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The fic © Cyril the Sixteen Goldfish
This evening was turning out to be a real voyage of discovery, John mused. Among his nuggets of knowledge was the fact that, despite their machismo, the sebacean system's ability to tolerate alcohol was somewhat worse than a human's. Braca was probably conscious, but he was lolling back in his chair and singing what seemed to be some sort of a battle march, in which the word 'blood' had featured, if his count was right, forty-three times so far. John had long ago given up on expecting him to play snap - pride could do many things, but it couldn't work miracles and that was what it would have taken to gain Braca's concentration and restore his motor skills at this point.
Not that John himself was in a much better state. He could probably have told you what colour a card was, just, but beyond that he would have been in the realm of guesswork. Much better to just...lean back in this nice comfy leather chair and close his eyes...
Thence came Interesting Scientific Revelation number two, and it was this:
The intoxication of the neural clone of one's mortal enemy increases in direct proportion to the intoxication of oneself.
Harvey was, to put it mildly, hammered. Harvey had no apparent inhibitions at the best of times. And when he was drunk he got horribly creative, the net result of which was that the entire interior of John's brain had been painted shocking pink and decked out in paper streamers. In the centre of the carnage, flat on his back and apparently asleep, lay everybody's favourite clone, surrounded by oddly-shaped glass bottles, mostly empty and containing the dregs of something green and wearing, over his permanent leather suit, a spangly red bikini. And...a party hat. A blue one. With stars on.
John sat down heavily on the purple fun-fur sofa and wondered what to do.
"You should do this more often, John. It's really rather enjoyable."
He looked up. Harvey had opened his eyes and was propped up on one elbow, grinning at him.
"Wuh?" Harvey rolled his eyes and sat up, grabbing a half-full bottle on the way and settling into the classic, cross-legged 'drunk philosopher' pose,
"Inhibitions, John, inhibitions. You don't have any. Because you're drunk, see? And that....that means I get to play with your," he giggled and leaned closer, continuing in a conspiratorial whisper, "with your innermost fantasies. You have some very strange thoughts, m' boy."
"'m not that frelling drunk..."
"Oh no? You are, though norm'ly I would hes - hesssitate t' point out the obvious, stark naked in the room of possibly the most...most peacekeeperish Peacekeeper in the Peacekeepers. Who is, may I say, wearing no more than you."
"That was in the rules! Can't...can't break the rules. Game's slowed down a bit now, though...ver' slow..."
He collapsed sideways onto the sofa. In the real world, his body slumped further down in its chair and began to snore gently. Lieutenant Braca regarded it for some time, before apparently deciding that nothing was to be done and, instead, finishing both his and his opponent's drinks. He was vaguely aware that at some point there could well be repercussions, but now wasn't the time to think about that. Much, much too tired...
~~~
Some hours later, John opened his eyes to find his mouth full of fun-fur and his world painfully full of Harvey. To be precise, the clone was hitting him repeatedly about the head with what seemed to be a rubber mallet. Despite the pain, John became increasingly conscious that the thumps seemed to be more resonant than one would expect from the impact of rubber on cranium. Yes. It sounded distinctly...hollow...
John opened his eyes, and immediately squeezed them tightly shut as he was assaulted by horribly bright light, his head still pounding. He opened them again, just a crack, and looked around. Then he looked up. Then he looked down.
Then he remembered. Very suddenly, and in agonising detail.
And then he realised that the pounding was not just inside his head. It was, in fact, all around him. It was coming from the door.
He wished fervently to be somewhere else. This failed.
"Lieutenant Braca! Are you in there? Lieutenant!"
Oh, shit.
Scorpius.
"Lieutenant!"
John leant across the table and grabbed Braca by the shoulders, shaking him until he opened his eyes and stared back in muzzy incomprehension.
"Wurgh?"
"We have a problem."
Braca blinked at him a few times. Why was the human in his quarters?
"Pay attention. We. Have. A. Problem. Big problem. You understand?"
Braca managed to wake up and recover enough dignity to sneer.
"You certainly have a problem, Crichton. How you got into my quarters I don't know, but when I report that I have found you in my here, without authorisation, in a state of complete undress, you will..."
He paused for a moment while his eyes took in the cards on the table, the empty bottles, the glasses and, finally, himself. He made a small, barely audible noise.
There was another thump. The two men stared at one another, suddenly united by mutual horror.
"LIEUTENANT!"
"Whatarewegoingto..."
"Get dressed, for a start!"
The tableau dissolved into a scurry of frantic movement and recovery of the clothes that had been haphazardly flung about the room the previous evening. When the door slid open, perhaps a minute later, to reveal Scorpius and Aeryn (Aeryn? What was she doing there?) standing side by side and the room's two occupants spun round and tried to look innocent, respectful and nonchalant all at the same time, they were, if not fully-clothed, at least somewhat covered.
Had the situation not been quite so nerve-wracking, John would have longed for a camera - the identical expressions of horrified betrayal on the two utterly different faces would have made a heart-warming picture for years to come.
Scorpius opened his mouth and hesitated. It was the first time John had ever seen him so completely at a loss. Although, looking at them, hair on end, Braca clutching his jacket closed over bare skin, John's trousers on backwards and neither having yet succeeded in finding their socks, it was suddenly all too clear why both newcomers looked as astounded as they did.
"Hey, this isn't what it, uh, looks like..."
There was always a possibility that tired cliché would sound original and convincing this far from home.
Aeryn raised one dark eyebrow and folded her arms, assuming the stance native to women everywhere who are not planning on moving an inch until they get an explanation, and you'd better make it a good one. There went that hope.
