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Addiction, Jerry knows, is not a condition based in logic. You can drown your sorrows on a bad day and raise a glass on a good one—but alcohol is always the constant in the Smith house, regardless of mood.
Today, Beth comes home exuberant from saving a critically injured horse and opens a box of wine as soon as she gets in the door (the one kept in the hall closet for such occasions). She starts cooking tipsy, she serves dinner drunk, and by the time she gets up from the table, she needs Jerry to stay upright. Rick and Morty are nowhere to be found, so Jerry and Summer share a quick glance. She clears the wine from the table while Beth is distracted.
It's terrible, he knows, to enable her like this and get Summer involved. It's not what's best for him, Beth, or the kids. But what is he supposed to do? Jerry can't bring himself to give up on her. She's the love of his life (and unfortunately the payer of his bills, for now), after all. He'll have to check in with Summer later.
“I just wish Dad were here,” Beth mumbles into Jerry's shirt. They're standing next to the stairs, hugging and swaying gently. Her words come slowly, fighting their way through the alcohol that’s pickling her brain. “He loves chicken cacciatore. This was his recipe.” She takes a deep breath, and Jerry tilts his head to kiss her cheek.
“I'm sure he'll have some when he gets back. You know how hungry they always are after an adventure.”
“Yeah, you're right. I shouldn't get this emotional about it.”
“Well, I don't think that gels with what we're learning in therapy, but it wouldn't hurt to think more positively, right? I bet he'll be happy for you about that horse you saved.”
“I hope so,” Beth replies, smiling a little. “I was so glad. Really thought we would lose her.” She stifles a yawn. “Bed?”
He nods, lets her grab the railing first, and they go up together.
* * *
Jerry really loves his wife, but… he has a secret he's keeping from her.
In the darkness of their bedroom, Jerry helps Beth strip down to her underwear, gives her a comfy t-shirt of his, and puts her to bed lying on her side, like he's supposed to. Then, he kneels at the side of the bed and waits a while.
The moonlight is filtering in through a gap in the curtains; he studies the way the shadows fall across her features. She looks so peaceful sleeping in a way that she never does awake, her normal intensity dimmed—her brow isn’t furrowed, she isn’t frustrated.
The Zygerion simulation incident, though long ago, was shameful for Jerry in many ways. The most obvious was the loss of his job at the time, but even worse is the way his cock twitches at the sight of his wife's slack face when she's unconscious. Worse still, he can't seem to stop himself from touching Beth regardless.
The hold she has over him is immense. Even during the divorce period, they'd hooked up several times—and a few of those times, Beth even called first. Back then, she'd been more demanding, almost insatiable, and of course, much less friendly. Jerry didn't dislike that, per se. He felt like such shit at the time that it all made sense to him. But on occasion, Beth had fed him little crumbs of affection: a smile, a kiss, a quick grab at his ass before she left his crummy apartment. It was terribly confusing, and she'd been in all of Jerry's dreams. He's glad those days are over.
Dr. Wong says they're making progress now, though. Jerry has his own hobbies that he does by himself, like gardening, beekeeping, and apparently, fucking his wife while she's asleep.
“Honey?” he says into her ear like he’s really trying to wake her, watching vigilantly for a reaction. Her breathing stays exactly the same, and she doesn't move. Jerry caresses Beth's face, pressing a kiss first to her cheek, then her lips, where he lingers. She still smells of wine, and after so many years of that scent being part of her, it excites him.
Jerry palms himself over his pajamas. People always say attraction changes after having kids, but Jerry feels the same passion for Beth now that he did at seventeen. These days, he rarely gets to take his time with her like this. He notes with a jolt of surprised happiness that it'll be laundry day soon; Beth is wearing a pair of lacy black underwear that usually sits in the back of the drawer, too fancy for most normal weekdays. He wonders if her scrub pants slipped down a little all day because of them, if the lace bothered her at the crease of her thigh while she stood during the longer procedures.
The most memorable time Beth had worn these on purpose was that horrible-wonderful day with the future goggles. They’d made out like teenagers against the wall that separated living room from kitchen until Beth had pulled back and said, “Upstairs in ten,” voice low in his ear, and Jerry got honest-to-God butterflies. It had been some of the greatest sex of his life—even better than the simulation—and quite possibly the only time they both cried.
Carefully, Jerry wraps an arm around her torso and pulls her flush to him. Beth sighs and mumbles something unintelligible, moves against the bulge in his pajama pants. It feels like encouragement, like permission. Jerry moves his hand down and rubs at the black silk covering Beth's clit, feeling the little shivers up her spine and the clench of her thighs.
He slides a hand down the back of Beth's soft leg and grabs behind the knee, bringing it up and out of the way for better access. From here, Jerry can tug her panties aside too and feel how wet she already is for him when he slips his fingers in. Beth sometimes makes comments about being easy, and honestly, Jerry kind of agrees—she’s way out of his league, but she’s taught him how to press all of her buttons by now. It’s a sequence that hasn’t changed in seventeen years.
He licks his fingers clean, wishing he could taste Beth properly. That would almost certainly wake her up, though. Jerry has spent far more hours on his knees than she over the course of their marriage. (Not that he minds.) Unable to wait any longer, he finally pulls out his cock and presses into her, inch by torturous inch.
Jerry thrusts lazily, letting pleasure take him over, a man assured that he will achieve his goal. As he does, he puts his nose in Beth’s hair and inhales deeply. She’s never favored strong perfume, and even if she did, it isn’t permitted at the hospital. Therefore, most of her personal care products are fragrance free. Beth always smells distinctly of herself—a scent that Jerry can never get enough of.
Getting bolder, Jerry slips his hand under Beth’s sleep shirt to cup her breast. It’s difficult for him to be quiet. She loves to coax noises out of him, so repressing them requires conscious effort.
“Oh, Beth,” Jerry whimpers softly, feeling his self-control start to wane. He has to end this before he gets too carried away. Gripping her hips, he fucks Beth as hard as he dares to under the circumstances. God, he loves her, loves this. Jerry is fully aware that he could start a discussion at their next state of the union meeting, ask for Beth’s consent to do this every so often, but his mind rebels at the thought. He’s not sure he could handle it if she denied him.
His hips jerk, stuttering as he fills Beth up, twitching with the aftershocks. Jerry pulls out slowly, moves her underwear back into place, and shuffles back to his side of the bed before sitting up.
“Jer?” Beth asks sleepily. Jerry freezes.
“Beth?”
Sleep talking isn’t out of the ordinary for her, but… was she less intoxicated than he’d thought? Nothing like this has happened before. He waits. And waits. And eventually, he realizes that Beth went back to sleep. He decides to get her some water for tomorrow morning. Definitely the least he can do.
* * *
The vibrations from her phone alarm wake Beth like a crack of fucking thunder. God, her head hurts. She sees a water bottle on the nightstand and drains it. After finding it within herself to get out of bed, she stops short when she feels something soaking her underwear. Her period was a week ago, so that leaves one probable option.
Ugh, really? Yesterday was a good day for her, sure, but good enough to jump Jerry while she was blacked out? Good thing she was planning on showering anyway.
He's at the table when Beth goes downstairs, eating cereal alone and playing one of his silly tablet games.
“Seems like we had fun last night,” she says.
“Yeah. You don't remember?” He's unfazed, still popping balloons.
“Vaguely,” Beth lies. “But you owe me one.”
Jerry chuckles and looks up to meet her eyes with a funny little smile that Beth has no time to analyze. “Yes, ma'am.”
Whatever. She, satisfied, gives him a kiss and leaves for work, whistling their wedding song on her way out the door.