You know the drill. This is a satire. Feel free to make fun of the characters and/or story. Don't own Jericho. If I did, I'd be pissed.
Ah Heck , A Jericho Satire
Heather Lisinski-- Jericho's sweetheart, paragon of virtue, and resident jack-of-all-trades--was drunk as a skunk.
It was hard to be perfect, and she deserved a break. Slamming a shot glass on the counter of Bailey's Tavern (this slamming motion was totally unintentional, for her fine motor skills were impaired at this point), she motioned for another. She nearly fell off her barstool in the process.
Strong arms steadied her. And what arms they were! She'd seen arms before. Some skinny. Some wrinkly. Some freckled. Some hairy. But she'd never seen his arms bare before. Her eyes traveled up the length of his arms, and she licked her lips when she saw his biceps. He could probably bench press 300 pounds with his hands tied behind his back. If his arms were any indication of the rest of him, she'd be happy to spot him anytime. The tan of his skin, a contrast to the alabaster of her own, reminded her of opening a package of Neapolitan ice cream minus the strawberry flavor. But these arms were far more delicious than ice cream. And she'd be the one melting into him.
A sigh escaped from her. Maybe now that he was baring his arms for her, he would finally bare his soul. The arm baring was, after all, a prerequisite for such a momentous occasion as soul bearing and surely had nothing to do with the fact that it was summer in Kansas.
"Easy there." He spoke in his normal business-like, clipped tones.
There was something so erotic about a man who meant business. "Majorrrr Beck," she slurred, trying to turn her body to fully face him. Despite her inebriated status, she could see he stood out in this place. Much like an igloo in a desert. Riding through the desert on a horse with no name…
She shook her head slightly. She was officially getting loopy.
"Edward," he corrected. "I'd like you to call me Edward. I resigned my commission." His intense stare made her heart pool in her stomach. Or was that the alcohol? It didn't matter. His eyes were beautiful. The color of mud in a cesspool. No wait, mud wasn't clear, and his eyes were. Windows to his soul. Why couldn't she think clearly? Oh yes, the alcohol. Oh, and back to his eyes, they'd always been so clear, so sure of themselves.
His hands still held her steady on her stool, and it was a good thing for her limbs felt like jelly. Grape jelly. "Bedward Eck," she smiled at him dreamily. "Nice ring to it."
She amused him. How anyone could be so cheerful when everything was falling down around her baffled him. Hell, how could she be so cheerful when she was falling down around him? But maybe that's why Heather Lisinski was special. There was something so refreshing about her, just like a piece of Stride spearmint chewing gum. Long-lasting freshness. He'd noticed it the first time he saw her when she demanded to return to Jericho on his convoy. He noticed it when she sat on his desk smiling as he removed the ASA patch from his uniform. How she managed to look so fresh and put together (like she just stepped out of a salon) after having been incarcerated only spoke to how refreshing a young woman she was.
Beck wanted to smile at her, but having made a habit (and a living) out of frowning, he found it near impossible to exercise his smiling muscles. "You're drunk."
"You're reallllly good at reading people. Except for that time when I stole those coordinates out of your binder. Or the time that Mr. Hawkins led you on a wild goose chase. Or..or any time that you spoke with Valente…" She hiccupped slightly. "Yep. Alcohol = my Achilles heel. My Kryptonite. My bucket of water. I can't liquor my hold."
"I'm going to take you home." His voice was authoritative. He was the leader, she was the follower. He was the principal, she was the student. He was Daddy Warbucks, and she was Little Orphan Annie. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of the last example that popped into her head. Very inappropriate example, she chided herself, but she would be happy to sit on his knee.
She finally spoke upon realizing that he had not yet mastered the art of mental telepathy. "This is all so sudden."
She giggled.
And hiccupped.
Beneath his cool exterior (another amazing feat considering the aforementioned Kansas in the summertime thing), Beck felt as though he was going to burst apart at the seams. Was she entertaining the notion of a sexual encounter? The thought of his hands exploring her body, the thought of sampling her sweet nectar…No. He pushed the thought aside. Nothing could come from this. He had obligations to ghosts, and he fully intended to be haunted by them for the remainder of his days or until the love of a good woman helped redeem him, 3 years/36,000 miles, whichever came first. "I'm going to see you home and put you in bed, like an officer and a gentleman."
"You resigned your commission. Remember?"
"Then I'll just have to be a gentleman. Do you trust me, Heather?"
Heather stared at his proffered hand. All she had to do was take it. "After everything? After you arrested me and planned to send me to Cheyenne on charges of treason? After the way you held Jake captive, deprived him of sleep, of food and water? After the way you hunted down my friends like they were game? After you broke your allegiance to the USA and served the whims of an illegitimate government?"
Beck's rigid stance (and rigid stance) slumped with each word she spoke. His question had been foolish. He had thought himself good at what he did. She made him see that was not the case, and she spoke so eloquently while doing so.
He dropped his hands to his side. "I thought you were drunk. I thought you needed my help. I can see now that I was mistaken. I understand if you would rather not see me."
Heather grabbed his right hand clumsily and held it between her own two hands. It was the first time she'd initiated a touch, and a jolt of static electricity shocked her as their skin made contact. "Ouch," she muttered. "Of course I am drunk. I just forgot about it there for a second. And of course I trust you."
His dark brows furrowed. "But you just said."
"I had to show a modi..modi.. …modicrum…no, modicum of anger. But I'm over it now since it's obvious that you were just doing your job. I am a traitor. And depriving someone of sleep, food, water, that's not a big deal. Not like you went all Jack Bauer on him. And hey, President Tomarchio speaks so prettily from a teleprompter, so I don't blame you for falling for the ASA's dong and sance." She squeezed his hand tightly and held it against her heart. "All that's left are my feelings. I've tried to bury them and follow the example of a bad Victorian novel since I'm the good virgin and you're the dark horse. I just can't do that anymore. Time is too precious. I know nothing about you except that you have the tendency to imprison my friends and me and waver in your loyalty, but I won't throw you to the wolves (not that there was much worry there since the fallout nuked a bunch of the canine critters in Kansas). I won't leave you out in the cold (she momentarily forgot it was summer in Kansas). I won't make you bite my dust (there was plenty of dust in Kansas, so this was a danger). You're too precious."
"Heather, I don't know what to say."
"This, Bedward, is the part where you declare your undying love for me."
"Oh, right. I love you, Heather Lisinski. I never thought I would be able to love again. I never thought I would feel anything again, but I do. I love you. You make me whole. You make me human again. I'm not a robot without emotions. Forget what you know. I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control. Beyond my control. We all need contro-ool. I need control. We all need control."
"Thank you (Domo al rigato*) very much, Mr. Roboto, errrr Beck."
(*This is Robotese speak for 'thank you' and can be found in its original version on an old Styx album, which Beck undoubtedly heard as a teenager while Heather was barely out of diapers.)
"Edward," he corrected. "Don't you have something you want to say to me?" he prodded gently, eager to hear her sweet declaration of love that he knew he didn't deserve.
Heather opened her mouth to speak, but just then, Bill Kohler ran to the bar. He was huffing and puffing and held his finger up to tell her to give him a minute.
When he caught his breath (odd…because isn't he the thin one?), he yelled, "Stop, Heather! I'm here to rescue you. You must've been to Norway lately, because I am sure you have Stockholm Syndrome! You're sympathizing with your captor, a sure fire sign."
"Stockholm is in Sweden," Beck corrected.
"No geography nitpicking!" Bill's nostrils flared like a bull as he screeched, which come to think of it, was quite appropriate since Bill often was full of bull.
"And I'm not his hostage," Heather pointed out.
"Oh," Bill replied as he scratched his head. "But you were his prisoner. See. Stockholm Syndrome. Eh? Eh?"
"Bill, stay out of it!" Heather gave him her best stern teacher voice and look. "And stop pronouncing words like you're Canadian when you're from Kansas!"
Bill was crestfallen. "But I'm a hero. I'm here to rescue you."
"Go stand in the corner."
"Nobody puts Baby, I mean me, in a corner."
Heather's good humor fell away, replaced by a sober chastisement. "Ugh! This isn't about you! Stop butting in when it has nothing to do with you! Not everything is about your heroism. I don't need or want to be rescued!"
Bill sulked. "Julia Roberts would want to be rescued."
"I'm not Julia Roberts, and no one wants to hear about your Julia Roberts obsession!"
Dejected, Bill walked away. However, the other patrons of Bailey's later swore that they could hear him singing show tunes as he left the premises, including musical selections from Fiddler on the Roof.
"Now, where were we?" Beck asked turning to Heather.
"You were about to take me home because I'm drunk," Heather responded with amazing coherence. She was a bit surprised that she remembered after the Bill interruption. Wasn't it only last week when Bill was offering to deflower her? That would have been enough to send any woman running for the hills. Unfortunately, the hills were surrounded by ASA troops, so her escape had to come by more stealthy means. Beck had stepped in and kindly taken her prisoner. She was his prisoner of love.
"And you were going to tell me something…"
Prisoner of love? What the hell? Er, Heck? The fog seemed to lift from Heather's brain. "Oh yes. That. I'd declare my love for you, but now that I think about it, I still have unresolved feelings for Jake Green. He saved another cat from a tree today, you know. And that's very special."
"But…but I opened my heart to you."
A wave of nausea hit Heather, and she suddenly vomited on Beck's shoes. Her aim was quite good, and would have qualified her for a shot at the Olympic trials if not for the Soviet judge. With a grimace and a shrug, she told him what was on her heart. "I think we're even."
Author's Notes:
A little bird named Anonymous acted as a muse and inspired the Daddy Warbucks/Orphan Annie reference.
Bill continues to run amuck trying to be everyone's hero. Even now he doesn't get it. Probably never will.
Three's a popular number in Jericho. Just look at all those freakin' triangles. Still like two better.
The vomit never did completely come off of Bedward's shoes. So much for that sweet nectar.
No cats, shot glasses, or cherries were harmed in the writing of this satire. Only things injured were characters' pride and feelings.