Author's Note: Heya all, I just seriously wrote this because I was like, "Damn, we had such bright ideas for this and wrote a ton, but never really did anything" and thus is the way of the world. So I decided to do some improv. and wrote this all in the last ten minutes. I apoligize for lack of new material-it's another Beckett/Mercer one-I guess we only touched it slightly in the last chapter. I had something else written out for them, but abandoned it...oh wellz. It's almost been a year since we started this or at least thought up the idea for it. I can't believe we've only coughed up four chapters! Ha. Oh well. Here you go: enjoy.

Disclaimer: Author(s) will not be responsible for any damage to head during face!palming when reader comes in contact with a vile spelling and/or grammer mistake(s) full responsibility is on reader. Please: read at your own risk

Chapter Four:

Abandoned Hope and of Randomly Switching Points of View

Mercer was in the most foul of moods. He had recently caught Beckett cheating on him and his black heart had been broken, as if it where nothing more than glass underneath the foot of a very large giant. A very unkind, unfeeling, undeniably attractive giant, that is. Mercer spent most of his time avoiding Beckett, who seemed to be doing the same thing. The only trouble is, it is very hard avoiding someone who you must get orders from. Usually they danced their way around this small problem-one day Mercer found his instructions for the day in his sock and another day in his toothpaste. But, little did Mercer know, today was not a day he would be able to avoid his love.

He paced, back and forth and forth and back and even back and back and forth and forth. It all really depended on what he was thinking about. See, Mercer paced a lot when he didn't have anything else better to do. Come to think of it, he paced all the time unless given specific instructions. Mercer wondered if this pacing was supposed to symbolize thought, maybe he is supposed to be in deep thought about his rejected love? This might be it, mused Mercer, this pacing must be symbolism for my angry heart. So, Mercer put on a troubled face and continued his constant pacing.

Meanwhile, below deck, Beckett was locked up in his cabin. He was very tired of this, you see, he had been avoiding his fling-his fling who had discovered he was only a fling so he flung himself away in despair into a flinging paridise of flingers. Beckett shook his head as common sense tried to reason with him that what he just thought made absolutely no sense and wasn't even funny.

"Of course it was funny," said Beckett aloud, "because I said it."

Indeed.

Beckett was very hungry, no to be precise he was thirsty. He wasn't hungry at all. He really wanted lemonaide, but in wanting lemonaide he would potentially have to cross paths with his dreaded fling.

"I must be strong!" declared Beckett, as he flung open the door to his cabin, toward his love, out of the despair of his lonely cabin, and, most importantly, toward lemonaide.

Beckett climbed the stairs to the deck, where lemonaide was served on a daily basis on top of the case of the notoriously placed lemon case. As he burst into the light of day, he also burst into something else...or to be more logical-he ran into something else.

"Friggin' frickkity frick!" said the thing he had run into.

But it wasn't a thing.

It was THE fling.

Beckett gasped at the use of such course language on his ship, "M-Mr. Mercer!" he cried in surprise at the dirty words that had come from his once flings mouth.

Had he kissed him with that mouth?

Mercer looked utterly shocked, "Be-Be-Be-Be-Bec-Bec-Beck-Beck" he stuttered.

It was an incredibly awkward situation. Mercer had embarressed himself and all of his kin with his dirty words and Beckett had met the thing he had wanted to see least. His fling.

Beckett's Common Sense: Seriously. Stop using that word, it's friggin annoying

Beckett's Brain: Not you too! Betrayed by my own sense! Now I remember why I strangled you so long ago!

Beckett regained some kind of conciousness after he had sucessfully beat his common sense to a bloody, hopefully dead pulp. He taught it good.

"Um...anyways, I was just here for some...you know...lemonaide, you know what I'm saying?" he said, cool as an ice cube in a freezer.

"I holla'," replied Mercer, still a bit fuzzy from his lack of tact.

"That made absolutely no sense, but I'll let it slide," replied Beckett, moving toward the lemonaide stand.

Awesome. Lemonaide was only 20 cents. The day, perhaps, would be a bit brighter and maybe a few unicorns would join him and they would dance around the maypole together singing, "Greensleeves" until the bright day faded into a deep blue.

"Beckett, we need to talk..."

"Noooooo we don't!" replied Beckett in a sing-songy voice, eagaring awaiting the refreshing taste of lemons on his tougue.

"Fine, your face is ugly anyway," quipped Mercer sullenly.

Beckett turned back to Mercer with a wry smile on his face, "You know what? I can live with that."

I can live with that.

They both smiled and went about their seperate business.

And you know what? The unicorns did come to party.

And it was fun.