"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.