Summary: Marita comes home. Alex and his alien buddies have been drinking. Marita plays straight man. Truly dreadful response to the Harem Beer Bottle and Medie's Birthday challenge. Don't say I didn't warn you.

SOMETHING ABOUT THE WAY YOU LOOK TONIGHT 1/1
Deslea R. Judd
deslea@deslea.com
Copyright 2002

Disclaimer: Characters not mine.
Archive: Oh, please don't.
Rating: G. No sex, minimal language, lots of offences against good taste.
Spoilers/Timeframe: BWAAAH-hahahaha!
Category/Keywords: Humour, Krycek/Marita.
Summary: Marita comes home. Alex and his alien buddies have been drinking.
Note: Started for Maidenjedi's Beer Bottle challenge on the Harem. It
stalled, but I revived and finished it for Medie's Birthday challenge.
Happy birthday, Medie!
More stories: http://fiction.deslea.com.


The door was ajar.

There are certain conditions that govern the normal functioning of a safe
house. One of them, of course, is that only those using it should know of
its existence. But second only to that is the next layer of security down -
to wit, that said house must not be easily breached. Marita was no expert
at break-and-enter, having usually left that to Alex, but she was pretty
sure that leaving the front door ajar was something likely to facilitate a
breach. In normal circumstances, then, the open door would have been cause
for concern.

In normal circumstances, Alex wouldn't have been singing.

She opened the door.

The first thing that caught her eye was a trail of bottles. She stooped and
picked one up. Budweiser. Her frown deepened. What on earth was Alex
doing with that? Mr
Russian-vodka-or-nothing-tsarevna-because-only-Russian-vodka-will-do?

She closed the door after her and locked it, and with some trepidation, she
followed the trail of bottles. Through the dining room. Through the
kitchen. Clinically, she noted the carnage of junk food spilling out from
its cellophane wrappings. She passed into the living room.

"He-e-ey, Marita!"

Marita groaned. Alex had his friends around. And they were drunk.

"Hello, Edgar," she said wearily. The Bounty Hunter got to his feet, a
little unsteadily, and put his arms around her. She reciprocated with
lukewarm enthusiasm. She pulled away with a glare when she felt his hand
cup her breast.

Alex spoke up. "Hands off my woman, Ed."

There is a certain kind of silence thick with foreboding. It is the kind of
silence heard, or rather not heard, just before the impact of a bomb. Such
a silence fell now. Alex had spent the better part of his life sensitive to
atmosphere in the name of survival, and drunk or no, he brought those
talents to bear now.

"Uh. Hands off my princess, Ed."

The moment of threat passed. Marita gave a tortured sigh and picked her way
through spilled nuts and chips to the space Alex made for her at his side.
She picked up a New York Mets baseball cap off the seat, looked it over
appraisingly, and tossed it onto the coffee table. "You've been to the
game."

"It was Ed's birthday." Alex nodded to the remains of a sponge cake on the
table. It wasn't much more than a mess of cream and crumbs. Marita noted
with amusement that they had been using a stiletto to cut it. "What are you
doing home?"

"My flight was cancelled. There was a snowstorm wherever it was coming
from. I fly out tomorrow afternoon." She turned a scathing eye on the
Bounty Hunter. "And someone won't let me hitch a ride with them."

"Sorry, Mare," Edgar mumbled between mouthfuls of cake. "The boss would
have a fit."

"Sure, you can pilot a UFO with a blood alcohol of 1.5, but God forbid you
let a human on board."

"Hey. We might get people cooties."

"Dickhead."

"Hey." Alex's tone was conciliatory. Well, slurred and conciliatory. "At
least you can party with us."

Marita looked at him.

"What?" he demanded innocently.

"Party," she repeated, pressing her lips tight together - a neat trick,
considering she was speaking at the time.

"Well?" he said. "What does this look like?"

"It looks like a triple agent and five illegal aliens getting trashed."

"Like I said. Party." Marita snorted. "Wassamatta, doesn't meet your high
standards?"

"They're not that high, Alex. Dinner. Dancing. A little Elton John."

Alex eyed the cake, considered, then shook his head. "Can't do much about
the dinner, Princess. But-" he got to his feet "- dancing we can do."

She laughed. She couldn't help it. He was rather sweet, treachery, bad
company and all. "Alex," she chided, her voice suffused with warmth. "You
can hardly stand." She let him pull her against him anyway.

A crooked grin passed over his features. "I guess you'll have to hold on
tight, then."

So she danced with him, and she felt bits of potato crisps cracking beneath
her feet with every step. They bumped into the coffee table and kicked away
beer bottles and laughed all the time. The aliens catcalled and
wolf-whistled now and then. Marita rolled her eyes.

"So where's Elton John?" she asked at last.

Alex frowned, and then his expression cleared. "Uptown girl, she's been
living in her uptown world," he crooned. "I'm a bit of a backstreet guy-"

"That's Billy Joel," she said, a pained expression etched into her brow.
"And please don't sing."

"Hey, I can help," Edgar piped up. "Horace, have you got your CommPilot
with you?"

"Sorry, man. I'm off-duty."

"Where's your dedication?"

"I don't see you with yours, asshole. Check his pockets." He nodded to the
armchair in the corner. Marita saw a sixth alien she hadn't noticed before,
passed out. What was his name? Was it Aaron? Waldon? Oh, hell, they all
looked the same to her.

Whoever it was, Edgar tottered over to the passed out alien and rummaged in
his clothes, devoting a little too much care to his jeans. Equal
opportunity groper, that one. At last, he withdrew, holding up a handheld
computer with a sound of success.

"How will that help?" she wondered.

"I'll just get an MP3 off Kazaalo."

"Kazaalo?"

"File sharing network. What, you think we only think about scientific
shit?"

"You called it Kazaalo?"

"Yeah. Well, not me personally."

Marita made a sound of disgust. "Can't you people come up with anything
original? You use our names, you use our DNA, you use our technology - I
thought you were supposed to be the superior race!"

"Oh, lighten up. Do you want Elton John, or not?"

"Sorry," she mumbled. "Thank you."

Edgar shrugged and went to work. Soon, the dulcet sounds of Elton John
could be heard. Marita rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek, and appeased
Alex's wounded look with a kiss on the lips.

-- And there's something about the way you look tonight
-- It takes my breath away

The lines around Alex's eyes grew soft. "I love you, Princess."

She snorted. "You're just saying that because you're trashed and it's a
girly song."

-- It's the feeling I get about you deep inside
-- And I can't explain

"Yep, that's about it," he slurred. "Mean it, though."

A smile played around the corners of her mouth. "I know. Me too."

"Me too, you love me? Or me too, you love you?"

"Don't be idiotic."

-- With a smile
-- You pull the deepest secrets from my heart

As the song wound down, she realised that he was asleep against her. She
kissed him gently, and called with a long-suffering sigh, "Edgar, come and
help me with Alex, will you?"

They wrestled Alex down onto the lounge, and she felt his big hands on her
breasts. Again. "You heard him, Edgar," she sighed. "Hands off his
Princess."

He complied, and he shot her an endearing grin. "Sorry, Mare. Can't blame
a guy for trying."

"Asshole."

"Potty mouth."

"Goodnight, Edgar."

He took the hint, and he took his friends with him. He shot her a wink when
she bundled them out the door. "Nighty night, uptown girl."

She plastered a smile on her face. "Night Ed," she said. Sweetly.

She closed the door behind them, locked it, chained it, and picked her way
through the debris back into the living room. Crisps ground into the carpet
beneath her heels. Alex's head was no longer on the cushion. It was on a
paper plate full of sponge cake. Yep, there sure was something about the
way he looked tonight. She sighed.

"Jeez," she said. "I need a drink."

So she picked up a half-empty bottle of beer, and she drank.

END


Author's note: I started this for a Harem challenge posed by Maidenjedi, and
revived it for a birthday challenge. Don't take this one too seriously.
No, really.

------
- An Elton John song
- an empty Budweiser bottle
- one of the stilettos used to kill bountyhunters and other aliens
- snow
- a New York Mets baseball cap