Work Text:
Happy New Year, Darling
by MJ
The small white lights in the pine trim were twinkling, the band was playing assorted oldies, mostly by the Beatles, and people were very, very inebriated. A few hardy sailors planted their feet firmly on the floor and their backs against the bulkhead to keep the Boston Yacht Club walls vertical – or themselves from vertigo; it wasn't quite clear which was more important.
Outside the clubhouse, if one wandered far enough, which wasn't really that far, a few members had parties happening on boats that should have been in winter storage, and the truly lost sailor who'd had too much shore leave happiness could find plenty of cold water to wake him up. All he had to do was fall into the bay, right there in front of him.
A late-middle-aged woman in a black cocktail dress with a diamond spray brooch and a matching necklace, apparently trying to reach an open seat in the clubhouse dining room, took one step too far backwards, nearly upending her cocktail into the gentleman behind her and knocking the bow tie to his dinner jacket just slightly askew.
"Allow me." He steadied her, neatly balancing her elbow and his own Scotch in the same hand, while he braced her other arm. "Are you and your drink all right?"
"We're fine, I think," she sighed. She was attractive in an old-Boston way, her hair not as tightly coiled as it could have been, which lent a softness to her face that balanced sharp features. "Oh, pardon me, we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Muriel Crabbs, and this is my martini."
"Ah." The gentleman, a good dozen years younger – though by no means young – extended his hand (the one, of course, that wasn't coddling his Scotch). "Alan Shore. Or Crane. And this," he said, raising his glass to her, "is my Scotch. I haven't made very close acquaintance with it yet, but I intend to do so as soon as possible."
"As with my martini," Muriel laughed, reaching for an empty chair at the table. Alan pulled it out for her and helped her into it. "Thank you. I'm not drunk, really, I'm just a horribly awkward klutz. Edward keeps reminding me constantly." She paused. "Oh – Edward Crabbs, Boston Insurors' Society. That's my husband. And you're… Alan Shore… wait, I know…"
Alan smiled at her as he took a seat to her side. "Alan Crane. I'm Denny Crane's trophy wife, yes. Do you know Denny?"
"Of course." Brown eyes sparkled as she smirked. "His third wife and my first husband were far too close for comfort. Andrew had a Cookson racing yacht and she offered to crew on it. It seems that wasn't the only thing she was doing on it."
A booming voice came from behind them. "I found Maureen doing Andrew on the rail she was supposed to be sanding. I always hope she got the splinter up her ass she deserved." The voice came, of course, from Denny Crane. "Happy new year, Muriel." He bent down and planted a kiss on her cheek as he planted two glasses on the table. "Double-barrelled drinking," he explained, seating himself at Alan's free side, the one further away from Muriel Crabbs' reminiscing. "Anyway, do you remember what I did to that Cookson?"
Muriel laughed again, picking up her martini. "Quite well. I wanted that yacht as part of the divorce settlement, Denny, but that hole you blew in it when you shot out the side…"
"You didn't." Alan stared at his husband.
"I certainly did. Back then I had a pair of Colt Civil War officer's revolvers. Both of 'em into the side of that thing at the same time. Wanted to shoot my initials into it to mark where Andrew had been laying claim to my wife, but the Commodore stopped me from reloading, so I never got to the 'C'. The 'D' made a nice hole, though, when I kicked it in." He took a lengthy drink from the first glass. "Denny Crane."
"We heard you'd gotten married, Denny. When were you going to get around to introducing us to Alan? If I hadn't nearly dumped my drink on him, I might never have met him."
Denny shrugged. "We only got married three weeks ago, Muriel. It's New Year's Eve, and we came here to the Yacht Club to see all my friends." He shrugged again. "Well, a few of my friends, and a lot of people I don't really care about. And I brought Alan and you met him. Seems like perfectly good timing to me."
"Men." Muriel snorted in amusement and reached over to pick the cashews from a small dish of mixed nuts. "Alan, do you like Brazil nuts? I loathe them."
He pushed a napkin over to her. "I'm not particular. Sort away."
"You married Denny Crane?" A gruff voice came from over everyone's head. "That's proof you're not particular." Edward Crabbs, a gray-haired eminence, sat down beside his wife. He was clutching a tall drink, something red – possibly a Bloody Mary without any visible celery. "Save some of those for everyone else, Muriel!" he sighed, watching her rummage for more cashews.
"Good to see you, Ed." Denny shoved a hand out to his friend.
"You too, Denny. You're looking good. How's your seventy-fifth or eightieth marriage agreeing with you?"
"Very well, thank you." Denny took another sip of his Scotch. "I didn't even have anyone draft a prenup for me this time." He smirked. "Wouldn't matter if they did. Alan's going to outlive me anyway – and if we did get a divorce, he'd probably be able to break any prenup I'd have had written." Denny nodded to Edward as if imparting a great confidence. "Never marry anyone who may be smarter than you are unless you're absolutely sure you can trust them not to take you to the cleaner. Or else just hand over everything, lock, stock, and barrel. That's what I did."
Edward looked over at Muriel. "All right, dear, now I'm worried."
"Don't be, Edward, darling. I promise I took everything already. I just let you keep thinking you're in charge."
"That's what I love about you." Edward kissed Muriel's hand gallantly. "You keep lying to me so well, I still think I have some influence left outside my office."
It was telling that no one seemed to have noticed that the band had gone on break earlier, but the vocalist's statement that they would be playing standards for the next set was just barely discernable over the drunken screeching at nearby tables. "Oh, thank God," Muriel breathed. "Maybe they'll play something I can dance to without tripping over myself."
"If Ed won't dance with you," Denny assured her, "I will. I remember your sister Evangeline tripping over me regularly when we had dancing lessons. You're not one bit worse than she was."
Alan gave Denny a distinct look. It was one that Denny should recognize, as it was the same one he'd given Denny during a certain discussion on the office balcony on their wedding night. It was composed of one part hurt, two parts frustration, two parts bewilderment, and five parts "I'm dealing with Denny Crane, I'm dealing with Denny Crane…"
"If I were you, Denny," Edward opined, "I think I'd ask Alan first. If I wanted to live, anyway."
"I was going to," Denny placated, raising his hands. "I just wanted to make sure Muriel doesn't get left out in the cold just because she's a danger to herself and others. Besides, even if I were going to be embarrassed about dancing with my husband in… uh… mixed company… any other time, as drunk as our crowd is, I could be dancing on stage with the Rockettes and no one would remember it. Come to think of it, I know a Rockette… are they working tonight? I should call her. Roxanne the Rockette…"
"Denny." Alan was remarkably placid. "You promised you wouldn't perform on stage tonight. I'm holding you to that. No matter how much you or anyone else drinks, you're not going on stage."
"If you need help with that, Alan, just flag me." Edward nodded his approval. "Denny's just not that entertaining. Not on stage. Sorry, Denny, you're just not. I saw you in the senior play at school." He took a sip of his tomato-juice-and-whatever and continued. "You know, I'm sure someone will get steamed about goings-on in the club if you two are out on the dance floor, but nobody's going to stop it. They can't very well complain about people dancing with their own spouses – it's usually the ones dancing with other people's who cause all the problems around here. And Denny's been a member here since forever – hell, you were a junior member here when you were in school, weren't you?"
Denny snorted. "I was a cabin boy for John Paul Jones. Denny Crane."
"Then it must be true," Alan announced. "Denny Crane, longest-term sailor in history."
"That's why we're Coast Guard officers," Denny reminded Alan, sliding an arm around his shoulder. "We should have worn our dress uniforms tonight. People love men in uniform."
"So I've noticed." Alan cocked his head slightly. "It's 'Fly Me to the Moon,' Denny. Are we dancing or not?"
Denny rose. "Yachts. Coast Guard. Not Air Force. Flying – hmph." He reached a hand out to Alan, who took it and eased himself out of his seat.
Muriel Crabbs kicked Denny's shin – sharply and deliberately for once, and not at all clumsily or by accident. "Navy, Denny. Top Gun. Flying is fine. Get out there and sweep Alan off his feet. It's your job."
Denny pulled Alan after him. "Navy. Why aren't we Navy officers? We could have swords with our dress uniforms. We could be admirals…"
Edward Crabbs looked at the vacated seats and pulled Denny's so-far untouched second drink over to his own seat. "I swear Denny has mad cow or something. You never know what he'll come up with next. Happy new year's, dear."
Muriel pecked her husband's cheek. "They're so cute, aren't they?" she asked, looking at the two men who had left the table. "And the Murchisons and Morriseys will bitch to high heaven for a month about the club turning into a gay bar – maybe they'll quit. Good riddance when they do. They can always join at Eastern instead Or Newburyport. Happy new year, darling."
end