Summary: It's a night to be someone else. A bit of fluff written for Maidenjedi's Halloween Challenge. Marita/Krycek.

TITLE: All Work And No Play
AUTHOR: Eodrakken Quicksilver
FEEDBACK: eo@morosophy.com
ARCHIVE: List archives OK, elsewhere ask first.
SPOILERS: Mytharc through "The Red and the Black"
RATING: PG-13.
DISCLAIMER: The characters of The X-Files are Copyright 1013
Productions and Fox Television.

SUMMARY: It's a night to be someone else. A bit of fluff written for
Maidenjedi's Halloween Challenge. Marita/Krycek.




_All Work And No Play_
by Eodrakken Quicksilver

Cold beside him in the ungainly black sedan, slowly dodging
trick-or-treaters. Every time he catches a knot of children in the
headlights, part of her isn't sure he'll stop.

They do have to eat. Even when they're running. Even when the crowds
are out. They have money today, but who knows about tomorrow? So
tonight they eat. Italian.

Flickering orange light comes from fake candelabras and blinking
plastic pumpkins. Din of riotous college kids-- purple David Bowie
wigs, glints of vinyl and gold. On their way from one party to
another, cheeks red from the cold outside, from laughing and drinking
too much. Marita feels the blare of the music as a protecting
blanket-- anonymity in their dark corner.

Alex struggles with the wrapper of a tiny Snickers bar from the
glitter-filled dish on the table. He tries to hold it between his
pinky and thumb and tear away at the foil bit by bit, but eventually
gives up and uses his teeth. She eats her fettuccine and pretends not
to watch.

Beetlejuice crouches down beside their table. His eye makeup is
smudged, and strands of brown hair are escaping from beneath his wig.
He touches Alex on the shoulder. "Hey. You're the guy from The
Fugitive. That's really cool."

Marita gives Alex a sharp kick under the table before he can react,
and smiles. "Who am I?"

Beetlejuice takes her in. Slowly. "Grace Kelly."

She laughs, because it's a night to be someone else for a while.

Outside the frosted accordion window, there are people moving who
don't know they can be seen, just distorted stripes of color-- red,
peach, black. Japanese tourists are taking flash pictures of each
other by the door, posing with sequined glam-rockers. The food is
spicier than she'd expected.

The waiter appears and sets two drinks down between them.

Alex looks up. "What's this?"

"Manhattans. From the couple at the bar." He points. These two
twentysomething whateverthefucks are twisted around on their stools,
watching them with tense anticipation.

The girl is a panther. Gothic eyeliner and whiskers. Fuzzy ears on a
headband. A velvet halter-top cut to reveal the pale sides of her
breasts. Toying with her tail. The boy is Douglas Macarthur in dress
uniform. Lean. Mirrored sunglasses on his head and heavy boots
perched on the crossbar of the stool. He keeps throwing glances back
at the girl, licking his lips.

Marita arches an eyebrow. "What do you think?" she deadpans.

Alex smirks. "I think the guy's about to piss his pants."

She laughs. "Do you think they want to swap, or...?"

"Hard to say. You only need a fourth if you wanna play a hand of
Bridge."

"True." She picks up one of the glasses. "Planning to drink this?"

"No..." Narrow, curious eyes.

She nods, and slowly pours the contents of one glass into the other.
Then takes the one that's full to the surface-tension brim and brings
it carefully to her lips, looking at the couple with a suggestive
smile.


end.