Disclaimer: I am not She Who Owns the Scarecrow.

Visit the CAT timeline at www. freewebs. com/ catverse and know that this fic comes between "CATfight" and "Hurty McHurthurt."

And dance, monkeys. Dance.

Not for the first time, Al sat on the couch in the lair's common room, listening to the conversation from the kitchen and stifling her giggles as best she could.

"What's going on?" came a whisper from behind her. She jumped. She'd been so focused on the raised voices, she hadn't heard the floorboards creak. But she recovered quickly enough, and reached back without looking to catch her companion's sleeve.

"Sit down and don't say a word," she whispered back. After a moment's hesitation, she felt movement, and the couch cushions shifted under the extra weight. They both stared over the back, watching the movement of light and shadow, and listening.

"Hey, you," the Captain said. "Make a sandwich."

Al giggled.

"Why?"

Al giggled more.

"Um…" the Captain said, as if she hadn't expected to be questioned. She should have known better. "Because. I said so."

There was a snort of disbelief. Al buried her face in a cushion to suppress her giggles—and she didn't miss the barely-audible snicker from beside her.

"That's not a good enough reason."

Oh, good! They were going to have a well reasoned argument instead of their usual Pythonesque contradictions.

"Yes, it is." Never mind. "Obey the Captain."

Irritated sigh.

"An order isn't likely to make me go make a sandwich. The fact that I haven't eaten in twenty-four hours…"

"Ha! See? I'm only ordering you because I can safely assume that you haven't eaten. Otherwise, I would have called it advice."

There was a belligerent grumble.

Then an audible grin from the Captain.

"Fine. So you know my habits." There was a rustle of paper; an obvious attempt to change the subject. "Look what's coming out in September."

A dismissive snort from the Captain.

"I've heard. It's going to suck." A lengthy pause filled with incredulity. "Adaptations suck. The director sucks. I don't care how good the source material is, the movie is going to suck. So make a sandwich."

"I don't want a sandwich!"

Ladies and gentlemen, we have distress. The Captain's voice overflowed with smugness.

"Don't you? I think I hear a rumbly in your tumbly!"

"Stop that!" Then, more softly: "Traitorous body."

The Captain laughed.

"Listen to your grumbling tummy. It knows what it's talking about."

"It does not."

Al glanced sideways at her couch buddy.

"Talk about stubborn," she whispered. "Can you believe it?"

Shrug.

"Okay, then," said the Captain. "I guess I'll just go to bed and hope you haven't wasted away by tomorrow morning." They couldn't be too clear on what she did after that; all they knew was that she didn't come sailing through the doorway on her way to bed.

"Okay, fine! I'll have a sandwich."

Al's giggles could no longer be stifled. But the Captain's laugh was louder.

"Ha! Victory is mine!"

Judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen, she was executing some kind of victory dance.

"Only until I reclaim it." (The words came out around a mouthful of meat and bread.) Al got up.

"You can't un-eat a sandwich, Techie darlin'. Not tidily, anyway. Cup of tea?"

"Will you drop it?"

Al turned her attention to her companion.

"All right, Squishy," she said. "I'll give you a dollar if you go in there right now."

"Not on your life." He stood up and moved away from her, reclaiming dignity with distance. "So this is how you learned to be so irritating?"

"Yep," she said cheerfully. "If we didn't have to put so much work into taking care of you, not one of us would remember to look out for ourselves. So…hey. Thanks for being so stubborn!" She tried to hug him. He evaded her. "Thanks for keeping us alive."

He couldn't respond to that. So he left.

Al counted it a resounding victory, and went to make herself a sandwich.

Author's note: Special thanks to Ops for being a stubborn Squishmeister and attempting to resist the sandwich.

Come on. No one can resist the sandwich.