2007-09-14: The Vodka Fairy Pays a Visit


Felix_icon.gif Mariska_icon.gif

Summary: (directly after Kielbasa... With CHEESE!) Felix tries to think straight. The words 'marry' and 'me' are used concurrently. So are the words 'you have a' and 'concussion'.

Date It Happened: September 14th, 2007

The Vodka Fairy Pays a Visit

Queens, NYC - Felix's Apartment

Felix is very quiet, on the way back from Noodle Heaven, face defaulting to that impassive, reserved mask. But he has insisted on holding her hand the entire way there, whether they go by subway, or by swifter, more arcane methods. Once they're home, he strips quickly out of his suitjacket, and then moves to undo the shoulder holster, the better to store the gun where it sleeps, in the nightstand.

Tonight they traverse New York City like normal people — packed together tightly in a subway car and then on foot, all the way up. Once inside the door, Mariska disengages from the Felix's grip and make her way almost immediately to the bathroom. Door closed. The only room in his apartment that she might be able to claim some small piece of privacy for long enough to collect her confused and scattered thoughts. Where to begin?

Well, he has been telling the truth on that front. He's silent, though there's the sound of him stowing the gun in the nightstand, and then stripping out of his oxford in favor of an old white t-shirt…then meaningless endearments to the two importunate cats, who are both fussing at him about how neglectful he is.

Whatever Mariska's doing in there, she's not making a lot of noise. No, wait, strike that. She's not making any noise. She is still in there, right? Just as the silence hovers on the brink of worrisome, the sink faucet kicks on, muted behind the door but still enough of a sign to confirm that Schroedinger's mail-order bride is still breathing.

He does knock on the door with a knuckle, gently. «You okay?» he wonders, as the cats start up again. They want in.

On the other side of the door, Mariska's half-heartedly attempting to drown herself while pretending to wash her face. She repeatedly cups her hands beneath the tap and then bows her head to plunge nose first into the ineffectively shallow brink. «I'm fine,» she utters at a pause, eventually giving up on a watery grave but remaining daunted by the prospect of returning to the cool world waiting for her outside of the bathroom. Let the cats claw there way through. All three of them.

There's the sound of footsteps heading away. It's not terribly late, and she's got the bathroom, so he heads into the living room to scan idly through the bookshelves, having picked up Ingram, who is nuzzling him confidingly.
Or not. Alright. Abandoned to her own devices, she opts for a shower, then. Or so the noise from the bathroom seems to indicate.

He's like Martin Blank. He respects people's privacy. And that of cats. Though again there's the sound of feet in the bedroom outside the bathroom - changing into robe and sleep pants. When she emerges, she'll find him sitting in a comfortable old armchair in the living room, reading, one cat on his lap, and the other perched on the back of the chair.

If she emerges… she's really putting that water heater to the test, eh? What's it been, like, fifteen… twenty minutes? There seems to be a lot of water running and not a lot of actual showering noises to be heard.

"Hey," he says, wandering back, and knocking on the door. "What's up? Are you sick?"

No answer. Cricket, cricket.

Fine. The door is tried. Is it locked?

Oh, damn. She forgot to lock the door. Maybe she'll remember to do that next time…

Felix peeks in to peer at her. Yeah, looking in on a showering woman is salacious, but it's way late for the prudery, right?

Not to worry. There isn't actually a showering woman to peer in on, so — whew! Sensibilities get a 'no harm, no foul' call on that play. But, uh, yeah… Mariska? Notably absent. Thankfully, however, it appears she's probably still dressed because there's no little pile of clothes on the bathroom floor; nothing left in her wake to suggest that she'd even gone in there except for the slightly damp handtowel hung back on the rack opposite the sink.

"Oh, shit," he says, quietly, looking around, like she might be hiding in the shower, or the medicine cabinet. And then, pragmatically, gets into the shower himself.

Good job, Felix. You lost a whole person in the smallest room of your apartment! That's got to be some sort of secondary secret power or something? Isn't this the second time it's happened, too? Welcome to the woes that betide you when you truck with a teleporter. She doesn't fill out a flight plan; she just… jumps.

Oh, yeah, and speaking of…

KRAK! Mariska suddenly appears in the living room with bottle in hand. SURPRISE! But, wait… where'd he go? She pauses, tilts her head, tours into the bedroom only to find a pair of cats eyeing her from the foot of the bed and… still no Felix? Wait. Shower's still going. Hm.

KRAK! Slight miscalculation on that one. She ends up in the shower instead of by the shower, fully dressed and still bottle-toting and — HOLY HELL!! I mean, er, oh hi. That has GOT to be startling.

Oh, god, is it ever. Mutant comedy of errors. <Oh, holy God. Can't you ever just fucking walk somewhere?» he demands, lunging backward hard enough to crack his head on the tile of the shower stall, leaving a smear of blood that's quickly rinsed away by the running water. He's covered in soap, and now putting out a hand blindly to steady himself. Cue little ring of cartoon cuckoos circling his head.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus in a manger, that's no good! Mariska flails awkwardly, trying to find a good place to put the new bottle of Kubanskaya down where it won't tumble into the tub and break on its own accord while she's simultaneously trying to wrap a soak-sleeved arm around Felix's chest in an attempt to help him find his feet again. «Oh, God! I'm sorry! I didn't know you were in here!» Also, she got her jump coordinates skewed but that's an excuse to explain later. Or not. In fact, no. Maybe not. She's clutching at him with both hands now, looking like the proverbial woman without enough sense to come out of the rain. «Are you okay?» she asks, one hand gently trying to cradle the back of his head where it hit the tile.

It takes him a minute, but he slams the water off, and manages to snatch towels for the both of them. «I'm fine, honest,» he says, panting. He stumbles out of the shower, and starts to dry himself off, wincing at the touch on the bruised spot.

Mariska lingers in the shower stall/bathtub even after Felix beats his slippery retreat, soaked to the skin, clothes drenched and clinging to her like strangling seaweed. She brings a hand up to wipe the water from her brow, shielding her eyes from the unflattering fluorescent light while she silently curses herself for coming up with such a 'brilliant' plan. This culminates shortly thereafter in the frustrated and angry flinging of her arms back to her sides as she then proceeds to slowly peel out of her drenched designer duds. Dammit.

Wet, naked, and drunk. This evening is gonna go beautifully, right? And hey, there's vodka by his sink. Was the vodka fairy visiting? «Did…..you went all the way home to get this, didn't you?» he says, picking it up, once he's wrapped the towel around his waist.

«You can't find good Kubanskaya outside of Moscow any more…» This explanation is punctuated by a water-logged THUD as Mariska's jacket greets the floor of the tub. Next, it's her shirt. SPLURCH. Guh. Glowingly genius, Mariska. Expertly executed. Really. Well done. She's beating herself up with every wet article shed.

There's the patter of wet feet receding in the apartment, followed by Felix returning. He's got two shot glasses in hand. Each is full. He sets the bottle on the sink, leans in to the shower, and flicks a little of the vodka at her, like a priest blessing his flock with holy water. She's already stripped and in the shower, it can't hurt anything, right? And then he leans in further, one hand on the rim of the sink, and kisses her full on the mouth. «Mariska Dmitryeva, marry me.»

«You wouldn't know what to do with a proper wife…,» Mariska croons against his lips, hooking an arm over Felix's shoulder and relying on him to keep her from slipping as she finally flees the tub. Knees high, it's one bare foot on the floor followed by the other. Her attention remains held on his lips until, oh, that's right. Remember the booze? She turns her head to lay claim to the bottle neck with a damp hand before returning that nose-to-nose look. «…not that I'd be a proper wife.» Ha! So true.

«That's fine,» he says, simply. The damp clothes are ignored for now. «That's fine.» His hair is spiked with damp. A hand at the small of her back urges her towards the bedroom, gently.

Wait… whu— ? «You're not being serious, are you??» Even as she's ushered, her head is turning in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Felix's face. It's so hard to tell with him, after all.

Felix's expression is gentle, as he eyes her. «Do you want me to be? I'm the father of your child. You're not in love with someone else, someone back in Russia, are you?»

Oh… oh God… Mariska is… concerned. She turns to gently slip an arm around Felix's neck and draw him in close, nose to nose, only instead of going in for the inevitable kiss, she drifts, head tilted more to one side as she brings a hand up to gingerly cradle the back of his head. «I think you might have a concussion,» she says, failing to sound more amused than worried. Because, wow, yeah… he can't be thinking straight… (punny.)

Well. That's up for debate, really. «I'm fine,» he says, quietly, letting the question lapse, even as he leans in to her, resting his head on her shoulder lightly. She didn't answer his question, so that's likely a yes.

So, this is… yeah, you guessed it: awkward. That's the apt description for just about every interaction that Felix and Mariska manage to have. Nothing ever sorts out quite right. Nothing. Especially this moment. She doesn't realize her silence has defaulted to an unspoken affirmative answer to the question that she forgot to hear. Can you blame her for being a little bit dumbstruck upon receipt of an off-the-cuff marriage proposal?

Fel kisses her gently on the shoulder, and withdraws a little. «I'm sorry. I….I don't know why I didn't think that you might have someone back home.» Well, the eagerness with which they collectively hopped back into bed might have something to do with it.

And now she just looks confused. Mariska's fingers hook around the back of Felix's biceps in an attempt to keep him from fleeing too far out of reach. «…I don't have anyone back home,» ducks her chin slightly but keeps her eyes on Felix's face. It's not exactly something she's proud to admit, you know.

«I misunderstood,» he says, sheepishly, letting her pull him back in.

Slowly… very slowly… but surely… unsurely… the mail-order bride and her dysfunctional spook lapse into what has swiftly become their regimen of contretemps affection, each treating the other like a glass figurine. It's all foreheads and temples and cheeks brought to bear against one another while lips only seem capable of finding each other by accident. It's not a 'yes'… it's not a 'no'… it's not an answer to anything.

Really, it's weirdly high school, in so many ways. So uncertain. At least he doesn't have to worry about some jealous vor come gunning for the one who debauched his girl.

…until he meets her father. But, that's another episode.

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