But I Couldn't Just Leave It There... (The Alcohol Made Me Do It)Mature

"Go. Coffee." She mumbled, shoving Aleksander out of the bed after attempting to pry his arms off of her. Andrea muttered something about that man is a frickin' octopus, I swear and then went back to bed, relaxing as she heard the familiar sounds of the Archer pulling jeans and a mostly clean shirt on.

It was the day after a black op. Completely off the record. Officially, it never happened. The only good thing about those kinds of missions was that they involved a helluva lot less paperwork.

Unfortunately, about half of the team had gotten absolutely wasted at a small bar somewhere in Slovakia. 


There was a cat in the flat. A cat. It sat on the tabletop in the kitchen and meowed.

It looked like a giant furry breadloaf with attitude, whiskers, and claws.

Andrea was going to kill whoever brought him home.

His name was Harley. Or, at least, that was what the red-and-white 'HELLO, MY NAME IS _______' tag stuck to his butt said.

And this, this was a prime example of why they should never get drunk. Because Alex gets sappy when he's drunk, and Andrea has a sneaking suspicion that the cat is half-feral and off the streets. She also has the lurking suspicion that Alex was the one that brought the thing home.

They have a cat.

Andrea's allergic to cats.

The End

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