Author's Notes: Y'all, this is so fluffy it makes me want to vomit. Also there is no plot. Also character development and actual, like, dialogue falls to the wayside. But I'll tell you what, I sell the shit out of the French language.

i'll take you for four hundred

"So this is weird, right?" Michael asked, leaning back against the couch and kicking his feet up. Maria reached across him for a handful of popcorn and raised her eyebrows.

"What's weird?"

Her words got tangled in the mouthful and he grinned as a few crumbs tumbled off her lips and onto her shirt. She brushed them away impatiently. Maria had this whole thing about eating popcorn. It had to be eaten in too-big bites; her cheeks had to puff out and her nose scrunch up or it was cheating. "This," he said again, gesturing between them and then at the apartment. "Like, this whole thing."

"Michael—" Maria blocked her mouth with her hand as she spoke. She paused to swallow and then continued, "Seriously, honey, give me some proper nouns."

On the TV, a short, round lady with half-moon glasses hit her buzzer and said quickly, "What is tête-à-tête. The Quotable 60s, four-hundred."

Maria groaned. "What is tête-à-tête?" she repeated, flabbergasted. "That can't be right. Doesn't that mean a threesome?"

"That's kinda kinky for Jeopardy!, though I like where your mind is going," Michael said with a laugh. He snatched the popcorn bowl from her lap and shoved a handful into his mouth. They'd let Isabel cook dinner and it had been, to put it kindly, the absolute worst thing Michael had ever tasted, and he'd had Hank as a foster father. "And anyway, a threesome is a 'ménage-à trois.' I know because that French girl working in the Blue Parrot keeps talking about having one with her boyfriend and Bradley Cooper."

Maria curled her lip. "If sex be the food of love, slut on," she muttered, casting him a look that said both, 'stop thinking you can convince me to have a threesome, because you can't,' and 'stay the fuck away from the French girl working at the Blue Parrot.'

"What is Portland, Oregon," Maria shouted at the TV a the half-moon glasses lady said, "What is Augusta, Ohio. Dali-cious for one thousand."

Maria huffed back against the couch, folding her arms across her chest. "This is bullshit," she muttered bitterly. She lolled her head to look at him. "Anyway, what's weird?"

In the candlelight, her skin was the color of ivory, her mouth smooth like blown glass.

He had been thinking that it was weird that they were here, watching Jeopardy! in a tiny apartment just outside El Paso, sharing a bowl of popcorn and shouting curses at Alex Trebek. He had been thinking that it was weird that he'd been sweating to death in Roswell one day five years ago and happened to find her alone in the Crashdown, and in exactly one hour his entire life was bound up with hers. He had been thinking that it was weird that he, Michael Guerin, extraterrestrial, was living a (more or less) average life with a (more or less) steady job and a (more or less) stable relationship. He had been thinking that it was weird that after two years of running from the FBI and eighteen of looking longingly up at the stars, he was completely happy to sit back on the couch and watch Maria stuff her face with popcorn and shout wrong answers and obscenities at the TV.

She blinked at him. A thread of hair fell in front of her eyes and she let it hang there for a second before blowing it away.

"You know what," Michael said, turning up the TV volume with the remote, "never mind. Nothing's weird, not at all."