My watch reads one o'clock. I'm tired, hungry, and just a little bit bored - I've already peeled the labels from my beer bottles and rolled them into tiny little balls.

Toby is still attempting to explain to Sam the merits of free trade. Sam, meanwhile, is arguing that free trade has nothing to do with the price of tea in China when the world is upside down. They've been talking about it for at least an hour, getting progressively drunker.

Josh, sitting next to me, is half flopped on the table, head resting on his folded arms. I can't be sure, but I think he's humming something.

"Upside down, Toby! I just... it's not right," Sam disputes. "Free trade is good, don't get me wrong. But we're upside down now."

"Sam, we're not upside down!" Toby growls. "It's the rambling of a few cartographers. Crackpot cartographers. Get over it."

"Yeah, but-"

"Oh honest to God, guys," I blurt out, finally getting sick of them. "I thought we were supposed to be having fun?"

"We are having fun!" Sam says. "Sorta. I mean, hmmm." He stares at Josh, who's staring at nothing in particular with one eye open, one closed. "Yeah, I've gotta go home. I need to sleep in a real bed."

"And you need a new shirt," Toby adds. "And a shower."

"It is a new shirt but a shower sounds good," Sam agrees, with a yawn. "Come on Toby. Donna's glaring at us."

I straighten my face and add a smile. "Not glaring, just tired."

Toby waves his hand at Josh, who's still singing quietly. "Will you make sure he gets home safely?"

"Always do," I grin, and then rest my hand on Josh's shoulder. "Josh?"

He lifts his head and blinks at me, "Huh?"

"We're going now."

"Okay," he smiles blearily, and pushes against the table to stand up. "Lessgo then." I stand up as well, grab his backpack from the floor, and help him slide his arms into the straps.

I turn to Sam and Toby. "You guys need me to drive you, or will you take a cab?"

"We'll be fine," Toby says and flicks another hand at Josh. "Just take him home before he completely passes out."

"Which will be in ten minutes, I bet," I grin at them. "See you tomorrow, guys."

We emerge from the bar, and Josh and I wave good bye to Sam and Toby who stagger slowly down the road in the opposite direction, still rabidly talking.

"Come on, Josh. Car's this way," I wrap my left arm around his waist and he drapes his right arm over my shoulders. We make our way, slowly, down the sidewalk.

It's a little cold and, having left my coat in Josh's car, I snuggle closer to him, half to get warm, half to keep him from falling over. Josh hums idly as we shuffle along, the same tune he'd been humming in the bar.

"What are you singing, Josh?"

"A song."

"Yes, I got that, where's it from?"

"Brigadoon," Josh says happily. "Which they didn't find. So, obviously, the map is wrong."

I blink a few times, confused, and then stifle a chuckle. "Josh, no more talking about the map, okay? Let Toby and Sam hash it out."

"Okay," he agrees. "Can I still sing?"

"If you want."

"Excellent." He starts to sing again, interjecting lyrics amongst the humming. "Your arm links with miiine..." he trails off, and then clears his throat. "Donna?"

"Yes?"

"You have nice eyes."

"Uh... thanks."

"They're like the sky. Pretty sky tonight. So deep and dark and bluuuue," Josh croons. "But it's night, and your eyes are like the day. Day eyes. Light blue."

"Okay then," I smile.

"I'm drunk," he slurs happily.

I nod. "This I know, Josh. You're not exactly good at hiding it."

"I don't think I should be driving because I think I'm a little bit drunk."

"Yes you are drunk, as I just said," I agree. "And I'm going to be doing the driving."

"Okay but shh, don't tell Donna," he hisses, trying to be secretive. "She doesn't like me being drunk."

"Okay then," I whisper back. "I promise not to tell her."

"She says I have a system," he continues, in his own little world of thinking that I am not me. "But I don't. She's the one with the systems. And rules. All the time. And index cards."

"And post it notes," I add.

He falls against me, apparently unable to walk on his own. "Yes! Always with the post it notes. Little yellow squares. Everywhere."

"You hate my post it notes?"

"Not yours. Donna's."

"Josh," I say patiently, "I'm Donna."

He twists his head to look at me. "Yes. Donna. Shh!" he hisses again, holding a finger to his lips. "Don't tell yourself that I'm drunk. You'll just yell at me in the morning."

"I promise not to yell at you, Josh, if you promise to try and walk to the car yourself because you weigh a ton and I can't carry you."

"Hey, I may be drunk, and you may be beautiful..." Josh slurs again, and I raise my eyebrows.

"Yes?"

His eyes, swimming with five bottles of beer and four tequila slammers, try to focus on me. "I will be sober in the morning-"

"Sober, but very hung over," I interrupt.

"But you will still be beautiful," he continues, ignoring me. "Very beautiful." He reaches a hand up and touches my hair. "Ethereal."

"Uh huh," I roll my eyes, and wrap my arm more firmly around his waist, trying to keep him upright. He leans heavily against me, his head lolling on my shoulder.

"Beautiful Donna," Josh murmurs as I half drag, half carry him down the sidewalk to his car. "Donna, Donnatella," he singsongs, "DonnaTELLA!"

"Yes, Josh, that's my name."

"Donnatella Mosh. Moshy Mosh." He smacks his lips together a few times. "Mosh? That's like grass... right?"

"In a way," I agree. "Come on, Josh, lift your feet a little higher. I'm really not strong enough to carry you."

"Sooorry, Donnnna," he continues to singsong, and then changes his tone to complain, "You're so boshy."

"Well, if you'd only stopped at one drink," I say sternly. "I wouldn't have to be so bossy. Come on, one foot at a time."

"Nooo," Josh sighs. "No, you're always boshy. Boshy Moshy. Huh. Mossssh. That's like grass, right?"

"Yes, Josh, it is, and we've already discussed this topic."

"You know what?"

I squeeze his waist to get him to move faster. "What, Josh?"

"Josh," he repeats.

"Uh, yes?"

"Josh rhymes with Mosh."

"No," I shake my head, "it doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"Okay," I give in, and Josh uses his free hand - the one not wrapped around my waist and doing it's level best to drag me to the ground along with the drunk body attached to it - to reach up and pat my face.

"Ow! God, Josh." I twist my head out of his way and walk a little faster. His feet stumble along, trying to keep up.

"Sorry," he grins, giving me a not too pleasant whiff of his breath. The hand finds my face again, and he strokes my cheek softly.

"Quit it," I mutter.

"Sorry," he repeats. "Josh Mosh. Nooo. I don't like that. Who wants a name what rhymes?"

"That," I correct.

"That what?"

"Not what, that."

"What that? What? I don't-"

"Never mind, Josh." I take a deep breath and try to remain calm. "Come on, we're nearly there."

"Josh Mosh," he says again. "No, that doesn't work."

"Well, it's a good thing it's not your name then," I agree.

"No," Josh sighs heavily, and then grins. "Unless I was your father!"

"Josh, you're just a little bit too young to be my father," I hide a smile, a little less annoyed because he's grinning like a lunatic and his dimples are showing. "Plus, you're not Irish."

"I could be Irish," he insists and, in a very bad accent, recites, "Dey're always arfter me lurky charrrrms."

I snort with laughter, and say, "Very good, Josh. You've almost convinced me except for one very minute, but very important, thing."

"Oh? Wassat?"

"You're Jewish."

"Aaaannnnatevka," he starts singing again.

"And you're from Connecticut, not Russia. Oh, yeah. Ireland's gonna welcome you with open arms, Pumpkin." I hitch him a little higher. It's a good thing we're almost at his car because he's about to hit the sidewalk, and take me down with him.

"Right. Right, of course you're right." He stops singing and starts nodding, almost violently, then stops and claps his hand over his mouth. "Guhhh."

"Can I write that down, get you to notarize it, and use it the next time you say I'm wrong? And don't you dare throw up on me."

"Okay," he rubs a hand over his face and groans, "write what?"

"Never mind," I smile ruefully. "Josh, would you keep walking please. Lift your left foot." He complies, holding it unsteadily in the air and I stop smiling. "Oh, God, put it down. Don't tell me you've forgotten how to walk now?"

"Nooo," he pauses. "Maybe. I just need to sit down for a minute."

"Josh, your car is fifty feet away. You can make it; I have complete and utter faith in you."

"How much is that in meters?" he asks, dropping his head onto my shoulder again.

"Uh, twenty or so," I quickly calculate. "Why?"

"Good to know. Good to knoooow," he nods sagely as we stumble along. He obviously no longer feels the need to sit down, something I'm thankful for as there's nothing to actually sit on.

"I'm sure it is."

"They use meters in Ireland," Josh explains. "Because they're metrocal. Um... metrifical? Matriarchal?"

"Josh, how is it you can say matriarchal and, by the way, I think you mean metric, but can't even say my surname without pronouncing it as though it rhymes with your first name?"

"Josh Mosh," he says again and I resist the urge to smack him. "I could be Josh Mosh if I married you."

"No you couldn't."

"Yes!" he exclaims happily, nodding again, although this time less intensely to avoid the previous nausea. "I could marry you and then I'd be called Josh Mosh."

"Moss," I hiss. "You can't have my name if you can't pronounce it correctly. And besides, the man doesn't usually take the woman's name. In fact - it's hardly ever done."

"So then, when we get married, you can have my name. Donna Lyman. Yes. That's sounds nice."

"Whatever." We've reached his car and I prop him against the rear door and pull his backpack from his shoulder. I dump it on the ground to search for his car keys.

Josh leans forward and I push him back before he falls on top of me. He settles for patting the top of my head. "Donna. Donna?"

I look up and sigh, "Yes?"

"Donnatella Lyman is nice." He smiles at me hopefully, the street light reflecting off his dimples.

I play along because once he gets started on something, honestly, there's no stopping him. "Yes, Josh, but what if I wanted to keep my own name?" Leaving him to mull, I look back down into his bag, trying to find the damn keys.

"Um," he pauses, so I look up again. He's frowning thoughtfully, his hand still resting on the top of my head. He squeezes one eye closed and stares at me. "What about our kids?"

Finally my fingers close around his keys, buried at the bottom of his bag, and I fish them out and beep the doors unlocked.

"Beep beep beep," he giggles softly as I get to my feet and open the door.

"Come on, Josh, get in," I grab his elbow and angle him into the passenger seat.

"Tell me what we're going to call our kids and I'll get in," he tries to negotiate. "Donna, they need a name."

I push him into the car with a sigh. "I don't know, Josh. I never thought about it."

"Well," he begins, as I lean over to click the seatbelt into place. "Hey you smell nice." His hand touches my hair again, and he takes a deep sniff. "And you have nice hair."

"Thank you," I say quickly, and stand up. I pick his backpack up from the ground, throw it by his feet and, careful not to trap any of his limbs, I shut the door. Josh waves at me though the windscreen as I hurry around the front to the driver's side.

When I open the door he asks, loudly, "Can we call them Lyman?"

"What?" I slide into the seat and start the engine. Josh reaches over and pats my knee.

"Lyman. Our kids. We're talking about our kids, Donna. You can stay all Moshy but they should be Lyman. Hey, hey, didja know both our names are green?"

"Um," I check over my left shoulder and slowly pull into the street. I've only had two drinks - low alcohol beer - and I doubt I'm over the limit, but I don't want to take the chance of being pulled over for speeding and subsequently be given a sobriety test.

"Mosh and Lyman," Josh continues. His hand, still on my knee, starts making little circles across my stockings. "Lymans are green and Mosh is grass and grass is green."

"I think you mean limes, Josh," I correct him, yet again. "And moss isn't grass but it is sometimes green."

"So we'll end up with little green babies then," he says matter-of-factly.

"Okay then," I agree, pausing at a stop sign and double checking both directions before proceeding.

"So what are we calling our little green babies, Donna," Josh asks.

"Lyman, we already agreed on that."

"Nooo," he whines petulantly. "Their first names."

"Oh, the first names of our little green, grassy, citrusy babies?" I snap, a little more angrily than I'd intended. I'm not angry, really. I'm just... something. I don't know what.

"Uh," Josh pauses, and the hand on my knee stops stroking. "Yeah. Are you mad at me?"

"No," I sigh. "No, go on, Josh." I indicate left, and turn the corner. "Call them Fred, Bob, and Maxine." The traffic lights at the end of the road change to amber and I slow the car down.

"Well they're stupid names," Josh says sulkily. "I want nice names. Beautiful babies need beautiful names."

"How do you know they'll be beautiful?" I look over at him while the traffic light is red. He's staring at me, a dreamy, drunk smile on his face.

"Because they have you for a mother. Beautiful Donna Mosh. We already established that." His fingers begin their gentle caressing again.

"Okay, so tell me how it is you can say established and still not say my name?"

"Don't change the subject." The smile changes to a sad frown. "Come on, Donna. They need beautiful names!"

"You pick them then," I suggest. "And let me concentrate on driving."

"But we're stopped," Josh points out. "We're not driving."

"That's because we're waiting for the light to change to green," I reply, then groan inwardly.

"Green! Green babies!"

I have to get him off the topic of green. Talking about anything green is starting to make me feel a little queasy. "What are the names of our children, Josh?"

"Oh! Um, how about..." he pauses, "Leonardo, Michelangelo and Raphael? Then we could have all four turtles!" He starts giggling, softly, and I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Josh, turtles? What is it with you and everything green tonight?"

He drops his head heavily against the seat, and smiles dreamily again. "They're mutant turtles. So cool."

I rack my brain, trying to remember. "The ninja turtles? That cartoon from the, what... mid eighties? When you were, correct me if I'm wrong here, at Yale."

"Yep. Good times," he sighs happily then waves his hand at the windscreen. "Green light, Donna. Go!"

I flick my eyes forward; take my foot off the brake, change gears, and press the gas pedal, then say, a little snarkily, "Marijuana, munchies, and cartoons about mutant animals. It's a wonder you managed to graduate at all."

"You don't have to be mean just because you don't like turtles. Heeeey," he drags the word out. "Didn't you talk to turtle people today?"

"Kemps Ridley Sea Turtle Society, yes I did, Josh."

"And you wanted to talk to them. You like the turtle crackpot people. So you can't have anything against turtles!" he exclaims triumphantly.

"I have nothing against turtles, Josh."

"Well then you can't be mean just because you don't like our kids' names," Josh, changing his mind, decides. "Mean Donna. You better not be mean to them."

"No, Josh, I won't be mean to our kids because we don't have any."

"Not yet," he agrees midway through a yawn. "But when we have them, you can't be mean to them. And since you don't like my names, you choose some."

"I already did, and you didn't like them," I reply, concentrating on the road. "Maybe we should wait until they're born before we decide. Or at least, wait until I'm actually pregnant."

"So you're not pregnant?" Josh asks, half mumbling now. I sneak a quick glance at him as I turn another corner. His eyes are drifting shut, but the hand on my knee is still gently rubbing.

"No, Josh, I'm not."

"Okay," he sighs again. "You'd tell me if you were?"

"Josh, if I was pregnant - and the baby was yours - I promise you, you'd know almost as soon as I did."

"Good. Thank you," Josh murmurs. "Are we home yet?"

"We're nearly at your home, yes," I confirm, turning the car into his street.

"We don't live together?" he asks, confused. "But we're married. And have kids."

There's an available parking space right outside his building, and I angle the car in as I groan softly. "Josh, we're not married, and we don't have kids. You and I are not even having a relationship, okay?"

"But," his hand squeezes my knee as I turn the engine off. "You'd live with me if we were married?"

"Yes, I think I probably would." I slide out of the car. "Come on, Josh, we're home now." Not waiting for his answer, I slam the door, a little more forcefully than I'd intended. I'm not angry, I'm really not.

I go around to the passenger side to let him out. He's managed to unbuckle his seatbelt but is still sitting there, hands in his lap.

"Josh, I really can't carry you, I'm too tired, and you're too heavy."

He stares up at me, blinking slowly. "Donna?"

"Yes?" I fold my arms and tip my head to the side.

"Don't be mad at me, please? I don't like it when you're mad at me." He stretches out his hand to touch my arm.

"I'm not mad at you, Josh. I'm TIRED!" I roar. "Get out of the goddamn car."

He blinks a few more times, then nods and slides out, gripping the rim of the door. I step out of the way as he reaches down to get his backpack but take pity on him as he stumbles over the curb.

"Come on," I mutter, gripping his arm and hoisting him back to his feet. "You have a hundred more steps and you'll be in your apartment and then you can fall flat on your face then."

"Is that a hundred metrical or a hundred imperious?"

I sigh, very audibly, and say, "Imperious, Josh. One hundred imperious steps and you can fall on your face. If you fall on your face before then, make no mistake, I will leave you there."

"Okay, Miss Imperious."

"Better than being Mr. Metrical," I throw back as we lurch up the steps to the front door of his building.

"Seventy six trombones," he starts singing again as I swipe the automatic lock with his key card. "In the big um... something."

With some difficulty, I manage to simultaneously open then door while preventing him from falling over. "So we've gone from Brigadoon to Fiddler to the Music Man?"

Josh nods, "I like musicals. And my head feels likes there are seventy six trombones. And a lot of repetitive drums. Um, yeah. I have a headache."

"Then stop talking. And stop singing." I push him into the building, letting the door swing shut behind us, and we shuffle awkwardly up to his apartment.

Josh, ignoring my demand, continues to sing, having some difficulty with the words of a new song. I try not to giggle as he tries, and fails, to get them right. He gives up with a growled, "Damn it," and moves into the refrain.

He seems to know the words now and he exclaims, happily, "Cheep cheep cheep!" and I hold back another laugh. His very bad attempt to sing such a ridiculous song is melting the irritation I was feeling before.

He suddenly stops, midway through a cheep, and asks, "Why are there birds in this song, Donna?"

"I don't think they're birds, Josh," I ponder. "I think it's to compare the gossipy nature of the women in the town. They twitter on like little birds while they sew."

"Oh, that makes sense," he nods. "Cheep cheep cheep! Like birds. Yes."

We reach his floor, and I hold him against the wall with a shoulder as I unlock his front door. He's still chirping away, finding immense joy in mimicking what should be a soprano role but, with his voice, is something akin to fingernails on a chalkboard.

I push him inside his apartment and, once we're through the door, I let go of him. He slithers to the floor, and laughs, "Hey, I made it!"

"You did, but guess what?" Without waiting for him to answer, I continue, "Are you planning on sleeping here or would you like to sleep in your bed?"

"Ummm," he hums, tapping a finger against his chin. "Bed, I think. Help me?"

"If you manage to drag yourself there, I'll be nice and tuck you in," I compromise. "I can't hold you up anymore, Josh. I'm about to fall over from exhaustion."

"Okay, okay," he agrees, looking up at me with his big brown eyes, "just... help me stand up? Pleeeease?"

"Oh God, fine," I give up, and haul him to his feet. "Fifteen steps, Josh."

"How'd you know it's fifteen, Donna?"

"Because I know everything," I reply.

"Noooo," he refutes. "Nope. You don't know everything."

"Okay then, you got me. I guessed it," I lie. The only reason I know the number of steps is because I forced him to walk around his apartment hundreds of times. Not because he was drunk, but because he was recovering from being shot.

"Hmm," he murmurs, as we reach his bedroom. "You sure?"

I decide it's not a good idea to tell him why I know; he's very drunk, and it's only been a few months since Christmas. "Positive," I smile cheerfully. "Get into bed."

"Okay," Josh falls onto his bed, and rolls over to lie on his back. "I need to take my shoes off."

"I'll do it," I offer, and heave his legs onto his bed before pulling his shoes off. "There."

"Thanks," he says, and yawns widely.

"No problem," I smile gently. "Go to sleep, Josh, you're going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow."

"Will you bring me coffee?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. You're wonderful, you know." Josh yawns again and rolls over, trying to get the comforter out from underneath him. He struggles for a few seconds then looks at me. "Help?"

"As always." I pull the covers back so he can slide his legs underneath.

"I'm just..." He pulls his jacket off, and then waves his hand at the rest of his clothes, "just gonna sleep like this. Too tired to change. Too tired," he repeats with a little sigh.

"Well you need to take your tie off, Josh. I don't want to wake up to find you've choked to death in your sleep."

"'Kay." He fumbles for a second with the knot of his tie, then looks at me desperately again. "It's broken."

"I know," I smile and lean forward to undo his tie, as his fingers work clumsily at the buttons of his shirt. With almost Herculean effort, and a few breathless grunts, he manages to extricate himself. I wave a hand at his waist. "Maybe you should take your belt off as well?"

"'Kay," he nods and obeys. He has an easier time on the buckle and pulls the belt from the loops of his pants, and hands it to me. "Happy?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to wash your shirt tomorrow. Or iron anything. I will, however, bring you coffee, and maybe, if you're very good and go to sleep now, something terribly fattening but very good for hangovers."

Josh grins happily. "You're so good to me. I don't deserve you at all."

"No you don't, but I like you so you're stuck with me," I say. "Besides, if I left you wouldn't know what to do with yourself."

"I'd be lost without you, Donna. Lost. So don't leave."

I shake my head. "I won't, I promise. Except, I'm leaving you now because I'm tired and need to sleep."

"Well that makes no sense," Josh grumbles. "Contradictory. You know, I think you're drunk," he points accusingly at me. "Drunk!"

"Not as drunk as you, Josh, and I really think it's time you and I both got some sleep."

"You can sleep here," he pats the comforter, "but you can't take up the whole bed. And you can't hog all the covers."

I shake my head. "I'll sleep here, but I'm going to sleep on the sofa."

"Nooo," Josh shakes his head as well, "no, the sofa is not good to sleep on. Not good. Sleep with me, okay?"

I rub a hand over my face, and smile softly. "The sofa is fine, Josh. I've slept on it many, many times and it's done me no harm."

He stops shaking his head, and his mouth droops sadly. "Yeah."

"So I'll sleep there, and you can sleep here. Like always," I say firmly. "I will, however, steal one of your pillows."

"Like always." The frown changes to a smile. "Only one though."

"Only one," I agree, and lean over him to grab a pillow. His hand flutters up to my hair again.

"I love your hair, Donna."

"Thank you," I smile, and pull out of his grasp. He struggles to sit up, and reaches for me again. His fingers twirl through the ends of my hair and he pulls me closer.

"It's like a long golden mane. I love that it's long and I can grip it. Like a mane," he repeats.

"A horse?" I huff, incredulously. "You're comparing my hair to a horse's mane?"

"Yes, the way it just floats around your face. Like silk." His hand tangles through my hair as he smiles.

I smile back. "Well thank you, I guess. I'd just rather you not compare me to a horse."

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I only meant it was beautiful. Like you. You know when horses gallop along and their hair streams out behind them. Like a waterfall. Or something. I don't know what I'm saying..." he trails off and yawns. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Josh," I smile again. "I know what you mean and thank you for the compliment."

"Okay," he nods, and drops his hand. "Okay."

"Time to go to sleep, I think," I say firmly. "Lie down properly, Josh."

"I want to sing though," Josh says sulkily. "I like musicals. I like music. Music makes me happy," he pauses for a second, "and sad. Sometimes."

Unsure of what to say, I settle for a soft, "Yeah."

"Yeah." He shakes his head, then smiles brightly and starts again with the out of tune singing. "Annnnd from the waaay I feel..."

"Back to Brigadoon?"

He nods, "I like the song. And the Music Man sings 'Beeeeing in loooove-'"

"I think that was Marian, actually," I grin.

"The librarian! Yes! You know, you're like a librarian." His hand seeks out my knee again, and he starts patting gently. "Donna the Librarian. It's a shame your name doesn't rhyme with librarian. I could be Josh Mosh and you could be something that rhymes with librarian."

"That is a shame," I agree.

"Oh!" he stops patting my knee and grabs my hand, excitedly. "Oh, it would rhyme if your name was Donna Lyman. Madam Librarian, Donna Lyman. That almost works!"

"Almost... but not quite," I hide a grin and tip my head to the side, trying to figure out his train of thought. "Librarian... is this because of my index cards?"

"Yes, and the filing. And the rules. And the post its!" Josh finishes gleefully with a nod. "And she's Irish! From Iowa."

"Yes, but I'm Irish from Wisconsin."

"Okay, yes, but you're stubborn like her. Oh also, you're boshy as well. Boshy Moshy."

"I'll take that as compliment because if you meant it as an insult, I'd have to hit you. But can we not start with my name again?"

"Okay and I mean it nicely. Very nicely," he says quickly. "Hey, didja know that being in love is like being drunk?"

"Is that so?"

"Yes," he nods, and gives me a big, goofy smile. "My stomach feels all squishy, and I'm all lightheaded."

"But you're not in love, Josh, you're just drunk."

"Who says I'm not in love?" he points a finger at me.

"Are you in love?"

"Maybe. 'I would swear I was faaaaalling...'", he switches back to Brigadoon.

I raise my eyebrows, and interrupt his singing, "Who are you in love with?"

He stops pointing at me, presses the finger to his mouth, and mumbles around it, "Not telling."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Okay then." I don't push him. I'm still exhausted, and not in the mood to play drunken guessing games. I look at my watch. Nearly two o'clock.

"But it's you," he hisses again, and I look up quickly. "I love you madly, madly, Madam Librarian and I need you badly, badly, Madam Librarian, Doooonnnna," he croons, softly.

"Uh," I pause, unsure of what to say. "Okay?"

"Yessss," he whispers. "But don't tell you that it's you."

Okay, this is the alcohol talking and I decide it's probably best to humor him. "Riiiight."

"Because I don't think you feel the same."

I raise my eyebrows. "Why do you think that?"

"Because you never told me."

"Ah, so I'm supposed to make the first move?" I pull the comforter higher over his body.

"Yes."

I stand up, and remove his jacket from the floor. "Why?"

"Because I'm afraid."

"Of?" I shake his jacket out, and open his closet. He doesn't speak as I drape the jacket over a coat hanger and put it back. I shut the door and turn around to find him staring at me. "What are you afraid of?"

He looks down, and says softly, "You telling me you don't love me."

"I don't remember saying that I didn't love you," I tease.

"Do you love me?" he asks, his voice very soft, but very shaky.

I walk back to his bed, and sit on the edge, giving him a big smile, "I like you."

"But not love?"

"I like you, Josh. A lot," I say carefully, "but you're drunk, and I'm drunk as well. And we should sleep."

"Being drunk doesn't stop what I feel," he shakes his head, "even though being in love is like being drunk."

I smile, "I think you already said that."

"I feel all light headed." He drops his head back against the pillow and closes his eyes.

"That would be the alcohol," I verify.

"Why did you hug Sam, and not me?"

I blink. "What?"

"This evening. You hugged Sam," he opens his eyes and frowns at me.

"Sam was having a bad day. In fact, Sam has been having a bad week. That's why we went drinking tonight. Which, as you've probably forgotten, was your idea."

"Yes but you hugged him."

"I did," I pause and regard him thoughtfully. "Josh, are you... jealous?"

He squints up at me, and licks his lips. "I'm thirsty."

I sigh, get off the bed, and go into his kitchen. I have the beginning of a pounding headache and I rub my forehead as I fill a glass with some water before padding back to his bedroom.

"Here." I pass him the water. "Don't spill it, because I refuse to change your sheets."

He drains it, noisily, and hands the glass back to me. "Poor Sam," he mutters. "Poor Mrs. Sam."

"Sam's not married," I point out.

"Sam's... thingy. Mrs. Sam... Seabron. Seaborn. Sam's thing," he says again. "You know who I mean."

I take a random guess, "His mother?"

"Yes!" Josh frowns. "Sam's mother. Donna," he reaches, yet again, for my knee. "When we're married you wont..."

"Won't what?"

He stares at me, unhappily. "Don't do what Sam's dad did. Done. Something. Don't do that."

"Have an affair?" I guess again.

"Yes!" he exclaims, scratching lightly at my knee. "Don't do that. I won't, so you won't... okay?"

"Okay."

"Good," he pauses. "Good... um, yes... I'm jealous."

"What?" I'm having trouble keeping up with his random conversational changes.

"I'm jealous. Of you and Sam. Sam and you."

"Why?" I look down at the glass I'm still holding. My fingers are leaving prints over the clear surface.

"Because he gets to hug you."

I put the glass on his bedside table, then turn and look at him. "You and I have hugged before, Josh. Lots of times."

"Yes! Yes, but that's allowed. You're not allowed to hug Sam.

"Why not?"

"Because you're mine," he mutters sulkily. "My assistant. Which means only I can hug you. And you can only hug me."

"I don't think it works like that," I shake my head. "You don't own me, Josh."

"No, but you're my girl," Josh says decisively. "So give me a hug now, and promise me you won't hug anyone else without my permission. Or - if you have to hug someone else, it's only allowed to be a friendly hug... okay?" He stretches him arms towards me. "Come on."

I scoot forward to circle my arms around his neck. He leans into me and his hands softly stroke my back as he nuzzles his head against my shoulder. "You still smell amazing," he says with a sigh.

"I smell like stale beer and tobacco," I murmur, "And you smell like stale beer, tobacco, and banana."

"Banana?" Josh whines in my ear. "I have banana in my hair?"

I pull back and look at his head. "Nope."

"Check for me? I don't want to go to sleep with fruit in my hair." He tips his neck forward and I reach up to run my fingers through his hair, searching for errant banana mush.

"No banana," I assure him, gently stroking his scalp with my nails. He slowly wiggles his head against my hands and sighs softly.

"Mmm, nice."

"Definitely no banana. Just the smell." I pull my hands out of his hair and he sighs again. "And it doesn't smell so bad anyway."

"Well you smell beautiful, and you look beautiful."

"Thanks." I bite my lip as I try to swallow the lump that's suddenly grown in my throat.

He grabs my hand and stares, very blearily, into my eyes. "You are a beautiful, wonderful person, Donna. And special."

I squeeze his fingers with mine and swallow again. "God, Josh, I..."

"Yes, Donna?"

"I keep telling myself you're no different from the others but the thing is, you are, and that's the whole problem."

"How am I different?" he asks, with a dimpled smirk on his face.

"You just are," I shrug, as I stand up. "And the problem is... I can't figure if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

I pick up the pillow from the bed and pause by his bedroom door, and Josh smiles at me. "Well it's a good thing, of course. Being different, I'm not a gomer who'll break your heart."

I return the smile, flick the light off, and then whisper in the darkness, "Promise?"

"Cross my heart," he whispers back. "Wake me up at seven."

"Okay," I agree. I shuffle back to the kitchen, dropping the pillow on the sofa as I pass. Standing by the sink, I splash my face with cold water, trying to quell the sudden shakiness I feel. Josh has been drunk before and, for weeks, drugged to the hilt with painkillers, but he's never been as... affectionately tender as he's been tonight.

Not to mention all the talk about... love.

As I dry my face with a paper towel I kick off my shoes, and then realize I've left my bag in Josh's car. I'm too tired to retrieve it so I locate his cell phone from his backpack, and set the alarm to ring at six thirty.

I slide the chain into place on the front door and turn off the kitchen light, then pad to the lounge room, and drop the phone onto the coffee table. The routine is familiar but not at all comforting.

As I wrap myself in an afghan, and try to get comfortable on the sofa, I hear, drifting from Josh's bedroom, "I knoooow that I'm in lovvvvve..."

"...through all the years to come..." I join in, softly, and then pause as my eyes fill with tears.

"Good night, Donna," he yells suddenly, and I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

"Night, Josh," I yell back.

"Love you," he adds.

"I love you too," I reply, then turn over and bury my head underneath the pillow to block out his resumed singing.

I tell myself that he's so drunk he doesn't know what he's feeling. Everything he's said tonight has been because he has a system that can't hold its liquor. It's the beer - and the tequila - talking.

Josh doesn't know what he's saying. And everyone loves everyone when they're drunk. It's the affectionate ardor of alcohol. So he really doesn't love me. He's drunk and that's all.

Me... I've only had two beers. Light beers. I know I'm not drunk; I'm pretty much stone cold sober. At least, sober enough to realize something.

Still hiding under the pillow, I wipe my eyes again. And again. And then give up.

Unlike him, I won't feel differently in the morning.

Because, unlike him, what I'm beginning to feel can't be blamed on the alcohol.

Sequel: Morning Sickness