2007-10-06: Drunk Russian Epilogue


Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: After From Russia With Booze, Felix finally finds his way home.

Date It Happened: October 6th, 2007

Drunk Russian Epilogue

Queens, NYC - Felix's Apartment

It's early the next morning, the gray hour before true dawn. Fel comes creeping in, quiet as he can - desperately hung over and miserable looking. Not exactly an evening of joyously unbridled homoeroticism, clearly. He's still in the clothes he left in, at least.

…not that Mariska would have any idea what a man might look like after a successful night of joyous, unbridled homoeroticism, of course. Without point of reference, Felix's condition can only be judged on the circumstances of his departure in conjunction with the hour of his homecoming. Thankfully, however, time has grown so late (or would that be early?) that the living room is dark and only occupied by a curled and sleeping Ingram, who can't even be bothered to lift his head in acknowledge of The Human That Feeds Me's return.

Fel waits at least until the bedroom before beginning to shed his clothes, stripping down to his boxers with less than his usual meticulousness about immediately getting it all in the dirty clothes hampers. He's zombie-shuffling for the bed, as quietly as he can, before just flopping down on whatever space is available.

Even before Felix's Thriller-esque arrival and unceremonious toppling into bed, Mariska had been awake with eyes wide shut er, open; sleepless gaze pasted onto the man the very moment that slumped into view. She's occupying 'her' side of the bed with the sheets slung down around her waist; one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other with a palm pressed to the mattress and helping to keep her balanced on her side. She doesn't say a word.

Felix mumbles endearments, and promptly scoots across the bed to cuddle up to her. He's drunk, and smells of that pure alcohol, but notably, he doesn't smell of someone else's skin. Just his own usual aura of that faint, cool aftershave.

Initially, Mariska's body remains rigid and frozen as Felix fumbles through inebriated and exhausted overtures of affection. The thought is galling - that he would just climb into 'her' bed after having so recently fallen out of someone else's - but after a moment or two of olfactory inspection, her muscles consent to thaw. It's still with some reluctance that she curls an arm around his shoulders and she can't help herself but to ask in a whisper, «How did things go?» Does she really want to know?

«Well, he liked the vodka,» Fel murmurs. «We drank a fucking lot. He's bigger than me, and used to drinking more, so he put away most of it. We talked for a while, and then I passed out on his couch.» Well, it is the Cliff's Notes version. «When I was sober enough to make it down the stairs without breaking my neck, I came home,» he adds, nuzzling into the curve of neck and shoulder.

Wait — what was that about fucking a lot? Felix is murmuring so slurredly that Mariska manages to hear her slightly Freudian fear rather than what was actually said and it makes her pull back away from the nuzzling and re-query, «You… what??»

Fel peers at her, blearily. «We drank a fucking lot. I didn't fuck him, if that's what you're wondering,» he explains. «I….nothing happened. I'm your husband, I'm not going to cheat on you. Not with him, not with anybody.» He sounds matter of fact, rather than indignant. Men -are- dogs, after all.

Oh, well, sure… just call her on it, whydontcha. When Felix elucidates, Mariska's ears are pricked by a few choice words. Husband. Cheat. Him. This whole contrived scenario still strikes her as strange and restricting and yet… and yet… there's… something indescribable building in the middle of her chest and sometimes… just sometimes… it makes all of the air go out of the room whenever Felix walks in. Or says something like that. It's not romantic, no, but it's sincere. Mariska draws the man back in and this time concedes to a more mutual sort of cuddling.

It'd be so much more romantic if he weren't such a raging jackass so much of the time. But who knows. Slapping the One Ring on his finger may not turn him into a ringwraith so much as it may eventually tame him into something resembling an actual human being. Who'd've thought? And wait until they get to the Actual Raising of the Child part of the story. «I'm sorry I was out so late. I was so drunk. Honestly, I need to stop,» he murmurs, draping himself over her.

(Or, the Three Ring, as the case may be.) And, there he goes. Apologizing again. This time perhaps a bit more rightly than many of his previous attempts. After all, being late and being drunk are a bit more easily remedied than being an insensitive jackass. Mariska places a kiss on Felix's forehead and gently combs her fingers through the man's hair in an attempt to sooth him back into silence. She hadn't meant to cue a Chatty Cathy moment; her inexplicable curiousity had merely gotten the best of her. «Go to sleep,» she says against his cheek, venturing her lips down to reconcile with his lightly before attempting to follow her own advice. They'd talk about things in the morning. Or not.

"Mmhmm," he agrees, before rolling on to his back and subsiding into real sleep. Odd how he does that, five breaths and he's out like a light. Even without the vodka.

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