In Vino Veritas (In Wine is Truth)

Pauline had almost drifted to sleep in her chair, the legal documents slowly slipping through her fingers and onto the floor, when a few harsh knocks on her door made her sit up. She stared at the door for a few moments, wondering who could be up at this time of night. Or morning more like it. Checking that the small knife she always kept handy was in its place she called out, "Who is it?"

"Crowley!" She frowned, rising from her seat and walking briskly over to the door. He sounded as though he'd just run a marathon and, knowing what the Rangers did, he probably had. But what news could he have for her?

She pushed the door open and said, "Wh-oh." The question died on her lips as she took in the sight before her.

Crowley was leaning against the door, his trademark grin spreading over his slightly reddened face as his best friend lolled against the wall, a half-asleep frown on his face, as though he was trying to focus on something very far away.

Pauline collected her wits and said, "Why?"

Crowley shrugged. "We'd just taken down one of the toughest smugglers in the history of Araluen. We decided we'd celebrate. Turns out that the brandy was that little bit too strong for him."

"Thanks for the explanation, Ranger," said Pauline, "but what I really want to know is why he gets dumped on my doorstep." She liked Halt a lot, maybe more than was good for her, as her mother would tell her, but she wasn't so sure that she wanted to have to deal with drunken Halt.

"Well you –" Crowley's explanation was cut short by Halt suddenly returning to the land of the living and bursting into song.

"She's blood, flesh and bones/not made of earth and stone/she's touch, smell, taste and sound –"

"Please tell me his sober singing voice is better than his inebriated one," said Pauline.

Crowley frowned at her. "Come on, woman. The poor bloke's flattering you and the best you can do is criticise his singing!"

"Wait, he's talking about me?" Pauline asked.

"Of course. You. The one he goes doe-eyed over every time you walk past. I think he described you pretty well."

Pauline fixed Crowley with a stern glare that would have made her grandmother proud. "The one thing more ill-bred than flirting in a lady's bedroom doorway is using your drunken friend's singing for said flirting."

"Maybe I'm –"

Crowley never got to finish whatever witty remark he had in store, for Halt, who had gone momentarily silent, burst into song again, this time at increased volume. Pauline and Crowley exchanged a glance and Pauline instantly fell into a crouch in front of the Ranger. "Halt!" she exclaimed, giving him an experimental punch in the shoulder. He instantly stopped singing and stared at her confusedly, like puppy does when you pretend to throw the ball and it suddenly doesn't understand life anymore.

"Halt," she said, resisting the urge to pull away at the smell of alcohol in his breath, "you're very drunk. So, stop singing like a drunken sailor and –"

"Way-hay and up she rises! Way-hay and up she rises! Way-hay and up she rises, early in the morning!"

The explosion of lyrics made her physically fall backwards. "Well," she said drily, getting to her feet, "if way-hay is code for my heart rate, yes that is quite adequate, considering our situation. Come on, Halt, we need to get you to bed before someone else finds you." She sat down beside him and slid an arm under his and pulling one of his around her waist. Then, seeing Crowley leaning in her doorway and shaking with suppressed laughter, "Come on, take his other side! You're the one who got him drunk. I'm not carrying him into my bedroom alone." Crowley's laughter suddenly became very real and very loud. "Drat, did I just say that out loud!"

"Imagine that!" exclaimed Crowley, finally taking Halt by his other arm and helping. "The great Lady DuLacy, inviting a man into her chambers! What would your mother say, my dear?"

"She'd say I should give you a punch in your overly large mouth but since my hands are rather occupied I'm afraid I'll have to abstain. Now come on, let's get him out of here before one of the maids sees us and gets the wrong idea!"

"Don't worry about that," said Crowley, as they both tried to lift their drunken companion from the floor; "I already saw one disappearing around a corner when you announced that you were bringing a man into your room."

Pauline fixed him with her coldest stare. "I will kill you, Crowley."

Crowley shrugged. "That's what comes of living in a castle. There are always people to see and hear."

They had almost managed to drag Halt through the door together when, seemingly triggered by the fact that her heart rate had returned to normal, his drunken sub-conscious decided to dredge up the part of some other song from him.

"You would not believe your eyes, how a voice could hypnotise/how her songs could end your cries, my Loreley/In a shade of mossy green, seashell in her hand /She was born the river queen, ne'er to grace the land! Oh, the stories we were told /Quite a vision to behold/ Mysteries of the seas in her eyes of gold – hang on!"

The urgency and sobriety in his tone made both of them stop in their tracks, turning to face him. He stared very hard at Pauline, as if he was trying to figure out something important. Finally he said, "Your eyes are blue. That doesn't work!"

Pauline rolled her eyes and continued trying to drag him through the doorway. For such a small man he sure weighed a lot. "If you're thinking of dropping him on the floor, don't," said Crowley, "because right now you're the only thing between me and dying of laughter."

"Actually I'm rather flattered," said Pauline, trying not to let him see that she was blushing slightly. "I've never been called a river queen before."

"Pity about your eyes." Halt's comment came so suddenly it made both of them jump. "But you do smell nice."

"I better," said Pauline, dumping him on her couch. "That perfume cost an arm and a leg."

"Really? Whose?" Halt asked, frowning confusedly.

Pauline rolled her eyes and said, "Halt, let go of my waist."

"Don't want to," he said groggily, burying his face in the folds of her dressing gown.

Pauline glanced up at Crowley, silently pleading for help. "Just wriggle out of it," he said.

"I can't," said Pauline, trying to pry Halt's fingers loose from the silk folds.

"Sure you can," said Crowley. "Just undo the tie at the front and shrug it over your shoulders –"

"Crowley!" said Pauline, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead. "How do I put this delicately? When I put this on I was under the impression that I would not be seeing anyone for the night so I did not put on the necessary attire that would be needed for me to 'wriggle out' with dignity."

Crowley blinked at her for a minute before saying, "Forgive me if I get this wrong but are you trying to tell me that this particularly beautiful nightgown is the only piece of clothing you have on?"

"Don't say a word," said Pauline. "Now help get him off me."

"Of course," said Crowley. Leaning down next to Halt he whispered, "Blackroot."

In the blink of an eye, Halt had released her and knocked her flying by rolling off the couch and onto the floor where he lay, blinking up at them in confusion.

"What on earth is 'blackroot' supposed to mean?" Pauline asked, scrambling to her feet and tightening the tie of her dressing gown.

"It's a danger signal in the corps. Everyone has to drop what they're doing and get onto the ground as fast as they can."

"Wonderful," said Pauline. "Now, Crowley, I have a box of medical supplies in my room. There's a broth or something that you're supposed to give drunk people. Find out what the book says and make it."

"As you wish, madam," said Crowley, disappearing into her room with a grin.

Pauline knelt down beside Halt, sitting him up so that his head was in her lap. "You're an idiot," she told him, pushing his hair out of his face. "You shouldn't let Crowley make you drink that much."

"Sh!"

He had wanted to put his finger on her lips to shut her up but he missed and instead ended up with one finger hovering in the air.

"Says the man who was singing fit to wake a snoring Skandian," Pauline retorted.

"Ssshh!"

"That finger really is taking on a life of its own isn't it."

"Sssh. You're in the way of my thinking," he told her seriously.

"Well we wouldn't want that," she said, stroking his hair.

What on earth are you doing?

He's not going to remember anything in the morning. It can't hurt to be a little sentimental.

"You're very …" – he thought about it for a while before saying – "sweet. Sweeter than wine. Or cake."

"Well I'm glad you think that," said Pauline, subconsciously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Some lords in the council might disagree with you on that point."

"Only because they're sour," Halt pointed out. But he sounded sleepier now and his eyelids were beginning to droop. "Haven't got a clue … You're like a cat."

"Wonderful," said Pauline. "First I'm an alcohol beverage. Now I'm a domestic animal." Then, seeing the slightly accusing look in his eyes, "I'm sorry, go on."

"You're like a cat. They think … they can make you stay and do what they want … but you go and do what you want. You're … free … inde-indep-pen."

"Independent," Pauline supplied, taking pity on his brain's faulty connection with his mouth.

"That," said Halt.

"I don't know," said Pauline. "Being independent can get tiring sometimes. It doesn't hurt to have support. Sometimes being … less independent can help."

"Hey, I'm the one who's supposed to propose," said Halt blearily.

"Of course, dear," said Pauline. He really has got to be so drunk. "When the time's right you can propose all you like."

"Good," he said, eyes closing over again. A silence stretched out, during which Pauline continued to stroke his hair, wondering if she could one day force him to get it cut properly. Then, just before he nodded off, Halt grabbed her hand and said, all his words seeming to become part of each other, "I remember the rest of the song!"

"Not now, Halt," said Pauline. "You can sing it to me some other time." When you don't sound like a rooster being slowly strangled.

"It's a nice song," he mumbled. "It's about a very beautiful woman. Just like you …"

When Crowley came back five minutes later he found both of them asleep, Halt's head still resting in Pauline's lap and Pauline leaning against the couch, dead to the world. For a few moments Crowley stood in the doorway, considering summoning the royal painter but in the end settling for pulling a spare sheet of paper from Pauline's desk (much neater than his own) and attacked it with a charcoal-nibbed pencil. In a matter of minutes he had managed to capture the scene and then hastily hid it in his pocket for future use. Maybe he could get it framed. Or use it to humiliate Halt sometime at a Ranger gathering. That would be fun.

"Crowley, what are you doing?" Pauline asked, stirring slightly.

"Just watching," said Crowley innocently.

"And that doesn't sound stalkerish at all. Help me get him to bed," sighed Pauline, stretching her stiffened joints. "It should be easier now he's conked out."

"So I made that broth for nothing," Crowley muttered as they dragged the unconscious Halt into Pauline's bedroom and dumped him on the bed.

Pauline quickly took off his cloak and boots, before hoisting him onto the bed. "Aren't you going to undress him properly?" Crowley asked.

"Not on your life," Pauline snapped. "Now I think it's time for you to find somewhere to sleep."

"You know what the maids'll say if he stays the night," he warned her, gesturing towards Halt as he lay snoring on top of her bed covers.

"I also know what they'll say if you also stay the night. Get out," she said, finally unpinning her hair and getting ready to go to bed in earnest.

"Sure you don't need help? I can make up those floorboards to be pretty comfortable if you like," Crowley offered, gesturing towards her sitting room floor.

"Oh, I'm sleeping in the bed," said Pauline. "I'm not going to be reduced to living the life of a tramp just because some Ranger doesn't know how to hold his liquor!"

"Are you sure that's wise, considering the circumstances?" Crowley asked, barely suppressing a grin.

"The circumstances are that I sleep with a dagger within easy grasp and that I have a big bed. Good night."

"You do know that one of the lines in 'Drunken Sailor' specifically instructs you to 'put him him in the bed with the captain's daughter' -" began Crowley, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. He retreated quickly when Pauline picked up a knife from her dressing table and threw it at his head.

I have an idea for writing the second and third chapter but only if you're interested. Review or PM if you want it continued.

Now, acknowledgement. My thanks to Tal Bachman, the Irish Rovers, Blackmore's Night and my Uncle whose over-fondness for whiskey and my Aunt put together resulted in me learning all three of the songs that I referenced and twisted to suit this little one-shot. Hope you like it! :)