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“Are you drunk?” Jill asks, when Eustace lets himself into their apartment, the sound of the keypad playing the wrong notes before the right tune unlocks the door.
“Shut up,” Eustace says, though he sounds more tired than annoyed. “No one told me the orange juice was a screwdriver.”
Jill laughs, more at his disgruntled expression than the situation. It’s really not funny; Eustace gets distracted and he doesn’t drink anyway.
“Didn’t it taste funny?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder as she gets a cup of water and an ibuprofen.
“I just thought it was from concentrate,” Eustace complains.
It’s really very cute; Jill hasn’t seen him drunk or even tipsy before. He doesn’t really even look it, now that he’s tucked into the corner of the sofa. There’s just a flush dusting the tops of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and the tips of his ears are red. He’s wearing one of her favourite jumpers, the salmon-coloured one that’s too big for both of them, and the little finger mittens it makes are adorable.
“You’re doing it again,” Eustace says, and he sounds pleased. Jill glances over, but his eyes are closed, head tipped back.
“What?” she asks anyway, even as she plots how to get him into more of her clothes. She has better fashion sense anyway.
“Looking at me like I’m yours.” It’s basically a declaration; he’s never acknowledged the whatever-it-is between them before. Jill’s not sure how to define it either, except that—
“Well, you are,” she says. Maybe she should wait until he’s more clear-headed, they’ll definitely need to hash this out later but—
“And you’re mine, too,” Eustace says, the tone of his voice entirely and completely satisfied as he turns his face into the cushions and goes to sleep.