Twelve hours, he slept. Twelve hours of uninterrupted, dreamless,
perfect sleep. Now he is entirely disoriented, has no idea what
time it is, and further, doesn't really care. The shower is
running and there is almost-melodius singing sounding through the
apartment. "They all said we'd never get together, they laughed at
us and how - but ho, ho, ho, who's got the last laugh now?"

Interviews. She thought she'd be done with interviews when she
left Earth. And doctors! Damn doctors that get drunk and piss her
off and then make her feel sorry for them and then go and- Ehn.
Three rather large Three Wise Mens - does that make nine wise men?
Hee, she had nine wise men tonight. That's a little dirty. Anyway,
it was enough to get her quite silly and a little ill. Well, more
than a little ill. So when Daisy staggers into her apartment and
the lights are on and the shower's running, she makes a funny
sound that's a cross between a laugh and a sob, and curls up in
her armchair, in the front room. Has a vague idea that her face is
streaky, and rubs halfheartedly at it with her sleeve, but that
only makes it worse.

"They all laughed at Rockefeller Center, now they're dying to get
in, they all - " Wait a minute, what's that? Matt is already
entirely clean, and has been for twenty minutes now. He exits the
shower and pauses only to clamber into his pants before sticking
his head round the bathroom door. His hair is almost, but not
quite, long enough to hang in his eyes. Better get that cut
sometime soonish. "Heya."

Ow. Words. Putting her hands a little shakily to her temples,
Daisy looks up at Matt. There're two of him, but that's all right.
At least they're not doing the tango. And at least she's not
falling down anymore. "Hi," she whispers. Looks almost worse than
Matt did last night, only she's not dirty. Wait, that wasn't last
night, it was today. Oh, boy.

Wow, she looks like I must have done last night. Matt pads
barefoot across the apartment and pauses, blinking water out of
his eyes. "Hey, what's the matter? Don't tell me you've met the
liquor that could outlast you." He kneels in front of her chair.

There's another horribly sad giggle - or is it a silly-sounding
sob? and Daisy shakes her head, then really regrets shaking her
head and holds it in her hands again, quite incapable of looking
up. She's only thrown up once, she's gonna need to do it again
(and probably again and again) before she starts to feel better.
"Too fast," she says by way of explanation. "Nine? Nine." Ugh. Oh,
Matthew, go away. You're going to go away anyway, so it might as
well be now. She starts crying again, but damned if she'll ever
say why.

"Oh, hey." Dismayed, Matt reaches a hand to rest it on the back of
her head, fingers gently sifting the blond hair. "Nine whats,
bottles of champagne? Come on, it's okay, shh, it's okay."

No it's not! No it's not. "Shots. Three three wise men. Better
than vodka'n'onion," Daisy says, still laughing even as she's
crying. Don't touch me. Hold me. No, don't touch me. Don't leave!
She's not gonna be able to stop crying until she's asleep, she
thinks. How stupid, how embarrassing, how vulnerable. Oh great,
and now she's going to throw up. Moving jerkily, Daisy pushes at
Matt, looking seriously ill and gesturing at the bathroom. Better
get out of the way.

Oops, okay, that's a look he knows. Matt gets out of the way, but
follows very closely, ready to support her if she needs it. "Nine
wise men? You're really walking the wild side tonight." His
expression is very serious, though.

Daisy's response is very eloquent, but she's using the toilet as a
translator. There's that familiar sound - you know, 'whorffff' -
and she's grabbing at tissues, quite miserable. The bathroom
floor, even if it's a bit damp, will do nicely as a chair for now.
Flush, sit carefully, put face in hands. "Th' wil' side'n I're
acquainted..." she mumbles. Not looking at him, she's not looking
at him. Go away, you made me feel safe, you took away my control.
Go away.

It's a very good thing he's not a mind-reader. Matt leans his back
against the doorway and braces one bare foot against the other
side. "I worship the porcelain god enough for both of us, didn't I
mention? You get the night off." He frowns at his toes.

"Felt like it. Should know better'n to trust me," laughs Daisy to
herself, then urghs, and holds her stomach and squeezes her eyes
shut tight. Ick ick ick. Should definitely know better. Now she's
all clammy, and faint, and goddamned hot. Once more moving like
her bones are on fire, the girl struggles out of her Nasty Pink
Shirt and throws it into the shower. Yes, she's still wearing
overalls. And then she goes and throws up again. She can get
embarrassed later.

He waits. That's all. Waits, and waits, watching her carefully. At
one point, he goes and fetches a glass of water and brings it back
to the bathroom door. I should put a shirt on, he thinks vaguely,
but it's all the way the hell over in the bedroom. "Daisy?"

He doesn't need a shirt, silly man. He could even go out in public
like that if he -really- wanted. Miseryguts Daisy is sitting back
against the wall again, just carefully breathing, not moving a
lot, head in her hands, looking at the floor. She considers
looking up to answer, and thinks better of it. "Yeh?"

"Are you all right?" That wasn't what he really wanted to say. And
it wasn't what he's really thinking, either. What he's really
thinking is all safely walled off behind emotional barriers that
have been practiced since he was a child.

"No," laughs Daisy miserably, "I'm sick drunk, you silly man. I'm
not all right." If Matthew can ask the wrong thing and mean the
right thing, Daisy can deliberately misunderstand. But she's not
going to throw up for a little while, and feels that way, and
finally looks up. Jeez louise, her face is all puffy and red from
crying, and she's -this- close from starting again, so her lower
lip's trembling. And she looks so very young. But she finally sees
the water, and starts moving, but stops, and just reaches for it.
"Ta..."

There's something about the way she looks. Just something. Matt
crouches to be nearer her level and hands over the water,
simultaneously reaching out with his free hand to brush a thumb
across her cheek.

...which makes Daisy break down all over again. Her pretty face
twists all up again, and she's of half a mind to pull away, but
can't move. Don't touch me. No, hold me tight, never let me go.
But you will let go, so don't touch me. Pushing him away would
break her, but so would reaching out to him, so she just curls up
tighter against the wall, water unconsciously set on the floor,
forgotten.

"Hey," he says, gently, softly, his expression puzzled concern.
"Hey, now. Come on." Carefully, Matt kneels up to slide an arm
around her shoulders. "It's okay. It's okay." Must ask her what
this is about, in the morning.

She's incredibly tense. Much more tense than anyone as wasted as
she is has any right to be. And, well, clammy, but we knew that.
It's easier to tell with only her overalls on. But even though her
head is telling her 'don't you dare let him touch you', boy does
she need him to, and she unwinds and wraps her arms around Matt
like a frightened child - which only makes her that much more
furious with herself.

Something's really scared her. Has someone died? This is more
off-balance than anyone should be when they're still this wasted.
Matt hugs her to him tightly, leaning his head on hers and closing
his eyes. "It's all right. It's okay. I'm here, it's okay."

You're here, are you? You're here. But she doesn't need anyone,
shouldn't need anyone. She is sufficient unto herself, and if her
robots break or leave, she can always build new. She keeps their
programming backed up, they can be just like they were before. "No
it's not," she sobs softly. "It's not. Matt, go away, go away. I'm
so tired. Go away, I lo--" No. No! "I want to go to bed..."

You what? Matt is briefly uncertain. But you know, people say they
love each other all the time, it shouldn't necessarily make his
heart jump like that. "You really want me to go? I'll stay. You
can sleep right here." He speaks softly into her ear.

"No, no, don't go, don't go!" begs Daisy quickly, still hanging on
tight. Well, it's not actually tight anymore; she's exhausted. But
it's as tight as possible. And she's not stopped crying yet,
either. "I can get to bed. No, I can't. Matt, I want to go to
bed." Help me. She can't ask for help. She can't.

"All right. But no getting fresh with me or I'll tell your
mother." It's amazing, it's just wired up automatically. Matt
hesitates a long moment, then tries to slide one arm under her
knees to lift her.

There's no resistance, and Daisy's not heavy. Haha, Matt's not
that strong, either, but she shouldn't be too hard to lift. "My
mother can go to hell," says the girl very softly, then buries her
face in Matthew's shirt, except he isn't wearing one, but she
doesn't seem to notice or care.

Nnf. Talk about your ten-stone weakling. Matt gets Daisy settled,
though, and that's just fine. I really should have put a shirt on,
he thinks vaguely. "That's no way to talk about Australia's
finest."

"She doesn't love me. She can go to hell," repeats Daisy,
insistent, tired. Tired and indistinct. Oh, this bed is so ick,
it's got Matt's drunkenness on it, and now it's got Daisy's
drunkenness on it. Unfortunately, the pillow she tries to curl up
with smells like him. Grrrahr. She starts crying again, even
though he's right there. Damn it!

"Yeah, well, I love you," platonically, adds the mental editor,
"so who cares about her? My mother's dead, you can have half
shares in her." Matthew pulls the slightly icky blankets over the
girl. "Go to sleep."

"No - you - don't!" Oh, Daisy. Oh, boy. She stuffs her face into
the pillow and just *cries*. Who the hell knew she had that many
tears inside her, eh? Where on earth do they all come from? When
she looks up again, he'll be gone. Which is just as well, because
for pity's sake, she doesn't need him. She wishes he'd go away
right now. No she doesn't.

...what? "Yeah, I do. I think you're great." Dimly aware of
skidding round some deep mental pit, Matt retreats to the doorway
and leans on the frame. And watches her.

"'Course I'm great. I'm Dorothy Morrow Cole, and everyone likes
me, and no one knows me," mumbles the girl, letting out a long,
hot, miserable, dizzy sigh and turning on to her side, staring at
the wall. Then she adds uncertainly, "And I like it that way." And
then very, very quietly, she whispers, "So go away before I need
you. I'll see you tomorrow." No thank you's. No goodnights.
Nothing but badly-hidden abject misery and the tail end of
drunkenness. Throwing up really helps a lot.

He doesn't understand. At all. Matt stares, eyes the colour of
faded denim lingering on the girl. He's scared, suddenly, of how
good this is. How good it feels. And he backs out of the room. But
he's not headed home - instead, he just makes for the couch and
drops onto it to stare at the ceiling. His thoughts are a mystery
to himself.

And true to stereotype, but for all the wrong reasons, Daisy Cole
cries herself to sleep in the other room. It feels like it takes
forever.