things you said when you were drunk
They’ve promised her it will all be very scientific.
If we’re truly going to master the intricacies of the human mind, Bill had said--which hadn’t even seemed all that strange, as Bill started a good third of his sentences in basically that manner--we must test it in all kinds of conditions.
They had already established that a sober person could get away with inconsequential fibs--the lie detector only picked up on any changes if the lie had consequence, meaning, personal value.
But what about an unsober person?
“I can see the paper title now,” Elizabeth had smirked. “In Vino Veritas - question mark?”
“Precisely!” Bill had beamed, and that had been that, and now here Olive is, in the Marstons’ office on a Saturday night, drinking--she doesn’t even know, brandy? Bourbon? Something brown and smoky sweet--out of an erlenmeyer flask while the Marstons watch eagerly, like she might do a magic trick at any second.
(But then--maybe they always look at her like that. Like she’s a little bit spellbinding, right on the cusp of the sensational.
It makes it absurdly easy for them to talk her into the most ridiculous things.)
“Do we really have to measure exactly what I’m drinking to the milliliter?” she grumbles after her third drink in as many minutes, feeling very much like a lab rat. When they’d promised her a night of getting her drunk for science, she’d pictured something a little more... debauched.
“Properly reporting our methods is part of the process,” Bill blusters.
“Because of the 18th Amendment, our process is illegal,” Olive reminds him.
He makes a face. “The law makes it illegal to produce or sell alcohol; it doesn’t actually say anything about consuming it. If you’re that worried about the ramifications, we can remove your name from the published materials. We’ll call you...” he waves his hand in the air, thinking. “...Subject.”
“Ah, just what every girl longs for,” Elizabeth rolls her eyes, voice dripping in disdain. “To be literally objectified while having the evidence of her participation in academia stricken from record. Charming.”
“Don’t mind him, darling,” Elizabeth says. “We’ll make sure you get your due.”
Olive doesn’t stand a chance. Between the pet name, the innuendo of the implied promise, and the delicious vowels of Elizabeth’s accent, she’s blushing from hairline to collarbone. She rubs her thighs together as surreptitiously as she can. It’s--it’s warm in here.
(Or maybe it’s just the--whisky? Sherry? Port? Honestly, she’s never been much of a drinker.)
In order to get out of replying, she takes another long sip. The liquor burns on the way down, and she can feel it spread in her veins immediately. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, leaning into the feeling--when she opens them, the room is spinning, just a little. She shifts in her seat again.
“Okay,” she says, then makes eye contact with Elizabeth. “Turn it on.”
(Two can play this game.)
The machine starts turning, and Olive watches the languorous sine waves of her own heart beat spread out before her under the needle.
“What is your name?” It’s Elizabeth asking the questions, not Bill, which flusters Olive for a moment--which she realizes to her mortification is clearly evident in the readout. Her heart rate just increased and she hasn’t even spoken yet. Christ, that’s awkward.
“That is correct. And what are our names?”
“Doctors William Moulton and Elizabeth Marston.” The needle doesn’t give so much as a twitch.
The corner of Elizabeth’s mouth twitches at the implication that she has--or should have--her PhD.
Bill guffaws happily. “In a just world! I say we count it.”
“False positive,” Elizabeth insists, but Olive can see the way she’s fighting back a pleased smile. “Why are you here?”
“To test the relevance of intoxication to the lie detector’s accuracy.”
The needle goes haywire. Both Marstons’ eyes snap to it immediately; Olive goes red. Oh no.
“False... negative? That’s new,” Elizabeth murmurs, perplexed. “Try again?”
“To...” Olive licks her lips; flushes at the taste of alcohol there. Swallows. “To test whether sobriety--”
“--the effect of alcohol--”
“Did we snap one of the belts?” Elizabeth wonders, fretting with the machine, but Bill only has eyes for Olive--gazing at her with a queerly penetrative look.
“No, hold on,” he says, placing a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder to still her. He steps closer, never looking away from Olive. “Let’s try this again. Why are you here?”
“The truth, now,” he insists gently. His intense eyes boring right into hers.
It doesn’t strike her as particularly appropriate that she’s wet and they’re still in the midst of their very official scientific experiment.
“To spend time with you,” she admits. The way the needle calms immediately is downright embarrassing--but now that Olive’s started talking, she can’t seem to stop herself. “Because I thought it would make you happy, and I just wanted to be with you both.” The truth, the truth. “And--”
“And?” Elizabeth prompts, when she trails off.
“...And I was hoping you’d... take advantage.”
Only her nervousness in the silence that follows made the needle jump even the slightest.
Bill puts a hand on her knee.
“Oh, don’t be absurd!” Elizabeth snaps at him. “The girl’s three sheets to the wind, you call that consent?”
“The girl is right here,” Olive mumbles, but is drowned out by Bill’s insistent “She was telling the truth!”
“With no control group! We get false readings all the time! She could say she’s the queen of England and this damned thing wouldn’t know the difference.”
Bill frowns fiercely; Olive’s never thought him more handsome. “Olive, who are you?”
“The queen of England,” she breathes.
The needle jumps, and Bill jumps with it--lie.
“Alcohol does affect the ability to lie effectively!” he crows triumphantly. “I told you! Didn’t I tell you?”
Olive couldn’t answer even if she wanted to; Elizabeth’s tongue is already in her mouth. She’s kissed until she can’t see straight; Elizabeth, then Bill,then both, in dizzying combination.
“Untie me,” she pleads when they give her a second to breath, frustrated with the way the pressure cuffs get in her way.
“Not just yet,” Bill mumbles.
The needle breaks free of the chart.
