Of Flying Fruit

Alex and Tom have a fruit fight. All fruit-related injuries incurred are by no means the fault of the author. You have been warned.

Rated T for Tom's language... oh, silly Tom.

Disclaimer: Centuries from now, digital archeologists will dig through the outer reaches of the internet and come across this fic. They will rejoice because, alas! it seems to be a lost work of Anthony Horowitz! But, through careful analysis of writing styles and this disclaimer, they will dolefully conclude that, no, this is simply fanfic by some poor, obscure teenager who never owned Alex Rider.

Note: One, thank you So1said! Your editing always helps me out so much, and I can't express my gratitude enough, so I'll leave it at you have no idea. Because you don't. Really. Words simply do not suffice. Two, in case the summary wasn't completely obvious, this is a crack fic. I doubt anything like this is even remotely possible, and Alex is too OOC in comparison to where he should be by the end of book eight. Or really, anywhere during the series.

On with the show- er, story!

It was just Alex's luck that the orange slice he bit into was violently sour. And if it had just been that, he might have simply swapped the misbehaving fruit for a different one. But no, the stupid slice had the gall to squirt him in the eye, too.

Just. His. Luck.

As Alex grouchily attempted to get the orange juice out of his eye, Tom leaned against the fridge, howling uproariously at Alex's predicament. It wasn't often that Tom saw MI6's golden boy do anything even remotely clumsy, and seeing Alex defeated by a mere orange definitely qualified.

(Tom had forgotten a golden rule of friendship: don't mock when retaliation is inevitable.)

He abruptly stopped laughing when Alex threw the orange at his face.

Tom (having watched the Matrix one too many times) tried to lean back to avoid the flying fruit, forgetting about the fridge behind him until he felt and heard the dull thunk of skull hitting stainless steel. The orange thwacked him smack dab between his eyes. Alex erupted into laughter while Tom sputtered with indignation. "Alex," Tom growled when he was finally able to speak. "What the hell was that for?"

"Oh, I don't know, laughing at my misfortune? You sadistic bastard," Alex replied with a smirk, grabbing an apple from the bowl in the centre of the kitchen table. However, before he could take a bite, Alex felt a sting on his hand, and the apple flew from his grasp. It rolled to a stop, inches ahead of where an orange- the orange- now sat innocently on the floor. Alex stared at it for a moment, then turned to glare at its thrower.

"Since I'm a sadistic bastard, I might as well be a good one. You know I don't do things by halves," grinned Tom, victory shining in his eyes.

Alex abruptly stood up, snatched the fruit bowl, and hefted a grapefruit in his hand. "This," he enunciated slowly and clearly, "is going to hurt." Alex drew his hand back and narrowed his eyes. "Now would be a good time to run."

Eyes wide (oddly enough, Tom already knew what it felt like to be pummelled by grapefruit), Tom scrambled behind the kitchen's island, barely dodging the hefty fruit. He carefully peered up over the counter to locate Alex, eyes shifting side to side, only to find his friend had disappeared... for the moment. Tom ducked back down, paranoid and muttering something about armour. Scrounging cautiously through the cupboards (he was half afraid of setting off some frying-pan-turned-smoke-bomb gadget; hey, anything can happen in a spy's house!), Tom pulled out a giant pot and placed it over his head in a semblance of protection.

Alex rematerialized to take full advantage of Tom's thoughtlessness and aimed an apple at the back of the cookware.

"GAAAHHHHHH!" Once again, Tom's curses filled the kitchen, this time accompanied by the noisy clatter of a fallen pot and mad hopping across the kitchen tiles as he clutched his foot in agony (that pot was heavy). "Dammit, Alex, my ears are ringing!"

"Well, you're an idiot! What gave you the idea that a Dutch Oven Pot would protect your empty head?"

Tom opened his mouth to retort, then paused, not quite sure that he had heard Alex correctly. Then-

"I think the better question is why the hell do you know this thing is a Dutch Oven Pot?"

Alex reprimanded himself over his slip of the tongue before deciding to pretend like every teenage boy in the world could differentiate cookware. "Shut up, Tom. It's common knowledge! I can't believe you didn't know that," he scoffed.

"Whatever you say, Martha Stewart. Whatever you say. I, for one, think all the fruit has addled your brain; there's no way a lie like that could pass muster at MI6."

The fight deteriorated into a furious onslaught of flying fruit and taunting.

Fifteen minutes and numerous fruits later, Jack found Alex and Tom sprawled on the floor in hysterics, heaps of pulverized oranges, apples, bananas, grapefruits, and currently unidentifiable produce surrounding them.

"Hi, Jack," gasped Alex, barely able to speak from the laughter that had overtaken him.

Jack stared at the two of them for a second, raised an eyebrow, and stepped over their bodies to place her grocery bags on the table. She then stepped back around them and out towards the door.

"Wait, Jack! We- we can explain! Really! See, it was because the sour was… er, the orange was sour and… and, umm, spitty… then I hit my head on the fridge… and Dutch Ovens make really bad armour…" Tom trailed off at the look on Jack's face.

"I don't think I want to know." She turned and exited the room, poking her head back in to say, "Have fun cleaning the kitchen. I'm sure it'll be spotless when I come back and check."

The two boys who had been picking themselves up, looked at each other and groaned. Tom quickly brightened up. "Y'know, I think that's my cue to leave. Wouldn't want to make mum worry, and all that."

Alex threw a piece of apple at Tom's head. Tom, mock enraged, threw one back.

Suffice to say that the kitchen was not even remotely clean when Jack returned.

And now a word from your author: ostentatious. See? A word! And a lovely one, at that. Sorry, I REALLY needed to get that pun out of my system. Anyway, here's a fun little crack fic that doesn't seem to match any of the characters at any point in the AR timeline, and thus received it's "crack" designation from yours truly (and So1said). If you don't know who Martha Stewart is, look her up. I was choosing between her and Rachel Ray, but I didn't know who (if either) was famous outside of the US. I'm a bit... not happy (and now for a quick vocabulary lesson: LITOTE) with my writing style for this fic, so it would REALLY help if you told me what you thought. A simple, "I liked it," or "I hated it," would help me lots, though specifics would certainly make my day. Thanks for all the reviews I got for my other two fics; I nearly had a heart attack thinking I was logged into someone else's account when I saw An Unexpected Return had 71 reviews! Not to mention all of the favorites and alerts (which I did just mention... hmmm. English idioms are weird.). I've got some companion pieces to An Unexpected Return underway, but don't expect them before the end of February. That's it. And don't forget: give me your ideas, comments, questions, concerns, criticisms, witticisms, and/or limericks!