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It's late when they both stumble back to Greg's place, Sally hanging to his arm quite heavily, muffling her giggling into his coat. Greg doesn't remember how much they had to drink, and to be frank, doesn't really want to know.
He thinks there was a successful case involved, where both he and Sally had managed to save the day (and a dog). It was also a case where the lanky Git wasn't involved, so it made the victory just a little bit better.
Or a whole lot better.
That's what Sally had said, when she was buying him his fourth pint.
Or fifth.
One of those.
Anyway.
As he unlocks the door, he tries to remember what the rationale was behind Sally coming home with him. There was something about his flat being close to the pub, he thinks. Her not wanting to pay for the long ride back to her house, too.
It had all made sense, when they had discussed it. Everything makes sense, in some twisted way, when you had had a few drinks.
Before he knows it, they're both sitting on the sofa, holding each a bottle of beer ("a last one," had slurred Sally), somehow still giggling. Does he giggle?
Apparently, yes, he does.
Sally leans forward, grabbing a magazine from the coffee table and slumps back against him. It's comfortable, he thinks, before he realises he's being thrown an affronted look.
"Why do you have one of those?"
One of those is a worn-out magazine with a lot of pink and a badly retouched model on the cover. Sally holds it by the corner, as if it had been directly picked up from a bin full of vomit.
He shrugs, taking another swig of beer.
"Must have been the ex's."
"Of all the things you could have kept of her?" Sally looks at him as if he's gone a particular type of crazy.
"Well...," he smiles and points at Sally with a wavering finger. "Reminds me that I don't miss her."
She stares.
"That's twisted."
He grunts and finishes of his bottle with a flourish. Sally is flickering through the magazine, and he wonders if he should offer his bed to her. And sleep on the sofa. That seems the polite thing to do. But he likes his bed and doesn't like to sleep on the sofa, which is a problem.
Before he can come up with an acceptable solution, Sally lets out a bark of laughter and nudges his side forcefully. He raises an eyebrow, muttering a slurred "What?" in answer.
She sits up, clearing her throat. "Top five worst lodged objects."
He looks at her, confused. "Lodged objects? Wha's that?" She pushes the magazine in his face, showing him a list. It's too close and he hasn't his glasses on, so it's all blurry. "Lodged where?"
She sighs, exasperated but finding his cluelessness just a little bit endearing, and points down at her stomach. There a moment of silence, then Greg pulls back, horrified.
"Ew, Sally... Why would they put that in a magazine?"
"Told you it's a load of trash."
There's a long moment of silence while they both ponder on that, until Greg clears his throat quietly. "So... What's the first one?"
"Boss, you're a disgusting man."
He turns to make a grab for the magazine, but she's too quick for him and retreats to the other end of the sofa.
"Oh come on. You've been through it too."
There's a moment of silence, then Sally starts, her voice full of repressed giggles.
"A toy car."
Greg winces at the thought, then turns towards Sally, pointing a finger at her. "Told you we can't trust sat-navs. They always lead you in the stupidest places."
She stares at him, then closes her eyes, shoulders shaking with laughter. It takes a few minutes before she can move onto the next one.
"A rubber ball."
His answer comes immediately. "Centripetal force is a bitch."
From there on, it turns into a game. She gives details, he tries to come up with the worst explanation possible. They're both enjoying it too much, and soon enough, Greg has to wipe tears from his eyes.
"Ball of yarn with knitting needle."
His voice goes high-pitched. "We believe nakedness is indecent and that the baby should come out fully clothed. We therefore provided him with the supplies to do so."
She stops mid-giggle. "A ball of yarn, though..." He merely grunts. She moves onto the next one.
"A prosthetic eye."
"Better than an X-ray, more accurate than a CT-scan."
She purses her lips, obviously squeaked out by the idea. Greg nudges her with his foot. "What's the last one?"
"A shower knob."
He thinks for a little while, but his brain is blank. "Plumber porn?," he offers. She looks at him, disappointed. "You can do better than that."
There's more thinking. More hair ruffling. Finally he jumps up, and waves his finger in Sally's face. "I know!"
"I'm all ears."
He smiles devilishly, incredibly proud of himself. "Turn it on, it gets wet?"
There's a long moment of silence, and Greg's big smile slowly dissolves into nothing. Did he say something wrong? Did his brain - which lacks any kind of filter right now - betrayed him? He hopes not. It seemed like a brilliant explanation.
But then Sally is smirking and poking him in the chest. Her eyes are glinting with something he doesn't recognise. "You, boss, have a very dirty mind."
"You started it."
"You asked me to continue."
He thinks they keep arguing for a bit.
And then maybe they're a little too close.
And he realises that maybe, he doesn't have to give up his bed.
It's big enough for two.