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By now, it's become routine. Rouge makes sure to hang around the bar every Friday at nine pm, because she knows that's when Amy will show up to complain about her latest failed attempt at capturing Sonic's heart. Rouge will nurse her drink while she tries in vain to keep Amy from slamming hers back like she's expecting to find love at the bottom of each glass. She'll smile and nod and make sympathetic noises while Amy complains, resisting the urge to say I just don't think he's into you like that, honey, because this entire endeavor is supposed to end with Amy feeling better, not worse.
After an hour or so, Amy will press her cheek flat against the countertop, uncaring of the fact that it's perpetually sticky even though Rouge has told her bartenders to clean it better countless times, and pout.
"You're so nice to me," she whines on this particular Friday. This, too, is similar to what she says every week. "Why can't Sonic just be nice to me?"
Rouge, following the script, makes a noncommittal noise.
"Seriously," Amy continues. "You listen to me. Sonic never does that. He never has time for me, either, and he never wants to go anywhere together…"
"If that's true, why do you keep trying?" Rouge asks, idly running a finger along the rim of her glass.
Amy is quiet for a moment, brow furrowing in thought—then all at once she shoots upright with such force that Rouge has to reach out to steady her still half-full glass. She's expecting it, now, but when this whole thing first started there were quite a few spills.
"You're right!" Amy gasps. "You're totally right! I need to just get over him."
Rouge nods. "That does seem like it's for the best."
"There's other guys out there, anyway," Amy continues, almost like she didn't even hear Rouge speak. "Better ones. Ones that are actually nice to me, like you."
Rouge hums, waiting patiently for the momentary burst of optimism to fade the way it always does. Sure enough, a few second later Amy wilts, tilting towards Rouge with her arms outstretched. "Rouge," she slurs, making grabby hands until Rouge scoots her barstool close enough that Amy can lean against her shoulder, arms slung loosely around her waist. "Why can't I just find a guy like you?"
"Well," Rouge says, rubbing a soothing hand down Amy's back. "You know I'm one of a kind."
Amy groans. She smushes her face against Rouge's shoulder, undoubtedly smearing her mascara. "I wish I could just date you," she mumbles. "That would be so much easier."
"I know, honey," Rouge says. She keeps rubbing Amy's back until the pink hedgehog lifts her head, face flushed and eyes shining. Like always, she doesn't make eye contact; her eyes lock onto Rouge's lips, gaze intense and unwavering.
Here, it doesn't matter so much what Rouge does. Today she licks the corner of her mouth, but she could stay perfectly still instead and Amy would still lean forward to clumsily slot their lips together.
Amy's lips are sticky with the remains of her lip gloss, face so flushed with drink Rouge can practically feel the heat radiate off her. The kiss is usually chaste, lasting only a few seconds—but today Amy opens her mouth to swipe her tongue along Rouge's bottom lip. It's habit by now to let Amy set the pace when they kiss, so Rouge parts her lips on instinct, pleasantly surprised when Amy takes the opportunity to lick into her mouth.
It's a bit of a mess; Amy is too drunk to kiss properly, more than a little sloppy with it. Even so, it's nice in its own way; she tastes like the fruity cocktails she's been drinking and faintly of vanilla, which Rouge figures must be the flavor of her lip gloss. Her lips are soft, and so is her chest when she leans in closer to press her torso against Rouge's.
They kiss for a few seconds, until Amy tries to get even closer and instead slips off her stool, saved from falling only by her and Rouge's combined efforts. She giggles as she climbs back on, rubbing her mouth and looking everywhere but at Rouge.
"Sorry," she says, following the script once more. "I don't know why I did that."
Normally, Rouge shrugs it off, making some comment or other about how alcohol makes fools of them all—but Amy normally doesn't kiss her with tongue. Things are already different, so why shouldn't Rouge improvise a little?
"You know…" Rouge places her hand on Amy's knee and leans forward until she finally manages to catch her eye. "You don't have to settle for a cheap imitation when the real thing is right here."
Amy frowns. "Huh?"
Rouge sighs. Figures Amy would be too drunk to understand subtlety. "I'm right here. If you want to date me, just ask me out."
For a moment Amy looks genuinely shaken—then she giggles again, leaning back far enough as she does so that she nearly falls off the stool in the other direction. "Don't be silly, Rouge," she says, once her giggles have mostly subsided. "I'm not gay."
And that's—
Well. Honestly, it's about the reaction Rouge was expecting—but that doesn't make it any more absurd.
"Sweetie," she tries, not unkindly, "I don't think most straight girls go out kissing girls every Friday."
"What are you talking about?" Amy asks. To Rouge's mild horror, she looks genuinely confused. "One drunken kiss is hardly every Friday."
It's rare for Rouge to find herself at a loss for words, but that does it. She opens and closes her mouth uselessly a few times before she gives up, downing what remains of her drink instead. It's not until Amy flags over the bartender that she finds her voice again. She grabs Amy's wrist to pull her hand back down, subtly shaking her head at the bartender as she says, "I think you've had enough for today, sweetheart. How about I call you a cab?"
Amy pouts and whines for a while, but gives in when she almost falls off the barstool for a third time.
"Thanks, Rouge," she says a few minutes later, when Rouge is herding her into the cab, one hand on her head to make sure she doesn't hit it on the door. "You're so nice to me."
Rouge smiles. She may not have been able to get through to Amy this time, but that goodbye is exactly according to the script—which means she'll have another chance next week.
