Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. I wish I did. But I don't.

Author's note: This is the potential beginning of a longer story, but it's a bit of a flight of fancy as I want to change some of the timings and then completely depart from canon. So... it might not work. We'll see.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

The air in Laura Hobson's bedroom was thick with recent sleep. It bore the telltale putrid sweetness of an excess consumption of alcohol. It also felt warm. Too warm.

Tell me this isn't happening.

Laura surmised that the temperature in the room was too high for its usual, single occupancy. Not only that, but she could hear someone else breathing, heavily, beside her.

The bed's other inhabitant startled himself in his sleep, snorting loudly, before resuming his gentle snore. Laura's leaden head complained throbbingly at her attempt to lift it.

How? HOW has this happened?

She winced, the skin on her face feeling parched and slightly raw. The room started to spin so she lay backwards, carefully, and held her breath.

Her body was rigid, her every muscle reeling from the combined shock and first inklings of a cataclysmic hangover. This was bad. Very bad. She frowned against her blossoming headache, seeking to retrace the steps of the previous evening.

It had started in Jericho. That much she remembered. The trendy segment of Oxford had been alive with chatter: drinkers spilling from converted church bars into the streets, supping pretentious ales and talking too loudly at whoever would listen. Music mingled amongst the crowds, crazily talented street artistes strutting their stuff for the Friday night hoards of intellectuals and academics. Fairy lights lined the alleys, giving the place a light-hearted air to contrast the seriously cerebral conversations. Her favourite French café was bustling full of clientele.

Moules frites. Mussels and chips. And a bottle… or was it two?... of cool, crisp Sauvignon Blanc. Warm chatter. Comfortable silences. It had been the kind of meal you yearn for on a first date. Yet this hadn't been a date. They were just friends.

What have we done?

As they had stumbled out onto the cheery thrum of Little Clarendon Street, he had been the one to suggest a further drink at the Duke. Of course, she'd willingly obliged, always eager to please him. Always keen to eke out their time together.

One drink had somehow turned into more. Perhaps it had been the optimistic lilt in the summer air, or the frivolous twinkle of fairy lights. Something had made them stay out far later than was proper for a meeting between old friends. She'd reached out to steady herself on him as he walked her home, stumbling on the cobbles, laughing as he tucked her hand under his arm and made some smart Alec remark about her inability to hold her drink.

They'd made it to her house. That much was obvious, but beyond this her memory began to cloud. She vaguely recalled a bottle of brandy that a friend had brought back her from France. She remembered two brandy glasses… and music. Sultry and slow. She remembered the look on his face, his defences rendered useless by alcohol: the look of loss and loneliness, as bold as brass. She remembered how she had longed to ease its intensity. She supposed that might be how they'd ended up this way.

He wasn't ready for this.

Laura cast a cautious eye at the person lying next to her. The gentle snore puttered to a halt as Robert Lewis began to emerge from his ignorant bliss. He raised a clumsy hand and raked it over his face before squinting at his surroundings. As he turned towards her he took a sharp intake of breath.

What am I going to say?