Revenge Is a Dish Best Served in Bed

by damalur

Summary:

Bad enough that she woke up in bed next to her nemesis, but did there have to be a maniac shouting in Klingon outside the window?

Notes:

For Southern_Heaven.

Written for southern_heaven, who graciously donated to the help_haiti charity auction. Her request was for The Guild fic, but I couldn't resist running with the idea in a completely strange and crossver-y direction. This Wil Wheaton is not real-world Wil Wheaton, as that Wil Wheaton is not evil and does not come from a mirror universe. Fawkes' quote is from Winston Churchill; Klingon proverbs are from Klingons. Much love to htbthomas for beta reading. :)

What woke Codex—Cyd, what woke Cyd, because she thought of herself as Cyd and it was totally, totally strange to think of yourself by your in-game handle, and probably the sort of thing people like Vork and Zaboo did, come to think of it. And Tink, but only because she was paranoid.

When Cyd work up, she was naked in a bed that was not her own next to her equally naked arch-nemesis and someone was shouting outside the window.

"Um," she said. "Is...is there somebody shouting in Klingon outside?"

"Nngl," said Fawkes. Through his beard. (He had a beard.) Cyd stared.

Outside the window, the somebody screeched, "bortaS bIr jablu'DI' reH QaQqu' nay'!"

"I'll just go put on some pants and see who that is?" Cyd tried.

"Nnhg," Fawkes grunted.

Okay. That was less than helpful. Codex—(Cyd)—Cyd did a tuck-and-roll out from under the covers in a futile attempt to avoid flashing any of her more naked parts; her pants were gone or eaten or something, but her shirt was hiding behind the nightstand (oh God, she'd had sex with—) and a kilt was draped over the floorlamp in the corner. Between confronting a shouting Klingon maniac in her underwear and confronting a shouting Klingon maniac in the kilt of her arch-nemesis who wasn't even Scottish (and whom she'd slept with), option number two would win any battle.

She emerged, blinking, into the sun, and immediately fought the urge to duck back into the shadows. At some point the angry Klingon man had degenerated into howling at the window. "Whhhheeeeaaatooon!" he shouted, which Codex was pretty sure was not a word in any language.

"Hi," she said. "Um. Is there something you need help with...?"

Tall, dark, and pasty turned to her, and in his pallor and his dress Codex recognized one of her own. "Yes," he said, "I'm Doctor Sheldon Cooper, Ph.D., and Google Earth informs me that this is the home of my arch-enemy."

"Join the club."

"Pardon me?"

"No, sorry, I'm Codex. Cyd. Well, Codex."

"Codex? Of the Knights of Good?" He folded his arms and took a step closer to her, but really tentatively, like he was afraid she'd jump out and smear her germy hands on him if he wasn't careful. "I am Sheldor the Conquerer. I believe we've encountered one another in the past."

"You have that little friend who kept asking to see—uh, Lord Howard Something? With the inappropriate pictures?"

"Yes. You aren't Scottish," Doctor Sheldor the Conquerer said.

"What? Oh, the kilt isn't mine, but he's not Scottish either. I think. Why are you here again?"

"To set up a blood-match and take vengeance." The of course was unspoken but heavily implied, in the same way an anvil was heavily implied when it landed on your head but you couldn't see it because it dropped from above. (Not that that happened outside of cartoons.) Was this what Vork would be like with hair and forty extra IQ points? Tall and neurotic and running around, creeping people out in their homes, as if they weren't already creeped out enough by waking up in bed with strange, bearded men who wore kilts?

"Did Axis of Anarchy mess around with you guys, too? Because they did that to us, and I still don't think they really had a reason..."

"Axis of Anarchy? The top guild on the server?" Sheldor looked down his nose at her. Codex felt vaguely insulted. "No, I'm seeking vengeance on Wil Wheaton, the one man who dared to use both my devotion to Star Trek and my affection for my meemaw against me. What does Axis of Anarchy have to do with anything?"

"Wil...Wheaton...?"

And as if summoned by a Summon Bearded Man Spell, Fawkes himself appeared, clad in—

"Are those my pants?" Codex said. "Because those definitely look like my pants."

"'A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on,'" Fawkes said.

"No, those are definitely my pants. They don't even button or...fit you right. And, wait, are you really Wil Wheaton? Oh my God, you're Wil Wheaton! I didn't recognize you with the beard, and...are you evil Wil Wheaton?"

"Evil indeed," Sheldor sniffed. "Wheaton. Wheaton! I have come to take my vengeance! bortaS bIr jablu'DI' reH QaQqu' nay'!"

Fawkes—Wil Wheaton? Wil?—Fawkes looked Sheldor up and down in that infuriating way that always made Codex want to throttle her microphone. "qoH vuvbe' SuS," he returned, in cool and oddly arousing tones. Was this what it felt like to be Zaboo? Speak to me softly in Klingon, my love?

Of all the times Codex had wished her therapist still spoke to her, this was one of them.