimly amused.
Lilah smiled. "Wesley. Wes-ley. I have reached a point in my life where I can afford to get drunk." She waved a hand expansively. "I can have a demon here in seconds. Seconds, I tell you."
He was drinking scotch, single malt, something unpronounceable. Lilah had never been fond of scotch, and she didn't particularly like Wesley drinking it, either. It made his mouth too full of flavour, and she could feel it against her skin when he kissed her. She fancied that his tongue left faint traces of it, alcohol older than she was, in wet swipes against her neck. It tingled, odd and discomforting, over the pulse point, and she'd wriggle away.
"Wesley. Wesley, Wesley, Wesley." He was smiling; his legs folded neatly, one hand free at his side. He'd taken his jacket off; his shirt open at the collar and shirtsleeves rolled up. His hair was a little mussed. "Let me tell you a secret, Wesley."
"Ok. That's it. You need to go to bed." He reached for her and she fended him off with a waved hand.
"We're already in bed," she pointed out, which was both true and reasonable. Well, at least half right: he was still sat in a chair, facing the bed and watching her with open amusement. Lilah reached over and snagged the bottle. Her bottle. "This is good," she noted with some surprise. "Really good."
"I believe you took it from the company's, aah, collection."
Huh. She definitely didn't remember that. Wouldn't she remember locating a bottle of wine that was possibly older than the entire country? She squinted at the label a little more, then gave up and let it fall to the bed, sitting up with some effort. "I don't remember."
Wesley's face lost the mocking smile. His fingers sketched a memory in the air; two years ago? Maybe less. It didn't matter. "You were holding it like a club."
Lilah looked down at her bare feet, naked against the bed sheets. She'd painted her toenails two nights previously, because imagine the disaster if she died with unpainted toenails? She'd also had waxes of various descriptions (but that was nothing new), and she'd scheduled a redecorator to come at some point. It was difficult to fit him in; she had so much work to do it was unreal. And, of course, all of the usual - make-up, and haircuts, and pedicures, and good god, she had no time left. Necessary, though. All of it was necessary. Who'd attend to it if she didn't? "Oh," she said.
"No. I mean - no, it's fine. I just forgot for a little while. One bottle's much like another, I suppose." Especially to her, because she'd never really acquired a taste for wine. It just wasn't her thing. Give her a nice cosmopolitan, or anything with rum, and that was fine, but red wine always turned her stomach. The tannins, maybe; her nutritionist said that some people just couldn't stand them. Of course, when the LA head of Wolfram & Hart invites you to a private party in his wine cellar, you don't ask for a cocktail. "I never really liked wine."
"No," Wesley said.
Lilah closed her eyes and leaned back on the bed. "Wesley. Let me tell you a secret, Wesley."
She felt the bed dip as he scooted in, curving around her. The wet 'clunk' of the tumbler on the bedside table; his arm coming to rest on her right thigh. His hand was cold from holding the glass for so long, the heat leaching from her and into him. In her mind's eye, he's a warmth vampire, turning almost-human as she fades to blocks of artistically-carved ice. "All right. Lilah. Tell me a secret."
She smiled a little. "Let me tell you why I despise you."
He laughed, and kissed her neck wetly. She could smell the alcohol on his breath; forty-year-old scotch cold against her skin as kissed her again, lapping at the sore, vulnerable spot where neck met shoulder. "Tell me."
"And you stay with weak people, which makes you weaker. You're not in control."
"And you'd know?"
"Yes." She turned, then, and let him kiss her on the lips, mouth wet and open. Pulling back, "yes, I know." She pushed him a little, so that he lay on his back; settled across his chest. The little from the bedside lamp did odd things to him, casting strange shadows across his face and body. She traced one of them, following the line from the middle of one cheek down to where it disappeared into his shirt collar. She can tell what type of shirt it is by the form of the collar; can identify the maker of the bed sheets by the thread count and colour alone. She can tell that he's got a Beretta in his jacket pocket, that he shaved eight hours previous, that he doesn't like her perfume. She can recall every single thing in this dingy motel room with her eyes closed and the better part of a bottle of hideously expensive wine that tasted like the cheap stuff she used to drink with her school friends when she was too young to know better.
She has a dental appointment on Monday at three. She has a meeting with legal tomorrow at four. She has an animal sacrifice at noon the three days following, and must remember to bring her galoshes this time because she's sacrificing a goat, not another pair of Mary Janes.
She has a full planner, a car on stand-by, and a gun in her purse. She's in control.
Wesley's hand tugs on one stocking, finding the clip and unhooking it single-handed. He's got quite a skill there; dexterity doubtless increased through all that Watcher training. When he kisses her, his lashes flutter shut.
She thinks that maybe she enjoys that part the most.
"I don't drink wine," she whispered into his skin.
(Her nails are chipped; she'll have to be up early tomorrow to have them fixed. She's the boss. She's in control.)
"I know," he murmured. It's quiet, so quiet, and she can pretend that it never happened at all.